Monthly Archives: November 2021

About Plan A and a Half

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It was a dark and….well, it was just a dark night in November. Which isn’t surprising anytime after 5 pm once Daylight Savings Time ends. Rick and I were on our way on to Edmonton, heading up to my first in-person Oilers hockey game of the season, of the past two years almost, because you know: COVID. We knew we were probably not going to get there in time for the first period, but that was okay. Life happens.

And then, we hit a deer.

Or, more accurately, the deer hit us. I’m pretty sure we had the right of way, but then again, TELL THAT TO THE DEER. Initially, I thought that we missed “the” deer but then as per usual, this guy was not travelling alone. I barely had time to be flabbergasted before “second deer” made first contact.

And second contact, and then probably third. I dunno, it all happened pretty fast, y’know? Rick did some excellent maneuvering to minimize damage to both deer and car. You can infer all you want about speed limits – which Rick likes to think of as speed suggestions – but really, speed wasn’t the issue. The ISSUE was a couple of dang deer deciding to play chicken on Highway 16.

So many idioms to mess with: Why did the deer cross the road? Was the grass tastier on the other side? Was this where the rutter hits the road?

We got off pretty lucky. We assessed the car at the side of the road first and then deemed it safe to drive to the Innisfree truck stop so we could further inspect it under the bright lights of the gas station. And after pulling a few random pieces of plastic off my poor car – which some nincompoop at Ford named AN ESCAPE (talk about misleading advertising) – we decided to proceed with Plan A. The car was pretty beat up on the drivers’ side, the front headlight looked like alien eyes on a fourth grader’s art project and one of the doors made a gunshot sound when you opened it. But you know, still driveable.

PLUS: we had a hockey game to get to. The car got us to our destination in time for the second period and surprisingly neither Rick nor I was all that shook up with the evening’s events thus far. Well, until Connor McDavid scored another one of his ridiculous goals. That’s enough to get your heart rate going.

I think he was going faster than the deer. Just sayin.

About the Best Laid Plans

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Photo by Colin Lloyd on Unsplash

This last Tuesday was moving day for my son Simon. The night before we stayed up late packing up all the dregs of his life for the past couple years where he has been living so that he could move into a new place. The heavy lifters were coming, the truck and trailer were available and the crockpot of hot dogs that would be the reward at the end of the day were waiting in the fridge to get plugged in in the morning.

And then, the snow came.

No, let me re-phrase that: the blizzard swept in and laid waste to all of our best-laid plans.

When I woke up that morning and looked out the window, my first thought was: YUCK. The second thought was: I wonder if Simon would be okay with me ditching him today? (Well, not really, but I certainly wasn’t excited about moving in a snowstorm.)

And then the voice of reason kicked in via a flurry of texts from my husband Rick, Simon’s concerned dad, who was already on the slow road to work that morning. Basically, the message was: Abort! Abort! And, so to speak, we did. At least, we scrapped Plan A. The heavy lifters were relieved to be relieved and instead, Simon and I made several slow trips with my car to go pick up the keys, meet with the internet guy and move the most important things that could fit in the car: the bed (thank you, IKEA for facilitating take-apart beds), the television and, of course, the crock-pot of hot dogs.

If you think about it, things rarely go According to Plan. As I look back, I’m almost surprised at where life has tossed me. Sometimes, I’ve nailed the 3-point landing, other times I’ve completely muffed it. Usually the messes happen when I resist the change of plans, whether I just decide to ignore the weather and carry-on indiscriminately or if I choose a less-than-sunny disposition.

Not that it’s easy to always put on a happy face. Simon and his girlfriend/new-roommate were sorely disappointed first thing in the morning when they realized that things would not be progressing the way we had all hoped. But at the end of the day, while eating our hot dog supper, the smiles abounded because everyone arrived after all, in the good and proper time. And I was happy to leave them to set up house and home and make a plan for my next day.

Which would most likely change when I got there.

About Inheritance & Climbing Trees

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I’m an amateur genealogist. It’s important for me to keep up a family tree and I’ve even dug in a little into my roots (within the limits of the free trial period) on one or two of those sprawling online ancestry sites. It has struck me odd that a person would create a “tree” to show their “roots”. But it’s not really the same kind of tree. And perhaps a better way to look at it is that you are climbing up the tree to get a better look at things. Isolated facts mean nothing, usually, but from a bird’s eye view you can see a lot more.

I realize that when one starts poking around in the past, there’s always the potential of discovering something new – or even – secret. This very thing happened to writer Dani Shapiro after unceremoniously sending away for a DNA test when her husband suggested they take advantage of a BOGO offer. Shapiro thought she knew everything about her family – heck, she even wrote a memoir about her father and had done tons of family research. But then lo and behold, the results returned via email one day and left her completely discombobulated: her story was not what she thought it was and she had the DNA to prove it. She tells that story in her book Inheritance. Since then, she has created a podcast called Family Secrets, where many MANY other people divulge their secrets, also revealed by DNA tests, or by some other fate that led them to question their own status quo.

So, a couple of months ago, I sent away my own DNA sample. It’s as simple as spitting in a tube – and paying a “nominal” fee. I really wasn’t expecting any book deals out of my results and, sure enough, I had paid to find out that I know – as Ken Jeong of The Masked Singer would put it – EXACTLY WHO I AM. No surprises, no secrets. In fact, the results pinpointed the two exact origins of both my father’s and my mother’s families in Poland and Ukraine respectively.

The particular genealogy sites I perused this past year had very little to offer me, first because only a couple other distant family members have surrendered their DNA – at least to those particular sites – so there’s no benefit to be gained from cross referencing. Secondly, since I don’t speak or read the languages very well, I can’t glean any info from the historical records from that part of the world. (That being said, I haven’t tried very hard yet, either.)

What I do have is geography – which actually determines a lot. I mean if my ancestors had not both moved to Canada – Alberta-Derwent (or thereabouts), my parents would never have met and – well, you can follow the bouncing ball. In the “old country” they would have lived about 4 hours apart – in today’s standards of car and highway – and probably would never have traversed either the geographical or cultural boundaries at the time. Plus – they didn’t have any dating apps, so…yeah.

It’s not only geography that determines what kind of trees can grow, but also what kind of family trees.

About Roof-Raising and Dirt-Digging

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[Some weeks the blog topics come easy. Other weeks, y’all get a throwback. For your consideration, here is a story about a kerfuffle with 3 little boys and a pile of dirt.]

My boys – Tim, Simon and Gil.

It was roof-raising day at Grandpa’s. (Gosh, this sounds like the opening line to a chapter in a Laura Ingalls’ Wilder book.) The boys and I were planning to go watch the trusses of Grandpa’s new shop get lifted and placed with a “cherry picker”. My husband called from work and suggested we get there ASAP to watch them put up the walls, too. And, to bring my camera.

So much for a leisurely breakfast of tea and crumpets. (Sorry – more novel references to a life I do not lead.) I urged the boys to finish their Wonder Bread toast, then instructed them to put on their long johns and a couple extra layers for the frosty morning outside.

 We arrived at Grampa’s yard before the first wall went up and though it looked like they were ready, it still took awhile before it actually happened.  While standing around and waiting, that’s when we noticed the mud, or rather clay, that was building up on our boots. And so, a weird competition began, something akin to who could get enough muck on their boots to absolutely prevent mobility. At that moment, I was praying silent thank yous that I had the presence of mind to make them wear their rubber boots. And that’s when it hit me that I had brought them over in our new van, complete with fresh Scotchguard (as if that is any challenge to three boys.) Why, oh why, hadn’t I brought the old truck? I knew then that I would just have to put them in the van shoeless and hose off the boots before we could go home.

By this time the first wall was up and we were watching the second get put into place. Unfortunately the novelty of the frame of a large wall suspended in the air was fleeting. Mud was much more captivating. Before they got completely stuck, I coaxed them to follow me to a grassy area to clean off their boots. Little did I know, there was a big dirt pile nearby. OF COURSE the boys asked if they could “check it out” and I complied with the admonition to “not get dirty”. This was about as effective as handing them a melting ice-cream cone and warning them to only lick it once. It was a slippery slope, both literally and figuratively. The boys progressed from running down the steep side, to sliding on their backsides, to practically wallowing in the holes they had dug with their hands.

Every time I called them over to try to brush them off a bit, dump the dirt out of their boots and watch another wall go up, they complained that they were cold standing there by me, so over and over I sent them back to the dirt pile to warm up with their running, sliding and digging.

Like three gophers, the boys watched from the top of the dirt pile as the roof finally became airbound and then settled on top of the building. With my photography assignment done, we headed to the house to wash up a bit – there was even dirt in their noses. But going inside the house necessitated the removal of their boots. I had them sit on the edge of the deck while I systematically took off each boot and dumped it. By the time I got to Simon, much to our dismay, we discovered that his left boot Would Not Come Off. I tugged to no avail. Gil grabbed him from behind under his arms and held on while I tried again. Simon was stretched out as far as he could go and we all kept descending into giggle fits over the stubborn boot. I told him I would have to dig the dirt out first and headed to the back of the garage where Simon spied Grandpa’s shovel. He screamed. He was then relieved to see me return with a stick. After removing about three pounds of dirt and pausing for more laughter, we were finally ready to clean up. For the two-mile trip home, I stripped the boys down to their long johns, put their jackets on inside out and carried them out one by one to the van.

Every time we drive by Grandpa’s shop, the boys ask when we can revisit the fabulous dirt pile. Maybe as soon as my patent for disposable plastic coveralls comes through, boys. Or, maybe Saturday.