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.



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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).

Up and Away!

Sometimes we can get to where we are going by never knowing where we are.


As I was on the way to see a doctor about my sore knee, I thought it best to use the elevator to get to his office on the second floor of a new building out on the grounds of the University.

 I found the elevator readily enough after walking half way around the building and back to my original point again to recheck exactly which way to go to find the elevator..which of course was in the  opposite  direction. 

After walking almost the same length around again I finally found what I was seeking.

Stepping into the elevator was a relief until I spied the buttons listing the floors and their labels.

There was the obligatory B..for basement I presumed. I later found out unnecessarily that my presumption to be correct on the return trip from the doctor's office.

There was the 1 for what I understood to be the main floor..or ground floor..the one I was standing on.

 Then there was a 2..  Hurray! The floor I was looking for.

 I looked at the next button and what do I see?

 I see a 2 1/2 beside it.  Hmmmm.

The archaeological/engineering possibilities and/or impossibilities started flying through my mind as fast as blue birds  flit with panic from bird house to bird house searching for the correct place to roost. 

 Just who would dream up such a floor number as 2 1/2?  How would one even get out of the elevator if the door did indeed open at 2 1/2?  Was I misreading the numbers?  Had I really finally and ultimately lost my grasp of reality?  Gosh..what have they invented and what the H E double hockey sticks do I do now?

I pushed the 2 button.
The elevator rose. 
The door opened.  I peered out. 
I saw the huge expanse of a gymnasium looming in front of me.
No sign of doctor or offices anywhere.   I returned to  the elevator and with the feeling of surrealism that I think that Charlie Bucket must have had as he entered Willie Wonka's Glass elevator....
I pushed  the 2 1/2 and waited.

The  door closed softly. 
I felt the elevator lift. 
Suddenly the opposite wall from the door (the one I was leaning on) started to move and slid open to reveal a busy hallway with  signage denoting the office numbers of chiroprators, surgeons, and physiotherapists. 

 I had arrived!

 I am not sure where I was but I do know that I was there and am not there now.

It is what we know already that often prevents us from learning.
Claude Bernard

The BEAR is Awake!

 Just read this on line on CBC network.

These are my thoughts.

This is just so typical. People will protest the saying of GRACE at a graduation exercise...but at the same time will not protest the buying/selling and dispensing of liquor to high school students at the bush party following graduation.  Parents willingly 'supervise' other other peoples' drunken children at these functions whose stupidity is only surpassed by the parents who allow strangers to 'supervise' their own drunken children. 

People have to get some common sense and quit bowing to peer (beer) pressure and start bringing some dignity back to the transformation from childhood to adulthood. Prayer or no prayer..people have their own personal choice ..but the children who do not want to attend the after bush party are bullied by the communities who embrace these activities with every bit of lack of empathy and boorish selfishness as any group of grade nine girls can be to the deemed 'outcast' of the group.

I think it is a total COP OUT on the part of the authorities, school boards, parents, government legislatures, and all those who will be 'upset' because Grace isn't part of the Graduation Banquet not to stand up and stop 'Safe Grads'. I refer to those graduation functions that involve the 'hidden' location where students and guests from whatever unchecked backgrounds are allowed to consume alcohol.

   This type of activity should be a concern to each and every responsible adult in the community..not just those whose children are graduating that year.

 Standing Up against Something means standing up for it until that something is STOPPED...its not saying once..in a safe environment..in a soft voice...that you don't agree with something. Standing Up means putting yourself out there and speaking until everyone who needs to hear you has heard you.

   Grace may not be said at some graduations this year...but you can bet there should be some prayers sent up to protect any young person who comes from a community that allows Bush Grads to exist; whether they are in attendance or not. When one thinks about it, both groups of young people are being bullied.. those that attend (parents included ) and those who do not attend..(parents included).

My point about the CBC article  is not a Christian point necessarily. No one is saying in the article that people can't say grace at their own tables ... and LIKELY there are some who would anyway because the chosen Grace Saying clergy of the night wouldn't be the acceptable clergy for some other congregation. Putting the beer party issue aside (for a mere second)...it would be interesting to know exactly and truthfully how many people who identify themselves as Christian actually say grace at every meal.I wonder how many of these Christians will still not stand up against the beer drinking party issue, but will instead point a self righteous finger  at the person in the CBC article.  I think God--any one's God.. is just as equally concerned about the health and well being of our young people as He is about whether we are giving thanks for our abundant food supply.

  These bush parties are illegal..and they are  illegal for several reasons. Alcohol and teenage brains do not mix the same as a fully developed adult brains and alcohol does for one. 

Several people do get home safe  that graduation night, but  what about the message it sends to the teen and up coming teens? ALCOHOL and TEENS are not a natural function..it is a socially learned function...(don't get this mixed up with the line "learn to drink" as no one learns anything when drinking. )

People mention the ONE night that grads are safe. I think we should set our standards higher and aim to have 52 weekends/ 365 days a year   when our teenagers / grads are safe. What is so great about being killed on the highway by a drunken driver on a non graduation weekend? Yes, a lot of teens will make their grads a big drunk in any event, but a lot of teens and parents would not be pressured or bullied  into attending if the communities et al wouldn't put their stamp of approval on it.

  Lots of teenagers have sex on graduation too...should we put out a mattress and play soft music while  handing out condoms and pills just so there aren't babies for the New Year?

Stupid is stupid at any level. Graduation Bush Parties are  especially so because there seems no end as to how society can mess up the people we claim we want to educate and nurture.

Elsie May Cooper -- Nurse by Experience

There is something about being unhealthy physically that makes one revert back to being about 5 or 6 years old.

  I use the term physically unhealthy because if I were not to do so,  this little dissertation would have to include the mentally unhealthy. The reader has not that much reading time to spare,  nor do I have that much writing time left in my life to write on that topic to do it adequate justice; even if I were to limit the discussion just to my own personal experience. 

  Illness was quite common in my growing up years as I did not receive immunizations for measles, mumps, or chicken pox because none had yet been developed.  Indeed polio was still a distinct possibility for someone from my generation until that precious little pink drop was given out during the mass oral vaccine clinic held at the Town Hall in the early 1960s.  

 So being ill and lying quiet while the world turns around me due to fever, pain, or nausea is not something that is foreign to my experience.  But what is foreign is that when I am experiencing  any of these symptoms my mother is not there to relieve them.

 My mother was the BEST when any of her children were sick.  She had the innate understanding of what it would take to make an ill child feel  just that little bit more comfortable and cozy.  Fresh crisp linen on the bed with a fluffed  and turned pillow,  along with clean pajamas waiting to change in to after a night of feverish sweating*  were just a few of the sick luxuries one enjoyed.  Snacks and meals served on a tray would include special dishes from the china cabinet. Toast with jam would be cut up into 1/8ths in restaurant type triangles. There would be jello or ice cream along with easily digested vanilla wafer cookies. Sore throats were cooled with a glass of the rarely tasted Apple Juice.

  Bibs and towels, along with baskets and 'calling' bells were bedside ready for any unforeseen incident.   The 'sick' would be preciously tucked into mama's bed just down the hall from the kitchen where one would be easily accessible if one called out.  I can remember hearing the MixMaster running as the radio played  in a distance while Mom went along her busy rural 1950's housewife  duties,  made busier by my presence in her bed.

I say that Mom had an 'innate' understanding of being able to make a sick child feel well, but actually that isn't the truth.  My mother had this understanding because she,  herself,  had spent 10 months in hospital suffering from a severe accidental  scalding received at the age of 9 during the early 1930s.  This accident  placed her life in jeopardy more than once over that time. 

She carried the scar from that experience on her left arm for the rest of her life, but just as the hot water seared her skin,  I believe it was the devoted and caring life saving nursing that she received while in Brandon General Hospital that gave her the ability to care and nurse her own children.

Brandon General Hospital circa 1930

I hope I was able to tap into a little of Mom's nursing ability whenever my own children suffered through broken bones, fevers, sprains, pneumonia, and allergic reactions.  They should be grateful that I did, however, shy away from mustard plasters  and the Vick's On Sock Wrapped Around Neck cures.    

The smearing of Vicks on a grey sock and wrapped around a  child's neck while  pinned  in place at the back was believed to be therapeutic in treating soar throats, colds and sniffles when a child would   finally be sent back to school.  It more likely simply contributed to the disease not spreading as no one would approach the wearer due to the warning odor which accompanied the neck decor.


*This was in the days when clean PJ's were usually only allowed once a week as time washing with a wringer washer and cistern rain water were premium commodities in rural Saskatchewan.

                Patient: "Nurse, I just swallowed my pillow!"

Nurse: "How do you feel?"

    Patient: "A little down in the mouth."

Milk and Cookie Gang

I was going to write about how my friend and I were discussing the fact that it must be tough to be a young person these days.  I was going to mention that there are just so many decisions, temptations, and so called 'freedoms' for young teens and adults,  as well as so many ways to mess up and get hurt.  I was then going to list them all and point out just how much better it was in 'my day' and how there was none of 'that' type of throwing away money, flagrant waste of youthful years, and certainly none of that 'sexual' freedom went on during the 60's or 70's.

But then..I realized I would be most certainly be wrong if not actually out and out lying if I tried to tout this line of insight as Truth.  I would be wrong not to think that people of all ages..not just the youngins.. mess up and hurt themselves.  I wouldn't be in total error when I say that it is tough to be a young person these days, but I would be in error if I limited  the argument to just young people...it is tough to be any age these days.

Perhaps the only difference between being young today and being young "yesterday" is that some of  the 'yesterdays' got to be  sheltered in the culture in which they were raised longer.  We weren't sling shotted through cyberspace being exposed to EVERYTHING out there in one huge leap. 

 The 'yesterdays'  transition into the world was more gradual...at least mine was.  When I left my parents'  rural nest, I only had to travel an hour to be in a different milieu...the city.

For the first year or two,  I travelled by bus nearly every weekend back to my small town to reconnect with home.  I remember the first time I didn't come home for three weeks as I can recall my mother commenting about it to  the neighbour .

The absolute BEST thing about coming home during those early years of adulthood was the group of young people that also returned on a regular basis.  It was a mixture of young men and women who pretty much had the same idea of what fun was...and had the same little idea about romance or sex.  Our cumulative knowledge of drug information was somewhere between Aspirin and Halls Cough Drops.  An alternative lifestyle to this group would have meant someone whose mother worked outside the home or whose brother cut hair for a living. 

  It was a group of friends who accepted each other's foibles , and yes,  oddities .  This 'gang' of young  people knew each other as well as any sibling group.  They knew, or suspected they knew, your fears, crushes, and even your state of digestion (wink) and teased accordingly.

Yes, there was beer drinking, card playing, dancing, and even some random groping and lip smacking out on country roads no more than a mile or two from any of our parents' homes.  I remember packing a car with about 10 people ( with  more hands than one would think possible)  traveling down a  dirt road (the kind that the dust is like black flour) and being stopped by of all things a member of the Royal  Canadian Mounted Police. He (there were only He's then ) just looked in the car..saw how many people there were...asked for the driver's license..saw the name..and simply sent us on our way.   We were  a harmless bunch and he knew it. We gave him no hassle and we received none.

After a few years the 'Gang' sort of melted away.    Non Gang marriages  started to happen, travel and work demanded more time, and adult responsiblities slowly encroached.
  
 Life with its determined measure of joy, worries, losses, dashed hopes and expectations have taken a toll on each member  of that little group of comrades, myself included; which makes those lost  days of the Milk and Cookie Gang that much more treasured.

                        

What really is a pity is that I doubt if a picture of the 'Gang' ever existed as cameras in those days were primarily the objects owned by the 'real' adults.  This contrasts greatly with  today's  world of cell phone cameras and makes it one 'freedom' of today's youth that would have been good to have 40 years ago.




I think it would be a good idea to have a Reunion..and have a Milk and Cookie Gang Float in the next home town parade. 

Par Hazard!

I always marvel at people who say there is no God.

My first thoughts on these occasions  go to the obvious somewhat unbelievable scientific 'chance' facts that even science can't explain .
 

Here is just a short list:

1. Smoke goes up instead of down. All campers in our parks should be quiet grateful for this chance happenstance. .  One can only imagine the chaos that would result  in our campgrounds if all the campfire smoke just crept along the ground smoking out tenters and disturbing ground sleepers of all species.

2.  Our noses point downward.  Yep...pretty 'lucky' I'd say...a big drop in drownings during rain storms have resulted since that scientific  happening occurred.

3. Birds can fly and elephants can't.  Can you imagine the mess that an elephant hitting your grill at 90 mph would create?

4. Our eyes are on top of our head and not on our chin.  The bumps and head bangs that have been avoided just because of that little accidental positioning must be phenomenal.

5. We humans have hair on our head instead of our hands.  This makes both hair styling and eating pleasant experiences.

6.  We SWALLOW our food after it is chewed  rather than the alternative...

7. Its good that teeth are harder
   than most things we put in our mouth.

8.  Its good that lips are softer than most anything else.

9.  How fortunate  we humans are
     that it is US that can read and not the dog.

10.  ...and lastly...I am so very very glad that my son was wearing his helmet when he hit the drainage ditch while snowmobiling..the one and only time he had 'randomly' chosen to wear it.

 

      Coincidence is when God chooses   to remain anonymous.
                                                             --Mrs. Miracle (via Gayle Beck)

One long. Four short.

When I first married and came to the 'farm' to live I had to get used to a few things...one of them being that there was no phone.  I knew that prior to 'landing' of course,  as I had to phone my future mother-in-law's  number so she could pass on messages to 'Lovey' for me.  I guess it would be like having your Mother-in-law  as a friend on Facebook with you nowadays...lots of coded messages.. inboxing , and usage of Privacy settings. 

It was not long before travelling 3 miles to get to a phone ceased to be romantic, and we inquired about getting a phone  'put in'. As the cost of getting underground telephone lines dug in across the neighbor's barley crop was a bit formidable , we opted to have the lines dug in  in the fall after harvest was complete.

It was marvellous!  A lovely brown dial desk phone..on a party line..but a phone nevertheless.   Who cared if the old gentleman's phone down the lane rang every evening at 9pm?  Who cared if the teenage girl across the highway forgot to hang the phone up properly rendering the whole process useless for all three families until someone drove over and told the teenager to put the receiver on the cradle straight?   Who cared if sometimes I answered the neighbour's phone par accident and vice versa?  It was a phone and it was all that mattered.

  It was a link to the 'other' world.  The world from whence I came.  The world of old and faithful friends from communities I had travelled from.  The world of singlehood, freedom, and financial security.  I finally could contact that world and have conversations in relative (or rather non-relative) privacy in my own home.

 As the concept of Bundles and other telephone plans were not yet developed the use of the telephone for long distance calls was actually quite costly.   One time I received a sort of Thank You card from my telephone company. I received  100 minutes of free calling anywhere in North America.  I saved that card for my birthday and locked myself in our one and only bathroom with the phone and called my former roommate in California.  I can still hear the surprise in her voice when she answered and the lovely feeling of being able to have a relaxed and leisurely conversation with a good friend.

Yes the phone became my focus.  I used to run to the phone the second I opened the door to see if I had missed a call. The first thing the              children would report ,upon my arrival home, would be 'who called'. There would be the required piece of paper and pencil set down right beside the phone so accurate messages and return phone numbers could be written down.
The new phone book was displayed and hung up close by..for ever ready use. The clipping of the corner pages to the right telephone exchange was a ritual in my own family, with a nail hole hammered through the top corner and a white string threaded for easy hanging.

If the phone rang in the middle of a meal, game, or conversation all focus was upon the caller and the message , no matter how often or how unimportant. If the phone didn't ring during the day, I would start to feel awkward and uncomfortable. 

Dial Forward 30 years.....


I unplugged my phone today. No, not permanently. Not even for all day. I did plug it in to see if there were any messages I wanted to reply to..but there weren't.
 
It has just been so quiet and nice.  Even with call display one feels compelled to go to the ringing phone to see exactly who is calling and try to determine if it is a computer generated call from 'someone' wanting 'something' from you..no matter how much they insist that you have won a trip somewhere.  I think I will leave it unplugged more often than not.  After all..what is messenger manager for if not to take messages and have them delivered at MY convenience?

 So glad I finally figured out that solution.




Some phone numbers from my past:  88r14--my parents', 88r2 --my grandparents', 66r23..my country school, 335 2855, 335 2834, 698 2702, 698 2967, 527 4253...all of these were important at one time.  I thought I'd remember more.  I guess now one has only storage for email addresses .




Short story re: 'Lovey' and the phone.   He was at home alone one afternoon shortly after the phone was installed.   I called him from town.  No answer. I called again.  Still no answer.   Upon my return home I asked why he hadn't answered the phone.
  
His reply, "I didn't answer because no one ever phones me."

He now answers a ringing phone.