The Swedish

 We had a hot tub in the house we moved from in 2005. It fit eight people and we used it regularly as a family. When winter rolled around, my husband Clarence liked to take what he called, 'a Swedish.' By this he meant that he was going to run naked around our back yard. Only at night, of course.

Now, we had no neighbors behind us because we lived by the bush. (That's a forest to you non-northerners.) But we had neighbors on each side, and I worried they'd spot him dashing around. 'It's dark out!' he'd say. 'No one can see me!' He also applied this logic to the times when he'd forgotten something in the living room and ran quickly while naked. 'I was fast,' he'd say. 'No one saw me.' 

'Every car driving by saw you,' I'd say. He'd just shrug. 

Needless to say, I never bothered with the Swedish myself. That is until a few days ago, when I had a head cold, (the one sweeping across Canada.) I'd been sitting in our steamshower (no hot tub in this house) until I couldn't take another moment—it gets really hot in there—and as I stood in the bathroom wrapped in a towel, I had a thought.

What if Clarence was right? What if all I needed was a good Swedish? That hot-to-cold moment that shocks your body and lets the healing begin? I wouldn't even have to run through my backyard, because I have an attached garage.

I put on some socks and leather slippers, tightened the towel around myself and headed for the garage. It felt wonderful out there! I inhaled deeply, letting the frigid air enter my sinus cavity and chest. I stayed out as long as I could...maybe four minutes. I took a photo of myself and sent it to my kids, saying, "I'm having a Swedish in the garage! Your dad would be so proud!"

Then, as the cold began to seep into my bones, I'd had enough. I pressed on the door handle, but it didn't give. I'd forgotten to unlock it before I went out. No problem. I quickly punched in the code. Nothing happened. I tried it again. Still nothing. It had worked just the day before, but overnight, the batteries had died. 

Dear reader, I'm sure you can imagine the panic filling my brain as I stood there shivering. My back door is inaccessible in the winter. That left only the front door, the one facing the street, where buses run every half hour and cars drive by, and people go walking. It was around ten in the morning, and cold. Very cold. 

I pushed the back garage door open, and stepped onto the sidewalk. My first steps were safe ones, then I almost wiped out on some ice hiding under a skiff of snow. I laughed hysterically but caught myself by grabbing onto a drainpipe. 

It was time to run across the front of my house and up the stairs. I looked around and tried to time it so no cars were passing. Then a horrible thought landed.

What if it didn't work? What if my front door keypad batteries were also dead? I pictured myself hailing down a passing car. "Can I have a ride to my friend's house? I'm locked out!'  The neighbors next to me were out that morning, and I didn't have the nerve to knock on the door of the bachelor down the street, or the fortitude to make it down the Queen Street hill and scurry down another block to my friend, Gaye's house. I mean, what if she wasn't even home? And what good was my phone? By the time the 911 people got there I'd probably be dead from the cold.

In a panic, I rushed up to my front door, my head swiveling in every direction like that little girl in the Exorcist, and quickly tapped in the code. It worked! I rushed into my warm house and headed for the steamshower to warm up. I remembered to text my kids to say I was okay.

These are the 'It's a Wonderful Life' moments. The ones where everything turns out. I'd had a Swedish, and I didn't die. And as far as I know, nobody saw me. Will I do this again at some point? Maybe. But I'll change the batteries first, and make sure it's not so cold out. I mean, as it was, I could have suffered the most terrifying end, ever: Death by Embarrassment. Fortunately, all is well. So Happy New Year to all of you. Stay warm, and remember to think things through. Because you don't want to end up outside your house dressed in a towel in the middle of winter. I mean, who does that?

It's the Rant Before Christmas

 Have you ever had one of those mornings where you'd rather not get out of bed? I woke up like that today. Nothing earth shaking. Just a low feeling of malaise. A temporary depressive state. And given the current events in the world, it's not all that surprising.

On days when I get that feeling, I use certain activities to shake myself out of the blues. Like dancing to online zumba classes. Or clapping my hands and jumping up and down. (Try it...it works.) Today, I made the mistake of going online and reading about the crazy happenings with our southern neighbors. It was too much. 

Fortunately, I went out to meet some friends at the Orange Toad, for tea. Sitting at a table next to other people in your community is relaxing.  I don't know about men, but women need each other's company. It's like free heart medication. I pictured myself lying on the floor of the coffee shop, barely able to lift my head, and Meghan, the owner, helping me up and saying, 'Here's your mint tea!' (I order the same thing every time. I'm very ritualistic...it's an ADD thing.) 

I felt much better when I left her place. Next, my friend Lois and I strolled over to the Red Apple, one of those 'we sell bar fridges and the cheapest sheets in the world' kind of stores. I was scanning the shelves for stocking stuffers when a Christmas song came on. Except in this one, nobody was wishing us a holly, jolly Christmas. Nobody was rockin' round the Christmas tree, or walking in a winter wonderland. Instead, the lyrics went like this:

Please Daddy, don't get drunk this Christmas
I don't wanna see my Mamma cry
Please Daddy, don't get drunk this Christmas
I don't wanna see my Mamma cry

I put back the shiny ornament I held in my hand and stared at a woman standing near by. 'Can you believe this song?' she asked me. 

The person singing might as well have been saying, 'Everything's bad. Lose all hope. Forget about Christmas.' Alan Jackson was the singer, but when I googled it, I discovered that John Denver wrote it! 

Look, folks. It's bad enough that 'He Who Shall Not Be Named,' won the US election. It's disturbing enough that I have to hear about it every single day, whenever I turn on my computer or listen to the news. But depressing Christmas music? 

Whatever happend to 'Grandma got run over by a reindeer? That one's funny, and the tune is catchy. 'Please Daddy' sounds like a funeral dirge, only daddy's not dead, he's just drunk as a skunk. And momma is sad. 

Perhaps the music channel wanted to make a statment. Maybe, like me, they find Hallmark movies depressing with their constant cheer and excessive decorating. But let there be some middle ground! A happy medium, where someone is having a hard day but then they meet friends for tea and everyone cheers up. 

Yes, John Lennon sang 'War is Over if You Want It' while depressing news played in the background. But that was the early seventies when people believed that anything was possible. Elvis sang 'Blue Christmas,' but listening to it didn't make you feel sad. It had you thinking, 'Get over here, buddy. I'll cheer you up in no time.'

But this song is an affront to Christmas. I'm someone who celebrates traditionally, with church on Christmas Eve and the singing of old fashioned carols like O Holy Night. But I embrace the other stuff, too. Like, Holly Jolly Christmas, and Jingle Bells and Rudolf the Rednose Reindeer. The classics. 

John Denver wrote Rocky Moutain High, and Annie's song. He's the guy who sang, ''You fill up my senses.' He's not supposed to be the 'You're killing your liver,' guy. 

I'm sure this song came from someplace real. And maybe it resonates with those who had a hard time while growing up. But please don't play this song in stores. We need Andy Williams and Michael Buble, and the Muppets. In these tough mental and emotional times (thanks for that, US Republicans) we need a pick me up, not a 'bring me down.' Now excuse me while I go watch Will Ferrell in 'Elf.' And let me end this blog by paraphrasing a line from that movie by addressing everyone's favourite, relaxing hangout. To the Orange Toad staff - 'congratulations on making the best mint tea in the world!' 

Dear Boomer

 Let's face it. We need to talk about our faces. Like, what the hell? You live for thirty, forty years and that image in the mirror doesn't change all that much. But you keep living your life (with gratitude, because not everyone gets to do that) and it starts to feel like time has sped up. It's a fast moving Ferris Wheel that won't let you off no matter how you yell at the carnie working the ride.

Every morning I gird my loins (my sayings are stuck in the past--it might be a boomer thing) and take that first look at myself. I kid you not, things can change in a day. 'Where did THAT wrinkle come from?' I say with a frown (adding ten more years to my face.) It's like the old age fairy has dropped by just to mess with me. 'I'll give her two new wrinkles, just for fun!' (The old age fairy is ancient and has not been in a good mood for many centuries.) But the worst thing about being a boomer? Having millenials talk to you in a loud voice.

Now, maybe this hasn't happened to you, yet. But let me tell you, it's weird. 

"I can hear you," I said, the first time it happened. Meanwhile I was thinking, 'Do I look THAT old?' And then I remembered. When I was 16, I couldn't tell if grownup people were thirty or fifty. I mean, I didn't think they were a hundred. I just knew they were old. 

And one day, you realize that all those claims you've heard about the flu or Covid or pneumonia hitting seniors harder, are true. 'But not me,' I once thought. 'Because I work out. I go for walks. I eat salad on a regular basis. So, I should get a pass, right?'

Apparently not. I'm just so delicate now. And it really makes me mad. I recently visited my children in Calgary where my skin had a savage reaction to the dry air. (Manitoba is apparently moisture central.) The rash on my face looked apocalyptic, and it took days to go away. I wore so much Nivea, my pores began to clog. My face finally cleared up, but then my sinuses seized up and I developed a cough. The day after I came back to Manitoba, it all went away. 

I know I'm lucky not to have more aches and pains than I do (although my right knee accurately predicts the weather) but honestly, I believed I would soar through my senior years. There has been some soaring...I slipped on the ice last winter...but life insists on showing me that I'm getting old. er. 

Aging people are like cars. Some are antiques that look fabulous, while others rest in empty lots with their wheels off, letting rust eats away at their bottoms. I'm working hard to make myself rust repellent, but really, there's not much you can do about your looks. Unless you're rich. But rich old people can look really stupid because of all the surgery and filler. I don't want that.

Now, I have to address something that can happen to senior Christians. Just for a minute. It's about us and the state of the world, so please avert your eyes, or head to the bottom of the page if this talk will upset you. Because I need a moment to speak to my people. 

So, to my fellow Christian boomers, I have some advice to help you negotiate these troubling times. ( I mean, it's my blog, right?)

1. Try not to get set in your ways. Don't visit Old Fartsville. It's hard to leave.

2. Sin is not what we thought in the past. It's not premarital sex or being gay or allowing people to have a sex change. Because that's not about you, and it's not your business. Sin means missing the mark. Missing the point of how Jesus lived and what he said to do.

Like,

Provide shelter to those with no place to live. Feed the hungry. Comfort the grieving. Let those without sin cast the first stone. Love one another. Forgive one another. 

In a country like ours, that means voting for policies that reflect your Christian views. Like supporting food banks, offering more public housing, and generally not acting like you're doing better than those struggling with poverty or drug abuse because you're superior in some way. Being Christian means acknowledging your privilege. Did you have love as a child? Were you fed? Housed? Encouraged? That means that even if money was tight, you had a great start in life.

Okay, other boomers. Please come back to the conversation. And don't try to make me feel better by leaving a compliment in the comment section. I never kid myself. Instead, let me know how this aging journey is going for you. 

Most importantly, keep your chin up. Because your neck looks way better in that position. And we all need to do what we can.

Reunion

 In the middle of September, I attended a Brandon University reunion. My third one, and not even mine, really. The class of 74 belonged to my husband. I'm not sure what it was about my own class of '76, but apparently, we weren't much fun and had no interest in reuniting. 

This time it was just me, along with a few of Ace's best pals. Walking through the campus where we met and fell in love felt poignant, yet kind of wonderful. The older you get, the more you appreciate all the things that helped make you, you. 

The last time the class met was ten years ago. Back then, we tried heading up to our old dorm rooms in McMaster Hall, but were blocked from entering the elevator by some belligerent students.

 'You can't come up here! You don't belong! Don't make us call security! Honestly, they would have been my least favourite people if I'd gone to school with them. Aren't you supposed to break a few rules when you're young? 

Fortunately, this time I ran into two young ladies who happily escorted me up to the 7th floor. I didn't get to see my old room, but there was the place for doing laundry, and the communal tub where I'd run a bath and play 'Strangers in the Night' on my recorder for an hour. (Seriously. But it was an alto recorder with a less screechy sound. Still...what was I thinking?) 

There was the 8th floor walkway where we dropped buckets of water onto the people below us during massive, multi-floor water fights. My friends and I, as grown ups and taxpayers, are not happy with some of the shenanigans we got up to back then. But the teenager hovering somewhere in the back of my brain still finds them delightful.

Many of us stayed at the Victoria Inn, where the university had reserved a block of rooms. The staff were lovely, but my room had a connecting door with a couple from the class of '64. They were both a bit deaf and left their TV on all night playing CNN loudly. I banged on their door at 3AM, but they didn't hear a thing. I, on the other hand, heard every word of their conversations. Fortunately, it mostly involved discussions around blood pressure and medication.

And then I tried to have a shower. Was the hotel secretly testing its guest's IQs? (I took a picture of the taps so you can see what I mean. )

Turning it on was the hardest part. I only wanted to use the rain shower on the ceiling, (missing from the picture) but water shot out from all the knobs, depending on how I turned the two centre ones. A tiny move to the right and the water was scalding. I kept hopping in and out of the cubicle like a demented rabbit. Who decided this was a step up from the old system, I'm not sure. As with most things, simplicity is best. It certainly looked classy, though. It's like they were trying to say, 'We're the Ritz, but not really.'

If we ever have another reunion and I stay there again, I'll be sure to request a 'single knob' shower. I'm sure they'll know what I mean. If not, I'll take a photo and write another blog on the hotel's latest IQ test. For now, this is Brandon Alumni, Judith Pettersen, signing off. 

Bug

 Last fall I was in bed at my daughter's house when a moth swooped past my head to brush against my cheek. I'm from northern Manitoba, so I'm used to bugs. Mosquitoes, house flies and a hairy spider or two have all been late night house callers. Over the last seven years I have taken a Bhuddist approach by capturing them with my Lee Valley bug trap...kind of a catch and release situation. Unfortunately, I didn't have it with me.

So I did the next best thing. I tried to kill the moth with my shoe. Oh, how the tender heart hardens when put to the test. But I couldn't bear the thought of it flying past my face all night long. I made more noise than I intended, and my daughter came rushing down the the stairs to my room. 

'Mom! What are you doing? You're going to wake the kids!' (As every parent knows, that's a no-no.) When I explained the situation, she gave me a 'Is she getting senile?' look. And then the moth brushed against her face and she bit back a scream. It took two of us but she finally landed the kill shot. 

This summer has been the most bug free one ever, if only inside my bedroom. I've  had just two strange moments, one of them quite recent.

The first entailed a bug that looked like the kind that haunts my rasberry bushes. ((Sometimes you have to pry them out of the raspberries.) But this thing was big as a moth and I couldn't decide if it was floating along the wall or climbing it. I hadn't noticed it until I got up to go to the bathroom. Quickly, I ran into the kitchen and grabbed my bug catcher. I stood on my bed and, in spite of its evasive actions, I managed to catch it, slam the trap door shut and carry the creature out onto the deck. 

As I opened the trap door, I realized that the bug had died. Perhaps from a fear related heart attack, but more likely, I'd clipped an important body part while shutting it inside. Per usual, I tossed it onto the deck while pretending it was still alive. "Fly back to your friends!' I called out, like I was faking my way out of a murder charge.

The last bug in my room descended just a few days ago. I was lying in bed reading a book when Tinkerbell (or one of her cousins) fluttered down in front of me and just hovered there, like someone treading water. She was lime green, about an inch in length and had small fluttery wings and a pair of arms and legs. (That's what I saw, alright?)

At first I was enchanted. I remember saying, 'Are we off to Neverland? Where's Wendy?' Then, an intriguing thought landed. 'Am I Wendy?' I asked aloud. Then the creature fluttered right next to my face and I gave a small scream. I ran for the bug catcher, but this insect was tricky. By the time I'd placed the trap against the wall, she'd escaped to another part of the room. So I grabbed my flyswatter, and when she landed on the footboard, I slapped her hard, grabbed a kleenex, and scooped her up. 

Instead of taking her out to the deck, I flushed her down the toilet. I didn't peek inside to see if she was still alive, either. I didn't want to see her lips form the words, 'Murderer!' as she breathed her last. 'You're not a Bhuddist!' 

I'm really not. 

But when the bugs inherit the earth, I want them to remember their friends. Especially the spiders. I used to holler at my girls when they screamed at the sight of hairy, eight legged creatures crawling out from under their beds. 'Spiders are your friends!'  I'd say. (But not when they're in your bed. That's crossing the line.)

 I never kill spiders, though. Although putting them outside when its -30 might be pushing it. Aside from these few, hypocritical moments, I consider myself 'pro-bug.' However, the climate is changing and we're getting strange insects up north that never lived here before. When the cockroaches start heading our way, I might have to abandon my principles and just use a fly swatter. Perhaps I'll send them to bug heaven while offering up a loud rendition of La Cucaracha. Some might see it as politically incorrect, but I call it a nice way for them to spend their last moments. 

You Again!

 

I made an unfortunate discovery this summer. Apparently, you can't just keep adding stain to your deck year after year and expect it to stick. It needs tough love to make it last. My friend Gaye offered to help, since they own a powerwasher. I'm almost certain I used a garden hose with poor pressure a few years ago, but what did I know?  I though it would take her about 30 minutes. When it went on longer, I checked in. "Isn't this good enough?" I said, pointing at the boards.

She replied like a nursery school teacher conversing with a dim three year old. "Judy, if we don't do it right, you'll just have to do it all over again next summer." With the gentlest tone and a small shake of her head, she got back to it. 

She worked for three and a half hours the first day and three the next. The loose strands of paint disappeared, leaving behind the dull echo of stain from years gone by that would need to be sanded away. She offered to do it, but how far can you let a friend go in the help department without feeling like you're taking advantage?

With my new palm sander and paper, I took over a week to finish the job. I ended up using a belt sander, too, which threw me around like a bull trying to toss a cowboy at the rodeo. Every evening my hands buzzed for an hour, and my back ached like the bull had not just thrown, but trampled me. And yet, I removed every speck of stain before purchasing Thompson water sealer in a cedar colour. 

After following the directions carefully, I ended up with a nicely finished deck the colour of Donald Trump's face. But after all the work that went into it, I'm okay with that.

Once my back unclenched from being stooped over for a week, I planted my garden and began the never ending tasks of weedwhacking, mowing the lawn and potting flowers. There are other tasks that I needed advice about, or required a small amount of help with, but really, I've bothered quite a few handy friends in the past. I don't like to think of them lying on the floor with the lights out and the door locked if they see me approaching their house. 

What we need in town, in the world, really, is a list. Much like the list for organ donors, only this one wouldn't be voluntary. If someone made the mistake of doing too good a job with their house, yard, car, fence, etc, then they would be added to the list. This would be especially beneficial to society if it involved people who broke the law. 

Say a guy worked for the mafia and got caught by the FBI. Or CSIS. After prowling around their property, agents would notice how well kept things were, and the bad guy/girl would make the mistake of saying, 'I'm good at breaking legs but I'm also handy with regular tools.' They would go on the list.

There'd be a second list of people like me who need  help with things. We have questions, like, how do I use this saw? How do I load my nail gun? Can I paint outside with this brand, even though YouTube says no? Of course, we'd all have our favourite handy people. I can just picture them saying, 'You again!' when I call. 'Do you want me to call the RCMP?' I'd reply. (Because yes, these people would have little choice in the matter.) 

It would be a tidier world. Pictures would hang straighter, my sidewalk wouldn't be coated in white paint accidentally spilled while I was attempting to paint my posts out front. I wouldn't have to have a side table in the place where my trim joined up in the living room. I'm not great at diagonal cuts, and unfortunately, I belong to the school of 'Eh! Good enough.' 

So, Justin Trudeau and Pierre Pollievre, stop squabbling and start making a list. All the handy people I know are honest, and I have to stop bothering them. I hope to hear about this new program soon. 

sincerely,

Me                                                      

Love Story

 To misquote author Erich Segal, what can you say about a girl who died? That she was beautiful? That she was loved? Yes. But since her loss has left me...all of us, with a ragged wound that refuses to heal, I'm first going to talk about how damned annoying she could be.

Susan was a beautiful child who never sat still. She was so competitive that she had to win every race. We'd stand at the top of our back lane, and she'd shout, 'Go!' I'd watch her take off running, a resigned look on my face, knowing I'd lost before I'd taken a single step, because she was not just fast, but determined. She flew like a little bird, her white blond, cotton candy hair floating above her like wings. 

As a teenager, she started wearing black eyeliner, even though Linda and I told her it looked dumb. While visiting my aunt in California, she insisted on speaking with an accent that was one part British, two parts made up European royalty. 'That's not how she talks!' we'd tell the effortlessly cool teenagers my aunt would invite over, hoping they'd befriend us. Susan didn't care what we, or they, thought. She was living her best, fake accent, life. 

I still remember the evening when her band made their debut at our high school dance. I was so nervous, I felt like throwing up. But they were spectacular in their cool, matching outfits, like the Beatles. 'Oh, thank God,' I remember thinking. 'They're so good.' Her future husband, Brent, was in the band, too. Music was a huge part of their love story. Later, there was a family band, and they were a big part of our community's social life.

Susan was my best childhood friend. We were soulmates of a different kind, and we could practically read each other's minds.When we were grown and had families, we lived just a few blocks away from each other. Our families lived in each other's pockets...that was true of all the siblings in town. When I watch family videos, I'm stunned at the utter chaos: children everywhere, parents oblivious to the deafening noise. It must have been awful for anyone visiting.

Susan and I were choir buddies, along with two other sisters and a brother. We usually sat together, though we occasionally fought over our friend, Michelle, who sang all right the notes. Susan had a beautiful voice, but like me, didn't read music when our community choir got started. We practiced together diligently. She worked hard at it, like she did everything else.

She was always up for whatever crazy notion I got into my head, like painting my entire Rumpus room one Christmas Eve. After Clarence died, she helped me clean up the garage...a gargantuan task because of my Father-in-law's fifty years of 'collecting things.' We must have taken ten trips to the dump before having a massive garage sale. She was my navigator whenever I took a wrong turn pulling the trailer. What I mostly remember is how much we laughed. Especially when she opened containers to find the stuffed heads of dead animals. That was worth a scream or two.

I loved how our families fit together. There were our Academy Awards parties, endless theme parties, really, where we laughed and sang and played charades. All the births we shared, helping each other through, and crying too, when things were hard. 

Susan was exceptionally kind and brave. She spoke up to defend others, and became a birth coach, helping many mothers navigate the system. As an Educational Assistant, she was an advocate for children, because she remembered what it was like for herself and her siblings, every one of us with ADHD, which teachers back then thought of as Annoying, Distracted, Heedless Daydreamers. Because of it, she read endless books about parenting and child psychology. 

She was effortlessy beautiful, something I didn't really notice as a sister. Not until she was gone. She was brave throughout her illness, and so stoic. It was a privilege being with her for the last few weeks, especially on the night she drew her final breath. Such beauty and dignity, despite everything she'd gone through. She's with the angels, now, probably singing beside our friend Michelle. So here's to you, my sweet, beautiful sister. I love you. I miss you. And I know I'll see you again.