Where were you when the world stopped turning...that September day?

Out in the yard with your wife and children;
Or working on some stage in L.A.?
Did you stand there in shock at the sight of that black smoke 
Rising against that blue sky?
Did you shout out in anger in fear for your neighbor
Or did you just sit down and cry?

Did you weep for the children 
that lost their dear loved ones?
Did you pray for the ones who don't know?
Did you rejoice for the people who walked from the rubble
and sob for the ones left below?
Did you burst out in pride for the red white and blue
And the heroes who died just doin' what they do?
Did you look up to heaven for some kind of answer?
And look at yourself for what really matters?
 
I'm just a singer of simple songs;
I'm not a real political man
I watch CNN, but I'm not sure I can tell you the difference
in Iraq and Iran
But I know Jesus and I talk to God
And I remember this from when I was young
Faith, Hope and Love are some good things He gave us
And the greatest is Love.

Where were you when the world stopped turning
That September day?
Teaching a class full of innocent children;
Driving down some cold interstate?
Did you feel guilty 'cause you're a survivor
in a crowded room did you feel alone?
Did you call up your mother and tell her you love her?
Did you dust off that bible at home?

Did you open your eyes hope it never happened;
And close your eyes and not go to sleep?
Did you notice the sunset the first time in ages;
Or speak to some stranger on the street?
Did you lay down at night and think of tomorrow;
Go out and buy you a gun?
Did you turn off that violent old movie you're watchin'
And turn on "I Love Lucy" reruns?

Did you go to a church and hold hands with some strangers?
Stand in line and give your own blood?
Did you just stay home and cling tight to your family
Thank God you had somebody to love?

Where were you when the world stopped turning...
that September day?

by Alan Jackson

Fried Apples, Cherry Jelly, and That Which Remains

Today, I ate fried apples; my sister made cherry jelly; and my dad, who loved both, would have turned 60 years old. He was a big, imposing man with an unlikely boyish, cackling laugh that drew a smile even if you didn’t hear the joke. His pat on the back rattled your bones; and his standards swelled you with pride at the earning of it. He had a sharp tongue and a piercing candor, but he only picked on you if he thought you were worth a damn. He would suspend a man by the neck and haul him out of a bar for not knowing how to treat a woman, but took hell from my mother for incessantly buying her sheets for Christmas. He would do anything for anyone, but call them a jack ass to their face if they deserved it. When I hustled $30 out of the neighborhood kids by winning bets on my sister's mud-wrestling victory he taught me a lesson about gambling by taking the money; but he apparantly didn't need the lesson, because he kept it.  He loved big steaks, cold beer and fried apples; or that was just the only thing he could cook when mom wasn’t home. He didn’t trust credit cards, carried cash and spent two years panning for gold in every ‘crick’ and puddle in South-Eastern Idaho. He loved John Wayne, hunting, Louis Lamour, country music and Wylie Coyote. He was the life of a party, but some nights found him on the front porch alone and silent, as if in vigil...for hours…and I have never stopped wondering what he thought about….and what he thought about me. He was a farmer, a soldier, and a really bad dancer.  

Those are some of the things I remember about the greatest man I never really knew. And in the 17 years that he’s been gone, little pieces of my memories have slipped through my fingers; grown nebulous. But some images still arrive--just when I least expect it--jarringly vivid. And so much of what remains are his consistencies; habits; predilections; his favourite things. He wasn’t a man of fancy requirements or of sophisticated taste, but he knew what he liked. And when he found something he liked, he liked to repeat it.  He had cherry jelly in a cafe when he arrived home from Vietnam and spent the next 20+ years searching for it everywhere we went….not cherry preserves (didn’t like the chunks)….not cherry jam (not the right consistency)…cherry JELLY. He never did find that small elusive treasure and, without fail, I still look for it on the grocery and specialty store shelves all these years later. In his gripping absence, it is in these seemingly small things where I still find something to share with him.  And it is on days like today when I smile through the tears, and just let the memories come.

One of my first memories of my dad finds him sitting in my Grandma Frances’ kitchen. He’s leaned back in his customary pose, with his legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. I smell the trusty Zippo light one of his preferred Marlboro Reds. As always, he’s wearing jeans and lace-up work boots…the ones with the rivet-hook-thingies at the top. (I remember the rivet-hook-thingies distinctly because unhooking them was fun…so my sister, brother and I would fight over who got to unlace them when he got home from the field.) In this memory, my Grandma and I are lazing on the scratchy, blackish-green sectional couch in her living room. I’m jacked up on my cup of ¼ coffee-- ¾ coffeemate, rooting through the monstrous swell of National Geographics, in search of pictures of the Ethiopian tribe I'm weirdly obsessed with because they stretch out their lips and ear lobes with giant wooden circles. Grandma’s reading the Enquirer (or some trash akin to) and, at regular intervals, sharing pieces of useless information about Joan Collins, an ape who raised a human baby, and Carol Burnett getting sloshed with Henry Kissinger. These announcements elicit a few characteristic “hmphs” from my dad. Then she says, “This British actress says Americans have bad taste.” With hardly a pause (and with his Marlboro swinging wildly on his bottom lip as he spoke) he said, “You couldn’t pay me enough to eat one, but I’m sure the Brits taste like shit too.” He always said what he thought, and 90% of the time what he thought had you blowing ¼ coffee—3/4 coffeemate out your nose on your Grandmother’s scratchy black-green couch in laughter. Only some of his favorites are suitable for public consumption:

“It’s useless to shoe a dead horse.”  
“When the horse is dead-- get off”
“What did you say, that’s ‘awesome’? God is ‘awesome’. John Wayne is ‘awesome: Your new shoes are NOT ‘awesome’.”  
“Success? That my kids are smarter than me.”  
“90% of men in shiny shoes are pricks.” 
“I can’t stand a man who attends something just for a free meal.” 
“Work it out with your brother and sister, not with me. That’s why we had three kids, so there would never be a tie-vote. You don't want me involved, this house is NOT a democracy." 
“Your mother and I love you but you are the most stubborn child on the planet and you ask too many questions. Some things you really should ask your mother.”  
“That had me sweatin’ like a whore in church.”  

He was famously funny and had a bad temper. He was crude, sentimental after a few, and giddy at times. He could conjure up a good time just by being in the room, and yet lived in a certain melancholy and separateness I will never really understand… He was larger than life… He was wonderful. Sadly, it is not every daughter’s privilege to see her dad as I did. And some of those who do, lose them. Like so many other daughters set adrift from our mooring— by fathers who left us too soon or never signed up at all-- I have missed much with my dad. We didn’t share my graduations from high school or University. I couldn’t call him when I was short on solace, strength or cash. We didn’t have the awkward moment of him first meeting the man I love, or the perfect one when his big, strong hand on their shoulder would have said, “You’re alright.” He didn’t share anniversaries, his grandkids being born, or his 60th birthday today.  It would have been….no, it WAS…a good birthday. We have missed much; but so, too, did we have much.  And on some days, even just in cherry jelly and fried apples, much remains.

Dunkin Donuts, A Chapped Ass, and the All-American Road Trip

My mother was bombing down Highway 37, between American Falls and Rockland, Idaho, in our sky blue Chevy Suburban. She was looking at us in the rearview mirror, screaming over (rather than turn down) the third repeat of "Help Me, Rhonda." She was bellowing away about her dream of "loading up" the entire family and hauling us to Disneyland in CAAAALIFORNIA! "We're going to do that this summer. (Help me Rhonda, Help, Help me Rhonda) You just wait until you see Mickey Mouse in person. (She was gonna be my wife, and I was gonna be her maaaan) You kids have no idea what it's like in California! (Help me, Rhonda) We went there on our honeymoon. We'll make it a road trip! There's nothing like a road trip to Caaaalifornia!" (Help me Rhonda, ya! Get'r outta my heart!) Despite my mother and the Beach Boys yelling in the front seat, I was pre-occupied with my blue slush puppy. I figured that even Rhonda couldn't help this "dream trip" happen but my mother liked planning it anyway and I liked fantasizing about the fact that a 13-hour road trip to Anaheim (in light of the suburban needing lot of gas and my dad needing a lot of Marlboro Reds) would be good for about six slush puppies and, if I was lucky, a bag of beef jerky the size of my head. Just about the time I was visualizing how I would pack my 30 pounds of road trip supplies into my C-3PO backpack, My 7 year old sister Sherrie belted out from the backseat, "Uncle Ken says that all you get outta goin' cross-country is bladder control and a chapped ass." I couldn't hear my mother's reaction over the broken-record ending of "Help me, Rhonda, Help, Help me, Rhonda, help me Rhonda" but I imagine she made her defeated, huffing-sound and went right on thinking about California as she gazed out the side window. My sister turned and gave me a sly grin and I made a tacit promise to pack my C-3PO backpack when I got home anyway, just to see what would fit, in case Rhonda came through.

It took 7 years before I made that road trip to Disneyland (funded by my mother, who may be a dreamer, but is an eleventh-hour princess) and it wasn't with my family, but on a school bus with 20 other graduating Seniors from Rockland High School. My recollection of the trip is nebulous at best, but I do have vivid memories of someone getting car sick before we got out of town; someone gambling all of their spending money 13 minutes inside the Nevada border; an argument over co-ed seating arrangements; and driving through San Diego with our Idahoan faces pressed against the bus windows--in utter amazement--at our first sight of a man ambling down a street wearing only a speedo (Although I've always suspected he might have been wearing a pair of socks as well, if you know what I mean :) ). I wanted to see the Fighter Weapons "Top Gun" School at Miramar more than Shamu the Killer Whale; My cousin Scott bought a leather jacket and a bull whip from a short, spidery-looking man with a stutter and a limp in Tijuana who told us we had German-looking foreheads. ...Good times.

I was reminded of my affection for road trips most recently as my friend Tracy and I took her daughter Zoe to the Virginia Military Institute in Lexington, Virginia. Enter, the first rule of road trips....role assignment. First of all, a Captain (most likely the driver....me) will emerge, telling everyone to hurry; checking the directions; calculating wind speed; and programming the playlists. Secondly, the Captain will appoint a "navigator" who is usually the unknowing soul who called 'shotgun' before realizing that they would be appointed co-captain/navigator/coffee lid confiddler and keeper of the trash (Tracy was the victim). Thirdly, the sleeper. Every road trip has the person who can sleep through the driving rain, three consecutive plays of Toby Keith's "Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue", and an hour sitting in construction. (Zoe slept for five hours) This person will, however, wake up the minute their name is mentioned in a gossipatory context.

The second rule of the road trip is the stages.

• The Ramp-up Stage: (Mercy, the planning! Then the reality of leaving the morning after grad-night....two trips to Walmart, dunkin donuts coffee to wash down the Tylenol and Rolaids)"

• The "Woohoo-Exciting" Stage: (Me exclaiming, "isn't this sooo much fun" and snapping pictures with my blackberry before we're even on the highway. This sentiment was not shared in quite the same way by the other two occupants. They humored me.)

• The "Settling-in/Quiet" Stage: There's iPods, books, directions, VMI orientation schedules, snacks. So much to do.....until hour four.

• The "Munchies" Stage: The food! It's not a road trip without one or more types of certified road trip food: Diner food (pie and coffee)....truck stop food (chicken strips, radioactive dipping sauces, and hot wings double-bagged!)....fast food (Now it's stopping at restaurants I can't find in Canada....Arby's and those places where you can get 10 burgers on the run for $5 and fries that you'll find in every crevice of the car after you get back home)...convenience store food (Cheetos, pepperoni sticks, strangely shiny hot dogs, and slush puppies)....day-old cooler food (soggy motherly sandwiches, string cheese and potato salad that just "ain't right" after the first day).

• The "Antsy" stage: AKA make-a pit-stop-or-I-might-chew-out-your-throat-in-annoyance stage. This included the required Dunkin Donuts refresh....which turned out to be a near-failure as the gentleman on the intercom exclaimed in broken English that he was sorry but he could not hear me "a ball or a bit." Or at least that's what it sounded like. We ended up with something that had caffeine, were grateful, and went on our way.

• The "Bonding-Vault-Confessional" Stage: I love you man. No, I love YOU man. Nobody is anybody until to someone they're a somebody. The good conver...the admissions... dreams....THE VAULT. First rule of road trip is don't talk about road trip!

• "The Wall" Stage: You're tired. You're seeing the phantom black dog. This is the stage where road-trippers show their true colors. Novices (pussies) will calmly explain to the occupants that it's safer to drive rested and make an unscheduled stop at the closest motel. Middleweights doze off and aptly respond by slapping themselves; convulsively shaking their head like a Saint Bernard; rolling down the windows; or turning up the radio. Heavyweight Champions of the World bring their A-game and properly hydrate, caffeinate, and sometimes methamphetamate. Sound tough? Never judge a road warrior, life is hard on the unforgiving blacktop.

• The "Giddy" Stage: There are only a few activities (and substances) on the planet that elicit the official, heavily-adult condition called, "the giggles." Your stomach will hurt from laughing because the mocha machine just blows dry powder in your face at a gas station at 3 a.m. You're buying fireworks and pepperoni sticks in your brand-spanking-new, matching V.M.I sweat suit and your friend's clothes are inside out (but she still has enough pride to tease you about being in the "Happy Hands" Club in high school.) Had to be there? Ya, those jokes come from this stage.....you'll hear the stories but won't understand the hysterical seizure of laughter that ensues. AWK-WARD.

• The "Arrival Pride" Stage: You might look like you got hit by a Mack truck, but you rolled yourself there on air and rubber....with blunt determination, superior navigation and God's good humor. "The trip went fine....shut up, point me to the shitter and get me a drink that properly burns."

• The "Gifting" Stage: My favorite!! I have a "Little House on the Prairie" moment...picturing Mr. Edwards trudging through a whiteout to see the Ingalls' with a pillowcase full of worthless junk. I line the presents up on my bed and decide who I like the most! Shot glasses, thimples and Gettysburg chocolate bars for everyone!!!!!

After my own decent number of adventures, I'm still not sure where Uncle Ken got his "chapped ass" theory. Some things, after all, are better left unexplored. As for the rest, we can always plan a road trip!!!

Cha-Ching!!!

Long weekends are big for shopping, at least in the States where stores have this crazy idea that if they STAY OPEN PEOPLE WILL BUY THINGS AND THEY MIGHT MAKE SOME MONEY! Phew!!  Anyway, it's not actually a big shopping day for all of us because some of us already spent our money (and the grocery money) on junk. :)  So, while I am not shopping this weekend, I thought I would share some of my recent shopping fixations.  I'm not a permanent power-shopper, but every now and then I feel a surge!  Sometimes I end up with a hot little purchase in my hands and other times, well, I'm just dreaming!  But here is my list of cool sh-tuff! :) Cha-Ching!



1.  Laptop Bags for the Ladies:  You wouldn't believe the cool laptop bags they have for girls!  I spent weeks looking and went through two types before landing a Swissgear bag that is "stylish as well as commodius."  It's not extremely "cha-cha" or anything, but I'm pleased!  I've packed it and unpacked it twice already and the weekend is still young!  If you're shopping for girly-bags there are some amazing choices at:  http://www.squidoo.com/laptopbag  




2.  Bobbi Brown Makeup:  They don't have this in Canada that I know of, so every time I tell someone about it they think it's Bobby Brown the singer.  This can't be good marketing. :)  Anyway, the Lord sent me a free makeup "hookup" a couple of years back so I got to try a lot of it for free.  It's FABULOUS!!  My favorite is the Kohl eyeliner palette.   www.bobbibrown.com  



3.  Matt and Nat Bags, Purses and Wallets:  They're in Montreal and they have some lofty, earth-loving, vegan principle, but none of it matters because I LOVE THEM!!  www.mattandnat.com




4.  Maui Jim Sunglasses:  One of my rare purchases for the year.  They're red!  They're beautiful.  Did I say they're red?  :)  I am pretty sure people are checkin' me out all the time now!! :)  They also have some great polarization technology and rare earth components that I don't understand, but I feel it baby!!! :)   www.mauijim.com



5.  The Body Shop Makeup:  Shimmer!! I love shimmer.  It makes me feel shimmery!  I love their shimmer cubes and shimmer palettes.  I have never said the word "shimmer" so much and it makes me feel extremely, and uncharacteristicly girly!  Shimmer, Shimmer, Shimmer!
www.thebodyshop.com



6.  Lia Sophia Jewelry:  You can only get it in the states through direct sales representatives.  My sister needs to come here and do a party!!  Until then, they have some on ebay in Canada.  Very funky!  www.liasophia.com



7.  Fat Lady Fashion:  So, I get asked all the time by the big and beautifuls in my life where I shop.  This is a complement, but I'm afraid that I'm not extremely exciting and mostly shop at the obvious:  Addition-Elle, Penningtons, Reitmans (they do not impress me lately and I hate the fact that my section is in the back....where's the plus-sized Rosa Parks???), Cotton Ginny (although I find all of their clothes feel like pajamas :), and when I'm in the States, Old Navy and Lane Bryant Ooooooh, Laaaane Bryyaaaaant!  The store that started it all!  Before them it was strangely shaped stuff from discount box stores and Bertha's Tent and Awning.

8. Melaleuca:  The Wellness Cult:  So, everyone who knows me knows about this stuff.  
No, I don't sell it! :)  But the cult (company) is from Idaho and they sell natural, healthy, 
non-toxic products.... everything from cleaning products to makeup to vitamins and health products, etc.  When women in Idaho got tired of selling Avon and Tupperware they started selling Melaleuca!  Most of it contains Melaleuca Oil (tea tree oil from Australia) that is sold as a Panacea by the Melaleuca Cult...cures everything under the sun.   www.melaleuca.com


9.  Local Specialty Foods:  We have local mustard!  Mrs. McGarrigle's Mustard is made in Merrickville, Ont.  They have more mustard varieties than God ever intended.  I love the Chipotle Lime and Red Wine and Garlic.  Our local meat shop also sells amazing sauces from Stonewall Kitchen (They're in Maine).  As for "back home", my sister brought me bottled FRY SAUCE!  If you're not from Idaho/Utah (or a few other western states) you have never heard of fry sauce, but it's sacred (bow your heads).  My brown corduroys used to make that zip, zip, zip sound and almost catch on fire running into the Artic Circle for some burgers, fries and FRY SAUCE!!  If you're interested you can read about it at:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fry_sauce



10.  Crazy, luxury priced luggage:  So, this is CRAZY!!  I saw it on some follow-the-rich-you'll-never-have-this-stuff show.  The luggage is like $20,000ish and the attache cases are $3,000ish.  It IS German engineering though, and that's gotta be worth something!  www.henk.com 

On The Road With a Nasal-Bone Mutant

"When we get these thruways across the whole country… it will be possible to drive from New York to California without seeing a single thing. ..." Or, so said John Steinbeck in his book, "Travels With Charley." I, then, (if he were not comfortably interred in California) would invite Mr. Steinbeck to satiate his desire for on-the-road observations by accompanying me on my daily commute.

My life began with a commute. My mother went into labor on a Sunday morning while my father was entrenched in his four-egg omelette and Bugs Bunny. He asked if it was possible for her (or really, for I) to wait until Bugs was over to leave for the hospital, which was 45 minutes away. Undoubtedly, her actual response didn't make it into my baby book, but the jest of it was, "No sweetheart, I hate to interrupt your breakfast and Sunday cartoons, but it would be most prudent to leave now because my contractions are increasingly close and I would be exceedingly grateful to deliver your child in the comfort of a hospital rather than in the pickup truck on the Fort Hall Indian Reservation along Interstate-86." So began my life, and for its duration the places I need to go on a daily basis have never gotten any closer to where I sleep at night. In fact, for the first two years here (when I couldn't yet work in Canada), I drove an hour and a half each way to New York State every day. These commutes have not been entirely enjoyable, but they've provided some interesting observations. I thought I’d share one.

Kari's Life:  Enter The Nose Picker. I do not mean the people-who-pick-their-nose-in-the-car-because-they-envision-themselves-in-a-bubble-of-invisibility. There are plenty of those out there, but I'm referring to THE Nose Picker of all nose pickers in the orange Nova. I first encountered him just after exiting onto Highway 416 from the Queensway. It was with light traffic at 6:00 a.m. that I changed lanes to pass the Nova. The driver was a shaggy looking man, but that was not alarming. What WAS alarming is that it only took a half-glance to destroy my life-long fallacy that human nasal bones are designed in such a way to make it impossible for your entire finger to fit inside the thing.  Nose Picker’s pinky was completely buried in his right nostril and he was twisting it to boot! I thought at first that perhaps he had lost his little finger in the war and just does this to freak out people who are passing him on the Highway. But with the slimy withdrawl it was confirmed that he was not a disabled veteran, but some nasal-bone mutant. I didn’t observe where he deposited the yield from his dig, but I did notice that he had to shake his head like wet dog a couple of times to put himself right again. I was still perplexed forty minutes later as I sat in line to cross the border when I saw the orange hood of the Nova slide up behind me. I stared despite myself as he got out of the car, turned sideways, placed his thumb and forefinger on the bridge of his nose and blew with all his might! Then, in a move no novice should attempt, he leaned forward ever so slightly, slid his grip down his nose, seized the dangling string of snot and flung it to the ground in one musical-conductor-like flip of his wrist! He then got back in his car, did the wet dog shake again and honked at me to move ahead. I moved ahead, but have never really been able to move on......not really.

I still commute to work about 45 minutes each way, every day. I rarely pick my nose.

Nuts and Crackberries

    
"I will hug him and squeeze him, and call him 'George'."

It’s not a secret that I am perhaps just a titch emotional. I prefer Mathieu's description, that I just "have a lot of love to give."  I've also had recent conversations about the fact that I attach feelings to certain inanimate objects.  So, what if I choose the ugly, bumpy pumpkin at Halloween because I think he'll feel bad when no one chooses him to become a Jack-O-Lantern?  Or that I feel bad for just a moment when I cut open a bell pepper and find little bell peppers inside?  Or that I sleep with my Blackberry under my pillow, curled up in my hand.  I just have a lot of love to give!!!

These emotions existed in a different form when I was eight, and were often mistaken for, uh, I think the term used was "aggression." Because the first person who called me “Kari Berry” fell over backward in a silver metal cafeteria chair. This was a direct result of having a plastic sectional plate and a half-eaten sloppy Joe pressed into his face.  The second person would still be taking nourishment in liquid form, save that it was my cousin, Scott, who could run faster than I could. As he fled, he stammered that everyone likes berries because they’re sweet. Who knew Scooter was prophetic? They ARE sweet, especially BLACKBERRIES!!! 

The Pink Pearl (my Blackberry) arrived on Valentine’s Day, which is appropriate considering that it’s pink! (It’s pink! hehehe) Simply put, it has taken over my life. (And it’s pink! Hehehe) I am a willing hostage! In addition to Stockholm Syndrome, the Kari Berry has brought out many other signs of mental disorder and disruption. They haven’t added Crackberry Syndrome to the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) yet, but I can identify the indicators:

1. Phantom Vibrating: I swear that I felt it vibrate. Hmmmm, I’m not even wearing it, that’s strange.

2. Paranoid Delusional Vibrating: I felt it vibrate. You don’t believe me! You’re just like everybody else. Who’s deleting my messages? I thought the foil would help. I KNOW it vibrated, I’m not crazy, YOU’RE crazy!!

3. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder: It’s there, it’s on my hip. I don’t have to check. I don’t have to move my hand to my holster again, it’s THERE. Just leave it alone, it’ll let me know if I get a message, just leave it…. DAMN. Why do I have to keep touching it??? Why?

4. Addictive Behavior: Nod and smile, then say, “Really, uh huh” like you’re listening. They’ll stop talking soon and you can check it. Don’t look away! Don’t touch the Berry! Stop sweating! Focus!!!! Smile and nod. You can check it soon. O.K. Start backing away, slowly. SLOWLY!! Turn….don’t forget to wave.....now GO!!! GO!!! RUN fatty!!! Check it, check it, check it. *Sigh*, that’s better. It’s all o.k. now. Everything is o.k.

5. Compulsive Shopping: She’s so cute, she deserves a……a holster!!! She looks so pretty. Now she needs a….a headset. Ah! She likes it! But she really needs the…the little furry cover that has bunny ears. No other Berry will have bunny ears. I should get the bunny ears. Should I get them? I should. She deserves them. I’ll get them. I think I’ll just go ahead and get them.

6. Attention Deficit Disorder: Wow, Facebook, that’s cool. I should check my messag….oh, Viigo, it has recipes and my horosco….a camera! I wanna take a picture of my feet and put it on faceboo…..oh, I have a text message, I should repl…..GPS! I am here, see the little box on the scree….Ground Beef, I can’t forget it so I’ll just write myself a little note right here with the notes applic….meeting reminder, look at my calend…..oh! Someone’s calling….where’s my headset….ooooooooh pretty flowers.

7. Depression: Service is down…again. Why me? Always. Oh well, it’s not like I’m important enough for them to fix it for me. I probably don’t even have any messages anyway. No one ever sends me anything unless it’s dumb….just dumb stuff from dummies. I’ll never know with service down…again.

8. Possessive Behavior: You wanna h-h-h-h-h-hold it? You wanna t-t-t-t-touch it? Why? I mean, here, I’ll hold it up and you can see it. No, don’t touch the screen. Maybe I should take it back. Here, just let me….uh….yah, that’s the click wheel, it’s delicate. You probably shouldn’t…..AHHHHHH GIVE IT BACK!! I WANT IT BACK!! DON’T TOUCH IT!!! EVER!!! It’s ok KB, it’s ok. I have you now. It’s just you and me….you and me.

9. Irrational Risk-Taking Behavior: I know I shouldn’t text and drive…..and I know I shouldn’t bring the Berry with me when I take a bath, it’s a humid environment. I wrap it in a towel and place it waaay in the corner of the counter. At least I’ll know where it is. SOUND----SPLASH. It vibrated. I can wait until I’m done….ya, I’ll just wait. But it’s not a big deal, I can reach it….I just have to stand up in the tub, place my hand on the side and reeeeeach over……almost got it….just a little….welcome to my spinal cord injury.

10. Dependent Personality Disorder: She’s next to the bed. She’s charging. She’s happy. She’s fine. She’s not going to forget about me overnight. But if I could just slide her under my pillow then she’ll be safer, protected and warm. I can grip her in my hand while I sleep…..and she will never leave me. I will hug her, and squeeze her, and call her the Kari Berry.

Scott was right, berries ARE sweet….and I'M nuts.

A Fistful of Melted Chocolate

Today, while driving, I jeopardized my safety and that of others to retrieve a canister of the most delectable wafer cookies on the planet from my backseat using an ice scraper. However irresponsible, the operation was a success that culminated with me licking the last few crumbs of joy off my fingers. I was then taken back to one of my first memories, featuring my Grandpa Bill, a ridiculous pink dress, and a fistful of melted chocolate.

It's Easter Sunday, 1979. I'm standing on the front seat of Big G's (Grandpa Bill's) Buick with my hand on his shoulder. I'm donning a dreadful, frou-frou dress made entirely of pink bunting, paired with a horribly thick and uncomfortable pair of white tights. Like most weekends, I'm about to take the 15 mile journey from Rockland, Idaho to my Grandparents' house in American Falls. Once arrived, I will be crowned Queen of Idanha Avenue and will serve as sovereign over the cable television, be lavished with sweets, and showered with limitless praise. We're poised for departure but, as usual, we're waiting on my grandmother. She's on the porch, blowing hundreds of goodbye kisses in her very chic, robin-egg blue polyester Easter suit. I'm feeling particularly impatient because I am fairly certain that there is an Easter basket the size of a wheelbarrow waiting for me 15 miles away. Big G gives me his famous impish grin and I reach over to admonish my grandmother with a honk of the horn. But the honk merely elicits a blithely wave from the porch. I have a mind to go out after her, but I'm hobbled by my tights that were made for a child whose crotch is located one inch above their knees (or for a child with much shorter legs, Mom!). So, I plunk myself down on the seat, press my chin into my chest and fold my arms. In his standard, Pavlovian reaction Big G starts rooting around behind him for something to appease me. What comes back over the seat (Insert hymns of angels) is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen: A giant chocolate bunny the size of my head. (more hymns) I stare at it for about thirty seconds before Big G says, "Go ahead Scrapper, giv'r what for!" (Haaaalelujah) But now, I'm perplexed. Do I eat the bunny, thus ending his existence here on Earth? Or do I hold him, and name him, and love him, and pet him like every bunny deserves? I choose the latter and within moments my ethereal chocolate bunny is all over my hands and the horrid dress. Big G tries to help by taking away the remainder of the carcass, which enables me to wipe my hands on the white tights. Outrageousness ensues on the porch when they see what I've done to myself. I barely notice, however, because by this time I have licked my fingers and realize there is nothing I want more in the world on Easter Sunday, 1979, than to EAT THAT CHOCOLATE. I do the only thing I can do, I run. I run as fast as my shrimpish tights will let me, licking my fingers desperately as I wobble. Inevitably, I am caught and my father potato sacks me into the house. Others recall that even whilst dangling over my father's shoulder, I continued licking the chocolate off my fingers. And it was delightful.

It is no less worth it (and no more graceful) thirty years later, when I'm foraging around in the cupboard for abandoned chocolate chips; or making inaudible sounds when someone gives me something new and chocolaty to try; or extracting a canister of wafer cookies from the backseat of my car with an ice scraper. Chocolate is just one of those few pleasures in life that, even if it's just for a moment, makes everything better. As I held my wafer cookie in my hand I could hear Big G's voice, "Go ahead Scrapper, giv'r what for!" And I did, and it was delightful.

Snowbound: A Tale of Survival

Day One: Provisions

We know what may lie ahead and are busy gathering necessary provisions. Kari is mumbling and swearing to herself and we fear this will only increase. Mathieu fought mass hysteria at the LCBO and emerged with a full cart.

Wine (9 bottles).................check
Scotch (3 bottles)..............check
Meat (5 lbs).......................check
chips (2 bags)....................check
Blackberries (2).................check
iPods (2)............................check
PSPs (2)............................check
DS Lites (2).......................check
Playstation 3 (2).................check
Xbox (1)............................check
Cable/satt. (2 options)........check
P.C.s (2)............................check
Laptops (2).......................check


Night One: The Feast

We decided to make the best of our isolation by employing a large supply of our wine and meat stores. Mathieu created 4-inch meatballs and, if only for awhile, we forgot about the impending blizzard. We repeated the family creed to raise our spirits, and it was joyous..."Get drunk, eat meat!"




























Day Two: The Storm Has Come…..We Ready Ourselves

The storm has come. Mathieu took advantage of the brief break to gather reconnaissance. The Napoleon Moon-Boots held out better than expected. We can't see the light post, but there is an escape cave from the front door now. Kari busied herself with organizing the iPod. We can't afford a shoddy playlist when the moment of desperation comes. Mathieu is trying to keep his reflexes honed and his senses sharp by closing the gates of Oblivion in the basement. Even wrapped in the slanket there is a chill. Kari maintained her mental prowess with a three hour bath and a nap. We know the challenges are great, but we must all do our part.




Night Two: At World’s End

We had hoped it was an illusion.....a mirage, but through the noise of the ice pellets Mathieu announced that the snow had reached the level of the deck. *sigh* Leftover meatballs were almost enough to recover the team’s spirits. We were forced to go further into the liquor stores. The team gathered in the basement for the appropriately named film, "At World's End." The wine and scotch made a marked improvement on me hearties, yo ho!

Day Three: The Light and the Soldier Cometh

Kari got as far as the inner garage door in her plan to attend the Women's Show with Rhonda in Ottawa. It was a disappointment....and a waste of getting dressed. Mathieu made recon. visit two to the front sector of the house. With the light came some hope....and through the light came the soldier of snow. Carl, our every-ready neighbor arrived with the snow blower. We took time to gather photographic evidence of the area.

We have now retreated back inside to gather our hopes that the storm has passed……and it’s cause for celebration, “Get drunk, eat meat!”

Family, Friends and All Things Deep Fried

All happiness in life begins and ends with my three favorite f-words: Family, friends and food. And of course, for my purposes, food includes drinks!! And something truly magical happens when two or more of these f-words come together! I have just enjoyed three versions of such an alignment and it was a beautiful thing.

1. Brother Dom and the Phu Yen Phenom: On a fateful day several years ago Mathieu stumbled upon the “Ginger Beef Special” at the Phu Yen restaurant in Kanata. Of all the wonderful eating experiences Ottawa has to offer, it was the Phu Yen that we took Mathieu’s family too when they came to visit. His brothers immediately fell equally in love with the Ginger Beef Special (which, we actually found out was only on special that first visit and could have been henceforth referred to simply as “Ginger Beef”). And so, this past week, just as we do each time his brother Dominic visits, we made the pilgrimage to the Phu Yen where they whipped up a plate full of that gingery wonderfulness. Due to distance we have so few opportunities to share the simple things with our family. And if I have learned anything about Drouins, it’s that they like routine…..and food. As I watched two brothers talk and laugh over their Ginger Beef I appreciated both.

2. Freedom, Friends and All Things Deep Fried: There was a time when it was far more common for country neighbors to come together for a meal and each other’s company. I guess people have become too busy for that. But it’s a pastime that is alive and well in Beckwith!! Our friend Kelly has taken having people over for dinner to a whole new level. Part of that might be that the woman is simply a divine cook. The table brims with all things reminiscent of a “last meal” and it is so good that you wouldn’t mind if it was. Deep fried cheesecake, southern-fried chicken, pies….culminating with the main event DEEP-FRIED TURKEY. These two giant turkeys get injected with sauce and dropped into a bubbling vat of vegetable oil!! I find it hard to think of anything beyond that as my body goes into strange happy shivers. But at Kelly’s it’s also about the generosity and openness of those around the table. So many friends sharing stories, lives, and laughter is something to behold, and that’s not to take away from the pure magic that IS a deep fried turkey.

3. Couples, Candles, and Conversation: I have to stop teasing my friend Shelley for her love of all things orderly, true and together. But it is something that was evident, and wonderful as three couples got together for dinner at her house. As adults, it’s relaxing to sit down for a nice meal. But as friends, it’s still great to accompany it with 12 bottles of good wine and snorting, belly-laughter. Finding friends who appreciate both is truly a gift, or as Todd would say, “it’s just swell.”

Today in Ontario is “Family Day.” I’m not so idealistic as to miss the fact that this new holiday was served up to us as an election ploy because our sanity is shaky this time of winter and we’ll vote for anyone who’ll give us a long weekend. But, even so, I am reminded how precious time is with our families, even if we’re just sharing Chinese food in Kanata. And, likewise, how lucky some of us are to have found the rarest kind of friends.....who watch out for us, truly know us, and become family. Everyone should have that…..and it, like everything, is better when coupled with something deep fried.

One-Trip Sally and the Long Cold Winter

 

It's only February 1st and I've had enough. At some point this winter the snow bank in front of our house was taller than I am (and I'm tall!). Then we got this deluge that melted it all, causing me night terror visions of water spraying into the basement. Then the temperatures dropped to a level that makes you afraid to touch your nose because you might send a snotcicle into your brain. And this might be a particularly snowy winter, but it's the same every year.....either piles and piles of snow…..or freezing rain.....ice pellets......sleet….arctic temperatures. Sometimes they don’t even know what to call it and they use this ridiculous term, “Wintry Mix.” And it's not just since I moved to Ottawa. Idaho's winter usually only lasts from November to March and there’s somewhat less snow.....but it's still a hefty winter. I have 33 years of experience with winter, and I pride myself on my extensive repertoire of coping skills (both healthy and unhealthy). But it's getting hard….and I think I know why:

First, there is the sad fact that venting has very short-term effects and winter here lasts for six months. To maximize the benefit, I like to pair up venting with feeling sorry for myself. But it's hard to feel sorry for yourself for toughing out the winter months when you live in CANADA. It's in the brochure. Unless you actually break a bone or get stranded in the wilderness no one feels sorry for you. Let's also remember that I'm in Ottawa, which is in the SOUTHERN part of Canada. I was in Northern Ontario when it was -50!!! As in 50 degrees below 0!!! That's so cold that they stop even bothering to convert it between Fahrenheit and Celsius....it's just -50 in both!!

Secondly, there are “The Pretenders.” (i.e. people who pretend to like winter.) I think their diagnosis is very similar to people who pretend to like liver......and housecleaning.....and Neil Diamond. They say things like, "You just need to find activities that you like to do in winter" (I have them.....they just don't involve going outside!! Ever!!!). Next it’s, "With the right clothes it's not cold...it's all about layering" (Are you kidding me? This layering thing must be a native Canadian skill because there aren’t enough layers to block out -30). Or I just love, "Isn't the Snow Beautiful?" (Sure, when I'm sitting on my couch drinking coffee, watching it fall in the backyard on the weekend. But there's nothing pretty about it the other five days of the week when I'm brushing it off my car while it slides down my coat sleeves. I’m sure that part of me is just jealous that some people have been able to brainwash themselves into thinking that they like shovelling 30 cm of snow in their 50-lb parka. But when they look up and wave I sometimes fantasize about launching an ice ball right into that toothy smile.

Last of all, the constant threat of falling on your ass just ruins the mood. It could happen at the grocery store.....walking to the car in the morning.....coming home late at night after a few glasses of wine.....or going to get the mail. It's there....looming..... In my case, most recently it was while carrying ten bags of groceries up the front steps. I am a one-trip Sally. Regardless of whether I buy $6 or $200 worth of groceries they are getting into that house in ONE TRIP. Well, as I waddled toward the house during one such trip my foot slipped on some ice on the bottom step. In a strange twist of physics the grocery bags were propelled upward over my head and I felt flat on my back in a shower of soup cans and deli meat. In the process I pressed the panic button on my keychain and the Mustang's horn started blowing and the lights started flashing. In a fit of pride I rolled to my knees, stuffed the groceries into the torn bags and propelled all of us into the house. That moment flashes vividly through my mind every time I step onto an icy surface...the professionals call it post-traumatic stress.

I know that despite it all, spring will come. The snow will melt. The temperature will rise. And from the ashes, one-trip Sally will rise again. But for now, I will have to rely on the short term effects of venting. I should be good now…..for a few days.

The Day Marie-Soleil Turned Me Into a Canadian

Mathieu and I following my ceremony

"Marie-Soleil" and I following my Citizenship Ceremony

Mathieu, "Marie-Soleil" and I

There is a Chinese proverb that says, “We count our miseries carefully, but accept our blessings without much thought.” There are many days when I take note of the stresses in life. But today, on my first full day as a Canadian, I am gratefully aware of my blessings.

I am grateful to be a Canadian; An American-Canadian no less. I have to admit that even though I have been anxiously awaiting my Canadian Citizenship, I am surprised at how much it means to receive it. As I sat through my Citizenship Ceremony with 75 other candidates I knew that I did not experience the adversity, loss, uncertainty, or culture shock that some surely did on this journey. But still, I remembered leaving Idaho to join Mathieu in Ottawa eight years ago, and how different everything and everyone seemed to me then. Being an American in Canada has given me the gift of a perspective that I would have never had otherwise…on myself and my country.

I am grateful for the friends and family who make me proud of Canadians…. and for those back home who have unconditionally supported me being here. My mom is so excited and is probably telling everyone that I received some Royal Canadian Medal of Most Wonderfulness from my good friend the Prime Minister. I received great messages from Mathieu’s parents in Hearst and from friends throughout the day. And when Mathieu and I walked into the ceremony we found our friends Marc, Andrea and Isabelle already there. A few minutes later I heard someone say my name and turned to see Mathieu’s uncles Andre and Phil and his Aunt Pierrette behind me. I hadn’t thought that people would attend a ceremony on a Wednesday afternoon, so I had only told them the day of the ceremony and not where it was. They had spent the morning calling the entire Canadian government (including the Governor General’s residence) to find the location! As I repeated the Oath of Citizenship it went on about my future allegiance to the Queen and upholding the laws, but I was thinking instead of how lucky I am in this life to have come here to be with Mathieu, and to be part of this amazing family and to have made such great friends. It made the moment that much more special to have them there, and again later for celebratory drinks while I wielded around my Citizenship Certificate. (Note to liquor establishments: I do, however, think that a very Canadian thing to do would be to offer free beer to one who wields a shiny new Citizenship Certificate.)

I am also grateful that my cheering section causes a disturbance everywhere we go. The proctor (henceforth known as the bouncer) at the ceremony had to tell Aunt Pierrette to “settle down” when she was trying to get my attention. To disrupt things further the Citizenship Judge was a delightfully animated and personable woman named Suzanne Pinel, who it seems acquired some fame years ago as Marie-Soleil in a French-Canadian Children’s show. The entire photo line-up of new Canadians was disrupted for 10 minutes when it came to my turn because the judge started chatting with my French-Canadian family and friends! She joined us a few minutes later for an even longer discussion where I had my moment of glory explaining the pure beauty of the Idaho Potato to the former Marie-Soleil!! This drew further scrutiny from the bouncer who had previously scolded Aunt Pierrette! “I could tell you were trouble” she said to me as we were leaving, “when I saw your entourage.” Well, they might be trouble, but they look pretty good to me.