A GIANT, RUSTY INFLUENCE (re-posted by ROGER EBERT on his FB page: see bottom of post!)

I’ve just had an epiphany. A retro-revelation, as it were. 

An unexpected foray onto Youtube left me seriously starting to reflect upon what invisible hands shaped the lump of me that became me.

If I were to get one of those social media, wanna-get-to-know-you-better questionnaires that say ‘TELL ME 5  FACTS ABOUT YOURSELF’, I would write:

1)      I am a huge Harry Potter fan, largely in part because of the Camelot-ish atmosphere and castles: the giant Hagrid is a clear favorite character of mine (and second only to Snape, who I would have sex with on my mothers dining room table during Thanksgiving supper if he asked).

2)      I collect roosters, but call then chickens. (Sounds funnier).

3)      I love miniatures.

4)      I enjoy classical music and medieval type folk songs (e.g. Loreena McKennitt)

5)      I am a romantic and was a far-too-clingy girlfriend in my day…but I was usually the ‘dumper’ and rarely the ‘dumpee’.

This random list is ‘me’... unexplored; constant. But fast forward to 10 minutes ago when, suffering yet another 3:00 a.m. bout of sleeplessness, I spontaneously decided to go on YouTube and seek out some old videos of childhood shows. Perhaps I could drift back into my childhood and remember how it felt as a kid to"Go to bed!" and actually sleep!

Living in a small town in Southern Manitoba, we had only two TV channels. Damn lucky to even have a TV! My strongest memories were of Hockey Night in Canada, newsman Linus Westberg from Yorkton, The Beverley Hillbilies, Ed Sullivan with Topo Gigo, Get Smart and Mr. Dressup. 

I adored Casey and Finnigan in Mr. Dressup.That Tickle Trunk was a right proper miracle! I quickly found an old clip.

But instead of clicking on it, I noticed another video of an old children’s show that I grew up with…a show I hadn’t thought of in over 40 years but had watched daily in my formative years in the 60's: The Friendly Giant. I loved that show and its theme song was the first music I remember…and the first song I learned the lyrics to. For those of you who don’t know the show, here is a quick preview of how many of us Canadian Baby Boomers spent our extremely limited TV watching hours: *watch closely, there will be a pseudo-quiz afterwards…

 Did you notice the following?

1)      A castle. Medieval, complete with moat and drawbridge.

2)      A giant who is gentle and loves animals.

3)      A rooster named ‘Rusty’.

4)      A miniature cozy living room with miniature everything in it.

5)      The opening and closing theme music is classical/folk mix with a decidedly haunting melody. This theme song is oft times called ‘Early One Morning’ but is actually titled "The Forsaken Lover". The lyrics begin…

“Early one morning,
Just as the sun was rising,
I heard a young maid sing,
In the valley below.

CHORUS:
Oh, don't deceive me,
Oh, never leave me,
How could you use
A poor maiden so?”

I admit that this is as far as I ever sang it, but I knew the words verbatim at age 4 regardless of what the hell they meant.

Are we seeing a pattern here? I sure did. The second I heard that tune playing and saw the castle drawbridge open, it was like my entire world made more sense. So THAT is where I formed this love of such odd things! It brought me to tears. Not the ear-shattering, heart-rending cry and complete agony one felt when Donny Osmond got married, but the light eye-dampening of yesteryear reminiscences. A wistful whimper.

And WOW!, the 'love'm and leave'm before they leave you' routine I subconsciously followed during my dating years seems like it was taken from the chorus of 'The Forsaken Lover'. What would Freud say about all this?

As I shook my head and smiled inwardly, I wiped my eyes and wondered, in enlightened awe, at the serious influence a children’s show can employ. Then two powerful ideas broke through my mist of nostalgia:

1)      Thank God we only had 2 channels and the only other show I now remembered watching faithfully was The Bugs Bunny Show, which explains my fondness for black and white, Sylvester-like cats (a pic I took of our little Jasmine is below):

                                                    

And it also explains my partiality to full-head-of-hair-challenged men like Elmer Fudd (you’d have to meet my hubby to see what I mean). My embarrasing rooster fascination, personified in the infamous Foghorn Leghorn, now made perfect sense as well! 

     Most surprisingly, my first taste of opera was slipped into my psyche with the following Bugs Bunny episode. Opera truly changed my life forever, as I met my husband whilst singing chorus with him for 13 years in an opera company in BC.

Watching this as a child, how was I to know my heart had just been prepped for my future happiness?

2)      My kids and their buddies grew up watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Dragonball Z, Transformer: Beast Wars and Pokemon. All aggressive, violently competative (in a Good vs Evil kinda way), winner-takes-all kids' shows that all had tiny slivers of high-morality embedded here and there between blood-spitting, head-exploding, torture-glorifying, save-the-world fights.

Conclusion? Our childhood shows molded us FAR more than we ever knew! It's a jarring reality.

Conclusion of the Conclusion? Honey, we are in grave danger. 

The upcoming generation is a highly desensitized army of warped war-mongers who have no problem with talking turtles; stealing spaceships that look like Hoover vacuums on steroids; brutal military tactics; misogynistic, sexless aliens that give birth by barfing up their eggs, and emotionless androids that can shoot fireballs from their hands and randomly chop up bodies and/or explode planets. 

And they are locked and loaded, ready to rumble. I should know. Apparently I helped warp them.

                                                                               **

_______________________________________________________________________

AFTERTHOUGHT: The novel I recently wrote is called Parca’s Forsaken (click for link). Remember the name of The Friendly Giant's theme song? ‘The Forsaken Lover’. How’s that for an eerie coincidence. Or a sign?

ROGER EBERT RE-POSTED THIS BLOG ON HIS OWN FB PAGE! MANY MOONS AGO BUT STILL A THRILL.

WHAT?

My amazingly sweet mother passed away on February 23, 2011 and grief has so clouded the joy I usually find in life that I haven’t been able to even think of Blogging…but the giggles are slowly coming back. And it seems fitting that my Mom is the reason for this. How can I think of her without remembering one particular conversation we had just a short while ago…

 Mom turned 85 years old in 2010 and although it was progressively difficult to speak to her on the phone (she 'lost' her dreaded hearing-aid fairly often), I phoned her about three times a week anyways. She was in Manitoba and I was on the coast of British Columbia and it was a 60+ hour drive there and back… a torturous journey I couldn’t manage too often. There were too many years in-between visits and I missed her a lot.

Once I called her after having already spoken to her the previous day, and this was how our conversation (and I use the term loosely here) went:

MOM: Hello?

DENISE: Hi Mom! It’s Denise. (*she had 6 children and we all sound similar, so introducing ourselves from the get-go was always advisable)

MOM: Who?

DENISE (louder): Denise! Your favorite daughter! (*my standard line that she always scoffed at; I knew she would recognize that, if not actually me.)

MOM (laughing): Deneezy? You again? You’re just like a little mouse peeking around the corner all the time! I can’t get rid of you!

DENISE (being silly): I’m just here for the cheese!

PREGNANT PAUSE

MOM: What cheese?

DENISE (louder): You said I was a little mouse and I said I was just there for the cheese!

MOM: What mouse?

DENISE (much louder): You called me a little mouse…

MOM (indignantly): A mouse? We don’t have a mouse in the house? Who told you that?

DENISE (feeling like she’s in a ‘Who’s On First?’ comedy sketch): I didn’t say you had a mouse, I said you called me a mouse, and I said I only wanted the cheese…

PREGNANT PAUSE #2

MOM (exasperated): I don’t understand what you mean.

DENISE (very loud): Mom...never mind, I was just joking. There is no mouse.

PREGNANT PAUSE #3

MOM (putting the phone down and calling out to my brother who was in the next room): Ken! Come find out what the hell Deneezy is talking about. I don’t know why, but she thinks we have mice…

KEN: What's going on?

DENISE (explains the entire scenario and they howl with laughter): Okay…now can you please explain to Mom what I said?

KEN (shouting): Mom! You didn’t tell me you had a mouse in the house! I’m leaving!

It was always a crap-shoot to whether or not Mom was wearing her hearing-aid when I called, and we had many a classic conversation like the one above. Frustrating? You bet. Maddening? Sometimes. But I tell you, I would give anything to hear her not-hearing me just one more time…

HEADLINE HUNTER

We don’t have TV.

We have TV’s...but we don’t watch TV. Subtle but important difference. We got rid of all cable, satellite and local television 2 years ago in an attempt to see if we could survive without them.

We can.

Commercial infested television that grates your teeth after replaying the same LSD-inspired commercial ten times in an hour, and paying for 300 channels we didn’t want, need or use, finally drove us over the edge and we decided to experiment with quitting TV cold turkey. 

Easy Weezy Lemon Squeezy.

Between our 700+ books and 1500+ movies, we are not want for entertainment, but I still need a daily fix of CNN News, CBC News and The Daily Show, with a smattering of Hot in Cleveland. This, and a lot more, I easily find on-line. All COMMERCIAL FREE!

Another bonus to keeping in touch with the world on my computer is that I save a ton of cash denying Shaw and Bell from entering our living room. And I get a hell of a lot more info reading my ‘web-newspaper’ with my morning coffee than I ever did watching long, drawn out broadcasts on television. At the click of a key, I get a wide variety of news from around the world with my Froot Loops, customized to my interests. (Peter gets his news from Germany with his Schnitzel und Bratwurst)

One channel cannot possibly cover the diverse news coverage I get in one morning, and never as fast. For example, here is one morning of REAL headlines (honest!)... and believe me, Froot Loops was a most appropriate cereal that day:

Man has ‘mini’ tattooed on penis to win car

Andreas Muller, 39, decided to have the rather painful tattoo applied after a radio station ran a competition to win a £20,000 Mini Cooper. Radio listeners were then treated to Muller’s cries of agony while the unique piece of branding was created.

Woman rescues husband in tiger attack

A villager in Malaysia has his wife to thank after she charged a tiger that had pounced on him in the forest. Han Besou, 55, who was several feet away, heard the screams of her husband and charged the tiger with a large soup spoon, bopping it on the head, a local paper reported. The animal fled.

German man calls fire brigade to rescue beer he left on train

A 44-year-old man smashed the emergency glass on a fire alarm at Kaiserslautern train station when after stepping off, he realized his beloved beer was still on-board and leaving without him. As well as the shame of realizing his stupidity, the unnamed man was also left with an injured hand where he smashed the glass. 

Ingesting Poo Be Good for You?

Recently, the Journal of Clinical Gastroenterology published research suggesting that, in certain cases, patients suffering from the nasty ‘clostridium difficile’ bug may need fecal transplants or "transpoosions." Although antibiotics are now the first mode of attack, a growing number of doctors believe that, in some cases, injecting excrement either by enema or through a gastric tube inserted in the nose is more effective.

Witches to face prison for false predictions

Romanian witches and fortunetellers are cursing a new bill that threatens fines or even prison time if their predictions don't come true. Superstition is a serious matter in the land of Dracula, and officials have turned to witches to help the recession-hit country collect more money and crack down on tax evasion. Witches argue they shouldn't be blamed for the failure of their tools.

Russia's parasailing donkey dies

Anapka, the Russian donkey whose brays of terror while parasailing won her worldwide sympathy has died. She had been sent up into the sky over a southern Russian beach in a promotional stunt, and the YouTube video of her trip made headlines around the world.

Notorious 84-year-old Hungarian cat burglar 'Flying Gizi' caught again by police

The 84-year-old woman, known as "Flying Gizi," whose criminal record goes back to the 1950s, is again in custody for suspected theft, police said Tuesday. Gizella Bodnar, who has been convicted of over 20 crimes and has spent nearly 18 years in prison, got her nickname because she enjoyed taking domestic commercial flights after successful break-ins. She also published an autobiography in 2007 claiming that she became a kleptomaniac as the result of a youthful bout with meningitis.

Confession app blessed by Catholic bishop

An iPhone and iPad app that helps Roman Catholics seek forgiveness for their sins has been sanctioned by the Catholic Church. The app walks people through confession step by step and it reminds us when their last confessions were and keeps track of sins they have previously confessed. However, absolution or release from the sin can still only come from a priest.

Granny Fights Off 6 Robbers With Her Purse

Ann Timson, a 75-year-old woman, armed with only her handbag, ran across the street to attempt stopping a daylight robbery. Six robbers, armed with sledgehammers, were smashing a jewelry store window in Northampton, England when Ann started hitting them with her purse, breaking up the robbery and making them run away without any jewels. Only after they were running away, did bystanders come to help.

 

So you see, in one day, I garnered a wealth of knowledge that can only aid me in living a richer, better life. I learned...

1) The next time somebody tells you to “Go eat a shit sandwich!” they may only be concerned for your health.

2) Meningitis can fry the section of ones brain that holds ones moral values, and old women can grow balls that clang.

3) Your private, innermost personal gut-wrenching sins that are a soul-searching plea to God and His Eternal Mercy, can now be hacked.

4) Donkeys can fly, but shouldn’t. And advertisers can be real asses.

5) Germans like their beer. A lot.

6)  Instead of burning them at the stake, witches can now be sued. (Voodoo dolls with suits and briefcases are flying off the Wal-Mart shelves in Romania as are pins, needles and matchsticks.)

7)  Anyone tattooing the word mini on their penis must be either very secure in their masculinity or hung like a horse.

8) All one really needs while on safari is a large soup spoon for wild carnivores and perhaps a feather-duster for rampaging elephants.

But there was one main lesson I learned that day:  Flying Gizi got published; now I know what to do.

I can hardly wait till tomorrow...

ALI AND JIAN: AN IDENTITY CRISIS (mine. not theirs)

There is nothing as pathetic as a struggling writer who has been tossed a crumb of recognition from a celebrity.

Point in case: me.

Yesterday, following the excellent Canada Reads 10^th Anniversary ‘Essential Book of the Decade’ Contest on CBC Radio (http://www.cbc.ca/books/canadareads/), the listeners/viewers were asked to pose questions to any panel member where it might be chosen to be used live, on-air. I posted my question using my CBC username ‘souls5’ and popped out to take our 11 year old to school. I knew I could watch the rest of the show on-line later, after I’d rid myself of all hangers-on and riff raff.

Imagine my heart-skipping thrill when Jian Ghomeshi, brilliant CBC radio personality and host, chose MY question to be posed to newly minted winner Ali Velshi (equally brilliant CNN journalist and broadcaster), who championed the winning book The Best Laid Plans by Terry Fallis. The book I really wanted to win and LOVED. (I have talked to Terry on the phone, actually...LONG story, great guy!)

This was my Pulitzer Prize winning question:

Because The Best Laid Plans is an entertaining cross between 'Mr. Smith Goes To Washington' and 'Seabiscuit', this apolitical 50 year old Canadian inadvertently learned more about the inner-workings of government than I learned from anywhere else. Do you agree that this should be required reading for all Gr. 12 students?

The Seabicuit line made them laugh. I knew it would, given half the chance. Ali laughed, Jian laughed and the studio audience laughed...and I even heard Lorne Cardinal chuckle. Comedy Gold for a lightweight author like me. These were the bigwigs being entertained by ME! On air and LIVE! Thousands of people in Canada and hundreds from around the world were listening to my words! All 52 of them. They were my captive audience, if only for a millisecond.

It was like being published, in a surreal, paperless, inkless kind of way.

How excited was I? Well, I replayed the sequence dealing with my question/answer (at the 25:00 minute mark on the Finale Q&A, should you be so inclined to view it on the clearer, original version) around 100 times...completely unable to go on with the show. I was mesmerized. Bewitched. Entranced. I was toking on a celebrity roach and higher than a kite. I video taped the segment and posted in my Face Book and tagged half of Canada. It is barely audible but did I care? Of course not. It was tangible! Sort of.

Replay, Replay. Replay.

I watched it small screen, full screen, with glasses on, glasses off, with my hubby, with my daughter, lights on, lights off, sitting close to the screen, standing a few feet back and with Harvey The Imaginary Rabbit (on loan from Jimmy Stewart) and I know every second of it by heart. Every movement made by every person and every sound. It took me a full 20 minutes to finally watch the rest of the show. But I came back to it again and again once it was over until I eventually got a headache and crawled into bed, only to have a fitful sleep plagued with giant winged-books being flown by bald-headed librarians all screaming for my autograph.

Repercussions? Well, my eyes are permanently crossed and my replay finger is blood-crusted, in a splint and needs surgery.

AND...consider this atrocity:  They all knew it was a ‘great on-line question’ (quote Jian!) coming from...who? souls5. My big moment, my 1.15 minutes of fame and they didn’t even know my real name. Didn’t even know I was female. Or human. Just souls5. Yep...make sure nobody knows who you are Denise. Hide your identity. Live in a cloak of secrecy and anonymity. THAT is the way to get noticed and published! Well done!

Did you notice when Jian said my username, there was an audible giggle from the audience? I think they assumed it was hastily crafted in reference to the 5 panelists (each with their favorite book) who had been vying for the win. They didn’t know the name honored my five children and was created years ago. *sigh*

Alas! So is the fleeting, flickering, fickle, flame of fame oft times dashed in infancy.

But I wasn’t dead in the water yet. In a manic attempt to stretch the high just a bit longer, I hurriedly went on Face Book and commented on Ali, Jian and Terry’s sites (and made sure to change my profile pic to one that was flattering, conspicuous and 20 years younger) and introduced myself. I wasn’t going down without a fight for at least a smidgen of true recognition. And you know what? Ali sent me a Face Book 'friend' request. Yea...that's right...uh huh. Just me a 20 thousand others. I can see you are impressed.

And that, my friends, is the all-time winner for the most pitiable foray into the world of celebrity and literature, one is ever likely to witness. If I ever start a rock band, I'll call it 'Seeking Validation'.

But don’t worry. If I ever get my book published, I think I’ll handle it just fine...

MARS TREK

Who, in their right mind books a 3 a.m. flight? On Halloween?

Those flying from Vancouver to Australia wanting to pay the least amount of money, that’s who.

We hadn’t seen our daughter Chantal or hubby Duncan since their wedding 3 years prior, and having never met our 14 month old granddaughter Alexandra, (and planning to be there for the birth of her new baby sister or brother) we hoped our 6 and a half weeks in Kalgoorlie, Western Australia would be an unforgettable adventure.

I learned that Unforgettable is a double-edged (s)word.

Only birthdays and directions should never be forgotten. Childbirth and our journey to The Land Down Under, both, which oddly enough, left me exhausted and unable to go to the bathroom myself, should be buried so deep into the psyche that only Dr. Phil could dig it out.

As a white–knuckle flier, my doctor prescribed for me a tiny white pill that packed a big wallop. Only half the size of a Tic-Tac, I was assured that it would relax me and perhaps even make me fall asleep. One whole pill was good for 8 hours, half a pill 4 hours (and if you just wanted a catnap, give it a lick). Our flights were approximately 22 hours ONE WAY, including a stopover in Hong Kong, so I asked if it came in a maxi-dosage suppository form, but, alas! it's doesn't. Therefore, I brought enough medication for ‘total airborne time’, not calculating that we might be get stuck in, let’s say, somewhere like Seoul, South Korea while they scoured the city for a more qualified pilot!

 I know, I know...how could I be so stupid not to calculate that into our schedule?

It was on our way to the ferry in Nanaimo that our daughter Katharina, aged 10, started feeling sick. She was choked already with having to miss Trick or Treating, and now her throat was a bit sore and she felt warm to the touch (it ended up causing inner–ear pain that made take-offs and landings hellish for her, and therefore us!). It was an omen and as you might recall, I am BIG on Signs and Omens.

I briefly thought of canceling the trip but knew a slight cold wasn’t excuse enough cancel the rare chance to see the Australian branch of our family tree and flush all those non-refundable deposits down the toilet. And even more importantly, I’d be accused of looking for an out. You see, I have an obsessive, near debilitating fear of flying. I cried nightly for a week before the departure date and I seriously considered tripping myself down the stairs in hopes of breaking only one leg as a reason not to go.

Other than that, I am perfectly normal. Really.

The hour and a half ride on the eerily barren ferry to Horseshoe Bay felt endless and we gratefully stepped into the cold October air and hailed a taxi. At least, that is what we thought we’d hailed. The bumper sticker that read ‘BEWARE ALL YE WHO ENTER’ must have fallen off.

I, like all chatty extroverts, sat up front with the driver and took stock of our chauffer du jour. I would have been concerned at the way he bolted out of the parking lot as if he were the driving the purple triple-decker bus in Harry Potter, but I was too distracted and startled by his loud, raspy breathing, each exhale an embattled struggle for air. He was like a cross between Darth Vader and Burgess Meredith.

A slight, wiry man, his brown leather bomber jacket looked borrowed and battered. Silver wisps of hair peeked out here and there from under his black wool toque and a grizzled 5 o’clock shadow bristled his pointy chin and sunken cheeks. Rheumy eyes, magnified to Betty Boop size behind his thick, coke-bottle lenses darted back and forth across the road and I got the distinct impression that he was trying to focus. Unfortunately, I was right.

The hour-long drive to the airport felt like a TRON arcade game. From my front row roller-coaster seat, listening to his obscene-phone-call breathing, we hurtled through the pitch-dark night, the bright neon city lights flying past me in a stringy, fluorescent blur. I braced my feet against he floorboards and tried to remember the old ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...’ psalm that all people who are scared shitless recite. Then suddenly, steering with his wrists, he began to switch his glasses on and off with another pair, squinting around questioningly. All this while maneuvering through tunnels, crossing bridges and jumping intersections at approximately 320 miles an hour.

I tried to close my eyes but they were stuck on high beam.

We made it to the airport and my husband Peter and Katharina, both half-asleep in the backseat stretched and yawned as I paid off Burgess Vader and kissed the curb.

Peter: (carrying our luggage inside the terminal) I didn’t hear you talking to the driver. That’s a first.

Denise: I didn’t want to surprise him. I don’t think he saw me sitting there.

We arrived 3 hours early as advised and spent the time wearily playing cards in the empty food court and sucking back dishwater thin coffee and greasy Burger King fries. At the half-hour-to-boarding mark, Peter, bleary eyed and numb with fatigue, held Katja’s hand as she slept on the bench, and I dragged myself to the bathroom to take my magic pill as directed.

The second I walked back out, wiping the water from my mouth, they announced that the flight would be delayed and possibly canceled due to the fact that the pilot, who lived on Vancouver Island (probably right next door to my house) forgot he was working this morning and missed the last ferry. They were trying to find someone willing to pilot the flight.

As you can imagine, the thought of a grumpy, tired pilot with rumpled clothes and bed-hair getting behind the wheel of my Boeing 747 was hard to swallow. Unfortunately, the pill I just took was easy to swallow and it was on its way to work. I began to panic...how could I function drugged up or worse, zonked out under the bench?

Turns out they did find a pilot and we began to board at 4:00.a.m. At least that’s what they tell me. I have no recollection of getting to my seat, except a vague moment where I dreamed of putting on a sleeping mask and a blanket, but for the next 8 hours I was out like a light. Peter had a fitful nap now and then, but he spent most of his time watching over Katja and planning how he could dump my body out of the plane without being seen.

I woke up groggy in Seoul, Korea.

Peter: Wake up...we’re in Korea and you should go to the bathroom.

Denise: (fuzzy headed) Korea? We aren’t allowed to pee in Hong Kong?

Peter helped me to the bathroom, thinking I probably shouldn’t hold it in for the full 22 hours, and explained to me that the pilot they had finally found didn’t have a license to fly into Hong Kong. I heard they need special training to avoid the giant gorillas and papier-mâché monsters that frequently wreak havoc on their skyscrapers, but that could have been the drugs talking. 4 more hours? I popped half a pill.

After an hour on the tarmac, we flew off to Hong Kong where the scheduled 9 hour stopover was lessened because of all the mix-ups, and the 8 hour flight to Perth was but a small white pill of blessed nothingness.

We arrived in Perth at midnight (their airport could fit into my living room) only to get the wrong room at the hotel we booked. In an Inspector Clouseau-like scene, I tried to ask for a bigger room and could barely understand the thick Aussie accent from behind the counter, but my world renowned expertise at Charades came in handy and we were eventually given a better room, even if it slept 6. Brandishing my plastic Courtesy of Cathay Pacific knife at him might have helped a bit too.

We flaked out until the next morning where got were ripped off by cabbie who took us the long way round to the station and then we took a 7 hour ride on The Prospector, Australia's fasted train, to Kalgoorlie. And I was wide awake while everyone else slept like babies. It was like riding a ghost train and the red, Mars-like earth of The Outback made me feel like our plane had taken a wrong turn at Neptune.

Our grandson Maximillian was born on November 17 2009 and every minute of our god-awful trip (in total: about 43 hours in the air, 27 hours waiting in airports, 14 hours on trains, 10 hours on buses and various TRON taxis) was worth being able to hold him just an hour after his birth, and being able to cuddle and kiss our beautiful, sweet granddaughter (well, not 'we' exactly...she clutched onto Grandpa for 6 weeks and allowed me close enough to shake hands with her while boarding The Prospector to leave).

And I admit, had I been mugged at any point during our stay in Oz, I would have handed over all my jewelry, cash, clothes and all my gold fillings before I would have given them my stash of return-flight, little white pills.

THE CHESTER AND SPIKE SHOW

2011 Canada Reads 'Stranger Than Fiction'Contest': real life childhood memories. 250 word maximun.
My entry...

The Chester and Spike Show 

Maybe it was a test of love.

But that would be ridiculous because he knew I adored him. He was my big brother and I was like that little terrier dog Chester in the Bugs Bunny cartoons, always bouncing around his idol Spike, the bulldog in the bowler hat. Complete hero worship.

Maybe it was a test of trust.

But that would be unrealistic because he knew that he was my Father Confessor. If my mother knew half the things I told my brother and asked advice about, I would be writing this from my room somewhere in a foreign convent.

I think it was a test of courage.

Bravery is a man’s most cherished virtue so I believe my brother wanted to make me fearless, or at least prove I was, and I couldn’t disappoint him. I don’t know when it all began, but by age 8 or 9 I was regularly having knives thrown at my feet.

I would stand on the lawn and from a respectable distance, he’d whip hunting knives on the ground, always near my toes but never hitting them. We were a private Barnum and Bailey circus act without the paying audience...or the insurance. My brother would inevitably chuckle with pride and marvel at my pluckiness. To be honest, my apparent nerve wasn’t anything but a childish sense of immortality.

I wonder if I can use this as blackmail? At 85 years old, our mother is still a force to be reckoned with!

THE CHEESE SCAPEGOAT

Children make holidays memorable. And sometimes those memories haunt you.

When I was still married to my ex-husband Mark, we once flew down to Vancouver around Christmastime to visit a friend who he had chummed with in dental school. I was pregnant with twins (although I didn't know they were twins until my 7th month! Another story.) and our son Steven was just past his first birthday so it was an exhausting but much needed escape out of the frozen North. This would be the first time in years that this class of professionals would reunite for a posh soirée and a chance to brag about their successes and feigned, über-happy lives.

None of them had children, except us. It was a chance to one-up this tanned, ritzy DINK crowd and show them what they were missing. Yes, they were a DINK gathering (Double Income No Kids), a full level up from the common YUPPIE set (Young Urban Professionals). There were so many white teeth and diamonds in the room I thought I’d been time-warped into the Osmond’s living room. (*For those who don’t know the Osmond’s, they were the original form of aspartame and a family who became rich and famous for their goody-two-shoes persona, saccharine music, mile-wide smiles and surreptitious plans to take over the world by perpetual breeding).

After a round of Hello’s and SoGoodToSeeYouAgain’s, we sat down to nibble on Sterlet Caviar, Curried Squid, Grilled Baby Octopus and other tidbits that looked like they were scraped off of the bottom of a fish tank. An expensive fish tank. I sat Steven down on the floor in front of the fireplace, next to my chair, with a toy to keep him occupied.

Host DINK: Steven is just adorable!

Guest DINK #1: He sure looks like a content baby!

Denise: (beaming with pride) He is. And he’s really smart for his age...he has a bit of a cold and I have this thing about dirty noses, so I taught him how to blow!

Steven: (hearing the key word ‘blow’, which had been drummed into his head like a command for circus seal, he forgets that a Kleenex is part of the act and dutifully blows his nose into his hand which launches his tiny, wobbly body backwards, banging his head on the brick hearth) WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!

After a quick clean up and a chance for horrified guests to forget that the mess in Steven’s hand looked a lot like the French foie gras on their Sesame Water Crackers, I brought our sniffling son back into the room and Mark took him to proudly display on his lap. But something had changed. There was a tangible shift in the air and where there was once a covetous ‘I want a brand new baby too!’ atmosphere, I felt a distinct ‘Thank God I don’t have kids!’ vibe.

Guest DINK #2: I don’t think we’re ready for children. Too high-maintenance.

Guest DINK #3: I agree. We do like our Mayan Riviera retreats and children can be quite a hindrance...

Denise: (interrupting defensively) Not really. As you can see, we can go wherever we want. They don’t have to cramp your lifestyle if you just...OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!!

Steven had become very quiet and my astute, motherly instincts and keen, bloodhound-like sense of smell had set off an internal alarm. As Mark had been talking shop and absentmindedly bouncing our son on his knee, a sickly, oatmeal-thick stream of baby poop had begun leaking over the back of Steven’s diaper and was now oozing down onto his daddy’s best dress pants.

Like a fat Speedy Gonzales on steroids, I blasted from the room with Steven under my arm and had him washed and changed before the first guest could gag. For want of anything that fit, a pair of ratty old sweatpants were dug up for Mark to change into, which blended nicely with the splendid heirloom, circa 1850, William IV Antique Library Chair he was still sitting in. After a few awkward moments, with everyone looking at me like Gremlins were about to burst from my rounded belly and start swinging from the chandelier, I tried to salvage the night. 

Denise: (flushed, flustered and slash-my-wrists embarrassed) I am so sorry...this has never happened before...I...he...you see...

Host DINK: (smiling stiffly, serving a garlic-heavy Duck Liver Pâté that doubled as an air freshener) Never mind. These things happen. Does anyone want another drink?

Denise: He has a cold remember...and his medicine must have loosened things up...

Host DINK: (interrupting loudly) I have more champagne in the kitchen! I’ll be right ba... (looking down) Oh! What’s that on your chair?

Denise: (looking aghast at a gooey clump clinging coyly to the ornate mahogany leg of Mark’s chair) Must have fallen off Mark’s pants...I’ll get a rag...

Host DINK: (ashen faced, in high-pitched denial) It’s just my Molten Goat Cheese Dip! It is a bit too runny, isn’t it...where is that champagne?

Every Guest DINK: (slowly lowering their half-eaten appetizers back to the table) Just goat cheese...too runny. (pregnant pause) How about those Canucks, eh?

Planned Parenthood should have me on their payroll.