From A to B via XYZ

The great white north

2007-06-30T07:14:00.000-07:00

My new buddy, captured on film forever as he "hangs out" on the quad.

There's always a degree of culture shift/shock that I go through when I work in a northern community. I'm now in Rankin Inlet, a town of about 3000. I asked to borrow the work truck one day and asked where the keys were kept. I got a look like "were you born yesterday?!" and a response of "in the ash tray."

Turns out that's where people store their keys here.

But if you bring supplies to work to make coffee, keep them in your desk or they will disappear very quickly.

Get your head around that one.

Old dogs can learn new tricks after all

2007-05-31T05:10:00.000-07:00

Ha! After publicly announcing that I was DONE with blogging at the Spring Bridal Show (see Chronicles of Blunderview) I thought I would try once more.

I had been stymied by the beta blogger, and just couldn't seem to remember that the log-in process is now EXACTLY THE SAME AS WHEN I CHECK MY HOTMAIL! One would think that would be easy to remember, but nooooooooooooooooooooooo not for me.

So here I am. With an animal theme. Isn't it great? Aren't weddings and showers great?

Princess

2007-03-27T07:42:00.000-07:00

Happy birthday beautiful girl, and I look forward to meeting your perfectly behaved children some day!

Spider Solitaire

2007-03-22T06:28:00.000-07:00

That's my excuse and I'm sticking with it.

First it was a computer I borrowed from work..... Surely it would not be appropriate to delete ANYTHING from it, especially games that contribute to our sanity and a balanced life.

Now that I once again have a working computer, I am delaying the inevitable deletion of Spider. I could say that I need it as therapy after the trauma of purchasing a new computer. I could also admit the truth, which is that I like to spend hours of time doing useless things like moving cards from here to there.

There are lots of highly entertaining blog posts stuck in the annals of my mind, along with great photos. I just don't know if you, my readers, could cope with a shift from the animal theme.

Actually, I think the next post will have something to do with rabbits.......

Wolves, not a cat

2007-01-20T10:22:00.000-08:00

Here's something I discovered in my computer archives.

Two Wolves

One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a

battle that goes on inside people. He said, "My son,

The battle is between two 'wolves' inside us all.

One is Evil It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret,

greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment

Inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority and ego.

The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope,

serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence,

empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith."

The grandson thought about it for a minute

and then asked his grandfather,

"Which wolf wins?"

The old Cherokee simply replied, "The one you feed."

Christmas cards

2006-12-22T20:29:00.000-08:00

Here's a dandy I received today.

Winter Solstice

2006-12-21T20:29:00.000-08:00

In the greatest darkness, the light is reborn.

Out of winter's cold, the light is reborn

From our deepest fears, the light is reborn

When we most despair, the light is reborn

When all seems lost, the light is reborn

When the earth lies waste, the light is reborn

When animals hide, the light is reborn

When the leaves are gone, the light is reborn

When the river is frozen, the light is reborn

When the ground is hard, the light is reborn

Shadows are fleeing
Light is returning
Warmth will come again
Summer will be here once more
Plants will grow again
Animals will be seen once more
Green will come again
Life will continue

Winter Solstice

My cousin Amanda

2006-12-16T20:49:00.000-08:00

I love my cousin Amanda. She is comfortable to be with. She is wise, funny, and human. There are a lot of layers to her.

We have been slowly cultivating a friendship over our lifetimes. My first memory having to do with Amanda involves her wedding. I was ten years old. Her mom was in charge of the guest list. She decided it would be nice not to have children at the wedding. This was unusual in our circles. Weddings, in my mind, were times to get dressed up, eat lots of cheese curds, crunch down as many sugar cubes as possible, and play with my cousins.

I was angry for many years. Myself and the other young cousins plotted for years about not inviting Amanda, her mother, and other related beings to our weddings.

I got over it. I grew up. I told Amanda about it. She was shocked. Had no idea we'd been excluded. Had no idea we were so upset by it.

Over the years, I've always looked forward to seeing Amanda at the twice-a-year extended family gatherings. She and her husband always make their rounds, and talk to all of us.

Then one Christmas gathering 4 years ago, we decided it would be fun to have a grown-up sleepover with the "girl" cousins. It happened. We talked and talked and talked. Much of the talking was "under the dome." People needed to know they were safe. We all got to know each other and our families just a little better. The age gaps continued to disappear. The sleepover has been an annual event.

One year Amanda said something about looking forward to seeing me at the cousin sleepover - said it just wouldn't be right if I wasn't there. What?! Me?! I felt honored and glad to hear there was reciprocity.

I just got back from an evening at Amanda's house. This is my idea of a great Saturday night. A few glasses of great wine, an Ethiopian dinner, good conversation, celebration of friendship.

Family. A friend in the family. It's all good.

Confessions of an extremist

2006-12-16T10:15:00.000-08:00

Extremes run in my family. I love genetics, especially the highly scientific variety, that allow me to rationalize behaviour that the sensible side of me does not find acceptable.

Some confessions of this extremist:
1. I can't usually stay awake past 10:00. Often it's more like 9:30.

2. Last night (this morning) I finally fell asleep at 3:30. I blame it on an extremely restful work trip this week, in which I spent many hours travelling and not very many hours actually seeing kids. Flying equals naptime. Early to bed, late to rise equals long long hours of undisturbed sleep (my apologies to insomniacs and parents of young children.)

3. Friday nights are often my most tired night of the week. Last night, I and a friend went to a "two-for-one" movie theatre, entering at 7 and emerging at 12:30, then out for something to eat and some lovely blueberry tea.

4. I love blueberry tea but fortunately forget to have it at home, so a bottle of Amaretto lasts me a long long time.

5. I deleted all the games off my computer years ago, as it was very easy to do nothing else, but grow old as I clicked cards around my screen.

6. I was foolish enough to think I was enough to handle computer games again, so loaded solitaire (all the varieties under the sun) a few weeks ago.

7. They got deleted this morning.

8. People have this concept of me as a healthy eater. In fact, I do buy mostly "whole foods" (that's a new term for me) from the outskirts of the grocery store, so I suppose it's not all bunk.

9. I love candy and chocolate. On a recent trip to Nunavut, I discovered HUGE sugar blobs in the Co-op which I renamed giant rockets. I ate half of them, and shared the rest with my friend Al, who shares my enjoyment of those little rolls of sugary delight. He loved the giant rockets.

10. I am passionate about my work.

11. I hate paperwork.

12. Last year I filed 4 years worth of tax returns.

13. At the ripe old age of 41, I seem to have acquired the ability to sleep in.

14. I love to buck the trends.

15. I have a fantastic memory for tiny inconsequential details, like what Micah was wearing when he came to the Folk Festival at the age of three months.

16. I remember astonishingly little of the facts and details I spent hours and hours pounding into my brain through four years of university. The image of A.J.Fernando smoking in the halls with his long cigarette holder, however, is permanently burned into my brain. So is his green polyester suit with the flared legs.

17. You can stand a spoon up in my coffee. I can easily drink 4 or 5 cups of the stuff.

18. Once or twice a year, I come to my senses about all the caffeine, and switch instantly to decaf. Then it's mixed, and the caffeine slowly takes over once again.

I think that's enough for now. The coffee pot is empty.

Fivefootunder

2006-12-11T19:03:00.000-08:00

I am not smart enough to put this blog in my links without Brian's help, but you need to check this one out:

fivefootunder.blogspot.com

Especially her most recent post, a lovely tribute to her mom on her birthday.

Nothing in the world is as it first may appear. A very basic truth I've known for a long time, but keep getting reminded of. People's strength and resilience are amazing.

Enjoy.

opie teepee

2006-12-11T15:08:00.000-08:00

Words, acronyms, and abbreviations are great, and provide some good humor when slightly confused.

I often travel with an occupational therapist, and we get labelled OTPT. Recently we were recorded on a school calendar as OPTP. Out-patient toilet paper? old-phashioned travelling people? Ordinary practical trading practises?

My brother's blackberry (or crack-berry as we liked to call it) became a blueberry.

Fiddleheads, in the mind of a 4-year-old, became piano-heads.

Shirley, Goodness, and Mercy were three little girls who spent their entire lives chasing David. As a little kid, I thought about that one for a long time before asking my mom what she thought Shirley might have been wearing. I thought it sounded like a very exhausting life for all of them.

I read about nectarines being placed during a surgical procedure. It took me a while to realize they were supposed to be "neck drains." Many doctors have terrible hand-writing. They also mumble when they do dictation.

I was out for dinner with some elderly friends a few years ago. One ordered ceasar salad. Another lady shrieked across the table "What's that dear? Did you say you're having a seizure?"

It all gives me much more respect and admiration for those who transplant themselves, in their adult lives, into an english-speaking country and go about learning the language.

Family

2006-12-11T07:05:00.000-08:00

It was a busy weekend. Due to strong winds and other factors, we only got home from our arctic journey at 10:30 Friday night.

I was at church by 9:00 on Saturday morning, preparing to meet the happy cheerful masses of children and hoping to assist in doing some semblance of a "rehearsal" for Sunday's pageant. It was typically chaotic, but the pizza arrived on time, there were moments of peace, and we ensured that the 4-year-old dressed as a chicken would be sitting far away from his brother who liked to provoke him by poking him in the ribs and clucking.

The giant styrofoam fish were confiscated after bits of their mouths broke off. Seems the fish were trying to eat each other while waiting for their minute in the spotlight.

One of the phone messages waiting for me Friday night was from a 15-year-old niece. Could she come on Saturday for a sleepover?

Do fish swim in the ocean?

I love being an auntie. I love being part of the fabric of a child's life. I am honored to be a friend.

She joined me at church Sunday morning and watched as I and the other adults tried to keep the fish from destroying each other, the chicken from reacting too loudly to his brother, the right groups of kids ready to take their places. It all went swimmingly.

Sunday afternoon we were joined by two younger nieces and the house rapidly turned into something resembling a national disaster site. At the end, there were 12 star-shaped chocolate cakes with enough icing and sprinkles to adorn each of us from head to toe, thousands of tiny angelfish and castle punch-outs, crafts, booklets, spilled milk, and toys everywhere.

There were also 3 neices and one auntie with more memories of life as family.

Family. It's a good thing.

Is this really a job?!

2006-12-10T17:32:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I have a "pinch me to make sure I'm not dreaming this" feeling at work. It happened this last week, as my OT colleague and I strolled back to the health center after lunch in the tiny arctic town we were working in.

We both love going there - it always feels like we are dropping in to see some friends (and do a bit of work.) This week we had the luxury of going through the newly printed community yearbook to study up on names, and who was related to whom. I have a terrible memory for names, so the book came in very handy.

One day just before lunch, we went to do a home visit. We walked past the arctic fox hanging on the railing, the sealskin, the ducks lying on the kitchen floor waiting to be lunch, the liver offerings on the counter, both raw and cooked.

I went up with a serious resolve to NOT spend any money. This lasted for about 24 hours, when my friend came back from the Co-op with the news that my favorite carver had been busy, and that I should at least look. Well, what are credit cards for, after all?

We caught up with the news in town, some good, some sad. The court had just been in town, so there were people saying goodbye to family members heading off to serve sentences in jail in other communities. For one friend, this meant being able to be at peace in her home for the first time in a very long time. A tough week for her, but one of respite as well.

Thursday night was Midnight Madness at the Co-op. I missed it last year, so was quite determined to make this the year to witness the screaming lucky person fly through the store for their 60-second shopping spree. Alas, I have to settle for a second-hand account, as I was fast asleep by 9:30 and didn't even hear the knock on my door at 10:00 to summon me for the big event.

The flight home was a long one; we battled strong winds on the first leg of the journey. We dropped off most of the passengers, leaving only my colleague and I for the trip to Winnipeg. After take-off, I switched seats and got comfortable with my book. That's when I noticed that I seemed to be in a rocking chair...... Oops, the seat was not bolted down on one side.

We did the photo first, then let the pilot know. (No animals, people, or boxes of Tide were strapped into that seat during any take-offs or landings, so we were perfectly safe the whole time.) The pilot had it fixed lickety split, then sat down and chatted for a while. These pilots double as baggage handlers, seat bolters, flight attendants, and fine company.

It's a great privilege to be able to work in these communities.

What a bonus to get a paycheque on top of it all.

My dad

2006-12-04T17:04:00.000-08:00

My dad has the most beautiful eyes. They are a lovely blue, like a clear sky. Though Mom would never go into details about falling in love, she does talk about Dad's eyes, and her hopes that their children would inherit them. One did; though he is now gone, his beautiful blue eyes live on in both his daughter's faces.

I haven't asked in a long time, but I used to ask Dad to take his glasses off so I could take a good look at those eyes and enjoy them.

When he mentioned, quite casually, this past July, that he was having some trouble with one of his eyes, I snapped to attention. We were sitting in the arrivals area of the Winnipeg airport, waiting for my eldest brother to join us. In Dad's regular matter-of-fact way, he described what he called "venetian blinds" that would slowly block out all vision in one of his eyes, stay closed for 5 minutes or so, then open again.

That was the beginning of another medical saga for Dad. We're still in the middle of it, but he eventually got to an ultrasound department where the blockages in his carotid arteries were probed, photographed, and documented. We're into a new chapter now, a chapter where he has medical appointments on a regular basis, with a bunch of different varieties of docs.

Dad is one of those guys who just wasn't getting old. Until the age of 82, I really can't say there was any indication of his age showing on his body. Dad retired from farming more than 20 years ago, packed up, and moved to town along with most of our farming neighbors. For the first year, he puttered around and didn't quite know what to do with himself. We worried, but were happy that their house in town had a double garage and a shop. The double garage meant he had a place for the truck, and the shop meant there was a place for tools. The yard is big enough for the huge garden that gets planted every year, Dad getting the soil ready with the tiller, and Mom hoping that he stays away from the areas sheltering the perennials.

Dad started volunteering at the Thrift Shop after he retired from farming. This was a full-time passion for many years. If you can plug it in, Dad can fix it. I don't know if any of us have ever bought a new vacuum cleaner; Dad was always putting pieces together to make functional vacuums out of discarded ones. My idea of shopping for small kitchen appliances is "Dad, can you get me a slow cooker with a removable pot?"

One of the things I've always enjoyed teasing Dad about is his name.

Abraham.

Father of many.

No kidding.

A few summers ago, we realized that all eight of us offspring were home at the same time. We lined ourselves up in the same arrangement as our 1972 Walt's Studio family picture.

Abraham is a great dad. The best, in fact. I feel selfish in wanting him around forever. There's so much more of Dad that I'd like rubbed off on me. As the years have gone by, Dad has become friends with his adult children. He cries in front of us. He thanks us often for loving him and Mom like we do. As the inevitability of age has begun to leave its mark on his body, he is taking these changes with grace and dignity.

Though the view may change, Dad's eyes are still the most beautiful I've ever seen.

I love you, Dad.

3 times unlucky

2006-11-30T15:41:00.000-08:00

One of the places I travel to twice a year is a small reserve in northern Manitoba. We'll call it Yogi Berra. When the previous therapist handed over the files, she said something like, "It's always foggy there, so be prepared to get stranded. It's never happened to us, but just be warned."

Murphy's law: I have now entered the picture. My OT buddy and I got stranded our very first trip up there 2 years ago. (It's supposed to be a one-day fly in-and-out deal.) Off we went to the store, where we spent $20.00 on 2 toothbrushes, toothpaste, and a chocolate bar each. Next stop the local hotel. It was clean, they served us an excellent dinner, and we slept well. We got out on the second flight the next morning (the first one couldn't land due to fog.)

Because of the number of locations we all work in, we usually set our travel calendar for each school year by April or May. It's a dance to coordinate with various colleagues, to try to travel together as much as possible.

Take 1: Our first trip to Yogi Berra this fall should have worked out fine. We had it booked for a Tuesday, and off to another community Thursday. Everything was looking ducky, until I got my flight confirmation and noticed that we had been booked to fly on THURSDAY. Called Yogi Berra school - can we come Thursday? Well, no, we have no school that day.

Of course, the flights for Tuesday were sold out by that point.

Then, Thursday morning, as we are driving to our location for that day, we get a phone call saying the school burnt to the ground the night before. We drove back to the city and spent the morning out for breakfast.

Okay.

Take 2: Yogi Berra was rescheduled to this week Tuesday (Yes, the very day that everything ground to a halt thanks to the huge winter storm.) We went to the airport, but left when we realized that they might get us there, but would be very unlikely to get us out the same day. (I just heard today that someone who did go on the Tuesday flight didn't get out until Wed evening.)

Take 3: My OT buddy decided to go to Yogi Berra today. I couldn't join her, so I'll try in January. The weather is perfect. Bright, clear skies, sunny.

She just called me. Guess who's staying overnight at the hotel? With bright, clear, sunny skies, the airline cancelled the flight (a full one, I might add) because they didn't have enough planes.

Hmmmmm. Murphy and his law.

3 times unlucky.

Let's keep our fingers crossed for January.

Ste. Theresa's prayer

2006-11-30T05:50:00.000-08:00

May today there be peace within.

May you trust God that you are exactly where you are meant to be.

May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith.

May you use those gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you.

May you be content knowing you are a child of God.

Let this presence settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love.

It is there for each and every one of us.

94 Cents

2006-11-29T17:02:00.000-08:00

I have a great job - 3 great jobs, in fact. Variety, flexibility, a chance to travel, lots of really great people to work with. My "main" job has quite a bizarre arrangement - we are paid by the hour for 41 weeks of the year, and laid off for all the school breaks - Christmas, spring break, and summer. So as you may guess, the level of income varies with the season. The time off, when I can manage it, is wonderful.

I have learned to plan, and have enough connections to pick up extra employment when the "planning" won't quite cover the summer bills. Nevertheless, the paycheques come at varying times, and in varying sizes.

I like my overdraft, the credit card with a low interest rate, and the credit card that lets me collect aeroplan points. These are my dancing partners in the great game of staying ahead.

This summer, things (financially speaking) all went according to plan. The cash flow was getting a bit thin by September, but this is all normal. I did a work trip in the dying days of August/early September, and was feeling quite happy about money flowing into the account once again. So paid various things and worked it down to being only 94 cents from the end of my overdraft limit.

No problem.

Being paid Friday. Thursday night, actually.

Friday came, and my bank balance remained the same. Called the employer. Oops. We'll fix that right away and it should be in your account early next week.

Oh. Okay.

Salvation came in the form of a cheque from someone who owed me money. Lovely. Put it in said bank account. Tried to make a withdrawal.

Money not available for 5 working days.

Oh.

That Saturday was the Pembina Valley Artist's Studio tour. The plan was to spend the day flitting from one studio to the next with a few friends, finding somewhere nifty to eat lunch, buying sausage in Winkler, checking out the pottery buys at a wonderful place we discovered last year near Plum Coulee.

94 cents. Hmmmmmm. Forget Tim Horton's. Actually, I didn't even have the 94 cents, because you can't withdraw anything less than twenty dollars.

The brilliant plan was to pay for everyone's lunch, then take their cash and have milk-money. It really feels wierd and helpless to have absolutely no access to any cash at all.

My friends, the kind souls they are, refused to let me pay for a thing all day. One even tried to sneak some cash into my bag when she thought I wasn't looking.

I forgot all about this incident until this morning. I paid for a friend's coffee. She thanked me, and laughingly said "I was having one of your 94-cent days."

94 cents. It'll take you a long way, in the right company.

My sister is worth.........

2006-11-24T15:35:00.000-08:00

A recycled card:

Joyce first gave me this card in 1999. I found it a year or two later, and it's been going ever since. It's a beautiful card, and has been meaningful every year.

A trip across town to the Salvation Army to take advantage of their half-price sale so I could nab this beauty for 2 dollars.

Here's a close-up of the lovely horse motif.

Happy ugly sweater day sis!

A correction

2006-11-21T12:33:00.000-08:00

Please go to http://sarahwimperis.blogspot.com/ and read her post on "20 years ago."

I like all of her writing, but I really like this one. She's the Muddy Red Shoes lady I referred to in the Grey Cup post.

Just a little pinch

2006-11-21T12:20:00.000-08:00

Why don't people ever say "This is going to HURT?!"

I like to think I am a model patient in the dentist's chair. I don't scream, don't flail with my arms and dislodge those sharp weapons from the dentist's hand, don't kick and thrash to express my true feelings.

I lie back politely with my feet crossed. The foot on top is making the bottom foot behave. My hands are politely clenched on my stomach.

I believe the dentist when he says "You'll just feel a few little pinches." So why does it feel like he is sticking red-hot daggers into the most sensitive areas of my mouth? My body politely stays still, though I have to remind myself to breathe. My forehead involuntarily twitches as I imagine that large stainless-steel needle probing around for the best spots.

Then we wait, and I feel a tap on my chin. "Getting numb there yet?" Well, no, actually I'm not. So we wait a little longer. Then open the mouth and scrape that really sore tooth with one of those sharp things. Body stays still but face is sending definite messages. The needle comes out again. This time I feel nothing. This is how it should be.....

The dentist, trying to be sympathetic, tells me that he went for dental work that morning. Then proceeds to say that he passes up the freezing altogether, and that the experience was really painful.

Why on earth would you say this to a Mennonite?! Guilt immediately floods me, followed quickly by sarcastic things like "good for you buddy, but I'm not that sick." Fortunately my mouth no longer belongs to me, so all thoughts stay nicely contained in my head.

I really don't mind going to the dentist, but just a little pinch? How about some honesty here?

Fortunately, the gold crown at the end will make it all worthwhile.

The big game

2006-11-21T12:06:00.000-08:00

It was all supposed to be arranged. Kick-off was at 5:00, so fellow Grey-cupper (FGC) would appear at my place around 4:00, and my neighbor would drive us to the stadium.

Except that I continued to believe fervently that kick-off was at 6:00, and completely forgot that I was going to ask neighbor to drive us to the stadium.

So I had plans to cook dinner, sit and relax over hot and cold beverages, chew the fat. Fortunately neighbor was at my house drinking coffee when FGC arrived and promptly changed into her multi-layered Grey Cup outfit. I changed gears quickly and leaped into action.

What to wear?! Lots, is all I could come up with. Long underwear (top and bottom,) then long-sleeved shirt, fall jacket, winter jacket, hat, scarf, made-in-Nunavut-mittens, pants, windpants, socks, huge cushy additional pair of socks, winter boots.

The backpack was filled with:
- a thermos of coffee - since the tickets were free, who says we have to pay for really bad coffee?!
- one bottle of beer
- snacks (salty ones, and some Christmas oranges to add some nutrition)
- camera
- binoculars
- all the clothes from the above list that I couldn't stand to wear for fear of spontaneous combustion

The most important peice of luggage was the blue "camping mat" that I used to think of as a "mattress" before making the leap to thermarest. Insulation for the delicate bottoms to sit on.

We surruptitiously drank the beer before heading into the stadium (I hid it inside the blue rolled-mat. I'm sure NOBODY suspected what was inside.

The backpacks were confiscated, so many of the layers went on, and all the contraband snacks went into the pockets, along with camera, binoculars, large socks, mitts, scarf, and hat.

The lines were long, and snaking around the entire parking lot. People were seperated into male and female lines (Wait - is this a PRAIRIE football game?!) and we got frisked. I was following all the instructions as FGC had to open every zipper in her jacket and tearfully gave up her winegums. I quickly unpeeled a Christmas orange and offered some to the frisker. It must have worked; I got through with my salty snacks and another orange.

We picked up the first beverage on our way up up up the ramp to our nosebleed seats.
By that time, my two jackets were off and stuffed under the seat.

After determining which team was which, we settled in for our Grey Cup experience. This included hotdogs, mini-donuts (I passed on those; had a few too many a few years ago!) beer, bad coffee, and conversation. Oh, right, football. I think I did see one of the touch-downs, but I did get distracted by everything there was to look at, and I'll confess I didn't always know why people were cheering.

We alternated between cheering for Montreal and BC, depending on who needed the support more. We are sensitive football fans.

We ate the contraband snacks.

When it was all over, and we headed back to retrieve the confiscated backpacks, I spied this nice Saskatchewan lady eating poutine and shivering. Ah, what a great way to round out the evening, thought I. Deep fried food covered in gooey yummy fat of several varieties. She graciously allowed me to take her picture.

Now lest you suspect me of making this all up and simply doing the pictures in someone's garage, here's me in the nosebleed seats with the football field in the background.

I rounded out the evening by watching a movie in bed, sipping the contraband coffee, and polishing off the rest of the contraband "baked not fried" salty snacks.

Grey Cup

I was there.

The Grey Cup

2006-11-19T08:22:00.000-08:00

Grey Cup fever has hit Winnipeg. Now let me just share with you that I am pretty oblivious to all events associated with professional sports, and am deliriously happy that I do NOT get invited annually to a Grey Cup party where I would have to feign interest in the game, not just linger at the snacks table and sample all the lovely offerings.

I didn't even know, until Thursday or Friday of last week, that our lovely city was hosting this wonderful event this weekend. I figured it out during a 3-hour drive back to the the city. Counting on CBC for interesting listening, as I usually do, I was treated to non-stop GREY CUP talk! I switched to CD's instead and drove to the tunes of KD Lang and the Fairfield Four, my latest favorites. (No, you won't find them in the top 40.) I love being past the point of caring whether or not I "fit in" to the current rage. For a very well-written post on that topic, check out Muddy Red Shoes post entitled "20 years ago." I don't know how to do those fancy hyperlink things, so you'll just have to find those shoes the old-fashioned way.

Anyway, back to the topic at hand. Yesterday was the Grey Cup parade. I actually wanted to go, as they were combining it with the annual Santa Claus parade (You can't actually expect Winnipegers to loiter outside for TWO winter parades!) and I have very fond memories of our family making the trek to the city to watch the parade from the top of The Bay parkade.

But alas, not knowing this event was the main attraction this weekend, my friend Valerie/Dalerie/Zalerie and I had tickets to see the stage production of Summer of My Amazing Luck at the Warehouse theatre. The fortunate thing about parade traffic is that it actually caused Valerie/Dalerie/Zalerie to be EARLY - this is worth celebrating. Our main concern was finding a route around the closed-off streets and finding a spot to park. All was well, and the play was wickedly funny and well done.

Big sigh of relief - the Grey Cup has not caused any inconvenience to my life thus far.

So imagine the comic relief I got when the phone rang last night and I was offered a FREE TICKET to go to the GREY CUP! Sure it couldn't actually be anything resembling the truth, I laughed and laughed, and made it absolutely clear to my friend how little I actually care about this game.

Well, it turns out she shares my sentiments, didn't even know which teams were playing, but was given these 2 tickets. Mulling through the possibilities of who to share this experience with, she came up with me! Mostly because she suspected I cared about as much as she did about this incredible honor.

My apologies to all of you who will be sitting on your couches (warm and cozy, no doubt) and wishing fervently you could be at the game.

I will be. It's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Me.

At the Grey Cup.

Hee hee.

Lost in translation

2006-11-10T04:47:00.000-08:00

For the past four years, I have hosted a number of foreign students who come to Canada to learn English. It's been an interesting journey, and a way to "travel" without spending all the money.

Living with people from other cultures, whose primary languages are not English, who have different ways of doing things, has been interesting on a lot of fronts.

The written messages. It took me a long time to realize that life would be a lot easier if they were released from the agony of taking phone messages. "Please call again and leave a message on the answering machine." is what I recommended they tell people who called for me. Now I just tell my friends to call me on my cell phone.

In the meantime, my friend Valerie was renamed Zalerie, Ballary, and Dalarie. Elaine became Rainy, Edith was Idias or Iedas. Mary morphed into Malanie. I got an invite to a fearfowl party. Another invite read, "Nov 30. She'll play the violin who live in the house opposite to ours. If you want to go. You should buy ticket." Phone numbers would only slightly resemble the real thing, and it would be like a puzzle to try to figure out the mystery name and match with the mystery number.

One day I came home to the following message: "tomorrow for camp at phyfio 5 o'clock." Translation: your 5:00 physio appointment is cancelled."

The one that took the cake was a verbal one. My friend asked me one day if I had seen Helly Poppta. It sounded a lot like helicopter, and try as I might, I could NOT come up with another possibility. The translation? Harry Potter.

When she headed back to Japan, I got her an ice cream cake with "Helly Poppta" written on it. We all got a good laugh out of it.

Lost in translation.

The way things turn out to be

2006-11-06T16:52:00.000-08:00

8 cousins, from 5 families.

2 grew up with parents who struggled with mental illness.

5 grew up to become parents themselves.

There are 2 stay-at-home moms, a lawyer, an English professor, a building contractor, a realtor, a physiotherapist, an administrator, a daycare provider, an office manager.

5 inherited the mental illness genes.

2 grew up urban, 6 rural.

As adults, 4 were rural, 4 urban.

One has lost both parents, another a mother.

One has died.

This is the way things turned out.

Happy Anniversary

2006-11-06T05:34:00.000-08:00

My parents celebrated 56 years of wedded bliss yesterday. When asked how "today" compared to their wedding day, my mom laughed and said today was much better. "Now I know how it all turned out" was her response.

I hosted the party. Planning for it was even more lame than usual. I invited people, then spent three days (with a perpetually dying drill) putting up a railing so my dad could walk up the stairs. If you look closely, you will see the white blotches where I drilled lots of "extra" holes looking for the studs lurking behind those lath and plaster strips.

Sunday morning, I started wondering about food. Some family members offered to bring stuff, so I predicted that mom would bring bread and Kathy would bring a salad. Opened the fridge 1 1/2 hours before leaving for church. Not much there. Found enough ingredients to throw together beef and barley soup in the slow cooker. A loaf of sourdough bread. Plenty of beverages. Pickles. Veggies for munching on. Decided that an ice cream cake from Dairy Queen would make a great dessert. It all worked out. Mom brought buns, Kathy brought a cheesecake.

We hung out, the kids played, we headed outside to make some snowmen. I wouldn't normally sacrifice olives for snow creatures, but these were destined for the rubbish bin. (Much to the dismay of 2 of the snowpeople builders; they were relieved to learn that the raisins and carrots were okay to snack on......)

The carrots and raisins weren't the only appealing snacks available outside.....

I'd have to agree that things turned out pretty well.

Happy anniversary.

The perfect Saturday

2006-11-04T19:18:00.000-08:00

Awake at 6:10. Happy, knowing that the crossword puzzle is waiting for me on the front steps. Some people think this is a "newspaper" but no, it's a crossword puzzle wrapped in the Saturday Globe and Mail.

Make the super-duper-strong coffee before dashing down to get the puzzle.

Drink 3 cups of jolting java while making the first pass through the puzzle.

Glance through the paper. Chortle at the dinner party section and decide I MUST post on it before this thought leaves me.

First stop at the computer is email. A note from my cousin entitled "Wake-up call." She's up, drinking coffee, wants to chat but doesn't want to wake me up. I call her laughing; we make a breakfast date for 9:30. I make a mental note to eat lightly; I have a brunch date at 11:00.

Breakfast with cousin and her lovely hubby at The Nook - a greasy spoon nearby that has been serving happy customers breakfast for years and years. They brew their decaf. We laugh and talk and I have to tear myself away at 11:00. Efforts at eating lightly survived as far as the one egg and toast; I couldn't resist the heaping pile of REAL hash browns on my plate......

Phone rings enroute to brunch. I answer with a meek "yes, I know I'm late!" Carolyn isn't dressed yet, but promises she's on her way. All is well. Time for a quick walk, a trip to Safeway, and multiple perusals of the menu. I want fruit and cottage cheese, but there's no such thing on the menu. End up with a quesadilla and salad.

Brunch goes til 3:00. I may never need to eat again. I feel sated with good friendships and food. Multiple more cups of decaf.

Stop by another friend's to pick up a drill. My drill battery is only capable of holding a charge strong enough to put in 6 or 7 screws at a time. This makes the projects take a veeeeeerrrrrry long time.

Out for a walk in the brisk but lovely cool November air with my cool and lovely neice. Home and happy at 5:30.

It's 9:00 and the stair railing is finally in place. That only took 4 years of thinking about it, 2 trips to Rona, and 3 evenings of work.

Now it's time to snuggle into bed with a book. What a perfect Saturday it's been.

The Dinner Party

2006-11-04T06:59:00.000-08:00

Today's Globe and Mail dedicates its entire Entertaining section to advice on how to throw the perfect dinner party. Oh dear oh dear. This is just too perfect fodder for a cynical sarcastic soul like me. Cannot pass this opportunity up. Between feeling nauseous looking at the pictures and imagining the pain of the cocktail hour followed by hours of conversation that I may or may not have energy or interest for, I cackled inwardly at my own special version of a party and how THAT might go over for the haute couture crowd.

The newspaper section begins with something like:

Want in on the sexiest soiree of the season? Want to meet the hautest host? Our columnist and photographer crash the party of art maven "someone very important" to get the inside dish on everything from the guest list to the playlist, the flowers to the food. With the the "right" recipes, "right" wines, and "right" fashion tips - plus a full Web package - you'll have all the ingredients to make your own dinner party pop.

This is followed by pages and pages of pictures and advice. The next-to-last page has the five "top tips."

1. Mix it up. Mulim, Jew, young and not so young, art and commerce, - stimulating and interesting people have common ground. Seating people is an art: Think through well in advance who might enjoy whom and how they'll interact, and you'll have a great table.

My version: Decide 4 days before birthday that it's high time to celebrate being 40-something. Fire off emails to everyone you know. Post an open invite on your blog, just in case someone else might be interested. Hope that the "right" number show up, because your house really isn't that big.

2. Have a schedule. People need to be led. In your head, have a plan and envision how the evening should unfold: when drinks are over, when everybody should be seated and when each course should be served. A laissez-faire attitude only makes your guests nervous.

My version: Have a hazy idea of when to start. Tell people they can bring food if they want to. Buy enough plastic cups to make sure they can access the beverages. Go out a few hours before the party to buy the beverages. Drink lots of coffee all day so you can remain conscious past 9:00 p.m.

3. Create an atmosphere. Think candles, flowers, appropriate seating and serving arrangements. You may need to move - or even remove - furniture to make your rooms more comfortable. Set the music at the right level with the right tone for each moment and design it to progress with the action.

My version: Make a sign with scrap paper and a crayon that invites kids to hang out on the third floor, but keep the food downstairs. Thank people who show up with candles and flowers. Find a place to put them. Wonder if people care whether or not there is a place to sit. Hope the plywood under the cushions of the sagging couches doesn't choose tonight to break. Put a CD on at 5:00 p.m. Play it 3 or 4 times, then realize hours later that there's been no music at all for quite a long time.

4. Keep food simple. If you don't work with a caterer, plan a menu that can be prepared well in advance. "I don't like parties where the hostess thinks they should be in the kitchen," important person says. And share the credit: "When you entertain as regularly as I do for business, what you find is that if you have a group of trusted pros you can rely on, then you are able to do your real job, which is being the host." Simple fresh uncomplicated dishes are best, and presentation is key.

My version: Make it a potluck. Do everything in the kitchen, since it is part of your living room/dining room/main room. Buy a barbeque the night before. Grab a guest who looks like they might have barbequeing skills, and put them in charge of charring the char on the cedar planks. Ignore the advice on the cedar planks, and decide that your cedar planks are NOT going to burst into flame, so the spritzer bottle is unneccesary.

5. Cultivate graciousness. As a host, it's you who is responsible for connecting people. Ease the conversation along, particularly if your guests are introverts or meeting each other for the first time. This is almost as important as putting together the right mix of people. Consider the food preferences and allergies of your guests and if they are smokers, set up a comfortable area for them outside (in winter, consider renting heaters.) Most of all, smile, enjoy - have fun! It's a party, after all.

My version: As an introvert, I hope people will find each other and talk about interesting stuff so I can join in. While they do this, run around your house checking disorganized Rubbermaid bins to find the spritzer (the cedar planks are on fire.) Pour yourself some more wine. Put it down. Wonder where it is. Pour some more. Rely on your more together friends to keep track of your wine glass. Go outside to check on the charring of the char. Discover that there is lively conversation among the smokers, who are sitting on the front steps. Stay for a while.

Most of all, have a great time and wonder who'll show up next year if it happens again. Decide that a procrastinator's 40th birthday party would make a great annual event.

Daylight savings time

2006-10-31T17:17:00.000-08:00

The sadness has been very present the last 5 days. More present than usual. Often the first thing that greets me when I wake up. There at work, at home, at church, with people who knew Ken, with people who know me, with people who know neither one of us.

Usually it's just under the surface, and I can still do what I need to do. Today at work I managed to get stuff done, but the nausea and preoccupation were there, just keeping me at the edge. At lunch I decided to go for a drive. The tears started in the car. I found myself driving to a friend's house, needing to be loved up close. Called her from my car. She was at work. Just hearing her voice was reassuring.

Made it back to work, and actually got a few things done. Catching up with a colleague about some students I haven't seen for a while, I glanced at the clock and saw that my work day was over. Wow, that was fast!

Out the door, into my car, that's when I realized I had glanced at the one clock in the building that didn't get changed last weekend. The thought of walking back into the building didn't even cross my mind. I found my car making its way to the church.

Alone in the prayer room, with a candle burning, I stared, ached, cried, and soaked in the peace of the place and the prayers that had come before me, the prayers that I know are all around. I closed my eyes and slept.

As I blew out the candle, the smoke went in many directions. A reminder that God is with us at all times, in all places. These words are part of the Children's Worship that I lead on Sunday mornings. A beautiful and powerful image.

An unexpected gift. A gift of time, of stillness, of the peace of God.

Salt water surrounds it

2006-10-28T11:04:00.000-07:00

This was my seat-mate on last week's flight to my favorite (and only) Arctic workplace. The portapotty not only offers relief for those who drank too much coffee before the 3 1/2 hour flight, it also serves as a handy spot to park your sandwich and newspaper. The blue thing is the shower curtain you can ?wrap around yourself? for privacy should you feel the need to eliminate waste in the presence of all your new best friends.

And, should your packing skills lack focus, and you packed the bag of Halls in your suitcase, and should you find yourself wanting something soothing to prevent 3 1/2 hours of coughing, you can conveniently reach into the baggage compartment to pull things out of your suitcase.

The view through the plane window can be quite spectacular. At this time of year, with fog being a predominant weather feature, it can also look a lot like this. It can look a lot like this until moments before landing. I was thinking Monday's landing would be one of these
white
white
white
white
THUD
sorts of landings, until I looked out my window to suddenly see this:

What a lovely sight.

We had spectacular views of the Belchers all the way down. It was

My lovely mother

2006-10-20T05:00:00.000-07:00

From whence cometh the sharp, sarcastic sense of humor known to affect many of the clan I call my family? This, unlike other profound questions, is very easy to answer. From my dear mother. And my dear mother got it straight from HER dear mother.

Grandma was 82 years old when I was born. She was the perfect grandma, in my books. We didn't go for adventures, didn't have sleepovers, didn't do the things that my young grandma-friends do with their grandbabies these days. She sat in her rocking chair facing her living room window and waited for us to visit. (Remember, these are my perceptions!) She knit mittens and crocheted pot holders. She made Kool-Aid for us. The ice cream had icicles in the pail. She had a candy bowl. All we had to do was ask. Joyce and I would huddle together to gather the strength to ask, and finally one of us would go, wait for a pause in the adult conversation, and squeak out the Low German words requesting the candies.

We played with the wooden spools, and drew pictures on the backs of old calendars. I picked out little bits of Grandma's chenille bedspread. I liked to sit on the treadle of her sewing machine. I loved the gingerbread clock that was in her bedroom.

My mom, the youngest of Grandma's four girls, is now 80 years old. She's the best. If I could grow up to be even a little like her, I would be quite satisfied.

Our family may inherit our nutty genes from my dad's side, but I learned to be nutty (even with appropriate levels of seritonin!) from my mother.

While age may make some people crusty and set in their ways, my mother (and dad - he'll get his own post some time) just seems to get sweeter and sweeter, while still definitely retaining her sense of fun.

Lucky kids, to have this lovely lady for a grandma.

Lucky me, to have her for a mom.

A River Runs Through it

2006-10-17T18:48:00.000-07:00

I love Winnipeg.

Really.

I have left it, lived elsewhere, and it only confirms that this is the place for me.

Do I sound defensive? Well, if you have a problem with me sounding defensive, go get some counselling. It's my city and I'll defend it if I want to.

We are lucky to have not one, but two rivers winding their way through our lovely city. At least once a year, I manage to go for a paddle down one or the other. Only once have I taken an involuntary swim. It was very windy and I was trying to turn my kayak. I happened to be bobbing just when the Paddlewheel Queen, full of passengers, cruised by. I did my best to look casual and relaxed while simultaneously thinking:

where is my paddle?
Is it a long-term health risk to be doused in the water of the Red River?
Where is my water bottle?
How did that shore entry thing work again?!
Must not lose water bottle.
Will I ever be clean again?

The above picture was taken just a week ago. Needless to say, when my friend in the bow asked me to curb the impulses (how did she know?!) to stand up in the stern of the canoe, I thought it might be best to heed her wisdom.

We paddled upstream, and found a nice warm sunny spot to enjoy a cold refreshing drink. (We split the third one.)

We paddled under this railway bridge. Wondered how they got it to swivel, and how long it's been in its present position. Laughed about how this middle section would make the perfect retreat for an introvert. No worries about people dropping by. Sights and sounds of the city within easy reach.

We paddled under this big old tree and stopped to float there so we could properly enjoy the fall colors and the leaves drifting down.

In a while, we'll be skiing, strolling, or skating down this same river (carefully avoiding the icky soft spots where our "treated" sewer is returned to nature.)

The good, bad, ugly, and beautiful. It's all right here in Winnipeg.

And I love it.

Tears

2006-10-07T09:07:00.000-07:00

Any of you who have gone through the process of losing a loved one will know that this is not straight-forward, there's no guidebook, at times life will go on, and at other times life seems to stand still and your whole body aches with the injustice of it all.

I have cried almost every day since June 27th. Sometimes for a long time, sometimes for a few seconds. I've cried at work, at home, at the hospital, while driving, walking, at church, pretty much anywhere and everywhere. I've cried with family, friends, co-workers, neighbors, people who were all of the above to Ken. There's also been a lot of joy, laughter, remembering, stories, looking at pictures, staring blankly into space, and wondering how on earth this can be.

Stuart McLean is one of my favorite people in the media world. I love his quirkiness, his spirit of discovery, his delight in people, the way he speaks, how he relishes letters from listeners, and of course the stories. I love how he pauses when he gets to a part where we are all laughing in anticipation. I love it when I just happen to be driving somewhere on SAturday morning between 10 and 11.

It happened today. And today happened to be Arthur awards day. This is so classic Stuart. One of the awards today went to a couple of guys who started playing chess when they were stationed in Burma in 1944. On the days they weren't flying, they played chess. They are still playing chess. Stuart got them both on the phone. One guy is 90, the other 86. One lives in Manitoba, the other in Ontario. They last played chess this last Sunday, at their airmen's reunion.

Both these men had an easy way about them, talking, laughing, remembering pranks they played on each other and their many games of chess. Sunday's game winner got ribbed by the loser.

I drove, smiled, laughed out loud, and then started to cry. 60 years of chess and friendship is something worth celebrating. I cry for my brother who won't have that chance. I cry for his wife who won't be throwing a 60th wedding anniversary party. I cry for his kids who won't sit with him 20 years from now and laugh about childhood memories. I cry for his friends who don't have that casual everyday contact that makes great friendships.

We celebrate what we had. Who Ken was. Who he is, and will continue to be in our hearts. We cry for the memories that could have been, but were intercepted by cancer.

Tears. Often unbidden, sometimes unwelcome, always another step to healing.

I miss you, Ken.

Cousins part 2

2006-10-03T07:50:00.000-07:00

Every summer, I host cousin camp for all the girl cousins. Why not the boys, you ask? Well, there are only a few boys, and they turn pretty green at the prospect of a sleepover with a whole pile of girls. So this is how I ended up with the above group of lovely girls, ages 5 to 15, for an afternoon of old-fashioned party games, pizza dinner, late-night glow bowling, and then a little bit of sleep.

Besides cultivating my own relationships with each of the girls, I love to see them together as cousins. One of the things Grace (see cousin post) and I talked about last week was how much she missed having the big extended family around while she was growing up. You see, Grace moved away after her uncle died in a farming accident. He and her dad operated a dairy farm together. After the uncle died, Grace´s dad left farming to take a job in Saskatchewan.

So she grew up with only occasional contact with all of us cousins, and thankfully, has been able to reconnect now that we´re all grown up. (Sort of.)

So me and the girls have our camp every summer, except for last year when I was not able to be upright for more than a few minutes at a time. One of their favorite games is a clothing relay. There are two piles of clothes, and they take turns grabbing something and putting it on. It all has to get layered, and the end results look something like the top picture. Once again, technology defeats me, and I cannot seem to get the picture to appear below...........

Herès to great memories, cousins, and lots of love.

Cousins

2006-09-27T08:14:00.000-07:00

Okay, I am almost 41 years old, and working with an ancient computer. I am too practical to upgrade, though I may, in a fit of fury and impulsivity, rush out and buy something new and fancy one of these days. (Thank you dad for those genetics - I'll never forget the day Dad came home with a new combine in the middle of threshing season after fixing the old one just ONE too many times.)

So that's a long prelude to say that the above pictures refuse to move into lovely places where I want them to be..............

I went through many photos this last week, and prepared a couple of collages to put up at Ken's funeral. The above were some of my favorites. Ken's the cute little guy on the far left in both. In both pictures, I am next to my cousin Grace. The front row, in the second picture is: me, Grace, my sister Joyce (see Chronicles of Blunderview,) my sister Kathy, and cousin Bev.

Grace and I were "book buddies" as kids. We both loved to read, and I loved going to her house for a few reasons:

She had books I hadn't read yet.
She never pestered me to play things like dolls or Barbies.
We never had to talk about what to do. We just read. When her mom thought Grace was being an ungracious hostess (how punny is that?!) and chased us outside to play on a beautiful summer day, we took our books to the hayloft where her mom couldn't see us.

Grace and her family moved away when I was 11. We saw each other infrequently for the next 15 years. She pursued her love of books and words, and got her PhD in English. I continued to read for fun, but went into physiotherapy to support my book habit.

Then we ran into each other at our cousin Bev's wedding social. I offered Grace a place to stay that night. She slept on the floor (why on earth did I not give her my bed?!) in my newly purchased little house. We talked and talked and talked. We became family again.

She ate it up. Having grown up away from our massive (and often intense) family, she hadn't had the ?pleasure? of having us as an available frame of reference as to how the Kehler brains operate. Over the past 12 or 13 years, we have made sure that our paths continue to cross. She lives conveniently close to Toronto, so I always made sure I had time for a visit on trips through when I lived in the middle east.

Grace came to Winnipeg for Ken's funeral yesterday. She came to his party last night. She talked and talked and talked. Ken's good friend Dylan shook his head at the discovery that there was a Kehler who could talk more than Ken did.

I am so pleased to count Grace as a friend. So pleased that we are connected as family. That we are lucky enough to be part of the same clan. That in spite of growing up miles apart, we value the same things. That there are things we understand about each other without having to go into long explanations.

My cousin. My friend.

A Procrastinator's 40th birthday party

2006-09-25T13:27:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, September 30th, I am hosting my 40th birthday party, 365 days after I actually turned 40.

Since I have not gotten around to inviting people, please consider this your invitation. It will be a potluck, starting around 5:30 or 6:00. I'd love for us to mill about on my deck, but haven't gotten around to organizing that building project. I do hope to buy a barbeque between now and Saturday.

Now I need to hem some pants that have been lurking in my closet for the past few months, in an attempt to look somewhat civilized tomorrow.

Procrastination. An under-rated skill.

Funeral

2006-09-25T08:26:00.000-07:00

A celebration of my dear brother Ken's life will be held tomorrow - Tuesday September 26 - at First Mennonite Church on Notre Dame at Alverstone at 11:00.

Some people have been reading the obituary to mean that it will be a private family ceremony. Please understand that this is definitely not the case. We want people to gather, remember Ken, share memories, and have some closure if that is what funeral services do for you.

That's all, for now.

Autumn

2006-09-23T05:44:00.000-07:00

This summer, there have been multiple posts written on this blog, but they never made it past my head. There are even pictures to go with the posts. Those got past my head; they are in my camera. At some point, if I ever feel together enough, some of these things will make themselves seen.

It's been an indescribable summer. From diagnosis (June 27) to death (September 20) we had just under 3 months to enjoy our wonderful brother and blunder along this cancerous path. I like things to be black and white, and kept wishing for a manual. (not really, I'm not that sick.)

What was very clear from the very beginning, and continues to be the only completely clear thing, is love. Those of us lucky enough to be recipients of generous amounts of this elixir know its healing touch and soothing presence. Love provides a frame of reference when everything else has stopped having any meaning at all.

On Wednesday afternoon, I returned to the beautiful prayer room at my church, where I had met with friends back in June. Once again, surrounded by love, we cried, laughed, talked, and prayed.

And we go on. The leaves are falling, they are crunchy underfoot. Furnaces will soon be purring in our houses. Children grow, new memories are formed, we treasure the old ones.

September has always been my favorite month. Ironically, it is also the month that has always been the hardest for me emotionally. Perhaps it is the presence of intensity and the willingness to be completely present with whatever comes. In any case, it is always transition time, and one filled with pain and beauty.

May it always be filled with love.

Autumn

On Introversion

2006-08-26T17:12:00.000-07:00

On Wednesday, I returned home from 6 glorious days in the Canadian wilderness. Just 4 friends, 2 canoes, a bunch of lakes, and no watch adorning my arm. This is our 4th journey together, the friendships growing stronger each year. For each of us, it represents, from slightly different angles, a break from the reality of every-day routines. Most summers, it represents a relaxing canoe trip for me after being "in charge" on multiple other trips.

Fall was in the air, and all of us pulled out our jackets, toques, and socks at one point or another over the 6 days. The nice thing about late August is that the days can still be lovely and warm, so it was just a matter of waiting a few hours and then finding a sheltered spot in which to warm up and eventually leap into the lake. And leap we did. Diane and I spent hours swimming or just floating on our backs staring at the beautiful sky. I also lept out of the canoe at one point (I've always wanted to do that!) as we paddled across a lake. Every day (while standing in the warm sunshine) we talked about doing a night swim under the stars. Our last night on the island, Diane and I actually got outside to contemplate a night swim, but the chattering of my teeth and the rapid jiggling of my kneecaps brought that thought to a rapid end.

There was lots of laughter, wine, chocolate, naps, good food, a few tears, great conversation, swimming, staring, laughing, drinking of wine and strong coffee, paddling, and a few attempts at converting the two canoes into a sailboat. There were two tents, one hammock, and two people who snored.

There was safety and a rich feeling of goodness. As we celebrated communion on the rock beside the water, there was deep joy in the pleasure of serving one another. Support and reminders that we journey together, that we are designed to need and help one another.

Three of us are introverts, the fourth an extrovert. Last summer, someone brought a book called The Introvert Advantage. We devoured it and learned a lot about the plus side of being introverted, about how crowds of people either drain or replenish our energy. I have since enjoyed and celebrated being an introvert, and now offer no apology when I head up the stairs to my third-floor retreat to be alone. I am also developing an understanding of how wonderful it is to be silent in the company of good friends.

The canoes are now at rest, the camping supplies stowed for another year, and we are back into "real" life with more wonderful memories to sustain us.

Being alone in great company.

Introversion

Heart, soul, and mind

2006-08-10T13:13:00.000-07:00

Being human is complicated. Being human, and living with a bunch of other humans, makes it much MORE complicated.

We think with our brains, but feel with our hearts. I tend to fall to the extreme of the logical side; thinking too much at times, liking things that work out like math. If "X" is true, then "Y" will follow.

But words are tricky devils. Taken on their own, delivered black and white like a bunch of letters on a paper, they mean one thing. When delivered by real people, with emotion, the same words take on a life of their own, sending intended and unintended messages to the receivers.

My head knows that. My heart, however, can go wild with possibilities and cause me no end of pain and sadness when words come at me in what I perceive to be personal attacks.

It's hard to get the head connected with the heart, to really feel what you know to be truth.

That's where love comes in. Words spoken in love have a completely different power that is capable of bringing healing and peace. Of making the heart and head connect.

Lucky are we who are loved.

Lessons to learn over and over again

2006-08-05T17:52:00.000-07:00

Smell the roses

Feed the ducks

Shingle Envy

2006-08-03T06:57:00.000-07:00

I live in a "mixed" neighborhood. At least it used to be mixed..... we are definitely on the way to becoming pretty middle-class. What makes me happy about that is that I no longer wake up to the sounds of inebriated neighbors leaving their weekend parties at 4:30 a.m., we no longer dodge broken beer bottles on the sidewalk, the police drive by less frequently.

What makes me sad about the transition is that the police drive by less frequently, I feel like a snob for liking the middle class better, and a bit of sadness that we can't just live together.

But on to the topic of the blog. Shortly after buying this house, it became painfully clear that the roof was in very bad shape. (I came home from work one day to find that the soffit and fascia had fallen off one side of the house. I hired someone to redo it, and he came off his ladder shaking his head. The rafters were so badly rotted that there was nothing to attach new soffit and fascia to.)

AFter a few years of research and freaking out over the cost of such a project (old house, steep roof) I secured financing and got it done. New rafters, sheeting, the whole nine yards. While we were at it, I got them to change the roofline to give me more room on the 3rd floor, and added a half-bath up there.

I chose shingles with the longest possible warranty - if I have to spend this much money, I want the most possible bang for my buck.

My next-door neighbor is a semi-self-employed contractor who does home renovations. He recently took a job with the roofing company that supplied and installed my shingles.

Like the proverbial shoe-maker's children without shoes, my neighbor's house is in a sad state. He has covered much of it with vinyl siding, but has not made it to his roof yet. The blue shingles are missing in large patches, revealing old wooden shakes. The blue shingles are frequently found in my flower beds or sidewalk after a good rain.

When we meet outside and have our neighborly chats, he rarely fails to turn and look proudly at my shingles. He tells me who made them (I have no idea,) how extensive the warranty is, and that his employer is the only company in this city to carry this particular product.

I'm happy that he's so pleased with my shingles.

Shingle envy.

B and B

2006-07-29T09:03:00.000-07:00

It's 11:00 a.m. and I'm just back from the morning routine at the hospital. My mornings are looking something like this:

5:15 (or as late as 7:00 on a good day) I wake up to one or two lovely little girls patting me gently (or not) with words such as "Auntie Carol it's morning time, get UP!"

6:30 or 7:00 My sister-in-law comes home from the hospital and I transition from home to hospital.

8:20 We start the preparations for my brother's daily trip outside, where his girls come to visit every morning. Preparations include:

pillows on the wheelchair
check to see that the heparin and morphine supplies are sufficient for a few hours
get shorts or pants on (this a purely male bonding event)
sip coffee (this morning there was Tim's and Starbuck's)
empty catheter bag
move furniture out of the room so we have enough space to manouvre
hook IV lines onto the handle of the wheelchair to prevent an accidental pull on an IV site (these are precious)
take the morning doses of pills
examine the breakfast tray to varying degrees of horror

I'm sure there's more, but much of this is now done on auto pilot..........

We head out of the hospital, one person pushing the chair, one with the IV pole, and often a third person to hold doors open and prevent elevator doors from closing on my brother's legs. Out to a gorgeous spot with trees, sunshine, shade, and fresh air.

There's a white board on the wall facing my brother's bed, on which are written the nurses name, various phone numbers, a record of his eating for the day, etc.

This morning he asked me to write "B and B" on the white board. This is a big event.

Today is bath and bowel movement day.

Our new routine.

B and B.

Jewels

2006-07-13T06:10:00.000-07:00

In the midst of the nightmare that has become reality for my family over the past few weeks, there have been jewels, little and big blessings that keep renewing my faith in God, people, family, and the incredible power of love. I have moments of feeling guilty about some of the jewels, then come back to my senses and remember that it's okay to feel blessed, even when life in general looks pretty grim. Here's a little list of my jewels.

Developing a closer relationship with my brother's little girls. Generally, I'm so busy running in circles, that I don't have time to spend hours and hours playing, reading stories, splashing in the wading pool, going for walks, and getting to know and love these 2 beautiful little girls.
Sitting outside their house in the evening as the girls sleep and visiting with their wonderful friends, who also happen to be neighbors.
Standing on the top rung of a step-ladder (you know the one where it says "Don't stand on here - YOU COULD LOSE YOUR BALANCE") and blasting environmentally friendly stuff on a wasps nests. CAll me sick in the head, which is actually an accurate assessment, but I enjoy watching what happens during and after these localized thunderstorms.
A phone call that I received while waiting in line to get my car washed. A friend had redone the grout and silicone in my bathroom, and laid down new linoleum. The phone call was to say "Don't send any money. This is our gift to you." Out of the blue, unexpected, and oh so kind.
Family
Being real.
Love

My jewels.

Lost in the wilds of cyberspace

2006-07-12T06:32:00.000-07:00

I have been valiantly trying to publish a posh I wrote a few days ago. For some reason, I keep getting informed that it's been published, but it is not being released from its status as a draft.

I also keep hoping that my family will wake up from the bad dream we're in; hoping that my brother will leap out of bed and start baking bread again. Hoping that all the fear, anxiety, and worry is just a great big mistake and we accidentally turned on the wrong channel for a few weeks.

The only thing that makes sense these days is love. Fortunately there is a lot of that around. I don't know how anyone goes through these things alone.

Where's the calendar?

2006-07-11T22:29:00.000-07:00

Many of us run our lives by calendars. When I work, I am completely useless if I have left my daybook behind, and have been known to spend 45 minutes of a work day running home to get it so that I can be somewhat useful.

Every year, in May or June, I set out my travelling schedule for the upcoming year. 44 schools, 15 or 20 communities, multiple contracts, various co-workers, this is my life and there's something mathematically satisfying about seeing my year in advance, all neatly laid out.

Then comes the summer calendar. Print out June, July, August. Plug in the Folk Festival, the annual canoe trip with the girl-friends, the canoe trips with neices, nephews, and their friends. A road trip to Kananaskis to meet a friend for some awesome hiking, paddling, and white-water rafting.This is all familiar and friendly territory.

Not so the reality of this summer's calendar.

On June 27th, my brother learned he was seriously ill. Everything changed overnight. Now a calendar floats via internet to friends and family, with slots for childcare, meals, cleaning the house, and doing anything else to help him, his wife, and 2 young girls manage from day to day.

I can manage calendars. I can manage tasks. How to manage emotions that ride violent rollercoasters day after day, that's a much tougher one to deal with. The unpredictability and vulnerability of one's health can change without rhyme or reason, at any time, without seeking our permission or cooperation.

No neat little boxes in which to slot in events.

No nice predictable calendars.

Which way is up?

2006-06-18T19:23:00.000-07:00

June and September are always hectic months when you work in the school system. There must be something special in the air this year, because it seems to be especially difficult to remember which way is up, what I said I would do, where I said I would be, etc.

I was so relieved to be "not travelling" for the month of June that I seemed to have forgotten that there are commitments (more of them, in fact!) at home too! Fortunately, people are forgiving, and things seem to happen anyway. The extent of my planning for the big family birthday today - both parents, a brother, and a nephew - was to leave messages for people saying "I'll bring the cake, just bring something."

The result of whining at one sister on the phone early in the week resulted in us planning to spend Thursday evening together so we could whine in person. Thursday morning I was whining on the phone with another sister, trying to make plans with her. Good thing she knew I was already busy! I would have forgotten.

Wednesday night was the church's annual general meeting. I remembered at 9 p.m. I think I volunteered to take minutes.

I registered to walk 10 km with some friends in the marathon Sunday morning, then remembered that I was also expecting to be at a fundraiser selling all kinds of delicious things at that time.

Driving home from the birthday party today, it occured to me that I am going on a 2-day canoe trip tomorrow with my boss. My neice, a 45-minute drive away, has a bunch of my camping gear.

One thing I know for certain. Tuesday morning, when we are out on the water, paddles dipping in and out, I will know which way is up.

Thank you God for unexpected pleasures.

Transformations of the best kinds

2006-05-23T05:23:00.000-07:00

I have always loved watching my friends and family going through the transformation of parenting. Being the proud auntie of 22 (or somewhere in there, I've stopped counting) neices and nephews, there have been lots of opportunities.

When one of my sisters was expecting her first baby 19 years ago, I remember looking around their house and having trouble picturing it filled with toys, diapers, crayoned pictures, a high chair, crib, walker, etc etc. As you know, the list just goes on and on.

Then the little King came home and took over the palace and the transformation happened overnight. It just all seemed so normal - I wondered how it could ever have been any other way! Since then, their house has morphed through the various stages of parenting - presently being the ever-present stacks of laundry on the stairs going up to the teenagers' bedrooms. My sister keeps believing (silly her) that if she puts their clean and folded clothes on the stairs, completely blocking their way, that they will somehow realize that the clothes need to be transported UP. It doesn't work. They find a toe-hold of space, or just take bigger steps and step over.

Along with the home's tranformation comes the human ones. That's the REAL magic. Having the privilege of developing a relationship with someone as they grow and find their personalities is such a gift.

I am lucky enough to be going through a home/self transformation of my own these days. A dear friend from Korea is staying with me for the next four months, along with her husband and 11-month-old son. Over the past few weeks, my house has been steadily changing. We went through a series of gates at the top of the stairs before finding something sturdy enough to withstand a strong little boy who loves to shake furniture. My book shelf has no books on the bottom 2 shelves, and is now bolted to the wall. There's a colorful plastic baby seat strapped onto one of my newly acquired kitchen chairs. There are bottles all over the kitchen counter. There are toys everywhere. The floor grate in the kitchen is fastened firmly in place with duct tape.

And best of all, I am greeted with a huge smile from a tiny friend when I stumble down the stairs each morning. I have to walk slowly in the kitchen, because I'm often walking in tandem with a little person whose arms are wrapped around my legs. The highlight of this weekend was watching him triumphantly take his first steps across the living room.

Transformations of the best kind.

Peaceful, no terrorism

2006-05-19T19:40:00.000-07:00

I've always loved reading the creations of children, whether they be stories, journals, or their opinions of what makes Manitoba a great place to live.

I was in a small rural Manitoba town this morning, waiting beside the school office for the resource teacher. As I waited, I perused the display on the wall. There were multiple maps of Manitoba, accompanied by write-ups of what makes Manitoba wonderful.

Now I happen to be a person who loves where I live - the wide open prairie, the incredible clouds, the sunsets, the variety of landscapes, the people. There's the rugged Canadian shield full of rock, crystal clear lakes, and pine forests, then a prairie desert with dunes and rolling hills.

The descriptions I saw this morning included hunting, wildlife, great communities, and the unexpected mention of affordable housing?! These kids are all of 8 years old!

But the one that took the cake said simply "Peaceful, no terrorism."

A good place to be.

Parking woes

2006-05-19T04:32:00.000-07:00

I just read a very funny post by Cherrypie about parking - reminded me of a not-so-stellar parking experience of my own.

I have taken to parking at the far end of any parking lot - gives me more exercise, and there is always loads of space. On one such occasion, I came out with my grocery-laden cart and started the process of emptying everything into my car. As I lifted out the last bin, the wind took my cart and started it rolling off across the lot. Lots of space means the cart had plenty of room in which to get up quite a speed. I leaped after it and caught up with the beast just after it came to rest against a very shiny, very expensive, very sporty silver Acura.

Now, I want you to get the whole picture here. Cars, in my life, are simply something to get you safely from A to B. I buy the cheapest thing possible, and then drive the thing until it is ready for the shredders. So the offending shopping cart was travelling from a dirty rusting 1990 Accord with a drooping back bumper to the above-described "pride of someone's life" type of car.

The people who drive "these" beautiful cars park at the far end of the parking lot to escape the idiots who don't control their shopping carts, who don't know how to enter or exit a parking space, and who don't care if their cars bear the scars of other car doors.

Imagine my chagrine when I see that my offending cart has made a very definite dent in the beautiful shiny silver car. I start to write a note to leave on the car when I see a handsome man with two gorgeous little girls walking towards my end of the lot. Oh great. Not only did I ram your car with my cart, I now have to confess in person!

I think of him and his shiny car every time I park far far away from a store, and now make sure I also am far far away from beautiful shiny cars.

Parking woes.

Technology - Aughhhhhhhhhhh

2006-05-14T05:15:00.001-07:00

I just wrote a piece, and it seems to have disappeared into the great unknown. I was thinking that paper doesn't do that, but in my house it does. This is why tax returns take so long - I spend a lot of time searching for papers.

Here's hoping my last post recovers itself from cyberworld!

Small things still make kids happy

2006-05-14T05:15:00.000-07:00

I recently had the pleasure of spending a weekend with 3 neices, aged 10, almost 12, and 15. The plan was to take a road trip to one of the communities I work in regularly, stay at the lovely Bed and Breakfast there, and take in a barbershop concert that a friend of mine was singing in.

The guidelines included:

No whining at the concert. I promised to leave at intermission if anyone was dying of boredom.
All meals, except for our decadent breakfast, were going to be picnics.
All towns with great big greeting mascots were to be stopping points, so we could take pictures and chronicle our journey. We posed with a happy rock, a giant elk, a beaver, a ski bunny, and probably a few more I've forgotten about.

Off we went, a car full of happy females, pillows, special blankies, and lots of other "stuff." The first picnic happened in the car on our way out. We stopped at a grocery store and picked up, among other things, pickled eggs, pickled cucumbers, great bread, cheese curds, and yogurt drinks.

The second picnic was in a park - it was a coolish May day, and we shivered while we munched. The novelty of eating outdoors was starting to wear off.

The concert was great fun, the Bed and Breakfast wonderful, and the girls better company than I could have imagined.

Enter picnic number 3 - Sunday lunch. Someone offered the suggestion that it would be great to eat in a restaurant. I agreed it would be a nice idea, and that each of us could buy our own lunch. Suddenly everyone was game for another picnic (imagine that!) We enjoyed it atop a lookout tower perched at the edge of a ravine, soaking up the warm sunny rays. The girls decided it was the best lunch spot ever.

At the grocery store, Jane had purchased a pack of spicy cinnamon gum with her own money. It was one of those new jumbo packs, that opens up like a wallet to show each piece of gum neatly slotted in. She shared freely with all of us, and delightedly counted (by 10's) how much "money" was left in her gum wallet every time she dispensed a new peice.

When she got home, she realized the gum wallet was still in my car (a 45 minute drive away.) She was devestated. I, in the meantime, had been chewing her gum, thinking nothing of it. I bought her a new pack, took a few pieces out, and gave it to her the next time we got together.

The look of delight on her face was priceless.

Small things still make kids happy.

Multiple tasking

2006-05-12T05:20:00.000-07:00

After quite an absence, I've chosen to return to the computer early in the morning rather than leaping straight into house reno projects. You can get a lot done between 6 and 8 a.m. when you are feeling focused!

Good thing, because in my house everything gets done at least 2 or 3 times. Here's a list, because I love lists.

Refinishing the floors - redone because the first choice of filler was a horrible shade of gray and did NOT absorb the stain (don't believe everything Minwax tells you.)
Painting - get it all done, hang the pictures, then watch as someone cuts 4-inch circles out of every single stud space so as to blow insulation into the walls.
Repairing the plaster in the stairwell. The plaster gets gouged in the same predictable spots every time furniture, drywall, or large sheets of plywood get moved up the stairs. This was a job I did again last night after my beautiful dining room furniture moved in. I did it without grumbling, because, after all, they did manage to carry it UP THE STAIRS! Saved me $400.00 because we didn't have to use a scissor lift to take it up through the window.
Hanging mirrors. Long story.
Cleaning carpets. My hopeless sense of optimism keeps telling me WE ARE DONE WITH DUST NOW so things get cleaned up.
Cleaning ducts. See above.
Buying cars - okay, I know cars do wear out and need to be replaced, but it irritates me nevertheless.

My mother-in-law door was installed this week, and ended up not being needed for the furniture move. In the end, this is all good. If there was nothing pushing me to do it, the patio would likely never move from the "someday I want....." list. Someone ELSE did the door, so it got done right the first time, and will stay that way!

My style?! Multiple tasking.

From A to B via X-Y-ZED

2006-04-27T05:56:00.000-07:00

There never seems to be an easy way to get anything done in my life. Well, maybe there is, but somehow I never seem to travel down that road.

The latest has been a furniture purchase. A dear friend of mine has moved into senior's housing, and I bought her 85-year-old mahogany dining room suite at an amazing price. Table, chairs, buffet with mirror, and china cabinet. I measured my available space, and have decided it WILL fit. And be gorgeous.

The hitch? I live on the 2nd floor of my very old house. Narrow staircase plus old furniture that is solid and does not include disassembling and reassembling options make for a bit of a challenge.

Okay, so on to step 2 in this process: have someone in to give me an estimate for a patio door in the living room. Do I have a patio? Well, no. That would come some time later. The door is just to move the furniture through. A friend of mine has one of these doors that leads to empty space, and she calls it her "mother-in-law" door. Use your imagination to figure that one out.

While we're at it, I think, why not replace all of the drafty leady windows on the 2nd floor? I could save some money on installation. Ha ha. Add another chunk of money for windows and installation. Good thing there are low-interest loans available.

Next step is organizing the move. I don't even want to think about the price tag on this one, because it will mean renting a small crane or a scissor lift to bring the furniture up to my new door and slide it in the back way.

I just hope my intuition is right and I live here until I can no longer crawl up the stairs.

Going about life the complicated way.

First Impressions

2006-04-22T06:45:00.000-07:00

Working in the far north has a charm all its own. I have the privilege of travelling to a tiny community in Nunavut every 6 to 8 weeks to deliver physiotherapy services at the health center and school there. I had my eye on this job for a few years, and phoned the hiring office every few months to see if it was available. My lucky break happened almost 2 years ago, and I have been loving it ever since.

We fly up in a small 8-seater single engine plane. The journey takes anywhere from 2 1/2 to 4 1/2 hours, depending on the prevailing winds. Of course, sometimes the journey is much longer, especially if we have to wait a day or two for howling blizzards to stop. One thing you can count on here is the wind. Living on a treeless island in the middle of Hudson's Bay means there is not much shelter from the elements.

We stay at "the" hotel. Clean, comfortable, friendly people. $200.00 per night plus $60.00 a day for food. The food is excellent, and the lunch-time cook now knows that we like salad. No more deep-fried everything offerings from him.

The staff at the health center consists of 3 nurses and a social worker. The rest of us (physio, occupational therapy, physicians, dentists, etc) pop in and out. It makes for an interesting job - you never know who is going to be there, but you can pretty much count on meeting a lot of fascinating people. Fascinating in every sense of the word.

This last week was no exception. On the plane with us was a social worker, going in for 2 weeks to provide services while the regular social worker is on vacation. In the first 3 hours, we received the following information from him:

His only motivation for working in the north is the money.
His assumption is that all of us share the same motivation. (I actually make the same amount of money in my other jobs.)
He is 41 years old, a Sagitarious, and not married.
He needs to lose weight.
He likes to eat his meals in front of the television.
Television and food make him happy.
His specialty is mental health.
The hotel is much too far away from the health center (an 8-minute walk.)

Well, you can guess what kind of first impression he made on most of us. The hours of raised voices I had to listen to in the health center as he dealt with community issues didn't do much to change his image.

First impressions.

Thinking outside the box

2006-04-19T14:11:00.000-07:00

I'm up in the Arctic right now, in a little town on a tiny island in the middle of the Hudson's Bay. When I checked the weather on Monday (preparing to come here) I saw that the temperatures were quite mild - between minus 2 and minus 5.

Wow, that's pretty warm for April, thought I.

Well yes, and so was 23 degrees in my own fair city. I was running around in shorts and T-shirt, thinking about air conditioning. Well, not for long. On principal, I refuse to use air conditioning in April. Opening the windows works just fine.

But packing for the Arctic when you are sweating from unseasonably warm weather - I just couldn't imagine being cold.

So a couple of fleeces and a rain jacket would be fine, right?!

I have been here many many times - how did I forget about the wind? My hands and ears were cold as soon as I stepped off the plane and walked over to the airport.

One of the nurses was kind enough to lend me some mitts, and a hat, but my big German head would render her little hat quite shapeless in no time. Fortunately there were some hand-crocheted hats for sale at the hotel, and one was just my size. Sold!

Thinking (and packing) outside the box. Easier said than done. Right now it's hard to imagine running around in shorts and T-shirt.

Things not finished

2006-04-16T22:36:00.000-07:00

It hit me around 5:00 this afternoon - it's Sunday, which means tomorrow is Monday. The form of this transition varies from week to week. The consistent thing is that it always is a transition.

At 5:00 I was sitting on a comfortable couch in my parent's house, chatting with my sister and my neices. We'd had a wonderful home-cooked Easter lunch, helium balloons for the kids (though the evil auntie who supplied the helium would not allow kids to inhale it and talk with funny voices,) good conversation, and to top it all off, another glorious spring day that beckoned us all out to enjoy and savour.

Then the thought of Monday....... I love my job (does that sound defensive?!) BUT - I feel like I run from one set of unfinished tasks to the next. Tomorrow is a day mostly made up of meetings with parents, where we talk about accomplishments over the past school year, and talk about where we are heading. The "you haven't done enough" voice in my head reminds me that I haven't spent enough time with these kids, that I have not been at that particular school for about 10 days now, and wonders what I will find to say when it's my turn.

The "time is limited and you do your best" voice is logical and tries hard to put a positive spin on things.

The "these kids deserve more" voice alternates between being passionate and resigned.

The reality is that I will speak honestly, and I know that we will have things to celebrate.

As I sit here at my computer, there are holes in the wall to my left. The window frame is missing a board at the top. There are no baseboards on the outside walls. The computer table is in the middle of the room, waiting for my friend the plaster person to come and render my walls whole again. He is another who runs from one unfinished task to the next.

I am not alone.

Things not finished.

Very Bad Ideas

2006-04-15T06:15:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a gorgeous spring day - one of those days that makes everything seem wonderful, new, and entirely possible. I decided to go for a long long bike ride (just to REALLY break in those sitting bones!)

Found the cycling shorts, found the shorts to go overtop, then down to the basement to retrieve the cycling shoes. Hmm..... Basement has been rearranged 2 or 3 times over the last year, with varying stages of renovation requiring various bits of it to be accessible. All belongings are currently piled in the middle of the basement.

It was absolutely impossible to find the shoes. On to the obvious task - clean the basement. (All done in cycling gear and Birkenstocks.) The student staying at my house was more than happy to abandon his reading and help make multiple trips to the back yard. Things were organized as follows:

Garbage in bags to put with the regular garbage
Garbage (like mouldy bits of drywall) to throw on the pile that will eventually get picked up by somebody with a big truck.
"Help Yourself Garbage" This goes in the back lane, tastefully displayed for dumpster divers to peruse and take home to put in their own basements. Gyeung Ho wanted to know if "Help yourself Garbage" was a real word. Only in my house.
Thrift shop - much of this has been sitting in boxes for years, waiting to be delivered. This got deposited behind my car so I can't go anywhere until it's done.
Useful items - a surprisingly small category. Stashed neatly in basement.

I found the shoes.

I also found 3 boxes of childhood memorabilia - grade 3 art projects, journals detailing years and years of existence, books I had received as gifts. All stored in cardboard boxes near the basement drain. All covered in black mould and unopenable (I don't think that's a word either.) I managed to rescue 2 pencilcases made by my mom, a small plaque that brings me back 35 years, and a paper plate colored by a nephew 15 years ago.

Then out to the garbage heap, with a sad and heavy heart. Those things really did mean a lot to me. I would never choose to throw them out.

Storing papers in cardboard boxes on a basement floor - Very Bad Idea.