Six Decades

I will soon be 60 years of age.  A milestone.  A time when one is to take time to sit back and reflect on one's life.  A time to dwell on  and celebrate past successes and failures.  A time to relax, chill out, and accept life as it comes with an air of wisdom and sagacity that comes from a life not necessarily well lived but more likely lived as easy or hard as the next 60 year old who was born on this planet in 1952 on the continent of North America, to parents of average income, intelligence and loving intent for their children.

Someone (my husband) has told me that there were more people born in the year 1952 in North America than in any year before or since.  So that makes me  and my 60th birthday a pretty common event as far as common events go in this land of plenty.

There are many things I could mention in terms of memories, wishes, regrets, and hopes, but they probably aren't really any different from any one of those oh so many other 60 year olds in this part of the world. 

Who hasn't been on this earth  60 years without making mistakes by choosing wrongly,  quitting when we should have strived onwards, borrowed when we should not have, saved when we should have spent, worked where we hated, and played less often than we should have.

  No one gets to be 60 without at least one time being so embarrassed that they turn red in the face just thinking about an incident.(Thinking about it right now aren't you?)

  No 60 year old exists who wouldn't cross the street, leave a building, or cover their face if ever they were to see at least one person that they hope they never  ever would encounter again for whatever reason--apology to be given, money to be returned, or promise that was broken.

The  mere fact  that so many of 'US' were born in  what must be considered some sort of marked year in the annuals of North American Society makes me to personally think it is  fortunate that neither of the then  Super Powers of that Era ever attempted to harness the total huge mass of energy that must have existed in terms of the teenage hormones that were  collectively raging from the mid 1960's to the  mid 1970's.
  I suspect a new form of chemical warfare era could have taken place causing whole populations to unknowingly and unwillingly  engage in unusual customs involving unprecedented change  in social mores  being  hormonally driven and  never before seen anywhere in the History of the Greater North American Lifestyle.  I am thinking, Dear  Reader, of such Flower Power fashion statements as Mini skirts, Aviator glasses, Nero shirts, Platform shoes, Afro hairdos,  Bell bottoms (as in clothing), and Bra burning ( also as in clothing); as well as social occurrences in numbers heretofore never considered or even imagined or recorded  such as:   love-ins, laugh- ins, sit-ins and drop-ins all  often done through shout-outs by drop-outs to those who  were then deemed cop-outs.



Yes, indeed, it certainly is a good thing the other side didn't get a hold of any of that Hormone Stuff or we would have all been in big trouble.  The world would now have been a very different place, lacking a certain 'je ne sais quoi' if you will.  

Hmmm....wait a minute....





Yes, I am turning 60. 

I did do a lot of things in the past 6 decades,

 and 

 I did not do a lot of things..

  I did not become a Brain Surgeon,
    I did not marry a Prince,
     I did not go on an African Safari,
      I did not read War and Peace,
       I did not go to Paris for lunch,
         I did not jump out of an airplane,
           I did not dance at the Savoy,
             I did not hold public office,
               I did not tame a lion,
                 ... and I did not star on Broadway...


                                                             ...yet. 

Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda.

One doesn't get to the age I am without having some regrets in life. 

Some of these regrets are from bad choices due to bad logic, bad influences, or bad attempts to repair other bad choices  which were, ironically,   often the result of the  same causative factors previously mentioned. 

For instance, I probably would choose NOT to ride my horse bareback "hell bent for leather" as they say, over  a soft cultivated field  and onto a hardened road, as I realise now the importance of not falling face first on  fresh gravel.

Another thing I wouldn't do again is to write my Grade Two spelling words ON MY DESK thinking that the teacher would not notice me placing my face flat against the wooden arm as I attempted to make out the words .

For sure I would avoid chewing the gum that I stole from  our hired man's room in front of my mother.

If I had it to do over again I would never think that smoking pencil shavings would be in ANY way the same as smoking tobacco.

I  know I will never ever ever  again lick the end of the already plugged in  telephone adapter  due to the sting of regret  that I experienced. 

I do regret believing my sister, who is 6 years older than I, when she said that Mom wouldn't mind if I wet my pants instead of going inside to use the toilet.

It is regrettable that I  thought  drinking vodka and eating orange ice cream at the same time  would have the same effect as having a vodka and orange.

Leaving the mosquito repellent behind in the car while embarking on a three mile hike into the mosquito and horsefly laden woods was a regrettable mistake.

Kissing the press board walls in my bedroom while fantasying about some movie star while wearing Vaseline on my  chapped lips is another mistake fraught with regret and embarrassment. ( I was only ten).

I do regret thinking that I could really do a believable and uniquely clever impression of a screeching monkey while sitting at the university bar that 'time'.

My Dad sort of really  made me regret throwing  two pieces of toast on the floor in a random fit of temper tantrum.

Hitchhiking to Calgary with a member of the Grim Reaper Motorcycle Gang could have resulted in lots of regrets.

  I do not regret the following: reading my sister's diary, climbing out my bedroom window, dancing even after the music had stopped, staying up all night watching a campfire, reading under the covers, taking any class,  or ever peeking at my Christmas presents (because I never did), or giving my babies 1000's of kisses.

Sydney J. Harris: “Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable.”

Minky Business

10. Generators should not have to be running 24/7 while camping.  One may as well sit in their own living room with the windows open and the TV turned up to the Nascar Races to get the same effect.
9.  No one should be sitting on the bow of a boat at any time. That means NEVER...even when the boat is out of the water..and especially when the boat is on the water travelling full throttle..life jackets or no life jackets...and especially  especially if you are under five years old.

8. Red wine can truly effect your enjoyment of a Sunday afternoon..sometimes it enhances it..sometimes it doesn't.

7. The sound of someone playing the fiddle will be enjoyed the most by those who can't tell the difference between C and C#.
6.  Just because one doesn't actually plant a garden does not mean that nothing will be growing in it.

5. The chance that someone is going to drive behind your vehicle increases 100% whenever you choose to  move  your vehicle in reverse...no matter where you are...busy city streets, lonely country lane or empty camp ground.

4. It is interesting to note that the stance involved when sitting on a toilet is the  much the same as when one is sitting at a banquet, living room chair, or church pew.

3. Sometimes the people who like to think that they are  part of an exclusive group forget that maybe they are the ones being excluded from something even better.

2.  We should all be thankful that we do not have to walk in another's shoes...even for an hour.

1.  The 2nd Amendment in the United States..the one about the right to bear arms.. should be honoured (honored) but only on the condition that the arms referred to are those that were available when the 2nd Amendment was written--1791. Musket anyone?

0.  A Mink in the wild  isn't nearly as pretty, cuddly , or warm as it is when it is in a coat.

 We need the tonic of wildness, to wade sometimes in marshes where the bittern and the meadow-hen lurk, and hear the booming of the snipe; to smell the whispering sedge where only some wilder and more solitary fowl builds her nest, and the mink crawls with its belly close to the ground.”--Henry David Thoreau

The Dish Ran Away With The Spoon

Something must be UP because as a person who absolutely , and I mean absolutely, hates washing  dishes, something very strange has just happened in our household.

I have hated that after meal routine with a vengeance. I think it began when I was  a child of about 10 and  I grew into the chore of taking my turn to do the dishes alone after supper.   Not sure why this attitude developed exactly--it might have been the amount dishes to wash, as there were often 7 or 8 for the supper meal, plus the after school snack dishes, not to mention the unspeakable lunch box leavings. It might have been that supper wasn't until 6pm in our house and the best television programs came on early in the evening.   I  developed  a type of   Cinderella Syndrome  I fear, as I could hear everyone else laughing in the living room as I remained back in the kitchen alone and sulking in a pool of self pity and pre-adolescent despair.   This type of despair can sometimes turn into adolescent despair of which much has been written but to which no solution has been found.


 It could have been that there was no such thing as wash, rinse, and rack to dry. Very little rinsing was done due to water restrictions on a dry land based farming operation-- so drying and putting away was the norm. The water was often very hot to begin with as the rule was  we could only use just the hot water tap to fill the dish basin following  the theory that water would be saved if one didn't dilute the hot water with cold.

I always found the silverware to be particularly annoying what with the forks poking into the tea towel used for drying causing various verb forms of the utensil to come to mind.  Just the general piddliness of handling such little things separately was trying.  Give me a stack of plates that one can dry with a clink clink clink like a deck of cards being shuffled and there wouldn't be a dirty dish left in fifteen minutes from start to finish one way or another.

Old dried potato pots and cold  burned on gravy at the bottom of roasters  left until the last, in by then lukewarm water, were almost impossible to get clean let alone dry, as the allotted tea towel would be so wet it would more than likely just leave streaks on whatever it was that one was 'drying'. 

Yes it is, and was, no secret that the dishes were /are not my favourite household chore.  Even my children, I suspect, realized that, and I know my husband is certain of it. 

So that is why the incident this evening is particularly unusual and perhaps not a little troubling.

This week and this week only I promised myself (as part of getting a real life program) that "I am going to have a clean kitchen".  So right after supper, I , without too much hesitation,  gathered the dishes and utensils and started to fill the sink with both hot and cold water, poured in the detergent, wiped down the stove and proceeded with the chore.  I was puzzled when I realized that there was only one dinner plate  in the sink from the meal shared with my husband.  As I KNEW that we had not eaten off the same dish (that sort of romantic eating stopped a lonnng time ago),  and  as neither of us had eaten  right out of the stew pot, I  naturally wondered what had happened to the missing plate.  I asked my husband if he had brought his plate back to the kitchen and he assured me that he had, and even pointed to the exact spot where he left it by the sink.  Doubting this I sent him back to the living room in a quest to find the other supper plate. He returned with a glass but no plate.  I proceeded, with not a little apprehension,  to look in the fridge and then in the bathroom, thinking that perhaps it had gotten put down somehow in error.  Nope--no plate to be found.

The only place left to look after checking the oven and  tea towel drawer (where it wouldn't have fit anyways--I don't even know why he even opened the drawer) was the dish cupboard.

Now, I ask the reader to keep in mind that the last place setting of four that I purchased  was on sale from Canadian Tire for $15 plus tax and it only has  4 plates,  4 bowls, 4 cups, and 4 saucers. This same reader, therefore,  can readily understand the astonished exclamation that burst from my lips when, after careful counting, and consequent recounting of  said dish set, it was discovered that there were three clean plates sitting in the cupboard.

  Creepy little shivers ran down my back as I stared down at the sink, jaw hanging open in awestruck dismay, where the fourth sole plate lay languishing as it  awaited  its turn to be cleansed and placed with its patterned companions.

It seems the  extreme stress of the toil of washing my own dish and putting it back into the cupboard immediately upon completion of my meal has wiped out all and every bit of memory of the deed.  

What does it mean?  It might mean I should invest in more paper plates.  It might mean I should invest in a dishwasher.  It might mean my husband will do dishes more often. It might mean I am truly losing my mind...



What do you think it means? 

Flying

A plane just flew over the yard and I didn't even get up to look at it.  Could I finally have become blase about what used to be cause to drop everything even if it meant leaving the television screen, dish pan, or cat to run out to see 'the plane,  the plane?

  Often those planes that fly low over rural Canada are photography planes that record the bird's eye view of farm yards. After about three weeks of the siting, a car will drive into the farmer's yard  and the salesman will hold out  an irresistible aerial portrait of the farmyard and buildings. Strange how so many people seem to be out in their yards waving at 'something' high in the air just as the plane has passed overhead.  

I am not sure where this fascination with planes came from except that my Dad did serve in the Royal Canadian Air Force during WWII and he thus acquired  an interest in planes and flying.  This interest was also evident in the fact that he attended many many Air Shows at Canadian Forces Base Moose Jae 15 Wing and took his family with him.  Dad also was responsible for our whole family to experience flying in a Cessna with our cousin as pilot.  He also encouraged us to take a ride in a helicopter at the fair one year.

I suppose it's inevitable that  this getting used to what  is in  my mind  a miracle of sorts has finally occurred. I use the term miracle because   we are not supposed to be able to fly.  Our body mass ratio is way out of line for the possibility of  what might be termed as  a personal flying experience no matter what Erica Jong might say about it. 
 I don't believe we were ever really supposed to be able to see 30000 feet straight down to anywhere to either seek out food or sanctuary.  I suspect that is why one can't even breathe real air when one is so high off the ground. Indeed we risk of messily exploding if we were ever just suddenly placed up there without the shield of pressurization. Just as assuredly we were never supposed to land from that height with any degree of safety whatsoever using any of our appendages as blocking tools.  A miracle indeed if one doesn't take into account human brilliance and ultimate human error.

My son was only about 2 years old when he stood on the front steps and watched birds flying in the air.  He pointed to the birds with wonder and awe and I explained to him that they were birds and  that they were flying.  He looked at me quizzically and said, "Boy, fly?"  I replied, in what no doubt has become an unforgivable scarring comment to be written in the annals of Unforgivable  Poor Mothers' Comments., "No.. Boys don't fly". 

 He lowered his head and covered his eyes in disappointment--and no,  he never has flown.

1983



1987

2000

Right On!

What makes being right so much better than being kind?

There is something about our society that values rightness over kindness.

I find it interesting that right rhymes with bite..like being right will bite you right in the ass .

The pleasure from acting out of love is ten fold more than the action from being right.

Being right is different than living right.

What makes being self righteously right feel so right?

What makes self righteous judging so much fun?

What makes it so  feel so right if one is a  victim?

Education does not make you right or kind.

Money does not equal intelligence or rightness.

Right also rhymes with tight as in a person's jaw when they are right.

Being right is only a hair's breath from being wrong--just depends which side of the mirror you are looking at.

The term Dead Right probably refers to relationships.


Ever wonder what it would   happen if you were wrong?

R--is it real?

I--  is it intelligent?

G--is it gentle?

H--is it healing?

T--is it true?

That old law about 'an eye for an eye' leaves everybody blind. The time is always right to do the right thing.
Martin Luther King, Jr.

The Best Laid Plans...

We have spent the last several weekends camping out by a nearby lake where the fishing is good and the neighbours are few.  Our camper is a 15 foot  hard sided fold down type that sleeps four.  It was a two burner stove, furnace, fridge and sink inside with a four person dining area that converts to a double bed.  As the camper is wired for electricity from a battery, there is a ceiling fan and two ceiling lights.  Camp time night reading is done with  flashlights leaning on one's shoulder.

As we spend 98%  of the time cooking, washing, and sitting outside, the inside sink has never been used, the propane stove  was used to boil water for noodles once, and the furnace is turned on for only early spring and fall nights.  Food is kept inside for safe keeping from temperature and flies.  Dishes and pots and pans are stored outside on a little camp table. Potable water is stored in the camper and there is an electric pump that allows one to get water from the  attached outside type shower hose mechanism.    All cooking is done over the fire.  We carry to the camp two chairs,  our own wood, ax and hand saw along with a metal fire ring that originally was the metal tub from an old washing machine.  All these are packed in the back of a 1/4 Ton Chevy truck. Portable washroom facilities are placed in a privacy tent set apart from the main camping area.  Fish cleaning and garbage containment is handled through using recycled bags that are packed and carried home for disposal.

Our fishing canoe is equipped with homemade outrigger system and an electric motor.  We carry the quietest  1000 W generator on the market and regenerate the battery for only an hour every three days.  For news updates of the world we carry  a battery powered  shortwave radio which is turned on for perhaps an hour a day at the most.

  This method of camping is in stark contrast to the camper or what is referred to as ' the UNIT' in modern camping terms,  that set up in the next area to us this past weekend. This  35' fifth wheeler was pulled by an  F250 Diesel truck with a 24 foot Lund and a 90 HP Honda motor attached to the rear bumper.  The screened awning trimmed with Christmas lights that was set up within 15 minutes of the truck being turned off was bigger than our whole camper.  The screened in Gazebo type detached enclosure that was  set up within  the next half hour would have covered 80% of the rest of the our camping area.  The screened in sliding insert into the screened patio door on the side of the camper would cause any insect, bird,or rodent come to a 'screening' halt while at the same time allow hands to pass things such as food, condiments, and sunscreen out into the wilderness and back again.

The WalMart purchased fire ring  that never bore flame or heat any time during the three day stay,  the 3000W generator that ran during every night, and the woman sweeping cobwebs off the underside of the hitch a long with the periodic smell of RAID that wafted over to our site were some of the indicators that these campers were not really out to enjoy what we in the Master Camping World refer to  as the " the full camping experience."

The full camping experience involves horseflies, mosquitoes, spiders, water beetles, flies, wet salt, melted butter, burned fingers, slivers and blisters,  singed hair, wet feet, leeches,  warm beer, warm water, itchiness anywhere at anytime caused by anything,  chipped plates, wet shoes, the taste of Musk oil, scurrying mice, baler twine, tarps , and bungee cords. This activity also involves mammals from the wild , through either sight, sound, or smell,  such as moose, birds, raccoons, bears, and skunks.

I think perhaps that if our neighbours had been more in touch with this true camping experience they would have been more aware and more insightful when it came to where they put their new handy dandy  plastic string-tied full sized black garbage bags before shutting off their lights and turning on their generator.  Otherwise they might have been able to listen for  the skunk, raccoon or possibly bear, as it rifled through their garbage that was left against the outside of the 'UNIT'.  They would have  then avoided the 20 foot swath of food waste, paper, plastic and cans, and loss of privacy  that was spread around the campground.

This garbage incident  is a prime example that no matter what we do to avoid it we will be taught a lesson every time.

 These campers had come to the wilderness for their own reasons and goals,  but in spite of all the tireless work they did to try to pretend that they could still achieve their non wilderness living lifestyle , the wilderness was able to still encroach on their comfort zone.  This encroachment probably caused just as much disturbance to those visitors to the wild as that which is  caused to ants, mice, squirrels, moles or rabbits that might enter into their own homes and gardens accidentally or on purpose.

In truth, the only real difference between our type of visit to the outdoors and  that of those neighbours of screen and garbage is that we don't insulate ourselves from the very place we go to visit, therefore we aren't as surprised when 'stuff' happens or goes awry.

Evaporating Watermelons?

HOT!

It was, is, and will be HOT-- yesterday, today , and tomorrow.

It  is so hot that people will be getting pieces of black sticky heat softened asphalt  found in mall parking lots on their sandals.

It  is so hot that little kids will yell and run as they race across  hot sand.

It  is so hot that every square space at the beach will be taken   by every type of wet body -- young, old, svelte , the not so svelte and the never were nor  ever will be svelte.

It is so hot that leatherette  car seats and barelegs will stick together like a band aid to chest hair.

It is so hot that black cats may melt and watermelons evaporate.

It is so hot that birds will stop singing and mosquitos will stop stinging-- not so the horseflies.

It is so hot that not only will the beaches  be crammed but also bathing suits, as  there will be people  heading to the lakes who have never had any other type of water on their skin besides that found in a hot shower since 1968.

It is so hot that ice cream will start dripping off the cone before it's paid for.

It is so hot that knives left out on the picnic table longer than 1 minute will  burn the fingers.

It is so hot that things such as Cd's, guitars, and ornamental dash decor will warp while being in a closed parked car.

It is so hot that department stores will run out of electric fans, air conditioners, and shade umbrellas.

It is so hot that any type of chocolate bar or rosebuds or M&M  left in a back pocket, front pocket or child's fist longer than  46 seconds will turn to the consistency of brown sticky paint.


It is so hot that even the pages of the book you read while on the beach will become warm to the touch. 

Sunburns will be had, popsicles will be slurped, dogs will pant,  and the memory of  last January when the thermometer read -40c will   disappear as fast as the ice in the cooler that was designed to keep the potato salad  safe.

Hot House of Moths

It is a hot day in July.

The newscasts  report record breaking heat in the United States along with widespread power outages. I worry about those people affected, especially those without necessary air conditioning and readily available ways to keep cool.  

It is the type of day when my Mom would close all the windows in the house and draw  the curtains as well as flip the venetian blinds down in the kitchen.  No electric lights or appliances (including the television or radio) were  allowed to be turned on due to the possibility of heat generation in that era of vacuum tubes, and where air conditioning was considered to be only a rich man's crutch.

The comings and goings and consequential opening and closing of the door was hailed as an unwelcome intrusion and had to be done with a deftness haste reminiscent of the coldest days in January.

 The house , therefore, was a cool, dark, and quiet sanctuary from the seemingly unrelenting barrage of heat in a windless world.

  It is the type of day that if Mom had ever known about how good it was, she would have started some  Sunshine Iced Tea.

This is also the type of day that Mom would fill the galvanized wash tub with water from the well and let me sit in it while  proudly wearing a yellow seersucker bathing suit  in the stifling warm porch .  (I was  the one wearing the seersucker suit--not my Mom. Just wanted to clear that up.)

This is also the type of  hot day that might stir up a thunderstorm with the potential of  an out and out downpour including damaging hail or even a tornado.  I suppose that is why one of those times when I was enjoying my washtub swim my Mom told me to climb out and stand in the stairwell of the basement while the sky darkened at 5 pm.. I remember it darkened so much so that one couldn't see the garden nor the barn where dad was milking the cows.

It is this type of hot day that would  make sleeping upstairs in the wood frame press board lined farmhouse almost impossible.  Impossible not only for the still and sweltering heat that settled under the poorly insulted roof rafters, but also because of the flying , flitting, flipping, and crawling of an undetermined number( seemingly millions) of diamond backed moths that absolutely loved the press board walls for the laying of eggs.

One would hear the tick tick tick of moths on the window--the inside of the window, as well as around the yellow shaded  bulb (designed badly to dissuade insects from congregating around the light) at the top of the stairs.  One would hear the moths flip and flop around the folds of the curtain as they struggled for freedom.   

  There are some who claim that moths don't bite but having one creepy crawl around your hair,  ears, and pillow, as well as underneath the covers with its soft, furry, slinky and silky wings  would make  one start and jump out of bed just as fast as if any scorpion or flesh eating creature had suddenly attacked with jaws ajar and claws bared. 

There would be no escape from these fuzzy flying fiends except to cover one's head under the sheets that would be snugly tucked around one's body.  In the morning one would see the sickening wet clumps of eggs laid on the walls and edges of door frames. There would be no moth in sight, all having found some obscure corner such as  under mattresses, behind hanging pictures and mirrors, on top of light fixtures,  inside dresser drawers and folds of  clothing, and between pages of books. 

While the thousands of people who are currently without power in stifling heat sit and wait, I suspect few will have to sleep in the company of moths. I also suspect quite a few would envy anyone who had an opportunity to bath in  cool well water in any type of tub-- galvanized or not.  

The Miller Moth

May their power soon be restored and the sun be merciful for the sake of their elderly and infirm. 

Heidi Ho--Prairie Treasure

Well, within one day of writing this my baby will be one year farther away from being my baby.  She will  have completed another year of being a grown woman, with adult freedoms and adult responsiblities. 

But being my baby, the youngest of four babies, I think there will always be a place in my heart where she is still the little pink skinned. round headed, fair haired girlie that I brought home .   After a 3 week stay in the hospital, awaiting the grand arrival, Heidi was born at 4:30 in the afternoon with almost every nurse on the floor coming to watch. I think they had been taking bets when/if this baby was ever going to be born. Her Dad was there witnessing it all--the only birth he did witness.

  Grandma and Grandpa D. happened to walk in just in time to find out that Heidi was coming into the world at that very moment.  And, true to form, Grandma and Grandpa D. LEFT the hospital to go shopping.  They came back in time to watch me do the  first baby wash up.   The nurses came and took the baby after a few minutes and told me to get some sleep.  There were about 6 other babies born that day in this particular hospital.  When I awoke, I heard an infant  cry and went to the doorway of my room and called the nurse asking, "Is that my baby crying?"; and yes , indeed, it was my Heidi Ho.  They were quite surprized that I knew my baby's cry so soon after having met her.

 Heidi Jayne fit right in.  She was the apple of her big sister Sarah's eye who referred to her as 'the newborn baby'.  There was nothing that Sarah wouldn't have done, given, or sacrificed for the 'new born baby'. She even offered up her treasured stuffed animal bag to me so that I would have something to put the 'new born baby's ' things into.  I suspect one could still cause tears of regret to well up in Sarah's eyes if one ever brought up the time she dropped her treasured sister when she went to lift her out of her playpen.  Happily no harm was done except some of Sarah's heart was broken .

Heidi has another sister closer in age ,who being 2 1/2 at time of her arrival, simply was not all that impressed with a baby who had no teeth, no hair, and couldn't play or eat. Nope, Rachel was not pleased.  Of course, that time soon passed as the two youngest girls became good playmates while the other siblings were off to school.

The big brother of the family ,  being seven years old, pretty much tolerated another girl baby being brought into the house but was a dutiful brother when it came to running and fetching things for mom while the baby was young.  Alexander was a willing and able sleigh and wagon puller for baby, as well as being the 'cat' when playing house.

The first away trip for Heidi would have been staying at the cottage at the tender age of 1 week.  July was always cottage month for the family and Heidi and her carriage landed on the beach  with mosquito netting and playpen.  Her first birthday was at the lake. I think everyone in the family remembers the 'pink' shovel.

Some memorable moments for Heidi as she grew up are: having a chicken bone in her foot, having a nail from a board  in her foot , skating at Sheho, falling off her bike and spilling her candies on the gravel road (which Rachel went and picked up for her ), playing in the water trough sans clothing, playing in the sandpile, kittens from the barn, chocolate chips in the play refridgerator, tea parties, playing house in the barn loft, playing with the old Christmas trees in the snow, shows in Yorkton, cake decorating, getting  books from the library, getting her passport by herself at 16, composing at the piano, cottage time with Dad, hurting her knee, surprise Santa Gifts at age 17, two trips to build houses in Mexico, scrapbooking, wilderness camping, and working in the school cafeteria. 

Heidi has to have the BEST sense of humor and the most beautiful smile set off by flawless  white teeth and just a hint of a dimple.  The appreciation for the just a 'little bit' twisted is what I like.  Her fearlessness and her adament sense of what is right and wrong is what I think are her best characteristics.  Not much gets past her when it comes to identifying the  superfluous and superficial both in personality and materialism.

She is a people person and enjoys meeting, and learning about, and appreciating the differences of everyone she encounters.  She doesn't judge  on  occupation, religion, culture, looks, age or education.  She looks to see who the individual is on the inside first before condemning or sterotyping; and I think that THAT is what I admire about her the most. 

Heidi is  a taller than average woman with a build to match her interest in maritial arts and fitness training. She has recently completed four years post secondary education which includes the aquistion of a decent grasp of Spanish , and she continues to thirst for knowledge. She loves reading, biking, going the gym, parties,  camping, wearing cool clothes (that fit gorgeously on her 5'10+ frame). Sometimes  this blonde haired, blue eyed beauty of Swedish ancestory also needs just sitting and thinking time to examine  her life and her future.

My baby is a treasure and I wish her a life of wonderful adventure full of caring and  loving friends who will lift her up and appreciate what a jewel she truly is.

If you ever get to meet Heidi or are already her friend..get her to explain the difference between salmonella and syphylis.  It's important she gets that straight in her mind.

OUCH..that hurt!

During the last couple of months I have had the dubious opportunity to require the services of a physiotherapist.  Before this I had never given much thought as to what these people did. How bad could it be?  I thought perhaps they rubbed your muscles , or wiggled your arms, or crinked your neck. Nope. That's not what they do at all, at all, at all. 

What they do is make you WORK! You are made to work your muscles to the brink of tears and exhaustion while they calmly stand beside you , arms crossed, leaning against the wall, as they watch. They watch how hard you are pulling, bending, stretching and grimacing. Then, after all that, they invite you into their 'little room' where you are told to lie facedown on the cot that has what I refer to as a "screaming hole". Its that little space you put your face into because if it wasn't there your face would be smacked down flat and  the scream drool would have no where to go and it would be messy. 

 You follow  their directions merely and primarily because some government agency is paying your way to be there. So you have to show up, sweat up, lie down, and  floor scream  not so softly into that modern day scream catcher.
And THEN, the  physioperson grabs the injured body part (in my case the leg)and proceeds to bend it backward.  Like really backward.  Like so backward the only thing louder than the popping and cracking going on inside  the joint are the gasps and groans being thrown literally to the floor through that little hole of pain.

Now physioperson says, "Feel THAT Penny?"  Or, as physioperson starts actually leaning their body weight down lower and lower upon my bent and suffering limb, "How about this?"

I did not KNOW that is what physiotherpests do and I told them that one day.  The reply was , "Just because it hurts doesn't mean it harms."---

--and THUS starts the purpose of this blog....

 I like to think that that phrase , "Just because it hurts doesn't mean it harms" can also be applied to concepts surrounding relationships.


We most assurdely all hurt, have hurt, been hurt,  and will be hurt.  We all will be guilty of  hurting our peers, our loved ones, our children,our parents, and strangers. 

We can be hurt in several ways:verbally,physically,sexually,emotionally, and  morally. I could stop there and say, "That's that. You are, were and, will be hurt..so suck it up princess and get on with life." Sometimes we do that very thing and sometimes we don't follow such advice either because we won't or can't, but mostly because in the long run it doesn't work.

And sometimes there is harm that follows the hurt. Harm that fractures lives and makes a wound that festers and scars both the one who caused the hurt and the recipient, as well as whoever may be in the vicinity physically or emotionally to witness the hurtful act.

The hurt may and most times does come from an outside source, but it is the harm that results is what comes from within.  We can go to doctors and physiotherpists if it is a physical hurt, or we can see counsellors and psychologists for an emotional hurt.  But no matter what those people tell us, it is still ultimately up to us to do the work..of exercising or in the case of hurts that are other than physical taking the time to adjust our thinking. Part of this adjusted thinking will inevitably lead to having to repeatedly forgive just as much as a daily ritual  of stretching and bending is for a physical hurt.

People often have a hard time forgiving because of the  genuine feelings of hurt that occur,just as it is in the case of the pain that comes with a physical injury and required  painful exercise to follow. But if one doesn't forgive and do that exercise of learning to let go, accept, and trust , the harmful effects of fear,isolation , and anger will start to harden one's heart until other parts of one's life become affected.  Relationships get cut off, bitterness sets in, and innocent people start getting hurt which in turns creates even more harm. This will happen just as assuredly as if one didn't  exercise a damaged ligament; the rest of one's joints would bare too much pressure and get damaged in the long run creating further injury and hurt which,again, if not cared for becomes  permanent harm.

There is a reason for that little hole in the scream table--it is to help the one who is hurting to cope with a painful situation. May we all find our own little scream table in life so that when we hurt we have someone or somewhere to go to help us stop the harm.


 Hurt -- inevitable.
 Harm -- optional.
 Forgiveness -- mandatory. 

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

My husband wakes up at much at the same time of day everyday--5:30 am.  He wakes just before the alarm goes off.  He claims it is because his body gets too sore from lying in bed , but I think it is because he hates the sound of the alarm clock.

I can pretty much only sleep about two hours at a time because my body, too , protests the constant pressure of being laid prone with joints unmoving and seemingly at rest, but in actuality in various states of seizure. Hence the pain of even turning over stirs one to awaken with a hesitancy and a certain dread  caused by wondering  which  movement will lessen or worsen the  condition.

The days when  one could work and play for more hours than sleep have vanished as completely as my desire to do so.    Those times of having to have the alarm clock placed inside a metal cooking pot set across the room so one would have to actually stand up and walk to stop the sound in order to become fully awakened  are but a faded memory.  What was I doing that I would be so absolutely exhausted that I wouldn't be able to wake up to a regular set alarm clock?   If I recall correctly, it was the effect of  the burning of the candle at both ends.  Now that's a phrase seldom thought of and  a  concept even less seldom applied in this household for at least two decades.

Another guaranteed 'up and att'em' practice that circumvents the comparative gentleness of the clanging of any alarm clock is the tradition that was practiced in  my family of origin by the early morning glass of water in the face.  Now this wasn't an every day occurrence and in reality probably happened no more that two or three times to either myself or any of my siblings during our comparative short  stay in the family home.  I think it was the seemingly randomness of the act that made it so effective. The coldness and liquidity of the water certainly made it more memorable. 

Now, it seems, one can be awakened by almost any sound, bell, musical selection,or song.  One can even program the room's lighting to gradually brighten or fall as needed to fit the  slumber needs of the individual.  This compared to the abrupt flicking of the overhead ceiling bulb or the flipping up of the bedroom blind is , if one will please forgive me,  like night and day.

  It makes me wonder how did people actually know and have the motivation to get out of bed and prepare for the day's work before all the gadgetry and inventions of the modern world came to be?  I think it probably had a lot to do with  having to eat to live, and in order to do that, one had to get up and  earn one's daily bread or salt as the case may dictate.  In an agricultural setting , one has to variably go fetch or catch the food to be eaten, so sleep in that instance,  is often regarded as a necessary inconvenience to ongoing survival-- more of a hindrance than a pleasure.

Gone are the days of working from daylight to dawn with the only pleasure being able to sit and eat three times a day.  Gone is the simple satisfaction that comes from having the health to fulfill a day's labour.  Gone are the reasons to feel genuinely fatigued enough to fall gratefully into bed and sleep the dreamless sleep of one satisfied with life. Gone, it seems too, is  the motivation to leave that sleep to embrace the day.  

And so with these thoughts in mind, I wish each and every one of us a night of worry free slumber that can only be a result of a day's toil full of heartfelt vigor and love of the activity performed.  May the knowledge that whatever choices we made during the day that wanes, were  made out of compassion, love , and understanding for the fellow creatures sharing our world.  It is my wish that all   our awakenings will be with ease and blessed with  an optimism  and confidence that whatever unfolds minute by minute,  we will do our best to make it a day that will end in a welcome and deserved rest full of pleasant dreams of both the day to come and the day just passed.

Drowning Video

DROWNING

Fishy Fishy in the Sea

Fishing Vocabulary

Lure ,
Hook,
Spool,
Spoon,
Swivel,
Fillet,
Rod,
Reel,
Anchor,
Trolling,
Casting,
Limit,
Jack,
Wall Eye,
Pike,
Len Thompson and,
Canadian Wiggler.


Some Common Fishing Rules Are:

Keep the tackle box closed in case it gets dumped.


WEAR the life jacket in case you get dumped.


Reel in as soon as you know the other fisherman has caught a fish.


Keep your rod up and your tension on.


The boat coming off the water  is the boat that has the next right to use the dock.

Never fish off the same side of the boat as the other person.



PHRASES Heard on a Fishing Weekend.

Got One!
Oh..a nibble.!
Gone!  Really Gone! Gone! Gone! Gone! (as in hook is Gone in weeds, fish, or rocks) . The same meaning can be expressed   with the phrase, "Fish On! Fish Off!"
I just bought that hook.
"It  got away you mean," in reply to, "It Let Go!"
I've seen sardines bigger than that!
I need a new leader.
It was huge!
Did it ever pull!
Where  are the licenses?
Should we keep it?
Watch out for  the Rock!
Did you see it?
Hammer Handle!
Grandpa..what if we have to pee when we are in the boat?
Sure you can look in my cooler, Sir.
WHOA!
I'm hooked.
I guess there were some rocks there.
Got the first fish!
Got the biggest fish!
Do you think they are going to run that all night long? (generator reference)
Why would they need those?



SOUNDS one hears on a fishing trip.

Boat motors.
Sea gulls.
Kill deers.
Loons.
Waves splashing.
Boats on rocks.
Trucks spinning tires.
Squeak of trailer springs.
Generators :(
Electric filleting knives. ?????

SIGHTS on Fishing Trip

Boats on water.
Boats with high sides.
Boats with low sides.
Wide Boats.
Narrow boats.
Boats on trailers.
Boats on trucks.
Fish jumping out of the water.
Pelicans sculling.
White caps.
Campsites with Halogen Lights.
Boat being paddled back to shore in the morning.
Another boat being paddled back in the morning.
Boat being paddled back (again) to shore in the afternoon.
Hooks flying unleashed from the line.
Kid in raft without life jacket.
Man in underwear in water trying to  reach lost hook.
Dogs  in water.
White caps.
Four people standing up in boat at the same time.
Two people in boat without life jackets.
Man standing behind 6 year old with rod and hook.
Man being hooked by 6 year old with rod and hook.
Conservation Officer driving ghost truck.

What to Wear...What to Where?

For most of my 'womanly' years, I have hated the pressure of having to look right, dress up, or get jazzed up for any special event.  The reason for this may be the not so evident inner desire  to not be noticed, or it may be the more evident desire not to have to pay for someone else's standard of what the term appropriately dressed means.

I went to university during the early 1970's, which in Canada was actually the tail  end of the revolutionary 1960's in the rest of the world.  As the histrionic student  unrest hit Canadian campuses, the fashion of looking like one who came off of some boat carrying immigrants from Central Europe in the 1930s was  preferred if you didn't want pamphlets  in your face and 'would be' Trotskyites following you around.   Therefore, being  Forever in Blue Jeans , and blue jeans with a tee shirt worn with or without a bra (male or female)  were accepted and expected campus fashion  statements. 

I worked as a professional during the later 1970's and the worst part of my job was finding clothes that FIT!  I was neither over nor under weight,  nor exceptionally tall or short, but I was not built for the styles available to most of the other young women my age. There was something about being raised on meat and potatoes and working on the farm , along with the combined genetics of not so little grandmothers , that did something to my body that made my shoulders too wide,  my legs too short,  my feet too big, and my waist non existent  to be able to easily buy youthful looking clothes right off the rack.  I remember once, after  finally finding a style of dress slacks that fit properly, buying four pair,  one of every colour, for cash.

Then along came marriage, motherhood, maternity and mayhem.  With marriage  and motherhood there came the need to economise  on fashion, which wasn't all  that difficult  as I never really left the role nor the house for about 8 years.  Who cared how the Mama looked as long as she was clean and covered?  A wise friend once told me that it would have been more inappropriate if the children were poorly dressed and the mother the fashion plate. 

 At least every couple of years in the 1980's my wardrobe did change as the maternity clothes were brought out for six month spells at a time.  Haute Couture had nothing on me for seasonal adjustments to proper attire.


  My standard of having enough clothes in those days was primarily having one pair of black slacks that weren't either  too tight or too loose,  were clean (not necessarily ironed), and had the hem at the cuff at least duct taped up; along with a blouse that did not gape when the buttons were done ;  and a pair of dress shoes that if when you wore them with socks no one would notice. Those knee high nylons just did not last long enough nor were they warm enough to  justify buying them on a regular basis.  This outfit would be considered my 'going to town, church, and  out to supper ' attire and served me well well into the early 2000's.

Yes, there were some fashion faux pas' no doubt.  I do remember wearing rubber boots to the city with knee high blue jean culottes.  I wore a Mickey Mouse over sized tee shirt over my bathing suit for years at the lake; which other than the age inappropriate graphics, was probably considered a wise and welcome choice by many.   The once in every one's life memory of wearing something inside out to church , school, and/or town occurred  in every venue mentioned during those frantic years where the goal of  merely arriving was considered  the  achievement.

In a small town in rural Canada high fashion on a daily basis is not really expected or required in most businesses .   Grocery store clerks usually have a type of uniform, clerks in hardware stores gas stations,  and restauranteurs often wear aprons or coveralls.*  The only place in town that one might  encounter someone actually dressed up as an employee is the Bank ,  and that is the first place I headed upon my arrival in town that fateful fashion faux pas day.


  I remember going through the glass doors of this monetary home  of the fashion savvy and efficiently manicured bank clerks and suddenly--- I was LIMPING.  Not just a bit -- but quite a bit. 

 Was I suffering a stroke?
 Had I tripped? 
 Was someone playing a cruel joke on me?

No. None of the above.

 I looked down at my legs and feet  and  with terror I realized that ...



                  ..... I was wearing two different shoes.



To be fair they were of the same colour and ilk--both slip on type. No, I had not laced one up and ignored the other.  They were both outdoor shoes. They were not slippers--neither ballet nor bedroom.



  *I should clarify -- waitresses in small town cafes do NOT wear coveralls--well,  not often and not well and often not  willingly.

Too Long a Tale to be Told

  A  recent  Face Book status read : With STORYTELLING being such a beautiful art, why would anyone want to make a long story short?

My instant reply was  that if the story could be made short then it wouldn't have  been  a long story in the first place.

And now I will proceed to make my short story on this subject  long, which in effect, if one can indeed make a story longer than it was then, in fact, one may argue  that it indeed wasn't a story in the first place but rather a story in the making.

But if a story in the making was indeed shorter than  the longer, one would have to say that  that story would have previously  been made long before the making of  whatever it was after it was lengthened.

BUT if  the art is in the actual  telling of the story, then no matter how long or how short the length of the story may seem, it is  in the beauty of the telling that will make whatever the length of the story seem short.

 Conversely,  if there is no beauty in the telling, then one might wish indeed that in reality there was less in the length, and thus wish the long story short. 

Get my POINT?

Y?

Y?

Y? Is it OK that the telephone company can call you at any time with offers to update your service  BUT won't call you when your Internet service is down?

Y? Is it OK for the government to pay for needle replacements for heroin users and aged diabetics and colostomy patients pay for their supplies out of their own pocket?

Y? Is it OK for  people who do not ever say Grace at their own table to protest the request of others to have the saying of Grace banned?

Y? Is it OK that you now can't buy a cell phone that won't take pictures, but you can't buy a camera that you can text with?

Y? Is it OK for parking meters to take more money than the time allowed  and not have to give you your change back?

Y? Is it OK for  convicted Canadian perpetrators of child sexual abuse in 3rd World Countries be allowed to spend their Canadian prison time in a facility with a higher living standard than the child victim does in his own country?

Y? Is it OK for men, of any age and  build, to walk around shirtless at any time while supposedly decent women have to always cover the top half of their bodies ?  

Y? Is it OK for people to swear and use bad grammar and poorly phrased English  while out and about, but not OK for  people from a visible minority to speak in  their own language to each other in public?

Y? Is it OK for a company to sell someone an electronic device and assume that person has access or understanding of how to look up the directions to use it on line?

Y? Is it OK that companies have been allowed to shirk their responsibility in providing ready service to their customers by  not doing the most important thing ? That thing being the answering of the phone with a live person.

Y? Is it OK that when one has Call Waiting  the caller already on the line is generally the one who ends up waiting?

Y? Is it OK to order a Denver Sandwich after 11:00 am in a restaurant but you can't order eggs and toast?

Y? Is it OK to have your mail sent  General Delivery  and the clerk will give it to you, but if you have a Box Number at the Post Office you have to have your key to get your mail?

Just asking....

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.