THE SUMMER OF ’23 – SO FAR

Back in the olden days when summer holidays were the period of time between one grade and the next at school, I was the kind of kid who worried about having nothing to write about in the inevitable “what I did on my summer holidays” assignment in September.  Other kids went on trips or had cabins at the lake or got to go to the city or something.  All we ever did was ride bikes over to our uncle’s place and shell peas for mom or go pick wild strawberries and put pennies on the railroad tracks for the train to squish flat.  Yes, I am that old – back in the olden days there were trains.

It's a pity that I’m not headed back to school this September.  It’s not even all the way through July and I have enough for an essay.

I hardly know where to start.  Maybe when our truck was pronounced dead in the middle of seeding?  And the debate that followed as to what to do about the situation.  Buy? Or try to fix?  And if the answer was buy, new or used?  And how to go about this vehicle shopping when he was still out on a tractor.  The job was delegated to our son-in-law who found us a good deal in Selkirk, Manitoba so summer ’23 started off with a trip to see the Manitoba grandkids and driving home in a truck whose A/C didn’t work, but that’s another story and it’s fixed now so no worries.

Next up was the July long weekend with three grandkids on an extended sleep-over and another family here for a two-night stay.  We crammed in a wiener roast and a s’more fest, the kids blew through maybe 100 water balloons and the lawn around the trampoline got well watered with hose and sprinkler activity before their parents picked them up and took them camping.  I had a few days to catch my breath before I spent a few days at the lake too.

By that time I had company coming from B.C.  Imagine, people who are crazy enough to think Penticton to Redvers is an easy drive.  And two days’ visit here.  And two days back.  I get tired just thinking about it.

It was a great visit though.  Those mountain folk had to have some prairie farmland lessons on what canola looks like and when it’s ready for harvest (ie: not in the flower stage) and what the different crops look like at 60 miles mph.  But that’s okay, I probably couldn’t tell peaches from apples at that speed either.  There was even lessons on how to drive a hay conditioner that will give bragging rights for years to come – especially when I sent them a picture of the farmer who gave the lessons stuck up to his axels before they were even out of Saskatchewan.  They are unconvinced that there is any wildlife besides gophers and grasshoppers.  One raccoon roadkill is the one and only critter they saw until they were back in B.C.  That’s got to be some kind of record.

I came through with the requested pie, cinnamon buns and raspberry muffins for them and they gifted me with a case of assorted Okanogan wines.  Win/Win.

To round out their adventure we took them out for the pure prairie ambiance one enjoys at a bar and steak pit.  Thank you, Maryfield Hotel – you never disappoint.

It is back to some kind of normal now.  I’ve picked raspberries and peas, weeded garden and mowed lawn, and made beet pickles – my hands are an intriguing mix of purple skin and black nails at the moment and my kitchen smells very ‘pickley’.

It’s ironic that the very things that I thought were too boring to write about when I was a kid – garden, company, staying home – are now enriching experiences that I’m happy to write about.

Attitude and perspective – that’s what makes us old folks wise.  

Now I just need someone to grade my paper and give me an ‘A’.

 

 

LONG DISTANCE FRIENDS

They’re actually coming. 

We’ve been talking about this visit for so long it seemed like it was likely to stay in the ‘someday’ category, but I have a message right in front of me that says “We’re coming!”  There are even some convincing details like dates and times and places.  I do believe that a week from today I will have company from B.C.  One of them I’ve even met before … in Beijing Airport … in the middle of the only typhoon I hope to encounter in my life.  She and her grandson were the only other human beings in that turmoil who spoke English.  It was the worst of times: it was the best of times.

I was on my way home from visiting my newest grandson.  My son-in-law had dropped me off at the airport, both of us certain I could handle check in on my own.  There was a light rain at the time.  Had anyone bothered to check the weather that morning there were probably storm warnings, but of course they would have been on Chinese TV and offered in the local language.  We were oblivious.

I was plenty early for my flight so once I was checked in and found my way to the right departure lounge, I had lots of time to relax.  My soon-to-be friend had just flown in from Katmandu (doesn’t that sound exotic?) and was on her way home to Canada too.  She was busy with a young boy; their easy demeanor and body language told me that they were family, but their appearances made them stand out.  She was a middle-aged Caucasian Canadian and he was, as I would later learn, Tibetan.  As we sat and waited my story-telling brain went into overdrive trying to come up with a scenario that would put them together.  People watching is one of my favorite things to do.

We boarded the 747 insulated from the noise and commotion of the storm building around us.  There was no hint of how the night was going until I sat down and looked out my window.  It was raining.  Hard.  I spent the first part of a very long wait wishing that we would just take off and be on our way.  As time ticked by and the tarmac disappeared under water I changed my mind about that. I don’t like hydro-planing in a car, I could not imagine that in a plane during take off, it would be a good idea either.

Finally, the captain came on and told us that this was a monsoon and no one was going anywhere.  He reassured us that we would be taken care of and we were to take our carry-on with us but that checked luggage would stay on the plane and we would leave in the morning.  These were the last clear English words we heard for at least 24 hours.

We found ourselves back in the terminal filled with thousands of other disrupted travellers.  I had a plan – I happened to be flying first class that time (back when my husband was making oilfield dollars) and I was just going to camp out in the First Class lounge.  No way was I going to leave and risk missing my flight the next day.  When I ran into the grandmother and little boy again, I told her my plan.  She liked it – we bonded.

But nothing was to be that simple.  Beijing Airport was CLOSING for the night.  Can you imagine?  Everyone had to go somewhere else.  In a monsoon.

We were herded here and told they now expected us to claim our luggage first.  We were herded there and told we had to go somewhere else to claim our bags.  Another announcer told us there was no food or anything to drink.  But, they would send buses for us.  And take us to hotels where we could phone our families.  All of this delivered by people who spoke more English that I spoke Chinese … but not by much.

Marilyn (my new friend) and her grandson (Kai) and I became inseparable.  Even if we didn’t know what was going on, at least we could comprehend what each other was saying.  We did our best to follow instructions and spent hours waiting for our luggage while we exchanged life stories.  Kai played Angry Birds on my iPad until the battery went dead.

Finally we were herded toward buses in the pouring rain and set off into the unknown, made all the more confusing because a number of the buses ahead of us turned around mid-road and headed back.  Our driver was either braver or a dare devil but we made it through.  (Interesting side note here: did you know that when torrential downpours have nowhere else to go the water will blow manhole covers off and the resulting ‘fountain’ can shoot higher than a bus?)

Eventually we arrived at our promised hotel: soggy, hungry, tired, and stressed.

We lined up to book into rooms.  We each could have had our own but somehow it just seemed smarter/safer/more comforting to stay together.  Besides, it was going to take both of us to figure out how to make these international calls we needed to make.  Somewhere I have pictures of us eating what little was left of a Chinese food buffet at midnight, happy to be there together.

Obviously we made it home and added each other to our Facebook friends lists.  At some point Marilyn’s daughter (Kai’s mother) Sandra, friended me too to thank me for taking care of them on that dark and stormy night in Beijing (I recall it being more of a mutual benefit proposition) and our friendship has blossomed too.  There have been many invitations to come visit – in both directions – and it seems like it’s really going to happen next week.

They are driving, not flying.  The Canadian Prairies aren’t known for their monsoons but it’s probably a good thing anyway.