My Four Fathers

Well, its Father's Day.

Counting my two grandfathers, my own father, and the father of my children there have been four men in my life who have influenced my definition of what being a father actually means.


Charles Cooper was born on February 5, 1891 in Manitoba.  I know little of his childhood, and even less of his upbringing.  He was, what to me as a child,  a tall slim man who never wore his false teeth.

  I do know he married a dark beauty named  Bella Jane and fathered five children , all of whom served in the Canadian Forces during  World war II.  I know that somehow or other he became a mechanic and worked for little pay until he moved his family,  after years of poverty and want, to Brandon, Manitoba.  It was at this time that he started his own cab company "Cooper's Cab".   I had the opportunity more than once to accompany  Granddad on his pickups and delivery and having him explain proudly that I was his granddaughter from Saskatchewan.
  
 He also had a love for boating and fishing as is evident in  his owning a  wooden fishing houseboat "The June Bug."  I saw it only once resting in his garage.  I believe he and Grannie took it to the Pacific coast one year at least , to fish probably for salmon. 

Granddad also owned and wore huge diamond rings.  I don't know how or why he had them, probably an investment of some kind. Perhaps the result of a distrust of banks and financial institutions borne out of being an adult in the 1930s.  That might explain why Grannie and Grandad had a huge  combination safe in their bedroom where cash was kept. I do know that whenever I see one of those eye pieces that jewellers wear  to examine the worthiness of gold or jewels I think of Granddad .  Strange what one's memory chooses to cut and paste .

I do know that Grandad had suffered a huge tragedy when he lost his parents in a car accident.  I recall standing by Grandad at his desk-- a desk cluttered with nick nacks--little figurines that did tricks--balancing fishermen on ledges, ceramic horses, and papers and adding machines.  There was a picture of a lady on the wall and I asked him who that lady was.  I was about 8 years old but I recall how his eyes welled up with tears as he said that that was his mother.   I later found out that his parents had driven off a cliff during a rainstorm in British Columbia on their way back from visiting him and his family.

He had the deepest dimples when he smiled that I have ever yet to see on another person;  not even surpassed by my own mother's.

  He smoked.  I  remember watching him with awe as he rolled his own cigarettes using  a home cigarette rolling machine. Watching the ritual of the  process is not unlike, in a strange sort of way, the  watching of  a tea ceremony .   The clearing of all the superfluous off the kitchen table.   The smell of the tobacco as the can was opened ; the preciseness of the amount of tobacco as it was placed evenly along the leather slats, as well as the carefulness of the rate of rolling which  culminated in the bringing out of the razor blade to cut the length of each cigarette.  A little bit of magic in this child's eyes.  Unfortunately, as a consequence of this activity,  I can also still hear his deep and laboured breathing that would announce his entrance into a room.  

 He did drink. Sometimes to excess.  Mom recalled how he and another fellow came home all wet, in more ways that one,  one day. They had drunkenly sunk the boat in the Assiniboia River that runs through Brandon.  I am not sure of the circumstances, but another  family story is that Granddad accidentally discharged a shotgun in the kitchen whilst cleaning it one day.

I can  remember Mom speaking about a time when, for whatever reason, Granddad had 10-- $100 bills in his hand , a fortune in the early 1940's;  sitting in the  chair woefully proclaiming with tears in his eyes, " Oh, what we could have done with this when the children were young." 

Charles Cooper was always referred to as 'Daddy' by my mom.  He died in the spring of 1961 of emphysema. 

William Edgar Dixon  was born on his parent's homesteaded farm on October 3, 1898 near Lemberg, Saskatchewan.  He was the youngest of 6 children.  He had four brothers and one beloved sister who everyone referred to as ''Sis'.  He attended  the country school Chickney  and achieved his Grade 8 status. 

He worked on the family farm. He joined the  Royal Canadian Army and was stationed near York, England during WWI.  Grandpa  had a tattoo and if ever I could figure out what it was I would get one to match it. He lost at least two fingers during a farming accident. He met and married my grandmother Edna Aileen  in 1920 and fathered three children; two sons and a daughter.

 He was the School Secretary for Chickney School for many many years, as was his father before him. Perhaps his only claim to  common fame was that he was a pallbearer to the Rt. Honourable James G.  Gardiner , former Premier of Saskatchewan, and Federal Minister of Agriculture for the Dominion of Canada.

I grew up and lived only 2 miles from this grandfather and have many many happy memories of visiting and learning about this wonderful man who was small in stature but great in being able to be happy and content.  I can only recall one time when he was sharp with me and that was when I was in the grain truck with him. I was putting my feet on something that wasn't supposed to have feet on it.  He admonished me with some anger in his voice and I can still feel the sting of the hot tears that rolled down my cheeks.  That was the only time I recall of ever seeing him ticked off with anything or anybody..(yes..and it had to be with me :( ).

Grandpa Dixon could and would talk to anyone about anything.  He loved to socialize and he loved to laugh.  He never was at a loss for words, and I do not recall him ever saying a bad word about any person or group of people.

 His favourite trick was to put 'something' in the toe of your shoe or boot when you weren't looking , so there would be some excitement at the door when we would be leaving. 

He rarely drank.  I am not sure if it was his decision solely or if he was 'influenced' by Grandma's opinion of the evil drink.  I do remember his proudly showing me a bottle of Brandy in the cupboard that he had recently bought after a heart attack because the doctor had prescribed it. 

I spent many many happy times playing rummy, checkers, and UNO at Grandma and Grandpa's house.  Saturday afternoons were often spent going to town with them.  I spent my seventeenth birthday with them in Melville where  we went out for Chinese food.  I can recall consciously thinking that that was a special day not to be forgotten, and I am so grateful for that thought  as it still is one of my favourite birthday memories.

Grandpa died  on a Saturday morning in February in 1973.  I was attending university at the time.  I was supposed to go see Grandpa and Grandma the night before, but being young and stupid, I made the unfortunate choice to meet friends at the local bar, with intentions of visiting the next day.

The next day never happened as at 7 am  that Saturday morning the telephone rang.  It was Grandma calling asking my dad to come quickly as Grandpa had had a spell and had fallen out of bed.  Mom called from the bottom of the steps to my bedroom telling me to get up and go with Dad to Grandpa's.  She thought that I would want to go.  I will always be grateful for her insight and acknowledgment of my need to be there.

Grandpa had passed by the time we drove into town.  He had probably passed before he even hit the floor.  I believe he did not feel any physical pain.  I know I was in his thoughts just prior to that as Grandma relayed that he had mentioned earlier that  morning that I probably would be coming into town that day as I hadn't stopped in the night before. 

 It is nice but also sad that I was part of his last thoughts on this earth.   


Russel Edgar Dixon was born in the house that his father had built on the family farm on   September 25, 1923.  He was to be the eldest of 3 children.  He attended Chickney school until the end of Grade 9.  He worked on the farm until the age of 18 and then he enlisted in the Royal Canadian Air Force to serve during World War II.  He was stationed near York,  England, like his father before him in World War I.

While stationed at Shilo, Manitoba, my father met my mother , Elsie May  of Brandon.  After serving overseas he married this Brandon girl and together they made their home on a farm not far from his own family's   He fathered four children; three daughters and a son.

Farming was Dad's main occupation.  He farmed about five quarters of land for most of his farming career.  He also had about 40 head of cattle.  When I was about 6 years old I remember looking out my bedroom window and seeing the first of what was to be a litany of Caterpillar Tractors in the yard.  Dad had decided to enter the road construction and bull dozing business.  Dixon Construction existed for about 30 years and became the basis of our family's income over farming. 

Dad worked hard to make a living.  From the time he bought the first D2 Caterpillar until the day I left home he was constantly , constantly working long long hours.  There were times when we children would not see him for two weeks at a time.  The only evidence of his existence would be the shine of lights on our bedroom ceiling as his 1/2 ton would drive into the yard at ten or eleven at night or else the sound of the dog barking at 5 am as it drove out again.

I remember as a small child Dad having a band.  He played many musical instruments. I suspect that if he had been born at a different time in a different spot in the world he could have been an acknowledged musician. There were many many years when his guitar had not been brought out at all due to lack of time or energy.  It was only during the last 20 years of his life that his music was given any attention.

   Because of his many miles traveling from job site to job site, he  seemed to have the permanent ''farmer tan' on his arm. You know, that left arm tan that happens when one's arm is leaning on the edge of the turned down window. I spent many hours and days with my dad in his truck as he drove around to job sites and meetings with customers and the inevitable 'parts people'.  These truck conversations would often be about politics--actually mostly politics when I think about it.   Political conversations combined with the playing of music on the radio.  I distinctly remember the  new song , "Rocking Robin" being played  and Dad tapping to the music on the steering wheel.  I remember literally walking in his footsteps in freezing January weather out in the open pasture helping to carry feed to the cattle.  I watched him chop ice in the dugout to water the stock and traveled with him to check muskrat traps and watching in awe as he skinned  his catch and tanned them in the basement.  There is a smell involved with that that is pretty near indescribable.

The most special time I remember was when I wanted to watch the Lucy Show on television.  It came on at 9pm--past my bedtime. Dad took me in his lap and whispered in my ear   to go to bed now and 'sneak' back down at 9 to watch.  I do believe that there has not been very many times in my life that I have felt as delightfully extraordinary as that little moment when I was five.


What else do I remember most about my Dad? I remember his hard work, his  being able to pull over at the side of the road, fall into a deep sleep in seconds, wake up in ten minutes, and continue on his journey refreshed as if he had had a full night's sleep.  I remember how his frustration with life and the pressures that accompanied it were sometimes manifested in unreal expectations  and an impatience with myself and the rest of the world. Sometimes his actions were unreasonable and seemingly cruel, and they were. But as I look upon them with an adult eye , an adult who has also experienced frustrations and exhaustion and have also made bad choices, I feel  much empathy for both the child I was and for this faulty adult who made bad and regrettable decisions.   

 I also remember that he was the absolute BEST gift giver I have ever known.  I admire anyone who can give great gifts because it means to me that the gift giver has actually given thought of the recipient.  A lot of insight and understanding on the part of the giver has to occur before a good gift is chosen. I thank him for the gold pearl pierced  earrings he bought for all his daughters one Christmas, as well as  the flashlights, the metal grill made from re bar to help me get unstuck in bad weather as well as the inevitable Jersey Milk chocolate found at the bottom of a box of groceries.  He also brought me home a chameleon from the local fair one year.   I must not forget the biggest gift ever and the biggest surprise ever; that being a saddled  cattle pony, Lady Jane,  being driven into the yard in the back of a truck  on a June 8 morning as I was getting ready for school.  

My Dad loved music and he loved to dance. He was a great dancer having learned ball room dancing while overseas during the war.

Dad was a reader of History.  He was accepting and interested in different cultures,  a value which I believe he has handed down to me.  He had the gift of his own father for being able to talk about anything to anyone.  He enjoyed a good joke and a good trick and would repeat them and laugh as much the fifth time  as he did the first.

Dad suffered terribly during the last two years of his life. I spent quite a lot of time  with him and got to renew and redefine our previous troubled relationship.  I realized that inside that sometimes hard exterior he had while I was growing up, there was  a very vulnerable, caring, loving human being who in many ways had been  doing his best, the best he knew how. 

All in all I wouldn't have traded a minute of time with my dad with anyone else.  I was and always will be proud to be able to say that I was Russel Dixon's daughter.  I am glad I told him that before he passed away in 2004.

IRWIN MURRY HOFFMAN is the father of my four children,  one son and three daughters.

Irwin was born in Foam Lake, Saskatchewan , the middle child of a family of four, 3 boys and a girl.  His father was a farmer and his mother a homemaker. 

Irwin followed in his father's footsteps and farmed until he hurt his back in his early 20's.  He then sort of 'retired' and lived off the rent of the farm until he married and had children of his own.   Four children arrived in quick succession, and it seemed that with each birth a new challenge rose.  

The first child was born amidst the news of the impending passing of Irwin's dear wonderful mother.  The mixture of joy and sorrow was never felt as much as during those horrible/happy days of the spring of 1983. 

The second child was born shortly before the decision to return to farming was made.  Long hours of building, fixing, fence making,  and field work made getting to know his first baby daughter very difficult.

The third child was born on the very day of the beginning of the process of turning the  farm back to the financial institution.  The winter following was a time of contemplation, bargaining with lawyers and banks, and of renewing his acquaintance with his children. This was the winter he spent building a complete miniature wooden kitchen set that was enjoyed for at least a decade by all.

The fourth child came along during a time of employment and a certain amount of fleeting financial security which  was only to disappear within a month of her birth.

The things that I consider to be gifts of character handed down to these four children  by their father are: perseverance, faithfulness to family , diligence, responsibility, zest for learning, honesty, integrity, and unselfish giving of time.  He is and always has been their greatest fan being confident and proud of their ability to do right  and to excel.  He gave the time he could when he could.  He never shirked the honour of caretaking during the most difficult times as is evident in his time taking three preschoolers to the  lake one summer, and four preschoolers the next, while I was away taking classes. 

Irwin also accepted the challenge required to return to school at the age of 35 in order to upgrade his education for the sole goal of being able to improve his children's future.

 He also took over the  role of 'stay at home Dad'  for a full year with an ease and confidence rarely found in one of his generation.

I am sure each child has their own special memory of times spent with this man.  Times spent alone at the cottage, bike rides, times of game playing, making of special spaghetti sauces, palt making, campfires, grass cutting, Christmas mornings, Easter mornings, birthdays and book reading. 

Sometimes character development doesn't happen with the  direct expression of  verbal direction but of visual observation .   I believe that each and every one of our children have benefited greatly by watching and learning from the actions of this father who was not perfect.  In spite of his imperfection, this father expressed his love for his children through his example of how to  persevere in life even with its foibles and  frustrations that at times were inappropriately vented  and  unhappily comes along with the making of  unfortunate choices.

There was no time that any decision made concerning his children,  no matter how ill conceived or badly it turned out, was not made with  the best of intentions.

I believe my children have been blessed with such a man to be their father, and I hope that they know and  believe so too.

And now just recently, I have learned that I have a son- in- law who has become the father of my first grandchild.  I know that this young father is filled with all the good intentions and confidence of knowing what choices to make with the benefit of his child in mind, just as the men who I described above have done.  I wish him well in his choices and hope that his decisions in the future will be met with compassion and forgiveness as he too will only do the best he knows how. 

Chirp Chirp

Strange Things I Have Eaten

 10. Chevron..meat from a goat...very good actually.   I shouldn't even list it as strange as so many people around the world eat Chevron every day.

 9. Rabbit--again common everywhere but North America. Very good and a very economical source of protein.

8. Prairie chicken..which isn't all that unusual..except that I had hit it with my car traveling between my parents' house and Wolseley. I stopped, picked it up..took it to the next door neighbour..he cleaned it (poor lil ol'me). I fried it up and ate it.  Road Kill -- Can't get any fresher than that. (Doesn't everybody do it?)

7.  Chocolate covered ants.  I bought them in a gourmet section of Safeway for my Dad for his birthday.   They were quite a hit.

6.  Conch--the sort of flat gooey pancake colored sea  animal that lives in those pretty pinkish shells that people buy to "listen to the ocean to".   I was on a catamaran once in the Bahamas and divers were bringing them up from the bottom of the ocean.  They then cooked them fresh...pan fried and seasoned.

5. Cricket cookies from my daughter's Science Fair Project...she is now a vegan.

4. Clams...from a local lake this time...probably quite a dangerous practice due to the high risk of  poisoning found in improperly prepared shellfish.

3. Roe--Fish eggs milked from Northern Pike.  Fried and seasoned.

2. Palt--a Scandinavian ground boiled potato and flour patty with butter , black pepper, and bacon.

1. A worm--when I was little.


This all puts me in mind of a young mother who  described a disturbing happening when she went outside to check on her two year old daughter.  After calling and calling and looking all around the back yard she finally found her young baby sitting quietly  in the shrubs. The top of her dress  was blood stained and feathers  were sticking here and there on her hair and clothing.  With twinkling eyes and a bloodied mouth smile, the little girl held out her round  tightfisted hands that contained ....


                                             ...... a headless robin.

               This cookbook has receipes to cook Muskrat Meatloaf, Sweet Pickled Beaver, Ground Hog, and Turtle and many more Wildly Exciting Delights.

Cruising

I was cruising this afternoon.


.
 I have cruised in other ways.

I am, of course, referring to the the idle driving up

 and down main street of my North American 

hometown on a Saturday night in whatever

vehicle my father let me have for the night,  and

with about as just as much gas as it would take to

get  me to where I said I was going and home

again, unless I hadn't doubled backed and filled

up  at the obligatory farm fuel outlet known as the

''Gas Tanks" situated on the edge of the far trees.



  More purple (1) gas was burned on a Saturday

night than by any tractor on any fields that  were

cultivated, seeded, harrowed or plowed all during

the week.

 As I got older I have to admit that I did a bit of

 'cruisin'' in bars other than the gas

type  during my university years and beyond.

But the type of cruising that I am referring to

today is the type that hearkens to the open road,

the carefree touch of a button and 'zoom zoom'

you are driving over  the horizon with only  the

rare speed  zone sign triggering the quick tap

on  the brake followed by the  hopeful  adequate

coast allowing one to have slowed within the

correct parameters of  town requirements.

Today's motivation for cruising was far  more primal.

Speed On!   Soundless wee beastie  having succumbed ,  stretched sightless and smelly since being stroked softly by the soles of a  shoe until  suddenly shaken  by  scurrilous and scandalous screams of someone surprised by the squishy sluggishness of such a soulless symbol of the unsanitary and  the insane  

 (1) Purple gas refers to gas that has a purple dye added to it.  Farmers could use Purple Gas for agricultural purposes only and then used the receipts for income tax deductions.  That was why most farmers had their own tanks of farm fuel located near the home quarter.   The only difference between Purple gas and gas bought from the gas station in town was the color.  About once a year there would be a Purple Gas Blitz where RCMP officers would syphon gas from cars parked around town to make sure there were no 'Gas Abusers'.  As I recall the principal of the school got caught for "Purple Gas"...I don't think many of his students were surprised.

Blogland

4000


There have been 4000 hits on my blog.


Wow!


Kind of interesting.

Makes one wonder how many were actual people who wanted purposely to read what I had written, or were they such random hits as people browsed the Blog Sites.


Makes one wonder how many Posts were read from start to finish, how many people critiqued the grammar, spelling, and content.

It would be nice on this sort of Anniversary Day of 4000+ if people would simple write their first name in the comment section so I could get a 'feel' of who is out in BLOGLAND and who actually reads my blither.


Yep. It would be nice.

My Best Wishes to All of You who have chosen to read what I write and also My Best Wishes to All of You who have accidently come across my blog and will choose never to click on it again. 

Bye for now.

Penny Lou

Today Travellers

It is raining.  It is raining very hard. The window is open and a cool moist breeze is wafting through the living room chilling my bare legs.  I feel the warming comfort from the  laptop as I type this.  I can hear at least 4 types of birds chirping over the soft  rain taps on the roof .  The  what must be a very wet squirrel is running to and fro over my head across the shingles.

The sky is a slate grey due not only to the cloud cover but also because of the early morning light.

I can also hear the  periodic hum of tires on the highway about a mile down the road.  It is odd how one can seemingly instinctively know which vehicle is a transport truck, which a van or car, or quarter ton.  It is not as if anyone ever consciously thinks 'I must remember and note that sound for future reference..it might be important some day'. 

This morning I do think about the people traveling in those vehicles.  Are they comfortable? The car heaters will surely be turned on to ward off the dampness.  Are they listening to Satellite Radio above the sound of the windshield wipers? Are they conversing idly or intensely with their travelling companions if they have them?   Are they talking  or idly thinking about their children, parents, lovers, jobs, finances? Are they nearing their destination or have they just begun their voyage?

 I envision Cheezie  and candy  wrappers (pink chicken bones) lying on the floor , beside empty coffee containers awaiting a refill at the next gas station.  They might have  just had a greasy bacon and egg, toast, black coffee breakfast at the local 24/7 restaurant ten miles back and are feeling the  consequential lethargy setting in.

Maybe they are traveling on business, or they are on vacation.  Perhaps they are moving permanently ,  never to travel this particular highway again.  Their minds filled with plans, hopes and regrets as they sojourn towards the new and unknown.

Some of those people traveling might be people that I could be good friends with if I ever had a chance to meet them.  Others, no doubt, might be of the class that seeing the trunk of their car disappear into a distance would be considered a blessing indeed.

I wonder if these travellers ever think of the people who live along the roadside?  I wonder if they are as curious about us as I am about them?  I know that whenever I travel through a town or village during the night and see a light on in a house it always looks so safe and warm and I am strangely filled with a type of envy at the coziness imagined.

I hope that none of these vehicles will be involved in any accident due to the wet roads,  driver inattention, or mechanical failure.


 I wish them well..my Today Travellers.  Unbeknown to them, they have helped me think about something other than myself for a few moments and sometimes that 'other than myself thinking' is a good thing.

Twenty Five Years

It will soon be 25 years. Twenty five years  of anything is usually a time for celebration.  A time of feting with silver decorations and dances and fancy dinners.

Not so with this anniversary year.  It has been twenty-five years since we lost the farm. Twenty -five years since we were worried about seeding, haying, baling, harvesting,  and bankers. 

  A quarter of a century has passed  since I sat at a neighbor's for coffee and had one eye on the gathering clouds as my friend chatted about how she hoped the rain would help her garden, and I simultaneously worried about the rain ruining the hay.

Those long lonely days of busily looking after a four and a two year old while my husband would be, what I thought having a good day, harrowing, seeding, cultivating, or swathing ;  only to typically find that he had been at the garage most of the day getting a weld or repair done on a broken  piece of machinery were far too frequent. 

 I will never forget  the terror of the spring morning when I awoke and realized that he hadn't come in off the field all night.  I packed up the kids hurriedly, grabbed some bread and an orange and a bottle of juice and drove the 15 miles out to the field hoping against hope that he had simply fallen asleep in the tractor and nothing else had happened.  As I approached the field I saw the puff of the exhaust from the engine and realized that he had been cultivating all night long.

He  also baled all night long that last fall. The twinkle of the tractor lights  in the  middle of the night as the tractor  traveled  round and round with the occasional pause in accordance with letting the bale 'drop', seemed like a strange sort of  waltz  made stranger by the fact that there were no break downs, no hammering, nothing stuck or broken for a whole 18 hours. The salesman who had delivered the new baler at 2 the previous afternoon found it hard to believe that the machine hadn't stopped since he had left the yard, when he phoned at 10 the next morning to see if my husband needed any help in understanding how to run the new piece of equipment.

We got malting barely and milling oats that harvest, and top price for the excellent round bales. 

We also got our last call from the banker. Our line of credit was overdrawn, our cash flow was too low, and our debt level was too high. 

The land was repossessed and the cattle were sold the same day our third baby arrived. 

Big changes in lifestyle occurred.   Boxes were packed. Choices were made and challenges met.

The stress was almost unendurable. The pressure of the unknown and unwanted I am sure can be compared to what refugees from war torn parts of the third world experience.  Walking into city government offices and talking to people in dress pants and white shirts and ties, seeking  to qualify for government retraining were times of unbelievable strain.

It was about five years later before we could actually say we were again 'doing ok'.  We had lost about $250,000 but we had a steady income, four healthy children by then, had both increased our formal education, and were living back on the home quarter.  We had gotten through it.

Never again would we ever feel so scared, frustrated, guilty, humiliated, and helpless.





Or so we thought.

HERK

My husband and I were just watching an episode of Will and Grace where Grace and another woman got into a real knock down, face slapping, hair pulling, clothes ripping fight. 

Just watching it made my adrenalin flow just a little bit faster, the old ticker beat a little bit quicker, and the mouth become just a little bit drier as it took me back to a couple of episodes of  my inglorious and not so lady like  youth. Now I am not talking about sibling rivalry where sisters and brothers often scratch, bite, and squeal with fingers pointing until the AUTHORITY FIGURE intervenes.

 I  am referring to a noon hour girl fight with someone two years older than myself. We literally slapped and scratched, pushed and shoved our way down the aisle between the rows of desks in our country school, under the hushed silence of pupils from Grade 1 to 8  observing every blow and pulled out strand of hair  fall limply to the painted hardwood floor .   I am not even sure why the fight started -- probably over a missing eraser. Erasers were important in those days.  I am almost certain that I won.

  I am also talking of a couple of old fashioned  'teacher turning a blind eye' school ground scraps that ended up in skin being forever felt under one's fingernails whenever the memory resurfaces (even after 45 years). I am talking about  the creepy feel of some body's greasy Brel Cream on your hands after giving the hair  on their head such a jerk that it pulled all the curl out of it for at least the next two days. 

  That person never stole another comic book from me although about a year later he had to be tuned in during a noon hour volleyball game during Junior High.

 After  I gave and received a few well landed blows, and having my blouse ripped just a little (odd that I remember that blouse exactly), my rage was assuaged as the Big Grade 12 boys who witnessed the whole scene   escorted him into the boys' washroom  for a 'talk'. 

 Only a few bruises, which faded, and an unfortunate nickname, which didn't, were the result.

Ode to a Killdeer

  Early in the season camping trips help set the stage for understanding the activity of many birds and animals during the coming summer  weeks. 

 The first morning,  when I initially saw gulls flying to and fro from one lake to the next, calling and twirling in the air as long strands of material dangled behind them, my first thought was that they had been caught in some sort of plastic wrap---doomed to an early demise.  But as I looked closer, I saw that what they were doing was  carrying  reeds from last year's bullrushes that were no doubt going to be used in nest making.

Watching the courtship dances of the common coot with the splashing, dashing, pecking and squawking caused one to recall the group of baby coots and their mama swimming back and forth in front of our  late season campsite last fall .

Apparently you can't get the one scenario without the other. 

I also came across a limping Killdeer on the gravelled drive way leading into our  little camping area.   At first I tried to follow it as it limped and spread out its damaged wing as it cried and cried out in pain, and then what came to mind was my Grade 4  Science Lesson  Chapter 14 :  HOW MAMA BIRDS PROTECT THEIR BABIES  Subsection B (1) "A mother bird will often feign injury in order to distract a would be predator from discovering her nest of live chicks or eggs."

 I immediately turned on my heel and walked in the exact opposite direction from whence I came, much to the Mother Killdeer's increasing chagrin.  I found the precious but simple nest located on the ground with the only protection being a few tufts of grass and a dandelion plant close by, about a foot from the gravel driveway.

Can you see the three little eggs?

I watched that Mother Killdeer quite often over the course of the next few days.  I saw her sneak quickly, running on her spindly legs,  when she thought no one was looking, over to the edge of the road to get a quick dip of water from the ditch before she ran back to perform her 'sitting' duty.  I am not sure when she had had the time to actually eat, perhaps the male killdeer came to relieve her sometime during the  process.  The Saskatchewan Birders' Manual said that it would take 28 days for the eggs to hatch...a whole month..at least two weeks , a most dangerous time for both mother and nestlings.  

And then...
         ..... the inevitable happened.

 It was just before sundown, we saw the lights and then the dust  of a truck pulling a camper coming along the road.   We heard the truck motor slow down and the squeak of the trailer springs as it made the turn into the camping area.  The cry of the Killdeer  pierced the air as we saw the bird fly by in panic calling and twisting back and forth over the lake and then back again over the campground.

The driver had no idea  what he had done as he busily set up his outfit rolling the tires back and forth to get the right spot. The killdeer stopped its call after a few hours, barely noticeable if one didn't concentrate on trying to hear it over the sounds of all the other night bird sounds.  

I am not one to actually project human feelings unto animals, but at the same time I did feel badly for the Killdeer and her family.  Heartbeats were beating in those shells.  Something in that mother bird's instinct told it to care and nurture those eggs as much as something triggered a response of disquiet and unease at the destruction of the nest.

Is it no wonder then that when  we humans " the actual thinking species" while  visiting  places where there have been great  losses of life and tragedies,  speak of the palpitativity of sorrow in the air.  Is it no wonder then that people refer to broken hearts and spirits in their own songs of sorrow? 

 I think its even more of a wonder that  that very same Kildeer, even now, is probably planning and preparing for another nest this season; just the same as many people who have been hurt both physically and spiritually will continue on in striving for the best. 

A Tribute to a Lovely Lady

October 28, 2010 United Church Fort Qu'Appelle, Saskatchewan
Marilyn and Allan and Family, Ladies an Gentlemen
For those of you who don't know me, I am the daughter of Russel Dixon. Kay was my stepmother and my friend.
I would like to thank Marylyn and Allan for allowing me to speak about Kay at this very difficult time...I hope what I am going to say will bring honor to her memory and serve as some comfort for her family.
As so many of us in this building already know Kay was truly a remarkable woman... someone who had led a life every bit as remarkable as any that I have ever met...from meeting Agatha Christie, Dancing at the Savoy, Skating at the Chrystal Palace and watching the Battle of Britain in her back yard with her brother...she never ceased to amaze me..but the time that I was most Amazed and oft times totally awe struck was during the time that she spent caring for Dad while he was hospitalized.
Dad and Kay were married in December of 2001 and before two months had passed Dad had suffered a debilitating stroke that left him paralyzed, unable to swallow, speak clearly, walk, play the Banjo, totally unable to fend for himself..and needing constant care until his passing. Now...I myself was not present at Dad and Kay's wedding but I certainly was a witness to their marriage which was every bit as important, meaningful and rewarding as any marriage involving two people of any age that is based on kindness, dignity and mutual respect--and the following is just a smattering of ways that this marriage and Kay's gift of seeing the possibilities of seemingly impossible circumstances made life and living not only for my Dad, but for all who choose to acknowledge it, more special and surprisingly precious.
Shortly after the stroke Kay stood over Dad's hospital bed and declared to me that LIFE IS SWEET--I remember being somewhat skeptical of this idea as Dad was so ill and it seemed that all of their high hopes for happy years together had been dashed...but for over two years Kay proved her declaration to be true...as she did everything in her power to make sure that Dad's life was richer than it otherwise would have been if she had not been in it...
Kay spent 27 months of not missing a day being by his side..making Dad's quality of life better than anyone could have imagined...I personally had not known really to what extent the concept of unconditional Love and total acceptance could be until I witnessed Kay's untiring dedication to my Dad--his life was enriched a thousand fold by her presence and never ending attempts to make life interesting and yes even exciting at times-some including contraband budgies, visits with Sammy the Cat , and fun with a Polaroid camera that I shan't explain at this time..but it will always bring a smile to my face whenever I think of it.
It was also due to Kay's insistence that we take dad out for drives as often as we could and consequently there were no excuses acceptable to her as to why a 50 plus woman didn't want to tackle learning to drive a HUGE Brand New Handicapped Van-- but I knew that if I didn't do it then she WOULD ... so learn I did..and it was great.
Kay always showed up in his room 7:30 am and wouldn't leave until twelve hours later--even if it meant that she had to walk the length of two football fields in January to and from the hospital in the dark because of car trouble and once because the town roads were blocked she literally crawled her way through snowdrifts to be at the hospital in time.
If she ever left him for an appointment or pressing necessity she always ensured that there was someone there to watch over him.
It is my fervent belief that Kathleen was SENT to be in Dad's life at that time and place--it couldn't have been any other way..
-I wish to take this moment to thank Marilyn and Alan and their family for unselfishly allowing Kay to absent herself from many many family gatherings, seasonal celebrations and even weddings while she was busy sweetening Dad's life with her vigor and imagination. Your generous and gracious sacrifice--not unlike Kay herself.. was duly noted, is appreciated even today, and will not soon be forgotten.
Kay's remarkable strength of character, her high ideals and value of life and respect for the institution of marriage not only enhanced my father's last days but also taught me and anyone else who observed this total dedication to duty and ultimate example of Love as a VERB, that there is no end to the possibilities when it comes to sweetening life..no matter what the circumstance. This concept is also reflected in Barbra De Angeles' quotation and it could easily have been Kay’s... “Marriage is not a noun, it’s a verb ...It isn’t something you get. It’s something you do. It is the way you love your partner every day.”
911 was a day that the modern world was forever changed... .I know that my world was changed that day..but not for the reason you may think..as September 11, 2001 was the day that I first laid eyes upon Dad's dear Kathleen...she was wearing a long blue dress and she was dancing to the music played by a band that included my Dad playing his banjo. It is my hope and prayer that perhaps the Good Lord in His Wisdom in some form of Sweet Eternity has allowed Kay and Dad to once again Play and Dance to the Music that they both loved so well.

Penny's Debauchery

I have been watching one of those COP shows on our limited television satellite reception.  The program basically is a constant repeat of police officers confronting ,  arresting, and counselling people who are out of control.  Most of the people are out of control mentally and physically due to the   consumption of  too much alcohol and drugs.

Combine  all that with the pretty much 'everything goes' attitude and one does have a recipe for what I deem to be debauchery.


Debauchery...such an interesting word.  I looked it up.  It means extreme indulgence in sensuality with reference to orgies; orgies  which I assume   are  sexual in nature.

The debauchery that I see on the streets of Las Vegas on that television program seems foolish, foreign, and almost surreal. 

I am going to suggest a further meaning to this unique word.


 I suggest that it can be applied  anytime when one's actions, words, and desires become focused on purely one's own wants and preceived needs no matter what the cost to another's rights,  particularly the rights of the innocents in this world.   Kony, a child kidnapper, abuser, and murderer, would then fall under the category  of someone who engages in debauchery..creating untold pain, misery and irrevocable harm as a result of his crazed self indulgence and seemingly disregard for  human rights.  

I am also going to suggest that my new definition of debauchery applies to the actions of  anyone, anywhere  who wield their control either through finances, emotional blackmail involving self righteous unforgiveness, or just plain screaming unleashed bitter wrath, in order to control others, ultimately harming and fracturing relationships.  

 The pain, waste, and destruction in the  self indulgent use of power, mixed with fear, immaturity and ignorance  inherent in this type of debauchery is every bit as destructive to society as it  is to the individual who  exercises it;  not unlike  drug or alcohol misuse or wanton sexual activity.
 
These activities that qualify for the label of Penny's Debauchery is present in not only the warring factions  throughout the world , but also is  the cause of social injustices, loss of peace, and  broken families, which can be traced  right down as much as to  my own actions as I suspect many  of the  readers' and beyond.


"How utterly futile debauchery seems once it has been accomplished, and what ashes of disgust it leaves in the soul. --Albert Camus

Hang Up and Dial Again

I am not sure if it is an Aesop's Fable or simply a little story from my primary school days, but there is a story about  How the Bear Got Its Tale 


 To the best of my recollection the story describes the Bear as at one time having a long tail as well as having a yen for the taste of fish.  As it was in the winter, the only way the Bear was able to do any fishing was to make a hole in the ice (the story did not give details as to how this was done) and then the Bear, not having anything else on hand subsequently placed his tail into the hole as bait and waited for the fish to nibble, and ultimately become his dinner.  The bear in the story waited, and waited, and waited..and then he waited some more.  He waited all through the night  in this position until he felt something distinctly bite on his tail.  The bear jumped up and turned around quickly to see what his breakfast was going to look like only to see that his tail had been left in the frozen ice. Hence that is why the bear to this day has a short tail.

Gruesome sounding isn't it?  I am not quite sure what the moral of the story is or why someone thought that that story should be chosen to terrorize the minds of small children for a generation.


Was the message about fishing and how one should always carry appropriate fishing gear? Or if it was written today, would it be a comment upon how long it took the ice to actually freeze the tail hard enough to rip it off as it might be interpreted by the Green House Gas Environmentalists?  


Personally, I think the story is about waiting and how one can get ripped off in time, money, and effort and yes even TAILS, if one decides to wait too long for something, whatever that something may be.


  It may be waiting for your order in a restaurant, which has gotten inadvertently dropped on the floor in the  kitchen , while your family of 6 waits patiently for 45 minutes as others around you are served their orders.


  It may be waiting for the 'party to which you dialed' has put you on hold and you have listened to the whole  Henri Mancini album twice until it is past the time that the government office you have called two time zones away is open until after the long weekend.  


 The story may even about waiting 2 or more hours  to be called into the office of some professional advisor such as  a doctor, lawyer, dentist or even mental health professional, all because you have gotten the date wrong and were supposed to be there at that same time of day but one day earlier.


Could the  message of this story be more about the survival of the fittest?..or more appropriately the smartest? Obviously  the intelligence of the fish far surpasses that of the Bear...not surprisingly as fish do travel in schools and bears travel without poles.  

Things may come to those who wait, but only the things left by those who hustle.
Abraham Lincoln

The Lost Has Not Been Found

I am looking for something.  I saw it about 3 months ago.  It  seems like 3 months ago anyways.  It was probably 6 months ago instead.  I did NOT throw it out.  I put it somewhere.  But wherever 'somewhere' is, it is nowhere to be found, and I have looked everywhere except wherever this item is.

I have looked in the last place it could be as well as the first place I thought where I might find it.  I have looked under and over.  I have even climbed upon a chair and perused the nether regions of the ledges atop of cupboards and china cabinets, as well as fridges and corner shelves. I have opened boxes and containers, and placed my hands between all sorts of things in my search. I have explored the entrance area, the den, the living room, both upstairs bedrooms, both bathrooms, the pantry shelves, and every cupboard and drawer in the kitchen.

The ironic part of all this is that I, as in a 'getting up there in years' pretty much computer illiterate older woman, can more easily find this item on the internet than I can find it in my own house. That just means to me that this item is truly and forever lost somewhere in the realms of items that have never been thrown away for the past several decades in compliance with the Dirty Thirties Philosophy that dominates most of my lifestyle choices.


What is really annoying is that without this item I cannot use another much larger, much easier to find item at all, and therefore, that item is rendered totally useless.  Although I probably won't throw this item away because I KNOW the other item is somewhere,  needing a new battery,  resting safely someplace in the shelter of my very modest, albeit crowded with 'things that we might someday need' articles. Articles that hopefully will be able to be found when needed and wanted. 

"Go to where it should be, and look there again.. only look harder"--advice from a friend--who doesn't really care one way or the other if I  ever do find what I am looking for.

Oh What a Beautiful Evening.

It truly truly is a beautiful May evening.  No wind. The rich lushness of the new leaves abound. The evening birds are calling.  Geese can be heard calling out perhaps in startled flight. Just a hint of a breeze.
An evening that my husband describes as 'the drippings of Heaven'.

I suppose people in town are out walking along sidewalks visiting with neighbours as they transplant petunias and pansies in their flower beds.  Some are cutting their lawns and some are perhaps watching a ball game .

We, I should more rightly say, 'He'  has not cut the lawn as yet in hopes that the theory about having the combination of long grass and baby frogs hiding in that grass is the reason why we did not, absolutely did not, without a word of a lie, have mosquitoes in our yard last year.  So as the grass becomes higher and thicker  and starts to waft to and fro like a stunted field of frozen tufted barley,  I will try to keep in mind that it is all for the greater cause of Science.

I do love a good baseball game.  My parents took me to one special kind of game in my home town  when I was about eight years old.  I am pretty certain of the date as my Dad was in the local garage dealing on a new car that same evening,  and we were waiting for him impatiently.  He was dealing on a 1960 Ford Fairlane, three on the tree, standard,   four door, red, with black and white interior, with what I think were called  fintails along with twin headlights. This was the first car we had that had signal lights.  It was in those decadent days when one ordered the color, both interior and exterior, along with the any extras such as automatic or standard transmission  . The Ford Motor Company would build it to order, and either ship the vehicle out to the far flung reaches of the Canadian Prairies,  or one could , like my Dad, either fly down or take the train to Windsor to pick it up.  La Dee Dah!  Those days are long gone!

With order form and glossy pamphlet in hand, Dad finally came out of the dealership and off we went to the strangest ball game I have ever seen .   It was DONKEY Ball.  I think I am correct when I say that the game had the regular rules except that the runner had to ride a Donkey around the bases.  I also think the Donkeys were used in the outfield and on the bases as well.   I remember the batter having to climb on to a not very enthusiastic donkey and try to get it to run all the way to first base before the ball got there, and the cheering crowd egging him on.

Being a kid from the country, that was the first time I had ever  been to any ball game   in  my home town,  and it was the first time I had seen a Donkey...

...although I suspect there might still be a few Asses in that vicinity even now.

10 Things...

Ten Things  One Never Hears From the Deathbed....


10. I wish I had saved more money.

9.  If only  I had that bought that bigger house.

8.  If I could do it again, I wouldn't forgive that  'person'.

7.  I sure rue the day that I apologized to him/her/them.

6.  Give me back my pride...I need it.

5.  I am sure glad that I didn't tell that person I loved them..now they will never know.

4.  I feel great about harbouring that resentment.

3.  What a waste of time that vacation was.

2. Would someone please give me a mirror?   I    wonder if I look ok.

1.  I am so glad I was RIGHT about so many things.


An old man on his deathbed implored his wife, "When I am gone I want you to marry Fred Uhland."
"Why Fred Uhland? she asked.  "You have always hated him."
"Still do,"gasped the old man.

Weird but OK

 A. Its .weird but ok that I get a cancellation notification for an order on my Amazon account..*

...because..I didn't order anything in the first place.

 B. It would have been more 'un ok' if I had ordered something and got a cancellation notice for my Amazon account.

 C. It would have been even MORE 'un ok' if I had not ordered something and not gotten a cancellation notification and recieved whatever it was that I hadn't ordered.

 D. But it would have been totally ok if I did not get a cancellation order and did not receive anything I hadn't ordered...happens  everyday..pretty much everyday...unless of course if I HAD ordered something...which takes us back to B...

E.  If I did not get a cancellation order because I did not order  anything AND received something AND then proceeded to use it, drink it or eat it then that would be  Stupid!

So in theory most of the time stuff happens as it should....unless it gets cancelled.

 *Dear Customer,

Your order has been successfully canceled. For your reference, here's a summary of your order:

You just canceled order 194-3849-37872 placed on May 12, 2012.

Status: CANCELED

_____________________________________________________________________

1 "Warships"; 2005, Deluxe Edition
By: Wendy Carter

Sold by: Amazon.com LLC

_____________________________________________________________________

Thank you for visiting Amazon.com!

Bella Jane LeClair (Cooper)

Bella Jane LeClair was my mother's mother.  She was born on October 13, 1884. She was a hard working, fun loving, religious lady who hailed from parents who lived in St. Peter's Parish on the  Pequis First Nations Reserve in Manitoba, what was then called St. Peter's Band.  She would  now be  considered to be of Metis heritage.


 The Grannie that I knew kept a boarding house with lighthouse keeping suites in Brandon.  It was always interesting to see which  number room we would be allotted  whenever we went to visit.  In fact, I think I first became aware of numbers because of the numerals on those bedroom doors.  I didn't think it strange at all that Grannie had hot plates and kitchen utensils in these rooms.  I do remember  the crispness of the sheets on the bed and the brightness of their whiteness, both probably  a result of bleaching and sun drying.

  Bella Cooper's was a popular place for service men's wives to stay during the War while their husbands trained in  the nearby military base of Shilo, Manitoba.  Her walls  at Christmas for years following were covered with cards   from the many friends she made while watching over  young mothers and wives who stayed under her roof during those tumultuous years.


    Grannie had a huge refrigerator for those days...well for any days actually. I think it would be considered a restaurant fridge, one with several doors that shut with the metal sound of a click and which covered almost one whole wall of the kitchen.  This fridge was always full whenever we visited. I had my first taste of cheddar cheese and sliced bread taken from that fridge.  That fridge  was  where that Milk in a Box came from. Milk that had an odd taste which I suppose is the taste of pasteurization which was foreign to someone who was used to the  warm and  fresh whole milk straight from the cow. This fridge  also had brown bottles of orange crush and bottles of 7 up (rare delights) which we were  allowed to have at any time during our stay.   Besides having these bottles of POP, Grannie actually had the only permanent wall mounted bottle opener that I had ever seen and have ever since seen in someone's private home. (None of that pound a nail through the top stuff for these city dwellers I guess).


My first sight of what most people nowadays call 'front loading' washing machines was at this grandmother's.  She also had a front loading clothes dryer.  She needed what must have been luxurious appliances of the day for her rooming/boarding house business.  I do remember  that my first $2 bill  that I earned was when I washed the floor behind her wood /coal cook stove. I was the only one visiting who could actually still crawl in behind and wash and rinse the wall and floor so the $2 job went to me.


Grannie also played the pump organ and my sister and I spent many happy times trying to get a tune going.  I still have some of the music  hymn sheets that were Grannie's from those times.


I remember her   aurora borealis  earrings and necklaces, the smell of her  face powder, the rouge on her cheeks. She always wore a dress with nylons and black laced shoes, even for housekeeping and everyday work. I remember her purposely drinking cold tea and dry toast. 
   
Grannie had a  unique way of sneezing. I am not sure wheather it was acquired or heritary but she sort of had a little snort when she did so..a family trait passed on  to my mother.  

I also remember the incident when we met Grannie at the train station in Melville and her hands were full of suitcases while her nylons , which were being kept up with what looked like sealer rubber rings, rolled down around her ankles with every step she took. The wind was blowing at her dress skirt as Grannie stopped suddenly and stared down at her legs  as the wads of material that were once her nylons slipped down, down, down past her knees in  little  brown rolls that looked liked  bizarre dougnuts wrapped around her ankles.
Her laughter at her own bizarre predicament is what I remember the most.

 I do not know if or where she attended school.  She could write a fine letter though..usually in pencil..with little notes written on the sides of the paper so when one read her letter one would have to turn it around and around to get the news from the 'asides' which, I guess, they truly were.

Her husband and her raised a family of five children, three boys and two girls, my mother being the youngest.  All five of her children served in the Canadian Armed Forces during the war and all five returned safely although one son had been permanently affected by his experiences, and another chose to relocate in California, a planet away in those days.  The other son and daughter lived relatively close by and her youngest daughter, my mother, married and lived on a farm in the next province.    Raising a family of five during the 1930's in central Canada was a challenge for Grannie and Granddad as they faced many financial trials and worries.  My mother would  rarely talk about those times of desperate want and crippling poverty, although she did mention how 'better off ' family members (aunts and uncles) would come to visit from the EAST  but wouldn't stay at their home ,  but  instead sought out refuge at  more suitable neighbours.

As we lived 200 miles from Grannie's it was common for Mom to pack us children up and catch the train for at least one visit a year.  In fact, for my 11th birthday my mother sent me,  ALONE, on the train, to see Grannie.  I had to ask someone at the Brandon train station to phone Grannie's house, so Granddad could pick me up in this Taxi .


 Grannie was at one time a deckhand for the 'June Bug', a small fishing boat that was owned by Granddad which fished off the coast of British Columbia for at least one season.  She also was the Cooper Cab dispatcher, answering the  ever ringing phone for  fares and keeping track of where and when the Cab was supposed to go next.  This keeping track was primarily done with pencil writings on the wall surrounding the telephone--didn't everyone's Grannie (who wasn't a bookie) have a wall like that? 

  She also had a jar with her gallstone floating in it, high up in the  mothball (no those are not peppermints) laden linen closet. It was the size of a small walnut.  My sister and I would climb up and have a peek and a shake whenever we got the chance. We would wonder when visiting  our other  grandmother where she kept her gallstones.

Grannie also had a plum tree and  grew columbines in her small garden on 1st Ave.   There was  a sun porch that we would sit out on on summer evenings and watch numerous cars go by, as Grannie's house used to be on the edge of the #1 Highway.  We would play car games- keeping track of colors, types, and license plates.  There were stained glass windows trimming the sun porch, the original lead trimmed type, and the ledges were filled with geraniums.  If I close my eyes I can hear the flipping hum of the tires of the vehicles as they passed by, the smell of the flowers, and taste pink strawberry ice cream that came in a block (making the ice cream portion square ) all while sitting in that warm little room with Grannie and Mom; listening to them talk about  things and people from their past  of which I had no idea.


Bella Jane LeClaire  did something that on the surface looks very avant- garde, riske, and even scandalous .  Besides smoking Black Cat cigarettes ,  she lived with a man who was not her husband.

After Granddad passed away Grannie found herself alone, in a huge empty house.  I do not know how they met.  He might have been a roomer that became a rumour  in the neighbourhood,    or  simply a very good friend that came a calling. I am not certain.   He was a very nice man. His name was Hector and he was about ten years her junior. My family accepted him sort of like another grandfather.  He was good to Grannie and that is all that concerned my mother I suppose.   Christmas cards were discreetly signed from Grannie and Hector.  I never heard anything negative about the arrangement,  and  I never  have I even considered (as granddaughters probably never ever even want to do) any of the so called moral ramifications of the living arrangements.

The last time I saw Grannie was just after completing my Grade 12 examinations.  Mom sent me on the bus to meet with Aunt Marie (Aunt Muzzie) to spend some time with Grannie in Brandon.  Sadly, the Grannie I had known no longer existed.  We found her unwell, unkempt, and lanquishing alone in her large home that was empty of any valuables, as was her bank account.   She had been duped by unscrupulous tenants and had suffered from the misjudgment and befuddled thinking that came from her unhealthy living habits which had started the War years  and became more problematic as time passed.  Hector had long since left not being able to handle the change  in her personality brought upon by her dependencies, although he remained her friend until her demise. 


Bella Jane LeClair (Cooper) passed away in a Brandon Nursing Home on September 4, 1973 just short of her 89th birthday. She died while Mom was enroute to be with her. I did not go to her funeral. 

Whenever I  see a Chinese Checker game in a store (Grannie kept her marbles in a sock), think of train travel or nylons which need garters,  see sparkling earrings,  have cheesecake with cherry pie filling (the kind she made me for my 11th birthday), loose tea--Grannie read tea leaves,  or an elderly lady without her teeth  (I have no recollection of Grannie ever wearing her false teeth), I think of this woman who showed me and still shows me how to be daring, smile at life, and never ever pass up a chance to be kind.


"Isn't that Grand?" was Grannie's favourite saying.


 And you know what?


 She was.

*


ps.  My sister and I had our gallbladders taken out the same day by the same doctor..neither of us kept the stones.




pss.  As I lay on the delivery table , in the throes of childbirth, I distinctly remember the face of my Grannie , Bella Jane LeClair, flashing across my mind and I knew all was going to be well.



<script type="text/javascript">

  var _gaq = _gaq || [];
  _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-31687636-1']);
  _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']);

  (function() {
    var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true;
    ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js';
    var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s);
  })();

</script>

Just Because

Just because you can doesn't mean you          should.

 Just because you should doesn't mean you    will.

 Just because you will doesn't mean you       did.

 Just because you did doesn't mean its          right.

 Just because its right doesn't mean its         wanted.

 Just because its  wanted doesn't mean its    good.

 Just because its good  doesn't mean its        smart.

 Just because its smart doesn't mean its       kind.

 Just because its kind doesn't mean its         wise.

    It might just mean you  did what you       should,  

                   because it was wanted and       good.

                                    

                                                                                        

                                      

   In spite of you being neither smarter nor wiser ,

   but in fact the most kinder of all of those not thinking

                                                                      you  should. 

                   

JOY!

Don' t you just hate it when the plug in the kitchen sink isn't stuck right  down and  all the nice warm soapy water that you have just ran over the pile of dirty dishes has slowly but persistently seeped away..leaving you with a pile of slippery  slimy feeling dishes, that you now have to dig through to get your hand down to the bottom to reset the Gee Dee sink plug and start all over again?

That's only one thing I hate about doing dishes.  I think I dislike the diddliessness of it all..the washing, the rinsing, the putting away as if there is a LAW about where everything is supposed to go, tucked away, hidden and safe in case 'someone comes'.


 As if  it is  some sort of secret that we actually eat, and we actually use dishes and knives and forks and spoons, and we have cooked , fried, or grilled food in pots and pans.

 Would the casual visitor sooner assume that the people in  our household eat their  food raw and with their hands? while passing around cold cans of vegetables and  preprocessed meat such as Spam?  Do they visualize my family  tearing  random dry hunks off of loaves of bread with as much vigor as an evangelical communion feast?  Do they think perhaps that we must have    washed it all down by  taking turns slurping water from the kitchen faucet?

 I would like to know just who made the rule that in order to measure a person's worthiness one must measure their    ( historically a woman's )universal value as a human being by observing the visual cleanliness of kitchen dishes.  I suspect it was made by a group of Northern European mother-in-laws whose sole goal was to maintain superiority over their sons' brides in terms of clean counters, bleached towels, and virginal shiny sinks.

I am aware of the  health hazards involved in having unwashed dishes piling up as fly traps and mouse bait.   Yes,  there is the dust factor involved with just allowing the cleaned dishes  to sort of 'hang out' on the cupboard. But one must remember that there have been many valuable scientific discoveries made through the use of mold purposely grown in pitri dishes, so why couldn't that same type of thing happen in any of the dishes in my own kitchen?


 Nope..washing dishes is not one of my favourite things..never has been..never will be...

               ...but I do like dirtying them...
          
                      .....right down to the shine... 

                                                  ..its a real JOY !

God Bless Us.. and that means ....Everyone.

Dangerous Christianity *


I only buy about 10% of what this guy is saying.

This is  a prime example of a little bit of truth sprinkled in with ignorance, broad generalizations, and avoidance/deflection when asked direct questions on issues.

 It is THIS type of thinking that entices people to mock Christianity.  This thinking is like a red flag, a marked target,  the trigger incident, that allows people, indeed inflames people from other cultures, religions, and even different Christian backgrounds to rise up and totally dismiss anything and all this type of Christian proclaims.

I find that so many Christians who are out to point the finger at any other religion with vigour, contempt, and suspicion are often those same Christians who have neither bothered or desired to learn the true background, history, or philosophy of their own religion.

It's the rampant judgements passed and simple 'not knowing' and 'not wanting to know' that drives me crazy.  The feeling of being entitled to judge, mock, and criticize other's belief systems to me is the absolute antithesis of what Christianity is supposed to be.

How on Earth or in Heaven is anyone supposed to be able to persuade others to believe in Christianity when the Christians themselves lack trust and compassion for even those who claim to have the same belief system let alone someone from another religion entirely?  I have witnessed more blatant judgment, character assassination, and hypocrisy in  Christian churches than I have in any of the social organizations I have been involved with, which are often comprised of a broad cross section of cultures, religions, and education.

 Many Christians claim to embrace forgiveness and understanding, but what I have often witnessed is  ignorance, and self-righteousness all often based on fear.  To me the Christians whose faith is fear based  often live in the closed hot house of ideological superiority nurtured by  half truths and misunderstandings.

 No wonder Christianity is mocked.  Its almost like the person who says they are on a diet, wanting to lose weight, and  then they eat a chocolate bar while washing it down with a diet soda.  What they claim they want and what they actually do are not really connected. 

Instead of trying to persuade others by pointing out the faults of their religions or lifestyles,  Christians who are serious about really bringing the world to a better understanding should  start to  actually live the lessons taught in the Bible instead of trying to teach  or ' screech'  the lessons.   They could start this process by reading,  praying, forgiving, loving, and by learning about ALL their fellowman..not just the ones that agree, or seem to agree, with them.




*..click on the link to see the article.

Jigsaw Truth

Truth has a natural attraction about it. One may not like it, want to hear it, think it, or even seek it out, but we, as humans, do  search for truth just as assuredly as this middle aged muddle headed woman seeks out chocolate and onion rings.

I find that often original thought, rare as it is, most always is the most truthful. It's as if  when the combination of logic, fact, and the ability to organize the truth verbally, occur at the same time a new idea is then  born.  When one  thinks about it,  it really  isn't an idea if it isn't original.  If it's not original it's just sort of a copy of an idea; a facsimile if you  want to use technical terms. This facsimile is not necessarily less truthful, but it doesn't rank the merit of an idea because it hasn't got the 'first time it has been thought of' factor to it.

  I judge if something is true if it gives me that completeness feeling .  Anyone who has had the privilege of  finally putting in the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle after much searching, testing, and analyzing will understand what I mean by the completeness feeling.  Its the feeling that nothing need more be said, done, or explained with regards to that thought,  and as a consequence something  new has been created in the being of the one to whom the truth has been made evident.   An idea has thus been born, and in that sense the idea is original to the one who has undergone the process.
  The consequential truth discovery does not preclude others from discovering and discerning the same idea  from the same process of  searching and completeness.

Why am I so caught up in truth, ideas and consequential independent and original thought?  I think one reason is that I love the truth .   I love the feeling when I have the opportunity to experience the  'Ah Huh' moment.
I appreciate and yearn to be told the truth in all its  sometimes cold clarity. Nothing can be solved , cured, or  truly celebrated without truth being at the basis.

Another reason I worry about truth is because I find it such a rare commodity in our politicians and professionals.  I suspect there is more 'facisimilies' of truth being bandied about as rules of society rather than much clear thinking or  analyzing of facts.  Consequently, when the politician or law maker decides on what is truth they have no inner understanding of what it actually means.  What some of these people deem to be truth is merely some faded copy that   perhaps needs updating to be complete. 

There is nothing, absolutely nothing, more disrespectful than the luke warmth of mediocre communication based on befuddled thinking and misinformation. If one is going to use the energy to express an opinion, at least give the listener the respect of having done some thinking which involves the process of truth finding, before expressing it.

Otherwise, you might as just as well hand out a pamphlet that someone else has written.

Broad Plaza Blues

 Softball Season has begun.

Although it has been several years since I have been to a live game and even several more years since I have actually played the game, I still  like to consider myself a Softball Player. 
I started playing at the age of six and continued on throughout school and even  into my early twenties  while living in the nearby 'big city'.

I have played every base as well as the far far outfielder, back catcher, and short stop , along with a very short and unsuccessful try out for the position of pitcher. 

The Pitcher.  That sacred and coveted position of every team eluded me.  I could throw overhand with a force and accuracy of any of my male schoolmates 'zinging' it straight over the head of the pitcher to second base for a surprize 'out'.  I would slide head / feet/ fingers first to homeplate to score. I would 'run down' a batter in the soup until they were forced back to their team bench.  I could  isntinctively decide which base to throw the ball to execute a double play. There wasn't a hit ball that I wouldn't attempt to stop either with my glove, shins, or even mouth (I still have the cracked  front tooth), but I could not pass the Pitcher Try Out.

I am not sure why I could not attain that goal.  Perhaps I couldn't concentrate on the traditional three step / pitch rule which seemed to be required to throw the ball at the magic mid way section of the batter/base/ and umpire line of sight.  It might have been the taunts and encouragement from teammates and spectators such as " Chuck it in there Big Chucker" , "She Can't Pitch" , and  "Let Her Walk You" ringing in my ears  that affected my poor and unpredictable aim.  

Or perhaps...and I try not to be biased about this..it was because I wasn't 'Cool'.  Now I know coaches, teachers, and managers are to be immune from being effected by social coolness that is found in all genograms in any demographic study ; but I firmly believe that something makes these people, the truly 'Cool' ones,  just  emimnate some sort of energy that makes them the captains, social conveyors, fashion icons, cheerleaders and  PITCHERS if they so choose.  Maybe pitching skills at the amateur level did require finally coiffed hair, clear skin, stylish jeans, and cute little Size 7 running shoes. If that was  the case 40 years ago, it still is so today, as my daughters were rarely ever the pitchers on their teams .

Whatever the reason, and probably for the best of the team, I was never the pitcher for longer than 2 innings a season...and that would only be if the regular pitcher was sick, or  participating in some other more important activity such as singing in a music festival or attending a ceremony where she was receiving recognition for her figure skating performance the winter prior.

All bitterness aside, the game of softball is a wonderful activity both for the players and the spectators.  The game can be enjoyed by everyone in the whole family with the right amount of mosquito repellant and sun block applied. There is  no other sound in the world that quite matches the crack of the bat, the rising cheers, the chants and shouts of 'run, throw it, slide',  along with  the umpire's final and unchangeable shout of SAFE!

Combine all that  with the smell of freshly cut grass and  dusty leather gloves  one has a near perfect evening.   My grandparents returned again and again to watch games played even after the windshield of their parked car was smashed by contact with a stray fly ball.
We even had uniforms with the city team. The 'Broad Plaza Blues' had a few rare moments of victory which was even mentioned at least once in the local city newspaper.

 Ah  the firey flame of  the famous, fades as fast as the fleeting fashion of  the flinging of fly balls ..not unlike the fast final  fading of the flowers of flax ..frail , fallen, and  forever forgotten.. (by some anyways).