Pay Up

I’ve recently been pounding the pavement in search of some new clients and projects to plump up my freelance work. I know, after so many years in this industry, that I shouldn’t be shocked at what I found, but I was. I am.

There are a lot of postings out there seeking qualified writers for a variety of projects, from websites to tech writing to articles to proposals. Each posting lists the criteria for applicants: years of experience, education, flexible schedule to accommodate the work load. And then the shoe drops. The money.

I can’t count the number of sites that offer $0.002/word – yes, that is a fraction of a penny--or demand 3 researched articles per day for a 5-day work-week for $3 per article. Really? How can that possibly seem like a fair wage to anyone?

The best yet are those sites offering nothing at all. I saw one ad that demanded timely stories, high-profile interviewees, “fearless writing with the ability to leave long-lasting impressions on readers and spark continuous new dialogues that elevate the target audience.” The pay is $0.00 “however, numerous benefits.”

Benefits – like what, exactly? By-lines? Got lots of those. By-lines don’t pay the mortgage or get kids registered for soccer or lacrosse. Exposure? Yep – see above.

I think the problem is everyone fancies themselves writers and people don’t appreciate the craft, the art, the intelligence that good, effective writing requires. It’s not valued so it’s not compensated. I’ve seen countless websites and promotional materials (and sadly, news briefs) that are so wrought with errors and convoluted thought processes that they are almost unreadable. Everyone can write? Obviously not.

So I continue to search for new opportunities that will actually balance the effort and result I can offer with the cheque at the other end. I quickly scroll past those with “unknown” budgets or those promising anything but a fair wage, knowing my words are worth way more than one-fifth of a penny a piece.

Walk

My Fitbit was the best thing to ever happen to my children. Or the worst. It depends on the day.

Before Fitbit (or BFB), I would routinely send my children to do little chores in the house for me-- run out to the garage freezer for bread, go fetch my slippers, run the recycling out to the bins. After Fitbit (or AFB), I would do those things myself in dedication to -- nay obsession with-- reaching my 10,000 step goal each day. So now I heft the garbage out to the bins myself (66 steps) or run down to the mailboxes to grab the mail (224 steps). Flipping the laundry brings in another 64 steps while grabbing my glasses from my bedside table nets me 57 steps.

BFB I would drive to the arena to watch my son play hockey and send him with neighbours to walk to school while I stayed nestled on the couch with my cup of tea and laptop. Now I strap on the runners and drop him at school, carrying on to walk the 3 km loop of the Drive and adding 4835 steps to my daily tally. And I make my daughter walk to the rink for games, especially on days when my step count is low -- that earns me 7446 steps round trip. Then there's another 3675 steps that gets me to the Superstore and back (which is great as long as we don't have much to get). I "make" them go on walks and hikes, all the while Ben grumbling that my obsession shouldn't punish them too and Carmen stoically accepting her fate.

There may be something to it. I am a bit of a slave to this little strip of rubber on my wrist. I check my totals compulsively throughout the day, estimating how many steps my errands for the day will eat up to make sure I get that ever-so gratifying buzzing when I've hit the mark. And if, at 11:00 pm I haven't felt that celebratory vibration, I pace the house like a caged polar bear, counting the steps between kitchen island to ottoman until that 9,999 turns over to 10,000.

If it's off my wrist and charging, I am loathe to move at all, not wanting to waste steps that won't count toward my total. And I get around the Fitbit not registering steps when pushing a shopping cart by tucking the band into my sock so it still counts my steps. Again, I'm not interested in walking for nothing.

The worst of it is that then when the clock strikes midnight, the step count is back to zero and I have to start all over again -- no carrying over extra steps from the day before, no cheating. In the nearly a year since I've had it, I've only missed my goal a handful of time. Impressive? Pathetic? You be the judge. I will say that once that 5th digit appears on my screen and I have accomplished my goal, I can sit guilt free on the couch and do nothing. Until midnight anyway. Then I'm back on my feet, ready to walk.

Unforgotten

Today is an important day. A day when we take a minute -- literally ONE MINUTE--and stop to reflect on the sacrifice that soldiers have made for us through history. In a world that seems upside down and backwards, this sacrifice remains as noteworthy and important today as it was in the 1910s and 1940s, the 1960s and 1970s, the 1990s and into the 2000s.

We can't forget the destruction and devastation of war. We can't forget the men and women who never came home. But we also can't forget those who did.

My grandfather Ted was a motorcycle scout. It was his job to ride ahead and ensure safe passage for his regiment. He ran over a mine and was blown up, faced a long recuperation, and then returned to battle. He met my grandmother Jean -- a British woman who worked in a munitions factory to support the war effort -- and they fell in love. They married and she agreed to leave all she knew to return to Canada with her husband.

The glitch in the fairytale romance was that the man who went to Europe, who met that beautiful young woman, who fought for his country, was not the man who returned home with her. The war had changed him. The things he saw and experienced followed him across the world and settled firmly between the couple, a barrier to a normal, happy life. They had children, struggled to make ends meet, but the war never ended for Ted.

After years of his trying to drink away the memories, of violent outbursts, my grandma took her girls and left. He lived the rest of his life from the bottom of a bottle. I never knew him and only met him a few times before he died. He didn't have contact with his children. Didn't enjoy loving relationships. Instead he lived with the ghosts of the past.

On Remembrance Day we celebrate the brave men and women who fought for their countries. Died for their countries. But we must also celebrate those who fought and lived. Those who returned home to a world they could no longer relate to after the fighting was over. Those who struggled to connect with others who no longer understood them or what they had been through. Celebrate soldiers like my grandfather Ted. He sacrificed his life in World War II--his body just took decades to catch up.

So today, I honour the soldiers of the past, who died or were forever changed by their experience. And I honour those brave men and women who continue to fight, to die, to come home broken and try to rebuild their lives.

I won't forget.

School a Fail

Carmen spent hours and hours on her grade 6 project. She researched and read pages of information and planned her report. She scoured the Internet for pictures and diagrams and interesting facts to include. She took the time to put together the best report on the life of Leonardo da Vinci that she could. And what did she get for all that hard work?

That's it. A checkmark. Not even a comment saying "Good Job" or "Sucky Job" or "Congrats on actually turning it in on time and complete, unlike some of your classmates." Nope. A measly checkmark. Throughout her report there are a few other checkmarks in the margin, I'm assuming to signify the teacher's recognition that required elements were present, but there was no commentary on the quality of the writing or information.

The reason, I can only assume from conversations with teachers throughout the year, is that the teachers can't assign a grade to projects or assignments. They don't want to rank or judge students as this may attack the child's self-esteem should he or she get a subpar mark. But I went to the biography fair and while many of the tri-folds that went with this project were fantastic, I saw some that were likely slapped together the night before, skinny on content and assembled without much care or thought. Perhaps those students deserved that subpar grade? Apparently not.

I can't help thinking about the other side of the coin. What about the kids who are striving for and achieving excellence? What about how they feel? What about the lesson that if you put in the time and effort, you will be rewarded? Because there is no reward here. Not anymore.

My kids' schools aren't doing students any favours by not testing them or sending homework home EVER, or by not grading their assignments or insisting that deadlines are met. They aren't setting our kids up for success by taking away public recognition for hard work and intelligence (i.e. Honour Roll) in order to spare the feelings of those who aren't achieving those high levels. And they are unrealistically presenting the Outside World as one where we all equally merit a checkmark and will be treated the same regardless of how much work we put in to a job or the results of that effort.

It's no surprise that post-secondary students are entering university and college completely unprepared for the reality of competition and expectation. Unprepared for failure and disappointment. They've spent a dozen years being completely sheltered from it. I say, it's time to inject a bit of tough love into the system.

Schools would do kids a service by letting them get cut from the basketball team or see a D grade on a project they really didn't put much effort into. Teach them to handle these negative experiences and learn from them, build character. Teach them that you have to perform at a certain level if you want to receive an A, and I suppose the level that yields a C or an F too. And at the same time schools need to hold the top of the class up as the academic examples and allow those students to feel the pride of accomplishment. 

Maybe it's a delicate balance between education and character. Maybe I'm insensitive to the hurt feelings of those who aren't high achievers or keeners. I'm not sure exactly what the answer is but I really don't think the current system is it. I'd rather my kids learn early that they have to balance their leisure and work/school life, that they have to work for what they want and even then they might not get it. These are tough lessons, but I'd rather my kids start learning them in elementary and middle school than be blind-sided after graduation.

I can only hope that our schools will begin to prepare our kids for their future and that teacher's will again be able to assign grades--REAL grades--according to performance. I'm not optimistic that this will happen. In fact, I'm pretty sure it won't. My kids will continue to earn a checkmark while the entire school system gets an F.

The Other Shoe

I envy those people. The ones on the news looking shell-shocked and glassy-eyed after a tragedy, shaking their heads in bewilderment. They never thought "it" could happen to them, in their community, to their children. It never occurred to them that they could be a victim of circumstance, of violence, of misfortune.

For me, I expect nothing less. I'm constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for that catastrophic event that will send my charmed life into a tailspin. Waiting for that piece of devastating news that will separate life into "Before" and "After".

The fear keeps me up at night, thinking about what horrible disease or predator or disaster lurks around the corner, stalking those I love most. Every mention of a headache or sore limbs signals something more sinister in the kids. Every time my family members are a bit late coming home, I imagine the worst. And as the kids get older I know I have to give them more independence and trust that they have heard my constant harping about safety and good choices. But it's hard. If I did, what would happen to that shoe?

I'm not just neurotic about my loved ones -- I assume the worst for myself too. A mark on my skin must be cancer. The headaches that have plagued me since childhood must be something life-threatening. Spotty memory must be early onset Alzheimer's or something equally horrible. And for days I've been waiting on test results from a mammogram and ultrasound, waiting for a call from the doctor's office receptionist, all calm and soothing, asking me to come in. Waiting to learn of some malignancy or what those abnormal shadows mean. Waiting for the shoe to drop.

Today, I got an envelop from the clinic and inside was a form letter with a box casually checked off telling me my exam results were all normal. Come back next year.

I'm thankful for the clean bill of health but strangely enough, the news doesn't flood me with relief. It just clears way for the next potential crisis, the next hidden hurdle, the next disaster-in-the-making. Because I know it's out there. That other shoe can't stay up forever. Unlike those people on the news, it won't take me by surprise. I'll be ready so that maybe, just maybe, I can catch the other shoe before it hits the ground.

Democracy

The day is here. Election day. For the first time in my 24-year voting history I was at a total loss. I've been a conservative forever but I couldn't see electing Jim Prentice back into office. I had no clue as to what was the best path, the lesser of evils. And believe me I tried to figure it out. 

I researched, trolling website after website, reading about the platforms of each party. Checking out the promises if elected. Of course, nowhere did they lay out how they would actually find the money to make good on those promises, but that's a problem for another time. Post-election time. And what did I find at the end of it all?

Really, there are no great choices out there. Pundits predict change, an NDP government, which scares the crap out of me. The PCs have had 40+ years to get it right and haven't. Wildrose seems like an extension of the PCs, with politicians crossing over at will. Liberals are a non-starter. 

I thought about spoiling my ballot but that seemed pointless. Perhaps I could decline the vote -- I've heard that doing this registers dissatisfaction in a different way than just mucking up your ballot. And I think about all of the people around the world fighting and dying for the right to cast a vote, to make a choice, and I felt that I needed to do something. To make a choice too. But how? Even as I stood at the little cardboard partition, staring at the strip of paper with that tiny golf pencil in my hand, I wasn't sure.

In the end, I put an X beside a name I am pretty sure hasn't got a shot at winning (but if she did win, it would be okay). It was more a vote against than a vote for anyway. This is democracy? Frightened by the prospect of any of the front-runners taking office? 

It could be a long four years, Alberta. Buckle up. Hope you all felt better after tucking your slip of paper into the box than I did.

Retro

My kids were visiting my dad and his wife in Medicine Hat last week. Their spare room (and the tiny attached room that was once used as a kitchen) is a total throwback to another time. He has an old bread box, a camera, toaster, box of laundry soap, and dishes all from around the 1950s to make it a cool, retro space. He also has a rotary-dial telephone, which the kids used to call home.

They had no idea what it was or how to use it. It occurred to me how many thing from my past will be totally lost to them.

They will have to offer a nickel for your thoughts because they will have completely forgotten what a "penny" was.

The idea of having to reheat leftovers in the oven is absurd.

They will never have a super-long phone cord that gets all tangled up, so once a week you have to hang the receiver upside down to let it spin wildly until it is untangled again.

Forget LPs and cassette tapes, they will barely remember CDs by the time they are teenagers.

On road trips we looked out the window, made up car games, talked, read, played games, or solved riddles in the invisible ink workbooks my mom would buy for us for the trip. We didn't have a DVD player in the car or an iPad for video games to pass the time.

To research a school project we had to go to the library, search the stacks, and collect information. There was no wikipedia or google, with its instant and copious amounts of information, to find it for us.

We had to watch commercials and some of us even had to get up and manually turn the channel on the television. No PVR. No remote controls.

Our kids' lives are easier in many ways I suppose but not necessarily better. Everything is expected instantly. Instant gratification. Instant results. Instant access. I love my iPhone, of course, but there is something to be said for a simpler time. A time when you used your imagination and got out and played and explored rather than staring at a screen where a virtual version of you played and explored. And I shudder to think about all the things that my kids will be thinking nostalgically about when their children stare back at them blankly at the mention of an mp3 or a paperback book. Today's technology is amazing and I'm sure I'd be lost without it, but I wouldn't trade my rotary-dial phone or my slower-paced childhood for anything.

Moving Forward

For the past month, there have been a lot of tears around here. Carmen is sad to leave her elementary school and a bit nervous about moving up to middle school. She is excited about it, sure, but sad. She'll miss her teachers and the school, and she has loved her time there. She had big plans for the last week of classes and we had counted on that time to ease her into graduating from elementary school and looking ahead to middle school.

Then the flood hit. We stayed home from school Friday. Then again on Monday. And now we don't go back until Thursday and then only for a half day to gather belongings, get report cards, and say goodbye.

The tears started in earnest last night. She was very upset by it all:

They didn't get to do activity day, which was a crushing blow not because she loves the activities but because she and the Leadership Club spent a lot of time planning the stations and making it fun for the rest of the kids.

They didn't get to do the year-end wrap-up party for Leadership Club.

They may not get to do the Grade 4 Farewell assembly, which they have been preparing for over the past month.

Her soccer city finals were at best postponed but likely cancelled outright.

In short, she's upset that all of the things she was looking forward to, all the rites of passage for the exiting grade fours, were taken from her.

She sat in her bed last night and wept about the injustice of it. She was so disappointed and it was heartbreaking to watch. She is not a fan of change at the best of times so this was all too much for her to handle.

We tried to put it all into perspective for her. She has her bed to sleep in. She has a dry house. Her belongings weren't washed away in the flooding. We and all of our friends and family are safe. Carmen and I had gone with our friend Tania to deliver some donations to NeighbourLink, which is a great organization that collects necessities and disperses them to the various communities that need them. Carmen got to see the amount of stuff that is required and how much is shipping out to help these people affected by flooding. And we tried to explain how much more would be needed in the weeks and months to come.

She gets it. And as she sat on her bed, cursing the flood and all it had taken from her, she acknowledged that she was lucky. She knows that she is fortunate while many others were not this past week. But it doesn't make her feel any better, doesn't make her feel less sad and frustrated with how the end of the year has turned out. I told her it was out of our control and we'd have to make the best of it. We'll go to school and spend the final half-day enjoying the friends and teachers that have made the last five years such an incredible experience for her.

She'll cry a little. I probably will too. We'll say goodbye and we'll move forward. Then we'll spend some time this summer helping victims of the flood move forward too.

Did it For the Money

I think it's time to come clean. Before I go any further, remember this happened a long time ago. I was in university in Toronto, which is an expensive city, and I needed some extra cash. I only did it the once and wouldn't do it again, probably. Okay. Here goes.

I sold my body for money.

There. I feel so much better now. It happened over the course of a couple weeks -- I spent pretty much the whole day, three or so times a week, laying there. When it was done I took my money and I never looked back.

I guess maybe I should rephrase this. I actually sold my body for science. Money too, but I was a guinea pig. I answered an ad posted through U of T, completed some preliminary medical tests, and I was up and running. I had to lay on a chaise all day hooked up to monitors, and every hour or two I'd puff on an inhaler. Some days it was a placebo and others it was a new asthma medication being tested on healthy non-asthmatic people to see if there were any adverse affects. I sat and read, watched TV and got paid a couple hundred bucks for my trouble. It was a university student's dream gig!

Sure, I could sure tell when I puffed from the real inhalers. Sure, my heart raced and my hands shook like crazy. And sure, I don't think that product ever made it to market. I'm guessing asthmatics wouldn't appreciate dealing with a thundering heart rate and hand tremors in the middle of an asthma attack.

But, hey, being a medical test subject was a rite of passage for a broke university student far from home. I took my money and ran, thankful to get out of there with the same number of digits and no side affects that required excising, drainage, or special creams.

Sick of Sports

I am a big supporter of keeping kids active. Getting them moving. Ensuring they are fit. But there is a downside -- or at least in our family. That downside? My house. It gets taken over by sports gear. Frankly, it's driving me crazy!

 

I hit the wall today. It started when I went for groceries this morning. I opened the back of the van to pile my bags in and there is a HUGE lacrosse goalie stick and bag of goalie gear for tonight's game (Ben is in net so we have the team gear). I had to wedge my groceries in around all of the stinky lacrosse stuff.

Then I got home, put groceries away, and set out to get an article finished for my deadline tomorrow. En route to the office I was tripping on soccer cleats and lacrosse sticks (which are often propped in the corner by the dog's food dish where the hockey sticks are for the rest of the year -- I fear for that dog every time he goes for a drink, expecting those precariously balanced sticks to crack him on the head as they crash to the ground). We also have a giant lacrosse bag of hand-me-downs from a friend sitting in the office waiting for us to go through it. Then there are golf bags sitting by the door ready for the next lessons or round and baseball mitts and footballs by the backdoor in case there's a game or skipping ropes handy for a quick jump. And the water bottles. God help me for the water bottles on every flat surface so they can always find one before a game. ARGH!

At least the hockey stuff (and most of the lacrosse gear) is downstairs, out of sight. This happened only after I freaked out. I was tired of the first thing you saw when you walked into our house being a stinky hockey tree drying out gear. It really didn't go with the beautiful WWI piano.

I guess I should be thankful my kids are exercising regularly, making friends, learning teamwork and keeping healthy. I just wish they would find a better place to store their stuff!

Squirrel Mind Games

There is a black squirrel that lives in our neighbour's tree. Okay, I'm not POSITIVE that it lives in the tree but it hangs out there a lot at any rate. It also likes to hang out on our back fence. I'm quite sure the reason for this is to torment our dog.

This squirrel sits on the post at the half-way point of the yard and waits. It stares at the back door, stock-still, and waits. Farley must have some kind of radar because he will jump up from a dead sleep and race to the door to be let out. He has a special bark that we all have come to associate with squirrel invasion. We let Farley out, the squirrel swishes its tail a few times and scampers across the fence and into the neighbour's yard. But it doesn't leave it at that. It then sits just beyond reach and listens to Farley's crazed barking and looks at him smugly, as if to say "Sucks to be you, stuck in your yard."

Perhaps I am giving this bushy-tailed rodent too much credit (yes, I know squirrels are mammals but this one is an honorary rodent for certain). Perhaps its pea-sized brain doesn't remember there is a dog in this house that will chase it off as soon as it's spotted. Perhaps it just likes the look of our yard and that is why it chooses to stop there for a rest after a busy day of squirrel activities. Perhaps it is a very kind and decent creature who helps underprivileged squirrels build nests and gather acorns.

But I don't think so. I think this squirrel enjoys the mind games. It enjoys getting Farley riled up and frothing. In fact, I expect it to bring its squirrel buddies with it one of these days to taunt him even more. Maybe Farley likes the chase, likes getting his 14-year-old heart pumping over this interloper. Maybe the squirrel is his buddy. Who knows? All I know is that the urgent yapping bark to get out and the quickness with which that 14-year-old body moves to charge at the squirrel suggests that the visitor is far from welcome in Farley's yard. So we'll continue to let him out when he yaps and watch the squirrel torment him, and wonder if it will ever get tired of the game and move onto a new target. I doubt it - given the squirrel's daily visits, it seems that Farley is entertaining it just fine.

Being the Other Half

It was in the plans for a year and now it's over. I can't believe it! But I'm sure the stories (and the blackmail pictures) will float around for years to come!

My good friend Nic celebrated her 40th birthday with a girls' weekend in Palm Springs this past weekend. Her boyfriend, Doug, planned it all for her and endured all the female craziness, which shows that he's a real keeper! He even hired a couple bartenders to come to the house for an afternoon and serve drinks (shirtless of course) and had a chef come another night to make us a fantastic dinner. We went clubbing, which I haven't done in decades, out for a fancy dinner, and hit the outlet mall hard.

Nic (in red) planking Doug 

Oddly enough, this was the first time I've gone away with girl friends and it was amazing. I knew about half of the ladies going and became fast friends with several of Nic's friends whom I didn't know. We were spoiled rotten all weekend, living like the "other half" lives -- the half without bank account worries or lunches to make or bills to obsess about. We shopped, flopped around the pool, enjoyed the sun, ate incredible food, and laughed. A LOT. With 17 women under one roof, there is bound to be a bit of drama but it really wasn't anything serious and certainly not enough to interfere with our good time. We all relaxed and enjoyed being away from jobs, kids, and whatever other responsibilities occupied our minds. It was awesome to just decompress with some of my favourite people.

I came home to a long grocery list on the fridge and overflowing laundry baskets, and I was so exhausted after the late nights and early mornings (the 'other half' must have a staff to keep their lives going and scheduled nap times or they wouldn't be able to function!). But the kids were so excited to see me (and to receive the fun TicTac and gum flavours you can't get here) and my husband did a great job getting everyone where they needed to be all weekend. I had a great time but it sure is nice to be home!

Maybe we'll do it again when we turn 50. I wonder if we will have slowed down by then.... I hope not! Happy 40th, Nic. It was a riot!!

Double Digits

I can hardly believe it. Carmen is 10. Double digits. I remember how exciting it was when I turned double digits so I wanted to do something a bit different for her to mark the milestone.

She didn't have any gift ideas other than books so I decided to buy her 10 smallish things, all wrapped separately and numbered, and have a little verse for each to guide her from one to the next. Here's how it went:

1) You have always stood out in a crowd

Cuz you’re bright and sweet and kind.

This gift will make you stand out more

As it’s the brightest that you’ll find!

(2 neon t-shirts)

2) This monstrous thing is helpful

Not a little fright,

It will help you safeguard

The masterpiece you write.

(a flash drive that looks like a monster)

3) Pretty girls like pretty things

That she wraps or twirls or ties,

This is something pretty that

You use to accessorize!

(scarf)

4) We know that you love music

But ear bud wires are a pain

Always tangled or missing--

THESE won’t drive you insane.

(retractable ear buds)

5) If you want to be a writer

You have to follow every rule

This will help you be your best

And write something very cool.

(grammar book)

6) It’s never fun to hear us yell

“It’s time to go to bed”

And now even before your chapter’s done

You’ll know how far you’ve read.

(fuzzy character book mark)

7) The possibilities are endless

As there’s no such thing as pairs;

Left or right, striped or bright

It’s great cuz no one cares!

(mix-and-match socks)

8) I am sorry to drag you to the rink so I gave you something to make it more fun. Happy birthday! Love Ben

(a to-go mug and a book)

9) It’s fun to read a story

About someone just like you

Here’s a book that fits the bill

Cuz the heroine is TEN too!

(book called "Ten")

10) It may be a year early

But you’re off to your new school

And now you’ll have the uniform

And will be looking VERY cool.

(a Harry Potter acceptance letter with a Gryffindor t-shirt)

She had so much fun opening each one and fitting the gift to the poem. And it was fun to watch her enjoy the attention. 

She's growing up so quickly and while this birthday reminded me of that fact, it also highlighted how young she is too. Ten was a fun one! Happy birthday Carmen!!

Parental Pearls

There are so many things I never imagined I’d ever hear myself say. It’s amazing what having kids does to a person! Here are a few nuggets that I had to shake my head at even before they were completely out of my mouth:

Stop licking my arm.

I’m not going to start reading again until you take your hands out of your pants.

Don’t ride the dog.

Please take your underwear off your head.

I trust you when you tell me your poop is giant. I don’t need to see it. Go flush.

Armpit farting isn’t music.

What did you think would happen when you kept sticking your butt in his face?

I can’t tell you what schools were like 100 years ago. How old do you think I am?!

Don’t eat on the toilet!

I’m not a jungle gym so stop climbing me.

When I was your age, I had to……

What did you just wipe on my shirt?

Don't shove that in your nose!

I’m not sure where the Ken doll’s penis is….maybe he’s just wearing really tight flesh-coloured underwear.

Medals

Carmen had a school assignment to find a “family treasure” that she could share with the class. She had to tell them what it was, what it was used for, if it is still used the same way today, what it was made out of, why it is important in our family etc. We don’t have much that would fit that bill.

All I could think of was my grandfather’s war medals. He served as a scout and mechanic in World War II and when he died my mom found the medals, his old service and pay book, a guide to London given to Canadian soldiers, and some war-era Francs.

I borrowed them and set out to help answer Carmen’s questions. It struck me that I knew very little about this man. I knew he had been injured after driving over a bomb and recovered in Europe only to return to fight the rest of the war. I knew he met my grandma in England while she was working at a munitions factory in Birmingham and she came over the pond after it was all over as a war bride.

I also knew that he brought the war home with him. The enthusiastic man my grandmother must have met earlier in the war was long gone by the time they returned to Medicine Hat to start their lives together. He couldn’t deal with what he saw and did during those terrible years and turned, like many soldiers, to the bottle to cope. My grandma endured the abuse for as long as she dared and then divorced him for the sake of herself and her daughters.

I remember meeting him only once when I was quite young. It was tense and awkward for everyone involved and I was happy to get out of his small apartment. Now that I’m an adult, I wish I would have known more about his life and experiences, known more of my family history. We answered Carmen’s questions (with the help of Google) but for me so many are left unanswered.  Sadly, there’s no one left to ask.