Springtime in Alberta was such a hesitant yet fleeting moment. It was as if the land was trying to decide whether to stay frozen and flustered or to move forward, to defrost, and to call her friends out to play. “Excuse me Mr. Snow, can Sunshine come play hopscotch with me outside?”
Usually the weather jerked back and forth between snow storms and Chinooks that tripped and tumbled over the landscape, melted every pile of snow still sitting helplessly on the ground, hated by every resident who had stared at it, drove through it, and dug themselves out of it for the last eight months. There’s a reason you never heard, “Hey, lets go play out in the snow” from the lips of an adult.
Then without warning, it was there. Spring had happened. Nature finally got up the guts to snap off the icicles clinging to her and let the green come flowing out.
It was everywhere. Green. Leaves. Grass. The blossoms came and were gone in a week. It was a moment. It was Spring and suddenly it was over and Summer arrived to torch the grass as badly as Winter had cracked the pavement. But it was so fleeting and if you weren’t looking for it, you wouldn’t see it happen. One day you noticed that the river valley wasn’t so grey anymore, just as you didn’t notice yourselves turning from adolescents to adults. You suddenly saw the flush of health flowing through the trees in the river valley. “Oh goodness how you’ve grown! The last time I saw you, you were only this big!”
I was intrigued by the moment you saw the leaves turning yellow. As soon as it happened you spotted it, a single yellow leaf on an elm ruined the rest of the summer, much like when you found a grey hair on your head or in your beard. You saw that abrupt instant of decay and tracked it until finally, that cold and miserable winter you had long anticipated had arrived and every yellow leaf, once green, had dropped to the ground and had been blown away under a bush somewhere, shriveled and dark brown. “When did we get so old?” you asked yourselves.
Spring was an instant, and if you were lucky to be eighty, and paid close attention, you saw those moments, eighty precious fleeting moments, when nature and life budded into something daring, brief, and quickly snuffed out.
Friday, 20 May 2011
Monday, 25 April 2011
Kindergarten
Even though I was only four, I distinctly remember the anxiety I felt as my mother held my hand and lead me into my very first classroom. It was the mysterious "Kindergarten" at "School". What exactly these two things were elluded me for the most part, which was why I was so anxious.
I knew it was a place I would go every day with my twin brother, Jordan, to learn and that there were many different grades. Everything seemed dark and foreboding as we walked into the room. The sun had been bright and blinding outside and my little eyes took a moment to adjust to the indoor lighting. And then I beheld the most shocking thing.
Toys. I had absolutely no idea that I'd get to PLAY at Kindergarten! No one had said anything about a toy kitchen that was just my size, or a professional painting easel, again, just my size. There were buckets and buckets, all on shelves in a row, full of blocks and dolls and these weird Lego-type cubes that you could snap together and bend into all sorts of shapes. They even told us we'd get to have a nap at school. This was a little odd to me because I didn't have naps at home anymore. But I got to bring my big fluffy Beauty and the Beast blanket and kept it in my cubby outside the classroom.
It wasn't really my first day of school though. This was just an orientation, and I was heartbroken when I was told we were going home, all before I even got to lay a finger on those interesting cubes I'd walked passed only moments previous. The next day didn't come soon enough and every day after that was a perfect joy. I had fallen in love.
Soon enough, Fall crept up on us and my mother sent us to school in rain coats. They were made of shiny vinyl, which constantly stuck and caught on itself as our arms tried to swing gently as we walked. But they kept us dry and came down past our knees. Mine was pink and Jordan's was yellow. Unfortunately, the weather in Vancouver can be alarmingly unpredictable.
The first day our mother sent us to school in our rain coats, it was swelteringly hot out. Our class always went for a walk outside each day, but I don't remember why. We were either headed to another building of the school, all paired off and in a line, or we were just getting some exercise. In any case, we were told to put on our jackets and by the time we'd gotten outside, I felt like Jordan and I were the world's two biggest fools.
We were the only ones in the class wearing rain jackets. Everyone else was wearing a light jacket or a sweater. My bring pink vinyl raincoat on the other hand, didn't breathe and left me uncomfortable and sweaty. On top of that, our bright jackets made so much noise on our silent trek (no one said a word on these walks) that we became the centre of attention. Even our teacher's assistant said our jackets made it sound like it was raining and noted how ironic that was, rain jackets sounding like rain. I didn't think it was funny.
Halloween eventually rolled around and the school held a Haunted House in the same building as my Kindergarten room. The teacher's assistant said we could go and see it if we wanted and escorted those who said yes. There was absolutely no way I would step one foot out the door of my classroom. I was too scared to move even an inch closer to the Haunted House down the hall. Eerie music played from the room they'd set it up in, and spider webs and something green and black had been strung up around the door. I thought it indignant of them to put it in the same building as us Kindergartners. How dare they! Didn't they realize that we were just kids? We could get really scared and they didn't even care.
One of the boys in my class, a flippant uncaring boy, said he wanted to go. So our teacher took him. When he came back he said it wasn't scary and went back to playing with his toys as if he'd never left, completely unaffected. I tried to muscle up the courage to ask if I could go too, but eventually the day ended and I was left to wonder for the rest of my life what the Haunted House was like on the inside.
Winter eventually staked its claim on my little school. Instead of the incessant rain and the week of slushy snow that usually graced our city, we got dumped on. Snow was everywhere. My dad built an enormous sledding track. He banked it on each side and made it so long and winding and slick, I thought I'd never slow down and end up flying into traffic, which was where the track ended. Kids from all over the block came to play on it and I beamed when I got to tell them it was MY dad who built it.
Eventually the Winter break was upon me and I was loathe to leave school for an entire week. But my parents found ways to distract me. My dad called me in one day from playing in the snow, my mittens and snowsuit completely soaked, to write my numbers. He didn't make me spell them out, but he had me write 1 through 100 before I could go back out again. I was happy to do it and enjoyed the challenge. But when he told me later that I'd missed a few, I was annoyed with myself. It was repetition, how did I skip some of them?
Before I knew it I was back to school and the snow was still on the ground. We were allowed to throw snowballs at each other but only if we were in the pit, a play area with a cement wall around it that you could only access by descending a small set of stairs. We were also told that if you got hurt, it was your own fault because you were the one who'd chosen to enter the pit. So you weren't allowed to come and cry to one of the supervisors.
That didn't seem very reasonable to me. What if you were playing nicely and then someone attacked you and you never had the chance to defend yourself? What if they ganged up on you and you couldn't cry for help? What if they gave you a face wash and you suffocated to death?
I descended into the pit anyway, wary of any unseen attack that could come from either side. I saw kids all over the place, playing and laughing and throwing snowballs. I was excited and spotted an older boy not too far away. He was playing with a few other kids so I didn't think he would notice if I threw a snowball at him too. I scooped up the cold wet snow, formed a ball and chucked it at his back. It exploded on impact and I smiled from ear to ear. And then he turned around.
My smile vanished and he ran towards me, snow in hand, and put me in my place. I left the pit and went straight to one of the supervisors. She told me, in a kind but authoritative voice, that I'd been warned and that those were the consequences to the snowball fight. I didn't think it was fair. The boy's reaction had been more than a little excessive.
Eventually the snow melted and all that was left on the ground was pavement, asphalt and gravel. The pit was once again open to anyone who wanted to play there. One of my friends told a group of us excitedly that she'd planted one of the seeds we'd found and that it had started growing. We were all wide-eyed and astounded, clearly impressed and jealous, but ran following her into the pit to the spot the plant had burst up out of the gravel.
It was up against the concrete wall, about three inches tall, spiralling, green and beautiful. The jealousy I'd already felt exploded inside me. I didn't believe that she had actually planted it and figured it was a weed. We even asked one of the supervisors what the plant was and she confirmed my suspicions; it was a weed. The other girls tried to show the supervisor the kind of seed it had supposedly sprouted from, but she still said it was a weed, quickly moving on to avoid any other questions or confrontations we might present to her. I knew my friend had lied, but I wanted so desperately to plant one of those seeds myself and to see it grow, to have that kind of nurturing power.
But all I had was a penny. I'd found it somewhere and wanted to bury it and come back for it later. The idea that I could have a secret treasure, right under every one's noses, was intoxicating. So I planted it against the wall near one of the staircases when no one was looking. I giggled to myself, secretive, eyeing anyone who might look in my direction and discover what I'd done, and eventually went back to class when the buzzer rang.
The next day I went to unearth my penny but couldn't find it anywhere. I looked and looked and dug and dug, but it wasn't anywhere and I just knew that the girl who'd lied about the plant was the one who'd stolen it. I asked her for it back but she said she didn't take it. I knew she was lying, she was always so snotty and bossy. So I told one of the supervisors and she asked the girl if she'd stolen it. Again she said no, so the supervisor told me I'd probably just lost it. No one would believe me or take my side. So I ran away.
I went to another side of the school where no one liked to play and sat on the ground against a wall. I put my head on my knees and zipped my jacket up over my head so I could have a secret hiding place and cry. But eventually a group of older girls found me and the next thing I knew they were unzipping my jacket and asking me what was wrong and if I was okay. I had been rescued.
Every day that year, Jordan and I would sit together at home on the coffee table and watch Barney and Friends before we left for another adventure at Kindergarten. I pushed my twin away most of the time, desperate to break out on my own and do things by myself. But eventually, I started looking for him, enjoying his company and humour. As we grew older I spent more and more time with him and we had more adventures as we graduated from one grade to the next. But those stories are for another time and another blog...
Wednesday, 2 March 2011
It Was Me
A lady came to my till at the grocery store the other day with her children and a ton of groceries. This isn't unusual. What was unusual were the two aluminum pans she sent down the belt. I'd never had a customer buy them before but I realized very quickly that they were for the bottom of your oven and that they are extremely flimsy.
I scanned these pans and then placed them on top of some other items and then decided that they should go underneath something so that they wouldn't get bent or shoved around. As I was doing this, the lady got very upset with me and yelled at me to stop it because I was going to wreck them. She shoved my hands away and I very quietly continued to scan the rest of her items.
As I was waiting for her to pay, she touched my hand and smiled and sort of laughed and said she was sorry, but that last time the cashier bent them and they got cracked and she couldn't use them anymore. This wasn't my first angry customer of the day, so was on the verge of tears and didn't look at her or say anything. I just sort of nodded my head.
Later on when it had slowed down and I didn't have any customers in line, I told one of my fellow cashiers about what had happened. I wondered aloud if some people even realize how awful they can be? Do they realize that they are the thing that wrecked someone else's day?
And then it was my turn.
Yesterday I had a customer come in who wanted to split her groceries into two separate bills. That was fine with me; customers did it all the time. So I ran her first batch through and she decided to try and use her new bank card because I told her she would get points for using it, but she couldn't remember her pin. At that point she resorted to using her Visa, which I told her we don't accept. She looked at me and said, "You do if that's the only thing I have." This is true. If a customer comes in and has no cash, no MasterCard, no debit, then yes, I can accept the Visa. I said "okay" to the woman and let her swipe her card, but as she did so, I wanted to say, "If you knew that we'd take it if you didn't have anything else, then you've been here several times before, and you came in knowing we don't take Visa." She knew better.
We finished that transaction and then I ran through her second batch. This time she paid with cash. She wanted the points again, but I told her she only gets them if she pays with her bank card. She started to fuss a little about it but I'd already moved on to the next customer and she'd moved to the end of the belt. So she let it be. But only for a moment. Forlorn, she held out her hand and said, "Oh no, I forgot to give you all my coupons." I told her it was too late because we'd already finished the transaction. She looked at me and said, "You can still do it for me. Or I'll just return all this stuff." Aggravated, I told her to go down to the last till and that the cashier there could help her.
I was getting annoyed and in my mind she was being rude, and the cashier at the last till was my supervisor, who knows very well how to handle rude customers. So away she went.
And then she was back. Apparently the five dollar bill I gave her in change wasn't up to par. It had been ripped in half and taped back together and she wanted a new one because, "with my luck it'll rip in half in my purse." So I gave her a new one and she went away.
About 15 minutes later, I had a man come through my till who asked me how my night was going. I told him I'd had some interesting customers. He laughed and asked me for an example. So I gave him one. I told him all about the lady who wanted points and then wanted to use her Visa, which she very well knew we didn't take, and then she wanted me to redo her order so that she could use her coupons, and then she wanted a new five. He laughed and shook his head and went on his way. Then, not two minutes later, guess who showed up at my till?
The lady. I was a little nervous seeing as I didn't know why she was still in the store and wondered if she'd overheard everything I'd just said about her. She gave me a package of chicken to ring through for her and said, a little sadness in her voice, and without an ounce of bitterness, "And I know you don't want to take my card, so I'll just have to see if I have enough to pay you in change."
It was at that moment, as she was scrounging around in her change purse looking for enough quarters and nickels to make up seven dollars, that I realized I'd become the person that had wrecked someone else's day. It was me. I was the thoughtless unkind villain who had unknowingly slammed the door on any sunshine that had been streaming in on them. As I held out my hand to the change she slowly counted out to me, something pulled in me and I fought to find the words to apologize, to tell her that what I had done was awful, that I shouldn't have talked about her to a stranger the way I did. But no words came, and I stood there as though I didn't even recognize her.
She gave me exact change and said thank you when I gave her the receipt and then she left.
The thought of what I had done has plagued me ever since that moment and I keep praying that I will meet her again and be able to make amends for what I'd said and how I'd treated her. But until then, I will do my best never to assume that these strangers mean to hurt me, but that they simply need someone to be patient and kind and understanding.
I scanned these pans and then placed them on top of some other items and then decided that they should go underneath something so that they wouldn't get bent or shoved around. As I was doing this, the lady got very upset with me and yelled at me to stop it because I was going to wreck them. She shoved my hands away and I very quietly continued to scan the rest of her items.
As I was waiting for her to pay, she touched my hand and smiled and sort of laughed and said she was sorry, but that last time the cashier bent them and they got cracked and she couldn't use them anymore. This wasn't my first angry customer of the day, so was on the verge of tears and didn't look at her or say anything. I just sort of nodded my head.
Later on when it had slowed down and I didn't have any customers in line, I told one of my fellow cashiers about what had happened. I wondered aloud if some people even realize how awful they can be? Do they realize that they are the thing that wrecked someone else's day?
And then it was my turn.
Yesterday I had a customer come in who wanted to split her groceries into two separate bills. That was fine with me; customers did it all the time. So I ran her first batch through and she decided to try and use her new bank card because I told her she would get points for using it, but she couldn't remember her pin. At that point she resorted to using her Visa, which I told her we don't accept. She looked at me and said, "You do if that's the only thing I have." This is true. If a customer comes in and has no cash, no MasterCard, no debit, then yes, I can accept the Visa. I said "okay" to the woman and let her swipe her card, but as she did so, I wanted to say, "If you knew that we'd take it if you didn't have anything else, then you've been here several times before, and you came in knowing we don't take Visa." She knew better.
We finished that transaction and then I ran through her second batch. This time she paid with cash. She wanted the points again, but I told her she only gets them if she pays with her bank card. She started to fuss a little about it but I'd already moved on to the next customer and she'd moved to the end of the belt. So she let it be. But only for a moment. Forlorn, she held out her hand and said, "Oh no, I forgot to give you all my coupons." I told her it was too late because we'd already finished the transaction. She looked at me and said, "You can still do it for me. Or I'll just return all this stuff." Aggravated, I told her to go down to the last till and that the cashier there could help her.
I was getting annoyed and in my mind she was being rude, and the cashier at the last till was my supervisor, who knows very well how to handle rude customers. So away she went.
And then she was back. Apparently the five dollar bill I gave her in change wasn't up to par. It had been ripped in half and taped back together and she wanted a new one because, "with my luck it'll rip in half in my purse." So I gave her a new one and she went away.
About 15 minutes later, I had a man come through my till who asked me how my night was going. I told him I'd had some interesting customers. He laughed and asked me for an example. So I gave him one. I told him all about the lady who wanted points and then wanted to use her Visa, which she very well knew we didn't take, and then she wanted me to redo her order so that she could use her coupons, and then she wanted a new five. He laughed and shook his head and went on his way. Then, not two minutes later, guess who showed up at my till?
The lady. I was a little nervous seeing as I didn't know why she was still in the store and wondered if she'd overheard everything I'd just said about her. She gave me a package of chicken to ring through for her and said, a little sadness in her voice, and without an ounce of bitterness, "And I know you don't want to take my card, so I'll just have to see if I have enough to pay you in change."
It was at that moment, as she was scrounging around in her change purse looking for enough quarters and nickels to make up seven dollars, that I realized I'd become the person that had wrecked someone else's day. It was me. I was the thoughtless unkind villain who had unknowingly slammed the door on any sunshine that had been streaming in on them. As I held out my hand to the change she slowly counted out to me, something pulled in me and I fought to find the words to apologize, to tell her that what I had done was awful, that I shouldn't have talked about her to a stranger the way I did. But no words came, and I stood there as though I didn't even recognize her.
She gave me exact change and said thank you when I gave her the receipt and then she left.
The thought of what I had done has plagued me ever since that moment and I keep praying that I will meet her again and be able to make amends for what I'd said and how I'd treated her. But until then, I will do my best never to assume that these strangers mean to hurt me, but that they simply need someone to be patient and kind and understanding.
Tuesday, 8 February 2011
Turn yer brains on!
Ok people, this is a rant, but a purposeful one.
I was at my new job today (cashier at No Frills, woohoo!) and I had a customer who said "you're a hard working girl!" I thought that was a pretty nice thing to say. And then he handed me a little flyer that had "What do Jehovas' Witnesses Believe?" written across the front.
I thought that was a pretty nice gesture. I, as most of you know, am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Some of us call ourselves "Mormons" but I prefer to stay away from that term because of all the negative connotations related to it.
As an LDS person, I don't like to bash with other religions, so when someone hands me information on their church, I take it with a smile because I like to share my beliefs with others as well as learn about other religions out there, especially Christian religions. Well, not "christian" by definition, (the "proper" definition sucks) but any religion that believes in Jesus Christ as the Son of God and the Redeemer of mankind.
Anyway, back to the pamphlet. On my break I read it just to find out exactly what the JW people believe. It was all pretty basic but then I read a part that had to do with 144 thousand select people who will be set aside for a special task after this life. I'm not about to bash, so don't get your back up. Latter-Day Saints also have a belief about 144 thousand souls.
The reference comes from the New Testament, Revelation chapter 7. (To view the KJV online click this URL http://lds.org/scriptures/nt/rev/7?lang=eng). I couldn't quite remember what this scripture said or what it meant. So while I was still on my break, I pulled out my iPhone and googled "lds 144 thousand."
What I found is what this rant/blog is about.
Almost the entire first page were links with false claims that LDS people believe 144 thousand people will receive exaltaion or eternal life or get to live with God. They said we don't say that anyone is going to hell, but that we do claim that only a certain number of people will "make it".
This made me so mad!
First of all, it's not true. Second of all, these people obviously didn't do ANY research about our beliefs. We have another set of scriptures called The Doctrine and Covenants, which is a set of revelations received in these last days by our prophets. In Section 77, the prophet Joseph Smith inquired of the Lord about certain scriptures and what they meant. In verse 11, he specifically asks about the 144 thousand mentioned in Revelation, and written immediately after the question is an answer! (To view this scripture online click this URL http://lds.org/scriptures/dc-testament/dc/77.11?lang=eng#10) And it has absolutely NOTHING to do with ANY of the heresay listed on the links I found on Google.
Come on people. Turn yer brains on! What is the point of spreading totally false information all over the dang place? What is the point of telling the world what you THINK you know? In stead of "informing" everyone about everyone else, why don't we do some real research first. If you want to know something about Latter-Day Saints, ASK ONE! If you want to know something about apples, find someone who's made it their business to know everything about them.
Get it?
Don't believe just anything you see or hear or read. Find the truth for yourself.
I was at my new job today (cashier at No Frills, woohoo!) and I had a customer who said "you're a hard working girl!" I thought that was a pretty nice thing to say. And then he handed me a little flyer that had "What do Jehovas' Witnesses Believe?" written across the front.
I thought that was a pretty nice gesture. I, as most of you know, am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Some of us call ourselves "Mormons" but I prefer to stay away from that term because of all the negative connotations related to it.
As an LDS person, I don't like to bash with other religions, so when someone hands me information on their church, I take it with a smile because I like to share my beliefs with others as well as learn about other religions out there, especially Christian religions. Well, not "christian" by definition, (the "proper" definition sucks) but any religion that believes in Jesus Christ as the Son of God and the Redeemer of mankind.
Anyway, back to the pamphlet. On my break I read it just to find out exactly what the JW people believe. It was all pretty basic but then I read a part that had to do with 144 thousand select people who will be set aside for a special task after this life. I'm not about to bash, so don't get your back up. Latter-Day Saints also have a belief about 144 thousand souls.
The reference comes from the New Testament, Revelation chapter 7. (To view the KJV online click this URL http://lds.org/scriptures/nt/rev/7?lang=eng). I couldn't quite remember what this scripture said or what it meant. So while I was still on my break, I pulled out my iPhone and googled "lds 144 thousand."
What I found is what this rant/blog is about.
Almost the entire first page were links with false claims that LDS people believe 144 thousand people will receive exaltaion or eternal life or get to live with God. They said we don't say that anyone is going to hell, but that we do claim that only a certain number of people will "make it".
This made me so mad!
First of all, it's not true. Second of all, these people obviously didn't do ANY research about our beliefs. We have another set of scriptures called The Doctrine and Covenants, which is a set of revelations received in these last days by our prophets. In Section 77, the prophet Joseph Smith inquired of the Lord about certain scriptures and what they meant. In verse 11, he specifically asks about the 144 thousand mentioned in Revelation, and written immediately after the question is an answer! (To view this scripture online click this URL http://lds.org/scriptures/dc-testament/dc/77.11?lang=eng#10) And it has absolutely NOTHING to do with ANY of the heresay listed on the links I found on Google.
Come on people. Turn yer brains on! What is the point of spreading totally false information all over the dang place? What is the point of telling the world what you THINK you know? In stead of "informing" everyone about everyone else, why don't we do some real research first. If you want to know something about Latter-Day Saints, ASK ONE! If you want to know something about apples, find someone who's made it their business to know everything about them.
Get it?
Don't believe just anything you see or hear or read. Find the truth for yourself.
Saturday, 22 January 2011
No Fear!
The theme of everything my dad has taught me is "No Fear!"
Whenever I talk to my husband about "my dad" I have to be specific. As soon as I mention him, Brandon's automatic response is, "which one?" to which I either respond "Grant" (my birth father who I met when I was six) or "Ken" (my step-father who I thought my birth father until I was six).
This story is about my birth father, Grant.
The first time my twin brother, Jordan, and I came to visit our father and his wife, Julie, we were mannerless and terrified of everything. We sat down to have dinner, spaghetti, and they watched in horror as Jordan and I bent our heads downt to the edge of the table and, using our forks, scraped the food off of our plates and into our mouths. The knife by the side of my plate wasn't neccessary, in my mind. I could simply use the edge of my fork. And as for the spoon next to my plate... well I had absolutely no idea what that was for.
I suppose the very next instant was when all my formal training began.
After that I knew how to set a table, which hand to put each utensil in, and how the rules applied in reverse for those who were left-handed, such as my father. That was also when I learned why he would never let me sit on his right-hand side at the dinner table.
Every moment with my dad was a learning experience.
My father is a carpenter and his father was a carpenter. During one of my childhood weekend visits, I noticed a wood carving hanging on the wall in his bedroom. It said "STUD". I didn't know what a stud was so I asked him and he went on to explain what a stud is in the carpentry world and then explained what the slang term meant. I had no idea what slang was and after he finished talking, I still had no idea why he had carved that specific word and put it up on the wall. Though I did get the impression that my father thought pretty highly of himself.
After that my dad taught me how to do all sorts of things I never would have thought of doing, like building a bird house. I was scared to do it and dug my heels in a little because I was afraid of what I did not know. What if I did it wrong? What if I hit my thumb with the hammer? What if I didn't know what to do? My dad was probably blown away by the sheer amount of 'what ifs' and the completely illogical fear I had displayed. But he wasn't about to back down. He was going to make me build that birdhouse for my own good! And build it I did.
After that I had an elated sense of accomplishment and every time I looked at that little birdhouse I beamed and thought to myself, "I did that...I did something I had no idea how to do. And it was fun. And it is beautiful." Almost everything my dad taught me had to do with being outside.
I, like my father, was born and raised on the west coast, where it rains...a lot. But it wasn't until after I had met him that I truly discovered snails. I'd always known they were out there but I never really noticed them. Until one day while I was visiting my dad, I complained about being bored. So my father sent me outside to go and look for snails. Snails? What an odd thing to do. Where do I find them? He told me to look in the bushes and the plants.
I figured this was probably going to be a pretty fruitless task. Bushes were huge and had so many leaves and branches. But it had just rained and it wasn't very long before I found my first snail. I was addicted after that, and all the little creatures that came out after the rain (except spiders, never spiders) became a part of my love-life. I was their guardian and their watcher. I would collect them and watch them crawl along the cement steps to our house and cry out in horror at anyone who prepared to squash them with an eager foot.
Since I moved to Alberta, I haven't seen a single snail. I have seen more than my share of Daddy Long Legs, Lady Bugs, and Dragon Flies, but not a single snail. Then a few months ago we went on a trip to California and it rained for four of the eight days we were there. One morning on our walk to Disneyland, I spotted a snail on the sidewalk. I was so happy and excited that my heart almost brimmed over with love. I quickly picked it up and put it back in the bushes between the sidewalk and the road. Brandon stopped and looked back when he realized after a few paces that I wasn't beside him anymore. He looked at me absolutely perplexed and said, "What are you doing?" "Rescuing the snail!" I said. And then we continued on, until I found another one. And another one and another one until at some point Brandon almost lost it on me.
"They're just snails! Why does it matter?" "They're important to me! And it's not like we're in a hurry." He was frustrated with me after that because he didn't understand why I would spend the time picking up tiny critters. But I couldn't make him understand.
There was one day when I was about ten that my dad had taken us to Langley to visit his mother, Grandma Lou. She lived in a little cottage surrounded by woods, fields of tall grass and her own planted garden. We were about to leave and it had just rained (surprise surprise) and I was outside looking for critters. The first one I found was a big fat black slug. I crouched down on the concrete path and stared at it close up, watching it slowly muscle its way across the path to the other side of the garden. Noticing the rivets running down its body, I also noticed my Grandmother's sandaled foot come into view and land flat overtop of my little garden companion.
I was mortified.
I looked up at my Grandma Lou and discovered that she was completely at ease, totally okay with having just squashed my friend. "Why did you kill it?" I asked. She told me they get into her garden and wreck the plants. I figured that was a pretty logical reason. And after all, there were so many other slugs. But I still died a little on the inside.
My dad was and still is all about new experiences. He pushed me to try new things and I am eternally grateful for that. I stopped visiting him when I was twelve and reconnected with him when I was seventeen. But I wish we had never stopped visiting and talking. I learned so much from him and I think I would have been a more fearless person if I had spent more time with him. But we're close again now and he is still an enduring example to me of "No Fear!"
Whenever I talk to my husband about "my dad" I have to be specific. As soon as I mention him, Brandon's automatic response is, "which one?" to which I either respond "Grant" (my birth father who I met when I was six) or "Ken" (my step-father who I thought my birth father until I was six).
This story is about my birth father, Grant.
The first time my twin brother, Jordan, and I came to visit our father and his wife, Julie, we were mannerless and terrified of everything. We sat down to have dinner, spaghetti, and they watched in horror as Jordan and I bent our heads downt to the edge of the table and, using our forks, scraped the food off of our plates and into our mouths. The knife by the side of my plate wasn't neccessary, in my mind. I could simply use the edge of my fork. And as for the spoon next to my plate... well I had absolutely no idea what that was for.
I suppose the very next instant was when all my formal training began.
After that I knew how to set a table, which hand to put each utensil in, and how the rules applied in reverse for those who were left-handed, such as my father. That was also when I learned why he would never let me sit on his right-hand side at the dinner table.
Every moment with my dad was a learning experience.
My father is a carpenter and his father was a carpenter. During one of my childhood weekend visits, I noticed a wood carving hanging on the wall in his bedroom. It said "STUD". I didn't know what a stud was so I asked him and he went on to explain what a stud is in the carpentry world and then explained what the slang term meant. I had no idea what slang was and after he finished talking, I still had no idea why he had carved that specific word and put it up on the wall. Though I did get the impression that my father thought pretty highly of himself.
After that my dad taught me how to do all sorts of things I never would have thought of doing, like building a bird house. I was scared to do it and dug my heels in a little because I was afraid of what I did not know. What if I did it wrong? What if I hit my thumb with the hammer? What if I didn't know what to do? My dad was probably blown away by the sheer amount of 'what ifs' and the completely illogical fear I had displayed. But he wasn't about to back down. He was going to make me build that birdhouse for my own good! And build it I did.
After that I had an elated sense of accomplishment and every time I looked at that little birdhouse I beamed and thought to myself, "I did that...I did something I had no idea how to do. And it was fun. And it is beautiful." Almost everything my dad taught me had to do with being outside.
I, like my father, was born and raised on the west coast, where it rains...a lot. But it wasn't until after I had met him that I truly discovered snails. I'd always known they were out there but I never really noticed them. Until one day while I was visiting my dad, I complained about being bored. So my father sent me outside to go and look for snails. Snails? What an odd thing to do. Where do I find them? He told me to look in the bushes and the plants.
I figured this was probably going to be a pretty fruitless task. Bushes were huge and had so many leaves and branches. But it had just rained and it wasn't very long before I found my first snail. I was addicted after that, and all the little creatures that came out after the rain (except spiders, never spiders) became a part of my love-life. I was their guardian and their watcher. I would collect them and watch them crawl along the cement steps to our house and cry out in horror at anyone who prepared to squash them with an eager foot.
Since I moved to Alberta, I haven't seen a single snail. I have seen more than my share of Daddy Long Legs, Lady Bugs, and Dragon Flies, but not a single snail. Then a few months ago we went on a trip to California and it rained for four of the eight days we were there. One morning on our walk to Disneyland, I spotted a snail on the sidewalk. I was so happy and excited that my heart almost brimmed over with love. I quickly picked it up and put it back in the bushes between the sidewalk and the road. Brandon stopped and looked back when he realized after a few paces that I wasn't beside him anymore. He looked at me absolutely perplexed and said, "What are you doing?" "Rescuing the snail!" I said. And then we continued on, until I found another one. And another one and another one until at some point Brandon almost lost it on me.
"They're just snails! Why does it matter?" "They're important to me! And it's not like we're in a hurry." He was frustrated with me after that because he didn't understand why I would spend the time picking up tiny critters. But I couldn't make him understand.
There was one day when I was about ten that my dad had taken us to Langley to visit his mother, Grandma Lou. She lived in a little cottage surrounded by woods, fields of tall grass and her own planted garden. We were about to leave and it had just rained (surprise surprise) and I was outside looking for critters. The first one I found was a big fat black slug. I crouched down on the concrete path and stared at it close up, watching it slowly muscle its way across the path to the other side of the garden. Noticing the rivets running down its body, I also noticed my Grandmother's sandaled foot come into view and land flat overtop of my little garden companion.
I was mortified.
I looked up at my Grandma Lou and discovered that she was completely at ease, totally okay with having just squashed my friend. "Why did you kill it?" I asked. She told me they get into her garden and wreck the plants. I figured that was a pretty logical reason. And after all, there were so many other slugs. But I still died a little on the inside.
My dad was and still is all about new experiences. He pushed me to try new things and I am eternally grateful for that. I stopped visiting him when I was twelve and reconnected with him when I was seventeen. But I wish we had never stopped visiting and talking. I learned so much from him and I think I would have been a more fearless person if I had spent more time with him. But we're close again now and he is still an enduring example to me of "No Fear!"
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