#911

For the second time in 6 days I have needed to make a 911 call. I feel like I have a direct line to the dispatcher.
Tonight, the sweetest elderly couple was out for a beer and a stroll, and on their way home, his knees gave way and he collapsed. In a Brit accent, he apologized profusely for wasting my time, the time of the other two witnesses and the government's money. His wife said she was afraid he would never come home again, 'too frail', so, maybe they should simply 'plant him in their bed'.  They shivered from the temperature and the shock so I called Tom to deliver blankets. Then, cloaked in 2 afghans, they waited their fate. Hoisted onto a stretcher, his little wife 3 steps behind, they were moved into a warm ambulance.
A huge thank you to the 2  ambulance attenders who kindly and most respectfully assisted these elderly folk.

Read. Reset.

I have clicked a life reset button here and there, and haven't we all.

 One little slip and the marbles get jiggled in the jar.
 One book on the shelf in the wrong order.
 An emergency of some sort or another and all the dominoes tumble in mad chaos.
The birth of a baby, and nothing is ever, ever the same.
A baby not born.
 A death = disorientation = the inability to use or find the reset key. Stuttering demanding digits making futile attempts.
 Joy so immense,  we want it duplicated and pulled from the file as needed. PRN.
Recalibrating an imbalance.

 Holy moments.

Delete

I had a gut reaction from an app that flashed on the screen as I was scrolling around in cyber space, it advertized thus: "you have 2 friends who have deleted you on facebook, find out who". Curious? Of course. Did I apply for the app? No way. What kind of a world do we live in where friends are deleted with the click of a button.

  Well, here's to doing friends the old fashioned way! Sharing a homemade bowl of soup and a slice of bread/ butter around your table. Laughing till your sides hurt, or laughing untill you realize you are crying.

Telling stories, oh, there are so many stories.

Getting a hug as a hostess gift.

Sending a bag of homemade cookies home with the guest, just because you have enough to share.

Here's to friends. Cheers.

 

 

 

 

A good cup of coffee

,

 

I love the smell of the first brew in the morning, and I love drinking that first cup, in bed, while catching up on the news, weather, e-mails, etc.
Coffee conjures up good memories; first of all the full bean boiling in a heavy kettle on the wood stove, then the white corning ware pot, with the three blue flowers painted on its side, percolating on the stove top, and lastly, a highly technical coffee maker with water level adjustments and a red light to warn you to wait and a green one to go ahead.

  I learned to enjoy drinking it as a young child, I actually do not remember NOT drinking coffee. The best coffee was shared in the middle of a wheat field; cold coffee out of a mason jar passed around between  Dad, a hired man, Mom, and at least 2 of us kids. It was harvest time, and Mom had prepared a feast which we delivered in a sturdy cardboard box along with a worn out blanket which served as the table cloth. It was spread out in a mostly unseemly manner amongst the  dirt, dust, stubble  & bugs. There was that holy moment when Dad would pull up with the combine, all rumble and chaff, and turn off the engine. Silence absolute. We would see him grin through dirt and grime, lean over to pick up the jar of coffee, unscrew the lid, and take a good swallow. There was always talk of the weather, of how long the rains would hold off; was there water in those clouds? How many bushels of wheat per acre this year? The rubbing of wheat  between hands, blowing off the chaff, and then chewing to test whether or not there was moisture in the kernels, because moisture meant eventual mould, and mould meant a low grade, or a useless crop. There was a lot at stake here, a lot hung in the balance.
I wonder now how Dad gave himself permission to stop and enjoy a good cup of coffee, to lie on the open field with a full stomach, and rest, before he resuscitated the old field beast.
 

No laughing matter

Our wedding rehearsal was 41 years ago tonight, in a small, now defunct, church in the country, 15 miles away from the nearest town, and 2 miles from my farm home. It was minus 40 degrees outside, and inside we were praying and holding our breaths that the Air Canada strike would be called off so that Tom's family could arrive in time for the ceremony the following day. Out of town guests had been farmed out in various homes, and, along with the wedding attendants arrived at the church for the rehearsal. Of course we were all a little giddy &  anxious and the minister needed to take some leadership with the rambunctious group. He raised his voice, changed his tone and stated "this is no laughing matter here".

  Marriage is no laughing matter although we have done our fair share. My memory of the actual wedding day is rather vague, and if truth be told, I knew little of marriage and possibly even less of my groom. Our marriage counselling consisted of a prayer for us and a big pat on the back for our life together. We had cobbled together a ceremony  via air mail letters, each question requiring a wait of a least 30 days for a response. My Mom sewed up a simple but beautiful white velvet gown, and together with the church ladies made a meal that resembled all other wedding meals; potatoe salad, jello salad, cold cuts and sliced cheddar cheese. The wedding cake was a splendid work of art; a three tiered wonder that survived the elements and was cut up and shared amongst the guests.

  Here we are, 41 years later; and I must pay tribute to a man who promised to love me till death do us part. In sickness or in health he said, in rich times or poor. So help him God. He now wakes up to a woman that is barely recognisable from the one to whom he spoke his vows. That alone is no laughing matter, or, is it?

 

It's all in the presentation. Show & tell.

Teachers of wee ones still have 'show and tell' in the classrooms ; one of the few things that has not gone out with the peanut butter sandwiches and no touch rules.
Wouldn't you just love to be the teacher who gets in on all the family secrets and stories?
Amelia spilled a little secret to her dance instructor yesterday, a personal achievement of hers that heralds the advent of striking pampers off the shopping list. Can you imagine the importance of this achievement in her mind, big enough to share in the learning circle, and more importantly, a safe place to be proud of it. Can you imagine an instructor big enough to celebrate this with her and to invite other children to applaud? A place of no judgement, no criticsm and where others are truly happy for you, with no thread of envy.

So when does this precious stage of innocent showing and telling end? When there is a snicker in the group? When there is an awkward silence? When someone makes fun of it or you and you shut down &  close the lid on sharing?
Where do we  go with the things that make us proud? Proud of our achievements, a homemade project completed, a well done exam, a sculpture, a photograph, a poem, our spouse, a  progress of miniscule size or  a success story. Or, conversely, where do we go to share our pain, absolute sadness, or disappoinments?

Ripe old age and growing pains

Our oldest grand son is suffering from growing pains, the bone deep thrumming of cells pushing ahead to produce the final product. His feet and hands are ready; large, long, and prepared in advance for the growth spurts. It is a beautiful thing to watch; the 'dirty stach', the voice lowered to that of a man, the new emotions that challenge those of his parents and siblings, and thoughts and queries that sit on the cusp of boyhood and adulthood. While nursing his aching legs with a hot water bottle after  a soccer game he announced "I want to wake up tomorrow and be 6 foot 4".

Does anyone ever wish they could wake up in the morning and be 100 years old?

We were invited to attend an open house to celebrate J.G.'s 100th. birthday on Saturday. He said he was proud to have reached 100 and was thankful that dementia had not 'set in'. [Is dementia like a bowl of jello? does it 'set in' while no one is watching?] The secret to this,  he said, is  to 'keep your mind active and  your body  moving'. Then someone made a comment that he had reached a 'ripe old age'. Well, think about that for minute....ripe has many meanings and connotations, the one being "most suitable or right for a particular purpose". And another "fully developed and ready to be used".