Judith Pettersen

 Comfortable underwear has been my jam since I grew old enough to care. My preferred fabric is cotton, my style, granny. Back when I was nine months pregnant with our first child, I took to wearing my husband’s cotton jockey shorts because nothing else fit me.

When Clarence saw me, his face fell, like this.

   ‘You look like a sumu wrestler,’ he said. Thanks!” I replied. “I guess I’m the sporty type!” In response, he clapped his hands to his cheeks like McCauley Culkin in Home Alone.  I faced him down, hands on hips, my whale sized belly taking over the room. He got over it.

My love affair with comfortable underwear continued. At various times I attempted wearing things like tummy taming silky garments. “They really work for you,” my hubby said flirtatiously.

“Are you taming your tummy?” I asked in a voice any sensible man would understand meant, Stop Talking Now.” He slunk from the room, never to address the issue again. He’d made the mistake once of confiding in me that all a woman had to do to keep a guy interested was to show up. Ribbons and bows were merely wallpaper. I took him at his word.

But this isn’t about that. Aside from my comfort, I have minimal underwear concerns, and tend to purchase my favorite pairs by the six pack. Sadly, there’s always two pairs in gray. Now, I might not be the tummy slimming type, but that doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned all sense of self worth. If these were a light and trendy gray, that would be different. These ones look like they were handed out in a Victorian Orphanage for the Poor. In spite of their comfort, to see them on myself is to be visited with a sense of hopeless despair. So I save them for working around the house or writing all day. 

But the  biggest reason I don’t like wearing them outside is, what if I die? Say I’ve been hit by a car. (I’m a jaywalker.)  Now, let’s pretend that for some reason, they had to take off my pants in the ambulance. I picture the attendant making a small effort and throwing in the towel early. “She’s gone,” he’d say carelessly. The female EMT would not take this well.

“You think she’s not worth saving because of her underwear? We can’t let her die like this!’ And through her sense of solidarity and genuine understanding of the situation, she’d persist until I coughed myself back into life.

Having written this, I’ve realized that the sensible thing to do is to package up the gray pairs and leave them at a second hand store. “New,” I ‘ll write in an attached note. “But only for those who’ve abandoned all hope.” On the other hand, maybe others would be a bit more prosaic about the whole thing. Maybe the women  wearing fancy, uncomfortable underwear would buy them with a sense of relief. 

“And they’re so cheap!” they’d say to themselves. And so my poorhouse underwear become another woman’s refuge. At the end of the day, it’s just another story in the unfashionable circle of life.

 I was listening to the Current on CBC radio, where professor Rob Cockcroft discussed the construct of time. In other words, humans created the idea of time. Five thousand years ago, people like the Babylonians and Egyptians decided they needed to measure the day in hours. “The slaves are working 24/7 on that pyramid,” boasted sun dial makers in that week’s Papyrus. “But everyone else needs a bit more rest.”

I learned that in either June or December, one second of extra time, a leap second, is added to the year’s tally. The rotation of the earth isn’t as predictable as we’ve been led to believe. (But what is? A question for the ages.) And it’s slowing down…something to do with melting glaciers and rising rock. Anyway. To add a second, you actually stop time FOR a second. Since everyone’s trying to save money these days, I pictured the people in charge asking for volunteers to keep an eye on the atomic clock. Since I donate my time regularly at church and in my community, I might be the perfect candidate. 

Ah, but therein lies the folly. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that when the scientists yell, ‘Now, Judy! Stop the clock for one second!’ —

—I will be finishing an exciting chapter in the Lord of the Rings trilogy that I’ve already read 13 times because it comforts me.( If Frodo and Sam can defeat the dark Lord, maybe the same will happen in November for our southern neighbors. Anyway.) I’d look up at them with bewildered eyes, my mouth ajar, perhaps a drip of saliva descending from my lips. ‘What?’ I’d say. They’d throw their arms in the air, then shrug it off, deciding to add two seconds in 2025 instead. 

Someone (I’m sure they have a name) has come up with the idea that instead of adding these seconds, they should wait sixty years and add a whole minute to the clock. I can just see the world when that happens. All the hockey players around the world will rest on their sticks while the fans wait, checking their cellphones. A guy on death row will lie there for a full extra minute as the warden waits for the signal. (But not in Canada. Instead, we torture people with endless years of waiting for a trial date. But I digress.) Let’s face it, the whole thing could get very messy.

In conclusion, if they ever seek a volunteer, don’t allow it to be me. ‘Get me to the church on time,’ is my mantra every Sunday, for a reason. Anything more, I won’t be able to handle. Now, where did I put my book?

For more info, here’s the link.

https://www.cbc.ca/radio/thecurrent/wednesday-february-28-2024-full-transcript-1.7129107

 I used to work with my mother. How it happened was she showed up at my front door the  day after she retired from nursing, wanting to help me with my home business. I’d designed a baby carrier, started selling it mail order and then online. Stores were showing interest, and mom thought I needed her. She was right. 

Every morning she’d start by cleaning up the kid’s breakfast dishes, then begin wrapping up babyTrekkers. When my friend Crystal joined the gang, the three of us had a blast together. Technically, mom was my shipper, but she’d answer the phone if necessary.

‘BabyTrekker!’ she’d say a bit nervously, like she wasn’t the shipper yet but was still auditioning. 

One time when Crystal was out of town, I was chatting with a customer on our 800 number when mom picked up the office line. ‘Why yes,’ I said into the receiver, ‘The carrier comes in Hunter Green.’ That’s when my mother began shouting.

‘Sha na na sha na na!’

I stared at her in horror, then quickly stretched my phone line and moved around the corner, crouching over the phone so I could protect my potential customer from whatever craziness this was. Mom carried on, “In the mighty name of Jesus, I pray peace upon you!’ 

“Mom!” I hissed. “Who are you talking to?” Really, the possibilities were endless. I felt mortified, even as I started giggling.

For those not in the know, my mother was partly praying in English and partly speaking in tongues. This might lead you to believe that she was doing this with a Bible in one hand and a  poisonous snake in the other, (which I believe is actually a thing in the deep south.) First, let me explain about tongues. Ordinarily, it’s a private conversation with God where you speak things even you don’t understand. It’s like pouring out your heart, and is very useful when  regular words fail you. It’s meditative, kind of like a different version of ‘Oooommmm.’ I find it uselful in moments of despair when the world really sucks and I think Donald Trump might win the next election. Anyway.

Mom contiued exhorting the Holy Trinity while I kept hissing, “Who are you talking to?” Was it a customer who’d disprespected the babyTrekker? I couldn’t think of any situation that would call for this kind of fervor. Finally, she hung up the phone and turned to face me. “Crystal called from Winnipeg needing prayer.”

    “Did she need THAT kind of prayer?” I asked, kind of smiling but also feeling a bit stressed. Fortunately, I’d taken my customer’s order and hung up. 

“Yes, she did,” mom replied firmly. That was the thing about her. She was a dignified, deeply spiritual woman who never backed down when someone was in trouble. Many people loved and respected her, including all her grandchildren. 

When I asked Crystal about it days later, she confirmed that the prayer had really hit the spot. After that we got a portable phone so I could quickly flee the scene when things took a spiritual turn. Later, when we’d opened a factory and moved everything uptown, mom came with me for a while. And then she and dad started to travel. But I treasure those days…all the laughs and also the prayers. 

When things are tough like they’ve been over the last number of years, I miss my mother. And I’d give anything to hear her words of wisdom again. In spite of my reaction all those years ago, I realize that I need a little more of that Sha Na Na. I need the kind of prayer that lifts and soothes and calms my heart. There’s too much of the other kind of noise in the world. Mom, thank you for everything, for your patience, and your prayers. The world is less without you. I know, without any doubt, my siblings and our children will give me an amen on that.

My sister Linda is a bit like a character from a 1950’s musical—a good girl who likes to sing and doesn’t have time for rule breakers. Frankly, the world would be in a better place if she were in charge of things. Like world peace. ‘That’ll be enough of that!’ she’d tell Putin. The Middle East would get such a scolding, they wouldn’t know what hit them. Actually, all hitting would cease immediately. 

So, imagine my surprise when I learned she was getting a tattoo. Not any old tattoo, either, but a dragon crawling down her right forearm. It’s like she’s joined a cult and this was her initiation. She’s not a tattoo getting person. Yet, apparently she’s been planning it for years. (She’s careful like that.)

But now I can’t help wondering what she’ll do next. Shave her head and buy a studded leather jacket to accompany the gang tattoo on her neck? (She doesn’t have it yet…I’m just projecting.) I picture her planning her gang’s first book club meeting. (She used to be a librarian) There’d be a lot of shaping up and way less shenanigans once she got involved. (though Gangnam style shenanigans would be fine…she loves Korean dramas and the boy band, BTS.)

She often reminds me of Clint Eastwood’s movie character,  Dirty Harry. (As children who attended Scouts and Brownies, we memorized all her expressions, obeying the mantra, Always Be Prepared.) I particularly remember her narrowed eyes asking us Clint-type questions:  ‘Do you feel lucky?’ Or, “In this world, there are two kinds of people, my friend: Those with loaded guns and those who dig. You dig.” Obviously, a tattoo was going to happen at some point in her life. Madam Librarian has flung away her disguise of well dressed respectabilty and shown us her leather wearing, possibly bald headed, dragon self.

I find myself wondering, does everyone long for another version of themselves? Do others feel threatened by that new version? (I feel threatened by this version of my sister. I took her out for lunch just to keep her on my side.)

But truly, must we continue liking the same things, holding the same convictions and maintaining the status quo so that others feel comfortable in their interpretation of who we are? I’m someone who does not like change. But it keeps happening, and life has a way of forcing me to adapt if only to keep my sanity. My husband loved change and grew quickly bored with life’s daily routines. I’m really hoping that death has offered him some crazy adventures so when I’m with him again, we can take it easy.

 ‘We’re doing what?’ I asked years ago, when he planned our camping trip through Asia and a hike up to Everest base camp. (Meanwhile, I’m challenged by hard pillows in a Canadian hotel.) But I adapted to his free spirit ways, because I knew that one of us had to have some spunk, and it wasn’t going to be me.

After my sister joined a cult (kidding…just a tattoo, folks) nothing will surprise me anymore. My brother may decide to take up ballet. My sister, Joni, might choose to lie around for the rest of her life and do nothing, though I can’t picture it. Her batteries will never die, and she will continue bustling around and helping people fix/clean/redecorate/stage their houses forever. In between all her travels, that is. 

Maybe I’ll surprise myself and do something completely unpredictable. But I doubt it. For now, writing a blog about my eldest sister is as close to danger as I can get. On that note, it’s goodbye for now. I need to find somewhere to hide.

(A repeat at the request of my friend, John Taylor)

There are some hallways I will never enter. Strange doors I will never step through, and belief systems I cannot embrace. I’m talking not about scientology. It’s the appeal of the Hallmark channel with its 24/7 Christmas movies that I cannot understand.

I know full well their popularity.  I have close friends and family members who wait all year for Christmas and the magic of Hallmark. These movies are a monetary success story, not just for the card company but for actors, writers and many who work in the business. Yet there’s something almost subversive about them. The characters don’t stare blankly like the women in the Stepford Wives movie, but still. I find their steady cheerfulness and unusual prosperity just a little creepy. There are other unexplained phenomena. Like the constant baking and the drinking of multiple cups of hot chocolate, yet no one is overweight. 

As I write this, I’m eyeballing a movie called ‘Christmas in Evergreen: The Tiding.’ Perhaps they’ve done many shows in the fine town of Evergreen, and this is the latest rendition. I have no idea, because the only time I watch them is when I land on the channel accidentally. Still, I have to confess. There’s something mesmerizing about the way they capture their audience.

The first thing I notice is the clothes. Everyone is so well dressed, like they’re ready to attend their own wedding. Even the children look fresh from the hair salon. Toques (that’s Canadian winter head gear) are accompanied by matching scarves. Boots gleam, and fun mittens adorn every pair of hands. All this fashion finery is backed by elaborate decorations that make Rockefeller Center look small time. Lights everywhere, wreaths on all the doors and even the smallest store is wrapped up like an extravagant gift. Nobody ever frowns in Christmas movie land. Well, nobody except for a child whose mother, (let’s call her Amanda) is just too busy.

Amanda has an immaculate, amazingly decorated house, works full time and is always home for supper. And yet, little Jenny feels neglected. She needs a Christmas miracle–one that will have her mother come to her senses and get her priorities straight. Amanda loves to shop. That could be the problem, except everyone in town is constantly shopping and strolling around toting beautifully wrapped presents. By the end of the movie, Amanda has found both love and more time for her daughter.

Then there’s little Jimmy, who needs a new mother. His handsome father  is too heart broken to date the boy’s gorgeous teacher, though she’s funny (Hallmark funny, not Tina Fey funny) and smart and perfect in every way. Jimmy’s father looks off into the distance as he speaks about his wife. He was too busy working when she was alive, and now he is filled with regret. Jimmy can’t act as well as his father, but we’re supposed to root for them both.

The men of Christmas are as well groomed as the women. They look like Ken dolls, with hair that stays put no matter what winter sport they’re playing. Usually it’s something light, like skating. Or shopping. Even if their car broke down on the highway and they had to spend the night in a village resembling Santa’s workshop, they still look like mannequins. Their fastidious appearance leads me to believe that these men are all gay. Except I don’t think they have any LGBTQ people in Hallmark movies. Not any who are out of the closet, anyway. Please let me know if I’m wrong. (This is a repost…things may have changed?)

There are no drunk uncles in a Hallmark Christmas movie. No one ever confesses to cheating on their spouse. If they have a child and they’re a single parent, they’re never divorced, they’re a widow. Or widower.

 I hate to diss the company, because I’ve been known to wander through Hallmark stores, reading cards while sitting in the aisle and weeping. After a good half hour of this behavior, I’m usually approached by a clerk with a strained look on her face. “May I help you?”
 “No thanks. I just like to read the cards. This is the one,” I say, holding it up with the solemnity of a woman buying herself a $10,000 ring. I’ll spend $8 because this clever writer deserves the pay.

If these movies were cheesy novels, (which, maybe they were, once) there’d be a bare chested cowboy leaning over a beautiful girl while doffing his Stetson. But TV Christmas movies require clothing. Well fitted, stylish, fake casual. Young couples strolling down snow covered streets, flakes drifting softly past their faces, and a church spire or an old brick bank that needs saving, in the background. Maybe a dog. I haven’t seen one yet. There must be a Hallmark dog movie out there somewhere. Dogs are emotionally available, and therefore popular.

No one in a Hallmark movie is Charlize Theron beautiful, just very good looking for regular town life. Even the old people look fit and attractive. There’s a lot of botox and filler, but its subtle. I can’t help thinking, oh, please. Give me one heroin addict dying in an alley while people wander by, unseeing. An old person neglected in a neighborhood of uncaring young people. Any touch of reality that acknowledges the messiness of real life. Our houses may look nice for half a day, but who can keep it up longer than that unless they have domestic help?  Especially if there are kids around. I want to see a Hallmark character step on a Lego piece and yell, ‘Fuck me!’ It will never happen.

I’d love to see a guy say, ‘Want to hook up, just for the night? Nancy next door has been talking about a three way. You up for it?” Wouldn’t that shake up the audience. As their Christmas movie coma fell away, the viewers would blink their eyes and shake their heads. “I have to get a life,” they’d say, getting up from the sofa for the first time in eight hours.

And yet. The people I know who watch and love Hallmark movies are busy with their own jobs and kids and full lives. At the end of a hard day, they long for the comfort and dazzle of a well decorated town. A simple story line where love waits for the pretty, and kids have small, easily solved problems. No one’s parents have dementia, no one’s dad is trying to kick his drug habit. Small problems, magical fixes. Yet watching these movies makes me want to try heroin, or lie down in a back alley with a bottle of 90 proof home brew.

I guess what I really want is to burst people’s bubbles. Apparently this is the reason I can’t stand the movies. I’m a bubble burster. A Christian scrooge. Bah, humbug. Christmas for me is about Jesus, but I can’t stand the church people in these movies, either. Anyway.

Wait a minute. They just kissed. Why is she leaving? Is she driving away? I thought they were going to get married! What the…?? Dammit. Now I have to watch to the end. Sigh. At least I’m dressed badly. My old flannel bottoms and torn sweatshirt represents the realities of regular people’s lives. Because someone has to keep a firm grasp on… Wait…she’s back! She’s getting out of the car with a string of lights in her hand! Oh, for the love of God! Stop decorating, already.

When the world feels heavier than usual, I put away my Game of Thrones novel or collected short stories by Virginia Wolfe (I want to love her writing, but no) and pick up something lighter. A mystery novel, perhaps, though nothing too suspenseful. Reading about a woman unaware of the strange man living in her attic is just not relaxing. 

Unfortunately, I chose a romantic comedy that backfired. Why? In spite of suffering from a serious heart condition, the main character ate nothing all day but candy and pizza. ‘What about spinach?’ I found myself asking her aloud. ‘Or carrots?’ (Dear reader, her diet caused heart palpitations in me.) So I abandoned the novel, picked up my phone and found a ten minute meditation on YouTube. My friend Penny had given me one, but I used it the night before and wanted to try something new.

Supposedly, meditation stops our thoughts from bossing our brains around. One can spend so much time worrying about things that may never happen that it can provoke a very unromantic heart condition. So I found a new meditation to try. 

A man with a relaxing voice directed me in hushed tones to make myself comfortable. I chose to sit on the sofa, leaning back and pretending that my legs were as bendy as my old yoga teacher’s. In reality, I might as well be carved from wood. I closed my eyes when ordered to do so, and let the music wrap around me as I pictured myself standing at the edge of a lake. I was told to breathe, to notice my heart rate and pulse. I opened my eyes to peek at the candle my sister Joni had given me, mostly to distract myself from my heart beat.

Was it unusually fast?  I tried to calm myself by closing my eyes again, listening as the man quoted Winston Churchill. ‘When you’re walking through hell, keep going.’ Excellent advice, but I immediately pictured the Gary Larson cartoon where hellgoers repeat endless leg lifts with the devil and his pitchfork on standby. ‘One million one, one million two…

Stop it! I scolded myself, focusing once more on the voice. ‘Count the clouds in the sky,’ he ordered. And you know what? I didn’t feel like counting the clouds. When I’m out kayaking, I take in the calm lake, watch for wildlife, stare at the rocks and peek up at the sky. Not once have I counted clouds. Why? It’s boring. And dumb. My irritation made me anxious, so I disregarded his instructions, whispered a prayer of gratitude for my life and turned off the meditation. 

At first I felt a bit bereft, like a Hogwarts student who couldn’t do spells and never got to spend time with Harry Potter. And then I started laughing. And I thought, okay. I feel better. 

I’ll try another meditation, but not the kind where they aim too high. ‘You can do anything!’ some will say. I believe it on a spiritual level, but I’ve already given up on certain aspirations, like my old dream of skating in the Olympics. It was unrealistic anyway since I never took lessons. Besides, such things won’t happen no matter how well I control my breathing. Perhaps I could envision myself skating competitively as a form of meditation. But no. My anxious imagination would make me fall, and I’d end up with a Judge’s score of five at best. Oh, those Russians!

 You never want to meditate on being a loser. So, feel free to offer other suggestions, dear reader. I’m open to any of your YouTube referrals, so long as I don’t have to count clouds.  

This title might seem strange for those who know me. Of course you don’t have a tan, they’re thinking. You avoid the sun like a vampire, wear hats while gardening and stay indoors when it’s too hot. All this is true. My eyes tend to shy away from the light, and my skin feels burned even when snowshoeing on a sunny January  day. And yet I’ve been loving the light tan that appeared on my face over the last year or so.  I’ve never liked my pale, occasionally mottled complexion which reddens with every laugh and cough. And then I had cataract surgery in one eye. 

This morning I stood in front of the bathroom mirror to conduct an experiment. Shutting my new robot eye (I love the concept…don’t disillusion me with facts) I stared at myself and saw the same me I’ve seen for the last few years. Lightly tanned in spite of sunscreen and large hats. But I closed my unenhanced eye and there was my true face. Wan like sour yogurt, and splotchy from sleeping on my side. 

I wasn’t tan. The cataracts had given everything a yellow tint. Well, crap. What happens when the other eye is roboticized? Will I react like my aunt who phoned her daughter and said, ‘They did something to my face while I was asleep, and now I have wrinkles!’ 

I try to eat healthy, exercise regularly, and keep a positive attitude in spite of the angry trajectory of the world. It’s like a boulder rolling down hill–you can’t escape it no matter where you run. But still, I  try.  Many mornings I jump out of bed like a really annoying gym teacher and occasionally even clap my hands. 

Perhaps that’s why I attempt little fixer uppers like the one I tried yesterday. My eyes have been plagued with a feeling of pressure. I wondered, is it the sagging skin hanging over my eyelids? I’m not at the ‘My eyes are dim, I cannot see,’ stage, so it seemed best to experiment. 

With the same medical tape I use to keep my mouth shut at night (see former post, Shut Your Mouth) I used a piece to lift the skin above my lids. I’d been walking around like that for about ten minutes when the doorbell rang. Quickly, I ripped the tape off and rushed to the door to find my neighbor holding a chainsaw. (We are both deeply committed to the health our our neighborhood trees.)

“Well, darn,” I said. “It’s just you…I could have left the tape on.” I explained the situation, and, having been my neighbor for sixteen years, he didn’t even blink. 

And now I must adjust my view of things as they take on a whiter shade of pale. If I find a cure for eye pressure, I’ll be sure to let you know. In the meantime, I’ll brace myself for the second eye surgery. It’s painless, but the truth it reveals is not. As Jimmy Cliff sang, ‘Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind, it’s going to be a bright, sunshiny day.’ But I still won’t have a tan. 

This is a repost. I really want to write about my sister, Susan, who passed away on August 7th this summer. But I’m not able, yet, so I’ll set the stage with this family piece.

Growing up in a house with six other children required a certain amount of hardiness. After a traditional baptism, another followed that was more like an ongoing episode of Fear Factor. It involved loud squalling, bare knuckle fighting, laughing, and general hysteria. Since at least five of us were less than two years apart, my mother was always in full survival mode. People talk a lot about the common sense of parents in the sixties, but let’s be honest. Families were larger and a few toys couldn’t possibly compete with wild ideas and the lure of general mayhem. Many parents buckled against the pressure and allowed their offspring to run free. Until I was fifteen and Jennifer was born, all of us lived upstairs. It was a tight space for the eight people there at the time. ‘Go outside!’ was a common refrain at our house.

 ‘Quit climbing the walls!’ was another. My sisters, brother and I would take turns bracing our hands and feet against the sides of the entryway to our living room and see who could hike their way up to the ceiling in the quickest possible time. This was done with a lot of yelling, jeering and possible sabotage, like pulling someone’s legs out from under them. Susan and I were often the instigators, and she remains to this day the most competitive person in the family. If you showed her something you could do, she’d figure out a way to do it faster. The important part was when she got to win.

When we weren’t climbing the walls, Susan and I were busy making up new commercials. We were certain we could do a better job than the ad companies we heard on the radio, or saw on television. My mother encouraged this kind of behavior because it took less yelling and a lot more planning. Another favorite activity was pretending to be movie stars. I’m fairly certain that Linda enjoyed this too. If you needed a glamorous, tight dress look, you would simply insert both legs into one leghole of your pajama bottoms, and use the empty one for twirling. I was Connie Stevens. Someone else in the family was Annette Funicello, though I can’t remember who. Possibly Bill. Just kidding. Though we did encourage him to take part in our crazy plans. ‘Encourage,’ meaning a fair amount of arm twisting. Literally twisting of the arms. Remember snakebites? That was torture for beginners at our house.

My father was more cunning than my mother when it came to filling up our time. If she was at work, he’d put on one of his Spike Jones records and we’d dance like crazy until we fell down. Seriously, like teenagers popping ecstasy at a rave, we’d exhaust ourselves boogieing to ‘Cocktails for Two.’ He played music the whole time mom was out, especially some of his crazier jazz records by artists like Stan Kenton. Or, to paraphrase my mother, ‘I’ve died and gone to hell, and this is the soundtrack.’

In the early years, we had a wood stove in the basement. Occasionally, we’d thread hot dogs onto sticks or coat hangers, for roasting. Or we’d play with fire, adding interesting things to the stove and watching to see what would happen. My mother was usually upstairs washing floors, preparing meals and generally working like an indentured servant. She worried we’d burn ourselves or put our arms through the ringer washer that always seemed to be running. It was the dilemma of every mother: ‘They might be in danger. But they’re so quiet right now.’ Her need for some kind of peace and order gave us plenty of opportunities to try out our crazy ideas. In no particular order, here are a few more:

Sliding on cardboard down the basement stairs.
Making a slide with blankets for the younger kids to slip from the top bunk to the bed on the other side of the room. We only dropped the blanket a few times.
Sneaking food from the kitchen. I liked to pretend I was a hungry orphan. 
Lighting the candles hidden in a cross on the wall that were meant for special religious occasions. I spent the rest of the week worrying I was going to burn in hell for being sacrilegious.
Playing mass and taking turns squishing bread and shoving it into each other’s mouths. We mumbled fake Latin words and had the parishioners kneel for a really long time. (My children did the same thing, but with different hymns and a lot more Holy Spirit carryings on.)
Flipping through the gigantic family bible that was filled with horrifying images of the torture of saints. We couldn’t get enough of it.

There were times when we played regular games, too, like Monopoly and War, (the card game, though we were always up for the other kind, too.) Clue fascinated all of us because we really wanted to live in a glamorous mansion with murderous people. Chinese Checkers promised a good hour’s worth of arguing, then there was Sorry, and the hipper kinds of games, like Password, also a television show.  We truly loved Password.

The only reason my parents lived as long as they did was because we all loved to read, or have someone read to us. I’m sure mom and dad tiptoed through the house on such days, usually a Saturday when we’d all been to the library. There was also the lure of the great outdoors, though that often involved a command rather than a wish.

I like to think that our wild youth directed our futures. Linda (always seeking refuge) became a librarian, researcher and major source of info and help to breastfeeding moms everywhere. I was an entrepreneur (I can make it better!) and a writer. Susan left home to seek her fortune as a performer and traveled across Canada singing backup for Graham Shaw and his Juno award winning album, (Okay! You win!) Bill became a carpenter, probably for reasons of self defense. (saw, hammer, nails) Cindy’s been a preacher and a fantastic saleswoman, which may be one and the same job. Joni has had too many careers to name, is the best painter and can restore order to any home. (She was the kind of kid who put tape across the bedroom floor so your mess couldn’t wander onto her side.) And Jen grew up singing, simply as a way of being heard above all the noise, and carried it further with a couple of albums and a personality large enough to subdue nations.

Thirty-five years after my mother had her first baby, Jennifer left home and gave my parents the gift of an empty nest. They did not enjoy the quiet, which was probably the biggest surprise of all. Then there were grandchildren. But that’s a story for another day.  For those who need an excuse to cut loose, please enjoy some Spike Jones. My dad played it on desperate days when he needed us to let off some steam. Listen past the 30 seconds of slow music, then hang on for the ride.

For my trip home from Calgary – a twelve hour drive after a four hour sleep – I woke at 4:45 AM, bleary eyed and determined to beat the traffic. I climbed into the car and set my GPS for the town of Kindersley, certain that this would take me home to Flin Flon via Drumheller. But it had other ideas. As I drove through the rain, my faulty wipers barely skimming the windshield, I realized that it was taking me on a new route. I turned on my audible book and kept going. 

Two and and a half hours later I stared at the shifting boards of a single car bridge. A semi truck waited on the other side. A standoff ensued but he finally gave in and came across. Naturally, I wanted to see if he would plunge to his death in the river below. I would then turn around and take another route. (I’m certain he had the same plan.) However, he made it safely and I rattled my way to the other side, holding my breath and repeating that kind of ‘Oh my God’ prayer that even the most dedicated heathen will mutter under the right circumstances.

Things weren’t much better on the other side. A narrow gravel road went up a steep hill, switched back in a tight U turn, then continued climbing. Another car came along, driving about four feet from my bumper. It was impossible to go more than 40 K. but in a creepy, possibly serial killer way, this vehicle clung to my behind. I continued with the ‘ohmygod’ mantra until I was safely back on asphalt with the other car whipping past at 150 K. When I got to Kindersley, my car looked like we’d been on safari, so I drove to the Co-op carwash. To my delight, it was not the kind that moves you along, making you feel really stupid, like you’ve parked wrong and will possibly end up sideways. 

Instead, it was the stationary kind where the water sprayer and flapping brushes come to you. As I sat inside, I realized that this might be a good time to apply some makeup, brush my hair and change my shirt. By this point I looked like the half dead survivor of an apocalypse. I’d known the day would heat up and had stashed a Tee shirt on the back seat…the fancy kind with a layer of chiffon over the front panel. (Why? I don’t know…maybe because it was five in the morning?) Of course my head got stuck in the wrong layer and while I was trying to figure it out, the carwash door rolled open. 

I’d been under the impression that it would stay closed until I was good and ready to leave. Not so. By the time I got my shirt on, I found myself staring at a man in a pickup truck parked just a few feet away. He looked back at me, but not in a ‘hey, sexy lady,’ kind of way. (That would have been very uncomfortable. Besides, there’s nothing sexy about a woman of a certain age in a battle with a multi layered shirt.) Instead, with his brow furrowed and eyes narrowed like Clint Eastwood playing Dirty Harry, his expression said, ‘Someone should lock that woman up.’ With a shake of his head, he drove away.

 ‘Thank God,’ I muttered. Another common prayer of mine, because these magic moments happen more frequently than I would like. For some reason it reminded me of the time I was parked at the cemetery with my boyfriend and suddenly realized that with his dark good looks, he resembled the vampire in the movie we’d just watched at the Rex Theatre. “But I’m not him,” he said protestingly as we drove away.

 Or the moment a few weeks ago when I didn’t want to step into all the pollen on the lake and tried to exit my kayak by stretching between it and the shore. ‘I’m going down!’ I hollered to no one in particular, since I was alone. ‘It’s happening!’ I shouted to a bored looking bird on a nearby tree branch. Fortunately, I mustered enough strength to return home with just a wet bottom. I felt like Arnold Schwartnegger as I brought the kayak in line with the rocky shore using only the strength of my thigh muscles. (They ached like the dickens the next day.)

 I will never see  the man from the car wash again, or if I do, will not recognize him because I have a problem with faces, thank God. And though I may not be good with google maps, or packing the right shirt, or responding correctly when facing a semi crossing a bridge, I will always show gratitude when leaving behind these awkward moments, thereby making it home in one piece. Next time I’ll set my GPS for Drumheller. Foolproof, right? Only time will tell. And now, in honour of the blog title, there’s this.