Young at heart key in 2015

It never crossed my mind how much I would treasure peace and quiet until I looked across the room just now and realized the kitten was fast asleep. Asleep instead of tearing around the house strafing curtains and racing up the back of my reading chair only to launch itself into the bookcase.

Of late around here it’s been a crazy cross between the inside of a pinball machine with the steel ball ricocheting from one corner to the another and energy bursts that rival the speed of particles inside the “Large Hadron Collider” near Geneva, Switzerland.

And oh yes, “Lucy” is now “Louie,” after it was discovered that the kitten I thought was a female was indeed born with the family jewels.

I also think Louie was reincarnated from an ace hockey player, given the precise aim on that leftie kitten paw that can shoot a stuffed mouse through the middle of a cardboard ribbon holder, and into a bag of gift bows that was on the floor as I wrapped Christmas gifts this past week. 

The kitten then “cat”-apulted into the bag after it’s toy, exploding all manner of red and green bows everywhere.

I admit a small twinge of payback pleasure when I saw the bug-eyed look of panic in the kitten’s eyes on Christmas Day when the kitchen door opened and all six of my grandchildren burst into the room like the break after the eight-ball.

Jolted from its cat nap with a look of shock, Louie’s escape route was all but thwarted by very excited little people who scurried after a furry tail that raced to disappear in the bedroom and under the bed.

It wasn’t long before one of the children returned with the kitten, holding it like a squeeze toy. I stepped in to dispel the over-loving with a reminder of presents under the Christmas tree, liberating Louie from the clutches of a child. 

The kitten leapt into my arms with gusto, meowing a promise of good behavior for having saved its life.

For the rest of the day everyone observed how docile and well behaved the kitten was, as it lay prone just out of reach of small eager hands. His mask came off five minutes after the children left the house for home on Christmas evening.

Youth—all manner of it—is so very refreshing.

That is my goal for the coming year—to remain youthful in my attitude towards life.

2015 sounds like a youthful, healthy number—one full of fun and adventure and opportunity and possibilities—endless possibilities. I’m all for that.

Go forward. Stay wide open to change. Upset convention. Expect joy.

Happy New Year to you!

Memories keep the magic alive

“What if I choose not to believe?”

It’s a line from one of my favorite movies of the holiday season, “The Santa Claus.”

I’ve always believed in the power of mystery and magic.

I have of course mailed letters to Santa for my children when they were small and I’ve been known to mail a “Dear Santa” letter written solely from me.

I’ve put down on paper all my wishes for the Christmas season, folded the letter into an envelope and addressed it to “Santa Claus, North Pole, Canada.” (After all, he does live in Canada, right?)

Santa writes back. A “Dearest Beth” letter back to me, stamped and postmarked from the North Pole with a handwritten acknowledgment of my wishes. He told me in that letter he would do his best to help those wishes come true.

Getting that letter was more enriching for my grown up soul than a front row seat at a Mark Nepo workshop, although I haven’t yet had that experience. It’s still on my bucket list.

The older I get the more I understand that attitude really is everything. Believe me when I say I know what I’m talking about. But then again, you will figure that out—or not—all on your own, just the way it is meant to be for you in your own life. That’s the beauty of the mystery and the magic.

Pay attention to the magic of life.

One of my very favorite stories about the magic is encapsulated in a memory of when I was sitting in a local restaurant enjoying a Reuben sandwich. Long chewy strands of sauerkraut hung from my lips as the woman approached my table, where I sat with one of my grandchildren.

The little person of my heart was busy dipping a French fry repeatedly in ketchup and licking off the red glob.

We’d been talking about letters to Santa Claus and the excitement of waking up on Christmas morning to find our stockings filled with candies and other delights. The little person of my heart was explaining to me how Santa managed to fit himself into each house—even the ones that didn’t have chimneys.

My sandwich was warm and my attention was focused on how good it tasted and on listening to the conversation that revolved around the magic of Santa.

The woman stopped at our table. I looked up at her standing over me and, feeling a piece of sauerkraut dangling from my lip, pushed it in with my finger as she promptly put her hand on the top of my shoulder.

This woman, with tousled gray-hair and dressed in sweat pants and a big overcoat was a complete stranger.

I’m not normally easily startled and initially I wasn’t in that moment, until I felt her fingers apply what I can only term as a direct and clamping pressure to the muscles near my neck where she had touched me.

I know my eyebrows rose. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t have time.

She looked directly into my eyes with palpable urgency and without blinking said, “There is no choice you've ever made, nor any you will ever make, that will limit you as much as you may fear. Get the mud out of your wings. Do it now.”

And then she let go of me, turned and walked out of the restaurant.

My grandchild hadn’t stopped poking the French fry in ketchup during that few seconds of mysterious intervention. I, on the other hand, had to reach up and catch my dropped jaw before the masticated sauerkraut tumbled out of my mouth onto my plate.

The little person of my heart licked off another red glob and said most confidently, “I’ve seen your wings Granny and they aren’t muddy. You just have to believe you can fly and then leap, like I do.”

There is a quote by an unknown sage that reads,” The only way to live is by accepting each minute as an unrepeatable miracle, which is exactly what it is—a miracle and unrepeatable.”

That’s the truth.

The young have much to teach me

As I watched the thing jettison across my kitchen floor and catapult into the spare room, it reminded me of the “Tasmanian Devil” of the ‘Looney Tunes’ series I used to watch on television when I was 12 years old.

And then the fur ball ricocheted back into the kitchen and leapt onto a kitchen chair and launched itself through the swing lid of the garbage can.

Hind legs and a tail stuck out of the can as the thing clung to the bag inside having caught itself mid-hurl when it realized the yucky fate at the bottom of the can.

My outburst of laughter was meant to balance sheer hilarity with the sudden realization of “What was I thinking?” when I decided to get a kitten just because I wanted to give an old cat something new to play with.

The new kitten had been in the house but two hours and already I was kicking myself for listening to my heart instead of my head.

But what else is new. I am forever listening to my heart and putting out “Missing Person” ads for my head, hopelessly lost in the greatest battle ever known to womankind and animal lovers. 

And then there was “Millie,” a 14-year-old matriarch feline well beyond change. When that little kitten entered the house for the first time, Millie’s jaws opened to reveal a second row of teeth I have never seen. Her eyes turned black and she spewed out a guttural bemoaning with bodily contortions the likes of which I never want to witness again.

I nearly called an exorcist.

But my optimistic “cat cohabitation side” persuaded me to wait it out, and in fact things have improved in the days since “Lucy” entered the picture.

Millie no longer contorts, but has mastered the “flat stare of impending death” and a motionless hierarchal statuesque embodiment of a cat ancestor from ancient Egypt.

Nonetheless Lucy has brought a refreshing young spirited flow to my neck of the woods. Curiously this small ball of fur teaches the lessons of moment to moment living as it scampers after the catnip mouse and then plunks itself prone on the floor for a nap, only to awaken 15 minutes later for a pounce and a leap up the new curtains in the living room.

And if the lessons about enjoying the moment aren’t apparent enough for me through the “here and now” of a kitten, I can dwell on the quotable indelible words of my grandson who’d impressed me enough when he said all he wanted for Christmas was to spend time with his family.

Then from the back seat of my car last week he said (without an iota of persuasion) after listening to his favorite song “Hey Brother” by Avicii on my car stereo—“That song fills my mind and empties it of all the things I did in school today.”

Ben is six years old. 

Making happy a place called home

“Read many books.”

My history teacher in high school said those three words every time we left his class.

It’s crowding 38 years since I last walked past that teacher flashing his white-toothed smile and chanting his literary mantra to the group filing out of his classroom.

“Read many books” made me chuckle this morning when I looked at the pile of ongoing novels I have on the table by my reading chair.

I have four books (not including my daily “Letting Go” series) that I pour over for that precious quiet time with my cups of coffee in the wee hours of my waking day.

The little pile of reads that share my chair include a western frontier saga called the “Sisters Brothers” by Patrick DeWitt, Maya Angelou’s “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings,” and of course my sunny read, “The Alchemist” which continues to show me the way to my own heart.

I’ve also added a 222-page marvel to the mix penned by Gretchen Rubin and entitled, “Happier at Home.” 

Happier at home. I’m not quite there yet.

I still work at being okay with living alone and anything I can do to help me find the gratitude within the little cubicle in my neck of the woods is worth my time.

As the matter of fact, today it was all I could do to get here after work without speeding, smoking a stop sign, or taking out a bridge railing.

Happier at home indeed.

All I could think about was that I had furnace, which was a marvel of invention I had gone without all day while at work. The office was a balmy 9C when we walked in at 8:30 a.m. and never inched up, leaving us clad in winter boots, mitts, and coats for our eight-hour stint.

I didn’t even have to put my sandwich in the lunchroom fridge. It was fine where it sat on my desk, right next to the glass of water that still had an ice cube in it at 4:30 p.m.

I was half way home before I realized I had turned the house thermostat down to 12C when I left this morning because I’m a cheapskate and didn’t want to waste energy.

I had to wear my earmuffs for a half hour after I turned up the thermostat before the house kicked out enough heat so that I couldn’t see my own breath.

And it was a challenge right out of a “Survivor” series when I attempted to change out of my work clothes and into the casual stuff hanging on the hook in the bathroom.

Standing outside an ice cave buck-naked would have been easier than putting a frozen pair of sweats and an ice-cold sweater on my already rigor carcass.

“Happier at home!” I belted out loud as I suffered tortuously through the changeover.

And then I practiced what I am preached.

I turned on the music and turned up the speakers and slinked around my living room to my new favorite tune, “Classic” by MKTO.

Yep, I danced my heart out. 

Happier at home indeed.

When I listen, I learn

Charles Schulz penned, “Life is like a ten speed bike, most of us have gears we never use.”

I recently came across this quote in my stash of philosophies and low and behold it got inside my head and begged me to answer the question;

“Which gears in my life do I never use?”

I’d like to think I use all of life’s gears and that I never miss a step and that that is why I often feel like a gerbil running 24-7 on an exercise wheel.

Remarkably, I once again find myself so far out in left field with that sort of thinking that I suspect the only way I’m going to get back to first base is with a simple and direct instruction manual called “Life Gears for Dummies,” for which I am the perfect storybook character.

I know there are many gears in my life I don’t use enough, though none come to mind as I fold laundry with one hand, flip an egg in the cast iron pan with the other, type these words, and clean the toilet all at the same time.

Mark Nepo, a philosopher I highly respect, states “authenticity, the experience of truth, is our richest food and that without it we will freeze to death.”

It seems of late I have dwelled on those words too.

I don’t use my authenticity gear enough.

Sure, I give an authentic face to my relationships with my friends. Who they see is who I am. I don’t wear a mask nor do I pretend to be someone I am not.

But if I’m headed up “Honest Street” I’d have to admit I often ignore the heart of the woman I see in the mirror every morning—me. I don’t listen to my own truth.

In fact, I was pretty sure my personal authenticity and most assuredly my intuition gear were about to jump ship because I’d been fighting them so long in my Olympic “head versus heart way” that they were growing impatient with me.

But I was wrong.

I only can speak for myself when I say I think this soul bodyguard called intuition is at work in all my life in magical countless ways. 

This sage is, I believe, part of a very, very patient Universal Plan because when I do not follow my intuition, it just hangs around in the corners of my life while I peddle the wheel, until the next best opportunity arises in which to whisper to me again.

That whisper begs to be heard and stands out from reason and logic. Some things are true whether I believe them or not. Intuition is one of those things.

I have not yet done what it is I have been put here to do. This I know for sure and I know for sure what that thing is.

The Universe has whispered this to me in countless ways through people, places, and things since I was a young girl and still I have turned my heart away.

And then I walked into a bookstore in the city to kill some time. I wasn’t looking for it but I was quiet enough to hear it. That little whisper made me look down at a little orange, sunshine-embossed paperback by Paulo Coelho called “The Alchemist.”

Right place, right moment. Write on.

Remember those who fought the fight

My grandfather John Murdock Caldwell joined the 35^th Battery of the Canadian Field Artillery on February 26, 1916. He was 19.

He was among the survivors of the Great War who returned home to family.

Grampa Caldwell passed away in the early 1970s when I was a teenager. Lucky me to have had him in my young life, where he made me feel very special and very loved.

I never asked him about his service in WW1, but over the years I have been fortunate to acquire some valuable keepsakes from that time in his life, including poems in which he laid out the reality of war.

I am drawn most often to the poem he entitled, “I Wonder,” which I believe he penned years afterwards, perhaps while sitting comfortably in an old chair by the fireplace in his southern Ontario home while his children, including my dad, played at his feet.

The poem is three pages long, written in black fountain pen ink and full of sad and wandering memories that include:

I wonder, Oh a thousand things whenever I’m alone,

About the days spent over there from Calais to Cologne

Across the years that intervene comes memory as a guide

And once again I’m on the march, ghost comrades at my side

I wonder do the roses climb the walls of Vlamertinghe

Are ruddy poppies growing in the fields of Elverdinge

Do nights at Hell Fire Corner ever give a hint or sign

Of the many lads who fell there as they foot slogged up the line

I wonder if the children romp their happy way to school

Along those often shelled paves we trod affront Bailene

And does some happy peasant sing atop his creaking load

Where bullets used to whistle out along the Vierstraat Road  . . . .

On March 31, 1939 one of Grampa’s war comrades wrote him a letter and enclosed a dozen or so poems he also had written about their experience in World War One. 

The letter includes a paragraph that I think applies even today, which makes me very sad and very ashamed of this world in mayhem.

John, one thing I do find rather interesting now is to see how we did feel about the last war. How it was to bring peace to the world and straighten out so many of the difficulties that exist then. Poor fools! World affairs then were a picnic compared to the mess they are in today.

Douglas wrote well. Perhaps his best poem was about playing the game of life. Heaven knows those war time boys learned quickly about the value and quality of their living. 

Three of the six verses include:

Have you played the game, as you should today?

Does the record you've made run high?

Have you put every ounce of you into the fight that you can put in, if you try?

What if sometimes the fight seems hard?

Each fall is not a knockout blow!

Just pick yourself up and get at it again,

That’s the way that champions grow.

Why! Life is only one great big game,

--But the greatest game of all--

And those who went out in the grueling test

Have felt fall many a fall.

  

May we remember them.

Another squirrel story for the books

When my dad found a smashed tomato in the bottom of his fishing boat I knew my latest war with the red squirrel would go public.

I was helping Dad winterize the boat and everything was just fine until he held up that oozing remnant of tomato and said, “How did this get in here?”

I swallowed hard and did a fast analysis of what fib I could reply with.

a)   I don’t know

b)   I dropped it while delivering tomatoes by boat to a neighbor

c)    The fish I caught while on the lake had the tomato in its mouth

The stupidest reply of all was the truth.

“I was throwing tomatoes at a red squirrel,” I said, and then waited for a lecture on wasting a good vegetable.

My dad is the greatest. He just looked at me and laughed.

The squirrel and I have had it in for each other for years. In fact I think the opportunistic rodent has been featured in more of my columns than any other creature with a heartbeat, including humans.

The red squirrel weighs about the same as the half block of cheddar cheese in my fridge. I am amazed that all 250g of the little bugger believes and defends a year-round attitude of exclusive territorial rights to property here that he does not own.

Once upon a time my nemesis shredded the insoles of and stuffed his pinecones into the wrong person’s boots--and ever since I found said boots in said condition some two or three winters ago, I’ve had it in for the squirrel.

I’ve come face to face with the beady-eyed varmint on multiple occasions inside my garage; poking its head out of the wicker basket it was shredding my boot insoles into and giving me a look of rodent contempt, to having a near mid-air engagement with the little sucker as it leapt off the garage shelving and flew by me in a race for the open door.

I have obsessed and fumed about the squirrel all day while at work; about ways to sneak up on it, traps I could set for it, and how I could repatriate the fur ball to the other side of the creek with my slingshot.

And then after making it nearly impossible for the squirrel to get into my garage, I found him climbing into a hole in the old wooden soffit where I’m sure he was making a winter home out of the down of the sleeping bag I left airing on the picnic table last week (no Dad, not your sleeping bag.)

I was sorting through the wheelbarrow full of tomatoes I had just plucked from the vines in the garden when I saw the varmint race up the garage siding and into that hole.

When I moved in for a closer look, the hairy little beast did a 360 in the hole and stared down at me in another territorial standoff.

Then I threw the first tomato.

By the time all was said and done, I’d thrown three tomatoes into the soffit hole, two more across the roof of the garage when the rodent made a run for it (including the rotten tomato that rolled off into boat), and at least four more projectile veggies into high tops of the trees where the squirrel sat unscathed and scolding me.

I’ve said it before and I said it again, shaking my finger at the squirrel and giving it a piece of my mind, “I would trade dealing with you for cleaning up copious amounts of cat barf.”

I think the cat and the squirrel are in cahoots with each other. Later that evening when I walked into my bedroom, there it was—copious amount of cat barf all over my brand new reading chair. Ewww.

No word of a lie.

A cranky turn out of pet peeves

Although I treasure a patient, intentional path in my life’s journey, I am reminded that sometimes I am an anomaly to that virtue.

Sometimes I fly by the seat of my pants when it comes to my mood.

Granted I made the choice to ingest far more caffeine than I usually do on this, the “Writing Eve.” In fact I hardly ever drink coffee after 7 a.m.

Three cups, maybe four, of heavily heaped “Black Silk” into the coffee maker at 5:30 p.m. have since become both my “glass of wine and whiskey” as the song “Honeybee” by Blake Shelton (now playing on Songza) spells out. 

Sure, I could blame my pet peeve mood on the java, but that would be stupid.

I woke up this way, so I’ll go so far as to say that I must need to let off some literary steam.

First of all; if you pass by me at a grocery store check out and get my attention by saying “Hi Beth, how are you?” and then walk away and out the door—big pet peeve. 

If I wasn’t already wearing my “insignificant cap,” I certainly was after that brief and disinterested question period.

I pet peeve people too quick to respond and less likely to listen (which leads me back to Pet Peeve #1) and those hell bent on sharing what they think is a similar situational story from their life instead of just keeping their ears open.

I pet peeve parents who use threats of abandonment to the vehicle in the grocery store parking lot for children who, if they don’t behave, will be set there to wait alone. I think that threat of punishment should be outlawed. I do realize that most parents never actually follow through with this archaic garbage. I still believe it is wrong to lead a child to believe it would happen.

I further pet peeve couples that are rude to each other in public. Shame on you for your disrespect. If you cannot manage to honor your partner in a public setting, it’s time to get to the heart of the matter before your next trip out together to buy something for the life you share.

I pet peeve simple things like October days too short to get my “to do” list finished or days too quick to the cold to find that certain wool sweater I tucked away last spring.

Most of all, I pet peeve the global giants of media for sending us disparaging messages of illness, disease, and warfare as the top stories in the gentle waking hour of the day.

But what do I know. I’m just an ordinary gal who woke up cranky and drank too much caffeine too late in the day.

Better luck next time.

The important stuff I didn't know

Lisa Kogan doesn’t know how to do algebra and neither do I. As soon as it was acceptable to drop math class in high school I ran screaming with joy down the hallway to English class. 

Math remains one of my weakest skills—unless of course I’m figuring out how many days are left before payday or calculating how long it will be before the bag of chips I just ate migrates to my hips.

Kogan, who is the writer-at-large for “O,” The Oprah Magazine also penned that she doesn’t know how to iron pleats. That I do know how to do and I learned it eons ago as a kid when ironing was one of my weekend chores.

I loathed ironing but I did it anyway because I was told to and because it was one of the ways to earn my allowance. But I cannot remember the last time I ironed anything in the last four decades. In fact I would rather find a wolf spider in my washing machine than have to iron. Well, maybe not.

I know how to make fabulous homemade pizza, beef stew, and chicken soup medicinal enough in vegetables to kill any virus within 100 miles.

I know how to whistle pretty well, accept a compliment with “thank you” even if I don’t believe it, and interact at a party consisting of more than eight people. 

I do not know how to kill a lobster but I can make short order of a troublesome skunk or a gopher and I’m a sure shot for the bulls eye on a target. (And yes, I legally hold the licenses required for the varmint and target practice.)

I know how to use a level and how to check the oil in my car engine. I know how to build rock gardens and pathways, teach computer lessons, write well, paint, and I have a very good eye for interior decorating.

I know a thing or two about sailing and how to build an outhouse. I can spell just about anything correctly the first time and I know that good sleep is the most important factor in determining health. This I know for sure.

Kogan said she knows this one little thing about men with crystal clarity; she knows what she likes. Me too.

I can sew and hem and I know how to crosshatch.

And I memorize license plates of people I know. That’s how I roll.

I know Greek mythology and I know how to restore old photographs.

I know how to canoe and I could survive by myself in the bush without amenities.

I know how to snowshoe and skate and drive a lawn tractor and a standard vehicle. I can lay carpeting, use a “Sawzall, ” and I know how to build a great bonfire.

Yet, despite all that I know how to do, I didn’t know until a week ago just how fantastic and fearless my father’s attitude is. He showed me what it means to have zest for life.

And little did I know he even has a bucket list for when, in 11 years, he turns 99. 

Here’s to you, Dad. The best is yet to come.

Outhouse and spider share spotlight

Never in a million years did I think I would call an outhouse with a roof and walls “deluxe.” 

But having sat on a makeshift “box” out in the open in the middle of the bush on a very cold fall day where anything with eyes can see me “do my do’s,” gives me license to tout luxury in the upgrade taking shape in the wilderness camp where I spend some of my time.

Some would say I need to get out more, but I can hardly wait to have to use the “loo” and be able to go in and shut the door and latch it. It will be akin to a “Calgon take me away” moment.

The next “middle of nowhere” triumph for “Little Miss Pioneer” will be getting from the wall tent to the deluxe relief station at night without summoning all the carnivorous night creatures merely by my sheer fright of the “black as the inside of a cow” darkness of the forest.

To paraphrase a saying I read once; “I may not be a great warrior, but I still need courage. Sometimes it takes more courage to do the ordinary things in life (like getting to the outhouse in the dark) than it does to walk to the door of the airplane and jump.”

Uh huh.

A close second to the courage it takes for my dark walk would be looking in my washing machine and finding a full grown wolf spider inside and trying to figure out how to get it out. 

I usually run my hand around the bottom of the agitator to check for bobby pins and other pencil-thin projectiles headed for collision with the gears in the washing machine motor before throwing my clothes in.

Thankfully that day I didn’t stick my fingers down there and connect them with the fangs of that big spider.

I shut the lid and ran upstairs and washed a sink of dishes while I pondered my next move.

Insecticide! A big grin reshaped my face. 

I grabbed the spray can and went back to the washing machine, lifted the lid, let it rip, dropped the lid, ran in a panic back up to the kitchen and dried the dishes, pondering my next move.

10-15 minutes passed and I was sure the tarantula’s cousin had succumbed to the near full can of chemical spray I had emptied like a pistol into the guts of the washing machine.

Wearing elbow-length rubber gloves and carrying a big stick, I gingerly opened the lid and nudged the hairy thing. It moved, I squealed and ran back upstairs for a long pair of barbecue tongs.

With a pail of water at the ready, I summoned all my courage and that of my ancestors and picked out the wicked, wiggling creature and plopped it into the pail and carried it outside, where I learned quickly in the light of the sunshine that I would rather walk to the outhouse 10 times in the dark without a head lamp than find one of those arachnids in my washing machine again.

Jumping out of an airplane? Piece of cake.