Judith Pettersen

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.

 

Neil Young sat beside me last Saturday during choir practice. Metaphorically, of course. But it felt real. We were learning his song, ‘After the Gold Rush.’ The harmony was lovely and haunting, bringing me close to tears.

The music feels like a dirge with its plaintive talk of drugs and mother nature. And yet. As we moved through the piece I began to feel like my eighteen year old self en route to the best party ever. As if on cue, this memory came flashing back.

My friend Jude and I were driving around in her boyfriend’s car. A 1958 Pontiac, or something like it. Turquoise and cream, large and comfortable and, in 1971, already vintage. Jude slapped in an eight track tape and the song soared through the late summer air. Joy wrapped itself around us in the easy way it does when you’re young and living in the moment. The music sealed the memory so it could be unwrapped all those years later during choir.

More than any other sensory experience, music brings us back to ourselves. “There you are,” some part of our brain joyfully acknowledges. “Where’ve you been?”
We can go missing from our own lives and not even notice. We grow up, we learn, and we move forward, determined to be the best version of ourselves. To show the child within us that we did good. That we’re so much better than we were.

But by trying to forget the parts we find wanting, we miss the opportunity to heal some old hurts.
The music of our youth strips away the inconsequential, leaving us  feeling vulnerable and genuine. A door opens to the past, allowing us to address it in a positive way.

There’s pain in the mix of those childhood and teenage years. All the unkind things we thought about ourselves. We didn’t like our noses. Our big feet. We were too short. Too tall. It was the gap in our teeth. Hair that never looked right. Klutzy, uncool, shy, geeky.  There are a thousand things we found wrong with ourselves, thoughts sometimes unintentionally confirmed by the people who loved us.

The small potatoes of the past loom large. But that doesn’t mean they deserve the reserved seating you’ve given them in your memory bank. Transform those moments with great songs from your past and everything is put into perspective. 

I sing the words, “All in a dream, all in a dream, the loading had begun. Flying Mother Nature’s silver seed to a new home in the sun,” and I’m not with my choir anymore. I’m in the car with my friend, Jude, cruising down the highway, singing at the top of my lungs. And Neil Young is right beside me. The artist and his audience, binding each other’s wounds. “We’re mourning,” he says. “And we’re celebrating. Let’s sing.” And we do.

In 1979 I was standing on a mountain in the Himalayas. My face hadn’t seen water in four days and my 25th birthday loomed over me like a serial killer. The thing I’d been dreading all year had arrived. It was finally time for me to grow up. I made a few promises to myself back then, which I’ve kept. For example, to stop going for gold in the drinking Olympics.

Thirty-five years later my 60th birthday stands before me like a brick wall. I have no way to interpret the number that so thoroughly blocks my view of the future. I know I’m being silly. My husband is already sixty-one, my older sister the same. They haven’t spontaneously combusted or dropped dead of old age. What exactly is my problem with this birthday?

For one, I’ve begun second guessing myself. In the last few months I’ve started worrying about middle aged/ old people things like slipping and falling on icy roads. The roots of my hair seem, overnight, dramatically grayer. My face insists on keeping my chest company on its journey south. But still, all that has been going on for awhile. Why am I so bummed out?

If I compared my life span to a hike in the Himalayas, then I reached the summit at the age of fifty. So ten years ago, I was on top of the world. There was none of the uncertainty of my present age. Now that I’ve begun the descent, though, I’m remembering that climbing uphill is actually easier than going down. A steady descent is very hard on the knees. Two hundred and fifty miles of traveling the highs and lows of the Himalayas taught me that much. Perhaps that’s the problem. I fear the hardship of the journey on the way down.

I have a disposition that is inclined to rebellion. I’m easy going, but I don’t like to be told what to do. Maybe that’s part of the problem. None of us gets a say in our future. We can’t press the pause button, turn to Father Time and tell him, No Thanks. I’ll be leaving the station now and going my own way. You go on without me. Everything I need is right here, right now.

Facing the number sixty has made me feel helpless. Why can’t everything and everyone just stay put? Why can’t the earth keep renewing itself, the water flowing clean and uninterrupted to the ocean. The air crisp and undamaged by industry and frequent flyers.

Why can’t everyone on the planet just get along?  Turning sixty is stripping away all of  my illusions. I’m not really in charge of anything. I have no say over the car that is rounding the bend toward me, or the Tsunami of events waiting to surprise me. Would it be easier, then, to check out early? Stop writing, or running my business? Quit my marriage, say adios to my kids.

I can’t do that. For one thing, I want to see how things work out for all of us. And the parts I don’t get to see, my children and friends will witness for me. I guess that’s one of the reasons we’re here on Earth. To observe the wonderful, the ridiculous and the heartbreaking events that make up a life. What we do with those observations, how much we decide to take part, well. That’s up to each of us. That’s the real power of living.

And in the aha moment reached this very second, I’ve realized what my sixtieth birthday is really telling me. I must continue growing up, and upward. Every day brings new lessons, and it won’t be over until God reaches out and gives me the golden hand shake. That part, I’m looking forward to. “Good job! (God might say) Please head directly toward the light. And no worries, Judy, cause its all downhill from there.”

This is my tribute to women during the busiest season of their lives. In no way should my male readers take this as a slight or a rejection of all they have to offer. I know that any one of you can pour a drink with the best of them. You probably make excellent egg nog, and are a dab hand at making sure the freezer is stocked with bags of ice. You probably make those last minute runs to the grocery store to pick up the forgotten can of Cranberry sauce, gas up the cars and do those little things that make all the difference to a happy holiday. Putting up the lights outside, often a man’s job, is an integral part of the Christmas season. However.

December is a tough time for women. A time of preparation not unlike that faced by Olympic athletes. Some positive self talk is needed, some team spirit, a friendly reminder that others are also preparing for the game, laying it all out on the line. There may be doubts, but cheerfulness and good spirits will prevail, for the most part.

This salute is for the woman of the house, that workhorse of Christmas past, present and future. I’m going to take this even further and add an extra tribute for mothers. Not only are they the holders of the Christmas flame. They must also do the following:

 Remember what every child has told Santa regarding their Christmas wishes.
Decorate the tree, with help from the kids, which means everything takes a lot longer.
Find the time to give the house an extra cleaning, that lick and polish that says “Extra Special Season!”
Continue cooking regular meals while baking dozens of cookies, squares, meat pies, extra frozen ‘just in case’ dinners and making appetizers for all the parties she will attend as part of the joy of Christmas.
Buy gifts for teachers, coaches, bosses, co-workers and people her husband needs to buy gifts for.
Find that special outfit that looks ‘Christmasy’ but doesn’t break the family budget and is comfortable enough to allow the chasing down of toddlers and the searching under sofas for missing lego pieces.
Have the ability to come home from work, make dinner, prepare something for the babysitter to do with the kids so she can attend the annual party with her husband, all the while wishing she was home in a hot bath with a good book.
Smile instead of screaming “WTF!!” when realizing the cookies that were meant for the neighbor’s Christmas party were stolen from the freezer by little Elves who just happen to have the same names as her husband and kids.

This Christmas Eve, I salute all of you cheer bringers and memory creators. You are the Women of Christmas. You are the keepers of the family flame, the guardians of the heart of every child. God bless you in this joyful season. Over these next few days, take some time to thank those who have gone before you, like your own mother. Give the woman shopping beside you a friendly glance, a show of support that acknowledges all the things she’s doing for others. And finally, you dear woman reader, give yourself a word of thanks, a pat on the back. May your own Christmas wishes come true. Especially the one where other people clean up. God bless.

Writing a blog reminds me of going to confession. Something about the tiny room in the back of my old Catholic church, the lingering scent of incense, the attentive and gentle presence of the priest. It all seems to work in much the same way. On the page and in the church I spill the beans every time. Are bloggers actually seeking forgiveness, then, or some type of absolution? The blank page has a way of sitting semi-patiently, cursor blinking, like a busy priest with a lot of waiting customers. “Come ooooon,” I can hear the page saying to me. “Just get it over with.” It’s like stripping off one’s clothes and pointing out all the flabby areas for the whole world to see. “Yup,” the writer is saying, “This is actually something I did or said, thought about, loved, or dreamt.”

Nobody compels us to spill our guts in the confessional, except a belief in the presence of God and the peace that comes from sharing one’s fears. Maybe the blank page is as much therapist as priest. “Come on, you know you’ll feel better if you write it all down.” It’s so true. I’m having an aha moment as I write…

I am not a person who strives for excellence. I always wanted my children to play sports, but never to compete in the Olympics. Why have all that pressure? So your child can wash out at the age of thirty-five and be grateful for their job at Canadian Tire? The same goes for music careers. I like to sing, my whole family does. But having a child depend on it for a living, and actually succeed to the point that they have to keep racking up one hit after another leaves me feeling faint. Have fun with your music, kids, but leave the crazy life style to somebody else.

It’s the same with business. I have loved designing and selling the babyTrekker. I believe that it is an excellent product, but at the same time, have resisted taking the business to the next level. I have fun with it, but don’t feel crazed about it. Nor do I desire the label ‘high powered executive.’ It fills me with dread, actually.

Perhaps my hesitation comes from a fear of failure, but somehow, I don’t think so. I believe that I’ve been given the gift of recognition, the ability to find the gold that shines in the very middle of things, in the anonymity and peace of the smaller life.  Andy Warhol once said that everyone gets fifteen minutes of fame. You know you’re like me if you find yourself saying, after receiving said fame, “Thanks very much, universe. And thank God that’s over.”

You are one of the many like minded beings who make up the world, who love well and cherish the complexities of ordinary life. Like a thirsty person facing a  fridge full of beer, the trick is being able at some point to place your hand over the glass and say ‘that’s enough for now.’ That’s good enough. Thank you.

I watch the people who dream big, thirsting to be at the top of whatever mountain they’re trying to conquer. I wish them well, even as I give thanks that its not me there at the front of the line, betting the farm or whatever it is people do when they compete for top honours. I’m the one in the middle of the crowd, cheering them on. Then I go home and resume the life I love.

A week ago I got back from a trip, woke up on Thursday morning and remembered I’d agreed to do the church service on Sunday. I started thinking about my sermon and all the stuff I had to do over the next few days. I felt excessively busy, but in a very disorganized way. I had an overwhelming feeling of dread, like I wasn’t going to accomplish a single thing and would turn up at the church and say, “I got nuthin. Have a nice week.”

When I went to bed that night, it took me a while to fall asleep. When I finally did, I dreamt that I was in my church, standing in the pulpit, facing the congregation. There were the same expectant faces I’ve seen before, but with one major difference. Zombies were coming down the aisle toward me, lurching through the sanctuary door in groups of two or three. No one seemed to pay much attention, but periodically members of the congregation would turn around and take a few of them out with a handy shot to the head. I would pause every paragraph or so and throw a knife or a spear. I seemed to have an endless supply behind the pulpit. Other than that, we were all engaged in the activity of church.

When I woke up, my first thought was, “I’m so glad that’s not real. What a great life I have!”. How calm, orderly and safe it is, not to mention ultra comfortable and free from zombies. The second thought was directed to the Creator. “I get it,” I said aloud, in case there was any doubt. “My life is not that stressful!”

Besides setting me straight, the dream also gave me plenty to think about regarding how and what we humans believe, and the way we conduct our lives. As I took a bath that morning, reveling in the joyous luxury of being Canadian, having access to cheap hot water and the perk of working from home, I thought about faith. What do I take for granted, what do I hope for, and what do I believe to be true?

None of us, including astrophysicist Brian Greene, will ever truly understand how the universe works. I will never know how I managed to have such a blessed life when others live in such terrible circumstances. I certainly haven’t done anything to deserve mine. I believe that we blessed few have a duty to help other people, to be grateful for what we’ve got, and to realize that most of the time, the things we’re stressing about don’t really matter.

The next time you feel yourself building up a full head of steam over a missed deadline, a stressful meeting or telvision show that didn’t PVR (I can’t believe I’m admitting that) then remember this. At least you’re not busy fretting and stewing in the middle of a Zombie Apolcalypse. That’s enough to make anyone grateful.

In the last few days, I’ve been in a Bob Dylan frame of mind. Meaning, I’m feeling a little whiny. This hang dog, self pity party got its start during a road trip to Winnipeg. The catalyst  for the whole experience was my morning fruit shake, which I always have for breakfast, even when traveling.

First, I must explain the careful consideration I give to my traveling outfit. 1. It cannot cling, especially in the nether regions, but must flow and breathe. 2. The top must be loose, and work with both a cool air conditioned car and a warmer one. (In case the air conditioning breaks.) I chose my baby blue button down oxford style shirt with the roll up sleeves, and a pair of white capris made of the kind of a jersey fabric that, for comfort, requires no underwear and is not see through. So.

As I was getting into the car at Tim Horton’s in the Pas, I accidentally doused myself with the deep purple fruit shake. Since I planned on dropping off my car at the dealership in Winnipeg, I was vastly annoyed, because I don’t mind dressing casually, but I hate stained clothing. Hate it. “I’ll change before we get there,” I told my mother, who, being experienced at traveling with her children, is very close mouthed, and has the ragged, bitten lips to prove it.

Somewhere between Ashern and the turnoff, we pulled over onto a rough path that led into the bush.. I dug around in my  suitcase, which was wedged between two coolers, but couldn’t find a thing. Finally, I discovered an orange  sun dress which would be cool enough for traveling in 30 degree heat. I couldn’t find any underwear, though. My mother offered a pair of hers, but I declined, informing her that the dress was knee length, and who would ever know, anyway?

As it turns out, the gas station attendant at an Ashern station figured it out pretty quickly. I got out of the car and experienced a ‘Marilyn Monroe in a white dress over a heating grate’ moment, with a few, major differences. There was no joyful sexiness. No flirtatious grins, or girly ‘oooohs!’ Instead, there was a horrified fifty-nine year old woman and a possibly scarred for life teenager standing face to face beside the pumps. He barked, “You forgot to open the gas cap!” I yelped, “What is with this wind!” Then we did that thing where you each try to get by but move to the same side, me crouched over like I had a serious case of osteoporisis, clutching the bottom of my skirt and yelling, Mom! Mom! and him with his head thrown back, eyes squeezed tightly shut like I’d just thrown acid in them.

It’s a good thing mom was in the bathroom already, because she probably would have run toward me clutching a pair of white cotton panties, holding them up like she was a participant in a game show. She’d never say, ‘I told you so,’ because she’s not that kind of mother. Instead, she had to listen to me relive my embarrassment all the way to Winnipeg. She doesn’t rolls her eyes, either, which I consider a miracle, since I’ve raised a few girls myself. Maybe its a side benefit of her cataract surgery.

When I got to my sister’s house, where my mother was going to stay, I asked if I could borrow a pair of her panties. As I headed to the bedroom, I heard my brother in law say reassuringly, “Don’t worry, Judy, lots of people crap their pants on that long road.”

In the end (pun intended) it was not the answer that was blowing in the wind, after all. The answer, my friend, is that I’ll be getting gas at a different station in Ashern when I return home.

About a week ago I was standing on my back deck when I smelled something truly terrible. It was a sweetish odor, and rotten, like a potato that is so old, it has collapsed in on itself. I searched the area around the deck, but a wind wafted the scent away and I forgot about it.

The next day the odor came back. It was even stronger and I became filled with a terrible dread. The longer I stayed outside, my nose in the air like a hunting dog following the scent of a fox, the more I became convinced that one of my neighbors had passed away and was lying undiscovered in his home. I shared this worry with my daughter, Hilary, who looked a little skeptical. After a while, though, she too became concerned about the source of the odor, though not to the same extent as I.

 I was filled with an immediate sense of guilt for not noticing the comings and goings of all the neighbors closest to me. Though blessed with a strong nose, I have no memory for faces. It takes me years to remember people who live only a few doors down. It can be embarrassing when I meet them down town and don’t have a clue who they are, especially when they ask after my family. I’m sure there is a name  for this type of syndrome. If there is, please don’t tell me.

This guilt was intensified by my Catholic upbringing, which I’m deeply grateful for because it grounds me, preventing a sense of over confidence that overtakes people absent minded enough to forget all the bad things that can happen in life. It can be a cross to bear, though, no pun intended. Anyway, back to the dead neighbor.

I probably wouldn’t have been so concerned except that a couple of the neighbors live alone and the smell was just so intense, death undiscovered seemed the only possible answer. What could I do? I didn’t want to walk to the front doors of the potentially deceased, bang on them and then say, ‘Oh, thank God. I thought you were dead.’ Even for me, that’s a bit much. A possible solution came in the form of my next door neighbor. Let’s call him Ralph.

Ralph is widely considered to be an asset to the neighborhood, at least to the members of my household. He is the first, and sometimes only one to check for possible burglars lurking in the back alley, for bears rattling around the garbage cans and for lending a hand with moving things, which is the height of neighborliness. He is also wonderful at reminding absent minded people like me not to forget the pot on the stove, the unwatered plants or the visiting toddler that may be wandering too close to the road. In other words, he is reliable, someone to turn to in a pinch. And this was pinching!

“Ralph!,” I cried. “I smell something terrible and I think one of the neighbors is dead!” Let me pause in the story to add another positive attribute of this helpful man. He is also a writer and, though grounded in reality, has a good imagination and appreciates a melodramatic moment from time to time. He admitted that his sense of smell was not as strong as mine, but began immediately sniffing the air anyway, willing to help me figure it out. We both stood there, he in his yard, me on my deck, our noses in the air, sniffing like a pair of disapproving republicans. He looked a little undecided but in the end, we agreed that  a ‘wait and see’ policy would be best to adopt.

This was a good thing, because later that afternoon I discovered some old meat clinging to the grill of my barbeque, which is situated under a black cover on the hottest part of my deck. If the  odor on the deck was disgusting, it was nothing to the smell that drifted  through the air once I lifted the lid. But what a relief.

Was I embarrassed at having jumped to conclusions? Not at all. Though Ralph had a good laugh at my expense, we both appreciated the opportunity that was almost afforded the both of us at coming to the aid of one in need, even if that one was already dead.

I’m going to use this little lesson, not to reason differently, or perhaps less imaginatively, but as a new impetus for watching my neighbors. I’ll see if I can remember what they look like, and I’ll try to be more like Ralph, to lend a helping hand, or nose, and be there when the people on my street really need me.

I have a guilty secret that I desperately need to share. When I was twenty-two years old, newly married and living in Carmen, Manitoba, I developed a peculiar addiction. Like most people with a secret life, I was finally found out by none other than my husband. I tried to draw him into my utterly compelling fantasy world, but he wasn’t having any part of it. He said that he had better things to do on a Saturday night than THAT.

Sure, I felt a little humiliated by his words and attitude, but mostly, it was his barely hidden contempt for my secret passion. Still, I couldn’t give it up. The Lawrence Welk Show (LWS)  would continue to be part of my Saturday evening.

Let me explain my fascination with it, dear reader. Because I can picture you right now, a wrinkle in your forehead drawing your eyes closer together as you frown in disbelief. Not Judy, you’re thinking, or possibly gasping aloud. She’s a little eccentric, but not crazy! I’ll plead my case and see if I can win you over.

In the middle seventies, young men still wore  their hair longish, and women too. Perms were coming back into fashion, as were longer skirts. But nothing happening in the current world could explain the 50’s hairstyles or clothing of the men and women on the LWS. They sang folk songs and dumbed down pop music (and that’s saying something) and occasionally introduced a little latin number or two. They had a young black performer who, it appeared, was only allowed to tap dance. There was a Puerto Rican couple who sang together, and a guy who played the accordion every week. The Lennon sisters would harmonize beautifully and Lawrence Welk himself, Mr. Champagne music, would lead the orchestra while lovely ladies and gentlemen in pastel colours waltzed gracefully around the dance floor.

It took me a few weeks to realize that Saturday Night Live did not have an early show on PBS that they used solely for mocking old people.  And still I was charmed. Yes, Dear reader, I am a Lawrence Welk addict. And proud of it.

It’s  the very definition of cheese, possibly the velveeta type. But I’m comfortable with that. I like a wide variety of music, and over the years I’ve sung “This Diamond Ring” with Gerry Lewis, cried to Bobby Goldsboro’s “Honey,” (possibly the sappiest song ever written) and had my thirteen year old heart shredded by Gary Puckett and the Union Gap singing ‘Young Girl.’ Or, as my children like to call it, “The  Perv Song.” They purposefully misunderstand the innocent lyrics.

“Young girl, get out of my mind, my love for you is way out of line, better run girl, your much too young, girl.”

It’s not about THAT, I  said, but they refused to believe me. Help me, Gary Puckett. Because I’m still a big fan of yours, too.

We all have our dark little secrets. Music that we love, but never admit to owning, or television shows that we won’t confess to viewing. I, for instance, wouldn’t be caught dead watching Jersey Shore, because it just makes me sad. But if it floats your boat, go with it. There are many shades and types of cheese out there, and that’s a good thing. Feel free to share your favorite flavour with me.