Tricks and Treats

There'll be shrieks of laughter, howls galore, and loads of fun at my house this Halloween. Oh, yes, there will probably be trick or treaters, too, but Thursday is Rummoli night and it's my turn to host this week. Five or six years ago a few ladies from my Church invited me to join their card group. I thought at first that it would probably be a very staid affair. Boy, was I wrong!

The stakes are high at these weekly gatherings. We still play for pennies even though they are no longer in monetary circulation. But who cares anyway? It's definitely not about the money. I have no doubt that if someone were to secretly videotape one of our Rummoli nights, it would be a viral hit on Youtube.

In between sharing the good and the bad, the happy and the sad stories of our lives, we also manage to play a few hands of cards, although it gets very confusing at times when no one can remember who played last or whose turn it is to deal. One night we were totally befuddled when duplicate cards started turning up over and over again. No matter how many times we counted the cards and came up with 52, those darn duplicates made an appearance round after round. By the time we finally realized that two identical decks of cards had been mixed up, it was time to stop playing and have a little lunch.

Good-natured joking is par for the course with this group of hardened gamblers but it's each girl for herself when the poker pot grows to a whopping 38 coppers. Hot flashes often rotate around the table, especially after a glass of wine (or two). Once a year, as many of the group as can make it journey to the cabin of one of the members for an unforgettable night of revelry. No need to say anymore. What happens at the cabin stays at the cabin.

Within the group, each woman brings a particular gift to the table. Anne is the official keeper of the almighty hosting schedule and chief s—t disturber. She thoroughly enjoys stirring things up and then sitting back to watch the hilarious outcome with smiling lips and shining eyes. Flos is our maid extraordinaire. When she's present, lunch proceeds with finesse and flow. When she's out of town, disaster usually prevails. Theresa's laugh is infectious and so are her yawns. Carol has the gift of storytelling and Margie's absentminded plays keep us in stitches. Alice's feet are always cold but her heart is warm; she keeps us honest when someone forgets to add pennies to the pot. Fan is the quiet one of the bunch but she enjoys a good laugh as much as the rest of us. Rose Marie's sense of humour is phenomenal and she has a snippet of song to share for just about any eventuality. And me? Why, I'm just thrilled that they've invited me along for the ride.

I can't say I've learned much about card playing from these ladies, but I've sure learned a great deal about friendship and support. We've got each others' backs and when the chips are down, this bunch of unlikely card sharks can pray the heck out of any gaming table in Vegas.

Happy Halloween to everyone and especially to my Rummoli group. Looking forward to a spooktacular night!

I Confess

I've always been highly annoyed by well-prepared people who proudly proclaim in September that they just finished wrapping all of their Christmas gifts. Smiling and nodding, I usually make some inane comment while my blood boils and I long to shake the smugness right out of them. No, I'm not hiding a propensity for violent behaviour, but I do have a confession to make and I'm finally ready to admit it. I am a procrastinator. There, I've said it. I think I've been one all my life – with the exception of giving birth. I somehow managed to do that ahead of schedule three times in a row. But that might have something to do with medical circumstances rather than my own initiative.

My recollection of elementary and high school years contains numerous moments of near panic followed by hours of intense preparation as due dates for assignments and exams loomed perilously close. This pattern seemed to repeat itself in college and even sometimes crept into the workplace in later years. It's not that I'm lazy or nonchalant about my work. On the contrary, I have a troublesome habit of over analyzing matters which often results in unnecessary self-inflicted pressure when deadlines are involved.

For instance, after taxing my brain to its limits during the past fifteen months of enrolment in a distance education program and having achieved a degree of success so far, I hit a roadblock in preparing my final project, the most comprehensive challenge of all. I pondered ideas over and over again; rejected them over and over again; sat at the computer to put words on paper (so to speak) over and over again; and got nowhere over and over again. My mind wandered to an amazingly varied range of topics to distract me from the real task and I even found myself cleaning the toilet or washing floors to avoid concentrating on my assignment. Then the calendar date smacked me right in the gob a few weeks ago when the page rolled over to October with its colorful depictions of falling leaves and carved pumpkins. OMG! Panic time again! Is there some perverse aspect of my character which prevents me from becoming fully engaged until adrenalin flows through my veins, startling me into action? I finally got down to business, completed the project, and submitted it with one week to spare. Wow! Maybe I'm improving.

Now for that Christmas list which has been sitting on my coffee table for the past week or so. I'm sure I'll get around to it before December 24^th. Yep, it's definitely time to stop procrastinating. Starting tomorrow.

The Thanksgiving Parade

The Thanksgiving Parade

by Y.M. Tucker

A rumor spread like wildfire of a coming big award

as the leaves of fall began to swirl around the old barnyard

in crimson, gold and orange, autumn's festive hues,

a day of thanks for hard work done was the glorious news.

 

The animals of the kingdom all gathered for discussion

in groups of twos and threes and fours; landsakes, what a percussion!

Lazy Daisy and Sweet Bess, that gossiping bovine pair,

with swishing tails and flapping lips mooed the message to Fanny Mare.

 

Uncle Tom, his wattle swinging, gobbled to the others

of how he heard with his own ears the farmer's sons and daughters

talk of the festival soon to come with bountiful food and dancing.

All this excitement in the air set the hens to scratching and prancing.

 

The squealing pigs within their pen rolled gleefully in the muck

while Mama Duck and her little brood couldn't believe their luck.

A day of thanksgiving! What a treat! Oh, plans they must be made

to celebrate such a wonderful thing with a big barnyard parade.

 

Away upon the far off hill where the farmer's house did stand

were tables spread with harvest crops, fine bounty from the land.

Apples, carrots, yams and squash, and pumpkin pies galore;

No finer feast could e'er be found in the city's fanciest store.

 

Anticipation mounted as the farmer could be seen

descending from his hilltop to the barnyard's pastoral scene.

An axe he carried in one hand and a musket in the other.

Quick, step in line for the grand parade, whispered Tom onto the others.

 

The clucking, mooing, squealing and gobbling created a splendid din

as animals took their place in line to greet the farmer and his kin.

When the old man's eyes beheld the sight of the prattling barnyard critters,

his heart it took a painful leap and his hands they got the jitters.

 

He placed the axe against the barn and the musket in its rack

then headed home with animals in tow, Ole Tom leading the pack.

Through the barnyard and up the hill they marched in baronial fashion;

ne'er before nor since was thanks bestowed with such finesse and passion!

 

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

 

Elusive Equality

This morning I watched in sadness and disbelief as one of the big TV news stations aired an online video about a 25 year old woman from Vera Cruz, Mexico whose boyfriend had padlocked her jeans to keep her faithful to him. Apparently this wasn't something new but this time she was in extreme pain from needing to use the washroom and, so, in desperation she ran to the local police station for help because she was afraid of retaliation if she cut herself free. The police took pictures of the padlock on her jeans, brought the 40 year old boyfriend in for questioning and, because she refused to press charges, they released him after he signed a statement promising to never padlock or abuse her in any way again. Meanwhile, he nonchalantly produced a key from his pocket which fit the padlock perfectly. In an interview with the TV station, a women's rights spokesperson in Mexico said that the woman at the center of this story has been a victim of crime for 12 years. Now, let's do the math. She's currently 25 years old and she has been a victim for 12 years? Shouldn't that astounding revelation be enough to warrant further investigation? Shouldn't the onus of pressing charges be removed from the victim in such extenuating circumstances? Obviously the poor young woman is terrified of reprisal if she files charges against her tormentor.

We are nearly 14 years into the new millennium – ostensibly an age of technology, freedom, universal equality.... Bull crap! Here in the “civilized world”, legions of women face harassment, intimidation and even physical abuse on a daily basis in their homes, workplaces, and social settings. Many choose to let it pass because they don't want to stir up trouble. Sadly, others have such low self-esteem that they convince themselves they deserve this kind of treatment. Fear of speaking up in defense of themselves paralyzes a lot of women, especially when the intimidation is perpetrated by a man in a position of authority in their life (real or perceived).

Although our modern society claims equality in the workplace, the truth can be a different reality for some women employed in non-traditional occupations. How many women silently endure ridicule, sarcasm, condescension, sexual innuendo, pinches, grabs, lewd whispers, etc. in the workplace? Going to work every day on your guard against such unwelcome attacks is physically and mentally draining.

How many women, like the young woman in Mexico, live in dread of their spouses or physical abusers? Often, women in domestic abuse situations have nowhere else to go so they put up and shut up as a method of self-preservation.

Even a young woman who enjoys an evening out with friends is subject to suspicion and skepticism if she alleges inappropriate conduct by a male acquaintance, bar patron or cab driver. She was only looking for trouble is the mindset of some who would judge her.

Is the legal system sometimes guilty of failing to fully support the victim in harassment/abuse cases? Innocent until proven guilty is the basis of justice in democracy. It's a commendable tenet; yet, what about the victim? When a young woman lies bleeding to death from a gunshot wound to her back and her ex-boyfriend is found hiding in bushes nearby with a recently fired gun, it can take years of legal wrangling before a trial date is even set. Whose rights are being protected then? Certainly not the victim's. She remains in her grave.

Women and girls everywhere need to find the courage to speak out against any form of intimidation or abuse. The law needs to better protect them when they do come forward. Men need to be more vocal in their condemnation of abusive behaviour. They, too, are being victimized by gender association. Equality is not quite a reality yet.

The Turnaround

After nine months of waiting, three weeks of hospitalization, and eleven hours of labour, a young couple in a northern Canadian mining town welcomed their firstborn son with joy and wonder. That baby was mine and I still vividly recall the amazement I felt at having accomplished such an incredible feat. I held him close as I breathed in the sweet baby scent of his soft skin and marvelled at his exquisite perfection.

I turned around and he was zipping across the floor in mad-baby fashion, laughing with wild abandon to be free of the confines of crib and playpen. What a cute, contented, pleasant baby he was. Big brown eyes and sandy hair, he made us deliriously happy when he mimicked the words “Mama” and “Dada.” A genius in the making!

I turned around and he was a curious toddler, eagerly exploring the world around him and astounding his parents with his intellectual skill in learning the alphabet at such a tender age. His expressive face took on a studious look whenever he encountered something new and intriguing. How proud I felt when someone commented, “Isn't he a smart little fellow?”

I turned around and he was heading off to Kindergarten with a little blue school bag slung over his shoulder. I remember trying to hold back tears as I saw the tell-tale signs of uncertainty in his eyes and the slight tremble of his lower lip. Off he went into the big unknown, leaving the security of home to follow his teacher and classmates while a tiny break opened up in his mother's heart.

I turned around and he was an active young boy playing street hockey with his friends and younger brother. Keenly interested in dinosaurs and the intricacies of the galaxy, my growing genius was a straight A student (for a while at least). He revelled in video games, Japanese comics, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Calvin and Hobbes, and big hardcover books about scientific discoveries. Oh, yes, he also found time to team up with his middle brother to make their baby brother's life a living hell at times. Toughening him up, they called it.

I turned around and he was a tall, lanky, wise-cracking teenager. Sometimes distant, sometimes sarcastic, sometimes looking at me with an air of superiority – occasionally condescending to smile at me, revealing brief glimpses of the little boy who used to be. A typical know-it-all teen; I, of course, as the mother, knew nothing. How could I? I was an ancient old hag in the latter stages of my thirties!

I turned around and he was stepping on a plane to fly off to college. Oh, how my head and heart ached for days. How would he ever get by without me? Was he hungry? Or lonely? Would those far away profs know that my boy was so smart and so special? Was he making new friends? Good friends? Was he safe? Oh, the torture of those early days of separation!

I turned around and he was wearing a grad gown, striding across a stage to receive his diploma. The future lay ahead of him, bright and shining with dreams of success. When the reality of the job market dashed those hopes for a while, I commiserated with his frustration until, once again, a plane ride bore him off to an unknown future.

I turned around and he was an ecstatic young man calling to inform his parents that he had secured a lucrative position after passing through an intensive screening process of application.

I turned around and listened carefully as he spoke so glowingly of a lovely young nurse he had met. I turned around and heard the love in his voice as he assured us that she was definitely “the one.” I turned around and he was again on the phone with a nervous tremor in his voice saying that he was sitting in his car outside a jewellery store and he was going inside to buy an engagement ring. 

I turned around and watched through tear-filled eyes as I witnessed his wedding vows to the woman he loves with all his heart. His tall brothers stood by his side – the three amigos, toughening up days behind them.

I turned around and that magic phone line once again brought incredible news of an impending arrival. Now my firstborn son and his beautiful wife await the birth next month of their firstborn son. In the midst of falling leaves and thoughts of thanksgiving, they will harvest their little pumpkin from life's bountiful garden.

If I were to share one piece of wisdom with the new parents, it would be this: Savor every blessed moment of family life and, oh yes, don't turn around too fast!