Category Archives: Memories

About the Best Memories

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The other day on Instagram, Gretchen Rubin posted this quote of hers: “The things that go wrong often make the best memories.” I’ve read this in her books, I’ve heard her say it on her Happier podcast and it always makes me think of the Disney ride, Splash Mountain.

In 2010, our family took a trip to Florida. (It’s called travelling – remember?) Our destination was Orlando, or more specifically, ALL of the Disney theme parks and waterparks, enough to fill up more than a week’s worth of vacation. Even if there was plenty of new things to see and do, our favorite rides got our due attention and we fought the lineups to go on the best ones at least two or three times. And one of our all time favorites, both in California’s Disneyland and Florida’s Magic Kingdom, had to be Splash Mountain. Even if our Florida experience on it was…well, let’s just call it memorable.

Here’s the story I told in our travel blog back then:

Splash Mountain is a lovely log ride along a relatively serene Disney river punctuated with two or three waterfalls of varying heights and one exciting five-storey drop at the end. Since we rode this attraction before, we already knew when to expect the drops. We were also familiar with the announcement (in an appropriate Southern drawl) on the PA system: “Looks like Br’er Bear and Br’er Fox are causin’ some commotion upstream. Your ride through Splash Mountain will begin again shortly.” This was (supposedly) to allay any aggravation when the ride would stall for a bit. So when we heard the announcement on our last time up the river, we assumed we’d get moving again soon. We were wrong.

Me and my fellow Splash Mountaineers circa 2010.

After 30 minutes of being cramped into a damp, sweaty giant plastic log right next to a hysterical animatronic bear with a bee’s nest on his nose on a very short action-and-music loop, the “magic” was starting to wear off a little. Three out of five of us needed to use “the facilities” and Rick was ready to run interference with the crazy lady in the front log who was getting anarchistic. Trying to distract their little ones, two moms in another log started to sing the “Banana-nana-fo-fana” song OVER AND OVER again – essentially replacing the hysterical-bear-audio-loop which thankfully was turned off after much too long. Annnnnnd the newlywed couple behind us were acting like the honeymoon had definitely lost its bloom. It was no longer a Tunnel of Love, it you know what I mean.

Finally, after about forty-five minutes of expensive Disney time, some “cast members” appeared from the secret doorway that was no longer secret since all lights had come on at about the same time that the soundtrack was shut off. We were warned (in a sinister government-agent kind of voice) not to try exit the boats by ourselves. I was also advised to “put my camera away” but not before capturing some very revealing inner chamber pictures. We were escorted down the stairs and into the back lot, sworn to secrecy about this Disney underbelly and then plied with Fastpasses and ice cream coupons. Let’s just say, it’s all water under the log now.

Isn’t this magical?

As I said, we’ve ridden Splash Mountain a few times. But the only time I can really remember is this one. Retrospection is funny, in more ways than one.

What’s your best/worst memory?

About Mustard on Eggs

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            In our home, whenever we had hard-boiled eggs, the kids always thought that it was just hilarious and maybe a little gross that I put mustard on mine. Never mind the fact that I always put mustard in egg salad sandwich filling or in devilled eggs. I suppose in that case the joke is on them if they choose to stay out of the kitchen during meal preparation. But to me, mustard and hard-boiled eggs go together just like strawberries and cream or Ritz Bits (cheese-filled) and Nutella. (Try it. I’m not wrong.)

            I have a pretty good idea how the mustard first got on my eggs in the first place: it has to do with Easter. Coming from a Ukrainian and Polish household, it was tradition on Easter Sunday morning to wake up to a breakfast of paska (egg bread), kobasa (good old garlic sausage) and, of course, hard-boiled eggs. All these tasty things had survived a trip to and from the church in a basket on Holy Saturday, where it had been blessed for our breakfast the next day. And nestled among the pussy willows nearly hidden from view would be an unobtrusive jar of mustard. Just a little bit, recently removed from an indelicate yellow French’s jar.

            Since it was breakfast and you didn’t want to overdo it for Easter dinner after church, a small plate was in order. The blob of mustard at the side was originally intended for the kobasa, I think. But with the bread, meat and egg placed so closely together on a saucer, the inevitable would happen: the egg, so round and slippery, would get a mustard bath. At any rate, since we had fasted the two days before (another tradition, but more spiritual than mustard on eggs), it didn’t really matter what was on those eggs before you scarfed them down. The wonderful thing was that it was really good. So good that, Easter or not, I still put some French’s on my hard-boiled eggs.

            This Easter breakfast is more of a tradition to me than the ham or turkey afterwards or even those one pound bunnies lurking around the house just begging for their ears to get gnawed off. This became painfully aware to me the first time that I had Easter away from home. At sixteen, I participated in a school trip to California and Mexico. In my excitement, I only gave fleeting thought to the fact I’d be away from home for the holiday. But once on the bus, I realized that my Easter was not going to be what it usually was. Some friends thought I was weird when I ordered oyster soup on Good Friday, but my conscience kept me from eating meat that day, knowing the rest of my family wasn’t. We arrived early enough at our destination that same day for my teacher-chaperone to find me a church service, especially since our travel plans would preclude me attending on Sunday. But I hadn’t solved my Easter breakfast dilemma yet. Did hotels in San Francisco carry kobasa on their menu?

            When I went to the dining area for a continental breakfast that Easter morning, I had made up my mind to just imagine my toast was paska and be happy with that. But I never had to do that. You see, in our small high school, we weren’t able to fill up our tour bus with enough students so our “Myrnam to Mexico” club opened up the rest of the bus to any senior citizens who wanted to accompany us. And that morning, when I greeted two of the Ukrainian ladies with the traditional Easter greeting, “Christ is Risen!”, they invited me to join them for their breakfast of paska and kobasa. Obviously, they had planned ahead and smuggled the stuff along in their suitcase. So, together that morning we enjoyed a transcontinental breakfast.

            There was no mustard on eggs that day, but hey, half a tradition can be better than nothing. And that was a great deal of comfort on my first Easter Sunday away from home.

About Odd Things

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I finished off the Parmesan cheese the other day, the Kraft kind with the red double flip top that lets you choose what kind of adventure in cheesiness you would like. I washed the container out and put it in the recycle bin but when I went to toss in the lid as well, my hand wouldn’t let go. I took a closer look at it, then put it in the place where I keep “The Odd Things I Cannot Throw Away”.

Sometimes, such “found” items are just…un-throw-away-able. The box that my husband’s Maui Jim’s sunglasses came in with the cardboard top that looks like real wicker? A good holder for my Post-it notepads. The miniature bottle of Tabasco that accompanied a room-service meal in New York? Now a tiny memory that sits on my bookshelf. The stopper from my Starbuck’s coffee? Strangely interesting and even more impressive in quantity (not unlike the collection of bread bag clips I alluded to in last week’s post.)

After my Mom passed away and we were going through her house, I found an old cookie tin on a shelf in the basement rumpus room that held a magpie’s assortment of saved objects: old board games pieces, some wooden beads and some tiny plastic gewgaws that she had saved. This last category held things that could have easily been thrown away, or recycled, like (wait for it) bread bag clips or the lid from an interesting perfume bottle. My own magpie instincts were modeled to me a long time ago.

What did she see in these tiny bits of ephemera? For her, saving these things was a bit like an eccentric savings account, not unlike my father-in-law’s shop where, with a little bit of thought, he is able to forage out the exact size bolt or screw for an odd job. Odd jobs, after all, require odds things. But the odd things are also sometimes gateways to the weird and wonderful, art projects that are so utterly unique by virtue of the the odds that spawned them.

When I was still in single digits, my Mom created for me a Barbie doll house. Now, this wasn’t a typical doll house that could be carted around and it didn’t live in my bedroom. Instead my Mom commandeered three shelves of the closet in my oldest brother’s basement bedroom – and created a Barbie condo. The bathtub? Carved from a blue fabric softener bottle. The clock on the wall? An old broken wristwatch divorced of its straps. The bed-side lamps? Two plastic pop-tops from cheap champagne. (Take a look next time. You won’t be able to see anything else.)

That Barbie doll house has inhabited my psyche for forty years now. I have so many questions: Did I ask for a Barbie doll house or did Mom get the idea on her own? Was it due to the critical mass of tchotchkes that she had saved up that needed to go somewhere? (Not unlike the patchwork lap blankets she cobbled together for all of us from old polyester sweaters and Fortrel pants.) How did my brother feel about having a Barbie doll house – and his elementary school sister playing – in his bedroom? Did I even like Barbie dolls?

I don’t really remember playing with dolls that much, but I do remember that house. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t throw away that Parmesan cheese top the other day. It would make the perfect Barbie ottoman, with storage for Barbie knitting needles and Barbie yarn, a hobby she’s probably taken up during Covid. Barbie is getting older, after all, just like me. But her condo – in my mind – is still a classic.

About Spring Cleaning

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[Today: another throwback post. I find it interesting when I read back my words some twenty years ago how entrenched I was in the role of mothering and domestic engineering. I loved it then – still love the mothering – but the spring cleaning has turned into year round cleaning. More manageable, less odious – not to mention I don’t have three little ruffians upending my efforts every waking hour anymore. Good times. And the gender roles aren’t nearly as strict now. Also: I don’t have much of a Martha Stewart consciousness anymore except to enjoy her friendship with Snoop Dog.]

Every year about this time I have an irrepressible urge to rid my house of all excess dirt, grime, recyclables and of course, any clothing that has mysteriously shrunk in size. As the old adage goes, in spring a man’s heart turns to baseball and a woman’s towards baseboards. Or more specifically, the chocolate milk that seeped under there when one of your children decided to demonstrate jumping jacks, forgetting he had a full glass in his hand.

I always know that the time has come by the state of affairs in my storage room. One look in there and you might think I had some sort of disease, the kind that the absence of many Styrofoam trays, paper towel tubes, milk carton caps and Pringles cans would preclude my normal functioning in life. A symptom of my ailment is my total inability to throw something away (or recycle it) before it has migrated to said storage room and has become part of a teetering tower that threatens to landslide into the hallway if you don’t open and close the door VERY quickly. Which makes retrieving the vacuum cleaner a problem. Which is why the kids have the vacuum cleaner in their toy room. They think it’s an alligator.

I like to think that it’s a frontier quality that I have honed, saving things beyond all reason. One never knows when Martha Stewart comes up with a way of making a “beautiful” giant topiary from several detergent bottles and hundreds of bread clips, which (of course) I have. But having three little boys in the house has foils all my aesthetic intentions. Whereas I envision a teeny tiny skyscraper from the medicine box I can’t throw away, my boys see a weapon of the grenade variety. Cardboard trays? Shields. Wrapping paper tubes? Swords. Which explains the strange ring-shaped bruises that they all sport on their tummies.

And so the second clue that it’s spring-cleaning time is when the playroom is littered with squashed boxes and tubes. The reason it has to be spring when you begin the Big Clean is so that you can send your kids outside for an indefinite amount of time. This tradition dates back to the beginning of history when cavewoman, at the sign of the first thaw, told her children to go play outside and not to come back until she called them. Although she didn’t have a Swiffer or a Dirt Devil, her cleanup was relatively easy, consisting merely of removing all the bones and rocks that had made their way into the cave over the winter and then sweeping it out with a stick that had some dried weeds attached to it.

Of course, all you really have to do is tell your family that you’re going to clean today and they will all miraculously disappear, including your husband. This also dates way back to ancient Scotland when Old MacDonald fled the house and his wife’s feather duster. Picking up a stick in a fit of male protest, he got in touch with his primitive side and knocked a stone flying into a gopher hole, thus inventing another timeless spring tradition.

And so spring-cleaning has also become synonymous for Mommy’s Alone Time. Which makes it a perfect time to forget about the impending avalanche in your storage room, kick back and tune your television to see what Martha’s up to. Or to the baseball season opener. Whatever it takes until the feeling passes.

About the Farm (and Some Pigs)

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“Pigs by the Radiator” Copyright Sharlie Donily

One thing I have been using a lot more during the pandemic is a nice little library app called Libby. It’s like a one-stop shop for all my digital library needs – especially audiobooks. Sometimes when I just want to listen to something while I walk or cook or exercise, I check out what’s available right now – kind of like Russian library roulette. And so, I found myself listening to Charlotte’s Web. The bonus: it was read by the author E. B. White himself.

I came to this classic book kind of late, not reading it until I was in my thirties. I was enchanted then and was enchanted again as I listened last week to a story about a couple of unlikely best friends: a pig and a spider. The setting however, was not unfamiliar to me: a barn with lots of other residents. In the story there are cows, geese, even a rat who goes through his own story arc. And I reminisced a little about when I had a barn to visit like Fern, the girl who saved Wilbur the pig from an early demise.

One of my favorite memories about living on the farm, however, isn’t about me visiting the animals in the barn but the other way around. In the early spring, when a litter of baby pigs arrived but the temperature dipped too low for their safety, my Dad or my brothers would bring a cardboard box of piggies into the house for the night. The box would be placed next to the wall register in my bedroom off the kitchen and I was lulled to sleep by the gentle squeaks of warm baby piggies. (I would pay cash money for a sleep app that featured a “warm newborn piglets in a cardboard box” soundtrack.)

I’m so thankful for having grown up on the farm. Although it was never my ambition to keep being a farm girl, I am glad that I know where my bread and butter actually do come from. I’m re-reading another favorite right now – Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver – about her family’s year-long chronicle with eating a diet of only locally sourced foods, much of which was grown on their own farm. I decided to read this book slowly, enjoying the corresponding chapters with each ensuing month. It starts in March. Kingsolver, an wonderful writer, but also a botanist and a vigilante gardener outlines in the introduction how very far removed most people are from the source of their food. Even a biologist friend, hearing Kingsolver recap over the phone the goings-on in her garden was surprised to hear that the potatoes were “up”: she thought that potatoes only had bottoms, no tops.

Most of us who grow up on the farm know that you name your pets with caution, understanding the caveat that having a name doesn’t mean they will escape their eventual fate like Wilbur the Pig does. (And zero of us knows a spider who managed it.) But there’s something very gratifying about knowing where your Easter ham comes from or the colored eggs (hint: not a bunny) or the asparagus that Kingsolver rhapsodizes about in her March chapter.

Thank goodness for farmers and writers who remind us of these simple life-giving things.

(Oh, and Instagrammers, too!)

About Spring

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It’s happening. Once the calendar flips to March, we can rightfully claim that it’s the beginning of the end of winter. Yes, we still get snow and negative double-digits well into April and sometimes May, but the third month means Spring, like Aslan, is on the move.

And one of the most gratifying things about my long walks outside in spring has to be the puddles, lightly frozen over, that are oh so satisfying to crunch my way through – as long as I am wearing waterproof shoes. What is it about frozen puddles, or melted puddles, that make for such fun for kids? And adults? I think it might be the hidden delight of being about to shatter something with no consequences other than a wet sock if you misjudge the depth of said puddle.

Maybe it’s just all that wonderful water. In the spring, it abounds, causing floods and havoc and deep moisture, a promise for future greenery. When the ice and snow starts to melt, it thaws out our souls as well. Maybe that’s why I get playful in the puddles in the spring.

When I was younger, we had a culvert that crossed under the road near our driveway on the farm. When the spring runoff happened, I would spend hours splashing in the water that came tumbling out one end or throwing sticks in the other, then racing across the road to see if I could beat it. Not unlike the famous game of Poohsticks that Winnie-the-Pooh played with his friend Piglet.

I had such good memories of playing in the water in the spring that when I had my three little boys, I was happy to allow them to wade through the swimming pools that formed in the ditches beside our acreage. They would tread carefully at first, breaking the ice, but then eventually they would start wading through, filling up their boots with water. When they got cold enough, we headed into the house for a hot bath – back when all three of them could still fit in the tub together – and then hot chocolate to warm the outside, then the inside.

It’s here, but it’s a limited time only. Get on your boots. Get out there and have a splash. It might freeze your toes but that’s the price of a little fun sometimes. And it’s worth it for the hot chocolate after.

About Snow, Sort Of

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(Tim, Sam, Gil and Simon – the stars of today’s story – 22-plus years ago.)

[For your reading pleasure today, another Throwback. Or…should I say SNOWback? Oh, my sides. Enjoy, in spite of bad puns.]

They say that in the Inuit language, there are about fifty different words that can be translated into one English word: snow. Those conversing about snow in that language are able to understand perfectly what kind of white stuff is being referred to since the description is inherent in the word.

We are not so fortunate in the English economy of words. Snow, other than the original meaning, can also refer to the fuzzy reception on your television (talk about a throwback) or in alternate verb form, to trick someone. All this can be very confusing to a small person. Hanging out with my small children, I can hear a lot of funny interpretations as they attempt to translate the adult language around them.

Kids are literalists. On the morning of the first frost, Gil was calling his little brothers’ attention to the crystallized scene out our window. When he referred to it as frost (there’s probably a really appropriate word for it in Inuit), Tim’s eyes got very big and said, “That’s a pretty big cake out there!” Although he’s old enough to know that the frosting outside isn’t sweet – not that Timmy wouldn’t test the theory – he got the connection immediately. In another “chilly” scenario, while picking some sticky burrs off Simon’s sweatpants the other day, I asked a little friend of his if he ever had burrs. To which he replied, “I only get “brrrs” when I eat ice cream.”

My two older boys have sibling rivalry down pat. They are constantly scrapping about…well, everything. So when Tim went off to spend the day with Dad last week, I had a relatively peaceful day with the other two. Later that evening, when I called Gil’s attention to the fact that there were no fights that day, I inadvertently told him that he and Tim were “the problem”. He took it upon himself to explain this to Tim as they lay in bed that night. Using the best analogy he could come up with, we overheard him say to Tim, “It’s like the world is a big math book and we’re the problem!”

As if single words weren’t enough, kids have to decipher phrases as well. My nephew Sam is the star of a favorite family story. One day, as his mom was bent over cutting his fingernails, he decided to investigate something that his mom had repeatedly told him. Reaching into her hair, he prodded her head, then said, “Oops, sorry, Mom. I poked you in the eye.” Puzzled, she denied that his fingers had gone anywhere near her eyes. To which he replied, “I meant the ones in the back of your head.”

Be careful what you say to your children. They might take you literally and poke you in the eye – oops – I mean the head.

About Career Choices

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[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 Mr. Dressup

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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 Odd Jobs

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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.