RAMBLINGS OF THE MIND – RECOLLECTIONS OF MY PARENTS

Now is the time to drift back a bit, and grasp onto a few of the fleeting reminders of my parents. A while back, I wrote a piece about how they came to live in Canada, where they met and how our family unit evolved. In this article, I’m going to let my mind drift and just write down bits and pieces of my memories of them. I guess it won’t be to dynamic but it will imprint some fading memories, on paper. For the time when I won’t be able to remember shit.

In my mind’s eye, I can see Ol’ Bubbaloo sitting at my bedside. Her arranging the bib at my mouth. Then wiping the drool from my chin, after spooning Peruvian sopa into my yawning cavity. Afterward reading pieces of my own memoirs back to me, as if for punishment. By then, I will be too feeble to protest. so will have to lay there and re-listen to my words hammered back at me. This scenario is a waking nightmare. I have had ever since she promised to “look after” me in my failing days.

I still have vivid memories of my mother, ensconced in her wheelchair, surveying her domain. Always waiting for a new prey, to play a game, of the sucker’s choice. Any game (of your choice), any language, any time, but up at the table so there was no escaping your upcoming humiliation. Poor ol’ Dad, had been in the loser’s seat far too many times. So, over time, had invented excuses to miss some of Mom’s invites. He had some whoppers! This did not get him out of all games. And most days he had to suffer a couple of head-on ass-kickings at cribbage.

Mom’s games ranged from crossword puzzles, sudoku, word mazes, and number games when no victims were available and when Dad was pretending to be asleep in his rocker; to Scrabble in English or Spanish (if you so chose), to Cribbage, Canasta, Bridge (self taught), whist, hearts or any manner of card game, along with any one of her endless supply of board games. In many ways Mom was born years too late. Had she been wheelchair bound in today’s computer age, she would have thrived. There would have been no need for a constant supply of fresh victims, she would have found all she ever needed, online.

Mom was very, very smart, read endlessly, had an inquisitive mind and a never ending thirst for knowledge. She was fact based in her outlook, while Dad was the cowboy, hard-ass, welder, inventor, musician, yodeller, poet and teller of tall tales. They both thrived on family. Their happiest times were when the house was full.

My one biggest regret to this day, is that I did not spend much more time with them than I did. I left Canada as a grown, but still young adult, for adventures and a life of travel. For years I probably did not average 1 visit per year. This I will regret all of my days. They required nothing of us other than to come home, take your obligatory ass-whupping at a game from Mom, and then sit and listen to Dad reminisce of the “good ol’ days”, play a few tunes and sing a few songs.

I am ashamed to say that sometimes my Dad’s singing made me feel slightly embarrassed. God what an idiot I was. I was not even smart enough to understand real talent. Now I wish I could hear him sing or yodel every day. He was great and had a very traditional cowboy twang to his voice. In his later years, after Mom’s passing Dad was a “rock star” performer at the old folks home(s) in and around Camrose, where he chose to settle. He could, and this is not one of my ssstttrretttcchhhes, play anything that had a string on it. Dad owned many different stringed instruments and could and would play them all. He spent many thousands of hours, in his rocker, serenading Mom, across from him, in her easy chair holding her cat named ppprrrrtttt.

For all those that knew Dad, at first appearance he might have seemed gruff, tough and hard; but after a short time you realized that he was kind, honest, funny, and then tough, and hard. He could spit-out a song, tall tale, YODEL, or recite a poem at the drop of a hat. Both his and Mom’s favorite pastime was sitting on their front steps watching the neighbours passing, talking of their kids and reminiscing about the past. Mom, as most of you know, was a transplanted Brit and had been in Canada since she was 6 years old. She had never been back home, however she was as much “Queen and Country” as any Brit ever born.

Geezus, say a bad word about the Queen around our house, and you were about to feel the wrath of the Commonwealth fall around your ears. Dad just sighed and gazed up towards the ceiling. He had long ago, given up trying to break her link to the Crown. Both Mom and Dad were born and raised “country”, both were hard workers, loyal friends and staunch defenders of the family. Nobody ever did more, looked better, was smarter, quicker, sharper, funnier than their children or grandchildren . If you thought they were wrong you just had to mention it, to find out.

Both Mom and Dad could cook! Mom was a legend with all of our friends, for her bountiful feasts of “kids food”, that she laid out whenever we had friends over. By the way, those friends also never got away without an ass-kicking at some kind of game or the other. Back to cooking. Mom was a legend. At the time where her illness made it impossible to stand and cook in the kitchen, Dad reinvented the kitchen for her. Her got out his tape, a piece of scrap paper, a stub of carpenter’s pencil and busied himself chopping up this kitchen to the exact height of a wheelchair bound person.

I’m talking everything, cabinets, counters, stove top, oven, drawers, sinks, taps and microwave. He made her a stick that acted as her tweezers so she could reach anything she wanted from her pantry or cabinets. Everything was broken down into container sizes that she could pluck off the shelves and into her hand for cooking. Mom always liked to do her own dishes, so the sinks and taps were now at a level where she could clean up after dinner.

Dad in his own right was a very good cook. His specialties were breakfast and barbecue. His flapjacks were legend. Bacon, eggs, flapjacks, fried potatoes, and homemade buns were a standard fare when dad was on the stove. His oatmeal porridge, that he made so “it stuck to your ribs”, was the best. He used to say he made a cement mixer full and poured it into a dresser drawer to “set”, then whenever he wanted some, he would just go in and cut a slab out. I think it was bullshit, but I never went in to check.

He barbecued outside at 30 degrees below zero, in a blizzard. Neither rain, snow or hail stopped his inevitable barbecue. Cowboy steaks were his specialty. His bbq sauce was homemade and delicious. Mom’s meal of every year was the Christmas dinner. Along with my older sister “Mert” (my name she hated it), they started preparing for Christmas dinner in October, almost immediately after she had put the remains of Thanksgiving away. They baked endless goodies. Their butter tarts caused many family feuds; Deysi and Lalitas used to fight over the package of baked goods that mom sent us home every year.

Christmas dinner was epic! As often as possible everyone was there. Where we all slept, is still a mystery, however, we never felt crowded. There would be 8-10 adults and 8-10 children. Mom had everything organized and tons of activities for the kids, that ranged from crayoning, puzzles, games, reading, movies, play acting, dress and every once in a while outside for a skate or run around the park.

Oh to have these days back! I could go on and on, now that the floodgates of my memory have been opened. However, I think I had better stop here, at the risk of losing some to sheer boredom. Depending on how interested my readers are, I am thinking of delving deeper into this yawning cavity of memory and going further and further back with my memories, one article at a time. What say you? Anyone interested in the earlier years, where Mom was still mobile and Dad was still wearing his cowboy boots with the pants tucked in so people could admire the fancy tops. Let me know if I should drift backward in time?

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