Weekend of the wasp

From memecenter.com

Yeah, I know. Wasps aren't completely useless. Apparently wasps do pollinate flowers, kill bugs that would otherwise eat crops, blah-dee-blah-blah. Doesn't mean I have to like them. This long weekend, I certainly don't like wasps.

First, my friend Melissa was stung by a wasp as we ran around the Seawall. There was no flailing of limbs in an attempt to escape the wasp. In fact, we never saw it. "Ouch! I just got stung!" she yelled. We looked around. No stinger so it wasn't a bee, and no culprit to be seen.

I asked if she was allergic. "I don't know," Melissa replied. She'd only been stung once before and did have a reaction, but not enough for her to be officially be declared allergic.

We eventually stopped at the Rowing Club where a member kindly let us use the change room so I could see how swollen her sting was. The member also looked and said it didn't look too bad. We ended up completing the run and things seemed alright Melissa and I parted ways. (Fingers crossed she doesn't read this from a hospital bed.)

Today, a mere two days later, I was on my way to get groceries. "Ouch!" I yelled as I kicked my flipflop a few few feet down the sidewalk. Two women who were dressed up and walking with plastic cups of wine stopped. "Are you okay?" I checked the bottom of my foot. Again, no stinger and no culprit. Damn you, wasps!

My fear of things that sting

When I was a kid, I spent weeks of each summer visiting my grandparents' farm. My mom and aunt once told us kids about the wonderful stings they got growing up. My mom regaled us with the tale of being stung multiple times in the ear by a hornet. Meanwhile, my aunt shared that she was once stung on the eyelid by a bumblebee and her eye swelled shut.

Then the adults wondered why I was scared to go outside. In addition to the hornets and bumblebees who apparently skulked around waiting for young girls to sting, there were beehives on the property. Beehives!

Now that I'm an adult, I get how necessary bees are. And they generally leave me alone. But wasps, hornets and yellow jackets? They're jerks. They know they can sting multiple times and seem to revel in doing so.

So yes, they have a purpose. Like chemotherapy and other things I find unpleasant. But I don't have to like them.

Chicken feet and kids are jerks

Chicken feet sans red nail polish. Photo from CEZ'L 

I was delighted to hear from Sandra, a friend from my elementary school days. Namely, the pubescent school days when kids are battling to be cool, or not to be the least cool. Turns out she has been reading my kancer kronicles.

Anyway, Sandra reminded me of something we did, something we thought was hilarious at the time. Something that today, would probably get us suspended at the very least. And something that reminded me that all kids are jerks now and then, even kids like us who weren't normally jerks.

I had just returned from a visit at my grandparents' farm. At the time, they had chickens. I had found the foot of one unfortunate chicken who had been recently decapitated, and thought it would be a great idea to bring the foot home.

I told Sandra about my find. We decided we needed to do something special with the chicken foot.

Hatching a plan

I'm not terribly sure how we selected our target. I remember she was very bright, one of the first to put her hand up in class. She didn't have a mean bone in her body. I guess that was it, she was simply an easy target.

Having been a target many times - I was a quiet, pudgy bookworm - I should have known better. Then again, maybe I was just delighted not to be the target this time around.

Anyway, we decided we would fancy up the foot, package it, and leave it as a gift on her desk.

Crafty chicks

We painstakingly painted the chicken's nails red, then stored them in the freezer at Sandra's house for safe keeping. Then we fashioned a package out of an old Cool Whip container, and made a tag in the shape of a fish. We wrote a love note from the least cool guy in our class, whose last name was Fisher. And topped it with a bow.

April Fool's Day, we made sure to get to school early, so we could deposit the gift on our target's desk before the teacher arrived.

As our classmates strolled in, they saw the package, paused, and wondered what could be inside. Finally, our target arrived. With a crowd around her, she read the note, opened the container and screamed.

A clean escape

Sandra, who made no secret of her dislike of our target, was roundly scolded by our teacher. She even told him it was me who had brought the chicken foot home from my grandparents' farm. For whatever reason, the teacher never said a word to me about it.

Cats aren't dogs, but they're still pretty cool

The bookends, Bella and Otis. © kittelberg writes

Years ago, a friend said after many drinks and whatnot, "Cats are cool, but cats aren't dogs." And while it was a running joke for the rest of the weekend, I got what he was saying. You see, for much of my life, I was a dog person.

When my sister was still a baby, we briefly had a cat. Two kids had come to our door with the cat, and told my parents their dad was going to leave the cat outside if they didn't find him a home. My parents took pity on him, and Fluffy moved in.

Fluffy did okay with me - likely because I fed him multiple times in an hour playing house with him - but he took one too many swipes at my sister, so Fluffy was given away.

After that, we were a dog household.

Cats 101

I was reintroduced to life with a cat when I moved in with my fiancé (now my husband). Silent Bob had lived with George and his roommates since she was a kitten (yes, Bob was a girl).

At first, ours was a tense relationship. Bob would look at me defiantly as she scratched my sister's chair, which was temporarily in our apartment. Her trademark bitchy meow seemed to sound extra bitchy when directed at me.

No matter. We grudgingly began to tolerate one another, and that tolerance eventually became friendship. When she became ill with advanced kidney disease and had to be euthanized, I cried for days.

I initially made George put all of Bob's things away and proclaimed that I did not want another cat for some time.

Enter the bookends

Then our friend Katherine told us about a women she had met who was looking for a good home for not one, but two cats, a brother and sister.

I had a good feeling about them. We visited them and about 10 seconds after we got into our car to drive home, I said, "I want them."

Days later, we returned and experienced an extremely awkward moment as their owner bawled her eyes out, and we left with her our cats, Bella and Otis.

Bella died last year. We all miss her. We will not have another cat until Otis joins his sister. And it may take longer than a month this time as our son has become quite attached to our big boy cat.

Cat people

I give you all this backstory in an attempt to illustrate my evolution from dog person to cat person. Don't get me wrong. I still love dogs very much. But I think something in my chemistry has changed.

I now meet a strange dog, and a lot of the time, they take a long time to warm up to me. Like they're not too sure about me. Or they're indifferent.

I meet a cat? And it's instant love.

Sure, cats aren't dogs. But that's why they're cool.

Remembering on Remembrance Day

This is Frank and Isabella Dill, my grandparents. Grandpa was in the Navy during WWII. He never talked about it to me. Even my mom says he didn't say much about his experience in the war, other than to say that it was a waste of life. He didn't get dressed up every Remembrance Day to take part in a parade. He didn't head to the Legion to raise a glass to friends long gone. I'm pretty sure the war had a huge impact on him nonetheless.

During the war, Grandma worked in Halifax, giving paycheques to sailors. She too has said little about her experience. I do know she made friends there and I remember visiting one friend with her when I was a child and lived in Halifax. She didn't do parades either.

Everyone remembers differently. And even though my grandparents weren't about remembering in a public way, I'm certain their experiences during the war helped form the people they became. So today, I think of my grandparents, in addition to my friends who have served, and those who never returned.

Andy Rooney: "Writers don't retire. And I'll always be a writer."

Hearing that Andy Rooney died was like hearing that a great uncle who I didn't see much anymore but still adored was gone.

My dad was a longtime journalist and he'll be a news junkie for life. When I was a kid, I remember sighing every time he turned the TV to the news. Hey, I later ended up becoming a journalist, but I was still a kid at the time. With 60 Minutes, it was a little different. Though it was, well 60 minutes long, Andy Rooney was the reward we got at the end. Perhaps I simply recognized good story-telling.

Rooney's blunt, crusty manner reminded me of other men of his generation who were in my life, particularly my grandfather. And his articulate rants reminded me of one important man not of his generation, my old man. I could be staring off into space, or playing quietly for most of the show, but when Rooney appeared on the screen, my eyes and ears were on him. Riveted.

And the same as when that great uncle dies, I feel regret. Regret that I hadn't watched Rooney recently and regret that I hadn't seen his final sign-off. Watching it online tonight, I was intrigued that he considered himself a writer first and foremost. Not a commentator, and certainly not a TV personality, but a writer.

"A writer's job is to tell the truth. I believe that if all the truth were known about everything in the world, it would be a better place to live," said Rooney.

Well said, Mr. Rooney. Farewell and thank you for the stories.

Heartwarming memories

My friend Mandy from Running with Glitter Glue shared this on Facebook a while back and it reminded me of a story that I wrote several years ago. I'm feeling under the weather and will be under the influence of NeoCitran soon, so thought this was a good opportunity to post it.

This is about one of those childhood experiences that seemed rather devastating at the time, but writing about it made me laugh. Looking at it now as a mother makes me laugh even harder. Enjoy!

The Jell-O Incident

It was another lazy day at the farm for us kids. Morning was inching closer to noon and the temperature already inching closer to 30 degrees when Terri and I changed out of our pajamas. We were ready to take on the world – right after lunch of course. At Grandma’s, lunch was always the same, almost ritualistic: Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup served in melmac turquoise and brown bowls; an assortment of ham and cheese, tuna and roast beef sandwiches; and today for dessert Jell-O! It was the lunch of champions – or at the very least, the lunch of peckish farmers and their grandchildren.

Michelle was up and about already, watching Grandpa sweat away in the barns. Inside, our cousin Terri and I moved as little as possible in preparation for our big expedition of the day – a trip to the bridge. It was already near sweltering so we thought it best to do as little as possible. All we needed to do was fill our energy reserves and we’d be all set to go. Dad was reading the paper as Mom, Aunt Jean and Grandma battled the heat and those sandwiches. Terri and I sat at the table, oblivious to their efforts and impatient for lunch so we could get on with our day.

Grandma leaned into the fridge, no doubt enjoying a brief respite from the sauna of the kitchen. Then disaster struck at 11:30. In an attempt to nudge past the Jell-O to get a jar of pickles she tipped over the unset dessert. Sweet fruit flavoured water splashed down and coated the bottom of the fridge. In a prime example of poor timing, Michelle bounded through the door at that very moment. “When’s lunch Grandma?” she grinned, showing off the gaps where her adult teeth had yet to grow in. Time froze for a few awkward moments. Grandma, crouching in front of the fridge, slowly turned her head towards the door.

“Get your own goddamn lunch,” she said. Terri and I looked at each other, stunned. We turned to Michelle, whose fine blonde hair was nearly standing on end, blue eyes as big as saucers, her bottom lip trembling. The three of us bolted out the door and huddled on the lawn next to the house.

Terri and I were forever making Michelle ask Grandma for stuff – sheets to make forts outside, the badminton rackets, a ride to Tender Tootsies in town. When Michelle complained we were always forcing her to ask Grandma for stuff we chimed, “You’re the youngest, everybody likes you better.” I was 10, chubby and shy and Terri, at 9 years old, was the lanky opposite of me but outgrowing her cuteness.

Michelle, at the tender age of seven, still had wispy hair that turned nearly white in the summer. She was missing her front teeth. She was funny and coy and knew how to use her cherubic cuteness to her advantage. Of course, Terri and I were onto her act, but Grandma? Was it the heat? To make matters worse, nobody – not Dad, Mom or Aunt Jean – had bothered to come out and see if we were okay.

We needed a plan. To the bridge it was, lunch or no goddamn lunch. And we wouldn’t even tell anyone we were leaving. So off we went, looking back at the house now and then, just to see if anyone would come running out with a bag of sandwiches to sustain our trip. But no one did.

The Bridge
The bridge was as much a tradition as our soup and sandwich lunches back in those days. In reality, it was about a one-kilometre walk. For us, it was an afternoon expedition. Once we got to the end of Grandma and Grandpa’s laneway, we’d turn left and hike down the gravel road past Robbie and Myrah Simpson’s farm. Robbie and Myrah’s place was to the right. On the left, the land was still Grandma and Grandpa’s property and at that point in the trip, we’d pass the beehives. More often than not, I’d end up running past them since I was (and still am) dreadfully afraid of bees. Anyway, after the beehives we’d turn right and keep walking until we hit the bridge, unless something else – a massive mud puddle or maybe a furry caterpillar caught our fancy.

The bridge was a simple concrete structure, crossing the Thames River. It was built when Mom was in high school in the 1960s, to replace the old red metal structure that criss-crossed overhead. Grandma had old black and white photos of the old bridge in the big trunk in the spare bedroom Mom and Dad slept in. My first memories of the place are going to the bridge on a fishing expedition with Dad and Michelle when I was six. Michelle was just a toddler and started crying when she realized we weren’t fishing off the bridge, rather we had to walk through the long grass to the water. Finally, Dad got us both back in the car and brought Michelle back to the farm. Dad and I returned for fishing and about five minutes into it, the old rod he’d found in one of the barns snapped.

Now the bridge was different. We kids rarely went there with our parents now. It was our place, where we’d confide in one another and plan our lives. Eventually, it was under the bridge that baby sister of mine would teach me how to properly inhale a cigarette.

Our Great Escape
When we got there that afternoon we were relieved to be away from the farm. We stayed on top for a while, leaning our chins on the railing and just staring at the current below. We could never tell how deep it really was. All I know is it looked pretty black. We never tried swimming in it, nor did we see anyone else attempt to. The most contact we had that day and any time we went to the bridge was throwing rocks into the river. Better than just tossing the rocks overhand was dropping them through the grates meant to let the rain run through. We didn’t quite know where the rocks would drop so we’d stare at the water, watching for tiny rings.

“I’m going under,” Terri announced. She went back to the start of the bridge and walked down the grassy slope, then turned and disappeared underneath. Michelle, who’d outgrown her fear of the long yellow grass, darted after her. I sighed then followed my sister.

Under the bridge, the grass gave way to rocks. Terri stood, hands on hips, surveying our new surroundings. Michelle wandered closer to the water and found a stick. She poked at the rocks. “Don’t go too close to the edge,” I said, not wanting her to fall, which would inevitably lead to my getting in trouble.

My stomach growled, but I didn’t say anything. I knew going back to the farm wasn’t an option. We hadn’t been gone nearly long enough and going back for something to eat would be like admitting defeat. I sat down on the rocks. “I wish there was more wood under here. Then we could build a fort,” I said.

“Yeah, then we’d never have to go back,” Terri agreed. Despite my hunger, I didn’t even think of the fact that we wouldn’t have food. Michelle worked on turning rocks over with her stick. She was frowning, the same way Dad did when he was reading the paper. I wasn’t sure whether it meant she was concentrating on the rocks or what we were saying.

“We could always go back and steal some sheets,” I said. “Yeah, Michelle couldn’t ask for them,” Terri replied. She looked at me and we started laughing. Michelle just kept quietly poking at the rocks.

I stood up and brushed off the backside of my jeans. “Let’s go back up,” I said and started up. Terri sprinted past me, then Michelle. I muttered under my breath, annoyed that my chunky legs didn’t move as fast as theirs and embarrassed that I was out of breath by the time I got back to the edge of the bridge.

We stood back in the same spot we had earlier, tossing rocks into the water. A dirty white car came from the opposite direction of Grandma and Grandpa’s and started over the bridge. The driver, a man about the same age as Grandpa, waved and honked. We had no clue who he was, but people were always waving and honking around here, so we waved back.

Our Return
Then we heard a car coming from the other way, and slowing down to a stop. We looked over and it was my Dad in his aqua Mustang with the bucket seats. “What are you guys doing out here?” he asked. He didn’t sound worried or angry, just curious. “Nothing,” we replied in unison. “Well, get in the car. Supper’s almost ready,” he said. We piled in, feeling defeated. They didn’t even miss us.

The Jell-O incident wasn’t discussed for years. In my teens I asked Mom if she remembered it. She confessed that after we’d fled the kitchen, every adult in the room burst out laughing. Finally, at that moment all those years later, so did I.

Some Things Aren't Meant to be Fixed

I'm pissed off.

I recently went to Ottawa to see the fam and friends. My cousin T, who fits into both categories, came from Toronto to visit for a weekend. And my mom dropped the bomb.

"Your mom and I went to the farm the last time I went for a visit," my mom said to T.

"We went and peeked into the windows. They bricked over a bunch of the windows on the front. I don't know why they would do that, I mean, who would bother to come up and look into them?"

"You mean besides you and Aunt J, you peeping Toms" I said to my mom in an attempt to make light of what she had just told us.

My mom and her siblings grew up on the above-mentioned farm. My grandma was born on the farm. She moved out about a year after my grandpa died. The above picture is of T, me and my sister, M, in front of the house.

When I was a kid, I spent many a hot summer day reading in the house. Though my love of reading had started when I was little, I think it was cemented by all the time I spent reading in that old house. There was a synergy between the house and story-telling in general. Old homes have stories. Old homes know all the family secrets.

My great grandfather, Saville Simpson, enjoyed writing, particularly poetry. I never met him as he died before I was born, but his photos hint at a kind, gentle spirit. My mom's stories of him confirm this.

I have long wanted to write a novel with that house as its inspiration. More than the short stories I put together a while back for grandma - something major. Something with depth that gives that house the respect it deserves.

But now I feel just about as ripped off as I felt when I found out the house had to be sold to strangers. How can I be inspired when I know the windows at the front of the house have been bricked over? I'm fully, painfully aware that the farm no longer belongs to my family. But what reason could there be to cover perfectly good windows that bring light into the house? Who the fuck wants a dark living room? Seriously folks, some things aren't meant to be fixed.

Unless it means they ripped down the wall between the living room and what was later, during my lifetime, grandpa's bedroom. The same room that I cried myself to sleep in, breathing in his scent as he lay dying of cancer in a hospital. It just gets worse, doesn't it?

I certainly don't think I had the closest relationship with my grandparents and I haven't deluded myself into thinking my mom, aunt and uncles had a perfect life on the farm. Far from it, in fact - it was a tough life.

The funny thing is, many of my memories of being there are of the house itself. I can hear the sound of the gravel road under the wheels of my parents' car as we drove up to the house. I can feel the wood of the sturdy kitchen table under my palms. I can hear the water splashing in the basin as grandpa washed up before lunch, back in the days before they installed plumbing. And any time I read a book that takes place on a farm? I picture at least parts of it looking like the home on RR1, Glencoe, Ontario.

Someday I will write my own book. I'm just going to have to do it before my memory starts to fail me.

Summer memories reignited

Grandma & Me, 2004, by gscameraworks.

So I spoke with my mom on the weekend. My grandma isn't doing very well. She fell again and the doctor wants her to use a wheelchair. In fact, he doesn't want her trying to leave the wheelchair without help. This formidable woman who her younger sisters always lauded as the smart one is now mentally confined by dementia.

I wrote this story several years ago as part of a series based on my memories of the summers I spent on grandma and grandpa's farm. This one was her favorite.

That Beautiful Place

It was the middle of summer and the dreams were growing more frequent. I guess it’s only natural that I’d dream of the one place I spent so many summers growing up – the farm.

Sometimes the dreams were so real, I’d nearly cry when I woke up, angry that my beautiful trip had been interrupted by the alarm clock. Other times, the dreams were more abstract, almost like a Picasso painting – I knew where I was, but nothing was where I’d expect it to be, all a little off.

When I was a kid, I wished the house was the same, yet different. Always snooping around, I was forever hoping I’d find a secret stairwell to an unknown room full of, well, something exciting. Not money or anything so crass – rather I wanted to discover anything from generations past – old clothing, records, books, anything that could document times gone by. Sure, there was always the old storage room, but I was looking for…more.

Even though I never did find that secret room, I can remember the house had a very palpable soul – something that in hindsight, was way better than any jackpots I could have found. It certainly wasn’t haunted, not in the least. Rather there was a good old soul that had been there and seen everything through three generations. It was comforting.

Anyway, back to the dreams that got me thinking about that beautiful place. It’s funny, it’s not the big events that took place there that stand out. It’s all the small details that are etched in my mind. Like waking up before anyone except Grandpa – who almost always seemed to be awake before any other living being. The old timey music on the radio only seemed to exist in that one place – Grandma and Grandpa’s kitchen. The plastic tablecloth would save the heavy table from any toast crumbs that would inevitably sprinkle from my mouth.

Sometimes I’d get outside early enough that the dew was still on the ground. I’d just go out and breathe in the fresh morning air and have a chat with the dogs. If I got up a little later, I’d be lucky enough to trek to the end of the laneway and get the mail, which seemed to be a pretty major event, at least for the person who got to do it. Wandering outside, barn to barn for what seemed like hours, in fact, it was probably only minutes before an encounter with a wayward wasp would send me running back to the safety of the house.

I’d grab a book from the endless pile I’d picked up during a trip to the library with Grandma. When I was older, I’d snag one of her many Harlequin Romance books. My parents and usually an aunt or uncle would tsk that I was inside on such a beautiful day. They just seemed incapable of understanding that it could be a beautiful day inside too.

Sometimes my mind would wander. I’d stare at the door in the living room that didn’t lead anywhere since the veranda outside it was torn down – the veranda that was long gone before my day, but still there in all the old photos. I’d imagine what the house was like then and for whatever reason in my child’s mind, I imagined things would be a whole lot different with a veranda. Maybe it was the soul of the house talking to me, igniting my imagination so it would run wild.

Eventually, I’d tire of the reading and mind games and retreat upstairs for a nap in Grandma’s bed. I remember waking up, and still groggy, walking to the window. The pink curtains were moving slightly in the breeze. I’d look out at the trees and a sadness welled up inside me, knowing one day I would have to leave.

Then I’d push the sad feelings away and simply bask in all the house had to offer – warmth, contentment and safety. Those are the feelings I remember, the true treasures I ended up finding all those summer days at the farm.