Everything—Even the Kitchen Sink

(continued from previous post)

Home Hardware quietly announced they were shutting down the post office so they could make room to sell everything—even the kitchen sink. Of course, I thought I would still be slipping over to buy household items, but it doesn’t seem to be happening. My consumer habits altered overnight.

Sometimes to meet my husband’s post office requirements, I find myself in Shopper’s Drug Mart where I trudge past racks of enticing paperbacks and endless shelves of junk food to line up at the back corner of the store beside pharmaceuticals. I haven't bought anything yet.

Other times I drive a little further and end up in Zeller’s. Their Post Office is right at the front of the store and manned by a wonderfully experienced and pleasant woman who knows everything about the post office. There is never a line-up more than two people long because she is so efficient.

Last time I was mailing something I picked up a new electric kettle to replace the one leaking all over my counter. It was on sale probably a few dollars cheaper than the same model at Home Hardware. I’d still rather shop at Home Hardware, but I just never seem to be there anymore.

Consumer Fickleness

Until recently, as the gopher for my husband’s firm, I would find myself in the local Home Hardware doing business with the post office in the back of the store at least three times a week.
Over several years I’ve bought a kettle, a mixer, pizza pans, mousetraps, rubber tips for my chairs, an apron, oven mitts, an electric blanket, varnish, stain, touch-up paint, vacuum bags, water filters, duct tape, Christmas lights, bus tickets, bicycle tubes, garden gloves, Murphy’s oil, a screwdriver and chocolate bars to mention a few. My local Home Hardware carried everything but the kitchen sink.

Suddenly everything changed.

Even though they are within walking distance and they carry practically every convenience for a North American household, I haven’t shopped at Home Hardware for over a month.

(continued)

Poop Unscooped

(continued from previous post)

Because we don’t have a dog and don’t have friends who bring their dogs over, I was more than surprised to see a fresh doggie doo right next to the hose holder in our fenced-in side yard. I turned up my nose and walked around it as I unwound the hose to add water to the pool. I walked around that little bit of poop several times, wondering where it came from and if the owner would possibly be coming anytime soon with a scoop.

Several hours later as I rewound the hose, an unmistakable stink filled my nostrils as a soft warm substance oozed across the bottom of my barefoot. Oh crap.

Moral of the story: A little crap falls in every life. If it’s in your yard clean it up.

Poop and Scoop

Growing up, I lived on a farm and we had a dog. Teddy, a beautiful collie-cross with a shining coat and impeccable habits, did tricks. He would sit, rollover, and shake a paw upon command. Best of all, he would go to the woods to deposit his crap which he always covered with dirt or leaves. We loved that dog.

Now when I see a dog, owner in tow, romping through the park across from our home, I invariably focus on that little plastic bag the human slavishly carries. I wonder if sometime in the not so distant future with the demise of the plastic bag the owner will have to wash and rinse a cloth bag after each little outing. I cringe. How can someone love an animal that much?

(continued)

How My Soul Turned Murky

(continued from previous post)
When in my spirit I heard, “The kind of murky green your soul gets when you neglect me,” I had to admit I hadn’t been reading the Bible much, had stopped listening to praise and worship CDs, didn’t pray with all my heart anymore, and didn’t have much patience for anyone asking for help.

Little disappointments and a touch of cynicism have brought about this neglect which led to a scummy green cloud blocking my relationship with the Lord.

The Cure for Murkiness
I sprinkled the pool with a smidgeon of copper sulfate, a bucket of chlorine and two scoops of Excel, then ran the pump. Several hours later the water sparkled right to the bottom.

I prayed and repented, turning my heart back to God. I got into the Bible. I received prayer at church. It was that easy; the murky scum in my soul is gone. Now, to keep it that way.

The Pool is Turning Green

“The pool is turning green.” Elizabeth informed me.

What does it matter? September is here. I know from experience that nobody will be swimming anymore. Still, I would like to tuck away a crystal clear pool for the winter.

So, I attack the pool with the long-handled brush and the new vacuum head I have recently purchased to replace the old falling-apart one. The vacuum keeps sticking to the bottom of the pool. Don’t ask me why.

Despite the sticking problem, I finally have the whole pool vacuumed. The water in the shallow end looks healthy, but the deep end appears murky green—the colour that happens when the chief caregiver is gallivanting in Montreal and Saskatchewan, too far away to do regular pool maintenance.

“The kind of murky green your soul gets when you neglect me,” I hear in my spirit.

(how does a soul turn murky)

Is “Little Black Sambo” a Bad Story?

This season at Toastmasters, I’m planning to do a series of speeches involving storytelling. For my first speech I am choosing to tell one of my favourite tales, Little Black Sambo. I enjoy the way the story reads and love the ending.The story has a hero, speaks strongly about family, provides drama and stretches the imagination. I find Little Black Sambo delightful.

Well my daughter Allison tells me I should not do this story. She informs me that Little Black Sambo is politically incorrect.

“Why?” I asked.

“You shouldn’t identify people by skin colour.”

I find that totally baffling.

As far as I’m concerned this ‘seriously white’ mama is going to tell a made-up story about a brave little chocolate-coloured boy from India (nevermind that the picture makes him look like he is from Africa).

What do you think?

A disturbing dream

(dreamed in 1992)

I thought my dream was simply about taking care of Zack, Aunt Marnie’s green Amazon parrot. You see, Aunt Marnie, who was in the process of settling elsewhere, had temporarily left talking, whistling Zack with our family. But even though the dream was all about parrots, my family suggested the dream wasn’t about parrots at all.

In my dream Angela was caring for Zack inside an empty church building while Marty and I were out and about. The church building was a wooden structure that could possibly have seated about 100 worshippers if there had been pews. As it was, shiny wall-to-wall hardwood covered the floor and there were big windows along both side walls. The only bit of furniture was a pulpit.

When Marty and I returned to the church building, presumably to fetch Zack and Angela, we found only a white bird somewhat bigger than the green Zack. Immediately we asked for Zack.

The white bird hopped over to a small hole in the wall behind a wooden pillar on the left side of the church and pointed to it with his wing. Outside in the snow we saw poor Zack struggling about. As for Angela, she had altogether disappeared from the dream.

I knew a tropical bird such as Zack would not be able to withstand the cold so I demanded that Marty rescue her straightaway. At that moment, the president of church council and his wife entered the church. We two women took it for granted that the men would save the bird. After some problem finding Marty’s coat, they headed out.

By then it was dark so we women could not see the men on their mission, much less direct them from the window as women are wont to do.

Nevertheless, some moments later the council president and Marty returned. Perched on the president’s shoulder was a large blue parrot with black markings around beady eyes, and with rather a smug grin on his beak. Even though I like the colour blue a hundred times better than the colour green, I didn’t like that bird at all.

Marty quietly explained that Zack had been found lying dead in the snow, with a large chunk eaten out of its chest. The blue bird smirked as Marty related Zack’s fate.

Like Angela, the white bird vanished entirely from the dream.

When I awoke I remembered the dream in vivid detail and at breakfast related it to the family.

Marty matter-of-factly pointed out that I had been dreaming about our church. Zack represented our denomination; the white bird symbolized the Holy Spirit; and the blue parrot, what we could be left with when the squabbling about “women in office” was done.

Angela, on the other hand, said the dream had a personal meaning for me. According to her, it meant my church activities were for the birds and I should concentrate on my family.