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

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

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

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!)

Chicken Bones Couldn't Sleep

Chicken Bones had brushed her teeth and washed her face. She had on her new pink flowered flannelette nightgown. Chicken Bones’ dad had read her a story and she was safely tucked into her bed. Chicken Bones’ mom was tidying up the living room. Chicken Bones knew her big sister Nancy would be climbing into her bed, on the other side of the room, very soon. Her biggest sister Thora would go to her own room next door a little after that. But Chicken Bones couldn’t sleep. It was Christmas Eve.
Chicken Bones thought about….
• the Sunday school pageant and wondered if she would ever get a leading role. (Chicken Bones was a fir tree again.)
• being born in a stable. She wondered if it was stinky and scratchy in there for that new little baby.
• frankincense. It was scary because it reminded her of Frankenstein.
• her dad struggling with bricks and a pail and the tree. Chicken Bones knew that she should sit very quietly on the turquoise couch while he worked. She knew that he would finally get it standing straight and then she could help decorate it.
• the presents hidden in her mom’s closet. She wished she hadn’t snuck in and looked at all of them already.
• how hard it was to wait.
• her great aunts in Montreal and Ottawa, and the gifts they sent from their travels all over the world. She knew she would get fancy new clothes from Holt Renfrew. She would also get unusual little items like PlayPlax blocks and scarecrow heads filled with even tinier treasures. She already knew this because the aunts wrapped their gifts with only ribbon and no tape, so it was easy to unwrap and rewrap without tell tale signs of snooping.
• being sneaky.
• her mom and dad’s Dutch friends, Paul and Toos. She was embarrassed that she already said “thank you for the chocolate letter” to them before she went to bed, when she hadn’t opened the letter yet. But she knew that’s what she would be getting because that’s what they gave her every year.
• ablekage. She loved it when her mom made this dessert for Christmas Eve because it made the night feel Danish.
• a road race set, a model town, an etch-a-sketch, a Cheerful Tearful doll, a Raggedy Ann and other stuff she asked Santa for.
• Santa. Chicken Bones worried that he might not fill her stocking if she didn’t get to sleep soon.
• Maurice and Dodie. She was glad that they always came out for Christmas Eve to have supper and open presents. Dodie always laughed lots, and Chicken Bones felt happy when she saw them holding hands.
• love.
• her foster sister Marlene and Marlene’s husband Jim. She wished they were there, too because they took such good care of her when she was a scrawny baby, and Jim gave her the special nickname, Chicken Bones.
• feeling small and cozy.
• ribbon candy, mixed nuts, sugar cookies and shortbread.
• pretending to act surprised in the morning.
• the empty glass and plate she would find on the kitchen counter…magical proof that Santa had been there.
• being excited and silly and full and tired and loved.

Good night.

Conni from Clandeboye
December 2010

Hard to wait.

©Conni Cartlidge, 2010

Prairie Islands

He calls them prairie islands.
The isolated yard sites scattered across the Manitoba landscape.

Protective orderly borders of evergreens guard shaky poplars and sweet smelling lilacs.
Stoic four square, two storey houses with hip roofs and weathered siding.
Sagging grey outbuildings and gun metal machine sheds.
A doghouse for a mangy mutt.
Dandelions and hollyhocks.
A buzzing light at the top of a leaning hydro pole marking the spot.
The half-mile driveway, a lifeline to the outside world.

Some might see desolation and loneliness.
Lost lots.
But she sees possibility and hope.
Together, they can build their own prairie island.

A life raft in the blue sea of flax.
A shady umbrella in the blinding yellow canola crop.
A down comforter under the cold cotton sheet of new snow.
An oasis in the wheat field.

Where scrappy scrub oaks support the tender weeping willows.
Cheerful chickadees encourage mourning doves.
Foxtails tickle the bleeding hearts.
And with optimistic apprehension and tentative anticipation, a new family can grow.

Within a prairie island.



 
Conni from Clandeboye
December 2010
 

Wishing for you a safe haven, a secure family, your own prairie island.
 


©Conni Cartlidge, 2010
 

Discovering Diversity

“She’s a witch, Mom.”

“Oh, okay… so does that mean I shouldn’t buy her a Christmas present?”


“He’s Jewish, Mom.”

“Oh, okay… so does that mean you won’t be caroling around the bonfire at your party?”


“I don’t want to sing about ‘The Lord’ at my concert, Mom.”

“Oh, okay… but you were baptized in the Anglican church when you were a baby.”


“WalMart sells sweat shop stuff, Mom.”

“Oh, okay… I’ll try Canadian Tire instead.”


“I’m smudging the house with sweetgrass, Dear.”

“Oh, okay… I’ll blow out my candy cane scented candles then.”


“It’s a right wing capitalist plot to make us consumer slaves, Mom.”

“Oh, okay… I won’t buy or make any gifts for anybody, but can we still have a turkey dinner?”


“I’m a vegetarian, Mom.”

“Oh………okay.”


Welcome to December, 2004.

Diversity has arrived in Clandeboye.

So here’s what I’m gonna do.

I’ll be up all night keeping a solstice fire burning. I’ll provide hot dogs and marshmallows for roasting (but some of them will be soy based). This will keep the vegan, Metis witches happy.

I’ll buy gifts carefully, keeping in mind who made them and under what circumstances and I’ll give them to people who really need them, people who have nothing and no one. This will keep the anarchists happy (I think).

I’ll burn candles and incense and sweetgrass and logs and kindling and anything else that seems appropriately flammable so that we can all have lots of light and warmth and mystical scents to lift our spirits. This should keep the Christians and the Jews and the Buddhists and the atheists and the depressed happy.

I’ll play lots of music, but I won’t do any caroling because I just can’t sing. This should make everyone happy.

And I’ll celebrate moms and dads and newborn babies because every family is a miracle.

And especially, I’ll celebrate my family for opening my eyes to diversity.



Imagine. Peace.





©Conni Cartlidge, 2010