Oh the things I have seen

Cathy Bendle
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Oh the things I have seen

Swept from the corners of my mind….

Lords, ladies, a 10-foot wood sprite, lots of knights and Wild Hunters too. This weekend I attended my first ever Renaissance Faire. For those who haven’t participated, a Ren Faire is like a giant dress-up party without the drunks or overwhelming music.  There were costumes of all kinds, from a group of mice to mushrooms to a giant crow.  If it can be found in a fantasy novel, it can be found at a Ren Faire. Costuming was not a requirement, though. There were people in jeans, some with just elf ears (SO MANY elves there!). I heard that Saturday there were over 4500 participants…and not a single fight.

Other than the clothing, it felt like any small-town fair. It was on the town fairgrounds (Vegreville, AB) and there were dozens of vendors, both food and items. The grandstand was where you got to watch the jousting and there were performances in different spaces. My eight year old grandson spent hours this weekend in the ring matching swords with knights. Yes, grown up men in all kinds of armor took turns swinging swords and axes with (mostly) children. That was just the first attraction within the gates. We watched several rounds of jousting with participants from as far away as Australia. We ooohed at Lothar the Magician, watched the dancers, enjoyed the wandering minstrel band and were gob-smacked at the wares in the vendors tent. 

Grandson talked me into a sword for him and I came home with a neat dragon necklace.  If I had not been so tired I would have ended up spending this month’s paycheque.  Who wouldn’t want a real wool traveler’s cloak? Deep green, water repellent, and with a hood so big you could use it as an eye shield for sleeping.  The fantasies grow just looking at it. Or beautiful handmade jewelry? Or wine.

I have to say, being able to buy a bottle of wine on the fairgrounds seemed odd to this PA girl, but there were all kinds of mead-based wines as well. You got used to seeing someone dressed as a peasant walking along with a bottle of mead in a plastic bag.

The Faire-goers were happy. Complimenting each other’s outfits or waiting patiently for up to an hour for a glass of lemonade. At the end of the second day I realized that there was hardly any litter! I saw one napkin on an empty field and it disappeared within minutes of noticing it.

We returned home exhausted and happy and committed Ren Faire participants. If you ever get the chance, grab some elf ears and pop in to see what goes on in the happy world of Renaissance Faires.

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 battle of a lifetime

Cathy Bendle
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The battle of a lifetime

Swept from the corners of my mind…

I was just a teen.  Experimenting with plucking my eyebrows, I removed my glasses, focused the light, and leaned close to the mirror for the first tear-wrenching tweezes. To this day I can see those three dark hairs on either side of my mouth, just above the corners of my pursed lips.  The culprits tried to blend into my sun-browned skin, but I corralled them with the silvery weapon and yanked, wiping the remains onto a tissue already spotted with coarse eyebrow hairs sheathed in the white of root and the occasional scarlet droplet of blood.  Blinking away tears, I reconnoitered the three moles scattered on my face, each sporting a few sharp spikes of ebony whisker.  It took several tugs and gasps, gripping and re-gripping as they fought for supremacy, but eventually the loathsome hairs were pulled out.  `There’, I thought with innocent satisfaction, ‘that’s the end of those horrid things!’

Little did I know that the war had just begun.  The encroachment was slow– a few persistent mustache hairs here, three or four sharp points on my chin there, or a long hair like the lead of a a mechanical pencil poking out another spot. I fought  with them with every weapon at hand, getting more and more technological over the decades.  I shaved–causing sharper points and the occasional infected follicle.  I waxed–causing burns to my double chin. I used reeking depilatories–reddened skin and burning eyes. I even embarked on several months of trips to an electrolysis clinic. where two bleached-blonde, orange-skinned women giggled and  gossiped as a fine metal thread was repeatedly inserted into sensitive pores and a trickle of electricity jolted both hair  roots and sympathetically buzzed my metal fillings.  I was surprised to find that this “permanent removal method” was not a one-time visit–each jolt merely “weakened” the roots, so regular appointments were required to cause their ultimate demise. Time and again I gathered up my fifty bucks of student cash, prepared the post-appointment coolant of witch hazel, and proceeded across town, determined to win the battle of my chin. But the enemy always returned. Two decades later, my forays onto the battlefield were with lasers applied in a spa-style setting by a licensed practitioner, and I left each engagement with renewed hope, a lighter wallet, and tiny rectangular “tan” spots scattered across my hirsute visage. But, alas, the hairs returned, oft-times with companions.

As time went on, I tried Acceptance.  “Facial hair is natural”, I declared. “It’s more common with some cultural groups than others, but there’s not a woman in the world without a few unwanted hairs on her face.  It’s no big deal.”  I saw other middle-aged women sporting an incredible variety of facial hair, unfazed.   I joked about how I had chosen my tall, lanky mate because I had heard that married people started to look alike, but instead of slimming and gaining height, I’d gotten greyer hair and grew a mustache.  I even joked in later decades that God was kind enough to have taken all the extra hair from my legs, leaving them smooth, and moved it all up to my chin where it is easy to reach. Deep inside, though, I could not accept that this genetic twist had won the war.

My beard remains thicker than the average high school boy’s and sprouts new soldiers daily. Long dark hairs have been replaced by stiff silvery bristles that glint in sunlight, and patches flourish just out of sight of my LED-light-enabled twenty-dollar high-tech surgical-steel tweezers or resist the pull of the whirling blades of my latest epilator. Daily, I wage the battle.  Nightly, I count the remaining enemy as I slide the sensitive pad of my thumb over my jawline and across my chin.

In my lowest times I imagine that I will eventually develop dementia and envision myself, balding, flabby and pale, tied into a chair, over-size Depends crinkling under a gaping gown, with grey, silver, and brown hair sticking out of my face like an angry hedgehog.

But there is hope, for I have made The Pact.  If I die unshaven, some special friends have sworn to sneak into the ward before the officials find me. They are to shave off all my stubble, mustache and beard, allowing me to meet my Maker with a face finally as smooth as a baby’s butt. This is a battle I will, eventually, win.

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.

Swept from the corners of my mind: Kimmy

Cathy Bendle
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Swept from the corners of my mind: Kimmy

I was never into dolls.  My daughter used to cart around “babies” and dress Barbies, but she didn’t learn it from me. My childhood memories consist of carefully pushing steel pins into earlobes, chopping off hair, and ink-staining plastic parts.  I do know how to dress dolls, and have even managed successful tea parties, but only because my previous job required doll-play with preschoolers, and my daughter demanded equal time. (I remain grateful that her long-suffering dad often took on doll duty). Dolls were just not my thing.

Despite my aberrant childhood, there is Kimmy Doll.  I don’t remember where she came from or even remember playing with her.  I assume she arrived with her name but not, as far as I can recall, any clothing. My former students told me she looked like Chucky, and that her face was leering and creepy, but to me Kimmy Doll was always innocently beautiful.

She’s not traditionally beautiful, I admit.  Just under a foot in height, her pudgy, bulbous-bellied body is made of age-hardened pink plastic. Her head and arms are slightly softer plastic, the pink discolored by years of ground in grime and oxidation. She is knock-kneed, and when she is stood upright she will fall onto her face no matter in what position her feet are placed. Both heels are broken open with cracks (and I suspect puppy chewing) and there isn’t an inch of her that doesn’t bear a dirty scratch or scrape. Kimmy’s butt has a peak like Daffy Duck’s, and her head is huge and very round. She sports a tangled mess of curly, short nylon hair that may have been auburn originally, but is now an indescribable blend of pinky/brown-y/reddish-y nylon plugs thrust into her scalp like laces into a baseball.  The back of her head is bald in the manner of a neglected infant left too long to writhe in its crib. When I hold her, I can faintly smell laundry soap, but it doesn’t quite cover the tang of what is likely puppy pee. For some reason (perhaps to keep her from teething puppies) I liked to hang her on the wall at work.  To lessen the impact of her naked splendor on more refined senses, my husband designed her a tiny moss bag, and one of my students topped her curls with a wreath of yellow and green ribbons to match those adorning her moss bag. Thusly dressed, Kimmy overlooked my desk in the classrooms in which I worked.

I’m not sure why this unusual little doll was important enough for me to save through numerous moves and life transitions for well over half a century. As an adult, I suspect accepting my own Kimmy-shaped form came from loving her, rather than a statuesque Barbie.  I hated being a girl (my dad often emphasized that he wanted more boys) but I suspect she is a sign that, despite all my attempts to be a tomboy, something in me still had feminine leanings.  Or perhaps I identified with her thumb-sucking stance, as I was a committed sucker into my teens.  Perhaps I felt sorry for her naked, cocky self. I don’t know.  But I do know that Kimmy Doll will remain with me as long as possible because I love her pale, pudgy, rotund, smiling self.

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.

No beef with “the Chief”

Cathy Bendle
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No beef with “the Chief”

Swept From the Corners of My Mind….

In a recent column I wrote about my farrier husband being in the wrong place at the right time to get up close and personal with the first Prime Minister Trudeau. This was not his first brush with that esteemed office, however.

As a young man Cecil enjoyed attending horse shows, especially with a large, smart horse he called “Red”.  Red was talented and usually agreeable to work with, but he did have a strong mind of his own, just like his owner. That “Mama never raised a quitter” attitude extended to hanging out with his friends around campfires and sharing adult beverages –the cowboy, not the horse. Although the horse was known to enjoy a few beverages on occasion as well as once having jumped over a campfire encircled by western riders who had disparaged his English riding skills…. But I digress. Sometimes our fine young cowboy stayed much later than he should have at a gathering, and that happened the night before this story occurred.

In his late teens, Cecil assumed he could drink all night and ride all day, and he tried to prove it.  On the morning of our story, though, he had to face the fact that, despite his head splitting and many other regrets, he had work to do to get his horse brushed, tacked, and warmed up for the first class. Feeling sorry for himself would have to wait. 

Red, however, did not like being rushed. The faster Cec tried to get him cleaned and tacked up, the more obstructive Red became.  He did not gracefully sidestep so his owner could switch from side to side; instead, he leaned into the walls of the stall, so Cec had to poke and prod to get him to move over.  Hooves that usually lifted at a quiet command became nailed to the floor and had to be tugged up. The head that normally dropped down to take the bridle was now pointed at the ceiling.

It was early in the morning, and the sun was gleaming through the doorway at the end of the shedrow. There were few sightseers about, so Cec was able to concentrate on the blockade maneuvers that Red was using, getting more annoyed with each resistant act.   Finally, as Cecil made his way to the front of the stall and was trying to lift a hoof, Red thudded as much of his 1000 lbs. as he could down on the pointed boof of the cowboy, grinding his iron-clad hoof into the soft leather.

Temper flayed, Cec stood to his 6’4” and raised his voice and loudly declared, “Well, if you aren’t the dumbest Son-of-a-B**h there ever was!”. There was a noticeable pause from a group of people walking down the aisle towards his battleground. Blinking in the light he realized that he was not alone, and that he had looked directly into the bright blue eyes of John “the Chief” Diefenbaker, current Prime Minister, while he had expressed his opinion.

The group of men surrounding Diefenbaker said nothing at what appeared to be an insult addressed to their exalted leader.  Then the blue eyes twinkled as Dief said, “Having a tough day, son?” and moved on.

I never did learn how the pair did in classes that 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. Her column appears every second Wednesday.

A ticklish topic

Cathy Bendle
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A ticklish topic

Swept from the corners of my mind…

I grew up in Nordale when the worst bugs were mosquitoes and tent caterpillars. I have a deep disgust of insects crawling on my hypersensitive skin, so they bothered me. A lot.

When I moved to the farm in my mid-20s, I developed a bit of a resistance to mosquito bites, a nice side-effect of slogging through buckbrush and hazelnut thickets repairing antique fence lines. Then, a few years back, ticks moved to our neighbourhood.

I had heard of ticks but had only had one little brush with them at Sylvan Lake Cub Scout camp. All I remember was squeamishly pulling little black spots off my son’s back as I “eeked”, squirmed, and gagged. My husband killed them all as I vowed to avoid the nasty little blood suckers for the rest of my camping days. Obviously, I was not prepared for the infestation that hiked north like the army worms of old, spreading itching and disease.

I learned to pull ticks out of necessity. We have a small farm and big hairy dogs. The dogs are indoor/outdoor and happily bring their “friends” along. A casual scratch on the bed or couch and Cathy ends up hosting visitors.

Unlike mosquito venom, I don’t seem to have developed immunity to tick tastings. Even a little nip will welt up and itch for weeks. I’ve gotten them on my back, shoulder blades, back of the neck, deep in my hair, arms, legs, buttocks and belly. Several of these bites scarred and remain as testament to those years that I wasn’t proficient in hunting them, occasionally itching years after the initial attack (trauma-induced reaction, I suspect).

During tick season I constantly run my fingers along the edges of dog ears, armpits, barrels, and their collars. My poor dogs give in with sadness, knowing they cannot escape, and that I will dig to the skin to grasp the villain by the neck and pull it out for its death. Gone is my squeamishness.

Ticks bring out my obsessive side. I am constantly hunting them. Different dogs have different appeal to the little Velcro Vampires. My Newfoundland seemed too hairy for them. I think they got lost in the jungle of floof. My black Shepherd scratches frantically at the slightest hint of bugs, but I seldom find any on his melodramatic hide. The Rat Terrier is determined to live an indoors life, so she seldom brings in any. The English Setter with the silky hair and floppy ears? A tick magnet. He loves to run through the fields and every evening I pick dozens (occasionally over 100) off him. Of course I treat all my critters (thank you, #ParkRange!), but that doesn’t stop my Tigger-on-Crack Setter from bounding through nests and carting home new buddies several times a day.

This brings us to the core of the discussion—the Death Scene.  I have tried freezing, squishing, tossing them into isopropyl alcohol or gasoline, and any other method people have mentioned. I’ve tried smothering them with Vaseline and waiting for them to back out. I have even considered a tick key.

I believe that the best way to hunt them is to feel around the target areas, part as much hair as possible to get a clear view of the target, then grasp the demon by the collar and pull it out clinging to a mouthful of white skin. Sometimes I stick them it on some tape until I’m ready for the coup d’etat, then I find this season’s pair of stones, or an old spoon and a hard surface, and crunch them.  Ticks are tough and will scamper away long after you are convinced you have killed them. A certified kill is required. There is satisfaction in the snapping and tiny squish of those final moments. (Let me note, though, that if they are well-fed and look like white grapes, just flush or drop them in fluids—that black belch of old blood is nauseating.)  the auditory acknowledgement of their demise is music to my ears, and it washes my soul with pride in me doing my part for humanity, one tick at a time. You’re welcome. 

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 second Wednesday.

The Shoer and the Politician

Cathy Bendle
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The Shoer and the Politician

Swept from the corners of my mind…

Considering the recent federal election, I thought I’d share one of my husband’s favourite stories about a brush with politicians.

Cecil was a professional farrier (horseshoer) for over 50 years. His lanky 6’4” frame had a tendency to stick out of a group, and I often joked that you could drop him into a Trappist monastery and he could find someone to visit with. A many of many talents, Cec had friends in and outside of the horse world; one of his favourite places to meet them had to be on Thoroughbred racetracks across Western Canada (there were many more in the past than we have now). In the 70s Lethbridge, Alberta had such a track. This story took place at that track.

The race grounds had a lot of clay in its soil, and it was a wet spring. There was a big dump of spring snow overnight and that clay was sticking like gumbo to hooves, tires, tack, and horsemen. Cec had a lot of horses to shoe before race time and neither he nor several of the horses were in sociable moods as he dealt with hooves being snatched from his hands dragging mud and hoof-muck across his leg.

A passing groom asked if Cec would be attending the speeches in the big community building on the edge of the grounds. Cec had no idea what was happening and was less than inspired when the other man excitedly told him that Prime Minister Trudeau (Pierre, not Justin) would be addressing Alberta voters just across the grounds. Not a fan of politicians, Cec decided to focus on completing his list of horses for the day.

Finishing sooner than he anticipated, Cecil glanced around the shedrow and realized there would be no one to have coffee with. He decided he could still make the speeches, but not if he had to stop and change.  Interest piqued, the lanky, muddy shoer decided he could blend in the back of the crowd so festooned in clay and hay, he clomped across the large lot to the community building. Spotting long line-ups at the main doors he decided to try the back way.

He was in luck. Other than a few fancy-looking cars parked nearby, the large doorway was not only clear, but wide open.  Sticking his thumbs in his front pockets he casually ambled into the building, looking for a way to join the back of the crowd. But the space he was walking down had been roped off on both sides and he couldn’t see any gaps. Cecil continued to stroll down the red carpeted area leaving a trail of mud clumps and straw in his wake, unaware of the vision he made.

Suddenly “a large man with a noticeable bulge under his sports coat” came from behind him. “How did you get in here?” he demanded, moustache quivering. Not waiting for an answer, he hustled Cec to the edge of the carpet and under the rope. ”Stay here!” he ordered.

When they turned to look back towards the doors, the bodyguard standing close in case Cec decided to get back on the carpet, they were greeted by a small parade of local dignitaries leading an impeccably-dressed slim man, red rose adorning his boutonniere, followed by several more “large men with bulging suit jackets”, coming up the same muddied carpet.  

It wasn’t until then that Cec realized his “back way” into the event was the Dignitaries door and that he wandered in just feet in front of Prime Minister Pierre Elliott Trudeau. The guard (whose swinging sports coat eventually revealed a shoulder holster) insisted he stayed where they had first ducked under the guard ropes, so Cec had a front row view of the politicians as well as the unimpressed voters. But that’s another story.

Sometimes, I wonder – Part II

Cathy Bendle
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Sometimes, I wonder – Part II

As you recall, I had learned of a family death, a firing, and found a tiny cold woman in the space of an hour. I was in a hotel in Saskatoon for another night and was reacting to these events.

Flopping on the bed, I composed a text to my husband (on the farm), daughter (in the city) and son (at college in a nearby city) about the odd events of the day. I briefly listed the phone calls, death, firing, upcoming morning meeting, wrong turns, and chance meeting. My daughter commiserated right away, my husband never did answer (we talked by phone later), and after 45 minutes my son sent a strange text.

“They’re still there,” it said. “I’m back in the truck and now the shakes are setting in.” 

‘The young ass is texting the wrong person,’ I glowered.  ‘He’s been partying or something. He didn’t even read about the weird stuff that happened to me today.’  I texted back several question marks in annoyance (Moms can be passive aggressive, too.)

No response.

Several minutes later, after re-reading his odd message several times, I sent, ‘Are you ok?’  Still no reply.

In his late teens, my son was not the most communicative guy.  I would try a time or two to get a reply, then give up.  Getting information from him is like trying to pull the teeth from an angry bull. But even to my jaded attitude this silence felt wrong.

I debated about phoning him.  My phone came with my job, and I tried to avoid using it for personal calls, but this time Mommy Sense won out.

“Wait, now,” I can hear you say.  “What does all this have to do with coincidence?”  Be patient, dear reader.  The story takes another twist.

My ManSon’s deep voice sounded disturbed.  I learned that he had sent me a text that hadn’t come through, and that the one I received was a post-script. 

He had been on his way to his lodgings after class, a cold twenty-minute drive into the dark, around supper time. He spotted a man in the ditch performing CPR on another man, a woman standing nearby.  Part of ManSon’s course had been updating his First Aid. He joined in on the rescue attempt.  He learned that an older couple had been walking their dog, and the husband had dropped.  The other man had spotted them and started CPR.  As they worked, more of the community appeared, watching, talking.  Someone ran to a nearby business and brought back a defibrillator.  After one attempt the machine indicated that it should not be used a second time.  The rescuers continued to work on the victim until an ambulance showed up.  “It must have taken 45 minutes for them to get there,” he complained, “and by then all of Humboldt was there watching us.”

Unfortunately, the man was declared dead, and my young son watched them load the body into an ambulance and drive away. About five minutes before he got to his lodging the adrenaline and shock kicked in, and he’d pulled over to collect himself.  That’s where he was when I called.

We talked for quite a while, my teenager with the big heart trying to wrap his head around his first major brush with mortality, and me wishing I could be with him to give comfort. As our talk wound down and his voice had changed from disturbed to exhausted, I wrapped up with, “I wish I could be there to give you a hug, Hon.  You did all the right things, but it’s got to be rough.”

“I wish you could too. … But maybe I can make it back home on the weekend.”

I contemplated the possibility of the upcoming funeral for Dave being on Saturday, but decided not to mention it. “I’d love that if you can.  We don’t see nearly as much of you as we’d like.”

“Hey, wait.  You’ll be here on Friday. I’ll get that hug then.”

My mind slowed, contemplating my internal calendar.  This was Wednesday evening.  I had one more day of the training I was in then would drive the hour and a half home Thursday evening.  Why on earth would I go to work the following day, deal with the plethora of things that would be on my desk after 3 days away, then turn around and drive another two hours to visit someone who would be done his course this very week? Especially with a possible funeral on Saturday?

“Um, hon?  Why on earth would I want to go to Humboldt on a Friday?”

“It’s my grad, remember?”

“I… what?  No, I don’t remember.  What grad?  What are you talking about?”

“My course is done tomorrow, and we have a grad celebration Friday night.  I’m sure I told you.  I got your tickets and everything.  Two tickets, so you and dad came come to the supper.”

I was bamboozled.  A consummate calendar-keeper devoted to my offspring, there is no way that he could have told me about this event and me not having recorded it. Mr. Communication had not actually told his parents that he expected us at this milestone. He assumed we knew, because (after all) HE knew.  

A cold wave ran over me as I envisioned him after the trauma of that evening to end up standing all alone at the grad supper, shaved, combed, spiffed up, and solitary, surrounded by classmates and their families, frantically texting us and asking when we would arrive, because the supper was ready to start.  A supper two hours away.  Three, if you count me getting away from work, going to the farm to get my husband, and then heading south.  The painful scene had been prevented by an offhand comment. 

And this, dear reader, bring me back to the contemplation of coincidence vs things happening for a reason. If I had not been disturbed by the phone calls I made after that day’s training I would have missed the traffic snarl and gone back to my hotel without meeting Sherri.  If I hadn’t met Sherri and decided to share the story with my family, I wouldn’t have been expecting a text from my son.

If my son hadn’t been trying to save a man’s life in a snowy ditch at the same time I was transporting a hospital escapee, he would not have sent me a confusing text.  

If his text hadn’t been so odd, I would not have phoned him that cold Wednesday evening.

If I hadn’t phoned him and offered a hug, he wouldn’t have mentioned seeing me on Friday.

If he hadn’t told me about Friday, we would have missed his grad, to his great disappointment and my utter frustration.

Coincidence? Sometimes I wonder.

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.

Sometimes I wonder … Part I

Cathy Bendle
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Sometimes I wonder … Part I

Swept from the corners of my mind…

“Everything happens for a reason” they tell me. I don’t agree.

“Coincidence is not Causation” is more my slogan. But sometimes, I wonder. For instance, there was this series of events….

I was in training in Saskatoon. The hotel was downtown; the course site a five-minute drive north (if you happen to miss rush hour). It was day two of a three-day conference and I was listening intently to the presenter while checking work emails and the occasional bout of Facebook (don’t judge, haha). At 1:30 I noticed that my boss had called my office and left a message on the system. An hour later my mom called my cell.  At 3:30 I noticed that there was a notification of an 8 a.m. conference call with the other members of my unit, and some Higher Ups, but my boss was not on the list. Hmmmm…

At the end of the day, I decided to stay in the parking lot and return calls before heading back to the hotel. I first called Mom–my sister-in-law’s dad had passed away that afternoon. Mom had walked into his hospital room about ten minutes after it happened. I had known Dave for over 40 years, as my sister-in-law and I had been close friends long before she married my brother.  I had spent time in their home during our teens, and can never forget this passionate family man, much beloved by his wife and children. We discussed his illness and the family’s grief before saying our goodbyes.  

Distracted by the sad news, I didn’t notice traffic increasing as the supper hour neared. The boss’ call had been about a simple, but time-sensitive, matter. I decided to try her cell. When she answered she told me that she had been fired. I was saddened. I had learned to depend upon her support and viewpoint in the past four years and tried to return some of that support as we discussed how she was feeling.

A trooper, she was already seeing the bright side but was still shaken. We must have chatted for three quarters of an hour before I wished her the best and signed off.

Shaken, I decided to go back to the hotel. Unfortunately, I had to cross two lanes of traffic to get out of the parking lot. It was full-on rush hour and there were no openings in the flow of hungry commuters. After several abortive tries I chose an alternate route, turning east instead of west.  Then traffic snarled and I ended up taking a wrong turn. And another. And another. Half an hour later I was far enough out of traffic to look around for a place to turn around and try again.  

I spotted a convenience store in the gloom of the setting winter sun. I pulled in to grab some evening supplies and looked with grudging admiration at the diminutive fry cook taking a break just outside the main door. The wind was frigid, straight from the frozen tundra, and cut through my coat right into my soul. I hoped the parka this small person was wearing over his apron, above his heavy boots, was sufficient to the task. Even though he had on gloves, and had his toque pulled low, he was visibly shivering as I approached. ‘Tough guy, to take a break outdoors in this wind’, I thought.  

Getting closer I noticed the mask was a surgical one and revised my opinion. ‘Maybe that’s an Asian university student,’ I thought. ‘They often wear masks in the winter when they study here.’ Large, friendly brown eyes met mine as I neared enough to realize that what I thought was an apron was a hospital gown, and that the gloves were latex. This was no cook, or student.  “Everything ok here?” I asked the small, shivering woman seated on the concrete step.

“They gave me the patch, but I just needed a smoke so bad, you know? So, I came here to get one,” replied a soft, friendly voice in a northern Saskatchewan accent. 

“Uh, you walked out of the hospital?” There was one about five blocks away. “Did you have your smoke yet?”

“Not yet. I’ve almost got enough money for a pack now, though,” she shivered in a sweet voice. Not begging. Not hinting. Just answering my question.

“Listen, if I buy you a pack” (now was not the time for a lifestyle lecture!) “Can I give you a ride back to the hospital? You don’t look like you’re feeling very well.”

“Well, sure.  Thanks!”  She settled back, quivering, as I approached the door.

“Come in with me.  You’re shivering!” I opened the door and stood aside for her to proceed me.

“Yeah, they said I had a high fever.”

As we waited in line I looked again at the mask and gloves and thought to ask, “Are you infectious?”

“They don’t know. They don’t think its pneumonia, like last time, but they’re not sure. I’m on antibiotics, see? I’m pretty sick, they said.” She showed me the IV needle still in her forearm.  Pulling her sleeve back down she commented that she didn’t think much of the nicotine patch and was looking forward to a real smoke.

“You do know you have to take the patch off before you smoke, right?  It can make you really sick if you smoke with a patch on.” She hadn’t known that, and we discussed the side-effects and uses of the patch as we made our purchase and faced the biting breeze in the walk across the snowy lot to my bright orange jeep. Praying that any germs she may leave behind would die in the overnight cold, I got her into the car and asked directions to the hospital. That was my next surprise.

This tiny little woman, no more than about five feet tall, sick enough to have an IV needle still in her arm, had not walked out of the nearby hospital, but the teaching hospital across the wide Saskatchewan River instead.  She had walked over half a mile, crossing the high, exposed traffic bridge in biting cold in her weakened condition, with the nebulous hope that there was a real cigarette on the other side.  We headed back over the bridge, heater blasting, chatting idly.

Her name was Sherri. She was originally from Saskatoon, but had lived across Canada, and loved Toronto. She’d ended up in emergency at 1 a.m., not breathing, but they’d “got her going” again before morning. Ordinary conversation that belied the oddity of our chance meeting and travel.

As we pulled up to the hospital I asked where to drop her off, and she directed me into the ambulance bay.  “Can I get out of there if I go in?  Isn’t it just for ambulances?”

“No.” She was confident. Pointing to the giant roll-up doors at the far end of the bays, she added, “If you go right up to those doors they’ll open for you.  Well, thanks.”  She hopped out and walked into the emergency ward as I bemusedly made sure she made it inside the doors without collapsing or wandering off.

That was when I discovered that the bay doors wouldn’t open for my car. And that there was a very large ambulance pulling in beside me in the second bay. And that it would be a good idea to get out of there.

With a chagrined shake of my head, I turned my hard-to-forget mandarin-colored car around inside the large bay, avoiding the eyes of the ambulance driver, drove the wrong way down the ambulance ramp, and headed back to the hotel without further incident.

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 dream horse

Cathy Bendle
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The dream horse

Swept from the corners of my mind…

Author’s note—This story is based on real events as I recall them.  Names have been changed to protect the embarrassed.

Stuart was a young man in his 30s who moved onto an acreage near our farm.  He was in his mid-30s, at least 6’ 2″, and over 200 lbs of mostly muscle. Although he didn’t have a farm background, he looked like a big, affable farm boy. Stuart was not a philosopher. He was not an academic. He was just what you saw, a big affable guy who didn’t care much about deep thoughts.

Walter was a retired teacher who lived next-door to Stuart. Although very different, they formed a friendship over beers and Walter’s stories. Walter told a lot of amazing stories about his days as a cowboy. I am not sure how a teacher would have had enough time to do all Walter remembered doing and still get an education, a family, and a career, but then he never did let the truth stand in the way of a good story. Stuart hung on his tales.

One mild winter day close to Christmas, Stuart and Walter decided to take a joy ride from south of Prince Albert down to Moose Jaw. They were at loose ends and had heard about a horse sale there. They just wanted to go and look. 

The boys were having a good time watching horses sell and chatting with others on the bleachers. In the winter, horses are cheaper because they are expensive to keep, and this was a year when hay was harder to find and extra mouths to feed were not appreciated. Even the best-bred, best-trained horses were going for low prices.

The atmosphere, the prices, the smell of horses and perhaps a few beverages brought Stuart’s dream back to life.  Stuart dreamed of a horse. And not just any horse. Stuart wanted flashy horse big enough to carry him (when he learned how to ride) and to rope off (when he learned how to rope). Stuart wanted a horse he could raise and break and be best friends with. Stuart wanted to be like his cowboy neighbours. Looking down into the pen he realized that a lot of registered Quarter Horses were going cheap that day, and Quarter Horses are the Cowboy’s Mount.

Near the end of the sale Stuart was entranced by a pen of assorted QH foals (babies, either gender). Large, small, male, female, registered and not, they swirled in the pen. His eye was caught by beautiful little black colt (boy) with a straight back, good legs, and a pretty head. He was obviously born late, as he was still tiny, but he was energetic and flashy.  Stuart knew this was his horse. His huge hand went in the air, and he began to bid. No one bid against him, and his dream horse was his.

Soon the sale ended, and the boys realized that they had to get their purchase home.  The problem was that they had driven down in a half ton and hadn’t brought a trailer. A second problem was that snow was starting and promised to be heavy and wet. Persuasive and determined, Walter found someone to lend him stock racks. With the help of onlookers, the racks were installed and the young stud loaded. They headed into the night, trying to outrun the snow.

During the trip these cowboys realized they had forgotten something important. Neither man had a barn at their place, nor were sure of their fences. Where were they going to put their little stallion? A review of the neighbours brought Rob and Verda to mind. Rob was one of those gruff, hard-working, older farmers who got up long before the sun and went to bed early in the evening. He had a pair of work horses, so his fences would be good, and a large barn. The late hour did not stop Stuart from phoning. Verda answered to hear an excited Stuart asking if he could keep his horse at their place overnight. Grumpy but kind, Rob said yes. “But,” he said, “you got me out of bed and I’m going right back there. Just put it in the barn and go away. I’ll look at it tomorrow.” The shoppers agreed and the deal was done.

Rob was up before the sun and went to the barn to see his big neighbour’s new roping horse. He began laughing and called Verda to come see.  She joined in the chuckling. Then Rob phoned us.

”Are you still looking for a ride for your kids?” he asked.

“Yes,” we replied, “but right before Christmas we don’t have a lot of extra money.”

“No problem,” he chuckled, “I think this is going to be pretty cheap. Come down now before Stuart shows up.”

As the sky lightened, we drove to Rob and Verda’s to meet Stuart’s dream horse. What was supposed to be a sturdy, black, Quarter Horse colt turned out to be a fully matured Type A miniature mare (female). (Type A minis are shaped like delicate Arabian horses, not like the more common Shetland-style minis.) This horse was beautiful. Shiny black from nose to tail, she had bright eyes, a refined head, and good conformation. She was also only 10 hands high– 40 inches from the ground to the bottom of her mane. She was not the foal Stuart could raise and learn with. This was a tiny, nervous, fully-grown horse. This was not the horse to fulfill Stuart’s dream.

When an excited Stuart arrived to see his horse in the daylight, Rob cheerily broke the news. Stuart listened as Rob said he might be able to sell her to us for our elementary school kids. He had no barn, no pens, and no horse to grow with. We were there with money in our pockets.  Stuart wisely decided to sell the little equine to us for even less than he paid.

The kids (not their parents!) named her Black Beauty. She was flighty and hypersensitive, would shy, buck or run at a moment’s notice, but she eventually got calmed (or worn) down by the persistence of the children. They turned her into something they could ride with or without tack, single or double, and even took her to some horse shows. She never grew any taller. When the kids got too big for Beauty, she was sold to a man who said he had a stage coach with five matching miniature horses, and that she would fit right in.

Thus ends the tale of Stuart’s dream horse.

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.

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