Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Journey to Otherwhere (oder Riese Zu Anderem Wo)

Life takes funny twists and turns; convolutions of high-speed spins along unexpected autobahns. Complete disconnects become knit together when family need meets adventure. A big brother with a troublesome back is how one might surprisingly end up here: Dusseldorf, Germany.

Comrades on a medical mission to undo chronic back pain, my brother, my husband, my 81 year old mother and I, headed east in search of relief that Canadian doctors could not promise. We boarded plane, after plane, after flugzeug to end up on the other side of the pond.


Germany, the land where words run together, unabashedly, like the coaches of a runaway bullet train. Take for example schweinefleischschnitzel (pork cutlet), a staple on every menu. Geschwindigkeitsbegrenzung (speed limit), the reason traffic signs stretch over and across 6 lanes of highway. Deutschlanders unapologetically poo-poo hyphens, randomlycompressingsentencesintowordsearchpuzzles, 
space keys surperfluous on the keyboard.

In Germany beer runs through the Rhine. It is the sustenance on which babes are raised, the axis point on which a country revolves. It trickles through their veins into kegs and then steins. There are no pints available here.

Week 1 begins with surgery in a high tech facility virtually devoid of doctors and nurses. We make the trek daily across the small, imaculately-staged suburb of Recklinghausen to bolster the spirits of my brother Gerry (now Garry as Germans don't see the "J" in Gerry).


He's been rebuilt - new discs to replace the old, riveted with titanium bolts.


On the in-between times we traverse the world-renowned German train system, my mother's childhood Germanic upbringing proving useful en route.


One tram, 3 trains and 1 1/2 hours later we arrive where the Rhine greets Dusseldorf.




And we celebrate our accomplishment through the transit maze


over a stein and a heaping plate of rindfleischbraten mit kartoffeln und salat.


Week 2 sees us to Gelsenkirchen for a week of physiotherapy in a posh hotel/physio complex. The Grand Budapest Hotel of kinesiology. Hooked up with all the amenities of fine living the patients make the trek daily through a set of sliding glass doors, across 4 floors of rehab corridors to gymnasiums, swimming pools, massage rooms and every imaginable treatment known to the 21st century. In the evening they gather in the 5 star restaurant for cocktails, sharing stories
(and possibly some really fab painkillers).

Those of us on the outside of all the action need to create our own so we board a bullet train to Amsterdam for a night of hedonistic research. We just need to find out if all the stories are true.



And, yup, they are!




Old Amsterdam is a grand collection of narrow cobblestone streets, canals and tall early 19th century buildings pressed together, teetering with age and screaming with antiquity and charm. 





Bicycles and sneakers are the transportation of choice. Pedestrians and cyclists interplay in a dance on the sidewalks and streets, narrow brushes with handlebars and calamity a way of life.

The night comes alive with hipsters of all ages. 




Returning to Gelsenkirchen we find Gerry in a ready-state to take on a little of Deutschland himself.


And so we skip physio class on the last day for a trip to Cologne and the grand Cathedral, built over a 600 year span and completed in the 1800's.



The limber among us took the daunting 509 step climb to the top of the 157 meter spire by way of narrow winding staircase


sharing a breathless high-five at the summit.


The view of Cologne from the heavenly vantage point was breathtaking.





It was a whirlwind trip with a priceless reward - the promise of painfree living and the hope that golf season come spring will look very different for a big brother who deserves to enjoy life. May you now move forward Gerry and accomplish your ultimate dream - to surpass your golf handicap and play with the "big boys."










































Monday, October 27, 2014

Of Soldiers and Buildermen

     
     Change is ever on the horizon and this time it sends a clear, audible message in its resounding refrain. The sound of hammers and mitre saws knotted together with the occasional profanity blows in from the garage on a wind of determination and virility. It's called the renovation and it upsets more households than I could shake a tape measure at.
     I check the kitchen clock. He's been at it for five hours. Any minute now he'll push through the back door with an accomplished whistle on his lips. Right on cue the entry door wheezes, releasing pent up pressure from the belly of the newly caulked and sealed garage. I rush to my position near the doorway, rag in one hand, banana bread in the other. He grins and slaps first his right hand then his left against the faded blue of his trousers. A thin nebulous fog of drywall dust escapes into the air drifting downward, settling on my freshly vacuumed floor. I throw him the rag.
     He accepts the baked snack too and moans with the first bite. He's earned it and intends to give his gut fair warning of the reward before it arrives. I watch him, pallid with sawdust and drywall smears. His hair, previously pulled back into a severe ponytail, is now framing his face in the manner of dandelion fluff about to take flight. He looks older in this light, the white dust filling the cracks of every laugh line and facial crease, pink lips like a Coka-Cola Santa Clause amidst a forest of white goatee. He licks the last absconding chocolate chip smudge from middle finger smacking as the accompanying dust turns to glue on his tongue. “Water,” he pleads, one eyebrow raised forming a question mark that ends at the rosebud dot on the tip of his nose.
     I move swiftly to the kitchen for a water bottle shaking the image of Old Man Winter in my back entry, the very man we're working to beat to the finish line, to banish to the Siberian prison outside our fortress of insulation and weatherstripping.
     “Why don't you call it a day?” I advise. The confession in my eyes eludes to a longing for peace and quiet.
     “I'm on my last sheet. It'll be a doozy with the cuts required. What time's supper?”
     Supper. I hadn't given it a thought. “Six.” My head races through a quick inventory of he-man-worthy cuisine in my Mother Hubbard pantry. Saturday grocery shopping, usually his domain, has fallen unwittingly into my lap since the renos began, along with an army list of household provisos.
     I glance at my watch. Four fifty-three. Still time to hit the deli at Bigway Foods and pull off the impression of doting wife. The fall chill takes a bite out of my cheeks and I ward off an attack of yellowed windswept leaves. I shrink to safety behind the wheel of my Buick and the radio voice of Shelagh Rogers. Resolute movement behind dirty glass windows, lined up like dominoes along the top of the garage door, reminds me that the tenacious never stop in the battle for dominance over a fierce Manitoba winter.
     “Onward ho!” I proclaim with renewed fortitude. The soldier is weary and the soldier must be fed.






Sunday, October 19, 2014

Restless Summer: A Memoir

“When I have neither pleasure nor pain and have been breathing for a while the lukewarm insipid air of these so called good and tolerable days, I feel so bad in my childish soul that I smash my moldering lyre of thanksgiving in the face of the slumbering god of contentment and would rather feel the very devil burn in me than this warmth of a well-heated room. A wild longing for strong emotions and sensations seethes in me, a rage against this toneless, flat, normal and sterile life. I have a mad impulse to smash something, a warehouse, perhaps, or a cathedral, or myself, to commit outrages, to pull off the wigs of a few revered idols...” 
― Hermann Hesse


     We had about $21 between us. Enough for a two-four and a bottle of Black Tower.  It would get us to the Well. The tendrils of smoke curled and embraced us one by one, moved by an indecisive breeze. We were as familiar with this fire as we were with each other. The Well was a gathering place for pow wows, building love relationships and shooting the shit. As far as I knew, there was no actual well here anymore. It was still one of our favorite spots to gather away from the watchful eye of parents and police, tucked away in the woods on the bank of the Red River.
     It was a muggy summer evening in August 1977. An unbearable tedium had settled in and it was palpable through every movement and disenchanted response to an attempt at conversation. This once lively group had been reduced to lassitude. A dangerous junction for restless adolescence.
     "We should go canoeing. My brother's got a canoe." Lawrence flicked his cigarette into the dying embers, his gaze returning to the river.
     A few of us snickered.
     "Sure. You got a leaky canoe we can sink? We could leave the paddles behind for good measure." Jeff read our minds.
     Just weeks earlier, in another face-off with boredom, this impetuous band had located a rubber army raft, utilized the aid of several sluggish tire pumps, poured hours of perfectly employable sweat equity into filling it with air and headed into the muddy river.  Unfortunately we were too impatient to run the prerequisite sailing tests before we loaded the rubber water craft with the libations required for an afternoon of partying at "sea".  No more than 50 feet off shore our toes were getting wet, then our ankles and before we knew it we were a crazed group of lunatics bailing madly and jumping ship. The libations couldn't be saved, an offering to the underwater Molson Canadian gods.

     One week later all the plans were in place.  Our 3 canoes had been transported to the river bank in Aubigny where our 2 day journey of fools would begin, ending at the very place in St. Adolphe where a rubber army raft now clung deflated and dejected to a rock. The other couples, Jeff and Mona, Lawrence and Lori, managed to procure a couple of sleek fiberglass models. Ours was an aluminum barge with Sherman Tank qualities. It belonged to Al's boss and he was a hunter. This very canoe had likely transported a dead moose or two. My eyes scoured the bottom for seasoned blood.
     Paddles in hand we started out, our canoes weighed down with all of the provisions and incidentals for such a trek: canned beans and Klik, sleeping bags, lighter fluid, swiss army knives, cigarettes and a loaded 22 for rabbits and squirrel. Due to the sheer size of the Sherman, Al and I became keepers of the sacred - 6 cases of bottled hops and an opener.
     It was a beautiful Manitoba Saturday morning. The sun peeked softly from behind tufts of massive white clouds and the wind whispered over our shoulders as we found our rhythms along the river. Our canoe lagged behind, burdened by excessive weight which would lighten over the weekend. At this stage there was only about an inch of canoe edge bobbing above the water making movement of any kind precarious.
     "Mona, did you bring sunscreen?"
     "Nope."
     "Lori?"
     "Uh uh."
     I pushed a finger onto the skin of one shoulder and released, watching as the spot morphed from white to a deep shade of red. It's a good thing I'd worn a bikini. I'd have few tan lines when the weekend was over.
     By dusk we found ourselves at the halfway point. The others, having skimmed lightly over the river's grimy surface, arrived earlier and were already setting up camp. A small collection of kindling sat smoking on a cozy knoll surrounded by tall evergreen and poplar. The girls were squealing, checking each other for ticks.
     "It's about time. We're getting thirsty!"  Jeff, out for a swim, cut into the water with his hand showering us with a welcome jolt.
     "What's for supper?" I yelled to Lawrence, now hunched over the fire, a gangly branch bobbing with the weight of something unrecognizable from this distance.
     "Crayfish. Fresh."
     He held up his prize, blackened, its claws still gripping the stick end.
     By nightfall we were all languishing around the dying fire, cans and bottles strewn about. Dark clouds hovered somewhere in the North accompanied by the sound of distant thunder. We'd checked the forecast before leaving. Sunny and clear. Not to worry.
     We lay the sleeping bags out near the fire with full unobstructed view of the starry sky. Al, not trusting the clouds creeping ever closer, decided it wise to use the canoes to cover the supplies. It's hard to transport soggy beer boxes, he reasoned. Lawrence and Lori's double sleeping bag had been placed strategically near the water's edge. Lawrence wanted to hear the sound of water lapping while he dozed off into free-spirited slumber. An exchange of choice words brought them to an impasse. Lawrence won.
     We drifted off, one by one, the wind in the tree tops and isolated thunder humming a natural lullaby. I woke with a start somewhere during what should have been the crescent moon zenith but there was no moon and it had taken all the stars with it. The thick darkness heightened the sounds of the woods behind me and the wind above. Twigs snapped, underbrush rustled and the river lapped perversly close. I lay completely still pondering the wisdom of slipping quietly into my partners sleeping bag.
     I heard him then too, the nylon of his sleeping bag wheezing uncomfortably under his restless weight.
     "Al...can you hear that?"
     "Whu?"
     "Can you hear that? It sounds like a swarm of giant grasshoppers coming this way."
     "Oh shit! Get into your bag. Now."
     We simultaneously slunk deeper into our bags drawing the tops around our heads. The wall of water drummed ever louder, over the tree line and across our grassy knoll. It left as quickly as it came leaving us shrink-wrapped in our soggy nylon cocoons.
      "Lawrence. Lawrence! Get me out of here!"
      Slipping my head from the top of my bag I could just make out their silhouettes. By now Lori had wiggled her way from the bag and was hanging heroically to one corner, her naked heels digging deep into the muddy embankment. Still within the bags grip Lawrence bobbed awkwardly in the black river, arms flailing for anything stationary.
     "Guys, help!" Lori's cries for help did not go unheeded but we'd wait it out just a bit. Jeff and Mona watched too, from the confines of their sopping perch on the knoll. Times like these shouldn't be rushed. They serve as good story-telling fodder around the fire at The Well.

     Day 2 began like the first but with more indifference to the adventure. Sleeping bags wrung out and warmed by a smoky fire we ventured North up the channel that would lead us home.
     In an effort to lighten the melancholy Al dug his paddle into the river and hoisted a light wash of spray to the right of our canoe. It landed solidly on Mona forcing a defeated grimace from her face.
     "What the hell? I was almost dry, Al." She swiped an absconding mop of hair from her face.
     "Hey, bathing suits are intended to be wet."
     "Alright, if that's how we're gonna play this game."
     Mona dug hard into the depths bringing up her paddle with as much force as she could muster for a mercenary-style assault. Her canoe tipped wildly to one side sending the paddle and water canon into the air as the couple gripped the sides awaiting their fate. The canoe hung on its side for a solitary moment, lapping ripples into its hull, then dropped ungracefully back to upright.
     "There's a way to do it and that wasn't it." Jeff pulled the floating pieces of her broken paddle back to the safety of the canoe. He traded her, paddle for broken paddle and they limped along, Jeff bending deeper for every stroke. By that time Al & I  had steered clear avoiding the onslaught that would have followed.
     At mid-morning the sky was naked of the previous night's cloud cover. The sun exploded in a burst of heat that bounced playfully off the water in a blinding display. My back, shoulders and nose were absorbing the heat like a sponge. I dug into my small backpack for the bottle of baby oil and slathered the sun-soaked skin.
     A sudden crack split the air, and then another. Bored, Lawrence had exchanged paddle for rifle taking wild potshots at the shoreline.
     "Woo hoo! Did you see that? Almost got her."
     A string of shots followed the first, up an embankment. The little brown bunny stayed just ahead of the plumes of dust that tracked it, disappearing into a mass of brambles.
     "Rocks. One o'clock." Jeff called over his shoulder.
     Our eyes skimmed the river surface locating the boulders ahead.
     "I'll steer us around. You just paddle." Al, creating a rudder, managed the Sherman neatly between the obstructions and resumed rowing.
     We were falling behind again. In unison we kicked into high gear dipping and rising, creating a swath, streamlining, synchronizing our rhythms masterfully. We were cruising now, hitting peak momentum, cutting through the water like salmon in spawning season.
      Gliding effortlessly along the water's surface we heard a sharp, metallic scrape and came to a firm and fast halt. We teetered there, dipping our paddles in for the obstruction that caused the stalemate. Another rock just below the river's surface. Valiantly we worked the paddles, shifting our weight and rocking the boat. Nothing except the slow revolution of an aluminum blimp atop a rock fulcrum like the spinner on a board game. I was getting dizzy.
     The others had turned around, witnesses to our conundrum. We drew in our paddles and waited for rescue.
     "Any damage?" Jeff hitched his paddle to the edge of our canoe to pull in for a closer inspection and sent us spinning again in the other direction.
     "Nope. Doesn't appear to be. We're still dry." Al shifted his feet, checking for leaks.
     "How's the beer?" Lawrence was coming up the rear, his rifle propped on the bow and ready for another critter assault.
     For the next half hour we worked as a team, assessing, trying, failing and nearly toppling a canoe or two. The brains were in full gear, science lessons of our high school classes being employed to full capacity. Nothing was working.
     "We need to get you out of the canoe. Lighten the weight." Al tried to be kind.
     Case by case we transferred the full and empty boxes to another canoe, ours teetering precariously with every shift. Drawing within inches we secured Lawrence's canoe to our own and I stood slowly, cautiously, every step guided by the panicky instructions of the boys.
     "Whoa, stop."
     "Okay, right there. No, not there."
     "Take your time, yup, doing good. Wait! Can you swim?"
     I glared at Lawrence. "Not with a concussion." I peeped over the edge at the variety of rocks below us. The life jackets were still in the back of a half-ton in Aubigny. We didn't have the room.
     With 10 hands working the assist I crossed over only slightly bruised as I planted a knee solidly on a wooden crossbar. We prevailed upon the stubborn old Sherman again with paddles and tricks until she shifted inch by inch back to her bouyant state. 
     By late afternoon Jeff's hands were feeling the sting of the sharp edges of his broken paddle. Curses trailed his canoe hanging heavy in the humid air. Up ahead, like a mirage in the desert, came the answer. A lonely canoe sat tethered to an old homemade dock nearly hidden among 3 foot reeds. 
     "Guys, get a load of this." Jeff guided his canoe in the direction of the derelict boat pulling in alongside it. "Ha ha!" He retrieved a beautiful, varnished, glistening paddle from the bed of the other boat throwing the fractured pieces of his own into its place.  "Score!" He turned then to scold his partner behind him. "Don't try that stunt again. The chance of another paddle we can 'borrow' on route will be slim to none."
     Lawrence rode shotgun in his canoe nearby, one eye pinched shut and the other scoping the surrounding landscape for interference from a meddling canoe owner. For good measure he popped one into the dock as we pulled away. It ricocheted off a nearby rock resonating into a double gunshot and we paddled with greater fury laughing uncontrollably as we left.
     By early evening the sun was retreating having left a nefarious reminder of its presence on my scorched skin. 
     "We must be almost home." I pleaded, my arms heavy as I dug the paddle in time and again, my back rebelling against the abuse, my skin itchy where the bikini clung to my sweat-soaked skin. 
     Al scanned the landscape. The area we'd known all our lives was such a stranger from this vantage point. 
     "Yeah. I'd say another half hour or so."
     Around every bend I watched for signs of familiarity; signs that we had reached our goal. Every bend produced more of the same tedium. The others had fallen to silence, every one of us fatigued and sun-blistered.
     "Whose f...kin' wild idea was this, anyway?" Lawrence broke the silence, echoing our thoughts.
     "Yours!" We yelled in unison.
     While some of us resigned ourselves in silence to the gruelling final laps Lawrence and Lori gave themselves unabashedly to another exchange in disparagement. It was a verbal jousting match that would last through the weekend reaching a crescendo of put-downs unprecedented to this point. We were making taciturn bets on the longevity of their volatile relationship. This trip had not improved on their compatability quotient.  
     "Look!" Mona cut through the bickering.
     St. Adolphe belonged to her. It was her stomping ground and the steeple of the old Catholic church loomed above the tree tops like the Cathedral of Notre Dame; as beautiful a sight as I'd seen in an eternity. Jesus was calling us home. 
     With each following stroke the familiar view called to us until we pulled onto the muddy bank and dug the paddles in for the last time. The girls leapt simultaneously from our floating roosts splashing wildly, releasing days of crampy discomfort from our bones. We dropped into the grass, exhausted, watching as the boys hauled the sailing ships to shore and unloaded the travel weary provisions. 
     "That was fun." Lori exhaled deeply. 
     "That was a lot of fun." Mona and I agreed. "Where to next?"


   
   


   
   

   
   
   
   

   
   
   
   
   

   









Sunday, July 20, 2014

The Things I've Discovered

I've discovered that self-aware is different than self-conscious or narcisistic.

I've discovered that vulnerability requires incredible strength.

I've discovered that I've placed more unrealistic expectations on myself than my family or the media ever could.

I've discovered that I'm a feminist only to the degree that it doesn't strip me of my femininity.

I've discovered that I love real, raw, honest heart-to-hearts because they are a window into someone's soul.

I've discovered that hair dressers do far more than dress hair.

I've discovered that indulging the wild, silly, unhinged side of myself is like taking off a sweaty mask.

I've discovered that removing my focus on an ambiguous after-life brings this life into much clearer focus.

I've discovered that 32 years of marriage to the same man is the best investment I have EVER made.

I've discovered that some of the best conversations happen around a fire and a bottle of wine.

I've discovered that my favorite weekends are the ones where my world contracts into a little bubble with all of my favorite people in it.

I've discovered that I'm an introverted extrovert. 

I've discovered that people are just a different shade of "me", colored by the things they've been through.

I've discovered that to be alone with my thoughts can sometimes be destructive.

I've discovered that the human touch is the most powerful of all elixers.

I've discovered that there are far fewer blacks and whites than once imagined and that grey is a pretty color too.

I've discovered that my life has been a dance to a really groovy beat.













Tuesday, July 1, 2014

The Art of Not Giving a Sh*t

"It's my blog and I'll write what I want to, write what I want to, write what I want to." 

(Sung to the tune of Lesley Gore's 1963 version of It's My Party not the Icona Pop version although the tune may be the same and the "give a sh*t" message is more pronounced in the Pop version giving it more of a distinct connection with the theme of this blog post but I happen to like the original 1963 version and so that's the one I am singing this to and would appreciate it if you did too! )


Now, I don't like to stir up the mire and I'm not about changing the world with a few simple, poorly processed words. That's why I like people like George Carlin and others with a voice bigger than mine who tell it like it is and don't back down. I usually let them speak for me, occasionally adding a little Like icon under a really great quote, but more likely just giving them a silent thumbs up. 

I said "thumb".
Somewhere in my past I was conditioned to bite my tongue, hold my opinion, let down the hem of my skirt and not wear false eyelashes in public. 
(unless of course you're going to a masquerade party or one of Joyce's cougar parties where all rules can be temporarily abrogated for false airs of being somebody who is not actually you).

But this post is about NOT giving a shit. It's about asking myself the questions: Why is it so important to me what people think? Why do I forgo the right to have an opinion when it differs from everyone else in the room? Why do I feel the need to choose the long skirt over the short one when I still have legs worth showing? Why don't I have the courage to end a conversation with a spiritual person by saying, "I won't be praying for you but that doesn't mean I don't care?"

I like wine and spirits. But before you assume I've completely deviated from my already convoluted thought processes, let me explain. From my personal experience, wine and spirits (and other substances which I have less experience with) are filter adjusters. They tend to break down some of the primordial walls we've built, loosen our tongues a little and maybe, if we're lucky, cause us to do something inanely "out of character" that leaves our company in stitches. This is how life should be all the time!
 (No, I'm not advocating drunkenness or barbarianism).

That  said, I want you to know that I like you. No, I LIKE you. I like you if you're homosexual or transgender or swaying in any direction. I like you if you're Buddhist or Mennonite or any religion or none at all. I like you if you're smarter than me or prettier than me or funnier than me. I like you not because of how you act or what you think or what you wear. I like you because there's going to be something worth liking about you if I keep an open mind. 

So, at least in this short moment of time, I don't give a shit what people are saying about me or thinking about me or perhaps that they aren't thinking about me at all. I don't give a shit that you might just give a shit. I just want to be me. And you to be you. I want to speak and be heard, and to listen and really hear. 

I want to have fun, be a little reckless, give more hugs, use the occasional naughty word, live life on the edge, laugh, be laughed at, and perhaps wear that cute little number that's gathering dust in my closet. Maybe even write a book like Miriam Toews, cause she doesn't give a shit.

Let's live...cause we live only once. And practice the art of not giving a SH*T!










Monday, June 30, 2014

Ode To Awesomeness 2

Every now and then, once in every second blue moon, I am fortunate enough to witness the persona of someone change to such a degree that it leaves me breathless, confused and a little gobsmacked.

 I ran into Her at one of the few available bar tables at The Party. Over heaping plates of Greek salad, pulled pork and chili we picked up quickly from the last time we'd been together.  The conversation often begins with books and ends up somewhere delectably inappropriate. But something was amiss today, I could tell right away. There was a twinkle lurking behind the retro glasses that hadn't been there last time.  Or the 50 times before that. The other ladies at the table could sense it too, but they weren't letting on yet.


Perhaps it was the dress, thrift store chic, of which the bottom 6 inches had been obliterated just prior to The Party by an unscrupulous set of sewing scissors. A jagged Wilma Flinstone effect that seemed to have taken more weight off than just a hemline could.  She was walking a little lighter.


She began to skitter around The Party like a curious kitten, creeping in and out of conversations and selfies like a Where's Waldo, disappearing for a moment then coming up somewhere else.  It was getting creepy.


Then The Thing happened.  Not one drink, not two, but all of our drinks were coming up empty.  I needed to apologize to the bartender, "I'm not an alcky, really.  I don't understand how my glass keeps going empty."  The bartender was not sympathetic, scrutinizing me with a wary eye.  Wilma F. was now moving through the crowded Party at a blurred Haley's cometesque pace.

And just when I caught on to the sleight-of-hand-disappearing-drink-trick, and I sat back smugly awaiting the dance floor face plant of the century, She blossomed into the Abba dancing queen, light as air, fluid and poetic in motion.  The men couldn't resist Her,


the tent poles couldn't shake Her,


and all the girls began to hate Her.  She was as free as a butterfly, a mended leg without its cast, Buzz Lightyear with extra jet packs, Cheech Marin on a really great trip...(okay, enough with the bad metaphors already.  You get the picture).

She'd made a left turn that night at the intersection of Prudence and Good Judgement, somewhere East of Albacoykie and arrived at The Party ready to break all the rules.  Yes...THE rules...set in place before time immemorial, that our fathers whipped us so lovingly behind the wood shed to instill.  

And that is what makes her Awesome!  Free-styling Flinstone with the flair for flash dance frivolity.

Who knew?  Who really knew?

I'll be ready next time, Girlfriend.  When the blue moon after next arrives, I'll be ready!

Sunday, June 1, 2014

Ode to Awesomeness

I like people.  
Especially really awesome people.  
People that stretch a little further than comfortable - maybe even risk putting a muscle out - to reach out and touch you.  
People that don't need to walk a whole mile or even a block in your shoes.  They get bad shoes and they get you.  

I know a lot of awesome people.  
Sometimes I don't find out how awesome until I give them a chance to be awesome.
Sometimes they don't know they're awesome until someone takes time to tell them they're awesome - a godsend - a gift - numero uno!

And I wonder to myself why I don't write about these people. These pay-it-forward kinda people.  These people that have shown their "awesome" - not like a flag in the wind - more like a secret note passed under a school desk.  

So I will - because they're AWESOME!

Today, on this harried weekend before my daughter gets home from somewhere out in Asia-ville, I will write about my most recent brush with awesome.  His name is Mike - Mike Kroeker.

Mike poses, convincingly, as a travel agent.  But to me he's an Expedition Engineer Extraordinaire.  



When these wild-eyed Canadians decided to trek to the other end of the planet it was Mike who stepped in and mapped out an itinerary of serendipitous proportions.  

When this detail-dissecting eccentric (that'd be me) panicked at the 11th hour it was Mike who patiently calmed her nerves and said "It's all taken care of.  Go have fun!"

It was Mike who emailed us across the world - "Your flight times have changed" or "I've pre-printed your boarding passes to simplify your life." 

And now, when our daughter in Laos needs to get to Cambodia without a dime to her name cause her wallet was stolen - once again it was Mike.  The travel agencies are closed cause its Saturday, all the Western Unions are closed for 3 days in Laos, and our daughter's about to miss her flight home.  When I call him on his cell, panicked that my little girl will be stuck in Asia-ville forever eating bugs for lunch and wild flowers for dessert, his calm voice reassures me.

With a single click of his mouse he's navigated the convoluted world of airlines and flight times to get her back on track in the shortest time.  All this on his off time.

Thanks Mike - and until I can think of a better word, you're AWESOME!  

So, if you're travelling, or about to travel, or dream of travel, go and see Mike Kroeker with Bonaventure Travel on Academy Road.  He won't be the one donning cape and mask.  Oh no, he's too modest for that. He works under cover -  the Clark Kent of travel.  

But I know, and now you know, he's pretty awesome.



Sunday, May 25, 2014

Thailand: Halfway Between Here and Heaven


Thailand in April delivers a mixed bag.  You get, on the one hand, the splendor of magical beauty, like Heaven on Earth, and on the other hand, the insufferable burning heat of an unquenchable Hell-fire. 

Our introduction to Thailand began with a trek to the Palace of the Emerald Buddha in Bangkok.  Though Buddha was a prophet, in Cambodia and Thailand he is revered and worshiped like a god.  Buddha worship "pit-stops" pop up like Tim Horton's on every street corner.  Small and unassuming shrines on posts, they provide an opportunity for Buddhists to light an incense stick, leave an offering and pay quick homage on their way to the market or work.

Palaces and temples rise above the streets in opulent splendor, the beating sun dancing along the gilded roofs and twinkling from a myriad of bejewelled walls and minarets shaped like an emporer's crown.


It's breathtaking...



and it's sad at the same time.  One can't help but stand in complete awe of the brilliant architecture, artistic display and elaborate mosaics requiring millions of man-hours to create.

Okay, so I'm not "standing in awe" but I'm trying to blend.

This country is in an economic struggle for survival.  There is no middle class.  Rich and poor visit the elaborate temples, the rich offering up prayers shrouded in hope for health and luck, the poor for food for another day and a better life.  Call me cynical but from what I can see Buddha is hogging all the gold!


I paid dearly for my irreverence!  Day 2 of our Bangkok experience resulted in a respiratory tract infection, fever and 2 solid days of confinement to our hotel room.  Thank goodness for Global Doctors and antibiotics but it wouldn't come in time for the tour we looked forward to the most - a boat trip through the amazing floating markets and villages of rural Thailand.  

So we booked a cruise.  Isn't that what you do when you're feeling pallid, queasy and generally cadaverous?


A genuine Thai dancing, Thai food kinda cruise.  We picked graciously at the fishy, seaweed encrusted, lemongrass infused morsels set before us secretly longing for a Big Mac and fries.  But the music and dancing...it was restorative.


I'd need to be nearly dead to sit out the dancing!

All really great month-long vacations require some down-time ...a little R & R so you don't go home feeling like you need to take a holiday after your holiday.  That's what brought us here...



Ko Phangan Island, Thailand.  A place seductively disguised as Heaven - no funeral required.    For one solid week we would enjoy an air-conditioned bungalow with a hammock and an ocean view at the Sea Flower Bungalow resort.  


With the thermometer mercilessly pushing 40 celcius every day and a humidex level driving our sweat glands into overdrive we sought refuge under giant palm branches on the beach.  Or we'd mount the common island steed (rented scooter) touring the island's hilly terrain.  This place is home to the most glorious, white sand beaches on earth, Full Moon festivals, fabulous open-air markets and wildlife reserves for elephants.  

By night we'd bask in the glow of the coconut lanterns of the Sea Flower with a frosty drink, watching the squid boats lighting up the horizon and a myriad of unencumbered stars lighting up the sky.  


This is where we'd meet the proprietors of Sea Flower, Chai and Lise.  Chai, a native Thai (picture Mr. Miyagi in Karate Kid) and Lise, a native Winnipeger, married in the early '80's and built this mecca up from a plot of wild palms and underbrush.  Their 2 daughters, now grown, live in Winnipeg...say what??

We dined at the beach bar nightly getting to know Chai and Lise, a few Aussies, Swiss and French.  Together we were the Sea Flower family of the week.  The food was simply amazing, the menu comprised of foods reflecting all of these nationalities, including a twist on Lise's French Canadian roots: curry poutine.  

Or, if you were feeling especially amorous, you could enjoy a beach barbecue alone, by a low table on a woven mat right on the sand, the tide tickling your feet.  A local, shirtless staffer flipped fresh red snapper, prawns, duck and garlic potatos over hot coals to practiced perfection.

But from all really good dreams one must finally awake.  The staff sent us off with Chinese lanterns loosed over the Gulf of Thailand and hugs.  

Sigh!

We're home now, post-jetlag and back into routines.  We were glad to return to Manitoba soil, though...


and glad to see certain cherubic faces again.




Glad also for HOME!  There's nothing quite like springtime in Manitoba.