Dad vs Hornets

I'm becoming terrible at writing in this thing.  Chatting with a friend last night I remembered a good Dad story from one or two summers ago.

~ ~ ~ ~

Trevor, Kat, Sarah and I had all gathered for a BBQ at my dad's place.  My dad and I go out to the shed to drag the BBQ out.  Inside the shed, I point out to dad that there is not one, but two hornet's nests tucked up against the roof.  He mutters something akin to "not for long" and we continue tugging the gorgeous piece of meat-grilling machinery out onto the patio.

Quick rant here, if you'll indulge me.  I won that BBQ in a raffle once.  It's a $1500 Napoleon stainless steal BBQ complete with an automatic chicken rotisserie.  I'm damn proud of that BBQ as it's really the only thing I've ever won.  Since I was  living in an apartment at the time, I told my dad he could hang onto it for me until I have a house one day and can use it myself.  So dad takes the BBQ, gives his BBQ to Trevor, and Trevor gives his garage sale BBQ to me.  And I have to buy the propane tank myself.  That free BBQ ended up costing me $60.

Okay, back to the story.  As previously mentioned, my dad muttered "not for long".  I didn't take much notice of that statement at the time because I was stressing out over the stains on my beautiful BBQ.  Once we had it in place on the patio, I begin fussing about cleaning it up for dinner while my dad slinks off towards the garage.  Moments later  he comes back with a 2x4 and a mission.

It doesn't take me long to figure out his maniacal plan.  My usually calm, intelligent father was afflicted with the classic "man solves problem with a big stick" paradigm... whilst in a small shed with only one exit, two hornet nests, and likely three hundred pissed off bees.

Inside, Sarah has heard the unfolding drama and gathers TreKat to the window to witness the showdown.

I quickly try to run interference:

Me: "What are doing?!  They're going to sting you!!"
Dad (nonchalent):  "It's fine."
Me: "There are TWO nests!!"
Dad (annoyed): "Julie, stop being dramatic."
Me: "Do you know if you're allergic?  You can die if you get too many stings!"
Dad (confident, nearly in the shed now): "They'll have to catch me first."

Clearly my dad thinks he's invincible so at this point all I can do is run to at the very least save myself.  I hop inside the kitchen to join the viewing gallery.

Moments later, dad comes running out the shed and we let him inside, too.  He's pouting and genuinely surprised at this unexpected outcome of his heroism.  Like it hadn't occurred to him that the hornets would be less than impressed with him destroying their house(s).

Dad: "The little bastards stung me".
Us: "No!/ What?/ Really!/ Seriously?"
Dad: "Shut up."

Truth, Truth, Lie

I recently learned a new road trip game.  It's called "Truth, Truth, Lie", and as it's fitting title suggests, you and your companions take turns telling stories, two of them true, one of them a lie.  Let's play!

My stories below all evolve around a family road trip to Prince Edward Island when I was about 7 years old.

Story 1
On the ferry boat crossing to PEI, we were given permission to wander around the boat so long as we stayed together.  Sarah was only 3 at the time and was harnessed on a leash, so Trevor and I decided to take her for a walk.  The ferry was quite large, with the lowest level full of cars and two decks for passengers to explore.  The upper deck was entirely open air, and the lower deck was partially enclosed with a wrap around observation deck.  Upstairs was a bit too windy for us; Sarah's leash turned out to be a saviour as 3 year old's in high wind proved to be great kites.  Downstairs was much more fun, with a snack bar and pin ball machines inside and the great view outside.  I had never been on a boat before and was very excited to lean over the edge and water the water churn out behind us.  It all felt very Titanic, and we even passed some huge chunks of ice (icebergs to my young mind) with penguins on them.

Story 2
Also on the ferry boat as we approached PEI,  Trevor and dad were on the upper deck of the boat, and my mom, Sarah and I were on the lower deck.  We were approaching shore, and I decided I wanted to see from the top level.  I ran upstairs, but wasn't able to find my dad or Trevor.  The boat was beginning to dock so I rushed back downstairs trying to find someone from my family amidst the crowd of people exiting.  They weren't downstairs either.  I ran laps around the ferry until I was the last person on the whole boat, terrified that I'd been forgotten.  As the crew was raising the ramp to depart, they realized I was a stowaway and ushered me off the boat, alone.  Just as I was approaching a complete nervous breakdown, I saw my family gathered at the bottom of the dock, watching and waiting to see what I'd do.  It was one of those classic "I thought YOU  had her" parenting moments, but they somehow turned it into a "and that's why we don't wander away" lessons.  At least it reaffirmed any self-consciousness about having one of their children tethered to a harness.

Story 3
While in Prince Edward Island (on Prince Edward Island?) we were staying at the house of some friend's of the family who had two kids a bit older than we were.  Their play room humbled me...it was in the loft above their laundry room, and was accessed by a ladder.  One afternoon they took Trevor to the beach to see their secret cave, but my parent's wouldn't let me go since they thought I was too young to climb the rocks with big kids.  I was pouty and wanted to go sulk it out in their awesome playroom.  While climbing up the ladder, I slipped and fell, bashing my nose on the way down.  Too prideful to admit that I fell from the ladder - thus proving that their point about not being able to hand climbing to the cave -  I stiffed my nose bleed with one of the family's guest towels, and then hid the bloody evidence behind their washing machine.

So which one is the lie?  Guess below :)

Neil-wycik

Living in Neil-Wycik was definitely a bitter-sweet experience. On one hand, it provided subsidized housing for students in downtown Toronto (I think rent for my room was $420). On the other hand, the rooms were so small you couldn't rotate a twin mattress, and you co-habitated with vermin. Either way, during the formualative years of 2002-2005, I called Neil-Wycik my home.

The very first day I lined up in the foyer with all the other newbies waiting to move in, my dad grew bored of waiting, as he is apt to do. After doing a little bit of sleuthing (read: he walked over to the admin desk like he owned the place and rooted through paperwork until he found my name) my dad hiked up four stories worth of stairs and explored my new accommodations on his own. After a measly 5 minutes he returned full of glee, and that's when I knew I was in for trouble. His proud look of self-satisfaction was the embodiment of years of preaching "how good I had it" finally coming to fruition.  He didn't even hide his taunts from the other newbies waiting in line: "Your room is smaller than your bathroom at home" he told me, and my stomach knotted.

As true as his statement was, I check-mated him later when I noted that Stella and I were going to be living with three dudes. This revelation was not as amusing to him.  Growing up under his roof, boys were literally not allowed to step foot on our staircase, and now my room was sandwiched between two of them.  At the very least, perhaps he found comfort in that they were both aerospace engineers; Worse case scenario if I were to fall for one of them, his grandchildren wouldn't grow up in a house on wheels. 

South Carolina

Sarah and I took a road trip to Florida with our dad over Christmas a few years ago.  We went to Zephyrhills and stayed in a 55+ community with our aunt and uncle.

Most of the drive there was uneventful, save a late night waffle stop in South Carolina. It was about 2am, but when you've got a hankering for waffles, nothing else will satisfy. I went into the store first, while Sarah was just waking up in the car, and dad was having a cee-gar.

There were two dudes working that shift, a cook and the server, and it really brightened up their night when I walked in.  When I came out of the restroom, I found a tired Sarah trying to explain that it wasn't deja vu, we were sisters. They couldn't believe their luck.  I remember trying to see where my dad was, hoping he'd come in and grunt at them as he was apt to do, but he was just smoking away, amused at the show unfolding through the window.

These guys were the most stereotypical southern diner hicks that could have been designed.  From their lanky stature, wanting oral hygiene, and greasy aprons to their thick twang.  They were very interested in that we were from Canada. In fact, their "boss man" went to Mont-Re-All once.  The cook told us that one day he'd like to take a train to Mont-Re-All...is that where we lived?
Well.  That cunning line was too smooth for the server to handle.  His angry retort was pointing out that the cook was too old for us: "Wud are you, a ped-o-phile!?"  The obvious response followed: "Sheit...ped-o-phile? I can't even SPELL ped-o-file!". That's when things got exciting...and the Shud Up Fight was born:

     Shud up!  No you shud up! No YOU shud up!  Shud up you ped-o-phile! I ain't no ped-o-phile!

That's either when my dad's cigar was finished or simply when he saw fit to end the show. Either way, he walked in and announced he needed some waffles. They ceased and desist their shud up fight and made us some mighty satisfying waffles.

We honour those fine gentlemen and their gift of tasty waffles each and every time Sarah and I have a Shud Up Fight.

My First Stitches

Another one of my first memories involved the combination of golf balls, blood and freezies. Let's set this story up in chapter headings, just to shake things up a bit.

Golf Beats Freezie:
My dad was practicing his swing in our Georgetown backyard, facing the woods. Not that anyone would confuse him for an environmentally-conscious man, but I'll give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he was either simply swinging, or using biodegradable balls. Anyway, as it were, my two-year-old self wandered up behind him, wanting to request a Freezie. As would become an unfortunate theme in my later life, I exercised poor timing and was caught mid-swing in the face.

Blood Beats Golf:
This is actually where my memory kicks in. My dad burst into the kitchen, holding me in his arms. My mom ran over yelling "Cope, what happened?!" and held a blue jay cloth to my mouth. When she pulled it away it was saturated with blood. If I wasn't crying before then, I was wailing now!

Freezie Beats Blood:
We went to the hospital to get my face mended. I have no recollection of the actual stitching process, but I remember being told afterward that I was very brave. Then the doctor came back with the biggest Freezie I had yet to see in my young life.

I don't know if the scar on my lip or forehead was from this experience, but I know whichever it was, it was totally worth it.

The Georgetown Snake

This is one of those family memories that has continuously been brought up over the years. I myself have very limited memory of it, but I think it's worth writing down.

When we lived in Georgetown, our house backed up onto a small forest. My dad often hit golf balls into the woods (more on that another time) and would sometimes accidentally mow over a snake when cutting the lawn. We had no back fence so our yard was often subject to woodland visitors.

One day Trevor was out back playing in the sprinkler with a friend when he stepped on a snake with his bare foot.
He started to scream. While my mom rushed outside with me in tow (I was about 2 at the time), Trevor ran into the safety of the house, slamming and locking the door behind him.

Being the early 80's, no one had cell phones and neighbour's were friends, so my mom went next door to call my dad to come home and let us inside. While we waited, we tried to find the offending snake.

We found him in the neighbors bushes. Or rather, my mom and the neighbour found him. Even though they tried to point him out to me, I just couldn't see it. This is the only memory I actually have of this incident...crouching on the cement patio square, staring into the bushes and feeling very angry that I couldn't see the snake.

When my dad got home, he had two upset out kids...one because he saw a snake, and one because she didn't.

A letter to my parents...GOLD

Here is a letter to my parents when I was 17.  The forward and all italics are from Sarah:

And I have something that I've been saving but thought it went well with your second last post and would share it. Dad dug this gem up over the summer. The junk in the brackets will be my mocking.

Why Julie deserves to be treated as a 17 year old

Responsible

• held down stead jobs since 15
• Maintains honours with straight A's
  never had a grade lower than a B
• babysat on regular basis on a Thursday night during school until 1 o'clock am and still managed to go to school on Friday (I imagine that if you didn't, you wouldn't have been allowed to keep that babysitting job)
• When given a time at night to come home at, always is home then or earlier
• Editor of yearbook
• represented all of grade 10 at Hoby Leadership workshop    (You had a lot of difficulty spelling Leadership there and couldn't be bothered to white it out or re-write the letter to fix the mistake... Not going to lie: it undermined you, Julie. I lost a bit of confidence in you there.)

Mature

• most valued yearbook contributor
• Bronze award for academics and extra caricular activities    (Well, Ms. Yearbook Editor, I hope you paid more attention to the spelling in the yearbook than you did with this letter. Also, the inconsistency of capitalization at the beginning of these bullet points...)
• makes own money and pays for everything except medical needs etc. (Which, lucky for them, the government picks up; so you were a freebie for our parents!)
• doesn't smoke,    (Commas do not ever end bullet points. I'd like to inspect the yearbook you edited next time I'm over, please.)
• doesn't drink    (... doesn't tell the truth...)
• doesn't do drugs
• hasn't had allowance since 15
• handles work, school and soccer at once

expectations (Seriously? Underlined title without a capital?)

I want to be able to spend time with my friends. All of my friends work and therefore the only time we are able to get together is at night. The majority of my friends don't have curfew's (Not the correct pluralization.) and those who do are at midnight. During the school year their curfew's are at 10pm. 4 of my friends have their G2's & I plan on getting mine by the end of the summer so transportation is no longer an issue (Oh, boom! I beat you at something; I got mine when I was sixteen!). All I ask for is permission to go out (And, apparently, to take the car after the end of the summer). I argue because your decisions aren't justified as there are no reasonable reasons for them (HATE that sentence.). When I have no obligations for the next day & I am not asking to be out all night, there's no good reason why I should have to stay in. I am basically the ideal daughter (LOVE that.), grades, job, sports, nice, I even have a boyfriend in case you worry I'm out picking up strangers or something (I'm very fond of the last two reasons). With teenagers, you have to give and take (Says the expert who has raised so many teenagers of her own). I give all I am able to give, there is nothing I can give or improve myself on (Your humility, I think, could stand some work.). When you have bad kids, you give them more slack & privliges (Close.), so why benefit the bad & punish the good? I want a midnight curfew, one o'clock on special occasions. I give no more screening in return (Your generosity, also, could probably be improved upon.).

It's a good effort, but I'd give your very first mark below a B for this. Do you remember if they went for it?

Hope you like this at least half as much as I did!

Love,

Sarah

Sh*t my dad says

To borrow from the ever amusing twitter account, my dad says some gems as well. This message will likely be updated frequently.

- On temp dying my hair purple in university: "You look like a pig to market". Translation: in Holland at the livestock markets, they painted coloured stripes down the animals' backs to indicate their price.

- On moving in with Dave: "You don't want to be a used car, do you?" And: "What's your next boyfriend going to think when he finds out you lived with Dave?" (thoughts, Drew?)

- On the police breaking up the party next door: "Oh snap!"

- On observing my nose piercing and Sarah's tattoo: "You girls don't like the way I made you."

- On breaking down our heritage: "My good Dutch kids have been contaminated by the English."

- When I first bought some thongs, my mom was folding the laundry in their room. My dad noticed the underwear and hand delivered them to my room one by one, critiquing them in dismay. Mostly he was terribly unimpressed but enjoyed embarrassing me. My favourite comment was "this isn't big enough to catch a fart!"

- On Sarah deciding to go skydiving: "Wait.  Did you pay the Rogers bill yet?"

My House Rules

We had a bunch of house rules. Some were followed and others not so much. We were spanked as kids sometimes, but the biggest threat of all was the unhappy-face paddle. Reincarnated from a paddle ball, my mom drew a sad face on it with a thick black sharpie, complete with tears. I don't know if my mom knew those were symbolic gangsta murder tears but they certainly got the message across either way. When we were bad, the threat of "don't make me get out the unhappy-face paddle" was all we needed to hear to straighten up. I don't think it was ever actually used though. I wish we still had it; I would hang it on my wall.
We also had the classic "wait until your father gets home" and "1...2...". 3 never actually materialized. Whether from us smartening up or if my mom didn't want to have to follow through with the mystery that happened after 3, I don't know.
We would always try to run when we knew a spank was coming. My dad was good at catching us by the arm as we tried to run by, and we were pretty good at crying before he ever touched us. Fear and threats seem to be the most effective parenting techniques.

Rules:
- Dinner at 5:30 sharp
- No individually packaged snacks. Strictly for school lunches only
- Ask before eating anything that wasn't healthy
- Must split 2 pops between the three of us
- Don't eat the chocolate chips or the baking chocolate
- no colouring on the fire place
- no smushing cheese slices under the coffee table
- Don't walk up the wrong side of the banister
- don't jump on the furniture

That's all I can think of for now. I'm sure there were many more.

My household was also very egalitarian. Treats were split equally between us...right down to the mm of pop or meniscus curve of chips.
The only fluctuation for this rules worked in my favour. Neither Trevor or Sarah were "activities" people, so I got to go to all the Brownie and Girl Guide camps, do all the swimming/skating/dance classes I wanted to. I never really felt that "forgotten middle child" thing. I was pretty demanding as I recall.

When Trevor was 8, his allowance was x and his bedtime was y. I could also expect x and y when I turned 8. That was a rhythmic progression until we were teenagers. All of a sudden those rules didn't apply any more because I was a girl. My curfew stayed early despite me pointing out that I was better able to handle myself better than Trevor should I get into an altercation. I also tried to spin the angle that Trevor didn't often use his curfew and that I should be able to use his overage. No dice. Eventually I wised up and started telling them when I'd be home instead of vice versa. Cell phones had entered the picture by then as well, which might have helped my cause.

Nanny's house in Connecticut

I am bored on a bus in Peru right now...massive traffic jam on the way to Puno, allegedly caused by some race cars...so I guess I'll get lost in some memories.

Nanny lived in the States until after Grampa Les died. Her house was two levels with a dark wood paneled stair case. One of those kinds that goes a couple steps up, has a landing where you turn and continues the rest of the way up along the wall. As a child I was quite convinced that there was a secret door just a step or two above that landing that led to a different world. That world looked suspiciously like Fraggle Rock, now that I think of it.

JJ lived next door with his grandparents. We liked going to visit Nanny so we could play with JJ. He had this triangle red bum scooter that you sat on and wiggled and it would ride up and down the driveway. Mom and dad bought us each one when we got back to Canada.

There was a beach close by where we found these long tubular sea shells. Nanny said the seagulls smash them open on rocks and eat the slug inside. Dad used his cigar to smoke one out to show us. I remember that it smelled and I felt bad when they chucked it onto the water and a gull grabbed it. Seemed to me that it was doing just fine until we came along.

Then mom told us about how when she was a little girl, she was at the beach in England playing with her favourite doll, throwing it into the air and catching it. A seagull swooped by and snatched it out of the air and flew away with it. They chased it as far as they could but weren't able to recover her doll. I recall that story breaking my heart.

Earliest Memories

Here are a few of my earliest memories, in no particular order or relation. That's what you're going to get from this blog...a spattering of nonsense that probably doesn't interest anyone but me. And potentially anyone I happen to write about. I'll try to keep the bitchy-teen-angst infused comments to a minimum this time.

We had just moved from Georgetown into our new Brampton house, which would have made me three. Our basement was unfinished, dark, and potentially full of monsters. Trevor, 6 at the time, was scared to go down there and as an act of defiance and bravery, I decided to upshow him and go down there, alone, in the dark. It was terrifying and I was pretty sure I was going to die, but well worth it in the end. This was probably the turning point in our relationship.

Again, basement story:

The neighbourhood kids were all in our basement, and as dumb kids do, we were running the circular path around the stairs for no particular reason. As I ran by, I accidentally knocked down a 2x4 into the path, but as the race was on, I didn't want to stop and pick it back up. In fact, I probably prided myself on a successful obstacle for the next runner to overcome. The next runner was unfortunately my toddler little sister, who stepped on the board and got a nail through her little shoe, into her little foot. I feel TERRIBLE!!!!!

That last story I held onto in shame until just last year, when I finally felt it was time to tell Sarah what I had done. She obviously didn't remember, as she was really young, but upon confirmation with our dad, he said that it didn't happen. Perhaps she just fell and there was no nail, or maybe there was a nail and she narrowly missed it...or maybe I dreamed the whole thing up. Don't know, but it's still a memory. So onto the blog it goes.

The day I got Blackie:

Mom had told me that I could get a kitten as soon as the fences were put up in our backyard. I was sitting in the kitchen looking out the patio doors, emphatically telling her that the fences were there, but I still didn't have a kitten. I was really angry about it and sulking my five-year-old face off.
Aunt Marg and likely Nanny opened our front door, as they came over every Wednesday for lunch. I was too sulky to go say hi, so I just sat slumped in the kitchen against the back wall. When I looked over, Aunt Marg was carrying a little black kitten and handed him to me. I vividly remember that moment, and how happy she looked to be able to give him to me. I felt nearly sick with guilt for being so angry at my mom.

Why is it that my earliest memories are charged by guilt?

Proof that I'm a thoughtless and unfeeling person:

When Grampa Les died, he and Nanny lived in Connecticut. Mom and Dad only took baby Sarah to the funeral with them and left Trevor and I with Aunt Caroline and Uncle Lambert for the weekend. I was probably about 4 if Sarah was a baby. It was the first time they'd been away from me, and it was over my birthday. I remember being very excited to spend a sleep over weekend with A Caroline and U Lambert, because they had a pinball machine in the basement and the little mushroom houses for their smurf figurines. Before Mom and Dad left us there, they gave me a birthday present to open. It was a girl-transformer, which transformed from a cat into a lipstick. It thrilled the shit out of me. Grampa Les, who?

Random, the day I became a "Big Girl":

One afternoon before I was old enough to go to school, I asked Mom to take me to the park. I decided to test her to see if she'd let me into the stroller and was really surprised when she let me. Feeling pretty pleased with my lazy ingenuity, I took the stroller ride congratulating myself the whole way. Until we passed my brother's friend Lindsay. She was 3 years older than me, and someone who I considered a "Big Girl". I was humiliated at being caught hitching a stroller ride, and never rode in one again.

Random, possibly the origin of my bathroom insecurities

More on the subject of Lindsay, she was an only child, had two cats, and super long hair. Though I wasn't aware of this word at the time, to me she seemed very bohemian. Once when all the kids were playing hide and seek, I thought she was going to go hide in the bathroom, so I followed her in there. She wasn't in there to hide, and didn't seem to mind taking a poo in front of me. Also very bohemian. She explained that when you got to go, you got to go, and once her mom didn't poo for a very long time and the doctor needed to sit his hand up her bum and take the poo out. I really wish I didn't know that story. When I went to high school and Lindsay was there, that story was all I could think about every time I ran into her, with her cropped green hair. Confirmed: Bohemian.

Short and Sweet...wallpaper:

My first room in the Brampton house had strawberry shortcake wallpaper. I was quite convinced that it was scratch and sniff, and used to sniff the different characters all the time. In fact, I remember giving it a lick, just to confirm whether it was also tasty wallpaper; it was just regular wallpaper flavour.