Judith Pettersen

I went for a walk the other evening in our Osborne Village neighborhood, heading down Nassau and turning left at the corner of Wellington Crescent. There is a building right there that I have always admired. Impulsively I headed up the driveway, and wouldn’t you know it, the door swung open like it was expecting me. The small foyer inside showed beautiful and wonderfully clean glass doors. Through the doors there were statues tastefully placed around the room. On my left was a man seated in a cubicle. He had one hand hovering over a phone, and seemed frozen by indecision.

“Is this an apartment building?” I asked excitedly.
“It’s private,” he said, like he was going to the bathroom and I was  being rude enough to watch. Which reminded me. I really had to go.
“Can I come in and look around? I’ve always wanted to see this place.”
“You’ll have to leave.”
“May I use your bathroom?” In retrospect, I can’t believe I asked this, except that my bladder was overtaking my brain.
“Absolutely not,” he said, as if a simple no would lead to some persuasive arguing that would wear him down.

Continuing on my journey, I passed an Anglican church that rings actual bells on Sunday morning. They play ‘Ode to Joy,’ making me feel like I’m in the movie ‘Sound of Music,’ and have just gotten married in a beautiful cathedral. It inspires me to sing, ‘How do you Solve a Problem Like Maria?’ I can get away with that kind of thing in Winnipeg, because no one knows me and anyway, Clarence is impossible to embarrass. 

But back to my bladder. Since it’s the size of a soy nut, I decided to stop at the Safeway across from our building. The small bathroom at the back is tucked between the egg fridge and the meat counter. A strong odor of cigar met my nose when I stepped inside. As I exited, a guy in an apron was standing there with a frown on his face.

‘Someone’s been smoking a cigar,’ I tattled helpfully.
“It’s not allowed,” he said, glaring at me.
“I know. I’m just reporting it.”
“Especially cigars. They stink up the whole place.”
“I know. I…” He walked away, leaving me feeling as if I really had smoked a cigar in the bathroom. As if I’d just forgotten it. His certainty was very unsettling.

Feeling disoriented, I headed home. Why, I wondered, can’t we have real way stations? Ones with helpful attendants, convenient bathrooms and guides willing to satisfy one’s curiosity? Wouldn’t life be wonderful if, every day, we were met with snacks, hot towels and comfy chairs wherever we went? I’d like that. For now, though, I’ll settle for my friendly apartment building, where nobody knows my name, but where people will hold the elevator and even say hello. It’s a start.

At four in the morning, there is not much to do around my place. Especially when the house is full of people, including a toddler who wakes at the slightest sound. Exhausted, bored, and fearing the appearance of a rambunctious one year old, I hid out in the bathroom.

After styling my hair in a variety of fashions I would never wear publicly, I decided to try on my youngest daughter’s discarded make-up.  Sleepless night lesson number one:

 I can never use a black eyebrow pencil.

My eyebrows bec0me exaggerated question marks, as if pondering the fate of the world during a zombie apocalypse. I look like Joan Crawford, the later years. Much, much later.  Or someone creeping through a darkened hallway in a horror movie. Possibly a zombie movie.

Red lipstick is also a mistake. The bold color on pale, tired skin says crazed prostitute with a chainsaw behind her back.

There should be a hotline installed in bathrooms for people who can’t sleep. It would connect us to others suffering the same problem. A therapist could be on hand to answer the questions one ponders in the darkness of the night. Overblown, fueled by sleeplessness, they weigh on you like an anchor from the Titanic.

It’s not even the serious things that occupy my mind at three am. It’s my deceased in-law’s slide collection, at least thirty carousels worth, that sits in our back garage. Or the fact that I live in Manitoba and winter is coming.   And I don’t know how to use our snow blower, and my husband spends part of his time in Winnipeg. And won’t teach me because he thinks I’m going to cut off my foot. It’s all completely ridiculous. But that’s the working of an illogical, sleep deprived mind.   

Does a sense of aloneness creates a feeling of desperation? Or is it the fear of tiredness, that next-day-ache that settles into your bones? Whatever it is, while you were sleeping, I came to terms with a few things. Like, it is better to try on make-up in the middle of the night than lie there cursing the darkness. Or my messy garage. Or snow.

I hear the babbling of little voices. Time to creep back to bed.

I hate being short. When my younger sister, Susan, shot past me in childhood, the unjustness of it hit hard. Now I’ve become invisible, and the self pity party is back in full swing.

It seems the automatic sensors on towel dispensers and toilets can’t see me. I stand waiting, my wet hands raised in the air like a prepped surgeon. Nothing happens. I wave. Nothing. Tap it. Same lack of response.

Unlike the paper dispenser, the toilet needs to see that one has left the building. But flattening myself against the cubicle wall doesn’t work. I don’t want to leave without flushing. Doing a funny dance in front of the sensor doesn’t work either. It gets complicated when the bathroom is busy and there is a line-up. ‘I think that woman is tap dancing,’ I heard a woman say during a recent visit to Calgary.

‘I can’t get the toilet to flush,’ I replied defensively.

‘Stand to one side,’ she suggested. Like, duh, I didn’t just try that. Sometimes I’ll leave the stall and wait, one hand on the door so that no one goes in. I begin to feel like the grade ten version of myself. The one who was too short to make the volley ball team.

But it’s not really about size. It’s about being part of something. Being visible. I want the toilet to know that I’m done, like it does for other people. That I’m exiting the room. ‘There you go!’ I want the toilet to say. ‘Good job!’ Accompanied by a flushing sound.

My joyful response to the rare flushing toilet or automatic towel is usually a little over the top. ‘It worked!’ I’ll say to the other bathroom occupants, expecting a high five or, at the very least, a congratulatory smile.

‘Uh huh,’ they’ll reply. I forgive them, knowing that they occupy a different universe than me, perhaps breath a more rarified air They don’t really understand the difficulties of trying to measure up. Of hoping to be tall enough, or good enough  to make ‘Team Human.’ When the toilet finally does notices me, it’s like an invite to the club. ‘Welcome,’ it says, and the flushing away is like the secret handshake of acceptance.    

In life, sometimes a person needs a behavior check. Or a mood check. Usually we don’t even realize it. Thank goodness for friends. Or in my case, siblings who don’t wait for friends to speak up.

The first hint of their concern is a gentle tone of voice. Susan and Linda are masters at this. “Am I going around the bend?” I start to wonder. “Am I the last to notice?” My other sisters, Jen, Cindy and Joni, are sympathetic, but have a harder time suppressing their panic. They have no poker faces. Or voices.

Living mostly in different cities, we stay connected with phone calls and yearly reunions. The latter can involve up to thirty-eight people or just a small group of twelve or so, depending on spouses and kids. The feeling shared by all is a slippery combination of anticipation and dread. Individually, we are benign. An opinionated set of individuals with a flair for dramatics and a deeply imbedded sense of family placement. (I’m number two. It’s very hard.)

Together, we are the perfect storm of deep, deep feelings. Two weeks of fun amidst loud and incessant conversation translating into a kind of boot camp therapy, starting with a ‘he said, she said,’ tell all that occasionally ends in tears. (Though usually for just one person.) Strange mutterings may be heard at family dinners. A kind of, ‘Its’ not going to be me breaking down, dammit,’ confession. Sure enough, at the first sign of moodiness, everyone else relaxes, knowing its not going to be them cracking up this particular year.

 Some siblings attempt to sneak away from family gatherings, to find a quiet corner in which to read a book or simply enjoy some peace. (We are all readers, thanks to our parent’s fruitless attempts at keeping us quiet.) Alone, we are each friendly, fun loving and sensible. Grouped together, we are a loud, singing, verbose, mighty wind.

Some would say we resemble the mafia, except that every one of us wants to be the Godfather. In terms of siblings, it should be Linda, the eldest. She’s been resisting the role since my brother Billy became baby number four. Hiding in her room, (yes, she had her own!) she would pass the time reading.  In high school she shared a room with Susan and me. We became fans of her Gordon Lightfoot collection as well as the many hits of K-Tel, including the ever famous song, “Winchester Cathedral.’ It was fitting, because for certain, we were always bringing her down.

Now that we’re older, Susan, number three, is the real boss of the family. Not that she’s bossy. She’s too subtle for that. But she has a way with words, a kind but firm tone that we all respond to in a mostly positive way. She notices things that the rest of us don’t, being either too distracted or too self indulgent. I can’t throw any stones. I’m the last one to see that the dishes need doing, or the table set. Okay, maybe the second last.

Brother Bill is locked in the middle … three girls older than him, three younger. This position has helped him considerably in his life. He’s learned all kinds of skills, like how to wear tights, how to fight off a wild pack of girls chasing him down for a kiss. That kind of thing. He’s a guy who could build a shopping mall with a nail file and some lego, or escape from a prison camp in the middle of the wilderness. I know the last is true because I was one of his jailers. It’s one reason why you hardly ever see him without his tool belt.

Cindy came out of the womb knowing exactly what she wanted. She was a ‘mama’s little helper,’ type of kid with hair that was really hard to brush. I remember because somehow it ended up being my job. She treated school work like someone was paying her a million dollars to do well.

Joni was everyone’s darling, and over the years, nothing has really changed. If you ever travel with her, be prepared to hug strangers in an airport because she knows everyone in the world. Everyone. I’m not even kidding.

Jennifer, as number seven, had to fight hard to be heard. As a child, she had an extremely loud voice which she somehow managed to translate into a successful career. It all came down to survival. As the baby, we had to take care of her. And it was her job to make sure that we did it in the most fun way. Even when it was very inconvenient. Picture a Saturday morning, possibly 7 am. Jennifer is three, and very precocious for her age. I am eighteen, and possibly hung over. She would climb the ladder to my bunk with a large bag of books, slapping them down on my legs and reading them directly into my ear. Things have not changed a whole lot, though now she brings witty conversation and interesting drink recipes.

I’m not sure who I am in this crazy mix-up of a family. But what I do know is this. There is a secure fortress surrounding me at all times; a wall of people who have my back. It is made up of love, history, and the steely resolve of children who could crack the most stoic parent.
So you can take me or leave me, like or despise me. Just don’t mess with me. Because you’re going to have to answer to them. And it won’t be pretty. We are family, with a capital F.

Mario Puzzo said in his book, ‘The Godfather,’ “The world is so hard a man must have two fathers.” I say, for extra protection, have siblings.

There is a new product on the market called ‘The Butterfly.’ It is a subtly named  body liner designed to prevent ‘accidental bowel  leakage.’ And no, I haven’t started using product placement in my writing, though given the contents of my April blog, I’d probably do well to buy some stock in the company.

Allow me to be a little more high brow than that, please. The ad got me thinking about all the ways our bodies give out as we age. Though our knees can ache and other parts drift southward, nothing leaks away faster than the stiff upper lip.

I’m not sure what the trigger is for men, but for women its mostly menopause.  I didn’t even know I was stoic before until, suddenly, I wasn’t. The problem started in my late forties. First, I was crying during a poignant television commercial. Then the news that an acquaintance was moving away made me morose for days. I stayed away from sad books and learned to watch a lot of comedies.

However. What the body wants to spill, it will spill. The things that have made me grieve have been so minuscule, I feel embarrassed to admit them, even to myself. Thank goodness for this handy blog.

 Here is a short list of sadness triggers for me:

1. Bird song late in summer, (because its a mating call that was never answered.)
2. PBS’s nostalgic Saturday night concert series; anything from doo wop to John Denver. It’s always a two Kleenex event.
3. Reunions. I once had my eyelashes dyed so I could cry freely.
4. Seeing other people cry. This is a guaranteed trigger, even when it happens in movies. Maybe especially in movies.
5. Songs like K’naan’s ‘Waving Flag.’ I’m not sure if its the combination of rap and choir, or the fact that it was the first song our town danced to in the very first Culture Days. Weepy, weepy.

The list is fairly short, but you get the idea. One thing I’ve noticed, though. When life became harder and things happen that are more serious than a sad songbird, heavy, depressing literature makes a come back in my life. A well written, deeply moving and morose novel can cheer me up immensely. I have no idea why, nor do I care.  This also applies to sad movies.

My aha idea is this. When serious leakage begins, forget the butterfly application, the cheery slogans and uplifting comedies. Instead, lean into it. Indulge yourself in whatever manner is required. For me, it is giving myself permission to watch Romeo and Juliet (the 1969 version) or reread a real downer, like ‘Tess of the D’Urbervilles.’  Perhaps misery loves company. I think its all about perspective. A thirteen year old stabbing herself to death for love makes my John Denver concert seem pretty chipper. The worst of situations is a walk in the park when compared to Cormac McCarthy’s ‘The Road.’ Things might be tough, but at least I’m not being chased by cannibals.

For minor leakage, please insert the butterfly. For major events, lean in and let ‘er rip. You’ll feel a lot better. I promise.
 

Last year my four year old niece Lilly came down with the stomach flu. When finally offered something to eat, she shook her head sadly, saying, “My teeth are afraid of the chicken.”

We spend our lives wanting to be understood. But not all of us have Lilly’s gift for conveying exactly what we mean. Our desire to be heard  is primal; a definition for what it means to be human.  At its worst, communication might involve a gun, a death, and a lengthy trial. At its best, the messenger offers  the receiver a gift.

Art is, arguably, the highest form of communication. The artist engages the audience with an openness and vulnerability that belies the courage it takes to create something and let it go. Their work invites a response, verbal or visceral, whether the medium is a painting, song, movie, book or more.  It connects us, engaging us in conversation and self examination. We arrive at a place of empathy and understanding with ourselves and the world around us.  Joseph Waumbagh said it best in a novel. Every time a country song came on, his protagonist would react with astonishment, wondering how the artist could possibly understand the depths of his own confusion and sadness. It was brilliant and funny and would fit this blog so much better if I could recall the book’s title.

Gossip is one of the lowest forms of communication. It is passive aggressive, implying cowardice on the part of the deliverer. I’m not talking about movie star bashing (though I can’t help but think, why? Who cares?) but a group of people throwing stones at one who is absent. We’ve all done it. Perhaps we just listened silently, disagreeing but not wanting to speak up. Listening silently implies agreement with the speaker. I’ve noticed how the mood in a room darkens when we indulge in bashing others with our words.

Regarding conversation, I wish we all spoke like characters from a Jane Austen novel, with witty repartee, poetic confessions and gentleness. Or maybe like Margaret Atwood. Modern, but with all the right words in our tool belts. As it is, the rest of us are stuck with ourselves, with our ‘ehs’ and ‘yah’s, our OMG’S and WTF’s. In this present day, its a compelling argument for art as the true, timeless form of communication. Whether its a hand knitted sweater or a homemade urn shaped like a log cabin, it can speak to us more effectively than anything we might say. If you concur, please comment. Or message me on facebook. I long to hear from thee.

There’s no getting around the topic of this blog posting. Clarence tried to dissuade me from writing it, but in the spirit of the Hanson Family Motto (no thought goes unspoken) I just had to. My husband came up with alternate titles, vaguely referencing the direness of the situation while skirting the facts. He liked ‘Last Tango in Regina’ or ‘A Bridge Too Far.’ I preferred to steal the title from an SNL skit about adult diapers. Here’s how it all went down.

We were traveling from Calgary to Winnipeg, passing through the City of Regina. I had no inkling of what was about to occur, which, when I think about it, seems highly unfair. Mother nature has certain signals for this kind of thing, but there was no hint of what was to come. No twinges, no sound track from the movie ‘JAWS.” Either would have been appropriate.

Clarence and I were both tired and decided to stop at the Delta Hotel. Leaving our car in the front, we walked through the lobby to the desk. I opened my mouth to ask for a room when a strange rumbling sound caught my attention. Also the desk clerk’s, who was quick to give me directions to a nearby bathroom. Did I hurry down the hall? Not really. It is impossible to rush while doing a partial plié in a backward leaning stance and cupping a hand over one’s backside at the same time. It prevents any kind of quick movement. Of the walking variety, that is.

By the time I reached the attractive facility with its marble floors and counters, the damage was done. I will spare you the details, which, in the light of this blog entry, may surprise you. Suffice it to say that it was a good thing I was wearing long underwear.

Thank goodness I was the only occupant. There was no one to bother me except for Clarence who kept opening the door and hollering, “Are you done yet?” while trying to suppress cruel laughter. There is a certain helplessness in this kind of situation where more than one pair of hands is needed,  yet, unless one is in a nursing home, not wanted. 

My feelings of self pity should have been accompanied by high, sad violin music or at least a soft piano chord or two. Something Oscar worthy. Instead, I had only the company of my own bad language.  Suffice to say that I managed to sneak up to the room we’d checked into without embarrassing myself further.

I have no explanation for this event except that things seem to happen to me while on road trips.  My hope is that I can check this one off my list. I know I’m not alone in this situation. There are others out there who have done this particular Tango, maybe not in Regina, but certainly other places. I could use an understanding smile or kind word, so feel free to provide one when you see me. I’ll be the one wearing three pairs of pants.

As March wanes on, we Manitobans have begun to feel like the half dead survivors of a Polar apocalypse. The cold has seeped into our bones and sapped our energy.  Endless snow shoveling, frozen car batteries and cabin fever are just a few symptoms of this never ending winter.

 Sure, the sun shines occasionally and every now and then the wind cuts out. But the snow is still here, piled high in drifts where chunks of ice hide. Covered with a skiff of snow, they wait to catch us unaware, leaving us feeling  bruised and sheepish.

Like a horde of marauding zombies, the cold bites into us, scouring our flesh and souls in equal measure. We fall, one by one, into a stunned acceptance, trudging off to work and school with faces so dull, we look like we’ve joined Team Walking Dead.
The worst of it is that, at the back of our minds, we’re all secretly worried that this is it. The future has arrived. Climate change was supposed to be our grandchildren’s problem. What happened to that idea? There’s a certain indignation at the bumping up of the schedule. Like the dire warnings that said ‘Only thirty years from now!’   Yet here we are.

They’re doing well in Vancouver and LA,  trim and fit from time spent in the great outdoors. All that  walking, bicycling and roller blading. The wearing of light sweaters and attractive fall jackets. Here in the frozen north, we dress like we live on the moon. Down coats, layers of long underwear, and bulky hats that make us look like astronauts in the aftermath of a bad landing. I’m sure all those living on the coast smile broadly, even while making their four thousand dollars a month mortgage payments. “It’s worth it!” they declare, having watched the news and seen the suffering of their northern brethren.

  But take comfort, dear Manitobans. When the oceans rise and Vancouverites swim frantically for Alberta’s new shore line, we’ll wait for spring and rejoice at being high and dry. In spite of our distress at winter’s duration, (which has started to feel like an unending marathon,) we’re a grateful bunch who count our blessings. We’re survivors and we pride ourselves on our stoicism. We’ll outlast this winter and emerge with our hearts and souls unscathed. Our frost bitten toes are another matter.

This morning my husband wandered out of the bedroom wearing a pair of jeans that were so short, he looked like he was pulling them up to wade through water. When I pointed this out, he went and changed. This signifies his easy going nature rather than any agreement on his part. We’ve had similar conversations over the years. His swaggering self confidence contrasts starkly with my hand wringing plea for a middle ground in the wardrobe department. His tastes have always been quirky.

I was never attracted to guys who were perfectly put together. The kind who can’t pass a mirror without checking themselves out. No one can grow up in Flin Flon and appreciate that type of male unless he’s shirtless, holding a wrench and dancing provocatively on a stage. We northerners like our men to have a certain disdain for the perfect outfit. However.

Some of the conversations we’ve had are enough to make me feel slightly wistful. I can imagine the GQ guy’s kind of closet. Shirts hanging neatly, immaculately ironed and placed slightly apart. Shoes stowed away, underwear folded. That man could nag me about my own drawers and I’d only be grateful. Really.

Some years ago, Clarence bought a set of vintage burgundy curling sweaters. He wore each in turn, having heard Oprah’s friend, Peter Walsh, say that a garment unworn is one that should be given away. When I questioned the suitability of wearing the sweaters for work, he looked at me like a little boy who’s been given the best. gift. ever!

“These are the Flin Flon Bomber colours! (Insert the word ‘duh’ here, unvoiced but expressed in other ways.) “They’re vintage sweaters! I bought three so that someday our daughters can wear them to my funeral.” With a shake of his head he managed to convey his disbelief at my shortsightedness and lack of taste.

I had no comeback. Aside from a comment shouted from another room, (No way, dad, we’re not wearing those sweaters EVER!) there was really nothing anyone could add that would make a difference. And so his love of vintage clothing and unusual combinations continued.

When another MLA at the Legislature said, “Wow. I didn’t know you could wear all those plaids at the same time,” my husband bragged about it to me. He is not unaware of my opinion regarding his wardrobe and is always looking for opportunities to lobby for it.

Sadly, I’m not above whispering lies to complete strangers. “He’s in a play and there was no time to change.” Stuff like that. Clarence is temporarily over his love for Hawaiian shirts, replacing them with a series of strange hats. A few are fairly cool looking, but some have me walking slightly ahead of or behind him, like an embarrassed teenager. Especially the one that looks like it should be accompanied by yodeling and the clicking of heels. His ‘I’m an extra in the Sound of Music’ look. Sigh.

It’s a good thing he’s such a keeper. The fact is, I value humour and kindness over clothing choice, which means we’ll be together until one of us departs this life. When that day comes, there will be copious weeping, the tearing of clothing, (his) and a tabloid worthy profusion of vintage sweaters and Hawaiian shirts. If they’re not worn by family and friends, chances are they’ll at least be for sale.

Just like the winter games taking place in Sochi, the imaginary ‘Olympics of Life’ would host an ongoing series of events. Some would have clear, well defined and easily judged values. Like, who makes the most money? Who has traveled the furthest? Worst criminal ever would be less definable, though not as hard as, say, picking the most altruistic human alive. Then you’re getting into categories that, much like pairs dance, are influenced by opinion rather than fact.

It’s the same when we judge ourselves. Our own ideas regarding our virtues and faults may be coloured by wishful thinking. “I’m a ten out of ten,” we might think when considering our own characteristics of friendliness and good humour. And we believe it to be so, mentally hanging the gold medal around our own necks while being careful not to check with the judges, i.e., friends and family, for their opinions.

I try not to worry about things like that, but instead, focus on the tasks in which I truly excel. Like reading. If there was an Olympics for readers, I would be a contender. For one thing, I train hard for it every single day. I read as if I were being paid a fortune to do so. When I see others sitting glumly on the bus, bookless, not a magazine in hand, I can’t comprehend their motivation. Why stare into space when you can gaze into the soul of the universe? Everything you ever need to know about life can be found in a book or great magazine article.

Do you need to be more compassionate? Read a book. Do you have an ungrateful heart? Crack open “Twelve Years a Slave”  and you’ll never complain again. Cormac McCarthy’s, “The Road,” with its bleak and despairing future, actually made me feel less stressed about the environment. Reading chips away at our faults,  breaking off little pieces of pettiness and intolerance. This honing of our character leaves us stronger and much less certain about the rightness of our own opinions. Which is a very good thing. A ‘peace on earth’ thing. Children and adults become more empathetic when reading. It’s impossible to have an ‘us against them’ mentality when a book opens the door to a new world, inviting us in and introducing us to the lives of others. We learn how to live when we read a book. We become a better version of ourselves.

A handy portal to an expanded universe, plus the new and improved you, sits waiting  at the library. Your life guru, the local librarian, can be your guide to Everything you need to know about Anything. You might seek adventure in a travel book, learn to cook great meals, meet a kindred spirit through a biography or pick up a ‘how to’ manual which will enable you to survive the zombie apocalypse. It’s all there. And its free.

Every day I go for the gold, sharing our Canadian athlete’s desire to ‘Own the Podium.’ “But the training involved!” you might be thinking. “I don’t have time!” You make the time. Carry your book, or kobo, with you always. Read in lineups at the bank, in bathrooms (including your home,) in bed at night, and whenever you have the luxury of eating a meal alone. Take note of the time you waste on things like facebook, or computer games. I say this even as I prepare to do an online crossword puzzle. But still. Take up this reading challenge and enter the race to win it. You’ll be a better person for it, and just think how in shape your mind will be!  You might win that most coveted prize ever. Old age and a brain that still works. Now that’s golden.