Magic Mats

I was driving the QE2 today.  Windows down, sun shining in, the Fuzz nowhere in sight and I was transported to a summer gone by when I was at my grandparent's farm in Manitoba.  I think I was about 13 or 14 years old, my cousins were 2 and 4 years older than me.  While we sometimes watched my eldest cousin wreak havoc on the locals – she was the early version of punk in small town rural Manitoba – mostly my other cousin and I pouted and cursed our lives.  We were stuck in hell.  One day we were sun tanning, the day was hot and the wind warm and I wrote a poem called Magic Mats. It started out “here we sit in the flats, brought here by our magic mats”.  And that summed it up.  When I look back on it I can still feel the palpable boredom and distain at being on this secluded farm.  No other kids. The biggest excitement of the day was seeing if the mail truck stopped at the gate or not.  Usually it did not.  And if it did stop, none of us kids wanted to walk down the hill to get the mail – it wasn’t going to be for us anyway.

I arrived at the farm with my cousins via my cousin’s mom, my Aunty.  I’m not certain of the logistics but at one point I remember being part of her entourage that was visiting my Uncle’s relatives.  Those folks were kind and welcoming and I remember listening to The Cars – Drive on cassette in a tree swing.  Eventually we got to the farm and Aunty went home; leaving us cousins on the flats with no magic mats.  It wasn’t a full working farm then.  The orchards were overgrown, the fields were rented by other farmers, the barns were empty but the place was picture perfect.  Not a weed in sight. My Grampa would be gone from sun up to sun down “farming”.   Just before suppertime he would show up, cook supper for us and then sit back and watch. We grandkids must have been entertainment for him; surely we filled up the house with noise.

During the day we would sleep until the afternoon then go exploring, play silly games in the barns like scaring ourselves silly imagining ghosts. There was a river nearby and we would do all the things you shouldn’t do.  My cousins would get leeches on their legs and run screaming all the way back to the farm house for Grama to help them.  I was always too scared of the water to go in so they would be the ones to get into trouble for playing in the river.  On rainy days we would try to use the satellite dish.  Gramps liked to watch the playboy channel at night so we were warned not to touch the tv.  But sometimes we found the MTV satellite/channel and I remember Bruce Springsteen and Courtney Cox - Dancing in the Dark. There was a big picture window in the kitchen that overlooked a meadow.  I would spend hours looking out that window watching for coyotes crossing the field. It was a real score to see more than one.  I admired their independence, their sideways loping, ever wary of the unknown.   I think that is why I have such an affinity to the coyotes now.  

Eventually someone, maybe my mom, came and picked us up and we went home.  The next time I was at the farm was probably 7 or 8 years later for Grama’s funeral.  I did not stay very long.  My cousins were not there.  The picture window was dirty and the view was obscured by overgrown trees.  Some of the barns had obvious structural issues. But it was still beautiful.  I haven’t been back to the farm since.  But on days like today, sunshine, wheat fields, windows down and farmers in the field – I think about the flats and the magic mats and I am back there.

Angry hair

I went for a run this morning.  Nothing earth shattering about that.  The fact I haven’t run for a while is a sign for me that I need either a kick in the @ss or a moment of reflection & refocus.  In this case, all of the above.

The past couple of years have been difficult on me in mind, body and spirit.  After I finished my first (and only!!) marathon in 2009, I felt like life started slipping thru my fingers. Work is not the centre of my universe but what was supposed to be a good thing eroded into a not-so-good thing.  That was frustrating and made me sad, disappointed.  Then the other parts of my universe – the things that happen inside your 4 walls - went off the rails.  I’m not sure how other houses function but in my house, I am the constant.  I am the main support beam and when the rest of the house has ‘renovations’, it is me who taps in the supporting braces.  And this is ok; for my 4 walls.  But – it takes a toll.  I had to become immersed in the renovation process.  All of my time and energy went to other people’s projects.  In turn I got fat, tired, out of shape and fairly pissed off at the world.  Being pissed off is different than being angry.  When I am angry I lash out, when I am pissed off it is a slow simmer of reflection served with a side of brownies.

The past winter I started moving to get back to me.  I lead some running clinics, finished my first half marathon in several years.  That was good. But I’m still feeling fat and unhealthy.  My blood pressure is elevated.  I am sure I can look/feel/be much better if I truly focus on ME now.  I pretty much stopped running in the summer to do some additional renovations. Lame - cannot believe I let all those physical gains go.  However, I have come to the understanding that renovations may be a life long journey for some folks and that I cannot be sitting on the sidelines, wearing a tool belt and watching it happen.  I can only tap in the support wall and carry on.  Work is good too.  And let’s be real – it does matter because you spend a significant part of your time there.  No one needs to be surrounded by negativity – anywhere.  I signed up for a course that I have wanted to take for a couple years.  I will even get to drive my car to campus. And it is Fall; my favourite time of the year.  Crisp, clean air.  No bugs. Less allergies.

Today’s run was hard.  I could not find my footing.  That doesn’t mean I fell. I mean the rhythm of pace and breathing was jumbled and jagged. When running is good, it is like time stands still while you move thru it.  The measure of distance is not in the front of your mind and the concern of the public at large watching your giggly parts evaporates.  It is magical.  That is why I run – for those moments.   As I rounded my last corner on the final stretch to home, I was met by this ridiculous looking dog on a leash.  It had this goofy white hair blowing in the wind and was hell bent on going somewhere but the leash was holding it back.  The sight made me laugh and I felt a connection with the dog.  I thought – it has angry hair!  Hope it gets to run free soon - and gets a hair cut.

 

Main Street

On a recent road trip The Husband decided he wanted some Chinese food.  Now, in all my days of travelling – including the times with my parents, what I know to be true as the sky is blue when the sun shines is that in every town and hickville there is a Main Street.  And on this Main Street you will find a place that says Chinese Western Canadian Food.  And 9 times out of 10, when you go inside you will find a fish tank with a gold fish or plastic flowers or paintings depicting waterfalls or lanterns with red tassels or a combination of such treasure. If you are truly lucky – you will also find the paper placemats with Chinese Zodiacs.  I’m a rooster.  I verify this every time.

So, we are in a medium sized town and we enter the doors of the Chinese Western Canadian Food establishment.  My radar was on high alert because we had to enter via 2 doors which contained no windows; perhaps an airlock of sorts. The first door was painted bright blue, the second pink.  Inside we decide on the lunch buffet.  It is 2PM.   We are seated near to the buffet and before we can even sit down, the resident local has literally ran to the buffet to scoop up treasures.  That sort of spirited hoarding raised our hopes that the airlock was not a bad omen.

At first pass of the buffet, The Husband returned with a plate of 4 pieces of deep fried shriveled up things. I have yet to go up as I am stunned into silence and amazement by the decor. After we stop laughing at his plate of crap, we hear the shouts of kitchen folks and then the buffet begins to have fresh food.  The fresh stuff was ok.  But let’s be serious.  The only things  in Chinese Western Canadian Food places you are truly safe with is fried rice, fresh chow mien noodles, fresh mixed vegetables and chicken balls.  That’s it.  Also up for the offering were 4 colours of gelatin and 3 colours of ice cream, all in pre-portioned  parfait glasses.  The ice cream was housed in a new looking chest freezer with the glass sliding top.  Jello on the counter in 8 neat rows. I always wonder who cuts the jello into cubes.  

Let’s talk about the décor.  The pink from the airlock door carried forward as an accent colour, everywhere.  The wire tracks of the drop ceiling were painted pink as were the air registers. The 80's track lighting had a not-so clever disguise of plastic flowers and vines. There was a large brick fireplace which was not in use.  The opening had a hand created zodiac diagram and the mantel housed a giant waterfall picture.  A precious print embossed with metalic paint and a rounded edge gold frame.  Other such pictures were on the walls, too.  I didn't look at the floor but I know it was a cloth-like substance.  My best instinct says it was 70's fuzz carpet.

The mantel. I was nervous to sneak the photo. If you look hard you can see the pink drop ceiling track.

The people were friendly and polite. When they asked about the food we mustered up the word 'fine'. The fresh stuff was fine. We never did figure out what the 4 pieces of deep fried shriveled up stuff was. Come to think of it, I never saw a fish tank either. Is this a coincidence? I think not.

Safety glasses please.

I admit it.  I almost bought a “magical” bra off of a TV infomercial.  I got totally sucked in with the hype and stories and pictures.  No wires poking , no uncomfortable straps, no squishy bits???  Sign me up!  Ever the cautious consumer, I did some online research and there are people who actually post reviews about this “magical” bra.  You do not even have to buy it from the TV – the local big box store sells it.  One reviewer’s comment has stuck in my head.  In part it read “this is a good weekend bra”.  A Weekend Bra.  I started thinking about a “weekend bra”.  Who knew there was such a thing?  What would this mean? Is it less conforming?  Less confining?  More flexible?  Is it supportive?  Are there options to be exercised at your discretion?  Does it have a calendar attached to it so that it knows when the weekend is over?  What if you wore it on a Tuesday?

I got my first bra when I was in grade 6.  Disgusting.  Who wants that? (Trust me, you don’t).   I still cringe at the memories of the teasing and gawking and losers trying to look down my shirt.  Back then "El Torro" did not exist, just the shy girl who did not want to be noticed was there.  I feel like Grade 6 was the start of the end of my childhood.  Sure I got older because of the earths’ rotation but I also got Old. My dad died that year and there was just me and my little brother and my mom.  By necessity I grew up; along with the bra came new responsibilities and expectations.  No, Grade 6 was not a great year.  Then we go to grade 7.  Not much better.  We moved from hick town to the city mid-year. Terrifying.  There may have been a slight advantage to the needing a real bra in grade 7, but I was too shy and shell-shocked to use it to any advantage.  Of course there have been other bras.  There have been pretty bras (I got married), nursing bras (I had kids), sport bras (sometimes I am a runner) but never a Weekend Bra. 

Maybe it is a metaphor.  Perhaps you put it on and then you are freed from your weekly grind.  Meh – I’m pretty free with my weekly grind though.  Kids are young adults now (YES!!), sometimes I drive my own car, my job is fine, dogs are good, lizard is cool, there’s food in the fridge, neighbour boy cuts my grass each week.  What else is there?  A housecleaner would be luxurious… but honestly I pretty much do what I want, when I want.  Maybe it is about freeing the mind!  If you do not have things poking you for no good reason at inopportune times you are able to clear your head?  Maybe not having wires or uncomfortable straps which encapsulate, compress and control the situation causes so much flopping around that you are knocked silly and cannot remember what you are supposed to be bothered about?  I don’t know.  I am very confused about the Weekend Bra.

Today I had to go buy vacuum cleaner bags.  Usually I go to the local retailer of tires and household appliances for this very exciting purchase.  But today I deviated from that store and went to the local big box store.  I told myself I was going there because I needed yogurt but the truth is I went to buy the magical bra. I am totally confused about whether or not I picked the correct vacuum cleaner bags, but I now have a Weekend Bra (and yogurt). Look out world – here I come.  Hope I don’t lose an eye.

I've been driving!

If you have teenagers/young adults you will understand that I am celebrating driving My Own Car this week.  This is the car that I pay for, that I picked out for me, that I enjoy driving.  In the last 2 weeks I have driven to and from Edmonton, Canmore and to work.  The work part is kind of lame because it is a 20 min walk down hill to work - but whatever.  I have been driving My Car! My car is a Jetta, shiny and black.  I named her Betty and while she is a good car, she isn't the Jetta we *heart*.  Once we had Jonny.  Some folks met Jonny, some didn't but this is the story of Jonny.

A coworker was selling his car.  We talked.  $1900 and a $25 coffee card later, I was the owner of a 1998 VW Jetta K2.  Blue, rusted, super styling roof rack, temperamental passenger door, 3 of 4 electric windows opened, hatchback, 5 speed manual transmission, battered windshield and the rain would sometimes come in.  It ran like a dream.  I drove that car for 2 months before I learned it was named Jonny.  I never asked why.  It just fit.  Jonny the Jetta.

The Boy was 17 and needed to get his driver’s license.  We had the “good” car and then Jonny.  Both were manual transmissions.  The Husband announced that the “good” car was off limits for learning, so Jonny became the teaching car.  The Husband’s tutelage of the art of driving a standard lasted 3 minutes at which time he announced, “We need to buy an automatic”.   I laughed and shook my head no.  I always knew I would be the one to teach them to drive a standard.  It is a life skill and the kids will have it. 

So it began.  Oh poor Jonny and his over-heated clutch.  The lurching and lunging and cursing he endured!  I thought I was going to die many times.  It all came to a head one day in a parking lot.  The Boy was feeling mighty spunky and wanted to drive home.  I looked at the steel toed work boots and paint covered clothes and thought that maybe this was a bad idea.  But I gave him the keys.  That session of driving lasted 90 seconds during which time there were 4 stalls and one tantrum where The Boy stated “Dad was right, we need an automatic”.   I kicked The Boy out of the driver’s seat, drove home, made him change into runners and get back into the car.  I drove to the country and parked Jonny on a hill.  The Boy got in the driver’s seat and I said, “Go”.  It wasn’t pretty and I’m sure it cost me a whole tank of gas and half a clutch.  But the light bulb went on.  The Boy felt the car, listened to the engine and drove.   He received his license and voila – Jonny became his car for the grade 12 year.   I bought Betty the Jetta.   We worked out a system for Jonny's gas for “fun” vs.  gas for the apprenticeship job.  Jonny needed new tires that fall and some strut work.  After a cool $1500 all was good.   The battery went the following spring and there was leak of some kind. The Girl learned to ‘drive stick’ and in the summer, The Boy got a new old truck (manual transmission!)  and The Girl took over Jonny.  Jonny was again a fixture at the high school.  At long last his front window was replaced.  And then it happened.  The Snap.  I wasn’t there but The Girl describes it as the saddest sound she has ever heard.  After a left turn onto a quiet street there was a snap and then Jonny was still.  The transmission had gone.  The expense to repair could no longer be justified.  Jonny was retired.  I was sad, my family was sad.  The 5 or so other kids who my kids, (unbeknownst to me) taught to drive stick on Jonny were sad.   

Since the demise of Jonny I have been on car share program with The Girl.  How this works is I ask her if she needs the car and then I can figure out my day.  And this is ok - minus the bottle of fake nail glue which is now permanently affixed to the accessory box inside My Car. But I miss Jonny.  Not only for the freedom he gave ME but the awesome unit he was.  My new Jetta rattles and whistles.  The seat warmers are not nearly as warm.  Betty is far more plastic than Jonny ever was.  The Girl miss Jonny too - he was much easier to hide the bumps and scrapes on.  The Girl is working  towards getting her own car - I will return the favour of the nail glue. 

.

Jonny on his retirement day

Betty