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Don’t wait for my call

Cathy Bendle
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Don’t wait for my call

Swept from the corners of my mind…

I have a love hate relationship with phones. Yes, I love to hate them. It’s an old joke. A bad joke. But still the truth.

When I was a kid, I couldn’t remember phone numbers. Total gap. But that was fine because I didn’t (and still don’t) like calling people. Of course, there’s also the fact that I grew up with a phone hung on the wall, with a coiled cord so long it could stretch past two bedrooms and just inside the door of the third one. We were a large family with limited (read, “none!”) privacy. Whoever was nearest the phone was required to answer it when it rang and then find the person who was being called.  I avoided both tasks by not hanging out where I could be considered “closest”. Thus began my aversion to the phone.

When I was in my mid-20s I started staying at my in-laws’ farm and discovered that party lines still existed.  There were only two numbers on that line, but we were paired with a very curious neighbour, so I quickly learned to end a conversation when I heard that little “snick” of her receiver being lofted from the cradle.  This did not add to my enjoyment of phone calls. But I digress.

As a young teen I had two close friends that I saw several times a week, but there were still times phone contact was required.  We were friends for years, and yet I could never remember either girl’s number. If I couldn’t locate a phone book, or my notebook, to look them up, I resorted to asking Sister One what their numbers were. Two years older than me and with her own large network of friends, she could miraculously shoot off any number I asked about… if she chose to.

“Hey, Sis, what’s C’s phone number?”

“Why are you asking me?”

(In a flattering tone) “Cuz I can never remember anyone’s number, and you always can.”

“She’s YOUR friend, why don’t you memorize it?”

“I try, but it just doesn’t stick. C’mon, just give me the number.”

Sometimes the negotiations would end with a payment (maybe traded chores) but eventually she broke down and rattled off the correct number as I punched it in before I could forget it. So it would go, time and again through the years.  Friends, relatives, pizza places, it didn’t matter. Phone numbers slipped from my brain like reindeer snot slides off a brass doorknob. I even got little paper phone books and recorded my friends’ numbers…and then lost the books. The only dependable source was Sister One.

When my kids were small, I made up a ditty to help them remember our number, hoping to avoid that generational trauma.

“Seven six four four zero zero seven, that’s the number that you call. Seven six four four zero zero seven. Don’t write it on the wall!”

They remember it to this day, as do I, as do some of their school friends. (No, don’t call it. We don’t have that number anymore. Don’t be that person!)

I even came up with something like a rap (I’m a pre-wrapped rapper) for the answering machine so I could avoid answering the actual phone.

“You’ve reached the Bendles and we’re not home but that doesn’t mean you should hang up the phone. Just leave us a message after the beep and when we’re home to the phone we’ll leap. ….”

Time and again we got home to messages like,

“hahahahaha! That’s awesome.  You don’t know me but my friend told me to call and listen to this!” Click!

“Oh my! This was a wrong number, but it made my day!” Click!

“What the….? I hate these machines.” Click

As time went by, I became more comfortable with phone calls, but I still don’t enjoy them. Did the silly ditties help? Have I learned to remember actual numbers? Well, being a modern gal, I don’t need to. I have hundreds of phone numbers programmed into my cell. I add emails and how I know them, mining every little detail to replace the gaps in my memory. You want the contact info for that great plumber I hired a couple years ago? “Here you go!” You wish you could contact that person we used to work with whose name started with a K? Voila!

The number of that mom of that kid my kid went to a party for in Grade 7? I’m on it.

Numbers can no longer escape me. I even have my kids on speed dial. Let’s be honest, though. I can’t remember their numbers to save my life. Heck, I barely remember my own!

It doesn’t matter that my daughter is the only Saskatoon number I call, or that my son took over a number I used for over a decade. Phone numbers do not remain in my brain. Thank heavens for smart phones. If I could actually keep track of the darn thing, I can actually remember my friends’ numbers, but don’t get your hopes up. Just because I can find it doesn’t mean I want to call. Sorry.

Sisterly Shenanigans

Cathy Bendle
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Sisterly Shenanigans

Swept From the Corners of my Mind:

“Run,” I said, “and I will shoot you!” So she did. So then I did, and she has never forgiven me.

Now, let me give you some background.  First, I come from a large family. The bigger the family, the more kinds of trouble the kids can get into. The more variations you add to the mix, the more likely there will be trouble.  It’s simply math! 

Mom married a widower with four teenage sons; very quickly two more boys entered the mix. Our parents finally got it right and gave birth to 3 girls within 5 years. Then Mom became a foster parent, so dozens more siblings added to the count, some for just a couple days and some for a lifetime. Dad was a small businessman and Mom worked at a local department store. We lived in Nordale, first renting a house (coincidentally built by my paternal grandparents) in the main section, then across the highway beside the big white Remittance Man house. There were few houses on our side of the highway, and between Nordale and Hazeldell there were several acres of scrub brush, bisected by the railroad tracks that served as an unofficial community border. Our yard blended into the scrub area, leaving us lots of room to play. Can you see the potential for chaos?

The Brothers were older than us, with their own pursuits. Sister One was sociable and quickly made friends in the area. I was a bookworm with a head filled with adventure and the outdoors, and Sister Three was a typical Baby of the Family. I often called her a princess, as she had higher standards than we did–no second hand clothes from big bags of church donations for her!—and she was somewhat naïve. Although she was (and still is) a Mini Me in looks and voice, we convinced her that she was adopted. Who would believe that the ninth child, with a rotating roster of foster sibs, and very visible Borrowman genetics, was not biologically one of us? Princess. Daughter Three.  Baby sister T.

The stage is set.

One beautiful day when I was an early teen, Daughter Three and I were on our own in the big yard. I have no idea where anyone else was (it was highly unlikely we were home alone) but somehow we stumbled across Dad’s old bb gun.  It was shaped like a pistol and had a long tube along the top that was hinged at one end. To get impulsion you swung the tube forward until it clicked, then back into its original spot. Possibly a second swing would add more impulsion. I can’t remember. I do recall that it was old and rusty and hard to pump up, though. Turns out this was a good thing.

As a devotee of books about cowboys and the outdoors, I was smitten, and took no time in persuading my sidekick that we should try it out. We ran around the big yard taking turns taking pot shots at different things. We made certain to stay out of sight of the house and I don’t remember actually hitting anything, so the excitement soon waned. We knew that we would get in trouble if we got caught. But it was one of those days where all the ducks lined up and the chance of getting caught just added spice.

Picture us, two young girls standing on the top of a rise looking down into the buckbrush that extended into the distance. The gunslinger in me turned to Sister Three, five years my junior but equally as responsible in my eyes, and said, “Run, and I will shoot you!” She said no, but it didn’t take long to persuade her that the odds of me being able to actually hit her were pretty slim.  I did mention she was naïve, yes?

She turned and began running from me as I pumped the gun, put in a bb, and took aim. About 40 feet apart I pulled the trigger.  The tiny lead projectile, around the size of a round pin head, surprised both of us when it smacked into her racing right buttock. She rounded on me. “You shot me!”

“Well, yeah, but you wanted me to.”

“What? I did not. You actually shot me!”

“Listen, I said if you ran I would shoot you. You ran. I was obligated to shoot!”  This was the basis of an ongoing argument for over 50 years. It didn’t matter that the bb only caused a quarter-sized bruise. A bruise, might I add, that she used to extract sympathy from any and all. To this day she willingly shares the story of my “betrayal” at the slightest provocation.

Now, hear me out. In my defense, I felt contractually obligated. I try to be a girl of my word. Her running was her way of agreeing to the process. She kept her part of the bargain, so I had to keep mine. What kind of role model would I be if I didn’t? You see the bind I was in?

There is hope for my exoneration, though.  Have you heard about the Saskatchewan farmer who wants to go to the Supreme Court to overturn a ruling that says he is responsible for a flax contract that he “signed” with a thumbs up emoji? The company sent him an electronic contract and asked if he accepted it.  He sent a thumbs up. They expected flax but it never showed.  Hence, the court case. In just the same way I “sent” my sister a contract when I told her to run. She ran, the physical equivalent of giving me a thumbs up. Just like the flax farmer, I was contractually obligated to complete my end of the bargain.

Dear Baby Sister. Princess. Sister Three. Mini Me. Yes, I bruised your buttock. You basically made me do it. If you dispute that, sue me! (Love ya!)

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. Reader comments are always welcome—because writers are fragile being who need constant reassurance that somebody, somewhere, actually reads what we wrote. Her column appears every second Wednesday.

Critters

Cathy Bendle
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Critters

Swept from the corners of my mind:

My foster sister calls me “Critter Mama”. I was the kid fascinated with any animal I came across.  I amassed quite a menagerie growing up, which only expanded when I married a farmer with the same attitude towards pets. Our children weren’t quite as intense, but they both gathered pets as well.  At one point I recall having 2 dozen horses, cattle, a donkey, 2 llamas (named ‘Yamma Llama Ding Dong’ and ‘Bop She Bop She Bop’), sheep, goats, pigs, Guinea fowl, Guinea pigs, cats, dogs, a pheasant, a pot-bellied pig-hermit, and several breeds of rabbits. That may have been when I acquired my favourite bearded dragon, Sir Gino.  I also had a 60-gallon tank of tropical fish taking up a chunk of the living room.

Eventually, critters were sold, passed or were given away, the kids left home, and it was just my husband and I rattling around in our house with a few dogs, and cats, a chameleon, and the fish, with livestock still outside. By the late 20-teens it was quite civilized—an old man, an ambiguously-aged woman, and a couple of ordinary house pets.  That’s when I re-entered a bird phase. We had raised canaries previously, but I became enamoured with small parrots.

About ten years ago I got a sweet young Pionus (they smell like cotton candy!), but a dog we were sitting murdered him. I wanted to replace him, but still didn’t know much about parrots. Then one day my husband and I had a spat and I decided to cool off by driving to Saskatoon. While there I purchased a 10-year-old Senegal parrot and its cage (because why not be impulsive with a live being?)  The bright-colored little tree-demon hung upside down next to me and screamed the whole 90 minutes to home.

I knew nothing about Sennies but learned that they are 7-ounce packages of pure passion.  Male and females are indistinguishable with bright green tailcoats, yellow vests and gray heads. If they like you, they will die for you.  If they don’t like you, they’d like to kill you.  This one came with the name “Turbo”, but the seller had thought it may be a girl, so I decided to name her Chicky, as that is what her scream sounded like on the long drive home. “Chicky!! Chickyyy!  CHICKYYYYY!” Our daughter was unimpressed, as that was my nickname for her, and she suggested I may have been trying to replace her since she had married and moved away. Said daughter may have been correct.

Eventually, Chicky grew to care for my husband, but that’s where her circle ended.  She tolerates my daughter and one niece but loathes my son. I lock her in the cage when he is visiting because she will fly at the 6’2” lumberjack-type and try to peck holes in his head. If she is unable to attack, she will still scream death threats unless I cover her cage. She allows the other house pets (dogs and cats) to live, but if she uncaged she will attack anything within 3 feet of me.  I had a 165-pound Newfoundland that would just put his head down and slink away if she caught his eye, determined not to relive past attacks. She is, as they say, a force to be reckoned with.

After my husband died, Chicky and I grew even closer.  Her strong emotions never fail to amuse me, and she is the first critter I talk to when I enter the house. I can’t even go to the next room without her calling for me, and she will often fly directly to me if I call her.

One of the other critters is Feist, a Rat Terrier. Rat Terriers are like watered down Jack Russells; thankfully their obsessions aren’t quite as intense as their bigger cousins. But Feist has two habits that drive me to distraction.  Whenever she hears the car drive out of the yard, she attempts to upend the garbage can. She also likes pulling out the bottom trays of the bird cages. Until recently she focused on the large parrot (a Congo African Gray in a 6’ by 6’ unit), but recently she taught herself to reach above her head to tug open the bottom tray of Chicky’s cage. 

Last week I meandered home enjoying the sunshine. I rounded the corner to greet the birds only to find that Feist had removed not only the bottom trays of both cages, but the bottom grate of Chicky’s cage as well. Her cage was empty, who knows for how long? My heart dropped and I peered closer to see if she was just tucked up in a corner. No Chicky.  But the two cats that have me keeping her caged meandered into sight. One is summer-feral, living on what he catches on his trips away, and the other has a prey drive almost as strong as her determination to stay in the house. Both have been much too interested in my feathered friend. Fearing the worse I started calling for Chicky again and again as I tore through all 8 rooms, including the closet.  I retraced my steps, slower, calling louder. 

I checked on curtain rods, in cupboards, and even wiggled down to the crawl space in search of a spray of blood-splattered green feathers. Nothing. Not a pin feather. Glaring at the cats I continued the search for Chicky’s remains.  Tears blurring my vision I texted my kids the events, stymied that I could not find the remains.

Maybe she was injured and hiding somewhere? But where? I’d checked the whole house. I went back through the house and spied my dresser. An old waterfall style, it had a tiny gap underneath that Chicky relished wiggling through. Maybe she’d gone to ground there? Using my cell’s flashlight, I squinted under the dresser, but all that was visible was a dust bunny.  Carefully I pulled it out from the wall, afraid I would smush her remains. I saw a feather. Then the sassy bird appeared, acting like I was at fault for her location. She was whole, happy, and proud of herself, even trying to attack the cats watching the rescue. I scooped her up and locked her up with clips on the trays and headed for the couch. This Mama loves her critters, but I don’t always like them!

Swept from the corners of my mind

Cathy Bendle
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Swept from the corners of my mind

Cathy Bendle, Columnist

Welcome to Swept From The Corners of My Mind, a compendium of stories, memories, humour and pathos. Here you will find stories from my life, like the time I was dressed up for church and ended up rolling in the mud castrating a calf; or when a muskrat got into the ducts in our broken-down singlewide house trailer. Perhaps I will delve into stories from my menagerie, such as time Fidget, one of my birds, tried to put me to bed by repeatedly walking from the couch towards the bedroom cheerily chanting “goodnight”. There may be stories of The Great Wells Misadventure of 2020, or the Dinosaur Dance of 2023. Whatever it is, I hope that you enjoy these stories and observations as I sweep them from the corners of my mind into yours.

I am excited because writing and telling stories are integral to who I am. I am a performer at heart; too awkward to travel with a circus, I take over coffee breaks, staff meetings, and chats in the aisles of Safeway to share my latest misadventures (of which there are too many). I love to MC events or announce at animal shows. Hand me a microphone and set me loose. I find something to laugh at in most things because, as Kurt Vonnegut Jr said, “Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward.” I strive for kind humour, and not just because I usually laugh at myself.

Unfortunately, besides being a writer and performer, I am also a procrastinator of the first order. The chance to regularly write here was offered to me several months ago, but I delayed. After all there was a septic ankle injury; A return to work; A beautiful sunset; Learning to drive again; Picking up coffee; Petting the cat; reading a book.  Yes, yes, I know none of these should have affected my ability to write, but they did. So there.

There is also my fear of not measuring up.  I am blessed to be part of Sans Nom, a poetry-writing group. It has been around for over 20 years and has all kinds of published authors gracing its ranks. I also work with and meet brilliant, engaging people who have fascinating lives. I’ve barely been to 2 county fairs and a dog show. The bar is high and I’m not sure I can see it, much less pass it.

Then I had a chat with Herald columnist Lorna Blakely, a member of Sans Nom, and a darn sweet person to boot (one of the membership requirements…but then how did I get in?). We talked about deadlines, column subjects and the joy of sharing our writings, as well as a writer’s fears and purposes. Like a Nike t-shirt, she suggested I “just do it” and here I am, inviting you to share the foibles of my life. 

Expect too many parentheses and exclamation points, wry observations, and wandering asides, in the weeks to come.  I hope my writing will lighten your day as I sweep the stories from the corners of my mind for your enjoyment. 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.