It's what you learn after you think you know it all that counts.

Some people learned everything they need to know in Kindergarten.  It has taken me a lot longer. 

When I was eleven, my sister and brother were already grown and out of the house, off on their own. I was the last one at home to join my folks when they took their annual holidays or weekend getaways.  With the precision, efficiency, and ranking of a military bivouac my folks had a familiar routine to prepare the camping equipment, chuck box, boat, tent equipment, and the one allotted piece of luggage per person.  For an upcoming trip, I knew that Dad would be home early from work, and we'd be leaving promptly at 3 p.m.  Somehow, I'd lost track of time, and before I knew it, I heard the garage door open, announcing his arrival.  I grabbed my suitcase and hustled it out to the car, and came back into the house where my mother gave me a few last-minute tasks.  Right on schedule Dad announced, "Let's GO!" and went out to the idling car with trailer in tow.  With my mum sitting shotgun, the dog panting and full of anticipation in the back seat, they began to pull away. Wishing I had just one more minute to put on my sneakers, but without time to even find them, I knew it was now or never, and ran after them down the street.  Dad slowed a little for me to jump in the moving car and we were off.  My entire vacation, I had just a pair of bedroom slippers to wear on the shores and campgrounds of northern Michigan.

Lesson learned: Promptness.


When I was very young, I was with my mother driving home during a cold steady rain in downtown Detroit at rush hour.  At a gridlocked intersection, we sat through several cycles of red/green lights while people stood at a corner bus stop just a few feet from our car.  As we waited our turn to get through the traffic light, an older woman rapped on my window, startling me.  Not knowing what to do, my mother calmly told me to open my window and see what she wanted.  Dripping, the woman stood looking at us, then leaned in slightly and asked for a ride.  Wide-eyed, I quickly looked at my mother and again back to the woman, while my mother cheerfully asked where she was going and then told me to unlock the back door so she could get in and sit in the back seat.  During the long ride, this elderly, soft-spoken black woman described how she took the bus daily, for two hours, to an affluent Detroit suburb to do housecleaning.  That day, with the traffic issues, she'd missed one of her bus connections.  My mother listened, drove her to the neighborhood, which was well out of our way, and then we went home, arriving too late for supper and long after my bedtime.  I sat silently during the long detour, while my mother and the gray-haired woman chatted. After we'd left the woman off, I asked my mother why she'd done that.  She simply remarked, "To be nice."

Lesson learned:  Kindness 


In high school in central rural Massachusetts, I worked two jobs.  One was as a respite provider for a large family who had a teen daughter with autistic-like developmental disabilities.  My job was to provide companionship to Michelle so other members of the family could be relieved from those demands, which often required constant attention.  Michelle and I usually found ourselves in the bustling kitchen, coloring, piecing jigsaw puzzles, painting fingernails, working clay, or helping with simple tasks for the family's meal preparation (It was at that table that I learned how to peel and chop an onion, and to this day EVERY time I cut into an onion, my memory takes me back to the Leroux family kitchen. Lesson learned: onion chopping).  For two or three hours, several days each week, she and I would keep company and I'd guide her through the job of setting the supper table for this large family -- routine was an important aspect for her in our afternoon activities.  For dinner, the family would gather, sometimes as many as ten of them.  I would often join them as they shared the events of their day, ate the meal, and worked as a family for clean-up, while including both Michelle and me in conversation, laughter, and routine.  The contrast to my quiet home (just my Mum, Dad and me those years) was glaring as this busy household of ten interacted with each other every single night.

Lesson learned: Family loyalty and devotion.


When Stephen and I lived in Omaha Nebraska in our early years together, he was soon to be transferred to Illinois to attend meteorology school for his job as a weather forecaster.  At the time, we were young, active members of the Unitarian Church, and enjoyed many opportunities for friendship and social outlets.  In the congregation we had several friendships, some still lasting to today.   At potlucks, meetings, and various church events we had become friendly with a couple who learned about our impending (though temporary) move; we would be gone for six months before returning to Omaha.  They took us aside, and sincerely offered their home to us for a few days when we came back and would need to get settled again.  It was a huge relief to us, and we kept in touch with the couple while we were away in Illinois.  Shortly after our arrival back in Omaha, exactly as anticipated, we sought out this couple and inquired about when we could take them up on their offer.  She was a doctor, and he was a lawyer, so we hoped to coordinate with their busy schedules.  To our surprise and disappointment, they decisively rescinded their offer, giving thin excuses.  We were left standing gap-jawed with few immediate options.  It all worked out for us, but it left an indelible impression.

Lesson learned: Integrity


Another member of our church called me shortly after we'd bought our home in Omaha saying we were practically neighbors, and invited me to visit with the kids anytime.  I was needy and eager for friendship and a companion, and so Hilma Lathrop immediately became our surrogate grandmother.  Welcoming our pop-in visits for tea, spontaneous shopping trips, and captivating us with her life stories and practical home-making skills, she embraced our children, and found humour in all things.  With me, she shared her recipes, wisdom, and heart.  One important recipe she shared was her long-time family soap recipe.  When I was washing my hands at her kitchen sink, I remarked at how wonderful the bar of soap felt, and she dismissively waved her hand and said, "Oh, that's just plain soap I make."  Astounded, I asked for the story, and she explained how it was made, and offered me a lesson.  For the following month, I collected bacon fat and beef drippings in a five-pound coffee can, and had the basic necessary ingredients to make a batch of soap for our every cleaning need.  From that first lesson, I've been making our own soap ever since.

Lesson learned: resourcefulness helps frugality.


My mother was smart funny.  Not practical funny.  She never played practical jokes, though she was often the victim of them in our household. She never insulted to be amusing, but had a clever, sharp sense of humour.

When my folks moved to Cleveland Place, there were several renovations and improvements to be made, most needing a lot of elbow grease and a fierce work ethic.  She thrived on both.  At some point in years past, the pantry's wooden counter tops had been covered with Formica and glued down  with black mastic.  It was a mean chore to remove and strip, but worth it as it revealed a warm chestnut-colored wood surface.  They eventually used this area to make bread and pastries for the Bed and Breakfast. Over time, excess flour filled the small cracks between the old boards.  When our cousin Max, who had lived in Cleveland Place for several years before my folks, was in the pantry he noticed the improvements and admired their work, appreciating the effort to return the counter and cabinet underneath to the original wood.  My mother called him over, opened the wide cabinet door, and showed the interior of the cupboard where large tubs of flour and staples were stored.  She then guided him to look closely at the wood surface that had been hidden beneath the Formica for so long.  As Max bent over and peered closely at the countertop, my mother quickly and purposefully slammed the cupboard door, sending a cloud of flour dust up into Max's face.  My mother took her work and cleaning very seriously, but she also very easily found humour.

Lesson learned: Look for humour and enjoy the laughter.


When Stephen and I were exploring the endless opportunities that New York City offered when we first moved to the area, we were dazzled by the lights, activities, street shows, spontaneity and random encounters each trip unveiled.  One crowd that attracted my attention was surrounding a quick-paced three-card monty game set up on a cardboard box.  As the dealer flipped and tossed cards, he asked spectators to point out where the hidden Queen had landed.  One man bet $10 and found her, and was awarded $10 more.  Many placed bets, and they usually won.  The lively game and crowd activity was a distraction, but I was amazed that I knew EVERY single time where the Queen was, no matter who in the crowd was betting.  I could have been winning money all that time! Before I knew it, the dealer pointed right to me and asked me where I thought that elusive Queen card was.  I knew, pointed to the card, and he exclaimed that I was RIGHT! He turned over the card to reveal the Queen, and, chagrined, told me I'd just won TWENTY dollars!!   I was immediately overcome with giddy excitement, and extended my hand to accept his $20 bill, but he held it up and cautioned that I had to prove that I had my own twenty to make it a legitimate bet.  No problem -- I was a winner! I quickly reached into my pocketbook and pulled out a twenty dollar bill -- the ONLY money we had that day -- and presented it.  As the dealer pinched my bill between his finger and thumb, Stephen leaned into my ear, and firmly and seriously said, "Do. not. let. go. of. that. money." so I pulled it back out of his firm pinch and said, "Thank you very much" as Stephen pulled me out of the crowd.

Lesson learned: Don't let excitement surpass common sense.


Last year we were visiting and working with Stephen's siblings in Massachusetts while settling their deceased mother's estate.  When we'd done all that we could we left their company and headed back to Canada, but just 10 miles away I realized I'd left behind a black leather glove.  Not just any glove, but a buttery Italian leather with a cashmere lining, of special sentimental value; our cousin Peter had given it to me as an elegant accessory.  It was a lovely gift, and typical of Peter's generosity toward me and our family.  Since Peter had died just earlier that year, the gloves were quite dear to me.  We immediately called back to the others to ask about it and explained why they were special.  Stephen's older sister, Anne, found it and to my relief said she'd mail it to us in Canada, saving us from turning back.

After several weeks with nothing in the post box from Anne, I asked about it, assuming with many things on her mind during that sad time, she'd simply forgotten about it.  But Anne again assured me that she'd send it that month.   Yet, now it's spring, and we've heard nothing back from her, no mail, no call back, no explanation, no glove....nothing.  Naturally, that leaves me entirely bewildered since it's really a keepsake more than a winter accessory -- one whose special value I had made very clear.
   
Lesson Learned: Keep your promises.


We like family games.  Board games, dice games, trivia, general knowledge, strategy, word games.  For Christmas one year, Olivia gave us a fun group party game she simply made out of wide rolls of cash register tape.  The premise is that everyone who has a paper roll starts by writing a short descriptive sentence at the top edge of the paper and passes it to the person seated next to them.  That person is then given one minute to draw a picture depicting the sentence.  When time is up, the initial sentence is folded down to be hidden, and the paper roll revealing only the drawing is passed to the next person, who looks at the drawing and composes a sentence describing what they see.  After one minute, the roll is passed on to the next person so at anytime there is only one drawing or one sentence showing.....and so on until all the rolls have been passed all around the entire group of four or more.  Then the tape is unrolled and hilarity ensues as all the drawings and sentences are revealed and the unavoidable misinterpretations are shared.

We played this game on Boxing Day with my dad, Wallace, who, once the rules were explained, demanded, "How do you WIN?"  Also joining the game was Dad's wife, Anna, Anna's adult son George, and his girlfriend Evita. Anna got an egg timer from the kitchen, and full of anticipation we started.  Olivia wrote a sentence, the hourglass was turned -- a minute goes by FAST!-- next in the circle, Anna took the paper and pencil and drew the picture -- this is becoming a fast-paced game -- "TIME!"  Next was Dad, who interpreted Anna's sketch and wrote down his sentence and passed the paper roll to George.  As the timer began dropping a minute's worth of sand, George carefully read what Dad wrote, and extended his hand to receive the pencil.  Time is of the essence, but Dad slowly looked at the pencil, and with raised eyebrows he slipped it into his shirt pocket, and quietly said, with a mischievous smirk "This is my pencil."

Lesson learned: Keep competition fair.



I've learned a lesson about learning lessons: you often learn them when you least expect them.

"Take two and see me in three days"

My folks were tough.  When the three of us children were growing up, we weren't allowed to complain.  Illness and injury received scant sympathy, unless we were in agonizing pain or on our death bed with a serious ailment -- for which eggnog was the typical prescribed remedy.  Injuries were met with "tape it up" and illnesses "just wait 'til the fever subsides." Everything had three-day waiting period before actual medical attention was considered.  Until she was in treatment for lung cancer, my mother never spent a day in bed with a complaint, and no affliction ever kept Dad from his duties until a case of shingles in his seventies.

As parents, Stephen and I tried to be more reasonable; we listened to our children's health concerns, tried to validate and reassure them, and treated them with whatever attention the condition required, whether minor or life threatening.

Our daughter Kathryn has her own special family medical file, however.  An often silent observer and companion to Olivia's frequent hospitalizations, ambulance trips, emergency room visits, and complicated procedures, she became knowledgeable about medical protocol and diagnosis. She developed a kind of hypochondria, announcing the onset of a terminal case of a variety of diseases, requiring immediate attention by a specialist.  We'd insist on the family "three day waiting period," during which a recovery would miraculously occur.

When she left home and took one of her first apartments in the big city, she showed she had a flair for decorating and furnishing tastefully on a limited budget.  When we first visited, we saw her bookshelves neatly filled with both classic and contemporary authors, and DVD sleeves tidily set to one side. Handmade pottery and artwork was displayed with throw pillows, adding a cozy touch to the couch along one wall.  We took note of a neatly arranged fan of colorful printed materials on the living room floor, just as one would arrange a pile of magazines on a coffee table.

It was a pleasure for us to see our daughter so self-assured and happy in her new home, beginning her venture into independent adulthood. We imagined her lying on her floor perusing her magazines full of fashion, home decor, celebrity gossip, and so on. But when we looked closer, we realized they weren’t even magazines at all. Each one was a booklet or glossy pamphlet that represented a different disease:  Diabetes and YOU; Understanding your Pituitary; Advances in Glaucoma Treatment; Handling your Headaches; Carpal Tunnel Syndrome: CTS; Controlling Irritable Bowel Symptoms; How to deal with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome at Work, and more. Free from our dismissive health care approach, she was finally able to explore her many dormant but deadly conditions.


Several years ago, Stephen experienced an acute case of hiccups.  It was during a long road trip from New England to Nebraska, on a side trip to Niagara Falls.  We'd been driving for most of the day and arrived at the parking area at nearly midnight.  We'd hoped to see the dramatic falls at night, since our only previous visit years earlier had been during the day.  Unfortunately, the nighttime fog was especially thick, and thoroughly obliterated any view of the waterfalls.  Disappointed, we crept along a side road hoping to catch a glimpse of any lights on the water, but the fog was as unrelenting as Stephen's frustrating case of hiccups, which after two hours was making him nauseated.

The fog was so thick we couldn’t see any road signs or even the lines on the road. Stephen inched forward, craning over the steering wheel trying to see anything at all, while hiccuping painfully and noisily. Eager to relieve him from his distress, I suddenly burst out shrieking, "STOP!!!!"

And he did!  He slammed on the brakes in complete panic, we lurched forward against our seat belts.  The tires screeched as he desperately scanned the foggy road for whatever danger we had just avoided, certain we'd narrowly escaped cascading over the actual waterway, running over an unseen tourist, or worse.

"Jesus Christ, WHAT?  What was it??" Stephen asked, intensely alarmed. I brightly replied, "Oh nothing, I just wanted to help you stop hiccuping! And look, it worked!"

It did work.  But he was mad for three days.

O Tannenbaum

For me, the holidays are times for creating happy memories, maintaining family traditions, and gathering loved ones around the hearth and table, often sharing good food, music, and exchanging special gifts. Since we've settled into Cleveland Place, I've enjoyed decking the halls – stringing up delicate heirloom Christmas ornaments, arranging centerpieces for the big meals, and setting candles on the windowsills to create a warm welcoming light for visitors or passersby.  Nearly every bedizening ornament has some kind of sentiment, keepsake value, or story.  I treat each one with care, and when I’m standing high on a ladder to reach the eaves to hang one, I think of the person or event that connects it to our family tree.

Sadly, this year starts with the loss of a family member by a fall from a ladder.  Given the time of year, I assume she was taking down her own special holiday decorations. She too may have been remembering loved ones, happy times, and special people.  I’d like to think she was full of happy thoughts of her own extended family; but now a sadly broken branch on a family tree.

For many years, our growing family lived far away from our origins, so we created some new traditions. If you’ve read in other blog entries about our Solstice events and not-so-traditional American Thanksgiving, then you know that gathering, eating, and laughing are integral elements to me for a successful get-together no matter the occasion.

A particular Christmastime in Alma Village with a group of friends and family remains a vivid memory of happy chaos.  It started out as a casual gathering for dinner, holiday glühwein, and some festive merrymaking with friends and family, featuring (among others):

• Wolfgang:  While vacationing from his home country of Germany to the Fundy area, Wolfie fell in love with our small fishing village and its rural lifestyle, and soon after moved to Alma.  Retired as concertmaster from the German Army, he sought out fellow musicians in our small community and quickly found a circle of friends who, like him, were “from away.”  He became acquainted with my dad, Wallace (alone after my mother's sudden and unexpected death after almost fifty years together), who welcomed the distraction of friends and activities to keep him busy.  When at Cleveland Place, Wolfgang would sit at our parlor grand piano and practice his exercises, running complicated scales up and down the antique keyboard.  The piano, made in Berlin many years ago, has a rich bass and beautiful tone.  A true musician, Wolfie enjoyed playing it to its full capacity.  After thirty minutes of warm-up, he would stand, stretch (a large, tall, imposing man), prop up the piano’s lid, and then really play music.  We’d open our front door facing Main Street, and as summertime tourists strolled the village streets, they'd slow down or stop to listen, and admire the grand music flowing from our home. 

• Kirstin:  Our hostess at this gathering and long-time true family friend. Originally from Germany, she relocated in Alma via Ontario many years ago.  Amber Brook, her B&B, was Wolfgang's respite “weir spreken deutch” when he was touring the Fundy area.  Fluently bilingual, she also helped Wolfie adjust to the provincial and village culture. A leader in every capacity, Kirstin is assertive but friendly, often taking firm but polite command of situations.

• Linda:  Kirstin's housemate, and another good family friend.  A retired librarian, Linda is mild-mannered, soft spoken, well-read, and unfailingly gracious as co-hostess, keeping conversation flowing with her extensive knowledge of current topics and historical or literary references.

•  Gerry:  Readers of The Jugular Vein blog have already met Gerry, a talented musician and friend, in “Share it If You Got It.”  Always eager for the company of friends and holiday socializing, Gerry rarely missed an invitation to share food, song, or companionship. He lived alone in a remote farmhouse outside the village limits, where unrelenting Fundy fog often compounded loneliness.  An expert jack of all trades, Gerry always made do for entertainment, fun, and practicality, and – like my mother – wore Dollarama brand readers to save the expense of optometrist and prescription glasses.

•  Dad (Wallace): Happy to have someone else hosting the evening, and keen to relax with the company of friends, he always enjoys a gathering. Usually an active participant or initiator of an evening’s entertainment, Dad was more an observer on this night.

After we finished our meal, the lively conversation around the table quieted as the dishes were cleared away and the cleanup began.  Since it was the holidays, someone suggested we sing traditional Christmas carols.  Regrettably, Gerry didn't have his guitar and there were no musical instruments at Kirstin's house – except for one.

A small children's electronic keyboard toy with one octave of keys, and dead batteries.  Kirstin quickly found and installed new batteries while we half-heartedly hummed and vaguely tried to recall lyrics from familiar carols.  Once the keyboard had power, Wolfgang stood and suddenly took command of the toy, running his large fingers over the keys to assess the sound.  One key wasn't working, which sorely disappointed him.  I was highly amused at the sight of this respected conductor’s serious efforts to generate music from a cheap toy, dwarfed by his big hands that were more accustomed to producing grand classical works from our parlour.

Gerry reached up and took it from him, and used a small pocket knife to unscrew the back and reveal the electronic chips and connectors.  He found a loose component and tried to bend it back into place, but it snapped and completely lost its connection. Kirstin, who’d been hovering over his shoulder, gave a “tsk!” at the realization that Gerry had ruined the evening's opportunity for music.  

Undaunted, Gerry took out his second pair of Dollarama readers, and put them on over the first pair he was already wearing. He exclaimed, “Well, now I can see the problem!” and asked Kirstin to get a soldering iron.  

Impatient to begin the music, Wolfgang stood up and raised is arms in full orchestra conductor mode, commanding attention by announcing in his strong German accent, “I vill make ze tone!” and started humming a mid-scale note for us all to follow.

I looked at Dad who sat back in his chair with a contented smile, enjoying the scenario as Kirstin repeatedly spanked Gerry's hand away from the electronics to prevent him from causing any more damage.  With each spank Gerry shrank back and resumed fiddling with the parts, both reassuring and teasing Kirstin that he could repair it.  The scene would have been the same had they been 10 and 12 year old brother and sister competing for the fix.

Kirstin eventually came up with a wood burning tool, and plugged it in. Gerry, wearing his two pairs of glasses, bent over the small panel to melt and fuse the broken connection, while Wolfie tried to organize a small chorus of dinner guests to give a rousing rendition of the German-English favourite “O Christmas Tree.” 

Though distracted by Kirstin and Gerry's activities at the head of the table, Linda, Dad, a few other guests and I vainly tried to attend to Wolfgang's directions, as he sternly insisted we follow his lead.  But with the noise of Linda clearing the dinner dishes, the smell of melting plastic and metal from the soldering project, the increasing tempo of the scolding/slapping/teasing between Gerry and Kirstin, and Wolfgang’s voice rising over all, demanding the attention and performance of reluctant carolers, repeating sternly, “Listen!  Follow! I vill make ze tone!” the scene was one of complete and uproarious chaos. When Gerry finally presented the repaired toy to a relieved Wolfgang, we managed a warbled rendition of “O Christmas Tree” in English and German. But when he found the formerly silent key now made a low crackling buzz instead, he set it down again with disgust, to our great amusement.

By now dessert was ready, and we'd fulfilled the promise of music, the camaraderie of an evening, a memorable holiday celebration.  Though I have no delicate ornament to serve as a memento of that evening, I have a genuinely happy memory of friends who have become family; extensions of my small family tree. 

How lovely are thy branches.

Share it if you got it

I'll be the first to admit it.  In most ways, I'm pretty square.

My wardrobe is simple. My drawers and closet have a neatly organized selection of beige chinos, polo shirts and white Keds.  My winter wardrobe is similarly practical, featuring my trademark white turtleneck and cardigan wool sweater.  My pocketbook is plain leather, no designer logo, containing a simple wallet, a tube of red lipstick, and several important necessities -- most importantly, my Swiss Army knife, a Sharpie ™ permanent marker, a flint and steel, a one-time-use toothbrush, and at least one crisp, fresh, linen handkerchief.

My creativity is pretty square and simple, too. When I weave, I design utilitarian blankets and cloth out of wool.  Nothing artistic that you'd hang on a wall or use for household decor.  When I knit, I make practical wool socks and durable, long lasting sweaters out of good home-spun sheep fleece.

My music: square, dated, and corny -- and I suffer a crippling case of lyricosis for anything recorded after 1972, often singing along with entirely incorrect lyrics.

To that end so far, I've led a pretty responsible life, taking few risks, usually drinking in moderation (oh, yes, we've all had our moments), and following the advice my father gave me when I was 12, I watched out for the Good-Time-Charlies. Overall, I think I've been a fairly good example, either by word or deed for our four children, as they've all made us proud.

But one summer several years ago, after a difficult lonely few weeks, I'd been invited away and it was then that I strayed.  I left the path that was good and narrow and I ran away.  For about eight solid hours.  It was wonderful.

It was all Gerry's influence.

Gerry Couture is a good friend who became well acquainted with our family when he helped my Dad, Wallace, build The Gazebo at Waterside, New Brunswick.  My folks had purchased an eight-acre piece of waterfront land about 20 years ago, and Dad designed a secluded eight-sided cottage that faces The Bay of Fundy with a 180 degree window exposure to the water.  It was meant to be a primitive getaway from the hustle and bustle of Alma Village (population 298) where they lived.  Gerry helped Dad fine-tune the design, adding a sleeping loft.  During the two-month spring-time construction they spent many long days together, joined by Gerry's constant companion, Byron, the goat.

Since Gerry lived close by The Gazebo, he and Dad would often return to his house for a break at lunch time and a much needed respite from the unrelenting mosquito population at Waterside.  It wasn't long before Gerry became a good friend in fun or in need.  Besides being adept with hammer and nail, Gerry was an excellent guitar player, though he played only by ear. He'd perfected almost every Beatles song, but could also play just about anything requested.  We all enjoyed many late nights joined in song.

Gerry didn't ever seem to have many serious obligations.  His children were grown, and he was on his own.  He worked at several odd jobs in the area to earn his living, and seemed talented in getting the work done well.  He enjoyed his music, his friends, a bit of whiskey, and any whim.
 
One night, Gerry called, telling me his good friend was having a bonfire, and they wanted friends to come out and sing under the moon.  There was a bright round moon on a clear summer night, the B&B was empty and Stephen was away so I said I'd come along!  We met and I drove us both to the camp where his friends and son and daughter would also be joining the fun.  But first, we stopped at the liquor store to pick up a church pint of Crown Royal.

The bonfire was lit in a huge dedicated fire ring at least 6 feet across, and the wood supply was ample.  Gerry invited me to join him down at the water's edge, as this part of the Fundy shoreline was quite different than that in our neck of the woods.  The water was calm, warm, the beach soft and sandy, and the twinkling town lights were pretty and fun from the land just across the inlet. Funny how a change of scenery can refresh.

After we admired the view, we re-joined Gerry's family and friends around the fire ring and out came the guitars and harmonica and Crown Royal.  Gerry played, we all sang, the bottle was passed around.  Early on the songs were lively, loud, the camaraderie around the fire grew as the moon rose.  No one had a care in the world.  Except for me.

I'd  forgotten to take a low-dose allergy pill before I'd left, and being outdoors on a summer night I began to feel my nasal passages constrict and eyes water.  It was also getting pretty late, so I went inside the camp cottage to wash my face, and blow out my nose, and when I returned saw that the six remaining around the fire ring had all drawn their chairs and benches up close and the music had mellowed.  Gerry played some quiet instrumental riffs and then a few French tunes known to his family and they quietly shared a few songs among themselves.  It was quite touching; a special memory.

But my histamines were really taking hold, and my nose was dripping and I couldn't ignore it anymore.  I didn't want to break the mood with a loud honking snort, so I silently slid back in my chair and extended my legs out in front of me so I could reach deep down into the pocket of my blue jeans.

The music abruptly stopped and everyone looked at me.

As I dug deeper down into my pocket someone in the circle loudly exclaimed:

"You got WEED??!!"

and everyone watched me hopefully, anticipating the withdrawal of a small baggie.  Apparently, I had just demonstrated the universal late-night bodily gesture for retrieving weed from the depths of one's pocket.

Instead, I sat up and burst out laughing.  What a night! A perfect getaway; a carefree, moonlit night, filled with music and surrounded by friends.  But it wasn't that kind of night.

As I withdrew my hand from my pocket, I presented a white linen handkerchief with dainty yellow-lace tatting all around the edge.  No, dear friends, I'm just that square. I don't have weed; I have a hankie, freshly starched and pressed.  I waved it delicately, laughing harder as they all joined me -- Gerry strumming a fanfare.

But now I have a memory.  A time I frequently recall, that includes music, friendship, and laughter.

That, I can share.

Grotesque Scenes of Carnage and Brutality

There's a tool on my blog service provider that allows me to see who has visited my pages.  It's pretty amazing to me that I can see what country a visitor is from, and what path led them to my blog The Jugular Vein.  I can see who, how often, at what time, and where they are in the world when they searched for a specific name, location, word, title, or phrase that may have led them to any one of my thirty-six entries.  I'm quite sure that most of them have found it as a result of becoming distracted from what they were initially searching for, but it's neat for me to see that process.

What I find most curious about it is that the pages with the word "hurt" in the title (It Only Hurts When I Laugh and It Rhymes with Hurt) have far more visitors than any of the other entries, even one with the word "kind" in the title.  (Granted, some entries are older than others) So I'm keen to learn the number of visitors who visit this blog entry with its current title.  Dear reader, no matter how you got here, you are now part of an experiment.

But while you're here...

I am reminded of the philosophical question posed to me when I was very young:  Why do people stop and stare to watch two people fighting but turn away when catching two people being affectionate?

Which then calls to mind a fairly effective motto we adopted from our pal Paul Hoff.  He uses it when dealing with difficult, rude, or inconsiderate people, and it's one I have since used on more than one occasion. It's simple: Be Nice Twice.

When shopping at a well known discount home decorating store in New Jersey, I found an item that I'd wanted for quite a while but was only available at a well known high-end gourmet kitchen supply shop, with a price tag far too steep to justify buying it.  It is a hefty, chrome plated, well balanced pounder for making paillards of meat for a few specialty dishes I prepare.  A stout rolling pin does the same job, but this tool does it with class. Pleased with my find, I proceeded to the cash register where I was caught behind a woman unloading a full cart of a variety of wall decorations, imported ceramic vases, a large wall clock with a star-burst of metal appendages, and other pieces of mass-produced "art".

Unfortunately, my new toy didn't have a price tag, so I side-stepped the cash register and asked at customer service for a scan code.  The clerk was unable to find one, so the store manager was called and he promptly told me it was $150.00 -- delighted by his impromptu exaggeration, he waited for my reaction, so I replied, "WHAT?  At that price, I can't afford the meat that it's used for!!"

An aside:  To the average reader, this may seem an inconsequential detail of dialog in this blog entry -- unless you're familiar with the typical New Jersey customer service experience.  Ordinarily, there wouldn't have been anyone at the customer service counter.  When a clerk finally arrived, they'd be annoyed that there were any customers on the premises, and would have proceeded to make it well known what an imposition my request was.  After waiting at least 8 minutes for a manager to arrive, who would not have the key to a register, I'd be made well aware that he was just about to go "on break", and after vainly searching through countless ledgers, he'd find a scan code and ask me to return to the end of line while a ticket was prepared.

But none of that happened!  I had a pleasant exchange with a cheerful clerk and manager, who both shared my delight in this unusual purchase. We exchanged a few more pleasant remarks and he printed a scanning ticket out for $14.95.  A bargain at twice the price.  I was the proud owner of a three-pound, twelve-inch, solid, chrome-plated meat flattener.  It went into a bag and I carried it out, elated over the entire experience.

By now, the woman with all the decorative pieces had completed her transaction and headed out to the parking lot with her cumbersome load.  I went out shortly after her, and there we met.  Side by side.  Her nice shiny new vehicle parked next to my nine year old Dodge Neon with Canadian license plates, clouded headlights, and dull white paint revealing its age.

I could only see her bottom half as she wrangled with her new purchases trying to wedge them into the back seat of her car, maneuvering the cart that was blocking my way, while contending with the waving arms of her timepiece.  I watched for a moment, and patiently waited for another.

I asked her if she needed an extra hand.

She said, "No."

As I got closer between our two cars, I saw that her passenger door had been pushed open to its widest point and had stuck fast to the side of my Neon.

I loudly said, "UH OH!!" since I couldn't open my door, and feared a dent in it from hers.

She extracted herself from her vehicle and said, "WHAT?" with deliberate exasperation.

I pointed to her door and with cheerful concern said, "I can't get in, and I hope your door didn't leave a dent."

She tugged on her door.  It stayed fast, but a firm quick second pull freed it revealing a small dimple and a perceptible nick out of the paint.

I said, "Oh, that's a shame."

She impatiently replied, "Eh?"  So I pointed to the pock, and said, "You did leave a dent." She licked her finger, reached over, smeared her spit in a big wide circle around the tiny indentation, now revealing a more obvious sin: a clean spot.  She t'sked sharply, and with fully nasal Latina attitude and sass looked at me and said, "I din't dent nut-ting."

By now, I had employed and exhausted my ordinarily effective motto, finding that she was just going to be nasty.  So I nipped it in the bud.

I swung the bag containing my pride of purchase, and with a thick audible metallic CLUNK hit the side of her car and stated, with flair, "I din't dent nothing, either." and promptly opened my door, got in, started the engine and drove away.

After you've been nice twice, you see, you can make up your own rules.

"...the kindness of strangers"

The other day a blog reader asked me if I thought some of the experiences that I blog about are entirely unique and wondered if other people share similar stories and anecdotes, suggesting that perhaps her life might not be as rich as most.  I know she's well travelled, outgoing, and well-liked, so she has her own set of stories. Everyone does; some just have more than others.  Some we share, some we keep secret, some we never forget.

The summer heat and humidity in Nebraska can be especially oppressive when you don't have much money and few resources to seek relief.  Frequently on especially sultry days, I'd walk the four kids to a branch of the public library that wasn't too far from home and we'd enjoy a children's story hour in the quiet air conditioned building.  After checking out a few books, we'd head out further and stop for a frozen treat.  One day, as we pushed young Olivia in her stroller and the other three kids each took a hand, we approached an older man who was supported by his walker and wearing clothes that were completely inappropriate for the heat and humidity: a thin winter jacket, a long-sleeved flannel shirt over a t-shirt, clip-on suspenders ... and plaid trousers down around his ankles.  He wasn't wearing any underwear.

As we got closer, I steered the kids to the edge of the sidewalk anticipating that we'd avoid him physically since we were a large group, but I also hoped to shield the kid's view of  his vulnerability as he vainly attempted to retrieve his pants.  It was then that we heard onlookers and passersby catcalling, whistling, and shouting from across the street or from cars that slowly drove past, making rude and insulting comments amusing themselves or their companions with what they thought were clever put-downs.  I hated those people.  

So, I stopped and helped him.  He smelled of urine and the neglect of hygiene, but he was aware.  His arthritic bones and aging muscles prevented him from reaching down for his pants, so he stood quietly as I pulled them up and clipped his four suspenders back in place at equal distances around his waistline.  He thanked me, sincerely, and I told him to have a nice day. I've never forgotten it.

It was on that same main drag of South Omaha where a few months later I stood on the corner with the four kids in the pouring, chilling rain.  We were waiting for a bus, which we would take downtown, get a transfer to cross town and eventually get to Children's Hospital where Olivia was well known.  She had weekly appointments for blood counts and routines of injections and infusions, sometimes requiring overnight stays or -- if results and reports weren't positive -- she'd be admitted for several days in isolation.  We couldn't anticipate the outcome of the day on those frequent trips, and since Stephen was commuting over an hour away, transportation wasn't always convenient or to our advantage.  As the rain pelted down, our chilled breath showed, and the five of us waited at the bus stop, dripping in our slickers, a sleek Cadillac pulled up to the curb and stopped.  Luxury cars were not common in our neighbourhood, and luxury car owners usually made quick time when driving through it. The electric window lowered, and an expensively coiffed, well dressed woman in her 60's leaned over the passenger side and called out, asking if we needed a ride.

I was tired, stressed, wet, and faced an hour's trip by bus to the hospital --a car ride would make it in fifteen minutes. I accepted her simple offer, and filed the four dripping kids in the back onto her leather seats and joined her in front, shaking out my umbrella before closing the door.  Never showing concern for bringing the rain into her fancy car, she chatted politely all the way to the front door of the hospital, then let us off, and told us all to have a good day.  I've never forgotten it.

Not much longer after that we made the move from Omaha to New Jersey.  (You might have read about that adventure in an earlier blog entry.)   For us it truly was an adventure.  We took advantage of the long trip to call on my sister's family in central Tennessee.  We spent just a few days together, and though my stress level was high and concerns were heavy, we were glad for the opportunity to visit.  Our home in urban Omaha, suffering for repair, hadn't yet sold, we were travelling in a 30 year-old vehicle crammed with possessions and pets, and Olivia had only a small window of freedom in between her last Omaha hospital visit and checking in at the hospital in New Jersey where they were expecting her. I imagine that to my sister, who lived comfortably in the country, we looked bedraggled, hassled, and hard scrabbled.

When it was time to leave her and continue on our adventure, she expressed her concern for our safety and comfort, and wished us luck.  It was genuine and it revealed a sort of kind-hearted nature she doesn't openly share -- we weren't a 'share your feelings', affectionate type of family.  She hugged me, and we kissed cheeks.  Though she is generous in every other capacity, this rare gesture of affection moved me, and the softness of her cheek vividly stays with me.  I've never forgotten it.
 
Years later, when my folks were anticipating a trip to visit us, Dad had several eBay (tm) purchases delivered to us to avoid slow and expensive postage to Canada.  He was completing his collection of Alden Nowlan works and had many first editions including some limited printing chapbooks.  We were in the car on our way to lunch when Dad opened a package containing The Best of Alden Nowlan and he quickly thumbed through it to find his favourite poem.  He quietly read it and passed it to me suggesting I read it before going into the restaurant, mentioning that Nowlan was his favourite poet.

But I'm not a fan of poetry.  I find it either poorly written, too esoteric to understand, or the writing will evoke difficult emotions such as loneliness, melancholic nostalgia, or heartfelt expressions of love or regret which I find overwhelming.  Dad insisted, and so I reluctantly read:
 
Tenth Wedding Anniversary

This is neither to
take back what was given
in rage, nor to deny the scars
returned.
I send you no Valentine card.
We are human and didn't
live happily ever after.
We are what our children
promise they'll never be --
a man and a woman
who get on each other's
nerves at times, and have traded
glares of the purest hate.
This is only to say there has never been
a moment in ten years
when I ceased to be
conscious of your presence
in the universe, never
a thought of mine in all that time
that wasn't superimposed
on my constant awareness of
your separate existence.
If the inhabitants of
the earth depended
for their survival on my
keeping them always
in my mind, my world would be
empty -- except for you.

For me it was gut-wrenchingly emotional, and it took me several moments to regain my composure before we all went into the restaurant; me, red-eyed, and sniffling.  I've never forgotten it, and said as much the very next time they visited months later and we returned to the same restaurant.

That time, it was a  nice spring day as we pulled into the parking lot, when we noticed an old man struggling with a cane.  He wasn't stumbling exactly, but it was clear he was having a problem, and then it became stunningly clear.  He had soiled himself with a most foul and copious combination of diarrhea and solid waste.  He was immobilized standing with oozing trousers as lumps fell about him from under his pant leg onto the asphalt while cars maneuvered for parking spaces. The old man was frantically gripping his backside trying to stanch his bowels with one hand while balancing himself on his cane with the other. Dad parked, and I approached him asking if he needed help to get comfortable or if there was someone we could call for him.  He was humiliated; his body had betrayed him and he reluctantly admitted that he needed assistance. I escorted him to his car, laid his cardigan on the seat, and he said he'd just wait for his son to drive him home.  I joined my folks as we were seated at the table, reminding them how emotional it was on our last visit and here were tears again. We all remembered.

Some things you just don't forget.

The Small World Problem -- or-- 6 Degrees of Separation

It's a common catch phrase with us. You'll mostly hear it when Dad is around and you're discussing a landmark, one of the United States or Canadian provinces, a country, museum, mountain range, or body of water.  Dad has traveled to a lot of places in this world, either through his career with Norton Company or his adventurous travels over his many years.  There are few places on the map that you can point to that he won't say, "Been There!"  When we all sit to watch a movie, frequently while mostly amusing himself he'd blurt out, " BIN 'DERE!" when he recognized a familiar scene.  He's also met an awful lot of people.
 
It happens when we're among our friends and acquaintances, usually during animated conversation, that the name Wallace West will invariably come up.  So often, in fact, it became a sort of running joke among us  later becoming a challenge to see who would bring his name up in a topic first.

Our friends Jos and Darcy first became acquainted with Dad in his book shop at Cleveland Place.  Darcy was visiting Alma and getting re-acquainted with her ancestral home after many years of absence.  While talking in the bookshop, Dad learned that Darcy was a professor at a small college in central Tennessee where my sister's son was a student, not far from where my sister was living.  While Darcy and her family were getting more familiar with Alma, they often relied on Dad for his knowledge of the area and its long-time residents, seeking homeowner advice for their 100 year old home, enjoying each other's company with a shared devotion to Fundy.  Eventually, Darcy left Tennessee and accepted a teaching position at a university in Abu Dhabi, and traveled back to Alma to live with her family during the summer months.

After Dad moved to The Farm, we became friends with Darcy's family during their short time spent in Alma each year.  During the months she was teaching in Abu Dhabi we stayed connected through e-mail and she would recount their experiences and adventures in the United Arab Emirates, sharing exotic tales of visiting neighbouring countries while they immersed themselves in the culture, food, and surroundings of the residents there.  Darcy wrote that she'd been introduced to a fellow at the university and in the course of their conversation they each described their lives and where they lived when they weren't living and teaching in the UAE.  Darcy told about the Fundy area and Alma Village and her new acquaintance exclaimed, "Well, you must know Wallace West!"  Over 6,000 kilometers away, but just one degree of separation.

Several years ago, Dad and his friend Gerry built The Gazebo; an octagonal cottage at the edge of the Bay of Fundy --one of the few areas in North America where the eastern shore is still pristine and undeveloped.  We've hosted guests at The Gazebo from all over the world.  One was a fellow who found his way from the west coast of Canada to the east traveling by bicycle to celebrate turning 55.  As he passed through Albert County, he eventually landed at The Gazebo since he was rain soaked, tired, and the rural area offered few overnight accommodations.  It took one call to reach Dad who opened the door and offered a snack of peanuts and a respite for the weary biker.  Later, when Henk wrote a book about his travels, he told about his encounter with Dad and The Gazebo. 

With our New Jersey friends, Jim and Jen, bringing up Wally nearly became an eye-rolling annoyance that I was becoming self-conscious about.  Once, within just a few hours spent together over dinner at their house, we counted three times that Wallace West had been introduced into the conversation:

• His acquaintance with author E. Annie Proulx and her visits to Dad's book shop at Cleveland Place.  Having read all of her books, we shared his excitement and brush with fame (I later met her myself on two of her subsequent visits).

• His travels with my mother in a soft-top Jeep Wrangler to The Yukon and The Northwest Territories.

• His scuba diving adventures in Michigan and Canada and a spoiled diving expedition when Canadian customs officers released all the air from their scuba tanks after a traveling companion got arrogant with an agent. 

We all decided enough was enough. Though Wally's exploits and life stories were entertaining, we had to start drawing on our own experiences to fuel conversation and so we made a friendly agreement: we would not bring Wally into conversation again.

Weeks later, we met Jim and Jen for a fine meal.  We'd been anticipating  the grand opening of an authentic Greek Restaurant in central New Jersey.  We knew the owners as we'd become frequent customers at their other business; a small specialty market that featured Greek imports and fine wines.  One hard-to-find item that they carried was slivovitz, or plum brandy.  On one of our visits to the shop, Dad bought several bottles to bring to Canada with his new wife, Anna, who'd left Bratislava many years earlier and happily recalled the memory of her father making slivovitz when she was a young girl.  Tassos, the owner, chatted with Dad enjoying the novelty of meeting a Canadian foreigner.

When Tassos bought the adjacent building and announced the opening day for the new restaurant, we eagerly made our reservations, anticipating Jen and Jim's impression with the new taverna and its Athenian decor with enticing aromas from simmering pots of rich Greek cuisine, and our ability to get a table on a busy grand-opening night.  When we arrived we were immediately seated by fresh-faced expectant servers to our reserved table in a very lively and crowded restaurant --every seat filled.

Not long after we'd settled at our table, and perused the menu options, I leaned over to Jen and reminded her that since we hadn't seen each other for several weeks, we had a host of topics to cover, adding that none of them involved Wally.  Remembering our previously agreed upon pact, she laughed, said, "We'll see" and continued to read the menu.  Moments later, when our wine was opened and poured, we toasted the evening just when Tassos caught Stephen's eye and approached our table with arms outstretched, beaming a welcoming smile, and loudly said, "Hello!" while eagerly shaking Stephen's hand thanking us for coming out.

His next words were, "How is your father, Wallace West?"

I experienced my very first spit-take.