I stood up in front of my class of Early Childhood Education students holding a cowardly lion doll from The Wizard of Oz. I lectured to them about the importance of courage. I told them they had to be brave enough to advocate for themselves. I told them they had to speak up for those who went unheard. And it struck me that I was a hypocritical chicken who was afraid of everything from woods to water! I realized I had to start following my own advice. So here’s what I did:
• When I was three, I walked off the end of a dock. My dad dove in and saved me. A little shift in my brain led to a life-long fear of deep water. I always said, “Oh, I can’t go swimming. I’m scared of water. I will probably drown.” I said this all my life. Then this summer, my son bought some blow-up rafts to play on in our creek. He urged me to come and try them. He was having so much fun! So I decided to summon up all my bravery and go rafting. I tiptoed in, gingerly holding the side of the raft. Then I wrapped my arms around the edge of it and let my feet float up behind me. And finally, I climbed right into the raft, sat on my knees in it, then sat down on my bum in it, and lastly lay right down on my back in it. The water carried me gently. The trees nodded approvingly. The sun smiled. I lived!
• When I was six, I went on a holiday with my family. Sitting around our campfire in Yellowstone Park, eating my oatmeal for breakfast, I looked up and saw a massive black bear lumbering towards me on his hind legs, heading straight for my bowl of cereal. I tossed my porridge, scrambled after my sisters and trembled in the tent until my mom chased the animal away. Another brain connection led me to an overwhelming fear of bears. I avoided woods and hiking, knowing deep down inside me that there were massive bears lurking behind every tree just waiting to maul me. But this past August, my husband and I took a trip to Vancouver Island. Our bed & breakfast looked right out on to the ocean. Pacific trails surrounded us. I read the warning signs: ”On these trails, you may encounter wolves, cougars and bears.” As I tried to find my inner boldness, I headed down the path. I was awestruck by the crashing waves, the windblown trees, the delicate hanging moss. I sat on a bench where the open ocean laughed and welcomed me to its shores. It was breathtaking. Any bears in the area chose to avoid my fellow tourists and me. I survived!
• When I was ten, I loved to dance. My sisters and I would play our 45 rpm records in the living room and we would do the jerk and the pony and the monkey. If we played “Sugar Shack”, mom would join us. My sisters and I giggled because we knew she couldn’t dance as groovily as us. But something shifted once again in my brain when some frightening experiences left me intimidated and fearful. My carefree boppy days of childhood were lost during my teens, and I could only dance with the shaky support of alcohol. And when I finally broke free of that addiction, I found all my inhibitions again. I stopped dancing. I said, “I can’t dance in front of people. I will look foolish. Everyone will stare at me.” But I was a bridesmaid this year at a fun and loving wedding. The ceremony was outside on a clear summer day and the reception was held in a converted barn. Rock & roll played inside and bluegrass could be heard outside in the parking lot. Guests milled around with cool drinks. Children laughingly chased each other through the prairie grass. It was a relaxed, easy-going event that loosened up everyone. I sat on my chair, watching people dancing to the live band. I guess I was gazing very intently at everyone. A friend grabbed my hands and pulled me up onto the floor and said, “C’mon…you know you want to!” and she was right. I did want to. I danced and laughed and danced some more. I was not embarrassed or self-conscious. And nobody criticized me. Everyone was having too much fun to even notice. I was fearless!
So at the end of this year, I can finally hold up that cowardly lion, and like him, know that I am full of courage. I can try new experiences. I can speak up. I can take chances. I am not a chicken.
Wishing you a year of small risks and bold adventures!
Peace. Love. Always.
December 2011
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Attention local newspaper editor... activists are active!
This letter was sent to Marc Zienkiewicz, the managing editor of Interlake Publishing. It was in response to his November 17th editorial in the Selkirk Journal. (selkirkjournal.com) I doubt he'll publish it so I decided I should take charge and post it here:
Marc,
I am thankful there are activists who question our society. Many are educated and thoughtful. Some are not, but they want to get involved anyway. I think they see hungry children and addicted adults and mental illness and family violence. They see hurt. I think they also see obese teenagers and electronic baby toys and extravagant homes with three car garages. They see inequality and waste. Canada is an amazing country for many people, but for others, it is filled with discrimination and intolerance. Activists want to take action to change this.
Activists are far from lazy. Some grow guerilla gardens in empty city lots. They share the food. Some teach people how to fix their own bikes, so they can get themselves around. Others live and work cooperatively, not competitively, so everyone wins. Some activists create and perform music to express their frustrations. And some choose to occupy public spaces to make a statement.
Taking time to hear different perspectives benefits us all.
I have heard yours, in your unsettling November 17th editorial, “Good riddance, you lazy hippies” and now you have heard mine. Like you, I could go on all day, but I will stop before I sink to the level of self-righteous name-calling.
Peace.
Marc,
I am thankful there are activists who question our society. Many are educated and thoughtful. Some are not, but they want to get involved anyway. I think they see hungry children and addicted adults and mental illness and family violence. They see hurt. I think they also see obese teenagers and electronic baby toys and extravagant homes with three car garages. They see inequality and waste. Canada is an amazing country for many people, but for others, it is filled with discrimination and intolerance. Activists want to take action to change this.
Activists are far from lazy. Some grow guerilla gardens in empty city lots. They share the food. Some teach people how to fix their own bikes, so they can get themselves around. Others live and work cooperatively, not competitively, so everyone wins. Some activists create and perform music to express their frustrations. And some choose to occupy public spaces to make a statement.
Taking time to hear different perspectives benefits us all.
I have heard yours, in your unsettling November 17th editorial, “Good riddance, you lazy hippies” and now you have heard mine. Like you, I could go on all day, but I will stop before I sink to the level of self-righteous name-calling.
Peace.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Satisfied
I made three people.
My babies.
Soft giggling butterflies in my belly.
Then hiccupping kicks and stretching rolls.
Moaning and sighing and laughing.
Another dimension of vibration as each entered this world.
And they never left me.
On me. Attached to me. Nursing and sleeping and gazing.
We didn’t care about anything else.
They were never cut. They were fed as soon as they were hungry. They were not left alone in the dark.
I made these choices. I made these three people.
These three are perfect to me.
Now that they are grown, I see their fight, their courage, their gentleness. I watch their actions, listen to their words, feel their music.
I have changed the world by making them.
When I feel despondent. Melancholy. Obsolete.
I take a moment and remember.
I made three people.
I am satisfied.
©Conni Cartlidge, 2011
My babies.
Soft giggling butterflies in my belly.
Then hiccupping kicks and stretching rolls.
Moaning and sighing and laughing.
Another dimension of vibration as each entered this world.
And they never left me.
On me. Attached to me. Nursing and sleeping and gazing.
We didn’t care about anything else.
They were never cut. They were fed as soon as they were hungry. They were not left alone in the dark.
I made these choices. I made these three people.
These three are perfect to me.
Now that they are grown, I see their fight, their courage, their gentleness. I watch their actions, listen to their words, feel their music.
I have changed the world by making them.
When I feel despondent. Melancholy. Obsolete.
I take a moment and remember.
I made three people.
I am satisfied.
©Conni Cartlidge, 2011
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
The Club
She joined the club. I didn’t want her to.
But she joined the club.
Sucked in by the relief of the next hit. The release of another drink. The black oblivion. The freedom of nothingness.
At half my age, she could have been my daughter.
With her fears and addictions, she could have been mine.
She will not know the ecstasy of a new baby’s messy birth. She will not feel the comfort of supper waiting for her at the end of a busy day. She will not reflect on good times with lifelong friends.
She will be stuck at twenty seven. A member of the club.
A lost artist who carried too much pain.
To join the club, she had to leave.
I didn’t want her to.
(Written for Amy, August 2011)
©Conni Cartlidge, 2011
But she joined the club.
Sucked in by the relief of the next hit. The release of another drink. The black oblivion. The freedom of nothingness.
At half my age, she could have been my daughter.
With her fears and addictions, she could have been mine.
She will not know the ecstasy of a new baby’s messy birth. She will not feel the comfort of supper waiting for her at the end of a busy day. She will not reflect on good times with lifelong friends.
She will be stuck at twenty seven. A member of the club.
A lost artist who carried too much pain.
To join the club, she had to leave.
I didn’t want her to.
(Written for Amy, August 2011)
©Conni Cartlidge, 2011
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Decluttering
I’m trying to declutter. I’m trying to get rid of old stuff. I’m trying to organize my life. The reality shows make it look so simple. Make three piles – 1) keep 2) sell 3) toss. Put each piece of clutter in the appropriate pile. Put the keep stuff away neatly. Have a garage sale and sell what you can. Throw out everything else. Sounds simple enough. So I get started. I haul out boxes from closets and get to work.
Empty envelopes. Toss.
Old report cards. Keep.
Collectible tin. Sell
Broken bracelet. Toss.
Grandfather’s belt buckle. Keep.
Picture frame. Sell.
Teenage boy’s obituary…..
Tassel from graduation cap…..
Umbilical cord clamp…..
Alice Cooper concert balloon….
Baby brush with flattened bristles….
Great-Grandma’s stained, heart-shaped pillow….
I slow down.
I stall.
When are things just things? When do things become more?
In what pile do I put my sadness? How do I sort out my pride and excitement? Where do I put my rock & roll frenzy? How do I categorize tenderness? When do I say good-bye?
My life is cluttered. I think it’s supposed to be.
©Conni Cartlidge, 2011
Empty envelopes. Toss.
Old report cards. Keep.
Collectible tin. Sell
Broken bracelet. Toss.
Grandfather’s belt buckle. Keep.
Picture frame. Sell.
Teenage boy’s obituary…..
Tassel from graduation cap…..
Umbilical cord clamp…..
Alice Cooper concert balloon….
Baby brush with flattened bristles….
Great-Grandma’s stained, heart-shaped pillow….
I slow down.
I stall.
When are things just things? When do things become more?
In what pile do I put my sadness? How do I sort out my pride and excitement? Where do I put my rock & roll frenzy? How do I categorize tenderness? When do I say good-bye?
My life is cluttered. I think it’s supposed to be.
©Conni Cartlidge, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
Blizzards
(Originally written to my Dad for his 70th birthday, September 1998)
March ’66…who could forget the amazing storm that was every child’s dream! We were snowed in for days, at least until you cleared enough snow to open the back door. Then we were let loose to burrow through miles of drifts, like little prairie dogs with hidden tunnels and rooms. We could climb a mountain so high we could almost touch the roof of 413. The ’64 Dodge was a buried treasure hidden somewhere in an icy grave. What an experience! What an adventure! I guess it was you, Dad, who finally found the car and driveway, and a way to work, but I was not concerned with those details of grown-up life because I was a kid having a ball in the snow!
November ’86…another spectacular storm hits the prairies, but much has changed in twenty years and my reaction is one of entrapment, exhaustion and desperation. I could not get to work, the snow had obliterated the parking lot of my townhouse in Charleswood, three year old Ari was asking question after question after question about snow, weather, plows, and every other related topic, and I was trying to cope with it all as a newly separated, single parent. I felt like I was in a nightmare. I phoned you in tears.
Blizzards were no longer fun to me. There was no exciting adventure to be found in trying to struggle to the corner store for milk and bread. Ari loved the drifts, once I forced the back door open just wide enough for him to squeeze through, but I just wanted to go home to Selkirk. So, as the plows were just beginning to open up a few major thoroughfares in Winnipeg, you somehow managed to make your way all the way out to Shelmerdine Drive to rescue Ari and me, and take us home to Sutherland Avenue. I was comforted on the couch with a blanket and hot chocolate and Ari was given the task of helping his Poppa shovel the driveway.
Ari probably has fun memories of the blizzard of ’86…playing in the huge drifts, helping to shovel the driveway, and sleeping over at Mormor and Poppa’s house. What I remember is that I have a Dad who comes when I need him, regardless of the obstacles.
You’re also pretty good at shoveling snow!
©Conni Cartlidge, 2011
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Chicken Bones and the Bowling Alley
Chicken Bones knew what day Saturday was because she dusted her room and went to ballet class. Chicken Bones knew what day Sunday was because she got to wear a cute dress and hat and gloves to Sunday School. All the other days, Chicken Bones wasn’t too sure about, but she did know that she would be with her mom. When her dad went to work and her big sisters went to school, Chicken Bones and her mom got busy. Hanging on to her mom’s hand-tooled leather purse, which hung at just the right height, they walked to the post office where Chicken Bones carefully found Box 838. Sometimes her mom would let Chicken Bones unlock the box and pull out the treasures inside. If it was a really good day, there might be a letter from Grandma in BC or Auntie Anna in Saskatchewan or Auntie Alice in South Dakota! Then Chicken Bones and her mom might walk downtown to buy new underwear at the SOS store or admire the shiny shoes in the windows of Edward’s. They might even go to the Dinette for a hot chocolate, but that was only sometimes. On the way home, they might stop in at Safeway to pick up a can of peaches for suppertime dessert. And if they did pick up peaches for dessert, Chicken Bones started to wonder why her mom wasn’t making a better dessert. She got to thinking that something else might be going on that day…
Sure enough, a “can of peaches for dessert day” meant that Chicken Bones and her mom had something else to do in the afternoon. It meant that it was the Ladies Bowling League day!
One afternoon a week, Chicken Bones and her mom walked one and a half blocks to the bowling alley. On bright sunny days, Chicken Bones squinted and held tightly to the purse as they made their way across Main Street and through the doors of the long, low bowling alley. It had no windows. Chicken Bones couldn’t see a thing and her mom told her that her eyes just had to adjust. So she stood in the black entryway and waited for her eyes to get used to the darkness. Gradually, she started to see. Her mom changed in to her tan bowling shoes that she carried in a genuine vinyl case and Chicken Bones fumbled with her shoes. She knew that they had to be left at the door because bowling alleys had very delicate floors that should never be touched by regular old street shoes. Chicken Bones did not want to be the person that wrecked those perfect floors. So Chicken Bones stood in her socks and as her eyes adjusted, a friendly man with a happy smile and a bristly brushcut came up to greet her. Mr. Kozun owned the bowling alley and Chicken Bones really liked him. He gave her a Coffee Crisp bar and told her he was glad she was there. He reminded her that there was a playroom for all the kids… and then Chicken Bones felt a little bit nervous.
Chicken Bones loved going to the Ladies Bowling League with her mom and she loved getting a chocolate bar from Mr. Kozun, but she hated the terrifying playroom. She looked down at her sock feet and she looked up at her mom and she clutched the leather purse a little bit tighter. Her mom said it was okay if Chicken Bones just sat with her and the other ladies instead. Chicken Bones was so relieved. She made her way over to the bowling lane. She knew she had to behave herself if she was going to sit with the ladies. So she found a spot on the molded plastic turquoise and white seats and tried not to slide her bum around on them too much, though it was hard not to when the seats were so smooth and slippery. And she tried not to play with the metal ashtray, which opened and closed when you pushed a button. And she tried not to draw pictures on the score sheets or ask too many questions about strikes and spares. She cheered when her mom crashed down all of the pins and she groaned over the gutter balls. She admired the ladies bowling shirts; pale green with dark green folds that let them move and throw easily. Some ladies had bigger shirts. Her mom called them maternity tops and Chicken Bones knew that this meant these ladies were “expecting”. She loved watching them sip their cokes and 7Ups through straws. They took glamourous drags from their cigarettes before getting up for their turn to bowl.
And as she tried to be no trouble and she tried to be invisible and she tried to not bother anybody, she could hear little comments from the ladies suggesting that she really should be in the playroom. She tried and tried to make herself smaller and even thought about hiding under the plastic benches. Then she heard her mom say that she knew Chicken Bones would go to the playroom when she was ready. Chicken Bones felt much better… but she also felt like she now had to go to the playroom so her mom would be proud of her. So she slowly finished her Coffee Crisp bar and she carefully licked the remaining melted chocolate off each of her fingers and she pulled up her saggy socks and she announced that she was going to the playroom!
Her mom didn’t say too much. She just walked with Chicken Bones over to the playroom, lifted her over the plywood gate, set her inside and told the woman in charge who she was. As her mom headed back to her game, Chicken Bones knew immediately that she had made a mistake. The woman in charge was not in charge. A horrible boy named Darryl was. He screamed and yelled and threw blocks at everyone. Children were sobbing. Chairs were upside down. Darryl’s sister, Debbie started throwing blocks too. The woman who was not in charge was sweating and her hair was all messy and her face was very red and nobody was listening to her, especially not Darryl. And Chicken Bones stood stock still inside this plywood asylum, terrified to her very core. She could not behave herself any longer. She could not make her mom proud. She simply had to get out or she thought she would die. So Chicken Bones started to bawl. She bawled and she bawled until she drowned out the cheering ladies and the smashing pins and the playroom chaos. At long last, her mom came running and Chicken Bones was rescued! Her mom took her home and gave her a sugar sandwich. She told Chicken Bones that she never had to go to the playroom again.
On the days that weren’t Saturdays or Sundays, on the days that it was a can of peaches for dessert, on the days that it was just Chicken Bones and her mom, Chicken Bones knew that her mom would let her hang on to the leather purse as long as she needed to.
©Conni Cartlidge, 2011
Sure enough, a “can of peaches for dessert day” meant that Chicken Bones and her mom had something else to do in the afternoon. It meant that it was the Ladies Bowling League day!
One afternoon a week, Chicken Bones and her mom walked one and a half blocks to the bowling alley. On bright sunny days, Chicken Bones squinted and held tightly to the purse as they made their way across Main Street and through the doors of the long, low bowling alley. It had no windows. Chicken Bones couldn’t see a thing and her mom told her that her eyes just had to adjust. So she stood in the black entryway and waited for her eyes to get used to the darkness. Gradually, she started to see. Her mom changed in to her tan bowling shoes that she carried in a genuine vinyl case and Chicken Bones fumbled with her shoes. She knew that they had to be left at the door because bowling alleys had very delicate floors that should never be touched by regular old street shoes. Chicken Bones did not want to be the person that wrecked those perfect floors. So Chicken Bones stood in her socks and as her eyes adjusted, a friendly man with a happy smile and a bristly brushcut came up to greet her. Mr. Kozun owned the bowling alley and Chicken Bones really liked him. He gave her a Coffee Crisp bar and told her he was glad she was there. He reminded her that there was a playroom for all the kids… and then Chicken Bones felt a little bit nervous.
Chicken Bones loved going to the Ladies Bowling League with her mom and she loved getting a chocolate bar from Mr. Kozun, but she hated the terrifying playroom. She looked down at her sock feet and she looked up at her mom and she clutched the leather purse a little bit tighter. Her mom said it was okay if Chicken Bones just sat with her and the other ladies instead. Chicken Bones was so relieved. She made her way over to the bowling lane. She knew she had to behave herself if she was going to sit with the ladies. So she found a spot on the molded plastic turquoise and white seats and tried not to slide her bum around on them too much, though it was hard not to when the seats were so smooth and slippery. And she tried not to play with the metal ashtray, which opened and closed when you pushed a button. And she tried not to draw pictures on the score sheets or ask too many questions about strikes and spares. She cheered when her mom crashed down all of the pins and she groaned over the gutter balls. She admired the ladies bowling shirts; pale green with dark green folds that let them move and throw easily. Some ladies had bigger shirts. Her mom called them maternity tops and Chicken Bones knew that this meant these ladies were “expecting”. She loved watching them sip their cokes and 7Ups through straws. They took glamourous drags from their cigarettes before getting up for their turn to bowl.
And as she tried to be no trouble and she tried to be invisible and she tried to not bother anybody, she could hear little comments from the ladies suggesting that she really should be in the playroom. She tried and tried to make herself smaller and even thought about hiding under the plastic benches. Then she heard her mom say that she knew Chicken Bones would go to the playroom when she was ready. Chicken Bones felt much better… but she also felt like she now had to go to the playroom so her mom would be proud of her. So she slowly finished her Coffee Crisp bar and she carefully licked the remaining melted chocolate off each of her fingers and she pulled up her saggy socks and she announced that she was going to the playroom!
Her mom didn’t say too much. She just walked with Chicken Bones over to the playroom, lifted her over the plywood gate, set her inside and told the woman in charge who she was. As her mom headed back to her game, Chicken Bones knew immediately that she had made a mistake. The woman in charge was not in charge. A horrible boy named Darryl was. He screamed and yelled and threw blocks at everyone. Children were sobbing. Chairs were upside down. Darryl’s sister, Debbie started throwing blocks too. The woman who was not in charge was sweating and her hair was all messy and her face was very red and nobody was listening to her, especially not Darryl. And Chicken Bones stood stock still inside this plywood asylum, terrified to her very core. She could not behave herself any longer. She could not make her mom proud. She simply had to get out or she thought she would die. So Chicken Bones started to bawl. She bawled and she bawled until she drowned out the cheering ladies and the smashing pins and the playroom chaos. At long last, her mom came running and Chicken Bones was rescued! Her mom took her home and gave her a sugar sandwich. She told Chicken Bones that she never had to go to the playroom again.
On the days that weren’t Saturdays or Sundays, on the days that it was a can of peaches for dessert, on the days that it was just Chicken Bones and her mom, Chicken Bones knew that her mom would let her hang on to the leather purse as long as she needed to.
©Conni Cartlidge, 2011
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Ugly Anticipation
It is an ugly season, spring. And yet I anticipate its messy arrival.
I just can’t resist the crunching of the rotten ice, the gush of rushing water over the flooded yard. Booters and soggy socks are left on the front porch.
The rug on the line hangs there for days, the sodden air holding in the dampness.
The picnic table, mildewed and cold, waits to host a summer gathering.
The leafless tree exposes an abandoned bird nest.
Nearby, the decomposing sunflower seeds mingle with the unraked leaves and broken twigs under the deserted birdfeeder.
Growling half tons swerve through the mucky ruts of my road, checking out the water levels at the bridge.
“Any fish runnin’ yet?”
“Nope.”
The sparkly white winter landscape is reduced to a few soiled spoiled patches of sorry looking snow, stained by traffic and dogs.
Birth is messy and noisy and wet. It takes its time. It makes me feel excited and apprehensive and brave.
Congratulations! It’s spring! Ugly, but with a face a mother can love!
©Conni Cartlidge, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Blood, Sweat and Tears at the Calgary Stampede
It would be fun! It would be relaxing! It would be a spectacular bird’s eye view of the Calgary Stampede midway!…and my sister Nancy had three free passes for the SkyTram ride that would carry my young daughter Mary, my mom and me over the fair. After observing too many gravity-defying roller coasters filled with screaming adolescents, we felt comfortable with Nancy’s offer. The chairlift would transport us gently and slowly overhead so we could enjoy the sights and sounds of the stampede.
As we boarded the ride, we carefully sat little Mary between us to keep her secure, and held on to the bar placed across our laps. The seat slowly moved forward and we began our ascent. As our feet left the security of the wooden platform, our hands tightened around the bar. As we reached a seemingly dizzying height…20…30…perhaps 40 or 50 feet above the fairgrounds, we panicked! The blood drained from our heads and white-knuckled hands, straight down to our dangling feet, from which we would surely lose our shoes onto the unsuspecting crowds below! The sweat began to run down our faces and mixed with the hysterical tears gushing from our eyes. Mom was so drenched that her glasses began to slip and slide down her nose but her grip on the safety bar was so tight that she was unable to adjust them. We prayed that she would not lose them along with our shoes! We frantically tried to reassure Mary that it would all be over soon, and she looked at us strangely and explained that she was enjoying the ride and why were we laughing and crying all at the same time???
Well, we made it across without seeing one interesting item other than each other. As we slowly descended onto the platform, we breathed a huge sigh of relief. The attendant lifted the life-saving bar from our laps and pried our fingers off, looking rather quizzically at us. This was, after all, the Safeway SkyTram, not the Drop of Doom. Our wobbly legs carried us back to Nancy, who was eagerly awaiting our reaction to the ride. As we shivered, shook, and dried our tears, we assured her that NEVER AGAIN would we attempt such an adventure. For some reason, she just didn’t understand, and she and Mary just shrugged their shoulders and shook their heads.
But Mom and I will never forget the shared terror of the Stampede SkyTram.
(A funny memory from the mid 90's!)
As we boarded the ride, we carefully sat little Mary between us to keep her secure, and held on to the bar placed across our laps. The seat slowly moved forward and we began our ascent. As our feet left the security of the wooden platform, our hands tightened around the bar. As we reached a seemingly dizzying height…20…30…perhaps 40 or 50 feet above the fairgrounds, we panicked! The blood drained from our heads and white-knuckled hands, straight down to our dangling feet, from which we would surely lose our shoes onto the unsuspecting crowds below! The sweat began to run down our faces and mixed with the hysterical tears gushing from our eyes. Mom was so drenched that her glasses began to slip and slide down her nose but her grip on the safety bar was so tight that she was unable to adjust them. We prayed that she would not lose them along with our shoes! We frantically tried to reassure Mary that it would all be over soon, and she looked at us strangely and explained that she was enjoying the ride and why were we laughing and crying all at the same time???
Well, we made it across without seeing one interesting item other than each other. As we slowly descended onto the platform, we breathed a huge sigh of relief. The attendant lifted the life-saving bar from our laps and pried our fingers off, looking rather quizzically at us. This was, after all, the Safeway SkyTram, not the Drop of Doom. Our wobbly legs carried us back to Nancy, who was eagerly awaiting our reaction to the ride. As we shivered, shook, and dried our tears, we assured her that NEVER AGAIN would we attempt such an adventure. For some reason, she just didn’t understand, and she and Mary just shrugged their shoulders and shook their heads.
But Mom and I will never forget the shared terror of the Stampede SkyTram.
(A funny memory from the mid 90's!)
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