Posted on July 12, 2014 under Storytelling with no comments yet

Phoebe

 

 

Prior to getting married, many religious denominations require that young couples take a marriage preparation course.  I’m all for that.  My wife and I were presenters for one of these programs back in the day, a few years after our own wedding.  If we only knew then what we know now!   A marriage preparation course reviews most aspects of what people should expect as a couple.  It talks about commitment and hard work.  It reflects on the notion of give and take.  Financial management is another very important topic.  A lot of time is spent talking about the enormous responsibilities of bringing children into the world.

Nowhere in the agenda, or in “Marriage for Dummies”, is the sensitive topic of pets addressed.  You thought I was going to say sex.

In my childhood, our family had a dog.  Chipper was most often found under the kitchen table hoping for a few scraps.  Fat chance with a family of ten.  I think the only time she got a whiff of a leftover was when Mom served liver.  Despite this dearth of treats, she still managed to pack on the weight.

Our children had angled for a pet for a long time.  When our youngest was two, we (my wife and the kids) decided on a cat.  I wasn’t crazy about the idea but acquiesced after days of bruising brow beating.  And before you knew it, we had three cats, the last one arriving concealed in a four wheeler helmet.   I actually became quite fond of the cats.  They all lived long lives and the last of the three was buried last year.

Still town residents, we learned very quickly the reproductive prowess of rabbits.  We were assured, by someone who should have known better, that the rabbits we acquired were two females.  We learned quickly that the male and female have to be separated before the litter arrives, and that the next litter will arrive almost immediately.

We decided to switch species.  When we moved to the country to accommodate our flock of chickens and roosters, our children immersed themselves in the world of 4H.

So it was with considerable interest that I was sitting at a table the other day at the Farmer’s Market, chatting with a friend about animals.  She had just procured a large bag of fresh carrots and greens from one of the vendors. She volunteered that this bag of nature’s best was not for human consumption but rather for an indigent rabbit.

“…for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer …” The marriage rite does not expressly talk about pets, especially pets that have been orphaned by your offspring.

We know the drill well.  One of your children meets the love of her life and presto, they acquire a pet.  When the relationship goes sour, one of the fallouts is the custody of the pet.  In many cases, Mom and Dad step in and unexpectedly become foster parents to a four legged creature.

I received a quick history on Phoebe, who was named after a character from the sitcom “Friends”.  The conversation was moving along nicely until my friend volunteered that the rabbit lived in the house. This was a domesticated bunny.  My head did a complete 360 degree swivel when I heard where the rabbit spends its days.

In the bathroom.

The rabbit is toilet trained (obviously, as it lives in the bathroom!) and spends its day hanging out with the tub, sink and toilet bowl.  Apparently this doe has a towel fetish and has destroyed more than one bath sheet.

I am now in a state of shock and bewilderment, trying to imagine some of the possibilities. What happens when you’re entertaining and a guest needs to powder her nose?  I am trying to conjure up the image of an invitee, having had a bit too much to drink, spying a rabbit in the bathtub just as she settles onto the throne.  Is someone pouring the drinks a little too strong?

Let’s just say that bringing up a rabbit would be a hare raising experience for all involved.

Posted on July 9, 2014 under Storytelling with one comment

Living in a vacuum

 

 

“I once was lost but now am found …”

Amazing Grace

One of the many challenges of aging is forgetfulness.

I attended a funeral recently and, at the sign of peace, I shook the hand of a woman standing nearby.  She looked vaguely familiar.  She called me by name.  This was followed by a twitter of angst as I tried desperately to recall hers.  When the mass ended, I turned to the people behind me, folks that I knew.  “Do either of you know who that woman is across the aisle?”  “Certainly,” said Duncan, an old high school classmate.  “It’s my sister.”

We’ve all misplaced or lost things during our lifetimes.  It is not uncommon for a man to lose his wedding band or for his wife to mislay a small earring.  When you are young this is no big deal but as the years creep along, this type of thing happens far too frequently.

But, truthfully, when was the last time you lost your vacuum cleaner?

We got the call on the eve of Canada Day.  Our realtor announced that someone wanted to see our house at noon the following day.  Normally, this wouldn’t be a big deal because, with just the two of us home, keeping the house “viewing ready” is quite simple.

Unless you throw a six year old grandchild into the mix.  She had come to spend the better part of the summer with us.

The house looked like the aftermath of a tornado with arts and crafts, toys and books strewn in every nook and cranny.  One of the other challenges of harbouring a youngster who is far away from home is getting enough sleep.  And when Nana is regularly drawn in in for a cuddle in the middle of the night, the fatigue is constant.  Just like the good old days when our own four children were still under our wings.

We have just about perfected the dance that is known as “Prelude to House Showing”.   We both have our list of chores and we quietly go about our business.  We start by picking up and hiding things that are not shiny and new (i.e. most of what we own).  Once the beds have been made and the dusting completed I grab the vacuum and wend my way through the house, ending up in the basement.   It is blessedly cool there on these warm and humid days.

“Where’s the vacuum cleaner? “ “It’s in the closet of the big bedroom,” replies my wife.  I go to the very closet where said vacuum was last seen.  Nope.  Not there.  I do a cursory look in the other bedroom closets but to no avail.  The search continues and, hard as it is to believe, the vacuum is nowhere to be found.  Laundry room?  No.  Furnace room?   Negative?  Shed?  Nope.  She covers the same route and comes up empty-handed as well.

I haven’t even started to vacuum and beads of perspiration are forming on my brow and on my clothing.  It is the hottest day of the summer and, with the humidity, it must be 40 degrees C.   But I am sweating for another reason as well.  Is it possible, that in my 63^rd year, I am having my first major “senior’s moment?”  Could it be that I loaned the vacuum or inadvertently took it to the office?

Grasping at straws, I place a call to my daughter wondering if she may have borrowed it.  Hearing the loud guffaw on the other end of the line, I take that for a no.  I leave a voice message for our carpenter/painter friend who was working on the house recently.  I send private Facebook messages to anyone who may have the slightest notion of where the vacuum may be lurking.  Several respondents offer theirs as they are “like new” and not likely to be used anytime soon.

I am just about at the point of hauling out the rosary beads and calling in the “big guns.”   I am invoking the name of St. Anthony when I hear a giggle from upstairs.  The giggle quickly morphs into full blown hysterical laughter, as can only come from one person.

“I found the vacuum!” was the bit I was able to discern, as tears rolled down my wife’s face.  “Where was it?” I asked.  “In the cedar chest!” she managed to reply.

Why, of course, the cedar chest.  Why didn’t I think of looking in there?   It appears that the last time we played hide and seek before a showing, my wife decided that the vacuum (a small “stick” variety) would fit nicely in the cedar chest rather than a closet.  After all, we want prospective buyers to think that the house is always immaculate and doesn’t require a vacuum.

I am thinking of getting an electrician to install a locator device on the vacuum, similar to what we have for tracking down the house phone when it is on the lam.

Before vacating the house for the showing, I head to the flower shop to get something nice to grace the dining room table.

“I’ll have a dozen Forget-Me-Nots, please.”

 

Posted on July 5, 2014 under Storytelling with no comments yet

Three Teared Cake?

 

 

Iona.

Just uttering the word evokes a powerful image of the bucolic village, nestled in the interior of Cape Breton Island, overlooking the Barramen’s Strait on the Bras d’Or Lake.   The community is steeped in history.  The Highland Village is the centerpiece of the community, perched atop a very steep hill amidst breathtaking scenery.  The place oozes history and authenticity.

When I think of Iona, one word creeps into my consciousness.  Terror.

Several years ago, our daughter, her husband and their infant daughter lived with us while he completed a degree at St. F.X.  Ellie is a world class pastry chef.  In the wink of an eye she turned our basement into a bakery from which emerged all manner of delicious and expertly decorated confections.  For some strange, yet undetermined reason, I became her helper.  I would routinely roll up my sleeves for the dishes during the week and escort her to the Farmer’s Market on Saturdays.  Her cupcakes were legendary.

That first summer she developed a sidearm of the business; the uncertain and oft times stressful world of wedding cakes.

An order came in for a triple layer wedding cake to be delivered to Iona.  I checked on a trip calculator that indicated a distance of 128 kilometers (80 miles for our friends in the U.S.), with a travel time of one hour and forty four minutes.  My suspicion is that this calculation is based on ideal conditions.  Believe me; delivering a wedding cake is not “ideal conditions” under any circumstance.

Over the summer, after trial and error, we had developed a way to transport our precious cargo.  We used an old wooden slab that used to be the top of our dishwasher, leveled and secured in the back seat of the Camry.  Ellie would sit beside the cake to make sure it didn’t slide.  Final assembly would occur at our destination.

The cake was a masterpiece.  The finishing touches were applied on Friday evening.  Saturday turned out to be the hottest day of the summer.  New record high temperatures were set all over the province.   When we went to get the cake out of the fridge we noticed that the fondant was weeping ever so slightly.  The cake looked like it was crying.  There was at least one other person on the verge of tears.

We managed to get the cake into the car, the first of two delicate lifts that day.  I wasn’t this nervous on my own wedding day.  “Turn the air conditioning on high,” directed the steely voice from the back seat.  I tilted my chauffeur’s hat ever so slightly and off we went.

Normally, the fan for the air conditioner in one’s car rarely goes above one.  The dial was cranked up to the maximum and by the time we hit the Causeway, I was damned near frozen.  This white knuckle drive was precipitated not by anxiety, but from the frost forming on my fingers.  We made our way safely to the turnoff to highway 223.  I noticed that the pavement wasn’t quite as smooth as on the Trans-Canada Highway.  We got on the cable ferry for the short passage at Grand Narrows.  The cake was still in one piece.  Well, three pieces, technically.

Although this was in the middle of summer, highway 223 seemed to be more like the roads one sees just after the frost has come out of the ground in the spring time.  Despite the ice box that we were driving in, I started to perspire as I carefully negotiated every bump in the road.  And there were plenty of them.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, we reached the Highland Village, where the wedding was to take place.  Grown men are not supposed to weep but after more than two hours of tense driving, I faced the steepest hill I had ever seen, with the huge white wedding tent perched at the top of it.  To come all this way and face the prospect of the cake sliding into the Bras d’Or was almost too much to contemplate.

With the dexterity of a magician, Ellie managed to keep the cake in an upright position all the way up the hill.

The drive home was uneventful, and I turned off the air conditioning to feel the warm summer breeze as it thawed out my hands.  When we arrived home, we were met at the door by my wife, grandchild on her hip.  “How did it go?”

“Piece of cake” I replied.

I curled up in the hammock on our verandah and dreamed of the bride and groom on at their Highland wedding banquet.