Friday, November 29, 2013
Once Upon a Snow-Begotten Hump Day
How does one cure a "getting stuck in the snow in your driveway,
finally getting out, arriving at work really, really late, only to get stuck in
the parking lot” day? How do you survive a horrible-bank-meeting, kids fighting
because they're home from school and overexcited, power goes out, sump pump
alarm sounds, and water pump stops working kind of day? What if the city
snowplow shows up to plow the lane, but not until it’s a full 10 hours past the
time it's actually useful? How does one cope when this comes on top of two weeks of mounting frustration with bosses who are oblivious to the value of the
work you're doing, coworkers who are sabotaging your efforts, equipment failure
after equipment failure—and you need the equipment in order to Make Your Living
and answer the Money Gods? What happens when you’re searching all of the jobs available
in the surrounding area, but realize you qualify for exactly none, mostly
because you grew up in Small Town, Indiana, and never learned the french that is
necessary to land a job in the capital of Canada? What do you do when you are
Buried in Snow in NOVEMBER?
Worry not, friends, I have the answer to all of these
problems.
W(h)ine Wednesday, folks.
Those of you already on board Kelly's Facebook Train, are
well aware of the absolute SACREDNESS of BEER FRIDAYS in her world (and the
worlds of those on board). Beer Fridays are the end of the week treat, the
reward, if you will, for persevering against all odds. They are the Goal to
Reach at the end of a hard week's work. The light that shines through all other
lights, and any darkness that may descend. Beer Fridays are a ritual, a
tradition, and, by God and all that's Holy, an international
holiday-in-the-making. (We're working on it, folks. In between Fridays...and
beers...and the random hangover. Be patient please...It is our intention to
make it global. Please feel free to start your own grassroot local chapter of a
Beer Friday tradition. We only ask you give us credit for the Trademark ‘Beer
Friday’ title. It is dear to us, and organically born of two friends sneaking a
beer (ok two) one evening from the back of an old pick-up truck.
But sometimes...SOMETIMES...we can't make it through an
entire week. Monday sucks, Tuesday feels like it should be Friday already, and
by the time Wednesday rolls around, the world just seems to crumple into a
disaster of epic proportions. No one can reasonably expect a person—or
people—to hold themselves up for another two days until the
blessed relief that is Beer Friday. It is irrational. Perverse. Sick, I tell
you.
It’s not like said people gave up, mind you. We woke up, as
Canadians often do, and found the 30 centimeters of snow that were predicted by the local
weatherman the previous day. In NOVEMBER. The school buses were cancelled,
bringing on a litany of too-early-in-the-morning celebratory screams from the
school children. Without a moment’s pause for breath, they began their epic
battles for ownership of the Wii-U pad, and ipods and immediately entered the
domain of Minecraft and some world or character known as Pikman (not to be
confused with Pokemon or Pacman). The person that stayed up until 2am watching
Glee reruns on Netflix the previous night moaned to herself, took a couple of
extra vitamins, and braced herself for a day of negotiating electronic-device
timeshares, babydoll apparel, and coloring book contracts. She did it with a
smile.
It’s only 7:13 am.
The one who must go to school in spite of bus cancellations,
because he must babysit the children whose parents have no regard for
weather-infringing road hazards of staff, set himself into the seat of his
Corolla…the snowtires already tucked neatly into the backseat for the appointment
to put them on the vehicle—in three days. He pulls out of the garage...and gets
stuck. Phenomenally stuck. In his own driveway. He perseveres, grinding gears,
spinning tires, slipping and sliding this way and that, backwards in his long,
snow-begotten driveway. He makes progress—maybe 20 feet out of about 100.
A daughter rushes to the rescue with a shovel. Her coat
hanging open, no snow pants, the boots on, but untied. Toque eschew. She digs
ferociously—relentlessly—at the snow beneath the tires and undercarriage of the
car, flipping wet, heavy snow by the spoonful over her shoulder.
She is eight years old.
The Other Guy shows up and offers supervision, laughter, and
the occasional suggestion for wheel angles to the Stuck Guy. He waves his arms around
in the air, usefully pointing out the copious amounts of snow we all know is
keeping Stuck Guy stuck in the driveway. Ultimately helpless in this moment, he
gets back into his car with his Warm Wife who has been waiting patiently in the car, and steamrolls his way down the unplowed
laneway, showing Stuck Guy why he should have purchased a vehicle with
four-wheel-drive instead of the sensible family minvan.
In his defense, Stuck Guy did not cry. At least not visibly.
He said calm things into his cell phone, pulled his
snowblower out of the garage, and blew snow all over himself and the
eight-year-old Little Digger while clearing out the area around the car. He
proceeded to blow tracks the length of the laneway…a full quarter mile…just so
he could go to work. To babysit kids at school whose parents bring them to
school rain or shine, blizzard or tornado, sleet or hell. Oops, hail. He gets it, though his wife is not so understanding as she watches her love leave in horrible conditions. Most adults don’t get snow days. Not even in Canada. Especially not in
Canada. Snowshoe or die, folks. Canada is not for those weak in weather. Though
this laneway is a city road, the city snowplow operators ignore it regularly.
The Other Guy rides off into the falling snowflakes with his Warm Wife. They go to the bank. Shit gets ugly. Someone cries. Dreams are lost and
found. There are talks born of desperation, discussions of failures,
possibilities, and faults. Numbers are thrown around like confetti, questions
fired like an inquisition, and emotions squashed as if a plague. There is no
room for sentimentality in this cut-throat business. Just another day in the
livelihood of a small Canadian family-owned-and-operated farm. They wipe tears, take a deep breath, and consider their options. Then they discuss separating the family during the holidays and for several months beyond in order to
make enough money to save the farm that’s been in the family for five
generations.
The Warm Wife of The Other Guy settles into the century home that
is in desperate need of renovation, and immediately returns to promoting her
family business online, and working her full time government job from home because she had to take a personal day for the bank meeting. She tries to get it all done before she has to pick up her kids from daycare. She knows they need her to pay attention to them, to
help them with homework, and to listen to them about their days, their
concerns, their hopes, joys, and experiences. She is a good listener, a good
mom, and loves to spend time with her family.
The Other Guy, unable to crop his livelihood because of snow and farm
equipment that is broken still and again, uses his machinery for good. He
drives his new bobcat tractor several kilometers down the road, stopping
at driveways in the countryside to plow out his neighbors. He moves from one to
the other, not stopping or asking for pay. He’s just being neighborly—because he can.
He returns home to plow his own driveway only after helping out his neighbors. He
thinks nothing of this.
Meanwhile, Stuck Guy is on a roll. He manages to make the
treacherous drive all the way into town and gets to the school for duty. But he
gets stuck in the school parking lot. This is not a joke, nor is it taken as
such. Still, he does not complain. Instead, he reports for duty, apologizes for
being late, and takes on his responsibilities for the day—caring for special
needs kids, as well as assisting teachers throughout the school with tedious
tasks. He does this with great cheer and pride. The school kids love him, the
special needs kids adore him, and the teachers can’t live without him. However,
he is not valued for his role by his superiors. His role is not rewarded by the
school system, the school board, or the province. In
fact, his pay—an hourly rate, not salary as teachers get—will be
docked for being late, in spite of the weather. He does not care. He will
continue to do what he does, and give more than 100%, because he believes in
serving those who need him. He approaches his job as he approaches his family
and his friends—he is devout. This is his lifestyle. There is right, and there
is wrong, and he always chooses right, no matter what.
Back on the homefront, children are playing, as children do
on snowdays home from school. There are five. Three of my own, and my other
two. These started as daycare kids, but have become so much more. I realized
that when talking to my sister who lives far away in Indiana. I talked about
each child – their accomplishments and challenges, funny stories, and our
collective thoughts, hopes, and concerns. I seamlessly went from the children I
birthed to the children I've loved into my life without a moment’s thought or
hesitation. They are like siblings, they are all mine, no matter the
technicalities.
The power went out. This happens a lot in the country. And
we had a nice fire going in the woodstove downstairs, so warmth was not a
problem. But the Sump Pump had a real problem with it. It began to beep.
Repeatedly. Relentlessly.
I opened the door, pushed some buttons with flashing lights.
It stopped beeping. For a moment. And then began to beep faster.
I grabbed my phone and texted The Stuck Guy as well as The
Other Guy. I am not comfortable with machines talking back to me. They are so
difficult to discipline. Like toddlers. Or puppies. But less cute.
Suggestions were made from both sources. Push the buttons. One
button. Then the other. Push them both together. I pushed the buttons at will to
no avail.
I bent into the closet on my knees, cleaning cobwebs out of
the shadows with the red locks of my hair, and leaned over the pit laden with
pipes and floating balls. I dipped my hands into the slimy, ice cold water and
lifted first one ball, then the other, and finally cupped both balls in my
hands, gingerly holding them above water level.
While such a gentle gesture may be appreciated in certain
circles, this angered the Sump Pump Lord.
He began to screech and whistle at me, beeping maniacally.
Lights flashed—green, orange, red, and yellow lights spelling out words in too
rapid a succession for me to decipher. The screaming filled my ears, the
vibrations of rage tore through my soul. I just knew I had committed some
irrevocable crime against machinery.
But I was a trained zookeeper. I knew that no matter what
happened, no matter how dire the situation, no matter how much it struggles and
fights…once you have caught up your animal and have a good grip on it, you must
Never under Any circumstance Let Go Of That Animal. It will only put you in
grave danger. Because now, it is PISSED OFF.
There was no doubt in my mind in that moment that the Sump Pump
Lord was Pissed Off. I could not let go of its balls. With tears slipping down
my cheeks, and the buzz of screaming ricocheting my brain against the sides of
my skull, I leaned deeper into the pit of slimy water and gently transferred
the left ball against the inside of my right forearm, freeing my left hand.
When I was sure both balls were secure above water level, I used my left hand
to again text The Stuck Guy, and to explain that I was, well, stuck.
He texted suggestions to me, all of which I’d already tried
repeatedly, and all of which had failed. I begged him to tell me where the
hatchet was, desperate to put the suffering Sump Pump Lord out of his misery. I couldn't stand to watch and listen to him in such torment. That’s when The
Stuck Guy left me.
I’ll never know if it was because a child needed his
attention at school, or his boss caught him helping someone other than Her
Royal Self. Maybe the school had a surprise fire drill, or his car suddenly and
mysteriously disengaged itself from the snow ruts of the parking lot as he
watched through a classroom window. I like to think the phone simply lost its
charge and died…as we all claim happens but never really does because who would
actually let their cell phone DIE?! No one. It’s unfathomable.
Nonetheless, I was stuck at home cradling a pair of balls
over a vat of smelly water in a dark closet of my basement. The Sump Pump Lord
screamed obscenities at me in a language I couldn’t understand, and frankly,
didn’t want to. I could only assume he was in agony and begging for his
motherboard, mercy, or both.
It was time to let go. I dropped his balls.
They landed with a gentle splash in the stagnant water, and
the screaming continued. My nerves were shot, my emotions raw, and I had no
plausible options. So, I reared up to the full height of myself on my knees,
leaned over the Sump Pump Lord, and pushed both buttons simultaneously as hard
as I could. I leaned the full weight of myself into my fingers, ignoring the
cobwebs stretching across my nose, up to my earlobe, and I didn’t let go.
It wailed one last bloodcurdling oath, and fell silent.
The quiet filled my head much the same as the screaming
had…a steady pulse, a rhythmic hum of its own. The lights were gone too. My
chin dropped out of respect and I honored the moment of silence with reverence
and a little regret. I knew it had been for the best, the Sump Pump Lord was no
longer suffering. I had done what I had to do.
And then it beeped. One soft, gentle beep. I glanced up. The
glow of a green light beckoned my gaze. Steady and sure of itself, it spoke to
me. I finally understood. “System Ready,” the light said. “System Ready.”
And it was.
I gently closed the door, offering the Sump Pump Lord
privacy for his rehabilitation, and went upstairs. I scrubbed my hands up to my
elbows as my mother, the nurse, had taught me. I took a deep breath, and pulled
out my cell phone. It was time to pull more than a pair of floating balls out
of a pit of despair.
I punched in some messages, and began to cook.
By 4:30, some mellow music was playing via Songsa on my
ipod, a vat of chili was simmering on the stove, and a loaf of Harvest Beer
Bread was baking in the oven (from my Sunset Gourmet side business,; warning,
shameless self-promotion plug here: see http://www.mysunsetgourmet.ca/3097/).
Candles were lit on the dining room table. The rest of the broken-by-Wednesday
spirits began to drift into the house.
W(h)ine Wednesday, folks.
We gathered, my hubby, friends, and I around the long,
simple dining room table. We shared the details of our rotten days, listening
and talking in turn. We ate like gluttons. We partook of wine and local brewery
beers, and a shameful amount of 5-minute microwave fudge (another Sunset
Gourmet treat. Mmm…Just saying, check it out. LOL). One of us started nodding
off at the table. It’s not the first time this has happened among us. I think
we’ve each had a turn. It’s become an endearing habit between us. When the
reality of our Hump Day Blues were worked out between conversation and
relaxation, we turned to topics to lift ourselves and each other back up off
the floor. We admired our children—their individual traits and talents—and how
our parenting ideas were so similar. We discussed possible futures for the lot
of us, and daydreamed a little about the Great What If. And then, the icing on
the shitcake of the day—we laughed. Because, together, we Always do.
And that’s the point of it all, isn’t it? There are songs
written about it. Lean on Me. You’re Not Alone. You’ve Got a Friend. Etc. When
life’s kicking you, you need to gather round and talk it out with people who
give a shit. Don’t save time with loved ones, your family and friends, just for
celebrations. Those are great, but the truly great stuff comes of the time
spent lifting someone up, and/or supporting each other. And after you talk about the downs, make sure
you include some Ups. Smile. Toast. Laugh. Really laugh. And then remember…sometimes
you can’t…you shouldn’t…wait until the next holiday. Sometimes you can’t even
wait until Beer Friday.
Every once in awhile you’re going to need a W(h)ine
Wednesday. And that’s okay.
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