The Ties That Bind

My older older brother and his lovely wife recently dropped in for a visit so short there was no point in them adapting to another time zone. A couple of weeks before they arrived, my older sister put out an email saying they’d been in touch with her and hoped to connect with as many of us as they could while they were here—a trickier notion than it sounds, as three of the four west coast siblings still work and the visit was smack dab in the middle of a workweek. Big Sis suggested an early evening potluck at her place. No problem since, while a couple of us live in the sticks, we all work in town. Why not stop by before heading to our respective homes?

I naively assumed the gathering at Big Sis’s place would be attended by the siblings and perhaps our significant others. I couldn’t imagine my parents tackling rush hour traffic so late in the day, and though we love our nieces and nephews, how big a bash was this going to be? I admit, I hoped for something more intimate. I am an introvert. Large social occasions intimidate me and, as my wee sister observed one day at coffee, “when all the Greigs get together, we can be kind of overwhelming.”

No kidding. My parents arrived with my older older brother and, as staggered quitting times came and went, a steady trickle of siblings, spouses, sons, daughters, sons and daughters’ spouses and their children soon had Big Sister’s house full to bursting. What my mother innocently terms her “small family” has erupted into a group not quite large enough to claim village status!

Make no mistake. I love my family. I am the luckiest daughter/sister/aunt in the world. Wee Sis asked me in high school what was wrong with us because we liked our parents. My mother has often said how surprised she was to discover that her family was not as normal as she believed. Didn’t every family get along as well as we did? We’ve had drama, of course. We’ve had sibling squabbles and growing pains and tragedies like any other clan, but on the  whole, we’ve stayed together even into the kids’ adulthood. I mean, the Big Guys are all in their sixties now! Conversation might be a little awkward to start with, but we compensate with lots of hugs until we gain traction and suddenly it’s as if we were never parted. I have every confidence that my siblings and I will remain close even after our parents have moved on. We won’t see each other every day, but we don’t do that now. What we do do is remember we were raised by parents who taught us the importance of family, of the privilege of belonging to something greater than ourselves, and the responsibility we have to keep that going so in the end, none of us will ever be alone.

The mob at Big Sister’s place last week was as raucous and chaotic as I’d feared it would be ... and I’m so glad I was there. It’s magical to be part of something so overwhelming.

With love,

The Power of Ru

if I have to wear a tin foil hat, this is the one I'm wearing

We lost our deskside garbage collection at work last winter (see “Attitude Adjustment”). I went into the office one morning and my garbage can was gone. So were everyone else’s—except for a single rogue specimen. Our division does a lot of bulk mailing and there is some rubbish that won’t fit in a Starbucks cup, so our office manager cleverly ensured that one can was spared for the file room.

A few weeks later, I noticed that the potato chip bag I had dropped into it was still present, along with some other flotsam accrued during the passage of time. Hm, I thought, somebody should dump that into the kitchen bin. I figured on doing it myself—just not at that instant—but when I went back a couple of hours later, it was already done.

I flagged my administrative colleague. “I thought the janitors weren’t collecting the garbage anymore, but the can in the file room is empty.”

“They’re not,” she replied. “I emptied it a couple of hours ago.”

Fast forward a few weeks into 2017. I’m the owner/operator of the HQ snackin’ station, but occasionally other folks will bring in treats that require more than the two bowls containing my offerings. The third bowl will often sit long after its contents are gone, until someone—usually me—takes it away.

I think it was cinnamon hearts pre-Valentine’s Day. A mysterious benefactor filled a bowl with them, and the level almost immediately began to drop as word spread around the floor. It seems that everyone loves cinnamon hearts; however, just like the final slug from the milk carton, a dozen malformed candies lingered in the bottom of the bowl for over a week before I thought in passing, Hm. Somebody should dump them and put away the bowl. I figured on doing it myself—just not at that instant—but when I went back a couple of hours later, it was already done.

I went to our office manager. “That’s weird,” I said. “I just went to dump the last of the hearts and put away the bowl, but someone beat me to it.”

“That was me,” she said. “I did it a couple of hours ago.”

I stared at her. Then I told her the garbage can story. Then I said, “Whoa, how powerful am I if I can manipulate people on the strength of a single thought?”

She laughed, of course—she laughs at me a lot—but I was semi-serious. I realize that a third, and conscious, attempt should probably be made to confirm any suspicions, but I’m reluctant to go there. I mean, what if?

Know Fear

Hello, fear!

It’s okay to be surprised, for I’ve either ignored you completely or been at war with you for most of my life. I had no idea what was going on. I thought you were a demon, something to be conquered, but even when I beat you, you were never really vanquished. You were always there, whispering in my ear, telling me stories of what horrors might happen if my arthritis came back or I kept that dental appointment.

You’re a pro at stirring up my imagination.

I know now what you were doing—what you are doing—and I’m not angry about it. You’re only trying to protect me, to warn me of potential danger and thus keep me safe. I appreciate your concern, truly I do, but I can also tell you it’s not necessary. I’m fine right now and I’ll be fine down the road. I’m not saying we won’t cross paths again. I know we will, and when we do, I’ll say the same thing I’m saying here:

Thank you for coming by. I see you and I hear you, and I understand your intention. It’s okay. And now it’s time to part ways, so I am going to tuck you into this pretty silver box, tie it with a big pink ribbon (’cause it’s hard to be a badass when you’re tied with a pink ribbon), and set you carefully into this bubbly little stream. I’ll stand on the bank and watch you float away. I’ll even wave as you disappear around the bend, and then I’ll continue my journey alongside the same stream. I might come upon you washed up on the bank at some point, and I’ll do the same thing. I’ll acknowledge you, I’ll reassure you that all is well, and I’ll send you on your way.

With love,

No Flyer Zone

Well, shoot. No playoffs for my boys, this year. Again. It’s kind of a relief, actually. With all the hassles I’ve handled of late, I don’t need the extra stress. I’m happy to cheer for the five Canadian teams that made it to the post-season (and, failing that, Pittsburgh), but I’m not so invested that I’ll go fetal during a game. Semi-fetal, maybe, but not full bore Philly fetal!

I have a five-disc collection of the ten best Flyer games ever played (and no, they’re not all from the 1970s). I do enjoy the one where they won their first Stanley Cup, but I’ve watched none of the others. Now Ter and I are talking about another declutter and I’m looking at the plethora of unwatched season sets and once-watched miniseries in our DVD collection with an eye to offloading the deadwood. I reckon if the box is still shrink-wrapped, it’s on the block. Same for anything we haven’t watched in years (what was important to us then is not so important to us now) ... until I get to the Flyer collection. I bought it in 2008. I’ve only seen the Cup winner from 73/74.  The boys have played a lot of games since that compilation was put together, few of them likely to bounce any from the top ten, but still. Do they stay or do they go?

No brainer.

“Diva XIII”

Alfred Baynor wasn’t the boy next door. He was the stranger down the road, a ranch hand at The Poplars whom Ellie met when she dropped by to watch the horses graze. She was so crazy in love with the animals that she hardly noticed the fella noticing her until a shadow moved in the corner of her eye.

“Do you ride?” he asked, sauntering over to where she perched on the paddock fence.

She glanced briefly at him, caught the twinkle in his eye, and promptly lost her confidence. “No,” she mumbled, shyly. “I just like to watch them.”

“You don’t belong here, do you?”

She shook her head. “My aunt owns the farm up the way. My name’s Ellie.”

He smiled and the summer day got brighter. “I’m Alfred,” he said, sticking out a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ellie.”

She tentatively took it, unsure what to expect since she’d never shaken a boy’s hand before. She reckoned on a tight grip, but the yielding skin surprised her. He gave her fingers a friendly squeeze, then let go.

“Have you got a favourite?”

Ellie was intrigued by the ghost of his hand around hers and didn’t answer right away. Alfred pretended not to notice and pointed at a piebald paint set apart from the other horses.

“She’s mine,” he said.

“Your horse?”

“My favourite. I don’t have a horse.”

“You don’t live here?”

“I live here, but I don’t have a horse. These all belong to the Rudds. You know the Rudds, right?” he asked when she looked puzzled. “They own the ranch.”

“I’ve only been with Auntie for a few weeks,” she confessed.

“School vacation?”

“No,” she replied before she thought the wiser. “You?”

His eyes were grey and sparkling. “What?”

“You on school vacation?”

“No, no. I graduated in June.”

Ellie’s heart sank. That meant he was at least seventeen. She couldn’t imagine Auntie permitting her to see a boy so much older than she was, particularly one so easy and charming. And handsome—too handsome, she thought, like one of those travelling charlatans who came by the farm to try and sell them things they didn’t need. Auntie had nothing good to say about any of those fellas and she’d likely not approve of her niece talking with this one, especially as he was out of school and Ellie was only starting junior high.

She hopped off the fence. “I have to go.”

“There’s a dance at the church hall on Saturday night,” Alfred said. “Maybe I’ll see you there?”

Ellie looked up at him. Oh, boy. He was taller than she thought, and lean and lightly tanned, and probably blond under his cowboy hat because his eyes were so pale. She hadn’t a clue how to dance and she didn’t think the church was the same one Auntie attended, so the chances were pretty slim she would be there, but ... “Is that an invitation?” she asked.

He stuck his thumbs into his belt and rocked a little on his heels. “It wouldn’t be proper to ask without meeting your aunt first. I just figure if you happen to be there and I happen to see you ...” His smile rose higher on one side, at once mischievous and hopeful, and Ellie felt a funny tug in her chest.

After that, going down to watch the horses was just an excuse.