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.