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Summer Is Trying to Retire Me

Cathy Bendle
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Summer Is Trying to Retire Me

Swept from the corners of my mind…

From hailstorms to jousting horses, from five attachable tails to a 500 gallon pond, my summer off was gloriously unscripted — and I loved every second.

It’s my last week of holidays, and I’m not ready. This has been the longest stretch of time off I’ve ever had that wasn’t tangled up with sick leave, Summer 2026 was everything I hoped for—except for house flies, ticks and mosquitoes, which remain on my personal Must Squish list. If they ever join forces, I’m finished.

It’s time to go back to work. Last year I was ready. This year I’m watching my friends retire one by one, floating around town like relaxed, well hydrated ghosts, and suddenly the idea of returning to responsibility feels… negotiable.

It’s a good thing I like the people I work with and enjoy what I do, because the call of being in charge of my own time is getting louder. If it weren’t for a series of major home disasters costing tens of thousands over the last few years, I’d be clocking out. My paid-off house is standing directly between me and freedom. Honestly, at this point it should be paying me rent.

These two months were full in the best possible way. I started by scraping clutter from corners I hadn’t seen since Covid—archaeological work, really—then escaped for a languorous week at Wakaw Lake with my Bestie.

We survived a massive hailstorm on the highway to Alberta, I coaxed my 90 year old mother into picking cherries from the 3 trees in my yard (she genuinely enjoys berry picking; I swear I’m not running a senior labour camp), and spent long, satisfying hours working in my yard.

And since I am technically a citizen of Lake Country, I should clarify my relationship with lakes. I can go years without going into one. When I stayed at Wakaw, I was not “at” the lake. I was looking at the lake.

I do not swim in lakes. Hear me out—lakes are where fish, moose, and the occasional biped release their waste. They are where humans dump garbage and plants go to decay. When I was younger, none of that bothered me. Now? It’s just icky.

I also cannot sunbathe on a beach. If I stay still too long, I seize up like a rusty hinge, and any time I close my eyes any exposed skin feels like a dance floor for invisible insects. There is no relaxing at the beach for me. I am a committed deck lounger. I will lounge on a deck with Olympic level dedication.

The hailstorm was the dramatic prelude to a hot weekend in Vegreville at the Renaissance Fair. If you’ve never been, imagine a family friendly outdoor costume party full of cheerful people.

There’s violence, but only the wholesome kind: knights in full metal armour smashing each other with real steel; kids whacking patient knights with foam swords for hours; and jousting horses rewarded with cookies after every trot down the list.

There are no hoodlums, although you will see mice, wizards, knaves, witches, and the occasional toadstool. You smell no bear mace—just fair food—and even the prices of dragons, staffs, and mead are enough to bring you back. I highly recommend attending. Whimsy mandatory, costume optional.

Summer had small joys, too. For the first time since we developed this yard, all of it was mowed at the same time. The yard is over an acre with nooks and crannies that challenge my old mower, so a fully trimmed yard was a genuine bucket list item.

You could play two football games, tennis, and lawn bowling at the same time out there on that short grass. I’m also almost done rebuilding my 500 gallon pond, which had become a mosquito maternity ward after three years of neglect. Anyone want to come move rocks? I pay in iced tea and gratitude.

Despite jams and inner issues, I managed several 3D prints—from fairy houses to a “drill bit” for the hand of a mischievous nine year old. (He deserved it. You know he did.)

And of course, I read. I’m an audiobook addict, and Audible claims I average about 250 books a year. I cannot survive without books. But in summer, my rule is Nothing Serious.

I read drivel. I want enjoyment, not enlightenment. The hardest questions I face are in cosy mystery whodunits. Anything more would be summer sacrilege.

There was time with dogs, cats, and parrots; petting horses and visiting family; sleeping in and learning to nap. It was glorious. But suddenly summer is over, yet The List remains.

I still need to buff the hard top of my Jeep before I put it back on. I want to patch the emerging rust spots on the fenders and maybe even paint the repairs. The pond needs finishing. Light fixtures and broken deck rails need replacing.

I wanted to teach the little bird to use one of those tiny shopping carts, which I could design once I take that online 3D Design course. The costume closet needs organizing (I counted five attachable tails today alone), and more unused clothing needs to go into the giveaway bags. There are pictures to hang and flowers to plant and—

At this point, retirement isn’t just calling. It’s banging on the door, dragging me to the deck by the ankle, and yelling, “You have FIVE attachable tails and a half finished pond—your destiny is CLEAR.”

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.

Sorry I’m late, there was a bit of a crisis

Cathy Bendle
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Sorry I’m late, there was a bit of a crisis

Swept from the corners of my mind…

Some friends sent their mare for training. She came home in the dead of winter fluffy, fat, and happy — and then went into labor during a blizzard. None of the humans had realized she’d jumped the fence to meet the stud at the trainer’s. The small black foal was whisked into the warm garage, and the owners proudly announced their new dark bay filly. The thing about horses, though, is that very dark babies often turn gray. And when we looked closer, we realized they had also misidentified the sex. Their “filly” was actually a gray colt — impressive, considering they hadn’t expected anything.

He grew well, with good bloodlines: foundational Quarter Horse stock on one side and running Quarter Horses on the other. Friendly as he was, he was still a stallion, and his owners didn’t want a stud. At two years old, they sold him to us, and he arrived with the name Total Identity Crisis — “Crisis” for short — and a pleasant, easygoing attitude.

While still young, he ran a stick straight into his eye. My horse racing husband used the “sugar method,” which sounds made‑up but apparently isn’t, blowing fine-grained sugar into the wound each day to gently wear down the ulcerated tissue. Amazingly, Crisis healed with perfect eyesight. Crisis averted.

He became a father next, siring several foals and proving himself a gentle, attentive dad. Around then, I decided I wanted to ride him. One day, while tacking him up in the main pen with thirty horses milling around, I had a wild thought: I should just get on for his first ride. So I did — riding an untrained stallion through his own band of mares like an underqualified rodeo queen.

Naturally, that was when my phone rang. I’d been waiting several days for that call. I fished the phone out of my jeans and took the call right there, sitting on an unbroke stallion in an open pasture with no fences. It was nerve wracking, and yes, I felt like I was in a bit of a crisis — but apparently my phone plan mattered more than my survival. Nothing went wrong. Crisis averted.

Eventually, we decided to stop making babies and had him gelded. He mellowed even more. He didn’t test fences, though he’d wander through an open gate if he found one. I even drove him with a little two-person cart until life got busy and I fell ill for a few years. He still got regular care and stayed happy with his girls.

Recently, I worked the horses entirely on my own for the first time in three years. Everyone needed worming — a five‑minute job, in theory. Betty, the first horse, disagreed. She dodged the rope, shoved her head out of reach, and when a clump of churned mud caught my shoe, I fell hard on my hands and knees. I was coated in mud from toes to face, achieving the exact look of someone who has lost control of her entire life. After two hours, four horses were done. The last was Crisis.

Getting him into the pen was easy — oats are his best friend. Exhausted, I put him in the chute but forgot the cardinal rule: lock the gate. When I stepped up to his head, he noticed the chute, decided to see if he could push the gate open (he could), and walked straight into the yard.

Cue the chase.

He wasn’t running away; he was just delighted to be free and grazing fresh grass. My short legs were doing their best impression of speed, which fooled absolutely no one — least of all Crisis. Just as I neared him, my eager black Shepherd “helped” by startling him. I shoved the dog in the car. Then the Rat Terrier arrived, yipping like she’d been hired specifically to sabotage me, chasing Crisis across the road and into the neighbor’s field.

I jumped in my car, but by the time I turned around, he was gone. I warned the neighbors about a potential trespasser and they kindly offered to help hunt. When we returned, Crisis was already back in the yard, looking smug in that way only a horse who has caused chaos can. We parked vehicles across the main gate and formed a human loop. Glenn, the neighbor’s dad, walked right up and slipped a rope around Crisis’s neck. Crisis surrendered instantly. I wormed him, and he was back in the pen within minutes.

Yesterday, I went to water and couldn’t find Crisis anywhere. A pony was missing too, and the mares were calling. Assuming he’d slipped out somehow, I searched the road, the perimeter, and the brush. Nothing.

I sent an urgent message to my three kids. My Wakaw offspring, ManSon, arrived early afternoon and eventually found Crisis behind the old hay pen. His right hind leg was straddling two taut strands of barbed wire. If he hadn’t already been gelded, he would have been now — courtesy of that barbed wire. He was scraped and swollen but hadn’t fought the wire — likely what saved his life.

It took heavy wire cutters, careful maneuvering, and a lot of prayers to free him; he stood without pulling, full of trust. His tail was a tangled disaster of knots and blood. ManSon led him slowly toward the pens; stiff but walking. Old barbed wire carries nasty bacteria, so we put him in the chute for a cold-water rinse to clean up his swollen thigh and see how deep the cuts were. Crisis hates cold water — he’s a “hot dude,” and he insists everyone know it. I took photos and drove to the vet for antibiotics and a discussion on whether he needed to be seen in person.

At this moment Total Identity Crisis — whose name is now just Total Crisis — is standing comfortably in his pen with daily hose showers, oral meds mixed with sweet oats, and his own private bale of hay. He won’t be pulling the cart anytime soon, but he’s happily back to bossing the herd over the fence.

As for the second missing animal? Andrew found the pony in another section of the pen. Everyone is officially accounted for, and I am over this crisis and any future ones he’s planning. Though I do love my Crisis.

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.

Rants from the shady side of the porch

Cathy Bendle
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Rants from the shady side of the porch

Swept from the corners of my mind…

Summer has officially arrived, and with it comes that blissful stage when I lose track of my days, my chores, and often my will to form a complex thought. My brain is floating somewhere between a hammock and a cold drink, and honestly, I’m fine with that.

Unfortunately, Summer Brain has one side effect: while deep thoughts slide right off, petty irritations stick like sunscreen you forgot to rub in. So, in honour of this sun‑warmed mental fog, here is a list of things that annoy me enough to pierce even the softest, laziest July mood.

1. Big Corporations Asking Me to “Round Up”

If a store wants me to buy a can of soup for the Food Bank, I’m in. But when a giant corporation asks me to “round up” for charity—via an underpaid cashier who’s already doing three jobs—I get twitchy.

If my spare change were going toward staff benefits, living wages, or full‑time hours, I’d happily throw in a loonie. But no: my pittance becomes the company’s charitable contribution, complete with tax breaks and a warm glow for the CEO. I don’t need to fund corporate self‑congratulation. I just came for paper towels.

2. Shampoo Bottles with Tiny, Pale Letters

Why, in the year 2026, are shampoo and conditioner bottles still identical twins with lettering the colour of a shy peach whispering on a yellow background?

Even with glasses, I can’t read them. And of course, I’m not wearing glasses in the shower. No one wears glasses in the shower. So every morning becomes a high‑stakes guessing game. Conditioner first? Shampoo twice? Who knows. At this point, I’m one shower away from accidentally washing my hair with body lotion because the bottles all look like they were designed by someone who hates the human eye. I don’t need a decoding challenge before coffee.

3. “Free Gifts”

If it’s free, it’s a gift. If it’s a gift, it’s free. We don’t need both words.

Whenever I see “FREE GIFT!” plastered across a sales sign, I know I’m being lured into a trap. There is no such thing as a free lunch, and there is certainly no such thing as a free gift. If you have to shout it twice, it’s probably neither.

4. “Alot” Is Not a Word

I know Summer Brain is real but spellcheck still exists. And yet, “alot” keeps appearing like a grammatical jump scare.

You can allot resources. You can have a lot of something. But “alot” is a four‑letter abomination, a curse word forged in the depths of Hades. Every time I see it, a grammar angel loses its wings, and I lose a tiny piece of my soul.

5. Clothing Sizes That Make No Sense

I’m already a North American woman, which means I’m perpetually worried about being too big for my britches—literally. So why, in the same store, with the same designer label, can I try on three items in the exact same size and get:

  • one that fits a small woodland creature,
  • one that could double as a tent, and
  • one that is possibly approaching a decent fit?

It’s Goldilocks, but with more sweating and self‑doubt. My ego cannot handle this emotional rollercoaster in a change room lit like a dental office. I just wanted pants, not an existential reckoning.

6. Pockets. Just… Pockets.

I want pockets in my clothes. I am not a fashion icon whose silhouette must remain a smooth, uninterrupted line. I am an older woman of an uncertain age who routinely forgets her purse.

My hips are already bulgy. A pocket won’t ruin the aesthetic. I just need somewhere to put my keys, my wallet, or my phone. Give me pockets and I promise the fashion world will survive the shock. And I will finally arrive places with my belongings attached to my body instead of abandoned in a satchel on a chair somewhere.

Summer Brain helps me forget to be angry about petty things, but the slightest provocation can still zing through my mind like biting on tin foil. Luckily, I’m so old that I quickly lose track of what’s irritating me. If I remember any other grievances, I’ll write them down—assuming I can find a pen, paper, and a pocket.

Until then, get off my lawn!

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.

Smokes: a shared‑custody love story

Cathy Bendle
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Smokes: a shared‑custody love story

Swept from the corners of my mind…

Smokes is a five‑year‑old, intact English Setter who comes from a long line of excellent hunting dogs.

English Setters look like Irish Setters, but instead of being redheads they’re white with black splotches. They have long legs, silky hair with feathers on the ears and legs, and a lovely arched tail. They are quite pretty—and functional, because mud just falls off that hair.

Weighing around 65 pounds and built like an athlete, Smokes may very well have the potential to be a legendary bird dog. I wouldn’t know. I only see the other side of his life—the domestic, chaotic, endlessly energetic side.

Smokes belongs to my son, who is also greatly beloved. This is why I ended up with shared custody of a dog who operates at the speed of light. My son works out of province, so there’s a fifty‑fifty custody arrangement. I love my son. I love Smokes. I repeat this to myself often.

I’ve had dogs all my life and tend to gravitate toward the relaxed, phlegmatic types. Sure, Feist the Rat Terrier barks at air and leads the boys on short, loud reconnaissance tours trying to find invisible invaders, but otherwise she lounges like a Victorian aunt on every cushion in the house. Lou, the black shepherd who was brought in because the Newfoundland was aging out, tends to be more serious. Built like either a Greek statue or a pile of spare parts, depending on the angle, Lou is focused and usually relaxed—unless Smokes is around.

Smokes is more energy than all my previous dogs combined. Heck, Smokes has more energy than a winning team of racing huskies.

Despite excellent vet visits and rather expensive dog food, Smokes always looks like he’s training for the Kentucky Derby. He gets as tucked‑up as a racehorse at the end of the season. I feed him. I promise I feed him. He simply burns calories faster than physics should allow.

When he wakes up, he runs half a mile to the next farm (they’re relatives, so no one panics), runs back, tries to steal a mouthful of Lou’s breakfast (resulting in long, annoying growling matches), then heads out for another run. This continues all day.

Smokes races. Smokes dashes. Smokes sprints. Smokes bounces. Smokes springs. Smokes zooms and streaks and gallops and charges. Smokes can jump into a tree to retrieve a ball.

He is addicted to balls. He will bring you anything—ball, sock fragment, random household object—and beg you to throw it. It doesn’t matter where it lands or if it hits him in the face. Joy is joy. Smokes is Tigger… on crack.

When the dogs want inside, the terrier stares cutely at the door. Lou lies down and waits. Smokes, however, launches himself at the kitchen window like a caffeinated jack‑in‑the‑box, scream‑yapping and smearing nose prints everywhere. He somehow droops the skin under his eyes so dramatically that he looks like he’s been beaten in a Dickens novel. He needs in. Desperately. Urgently. Death is imminent.

And then, two minutes later, he needs out again. To run.

He doesn’t roam far—just the yard, the field, the pasture. He snuffles, he scents, he investigates the universe. And yes, he’s intact. In my neighbourhood, most pets are spayed or neutered. (Believe me, I would happily send Smokes for the Big Snip, but his daddy seems to take the offer personally.) Smokes has no idea what to do with his equipment, but he’s very proud of it. His hormones mostly express themselves through wrestling matches with Lou and general Tigger‑on‑crack behaviour.

Being intact, he could have been a chick magnet. Instead, he is a tick magnet.

Thank heavens for Bravecto, because Smokes can collect ticks from a snowbank. They slowly die after biting him, but he carries so many that he always has a few hitchhikers on the edges of his ears, on his legs, under his collar, or in his armpits. And because I have an obsessive streak—especially regarding biting insects—I spend a good portion of my life combing through his fur like a deranged Victorian governess hunting for nits. I average 10–20 small ticks a day.

Smokes doesn’t mind. He’s a cuddler. He likes to sit close on the couch and sprawls across my bed like a manspreading octopus, limbs everywhere. It’s not unusual to wake up with him tucked under my arm, head on my shoulder. Unfortunately, Bravecto doesn’t kill ticks instantly. Some die mid‑crawl. Some wander off before they bite. Which means I am always at risk of hosting a few unwanted guests.

This week alone, I’ve removed ticks from my back, my belly, and—twice in one night—my hair at 2 a.m. I no longer have the ick, but I do have the itch. I don’t enjoy being chewed on. Even mosquitoes don’t get this kind of access. I check my hair and skin so much I move like a Wacky Waving Inflatable Tube Guy.

So if you see me in the grocery store, repeatedly running my hands through my hair and scratching my stomach like a confused bear emerging from hibernation, just blame Smokes. My beloved, bouncing, ball‑obsessed, racehorse‑ribbed, Tigger‑on‑crack co‑parenting responsibility.

He’s sharing the love. And the ticks.

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.

Bendle gets barbecued

Cathy Bendle
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Bendle gets barbecued

Swept from the corners of my mind…

I got to work this morning to discover the air conditioning is on the fritz. I used to lead tours through the wilds of Batoche during heat waves. I’ve carried railroad ties to make fence posts. I survived long, complicated childbirth—TWICE—and still kept the kids.

A little extra warmth shouldn’t faze me.

In theory.

I might get a bit sweaty, but my office is deep within the bowels of the building. I’ll be fine.

Just before lunch I attended the raising of the Pride flag (along with about a dozen kamikaze mosquitoes who feasted despite the strong breeze), and I managed to cool down a bit. Feeling optimistic, I decided to make a quick phone call over lunch.

A few months ago, I took advantage of a SaskTel deal through my employer that offers a “business” discount on one personal cell phone per employee. I have two under my name—mine and my daughter’s (yes, she pays me back… eventually). When I got the discount applied, the accounts needed to be split so I could make separate payments.

On the day I made the changes, I thought we had that all figured out.

We did not.

Fast forward three months.

Now, I am one of those people who pay the bill the minute it hits my inbox—not because I’m fiscally responsible (I am not), but because I’m terrified I’ll forget and everything will get shut off. So imagine my horror when I got a notice that my personal phone was about to be cut off for non-payment.

I checked my records. Money had been applied.

Well, I’ll just call and get this figured out.

Imagine my additional delight when I realized the SaskTel billing office works the exact same hours I do.

It took me a couple of days to figure out what happened, and a couple more to figure out when to contact them. I finally got through, and it turned out my payments had been applied to my daughter’s number.

Excellent. She owes me. And I will be charging interest.

Everything was sorted out—or so I thought—and I went on my merry way.

Then Friday’s bills arrived.

I tried to pay both accounts using e-bank, but only one phone was listed. I tried to pay using the e-bill, but I didn’t have a credit card with me. Clearly, I would need to talk to an actual human to figure out why the second payee account wasn’t there and get squared up.

It was now the weekend, so everything had to wait until Monday.

Today. The Day of the Fritzing Air Conditioner.

While I had remembered that my office is buried deep in a brick building with layers of insulation, I had forgotten one small detail: my office also contains approximately seventeen heat-producing electronic devices that never get turned off. Turns out insulation works just as well keeping heat in as it does keeping it out.

By noon, I developed a very unfortunate watery moustache.

Clearly, I needed to fix the phone situation while I still had functioning brain cells. Lunch hour call—here we go.

I called SaskTel again and confirmed that my separate account had not actually been set up. Okay. I opened my banking app and went to add the new payee… only to be informed that I already had that payee.

This felt… less than helpful.

Sensing things were about to spiral, I went straight to telebanking and insisted—firmly, repeatedly, and possibly emotionally—to the automated voice that I wanted to speak to a human.

After 25 minutes of substandard muzak drilling into my soul, a pleasant man finally came on the line, speaking so quickly I wasn’t sure if he was greeting me or finishing his shift. I explained the problem (twice), and he figured out the issue: I had been given the wrong account number.

Not entirely SaskTel’s fault—I am, after all, living inside this circus and still can’t follow the acts without a program.

He set up a new payee account with the correct number and assured me everything was good to go.

“Woah,” I said. “Could you just stay on the line while I actually try it? I’m… a little paranoid.”

He agreed. (I’m fairly certain he was smirking.)

I opened my banking app.

Nothing had changed.

We refreshed. We restarted. We waited.

Still nothing.

 He assured me the new payee account would appear “by tomorrow for sure,” as the system likely just needed time to cycle through. I insisted he stay on the line and manually move a payment over to cover the bill.

We hung up.

That’s when I realized two things:

The air conditioning was still not working.

And I had just spent my entire lunch hour sealed in a room with a laptop, two monitors, and an iPad… slowly roasting like a pork loin on a barbecue spit—watery moustache and all.

At that point, honestly, even the mosquitoes probably would have taken one look at me and decided I was already cooked.

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.

The 2-week blonde

Cathy Bendle
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The 2-week blonde

Swept from the corners of my mind…

I finally believe that spring is here, so this old gal’s mind is turning to a spring haircut.

I’m not the girly type. I don’t spend time on clothes or styling my hair or getting my nails done, and the “shoe” fixation absolutely baffles me. My big fashion statement is using hair chalk to add a stripe or two over the gray to match the day’s clothing. Cute. Cheap. No commitment.  Works for me!

I seldom know the name of a hair style, but I do appreciate them on others.  For instance, in one University course I sat by woman in her late 40s. She was smart, self-composed, and thoughtful, and had frosted hair. Of course, I had no idea that was what it was called, but I really admired how the blonde highlights blended with her natural browns and grays; It looked sophisticated. When it was time for my fall haircut, I decided to emulate her.

Poor students don’t go to fancy salons, so one afternoon I wandered down to a chain scissor shop and signed in. There was one young stylist working alone, and no other clients. We were alone in the shop. Settling in the chair I removed my glasses, effectively turning the world into soft fuzzy colours. My eyesight was so bad that without glasses, nothing past my nose existed.  If it moved, it was a person. If it didn’t, I didn’t care. I settled back to get my new style. 

Not knowing the name of the style, I told the quiet stylist that I wanted that style that has “little bits of blonde all over your head”. She agreed like she absolutely understood. The next question should have worried me.

She ask if I wanted the blonde “all over my head or in just one spot?” Say what? That would be weird. No, I want it all over my head.

Did I want it noticeable, or not? Well, if I am going to pay for a new hair style, I certainly want people to be able to see it.

Details worked out I settled back to my fuzzy world, and she begins working on my head. She combed something through my hair as my mind drifted. It wasn’t long before she said, “I’m just putting a light brown wash over it and we’re done.”

This was my first inkling that something was wrong. I may not have known much about styles, but as a product of the 70s I had read more than my share of comic books. In the back of almost every comic, right near the sea monkeys ad, was the ad for a plastic cap with holes in it that was used to frost hair. I was expecting that plastic cap and the feel of hair pulled through the holes that peppered it like sesame seeds on a bun. I was not expecting to feel something just combed through my hair.

Out came the blow dryer and curling wand, then she handed me my glasses. I slipped them on, expecting to see sophisticated young woman with blonde whisps scattered about my brown hair. Instead, I saw a platinum blonde stranger with dark roots. Speechless, I paid the bill and walked out, shell-shocked.

The next day my university friends kept telling me they liked it, that I looked good, and to remember that “blondes have more fun”. What I didn’t tell them was that I would be walk by a reflective window or a mirror and instead of seeing myself, a stranger would be walking in my skin. You don’t realize that you expect to see your own reflection until it’s not there. I avoided my reflection like a vampire in a fun house for the next two weeks.

Then I came home to PA to take part in a reining clinic and met my future husband. We fell for each other, hard. When I went back to campus, I tried to convince myself that the hair was OK, because I had snagged a really cool guy, so being blonde was more fun! But every time I glimpsed my reflection my stomach flipped and I felt nauseous.

There was nothing for it. Even if it scuttled my new romance, I couldn’t live with the stranger in the mirror. One midnight I went to Pinders, bought a box of hair colour, and brought back my plain brown look. On my next trip home, only two weeks after that first kiss, I asked him to marry my brown-haired self. He agreed (turns out blondes weren’t his favourite anyway), and 18 months later we tied the knot.

That’s how I learned that blondes have more fun, but brunettes are forever. Which brings me back to this spring haircut idea…

Honestly, what could possibly go wrong?

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.

The watermelon that never was

Cathy Bendle
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The watermelon that never was

Swept from the corners of my mind…

I grew up in Nordale. When the one-room schoolhouse closed, we were bused to town schools. There, my friendships tended to be with other introverted book worms. There were four of us who spent time together during the week, but only Carrie and I regularly met on weekends.

Midway between my home in Nordale and hers near Riverside School stood the Prince Albert Public Library—a natural Saturday meeting spot for girls who spent more time reading than talking. Located a block west of the foot of the bridge, the two-story brick building had begun its life in 1913 as a gentlemen’s club. A short brick fence separated it from the street, protecting the stately structure with its balconies, pillared porch, marble windowsills, and hardwood floors.

Downstairs was the adult section; I dimly remember rows of books and the circulation desk. We would cross the main room to the beautifully carved mahogany staircase, climbing to the children’s section time and again, each step creaking loudly beneath us.

In a recent Museum Musings (PA Herald, April 16, 2026), Fred Payton featured the history of the old building. On April 21, Cory R. posted a Facebook video showcasing the old building and the brilliant red roof it now sports. Every time I see that stately building, my mind returns to the summer when I was thirteen.

Carrie and I often met at the library, each choosing a bag full of books—mostly Science Fiction or Fantasy. Then we would wait for our rides at Kresge’s on Central Avenue. We’d sit at the long white lunch counter, our bags at our feet, sipping hot chocolate and nibbling on the sweet biscuits that came with it. Carrie usually paid; years later, she confessed it was because she found it hilarious that I burned my tongue on the hot chocolate every single time. She had such a good poker face that I never suspected.

As the weather warmed, we switched to bicycles—more reliable transportation, since adults never seemed to understand the urgency of getting us to the library. I can’t remember what Carrie rode, but I had a slightly-too-large secondhand woman’s bike, solid as a tank, which I upgraded myself. I spray-painted the bike navy blue with sparkles and added friction-powered lights that ran off a small generator that could be flipped against the front tire. The faster you pedaled, the brighter they shone, casting a small circle about six feet ahead. The taillight clamped near the back tire, connected by a thin wire. The final glory was a silver wire basket sturdy enough to safely hold a full bag of books while bouncing over tracks and gravel. Carrie, lacking a basket, made do with a backpack or swinging the bag on her handlebars.

Both prolific readers tried to visit the library as often as we could over the summer, including one steaming hot day when the heat released that familiar scent of old books and older building. Even inside, it was too warm. After gathering our next treasure trove, we decided to skip hot chocolate and instead bike to Safeway in the South Hill Mall to buy a watermelon.

We slowly climbed Second Avenue under the relentless sun, cursing our gearless bikes and lack of hats. Each pedal required standing up, leaning forward, and forcing the crank downward against the steep incline. Our calves burned. Between gasps, we spoke of how delicious the watermelon would be. With every yard gained, the anticipation grew sweeter.

Reaching the top was glorious. We sped to Safeway, where a display of watermelons greeted our hungry eyes. We examined them carefully—thumping for resonance, checking for yellow spots, hefting each one—until we agreed on the perfect candidate. We pooled our money and purchased our prize.

Outside, we faced a new challenge: how to get both the watermelon and our books down the hill. Eventually, the books were crammed into Carrie’s backpack, and the watermelon was wedged into my basket.

After mounting—requiring the usual hop and awkward bum wiggle due to my bike’s oversized frame—we set off, guiding the heavy basket down Second Avenue. Traffic was light, the sun hot on our faces, and soon we gave in to the temptation to coast faster and faster, relishing the breeze.

Then, as now, Second Avenue was riddled with potholes. I avoided most of them, but about three-quarters of the way down, my front tire struck one. The handlebars jerked sharply; the tire jammed and skidded sideways. The green globe began to bounce. My sturdy blue steed tilted—and crashed. I clung on as my knees scraped across the pavement.

The watermelon, alas, did not fare as well.

There we were: two young teens, bikes flung beside us, halfway down Second Avenue, surrounded by the gory remains of our prize. The melon had shattered like Humpty Dumpty, its coral flesh glistening in the summer sun. Bits of ruby-red pulp lay scattered in a ten-foot radius, clinging to mottled green rind or lying loose in a sticky pool. Cars bound for the lake crept cautiously past.

Resolutely, we each ate a few chunks – just to say we had – but our dreams of a perfect summer treat were as broken as the fruit itself.

Wordlessly, we gathered what fragments we could salvage, tossing them back into the basket. Most of our prize lay ruined on the hot pavement. We remounted and carefully coasted the rest of the way down the hill.

We had spent all our money. I had skinned knees and a slightly bent wheel. We were hot, sticky, and left with nothing but a basket of pulpy scraps where our longed-for treat had been. At least our books were intact.

And then we realized—we hadn’t brought a knife to cut the watermelon in the first place.

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.

How I met my Mother‑In‑Law

Cathy Bendle
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How I met my Mother‑In‑Law

Swept from the corners of my mind…

As a mid-20s university student I lived in Saskatoon but often travelled home to PA.  I came back one spring for a reining (like ballet for western horses) clinic and met someone. Cecil was a very talented, kind, fascinating horseshoer. We clicked. The romance was hot and heavy, and shortly thereafter a question was popped that led to 35 years together.

Meeting my future mother‑in‑law was not quite as meet-cute.

Beloved and I started our relationship during the clinic. I would ride my horse in classes for a few hours, socialize, and then we would spend time together. We’d end up talking and going for coffee long into the night (yes, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it), only to repeat the whole pattern the next day. In the meantime, I survived on coffee, fruit, and New‑Found Love.

On night three, he offered to take me out to the farm to meet his well‑bred Quarter Horse mare and have a ride. As the sun was rising, we popped by my house to grab my riding boots. This was pre‑cell phone, and I had never been the kind to stay out late, so why was I surprised when my nightie‑clad mother met me on the porch?

She did not appreciate being blown off with an airy “going for a ride, see you!” Beloved wisely stayed in the car and put off meeting her for a few months.

When we arrived at the farm, we received a similarly chilly reception. Although he was in his late 30s, his mother was just as upset as mine. She was icily polite and left the room as quickly as possible after meeting me. Barely a word was said. I blithely ignored the signs that the older lady was unimpressed with my appearance, and we went out to see the horse.

Now, I am 5’4” on my best day, and my little sorrel horse was just as short and chunky as I am. Beloved was 6’4”, and his mare was so tall that he looked normal‑sized atop her. He showed her off a bit and then suggested I ride. I looked up. And up. And up.

You have to understand my conundrum. This was a new romance, and he was a very well‑known horseman with decades of experience. I was a cocky, naive university student who needed to impress him. After all, I had trained my own horse and done a great job I felt. I chose to show no fear.

I slipped on my boots, stepped up to the tower of horse-ness, and clawed my way up his old saddle to perch on top. He adjusted the stirrups, but they wouldn’t go quite as high as I needed. No worries. I wouldn’t be long.

I took the mare for a small circle along the edge of the pasture, and she was the smoothest ride I’d ever experienced. Encouraged, I decided to do a longer, faster circle closer to the house. Things were going well—until they weren’t.

As we rode along, she spotted an old wash tub ahead. Judging by her reaction, a fire‑breathing dragon had risen from it, because she propped her front end and yoinked backwards so fast that the saddle and I flew off in a graceful arc.

I wore very thick glasses at the time, and my eyesight was so bad I needed my glasses to find my glasses. There I was, on my hands and knees, patting the ground while Lover Boy went after the horse. Eventually, the trailer door opened, and his mother came toward me, hopped the rail fence, located my glasses, handed them to me, turned around, and left without a word.

A wiser woman would have known to stop. Unfortunately, determined to impress the new love interest.

Because the cinch had broken during the high‑wire act, Beloved went to fetch his sister’s old saddle. This thing was about 30 years old and hadn’t been used—or oiled—regularly. To say it was stiff is an understatement. It thumped onto the mare’s back and creaked ominously as I crawled upward again, even slower than the first time.

Naturally, I had to demonstrate to the sexy man that I was competent, so I decided to repeat the pattern and “work through the issue”. As a super trainer would do. Again, the first circle was smooth and soft. Again, the dragon reared up on the second circle. This time, it was just me hurtling through the air.  The saddle stayed put, and I split the inner seam of my jeans during the landing.

Once again, Love Muffin caught the horse. Once again, I was on my hands and knees in the dirt, patting for my glasses Once again the little old lady came out of the house, hopped the fence, handed me my glasses, turned on her heel, and left.

Even arrogant university students can be taught. I crawled up the side of the enormous horse yet again, although this time I needed a leg up, as she now appeared to be the height of a giraffe. We trotted around a bit, avoiding the dragon zone entirely, and I gratefully dismounted—vowing from that day forward to keep my stubby legs wrapped firmly around my own stubby horse. We went inside to have some more coffee and eventually the kind woman who became a second mother to me thawed. Our relationship deepened over the years, and I was grateful for the time I got to spend with Willa Bendle, my Mother-in-Law.

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.

April is Poetry Month

Cathy Bendle
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April is Poetry Month

Swept From the Corners of my Mind….

April is Poetry Month, celebrate a poet near you! I am honoured to be a member of Sans Nom, Saskatchewan’s longest-running poetry group.

Those talented ladies are amazing, partially because they accept me. Because of them I can say that poetry does not have to be hard to understand or take hours of anguish to struggle through. Poetry can be fun.

In honour of this month, I thought I would share in the style of Western Poetry. It is not a style I use often, but I enjoy it!

Patty’s Promenade

Now I weren’t no farmborn rider,
Not saddleraised by fate,
But Patty said, “It’s easy, girl,”
And so I squeaked out, “great”.

I showed up wearin’ slipon clogs—
Wood soles, no grip at all—
The kinda shoes that guarantee
You’ll likely take a fall.

She slapped a saddle on Old Sis,
Who groaned like doom at dawn
an’ glared at me as if to say
My life choices were all wrong.

Patty chirped, “Let’s try a trot!”
Then Butler bolted free
And Sister stomped like she was tryin’
To tear the soul from me.

My teeth played rattlin’ castanets,
Those clogs took off in flight—
One skittered south to Saskatoon,
T’other, towards the Light.

I woke up in a field alone,
Askin’ clouds for my ID,
And Lee rolled up near split in half
From laughin’ hard at me.

He hollered, “Girl, you plowed a trench
Ten yards with your behind!”
And that’s the moment I accepted
That gravity ain’t kind.

But did I quit? Oh, bless my heart—
Patty offered lessons, cheap!
She’d headed East, got certified,
And came back talkin’ like a duke.

She strapped more leather on Butler’s head
Than saddle on his back,
And said, “Just do some stretches, dear.”
My courage began to crack.

I hoisted up my leg for her
To a wobble, grunt, and squeal—
And Butler launched to kingdom come
Like the devil nipped his heel.

I flew off in a perfect arc
That buzzards still admire,
Facedown in dirt, I pondered life
And every bad desire.

Patty sighed, “This one’s on me.”
I spat out half the field.
And that’s the tale of how my fate
With Patty was revealed.

So if you see me ridin’ by,
Just know I’ve made a choice—
To ride western on a calm cayuse
Not trust Patty’s reckless voice.

And should you hear a distant shriek
Or see clogs fly through the air,
That’s just this barnsour buckarette
Attemptin’ English flair.

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.

Riding with Rebecca

Cathy Bendle
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Riding with Rebecca

Swept from the corners of my mind….

Note: Rebecca is a pseudonym, for obvious reasons.

Teeth clattering, shoulders stiff, I hung on to the reins and horn after she asked, “Do you think you can handle a trot?” The jouncing increased as I tried to stay upright on the old mare who was deliberately making her pace as rough as possible. She claims she asked about going faster. I woke up alone in an empty field, questioning who I was, with one shoe off to my left, and the other to my right. Fade back to black.

Rebecca and I were in high school together and had a mutual friend, an old man on the edge of the city who had horses left over from when he drove large chuckwagons in death-defying races. Chuckwagon culture is devil-may-care. The drivers take good care of their horses and ignore their own pain. There is no pampering of humans. Lee no longer raced but still raised part-blood Thoroughbreds for his own pleasure. His casual management was a magnet for horse-mad teen girls. Rebecca had been a frequent visitor and had claimed one mount for her own. I was new to the game. Dressed in late-90s finery, including three inch wooden-bottomed platform clogs, I dropped in on Lee and ran into Rebecca. It was a beautiful day, and she wanted a riding companion.

I’m braver than I am brilliant. First declining due to inappropriate footwear (I knew that much), she talked me into it with a promise of only sticking to a walk.

Rebecca quickly tacked up Butler with an English saddle, then helped me tack up Old Sister with a western one. Staying on top of a horse takes core muscles and leg strength, even in a western saddle. You’re supposed to put your weight on the balls of your feet to stay balanced. Clogs are not designed to stay on your feet, much less stay in a stirrup.  Old Sister wasn’t very happy about leaving the barn with a shaky lump on her back, but I felt I was doing okay until Butler began to trot through a gap in the hedges towards a field.

Barn-sour Sister sharing her annoyance with jarring stomps and trying to snatch the reins from my white knuckles.  I clung to the horse like a toddler being left at daycare. Teeth rattling, jamming my feet forward to keep them in the stirrups, I fought to stay upright. Rebecca (claims) she asked, “Can you handle a canter?” as she took off at high speed. Sister’s responses escalated. I remember nothing.

I woke sprawled on my back in a field, staring at puffy clouds in a beautiful blue sky. I looked around. Alone. One clog several feet left of me, the other even further right. Fade back to black.

Awake. Ask the sky, “Who am I?”  It took a while, but I got that one. Back to black.

“What day is it?” A tentative answer. Black returns.

 Finally, “How did I get here?” twinkled through my head as I saw a decrepit truck with an old man, a young woman, and a hairy dog pulling into the field. Lee started laughing as soon as he got out. Chortling, wiping his eyes and even slapping his knee he declared, “Hell-a-damn, girl your a** plowed a furrow for ten yards!” Then I was crammed in the truck and have no more memories of the day.

I do, however, have one other memory of riding with Rebecca.

Rebecca grew up in Prince Albert. After we graduated, she went to Ontario to get certified as an English Riding Instructor. With that heady paperwork came a British accent. Shortly after her return we met again at Lee’s and she made an offer.

As she was an instructor, she was willing to give me riding lessons. She would only charge ten dollars a lesson because I would be her first student. I was a wee bit cautious because of the disaster of our first ride together. She was persuasive, I was naive, and the deal was sealed.

Sister’s psychotic half-brother, Butler, was Rebecca’s mount. She turned him into a show horse, but he nothing changed his antisocial attacks. He calmly kicked his farrier through the caraganas, regularly bolted from abnormally colored plants, or the whisper of ghosts and just wasn’t trustworthy. Not the horse of my dreams.

Rebecca slung an English saddle on the wild-eyed nutbar. To my Western-rider eyes, it was a leather postage stamp. Where was the rest of it? The horn? The curved seat? The solid stirrups? A few ounces of leather tied to his midsection had half circles of metal dangling from thin straps down on each side (stirrups, I assumed). Then the stirrups were taken off. That was it for passenger safety.

Leather straps appeared on his head. One circled from ears to jowls, a figure eight lay across his nose, more ran from his mouth up his cheeks. Another strap holding the bit under the chin. An extra circle of raised leather encircled the nose with straps leading up to the ears. The last strap was a thicker piece encircling the nose, buckling to a bunch of the other straps, with a swivel on top. Four reins (two per side) were attached to the bit, then looped twice high up the neck, well of reach of the rider. There was more leather on the head of this horse than on its back.

Rebecca led Butler to an open area in a field, only distinguished by a circle of plowed dirt about twenty feet across. No fence, no guardrail, just a big patch of softer dirt. A long lead was attached to the swivel, and she went to stand in the center of the circle, long carriage-style whip in hand. I was to sit atop and do exercises while she used the whip and lead to keep him walking in the circle.

I twisted left and right, made arm circles, and various flexes. Then Rebecca told me to bring the leg closest to her up to the saddle. “Bend your knee and hang onto your ankle. “ Awkward shifting, lifting, puffing and pulling by my jeans hem let Butler know things were changing. He launched, bolting as I hurtled through the air, calling on his racing ancestors for guidance.

Face down in the dirt I assess the situation. No concussion, so that’s good. I roll over and eye the pair of them, spitting out the first of the dirt that took days to get out of my ears and teeth.

“I knew better than to do this,” I thought.

“I’m going to let this lesson be free,” said the certified English Trainer.

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.

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