Judith Pettersen

Writing another blog entry about the TV show is the psychological equivalent to holding hands with other viewers. It’s the connection I need to sustain me when the cast is struggling to survive. Which is always. Also, I get to list things that annoy me about other viewers while staying well out of reach.

Sensible watchers live in the hope that all will be well with Rick and the Gang. Maybe someone will figure out a cure. Or find a safe place for them to live. From week to week, we hold our collective breath and pray no one else we love dies. Because it happens a lot.

The Talking Dead invites famous fans to discuss the night’s episode. I enjoy that. But some guests are complete idiots. Fans like Sarah Silverman, who live for more blood and gore. “More zombies!” they cry shrilly. “Kill more people! Keep it going!” Well, we all want to keep it going, but not like that!

These gore loving, negative Nellies speak for a minority of the Walking Dead family. I can’t help wondering, how were they raised? Do they consider Cormac McCarthy’s novel, ‘The Road,’ a light situational comedy? I feel no connection with these fans whatsoever. But there are many like me out there. I just know it. So in the interest of my own mental health, I am emailing the show’s producers with the following suggestion.

Make Walking Dead buttons for fans to wear that stipulate preference. There would be the “No More Deaths of Main Characters!” buttons. The rest would read, “More zombies! Who cares about Darryl!” Only two teams. From this moment, you must decide who you are in the world. Do you want mayhem for your own cruel enjoyment? Or survival and character development? Please choose wisely. If you pick the second, you are dead to me.  Pardon the pun.

Wearing buttons makes a lot of sense because then we know who to approach on the street. We could hold spontaneous fan meetings all around the world. If I was in Tokyo, I would find my people. I couldn’t understand a word they were saying, but we would make misty eyed contact, perhaps hug before saying goodbye. It would be enough.

Feel free to accost me on the streets of Flin Flon. But only if you’re on the right team. So choose wisely. If you pick the wrong button and the world turns dark, we’ll know who the bad guys are. The potential, ‘Team Cannibal.’ People who were probably happy when certain characters (I won’t spoil it!) died.

 Ahhhh. Now that I’ve shared, I feel so much better. I’ll see you at the Orange Toad for our first ‘Darryl lives forever!’ group meeting. If you disagree with my point of view, then I’ll meet you at dawn on number ten highway. Michonne will be there with her katana. (Of course she’s on my side! Duh!)

When I was a child, neighborhoods in Flin Flon commanded great loyalty from their smaller citizens. I grew up in East Birchview, and happily defended its honour against the slights of older, more established areas, like Willowvale. There was something almost gang-like in our devotion. Not like the Los Angeles Crips and Bloods, or the Jets and Sharks from West Side Story. We were more like the ‘na na boo boo’ gang.

We didn’t glide elegantly down the back alley of Norma Avenue, snapping our fingers and throwing down badass lyrics. The Hanson sisters would have liked that, but brother Bill and the Bryson boys, not so much. Belting out a few lyrics would have been awesome, too. Again, no support.  I guess it only works in a musical.

In the absence of singing and dancing, the neighborhood kids on my street formed a tight if sometimes uneasy alliance. This was especially true in summer when children were allowed to run free. On a typical day, most would duck out after breakfast, taking nothing more than a white bread sandwich, a jar of freshie, and a head full of crazy ideas. Generally we were expected to return for supper, bring our shoes home, and try not to kill ourselves.

The best thing about East Birchview was our proximity to the bush. Every day of the summer we roamed its paths, making wildly improbable plans while chasing down the two horses and one cow that were often seen ambling through the trees. I think they belonged to Mr. Stevens, though why he had them, I’m not sure. Still, it was kind of heartstopping to see a horse pounding along the path behind you. We’d give chase, picturing ourselves riding bareback through town, like Tonto. We never caught them, but it was thrilling, nonetheless.

The sand pit was also a great place to hang out. The whole neighborhood would show up for a game of steal the flag or king of the mountain. The sun would beat down, bleaching our hair and burning our skin. We’d return home covered in sand fly bites. There was no sun screen in those days, and we never seemed to bother wearing hats or applying bugspray.

One memorable summer, our next door neighbors, the Edwards, kept chickens in their back yard. Whenever we climbed the fence and called out to them, the hens would come running. We’d get scolded, but it didn’t stop us for long. Having a close encounter with chickens was crazy fun, and slightly scary for town kids. Eventually Mr. Edwards got rid of them, but it was thrilling while it lasted.

 I don’t remember much fighting, but there was a lot of name calling and general put downs. For some reason, it didn’t feel like bullying, though you had to know your place in the hierarchy. I sucked at marbles, wasn’t great at cricket either. But I had a good imagination. I was the one who came up with the idea for a circus in our back yard. It was more of a fair, really, with crazy rides made out of boards, barrels and rope. We placed the planks over the barrels so a child could stand, one at each end, surfing and teeter tottering their way across the yard. I don’t know that anything was ever that much fun again.

We went blueberry picking and played hide and seek. Crossed small lakes on make shift rafts and hauled our comics from house to house, peddling our wares with loud and voracious enthusiasm. An endless number of children’s voices would echo throughout the neighborhood, carried aloft on the hot summer air. At the end of the day, we’d answer our mothers call, trudging home with sunburnt faces and dirty feet. Tired soldiers at the end of a long campaign, we could hardly wait for the next day to begin so we could do it all over again. 

Children who are not athletic usually take a while to discover that truth. Because when you’re young, anything seems possible. Flying is not out of the question. So why should playing ‘Steal the Flag,’ ‘Kick the Can,’ or baseball be so hard? For some of us, it really is.

I’m genuinely clumsy. Ten years of ballet hasn’t helped much, either. When our community choir had dance tryouts a few years back, I was out in the first round. I didn’t mind that much because I really don’t like being on stage. I was just secretly hoping that things had changed. That the act of aging would have endowed me with better coordination. It feels a little ironic, this continuation of my disability.

 I’m not competitive, either. As a kid, my sister Susan was always challenging me to races. Who could run the fastest, climb the highest, swim the farthest? Not me. And I didn’t care.  I just never understood the point of it. I still don’t like to compete. I don’t buy lottery tickets, enter my name in contests, or take on fitness challenges. Even yoga feels too difficult. Like I’m making fun of myself, trying to twist like a pretzel when just walking down the street with shopping bags is challenging enough. Zumba is an exception, because you can break out in your own moves if the dance is too hard. People might laugh, but they’re usually courteous enough to look the other way while doing it.

Sometimes I think I have a neurological condition, like a mild form of MS, or Parkinson’s. Something that would account for all the dropped balls and missteps. The difficulty in dribbling a basketball or playing tennis. I can’t even folk dance, and we took it every year in gym class.

I get lost easily, too, which may be part of the same problem. To find the right spot in a city or a basketball game feels like a quest. A Lord of the Rings sized quest. That many do it so easily seems almost magical to me.  People who are naturally athletic or have a good sense of direction must find my problem puzzling. I feel the same way about people who can’t spell.

In spite of all my klutziness, I always have fun playing. So what if I’m bad at winning games? I’m good at making friends. All you have to do for that is show up, cheer for your team and don’t be a downer. Encourage the people who like to run at the front of the pack. I may be lagging behind but I’m chock full of admiration and ready to cheer all of you in the running. Just remember that, once its over, I’ll need someone to come and give me a ride home. I’ll try not to get the blood from my skinned knees all over the seats. At least, I’ll give it my physically mediocre best.

‘Stop all the clocks,’ says WH Auden in his poem, ‘Funeral Blues.’  ‘Cut off the telephone. Stop the dog from barking with a juicy bone. Silence the pianos and with muffled drum, bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.’

 The first time I heard this verse, I hadn’t lost anyone, really. A few neighbors had passed away. A cousin died. We all felt sad in the way children do when they see adults cry. But it was never personal. Since then I’ve lost my in-laws, both parents, and many friends.

Before mama died last week, my siblings and I had surrounded her with songs, prayer, assurances of our love, promises of good behavior. Mostly we sounded like a bunch of six year olds trying to make a very good impression on someone who already knew us all too well. With her passing, Auden’s poem returned to me, especially the first line. Because when someone so important to us dies, the clocks should stop. A silence ought to fall so everyone on earth can drop what they’re doing and ask, ‘What’s going on? What happened?”

 Grief is the unwanted journey. The boxer who waits inside a dark ring. Please, you think. Just give me a minute. Give me a moment. Please stop the clock. But grief has no mercy. It jabs and jabs and knocks you down until after a while its not even worth fighting.

 Auden’s last verse says:

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

You live there. Down at the bottom where the darkness of your grief rips a hole in your chest, confirming what you already knew.  You won’t ever rise again. But strangely, and in opposition to how most things work, that admission of defeat brings peace. The hurt begins to ease. You are able to acknowledge that death is part of life. That it’s coming for all of us, even if, as I believe, we’re simply moving on to another place.

The clocks can’t stop because they would never be able to start again. What feels so singular, so personal, so tightly packed on the inside, is universal. We all grieve. We all become orphans and widow-ers. The ones left behind. Most of us are lucky enough to realize what we’ve had within our small communities of friends and family. In lonely times we draw our memories around us; an embrace from everyone we’ve ever loved and lost. Then we take a deep breath. Feel lighter. Discover that we don’t hurt as much as before. The boxer puts down his gloves and the ring fades. Life goes on.

For someone who considers herself a writer, I have a hard time explaining things. One night at Zumba during a particularly tiring routine, I gasped the words, “I feel like I’m in a concentration camp hauling rocks, with no dinner in sight.” Since we were dancing to the theme song from, “Love, Actually,” I was asked to lighten up. But I wasn’t whining. I was pretending. I just forgot myself and did it out loud.

Weird scenarios jump into my mind all the time. Like last summer, when I saw a small crack in the cement outside my house with a tiny bit of moss sticking out and a strange bug on top of it. My first thought was, “So this is how the alien invasion begins.” It made perfect sense to me. I also enjoyed the imaginary dystopian world that followed where I became a freedom fighter with my own plane.

My regular life is rich and satisfying. The one inside my head is darker. Strange music drifts through the background, the melody dependent on the scenario. Say I meet a neighbor downtown. They might nod and keep walking. If I’m spending time in my alternate universe, I may hear the words, “Meet me at midnight. We’re starting the revolution.”  (Cue heavy African drum music)This is why I often have a vacant look on my face. Because I’m someplace else.

My childhood report cards read, “If Judy spent less time daydreaming, she would accomplish more in class.” Maybe. But I don’t think I could have handled the boredom. The truth of my adolescence is that half the time I was checked out. No wonder I could never figure out the coolness factor. One time at a friend’s birthday party, a girl from my grade six class caught me singing out of a window. I was pretending to be Doris Day sending forth a wistful love song. The girl looked at me like I was deranged. I knew then that we could never be close, because she just didn’t get it.

I’m at the age now where I make no apologies for being exactly who I am. It’s such a relief. I love reading books because they put me in the company of other dreamers. But writing is my way of getting all that crazy stuff out of my head so I can remember to buy eggs at the store. Not every day dreamer is a writer. They may have something else going on. Those who write, paint, sculpt, sew or sing feel a lot less stress. If you don’t let off steam from all those zany ideas, your head might explode.

We all feel that desperate yearning, that frantic call from our secret ourselves, asking to be released into the world. Find your outlets, my friends. Don’t be afraid to expose the real you to the world, unless it involves pulling down your pants in front of strangers. Then, never mind. Otherwise, get to it. Over and out.

(I just received a secret call from the white weasel who lives under our garden shed. The mice are planning a take over…

Life is made up of goodbyes. The only thing that doesn’t change is change itself. Yadda, yadda, yadda. That we know it doesn’t make it any easier or less shocking.

Like most fans of CBC radio, I was enamored with Jian Gomeshi, the cultured, soft spoken host of Q. I admired his courtesy. The thoughtfulness he showed his guests and listening audience. Famous people like Barbra Streisand were drawn by the considerate, almost tender way he conducted his interviews. I loved his voice, his smartness. The way he flipped between languages, speaking Farsi, French and English, while discussing books, music and movies with enviable ease. He seemed suave yet sincere. 

Bill Cosby reminded me of my dad. Of everyone’s dad, really, but a much cooler version than the ones I knew. Someone who was never lost for the perfect answer. No one was funnier, especially when he talked about Noah. The Cosby show was a role model for the ideal family. Perfectly funny. But Pandora’s box has been opened and the truth is out. Goodbye, Jian. So long, Bill. Get down from your pedestals and out of our sight. The nations need time to grieve.

Dear Stuart Mclean, my hope rests with you. With your wacky Dave and Morley stories, your quirky and talented musical guests and even the letters you share, sent by regular people like me. Everything about your show is Perfectly Canadian. Please, Stuart. Don’t let me down. You alone are holding up the CBC broadcasting company. I have selected you as my new comfort blanket. Bill and Jian were frauds, and I have never cared for the Kardashians, the Brangelina’s or any Hollywood celebrity, really.(Bill Cosby wasn’t a celebrity, in my mind. He was a kindly relative that I happened to visit with whenever he was on TV.)

I’m not expecting you to be perfect. Just don’t molest anybody. Be the nice guy you seem to be and keep making me laugh. Keep that kindly, Canadian persona going that every listeners identifies with, even if they are American. So, do we have a deal? I’m going to assume we do. Good luck with this Sunday’s show. I’ll be listening, as usual. Your faithful and devoted fan, Judy

When Mari was three years old, she slept in the bedroom across the hall. We had an open door policy, which meant if any of our kids got sick, had a bad dream, or needed a cuddle, they could crawl in with mom and dad.  Our bed was king sized, and we kept our bedroom door open. Theirs were kept closed at night for reasons of fire safety and  parental privacy. We should have kept ours closed too, but for some reason, I felt the need to hear EVERYTHING that went on in the house. Was somebody walking through our yard at night? I would know. Could the hamster escape from her cage? Yes. In fact, she ran under the dishwasher with two weeks worth of stolen dog food. It was the chewing that woke me up. My point is that I was tuned in to every creak, every cough, every single thing happening inside and outside our house. I was always on the job.

Except for one night. With the desperation of parents with three children and a busy life, we happened to wake at the same time, with the same idea. Let’s fool around. Happily preoccupied, we didn’t hear the door across the hall opening, or the small sound of a person breathing nearby.

We kept our bedroom dark. You could barely see a hand in front of your face, never mind a small child standing beside the bed, her head resting on her mother’s pillow. It was only when she started to play with my hair that I screamed in fright. Quickly snapping on the light, I don’t know who was more horrified; Mari, Clarence, or me. It was probably a tie.

The difficult conversation came next. “Did mommy and daddy scare you?” She nodded, climbing up on the bed and tucking herself between us. “Did you wonder what we were doing?” She nodded again, looking forlorn rather than traumatized. Clarence and I could barely make eye contact, both experiencing the shame of first world parents. Most of earth’s human population is crammed into one or two room dwellings, and often one bed. They tend to be prosaic about these things. Nevertheless, I quickly conjured up an alibi.

“We were wrestling,” I said, inspired by an idea that would perfectly fit the situation. “Practicing our ninja moves.” I did some ludicrous arm chopping and nunchuck wielding imitations, just to hammer home the point. She seemed to buy it, but I apologized anyway. “Mommy and daddy are sorry for scaring you.” This was true of mommy. Daddy had already gone back to sleep.

The lesson was learned. Since I wasn’t comfortable tying a bell around Mari’s leg every night, I figured it was better to close, and even lock, our bedroom door. Not always. Just when we felt like being Ninjas. As parents with three kids and a busy life style, we didn’t get as much practice as we wanted. But over time, we definitely earned our black belts.

Like our old board game, Clue, this story has been stashed away for many years.  I’ve picked over the memory from time to time. Shared it with a few friends. But with Clarence’s Brandon University reunion happening this weekend, I’m ready to take it out of the closet and hold it up to the light of day. Is it shameful? Not really. Foolish? Yep.

Please join me on my walk down memory lane. And I hope you learn from my mistakes. Like, always look before you leap into the elevator. Or at the very least, take heed of the Georgia Satellites song title, ‘Keep your hands to yourself.’

We got married in our last year of university. A few weeks after the wedding we left our tiny attic suite and drove over to McMaster Hall for a visit. I greeted my friends like I’d been gone for a year. Hours later I waved goodbye to everyone and followed my husband into the elevator. I felt bathed in the happiness of married life. We’d be finished school in a few months, then apply for teaching jobs and spend the rest of our lives together in blissful harmony.

Since we were alone, I scooted backward, pressing myself against my sweet husband. Feeling a little playful, I reached behind me and. engaged in…well. You know. But as I peeked upwards with a cheeky grin, my eyes met those of a complete stranger. It was not Clarence. It was a fellow by the name of Guy Thornton. Yes, that’s his real name.  And though he lived in my residence, I had never met him before this intimate and mistaken occasion. In that moment I felt like the worst version of myself; the one who wiped out crowds of skiiers on the bunny slope. The one who went right instead of left and fell off the stage during a ballet recital. But those occasions were merely humiliating. This was embarrassment on a whole new level. As if embarrassment had decided to smoke crack and reinvent itself.

“Oh my God,” I said, clasping my hands together like a Victorian maiden about to faint. “I thought you were my husband!” His reply may not be exactly as follows, but the meaning was clear.

‘Uh huh.’

“No, really. I thought you were Clarence. Why are you wearing the same pants and sweater?” I asked this in all sincerity. He ignored my sputtered words, continuing to smile down at me in a rather heartless manner.

“Sure,” he said, mockingly drawing out the single syllable. Was he teasing? I had no idea, but he seemed to be hinting that I’d planned the whole thing. Which made me wonder if the problem was my reputation or his ego.

The elevator doors opened then, and I fled to the lobby area where I found Clarence waiting.

“Where were you?” He looked puzzled  and irritated. I remember that part very clearly.

“I…. I… I…” I decided to lie. Well, not really. “I got on the wrong elevator,” I said. Part of me felt extremely embarrassed and remorseful. The other part, the one that insists on writing this blog, was having a good laugh at my own expense. I never told Clarence about what happened for a loooong time.

“I invited him to our wedding!” he said in response to my belated tale, not appreciating the humour of the situation. As if the invitation made my behavior even sketchier. “How did you get on the wrong elevator?”

“I backed in and he was wearing the exact same pants and sweater as you. I don’t think he believed me when I said it was an accident.” Clarence didn’t want to discuss it. So we put it behind us like it never happened. But it did, and I longed to restate my case in a calm and convincing manner.

I’ve had no opportunity to say this on national television. The breakfast shows where I’ve appeared on behalf of my babyTrekker carrier just weren’t the right venue. So  let me state here and now, almost forty years after the fact, that I truly didn’t know it was you, Guy Thornton. And that’s the truth. I also need to thank you. Because you might have been heartless and disbelieving, but at least you weren’t creepy. Happy reunion. Whew! I feel so much better.

I was hanging upside down cleaning the bathtub when I happened to catch sight of my face. It was sagging the wrong way and looking very red. Think Arnold Schwartznegger in the end of days. Not the movie. His real end of days. Especially if he is constipated on the way out.

I was startled. My husband has never mentioned seeing me like this. Having had a relatively long married life, chances are he has. His ability to not notice these things is my new definition of sweet love. He is also oblivious to my back fat. I hadn’t notice any either until I caught sight of it in a three way mirror. His assurance that I was just imagining things can be grouped in the same category. Sweet Love.

Savage love is another thing entirely. When I find yet another hidden item from Value Village, (a turquoise vase, honey!) and go into a rage filled rant, I can last for a good ten minutes. Afterward, my husband will exit whatever room he was in, give me a puzzled look and say, ‘Were you talking to me?’ That, on my part, is Savage Love. Still sweet on his side. However.

Let me throw away a moth eaten, stained pair of woolen winter pants and he will transform into a version of me. It is a monumental thing getting him to part with his clothes or any item in his ‘collection.’ Others are not oblivious to the situation.  “I can have a team here in an hour and clean all this shit up,” promised a mutual friend of ours. “One hour. A whole team!” As she walked away, I felt vindicated. I was not the only one thinking our garage was overfull. On days when we leave the door open, people pull into the driveway thinking that we’re having a yard sale.

My short temper and his latest turquoise vase collection have led to some humdinger arguments. The warmth in the room disappears while we sulk in our respective corners and contemplate divorce. A half hour later, we’re snuggled in bed reading our books (because God forbid we don’t read every single night!) while playing footsie. After a good night’s sleep, sweet love reigns again.

There is an art to a lasting marriage. An ability to take the long view and not let a hissy fit, (mine) two speeding tickets in a row (his) and a disagreement over how to weed the garden, take away all the good stuff. Like the fact that he is the kindest person I know. That he is passionate about family and community and never tries to be anyone but himself. I know, because I’ve tried to make some changes and they haven’t taken very well.

So, even when I’m building a full head of steam over his latest find, I appreciate very well what we’ve got. Between us we juggle this glass ball of delicately beautiful, sturdily complex love. We remember how we looked when we were young, and that’s pretty much how we view each other. We know all of each other’s stories. He excuses my bad mood and Arnold Schwartznegger, end of days, expression. I forgive his cupboard full of bargains. Because the truth about marriage is this. Forgiveness soothes the savage days of love, turning them sweet. The bad moments are lost in the colourful tapestry of our life together, becoming just another piece of the beautiful puzzle we call marriage. 

Last week, very, very early, a fire alarm went off at our place in Winnipeg. Since we live on the 20th floor and Clarence had just had surgery, this was worrying.  What if it wasn’t a drill? The elevators were locked so I started down the stairwell to check things out.

I had reached the 3rd floor when a voice came over the intercom. ‘Please stay in your suite,’ it said firmly.  ‘Remain in your suite until further notice.’ Oh, the timing. My legs were shaking from leaping out of bed and rushing down 17 flights of stairs. My heart was tight from lack of exercise and panic. There could be a fire. And the 20th floor is unreachable by ladder.

I headed back up the stairs, holding onto the rail and feeling like a ninety year old. At the sixth floor it became apparent that a cooking fire had set off the alarm.  My sense of relief morphed into bitter self pity. Pulling myself upward, I cursed my ill luck with some colorful language and small bird like sounds of exhaustion.  Clarence was still awake when I stumbled into the bedroom.

He said,  ‘I told you not to go.’ While technically true, this is exactly what a person who has taken one for the team does not want to hear. But the words, ‘ I told you so,’ are an unavoidable part of most relationships. That does not mean I took them in the right spirit.

‘But there was a fire,’ I said. ‘On a stove in an apartment on the sixth floor.’ I was on the defensive, presenting my own version of, ‘No, I told YOU so.’ I went back to bed, feeling very hard done by. 

A few days later, one of my sisters had an accident, breaking her wrist and bruising herself badly. Later, when I was in the middle of retelling my story, “I can’t believe I climbed ALL those stairs,” it suddenly hit me. I’m a cry baby. There was my husband, the staples in his stomach catching on the fabric of his shirt. My sister, her small wrist wrapped in a cast, supporting herself with the help of a cane while gazing at me sympathetically.

‘Fine,’ I muttered to myself, feeling the weight of my own shame. It was time to re-embrace the gratitude mantra. After all, Clarence had had a successful surgery. My sister would get better. And I would take my physical fitness more seriously. Especially since, part of the time, we lived on the 20th floor.

This small life lesson is like a mirror. Instead of good intentions, it revealed me as a self indulgent mini martyr. And if I’m too thick minded to see the error of my ways, I suspect another lesson might come round again. It may not involve twenty flights of stairs, up and down. It may be something even more formidable. So I’m saying right here and now that I get it. There are a lot of people having a tough time. Most of them are stoic individuals silently bearing all that life throws at them, and still greeting the day with a smile.

They are my heroes. And I will run up and down many flights of stairs if I can help them in any way. I just might have to duct tape my mouth shut afterward.