Judith Pettersen

 In the middle of September, I attended a Brandon University reunion. My third one, and not even mine, really. The class of 74 belonged to my husband. I’m not sure what it was about my own class of ’76, but apparently, we weren’t much fun and had no interest in reuniting. 

This time it was just me, along with a few of Ace’s best pals. Walking through the campus where we met and fell in love felt poignant, yet kind of wonderful. The older you get, the more you appreciate all the things that helped make you, you. 

The last time the class met was ten years ago. Back then, we tried heading up to our old dorm rooms in McMaster Hall, but were blocked from entering the elevator by some belligerent students.

 ‘You can’t come up here! You don’t belong! Don’t make us call security! Honestly, they would have been my least favourite people if I’d gone to school with them. Aren’t you supposed to break a few rules when you’re young? 

Fortunately, this time I ran into two young ladies who happily escorted me up to the 7th floor. I didn’t get to see my old room, but there was the place for doing laundry, and the communal tub where I’d run a bath and play ‘Strangers in the Night’ on my recorder for an hour. (Seriously. But it was an alto recorder with a less screechy sound. Still…what was I thinking?) 

There was the 8th floor walkway where we dropped buckets of water onto the people below us during massive, multi-floor water fights. My friends and I, as grown ups and taxpayers, are not happy with some of the shenanigans we got up to back then. But the teenager hovering somewhere in the back of my brain still finds them delightful.

Many of us stayed at the Victoria Inn, where the university had reserved a block of rooms. The staff were lovely, but my room had a connecting door with a couple from the class of ’64. They were both a bit deaf and left their TV on all night playing CNN loudly. I banged on their door at 3AM, but they didn’t hear a thing. I, on the other hand, heard every word of their conversations. Fortunately, it mostly involved discussions around blood pressure and medication.

And then I tried to have a shower. Was the hotel secretly testing its guest’s IQs? (I took a picture of the taps so you can see what I mean. )

Turning it on was the hardest part. I only wanted to use the rain shower on the ceiling, (missing from the picture) but water shot out from all the knobs, depending on how I turned the two centre ones. A tiny move to the right and the water was scalding. I kept hopping in and out of the cubicle like a demented rabbit. Who decided this was a step up from the old system, I’m not sure. As with most things, simplicity is best. It certainly looked classy, though. It’s like they were trying to say, ‘We’re the Ritz, but not really.’

If we ever have another reunion and I stay there again, I’ll be sure to request a ‘single knob’ shower. I’m sure they’ll know what I mean. If not, I’ll take a photo and write another blog on the hotel’s latest IQ test. For now, this is Brandon Alumni, Judith Pettersen, signing off. 

 Last fall I was in bed at my daughter’s house when a moth swooped past my head to brush against my cheek. I’m from northern Manitoba, so I’m used to bugs. Mosquitoes, house flies and a hairy spider or two have all been late night house callers. Over the last seven years I have taken a Bhuddist approach by capturing them with my Lee Valley bug trap…kind of a catch and release situation. Unfortunately, I didn’t have it with me.

So I did the next best thing. I tried to kill the moth with my shoe. Oh, how the tender heart hardens when put to the test. But I couldn’t bear the thought of it flying past my face all night long. I made more noise than I intended, and my daughter came rushing down the the stairs to my room. 

‘Mom! What are you doing? You’re going to wake the kids!’ (As every parent knows, that’s a no-no.) When I explained the situation, she gave me a ‘Is she getting senile?’ look. And then the moth brushed against her face and she bit back a scream. It took two of us but she finally landed the kill shot. 

This summer has been the most bug free one ever, if only inside my bedroom. I’ve  had just two strange moments, one of them quite recent.

The first entailed a bug that looked like the kind that haunts my rasberry bushes. ((Sometimes you have to pry them out of the raspberries.) But this thing was big as a moth and I couldn’t decide if it was floating along the wall or climbing it. I hadn’t noticed it until I got up to go to the bathroom. Quickly, I ran into the kitchen and grabbed my bug catcher. I stood on my bed and, in spite of its evasive actions, I managed to catch it, slam the trap door shut and carry the creature out onto the deck. 

As I opened the trap door, I realized that the bug had died. Perhaps from a fear related heart attack, but more likely, I’d clipped an important body part while shutting it inside. Per usual, I tossed it onto the deck while pretending it was still alive. “Fly back to your friends!’ I called out, like I was faking my way out of a murder charge.

The last bug in my room descended just a few days ago. I was lying in bed reading a book when Tinkerbell (or one of her cousins) fluttered down in front of me and just hovered there, like someone treading water. She was lime green, about an inch in length and had small fluttery wings and a pair of arms and legs. (That’s what I saw, alright?)

At first I was enchanted. I remember saying, ‘Are we off to Neverland? Where’s Wendy?’ Then, an intriguing thought landed. ‘Am I Wendy?’ I asked aloud. Then the creature fluttered right next to my face and I gave a small scream. I ran for the bug catcher, but this insect was tricky. By the time I’d placed the trap against the wall, she’d escaped to another part of the room. So I grabbed my flyswatter, and when she landed on the footboard, I slapped her hard, grabbed a kleenex, and scooped her up. 

Instead of taking her out to the deck, I flushed her down the toilet. I didn’t peek inside to see if she was still alive, either. I didn’t want to see her lips form the words, ‘Murderer!’ as she breathed her last. ‘You’re not a Bhuddist!’ 

I’m really not. 

But when the bugs inherit the earth, I want them to remember their friends. Especially the spiders. I used to holler at my girls when they screamed at the sight of hairy, eight legged creatures crawling out from under their beds. ‘Spiders are your friends!’  I’d say. (But not when they’re in your bed. That’s crossing the line.)

 I never kill spiders, though. Although putting them outside when its -30 might be pushing it. Aside from these few, hypocritical moments, I consider myself ‘pro-bug.’ However, the climate is changing and we’re getting strange insects up north that never lived here before. When the cockroaches start heading our way, I might have to abandon my principles and just use a fly swatter. Perhaps I’ll send them to bug heaven while offering up a loud rendition of La Cucaracha. Some might see it as politically incorrect, but I call it a nice way for them to spend their last moments. 

I made an unfortunate discovery this summer. Apparently, you can’t just keep adding stain to your deck year after year and expect it to stick. It needs tough love to make it last. My friend Gaye offered to help, since they own a powerwasher. I’m almost certain I used a garden hose with poor pressure a few years ago, but what did I know?  I though it would take her about 30 minutes. When it went on longer, I checked in. “Isn’t this good enough?” I said, pointing at the boards.

She replied like a nursery school teacher conversing with a dim three year old. “Judy, if we don’t do it right, you’ll just have to do it all over again next summer.” With the gentlest tone and a small shake of her head, she got back to it. 

She worked for three and a half hours the first day and three the next. The loose strands of paint disappeared, leaving behind the dull echo of stain from years gone by that would need to be sanded away. She offered to do it, but how far can you let a friend go in the help department without feeling like you’re taking advantage?

With my new palm sander and paper, I took over a week to finish the job. I ended up using a belt sander, too, which threw me around like a bull trying to toss a cowboy at the rodeo. Every evening my hands buzzed for an hour, and my back ached like the bull had not just thrown, but trampled me. And yet, I removed every speck of stain before purchasing Thompson water sealer in a cedar colour. 

After following the directions carefully, I ended up with a nicely finished deck the colour of Donald Trump’s face. But after all the work that went into it, I’m okay with that.

Once my back unclenched from being stooped over for a week, I planted my garden and began the never ending tasks of weedwhacking, mowing the lawn and potting flowers. There are other tasks that I needed advice about, or required a small amount of help with, but really, I’ve bothered quite a few handy friends in the past. I don’t like to think of them lying on the floor with the lights out and the door locked if they see me approaching their house. 

What we need in town, in the world, really, is a list. Much like the list for organ donors, only this one wouldn’t be voluntary. If someone made the mistake of doing too good a job with their house, yard, car, fence, etc, then they would be added to the list. This would be especially beneficial to society if it involved people who broke the law. 

Say a guy worked for the mafia and got caught by the FBI. Or CSIS. After prowling around their property, agents would notice how well kept things were, and the bad guy/girl would make the mistake of saying, ‘I’m good at breaking legs but I’m also handy with regular tools.’ They would go on the list.

There’d be a second list of people like me who need  help with things. We have questions, like, how do I use this saw? How do I load my nail gun? Can I paint outside with this brand, even though YouTube says no? Of course, we’d all have our favourite handy people. I can just picture them saying, ‘You again!’ when I call. ‘Do you want me to call the RCMP?’ I’d reply. (Because yes, these people would have little choice in the matter.) 

It would be a tidier world. Pictures would hang straighter, my sidewalk wouldn’t be coated in white paint accidentally spilled while I was attempting to paint my posts out front. I wouldn’t have to have a side table in the place where my trim joined up in the living room. I’m not great at diagonal cuts, and unfortunately, I belong to the school of ‘Eh! Good enough.’ 

So, Justin Trudeau and Pierre Pollievre, stop squabbling and start making a list. All the handy people I know are honest, and I have to stop bothering them. I hope to hear about this new program soon. 

sincerely,

Me      

 To misquote author Erich Segal, what can you say about a girl who died? That she was beautiful? That she was loved? Yes. But since her loss has left me…all of us, with a ragged wound that refuses to heal, I’m first going to talk about how damned annoying she could be.

Susan was a beautiful child who never sat still. She was so competitive that she had to win every race. We’d stand at the top of our back lane, and she’d shout, ‘Go!’ I’d watch her take off running with a resigned look on my face, knowing I’d lost before I’d taken a single step, because she was not just fast, but determined. She flew like a little bird, her white blond, cotton candy hair floating above her like wings. 

As a teenager, she started wearing black eyeliner, even though Linda and I told her it looked dumb. While visiting my aunt in California, she insisted on speaking with an accent that was one part British, two parts made up European royalty. ‘That’s not how she talks!’ we’d tell the effortlessly cool teenagers my aunt would invite over, hoping they’d befriend us. Susan didn’t care what we, or they, thought. She was living her best, fake accent, life. 

I still remember the evening when her band made their debut at our high school dance. I was so nervous, I felt like throwing up. But they were spectacular in their cool, matching outfits, like the Beatles. ‘Oh, thank God,’ I remember thinking. ‘They’re so good.’ Her future husband, Brent, was in the band, too. Music was a huge part of their love story. Later, there was a family band, and they became a big part of our community’s social life.

Susan was my best childhood friend. We were soulmates of a different kind, and we could practically read each other’s minds.When we were grown and had families, we lived just a few blocks away from each other. Our families lived in each other’s pockets…that was true of all the siblings in town. When I watch family videos, I’m stunned at the utter chaos: children everywhere, parents oblivious to the deafening noise. It must have been awful for anyone visiting.

Susan and I were choir buddies, along with two other sisters and a brother. We usually sat together, though we occasionally fought over our friend, Michelle, who sang all theright notes. Susan had a beautiful voice, but like me, she didn’t read music when our community choir got started. We practiced together diligently. She worked hard at it, like she did everything else.

She was always up for whatever crazy notion I got into my head, like painting my entire Rumpus room one Christmas Eve. After Clarence died, she helped me clean up the garage…a gargantuan task because of my Father-in-law’s fifty years of ‘collecting things.’ We must have taken ten trips to the dump before having a massive garage sale. She was my navigator whenever I took a wrong turn pulling the trailer. What I mostly remember is how much we laughed. Especially when she opened containers to find the stuffed heads of dead animals. That was worth a scream or two.

I loved how our families fit together. There were our Academy Awards parties, endless theme parties, really, where we laughed and sang and played charades. All the births we shared, helping each other through, and crying too, when things were hard. 

Susan was exceptionally kind and brave. She spoke up in defence of others, and became a birth coach, helping many mothers navigate the system. As an Educational Assistant, she was an advocate for children, because she remembered what it was like for herself and her siblings, every one of us with ADHD, which teachers back then thought of as Annoying, Distracted, Heedless Daydreamers. Because of it, she read endless books about parenting and child psychology. 

She was effortlessy beautiful, something I didn’t really notice as a sister. Not until she was gone. She was brave throughout her illness, and so stoic. It was a privilege being with her for the last few weeks, especially on the night she drew her final breath. Such beauty and dignity, despite everything she’d gone through. She’s with the angels, now, probably singing beside our friend Michelle. So here’s to you, my sweet, beautiful sister. I love you. I miss you. And I know I’ll see you again.

 I belong to a cheap bookbuying club that discounts all kinds of books. It lets you pick from a few different genres, and every day you have the option of selecting anywhere from 5 to 7 options. I’ve found some excellent reads there. But if you’ve even hinted that you can handle a romance novel, you will automatically receive every Billionaire Boyfriend book on the list. 

The titles are hilarious. The latest is called Her Bachelor Cowboy Billionaire, about a young woman and an old guy. Guess which one is rich? The thing that gets me is, who’d want a billionaire, anyway? I mean, sure, Warren Buffett is giving away most of his money before he dies. I’d love to have a conversation with him about that. But the rest of them? How ruthless do you have to be to end up a billionaire? Most of them start out with wealthy parents, like Elon Musk. But there must be a few self made ones out there, stepping on more than a few necks to propel themselves upward on their journey to extreme wealth. 

Currently, there are 3, 381 billionairs dashing around the planet in their private jets, or preparing themselves for their journey to Mars. If you had a billion invested at 8% interest, you’d make thirty million a year. And yet, what are these people doing with their money? 

Happily there’s another good one, Yvon Chouinard, who founded the Patagonia company 52 years ago, is giving all 3 billion to a special trust and creating a foundation to help combat climate change and protect nature. Now, that’s a guy to fall in love with. 

Please, Bookbub, no more billionaire love stories. You’re making me throw up in my mouth. Now, a down-on-his-luck cowboy who just gave his last dollar to a food bank? That guy’s dateable. Signing off, this is Judith, leaning just a little more to the left. 

(A reprint from 2017)

Once upon the new millennium, a guy looked at a photo of Sigmund Freud and said to himself, my facial hair envy is out of control. I must have that beard. I’ll shag it up, grow it longer, and throw testosterone around like a final sale at Sears. In an alternate scenario, the same man saw some Amish people driving their buggies into town and was taken aback by the manly ruggedness of it all. Overwhelmed by the desire to join a cult, instead he decided to skip the buggy, the plain clothes and pants that button instead of zip, and grow himself some long, shaggy facial hair. Third option: Tom Hanks in the movie, Cast Away. There it is. The winning look. A magical combination of irony and soul baring honesty. Bingo.

These are the only scenarios I can come up with that will explain the strange phenomena of the hipster beard. I had my first sighting of it in 2012 at my niece Heather’s wedding. The fellow was visiting from New Zealand, and my first thought was that he was an actor from the Lord of the Rings movies. His beard had to be at least eighteen inches in length, and fluffy in an eerie and disturbing way. I expected birds to fly out from hidden nests, or a swarm of wasps to descend, the lights to go out and strange maniacal laughter to issue from his lips.This man had a very pretty wife with him. I kept staring at her, wishing I could take her aside.  ‘I can help you escape,’ I wanted to say.

I’ve read several explanations for the rise of the hipster beard. One theory is that men want to downplay their attractiveness and up their masculine quotient in a bid to find a mate. Others suggest that if a man dresses too well, the beard is his way of saying, I know. I’m awesome, but in case it’s too much, here’s this beard. You’re welcome.

I like beards. My husband has one, and though I wish it was a little less scruffy, it could never be considered hipster. Combined with his Crocs and oversized wardrobe, his style says, ‘Not homeless, just admiring the look.’ It’s an unironic thing.

Ladies, let me know what you think. Perhaps younger women are on board with hipster beards. Maybe its just me. Perhaps snuggling up to eighteen inches of facial hair is a real turn on. I’d like to know for sure. And men with hipster beards, please weigh in on this. I have a feeling there’s more to it than meets the eye. And no. I’m not talking about the birds.

A few strange things have happened over the last few weeks. First, the top of my deodorant stick broke off. I was heading out on a trip and I hate wasting money so I found a tiny plastic bag I’d saved from Baba’s Bulk Bin, and shoved the piece in there. I am nothing if not inventive. And cheap. 

The strange part happened when I was getting changed. I lifted my arms up and noticed flecks of green in my pits. ‘Am I growing mold in secret places?’ I wondered. But as a pleasant, delicate odour wafted past I remembered my store purchase. The bag had been used to hold parsley, and it was covering the deodorant with the ferocity of sparkle dust. Naturally, I used the rest of the stick until it was gone. After all, the parsley was doing me no harm.

The next strange thing happened yesterday. I was  recently in Calgary, but since I hate shopping, I came home without the sports bra I desperately needed. I’m trying to up my activity level, and that kind of jumping around requires a stern undergarment with a bossy edge. I went to our local Red Apple store, which sells everything from groceries (they have the faint look of having been stored in an underground bunker) and plenty of other goods with tiny issues. Like beautiful sheets with an unsewn seam or an elegant jacket marked large when it’s actually size small. It’s fun going in there…its kind of like a treasure hunt. 

I found a beautiful black and gray racerback bra and brought it home to try on. It fit me perfectly and like a courteous escort, it said nothing but gave plenty of silent support. I promptly turned on YouTube and did a vigorus zumba workout. Then I bundled up for a walk and after returning home, got ready to settle in for the night. 

Now, I’d never worn this kind of garment before and it hadn’t occured to me that it would be difficult to remove. In fact, it was impossible. During my desperate struggle, I began to understand the fear of a baby hippo trying to escape from the mouth of a crocodile. The elastic might have been made by Nasa, perhaps to fasten an escape hatch onto the mother ship. I wrestled harder, but made no progress at all. And then I thought, oh, no. I might have to call the fire department! They’re the ones who rescue you when you’re locked in a stuck elevator. And I was having my own locked-in moment. 

My neighbor Linda was away, and her husband Gerry and I are friends, but we don’t have that kind of relationship. I thought about getting scissors and cutting the thing off me. But that seemed ridiculous. Besides, I’m a tad uncoordinated and could end up slicing myself instead. This was underwear and it was meant to be removed. 

I picked up my phone and googled ‘how to remove a racingback sports bra.’ Every answer started with, ‘loosen the straps.’ But there was nothing to loosen. My aha! moment arrived. This is why it was only $9.00! It was well made (too well made, really) but nobody had thought to install a zipper or clasp of any kind. 

Finally, through sheer desperation and with only the tearing of a few stitches, I got the thing off. Then I had to lie down on the bed and recover, since I felt like I’d just taken part in an Olympic wrestling event way above my weight level. 

Am I going to wear it again? You’re darn tootin’ I am. But first, the two of us will have a chat. There might be some amendments made to the thing. Because, really, the fire Department has more important things to do. But I’ll have a friend on standby, just in case.