I Would Choose the Snow Geese - Tamar

Would I rather fly with the snow geese or ride a bus?

I noticed on my way to work last week that the snow geese were back in Steveston. Everyone enjoys a respite in this little village, and to see hundreds of these birds undulate across the sky in the spring and the fall is just one of the things that make Steveson so special and unique. Unlike the Canada Geese who honk their way below the clouds in v-shaped military formation, the snow geese just glide like the ribbons held by cute little gymnastic teams going for the gold, and each trick, each routine, is different from the previous one - I am awed as I watch.

Now to get to work in Steveston, I had to ride a bus. I suppose I was lucky enough to get offered the last seat in this tin can full of people, but since the person in the window seat had to remove her dripping wet unbrella from the seat so I could sit down, I had the most uncharitable comments running through my mind as to where she could put her umbrella from now on. I moved toward the back of the bus, and squeezed into the middle of a 3-seat bench, trying to make myself small enough so I didn't contact the two elderly women that were bracketing me.

Please don't travel by bus if you keep your winter coat in a box of mothballs. Please don't travel by bus if you've just eaten a bucket of curry and drank a pitcher of garlic. Please don't travel by bus if you've retained all the cigarette smoke you've ever exhaled as a souvenir of every smoke you've had since you were 12 years old and used to sneak behind the barn with your older cousin to light one up.

But, more importantly, most importantly of all, please don't travel by bus if you have a virus, are coughing and sneezing constantly, and tend to release foul bubbly farts with each muscle spasm that forces all your little baby viruses into the air around you.

Leading to the question - would I rather fly with the snow geese or ride a bus. Well, faithful reader, you go figure out than one for yourself.

Lady in Red by Roxie

The bright red halter dress fell slightly below the knees of the brunette woman as she walked brusquely through the grocery store entrance. Her red high-heeled shoes tapped out a tempo to the sway of her perfectly rounded hips. The slight shimmy of her full breasts exposed by the low-cut dress caught the eye of both male and female throughout her general vicinity. Her wavy shoulder length hair swayed in time as well. The exotic smell of her perfume wafted behind her and several nostrils quivered and heads turned to follow the scent, even if just for a moment. Her darkly lined chocolate brown eyes were large and her impossibly long natural lashes underscored their enormity. Ruby red lips and nails completed her fashion statement. She held a small leather red clutch tightly between her body and upper right arm, as if to ward off any attempt to snatch it from her person.

She entered the produce department and quickly navigated her way through that section, obviously uninterested in the healthy fruits and vegetables. When she paused at the wine section, two store employees, one from that section and one from the neighboring meat department and both male, quickly stopped what they were doing and inquired if there was anything they could do to help. The produce manager had followed her at a distance, just to watch the show she was clearly going to provide, in his opinion. He wasn't wrong.

She merely glanced at both of the men and shook her head with a distracted low pitched, "No, thank you."

The meat guy frowned and went back to his department; clearly disappointed he wasn't going to have more interaction with this vision.

The wine guy simply went back to stocking his section and as she turned away he couldn't help but take a strong inhale of her perfume. His eyes closed. She sauntered away.

She proceeded toward the rear of the store, obviously unfamiliar with its layout. She exuded a hands-off demeanor, a just leave me alone and let me find my way look about her. The store employees were content to simply watch. No one cared where she was going or what she was looking for, they just wanted to observe. And since she obviously didn't want to be disturbed, they left her to it. All eyes followed her until she was out of sight. The produce guy kept his distance but continued to track her. He thoroughly enjoyed the reaction both employees and customers had when they saw this red dressed woman.

She crossed the length of the store and finally found what she was looking for, the greeting cards. She smiled when she found the aisle. The smile transformed her utterly and completely. No one who saw it could do anything but grin madly back. She began browsing through the birthday section pausing occasionally to read one. Finally, she released one of the most pleasing giggles and at last a hearty laugh. The sound carried two to three aisles away. Anyone within hearing distance found his or her way to her aisle, just to see the person who could have produced such a profound reverberation of joy. She had apparently found the perfect card. Absolutely unaware of the crowd she had drawn, she held it in her slim fingers and pressed it to her bosom, smiled sweetly, eyes closed, as if remembering some long-ago moment of perfection.

After only a moment or two she placed the card back in its proper place and proceeded to wind her way back the way she had come. She stopped at one point and looked around, as if suddenly realizing where she was. Eyes wide she quickly headed for the exit door and stalked out. She hadn't bought a thing.

The produce guy exited after her just to see what kind of car she drove, but she was nowhere to be seen. She had vanished. He stood there for a couple of seconds and thought he may have smelt her scent but it was gone, like an early morning dream, just gone.

Our Trip to Alice Lake - Tamar

On a hot lazy summer day last August, when everyone had a day off work (a very rare happening,) our whole family headed up to Alice Lake for an afternoon of picnic, fresh air and water fun. Now since Howard doesn't like to drive, and I don't like to drive, and I fear driving over bridges, and there were enough tall and short people to fill up three cars, of course I ended up driving, but only on the premise that I would drive behind one son and in front of the other. That way, if I took a wrong turn by ending up in the wrong lane, one would notice, and if I followed the other, hopefully there would be no wrong turns involved at all, and we would eventually get to our destination.

Driving through strange city streets isn't my favourite thing, so instead of taking in all my surroundings, I leaned forward in my seat, back ramrod straight, grabbing the steering wheel with shaking fists and never blinking, not even once. Not admiring the comfortable way Neil drove, zipping down busy streets and weaving in and out of traffic, but trusting Steve, who was behind me, to make sure he stayed glued to my rear end to prevent other cars from getting in the way when I changed lanes to zigzag the shadow left by Neil.

We finally left the city streets behind, and hit the open highway, heading north to Squamish and then to the Provincial Park at Alice Lake. Traffic thinned out, thankfully, but what traffic there was seemed to be flying by at amazing speed. Even Neil was going like a bat out of hell.

"Jeez, I'm going almost 90, what's wrong with everyone! I can't keep up with Neil!"

Howard said, "Well, the speed limit is 100, you know."

"Oh."

"Crap!" I exploded as another car zipped around and positioned itself between Neil and me.

"If I were driving, no one would get between us," Howard commented. For about the eighteenth time.

Sometimes we get heartburn from swallowing words instead of bacon, and I had to still the urge to drive off a very steep and inviting cliff. After all, my kids were watching.

And then the scenery hit, and the amazing panoramas of this beautiful land brought out the conversation between the two of us.

"Oh wow, look at that..." The mountains growing to the sky beside us, the water splashing blue and white below us, the houses like Lego blocks grabbing the hillside as it tumbled to the sea.

"Watch the road!"

"Oooooooh, look at that, I've never seen the ocean that colour! And it's the perfect mirror of the sky!

"Keep the damn car off the shoulder!"

"That must be the Chief. That's the mountain Neil used to climb, I bet it is. Wow. It's pretty high..."

"Jesus, keep the bloody car in your own lane, why don't you?"

And so on....

If I weren't driving, I would probably have yanked the gear stick out and hit him over the head with it, but I just shut up and kept all the glory surrounding us to myself, until we finally turned into the gravel parking lot and I removed my shaking limbs and love of nature from the frigid atmosphere of our car.

Alice Lake is glorious - water mirroring the sky, a tree-lined setting, snuggled between green mountains, a perfect place to spend time on a hot summer day. Tanner turned into a water bug, and spent most of the time bobbing on the waves with his mommy and daddy, and Lizzie was enthralled with filling both her bucket and her diaper up with sand from the beach. Chris's preference was being chased up and down the beach by his poor old nanny, who was trying, unsuccessfully, to haul his droopy wet shorts up, as they were sagging down to his knees.

Sun-burned and tired, full of egg sandwiches, chips and pop, we packed up and drove back home in the late afternoon. Howard drove home with Steve, Chris and Lizzie, and Nikkie drove home with me - a much more relaxed journey than the one that took us to the lake!

Hungry? - Tamar

While walking in Vancouver, I noticed an amazing number of restaurants, and what amazed me even more than the number, was the variety of cultures they represented. Chinese, Japanese, Italian, Moroccan, Greek, Ethiopian, Vietnamese, East Indian...and on and on and on. No Newfie restaurants though, come to think of it. However, what amazed me even more than the number, and the variety, was the crossovers from one cuisine to another, and that’s when I realized, that of all possible foods from all over the world, Italian,especially pizza, must be the most popular.

For example, we have Uncle Fatih’s Pizza. I would think Uncle Fatih would be more of a curry and butter chicken kind of guy, wouldn’t you? There is no problem getting pizza or pasta from the Chinese, from the Greek, from the French – you name it, everyone wants pizza on their menu. If there were a Newfie restaurant here, though, there would be no pizza on it. We remain true to our own culture.

And to go back to the Ethiopian restaurant I saw – I wonder what they serve. I remember having to eat everything off my plate when I was a child, as children in Ethiopia were starving. Maybe I’d try an Ethiopian restaurant for starters, but I guess I’d hit an Italian place to really satisfy my hunger. I wouldn’t even have much faith if they offered an Ethiopian pizza. All the children’s leftovers have to end up somewhere.

If I wanted to partake in a High English Tea with all the trimmings, like buttery scones with strawberry jam, then of course I would go to one of the many Chinese cafes that offer that service, along with the spicy noodles and wonton and chow mein that decorate their menu in picturesque detail. And of course, I could also order a take-out pizza to reheat for my dinner.

So, if you ever get hungry in Vancouver, make sure you have your wallet and a good supply of Rolaids. From fish to falafel, from chop suey to cheeseburgers, there will be something to satisfy even the pickiest of eaters!

Lesson 6 - “I’m not deaf, I’m ignoring you.”

by: Roxie
The man behind the counter looked just like Bruce Dern, only smaller. Longish gray wispy hair, blue eyes, gray stubble, wire-rimmed glasses, a cap, faded blue jeans, white shirt behind a white apron and brown cowboy boots. I was just another customer eating a solitary lunch in hopes of overhearing an interesting conversation for this lesson. I ordered a tuna fish salad and a glass of water and sat down over by the front door but near the ordering counter. The most interesting conversation was actually with the Bruce Dern look-alike and this is how it went. "Has anyone ever told you, and I know they must have, that you look like Bruce Dern?" "Since I've had this place open, ‘bout four months now, I've had ‘bout twelve people tell me that. I don't think I like it much, I don't like the way Bruce Dern looks." "Well, I think he's a handsome man, he has played some pretty weird roles and made an effort to look the way he does. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Take it as a compliment." "Why, thank you, ma'am." I sit down to eat my salad trying desperately to overhear a conversation two women across the room are having but there's a radio on right behind me and I'm not having much luck eavesdropping. Lori, you should be ashamed for making me do this. "Is that radio on, I cain't hear much a anythin' any more." "Yeah, it's on. Did you get your loss of hearing from going to too many rock concerts when you were younger?" "Nah, I think it's from so many gun shots at the rifle range, shootin' and not protectin' my ears." "My dog has that, too." "Why thanks, ma'am, yur comparing me to yur dawg now. First you tell me I look like Bruce Dern and now I remind you of yur dawg." "No, that's not it. When I yell at him sometimes he just kind of looks around and doesn't seem to know where I am. I think he's totally deaf in his right ear." "Nah, that's kind of like a marriage thing. You know, I'm not deaf, I'm ignoring you." "Ah, that explains a lot of my marriage then." (laughing) "Yeah, that's why I'm not married anymore, I think." (laughing, too) "So, would you listen a little harder if you had a second chance then?" "Heck no, I wouldn't wanna be married to that'un anyways. But you now, I might make a little more effort. Hehe" "Are you flirtin' with me?" "Yes'm, I shore am. Is it workin'? "No, but at least it's making me giggle." "Aw, now, that hurts me to my core. Now yur laughin' at me." "I think I'm gonna ignore that and I'm not deaf either." He laughs, I laugh, and then he has more customers. While I finish my salad I hear him making nice with the customers, a very friendly guy. He always says, "Thank you, ‘preciate yur biznes" to each and every one. His place has a nice feel to it, too. I'm sure I'll go back. More importantly, the food was delicious. When I get up to leave he says, "Thanks for comin' back." I'd been there a couple weeks ago for the first time with a friend and he apparently remembered me. That's always a nice thing to happen. I attribute it to plain ol' southern hospitality. "Thanks, bye now." I wave as I leave. I'm not sure if this qualifies as the assignment but it certainly depicts the dialect I hear all the time ‘round here.
11/11/2009 14:20:44	reply
Replies:
by:Your Instructor
You had me with that title, Roxie. This is great. You've got a gift for dialogue. This is the best piece of writing you've done for the class to date. Wonderful job. Lori
11/11/2009 14:40:38

Wrecked in the Wal-Mart Parking Lot - Roxie

I didn’t really need anything from Wal-Mart. It’s just that I had makeup on and presentable clothes and had a small list of things I had wanted to get from Wal-Mart for a while. Mundane things, no big deal really. So I got myself in my truck, my beautiful, unblemished, silver metallic 2007 Honda Ridgeline with less than 14,000 miles on it. Still like brand new. So I drove to Wal-Mart and parked left of the space where you bring your shopping cart after unloading it. I normally try to park next to one or at the end of a lane or the very first space in a lane. I figure you’re only exposed to a ding from someone’s car door slamming against yours on one side that way instead of both sides being vulnerable. See, I think of these things to protect my beautiful, untouched, and unblemished, like brand-new truck.

I gathered the things I needed inside the store. After checking out I headed for my shiny, silver bullet colored automobile and loaded my two bags in the rear behind the driver’s seat. The gentleman next to me was waiting patiently for me to pull out so I hurried along to do that and wham, that’s when it happened. An elderly lady was pulling out in the opposite parking space behind me and we literally meet right in the middle. She didn’t see me and I didn’t see her. I obviously have a blind spot I need to deal with. Crunch, scrape, twist, grind – we both pulled back into our respective spaces to get out to see the damage. After saying a few choice words I won’t repeat here, I climbed out. Both of our bumpers were punctured and I have to say that mine was worse. A 2004 Ford Crown Victoria is a tank, my friends, a big, hardy piece of metal. Remind me to avoid them.

Greta is probably in her late 60’s or early 70’s, a tall, imposing woman with reddish gray hair and a sad face. She had a piece of paper in hand, her insurance information, I presumed. I got mine out of the glove box and asked, “What do we do now?”

She said, “I guess we exchange information and turn it into our insurance companies.”

So we exchanged info and both apologized for any wrongdoing we were responsible for. I suspected the insurance companies would say it’s a no-fault deal and the fixing of each vehicle will be up to the owner. I told her that and she agreed. She also said she wasn’t surprised this happened after the day she’d had. That made me feel even worse. I said, “I am so sorry. It sucks. You’re lucky I’m not a bitchy person, this could be a lot worse if I were a mean lady.”

Her reply was, “Well, maybe we were supposed to meet.” That took me off guard. She also said, “It should have been a semi truck that hit me.” Awwww!!!

She said she wasn’t even going to tell her husband what happened. When he noticed it she’d just fake surprise and not have a clue as to where it could have happened … maybe someone in the Wal-Mart parking lot hit her and left. Which was actually the truth, that last part at least.

We agreed to call each other if we decided to report it to our insurance companies and I mentioned that I kind of doubted it but I’d call and let her know either way.

When I got home Randy was pulling in right behind me. I got out of the truck with not only a sad face, but also tears in my eyes. He said, “What’s wrong.”

I whined, “Look at my bumper, I hit a woman in the Wal-Mart parking lot. My beautiful truck has a big fat boo-boo now.” And then I cry. Great big fat alligator tears trickled down my cheeks. I had taken precautions to prevent my truck from getting a ding in the door and then this happened. Makes a door ding seem like a great alternative. Oh, woe is me.

I brushed the tears aside and asked Randy what I should do and he suggested I simply get estimates on the repair and not turn it in to the insurance company at all. I went inside to call Greta. She didn’t answer so I left a message for her to call me. When she did I told her we weren’t turning it over to the insurance company and we’d just leave it at that. She agreed that’s the right thing to do.

Then she said, “Things can always be worse, Honey. Everything happens for a reason. Maybe we were supposed to meet this way.“

I asked what her husband said when he saw it and she said, “We’re not speaking today so he doesn’t know and I’m not telling him. It’s been one of those days, as I said earlier. AND he called me stupid, too.”

I responded with, “Well, I talked to you earlier and you didn’t appear to be stupid to me at all, so I don’t think you’re stupid in the least, maybe he’s stupid.”

She cackled at that one. “Maybe we’ll bump into each other again some time.”

“No, No, don’t even SAY that, we don’t want to bump into each other again!” I giggled, “We’ve already done that.”

I wish I could meet new friends a little differently. We agreed to get together for coffee some time. So, in conclusion, my not so shiny, not unblemished, not perfect truck is marred BUT I may have met a new friend. Greta is right, it can always be worse. At least neither one of us was hurt and may have been helped in some small way. At least a semi truck didn’t hit her.

Only time will tell where this “meeting” will lead.

Prequel to Evening in Paris - Tamar

(I posted Evening in Paris in October. You can find it if you scroll down our blog!)

I could never get used to the phone ringing in the middle of the night, but I did get to the point where I could sleep through the sirens. The former meant a trip to jail, maybe, or the hospital, or even to the middle of the highway somewhere, where my little red car was waiting for a ride home instead of a tow to the pound. A siren meant the police were once again bringing home one or both sons, and this was a warning sign that they had better get in the house or else.

I spent thousands of nights awake, from the time my boys were the cutest little bald headed people in the world, and they would sing me through the darkness with their needs. When they were old enough to sleep through the night, however, they seldom did. They sneaked out of their cribs in their fuzzy little footed jammies and headed for the kitchen, where destruction awaited in a jar of peanut butter, a pound of ground beef, or a box of rice krispies; or they headed for the living room, and assaulted our sleeping eardrums with the highest volume possible of late night paid commercials for choppers and diet pills.

When, surprisingly, they reached their tween years still alive and kicking, they learned to sneak, and the minute we heard the bedroom window squeak open, and heard the light fall of feet on the ground below, we knew we might at least get one good night’s sleep to make up for the hundreds we had lost over the years.

The first time they were brought home in a police car was a highlight in their young lives. The charge would have been loitering and disturbing the peace, brought about by the two of them knocking on the windows of Myrtle’s Sit ‘n’ Stay Animal Hospital ‘n’ kennels until all the dogs woke up and started barking and yowling. The boys added to the harmony with their highest pitched werewolf howls, the likes of which even Stephen King would never have imagined.

Since there was no physical damage done, but mostly because I answered the door wearing the smallest laciest piece of nightclothes I owned, the policeman decided not to press charges. After the boys were locked in the loft, which was the only place in the house that had no windows, he offered to come around regularly to make sure the boys were contained, and to see what other items in my wardrobe would greet him when he opened the door. I told him to push his eyeballs back in their sockets and leave before my husband dragged his ass out of bed. That was one pretty sight he would never wish to see.

My life turned into a nightmare. There was no way to lead my spawn in a straight and narrow path. I tried religion; somehow, the church burned down. I tried private school; somehow, all the teachers quit over a 3-week period, and there was a rumour the headmaster hung himself on a chinning bar in the gym. Then I tried homeschooling, but the little escape artists managed to play hooky more often than not. Since the local school was not prepared to take them back after the disastrous kindergarten graduation fiasco, there wasn’t much left to do. I decided I was indeed blessed with the children of Satan, and until he saw fit to take parental responsibility and at least use his weekend visitation privileges, my husband and I were stuck with a never-ending life of misery.

My husband actually took a positive attitude in the upbringing of the children. He was positive that evenings spent at Rocky’s Bar and Grill with a side order of stripper was the best way to pass the boy’s formative years. Often when he would stumble up the stairs after the bar was closed, he would meet the youngsters heading downstairs for a nightly ramble through a quiet unsuspecting village. Every morning before I peeled my exhausted body from the sheets, I prayed I wouldn’t find anything dead, bloody, or extraordinarily expensive in my kitchen.

So it was that I lived my life, until the evening I snuck two bucks from hubby’s pocket and headed to the corner store.