Earl & Isie

My parents are here with me this week so I’m spending time with them and not at my computer! 

I am so happy to have them here and everyday is a blessing! 

See you next week!

Hey Dad,
Remember when we all used to pile into your green Ford station wagon and you’d take us to Camp Kiawa?  Girl Guides were our lives back then weren’t they?  You’d start saving those plastic juice bottles in the winter, carefully rinsing them out and storing them in the fruit cellar so we’d have something to take our water in to summer camp. 

We’d count the long days until school let out because we knew we’d be leaving soon for camp.  Studying the list of “What to Bring” that our Girl Guide Leaders gave us, you’d help us study that list, making check marks here and crossouts there.  The sleeping bags would be aired out and ground sheets checked for holes.  Nametags would be sewn in clothes and our blue camp hats covered in coloured pins, precious macramé treasures and dried straw crafts from the previous summer were gently packed in the top of our suitcases.

Flashlights were your speciality.  You tested batteries and bulbs.  Packed extra EverReady batteries.  Wrote our names on pieces of white adhesive tape and attached them to our flashlights to make it easier for us to recognize them.  Mom packed bright orange and green aerosol cans of OFF mosquito repellent and plastic bottles of CopperTone suntan lotion with the cute dog yanking on the little girl’s bathing suit bottoms.

We always had a full carload didn’t we Dad?  Some of the other girls’ parents weren’t able to take them so you made room in our car.  A couple of us rode with the bulky luggage in the back of the station wagon while others who might get car sick rode in the front.  Plastic bags were always at the ready under the passenger seats. 

You’d sing our campfire songs with us, the excited chatter and giggling increasing by every mile.  Pulling into the wide metal camp gates, you’d listen patiently to the Girl Guide assigned to the gate and smile even though you could have recited those directions yourself.  The car would crawl down the gravel laneway towards the lake to where we’d call home for the next two weeks.

Rain or shine you’d park the car in the grassy entrance to the campground and help all of us lug our gear across the field to our canvas paradise.  Most parents just dropped their kids off at the laneway and waved goodbye.  Not you Dad.  You’d chat with the Leaders and offer to help carry a box or two into the Mess Tent.  The delighted Leaders would offer you a home baked cookie or square to eat on the way back home.

When it was finally time to say goodbye, you’d have one last look in our crowded tents and give us a big hug and kiss.  “We love you and be good” were always your last words.  After one final glance in back of the station wagon to make sure nobody had left anything behind, you’d slowly buckle your seatbelt and give a quick wave out the window as you carefully manoeuvred the car back up the dusty narrow laneway.

Once your taillights were out of site, I’d have that sinking “don’t go moment” but the shrill sound of the Leader’s whistle snapped me back to the task at hand and I’d run into line filing into the Mess tent with the rest of my excited fellow campers.

Thank you, Dad for always loving me.  You truly are the real thing.

Love Kathryn

My dad is 80 years young!  He embraced this incredible milestone birthday at the end of December.  My family is here this week for thier annual winter visit so I’m not writing anything new today. 

Many of my friends’ precious parents have left this world to continue their spiritual journeys with God so I thought I’d honour my dad today for being the wonderful person he is!  I wrote this post to celebrate him in my life last Father’s Day. 

“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!

Welcome to my summer vacation!  Notice the warm ocean breeze blowing through the palm trees and the sound of the waves lapping at the shore, the warm sunshine caressing my skin.  Can’t see it?  NEITHER CAN I!  My sandy beach is the new carpeting I’m lying on that my husband wanted put throughout our upstairs bedrooms.

Sandy carpet aside, making buying decisions with your spouse can be “challenging.“  We almost divorced over the Jacuzzi tub hubbie wanted for the guest bathroom we renovated two years ago.  What’s wrong with a tub from The Home Depot?  Well that’s not a specialty bathroom store. 

Make a Plan
Well the specialty bank account has run dry!  How can we make spending decisions with our partners without one of us feeling like a casualty?  Financial guru Suze Orman suggests in her article, “Financial Couples Therapy“ in the November 2009 issue of O Magazine, that you need to make a plan together.  “A recent PayPal survey found that money is the number one cause of arguments among American couples…” says Orman.  Is there a closed circuit camera in my house?

Making More Money ≠ More Power
Orman goes on to say that it doesn’t matter who makes more money – both spouses have equal say in what happens with the family finances.  “You need to understand the family finances and weigh in on all decisions,” says Orman.  I have to work on this one.

The Art of Respectful Negotiation
It’s taken us a very long time to grasp this concept.  But we’ve come to the realization that marriage is give and take.  Carpet this year, vacation next year. And the spouse that can shout the loudest is not always right.  We now have a code word to say if we find ourselves slipping into muddy waters — “will not” — usually makes us laugh so the argument ends anyway!   We have to come back and revisit the issue when both of us are in a more “negotiable” mood.

How do you and your spouse make spending decisions?  All guidance and words of wisdom welcome.

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.