About Career Choices

[It’s been awhile since I’ve done a Throwback Thursday. It’s fun to read about what my under-10-years-old children were wanting to be when they grew up. It’s safe to say that they were not expecting a worldwide pandemic and a shaky job market for the year 2020.)

            One of the great advantages about being five years old is that you can make a career choice without considering the logistics of the situation whatsoever. Never mind that we live no where near Cape Canaveral, my youngest son Simon, for the longest time has wanted to be an astronaut, or in five-year-old language, a spaceman.

            Tim, the middle child, made a point of getting clearance from us that he DOES NOT have to do the same thing as his Dad. When we said that he could be anything he wanted, he decided that he was going to be a millionaire. (Get the connection? Dad: not a millionaire.) Rick and I capitalized on the moment and began considering early retirement since we figured Tim the Millionaire could take us in. But when we asked him if he would take care of us when we were old, he flatly refused.

            We then turned the question on Gil, the oldest, a.k.a. most guilt-ridden, son. Gil’s preferred occupation, like most kids, usually reflects what he’s interested in at the time. So at the moment, he’s torn between becoming a professional soccer player or a professional Lego builder. Bolstered by his younger brother’s answer to our plea, Gil smiled at us and said, “No way!” And so the ball was in Simon’s court. Four pairs of eyes were on him as the youngest child had the question posed at him. And with the carefree attitude of the baby of the family, he absolved himself of all responsibility by announcing, “I’ll be in space!”

            Simon has been so resolved upon the astronaut route that it came as a huge surprise the other day when all that suddenly changed. At a car dealership, he saw a car that he particularly liked and said, “I want that one!” To which I replied (with all the coldness of a parent who has been shut out of their child’s home when social security becomes obsolete), “I guess you’ll have to go out and get a job.” This presented no problem for him. “ Okay,” he said. “I’m gonna be a wrestler!”

            A wrestler? The change of course was easily detected. The night before we sat in a pizza joint, subjected to big screen WWF, which the two younger boys were especially enthralled with. “What about space?” I demanded. “Don’t you want to be an astronaut anymore?” Sure the moon made for expensive round trip visitation, but a WWF wrestler? Astronauts rarely go slamming other guys around in zero gravity.

            But Simon had it figured that since there were no towns in space, and he liked to go to town, his life’s occupation would have to change. If television has such an effect on such important decisions, however, I think we’re going to have to buy a copy of Apollo 13 and start playing it over and over again. And even though the pizza was good, we’ll have to stay away from that pizza joint.

[Apparently, I wasn’t too thrilled about Simon’s WWF aspirations eighteen years ago. I’m happy to report that while he’s neither an astronaut or a wrestler, he’s pursuing a career that he loves and he spends most of his time on Earth.]

About Alex Trebek

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

What is 2020, Alex?

Although living through a global pandemic that appears to be ramping up right now is decidedly NOT FUN, there are always silver linings to be found as we huddle, zoom and binge. Losing Alex Trebek, however, is not one of them. The beloved host of the popular game show Jeopardy lost his battle with pancreatic cancer last Sunday, November 8. It was the year 2020. In case you weren’t listening.

In the face of this great trial, Trebek was still such an optimist. When he announced on the show in March of last year that he had been diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer, he allied himself with the common man, saying he was just one of the 50,000 other people in the United States who were told the same news that year. And he said he would fight it.

So when Alex kept showing up for his hosting duties as if nothing was out of the ordinary, it really seemed like he was not only fighting, but beating it. He looked a little older when I tuned in to the new season of Jeopardy this fall, with contestants spaced out and separated by plexiglass shields. That didn’t stop him from chatting them up as usual, encouraging them to win big and teasing them mercilessly.

It was all in good fun, of course. Calling a contestant a “loser” when they described a dorky hobby or roasting them because they missed a clue that was right in their wheelhouse was part of the charm of Alex Trebek. If Alex corrected your pronunciation, you believed him. If he called someone a nerd, it was just him saluting one of his own.

If watching Jeopardy made you a nerd, well, so be it. My kids learned early that when Jeopardy was on, I might ignore them: I couldn’t risk missing the satisfaction of calling out the questions to the clues that I knew, which some days were not very many. Jeopardy was a trivia show, after all, and most trivia is, well, trivial. Nevertheless, if I could show off a little of my knowledge of biology or books that I had never read, of obscure definitions or even some math, it made me a little happy inside.

My son, Tim, is the one who asks me when I’m going to try out for Jeopardy and one of my first reactions when I heard the news was that now I never would get to meet Alex Trebek, at least not in this lifetime. But as much as I liked playing at home, I don’t think I would like the pressure of playing for real, of getting frustrated with my clicker not working when I KNOW the answer, and of ringing in too many “educated” guesses. One of my favorite stunt authors, A. J. Jacobs went on as a contestant after he spent a year reading the entire Encyclopedia Brittanica. And he bombed. Just sayin’ – I don’t think it’s that easy to not-bomb.

If Alex had been a contestant on his own show, I think he might have given Ken Jennings a run for most-winningest player. I remember an interview he did years ago where he was asked what he was going to do when he retired and he replied that he hoped to re-read all his favorite books. I resonated with that. I hope he had time to do some of that, but it was so obvious that he was a people person, that I suspect he spent a lot more time with the living than the dead while he could. When he got to where he was going, he could look forward to a Babette’s feast with his favorite famous people.

And maybe with some people that were not so famous. My sister texted me on Sunday that our mom would be happy to see him. What made losing Alex that much more poignant for us was that our mom fought the same kind of cancer – and we knew what a rough go that was. And also: she loved Jeopardy and she loved Alex. She maybe didn’t know that much about Greek mythology or African geography, but she knew a nice man when she saw one. I’m sure that she recognized him when he got there.

About Falling After Fifty

I fell down in the shower last week. I didn’t break any bones and I sustained no head injuries. But I did get a nasty welt down my back where I landed hard against the rail that the shower door slides into. And my pride was definitely bruised.

All in all, I was lucky. When I Googled “falls in the bathroom”, the search engine responded with this ominous headline: Bathrooms Can Be the Most Dangerous Place in the House. Then I asked: Okay, So Who Died in the Bathroom?

Well, for starters, we all know that’s where The King, Elvis, met his maker. So did actress Judy Garland and author Evelyn Waugh. And several royal personages over the centuries also had their demise on the toilet, including an ancient Chinese ruler Duke Jing of Jin who fell into the toilet pit and drowned.

What a way to go.

But I digress. None of those people died from falling – well except for Duke Jin – but that wasn’t in the shower. Slipping in the shower is the second most dangerous activity that causes injury in the bathroom. The first: BATHING. Bathing, I guess, is dangerous. (Especially for Duke Jing who took a bath in…well, never mind.)

But yeah. I guess it all comes of having to be Too Clean. Bathing can be dangerous and so can cleaning the shower because all that soapy stuff also makes things dang slippery. That’s what I was doing. I was cleaning the shower and shortly after I polished off all the goo that built up on the floor of our shower, I stepped inside to finish rinsing the doors and Whoops!

I just need to be more careful. I’m not getting any senior’s discounts just yet, but it’s never too early to start practicing Safe Stepping. With this resolution comes the evaluation of all my activities. What about walking – is that safe? That all depends on the terrain. If you move off the beaten path around here, you could very well break an ankle tripping into a gopher hole. And it depends on the season: winter lends its own hazards of snow and ice and frozen dog poop. That stuff could kill you.

So, does being safe also mean I shouldn’t go hiking or skating or skiing in the winter anymore? I’m not sure I care anymore about skiing anyways – the last time I tried, I cried all the way down the mountain, moving at the at the speed of a glacier as I tried to relive my old daredevil self of ten years prior. But at least I didn’t get hurt.

Which one is it going to be: Safe or Sorry? To some degree, always being safe and calculated is a little boring. And to be daring and spontaneous, the opposite of boring, could lead to deadly falls into toilet pits, so to speak.

There is a measure of sorry to being safe, isn’t there? I still want to be my old self and do all the things I used to. But my body can’t keep up in quite the same way. On days that I work-out hard or go for a big walk, I need to convince my knees that it’s okay to do the standing-up thing. Fifty-three is not old, but it’s not twenty-three, either. After I fell last week, it took me a good minute or two before I could figure out how to stand up again. For one, I didn’t want to fall again. And two, my body just didn’t want to move that fast. I lay there doing inventory on where I hurt and how serious it felt and then made a plan for how to get up.

So, The Plan is now to quit cleaning the shower. Or maybe just to quit showering. Neither of those options can be as bad as falling into a toilet pit, right? 

About Spookiness

It’s that spoooooooooky time of year again. The weather gets colder and everything around us just dies (or hibernates – which can look pretty much the same). The shadows become murkier as the sun disappears earlier and the setting becomes perfect for an eerie holiday.

Things that are innocent can get a little twisted. That creepy cat on a broomstick? It’s just a medieval feline on a Roomba.

That being said, I am not immune to getting goosebumps when my brain decides to play tricks on me. Many moons ago, Rick and I were in our minivan when we noticed a strange thing up in the sky. It was an odd shape, it was glowing, mayyyyybeeee it was moving? We were partly apprehensive and partly excited as we wondered what in the world this unidentified flying object was?

And then the clouds parted. And it was, in fact, the moon.

Oh.

Other-worldly, yes. But not unidentifiable. MOMENTARILY, however, it was deliciously scary.

Generally I don’t like to be scared unless it comes at me in ways I can control. Like rollercoasters: a nice dose of adrenaline within the confines of a super-seatbelt.

I suppose that metered scariness is the attraction about Halloween. If the masked strangers at my door are under 5 feet tall, I will reward them with a treat. Anyone bigger than that might get the 5th degree before we open the door wide and offer up a bag of potato chips with barbeque tongs.

This year, of course, I’ll be wearing a mask myself at the door, albeit a disposable medical one. Maybe I’ll dress up in hazmat suit, too. You can never be too safe this time of year. Or this year, actually.

It is 2020, after all.

Happy Covid Halloween!

About Travelling

Although it seems counter-intuitive to travel during a global pandemic, we decided to do just that this last week. Eschewing our plans made last December to visit Disneyland this fall with our adult children, we opted for safe(r) travels within the confines of our Canadian border. All of our pictures are clearly time-stamped by the masks we had to wear anywhere we ventured outside of our pod.

About a month ago we booked flights for six to Vancouver and held our breath, took our vitamins and said our prayers that we would actually be able to take said flights, barring any fevers, sore throats or other COVID-like symptoms. The plan, over which we had absolutely no control, went according to… well, plan.

Travel, as they say, is broadening. Our main destination was not Vancouver but the giant island to the west of it. Sure we could have flown directly there, into Victoria or Nanaimo, where we spent a couple of nights each. But part of the charm of visiting The Island is engaging in what I like to call Ferry Culture. For those of us born in the wide open prairies, we can get into a vehicle and drive ad nauseum for days. But when you live on the coast, water sort of gets in the way.

Ferry Culture involves a lot of hurry-up-and-wait. If you need too make sure you connect to a flight, you have to get to the ferry in time and before it fills up. So you get up super early, drive to the ferry landing nearest you, and then you wait in line. Then you get on the ferry and you sit back and wait again as the ferry takes you over. This can all take hours. Fortunately there was food and phones and, in this case, family to amuse us.

And it’s fun, especially when it’s novel and when you’re on vacation. And when the scenery around you is beautiful. All that water surrounding you seems to do its job of cleansing your brain – which is really what a vacation is for.

Maybe it’s the change of scenery or the brain-washing, but I found myself fascinated by the number of small things that added up to big things on this trip. While the boys skipped rocks on one little beach in Chemainus, Sharlie was able to look for seashells to her heart’s delight – there were so many on that little piece of paradise that she could literally take her pick of the best ones. On that beach there were hundreds and thousands of shells and rocks and logs that the tide had brought in.

Should I even mention the grains of sand? Or the gallons of water?

And then we visited the Butchart Gardens. Of course, there are very green plants and trees and flowers (still) everywhere in October on Vancouver Island but the Gardens do an especially nice job of arranging and clustering them in a way that gives you pause. And when you try to estimate the number of petals on an accordion-like chrysanthemum, you count past 100 quickly. When you consider the petals in a twenty foot square patch of mums, it’s boggling.

And most of the plants were not even in bloom at this time of year.

In the rather large Butchart Gardens there are also trees, shrubs, leaves and needles you could consider “counting”. But really, that would get old, fast.

And then, there is the travelling itself. The ferries we rode on could hold hundreds of vehicles, some of tremendous size. Where the heck was everybody going and what was so important that it had to get done on the other side? And plane travel: what would have taken us a good day or two in the car to traverse, we managed by crawling into a giant sardine can in just a little over an hour. 500 miles an hour at 30,000 feet. Really, you don’t want to think about it too hard or the whole relaxing part of the vacation just goes Poof!

All this makes me consider my own tiny mortality. It’s really not much in the scheme of THE WHOLE WORLD, is it? And sometimes, I wonder: what am I really doing here, anyway?

On a podcast recently I was reminded of something that Andy Stanley said – whether it’s his words originally or not, no matter – it’s still good. He said that when we get overwhelmed with the idea of doing something good for mankind, just try instead to do for one what you wish you could do for all.

For some reason, I was reminded of this as I considered the seashores and the sand and the seas this last week. The stones that were skipped and the walks that were taken and jokes that we shared didn’t do that much for the world, but they did a world of good for us.

Thanks for the nice holiday, world. I owe ya one.

About Mr. Dressup

When I was 6 years old, I went into grade one with a preamble of only one-week during the previous June. Kindergarten – at least in my part of the woods – hadn’t been invented yet. I guess that June week was a supposed to be a warm-up for us as we occupied the recently vacated desks of the graduating first graders who got let out early for summer vacation.

All I know is that it interrupted my previously scheduled programming.

I was born in 1967 so by the time I learned how turn on the TV for myself – NO REMOTE CONTROLS WERE INVOLVED – children’s television was breaking in big. The Friendly Giant had been around since 1958 and Sesame Street arrived on the air in 1969. But though I loved Rusty the Rooster and the Cookie Monster, there was just something special about Mr. Dressup. He and Casey and Finnegan became Canadian household names when they got their own show in February of my birth year. Apparently those three characters survived as a spin-off when their first show Butternut Square got cancelled. Who knew? (Answer: Wikipedia.)

Three years ago, when Rick and I spent some time in Toronto, we wandered through the CBC studios and much to my delight, we came across Casey and Finnegan’s old treehouse and I was happy to see that such an important part of the Canadian television landscape had been preserved.

Over the years, the puppet-people changed but the inquisitive Casey and silent Finnegan were the hallmarks of my time so therefore my faves. But as much as puppets upped the attractive-to-children factor, it was Mr. Dressup that was the star.

It should come as no surprise that Ernie Coombs (Mr. Dressup’s other name) and Fred Rogers were friends and workmates. Fred and Ernie came to Canada in 1963, collaborating with CBC to create something new for kids. Fred eventually went back to his neighborhood but Ernie stayed on and created the longest running children’s program in Canadian history.

To me, Mr. Dressup oozed kindness. You could also tell he genuinely liked children and, maybe strange for an adult man, puppets. There was no artifice or self-consciousness when he dressed up in the craziest of costumes from his Tickle Trunk and danced around and used silly voices. He drew effortlessly with a marker on his easel. And he had a million ways to transform a toilet paper tube with his backup supply of construction paper, feathers and googly eyes, which really endeared him to my crafty self.

I’m always reminded around Sept. 11 that Mr. Dressup had a stroke one day before the twin towers fell in New York and then died a week later. The tragedy of 9-11 was acute but I was saddened that the passing of a Canadian icon went under the radar. Maybe Ernie Coombs, with his kind heart and gentle ways, had been spared the awareness of that painful event. He was an unassuming man and he left the world in the same way.

About Flu Season

Hey, guess what? It’s flu season.

(Ducks to avoid rotten tomatoes, paper airplanes made from cancelled flight tickets, and cardboard boxes now empty of disposable masks.)

Yeah, I know. Remember the good ole days, those days of auld lang syne, when one would get the flu and puke your guts out and moan for a few days and have to learn how to walk all over again just to get on the scale and find out that you lost 7 pounds in addition to maybe three days of your life?

Yeah, coronavirus is not that kind of flu.

I have my share of vivid memories of having the flu. Me, nine months pregnant with Timmy, huddled over a basin on the floor trying to manage dry-heaving and Braxton-Hicks contractions at the same time. Me, again, last Christmas when I was deathly ill from a flu I caught from my husband that we then shared with EVERYONE else in our vicinity. (And that we secretly wonder if it was some sort of pandemic-prequel.)

I have another flu-tinged memory: me, again, back before I got pregnant with Tim. My dear friend Lynn took care of Gil until his daddy got home from work, leaving me alone to my symptoms. Too weak (maybe?) to climb the stairs to my bed, I opted for the floor in front of the television. This was back when we had Super Channel – the premier movie subscription channel of the time. The movie playing was The English Patient. I wasn’t English and I wasn’t wrapped up in bandages, but at that moment in time, Ralph Fiennes and I had our supine positions in common.

And I will forever hate that movie.

Was it the flu that colored my dislike so much? Or did I somehow peer into the future and see Lord Voldemort? I’ll never know because I WILL NOT RE-WATCH THAT MOVIE OR READ THAT BOOK. Just the thought of it makes me nauseated.

It makes me wonder what about this whole world-wide virus epidemic will leave us with bad associations. Presidential races? (Well, the virus can’t be completely to blame for that.) The smell of tequila-tinged hand sanitizer? The feel of a giant Q-tip up your nose assessing your positive or negative status because you sneezed a couple times at your place of employ?

Yes, there will be bad memories when we think of 2020. Just the idea of another holiday coming up and wondering how to navigate it makes us wonder about the whole notion of Thanksgiving. (Let’s not even start thinking ahead to Christmas.)

I had a chance encounter this week with an old friend at the Coop where we were buying our Thanksgiving turkeys. I bemoaned the idea of another ambiguous get-together: I miss the freedom of hugging with abandon, of open door policies for the boys’ friends, of not having to THINK about dos and don’ts so much when it comes to just celebrating with family. And my friend reminded me that, on the flip side, many people are more thankful for their families than they were before coronavirus.

It’s good spiritual chiropractic, to have your thinking adjusted like that. There’s a lot that’s wrong with the world right now. But, as always, there’s a lot that is right.

Happy Thanksgiving.

About Odd Jobs

It’s a rough time to be a twenty-something looking for work right now. All three of our boys fall into this category and they are in one stage or another of flux: going to school, just finished school and between jobs. The pandemic-economic climate has made job hunting – and keeping – difficult, especially when you haven’t had a lot of traction yet.

One thing that keeps me optimistic about their situation is remembering all the odd, crappy, weird jobs that I had when I was just trying to pay for my own schooling and make the rent. Oh, and be able to take myself to restaurants. At one point, I quit school and seeing the last of my student loan in sight, I needed to find work and I couldn’t be picky.

The summer of ’87 first found me selling ice cream in a semi-temporary booth in downtown Edmonton. Some entrepreneurial friends I knew (from church!) took a chance on me and I became – as my co-worker Barb liked to call us back before we were PC – a “scoop-chick”. It really wasn’t a bad job except I often worked the semi-scary late shift alone (on Jasper Avenue!) and there was no bathroom on site. It also probably wasn’t that great that I got to eat all the ice cream I wanted either. (My love of ice cream still knows no bounds.) A highlight of that summer? In the middle of an Oilers cup race during which we sold our trademark blue-and-orange-striped ice cream, I scooped a cone for Philly goalie Chico Resch which he bought for his friend Ron Hextall. (He picked vanilla.)

I was, however, still short a few hours of full-time and when I became friends with the franchise owner’s son, he put a good word in for me at his place of employ where I could work extra hours around my scooping job. The okay part? It was at a store at West Edmonton Mall which, in those days was where my friends and I spent a lot of time between the waterpark and the movie theaters and Bourbon Street. The not-so-okay part? I was HIGHLY UNQUALIFIED to sell automotive parts and accessories.

Working at JB’s Automotive definitely rings in as my WORST JOB EVER. If they would have let me just work the till, I would probably have been fine. But noooooo, THEY made me LEARN stuff. About CARS. Ew. On my very first day, I took apart a floor model of an engine, forever sealing the word “manifold” into my vocabulary. And then there was the time when I was called “dumb” because I couldn’t locate a certain part to order in the four-foot long catalog collection that rested behind the counter. At one of my next shifts at the ice cream shop, I overheard the same guy tell my boss about how he liked to go to JB’s and ask the girls there to look up parts he knew did not exist.

OHHHHH!!!

As summer was coming to a close, ice-cream was less in demand and I had to find another job to offset the angst of my auto-parts-sales job. It turns out, it’s always who you know. Another friend recommended me for a part-time teller position at the bank where she worked and so I became a “money waitress”.

Working for Canada Trust had its advantages with it being open till 9pm, especially since I elected to go back to school the following September. Classes filled my days and a decent-paying job filled my evenings. But being a teller had its sore points: we routinely ran out of cash (Cash? What is Cash?) during high seasons like Christmas and I was robbed once by possible gunpoint (it was in his jacket pocket so it could have been a fist-and-finger). I was a happy teller until the end of the night when my exuberance for serving customers was overshadowed by my propensity to make data entry mistakes. My supervisors were very disgruntled with me when I kept them overtime because I had trouble with my manual balancing at the end of shift. Their solution: they promoted me to Part-Time Teller Supervisor. Once I had to balance other tellers, I never had trouble again!

I worked at the bank for four years, paying for my schooling as I went until I graduated, pregnant and unemployable. Oh, and married. Which led to another chapter of odd jobs: wife, mother, homemaker…well, the list is kinda endless. Because there is ALWAYS something to do, right?

And even if I didn’t always like my jobs, I am happy that I have the stories. Plus, I survived the ’87 tornado unawares in West Edmonton Mall probably selling radar detectors and fuzzy dice. At least I knew what those things were.

About Why I Blog

It’s been over a year now since I started writing this blog. In some ways, it feels like a silly thing to do, spending a couple hours a week working on something that just seems to dissolve into the blogosphere – time I spend beating my brains and the keyboard into submission when I could be reading or Netflix-ing or even doing something virtuous, like cleaning the bathroom.

Although I started out with two posts a week, I have fallen into a much more comfortable once-weekly posting schedule – not onerous and yet, strict enough. I hesitate to break this chain, even if it means resorting to filling up this space with old material that I still find amusing, in spite of the fact that I wrote it myself, some of it nearly twenty years ago.

And so, in honor of the ninth month on the calendar, my favorite, here are nine musings on why I blog:

  1. As I have already alluded to, chains are hard to break. While sometimes quitting something can be seen as necessary to further other goals, blogging is still working for me. It keeps me writing a minimal amount, even if that is only editing and formatting.
  2. I like being a blogger. It gives credence to the idea that I want to be called a writer. I write, therefore I Am A Writer.
  3. If I didn’t blog/write, then memories and thoughts would slide into oblivion. Case in point, when I re-read old columns I used to submit to the Vermilion Standard, that I now re-publish here sometimes, I am surprised by what I forgot – things that I don’t want to forget. Like funny things my kids said or I how I felt when the Twin Towers went down.
  4. I believe in the power of individual memory. While one person’s diary can primarily reflect a single experience, it can also shed light on the experience of the collective. Anne Frank, while writing from a teenager’s perspective, memorialized the experience of many more than just herself and her family hiding from the Nazis in World War II Germany.
  5. I haven’t really publicized my blog enough (#goals) on Instagram or Facebook (even though I have intended to since I began this blog), so I have a very tiny subscriber following. However, the occasional comment I receive or the in-person discussions about my latest post with a reader keeps me in touch with people that I talk to often or rarely. And human contact, especially for introverted writers, is GOOD. I like the conversation.
  6. I find that writing on a computer is different from writing by hand in my journal. I am able to capture ideas faster. Sometimes the tactile-ness of the keys seems to move me forward, keeps me going. Sure I could write on my computer other than the blog but the blog keeps me minimally accountable, keeps me coming back to the keyboard.
  7. I write to find out what I think. It never fails to surprise me that what I start out with is almost never what I end up with. It’s become fun to see what happens when I follow the bread crumbs I leave scribbled on the blank index cards I’ve learned to keep nearby: Mr. Dressup, Ukrainian weddings, the worst jobs I’ve had and what I learned, Winnie-the-Pooh and why I love children’s literature so much. (All possible forth-coming posts.)
  8. Blogging is a great challenge. I’ve learned (and continue to learn) a lot about blogging and setting up a website. Learning new stuff is SO GOOD for the brain, both old ones and new ones. And things that I said I would never be interested in (like promoting myself on social media) now don’t seem so heinous. It’s just part of the job.
  9. I want to leave something behind. This may be the most important. In many ways, this blog is part of my ongoing quest to leave behind a personal and family history. And reading about keeping personal memoirs, I have learned it all counts: the marginalia written in favorite books, handwritten recipes with annotations, the indecipherable script on the backs of old photos. And of course, personal diaries, journals and blogs.

I think I will keep going.

About Hatchet

One of the good things about homeschooling my kids was that I sort of taught myself how to become a teacher. I never wanted to teach other people’s kids but I loved mine enough to give it a shot. Lucky for me, there were a lot of people who paved the way ahead of me and freely passed out the keys to providing kids with a decent education.

Of course, I have always thought that books were pretty foundational. Not necessarily textbooks, which while providing a framework for progressivity, could also be like eating dry toast for breakfast. Every. Day. How happy was I to learn that much of what we had to cover in Social Studies or Language Arts or Science could be found in Living Books. Meaning real stories written by real people. Even Math could be dissected by picture books and History plumbed with a great novel.

My love of literature started a long time ago in the basement of our farmhouse where an odd assortment of books had collected on the shelves. There were outdated textbooks, some Pulitzer Prize winners, MAD magazine digests, and the first kid’s books I knew. I suspected that The Cat in the Hat Comes Back was a sequel by its title, but as it was the only one we had, it was the only Dr. Suess that I knew. Homer Price, The House at Pooh Corner, The Middle Sister, The Big Wave, The Magic Tunnel populated the shelves, as well as a few of the Thornton W. Burgess, Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden, Hardy Boys and Donna Parker series.

The only library in our little town was in the Derwent school and because I showed so much enthusiasm for reading, the librarian soon let me look at the book catalogs that came across her desk and asked for my suggestions when it came to spending your hard-earned tax dollars for our little library collection. How cool was that?

What I didn’t realized was that some of the best descriptions, especially for books that graced the covers of the catalogs and the tops of the pages, were for award winning books. I never paid attention when I was in school to the gold stickers that were on the front of Really Good Books: the Caldecott Award and the John Newbery. Fast forward to the early 2000s, when I started reading How to Homeschool books in earnest, I discovered that there were many more of these magical lists, these Good Books that would not only entertain me my children, but teach them Very Good Things, too.

Hatchet by Gary Paulsen was one of those Good Books. Between the lines of a story of parents getting divorced, the protagonist Brian Robeson boards a plane at the beginning of summer break to go see his father who now lives in Canada, somewhere remote enough that a two-seater plane is the method of transport. As if just being a zit-spackled teenager caught in between your parents isn’t bad enough, Brian’s pilot suffers a heart attack and they plummet to the ground to their death. The End.

Just kidding. Brian (but not the pilot) survives the crash and he is pitted against the wilderness, desperately trying to stay alive until somebody can find him, like a needle in a stack of needles. All The Bad Wilderness Things happen to him: hunger, cold, rain, mosquitoes, moose attacks, nightmares about the dead pilot coming to get him, but somehow Brian uses his wits to figure out How to Do Everything With Only A Hatchet.

The Hatchet was a gift his mother gave him before he left which he luckily wore on his belt, surviving along with Brian when the plane, dead pilot and Everything Else That Would Have Been Useful wind up at the bottom of the lake. It turns out to be the key to everything in Brian’s survival.

Brian’s story – parts of which are based on the author’s real experiences living rugged in the bush – was so “enchanting” to Paulsen’s readers that they wrote to him and demanded: More Brian! And so Paulsen gave his adoring public more. The Hatchet series includes The River, Brian’s Winter, Brian’s Hunt, and Brian’s Return, all nice neat little books that you could read in a few hours or find as an audiobook at your local library read by Peter Coyote.

With the Brian books, I can vicariously survive with him in the woods because I have no intention of EVER getting stranded in the wilderness, in Vermilion Provincial Park or even in my backyard. I’m not exactly what you would call a gamer when it comes to the Great Outdoors. I prefer My Outdoors to be 20 above and wind-less, with a cooler of hot dogs and coolers on the deck and a warm bed awaiting me inside four walls. With electricity. And bug spray. No moose.

But.

The Brian Books remind me that with a little bit of ingenuity, we humans can survive a lot, almost anything really. We only need to look back at the last few months when we were first tossed into the COVID-a-tron to know that we can put up with a lot. And sometimes the way to get through the next unknown is to remember what you have already done. Brian, via Paulsen, returned to the woods again and again, because he knew he COULD do it again. And the last time, he did take bug spray.