Judith Pettersen

The politics of a local community choir can be as complex as any ancient fiefdom. We have our King and Queen, Mark and Crystal, as firm but gentle rulers. We, the choir, don’t ordinarily vote on things, but we do offer opinions, a staggering weight of them. When speaking at inopportune times, Crystal can easily silence us with the phrase, ‘A little flat…you’re sinking, there.’ As she points at the altos, tenors, basses or sopranos, she might as well say, off with their heads! It’s very chastening.

Crystal is not afraid to mix it up with other fiefdoms. She easily calls on the top dogs in London or New York, casually mentioning that she’s sent in her application for a certain musical to be performed in, yes, Flin Flon. Greeted with hysterical laughter or cold silence, she presses on, winning hard to get scores and months of crippling work for herself and Mark.

Our monarchy is aided by faithful knights and nobles, ie: the people who sing really well. It’s a great social equalizer, choir. You could be homeless and sleep in a box, not having showered for a month. But if you have a beautiful voice, we worship at your feet. People will fight to stand beside you, knowing that your golden notes will help them swim, if not with the big fish, at least the medium sized ones.

Then there’s the rest of us.  Though Crystal denies crying herself to sleep at night, I’m sure the desperation of trying to bring us up to snuff, especially when we’re not getting it, is like being water boarded. But our fearless leaders never surrender to despair. At least, not to our faces. And somehow they manage to whip us into shape again and again before we land in Winnipeg, or New York, or on our very own stage in town.

We’ve had some challenging pieces over the years. One of the hardest for me was the Alto part to the song, ‘Where the Boys Are,’ that we sang during our ‘Hooray for Hollywood’ show. It sounded so wonky and off key. I might have wept a bit as I hit the wrong notes again and again. I can’t remember how it all ended…perhaps with a bit of lip syncing on my part. But hey…bragging rights. You show me your Mozart’s Requiem, I’ll show you my Verdi. Much harder, in my humble opinion, yet still a favorite.

We have joyfully performed, for the last twenty years, everything from ‘Schubert’s Mass in A’ to ‘Les Miserables,’ with plenty of Christmas concerts and Cabarets in between. At the moment, we’re learning Morten Lauridsen’s ‘Lux Aeterna,’ a piece which has insured I wear my big girl panties to choir. There’s strange timing, high parts, fast parts, tricky parts, and some that make me want to cry, they’re so beautiful. I wanted to quit, seriously. But our faithful king and queen never lost faith, and we’re slowly sorting it out. And after all that, there’s the real blessing, the better than silver lining of being in choir.

When I head to McIsaac School on a Saturday morning and sing for two hours, it lifts my life out of the every day and makes it, pardon the pun, sing. Perhaps its the act of pushing air in and out of my lungs. Joining others in learning difficult pieces. Hearing our voices united in song. Or all of the above. Whatever it is, its all due to our wonderful Mark and Crystal Kolt. We who are about to die, I mean, sing Lux Aeterna, salute you. We thank you for your gift, this crazy group, this amazing experience, the Flin Flon Community Choir. And did I mention that you don’t have to audition? Someone please high five me on that one.

The other night I dreamed that I had no skin. Just bones, so you could see all my dental work. I looked at my skull in the mirror and wondered if it was really me. When I woke, I kept thinking about it. Who am I, anyway?

We are all the sum total of our physical and mental parts, our upbringing and experiences. Then there’s that ten percent of uncertainty. Like the burger you buy from a street vendor, and are almost certain its beef. We get our ideas about ourselves from parents and friends, but also from the things we like to do. For me, this has changed over time.

When I was in my forties, I became obsessed with decorating. Like the poor woman’s Martha Stewart, I gave my house a makeover. Ripping out carpets, replacing them with fake hardwood, repainting all the walls. I even recovered the sofa, which, believe me. Don’t ever do it. There are at least ten thousand staples in there and no way to stretch the new material quite as tight. The whole experience was strangely satisfying, though. When we moved, we had to renovate the new place, but I never took the same joy in it. It was just something I had to do.

What changed? I’m not sure. All I know is that I don’t care what colour my walls are anymore. I’m feeling nostalgic for the lightness of my youth, the lack of possessions. Fixing broken things, putting in a new lawn (remember the cinch bugs?) Changing the odd window. That’s what I’m willing to do now.

I’m not a big shopper, either, but the dressing room mirror does provide some role play opportunities. Is this me, I wonder, as I try on something sporty. Or am I more classic? Goth? Does this fringed dress work? How about fishnet stockings or jeggings? Hmm. The problem with self definition by wardrobe is that it only lasts for about five minutes. Then you’re back to being you.

On bad shopping days, nothing works. When I feel that happening, I look in the mirror at my own boots, jacket and jeans and say, good enough. What’s wrong with looking like someone who lives in northern Canada, anyway? After all, its a huge part of my not so mysterious ten percent. At least I got that figured out.

My sister took me to a spa in Fort Garry called Thermea. In bathing suits and white bathrobes, we sashayed between the outdoor hot pools, warm and cold pools, dry and wet saunas with accompanying scented oils, an outdoor fireplace where we read our books, and indoor mats that lulled us to sleep in the warm heat.

We had lunch with wine, then scurried back to the pools. By the time we showered, I felt limper than an overcooked noodle. I left my sister and headed upstairs, where my massage therapist waited. The obvious offspring of a village pillaging Viking and an orthodox Jew with tattoos, his curly side locks seemed completely appropriate. Plus, he was huge. And I’d never had a male therapist before. By had, I mean… You know what I mean.

I’ve never really understood the rules about this stuff. We have society’s permission to be naked in front of opposite sex strangers if: a) you accidentally end up on a nude beach, like Clarence and I did, or b) they’re doctors and nurses. Was this the same thing? Is there a panel of people who decide the protocol of nudity? I did have a sheet and blanket for a covering. And this guy was a master at arranging them around my legs, upper torso, lower torso, like some kind of sheet genie. Whenever I started feeling uneasy, he’d work the tension right out of me.

Because he was so large, he didn’t have to glide around the table like a regular therapist. Instead, he would hip check the table, sending it wherever he wanted it to go. With hands the size of my back, he could have snapped my neck like a chicken. Between the sheet arranging, his breathing instructions and the moving table, I should have been flustered beyond the point of relaxation. But I wasn’t.

It helped that he kept calling me dear, like I was his ninety year old grandmother. And he had a way of breathing that was hypnotizing. My breath just kind of fell in line. Before I knew it I was completely relaxed. So if you’re lucky enough to go to the Thermea spa in Winnipeg, ask for Justin. Don’t be alarmed by his size. He’s a kitten packaged like a dinosaur. But with really good hands.

Forget New Year’s resolutions. Twelve months? At my age, that feels like two weeks. Not nearly enough time to reach for the stars. My new plan, uncovered this evening, allows me four whole years. So by the next leap year, my mission(s) should be accomplished.

First on my list is to stop falling down, at least physically. I’ve decided to quit seeing this as an impossible goal (due to my keystone cop-esque ineptitude) and begin viewing it as a decision. Ergo, no more falling down. I’m done with it. I made it all the way home tonight on very slippery roads. So.

In four years, I plan to be ten pounds lighter. When you break it down, that’s less than three pounds a year. Very doable. If I tried to make it happen in twelve months I’d be up eating cheese at three in the  morning, with a glass of wine or two on the side. Don’t drink without eating…that’s always been my motto. But this kind of pacing, four years worth, it will work for sure.

I like the idea of a leap. A decision to go for what I really want. Since I’m not quite sure about all of my end goals, four years gives me a little time to figure it out. Some things are too secret to share (even for me) but I promise that in 2020, I will give you all a full report.

And please… join me. Make a wish for things that feel so far out of reach, they’re practically impossible. Believe you can make them happen. Take a picture of them with your mental smartphone. Now, see yourself taking the hand of a friend. Then take my hand. We’ll head over to the cliff edge together, our pockets filled with dreams of things we never dared to hope for. If we leap together, they have a better chance of coming true. I don’t know what you’re wishing, but I’m very excited about not falling down anymore. What do you really want by 2020? Figure it out, then come on. One, two, three. Jump.

There are days when I feel myself ascending. Rising above my ordinary life into a heady mixture of something that can feel a lot like joy, but might only be self satisfaction. My part of the universe is very well, thank you. I am floating around, above it all. Up with all the other smug folk, having a great day.

Then, there are the other times. Days when I am falling. Literally falling, which happened three times this winter. The first time I was out walking with my sister. I hit a slick of ice and achieved what a snowboarder calls a boost. There was a lot of air between me and the ground before I finally connected. First my head, then my back and hips. I was glad I wasn’t alone, because it stunned me. I needed help getting up. For a whole day, I walked around puzzled, possibly concussed.

The second time I fell, it didn’t hurt as much. A quick dusting off, a furtive look around, and a continuation of  my journey. The third time happened inside my house. I’d just hung a painting and was stepping back to take a look when I caught my heel on the rung of a chair and toppled backwards. It was the only time I regretted putting in hardwood floors.

It’s not the pain. It’s the humiliation. This, my new sports slogan, also works for the ordinary fray of people who fall down. If walking can be considered a sport, (and it can) then I’m not a klutz. I’m an injured athlete.

I have also fallen down on the job. Oh, the futility of shoveling muck as a summer student at HudBay. The pile never seemed to lessen. There were moments when I questioned my need to exist. I would sneak off to the bathroom, where it was warm, and ponder a little. Newly restored, I would remind myself about the great pay which, indeed, took me right through university.

I tend to forget appointments. I’ve missed some great nights out because of Netflix binging. Forgotten to pray for someone at a specific time because I was caught up in the bizarre reality show of American politics. In each instance I felt myself slipping, like the universe had tilted a little and I hadn’t been able to stick the landing.  I UN-velcroed. I fell. We all do. We fall and fall and fall. Into Facebook. Into heartache. Into messes that we make into bigger messes through the erroneous use of imagination or bad decisions.

But then we get up. We dust ourselves off and make sure our parts are in working order. We carry on. Sometimes, with the perfect kind of boost, we rise into a magical day. Propelled into joy filled clouds, we high five each other about the great view. Ice sure looks pretty from up there.

Those moments sustains us for the journey forward. Because, for sure we will fall down again. When we do, we should relax. Let the road hold us for a moment. We are down, but we are looking up.  We take the hand that’s offered, that pulls us back on our feet. It isn’t so bad, really. And the sky looks beautiful from there.

Yesterday I was popping a free range chicken into the oven when it started talking to me. “Hi,” it said, which was only mildly startling. (Many things around my house like to talk.) “My name is Henrietta.” Well, of course. I stared into her lemon stuffed cavity and wondered where all of this was heading. She continued speaking as if my thoughts hadn’t interrupted her at all. As if we were getting acquainted. In truth, we’d already been kind of intimate. I had just given her an olive oil and pepper rubdown.

“Some things you should know about me,” she continued, not acknowledging my astonishment. “I like a good run around the farm yard, and I’m particular fond of a rooster named Elvis.” I swear her wings flapped lightly at this point. Slightly flustered, I popped the chicken into the oven before she could say anything else. I don’t know about you, but I like my food to be silent. I don’t want to know it better than I already do. But my imagination often gets the best of me. When you mix that with a guilty conscience, (why aren’t I a vegetarian yet?) Well. Anything can happen.

Which is why I’m following up my post, The Bug Eater’s Dilemma, with this one. I am about to make good on my earlier claim and invest in some cricket powder. Seriously. At cricketflours.com, they have some lovely recommendations. Like Double Chocolate Cricket Crispies. Yum. Two tablespoonfuls of cricket flour uses about 175 crickets. And the good news is, they are no longer recognizable.

There will be no unfortunate glances as I toss them into the blender. No chatty conversations as they try to delay the inevitable. Nobody is trying to make friends here. Yes, there are Buddhist monks who will consider my chocolately snack to be murder. But the lack of form, of flesh, will make all the difference to me.

I’m not giving up on chicken and fish. Not yet. I just need to make sure they had a good life before they walked the Green Mile. I will also be using more chicken pieces in the future. They seem much less likely to engage me in conversation. And I’ll be sure to let you know how my bug eating venture goes. I’m kind of excited about it. The Cinammon Cricket Flour Muffins, in particular, look delicious. Henrietta! Get back in the oven. You’re not done yet.

One of the great things about growing older is that no one gets to tell you who you are anymore. When you’re young, what you hear from friends and family often defines your sense of self. ‘Of course you’re good at ballet!’ Even when you know the truth, you often trust the opinion of others over your own.

We spend our lives seeking our true selves. Every experience, every job and each new friend helps us down the road to the big reveal. All our encounters assist in peeling back the layers until at last we can look inside and see ourselves. There you are, we might say. I know you. And the great part is, if we don’t like what we discover, we can turn ourselves around and head in a different direction.

People are often willing to help us along our journey of self discovery. “Gosh,” I said to my sisters a number of years ago. “Am I too critical?’
“Oh, thank God. Yes! We’ve been trying to tell you for ages but you’re so bloody thick!” Which is true. As my sister Jen says, my first book should be titled, “I’m Okay. You Could Be Better.” I like to think I’m just misunderstood. But now that I’ve been told, I try to bite my lip. Though, seriously. Those boots?

Two more things I’ve discovered about myself is: I’m not very brave. But I am calm in a crisis. Watch a tense movie scene and I’ll be clutching the leg of the person next to me, or hiding my face in their shoulder, which, believe me, has led to awkward conversations with strangers. I hide my eyes at scary scenes, gasp, and sometimes say things like, “Oh No! Why did you do that!” This does not make for happy seat mates at the movies.

So. Watching a movie with me might be annoying. But lose your hand in a meat grinder and I’m your girl. I’ll call 911, conjure up a tourniquet and sing softly to you until the medics arrive. I know this, because I’ve done it. That’s how I learned that I’m calm in a crisis.

I don’t like to sit. I have finger tapping, nail chewing ADD during meetings, I’ll pick any activity over gambling, which is so boring, I’d rather hammer myself in the head than do it. I like long walks on the beach, as long as the sand is firm, and dancing in the rain, but only if there’s no lighting. I’m a democratic socialist trying to understand that not every conservative idea is bad. I’m a little too guarded… Okay. That was a joke. Anyway, I’m glad I’m not sixteen anymore. It’s a relief to have a few things figured out. Now about those boots…

For the first time in our lives, my husband and I have taken separate vacations. He’d been longing for Havana. I really, really wanted to stay in Canada. So that’s what we did. I visited Calgary, and he began his grand adventure of a holiday on the cheap in Cuba. Though, not so cheap anymore. However.

I never realized how uncertain I’d feel about him on his own, so far away. Would he get lost? Robbed? Lose his passport? Goof around with the wrong government official and end up in prison? Anything seemed possible. My anxious texts became appropriate for a kid at camp. Are the Cubans nice? Are you making friends?  Mother stuff. Or wife stuff, if you’ve put in enough time.

He can only text  me, because we are not rich enough for the other kind of plan. And Clarence is, to put it politely, a little bizarre in his linguistics. His texts look like infomercials written by people who don’t speak English. Lots of happy faces and other emoji s. The first few days, he kept repeating, HELLO! IS ANYONE THERE! Like he was stranded on the moon.

The texting continued. FOOD GOOD! DANCING WITH BAND IN STREET! NICE CONGO PLAYER! BAD TAXI! RAINING MY COAT!

It’s like he’s shouting, but with a strong accent and an inability to find the right words. The girls and I puzzled over each message like explorers deciphering ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. We decided that it was raining a lot, and he was taking dancing lessons. And taxis.

Our daughter Michelle has joined him for his last week. It will be interesting to hear the news from her perspective. I’m not sure we’ll do the separate vacation thing again, but as long as he had fun, that’s the main thing. If not, I’ll be having a word with his camp Councillor.

There are times when the voice on the other end of the God line seems  faint. Are you there, I ask, and my voice wavers like a child left  alone in a dark basement. On my last trip to Calgary, I experienced a perfect storm of events that had me writing my own codicil to the Book of Lamentations. Woe was me.

I had decided to catch a bus to Saskatoon, then fly the rest of the way. On the way to the depot, I forgot my driver’s license and had to rush home to get it. Or, I should say, Gerry Clark had to rush me home, thereby making him late for work. In Prince Albert, I left my water bottle on the bus, which wouldn’t be a big deal except it belonged to my late mother. Which made me feel like I’d left her on the bus.

In Saskatoon, I flagged down a taxi, reaching the airport in record time, only to discover I’d left my luggage at the bus depot. Fortunately, there was time to go back and retrieve it. It was only when I was boarding the plane that I realized I felt very ill.

Food poisoning ill. My stomach had a dragon in it, composed of a bad chicken sandwich and the feeling that I’d never make the seventy-five minute flight without throwing up. To compound the matter, I was sitting against the window, breaking my long standing code of always taking an aisle seat. As I watched in amazement, a grizzly bear sized young man took the seat next to me.

As it turned out, that was a good thing. Extremely nice, ruggedly handsome, he was willing to chat about many things, and ignore the fact that I was ready to barf all over him at a moment’s notice. I held on until I reached my daughter’s house, where I proceeded to act like the little girl in ‘The Exorcist.’ Lots of projectile vomiting and enough body spasms to freak out the bravest priest.

It is in these dire times that I seek God like a hound catching a scent. In good times, for so many of us, our faith becomes smug. We push it to the back of our minds.  It takes a bad day to make us really count our blessings. To appreciate all the good things we ordinarily take for granted. Like traveling without forgetting things. Or feeling well. Not having the car break down. No unexpected bills arriving in the mail.

On those days when the sun shines and we feel like the best versions of ourselves, we look back to the bad times and feel grateful. Because in that moment, on that day, all is well. We recognize the blessing, even if it’s temporary. On those days when it seems that no one is on the other end of the line, appreciating moments of grace can bring us peace.  We don’t know what lies ahead. But when we appreciate having it good, it gives us strength for all the rest.

It’s a new year. It’s winter. You’d think I’d be done with bugs. Not so. In the fall, not wanting to say goodbye to two beautiful tropical trees, I brought them inside. Yes, I had small bugs flying around. That’s to be expected. This isn’t my first time at the bug rodeo.

But yesterday was different. I was climbing into bed when I saw what appeared to be a line of dirt marching across my green shag mat. To my horror, I realized it was bugs. I had put out a cup of red wine as an offering to the fruit flies that came with my last bunch of bananas. But these things. They weren’t flying. They were on a different mission.

For one thing, they looked exactly like the cinch bugs on my lawn this summer. The wily (forgive the pun) buggers had hitched a ride on one tree. I hadn’t noticed them so much in the fall, but when I approached the plant last night, I was surrounded by a swarming cloud. It was bug Armageddon, and that tree was ground zero.

I hauled the culprit out to the deck and into the -20C weather. A perfect storm of bugs rose up and tried to make it back inside, but I quickly shut the door in their small insect faces. Then I took out my vacuum and found every tiny critter on the floor, upstairs and down. I spared the spiders, because we have a deal that when they take over the world, I’ll be considered a friend.

Obviously, the cinch bugs had been looking for grass. My fluffy mat must have seemed appropriate. So far, I haven’t seen any more of the ground crawlers. I’m hoping the few air born ones are fruit flies. But if you don’t see me around over the next few days, please call me. The cinch bugs may be launching a third wave. And I’m not sure they won’t win.