Sorry, I'm a bit behind

I slept in and am running late. Posting will continue as normal tomorrow.

Now We Are Six: The year I got in trouble and Lyn ruined Christmas

The year I turned six was all about learning.

I learned to skate that winter in our backyard.  Like any good Canadians, my parents flooded our garden that year and created a skating rink.  My mother was a wonderful skater -- she grew up playing hockey with her brothers and dad -- so she wanted us to learn.  I learned the basics: how to push ahead and how to fall down when I wanted to stop.  That is all I ever learned.  Unfortunately, my skating ability more mimicked my father.

Poindexter, Little Sis and Farrah.

That fall was the start of real school, not just sandbox and sing-a-longs.  It was the start of real books and reading, real knowledge and exploration.  I had a wonderful teacher (Miss Something-or-other) who I was convinced was the oldest and most wise woman ever.  She might have been in her 40s, but at the time I was certain she was near death.  Except that she had a boyfriend which totally blew my mind because in my head you were either married or never-ever-would-be married.

Walking on a ladder 

-- or, escaping our captors by walking over a canyon.

I learned two hard lessons from Miss What's-Her-Face.  The first was a lesson I didn't understand until much later.  One day in class, we had been sitting in the reading corner and were told to head back to our assigned desks.  Myself and my two partners in crime -- Lane and Danny -- decided to crab crawl back to our desks.  We thought it would be fun.  So, with our arms and legs keeping our backs off the floor, we toddled back to our desks.  The teacher was surprisingly upset with us and made us stand up, return to the mat and walk back like normal.

What did I learn from this, you ask?  I learned that even if it doesn't hurt anyone, being silly and different in a public situation is not allowed.  You are expected to act a certain way and to do otherwise is to disrespect the way society works.  It is like Bender says "If he gets up, we'll all get up. It will be anarchy." 

The second lesson I learned from Miss That-Lady had to do with how you treat people in the world.  In a good way.  She taught me that you stick up for people when you need to -- even against someone you love.

I learned to ride a bike that fall.  A real bike without wheels like babies use.  Dad and I spent what felt like hours (for me in a good way, for him... not likely as much) with him running behind me holding my bike seat, keeping me from falling.  Eventually I sped away from him, free of the need to have a steady helping had, and (like I do with everything else) ran smack into a parked truck. 

Now please remember that the following is what happened in my mind.  There is a distinct possibility this is not how it went in real life.  But I was 6.  And traumatized  The parked truck belonged to my teacher's boyfriend.  He came outside and yelled at me for hitting his truck.  He yelled about his truck and his paint and how I should not be riding on the sidewalk.  My teacher came out and stood near him.  She told him that I was learning to ride my bike and that I had not done any damage.  She touched my shoulder and said she had seen how well I had ridden.  She said she was proud of how well I did.  Then she took her boyfriend back into the house and I went back home.  I loved her even more for that.

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That winter I learned the final hard lesson of the year.  My youngest sister, Lyn was born in December.  She was small and cute and we all liked her.  And then she ruined Christmas.  I still haven't quite forgiven her.

Me holding Lyn. In my baby blanket. 

See what a good sister I was?

Lyn was a baby and, being a baby, was overly needy.  She required a lot of attention and regular feedings and caused my parents to lose a lot of sleep.  This made them forgetful.  In fact, my parents were so tired that on Christmas Eve, they forgot to be Santa -- thus ruining my childhood forever.

Christmas morning, my brother and I dragged Ky down the stairs toward the Christmas tree.  For the last 5 years, Santa had left stockings full of treats and candy and gifts and good things.  We were pumped. We rounded the corner into the living room and stopped dead.  There was nothing.  Santa had not brought us stockings.  He had not brought us candy.  He had not brought us gifts.  Obviously, we were on the Naughty List. (I blame Graeme for that.)

We went up to my parents' room and burst through the door all of us in tears.  We told them the news -- Santa didn't love us.  Then they told us the news -- it wasn't that Santa didn't love us, they didn't love us.  They explained that Santa was not real and we had been duped.  They then got all our gifts and candy out of the hiding place and spent the rest of the day trying to convince us we were loved.

I didn't buy it.

Moments with Grandma

After seeing a family picture where she is the shortest person by over 7 inches, Grandma exclaimed to her friend “I had no idea I had shrunk to be a dwarf!!”

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When asked what meat she had put in her potato salad, she couldn’t remember. I thought they looked like hot dogs and said so. She assured me that no, it wasn’t hot dogs. It was something very easy to make. Then she remembered, “Hot dogs!” This was followed moments later by “NO!!!! WEINERS!!!!”


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Grandma asked if we thought she was stubborn.  When we agreed she was shocked.  "No I am not!" Yes, we assured her.  She is.  "Give me an example!"

Hey, Gram... This right here.  That's stubborn.

I was 5 once, and young.

This continues NaBloPoMo: a daily post of stories of my life - 33 years in 30 days. The fourth instalment is here.



As with most five year olds, this was the year I started school.  I went to one of the town's elementary schools that was within walking distance of our home.  It was a nice school of an adequate size.  I remember the entry way to the school being lined with people my size in rules of organization I did not understand.  Rubber boots littered the hallway and coloured paper was stuck to every wall.  I am sure the days were full of learning and fun.  But I remember sitting on a red carpet and being made to feel weird that I could count to 100 and read by myself.

Me in my "first day of school" dress.  

It became a tradition that all of us wore the same dress on our first day of Kindergarten.  

Well, except Grae.  It just wasn't "pretty" enough.

When I was five, my world was very small.  I had my family -- mom, dad, siblings.  I had a few friends in the neighbourhood and a church we drove an hour to each week.  It was the days of simplicity.  Parents opened their doors and allowed their children out to play without every worrying what dangers were lurking.  In my world, there was only one girl in the bay behind our house that I was not allowed to play with.

Her name was Kelly.  She was 7 and got "into trouble" a lot.  I don't know what "trouble" means to a 7 year old, but to me I assumed she didn't listen and had a lot of tantrums.  She had blond hair in a flippy ponytail.  She said bad words like "damn" and "hell".  She was someone I wasn't supposed to spend time with, so of course, I did.

The gang of three. Me, Grae and our pet orangutan Ky. 

One day, Kelly and Jennifer and I found a bird with a broken wing. It was a chickadee, or at least in my mind now, it was a chickadee. It hopped around pathetically in fear and frustration.  We were small and it never dawned on us that things might get broken and die.  We gathered a box with soft leaves and grass in it and gently placed the baby bird in the middle.  It was close to supper so Jennifer and I both were called away to our respective homes.  Kelly didn't have anyone who called her, so she sat on the steps with the bird in her lap and she cried.

I don't know what happened to that bird.  Or to Kelly for that matter.  But in my head, she is still a little girl sitting on that step with the grief of an adult in her heart.

Stubborn runs in the family

This weekend, Lyn and I will converge at Grandma's place.  It has been a busy month for Grandma and we're going to visit in order to do a quick check on how things are going.

Not only did Grandma get a new dog this last month, she also moved from her home of over 40 years.

Grandma lives on the common grounds that is owned by our church.  It started as an orphanage and bible school and years later exists as a meeting place for the "universal church"* a few times a year.  My grandparents helped oversee the orphanage back in the day and my mother spent her entire youth there.

Grandma lived in a building that was once the orphanage and was later adapted to be a rooming house of sorts.  She and her family inhabited the entire top floor of the building that sat on the east end of the grounds.  For the last few years, the building has been empty but for Grandma and an occasional renter of the small apartment next to hers.  It has almost 20 of the steepest steps known to man and is a feat to climb even for the fittest person.  Grandma has been kept young by those stairs.

In the last few years, we've all realized Grandma would need a change soon.  She will be 90 in January and, even though she could still beat me for hardworking stamina, she is getting older.  She can still care for herself -- food, cleaning, bathing, etc -- but she's a little forgetful and she's a worrier.  We thought about moving her from one city to another (to be closer to immediate family) but this is a woman who's been wearing the same clothes for 30 years -- she doesn't do change well. 

The perfect solution presented itself awhile ago.  A small apartment on the same grounds opened up.  It is in the same building as two of her dearest friends and is above her nephew and his wife who do more to take care of her than time or patience would allow.  Grandma has worked towards this slowly.  One day, the idea of moving is excellent.  The next?  Not so much.

A week or so ago, none of the family could get a hold of Grandma.  Days went by and she was no where to be found.  Calls between siblings went back and forth until Ky got Grandma on the phone.  She wasn't dead and being feasted on by "the little black dog" as we had feared.  She had moved.

Grandma got it into her head she was going to move to the apartment and so she did. 

By herself.

She packed up all her clothes into her suitcases and walked them down from one end of the grounds to the other.  She unpacked them there and returned for another load.  Then she loaded up dishes and books into boxes.  She carried those boxes down the flight of The Stairs of Death.  And then, she loaded those boxes into her wheelbarrow. 

Her wheelbarrow.

My almost 90 year old grandmother transported all her own items down to her new apartment in a wheelbarrow.  None of us had any idea she was moving.

I talked to Grandma as she was cleaning out her old refrigerator.  She was standing on a chair, using a butter knife to defrost the freezer.  She chatted amicably about washing her windows before she moved out for good and contemplated how she would wash the outsides of them.  After I made her promise not to hang herself out the window, she casually mentioned that she wondered how to get the rocking chair downstairs.

I called my uncle who lives just over an hour away and let him know.  He went down that weekend and helped her move the rest.  When he was done, she burst into tears and said "Can we move it all back?"

I'm going up this weekend to make sure she didn't do that herself too.



*As far as I know, only the members from Earth attend.

Wiped

I am exhausted.  I worked last night, was up early for lunch with a friend and then tried to make supper.  Supper was a disgusting mess of hamburger mush when it meant to be loaf. 

I'm tired, I'm grouchy and I have to go to North Battleford tomorrow.  Instalment 5 of my life will be up tomorrow.  6 will be on Monday.  Stay tuned.

By the way, this TOTALLY counts as a post.

Then I was 4 -- or so I hear

This continues NaBloPoMo: a daily post of stories of my life - 33 years in 30 days. The third instalment is here.


The year I turned 4, our family packed up from the northern village life and moved to a small prairie town in the middle of our fair province.  My mom was expecting another baby and my dad had just gotten a government job.  I was about to start school the near future, so I imagine they had been looking for an excuse to get us closer to civilization, closer to family, and closer to a school.

Dancing on the table.

We moved into a two story little yellow house not far from the water tower.  We were within walking distance of the school and main street.  Actually, it was a small town.  We were within walking distance of a lot of places.  I don't remember much about that first year in town.  I remember there were finally little kids to play with -- Dawn and Jennifer lived across the back alley.  We had a swing set in the yard and a garden with corn taller than I was. Life was simple then.

In the fall, my Mom brought home our newest sibling.  It was the beginning of Thanksgiving weekend and Ky came to us earlier than we expected.  A preemie, she weighed less than any of us and still more than most.  She looked a bit like a monkey, but she was pretty cute. 

Me and my newest sister, Ky.*

*She's lucky I picked the picture where she looks pretty cute. 
There were some other awesome options.

Age 3 -- The year I wore matching outfits with the whole world

This continues NaBloPoMo: a daily post of stories of my life - 33 years in 30 days. The second instalment is here.


You read that title and you think "No, she couldn't possibly have matched the WHOLE world." I am here to prove that I could and I did.

Exhibit one: Matching pink suits with Grandma. 

She made them by hand for us. 

And now they reside forever in a floor rug she made out of fabric that never wears.

Three is a good year for a child.  They are talkative enough to be cute.  They can be well behaved enough to stay out of your way for a little while.  They still take naps.  They are pliable. You can make them wear silly outfits and they think it's awesome.  And so you do.

I don't remember much about three either.  I remember stories of the little boy I played with in the sandbox in our village.  I don't remember him except for a glimpse of a striped shirt and a yellow hat.  However, I might be confusing him with Ernie off of Sesame street except that I know Ernie did not pour sand down my back and I don't still hate Ernie with every fibre of my being.

Exhibit two: My bro and I in matching outfits inspecting a booger.

But otherwise, three is a blur.  Pictures show I had a lot of dolls and I loved to put them all to bed in straight rows of cribs and cradles.  Like an orphanage, but with plastic dolls instead of real ones.  I am sure I was a benevolent caregiver though and they got lots of plastic gruel to go with the early bedtimes.

Pictures also show that my parents hated me loved to dress me up in matching outfits.  This explains the rash that breaks out on my skin when The Guy and I accidentally wear the same colour.

Exhibit three: Matching again. 

However, proof we were THE CUTEST KIDS IN THE WORLD.

PS. My brother is going to kick my butt when he gets his computer fixed and realizes I've posted a million pictures of his childhood online. It's a good thing he lives far away.

And then I was 2: aka The year my parents got me a brother instead of a pony.

This begins NaBloPoMo: a daily post of stories of my life - 33 years in 30 days. First instalment is here.


The year I turned two, my parents gave me what they thought would be the sweetest gift.  No, it was not a pink pony with a ribbon. (Bastards!)  It was a baby brother.  The Boy (not to be confused with The Guy) was born two years and a day after I was.  My parents thought this would be fantastic.*  Two kids with birthdays on the same (almost) day! Only one birthday party! Only one time of buying gifts!

First picture of me and my brother. With my grandpa. 

Grandpa looks scared, I look stunned and Grae is adorable. 

Unlike each of us in real life.

Uh huh.  I would like to point out that we also -- have the same birthday, have only one birthday party, and there is only one month money to get two gifts.   I digress.

We were still living in the great white north so, rather than risk having a baby there, my parents dropped me off in North Battleford to stay with Grandma and then travelled to the big hospital in Saskatoon.  I guess that was likely since Mom was having another C Section, but at the time I didn't think of that.  I stayed with Grandma until they brought me my little brother.  I sat on the couch and got to hold him all by myself.  I turned to my mother and asked if they were going to go back to the hospital and get one for them.  This one was mine!

I wouldn't sleep unless Grae was with me.  
Since we both slept better, it was allowed sometimes.  

But not all the time.  Or I might have rolled over and squished him.  Sigh. If only...

They reminded me of this story quite often as I throttled my brother for being a turd.  But that was later in our lives. These first two years of him being present were awesome.  (However, not as good as a pony.)  He was my very own plaything.  And, best part!, he was near indestructible.  I carried him around by the armpits and lugged him from room to room.  I dressed him up and put him in baskets and fed him his bottle.  As he got bigger, he was an all too willing participant in my endless search to find ways to harm him unintentionally.

One afternoon, Grae and I were playing in the back entry to the house.  I don't know what Mom was doing, but the story I'm about to tell you speaks of POOR PARENTAL SUPERVISION.  Grae and I were playing with a plastic tub Mom used to make bread.  It was orange and durable and huge.  (I have it now and it is not huge.)  It fit Grae perfectly.  I convinced him to get into the tub at the top of the basement stairs.  Then I opened the door into the entryway and pushed with all my might.  The door (with my feeble pushing) was enough to catapult Grae and the plastic tub down the stairs to the concrete landing (and wall) below.  Grae landed at the bottom of the stairs and cried "Again!"

Me and The Boy (aka Grae). LOOK AT MY GIANT FEET.

*In fact, they "planned" it this way.  They had company staying over..  Mom told me they had to be "sneaky". Thanks Mom.  And yes, if I have to know that, SO DO YOU.

My life in stories: Ages 0-1

This begins NaBloPoMo: a daily post of stories of my life - 33 years in 30 days. 

I was born to a secretary and a grad student in the mid seventies.  I was born 3 weeks late.  The story goes that I was reading a book and didn't want to come out.  Truth be told, even after 36 hours of labour, I was "untimely ripped" from my mother.  I imagine if they hadn't pushed the issue, I might not have left.  I have that problem now with my own bed.  And I'm not attached by a cord to my bed.

The beginning of a good H--- tradition: group naps.

I might have been a happy baby, I don't remember.  My mom did tell me fairly often that I never slept through the night -- not once.  That has lasted my my entire life. 

 Me with Dad and Mom -- happy little family.

We lived for a short time in the metropolis of Saskatoon before heading to a small village/reserve called Cumberland House. It's hard to write a memoir of years you don't remember, but I have heard the tales of our Northern home so often, I have created the images in my mind.

Me and "Bup" the RCMP dog.

We lived near to the RCMP officers and the nurses who were posted in the Northern area to keep the peace and patch the pain.  Some of those nurses and officers became life long family friends.  I was their pet.  The pictures of this time in my life are filled with young men and a few women with me smack dab in the middle.  These were our friends.  The residents of the village were less likely to be friendly.  Mom would tell how I would say hi to each person we came across and would be heartbroken when they did not respond.

This picture speaks to the sense of style I created early in my life.  

Suspenders are cool, right?

This was my life in those early years.  Separated from all our family by long distance and culture.  One of my first words was in whatever language they spoke in the village, but I didn't retain that for long.  We spent three years there in the little village.  Outsiders making friends of other outsiders -- all hoping to do our best for the people who weren't sure they wanted us there.