Laughter is the best medicine...

Growing up in a rural setting, one tends to have experiences that are not the average for the regular city kids. Here's one that always makes my Mom tear up with laughter whenever she has to tell it. I'm thinking from an adult perspective it seems quite a bit funnier than when I was 4.  At 4, this was serious business.

I'm playing outside on the lawn, we had a lawn that was a few acres back then so there was a lot of room. My Dad was home and working in the garage. Every so often I could hear a few interesting words and the sound of a wrench or a hammer falling on metal. I thought this would be a perfect time to go tell my Dad I was home and see what he was up to. Sometimes, Dad would give me a hammer, a box of nails, and point me in the direction of his scrap woodpile and tell me some random thing he decided it would be imperative that I build for him right away. Dad was no dummy. He knew how to keep me busy for hours.

I'm outside building a bridge for the duck pond we had yet to build, with 2" x 6" scrap bits of spruce... this bridge was going to take a while. When I look up from my intensive labors, my middle sister ( I have 4 older sisters ) is standing there glaring down like she has the most dire news to impart to me. She informs me that the ant bait in the little round can, just behind me is poison and if I touch it, I am taking a trip to "The Happy Hunting Grounds". That means dead for those of you not familiar with Bugs Bunny trivia. I give her my most annoyed look my four year old attitude can muster and continue on with my work. What seemed like a few hours later (but at 4 how long could that really have been, maybe 15 minutes?) I am bored with my task, I'm guessing Engineering was not in my future at this point, and I decide to hop across the double wide opening for the swinging barn doors on the garage. In the middle of aforementioned garage door threshold, is a 2 inch round can of ant bait. As I am swinging on the doors and jumping as far as my little four year old legs can carry me, my fingers lose their grip on the big wooden door and I slip. My tiny toes landed on the little can of death and as nimble as Baryshnikov, I leaped back on to the door and stole a glance at my Dad to see if he noticed. He was busy fighting with some contraption or another that he was building. My super brain started to digest the facts, I was swinging from the garage doors, probably that alone would be frowned upon by everyone for starters. I landed on the can of ant bait, granted it was only for a second and I was wearing socks, thick sturdy farm boots, and don't forget the really cool welding goggles that my Dad let me borrow... Lol! But still, I TOUCHED the can of ant bait. I quickly came to the conclusion that I was on my way to the happy hunting grounds. I must have turned 50 shades of white in a short amount of time as I dragged my dying feet across the yard and into the house to say goodbye to my Mom and wait for the end to come.  Would it be slow? Would it be fast? How will I know when I'm dead? All these things were playing through my head as I slowly took off my boots at the kitchen screen door, hugged my Mom while she was baking bread, and went to lie down on the sofa and wait for my last breath.

A short time went by and my Mom's  'spidey senses' were tingling that something was up so she felt a look was in order. She walks into the living room, and there I am. Lying on my back on the sofa, stiff as a board. The blanket my Great Aunty had knit tucked up tight under my little chin, my arms crossed solemnly across my sobbing chest. My face was white as a sheet, now Mom didn't know the story yet so she's wondering if I did something bad and am worried about getting in trouble.

She comes over to ask what I did and in my littlest voice, I burst into tears and strangled out that I was going to "The Happy Hunting Grounds" and then between broken sobs, a lot of sniffling, and questions, I managed to squeak out my story of the swinging on the doors, the ant bait, the happy hunting grounds, the slipping from the door onto the ant bait, ( might I add that even back then it was a childproof container). You would have had to  #1  shake it pretty seriously to get any of the bait to fall out of the teeny little holes made only for ants to crawl into. #2  you'd have to ingest a serious amount of the microscopic pellets to even get something more than a little upset stomach. So here I am totally destroyed by my perilous predicament, and my poor mother is trying to keep a straight face. At one point, I think she left the room to get some tissues for me and I could have sworn she was snorting while trying not to laugh too loud from the other room. Having already raised 4 curious and often precocious daughters, this must have been somewhat of 'old hat' for her. Maybe not quite so dramatic though.

I had totally forgotten that old story by the next day until one day, a few years back, my family was all together. My Mom decided she had to tell this story ( before she had the stroke ) She was laughing so hard in the retelling, she could barely get out the words. With everyone watching her laugh so hard, they of course started laughing too. Not so much from the story as Mom was quite hysterical, she was barely making sense, but from her enjoyment at the comical sight of 4 year old me with my arms crossed as if in my casket already. Eventually, when the laughter died down, and I crawled out from behind the sofa, everyone in the room had seriously exhausted themselves from the comedy routine and new stories were remembered and the retelling of those brought out more hilarity and jovial kinship. The bonds of family healed over laughter, old wounds cleansed of scarring by a new adulthood version of a child's folly. Seeing yourself as a child through your own adult eyes can be quite cathartic.

There are hundreds more stories and time to tell them all so don't forget to check your Compass!
Cole

New or Used....?

 I am currently shopping for a new vehicle. I have been driving my Dad's 1991 Jeep Comanche since April of last year.  I gave the last little pick-up truck to my daughter to drive and she, being the smart, sharp business mind I raised her to be, promptly sold it to her boyfriend for $2000.00.

The Comanche is barely stock, no radio, CD player, or Bluetooth. Manual transmission, bench vinyl seat, and plain white. It had 31,000 original km on it when I started driving it, it's been quite mechanically sound until recently. During one of our last snowstorms, I had to jump a snow bank out of my driveway to get to an assignment and I think I lost a chunk of the already thin exhaust pipes right up under the driver's side. This can't be good for the truck. It loses power going up hills, and is making the trip to my friend's shop on 16th a little tedious in the early morning hours.

I started looking in the last few weeks. I briefly thought about resurrecting my dream of a little black zippy sports car. My girlfriends all talk wistfully about the perfect little black dress and I am daydreaming of ripping up the mountain passes at ungodly speeds in my little black sports car. (while wearing my little black dress and stilettos. Lol!) I shopped around for something sporty for only a short time. I checked out a few older Porsche Boxters that were well cared for, a Pontiac Solstice, a few other convertible rocket ships, and then the practicality of the situation became evident. I needed a vehicle I could carry my gear in. The little zippy black sports car faded away into the mist waving it's windshield wipers goodbye as it zoomed away into the fog. (insert big mellow dramatic sigh here)

Hmmm, the practical vehicle. What should I choose? I had the big shiny SUV and loved it until it started falling apart after 4 solid years of hockey tournaments and ski races. Many friends suggested the Range Rover Sport as a suitable candidate, I smiled and politely reminded them of the current budget, then we quickly moved on to the next category. I toyed with the Ford Escape, the Nissan Pathfinder or Rogue, a VW Beetle, Golf, or Jetta. Then we touched on the Smart Car, the inevitable Toyotas, and even looked into older BMWs and Mercedes. What does one do when one is faced with so many choices? I called my insurance broker and asked what vehicle has the best insurance rates for a skilled driver, no accidents or speeding tickets, or demerits in 26 years of driving. I was schooled on the process by my agent. Did you know that the resale price of replacement parts is the first thing that is considered in the price of your insurance? Some car manufacturers prices are so outrageous that the insurance broker said quite plainly "don't even think about that one."

I now consider myself educated about these choices and am on the hunt for my slightly older new car. It isn't likely that it will be zippy or sporty, but hopefully, it will fit all my studio gear when I need to take it on assignment, both my kids when we need to go make the obligatory visit North to the family, and maybe a few friends for a day trip to hike in Kananaskis or Banff. I'd like to have one that will fit the kayak and gear when I feel the need to be on the river too, but maybe I'll settle for a decent roof rack. (umm I'm sure the Porsche Boxter is out of the running with that task anyway. Lol!)

I'll let you know what the final choice is, but don't wait up! This could take a while. Lol!

Don't forget to check your Compass!
Cole

Mom's day ...

I stepped out the front entryway of my big old red brick mansion, Van Morrison's Moondance on my Ipod, sun shining, birds chirping. Yes I can still hear the birds through my headphones. I don't crank the volume up to the roaring blaring white noise that would make my ears bleed. Just background music to pace my walk.

The walk I was taking was not a long one, but as I walked in time with the music, I had a lot to think about. My Mom tried to raise my 4 sisters and I with little or no help. I know how she felt, I did the same but only with 2. She must have felt some relief after we all grew up and moved away. No stress, fun with her friends, hanging with her boyfriend John every other weekend.

John, being John Wayne, yes THE John Wayne. My Mom is a western addict, and anything with John Wayne is watched as if it were the first time she ever saw it. I tease her and call him her boyfriend. This is always a great way to start a conversation with her these days.

Life was going really great. Kids were getting ready to be adults and start their own lives. I had put a deposit on a zippy little two seater sports car. A guilty pleasure after driving the big shiny black SUV full of Hockey and Ski gear all over the province. I was making plans to run my photography studio full time, take a few well deserved vacations, and spend more time doing things for me. I was ready for the freedom that comes with my kids growing up. Then the most unexpected thing happened...

My Mom had a major stroke and I sold or gave away everything I owned to go back home to look after her. Let go of the dream of driving my zippy little black sports car through the rockies as well. After her rehab, she stayed with me for quite sometime. We were blessed to have my Uncle agree to house us so we didn't have to worry about finding a place to be. He is a saint in my eyes for all his help.

When I first saw her after her stroke, she was unable to speak, eat, or move unassisted. They kept her in the Emergency ward for almost a full week I think. There was a moment, when they had to perform life saving procedure on her with one of my sisters and I gently shoved from the small curtained bed. In those tense moments, my life with my Mom flooded back on me like waves on the beach. Everything said, not said, experienced, and felt. In those moments, the time she may or may not have to spend with my kids seemed to be most important. She was a vibrant, active person one day, and weak and helpless the very next.

With my plans for my own life on hold, we did the best we could to keep her going. There were times when she was in recovery in the Heart and Stroke ward at the U of A Hospital when she seemed to give up. Depression came and went, and frequently rears it's ugly head even now. It's in these times when my family may have seen a side of me they didn't expect. I was the black sheep, the wanderer, the artist and it was here they saw the tough single Mom come out.

With everything I had been through, the Mom in me kicked in and when my Mom was feeling particularly down and unwilling to do the work to get better, I would ask her if she liked being stuck in the hospital bed, not allowed to even get up to dress herself. She said she hated it. So I got in her face and said "If you don't want to be here then start doing the exercises from physiotherapy so you can get up and walk out on your own two feet." That lit the fire and she pushed through the tough stuff.
With the help of my sisters and my uncle, I managed to keep pushing her to be independent. One time, she refused to get in the truck so I could get her to the doctor's appointment. She was having a major temper tantrum. I told her to get in the truck or I would pick her up and put her in there myself, and she didn't weigh much more than a 100 lbs after her stay in the hospital so she knew I meant it. She nearly burned my Uncle's house down a week or so after that making apple pies a little too soon after she was released from the hospital, but she can walk, she can talk, and today she lives in her own little apartment in a seniors building close to my sister.

Now I'm not going to shine you on with a miracle story here. There were complications from the stroke that are irreversible. She is partially blind in one eye, she has limited movement of her right side, so she no longer is the active person she used to be and she can not drive her car. She does however, still have her weekend trysts with her boyfriend John. The biggest transition for us all to get used to, she is no longer the smart mouthed, sharp witted woman who loved a good naughty joke, and lots of laughter. We can no longer ask Mom about gardening, sewing, children, or cooking questions. She does not remember. The Mom we knew is not there, but there is a new one in her place. She is about 13 years old and the roles are now reversed, she as the child and my sisters and I as the Mothers.

So my advice to you, call your Mom wherever she is, say a prayer if she is no longer, and remember that no matter what she is right now, she is the reason you are here. This I am grateful for.
Happy Mother's Day!

Cole
Don't forget to check your Compass!