Rain Rain, Go Away

Dear New World of Weather,

Please don't be offended by what I'm about to say. We understand that Flin Flonners have done our share in heating the planet. ie: The Mine. But seriously. We are not used to all this rain. We had six days in a row in July, and that was very hard to endure. People couldn't fish, except for the really hardy folks who own those special jacket and pants outfits, or have a party  boat with a built in roof.

We didn't have our new lawn yet, so all that water just went to waste, thumping down on the clay in a sad, end-of-the-world scenario. It's bad enough that we've started getting crazy bugs in town, certainly encouraged by the longer summer season, (which frankly feels like a bit of a joke.) But mosquitoes with barbs on their stingers and those lawn destroying cinch bugs are a bridge too far.

I realize we have it pretty good up here in the north. If it snows heavily, we tend to think of it as a storm. Having lived in Southern Manitoba, I realize that's a bit of a joke. It's true that anything hotter than 28C has many of us complaining. (Heat and northerners, a complex combination--some actually like it.) I have no problem, though, with the -30 weather in winter, as long as it doesn't go on for six months like it did a few years ago. We're still recovering from that one.

It's feeling a lot like fall, and I would like a little dryness, please. I need to bring in the garden, and Clarence needs to continue bricking around our new lawn. (A subject for another blog post.) So please. Help us out and bring back the weather from, say, 1967. Thank you. ps. The smelter is shut down, so please reward us with a short winter.

sincerely,

Fed up, but trying to be nice,

 in Flin Flon

Father Knows Best

In our family, the one most likely to brag about his clothes is my husband. Never mind that our youngest daughter took fashion design. He is a man of serious fashion conviction.

So one day last week, my daughter was reading her book and I was working on my novel, when Clarence sat bolt upright and called for everyone's attention. His tone was urgent, and I became mildly alarmed. Mildly, because...well. We've been together a while.

My husband had just read a fashion article that begged sharing. He was resting on the sofa, his retirement beard rivaling the Una bomber's, Hawaiian shirt half unbuttoned, and his relaxed fit, twelve pocket, khaki shorts sporting a  hole in one leg, when he proceeded to share Jessica Alba's fashion tips for success.

Excitedly, (because, for mind boggling reasons, he finds this stuff interesting) he read the following list aloud.

 #1. Sometimes, a statement coat is all you need. Michelle's eyes met mine. We both thought about the ancient postal worker's parka he'd bought at a Thrift Store, saying, "It's so warm! And rare!"

#2. A little leopard print never hurt anyone. Really? At my age, it might be mistaken for cougar print.

#3. Bare a little skin but wear your hemline low. Yeah, I'm not baring anything but my feet. Maybe in summer, my lower legs. And a calf length hemline makes me look like a cult member from Texas.

#4. A hat helps everything. Well, not me or my brother. We  tend to look like we have double digit IQ's and deliver flyers for a living. I wear one gardening because I burn easy, but that's pretty much it.

#5. Traveling is no excuse not to look stylish. Yeah? Try a fourteen hour car trip from Calgary to Winnipeg. My idea of stylish is bringing a bib ,so if I spill my smoothie, I don't have to change my clothes and end up with no underwear like that other time. You know which one.

Thank you, Jessica Alba. In a perfect world, with thousands of dollars to spend and with a completely different body, these tips would change my life. Except for the fact that I don't care. I want to, kind of. But not really. On the other hand, father may not know best about fashion, but he certainly knows how to make me laugh. I have to thank Jessica for that, too.

Small Town Gal

(Full Disclosure - I wanted to title this blog 'Small Town Girl,' but grown women aren't supposed to use those terms. So in support of political correctness, I'm going with the aging cowgirl description. Anyway, onward.)

I love Winnipeg. I love Calgary. The cities of Manhattan, London and Paris have all filled me with joy. But Flin Flon holds my heart tight in its hockey mitted, art infused, fist. For those who live here, no explanation is necessary. For my out of town readers, please. Allow me to tell you why.

When my children were young, I ordered large boxes of dried soymilk from British Columbia and sold the surplus. With my white, powder filled baggies in hand, I headed to my local post office. "Kirsten,' I said, to a longtime employee everyone knows. "Would you weigh this product so I can figure out what to charge?' Raising her eyebrow just the tiniest bit, she did. It didn't occur to me until much later that a stranger might have found the whole activity suspicious. But we have an awesome post office, as everyone with any kind of business knows.

On another occasion, my family arrived at the drive-in movie theater without any money. Bill Leafe, the owner, waved us in, and the next time we went, wouldn't let us pay him back. The same thing happened to my dad and father in law. They were excited about the movie, 'Titanic,' and Bill  was so happy to see them there, he wouldn't take their money. Later, he had to go and wake them up because it was over and everyone else had left. They missed the part where the ship went down, so he took some time to explain the whole, 'I'll never let you go,' love scene.

I don't have to dress up for anyone in Flin Flon, which is a really big deal to me. I can if I want to. But I don't have to, except for weddings and events like the Royal party where we all wore fancy hats and celebrated the Queen's Jubilee. As we nibbled on dainty sandwiches and drank tea, we waved to each other with gloved hands. The local cadets, scouts, and Knights of Columbus dressed to the nines and waited on everyone. It was a blast. But seriously, people only comment on an outfit if it's really cold outside and you don't look warm enough.

We have a lot going on in town. Hockey games, community social events sponsored by various service clubs like Rotary, Kinnettes and more. The arts council brings in plenty of entertainment and there are Home Routes concerts, Community Choir musicals and so much more that, frankly, my card is always full. As I said, I love Manhattan. But because I'm from Flin Flon, I don't just go there. I sing there. At Carnegie Hall. Or Lincoln Center. With my choir, of course, but still. No way would that happen if I lived in Winnipeg, because then I'd have to audition. No thank you.

It's the little things that add up to a great life. Just ask the people who had to move away. Most would come back if they could. After a vacation, I love driving down the hill into Creighton or heading into Flin Flon on number ten. Everything is just as it should be. There's the Hooter. The Flin Flon campground. The main streets with most of the same old stores and faces I've been seeing my whole life.

It's not that I don't celebrate new things. I do. I just like the old things better. But then, I already confessed to being a small town girl. Gal. That's the just way I roll.

A Hail Mary Pass

Since I started complaining about my lack of sleep, the suggestions have come pouring in. First, I'm amazed at how many of my friends meditate. It's not something we've ever talked about, but now that we're all learning to live in the moment, it's a discussion waiting to happen. Meanwhile, I'll share another friend's suggestion.

I grew up Catholic. When I was twenty-five, I changed denominations, but you know what they say. You can take the girl out of the church, but.... Yeah, that's right. Anyway, my friend Maureen read my last blog and had an interesting idea for me. She suggested that I say a part of the Rosary every night before bed. Unbeknownst to her, I had purchased one while at Salisbury Cathedral last fall. I'd been browsing in the gift shop after being softened up by an enthusiastic tour guide who led us up to the highest possible tower where we all peered down and thanked God for sturdy carpentry and conscientious Brits who restore their buildings faithfully.

As I stared at the Rosary, (it was pink, like the one from my childhood) I was seized by a nostalgia so strong that I almost burst into tears. I had left the church, but I still carried that child inside of me. We all do, right?
The Hanson clan was not casual about attending Mass. If we were out of town, we found a church. I remember my dad driving all over these small Saskatchewan hamlets on a Sunday morning, my mom having pulled some decent clothes out of the dress box that accompanied us on our trips. We never missed Mass, and a bedridden teenager in our house had better have a fever and not a hangover, because there were no excuses.

This has stood me in good stead for many reasons, which is probably why you should go to church each week, if you're into that kind of thing, which I am. But, I digress. I took my Rosary down from the mirror where it's been hanging since last fall, and stuck it under my pillow. That first night I pulled it out and closed my eyes. I started off with the beads under the cross and said my usual prayers for my family, community, etc. I continued on with the Lord's prayer and then started saying the 'Hail, Mary,' which I remembered, word for word. (If its been updated or modernized, please don't tell me.)

Anyway, I barely got through three prayers before I fell asleep. I'm not sure why that is, frankly. Is saying the rosary a form of meditation? Was it the connection to my childhood? I don't think so, because I was a bad sleeper in those days. Perhaps it was because my faith has deep roots, and has always anchored me to the best part of myself. Which isn't really me, but that part of the Creator that flickers inside all of us, whether we know it or not. 

The desperate long shot Hail Mary play has paid off. It has carried me into the land of sleep for many nights, now, and I am grateful for it. I'm indebted to every person who has shared their sleep secrets with me, and even their despair over their lack of sleep. In these hectic times of social media and late night television binging, we're messing up Mother Nature's sleep recipe. But as a community, we can help each other by showing the way back. The word hail means to rejoice. So, hail, all you restless nighttime sleepers. I'm so glad we're in this thing together. And can I have an Amen?

These Summer Nights

I don't know if its the long days, or the pile of stuff in our garage that we moved from Winnipeg, but something is keeping us up at night. We've been taking turns getting out of bed. Clarence covers the two to four shift, I take over until six. After that, we try to get some sleep. This is a relatively new thing, because in the past we almost never had insomnia at the same time.

We know all the tricks. Don't turn on lights when you get up to pee. Don't think about anything as you stumble back to bed. And never talk to your partner. This is my husband's idea, because I am more than willing to let the complaining portion of the night begin. Faking sleep sometimes tricks my brain, but not lately. We're thinking of trying my friend's trick, where you and your partner switch sides. For Sonia and Tom, this is a completely normal thing to do. To me, it's the wackiest thing I've ever heard. And yet, I will probably give it a try.

We've had a busy time, lately. That might be part of our problem. Come the fall, I'll be more than ready to settle into a new routine. The garage, by some miracle, might be empty. Ideally, we'll turn off all our devices by nine, be in bed by ten. This will leave us a good hour for reading. I know the feng shui-ers frown on books in the bedroom, but it's a childhood habit I plan on keeping.

The worst part about not sleeping is that every problem gets blown out of proportion. Even the stuff that's not a problem. Gardening, dentist appointments, weight gains, worrying about weight gains because you know that lack of sleep is a contributor. The brain starts looping from one thing to the next until life begins to feel like a dystopian novel. As John Travolta sings, 'Summer dreams, ripped at the seams.' That's for sure. I can't even go outside and stand in the middle of our lawn to stare up at the starry sky. It's always been my favorite thing to do when I can't sleep. But that's been stripped away and we haven't got our new sod yet. Sigh.

The minute the sun goes up, though, I'm able to shake off all the night time wackiness and revert to normal thinking. 'What was that about?' I ponder as I prepare my morning cup of tea. The oceans aren't rising all that fast. Clarence does not have to start building a raft from our left over deck lumber.

Today we started meditating with Oprah and Chopra, free online and very relaxing. I sat in a yoga like position while Clarence rested on the sofa. He started snoring about half way through, but I'm assuming that's because he was really into it. As we chanted quietly to ourselves, I pictured us having a restful night.

Yes, I'm willing to change from my side of the bed to his, if that's what it takes. But I'm hopeful that Deepak Chopra is right. Staying in the moment will 'unstick' me from this restlessness, sending me into the child like sleep I often experience in winter. As for you, dear friends, I wish you no ripped seams, or floods, no nights of dark planning. Just pleasant and restful sleep. So be quiet, now, and please, don't turn on the light.

We All Fall Down

It's time to let Adam and Eve off the hook. Yes, eating from the tree of life was a big mistake. Their bad. Listening to the snake in the first place, not a smart move. Eve would love to take that one back. The story reveals humans for who we really are. Excepting Victoria's Secret models, we're often ashamed of our nude bodies, even when they're in good working order. We like to eat lambs and trophy hunt lions. And we generally blame each other when things go wrong. Theologians are divided on the bible story, depending if: a) They believe it in the first place. b) They're sexist pigs who pin everything on Eve. Or c) They take it as a metaphorical example of how we all need to be saved.

Falling can happen unexpectedly. A trap door opens beneath our feet, and down we go. For example. My hubby had to undergo a procedure that meant fasting for two days. He didn't whine about it, but took a relaxed attitude. It was almost disappointing how well he was doing. Because I felt extremely anxious. We went to Home Depot, then to Chapters for a cup of tea. I was famished. I'd been sneaking around our apartment, chewing apples in dark corners like a rat who'd wandered in from the street. I didn't want to eat in front of him, so I was much hungrier than I usually allow myself to get. (First world problem, I know) Hungry. Irritable. Or, as my family likes to say, 'Hanson Hangry.' It takes the definition up a couple of notches.

Anyway, I'm in line to pay for my book and I see Godiva chocolate bars right by the checkout counter. I snatch one, pay for it and stick it in my purse. Over the next half hour, I redefined the word 'sneaky.' If Clarence bent down to tie his shoe, I stuffed three pieces into my mouth. (I'm almost certain I consumed half the tinfoil in this way.) I would misdirect him by pointing and saying, 'Do we know him?' He was so tired from not eaten for two days that he wasn't even suspicious. Did I feel bad? Yes and no. It sucked that he couldn't eat anything. But somehow, chocolate tastes a lot better when you have to sneak it.

If God would have kept Her mouth shut, Adam and Even wouldn't have paid any attention to the tree of life. They would have stayed completely comfortable in their little nude world of free food and gentle animal life. As for me, chocolate is my every day fruit. And when I think I can't have it, then I Want Some Now! What can I say? I was hangry. I never usually eat chocolate that sweet, either. Too much sugar for me and I end up with a bellyache. But it was there! And how could I say no?


There are vices I've always felt a little judgemental about. Things I couldn't imagine doing with my money or time. But we all fall down, every one of us. Mother Theresa maybe longed to wipe the floor with sisters less efficient at cleaning up the lepers.  And Jesus was a little impatient with people for wanting to start a revolution, and not getting the whole 'Kingdom within,' thing. Even really excellent teachers can get frustrated sometimes. Saviours want to walk away, even when they don't. Some fall in these tiny ways, retaining their saintlike status. Others steal the funds from foreign orphanages, or dial up old people, telling them they won a trip and scamming them out of their hard earned money. Those con artists are going for gold in the Falling Down Olympics. We're shocked when we hear these things. But. To some extent, we all partake. Whew! I feel so much better, now that I've made my confession. I bet you do too. Let's hold hands and sing Kumbaya.

A Word to the Wise

My age has begun to feel like something separate from me. Like it needs its own chair. When I sit quietly and think about it, I feel grateful for this new decade of life. The years past are strewn with things I would handle differently now, given the lens of time and experience. There are words I would rephrase or even refrain from saying. Actions and activities I would skip altogether. Because, the older I get, the wiser I feel. Not like Gandalf or King Solomon, or even my parents. More like a wise person's apprentice. I sense, hopefully, the green shoots of understanding beginning to poke their heads above ground.

Unless I'm around my kids. Then, I often feel like the newest recruit at the office. Or the understudy coffee maker at MacDonald's. The other day, I was driving around with our youngest daughter. Throughout our conversation, she offered a litany of softly voiced suggestions. "Mom, the light is green now, you can go. Hey, mom, you might want to get in the other lane...otherwise it will be hard to turn. No, mom, you have to go past the building, then turn around to enter the parking lot."

The more she talked, the more of a novice I became. "You know, I've been driving a lot longer than you," I said, in the tone parents use when they're feeling defensive. She gave me a semi-compassionate look, which somehow only made it worse. And the thing I kept thinking was, how old do we have to be before our children think we're wise? The answer I came up with was, we have to be dead.

I've always admired my parents, but never more so than after they passed on. The way they did things, the encouragement they gave me. It wasn't always like that, but as they got older, they sure seemed smarter. I wish I would have told them that. I'm sure I was complimentary about many things, but I don't think I ever said, "Mom and Dad, you are so wise. Thank you for the advice."

When my husband and I are alone together, we don't notice that we're reminding each other to turn off the stove or the water sprinkler, to plug in the car when its cold outside. Together, we feel like mature, competent adults. But when we're around young people, ie: our children, we feel, to copy my mother's phrase, like cows staring at a new gate. We become stupider. Or feel stupider. And yet our children are kind people. They're helpful. But somehow, one can't help picking up certain undercurrents. Like they're secretly thinking, 'Dear God, do I have to show them one more time how to get back on Pinterest?'

Being wise probably means accepting help gratefully. Knowing that our children are giving back to us for all the years we cared for them, in the best way they know how. We are each growing in our own way, at our own speed. So I head to the kitchen for another cup of tea and pat my age on the head as I walk by. (It's sitting in the chair next to me.) "Good job," I say. "Keep trying. You're not quite there yet."