A few weeks ago, I decided to buy some long underwear. My old ones bagged at the knees and sagged at the waist. I looked like an 19th century cowboy climbing down from his horse for the last time. At our local Red Apple store I found a pair of Hanes with a cashmere-like inner fabric. A long-sleeve black Tee shirt completed the outfit.
This was the look of a serious winter athlete. One who spends hours outdoors and needs to feel warm yet not bulky. I took them home, put them on and felt my athletic ability rise and my weight plummet. (Mostly because I had to suck in my stomach. Otherwise I looked like Mrs. Claus attempting a yoga workout.) So far, I’ve worn them for lying on the couch reading and occasionally for watching television.
A few weeks later, I was going through security at the Winnipeg airport. I stepped confidently into the full body scanner, legs apart and arms raised. Now, for those who take a more cavalier approach, let me tell you that I do not. I wear pants with no pockets, always take off my boots, and generally treat the scanner as a challenge I’m going to win.
“Any change in your pockets?”
“Absolutely not,” I said to The Man. My tone was that of an offended Victorian grandmother clutching her pearls. But in spite of all my convinction and effort, I didn’t pass the test. Not once, twice or three times. They beckoned me out of the scanner, the two transportation security officers frowning as they walked around me. At one point they stepped back, like I might be packing grendades under my clothes. After a cartoonish double take, the woman said, ‘Are you wearing two pairs of pants?’
Giving my tummy a reassuring pat, I said, “Well, yeah. Sometimes it’s cold on the plane.”
“Tug that inner waistband up. No, go higher. Higher than that.”
By this point, I’d given myself a serious wedgie. “I feel like Steve Urkel,” I said. They just stared at me. ‘Never mind,” I sighed, and muttered, ‘what is happening here?” They didn’t answer me. Once back in the scanner, they had me widen my stance and lift my arms even higher. It finally worked.
“You can go now,” the woman said. “But pack your exra pants next time. And put them on at the airport.”
“They’re not extra pants….” I’d lost them. They were already busy torturing another passenger.
After this kind of experience, I long for someone dangerous to follow behind me in the lineup. Someone they’ll have to chase through the airport. Then I could justifiably say, ‘Why are you bothering with my long underwear?” Alas, nobody else gave them any trouble.
I don’t know what it was with me. Too much fabric? Long underwear in general? Those machine don’t like things that are hidden. But come on. Everyone layers in winter. Even at the airport. Right?
Here is a photo of the long underwear I bought. This is not me in the picture, but let’s pretend it is.
I recently attended a reunion with folks Clarence and I travelled with in 1978. From Istanbul to Kathmandu, we hunkered down together in the back of an old army truck, bitching about the cold, the 4:30 AM breakfasts and many, many other tribulations. It felt a bit like a four month season of Survivor. No million dollar prize, but some forever friends were made.
Occasionally, my seat mates were the singing Lesbos sisters, (named for an infamous vodka-induced song fest around the campfire near the Isle of Lesbos.) We often sat together on the truck, carolling away while ignoring the resigned looks around us. Not everyone wants to be serenaded while feeling irritated, hungry and cold.
Another seatmate I remember is Bill Hiley, who along with me, contracted the egg burps while visiting Khabul, Afghanistan. Bill and I were made to sit in the back of the truck, our heads sticking through the opening in the canvas as we belched away. ‘My God, that’s disgusting!’ I’d tell him, before expelling my own sulfurous burps. If you’ve never had foul smelling gas rocketing from your mouth, you can’t possibly understand the group’s need to isolate us. We hung out the back like a pair of unhappy dogs.
My favourite seat mate was my husband, who famously said, ‘Wouldn’t it be fun to travel in the back of an army truck with a bunch of strangers? It’ll be warm in Asia…let’s bring summer sleeping bags!’ I salute you, honey, but we should have checked the weather. Who knew it would snow in Turkey? I mean, we camped the whole way.
We lifted a glass in your memory, and read aloud your quotes. A group favourite was, ‘You know you’ve got a tapeworm when you reach down to wipe your butt and something shakes your hand.”
On my way to England, I sat beside a woman from the Bahamas. What made me jealous was how effortlessly she fell asleep. Nothing works for me. Not masks or ear plugs or tequila. It mystifies me how people can fall asleep sitting upright with everyone coughing, sighing and snoring all around them.
Flying home, my seat mate was a lovely man who chatted with me for a few hours before easily falling asleep. He woke up just in time for the midnight drink cart and my moment of humiliation. Please, let me set the stage.
For the first time in my life, I chose to travel economy plus. You don’t get the flat beds there. You get a small foot rest, nicer dinners and free booze. I felt guilty about it because that tiny bit of extra space leaves a larger carbon footprint. I kept thinking, ‘Oh my God, I’m turning into Jeff Bezos!’
And then I asked the flight attendant if I could have a cup of herbal tea. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘But herbal tea is reserved for business class.” She looked around as if to say, ‘Can you believe this lady?’
I kid you not. I could have all the alchol I wanted, but a .25 herbal tea bag was a bridge too far. I might as well have asked her for a million dollars. ‘You don’t think it’s the opportunity to lie down that convinces them to pay $5000 for the trip?’
“It’s policy,” she said.
I no longer felt like Jeff Bezos. I felt like someone who had cadged a ride for free, even though I’d paid $1600 extra for my flight. Somehow, the foot rest, blanket and eye mask didn’t make up for the tea bag. The guy beside me said, “That’s so cheap, it’s unbelievable!’ Then he went back to sleep.
My seat mate on the flight to Calgary was Asian. The outstanding thing about him was how still he sat. He faced straight ahead, his eyes half closed and his arms lightly crossed like he was lying in a coffin. I think he was meditating, but I interrupted him with a compliment and an apology.
“You’re so still! I don’t know how you do it!” He gave me a look, but I kept going. “I’m like a meth addict. I can’t stop moving. Like, right now, I’m trying to find my gum (I was rummaging through my purse) and I need to change my kindle for my kobo and put my sweater away. Honestly, I’m so sorry!’
He gave me another look. Was it pity? Condemnation? I couldn’t tell, he was so poker faced. Then, he started doing this tapping thing. His arms were still crossed as he began running his fingers across his shoulders and neck. I was about to ask him what he was doing, but his very stillness was its own warning. Meekly, I sat back and shut up.
But we can decide who we sit next to in life. Friends choose each other. They sit to the right and left of us in coffee shops, in church, while attending a play or meeting up at book clubs and card nights. No explanation is needed regarding fidgeting or inappropriate comments…they know us at our best and worst. And still, they choose the seat.
We don’t get to pick the people sitting beside us on planes. Otherwise, that man would never have chosen me. However, I’ve seen people sigh in relief when they realize they’ll be sitting next to me and not the six foot eight, two hundred and fifty pound guy right behind me. (Unfortunately, they don’t understand what lies ahead.)
So, here’s to all our favourite seat mates…our spouses and friends, the organizations we join and the folks we choose to work beside. When the world feels like too much, these people know how we feel before we’ve said a thing. And another great thing about it? The first class friendship ride is free. Take that, Ms. cheapskate flight attendant!
Here’s a photo of the Lesbos sisters in Turkey
And one of us in front of the infamous Encounter Overland Army Truck.
Last night I was awakened by the most intense itching sensation on my right arm, halfway between my bicep and tricep muscles. Not that there’s much muscle to talk about…I halt my gym attendance in the summer because I work hard in the garden. Although lately I’ve been enjoying lying around and reading my book. I justify this because of the evacuation this summer. It makes no sense, but, you know. It was an unsettling time. I need to reward myself for (please fill in the blank.)
Anway, the itching grew so intense that I sat up in bed to search my nightstand for something to quell the pain. I found some minty cream typically used for sore muscles. It kind of worked. Next, I used my phone’s flashlight to check the bedsheets. Nothing there at all. It worried me.
I thought about pulling the curtains back, but I was still pretending that I wasn’t really awake and would soon be back in a deep sleep. Also, I was afraid of what I might find. Perhaps a small vampire bat who’d died after sending his friends an echolocation message. ‘O my God, get over here…this blood is delicious! I think she ate popcorn last night…the sweet kind!’
My other fear was finding a tall skinny man hiding there, his lips smeared with my blood. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he’d say in a polite British accent,’ but your blood is so delicious that I had to call a friend.’ And then an even creepier thing would step out from behind the curtains. (Please don’t wait for a description of this creature…I just couldn’t let myself create one more disturbing image.)
After ensuring that the bed was empty (no vicious, otherworldly spiders) I climbed in, spent about five minutes longing to scratch my arm in spite of the minty lotion, and fell back asleep. I awoke in the morning feeling victorious, like I’d just climbed Mount Everest or swum the English channel. I longed for a journalist to beg me for an interview. Because, that’s how miraculous it feels to fall back asleep when you’re convinced it will never happen.
My arm is still tender and a bit itchy, but it looks better than it did in the light of my cellphone. So all is well. But you’d better believe I’ll be searching my room thoroughly at bedtime, just to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Because as I learned during childhood, there may be creepy, crawlies everywhere, but the scariest thing of all is your own imagination.
Until next time, dear reader. (Next blog, I mean. Not next bite. Hopefully.)
On the day my niece Camilla was getting married, I was lolling about in an old sundress. It was very hot outside but I try not to use the air conditioning unless I’m about to lose consciousness. As the wedding officiant, I’d been working on the ceremony, wanting it to be extra special. I wandered around the house, pen in hand (even though I was working in microsoft word) and searching my brain for any last bits of wisdom to announce themselves.
Suddenly, I heard a loud, rumbling noise coming from the back lane behind my garage. I stepped outside and saw a long, strange looking truck parked there. It was filled with ladders and other machinery, along with a crew of people and, if memory serves me right, a small shed.
The people exiting the vehicle looked like they’d lived through something. I was trying to figure out what it was when it landed. They looked like a slightly scruffy but highly trained military unit preparing themselves to head into that cave and take out Bin Laden. Kind of world weary, like they’d seen it all. I expected someone to shout, Semper fi! Or, Boo Rah! Instead, a small female stepped forward. “We’re here to do your roof.”
Huh?
After the fire that threatened Flin Flon, I realized that the shingles on my roof had curled and softened to the point that tiny bits were dropping onto my deck. So in July after the evacuation was over, I hired a contractor. This was his crew.
‘But I have a wedding today,” I said, then quickly realized that nobody looks a gift horse in the mouth. Not the Greeks, and not me, either. If I sent them away, who knew when they’d return? I’d seen the movie, The Money Pit, and wasn’t taking any chances on losing them to some other schmuck with bad shingles.
They began setting up ladders and hauling scrapers onto the roof. This team worked like a well oiled machine. I should point out that it was 31C and I could barely stand to be in the yard, never mind climb up on the roof. But the girl, a cutie who looked about sixteen (I think she was like an ambassador, meant to connect with me, the client) started throwing tarps over plants and furniture to avoid damage. Then, they got to work.
My first observation was, ‘it’s so loud! I can’t think!’ And I know that most people would have just left the house but I hadn’t printed out the ceremony yet. I hadn’t gotten dressed, or done my hair. A few hours went by and soon, they were fastening the new shingles to the roof. I’d hear a loud boom! and the china in my cabinet would jump like Victorian maidens who’d just been propositioned. It sounded like they’d employed a couple elephants to stomp all over the roof.
I noticed a few other things. Like, they never asked to come inside to go to the bathroom. They never asked for water. I pictured them telling each other, ‘just hold it!’ Instead, they worked with rugged, sweaty determination. As I shoved in a pair of ear plugs and changed dresses, I had a feeling that going to the gym three times a week and heading out on walks could not compare to this kind of workout. I mean, the sun alone would have been enough to send me to the hospital.
At last, I left for the wedding, trusting that they’d continue to finish the roof and not all die of heatstroke. When I got out to Baker’s Narrows where the wedding would take place, the setting was breath taking. Everyone else was ready, including the pianist and opera singers. (Yes, we live in Flin Flon, but we’re fancy like that.) I turned to a family member and said, ‘I’m getting my roof done,” in the braggy tone of someone who was about to get a facelift. “It’s very loud,” I added.
After a beautiful wedding, a fabulous dinner and lots of festivities, I went home. The neighborhood was quiet and my roof finished. The roofers had tidied up any mess, taken the tarps and even cleaned out the eavestroughs. I was going to hire someone to do it but they’d saved me the trouble. I felt wonderful, like I’d actually had a facelift. Not that I know how it feels…it probably hurts a lot, but the feeling of accomplishment which was in no way mine, stayed with me.
It’s wonderful not worrying about damage to my roof from old shingles. After checking for dead bodies (how did they live through that heat?) I longed to say, well done! And thanks for not dragging it out. Although I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had, but I know that’s not how you do things. No half measures. Like the marines, you got your guy. I mean, you finished the job.
The day our community got home from being evacuated, I had a grateful a cry in the driveway, and noticed a few things. It looked like Mother Nature was having a celebration. The lawn in my front and back yard was higher than my knees, and since it had rained a few days before, it was so green and lush, it looked drunk. Like my grass had gone on a bender. ‘No people around…there’s no telling how high I can get!’
My outdoor plants also survived, and though some of them looked peaked, the overgrowth of weeds in my flower beds and perennial garden reminded me of the dance scene in West Side Story. They were cocky as hell, and perhaps like the grass, drunk on their own power.
I had a revelation, then. Back in the late seventies while camping our way through Asia, we came upon the excavation of centuries old ruins. As we looked down, we saw the stone walls of a village far below. I’d never understood how quickly and aggressively Mother Nature moves when left to her own devices. Neat and tidy man-made structures become wild kingdoms in no time at all.
Once I got into the house, I quickly checked my fridge. Some food was spoiled, but not the fresh vegetables. A full head of cauliflower had just a few brown marks. What are they spraying on these things? I wondered. And then I went to take a shower downstairs and saw my second strange thing. On the bathmat in front of the shower was a pile of what seemed to be the husks of bug carasses. I had this moment of pure horror, like in a scary movie where the camera zooms in on the eyes of a terrified victim. I picked up the mat to shake them off, and realized that they were in fact, tiny pieces of gray foam. I was flabbergasted. The mat had been clean when I left the house a month earlier.
Next, I opened the louvered doors to check on my furnace. A huge pile of chewed up foam sat on the floor right inside. I would have clutched my pearls if I’d been wearing any. You know that feeling when you think someone has been inside your house? No? Me either. But in that moment, the idea hit me hard. What craziness had taken place while I was gone? Investigating further, I went outside to tour around the yard and check my air conditioner under the deck. Then the truth landed.
There’s small cavity where my airconditioning hose enters the house. Just before I left, I saw a squirrel dashing away from under the deck and realized it had made it’s home next to the pink fiberglass. Apparently, they love the stuff. And then I noticed that big chunks of gray foam were missing from the copper pipes. The little bugger had used it to make a cozy nest. Not only that, but she’d carried the stuff through the crawl space so it dropped in front of my shower from the vent above, and next to the furnace. It couldn’t get into the house, but it certainly roamed around while I was away.
I quickly got some tape and closed up the hole. I didn’t want to use anything stronger, because I didn’t want tiny rodents dying inside my house. But the tape stayed in place. The creatures were long gone.
The next strange thing involved a huge clay jug that I kept on my deck for holding the gate open. The winds had been powerful, and they threw the jug down the stairs where it smashed onto the cement pad below. I loved that jug. It was almost as tall as my hip, with pretty blue stenciling on it. Circa 1920’s, it came from my father-in-law’s farm in Climax, Saskatchewan. As disapointing as it was to lose it, the worst part was the sticky pool about a foot around and 3 inches high, of rusty, tarry, syrupy goop it left behind. Was it 100 year old whiskey? Motor oil? I had no clue. After skirting around it for a few days (there was so much to do!) I threw rags on top of it and doused them with boiling water. Then I cleaned up what was left with an old tin spatula. To say it was an icky job is an understatement.
Over the next few weeks as my garden weeds waged a full out war, I’ve been accompanied everywhere by a tiny chipmunk. I look down to find it crouched by my feet and when I scream, it scurries away. But five minutes later, its back. I mean, really, they’re just cute mice. And I hate mice. I tell it to go away and it just moves to another rock, sitting there smugly and rubbing it’s small paws together like it’s plotting something. (Possibly a visit to my house…perhaps word has gotten around)
After a time that feels like a whole month of my life just vanished, anything is possible. So please, no more strange things.( But remember the time I almost called the fire department because I couldn’t get out of my sports bra? Yeah. And in case you missed it, here’s the link.
So, I guess I’ll wait and see what happens next. And in honour of all this craziness, here’s a song from my childhood that my dad always played in hopes of entertaining his many children.
The day we were evacuated, I was feeling fuzzy headed while preparing to officiate at a wedding. I’d been up in the night, and at 3:30 AM went outside into my front yard and looked to my left. Across the perimeter highway and into the bush, I saw this:
And I remember thinking, should we still be here? And then I thought, thank goodness the wind is from the South. Maybe everything will be okay. We’d been forewarned about a potential evacuation, and though it had never happened in Flin Flon before, I already had a suitcase packed.
At four PM the next day, my neighbor burst through my door saying it was time to go. It was more of a shout, really. I shouted something back, though I can’t remember what I said. I was halfway inside a dress that was too small when I acknowledged to myself that the wedding wouldn’t be happening.
I quickly packed a few more things. Unfortunately, most of it was useless. No socks, no toothbrush, no hairbrush. No comfort items aside from some fruit and water. I had to drive 8 hours south, and yet my brain couldn’t come up with anything besides my strangely packed suitcase and a quilt of my deceased sister’s, beautifully made by a friend.
As the long convoy drove carefully down highway 10, I thought about what it’s like to be in shock. From previous experience, I’ve found the feeling to be a sneaky one. It can camouflage itself. Trick us into thinking we’re calm. There’s a numbness that goes along with it, and an inability to understand what is really happening to body and mind. Whenn we were forced to leave our homes, I wasn’t the only one thinking things like, ‘Who will water my plants? My lawn and garden? I spent so much money on annuals!’ Later, I would think things like, ‘I’m going to miss my Iris’s blooming.’
My friend Lois met me in the Pas, and drove me the rest of the way to Winnipeg. We enjoyed the distraction of a visit, but there was something surreal about it. We were both trying to imagine what it would be like if we didn’t get to go home again.
We reached Winnipeg at 2 AM, and I was so tired, I couldn’t sleep. I had family in the city, and they took me in, as families do. All told, over 17,000 people were evacuated from the north. Many took shelter in hotels and arenas.
Soon, we heard the news about Denare Beach, a nearby community. Friends with cameras on their doors watched helplessly as the fire rushed inside, taking everything they owned. I don’t know for sure but it sounds like half their community burned down.
Those of us with homes still unscathed could only pray. There was a sense of shame about how we’d handled the leaving…all the items left behind, poor decisions made at the last minute. Father Paul Bringleson from our community spoke a few words on Facebook over a number of evenings, trying to console not just his own parish but the entire community of evacuees. He reminded us that we’re only human, and that feeling guilty because our houses survived is a natural reaction. And feeling shame over poor decions made is much the same. But it’s impossible not to feel heavy hearted when people you’ve known all your life have lost their homes.
My Winnipeg family did their best to entertain those of us from the north. Barbeques, bowling parties, suppers…we did it all. Staying busy was a big help. I visited my children in Calgary, too, and it felt so comforting.
But over that long month, each of us kept thinking about our homes. I’d finally gotten over worrying about the plants and had started feeling nostagic for my collection of precious Christmas ornaments. Even my furniture. When you live alone, your furniture is almost like a friend. It’s with you throughout the day, aiding your rest, helping you make dinner, playing your favourite shows. Everyone says that things can be replaced, and they’re right. But first, you have to find your way to that path…that way of thinking sensibly. It’s almost impossible when you don’t know how it’s going to end.
I mourned for the sewing machine I bought in 1986 and used to design the babyTrekker carrier, selling it all over the planet from my little town of Flin Flon. I mourned the few babyTrekkers I had left. I grieved over ancient patio furniture left to us by my mother in law. It’s over 25 years old, but so comfortable. It reminds me of her.
I mourned for my favourite hair brush. Such nonsense, really. But it didn’t feel like it at the time.
Most of all, I mourned for my community. We are each other’s people. Even the ones we only see in Pharmasave or at the Co-op or the Orange Toad. There are so many ways that our lives intertwine…through Community choir and hockey games and all the clubs like Rotary or Lions. There’s our book clubs and our church families. There’s the people we pass when we’re out for a walk.
When I was strolling through Polo Park in Winnipeg, I spotted two people from Flin Flon headed my way. We just walked into each other’s arms. I didn’t know how badly I needed to see a familiar face and hear a familiary voice until that moment. ‘I miss everything and everyone,’ I said. And, ‘I’m not a city person.’ We both recognized the grief that comes from being away when all you want is to be back home.
When Lois and I were driving together on that long night, I said to her, ‘It’s like we’re in Gaza except we’re warm and fed, and nobody is bombing us.’ It helped put things in perspective.
I’m so thankful to all those who helped out. The Canadian armed forces, all the firemen coming from so many different places and countries. And our Manitoba premier, Wab Kinew, who jumped right in and called a state of emergency so we’d get the help we needed. I’m thankful for the people who stayed behind to assist the others. Judy Eagle, for feeding and comforting all those animals. Alison Dallas Funk, for giving us video updates on Facebook in the evenings…I can’t begin to tell her how comforting that was. All I could think of was how tired she looked, and how hard it must have been doing all those things. Others, like our mayor, George Fontaine, and his trusty sidekick, Crystal Kolt, hurried around the city of Winnipeg, making sure everyone had what they needed.
When I got home yesterday after a month away, I sat in my driveway and cried. I was relieved to find everything much as it was ( except for the foot high grass in everyone’s yard.) I also cried because everything wasn’t the way it was. Too many friends from Denare Beach lost their homes. Some from Manitoba, too.
But I’m thankful that my town is still standing. As neighbors and friends drive past, we wave at each other like we’ve been gone for a year. And I know that I’ll never take my community for granted again. I will try hard not to complain about silly things, and the next time we evacuate (we live in the north, the earth will continue to heat up) I will have a long, well thought out list ready to go. Next time, I won’t forget my toothbrush, or hairbrush, or socks.
But that’s for another day. Hopefully, for a summer far down the road. But for now, welcome home, everyone. I can’t wait to see you all.
I don’t make fudge anymore. I’m not good at it like I was in the old days when I nailed the recipe every time. It’s because I’m out of practice. When we were young, my friend Gaye and I used to whip some up in her kitchen, cackling like two little witches as we stirred the pot, barely letting it set before devouring it together. Did we share with her brothers and sisters? Maybe. (But I doubt it.)
Years ago, I used to make fudge all the time, especially when I was first married. I’d make an 8×8″ cake pan’s worth, either chocolate pecan or maple. And I’d eat it. My hubby would come home after a hockey game and say, ‘Hey, I’ll try a piece of that fudge, now.”
“Oh honey,” I’d reply, my voice dripping with pity. “It’s all gone.” He’d be shocked every time. I’d offered him some before he left, but he ‘wasn’t in the mood for sweets.’ To me that was like turning down a trip to heaven because you’re ninety-five and enjoying life with no teeth.
When I turned fifty-something, I started praying about my sugar habit. “Dear God, help me kick it. I swear it’s going to kill me.” I meant it, too. I formed this habit as a young child stealing fudge from the downstair’s freezer. My dad would shake his head. “I could swear we just made that batch. Where did it all go?” You poor, sweet, innocent man. With five daughters and one son around, (and one more arriving later) you’d think he’d have been a little more suspicious.
Anyway, back to my fifties. For a couple years, I prayed this prayer without doing a thing about it. And then one day while walking home from work, I broke out in hives. It started in a small way…the bite of an apple, some coconut shrimp. Then it was strawberries, kiwi, and after a while I couldn’t tell anymore what was causing them. I ended up in emergency a few times, feeling like I’d been stung by a thousand bees.
And then I called my cousin, Sue Fraleigh. She was our food guru, and knew a lot about nutrition. “It’s not that stuff that’s really bothering you,” she said. “It’s wheat, maybe oats. But definitely sugar.” I remember holding the phone and watching my life flash before me. That prayer! This was God’s cosmic joke. Fix her, and fix her good.
Sure enough, we’d found the problem. Every time I tried going back to my old ways, the hives returned, along with a belly ache, which I’d never noticed before. I was a crybaby for quite awhile, until I got used to my new diet. You know what replaced wheat and sugar? Vegetables! (Even now I can picture the heavenly angels holding their bellies and laughing after my prayer was transferred up the heavenly chute. Or however that works.)
But today, I decided to make fudge for our church bake table. I was like a scientist, stirring, but not too often! Getting the mixture to a low boil, transferring it in the nick of time to my Kitchen Aid and mixing it well. I did this twice, for chocolate pecan and maple fudge. And let me say, it’s delicious.
How do I know? I made the mistake of trying it. ‘I’ll just clean up these edges around the pan,” I said to myself. “Oh, those ones are broken! I’d better eat those.” Next thing you know, I’m lying on the couch, the room is spinning, my stomach feels funny, but my brain is so satisfied! The stuff was like crack. I pictured myself lying in some back alley, feeling too stoned from my sugar high to get back on my feet. (I may need a sponsor after this.)
All was not well. I was so sick. But thankfully, I got better. Yes, I still have a few hives and my gut is a bit icky, but I’ve decided to consider it a life lesson. Like the time last year when I became convinced I was over my wheat allergy and ate a piece of bread. Not over it.
Here’s my advice. Be careful what you pray for. Write it down like a contract so you don’t foolishly bet the farm or engage our Creator’s sense of humour, which I believe is considerable. As I sit here, my back and joints aching as a result of my foolish lack of self control (inflammation…it’s so fun) I realize that I’m glad things had to change. I’m happy my cousin Sue steered me in the right direction, and that I’m healthier for it. But I have to say, I enjoyed the fudge high while it lasted. Now please excuse me while I hobble off to bed.
Women in Canada were finally allowed to serve in the armed forces in 1982, when the Canadian Charter of Rights said it was okay. By then I was pregnant with my first baby. I salute all the ladies who jumped into those careers, though I never wanted that life for myself.
But not for the reasons you’d think. For example, my new son-in-law was a soldier in Afghanistian for four years and the things he told me would curl your hair. Like, if you have to stand on guard, they feed you the kind of bread that is so constipating, you can’t poop for days. Just the thought gives me a belly ache.
Then there’s my inability to understand covert hand signals. ‘You mean I should go over there?’ I’d call out in a loud whisper. ‘Like, past the bathroom and over by the window?’ Another reason is, I can’t remember where things are in the dark. I can only drive in the city of Calgary during the day, because at night, it feels like someone has moved all the buildings and roads around. I’m always in a foreign country while driving in any city after dark.
I can see me rushing into a building in a ‘search for Bin Laden’ situation and finding myself alone. Because I went into the wrong building. Logistally, I’m not that good. Also, I can be a little oppositional. Not sure how I would respond to someone barking commands at me. Even though I was married for a long time.
Speaking of marriage, my husband loved war movies. We both enjoyed the Deer Hunter, but one of our favourites was Coming Home with John Voight and Jane Fonda. John’s character came home from the Vietnam war unable to walk. Jane’s husband had just gone to Vietnam and Jane and John started an affair. But because of his situation, they had to find new ways to have sex. This inspired many negotiations between my husband and me on those nights when we were both tired but still wanted to have sex. ‘It’s my turn to be the cripple,’ we’d argue. (Forgive us for not saying ‘differently abled…it was the seventies.)
But I digress. What I really want to talk about is loyalty. This is something you have to have if you’re going to war on behalf of your country. And now, all Canadians are in the strange position of not being at war, but feeling like we’re under attack. Not in a subliminal way (because there’s nothing subliminal about Donald Trump) but more in a WTF is going on, way.
It’s hard to know how to feel, so we’ve taken an initial stance of standing close together with our elbows up. Because one thing we all agree on is that however we vote in our next election, we’re not about to become American citizens. For one thing, we have different standards of politeness. If you step on our foot, we tell you we’re sorry. We’re not American sorry…we’re Canadian sorry. I remember watching the series, ‘Sex in the City’ and you know what shocked me? How rude the ladies were to the wait staff in restaurants. We don’t do that.
I know there are many Americans who are horrifed by what’s happening in their country. We stand with you, too. Against tyranny, against authoritarianisn, and yes, against bad manners.
We are Canadian. Don’t mess with us. We are standing on guard for the country we love and the life we have here. Are things perfect? Nope. But we stand on guard for everything She stands for. I’m with every ride or die person in this amazing place we call home. (Just as long they don’t use hand signals.) Elbows Up!
I wish the title to this blog post was ‘The Boxer’ and, like Simon and Garfunkel, I’d have written one of the best songs ever. But no. This is about a box.
Rather, it’s about how to lose your mind while trying to assemble the thing. I’m the chair of our church board (I know… what were they thinking?) and fortunately, most of the care and common sense decision making happens with the rest of the board. But I’d offered to collect what we needed for our year end, then box it up and take it to the accountants. So I bought a box.
Or should I say, a collection of three flat, folded banker’s boxes. I used them in the past when I ran my own business. How hard could they be to assemble?
Look. I know that somewhere there’s a guy who came up with the idea for the box diagram printed on the bottom. But as far as I’m concerned, he might as well have used Egyptian hieroglyphics. (Yes, I had to google the spelling of that word.) I tried to figure it out…finally got the box lid done, but could not understand the rest of the instructions.
So I did what I always do when I need help with a project. (Pitiful right? Folding a box is now a project?) I turned on the ancient computer in the church office and, disregarding the 400 icons on the desk top left by every administrator since 1995, I found the internet and YouTube.
There, I located a video of a man holding a flattened banker’s box. He carefully demonstrated how to bend the box, where to tear on on the dotted lines, and what needed to be folded. The video was three minutes long and I had to keep restarting it. I kept missing the part where you have to shove the bottom through and then secure it with the sides. Because if you do it the wrong way, the bottom flap falls away.
At last I figured it out, realizing once again that Mensa will not be inviting me to be a part of their elite club where every member could put that thing together in 30 seconds. I would also be the first voted off the reality show, Survivor, if the players needed to unfold a box.
Perhaps I was wrong about the Boxer’s lyrics. Some of them might apply here if I tweak the words like this:
In the office stands a boxer Not a fighter by her trade And she carries the reminders Of every box that laid her down Or cut her till she cried out In her anger and her shame “I am leaving, I am leaving…” Oh, I did it it! Never mind.
La La La La La La La. (Did you sing along?)
And now, for your listening pleasure, here’s the Boxer.
We had a hot tub in the house we moved from in 2005. It fit eight people and we used it regularly as a family. When winter rolled around, my husband Clarence liked to take what he called, ‘a Swedish.’ By this he meant that he was going to run naked around our back yard. Only at night, of course.
Now, we had no neighbors behind us because we lived by the bush. (That’s a forest to you non-northerners.) But we had neighbors on each side, and I worried they’d spot him dashing around. ‘It’s dark out!’ he’d say. ‘No one can see me!’ He also applied this logic to the times when he’d forgotten something in the living room and ran quickly while naked. ‘I was fast,’ he’d say. ‘No one saw me.’
‘Every car driving by saw you,’ I’d say. He’d just shrug.
Needless to say, I never bothered with the Swedish myself. That is until a few days ago, when I had a head cold, (the one sweeping across Canada.) I’d been sitting in our steamshower (no hot tub in this house) until I couldn’t take another moment—it gets really hot in there—and as I stood in the bathroom wrapped in a towel, I had a thought.
What if Clarence was right? What if all I needed was a good Swedish? That hot-to-cold moment that shocks your body and lets the healing begin? I wouldn’t even have to run through my backyard, because I have an attached garage.
I put on some socks and leather slippers, tightened the towel around myself and headed for the garage. It felt wonderful out there! I inhaled deeply, letting the frigid air enter my sinus cavity and chest. I stayed out as long as I could…maybe four minutes. I took a photo of myself and sent it to my kids, saying, “I’m having a Swedish in the garage! Your dad would be so proud!”
Then, as the cold began to seep into my bones, I’d had enough. I pressed on the door handle, but it didn’t give. I’d forgotten to unlock it before I went out. No problem. I quickly punched in the code. Nothing happened. I tried it again. Still nothing. It had worked just the day before, but overnight, the batteries had died.
Dear reader, I’m sure you can imagine the panic filling my brain as I stood there shivering. My back door is inaccessible in the winter. That left only the front door, the one facing the street, where buses run every half hour and cars drive by, and people go walking. It was around ten in the morning, and cold. Very cold.
I pushed the back garage door open, and stepped onto the sidewalk. My first steps were safe ones, then I almost wiped out on some ice hiding under a skiff of snow. I laughed hysterically but caught myself by grabbing onto a drainpipe.
It was time to run across the front of my house and up the stairs. I looked around and tried to time it so no cars were passing. Then a horrible thought landed.
What if it didn’t work? What if my front door keypad batteries were also dead? I pictured myself hailing down a passing car. “Can I have a ride to my friend’s house? I’m locked out!’ The neighbors next to me were out that morning, and I didn’t have the nerve to knock on the door of the bachelor down the street, or the fortitude to make it down the Queen Street hill and scurry down another block to my friend, Gaye’s house. I mean, what if she wasn’t even home? And what good was my phone? By the time the 911 people got there I’d probably be dead from the cold.
In a panic, I rushed up to my front door, my head swiveling in every direction like that little girl in the Exorcist, and quickly tapped in the code. It worked! I rushed into my warm house and headed for the steamshower to warm up. I remembered to text my kids to say I was okay.
These are the ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ moments. The ones where everything turns out. I’d had a Swedish, and I didn’t die. And as far as I know, nobody saw me. Will I do this again at some point? Maybe. But I’ll change the batteries first, and make sure it’s not so cold out. I mean, as it was, I could have suffered the most terrifying end, ever: Death by Embarrassment. Fortunately, all is well. So Happy New Year to all of you. Stay warm, and remember to think things through. Because you don’t want to end up outside your house dressed in a towel in the middle of winter. I mean, who does that?
Judith Pettersen 