I turned 49 last Friday and every year my parents give my brother-in-law, John (who’s birthday is 4 days before mine) and me a birthday party.  Along with the rest of the immediate family, we invite my mom’s best friend, Lesley and her husband, Don and their son, Tim who now has a lovely new bride, Agnes, from Montreal. 

We’ve been getting together for dinner and playing mini golf to celebrate our birthdays for over 25 years.  Creatures of habit some might call us.  Scotts you know.  Why fix what isn’t broken?  But after this year, we may be ready for a change.

“Everybody ok back there?”
“You’ll have to get over soon, Ed,” Dad says motioning to the right.
“It’s a ways yet, Dad.”
“I don’t like waiting till the last minute.  And look at how they’ve taken that right lane out for a few bikes to use.”
Ed slowly inches the car back into the left lane.
“The mini putt’s closed!” shouts Mackenzie.
“Where?” Dad says.
“Look the sign’s gone and everything!”
Unbelievable.  We’ve been going to this mini putt for over 15 years.
Getting out of the cars, we have a mini pow wow in the parking lot.
“Let’s try the beach strip,” Tim suggests.
“Sky doesn’t look too promising,” Dad announces.
“It might blow over,” Mackenzie reassures him.
So we pile back into the cars and head off to the beach strip.

“Doesn’t look like it’s too busy today.  That’s good,” says Dad, looking around the empty parking lot.
“Didn’t you see the lightening, Grandpa?”
“Might be why everyone’s going the opposite direction,” adds Ed.
“Let’s just get ice cream,” I suggest.
We hurry under the awning to the ice cream stand.  The cold wind and rain start whipping at our clothes and thunder rattles above our heads.
“Take your ice cream to the pavilion over there,” I shout to my sister, Carol.
I continue ordering.  “I’ll have 2 single scoop chocolate ice cream cones….”
“Grandpa! Are you ok?”
“Earl!” shouts Ed.
I turn and see the giant wooden ice cream sign that was mounted on the wall a few minutes ago on the ground beside my Dad.
“Hit me in the ankle!” Dad shouts pulling up his pant leg.
And then out of nowhere like in slow motion, come half a dozen very pretty young female employees of the park running over to help Dad.
“Are you ok, sir?”
“Come and sit in the party room.”
“I’ll get some ice!”
“I’m ok.  I’m ok,” Dad says shooing them away.
“Just go with them, Dad.”
“I’ll go with Grandpa,” volunteers Mackenzie, with his eye on a pretty blond girl.
“I felt it brush past my head,” Ed pipes up.
I stare at him for a moment.  “I don’t think so.  Agnes is a nurse. You can stay here and help me with the ice cream.”

Soon, we’re in the party room eating our ice cream and only one of the entourage of employees is left.  Dad’s ankle seems to be fine.
“I heard someone say it’s a birthday party today” she asks cheerily.
“Mine and my brother-in-law’s.”
“Where is Uncle John?”
“John and Carol!  Oh my God.  I told them to wait at the pavilion!”
Agnes darts from her chair and heads out of the building towards the open pavilion.
“That would be funny if we forgot them.”
“Forgot who?” says Dad impatiently.
“We wouldn’t forget them, Earl,”  Tim assures him.
“Auntie Carol and Uncle John, Grandpa.”
“Let’s just carry on shall we,” I say brightly while heading for the door.

We hurry to the parking lot  and head back home to my mom and dad’s house. Just as we’re pulling into the driveway, Mackenzie says, “Hey look, it’s sunny, Auntie Kathryn.” 
And as we all look up, there’s not a single cloud in the beautiful clear blue sky.
“Thank you for pointing that out to me, Mackenzie.”

In every life, a little rain must fall.

“The chicken might be too spicy for you, Dad.”
“You think so?”
“Yea, it says Cajun.”
“I’ll just scrape off the sauce.”
I shake my head.
“What do you think Mom’s having?” He carefully places the menu on the table.
“Some disgusting gruel I suppose.”
He chuckles. “Hospital food all looks the same. Grey.”
It’s been years since my Dad and I ate at a restaurant alone.
“Remember we used to go Christmas shopping, Dad? Mom would take Teresa and you’d take me?”
“Gosh haven’t thought about that in years.”
“I’d have my Christmas list and we’d go to Eatons so we could talk to the elevator operator.”
He takes off his glasses. “It was nice having someone tell you what floor to get off.”
I remember her crisp white gloves and the clank of the elevator’s cage door closing.
“Then we’d eat at the Chicken Roost. Their sauce was so good eh, Dad?”
“Too bad they’re gone.”
“Remember those juke boxes on the walls in the booths?”
He pauses. “You kids had to read every song title.”
“That’s because they were so funny.”
Our dinners arrive.
“Chicken’s too spicy,” he complains.
I study my Dad as he scrapes the orange coloured spice off his chicken breast. Don’t ever change, Dad, I think to myself. I feel like time is nipping at our heels. Relentless.
“Here, did you want some of mine?” I’d ordered the salmon.
“No, no…you go ahead.”
“I love you, Dad.”
“I love you too,” he smiles. “Wouldn’t find chicken like this at the Chicken Roost.”

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.  You’re the best!

Partners in Crime

Some of my family’s most memorable occasions are celebrated around my mother’s long dining room table.  I say long because we set a card table up at the end of it because the table has failed to grow with the family.  So on Easter Sunday, my sixteen-year-old nephew, our dear friend Don (the oldest gentleman at the table) and myself have been placed around the card table in what I affectionately call, “the cheap seats.”

“Ed almost fell asleep in church today,” I giggle to Don.
“Pardon?”
“Ed was falling asleep in church and almost fell on Mrs. Swindell.”
“Ed fell out the church window?” chimes my older sister.
“The church window?” my mother gasps.
“No. On Mrs. Swindell.”
“What was Mrs Swindell doing at the window with Ed,” pipes up my Dad.
“He wasn’t at the window.”  God give me strength.  “Mrs. Swindall sits beside Ed in the pew at church and he almost fell asleep on her.”
“I wasn’t sleeping today,” Ed snorts indignantly.
“There’s more lasagne,” my mother adds hastily.

The meal is delicious.  We almost make it to dessert without incident.
“Mom, can I have more garlic bread?”  Mackenzie reaches for the basket.
“Do you want my piece?  I don’t want it.”
I delicately pick up the crispy garlic bread to put on Mackenzie’s plate and promptly knock over his wine glass of peach juice onto the carpet.
“Oh Mom I’m so sorry!”
“Mackenzie get a cloth!” my sister says quickly.
“From where?”
“The kitchen!  Where else?”  hisses my sister.
I’m under the table cleaning up the juice when Mackenzie whispers in my ear, “Check out the lampshade.”
Scrambling from under the table and almost giving myself a concussion I whisper, “Where?”
“Is it on my new couch?” my mother says with alarm. (Remember, my mother’s couch is over ten years old!)
“No, Granny.”
“It is isn’t it?  What are you whispering?”
“Can’t somebody keep those dogs quiet?” grunts my Uncle.
The three dark spots of incriminating evidence are leaping off the lampshade.
“Just turn it to the wall,” I quietly hiss at my nephew.
“What?” he hisses back.
“TURN IT TOWARDS THE WALL!”
“You got juice on the wall?” my Dad shouts from across the table.
“Not on the good wallpaper.”  My Aunt’s hand flies to her throat.
“No.  On the lampshade, Granny,” snickers my nephew.  I shoot him a look that could turn him to vapour.
“The lampshade?” echoes my mother.
“It’s old anyway.  Don’t worry about it,” says my Dad.  “Why can’t somebody pass me the salt?”

And so another festive holiday is survived by all at the family homestead.

 
Sometimes we assume that when people get to a certain age they aren’t as competent as they used to be.  Unfair folks, but true.  That’s the furthest from the truth with my mom.  At 76, she’s as sharp as a tack.  A very sharp tack.  Last week my beautiful mother had emergency abdominal surgery.  Her angry appendix burst just as the surgeon was removing it.  “A bit mucky,” he muttered describing her festered appendix.  

And with surgery comes an endless array of pretty coloured pills and capsules.  So when my mom counted the pills in the little plastic cup that the nurse brought to her, she raised her eyebrows.
“There’s too many.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“The pills.”
“It’s your medication,” the nurse replied.
“What are they?”
Sighing the nurse showed her each individual pill.
“These two are antibiotics, this is Digoxin and this one is Avodart.”
“What’s that last one for?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I take that one too,” my father piped up from the adjacent chair.
“Do you have a heart condition?”
“No, but I have a prostate condition.”
The ashen-faced nurse sprinted out of the room and came rushing back with the surgical floor’s Pharmacist in tow.
“Have you been taking these at home?” she asked, slowly enunciating each word.
“Of course not,” snapped my mother.
“Your pharmacist.  She’s put it on your list of meds.”
“Well then perhaps she should try taking it.”

Incompetence. Comes in all shapes and sizes.

Weight Loss Progress Report:  I’ve lost 5 lbs!  The kitchen table leg has teeth marks, but I’ve lost 5 lbs.

My husband’s BlackBerry has become a member of our family.  BlackBerry has eaten breakfast with us at a swanky hotel in Washington, basked in the sun on the Florida coast, crashed my sister’s 50^th birthday party and has recently found religion.

I’m happy to announce that BlackBerry has a new friend, BlackBerry Storm.  Imagine my delight when my husband presented me with this lovely Christmas gift.  But to my surprise, we’ve become inseparable.  We exercise together, work side by side at my desk and have even shared the bathroom.  But what I don’t understand is my husband’s reaction to BlackBerry Storm joining our family.

We’re standing in line at the grocery store checkout last Saturday and just when we’re about to put our groceries on the counter, I hear the familiar sound of BlackBerry Storm announcing an incoming text message.  
“Just ignore it.”
“Why? I can’t.”  I’m frantically fumbling in my purse for the phone.
“Hurry up. Put this on the counter,” my husband says as he attempts to hand me a box of Cheerios.
“Where’s my phone?  Got it!”
I begin to weave my way past the shopping cart to an empty bench at the end of the counter. Lost in time, I sit down and begin to excitedly text an answer to my friend’s text message.
“I can’t believe you.”  He’s hovering above me.
“What?” I answer while I continue to text.
“The groceries,” he responds flatly.
“What about them?”
“You left me to do them.”
“Did you give her the bags?”
“Yes.”
“Did you have enough money?”  Texting just one more line.
“Yes.”
“Did she help you put them in the buggy?”
“Yessss,” he hisses impatiently.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“You sitting over here with that phone while I did the groceries.  It’s really annoying.”
Really?  Who knew.

Last year, my 15-year-old nephew almost went into cardiac arrest when I pulled out a feminine wipe from my purse so he could clean his hands at Tim Hortons.
“Oh my God! Put that away!!!”
“What?”
“That!” he shrieks pointing at my hand.
“You mean this wipe.”
“Shhhh.  God! Someone will see you.”
“You said you needed something for your hands.”
“Yea but not that!”
“It’s clean.”
“Get it away from me!”
Ending the torture, my sister and I wipe our hands and toss it in the garbage.

Surprise!
On a cold December afternoon, Ed and I, and several anxious little Yorkshire Terriers took a road trip in my friend’s van to their new home an hour and a half away.  We’re not five minutes into the trip and a familiar but unpleasant odour permeates the car.  Looking down, we see that two nervous little Yorkies have had an unfortunate accident in their crate.
“Oh My God.  Get rid of it!” snaps my husband.
“And just how am I supposed to do that?”
“Stick your hand in.”
“I’ll get right on that.”
“I can’t stand it!” he croaks through drive heaves. 
“You’re such a drama queen.”
“Open the window!”
“It’s minus ten.”
“Do something!” 
So I did.

“Here, put this under your nose.”
“What is it?”
“A feminine wipe.”
“Oh My God!!!”
“Well that’s it or nothing.”
“Why don’t you have perfume?”
“Just take it.”
Shuddering, he snatches the wipe from my hands and covers his nose.
“Better?”
“Yesssss.”  His hiss is slightly muffled by the dangling wipe.

Ladies, never under estimate the power of the feminine wipe.

Canadian Thanksgiving has come and gone and our American friends are about to celebrate their festive holiday.  I missed talking about Thanksgiving in October so I thought it appropriate to share my family’s holiday frivolity with you now.

A few days before Thanksgiving I get a phone call from my Dad.
“Bring a pie on Sunday.”
“Ok.  Pumpkin?  Any other fruit pie?”
“Yes, because no one likes your sister’s pie.”
“Really?” I say with genuine surprise.  “But we have it every year.”
“I know.”
Click.
Let the festivities begin.

The next day, Dad calls again.
“Don’t bring the pie.”
“Is Teresa making her pie?”
“Your mother says we’re eating your sister’s pie.  She can’t eat it all herself.”
“But why would she be eating…”
“Earl!” my mother hisses in the background.  “She’s bringing the pie because it would be too much for her to make it just for her and Mackenzie.”
“I’ll bring a banana cake.”
“Ok.  Haven’t had that in awhile.  Bring your squares.”
“Well I can…”
“I’m making the squares, Earl,” my mother corrects him.
“Just bring the cake.”
Click.
End of round two.

You guessed it.  This time it’s a voicemail message.
“Your mother says to bring a pumpkin pie.  Don’t bring the cake.”
Click.
When in doubt, don’t call back.

The big holiday is here and we arrive at the door.
“I got your message, Dad.  Here’s the pie.”
“Where’s the fruit pie?”
“What fruit pie?  You told me to bring a pumpkin pie.”
“But you said you were bringing a fruit pie too.”
“No, I said a cake.”
“That pie won’t be enough to feed everyone.”
“Well didn’t Teresa bring her pie?”  I’m starting to panic.  “I thought we were having that too?”
“Of course we are, dear.  It’ll be fine.”  I catch a glimpse of a floral apron flitting past my father and I.
I know I am in the twilight zone.

Dinner is delicious.  I’m dreading dessert.
“Who wants pumpkin pie?” my mother asks in a cheery voice.
“I want a piece of real pumpkin pie.”
“Now Earl, both pies are lovely.”
“What do mean, Dad, real pie?”  My sister is frantically smoothing the crisp linen napkin in her lap.
“Pie without that stuff in it.”
“What stuff?” 
“I’ll have a piece of Teresa’s pie, Mom.”  I cast a weak smile in my sister’s direction.
“I’ll have one of your squares.”
“A square!”  I’m starting to sweat.  “What squares, Dad?” 
“Your mother said you were bringing your squares.  So she didn’t make any.”
“Yea, Auntie Kathryn.  I want a square.”  Can you be charged for poking your nephew with a fork?
“That’s alright, dear, if you forgot the squares.  Your Aunt Hannah brought chocolates.  Pass this big piece of pie to Uncle John, please.”
“I was told NOT to bring any dessert this year,” my Aunt huffs indignantly.  
“So there’s no squares?”  My Dad looks at me grief stricken.
“Kathryn,” my sister whispers, “what’s he mean about my pie?”
Please God, give me strength!

And so ends another festive Thanksgiving dinner at the family homestead.  And only 31 days till Christmas. 

See you next year!

Do you have a festive family story to share?  Leave your comments.

…with his hearing aids! It’s like he’s been hit with shrapnel the way he suddenly rips them out of his ears and flings them onto the closest piece of furniture.
“Can’t hear a thing with these things,” he grunts.
I’m sure anyone with parents in their “golden years” can relate. Which brings me to this past August when dad’s hearing aids officially became enemies of the state.

We picked up Mom, Dad and my sister Carol from Hamilton to bring them to our place in London for a week. To begin with, I’m sure they don’t bring all that stuff with them that we crammed into the van when they go on their bus trips all over the globe. Anyway, my mother begins to recite her mental checklist while we’re sitting in their driveway.
“Do you have your hearing aids, Earl?”
“What?”
“Your hearing aids. Your heeeearing aids.”
Dad reaches over his shoulder to get his seatbelt and nods his head, “Yes, it’s fine.”

We’re making good time on Hwy. 401 and we’ve already tumbled out of the van at our usual Tim Horton’s in Brantford for a coffee and a bathroom break. We’re about 20 minutes away from London when Dad starts fidgeting around in his seat.
“What did you lose, Dad?”
“Nothing. I can’t find my hearing aids.”
My mother does one of those ‘Linda Blair in the Exorcist’ head turns and hisses, “You what?”
“I must have left them at home.”
My mother studies him for a moment and I know she’s going to choose her words carefully because I too have been frozen by that icy look.
“We’ll ask John to bring them when he comes on Monday.”
“What?”
“WE’LL ASK JOHN…oh this is just silly.”
With a wave of her hand, the discussion is ended.

Patience is a Virtue
My mother has made peace with the fact that she has to wear a hearing aid. She even took a course in lip reading at the church so she could better understand what people were saying. But Dad’s hearing aids are still a challenge for her.
“Your mother’s really the one who needs a hearing aid,” he whispers to me.
Oh Dad, I beg to differ. He’s sitting in his favourite chair in the living room and mom and I are sitting on the new couch (that’s how my mother affectionately refers to the 10 year old couch).
“I can’t believe Gideon (one of my yorkies) peed down the heat grate in the kitchen,” I say shaking my head.
“Oh the dirty bisom,” says my mother (I gather that a bisom is someone undesirable because my old Scottish Granny used the term frequently to describe some of Grandpa’s old friends).
“Who peed on the drapes?”
“Not the drapes, Earl. The grate.”
“I have blinds, Dad.”
“Well what were the grapes doing on the floor anyway?”
“NOT GRAPES, EARL! The heat graaattte!”
“Do you have your hearing aids in, Dad?”
“Can’t hear a thing with those things in,” he grunts.
“Really,” I reply with a smile, “who knew?”