Author: Sarah

Puppy Love

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The first dog I ever had was a puppy named Heidi. I must admit, I was only a puppy myself at the time.

She was a German Shepherd puppy and she was beautiful.

Don't judge the bangs, or the turtleneck for that matter. At least I'm co-ordinated!

German Shepherds are vicious dogs; you should watch your children around them! (I think someone needs to save the dog!)

Because we lived on a farm, it seemed natural to have a second dog, since Heidi was starting to run with a neighbor’s dog and we worried about her getting too farm from home.
So we got Rene. Rescued him, would be a better way of putting it. He was owned by a large German man who not only intimidated his wife and son, but the dog too. Rene finally had enough of being treated badly and dared to stand up for himself. This did not go over well with the owner. He wanted him gone. I am ever so glad, because Rene was lovely.

Gingham was TOTALLY what all the cool kids were wearing - and Rene didn't mind my bowl bangs....

Ironically, Rene was Little Sister’s dog.  Not that he was given to “her”, since she was only an infant, but Rene, sensing that Heidi was responsible for me, took LS as his very own. This big “aggressive” male became bound to her in a way that could only be described as “darling”.
When nap time came for my wee sister, Mom would put her on the front porch in her buggy. The breeze was cooling in the warm summer afternoons and it was out of the strong sun. Rene would watch my mother putter around with her regular tasks and park himself beside the buggy. When LS awoke and cried out, Rene would howl to let Mom know that the baby was up. Like the very first baby monitor.
Rene would follow LS while Heidi followed me. We had our own personal body guards. The only time we ever had an issue was when Rene suffered from arthritis in his back hips. He slept fitfully one afternoon and I strolled past him with a bat resting over my shoulder.  The bat was far bigger than the shoulder and within a second the bat fell on the dog’s back end, waking him suddenly and causing him intense pain. Remember, his history told him that when he was being hurt, he needed to defend himself, and he did.
A small row of stitches were needed to heal the damage done, but I never blamed Rene for the bite. He blamed himself though. Upon my return from the hospital, Rene’s head hung as low as his tail. I was bathed in slobber as he licked me from ear to ear once I returned from the hospital. He felt bad for days after.
Rene more than made up for it a couple of years later, when a boy older than me tried to push me around. He raised his voice and gave me a shove that sent me to the ground. Within seconds Rene had the boy pinned to the ground beside me. He never bit the older boy, but he scared him enough to leave me alone.
By this time, my beautiful Heidi was gone. Rene pined for her as much as I did, so my parents found Britta. She was a female deemed unsuitable for breeding, as she had an overbite. While she wasn’t pretty like Heidi was, she was loyal and had a sweet personality.
After these two dogs, our family had a string of others, usually adopted as full grown dogs and all loved for their own special traits. So when the time came to start a family of my own, I knew it had to include a dog. The Big Guy and I fell in love with a Dutch Chow pup and after we named him Cole, we started house training. Eleven years later he developed Cancer and we lost our first “Fur Baby”.
That brought us to Samson. A purebred mutt, Sam was perfect for our young family. The boys loved him, and he was the best parts of Lab, Rottweiler and German Shepherd. The day we put him down was easily one of the worst in my life. We struggled with the decision to put him out of his pain, and in the end, I know it was the right thing to do. That didn’t make it any easier. Samson is the first dog we buried at our new home, and I look out on him every day.

My Beautiful Boy

I could talk about how his bark could stop you cold, if you didn’t know him well enough. Or how grown men thought twice about just walking up to him. But then I’d have to talk about how he was actually as sweet as his caramel eyes, and how much he loved running at The Farm – which we also lost this year. And I can’t do any of this without choking up…so enough about that.

The Big Guy got tired of my moping by the second day. He knows it’s not my way, but as I said, the last couple of days with Samson were really tough.

“Why don’t you look at some puppies?” he asked.

“I don’t think I’m ready for that yet,” I replied. He tried again the next day – pointing out I might feel better looking at puppies.

A quick scan of kijiji found hundreds of puppies – all of which were cute. He was right – it was something “happy” but I still wasn’t sure that I could imagine our house with another dog. The Big Guy contact the people we got Samson from, and they wouldn’t have another litter until the new year. A quick consensus of the household determined we didn’t want one of Samson’s brothers – it would be too hard to look at him and not see Sam.

Then it happened – a crazy combination of circumstances that gave me all the signs I needed. Before I knew it – there was laughter in the house – and smiles.

And chew toys….for a new pup. A German Shepherd named Roman.

The ears almost give the ability to fly!

 

From the Mouths of Babes

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The conversations around the fire pit are the BEST! An interesting exchange transpired around the topic of our neighbors who have their house listed for sale. We noticed a family with two young girls looking around earlier in the week.

Second Born Son in a tone as serious as a Judge: You know, research says it’s better for a man to marry a woman younger than he is.

Me: Really…

The Big Guy: ~wisely silent~

SBS: Ya, because however many years there are between them, that’s how much longer he will out live her.

Me: Really!?

The Big Guy: ~eyes getting wider~

SBS: Ya, so I figure, one of those girls looking at the house next door, they look like they around 7 or 8, and they were cute! Did you see them? I think they were blonde too!

Me: What about “Cute-Little-Red-Haired-Girl-From-School”?

SBS: Oh, no – that would never work, we are the same age.

By the way, he’s TEN! (Going on 21 apparently.)

When doing the Right Thing seems so Wrong

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What do you do when someone you love is in pain?

How do you say goodbye to someone who has been a part of your heart, your home, your history?

When do you stop being selfish by keeping them with you, when you know how hard it is for them to hang on?

How do you know when it is time to change your family, as painful and inconceivable as that may seem?

I don’t know either. But last week, we said Good-bye to our beloved Samson. Devastated is simply not a big enough word to define how we feel. His loyalty, brilliance and courage have left an enormous void in our family. We love you and know you are finally out of your pain.

Until we swim with you again……

The Graduate

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There is pride, and then there is PRIDE! First Born Son graduated last night. Aside from Kindergarten to Gr 3, I’d like to think that Grade 8 was his best to date. And while I’d like to take credit –

…this lady deserves the pat on the back. She rocked FBS’s world.

 Which in turn, rocks ours! There are some awesome teachers our there. THANK YOURS!

 ~ One Very Proud Mom!

The Truck

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Since much of my time lately consists of watching Soap Operas and eating Bon Bons, my father thought it would be good for me to go on a road trip. He had to take his truck to “the city” to get some work done on it, so I might as well come along for the ride.

YES - it's a Chev - ignore the GMC hubcaps - no one is going on eBay to pay $150 a pop for Chev caps.

I needed a moment to ponder. Suffice it to say, the truck isn’t one of those posh “luxury” vehicles with a box on the back. Oh no – it’s rather… standard. As in Standard steering, standard brakes and standard transmission. Not a cool stick with smooth gliding action, but a shifter that rises from the floor on a steel stem.

This is the definition of "Basic".

Now when Dad bought this truck new, he went for the basic model. Vinyl floors, vinyl seats (which, coincidently, would rip your hide off when you sat on it in July, and gave your hemerroids when you parked yourself on it in January.) and no radio…

but an 8-Track player, ya’ll. If you know anything about the people in Boweryville, you know we LOVE our music – and we love it LOUD. I developed my love of Bass from the blown out speakers that distorted our favorite songs. Dad had an extensive collection of 8-Tracks, including artists as diverse as Neil Diamond and Johnny Nash. I’m pretty sure those two didn’t break bread at any Grammy after-parties.

Some of my favorite childhood memories are about this 8-Track. It helped me with my hand-eye co-ordination, and gave me a new appreciation for my father’s sense of aim. Anyone who has ever enjoyed their favorite artist on an 8-Track, would know that this media was not meant to last. The tape would stretch which would cause the music to distort, which would prompt my father to utter,

“JAYZUS! Roll down the window S!”

Being the good first-born child that I was, and since I was usually at the window with my younger sister sitting in the middle, I rolled down the MANUAL crank as quickly as possible. Usually just in nick of time before he backhanded the offended cassette down the length of the cab, through the open window, and out onto some back country road. Don’t judge him for littering, there was no Inconvenient Truth as of yet. And Thank God – because he wasn’t the only one using ditches as personal garbage cans.

So with the anticipation of more heartwarming memories, I agreed to join him on his trek. There is preparation that must take place when taking the truck out for a tour. The most important is THIS

must be down. No need for any more drag than we already have. Oh, and did I mention, the box has been reinforced…

…because many a cattlebeast has been transported in this puppy, and let’s face it – we need more weight in a three-quarter ton.

As we pulled out onto the highway, I felt we were moving a little slower than I’m used to. Dad points out that the mileage (snicker, chuckle) on the truck is best economized at 50 mpg. Now, we live in Canada, so the entire Imperial System is a mystery to me, and apparently the other drivers, as we were passed repeatedly as we got up to “speed”. I anticipated a certain route for our drive, but was advised we should plan our trip based on where the gas stations are.

We were blessed with a beautiful day. Sunshine and warm breezes met us, and the windshield of the truck, which concerned my Dad considerably. Needless to say we have no air conditioning, so the windows are down and the extent of our conversation is pretty much as follows.

“WHAT?”

“DID YOU SAY SOMETHING?”

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU, WHAT??”

“FORGET IT!!!!”

Quality father/daughter bonding, wouldn’t you agree?

After the repair was done, I’d had quite enough of being a spectator and offered to drive home.

Don't worry - he started breathing again soon after.

I must have caught him in a weak moment, because he handed over the keys. Either that, or he’d been waiting for some comic relief.

Do you have any idea of how heavy a three-quarter ton truck is? Now try and turn it in an intersection with standard STANDARD transmission with a high clutch?? All I can say is, I’m glad I could give the ol’ boy a chuckle. I would, however like to cuss out the Dodge Caravan driver who doesn’t realize that ROUND-ABOUTS ARE NOT ROUND-ASTOPS!

Suffice it to say, that loser is going to have nightmares of this…

…all up in his business for a long-long time.

And I was up most of the night with Ice Cold on my forearms. My biceps, however, ROCK!

Citius, Altius, Fortius! or in other words – Track & Field

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These past two weeks have been a flurry of athletic endeavors in Boweryville.

Between the ball games, the lawn cutting and Track & Field, we have been at our maximum physical output. (Those of you doubting the lawn cutting have yet to see our far from manicured yard.)

This is a big deal in our house, especially for Second Born Son. He anticipated his inaugural season of Track & Field last year, but was thwarted by a little event we refer to in these parts as The Royal Wedding – Part II. Little Sister’s wedding landed on a Friday which was the same day as the boys’ school meet. After all the shoe scuffing and head lolling was over, we vowed to come back bigger and better than ever for the 2011 Season.

SBS signed up for all the events he could and eagerly anticipated the day. Would I come to watch him? Does a Polar Bear have frost bite??

Packing the trusty Nikon, I headed to the field and waited for him with eager anticipation.

To be brutally frank, I hadn’t expected too much from the lad, since he has proven to be more of a morale booster than a tightly wound competitor. But something was happening…

and then….

That, my friends, is called a photo finish. Which led to this…

In the end, he got it by the hair of his chinny chin chin. Two firsts, a second and….

one of these for Standing Long Jump. Boyfriend would have done better in Ball Throw with his wicked arm, but there’s a little thing called “accuracy” that trips him up every time.

First Born Son participated too. But I was forbidden to be anywhere near him during his events. I get it. I’m cool like that….I know what it’s like to be a young teen and not want to be saddled with the presence of a parent, especially when other equally cool punks teens are in the area.

So I did what any other mother would do. I broke out the long lens.

This is from one side of the track to the other. He never knew I was there, until that night when he bemoaned the fact that I had photos of his brother, but none of him. Tee hee.

While FBS didn’t perform as well this year as in the past, mostly due to the fact that when you are pre-pubescent, your buddies are as tall as your Dad and can whup your arse in most sports. I told him to buck up and try again next year. SBS, however, qualified to advance to the County Meet which, ironically, takes place at his school this year.

In typical SBS style, he had a classic quote last night for his impending athletic endeavor.

“I’m really nervous about tomorrow,” he said.

“Why? You did really well at the last meet, just do your best,” I reply.

“But we are going to be running against the Mennonite kids,” he stated.

*crickets*

“They can RUN!” he said. “I don’t know how they do it – and they are in their bare feet – you’ve got to watch out for them!”

I didn’t tell him that the Mennonite religion and culture forbids the use of Wiis, iPods, or even Nike shoes. I was compelled to use religious conviction, but that seemed a little far fetch – although some theme music did pop into my head.

The Search Continues

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The search for solid, regular employment continues….

While I had a flicker of hope, it was not to be and, if anything, became a learning experience. As all great stories begin – “Once Upon A Time……”

I applied to a company who posted a position online, on one of the many workboard websites I check regularly. This company was not far from where I lived and I was excited by the fact that I could be a manageable distance to drive, while continuing my career in a logical direction – Communications.

Off went my carefully crafted resume, with ample references and even a letter of referral. I am set! I don’t hear anything for a couple of weeks, which is fine, because with the drama of family life in Boweryville, I honestly didn’t have the brain capacity to handle any more.

The day before the funeral, I receive an email, asking if I would come for an interview the day after the funeral. Knowing how much sleep I’d had (very little) and how much needed to be after the burial (very much) I requested the following day – which happened to be Friday the 13th.

I should share that this is a business operated on a family farm and I felt it was rather providential that only weeks after severing one farm from my life, that there might be an opportunity to have a new one enter it. A drive-by of the establishment gave me a heads-up of what to expect and how one might approach an interview there. I decided to tone down my usual appearance, since the funky hair, full war-paint and dynamic-or-I’maseriousworkinggirl ensemble might be overbearing for this occasion.

You have NO idea how hard I had to look to find this picture - but totally worth it for the hair alone!

I enter the building in perfect time for my interview and I’m introduced to the lady who will interview me. She’s having a reaction to me, and it ain’t positive. She looks me up and down and the eyebrows go up. What. The. Hell?

We settle in a side room and the first question is rather direct, and to the point.

“So, why did YOU apply for THIS job?” she asks.

Cue crickets.

What she meant to say is, “Why does someone who dresses and looks like you do, want to work on a farm?” So I tell her I grew up on a farm. Her eyebrows shoot up again. She doesn’t believe me! I can’t believe it, but I’m on the sharp end of a stereotype! She can’t see me on farm and talking crops. Little does she know, but I have stories of prolapsed calf beds that can rival that of a veterinarians. I explain about the farm I grew up on, the animals we had, the life I enjoyed there. I tell her about showing horses, grooming and tacking them – about the laying hens we had as well as the pigs. She’s no poker player. She’s doubtful.

We talk about what the job is, what the pay is (:|) what the industry is and what the needs are for promoting and communicating their message in the 21st Century. I broach the subject of the first generation website they are currently using, just in time for her husband to join us.

“Website people have been trying to tell us what to do with our website for years!” he proclaimed. “They don’t know our company. They don’t know our product. Our website is fine for our customers!”

And that, my friends, was the death knell of this conversation.

There’s no point in hiring a communications hack if you have nothing new to communicate. Just sayin’.

I left the interview satisfied that I’d given it my all. I didn’t expect to hear back from them to tell me I didn’t get the job. It would have been a waste of both of our time.

Imagine my surprise when the following Tuesday comes around and First Born Son tells me I’ve got a job. He heard a message being left on the machine from my lady friend – saying how I’d make a great addition to the team.

Huh?

I play it again. Still very confused. The Big Guy listens to it and comes to the conclusion that this lady was not at the same interview I was at. Certainly not on the same page! I think it over and my stomach, which has always been a great gauge for any decision I make, tells me this isn’t for me.

So I call her and tell her I’m surprised she offered me the job, given that I didn’t think she particularly cared for me. She’s stunned. I’m stunned that she’s stunned.

I spend the next few minutes explaining that I don’t think we are a good fit, and she spends the following minutes trying to convince me that we are. She wants to better the wage offer, but would like to do it in person – would I come down and meet her son, who runs the business?

Against my better judgement, I agree to, but not before I point out that there needs to be a creative environment, regardless of who they hire, otherwise, why bother with a marketing position?

The sequel interview goes no better. The son is nice, but the conversation is stilted. I feel like the bride in an arranged marriage – that I’ll just agree to this proposition. They offer a “bit” more money and I ask for the evening to make a decision. All the way home, I know the decision is basically made. If for no other reason, than my gut is telling me this isn’t going to work.

“Your gut is never wrong,” The Big Guy tells me. “Let it go.”

So I do and pray for a sign that I didn’t make a big mistake. An hour later I go through the job websites and find four new prospects….

The Aftermath of a Funeral

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I know the calendar has May as a full month – but I can say with all certainty that the last time I looked at the calendar and processed the date, it was May 6.

And here we are now in the last full week of the month.

In a nutshell – life in Boweryville exploded about two weeks ago. The Big Guy’s mother passed away. While it was not unexpected, it was sudden. We knew her end was in sight, but certainly not within days. He and I found ourselves in the position of aiding his father through the demanding and emotional pitfalls that planning a funeral can be.

Throughout this experience, I found myself faced with huge ironies that I would like to share – in no particular order.

1. People forget who the funeral is for. Firstly, the deceased and secondly, the surviving spouse or offspring. Any decision that we were faced with making was filtered this way – Would she have wanted this? Does my Father-in-Law want this? Does TBG or his brother want this? Anyone outside of that pecking order was simply not considered. There was a person or two who would make comments about decisions that were made – and I would refer to the Pecking Order. I don’t think you have to apologize for that.

2. Funerals bring out the worst in people. While it’s lovely and romantic to think of loved ones clutching Kleenex to their chest and gently weeping, so great is their pain, the cold hard truth is, there will always be one asshole individual who will try to make ANY situation about themselves. This is not the time for drama. This is not the time to lay a claim. This is not the time to purge yourself of your past regrets. Get. Over. Yourself.

3. There have been many times in my life as a Mother that I have been proud of my children, but never more so that during the day of visitation and the next day at the funeral. My boys stood and shook hands with hundreds of people they didn’t know. They watched people react emotionally and they handled themselves brilliantly. My heart swelled when I was paid a very sincere compliment from someone who appreciated how well the boys conducted themselves. They made eye contact, they smiled when appropriate, they answered questions – usually the same ones – sincerely and politely, for hours. While it made my heart full to see them do that, it nearly made me burst with pride when someone else actually noticed it too.

4. Have I mentioned yet that people are assholes inconsiderate? One person who came to pay his respects actually said to my boys “Well, you’d better get used to being in this line-up because with the age of the people around you, you’re going to be doing this a lot more often!” While First Born Son and Second Born Son were busy picking their chins off the floor, I wondered to myself what his ride home was going to be like – as his wife looked ready to put him in a box herself!

5. For all the times people have thought us crazy for buying shirts, ties and suits for our kids, it totally pays off at a time like this. Second Born Son is not naturally drawn to the button shirt and tie like his brother is. But when I advised he would be wearing a tie for two days – as well as his suit for the funeral, he merely nodded – he knew it was not only proper, but required. I loved him even more for it.

6. A part II to that thought….we realized that we needed to buy SBS shoes – and ended up getting him a pair of MENS SIZE 7 DRESS SHOES. I’m in distress over this! My baby is wearing MENS SHOES! The only thing that saved my breaking heart was his humor. When presented with several Oxford styles as well as a pair of more on-trend slip ons, he replied “I don’t care what dress shoes look like, as long as they are comfortable. I only care what my running shoes look like.” Good to have your priorities Little Man!

7. You truly find out who your friends are in times like this. People you would never anticipate hearing from will show up at your door with a pie, cheese tray or other gesture of kindness. This gives you faith in humanity, not to mention about 10 extra pounds. I think I have to avoid lasagna and funeral sandwiches for a couple of weeks.

8. Regret is a useless emotion. The first time I heard it was in college, but this saying has become my motto. I want to live my life without regret, and I feel,  so far, I’ve done well. Throughout this experience I’ve had a front row seat to actions and consequences regarding regret. Death always wins – none of us gets out of here alive, so you might as well make your choices and actions so you go in a direction without regret.

9. Not every death is a bad thing. When you see someone will not improve, and you know there is suffering involved – all you want for them is peace. If death brings peace, so be it. The living are there to console each other.

10. I need to give some serious thought to my final wishes. I cannot imagine giving my husband, children and parents the chore of planning and imagining my needs and wants. The pain one goes through to create a sendoff their loved one would like is heart wrenching. No one should have to go through that.

Don’t Give Up On Me Just Yet!

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Good Morning!

Just a quick blurb to let you know that priorities have shifted for the next couple of days and I won’t be able to post anything meaningful for a day or two. Bear with me, won’t you?

The Ache

/ Sarah / 1 Comment

I am the first to admit, I’ve had a blessed life. Sure, I’ve experienced disappointment and frustration, but I’ve managed to avoid the type of sorrow that leaves an ache in your heart.

Until now.

I’ve mentioned before about the special connection The Big Guy and I have with The Farm. We’ve put The Farm in the middle of our world, from being the first place we took our children to after we brought them home from the hospital, to taking the liberty of enjoying the view, history and even equipment. It is where we met and we had dreams of one day making it our home. This was not to be.

Saturday was the auction. Generations of possessions were sold to the highest bidder. There was an erryness to the exercise, watching bobsleds and snowshoes being snapped up by strangers who would no doubt dust them off and mount them in their own homes, or God Forbid, in a restaurant somewhere. Claiming this family’s history as their own – it seems so false.

For me, already tightly wound emotionally and apprehensive for my three “boys”, it seemed the comments made by some strangers were too painful to bear.

“What are you looking for Fred?”

“Nothin’, I just had to come and check this out. This is history you know. It’s a Century Farm. Can you believe that? The family is just letting it go?”

I grit my teeth and keep walking.

“Look at that house, it’s something else. I can’t imagine letting something like that fall out of the family.”

But the worst were the most pointed comments. One directed right at me.

“Hey, Sarah! Why didn’t you and The Big Guy buy The Farm?”

The urge to become physical was difficult to overcome. I must confess – I was not classy about my response, but suffice it to say I cleared the air regarding the fact. Sometimes pain cannot be contained. It surfaced once again later in the day, as First Born Son did us proud and was hoisting his family’s artifacts for bidding. A couple beside me began a conversation about the boy in the green shirt.

“Look at him, isn’t that sad?” said the First Ignorant Person.

“Who? The kid with the green shirt?” said the Second Ignorant Person.

FIP – “Yes, look at him up there, you can just tell he loves being here.”

SIP – “Umhum.” (In agreement)

FIP – “It’s too bad he’ll never be able to have this place. Can’t imagine.”

Yup, I snapped.

Pissed off Mother – “Are you talking about the kid with the green shirt?”

FIP – startled “Uh, yes…”

POM – “Well that’s my son – and I can tell you, we had NO say in the future of the farm.”

The look on my face, and the tone of my voice, shut the conversation down.

My pride of FBS was matched by that for Second Born Son. While he was given the boring and then frantic job of directing traffic, he was then appointed the task of running bid sheets from the auction site back to the trailer where the clerk would reconcile the amounts bid against the funds paid. He did such a good job that the man who was recording the bids and giving them to SBS said in all the auctions he’s done, he’s never had such a young man do such a good job. He even made a point of stopping before he left to compliment The Big Guy and myself. We had every reason to feel proud.

That pride resurged when Uncle B gave FBS the keys to the Massey Ferguson and the John Deere. The auctioneer needed each tractor started to demonstrate that they were in sound shape. FBS was the last member of our family to start those tractors. When the auction ended and the new owners were claiming their purchases, FBS stood by the tractors, helping them with small details and then standing forlornly as each one drove away. The sight of him standing there, watching those tractors leave will haunt me, such was the expression on his face.

I have taken well over 1000 photos of the farm to document a place that has a special place in our hearts. I want to have something for us to look at later, and perhaps show future generations. Mostly, I don’t want the boys memories to dim.

 Because we didn’t want to leave that day – afraid of what leaving would mean, I asked Second Born Son if he wanted to take some more pictures of his favorite place, the hay mow. Many adventures have been lived in this mow. It’s the place SBS asks to go to every time we are at The Farm. Now most of the bales are gone, but a handful remained, and with the sun sinking lower in the Western sky, it was a perfect opportunity to shoot something special that would mean something to him.

And while I hope this photo brings him joy, I can’t help but feel The Ache getting even stronger.

This post is going live early May 2, 2011. The Farm will officially be sold today.