children

About a Girl and her Horse(s)

/ Sarah / Leave a comment

I could say I love horses, but that would be grossly inaccurate.

Saying I love horses is like saying, the ocean is damp. A gargantuan understatement.

I can remember riding the first pony I was able to call my own. Squirt was brown and stubborn. I was maybe five. Years later, a friend of ours was looking for a place to board her horse and since I was older, she felt he would be a good fit for me. He was a buckskin named Sir Twirp – and he was a Twirp, with a choppy gait, but he was fun. But he wasn’t mine. Neither was Pip, his stable mate and a lovely, kind and generous mount. He was perfect for me to learn how to show in the ring. He knew more than I did. But, sigh, he wasn’t mine.

Willow was mine.

He was a retired Thoroughbred whose coat glowed red when he was spiffed up. Looking at him was like looking at the sun. Sitting on him was like being on top of the world. I looked down at everyone else. I’m sure he’s the reason I’m drawn to tall horses. He was beautiful and strong and faster than a tween had any business riding. He probably could have killed me and almost succeeded when we were at a fair and he caught an eyeful of the gravel track that surrounded the fair grounds. He took off so fast, and so hard, that he could have given me whiplash. If it wasn’t for the quick thinking of a horse-savvy bystander, I may have grown up in Texas. He pulled his head down and kept him from leaving the fair grounds.

But Willow had health issues and needed more care than we were able to provide. It was decided to sell him, and also decided not to tell me – likely in hopes of avoiding the fit I would have pitched. Finally one day a truck and trailer arrived with some people I vaguely knew. I was sent to my room where I had the mother of all break downs. I could see the paddock from my bedroom window. I could see the new owner reach across and snap her lead on Willow’s halter. I remember yelling and crying so hard that I pressed my head into the window for counter pressure and ended up with a lovely crease in my forehead.

And anyone who knows me knows this; I. Don’t. Cry. Like I watched Old Yeller and didn’t cry. Like I can watch The Notebook and not cry. But put on The Horse Whisperer, and I have to have a moment. I don’t even know if I can buy a copy of War Horse because the scene in No Man’s Land is the only time I’ve ever cried in a theatre.

It took a while to get over Willow, but when I was older, and my parents felt I was more capable of caring for a horse, we tried again. We bought an Appaloosa filly and named her Darlin. She’s the one who planted me in a stone pile, but she was the sweetest thing otherwise. I worked with her for months to make her gentle; got her used to be handled and help put weight on her before it was time to get her under the saddle. I learned a lot about relating to horses, which I feel helped me later on when it came to relating to people. It helped me realize I like horses more.

When we left the farm, Darlin was sold, but I kept my tack. It would have been easy enough to sell it at our auction, but the idea of cutting all aspects of horse from my life was too much to bear. One day, I told myself, I’ll have a horse again.

Since then I’ve been blessed with very generous friends. They have invited me to go for rides (Thank you KW!) and even allowed me to roll around in their pasture fields to enjoy quality time with their equine (Thank you SH!) and I look forward to even more new babies with an upcoming session, (Hopefully next week SS?) Being around horses fills a piece of my soul. I actually have a physical reaction; tightening of the chest, faster pulse, a sense of contentment that is difficult to describe. I’m home. I watch old friends show horses in the local fall fair. I get the same overwhelming desire to grab a saddle and bridle and find the nearest bareback. It’s the smell of leather, of horse.

My boys know how much I love horses. Second Born Son, on one of our recent road trips, asked me as he admired a field of mommas and their babies; “Why don’t you just go out and buy a horse, Mom?”

I explained to him that owning a horse isn’t like buying a new toy or a lawn mower. Even buying a dog is less of a commitment. A horse relies on you every day. If you don’t feel like walking the dog, he’ll wait until later, but a horse needs you regardless of how you feel. There are no holidays. That aspect of my life is already tapped out. I want to be a great mom and wife, daughter, sister, friend and employee. There’s not much left of me after all of that.

Then there is the matter of cost. While I certainly don’t want my children to feel I am “doing without” because of them, the fact is there are priorities in my life and a luxury like making good on a childhood promise isn’t up there right now. It’s not say that it never will be.

I’m just more focused on their childhood memories.

Until then, I’ll rely on the kindness of friends for my horsey fix!

The Call of Nature

/ Sarah / 3 Comments

In honour of Father’s Day this weekend, and as a general Public Service Message to Humanity, I offer the following Skill Testing Question:

Which is Correct?

A)

 

Yes, this is a toilet. In my house. My parents are ever so proud of the education and training they paid for that has allowed me the skill to post a photo of the hopper on the internet.

That’s not the point right now. We’ll get on journalistic high ground another time.

For now, the point is – this is considered the Universally Acceptable Position for a Toilet. It’s also known traditionally known as “Ladies’ Choice”. This way the female user will not have any issue using the feature. And by issue, I think the women readers will acknowledge the “Splash Down” is to be avoided at all costs.

~ OR ~

B)

 

 

This is the Universally Accepted Position To Indicate That Only Men Live in this Abode. The lifted seat allow more area surface for the male user. Why does a male user require more surface area than a female user, you may ask?

It’s simple really. Every since young boys were taught about writing their names in the snow, light sabres and Cheerios, they have required more surface area. Something to do with “creativity”. I’d it has more to do with poor eyesight and altitude.

I doubt our forefathers were caught “doing battle” in outhouses, however I’ve been wrong more than once this week…. But you have to admit, it is hard to imagine Great Grandma Ethel losing her load over the mess left out in the two-holer.

“CECIL! CEDRIC! How many times do I have to tell you that if you are going to make at the same time, you need to use the Hudson Bay catalogue to clean up after yourselves!!!!????”

It also has to do with the less fair of the species having the luxury of being able to use the World as their private urinal. Think of it like you would a cat. When you have a house cat, it uses the litter box and understands the niceties of indoor living. Once that cat goes outside, it reverts back to its most primal instinct and will be spraying all over the patio doors.

Just like men.

Once they get a chance to void in Wild Open Spaces, trying to get them to contain and restrain themselves is almost futile.

Because of the mess male users leave behind (again think of trajectory here, people) I have suggested these users assume the effective and tidy method of use that requires one to SIT on the potty. The negative feedback to this suggestion can only be the result of fear. Fear of falling off, that is. Which is why I’m working on copyrighting a toilet seatbelt.

In all seriousness, as the sole female on this property (Second Born Son wanted a female dog, but I told him I was the only bitch girl in the family.) I have had somewhat of an epiphany.

Is it fair for me to expect three males to keep the seat down on the toilet solely for my use and comfort? Whatever happened to Majority Rule? Being the truly democratic individual that I am, I felt that it was only fair that we find a common ground.

But no one liked the idea of the boys using a Port-A-Potty, so I had to come up with another solution. Which, if you will permit me, IS the correct answer….

 

C)

 

When you think about it – THIS IS HOW THE MANUFACTURER DISPLAYS IT! You don’t walk in to a show room with a stunning four-piece washroom set and the throne is sitting there with the seat up!

I hate walking in and seeing an open toilet. Call me crazy. To me, it’s just a big gaping hole filled with questionable water waiting to catch my earrings, cell phone, keys, infant child.

There should be no battle of the sexes over the loo. It’s a case of common sense and practicality. Both men and women would have to “close” and “open” the appliance to use it, so there is no discrimination!! I know – BRILLIANT, right?

Now that I have saved Humanity from this conundrum, I’m off to create World Peace.

 

 

Choices, choices…

/ Sarah / 2 Comments

“Regret is a useless emotion.”

This is my favourite quote. It came from my Journalism teacher, Bob Trotter, who would know a thing or two about the topic. I have applied this quote to much of my life. Including last night.

I had TONNES to do. Just got in the door, planning to grab a bite to eat and sit down to some photo editing and writing. After that there was a mountain of house work that I could get in to. Second Born Son had other ideas.

“Why don’t you come outside and do sidewalk chalk with me?” he asked. I was thrilled he had dug them out because I’ve come close on a couple of occasions to throwing them out. It seemed the boys have out grown it.

I had a choice here. Work, or be with the kid. The kid isn’t going to ask me to hang out with him much longer. I’ve already noticed a difference in his brother – damn hormones! Why do I work? To provide for my family. Isn’t my job as a mother include showing my kids how to have fun, as well as a strong work ethic? I’d been sitting at a computer most of the day – did I really want to sit down at one again?

I made a compromise. How about I take pictures of him doing sidewalk chalk? I am, as you know, still breaking in the new camera. He agreed to that – if we talked more about how to take pictures, because he’s going to be a photographer when he grows up, you know! He had already completed his drawing of me. (He always puts long hair on me, and yet as long as he’s been on this earth, the longest it’s been is to my shoulders.)

Then he decided he wanted to play Frisbee. We had done this earlier in the week since it was a great way to get his arm moving again.

<PAUSE>

Great trip to the specialist. The fracture has healed and may take care of the complication I mentioned previously. He was told to start moving the arm and we have booked physiotherapy for him. We have one more follow-up appointment, but we are beyond thrilled.

<PLAY>

So we got the Frisbee out. Can Mom still shoot and catch a Frisbee?

For the record – No.

But it was a nice evening, so we spent some time goofing around with cameras, lights and Frisbees.

Then along came Roman…..

Funnily enough, from the day SBS broke his arm, Roman has been patient and gentle with him. He would lick his fingers and sit softly beside him. Now that the collar and cuff are off, apparently, it’s No Holds Barred. (Fear not – this is not the broken arm.)

Then, like most good things, it went too far, and someone had to “Drop the Hammer.”

“GENTLE Roman! Take it easy. GENTLE!”

Before you know it, everyone is friends again, and we are back to the game.  (A Fun Fact for you. First Born Son wore that shirt A WEEK AGO. He got it for CHRISTMAS!)

Speaking of FBS, he’d been holed up in his room working on a Culminating Project – one of three he needs to turn in within a week. Don’t feel too bad for him, he’s only got two exams and has had more field trips in one year than I had in my ENTIRE. EDUCATIONAL. CAREER.

Yes, I’m working on the bitterness…

So FBS came outside for a break and decided to join us, which was nice because he doesn’t “play” often.

We had a delay of game because Roman and SBS got into it…AGAIN!

SBS is the only one Roman treats like a chew toy. But SBS kinda likes it. Except for the dog-butt-in-the-face part. It was obvious Roman needed to burn off some energy, so FBS got out his toys.

Running…running…running….

SBS sat out on this because the ball is heavier than it looks and Roman will MOW YOU DOWN if you are in between him and ball. We watched “safely” from the sidelines.

After a couple of minutes, it was time to get in on the act, and a lively game of Keep Away started….

Before you know it, I’ve got three tired boys! Lots of laughs, lots of photos and lots of grass stained knees!

So, in short, I didn’t get the dishes done until 10. I didn’t edit the photos I took earlier in the week. I didn’t write the story I have ready to go. I didn’t fold laundry until 9.

…and I don’t regret the choice I made last night.

Attack of the Shutter Bugs

/ Sarah / 5 Comments

I went on a road trip today.

I bought a camera.

And I created a monster….

Second Born Son joined me for a trip to the International Centre where Spring Exposure 2012 was being held. He’s always loved movies and idea of movie making, so I thought he’d get a kick out of a photography showcase. Close enough, right?

From the minute he walked in the door, he was enthralled. He never complained when I spent ages at the Nikon exhibit. He didn’t murmur when I drooled over lenses. He loved the live models set up with top of the line light kits, in front of gorgeous backdrops and props. Everyone walks around wearing their gear and shooting.

“Doesn’t this just make you want to go home and start shooting, Mom?” he asked urgently. I agreed, it did.

After picking up a subscription to a photo mag, I started looking seriously at the camera body I had been researching and coveting for some time. I love my D90 and have no plans to part with it, but I’ve long wanted a back up and with the capabilities of some of the new models, I can do more the things I’m unable to accomplish with my little workhorse.

There was a show special for the camera I wanted. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hand over that kind of coin, when sale rep walked past us at the counter. In his hand was the camera I wanted. He said it was “used” and advised me of the price – substantially below what the show special was. He then challenged me to find a mark on this camera…

I couldn’t.

Apparently some morons people who have far more resources than I do, buy new models, hold them for six months or so, then turn them in for the NEXT new model. Sales Rep said he knows some of these cameras (and I would not doubt my is one of them) have never taken an image. Don’t ask me the logic, but if it means paying roughly half price for a perfect good camera, SIGN ME UP! This camera didn’t have the strap attached or the LCD cover off. Just a charged battery.

As Sales Rep rings the purchase, he stops.

“Oops, I screwed up on the price,” he said.

Greeeaaat, here’s the other shoe dropping.

“It’s ($75 less).”

Plus the $25 off coupon for any purchase over $300, I pretty much turned to SBS and yelled “START THE CAR, STAR THE CAR!” a la Ikea, cuz we were freaking STEALING this camera!

An hour later, I was STILL saying, “I’m so excited! I can’t believe how much I got it for! I’m so excited.”

SBS was definitely bit by the Shutter Bug. When I stopped my ranting, he piped up with his thoughts for photos he would take with the point and shoot at home.

Sure enough, we were no sooner in the driveway , and he was gone.

 

 

He wants the flower to be out of focus in the foreground and the background to be sharp, he said. Hmmm, ok. Interesting choice, but I’m liking it!

 

Then he grabs a chair and hauls it around the property. Let’s remember here that he only has one arm that’s functioning. Yes, we have some minor post-production, as per the Artist!

 

I really like the composition of this one, and the treatment he suggested!

 

I love the choices he’s making already. He asked if I would post these on the blog because he thinks they might be good enough. He thinks he wants to be a photographer.

 

I think he already is!

The Shroud of Mystery

/ Sarah / Leave a comment

As I mentioned before, The Bowery Girl is the latest version of The Bowery – a column I wrote for a community newspaper a lifetime ago.

Back then, as today, I wrote about pretty much anything I chose to. I think the editor was simply glad to have one less thing to assign me.

Regardless – I have always found humour in the damnedest places. Which is where one of my Mother’s favourite column came from. Since she learned I was “live” with my writing, she’s asked when I would share this one. I actually dove into the tote I stored my newsprint life in, but couldn’t find it.  So….for my Mom, I’m rewriting it….sheesh….

My Granny was my Dad’s mother. She was a tiny, tough, Englishwoman. Around her you WOULD drink tea (hence my life-long aversion to the beverage to this day), and you would be scolded for eating HER chocolate covered graham cracker cookies. Why she would bring these around two young girls and NOT think we would inhale them is beyond me. I’m sure she was distressed that my sister and I were not orderly and well-behaved as young ladies should be. We had the run of a farm with neighbours far enough away that they’d never hear your sister scream when you pounded the crap out of her……..ahem.  Around Granny you did NOT shout and you certainly did not use profanity. There’s a whole other entry on the time she heard my father in the barn over the intercom during a particularly stressful morning of chores…

When I was a teenager, Granny died. It was a blessing since she was suffering from a dementia and the last few years were difficult, especially for my father. Now organizing a funeral for a parent is stressful, but this funeral was becoming BRUTAL. Aside from the regular bureaucracy one has to go through when a hospital and nursing home are involved, there were the stipulations laid out by my Granny. We had to get her in the ground ASAP!

Let me explain….

When my Granny was a younger woman, her mother (my great-granny) would tell her daughters that when she died, she wanted to be buried in nothing but a shroud, “Just like our Lord Jesus.” What ever possessed her to decide this was never fully explained, but it was simply understood that these are her wishes. When Granny’s mother died, her sisters refused to bury the elderly woman naked, in a shroud, pointing out it was not “proper”.  So their mother was buried in a “proper” dress and “proper” pearls. Likely with appropriate shoes that had a modest heel. This outraged my Granny.

Therefore, she took on the concept. SHE would be buried naked in a shroud, “Just like our Lord Jesus.” This would honour her religious convictions, as well as her mother’s legacy.

<PAUSE>

Can I point out here that my Granny was ANGLICAN? In anything I have come to understand about religion, there aren’t too many Christian-based beliefs that required wrapping one’s dearly departed in a sheet to honour God. Judaism requires a quick burial, but I am aware of that rule being stretched to 48 and even 72 hours after death. But I only took Religion/Cult/Occult in college as an elective, so I don’t pretend to be an expert…

<PLAY>

When the time came to plan the funeral, my Dad was working as quickly as he could to ensure it was a quick turnaround. My aunt was trying to get back into the country, therefore the little “details” of the funeral were left to my Mother. And she was having some issues. We all knew that Granny wanted to be buried in a shroud “Just like our Lord Jesus”, but was having a really hard time envisioning this tiny frail woman being in the ground with nothing more on her than a bed sheet.

This is when “logic” kicked in.

Mom decides to dress Granny in one of the cozy track suits she wore in the nursing home. She picked the pink one, well, because, well, it’s a visual thing right? She can LOOK like she has nothing on. Then she comes into my room.

“I need a pair of socks,” she said.

“Oh, ok.” I said.

“Make sure it’s a pair you don’t plan on getting back,” she adds.

I give her a couple of pairs, which are deemed unsuitable. Finally I give her a pair of “pom-pom” socks. She picks a pair that are white with pink pom-poms. Even through my Granny is yet to be in the ground, I’m fairly certain she’s spinning.

So with the socks in hand, my mother collects the other items and they are delivered to the funeral home. Oh to be a fly on the wall when the undertaker saw what he’d have to put his latest client in. Thankfully, the casket is closed. Granny is in the ground JUST under the time frame allotted and we are all taking license with the “shroud” concept.

I have since told my mother that her mother-in-law would come back to haunt her for failing to deliver on the final request, and even suggested that she, herself, take on the idea. She’s not interested in being buried “Just like our Lord Jesus.” Guess that takes me off the hook!

We’ve all heard stories young women taken tragically and buried in their wedding dresses, or perhaps a teen who was a cheerleader being laid to rest in her uniform. Men can be buried in military or sport uniforms, or other apparel that has special significance to them.

So I can only imagine what someone might think, years later, if they ever had to open my grandmother’s coffin.

“Look Joe, this one was a GYMNAST!”

Sticks & Stones

/ Sarah / 6 Comments

When I was two years old, I fell down two stairs and broke my arm.

My mother said she was devastated, and felt like the worst mother EVER when she brought me home from the hospital with the World’s Smallest Cast. People gave her funny looks, openly judging this possibly “abusive” woman and her victim child. What makes this story a chuckle is that when my father tried the pull off pjs, he accidentally pulled off my cast, so thin was my wee arm. The loss of the cast traumatized me, she said, as I thought it was part of my body. Thankfully, at this point, the fracture was healed. My father’s self esteem; in pieces.

Then I broke my collar-bone. I was five and didn’t bounce that well off the back of my dad’s pickup truck when he was “keeping an eye” on me. I did well for a couple of years, and was almost injury free. In Grade 7 my mother and I tacked up for an after school ride. It ended abruptly after my horse launched me into a rock pile in the first few minutes. I remember hold up my fettucine limp right arm and exclaiming to my mother, “Yup, it’s broke.”

Due to complications with the break (I came to while it was being set, and screamed so loud my father burst into the treatment room – not a good scene.) they decided to keep me in overnight. When I finally dozed off hours later, my mother was by my side, still in the clothes she wore when we went for our ride. Maybe she was avoiding going home, where my father declared he was going, to shoot the horse that dislodged me. (Fear not, he didn’t.)

I honestly couldn’t appreciate what my parents felt, watching me in these various scenarios. Kids get hurt, bones break. Big deal – they heal! It seemed like they were over reacting. (I’m not going to bore you with the details of my adventures that resulted in stitches. Believe me, that list is just as long.)

Then I became a mother.

And I had to take First Born Son to the hospital for a broken collar-bone.

In fairness to me, there was A LOT of stress going around and some extenuating circumstances that made this particular visit more frustrating that in might have been.

The doctor was very good in dealing with FBS and was direct when he told me, “It’s broken.” But one look at that X-ray and I LOST. MY. EVER. LOVIN’. MIND. Something in my head snapped and I had such a rush of adrenaline that made me feel like I could have thrown the X-ray machine across the emergency department. I’m not even really kidding about that. I was sad, scared and pissed off all the same time. Stike that. I was just pissed off. This injury was ill-timed and unfair, and I was beside myself just thinking about the consequences for my child. I would gladly let the doctor break MY collarbone, if it meant my son wouldn’t have to suffer. I could feel the irrational anger getting the better of me, and so I sat down in the examination room to cool off before they brought FBS back to me.

And passed out.

When I came to, I was laying on the cot and FBS was staring at me, about two inches away from my face and a look of desperation I don’t think I’ve seen since. Yup, my kid’s first time in emerg and it becomes about me. Let me know when the trophies are being handed out, cuz I’m MOTHER OF THE YEAR!

Then just last Wednesday I was greeted by my beloved sons coming through the door. Instead of their regular chorus, I was lifted from my seat by Second Born Son’s blood curdling scream. Sobs and snot later, and we find out that just before he opened the door, he wrenched his arm badly and it is sensitive to the touch. He finally calms enough to tell me how much pain he’s in, and that he heard a “pop”. I’m thinking dislocated shoulder. Hooo-ray.

We get to emerg and the one doctor I never want to see again is on call. He ignores me and tentatively pokes at SBS. He says it looks like muscle damage, possibly a ligament. If’ it’s not better in two days, get an ultrasound, he said. We get a sling, instructions to make sure he takes it off to keep the muscles in the arm moving, and a hasty exit.

But my Mommy Sense is tingling. I don’t like what he said.

The next morning, I call my GP and he gets us in Friday afternoon. The upper arm/shoulder area is almost doubled in size. He advises to go ahead with the ultrasound, but suggests we add an X-ray.

Today we get into the first booking we can for an ultrasound, and the technician starts with the X-ray. We don’t need an ultrasound, because the first image tells the tale.

“It’s broke,” she said. I check myself – not going to lose my load this time am I??

NO.

Not only is it broken, but we have a complication and have to see a specialist. As the doctor reading the x-ray goes over the various possibilities, I find myself having a completely different conversation – with myself. It is harsh and rather one-sided.

“He’s gone five days with a broken arm. What the HELL kind of mother ARE you?”

“Why did I listen to the idiot doctor about taking the arm out of the sling??”

“It’s been almost a week and the best we could do for him was Children’s Advil!!!”

“Dear God, It’s Sarah. Can you take the broken arm from him and give it to me? Totally serious here, God!! Just let me get him home safely and you can do the arm!”

As sappy as I thought it was that my parents reacted the way they did when I was young, I realize that I’m no better worse. Looking at my child’s body when it is broken is easily one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. The fierce reaction I have to it, and the anger I direct at myself, is nothing short of primal. Your typical Momma Bear syndrome.

So it looks like I need to cut my parents some slack…

…and hope my kids do the same for me.

Yup, I brought him along for garbage picking. I'm tellin' ya, I've got a a spot on the mantel for my Mother Of The Year trophy!!!!