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You Kiss Like a Hippo!

Cathy Bendle
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You Kiss Like a Hippo!

Swept from the Corners of my Mind….

Last week I kissed a hippopotamus on the chin. While hippos are not currently endangered, they are considered “vulnerable”, so I couldn’t believe I was getting the chance to be up close and personal with one here in Prince Albert, much less have a photo op and get to touch it.  The boreal forest isn’t known for raising healthy hippos, so where did it come from? Let me explain.

I was visiting my friend at work, and he offered to show me a hippo. My friend is quite a jokester, so I was imagining something the size of large dog, as we trekked to a back storage room and down the far corridor between high shelves. At the very end was an enormous gray lump. As I got closer, I could see it was the head and neck of a huge hippopotamus, mouth open in a roar, head tilted to the ceiling.  This beast was huger than I ever imagined. It was on a waist-high shelf surrounded with all kinds of artifacts and teaching supplies, yet it stood out in glory, extended 2 feet above the top of my head. The large, yellowing teeth were much longer than my hand. The ears, tiny for the size of the beast, have spikey little brown hairs all around the edges, and the eyes were tucked into bony humps at the top of the skull. The better to skulk along under water, I guess. The mouth was so huge I imagine I could have fit half my torso in it. The leathery skin was dry, but real, and only a few small areas had nicks or cracks. The taxidermy was amazingly realistic.

My friend said it had been confiscated from a smuggler and the agency that did so had donated it to our workplace. I’m guessing the original agency didn’t have room for it, because it would dwarf the average dining room table. My friends works with local wildlife but there really isn’t an appropriate place to display a hippo head here, either, so the big gray beauty was eventually consigned to the storage area.

Pictures were taken and I have a great one of me kissing that gargantuan chin. My mind is stuck, though, on questions. HOW did someone try to smuggle something so big into Saskatchewan? WHY did they think they could get away with it? HOW MUCH did it cost to get it taxidermized?  (It really is done in a lifelike manner, no cheap “friend of a buddy” sale here.) HOW MUCH was the fine for this foolishness? Did some rich person with a vendetta against hippos trying to sneak the giant head into a big box of produce to hide it on the plane, or how did it get this far? The questions just keep rolling in.

I may never hear the rest of the hippopotamus’ story, but now I can sing, “I Kissed a Hippopotamus For Christmas!” knowing I was up close and personal with something few of us will ever get to see.

Cathy Bendle finds humour in the quirks of everyday life, from training teachers to dodging housework. When not writing, she’s either laughing at her pets, frantically Googling for her work assignments, or playing on her iPad. Her column appears every other Wednesday.

No Snow, But it Already Looks Like Christmas

Cathy Bendle
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No Snow, But it Already Looks Like Christmas

Swept From the Corners of my Mind…..

I haven’t even gotten the Halloween decorations off my car and already the stores are filling with Christmas embellishments for sale. Hmmmm.

For those that celebrate Christmas, what puts you in the Christmas spirit? For some, it’s the date. As soon as December 1 rolls around, out comes the tree and up goes the lights. These folks tend to be the type that have started planning gifts by Dec 30 last year, and by now they are not only bought, but wrapped and shipped.  They usually indulge in weeks of cooking all kinds of delicacies and the houses are decorated inside and out.    I am convinced that many stores are managed by these types of people. I am not one of these people.

For others, Christmas is contained to a few days. The tree goes up a day or two before the date, then down again the day after. These folks don’t seem to frolic in festivities, but they’re still celebrating.  Some, like my mother, do the minimum of decorating. Mom will turn on the lights on her house, pull a 2-foot pre-decorated tree out of a box and plunk it by a window and call it done. While she enjoys get-togethers, she doesn’t go from party to party, but does satisfy herself with carols at church events and the occasional family gathering. Minimalist, but celebratory.

Then there are those like a couple of my brothers who channel the Grinch and enjoy saying “Bah Humbug” to every Christmas greeting.  I’m not one of those, either.

I used to be one of those Long Christmas people. When I was a newly-wed my tree went up on Dec 1 and I would resist taking it down until after Old Christmas (early part of January). As we lived in a 12’ wide house trailer, things were crowded, but the walls dripped with ornaments and the tree (and often the cat’s butts) dripped with tinsel.

My Festive Level remained high while the kids were small. We would destroy our budget buying way too many gifts for them. My husband would gift me bigger and bigger boxes of used books each year (a favourite gift we both appreciated). Many years we would hold a “Christmas in the barnyard” where cattle, horses, llamas, donkeys, sheep, goats, and whatever else kind of warm-blooded critter shared the farm that year would be turned into the round pen, straw bales would  provide seating amongst them, a coal oil lantern would light the path from the driveway to the pen, and friends and relatives would join in. Depending on how cold it was, we would read the Christmas story and sing carols as the animals nibbled on the seating. Then we would end with all of us squishing into the little house trailer for hot chocolate and camaraderie. Simple, but enjoyable.

As the kids aged, my holiday spirit waned. Finally, the kids grew up and moved out. It was just Himself, the pets, and me at home. At the lowest ebb I would do no decorating and only pass out the obligatory gifts. I avoided celebrations and only attended work events where I was the MC, or joined my extended family gathering(step-siblings, half-siblings, in-laws and outlaws) where there were so many of us that we rented the church hall. I wasn’t quite Bah Humbug level, but it was close.

Luckily, this Curmudgeon stage has slowly evolved back to an appreciation of the traditions of the Christmas season. For me, the season now begins with my church’s annual Tree Decorating Service. Everyone through the door gets handed an ornament. 

When we are all seated, the kids go gather up any leftovers baubles, “no shiny thing left behind!” During the service there are short readings followed by carols that match some of the ornaments.  Come on, Ring Those Bells has  the white and gold bell ornaments going to the tree to be hung. While Shepherd Watch Their Flocks by Night brings up those with the candy/shepherd’s cane ornaments, and so on. The variety of carols pair with readings and ornaments until everyone in the room has gone up, singly or in family groups, and every ornament is on the tree.

Parents lift small children to decorate branches. Grandparents go up with grandchildren. Friends grin as they compete to place the highest ornament. Familiar songs reserved for this time of year pair with the excitement of the kids as every ornament is put up. This, for me, is when the Christmas season begins.

It’s a simple ceremony, and its wonderful. I don’t know why it hits me like it does, but I know that when I miss it I feel out of step with the season. If you’d like to experience it, come to Cornerstone Free Methodist Church this Sunday at 11, sing carols, and hang ornaments. And whenever it happens, if you celebrate, may your Christmas season have a happy start.

Another ”Ordinary” Day 

Cathy Bendle
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Another ”Ordinary” Day 

Swept from the Corners of my mind….

I thought it was an ordinary day. Work went as busily as usual. I had an issue with the Virtual Reality headsets that had fought me every virtual inch of the way, but I eventually won the battle. Things calmed down and I was looking forward to a meeting with my writing group just north of town in the early evening. Around 3 the phone rang; it was my son-in-law. Would I be able to get my grandson after school? That gave me 15 minutes to clock out and get to his school, but I made it. 

Once I gathered up my happy camper I checked his schedule—we had two and a half hours to kill time before his Jiu Jitsu class.  No problem. We could go back to my office, I could get a bit more work done, and he could play. I started to drive and he started to chatter. 

I adore my grandson, but some days I have a hard time keeping up to his topics, especially when I’m concentrating on driving. He can be somewhat distracting. But I pulled into the now half-empty parking lot, made sure I had my office keys, and chivvied him out of the car, still trying to follow his conversation. By this time, he had decided he wanted to try one of the VR headsets. I was none too impressed due to the morning’s struggles but figured one eight-year-old and one headset shouldn’t be that much of a problem. I was wrong. Batteries died unexpectedly. Connections refused to connect. The boy’s chatter increased in speed as I struggled with headset after headset trying to find one that would connect properly. Finally, I was able to open one game, and he happily played. 

I glanced at the clock to see that we had 40 minutes before his class. I felt I should get some calories into him before I met his mom up at the gym, so we packed up and headed back to the parking lot. As I locked up the office and took two steps towards the outer door it struck me… I had locked my keys in the car. 

I have 2 vehicles. One is a fun little jeep that I know how to break into, and which has no car seats. The other is an old Aztek that I’ve had for over ten years. I have one key for the Aztek. The others were lost long ago. The Aztek does have a car seat. It is also covered in bright, colourful stickers.  

I immediately called CAA, then his mom, and we went out to wait by the car. There were only 2 other cars in the lot, which is in full view of the street. CAA called and they would be there right away. I was relieved when I saw a tow truck coming down the street and turning on the access road. The entrance to the lot was just out of sight, so I waited eagerly. No truck. 

A few minutes later my daughter arrives and gets her boy. While we are chatting the CAA driver phones to tell me that he can’t find my car. “I’m right here,” I said.  “I saw you drive in.” He tells me, twice, that there was no Pontiac Aztek in this parking lot and that he had checked all the lots. He saw two white cars and a black truck in mine, but no Aztek. ” How about you just take a closer look at the white vehicles in the staff lot,” I suggested. “I’m standing right beside the one that says Aztek on it.” In a few minutes he rounded the corner and parked beside me. 

He worked diligently to break in and finally accomplishes it, not even tripping over his oversize, unlaced, worn out work boots as he circled the car. In less time that it felt he had me back in the car and I was ready to go to my meeting. 

I was dragging by that time but still felt up to meeting with the talented writers. First, though, I had to go to the gym and drop off the little guy’s homework, which had been locked in the car. No problem. I even had time to stop for gas and asked for washing fluid and an oil check. Bad choice. The hood was hard to open and I wasn’t much help. Then gas gal got ready to put the oil in and I walked away with it, putting it into the back of the car.  I retrieved it, then helped her with the hood and ended up shutting it wrong. This made it much harder to open the second time. 

Driving to the south end of the city to drop off the homework I decided to miss the meeting. My get up and go had gotten up and went. Instead, I stopped at Canadian Tire and got spare keys and some magnetic boxes. There are now several keys available if I ever do this again. The day ended with going home, feeding pets, and collapsing, just the end of another “ordinary” day.  

Cathy Bendle finds humor in the quirks of everyday life, from training teachers to dodging housework. When not writing, she’s either laughing at her pets, frantically Googling for her work assignments, or playing on her iPad.

Promise you a robot

Cathy Bendle
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Promise you a robot

Swept from the corners of my mind…

My addiction of the moment is 3D printing. There is something compelling about choosing a file and then tweaking it with colours or size changes, watching it print (or turn into a plate of plastic spaghetti), troubleshooting and then painstakingly removing supports to reveal the results. Despite how that sounds, it IS “oddly mesmerizing” as my grandson said, to watch the nozzle move and the colours grow.

The other day I made a little metallic blue robot with movable joints. It was smaller than my palm but printed well. I took it to my 8-year-old grandson’s place (I love printing and then giving things away) where he had a guest, a 4-year-old who happens to adore robots. His little friend very much wanted the robot and Grandson’s Mom finally persuaded the elder child to hand it over because “you know Grandma will make you another one”.

Of course, Grandma would make another! I promised to have another ready when I picked him up for school. I decided it could not match, so I found another file for a slightly larger robot and went to print it in the same shiny blue.  When I returned to the printer it presented me with a large pile of plastic spaghetti. I don’t know what had happened, but I had to get a successful print and get to bed. Again, I changed files. My next choice was a robot that appeared to have movable joints, and I changed the colour in case the filament was the problem.  I pottered around doing night chores and peeking in frequently—it was looking good.  Late in the evening the print finished. I rushed in to get it off the build plate and into my purse, which is when I discovered that not only did the joints not move, but the back of the left calf was spaghetti as well. Another Fail.

The promise still compelled so I chose another style, hoping that the smaller size would make it print faster.  My relief and joy sparkled as I took it off the build plate and began removing supports. Because the print was barely longer than my finger, the required supports were small as well but hanging on strongly. {SIDEBAR: Supports are temporary shapes designed to keep parts in place as the print is being made. They are often reminiscent of a Dr. Seuss tree– round tubes that snake upside the structure branching into smaller segments until they reach their overhang. They hang on tenaciously and often sneak into odd angles that are difficult to remove them from.}  I was on the very last support when there was a snap. I had broken off the right arm just below the shoulder.

I’ve glued lots of 3D plastic together, so out comes the super glue. I would rather give him an undamaged piece, but it was close to midnight, and Grandma needed sleep. I would make him a better one when I was rested.

 There was no way that the glue would hold. I tried several different times, sometimes bracing it, sometimes holding it with fingers or tweezers, sometimes holding it because my fingers were stuck it.  I even tried a method a friend had recommended, gluing tiny bits of Kleenex on both stubs, letting them dry, and then glueing them together.  Despite several attempts, the only thing that took a firm grip were my second and third fingers on my right hand, which adhered so tightly that I had to resort to soaking the spot several times in a dish of acetone before they reluctantly parted.

Finally, I noticed a piece of scrap in the 3D debris and used it as a support between the shoulder and the original arm. I made it look like it was an extra weapon for that arm, then placed a piece of black tape diagonally over his shoulder and onto its chest, enhancing the military look while supporting the glue. With that adventure I decided that my poor little guy was going to have to get a broken robot in the morning when I picked him up. Grandma was going to bed.

The car door wasn’t even shut before Grandson asked, “Did you bring the robot?” I handed him the bag contained the shiny blue spaghetti, the orange spaghetti-legged robot, and the broken armed robot as I explained how I’d given up at 3 am. He was disappointed, but willing to play with the soldier robot. Predictably, Grandma promised to try again before I dropped him at school.

 After work I found a pattern for a solid pleasant looking robot a bit bigger than my hand that had articulated joints and looked like I could print it without breakage. And so, I did. The newest iteration was accepted and all was well.

I cannot believe how obsessed I was with fulfilling that promise. I wasted a lot of filament, glued my fingers, and lost sleep over a toy that will be soon forgotten, I even gave up half a night’s sleep because a promise is a promise, especially between Grandma and her boy.

Cathy Bendle finds humor in the quirks of everyday life, from training teachers to dodging housework. When not writing, she’s either laughing at her pets, frantically Googling for her work assignments, or playing on her iPad.

Wild goose without a chase

Cathy Bendle
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Wild goose without a chase

Swept from the corners of my mind…

My last job had me on the road a lot, visiting families in the area. One of my clients was a very busy farm Mom with an ill infant.  I always admired her positive outlook and the way she managed a large, active family. I figured she could take on any task. The sounds of Autumn migration brings her to mind every year. Let me explain.

 Late one spring I arrived at their mixed farm and was handed a bucket by an excited toddler.  In the bucket was a very downy goose baby.

“Aww, how did you get a gosling?” I knew she didn’t have a chicken house and don’t remember any interest in poultry.

“My husband was driving across a field and there it was, lying in the dirt.  There is no water near there for a mile on either side and we looked all around and didn’t see or hear any geese.  We figured a coyote or fox dropped it.” Then the shoe dropped. “You have lots of pets.  Will you take it?”

Well, I didn’t have a chicken house either, and I worked full time, so my initial answer was a resounding “no, thanks!”  but the gosling had nowhere else to go, and once again I ended up with an extra critter.

Or I did for a while. My husband was home and the gosling needed fed multiple times a day, so it imprinted on him and basically ignored me from then on.. As it waddled around the trailer pooing and honking, I felt grateful that he was the daddy. Cleanup with HIS responsibility. But we both enjoyed watching the little guy grow. We tried not to get too attached, as it became apparent that we had a Canada Goose on our hands. As soon as it was able we would have to let it go.

While a house pet, Goose (yes, that was its name) was always following Cec, perching on his foot and generally being a shadow.  The same happened outside. As Beloved worked around in the yard the bird was always nearby. When the geese started practicing for the fall flight, Goose became excited. He would flail his wings and honk when they flew by, but he always returned to his “parent”. After several weeks his flails and hops turned short, awkward flights. We were delighted but knew it was likely we would lose our now enormous child soon.

And that is how it happened.  After a few days of practicing circling the yard, Goose took off after a flight of his relatives.  We watched with concern, unsure how they would treat him. When he didn’t come back, we knew that we would never learn its fate.  It had grown from a downy gosling to a large, shiny Canada Goose. We had cleaned slick, slimy goose poop and water that had been splashed all over the kitchen. We would never even know its gender because even Canada Geese seem to have a hard time telling each other apart.  We knew it put dogs and cats into fear, and seemed to understand that it belonged in the sky, but we were sad that we would never know if it made the transition safely.

Except….  For several years, during migration, one goose would circle the farmyard, and circle Beloved if he were out, and then take off. This was odd because we had lived under the fall flight path for Canada Geese for decades. They would land in the fields across the road, but we had never noticed any in our yard or on our pasture. But one goose would appear each year and we hoped, in our heart of hearts, that it was the same goose, just checking in with his foster dad.

This fall goose never landed but it usually flew within ten feet of my grinning farmer most years. It would circle him once or twice then take off. At one of the later visits Cec realized there was another goose nearby, but it wouldn’t come close at all. It just hung around while the other goose circled and occasionally honked. Then they were gone.

Was this our Goose? Logically, it seemed highly unlikely. But that bird did love that man while it was in our household, so I choose to believe that it safely transitioned to a flock, avoided hunters, gained a mate, and still kept us in his heart, too.

Cathy Bendle finds humor in the quirks of everyday life, from training teachers to dodging housework. When not writing, she’s either laughing at her pets, frantically Googling for her work assignments, or playing on her iPad.

Colourful fun

Cathy Bendle
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Colourful fun

Swept from the corners of my mind…

It may be difficult to imagine if you have only seen my current photo, but I used to enjoy fun accessories.

I would wear funky or mismatched earrings, saying, “If you can’t have fun with your ears, what can you have fun with?” I wore fancy felt hats while driving a beat up old green Ford farmer half ton, and wearing my Shining Jersey Mumu of Many Colours or my glow-in-the-dark neon pink cable knit sweater gave me extra smiles.

Before Covid, I liked to dye my hair colours like eggplant or Gleaming Chestnut. Whenever the colour faded or roots appeared I would wander down the pharmacy aisle and pick my next colour splash. Colour of any type was fun!

When I was in university I had a professional put what I now know as “frosting” in my hair. A friend had it and I thought it looked sophisticated. Unfortunately, the hairdresser interpreted my description of “little bits of blonde all over your head” as a complete roots-to-tips bleach with a brown wash over it. Think Marilyn Monroe-esque.

I was unable to speak for an hour after I put my glasses back on. Although I snagged my husband during this blonde phase, I had to re-dye fairly quickly—I didn’t recognize myself in mirrors or walking past windows and the resulting nausea was intense.

Keeping blonde off the list, I continued to colour my hair sporadically. Red was a favourite– Rich, deep, vibrant red. One day, years after the blonde incident, I was alone at home and decided it was again time to dye my shoulder-length mouse-brown locks. Home was a tiny old house trailer on the farm, decorated with polka-dotted curtains, a wall of gold-laced mirror tiles, and light colours, all in the hope of making it look bigger. The miniscule bathroom fixtures were that medium blue that screamed “The Seventies Were Here!” and even the gleaming white shower curtain sprinkled with multicoloured polka dots could not change how small that room looked.

The tiny blue sink was too awkward to stand by and splash water to rinse the solution out of my hair. The dye was set and there were red lines around the edges of my hairline under the frothy white cap of foam. I undressed and took the single step to the freshly-scrubbed blue tub, pulling back the big curtain while turning on the water. 

When I wet the solution on my head, watching frothy red streaks flow down my arms, I noted that I would have to re-clean the shower when I was done. Then I started to slip. I fell, desperately grabbing whatever was around me in an attempt to stay upright. Faucet, curtain, wall, all were grasped at and lost. In a breathless moment I fell out of the shower through the shower curtain, ripping the rod off the wall. My head barely missed the blue toilet and I lay wedged between the toilet and cabinet for a few minutes staring at the ceiling.

Slowly I realized that there were tiny splashes of red dye on the ceiling. My eyes travelled to the walls where drops and trails of red were slowly sliding toward the floor. The fall had flung drops to every corner of the room. I lay still, legs still part-way in the tub, shower curtain tangled about me so I had an arm imprisoned, a red puddle under my head, grateful I was only winded, not hurt. Then I had to giggle.

There was no way to avoid it, I was going to have to clean the shower AND the room. Or maybe I could find a forensic team to tidy up for me, after all, it looked like a scene from CSI!

Yes, there is an excitement in colouring my hair that I kind of miss, but that was more fun than I’m meant to have.     

Cathy Bendle finds humor in the quirks of everyday life, from training teachers to dodging housework. When not writing, she’s either laughing at her pets, frantically Googling for her work assignments, or playing on her iPad. Her column appears every other Wednesday.

Moo-sic, Mayhem, and Mascot Magic

Cathy Bendle
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Moo-sic, Mayhem, and Mascot Magic

Swept from the corners of my mind….

Last week I had a cow.  Or rather, I was a cow.

I work at Saskatchewan Polytechnic and last week was Welcome Week on the PA campus.  One of the sponsors for these fun events is SaskMilk. They supply a blow-up cow costume and dozens of bottles of vanilla and chocolate milk to hand out to students. All we had to supply was a body to power the costume.

Usually one of the Resources instructors takes on cow duty, but he was unavailable, so I was offered the chance to don the large plastic bovine complete with a huge pink udder, meaningfully utter a medley of moos and hand out delicious drinks. I am no stranger to costumed antics, as I was one of the 1163 registered dinosaurs who took part in the July 1 Guiness World Record attempt at Dundurn in 2023.  We danced and had a great time all day in +32C. That temperature was outside the full-body sweat suit, by the way. I have no idea what the temp was inside the costumes other than “swampy”.  But I digress.

We had a “dry milk run” the week before as new students were coming on campus. I dressed for a couple hours, finding out I needed more of a fan, and that the head wobbles badly and falls over your face if the zipper isn’t done up all the way. This causes Blind Cow Disease. But we figured out nuances, got tons of smiles, numerous hugs, and many photo opportunities. Good times! I was ready for the outdoor antics the following week.

Enter last Wednesday. It was perfect weather for being a cow. Slightly overcast, slightly cool. Lots of smiling students. I never made it to my booth. Instead, I stayed on the sidewalk between the two buildings and worked the crowd.  It was a hoot.  Nearby several of my co-workers cheerfully egged on people throwing beanbags at a target.  Many hit, and several of my friends ended their time in the water chair very watery indeed. My boss was one of the first to have the pail dump on him, despite his custom-made “My Grandmother Can Throw Better Than You” t-shirt.  There were occasional (female) staff who seemed compelled to milk me. Burgers, frisbees, crafts and activities. Tons of fun was had by all.

Lots of this year’s students are from overseas and didn’t seem to know what to do with a naked Holstein offering milk and mooing pathetically if they refused. Some would come back and apologize and take the proffered milk. Others just gave a reserved side-eye. Mind you, lots of Canadian students were reserved at first, too.  Eventually, though, there was a world of hugs, photos, and accepted bottles of milk. The giggling was great. 

As I had forgotten to bring my neck fan  from the dinosaur party, I got hotter and hotter as I danced and mooed and wandered about for that hour and a half.  Under my gleaming black and white exterior my shirt was dripping. There were big wet patches soaked through the pant legs. My hair was a tangled mass. My feet were also pointing out that the sneakers I was wearing were old and unsupportive. But it was fun making students laugh and feel comfortable on their new campus and I would happily do it again. You might say I saw an ‘oppor-moo-nity’ and thought I’d ‘milk’ it for all it’s worth. 

Cathy Bendle finds humor in the quirks of everyday life, from training teachers to dodging housework. When not writing, she’s either laughing at her pets, frantically Googling for her work assignments, or playing on her iPad. Her column appears every other Wednesday.

Jingle dress woman

Cathy Bendle
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Jingle dress woman

Swept from the corners of my mind…

Above my desk at work is one of my most treasured possessions. Some call it folk art. Some call it “a kid’s project”.  I call it genius.


When I taught Adult Upgrading, I met a lot of incredible people. For instance, Alice (name changed).  Alice didn’t have a lot of money. What student does? But she had pride in her culture and a brilliant imagination.

The assignment was to do a visual representation of the components of culture. Using what she had on hand Alice created stunning art.

The frame is roughly 3 feet by 2 feet, a later addition made of rough wood, painted with the colors of the Medicine Wheel. The canvas is just a piece of slightly-wrinkled beige cardboard, attached to the frame with big chunks of duct tape. Layers of felt, small metal teardrop shapes, plasticene, fake hair, cloth, ribbon, blue feathers, and glittering makeup fill the space.  The result is a glorious jingle dress dancer in all her regalia.

Her outfit is a ribbon skirt and matching top in red, black, and yellow felt. Rows of bells, painstakingly cut from aluminum cans, sparkle on the skirt and shirt. Each is ascribed with a component of culture. Written with the same fuzzy-tipped marker that labels the image and with which she signed her name, some are difficult to read.

Spend a little time, though, and you will make out all the elements we discussed in the course: geography, economy, history, government, spiritual and religious beliefs, family, communication styles, love (in block letters!), values, recreation, entertainment, music, dance, stories and legends, technology, food and eating, habits, rituals like birth, marriage, and death, manners, celebrations, education, rewards and recognitions, symbolic materials, worldview, style of humour and ways of showing affection. All the factors that create a person’s culture are individually written on almost 30 tiny teardrop tags.

The bells grace the dancer’s neat figure and frame the dark hand holding the puff of blue feathers representing a feather fan. Long, dark, curly hair flows in braids on either side of her smiling plasticene face, and a few bright white and yellow feathers perch jauntily on her head.  Sparkling gold eyeshadow, lipstick and blush compliment her dark brown skin; glittering blue nail polish coordinates with the flowers and neck scarf she wears.  A small brown handbag swings from her right arm as she smiles confidently at the viewer. The pose is confident and anticipatory.

This is the image of a strong, confidant indigenous woman. She knows who she is and what has shaped her. Effortlessly blending her heritage, the ways of women, and touches of modernity, she awaits her turn to celebrate the creator in the healing dance. I was amazed at the complex simplicity of the project.


At the end of the course, I realized that Alice was going to dispose of her assignment, its job done. I begged her not to throw it away, and she graciously gifted it to me.  For over a decade this beautiful representation has blessed my classroom or office.

I have lost touch with “Alice”, but I will always treasure her creation as an homage to the pride, dignity, and innovation found in her culture and gender. Ekosi, Alice”.  I will always treasure your gift.

Cathy Bendle finds humor in the quirks of everyday life, from training teachers to dodging housework. When not writing, she’s either laughing at her pets, frantically Googling for her work assignments, or playing on her iPad. Her column runs every other Wednesday.

Oh, what a night

Cathy Bendle
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Oh, what a night

Swept from the corners of my mind…

11 pm. I was on the edge of sleep, neither too hot nor too cold. The blanket was comfy. The window was open to appreciate the country stillness. There was a dog or two on the bed but no crowding. I was drifting off to the thought of tomorrow’s travel with my favourite daughter. We would leave at 8:30 so I would even have a full night’s sleep. I turned off the light and began to drift.

A loud squeak Had I dreamed it? The dogs slumbered on. I settle back down. It must have been a waking dream.

There it was again! A loud, prolonged squeak and a scrabbling sound as Stranger, aka FatCat, clawed her way through the open window carrying something wriggling, dark and squealing. I fumbled for the bedside light, my mind filled with images of headless shrews that occasionally ended up gifted on my floor, and the deceased robin I’d found on my bed last week.  Oh no. This is NOT happening!

In the soft lamp light, the cat scrabbled between statue-still dogs and jumps to the floor.  I zombie out of bed and open the patio door. My plan must have been to shoo them out to the deck using the only thing I had at hand—a bent old flyswatter from the garbage by the bed.  I’m not sure. Everything was fuzzy.. 

FatCat focuses on playing with her guest while I keep trying to flip it out of her paws towards the door. But the handle would bend just as I got it under the large mouse, allowing it to flop back to the floor, where the cat would try to resume play. We dance about the room playing Insane Keep Away. I get the edge of the swatter under the wriggling rodent, she snags it and pulls it towards her.

Eventually Stranger starts getting the upper hand so I up my game, adding a dustpan to help scoop it out of her reach. The cat is winning. Eventually I dive it to scoop and ended up whacking the poor mouse.  Between cat germs and smacks it had no hope, so I unalived the victim with one blow. I scoop it up and toss it off the deck in seconds. Then I slam the door, locking it in case she has grown opposable thumbs, yell at the confused cat, and make sure the window is shut tight. Quivering and muttering from the adrenaline of a midnight hunt, I stumble back to my bed.

But was it over? Oh no, my friend! FatCat starts to roam, looking for open windows from which to escape.  All the other windows are screened, so she lumbers from room to room knocking things off windowsills and tables seeking an exit. She finally thunders into the bathroom, tries to get out that window, and knocks toothbrushes, hairbrushes, and jewelry down the sink drain or across the floor.  Again, I scrabble out of bed, this time to lock her in the bathroom, where she mewed piteously through the night, ten feet from my bed.

I tossed and turned, finally texting my daughter at 2:15 am that I was postponing our trip until 10 am, as I was still wide-awake cursing my oblivious dogs and the over-eager cat. I finally fall asleep at 4, awakening in the morning with a “hunting hangover” from lack of sleep.

Tell me again how pets are good for your blood pressure.

Cathy Bendle finds humor in the quirks of everyday life, from training teachers to dodging housework. When not writing, she’s either laughing at her pets, frantically Googling for her work assignments, or playing on her iPad.

It’s about time

Cathy Bendle
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It’s about time

Swept from the corners of my mind…

I’ve had an awesome summer, and it is not over yet. 

I never have enough time and/or energy during the school year to do everything on my list. My day starts with feeding parrots and pets, goes through driving into town for work, working all day at a job that’s fun but makes my brain tired, shopping, driving home, chores, household duties, etc. Nothing major.

I no longer have kids to ferry 8 days a week or meetings to attend. But the allure of changing out of town clothes into chore ones and getting tasks done is seldom a siren call. Often I read a chapter or ten of a good book and then it is time for bed. So Summer, I declare, is when I shall get those extra tasks done.

For the last several years, though, there have been roadblocks to a good summer. One year my well collapsed. The backwash sent pounds and pounds of sludgy mud through my pipes and into appliances. Due to long comedy of errors I had to get two new wells within a few days, and then there was a major plumbing issue that kept me flushing the toilet with a pail for weeks.

One year I was recovering from cancer surgery. For a few years I wrestled with ankle surgeries. One summer my husband was ill and passed away. Others I was exhausted, only to find out I was anemic. And then there were the summers when I was a supervisor so even though I technically had time off, I had to keep checking in, do hirings, and so on.

But enter this summer. I and Mine are healthy. I planned my workdays to take advantage of making the break longer. There are no obligatory big deals on the calendar, but there was a chance to go to a Renaissance Faire, enjoy visiting relatives, and even hang out with my grandson. In between there were long strings of open days where I could do those things I’ve been putting off.

This summer I planned on finishing the baseboards in the living room, washing walls, changing and washing down the parrot cages daily, reviving the flower gardens, putting up paintings, and so on. Nothing major but all contributing to a more comfortable home in which to lounge and read.

It should have been simple. 

I tend to wake up around 7:30, so I could amble through morning chores and by ten I could take on one Big Task. It would likely be done mid-afternoon leaving time for leisure activities. I could play with the horses, do some crafting, visit friends… the world could be my oyster.

What I have done, however, was not on the list.  It turns out I function much better when my time is scheduled. As I often joke, I need a T-shirt that warns, “Does Not Transition Well.” If there’s no definite need to do something at a particular time, it likely won’t get done on time, or at all.

Parrots and dogs are hungry in the morning, so they get fed. Horses need watered. Lawn needs mowed, but all those one-off jobs like painting of building new gardens? Not so much.

The problem is I went from having more than enough structure in my day to having none. There’s always tomorrow available to do something if I don’t feel like it today. Those baseboards in the living room? Meh. It’s not like I’m selling the place. It doesn’t need done today.

Deep cleaning all the vehicles? Meh. My back is sore and I don’t feel like lugging things about.

Painting the kitchen? Well, first I need to wash the walls in there AND the living room, so…Meh. Tomorrow.

And let’s not forget that these flexible days occasionally cause me to lose track of the date, so the few things that are necessary—medical appointments, column submissions, and so on—are threatened by my inattention and deadlines are missed.

This week we transition to August. Will the pressure of returning to work in 2 weeks get me back on track? Will the baseboards get put down and the new curtains hung? Will the deck get painted or the carpets cleaned? Only time will tell.

Cathy Bendle finds humor in the quirks of everyday life, from training teachers to dodging housework. When not writing, she’s either laughing at her pets, frantically Googling for her work assignments, or playing on her iPad.

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