On Thin Ice
 

 
When you are raised in a city that was built around the forks of two lazy-looking but dangerous rivers, and a province with 100,000 lakes, it's important to grow up with a healthy respect for water, and an ability to swim.  And when your climate is such that it repeatedly freezes and thaws all that water, you also need to be very cautious of trying to navigate that ice during certain times of the year.
 
Every year there are drownings of children reported, especially as a consequence of them playin on the ice floes and falling through, the warnings issued by parents and local media seeming to have only fueled youthful curiosity.  My parents, having lived in a city filled with canals, were adamant that all of their kids learn to swim almost before we learned to walk.  In their country, swimming was part of the school curriculum.
 
When my brother Fred took a job as a bicycle delivery boy for a nearby pharmacy, he endured sub-arctic temperatures during winter, for a paltry 48 cents an hour.  He was a skinny kid, and I remember him returning from a shift with hands and feet so frozen that he was practically in tears as he warmed them by the heat register, where mom would have a fresh pair of heated socks awaiting him.  We have photos of him sprawled on the floor before it, fast asleep from exhaustion, with his arm around the family dog. 
 
As if Fred's job wasn't hazardous enough, his employer once instructed him to get more deliveries done by riding his bicycle across the river instead of takin the bridge.  When my brother told his boss that venturing onto the ice unsupervised was against our parents' strict rules, Mr. Moyer scoffed and said there was nothing to worry about, the river was frozen solid.  My parents were furious when Fred reported this conversation to him, and told him he should tell the pharmacist that he would take the bridge or quit his job.  It wasn't long after that, that Fred went to work, instead, for the kindly old widow who ran a hardware store a couple of doors down the street.  Mrs. Coyles was more generous with her pay and her demands, Fred didn't have to contend with the rigours of Manitoba winter, and he genuinely came to love her.  We all did.  Just a short while ago we were reminiscing about her, and the affection my brother felt for her was plainly visible in his eyes.
 
Coyles' Hardware is now Sawadthee Thai, one of the finest Thai restaurants in the city.  And the pharmacy where my brother was once employed, is a Thai grocery store.  Across the street is the same Goodwill thrift store that has flourished for 50 years, and catty corner, where Bill's and Henry's candy stores used to be (any of you remember three for a penny candy?  I do; that's how old I am), are a video store and computer repair shop. 
 
So many changes over the years, and a few constants.  And among the cobwebs in my mind, a mixture of fond memories and the threats of danger, like the allure of the thin ice on those lazy-looking rivers.
 
 
 
 
 

Step Aside, Martha Stewart
 


Yesterday, I made 3 batches (12 pints) of strawberry jam.  Today I made four strawberry rhubarb pies:  one super deep dish, one regular, and two lattice deep dish.  I also canned 7 more pints of jam.  Tomorrow I'm makin peach jam.
 
I'm a domestic goddess.

Perfection
 


I don't think there's a more perfect fruit than the strawberry.  The beauty of its symmetry, the allure of its sweet aroma, the burst of its sweet, natural taste....ah, pure ambrosia! 
 
Because of our late and cold Spring, everything is late this year.  The strawberry-picking season, which should be ending by now, has barely begun.  Yesterday morning I went and picked about 4 gallons (and ate about 2, as evidenced by my stained chin and bulging tummy), dropped off some fresh leaf lettuce from our garden at my mom's, and headed home to start cookin up some strawberry delights.  By the end of the day, I had put up 12 pints of cooked jam, and today I plan to make a deep dish strawberry rhubarb pie.  When I walked into the kitchen this morning, it smelled heavenly from the two remaining gallons of berries sittin on the counter. 
 
Picking them is a hardship for me, with my bad back and arthritic knees, but I found a way yesterday to make things a little easier on myself:  by takin along a little stencilled wooden toothpaste bench that I bought years ago at a craft sale.  (I was charmed by its old country look.  It has since become Duffy's favourite perch in front of the screen door during summer.)  I wrapped it in two plastic Wal-Mart bags to protect its feet, should my weight cause it to sink past the straw into the mud.  Of course, the first time I planted my butt onto it, I slid off, turtling inelegantly on my back in the strawberry patch for a moment or two.  It was okay, though:  no one noticed my frantic thrashing, as the pickers all had their heads bowed over their task.  Thank goodness. 
 
I think I might reward myself today with a strawberry-yogurt smoothie for lunch.  But here's the best strawberry treat of all, and if you haven't try this (as weird as it sounds), you absolutely must:  Serve fresh strawberries, stems on,  with sour cream (for dipping) and brown sugar (for rolling).
 
You will thank me.

Healing
 

 
Got up after that miserable dream this morning and headed over to Rona to get a gallon of their nice, silky latex exterior paint.  I started with the steel window frame of the security window Curtis put in the garage.  That sucker needed about fifty coats and still looks a wee bit streaky.  Then I painted the overhead garage door, the manual garage door, and the outside back door.  From there I moved onto spray painting our plastic patio chairs, little table and wood box (which was a blue Rubbermaid tote, and is now a forest green one).  Then I did some hot glue gun repairs to garden ornaments and cleaned the brushes, tray and rollers. 
 
Now I'm about to pick some lettuce from our garden for a dinner salad, empty the dog, shower, cube up some Santa Claus melon for dessert, and whip up a delectable batch of chicken Milanese for dinner.
 
It has been a day well spent, and I will have a lovely dinner to serve my sweetie when he ends his long, hard work week.  If the clouds that are rolling in behave themselves, we'll enjoy a quiet moonlight evening on the porch swing in front of our chiminea.
 
I feel better.

Bad Dreams
 

 
Thankfully, it has been a while since my dreams were invaded by him.  Until just before waking this morning.  Always, he is being cruel and mocking and exploitative; and I remain helpless, passive and victimized.  He is removing all of my possessions from the house, even those I had before we met, and, illogically, those I've acquired since he left.  He is criticizing and belittling me, scoffing at my accomplishments, trying to make me feel worthless again.  I cry and protest weakly, too paralyzed by grief and shock to lash back or defend myself.
 
Why?  Why, after more than seven years, does he continue to batter at my peace?  I'm happy now.
 
So why did I wake up feeling so rotten this morning?
 
 

A Better Day
 
Max is okay.  His tests came out normal, and he is behaving the way he always does.  It could be that the heat, and his excited behaviour brought on the seizure.  Between appointments today, I went to McNally Robinson Bookstore to spend a gift certificate, and while I was there I read up on epilepsy and convulsions in dogs.  It definitely described what we witnessed.  It also said excitement could trigger such an episode, and confirmed that we did exactly as we should have by havin him immediately examined and tested.  The vet said no treatment protocol is necessary, unless he seizes again, and then only if it happens fairly often.  This has never occurred before, and maybe it never will again.  I sure hope not.
 
When I got home and checked our finances, I found that there was two dollars and change left in our chequing account, and had to transfer funds from our savings for the second time this month, thanks to $700 in unexpected bills.  Good thing we have some money comin in from the marking I did, but looks like no golf or casino for a couple of weeks.
 
On a brighter note, I got a couple of good books and a neat springy garden stake thingy with my gift certificate, I had no cavities, our pooch is healthy, and my nails look awful purty again.

A Rough Day
 
Well, I know I haven't been around much, and I will try to do better in the next day or two.  Today was my dad's birthday.  I took my mom and some flowers to the cemetery, fed the big funny ducks at the pond a whole bag of hot dog buns (that always cheers both of us up), and then pushed her around Wal-Mart in a wheelchair.  We ran a few other errands and I took her home.  It was beastly hot, the air conditioning in my car is not working, and I can't get it fixed without replacing it, which we really can't afford right now.  (We just had to have the power steering pump replaced in the truck, and that was a large and unanticipated expenditure.) 
 
When I got home, I took Max out to empty him, and Curtis got home just as we came up the street.  Max bounded around all excited, then suddenly fell over like a log.  He was out cold, completely unresponsive and barely breathing.  Then he began to seize.  It was truly frightening.  When he first awoke, he was very disoriented.  I immediately called the vet, and we took him in for an examination and a battery of blood tests.  Another $195.  Max seemed completely normal within minutes after his episode, and was his usual gregarious self at the vet's.
 
In the morning I have a dental appointment for my 6 month checkup, cleaning, etc.; then I am getting my nails done.  By the time I get home, there should be a message from the vet with Max's test results. 

Busy Bee



Just popped in to say I'm busy marking provincial exams until the weekend, and right now I'm givin myself some summer highlights (plastic baggie on my head and all). Saturday we'll probably go strawberry picking.

Oh, and hey, get this: Got my magazines today, and what a surprise. My first two stories were both on page 21; this one is on page 5, which is actually the second page you flip to. Woo hoo!

I'll be back writing next week. Stay well, everyone.

Three years ago today I was "cured" of cancer. Surgery removed what was thought to be inoperable, and today I remain free of the Monster. I celebrated by spending the day with my mom, after getting her groceries for her; and when I came home, my editor "iced the cake" by emailing me to say that she had published yet another of my stories and a cheque and copies of the magazine were in the mail.

I'm on holidays, the weather is beautiful, and I'm married to a great guy who loves me.

Doesn't get any better than this.

Me Feets Have Gone Green



That's right: green. But then, that's what I get for wearing sandals when I'm mowing the lawn. Even after scrubbin them furiously in the shower, I need to seriously attack them with my foot file. I'm exhausted after 5 hours of weeding, trimming, plucking, raking, clipping, watering and mowing. But now my yard is perfect. And so is my next door neighbour's....

The other day Brian wrote a post about how there are always people worse off than you. Boy, was he right about that. Stephen next door had his large colon removed in January due to ulcerative colitis, and he's had a very rough time building up his strength again. He hopes to be well enough for reconstructive surgery in August to allow him, as he puts it, "to poop out of the right hole again," as he currently has a bag. Today while I was workin in my front yard, I saw him pull up into his driveway and his wife Sheila get out of the car very gingerly and head into the house. Stephen walked over and told me that she had just spent the last week in the hospital with West Nile Virus. She contracted it in their yard, when she was painting their house. At first she thought her joint pain and stiffness was due to all her trips up and down a ladder, but then she began to exhibit other alarming symptoms.

These two just can't get a break. Neither one of them is in good shape right now, and their grass was long, so after I finished my chores, I went over and cut their front and back lawns. Sheila owns a florist shop, and she is not one for straight ANYTHING in her yard. She has all sorts of arbors, chairs, benches, and even a cast iron weather vane; so I got quite the workout. And I had to empty the grass catcher four times. I didn't whipper snip because I don't own a weedeater any more; I gave mine away after I redesigned my yard so that it didn't need trimming any more. (Can you tell I'm a straight line kinda person?)

Of course I coated myself with Deet, in the event that the mosquito that infected Sheila, or any of his relatives, bit me; so by the time I put my garden tools away, I was a stinky, sweaty, dirty mess. With green feet.

I have spent four solid days cleaning my house inside and out. All of you are invited to inspect, but you must do so within the next 48 hours before it gets messed up and filled with animal hair again. You may wear white gloves and run your fingers over surfaces, you may stick your head in my oven (don't worry; it's electric), you may look at mirrors and pictures from every angle, you may eat from my floors. And if you say enough admiring things, I will feed you something cooked on our Flintstone-sized barbecue, and pour margaritas around the chiminea.

Just don't look at my feet.

Wanda

A number of you have expressed concern about our friend Wanda. I received an email from her today. She's okay, but she's been going through some pretty heavy personal stuff lately. She asked me not to say anything more right now, and of course I will respect her wishes. She can't bring herself to post about things just yet, but she indicated that she may want me to email a few of you with some more details. I am awaiting clearer instructions on that. I know she appreciates your worries and good wishes, and she says she'll be back blogging again before too long. In the meantime, please keep her in your hearts and prayers.

Celebrating Life



It was three years ago on this date that I was diagnosed with kidney cancer. My prognosis was very grim going into the OR, but what appeared on the CT-scan to be metastasis, turned out to be only(?) a huge blood clot, which improved my diagnosis from stage 4 to stage 3. I came out of surgery with no visible sign of cancer remaining in my body.

As of today, I remain in total remission. I thank God for this every day.

Life is sweet.

It Aint Easel Easy



I'm a visual person. That is, if I see something, it tends to be more easily coaxed from the cobwebs of my memory bank later on, than if I merely hear it. I learned early that the best way for me to study was to take notes of some kind (often they took the form of webs or mind maps) - that way, when I had to recall information during a test, I didn't remember the data so much as I remembered seeing it written down or diagrammed on paper.

I often tell my students that I have a film constantly runnin in my head, and that's why some jokes or anecdotes make me laugh so hard - it's the accompanying cartoon that I'm seeing with my mind's eye that adds to the hilarity for me. I tell them how I wish I had a switch on my temple that I could click, so that I could throw onto the classroom screen, what it is that I am visualizing; then they could share in the fun.

The trouble is, I can't draw my way out of a wet paper bag, which has been a lifelong source of frustration for me. If only I could translate my ideas onto paper, I'd be a successful cartoonist, for sure. But anything more than stick figures is beyond me. In spite of that, I kick butt at the games, "Win, Lose or Draw" and "Pictionary" - I guess because I have a facility for expressing ideas pictorially, mostly through the use of symbols and the like.

My father was a gifted artist, and my brother Frank inherited his ability. Not I. My junior high art teacher gave me a sympathy "C", only because I tried so darn hard. He was a Scotsman, and I remember him tsking over one of my inept drawings and saying in his brogue, "Ellen, Ellen, Ellen, if ye could drrraw as well as ye can talk, ye'd be a rrregularrr Picasso."

When I was a little kid, my creativity was unhampered by the need for proper perspective and other conventions of art. Expectations weren't that high, and adjudicators of children's art saw the whimsy and imaginativeness in my work. When I was in grade 5, I was surprised to be handed a picture that I had evidently crayoned three years earlier, a picture that had returned from an exhibit that had travelled around the world. It was a graveyard scene, and there were spirits floating about above the tombstones. Very ephemeral. It was very likely inspired by a CBC radio show that played unusual music meant to be played in the classroom, for kids to draw to. I remember loving that activity, as well as the one on alternating weeks called "Let's Sing Together," when we followed along with song sheets while a director taught a song, live, to a high school choir in the studio. (Years later I was part of one of those choirs.)

I wish I still had that picture.

Yet Another Rerun



Now that I'm officially on holidays, I've decided to tackle the dust bunnies. I felt it was time, as any draft causes them to roll around my knees like tumbleweeds. Because of my cleaning frenzy, I haven't time to write, currently; so I've dug up an old post and presented it as an audioblog. There's a hiccup in the audio at one point (Audblog's, not mine), which should say something to the effect that "an apology is not a guarantee of forgiveness, although some feel it ought to be." I didn't want to retape the entire thing.

A Pint of Vanity



The first time I donated blood was shortly after I had started university. I had just turned 18, and the Red Cross had set up a clinic in the fourth floor lounge next to the cafeteria. I was on one of my stupid starvation diets, so after the requisite pint had been extracted, I refused the Coke and snuck the proffered cake donut into the garbage can when the volunteers weren't looking. Feeling proud of my good deed, I cavalierly told all my friends that the donation was nothing, I felt fine. A couple of hours later I went to my philosophy class on the main floor.

I was sitting at the back of a double classroom. The prof was introducing a film that he was about to show us, and an AV tech guy was setting up the 16 mm projector (this was 1972) a couple of seats behind me. Suddenly, I began to feel nauseous. Then I started to sweat, right down to the hair follicles on my scalp, and it seemed there were spiders running up and down my arms and legs. A couple of slow deep breaths did nothing to stop the room from spinning, so I thought I'd better get to the ladies room to splash water on my face and/or throw up.

I got as far as the back wall of the room. I remember bracing myself against it with one hand, and tryin vainly to take a step, but my legs were rubber and they failed me. Everything turned black; I couldn't see anything but my left leg making a repeated and comical pedalling motion. From far away, I heard the prof say, "Is that young woman alright?" and the next thing I knew, the AV guy had a hold of me by my armpits in an unsuccessful attempt to keep me on my feet. It was no good: I kept slithering towards the floor, and every time he hauled me up, my sweater would ride up. OMG, there were 75 pairs of eyes lookin at my tummy! Suck up, suck up, suckup, suckuppppp.

Yes, a woman's vanity is a powerful thing. Here I was, passin out, and all I could focus on was showing my classmates a flat tummy.

Apparently, I was passed out for a good long while. Splashing me with water, patting my face and hands did not revive me. I regained consciousness suddenly. My first awareness was that there were a lot of quick, short footsteps, accompanied by loud panting. When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was my purse bobbing back and forth on my stomach; the second thing I saw was a series of pictures streaking past either side of me in a blur. That's when I realized that I was being carried, shoulder-high, down the hallway by my panicked prof and classmates, to the blood donor clinic, where I could receive medical attention.

It must have been quite a sight to observe them tryin to manoeuver me up the escalators, me fighting the whole while for them to PUT ME DOWN. Of course, every time my repleted blood supply left my head, it would be lights out again. The next couple of times I came to, it was on a cot, with smelling salts under my nose. Gad, that stuff is nasty.

They must have asked me a million times if I had eaten anything that day, and I lied every time and said I had. Hey, I was glad I didn't weigh an ounce over 128 pounds; wouldn't want those who had carried me to think I was a big fat pig.

There's that vanity again.

For about a week afterwards, strangers would come up to me on campus, lay a hand on my shoulder, and say with deep concern in their voices, "Are you okay?" I found it irritating and embarrassing, but consoled myself with the delusion that they thought of me as, "the girl who fainted in class - you know, the one with the flat stomach."

Uh huh. Yeah. Sure.

We're Off to Make Our Blood Donation



Curtis and I have a 7:38 am tee time for 18 holes today. We're under heavy cloud, but forecasters promise it won't rain until this afternoon. Let's hope they're right. We will be slathering ourselves in DEET, as the skeeters are out in full force.

Test

Just tryin out the thumbnail thing (thanks, Leslie). Here goes (deep breath)....


Click to enlarge thumbnail.

UPDATE: Whoa, it worked! Thanks, Leslie (and Carl) for your help. I'm gonna keep this post here so I can use the HTML codes on my template as a model; as it is rather complicated for my blonde little brain.

The Ghost of Holidays Past

Esther has been blogging about her family trip to the Badlands in 1966, and I have been immensely enjoying reading about it, as my parents and I made the same journey four years later, when I was 16 - except, of course, we were comin from north of the 49th parallel. One of the things that struck me immediately when we got into our first American town, was the absence of any young men. And of course, at age 16, I was interested in eyeballin a few young cowboys. But this was 1970, and sadly, America had been plundered of its young males by the draft for the Vietnam War. There was to be no flirting on this trip.

It didn't take long for me to forget all that nonsense, as my imagination was captured by the rugged terrain, the history and the romance of the Old West. Not to mention the tourist traps like Wall Drug, Deadwood, Medora, Mount Rushmore, and the Black Hills caverns. Well, you'll have to read about it at Esther's blog - she describes things far more eloquently than I ever could. I do have a few photos, though. I don't know how to post them so that you can click and enlarge them, so I've just stuck them below.

I was a poetic lil gal, and I even wrote a country-ish ballad, that you can "sort of" sing to the tune of "Gentle on My Mind." You're spared having to hear me howl it, because, as John mentioned, Audio Blog is down. Here are the lyrics, followed by the pictures:

Song of the Badlands

Oh, I've motored through the Badlands, where the Cowboys and the Injuns used to roam,
Where the pioneers in covered wagons travelled in their hopes to build new homes;
And I've journeyed over highways built right next to where the peaceful waters flow,
And I've touched the silken dress a girl was married in a hundred years ago.

A rich and lively town was once a-flourishing among the rolling plains,
But a service station and a greasy restaurant are all that now remain.

And I wonder,
What made it slow?
And I wonder,
Where did it go?

Oh, I've heard the stories of Wild Bill, and all the people's lives he used to save,
And I've clambered up old Boot Hill, just to see the tourists crowd around his grave;
And amid the tombstones, where the people's heads bow low and everything grows still,
Calamity Jane's last words still softly whisper, "Bury me beside Wild Bill."

And of all the romance of the years that since have swifty passed the Old West by,
The only remnant's carried on the North Dakota breezes like a sigh.

And I wonder,
What made it slow?
And I wonder,
Where did it go?

- Ellen de Koning
July, 1970