Vikings Among Us

My mother died of heart disease in 1981, when my youngest daughter was 14 months old and my youngest son wasn't yet thought of. What my older children remember, besides that she made yummy lemon pies, is that she was always sick and they had to be quiet.What they don't remember about her is that she was determined, tough, and very kind-hearted. If I were to name another defining characteristic, it would be her stoicism. Once I called to ask how she was feeling so that maybe we might visit. (Not that her answer could ever form a basis for this decision since it never contained the needed information.) She told me she was fine and we should come. When we arrived, I found her really suffering from shingles. My dad was fixing dinner. Two weeks before she died she wrote a letter to the family for a time capsule. She must have asked three times for us to excuse her poor hand-writing because she wasn't feeling very well. Yuh!
My mother' genealogical lines in Iceland go back more than a 1000 years. (Those people knew how to keep records.) I once heard an interview with an author who grew up in Gimli, Manitoba. In case you didn't know, Gimli, on the western shore of Lake Winnipeg, was settled by more than 1500 Icelandic immigrants between October 1875 and the summer of 1876. The author had done some research around the suffering of these people in 1876 from smallpox, cold and deprivation. He gave talks about it and not one believed him because their grand-parents had nothing to them about it. So they were certain it didn't happen. He went on to tell a story from an old Icelandic saga. It went something like this:

"There was a terrific bloody battle and a runner was sent to the the Althing (the English version of this word) with news. By the time he arrived, after running over the ice and snow, his shoes were completely gone and his feet were bleeding. As he walked into the hall to report, he left bloody footprints on the stone."

The point of the story was not his great courage in running when his feet were bleeding, it was that as he walked into the hall leaving bloody footprints, he did not flinch. As this author talked about this characteristic of Icelandic people to never complain, I recognized my mother. She was a Viking.

My mother has passed this characteristic onto some of my children and grand-children. One of my grand-children split open his eye-brow and needed stitches. It took four adults to hold him down while he kicked and screamed so the stitching could be done. He was four. It's understandable but it is not Viking. Compare that to this: At the same age, another grand-child, with a cut in approximately the same place, laid on the table, under a sterile sheet without moving or even squeaking while they stitched. I assume she gritted her teeth. She would have been highly embarassed to make a fuss. She is a Viking. Another grand-son got a cut on his chin. Although he hates people in his space, he finally just gritted his teeth (for real) and let them do it. Once my daughter told my son, who was quite sick and miserable at the time, that he should whine more when he was sick. He just stared at her and finally said, "And just exactly how would that help?" She couldn't explain, she only knew it helped her. He knew it wouldn't help him at all.

This cannot be nurture when there are children in the same families who are so different. You cannot easily "teach" a child not to complain or even scream in a crisis! They just come the way they are. You can turn a child a little to the right or a little to the left, but if you think that as a parent you can turn a child completely around, I fear you are in for disappointment. My children also have Welsh, Scots, German, Danish and English blood. The Viking is diluted even more in the next generation. Still there are Vikings among us.

More about Quirks

My last post really got me thinking about quirks. One thing I know about myself is that I am quirky. I believe that is a family characteristic. My girls joke about "Wilcox women." They mean that we are out-spoken, opinionated, maybe even bossy sometimes. I don't think I am bossy, but I do often think that if people would just let me organize them, my life and theirs would be better. Probably other people think I am bossy. I know they think I am opinionated. Wishy-washy is definitely not a family characteristic. I have a sister who is a business consultant. Everyone knows she is very opinionated. I do a lot of work for her. For the last couple of years she has been trying to teach me that in some situations I should just keep it to myself. I am learning that. Recently I have learned that there are a lot of other situations where I should keep it to myself. Nobody in my family ever believed that in family situations you should keep it to yourself. In fact, it can be hard to get a word in edgewise at those gatherings. I was raised by quirky people to be quirky.

In talking about this in terms of quirkiness, I seem to be de-emphasizing the importance of my quirks. I am not very interested in writing a philosophical treatise on the difference between quirks and faults. I do want to say that, to me, the ideal Christ-like person is one who loves others, is willing to make sacrifices, give service, and is unselfish. My ideal person, which may have nothing at all to do with being Christ-like, is also constantly learning, open to new ideas, and not offended because someone disagrees with them. That is harder than it sounds. I went to a lecture this morning at the ATA science teachers' convention. The speaker started out in Physics and has a doctorate in Astronomy. He also has a web-site de-bunking popular science myths. He said it is tough going - most people seriously want to hang onto their misconceptions. Did you know that "Armageddon" is one of the worst movies for science inaccuracy and therefore for promoting myths? He says he gets hate mail for trying to promote scientific facts that de-bunk myths. It's the mind open to new ideas thing - one of my values - that the majority of people have trouble with. It always surprises and shocks me when I tell someone my opinion and why I think that, they don't answer or say what they think or why, but I find out later that they were offended. They thought I was telling them what to think. Maybe I should just consider this a quirk! But people don't want to change how they think, and they don't want to discuss it even when they think I am wrong. Maybe I don't sound like I am open to new ideas. Too bad. A quirk maybe I need to change.

In my life, a great proportion of my friends have been seriously quirky. I named one to my husband today as an example and he said, "She was just plain weird!" Isn't weird seriously quirky? But also interesting. The areas of quirkiness of these people has included how they dress, what they talk about, how they talk, what they believe, why they believe it, how they relate to other people, to name a few. Most of these very quirky people had only a small circle of friends that included me. I am not sure whether that makes me seem less judgmental and more tolerant, or if it just means that maybe I myself am seriously quirky. I will have to think about that. I have a lot of main-stream friends too, but maybe that just means they are more tolerant. How can one know these things? Does it really matter? Here I am, right back to the philosophical question about the difference between faults and quirks. I still don't want to write a philosophical treatise on it.

Quirks and Families

I said I was the mother of six and the grandmother of 17. I don't know why I haven't said anything about that yet. These people are without doubt the most important part of my life. I said I was going to blog about my efforts not to get old, my masters' degree, my exercise program, etc. I lied. That would require me to talk about myself and that's not very interesting, even to myself. My children and grandchildren now, that's interesting. At least it is to me. Once when my kids were still at home, I was telling my dad what each of my kids were doing at the time. His response was very 'Allen Wilcox-ish' and quite clear. "Other people aren't as impressed with your children as you are, you know." I knew that was right without his saying it. My response was, "If their mother isn't impressed with them, what chance do they have?" He had to agree. I didn't add as I would have liked to, "I assumed that their own grandfather would be impressed with them too."

I am impressed with my grandchildren. All 17 of them. Some of their parents think I am not, but they are wrong. I have one grand-son, in grade two, who performs at grade six level academically; his reading level is probably grade eight. I have a granddaughter who just made her B times in swimming. This impresses me, not because that shows she is a faster swimmer, but because she is willing to work hard to make this happen. I have a granddaughter who is a natural at drama and knows just how much to play the part, not too little and not too much; she is a joy to watch. I have one who just can't stop dancing. I have a grandson who know things about science that most adults don't know and he's only six; he wants to know everything. I have a little grandson who can swim, over-arm recovery, and is learning to dive. He won't be three for another six weeks. Do I need to go on? I could. All of these things impress me. I am also impressed with their parents who are enabling these amazing accomplishments. I find all of these kids and their quirkiness very interesting.

My job as a grandmother is, as I see it, to be impressed with my grandchildren and to love them. I'm so glad I don't have to worry about their behaviour, it's not my job. So unless I think their behaviour is so bad that it is likely to interfere with their success, or if I think bad behaviour is deliberate, I don't worry about it. I worry a lot less than their parents do. Funny how having your own children grow up successfully and become responsible, caring, successful adults raises your expections that your grandchildren will just naturally do the same. Mostly the kids behave better for me than they do for their parents anyway.

Kids will be kids and they will have tantrums and melt-downs. If I talk about these it is because I find them interesting. They wouldn't be kids if they didn't. I don't care about them. I can see a child having a tantrum and only say to him/her/it, "You'll get a headache if you keep screaming like that." I did once to one of my grand-daughters at age two. She stopped screaming and said, "Don't talk about it." Maybe she could see I didn't really care. Not much mileage in that. I don't have to 'deal' with it, stop it, or cure the child. It's not my problem, and my perspective makes it look quite temporary. It's great to be a Nana.

However, I have recently learned that there are a couple of exceptions:
1. I do expect respect. There have to be some perks to being a grandmother and this is one. I know it may be unrealistic in this age where disrespect looks like the norm and may even be considered cool. Nevertheless. . . I believe that respect has to come before love and if it doesn't, there can be no love. I love my little kids, but because of this expectation, it is likely that they won't all end up loving me. My expectation that aging mothers/grandmothers deserve respect may make me seem like a grinch sometimes, but only to the disrespectful but disrespect does not foster love, so it is very unlikely that they would love me anyway. I can say right now that my grand-children are generally pretty good and they seem happy to do the few things I ask and are respectful about it. Maybe that's because most of my children, their parents, insist on this, and threaten their kids with what will happen if they cause me a problem. They think it is a matter of respect and so do I. "If you ever want to go to Nana's house again, you better not. . . ." It's quite funny to hear since I remember saying similar things to my children. But then my mother had a heart condition, and my father thought that children should be seen and not heard. He even scared me. That's probably why I said it.

2. I have serious issues about my personal space. I am just now putting that together and I am 61. It is one of my quirks. I recently found out that one of my older grand-daughters is the same. Her dad likes to tease her by touching her hair and face. It drives her wild. Like me. My mother used to let her grand-children comb her hair. Aaarrrrrggghhhhhh! I can't stand it. Give me a hug, tell me what's going on in your life, but don't ask to comb my hair; don't put your adorable face two inches from mine; don't make random noise in my ear. I am liable to freak out and scare you. When Carmen was a toddler, she liked to have a nap with me. Her version was to sleep with both little arms wrapped around my neck - nose to nose. I made myself lie there, still, because I recognized that her need for closeness meant love. When I was sure that she was asleep, I peeled her off. Once at a Kinsmen event, a guy running for some grand-poobaa position was campaigning by kissing the women. He came toward me practically puckered. It made me so mad! Without even thinking I put my hands in the middle of his chest and shoved. In a steely voice, I told him, "I only kiss my husband!" A friend of Jim's sitting nearby started to laugh. "What's so funny?" I said staring at him coldly. I guess he thought he might get the next shove: he threw up his hands and said, "Nothing, nothing, I agree with you." Imagine some stranger thinking he could get into my personal space like that without permission. Yuck! I can cuddle babies and and kiss their heads. I like to give hugs to my pre-teens. But even the kids I love better have my permission to get too close. Is that quirky or not?

One of my children, one of my in-laws, and a couple of the grandchildren don't like noise and crowds very much. Being an introvert, I'm a bit like that myself. A couple of my grandsons don't like food, at least a lot of the food the rest of us eat. (I would be better off if I were like that. ) Lots of us hate confrontation, some more than others. Quirks. We all have them. We are all trying to do better. Part of being a member of a family means being tolerant, compassionate, and patient about quirks, cutting slack. At least I hope so.

Sleeping Naked

When I was in grade 6 one of my classmates wanted to be a horse. Really. She would gallop around the playground pretending - stamping her feet, tossing her 'mane' and whinnying. She had kind of a high pitched laugh that was like a whinny anyway. Her legs were very thin and she wore these thin canvas runners that, even when she tied them as tight as they would go, were loose on her skinny feet. Although I already loved horses, it is hard to be friends with a person who pretends to be a horse all the time. We only had one thing in common and that was our name. Over the years I have met a few people with my name, but it is not all that common. My family only lived in Lethbridge for a year and a half before we moved back to the farm and another school. Of the things I was leaving I doubt that I gave her much of a thought. I certainly didn't expect to see her again.

When I went to University, there she was on my floor in the residence. We talked sometimes because we already 'knew' each other. The conversations were interesting but not fun. I think she liked to shock me. Although she no longer acted like a horse, she enjoyed being shocking. Once she told me she liked to sleep naked and laughed that whinnying laugh. She thought I was shocked. Of course I knew that some people slept naked, but it was just more than I wanted to know about her. She also claimed to be a Communist (this was in the sixties), and she was an atheist. I don't know if she was really those things, or if she just wanted to be shocking. She thought I was naive and I thought she was, at least about the communist thing. We often talked about religion. Since she claimed not to believe in God, she liked this topic. She could laugh her whinnying laugh at my naivete.

She asked me about paying tithing once. At the time, I was kind of on the horns of a dilemma about that, if you will excuse the cliche. My school year was being financed mostly by my scholarships. Of the $900.00 I had received, I had $90.00 left. That wasn't a lot to buy nylons and toothpaste for the whole year, but besides that, I owed the whole $90, 10% of the scholarships, in tithing. If I paid it, with no other money coming in, I would have nothing left. I went to see my bishop about the problem. He could see my need but wanted me to pay my tithing, of course. So he offered to replace the money I paid with a welfare cheque. Somehow that seemed like poor faith or something - giving him the money and having him turn it around and give it back to me. It just didn't feel right. So I went ahead and paid the tithing and left it at that. I don't know why I told this girl all that but I did. She thought I was incredibly stupid. A week or so later I got mail.

My parents seldom sent me anything - not exactly a letter a week or even one a month. That week my dad sent me a letter and inside was tucked a cheque from my grandmother for $100.00. His letter went something like this: "I want you to know that your grandmother doesn't have a lot of money. She never gives money to anyone, but for some reason, this week she insisted that I give you this cheque. I want you to write her a thank-you letter." I was stunned. Do the math: if I paid tithing on the $100, then I had my $90 back.

I told this horse girl about my grandmother's cheque. She didn't know what to say. This event was too amazing to be considered a coincidence and she knew it. She was in the same university program as I was and we ended up being student teaching partners, but I don't think we talked about religion again. I had taken her breath away. Years later I heard her interviewed on the radio. She failed her student teaching and had become some kind of family therapist. Ironic since I was pretty sure she never married. I didn't get the impression she was that happy, quite the opposite. People who think like she did seldom are. I suspect she is still sleeping naked.

I still believe in God. I have had even more experiences that convince me of His reality. And I am happy.

Love, boys and small towns.

It has to be love that motivates someone to sit for two hours on a metal seat in November with an icy wind whipping down from the top of the bleachers watching a bunch of boys running a pigskin up and down the field. My husband really wanted to go. I knew he wouldn't go alone. Ergo, love. It was really cold. I was really cold, even with a blanket under me, a sleeping bag over and under my legs and three layers.

What made him want to go? Love. He is an old ex-high school teacher whose career started bangers and ended badly. The ending had nothing to do with his knowledge or his teaching ability. No, it was much more personal than that. Another story. A story about small towns and small town prejudices. It certainly did not make him feel good about himself however. Now he substitutes sometimes in this high school in our current small town. This one has prejudices too, but fortunately, they do not involve anything about him. He does a great job and the school is pretty packed with good kids who want to do well. They learned very quickly that he can and will help them to do that, and he helps them in a way that makes science fun and interesting. We get people walking up to us on the street to tell us how much their son/daughter thinks of him. Great. He likes to go to their football games. He pretty much knows all the players.

He likes to go also because these kids win. It's nice to back a winner. Raymond is a town of about 3600 people. The high school populaton is a few hundred, I can't tell you how many. A high percentage of the boys play football. Notre Dame is a Catholic high school in Calgary. It has about 1500 students. They were mostly undefeated in their league this year, maybe undefeated. The game wasn't exactly a rout, like the game with another Calgary high school last week in the quarter finals (64-0). The final score was 40 - 0. The stands were pretty full and most of the fans were Raymonds. Family - parents, aunts, uncles, cousins - and friends of players. Football fans who love to see Raymond win again these monoliths. It was a great game.

They made Raymond's offensive work pretty hard but Notre Dame couldn't get anything going offensively. They hardly got any first downs the whole game - did a lot of kicking on the third down. Most were poor kicks, almost like they were intentionally going for short kicks hoping to recover the ball. It never worked. Worked for Raymond once though. I think Notre Dame was confused by Raymonds tendency to run or pass on the 3rd down. That only didn't work a couple of times. Raymond didn't care, I think, because Notre Dame wasn't going anywhere anyway. There were some very gutsy plays - tackles flying through the air, passes and kicks blocked. It was great. Even I got into it. I'm a pretty good fan, but then I too know some of these boys from church. I visit teach one of their mothers.

I wasn't there when my husband went to talk to the boys, from our ward when they sat slouched in the big soft comfortable chairs in the lobby between meetings. I visualized it though, because I have seen it before. He would have told them what a great game they played last night. (A couple of them were stars.) He would have had his pride in them shining out of his eyes. They wouldn't be able to miss it. He told me he asked them about next week's provincial final and what they thought the Harry Ainsley team would be like. One boy said, "We'll handle them." He wasn't bragging, just quietly confident. These boys don't brag. My husband loved it. He loves them. Eat your heart out Nanton.

Exercise - Yeah!

So, okay, maybe I overdid it a bit yesterday. It's my new treadmill - it made me do it. I used it once last week and experimented with the manual program. I turned up the speed and gave myself a good walk. Yesterday I tried the "calorie burn." I was okay with the warm-up. I was okay when it increased my speed to 3.0. When it turned the speed up to 4.2, I thought, "It's okay for me to run a bit. I can do that." Then it upped the speed to 5.2. I had visions of myself skidding off the back and lying in a rumpled heap on the floor. Fortunately, I was able to reduce the speed manually and save myself. Even 4.2 is a bit of a stretch if it goes on for too long. I did that much though. Afterwards I raised an imaginary fist into the sky and did an imaginary happy dance. It was good. Until about 5:00. Then it was definitely downhill from there. I had to more or less go to bed! My legs still feel tired today.

I don't know about these pre-programmed things. When I do the manual program, I probably don't push myself hard enough. I haven't tried all the pre-sets. Maybe I will try, not "fat burn," but "weight loss." That one is supposed to be less 'vigorous.' The real question some may ask is, "Why would you do this to yourself anyway?"

The point is, I think that a lot of the physical deterioration that people experience with years is a result, not of aging, but of inactivity. In studies, researchers went into nursing homes and had bed-ridden patients do mild resistance training. Then they measured the increase in muscle. The results were amazing, leading the researchers to conclude that muscle wastage can be reversed with exercise. Exercise has an effect on a whole lot of physical processes: onset of dementia, diabetes, obesity, high cholesterol, high blood pressure, heart disease, arthritis and probably other things I haven't mentioned like reduced energy levels and back problems.

Unfortunately, in our society, if older people even go for regular walks, they are the exception. Later in life my dad had serious pain from a back problem that had been lurking there for years, occasionally jumping on him and sending him to bed. Once I suggested that if he sat watching TV for less time and walked more, he would have fewer problems. He was indignant. He said he walked a lot. I asked him how much he did. With great pride he said that he walked up and down the hall for ten minutes every day. What could I say?

So I am back to the treadmill. I might have to get into slightly better shape before I try "calorie burn" again. Too bad I let myself get like this in the first place.

I am Canadian!

Today at church, the rest hymn was "My Country 'tis of Thee". It made me mad. Literally. What is it about some Canadians that makes them unable to appreciate the difference between Canada and 'America'? I am afraid it is my opinion that "land of the Pilgrim's pride" does not refer to Canada. I cannot understand what singing an American patriotic anthem has to do with honoring fallen Canadian soldiers.

Here is the truth. The Americans entered the First Great War on April 6th, 1917 after the Lusitania was sunk by German submarines and Germany sent a message to Washington warning that any American ship in British or European waters would be a target. Canadian soldiers had been fighting in Europe since 1914. The Americans entered World War II on Dec 7, 1941, two years after the beginning of the war in Europe and as a result of a direct attack on Pearl Harbor by the Japanese - a full 2 years after the beginning of the war in Europe. In Canada, Americans were called 'dough boys' because they were needed and took much too long to 'rise'.

I point out these facts not to denigrate our American neighbors. I too hate war. It is cruel and the deaths are often pointless, like the story I heard this morning of one George Lawrence Craig, a Canadian soldier in France who was shot in the chest and killed at 10:58 on November 11, 1918, the last soldier to die in the war, two minutes before the Armistice took effect. Sometimes, in the end, war is justified by history, as in the case of World War II and the atrocities perpetrated on the people of Europe by Hitler and documented by soldiers freeing the people left in the concentration camps. I have a lot of sympathy for people who try at all cost to avoid war. It wrenches my heart every time a Canadian dies in Afghanistan. I fear that we will end up withdrawing and nothing, in the end, will be changed.

I point out the facts because Canadians need to be aware of the sacrifices made by other Canadians. We are not the United States, and if we are honoring our war dead, it is Canadians we honor. Singing an American patriotic anthem just does not do it. So why do people do this? I can think of only one reason - ignorance.

November 9th. There is never enough time!

There never has been enough time. Now that I am a nana, it has gotten worse.

When my kids were young, I thought that when they were all grown and flown, I would have all the time in the world. If only I had known the truth: there never will be enough time. It reminds me of the joke that goes something like, "There are so many things I am supposed to do before I die, that I am going to live forever." Either that or I will have to start doing all those things faster. Trouble is I don't actually do things faster. I have always been pretty fast and efficient, so there just isn't that much room there. AND I have a list of things yet to do. I plan to blog about these things, if I have time!

* Complete a master's degree
* Get really good at the work I do. Since I didn't start it until my 50s, there is considerable room for improvement
* Lose 25 pounds!!!!!!
* Get in better shape - my new treadmill should help with this and why aren't I using the treadmill instead of sitting at my computer yet again!
* Finish gathering all the family history names that are available and inputting them into my genealogy program to share with my family; write my parents bios
* Read about 5000 good books I haven't cracked open yet

Hey, except for the exercise part, I sound like a nerd. Okay I'm a nerd. It's okay to be an old nerd. When you are past 60, you can be whatever you want. It is one of the only things about getting "older" that I accept. If there are people who do not accept me, (after all I've been this way for awhile, and I TRY to improve everyday, ) then I can simply ignore them. Otherwise I am in total denial about aging. I realize now that this is a time issue. I just simply do not have time for getting old and I have no interest in that lifestyle. There are enough old people around, and likely to be more, that I don't need to add to their ranks.

This blog is about my efforts to NOT get old.