Black and Red Rubbers

The rubber boots are being brought back into the house after a long winter's absence.
.

The mud  

may   now

                                                                                                             

 S     P     L     A    T    T    E   R       

and the waters dare  

E  

S   

I        

R

I will  now step without care,  

while my feet  remain dry.

Floods hold no fear

As ice flows draw near

As the ducks and the geese

With their webbed toes delight

No more than mere man

Clad in Rubbers  shod tight.

One needs the black and the red

The sure sign of brand chic,
The heels give good grip.
The best are NO LEAK.

High waters may serge bringing  muck on the lane

But black with red Rubbers are what's needed in rain

So bring on the weather, the hail, and the sleet

I will be wearing my rubbers and warming my feet.

Easter Beauty

This is a workplace where any abuse either verbally or physically will not be tolerated.

Anyone engaging in such activity will be asked to leave immediately.

This notice or one quite like it is posted on many places of businesses both in the public and private sectors.

The posting of this little notice is designed to ensure that all who enter will be treated with respect and safety.

 Following a time spent listening to the ranting of a customer in a local Beauty Salon I suggest that these little posters also  should contain a mention about the inappropriateness of the expression of  racism and prejudice statements as well.  

I think that it should be my right to  be able to sit quietly discussing the happenings of the day with other customers in an environment free from racial slurs that are commonly hidden in  what is often considered as the  innocent reporting of gossip.

At my last visit to the beauty salon in a small town  there was a customer commenting for all to hear about a group of people from a visible ethic background who drunkenly knocked on her farmhouse door late at night.  The speaker did not limit her comments to just the description of what happened, but also commented loudly and to whoever was in listening range that she would never open her door again to this particular ethic group, although she would  do so to  Chinese, Filipinos, and Pakistani people. She proclaimed that her doors would always remain locked against the threat  of such intruders ever again.  She commented on the body type of the individuals at her door, their perceived drunkenness, as well as their accent, and suggested that they were 'eyeing' up her vehicle for future theft.

It was a disgusting display of racism and took all my will power not to comment.  It is fortunate that there were not any young impressionable minds in the salon, although the positive comments she received from other customers were very revealing as well as disappointing to hear.

What was even more disturbing was the cheerful  "Happy Easter!" that this woman proclaimed to  the proprietor  and went on about her sanctified business of the day thinking she had every right to assault whoever was in hearing  range about the incident at her house on the weekend and thus, spread her  accompanying hatred for a whole race once again.

The woman has every right to her opinion.  She has every right to tell people about her unexpected company in the middle of the night.  She does not have the right to slander all the people belonging to the ethic background of her late night visitors in a public place and that is why I think public places should have some sort of little sign that reflects that thought.

Prejudice mongering is every bit as detrimental to  our society as is physical and verbal abuse,

and it is time small town culture starts to realize that fact.

Culture Shock

I recently attended a small rural community's Drama Production of Robin Hood.  I have been  a regular attendee of  this community's annual live theatre presentation for about the last five years.


Many of the actors, stage hands, and directors are people I have known all my life.  90% of the audience are people whose families I have had the privilege to know ever  since I can remember.  The venue is a beloved building that holds many, many fond memories of Legion ceremonies, graduations, and weddings. 


It is a place where I had come to again  to feel safe and accepted, surrounded by people I understand and love,  and with whom I share many of the same values and expectations of how life should be lived. 


I believe the truth of the above paragraph is still valid.


However,  I also believe that the people involved in this production of Robin Hood just simply do not know that one does not treat the people in the gay community in the manner in which they were portrayed.  Gay stereotyping just should never ever be done anymore. I am referring to the limp wrists, flamboyant arm waving, hip swaying, and eye rolling flirty gestures  that  imitated a  cat in heat that was done by  the whiny voiced Will Scarlett in this presentation.  Such a portrayal can only be based on outmoded and seriously dangerous beliefs of what is and what is not acceptable in a an informed and educated society. The acceptance of that type of humour   has gone the way  of wife beating jokes, along with  Chinese laundry references, Blacks eating fried chicken and First Nation peoples wearing cheesy head dresses (As a University of Regina sports team has recently found  much to its chagrin.) 


  Could it be possible that  some of the people involved hadn't actually heard about all the hoopla that surrounded  the  Russian Olympics because of the way Gays and Lesbians are treated in that society?


To be fair to the audience in attendance,  the presentation should have been billed for what it was-- adult entertainment containing sexual connotations, homophobic stereotyping, and masturbation simulation.  


Dramatic productions have traditionally been an opportunity to address issues in society either through serious drama or through comedy.  They can be an opportunity to spur reflection in the audience's conscience or expose truths or common beliefs . 


My initial vision in my mind's eye when I think of this production?  I see the Gay Will Scarlet pressing  his hips into the buttocks of one of the  guards of the Sheriff of Nottingham .  Combine  that image with  Friar Tuck stroking his staff  up and down...up and down and one begins to get the idea of the type of activity that was staged under the guise of entertainment.


    The whole remembrance of the production is tainted with the type of  cheap sexual gestures that is usually only associated with  people who have no understanding of the issues our society faces in regards to bullying that is based on sexual orientation.

The most disappointing part of the whole evening was not just the ruination of what basically is thought to be a children's story (and indeed the original script is meant to be just that), but the fact that so many intelligent and creative people involved in the production thought that to present the play in the manner in which it was would be a good example of what this community deems to be clever and socially acceptable. 

Maybe someday when this community knows better it will do better.  The University of Regina women's basketball team had to attend a few sessions of Cultural Sensitivity after their Cowboy and Indian  cheerleader costume fiasco. Perhaps the organizers and participants of this year's Culture Shock presentation should attend something of the same with regards to homosexuality.

A  short course on Copyright Law might also be in order.

 

Elder Abused

While lying in bed the other night it occurred to me that getting older is getting less and less fun and more and more of a chore.


I commented on this to my husband who was  lying next to me quietly reading his latest novel which was neatly propped up on a cushion on his chest...his layered clip on reading glasses sitting on his nose ...his head lying at a 45degree angle to the pillow displaying a profile I have etched in my memory as a result of over 30 years of married life.  This profile serves to convince me that when one is doing something one loves then one becomes at least 75% even more attractive to others.


After hearing my mumbling complaint about age he  absent mindedly asked, "How so? " --eyes never leaving the page.


As I put down my own 800 page novel and removed my Drug Store Reading glasses and rubbed my aching wrist that  had tired from holding such a book, I reminded him that the mere fact that we were both in bed reading at 8:45 in the evening was an example of  the limited fun to be had at our age. 


I continued on by describing  the betrayal I felt by my own body.


I pointed out that  even on a Saturday night I could no longer  half attempt to get even a little buzz on anymore , not because I couldn't afford the booze or hadn't the time, it was merely because I couldn't stay up late enough for the alcohol to kick in. 


I reminded him that even eating had become a challenge as unless I  only eat porridge or dry white bread I am prone to acid reflux and heartburn.  Anything I do eat anymore just seems to turn to fat and even if I just eat veggies and fruits  and do lose weight my face and arms have the look of a deflated balloon.. soft, wrinkly, and Hallowe'enish.


I went on to say that the real kicker is that my shoulders hurt me if I sleep on my side,  my heartburn gets me if I lie on my back, and if I do sleep more than 3 good hours, I wake up having to use the washroom ASAP and my poor knee  then aches all the worse because it has been  lying still for so long. 


I also pointed out  that to add insult to injury, I keep thinking I am 65 instead of 61. What the reason that would be is anyone's guess except the obvious slow progressive onset of a type of dementia.


At the end of this almost weepy tirade, the reader beside me stirred, turned his head a shade in my direction and simply said, "It's not so bad.  You are still doing pretty good."


Mollified only slightly, I turned  over , switched off the bed light , squeeched down under the covers for a bit of a cuddle  and promptly and without warning...









                                                                .....farted.

Dental Distraction

WHAT is with THAT?






Two years ago while visiting my dentist for a cleaning and  check up,  I was almost tearfully  referred to a Periodontic office by the young Dental Hygienist after being warned of the possibility of losing my whole set of  bottom teeth due to gum disease and disrepair.  


Predictably,  I immediately made an appointment with
the recommended professional at their earliest convenience.  After a long trip into the city, searching Google maps, and scoping out the office where I was to attend the day before so I wouldn't be late, I entered the lush, finely and tastefully décorred office. 


 As I sat waiting for my turn to be called into the inner sanctum of  dental mystery, I started to idly calculate the price of the trip to get me to just the waiting room of this  elite professional medical office. 


 As my musings went from one mounting dollar to another, I realized that this visit probably wouldn't be the only and last trip to this office at least for many weeks if not months.   Further to this total, I started to calculate the probability of the amount of money that would be ultimately traded forward for whatever procedure(s) would be deemed necessary to save my dental future and ultimate diet choices.  True, there no doubt would be some input from public and private insurance coverage, but as one not  to read the fine print of such policies, I suspected that there would be a certain amount of monetary loss from my own back pocket already under great pressure due to the lack of large pockets on any pieces of my non stylish wardrobe.


With these thoughts in mind and a twenty minute wait, I finally was ushered into the 'chair of divine dentistry'.  Before the bib and goggles were even  put in place and the chair tipped, I announced to both assistant and  the Doctor of Dentistry that  if whatever was found in my mouth  that needed to be corrected and the cost wasn't covered by my private insurance then they shouldn't consider doing it.


The shocked reply from a  dark voice above and behind me indicated that if that was the case I shouldn't be in the office (meaning the chair) at all. 


Thus ended my short and not so sweet visit to the world of Periodontics.




FAST FORWARD TWO YEARS


 As the time for another dental check up with  the original dentist and hygienist approached,  I emotionally gritted my teeth as  I was loathe  to actually  face the  'MUSAC' as I sat in the hygienist's chair expecting  to be subjected to a certain  amount of  not so veiled professional chagrin and chastisement. 


X rays were taken, scrapings and swishings were done, as well as  suction and biting completed.


  No comments were uttered other than the obligatory  "Open, Bite, Close, Hold, Turn, Sorry."




I waited quietly as X rays and dental file  were taken to the Dentist for perusal.  I sighed in dread guessing how these two Dental Deities would convey that I had been a bad girl and a negligent patient that obviously cared little about her own dental health; considered as someone who would ultimately be soon only consuming pureed pea soup and mashed potatoes for sustenance in her future of dentally deprived existence of sunken cheeks, flapping lips, and gum sucking.


I waited quietly listening to hygienist and dentist murmuring in the next cubicle discussing my 'case'.


They returned together in tandem  and in  strategic strength from behind my chair. 


"Hmmm. How are you doing today, Penny?"  came the  formative voice that I immediately recognized as the same that recommended procedures such as fillings, braces, cleanings, and extractions for myself and family for over 15 years.




"Not too bad," I replied timidly, head down, eyes averted bracing for the 'verdict'.


He sat down on one of those twirling little piano type stools beside my own tipped chair and leaned over and said, " You have  very healthy gums and teeth. No extra work to be done. See you again in a few months."




Can someone tell me just what is with  THAT?




...a Mandible Miracle?
...a mistaken case of  Gravity of Cavity?  
...a example of a Gumfounded catastrophe?
...a  non case of Oral Disorder?
...a Brush a Day keeps the Peridontist at Bay?
...an example of Insurance Assurance gone astray? 

FACEless Day 1

I am for the next 46 days Faceless.  I have chosen as my token suffering for Lent to not turn to Facebook for what has been increasingly  my  first source of  information, gossip, banter, unusual recipes as well as bizarre photographs. 


 I have not deactivated my account. That would be too easy. 


 No, I have chosen to simply let my account lie dormant but  at the same time active in that it still receives information, inbox messages, photographs, and tantalizing and clever jokes, cartoons and odd health tips--Oil Pulling Anyone?   


There were a few strange moments this morning during my mounting mourning routine.  I went to my laptop...turned it on..closed down the Facebook automatic search notification, turned to my email, CBC news, SaskObits, SaskJobs, and Sask Roads..and finally Twitter..a poor Facebook second.  No notification scanning to be done, no in box messages to be read and answered, no bit of Facebook stalking done this morning.  No attempt at clever comments on my status, no thought of choosing a new Facebook Cover or Profile Picture.


  No.  Nothing like that at all.  Simple information gathering from impersonal sources...radio included.


There is without a doubt a sense of loss, a sense of dread, and an unease that is probably connected to chemicals  in my body doing 'their thing' as one habit is replaced by another no matter what that habit is--healthy or unhealthy.


So for the rest of this 'One Day At A Time' day I will have to make new choices to connect with others, gain information, and  perhaps find enjoyment from something not digital-- the way I used to a mere 5 years ago.


 

"Render unto Caesar" Mark 12:17

It is that time of year again.


No, I am not referring to that time to start plants in little peat pots in hopes to get a jump on the summer garden...
                       although for some it is.


No, I am not referring to the time of year to start planning summer vacations....
                      although for some it is.


No, I am not referring even to the time of year when one starts to Spring Clean...
                       although for some it is.


I am referring to TAX TIME.


The time when grown adults, who often have well paying jobs, who are usually responsible, law abiding, compassionate citizens turn into a form of rascally petty thieves whose sole goal is to deny central government of even $1 of extra cash. 


   

The emotions that surround the filling and filing of income tax forms either personally or with the help of a professional range from panic, guilt, desperation, and fear, prompted primarily by out and out lying either by omission or action. I have actually seen people get in a disgusted rage when referring to their  henceforth fired accountant who actually suggested that they have to PAY money at tax time.    Receipts are hoarded, gas bills padded, expense accounts justified. 


 The morals and ethics of every citizen in Canada is exposed at Tax time.  People who would never ever think of shop lifting, cheating on their spouses, or driving away from a 'bumper thumper' will without conscience or hesitation try to claim the dog food bought for their Chiwawa  as a security expense for their business  or  submit lunch bills  for their uncle's funeral as tax write offs.


I believe I have a bit of an odd attitude to Income Tax.  It comes from the fact that for several years neither I nor my husband  did not have to pay anything into the government  tax coffers.


 Ten years to be exact. 


 These years of absent income tax payments were not a product of careful accounting, deceitful declaration of income, or even choice. It was  simply a time of low income, almost unbearably low.


It is from that experience that I take great pride in being able to say that 'Yes, I have to pay income tax."  For me, being able to pay income tax means that I am a contributing member of society who has earned a right to voice my opinion on how tax dollars are spent and  on whom they are spent. 


I love that  I  can drive down the paved road to my place of work to earn money that is taxed so that I may count on trustworthy policing, good education for our young people, be cared for by an educated and ethical medical profession, and enjoy cultural activities ranging from hockey to listening to live symphony.


  My country is a thriving and respected entity in the world that promotes peace and respect for all no matter what religion, race, or cultural background and the reason for this is because of regular citizens' tax dollars being spent carefully and with the goals of excellence in mind.


So to those who whine or try to cheat on their Income Tax Returns  because they are expected to contribute to the well being of the Best Country in the World  I say Shame on You.


 I wish them all the best when the next big issue arises in their tax time trials--


                                  ---that  being the  AUDIT.












 

AMAZING!

Hummm. 'Someone had to go to Town today".

If I were a 'Bet Taking Woman' these are the "Nay" odds I give that one of the following will be brought home:

1. Roses --- 15 to 1 .
2. Chocolates in a heart shaped box--10 to 1....
3. Diamond earrings (faux) --20 to 1.
4. Real Diamond anything --Double down 150 to 1.
5. A NEW car.---All Bets are 20 -1. With cash down--no limit.
6. A bottle of red wine --the bubbly kind--in the fancy red twist off top plastic container--5 to 1.
7. A big bag of Cheezies---3 to 1.
8.The cake that I have already ordered from the Bakery-- that has "Happy Birthday Irwin " written on it...which I put on the list- is actually picked up. --2 to 1.
9. A new broom from the Co-op (advertised special)--3 to 1.
10. Lingerie--aka--Lace for the Potato--7 to 1.
11. That he comes home at all-- All bets off.

The house does not make book on certainties.

BETS are ON !
...5 will get you 10 if you can guess the 'rest of the story'

 Valentine Surprise was...

 A Five pound box of pork breakfast sausages that were on sale.

A surprise is a surprise..

 I suppose,

          'sigh'
       
                   I suppose.

Bonanza!

Where is this month going? 

 February is almost done.

 It is almost Valentine's Day.

 We will soon be at the end of the shortest month of the year and we will soon have Marched our days into the next artificial demarcation of time and space. A demarcation which will involve not only the changing of the calendar month but also in some parts of the world, for whatever feeble and misunderstood reasoning contrived by modern man, even the hands on the clock.

Fifty years ago to nearly the day, I stayed home and babysat my two younger siblings as our parents went to the neighbour's for a visit and a game of cards on a dark midwinter's Sunday eve. 

It has been said that the recklessness of youth is a result of the combination of the misuse of power too soon granted combined with choices too numerous and dubious to describe and serves as a recipe for regretful rumination repeated in reveries of regret. 

(Okay, it was  I who said it.)

  This regret is then often threaded into the tapestry of a life of self doubt, self deprecation and second guessing that covers every future decision and stays as fresh in the individual's  psychic  as if one has never left that time and place continuum.

I can speak of this time shift phenomena with the authority of a veteran having experienced my own choice not well made as it was I, a twelve year old girl, living in rural Canada on the Great Plains of North America, who ultimately switched the television station to the only other channel that was offered to watch something long ago forgotten by all, probably even by the producers of whatever was telecast on that station that night, due to this very unfortunate sense of misplaced power combined with immature decision making.

As Bonanza* was just finishing up and the CBC news cast of the evening was about to begin around 11:00pm that fateful Sunday February night, my parents returned from their visit. 

  My dad came to the living room door and said, "Did you see those wild guys on Ed Sullivan?  What a bunch of  kookie looking long haired guys!  Girls were screaming in the audience.  It was crazy.  They looked like girls themselves!"

I remember thinking, "Yeah. Right. Big Deal."  as I turned off the set and went up to bed and slept what was to be my last regret free night absent of sober second guessing and carefree confidence.

Actually that isn't really what I wanted to write about.  I wanted to write about the Olympics and the flag issue and the gay issue.  I just really wanted to say that if having the Olympics in Sochi will help bring light to the inequalities of a group of people who are being denied their human rights and helps to bring illumination to all the injustices of this group around the world, then maybe, next time,  we should have the Olympics in  central Africa , Afghanistan, or even Iran and other countries where starving children, women, and civilians  are forced into slave labour, the military, and prostitution. 
Maybe flags  then would then be raised to protest those injustices and  athletes could bring their adopted foster  foreign children to the podium to enlighten the world ..or would that be too flagrant an exhibition? 

  I do remember a  time in  Olympic history when South Africa was not allowed to participate in the games 1964 -1988 due to apartheid  and also seeing Civil Rights activist athletes holding up their fists in a  peaceful Black Power protest as they stood on the podium.

 In the meantime perhaps this might be the  theme song of the closing ceremonies in Sochi.

The link obviously is not working...but if I remember correctly I think itcwas a link to a Beatle's song.

* The television production of Bonanza was aired following the Ed Sullivan Show every Sunday night and was watched faithfully by television viewers of the era even more so than Ed Sullivan unfortunately in this instance at least.
 

Safety First

I recently came across a video on Safety on one of the Social Media Sites, and while the antic  was quite entertaining to watch and no doubt fun to do,( Why wouldn't being strapped into a harness connected to the end of a huge back hoe and swung around like a limp rag back and forth NOT look like the fun it no doubt truly was?)  it struck a bit of a chord in my memories of a more innocent age, where 'fun was fun', 'if you could do it you should';  all under the umbrella of the motto, "Might as well give it a try."


I'm talking about putting your five year old child into a bucket of a D2 Caterpillar Tractor and lifting the bucket up to its full extension while giving her a ride around the yard for 5 minutes.   A thrilling experience as I recall and one which made any little ride at the local fair  in the future pale in comparison.

I'm talking about such times as allowing your children to ride in    the  expansive back  WINDOW  of the 1966 Ford Meteor as you drove across gravel roads to the nearest town five miles away, in the sun and in the heat; mainly because they slept so well there.

I'm talking about getting your child to 'test' the electric fence to see if it was working, be a marker in the field for the fly over crop sprayer,  and to sit on the top a  15' stack of bales piled on a wagon as it lumbered across the field towards the farmyard....along with getting her to help 'wash' tools in  a pail old diesel fuel.

I'm talking about expecting your child to skate on the frozen dugout  'around the water hole''; to only spray the DDT on the back legs of the cow as you are milking; and to  please wash  their feet in the cow trough before coming into the house after playing in the barnyard barefoot.

I'm talking about bringing home pink candied popcorn covered in Red Dye #4 for a treat and wondering 'what has gotten into those kids?'  

I'm talking about letting your child play with that silver stuff  from a broken fever thermometer for hours at  time...'kept them busy and quiet.' 
 
Yes, safety wasn't as big a concern as practically in  the child rearing days of long ago...there were no fancy child resistant medicine bottles, covers for electric plug ins, or much care given to baby crib safety...I recall my sister sleeping in the drawer of my parent's dresser whenever we would visit my grandparent's house.

Thank goodness society has taken the time to change some of the more dangerous practices that once were commonplace.



I suspect that probably for every male from the age of 13 to 89, the idea of Safe Sex  40 years ago meant a whole  different set of ideas than what it brings to mind nowadays.  Some of which probably involved  the  "Where....?", the "When....?" , and  the "How.....?".  (So that you wouldn't be discovered either by parents, spouse or neighbour --or God Have Mercy--  not by all at once; so you would still get home on time; and  so no one would get pregnant).

 All these questions would have to be safely answered before one even got as far as  the idea of ' With Whom'?

https://www.facebook.com/HooningFTW

A Time to Smile

 6:30 am.

It is a NEW day according to the clock and calendar.

 In fact it is so new that the sun isn't even up.  It is still actually pre -dawn where I live.  One can not see anything except the gray light of a nearly full moon muted by clouds and fog.

The house has that  pre-dawn chill that one only notices the moment one's feet hit the floor as one leaves the comfort of a warm bed.

 The news stories on the Internet have a very few 'new' items as the day itself is too new.. Although it is a bit odd that the obituary page has been updated for the day.  There are very few Social Media types monitoring their pages so early.

The day ahead seems like a smooth clean tablecloth spread out in anticipation for whatever will be laid upon it for the day's unique feast of choices, visions, and experiences;  mixed with moments of annoyance, humour and idle musings, seasoned with regrets and optimism whether the sun shines or the snow blows or the rain falls.


Soon enough the day will end, the sun will have fallen below the horizon once again and one will muse silently and sometimes verbosely  about the happenings of the previous twelve hours as they are  consciously and unconsciously stored away as memories.  Some moments will have been deemed to be tedious and repetitive, uninteresting, unimportant and even unsafe and will be buried away far from the conscious mind never to be reexamined or exhumed.

There will no doubt be something new to be learned, joy to be experienced, unhappy moments to be endured as this day progresses from the dark unknown to the full exposure of the noon day brightness whether the sun shines or not.

No, not every moment of today that is kept at the forefront will be worthy of note, worthy of memory, worthy of rumination to be repeated in an attempt to impress others in future conversation by accident or design, and that is ok too, because otherwise we might not be able to enjoy such things as:

The dog's day has already started as she barks at some unknown source of perceived threat in the bush. An example of the clock of the animal world being just a little bit ahead of  Saskatchewan Standard Time with little or no attention paid to Day Light Savings or to the WWVB Atomic Clock time signal transmitted from Colorado.

Without Prejudice

 Without Prejudice


I suspect that being a man, a guy, a male, a fellow, or a person of masculine characteristics in our North American culture can sometimes be a little isolating and somewhat sad.

In fact, when I look at some of the men, guys, fellows, and people of masculine characteristics that I have the had the privilege to call husband, relative, friend, or acquaintance, I know that the above statement is true.

I have personally seen some of these  people who are blessed with the XY chromosome  cope  with  mistreatment and  misunderstanding in various unhealthy ways.  Sometimes it is through anger, resentment, self medication with alcohol or drugs along with stoic silence  with regards to their feelings of disappointment, regret, or  resentment about being treated unfairly. 

Nothing really remarkable is in the above paragraphs--no new thoughts, nothing original, nothing that most people haven't noticed for themselves.

BUT--HOWEVER--LET ME ADD THIS----



Recently I have been privy to witness a slight veering away from the above direction that most men, guys, fellows, or persons of masculine characteristics have followed since the ideas of 'manliness' and 'machismo' were hatched by some, no doubt very troubled and clouded thinking individuals,  who believed that the  difference between men and women can be defined in the amount of tears that are shed,  along with  the amount of hair on one's face, size of one's breasts, and beer that one guzzles.



This veering away from this 'masculinity' of which  I write occurred  recently  when someone whom I shall henceforth refer to as M (for MALE) went to the local tire shop for a repair.  He was asked how work was going and he informed the questioner (a male) that he had been 'Let Go' from his place of employment.
  Following the repairs M,sat and had a cup of coffee with the owner and a few other  male customers who considered sitting  in a tire shop garage drinking java a wonderful and enlightening time in comparison to having to  deal with  snow, shovels, or machinery.


It was around this little round coffee stained pedestal table in a cement floor garage, that this veering from the macho man stereotype to which I have previously referred to occurred.

 One of the coffee drinking, mitt sitting, toque wearing, local area guys asked  how it came  to be that M had lost his job.

 As M proceeded to explain, he had the full attention of all three of the men at the table, plus the young man working in the little room at the back.  In fact, the telephone rang twice  during his dissertation but the owner didn't answer either time as he was too interested in hearing the story, and when he did answer the phone, he asked  M to stop  talking until he came back.   As he spoke, M , often heard comments that proved that he was being listened to...some  in  knowing agreement, some in surprise, and others with complete  and quick understanding of the situation.

 But mostly and more importantly, M  simply heard attentive and understanding silence. 


 M was listened to by his peers.  M was listened to by four people he did not know except to do business .  None of them were a relative, a professional, or anyone who would have a preconceived notion about the matter. None of those sitting at that little table was anyone who had to be on his 'side'. 

 In fact, I doubt if 'M' could name even one person of this non-judgmental and supportive group.


M left that little tire shop with a lighter heart and a better feeling  about himself , carrying with him a higher self-worth than he had when he first walked in. 


I have long thought that angels take on a varied array of characteristics, and this time, I believe,  they have dressed in greasy overalls, warm toques, and snowmobile boots.

The above article is merely the opinion of the author and is not intended to represent, replicate, or depict any real or vaguely imagined in any way, shape, or form, any enterprise , or company ; or to suggest  or hint that any privately owned business  in any small town in any province in any country of the World would actually act with malice and mean spiritedness to allow any hard working , honest, dependable individual to be insulted, sworn at, and physically threatened by other workers. 

Gift from the Past

I received a strange sort of gift this Christmas Season.

Totally unexpected and out of the blue type of thing.

There came in the mail on Christmas Eve a brown papered wrapped shoe box with my name and address in handwriting that I immediately recognized without even having to look at the return address.

It was a parcel from a someone from my childhood past whom I had not heard from for at least 10 years or so.

Exciting! Surprised! and indeed even some Wonderment as thoughts of "What on Earth? " and "This is Really Something" to think that this person had actually sent a parcel along to me at Christmas.

I quickly tore open the brown paper, noticed my name written on the outside of the shoebox (yes it was meant for me) and lifted the lid to see layers of newspaper.  Placing my hand in amongst the crumpled pages I found several  fragile items wrapped within.  

As I excitedly extracted each from its blanket of pulp and ink I realized that there was a theme to the contents. The  several miniature tea cups and saucers, figurines, and sea shells, all of which had been resting safe and sound high up upon the kitchen shelf out of harm's way in my parent's farm house for all of my childhood, had not been seen by myself for over 20 years.

 I commented to my family that I found that the wrapping was a bit haphazard as some articles were paired oddly with the others.  I remarked, " This almost looks as if my long lost friend has taken lessons from Mom in the art of packing."

It was only after I carefully washed the dust off of each treasure and placed it carefully on a shelf, high up and out of harm's way, safe and sound  in the kitchen,  had I a chance to look again at the parcel and the newspaper that kept those  irreplaceable bits of glass and sea shells safe through the Christmas mail.

It was then that I realized that the date on the newspaper was not 2013..but rather 1994.  It occurred to me then  that those little gifts were not from my long lost friend so much as they were truly from my Mom , and the wrapping methodology was really hers and not randomly mimicked by the one who mailed them.

Sort of neat to think about.  Mom's hands were the last to touch those frail and fragile bits, and the last to wrap them so they would stay safe. Her thoughts were of me some 20 years ago as she wrote my name on the shoebox and sealed it tight.

The figurines were  made in Occupied Japan which, along with the tea cups and saucers, were gifts from a childless aunt. The Sea shells are from a pen pal I had from Sointula , British Columbia when I was five years old.  I would dictate the letter to Mom, she would print it, I would  then  retrace the letters onto another piece of paper. I think his Mom did the same for him.  Our correspondence continued until we were about 10 or 11.

O Christmas Tree

A few days ago , an evergreen tree was chopped down from the grounds of a local church.  The trees in the church yard had been planted nearly 30 years ago and tended faithfully by one of the members of the congregation. It was quite an upsetting time for the church as a whole to grasp the fact that such a deed had been committed by someone in the community.

Many people initially exhibited anger, dismay, and disgust at the total seemingly lack of respect shown to the church and its members. " How could someone do such a thing? "  "Thievery" "Report them to the police".   

Others responded on a different note, "We must forgive." "Find out who they are and tell them we forgive them."  "It is only a tree--forget about it."

The controversy went back and forth with thoughts of WW JD? along with suggestions of letters of forgiveness being sent to the Editor of the local newspaper.  Such ideas were challenged by thoughts of building a fence perhaps around the church yard to keep people out or perhaps installing a video camera for security.  

It is not certain what the good members of this Christian church will choose to do in response to this seemingly travesty  of fairness in this Season of  Goodness and Light.

Now I am not well schooled in theology or bible studies, nor do I attend any one denomination of 
any Christian church on a regular basis, however,
I will venture forth in describing my opinion on what an appropriate response that this church might take.

1.  It is JUST a tree.
2.  There must have been some reason why the culprit decided that THAT tree was the one to take. Perhaps it was shaped and full. Perhaps the church grounds were the only place where they thought they could take a tree without getting caught.
3. No, it doesn't seem fair that someone who has worked over thirty years have something like that stolen from them in a wink of an eye. Gone forever.

4. I think we should ask why would anyone think it would be so necessary to have a tree that they would go out and STEAL one..even one from the church.

5.  I think that perhaps the problem lies not in the fact that a tree left unguarded has been taken, but 
somehow the true message of Christmas has not only been lost on the person(s) who have done the stealing, but more importantly and even more tragically the people who purport to know what Christmas is all about have seemingly lost track (at least for the moment) of the Message that Christmas should convey.

   
A  beloved tree has been stolen
From the church grounds.
Taken  home to celebrate 
The birth of a Savior.
To  decorate and place gifts underneath,
To show  love to one another.

Have we forgotten how
He showed us His Love 
By placing His  Gift to us
On a tree  so that
We  could also be forgiven,
and brought Home? 

A Christmas Letter from an Eight Year Old Penny.

Dear Doreen,

How are you? I am fine.

The Christmas Concert has been performed.  I guess we did okay after all those weeks of practicing, practicing, practicing--not only lines for recitations and song singing  but also LINING UP. 
I really can't see the purpose  or value in having to line up 25 Grade 3ers according to height --much less  having to practice to do that over and over again,  when in fact from the time we first started to practice until the actual performance night, some of us had grown and the whole order had to be changed at least 3 times before the final night anyways.  


Another thing I learned about Christmas Concert practice is that you find out that that sweet and most beautiful soft spoken teacher you have all during the rest of the year can actually use a voice that sounds a lot like MOM when she finds that you have bitten your sister, locked the cat into the back of the kitchen cupboard for 12 hours, or  used her scissors to create an alternate  hair fashion  for your little brother.

I think one of the strangest things that happened lately is that Mom came home from shopping and instead of unloading groceries  or cleaning products on the kitchen cupboard, she ran straight into her bedroom and rattled stuff around  and then came out with empty bags in hand with a stern and meaningful look on her face warning us not to go into her clothes closet for ANY reason whatsoever..even if there is a fire.   That just seems weird to me --as if we kids ever make it a habit of hanging around in her bedroom closet  just  for Fun and Games (except  for that time when cousin James came to babysit us and he put on that fashion show  with Mom's clothes and makeup on..but I don't think she even knows about THAT) .

 It's not as if there were any video games in there or toys to play with or candies to munch on--well not as least as far as I know anyways.

Christmas is just a little weird though isn't it?  Everyone gets so excited about cooking, baking fancy cookies (just what is with that black stuff that looks just LIKE chocolate syrup but isn't-- that they use to make cookies that look LIKE little chocolate men but aren't?).  

 I had to take some fresh baked buns to the 90 year old bachelor down our street the other day because it was Christmas!  What is it about Christmas that demands that stuff be done like that?  Kindness is what Mom calls it..but as those Buns of Kindness  probably only last I bet only about 2 hours ,  it makes me wonder what happens to that guy from now until next Christmas?

I think I have to go now.  Mom went out shopping again and I see she left her clothes closet door wide open this time ---

Merry Christmas! Happy 1961!

Your friend,

Penny

Thirty two..and I ain't talking teeth...

December 18, 1981  --  December 18, 2013

32 Years

"No day that is gone was shadowless

No night was without its star.

But mingled bitter and sweet has been

the portion of our cup.

The Hand that in love has smitten

In love has bound us up."

--author unknown.

We've cried each other's tears and  braved the world as one.

Time has passed as swift as a Christmas morning and has been  as treasured as the most precious gift ever received.

They say that the present for a 32nd Anniversary is a form of transportation which might include but is not limited to, a car, bicycle, train ticket, cruise, flight, and  perhaps even hitchhiking.

Merry Christmas

Sneaky Season

'Tis the Season of merry making, baking, and thoughts of gift getting and buying.

'Tis also the Season of Sneakiness.

Yes, sneakiness is an inherent part of this celebration demanding every bit as much skill and agility as special  CSIS or CIA agents.  What other time of year  do so many have so many intentional secrets either in thought or deed? 

 What other time of year do husbands, wives, and children purposely hide their purchases unless they are part of the drug cartel or are in some sleazy affair either for love, money, or power?

 The power of observation in the mass population has been  elevated through intense exercise for at least the last six weeks. People around the world have being carefully observing, following, watching and surreptitiously quizzing  their loved ones to get a sense of the  perfect gift to acquire.  People have planned these Christmas purchases and ultimate surprise delivery with as much care as any military operation by having the timing  of the purchase arranged just right, as well as concealing said purchase, covered by then in shiny paper, ribbons, and  obligatory tinsel until the perfect  time of reveal somewhere between 6 pm  December 24 and 8 am December 25. 

 Things have been  and will be covered, stuffed  and jammed into and underneath places that never before have seen such articles.  Trunks of cars, backs of cupboards, under stairways, garage shelves, and under beds will all be precious unlikely storage areas for such things as watches, crystal, books, jewelry, chocolates, lingerie, furs, and even kittens.  

 Ultimately, after all this planning one also has to somehow hide the financial cost from the end of the month bank statement.

Yes , sneakiness is part of the season without a doubt.

My dad had a sense of this sneakiness when he had an especially wanted living room chair delivered on  Christmas Eve by the local McLeod's furniture dealer while our family was out visiting.  He also exercised this same skill when he brought in a huge and very heavy box into the house about a week before Christmas to have us, his two eldest daughters, wrap for our Mom in front of our Mom.  Christmas Day proved that it was a large rock sitting on top of a Smith Corona typewriter.

Granted it seems in some cases that being sneaky and smart are  neither kind or even in anyway connected when one considers the guy whose wife , after all the presents were opened and  there was nothing but paper under the tree, mischievously announced  with a gleam in her eye as she looked at her husband that there is another present to open.  As he sat looking blank and unknowing, the wife went into the bedroom closet and after hearing a gasp, he followed her to see her holding a note that said 'Thank you for the earrings, darling."  A bit of sneakiness gone awry as apparently earrings were found in the same said pocket a week prior.

This  sneakiness also was also explored in our  own household about 32 years ago this Christmas Season.  In the days of having to get a Complete Medical Examination performed before one could apply for a Marriage License, my soon to be husband had to go to his parents' house  and use their phone to make the  required  appointment.  As he didn't want prying questions as to why an otherwise healthy and strong young man would be going to the doctor, he fake limped on his motorcycle accident knee so no questions would be asked.  His concerned mother hovered over him for the next week suggesting pain killers and braces.  His  sore knee was  much talked about at the next  meeting of the Women's Institute  as a neighbour lady had actually seen him limping into the doctor's waiting room.  

  

There was even more talk about two weeks later when the Women's Institute next met in the New Year  about the confirmed bachelor who had somehow ran off with his sore knee and had gotten married over the Christmas Season.