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!"

Not My Cup of Tea, Not Even My Cup

Okay, I'm sorry, but this is going to be a total 180 from my last post. I do not feel tall and beautiful, I am not a strong little flower. But I will preface this post by warning you that I've been having a buttload of anxiety and depression this past week topped off with a heavy dousing of hopelessness the last two days. Also, it's 8am and I'm eating Candy Cane and Dark Chocolate with Mint Truffle Hershey's Kisses as I write this.



Does anyone else feel like the world totally sucks right now?!?!



As I drove Brandon to work this morning, I chanted out loud "I hate my life, I hate my life, I hate my rotten lousy life". I can't get a job in my field, I have family members who like to share my personal information, I have seemlingly reasonless anxiety that verges on dabilitating, and so many people in this world are just cruel, selfish and thoughtless.



Now that I think about it, as I was chanting I probably made Brandon feel like it was his fault, which it totally isn't. That man loves me so much. He puts up with the bad/mean things I do on purpose and snuggles me and tells me he loves me no matter how grouchy and unkind I am.



And he works so hard and gets so little in return. Which is reason number one why I'm so infuriated this morning.



Brandon works for a company (which shall remain nameless because I just can't afford to be sued for libel right now) that DOES NOT appreciate him. He's been working for them for two years and has put up with all sorts of crap from them. He moved from Calgary to Edmonton, was laid off, and then moved back to Calgary to continue working for them.



Granted, this probably wasn't the best/smartest move on his part, but the opportunity for decently paying jobs has been sparse. I'll get to that little bundle of wonderment later.



Anyway, Brandon has proven his loyalty time and time again. Finally, after more than a year working for them, they finally decided to move him from the bottom of the pile and give him a promotion. He was ecstatic! I was ecstatic, though wary. And for a few months, we were golden.



I wouldn't say I live a life of luxury. I don't go out and buy every and anything that tickles my fancy. I have a lot of self-control when it comes to spending our money and I generally run with this question in mind: Do I need it? If not, is it worth it?



So for those few months at said un-named business, we weren't living the life of money, but we were finally at a point where we didn't have to worry if our bills were going to get paid, or if renting a movie this week was going to put us past our overdraft limit. We were finally safe.



And then....



On Monday, Brandon came home from work and told me he wasn't working the next day. Even though he'd been promoted, for the past month or so, he'd been doing a job that had nothing to do with his position. He'd been invited to participate in the training required for his new position, but on Monday after he got back to the shop, he found two pieces of paper tacked up on the wall. One was a list of all those who would be participating in the training the next day, and the other was a list of people who would be doing other jobs for the day.



Brandon's name wasn't on either. Which means, his promotion was revoked.



Say what?!



I hate that saying, but seriously, WHAT?! This is absolutely ridiculous! I know Brandon had a review last week and that he'd been missing some things on his job sites, newbie mistakes, but even the vetrans at the company STILL make those mistakes and no one says a word about it and they still have jobs every day. And can someone please tell me why new guys who've only been there for a month are working, but Brandon is told to stay home?



I've told Brandon to TALK TO THEM! Tell them how he feels, give them his perspective. But he tells me he's tried, and nothing ever comes of it. So, some might ask us, why doesn't he just quit and find a new job? I've been asking him that same question for over a year. The fact is, it's a really good safety net. Brandon doesn't have any post-secondary education, and at this point, we can't afford for him to get any. And in all honesty, I don't think it would make a difference. I've got a bachelor's degree, and where do I work? At Ricky's All Day Grill in Shawnessy.



Graduates can't get a job anywhere because everyone wants five to eight years of experience. And the economy is so crappy right now that the babyboomers are coming out of retirement. Who do you think they're going to choose? The vetran who they don't have to train? Or the new guy who is eager as anything but doesn't have a lick of experience?



Boooo on the economy! BOOOOOO!



So now we're stuck between a rock and a hard place. Brandon doesn't get any respect or appreciation, but he can't quit because there aren't any employers who will hire him without experience and pay him what he's getting paid now.



I don't want it to be true, but right now.... it feels like money is everything.



This whole situation is so not my cup of tea. It's not even my cup. And all that Brandon said to me this morning after I'd finished my chanting, was "We just have to work through it". But I'm tired of just working through it. I don't want to push through all the time, head down, shoulder to the forces.



Is this all we'll ever get? A month or two every couple of years where we can finally walk at ease and breathe without having to look over our shoulders? When will "safe" replace "fear"?

The Cracks Beneath Me

Dear Ashley,

I'm sorry. I suck at writing consistent blogs. Please love me.

Cherie

This past summer I tried my hand at planting a vegetable garden. Since I'm still only renting and our yard doesn't get much sunshine, I planted my garden at my sister-in-law's house. Sadly, I planted too late in the season and only got a box full of tomatoes. And not good tomatoes. Green tomatoes. The kind of tomatoes you have to put in a paper bag above your fridge and check up on until they finally turn red and you realize you haven't checked up on them often enough because they're all soft and squishy now.

Oh well. Next year.

I also tried planting some flowers. I bought a packet of Morning Glory seeds and two large flower pots. The directions said to soak the seeds overnight and then plant them 12 inches apart. Since my flower pots were only 12 inches across, I naturally planted about 30 or so seeds in each one.

There were still quite a few seeds left over after that, so I found a 4 gallon pail, punched some holes in the bottom and very quickly realized that I didn't have enough soil to fill it up. So I filled the bottom of the pail with cardboard and paper and layered the top with the rest of my potting soil and planted the rest of my seeds. (I'd like to take this moment to say how incredibly difficult it is to plant tiny seeds that have been soaked in water. They stick to your fingers and won't let go. "Get in the dirt, you little scoundrels!" I kept telling them. "Be planted!")

As soon as I put the pots and pail in the back yard, I looked in sadness at my makeshift flower pot as the soil started to sink down into the cracks between the cardboard and newspapers. I figured I wasn't going to get any flowers out of that one.

Over the next few weeks I babied my little garden and watered it every day and moved the pots around as the shadows changed direction throughout the day. I also grumbled at the holes in the soil, obvious signs of somebody foreging for food. Either a squirell or a bird. Those little rascals.

But finally... tiny little leaves started to sprout and eventually, even two little leaves popped up in the pail. One of them ended up being a weed, but I did get one flower out of that pail!

The two pots blossomed.
But even though a little green stalk had emerged out of the pail, no flowers bloomed yet.

When the frost finally hit, I gave up on my garden. I stopped watering and stopped plucking off dead flowers and eventually it wilted and all the flowers were gone.

Until today. I've been driving to work lately but today I took the bus and on my way home, I got off the bus early so I could walk and admire what is left of the Fall colours. As I walked through the gate in my back yard, I spotted one flower still standing tall. And guess where it was.

This was a little miracle to me. It had frosted half a dozen times and even snowed a little twice. And yet, this one flower, in a crappy make-shift pot with a shallow bed of soil, that hadn't been watered for at least a month, was still there, tall and beautiful.

The flowers in the two pots were beautiful and brought me a lot of joy over the summer and it made me sad to see only one flower bloom in my 4 gallon pail. But when I saw that little flower today, I was awed.

I hope I can be like that flower for the rest of my life. Standing tall and beautiful even after the frost has come, even if I've been planted in a dingy old pail with the soil sinking down into the cracks beneath me.