Thoughtful of Fish

 

It’s funny sometimes, how a sound, or an event, or a moment of awe can suddenly bring back a significant memory.

The picture at the top was taken on my recent vacation to the Big Island of Hawaii, about half-way through our trip.  We were sitting on a bench near the beach watching this particular sunset when I was suddenly struck with a memory of one of my Dad’s final moments.  He opened one eye and seemed to be trying to say something, and then he closed it for the last time.  I don’t know why, but watching that sun go down made me think of that moment, and I felt the tears streaming down my face.

I wish I knew what he was trying to say, I wish I knew in that instant that this was the last time we would see each other, but I didn’t.  This has haunted me ever since.  As the sun in that picture sank down to the water and out of sight, I was struck by the idea of impermanence; all that arises must cease.  A moment so profound and unforgettable as it happens, is also one you can never have back.

And just as I was reflecting on that, about 20 small fish spontaneously flipped up into the air out of a big wave that was about to crash onto shore.  I guess they were trying to save themselves from being pummeled on the rocks.  The surprise of that awesome sight jolted me back into the present. This is life, Irene!  For pete’s sake, live it!

This trip was, for me, meant to be a time to relax, recover, and reflect.  I gave myself permission to do whatever I felt like, to eat and drink what I wanted, to laugh and be stupid, to cry if I felt like it, to go on a few adventures, and to talk about it when something interesting or profound struck me. The Big Island of Hawaii was the perfect backdrop to do all of those things.  Thank goodness for an open-minded and patient partner in my husband.  He tells me that I’m the one who taught him these qualities, because he wasn’t born with them…but wherever he got them from, I am forever grateful.

Since I am not a particularly religious person, it’s my philosophy that helps me to put life in perspective.  I’ve always been this way, reflective and philosophical, even when I was quite young. When I was very small, my ambition was to be a wise old woman.  To heck with being a doctor or a entrepreneur or a guitar teacher…I was going to be a wise old woman.  Is that weird or what?  I pictured myself being able to talk people through their problems, to have the ability to help anyone with any personal difficulty.  I wanted to be a good listener.

But I also felt the need to express.  When I was in Grade 4, I used to hand in stories to my teacher, Miss Logan.  They weren’t assignments or homework, I just wrote about things that struck me, and handed my paper in. Poor Miss Logan had enough work to do without having to respond to me, but she always did. When I first picked up a guitar at the age of 12, songwriting became my new form of expression.  I wrote in diaries for many years, which helped me to find ideas for songs, and also helped to make sense of what was happening in my life.  In 1996 I started to write articles online about songwriting. That was even before the word “blog” came into existence.  And now I write here.  It started out being more about a songwriter’s view of the world, but eventually I came to the conclusion that it’s only Irene’s view of the world, and that’s okay too.  From the inside out.

During this trip I have realized that, outside of golfing and gardening, writing this blog has become my favourite and most self-satisfying venture.  I am most surprised when someone tells me they’ve been reading my posts, because, to tell you the truth, I don’t really expect people to care much about what I’m thinking 🙂  Occasionally, one or two of you become my Miss Logan and respond to something I’ve written and I appreciate that very much.

Though it’s impossible to actually relive a moment in time, at the very least I can try to express my experience of it.  But I’m also going to work harder at living in the moment, because you never know when a school of fish will suddenly appear…

IJ

Function vs. Flair

 

Warning:  not for the squeamish.

I want function, not flair.  I just need some decent, practical, cotton underwear.  I don’t want to spend $11 on one pair of frilly, lacy things that are just going to itch all day and make me cranky.  It’s embarrassing how long I hang on to the old pairs because I can’t find any new pairs.

My mother used to tell me she hoped I was donning new underwear daily because I wouldn’t want to get into an accident and the ambulance attendants noticing that I hadn’t changed them for awhile.

That scared me pretty much into keeping my underwear meticulously clean.  Isn’t it weird what parents say sometimes, the things that go on to haunt you for the rest of your life?  What on earth made her use that scenario?  Yet, for the last few months I have secretly hoped I didn’t find myself in an ambulance.  I mean, that would seriously be embarrassing.

My quest for replacement underwear almost reminded me of my quest for new runners.   Read all about it here.

Back to my undie debacle:  one time in a momentary loss of sanity, I grabbed a package of underwear from Costco on my way to the checkout.  When I tried them on at home (who’d want to try them on at Costco?), I realized that I bought a bunch of pairs that, when I pulled them up, nearly went right up to my chest. Looking at myself in the mirror, I screamed.  That was the last time I bought underwear at Costco.

I used to get my underwear at Zellers.  They had those nice, boring packages of Fruit of the Loom that suited me just fine.  The only thing that was wild about them was the occasional floral pattern.  Or maybe some stripes.  In desperation, I tried all of the big department stores, but time and again I could only find the frilly ones that cost $11 each.  And those were the cheapest pair. I even broke down and walked into an intimates store meant for an obviously younger clientele.  To my surprise and delight, I found some hot pink cotton underwear that were perfect.  I picked them up and was ready to buy a whole bunch of them when I noticed the phrase “sweet cheeks” on the rear end.  It was either that or the pair with exclamation marks.  I just can’t picture myself with large, pink !!!’s on my butt.  Even if I know nobody can see them, I’ll know they’re there.

Wait just a minute, what’s the !!! supposed to mean anyway?  Surprise?  Perhaps at the circumference of my cheeks?   Or just a shock reference?  If you can see this, you shouldn’t be looking? You can understand, I’d be in a constant state of anxiety just wondering.

Interestingly enough, I recently had similar issues looking for a new bra.  It seems that 99% of bras out there these days have that kind of padded cup called a “molded bra”, that is, frankly, supposed to make you look like you don’t have any nipples.  They SAY that the real purpose is to make the bra look “seamless”, but I’m not buying it, I think it’s the nipple thing.  For pete’s sake, everybody has nipples, so who are we kidding?  And secondly, I DON’T REQUIRE PADDING.  I cannot express that strongly enough.

But do you think I could just find an ordinary, boring bra?  The kind that I’m used to, like Playtex or Wonderbra, only seem to have DDD sizes. (For you of the opposite gender, size DDD would fit a couple of small watermelons).  Wait a minute, why are you guys reading this anyway???

I don’t need padding but I’m not that big, so neither option seemed right for me. In my sensible sensitives search, the only other type of bras I have come across seem to be right out of a Victoria’s Secret magazine. I’m sorry, I can’t imagine wearing a bra with diamond studs or feathers, let alone tiger stripes or purple lace.  Again, even if nobody else can see it, it’s the knowing.  It’s the knowing.

Finally, the other day I compromised and bought the “seamless” bra.  It will take me awhile, but I’ll get used to the nipple-less façade.

And today, much to my relief, I managed to find the boring old Fruit of the Looms at Walmart.

Thank goodness the ambulance attendants will never know.

IJ

We’re Not Good With Small Boats

 

Once upon a time, many years ago when my daughters were small, my husband and I decided to surprise them with a little canoe excursion on a local lake. We thought it would be great fun for them, even though my husband had never been in a canoe, and I had only limited experience using one.

We kept what we were doing a secret until we reached the lake.  Our daughters were both very excited as we rented the canoes and fastened life jackets to all of us.  My husband went with our youngest daughter and I took the older one and we set off in our canoes on the lake on a rather blustery day.

The first sign that we were going to have a problem was when I realized we were simply heading to the middle of the lake instead of sticking close to shore where it was safer for us beginners.  I tried to yell to my husband, but he didn’t hear me because he was too far away and the wind was definitely impeding us.

The second sign was when my husband’s canoe actually started to take on water.  The canoe was low in the rear and the waves from the lake were slopping over the side into the canoe one after the other.  I yelled over to him again, but he still didn’t hear me and I could see it was getting worse.  I had been trying to steer our canoe back to the shore, but decided that I had to turn around to try to get to him before their canoe sank.

That’s when I made a fatal error.  You don’t stand up in a canoe.

You can see where this story ends.  We all ended up in the middle of the lake, hanging onto our canoes and trying to swim them back.  One of the guys from the rental place finally saw us and rowed out in a different type of boat to pick the girls up and take them safely to shore. My husband and I slowly swam in, hauling the canoes with us.  The drive home was soaking wet and utterly silent.

When we got home, it was the first and last time I ever saw my husband take a sip of alcohol.

Our daughters have long ago forgiven us;  they have both canoed or kayaked since, and now we pretty much laugh about it, especially when we go by that lake.

But.  When my husband signed the two of us up for a kayaking/snorkeling adventure on our recent trip to the Big Island of Hawaii, you could understand my trepidation.  I had not been in a boat any smaller than a BC Ferry since that disastrous day in the canoes.

The impetus for our adventure was that our old high school friends, who were going to be on the island the same time as us, had already booked the excursion, and we didn’t want to be left out.  We were nervous, but ready to try again that early morning when we all congregated at the store front where the tour was booked.  I have snorkeled before, so I wasn’t too worried about that aspect.  It was the damn kayaking part.

At the end of the little talk that was given by the business operator, all about the coral and species of fish we might encounter, we were directed over to the kayaks where two cute 20-something guides, twins Kai and Po, showed us how to handle the oars and sit in the two-person kayaks properly.  They told us that the males would sit in the back, the females in front.  Next, we were instructed how to paddle in unison, and that the rear person would do the steering.  They informed us that we would kayak across the large bay to the Captain Cook Monument, and then snorkel around the waters in front of it.  That’s when I first realized that we were going to jump directly IN the water FROM the kayaks.  And even more alarmingly, we were going to “jump” BACK IN the kayaks FROM the ocean when we were finished our snorkel.  One of our friends kept retorting “Yeah, I’m swimming back.  All the way.”

When we got to the small rocky beach that we were going to launch our kayaks from, anxiety was certainly high.  The first and second couple took off without incident, so my husband and I figured if they could do it, so could we.  Kai and Po held on to either end of our kayak and we managed to get in without too much embarrassment, and off we were.

Keeping the kayak moving in a straight line became an immediate issue.  I kept arguing back to my husband that he was supposed to follow my lead and paddle exactly at the same time, on the same side as me.  “You’re not really a follower, are you?”  I yelled sarcastically.  Later in the day, he swore that the reason we kept going to the right was because I was weaker in one arm.  The argument continues to this day.

We paddled and paddled in our somewhat ineffective manner to try and keep up with everyone else.  There was a bit of a headwind so paddling was a lot of work, but the kayaks definitely felt more stable than those canoes we remembered.  Kai and Po, who were together in another kayak, would occasionally stop and explain something about the geography or the history of the island.  Thank goodness they did, because our arms were definitely feeling the workout.  Part way through our trip, we came across spinner dolphins, who get their name from their trick of jumping straight up, out of the water and spinning in circles before toppling back in.  It was amazing to be with and watch them.

After about an hour of kayaking on and off, we reached our destination across the bay;  Captain Cook’s Monument.  This was erected after Captain Cook was pretty much slaughtered by the Hawaiians, who at first thought he was a god, and then found out he was not.  The small area that the monument is situated on is actually still considered British territory.  The reason that we couldn’t tie the kayaks to the shore was that it became illegal to do so, likely because the tying and the tromping around by humans was causing permanent damage to the monument.  I did see a lot of people walking around the monument anyway;  some of them were on hikes and were allowed to walk there.  Others were simply unaware of the legalities I suppose.

We fumbled around the kayak, trying to put on our snorkeling gear, and one by one, all of us tumbled into the water.  Okay, not so bad.

The snorkeling was spectacular;  so many different fish of every shape and size, type and colour, the coral, even eels and, thankfully, no sharks.  We were told there might be a couple, but they never showed up.  We spent another hour snorkeling with one of our guides showing us all species of fish, naming them and explaining their peculiarities.  It was perfect.

Two of our friends at some point, had had enough and made their way back to the kayaks, which were all tied together and floating some distance from where we were. The other guide (I never did get to know which was Kai and which was Po) was keeping them all together.  I didn’t notice that my friends had gone back, but eventually my husband and I decided that we would return too, so we started swimming towards the kayak collective.

When we arrived, my husband tried first to get in our kayak.  And tried.  And tried.  The two ladies who had already gotten in their kayaks, kept quiet.  (Come to think of it, they never mentioned how getting back in had worked out for them).  As my husband finally, awkwardly tumbled back in, I took a big breath, knowing it was my turn.  I mistakenly figured it would be easier for me, a smaller, lighter person.  Nope. Kai (or was it Po?) showed me how to simply haul my whole body up, and land stomach first across the kayak.  Nope.

One of my friends offered to grab my hand and pull.  I tried.  Nope.

Holy crap.

I took my lifejacket off, hoping a little less weight and resistance would help.

Nope.

Finally, on one of my attempts, Po (or was it Kai?), pushed me up by my ass out of the water, and I flopped into the kayak face first, laughing hysterically.  When one is totally embarrassed and humiliated, ALWAYS laugh hysterically.  It distracts people from your shame.

The kayak back to the little bay where we launched from was quite a bit rougher because the winds had kicked up, but we managed okay. To tell you the truth, though, this time I hardly heard what Kai and Po were saying because my desperate paddling and panting pretty much overrode the sound of their voices.  We finally came close to the shore, and Kai and Po went ahead of us, instructing us to come in one kayak at a time so they could help us out.  Our kayak was first.

At this point, the waves were quite high, but they were behind us so we sailed in to shore quite quickly and with little effort.  Then we had to maneuver the kayaks sideways as we hit the shore, so that the boys could hold it steady as we disembarked.  One big wave hit, and then another as one of the boys grabbed my arm.  Safely on shore I looked back to see that my husband had actually been knocked out of the kayak by one of the waves, into the water.

Memories.

It was a limb we might not have otherwise put ourselves out onto, but we both figured that we’d definitely do something like that again.  The picture above is one my husband took of me as we headed out at the beginning of our adventure.  It occurred to me later when I saw the evidence, that my camera-happy husband was probably taking pictures for much of our paddling, and that’s why we weren’t getting anywhere very fast.  Thankfully, no footage of the humiliating belly flop into the kayak exists. Or I’d have pummeled him.

IJ

Adventures With Kenny

 

Two peas in a pod.  Joined at the hip.  Any other expression you could come up with of that nature would pretty much describe my friendship with Kenny, the boy who lived in the house beside mine on Kelmore Road when we were growing up.

I was an only child.  Kenny had an older brother, but it didn’t seem as though they had much to do with each other.  So Kenny and I became the brother and sister we never had.  We once declared that we were going to get married when we grew up.  He was going to be the farmer.  I was going to be the farmer’s wife. Farmer’s wife??  I guess life was different in the 60’s.

Above is an old photo of the two of us and another older boy standing in my front yard in the winter of ’61 which made us both about 4 years old.  The way we were looking at each other is priceless…this was the way we were together, always laughing, always playing and coming up with a new plan, a story plot, a great idea.  In the winter we built snowmen and snow forts.  Kenny’s older brother liked to smash whatever we made to bits. In the summer we held stage plays in our back yards. We charged the neighbourhood kids 5 cents to come and watch us fly by the seat of our pants through some improvised play or pantomime. My mother brought out Kool Aid for the audience. My Dad got mad because we’d messed up the lawn.  We used bed sheets for curtains and found all kinds of props to use, inventing stories as we went along.  In one play, all we had to start with was the idea that he was Red Skelton and I was Mrs. Skelton.

Mrs. Skelton?  I guess, well, it was still the 60’s.

One time I was playing with Kenny in his basement while a group of adults were having some sort of party upstairs.  Kenny decided we needed candles.  We found and lit a whole bunch of them, placing them everywhere around the room.  One fell into a stuffed chair.  I guess Kenny must have screamed or something;  the next thing I knew a bunch of adult males were frantically dragging the burning chair out the basement door, trying to put it out.  Needless to say, our little basement party was over after that.

Another time, we were in his back yard and Kenny showed me a package of his grandmother’s heart pills.  They had been thrown in the garbage and he decided they looked interesting and rifled them out.  He convinced me that it was okay, they were just candy, and so we ate some.  Heart pills.  When my mother the nurse found out, she hauled me home to the bathroom, forcing me to drink salt water and hoping I would throw the pills up.  I never did.  I was more afraid of throwing up than having swallowed those pills.

I don’t think we were any worse for the wear.  But.  Heart pills.

One summer we decided to get sleeping bags and sleep overnight in the tent in his back yard.  For some reason, the adults had a bit of a problem with that.  We didn’t.  It was just us, Kenny and Irene.  They came to their senses and let us sleep in the tent. On our first day of Grade 1 in the elementary school across the street, Kenny was not happy because he really missed his mom.  For some reason, I did not experience the same trauma, so we spent the whole recess holding hands while Kenny cried.  He was a lot more sentimental about things than I was.

Our most exciting (or stupid) adventure happened one Saturday night, when we decided to dress up as robbers and sneak around our own houses.  We even smeared dirt on our faces to complete the effect.

Kenny had a flash light, and we pretended we were going to rob his house.  As usual, we got pretty caught up in our own drama, and at one point we came running out from behind some bushes to the street, just as a police car was driving past.  Talk about timing.  Because we were so immersed in our pretend robbery, we turned around and (stupidly) ran away from the police.  They immediately pulled over and jumped out of the cruiser, high-tailing it after us.  Kenny ran one way, I ran the other and hid under his backyard deck.  They nabbed Kenny and hauled him out under a street light.  They started questioning him.  Kenny cried “No, it’s okay, I live here!  This is my house!  We were just playing!”  I kept my mouth shut under the back deck.

They verbally reprimanded him and finally let him go.

I came out from under the deck and we soberly said our goodbyes.  I went home and told my mother the story and she said “Well, I’m glad you got caught…what a stupid thing to do!”  Yep, stupid.

I’m sure Kenny would be able to remember many things that I haven’t told here.  We were very lucky that we lived in a nice, safe (other than our shenanigans) middle-class neighbourhood with a school across the street and lots of other kids to play with.  And we were lucky to have each other.  Thanks for the memories, Kenny 🙂

IJ