The Will and The Well

Yesterday the holding tank for our Artesian well began making strange noises, and eventually the pump stopped working. Back in 2001, after years of grief with an old reservoir that ended with the river that fed the reservoir drying up, members of our community were forced to purchase wells to provide water to their homes.

My father went in with his brother Frank, and two more households, mine and my neighbor, and paid a well drilling company to drill a well that would feed water to four homes. Everyone chipped in to pay the bill, which totaled well over $15,000. The enormous cost came from the fact that the only suitable water source was over 100 feet in the ground.

Despite the cost, the water was very clean and very safe to drink. The guy who drilled the well said that the water was amongst the cleanest he had ever tested. After the well was dug, we had to hire a plumber (and you know how much plumbers charge) to install the pump and the large holding tank that would be set up in my uncle Frank’s basement. This was in 2001, and until now, we have not had an issue with the tank, the pump, or the well. Until yesterday that is.

The tank contains a rubber bladder that assists the water pump. The tank itself is only supposed to last ten years, so we were fairly lucky to get twelve years out of it. After running tests as instructed by the same plumber who installed the unit all those years ago, we were unable to get it working. We came to the conclusion that the bladder had busted. The price for a new tank was $500, which may not seem like much money, but please remember that this is just a week after Christmas, and our pockets were all fairly empty by now.

Today, my dad, my uncle Frank, and I, along with the plumber, who made a house call ($$$) worked together to get the thing working again. After two hours of hard work in a very confined space, it was fixed.

The well working should have been the highlight of the day, but there was something that happened in the basement that was far more special to me. My dad and his brother spoke. Not only did they speak, they also told stories of their parents and how stubborn and comical my grandfather was. They even spoke about Gram.

Let me explain. Two months ago, my grandmother died. Along with her passing, the will that my grandfather had done up was read. He named my (Bi-polar (no, Tri-polar) Aunt who causes trouble wherever she goes) Patsy as the executor of the will. Rather than obey the will of my grandfather, she and a few of her siblings (Frank included) decided to screw over the others and purchase the house at a price far below the value of the property, and repair the home, and eventually rent it out and pocket the profit. Immediately the 11 member family was split down the middle. My dad, who said that he didn’t mind if they got the house, he just didn’t like the underhanded manner of which it had been done.

Eventually everything was worked out (a long story and perhaps the topic of another post), but the family remained split.

My dad and his younger brother Frank were close since they were kids. Frank always looked up to his older brother, and dad always made it a point to include Frank in his life when he got the chance. I have a picture of my dad and Frank when they were just teens. The picture was taken back in ’57, and you could tell that they were close. While I grew up, dad and his brother always hung around with each other. They fished together, chatted every day, and even shared tools in their sheds and garages. Later they worked together in the pulp and paper industry. And then this.

Working on the well today was the first time the two of them talked since my grandmother passed away. At first they kept it pretty professional, and then one of them, I think it was dad, mentioned a few funny things my grandfather used to do. Things like starting his car off in second gear because he hated driving that damn manual transmission, and things like being stubborn (see, I get it honestly) over everything, and eventually even funny stories about my grandmother. In just a little while, the two of them were laughing and talking, and me? I sat and listened, totally enjoying every minute of it. I think I may have even shed a tear or two, but I never let them see me, they would have called me a sissy.

When my father came home, I could tell that he was relieved. “I am happy to have that fixed, now I can relax” he said. Mom smiled and said “Yes, thank heavens the water is flowing again.”. My dad looked over and said “I wasn’t talking about the water, I am glad to have my brother back again, I missed him.”

Death, dying, and a ten year old’s curiosity of it all

On our way to the in-law’s part of the province, our son asked if we could stop off at the local grave yard. The both of us looked at each other in astonishment. He is ten years old, and real curious to what death really is, he has been for quite some time. At the time of his grandfather’s death, he was sheltered from the entire situation, seeing how he is a very soft-hearted kid who nightmared at the slightest mention of someone dying. But much to our amazement, he is beginning to mature, and with that comes questions.

He asked his mother where his pop (grandfather) was, and his mother’s reply was “over there across the highway!”

“What! Pop is across the highway? Is he just lying there on the ground? How cruel!” he uttered. Of course now we figured would be a good time to explain the death and dying stuff to him.

“Can I go and see him? I miss him!” he said. We explained that the gravestone is just a reminder of Pop, and that although his body is buried in the ground, his soul and spirit are in heaven.

When we got to the grave site, and walked over to the headstone, our son took one look and said “So this is where my grandfather is these days. Dig him up, I want to look at him!” Kids! You certainly do not know what they will come up with next!

 

waltzing in heaven: A love story

I can still see the two of them, hands held tight, gliding around the dance floor. My grandparents used to love heading to the Senior’s club every Saturday night. Grap would always have a shot of rum before calling the cab. The rum helped ease the pain in his tired legs, and after the pain was gone, he and gram would spend the rest of the night dancing.

It was so romantic watching them dance. A couple who had been married over seventy years, they knew the steps perfectly. They did what we call the ‘Newfie Two Step’ here in Newfoundland, the rest of the world referred to the dance as the Box Step. Whatever it was called, they danced like pure silk, those partners in life, partners in dance, partners in love.

There were others on the dance floor on this night, but as they held each other so tightly, in their minds it was only them who glided across the well worn hardwood.

Dad recalls back when he was a teenager, and my grandparents first learned to dance. “They pulled all the old furniture out of the living room and stacked it tightly against the wall in the hallway. Gram put together a huge meal for all their friends, invited anyone in the community who played any kind of instrument, and made sure that the old wood stove was put out, as to not cook the guests!”

My dad went on to explain how when everyone arrived and had their meal of Jiggs Dinner, homemade pie and tea, a few of the guests got out their accordions and fiddles and commenced to play a few waltzes. A few of the guests were great dancers, and with patience and love, they taught the others how to do the dances. My dad added that from that moment on, every Saturday night, my grandmother had people over, and they danced from dusk til dawn. It was a way of breaking up a week of hard work on the farm and the daily challenges of raising eleven children.

Dad’s best memory of his parents is one of them dancing hand in hand, the look of love in their eyes, as they danced through over seventy years of wedded bliss.

They are both gone now, my grandfather in ’04, and Grandmother just this fall, but I know that somewhere they are dancing again, arm in arm, hand in hand, two hearts together once again

The Cracker Jack Ring

Mom’s engagement ring came from a box of Cracker Jacks. Dad’s story was that in an earlier relationship that had gone sour, he had spent all his savings on an expensive ring, and the woman threw it in a pond, so when he met and fell in love with mom, he had no savings left, so he was forced to give her a toy ring he found in a box of Cracker Jacks.

The ring stood the test of time, fifty years to be exact. On their 50th wedding anniversary this past July, Dad surprised Mom with a new one, this time made of Gold. He said that if the toy metal one lasted fifty years, this one ought to last another fifty for sure. Mom still kept the old ring, which shows its 50 years well.

As for mom and dad, they are still as happy now as they were all those years ago. They do everything together, and enjoy even the little things. We had a celebration for them on their anniversary, complete with a photographer who took family pictures of everyone. Love you Mom and Dad!

 

Frogs in the bucket

My mom comes from a place known as The Codroy Valley. ‘The Valley’ as it is usually referred to, covers the westerly coast of the island, and is rich in farmland. As a child, my mom grew up on a farm, but when she was old enough to leave home, she moved to Stephenville, and became a teacher.

After my mom moved here, her family was not far behind. Her dad had a bad heart, and with the closest hospital in the Stephenville area, it became a need for him to live there. When they left their home in Codroy, my mom’s uncles and other relatives fought for the farmland, and one uncle in particular actually sold the land using a fake deed that he had done up. A large dairy farm company bought the land and turned the little homestead into a vast dairy farm.

This was during our camping days, and on one beautiful sunny Friday, mom and dad made up their minds to pack our camping gear, join my mom’s siblings who planned to go camping as well, and head for a small pocket of land that still belonged to the family and the dairy farm had not taken. By the time we got to the field, we noticed that several of our uncles and aunts had already arrived.

My uncle Mike and his family set up camp just a few feet away from where my dad and I set up our tent. My uncle’s old Chevy pickup was almost flattened to the ground, thanks to the homemade camper that it held in the truck box. The door to the camper stood just above the tailgate, with a small stairs leading to the ground.

First I have to say, back in the day, my dad was somewhat of a practical joker, and camping trips allowed him more victims than usual.

Anyway, that day, all us kids had to find something to do. While mom and her siblings sat in the field where they grew up and reminisced, my cousins and I ventured to a local marsh in search of frogs. We found quite a lot of them at the end of a boggy pond, and later that evening we returned to the spot with flashlights and buckets.

Frogging was something we got pretty good at back in the day. Although those little reptiles served no use to us, we always enjoyed catching them and putting them in ponds back home.

When the sun had set, we set to frog catching. I had a five gallon salt beef bucket, a butterfly net, and a flashlight. The frogs would almost freeze when you shone a light on them, so catching them was quite easy. In no time at all, I had about fifteen or so frogs in my bucket. I cut a few small holes in the cover, and brought my frogs home to the campsite.

When we got there, our parents were engaged in conversation, laughing and talking about old times. I set my frogs next to the car and went play with my friends. While I was gone, dad’s practical joke skills took off, and he schemed a plan to get my uncle Mike in a great joke.

Once my uncle Mike and his family had gone to bed in the camper, my dad took my bucket of frogs and sat the bucket under the tailgate of Mike’s truck. Whenever a frog attempted to jump out of the bucket, he hit his head on the plastic cover of the bucket. Imagine that with over a dozen frogs, it sounded like someone was banging on the door, trying to get in.

Dad quickly ran back to our tent and under the covers. Every time the frogs hit the cover, my uncle would open his door to see who was knocking on it. He must have answered the door about fifty times, and each time we heard him say “Hello, who is there, Hello???”, my dad would crack up laughing. My dad still laughs about that to this day. My uncle Mike still fails to see the humor in the joke.

Those old days provided us with so much fun. It seems that by today’s standards,the sixties and seventies were innocent and so safe. I can only hope to share half as many adventures with my son, so that he can have fantastic memories of his childhood, as I have.

The Old Canvas Tent

Back when I was a kid, we did lots of camping. No, we didn’t have one of those hot shot home away from homes, we used a tent.

It was 1976 when dad bought it. Yellow walls and a green roof, and metal poles that weighed a ton and took forever to set up, but once it was set up, the thing was huge.

On the night we bought the tent, my brother and I chose to sleep outside in the backyard. Since the tent was so big, we brought stuff from our room, including our stash of comic books, flashlights, and of course, munchable goodies such as strawberry flavored hostess potato chips, pop rock candy, and root beet. My brother was six at the time, and I was thirteen.

Back then, it was okay to be a kid at thirteen. At thirteen, a kid wasn’t expected to be thinking about girls, college, or his next car. Thirteen year olds (or any kid for that matter) didn’t spend their time playing video games (they weren’t invented yet) or chatting on a cell phone (ditto), so being thirteen was a whole lot easier.

The next day, after the dew had dried up and the grass was nice and warm, Dad took the tent down (half a day’s work) and we loaded all the camping equipment into the trunk of the old Ford Falcon (Dad’s pride and joy), and the whole family headed to the nearest pond to do some camping, fishing, and whatever adventure came our way. Dad said that it would be good to get away from the neighbors for a change, and he was excited to get some fishing in. Mom was less enthusiastic, as my sister Tammy was just three at the time, and mom was pregnant with my youngest sister Cindy as well.

As we drove down the well beaten path that led to the pond, we played car games like spot the buggy. This was a time when there were plenty of VW bugs around, and seeing one allowed you to punch your brother in the shoulder, saying “buggy, free punch”. My arm was red by the time we reached the camp area.

When we finally reached the camp area that surrounded the large pond, I seen dad’s smile disappear. What we planned to be a weekend away from our neighbors turned out to be quite the opposite, as most of the community were already set up around the pond in their tents and truck campers.

Dad was never one to let himself get down, and with this, he found the best spot for the tent and proceeded to set the thing up. This time it was much easier, as a few neighbors joined in to help.

Being kids, our first task was to find other kids and see what type of trouble we could find. All fourteen of us grabbed an old Timber Jack tire tube, and headed for the pond. Mom said that she still thinks of this day with fear.

Mom told the rest of this story to me a few years back. I must have had some sort of memory loss, as the story remained a little foggy from here on out, but it explains a lot now.

Mom said that before they had a chance to set up camp, we were already on the huge inner tube, out in the middle of the pond. I was right there with the rest of the kids, none of us great swimmers. She said that complete horror struck her the next time she glanced at us, as she only seen thirteen kids on the tube, and they were all laughing at something. When she called out to me, the kids looked at each other in horror, realizing that I was not amongst them…. I had fallen through the middle of the tube, my legs entangled with theirs, and I was underwater.

The fathers of the kids, dad included swam to the tube, pulled all us kids, including the kids on top the tube and me under, to safety. Dad also performed CPR on me. Apparently, according to mom, I was not breathing, and Dad had seen someone on a soap opera on TV save a life this way. In minutes, I was coughing up pond water, but breathing again.

For some reason, I could never remember this experience, but I have always had a fear of water. I never learned to swim, and maybe this is why. Dad says that in the five years that we camped, he must have aged twenty years.

In Eighty One, dad got rid of the tent and bought an old truck. He found an old truck camper in the classifieds, and we continued camping with this, but this is another story for another time.

Despite the frights we gave our parents while camping in the old yellow tent, they still talk about all the fun we had camping. “With bad comes some good” my dad still says. He says that the tent gave us time to do fun things as a family. He is right, I have all those fun memories of the times when I was a kid. I have them stored up here in the happy, carefree part of my brain, and whenever I need to reflect on how to be a parent to my child, I can reach back to the times when I was a kid and we did family things, when we were all young and the world was not such a scary place, and I can apply some of the lessons I have learned as a child to today’s world, and to my role as a dad.

 

Kids perception of death

My six year old niece is obsessed with death, heaven, and God. She gave the entire family a laugh yesterday when she made her Poppy a surprise. My dad recently lost his mom, and his dad died back in 2006. Little Janie figured that she give my dad a memento to remember his parents, so she drew a picture of two people lying in coffins, with big smiles on their faces, and dirt surrounding them. She did this in crayon. Cute but a little morbid. oh my, kids!

She also chose to make up her own prayers before she goes to sleep each night. Just last night this is what she said…. “And God bless all the little kids out there, even the ones who will grow up to be killers”

A modern Day Fairy Tale

I miss a certain little boy. He was just a skinny little thing, afraid of his own shadow, afraid to speak his mind. He was a nice kid, at least thats what his momma said, whenever she got the chance.

The little boy had two sets of grandparents, and they all lived just a few blocks away from the little guy. His parents were kind people who gave him all the love he ever needed. His mom and dad were very young and were able to do all sorts of fun stuff with him such as going for walks, camping, and just being there for him.

The little guy had a few friends, but being shy and lacking confidence, almost nobody noticed him around. For years, he was an only child, but soon after, he was joined by three siblings who he loved to play with.

The little guy befriended a few other kids who lived next door. These kids were not as fortunate as the little guy, having parents who treated them very cruel and mean. The little guy witnessed this cruelty, and it managed to affect him in very painful ways, even causing him to nightmare from time to time.

He was an underachiever who constantly proved his teachers to be correct. The teachers and his parents met often, seeking answers to the same question, which was, simply put, ‘how do we get him to believe in himself?’

As the little guy grew into a bigger guy, and then into a man, his life was not an easy one. Finishing school with lackluster grades, he chose to work in his dad’s profession rather than seek a college education. He married young, to a woman who was as cruel to him as his childhood friends’ mother was to them, and with the damages he received from that experience, and from his lack of confidence, he said nothing to his cruel wife.

When his wife mentioned having children, the young man grew very excited. All he ever wanted was to be a dad, and to raise his children with as much love and kindness as his parents gave him. This would not happen though. The young man and his wife were not able to have children of their own. First his wife blamed herself, and then through intense tests, it was discovered that the problem laid with the both of them. She tried many procedures, some very costly, but in the end, the couple remained childless.

Having placed the blame on the young man, she embarrassed him when his friends were around, calling him ‘half a man’ and crying at the sight of young mothers and large families. His feelings were hurt so badly, but she showed no concern, laying blame as a way of coping.

The marriage did not last, and thankfully so. Things got so bad that the young man sought the advice of anybody who would listen, such as friends, and even clergy.

Coming from a religious background, the young man told his story to his minister. He told of the horrors his cruel wife bestowed upon  him, always blaming, always hurting him, and never showing any sort of love. The minister must have taken notice in the young man, as he warned that although the church did not approve of divorce, they also did not approve of suicide, and the minster feared that if the young man remained in this marriage, he may actually consider such an alternative. With this, the young man left his wife.

It took many years for the young man to get over this incident. His confidence already lacking, he lived through the rest of the eighties, through the nineties, and on into the two thousands, always alone, bouncing from one relationship to another.

Just when he was about to throw in the towel, the young man grew very sick. Doctors worked to revive him, to give him another chance. When the young man, now a middle aged man returned, he had a new outlook on life. He would no longer dwell in the past. He would move on, and do his best to succeed.

With this, everything changed for him. The middle aged confident  man met a beautiful woman who loved him with all her heart, and the two built a relationship that has lasted throughout the years. The middle aged man became a father to the woman’s son, and the three of them lived happily ever after.

To anyone who does not believe in fairy tales, I say that they can happen, and that wishes can come true. All those years ago, I was that little boy, and I am now the happy middle aged man who is so proud of how his life turned out. If you ever doubt that true happiness is possible, just look at how my life turned out. There is always hope, you just have to remember to keep wishing, and it will come true if you believe in yourself.

Rest in Peace My Lovely Grandmother

My mom called on Thursday to talk a little about her experiences with her mother in law. She said that Gram was the most loving, fun person she had ever met. Mom spoke about the times when my grandmother invited everyone to her house. She would cook up a big pot of homemade beans, and along with her delicious home made bread, she fed everyone who attended her parties. She would make sure that she invited all the local talent, and with squeezeboxes, guitars, fiddles and more playing traditional tunes, my grandmother would get up and step dance to every song.

Mom said that gram was a very energetic woman who always found the good in everything and everyone. Mom recalled one occasion where she, my dad and my grandmother traveled many miles in the back country to pick bake-apples (a local berry that grown in abundance here on the island) . They were in the middle of the bog when a thunder and lightning storm broke out. In the pouring rain, mom and dad ran for cover, only to find my grandmother on her knees, laughing to kill herself at the two of them, as they ran in circles looking to take cover.

Mom remarked at how she had met Gram. My aunt Joan was getting married, and being my mom’s older sister, she asked my mom to stand up for her at the wedding.  Mom still remembers the tall lady who came over and welcomed her into the family. The wedding was one that was remembered for quite some time, as my grandmother catered the entire event herself, complete with lavish meals made from fresh vegetables from her garden and steak from the many cattle they raised on their farm. My grandmother was quite the lady.

My mom commented on how intelligent my grandmother was. She could cook anything, she made clothes for all her eleven children, she had gardens that reaped only the best vegetables and fruit, she even spun her own wool, and knitted winter clothing for not only her children, but for my grandfather and many of the people in the community as well. And she did it with love.

My dad has been devastated by the damages caused to his mother by Dementia. Since contracting the disease, my grandmother has even forgotten who my dad was on several occasions, and this cut deep for my father. My dad is not one who discusses his feelings often, so when he admits that he is hurting, it affects us all. The positive thing here is that my grandmother is now at rest, and hopefully in the loving arms of my grandfather once more.

On Friday evening, all the family were called up. Gram’s condition worsened.  She had stopped eating and was simply living on a few fluids that were administered to her by a nurse. When dad entered the room, Gram raised her arm as to signal him to come over. With that, she held my dad in her arms, uttering “My baby, be with me”

On Saturday night, my dad spent the night next to his mother. She experienced trouble breathing all night, and although he felt helpless, he remained by her side, along with his many siblings.

On Sunday afternoon, exhausted from the effects of the disease that stole her from us, my grandmother closed her eyes, and peacefully, she left this world.

I visited her home that afternoon, while she lay still in her bed. I paid my respects to the kindest person I have ever known. When I got home, tears fell as I thought about all the good things and lessons I was taught by my grandmother. This minute, my grandmother is happy, and by the side of her faithful husband, Teddy. This is where my grandmother prayed to be ever since my grandfather passed away.

Goodbye Margaret White (February 20, 1916 – July 15, 2012)

flat Seven-up makes it all better

When we were kids, mom always had the best cures for whatever ailed us. When we had headaches, she would get a cold facecloth and place it on our foreheads, and with her kiss on the cheek, the headache would magically go away. If I had a toothache, she would put a few cloves in the cavity, and the pain would go away until morning, when the dentist would take care of the tooth. If I had a stomach ache, she would take a bottle of Seven-up, stir it until it went flat, and then give it to me in a small glass. Somehow drinking flat Seven-up made it all better.

All day today I have been suffering from Kidney Stones. I haven’t passed any yet, but I can feel the damn thing in my groin, and I have been suffering the side effects throughout the day, which includes headache, nausea, and a very sore stomach, along with the fear of actually passing the stone. Mom has been calling all day, making sure that I am alright. The last time I had to pass a stone, I had to ask my parents to give me a ride to the emergency ward of the hospital, so that the on-call doctor could give me two shots of demerol to ease the pain.

Tonight, mom asked whether my stomach was okay. I said that the stomach pain was at its worst. What did she recommend? That’s right, Seven-up. “Make sure to stir it to flatten it first” she said, still in the loving way she always portrayed. Thanks Mom, it worked. I may just be able to have a good nights sleep.