Not everyone enjoys cooking. For most, it's something we do out of necessity. But now that our kids are grown, I've found that I don't mind cooking meals. After raising a family, making dinner for two is easy. My stove ,er, my range and I are old friends. I'm quick, too. With no fanfare at all, I can have a decent dinner prepared in twenty minutes or less.
My husband has a different approach. When planning a meal, he likes to announce his intentions a week or two ahead. "I'm going to make clam chowder soup," he'll say importantly. The purchasing of the groceries requires serious planning. But after buying the food, days can go by before the actual meal is made. You see, he likes to spend a certain amount of time building himself up. He treats the event like he's embarking on a triathalon, or about to swim the English Channel. He prepares with lots of self talk. "This is going to be the best clam chowder EVER!' My job is to offer words of praise and keep the eye rolling to a strict mininum.
Prepping for the main event is everything. There is no time for the chef to tidy, or wash pots after each stage of the procedure. All his energy must be saved for the creation of his masterpiece. When dinner is finally ready, it's my job to do the drumroll, have plenty of backpats ready, and then simply enjoy dinner. The cleanup comes later.
His finest performance to date is a stew he made in Calgary for the Faktor family. Simmering bones, short ribs, and some kind of secret sauce were just a part of his recipe. My daughter said it was delicious. I'll take her word for it, since I wasn't there, and she had to clean the pots by herself. In the meantime, I'm looking forward to that clam chowder soup. It's due any day now. (light clapping, a mild cheer.)
Saturday, January 28, 2017
Tuesday, January 10, 2017
Could I Get a Little Help Over Here?
When I was kid, there were times when I realized I was not in charge of my situation. These moments would appear out of nowhere, like snakes hiding in the grass. This may be less true for children today, what with helicopter parenting and being tethered to the house.
When I was young, we were shoved out the door in the morning, either for school or for playing. If it was the latter, it was understood that you didn't have to come home until supper. A late return was encouraged by parents with too many kids. In those days, that was everybody.
Here is a list of things that worried me. Stray dogs, (which were everywhere,) unknown bullies, (because the ones you knew, you could avoid) running into a bear in the bush, and mud puddles. The last one was a fear born of experience, because I knew myself so well. To me, they were simply irresistible.
After a good downpour I'd be wearing my rubber boots and actively searching for trouble. There was a certain coyness to my approach, and I would feign surprise at the puddles appearing at the bottom of our back road. If I was with my sisters or brother, things had a way of turning out. But when I was alone, calamity usually struck. I would stomp around in the middle of the mud puddle, which was large enough to swallow a deer, until that epic moment when I would become completely glued into place, and unable to move either of my feet.
At this point, I'd look around casually, like everything was okay. I don't remember being approached by grownups, or even a car driving up the back alley. Picture a nine year old female, four feet tall and sixty pounds. It was simply impossible for me to pull my boots out of the muck. Eventually I'd jump out, leave them behind, and end up walking home in my socks, usually after doing a face plant. I'd return to the puddle with one irate parent or another so they could rescue my boots. In spite of that, I never refrained from my next hopeful mud puddle approach.
This story is not going to encourage helicopter parents to be less vigilant, but it should. The lessons learned during those lonely, stuck moments, or cautious approaches to a bush trail, or the exhilarating but scary walk to Phantom Lake, all helped me to see myself as a survivor. I might not do well, but I would do. Many times, I could rely on my siblings, or kids from the neighborhood, for help.They might pick on me at home, but out in the wild or on the long trek to Phantom, we had each other's backs.There was a code, and most kids followed it.
We were allowed to light fires, sword fight with sticks, balance on a board over a rolling barrel, (while my mother hollered, 'If you pinch your toes, don't come crying to me!') and raft across the pond behind what is now the Victoria Inn. The fear of drowning was overcome by the sense of victory, and the sheer fun of it all. Like women forgetting childbirth, I would leave behind the feelings of helplessness, and see myself as independent and victorious. Until the next birth...er, adventure.
And now I must apologize to my own children for the level of hovering, for the times I didn't trust in their common sense. (Full disclosure, this message may not apply to teenagers.) I'm sorry, kids. I hope you had fun, anyway. At least we lived by the bush. And if you did have the occasional crazy adventure, please share. I promise to be thrilled for you.
When I was young, we were shoved out the door in the morning, either for school or for playing. If it was the latter, it was understood that you didn't have to come home until supper. A late return was encouraged by parents with too many kids. In those days, that was everybody.
Here is a list of things that worried me. Stray dogs, (which were everywhere,) unknown bullies, (because the ones you knew, you could avoid) running into a bear in the bush, and mud puddles. The last one was a fear born of experience, because I knew myself so well. To me, they were simply irresistible.
After a good downpour I'd be wearing my rubber boots and actively searching for trouble. There was a certain coyness to my approach, and I would feign surprise at the puddles appearing at the bottom of our back road. If I was with my sisters or brother, things had a way of turning out. But when I was alone, calamity usually struck. I would stomp around in the middle of the mud puddle, which was large enough to swallow a deer, until that epic moment when I would become completely glued into place, and unable to move either of my feet.
At this point, I'd look around casually, like everything was okay. I don't remember being approached by grownups, or even a car driving up the back alley. Picture a nine year old female, four feet tall and sixty pounds. It was simply impossible for me to pull my boots out of the muck. Eventually I'd jump out, leave them behind, and end up walking home in my socks, usually after doing a face plant. I'd return to the puddle with one irate parent or another so they could rescue my boots. In spite of that, I never refrained from my next hopeful mud puddle approach.
This story is not going to encourage helicopter parents to be less vigilant, but it should. The lessons learned during those lonely, stuck moments, or cautious approaches to a bush trail, or the exhilarating but scary walk to Phantom Lake, all helped me to see myself as a survivor. I might not do well, but I would do. Many times, I could rely on my siblings, or kids from the neighborhood, for help.They might pick on me at home, but out in the wild or on the long trek to Phantom, we had each other's backs.There was a code, and most kids followed it.
We were allowed to light fires, sword fight with sticks, balance on a board over a rolling barrel, (while my mother hollered, 'If you pinch your toes, don't come crying to me!') and raft across the pond behind what is now the Victoria Inn. The fear of drowning was overcome by the sense of victory, and the sheer fun of it all. Like women forgetting childbirth, I would leave behind the feelings of helplessness, and see myself as independent and victorious. Until the next birth...er, adventure.
And now I must apologize to my own children for the level of hovering, for the times I didn't trust in their common sense. (Full disclosure, this message may not apply to teenagers.) I'm sorry, kids. I hope you had fun, anyway. At least we lived by the bush. And if you did have the occasional crazy adventure, please share. I promise to be thrilled for you.
Friday, December 23, 2016
The Fifty Shades of Mr. Mark Kolt
It's impossible to live in Flin Flon and not know who Mark Kolt is. Lawyer and administrator for the City, pianist (and more) for the Community Choir, musician extraordinaire for multiple bands and many special occasions. But that's not all.
Mark is also a composer. Anyone fortunate enough to attend one of the choir's Christmas concerts will have heard his beautiful piece, 'Star of Bethlehem.' But he's done plenty more than that. When sister Jennifer decided on a Carpenter's Christmas concert, Mark arranged the parts for soprano, alto, tenor and bass.
Before I get into specifics, let me tell you this. Mark is a considerate composer. Unlike Beethoven, he understands our limitations, and never wants us to feel bad. No high E for six measures (I'm guesstimating...it felt like more) for the altos, thank you very much. Which is why I was puzzled after last weekend's concerts. It finally dawned on the altos that our parts were a little more difficult than usual. I'm pulling my punches, here. Let's just say there was plenty of weeping and gnashing of teeth. (Thank goodness for our new dentist, who is also in the choir, and will be prepared for our damaged molars.)
I'll try to be delicate, but keep in mind that a certain amount of frankness is necessary, here. We all know that Mark considers the sopranos the heart of our choir. Therefore, in the mansion of his mind, they are the composer's true muse and worthy of loving affection, hand holding, and complimentary easy parts. (This is what all the altos think, okay?) The same could be said for the tenors. Well done. Good effort. Pip pip.
As for the alto parts? Well. We are the ones chained in the basement, next to the whips. Is it good for you, Mark asks, hefting the cat of nine tails, a gleam in his eye. ( Not having read the books, I have no idea if Christian Gray of the original 'Fifty Shades' actually did this, but I've heard rumours.) No, not really, we reply, bracing ourselves for the...let's just call it the chastisement. The basses, the alto males, are also known to have the occasional rough ride. Though most of them are just asking for it.
In summation, I must acknowledge that, yes, Mark, we were bad. And we deserve a little punishment from time to time. But if a sincere apology will lighten our future, then here it is. We did not do your arrangements the justice they deserved. We did not. But. We'd like a little more loving in the next piece, please, and a lot less pain. We, too, want to make you proud. We'd like to be, if not the heart, then maybe the bladder or the colon. Something essential. And it wouldn't hurt to give us the melody from time to time, either, when you're scoring your next big thing.
Sincerely,
the alto, second row
right side of the dungeon.
Thursday, December 15, 2016
The Hitch in My Step
I like to move briskly. Plodding along sets my teeth on edge, so my tendency is to gallop. The plus side is, I get lots done. The downside? Sometimes I drop things, or occasionally fall down. I'm quick, but not necessarily graceful. I can fake graceful, but it doesn't offer me much protection.
The other day, there was an incident at my house. I was heading (briskly) into my bedroom when the left belt loop of my newish jeans got snagged on the door handle. It's a lever type, and at the very end, it folds itself up like a seashell. I'd never noticed this before, but it literally stopped me in my tracks.
Technically, I shouldn't have been wearing the jeans. They're a little snug, but since I only bought them six months ago, I like to pretend they still fit. Because they're newish, I didn't want to pull away and rip off the belt loop. On the other hand, I was stuck. And I was by myself. My husband was a thousand miles away, which always seems to be the case when I end up in one of these situations.
Was the universe telling me to slow down? Was it saying that I'm a little 'stuck' these days? Or was I simply the victim of another weird happening, like when my exercise ball got trapped under my treadmill and lifted me into the air. Whatever it was, I could only rely on myself for help.
The loops are small, so there wasn't much wiggle room, especially given the jean's close fit. I tried rotating my hip, but it only made it worse. I could not get that loop out of the little curly end. Pulling down my jeans was not an option, so i tried unzipping them. Finally, after ten frustrating minutes, I got the loop free from the door handle.
I should carry my cell phone at all times. Highly inconvenient, terribly annoying, but at least I could call for help. At the very least, if I'm going to move briskly through my life, I'd better keep my eyes open.Watch out for exercise balls rolling under my treadmill, or for old meat stuck to the barbecue. (It had me thinking one of the neighbors had died and was busily decomposing.) And those pesky door handles. For now, I'll wear jeans without loops, or at least make sure they fit. But if you don't see me around, ask the folks next door to check up on me. After all, neighborly concern should go both ways.
The other day, there was an incident at my house. I was heading (briskly) into my bedroom when the left belt loop of my newish jeans got snagged on the door handle. It's a lever type, and at the very end, it folds itself up like a seashell. I'd never noticed this before, but it literally stopped me in my tracks.
Technically, I shouldn't have been wearing the jeans. They're a little snug, but since I only bought them six months ago, I like to pretend they still fit. Because they're newish, I didn't want to pull away and rip off the belt loop. On the other hand, I was stuck. And I was by myself. My husband was a thousand miles away, which always seems to be the case when I end up in one of these situations.
Was the universe telling me to slow down? Was it saying that I'm a little 'stuck' these days? Or was I simply the victim of another weird happening, like when my exercise ball got trapped under my treadmill and lifted me into the air. Whatever it was, I could only rely on myself for help.
The loops are small, so there wasn't much wiggle room, especially given the jean's close fit. I tried rotating my hip, but it only made it worse. I could not get that loop out of the little curly end. Pulling down my jeans was not an option, so i tried unzipping them. Finally, after ten frustrating minutes, I got the loop free from the door handle.
I should carry my cell phone at all times. Highly inconvenient, terribly annoying, but at least I could call for help. At the very least, if I'm going to move briskly through my life, I'd better keep my eyes open.Watch out for exercise balls rolling under my treadmill, or for old meat stuck to the barbecue. (It had me thinking one of the neighbors had died and was busily decomposing.) And those pesky door handles. For now, I'll wear jeans without loops, or at least make sure they fit. But if you don't see me around, ask the folks next door to check up on me. After all, neighborly concern should go both ways.
Sunday, December 4, 2016
I'm In Love With My Car
Due to a series of unfortunate events, (caribou on the road, car slamming into the back of us) we have to buy a new vehicle. I am very fond of our current one, a 2012 Hyundai Santa Fe. But then, all our family cars gradually come to feel like old friends. I picture this one all banged up, languishing in some steel graveyard and wondering when we're coming back to get her. Yes, our car is a she. We planned to drive her till she dropped, an emotional and a financial win. Alas.
Here is why I loved her. She had great pickup on the highway. You could pass anyone in a pinch. She was so comfortable, and all the knobs and doo-dads were in exactly the right spot. I'm short, but our SUV fit me well. She felt like home whenever I was driving around. So I'm resistant to getting something new.
Clarence talked me into test driving a 2016 Toyota Rav. Since my daughter has an older version, I figured I'd be comfortable with it. Our cars seemed strangely the same. But nothing felt right about this one. Boxy, stiff, with a weird dashboard that managed to hide important buttons like the seat warmers. I wanted to take it out on the highway, so we headed toward the perimeter.
My husband is a positive person. I've never heard him talk badly about anyone, and he truly can't understand the kind of negativity that was welling up inside me. I was working myself up with all the things I didn't like about the vehicle.Then I had one of those, 'can't find the wipers, where's the wash?' moments, just when Clarence said, 'turn right here.'
I lost it. There is no right turn! I said. What are you talking about?? My voice was so high and loud, I'm amazed I didn't shatter the windshield. No, right HERE, he said. Well, duh. I'm practically hyperventilating through the combination of sadness about our car, not enough information on the one I'm driving, and Clarence's driving instructions. You're going to miss it! he said. It's right here!
Ah. At last his meaning was clear. Turn left, right here. I was so busy working myself up into an old fashioned snit, I couldn't hear what he was trying to say. Which was, try out this nice car...see if it can replace the one you love. You'll figure it all out, and by the way, turn here. Once I calmed down, we returned to our regularly programmed relationship.
Want to head home now?
Sure.
Let's drop the car off, then. Tell the guy we'll think about it.
I cheered up immeasurably. The car wasn't a bad colour. It hid the dirt well. (Behind all the drama, there was reason.) So when you see me next, I'll be with another vehicle. There may be some awkwardness at first, as we get to know each other. I'll probably feel like I'm cheating on the Santa Fe. But after a few months on the road together, the new vehicle and I may just start to feel like family. To celebrate the car love story, here's the band, Queen. And yes, I stole their title.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oaEM4JYFPfw
Here is why I loved her. She had great pickup on the highway. You could pass anyone in a pinch. She was so comfortable, and all the knobs and doo-dads were in exactly the right spot. I'm short, but our SUV fit me well. She felt like home whenever I was driving around. So I'm resistant to getting something new.
Clarence talked me into test driving a 2016 Toyota Rav. Since my daughter has an older version, I figured I'd be comfortable with it. Our cars seemed strangely the same. But nothing felt right about this one. Boxy, stiff, with a weird dashboard that managed to hide important buttons like the seat warmers. I wanted to take it out on the highway, so we headed toward the perimeter.
My husband is a positive person. I've never heard him talk badly about anyone, and he truly can't understand the kind of negativity that was welling up inside me. I was working myself up with all the things I didn't like about the vehicle.Then I had one of those, 'can't find the wipers, where's the wash?' moments, just when Clarence said, 'turn right here.'
I lost it. There is no right turn! I said. What are you talking about?? My voice was so high and loud, I'm amazed I didn't shatter the windshield. No, right HERE, he said. Well, duh. I'm practically hyperventilating through the combination of sadness about our car, not enough information on the one I'm driving, and Clarence's driving instructions. You're going to miss it! he said. It's right here!
Ah. At last his meaning was clear. Turn left, right here. I was so busy working myself up into an old fashioned snit, I couldn't hear what he was trying to say. Which was, try out this nice car...see if it can replace the one you love. You'll figure it all out, and by the way, turn here. Once I calmed down, we returned to our regularly programmed relationship.
Want to head home now?
Sure.
Let's drop the car off, then. Tell the guy we'll think about it.
I cheered up immeasurably. The car wasn't a bad colour. It hid the dirt well. (Behind all the drama, there was reason.) So when you see me next, I'll be with another vehicle. There may be some awkwardness at first, as we get to know each other. I'll probably feel like I'm cheating on the Santa Fe. But after a few months on the road together, the new vehicle and I may just start to feel like family. To celebrate the car love story, here's the band, Queen. And yes, I stole their title.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oaEM4JYFPfw
Saturday, November 19, 2016
No Walk in the Park
I'm a girl who likes to fix things. When people make useful suggestions, I usually listen. My husband was reading in bed the other night when I walked in with a clothespin fastened to my upper left ear. He didn't bat an eye when I said, 'I have a sore back.' 'Uh huh,' he replied. I'd seen a posting on Facebook that said this would solve back ache, indigestion, sore feet and more. They were right. My back pain stopped immediately because my ear hurt like a mother#$&^@*&.
Another thing I've been trying is the vertigo cure. My friend Lois sent me the link. You position yourself in a half somersault with your head tucked down, look to the left or right, count to forty, then throw your whole body upward. This sends the crystals in your inner ear back into place. And it really works.
Vertigo tends to strike me in the morning, but with this cure, no problem, right? Except I have to do the exercise in bed. Since I'm the first one up, I try to move carefully and quietly, but doing a half somersault beside your partner in bed and then throwing yourself violently upward has a tendency to shake things around. But if I get out of bed without doing it, I stagger around like a drunk person.
I'm also fussy about having everything perfect when I settle down for the night. I need the window open about five inches, even when its -20. I like the coverlet off, leaving just the duvet and sheet. I place a giant sized pillow beneath my knees because it helps my hips. My husband calls it 'the other man.' He hates the other man, who takes up a lot of room.
I like to read at night, and I can't do it in the living room. I put my bedside lamp on its dimmest setting, then slowly turn it up when my husband falls asleep. I have to pee once a night (at least) and there's a creak in our door that neither of us remembers to fix until three in the morning. The worst of it is that the power of suggestion is so strong. If he hears me getting up in the night to use the bathroom, he finds himself checking in with his own bladder. Since we both suffer from the psychological pee, it doesn't really matter if he has to go. Because, psychologically, he has to go.
Sometimes I feel tired of living with me. I pick on Clarence in these blogs because he's quirky, but easy going. He doesn't get too fussed about much unless I mess with his art collection. The only time I did that was when he came home with a huge painting of the two of us. We looked like trolls who lived under a bridge. Our teeth were the size of bricks. It couldn't have been worse if it had been painted on velvet. Actually, that might have helped. When I indicated in no uncertain terms that we weren't hanging it up, he told me he'd take it to his office. That's when the utility knife came out. No, not for him. For the painting.
I like to think of myself as low maintenance. All high maintenance people do. But there's a certain finickiness that comes out in spite of my attempts to suppress it. It's the need to feel right, to make things better, to live in a forward moving way. Fix that back, cure that vertigo, follow the yellow brick road of interesting suggestions on how to improve your life. I read health books the way others study the stars. As if there's a secret there. A game changer. And complaining on this bog has brought some positive results. For example, the rosary sleeping cure is still working well. So feel free to send me your craziest idea. You know I'm up for it.
Friday, November 11, 2016
Ring The Bells
I've been caught up in the melancholia of the world. Stunned, like many, by the US election. If any of my friends were on the celebratory side, please don't tell me. Go hang out with your new pal, David Duke. The people who voted for Donald supposedly did it for the money. (They call it the economy, but, whatever.) I had this crazy idea that in spite of global warming, we were all moving forward. More grace in the world, forgiveness, acceptance, and a willingness to share with those less fortunate. To quote Donald Trump: Wrong.
At first, I felt a creeping dread, like I'd woken to the realization that the outcome of World War Two had been reversed. You Know Who was in charge. That's how it felt. A certain resignation crept in after a while, and that dread, mixed with the passing of days, eventually watered down to a feeling of melancholy.
And then Leonard Cohen died. We were heading to a social a couple hours after I found out, but I couldn't stop crying. We have a relationship, Leonard and I. I'd be in a certain kind of mood, and he'd explain things in a way that would make me feel better. In his unique, soulful voice, he described a world of love and loss that, strangely, always left me feeling cheerful. The kind of singer you pictured sitting nearby while you waited for the bus.
He'd listen to all your sad musings, perhaps take a few notes. 'Let me work on that and get back to you,' he'd say. Then, you'd hear a song on the radio and realize he'd understood completely. That's how he made me feel. He was the dutiful scribe to the darkest part of my heart. The saddest moments, the heaviest days. A singing poet who managed to unravel the mystery of my own feelings of loss, longing and bewilderment.
After a morning full of Leonard Cohen's music, I've decided to give The Donald some time to get it right. We all make mistakes. We say thoughtless, hurtful things. When my husband, who has been living with cancer, got the good news of his chance for radiation, I said, without a moment's hesitation, 'Darn. I'll miss two whole weeks of choir.' My family stared at me in shock. The next words out of my mouth were, 'I can't believe I said that out loud.' It would take at least four of Leonard Cohen's roadies to remove that large foot from that big mouth.
As Leonard said, while waiting for the bus with me, 'There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in.' 'Whoa,' I said. 'That's heavy.' But true. When we break, we find opportunities to change. When we make mistakes, say the wrong thing, wound people, the hurt has a way of ricocheting back. But that's a good thing. Some of us need only the smallest of cracks to let in a bit of light. Some need a gaping wound. Whatever it is, and however it happens, I pray that Donald Trump sees the light. It can't be fun living in the dark all the time. Even when you're winning.
So, President Trump, I'll leave you with this last conversation I had with Leonard. My two sources of melancholy seem suspiciously well timed, as if our beloved singer and poet couldn't bear to be in the world any longer. Heed his words, Donnie boy. Sit down on a park bench from time to time and mull them over.
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.
Maybe purchase his albums. You might learn the lessons a whole lot quicker.
At first, I felt a creeping dread, like I'd woken to the realization that the outcome of World War Two had been reversed. You Know Who was in charge. That's how it felt. A certain resignation crept in after a while, and that dread, mixed with the passing of days, eventually watered down to a feeling of melancholy.
And then Leonard Cohen died. We were heading to a social a couple hours after I found out, but I couldn't stop crying. We have a relationship, Leonard and I. I'd be in a certain kind of mood, and he'd explain things in a way that would make me feel better. In his unique, soulful voice, he described a world of love and loss that, strangely, always left me feeling cheerful. The kind of singer you pictured sitting nearby while you waited for the bus.
He'd listen to all your sad musings, perhaps take a few notes. 'Let me work on that and get back to you,' he'd say. Then, you'd hear a song on the radio and realize he'd understood completely. That's how he made me feel. He was the dutiful scribe to the darkest part of my heart. The saddest moments, the heaviest days. A singing poet who managed to unravel the mystery of my own feelings of loss, longing and bewilderment.
After a morning full of Leonard Cohen's music, I've decided to give The Donald some time to get it right. We all make mistakes. We say thoughtless, hurtful things. When my husband, who has been living with cancer, got the good news of his chance for radiation, I said, without a moment's hesitation, 'Darn. I'll miss two whole weeks of choir.' My family stared at me in shock. The next words out of my mouth were, 'I can't believe I said that out loud.' It would take at least four of Leonard Cohen's roadies to remove that large foot from that big mouth.
As Leonard said, while waiting for the bus with me, 'There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in.' 'Whoa,' I said. 'That's heavy.' But true. When we break, we find opportunities to change. When we make mistakes, say the wrong thing, wound people, the hurt has a way of ricocheting back. But that's a good thing. Some of us need only the smallest of cracks to let in a bit of light. Some need a gaping wound. Whatever it is, and however it happens, I pray that Donald Trump sees the light. It can't be fun living in the dark all the time. Even when you're winning.
So, President Trump, I'll leave you with this last conversation I had with Leonard. My two sources of melancholy seem suspiciously well timed, as if our beloved singer and poet couldn't bear to be in the world any longer. Heed his words, Donnie boy. Sit down on a park bench from time to time and mull them over.
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.
Maybe purchase his albums. You might learn the lessons a whole lot quicker.
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