Away

 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.

What the Fudge!

 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.

We Stand on Guard for Thee

 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!

The Box

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.

The Swedish

 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?

It’s the Rant Before Christmas

 Have you ever had one of those mornings where you’d rather not get out of bed? I woke up like that today. Nothing earth shaking. Just a low feeling of malaise. A temporary depressive state. And given the current events in the world, it’s not all that surprising.

On days when I get that feeling, I use certain activities to shake myself out of the blues. Like dancing to online zumba classes. Or clapping my hands and jumping up and down. (Try it…it works.) Today, I made the mistake of going online and reading about the crazy happenings with our southern neighbors. It was too much. 

Fortunately, I went out to meet some friends at the Orange Toad, for tea. Sitting at a table next to other people in your community is relaxing.  I don’t know about men, but women need each other’s company. It’s like free heart medication. I pictured myself lying on the floor of the coffee shop, barely able to lift my head, and Meghan, the owner, helping me up and saying, ‘Here’s your mint tea!’ (I order the same thing every time. I’m very ritualistic…it’s an ADD thing.) 

I felt much better when I left her place. Next, my friend Lois and I strolled over to the Red Apple, one of those ‘we sell bar fridges and the cheapest sheets in the world’ kind of stores. I was scanning the shelves for stocking stuffers when a Christmas song came on. Except in this one, nobody was wishing us a holly, jolly Christmas. Nobody was rockin’ round the Christmas tree, or walking in a winter wonderland. Instead, the lyrics went like this:

Please Daddy, don’t get drunk this Christmas
I don’t wanna see my Mamma cry
Please Daddy, don’t get drunk this Christmas
I don’t wanna see my Mamma cry

I put back the shiny ornament I held in my hand and stared at a woman standing near by. ‘Can you believe this song?’ she asked me. 

The person singing might as well have been saying, ‘Everything’s bad. Lose all hope. Forget about Christmas.’ Alan Jackson was the singer, but when I googled it, I discovered that John Denver wrote it! 

Look, folks. It’s bad enough that ‘He Who Shall Not Be Named,’ won the US election. It’s disturbing enough that I have to hear about it every single day, whenever I turn on my computer or listen to the news. But depressing Christmas music? 

Whatever happend to ‘Grandma got run over by a reindeer? That one’s funny, and the tune is catchy. ‘Please Daddy’ sounds like a funeral dirge, only daddy’s not dead, he’s just drunk as a skunk. And momma is sad. 

Perhaps the music channel wanted to make a statment. Maybe, like me, they find Hallmark movies depressing with their constant cheer and excessive decorating. But let there be some middle ground! A happy medium, where someone is having a hard day but then they meet friends for tea and everyone cheers up. 

Yes, John Lennon sang ‘War is Over if You Want It’ while depressing news played in the background. But that was the early seventies when people believed that anything was possible. Elvis sang ‘Blue Christmas,’ but listening to it didn’t make you feel sad. It had you thinking, ‘Get over here, buddy. I’ll cheer you up in no time.’

But this song is an affront to Christmas. I’m someone who celebrates traditionally, with church on Christmas Eve and the singing of old fashioned carols like O Holy Night. But I embrace the other stuff, too. Like, Holly Jolly Christmas, and Jingle Bells and Rudolf the Rednose Reindeer. The classics. 

John Denver wrote Rocky Moutain High, and Annie’s song. He’s the guy who sang, ”You fill up my senses.’ He’s not supposed to be the ‘You’re killing your liver,’ guy. 

I’m sure this song came from someplace real. And maybe it resonates with those who had a hard time while growing up. But please don’t play this song in stores. We need Andy Williams and Michael Buble, and the Muppets. In these tough mental and emotional times (thanks for that, US Republicans) we need a pick me up, not a ‘bring me down.’ Now excuse me while I go watch Will Ferrell in ‘Elf.’ And let me end this blog by paraphrasing a line from that movie by addressing everyone’s favourite, relaxing hangout. To the Orange Toad staff – ‘congratulations on making the best mint tea in the world!’ 

Ring the Bell

This is a reposting from 2016. It’s a bit too hopeful, but what did I know?

I’ve been caught up in the melancholia of the world. Stunned, like many, by the US election. If any of my friends were on the celebratory side, please don’t tell me. Go hang out with your new pal, David Duke. The people who voted for Donald supposedly did it for the money. (They call it the economy, but, whatever.) I had this crazy idea that in spite of global warming, we were all moving forward. More grace in the world, forgiveness, acceptance, and a willingness to share with those less fortunate. To quote Donald Trump: Wrong.

At first, I felt a creeping dread, like I’d woken to the realization that the outcome of World War Two had been reversed. You Know Who was in charge. That’s how it felt. A certain resignation crept in after a while, and that dread, mixed with the passing of days, eventually watered down to a feeling of melancholy.

And then Leonard Cohen died. We were heading to a social a couple hours after I found out, but I couldn’t stop crying. We have a relationship, Leonard and I. I’d be in a certain kind of mood, and he’d explain things in a way that would make me feel better. In his unique, soulful voice, he described a world of love and loss that, strangely, always left me feeling cheerful. The kind of singer you pictured sitting nearby while you waited for the bus.

He’d listen to all your sad musings, perhaps take a few notes. ‘Let me work on that and get back to you,’ he’d say. Then, you’d hear a song on the radio and realize he’d understood completely. That’s how he made me feel. He was the dutiful scribe to the darkest part of my heart. The saddest moments, the heaviest days. A singing poet who managed to unravel the mystery of my own feelings of loss, longing and bewilderment.

After a morning full of Leonard Cohen’s music, I’ve decided to give The Donald some time to get it right. We all make mistakes. We say thoughtless, hurtful things. When my husband, who has been living with cancer, got the good news of his chance for radiation, I said, without a moment’s hesitation, ‘Darn. I’ll miss two whole weeks of choir.’ My family stared at me in shock. The next words out of my mouth were, ‘I can’t believe I said that out loud.’ It would take at least four of Leonard Cohen’s roadies to remove that large foot from that big mouth.

As Leonard said, while waiting for the bus with me, ‘There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.’ ‘Whoa,’ I said. ‘That’s heavy.’ But true. When we break, we find opportunities to change. When we make mistakes, say the wrong thing, wound people, the hurt has a way of ricocheting back. But that’s a good thing. Some of us need only the smallest of cracks to let in a bit of light. Some need a gaping wound. Whatever it is, and however it happens, I pray that Donald Trump sees the light. It can’t be fun living in the dark all the time. Even when you’re winning.

So, President Trump, I’ll leave you with this last conversation I had with Leonard. My two sources of melancholy seem suspiciously well timed, as if our beloved singer and poet couldn’t bear to be in the world any longer. Heed his words, Donnie boy. Sit down on a park bench from time to time and mull them over.

Ring the bells that still can ring

Forget your perfect offering

There is a crack, a crack in everything

That’s how the light gets in.

Maybe purchase his albums. You might learn the lessons a whole lot quicker.

Dear Boomer

 Let’s face it. We need to talk about our faces. Like, what the hell? You live for thirty, forty years and that image in the mirror doesn’t change all that much. But you keep living your life (with gratitude, because not everyone gets to do that) and it starts to feel like time has sped up. It’s a fast moving Ferris Wheel that won’t let you off no matter how you yell at the carnie working the ride.

Every morning I gird my loins (my sayings are stuck in the past–it might be a boomer thing) and take that first look at myself. I kid you not, things can change in a day. ‘Where did THAT wrinkle come from?’ I say with a frown (adding ten more years to my face.) It’s like the old age fairy has dropped by just to mess with me. ‘I’ll give her two new wrinkles, just for fun!’ (The old age fairy is ancient and has not been in a good mood for many centuries.) But the worst thing about being a boomer? Having millenials talk to you in a loud voice.

Now, maybe this hasn’t happened to you, yet. But let me tell you, it’s weird. 

“I can hear you,” I said, the first time it happened. Meanwhile I was thinking, ‘Do I look THAT old?’ And then I remembered. When I was 16, I couldn’t tell if grownup people were thirty or fifty. I mean, I didn’t think they were a hundred. I just knew they were old. 

And one day, you realize that all those claims you’ve heard about the flu or Covid or pneumonia hitting seniors harder, are true. ‘But not me,’ I once thought. ‘Because I work out. I go for walks. I eat salad on a regular basis. So, I should get a pass, right?’

Apparently not. I’m just so delicate now. And it really makes me mad. I recently visited my children in Calgary where my skin had a savage reaction to the dry air. (Manitoba is apparently moisture central.) The rash on my face looked apocalyptic, and it took days to go away. I wore so much Nivea, my pores began to clog. My face finally cleared up, but then my sinuses seized up and I developed a cough. The day after I came back to Manitoba, it all went away. 

I know I’m lucky not to have more aches and pains than I do (although my right knee accurately predicts the weather) but honestly, I believed I would soar through my senior years. There has been some soaring…I slipped on the ice last winter…but life insists on showing me that I’m getting old. er. 

Aging people are like cars. Some are antiques that look fabulous, while others rest in empty lots with their wheels off, letting rust eats away at their bottoms. I’m working hard to make myself rust repellent, but really, there’s not much you can do about your looks. Unless you’re rich. But rich old people can look really stupid because of all the surgery and filler. I don’t want that.

Now, I have to address something that can happen to senior Christians. Just for a minute. It’s about us and the state of the world, so please avert your eyes, or head to the bottom of the page if this talk will upset you. Because I need a moment to speak to my people. 

So, to my fellow Christian boomers, I have some advice to help you negotiate these troubling times. ( I mean, it’s my blog, right?)

1. Try not to get set in your ways. Don’t visit Old Fartsville. It’s hard to leave.

2. Sin is not what we thought in the past. It’s not premarital sex or being gay or allowing people to have a sex change. Because that’s not about you, and it’s not your business. Sin means missing the mark. Missing the point of how Jesus lived and what he said to do.

Like,

Provide shelter to those with no place to live. Feed the hungry. Comfort the grieving. Let those without sin cast the first stone. Love one another. Forgive one another. 

In a country like ours, that means voting for policies that reflect your Christian views. Like supporting food banks, offering more public housing, and generally not acting like you’re doing better than those struggling with poverty or drug abuse because you’re superior in some way. Being Christian means acknowledging your privilege. Did you have love as a child? Were you fed? Housed? Encouraged? That means that even if money was tight, you had a great start in life.

Okay, other boomers. Please come back to the conversation. And don’t try to make me feel better by leaving a compliment in the comment section. I never kid myself. Instead, let me know how this aging journey is going for you. 

Most importantly, keep your chin up. Because your neck looks way better in that position. And we all need to do what we can.

Reunion

 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. 

Bug

 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.