Ferris Wheels and Roller Coasters

I’ve never felt the allure of adventure.  Never even wanted to.  My earliest memory of witnessing screaming people hurtling themselves through space is when I was about 10 years old and a “fair” came to town.  Scattered throughout a mall parking lot were striped tents, several different types of amusement rides and a big old ferris wheel.  I recall standing in awe and looking way, way up at the precariously swinging baskets while feeling slightly queasy from my first bewildering taste of overly sweet, pink cotton candy.  Wiping sticky fingers on my pretty summer dress, I turned my back on the looming monster with its shrieking occupants and opted instead to try out the more docile merry-go-round.

In the decades that have passed since that fateful encounter, I’ve done my best to avoid ferris wheels and roller coaster rides, literally and figuratively.  They’re too darn stressful!  But fate has a way of tossing you smack dab in the highest basket without warning and, when it does, you have no choice but to hang on for dear life.  My husband and I were recently reluctantly taken on one such horrifying ride with his unexpected diagnosis of cancer.  Before we could even grasp the reality of it, we were on a plane flying thousands of miles into the unknown to seek advanced medical assistance.  Fear and dread came along as our travelling companions. 

The next few weeks were permeated with doctors’ visits, painful procedures, and interminable waiting when each second seemed like a million years and life itself was in a state of suspended animation.  Then came the dire news that a hoped for short cut procedure was unsuccessful and major surgery was the only other option.  More waiting, fretting, worrying, struggling to maintain some degree of normalcy when our whole world was turned topsy-turvy and the outcome was uncertain. 

Amidst all of this turmoil, we clung to a little ray of hope and a precious secret shared with our eldest son and his beautiful wife who had just recently informed us that a new family member was on the way - our first grandchild.  Since there was so little time between hearing this wonderful news and the flip side bad news, there was no opportunity to do much shopping but I had managed to pick up a sweet, tiny undergarment as a token reminder of good things to come.  My husband carried that little onesie with him throughout his entire ordeal, proudly informing everyone he met that he was soon going to be a “Poppy”.   Mere words could never convey the positive impact which that miniscule piece of clothing had on both of us during those anxiety- ridden days on life’s roller coaster.  We even named it Poppy’s good luck charm.

Following what was termed a successful surgery, we were soon caught unawares by an unexpected setback in my husband’s recovery.  Finally, his condition improved to the point where he was released from hospital and we took a tentative little gasp of fresh, clean, non-institutional air.  But our joy in this victory over adversity was short lived as just two days later, my husband’s father passed away suddenly and, once again, the entire family was sent reeling into a state of shock.  How much more could we take at that point?  It seemed as if a black hole had opened up and swallowed us completely within its bleakness. 

Yet, we were never alone in our struggles.  Our faith in a loving, compassionate God and the truly wonderful, prayerful support of friends and family were the crutches on which we rested during those dark, energy-draining days.  Without such assistance, I don’t know how we could have survived the barrage. 

My husband’s amazing recovery continues and we recently received the incredible news that all signs of cancer were removed through the surgery – no further treatments necessary.  What a blessing!  Earlier this month, he proudly participated in the survivors’ walk at our local Relay for Life and you can probably guess what he carried in his hand during that victory lap. 

Now, we eagerly await the arrival of that precious little baby boy in a few short months.  Nana and Poppy plan to be there with bells on for the big day.   When he is old enough to visit an amusement park, I think we’ll head on over to the ferris wheel and roller coaster to take a look at all the silly, screaming people while we eat our cotton candy.  Then we’ll passively stroll on to the merry-go-round or maybe even the giant tea cups for a nice, pleasant little spin.  Leave the more adventuresome rides for someone else.

 

How Does Your Garden Grow?

“Mary, Mary, quite contrary.  How does your garden grow? With silver bells and cockle shells, and pretty maids all in a row.”  (English nursery rhyme)

Just a short year ago, when I joined the ranks of the semi-retired, I decided that it was about time I created a small garden in my backyard.  Nothing elaborate or fancy, just a pleasant little space to brighten up a dingy corner.  My eyes have always appreciated the aesthetic merit of lavish floral displays spreading colour and beauty across a backdrop of lush velvet greenery.  Alas, my poor nose doesn’t share the fascination.  Allergies force me to restrict my proximity to many flourishing blooms.  Still, a garden I wanted and a garden I would have!

So, dressed in my best Indiana Jones costume, I set off into the area 51 section of my backyard (out behind the garage) where no human had ventured to go in many a year, armed to the teeth with spade, pruning shears, and whippersnipper, hell bent on thrashing the bejeepers out of whatever entity had taken up residence there for the past five decades.  The battle lasted for at least a week and it was not a pretty sight.  After hacking, slashing and digging my way through waist high mutant weeds, I eventually emerged triumphantly from the wilderness, although by that time I probably resembled John the Baptist more closely than I care to admit.  My victory was sweet, though, as I proudly surveyed the little patch of cleared land just waiting to fulfill my botanical dreams. 

A trip to the gardening centre was next on the agenda and I eagerly browsed through the colourful selections until my watery eyes and dripping nose prompted a hasty exit.  But I was happy with my pretty, though limited, flower choices.  Back home again, I filled in the tiny garden area with some lovely blossoms and delightful ornaments.  Pleased with myself, you betcha!  Yep, I enjoyed two glorious days of patting myself on the back before the damn weeds returned with a vengeance.  The rest of the summer passed by in a blur as I was forced to participate in repeat performances of the battle of the weeds.

This year, when the snow finally melted and the mud disappeared, I rather reluctantly crept out behind the garage once more to sneak a peek at the remnants of last year’s garden.  What a mess!  The hosta that seemed to be doing so well last summer was nowhere in sight, grass was growing up through the black earth I had spread with such care, and those ugly, octopus like weeds with their vile yellow tops were the only things flourishing in my poor little garden.  Anger exploded behind my eyes in mind-numbing flashes and I grabbed the shears with murderous intent.  Not only did I viciously snip off the tops of the weeds, but I also mercilessly dug out their far-reaching tentacles from beneath the earth’s surface and threw them over the fence in wild abandon.  I briefly thought of using a chemical weed killer but the wellbeing of my doggies overcame my desire for immediate annihilation of those dreadful troublemakers.  At the end of the first day, I crawled out from behind the garage battered and exhausted but satisfied that I had won another round against my mortal enemy. 

Refreshed after a long, soothing soak and a good night’s sleep, I strolled onto the patio the next morning with a cup of tea  and revelled in the sun’s warm touch on my skin as I surveyed my little backyard kingdom.  I nearly choked on Greek yogurt when my eyes perceived the unmistakable invasion of sneaky, snaky weeds in the grass far beyond the confines of the garage.  Oh, me nerves!  Logic and rationale vanished as I attacked the marauders with the mind-set of Attila the Hun and I’ve kept up the assault for days.  My fingers are muddy and torn, my legs hurt, my back aches, my arms scream in pain, and my butt is in agony.  The backyard looks like a pock-marked lunar landscape.  If NASA wanted to recreate another staged moon landing, they could do so quite convincingly right here.

I have a daunting suspicion that I’ll wear out before the weeds do.  The mere thought of repeating this process on an annual basis sends pulsating shivers of abhorrence up and down my spine.  Joni Mitchell probably had the right idea when she sang, “They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.”  Might be something to consider!