How to Ruin a Picnic

After Mom and Dad were married, they chose to live in Edmonton, raising their four sons there and living in various parts of the city their entire lives.  While my Dad hailed from Yorkton, Saskatchewan, my Mom had been raised on a farm near Lamont, located thirty-seven miles east of Edmonton in central Alberta.  Her Father's farm and two others, one belonging to her brother and his wife and one belonging to her sister and the sister's husband, were located a few miles from Lamont.

 

They visited each other on a regular basis and our family was affectionately referred to as being 'the city slickers.'  At the time of this story, not all highways were paved, some being gravel, and so it took considerable effort to make a journey even though today it can be done in less than an hour from city limits.

In preparation for the journey, Mom said, "I'll pack a picnic lunch; the boys will get hungry.  Besides, it nice to stop for a bit even to stretch our legs."

"You had better bring along some extra blankets," Dad replied as he looked at the sky, "If it clouds over it could be cold travelling."

At the time, my Dad had a 1928 Model T Ford which had been nicknamed 'The Tin Lizzy" by their owners.  The auto was loaded up and the journey begun.  Travelling that day were my parents, my two oldest brothers, and an Aunt from my Mother's side of the family who often helped look after the boys.

The journey was uneventful until my Mother spotted a skunk crossing the road a few yards ahead of them.  "Watch out," she warned, " there's a skunk on the road!"

"It's too late," shouted Dad as he attempted to brake and slow the vehicle. "Maybe if I hit him quick, he won't get a chance to spray."

Those were famous last words as the Tin Lizzy hit the skunk with a sickening thud.  Immediately the air reeked with the pungent odor skunks are famous for!  Dad stopped the auto and got out to investigate.  The spray had hit the underside of the vehicle and had somehow penetrated the trunk where the spare blankets and picnic basket had been stored.

"This is a fine mess," Mom observed, holding her nose and surveying the scene.  "Whew! It makes my eyes water.  What a way to ruin a picnic!"

The boys were looking at the dead skunk fascinated by what had transpired but not knowing what to say.

"You might as well bury those blankets and the picnic basket," said the Aunt, "that smell will never come out."

"Maybe Uncle Charlie will know what to do," Dad said hopefully.  Charlie was Mother's sister's husband.

But Charlie had no suggestions on how to get ride of the smell and eventually Dad traded in his Model T for different vehicle.



 

The Lid Blew Off

The background to the incident to which I am about to relate is crucial to your understanding of why I did what I did.  Add to the fact that I was a teenager still green behind the ears and the picture is complete.  I was then and still am interested in all types of commercial aircraft.  When I selected plastic airplane models to build as a hobby during my teenage years, they were nearly always of the airliners flying the skies at that time.  My first plane ride was in the venerable Douglas DC 3, the most successful commercial aircraft ever built and some still flying today.

Air Canada or Trans Canada Airlines, as it was known then, flew as one of the largest aircraft in its fleet, the luxurious Lockheed Super G Constellation.  It was a four engine, propeller driven aircraft, the most advanced of its day and designed by Howard Hughes of Spruce Goose fame.  TCA was introducing it on their transcontinental service and had one parked on the tarmac in front of their Service Hangar at the Edmonton Municipal Airport.  The aircraft was open for inspection by the public several hours that evening and I wanted to see it badly.  Since I did not live far from the airport, it was easy for me to ride over on my bicycle.

"Mom," I asked, "May I go to the airport to see the plane TCA has on display until 8:00 P.M. this evening?"

"That is fine with me," Mother replied, "but remember you have to start supper this evening.  I want you to cook the spaghetti we'll be having and I'll make the sauce when I get home from work."

Now everyone knows that you cook spaghetti in a large open pot using lots of water.  I decided that I could speed things up thus getting away earlier by cooking the spaghetti in Mom's pressure cooker.  Well, I did just that and after letting the pressure build up to three rings on the pressure indicator, I turned off the heat and removed the indicator to let the steam out.  This was a fatal mistake.  Since I was in such a hurry, I didn't wait for all the pressure to be released.  Instead, I loosened the lid.  Blam!  The lid blew off and you know what happened,  There was spaghetti and the gluey water resulting from the cooking process all over the stove, the walls and the ceiling.  Of course, my Mother choose that exact moment to walk in the door.

What else can I say?  I had messed up big time but the story had a happy ending.  My Mom helped me clean up the mess, we cooked more spaghetti, this time in a proper pot, and supper was finished in plenty of time for me to bicycle to the airport and see the aircraft on display.  It was magnificent!

                                      ` Photo credited to: Ralph M. Petterson       Airliners.net                                   
                                                                        


 

Beating Old Man Winter

When you have youth on your side and a good automobile, you think that you are invincible and can challenge anything coming your way and come out the winner.  My brother thought so and in the process discovered how formidable an opponent Old Man Winter can be.

Kenneth was a travelling salesman working for Scott National Foods.  His home was in Regina, Saskatchewan but he travelled the length and breadth of that province stocking the shelves of grocers large  and small and the larders  of  restaurants  that  relied on the  products  his  company provided.



A dependable automobile was important in his line of work.  Having worked earlier at a General Motors dealership, he favoured General Motors products, usually a Cadillac.  I cannot say for certain if that was the model of car he had at the time of this story.  Whatever it was, his transportation let him down.

My brother's character also worked against him.  When we were growing up in Edmonton, our mother drummed into us the importance of dressing properly specially during the cold winter months on the Canadian prairies.  This sage advice fell on deaf ears where Kenneth was concerned and he absolutely refused to wear gloves and some type of head gear.  That type of clothing was for old people not the young and able.

What happened was that Old Man Winter caught him unprepared.  He was on a road trip in rural Saskatchewan when a sudden blizzard caught him.  It was bitterly cold and with the accompanying wind chill, a person could not remain exposed to the elements for long and survive.  His car stalled in the snow and he realised that he would have to hoof it for help.  Having only a light topcoat and no gloves or hat, he rifled through his suitcase in desperation..  He pulled out some wool socks to wear on his hands and a terrycloth bathrobe to wrap around his head.  He made it to a nearby farmhouse only to find that nobody was home.  Now what should he do?  He could not return to his car and since the door to the house was unlocked, he considered it an open invitation for him to go inside.  In the kitchen he found a fire burning in the cook stove and surmised that the homeowners would soon return unless they were also caught by the storm.  He put on a kettle to boil water for tea and sat down to wait for them.  Did they get a surprise to find a stranger with a bathrobe wrapped around his head drinking tea in their kitchen.  Kenneth had beaten Old Man Winter and that was all that mattered.

Beauty Everlasting

Flossy was the vainest butterfly that ever lived in my garden.  She never got tired of seeing her reflection in the water of the fish pool as she fluttered across it in search of a sip of sweet nectar from the flowers growing by the pond. Sometimes she even darted close to the house to catch a glimpse of herself in a pane of glass as she passed by.



Her vanity was not unfounded but that did not make it excusable.  She was a marvellous creation - a tiny flying jewel..  When she spread her delicate wings in the sunlight, her multiple colours became wonderfully iridescent.  There was sea blue, teal green, golden yellow, and a tinge of ruby red.  The edges of her wings were trimmed in blue black further enhancing the other colours.

"Don't you think that I am the most beautiful butterfly in the garden," Flossy asked a rather drab moth just passing her by.



"You certainly are, Miss," the moth replied, "but your bright colours make you an easy target for hungry birds so you had better keep alert.  That robin family nesting in the plum tree has three hungry babies."

"Pooh on them," Flossy replied, "I'm not afraid of any old robin.  Besides, they know that I would taste terrible."

Flossy fluttered off but the moth's remark started her thinking.  Even if she didn't get eaten by another creature, she would die one day soon and her beauty would be lost.  She did not want that to happen.

She fluttered over to a bed of blooming day lilies.  Hovering over one of the flowers was her friend Cecil, a dragon fly.  He was almost as beautiful as she was and his gossamer wings made a curious buzzing sound as he hovered.

"Cecil, you have got to help me. A horrible ugly moth reminded me that our lives are short but I want my beauty to last forever.  Is there anything I can do to make it last?"

"Ah, yes," Cecil replied knowingly, "creatures like us don't want our beauty lost to the world.  We are always looking for ways to preserve it.  It just so happens that I might be able to help you.  Go to the little cabin not far from here where an elderly wizard, Louis, lives.  Some people are afraid of him but he is perfectly harmless."

"You mean he works magic?"  Flossy trembled with excitement.  "Goody!  I will have him put a spell on me and I will live forever."

"We---ll," Cecil replied hesitantly, "he works magic but not that kind of magic.  He gets inspiration for his art work from creatures like you and me."

"Thank you, Cecil, you are a real friend."

With that Flossy fluttered off to see the wizard.  She was never seen again but the next time you look at a Tiffany Lamp look closely.  You might see Flossy immortalised in glass.

                                                                            


This story was an assignment from my Writers Circle.  We were to write about  frog, butterfly or rabbit so this post is a little different from my usual real life stories.

The Lavender Lady

I am not sure why I recalled this story but when I was growing up in Edmonton, it was a Christmas  tradition for the Lavender Lady to make her annual appearance in a corner of the cosmetics department of The Hudson Bay Store.  I call her the Lavender Lady because even after many years of seeing her there, I never learnt her name.  She was in the store for one reason alone and that was to sell lavender. ( Back then lavender was popular but nowadays lavender sachets are a bit old fashioned.) Sitting on a high stool and holding sway over a large open basket of dried lavender, she was a presence not easily missed as you walked through the store.

As I remember her, she looked a lot like Helena Rubenstein of cosmetic fame.  She wore a white smock over a multicoloured dress of black, white  and purple.  Her dark black hair was worn pulled back and not a hair out of place.  Her makeup accented her eyes and endowed her with rosy cheeks and crimson lips.  Two huge, faux diamonds glistened in rings on the ring finger of both hands and the crimson colour of her nails matched her lips.  If she was wearing perfume, it was masked by the scent of lavender surrounding her.

She never sold the lavender loose.  The lavender she had in the basket was so you could touch it, pick it up, and hold it close to your nose for a gentle sniff thus making it more likely that you would make a purchase.  She would dip her hands into the lavender and let it run through her jewelled fingers creating an additional burst of scent.

She sold the lavender in small sachets or the more popular little wicker baskets that could be placed in drawers or cupboards to scent their contents.  The baskets could also be displayed on a dresser or hung in a closet.  There were lavender soaps and talcum powders available but those were hardly within the budget of a twelve year old looking to buy a Christmas gift for a mother, sister, or school teacher. A couple of baskets of lavender would do nicely and because the scent was long lasting, it was a gift that would keep on giving for months after Christmas.

I do not actually recall ever purchasing any of the lavender myself but I had a friend who did.  Once he bought four of the little baskets to give to his mother and sister.  After bringing the baskets home and wrapping them up, he had a hard time finding a suitable place to hide them because the scent was so strong and his mother had a good sense of smell.  He solved his problem by hiding them in an old suitcase and slipping it under his bed.

'It's in God's Hands Now'

There are experiences that we go through in life wherein joy is suddenly turned to sorrow.  Our desire to know the reason why these things happen is not always satisfied but they go on to become part of those experiences we want to share with others hence my story.

Such was the occasion of the birth of my only son.  My wife and I eagerly waited for the passage of those long nine months at which time our child  would be born and many questions would be answered.  "Is it a boy or girl?  Who will the baby look like - Mom or Dad?  Which side of the family will the newborn take after? Did we pick the right name?"

Our son was born in a hospital in Discovery, South Africa, a suburb of sprawling Johannesburg.  When he was born, he was grunting and it was decided to place him in an incubator overnight to facilitate his breathing. Unbeknowst to the hospital staff, that incubator had been used by another baby ill with gastroenteritis and had not been properly disinfected.  As a result, our little boy became seriously ill to the point of death.  All the healthy babies in the hospital were sent home and the entire maternity ward of the hospital had to be shut down for cleaning.  Our joy had turned quickly into sorrow.

He only weighed in at five and a half pounds at birth and his weight quickly dropped to below five pounds and heading for four.  Each passing day saw more weight loss and the doctor warned us that if he did not gain weight soon, nothing being done for him could save him.

One of our friends waiting with us in the hospital was a nurse whose name was Ruth.  She suggested that we pray specifically that our son would gain an ounce of weight overnight.  We all had faith in God but we had never had our faith challenged like that before.  Could such a prayer be answered?  The doctor, while sympathetic, cautioned us that, under the circumstances, a weight gain could not possibly happen.  "It's in God's hands now," was the attitude taken as there was nothing more that the doctor could do.  Ruth prayed - we prayed - others prayed and we all waited anxiously for the doctor's report the next morning.  The news was good - our son had gained an ounce overnight!  It marked the turning point in his recovery.

It was a long recovery!  Although he was gaining weight, feeding him proved difficult sometimes taking  two hours to get an ounce of milk into him.  He cried all night and the only way we could get any sleep was to bring him into bed with us.  Then a doctor discovered that it was an umbilical hernia that was causing the problem.  He advised an operation to correct it and from the night of the operation, our baby slept through.  Soon he was a healthy and happy little boy for whom we are thankful not only to God but also to the doctors that ministered to him.

   

one year old

The Day a Mountain Exploded

On the Island of St. Vincent, W.I., at about 5:00 A.M. on Good Friday, April 13, 1979, I was awakened by a disturbance in the chicken coop at the bottom of the garden.  I thought a mongoose was after my chickens and so I got dressed and hurried down to investigate.  The chickens were frightened by something but it was not a mongoose.  I looked up at the sky and saw a huge, black, mushroom shaped cloud churning menacingly upward over the entire Island.  At that moment, my wife shouted down to me from the bedroom window that the radio was annoucing that the Island's volcano, 4000 ft. Mt. Soufriere, was erupting.  The chickens had been frightened by the tremor caused when the top of the mountain exploded in a deadly plume of hot gases, ash, and molten rock.

The eruption caused a panic across the island.  People were quickly evacuated from the sparsely populated north to the south.  Doom-sayers  made much of the fact that it was Friday the 13th and they were certain that doom was going to strike and there was nothing one could do to avert it.  The rumor mill soon made it known that the island was going to break into pieces and sink into the sea taking with it all the inhabitants.

Where does one go to escape an erupting volcano when you are living on an island that is only 130 sq. miles in size.  Where indeed!  The airport was the first choice but it was soon impossible to get a seat on any plane leaving the island.  The Grenadines, a chain of 32 small islands belonging to St. Vincent offered a way of escape if you knew people living on them.  The larger ones, Bequia, Mustique, Canaouan and Union soon had every bed and breakfast or larger tourist accomodations fully occupied.  For those not having a place to flee to, it was a tense waiting game.

A second eruption happened that same day, two more on April 14th, and then increasingly smaller eruptions on the 17th, 22nd, and 25th of the month.  Mercifully, no lives were lost but the north end of the island was devastated.  What saved the day for the south was the trade winds blowing most of the ash out to sea and the molten lava flow running down the west flank of the mountain into the ocean instead of inland.

The last major eruption on April 25th affected the south end of the island was well as the north.  There were no trade winds blowing that night.  It was midnight and we heard the 'boom' of the eruption and felt the house tremble as the mountain roared to life for one last blast.  We could hear the sound of cinders ( reminded me of hailstones) falling on the tin roof and we began to be apprehensive that what the people had been fearing most was about to happen.

At daybreak, we opened our windows and dared to look out.  There was not a blade of green grass to be seen. The roofs of the houses, the roads, and the gardens were covered in a thick layer of gray ash.  In the air was the smell of burning sulphur.  When we turned on the tap to get water for making a much needed cup of tea, the water coming out was black.

About a month later, we drove up north to view the damage.  We knew people living in Chateaubelair just  a few miles south of Soufriere.  The further north we drove, we began to see what the hot gases from the volcano had done to the vegetation.  Tall, stately coconut palms were bent over double from the heat.  The leaves of the banana trees had turned black as if they had been hit by a killer frost.  Nutmeg and clove trees lost their leaves but eventually recovered to produce once more their valuable spices.  It was a economic disaster for St. Vincent since they depended heavily on the export of their bananas.  However, there was a silver lining in the dark cloud hanging over the island: volcanic ash is a marvellous fertilizer and a year later that ash revitalized the crops on the entire island. 

Mild volcanic activity continued for about five months before Soufriere (sulphur in French) went dormant again.  I still have a vial of ash and a rock the size of a clenched fist as souvenirs from that day which Vincentians now call  Black Friday!

View of Mt. Soufriere

Credit: picture and map from Wikipedia