Bring on 2012

After reflecting on the past year, I see that where I am today is very different from where I expected to be. Our family is in a very different place than it was at the end of 2010, or I suspect, it’s in the same place it’s been for quite some time. We just didn’t know we were there last year. Sometimes ignorance is bliss.

2011 has been a struggle against anger, a challenge to forgive. I’m not quite there yet. I try very hard but then the objects of my rage, the ones that I strive to forgive, do some other asinine thing and it sets me off. I’ll get over it – strong feeling set their own pace.

Health has been an issue – my husband’s, my grandson’s, my daughters’, my own. Again, those issues work themselves out in their own time. I must say though, that for the first time in my life I feel old, like there are too many things that I have to do and not enough time left to do the things I want to do. I’ve always considered myself adaptable, able to fly by the seat of my pants, but maybe I need a plan. It’s time to seriously start working on the bucket list!

Good things happened in 2011 and I am grateful. Husband survived a pulmonary embolism and is doing well, daughter survived divorce and is doing fine. I didn’t crash on Deerfoot, my dogs are house-trained (almost) and I am grateful for my wonderful family, terrific friends, good neighbours, and a fine community of writing associates and mentors. The roof over my head and the food in my cupboard are more than 99% of the world can imagine. And I am grateful for the smaller things like losing 15 pounds, health care, online library services, Advil, tulips, laughter, mountains, long drives in the country, shopping in the city, email and Facebook, birds, good hair, good music, good theatre, Good Earth, comfortable shoes, chocolate, and much more.

I feel a little guilty as I look back on 2011, like I don’t appreciate the good things enough, but it’s been a rough year for so many reasons. I want to be around to continue to count my blessings and to tenaciously work on the health and anger issues. I’ve been pushed to the brink this past year, bitten my tongue until it bleeds and been more patient than I ever thought I could be. Those are good things – I’ve learned that the when you reach the brink, the brink moves; that biting your tongue is probably the lesser of two evils, and; patience, combined with counting to ten and taking a few deep breaths, lowers blood pressure.

Cliché as it sounds, I want to dance at my grandchildren’s weddings. I don’t make a written list of resolutions but what better time is there to take stock of assets and liabilities than at the beginning of a new year.  Some things will change and some won’t. I need to write more and worry less, to take a vacation, to speak my mind and to say no more often, to eat healthier and to go to bed earlier, to take better care of myself, to reconnect with friends. I need to find a way to lend my heart without giving away my soul and my wish is that as I grow older, I will be able to handle the associated crap with grace, dignity and humour.

Bring on 2012. I am ready, but no more blindsiding please.

Peace On Earth, Good Will to Man

            My husband, three children and I were living in a neighbourhood which consisted of single-family homes, subsidized housing and low-rental apartments. Our eight year old son was one of six Caucasian children in his class and the friends he brought home from school had names we couldn't pronounce and customs we didn't understand. I welcomed them, feeling that a dose of "typical Canadian family" would turn them into good and grateful citizens. I prided myself on my open-mindedness, lack of prejudice, and determination that there would be no discrimination in my midst. I was a pious person in 1978, in December, just before Christmas, when my value system was rearranged by one small Lebanese girl.

            Her name was Ikrim. She and her mother were refugees who had been given sanctuary in Canada and a place to live in the low-rental housing project a couple of blocks from our home.  She was bossy, ordering the other children at school in her broken English, and she was loud, demanding to be first at each activity, first to choose the story and especially, first in the snack line. The other children were intimidated by her boldness and they included her in their play grudgingly.

            As Christmas approached, I was busy with holiday preparations and wondered, as usual, if the true meaning of Christmas could be found in the midst of all the advertising and materialism that surrounded the season. Our family recognized the plight of others by contributing to the usual charities like the food bank, Christmas seal fund, and the Salvation Army bell-ringers in the malls. Like almost everyone we knew, we took our own comfort for granted.

            One day, before Christmas break began, a group of young children, mine included, were playing outside. I quickly recognized Ikrim in the group as she bossed and shoved the others until she got her way. I watched the group from the window for awhile, then returned to the kitchen. Soon though, my son was at the door, Ikrim close behind him.  Her dark face peered over his shoulder as she bobbed and pushed, determined to come inside. 

            "Mom," my boy said, "Ikrim wants to see our baby. She wants to see our tree and she says you have to put the lights on. And she wants a candy cane."

            I plugged in the tree lights as the little girl took off her boots in the entranceway. Our twelve-week-old daughter slept serenely in her baby seat near the tree, now bathed in the glow of twinkling Christmas lights. Nearby, the crèche decorated the mantle. My living room was a display of Christmas peace and good will.

Ikrim crept around the corner and stared at the tree, the sparkle of lights reflecting in her dark eyes and a true look of Christmas wonder spreading across her face. I offered her a candy cane and she took it shyly for once, without speaking. She gazed in awe at the lights, the ornaments and the tinsel, and then her eyes wandered around the room and came to rest on my sleeping daughter. She tiptoed quietly toward the baby, her finger across her lips, telling herself to “hush” as she’d obviously been taught. Her look of rapt enchantment travelled from the sleeping baby to the fireplace mantle as her eyes wandered from one tiny figurine to another and I thought briefly that this child had been truly blessed by the Christmas spirit. 

Briefly, because too soon, her eyes lifted and she stared at the wall above the fireplace where my husband's two hunting rifles hung in a gun rack. Her expression changed.  Childish wonderment was instantly replaced with terror. In my midst, the story written across her face transformed her from an innocent child into an ageless woman who had experienced more of life's horrors in her brief years than I could imagine in a lifetime. Then she fled, shoving her feet into her boots and dropping her candy cane as she rushed through the door. 

            After that day, Ikrim still played with the children. I now recognized her unruly behaviour as a manifestation of her instinct to survive. Her boldness protected her from being hurt by the other children and her constant demands were her way of ensuring she wouldn’t hungry or insignificant again. Ikrim moved away shortly after that Christmas and she never came inside my house again. She never knew that after she left, the rifles were taken down and eventually sold. They were never displayed in our home again.

originally published in the Calgary Herald, 24.12.1998

Outsourcing

So last night we wanted to order Swiss Chalet for dinner. There is a Swiss Chalet about a mile from where I live so picking up the order wasn’t a problem. However, I wanted to know if I had to dress for the occasion or if I could go sans makeup and in sweat pants and stained tee shirt so I called to ask if they had a drive-thru window. They don’t.

I can easily put on some blush, jeans and a jacket so I say I would like to place my order. No, no, the voice on the phone from so very close replies. You need to use our call centre number. I am talking to the outlet I can reach in five minutes. If I climbed up on my roof, I might even be able to wave to the lady on the phone.

But she insists she can’t take my order so I hang up and call the number on the website. A cheery voice answers, asks my phone number and postal code and slowly we work through my order. I don’t know if I have a speech impediment or what, but ordering anything on the phone is, in almost every instance, a long, drawn out and frustrating experience. (Have I written about Alberta Treasury Branches yet? If not, I’m pretty sure I will.)

Anyway, back to dinner. Finally we have confirmed and reconfirmed my order. The guy asks where area code 403 is and I tell him where I am. He asks how the weather is?

“Cold,” I say, “Where are you?”

“Toronto,” he says. “It’s cold here too. It’s cold everywhere?”

He should know. People from Vancouver to St. John’s are placing their dinner orders through a telephone service in Toronto so they can pick them up a few blocks from their homes.

“Your order will be ready in 18 minutes. Have a nice evening, goodbye,” the voice on the phone says.

I really don’t trust this process but when I arrive at Swiss Chalet, there is my order, packaged up and ready to go. I still think there something weird about this?

Mittens and more

So, I’m knitting again. The desire to knit grabs me, usually when I have a million other things to do, and I dig out the wool and the needles and find a project. The other day, when I decided I really wanted – no needed – to knit something, I scrounged around to see what, in my closet full of loose ends of fabric and wool, I could come up with.

I settled on thrummed mittens. Not that I need mittens, but somebody surely must. The thing is, I knit so many pairs of thrummed mittens a few years ago that I’m sure I could knit them in my sleep. So, until I settle on a larger project, mittens it is.

Most of my knitting projects have turned out well. I started knitting at an early age and there isn’t much that intimidates me when it comes to following a pattern although my long gaps between projects seem to have been triggered by large projects that make me think I’ll never want to knit again. My knitting eyes are usually much bigger than my stomach, so to speak. I’ve rarely given up on a project, but it takes me awhile to start another.

Point in question – my husband’s Irish knit sweater, knit lovingly by me over thirty years ago, which, btw he’s rarely worn. He warned me in advance that he wasn’t a sweater kind of guy but I knit it anyway. He still has it in the bottom of a drawer somewhere – saving it for a special occasion, I guess. Anyway, after finishing it, it was quite awhile before I took on another project.

Then there was the baby shawl for my now grown baby daughter. My mom knit shawls for my older two babies but when the third was anticipated a few years later, her eyes were failing and she wasn’t able to do it. (Or maybe she was still tapped out from the previous one.) Anyway, this baby had to have a shawl so I found a lovely lacy pattern and started knitting. I knit and I knit and I knit. I finished before baby arrived and the shawl was beautiful, white, delicate – a masterpiece. I didn’t knit anything again for about four years.

Not over the Irish knit bug, I decided several years ago to knit myself a beautiful, complicated sweater, advanced level, Vogue pattern. I asked the “expert” at a local wool shop to help me find the appropriate yarn and I stared knitting. It took me forever. When it was done, I put it together. I don’t know why I never realized the gauge was off while I was knitting, but the sweater turned out big enough to fit the Pillsbury dough boy. Never worn and off the donations bag it went. Took me awhile to knit again after that one too.

I’ve knit a lot of slippers, hats, kids sweaters over the years but it’s the huge ones that throw me off. The arrival of grandchildren was inspiring and the first couple received tons of little bitty sweaters, booties etc. – such fun to knit. But I petered out. And there are several grandkids with nothing hand-knit by grandma. Maybe I should rectify that. Maybe if the mitten initiative continues, they’ll get mittens someday. Maybe not.

Food For Thought

Mostly I cook dinner without any thought as to where the roast, hamburger, chicken or pork chops come from. It’s easier that way. Sometimes, when I pass a cattle liner on the highway and see the sorry critters inside, a pang of remorse hits me and I think maybe I should become a vegetarian. I think about how chickens are raised, where veal comes from, horses for slaughter and even puppies trussed up and ready for dinner in some parts of the world and it upsets me but sadly, not enough to change my ways. We have to eat, but somewhere along the way there has been a disconnect. The neatly packaged protein in the grocery store bears little resemblance to its former state – so much so that we never have to think about it, be grateful for it, or worry about the inhumanity of it.

When I was a kid, people knew where their dinner came from. Home gardens provided fresh produce in summer and vegetables to be stored or canned for winter meals. Chickens sometimes came minus their heads but often still feathered – no mistaking it for something else. It was definitely a chicken. Fish from the market looked exactly like…fish. And we were closer to our hamburger and steaks too. The stockyards were nearby and everyone knew that the cattle in those pens were going to walk in one packing plant door and come out another as dinner.

The local butcher had a walk-in freezer, and when the door opened, you could see carcasses hanging inside. They didn’t look as much like pigs or cows as headless chickens looked like chickens, but still, there was no denying that tonight’s hamburger had recently been oinking or mooing contentedly on a farm somewhere.

So, is it okay if we live in this sterile world of ignorant bliss? Is it okay if our children never know the origin of their hot dogs? (Well actually it’s better if no one knows the origin of their hot dogs but that’s another story.) There seems to be a trend to not upset the children by letting them know where the packages in the meat cooler start out. It’s a distasteful and somewhat out of control subject so let’s not go there.

Fast forward to last week. At first my grandsons didn’t ask why their Halloween Jack-o-lantern now sat on my kitchen counter smiling its slowly decaying smile. The large, jolly looking pumpkin had come to me for “processing” and had to be peeled, cut up and steamed in sections. During the procedure one small grandson popped into the kitchen and was quite upset and indignant that I was “killing” his pumpkin. I never thought of it that way but here we were, face to face with the “where does my food come from” question.

I did my best to explain that good old Jack was a pumpkin, that pumpkins along with a lot of other stuff, were raised to become food, and that we were thankful that we could cook the pumpkin and make good things out of it. Then we talked about pumpkin pie, pumpkin cheesecake, pumpkin muffins, pumpkin bundt cake and pumpkin loaf, and eventually the connection between what was and what will be became acceptable. Sometimes we have to lose something to gain something more important.

We ate pie later that day, there is loaf waiting in the fridge for lunch today, and there are packages of frozen pumpkin in the freezer. We will enjoy what this pumpkin has provided all winter. However, I do hope we don’t have to have the discussion about steaks and pork chops any time soon.

It Was That Close...

What thoughts flash across your mind as you approach the abyss, the abyss being where one ends up after careening out of control on Deerfoot Trail at 110+ km/hr? I’ve heard people see their loved ones or recall their grand achievements in those last moments; I’ve heard that others pray.

So, driving along, minding my own business and thank goodness, paying attention, the van in front of me, which I cannot see past, suddenly swerves to the right. Directly in front of me is a completely stopped small, dark car (details escape me at the best of times – I can’t even remember exactly where on Deerfoot I was – somewhere between Country Hills and 32 Avenue, I’m thinking.) I swerve to the left, as left handed people do, and think ever so briefly, whew, that was really close, I barely missed him.

I am, of course, headed for the median and in trying to correct, I swerve back into the centre lane – still going – into the right hand lane. Correct again, back over to the median, correct again, back to the right. And again. Not sure how many times this happened – three, maybe four – all in a matter of a few seconds, then back to the centre lane and thank goodness, in control again, clear sailing –  I’m on my way, albeit with my heart in my throat.

In that few seconds of flying around on the freeway, what flashed across my mind? It was not my wonderful husband, nor my fabulous kids, not my beloved grandchildren either. I thought, maybe this is it, maybe I’m going to die – I said words over and over in my head but regrettably they probably formed a swear rather than a prayer. I thought of my dogs and how they would miss me – how bizarre is that – my dogs and not my family?

Then a long-ago warning flickered and I calmly thought, okay, I’m dressed for the occasion – I have on clean underwear. Then to the future – good thing we’re having the winter tires put on the car on Monday, they’ll need to be balanced after all this jerking around. Somehow I thought the car would survive while I would not?

Then I was in control again. No abyss this time. I drove slower, unsteady, not at the wheel but in my mind. There was another tie-up on Deerfoot closer to my destination which gave me time to think, to compose myself. Many thoughts crossed my mind, thoughts of my family and how much they mean to me, and I to them. I thought about getting my stuff in order, cleaning drawers and closets, updating my will, wondering who would want my stash of quilting material, my books.

And I thought a great deal about the recent distracted driving (cell phone) law and was truly thankful for it. I have often talked on my cell phone on straight stretches of road with traffic running smoothly. I know with 100% certainty that, had I been talking on the phone, or even drinking a coffee for that matter, I would not have had time to think about anything…ever again. I would have hit the stalled car. It was that close.

Better But Not Quite Fixed

So proud of my girl – I had the pleasure ?? of attending a parent/staff meeting at her boy’s school today to deal with the angst that was going on in my last blog. Interestingly, it’s against policy for anyone other than the child’s parents to attend such meetings but my girl explained…firmly…that I spend more time with him some weeks than either of his parents and since the school has its team, she was coming in with hers. The principal agreed and made me welcome.

Glad I was there as her team included her, me, and her ex who was basically there for reasons that I’m not going to go into and who offered only a couple of off topic remarks.

My girl talked about using restraints on a person experiencing a seizure, the danger of physical trauma, human rights and legal ramifications and also about the emotional damage to a little boy who needs to move. She passionately explained her boy’s journey to where he is now and how much better a place it is than where he was two years ago. She adamantly professed that no one was going to be allowed to reverse the progress this little boy has made.

She addressed the fears that staff may have and explained that yes, seizures were indeed scary but restraining the person seizing would be far more traumatic both immediately and in the long run than handling the situation appropriately would be. She explained how the situation could be handled appropriately.

A great deal of information was shared – staff, I think, learned some things about seizures and about our boy, and his mom learned that her boy’s program is in place, focused, and geared to helping him succeed. The school team was receptive – guaranteed that restraints would not be used and were sympathetic to a couple of other concerns. With continuing communication, I am hopeful that our little guy will have a successful year.

Then why is it not quite fixed? It isn’t fixed because there are devices remaining in this elementary school that can be used to secure a child to his/her seat. I would like to know what the criteria for using such a device is, not relative to our boy. The use of it was considered in very inappropriate circumstances (our boy) so why exactly is this method of control available and what constitutes acceptable use, if there is one.

What happens when another child whose mom isn’t as well-spoken and outgoing as our boy’s mom is expected to approve tying her child into his/her seat for what is supposedly his/her own safety? What if the mom is too shy or too confused and intimidated or too busy to disagree with the “expert”? What happens if the mom hasn’t done her research and isn’t familiar with her rights? Who takes care of a child who is restrained for no reason other than fear or convenience and who is left to deal with the emotional or physical damage done in the process?

Lost for words...or maybe not...

I haven’t blogged for awhile. It’s been hectic but life is good. Every so often though, when things are going relatively smoothly, something jumps out and bites you in the butt. I’ve blogged before about our bright and shiny grandson and the struggle he has to keep up with the back of the pack. But he does his best, and he does it without tears or complaining – we should all be gifted with his patience and perseverance. He even received an award at school last year based on those very qualities.

But alas, it’s a new year and anyone who works with kids, let alone special ed kids, knows that the key to peace and tranquility is finding the “buttons”, both the ones that create motivation, joy and enthusiasm which you push often, and the ones that can set a child into a tailspin of anger, hurt and bad behaviour, which, if you’re doing your job for the right reasons, you avoid at all cost. There are always those who, for either perverse or ignorant reasons, think that if you push the “bad reaction buttons” often enough and hard enough, the child will give in, comply, become “normal”, and basically won’t cause any problems. Anyone with any experience, wisdom and compassion knows that likely the opposite will happen. The bad button pushers have to win at all cost and the price paid by the children in their trust is high.

It took this grandson awhile to adjust to kindergarten but by last June he loved school, trusted his wonderful teacher and assistant, and was excited to start grade one. His success, as always, has been due to his mom’s bear-like advocacy and tenacity – picture dragging a camel through the eye of a needle – it can be done. Hard work, the sharing of knowledge, strategies, joys and tears, and the excellent team relationship between home and school provided a fabulous start for a small boy with health issues and huge potential.

The goal is to move forward, right? Team planning, transition meetings, a file an inch thick with test results and recommendations from experts at ACH should provide some insight on how to keep this child motivated and learning. Said child has difficulty focusing for long periods due to his seizure disorder and the medication that successfully controls it. His coordination and body strength are low and he tires easily. However he is intelligent, friendly, generous, and has a heart as big as a mountain. A great number of people have worked very hard to encourage his strengths while making unobtrusive allowances for his weaknesses and have been inspired by this quiet, determined, happy little boy.

So, off goes grandson to grade one. He’s excited as can be. Now, barely a month into the school year, it’s obvious to those who love him that we’re losing him both mentally and physically. He is no longer allowed to be independent. Someone holds his elbow whenever he moves, whether it’s the adult in charge or any one of a group of other grade one students recruited to “take care of” our boy. He no longer plays freely on the playground at recess. He refuses to put his shoes on by himself because, in his own words, “someone else will do it for me.” I can only imagine how much has been taken away as he proceeds through his day. He has become tearful and shy; he is no longer very happy. Rather quickly, this little guy is being turned into an invalid, not capable of action or thought on his own.

Then, to complicate matters, there is a call home. One of the specialists involved in our boy’s program recommends that for his own safety, it will be necessary to tie our boy into his chair and secure him in case he has a tonic clonic seizure and falls and hurts himself. This person wants mom’s permission to do so and it seems, is governed by the idea that it’s better to seek forgiveness than permission because according to our boy, the experience has already happened. There is so much wrong with this I’m not going to go into it here but it’ll probably end up in another blog. It should be noted though, that the type of seizure that staff seem desperately afraid of, are thankfully controlled by his medication. He hasn’t had one in over a year, but hey, just in case he does, tie him to a chair? Really?

Or is the seizure disorder an excuse. Is it a matter of wanting to control a small body that sometimes needs to get up and stretch and wander? Is it to impose restrictions on a small boy who thinks and learns and thrives better when in motion? Is it because someone, or a whole team of people, value conformity over individuality in any degree? Regardless, there is no acceptable reason for tying a child to his seat.

I have always been an advocate of public education. I’ve always said, “There’s a real world out there, filled with real people and real problems. Public school is how a child learns to cope as a well informed and well adjusted adult.” However, as our society becomes more and more competitive the survival of the fittest is becoming more and more acceptable. There seems to be less room for patience, for understanding, for leniency, and for value placed on the individual. It is starting at the elementary school level, and it is happening in our boy’s grade 1 classroom.

Contemplating Fall

It’s starting to feel a lot like fall, and fall is my favourite time of year! Kids cluster on street corners to talk about the upcoming school year, birds flock and gorge themselves on berries as they get ready for their journey south, a new round of book launches and writing related events begins to fill the September calendar, and fall fabrics are adorn quilt shops along with a new batch of projects and workshops.

I spent Saturday with a good friend. We spent three hours wandering around a quilt shop in NW Calgary and had a wonderful time. We fondled fabrics, leafed through books, and admired the fantastic quilting projects on display. I spent very little money there – I have a room full of unfinished projects – but that doesn’t mean a person can’t plan for the future. (However, in all seriousness, I need to decide who bequeath my material stash to in my will because I will never live long enough to sew all that stuff.) We had lunch at a nearby coffee shop and came home tired but inspired and ready to go on a “quilt shop hop” in September.

Fall is a settling in time, a time to batten down the hatches both literally and figuratively, in preparation for the long winter ahead. It is as much a mental process as a physical activity and the importance of “getting ready for winter” is both cultural and climatic. I wonder what replaces this urgent and productive need to get ready for winter in countries that experience the same climate all year long.

In the “great white north” some practical preparation is necessary – boots, hats, mittens and coats replace hoodies and sandals, snow shovel replaces hose and watering can – but much of the preparation is psychological. We need to wrap our heads around long cold nights and shortened days, and the inability to go anywhere without donning layers of clothes, hence the need to settle in with an interesting project (or a good, sturdy book – something more intense than summer beach reading.) Salad and barbeque recipes are replaced with recipes for hearty soups and stews. Light and easy summer meals are swapped for food that sticks to the ribs.

Right now, during these last long days of summer, even as the days shorten and the night temperatures drop, the scent of fall is in the air and there is an urge to preserve something – vegetables, berries, pickles, chutney – and a desire to fluff up the comforter and put flannel sheets on the beds. That will all come soon enough, but not for a few more weeks – we need a few more weeks of this glorious summer.

And Then There Were Two

So, we have this dog – Lily – that chews my cabinets, sometimes messes on my floor, drags her toys onto the furniture and brings me dead things. What do I do to solve the problem? Get her a friend, of course. In a short period of possibly warped thinking and an unusual period of dog-related agreement between the boss and me, we found another puppy – another long-haired miniature dachshund.

Our reasoning, well, mostly my reasoning, was that if Lily had a buddy, she wouldn’t spend her spare time climbing on the furniture or my shoulder to chew her stinky toys. She would leave the boss alone while he reads the newspaper and she would spend time playing on the floor, a place where she spends very little time at present.

Now that baby Jake has been here for a whole day, I realize that there are a few things I didn’t think of. For one thing, Lily was 11 weeks old when she came to live with us. She slept through the night, was mostly trained and ate dry dog food. Li’l Jake is 7 weeks old today, does none of those things and probably won’t in the immediate future. He was up at 5:30 this morning, doesn’t know why the newspaper is in the corner and insists on having his kibble broken and moistened. He has peed outside a couple of times but that’s only because he pees VERY often and we just happened to be outside when the urge hit.

It’s not hard to know what Lily and Jake think of each other. Lily sits on Jake or stands over him to show she’s the boss while Jake wishes Lily was his mamma, nutritionally speaking, and tries to nip her insignificant little tits while she’s trying very hard to be dominant. Lily, being a lady, takes exception to being chewed on and usually jumps up somewhere out of reach and glares alternately at me and the pup. Jake is a feisty little guy, thinks that Lily’s stuff is his stuff too, and goes after it relentlessly. Lily, just because she’s a sweetie, generally gives in.

It will be interesting and, I am sure, fun to watch these pooches become friends. I’m not really nuts – I’ve just always had a dog or two (or four) and my home now feels more like it should than it has in over a year. Two little dogs don’t take up much space – Lily and Jake, when all grown up, won’t weigh as much as a small Cockapoo, they just have twice as many muddy feet.

FB

I am having doubts about Facebook, not that I totally bought into the site in the first place, but it has been an interesting and useful way to keep in touch with friends and relatives and for that, I am grateful. I use it to keep in touch with writing friends as well, many of whom I only know slightly but the sharing of a common interest and relevant information produces a sense of community and it’s wonderful to hear of the successes and celebrations of fellow writers.

One thing that puts me off is regular friend requests from people I’ve never heard of, people who have requested my “friendship” even though we have no friends in common. Who are these people and why would they want to befriend me? I don’t post a photo of myself so they are either attracted to my dog or flowers. My recent profile picture of two horses’ asses, I must say, hasn’t attracted any curious strangers. Maybe I should leave it up.

Another post on my news feed that made me wonder was an invitation to explore the possibility of a “romantic relationship” with women in Eastern Europe. Ah, no thanks and please go away, but I’m not sure how to make things go away on FB. I’ve been told photographs, notes, posts, etc. are there in perpetuity. Are there still babushka wearing women in foreign lands waiting for me to swing the other way?

And just recently, I’ve been included in two “groups” without being contacted first. No invitation to accept or reject. Just a notice that I’ve been added by someone else. All of a sudden, there I am, a group member. Both groups sound interesting and both have members that I respect greatly so I haven’t yet revoked my membership (is that possible) but I have hidden them from view until I can decide if what they have to offer makes it worth my while to read their multiple and repetitive daily posts.

These groups will likely end up filed away with the anonymous wannabe friends and the affectionate European women. I feel messages like these are intrusive and wish there was a little more discretion in cyberspace.

Fireworks

There is something about fireworks that draw me in. I’m not an "aahhhh-er" or an "oohhhh-er" as fireworks light up the night sky but I really enjoy watching them explode, unfold, disintegrate and float away. It doesn’t matter the kind, or whether they’re huge, multicoloured starbursts, shooting stars with long colourful tails, the kind that drip and weep as they crackle into extinction, or the white flashes that just go “boom.”

I watch silently, somewhat awestruck, impressed, I think at the relatively safe but powerful force of it all.

When I was a child, we could buy recreational fireworks at the corner store. I was not allowed to buy the rockets that shot into the sky and exploded, or the twirling pinwheels - too dangerous - but my parents saw no problem, providing I followed the rules and didn’t throw them at anyone or anything, with the smaller strings of red firecrackers, the kind powerful enough to cause severe burns or blind an eye, but probably not strong enough to remove a finger.

Lighting each one and watching it go “Bang!” got a little monotonous so we experimented. We blew up piles of leaves and sometimes had to stomp out the fires that started as a result; we dropped them down sewer grates and listened for the echoing bang, but the most fun was to light several as quickly as we could, and place them in a can. Seconds later the can would fly into the air on a probably more unpredictably dangerous path than well-aimed rockets.

Then, alas, these small-scale fireworks were taken off the market because too many people had managed to do damage to themselves and others by hanging on too long and being burned or possibly by being struck by flying cans. A person needed a permit and an occasion to purchase fireworks. From then on I had to be happy with watching planned displays.

Most fireworks watching requires spending time on a surprisingly chilly evening and being insect bait for the millions of nasty mosquitoes that hang around waiting for unsuspecting fireworks watchers not dressed in jeans, socks, and long sleeved hoodies to expose bare flesh and provide a late-night meal. The actual viewing experience requires shivering, swatting, flapping and slapping, and, if you are really close and lucky, keeping hot little embers from burning holes in your clothes and/or skin. Still, I'm enthrawled.

I’ve never seen a huge explosion – not, thank goodness, explosions resulting from acts of terrorism or war where bombs rip buildings, bodies, families and nations apart or explosions caused by gas leaks or other combustibles that cause great damage, so maybe my fascination with things that go boom is naïve.

I was once told that had I witnessed unplanned and horrifying explosions, my fascination for fireworks would be quickly squelched but I'm not so sure. My curiosity doesn't extend to horrific details or how fireworks are made or what actually makes them work. I only want to watch in awed silence as the sky lights up with spectacular but safe bursts of colour and noise.

Lily

Lily is growing up – six months old already. Her most endearing personality traits are her enthusiasm for anything tasty and her hound instincts. She’s a mooch and unlike other finicky doggie eaters we’ve known who hack up anything spicy, savoury, or heck, sometimes even toast, Lily seems to have guts of steel. 

Not that this is a good thing. I wish she was more discriminate. Because dachshunds have such long bodies, added weight is unusually hard on their backs so we want to keep her as slim and trim as possible. Nevertheless, she’s right there, under the table at mealtimes, especially when the boys are here, scooping up any tasty crumbs that come her way and begging for anything we might be inclined to share if she stares long and hard enough at it.

Outside she eats grass, flowers, mulch, twigs – anything she can wrap her lips around. This is not a good thing either, especially when combined with her hound instincts. She snuffles around in the grass, in the flower beds and under the trees. So far she’s come up with two dead mice and at least half a dozen dead sparrows. So far she hasn’t tried to eat them, but instead brings them to me. Blegh.

At first I wondered where the dead critters were coming from but soon realized that with the amount of bird feeders, and the amount of birds that visit over the winter, it stands to reason that the odd one would succumb to the cold or old age in our yard. The same with mice living under the mulch and also eating the bird seed. We didn’t know we had mice living nearby – I guess it’s okay if they don’t come in the house! The old and frozen ones crept under the bushes and expired and we were none the wiser. However, Lily sniffs out the bodies and makes a gift of them.

She also thinks she’d like to catch a live bird. Today, the baby sparrows from one of the birdhouses flew the coop. I’ve been expecting this to happen as I’ve been watching their little beaks get bigger and more impatient as the parent sparrows brought food.

Anyway, I didn’t realize they were out until this afternoon when Lily spotted a baby in the middle of the yard. I don’t know if she would have hurt it or picked it up and brought it to me because the mamma bird was right there, flapping and squawking around Lily’s head. Lily immediately took after her (that’s the point, right?) and followed her half way across the yard in the opposite direction while the baby bird jumped, flopped, flapped and scrambled to the safety of the nearest flower bed.

Later tonight, when Lily and I went out, she sniffed out every inch of the area she covered chasing the mother bird. She didn’t go the other way and look for the babies. The mamma did a good job. There are at least three baby sparrows and one baby robin hiding somewhere out there in the garden. I hope they learn to fly and fend for themselves soon before Lily realizes she’s been duped.

Time Flies

Time flies when you’re having fun – or not. Whatever the circumstances, life goes on and eventually you have cause to stop and wonder how you got to where are now. Our children, the ones who stole our hearts when we were barely adults, grow up far too quickly and when they reach adulthood it seems impossible that all those years have passed by.

You realize that you’re not 20 anymore as you watch high school end, college years pass by, and soon you’re shopping for different clothes – a mother-of-the-groom outfit followed by mother-of-the-bride dresses, garments you’ve always thought belonged to a woman of a certain age, certainly not you, not yet.

Then the grandchildren arrive and you fall in love again. You attend birthdays, dance recitals, concerts and what’s this? Graduation time already? This week our eldest grandchild, a stunningly beautiful young woman, walks across the stage to accept her high school diploma and set out on her adult life with plans for a bright and exciting future.

Just last week, we watched a very special grandson receive an award as his kindergarten year ends. He’s not the youngest but his journey, just beginning, for sure will be one of the most interesting. God willing we will be there to see every one of them graduate from high school and watch them follow whatever post secondary road they choose. Sooner or later, I’ll have to admit I’m not 40 anymore 60 anymore. The years have flown by.

I will shop, each time, for something appropriate to wear. I will have to admit to sensible shoes, something in (blegh) mauve polyester, a lacy cardigan. Maybe when time takes another leap and flings me into octogenarianism, I will be ready for that, but not yet, oh please, not yet.

Zip It

Apparently there are things I am not allowed to say.

At times, I’ve been told that I don’t stand up for myself, that I let things that I should take exception to slide, that I’m a flighter, not a fighter. I am not outspoken, I am not bossy. I am friendly, compassionate and an extremely good listener. However, when crossed I can be direct, not terribly tactful and really accurate. It’s called shooting from the hip. Mostly this isn’t appreciated. Mostly, I don’t care.

At this point in my life, I should be able to say whatever I want to say. It can be taken as insight, wisdom or the ranting of an old woman. There are people who I need to hear what I have to say – whether or not they need to hear it is questionable. However what I would like to say would rock the boat and it’s not my boat to rock, so I rehearse conversations that will never happen, bite my tongue until it bleeds, and take my blood pressure pills regularly.

One-on-one conversation is not my speciality. Being a writer, my weapon of choice is the pen, but I’m reasonably sure angry emails and nasty notes fall into the category of conversations I’m not allowed to have. I am limited to hiding fact in fiction, writing indirect and obscure blogs, and journaling until my fingers are numb and the anger subsides.

If her cubs are threatened, a mother bear attacks with a vengeance. But I am not a mother bear. I am a human mother, and I have compassion for both the cub and the attacker. I understand the cub’s reasoning; I understand the attacker’s lack of moral compass.

So I will be quiet as requested. My thoughts will remain silent to the ears I want most to hear them. Events will unfold as they should. I smile at the knowledge that Karma can be a bitch.

Bianca

I recently purchased a pet chicken called Bianca. She is white and fluffy with dark beady eyes and she lives in her own elaborate chicken coop. I thought she would be an easy pet to keep, but, as it turns out, she’s high maintenance. She is always hungry, she gets sick and she constantly wants to be entertained. And that’s only the beginning…

Bianca is a virtual pet. She lives in her own affluent virtual world inhabited by a multitude of other virtual pets, all on a quest to earn virtual cash and buy more virtual stuff. I purchased Bianca so I could play interactive games with my grandchildren, a concept that intrigued me but, it seems, this feature isn’t high on the site’s priority list. It’s very difficult to meet up in game rooms without being aggressively overrun by other virtual pets that are either starved for attention or, considering the life Bianca leads, spoiled rotten.

I’ve spent time as an interloper in this virtual world, trying to evaluate the quality of the time spent on such a site. Certainly children learn to take care of their virtual pets, but beware, its pets, not pet. Pets need friends, right, and therefore there is a big push to add to the virtual pet community. Poor Bianca remains alone, only finding companionship in game and reading rooms where she meets virtual strangers on a superficial level.

Each pet comes with a virtual room and some virtual money. Like anyone just starting out in life, there are necessities to acquire – a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, food and furniture, maybe a television, a trampoline, a motorized scooter – the list is endless. With a little cash anything is possible. And where does the cash come from? It comes from a small daily allowance, answering quiz questions, playing arcade games, and maybe getting a job.

At first I thought Bianca should take the high road and become a valuable member of her virtual society. She went to school and was rewarded for her achievements. Then she looked for a job. There wasn’t much for an inexperienced chicken to do but she tried hard to be successful. The tasks got harder very quickly. Poor Bianca couldn’t keep up and her confidence was shaken. (Lord knows how five-year-olds do this!) However, she managed to earn enough to add rooms and a yard to her home and purchase food and clothing.

But Bianca yearned for more. I tried to find a creative outlet for her, or some community-minded activity that would teach her to share, but other than buying and sending toys to other virtual pets – the ones belonging to the grandchildren – there was no opportunity to be a nice, upstanding chicken. She raises virtual fruit and vegetables in her virtual garden and occasionally attempts jobs that challenge my dexterity.

           

Eventually Bianca and I had a virtual breakthrough. She was able to save up and buy a virtual pool table and she discovered she was very good at playing pool – so good, in fact, that she now earns a steady, if somewhat shady, income from her talent and has been able to turn her home into a virtual mansion, take virtual vacations, visit virtual the virtual spa, and has a six-figure savings account. I wonder, as Bianca chalks her cue yet again, if perhaps a little more emphasis on relationships, sharing, community service and charitable donations, were they available to her, it might do her some good.

Published in airdrielife magazine summer 2010

Meet Betty Jane Hegerat and The Boy

Today I would like to welcome

Alberta author and good friend, Betty Jane Hegerat to my blog. Betty Jane is the author of three works of fiction, Running Toward Home (2006), Delivery (2009), and The Boy (2011) as well as a collection of short stories, A Crack in the Wall (2008). She is also the author of several short stories and creative non-fiction pieces published in both Canada and the United States.

The subject today is The Boy, a novel described as metafiction by publisher Oolichan Books, which weaves fiction and non-fiction together beautifully to create a compelling read centred around a tragic time in Alberta history. Documented events recalled by the author are intertwined with fiction through the prodding of a concerned fictional narrator and the story of her modern day family. The real boy is Robert Raymond Cook, the last person to be hanged in Alberta, for murdering his father, step-mother and siblings in Stettler in 1959. The fictional boy, whose story plays out in what seems to be a sinisterly parallel fashion, is the step-son of the fictional narrator, Louise.

Both reality and fiction are set in small town Alberta, places that seem idyllic to many for their friendliness, slower pace, and, more significantly, their safety. Having moved to what was then a small town many years ago for those very reasons, I asked Betty Jane to comment on this setting.

Hi, Ellen.  Thanks for inviting me, and for turning the attention to the setting in this book.  While I was doing the research for The Boy, visiting towns in central Alberta, recalling my own childhood in New Sarepta, and Camrose, imagining the fictional town of Valmer to which I moved Louise and her family, I spent a lot of time thinking about both the positives and the negatives of small town life.  So on to your questions:

What draws people to small town life? Are small towns really safer than the big city or is it an illusion?

 I think there is a belief that small towns are safer, friendlier, less stressful places to live.  That people look out for one another and that raising children in that environment gives them a sense of belonging and community.  Interestingly, when I interviewed Dave MacNaughton, he told me that he moved his family to Stettler after he graduated from law school, because he felt it would be a better, safer, place to raise a family.  His first case in the law firm he joined in Stettler was his defence of Robert Cook in what was to become one of Alberta’s most infamous murder cases.  So much for the quiet, mundane legal career he’d anticipated.  In fact, so much for the illusion that violence is the property of large urban centres.  The Stettler area was the site of two other mass murders with in a decade of the Cook case.  Perhaps there is security in living in a community where strangers stand out, and it’s difficult for someone with criminal intent to move about anonymously. And perhaps there is less to fear when we live in the midst of people who have a long history together.  On the other hand, in a startling number of violent crimes, the perpetrator is someone known to the victim.  In the case of the three murders the community of Stettler remembers well, the crime was committed by a stepson in one, a husband and father in another, and a neighbour in the third.  But these are exceptional, and Dave MacNaughton did tell me that the move to Stettler was the right one, because the small law firm and the wonderful community did give him time for his family and they feel deeply-rooted.

Is the sense of community in a small town where everyone knows everyone else’s business a positive or negative thing for a family who has a “bad” child?

I know that the lack of privacy in smaller centres, whether it’s around children, or marriages, or health issues, or finances, is something I would find difficult if I moved to a small town.  But people who grow up in those communities accept that transparency, and I think there is an ingrained sense of what can be gossiped and to whom, that comes with an equally ingrained sense of who “belongs” and who does not.  Robert Cook grew up in Hanna, and the town knew him as a young boy prone to mischief, but a boy who had lost his mother and had a close bond with his dad.  The town of Stettler, on the other hand, met him as an adolescent who was already in trouble with the law.  He was seldom with the family, and my sense from talking with people in Stettler is that he was seen as trouble, and an embarrassment to his family.  His visits home, and the brief period he actually lived with Ray and Daisy in Stettler didn’t afford him the status of “community member” even though his parents had gained that quickly.  In my fiction, Louise’s story, the town to which Jake and Louise move is Jake’s hometown, and even though Danny is already a problem the community is tolerant.  People speak to Jake about Danny’s behaviour before they take it to the police, and even then they offer reassurance that this is something he will “grow out of”, just a phase. It’s Louise who is the outsider, and perhaps this is my own projection of how I would feel moving to a close-knit town with which I’d had no previous connection.  

Are small towns like Louise’s small town different from small towns in the late 1950s?

While today’s small communities still have a core of long-time families, many of them have become commuter towns, and have had an influx of people seeking that ideal that illusive quieter, slower lifestyle.   As well, there is a greater tendency for children who grow up in these communities to move on, and often farther away than their parents would have ventured. Immigration in the past few decades has brought people from all over the world to smaller centres as well to our big cities.  So different demographic, greater mobility, more in common with the cities, I think.  One of the questions a reader asked me just a few days ago, was,  “Will the Peters family stay in Valmer?”  Interesting. J  I have the sense that Louise isn’t done with me yet, and perhaps I’ll find out some day. 

To listen to a clip of Betty Jane reading from The Boy:
http://bettyjanehegerat.com/2011/05/31/talking-about-small-towns-and-bad-boys-with-ellen-kelly/

That time of year again

My column, published in airdrielife magazine (http://airdrielife.com/), Spring 2011.

Gardening, like learning a foreign language, comes easier to some than to others. I am one of the others. I don’t like gardening. There, I’ve said it. Admitting to not enjoying gardening comes close to supporting non-breast feeders on the scale of societal abominations, but let’s be clear. I like gardens and I like planting things and watching them grow. However, I have no aptitude for picking the right plants for the right spaces, I don’t like mucking about in the soil, and I don’t like watering the little sprouts while being eaten alive by mosquitoes. However, a certain amount of gardening is necessary if I want to enjoy my yard.

I usually start out with a burst of energy in February. With lengthening days, my tiny sprouts, carefully planted in milk cartons and little peat pots, are primed to burst forth in time to transplant to planters and beds. But this is optimistic. Year after year, I start plants only to have them wither, possibly from lack of water, light or both. I prepare the soil and plant bedding out plants from the nursery with only slightly more success and when tender, delicate perennials poke through in other people’s gardens, my hardy ones remain dormant. Not a crocus to be found. Sometimes a rare tulip pushes through, only to be frozen by a late frost that somehow doesn’t hit the tulips in the yard across the street.

Years ago, I gave up on anything fancy. In my yard, I have peonies, daisies, a few day lilies, a couple of hardy rose bushes, a poppy (yes, just one) and several lovely plants whose names I can’t remember. I have low-growing snow-in-summer planted behind towering day lilies, ground hugging campanula ensconced near the roots of a seven foot rose bush, a Virginia creeper that, rather than cling to brick as my neighbour’s does, flops lamely along the fence. I dig and poke, but not with much enthusiasm. There seems to be more weeds than plants and mostly, I can’t tell the difference.

People tell me I have a lovely yard, due mostly to the lawn, kept manicured by my husband. At least that part is tidy. When I visit other gardens, with flowers blooming in rows, dancing like well-dressed maidens in the breeze, I am in awe. I make plans – next year my garden will be like this. But when I return home, to my lawn swing, my cup of tea and my book, and see the unorganized wildness of determined perennials, violas thriving in sidewalk cracks and under the swing, surprise plants – gifts that have arrived in bird dropping, and the disorder growing around me, I am not tempted to change it. Somehow there is comfort in the confusion.