Michael: Browse The Strips

Friday, January 28, 2011

Lynn's Comments: I did bring home a seashell from Barbados. It sits on my bathroom windowsill today as a reminder of the several trips we made to the same pretty hotel. I know it's a good shell because the edge is fine, transparent and slightly wavy. The man who sold it to me explained that conch shells are often too delicate to survive the recovery. They chip easily and the locals remove the roughness by filing away the edge of the shell, making it smooth and even. This one is perfect! I have several shells - and all of them have a story. Some are from Florida, some belonged to my grandmother and one of them I found when I was in my teens while walking along the beach at Deep Cove. Each one has a different sound when you listen and I've often thought it was a meaningful coincidence that shells are shaped like the human ear.

Saturday, January 29, 2011

Lynn's Comments: I think I told you that Ruth and Tom lived just a few blocks away from us. We were constantly going from house to house - but we were always aware of each other's need for privacy. We rarely entered without knocking. We respected each other's possessions, refrigerators and personal space. Because of this, we remained loving relatives and great friends until they passed away - long after we moved from northern Manitoba. I was very lucky to have had them in my life and for this I'll always be grateful.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Lynn's Comments: To continue with the family monikers: Rod and his younger brother, Ralph, were often called "Walph and Woddy" by their dad. It was what they used to call each other when they were kids and Tom still loved the sound of it. My brother Alan and I were "Alsy and Lindy". I was perhaps eight when I began to hate my nickname. I refused to come if someone called me Lindy and eventually my parents gave in and called me Lynn. These names weren't nearly as irritating as the names we called each other. My brother and I had nicknames that continue to this day - and I won't repeat them. We enjoy an affectionate and peaceful relationship and I don't want that to change!

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Lynn's Comments: Now that I have adult children, I can well understand our parents' constant reference to the past. In retrospect my own children were adorable, bright, funny and respectful. Most of the time. Set well into the recesses of aging memory are the times we would gladly have drop kicked them off a bridge and rejoiced in the sound of the SPLASH below! If I work at it, I can remember being so angry that I was completely out of control. Only escape, a heart to heart with a good friend and time would stem the rage, let me see the bright side and eventually cool me down. There is much to be said for having passed through the parenting phase and into senior citizenship. I have paid my dues and am enjoying the company of two children I'm proud to see productively out on their own. I consider them my equals - even though I remind them to eat well and keep warm and I call them "Beans and A.J."

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Lynn's Comments: Goodbyes are always hard for kids. Perhaps it's because they are focused on today; they don't think so much about the future. Even tomorrow is too far away! As adults we are aware of how fast time flies and how quickly the next event will take place - often long before we're prepared for it. My father's family came from Ontario one time to visit us in North Vancouver. I remember playing with cousins I hardly knew. We were just figuring out the pecking order when they had to leave - and their departure was "forever". We cried as if we'd never see each other again - and in truth, that was just about the case! Living so far away, our relationship was then by phone and greeting card. We didn't reunite and become friends until Alan and I left home and moved back to Ontario. Saying goodbye is easier now with email and Skype, but still...there's nothing like being within hugging distance of friends and family.

Friday, February 4, 2011

Lynn's Comments: When I was about 14, my father's mother came to stay with us. My grandfather had died. She was recovering slowly and Dad thought it would be good for her to come and live with us for a while, since he and Mom worked full time at the jewelry store on Upper Lonsdale. Alan and I would have been "latchkey" kids by today's standards, but we were fine on our own. We had our routines. I made dinner and he stayed out of my way. When Grandma came, she upset the applecart by assuming my kitchen duties and my mother's role as well. She became another authority figure, which my brother and I really resented. To add insult to injury, she took my bedroom and I was given a corner in the unfinished basement - a space as famous for its spooks as it was for its spiders. After six long months, Grandma finally returned to Ontario. Al and I rejoiced and I did something I rarely ever did: I completely mucked out my bedroom. Even though she had gone, the essence of Grandma remained in the scent of her soap, her clothing and her dark-gummed dentures which she'd kept in a glass cup on my dresser. For some time, the smell of Grandma lingered in the halls and the living room. She was still there, even though we had the house to ourselves again. That incident was the memory behind this comic strip!

Saturday, February 5, 2011

Lynn's Comments: They say that "normal" means different things to different people. For us, normal morphed from one reality into another as the kids grew and changed and became individuals. When they were little, reality was toys - everywhere. Later, it was friends - everywhere - and the sounds of sports, music and video games. Normal didn't become tidy and organized and quiet until they both moved out. Then, normal meant projects and travel and missing them. I went to visit friends of my daughter's recently. Brooke and Matthew have twin daughters, six months old. The girls are just starting to toddle and their small living room is strewn with blankets and toys. Brooke apologized for the mess. I said, "Don't worry, relax - I understand. You have two little kids! ...This is normal!!!"

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Lynn's Comments: When my dad went to the dump, we always wondered if he'd bring home more than he left there. The North Vancouver dump was about 6 miles from home, then a circuitous drive down a long dirt road. Going there was as exciting as anything we ever did on a weekend and my brother and I would fight for the front seat when we saw the folks pitching stuff into the back end of the car. A great chain link fence ran around the "nuisance grounds" and the "dump man" would meet us at the gate. He'd roll his cigarette into the side of his mouth and ask what we were bringing in. Then he'd direct us to the appropriate space in the compound and Dad would steer the old green Volvo into position for the drop. After we'd made our deposit, we were free to check out the scattered offerings hoping to find some treasure. The smell of wet paper, burning fabric and decay was not too bad - considering the fact that stuff here was FREE, so we happily climbed over the rubble on our quest for the perfect thing to rescue and take home. Our shoes took a beating, but all for a good cause. The dump man was cool. He didn't have a uniform, but he had a sort of military air. He enjoyed his place of authority and the fact that dad brought him a beer now and then improved our chances of getting out with something big! The score I remember most was the goose-neck lamp that dad found. It was a sort of greeny-grey....brass, I think, and not too badly scarred from the fire. The cord and plug looked good and Pop figured this was just the thing to go on his workbench downstairs. Mom, of course, was unimpressed and quietly told me later that she expected it would be gone in a fortnight - if she had anything to do with it. Advance to the year they sold their house and moved to Hope. The lamp went too. When our parents passed away, there in the basement on Dad's workbench was the goose-neck lamp. It had followed them for 40 years and was now an heirloom. The trouble with heirlooms is...the heirs have to decide what to do with them. Alan and I thought about taking it to the dump, but we couldn't. Alan is retired from teaching, now and has a workshop in his basement. He makes one-of-a-kind kayaks. He has a nice workbench where he cuts the wood and copper, which he carefully sets into the sides of his kayaks... and, illuminating the workbench, is the goose-neck lamp. Going to the dump has lost its luster for us now, but our memory of Dad's "hunt for treasure" and the goose-neck lamp still remains!

Monday, February 7, 2011

Lynn's Comments: For some reason, we lost a week of dailies. We looked in the archives, pulled out old negatives and checked the collection books--and still, six days out of this year were missing. After an exhaustive search, Kevin called and asked me to draw up a new week of dailies to fill in the space and keep the year's work on track. This is the week! I tried to do a series of spot gags that could be placed anywhere and ideas regarding kids vs. grown ups quickly came to mind. I introduced this by having Mike hog-tie Elizabeth (something I loved to do to my kids!) which meant he was bored and would soon be under the watchful eye of his mother. It was fun to do. I haven't had to produce new FBorFW material for a while, and I was surprised by how easy it was to get back into the routine. The trouble is--what used to take me a few hours now takes me a few days, and I was glad to have it "in the can" and off to the syndicate.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Lynn's Comments: This year, I will be the same age as Charles Schulz was when I first met him. Cathy Guisewite ("Cathy") and I met "Sparky" Schulz in Washington. We teased him, singing "Will you still need me, will you still feed me--when I'm sixty four?" It was 1986. In 2011, it's my turn to be sixty four...and I'm looking at life through entirely different lenses! Sparky and I both enjoyed drawing the dogs in our strips. Snoopy was a magical fantasy character who could do almost anything, while Farley was just a regular mutt. These cartoon drawings were alive to us and eventually both Farley and Snoopy became frontrunners in our work. If they did not appear regularly, our readers would ask "why?" so it was important for us to invent ways to showcase them as often as possible. Farley allowed me to explore the goofy visual humor that a family pet provides. He was a pleasure to draw and when we had the opportunity to animate him, he was hilarious. Watching other artists "become" Farley as they made him scratch and roll, shake off dust, bark and run wildly in circles is something that makes me laugh every time I think about it. I am so grateful for my friendship with Sparky and for having known Bill Melendez, who animated Snoopy and all the Peanuts characters. I keep in touch with Judy Sladky, who is the magic behind Snoopy On Ice, and as a friend of Jeannie Schulz, Sparky's widow, I will soon be speaking at the Schulz Museum in Santa Rosa with Jan Eliot, who does "Stone Soup". This will connect me again to friends in the industry and remind me once more...that I'm a very "lucky dog!"

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Lynn's Comments: When I was a kid, we had a dark maroon vacuum cleaner. My mother, having given in to anything "safe" that would keep us occupied, allowed my brother and me to roll marbles down the hose into the basement. We advanced from marbles to Plasticine "heads" which we chopped off Plasticine bodies on a guillotine made from Tinker Toys. Coins, buttons, stones and gumballs took the plunge and if recovery at the bottom didn't happen, we waited for an outpouring of angst from mother the next time she tried sucking chalk and cereal off the carpeting. The exhaust end of the vacuum was another source of entertainment. We tried to inflate balloons, kitchen gloves, and the bulb on the turkey baster--imaginary missiles we hoped to inflict on the neighborhood. Those were the days! Drawing images like this brings back some fine childhood memories and makes me wonder once again why our parents allowed Alan and I to progress into adulthood.

Friday, February 11, 2011

Lynn's Comments: Bedtime--I mean the exact time our heads hit the pillow--was a contentious issue for my brother and me. Being two years older, I felt I should get at least an hour more of "up time". Mom thought otherwise. Because we had to share a room, it wasn't possible to put one over on him, either. Both Alan and I knew exactly what the other got or did or had and the competition for MORE was fierce. We fought constantly. If it wasn't over who got what, it was about who said what and when and the grating repetition of "It's not FAIR!" made my folks' heads spin. I remember being caught watching television from our vantage point in the hallway and my punishment was that I was sent to bed even earlier the next night. NO FAIR! I could never understand why an hour more was such a big deal. Why couldn't I watch one more show or do one more thing? Why did my parents insist that an eight o'clock bedtime was so important? WHY??!! Years later, I had children of my own. By eight o'clock, when I was at the end of my proverbial rope, I made eight o'clock the set bedtime--no arguments, please. It's interesting, isn't it, that we repeat familiar routines and much like the fish in the ocean we return to familiar waters, and we do it to assure the survival of the species.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Lynn's Comments: Aaron's "punch lines" were a gift. He would unwittingly change an expression or a turn of phrase that would then become part of For Better or For Worse. Kids say funny things all the time, but some are just prone to word play and Aaron trumped them all. There were times he would be "let off the hook" if his remarks got a laugh and I had to be careful not to encourage him too much or the discipline we managed to instill would go whizzing down the drain. Aaron wasn't the only one to add to the comic strip dialogue. Other family members did, too. The problem was that it wasn't always the funny remarks that wound up in the "funny papers." Sometimes the serious ones did, too. It wasn't uncommon for me to have a tense exchange with someone and after everything was resolved, I'd hear a threatening: "You'd better not put that in the strip!!"

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Lynn's Comments: In my life, I have purchased a goodly number of items which include operating instructions. I now know that it is not in us to read them. No. It's more important to try and figure out how the thing works or how to put it together than to waste time on "important information enclosed within". I think this is because we are all perfectly capable of operating, using, wearing, applying or cooking whatever it is without any advice from you, thanks very much. Last week, I bought an outdoor thermometer to attach to my kitchen window. It was a plastic ruler-like device with the image of a blue jay in the middle and a suction cup at each end. I took the thermometer out of the package, ditched the instructions, went outside and dutifully wiped the surface of the window clean. Any idiot knows you have to clean the "receiving surface" first. The only thing left to do was to center the thing where I wanted it to go and push! I placed the thermometer on the window, pushed it to engage the suction and SNAP! The damned thing broke in the middle...right through the beak of the blue jay. Bummed and babbling things I won't repeat, I went inside, pulled off the cups, tossed them into the what-not jar and fired the remains of the thermometer into the trash. A funk ensued. I whipped the instructions off the counter to see what, if anything, I could have done wrong. With a simple diagram and wording in both official languages the page clearly stated: Do not press thermometer in the middle. It will break. Press only on suction cups at either end. Hah! Stupid, dumb thermometer. I didn't like it anyway. The blue jay, for one thing, was corny and the whole thing looked cheap. I went back to the store and bought another one. A better one. And, this time, I read the instructions.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Lynn's Comments: My mother used to nag me constantly! Seems there was always something better to do than play or draw or watch television. The way I saw it, my room was my room and if I had to climb over a Vesuvius of moldering junk to find the bed I slept in, then that was my problem. Clean and ironed clothing was not a priority, nor was washing behind bodily protuberances. I longed for the day when I could do what I wanted to do, eat what and when I wanted to, have my own space, my own money and my own rules. That didn't happen until I was 20 and married for the first time. Then, I amazed even myself. I became a stickler for cleanliness. My apartment was spotless. Clothes were immaculate, ironed and sorted into their exact compartments. The bed was made, the carpets lint free and the kitchen was a neat, organized workspace. It wasn't until I had children that I realized what a degenerate slob I had once been. Hovering over my son as he miserably shoveled the crud out of his bedroom, I could hear myself nagging...with the same tone of voice, using the same language my mother used. Time and time again I promised myself I would not turn into my mother and here I was saying the same darned things - with the same predictable response. Years have flown by. Both of my children have homes of their own and it amazes me to see that they live in clean and tidy environments. I guess, in the end, nagging pays off. My mother, had she lived to see this day, would have been both proud and vindicated!

Monday, February 21, 2011

Lynn's Comments: We got a new fridge shortly after moving north. I ordered it from the Sears catalogue - which was the one stop shopping for everyone living in the "boonies". Everything came by train or truck and often took weeks to materialize. Clothing was always a risk - just because we all went to the same functions and were often caught wearing the same things. My new fridge was a beauty. I organized everything inside and put some colourful alphabet magnets on the door in preparation for the photos, notes and doodles I looked forward to hanging there. Kate, who was toddling and full of mischief, saw the magnets and before I could stop her, started to "scrub" them around, scratching the surface of my new fridge. I had only had it one day before it was "broken" in - and I was broken hearted. "Not sweating the small stuff" was hard sometimes!

Sunday, February 27, 2011

Lynn's Comments: When the kids were small, the work involved often filled a day. By suppertime when laundry, cleaning, shopping and meals were done, I wondered where the time had gone. It wasn't until the dishes were done and the kids in bed that I could sit down - without guilt - and enjoy the paper. It's amazing how "invisible" a housekeeper's job is! For those who share the home and enjoy the fruits of "Mom's labor" things like clean clothes folded neatly in drawers, a tidy, sanitary refrigerator, vacuumed rugs, washed floors, swept and organized closets, prepared meals, answered mail, full toilet roll holders and all the other myriad details that go into running a home seem to occur like magic. If you don't see or take part in the process, you just accept it and expect it all to be done for you. In fact, unless something is NOT done, you don't notice it at all! This revelation came to me when I hired a housekeeper. My sweet lady would come one day every week. I'd leave things for Janet to do. After awhile, dusting and ironing and clean floors just "happened". Recycling was done, mats were shaken and shelves were wiped clean...and if I wasn't there to have a coffee with her and see her work for myself - I took my clean house for granted! Being a "housewife" is a full time job. Add parenting to this and you have an all- encompassing career - for which many of us apologize! I was lucky enough to have a job that allowed me to work at home. I had two jobs! Strips like this one were done to support all the smart, productive and caring moms I knew who were struggling to stay sane. These comic strip complaints also made me less resentful of my own responsibilities. It felt amazingly good to confide my feelings to an unseen community of friends...millions of them!!!

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Lynn's Comments: Back to hockey! These were busy times, but the early morning practices, the struggle with uniforms and the expense were all worth it. I am such a supporter of children's team sports. It's great exercise, wonderful experience and parents must participate. You can't take a very young hockey player and leave him or her to play without Mom and Dad in the stands! They have to see you cheering for them, encouraging them. I remember watching the kids whose parents would just drop them at the rink and come back later. Perhaps they really didn't have time to stay, but the look on their children's faces as they scanned the bleachers, looking for someone to work hard for - someone besides the coach - was sad. Perhaps they did well in the long run, but it's my guess that the kids who excelled at hockey (and everything else!), were the ones whose parents stayed to watch them play.

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Lynn's Comments: The boys' locker room at the arena was always a frenzy of small, eager players trying to do as much as they could by themselves. Someone, however, always needed help with something! It was "sissy" to have Mom there, tying laces and securing helmets. One perhaps was cool enough to be part of the process, but in general, it was a "no-mom zone". The men who coached junior hockey were such patient, caring and hard working guys. Even the ones who were not fathers yet had what it takes to be great role models to a busy group of small boys all needing approval, security and support. When the coach tied laces he did it in a way that said "Anything you need, man, just let me know!" There was nothing to be ashamed of in needing help with something, no matter how small. These kind gestures made a big impression and I'm grateful to this day for the people who take on the challenge of coaching junior hockey!

Friday, March 4, 2011

Lynn's Comments: No matter how fast he was skating or how complex the play, Aaron knew where I was in the stands. He knew I'd be there watching everything he did - at least I tried to watch it all. I was one of a tight knit group of hockey moms who always sat in the same place. We always wore the same parkas; a huddled little throng, trying to keep warm with blankets, body heat and bad arena coffee. In Lynn Lake, your parka was a sort of signature. Like waddling mounds of fabric huffing wads of steam out the top, we were part of the northern landscape. My parka was blue with a wolf fur hood and a decorative band of green around the bottom. My friend Nancy had a green parka; June's was magenta. You could tell who was who by the way they walked and what they wore. Those parkas kept us from freezing to the bleachers as we dutifully watched our boys skate their hearts out - for the team and for us. I never looked forward to the 6 am practices, but I'll always be glad I was there.

Saturday, March 5, 2011

Lynn's Comments: Nobody likes to lose. On the days when Aaron and his mates were smarting from a lost game, we'd commiserate with hot chocolate and a talk about "next time". There was always another game to look forward to and more reason to put your heart into practice. "After all," we'd say, "if you won every time, it wouldn't be fun anymore! The great thing about competition is the fact that only one team can win and the other must congratulate them honestly. Then, you work hard to see if you can outsmart and out skate them the next time. Losing is an opportunity! You get to learn about generosity, good sportsmanship and honor." The lecture about winning and losing is pretty much the same everywhere and it applies to every sport and if you're lucky, your child will listen, understand and be comforted. Then, once the hugs and the words of consolation are done... you'll tuck them into bed with a hug and tell them you're proud of them for doing their very best. As you kiss them good night, you know that you've said the right thing at the right time....even though they cry out miserably as you leave them: "But, Mom!!! IT'S NO FAIR!!!"

Saturday, March 12, 2011

Lynn's Comments: I was a smart mouth when I was a kid. I enjoyed a good verbal fight and could dish out some pretty cruel remarks. I wasn't so good at being on the receiving end, however. I remember my mother telling me the "sticks and stones" thing and thinking- as the tears ran down my face, that words hurt more than a pounding- and lasted longer than a bruise!

Sunday, March 13, 2011

Lynn's Comments: During the 80's there was a Canadian television "reality" type show called "Thrill of a Lifetime". A young woman from Montreal had written to the producers to say that her thrill of a lifetime would to be to appear as a character in For Better or For Worse. I thought it was a fun idea and agreed to participate. The TV crew contacted me and asked if it would be possible for her to visit me at home and to watch me draw the comic strip in which she appeared. This was OK, too! Monique was a librarian, and so a scenario involving the local community library was concocted. Travelling all the way to Lynn Lake Manitoba was quite a hike from Montreal and when she arrived with camera crew in tow, she was exhausted, nervous and wired. She was to come to the door, wait for me to open it and then the two of us had to be surprised and happy to see each other. This we did many times! Finally, they allowed us to hug and laugh and enjoy the fun of connecting for the first time. I thoroughly enjoyed meeting this sweet, enthusiastic young woman. With her ready smile, thick hair and glasses, she made a fine cartoon character! She stayed for the day, I drew the strip, we had dinner together and she left the following morning. We promised to keep in touch - which we did for awhile. I later met her for dinner in Montreal, but our time together was interrupted and I regret not being able to get to know her better. So, you have the real story behind this strip...and, Monique, if you're still in Montreal, I'd love to hear from you and find out what you've been doing after all these years!

Sunday, March 20, 2011

Lynn's Comments: This Sunday page was also done as a result of a television program. The National Film Board had started a sort of documentary on FBorFW and a crew had been sent to Lynn Lake to record the local "colour". One of the things we ladies did for fun was to attend different demonstrations in each others' homes. Small private sales events were as popular then as they are now. We went to Tupperware and candle sales, clothing shows, cooking and make up demonstrations - anything that would get us out of the house and into an adult environment. Booze was optional, but certainly helped augment the ambiance and the sales. For the sake of the Film Board, I agreed to host a makeup demonstration in my home. The process required the participants to allow their hair to be tied back so that a variety of goops and granules could be spread on our faces. This was not appreciated by some of the ladies who had never been on television and didn't want their debut to be mid toilette. After a bit of cajoling and a few drinks, we proceeded to give the NFB the inside scoop on the home facial demo...doing what we could to make this the highlight of the film. It took hours and many applications of facial stuff before we could call it quits. The ladies departed with grateful thanks from all involved and I promised them a copy of the video if it ever came to be. It did. The all-day makeup demonstration, with retakes, reasks, and redos, however, was reduced to less than two minutes of the film. In the end, no one complained. It was fun to do, but none of us really wanted to see the results. Some things are best left on the cutting room floor!

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Lynn's Comments: Being a kid who loved pencils, I also loved the pencil sharpener. I loved the feel of the handle and the way those spiral cutting blades ground into the wood. I loved the smell and the sound and the shavings that spiraled out of the hole when the cup was full and overflowing. A good metal pencil sharpener was fixed tight to the wall and didn't give when the pressure was on. We were a team. I could sharpen a whole box of Rembrandt coloured pencils, then take on a twelve pack of HB's! I leaned into pencil sharpening with strength and determination, every sharpened point a prize. It was a great day when my mother bought and installed a pencil sharpener in my room, next to the desk where I did all my drawing. It meant that I would always be working with a sharp instrument. It meant that she took my drawing seriously and marked a "turning point" (if I may say) in a budding career.

Friday, March 25, 2011

Lynn's Comments: Among other things, my mom worked as a calligrapher for my grandfather - a philatelist who dealt in rare stamps and forgeries. Her tools consisted of the finest brushes and pens with needle sharp points. I was fascinated, watching her do the beautiful handwritten text that went with each "cover". There were times, if I was good, when she would patiently sit and teach me the art of fine lettering. Everyone in our family was encouraged to write well. Handwriting, my parents said, was something which not only allowed you to communicate in a beautiful, intelligent way, but held in its uniqueness a key to your identity. I loved to write. I enjoyed the process of putting words onto paper and when I was told to write lines after school, I didn't mind, really. It gave me a chance to show off! If I was told to write: "I will not talk in class" 100 times, I'd go down the foolscap with the "I" first. IIIIIIIIIIIII wwwwwwww iiiiiiiii lllllll and so on. Sometimes, I'd swerve the vertical lines of lettering out to make waves and patterns in an effort to seriously tick off the teacher who was also doing penance, just by having to be there. Sometimes I'd print it all in capitals or write each line in a different colour. I just loved to write. I loved to write lessons and poems and copy the stuff on the board. I loved it when we could finally use ball-point pens. I continued to learn calligraphy and when Dad got a part time job with a sign company, I practiced lettering along with him, using poster paint with chisel-tipped brushes on newspaper, the columns making easy lines to follow. Where am I taking this? Well, it's funny, that with all my graphic equipment and all my hours of writing practice, I was still being nagged - a month after Christmas - to write my thank you letters!!!

Saturday, March 26, 2011

Lynn's Comments: The last months before school ended were tedious. We couldn't concentrate, we couldn't sit still. I wanted to be free and outside and away from the routine of classes and homework and anything that wasn't fun. Summer in North Vancouver meant running down to the ferry dock and fishing for crabs or riding our bikes up to Lynn Canyon and swinging on the suspension bridge. It meant taking the bus to Stanley Park, English Bay, walking around the sea wall, taking the ferry to Bowen Island and going to summer camp. There was so much to do and we couldn't wait to do it! Strange, isn't it, that towards the middle of August, when summer was still in full swing, that we thought about school and all it meant...and couldn't wait for September, when we could go back!

Sunday, March 27, 2011

Lynn's Comments: Tootie Arbuckle babysat for my brother and me. She lived next door and I thought she was cool because she had the preserved fetus of a calf in a jar on her bedside table. She also had chickens and frogs on which she would perform experiments. She fed the chickens coloured grain to see if they would lay coloured eggs and she found out that frogs ate each other as readily as they ate flies. She showed us how dragonfly larvae chewed up tadpoles, and helped us boil a dead raccoon to get the bones for science class. Tootie was from a tough family and was made of solid stuff. Nonetheless, Alan and I gave her a run for her money when she babysat. It was important for us to know our sitters' soft spots, what buttons to push, where we could get her down. It's no wonder that our folks had a hard time finding people hardy enough to suffer through an evening with "the Ridgway kids" but Tootie tried. She was strong and she needed the money. I remember her asking my parents exactly where they would be and when they'd be home and looking at us as if to say "try anything and you're toast!" One evening after the folks had gone to their place of reprieve, Alan and I started our reign of terror. Tootie tried to get the upper hand but gave up and went to the phone. "Are you calling our dad?" (Our dad was a notorious softie.) "No" she said "I'm calling MINE!" Within minutes, George Arbuckle, a short, stocky man with a very short fuse, came in the kitchen door and slammed it shut. He worked in the shipyards and took "no guff from nobody". He cruised around us, slapping his fist into the palm of his hand and soon had the two of us cowering in our beds with the threat of a pounding as security. The next morning, my folks said that Tootie's report had been favorable, that we had been "as good as gold" and from now on Tootie would be our regular sitter. I don't think they ever found out about Mr. Arbuckle's influence on our behavior and we never again pushed his daughter that far!

Thursday, March 31, 2011

Lynn's Comments: We had one of those large, overstuffed, comfy couches in our living room - the kind that's hard to get out of. It was second hand and nicely broken in - so it didn't matter if the kids took off the cushions to make a fort or rode the back like a pony. When Rod came home from work, that couch was waiting and he would flop down on it for a short rest before dinner. Naturally, the kids saw this as an invitation to flop down on Dad. The couch could nicely support all three and the coffee table was used for the overflow. It was always funny to see the kids so eager to tell Dad everything as soon as he came in the door, but after dinner when he'd recovered from his day...they'd be off on another mission.

Friday, April 1, 2011

Lynn's Comments: For me, making meals was one of the most challenging jobs on earth. A repast must be colourful and attractive enough to provoke interest, flavourful and aromatic enough to invite ingestion and healthy enough to support life. The local grocery stores (we had two) supplied fresh meat, but fresh veggies were another matter. I remember fighting over a wrinkled green pepper in Perepeluk's just so we could experience the taste! Aaron was not a fan of mushrooms, but if I could lay my hands on a fresh pack of mushies, by jove we were gonna eat them - and I wasn't making a fungus-free meal for HIM! He had, however, a tongue that could locate and isolate a mushroom in any mix and he'd ring his plate with rejects faster than a dog spits out pills! Today, of course, his palate has matured. He is an omnivore who, living in Vancouver, enjoys the best of vegetarian cuisine. I've watched him eat mushrooms many times... and it surprises me still that he does so - on purpose!

Sunday, April 3, 2011

Lynn's Comments: I don't know how many times I sat alone after some frustrating bout with the kids, wishing I had "done it better". It's hard to do something better if you're doing it for the first time - and considering how many firsts there are in parenting, you're bound to make a few mistakes along the way. Books, professionals, friends and family can advise you, but in the end this is your responsibility, your environment, your rules - and everyone has to learn to get along. My philosophy is: no matter how much your child looks like you or Uncle Max or sounds like Dad or walks like great aunt Beulah...he or she is a stranger in your home. You have to accord the same respect and consideration to your children as you would to a stranger - and with this as a guide, they should (by the time they're 20)...do the same for you! Even so, I made some awful errors. I shouted, I cried, I fought and I did things that weren't fair. The thing is; kids are resilient and understanding and an apology goes a long way! I remember some tearful times when I had to admit I had not handled something well and I told my children I was truly sorry. Noisy and fanciful, naive and full of mischief, children are still people. They know what's fair and what's not. They can detect a lie; they can sniff out insincerity and they appreciate an apology as much as anyone else. I have apologized many times to my children and they have apologized to me. It's not an easy thing to do - but the hugs, the comfort and the love that comes afterwards, make this humble sign of respect well worthwhile.