Family Ties

Father’s Day

/ Sarah / 2 Comments

While I do try to keep my instalments somewhat regular, life has intervened, and taken precedence. My Father recently died and my priority has been to be with him as long as I could. Today was a difficult day and I feel that the best way to honour my Father is share the Eulogy I read at his funeral. We will resume with regular opinionated, funny and irreverent Bowery Girls in the future.

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Once upon a time, I had a part time job, and my employer was giving me a hard time about requesting more hours, although some of the other student waitresses were getting additional hours. She came back with a rather unusual statement: “Do you think you’re special because you’re D.B.’s(insert my father’s name here) daughter??”

I shared this question with my parents when I returned home, and we all laughed about it, because of the grandiose nature of the statement. “D.B.’s daughter!”

Obviously this person had an image of our father that wasn’t necessarily accurate. He certainly wasn’t egotistical or haughty. If anything our father was down to earth and unassuming.

As I reflected on this anecdote recently, I couldn’t help but think, what kind of man did this employer think he was?

What kind of man did I think he was? And then it came to me. Admittedly our father was not like other fathers. He wasn’t the kind of macho, tough guy that would show you how to throw a ball or change the oil in your car. He wasn’t into sports, unless you count car racing, and you would rarely see Dad tinkering away and fix something. He just didn’t have the patience.

But there were many things about my Duddy that made him unique.

My father was the kind of boy who developed a work ethic at a very young age, and took over his brother’s paper routes, when he lost interest, to supplement the routes he already had.

My father was the kind of boy who charmed the little girls in his class, and wound up moving next door to the girl who ended up charming him.

My father was the kind of young man who understood his role in his family and never shied away from responsibility and duty.

My father was the kind of young man who impressed employers. Beyond agreeable and hardworking, he had a sincerity that shone out from him, which is why customers and co-workers enjoyed him so much. He enjoyed people and they felt valued because of it.

My father was the kind of young man who didn’t play games when it came to courting. He was respectful, kind and the kind of boy any mother would want their daughter to bring home.

My father was the kind of man, who on the day of the birth of his first child, had to leave his young wife and newborn daughter at the hospital, and then do what we are faced with doing today, say goodbye to his own father.

My father was the kind man who decided at 32 years of age to walk away from a promising career he had worked more than 15 years to build. He did this because he didn’t want to be a weekend father; the kind of man who valued his job so highly that he never saw his family. His family meant everything to him.

My father was the kind of man who jumped into a career and lifestyle he knew very little about, but loved and grew to understand, even if he couldn’t control the weather, or pigs, or farm machinery.

My father was the kind of man who would sit on a tractor and tell me when a butterfly landed on his arm, that he thought it was my grandfather, his father-in-law, and how proud Grandpa George would be of us all living, and loving the farm life.

My father was the kind of Dad who told everyone how proud he was that he had not one, but TWO daughters, and made his daughters feel that they were every bit as good as a boy, in a time and place where sons were more prized than daughters. This set those daughters up for a lifetime of believing there wasn’t any reason why they couldn’t hold their own against any male.

My father was the kind of man who loved people and thrived being with them, whether it was volunteering with the Kinsmen Club, the K40, the Co-op, the hospital board, his work in retail, or simply hosting a family reunion with my mother at their home.

My father was the kind of man who barged into an operating room where my fractured arm was being cast, because I had broken through the anesthetic and he heard me crying out from his post in the waiting room.

My father was also the kind of man that threatened to shoot the horse I was riding when I broke said arm, but in the end left her fully tacked in her pen.

My father was the kind of man who loved to dance in the family room with me, my sister and my mother, and, eventually, my husband-to-be so that he could keep up with the Dancing Bowers. He was the first one to ask someone to dance, especially if they didn’t have a partner at the time, but he never danced like he did when he danced with my Mother.

My father was the kind of man who should never have been given a chain saw and let loose near trees he felt needed “pruning.”

My father was the kind of man who would say things like, “attaboy girl!”, “when I was a little girl” and referred to loved ones as “ my little Kumquat.”

My father was the kind of man you wanted to emcee your wedding – something he did many times, because he could speak to anyone, anywhere at anytime.

My father couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a .22, but he insisted he was deadly to groundhogs.

My father was the kind of man who was devastated when I was injured, usually on his watch, and liked to call me Stitch because of my various trips to the emergency room.

My father was the kind of man who would rush to defend his daughter, or confront anyone who slighted her, say, by failing to invite her to a birthday party?

My father was the kind of man who could make twigs grow into beautiful flowering plants.

My father was the kind of man who was pooped on not once, but twice, on the Chi Chi Maun, eventually forcing my sister to abandon him for fear she too would enjoy his special brand of “luck”.

My father was the kind of man who taught his daughters how to swim, and to appreciate the fine art of the cannonball. There was a beauty in how he enjoyed being in or near the water, whether it was our pool in the backyard, at the beach in Goderich, or in a more exotic location like Barbadoes, Florida, or Hawaii.

My father was also the kind of man who liked to have his kids with him when he worked, even if it meant scooping one of them out the pool every spring because she kept falling in…with her snowsuit on.

My father was the kind of man who took the job in the haymow, the worst of the crop jobs, because he didn’t want anyone else to suffer in the heat, in spite of the fact that he himself had terrible hay fever.

My father was the kind of man who felt no shame in cramming an overflowing forkful of cake into his mouth.

My father was the kind of man who didn’t care that his neighbors didn’t understand his choice of attire, whether it was a bathing suit and bib overalls, or the stylish leisure suit.

My father was the kind of man who almost always carried his wallet, but was a modern kind of guy, who liked when the lady paid!

My father wore pink before it was cool.

My father was the kind of man who liked to sit in the back of the mini van, and critique your driving; would only stop for a bathroom break if he had to go; and would jump in a co-worker’s car on its way by, when the two of you went in the ditch in your car, but because you were fine, he couldn’t see any point of him being late for work!

My father was the kind of man who was a terrific son and cared for his mother long after dementia robbed her of who he was.

My father was the kind of man his daughters wanted to marry. A man who loved children, was young at heart, and was a father to his children.

My father was the kind of man who was so good at his job, that if his customers came to the store and he wasn’t working, they were known to leave because no one else could put together a suit as well as my Dad could.

My father was the kind of man who was open and welcoming when a boy came along to date one of his daughters, unless that boy proved to be less than deserving. He never interfered, but said how he felt and walked away.

My father was the kind of man who came to my college graduation even after he and I had an argument, and I told him not to come. Although I credit Mom with the save on that one.

My father was the kind of man who kissed me on my cheek, shook my fiancee’s hand and took a walk outside to compose himself after I showed him my engagement ring.

My father was the kind of man who became physically ill the day before my wedding, because he was so used to it being just the four of us, and the idea of our family changing was almost too much for him. Until he realized, it meant he got a son. Then he was happy as a clam.

My father was the kind of man who would help you move, and move, and move, and each time, he’d make sure you had the best flowerbeds in the neighbourhood.

My father was the kind of man who came by himself to the hospital to see his grandson in the days following his birth, because he was at work and it was closer, and he couldn’t wait any longer. And he brought Weurthers because he liked the commercial, and that’s what grandfathers and grandsons were supposed to give each other.

My father was the kind of man who wiped noses, dried tears and changed diapers, once he learned not to pin them to the baby. He loved nibbling toes or chomping a chubby foot – and if you were looking for your kid, just look for Dad and you’d find them.

My father was the kind of man who would come to watch hockey games, even though he could care less about hockey. He would also stay up well past his bedtime to watch ball games featuring players he was related to. He would wear ill-fitting team jackets because he was a proud Poppa.

My father was the kind of man who loved the ties his grandchildren gave him and wore them with pride. Especially the musical ones.

My father was the kind of man who would wake up ahead of everyone else so he could make egg McMuffins for all his kids and grandkids when they slept over.

My father was the kind of man who would never do something that people expected him to do, but would surprise you with an Easter Lily, or like he did on Valentine’s Day this year, show up with a dozen roses – then tell you they were on sale.

My father was the kind of man who worked hard, liked having his hands in the soil and enjoyed sharing the spoils of his labor; whether it was a bundle of asparagus or a handful of Glads.

My father was the kind of man who wasn’t perfect, and battled against his lack of perfection in varying forms, throughout his life. But he was perfect to us.

My father was the kind of man who could face Cancer, and still maintain a sense of humor about things that most people would refuse to discuss, never mind joke about.

My father was the kind of man who would rather joke and be sarcastic before a major surgery, because it was easier to laugh than cry.

You know, it would be easy to be angry and bitter about the past three years, but I am grateful for the time we had. I feel we all made our visits more meaningful, our hugs that much tighter, our I Love Yous that much sweeter. He loved our mother, and all that she has done for him, especially her support over the past three years, loved his daughters as he always has, and adored his grandchildren.

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M&M: You were the first grandchild and we all know how thrilled he was to have a little person in his life again. Poppa always loved kids, and having a grandchild, especially one that loved being his shadow, was all he could ask for. When your parents were married, he said it was doubly difficult, because he felt he was giving two of his girls away. Fortunately, his girls would always come back to him.

First Born Son: Your grandfather would never have asked anyone to name a child in his honor, but no one was prouder than he, when he learned we named you after him. He loved that you were a natural farmer and enjoyed sharing farm and truck magazines with you. Poppa loved your work ethic, ingenuity and entrepreneurial spirit. He was as proud of your accomplishments in sports as in the vegetable garden.

Second Born Son: You are blessed or, perhaps cursed, with resembling your grandfather. You are living reminder to me of my father every time you eat a mouthful of cake, and even more so when you swim. Your love of the beach, your sense of humor and the twinkle in your eye are all things that Poppa loved about you, and will keep his spirit with us.

O: Poppa started keeping track of all the grandkids sayings around the time that you came into the family. You are an old soul and your wit and observations were often reiterated by Poppa, when he shared stories of O. Another one of his water babies, he loved how you could spend all afternoon in the pond and be ready for more the next day.

E: As you now understand, Poppa has a history with spunky little girls, so he was more than ready for another spunky girl when you came to our family. He was pleased to see how you joined in with the other grandkids when it came to chasing frogs at the pond or getting lost on a walking trail.

G: Only one person can name more cars than Poppa, and that’s G. He got a kick out of how much you enjoyed your cars, and how you could remember details about the models and years. You are a boy after his own heart!

Big Guy: You were the son Dad never had. He always took your side against me, and was so very proud of you, as a man, as a husband and especially as a father. I’m not sure what he liked most about you, the fact that you are such a hard worker, or that he could dress you up as your personal stylist.

CK: Dad was pleased that Little Sister found such a wonderful match in you. He loved your sense of humor and hated your ability to fix just about anything, because let’s face it, Dad was no handyman. I think he could see in you the kind of father he was, and he admired you for it.

So for all these things, and for so many more, to answer that person who asked that ridiculous and I suppose, rhetorical question so many years ago, Yes, I do think I’m something special, because I am one of DB’s daughters.
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Winter/Jobs/Exam Stress/Seniors – yes, it all makes sense….

/ Sarah / 2 Comments

Nothing like two jobs hitting me at the same time; one with three days of brain-numbing tech training, the other with just the first really big meeting (everyone meet Sarah/holy-crap what have I gotten myself in to) in the middle of that training, sprinkled with some truly nasty snow storms. Yup – all in the same week folks. It’s how we roll around here.

At least he had snow shovelling to burn off the pre-exam anxiety!

At least he had snow shovelling to burn off the pre-exam anxiety!

So, forgive me for not throwing more out at you last week, but if I had asked any more of my brain, it would have looked just like this…. EHRIAOGHR !!!oanbf [r d9403q bdzfjojb. One could say I saved you from witnessing a visual breakdown, so, you are welcome!

It’s been a pretty crazy week for First Born Son as well. While he only had two exams to write, the “traditional” winter weather forced the schedule back two days, meaning he had to anticipate a math exam two days longer than necessary. Since he is My Son, math is like an allergen to him and he spent those extra days on a borderline hive breakout. Thankfully, he is now done and ready to move on to his second semester.

Which reminded me.

When I was his age (cue the whimsical music and black and white footage) I too loathed exams. When I was in Grade 11 (where he is now) my parents sold our home farm and purchased the land where they now reside. They were building a house which was ready for occupancy over the Christmas holidays. In the chaos of the move, it was lost on all of us that while I would have to transfer to a new high school, I WOULD STILL HAVE TO FINISH EXAMS AT MY OLD SCHOOL.

Since driving back and forth was out of the question, it required some creative thinking to come up with a solution.

That came in the form of  my Gramma. She lived in the same town as my old high school. She lived only three short blocks away from the school itself. What a perfect solution!! Could this be more convenient?

Did I mention she lived in Semi-Care?

So for two weeks, while I finished my exams, I slept at my grandmother’s apartment in a senior care centre. I would try to sneak out to be unseen by the staff doing their daily checks on the residents, since “visitors” were not people who stayed overnight, and certainly not for multiple nights. For those of you who have not had the “pleasure” of staying at such an establishment, let me tell you this; the smells and sounds of a Seniors’ Residence are not something one can get over in the short term. I still have flashbacks!

I would actually take a longer route to school, in the hopes that anyone who noticed me would not connect the fact that I was living in the local seniors’ home. Come on – I was 16. This was THE. WORST. SOLUTION. EVER.

There was no long-term impact for my Gramma, or myself. Or so I thought.

Recently, certain commercials have caught the eye of Second Born Son. He has announced that when he’s an adult, he’s going to move into a Seniors’ Home; after all, with all the down home cooking, bus trips and conga lines they are promoting, he’s thinking it’s Club Med.

I don’t have the heart to tell him about the smells and sounds…..

Christmas Spirit?

/ Sarah / Leave a comment

I love Christmas.

I really should say, I love everything about Christmas, except the people who gripe and chew about how stressful Christmas is. Several times over the past few weeks, I’ve heard or been part of conversations where people are frustrated at how much they have to do, how commercial Christmas is, how people have lost the “real meaning” of Christmas.

And I want to grab them by the shoulders and yell YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT YOURSELF – YOU ARE THE PROBLEM! You see, Christmas isn’t like Thanksgiving, where it floats around the “second week of the full moon yada yada yada”. Its always the 25th of December. It is always the second last week of the year! It never pops ups on the 10th or moves back to the 28th. So what’s the problem?

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Is it the gift giving? I enjoy gift shopping, NOT because I love throngs of people, but because I truly love thinking of my family and loved ones. THAT’s what gift shopping is: thinking of your husband, mother, father, kids, nieces, nephew (you get the picture) and think about what THEY want, what THEY will enjoy opening on Christmas morning and how your present will make THEM feel.  I bought my first gift this year in September for a certain nephew AND I AM SO STOKE ABOUT IT I CANNOT EVEN BEGIN TO TELL YOU!! It makes me smile every time I think about it. I’ve been told I do well in the gift-giving department, and I think that is due to the fact that I really enjoy putting that excitement into each gift. The funny thing is, when I’m thinking of someone else, there’s no pressure!

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Is it the decorating? Because you know, HALLOWEEN is second only to Christmas for retail sales and I don’t hear anyone moaning and groaning about how much work it is to put up their five inflatables, install their graveyard and hang a oversized spider off of the hand-crafted rope web off the third story of their house. Just saying’…

What about the baking? Well I love making food, so that’s not a huge issue for me, but there have been years when I’ve worked through the holidays and had to host a meal as well. As you know, I live in the sticks, but I still found a place that would cater Christmas dinner and it was AWESOME! Why turn yourself into a zombie for one meal when you can spend roughly the same amount of cash and let the praise fall all over you for being a resourceful AND brilliant hostess for having such an amazing meal.

Is it the Christmas cards? Very few people send cards anymore. Over the past 20 years I’ve watched my list get shorter and shorter as I reduce the number of people I send them to. After the season I go through the cards and check off those who send them to us. If you miss three years, you are a GONER my friend. I understand some people think its dated, but I can tell you, for some, it’s the only way we hear from them and it would be very sad to lose that contact.

Is it the running around seeing family? I know some people who have to split the day (and Boxing Day) several different ways. This is more about your family than about your frustration with the holiday. I’m going to guess that the people who demand you see them on the 25th are the same people who are picky and demanding the rest of the year too! Don’t blame Christmas.

The way I look at it is this, I know people who weren’t supposed to be around for this Christmas. I know people who are going through some really tough times. I know some people who aren’t here for Christmas, and their families really wish they were. Christmas is how we mark the passage of time. We need to have that celebration of life, faith and hope to sustain us. We need to be able to look forward to the New Year, whether its because the one we are in completely tanked, or because we have so much to look forward to.

I refuse to make Christmas the whipping boy of my day to day frustrations. Yes, it is more work – but doing a Christmas task with someone can be twice the fun. Yes, you can spend (a lot) more money – but you don’t have to. Some of the best gifts I’ve been given were not overly expensive.

What it comes down to is this, you get out of it what you put into it. You cannot spend weeks complaining about a religious holiday about peace and love and then wonder why you have no Christmas Cheer.

And if this post doesn’t help you out of your doldrums, I highly recommend popping in Christmas Vacation. Sounds like you need a laugh.

You are welcome.

 

Raising Rob Ford

/ Sarah / 1 Comment

So, the Rob Ford Soap Opera has given me quite a pain. Right over here. No back a little bit more…

Between horrific videos, more horrific press conferences and enough drama to keep a spin doctor employed through to the end of his term as Mayor Toronto, it’s truly a train wreck and we are helpless to stop it, or look away.

 Here we have an adult male who is having, in effect, a toddler temper tantrum on the world stage. I find myself over and over again trying to explain this man’s actions to my sons, who frequently reply with, “But didn’t he learn not to do that when he was a kid?” or “Didn’t his parents teach him that?” They have come to a logical conclusion here. This man needs some discipline; perhaps some parenting is in order?

 You think I’m over simplifying? Let’s break it down. I’m pretty sure we’ve all been told these gems once or twice.

 1. Lying Only Makes It Worse.

Let’s start at the beginning. When this all started, it was about a grainy cell phone photo where Rob Ford was doing his best Whitney Houston impression. And while he didn’t come out with Crack Is Whack, he did come out with a big denial. Had he come forward with an acknowledgement of the incident and some humility (I know, it’s not humanly possible for this man), he could have slipped off quietly for some rehab, stayed in office and people would have given him the second chance he seems hellbent on. However, LYING about the video’s existence started the entire saga on bad footing. We look back now and say, “Well, if he lied about that, what else is he lying about?” Let’s remember, this man has already been temporarily suspended from office, and disciplined for using public transit for his personal use – the transportation of his football team. Prejudice exists, I’m afraid, based on previous behavior.

 2. Don’t Lie To Your Mother.

Momma Ford and sister Kathy took to CP24 to defend Rob’s “honor” (?!) and say that he has been truthful to them, that he doesn’t have an addiction problem, and that they support him 100%. Either the Ford ladies are Oscar-calibre actors, or they have tickets on a cruise down De Nial as a half-wit monkey can see what the Ford family truly is; a bunch of enablers. I’m sure Big Brother Doug Ford was thrilled to look like a moron on Rob’s behalf; DEMANDING the resignation of the Chief of Police on the grounds of trumping up allegations, less than five hours before his brother would have a media conference where he would admit to smoking crack. Ouch!

 3. Watch Your Mouth. (aka – You Kiss Your Momma With That Mouth?)

Right now my eldest son is 16 years old. He swears. If you read this blog with any frequency, you know I do too. The Big Guy can let it fly with the best of them. Second Born Son is keeping it clean, but I fully expect him to melt down at some point and “expand his vocabulary”. I don’t say this with pride, I say this to be relative. Most (not all) people have sworn at some point. Most people (not all) know when it is appropriate and with what audience. My 16-year-old hormone-laden son knows that if he were to come out with some of the crap flowing out of Rob Ford’s mouth (in private, never mind in public), he’d have his jaw wired shut. Ever since the boys were small, we discussed what kind of words were “appropriate” since media, friends, and some family, don’t have the same frame of reference, and we didn’t want our five-year-old coming out with a big “What the HELL?” just before Easter Dinner. We started with negative words like “idiot”, “hate” and “stupid”. Stupid is still as big a swear word as “asshole” in our house and will get you promptly relocated to your room with a lecture to follow. Common civility dictates some words are simply not appropriate, especially the mouth they come from is four inches above the Chain of Office.

 4. Be a Gentleman/Lady.

This may seem self-evident, but what this means is, be polite to others. Hold yourself in certain regard, and you’ll be surprised in how others treat you. If you act like a common street thug, be prepared to be viewed that way. Strive for more. This means refraining from making lewd comments about oral sex with former staffers, and even more so, don’t make that first statement seem less offense by making a followup remark that is just as visual about YOUR. WIFE.

 5. You are Judged by the Company You Keep.

Remember the first time your parents had to tell you to watch the company you kept? Remember how confusing that was to figure out? eventually, though, we did. We understood that be associating with people who broke rules, were disrespectful, caused trouble, were in trouble, were looking for trouble, were often…trouble? Ya, Rob wasn’t listening that day.

 6. Say “Sorry” Like You Mean It.

When we were kids, saying sorry was like getting a band-aid. It solved the problem immediately. As we mature and the Sorry we need to say is for bigger issues than, say, slamming the door, we understand that Sorry isn’t a band-aid anymore. It’s an acknowledgement of our error and it’s impact on another person. One of my biggest pet peeves is someone using the word Sorry with no meaning behind it. At first Rob Ford refused to say he was Sorry. Within days, he was saying Sorry so much, it began to lose its impact. He quickly moved on to say that he’s said Sorry so many times, he doesn’t know what else to say. And that, my friends, is the problem. There is nothing else to say.

 7. You Always Get Caught.

Wasn’t it freaky how our Moms knew stuff? How did they know??? Did they really have eyes in the back of their heads? Was there a Secret Mom Society?? Any time we do something wrong, bad, hurtful and try to cover it up, it always comes back to bite us. If we didn’t learn this when we were four sneaking cookies, then perhaps we have to learn it in our mid 40s, with low-grade cell-phone video to rat us out. (FYI – There totally is a Secret Mom Society – in case my kids are reading this…)

 8. You Call These People Your Friends?

Not to be confused with #5, this point is for all the people who are lining up to say they support Rob Ford and that this media circus is nothing more than a witch hunt. If you are truly part of Ford Nation, and want to see this man re-elected for another term, you will show support in him stepping aside temporarily. Because if nothing else is evident, it is this; Rob Ford has issues, demons if you will, that need to be addressed now. His passionate refusal to leave the role of Mayor is not only an issue for the City and the Province, but most importantly, is jeopardizing his well-being and his role as a father and husband. Choose your priorities wisely. Voters love a Come-Back story. Be the new and improved Rob Ford. Everyone deserves a second chance, but its hard to rally from a body bag.

 Let’s hope someone, whose opinion matters to Rob Ford, can step in and give him the sage advice he needs.

Starting with a Time Out.

Puppy Tale

/ Sarah / 3 Comments

Like all great stories, this one starts off with “Once Upon A Time”.

I’m going to prepare you now – this is a bum nummer and you may require Kleenex. I’ll wait for you.

Ready? ONCE UPON A TIME a friend of mine at work, who is a fellow dog lover, told me about a litter of pups that was in the custody of the local animal control. Then she sent me a photo….

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…and that wasn’t a good thing.

The Big Guy and I had been discussing the possibility of adding to our family in the four-legged fashion. You see Roman had been demonstrating a lot of clinginess.

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He was really missing us while we were at work and school, and I remembered our German Shepherds while I was growing up. They did really well with a buddy.

At first The Big Guy came to a logical conclusion; dog x2 = food $ x2 and poop x100. I mentioned his math was a little off and suggested we go have a look at the pups. Between my friend at work and the Animal Control, they gave us the story on the litter.

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The original family lost their home in a fire. They were made aware of the fire by adult dogs, Angel and Max. They had a young litter of pups, but were able to make their humans aware of the danger they were in and everyone escaped safely. Their bravery was rewarded by being locked up in the shell of a house, left to starve to death. Fortunately neighbors contacted Animal Control and the family was quickly relocated and cared for.

Animal Control contacted the local “Humane Society” to assume responsibility of the canine family.

<PAUSE> I have to employ the use of quotations here for no other reason than my lack of respect for this organization. Now I know, many of you will protest that “Humane Societies” do great work and have provided support for countless animals. Unfortunately, I have not had this experience. Without broaching Slander, we’ll leave it at that, okay? <PLAY>

“HS” advised animal control that they would take the father and the mother, but was not interested in the pups, to the extent that they stated they would euthanize them. Yup – you read that right; KILL THEM THERE PUPPIES. The rep at Animal Control couldn’t abide by that. She offered to care for the pups and raise them until they were weaned, if “HS” would take them on at that age. It was agreed that “HS” would provide the necessary shots for the pups and would get the four, three males and a female, when they were of age to adopt. “HS” came for the male, as there was no need for him to stay on with Animal Control, and he left his little family.

A week or so later, when the time came for the first shots, the Animal Control rep contacted “HS” and booked a date, asking how the father had fared in the adoption process.

“Oh, we had to euthanize him.” she was told. YUP KILLED HIM!!! The rationale? He was “nippy”.

<PAUSE> Let’s take a moment here and review the facts. 1. The dog had been in a house fire. 2. The human family he loved and in fact, SAVED, had abandoned him. 3. He was left to starve with his brand new litter and mate. 4. He was taken from his home to Animal Control and then to “HS”. I think it’s fair to say he had a couple of reasons to be “nippy”. <PLAY>

The Animal Control rep was devastated. She said she had the male for more than a week, and he did have an aggressive personality, but she was able to work with him and felt he would be a wonderful pet for someone who was interested in giving him love and stability; understanding the trauma he had been through. He had calmed considerably in the time she had him.

With heavy hearts, we decided to see the pups in person, as the story was indeed intriguing.

2013-04-27 13.40.38Within minutes, we knew, we had to put our name in for one of the pups. Second Born Son joined me and The Big Guy as we met with Animal Control and got up close and personal with the pups. We asked if we could adopt from Animal Control, and they referred us to “HS”, who indicated, no, we would have to get our application in like anyone else. I asked if we could get on top of the list, as we were very  interested, were the first ones to contact them, and would even have agreed to help support the pup while it was with Animal Control. Would it not be easier on the puppy if we just moved him from Animal Control to our home? Was it not in the best interest of the animal??

“HS” wasn’t interested.

I didn’t have a good feeling about “HS”.

In spite of this, The Big Guy agreed that we should move ahead. We told First Born Son that we were going to look into adopting another pup. He questioned this, stating he was happy with one dog, until we showed him a photo…

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And that, my friends, was THAT. Hook, line and sinker.

So we waited to hear that the pups were at “HS”. SBS and I headed to “HS” the first day applications were accepted. We planned on buying the puppy gear we would need on the same trip, so we would be ready to be new parents – again.

We asked to see the puppies and I was advised I’d have to turn over my driver’s license. When I asked why, I was advised by the “HS” rep, “So you don’t walk out of here with my puppy.”

Kinda like using a sledge to kill a fly, dontcha think??

2013-05-23 11.51.22

I surrendered my driver’s license and we saw that the pup we wanted was growing before our eyes. His mandatory neuter was the next day, and the micro chipping would take place at the same time.

Later we would find out that within two days, 30 applications were filled out for FOUR PUPS. At this point, they cut off applications. The paperwork was one step away from a Revenue Canada Audit. Four pages of detailed questions. “What other pets are in the home?”  “Who is your vet?” “Names and ages of everyone living in the home.” “What kind of collar would you use for your dog?” “What kind of property do you have?” “Where will you sign up for obedience class?” “Does anyone have allergies?” “How much do you expect to spend on your dog in a year?”

Admittedly, some of these were valid queries and sadly some of them are necessary to weed out the twisted individuals who think the “HS: is the place to pick up animals for medical testing. HOWEVER, it would be nice to not be treated like a criminal before I’ve even signed my application. It took more than 15 minutes to answer all of the questions and when I turned in the form, I was told that we would have to bring Roman down for a meeting with the pup, IF we were successful in moving on to that stage in selection.

What

the

holy

hell??????

As we walked back to our vehicle, I turned to SBS and said, “You know I believe in being truthful, but I think this is a case where honesty may not have been the best policy!” He was so sad that I told him he would shop for the pup anyway. When we got to the cashier, I told her, “We’re dealing with the “HS”; I need to be able to return everything.” She gave me a knowing look and said we could, other than the custom name tag we were getting engraved. We promised we would not tell anyone what name we had picked out.

A week later, we were advised that we could come down with Roman to meet the pup. I pointed out that it was an hour drive, and I wasn’t sure it was in my dog’s best interest to have to travel that distance, as he was only used to traveling 10-15 minutes maximum. There was no budging on this point. We had to take him down or we’d forfeit the pup. Oh, and could EVERYONE in the family come along as well, please? Getting the five of us in my vehicle took a great deal of timing, co-ordination and begging.

Roman traveled well, met the new pup and was a complete and utter gentleman. The pup loved Roman. I thought things were looking good!! Then TBG and I were called into the office for a meeting. With the boys tending to Roman, TBG and I sat through a 20 minute grilling on what I had put on the form. What was perceived as “right” and “wrong”. I was told that I would have to register for obedience class. I pointed out we had three dogs at this point, two of which had gone to class, and we felt we had learned enough to train them ourselves.

Wrong.

answer.

Bub!

We were advised we would need to enrol if we wanted a pup. I pointed out that living in the “sticks” means we have puppy classes spring and fall. Too late for one, too early for the other.

Wrong.

answer.

AGAIN.

I promised to look into classes.

As we left, we were advised that we would be given an answer by the end of the week. Excited, but nervous, we returned home and waited for a call.

And waited.

Longer still.

Need a bathroom break yet???

Theories ran rampant. Maybe we wouldn’t be picked because we already had a dog? Maybe they didn’t like that we saw the pups before they belonged to the “HS”? Maybe the applicant (me) was too much of a bitch herself to be considered as the successful candidate!!!??? (Admittedly, the kids never actually SAID this in my presence….)

Friends offered to be references for us. Friends offered to “influence” the “HS”, but agreed with us, that it might not be well received!! We all agreed that there was a reason why puppy mills and kijiji do so well when it comes to selling puppies. One assumes they are helping an animal when they go through a “HS”, but it is more like undue hardship!

I called the following Monday and was told there was another couple coming in for an interview on Wednesday. Folks, this has been a month since we completed our application. At this point, the entire family is frustrated, along with my friend who was wishing she hadn’t mentioned the litter to us in the first place, for all the hassle it was turning into!

I waited until Thursday to call the next time. Left a message. Hours later, “HS” calls back.

We got the puppy! The other couple attended the night before with their dog for a meet and greet, which did not go as well as Roman’s did.

In short, Roman is the reason we got the puppy!!!

TBG and I brought him home and surprised the boys. No one was more surprised than Roman!! We introduced them right away. Roman, meet CANE! Cane, meet Roman!

2013-05-23 19.34.59

He bounced like a gazelle for 15 minutes, “OMG YOU GOT ME A PUPPY!!!!!!” It was truly one of the sweetest things you will ever see!

Well, other than this…

2013-05-25 13.02.25

…or, perhaps, this…..

2013-05-28 21.13.26

So for now, the house smells like wet dog. But they are happy, wet dogs!

Little Sister

/ Sarah / 4 Comments

I think it says a lot about my relationship with my sister to state that I can’t really remember much of my life that didn’t have her in it.

Whether it was watching my father pull her out of the pool in early April, fully clothed in her snowsuit, or wearing a swimsuit, swarmed by cats coming from every direction as she fed them dinner, I have had a front row seat for the life that is Little Sister’s. When we were younger, we were either best buddies or bickering bitches sibs.

As much as we were alike (she always wanted to pick the same chocolate bar that I picked at the corner store), we were very different (I never had a problem falling asleep at night, she would need some “wind down time” before drifting off – more on that later!) She had naturally curly blonde hair. I think you remember what my hair was like.

She is a free spirit, a young heart and big laugh. There are few mothers more dedicated than she, and she has been dealt – and endured trials that few others could overcome. I feel I have helped with that sense of tenacity. I like to take credit for shaping the person she is today!

It came from years of holding her hands after she pulled her mittens off and stuffed her hands into snow drifts. Either that or it was when I’d cross the hall to her room in the dark of night and pound the ever lovin’ crap out of her for failing to SHUT UP when I told her I wanted to go to sleep. I tempered her physically and emotionally which prepared her for life’s challenges!

Now, in one of life’s little twists of fate, I work with my sister. For her actually. We were recently asked how it was to work together – and neither of us could come up with an answer. Partially because we have always worked together, in less formal circumstances, and also because of the nature of our relationship.

We have always had each other’s back.

 

Happy Birthday Little Sister!

 

 

Birthday Boy

/ Sarah / 2 Comments

What is summer without a party or two?

For those of us in Boweryville, the first (so far) of the year was last week, as we celebrated the 80th Birthday of The Big Guy’s uncle. This birthday is particularly important to me and The Big Guy since Uncle B is the reason we met.

 

Back in The Day when I was young and naive and lived on a farm, my family and I attended the Anniversary Sunday of our local country church. Following the service was a potluck meal, which was the pride of the ladies who lived up and down the Concession. Homemade salads, heaped platters of meats waiting to be tucked into fresh rolls; it was as much a feast for the eyes as it was the palate.

My contribution was a chocolate cake (surprise, surprise). As we enjoyed fellowship, a neighbour to the south, Uncle B, came up to me to compliment me on my dessert. I was hugely flattered. As I knew this gentleman was a bachelor and his family lived a distance away, I thought I’d make him an offer.

“If you tell me when your birthday is, I’ll make one for you!” I exclaimed.

“July 12th,” he replied.

So on the morning of one of the hottest days of the year, I got up, started the oven, and made a chocolate cake for my new fan, the birthday boy. When the cake was cooled and iced, Dad offered to drive me three farms over to deliver the cake. Little Sister had nothing better to do, so she came along for the ride.

As we drove up the lane way, we noticed a tractor heading back the lane way, past the main bank barn further along to the back fields. We followed the tractor and arrived at a smaller cottage style house and smaller bank barn. There we saw a trio of people, as well as a fourth on a second tractor in the field behind the house.

I was about to meet my future husband, and inlaws.

All I could think of was that the cake I was holding was going to melt in my very hands. The older couple were concerned that  a) they forgot it was the actual birthday of Uncle B, and  b) that they didn’t think they had room in their fridge to keep my confection from becoming a puddle.

Our exchange was short. The driver of the tractor we followed back the lane was indeed The Big Guy, and Uncle B was behind the house, round baling and giving a small wave of the hand as he went past our group. I handed over the cake and we left.

“That guy liked you,” said LS.

“Who???” I asked incredulously.

“The guy wearing the necklace.” she said. (Referring to The Big Guy who was a slick City Boy – gold chain et al.)

I had no recollection of what the guy was wearing, what he thought of me or what his name was, even though formal introductions were conducted.

A few weeks later, we would meet again, thanks to Uncle B. The rest, as they say, is history.

25 years ago history.

Hard to believe baking a cake could land you a husband! Happy Birthday Uncle B. Happy Anniversary Big Guy.

Love you both!!

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!”

What I Did for March Break, by Sarah

/ Sarah / 1 Comment

Spring Break used to be a joke – there was nothing “spring” about it. But in recent memory, I honestly cannot remember having any amount of snow – certainly not enough for the kids to enjoy. Usually I’m scrubbing floors from all the mud being tracked in.

Traditionally, I try to take a couple of days off with the boys to do some fun stuff. Unfortunately, that wasn’t to be this year as I not only worked, but had extra shifts to cover.

SOOOOOO, we ended up settling for a day off as a family. And what did we do?

We had family portraits taken.

*crickets*

YES, I’m a photographer. But let me explain something here. I am rarely in photos. Because of this, we received a gift certificate for a sitting fee, and I must say, I was thrilled. Now, some might suggest that we should have had a friend or family member help out. Been there….

Done that…..

 

Really, what’s the BEST part of this photo – the fly? The fact that it’s off-centre? Or my cheesy expression??

I firmly believe that having a skilled professional behind the camera makes or breaks a portrait. A good photographer can engage the subjects, enhance a mood and create a memory.

A good photographer can also reign my husband in. GAWD!

If a presence behind the camera wasn’t necessary, the profession would have died out after the advent of the timer.

We had a blast with the couple we worked with. They made the session exactly what I was hoping for – a family memory. It’s what I strive for when I work with clients and I’m very excited – the creativity they brought to our session inspired us, and I can’t wait to see the proofs!

The last time we had photos taken, we  were at Little Sister’s wedding, and while they were well done, I don’t usually trot around in a bridesmaid dress. Aside from that, the boys are at really neat stages of their lives and I felt strongly about capturing this moment in time.

The weather was perfect; we had a blast, and afterward, we went to the movies.

One of the best gifts would could ever have given each other!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What He Said…

/ Sarah / Leave a comment

After a particularly exasperating exchange with Second Born Son, I exclaim in frustration,

Me: “LORD help ME!”

SBS: “I think he’s busy with someone else right now!”

TBG

We are watching First Bon Son’s hockey team. He’s the goalie, and it’s been a particularly busy night for him. Second Born Son’s only interest in the game is the fact that his brother is playing. He spends most of the time biting his tongue as we watch FBS stop second and third rebounds while teammates stand back in admiration.

One of mothers on our team is sharing her personal opinion of the official’s call, or rather lack there of. The word she uses rhymes with luck, truck, duck and schmuck.

SBS: Really…was that necessary? (Shakes head in disgust.) ADULTS!

TBG

SBS: “We played The Game of Life at school today. I love that game.”

Me: “Oh ya?”

SBS: “Ya, I saved all this money, because I didn’t get married, didn’t have any kids and I lived in a house trailer.”

Me: “Oh – that sounds kind of lonely.”

SBS: “It was AWESOME! I had the most money!!!”