What on earth do you do if you find yourself in a grocery store line-up behind some old guy that absolutely reeks of a mixture of ...I can hardly even describe it..strong roll-your-own cigarettes; old garage smells, like gasoline and diesel (not the nice gasoline smell), moldy, dirty body, and rotten teeth?
I was behind that guy today. The cashier was backed up as far as he could get to let the old fellow buy one more pouch of tobacco. Tough to be so desperately attached to your nicotine that you don't realize when you're past the breaking point for radiating smoke smell already. It's not even smoke smell, because I like that new fresh smell. It's the weeks-old build-up of a smell that happens when you only have a bath once in awhile, whether you need it or not. None of you kids from today probably know about people from the past who only bathed once a week at best..that was pretty well everybody...My grandparents never had a bathtub that I knew of, it was all basin baths. Most people were quite clean, even so.
I was backed up so far, I wasn't even in the line any more. I'm not sure the lady behind me realized what was going on, because she was so concerned with talking to her little barking dog who was tied up outside the building. At first, I thought she was talking to me, maybe something about the smell, but then I realized she's one of these people that thinks their dog is a human, and with superhuman hearing. That little dog had his boots and winter sweater on and he was just fine, the temperature was mild. He really was cute, but I just don't think he could hear her...He was barking loudly and nervously, because she'd left him tied up out there, but could see her through the glass door. No, he definitely couldn't hear her, I checked with him as I walked by and he told me how bad she was to have left him there...he's a little spoiled I think. I tried to soothe him..guess he was part human after all, because he did calm down for a minute...
The poor cashier had to ask if the old guy wanted a bag and of course the smelly customer leaned over the counter and muttered something, so that the cashier had to lean closer to hear.... I really felt sorry for all of us at that point. For the guy who obviously couldn't smell himself, for the cashier trying to be polite, and especially for me. You see if there's one thing I'm stellar at it's sniffing. I have the most powerful sense of smell of anybody I know. People comment on it all the time. I usually smell things before anybody else. Sometimes that's a good thing, like when I've had three natural gas leaks in my house this Fall. I smelled them all really early and Sask Energy came out within the hour every time. Other times, though like today, I wish my sniffer wasn't quite so brilliant. Being the first to smell when someone has passed gas in close quarters is embarrassing for both you and me. You see, I blush very easily and the minute I smell something like that, I start to blush. You know you did it, but it makes everybody else think I did it, because of my red face. Sheesh..
I got to thinking about what other things I'm really good at and those not so much so. For instance, the other thing I could think of that I consider myself really good at is typing. Boy, that grade nine typing class with Miss Auramenko back in Hudson Bay really paid off. They were manual typewriters and I remember being the person who got to do the typing once for our school newspaper. I think that was back in 1971 or 1972, but I'd have to check my yearbook. I have religiously saved those yearbooks and have to say if they ever do away with that practice, it'll be a sad day. Keep publishing those accounts of your highschool years because, as you will learn as you get older, they are some of the treasures of your youth.
At Saskatoon Business College, I was taking a legal secretarial course and we were now typing on the IBM Selectrix model. With all the practice, I got to typing over 90 words a minute and the rapid calculations class called "Rapid Cal" had me adding up long columns of numbers faster than I ever imagined. I learned Pitman shorthand and could watch the news on TV and write down everything that was said. Transcription might not have always been perfect...you know, confusing words like "young" with "non" proved to be embarrassing when I got laughed at in the first law office I worked because I wrote "young commissioned office" instead of "non-commissioned officer". That lawyer ended up marrying my aunt and he still remembers that.
I made a good friend at business college that I run into every once in awhile, Evelyn Chudyk from Ituna, SK. Another girl, (not Evelyn), that I had to sit beside, always wanted to race with me when we were doing a timed typing test. I didn't even know we were racing....but the teacher noticed and intervened one day and explained what was happening to us. It was a phenomenon that is often seen when typists sit side by side. Like horses at the race track I guess.....I couldn't say that I just thought the girl was being a proper b-i-t-c-__....but no, the teacher explained, we were just being competitive. Oh, okay. Umm hmm. That girl never was my favorite person and it was obvious after we graduated because I never missed her for a second.
I'm not so hot at driving because I have a hard time navigating curves at a high rate of speed. I also can't hardly see at night to drive. I'm no good really at hammering nails, basically hammer my thumbs over and over and wind up with a bent over mess of a nail. I'm mediocre at playing the piano; not great as an artist and painting pictures, but I do love to play and paint, so guess that's what counts. I'm good at riding a bike and playing board games. My kids and their spouses and others play a game that my daughter-in-law often brings to our gatherings..Loaded Questions. A question is asked and then each person writes their answer down. One person has to guess who's answer belongs to who. That gets to be lots of fun. Everyone's answers tend to be extremely telling of their age. Thanks Jen!
I'm okay at playing cards, but not any good at remembering which ones were played....nothing like some friends I know. Take Brian Binkley...man, he's got a mind like a steel trap when it comes to remembering cards played. Unless you're a card shark, I would not recommend getting into any kind of game where money exchanges hands with Brian. He looks innocent, but don't be fooled. Just teasing, Brian is a great guy. His little brother Jerry tends to be a card himself, and a good pool player from what I knew of him over the years. These guys are both friends and neighbours from way back and I know they won't mind being mentioned. Cindy and Brian are world travellers and I think Jerry and Bev are pretty much the same way. My family and theirs have known each other since the 1960's. Isobelle, their Mom, sewed me a dress one time. It was turquoise with black lace trim and was the most elegant dress I had ever owned. That's another grade six story.
I'm pretty good at crotcheting afghans and now after sewing eight housecoats for Christmas gifts, I guess I'm getting better at sewing. At one time, I took a blue jean sewing class from ..I think her name was Darlene Buhler, in Hudson Bay. I always figure if you're going to do something once, you might as well really do it, so I made four pairs of blue jeans all at the same time. A pair for each of us in my little family. I sewed my little kids' names on their back pockets and in those days they absolutely loved their personalized blue jeans. Carmen was about two and Warren was about five. I also sewed a pair for myself and my ex-husband and although I wore mine lots, he wasn't exactly thrilled with his...they did sort of look home-made, were a darker navy than the cool faded Lees and Levis that were in style, and yeah, maybe his were a little too short.....
I'm reassessing whether I'm good at painting the outside of buildings...I used to think I was because that way if I spilled paint it wouldn't be as bad as indoors. A few summers ago, I was involved with painting the outside of my Mom's cabin. There's a deck all the way around and unfortunately, I'm not sure what happened, but I wound up stepping down off the step ladder into the paint tray, and spilling paint everywhere, plus I got to wear it. So now forever, we have a big stain of light turquoise paint on the brown deck. I might have to move painting buildings into the mediocre to poor category.
I'm a good eater, but a bad dieter. Enough said about that and on to the next topic. I took a golf lesson once to learn how to follow through with the swing from Pete Lukoni in P.A.. I've played golf several times, but usually feel bad if I hold up a group waiting behind me. I know when I'm out of my depth, so I eventually learned if I belt something into the bush or the water, I need to take an extra point and suck it up and move on. That was a hard lesson to learn after standing there swinging and swinging and basically digging a hole and finally walking away defeated and with a very red face. You're not supposed to dig holes on a golf course. (Things got better at the BBQ when I won the prize for worst player). I felt better after that when they laughed with me and not at me, and the beer didn't hurt either. They were more interested in the dutchman who was eating his steak raw, and of course, so was I. Yuck!
I'm good at walking and appreciating the fresh air and outdoors, so that's one of the things about golf that I like. So, I know I'm not a great golfer, but bless you my old friend, Pat MacAuley, who tried to convince me one day on the fairway that I was a "natural" because she knocked her ball into the trees and I shot mine straight as an arrow. You know, I really believed you for about 8 seconds. Still...maybe with practice, someday, even I can get better.
I got to be a good lead and sweeper in curling, but haven't played now for years. I learned alot from those games. I remember one particular bonspiel that I curled with the Washburn sisters-in-law, Cheryl and Colleen, (Colleen was the skip) and us winning everything right up to the final draw on Sunday night at 6:00 p.m. The place was full of spectators by then. I prided myself in being able to lovingly throw those smooth, finessed draw rocks that would once in awhile land dead in the house....This bonspiel though, the skips were into nothing else but a hit -- hit game. I could get the gist of why, but felt useless. Try to sweep those rocks flying down the house so fast you couldn't possibly stand up and having everybody screaming "sweep" anyhow. I generally slid back and forth on the ice, so carefully, but this game, there was no time to slide, you had to race up and down that ice like a gazelle (sp?), you know one of those animals that moves fast. I was scared of breaking my neck.
Colleen was a fabulous player as were all the teammates..I was on edge because some guy was sitting at the window scoring us on our curling errors....I never asked what my score was beause I was basically scared to ask. Anyhow, at one bonspiel, I won a coat tree, and I think that might have been the one.
One other time, my kids were sitting behind the glass while Mommy curled. When I went to check on them, they were rhythmically and very loudly hitting their winter boots against the back of the wood bleacher in unison, chiming at the top of their lungs, "Jean Jean Made A Machine"....Anyhow, curling was alot of fun in my days in both Hudson Bay and Prince Albert.. Today, I would be surprized if I could get down into the hack.
We subconsciously know what we do good and what we don't do good, but with practice you really can become better at just about anything. Life is a self-fulfilling prophecy, so don't close the door on anything you like, there is always hope.
Thursday 26 January 2012
Sunday 22 January 2012
Middle Years
I was eight years old and we had recently moved to Hudson Bay, Saskatchewan from our birthplace a hundred miles east at Melfort. Some of the adults I lived around could swear a blue streak and of course, I loved to practice the exact intonation and lilt of every word that I heard from these adult friends, neighbours, aunts, and uncles etc. We moved to the farm at Etomami in 1962, grade three, but by grade four were bussed into Hudson Bay, to Blake Beattie school. The bus drivers were a father and son, Cliff and Jack Moen.
If you can believe it, I think I might have been the only nine-year old blonde child in the class that year, or at least the new kid, and I felt the need to capitalize on that fact and show off, as children sometimes do. I seemed to know a lot of swear words, almost as many as some of the other kids in the place. I really enjoyed the power of how it felt to roll the words right off my tongue. I had a dirtier mouth in those days than most garbage dumps, but boy was I ever proud of myself. I remember standing by the chain link fence practicing some really questionable vocabulary with some of the other nine-year olds. We would let off a blue streak of lingo that would curl your hair, then smile and walk back into the school smug, like we owned the place. Someone had brought up the word fornication, but none of us had a clue what that was about. I had been filled in by the bigger neighbourhood girls about sex the year before, but never put two and two together. We were over by the fence using our adult language, so as to not corrupt the littler six and seven year olds I guess.
I didn’t make the connection, but it seemed that I was also fair game for kissing at recess and noon hour. There were no teachers on the playgrounds back in the 60’s that I can recall. It was so bad, one other girl and I would go to the far corner of the playground every day at noon hour only to be mobbed regularly by what seemed like all the boys in the school. They would actually line up and take turns kissing us. There would be one line for her and one line for me. It was amazing how regimented this procedure was and how she and I tried to fight them off, but in the end, how we succumbed. This seemed to be our duty. We would both be on the ground with all these boys and their runny noses taking turns to give us either a dry little peck or one big, fat slobbery kiss on the lips…Never on the cheek and nobody even considered trying for two. It was a wonder we didn’t all die from hoof and mouth. The oldest boys who were 16 and still in grade four, (with no hope of advancing any further in grades) didn’t ever partake. When I think of it now, I realize that they probably egged everybody on and then stood back and watched. Somebody had to create some recreation on the school grounds in those days and I guess they were the self-appointed rec techs. Playing dodgeball and softball were about the only other things we did. So, for the rest of the six to nine year old kids, they could really have used some other form of diversion. You can see then, one of the reasons why teachers had to start taking turns doing noon hour supervision on playgrounds.
Mrs. Martin was our grade four teacher and she let us play more games inside the classroom than any other grade I was in before or after. “Who Stole the Cookie from the Cookie Jar” was a rounding game that was great fun. Mrs. Martin hinted to the whole class about something I'd never heard of before, having your mouth washed out with soap. The mere mention of it was enough to end the swearing extravaganzas because none of us could even fathom it. Furthermore, we had no idea any adults had been within earshot. We knew we were being bad.
The sixteen year olds were either really nice or mean and bullies. The girls were much worse than the boys. I remember being terrorized by one of them when she approached me sitting waiting in the car while my Mom ran into the police station. (Mom had backed out from the angle parking downtown and gotten into a fender bender) This girl approached the car and was bullying me through the car window. After that day, she thought she owned me. I was scared stiff of her and was really happy to graduate to grade five and Stewart Hawke school, because I knew she wouldn’t be going. That "hold them back rule" they still employed in those days proved to be good for something. Not like today where everybody keeps getting moved to the next grade because of all the supports available.
I started at Stewart Hawke school when I was in Grade 5. My teacher was Mrs. Saughmyhr from Clemenceau. The drive in to school every day itself, was enough to do this poor woman in. Clemenceau is at least an hour south of Hudson Bay . In those days they were building the road into Hudson Bay and it did nothing but rain. Anybody trying to get through had to be dragged behind a huge road building machine called a Euclid
Right off the bat, Mr. Kondra told us to stay off the ice at noon hour. We did this religiously for quite some time. One day however, when it was particularly boring hanging around, there were several kids out enjoying themselves sliding on the ice. After awhile, some of the kids from our class went out and joined them. Pretty soon, just about everybody I knew including me, were out sliding on the ice and just about everybody in our grade five class. Surely, if we were all doing it, it must be OK, right? Wrong. Mr. Kondra walked right by us and smiled. We all thought, hey, he’s changed his mind and it’s okay after all! When the bell rang, he quietly asked whichever ones of us were sliding on the ice to line up at the front of the classroom. Be darned if he didn’t break out a huge leather strap and strapped each of us twice on each hand, one after the other. Not one of us cried or made a noise. One boy, not because he was a smart alec, but because he seemed to have a severe dry eye problem that caused him to blink excessively, kept pulling his hands away, so that was kind of humorous, but you didn’t dare laugh, because we could tell our substitute teacher was in no mood to be tampered with.
Of course, my older brother found out I got the strap and went marching right to Mom and Dad with his gleeful news. I was able to worm my way out of another strap at home, because I guess I did some fancy talking and they got played out listening. After awhile, I found out that Mr. Kondra owned a local motel and then I felt bad that as a substitute he had been relegated to dealing with rotten, fat, ugly kids like us. Mr. Kondra has passed away, may God rest his soul.
I remember the clerk helping her was a lady who years later when I was a teenager, asked me why I wasn’t in school one afternoon when I had a spare. Guess she thought I was playing hookey. I found out the reason her face was so wrinkled was because she was a smoker, but that did nothing to deter my habit. Anyhow, the point I am trying to make is that when we got home, I tried it on and both cups crushed in instantly under my sweater and looked unbelievably bad. I was horrified. What was worse, was the neighbour lady was there giving her recommendations as well. She and Mom suggested I try a blouse instead, see-through white was the only color I had, but at least it was looser. They both suggested I fill the cups with Kleenex. Had it only been Mom, I may not have done it, but the neighbor lady (and I can’t think of who…either Ann Maluta, Shirley Hardy, Shirley Anderson, Emily Foster or hmmm...??) insisted that women do that type of thing all the time. I was hooked and unfortunately duped.
So the next day, and secretly feeling proud as punch and oh-so-grown up, I wore my new bra with at least three Kleenexes stuffed into each cup and trotted off to school. My best friend, Penny Densen, cocked her eyebrow and bluntly questioned the wisdom of the Kleenex, but I thought what on earth would she know about bras when she didn’t wear one herself and I had been assured by my own Mother and the neighbour lady that this was absolutely the way to go. After all, I would have killed in those days to have boobs that big. Since there was only one other girl in the entire grade six class who wore a bra, my arrival at class in a bra, raised quite a sensation. Even Mrs.Watkins, the teacher who was generally exceptionally professional, seemed to notice. She was the mother of one of my brother's friends to boot.
The snickers started first thing in the morning and were mainly from girls. The boys I guess were somewhat dumbstruck, because by grade six, most of them didn’t have a whole lot of interest left in girls…They had little idea of what dumb girls were all about anyhow and were mostly plain nasty. Those were the days when bra snapping by boys and girls alike was not considered sexual harassment…no one had even heard of that word yet….imagine, this was the year 1965. At noon hour, Penny and I would eat our lunch, then walk round and round the school until the bell rang. A group of more seasoned girls led by a ring leader, started walking the opposite way round the school, linked arm in arm with each other. We had no choice but to meet them face to face for the next few hundred rounds. Each and every time, they chanted off their little song about “Falsies”……I had never heard the word before, but certainly figured out what it meant by about the second round.
Unfortunately, once you start wearing a bra, it’s too late to turn back, because there was a reason you had to start in the first place and it ain’t going away any time soon. I endured with that one bra for quite a long time, checking every chance I could to see if any small bras were in stock at MacLeod's. One day, I got lucky and my collection of one was added to with my babysitting money. Nobody seemed to notice or care at that point. By then, several other grade six girls had starting wearing bras too and everybody was having a snap happy whale of a time..
On the contrary, some things you can forgive yourself for, but others are rather questionable..
The principal of that school was the scariest looking man I’ve ever seen from a kid’s point of view. His name was Mr. Raczkewicz. I believe he gave Doug the strap once, but I don’t remember what it was all about. By Grade 7, I had Mr. Raczkewicz as a home room teacher for part of the year and found out he really wasn’t all that bad after all. He actually laughed and smiled quite a bit. I heard through the grapevine from someone who knew him that he was a really likable fellow. When I was in grade one or two at Thatch Creek country school near Melfort, we had a student teacher named Mr. Palko. When I got to Stewart Hawke, there he was as their new phys ed teacher. I was so happy to see him and he seemed happy to see me too. Years later, his daughter babysat my kids!That same year, they started to renovate the school and we had to use the gym for a classroom. We did a lot of singing and art work and phys ed in those days. One day we were practicing a song, I think it was “Canada” for the 1967 Centennial Year and our upcoming performance.., you know, "one little, two little, three Canadians...we love thee....now we are twenty million"...either that, or we were doing work on the matts like somersaults or vaults or something. Suddenly, a mouthy little kid came flying up to me yelling that a boy was stealing my stuff. I flew down off that stage to find the boy bending down at my bag of belongings under my desk. (I had my contraband cigarettes in there, so there was no way they could be found!) I am embarrassed to say that I hauled off and lambasted him a good one in the ribs with my right foot. I actually knocked him right over, knocked the wind out of him and made him cry. In reality, all the poor kid had been doing was picking up garbage like he was told to do by Mr. Palko. I suddenly realized what a total idiot I had been. I am not a violent person as a rule. I could have maimed him for life! All because of needing to hide my cigarettes. I have regretted my actions from that day forward and always wanted to apologize or make it up to him, but somehow I never got the chance.
If this kind of life existed in the middle years back in the 1960’s imagine what is going on today?
Thursday 19 January 2012
Touristy Things
Ever heard of the grotto? It's a place north east of Duck Lake, Saskatchewan and makes for a great Sunday drive, or a treat for someone on their birthday. There used to be a statue called "Our Lady of Lourdes" a few miles north of the town on the highway. When you came to the statue you would turn east just a little north of the shrine, and that would put you on a road that looked to be almost pure sand. The next left would take you into a yard with a couple of historical buildings and a trail leading to the back of the property to a most fascinating place. The grotto is a place of prayer built into the side of what looks like a hill. It is outdoors with some sort of roof (metal I expect), that protects a chapel of sorts with benches, tables and often still burning candles below. Outside and around the chapel area are small confessional buildings, each big enough to house two people at least, a little bigger than an outhouse. I understand that every year there are two pilgrimages that occur to the grotto. Since the whole combination is called the St. Laurent Shrine, I think people all around the area participate. Amazing! Imagine hundreds of people walking together with a common goal to put the power of prayer into motion from a glorious place, close to the Heavens...the grotto. The last time I drove past that neck of the woods, the highway had been upgraded and I could no longer see the statue. I'm sure that will be righted soon enough once the highway is completed. So nowadays, I would have no idea where to turn.
The Town of Duck Lake website, has plenty more information about all the tourism that happens in that area, and below are the excerpts about the grotto and Batoche:
I lived in P.A. for 14 years and always heard people talk about "The Forks". This natural attraction is east of the city and I believe is where the North and South Saskatchewan Rivers meet. People go there to fish, but apparently the mercury pollution has made eating the fish a little dicey and really not recommended. My daughter, Carmen, and I decided to go fishing there one summer day, even amidst all the warnings from others to forget about eating the fish.
You park at the top of a hill and start your descent down a fairly narrow, forested trail which seems to go forever, but is actually about a 15 minute walk if memory serves me correctly . (Takes a little longer going back up). The trail is built into the side of a sloping hill of trees and underbrush, going up on the one side, and straight down, cliff-like on the other side. We made our way down without incident and spent a few hours fishing...Of course we had no luck, and eventually left empty-handed. It was just as well, because neither of us really knows how to clean a fish properly anyhow...Believe me, I've tried, but there's not much left when I'm done...sorry fish.
It was on the way back up to the car that we had all the excitement. First of all, going downhill was easy, but uphill had us puffing and slowed right down. That was okay, we weren't in a big rush. As we got to the last third of the trail where it gets quite steep, it took a moment to register, that we were hearing the sound of faint, then louder and louder, pounding hooves coming our way. We had about a split second to look into each other's widened eyes, only to see and realize it was a full-grown white-tailed deer coming straight at us at a full gallop on the narrow trail. We scrambled up the side of the trail into the trees and hung on for dear life. At roughly the same instant, the 'jumper' saw us, and veered off in blind panic, physically crashing all the way down the cliff into every tree he met. He had experieced instant terror and so had we. The noise that had lasted only a microcosm of time went from deafening to total silence..just like nothing had ever happened. Really, "if a tree falls in the forest, will anybody hear?"
We stood there holding our breath, waiting and watching....We listened, on guard. lest his partner come rushing down the path next...but nothing happened. We knew he had to have broken something, nobody and nothing could survive a fall like that. We were at a loss of what to do. Should we try to save him? But how on earth could we? We had to wait for our pounding hearts to slow, then finally we hesitantly dared to step back onto the trail. God only knew what happened to that poor majestic deer! If he didn't break his neck, it would be a miracle. We realized there was no way we could think of navigating down that cliff to look for him. We felt so helpless, and still full of shock, awe and dismay, reluctantly continued our climb back up the hill. It was one of the most surreal moments I have experienced with nature. We left that world with more than we'd bargained for, shaken and stirred!
When I think back on that day, I realize we should have probably reported it to the local conservation officers, but unfortunately, I am only thinking of this now. The life of animals in the wild astounds me. How they manage in weather like we've had this week is hard to imagine. Minus 59 degrees celsius with the wind chill, and yet they do.
The Town of Duck Lake website, has plenty more information about all the tourism that happens in that area, and below are the excerpts about the grotto and Batoche:
"St. Laurent Shrine
The St. Laurent Shrine is located a few kilometres North of Duck Lake. The Shrine started as an Order of the Oblate Mission in 1874 and was devoted to Our Lady of Lourdes. The St. Laurent Shrine is the destination of the Pilgrimage that is held twice every year. There is also a picnic area and a grotto for those people who wish to visit this spectacular place."
The St. Laurent Shrine is located a few kilometres North of Duck Lake. The Shrine started as an Order of the Oblate Mission in 1874 and was devoted to Our Lady of Lourdes. The St. Laurent Shrine is the destination of the Pilgrimage that is held twice every year. There is also a picnic area and a grotto for those people who wish to visit this spectacular place."
My note - When you leave the grotto, if you turn left (south east) at the sandy road and drive a little ways, you will come to the river. A ferry will take you across, if it is operating and shortly after you will come to Batoche.
"Batoche
Batoche National Historical Park - Relates the history of the Metis and the events of the Battle of Batoche of 1885 through an audio-visual presentation, displays of artifacts, and exhibits. Tours are also available of the old church, the rectory, the rifle pits and the cemetery. Batoche is located twenty-nine kilometres northeast of Duck Lake on Highway #312.
Fish Creek Battle Site - Shows the first battle between Gabriel Dumont and General Middleton's forces. Fish Creek is located thirty-two kilometres southeast on Highway #312e."
Batoche National Historical Park - Relates the history of the Metis and the events of the Battle of Batoche of 1885 through an audio-visual presentation, displays of artifacts, and exhibits. Tours are also available of the old church, the rectory, the rifle pits and the cemetery. Batoche is located twenty-nine kilometres northeast of Duck Lake on Highway #312.
Fish Creek Battle Site - Shows the first battle between Gabriel Dumont and General Middleton's forces. Fish Creek is located thirty-two kilometres southeast on Highway #312e."
I lived in P.A. for 14 years and always heard people talk about "The Forks". This natural attraction is east of the city and I believe is where the North and South Saskatchewan Rivers meet. People go there to fish, but apparently the mercury pollution has made eating the fish a little dicey and really not recommended. My daughter, Carmen, and I decided to go fishing there one summer day, even amidst all the warnings from others to forget about eating the fish.
You park at the top of a hill and start your descent down a fairly narrow, forested trail which seems to go forever, but is actually about a 15 minute walk if memory serves me correctly . (Takes a little longer going back up). The trail is built into the side of a sloping hill of trees and underbrush, going up on the one side, and straight down, cliff-like on the other side. We made our way down without incident and spent a few hours fishing...Of course we had no luck, and eventually left empty-handed. It was just as well, because neither of us really knows how to clean a fish properly anyhow...Believe me, I've tried, but there's not much left when I'm done...sorry fish.
It was on the way back up to the car that we had all the excitement. First of all, going downhill was easy, but uphill had us puffing and slowed right down. That was okay, we weren't in a big rush. As we got to the last third of the trail where it gets quite steep, it took a moment to register, that we were hearing the sound of faint, then louder and louder, pounding hooves coming our way. We had about a split second to look into each other's widened eyes, only to see and realize it was a full-grown white-tailed deer coming straight at us at a full gallop on the narrow trail. We scrambled up the side of the trail into the trees and hung on for dear life. At roughly the same instant, the 'jumper' saw us, and veered off in blind panic, physically crashing all the way down the cliff into every tree he met. He had experieced instant terror and so had we. The noise that had lasted only a microcosm of time went from deafening to total silence..just like nothing had ever happened. Really, "if a tree falls in the forest, will anybody hear?"
We stood there holding our breath, waiting and watching....We listened, on guard. lest his partner come rushing down the path next...but nothing happened. We knew he had to have broken something, nobody and nothing could survive a fall like that. We were at a loss of what to do. Should we try to save him? But how on earth could we? We had to wait for our pounding hearts to slow, then finally we hesitantly dared to step back onto the trail. God only knew what happened to that poor majestic deer! If he didn't break his neck, it would be a miracle. We realized there was no way we could think of navigating down that cliff to look for him. We felt so helpless, and still full of shock, awe and dismay, reluctantly continued our climb back up the hill. It was one of the most surreal moments I have experienced with nature. We left that world with more than we'd bargained for, shaken and stirred!
When I think back on that day, I realize we should have probably reported it to the local conservation officers, but unfortunately, I am only thinking of this now. The life of animals in the wild astounds me. How they manage in weather like we've had this week is hard to imagine. Minus 59 degrees celsius with the wind chill, and yet they do.
Sunday 15 January 2012
Historically Speaking
A few years ago, I was lucky enough to attend a session given by the Prince Albert Historical Society (fondly referred to as the hysterical society by some). I was very impressed to learn that there was once a sawmill located in P.A. on the south bank of the Saskatchewan River, somewhere near the currently existing bridge....roughly between 2nd and Central Avenues. We saw the pictures and close by is a huge, old, black train bridge. Regularly, the middle section of the train bridge would be swung aside to open the way for steam ships to pass through. I guess the stacks were too tall otherwise. A common occurence in those days was for a passenger/freight steam ship to travel regularly to Saskatoon and back. Wouldn't that be fabulous today? Imagine the scenery, the birds, the wild life...and perhaps the fishing along the way..but not sure that was allowed because the fishing lines would be nothing if not tangled. I would love to find out more about those trips. Were they served meals? Were they entertained? Did they play cards or listen to someone play an instrument such as harmonica, accordion or fiddle? Was there room to dance? I'm quite sure the trip would take all day and the patrons might have been allowed to stay overnight in Saskatoon...maybe at the Bessborough Hotel or with friends or relatives. Imagine the romance? If anybody knows more, it would be great to hear about it. Unfortunately, the trips had to stop eventually because the water levels dropped too low given the need for more water and water control via damming in southern Saskatchewan.
Being on the river puts you at one with nature like you can't even imagine. My brother Lanny took my family and I for a boat ride up the river and under the bridge at Gronlid one summer. It was nothing less than amazing. First off, the underside of the bridge was absolutely covered with mudded bird's nests and somebody had hung large, fake owls in their midst to try to keep them away. It didn't really work from what I could gather. Next were hoards of pelicans on a little island. I had never seen such a thing up close, but they were something to see...huge, all white, and with such big bills. They weren't a bit afraid of us either. The thing that sticks in my mind was a surprizing experience when we entered a little inlet just to take a look. In the utterly, sheer quiet, a beaver suddently slapped his tail on the water and scared about a hundred blackbirds into flight. They flew right at us and made a horrible racket. We were ALL startled and I for one screamed, but I'm sure I wasn't the only one.. my kids and neice were just little kids and were more likely on the verge of crying. We didn't waste any time getting out of there, because the whole experience was so ethereal, it was almost creepy.
I loved learning about the history of Prince Albert when I lived there. I believe it was the Horticultural Society that did walking tours in some of the old stately neighbourhoods. They talked of the history of the homes as we walked along streets of the West Hill area. I was interested to hear about the different kinds of brick. There's the red kind and there's the kind that looks more salmon-coloured. Some of the brick was manufactured in P.A., (I think the salmon one), but some (I think the red stuff) was shipped all the way from eastern Canada. Given that transportation was so much slower and different than it is today, that in itself was amazing to me. The homes of my maternal great grandparents were places that were empty by the time I can remember. The Scott home was three stories and red brick, built on their farm north of Melfort, SK. The Gunderson home was wood. Since my great grandfather, Christian Gunderson owned a sawmill at Crooked River, SK., he built the house with the wood from the sawmill. He rode back and forth by horse and that to me is astounding in itself because that trip one way by car today is about 3/4 of an hour. In this day and age, we have no idea how fast things would appear to those pioneers, if they were to be here to look around.
One historical old house in P.A. had become a tea house and a friend and I went there for high tea one afternoon. Can't remember now if it was Marlene, Marina, Bonnie or somebody else...This will happen to you too ya know! The room we sat in was all windows and the owner told us how back in the day that horses from the house next door with the barn, would come to that window and put their noses up against it! They would fog up the window with their snorts and lick the glass. Guess they wanted some social life too., but the window cleaning became a full-time job. We were enjoying tea, scones, berries and clotted cream that day, a British tradition that I understand the Queen herself might have engaged in. At least I imagine she did. Delicious! I was always a fan of the Royals since I was a little girl. Indeed, in my home as a little girl, we used to clean house and tidy up, just in case the Queen were to drop by. I really believed she might. After all, I was told that John Diefenbaker would frequent my great grandmother's home for a meal in their day. Carrie Gunderson was a hotel cook in her younger years and he really did stop there, out on the farm north of Melfort, for a meal during his travels. In fact, he gave my grandpa, Cliff Gunderson, a ride into P.A. one time in his car, some kind of Model T or whatever.
One big old apartment building burned to the ground when I lived in P.A. People mourned not only the loss of the old building, but the beautiful dance floor that had once existed on the top floor. It was the first time I had ever heard of a horse hair dance floor. They put horse hair under the floor to cushion it. How ingenious! There aren't very many of them left today, but I heard a rumour that one still exists at the big dance hall out at Watrous. They still have dances there every Saturday night. I know somebody who used to play for their dances, (Cheryl). We were taught in school that all parts of a horse was used when it passed away...in fact, the glue we used in our glue bottles was actually made from horses. I tried not to think of that when we had to glue something...
When I lived in P.A., there was, and I believe still is, a shop on River Street that held all sorts of aboriginal paraphernelia. I bought my first pair of beaded moccasins there and really have not wanted any other kind of slippers since. They are plain, not the fur-lined kind and are cool if you are hot and warm if you are cold. For anybody who has never tried them, they are the absolute best. That shop always reminded me of a shop in Hudson Bay when we first moved there in the 1960's called Cree Crafts. It was located at the north end of the main drag, right next to the local newspaper, The Post Review. I think I bought the one and only pair of mukluks I have ever owned from them, but maybe my memory is failing and maybe I actually bought them from D'Aoust's or Prokop's -- both dry good stores. You're missing out if you've never owned a pair of mukluks. High topped, fur-lined, beautiful beading and everybody was envious!
The court house in P.A. was not far from where I lived and consequently, I would often go by it if I was out for a stroll with my dog, or walking downtown. I lived in the East Hill in those days and that neighbourhood has truly some spectacular historical old places too. After reading some the "Ghost Stories of Saskatchewan" books, I came to realize that the court house is likely haunted. Indeed, I came to learn that yikes - hangings had really occurred there at one time. Whippings too apparently..yeeh. Yes, they used to whip the bad guys. That makes me cringe. I am told the whip cut the skin on the back, so to be merciful? (well maybe), they applied salt to the wounds to help stop the infection. Wouldn't that be nothing less than excruciating? Geez! Inhumane, but what of the numbers of criminals back then? Did it deter them enough so they weren't repeat offenders? Many of today's criminals are addicts and/or suffering from mental illness, so somehow I am skeptical that whipping would really help. Wouldn't it be interesting to compare the stats from those days with those of today's?
In the early 1970's I was studying at university. I think it was right around the time that Canada was abolishing capital punishment, but please don't quote me on that. I just remember this being one of the topics of conversation at university and of course, I had to have these discussions at home with my family. I remember the talk about whether people should die if they killed someone and I felt horrific empathy for the executioner. I can remember saying, "how would you like to be the guy who has to perform the execution...electrocute somebody...flick the switch?" I learned this week that indeed a man from my home town had been the "whipper" ...the one to "man the whip" for a time at the P.A. courthouse. He donned a black hood to keep his identity hidden and did his much hated deed. The story goes that he couldn't stand it and eventually left to start a small business of his own where he was able to be a success. For those of you who hate your job, remember, it could always be worse...and I'm not kidding.
I took a history class at university and it was my very favorite one....for example, did you know that Hitler was a messenger in World War I? But that's another story. :-)
Being on the river puts you at one with nature like you can't even imagine. My brother Lanny took my family and I for a boat ride up the river and under the bridge at Gronlid one summer. It was nothing less than amazing. First off, the underside of the bridge was absolutely covered with mudded bird's nests and somebody had hung large, fake owls in their midst to try to keep them away. It didn't really work from what I could gather. Next were hoards of pelicans on a little island. I had never seen such a thing up close, but they were something to see...huge, all white, and with such big bills. They weren't a bit afraid of us either. The thing that sticks in my mind was a surprizing experience when we entered a little inlet just to take a look. In the utterly, sheer quiet, a beaver suddently slapped his tail on the water and scared about a hundred blackbirds into flight. They flew right at us and made a horrible racket. We were ALL startled and I for one screamed, but I'm sure I wasn't the only one.. my kids and neice were just little kids and were more likely on the verge of crying. We didn't waste any time getting out of there, because the whole experience was so ethereal, it was almost creepy.
I loved learning about the history of Prince Albert when I lived there. I believe it was the Horticultural Society that did walking tours in some of the old stately neighbourhoods. They talked of the history of the homes as we walked along streets of the West Hill area. I was interested to hear about the different kinds of brick. There's the red kind and there's the kind that looks more salmon-coloured. Some of the brick was manufactured in P.A., (I think the salmon one), but some (I think the red stuff) was shipped all the way from eastern Canada. Given that transportation was so much slower and different than it is today, that in itself was amazing to me. The homes of my maternal great grandparents were places that were empty by the time I can remember. The Scott home was three stories and red brick, built on their farm north of Melfort, SK. The Gunderson home was wood. Since my great grandfather, Christian Gunderson owned a sawmill at Crooked River, SK., he built the house with the wood from the sawmill. He rode back and forth by horse and that to me is astounding in itself because that trip one way by car today is about 3/4 of an hour. In this day and age, we have no idea how fast things would appear to those pioneers, if they were to be here to look around.
One historical old house in P.A. had become a tea house and a friend and I went there for high tea one afternoon. Can't remember now if it was Marlene, Marina, Bonnie or somebody else...This will happen to you too ya know! The room we sat in was all windows and the owner told us how back in the day that horses from the house next door with the barn, would come to that window and put their noses up against it! They would fog up the window with their snorts and lick the glass. Guess they wanted some social life too., but the window cleaning became a full-time job. We were enjoying tea, scones, berries and clotted cream that day, a British tradition that I understand the Queen herself might have engaged in. At least I imagine she did. Delicious! I was always a fan of the Royals since I was a little girl. Indeed, in my home as a little girl, we used to clean house and tidy up, just in case the Queen were to drop by. I really believed she might. After all, I was told that John Diefenbaker would frequent my great grandmother's home for a meal in their day. Carrie Gunderson was a hotel cook in her younger years and he really did stop there, out on the farm north of Melfort, for a meal during his travels. In fact, he gave my grandpa, Cliff Gunderson, a ride into P.A. one time in his car, some kind of Model T or whatever.
One big old apartment building burned to the ground when I lived in P.A. People mourned not only the loss of the old building, but the beautiful dance floor that had once existed on the top floor. It was the first time I had ever heard of a horse hair dance floor. They put horse hair under the floor to cushion it. How ingenious! There aren't very many of them left today, but I heard a rumour that one still exists at the big dance hall out at Watrous. They still have dances there every Saturday night. I know somebody who used to play for their dances, (Cheryl). We were taught in school that all parts of a horse was used when it passed away...in fact, the glue we used in our glue bottles was actually made from horses. I tried not to think of that when we had to glue something...
When I lived in P.A., there was, and I believe still is, a shop on River Street that held all sorts of aboriginal paraphernelia. I bought my first pair of beaded moccasins there and really have not wanted any other kind of slippers since. They are plain, not the fur-lined kind and are cool if you are hot and warm if you are cold. For anybody who has never tried them, they are the absolute best. That shop always reminded me of a shop in Hudson Bay when we first moved there in the 1960's called Cree Crafts. It was located at the north end of the main drag, right next to the local newspaper, The Post Review. I think I bought the one and only pair of mukluks I have ever owned from them, but maybe my memory is failing and maybe I actually bought them from D'Aoust's or Prokop's -- both dry good stores. You're missing out if you've never owned a pair of mukluks. High topped, fur-lined, beautiful beading and everybody was envious!
The court house in P.A. was not far from where I lived and consequently, I would often go by it if I was out for a stroll with my dog, or walking downtown. I lived in the East Hill in those days and that neighbourhood has truly some spectacular historical old places too. After reading some the "Ghost Stories of Saskatchewan" books, I came to realize that the court house is likely haunted. Indeed, I came to learn that yikes - hangings had really occurred there at one time. Whippings too apparently..yeeh. Yes, they used to whip the bad guys. That makes me cringe. I am told the whip cut the skin on the back, so to be merciful? (well maybe), they applied salt to the wounds to help stop the infection. Wouldn't that be nothing less than excruciating? Geez! Inhumane, but what of the numbers of criminals back then? Did it deter them enough so they weren't repeat offenders? Many of today's criminals are addicts and/or suffering from mental illness, so somehow I am skeptical that whipping would really help. Wouldn't it be interesting to compare the stats from those days with those of today's?
In the early 1970's I was studying at university. I think it was right around the time that Canada was abolishing capital punishment, but please don't quote me on that. I just remember this being one of the topics of conversation at university and of course, I had to have these discussions at home with my family. I remember the talk about whether people should die if they killed someone and I felt horrific empathy for the executioner. I can remember saying, "how would you like to be the guy who has to perform the execution...electrocute somebody...flick the switch?" I learned this week that indeed a man from my home town had been the "whipper" ...the one to "man the whip" for a time at the P.A. courthouse. He donned a black hood to keep his identity hidden and did his much hated deed. The story goes that he couldn't stand it and eventually left to start a small business of his own where he was able to be a success. For those of you who hate your job, remember, it could always be worse...and I'm not kidding.
I took a history class at university and it was my very favorite one....for example, did you know that Hitler was a messenger in World War I? But that's another story. :-)
Sunday 8 January 2012
Horsing Around
If you set your mind to it, you can do almost anything, right? Or so I thought when it came to being a horsewoman. I always thought, living on a farm, it should be a cinch. After all, my dad's dad was the "Teamster" at the Experimental Farm at Melfort (also called the Research Station). William George Busby, may he rest in peace, worked hard to care for the Experimental Farm horses. Those would be the days before the automobile took the country by storm. There is a picture of him leading two great big horses away from a barn, him walking between them, holding nothing more than their bridles. Apparently, he was somewhat of a "horse whisperer", because of his gentling methods. He was supposedly good with kids too, so a good person all around. I was only five when he died, so only have fleeting memories of him.
Then there was my Mom, Dorothy, who always rode a horse in her youth and who drove a horse and cutter to school as a very little girl. Funny how I never once saw either my Mom or Dad ride a horse though...hmmmm. She tells the story of she and her little sister, Hazel, driving the horse and cutter to the closest country school (Stoney Creek which was four or five miles away from their farm). It was one frigid, dark winter's morning and the horse up and died. Mom and Hazel had such a fright and probably didn't have a clue what to do. Mom, being the biggest, took it upon herself to run all the way home to get help from her parents. The whole thing ended up being a fiasco though, because she got heck for leaving her little sister back at the cutter to nearly freeze and especially with the dead horse!The first time I heard this, I was floored, because who would dream of letting their kids do that today? They would both be under ten years old at that time, but that was the common practice in those days.
Back to my story, first off, we lived on a farm north of Melfort and we had two huge white horses for awhile. One was named "Peach" and the other "Jean". As a little girl, I was quite concerned that I had been named after a horse...It was wonderful to learn from my parents that in actual fact, I was named after my dad's sister, Dorothy Jean. Hmmmm, I remember feeling so relieved, but I think it was a lucky stroke for them that her middle name was the same as mine.
We also had a much smaller pony named "Dolly". One day, Dad put me (about six) and my little brother Doug (about four) on Dolly's back just for fun. None of us planned it, but that horse took off like a shot and headed straight down the path in the barnyard/pasture that led to the open field. She was trotting fast and if you've ever had the pleasure, that is the roughest ride going, compared to a gallop which is quite smooth. I was hanging onto the mane for dear life and Doug was hanging on to me. I'm sure you could see daylight between our bottoms and the horse's back, because we flew up and down and bounced around from side to side almost dragging on the ground (or so it seemed). Why we didn't just let go and fall off is beyond me. Guess we thought it would hurt. Dad was running as fast as he could behind us trying to catch up and get the horse stopped. Finally, about 1/4 of a mile away he caught up and saved the day. :-) I think lovingly of my Dad today, because January 8 is his birthday and he would have been 83 years old! He passed away in 1992 and is dearly missed by all.
Next, at Hudson Bay, we had a 3/4 Arabian horse called "Misty" who I tried to ride on various occasions. If you know Arabians, the hotter they get, the faster they want to run. I was scared of her because I could hardly get her stopped. She just wouldn't quit, in fact our dog Buffy would race along beside her, wherever we went, but eventually died in the ditch near Ed Hirsekorn's old farm. We didn't notice she was gone at first, but began to wonder why she was missing and went looking her. We decided she probably had a heart attack trying to keep up.
Doug and I would go practice hard ball at our country school (Aspen) and ride Misty there and back, or ride our bikes. He would be in front with the reins and I would be his passenger, sitting behind the saddle and holding onto it. We were teenagers by this time. My job was to bat fly balls for the team to catch. The pitcher was Donnie Foster, a good friend, neighbour, school mate and eventual grad partner. His pitches were overhand and fast, but at one point he accidentally nailed me with the ball right above my left temple. I dropped to the ground, but didn't pass out. I really had my bell rung that day though and it took awhile until I got righted enough to ride home. That ride was almost the same as the runaway ride on Dolly, because I was dizzy and could hardly hang on to the saddle and kept bouncing all over the place, desperate to stay seated.
For me to ride Misty by myself, especialy after she had a colt, became almost impossible. She would let me get her to the end of our long tree-lined lane then buck me off, kick out her back legs, whinney the way horses do, and run smartly and sassily back to the barn and her colt. It took us a while to figure out that the colt needed to go with us if we were going to get anywhere with Misty.
I guess we had a series of horses after that, that didn't stay long. One was this gorgeous gelding thoroughbred that I think we boarded for somebody for awhile. I thought one sunny day as that horse stood majestically behind our barn that I might try crawling up onto his back and see what it would feel like. Up I got, only to be, you guessed it, bucked off...This one was particularly insulting because I landed in an old manure pile...even though dried out, still no less offensive. We had one other small horse. When you tried to ride her she would take off and not let you stop her until she had rubbed you off on a tree or a building or a farm implement. After awhile, that started to hurt, so I gave up the ghost with her. The only horse that was decent to me was one owned by our neighbours the Hooge family. They were dairy farmers. Dale, Doug and I would go riding and I would get to ride their old, broad-backed horse and actually enjoy myself.
Years later, as a full-grown woman, I still had it in my mind that I would love to go horseback riding. So when Anita Stewart, a co-worker started talking about her horses, my ears perked up. She invited me out to go riding. It was then that I came to the realization that I was never and will likely never be a horsewoman. The horse Anita let me ride was lovely, but my back had started hurting before I even got in the saddle. As we rode along, we encountered a huge shaggy, dark brown/black exotic bull in a pasture. I think she said he was some sort of scottish breed or something like that. He looked for all the world like a bear, which is something that terrifies me, but that is another story. The horse was fine on the first pass by, because we all stopped and made friends with the bull...Both horses sniffed the bull's nose across the fence and things were copasthetic (no idea how to spell that old word). We rode just along the ditch and avoided the backwoods trails because apparently, Anita had encountered wolves recently. That was fine with me, wolves aren't my favorite either. As you can tell, I was rattled already and my horse certainly knew it too. On the way back, the bull remembered us and came running across the pasture at a playful trot, but guess what happened? The horse was taken by surprize, I was taken by surprize...After all, both the horse and I knew that all we had between us and that huge black beast was a four strand barbed wire fence. She reared up in fright and started trying to buck, of course. Oh brother, the story of my life. In the end, I managed to stay on her back; the bull did end up slowing down when he got to the fence; and the horse straightened out...probably when she realized this was her new friend. We contined along our way with Anita gently trying to explain to me how horses recognize if their perch is nervous. LOL!! No kidding. The biggest realization I had by the end of the trail and when I was dismounting was that the pain in my back was almost excruciating.
I'm not closing the door entirely on horseback riding, because an old nag and I would likely get along just fine, but truth be told, my dream of being a proud horsewoman, riding a majestic steed, will likely never come to pass.
Then there was my Mom, Dorothy, who always rode a horse in her youth and who drove a horse and cutter to school as a very little girl. Funny how I never once saw either my Mom or Dad ride a horse though...hmmmm. She tells the story of she and her little sister, Hazel, driving the horse and cutter to the closest country school (Stoney Creek which was four or five miles away from their farm). It was one frigid, dark winter's morning and the horse up and died. Mom and Hazel had such a fright and probably didn't have a clue what to do. Mom, being the biggest, took it upon herself to run all the way home to get help from her parents. The whole thing ended up being a fiasco though, because she got heck for leaving her little sister back at the cutter to nearly freeze and especially with the dead horse!The first time I heard this, I was floored, because who would dream of letting their kids do that today? They would both be under ten years old at that time, but that was the common practice in those days.
Back to my story, first off, we lived on a farm north of Melfort and we had two huge white horses for awhile. One was named "Peach" and the other "Jean". As a little girl, I was quite concerned that I had been named after a horse...It was wonderful to learn from my parents that in actual fact, I was named after my dad's sister, Dorothy Jean. Hmmmm, I remember feeling so relieved, but I think it was a lucky stroke for them that her middle name was the same as mine.
We also had a much smaller pony named "Dolly". One day, Dad put me (about six) and my little brother Doug (about four) on Dolly's back just for fun. None of us planned it, but that horse took off like a shot and headed straight down the path in the barnyard/pasture that led to the open field. She was trotting fast and if you've ever had the pleasure, that is the roughest ride going, compared to a gallop which is quite smooth. I was hanging onto the mane for dear life and Doug was hanging on to me. I'm sure you could see daylight between our bottoms and the horse's back, because we flew up and down and bounced around from side to side almost dragging on the ground (or so it seemed). Why we didn't just let go and fall off is beyond me. Guess we thought it would hurt. Dad was running as fast as he could behind us trying to catch up and get the horse stopped. Finally, about 1/4 of a mile away he caught up and saved the day. :-) I think lovingly of my Dad today, because January 8 is his birthday and he would have been 83 years old! He passed away in 1992 and is dearly missed by all.
Next, at Hudson Bay, we had a 3/4 Arabian horse called "Misty" who I tried to ride on various occasions. If you know Arabians, the hotter they get, the faster they want to run. I was scared of her because I could hardly get her stopped. She just wouldn't quit, in fact our dog Buffy would race along beside her, wherever we went, but eventually died in the ditch near Ed Hirsekorn's old farm. We didn't notice she was gone at first, but began to wonder why she was missing and went looking her. We decided she probably had a heart attack trying to keep up.
Doug and I would go practice hard ball at our country school (Aspen) and ride Misty there and back, or ride our bikes. He would be in front with the reins and I would be his passenger, sitting behind the saddle and holding onto it. We were teenagers by this time. My job was to bat fly balls for the team to catch. The pitcher was Donnie Foster, a good friend, neighbour, school mate and eventual grad partner. His pitches were overhand and fast, but at one point he accidentally nailed me with the ball right above my left temple. I dropped to the ground, but didn't pass out. I really had my bell rung that day though and it took awhile until I got righted enough to ride home. That ride was almost the same as the runaway ride on Dolly, because I was dizzy and could hardly hang on to the saddle and kept bouncing all over the place, desperate to stay seated.
For me to ride Misty by myself, especialy after she had a colt, became almost impossible. She would let me get her to the end of our long tree-lined lane then buck me off, kick out her back legs, whinney the way horses do, and run smartly and sassily back to the barn and her colt. It took us a while to figure out that the colt needed to go with us if we were going to get anywhere with Misty.
I guess we had a series of horses after that, that didn't stay long. One was this gorgeous gelding thoroughbred that I think we boarded for somebody for awhile. I thought one sunny day as that horse stood majestically behind our barn that I might try crawling up onto his back and see what it would feel like. Up I got, only to be, you guessed it, bucked off...This one was particularly insulting because I landed in an old manure pile...even though dried out, still no less offensive. We had one other small horse. When you tried to ride her she would take off and not let you stop her until she had rubbed you off on a tree or a building or a farm implement. After awhile, that started to hurt, so I gave up the ghost with her. The only horse that was decent to me was one owned by our neighbours the Hooge family. They were dairy farmers. Dale, Doug and I would go riding and I would get to ride their old, broad-backed horse and actually enjoy myself.
Years later, as a full-grown woman, I still had it in my mind that I would love to go horseback riding. So when Anita Stewart, a co-worker started talking about her horses, my ears perked up. She invited me out to go riding. It was then that I came to the realization that I was never and will likely never be a horsewoman. The horse Anita let me ride was lovely, but my back had started hurting before I even got in the saddle. As we rode along, we encountered a huge shaggy, dark brown/black exotic bull in a pasture. I think she said he was some sort of scottish breed or something like that. He looked for all the world like a bear, which is something that terrifies me, but that is another story. The horse was fine on the first pass by, because we all stopped and made friends with the bull...Both horses sniffed the bull's nose across the fence and things were copasthetic (no idea how to spell that old word). We rode just along the ditch and avoided the backwoods trails because apparently, Anita had encountered wolves recently. That was fine with me, wolves aren't my favorite either. As you can tell, I was rattled already and my horse certainly knew it too. On the way back, the bull remembered us and came running across the pasture at a playful trot, but guess what happened? The horse was taken by surprize, I was taken by surprize...After all, both the horse and I knew that all we had between us and that huge black beast was a four strand barbed wire fence. She reared up in fright and started trying to buck, of course. Oh brother, the story of my life. In the end, I managed to stay on her back; the bull did end up slowing down when he got to the fence; and the horse straightened out...probably when she realized this was her new friend. We contined along our way with Anita gently trying to explain to me how horses recognize if their perch is nervous. LOL!! No kidding. The biggest realization I had by the end of the trail and when I was dismounting was that the pain in my back was almost excruciating.
I'm not closing the door entirely on horseback riding, because an old nag and I would likely get along just fine, but truth be told, my dream of being a proud horsewoman, riding a majestic steed, will likely never come to pass.
Saturday 7 January 2012
Four decades back?? Oh my goodness!
I have many fond memories of high school and one that came to mind recently occurred because I have made a new friend who was a Biology teacher for 25 years. I said that I loved Biology in high school. I recounted how our teacher at that time was a Hindu Sikh man that we learned to adore...At the start though, he led us astray the odd time with his pronounciation of words. For one whole class we were trying to follow what he was saying. Being teenagers, we thought it was something about sex, but in reality he was saying insects....it sounded like "in sex"...He drank tea out of a beaker, so to us that was pretty cool. All the Hudson Bay types who were in highschool in the early 70's will know exactly who I am talking about, Mr. Inderjit Singh Claire. I was sorry to hear from his daughter (who I found on Facebook) that he passed away some time ago. May he rest in peace. He became an icon as far as I was concerned.
Another memory has to do with Physics class. I didn't really like Physics, but distinctly remember one class where we learned about the effects of the strobe. That was when I realized what a visual learner I am. Mr. Tomski showed us what happens when a filmstrip is run and tries to capture something like a helicopter propellor in motion. To this day, every time I see a fired up or flying helicopter on TV, I see that it isn't a smooth visual, but that the propeller is a choppy picture. If you didn't know that, now you do and thus your physics lesson of the day! Don't ask me the physics behind that though, ha ha. Here's your health lesson, this effect is seen in strobe lights at dances and events. If too intense and certain individuals happen to be susceptible, it can cause ill effects such as seizures.
In Mr. Boyko's grade nine Algebra class, I was barely cracking a 60% because of an intense lack of interest. I was not the only one, this attitude was pervasive amongst many of my class mates. At one point though, Mr. Boyko put the fear of God into us about an upcoming exam on the most difficult chapter in the whole course. Permutations, Combinations and ?? I think it was Probabilities. I decided I'd better open the textbook and see what it was all about. Well, what I found in reality was that I had to study my butt off. Amazingly, when it came time for the exam, I pulled off a really excellent mark. I had no idea that the rest of the class hadn't opened a book and that I would get the highest mark in the whole class. Mr. Boyko brought it up in front of everyone and skeptically asked me how I did it. I was dumbfounded, but quite proud of the fact that I wasn't as stupid as I thought, at least in that subject. Please note that I am a true blonde and forever take the brunt of blonde jokes. Add to that the fact that my older brother, Lanny, was said to have a "block" to math and his yearbook caption read, "he's the guy who scratches his head and gets splinters". (No, he's not stupid either, he's a successful businessman it turns out). I could have been instantly plunged to that "inner child" place of no self confidence...So I answered rather hesitantly, "I studied". The other students looked at me like I had two heads, but in fact, from then on, I kind of enjoyed Algebra class. I think Mr. Boyko had a new found respect for me, and I was suddenly elevated in my own mind. :-) I always remembered that entire concept when teaching with my own students. They'll do much better if they suceed early, feel good about themselves and can take ownership of their own learning. Everybody does feel dumb and inadequate at times, but very few people really are. There is book called A Child's Mistaken Goals that I read years ago. Strange how our experiences in childhood and youth stand to colour the rest of our lives.
I'm rambling on, but surely somebody will be able to relate!
Another memory has to do with Physics class. I didn't really like Physics, but distinctly remember one class where we learned about the effects of the strobe. That was when I realized what a visual learner I am. Mr. Tomski showed us what happens when a filmstrip is run and tries to capture something like a helicopter propellor in motion. To this day, every time I see a fired up or flying helicopter on TV, I see that it isn't a smooth visual, but that the propeller is a choppy picture. If you didn't know that, now you do and thus your physics lesson of the day! Don't ask me the physics behind that though, ha ha. Here's your health lesson, this effect is seen in strobe lights at dances and events. If too intense and certain individuals happen to be susceptible, it can cause ill effects such as seizures.
In Mr. Boyko's grade nine Algebra class, I was barely cracking a 60% because of an intense lack of interest. I was not the only one, this attitude was pervasive amongst many of my class mates. At one point though, Mr. Boyko put the fear of God into us about an upcoming exam on the most difficult chapter in the whole course. Permutations, Combinations and ?? I think it was Probabilities. I decided I'd better open the textbook and see what it was all about. Well, what I found in reality was that I had to study my butt off. Amazingly, when it came time for the exam, I pulled off a really excellent mark. I had no idea that the rest of the class hadn't opened a book and that I would get the highest mark in the whole class. Mr. Boyko brought it up in front of everyone and skeptically asked me how I did it. I was dumbfounded, but quite proud of the fact that I wasn't as stupid as I thought, at least in that subject. Please note that I am a true blonde and forever take the brunt of blonde jokes. Add to that the fact that my older brother, Lanny, was said to have a "block" to math and his yearbook caption read, "he's the guy who scratches his head and gets splinters". (No, he's not stupid either, he's a successful businessman it turns out). I could have been instantly plunged to that "inner child" place of no self confidence...So I answered rather hesitantly, "I studied". The other students looked at me like I had two heads, but in fact, from then on, I kind of enjoyed Algebra class. I think Mr. Boyko had a new found respect for me, and I was suddenly elevated in my own mind. :-) I always remembered that entire concept when teaching with my own students. They'll do much better if they suceed early, feel good about themselves and can take ownership of their own learning. Everybody does feel dumb and inadequate at times, but very few people really are. There is book called A Child's Mistaken Goals that I read years ago. Strange how our experiences in childhood and youth stand to colour the rest of our lives.
I'm rambling on, but surely somebody will be able to relate!
Wednesday 4 January 2012
Attitudes, Thought Processes and Tastes Amongst Relatives
I went to the doctor today and found out that winter causes all kinds of things like body sluggishness and a little bit of weight gain (like I didn't know). It doesn't help that Christmas eating follows directly on the heels of Hallowe'en candy. My blood sugar was too high over the past three months, and that's not good being a diabetic...but on the up side, my blood pressure reading was excellent! I'm usually pretty good about doing the healthy thing, at least I preach that to others...after all, I am a nurse, but, it's obvious that I need to get back exercising and counting carbs and everybody knows it..including me.
Yet, true to form, when it comes to myself, I have this narrow little rebellious streak. It might not last long, but it's definitely there. When there is a hint that I might have to follow some sort of rule ... I tend to do the opposite just as a sort of "I'll show you!" Stupid reasoning, I know, but innate....I'm hardwired for it. How I did this today was to go to Costco shopping after the dr's appointment and get a take-out order of chicken fingers and fries with gravy on the side. It was far too many carbs and I knew it, but I took it home and enjoyed every last bite. Eating french fries smothered in ketchup and gravy takes me back to my teenaged days frequenting the Central Cafe in Hudson Bay. My friends and I used to walk there from the high school almost every single day for chips and gravy. I distinctly remember being there with one or all including JoAnn Hamel, Linda Dickson, Doreen Flamand or Patsy Burke. We ate all those carbs, fat and calories and mostly didn't gain a pound. Four and a half decades later, that just doesn't work for me anymore..
I have only ever had the chicken finger and fries from Costco once before while waiting for a prescription (I usually go for the hot dog). That time, the place was packed and I asked to share a table with a man and woman originally from the Philippines. They were surprizingly up on world events and financial matters and dying to talk to me, just as much as I was loving to talk to them. I have alot to learn at the best of times, and really enjoyed their visit. They were heading back home for Christmas so I wonder if I'll ever run into them again to get the rest of the story.
Anyhow, that attitude of mine that instantly gets my back up when somebody tries to boss me around or tell me what I should REALLY do is what I'm talking about. Thinking later and laughing about what I had done today, it reminded me of one time when I was in first year university, like about 1973. Yes, I AM that old.
My Auntie Dianne came into Saskatoon for a weight loss conference. First she took me shopping and bought me a brand new outfit. I still remember it...a beautiful pale yellow blouse, with a yellow cashmere sweater with short sleeves that criss-crossed in front and tied in the back. The pants were robin's egg blue bell bottoms all from Sears. The thought makes me smile and feel warm all over, mostly because that style came, went and came back again. Plus she treated me like a princess. I guess she was trying to make up for the time when I was six and got into her LP collection...I don't think I wrecked anything but she was not impressed!
When it came time to go to the weight conference, (I was going with her)...we walked past another function happening in the same building. It was a whole room full of people playing bingo..Suddenly, she asked if I wouldn't rather play bingo. Would I? Who wouldn't? I said, "what about the meeting? She just threw her head back and laughed. She had left her home in Yorkton and driven all the way to Saskatoon to attend an important conference for her health, yet, she didn't go....There was that same rebellious streak.
Another example is more like a thought process and not rebellious at all. Most recently, I watched my little grandson Koen start opening his Christmas presents on Christmas morning amidst the chaos of the whole family opening theirs. He opened one that he just loved and decided he needed to take it into the other room to play with it. He's only three and didn't care one bit that he had about two dozen other things waiting to be opened. He didn't care about the Christmas traditions or what the protocol was. He is too little to know anything about attitudes and everyone thought it was cute and funny. However, right around the same time, we watched as my son (his uncle Warren), opened his gift of an outdoor thermometer. Now, Warren is a full-grown adult, but he too, stopped everything to get a screwdriver and affix his new thermometer to it's place on the outside wall of his cabin.
It really was cute to see such a blatant similarity. The same kind of thought process ran through both their minds, probably because they share a large percentage of chromosomes.
My sister Lynda, my Mom Dorothy and I have been known to all buy the same cards. My daughter, Carmen and my neices Jocelyn, Camille and Leslie have unknowingly purchased the same purse or item of clothing. We seem to share similiar tastes it would seem.
Uncanny, isn't it?
Yet, true to form, when it comes to myself, I have this narrow little rebellious streak. It might not last long, but it's definitely there. When there is a hint that I might have to follow some sort of rule ... I tend to do the opposite just as a sort of "I'll show you!" Stupid reasoning, I know, but innate....I'm hardwired for it. How I did this today was to go to Costco shopping after the dr's appointment and get a take-out order of chicken fingers and fries with gravy on the side. It was far too many carbs and I knew it, but I took it home and enjoyed every last bite. Eating french fries smothered in ketchup and gravy takes me back to my teenaged days frequenting the Central Cafe in Hudson Bay. My friends and I used to walk there from the high school almost every single day for chips and gravy. I distinctly remember being there with one or all including JoAnn Hamel, Linda Dickson, Doreen Flamand or Patsy Burke. We ate all those carbs, fat and calories and mostly didn't gain a pound. Four and a half decades later, that just doesn't work for me anymore..
I have only ever had the chicken finger and fries from Costco once before while waiting for a prescription (I usually go for the hot dog). That time, the place was packed and I asked to share a table with a man and woman originally from the Philippines. They were surprizingly up on world events and financial matters and dying to talk to me, just as much as I was loving to talk to them. I have alot to learn at the best of times, and really enjoyed their visit. They were heading back home for Christmas so I wonder if I'll ever run into them again to get the rest of the story.
Anyhow, that attitude of mine that instantly gets my back up when somebody tries to boss me around or tell me what I should REALLY do is what I'm talking about. Thinking later and laughing about what I had done today, it reminded me of one time when I was in first year university, like about 1973. Yes, I AM that old.
My Auntie Dianne came into Saskatoon for a weight loss conference. First she took me shopping and bought me a brand new outfit. I still remember it...a beautiful pale yellow blouse, with a yellow cashmere sweater with short sleeves that criss-crossed in front and tied in the back. The pants were robin's egg blue bell bottoms all from Sears. The thought makes me smile and feel warm all over, mostly because that style came, went and came back again. Plus she treated me like a princess. I guess she was trying to make up for the time when I was six and got into her LP collection...I don't think I wrecked anything but she was not impressed!
When it came time to go to the weight conference, (I was going with her)...we walked past another function happening in the same building. It was a whole room full of people playing bingo..Suddenly, she asked if I wouldn't rather play bingo. Would I? Who wouldn't? I said, "what about the meeting? She just threw her head back and laughed. She had left her home in Yorkton and driven all the way to Saskatoon to attend an important conference for her health, yet, she didn't go....There was that same rebellious streak.
Another example is more like a thought process and not rebellious at all. Most recently, I watched my little grandson Koen start opening his Christmas presents on Christmas morning amidst the chaos of the whole family opening theirs. He opened one that he just loved and decided he needed to take it into the other room to play with it. He's only three and didn't care one bit that he had about two dozen other things waiting to be opened. He didn't care about the Christmas traditions or what the protocol was. He is too little to know anything about attitudes and everyone thought it was cute and funny. However, right around the same time, we watched as my son (his uncle Warren), opened his gift of an outdoor thermometer. Now, Warren is a full-grown adult, but he too, stopped everything to get a screwdriver and affix his new thermometer to it's place on the outside wall of his cabin.
It really was cute to see such a blatant similarity. The same kind of thought process ran through both their minds, probably because they share a large percentage of chromosomes.
My sister Lynda, my Mom Dorothy and I have been known to all buy the same cards. My daughter, Carmen and my neices Jocelyn, Camille and Leslie have unknowingly purchased the same purse or item of clothing. We seem to share similiar tastes it would seem.
Uncanny, isn't it?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)