upon finding herself on the naughty list, betty bawled....

remember, we are never as nice as we think we are. its a shame but nonetheless true.

presents
i sent my mother a big box filled with guilt. puzzles, books.... small tokens of my eternal guilt. and today i'll send my mother an express envelope containing gift cards - the cash equivalent of guilt.

i've been reading on facebook recently a lot of chatter about bringing "my christ" back to christmas. because i rarely think things through - i thought it must be one of those word scramble things. well obviously i found christ right away, but where was my. there was ma christ but that sounded gangster. man, let's hang for "ma christmas" sorry my street talk needs some work. i then found sam christmas. that was a sort of a da vinci code moment for me. had i found some hidden message. i decided not. so in the end i failed to find my christ in christmas which is probably just as well because i would expect a present from him.

HONESTLY i love christmas and i am an extremely kind and generous person. but this time of year does require some resources to be diverted from my needs to meet the needs of others. and that sucks.

ho
bev

Taking my demons out for a bit of exercise......

i think i mentioned awhile ago that i suffer from the crafting equivalent of erectile dysfunction. in fact, i'm probably the hugh hefner of the condition. i'm surrounded by beautiful product. i possess all the right equipment to make it happen.... and yet when i assume the crafting position; i am unable to perform. the problem is all in my head - like that's a big surprise. i feel such immense pressure to create. i'm the magician that reaches into his hat and expects to pull out the baby jesus instead of a rabbit. that would be something though.

i come from maritimes, specifically nova scotia, where women can craft with their eyes closed. non-crafters are looked upon with disdain. picture my mother, in her platform rocker, the cuff of a mitten taking shape. she waves her knitting needles about and punctuates each opinion by thrusting the end of her #7's in your direction. and she says "could you tell me what she does all day. if you ask me that's her problem - she's not keeping her hands busy."

and that my friends is what it boils down to - it's your own fault, whatever malady has befallen you could have been avoided if only you did not have idle hands. they say "an apple a day keeps the doctor away" well in the maritimes "a mitten a day keeps madness at bay"

harsh, i know but unavoidable. so with that in mind i started working on something. and here are the results






as you can tell i have given up my brief career as a professional picture taker. as a result all photos were taken on the couch, with my phone pointed slightly north of my lady bits. strictly low-end i know but christ i can't do everything.

bev

Nancy spots a whale and other tales - personal in nature......

my oh my, how time flies when your losing your mind. where to start - not the beginning - that's too obvious - not the end..... i think i'll not start, i'll just carry on. let's pretend in april i sighed somewhat dramatically, took a sip drink of tea and then looked pensively out the window for awhile.

i went on an aeroplane. that practically ruined my entire summer. the anticipation of the crash. of whether i would ultimately sacrifice myself to save other passengers or in the flush of adrenalin i would toss them out in hopes of creating a soft pile to land on.

in the end i went and we did not crash. i hated every second of being on that plane. i sort of forgot about falling from the sky and instead found considerable issue with how uncomfortable i was, how confined and chubby if felt, how goddamn much a mini can of pringles cost, how long it was taking....

but then...
6 days in my mother's house. 6 days of sleeping on feather pillows that were created before WW2. 6 days of not eating any vegetables except canned peas. 6 days of laughing and laughing. 6 days of realizing i no longer belonged in this place. 6 days of soaking up the song of a people that is still my own. 6 days of my dear susan

i grew up among people who valued the art of the telling over the art of the tale. which meant we thrived on the details. god how i miss that. i miss the sheer thrill of the tell. where facts are passed over for the more speculative approach. where judgements are passed before plots have unfolded. and to have 6 days of that wonder and recognizing yourself in the words and cadence of those around you is just so lovely.

during those 6 days i had use of my mother's car. firstly she said - "i would appreciate if you didn't go over 80km." i didn't see that restriction coming. that's the great thing about my mom - you can't predict her next move. her offensive game is just outstanding. mom had other rules regarding her 1991 ford focus. no driving after dark. no rough roads. no unlocked doors or windows left down. no hitting deer.

the first time i sat in the car. i said "ok little ford focus, you better keep your frigging mouth shut about the next 6 days or i'm going to slam your tiny ass into a deer."

those 6 days were filled with immaturity and joy. my baby girl got to see humpback whales with here auntie sue. we ate clams and lobster and fish. we slept in the ancient lakelawn motel where we found blood, mysteriously smeared on the door and top sheet. we all had our theories and we felt delighted to have been assigned this family double. we found sea glass and iridescent blue plastic tampon holders on the beach. i was thrilled with both. we picked apples and ate them unwashed.


but mostly i looked in the face of my friend and found a happiness that i cannot find on my own.

bev

the farmer's wife

god i hate spring in alberta. the never ending blizzards followed by the ridiculously hot weather. sometimes it thunders and lightning and snows. its like mother nature is trying to birth a 12lb baby. the thigh high snowbanks and the ankle deep muck. did i mention we farm. cows calve in the spring. my husband just came back from the vet's with scour medication (calf diarrhea) he bought so much the vet gave him the cardboard display box. the annual defrosting of fields and corrals, filling the air with an aromatic mixture of a winters worth of animal dung. i really wanted to say shit but i'm trying to clean my act up. i know now it's only a matter of time before my mother finds this blog. the day of reckoning is nigh. she found me on facebook. i spent over an hour explaining my selection of friends. was i involved in any funny business in chatrooms. my mother says faceBOOK, the emphasis on book. its only one of the charming terms from mom's technological vernacular. she also has a very CB radio view of the world wide web. she has been known to ask whether i can bring in nova scotia on my computer. let's face it she still thinks the answering machine message is live. every time i return a message from her she says "russell came on and SAID you weren't home" her message is always the same "russell" russell (long pause) its mom have bev phone me.........i am so going to hell.

back to the farm. i have a bit of a rage on for this pioneer woman. truthfully i have a bit of coveting going on. she's the internet sensation, famous for marrying a farmer, discovering ranch life and blogging about it. she even has a cookbook - which i bought for $30 just so i could lament over her genius. it could have been me. didn't i marry a farmer - didn't i have to learn to be the farmer's wife. i cook. i have children. one of which insisted on wearing her spurs everywhere for almost a year. i have cows, horses and various other farm animals. i even until recently had 2 morbidly obese turkey's named stump and potpie. we calve out cows, put up hay, plow fields. isn't my life full of pastoral pastimes like horseback riding and home canning. we even pursue more western pursuits like branding cattle and testicle extraction. hell we even eat the testicles and to top it off weren't my pretty brown hens hired by a hollywood production company to be in a movie being shot in southern alberta. and weren't those pretty hens paid $100 for their efforts. and didn't the hollywood production company phone again wishing to rehire the hens for another movie shoot. but tragically the hens were not available having been picked off one my one by stealthy coyotes. this rural life of mine seems noteworthy...... god that woman is living my life and getting paid.

bev

where the angel laid her finger and devil laid his thumb....

first let me say this post is not meant to rain on any one's religious parade. it is simply my experience.

i remember going to church from a very early age. i can recall everything through eyes that spent about 45 minutes every sunday studying their surroundings. the smells and sounds are still with me. our minister was a quiet man who lead his flock in a voice free of fire and brimstone. his sermons would wash over his parishioners like a warm wave. i think my people came to church to rest. their week of labour over, they relaxed into the steady hum of praise for our god. there were no stars in our choir nor they did not sway to music. there was no band, just my aunt on the organ. our services were not interactive - there were no amens or praise the lord shout-outs. communion was truly a communal affair with little nuggets of bread and tiny glasses of grape juice that were always received sparingly so the leftovers would keep children quiet for the rest of the sermon. through this instruction i learned about god. he was very nice man who loved children. he had a place for you to go after you died. the description was a bit vague but we would be walking around on clouds. there really was no big interview process for getting into heaven. do your best and try to love everyone. the most important thing i learned was that god was love. it was that simple. the potential to follow these simple guidelines were in us all. there was never any mention of not succeeding. this love we possessed was a part of us like our eyes and legs and almost impossible not to use. it was a very good feeling and i took it to heart.

somewhere along the way this message became a bit boring for some people. a new church opened to complete for the souls of our community. it was flashy, raucous religious theater. i was introduced to new players in faith scene. in a lead roll was this devil guy, who lived somewhere in the middle of the earth. he was a mean bastard, with a tail and pitchfork. also there was a new god and he was fairly angry. there was some sort of war going on between the two of them and we were the prize. i must tell you it was all very exciting but it had nothing to do with me. i had my spiritual instructions and they definitely did not include any of this foolishness. so honestly, it was entertainment to me. i sat enraptured not with the message but the players. there was crying and shout outs. there was talking in tongues and moaning. people raising their hands and going forward to confess some very interesting sins. at times i had to sit on my hands to keep from clapping.

when the new church came it caused a division in our extended family. some family members preferred the big show to quaker-like silence in our church. there was great pressure to convert. the old guard stood firm." we are an anchor that cannot move, steadfast and sure while the billows roll". those words are from my favorite hymn and they remind me of that time. a great wave of religious revival was washing over us but most of us remained firm.

deliverance through fear is a very powerful concept. killer bees and army ants on their way, the end of the world, the fiery pits of devil's hell, and it unfolded that this new vengeful god had a fair number of conditions about entrance to heaven. there were in fact a set of gates on the place, pearly, but nonetheless gates. i understood they kept the undesirables out but maybe they kept people from leaving. and to top it off this god did not accept everyone. non-believers, homosexuals, jews, muslins the list was long and impressive. this heaven i thought must me quite roomy - an exclusive destination that specialized in exclusion.

this all became personal to me when my dad died. my father was a lovely, kind man who worked tirelessly for his community. he had the power to lift people up and make them believe that their voice was important. but he was also a bit of a hell raiser - he was a chain-smoking, liquor drinking, potty-mouth man with no alliance to any god. i am sad to say i have very few memories of him. he died when i was 6. i knew he loved me and i him. people told me wonderful stories of his good and bad deeds. after some time had passed my uncle took me aside one day after sunday school. (by this time the sunday school in our church had closed so we converged on new comers). my dear uncle whom i loved told me my father was in hell spending eternity burning alive. he told me my mother was headed that way as well because she would not convert. my father could not be saved but i could save my mother if i accepted jesus. this was all quite distressing. how in the hell did that happen. my father had been caught in the crossfire of this parallel religion. i had never even imagined that this could happen. of course i cried and then did what came naturally, i told everyone i knew this news. views were mixed but the general consensus seemed to debunk this theory. well, that was reassuring. this troubling theory stayed with me though, a nagging little problem in the back of my brain. i went over various plans of rescuing my father but mostly i wanted to make hell a bit more hospitable. i wanted an audience with this devil guy. if this new god was capable of vengeance and judgement then i reasoned this devil could not be all bad. i would explain to him that there were apparently quite a few of us coming his way and perhaps we could talk this out. no more fire, maybe a tv and ice water to drink. through it all i knew for certain i wanted nothing to do with this new god fellow. denying my father entrance through the gates was enough to get my ass up. i thought that maybe when i got through overhauling hell i could possibly agree to take on heaven.

as i grew up i was reminded often how sinful i was for not accepting jesus christ as my personal savior. that sounds silly now as i write it . personal saviour. its a bit like personal trainer or personal assistant or personal banker. but apparently back then personal attention was a new concept. i went through a period when i would cringe when hearing the world jesus used in any context other than cursing. i was only happy to judge my judges'. i finally realized that somewhere in this must be the lesson i am here to learn. i sometimes feel like a roman soldier and his lion that have been ordered to job retraining. i understand that when you lead with love the rest will fall away. but trying to love the enemy is a very hard pill to swallow.

i must admit that i have yet to fully make peace with the past. in many ways i am still that little girl quite willing to face the fires of hells, rather than take a peek behind the pearly gates. they do say "better the devil you know, than the angel you don't" i know for certain there is far more love in me than disdain or hate. my nana used to say that hate was just fear in really bright clothes. fear can makes enemies of the nicest people. i have never thought as god as a real person or heaven as a real place. i don't know if that makes me a heretic and i have ceased to care. i learned long ago that god was love with no strings attached. i may be far from a model citizen but i do find myself filled with love for almost every person i encounter from cashiers to babies. i feel a sense of tender responsibly for them all. we are all together on this planet. what will be will be, but for now, all we have is each other.

bev

when you find your self in the face of bonnie......

i have always been someone who has wondered who i'm supposed to be. i watch others in awe as they effortlessly waltz to a song that i have never heard. for the most part, people really have everything figured out. they don't have to think about creating an identity; apparently they came with one. i feel compelled to try on other people's personalities like sweaters - attempting to feel what its like to know who you are and where you're going. i just have never accomplished this without those around me wondering what the hell was wrong with me.

my first attempt to build a better me came shortly after my 5th birthday. on my first day of school i encountered bonnie and the die was cast. she was everything i was not. i was at this point in my life described as awkward. my hands and feet were too big for me and i was forever covered in iodine and bandaids from stumbling over myself. mum would say "god, can't you see where you're going"?
(side note - in the 3rd grade my eyes were tested and i was found to be quite near-sighted. so apparently mum, i couldn't see where i was going.)

right before school started my mum made the decision to have my hair shorn off. she had had enough. my hair was a long, curly mess. it was often referred to as a rat's nest. my mom had this idea that my curls would not come back if my hair was cut against the curl. so she had her friend joyce carry out her big plan. i must tell you that against the curl was not my best look. my near military cut was accented with cow licks. not quite enough to form a pattern, just a enough to make people think i was unkempt. bonnie on the other hand was petite and perfect. her limbs matched the rest of her body. she had long pale yellow hair that was rod straight . she had sweater sets and cotton skirts and was shod in penny loafers. i dressed almost exclusively in a blue, slightly too small, snoopy sweatshirt and a tartan kilt held together with a giant safety pin - my massive feet crammed in sneakers. bonnie was quiet and sweet and she never spoke out of turn. she did not snort when she laugh. but without question her most enviable quality was her delicate nature. she seemed to be constantly in peril and she quickly became the focal point of our little world. we all fretted over bonnie. does bonnie have her mittens, don't show bonnie your cut because she'll faint. the dear little thing also needed a rest after lunch. we all hushed as bonnie lay quietly on the cot at the back of the classroom. how i loved that cot - it was metal and had a grey blanket with red stripes. i longed to stretch out upon it. i tried inventing and carrying out various scenarios which would end with me reposing and being the object of everyones pity and concern. sadly, a strong constitution and a lack of acting ability stood in my way. mrs teacher would step over my twitching body as i feigned a nervous spell. she'd be heading to her desk to get the strap. i guess she figured a few quick smacks would bring me around a lot quicker than any old cot.

i tried to be bonnie countless times, i could not be deterred by a strap or the frank bewilderment of my classmates. dammit, i would will myself delicate. my performances reached a fever pitch when bonnie returned to school after having her tonsils out. she practically lived on that cot - with teacher running back and forth with sips of cold water and cool cloths. we all sat on pins and needles wondering if she would live. at recess we would gather to express our concerns and stand crying at the thought of losing our bonnie. i was as worked up as anybody else but at the same time - what an opportunity. imagine all that love and attention. i begged my mother to have some part of my innards taken out. i tried to fake cough my tonsils out. i would repeat, loudly, over and over all day how bad my throat hurt. i would collapse, often and unexpectedly into a careful heap of woe. i made a fool of myself on a daily basis for over a month. bonnie did it so effortlessly and gracefully, she could lift up her tiny hand for you to hold, she would tear up if you discussed her impending death.

eventually, the school year ended and bonnie was forgotten but.... as luck would have it on the very first day of school the following year i met janice, a foul mouth, tomboy whose father was in the airforce. new grade, new me.

i wish i could say i learned my lesson - well, i can't. i apparently would need a near infinite number of lessons. i can't tell you how many times over the years i have made a fool of myself, suffered public humiliation and made my people wonder "what the hell". bonnie began my quest to evolve through mimicry. i really owe her a lot - although i never achieved my initial objective i did end up with the spotlight shinning brightly on me.... and really, that's all that mattered.

bev

ps i have left bonnie name uncapitalized to preserve her anonymity

where children fear to tread.......

i come from a people that believe the dead did not always rest easy. the ghosts and shadows that had passed on continued to inhabit our daily lives. i prefer to entertain all of this as not backward thinking but rather traditional folklore. i grew up in flurry of signs, superstitions and forerunners. i am sure you are familiar with some of the more common ones - itchy hands foretells money coming, a dropped teatowel indicates a visitor. and burning ears meant you were the subject of someones conversation. a few of the more obscure ones included whistling after dark which made the wind blow. or whistling women at any time caused the wind to change direction. crows had to be counted and a fate determined. a bad omen could be softened by spitting on the ground. no money aboard the boat, especially any thing involving the number 2. never turn a bucket upside down and for christ's sake don't sit on it; for if you did you could kiss the fish goodbye. never look back at a hearse. birds in the house - certain death or birds tapping on the window - certain illness. really, i could go on forever.




we played in the cemetery a lot especially when certain berries were present. we ate tea berries in the spring. i have no idea of the real name or even if they are edible. but we ate them because there was nothing else yet. no blueberries, raspberries, cranberries, fern roots which we called bananas, sea snails we called periwinkles or apples. a lot of our play involved finding things to eat. that said, we played among the graves, eating our tea berries and making up stories of the people who lay below the mounds. we speculated endlessly on the tiny unmarked baby graves in the back corner. we picked flowers and cleaned gull shit off the stones. we tried to find clues about inhabitants by tracing our fingers around the granite engravings and we would pick out spots to be buried. around dark we would dare each other to lay face down on the grave of someone who had had an untimely or violent death. soon we would start to hear things and the creepers would come over us and we would run for dear life out of the graveyard making sure to close the iron gate so none of the spirits could escape. people complained and tried to keep we, the screaming children outside the gate. they thought the dead didn't want their rest disturbed but we could not be denied





we regularly tied to call forth the dead. we had seances, and secret meetings to try and raise somebody, anybody. we chanted, tried to talk in tongues, danced around fires on the beach. god knows what we would have done if they had responded - pissed our pants most likely. we wore out more than one ouija board. we watched our parents play uptable. where they tried to make a card table rise without touching it.. overall we were a people determined to keep a channel open between this world and the next.

the telling of ghost stories permeated every layer of our existence. we eavesdropped when the adults told them to each other and listened entranced when they were told to us and we in turn told them to the younger children to scare them and keep them loyal. pirates, hidden treasure, ship wrecks, pacing widows with the spyglass, the phantom light that followed boats into the harbor, the restless spirits that walked the village looking for something. overall the quiet men told the best tales. low and earnest they recalled sighting a ghost ship in the fog. the sails in shreds, the hull creaking and the cries of drowning men. these somber stories would leave us - hearts pounding and afraid to fall asleep. i had an aunt who would tell me whenever she heard horses hooves on the cobblestones and that she said foretold a death. i would spend the next few days hoping it would be some old person that would go and not me.




we often combed the beaches that surrounded us looking for coloured seaglass, food, seal jawbones, and treasure. Sometimes we would come upon a rubber boot or a glove. we would encircle it and stand arguing over who should pick it up. would there be a skeletal foot or hand inside. we would give ourselves the willies thinking of what we would find. would the hand grab us in deathly grip or would the drowned soul appear and drag us into the sea to join him. it was serious stuff and we spent a lot of time poking at the object with sticks trying to get a sense of what was to come. usually one of us would grab it, eyes closed and fling it further down the beach. if nothing emerged we would eventually muster the courage to pick it up, disappointed when it revealed no bones or ghosts. we always left it where it lay. we would move on but we were always convinced we heard something or felt eyes on us.

i wonder sometimes why our lives were aligned so closely to the afterworld. was it because we lived from the sea and did we keep ourselves close to portents that helped protect us from such a demanding mistress. just like ancient tribes that prepared their hunters with spirit dances and rituals, we practiced our rites and tried to appease the gods. when i grew up i moved away from the sea and came to live on the prairie; there i found the air empty and oddly light. where are your dead, i wondered. do they pass over without a fight. i started to realize that people are rarely lost here on the land - they just die. where i'm from no one says all hands died, they instead say all hands were lost. and the lost can never rest.

bev