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!

Twerking

I did some twerking in my backyard today. (Look it up online; the word is probably too new to be in a printed dictionary.) Now, wait a minute. Don't call for a strait jacket yet. Let me explain. Yes, my ass was up in the air most of the day and there was definitely a whole lotta shakin' goin' on, but not of the Miley variety.

Here in the north, we have two seasons: a very short, barely warm summer and a very long, mind-numbing cold winter. So, late August to early September would qualify as fall. Therefore, it is time to begin preparing my newly created miniature garden for fall bulb planting. Hence, the twerking. Raking, hoeing, tilling, spreading new topsoil, etc. It gave me tremendous satisfacation to rip out the roots of my mortal enemy – weeds.

Although allergies prevent me from having flowers in my house, I seem able to enjoy them in the great outdoors with no apparent side effects. This week's blooming of an absolutely beautiful pink rose in the corner of my yard has inspired me to dream big when it comes to flowers, so I've decided to opt for perennials instead of a few miserly annuals. Now that I've discovered my long dormant green thumb, I can hardly wait to get started. Over the next couple of weeks, I'll visit the local garden centre to ferret out the heartiest bulbs for zone 0 to 1 and plant them lovingly in the freshly tilled ground. Hubby was kind enough to install a temporary chicken wire fence around my precious plot of soil to keep the dogs from burying bones there. I've vowed to chop the tail off any hound caught digging (or planting, if you catch my drift) in my garden. 

Well, we shall see what next spring brings; hopefully, it will be worth the effort. I don't know if Miley's butt hurts as much as mine does, but I know for sure that my twerking is done, at least until the bulbs are ready to be planted. The neighbours are no doubt grateful for small mercies. 

Claustrophobic Travels

Everyone loves to get away for a while, especially during the long, lazy days of summer. Some head for the beach or the mountains, some go home to visit friends and family, others take the trip of a lifetime to see with their own eyes the history and beauty of other countries. All of this moving around the globe involves various forms of travel. Getting there can be either pleasurable or a real pain in the posterior.

If you're claustrophobic - like me - the journey, more likely than not, brings its share of hyperventilating moments. It all began many years ago when someone sat on me while I lay face down in a snowbank. Were it not for several quick-thinking friends who hauled the kid off me in the nick of time, I might have made an early exit from this life. From that day on, I have had a mortal fear of enclosed spaces.

Yet, like millions of others, I love to visit new places and favorite old haunts, and, since I live in a fairly isolated northern community, long travel days are par for the course. Driving is my preferred mode of transportation, except when it involves a ferry ride or tunnel excursion. The twins of my Gemini psyche are constantly at war with one another when I'm travelling – logic vs emotion. You will definitely not smother while exiting your vehicle in the bowels of this ship, asserts logic in a condescending manner. Omg, I can't breathe, I'm trapped, I'm going to die from paralytic fear down here in this dark, stinking hellhole, screams emotion in a state of utter panic. Quintessential Mr. Spock vs Dr. McCoy for all you Trekkies. While driving through the Lafontaine Tunnel in Montreal one time, I was so overcome with dread and apprehension that I cried silently for however long it took to travel the 1.8 kms (must have been at least a hundred years) and I was incapable of speaking for about two hours after the ordeal. Poor hubby always wears a worried frown when escorting me on trips that involve travelling in confined spaces. He's no doubt wondering if this is the time she really loses it.

Flying is also problematic for the legions of us who suffer this sort of malady. It's not the fear of heights nor the possibility of crashing that scares the daylights out of me. No, sirree. I could probably fly around the world without a hitch if they didn't have to close the damn door.

Even when I drive to the supermarket in the middle of winter, I usually have to open the window a crack just to reassure myself that there is a good supply of air circulating throughout the car. Up to this point, I've somehow always managed to survive the stomach churning, irrational anxiety of claustophobia sufficiently to allow me to travel to other locations, but it is definitely draining. As I plan to roam further afield in future years, I'll have to rely ever more deeply on my tried and true mantra: “This is what I have to do to get to where I'm going.”

Gone to the Dogs

Life has gone to the dogs lately. Literally! Mica, our 11 year old Beagle, has been Mommy's baby and Daddy's little girl since she came to us as a tiny puppy tripping over her long ears until she finally grew into them. Recently, she rather reluctantly opened up her home to Blue, a young, energetic, muscular Boxer-Amstaff mix with an engaging, albeit occasionally domineering, personality. Blue is the pride and joy of Son # 2 whose new job necessitated a part-time return to home turf. She also has a brother, Hemi, a.k.a. the Gentle Giant, who occasionally drops by for a visit. Hemi boy could easily be a stand-in for Scooby-Doo; a big old wuss who looks imposing but is actually scared of his own shadow, especially since a recent terrifying encounter in which he had his ears boxed quite soundly by a neighbour's cat. Then there's Reno and Nova, the canine offspring of Son # 3. When those two rapscallions join the brood, all hell breaks loose.

Mica leaves no doubt in the others' minds that she's top dog, the matriarch of the clan. Even though she's much smaller than Blue, Hemi and Nova, she has no trouble giving them a verbal lashing when necessary. Little Reno, with his mischievous, elfin face, usually turns his head to one side and sits back on his haunches to watch the exchanges from a safe distance. At times, Mica and Hemi seem to form an alliance of the laid-back duo while Blue and Nova rambunctiously duke it out over territorial rights. Reno, Houdini of the doggie world, quietly pokes around trying to sniff out a likely escape route in which to squeeze through for a brief attempt at his own little run for freedom.

As you might guess, our backyard is now a veritable minefield of doggie do. Hence, at least twice daily, I hie myself off to the battle grounds armed with a litter scoop – gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “doggie-bag.” When the pooping and scooping is done, it's time to take out the garden hose and give the grass a refreshing sprinkle. One day while Hemi was visiting, I had just turned on the water and before I knew what hit me, I was slammed against the side of the garage by an 85 pound whirling cyclone of a dog. I had never seen Hemi so animated. Who knew he had a thing for garden hoses????

Sometimes, when it's just the two of them around, Mica and Blue curl up together like two peas in a pod. Of course, if I happen to plant my butt in their vicinity, they both want to get up in my lap. It's hilarious to see the shapes they get themselves into while trying to squirm closer to Mommy or Nan depending on whose viewpoint you look at. Yes, I have been reduced (or elevated) to being not just a canine mother, but now also a grandmother to a pack of dogs.

For a brief period of time between the kids leaving home and the dogs descending upon my little castle, I prided myself on having a reasonably tidy house. Now, the floors are covered in old blankets, the furniture is showing signs of wear, dog fur sometimes swirls around like tumbleweeds out of the wild west, and eau de chien is my signature cologne. Aw, well, things could be worse. Imagine if someone brings home a cat!

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!