SWEATY SOCKS, GOLF BALLS AND FISH LIPS: My Formative Middle School Years

Being a part of a hometown Facebook group can be an adventure.

I've recently been seeing oldy mouldy yearbook pages from the 70's being posted on a FB group I'm in that's all about my small, Prairie hometown. Now I know exactly what the word bittersweet really means.

Looking through those pages of students from my age group, I am overwhelmed with nostalgia, and a desire to never look in a mirror again. Those were 'one chin and a discernable waistline' days of happy, clueless innocence.

Time has not only been cruel, it's been a jackass. I mean really...was it necessary to have me develop a keen interest in literature a decade AFTER graduation?

Ah well.

I see so many faces that have strong, almost visceral feelings attached to them, both good and bad. But I'll focus on the good, mainly because I assume some classmates did well enough over the years to be able to afford really good lawyers. Its been almost 50 years but despite not recalling their names completely, I know them instantly. Like a vague recurring dream you recognize, but not clearly.

Back in the day when you could discipline students with corporal punishment, Mr. Belinsky was The Ultimate Ruler. I have distinct memories of body-shaped cracks in the walls, like Wile E. Coyote used to make on The Road Runner Bugs Bunny Show, that were a direct result of boys getting punished for some serious mouthing off. I was in Grade 7, new to the Mackenzie Jr High and in awe of absolutely everything I saw. A true Bambi-esque, deer-caught-in-the-headlights kid. I was both mesmerized by the horrific strength and intensity of the man ruling our Social Studies Kingdom, and the strange admiration and ...bear with me...attraction to that kind of power. My first crush: a 50 year old man with anger management issues. Go figure. I truly liked and feared him in equal measures. I was so scared and impressed that I ended up a confused mass of cognitive jelly. I remained so up until about an hour ago.

Later on, I dared try out for the cheerleading squad (in Grade 7 as well I believe. Maybe Grade 8?). I am not 100% sure, due mainly to that aforementioned cognitive jelly situation, but I DO recall feeling shock at having been chosen after tryouts. Cheerleaders are supposed to be popular and I was hardly that. Wrong side of the tracks and all. I did however have tight cutoff jean short-shorts, knee high white socks and a white turtleneck top so perhaps that was the ace card I held. I was very slim but had zero boobs...and I remember feeling so awkward about it. Like a stunted mutant. It looked like I was smuggling golf balls into school. One classmate zinged me once when he said he said, "You're a pirate's treasure". I blushed deeply, inwardly pleased at this weird compliment (a treasure sounds special!) until he grinned wickedly and added, 'You have a sunken chest'. Yes... I can hear you laughing. You can stop now.

Body Image Angst is not a modern phenomenon for girls. I invented it. Probably. I have no patent. 

I could see that I was Chairman of the Social Committee. I have no recollection of such an honor but there are pictures so I can't say it's a lie. I can only assume my Vice Chairman did all the work and sent daily messages to me at the Kings Hotel restaurant where I was having a much needed smoke and coffee. I quit smoking almost 30 years ago...but I've quite romanticized it in my head, much like the Sock Hops we had at noon in the gym. In my mind they were breathy and wonderfully exciting but in reality, we were just nervous teens sweating through our clothes, falling madly in love for a whole week with someone who'd been brave enough to walk across the 'Boys Over Here/Girls Over There' room to ask us to dance to Seasons In The Sun or Crimson and Clover. Smelly socks be damned! 

Social Economics class was hell (that's what it was called, right? Or Home Ec?). I wanted to take woodworking so badly but I was missing a penis so could not enroll. However, my lack of said organ allowed me a free pass into the culinary hell I called Burnt Muffinland. My memories of this class are an Andy Warhol melting visage of white ovens, white counters, striped green aprons and blackened mini-mounds of stiff, once proud batter. To this day, the kitchen is deemed forbidden territory and my husband is the Chief Cook and Bottle Washer.  Being from Germany, where men cook as much as women do and just as good, I was banned over 27 years ago and have loved every minute of it, as has my so-said thickened waist and chinny chin chins.

There were so many wonderful teachers but there certainly were a few oddballs too: one who would 'discreetly' rub himself on the table corners while talking and sometimes the boys in class would chalk-up the corner so he'd walk around talking with a white powdered crotch. Then there was the teacher who'd put round-ended scissors in his mouth and open an close them...making his mouth stretch weirdly, as he taught. And I'll never forget the one who put pennies in his mouth, swished them around then took them out to calmly clean with a hanky. 

Does anyone else remember them too or did I actually live on Planet Zurgon after being abducted by aliens like I'd dreamed?

I've written previously about Field Days and Sport Days so I wont repeat them, but man, were those days BRILLIANT!! I wasn't very sporty, much to the shame of my athletic family (see Bob Buchy here) but I loved trying and I loved the atmosphere and camaraderie. I also loved the view: yes, I mean boys. No heavy duty relationships yet...that came in Grades 10 and up...but I do recall one particular boy who's identity and grade shall remain unnamed, who I thought was James Dean reincarnated and almost too gorgeous. I was thrilled beyond reason. Why date someone prettier than you? Well, I was young. That's it. I blame Youth. I wanted to be seen with a hunk from the other side of the tracks. That was a catch! Oh...and that isn't just a catch phrase...there was literally a train that cut through town. One side 'rich' and the other side 'poor'. I was happy he was slumming it.

But as is the way of life, our first few dates were our only dates. His outrageous beauty won me over at first and he could do NO wrong...but soon, I had to say 'pass' and walk away. It may be shallow and judgmental, but simply said, he kissed like a fish and honey...I don't fish.

My loss for sure. But I am perfectly certain he found a nice carp to marry one day. 

All in all though, seeing the fresh, cherubic faces that personify a life left swirling in the dusts of Time has been both lovely and sad. Lovely to see them and remember kinder, more simple times... sad to acknowledge the vast amount of time between then and now.

In closing let me say this: having so many wildly differing memories has been a trip, but there aren't all that many and the gaps have me concerned. Is aging the culprit or is there a nefarious, frightening medical reason why I cannot recall the most developmentally important days of my life? Health-wise, I am no better or worse off than the average Boomer so I must conclude that it is likely my memories are seared into place strictly and most decidedly by pure chance and the magnitude of their importance AT THE TIME. I emphasize 'at the time' because I assure you, my sunken-treasure flat-chestedness resolved itself admirably and I breastfed 5 children easily, and can now boast an ability to match, visually, any front-cover magazine photo of any bare-chested woman...in National Geographic.

And for certain, the photo of the bespectacled and semi-bald Mr. Belinsky in the staff section of the yearbook has absolutely no affect on the flutterings of my heart. 

But I admit... my husband could pass as his brother.

THE CAT DIDN'T COME BACK

Some people cannot cry at funerals.

Rather than finding this abnormal or unfeeling, I understand perfectly. Not that this is my issue... every molecule of moisture from my entire body pours out of my eyes like the flood raising Noah's Ark, but this is precisely why I get it. Who in their right mind would want that? If it can be avoided, naturally or by design, more power to you. 

My flood hit yesterday morning. 

My Hero, my Defender and my big brother Bob Buchy, age 71, passed away October 22 2022, three days before my birthday. The diverse reactions of various members of my family inspired this post. 

I wrote a small story about Bob in another section of my blog recently regarding, in part, his own journey which was both excitingly fortunate and painfully tragic; joyful yet sorrow-filled. He was a beautiful, amazing man who lived a warrior's life till the end, baffling doctors with his stamina and resilience, and breathtakingly defying the odds of those suffering his particular type of progressive, debilitating and wholly evil Multiple Sclerosis. There should be medical books written about him. He was a phenomenon. A bloody Legend. 

You can click on this link for that story (and to understand the title of this post!): Better Hands on A Snake: A Brother Broken By Disease and The Sister Who Picked Up The Pieces

My sister Linda, the eldest child in our family, passed away on Valentines's Day, Feb 14 1964 at age 16 in a tragic car accident, but I still have three sisters and another brother. We live scattered about in all directions with myriad nieces and nephews now having myriad children of their own. I also have an aunt who will have been on this earth 96 years come December and theoretically, I could swing a dead cat in a circle anywhere in Canada and probably hit a cousin or two.

In other words, the reactions to the news of Bob's passing have run the gambit. 

Bob was, as you'll read within the aforementioned link, a lucky son of a bitch from the get-go. Tall, smart, athletic, handsome as hell, a bit of a scoundrel and so damn funny! My God we laughed a lot! In his active younger years, he naturally generated in those around him a sense of awe, admiration, and most likely some justifiable jealousy. In his later years, his condition kept him steeped in a self-inflicted solitary existence with precious few allowed in. It was his way of dealing. So, it's been no surprise that there's been a mixed bag of reactions to his passing:

May he rest in peace.

It's for the best. That wasn't a life.

He hung on so long! But he isn't suffering anymore.

That's so sad.

That's too bad.

He's in a better place now.

It's God's Will.

I could go on and on, but it's that one remark that I want to address...and I think you know which one. Not the one that piqued the atheist in me, no...it's the 'That wasn't a life' comment. 

It wasn't said harshly or in a mean-spirited way at all. In fact, I think it was intended as comfort, oddly enough. Nevertheless, I know in my heart many feel that way about people with Bob's level of MS, or any quadriplegic for that matter. Assuming they haven't a life worth living.

Let me tell you something. My brother, even in his most dire straits, was a better man than most. And thrilled to be alive. His will to live, his extraordinary passion for life, his ability to eke out some measure of pleasure from the simplest of actions is beyond commendable. His desire to fight his disease, to wrestle it in place and dare it to keep him down was limitless. I know I couldn't have done it, even though I'm cut from the very same cloth. His resolve knew no boundaries. My resolve tends to dissolve with the first drop of rain.

Instead of becoming a victim to his Fate, Bob made a choice to square off and meet MS head on. But not on its terms. He made it a promise: it could take his body by force, but it would never take his mind.

In the years before his voice was taken, we would chat on the phone and I'd hang up and think, 'you'd never know he was sick!'. Ever sharp as a tack, ever playful, and perpetually busy planning his next project. The Charming Pirate seemed to have a lot of slaves at his beck and call, and he was never short of things for them to do, directing them from his wheelchair like a fabled Hollywood director, minus the slanted beret and megaphone. At various incremental points in time, he would be unable to move his legs... his torso...then his hands... his arms, and eventually his head, but on the phone, you would have never guessed it. 

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he cried himself to sleep every night and cursed the Gods, his mind's eye seeing his raised fist challenging the Heavens...but in the clear light of day, the face he showed the world was determined, intelligent and exceedingly curious. After he lost his voice, it must have been completely and utterly exhausting having his feelings and needs known, but he managed it as best as was humanly possible. He NEVER gave up.

Forever witty and engaged. Forever willful and stubborn. Till his final breath, he was always Bob.  Multiple Sclerosis couldn't rob him of that.

I would argue a very few of us could have lived my brother's life and displayed even a modicum of his bravery, or a single minute of his patience and tolerance. Who among us could have maintained such a level of calm composure and soundness of mind while being wracked with the fear and mental anguish that might be for most, understandably, the daily norm. So please, when you see someone like my brother Bob, look through eyes of compassion, surely, but not of pity. He or she, without a doubt, is a much better and much stronger person than you or I will ever be.

                                                                                  *

 “Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest” 💔

Life Before Social Media (or: How I Spent My Youth in a Tiny Prairie Town)

 

One would be correct in believing the  FB page "The Good Old Days of Dauphin" has got my sister Rhonda (Buchy) and I talking a lot. She still lives in Dauphin and I have called BC home for almost 40 years. And we’ve always chatted a lot, but these days, reminiscing about our shared Dauphin experiences has flourished. Take our conversation today for example:

We lived in the South West end of town, so if you wanted to go to the curling or skating rink, Grandstands, baseball diamond, outdoor rink or ‘pool’, that’s where your feet had to take you. I believe you can see the path worn into the ground from our family home to the South East end of town on any aerial map of Dauphin.

Life pretty well centered around us watching our brothers Ken and Bob playing hockey with the Kings (read more about Bob by clicking the link HERE ), and playing baseball with the Redbirds (they played for Team Manitoba too). *As a side note: our dad Steve Buchy played for the Redbirds as well, in the 50’s. He actually threw out the pitch in a Redbird’s reunion (?) many years ago and was tickled pink with it all! So sweet.

Then there was the old outdoor rink across form the Plesh’s house that we either used or cheered on family and friends (or boyfriends!) day and night, and the old pool that I have absolutely no memory of. Rhonda insists there was one there, and still is, and in the old days it was uncovered and if it thundered outside, you had better get the hell out of it quick! Perhaps I didn’t get out fast enough one day and my memory got fried along with my melting bathing cap….

And before there was Selo, there was the Great White Lady herself, The Grandstands!

That old wooden structure was the Go-To Place of its day and I was so sad when I heard it burned down in 2009. So many memories there. Who can forget the amazing fireworks displays that colored our youth, and the carnivals on the fairgrounds (that saw one of my friends run away with the circus! Truth!) From our house, you could sometimes smell the garlic and onions cooking and hear the cheering crowds and booming voice of the MC. We fell asleep licking our lips…our hearts beating in rhythm to the music pulsating over the town.

And all the shows! It was always a thrill to climb the stands and find the perfect spot for the RCMPMusical Rides, horse races, and the Ukrainian Festival! I even met Al Cherney (of the old Tommy Hunter Show) once backstage by accident and we shared a cigarette. I was around 14 years old and thought that was pretty cool. Not that Al was a looker…he was older than dirt even back then, but he was my first ‘celebrity’ eyeball-to-eyeball meet and I was excited! Kept that butt for years in a secret place (because my parents didn’t know I smoked) and it’s probably still there because, well, apparently I’m good at keeping secrets, even from myself.

Back then, the Festival brought so many people to town you needed a cattle prod to forge a path to The Dairy Dip. Myriad Silver Airstreams and campers filled Vermillion Park and every school playground in town. The streets were closed to traffic and they burst to the seams with tourists, and we couldn’t recall anyone get angry, fighting or causing trouble. I think it was the camaraderie everyone felt but Rhonda thinks it was the endless flow of beer. Perhaps the two don’t necessarily have to be mutually exclusive *smile*.

The old Grandstands were where Mackenzie Jr High (and other schools?) had all day Field Day competitions as well (see pics). We’d dress up in costumes and makeshift team uniforms, and the school would empty and we would fiercely compete with each other’s classes to get the most awards and gold badges. I personally never saw one up close but I hear they were nice. I remember feeling the crippling weight of my athletic family’s honor on my shoulders one race around the track, and being fairly wimpy, I barely made it over the finish line at all. Red-faced, huffing and puffing, I flopped to the ground and Mr. Nadolny, much to my embarrassment, had to quickly pick me up (I think he needed a spatula), and made me walk around as to not get debilitating leg cramps. I use that race to this day to get out of doing stuff, like an old war vet with a missing limb: “Sorry, can’t help you carry those plates to the table…old wound from back in ’74. 800 meter. Near did me in.”

Of course, time was not kind to those old buildings and Stands and they are all but gone, but they certainly had their time in the sun. More than one first kiss, first cigarette and first beer were had under those Stands and we owe the South East a lot for making our community a great place to grow up in. And maybe once covid worries are gone, I can come home for a visit so Rhonda can prove to me that pool wasn’t just in her imagination…

                                                                       **

                                            Brother Bob playing for Manitoba:

                                                   Dad with a Redbird trophy:

School Field Days at the Grandstands:

                                                         Mr. Al Cherney in action:

CELEBRITIES TURNING 60 THIS YEAR and why it's really fucking up my day

Meg Ryan.

George Clooney.

Ricky Gervais.

Heather Locklear.

Peter Jackson.

Obama.

Gretzky.

FREAKIN' NADIA COMENICI ! (was I really her age when I watched her win 5 Gold Medals and earn the  first 100% score in Olympic history?)

So many accomplished, outstanding people are my age. 

MY age! (Well, one year younger but whatever....)

What, from the bottom of my heart, the hell?

I feel gut punched. My tongue is rolled out of my mouth as I slouch my way over to the fridge like a dejected Quasimodo to check if there's enough wine in the box (yes I said box) to numb the pain of the giant LOSER sign nailed to my forehead.

It's times like these that make you question what the hell you've been doing your entire life. What have you created that is lasting and impressive?

Well, I have 5 beautiful children and they have given me (so far) 7 gorgeous grandkids...but that is, however lovely, not an especially headline worthy accomplishment. Sorry kids. The world doesn't share my feelings of your utter and complete uniqueness. 

And it's true that the model of my hand I made at my first real job as a 19 year old dental assistant (using a milk carton full of alginate...the pink stuff used to take teeth impressions) is a classic 'rebellious youth' statue (also known in Canada as the Trudeau Salute) ... but one careless elbow can knock it off the shelf and ALAS! my legacy is lost.

*sigh*

I will have to do better these next 10 years so when the NEXT list is made, I will sit and take a peek through it and think "Whatever. Losers." and with my head held high I'll turn my scooter into the produce aisle and drive off to find an economy size bag of prunes.

(Below...the source of my angst!)

60 Celebrities Who Are Turning 60 in 2021 | Best Life (bestlifeonline.com)

A RADIO LOVE AFFAIR: the rekindling of an old, staticky flame

Radios.

Back in youth...I'm talking the 60's and 70's...in small town rural Canada, the height of personal entertainment was the radio.

We would listen to our old radio in the kitchen a lot, but mostly it was turned on to 730 CKDM to listen to Bernie Basaraba "The Voice of the Kings" as he commentated the local hockey team who both of my brothers each Captained at one point or another. 

My social life centered on watching the games live when I was old enough to walk to the arena myself, but when I was younger (or older but babysitting my sister) listening to the game on the radio was pretty damn exciting! Games and the local radio station playlist was all we got, except on a cloudless night when we could tap into a Winnipeg station now and then. Scratchy, staticky signals weaker than a preacher's whiskey.

But those big radios were permanent fixtures in most homes, like ours in a nook in the kitchen above the counter, so privacy for listening alone was impossible. 

So, when I was given a small, hand held transistor radio, I was crazy happy! It made an indelible mark in my childhood. I listened to it pressed close to my ear so often, I'm sure you can still see its imprint some 50 years later.

I went to bed every night with that transistor radio next to my head on the pillow, or if my sister complained (we slept two to a bed in our big family) I turned down the volume to a ghost's whisper and slept with it under my ear. I learned to contort my body so my full upper-weight was on my arms under the pillow and the hard plastic radio was less painful under my head. 

That must be a mannequin's hand holding the radio pictured below because, trust me, 10 minutes in that position, your hand would we numb for life. 

It wasn't until I was about 19 yrs old (1979) when the Sony Walkman came out that earphones/headphones were common. There may have been something similar for transistor radios before that, but not in our house. None of that fancy stuff for us.... *eye roll*

When I happen to catch an old tune on the radio now, it immediately sends me back to my room at home. I can smell Mom's honey-dipped donuts cooling on the rack; I hear the boys arguing out back, fighting over who has to mow the lawn; and I see my posters of Donny Osmond plastered on my wall like love-sick, teeny-bop wallpaper.

Some of those early tunes are:

The Archies

Sugar Sugar:

Lay Down 

by Melanie & The Edwin Hawkins Singers:

Three Dog Night

Mama Told Me Not To Come:

Freda Payne

Band of Gold: 

The Guess Who

American Woman: 

I was so madly in love with Canadian singer Burton Cummings from The Guess Who, I told everyone my first baby was our Love Child. My husband at the time just smiled and let me have my fun. *smile*

So...the point of this post, finally, is to share with you an app I found called RADIO GARDEN. It's a mobile or webb app actually and it's bloody amazing! And it's FREE whether it be on your phone or computer! 

 "From the (click link in blue letters) Radio Garden app site on the Google Play Store “Radio Garden allows you to listen to thousands of live radio stations world wide by rotating the globe. Every green dot represents a city or town. Tap on it to tune into the radio stations broadcasting from that city.“ The app designers are adding stations constantly. You might be surprised what stations you will find just in your area you didn’t even know existed. As long as you have a phone signal you can tune into Radio Garden. Just select a green dot or city, there is drop down menu for all the stations in that area on the app. 

For your computer just go here to radio.garden. Or just Google it yourself. There is an app, of course.

I just LOVE it! Sure, I have access to tons of music, but nothing beats listening to music (or programs of all sorts!) on live radio from ANYWHERE in the world, 27/7! You can be your own DJ!

And it looks SO cool. When you turn on the app, an animated planet Earth comes on your screen and it rotates and takes a few seconds for the bright green dots (the 'seeds' ) to get planted...which only means it's getting populated with the stations for you to use...

Then you can scroll around the world immediately listening to what looks like hundreds of thousands of radio stations playing LIVE in their towns and cities globally. You can type in the city or town etc...where you wish to listen, or look randomly, like I usually do, and listen to one of a gazillion stations in Brazil ...

...or the USA, or Germany, Iceland, Poland, Sicily...anywhere! I like to find a lone wee green dot in the middle of the ocean on an island somewhere remote and listen in on what some lonely Lighthouse Keeper in may be listening to...

I can't tell you the thrill I got the first time I played with that radio app. To listen to CKDM again in my hometown...

....or to the music my daughter may be listening to in Edmonton, or the news in German my sister-in-law listens to in her little village in Germany...or my grandchildren in Australia...it was mind-blowing!

I have travelled extensively in my life and it was just so beautiful to sit in my comfy chair outside in the sun last summer, close my eyes and listen to some tunes out of Jamaica, remembering the feel of warm sand at my feet and an ice cold Red Stripe beer at my fingertips. I could almost smell the unmistakeable mix of salt water and Caribbean blooms. Then, when I grew restless for maybe a talk-show in a language I knew nothing about, I'd spin over to Rome and find a channel that had some that passionate Italian spice I heard while visiting the Vatican in 2016... so many incredible memories!

And finally, I often seek out a radio station in Ukraine and wonder if it's the music I'd be listening to today had my grandparents not taken a leap of faith and left the Motherland for Canada. 

That always gives me the shivers.

I hope you find some pleasure in this new technology and awesome new means to 'travel' the world.

IN TIMES OF GRIEF: How My Canadian Daughter Found Love and Support From Her Aussie Rugby Family

 

I am Canadian and know nothing of rugby.

Neither did my daughter Chantal until she married Duncan, an Aussie rugby fanatic. I knew she had grown to love the sport over the years (their boys played it, Duncan coached it, and their daughter cheered them all on) but I didnt know just how amazing the rugby community was until she lost her sweet husband to cancer a few months ago.

She started writing a grief blog about single parenting to perhaps help ease the trauma that has invaded her life, and this piece in particular is one that I feel not only rugby lovers and fans will appreciate, but anyone who has lost a mate and fought to move forward.

Living so far away, one feels helpless when tragedy strikes...but how very lucky my daughter and grandchildren are to be a part of this rugby family in the Land Down Under.

Here is the link if you wish to read it. It is very well written and will tug at your heart: One Parent Camping: RUGBY

Grandsons Max and Oscar

Chantal, Oscar, Max and Duncan

(missing from pic, granddaughter Alex. Probably off playing soccer... or swimming!)

OKAY UNIVERSE. I'M LISTENING (but enough with the brain tumours already)

I have always believed in Signs. Oddball or stranger-than-usual coincidences that grab your attention, even for a split second, and you just KNOW there is a message there somewhere. 

How one is to interpret or read those Signs is another thing.

What the hell use is there of a message one can't understand? Ah...well, I'm beginning to think only age and experience can reveal that answer. Not a satisfying revelation, I must say.

Take, for example, the events of the past month: we all get good news and bad news, that's life, but how often do they come in patterns that repeat. It may be a pattern that has visited me before but I was too young and racing at Indie 500 speed to notice.

Youth doesn't pertain to me anymore. Speed isn't my friend.

So, here's the thing. Twice now, I have gotten either fun/good news that is immediately followed by truly harsh and unimaginably sad news. I'm talking within seconds of each other!

Just weeks ago, someone in my immediate family (cant say who cuz they would shred me) won a few coins in the lottery. $500,000.00. Quite a few coins actually. And within 3 seconds of hanging up the phone in wonder and awe of how many Creamsicles one could buy with half a million bucks, the phone rings to say our dear sister-in-law in Austria died of a brain tumour. Andrea was the beautiful wife of my husband's youngest brother Michael. She was diagnosed and hospitalized only 2 weeks before passing. It was a shock and sorrow double-punch to the gut. You reel back at the sudden tragedy and grasp for answers that nobody can answer. She was a kind and lovely soul.

And it feels somehow worse because Fate had made your heart extra happy first, lifting you up high so the fall is worse. Felt more keenly.

'Okay', I said.  'That's just bad timing. Such is life. Deal with it and carry on carrying on.' (like the posters say). Struggle with the happy thoughts of the good news battling the tears of the sad. All day long. All week long....

But then today, it happened again. 

The Happy High wasn't a big lottery win (that would have made it a Proclamation, not a Sign) but a silly fun win. I had written the Chimes candy company weeks ago, whinging that my bag of Ginger Mango Chews ripped me off with an empty, air filled wrapper. It had been like the 4th time this happened and I was right pissed off! Trivial, perhaps, but it seemed unfair to not get what you paid for...so there ya go. Old People World Problems. Loads of Pandemic Time on my hands.

Imagine my surprise when I got a phone call from California (I am in Canada) from the Chimes company PR rep who apologized profusely for my deep suffering at the loss of my single ginger mango chew (with sincerity, not a trace of condescension) and explained to me that the weight of each bag is consistent, and the empty wrapper was common but irrelevant. Then he offered to send me some free chews for my trouble and sweetly said goodbye. Nice!

I clicked off my phone with a massive Cheshire grin, and immediately within seconds of hanging up, received the news that my son-in-law Duncan had died of a brain tumour. Duncan was the husband of my eldest daughter Chantal, and father to their three young children. My gorgeous grandchildren. It was another shock and sorrow double-punch to the gut. With the added shank to the back because, well... kids.

Ummm...hello? Universe? Are you trying to tell me something?

Admittedly, the Happy High wasn't as lofty as the lottery win but I was floating on a cheeky win nevertheless and doing the happy dance, then, well, you know. Devastating sadness. Unspeakable heartbreak. For everyone. And the loss of a wonderful guy. So funny, so smart, so good.

'Okay', I said.  'That's just bad timing. Again. Such is life. Deal with it and carry on carrying on'. (like the posters say).  But now there is the added absurdity of that Californian sun-soaked voice repeatedly saying "I am SO sorry you had to go through that..." about a fucking piece of missing candy, while my mind sporadically spits out sparks of reality to my head about poor Duncan. All day long, making me fight tears that wont change a bloody thing.

So yea. This is a repeated Sign I have to figure out what the message is about. And soon. Or I just wont pick up the phone again.

Not worth the risk. 💔

(💫Believe it or not, I just remembered this pattern happened before: In Year 2000, we took the kids to Europe for 6 weeks on a first ever family tour, and when we returned, all Happy High, I called a best buddy Lana to chat about our amazing trip, she told me her husband Bernie, the most adorable man ever created, was diagnosed with a brain tumour just after we left, and died a week after we returned. Man...I need to process this...)

DONATE: If you wish, please donate what you can to the CURE BRAIN CANCER FOUNDATION (click capitalized name for email link). In memory of Duncan Cutler, Australia, if you like. THANK YOU.💓