How can my kids be getting older if I’m not?

The transition is complete. I saw Ari, 19 walking up the driveway the other day and thought it was some man. I had to give my head a shake to realize it was my baby. Conversely, Christopher, 22, has been 6’4’ for so long it’s baby pictures of him that surprise me. I don’t know; maybe we just let the first one grow up faster.

We are spending a summer juggling cars and jobs and schedules. Christer’s girlfriend Pammy, 22, is working days, and Ari works most afternoons and evenings. Christer and I are based here but I travel, so each evening is trying to sort who needs to be where and when, then involving cars and bikes and timing. I realized early on I didn’t need to be part of the equation anymore; they sort it out amongst themselves and everyone gets where they need to be. I am living with grownups.

Pammy will make dinner some nights; Christopher once cut the grass before I asked him to; Ari will grab me a bottle of wine on his way home from work (“you like this Sove stuff, right?”) and blue bins often go out without a reminder. They fix my computer. Laundry I didn’t fold appears folded.

“Where do we keep the vacuum for the car?”

“We’re ordering pizza, what do you want on yours?”

“Mom, I’m sending you a really interesting link. Read it and tell me what you think.”

I like this new era. It can be frustrating, because they turn back into children at the most inopportune moments. They still look at me with haunted eyes around dinnertime, and there is nothing to eat even though they do the grocery shopping. I hand them my card and say “if you recognize it, put it in the cart” and they come home with an eclectic cross section of things that rarely make a single normal meal. We adapt and melt cheese on this instead of that.

I was flipping through piles of old pictures the other day, and came across a trove I’d never seen. A box dropped off by a friend after Mom died, tiny black and white photos of both parents before they’d married, before they’d even known each other. Pic after pic of my Dad in natty suits and Don Draper hats, striking poses beside cars – and sometimes women – I didn’t recognize. I was looking at my own son staring back at me. I showed Ari and he smiled, but he was humouring me because he’s even old enough to do that now.

When he was about 6, I was chopping garlic for dinner one night. A sliced clove sat on the cutting board, and I turned to see Ari grimacing as he put a piece in his mouth. Determined, he chewed, tears forming. I asked what he was doing. “You said Pa used to eat that stuff, so I guess I better, too.” My Dad did eat raw garlic, and this tiny boy was honouring him in the only way he could think. I learned then the honour is in the effort.

My quasi-grownups still get dressed out of laundry baskets, dressers merely decorative. I barked at Ari that he had 9 empty drawers he could use, and he said he only had 6.

“The dresser has 6 and there are another 3 under your bed,” I reminded him.

“I never put stuff in those ones,” he replied. I asked him why not.

“When I was little, I thought you bought those to keep the monsters under the bed from getting out.”

My baby grinned.

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Tackling the loss from 18 years away

It’s a green metal box. The latch is a little wonky, and as you open it one hinge does most of the work, the other one pulling itself up like an old man exiting an easy chair. My Dad was never much of a fisherman, but for some reason, having a tackle box made him happy. It still sits beneath the cottage, a little rustier every year, a little less relevant.

It’s full of junk, really. Broken lures and bits and bobs of wire and hooks; an ancient pair of needle nose pliers that don’t open; swivels that won’t close. There are still some new packages in there, some leaders and weights and an indignant looking fake fish sporting garish colours and a belly full of tiny hooks. It was always full of castoffs, but Dad would say bring me the tackle box when we’d messed up our rods, yet again, and he’d dig through the little compartments, figuring out how to make something he already had do the job of something he didn’t want to go buy.

I didn’t like lures, I liked worms. I would feel sorry for the worm as the fish nibbled away at it, and then I’d feel sorry for the fish that eventually got caught. I’d feel even sorrier for myself later that night if Dad made us eat the fish because if something had to die there had to be a reason.

Our lake was full of deadheads, fallen trees just beneath the surface that were the doom of many boats and the curse of even more cast lines. Lures would be ripped off because no, you hadn’t hooked a big one, you’d snagged a log and we’d watch from our dock as strangers to our lake (locals knew all the dangers) gave up trying to free their fancy tackle and quite literally cut bait and moved on. We would load a grappling hook into our old wooden boat, two little girls antsy with anticipation as Dad rowed around the fringes of the lake, staring like a hawk beneath the surface for our prey.

He’d set the hook and we’d hang on, four small hands being burned by the yellow rope, four small feet braced against the back of the boat. Dad would row back in, and we’d yell if we lost it and cheer if we didn’t. We’d eventually haul these river monsters back to shore, where Dad would pick them clean of their snagged tackle, adding the bounty to the green box. Real fishermen would visit, men with tackle boxes with tidy rows and immaculate packages arranged by size and category. Dad would pull out one of his prizes – a particularly expensive lure he’d scavenged, but would never use – and they’d nod and tell lies to one another and have another beer.

Dad’s been gone nearly 18 years and I still can’t accept the reason but the tackle box remains. Periodically, someone will poke around in it, trying to save a trip into town that will take longer than the urge to fish will last. The tangle of rods and reels is a sorry statement on how we don’t take care of things, except every year, necessity provides new incarnations of gear that makes one kid or another more than a fisherman; it makes them an inventor. I think Dad might have liked that that even more, the making over and the making do.

My Dad usually found his bounty where others had given up, and that little green metal box is a testament to that. Not so irrelevant after all.

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With the Tories, it’s déjà vu all over again

I was a weird little kid, and took an early interest in politics. My Dad was a staunch Progressive Conservative from Saskatchewan. I wrote a fan letter to John Diefenbaker when I was 9. Told you I was weird.

Debates would get heated. My father wanted me to follow his teachings, and for a long time, I did. As I learned, I asked more questions. I ended up at a conclusion I still believe: political parties are like lousy marriages where people only stay together for the kids. Why couldn’t we use this idea from one side of the aisle, but that one from over here? My Dad would sigh and say it didn’t work that way.

Little did I know I was enjoying the halcyon days of politics. Now, I swear the only words that ring out with any clarity from a dais are “whatever s/he just said, I’m totally against it.” We don’t vote for anything, we vote against things. Disturbingly, people fail to realize that things have changed. That Progressive Conservative party of my youth is not this one. Not even close. If you’re still just checking the blue box, you need to pull your head out of the sand. These are the Regressive Conservatives.

I will give Tim Hudak this: I totally believe he will cut 100,000 public sector jobs. He will never, ever sort out the other end of that teeter totter; the entire 1,000,000 jobs plan has been shredded across the board for embarrassingly faulty math. But he’ll keep his word and slash the other end to the ground.

My fears? We’ve lived through this before. Hudak’s master, Mike Harris, instituted his Common Sense Revolution just before my Dad died in 1996. We felt the impact of those “common sense” cuts firsthand, and so will you if it happens again. My father had nurses so run off their feet with staggering workloads, we took over all but his medical care. There’s nothing wrong with a daughter bathing her father, unless you take into account his dignity, which I did.

Let’s keep an eye out for the invisible cuts, the ones that don’t matter. Who needs hospitals and schools to be clean? I mean, how dirty can they get? Someone said I was getting frantic about “a little dirt in the corners”. I welcome him to the new world of C. difficile. Three years ago, the Niagara Health system had 37 deaths from C. difficile; it is contagious and it is deadly and we need to counter it with cleaner hospitals, not dirtier ones. Maybe some of these newly branded Conservatives can afford to opt out of a healthcare system that is increasingly becoming truly for the great unwashed, but I can’t.

We can’t keep being old people who forget how it was to be young and young people who believe we will never get old. We’re a collective; the fact my kids no longer go to the elementary school doesn’t mean I don’t want it safe and good for the kids who do. I may not need daycare facilities anymore, but I once did and people I care about will again. I don’t need a new hip today, but I’ll need something.

I’m fed up with ads insinuating that Ontarians have more bootstraps to pull up or should be punching more holes in their belts. According to the Ministry of Finance, “Ontario currently has the lowest program spending per capita among Canadian provinces.” Every party that has ever been in power has made costly errors; I’m just not prepared to have our health and education frontline workers be the sacrificial lambs, again.

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Netflix allows me to have impure thoughts

Every few months or so, I barge around the house waving bills, deciding what we can live without. Hydro is a killer, but it’s followed closely by phone, internet, cable, gas and groceries. I stare at those lists you get to organize a budget. I get to things like “gifts” and “entertainment” and start laughing. Our entertainment is explaining why nobody is getting any gifts.

Hydro bills make me spit nails. It doesn’t matter what I do, it keeps heading up. We’ve become as nocturnal as a bunch of badgers, with laundry and dishes being done in the wee hours. By candlelight. I’ve tried replacing light bulbs with seven-year-warranty-my-ass twirly bulbs, but once I realized you handle the burned out ones like nuclear waste, I quit. I want to be environmentally responsible, but I can’t keep up. Besides, I know of at least one person who bit through a thermometer as a kid, and they’re still alive.

I found out a few months ago the kids had discovered Netflix. Most people have known about this service for a year or three. Nobody told me. You can watch nearly anything you want, when you want, on any device. TV shows, documentaries, movies, anything. And you can sit and watch whole seasons of something all at once, which is good for someone like me who can never remember when anything is supposed to be on.

So Christopher, 22, his girlfriend Pammy, 22 and Ari, 19, have been enjoying Netflix while I watch M*A*S*H reruns and say yes to someone else’s dress. How did I find out? I told them I was dumping our cable down to basic. Nobody was watching much TV, so I figured I’d teach them a lesson and take away the fancy packages.

Nobody cared.

“We don’t watch it anyway,” explained Christopher. “We just watch Netflix.” Hence I learned about Netflix. And hence they were forced to set my computer up so I too, could watch whatever Netflix was.

In about 2 hours, I was addicted. Years and years of programming I’d missed out on. No longer would I have to just nod and smile when people compared notes on current hits like Breaking Bad or House of Cards. But better still, I could now go back in time and find old stuff that had debuted, run for several seasons, and finished before I even heard about it. And here is where I found the magic.

Overcome with guilt at finding an 18-year-old football player sexy, I checked out a bio. Because I was so late to the game, so to speak, that 18-year-old was now 33. While still creepy, it wasn’t illegal. My impure thoughts were less impure. I mentioned this to one of my sons, who looked at me like he’d just swallowed a cockroach.

Newly empowered with choice and control, I called the cable company and told them to drop me down to just some local stations. All I wanted was the news. Nobody would notice.

“Hey, what happened to the TV?” yelled Ari. Seems he’d flipped around and settled on some Canadian channel he’d ever seen before. I sat down to watch a terrible game show with him. It soon became clear not only was it really old, it was really bad.

“We have a new cable package,” I explained.

“What’s it called, the 15 years too late package?”

Then The Beachcombers came on. He just looked at me.

“All I can say is that this was just as corny then as it is now.” That, and no impure thoughts of Bruno Gerussi.

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Whatever kills me had better be prepared for a fight

I really thought I was done talking about my boobs.

Three weeks ago, I told you I had a preventative double mastectomy. Family history with the disease is dubious, and I wasn’t taking any chances. All went well, and I’m back to my usual sparkly self.

Three weeks after surgery, I had a follow up appointment with my surgeons. Before I could get to my first question, my Surgical Oncologist, Dr. Nicole Hodgson whirled into the room and tossed a lab report on the table.

“Good timing,” she smiled. When you have done what I did, they remove all the tissue and check it under a microscope. I’d known this but forgotten, because a couple of months previous, I’d had a mammogram and MRI that had given me the all-clear on the cancer front.

I looked at the report, my eyes flying over it line by line, page by page. She pointed to one line. Lobular carcinoma in situ. I looked up. “Very high risk cells in the left, and starting in the right. It’s gone.” I looked down instinctively to where my left and right had once been. I was silent.

I’ll be honest: this was the only time in this whole affair that I felt sucker punched. I’ve been deliberate and decisive and clear-headed. I’ve attacked this with a near clinical attitude that some people thought I was using to mask fear. I’ve never been afraid. But if I thought I was dodging a bullet before, this time I was Indiana Jones diving under the descending rock wall with no time to spare.

So what was Girl Indiana thinking in those moments? Well, I was thinking I was lucky. But I was also thinking that women need to be aware our highest health risk is heart disease and stroke, not breast cancer. I inherited hypertension from my Mom as well (I’m not complaining; I also got her lovely hands) and am medicated to stop my elevator bursting through the top floor.

Living life is like crossing a busy highway, and you can get hit by anything. Many of you have written to me over the past few weeks – and some of you, over the past ten years – and said you feel like we’re friends. I understand and I agree: we share this spot every Monday and my life is better for having you in it.

As your friend, please listen. I’ve learned some up close things these past months, and I want you to benefit from them. You may not be able to control all the bad things that can happen to your health, but you have to try to control what you can. Make yourself as strong as you can be to handle whatever tackles you.

Quit smoking; eat better; start walking every day. I mean it. Nobody has time, but lying in a bed unable to haul yourself up means you need every muscle group ready to take over for the compromised one. I couldn’t use my chest. All of a sudden, my gut and my arms had to compensate. We are so brainwashed into thinking fitness is about skinny jeans, we forget it is about making your body ready to do battle.

We have spectacular medical services, but healing from a position of strength can mean the difference between surviving something and dying from it. Ask yourself: if tomorrow I underwent emergency surgery, how would I fare? Am I already helping my body, and my doctors, achieve the best outcome?

Just change one thing today. One. Become a warrior on the inside.

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Ask me how I know that dead skunks float

“I found a dead skunk”, said Ari, 19. The only good news was he was coming in from the yard and not out of his bedroom.

Seems the poor critter had tumbled into a water-filled yard waste bin during the winter. Things got covered in snow so suddenly, I hadn’t noticed it tucked behind the shed. Spring brought tulips and daffodils and skunks. The boys were cleaning up outside, and when Ari found the skunk he ran for a stick. Christopher, 22, ran for a hazmat suit. I will never know how two kids raised the same way can turn out so differently.

“I think I can get rid of it,” said Ari. I wrinkled my nose.

“Ew. Maybe your brother can help you.”

“Yeah, right. Maybe I can get it in a bag or something…” In the end he decided to call the city to take it away. Ten years ago, he would have been selling tickets to all his friends, who would have been surrounding the thing – holding sticks. And we wring our hands at the violence in video games.

The following day, I heard him answer the door when a city van pulled up.

“Man, she just reached in and grabbed it in a bag, in two seconds!” he told me as he came back in. I remarked that she was tougher than he was. He told me to be quiet.

“After she left, I tipped it over to get the water out. Guess what else was in there,” he asked. Before I could stop him, I discovered there is something worse than finding a dead skunk in your yard. That would be finding half a squirrel. I feed those squirrels; I name them. I told Ari he had reached an age where it was acceptable to withhold information from his mother.

I want two things: I want to be someone who doesn’t have dead varmints floating in her backyard, and I want to be someone who has children who wouldn’t think of poking dead varmints with a stick. My dream children were different; you know when you read of lottery winners living in the streets a year later, that wealth squandered? How you shake your head and know – know in your marrow – that you would be the exception? Having children is like that. You look around at how everyone else is doing it and know you could do it better. You ponder your own childhood a little too closely and get caught wondering aloud if you’d really been permitted to skate without a helmet or eat unwrapped Halloween candy. Your mother gives you that glance that says, “you try it and get back to me, I only made it look easy.”

As I was pulling weeds later on, Ari appeared on the deck. He started gently jumping up and down, the bad corner of the deck undulating beneath his feet like a floating raft.

“We need a new deck,” he said unnecessarily. “It’s even worse than last year.” Things with rotted beams rarely get better after yet another season of neglect. I sighed and told him it was on the list.

“I wish we could just do a new deck the Amish way,” I told him.

“You mean without electricity and wearing funny clothes?” he asked. He was serious.

“Like a barn raising, you goof. The whole neighbourhood gets together to build a barn.”

“We don’t need a barn. We need a deck,” he replied.

I have two kids who can’t cooperate to get rid of a dead skunk. Somehow I think the deck will have to wait.

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Aiming to dodge the breast cancer bullet

I started wanting breasts when I was about 11, mostly because all my friends were getting them. I was still rocking an undershirt as they moved into garments that had to actually do some work, and my mother finally swallowed a smile and bought me a bra when I was 12. My sister took one look and said I was just wearing a cut-off undershirt. Maybe, but it had a little bow on the front, and everybody knows when you have a little bow or a rose on your cut-off undershirt you are now a woman.

I should have kept the thing. Two weeks ago, I had a preventative double mastectomy. The ache from losing my mother to breast cancer 14 years ago has never lessened, and when a sister passed 5 months ago from the same thing, I decided to take aim on the disease that has drawn a bead on my family. There was certain a pragmatism to my decision: I am a freelance writer, and I can afford to be dead, but I can’t afford to be sick.

Making the decision was not difficult. We have a medical system which, for all its downfalls, offers lifesaving options my friends to the south can only dream of. I consider the outstanding people at Juravinski Hospital my pit crew – you’re lucky, Hamilton.

Telling my sons was another thing. Breasts are not arms or ears, or some other body part that can be discussed without emotion. As I wrestled with the implication my decision would have on how I felt as a woman, my sons recognized the true paramount concern: they would have to acknowledge their mother had breasts.

“You know, you won’t be able to lift anything,” explained Christopher, 22. True to form, he’d been Googling things and would now take charge of my care. Well, not the actual doing anything part, but the knowing everything part. Previously, if I’d worn a push-up bra when I went out, he’d raise an eyebrow and ask, “gonna get me a new Daddy?” at which point I’d zip up my jacket and feel like a fallen woman.

Ari, 19, learned his lesson in grade 10 when he Googled images for herpes and nearly scared himself blind. He was happy to get his information from me, and relieved that his role would be yard work and running errands. Christer’s girlfriend Pammy, 22, reminded me why it’s nice to have a girl in the house, and my sisters and friends have been spectacular. Food would be dropped off, and I’d hear Ari say, “should we save some for Mom?”

I decided there would be celebration in making a big decision. Together with two great friends and a patient photographer – and wine – I had goodbye to boobs pictures taken on my 50th birthday. I begged for gentle lighting and lamented I was doing this 30 years too late. You don’t appreciate what you have until it’s gone, said every poet and every songwriter, for a reason. We laughed a lot that night.

I filed work ahead with my newspapers, and took two weeks off from my TV show. I was back writing by day 6, and as I write this just shy of the two week mark, I’m fine. I don’t feel brave, but I do feel strong. My mother didn’t lose to cancer. She fought back with all she had for as long as she could in the face of an unfair fight. I could never put that heart and that hope in the loss column.

There may be less of me, but there is more to me.

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Where yanking your kids out of school for vacation can cost you big bucks

Did you know that in parts of Great Britain, you can be fined if you take your kids out of school to go on holiday? New rules prevent parents taking their children out save for exceptional circumstances, like funerals and illnesses. Of a polled 1000 parents, 22% had already been fined. One man paid £1000 (over $1800). I’m not sure that the point gets made when you have people who can simply write a cheque to get their own way, though how naive of me to think it would ever be otherwise.

This is a touchy subject, which means you know I’m going to go running into it full speed. I’ve heard all the arguments: kids can learn way more outside of school then they ever could within it, I can only get holidays during school and my family should be allowed to have their time together, and my kids are A students, so who cares.

I’d climb on board with those points, if they were the truth. I don’t call Disneyworld an educational holiday, I’ve seen more people who simply don’t want to be part of the scheduled holiday travel crushes, and teachers are still expected to accommodate your A student to keep them being A students.

People admit to lying. I think this just waits to fall apart; kids are lousy at pretending they were at Grandpa’s funeral when Grandpa is alive and kicking. You shouldn’t ask your kids to lie, or ever bear the burden of decisions you make that they have no say in. In that British poll? About half of fined parents just admitted that it’s cheaper to go off season. Money is the first predicator, which I guess is why they introduced the fines: fight fire with fire.

I’ve always looked at school as my children’s job. That is what they are required to do. If I want them to take it seriously, I have to take it seriously. If the message I send is that it’s okay to blow it off, how can I expect them to value it and make the effort to succeed? I’m not talking about an occasional fudged sick day; staying home with Mom or Dad once in awhile when I wasn’t throwing up was heaven. With busy lives or big families, that one-on-one time was an oasis.

I have found myself at odds in debates about this same issue involving sports. I don’t think it’s productive to yank your kids out of school for endless rounds of football games and hockey tournaments. Well rounded children – well rounded people – need all aspects of learning, including sports, the arts and academics. But something has to be the anchor in this equation, and if parents want to start defining curriculums according to their own schedules and requirements, they are no longer part of the collective that is public education. Here’s the sand, draw a line; one size may not fit all, but it never does.

Our education system must do the best for the most, and treating it like a buffet is counter-productive. I get the frustration; I think our schools are failing miserably on many fronts, but the answer doesn’t lie in selectively applying your own standards especially when one of them is an all-inclusive vacation to Cuba. Can travel experiences supply a terrific educational experience? Of course, but not if it’s a sulky teen sitting in the midst of some Greek ruins texting to a friend that everything is falling apart.

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Want your parents to stop butting in? Be careful what you wish for

My father was a voracious reader who never stopped learning. This was an admirable trait. The only hiccup was he never stopped instructing; if Dad found it interesting, you’d better, too. Dad was the master of clippings: he’d see an article he liked, and he’d clip it out. Each week, he’d hand me a stack of news stories and magazines, and random bits of paper. I keep a blog on my website, and I finally realized I am doing exactly what my father used to do, just in a new format. My sister calls me and says stop linking long boring stories on there and just write something funny.

My father wouldn’t have taken to the internet much. He was too hands on, too tactile. The same way he preferred auctions over retail stores, he needed to be part of the process, not just an end user. My mother on the other hand, would have been in her glory. She could have kept up on news from her British homeland; she could have posted pics of grandkids; she could have found new knitting patterns.

But mostly, she would have used it to scout coupons.

Initially, sales, coupons and rebate offers (and preferably a trifecta of those things) were her secret to managing a large family on a budget. As time went on, it instead became a challenge. Mom had a super-organized system that took advantage of every nook and cranny of a deal. I used to make fun of her, until I moved out. Then, bags of toothpaste and shampoo, soup and soap would show up while I was at work. Cheques for ten bucks, twenty bucks would arrive in the mail, as she looped through our addresses snapping up rebates. She only played at the big tables.

Back then, you had to send in UPC codes as proof of purchase. Nothing in my house had a UPC code on it. Every item I removed from a cupboard had the square neatly removed. Mom would babysit, and together with Christopher, they’d clip the UPC codes from Kleenex and Tetley tea boxes. He may have still been potty training, but he knew what a UPC code was.

Once, he decided to help without Grandma. He removed every label from every can in the cupboard. He did it quietly. We had surprise dinner for a few weeks, as I explained to him that this is what happened when Mommy didn’t know what was in the cans.

I would stop by the house and there would be a stack of things for me to take home. Diapers, detergent, peanut butter, all bought at miracle prices. Dad would take a narrow liquor store bag and carefully put a few tomatoes, an onion and a head of garlic in it, whatever the garden was offering up. It would be sitting on a stack of articles about a battle in WWI he’d mentioned, a new slug species discovered in Bolivia and how gamblers at casinos counted cards.

I would get home exhausted, hauling things in from the car with one kid on my hip, another fussing in his baby carrier. The tomatoes would escape from their bag and I’d sigh and wonder why Dad couldn’t just use a real bag. I’d change a diaper, hoping Mom would find a deal on wipes the next week.

Looking back, I realize all of these things were just mooring lines. Tethers that kept me linked to something bigger, something more important. I wish I’d said more often they weren’t silly, and they weren’t boring.

I miss it.

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So that’s where I left the hose: spring comes to town

I bet you’re happy to see the snow melt. I’m not. That snow has been hiding a lot of things I didn’t want to think about, and now must.

I was out closing the shed doors one afternoon because the stick that holds the handles together crumbled and I had to replace it. Sticks are cheaper – and handier – than a new hasp. I glanced up at the corner of my house and sighed. I could see the edges of some shingles. It looked like someone had shuffled a deck of cards and not put them neatly back together. It’s two stories up, so I couldn’t see much more.

We have one of those TV antenna towers by that corner of the house. My father, in a fit of cheap, yanked the cable service one time to teach them a lesson. I think they’d jacked it to seven dollars a month, which my father decided was usury. A friend offered to put up a tower, at which point my mother stopped speaking to that friend. In it went and my mother was stuck dialing a box to try to get Dynasty to come in through a field of snow and static.

The day after Dad was gone, Mom called the cable company.

I should take the tower down, but it’s become a really useful way to climb up to the roof. I’ve been told it will entice burglars, but not only is there someone awake here around the clock; the only thing I would miss would be a stack of Steinbeck novels I’ve painstakingly acquired from second hand book stores and my good vegetable peeler. I don’t think either of these things is on most burglars’ hit lists, though if they were, I’d probably invite them to stay for dinner.

Christopher, 22, was in charge of tidying up the yard last fall. The conversation was short.

“Go clean up the yard,” I told him.

“Huh? How?”

“You need to pull the dead stuff from the garden, give everything a good rake, put the hose away and turn the planters.”

“Rake what?”
Ari, 19, came home from school one weekend and the two of them got the leaves out. Since being away at school, this boy has come to appreciate me in a whole new way. It’s remarkable, even if it’s not particularly contagious. They soon found a football and started throwing that around instead. Watching them play catch with Michael from across the street, I stood in the window all weepy that my babies had grown up. I totally forgot they were supposed to be doing yard work, which I’m sure was part of their diabolical plan. It snowed that night. The winter that would not end made soft lumps out of everything Christopher didn’t get to, which was essentially everything.

The demise of the snow revealed crud that should have been disposed of last fall. The only way I know what kind of garbage day it is, is by seeing what everyone else is putting out. Last week, I noticed a neighbour had an old table out, which meant I could toss some big stuff. It was also garden waste day, so I tried desperately to cram paper bags full of last year’s mess. I cut my finger, and waited until there was a lot of blood before coming in the house. In a voice weakened by injury, I told Christopher to go finish up. Two can be diabolical.

There’s a to-do list on the counter. I think we’re both waiting for Ari to get home.

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