January, 2008
all rights reserved
by
Wendy Morrow
The drought was approaching its eighth year. They said that droughts went in seven year cycles.
Everyone was looking forward to the rain.
Each night after the men had come home from the pub, they would stand on their verandahs with their thumbs in their belt loops and look to the west.On the horizon the clouds banks would build up after sunset and every evening the farmers would say, “Looks like rain tomorrow.” In the morning the red dust storms would gather higher in the sky than the day before and still come carrying no rain.
The women had worked all day and had little time for pubs and verandahs and speculation. They had carried water in buckets to the garden; water that had made the tea then boiled the potatoes then washed the dishes then washed the clothes then washed the floors and bent their backs. They poured it over the soil and watched the thirsty red dust suck up the recycled water and disappear before the garden seeds could come to life.
They all looked towards the horizon. They cupped their hands on their browned and furrowed foreheads shading their gaze from the relentless sun.
“Just a day’s rain is all it would take,” they say, just enough to get things started. ”
“That would never be enough.” the old ones said. “You need a good two weeks to soak the soil”.
The people’s lined and wrinkled faces were cracked by the heat and the arid wind. The grit had found its way into their hair and their noses and they spat the dry red soil out of their mouths when they spoke.
The men drove the trucks filled with hay to the waiting livestock at the gate. The bleating sheep argued like members in the house of commons imploring the men to work faster and spread the food. The farmers wiped the sweat from their foreheads in the crooks of their elbows and counted another loss as the sheep ate up another expensive bale of hay.
The only relief was in the cool draft beer in the pub which was overflowing with men. There were no good tales of green crops and record prices, only jokes of a land as dry as their wit.
“Did you hear the MacKay’s paddock crossed the road today?” they laughed. Whose shout was it now? And the golden lager would go another round slaking the thirst for company.
The red dust banks rose high on the horizon and the washing on the line blew wet and waiting. The women washed their faces and put on their hats and their white gloves and drove to town to the country women's tea.
They shared their cakes and gossip and the sweet sound of other women’s laughter. They told stories of children, husbands and homes. Their voices rose like the chatter of cockatoos and then suddenly like birds in a flock they were gone. Rushing home to get the wash off the lines before the red winds blew everything to pink.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
The Handy Man Book
Dad was brought up in the first quarter of the 20th century in a small town in the outback of Australia. Born into a family of seven children, my father was raised by two loving parents. My grandfather, worked as a plasterer to support his large family and the local bookie.
My grandmother was the daughter of a woolen mill manager who had educated his daughter to a level of gentry not commonly found in those parts of the country. She was a full head taller than her husband, what drew them together must only have been my grandfather’s wry sense of humour. My grandmother was an avid reader and would spend what few hours she could garner to herself sitting by her woodstove lost in a novel with a good strong cup of tea in her china cup and saucer at her side. As parents they had a relaxed and amused attitude to child rearing as each of their children grew up with a highly developed sense of humour and a creative bent.
My father spent most of his youth swimming in the local pool and supplying his siblings and friends with sling shots. He found a source of elastic that made his weapons famous and the choice of ammunition was what was immediately at hand. Rocks and pebbles were favoured but one day when the local nob drove by in his brand new open roadster, Dad took the chunk of roast beef from his lunch sandwich, loaded it into the business end of the sling shot and nailed the toff on the side of his head. That was the day he learned to run. Track and field became almost as important as swimming until he discovered field hockey. He went on to play in the interstate championships for NSW.
No one ever told my dad that something couldn't be done, and failure never crossed his mind. He was certain that with enough will, glue, string and strength that he couldn't fail.
He brought that attitude to Canada and a few years after the war he and my mother moved to Calgary to live. Dad decided to build our first house and since his job at the hardware store offered him discounts on supplies, he thought that only the excavation and heavy lifting would need to be hired. I was only one year old when we arrived and we stayed with my mother’s parents who lived 13 blocks up hill from the building site.
We didn’t have a car in those days and everything we used to build the house, except the large pieces of lumber that were delivered, was brought home on the bus every night after work. Huge bags of cement, packages of nails, rolls of linoleum, bundles of shingles, the kitchen sink. Everything was carried home on the bus, one load at a time. My mother and I would meet Dad at the bus stop and load up the baby carriage. Then, with me buried in the middle of the load they would walk those 13 blocks and work until it was too dark to see.
Gradually the house took shape and one day it was finished enough for us to move into. Mind you, it was missing a few things like doors and some plumbing fixtures, but those would come over time until it was completed.
A lot of the special features of the home were created by my dad and my mother’s father, a very handy one armed WW1 veteran. They had both discovered the Popular Mechanics magazine. This magazine was the precursor to home improvement DIY television shows and way back then inspired the insatiable desire for homeowners to do things by themselves. This magazine promised life to projects that most often were beyond homeowner talents.
After the tremendous accomplishment of building a house almost by themselves except thank God, for the help of electricians, plumbers, excavators, roofers and inspectors, my parents took that heady success and began to apply it to other projects.
The first one was for me.
The newest 1955 edition of Popular Mechanics magazine had a domestic project for making papier mache and directions on how to create Halloween costumes made of this stuff. My parents went right to the largest project. A huge elephant head. Complete with curved trunk and massive ears.
They began with chicken wire formed into the basic shape of an elephant head and wrapped numerous layers of newspaper soaked in flour glue over the form until it resembled an elephant with gigantic painted cartoon eyes. Two holes for me to breathe through were cleverly disguised under the elephant’s trunk. The eye slits were not much further above the nose holes and hidden in a fold of elephant skin.
My mother sewed a clown costume to wear over my snow suit that tucked under the elephant head. Dumbo was nearly ready by the time Halloween rolled around. It had been artfully painted grey with charcoaled shadows and eyelashes. The many layers of paint had slowed the drying process somewhat but not enough to prevent me from putting the thing on and trotting off to my grade two classroom on Halloween morning. I ran proudly down the street for the first block, but the thing was beginning to get a bit heavy by the second block. The early winter wind and swirling ice crystal snow was creating a vapour lock inside the warm and somewhat heavier and soggy giant head. By the time I rounded the corner and spied the school another full block away I had to hold the thing up with both hands. With each step the head would shift and I had lost the eye slits to guide my way. I fell several times tearing the knee in the clown costume that fitted over my snow suit.
I struggled to open the heavy school doors because the head would not allow me to get close enough to get a good grip on the door handle. Perspiration was running down my face inside the close chamber causing an itch that I was desperate to scratch. The smell of paint and vapour from my breath made seeing difficult and negotiating through the halls nearly impossible.
Finally I arrived at the classroom door feeling dizzy and slightly sick and clunking my long nose and ears on the door frame I felt my way to the cloakroom. I desperately needed to go to the bathroom.
The one thing I know and remember about grade Two is: rules are meant to be followed no matter what. The rules of the class were; boots off and placed on the shelf and coats hung up on our assigned hooks with mittens on a string on top of that before you could enter the classroom. I couldn’t even manage the mittens. When I pulled them over my head the string became caught up on the ears and I could only see saw my arms from side to side. No one would hear my muffled calls for help. How to bend over and take off my boots without passing out or tipping over from the weight of the now damp and slick head became a matter of urgency. The paint fumes mixing with the steam of drying woolen mittens and rubber boots were making me even more nauseous and I was getting that pre-vomit saliva in the mouth feeling. I started to cry, the tears were mixing with the sodden newspaper mache and my nose was running. I couldn’t blow it. I kept hitting my head on the cloak room walls, everywhere I turned I knocked my nose and hit my ears.
I had set off for school wanting everyone in the classroom to admire my wonderful costume, but now I just wanted to be rid of the miserable thing, I wanted to just throw it in the garbage and pretend I was just a clown.
Finally, my teacher came back to the cloak room and rescued me. I was soon free of the snow suit. She helped me put my clown costume back over my clothes, lifted up my head and let me blow my nose. She told me how wonderful I looked and how creative my parents were. She said they must be professional artists and this was the best Halloween costume she had ever seen.
I felt so much better after that and when the principal announced that there would be an assembly in the auditorium and a prize presented to the best Halloween costume I nearly floated to the gymnasium. I marched up onto the stage with the rest of my class feeling sorry for them with their dime store costumes. They looked like pathetic losers.
It was a slam dunk. I won. I knew I would. I was so proud to be an elephant. Not that I was aware all the time that I was an elephant. Most of the time I was a large, smelly, dark, damp and heavy mass of wet newspaper and flour glue and only occasionally reminded that I was an elephant when people came up to congratulate me.
The bell rang and we gathered in the cloak room to put on our snow suits to go home for lunch. The room was nearly empty by the time I struggled into my snow suit and boots, putting them on seemed a lot easier that taking them off. I was giddy with the success of my win and I was eager to get home to tell my mother.
I was accosted at the chain link gate at the edge of the school yard by two boys in my class who hadn’t bothered to dress up for the school Halloween party. They were the Matchitt boys, they didn’t even wear jackets to school and they put Brill cream in their hair. They were tough. So tough in fact, that when their house burned down, I was sure it was because they were playing with matches and set it alight on purpose.
They teased me at the gate, they pulled on my nose and pushed me from side to side. They knocked and pounded on my head creating echos like hammers on my skull. They pushed me over and laughed like hyenahs when I fell to the ground, my head spun around backwards, snow clogging my nose and eye holes and scratching my face inside my chicken wire cage. Finally, I kicked myself loose and turning towards freedom I whacked my nose on a post and pushed it so far to one side that the papier mache cracked right down to the chicken wire. The gush of cold air pouring in gave me enough oxygen to get home.
The tears were freezing on my cheeks when I staggered up the back steps and through the doorway to the kitchen. I sobbed my story to my mother in gasps. I was sick with worry that my parents would be angry with me for ruining their beautiful sculpted masterpiece. My mother removed the head and wiped the blood and tears from my cheeks. She told me how proud they were of me because without a real actress to wear the papier mache head it was only that, a papier mache head. She said I won because I wore it like a true elephant.
The next year I was Mickey Mouse, and I wore my Mickey head like a true mouse and I won again that year as well. The record still stands. I don’t think anyone has ever won two years in a row since then, unless their parents subscribed to Popular Mechanics.
The second major project my parents tackled was the car top tent. This was a contraption drawn up by the inventors at Popular Mechanics and designed to fit on top of the family sedan. The tent was held up by aluminum rods and easily erected by two people. Roomy inside, it could generously sleep four. The weight of the box would be braced up by 4 corner telescoping poles so that the car roof wouldn’t dent. The tent could then be folded up, bedding and all, covered by a tightly tucked canvas tarp and driven off to the next camping site. No need for ground sheets or tent pegs. No fear of animals crawling into the tent, up off the ground and safe as houses…or so the theory went.
My grandmother had given my mother her old treadle sewing machine when she and my grandfather retired to White Rock, British Columbia and everything we wore after that was sewn on the treadle machine. My mother made our play clothes and dresses and quilts, she stitched my father’s shirts, all of our sheets and pillow cases and when my father came to her with the plan to build the car top tent she willingly agreed to sew the tarpaulin tent that attached to the box.
Dad cut the wood and dovetailed the joints and fitted the aluminium frame to the box, he painted it exactly the same deep royal blue colour as our 1949 Chrysler sedan. My mother spent endless nights painstakingly stitching the difficult material until her fingers bled. She overstitched every seam being careful not to break the waterproof barrier.
Together my mother and I held the canvass tent tight to the inside of the box as Dad nailed the tent in place. At last it was ready just before the May long weekend. We always went away on the 24th of May weekend, the Queen’s birthday, or as it was known then as Victoria Day. This year we would be camping in our snug little tent.
My little sister and I had waited all day for Dad to come home from work, and by the time he did, there was only enough time to eat dinner, pack the car and hoist the car top tent box onto the Chrysler’s roof. We clamped it down tight and off we went.
Cautiously at first but Dad gained confidence driving the contraption as we went along. It was dark by the time we got to the edge of town, but we were only going to Banff which was about and hour and half away, once we found a campsite and settled in there would still be time to have a campfire sing a few camp songs and roast marshmallows.
Tunnel Mountain campground was full when we got there. It was pitch black in the mountains, there was no moon that night and the tall spruce trees soon enveloped our car. We drove around a little bit until Dad said that since this was a car top tent we were going to sleep in that it didn’t matter if we were in a camp ground or not. He pulled off to the side of the road to a place where the ground was level and we could build a camp fire. We set up our little tent house lifting the tent box up off the car roof and tightening the wing nuts on the telescoping poles. We lit the campfire and Dad recited his favourite poems, we roasted wieners and marshmallows and then one by one stumbling over stones and logs we snuck off to the bushes and returned with toothpaste smears on our pajamas. Mum tucked some hot rocks wrapped in newspaper into the corners of the tent box and we all crawled in for the night.
We woke in the morning to the sound of trucks whooshing by. In the dark, Dad had pulled off the highway onto a tiny triangular patch of grass where two busy highways intersected. When we peeked out of the door flap we found ourselves in a foot of snow, completely surrounded by traffic. Our little tent home was so cozy that we hadn’t noticed the blizzard that had blown in during the night. Dad slid down the side of the car. Still in his pajamas he crawled into the driver’s seat. Slowly and ever so carefully he drove down the highway. After several miles he finally found a safe place to pull off the highway. He edged the car onto a nice flat spot and got out. Looking up, he was horrified to discover that there was nothing on top of the car. No tent, no box, nothing. We were gone. We had vanished! He turned the car around and sped back frantically searching in the ditches along the way. He found us back at the intersection where we had spent the night, we hadn't moved. The telescoping poles that held us up so safely the night before still perched us up off the ground. In the morning Dad had driven out from under the car top tent, forgetting about the bracing poles. What an amusing sight it must have been for the people driving through that intersection that morning to see us there, our little faces peeking out of the door flap way up off the ground, in our little snow covered tent box screaming for Dad to come back.
My grandmother was the daughter of a woolen mill manager who had educated his daughter to a level of gentry not commonly found in those parts of the country. She was a full head taller than her husband, what drew them together must only have been my grandfather’s wry sense of humour. My grandmother was an avid reader and would spend what few hours she could garner to herself sitting by her woodstove lost in a novel with a good strong cup of tea in her china cup and saucer at her side. As parents they had a relaxed and amused attitude to child rearing as each of their children grew up with a highly developed sense of humour and a creative bent.
My father spent most of his youth swimming in the local pool and supplying his siblings and friends with sling shots. He found a source of elastic that made his weapons famous and the choice of ammunition was what was immediately at hand. Rocks and pebbles were favoured but one day when the local nob drove by in his brand new open roadster, Dad took the chunk of roast beef from his lunch sandwich, loaded it into the business end of the sling shot and nailed the toff on the side of his head. That was the day he learned to run. Track and field became almost as important as swimming until he discovered field hockey. He went on to play in the interstate championships for NSW.
No one ever told my dad that something couldn't be done, and failure never crossed his mind. He was certain that with enough will, glue, string and strength that he couldn't fail.
He brought that attitude to Canada and a few years after the war he and my mother moved to Calgary to live. Dad decided to build our first house and since his job at the hardware store offered him discounts on supplies, he thought that only the excavation and heavy lifting would need to be hired. I was only one year old when we arrived and we stayed with my mother’s parents who lived 13 blocks up hill from the building site.
We didn’t have a car in those days and everything we used to build the house, except the large pieces of lumber that were delivered, was brought home on the bus every night after work. Huge bags of cement, packages of nails, rolls of linoleum, bundles of shingles, the kitchen sink. Everything was carried home on the bus, one load at a time. My mother and I would meet Dad at the bus stop and load up the baby carriage. Then, with me buried in the middle of the load they would walk those 13 blocks and work until it was too dark to see.
Gradually the house took shape and one day it was finished enough for us to move into. Mind you, it was missing a few things like doors and some plumbing fixtures, but those would come over time until it was completed.
A lot of the special features of the home were created by my dad and my mother’s father, a very handy one armed WW1 veteran. They had both discovered the Popular Mechanics magazine. This magazine was the precursor to home improvement DIY television shows and way back then inspired the insatiable desire for homeowners to do things by themselves. This magazine promised life to projects that most often were beyond homeowner talents.
After the tremendous accomplishment of building a house almost by themselves except thank God, for the help of electricians, plumbers, excavators, roofers and inspectors, my parents took that heady success and began to apply it to other projects.
The first one was for me.
The newest 1955 edition of Popular Mechanics magazine had a domestic project for making papier mache and directions on how to create Halloween costumes made of this stuff. My parents went right to the largest project. A huge elephant head. Complete with curved trunk and massive ears.
They began with chicken wire formed into the basic shape of an elephant head and wrapped numerous layers of newspaper soaked in flour glue over the form until it resembled an elephant with gigantic painted cartoon eyes. Two holes for me to breathe through were cleverly disguised under the elephant’s trunk. The eye slits were not much further above the nose holes and hidden in a fold of elephant skin.
My mother sewed a clown costume to wear over my snow suit that tucked under the elephant head. Dumbo was nearly ready by the time Halloween rolled around. It had been artfully painted grey with charcoaled shadows and eyelashes. The many layers of paint had slowed the drying process somewhat but not enough to prevent me from putting the thing on and trotting off to my grade two classroom on Halloween morning. I ran proudly down the street for the first block, but the thing was beginning to get a bit heavy by the second block. The early winter wind and swirling ice crystal snow was creating a vapour lock inside the warm and somewhat heavier and soggy giant head. By the time I rounded the corner and spied the school another full block away I had to hold the thing up with both hands. With each step the head would shift and I had lost the eye slits to guide my way. I fell several times tearing the knee in the clown costume that fitted over my snow suit.
I struggled to open the heavy school doors because the head would not allow me to get close enough to get a good grip on the door handle. Perspiration was running down my face inside the close chamber causing an itch that I was desperate to scratch. The smell of paint and vapour from my breath made seeing difficult and negotiating through the halls nearly impossible.
Finally I arrived at the classroom door feeling dizzy and slightly sick and clunking my long nose and ears on the door frame I felt my way to the cloakroom. I desperately needed to go to the bathroom.
The one thing I know and remember about grade Two is: rules are meant to be followed no matter what. The rules of the class were; boots off and placed on the shelf and coats hung up on our assigned hooks with mittens on a string on top of that before you could enter the classroom. I couldn’t even manage the mittens. When I pulled them over my head the string became caught up on the ears and I could only see saw my arms from side to side. No one would hear my muffled calls for help. How to bend over and take off my boots without passing out or tipping over from the weight of the now damp and slick head became a matter of urgency. The paint fumes mixing with the steam of drying woolen mittens and rubber boots were making me even more nauseous and I was getting that pre-vomit saliva in the mouth feeling. I started to cry, the tears were mixing with the sodden newspaper mache and my nose was running. I couldn’t blow it. I kept hitting my head on the cloak room walls, everywhere I turned I knocked my nose and hit my ears.
I had set off for school wanting everyone in the classroom to admire my wonderful costume, but now I just wanted to be rid of the miserable thing, I wanted to just throw it in the garbage and pretend I was just a clown.
Finally, my teacher came back to the cloak room and rescued me. I was soon free of the snow suit. She helped me put my clown costume back over my clothes, lifted up my head and let me blow my nose. She told me how wonderful I looked and how creative my parents were. She said they must be professional artists and this was the best Halloween costume she had ever seen.
I felt so much better after that and when the principal announced that there would be an assembly in the auditorium and a prize presented to the best Halloween costume I nearly floated to the gymnasium. I marched up onto the stage with the rest of my class feeling sorry for them with their dime store costumes. They looked like pathetic losers.
It was a slam dunk. I won. I knew I would. I was so proud to be an elephant. Not that I was aware all the time that I was an elephant. Most of the time I was a large, smelly, dark, damp and heavy mass of wet newspaper and flour glue and only occasionally reminded that I was an elephant when people came up to congratulate me.
The bell rang and we gathered in the cloak room to put on our snow suits to go home for lunch. The room was nearly empty by the time I struggled into my snow suit and boots, putting them on seemed a lot easier that taking them off. I was giddy with the success of my win and I was eager to get home to tell my mother.
I was accosted at the chain link gate at the edge of the school yard by two boys in my class who hadn’t bothered to dress up for the school Halloween party. They were the Matchitt boys, they didn’t even wear jackets to school and they put Brill cream in their hair. They were tough. So tough in fact, that when their house burned down, I was sure it was because they were playing with matches and set it alight on purpose.
They teased me at the gate, they pulled on my nose and pushed me from side to side. They knocked and pounded on my head creating echos like hammers on my skull. They pushed me over and laughed like hyenahs when I fell to the ground, my head spun around backwards, snow clogging my nose and eye holes and scratching my face inside my chicken wire cage. Finally, I kicked myself loose and turning towards freedom I whacked my nose on a post and pushed it so far to one side that the papier mache cracked right down to the chicken wire. The gush of cold air pouring in gave me enough oxygen to get home.
The tears were freezing on my cheeks when I staggered up the back steps and through the doorway to the kitchen. I sobbed my story to my mother in gasps. I was sick with worry that my parents would be angry with me for ruining their beautiful sculpted masterpiece. My mother removed the head and wiped the blood and tears from my cheeks. She told me how proud they were of me because without a real actress to wear the papier mache head it was only that, a papier mache head. She said I won because I wore it like a true elephant.
The next year I was Mickey Mouse, and I wore my Mickey head like a true mouse and I won again that year as well. The record still stands. I don’t think anyone has ever won two years in a row since then, unless their parents subscribed to Popular Mechanics.
The second major project my parents tackled was the car top tent. This was a contraption drawn up by the inventors at Popular Mechanics and designed to fit on top of the family sedan. The tent was held up by aluminum rods and easily erected by two people. Roomy inside, it could generously sleep four. The weight of the box would be braced up by 4 corner telescoping poles so that the car roof wouldn’t dent. The tent could then be folded up, bedding and all, covered by a tightly tucked canvas tarp and driven off to the next camping site. No need for ground sheets or tent pegs. No fear of animals crawling into the tent, up off the ground and safe as houses…or so the theory went.
My grandmother had given my mother her old treadle sewing machine when she and my grandfather retired to White Rock, British Columbia and everything we wore after that was sewn on the treadle machine. My mother made our play clothes and dresses and quilts, she stitched my father’s shirts, all of our sheets and pillow cases and when my father came to her with the plan to build the car top tent she willingly agreed to sew the tarpaulin tent that attached to the box.
Dad cut the wood and dovetailed the joints and fitted the aluminium frame to the box, he painted it exactly the same deep royal blue colour as our 1949 Chrysler sedan. My mother spent endless nights painstakingly stitching the difficult material until her fingers bled. She overstitched every seam being careful not to break the waterproof barrier.
Together my mother and I held the canvass tent tight to the inside of the box as Dad nailed the tent in place. At last it was ready just before the May long weekend. We always went away on the 24th of May weekend, the Queen’s birthday, or as it was known then as Victoria Day. This year we would be camping in our snug little tent.
My little sister and I had waited all day for Dad to come home from work, and by the time he did, there was only enough time to eat dinner, pack the car and hoist the car top tent box onto the Chrysler’s roof. We clamped it down tight and off we went.
Cautiously at first but Dad gained confidence driving the contraption as we went along. It was dark by the time we got to the edge of town, but we were only going to Banff which was about and hour and half away, once we found a campsite and settled in there would still be time to have a campfire sing a few camp songs and roast marshmallows.
Tunnel Mountain campground was full when we got there. It was pitch black in the mountains, there was no moon that night and the tall spruce trees soon enveloped our car. We drove around a little bit until Dad said that since this was a car top tent we were going to sleep in that it didn’t matter if we were in a camp ground or not. He pulled off to the side of the road to a place where the ground was level and we could build a camp fire. We set up our little tent house lifting the tent box up off the car roof and tightening the wing nuts on the telescoping poles. We lit the campfire and Dad recited his favourite poems, we roasted wieners and marshmallows and then one by one stumbling over stones and logs we snuck off to the bushes and returned with toothpaste smears on our pajamas. Mum tucked some hot rocks wrapped in newspaper into the corners of the tent box and we all crawled in for the night.
We woke in the morning to the sound of trucks whooshing by. In the dark, Dad had pulled off the highway onto a tiny triangular patch of grass where two busy highways intersected. When we peeked out of the door flap we found ourselves in a foot of snow, completely surrounded by traffic. Our little tent home was so cozy that we hadn’t noticed the blizzard that had blown in during the night. Dad slid down the side of the car. Still in his pajamas he crawled into the driver’s seat. Slowly and ever so carefully he drove down the highway. After several miles he finally found a safe place to pull off the highway. He edged the car onto a nice flat spot and got out. Looking up, he was horrified to discover that there was nothing on top of the car. No tent, no box, nothing. We were gone. We had vanished! He turned the car around and sped back frantically searching in the ditches along the way. He found us back at the intersection where we had spent the night, we hadn't moved. The telescoping poles that held us up so safely the night before still perched us up off the ground. In the morning Dad had driven out from under the car top tent, forgetting about the bracing poles. What an amusing sight it must have been for the people driving through that intersection that morning to see us there, our little faces peeking out of the door flap way up off the ground, in our little snow covered tent box screaming for Dad to come back.
Friday, November 2, 2007
A Developing Story
The HELP WANTED sign was still in the window of the pet shop when Alyson got off the bus on the last day of grade nine. The prospect of a long, hot and lazy summer lay before her. She and her friends had plans that summer for shopping, going to movies, hanging out and drinking Cokes in the food court at the mall and spending hot days on the beach at the lake. They knew they would need more money for these activities than their measly allowances could provide so the necessity for summer jobs had arisen.
The bell tinkled overhead when Alyson opened the door of the pet shop, and stepped into the smell of hamster shavings and the piercing scream of parrots. A man stood behind the counter filling sandwich baggies with fish food flakes.
“May I see the manager?” Alyson inquired.
“That’s me, owner, manager, janitor, and bag boy.” He said, holding the bag of flakes up to the light. “What can I do for you? Are you here for the job?” He asked without looking at her. “Leave your phone number on this piece of paper and I will get back to you.” He slid a pen and a piece of paper across the counter and continued to fill the bags.
It took Alyson five minutes to run the 10 blocks to her home. She burst through the front door and announced to her father and her little brothers that NO ONE but her would answer the phone. She would do the answering if it rang. An agony of hours went by. Finally at 6 o’clock the pet store owner finally called. He said that he would like to give her a trial period starting tomorrow, if she was at the store by noon he would see if they could work together.
Right after supper Alyson met her friends at the bus stop. Giddy with excitement and chattering like monkeys, they descended upon the mall to spend what remained of their allowances on career essentials. They bought eyeliner, lip liner, tweezers and body cream. They bought chain belts earrings, chewing gum and dark green nail polish.
That night Alyson could hardly sleep for the excitement of beginning her new career as pet shop assistant, fashionably dressed and looking very attractive leaning behind the counter, loved by all the animals and admired by all the customers. This was the beginning of wealth and fame.
When Alyson opened her eyes in the morning the alarm clock read 9:00 AM. She flew out of bed. Three hours to get ready, she would barely make it.
Her annoying little brothers pounded on the bathroom door as Alyson floated in her steamy tub, shaving one leg and then the other. She rubbed her skin with exfoliation grit until she nearly bled. She plucked her eyebrows in the foggy mirror and covered herself all over with moisturizing cream. She blew her damp and curly red hair as straight as it would go. Opening the door she stepped out in a cloud of perfumed steam and catwalked into her room to dress for work. She was almost late by the time she had chosen her outfit and caught the bus.
“We will start you off dusting all the shelves and helping the customers”. Her new boss said. Alyson worked diligently, she dusted everything within reach, waxing and polishing the fish tanks and rearranging the cat and dog collars. She noticed that her lovely green nails were beginning to chip on the edges.
Occasionally the bell would ring and a customer would come in. Each time that a shopper would ask her for assistance their eyes would open wide and a smile would creep across their faces. Even a dour old lady looking for a bone for her pug began to chuckle when Alyson was able to show her where the best quality treats were kept.
Late in the afternoon the bell rang and a couple came in asking for help with choosing a pet for their son. The looked at one another and giggled softly. They told her that their son was having his 5th birthday party tonight and they were looking for a very special pet that would never leave his side. “What,” they smiled, “would Alyson suggest they buy?” Alyson’s favourite movie was Finding Nemo and that very afternoon she had seen a clown fish in a tank all by himself at the back of the store. She knew this could be the very special pet.
The work day finally ended and the store owner, without looking up from his account book said that he would call her later about maybe coming back to work tomorrow.
When Alyson skipped in the door she was puzzled when her family howled with laughter, her horrid little brothers covered their mouths and bent over and held their stomachs as they rolled on the floor, pointing at Alyson.
“Come into the bathroom dear” said her mother, grabbing half a lemon on the way. She closed the door and said. “Look in the mirror honey.” Alyson gasped in horror. There she was in the reflection, her face and neck as orange as a pumpkin, with deep brown lines around her eyes, ears and her nostrils as if she had been breathing in coal dust. Her eyebrows were the colour of carrots. Yesterday she bought self tanning lotion by mistake and had liberally lathered herself with the stuff in the morning. All day at work she had developed like a photograph, becoming this orange apparition.
“I will die, I will never go out again”. She moaned as her mother rubbed the lemon on her stinging exfoliated face.
The phone rang. “I am not home, tell them I died.” She wailed.
A few moments later there was a knock on the bathroom door. Her father was on the other side. “Allie, its your boss. He wants you to come in to work at 9:00 am tomorrow. Apparently a couple called him after the store closed and said you had been very helpful, their handicapped son was really happy with his birthday present. You see, he is confined to a wheelchair and his favourite movie is Finding Nemo and he said getting that special clown fish was the best thing that had ever happened to him.”
The bell tinkled overhead when Alyson opened the door of the pet shop, and stepped into the smell of hamster shavings and the piercing scream of parrots. A man stood behind the counter filling sandwich baggies with fish food flakes.
“May I see the manager?” Alyson inquired.
“That’s me, owner, manager, janitor, and bag boy.” He said, holding the bag of flakes up to the light. “What can I do for you? Are you here for the job?” He asked without looking at her. “Leave your phone number on this piece of paper and I will get back to you.” He slid a pen and a piece of paper across the counter and continued to fill the bags.
It took Alyson five minutes to run the 10 blocks to her home. She burst through the front door and announced to her father and her little brothers that NO ONE but her would answer the phone. She would do the answering if it rang. An agony of hours went by. Finally at 6 o’clock the pet store owner finally called. He said that he would like to give her a trial period starting tomorrow, if she was at the store by noon he would see if they could work together.
Right after supper Alyson met her friends at the bus stop. Giddy with excitement and chattering like monkeys, they descended upon the mall to spend what remained of their allowances on career essentials. They bought eyeliner, lip liner, tweezers and body cream. They bought chain belts earrings, chewing gum and dark green nail polish.
That night Alyson could hardly sleep for the excitement of beginning her new career as pet shop assistant, fashionably dressed and looking very attractive leaning behind the counter, loved by all the animals and admired by all the customers. This was the beginning of wealth and fame.
When Alyson opened her eyes in the morning the alarm clock read 9:00 AM. She flew out of bed. Three hours to get ready, she would barely make it.
Her annoying little brothers pounded on the bathroom door as Alyson floated in her steamy tub, shaving one leg and then the other. She rubbed her skin with exfoliation grit until she nearly bled. She plucked her eyebrows in the foggy mirror and covered herself all over with moisturizing cream. She blew her damp and curly red hair as straight as it would go. Opening the door she stepped out in a cloud of perfumed steam and catwalked into her room to dress for work. She was almost late by the time she had chosen her outfit and caught the bus.
“We will start you off dusting all the shelves and helping the customers”. Her new boss said. Alyson worked diligently, she dusted everything within reach, waxing and polishing the fish tanks and rearranging the cat and dog collars. She noticed that her lovely green nails were beginning to chip on the edges.
Occasionally the bell would ring and a customer would come in. Each time that a shopper would ask her for assistance their eyes would open wide and a smile would creep across their faces. Even a dour old lady looking for a bone for her pug began to chuckle when Alyson was able to show her where the best quality treats were kept.
Late in the afternoon the bell rang and a couple came in asking for help with choosing a pet for their son. The looked at one another and giggled softly. They told her that their son was having his 5th birthday party tonight and they were looking for a very special pet that would never leave his side. “What,” they smiled, “would Alyson suggest they buy?” Alyson’s favourite movie was Finding Nemo and that very afternoon she had seen a clown fish in a tank all by himself at the back of the store. She knew this could be the very special pet.
The work day finally ended and the store owner, without looking up from his account book said that he would call her later about maybe coming back to work tomorrow.
When Alyson skipped in the door she was puzzled when her family howled with laughter, her horrid little brothers covered their mouths and bent over and held their stomachs as they rolled on the floor, pointing at Alyson.
“Come into the bathroom dear” said her mother, grabbing half a lemon on the way. She closed the door and said. “Look in the mirror honey.” Alyson gasped in horror. There she was in the reflection, her face and neck as orange as a pumpkin, with deep brown lines around her eyes, ears and her nostrils as if she had been breathing in coal dust. Her eyebrows were the colour of carrots. Yesterday she bought self tanning lotion by mistake and had liberally lathered herself with the stuff in the morning. All day at work she had developed like a photograph, becoming this orange apparition.
“I will die, I will never go out again”. She moaned as her mother rubbed the lemon on her stinging exfoliated face.
The phone rang. “I am not home, tell them I died.” She wailed.
A few moments later there was a knock on the bathroom door. Her father was on the other side. “Allie, its your boss. He wants you to come in to work at 9:00 am tomorrow. Apparently a couple called him after the store closed and said you had been very helpful, their handicapped son was really happy with his birthday present. You see, he is confined to a wheelchair and his favourite movie is Finding Nemo and he said getting that special clown fish was the best thing that had ever happened to him.”
Friday, October 12, 2007
Golfing
We golfed today. We have lived in this golf community for over 10 years, 6 months of which we have lived in a house that is actually backing onto the course. We decided that today is the day. October 12th, 13 degrees, no wind. About half of the leaves are still on the trees. The colours are vibrant from oranges and irridescent reds to lime green and yellow. The air seems so fresh. People are out in their back yards digging in bulbs and pulling out weeds.
On the 8th tee box we have shed our jackets and are beginning to get red faces from the sun. Bryan raises his club to knock one straight out about 150 yards. Or so he thinks he would like to. At the top of his back swing a young German shepherd rushes his fence about 50 feet from the tee box and barks a furocious woof. He looks at us with a grin on his face. Bryan's ball goes zig zagging into the rough I place my tee in the ground and balance my ball on top. The dog is running back and forth along the length of his fence. At the top of my back swing he barks. I turned and looked at him with his big grin. He knows what he is doing.
On the 8th tee box we have shed our jackets and are beginning to get red faces from the sun. Bryan raises his club to knock one straight out about 150 yards. Or so he thinks he would like to. At the top of his back swing a young German shepherd rushes his fence about 50 feet from the tee box and barks a furocious woof. He looks at us with a grin on his face. Bryan's ball goes zig zagging into the rough I place my tee in the ground and balance my ball on top. The dog is running back and forth along the length of his fence. At the top of my back swing he barks. I turned and looked at him with his big grin. He knows what he is doing.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Special parking stalls
Sometime this summer I tore my achilles tendon, maybe when we moved and I was carrying heavy boxes, or when I was walking on a rocky beach or climbing uneven trails, I turned my ankle. I thought at the time that since it didn't swell that I had dodged a bullet and that all would soon be right again. Almost at the same time or within a week of the ankle event, I reached out and grabbed my dog's collar as she made moves to chase a kitten. This action tore my rotator cuff and sent me into orbit with pain.
I thought my doctor would be useless, pooh poohing by injuries and would send me for x-rays and refer me to a pysiotherapist. Having gone this route before I knew the wait would be agony and the results slow to kick in. I decided that alternative medicine would be the route for me. Quick results and effective treatment.
I made an appointment with a chiropractor for ART and a massage therapist to work out the knots. They quickly diagnosed my injuries and began a series of treatments at the end of which they assured me I would be right as rain.
When I stumbled out the door of the clinic after my first appointment, covered in bruises and nearly blind from the blue heat flame of pain from the active release therapy, I wished I had done my grocery shopping before the appointment. I considered going home and making a voodoo doll resembling the therapist and all her ilk and spending the afternoon sticking pins in her. However we did need gorceries.
I swung into the Safeway parking lot and discovered that it was nearly empty closest to the doors but every stall was jam packed full in the far distance. Oh I thought 'Good I don't have to walk far' The first spots were for handicapped, of course no one was in those. Those stalls are always empty.
I cruised on a little further.
Next to the handicapped stalls were the pregnant shopper's stalls. Cute little baby buggies on peach coloured signs indicating that if you are pregnant you can park here. If you aren't then woe betide you. I wondered how pregnant you would have to be. If you were for instance only 2 months pregnant would the pregnancy police come out and chastise you for parking there because you didn't have the prerequisite belly and do an on the spot test on you?
I kept moving.
Then came the family stalls. Soft green coloured signs with several little stick people of graduating heights indicating that if you practiced family planning you were not welcome to park there. If you had maybe one child that would be counted against you and off to the far reached of parking lot siberia for you. I watched a green mustang pull into one of those stalls and unload a woman driver and two sullen teenagers.
Now, I wondered why don't they paint sign for stalls for those with sore ankles and shoulders but not in need of a wheel chair or a stroller?
Or stalls for people in a real hurry like those with full bladders, or shoppers who are colour blind, or worse yet depressed? What would those signs look like I wondered. What is the universal sign for depression? Grey?
Empty stalls could just be made out by the naked eye on the horizon but I thought as soon as I get there some elderly yet able bodied war vet would claim it before me.
What happened to the days when people could just walk a few extra steps? Since when can little children in strollers not be pushed another 50 feet?
And we wonder why north americans are fat!!
I thought my doctor would be useless, pooh poohing by injuries and would send me for x-rays and refer me to a pysiotherapist. Having gone this route before I knew the wait would be agony and the results slow to kick in. I decided that alternative medicine would be the route for me. Quick results and effective treatment.
I made an appointment with a chiropractor for ART and a massage therapist to work out the knots. They quickly diagnosed my injuries and began a series of treatments at the end of which they assured me I would be right as rain.
When I stumbled out the door of the clinic after my first appointment, covered in bruises and nearly blind from the blue heat flame of pain from the active release therapy, I wished I had done my grocery shopping before the appointment. I considered going home and making a voodoo doll resembling the therapist and all her ilk and spending the afternoon sticking pins in her. However we did need gorceries.
I swung into the Safeway parking lot and discovered that it was nearly empty closest to the doors but every stall was jam packed full in the far distance. Oh I thought 'Good I don't have to walk far' The first spots were for handicapped, of course no one was in those. Those stalls are always empty.
I cruised on a little further.
Next to the handicapped stalls were the pregnant shopper's stalls. Cute little baby buggies on peach coloured signs indicating that if you are pregnant you can park here. If you aren't then woe betide you. I wondered how pregnant you would have to be. If you were for instance only 2 months pregnant would the pregnancy police come out and chastise you for parking there because you didn't have the prerequisite belly and do an on the spot test on you?
I kept moving.
Then came the family stalls. Soft green coloured signs with several little stick people of graduating heights indicating that if you practiced family planning you were not welcome to park there. If you had maybe one child that would be counted against you and off to the far reached of parking lot siberia for you. I watched a green mustang pull into one of those stalls and unload a woman driver and two sullen teenagers.
Now, I wondered why don't they paint sign for stalls for those with sore ankles and shoulders but not in need of a wheel chair or a stroller?
Or stalls for people in a real hurry like those with full bladders, or shoppers who are colour blind, or worse yet depressed? What would those signs look like I wondered. What is the universal sign for depression? Grey?
Empty stalls could just be made out by the naked eye on the horizon but I thought as soon as I get there some elderly yet able bodied war vet would claim it before me.
What happened to the days when people could just walk a few extra steps? Since when can little children in strollers not be pushed another 50 feet?
And we wonder why north americans are fat!!
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
This is What I think
Well, I have started a blog. I think the first thing I need to do is go back to school and learn sentence structure and punctuation. What was I doing in class when that was taught? Looking out the window? Probably .
And right now I am staring out of a window. I can see a mountain. Not the whole range but a maybe three. There is no snow on the Rockies yet, that will come in September.
Ginger the Blog dog is snoring on my bed. I thought it was too high for her to jump up for her morning snooze. She didn't know I was still on it when she did her amazing jumping display. She has a neat trick. She leaves the bedroom turns around in the hall and then with a sprint into the bedroom and a running jump she lands on the middle of the bed. I think she should go to Bejing for the Olympics.
So, now to learn to blog.
And right now I am staring out of a window. I can see a mountain. Not the whole range but a maybe three. There is no snow on the Rockies yet, that will come in September.
Ginger the Blog dog is snoring on my bed. I thought it was too high for her to jump up for her morning snooze. She didn't know I was still on it when she did her amazing jumping display. She has a neat trick. She leaves the bedroom turns around in the hall and then with a sprint into the bedroom and a running jump she lands on the middle of the bed. I think she should go to Bejing for the Olympics.
So, now to learn to blog.
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