WHERE WERE YOU IN ’72?

It’s post Christmas.  There are only a few more days of 2022 left to go, all of the eating, drinking, and being merry days have been observed.  The tightness of my waistband now has me thinking about a New Years resolution.  In no time at all I will be leafing through garden catalogues and dreaming of spring; that is the rhythm of my life.

There is one more day – a personal one – that is mine alone to reflect on, though.  I normally keep my thoughts to myself about it, but this year marks a significant anniversary and I feel that letting it slip by unacknowledged cheats history (well, my history at least) of remembrance and honor.

This week - Friday, to be exact – marks my 50^th wedding anniversary. 

I know.  I know.  Besides being totally preposterous, it’s also nigh on to impossible.  No one as young as I am (26, as a matter of fact) can have been married that long.  But in a world where most people do chronological math 50 years have elapsed since a ridiculously young girl and her Prince Charming spoke their vows and happily departed a small country church believing in ‘happily ever after’.

It was a pretty wedding.  My bridesmaids carried bouquets consisting of a lit candle surrounded by holly, and wore dresses of red.  My mother designed and sewed my wedding gown.  My cousin drove all the way from Calgary to be an usher and then drove back the next day because he had a date with his own sweetheart for New Year’s Eve.  Because it was winter and right after Christmas there were several people who couldn’t come; I remember phone calls of well wishes interrupting all the preparations, and the feeling of being swept along in more tradition and ritual than I had known existed.  

And, possibly feeling like I was in a little over my head? 

From my position of age (still 26) and wisdom, here in 2022, I’m going to speculate that this is all pretty normal wedding day reaction to the momentous step a girl is about to take when she puts on her wedding dress.  It’s overwhelming – just sayin’.

Of course, what no one knew that day, or what no one knows on any given day, is that ‘happily ever after’ has different expiration dates for different people.  Ours was two weeks short of six years.

It is all so long ago now.  So much water in the river of my life has flowed under that bridge that if there weren’t two children born during those years it would be easy to think it didn’t happen at all.  I refer to that period as ‘in my former lifetime’ because that is how distant and dreamlike it seems to me now.

You can say everything happens for a reason, or you can just say that shit happens – both are true.  I’ve refined it to “there’s something to be learned from everything that happens”. 

I had little choice but to learn and grow.  I had kids to raise and life to figure out.  Some friends dropped away and others appeared out of nowhere.  Eventually I got to the point where I could believe in happily ever after again so when Prince Charming 2.0 came along I was willing to take that chance.  In February he and I will mark 40 years – apparently our expiration date was meant to be much longer.

I didn’t write this to trigger sympathy.  It’s not a time for long ago condolences or focussing on the sadness of events we can’t control.  I just wanted to share my reminiscing of a day that probably only I observe. 

If you were there too, dig into your memories and enjoy a slice of that time and place.  If you weren’t, go back and visit your own wedding day - have some fun with it.  You never know when your time is up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

MAKING A LIST …..

Here I am, ten days out from Christmas, and duly procrastinating my precious time away.  That’s what I do, and I’m darned good at it. 

I’m not sure if this is a natural, inherited ability or the years of practise I’ve put in.  I suppose it could be both.

At any rate, let’s set the stage: Like I said ten days till Christmas Eve – in our family that is the day of the big gathering and the most food.  Kids and grandkids begin arriving on the 23^rd – the decibel level will go from Grandpa’s-TV-is-too-loud to five-over-excited-kids-the-day-before-Christmas-loud and stay there until mid Boxing Day when they all head home again.  It also means three large dogs hopefully tiring each other out and sleeping a lot.

I am hosting the family feast this year – only 23 people on the guest list so we may only need two tables … note to self – need to pick up the extra table.  I have the menu mostly nailed down … note to self – need to request pickles, Carols’s barley salad, and desserts for the folks who don’t like Christmas pudding.  My first batches of cookies have already disappeared so that needs done again.  I froze and hid the tarts so they make it till the big day.  We also require a third batch of poppycock.

It's also been requested that we test the airbed to make sure it holds air this time.  Some people are so fussy!

Of course, in order to stay on top of all this I rely on my secret weapon … I make a list.  Well, actually, I make several lists because I can’t always find the one I started with.  In searching for something else in my desk clutter this afternoon I found my original and got to cross a couple things off.  The rush of accomplishment was so great I decided I could take time off to write an entry in my blog so I added that to the list and shelved my hunt for the letter from Revenue Canada.  What could possibly go wrong with putting that off?  On second thought, better add that letter to my list.

Lists are tricky things, but they are necessary; take my current situation – my goal is to be ready to host Christmas but my list keeps me on track on how I’m going to accomplish that readiness.  I started it in November because I knew there was a lot to do and I’m aware of how easily I can be side-tracked when the next thing on the list is ‘clean out the fridge’. 

I also succumb to the illusion that merely writing a task down means the job is half done … or that ‘cleaning the porch’ means that ‘decorating the porch’ will magically happen by elves in the middle of the night.  I washed the floor two days ago, the banister still has no holly or tinsel, and the floor is dirty again.

And then there are the jobs that weren’t even on my Christmas radar.  I know that we were waiting for the butcher to call and say the beef is ready but when the call came this morning suddenly that meant we had to clean out and rearrange our storage capacity to fit it all in.  I’ve let the over-zealous food provider I’m married to deal with it for the time being.  Hopefully the weather stays really cold till the kids can take their share home after the holidays.

My scribbled up and scratched out list still says I have beds to make up, air bed to test, totes to store downstairs, a whole forest of house plants to put into suspended animation so there is room for humans in this house, one more gift to wrap when it arrives, and more baking to do.  Oh yeah, and a fridge to cleanse.

And meanwhile, here I am, writing a blog that wasn’t even on my list.  Procrastination is an art form.

 

WHOLE CLOTH

A church is a good place for meditation, even a former church.  In fact, I don’t know that you can actually take the ‘church’ out of a building.  I was at the decommissioning of Knox United, I know that the formalities of ‘unchurching’ were done, but between the architecture and my memories it will always be a place of sunny meditation, favourite hymns, and the warmth of sharing that space with others in an aura of fellowship.

And so, I found myself meditating on Saturday afternoon in the sunshine of those south-facing windows, under that vaulted roof, and singing songs that I love.  We were there to honour and bid farewell to a well-loved lady, and the diverse crowd assembled showed just how far-ranging Dosy’s inspiration had been over her 90 years.  In her homily Michelle spoke of how we are to use our talents throughout our lives and then went on to list the many ways everyone present had benefited from Dosy’s life.  I know I did; she was my co-worker, then my boss, but most of all she was my friend.

My meditation didn’t stop with Dosy though, it opened the door to thinking about the many others in our little hometown who have also shared their time and talents to expand and enhance the community we enjoy.  There are many.

I’m a hometown girl.  I’ve lived all but six years of my life here.  In a world where most young people leave to seek their fortunes elsewhere my choice was to stay.  I don’t know if it’s just the way my brain works, or because I am here to witness it, but sometimes, when I’m talking to classmates or other friends who did move away, I feel like a local historian.  Not the specific, detailed historian who would remember dates, but the type who wants credit to go to the unsung heroes who have earned it.

The terms ‘warp’ and ‘woof’ come to mind.  For those unfamiliar, these words pertain to weaving cloth.  In order to form a piece of cloth you have to set up a loom with threads going up and down (warp) so that the horizontal threads (woof) can be woven in.  They are the foundation, they hold it together, they give strength and endurance – take them away and all you have is a tangled pile of fluff.  Our community is a stretch of whole cloth, we are the warp and woof.

If you look at a piece of cloth you see the whole thing, not the individual threads that hold it together, even though they are the most important part.  What about the people, almost invisible, in the background giving their time and talents?  Things that are unlikely to ever be documented?   

I was going to try to name them – or at least the ones I could think of – but the list is too long, and I would feel terrible if I missed someone.  Besides, my list would be from my life perspective.  We are all unique so your list would be different than mine, but every bit as valid.

So I’m challenging you, no matter where you’re from, to form your own list.  Every community has their own heroes: the guy who refills little kid’s sandboxes every spring for free, the lady who spearheaded publishing your local history book, the folks tending flower gardens and watering trees in your public green spaces, teachers who made a difference in your life, 4-H and scout leaders, ‘Santa’s Helpers’ (even though they can’t be named due to the nature of their work).  The list goes on and on. 

Think of them, and thank them.  Let them know their threads are appreciated. 

I’m back to meditating, or at least thinking about, the metaphor of us all being a part of the whole cloth of our communities.  It’s easy to associate different textures and colours of thread to the individuals – past/present/future – whose time and talents have gone/are going/will go into making our fabric unique, and I catch myself wondering if Dosy’s thread would be silver like her hair?

 

IT’S ALL COMING BACK TO ME

It’s all coming back to me now.  I’ve been here before. 

The no energy days, the scratchy throat, the runny nose: yep – this is what an every day, everybody gets them, run of the mill head cold feels like.  Funny how those two years of masks and isolation kept them out of our house too.  I didn’t miss them one bit.

This is not me comparing a head cold to the other options out there - there are much, much worse things to have – it’s just how soon we forget what a head filled with mucus feels like.  Two days ago my sinuses were so full and enflamed that my teeth actually hurt.  That’s something I forgot could happen.   I didn’t miss it one bit.

I had also forgotten how colds can sneak up on you.  Tuesday you’re feeling fine but seem to be sneezing a lot.  Wednesday morning you have a tickle in your throat but it goes away after breakfast.  Thursday is a lazy day because that big job you had planned seems like way too much work now, and you don’t have the energy … besides, you’re retired and it can wait.

And then, voila! Friday your head hurts and the Kleenex box becomes your best friend.

Maybe, if I had been paying attention and not so out of practise at recognizing the symptoms I could have thrown a bunch of vitamin C at it.  I could have gotten more sleep.  I could have made a big pot of chicken soup.  But no, I paid no attention to the warning signs and now, here I am in full-blown head cold mode. 

I can only breathe through one nostril at a time.  If I’m lucky.

I know where the throat lozenges are but I’m not so desperate that I’ve had to use them.  Yet.  (I hate them almost as much as Buckley’s)

I discovered that during the Covid years they have made print much smaller on medication packages.  I literally cannot read them in the middle of the night without my glasses on.  Imagine my surprise the next morning when I realized that the package should have been thrown out BEFORE Covid because it was that far past its expiration date.  The print size could not be blamed on newer packaging, but possibly on older eyes.

A couple of questions here:  Is it possible for the entire package to shrink due to old age?  You know, like a block of cheese if you let it dry out?  I’m sure I was able to read those words when I bought it.

Also, does past due sinus medication get stronger as it ages?  Or lose its potency?  I did live to see another day so it’s not deadly.  And I found a newer package for the next time – with my glasses on and in broad daylight.

I am now at my husband’s favourite part of any cold I’ve ever had.  I have lost my voice.  He likely has two days of peace and quiet to look forward to

So, I am preparing for the next step on this well-travelled path: we live in the same house, we share the same space … almost certainly he will take my regular cold germs and morph them into a raging case of Man Cold.

I’ve got the vitamin C out, a pot of soup on the go, and have restocked the Kleenex boxes in every room. 

Like I said, it’s all coming back to me now.

 

 

 

THE NEXT FEW MONTHS

And so it has begun.  Winter 2022-23 roared in on the back of a blizzard on Sunday afternoon and every online site from Facebook to Twitter exploded with “OMG”s as people realized they were somewhere that the didn’t want to be and immediately hit the road to get somewhere else.

Almost immediately hitting the ditch, or getting stuck in zero visibility behind a semi where they stayed until all traffic ground to a halt.

Being totally predictable they then dug out their phones (because, of course, they weren’t texting while driving) and began to demand where the snow plows were, and ask when did they close the highways down, and how bad is it the other side of Swift Current (like they still plan to get there). 

I wonder how many appointments to get their winter tires on were made from vehicles situated on #1 Highway in the last 24 hours?  It’s not like they had anything else on their agenda besides staying warm.

Although I have played the-roads-can’t-be-that-bad game a time or two, this time I am at home and feeling quite smug about getting my fall garden work done – all of one row of carrots and three dozen garlic heads.  The remainder of the garden of 2022 was a disaster and was tilled under at the end of July. The rest of the summer was very laid-back affair and something I think I could get used to, but with all that extra time to till and fertilize and remediate the soil … let’s just say my farmer has big plans.  I did enjoy the slow pace and other’s garden charity while I had it.

I had a pot of home-made soup brewing as the storm blew in, and Wednesday, the last nice day I washed all the bedding and hung it outside for that glorious, fresh, outdoor scent.  We also spent some money last week and had the furnace duct cleaners in to do their thing.  I don’t know if it counts as an accomplishment or not, but I like the idea that any dust circulating in this house this winter is brand new stuff. 

The next thing on the annual odyssey is Hallowe’en.  We are right on target for having purchased our first box of treats at the beginning of the month, eating them all, and buying two more packages to keep us going.  There’s only one more week to go so we should be okay … especially since we live way out in the country and haven’t had trick-or-treaters in almost a decade.   

I will probably buy one more box, just in case.

Then it will be on to Christmas.  Not too sure how much time, effort, or money I plan to sink into the decorating endeavor this year.  About half of my lights died and were placed directly into the dumpster when I undecorated last spring.  The outdoor tree just keeps getting bigger and bigger – and I just keep getting older and older.  I think there needs to be a new design.  I also think I should have thought of it before this storm.  Decorating is way easier on dry ground that isn’t frozen yet.  This epiphany has me feeling a lot less smug at the moment: finished gardening smugness being cancelled out by undone Christmas decorating.  I should have known better … isn’t smugness one of the seven deadly sins?

And Christmas prep doesn’t stop there.  There is baking to do, and of course, there are gifts to buy.  I’m already behind the eight ball because almost half of the grandchildren live in Australia.  I only need gift ideas for things tiny and weightless that will thrill a 20 year old young woman, 17 year old twins and their 14 year old brother.  Let me know what you come up with.  The sooner the better.

Assuming that another plague doesn’t take us down and Putin doesn’t manage to blow us up we will land safely in 2023, probably a few more blizzards under our belts and scanning the horizon for signs of spring.  The days will lengthen out, we will plant seeds, and the snow birds will return home.

We’ll know we made it when the Easter chocolates hit the market.  There will probably be only a couple blizzards left to go by then.

 

MY ADVICE

Just when a person thinks they are on top of things something comes along to knock them off their safety perch.  That was me two weeks ago. 

It’s all good now.  Besides my nerves being rankled and the huge chunk of Humble Pie I’ve had to digest there was no harm done.  But I feel like I can’t lay it completely to rest without telling my story.  Hopefully it will save others a similar experience.

I was hacked.

Not the almost every day occurrence of a Facebook friend request from someone I’m already friends with.  I know how to respond to that one – delete the bogus request and private message them (I can do that because we are already friends) to give them a heads-up to change their password.

Neither was it one of the countless emails from “Costco” wanting to give me a big, juicy coupon, or “Sasktel” or “Sask Power” saying my bill isn’t paid, or “Canada Post” saying they are unable to deliver my parcel until I pay a fee.  I know about all of those scams and I delete them immediately.  Knowledge is power - to click on any of those links invites thieves into your computer and your life.  I have fantasised about there being software that allows the target (me) to send code back to the originating computer and have it blow up in the hacker’s face, but as to yet I don’t think it’s been invented.

The one that got me was more sophisticated than that, although hardly uncommon.  When you sit down with your banking representative and say the words ‘microsoft scam’ and she leafs through a stack of papers until she comes up with one entitled Microsoft Scam, you know you’re not the first one to come to her in a panic.  Knowing that you are not alone eases some of your embarrassment at being duped.  Seeing them take charge with what has to be done next is also very reassuring.

It all began with me clicking on what I thought was a news story.  Something about palaeontology, fossilized bones, scientific research – I’m interested in that kind of stuff.  The news story was the bait, and I bit.

SUDDENLY there were a stack of pop up screens in front of me with the top one expanding and contracting rapidly while a woman’s voice LOUDLY warned me that my computer had been compromised.  This was the one and only time they were honest – the pop up warning was indeed compromising my computer.  Everything after that was a lie, starting with the warning “If you shut down your computer you will lose everything on it.”

But with the never-ending loud warning, the spazzing pop up that I couldn’t click away, and the threat of losing everything on my computer, panic set in.  My only hope seemed to be the offered toll free phone number for the trusted name “Microsoft”.  A rational brain would have taken time to think about this but they had me at an emotional level … I called the number.

From there a very professional-sounding guy asked me questions, assured me he could help, and instructed me to check my online banking to see if anything was amiss.  It wasn’t, of course, there was nothing the thieves could do until I revealed my information to them … which I did because I trusted that I was the only one who could see what I was looking at.  He had me do some Windows diagnostic tests to make it look legit.  He told me not to talk about it to anyone until he called back and a whole bunch of other crap I should have known better than to believe.  On the call back he escalated the panic by saying the only way to protect my money was to change it over to a digital wallet (which he was going to be very helpful to set up for me – only I suspect that it wouldn’t have been in my name). 

Long story short, I decided to talk to somebody I trusted and they reaffirmed all the warning bells that were going on in the back of my mind.  Even though the “Microsoft” guy and his associate “CIBC” guy he had forwarded my case file on to had both warned me not to talk to my personal banker that’s exactly what I did … and as soon as she heard the word “Microsoft” she said “identity theft” and we began the clean up.  It wasn’t her first rodeo.  I sure as heck hope it’s my last.

So now, what have I learned from this?  That it’s just another hack to be aware of and that being fore-warned is to be fore-armed.

Since this happened I have taken the time to ask Google about the “Microsoft Scam” and was shown a video on how to shut the pop up down.  I would advise everyone to check it out now so there is no hesitation when confronted with the nasty lady shouting at you when the pop up appears (and you can shut her up by just turning down the volume on your computer – it will help you think clearly).  I’ve also been told that you don’t have to shut your computer down, just unplug your Internet.  What you need is time to think things through.

DO talk about it with others.

DO keep your computer virus scans up to date (although I thought mine was)

DO go immediately to your bank if you get sucked into this evil vortex – they are ready to help you.

And, if you get the chance, create the software needed to trace evil back to the hacker who started it – and have the whole thing blow up in his face.

 

LOUIS

Sad news this morning: Louis is gone.

It’s not that we weren’t expecting it, he was very ill.  It is good to think that his suffering is over, but those of us who loved him must now shift into a new, unwelcome reality.  Mourning his loss with be felt in different degrees – from Robert’s acute pain in the loss of his life partner, the love of his life, to the long-distance sad absence of a friend and brother-in-law for me, plus the multitude of people in between – friends, colleagues, neighbours, parishioners – he touched so many people in his 67 years.

I spent the waning hours of Louis’ life reflecting on how he has enriched mine.  If he were to hear me say that he would no doubt down-play my words, but I also hope that he would take the praise to heart.  The honesty he lived in his life forced me to grow as a person too.  I owe him.

We met when we were just kids, classmates in grade six I think, growing up in rural Saskatchewan in the ‘60s and ‘70s.  You’d be hard pressed to find a more mundane, ordinary existence … school work, family life, daydreaming about future plans.  We lived in the insulated bubble of ‘normal’ our parents provided us by keeping awkward topics out of daily discourse, creating a rose-coloured-glasses type of world which neatly sorted people into ‘natural’ and ‘taboo’.  I can’t imagine what it felt like to grow up ‘taboo’.

Almost certainly though, it caused Louis’ growth as a human being to far outstrip mine.  He grew to be an intelligent, caring, sensitive, giving adult.  Conversations with him challenged me to think much deeper than I normally would.  Meals he hosted were delicious and fun.  I loved his sharp sense of humor.  Long before he told us he was gay he had established who he really was – a warm and wonderful human being.  I was so comfortable with these truths that his coming out left me to reconcile what society said about ‘taboo’ people and what I could see with my own eyes.  I had some growing of my own to do.

Not that it was easy.  Societal inuendo, self-proclaimed comfort zones, and outright public fear-mongering left me bouncing between shame, anger and self-righteousness, but I always seemed to end up asking myself “If it’s this bad for me, an observer, what was it like for him to live it?”  With this question in mind it was impossible not to grow.  He was a person of kindness and integrity, of intelligence and education, someone whose voice and laughter sounded just like his mother’s.  This latest piece of information about him didn’t alter any of these well-established qualities.  In the end I realized it was much more beneficial to accept and learn from others than to stand back and judge them.  I have Louis to thank for that.

He lived a full, happy life.  He travelled in his career as an air steward, seeing much of the world.  He even arranged to be in Beijing when we were so that he could buy us supper.  His first career choice was the priesthood and he fulfilled that dream too, serving his God and his parish in his community in Nova Scotia.  But, the happiest, most precious thing in his life was to find Robert and have the solid, loving, mutual support relationship that all human beings long for – and deserve.

All day long I’ve been reading and rereading the tributes sent to Robert and the rest of the family.  One of them came close to what I’ve been trying to say here – that Louis and Robert’s relationship had forced the writer out of her pre-conceived notions and into growth and an awareness she had lacked before.  It’s strange to use the word ‘force’ when speaking of Louis, he was a gentle soul and led by simple example.  In another way, though, his quiet resolve was indeed a force to be reckoned with.

R.I.P. Louis.  We are better people for having known you.