Stan

May 10, 2022
by Kathy Larson

Chapter 5

“You ain’t worth the powder it’d take to blow you to hell,” his mother hollered as he angrily spun the beat up pick-up in the dry dirt, sending a cloud of ugly brown dirt into the air. Choke, you bitch, he muttered, bitter tears stinging his eyes. The truck fish-tailed and he drove down hard on the brake sending even more dirt and dust into the air. For a moment it felt like the truck was going to skid, he felt it slew beneath him, the tires grabbing for purchase in the loose, chalky dirt of the driveway. Panic hit him hard in the chest, he would not, would not, WOULD NOT, have her make fun of him for losing control. Worse, he could not let his father see what she had done to him. Again.

The second his father had left to go into town she’d been on him.

‘I’m so lonely,” she’d cooed as she slipped into his bed. She had started running her hands across his shoulders, down his back. Instantly, he had felt himself grow cold and he’d stopped breathing, hoping she’d just go away. Sometimes, when he was younger, that had worked. She’d come into his room, always when his father was sound asleep, exhausted from working in the fields for 10 – 12 hours, having had to come in and fix himself something to eat because his wife was passed out cold on the couch.

No matter how tired he was, or hungry, Stan’s father would always come in and fix something for them to eat. Sometimes it was just fried eggs, canned beans and toast, but at least it was a meal. He’d walk over to where his wife lay sprawled out and cover her with a blanket, then say in a quiet, sad voice to Stan that she was the most beautiful thing in the house. Stan would say nothing, though he wanted to tell his father everything. He loved his father. More than anything. That’s how she kept him silent.

He had turned nineteen a week ago. The truck was a gift from his father. It wasn’t new, but it was sound. His father had had his friend Mel give it a good going-over, and aside from some rust it was in good shape. Perfect for a young fella to get around in, he’d said as he handed Stan the keys. The look of love and pride in his father’s eyes was something he’d never forget. Then his mother had stepped out of the front door, a tall rye-coke in one hand, a cigarette trailing from the fingers of the other. “He’s just gonna get some slut knocked up, now he’s got wheels,” she said from behind his father. She fixed Stan with a cold stare then smiled and winked. Stan felt sick with guilt and dread. He gave his father a long hug, said thank you, then jumped in and drove into town.

He had been spending as much time away from home as he could from the time he was about fourteen. He played whatever sport was in season, slept over at his friends’ places as much as he could manage, and in the summer would spend his nights camped out by himself down in the coulees that ran behind his father’s land. When he could he’d steal some of his mother’s booze and he’d spend those nights getting drunk and trying to forget the things she made him do.

He’d been gone for most of the past week, sleeping in the truck when he had no place else to go. There were no girls, he couldn’t bring himself to even imagine being with one. What girl would ever want anything to do with him? He imagined they’d be able to see straight through him, see what he was, and it terrified him. It also made him angry. Angry at his mother, angry at himself, and, worse, angry at his father. Why didn’t his father see what she was? Why did he make excuses for her, protect her, forgive her for all her nasty, evil, lazy, disgusting ways? When he thought that way about his father it made him feel even worse; what kind of son was he?

He had thought often of telling his father about what she was doing with him, but shame, and the fear of what it might do to him stopped him. “It’d kill him, you know,” she’d whispered in his ear one time, “if he ever found out.” Then she had chuckled and said, “Maybe, that wouldn’t be a bad thing.” He knew he could never tell. So, he did his best to stay out of her reach.

He’d come in late last night, hoping that she’d be passed out and he was right. He’d slipped into his room and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. When she slithered in behind him and he felt her dry hands upon his skin he nearly screamed. Instead, he lay there not breathing and hoped she’d get bored or mad and just go away. She got mad. She grabbed his hair and tried to pull him towards her. He wrenched his head away from her and she yelled out in pain. He was trying to get himself out of the tangle of sheets but she was trying to pin him down onto the bed and get herself on top of him. He saw red. “No!” he hollered and pushed hard backwards sending her sprawling. He was out of the bed and grabbing for his clothes and keys, intent on getting away and never coming back. His mother stared at him in surprise and then she threw herself at him trying to slap and punch him like she had when he was young and had tried to avoid her. One of her hands raked across his face and he felt her jagged nails open a gash across his cheek. He reached out and grabbed her by both wrists. He wanted to hit her so badly, wanted to hurt her and make her feel the way he did.

She went limp in his grasp and her head rocked back on her long, thin neck. He held her that way for a endless moment, then let her fall backwards on to the bed. ‘I hate you.” he said. “I never want to fucking see you ever again.” She lay there, half naked, hair spread out like a tattered crown against the dirty sheets. Then she opened her eyes and stared at him. “No you don’t, you love your momma,” she said, and laughed.

Stan dressed as quickly as he could and ran down the stairs. He wanted badly to see his father, to say goodbye, to tell him that he was leaving and that he wasn’t coming back. His father had left for the city, early, for an appointment at the bank. Farming hadn’t been going so well these past five or six years, the drought never seemed to end, and when rain did come it came in such torrents that it washed away anything that had managed to eke into existence in the dry, barren soil.

He rushed down the stairs and out through the front door. I’ll call him later, he thought, and tell him that I’ve gone looking for a job. As he pushed through the door panic made him stop. Where was he going? What could he do? He stopped, the door open before him, and hung his head. This was all so wrong. Maybe he could tell his father. Maybe he would understand. Maybe he would forgive him. Then he remembered the adoring, love-blind way his father would look at her and he knew it was hopeless.

He heard his mother stumbling down the stairs and he knew this was his one and only chance to be free of her. She screamed his name. Swore at him, begged, pleaded with him to not leave her there alone. “He makes me sick,” she screeched, “you’re the only thing that’s kept me alive all these years.” He turned to look at her and for a second felt a shred of pity for the lost thing that she was, then he remembered all that she had put him through, remembered his father’s love for her and forced himself to let the door slam closed behind him.

He threw himself behind the wheel of the truck and turned the ignition. “I’ll tell him.” she screamed. “I’ll tell him that you tried to rape me. Your own mother!” Stan felt himself go still, felt all the air sucked out of him and as he turned to look at her he felt as though it were all happening in slow motion. His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly he thought his fingers might break. Then he drew in a deep breath and got out of the truck. He walked towards her, stopped at the bottom step and stared up at her. “If you do,” he said in an eerily calm voice, “I’ll kill you.” He looked straight into her eyes and could see that she understood. He turned away for the last time and got back into his truck.

It was a month before he found the courage to call and speak to his father. All he heard in his father’s voice when he did was love and sorrow. Your mother is sleeping, he said, we won’t disturb her. When the call was over Stan sobbed with relief.

Advertisement

June

Chapter 4

Mar. 21, 2022
Kathy Larson

She got pregnant. They’d been married nearly five years when it happened, and it surprised them both.

Sadie could not understand how she had gotten pregnant. She took her birth control pills religiously — Stan watched her every morning at breakfast — but more confusing was the fact that they rarely had sex. When they did it was always when Stan was extremely drunk. It was a rough, sloppy and often painful ordeal that left her feeling bruised both physically and emotionally.

As a young girl Sadie had often imagined herself as a mother. She modeled herself after her own mother, who had been, despite the horror of being married to a brutal alcoholic, a kind and caring mother, devoted to making sure that Sadie was cared for and loved. Of course, in Sadie’s imagination, the father of her child was nothing at all like her father — he was a conglomeration of all the shining knights, brave princes and beautiful, yet smart heroes of the story books she read. When she’d first set eyes on Stan she believed that she’d found the very embodiment of all her girl-hood fantasies.

When her doctor told her she was pregnant she broke down and cried. She had fled the doctor’s office in a panic, unable to explain why she had to leave so suddenly. She had taken the bus to the clinic, but chose to walk the 45 minutes it would take her to get home. Along the way she stumbled into a park and sat crying into the bunched folds of the sweater she’d worn to her appointment. A woman who had watched Sadie crying for nearly half an hour finally approached and asked if she was okay, was there anything she could do to help. Sadie had looked at her through swollen eyes, her face blotchy and red and said no, there was nothing anyone could do. She thanked the woman and said she’d be fine, could she please just leave? The woman smiled sadly then reached into her bag and produced a travel pack of Kleenex which she placed gently on the bench beside Sadie. That simple, kind act brought about a new avalanche of tears and Sadie had felt for a moment that she might go mad.

Eventually her tears abated, but not the sense of overwhelming sadness that had permeated every fibre of her being. How was she going to tell Stan this news? How would he react? The thought of a child growing up in their home, being loved by only one parent, having to suffer through Stan’s miserableness, his drinking, his anger and his tight-fistedness nearly brought the tears on again, but she stole a look at her watch and was shocked to see that she’d been in the park the whole afternoon. It was going on 5 o’clock. Stan would be home before her and he’d be furious that she wasn’t there. She got to her feet and hurried home.

She walked fast, but it still took her nearly half an hour to get there, and in that time she felt a seed of hope begin to grow inside. Maybe, confronted with the reality of a child, Stan would change. Maybe he would actually be happy, would be thrilled to know that he had fathered an heir. What if it was a boy? The thought made Sadie suddenly smile. A boy! Isn’t that what all men wanted? A boy child, someone to carry on their legacy, someone to share their skills and knowledge with? By the time she stepped into their driveway she was convinced that Stan would be as happy about the child as she was beginning to feel.

That fantasy lasted as long as it took her to get the words out.

He had been sitting in the faded recliner he’d picked up one day on his way home from work drinking a beer and scowling at the blank screen of the television. When she came into the room he turned and fixed her with a cold, empty look. Where the fuck you been? he said quietly. Sadie tried to erase the look of fear that must have been on her face, tried to smile, but the blackness she saw in his eyes was killing any sense of happiness she’d begun to feel. I was at the doctor’s, she said. That was this morning, he growled, and stood up out of the chair. It’s five-fucking-o’clock. Who you been seeing behind my back, while I’m killing myself at that fucking job that I fucking hate just so’s I can keep you in this fucking house? His voice had grown steadily louder and as he spoke he had walked across to her until he was towering over her, his hot breath, smelling of the corned beef sandwich he’d had for lunch and the beer he’d been drinking, blasting into her face, making her feel sick. Sadie stood her ground. Turned her head slightly to draw in a fresh breath of air, then turned to look at him with as much calmness as she could muster and told him they were going to have a child.

At first he was silent. He stared at her like he didn’t know who she was. The colour had drained from his face and he seemed to lose his balance, she thought for a moment he might actually faint. Then he had gone into the kitchen, grabbed his keys from the hook by the door and walked out without a word. He did not come back until the next night.

All through the night that he was gone Sadie sat at the kitchen table, starting each time she heard the loud engine of a half-ton cruise by out on the street. When he hadn’t returned by morning she went and lay down on the bed, not bothering to undress. Any feelings of hope or joy or happiness she’d had on her short walk home from the park were gone. In her heart she knew that Stan would never accept a child. When she thought of the unbearable unhappiness and loneliness her child would have to live with it broke her heart. She wept softly and silently until she finally fell asleep.

When he came through the door the next night he walked past her without a word. She set the table and laid out their supper. It was while he was stuffing a forkful of the shepherd’s pie she’d made into his mouth that he said, I told you I didn’t want no kids. He didn’t look at her, only reached for the beer that sat beside his plate. I know, she said quietly, it just happened. They sat in silence then, the only sound their chewing and the occasional clearing of their throats. When he was done, he looked at her and the last thing he said before pushing himself away from the table was, It probably ain’t even mine, anyway.

She cried the whole time doing the dishes, her tears splashing silently into the soapy water, and by the time she was finished she knew what she had to do.

They told her that it was a girl. Sadie named her June. Stan never knew that she carried the tiny body home or that she had buried their daughter beneath the protective, sheltering branches of the elm tree in the back corner of the yard. She placed a chair next to the spot where she buried June, and every day when Stan was at work she would sit and read aloud to her, her voice, filled with longing, filled with regret, but mostly filled with love floating softly up through the branches into the free and open sky.

The Farm

Chapter 3

by Kathy Larson
March 4, 2022

The first time, and there was only one other time, that Stan took Sadie to the farm, was for his father’s funeral.

She had asked him a few times before they were married when she would meet his parents, but he had said each time that they were so busy working that there just wasn’t a good time to make the trip. They’d have to stay overnight, because it was a five-hour drive and he wasn’t about to do ten hours of driving for barely a day of visiting. They’d go when he had holidays and they’d stay at least a week; give his folks a chance to really get to know her. It sounded good to her — she’d never been far out of the city, had never been on a farm — the prospect of spending time in the country excited her. In her mind she pictured green fields, lush gardens, and animals, lots of animals.

When Stan got the call that his father had died they had been married nearly 18 months. By that time she was sure he never meant to take her to meet his parents, and he wouldn’t listen to any talk of having them come to stay. Also, by that time, she knew not to push him when he’d said how things were going to be. Not that he ever laid a hand on her, God no, that was something Stan said he would never do and he was very proud of himself for that. It would be her own damned fault if he ever did, though — there was only so much a man could be expected to take, after all. If he had only known just what a useless, lazy, stupid waste of breath she’d become after she got that ring on her finger. . .

For the first few months after they were married she tried everything she could to restore things to how they’d been before. She ignored his moods, took on fixing up the house on her own when he protested that he was too worn out from slaving for her every day, put on a dress and fixed her makeup and hair for when he got home because he’d gone from telling her how sweet and pretty she was to how plain and disgusting she’d become. Nothing worked. Did she think he wanted people to think he’d married a whore? he’d spit at her. Is that what she did all day while he busted his ass to put this roof over her head and the food on her table — sat around playing dress-up and painting her face so that he’d forget what she really was? His mother had tried to warn him, he told her, but he hadn’t listened, and now look what it had got him.

Sadie never thought to fight back — she’d seen what had happened to her mother. She knew that Stan’s anger wasn’t really with her, just as her father’s hadn’t been with her or her mother. Sometimes, she wished Stan would hit her, then she’d have an actual reason to leave him, but to leave because he called her names, or thought she had tricked him into marrying her? That was insane. Who would believe that? Besides, where could she go if she did leave? She had nothing of her own anymore. He’d made her quit the waitressing job — only sluts worked as waitresses, he’d said, and seeing as how she’d got what she wanted with him, he wouldn’t have her embarrass him by throwing herself at other men. She reminded him of how she’d been when they met. That was all an act, he said, she’d played the poor little victim and he’d fallen for it.

He’d even stopped her from refinishing and fixing up furniture. One day he went out to the garage where her supplies were and started throwing them all in the back of his pick-up. What are you doing? she cried, why are you doing this? Because, he’d answered, you have a house to take care of now, you don’t have time for this two-bit hobby anymore. She’d tried to stop him, saying that she could make money doing the furniture, help them save more for fixing up the house and for the acreage they planned to buy, but he had shoved her roughly aside and said he wouldn’t have her wasting her time and his money on such crap. Then he had looked at her with a cold smile and said, there ain’t going to be no acreage. You think I’m stupid enough to let you tie me down with a mortgage I’d never get out from under just so you can play the grand lady? Not gonna happen. After that she simply gave in. The man she had fallen in love with didn’t exist — he had been the one that had fooled her, and sadly she was the only one who knew it.

The days slid by, unremarked, and she busied herself with keeping the house the way he wanted it. She did the best she could to fix it up though he would give her no money for anything he considered frivolous. If she needed anything — there was no such thing as ‘wanting’ anything — he would take her to the local thrift store. In all the years he’d been alive she had never once bought a brand new pair of shoes or piece of clothing. Their dishes, pots and pans, all their linens, and most of their furniture had all come from second-hand stores. He gave her an allowance for groceries and she had to hand him receipts for every penny she spent. Over time she accepted that this was her life, and if it was not the life she had imagined it would be, well, that was, after all, just life.

When they arrived at his parent’s farm for the funeral Sadie was in shock. It was nothing like she had imagined; it did not match the descriptions Stan had detailed for her. The house was small and weather-beaten and badly in need of repairs and paint. Old vehicles and broken-down farm machinery littered the surrounding yard. Though summer was over, it was only the second week of October, and though nothing would be lush and green, everything that should still be living, wasn’t. The garden was an overgrown mass of dying weeds, the trees were nothing more than skeletal outlines against the lead-grey sky, and looking over a barely standing fence was a dusty brown cow that looked to Sadie to be starving. She looked over at Stan and saw that he was not phased at all by anything they were seeing. So, this had been another lie. She closed her eyes and clasped her hands tightly together.

Nothing could have prepared her for Stan’s mother. She had entered the house expecting to find an elderly woman bereft over the loss of her husband. Gloria was not bereft. Sadie knew that Stan’s parents were in their 70s, but Gloria could have been in her 50s. She was in the kitchen when they entered the house talking loudly on the phone. She had a cigarette in one hand and was absentmindedly tapping ashes into a juice glass sitting on the edge of the counter as she talked. She looked up and registered surprise at seeing Stan, looked over at Sadie and gave her a sour frown. Gotta go, she said, the prodigal just came in with his new wife.

Gloria was wearing a dark, bordering-on-the-colour-of-blood, red dress and black, patent leather high heels. Her poorly dyed blonde hair, done up in a loose knot, straggled down around her shoulders. She was heavily made up and the bright red lipstick she wore had bled into the lines around her mouth, making her look haggard and worn. Well, she said, if it isn’t Stanny-boy and the little lady. Sadie understood everything then, and in that moment of understanding felt such an overwhelming sense of pity for Stan that she reached out and took his hand. He startled at her touch, but did not pull away.

The funeral was a small, sad affair. The men in attendance came up to Stan, his mother and Sadie, and offered muted words of condolence. Most of the men avoided touching Gloria by keeping their hats in their hands, but when they got to Stan, they would loose one to shake his. He was a good man, they said. Hard worker. Really tried. Gave it his best. They looked at Sadie with curious expressions and congratulated her on marrying Stan. None of their wives came with them. When it was over Stan drove them back to the farmhouse, but not before stopping at the small hotel on the main street of town to pick up a case of beer and bottle of whiskey.

That night, after he and his mother had gotten into a loud, drunken screaming match he had clawed his way into bed where he forced himself roughly on her. Sadie cried silently throughout the ordeal and when he had finally finished and rolled off her and passed out, she got up and spent the rest of the night sleeping in a lumpy, overstuffed and dusty-smelling chair in one corner of the room. He seemed not to recall anything the next morning, and when he asked why she had slept in the chair she told him it was because she couldn’t sleep and didn’t want to wake him, knowing he had to drive them back to the city. A look of relief, or was it shame, she asked herself, passed over his face; he accepted her lie and within an hour they were on the road. Gloria did not get up to see them off.

They barely spoke on the trip home, Stan was lost in concentration and Sadie spent the time processing all she’d seen and overheard. Armed with the knowledge that everthing Stan had told her about life on the ‘farm’ was all lies, and that he had very good reasons for those lies, Sadie resolved to do the best she could to prove to him that she was not like Gloria. She could win him back, she could help him become that happy, life-loving guy she’d met once again. Without looking at him, she said softly into the space between them, I love you.

He kept his eyes on the road, but she heard him sigh.

Getting Ready

Chapter 2

Kathy Larson
Feb. 22, 2022

Sadie stood at the sink, her right hip leaning against the edge of the counter. She was looking out the window into the backyard, but wasn’t really seeing anything. Her mind was stuck in a memory from four decades previous; the day she and Stan had moved into this house.

The apple trees in the back west corner were waving gently in the breeze, their new leaves and newly-formed buds seemed to glow almost incandescently in the bright light of this fresh spring morning. If there wasn’t a late frost, there’d be a bumper crop of apples this year. Sadie sighed. They had bought the trees at that little nursery where they had ordered the topsoil for the garden. Stan wanted a big vegetable garden, better and cheaper to grow your own food, he’d told her. She had looked at him in wonder, and with true adoration; this man she was about to marry was such a surprise.

He had grown up on a farm where everything you needed was either raised, harvested or made. Sadie had grown up in the city and the only garden she’d ever tended was the small flower bed her mother had kept. Her mother’s flowers had been the only bit of joy and colour in her world, and when she had died the flowers died too. Sadie had just turned 17 the week before her father finally put an end to her mother. He went to prison and she went into care. She’d never been back to the little house with the peeling blue paint and the sad patch of earth nestled beneath the front window.

She met Stan while she was working as a waitress at a little restaurant in a strip mall close to where she lived. By that time she had moved out on her own and had a small basement apartment in a three story walk-up. The apartment was cold in winter but lovely in summer. She had furnished it almost completely with things she’d found in thrift stores and on the side of the street. If something was at the curb and it looked serviceable she’d drag it home. The library provided her with all the how-to she needed in order to fix things up, and she soon discovered that she had a love and a talent for painting and refinishing furniture. Her little home was bright and airy, filled with colour, and, best of all, peaceful and safe.

The day Stan walked into her life everything changed. He was big, loud and had a laugh that carried her along with it. He’d been coming to the restaurant for a little over a week before he stopped her on his way out after lunch one day and asked if she’d be interested in going out sometime. Until that moment she’d thought she was invisible to him, just the mousy little waitress who brought him his club sandwich with extra fries, large water and a slice of apple pie every day at 11:45. Him, and the crew he was with had established a standing reservation with Gino, the owner of the restaurant, and everyday they trooped in and headed to the large table at the back where it was Sadie’s job to take care of them.

She was a good waitress; attentive, quick and anticipatory of their needs. This came, she knew, from living in an environment of terror. Her mother had taught her early how to read her father’s moods and silences and how to appease them when possible. This also meant, though, that she was constantly on alert for any signs of anger or discontent; she made herself as small and unobtrusive as possible trying as best she could to do her job and get out of their way. Most of them had given up trying to make small talk with her after the first couple of days, but not Stan. He always had a big smile for her, called her darlin’, and left her a decent tip each day. She found herself watching out for him and made sure that it was him she always served first when the orders were ready.

If only she had known, she thought now.

Their courtship had been fast and they were married within six months. During that time he had only ever been patient, kind and indulgent with her. The few times he had stayed at her apartment he had praised her on her ability to make something worn and destined for the garbage look new and usable again, but he wasn’t crazy about her ‘wild’ use of colour. Things were better painted neutral, everyday colours, he said, that way they didn’t stand out, they could fit in anywhere. She saw the wisdom in this and soon began painting things in shades of white, beige and pale grey only. They were still lovely, she thought, but they lacked a sense of life, of vibrancy, but if it meant pleasing him then it was a small thing.

They found the house a month before they were married. It was in an older part of the city, a real fixer-upper — completely neglected, the real estate agent had said — but it had a huge back yard and the price was right. Secretly, she was disappointed that they weren’t going to buy a new house in one of the new neighbourhoods that had sprung up on the outskirts of town, but Stan was adamant about not throwing his money away on crappy construction just to line the pockets of shyster councilmen and their crony business partners. He convinced her that they could make the house look new again with his carpentry skills and her knack for painting and decorating. It would be a solid investment, one they could make a good profit on, and someday they’d build their own new home in the country on an acreage. It was such a convincing argument and she could see how excited he was at the prospect of redeeming this shoddy, worn little house that she couldn’t help getting swept along by his enthusiasm.

The got married by a justice of the peace. There was no honeymoon. He got drunk that night and she cried herself to sleep. In the morning he went and picked up the rented moving truck and they piled her few belongings into it and they moved into the house. They had taken possession two weeks previous and had spent that time cleaning and painting walls, removing old, stained carpet, replacing broken fixtures and, as her mother had once told her, simply nesting. It had been fun working alongside him and he had been full of smiles and laughs and had grabbed her up in big bear hugs whenever they completed one of the projects they’d set themselves. What happened, she wondered. Did I do something wrong? Was he disappointed because their wedding night hadn’t been more special?

When he came back from returning the truck he had a bottle of whiskey and a two-four of beer. She had never seen him buy booze before and seeing this made her think of her father. An involuntary shudder ran through her.

Sadie had told Stan very little about her background, but she had told him her father was an alcoholic and that he had beat her mother to death. He had held her while she told him this and stroked her hair and kissed her gently and promised that he would never let anyone hurt her ever again.

Unable to stop herself from shaking she approached him carefully. “Stan?,” she said in as small a voice as she could, “why are you so angry?”

The look he have her was so cold and filled with contempt it stilled her breath. “I ain’t angry,” he said. “I’m tired. You’ve had me working like a goddamned dog and now I need a break.” He stalked to the refrigerator and put the beer inside. “You got what you wanted — a hardworking husband, a nice house — but this ain’t no free ride, sweetie. You got to earn your keep.” He pulled a glass out of a box, filled it half full with whiskey, added a splash of water from the tap. “I’m hungry. Make something to eat. I don’t care what it is.”

It hit her then. The inevitability of it. Everything, her childhood, her mother’s death, the group home, all of it had all been preparation for this day. She turned inward into the dull and dingy kitchen and began preparing his meal. He stayed outside and waited until she called to tell him it was ready.

A steady, loud beeping interrupted Sadie’s thoughts. Startled, she sloshed coffee over her hand and was mildly surprised to find that it was cold. With a rueful smile she placed the mug into the sink. The tree removal company she’d hired was here. She slipped into the new, bulky, bright yellow sweater she’d bought last week and stepped out into the sunshine, waving at the young man backing his truck into the driveway. Her smile broadened as she walked past all of the colourful plants and flowers spread out across the patio. She’d canned her last damned jar of applesauce.

Just a ramble

Kathy Larson
Feb. 20, 2022

It’s Sunday morning, it’s cold outside, and I really don’t feel like doing much of anything.

I’ve become hooked on the game Wordle. Have my sisters to thank for that. Lol. I am very happy that they introduced me to it though — it’s my early morning addiction and I can’t wait to see how I have done compared to them. What I love about Wordle is that it is a relatively quick game; solve the word of the day and you’re done. Once I’ve solved it and shared my score (usually 5/6, sometimes 4/6) I am happy to get on with the rest of my day. I don’t waste any time thinking about mistakes I made or if I can do better on the next challenge — it’s done, and that’s it until I open it up the next morning.

I also like the brief connection with my sisters first thing in the morning. Most days we only share our scores, but occasionally we add a few words of conversation. It’s a small thing, but a good thing.

This week I began writing again. For real. It has been a long, long struggle to get back to wanting to write. For so many years I just pushed writing aside, choosing to do anything else, where once upon a time I did anything I could to find any extra scrap of time that I could use to indulge my passion.

When I sat down at the keyboard for the first time this past week I was amazed at how familiar it felt, how absolutely lovely it was to see words appearing as I typed them. I don’t even care if most of them are garbage — I’m just so happy to be doing something that makes me happy. For years I’ve treated myself as a failure for not having made a successful career out of my writing; I wouldn’t write because I judged myself too harshly.

Then, I read Gretchen Rubin’s The Happiness Project, and I realized just how much I missed writing. Words make me happy. Stringing words together in sentences makes me ecstatic. Joining sentences together into paragraphs, into pages, into chapters and essays makes me positively starry-eyed. For too long I’ve been focused on the wrong thing — trying to impress others, to seek validation in their opinions — when, really, I only ever had to worry about myself.

This past summer I boxed up all but a few of my manuscripts, my files of story ideas, my files of weird news articles, strange phrases gleaned from conversations, images clipped from magazines, words scrawled on bits of napkins, receipts and corners of pages torn from notebooks, because I had given up on myself as a writer. It was something I tried, I told myself, something else that I had failed at.

I think when I did that a switch got stuck somewhere inside me — like a light switch that is stuck halfway between on and off. The light will flicker intermittently until someone comes along and flicks it all the way one way or the other. All the empty space in my office that had been filled for so long with pages and pages of words that I had written kept flickering in my mind’s peripheral vision, like that cluster of stars in the night sky that you only see when you’re not looking directly at them.

Thank God, thank the muses, thank the Divine, thank the guardians, guides and angels — thank the Universe — that I decided to flip the switch to on.

I like feeling happy again.

Today

Chapter 1

by Kathy Larson
Feb 17, 2022

“When I wake up tomorrow,” she said to the empty room, “I’m going to do two things that will get me closer to my goal.” Then, she looked around herself, took in the faded wallpaper, the fraying pillowcases and the dust that lined her dresser and sighed. What goal would that be, she asked silently.

The next morning, as she sat eating her usual bowl of oatmeal with trail mix, honey and a half a banana (which she hated) and a sprinkle of cinnamon, she thought about her proclamation of the night before. What exactly was the goal she had been thinking of? Truth was, she didn’t have any goals. Not a one. She spooned oatmeal into her mouth and asked herself when and why it was that she’d started eating the stuff everyday for breakfast.

Once upon a time she’d eaten other things for breakfast — eggs, Frosted Flakes, muffins, bagels and cream cheese — she’d kind of chosen her meal based on how she felt that particular day. Not anymore. It was oatmeal every day. Every single day. She put the spoon down as it was halfway to her mouth and oatmeal splattered on the placemat and on to the table. Why? She couldn’t get the ‘why?’ out of her thoughts.

With a heavy sigh she looked down at the mess she’d made then picked up the faded cloth napkin laying beside her bowl and wiped it up. I’ve had these napkins for over 40 years, she thought, and they’re still holding up. The flower pattern had dulled from the brilliant reds, blues and yellows they’d once been to a sort of uniform dull grayish-brownish taupe. She told herself that she was proud of the fact that they had lasted so long, but looking at this one, all gummed up with congealing globs of oatmeal she felt suddenly embarrassed. She gave these to guests to use! My God, what did they think? She stood up quickly, knocking her chair back hard against the wall and practically ran across the room to the drawer where she kept the rest of the napkins and grabbed them up. She hurried over to the garbage can and without stopping to consider what she was doing tossed them in.

Stan would have had a holy fit. “There’s nothing wrong with those!” he would have bellowed. “You wash’em after we use’em, don’t you? Too bloody bad if people think they’re dirty! They ain’t!” He would have fished them out of the garbage and flung them back at her telling her to not be so stupid and wasteful.

He’d been gone now for three years and lately she’d begun to forget what his face looked like. She’d begun to feel guilty, too, because, truthfully, she wasn’t missing him anymore. At first, it had been hard. Honestly, how could it not be after 38 years together? There’d never been any children, just the two of them, always. She had wanted a child desperately in the beginning, but Stan refused, saying the cost of raising a child in North America was enough to bankrupt a small third-world country and, besides, the government had taken away all rights from parents and he wouldn’t raise no spoiled, self-entitled brat who’d never want to leave home and they’d end up in the poor house supporting it. So, that was that. He’d made sure she took her birth control pills every day so that on those rare occasions he ‘felt like it’, she wouldn’t get knocked up.

She stood over the garbage can and looked at the pile of grubby cloth the napkins made. Her right hand moved tremulously forward as though Stan was somehow guiding it down to pick them out of the trash.

“No!” Her yell startled her and she pulled her hand back, stuffing it into the ratty, thread-bare pocket of her ancient house coat. A wedding gift from Stan. She’d been wearing this same house coat for 40 years! Her face crumpled and her shoulders shook as she struggled to untie the belt that held it closed. With trembling hands she pulled it off and let it fall to the floor. Tears streamed down her cheeks and dropped with fat plops onto the thin material of her nightgown. She looked down at herself and then around at the kitchen. Through the prism of her tears the room looked bright, looked fresh and new.

Sadie smiled. She knew what her goal was.

A few thoughts on happiness

by Kathy Larson

Feb. 16, 2022

I just finished reading The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin. This wasn’t a book I sought out on my own. It was given to me by my sister-in-law, Connie. She said it was okay; I said I’d give it a try.

From the beginning I was a little skeptical about someone writing about trying to bring more happiness into their life, or, more specifically, about them trying to determine if they were happy in their life. I thought it would just be another one of those painful self-awareness books exhorting us all to be our best selves!, or live our best life!, topics for which I have very little patience.

In hindsight I think that could have been a clue.

It didn’t take long for me to figure out that I didn’t have a clue about whether I was happy or not. I thought I was happy, but was I? Really?

Certainly, life had not turned out the way I had imagined it would some forty-odd years ago when I was a 21-year-old bride staring into a future that seemed to stretch on forever.

We think we know ourselves when we’re that age, think we know EVERYTHING, and think there is nothing we can’t do. Then life happens and before you know it you’re struggling to keep up, struggling to change with every new day, every new challenge. You’re learning that you don’t really know who you are, don’t really know anyone, for that matter, and it scares you. Luckily, you also learn how to grow up, to face your fears, to meet your challenges, and, even if the results are not always what you thought or hoped they’d be, you learn to accept them and ready yourself for whatever comes next.

Then, forty years go by. One day you look at yourself and wonder who you are. Wonder who the man you married is. Wonder where the people you thought you were went. You start reading a book on happiness and your mind is flooded with questions. All of them leading to one single question: Am I happy?

If I rate myself according to Rubin’s Eight Splendid Truths I would say I am semi-happy. I try to make others happy by being happy myself; like most people, though, this is tough to do ALL. THE. TIME. I try to focus on things in my life that make me happy. This one is even tougher to accomplish, because I tend to end up feeling guilty and selfish if I spend too much time focusing on things that only make me happy. Then, I don’t feel happy anymore. Catch-22 anyone?

Her Fourth Splendid Truth states that ‘you’re not happy unless you think you’re happy”. Huh? I’ve tried going about my day telling myself ‘you are happy!” over and over again, but when there is evidence to the contrary floating all around me I end up feeling silly and beleaguered and resentful. Anything but happy.

I won’t go through all the Splendid Truths, just suffice it to say that they boil down to something we all know and have heard a million times – you alone are responsible for your own happiness and no one else’s. You can make people happy by being happy, but, no one can make you happy, and you can’t make someone be happy if they choose not to be.

Generally speaking I’d say I’m a reluctant optimist. I believe that things will work out — eventually — and I accept that they may not work out exactly as I’d like. I believe that most people are good at heart — even though they may do things that would seem to prove otherwise. Though the glass is half full for me, I’m extremely careful about where and how I set it down — in case it spills and I’m left with nothing. My proven strategy to getting through life is to expect the best and prepare for the worst.

Perhaps not the best recipe for happiness, but it’s gotten me this far.

After finishing The Happiness Project I immediately began contemplating starting my own happiness project. Because it’s apparent that I could stand to be a little more happy. The problem is that thinking about getting started has made me feel very unhappy. At this particular time in my life I’m dealing with a whole lot of stress and uncertainty and though it sounds counter-intuitive, taking time to focus on my personal happiness just seems impossible.

So, I’ll keep doing what I’ve always done — take each day as it comes — and approach it every morning with a positive attitude and the belief that today will be a good day. Maybe it won’t be a particularly happy day, but it can be a good day.

I liked Rubin’s book; it gave me a lot to think about. In the end, though, I think it’s as simple as this: Happiness is a choice — you can choose to be happy or you can choose to not be happy. Maybe choosing happiness is the harder choice, but it’s also the better choice. As the Grail Knight says to Indiana Jones: Choose wisely.

Full circle — A bowl of oatmeal

by Kathy Larson

As a kid I ate a lot of oatmeal. Our family was large — eight kids, my mom and dad, usually a dog and one or two cats — and we were poor. Not destitute poor, or heartbreakingly poor, but with my dad being a Corporal in the Canadian Forces and my mom employed solely in the raising of us, well, there just wasn’t a lot of money.

Staple foods were a large part of our diet. Bread, potatoes, pasta, root vegetables, canned vegetables, hamburger, hotdogs, bologna, apples, oranges — these made up the base of many of our meals. And then there was oatmeal. Until I was in my teens and the financial situation got a little better in our house we had oatmeal almost every day for breakfast.

You’d think my brothers and sisters and I would hate the stuff, but there’s not one of us that does. For sure, they don’t eat it every day anymore, but in talking to them recently they all said how they love a bowl of hot oatmeal (with lots of brown sugar and milk, of course) every now and then.

The stuff my mom made was always the Quaker brand 5 minute oats — she could whip up a big pot of that in no time and we would all help ourselves from the pot as we filed downstairs each morning before heading out the door to school or play. The bag of brown sugar was on the middle of the table — a big old picnic table my dad had assembled in the kitchen — the only thing big enough to seat us all at — along with a bag of milk in its little plastic holding jug.

Bagged milk! Still sold in Ontario. Not sure about Manitoba where we grew up. It would be delivered twice a week to our door, two three packs at a time, and still we would run out in between. Eight kids — thats a lot of bones.

For a while after I left home I didn’t eat oatmeal at all. It was beneath me. Oh, the ridiculous ideas we have when we’re young. Then I got married and started a family of my own and oatmeal entered the picture again. It was the perfect food for a toddler — and I could put anything in it — bananas, strawberries, chocolate syrup — and my son would gobble it up. The only thing he wouldn’t eat in it was raisins. He would spit those at me every time.

Though I started out making the quick-cooking oats just as my mom had, one day I switched to buying the instant type oatmeal. It came in so many flavours and was so ridiculously fast to make that I couldn’t help thinking what a no-brainer it was. It was shortly after that that my son decided he didn’t like oatmeal anymore. And I had to agree with him, I no longer liked it as much, either. It didn’t taste like oatmeal should. It was gluey and salty and chemical tasting. I went back to making the stuff I had to cook myself, but the damage was done and pouring from a box was just simpler, so we switched to cold cereal. To this day I don’t think my son has ever eaten oatmeal again.

About 15 years ago my husband went through a phase of eating oatmeal. Every. Single. Day. He had read an article about what a super food it was and so once a month while watching Star Trek on television he would make up a month’s worth of little plastic bags of oatmeal mixed with raisins, craisins, nuts, dried fruit and artificial sweetener. Every morning he’d grab one of these bags, nuke his oatmeal in the microwave and eat it as he made the drive into town to work. We went through a lot of lost bowls during that phase. Eventually, he grew tired of eating the same thing every morning and those little bags of oatmeal languished in the pantry til well beyond the best-before date.

Despite not having oatmeal as a breakfast staple anymore I always kept a bag of it on hand. For cookies, to add to meatloaf, to add to bread when I baked it and for that occasional nostalgic moment when I longed for the feeling of comfort and home that nothing but a bowl of hot, brown-sugary oatmeal could supply.

Lately, I’ve returned to eating oatmeal most mornings. A couple of years ago my doctor prescribed cholesterol medication and that got me thinking about how to avoid having to take it. (Unfortunately, according to my doctor and a bunch of on-line research, avoidance isn’t good practice) so I grudgingly take it. Still, it made me take a hard look at what and how I eat and I’ve made changes. One of those changes is to include oatmeal in my morning routine.

Just about every day, after my morning glass of water and my first cup of coffee are out of the way, I make myself a bowl of oatmeal. I add a handful of seeds and nuts, some dried fruit, a teaspoon of brown sugar and splash of some form of milk alternative.

It’s not the same as mom used to make, but it sure is inspired by her.

Crockery

by Kathy Larson

I don’t mind
the crooked bowl,
the cup with a chip, or
the mismatched plates.

It’s the life I chose.

The life I love.

These small
imperfections
These minor
flaws
Are daily reminders
that though
I thought
I sought
perfection,
Perfection,
it turns out,
is just
a bunch of
crock – ery.

Van Morrison and my heart remembers

by Kathy Larson

I asked Google
to play some music.

She chose
Van Morrison.
And a memory
of you pops like a tiny
iridescent bubble.
I see you, smiling,
that Mennonite rebel
farm boy
who swept me off the dusty streets
of our small prairie town
and into the front seat of his
souped-up ’67 Dart Swinger.
Oh, I loved you.
Loved your wild hair,
your cupid-bow smile,
your dusty, brown shoes
with the platform heels.

You were trying so hard
to break free,
be different,
but your plaid shirt
and dirty jeans
your sad eyes
and the weekends spent at home
on the farm:
you knew.
We both did.

At 15 I thought
I was a woman,
At 19 you thought
you knew what it was
to be mature. To be
a man.
Oh, I smile at that.
But never laugh, no,
never laugh.

I heard,
years ago,
that you made a life for yourself
on the farm.
Beautiful Mennonite bride
beautiful Mennonite children
to carry on the legacy
you thought you could deny.
As sad as that makes me,
I’m happy for you.

But, today
when I heard that familiar, raspy voice,
the one that you introduced me to,
I couldn’t help but wonder
how you are
and if your heart
remembers.

Regret

by Kathy Larson

I wanted.

I waited.

Now

I

Dream.

Early Morning

by Kathy Larson

The more things
change. . .
The
more
they
stay
the
same.

Doing dishes at 5:30
on a Saturday morning
is not one of them.

I left
the kitchen
in a mess
last night
after eating
takeout pasta
and watching
a movie
we’d seen
before.

Too tired.
Too lazy.
Too bored.
To clean up.
Like I should have.

Ah, well.
Something to do
this morning
when all the thoughts
crowding my head
refused to let me
sleep.

There’s something
that hasn’t changed.

shadow

by Kathy Larson

I walk.
and walk
and walk
and walk
and walk.

and still, I’m there.

The reason why I missed so much.

by

Kathy Larson

The sun was in my eyes.

I stayed home; my politicians didn’t

Talk about starting the New Year off on a sour note. Politicians all across Canada decided to take ‘well-earned and necessary’ vacations during the holidays. Even though they knew it was wrong.

I don’t believe any of the bullshit excuses that have been offered to explain away their stupidity; it all boils down to one thing and one thing only — elitism. Because they are in positions of power the rules just don’t apply. They all know that the little people (you and me) are powerless to do anything about their transgressions. And, so what if they get their hands slapped? They still got a tan, still got to enjoy swim-up bars, sun, sand and an escape. Yeah, they’ll face a few angry letters and phone calls, but, in the end, it will be business as usual. They’ll continue to take our money and our trust and laugh while they’re doing it.

I have taken government restrictions seriously. My family and friends have done the same. We gave up gathering together to celebrate EVERYTHING because we were told it was our responsibility and our duty in order to protect the most vulnerable amongst us. I have been sad, angry, depressed, morose, miserable, and fearful for the better part of a year. I want to plan holidays, I want to travel across Canada to visit my mother and siblings, I want to go out for dinner; I want my life back.

Should I just say to hell with it, I’ve done enough? Start ignoring the restrictions, stop wearing a mask, hop on a plane, defy government orders?

Or should I become a politician? Apparently, it makes you immune in a pandemic – no shots required.

Christmas Countdown — Day ?

by Kathy Larson

Predictably, I am behind in my goal to write every day about the Christmas/holiday themed movies we’ve been watching. What can I say? Life happens.

But I am here now, at the keyboard, attempting to remember everything we’ve watched and what I/we thought about it. Here goes: (these are in no particular order)

1. Big Bake Holiday — I watched an episode of this just to see what it was all about. As the name suggests it’s about baking big things. In this case it was cakes, and they had to have an animated feature. The three teams who squared off in the episode I watched made a shotgun house in New Orleans complete with a working iconic street lamp; a California beach house with a little pink convertible that glowed in the dark; and the team from Thunder Bay, Canada(!) made a Japanese pagoda with a top that rotated. It was interesting to see how these bakers accomplished their designs, but the most amazing thing about it all for me was the fact the cakes were edible. That was an important criteria, and I guess, for people who have enough money to hire someone to make them a 4 or 5 foot tall cake with movable parts and working lights it would be an expectation. The team from Canada won, which made me smile, but I won’t be watching this show again.
   
2. Black Christmas — we decided to mix things up a little and watch a horror/slasher movie. This wasn’t dreadful, but it wasn’t good, either. I was saddened to see Cary Elwes, of The Princess Bride fame in this one. Elwes is a good actor, I don’t know why he continues to make such dreadful movies as this one and The Purge series. Anyway. . .
   . . .this movie takes place at a college, Hawthorne College, to be exact and it is Christmas break. Most of the girls have left for the holidays and the plot centers around a few who either not going home or taking their sweet ol’ time getting on the road. Girls start getting mysteriously, and hilariously, killed, but no-one notices until it’s too late. There is a plucky heroine, who has suffered terribly in the past at the hands of a not-so-nice super-popular guy from one of the best fraternities, and her band of merry sisters, who save one, are all dispatched by the evil bad guys led by, you guessed it — Cary Elwes.
   Like I said it’s not dreadful, but unless you’re desperately in need of a switch from holiday goo, I’d avoid this one.
   
3. The Holiday — this one is favourite of mine. I’ve seen it several times and it always makes me laugh and cry and feel really good when it’s over. Cameron Diaz, Kate Winslet, Jude Law, and Jack Black are the primary characters and Eli Wallach stars as an old Hollywood writer who Kate Winslet befriends.
   Released in 2006 it is the story of two women who are terrible at being in love and who decide to swap places for the holidays and try to forget about the men in their lives. Iris (Kate) is from Surrey, England, while Amanda (Cameron) is from, you guessed it, LA. It’s a sweet, rather predictable story, but the acting is wonderful and Kate Winslet is a joy to watch. As is Jude Law — that man is gorgeous! You’re not going to go wrong cuddling up with someone special to watch this movie.
   
4. Santa Fake — this is a puzzling little movie. It’s available on Prime and was released in 2019. It stars Damian McGinty (Celtic Thunder), John Rhys-Davies, Jeff Fahey, Heather Morris and Judd Nelson.
   This is a story about a young Irish lad come to America who gets mixed up with a New York crime boss, ends up on the run and then disguises himself as a shopping mall Santa Claus in Santa Fe, New Mexico in order to avoid the hitmen sent to kill him. It sounds like it should be a helluva lot of fun, but it’s actually just kind of a mess. McGinty sings — thank goodness — because that makes sitting through this holiday mess of a movie more than a little tolerable.
   This is family friendly entertainment, it’s gentle and humourous and it’s not going to make you think too terribly hard. If you watch this one, you’ll probably be scratching your head at the end going: whaaaat?
   The bonus of watching this one? Doing a YouTube search after for performances by Celtic Thunder. They are amazing.
   
   Hallelujah!

Christmas Countdown — Day 5

by Kathy Larson

On day five we watched Love the Coopers. If you haven’t seen this one it was released in 2015 and stars Diane Keaton and John Goodman. They are a 60-ish couple whose relationship is in crisis and they are hosting what is to be one final family Christmas before they part ways. There is an eclectic cast of supporting characters that make up their extended, slightly wacky family.

This is a fun, funny movie, not too heavy on the syrup and with just enough charm that you don’t mind watching it again. Are the Coopers maybe a tad too wonderful? Perhaps, but we don’t really mind as we watch their various stories unfurl and they all find the happily ever after ending that we want them to find. This is Christmas, after all.

The performances in this movie are all good, all believable. Diane Keaton always amazes me with how beautiful she is and how absolutely effortless her acting seems. John Goodman does a good job as her husband of 40 years who is only giving up on their marriage because he can’t seem to get her attention anymore. All the other characters are well acted and believable, even if they are a little unbelievable. Even Rags, the dog, who narrates the story and is voiced by Steve Martin, is impeccable. He is a beautiful looking dog, has incredibly expressive eyes, and steals scenes while he’s stealing food off plates.

It was nice to curl up on the couch with my blanket and mug of warm cider and watch this one. I laughed, I cried and then I went to bed feeling I’d been fairly entertained.

Love the Coopers was playing on standard cable, but we opted to find it on Netflix so that we didn’t have to watch a bunch of commercials. Hope you enjoy it.

Are those sleigh bells I hear?

Christmas Countdown — Day 4

by Kathy Larson

Today’s choice was Jingle Jangle, A Christmas Journey. This is a Netflix original movie, released this November.

I had high hopes for this one based on the trailer. It stars Forest Whitaker, Ricky Martin, Keegan-Michael Key, Anika Noni Rose and Phylicia Rashad. The cast is nicely rounded out by a host of other talented actors. The special effects in this one also play a starring role.

It’s a simple plot: man has everything, man loses everything, man becomes bitter and turns his back on life. Jump forward 30 or so years and he is forced, through the machinations of an innocent, equally talented as himself grandchild, to confront his fears and embrace life again.

This is a musical — however, the singing is kept to a minimum, and there are only a handful of stunning, though sadly repetivive, dance scenes. The sets, costumes and musical score are all beautiful — you definitely know that this is a fantasy. Victorian England, or wherever the story is supposed to be taking place, never looked so clean or colourful.

The movie was . . . okay. I wish I could say it was fantastic, but it just wasn’t. Despite all the lavishness, and the depth of the actors involved it fell flat. Whitaker seems to sleepwalk through his role, while others seem to go way over the top in trying to deliver their performances. The shiningest light in the whole movie is young Madalen Mills, who plays Journey. She has a lovely voice, and brought to her character a simple and honest portrayal of a young girl trying to forge a relationship with her grumpy grandfather.

This is family friendly entertainment. If I was going by a star rating I’d give Jingle Jangle 2.5 stars out of 5.

Jingle, jingle, jangle!

Christmas Countdown — Day 3

by Kathy Larson

Day 3 was a bit of a struggle. I wasn’t feeling particularly festive after what can only be described as a ‘trying’ day. But, I persevered and after a little bit of searching I stumbled upon It Happened One Christmas.

The movie was released in 1977 and it stars Marlo Thomas. Remember her? Danny Thomas’ daughter, star of That Girl and The Marlo Thomas Show. For a while Marlo was a huge star on television and personified the all-American, girl next door. I remember watching That Girl, it was funny and, for its time, groundbreaking.

But, we are not here to discuss old tv shows. We are here to talk about It Happened One Christmas.

Essentially, this movie is a reimagining of It’s a Wonderful Life, with the main character roles reversed. Instead of George Bailey we have Mary Bailey. Instead of Mary Hatch we have George Hatch. It was a simple character switch that allowed the main plot of the movie to stay the same. Another character shift was to replace Clarence the angel, second class with Clara the angel, same designation. Cloris Leachman played Clara, and honestly, she was simply awful. It was a good thing that her role was much smaller in this adapted version of the story than was Henry Travers’ in the original.

Despite the movie hailing from 1977 it was easy to watch and not at all as dated as you might expect. That is due to the fact that they kept it true to the era of the original film — 1928 — so costumes, scenery, and attitudes were essentially the same. Bedford Falls was recognizable as Bedford Falls, supporting characters looked and sounded enough like their original counterparts that I sometimes found myself thinking they were the same actors from the 1946 IAWL.

The major changes were subtle, but important. In this version you have a strong, independent woman who wants to chart her own course through life, but, like her male counterpart George in the original story, sacrifices her personal goals and desires for the good of her family and community. The important distinction, however, is that Mary Bailey is the representation of the true feminist ideal that was being pursued in the last half of the twentieth century. She was smart, strong, beautiful, knew her own mind, was unselfish, thoughtful, and caring. On top of that she ran a successful business, managed to have and raise four children, looked after her injured war-hero husband and happily took a backseat to her younger brother’s dreams and aspirations. Through it all she remained perfectly put together, with impeccable clothes and beautifully done hair and make-up. And, unlike George Bailey, she never shows any frustration or anger at her situation (other than when she wishes she had never been born, there is no way that could have been left out of the story). Other than that one lapse, she is a stoic and smiling figure of the EVERY WOMAN all women should strive to be.

At least in the 70s. Now, of course, we know that for women to try and be all that is ridiculous. And exhausting. And not good for our mental health.

Political overtones aside, as in the original, this is charming little movie. It is not nearly as good as the original with Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed, but I didn’t expect it to be. If you’re looking for a feel-good movie the whole family can enjoy this will fill the ticket. We found it on Prime.

Happy holidays!

Christmas Countdown — Day 2

by Kathy Larson

Okay, so today I watched two Christmasy/holiday shows.

1. The Holiday Baking Championship — I actually started watching this about a month ago. It’s a ton of fun. Jesse, the hunky host, who is actually a former NFL player, does a great job leading the show, introducing the day’s challenges, as well as adding some gentle humour. Today’s show saw the contestants get whittled down to six.
   I’m always amazed at what these bakers can whip up in the allotted hour to ninety minutes they’re given. Sometimes the ingredients are more than a little bizzare. Like the time they had to make a holiday dessert based on an ingredient from a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. Sage? Balsamic vinegar? Sausage? In the end they all presented some pretty astounding, and according to the judges, delicious desserts.
   This is a fun way to while away some COVID hours and get a little inspired to try some holiday baking. Check it out.
2. Die Hard — Now some may argue that this is not a holiday movie, but I am firmly rooted in the camp that believes it is. It takes place on Christmas Eve, in New York (no city in the world dresses itself up better for the holidays than New York!), there is Christmas music playing during much of the movie, and who can dispute that Alan Rickman is the grinchiest Grinch that ever was?
   This movie is a classic. Originally released in 1988, it has stood up well and I had as much fun watching it this time (probably my twelfth, though I can’t honestly say for sure) as I did the first time. You can’t help but cheer for John McLean and I can barely watch without flinching every time he pulls all that broken glass out of his poor, battered bare feet.
   If you have been living under a rock and never seen the film (the best one, imho) then do yourself a favour and grab a bowl of popcorn, a pillow to grab on to and enjoy a fun, fun, fun ride.
   
   Well, that’s what I watched today. Hope this gives you some ideas for your own quarantine-until-Christmas television watching.
   
   Ho!Ho!Ho!

Christmas countdown. . .Day 1

by Kathy Larson

So, like most of the rest of the world we are essentially in lockdown again because of COVID 19. No one has actually said the dreaded l-word, but come on, we can’t invite anyone into our homes who doesn’t already live there, we’re restricted to ordering take-out (if we’re brave enough), and nearly every form of mass social interaction has been put under closure or extremely close to it. The only busy places these days are hospitals and emergency rooms.

God bless all the doctors, nurses and other front-line health care workers who continue to make sacrifices on our behalf. I am sure when this pandemic is finally over that there will be an annual global day of recognition instituted to pay tribute to their heroic efforts.

But this post is not a rant about COVID. No, it is about trying to get into the Christmas spirit.

And, I have decided that one way to do that, besides decorating super, super early, is to watch a Christmas or holiday themed movie or show every day from now until the BIG day.

This actually started a couple of weeks ago when I watched Bridget Jones’ Diary for the umpteenth time. Then I watched Last Christmas. Followed by The Man Who Invented Christmas.

I thought my pace of watching schmaltzy holiday movies was pretty good, though indulging a little early, but, what the hey. Then, new, tighter, more restrictive measures were put in place in the ongoing battle to manage the pandemic and I thought, somethings gotta change. Seeing as I’ve got to spend the bulk of my retired life cooped up in the house I might as well try and enjoy my time. Thus, the idea I mentioned above, was born.

It began in earnest last night with The Christmas Chronicles. If you haven’t watched this one yet, then do. It’s tons of fun, Kurt Russel is amazing as a pretty hot Santa, it’s cute but not too-cute, and it’ll leave you feeling good without having your heart torn out and stomped into fake snow. It’s playing on Netflix right now, but I’m pretty sure it can be found on many other stations. (Is that an old-fashioned reference?) Lol. You’ll figure it out.

I’ll be back tomorrow with a brief run-down of what I watched today.

Jingle, jingle!

Wash, rinse, repeat. Retirement + COVID = boring.

by Kathy Larson

Yes, this is another one of those laments about how COVID 19 has affected life. My life.

I woke up this morning and the first thought to pop in my head was: wash, rinse, repeat. I knew I was thinking about the day ahead. And it wasn’t going to be about doing laundry.

I retired a couple of years ago and so far I’ve enjoyed not having to live according to a work schedule. I got through the honeymoon phase all right — sleeping in, staying up late, reading books ALL day, then moved into the ‘it’s 5 o’clock somewhere’ phase with total enthusiasm and now I’m in the ‘so, what will I do today?’ phase.

Let me tell you, this phase has its challenges — and they’ve only been exacerbated by COVID.

Having all the time you want to do all the things you want is, in theory, a wonderful thing. Ah, to write, to take photos, to paint the house, to renovate the kitchen, to spend time with family, to travel, to have lunch with friends, to take all those lessons in all those interests that you’ve put on the shelf for all those years. . . The list is endless.

And, before COVID hit I was accomplishing some of that. But. . .

. . . it became apparent rather early on that just because I had all the time in the world and no schedule to adhere to, didn’t mean that others didn’t. Or, that those friends of mine who were also retired didn’t also have their own free-time plans that simply did not mesh with mine. It was all very disconcerting and more than just a little inconvenient.

Retirement, it turns out is a solitary journey.

There is no lunch room, or coffee breaks where you get to sit and gossip or talk about last night’s episode of The Amazing Race. There is no stopping off for a drink with friends after a trying day, or holiday parties to plan for. It takes a little while to get over that and to discover that you can find ways to fill those voids. And, that they are equally as enjoyable. But. . .

Enter COVID 19 and being confined to home.

Visits with family and friends screeched to a halt, holidays got cancelled, celebrations got shelved, renovations got delayed and classes got suspended. Indefinitely. Anything I wanted to do I had to do on my own. If I didn’t know how to do it I had to teach myself, or learn from YouTube videos.

Being self-sufficient, independent and reasonably able to follow instructions I’ve made out okay. But, it’s boring. With a capital B.

In the past 8 months I’ve learned a bunch of new stuff. Like how to take an online class using Zoom,. I’ve taught myself to knit (slippers are my current obsession). I’ve become more proficient with both my SLR and phone cameras and better at editing photos. I’ve experimented with numerous recipes and learned how to bake a beautiful bagel. I’ve started painting with watercolours — an online course sparked the interest and a few video lessons with my talented sister-in-law later I’ve discovered I even have a bit of a talent.

So, imagine being bored when you’ve got all that going on. Absurd. A year ago it would be.

When I got out of bed this morning it wasn’t with a sense of enthusiasm for taking on any of the many projects I’ve got on the go, it was with a sense of weariness and boredom. Sadly, this house, my home, the place I most like to be has become too familiar. Because I can’t leave it.

I can’t, on a whim, pop out the door and drop in on a friend for coffee. Whenever I do leave — usually to get groceries or the mail — I have to ensure that I have a mask in my purse, in my pocket and in the car, along with a good supply of hand sanitizer. I can’t sign up for classes at the local pool, I can’t attend the monthly book club held at our local library, I can’t go grab my grandkids and take them for lunch just because I feel like it.

Visits with my grandkids have to planned weeks in advance, and are subject to being cancelled on a moments notice. I can join online fitness classes, book clubs, painting lessons, cooking lessons, knitting lessons and have virtual visits with my mother and siblings. I’ve done all of that, and I’m tired of having to do it that way.

I’m whining and I know it. But I don’t care. When every day is a carbon copy of the previous one it’s hard to look with enthusiasm at your options and be inspired.

Today I’m going to make cinnamon buns, zucchini muffins, and English muffin bread. Then I’m going to go for a walk in the cold sunshine. Then I’m going to practice painting trees. Then I’m going to finish that pair of slippers. . .

Fields of Gold

August 14, 2020

by Kathy Larson

As I set out on my walk this morning I took in the stunning view of the fields of grain in the morning light. The word’s to Sting’s utterly beautiful and heartbreaking song, Fields of Gold, slipped into my mind. As I walked, I looked around me and noticed all the simple, commonplace objects of the lives of the people I share this town with.

Gardens tended with care and love, trailers parked in driveways, wind chimes hanging from the corners of decks and roofs, bird feeders busy with early morning gatherers, cars, toys, bikes, flower pots, curtains fluttering in open windows, the sound of a baby crying. It all made such a beautiful picture.

And my heart filled with joy and with sadness. Because it’s been a tough year, and the last couple of weeks have been tougher still. I cling to the idea of beauty and of hope and with Sting’s words washing through me I smiled as I made my way through the sleepy streets of my little town.

“Many years have passed since those summer days among the fields of barley
See the children run as the sun goes down among the fields of gold
You’ll remember me when the west wind moves upon the fields of barley
You can tell the sun in his jealous sky when we walked in fields of gold
When we walked in fields of gold, when we walked in fields of gold.”
_{(Fields Of Gold lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC)}

Lately. . .

by Kathy Larson

Lately I’ve been feeling the pull of the past; I get these odd tugs at my memory and for fleeting seconds I go back in time and my heart offers up fragments of bits and pieces of the many versions of me that I’ve been as I’ve struggled to become this woman, this person, this identity.

Snapshots of my childhood flit across my inner vision — fields of grain and candy red poppies swaying in the heat of summer; a feeling that if I could float across them, be borne away on dry, whispering oceans of delicate beauty my life would be . . .

Just the other day the breeze through my bedroom window brought with it a smell of damp earth and of dust heavy with the warmth of the sun and as I lay there, in my bed, contemplating the reasons for rising that day I relived another morning from many years past of sheets twisted around legs and drowsy smiles and an inkling of what might come and in that moment I lived such delirious happiness that when I thought upon it now, all grey haired, crows feet and papery skin I marvelled at how far I had come and smiled, because regret is such a silly waste of time.

Mine is a poor memory, details have not been carefully curated and there are times when I’ve struggled to believe that my life has even been half of what I imagine it was, but where my mind fails my heart triumphs. One line from a song heard when I was sixteen can cause it to beat erratically and once more I am that young girl so sure yet unsure in my elephant-leg bell bottoms, platform shoes and pink plaid smock top striding down the dusty small town street of my youth wishing I was anywhere but there. A blue mustang pulls up, I hop in, Aerosmith blasts from an 8-track player, tires squeal, there is no better moment than the one I am in right now.

In reliving these moments past, these still-lifes, these clips and snap-shots of my life story I have come to recognize the finiteness of every hour that I have left and, consequently, I have wasted many of them thinking about all the mistakes I’ve made, the wrongs I’ve committed, the people I’ve hurt, the chances I didn’t take, the fears and prejudices I’ve allowed myself to be subject to, and then, in turn, I have used some of those hours to remind myself of the love I’ve given and been given, of the kindnesses I’ve shown and been shown, of the sacrifices I’ve made and of those made for me, of the successes I’ve enjoyed, and of the life I’ve lived, and though every hour may seem shorter than the one before I need only remember: these are my hours. And the heart will remember.

A tidy observation. . .

by Kathy Larson
copyright 2020

I’m cleaning the bathroom today. Giving it a deep clean. All the soap scum and crud that had built up on the stainless steel shower caddy was really beginning to gross me out. So, out came the wire brushes, the Allen’s cleaning vinegar, the Norwex scrubbing paste. That bathtub and shower caddy shine, I can tell you!

Of course, deep cleaning means getting up close and personal with all the bathroom fixtures — toilet, sink, cabinets, light fixtures, shelves, hooks and bars.

And that is what has led to this post and this observation.

No-one, absolutely no-one prepares you for the curse and the soul-fatiguing fight of trying to clean bathroom dust. It is like glue. All that humidity and the particles of soap, cleansers and shampoos that get trapped with it make it nearly impossible to wipe away.

On my hands and knees, (hands protected by rubber gloves) I am futilely swiping, wiping, dabbing and thrashing at the dust that has attached itself to the base of the toilet. No matter how many times I rinse the cloth and start anew there is always more of that foul mess of hair, dust, and body detritus that has swirled about and been deposited on every porcelain surface any time any one has used the bathroom.

I am nearly in tears with the frustration of this fight. But I will persevere. This bathroom will be CLEAN.

And just so you know — I am not a newbie at this bathroom cleaning thing. No, I’ve been doing this for over 40 years. Now, finally, in my 60s I am speaking out about this, this horror, that is cleaning a bathroom.

Beware all you young men and women excitedly embarking upon the journey of independence and having your own place. With independence also comes chores and cleaning, and the worst chore is cleaning bathroom dust. Don’t say you haven’t been warned.

RIP Mr. Prine

Apri; 8, 2020

by Kathy Larson

Sad news today. John Prine, one of America’s best songwriters died from complications related to coronavirus.

I was introduced to the music of John Prine many moons ago when I was just a young girl. My Uncle Paul, one of my father’s younger brothers had come for a visit. He and my father would get out their guitars and sit around playing while us gaggle of kids watched and listened in awe. It was at one of these musical interludes that Uncle Paul played a song called “Dear Abby”. The song was funny, and that’s what caught my attention, but it was more than that. It was smart and it was making a social comment, something that at that early stage in my development I was just learning to tune in to. I’m not sure who asked who the artist was, but I’ve never forgotten the name: John Prine.

Over the passing of years I’ve listened sporadically to Mr. Prine’s music. I think that somewhere, hidden away with all my other albums is a copy of Souvenirs, an amazing little album of stories and songs. One of my favourites is “Grandpa Was a Carpenter”. It’s just the perfect example of his amazing ability to put life into words, to translate the emotions and feelings of everyday, ordinary existence into something we can all relate to and understand.

You’ll be sadly missed, Mr. Prine. Rest easy.

For a sample of his gentle genius check out this link: https://youtu.be/2xhmPectY9U

Coronavirus, Where is Spring? and Keeping Motivated

April 6, 2020

by Kathy Larson

It is snowing. Again. I am so tired of snow. Of winter. I want Spring to come. To see trees budding, grass growing and flowers peeking out from cool earth. This has been a long, cold season, made that much worse by this coronavirus that has gripped the world.

For the past few weeks I, like millions of others, have been glued to the news, following the ever-climbing numbers associated with this virus. Numbers of infected, of tested, of deaths. Numbers of unemployed, of businesses closed, of personal debt predictions. Numbers related to health care — those who are working to help others, those who are helping others who have themselves become infected, and the constant call for masks, respirators and other ppe.

Watching and listening to this news became an obsession. I felt that if I wasn’t paying attention 24-7 then I might miss something critically important. In doing my part by staying home and only leaving the house when absolutely necessary (and for a daily walk to get some fresh air) I had come to think that staying tuned to the news ALL THE TIME was my obligation and responsibility.

I see now that this was an unhealthy, though understandable, reaction to the crisis our country, and the world is facing. So, yesterday, I took the day off. I didn’t watch the news even once. We made some phone calls, placed a couple of video calls just to check in with family, and then I turned it all off for the day.

Instead of drowning in bad news and despairing numbers I soaked in a bath of epsom salts and lavender scented bubbles. I treated myself to a lovely refreshing coconut face mask, gave myself a mini-manicure and then immersed myself in feel-good music in a room all by myself. I allowed myself to think of other things and not feel guilty about ignoring the pandemic. When I emerged from my happy little bubble a couple of hours later I felt much, much better.

The hardest thing about this period of mandatory isolation is staying motivated. Though I have all this time on my hands I can’t seem to do much with it. I try, I really do, but more often than not, I fail to accomplish much of anything.

You’d think I’d have written a novel by now, with all this uninterrupted time. But how can I write anything when I’m glued to the television and my brain is preoccupied by thoughts of impending doom and the coming apocalypse?

I could have crocheted a couple of afghans in this surfeit of spare time, but all I have to show is a couple of produce bags and a rather large shopping tote. They’ll come in handy once the ban on plastic bags is reinstated — if it’s reinstated.

There is a roll of wallpaper I bought over a month ago sitting on top of the cupboard I bought it for that stares forlornly at me every time I walk by. Yeah, yeah, I see you, I answer silently each time, I’ll get around to you, just give me time.

Maybe. This week. We’ll see.

I know this much: the television is staying off this week. At least until the evening news.

It’s Time

by Kathy Larson

March 30, 2020

The struggle continues. COVID-19 rages on, and the world is – except for Brazil – on lockdown.

Trump and Bolsonaro, best buds. Bolsonaro is an unchecked dictator, whereas, thank God and any other deities you can think of, Trump is a wannabe dictator who is in check.

But I did not come here today to write about the pandemic. No, today I came here to write about anything else but.

So, here it is: Candles.

I am reading an article from a December issue of Canadian Living magazine about candles. How they’re made, what makes a good candle, wax formulations, the scents and essences used, and the different types of wicks employed. Who knew a candle could be so complex?

In addition to the CL article I have also recently read a short piece in a Martha Stewart Living mag that touched briefly on the art of candles. Now, of course, this is Martha Stewart, so I was expecting a little bit of extravagance in relation to the candles represented.

But it was the CL article that blew my mind.

The cheapest candle mentioned in their article was $35. The most expensive was $150. In the MSL article they mentioned candles from Bath and Body Works (reasonably priced at around $22) and went up to a high of $110 (US $, I’m presuming).

I love candles. Always have. From the time I was a teenager and bought my first sand candle. Remember those? Wax was poured into sand moulds — some very intricate — and dyed in incredible colour combinations. They were funky and cool and nobody burned them.

Eventually, I had a big collection of them. Years later they would, sadly, wind up in the garbage. Why did I throw them out? Wax does not go bad, but, what did I know. All I recall is that they had become tacky and dusty with age and I did not want them around anymore.

Candles make a perfect gift, both to give and to receive. They are nice to tuck into a small hostess gift, or to give to someone you don’t know well, or, even better, to someone you do know extremely well. You can’t go wrong with a candle — it’s not like giving a bottle of red and then finding out that your recipient only drinks white, or doesn’t — gasp! — drink wine at all.

All the candles I’ve been given over the years (since the sad sand candles, that is) have met the match. I burn them and I delight in them. The soft flickering of a flame in a dim room, the delicate scent of lavender, and sandalwood, of bergamot and lime, can instill in me a sense of peace and calm like nothing else is able to.

That said, I would NEVER pay $150 for a candle! I don’t care if it is hand-poured, that the wax is derived from apricot kernels, or that the scent is made from sustainably harvested ingredients and lovingly distilled according to ages-old traditions. It’s a candle! It’s going to burn! Those scents are fleeting! And you’re still left with a cheap glass or porcelain container that you won’t know what the hell to do with but you can’t throw out because that would just be wrong.

A candle is one of the simplest things there is on this earth. It’s wax and a wick with maybe a little scent thrown in. Regardless of the price, they’re all going to burn when lit. I can’t imagine I’d feel very peaceful watching a $150 candle burn — that would be like watching money go up in smoke.

So, I’ll continue to buy Yankee brand candles, Bath and Body Works candles, and candles from The Body Shop when they are on sale. I’ll buy candles from small craft fairs, farmer’s markets, and local artisans quaint little shops. I’ll buy them as souvenirs, as gifts, and as odor-eliminators for my bathrooms. I will burn them on a cold winter night while bundled in a cozy blanket, or on a beautiful summer evening with soft breezes caressing my cooling skin as we enjoy a glass of wine on the deck.

As interesting and informative as the Canadian Living and Martha Stewart Living articles were, all I really learned is that there are people out there who are willing to pay ridiculous prices for something just so they can say they did.

Not me, though.

If you care to, please answer this question: Would you pay over $50 for a candle, and why?

Waiting for the Morning Address

by Kathy Larson

March 25, 2020

Here I sit on this gorgeous early Spring morning. It’s going to warm up to one or two degrees (C) today and I am looking forward to getting out for a nice long walk in the fresh air later this afternoon. It’s about the only thing I have to look forward to these days in the midst of social distancing because of COVID 19.

While I wait for that bright spot in my day I am also waiting for our Prime Minister to make his daily address. I am not a huge fan of JT, but I do admire that he has taken to speaking to the country on a daily basis. He is doing a good job of leading us through this unprecedented time — unlike the bozo south of the border.

Mr. Trudeau has provided an anchor of calm and reason — though sometimes he comes off sounding a little too much like an annoyed and angry parent admonishing his children — “If I have to tell you one more time to stay home. . .!” But then again, if people were acting more like responsible adults and less like willful children, he wouldn’t have to take that surly tone.

Compare that to the message Donald Trump is delivering. He sounds petulant, he spreads false information, he encourages flouting the best medical advice given by his own professionals, and now, not even two weeks into this pandemic hitting America’s shores, he is telling people that “America will be open for business sooner rather than later.” Along with that irresponsible message he has also included another, far more dire and potentially dangerous: He has publicly stated that Americans are going to start committing suicide by the thousands if businesses don’t reopen.

The power of suggestion, Mr. Trump.

What kind of a leader says such a thing? Especially when people are at their most vulnerable. Like a vast majority of the thinking world I am baffled that this cretin has a faithful following. That there are those who think he is doing a good job, that he is actually ‘making America great again’. Nothing could be further from the truth. He is making America a laughingstock and a pariah on the world stage.

Mr. Trudeau, in contrast, offers informed, practical and constructive information and support to the people he leads. Daily, he puts himself out there to provide a picture of steadfast and confident leadership. He talks about helping people through this crisis, about supporting businesses and municipalities, about getting supplies and support to front line workers and to making sure that people don’t fall through the cracks and wind up in situations where the idea of suicide may seem like the only possible solution.

Mr. Trudeau is not the political leader I had hoped for when I voted in the last election, but I am grateful that he is there each morning at 9:15. His calm and poise helps give me a sense of hope and makes this difficult period of social distancing a little easier to bear. He makes me proud to be Canadian, and so, so grateful that I live in the greatest country in the world.

Home-bound

by Kathy Larson

March 19, 2020

So, we’ve been social-distancing and semi-self-isolating for four days now. Honestly, it hasn’t been that much of a change in normal for me. I stay in most days, happy to read or crochet or dabble at writing. I get the housework and laundry done, listen to music, do a crossword puzzle, maybe go for a walk if it’s not too cold. The aquafit classes I attended were my biggest social outings, but that was only two or three times a week. Walking/jogging on the indoor track at Mac Island, though done in the company of others, was also, mostly solitary. With my headphones on I cruised around the oval for 45 minutes then took myself down to Second Cup for a honey tea latte, half-sweet. Please and thank you.

I don’t care to shop — never have. Going to movies is fun, but costly, so we don’t do a lot of that. Eating in restaurants tends to be disappointing, so don’t miss that, and we’re past the age where going out to the bar or a nightclub is even a consideration. Once in a blue moon we’d go to the casino and lose a hundred dollars, but, again, not something we do on a regular basis.

Sadly, neither of us volunteers anymore, so we have nothing to miss on that score. I keep saying I’m going to find something to volunteer for, but haven’t yet, and now, with COVID-19 in our lives most opportunities have disappeared.

It’s funny, when our son was young and I worked full-time and had a busier social life I volunteered a lot. Both my husband and I did. We were always engaged in some community group or other and it never seemed like we were overwhelmed. Now when I think of the time I’d have to commit to something I find all kinds of excuses and reasons why I’d rather not. Maybe that’s just age. I don’t know. I do know when this is over that I’m going to have to change my thinking.

I tried the online grocery order thing. From Superstore. Because of the current state of things I got less than half of what I had ordered. No toilet paper, no chicken, and most shocking — no chocolate bar! Oh, and the bag of avocados was rotten. The process was pretty easy, actually, and I’d definitely try it again. Say, perhaps, when we’re getting back from a holiday. Some day. In the future. When the coronavirus is no more.

After picking up my half-order of groceries from SS I drove over to Save-On to see if they had what I wanted. They did, though it was considerably more costly than SS. We are now well stocked with toilet paper, chicken and giant bottles for water — just in case.

Save-On had some lovely ahi tuna steaks in their meat section so that’s what we had for supper last night. Maple-mustard glazed tuna steaks (get the recipe here: https://cooktoria.com/ahi-tuna-steak/) with sweet potato oven fries and a fresh salad. Yum.

Being sequestered at home at first seemed like A BIG DEAL. For us, really, it’s not. We watch a couple of shows in the evening, play a couple of card games, then head upstairs to bed around 10:30. Nothing different from our normal routine. Other than the ever-present reality that we can’t go anywhere simply because we want to.

I can see isolation being tougher on families with small children, those with medical problems, those with addiction problems, those with anxiety, depression, or other mental health issues. My heart goes out to them, but that is all. This virus makes it virtually impossible to do anything other than sympathize.

It’s hard to think of anything positive during this global crisis, but if there is anything good at all to be gleaned from it, it is this: Maybe, with all this time for reflection and self-reflection, there will be a returning to the meaning and importance of family and community. By being forced together maybe people will discover, or, re-discover, the simple joy of time well spent in one another’s company. That’s not going to happen for everyone — that would be fantasy — but if it happens at all it is something definitely worth celebrating.

Just sittin’ around doin’ nothin’

by Kathy Larson

March 10, 2020

All those apostrophes are rather annoying, now that I see them when I look up from the screen. Ah, well, too bad. There they will stay.

I’m in a funny mood today. Not bored, exactly, not blue, either, just sort of blah or bleck. Don’t know how else to say it — other than my mood matches the day, which is grey and a bit windy with ice slowly melting from the eaves.

I took a night-time Aleve last night when I went to bed because I had an incredibly sore right shoulder and arm and I wound up sleeping til 9 o’clock this morning. Never a good start to the day for me. I like to be up between 7 and 7:30 — it gives me the illusion of feeling PRODUCTIVE. Though, mostly, I’m not.

I may get a little writing in. I may go for a walk. I may plan what we’re going to have for supper. I may write a letter to someone. I may text one of my sisters, or call my mom. I may decide to have lunch with my husband or go do a little grocery shopping. The possibilities are absolutely endless.

As I sit here typing this I’m also thinking about our upcoming trip home. We will leave tomorrow night and make the 5 hour drive home to Bon Accord. I’m looking forward to possibly seeing my son and his family — though chances are they’ll be busy. We were expecting company for the weekend, but the coronavirus and unpredictability of March weather has put an end to that. So, it will be a quiet weekend, most likely spent watching hockey. Go Canucks!

This back and forth between Fort Mac and Bon Accord has been going on for five years and I am ready for it to be over. I want to live in one place — my home in Bon Accord. I want to watch the snow melt from my gardens, I want to sit in the spring sunshine on my deck and enjoy an early morning coffee with home-made Irish cream generously poured. I want to wake to the sounds of magpies and blue jays fighting in the big pine outside my bedroom window. I want to see the crocus in bloom, I want to hear the frogs creaking and croaking from the lagoon across the road. I want to hear the beautiful, soul stirring sound of the sand hill cranes as they wing their way northward as I toil in the cool, moist earth of my gardens.

I want, I want, I want.

I guess that’s why I’m feeling as I do today.

Giving in to Hysteria

by Kathy Larson

March 9, 2020

I was all set to go to the pool today, but after watching the morning news I’ve changed my mind.

Coronavirus or COVID-19 is the reason. I don’t normally get easily spooked by things like this, but I’m thinking maybe this time I’d be right to avoid any unnecessary exposure.

The public pool/recreation center at MacDonald Island here in Fort McMurray is world class. Among its many features is an Olympic size pool, massive whirlpool, and water slides. Like all public swimming pools it is constantly busy with lessons, classes and just casual drop-ins looking for a little escape from the daily grind. The staff who work there are also fantastic, and they work very hard to keep the facility clean and safe.

But.

People in Fort McMurray travel. A lot. There is an extremely high population of immigrants in this area and they frequently travel back and forth between their northern Canadian home and their birth countries. Those who are not part of the immigrant population tend to travel as well. If they are not workers from another province travelling back and forth for work, then they are permanent residents seeking a respite from the solitariness and seclusion of life in a northern city with not much to do except stare at the snow. Any day I am at the pool I overhear people talking about their latest trip.

Call me paranoid, but with more cases of the novel-coronavirus surfacing daily in Alberta I don’t think congregating in public places is a very good idea. Especially in a place where people have exposed themselves to the risk of contracting such a virus. So, I’m going to take a pass on my aquafit classes for a while. I’m also going to avoid shopping malls, and large public gatherings of any kind. I’ll try to keep my grocery shopping to a minimum, though I’m not going to resort to stock-piling toilet paper or hand-sanitizer. All that nonsense just makes me shake my head.

Instead I’ll practice common sense and hopefully wait this crisis out.

I wish everyone could do the same. It’s not possible, I know; the world has to keep on keeping on, after all. Kids need to go to school, moms and dads need to go to work, goods and services have to get delivered. I hope, for all our sake, that this virus is nearing the end of its life cycle and that life can soon return to normal. In the meantime, we should take whatever common sense precautions we can to prevent the spread of this virus from getting worse. If that means missing a pool day, then so be it.

I am going to miss my pool days; this self-imposed restriction is only temporary, getting sick and possibly dying is not.

I Can’t Help Smiling at the Absurdity of It

by Kathy Larson

I go to aquafit classes usually twice a week. I enjoy it. The warm water, the exercise, the feeling that I’m doing something good for myself and the camaraderie and companionship of other women my age.

Most of us, not all, though, are in our 60s, if not older. There are few younger girls — Russian, or Eastern European, I think. (There are quite a few of them, and it makes me wonder what they are doing here in Fort McMurray. They speak very little English and tend to stay in their tight little groups, but that’s another story.) Also, we’ve got a few older, retired gents amongst us, but I don’t talk to them. (They have their own little exclusive group.)

Our instructor is young, extremely energetic and loud. I think she must have been in the military at one time, because she can command us to do things from her spot up on the pool deck and we unflinchingly obey. “Come on, people,” she barks, “keep those shoulders back and those heads still. No leaning!” and “White water, white water! I want to see that water moving around you!” To be fair, she does all this with a smile and we love her.

She plays music for our classes — loudly — and this is where the absurdity for me comes in. Sometimes it’s oldies — music from the 50s and 60s. There are the mixes that Sarah puts together herself, the latest, hottest hits that most of us don’t have a clue about. Other times it’s actual pre-packaged work-out mixes with covers of hits from every generation — the equivalent of elevator music, only for the pool. It is these mixes that strike me as hysterical.

Imagine Billie Eilish’s Bad Guy, Sam Smith’s Dancing with a Stranger, Lil Nas X’s Old Town Road or Lady Gaga’s Shallow remixed and sped up so that a bunch of gray-hairs can get their groove on in the pool. It’s hilarious! Every time I hear Billie Eilish’s gravelly, ultra-cool, extremely young voice singing the words to Bad Guy I just about bust a gut. Does she know that they’ve re-marketed her song in this way? Do any of them know?

And this is where the grumpy, cynical old lady in me shows herself. I’m 100 percent sure they do. No matter how cool any of these artists are — these rappers and gangsters and hip-hoppers, these fresh faces and up and comers — they are all in it for the money.

They may have started out with lofty ideals and strong convictions about their particular unique-ness and visions, but let’s face it — once your music has made it on to a mix tape for ‘old’ people exercising in a public pool — all of that becomes moot.

For the record: I like Bad Guy. Even more absurd: My husband has downloaded a sound-bite of it on his phone as a ring tone.

I can just imagine the reaction of 15 year-olds the world over realizing that their grandparents are listening to their music and liking it.

March 6, 2020

Here I go again. . .

Something happened. I haven’t felt like writing for over 3 years. It feels like I’ve lost a piece of myself. But. . .I don’t have the determination to find it and get it back.

Lately, I’ve been trying to force myself into writing. I’ve entered a couple of free contests, I’ve done tons of ‘research’ and read a gazillion winning entries of said contests, but still, I haven’t felt that spark.

I miss the spark. I miss how excited I used to get at the prospect of finding time to write. To pigeon-holing that time just for me. Now, I’ve got all the time I could possibly want. I’m retired. And the last thing I ever do is make time for writing. Maybe it wasn’t the writing that excited me, after all, maybe it was the selfish pursuit of time I could claim as just my own.

Throughout my day I find myself thinking of things I could write about, things I’m passionate about. Rarely, though, do I have the tools with me necessary for writing when these thoughts occur. So, I think I’ll hold on to them until I’m at the computer or have a pen and paper, but by the time I get around to it those thoughts have gone. So, I do a crossword puzzle. Or crochet. Or make something to eat.

No spark.

I want to write. I love to write. Why can’t I want to love to write?

Maybe, writing here will help. I’ll see.

Fingers on keyboard, words on screen, match to flame. Spark.

Day 3 — the purge continues

Every time I write the word purge I laugh a little. It reminds me of the terrible The Purge movie we watched a few years ago. It was worse than dreadful — it was violent and boring. I couldn’t wait for it to end.

Now, of course, there are sequels. Go figure.

The word purge is an ugly word. It sounds ugly when you say it; it’s ugly when written. Even the meaning is ugly.

Purge (noun)

:an act of removing by cleansing; ridding of sediment or other undesired elements

:the act of clearing yourself (or another) from some stigma or charge

:rinse, clean, or empty with a liquid – purge the old gas tank

:eject the contents of the stomach through the mouth – He purged continuously

:make pure or free from sin or guilt

:an abrupt or sudden removal of a person or group from an organisation or place – he died in a purge by Stalin

:clear of a charge

:excrete or evacuate (someone’s bowels or body) – The doctor decided that the patient must be purged

:oust politically – Deng Xiao Ping was purged several times throughout his lifetime

:rid of impurities – purge the water – purge your mind

But my intent to purge my life of unnecessary things is not ugly. It is liberating. Like some forms of purging listed above, it is actually a good thing.

Today I rid myself of magazines. I have hung on to these magazines for ages. Some of them were from the early 1990s. I kept some of them in the bathroom in case someone needed reading material. I, personally, wouldn’t touch them. And as far as I know neither did anyone else. They were dusty, wrinkled from constantly being steamed from the shower, and out of date.

Dr. Oz’s advice on how to stock your refrigerator so you’ll lose weight is only good for one reading as far as I’m concerned. When I picked up the women-only fitness magazine and leafed through it I thought for one brief moment that I should try some of the workouts, but then I remembered that I went for a walk this morning. That’s good enough at my age.

It’s not like I ever want to wear a bikini again — no, a nice high-waisted tankini with tummy control, waist minimizer and boob support is my style these days. Something I can walk around the resort, beach, deck in with a glass of wine in one hand and a book in the other. My pretty-young-thing days are all behind me and I’m happy.

I also got rid of Christmas and holiday magazines. I had been clinging to these as though they were precious artefacts. These magazines represented the romanticized versions of the holidays that I always tried to create. I made a few of the crafts, tried out recipes, and read inspirational stories of stranger’s special holiday memories. So many times I felt dissatisfied after the holidays were over because they had not lived up to the expectations I’d borrowed from the glitzy pages of those magazines.

This year I wasn’t home for Thanksgiving; I spent it with my parents and some of my siblings. I didn’t have to do a thing. It was my dad’s last turkey dinner and I felt blessed just to be able to be there and share that moment.

Christmastime, I was home, but because I spend half my time living in Fort McMurray where my husband works I didn’t decorate or put up a tree this year. I said I didn’t have time. Honestly, I just didn’t feel like decorating.

I didn’t go through my usual routine of replacing my dishes with Christmas ones, putting out Christmas linens or stringing garlands all over the place. The Dickens’ village didn’t get set up and didn’t have Christmas blankets and teddies strewn all over.

We spent Christmas morning at my son’s house and enjoyed all the festive decorating my daughter in law does. Their tree was lovely. We opened presents, we had our traditional eggs-benny breakfast and then my husband and I went home. None of it was inspired by a picture or article from a magazine. It was genuine, it was memorable and it made me happy.

When I saw all those magazines today it occurred to me that they are meaningless. Holidays are not about how your house looks, or how your table is dressed. It’s not about decorating advice from the pros or how to host the best Thanksgiving dinner – EVER! It’s about family, creating memories and sharing love and laughter, tears and joy.

I didn’t even break a sweat as I carried all those magazines down to the recycle bin.