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.