I MARRIED AN ELECTRICAL ENGINEER!

I married an electrical engineer.
All my stories should start out with that.
Before we were married, the engineer in my life had taken apart most electrical things he could safely get his hands on. He built his own amplifier and a set of speakers. His electrical talents were well established before he ever entered university to take engineering.
Our first apartment after we were married had two bedrooms. Part of the second bedroom was set up as his project room. It has some of the strangest electrical gadgets that scared the bejeepers out of me. I would go in from time to time, but not very often. This one particular evening I decided to go in and see what was up. He had pliers in hand and was into the back of something very electrical looking. I asked if he ever got an electrical shock. Just as he was about to say “no, never” his distracted hand hit something upon which sparks, Bill and expletives flowed across the room in front of me. He did not see what was so funny as i burst out laughing. Ignorance is bliss but being a nurse, I knew CPR! We made a pack after he recovered that I would stay out of his way when he played with his electrical things. And thus the reason that I have so little to do with all electrical things in our home.
It has worked out for us. But as a result,I have watched the electronics come and go into our homes without too much knowledge of just how cutting edge these things are.
Our first TV was a black and white which really was another piece of furniture to set my ornaments upon. There was no remote or more than a channel or two. You plugged it in and turned the knob on or off. You even had to get up to adjust the volume. I miss the good old days.
The tape cassette, the CD player, the VHS player, the DVD player marched into our lives. And with each evolution, Bill connected, wired and hooked up the collection of them together. He connected the whole set to the amplifier and speakers long before sound surround became the norm in homes. Of course every electrical evolution meant another family tutorial was needed so that we could listen to our music or watch the TV when he wasn't around.
Somewhere in the midst of this came our first home computer. It was the summer of 85 or 86. We purchased it in Alberta. Bill set that baby up between our two babies in the back seat to bring it home to Regina. I really did not understand the concept of home computers, but Bill sure was excited. It had 500 mega bites of memory. Less than a quarter of the memory of most of those key chain memory sticks. He set it up and played endlessly on the "dos" prompted screen. I may have used it once or twice to write a letter. I had no idea what this machine was all about and thought it was just another electronic toy for Bill. Since then we have never been without a computer or six.
I have watched Bill replace computers with bigger and better models. I have received Christmas gifts of CD burners for Christmas. What the heck was a CD burner? I have seen him take them apart and add to the more internal memory. I have seen him bring them back to life after they have died a virus infected life. I have seen him do the equivalent of a brain transplant on them. I have seen him build a complete computer from parts bought from electronic specialty stores.
I have watched our digital pictures appear from our camera to the computer with a simple plug in. AND just when I thought it couldn't get more complicated I watched him marry our electronics to our computers. Double oi vey!
Electrically we have seen and done it all thus far. So why is it, that each time I am at home alone and want to watch a show or play a CD, or listen to my music which is now buried deep within one of the computers, that I stand before the new 50 inch plasma flat screen TV longing for the antiquated on/off button? But no luck. Instead I have to play Russian roulette with several of the 7 remotes that line up in a row, just slightly askew to the right of my beloved engineer husband's chair.
I clear my brain and try to remember the tutorial. My shaking sweaty hands reach for several of the remotes. I have to put one back quickly as it is the wrong one, ahhh! After some g'fingerpoking, I manage to wake up the computer to turn on the TV to make the choice of what I want to do media wise. I think I shall listen to my relaxation Cd, just to soothe the electrically challenged mind.

WKH

The Life We Choose

I'm reading a Peter Walsh book called It's All To Much. I am thoroughly enjoying it. It is on my favorite topic decluttering. And we all know that decluttering goes hand in hand with downsizing. And downsizing is passion for us.
Since we downsized almost 3 years ago we have been expounding the joys of our new lifestyle to anyone who will listen. Well maybe we even told some people who don't want to hear about it. Bill and I know that they are just not ready for it yet. But the day will come sooner or later when they are ready for a freer life.
Our realization came to us in a most insidious manner. We started to vacation in Europe and were astounded at their smaller homes. The homes that I visited were wonderfully decorated and not cluttered. Their homes had multi functional pieces of furniture. Everything had a place and was just perfect for the space. They would wait patiently for just the perfect piece to fill the spot.
As Bill and I became empty nester's, we started to enjoy our time together in evening walks and coffee dates. Our life was unfolding before us and we loved the carefree life we were living. We loved traveling and being away from home.
Both of us were working and away from our huge 1900 square foot home with a walk out basement for most of the day. Neither of us enjoyed yard work or shoveling snow. Neither of us were interested in the perfect decorated home. Let's face it off white walls was as wild as we got in our decoration prowess.
It was at this same time that Bill's mom moved out of her home of 40 or so years to a smaller apartment. The task of downsizing was momentous and very overwhelming at times. When it was done, it felt wonderful for her and her children.
We were lucky to have his mom around to make the decisions on what was wanted and not. In the case of my parents, we had to clean it out after they died. It was not a happy time for those concerned.
Bill and I started to chat about dealing with all the “crap” in the basement. We had boxes still packed up from two moves ago.
One day while we were tidying up for the “maids coming” we realized that of the seven rooms and three bathrooms, that we had only used 3 rooms and two bathrooms. The rugs still had the vacuum marks from the cleanup two weeks before.
It did not make sense to me that we heated this huge house where we barely did more than sleep in and have dinner. It did not make sense that we stayed somewhere that demanded time from us that we did not want to give. It did not make sense to us that we had so much stuff. We had 5 desks for the two of us. We had two sets of living room furniture. We had 4 beds. We had 4 sets of dishes and well the mugs and glasses took up half our kitchen cupboard space.
It all did not make sense. We were drowning in stuff we did not need or use. We forced ourselves to re evaluate that future day that we may need our stuff.
We bucked the trend and looked for a smaller space in the name of a condo which was located downtown. Our friends and family thought we were absolutely nuts to leave our beautiful new home with hardwood floors and everything we had wanted when we had it built for us. However sometimes even the things we thought we wanted were not the things we actually want. Lifestyles change and in our case we knew we needed to make the change to set ourselves free from what was no longer our dream.
In a matter of a few months we found the ideal place in downtown Calgary and sold our house just half an hour on the market. We now had less than 3 months to get downsized.
I am not going to say it was an easy task. It was daunting. It was emotional. It was reliving every year that we had been married. It was fascinating to find things we had long since forgotten about. It was a task in patience while we figured out what we needed and what we thought we needed. There were tears and laughter. There were memories and you know what I still carry all those memories even though I do not have the “stuff” that I kept stored in the basement.
We love our simpler and in many ways easier life in our condo. It is really freeing to be rid of all the things that hang around in the basement haunting you. Our daughters thanked us for going through our things already. What a bonus for them not to have to go through our memorabilia after we are gone.
We started slowly and as we got the hang of it, we became pros at sorting through our junk. We decided instead of watching the same re-run sitcom every night that we would go into the basement and fill up a garbage or recycle bag. Thirty minutes every evening. It worked well for us. It is incredible the amount of garbage and recycle we kept in our basement. It just kept coming out. Our garbage went from its weekly one black bag to as many as we dared to put out on garbage day.
We still struggle with clutter and accumulation. We have adopted a motto; "Shirt in, Shirt out". Meaning if you buy anything for our condo, something of equal value or size must leave. It works. Further we find ourselves shopping differently. Costco rations rarely works in our limited space. And we look at most things and raise an eyebrow and look at each other and say “garage sale fodder”!
If I haven't said it enough, Bill and I have never looked back after our change in residences. It seems that daily we find another perk to living where and how we live.
It is all about being honest with yourself and knowing what you really want out of life. Work towards the things that make that happen and happiness will follow.
Wendy H.

The Magic Of Christmas

CHRISTMAS IS PAST

When I was young, I could hardly wait for Christmas. It was such an excitingl time in my life. Santa, toys, candies and fun. It was a belief in something bigger and better than myself. It was a belief in magic.

This year my 9 year old granddaughter did not want to visit Santa in the mall. Yet as she struggles with the truth of magic, she tries so hard to believe.

During a very slow time at work, i told the story about my granddaughter not wanting to sit with Santa. We all shared our stories about how we found out. I was not surprised that everyone knew exactly how they found out the truth. I was in grade one. It was a few weeks before christmas and my very good friend, Sharon, just blurted out that there is no santa and that it is only our parents who play santa. I was 6 years old. I can still visualize the exact moment when I was told. The coldness of the winter air. The heaviness of the woolen snowsuit. The grey sky. We were running down the street to get home into the warmth of our home.
This is what I remember the day I was told there was no Santa.
I was so devestated. How could it not be true?

We grow older and many other known truths are shattered and replaced with newer truths. We struggle to maintain a piece of its former truth, but somehow it doesn't always fit in to the new truth.
Our lives become a constant struggle of finding the truth without devestation.

I am sad that my granddaughter is no longer in her magical period of life. I am sad that my fridge will not likely have another santa picture with her sparkling eyes of a child in that magical time.

WKH

I Remember

I dropped a toonie into the plastic bucket and pulled out a poppy. A toonie! It seemed inadequate. I wear a poppy every year. And every year I remember.
Sunday was Remembrance day. There was a computer poll that day which asked ; “How important is wearing a poppy to you?” 97% of the respondents reported that it was very important. I have to ask where was every one's poppy?
A few weeks ago, I started “poppy watching”. I noticed that in the first few days of November, I saw the poppy in place on many of the seniors I came across. I take the C-Train to work everyday. On the train is mostly students heading off to U. of C. In my initial assessment, I was impressed by the number of students wearing the poppies. I say wearing loosely because I saw them on backpacks, hats, scarves, pockets, purses, and even on an i-pod. As the week wore on closer to Remembrance Day, I saw less poppies on my university train buddies. Lost or fallen. Not to be replaced. Maybe not even aware they no longer had the poppy. The poppy was lost !
I know that these kids are more aware of Remembrance day than the generation before. They are seeing the sacrifice that their brothers, freinds, and relatives are making in Canada's “non war” in Afghanistan. Even if they don't know them personally, they can't help but relate to the media's sound bytes on the death of the newest soldiers.
As I continued my poppy watching, I noticed that my generation (not too old, not too young) had a dismal showing in the poppy. I am not sure why my very informal survey showed this.
I know where mine was. I know why I wear my poppy on the left side over my heart. I do it to honor my father who fought in the second world war as an infantry man. My father did what countless others did at that time. They trudged off to war to defend our country.
This is the time of year that I think most about my dad. I think of him as a young invincible man of 21 years of age. Did he really know what lie ahead of him. I think not. Yet without question he and countless others went overseas. AND slowly their invincibility was pounded out of their every fibre of living as they watched their buddies and comrades shot to bits before their very eyes.
My father like so many other veterans never spoke about the war. I remember asking dad to tell me about his experiences. What I got was an erie quiet that shouted volumes. What I saw was the eyes of a man whose soul was tortured. The vacant cold and yet sad stare that only ice blue eyes could project. The children of veterans know this look. It is the look of the horror and the atrocities that have been pushed deep down into their gut. It is that war that they wage against themselves to put behind them every memory and every loss they ever experienced.
Now my dad is gone. I still remember his personal sacrifices for me, my family and our country. I remember his sad eyes. I remember his shattered youth taken from him. I remember seeing him cry for the first time in my life as he watched the Remembrance Day ceremony on TV. He cried for the friends he watched die before his very own eyes. He cried. I cried.
Every year in pubic school we had an assembly. We memorized and spoke this poem:

IN Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce hear amid the guns below.
We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, saw dawn, felt sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up your quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch: be yours to hold it high
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.

By Doctor Major John McCrae of the 1st Field Artillery Brigade. He wrote this poem on May 3, 1915 after the battle of Ypres, Belgium, the area generally called Flanders. It was there , during the Second Battle of Ypres, that some of the fiercest fighting of the first World War took place. Working from a dressing station on the banks of Yser Canal, dressing hundreds of wounded soldiers from wave after wave of relentless enemy attack, he observed how “we are weary in body and wearier in mind. The general impression in my mind is of a nightmare.”
In May 1915, on the day following the death of fellow soldier Lt. Alexis Helmer of Ottawa, John McCrae wrote his now famous work, an expression of his anguish over the loss of his friend and reflection of his surroundings – wild Poppies growing amid simple wooden crosses marking makeshift graves, written in 20 minutes, captured and exact description of the sights and sounds of the area around him.
Lieutenant-Colenel John McCrae left Ypres with these memorable few lines scrawled on a scrap of paper. His words were a poem which started, “in Flanders Fields, the poppies blow...” Little did he know then that these 15 lines would become enshrined in the innermost thoughts and hearts of all soldiers who hear them. Through his words, the scarlet Poppy quickly became the symbol for soldiers who died in battle.
His poem speaks of Flanders fields, but the subject is universal- the fear of the dead that they will be forgotten, that their death will have been in vain.. Remembrance, as symbolized by the Poppy, is our eternal answer which belies that fear.
Sadly, Lieutenant-Colenel John McCrae died of pneumonia at Wimeriux, Franc on 28 January, 1918. He was 45 years old.

This history was supplied by the Royal Canadian Legion.

In Loving Memory of dad and all who fight our foes.
WKH

Happy Halloween

Last night Jill and I couldn't resist looking at photos of them as children in their Halloween costumes. There they were lined up at the back door franticly waiting to leave. Pictures, I always needed pictures. Bill's mom worked tirelessly on their costumes year after year. Every year they had a new one. They were clowns, bunnies, leopards, and even a chocolate chip cookie. Jackie thought that one up on her own and grandma put together a brilliant costume for her.
I remember many a Halloween with them. Bill stayed home and handed out candy. The three of us joined our neighbour and freind, Shirley, and their kids to canvass the neighborhood. Like their costumes the weather was never the same from year to year. I recall more bone chilling, cold and snowy nights than I did warm autumn ones in Regina. The most memorable one was when we had an arctic front fall down and leave snow up to my thigh on the streets. There was never any question in the children's mind that we were going out. We managed to do a half dozen neighbourhood houses and the kids wanted to quit. The kids gave it their best try, but winter won that one.
I recall the Halloween that both the girls broke out in Chicken pox a few hours before we were to go out. That was a very sad Halloween for the girls. As their freinds came to trick or treat, they could only watch. So many tears. However as word got out to family and freinds that they weren't able to go out, they were given candies from everywhere. They did better that year than they did on any other Halloween.
When I was young, I really “hated” Halloween. I know that I must have been the only kid in the sixties that did not want to go out and begged mom not to go out. There are so many reasons for that. The biggest one was that I was very shy and it took a real act of faith to go to a strangers door and ask for candy. Mom and dad sent my younger sister and I with our older brother who couldn't wait to ditch us down the street. It didn't help that we never had costumes. We went as cowgirls or as “Indians”. Mom cut a hole in a “gunny sack” and there I was in this shapless itchy brown bag. What is a gunny sack anyway? I remember every year I wished for one of those Halloween masks to wear. That was at least cool and I could hide my face. One year I did get my wish. To my dismay it was hot. It was impossible to see out to see where you were going. And the smell. To this day, I can still smell the mask.
The final reason for not liking the Halloween thing was that the candies were less than remarkable. More than half the candy was the hard toffee candy kisses. I disliked them. In my day, the candies were that, suckers, bubble gum, and other unwrapped terrible tasting candies. Rockets were my favorite. If word got out that someone was giving away apples, we would run to that location. Chocolate bars were unheard of, well at least in my neighbourhood. When we got home there would be the inevitable looking through our booty and the always fight inducing trading issues with my brothers and sister.
I was so happy when I was finally old enough to stay home.
A few years back my granddaughter was out on her first Halloween night in their new neighborhood. She was definitely pre-school age. It was a stormy and extremely cold wintry night. Bill and I had gone over to be there during this exciting time. Alanna and Chris were back in less than an hour. They were absolutely frozen. I asked Alanna all about her experience. She plunked herself down on the step of the stairs. She was still in her unicorn costume and plainly said to us; “it's just not worth it.”
That is my granddaughter!
WKH

WRITING IN THE WORKING WORLD

“Beware the barrenous of a busy life.”
by Socrates

My writing callus on my finger has softened, my journal pages are fewer and the days between the blogs are many more. I miss my journalling.
I forgot how much working full time takes out of a life. It is not just the 8 hours at work, but it is also the half hour commute on either side. It is the getting dressed up and made up in something other than jeans and a t-shirt. It is arriving 10 to 15 minutes early and leaving a few minutes late. It is doing all the necessary living things in the precious few evening hours after work. It is re prioritizing life to fit in the most important tasks before bedtime rolls around and that hour seems to sneak up on me all too easily.
Reading and writing have taken the brunt of my new priorities. However for almost three years I have been writing about my world. I have learned to look at the ordinary and see extraordinary things in them. My work world has given me so many new observations to a life I have not participated in for a time. The stories are roaming restlessly inside of me. I try to give them form and yet somehow the day passes without a word written. Silently I file them away until the time is right to write.
My words and stories will wait for me. Will You?
WKH

Labour Day Classic Stew

Get out the cold f/x. The cold virus has been unleashed.

Over the years working in the doctor's office and the medi clinic before that, I noticed a trend emerge every fall. As precise as a German train schedule the parents called into the office for an appointment for their school age son or daughter because of their cold symptoms. It was always the third week of September.
The children went back to school usually after the Labour Day weekend. They gathered together after a two month long break away from each other. Rested, relaxed and in relative good health they filed into their new classrooms for their new year. They mingled and giggled and shared and hugged. All the while they were brewing up the newest batch of cold virus in the best petri dish ever known to exist, their classrooms.
One by one the children succumbed to their virus stew and ended up sick with a cold. Children don't usually like to share unless it is unwittingly. It was not long before their parents (and grandparents) became the recipients of their newest petri dish virus stew. In the clinics we began to see the parents around the Thanksgiving long weekend. The parents were not as resilient as their children. They were however dedicated to their work at the office. Nothing as simple as a cold would keep them home.
Off to work they went sneezing and coughing their germs around the office and laying down their germs on every thing they touched. The office petri dish brewed and bubbled until the parent's coworkers without children came down with the cold. We saw these patients in early November. Appropriately this would be the time the children would be back into the doctor with their third or so cold. As the community became sick, the immune suppressed became sicker. Nurses worked feverishly to combat the flu with the newest batch of the flu shot.
The medical office became hectic with the flu and cold patients. The patients came in sicker. The number of ill patients from all ages and backgrounds became overwhelming. The office cold and flu peaked just before the Christmas holiday. The patients came in looking for what I called “the magic wand” treatment. They wanted the doctor to make them better because it was Christmas. They couldn't possibly be sick because... The excuses ran the gamut. None the less we sent them home to recuperate from their illness with some TLC advise – rest.
Thus the Christmas vacation began. The children and many office workers went home for their two week break. They rested and mostly recuperated from the Labor Day Classic viral stew.
We would see the cycle repeat itself once again in the third week of January. Usually the cold and flu would hang on until the sunny days of spring.
This is not scientific, but it is what I noticed when I worked as a nurse in the office. Thus when I had my granddaughter over for a sleepover this weekend, it was really a ride down memory lane when she arrived with a cold.
It hasn't changed.

WKH