The problem with doors...

Does anyone else have a problem with doors?

Maybe other “lefties” can identify somewhat but this seriously funny (to everyone else) problem that I have, is becoming ever increasingly NOT funny to me. You would think that by the law of averages, at least 50% of the time I would choose the right door – the one that opens the way I push it – to allow free passage into stores, banks, offices, restaurants etc. but that’s not the case.

Inevitably, if there are two doors, the one I push is locked and the other is the one that opens freely. Why do they put two doors there if only one opens?  I mutter as, yet again, I try to switch to the other door unnoticed.  

If there is only one door into an establishment, also inevitably, I will push when I should pull or pull when I should push. The frequency that this happens has become a joke, like “let her go first and watch her go through the door.”

Even in places that I visit often – our favourite coffee shop comes to mind – I can’t remember which door I am supposed to use, and with a reverse savant-like determination, nearly 100% of the time, I choose the wrong door.

I must add that on the odd chance that I choose the right door, proceed immediately into the building and do a happy dance, laughing and clapping my hands in the foyer/entranceway of often very public places, I am equally embarrassed by the looks I get.

The first door problem I can remember occurred in high school. I took public transit in the days before backpacks when binders and text books were strategically balanced as we made our way on and off the buses. Off was the problem. While balancing my books in one arm, I would step onto the two stairs at the exit and notice, time and time again, my free hand was on the opposite side from the bar that pushed open the door. The bar was always on the same side but try as I might, I couldn’t remember. I would have to quickly shift my load from one arm to the other, not an easy task when carrying two or three binders and an equal number of text books. Or I would have to reach across myself and as the door opened, hop out (mostly successfully) sideways.

I also have a problem with sliding doors – specifically the one at the local library. As most people approach, the door opens and they walk right through without breaking stride. I, however, must sidle in on an angle because the door rarely opens until it and I are almost glass to nose. I have also been known to stand in front of the wrong glass panel waiting for a tightly sealed window to open.

So today, as I walk up to the door at London Drugs, I consciously think to myself – how many people do you know that think about how a door is going to open when they reach it – that’s how neurotic I am I becoming. Anyway, I think  Ah, only one automatic door – piece of cake. So I walk boldly and with confidence toward the door and…

it doesn’t open. The door is broken. I have to stop abruptly to keep from running into it. My husband wisely squelches a laugh as I pull, no push, open the door and march in.

Thanks for the picture, son  8)
Far Side, Gary Larson

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.