Defensive Decorating

Our good friends weren't planning on being home for Christmas.

Instead, they were taking their family to spend the holiday with his parents.

Over six hours away.

Apparently, the extended family was getting together.

It would be . . . fun.

And because they weren't going to be at home, they had also made a practical decision.

Why put up the Christmas decorations?

Decorating took time and effort.

And no one would be around to enjoy them.

And the biggest reason to rejoice?

They would miss, entirely, the all-important (and dreaded) clean-up involved in bringing in their family's usual live Christmas tree.

It just made sense.

To them.

To my Husby, Christmas decorating fiend, it was a travesty.

He reasoned that they would be home for over half of December.

Surely they needed to decorate for those days, at least.

But they didn't.

A week before the big day, we waved them off from their front drive.

My Husby turned to look at the bare, forlorn little home they left behind.

Nestled among it's lighted, decorated neighbours.

He shook his head. “It's just not right,” he said.

Then he grinned.

Something I've learned to treat with respect.

“We'll decorate for them!”

Uh-oh.

That night, he returned from work with a special tree tied to the roof of the car.

Very special.

It had been thrown into the ditch from a passing vehicle somewhere along his commute.

And had been laying there, forlorn and forgotten for most of the past year.

To say it was dead would be a vast understatement.

No hint of green remained among the dry, brown needles.

He untied it and stood it up.

“What'd'ya think?”

“Ummm . . . Oh, Christmas tree, Oh, Christmas tree! How dead and dry your branches!” I said.

He grinned. “It's perfect!”

I thought of our friends, happily enjoying the holiday in the bosom of their family.

Blissfully unaware of the clean up that would greet them the instant they arrived home.

I shook my head. “Your terrible,” I said.

“I know!” he responded. “Isn't it great?!”

He carried the tree to our friends' house.

And stood it up in their front stoop.

It fit perfectly.

Brushing needles from his hands, he returned home.

Mission accomplished.

A couple of weeks later, our friends returned.

Happy and content from two weeks in the warmth of kith and kin.

They pulled into the drive.

And stopped.

And stared.

They got out of the car.

And stared some more.

A tree, mostly bare, was standing in the stoop outside their front door.

The wind had playfully sculpted the piles of dead needles around it into imaginative drifts and eddies.

Huh.

Somehow, during their absence, someone had sneaked onto their property . . .

And left something.

You know, I could just picture how it would look on a police report.

'Trespassers on property. Nothing stolen. Something . . . left.'

But I digress . . .

And, most importantly of all?

They had to clean up the needles.

Admittedly, the clean up was quick and easy and relatively painless.

Just a sweep and done.

But to someone who had planned to avoid it altogether?

Maddening.

Oh, they remained our friends.

Because they were extraordinary people.

But after that, they decorated.

Always.

It was just . . . safer.

Stopping for Directions . . .

What could be simpler???!

I have no excuse.

I'll let you judge . . .

A woman in our church group, whom I had never met, had just given birth to a tiny, sweet preemie girl.

She had two other children.

And a husband.

I offered to surprise them with dinner.

An easy and painless way to help out.

I made a pot of soup.

Fresh rolls.

And a salad.

Packing everything into a box, I got into the truck and headed out.

Now, I should mention here that I live in a small town.

I've lived in this same small town for nearly a quarter of a century.

Yes, it has grown.

A lot.

But it is still my home town.

And it takes three minutes to drive from one end to the other.

On a busy day.

Twenty minutes later, I was still driving around, looking for this sister's address.

Finally, almost tearful with frustration, I broke down and called her, begging for directions.

“I'm right across the street from Beau Meadow School,” she said. “You can't miss the house. It's brightly lit and there is a 'For Sale' sign in the front yard.”

Now, in our town, that particular school is on what we call the 'ring road'.

It makes a circuit of the entire town.

Meandering through all four quadrants.

It is the quickest way to anywhere.

This woman was on it.

I live just off it.

Our houses were, quite literally, one minute apart.

I finally pulled up to the described house, shut off my truck and carried my now-tepid-meal to the front door.

And realized something.

Not only was this house almost within spitting distance of mine.

But it was a house my son and his family had recently outgrown and sold.

After having lived there for over three years.

I had been in and out of it for that entire time.

I knew it almost as well as I knew my own.

I knew where it was.

And how to get there.

And where to park.

I could have told anyone how to find it.

Only one thing was missing.

I had never noted the address.

See?

No excuse.

Christmas Chain

Oh sure. He's looks innocent here . . .

Christmas morning, the exciting, present-opening part, was inevitably on hold until the kids could get their father out of his bed.

It wasn't as easy as it sounds.

What began as a mainly physical feat when they were younger, soon progressed into a different sort of challenge as they grew older.

Their Dad got sneaky.

Case in point . . .

I was heading out to do the milking.

I turned to my Husby, who was still in bed and said, “Don't start till I get back.”

He grinned.

Something I have learned to treat with respect over the years.

“Oh, I imagine I'll still be here when you get back!” Then he reached under the bed and pulled out the end of a long, heavy chain. “Could you please hand me the other end?”

Puzzled, I reached under my side of the bed.

Sure enough, there was the rest.

This man plans ahead . . .

I handed it to him and he lapped the two ends and snapped a large combination lock shut through them.

He was right.

He would probably still be there when I got back.

Shaking my head, I left.

Milking was quickly accomplished and I was soon back at the house,

Pails brimming.

Just as I opened the door, I heard a cheer go up.

'Wow, everyone's sure happy that I'm home!' I thought.

It wasn't me.

They had just finished finding the final number for their father's combination lock.

And had succeeded in freeing him from his chains.

Quite literally.

I set the milk in the milk room and came upstairs.

Just as everyone poured, happily, from our bedroom.

“Mom! We got Dad out of his chains and we're ready to open presents!”

Now there's something you don't hear every day.

“Wow! You kids are good!” Thoughts of future bank robbers and safe-crackers suddenly came to mind.

“Naw! He gave us the first two numbers. Then all we had to do was figure out the last one.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. We did it by the process of elimination.”

“Oh. Well . . . good.”

“It was fun!”

You have to know that these kids have been exposed to many different challenges over the years.

Duct tape.

Zippers.

Bandages.

Mustard. (Don't ask.)

Air horns.

And Speedos. (Told here.)

If you want to read it, we'll wait . . .

I guess a small matter of freeing their father from some pesky heavy chains is child's play.

Well, at least for our children.

Christmas Has Arrived! Almost . . .

Last night, we invited a bunch of the grandkids over to help Gramma and Grampa bring in Christmas.
It was . . . fun.
Though many of said grandkids suffer from an extremely short attention span.
We did manage to get the tree up, largely due to the efforts of one daughter-in-law.
And decorated.
Ditto.
Gramma was over digging through the boxes.
Alternately exclaiming and wiping tears.
As always, getting out the decorations is a trip down memory lane.
Old and fragile works of art made by little fingers from as long as thirty-five years ago.
Many no longer able to be safely hung on the tree, but enjoyed only from their places of refuge.
For example, popcorn on a string doesn't last.
Just FYI.
I love Christmas!
This is what we finally managed to accomplish . . .

Gramma's Village

You can't see them all, but there are 22 stockings there. And more on the way . . .

What's Christmas without a mantel . . .

. . . or Santa's laundry?

Christmas Buddies                        

And just because we're Tolleys (Yeah, I don't get it either . . .)

And the main event!

And then I got to sleep with Santa!

Don't you just love Christmas?!

Are We Losing Our Gentility?

A rant

My Husby and I like to swim.

It keeps us healthy and young.

Or at least healthy.

After a bit of rigorous paddling, we like to sit in the hot tub and visit.

Our local pool facility inevitably has music playing.

Yesterday, shortly after we got in, a catchy tune started.

Catchy.

I started to listen.

The chorus came on.

The background music quit, just as the last line was sung.

A last line that consisted of the words, “What the ****!”

The words were painfully clear.

I looked around at the small children playing near us.

Children to whom the words were just as clear.

“Did you hear that?” I asked my Husby.

He didn't.

The chorus came on a second time.

“What the ****!”

“I can't believe what I'm hearing!” I crawled out of the pool and marched, dripping wet, into the front office.

The song wasn't as loud here, but still discernible.

“Can you guys hear that song?” I demanded.

The two women at the front counter frowned. “I wasn't listening,” one said.

“It's foul!” I said. “And there are little children out there listening to it!”

“Oh, my! We'll change it!” she said.

And she hurriedly did so.

They hadn't chosen the song. They had merely turned on one of the satellite radio stations, thinking that it would have a modicum of decency.

They were obviously wrong.

The experience reminded me of the time, a few months ago, when my Husby and I were eating breakfast at a local 'family' fast-food restaurant.

A young woman a few tables over was talking loudly on her cell phone to her boyfriend.

Or I'm assuming it was her boyfriend.

Some of the one-sided conversation would suggest it . . .

“You're the worst ****ing boyfriend I've ever had!” she said. “What are you ****ing talking about? I can't believe you would ****ing say that to me! How could you ****ing do that to me? Well **** to you too!”

And so the conversation went.

For nearly twenty minutes.

There were families there.

Trying to eat.

Most hurried their children through their meal and packed up and left.

And still, the girl shouted obscenities into her phone.

It turned my stomach.

Finally, we packed up what was left of our breakfast and escaped.

Finding somewhere better to finish.

Thinking of that girl and that song, I can't help but wonder . . .

Have we lost our gentility?

My Dad taught me when I was growing up, that what came out of a person's mouth was a direct reflection of what was going on in that person's brain.

That a person who resorted to obscenities in their conversation simply didn't have the intelligence to converse on a higher plain.

I think of a speech given by a woman named Margaret D. Nadauld:

“The world has enough women who are tough; we need women who are tender. There are enough women who are coarse; we need women who are kind. There are enough women who are rude; we need women who are refined.”

We can easily substitute the word 'people' for the word 'woman'.

Have we been concentrating so hard on being tough and independent that we have lost our ability to talk on an intelligent level?

Is this really how we want to be heard expressing ourselves today?
Is that how we want our music, our movies, our conversations, our lives to sound?

And, for goodness sake, can't we think of another word?!

What are your thoughts?

A Hole in the Ice

Mom was in a panic.

She had looked away for an instant.

An instant.

And her toddler had disappeared.

Christine, dressed in her warm, little woollen snowsuit had been playing happily in the front yard.

Mom had zipped into the house to check on her new baby.

Happily, rosily asleep in his cradle.

And now, seconds later, her eldest child was gone.

Frantically, Mom called and cast about for her little daughter's footprints in the snow.

There!

Leading . . . toward the river.

Mom was off at a run.

A few seconds later, she was standing on the bank.

The little tracks meandered out onto the snow-covered ice.

To a large hole.

Mom stared at the patch of dark, swiftly-moving water.

Her entire life crashing about her ears.

She stepped out . . .

Then she realized that the little footprints didn't end there.

No.

The trail turned and continued back to the bank.

Her heart beginning to beat again, Mom scrambled back up the bank.

And there was her little daughter, heading toward the barnyard.

Mom scooped up her baby and carried her back to the house.

Then spent the rest of the day alternately crying and hugging Christine.

Infinitely grateful for the divine intervention that had protected her daughter.

Mom raised all of her six children to adulthood on that ranch.

Rescuing them from such things as:

Altercations with the local livestock.

Wrangles with barbed-wire.

Numerous falls.

Differences of opinion with power tools.

An infinite number of scrapes and bruises.

And, yes, plucking them from the muddy jaws of death in a capricious river.

But she never forgot that moment of stark and frozen terror.

Standing on the bank of the river, looking at the trail of little tracks that ended at the great hole in the ice.

And how differently it could have ended.

Her very worst . . . and very best of moments.

Driving in Canada, Eh?

Red Mittens - not just for hands any more!
Photo credit: polarbearstale.blogspot.com

We were shopping.

I will admit, here, that shopping is not my favourite activity.

I need a really good excuse.

It was Christmas.

Okay, Christmas is a really good excuse . . .

My youngest two children and I were out to find a gift for Grant. 

Their Dad, my Sweetheart.

The hardest person to shop for.

After much wrinkle-browed thought, we had decided that whatever we were seeking would best be found at Lee Valley Tools.

My husband's favourite place on earth.

Really.

It is a long-standing family joke that he must go once a month to LVT to pay homage to Thor, the Tool God.

But I digress . . .

We set out.

It was December.

Winter.

In Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, winter equals snow.

Ask anyone.

But avoid those with chattering teeth.

Th-th-they c-c-c-can n-n-n-never be t-t-t-trusted.

Or understood.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. Winter. Shopping. Setting out.

At first, things went well.

A heavy, wet snow was falling thickly, but the window wipers were managing to keep the windshield clear – sort of.

We made it into the city.

And immediately slowed to a snail's pace.

Let me describe the scene for those of you not familiar with travel accompanied by snow: All roads are now white. And slippery. All surfaces have become heavily coated in ice. Nothing is recognizable. Little is even visible.

The windshield wipers are your best, and only, friends.

But even they, too, get clogged with snow and need the occasional boost.

This is accomplished by stopping. Getting out of the vehicle. And slapping said wiper against the window hard enough to remove any accumulated snow.

Or, if you are my husband, by opening the driver's window and catching the wiper when it is in its furthest upright position and giving it a quick snap while it is still in motion.

It's all about timing.

And coordination.

Neither of which I have.

And both of which were to be needed shortly.

Several times, I pulled out of the crawling traffic and performed the necessary operation to clear the windshield.

Then waited for a break in the traffic and pulled back in.

Total time wasted? Hours.

Okay, well, it seemed like hours.

There must be a better way.

I would try Grant's method!

It was genius!

When the traffic had stopped for yet another light, or stalled vehicle, I quickly rolled down the window. Then I reached out.

I waited for just the right moment, when the wipers were at their apex (neat word, right?)

Closer. Closer.

There!

I reached out and caught the top of the wiper.

Snap!

Okay, that didn't sound good.

As the wipers began their downward stroke, I realized what I had done.

The blade was still in my hand.

I had snapped the entire thing off it's arm.

Umm . . . oops?

The window quickly became covered in a blanket of white.

Well, half of it at any rate.

Unfortunately, it was the driver's half.

Rather necessary if you want to see where you are going.

And usually, the driver does.

Something needed to be done.

And there was no one but me to do it.

Rats!

Quickly, I climbed out and switched my only remaining wiper blade to the driver's side.

Okay. Now I could see.

That's important.

But now, the other side of the windshield was suffering for the lack of wiper-age.

Hmm.

I looked around.

Our options were . . . limited.

“What about this?” My daughter's voice from the back seat.

She was holding up her red mitten.

I stared at it.

Huh. Might work.

I took it and, climbing out into the storm once more, proceed to tie it to the other wiper arm.

There.

Perfect.

We switched on the wipers.

Wipe.

Wipe.

It worked!

Now we had a wiper and a . . . mitten.

I don't have to tell you how it looked.

In point of fact, we giggled every time that mitten came into sight.

But it worked.

We finished our trip.

Shopping done. Purchases made.

Van safely parked back on the driveway.

And Grant replaced the wiper that had so inconveniently decided to come off.

Stupid thing.

The wiper, not Grant.

I learned several things from this:

1. Don't shop.
2. Don't drive.
3. Don't live in Canada
4. Don't go anywhere without your red mittens.

Okay, you're right. I didn't learn anything because:

1. I still shop.
2. I still drive.
3. I still live in Canada.

Pack your mittens!

Diary of a Home-Wrecker

I really wanted to take Shop class.

Working with power tools.

Smelling the aroma of freshly-sawn wood as you constructed your first-ever endtable.

Making pottery and jewellery.

A handi-girl's dream.

But in 1970 (yes that's really when I started high school) girls weren't allowed to take Shop class.

I know.

Because I asked.

Moving on . . .

I, and the rest of the girls, took Home Economics.

Home Ec., for short.

Or Home Wreck, as it was not-so-affectionately titled.

So we were 'Home-Wreckers'.

Ahem.

The place where we 'learned' to sew.

Cook.

Clean.

And generally find our way around running a home.

Once I got past not being able to take Shop, I really had fun.

I sewed a potholder.

An apron.

And a little purple linen dress with the sleeves in backwards.

Sigh.

I baked cookies.

Made Chicken-a-la-King served in little toast cups.

And Gourmet Hot Dogs.

I learned the proper way to scour pots (and the sink).

Scrub a floor.

And generally make my house squeaky clean.

Sew straight.

Cook carefully.

And scrub hard.

I did pass.

With unremarkable marks.

And, surprisingly, I actually used some of the things I learned.

And still do today.

There is a codicil:

Now my brother . . .

Yes, they allowed boys to take Home Ec. 

For one glorious week sometime during the year.

And yes, I know it wasn't fair . . .

My brother remembers Home Wreck differently.

He remembers cooking.

Something he excels at today.

And hunting for mice with frying pans and spatulas.

Boys make everything more fun.

Rainy Days

Something for Everyone!

My Husby's father was a wonderful man.

Generous

Cheerful.

Loving.

Devoted to his numerous offspring and grand-offspring.

Who, in turn, loved him.

And anxiously awaited any opportunity to go for a visit.

I must admit here that seeing and visiting with their Grampa wasn't their only reason for wanting to spend time at his house.

No.

Their motives were a bit more . . . self-serving.

Because Grampa had treats.

Really yummy treats.

He had learned over the years to put a little something away for, as he called it, a 'rainy day'.

And 'rainy days' were much sought after and appreciated.

Especially by the younger set.

Inevitably, when visiting Grampa's house, after the initial excitement of greeting and getting everyone inside and settled, Grampa would say, “Well, I think I'll just go and see if I have any 'rainy days'.

Which meant that he did.

Yummy-ness was forthcoming.

Moving ahead several years . . .

My Husby learned many things from his father.

One of which was, to the joy and delight of his children and Grandchildren, the stashing away of 'rainy days'.

He does this religiously.

Religiously.

And, as a result, generally grows more than it diminishes.

His present stash consists of two huge cardboard boxes and several bags, taking up the entire space under his desk.

Several fancy wooden chests of 'treasure'.

And a shelf full of boxed chocolates.

Do you fancy a treat?

You're invited.

Rainy Days for everyone.

And I do mean everyone.

Please?

Good Friends and Car Troubles

Okay. I'm sure it was one of these . . .

My Husby and I drive vintage cars.

'Vintage' is a classy name for 'old'.

Just FYI.

Moving on . . .

Wonderful vintage cars.

They are affordable.

Comfortable.

I can sympathize with their creaking joints and less-than-stellar performance.

And they have real engines.

Or at least engines where the components are recognizable.

But they do have their drawbacks.

They really are old.

And their parts are equally old.

At times, like me, they get . . . balky.

Allow me to illustrate . . .

We were driving a Buick.

Station wagon.

It had developed some internal problems.

Gall bladder, I think.

Or, in car talk, an stubborn solenoid.

While we waited for the funds to actually fix said solenoid, we were reduced to a two-person starting method.

One to crawl under the car and whack the balky part with a hammer and the other to actually turn the key.

It worked.

Sort of.

We were visiting with friends.

It was a warm summer evening.

The sky had been threatening rain all day.

Sometime during our visit, the threat became reality.

The sky opened up and dumped everything it had on us.

At the exact time we decided we should be heading home.

Sigh.

I took up my position in the driver's seat, key inserted and ready to turn.

My Husby quickly slipped underneath the car, hammer in hand.

*Tink*. *Tink*.

“Okay! Try it!”

I turned the key and the engine roared to live.

My Husby crawled out – remember, it was pouring rain at this time – and started towards the driver's door.

He paused.

Someone was laughing.

Loudly.

We both looked toward our friends' front door.

The two of them were silhouetted in the light from their front room.

They had watched the whole procedure.

We laughed with them.

Then my Husby shrugged and jumped into the car and we drove off.

We learned an important lesson from this.

Always choose your friends with care.

They should be fun.

Generous.

Kind.

Supportive.

Loyal.

And be able to laugh you through your car troubles.

Eye-Max

If you think the outside is fantastic . . .

Edmonton, Alberta is a good-sized city.

Not distressingly large, by the world's standards.

But a nice, comfortable million or so people.

It has many, many attractions.

Our family's favourite is the Telus World of Science.

When the kids were small, it was called the Space and Science Centre.

And we were there almost every week.

The kids would wander through their favourite displays.

Interact with their favourite activities.

And go with us to see an Imax show.

If you've never seen Imax presentation, you should.

It consists of a huge screen.

And crystal-clear photography.

And you feel as though you were part of the action.

When our Caitlin was three, we went to see a show, simply titled, Speed.

For forty minutes, we were part of car racing, flights, train rides, roller coasters, and anything in this world that went fast.

To say we enjoyed it would be a vast understatement.

Our sons in particular were quite literally hanging onto the edge of their seats.

Finally, the show, as shows do, ended.

The lights came up.

Caitlin, who had spent the entire time in the seat next to her father, looked up.

“Dad? Is it done?”

Her father nodded.

“Can I put my feet down now?”

It was then we realized that, when the action started, she had pulled her feet up.

And held them up.

For forty minutes.

Now that's movie realism.

Edmonton is a wonderful place.

There are tons of things to do.

But when you tire.

Stop at the Imax.

It's all about seeing.

Keep your feet up.

I Know What You Did Last Friday . . .

A few years ago, my Husby, a slightly Santa-esque man, was asked to play Santa Claus at a local party.

He discovered that he loved it.

The rest of us discovered that he was very good at it.

A new career was born.

He offered to pay for the materials for a, to put it into his words, nice suit.

I complied.

The next Christmas, he asked if I would be willing to make myself a matching 'Mrs. Santa' outfit.

After a bit of head-scratching and a trip to the fabric store, I again did as he requested.

Mrs. Santa appeared.

And the two of us have had fun with it ever since.

Each year, our portrayal of the famous couple gets a little more . . . detailed.

This year, he began to grow out his hair.

In August.

Then we made a trip to the hairdresser to get him, and myself, dyed white.

Oh, the sacrifices he makes!

The breathing apparatus and nose plugs were his idea!

Definitely lighter . . .

But the rewards are incalculable.

The Bed-Making Game

I have just realized that Mom was infinitely more patient than I am.

It's a bit of a painful discovery.

A moment of silence, please.

Now I will explain . . .

When I was four, I used to follow Mom around as she went through her morning routine.

This was before she really expected me to be of much help.

Though I did try.

I should mention, here, that about the time I became a valuable helper, I no longer wanted to follow Mom around.

Oh, the irony.

Back to my story . . .

I watched Mom clean the kitchen.

Pick up clothes and discarded items.

Tidy.

Dust.

Vacuum and/or sweep.

And scrub bathrooms.

But my most favourite activity . . .

The one I waited patiently for . . .

Was 'the making of the beds'.

Because Mom never just made the beds.

Nope.

That would be boring.

No, what Mom would do was 'make me in the beds'.

I would snuggle in and she would pull the covers up and proceed to make the bed.

With me in it.

I would lay quietly until she said, “Okay that's done. Time for the next bed.”

That was my cue to squeal and sit up abruptly, totally negating her efforts.

She would pretend to be flabbergasted. (Oooh. Real word!)

And I would laugh uproariously.

Then she would order me from the bed and make it again.

This time without any stowaways.

And we would move on to the next bedroom.

And the next bed.

Where the routine would be repeated.

I don't ever remember Mom making a bed just once.

No.

That's something other mothers did.

Moving ahead fifty or so years . . .

Several of my grandchildren were staying over.

Everyone had finally crawled out of bed.

And were awaiting breakfast, which Grampa was cooking.

I took advantage of the interim to make the beds.

I decided to teach them the game I used to play with my mom.

“Hide in the bed,” I told them. “And don't move.”

They crawled in.

And managed not to move.

But giggling was definitely optional.

I made the bed, then said, loudly, “Well that's done. Time to move on to the next bed!”

Three kids suddenly sat up. “Gramma! We fooled you!”

I pretended to be shocked and ordered them out.

Then I made the bed a second time and we moved on to the next bedroom.

“Can we hide in this bed?” they asked.

I looked at it.

Then thought about having to make it twice.

“No. Once is enough,” I told them.

“Awwww . . .”

“Next time we'll do it again,” I promised.

They were happy.

And I had made two conclusions.

My first was that being the made-ee was infinitely more fun than being the made-er.

You know, my Mom used to play that game at every bed.

Every bed.

My second conclusion? She was much, much more patient than I am.

I'm sure you agree with me.

The Woman Inside

Mom being Mom

My Mom was amazing.

She was the force behind:

Meals appearing at clockwork intervals.

Soiled clothes in hampers being replaced by clean, folded clothes in neat stacks in drawers.

Floors scoured to a mirror finish.

Dirty dishes disappearing from the table.

Clean dishes appearing.

Yummy snacks, (ie. Puddings, cakes, pies, pastries) showing up with amazing regularity.

Gardens stretching, lush and weed-free for miles.

Lawns being mowed.

Pets fed and cared for.

Kids travelling to and from school.

Deadlines met.

Bills paid on time.

New, hand-made outfits appearing.

Hired men cared for.

Doctor's appointments kept.

Sewing and other women's clubs attended.

Bedtime routines honoured.

Sicknesses nursed.

Arguments refereed.

Church attended.

In fact, she was the driving force behind every facet of our daily life.

Always there.

To me . . . just Mom.

When I was four, she bought me a pair of skates.

Sat me on our front step and strapped them on my feet.

Then took me across the yard to the ice-covered street and taught me how to skate.

Once I got my balance, she skated along behind me for a while.

Encouraging, instructing and safe-guarding.

Finally, when she was sure of me, she struck out on her own.

Swooping and spinning across the ice like a bird.

I stopped and watched.

Mom?

This was the woman who spent her days 'looking after'.

Tending.

Feeding.

Supplying.

For the first time in my four years, I realized that there was more to my Mom than what I had always seen.

Here was a woman who had been talented enough to skate competitively.

I later discovered that she had also been invited to play ball professionally.

Offered a scholarship to university.

And many other opportunities.

All of which she set aside for my Dad.

My siblings.

And me.

I watched her as she spun in a tight circle.

Going faster and faster.

Coming to a final, breathless halt.

And skating smoothly away.

Backwards.

Wow.

My Mom.

She skated past me.

“Mom?”

She spun and looked at me.

“I'm hungry.”

She smiled. “Time to go in, dear?”

I nodded.

Immediately, she stopped and reached for my hand, helping me carefully back across the yard to our front step.

Mom was just 'Mom' again.

But just for an instant, I had caught sight of something else.

Someone else.

The woman inside.

Do You Want Fries With That?

A thing of beauty . . .
in a totally  non-food way

Been listening to Christmas music all day.

Let the Christmas memories begin!!!

For our first Christmas as newly-weds, I dutifully asked my new Husby what he would like.

I did it sneakily.

I thought.

In July.

His answer?

A router.

Okay, first, I had to surreptitiously find out just what a 'router' was.

I discovered that it had everything to do with home woodworking.

And nothing to do with computers (which at that time in history, really only existed on Star Trek).

The men at the hardware store knew exactly what Husby had been talking about.

And placed before me a perfect example of router-ness.

On sale.

The day was mine!

And soon, so was the router.

Gleefully (real word/emotion) I carried said router triumphantly to the car.

And duly hid it at Husby's parent's place.

Then I waited.

Closer to Christmas, Husby forgot all about the router he had asked for and announced that what he would really like was a deep fryer.

For a few frantic moments, I considered taking the router back and replacing it.

But, reading the receipt, I could see that that possibility had expired.

Rats.

A couple of weeks before Christmas, with a heavy heart, I wrapped his present and placed it under the tree.

Some time later, he picked it up and shook it.

It rattled.

He smiled.

What he had taken for a 'deep fryer' rattle was, indeed a 'router' rattle, but I said nothing.

And he was happy.

We both waited for Christmas.

Christmas morning, the first gift he went for was his 'deep fryer'.

He was already talking about the fries he would make.

The corn dogs.

Doughnuts.

I held my breath as he tore off the paper.

His mouth dropped open and his face was a perfect picture of surprise as he stared at the router box beneath.

“I totally forgot I asked for this!” he said finally. He opened the box and began removing parts. “I've wanted one of these forever!” He was growing more and more excited.

No more mention was made of a deep fryer.

I heaved a sigh of relief.

That particular gift went on to make tables, cabinets, houses, toys, more tables, and at least one picture frame.

Of far more use than a piece of kitchen equipment.

No matter how many fries it could have made.

I chose . . . well.

I should mention, also, that this was also the only Christmas when I managed to surprise my Husby.

Oh, he tries to 'act' surprised when he unwraps something.

But I know that he knows.

Sigh.

The Bumper Prize

Today, I lost my crown.

There was no ceremony.

Few tears.

And an audible sigh of relief.

Maybe I should explain . . .

In the main drive of the ranch, there was a light/electricity pole.

A large one.

I’m not sure whose idea it was to place it thus, but there it stood.

In the centre of the circular drive.

Any drivers had, of necessity, to be vigilant when negotiating our driveway.

Even though said pole had stood there, unmoving and in the exact same place, for years.

Years.

As a permanent resident of the ranch, I had always known of its existence.

I knew the exact place where one had to turn the wheel in order to miss it.

And just when to swing around when parking.

But this one day, I was . . . distracted.

Have you heard the ads on TV where they caution you not to drive while distracted?

Listen to them.

Ahem . . .

Without thinking, I shoved the gear shift of our large red and white Chevy Beauville 12-passenger van into reverse.

And started backing up.

After a few feet, I felt a rather large thump.

And the van made a sudden stop.

Frowning, I turned to look behind me.

Oh, right.

Pole.

Sheepishly, I pulled ahead.

Then got out to inspect the damage.

The bright silver bumper had been neatly creased just to one side of the center.

A deep enough crease to force both the top and the bottom of said bumper . . . umm . . . out.

Quite effectively preventing the back door from opening.

Sigh.

I must admit that when my Husby saw it, all he could do was laugh.

Then saw the top point off the crease so the back door would open.

And laugh some more.

That was twenty years ago.

He has been laughing since.

But today, I heard another bumper story.

A better bumper story.

Told by my good friend, Jen.

Jen was backing out of her garage.

It has been sleeting and freezing and her drive way was a sheet of ice.

She backed out cautiously.

After a few feet, the vehicle stopped moving.

Stupid ice.

She pressed harder on the accelerator.

Still no progress.

Harder.

Nothing.

Just a bit more.

Suddenly, the bumper of her vehicle popped off.

The whole thing.

Right off.

And it was at that precise moment that she realized she hadn't, as she had thought, been slipping on the ice.

No.

Her bumper had snagged on the garage door.

The door had won.

She stopped the car and got out to survey.

Then, abandoning her travel plans for the afternoon, she went back into the house and stayed there.

Some time later, her Husby and his dad came to inspect.

Jen watched them as they shook their heads and muttered to each other.

Finally, they picked up the bumper and refastened it.

With cable ties.

It has been 10 years.

They are still driving that car.

And that bumper is still attached.

I happily pass the crown to her.

She’s earned it.

Fifty Cents

Fifty cents used to be a lot of money.

And gave you the ability to do amazing things.

Let me explain . . .

Saturday.

That wonderful day of the week when one didn't have to dive frantically from their beds, feverishly dash through a morning routine, and drive frantically to catch the school bus.

No.

On Saturday, one could leisurely climb out of bed.

Enjoy a healthy breakfast.

And spend the morning . . . diverting.

Okay, well I don't know about the rest of the family (ie. Mom), but I could.

And the best part of Saturday?

Talking Dad into taking me and my siblings into town for the movies.

Remember, we lived twenty miles away.

On sketchy 'gravelled' roads.

Sometimes, it took a great deal of talking.

When we were successful, he would pull up to the theatre, hand each of us fifty cents, and wave as we scrambled for the door.

The smell of freshly popped and popping corn would wash over me the instant I stepped inside. Clutching my money, I made a dash for the admissions counter and handed over half of my precious coins.

Then I took up a post in front of the all-important concession and eyed the limitless possibilities.

After several moments of tempting myself with mouth-watering indecision, I made my choice.

Inevitably, Grape Crush and a bag of popcorn.

With a nickle for a package of red licorice.

Then, clutching my booty and my ticket, I would approach that magical doorway to infinite worlds and possibilities.

The door-keeper would tear my precious ticket in half with a grin and an, “Enjoy the show!” and I was inside.

The curtains, deep green velvet, would be tightly closed.

Hiding the magic behind them.

Reverently, eyes glued to them, I would slowly make my way down the sloping, creaking wooden floor to my chosen seat.

Somewhere near the front.

Preferably in the first two rows.

Then, one hand stuffing popcorn into my mouth, and the other clutching my precious bottle of pop, I would settle back.

Waiting for the magic.

Waiting to be transported to another place and time.

Suddenly, the house lights would dim and a bright beam would shoot through the air and snare the green curtains in a noose of light.

They would slowly begin to part.

I should mention here that, for years, I thought that the thick, heavy curtains actually became opaque.

And that the beam of light was shining through them from the back.

Yeah. So, an Einstein, I wasn't.

Moving on . . .

For the next two hours, I was somewhere else.

Watching the lives and/or exploits of someone else.

It was magic.

Occasionally, reality would intrude for precious seconds.

Especially if the projectionist was a bit slow in starting the second and/or third reels.

But mostly, my immersion was happy and complete.

Another world.

Another time.

Another life.

Complete with yummy snacks.

All opened to me for the paltry sum of fifty cents.