Author: geriraedean
More later.
Paris is always a good idea!
Speaking of France, which I was a couple of posts ago, I believe that Paris is always a good idea. We arrived in Paris via the underground Chunnel from London. Chunnel being short for English Channel Tunnel. I actually don’t recall when we were actually under the water as they were serving complimentary champagne on the train and I think it went to my head. When in Paris….
Feeling a little tipsy, I think I took a nap and the next thing I knew we had arrived at Gare du Nord train station in Paris. It was a hub of activity and we grabbed our luggage and bags and held onto them for dear life. Thankfully, our hotel was right across the street so we didn’t have the fuss of finding a taxi or train to anywhere that evening.
I shall never forget our quaint little Paris hotel. In London we had stayed at the Hilton, because my sister works with IBM and she managed to get us a corporate rate for the 6 nights we spent there. But in Paris life was different. We entered our hotel and checked in at the cubby hole that was the front desk and proceeded to get our bags up to our floors. The elevator was so small we could either put a person on it or some baggage but not both. We decided to send our baggage up the elevator and then ran up the spiral staircase to greet it on the floor we were staying on. I believe Lexie sent her luggage to the wrong floor and had to run up another flight to send it back down. We could hear her laughing and talking to us from the 3rd floor because the staircase was open all the way up and positioned in the middle of the lobby. Once we arrived in our postage stamp room we noticed that there was an NH embossed on the head board of the bed. We wondered what that meant and Lexie chirped out..its means “Not the Hilton”. We howled. Out of the mouths of babes, well she was 17. I might mention that our rooms actually had private tiny bathrooms in each. So that was a luxury. Very often, in Paris, the entire floor will share a water closet.
We (and by we, I mean my sister, her husband, Lexie and I) settled in to our rooms and decided to go find something to eat in the cafe at the base of our hotel. Two of us squeezed into the elevator and the other two ran down the spiral staircase to see who would get their first. The elevator was one of those rattly precarious old elevators that you could see through with a wrought iron crisscross frame. I don’t remember what we ate but there was french music playing on the street corners and it was dusk by then, setting a perfect backdrop for the many twinkling lights everywhere. Basically I just sat there and breathed deeply and reminded myself that, yes, I was indeed in Paris. PARIS!
We arose early the next morning and made our way to the tour bus that was taking us to the town of Versailles to spend the day at the Palace. A glorious Sunday morning to be in Paris. It was a beautiful bus ride and a beautiful morning but I think I dozed a little bit on the way. At this point you’re probably wondering if I slept my way through France. I assure you I didn’t. I was wide awake when we entered the village of Versailles and very soon our bus rolled up to the Palace surrounded by a golden iron fence with magnificent gates. At the risk of over using the word ‘magnificent’ lets just assume that everything that caught our eyes this day was, indeed, magnificent. We toured the palace with its opulent architecture and decor making our way to Marie Antoinette’s’ boudoir. Lets just say she was high maintenance. We wanted to eat cake but there was none to be found. Then it was explained to us that the Louvre was an exact replica of the POV (Palace of Versailles) because Marie wanted to live in the city and have the exact same luxuries at her fingertips. The Hall of Mirrors – breathtaking. Marie was known for her extravagant
lifestyle and tastes.
We made our way out onto the grounds with green grass cut in shapes and patterns as far as the eye could see. The grass really was greener on the other side of the Palace. The POV is famous for its fountains and my brother-in-law made sure he booked our tour for Sunday since that was the only day of the week that the fountains are on. They still use all the ancient and historic (could I call it technology?) that they used in Marie Antoinette’s day and each one is turned on manually so its a lot of work and I suppose that is why they only run on Sunday’s. We lollygagged around the grounds for hours. Many of the fountains were actually statues of famous historic people and horses. We wandered into a covered garden off the beaten path and found a lovely little kiosk selling baguette, ham and swiss cheese sandwiches. They were being served up by a very cute young frenchman that Lexie couldn’t take her eyes off. We savored every mouthful of that amazing sandwich and bought an extra to eat under the covers in our hotel that night. We rode back on the top level of the double decker bus, right above the driver. Best seat in the house. Or should I say bus? On our way back into the city we got our first glimpse of the Eiffel tower – just before we entered the tunnel where Princess Dianna was killed. Sad moment. Lexie was playing “Viva la Vida” by Coldplay on her phone and it has turned into a wonderful memory.
We made it back to our hotel in time to change and make our way via ‘the Metro’ to the Eiffel Tower. Well we weren’t exactly under it but we were viewing it from a distant stone wall and the tower was twinkling with blue lights around a wreath of yellow stars. It was magical. Lexie, thought we needed music for this moment, so she dug up Viva La Vida again (our Europeon theme song), this time on my phone and while I still had my phone in my hand, it rang. It was Mike, who was back home, calling to wish me a happy 27th anniversary. I’d almost forgotten it was our anniversary that day. It was just the most romantic moment. I still cannot believe that he called me when I was taking in the Eiffel Tower for the very first time. I believe it was a God moment. I shall never forget. We sauntered down closer to the Eiffel Tower past the carousel and close to the banks of the River Seine and just imprinted these memories in our hearts and souls. We were taking pictures to last a lifetime – to relive these moments – as a witness that we were really there. My brother -in-law led us to a street cafe close to the tower where we sat and enjoyed a french meal while watching the lights on the Eiffel tower flicker through the trees.
We spend the next few days doing all the typical touristy things and seeing all the typical touristy landmarks even though they didn’t feel typical to us at all. We took the Metro everywhere. We stopped at Paul’s (an every street corner bakery) and had croissants every morning. We walked through St. Chappelle with its stained glass windows and walls and navy ceilings covered with gold fleur-de-lis. We tip toed through the halls of Notre Dame so as to not disturb the hunchback. I bought a candle there. It currently sits on my nightstand as a reminder I was there. We gazed upon Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa in the Louvre as well as the Winged Victory of Samothrace (google it, you’ll recognize it). The Rembrants, the Raphaels, and Delacroix. Spent hours there, followed by walking through the tulleries down to the Champs Elysees. We spotted a Starbucks and naturally had to go in and order a beverage. Zara – right there on the Champs- we went in. We passed Chanel and Louis Vitton and Laduree (and didn’t even know it because we had no clue what macarons were at that time). We’d seen these strange little spongy cookies, that looked like colourful hamburgers, at all the street corner bakeries but had no idea of their popularity and prestige. We made our way to the Arch de Triumphe with its insane traffic circle at the base. From the top of the Arch we could see the Eiffel Tower and the streets fanning out in a spoked wheel pattern. We could see the Basilica du Sacre-Coeur in the distance. We spend an afternoon strolling through the Latin Quarter stopping in lovely little shops looking for souvenirs to take home, eating rose shaped ice cream. We ate a late lunch at a perfect little street cafe before we made our way back to our hotel. We dropped our jaws at the Musee D’orsay with its recognizable statues and paintings. Its Monets and Renoirs. Cezanne’s and Degas’. Lexie and I split up from my sister and BIL and strolled down the River Seine and made our way back to the Champs Elysee. We took our time, we took pictures, we ate baguettes our of white paper bags.
One of my favorite memories was the afternoon we basked in the sun on the benches of Luxembourg Park. We settled in by a vine enclosed pond and read. Took pictures, watched the children with their remote control sail boats on the larger pond in the middle of the park. The park was complete with stone walls and fences, sculptures and a palace. It was unlike any park I’ve ever been to. It’s what I expected to find in Paris. That evening we decided to make our way to Montmartre to eat outside and watch all the local artists painting pictures of passersby. Several artists wanted to paint Lexie’s picture and of course would charge her to take the picture home with her. But Lexie’s uncle said, no – you will have to pay her if you want to paint her. He was very protective. After supper we walked down the cobblestone streets of this historic district and descended the stairs – where many pictures of the Eiffel tower are taken and painted – and Lexie and my sister walked arm and arm back to our hotel. It was an enchanted evening. Paris did not disappoint.
The following morning, my sister and her husband were leaving for home. After our sombre goodbyes and waving them off in their taxi, I booked Lexie and I a water taxi from the train station in Venice to our hotel by St. Marco Polo Square. We were booked on the overnight train through France to Venice. We arrived quite early at the Paris train station (I wanted to make sure we didn’t miss any connections now that we were on our own) and Lexie played with the pigeons. She felt sorry for their lameness, many were missing limbs and she insisted on feeding them. She reminded me of the bird lady from Mary Poppins. I explained to her that they were the rats of Europe but she still felt sorry for them. Those were our last images of Paris…the lame pigeons. It was exciting as we sped through Frances countryside. We finally gave ourselves up to sleep after it was too dark to see anything. (Maybe I did sleep my way through France, but surely not Paris). Next stop…Venice.
Calm – All – The – Way – Down
I went for a mammogram yesterday. Not because I wanted to but because my doctor wanted me to get one and its hard to find a female doctor these days and I didn’t want to put her off and have her quit me, so I found my requisition from last summer and made the appointment. It was much quicker than I have ever had before….just 4 pictures and voila…done. The technician said if you don’t hear from us by Friday you are good to go.
Next, I went and applied for a job at Pottery Barn. Originally my last resort plan but now its starting to sound very enticing. My EI is coming to an end and I have to find a way to earn a living so I don’t have to become an extremely thin hermit with no food or gas available. I guess Mike could sell my car. I’ve been seriously wondering what life without a phone would be like. I wouldn’t need nice nails as I wouldn’t need to look professional sitting alone in my basement sewing up fabric and Cricuit cutting paper. Forgot to mention I wouldn’t be meeting y’all at Starbucks anymore either.
I bit the bullet and went in and handed in my application. They’ve had a sign (and application forms) at the entrance of the store for several weeks now. I vacillated and vacillated as to whether I should take this final step. Was I giving up on God? Was I giving up on myself? It didn’t go unnoticed that this was a deviation from my regular skills and employment. The hiring manager I talked to said that someone would call me for an interview. So I turned up the ringer on my phone today and carried it around with me in case they called. If my only option is to work retail, then Pottery Barn is the place. I love that store. My own house if full of Pottery Barn. I can’t go to the mall without taking a stroll all the way to the back and back again. I have all their catalogs. I first heard about Pottery Barn on the popular sitcom, Friends, years ago. It truly is one of my favorite places to hang out. Once my sister and I sat across from each other on in one of their couched living room arrangements, complete with throw cushions, silk greenery, coffee table and centerpiece and had a lovely conversation for about an hour or so, as if we were sitting in a swanky hotel lobby not a furniture store.
Then a thought hit me. What if Pottery Barn doesn’t want me either? What if they don’t call? I just thought for sure they would hire me if I gave them a resume. I mean why not? Do I have a third eye in the middle of my forehead? But…what if I don’t get an interview? Then what? No interview – no job. I hadn’t planned on Pottery Barn not wanting me.
Finally the phone rang. Yay. But it wasn’t Pottery Barn it was Canada Diagnostics and they want me back for more tests. Say what? Its funny how fast I could feel drops of salt water flooding my eyes. Fear gripped me. All of a sudden I lost interest in anything else I was supposed to do today. I called back and they were able to get me in tomorrow….at least I wont have to wait for weeks making up all kinds of fatal scenarios. However, if the results were very bad that would solve the problem of finding a job and paying off my credit card. That would solve all my problems.
All of a sudden my problems don’t seem so bad. I want my problems. The problems I already have are the ones that I want to deal with. I’m rather protective and possessive of my problems. I guess I am jumping the gun quite a bit here. I’m planning my own funeral and writing my own eulogy and maybe the technician just didn’t do her job thoroughly. Well that’s one way to get my attention off my unemployment dilemma.
I’m calm. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me to lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters…
My French Vacation one Sunday
Sometimes an experience really is the best gift. Yesterday I almost felt as if I had been transported to France for three hours of instruction and practical cooking under the tutelage of a French Chef. Playing really. A vacation of sorts. It was a joy to work with top of the line ingredients as Chef Meret explained how he smokes all his own bacon and salmon for the classes. His strong, difficult to understand French accent (much more refined than Canadian french) made the experience more authentic. He was both engaging and humerous. Certainly not the anger and angst that comes across on Master Chef or Cake Boss. It was more like Ratatouille. I love that movie. The main message of that digitally animated movie was that ‘anyone can cook’. If a rat can cook, I certainly can.
The moment we arrived we were handed our own souvenir apron and a mimosa which, in this case, was sparkling wine, mandarin juice and triple sec. We arrived just in time to observe Chef Meret demonstrating how to pipe meringues onto parchment for the pavlova’s we would be enjoying later in the class. Naturally, he made it look like a kindergarten project. I’ve made macarons and meringues before, I know its not quite that simple. Next he showed off his pastry making skills with tips for making individual savory pastry shells for the Onion and Bacon tart we would soon be tasting. He showed us exactly how he had prepared anything he had made ahead of time, due to time constraints in the class. Next he walked us through each process, by actually doing it, for each menu item we would be making. Onion & bacon tart served underneath an endive & sweet pea (not the flower) salad drizzled with Asparagus vinaigrette. Followed by a Duo of Salmon benedict. The duo was fresh salmon and smoked salmon combined. This was served over a Pomme Paillasson (Paillasson means ‘mat’, as in mat for your shoes) smothered in white Tarragon Butter sauce. Dessert was Macerated berries (basically cooked black berries with black pepper) who knew? served with Lemon thyme ice-cream (which he also demonstrated and made in the class) on a cookie size meringue (all this translates to mini pavlova). Finished off with Peach Clafouti. They looked tiny souffle’s when we took them out of the oven. Did I mention the wine pairings? This added a certain… what do the french call it?….je-ne-sais-quoi to the entire experience.
I collaborated with my daughter, Lexie, in the class. She made the Pomme Paillasson while I made the Onion and Bacon tart. I made the Endive and Sweet Pea salad while she made the duo of Salmon benedict. I did all the chopping as is evidenced by the two fingernails that I chopped off trying to imitate Chef Meret’s professional knife skills. He showed us how to chop fast and fine with your eyes closed and never a nick to the fingers. I’ll have to work on that. Lexie and I are currently on the lookout for a wire egg basket with a handle (just like Chef Meret’s) since we found out that eggs are not to be refrigerated. Frees up more space in the fridge for items that do. We gleaned many food preparation tips that will aid us in all of our kitchen encounters not just the recipes we made in class. Chef Meret was a wealth of information and skill. I imagined he was a tour guide. I pretended I was in France. We also pretended we on the cooking channel. It was all so much fun.
I was once again reminded, how much I adore working in the kitchen. I love taking fresh, quality food and creatively working in into something that is heaven to the palate. In past years, as I shopped for groceries, I tended to purchase whatever was on sale. Canned, frozen, boxed, prepared…whatever made life easy and was tradition and affordable. Now that the littles are bigs and I have more time and have been blessed with an amazing new kitchen and island, not to mention outfitting my kitchen with top of the line Pampered Chef kitchen products, cooking and baking is such a delight. Its cathartic. Cooking and baking appeals to my creative sensibilities. Making food and serving it to those I love, be it family or friends, is my happy place. Truly. Cooking is a practiced skill, no doubt, but if you can read and listen, you can cook. The final product has everything to do with what you start out with. It is not hard work. It’s a joy!
I love the the idea of not just stuffing any old crap down my throat for instant gratification and subsequent regret. I’d far rather enjoy the preparation process and anticipation of savouring every morsel of a joyfully and meticulously prepared feast. For the French, eating is an event to take time for. They don’t just scarf down a hamburger and fries in the car at a red light.
Apparently, this establishment started out as a company that provided all-inclusive, luxury culinary tours to southwestern France and they still offer tours. Hello? I’m on that plane. I just have to secure a job to pay for the tour and then try to talk my new employer into letting me have a month off to engage in this gastronomical tour of France. Actually its only for a week but if I’m over there I may as well stay and revisit Paris. Bucket list.
Best Laid Plans
What a laugh! Sit by the fire and listen to music and read while sipping on a Chai Latte……right. When I got home from work the men folk were circling the kitchen with their fangs out. They had kind of a ‘feed or be eaten’ look in their eyes…. For some odd reason those words from Proverbs 31 started screaming in my head “she gets up while its still dark and provides food for her family”…seriously??? so I was compelled to scour the freezer looking for something to appease their ravenous appetites. I cooked things no woman trying to lose weight should ever have to cook – let alone inhale…perogies smothered in butter and onions, green beans sautéed in butter and sea salt, sweet and sour meatballs….Oy! Now I find myself cleaning the stove top, the kitchen and doing the dishes – who knew you had to use that many pots and pans to make a simple meal and I am stuck in the kitchen with the leftovers…quick into the outside fridge. “She watches over her household and does not eat the bread of idleness”….well she doesn’t eat bread at all if she knows what’s good for her…seriously do you think sitting by the fire, reading and listening to music sounds like idleness??? Why is it haunting me? Lucky for me, Mike did go out to Okotoks to meet a friend for coffee and the kids are bailing to go to a movie so I will have the house to myself….so I WILL take that bath even though my hands are already pruned from doing the dishes. I’ll use the water when I am done to scrub the tub that way it won’t be considered idleness. Best laid plans and all that.
Repost from March 2014
Guilty until Proven Innocent
Is anybody else tired of feeling guilty all the the time for everything? Probably not. That’s probably just my unique dysfunction. But I can’t remember a time of not feeling guilty about at least one thing at any given moment. Very often several things simultaneously. Unless it’s the 30 seconds after confession before I rejoin the imperfect world with all its imperfect people and imperfect circumstances.
My husband kisses me goodbye as he leaves for work at 7:15 and I’m still in bed. Guilt. My kids are both gone to work when I finally emerge from my room. Guilt. My eighty-six year old mother can’t join me for coffee because she is at work. Guilt. I come home from somewhere and my husband is doing his own laundry. Guilt. My clothes are getting very tight. Guilt. I see my six pairs of jogging shoes sitting around the house and wonder why I am not out jogging. Guilt. (This one is really messed up because, in reality, if I’m going to feel guilt it should be because I even have six pairs of joggers. ) My adult kids struggle with issues I should have realized and addressed when they were littles. Guilt. I’m at Starbucks/Chapters in the middle of the day reading, writing, planning my pathetic non-life. Guilt. I’m sitting in my comfy writing and reading chair and realize it’s 2:30am. Guilt. I don’t feel like going to church today. Guilt. (Why not? It’s not like I have something better to do.) No supper made again tonite (because I was too busy sitting around feeling guilty). Guilt. I haven’t really cleaned for three weeks. Guilt. I’m reading a good book, sipping on an peach green tea lemonade and crunching my favorite sweet BBQ chips (a very small one serving bag). Guilt. I’m putting regular gas in my Infiniti because its cheaper than mid grade (which makes the car perform better) because I only have $20 for gas until next pay. Guilt. My basement is loaded to the rafters with card making supplies, fabric for clothes and quilting, self help books, business magazines, exercise equipment and weights and I sit here and read and journal or pin things on Pinterest. Guilt. I have piles of unread books scattered around the house. Guilt.
I always feel like I should be doing something else. That I should be someone else. That I should be thinking about something else. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.
So I’m going to go paint. Still… Guilt. I’m not Michael Angelo or Leonardo DaVinci. I’m not Monet or Picasso (thank the Lord). What right have I got to paint? What right have I got to write? I’m not C.S. Lewis or J.R. Tolkien or Robert Louise Stevenson. Heck… I’m not even J.K Rowling. So maybe I’ll go cook and test and make up recipes. Who do I think I am? Julia Child? Gordon Ramsey? Martha Stewart? Well I’m almost Martha Stewart…. without all the hired help. I shouldn’t have time for this nonsense (interpreted by some as worthwhile pursuits). I should be at work and bringing home the bacon. Literally. I should be bringing it home with mid grade gas and cooking it and serving it. Throwing in the laundry and going to bed at 10:30pm so I can get up for ‘work’ (outside the home) and do it all over again tomorrow. Would that eliminate the guilt?
Probably not because I always felt guilty working in an office because I felt that somehow I sold out to my creative skills. That I had missed my calling.
I shouldn’t have said that. Guilt. I shouldn’t have done that. Guilt. I shouldn’t have thought that. Guilt. What’s inside eventually comes out. Guilt. I live in Canada not Syberia or Syria. Guilt. I live in a beautiful home. Guilt. I can soak in the tub anytime I want to. Guilt. I can sit by the fireplace and enjoy the warmth (ok, sweltering heat-menopause) while a snow blizzard envelops the land outside. Guilt. I have a wonderful husband and two amazing kids who all speak to me and, from all appearances, love me while thousands of other families suffer estrangement and unforgiveness and revenge. Guilt.
There is no condemnation in Christ Jesus!
Oh.
Refocus my guilt into gratefulness, thanksgiving and praise for all my blessings? I am here in these circumstances ‘for such as time as this? I’ ve been given permission by the creator to create? The Lord has proved me righteous which is the same as innocent? I’ve been proven innocent afterall. No more guilt. Well, I’m working on that.
A Funny Thing Happened on our Way Back to Calgary
In truth, it wasn’t really that funny at all. At the time, it was quite tragic. We had lived in Toronto for four years while Mike finished up his Chiropractic degree, with the plan to move back to Calgary to go into business with a chiropractic friend. We were poor as church mice during our tenure in Toronto. I was working to put Mike through college and for some insane reason we thought this might be a good time to have a baby. Well we had that baby and I returned to work at a wonderful place called the Four Seasons head office. I didn’t breathe a word about the fact that we were returning to Calgary in two years time. I decided to make it sound like this clever idea just came up a couple of months before Mike’s graduation. You’d have done the same thing.
Anyhoo, we didn’t really have all that much by way of worldly possessions…we had our clothes, our weddings gifts, our babies stuff and a few personal effects. Most of our furniture was dragged into our dwelling from someone’s front yard or back alley because that’s the way of things in Toronto. If you don’t want it, you haul it out into your front yard and scavengers like us come by at night and drag it home. So the furniture just went back out onto our front lawn and disappeared.
We did need a way to get our few things back to Calgary however and our car wasn’t large enough so Mike came up with the brilliant idea to purchase our landlords skidoo trailer and convert it into a homemade UHaul. I begged him not to do this thing. I implored that we just rent a Uhaul but he would have none of it. We were poor people and we had to do the most cost effective thing. So night after night I could hear him hammering and banging around in the driveway into the wee hours of the morning. I rather reminded me of Noah building the Ark. Neighbors gathered round to see what was being created. Mike built up the walls and even made the front roof portion slanted so there wouldn’t be so much drag from the wind. In theory it was a clever idea. Then he proceeded to spray paint the entire thing silver. To make it look more like a UHaul? Protection from the elements? He might have just painted an orange line across it while he was at it. So two nights before we were supposed to embark on our journey, Mike loaded our stuff into the trailer – two by two (we didn’t actually have two of everything) and took the trailer out for a test drive. The problem was this….the trailer’s tires were of the size that would haul a skidoo, not all of our crap. Mike came in to bed, sleeping bags on the floor at this point, and was quite stressed. It’s too heavy, he said. Just too heavy. The tires can’t take it.
We decided to unload some of the heavier items the next day, package them up and send them home by train (I’m wondering why we didn’t just sent it all home by train). That evening, we waved good-bye to our home in Scarborough and drove to Mississauga where we would spend the night at my sister’s. I believe we had someone follow us on the 401 and they reported, at the other end, that our tiny little skidoo tires were slanting outwards all the way. But it was too late, we’d spend all our money and all we had was enough for the gas to Calgary and a couple of stop overs on the way so we had to go through with it. We parked at my sisters and slept and subconsciously prayed all through that pouring, rainy night. We got up in the morning, said our goodbyes and off we went.
We made it about twenty miles out of Mississauga when -kaboom – the tires exploded and the trailer dropped to the pavement. It wasn’t the tornado of clothes and bedding that I had imagined it being when I had pondered this in my mind for many weeks. Mike managed to pull the car and trailer over to the side of the highway and we shut the car off. Andrew (our then two year old) leaned forward and asked “What’s everybody crying about?”.
What were we going to do now? Mike spotted a farm house in the distance and decided to walk over to get help (we didn’t have cell phones back then). Before long a tow truck appeared to tow us to the closest gas station in a rinky dink little town, where Andrew and I spend the afternoon, drinking chocolate milk, until temporary tires were put on the trailer and we inched our way back to Mississauga. We were instructed to go no further than Mississauga. By the time we arrived back at my sisters everyone was just getting home from work and wondering what we were doing there. So we explained our plight and brainstormed for solutions.
Mike had remembered a friend from our church had wanted to buy this skidoo trailer (when it was still a skidoo trailer) because he wanted it for, of all things, his skidoo. So Mike called him up and explained situation and lo and behold, the guy still wanted it. So we unloaded it and he came by and got it and paid us for it. Guess what we did next? We rented a UHaul. We like to do things the hard way. We like to make memories. We could only afford the smaller UHaul so we still had to unload some more things at my sisters. We left them with a gas BBQ and some small furniture and I can’t remember what else and loaded up the UHaul. Side note: all the rain the first night leaked into the trailer and into our boxes and caused all the colors on many of our clothes to run onto others. Fun times. As you can imagine, I wasn’t amused.
Long story even longer, we did finally make our way back to Calgary in one piece after that. God has a sense of humor or maybe it was just coincidence but when we were in Kelowna that summer visiting Mike’s parents, we passed a motor-home sitting on the side of the road and the contents of that motor-home were strewn all over the highway and ditches. I know it wasn’t appropriate but Mike and I just howled (when we should have been feeling their pain.) That could have been us. That was the exact picture I had in my mind when I contemplated our tires blowing up.
I have many more similar stories of our life together and our ‘memories’ (think Eugene Levy’s voice in the Father of the Bride II). Each experience seemed like the end of the world, at the time, but here we are twenty nine years later, surviving and thriving and doing OK. God has been faithful and He has made us resilient and we have learned many lessons through the school of hard knocks. There have been mountain top experiences but most of our lives have been lived in the valley’s (or wandering around in the desert for 40 years) and that doesn’t really seem to be changing. We are in the valley at the moment, looking forward to our next mountain top experience, but we are slugging it through with the rest of you. Each of these experiences, changes us. For the better I hope. Makes us stronger. Makes us wiser. Imprints memories in our hearts. And when people say to you, in a few years, you will laugh about this, they are right. Its only ‘not funny’ in the moment, but truly it was hilarious.
The Red Plaid Apron 
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