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Wednesday, 10 March 2010 17:02 |
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By Jamie Rieger When a friend in need calls for help, I do not think I am any different than anybody else out there. I do what it takes to help them. Unless I am physically unable to assist, I will help. That is just something friends do for one another.
That train of thought was severely put in jeopardy last week when a friend called needing a jerry can of gas brought to him. My daughter and I were in Redcliff at the time, but we left immediately to take him some fuel.
We had a general location for where he was - by the rig that sits along Highway 41A. Okay, I know where that is. I drive by it all the time. It seemed like a simple enough mission, even if it was pitch dark out. Driving slowly eastward down the highway, we could not see his truck. We turned around at the junction and came back towards the city, driving even slower and looking down all the approaches to see if he could see his hazard lights blaring.
My daughter calls him from her cellphone, asking him to please turn on his hazard lights so we could see where he was and to give us better directions. It was about this point when her cellphone promptly cut out and we lost communication.
Up one range road and down another, we drove without any success. We went back to the highway and continued heading closer to town, thinking that we were narrowing the gap between he and us. Because we could not see him, it was starting to get frustrating, not to mention late and I was really wanting to get home and go to bed.
I turned the car south down what I thought was a range road, but in actuality was an access road to the rig site.
"Oh darn, I can't go down there. I will get stuck. That ground looks far to soft for this car," I said.
As I went to turn the car around, my car sunk to halfway up the tires. Now, I was not saying 'darn' any more.
Bear in mind, that before that phone call, the weather was nice and neither of us was dressed for this kind of outdoor activity.
Nonetheless, I get my shovel out of the trunk and we take turns digging. Getting more frustrated and realizing that we would be there all night shoveling, my daughter takes my shovel, throws it and starts walking.
I grabbed the shovel,put it back in the car and we start walking down the highway towards the city lights.
I told my daughter that I was going to stop at the nearest farm and ask for help, but she advised me that we should not do that given the late hour. So, we walk; her in her little runners and me in a pair of slip-ons, which were definitely not made for walking.
It did not take long until we were descending down a big hill, walking close enough to the white line to use it as a guide in the dark and far enough from the edge of the ditch to not go tumbling down. Carmen was getting considerably further in front of me as I had to keep stopping to get the pebbles out of my shoes, but eventually we made to town and to a phone where we called a friend of hers to come get us and for a tow truck to pull my car out of the soft gravel.
Just as we were getting into her friend's truck, we saw the friend in need drive past in his, with a big dually right in behind him.
"There he goes. I think my head is about to pop off my shoulders," Carmen yelled.
Unbelievable! The person who we were trying to help had gone and called somebody else, having gotten tired of waiting for us. Ok, now both of us were steaming mad.
The tow truck arrived at my car a short time later and was able to get my car out in a matter of a couple of minutes, but informed me that if I had tried to venture down that road any further he would not have been able to help...and, AMA does not cover it if you are stuck off of a government-maintained road. That is good to know. However, because I had basically just gone in there to turn around, I was alright.
So, some major lessons were learned that night. Would I go out and help another friend in need? Sure I would, but you better have your hazard lights on and you better be able to give me good directions (i.e. range road or township road numbers help) or I will not be coming. I will not drive up and down every grid road in the county in the dark of night trying to find you. Better yet, make sure you have enough gas in the tank before heading out and none of us will have to worry about having to come rescue you.
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Thursday, 04 March 2010 18:13 |
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By Delynda Pilon Hockey fever must be contagious. My dad has always displayed symptoms of it but the rest of the family remained free of the virus until the Olympics started, and now the only thing on the tube in the evenings is hockey - but I’m not sure which is more entertaining to watch, the game or my dad.
My dad is the guy who jumps up and shouts ‘he scores’, with a mighty fist pump to the air whenever his favoured team gets a goal. In fact, according to the intensity of play, he gets closer and closer to the edge of his seat, muttering encouragement to the little flickering figures as the speed down the ice, verbally bashing the refs whenever they call something he doesn’t agree with and screaming in triumph when those little figures seem to have taken his good advice to heart and make a move he approves of.
Last week when the Americans kicked our Canadian men’s hockey team’s butt, dad went into deep mourning. (That may all change this weekend.)
Last night, during the gold medal game between the Canadian and American women, I thought he might have a coronary he was so excited.
Me: Dad, maybe we should watch something else. This much excitement can’t be good for your heart. Maybe we should turn it to Say Yes to the Dress (a fashion show that spotlights bridal shopping).
He literally growled at me, clutching that remote close to his chest.
Me: You never seem to get overexcited during Say Yes to the Dress.
By then his attention was back on the television. The commercial was over and the game began. He shushed me with a regal gesture and turned his full contemplative powers on the tube.
The station flickered and went off.
Dad glared at me as if I had done something but when he saw my look of real surprise he blamed the remote and began shaking it as though he would throttle it.
The station came back on and he got to jump and pump the air in joy twice as the women’s team scored against the Americans.
The first and second periods passed quickly and by the time the third period started my dad was in a real lather. According to him the Canadians were just trying to maintain the status quo and were not playing the best hockey they ought to. He told us that was not the way to play against the Americans. They might take advantage and, before you know it, the game would be tied and then lost.
He told those little flickering figures the same but they were tired of listening to him, I guess. He reminded them of great players in the past, including the Rocket Richard, whom he said won a hockey game during the last few moments of play after an opposing team got a little too cocky. (Apparently he listened to that game on a radio since no one had a television then.)
Still they didn’t listen. The Americans took the puck to the Canadian goal and, whack - one try was stopped - then, whack, two tries were stopped, then - whack....
The television went off.
Dad shook the remote, pumped his fists (not in joy) called the parentage of the satellite company owners into question and claimed, when the screen flickered back on, that it was all a conspiracy since the channel never goes out when there is a commercial on.
In spite of the fact the Canadian women were not able to get the full effect of my dad’s advice, they won gold - the first time for an Olympic Canadian hockey team on home soil.
And when the national anthem played I couldn’t ignore the shiver that slid up my spine nor the pride I felt. I guess I could make a joke about that, but I am not going to bother. What is so wrong about being proud of those women and the way they ‘stood on guard’ for this great country we are privileged to live in anyway? So, instead of being my usual smart-alecky self I swabbed a tear from my eye as my dad and son cheered. I know it was a moment we will never forget as a family.
Dad said his only regret is that we couldn’t have listened to the game on something a little more trustworthy than satellite television - like maybe a good old radio.
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Wednesday, 24 February 2010 20:33 |
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By Jamie Rieger Oh, those sleepless nights, the ones that keep you tossing and turning all night or pacing through the house at 2:00 a.m. and every hour thereafter until it is time to get up. At that point, sleepiness has finally arrived, but it is now too late for that. It is time to get up and greet the day.
Everybody has these nights on occasion, especially when there is some external force impeding on our minds. It does not have to be a definite stressor, like finances, work or other legitimate worry, that plagues our minds and keeps us awake. Sometimes, it may be just a feeling about something and the more tired we get, the more imaginative and usually incorrect our thoughts become.
I must say since I have moved, I have indeed been sleeping much better, but I did have one of those sleepless night recently and not because of any one thing or event, but a whole bunch of little things that would not leave my mind. The more I tossed, the more I turned and the more I got up and paced, the more my mind did not want to be shut down for the night. The more I tried to not think about anything and get to sleep, the more it did not happen.
I am not even sure exactly where this all came from because I had been tired the evening before and went to bed at a decent hour. I must have slept solid for a few hours and then got awoken by something. I'm not sure, but whatever it was that woke me up, kept me awake and I did not get a minute of sleep after 3:30.
After that, I laid on the couch watching TV for about two hours, thinking that would be enough to put me to sleep. It did not help. At 5:30, I went into the kitchen and made a strong pot of coffee. I knew I was going to need it to get myself through the day.
Despite the strong coffee, the day passed by in a groggy haze and I am not sure how much my tired brain was actually absorbing.
I managed to make it through all of the demands of the day, but as soon as I got back home, I knew I was ready for a power nap. Sleep had no problem getting to me at 4:00 p.m. and all the things that kept me awake the previous night were gone.
Soon, I was in a deep, dreamless slumber and stayed that way just long enough to feel rejuvenated and ready to tackle the world!
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Wednesday, 17 February 2010 18:44 |
There are some things in life that you take for granted until they go south on you, and then it is time to panic.
For example, growing up there was only a few things I really wanted to have as an adult. Running hot and cold water, a furnace with a thermostat and a flush toilet.
When my Uncle Bill first bought a farm near Prairie River, Saskatchewan, our idea of running water was running down to the stream and filling buckets. You know, I remember that water being sweet and cold with the spring hiding amongst a copse of poplar trees and a great bank of lush green moss. I’d lay on that moss and drink deep before filling buckets. Now I have to have my water filtrated, chlorinated and purified. Yet it used to taste better... I don’t get it. Anyway, that is off topic. I hated filling buckets after a while. I especially hated busting a hole in the ice in the darned winter and filling buckets. Getting wet armpit deep during a Saskatchewan winter is not my idea of a good time.
After that we lived in a house with running cold water which meant boiling buckets of water for a shower (a plastic pailish thing that hangs upside down with a spout). When you do this the water is never the right temperature and there is never enough of it. I hated that too.
Ever since I was old enough to make my own decisions my houses have had hot and cold running water.
Growing up we usually had wood stoves. This meant you had to take extra care not to be the first one out of bed on a winter morning. Why? Because by then the fire was only a couple of coals and you’d have to get it back to flames, feeding it kindling and wood until it was burning nice and hot. You usually did this while hopping from one foot to the other and blowing on your own fingertips. And heaven help you if the wood bin was empty - that meant a trip outside to gather wood. I hate hate hate gathering wood on a winter’s morning.
As an adult, I have always had a nice furnace in my house.
As for a toilet, not to be indelicate but as a kid we grew up with a luxurious two-seater with a crescent moon carved in the doorway. In the summer it smelled terrible even after a good lye-in. In the winter - well, lets just say no one bothered to take a newspaper or a book outside with them cause time was definitely of the essence.
Now I have a nice flush toilet with plenty of reading material available... okay, you probably could have lived without knowing that, but I’m just saying. The only problem is that our flush toilet recently turned on us. Now, some of you more delicate readers may want to stop reading right now because a few weeks ago we had a blockage problem and I am going to tell you all about it (see, that was a disclaimer). Since Clayton is gone, I actually have a plunger (for those of you who don’t know, my brother Clayton is an infamous borrower and when he was living here I never had custody of my plunger, my hammer, my screwdriver, my Lord of the Rings DVD set... the list goes on). Anyway, dad utilized said plunger quite enthusiastically apparently - but the blockage was located somewhere north of the place where the toilet line hooks to the shower line and - you guessed it - the shower acted like a geyser and everything he forced down with that mighty plunge came right back up, shooting with impressive force straight towards the ceiling.
He came out of the bathroom a far less happy man than when he went in.
Of course, my son, Dallas, thought the problem wasn’t where the blockage was located, but rather the lack of strength in the plunge affected by his poor aged grandfather. He took matters into his own hands, as it were, headed into the washroom holding the plunger like a logger holds his ax and gave it a try.
When he came out he headed straight to the laundry room and threw his clothes in the washer.
Then, after dressing, he went and bought some extra strength plug dissolver at the hardware store.
Meanwhile dad sat at the kitchen table telling mom about the good old days and how you never had to plunge the luxury two seater with the nifty crescent moon decorated door.
Such is life in the Pilon household.
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Wednesday, 03 February 2010 19:33 |
I finally cut CT’s hair.
CT, if you are wondering, is the white fluffy little dog my brother, Clayton, left for me to dog-sit - about a year and a half ago. In fact, I was dog-sitting so long last year I finally bought CT (which stands for Countessa) a doggy license which I just renewed.
Before her haircut CT looked like a big white ball of fur. Now she looks kind of like a worrt. If your are not a Star Wars freak, then you may not know that a worrt is the pet Jabba the Hutt kept. They are also known as frog-dogs, and yes I am a little embarrassed to know this much Star Wars trivia. But hey, it could be worse. Rob Ficiur might be a sports columnist by day (oh, ya, and a teacher) but he is also a closet Trekkie, not that I’d ever tell anyone his dark secret.
Anyway, the last time I got CT’s fur cut, I felt like the one who’d been clipped since the experience cost me about $60 - which is much much more than it costs me to get my hair cut professionally. So I decided to save a few long-term dollars and buy myself the instruments to do the job myself.
It seemed like a good idea at the time, but once I got started I found out it is a lot harder to clip a dog’s fur than one would think. They are squirmy little fellows. I am not sure if all of them dislike the sound hair clippers make, but I can swear to the fact that CT doesn’t like the noise they make at all. And her hair was pretty matted. I worked and worked to get the worst of the mats gone, sometimes having to shave her pretty close to the skin to rid her of them. Then, just to even the cut out, I had to shave all of her pretty close to the skin.
Now she looks like a newly shorn pink little lamb - well, skin-wise anyway. But size and shape-wise, she looks just like Jabba the Hutt’s favourite pet.
As usual, dad had to give me a critique on the haircut.
Dad: (Eyes wide in mock astonishment) CT! What happened to you, you poor little thing. Did you get into a fight with a lawn mower? Or is it just a bad case of the mange?
Me: (Already getting grumpy) You know very well I cut her hair.
Dad: (Holding CT on his lap with her leaning against him like he was her only friend in the world) But Delynda, you were supposed to leave some hair behind. Dogs aren’t supposed to have bald spots, you know.
Me: Hey, come to think of it you were asking for a trim, weren’t you? Now I got these fancy clippers I could just - well, zip-zip, and you would be all done.
Dad: (Giving me the fish-eye while rubbing his fairly shaggy head) You aren’t coming near me with those things. I see what you did to that poor little dog. Anyway, I am not a dog. You can’t use dog clippers on me.
Me: (Evil grin) Sure I can.
Dad: (Threateningly) Not if you ever want to sleep soundly in this house again.
Knowing him to be quite vengeful, I decided to give up - for a while anyway.
The other problem (besides aesthetic) about clipping CT is now she can fit between our fence railings again. We have put up several barriers, but she always seems to weasel her way through them. I’ll be coming home from work, opening the door to the store, and suddenly CT is standing right by my foot, wriggling all over. I ask her how she managed to get out of the fence this time, but she never answers, just wriggles harder looking happy to have found me at last.
Well, that is one big difference between dogs and dads. When you give your dog a bad haircut, she doesn’t hold a grudge at least. |
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