You Will Laugh Inspite of Yourself

Age is of no importance unless you’re a cheese. – Billie Burke

Never put off until tomorrow what you can do the day after tomorrow. – Mark Twain

Don’t worry about the world coming to an end today. It’s already tomorrow in Australia. – Charles Schulz

A Cat and Mouse Game

What is a farm without cats to catch  mice?

Once we stared raising animals, which meant storing grain,  I quickly changed my perception of the  little creatures. I no longer cringed at the thought of our cats hunting them down and slaughtering them. 

Mice eat grain.

Mice make nests and shred grain bags.

Mice droppings are messy, their urine stinks and no self-respecting farm animal will eat contaminated grain

Almost daily, a couple of field mice would fall into the grain bins. Michael would scoop them up in a pail, call the cats, the dump the bucket. This was the highlight of the day for our cats; there is nothing they enjoy more than having their prey handed to them so they can play with their dinner.

Often the cats left gruesome mice offerings in thanksgiving right on our doorstep, eliciting screams from our little girls.

Michael, my husband is a dog sort of man but there was one tom cat we owned who was a real man’s cat.  That old barn cat followed Michael around the barnyard and in and out of the barns almost like a faithful dog.

“Where was our dog”, you ask?

Oh, he was sleeping on the porch with one eye open watching this interloper in action.

Mickey, the tom cat, often perched on the top of a fence post while Michael fed the calf, horse and pigs. One day the curious calf stuck out his thick, rough tongue and licked Mickey so throughly that  the cat was lifted right up into the air, standing up on his back legs. Then Mickey calmly shook off excess saliva and sat back down,  balancing on the narrow post.

My husband’s admiration for the tough old tom cat increased ten fold; he proudly relates this story as an example of a real, man’s sort of cat who was the opposite of the pampered house cats that our little girls lavished affection on.

Dreams

A writing prompt asked about our dreams and nightmares.

At the moment I do not recall any recent nightmares, though a few strange dreams have haunted me for decades. One dream that lingers even in my conscious mind is an image of a city. All the low, square, flat-topped buildings are made out of a yellow/ orange brick without any doors or window. The narrow road between the buildings is paved with the same bricks and there is not a tree, flower, blade of grass and neither are there any people in this scene. It is sunny, warm and silent as I wander up and down the narrow pathways, turning corners and walking slightly uphill but I am completely alone. I am searching for a window, door, person, anything but to no avail.

Try figuring out that scenario.

Deep down I must still long for more interaction, life and contact with nature. Quite odd, given that I lived with nine kids, a husband, a menagerie of animals and in the middle of the country surrounded by gardens, trees, open fields and groves of trees. Most of all I long for a deeper intimacy with God. Just saying these words brings tears to my eyes and an ache in my heart and soul.

Any persistent dreams of your own?

Dreams and nightmares are the window to your core self

Dreams and nightmares are elusive.

Dreams play hide and seek with our rational intellect because they rise up only when our cognitive brain shuts down.

Dreams are one of the languages of the subconscious and our deepest soul but the language is not logical. It is intuitive, creative, and one of the languages of the Spirit, using imagery, symbolism and deep-rooted, strong emotions.

The right brain cannot be understood with our left-brain. We love our left-brained life because we can control and train it with our wills. Our right brain simply laughs at our feeble attempts to rein it in. If we shut out our intuition, creativity and the life of our spirit, it surges up like a volcano at night, when we are sleeping.

Polka-Dots Tops with Checked Pants?

Until I grew more confidant, I was often embarrassed by polka-dotted tops and checked pants as my kids ran for the school bus and was tempted to phone the kindergarten teacher , declaring that my children’s independence was more important to me than dressing a fashion plate. Basically I wanted to yell, ” I did not pick out her clothes today!”

Tiny, adorable, clever and independent Claire was  strong-willed, high maintenance and high-strung. My fifth child was a beautiful little package of contradictions who gave me strife and hilarious joy, sometimes at the very same time. Most arguments were about clothes. Although her fashion sense has developed into a wonderful gift now that she is in her mid twenties, at three and four-years old this “gift” was a p

ain.

Claire changed her clothes often throughout the day, from the age of two. Watching one of the few videos of our family, one of my older daughters pointed at the screen and laughed,

“Look at Claire. That is the third time she has changed clothes during this video!”

Sure enough, the pip squeak had another outfit on.

Claire was always aware of what she was wearing as well as those around her, which often led to disagreements about what she could and could not wear.

Although she was a mature, articulate, fashion conscious three-year old, I was still concerned that Claire was too young to start four-year old kindergarten. When she stomped into the house after the first morning, ranting about a little girl who had worn a “jean skirt with a matching jean jacket”, I realized that it was the school which was not quite ready for Claire!

Oops: Words from a Mum of Nine

Forget about being efficent or productive when you are interacting with tiny children; you will save yourself hours of agitated frustration on your part and angry resistance from your little ones.- melanie jean juneau 

Art by Mary Cassat

Born: May 22, 1844, Allegheny, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, United States  Died: June 14, 1926, Paris, France

Raccoons: Masked Bandits

Raccoons have bullied their way into my summer kitchen ( Well in days gone past it was the summer kitchen. Now it is a combination garden shed, wood shed and thoroughfare WITH NO LESS THAN FOUR DOORS).  They climbed on top of boxes to reach the top of our stand-up freezer and literally demolished all of my youngest daughter's stored dry goods she is collecting for when she sets up house for the new university term. If something was in their way and not edible, they tossed it down.

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I scrubbed their muddy footprints, swept, vacuumed, picked up broken glass and hide the garbage can on the landing, behind a door, in the cellar because I was airing out the basement with all the windows and one door open. Well , last night they were back, undeterred. I heard a banging and weren't those masked bandits in the cellar, up the staircase and scrabbling under the door, tearing at the garbage bag. Then they had the nerve to push and shove against me on the other side of the door till I banged on the wood and frightened them.

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Raccoons might look adorable but they are deceptive, sneaky marauders intent on wrecking havoc.

Because we operated a small family farm with livestock as well as sprawling gardens, raccoons were and still are the bane of our existence. This phrase is probably a cliché but I simply cannot force myself to change the wording; it describes these pests perfectly. Their exploits are so extraordinary, that a city dweller might think I am exaggerating. However, every word is the unvarnished truth.

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An abbreviated mischief list:

• We removed one small pane of glass in a window six feet above the ground to help ventilate our meat-bird barn. One morning we discovered 50 chicks missing with only a few feathers left. Only raccoons, with their sharp claws can climb that high and carry off chickens.

• Raccoons love to pull down corn stalks, destroying the entire plant, to eat only the largest, sweetest corn cob.

• At night, as raccoons gather to celebrate their corn feast, they make a loud, piercing sound that can only be described as a cross between a crying human infant and a screeching cat.

• These thieves steal eggs, terrorizing the hens who make such a racket that one of the male members of our family runs out with a gun, no matter what the hour.

• They are garbage specialists, opening lids, toppling garbage cans that should protect the green garbage bags from them. Raccoons are not content to simply eat the food waste, they delight in dragging trash all over the shed.

• Mother raccoons hide their young in hay barns. Accidentally stumble upon her and she turns vicious. One huge, enraged mama raccoon chased one of our sons out of the barn, causing him to scream,

“It’s a bear. There’s a huge bear in the hay barn coming after me!”

He was terrified.

• One afternoon, our wonderful guard dog chased three raccoons up a hydro pole. One blew the transformer, electrocuting himself, as he tried to climb down later that night. He died instantly and cut off our electricity. We need power to even use water or flush the toilet because we run our own pumps in three separate wells.

The electrical crew, who had arrived in a long cherry picker, argued whether they really wanted to go up and rescue the remaining two raccoons.

“Do you want to go up there George?”
“Who me? No way. Why don’t you do it Harry?”
“No way”

They turned to me and stated,

“Tell you what. We’ll turn your power on and just come back tomorrow after they blow the transformer again.”

David, my son, decided to simply open his upstairs bedroom window, aim carefully and take the raccoons out of their misery. The power stayed on.

The only good thing I can say about raccoons is that they did clean our property as they scoured the yard every night for any tidbits of food dropped by our kids.

A Gory Mummy Warning Comes True

Even modern mums sometimes resort to gory warnings:

“Come down this instant; you are going to fall and break your neck!”

“Careful with that knife; you don’t want to cut your finger off.”

“Don’t come crying to me if you fall and break your leg.

“Pay attention; you’ll poke out your eye.”

That last warning about the eyes? .

Suddenly the dramatic over statement became a reality one Sunday evening.

All the kids had simply flopped down on the Chesterfield, chairs, pillows and rug after supper. This was Walt Disney Night if you were young or Sports Night if you were a teenage boy.

The problem was that we had only one T.V. for eleven people. Half asleep, lounging on the couch, with a grin on his face, my oldest son, Matthew, had just switched the channel back to basketball yet again. In utter frustration, three-year old Lucy, who was standing up, flung a charcoal pencil down towards the floor. Anthony was laying on the rug. Lucy’s flying pencil pierced Anthony’s eye.

At first I thought that Anthony had a piece of the chocolate pencil laying underneath his iris; in my ignorance, I tried to flush it out. Anthony resisted my attempts and my husband rushed over to stop me,

” Better leave the eye alone. I ‘m taking him straight to the Children’s Hospital.”

We handed Anthony a huge freezie to hold and to keep his mind off his injury. Michael instinctively reached over, as he drove a stick shift, to keep our little guy’s hands away from his eye.

Had I been successful, in rinsing out my son’s eye, Anthony would definitely have lost it to infection. What I was seeing was not a piece of brown artist’s pencil, I was actually seeing the iris muscle leaking out from the puncture wound.

Later, just before surgery, a resident doctor asked my husband to sign a waiver which stated that, as Anthony’s parent, he was aware that Anthony could lose his eye during the operation. My young son didn’t even sigh during the interview but after the doctor left, he stared sobbing, petrified that he would lose his eye. Michael calmed him down and after he prayed over him, draining fear, trauma and pain, Anthony fell asleep until the surgery. Anthony’s indignant father informed the head eye specialist that a certain resident needed instructions on bedside manners.

Outside the operating room, Michael held six-year old Anthony’s hand as he lay on a stretcher surrounded by the seven member team. Down the hall, white coat flying behind him rushed the brilliant head surgeon. He was a wiry, French-Canadian with a charming accent, curly hair that stuck straight out and wire-rimmed glasses. He looked like a typical genius as he started shouting,

“I want 22, 26,28 silks”, long before he reached his team. Those silks were invisible to the naked eye. Using high-powered microscopes, the team stuffed the iris back in place, stitched the puncture wound, drilled three holes into Anthony’s eyeball and pumped fluid back in to restore the exact curvature to his eye! In post-op, while two other little fellows struggle and fought the staff by trying to rip out tubes, Anthony was so calm and pleasant that the surgical team gave him a bear for being the best patient ever. The team even remembered guilty little Lucy with an adorable bear sporting fairy wings and a tutu.

Although Anthony sported a metal eye patch and was pumped full of an anti-inflammatory, anti- infection medicine and pain killers, he felt like a prince. He had sole possession of a remote, play station and t.v. That simply never happened in our large family where every kid watched the clock as their time to play the game approached. During his Princely holiday, he picked his own meals and received visiting siblings and their friends who all came bearing gifts and candy.

Anthony’s badge of distinction, to this day, is a pie shaped area in his iris that is more green than brown and 20/20 vision.

Tearful, Joyful Gratitude

I pause,

stopping the tense business, the gardening, chores, the typing  to think of what I am grateful for.

 As soon as the word gratitude rises up, tears spring to my eyes,  for I am aware of mercy and forgiveness

 in my spirituality with God,  my husband, kids and kid’s kids.

 I am acutely aware of the fragility of life after almost loosing a daughter in childbirth and now a younger brother-in-law soon to cancer

 The last two weeks I have

• attended a daughter’s university graduation
• celebrated 3 birthdays and Father’s day by making gifts and food for large gatherings
• helped install  wood flooring in ANOTHER daughter’s new house
• then helped her move and clean her old and new house.
•  went to a land/lord tenant mediation meeting for a crazy, mean, illegal landlord for my youngest…and won
• spent 6 hours house hunting in town for next term’s housing for this youngest daughter
•  helped with a colicky newborn for a fourth daughter..
•  plus dealt with learning that one of my husband’s younger brothers has months to live with cancer..

yet, I am aware of beauty surrounding me,

pressing in on all sides.

a plethora of flowers, trees and birds

 

   the joy of creating with words

the joy of crafting  with my crochet hook and yarn

In short, I am tearfully grateful.

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I a

“Don’t Worry Sir; My Boyfriend is Like my Trampoline.”

One of the disadvantages of a large family is that the younger children are exposed to pop culture via  their older siblings.

A prime demonstration of this phenomena was during ’circle time’ in kindergarten. Sometimes the teacher encouraged the children to sing a song, expecting to hear something like “Twinkle, twinkle little star”. She did not get that sort of song from my youngest two.children . This teacher laughed with amusement as she told me what my offspring sang for the other five-year olds.

Daniel sang “Go Grease Lightning” from the movie musical “Grease”.

Rebecca sang some pop song about not dating a scruffy looking guy “who sits in the passenger side of his best friend’s car”!

However, there is usually a positive side to everything . My oldest daughters also taught the younger ones a valuable life lesson through the lyrics to this song,

“Don’t settle for the first boy who gives you attention.”

The lesson must have been absorbed because all my girls are very selective when it comes to boyfriends. In high school, if my daughters date, it only lasts a couple of weeks because they find that the boys are typically  “idiots”. Rebecca’s English teacher was just teasing her, last month, that she was high maintenance and he pitied her boyfriend.  WITHOUT MISSING A BEAT,Rebecca shot back,

“Don’t worry sir; my boyfriend is like my trampoline.”

Her teacher was puzzled, so Rebecca explained,

“I don’t have one!” `

Shopping For a Modest Outfit

Since humour has more satirical punch than a long-winded rant , I will simply let this short quote and image from Pinterest stand alone. I giggle every time I see this meme.

Learning to Take off My Dung Coloured Glasses

Happiness: the fleeting dream that eludes most of us.  I am often miserable, pressed for time, running around  in my insular little world, only catching glimpses of the world around me as I peer  through dung coloured glasses. Yet the solution to my dilemma is remarkably easy.

Stop.

Take off my dung coloured lenses.

Look and really see all the blessings around me.

Appreciate and allow gratitude to come to life within me once again.

A therapist would charge you hundreds of dollars to teach you how to do this, calling this method cognitive therapy.

I will give you this key to happiness for free.

I discovered this secret after years of mothering my tiny children. They taught me to take my eyes off my exhaustion and to take delight in the plethora of tiny details all around me. Little kids are born with a sense of wonder and the ability to enjoy little things. My daughter’s retain an appreciation for detail; they all remember the little things.

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Examples:

• A friend of mine, Martha, once asked one of my daughters, when she was about six, what she liked most about Christmas. She replied immediately,

           “The pineapple in the fruit bowl"

My daughter’s answer astounded Martha.

• Similarly, one evening before dinner Claire, now a young adult, said,

           “I always remember the fresh smell of clean sheets every week.”

           Such a small thing, yet a child, with a heart full of gratitude, takes great pleasure from it.

• A few months back,  Claire was recounting how pleased she was with a plant in her garden. Realizing that she was enjoying such a small thing she laughed,

           “Oh my god, I sound just like Mum.”

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• The things that raise my spirits are usually small and most people would not consider them significant. For example, one Christmas I was very tired and only one gift brought me genuine joy. It was hand crocheted dish clothes from my friend Cathy. ..dish clothes, beautifully made, colourful, something I used a hundred times a day.
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Perhaps this is one of the blessings of a large family; free cognitive therapy from a crew of little people who greeted each morning with wonder and awe.

What am I thankful for now, at this moment? I am grateful to be alive, breathing and healthy with a husband of 35 years, nine healthy, kids,. four kid-in-laws and 5 grandchildren who turned out so well that I am speechless and teary eyed with relief and gratitude.

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Just Turn the Key and Open the Door

Change.

I am slowly, changing..

We all want to change. However if we want to change simply to please someone else or to fit in to society out of our own vanity, that is a false wish for a change.  I am not talking about the kind of exterior adaptation  which involves switching masks or, changing clothes, learning new tricks. No, the kind of change I long for is deep-seated and involves shedding phony masks and removing costumes, not putting on more layers.

To make drastic changes in my life means I must first deal with my interior issues. It means turning the key, and opening a door. Sometimes I open the door and darkness rushes out.  All those negative emotions were never meant to be stored in me in the first place. Yet they seemed so overwhelming that I kept the door shut and locked., Finally fed up, desperate to change and grow, I turn the key with foreboding.

Then surprise and relief.

A process larger than myself takes over

because I took the first step and

said yes to change and growth.

I now watch in amazement as

Light and Love

begin the transformation of bringing this part of my being back to life.

The result is a drastic change in my exterior life

but it is  really not  a violent wrenching.

I do not  force this change

because it happens automatically

and rises up from deep within me.

My true inner spirit,

slowly emerging from layers of mud

to rise up and take centre stage in my being.

I am at peace.