Quit trying to dismember me

The school bus was not scheduled to pull up for another twenty minutes. Six-year old Rebecca, my youngest child, needed both hands to yank the old, heavy kitchen door open, desperately attempting a quick escape for some free time before school. 

 As the door squeaked open, I looked up in surprise.

Before I could comment,  Allison , one of  her many older sisters, whipped around from the kitchen counter and remarked

 ”Rebecca, did you try to do your hair again? The part’s crooked. Come over here and I’ll fix it for you.”

As she slumped towards Allison, Claire entered the kitchen at the same time and looked her little sister up and down,

” Mum couldn’t have picked those clothes for you to wear. The top does not match your sweater. You’ll have to change or keep the sweater buttoned up all day.”

As she stood in the middle of our large farm kitchen, fumbling with tricky buttons,  Mary yelled from the bathroom,

“Rebecca, you forgot to brush your teeth again!”

Suddenly Rebecca through her arms up into the air and huffed out in exasperation,

“All right, all right everybody. Quit trying to dismember me!”

Me: One Part Guts,Two Parts Gift

How to create Melanie from scratch: A layer cake, tart, not too sweet.

I have dredged a few ingredients up from my core, as the result of dire circumstances and sheer necessity, others have been pure gift and a delight to embrace and incorporate into my life.

Baking Tin

Must be constructed from a shiny, iridescent hot metal called love which shines and reflects warmth even in a dark, cold room.

Bottom Crust

5 pounds of sheer determination ( guts), layered, alternately, with 5 pounds of sinew and true grit. Make sure the crust is firm yet still flexible so that it does not crack under pressure but rather bends when needed.

Sprinkle with pounds of humour and laughter. Both must be shaken on top of the crust and in each subsequent layer because laughter is essential to my survival. Do not omit this life-sustaining ingredient or my life will collapse.

First Layer

Add liberal amounts of creativity and intuition combined with circular thinking. DO NOT MEASURE. Large quantities of these three ingredients are vital. Do not substitute with logic nor linear thinking. Completely vital to my sanity and to the insanity of my husband. This layer is the thickest and most lively; it springs back into shape even when neglected for long periods of time.

Second Layer

Delight in children. Since I had nine kids, nine shakes of delight will suffice. The whole cake will fall into depression without delight.

Top Layer

Gratitude and thankfulness make up this layer, the more the better. This is a clear, gelatinous layer that receives light which permeates all the other layers.

Icing

Joy. This ingredient cannot be purchased and is pure gift.

Drink with a strong cup of tea, steeped at least five minutes. A must.

A Real Life Joke

.My maiden name is Myers. 

Question: How many Myers Women does it take to drive a car in my mum’s retirement town?

Answer: Three

"Three?", you gasp, "But how is that possible!"

Ah, well, quite possible when all three women either refuse to drive, are reluctant drivers or simply cannot drive a car at all. This is not some anti-female slur. I am simply relaying the facts.

The most important person in this triad was my sister, Elizabeth, the chauffeur by default, driving the intimidatingly large, luxury machine. Incidentally, the car's owner was bed-ridden, suffering more over concern for his beloved vehicle than over any leg pain following major surgery.

Clutching the wheel, Elizabeth drove in circles in the parking lot until she could find a spot where she could drive straight through to the next row because she refused to back out when she left. Also, she could not seem to turn right into a narrow spot, reasoning that it was much simpler when she turned left; she was least able to see directly out her side window without relying on mirrors.

However the situation which caused most anxiety was the fact that Elizabeth was not familiar with my parent's small retirement town in the midst of the Rocky Mountains. She constantly asked,

"But, Mum, I need the street name where I need to turn or at least an idea of how far up this main highway I have to go."

The second most important person was my eighty- one year old mother who was not exactly sure how to answer that crucial question.

"Well, let's see. When I walk there, I cut across the back parking lot, kitty-corner, walk for about thirty minutes, turning right and then left on a side street and there it is!"

"But Mum, is it east or west?"

"Well, I turn right at first, so..um.. the street is east of here, I think. Yes, east, I am sure of it."

"Okay. Now, do you at least remember the first letter of the street name?"

However, my mother was suddenly distracted, since her main concern was watching for on coming traffic or indeed any vehicle within blocks of us,

"Elizabeth, watch out! A car is coming!"

"Mum. Focus. Please. Is it beside any large stores like The Bay?"

" I'm not sure."

"Okay. Try to remember the first letter of the street name."

Now this was where I came into play as I perched on the edge of the back seat with a map, calling out suggestions,

"Perhaps it is Lancaster Avenue. Does that sound familiar, mum?"

Then I started to laugh, long and hard because this really could be a scene in a poorly written situation comedy. However this was real life and that transformed this ludicrous scene into a situation that seemed even more hilarious.

When Elizabeth started to chuckle as well, we pulled over and stopped the car. Swallowing our mirth, the three of us studied the map till my mother's memory seemed to click back into place. We set out once again, a bit more confident of success this time

Recipe For Me: One Part Guts, Two Parts Gift

How to create Melanie from scratch: A layer cake

I have dredged a few ingredients up from my core, as the result of dire circumstances and sheer necessity, others have been pure gift and a delight to embrace and incorporate into my life.

Baking Tin

Must be constructed from a shiny, iridescent hot metal called love which shines and reflects warmth even in a dark, cold room.

Bottom Crust

5 pounds of sheer determination ( guts), layered, alternately, with 5 pounds of sinew and true grit. Make sure the crust is firm yet still flexible so that it does not crack under pressure but rather bends when needed.

Sprinkle with pounds of humour and laughter. Both must be shaken on top of the crust and in each subsequent layer because laughter is essential to my survival. Do not omit this life-sustaining ingredient or my life will collapse.

First Layer

Add liberal amounts of creativity and intuition combined with circular thinking. DO NOT MEASURE. Large quantities of these three ingredients are vital. Do not substitute with logic nor linear thinking. Completely vital to my sanity and to the insanity of my husband. This layer is the thickest and most lively; it springs back into shape even when neglected for long periods of time.

Second Layer

Delight in children. Since I had nine kids, nine shakes of delight will suffice. The whole cake will fall into depression without delight.

Top Layer

Gratitude and thankfulness make up this layer, the more the better. This is a clear, gelatinous layer that receives light which permeates all the other layers.

Icing

Joy. This ingredient cannot be purchased and is pure gift.

Drink with a strong cup of tea, steeped at least five minutes. A must.

Peanut Butter Paint

This run-about-baby's exploits are simply legendary.

The terrible twos.

Do those words send shivers down your spine like they do mine? Those two little words evoke many awful and amusing scenarios but the most dramatic usually involved my fourth child, David.

As a baby he was a delight, with sparkling blue eyes and a warm, loving personality. Physically he was plump and passive. He'd sit quietly, his head whipping from side to side, completely entertained by the activities of his older siblings. Who needs to bother learning to walk when you have three adoring servants to fetch toys for you? In fact, David was fifteen months before he bothered to walk but when he actually started to move, he didn't stop.

Suddenly this good baby mutated into a travelling disaster. There was no malicious intent behind David's activities, just sheer joy in discovery. However, this toddler's discoveries were most often messy. In fact, this run-about-baby's exploits are simply legendary.

One morning, while nursing David's younger sister in the living room, I realised that David was no longer in the room with me. I strained my ears to hear what he was up to but the house was oddly quiet, too quiet. The older kids were right outside, near the house but surely David hadn't opened the door to join them all by himself? Since David was rarely quiet, I quickly put Emily up on my shoulder to burp her and started to try to discover where he was and what he was up to.

I found him in the kitchen and I stopped in shock. My fridge was now covered in a thick layer of peanut butter. David had covered every inch within his reach including the door handle, hinges, rubber seal... simply everything.

He heard my loud gasp of shock, turned around, peanut butter jar in one hand, with the other hand dipping in the jar for another large scoop and he cheerfully greeted me,

"Hi, Mummy!"

Try to picture me scooping, scrapping, wiping and the same time smearing peanut butter with paper towels. I then attacked it with very hot, very sudsy water. Of course, I needed an old toothbrush to reach all those joints and creases. The next week the entire artistic attempt was executed with margarine! Soon after, I discovered the kitchen wall decorated with a crayon mural of scribbles. David was quick and very thorough when he was artistically inspired. That particular art job took a week of scrubbing when ever I passed by!

One of Michael's sisters once said to me,

"I am surprised that David turned out so well. I think it was because you didn't come down on him too hard."

Somehow, I think I was too exhausted to react. I walked around in a daze some days and just let disasters roll off me. My dog-eared child development book also helped me to stay calm in the face of calamity. I realised that I couldn't demand behaviour that my child was not equipped yet to mentally or emotionally produce unless it was out of sheer fear.

I guess I knew David wasn't bad, just a very messy run-about baby.

Humourous, Vintage Paintings of Mothers and Children

When I think of a typical hundred year-old painting  of mother with her children, I think of idealized images where everyone has a sombre expression on their faces. Well these painters had a sense of as humour as they capture the moments when a mother is overwhelmed by her children's need to touch her, even when she tries to work. These artists must have been fathers because they are remarkably insightful  into the mother/ child dynamic. .They remind me of the days when I felt like a mauled mother cat, feeling like if one more person touched me that I would scream.

Canadian Backwoods Cuisine Served With Comic Results

My husband, Michael, who loves nature and his rather eccentric, counter-culture pal, P.J., had driven about an hour away, up the Quebec side of the Ottawa River, to fish in one of the thousands of lakes which surround us. Driving home in the twilight, they caught sight of a porcupine in their head lights. Now Michael and P.J. had lived together in the wilderness for a month after university, surviving on fish,  chewy, tough turtle meat, rice and coffee. Never one to waste good, organic meat, P.J. immediately yelled,

” Mike, pull over. Porcupine is good eating.”

The chance to sample porcupine meat is rare because you really are not allowed to hunt these lazy animals; laws protect them because they are so easy to kill. If a man is lost in the woods, he simply bops a waddling porcupine on the nose (if he can avoid the quills) and can soon eat a delicious, tender meal.In defence of these two hunters, I will add that this is the only time either of them has ever shot a porcupine.

The two acting survivalists decided to nail their kill to a tree right by the side of the road, simply skinning the carcass to avoid the quills and gutting it. Michael and P.J. arrived home chuckling over their good fortune, still debating the best way to cook the tender meat. Finally, they decided to stuff the it with a bread, onion, garlic and herbs and wrap it in bacon.

Suddenly a wicked idea popped into my head,

John was coming over for dinner tomorrow. He was actually extemely conservative in his tastes but loved to act artistic, cultured and sophisticated around us. In his eyes we were a boring couple with no life, stuck on a farm, saddled with a parcel of little kids.

“What if I served roasted porcupine for dinner tomorrow when John is here?”

P.J. burst out laughing,

” And don’t say a thing until he has eaten at least half of his meal. I would love to see the look on his face!”

The following evening John arrived wearing a tweed jacket with his shirt collar and cuffs pulled up over it, a scarf casually draped around his neck and a jaunty beret. Michael and I secretly smiled at each other as he raved over the delicious meal. Smiling mischievously I casually remarked,

“John, did you know that you are actually eating porcupine?”

He froze, fork held in mid-air with a brief look of horror on his face,

“Mel, you are joking, right?”

“Not at all”, I replied, “Since you are so very cosmopolitan, I just knew you would enjoy something exotic.”

John smiled weakly, nodded and then slowly lowered his fork. He did not eat another bite of his meat.

Duck, Deek and Dive.

Everyday I deal with dim-witted but strangely adorable hens. Some days are like an idyllic scene described by Wordsworth but other days are simply frustrating as the reality of country living slaps me in the face.The day we force them outside for the first time is one of those awful days.

In the early summer our chicks lose their down and their feathers slowly grow in. Once their skin is well protected, it is time to introduce the adorable little birds to the great outdoors. Needless to say chickens are well, chicken; we are forced to literally pick up every single little chicken and throw them out the small door into their fenced-in run. Chickens definitely lack courage.

However, as soon as the young birds are off the slanted plank walkway outside, they desperately try scramble back inside. Many manage to dart back in while the mob crowding the doorway stops me from pitching anymore outside. Since we raise free range chickens it is of paramount importance that they spend their days outside. In fact after about ten minutes we cannot convince the little darlings to go back into the large chicken coop till dusk because they relish scratching the dirt for tiny seeds and grain which we scattered around everyday as well as weeds, grass and bugs.Yet the problem is getting them outside for the first time.

It took a few years to perfect our plan of attack on the cowering mass of chickens. Nothing is more frustrating than catching a bird, while trying to herd out a couple more, only to lose all three. You must understand that we are talking about 175 meat birds, bred to eat voraciously.These white rock meat birds can move quickly. Duck, Deek and Dive.

Our final method involved stationing at least one or two children outside, preventing a mass retreat back into the chicken coop as well as scattering the clustering chickens around the door. Basically it is a crowd control issue. I call this Operation DDD because it is planned much like an army mission.

Inside four kids stretch out huge sheets of plastic, moving them slowly so that the plastic barrier resembles two slow-moving walls. This herds the birds in the direction of the small doorway. It is my job to grab the fowl one by one and push or throw them out the door. You cannot possibly imagine how many birds Duck, Deek and Dive out of our hands. Often in sheer frustration we all troop out of the chicken barn once in a while to take a break and grab a glass of water or a snack to fortify our resolve to finish this operation.

Thank the Lord that this particular task is only one day a year.