Welcome to my blog

Nicole (aka Nicky) Lebeau-Pringle

Welcome to my very first post on my very first blog – “Before I Lose My Marbles”. If you landed here because you are a marble collector, or you like to play marbles, you’re welcome to stay, but you should know that the marbles I’m writing about are the metaphoric kind – as in losing my mind – going off my nut, one fry short of a Happy Meal. Still with me? Then read on.

I turned 70 last year. And there is something about turning the Biblical “three score and ten” that makes me want to say what I want to say, before old age, or the Alzheimer’s that claimed my brother’s brain comes for mine. And what I want to say is directed to my children and my grandchildren and is sort of a memoire, but not exactly.

As a professional writer, I always like to think of two things before I put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard in this case: Who is my audience and what is my purpose? I’ve already mentioned this blog is directed to my children and grandchildren, but what is my purpose, you ask? (Good to know you’re still with me and have read this far. I soldier on).

You see, my children don’t have any real roots. In the time they were growing up, we moved around a lot – 14 homes in five communities spanning three provinces to be exact. And we never lived near grandparents, aunts, uncles or cousins.

So, no roots. Instead, I want to try and give them roots, retroactively, by sharing with them stories of their grandparents, their aunt and uncle on my side of the family – people they never got to know.

Which brings me to my second purpose. I want to share with them, and with my grandchildren, some of the lessons that life has taught me, before I lose my marbles – hence the title of this blog. I aim to write true and honest stories about my life growing up – the good, the bad, and the ugly. My story has it all. And while I’ve tended to focus on the bad and the ugly, I can finally look back and see the good. I can see the courage, the sacrifices, the utter humanness. In Christian parlance, I can extend grace, not only to them, but to myself too.

Another purpose for this blog is to share with my children and grandchildren the struggles I have had with The Church, for it too carries the good, bad, and the ugly. My purpose in sharing my journey is to show them that I understand when they kick the tires of the faith we tried to pass on to them, because I’m kicking the tires too. And I believe that it’s absolutely okay to do that. It’s what makes our messy faith and our complicated relationship with the Divine real. Even when we’ve lost all faith, there is always a way back. That’s what I believe.

Last, and in this case, least, I am writing this blog to keep whatever grey cells I have left as intact as possible. I want to slow down the rate of marble loss. The all-knowing ‘they’ have suggested I consider singing and playing the guitar again, but my vocal range has shrunk to less than an octave and the thought of going through the painful process of building up the callouses needed to press out a chord – well, I’m just not willing or interested. And I took a couple of piano lessons when I was in my 30’s. I honestly don’t know what I was thinking. Really, a total blank.

The all-knowing ‘they’, by this time, could reasonably be losing patience with me. Why don’t you take up a hobby, they might ask. You mean, like sewing, I might reply? I tried that when my children were little. The height of my sewing prowess were the crayon costumes I made for them, that they had to wear for three Halloweens in a row because I was never doing that again! 

I briefly took up crewelwork, thanks to endless Creative Circle craft parties back in the day when that was the thing to do. But the thrill didn’t last. How about knitting? Tried that too. My sister-in-law taught me how to knit a scarf and contributed a giant pair of knitting needles to my efforts.  What was supposed to be a luxurious wrap around scarf turned out to be four inches wide and 24” long. Turns out I’m way too tight on my tension. Gave that up.

Crochet perhaps? Watched a ‘how to’ video and crocheted a queen size blanket during the pandemic. (Go big or go home. Right?) Crocheted a throw for each of my three kids, taught my three granddaughters how to crochet, then quit. Truth be told, my friend, Eva who is an Olympian crocheter had to help interpret the patterns for me, which were written in a code I never could decipher. She patiently undid my mistakes. I made new mistakes, for which I did not require her assistance. Towards the end of the meteoric rise and fall of my crochet career, Eva took over and made the last throw for me.

I think I’ve made the case that I am not one for crafts. Gardening! How about the satisfaction of watching something you’ve planted grow into a luscious mound of vegetables (that I’ll have to pick, clean, pickle or blanch). No thanks. How about planting flowers? Hate worms. Can’t risk digging them up. Plus, I kill plants. I’m the green widow.  

The whiny voices inside my head are getting really fed up. How about trying some new recipes. That might be fun (the voices plead). A years-long struggle with IBS and GERD shrank my list of allowable foods to fit on the back of a recipe card. A cruel irony. Sucked all the fun out of cooking and baking.

Meanwhile, the bag of marbles I’ll call cognitive abilities, the bag I started out with more than 70 years ago, continues to get smaller, one marble at a time.

In a last-ditch effort to save my shrinking brain, the all-knowing ‘they’ mutter something in the back of my mind about writing. What’s that, I ask? Did you say, writing? That’s it! I could write. It’s one of my marbles – the big kahuna – The Bumboozer. That, I can do. That, I love to do. I love to write. I think I’ll blog. And the technology I’ll need to learn to publish my blog will further stretch the little grey cells. Win! Win!

Welcome to my blog.