My Little Red Wagon

It's difficult for me, sometimes, to accurately describe how or what I'm feeling.  Especially as of late, when some things are growing more and more confusing.  It's no mystery that I suffered a life-altering brain injury a few years ago.  I've mentioned it here, in this forum, numerous times.  Explained how I fell.  How I knocked myself out.  How I spent the next twelve months trying to restore my life to the level it was before, only for the experts to drill into me that life as I knew it, was going to be drastically changed.  I work hard to maintain the knowledge and memories I have and pausing to celebrate the ones that come fleeting back.  I had a childhood memory come dancing back into view and I'll share it with you all now. 

I saw a family out in the park the other day.  Dad was pulling the tightly bundled baby in a toboggan, the name Radio Flyer emblazoned along the side in it's unmistakable font.  It was a happy memory, for that child, unfolding in front of me and it sparked a memory of my own. 😊

We didn't have a lot of money when I was growing up.  I lived in a trailer for a majority of my life. A seventy-two foot mobile home that was situated just west of our city, which is another memory that I restored lately.  I loosely recall where the dealership was located when my father brought all of us along to look at multiple models for purchase.  I just want to clarify some minor details with my mom, before I write about that one.  However, the memory that I chose for today, concerns the Radio Flyer wagon and the small trailer we lived in prior to the one I lived a majority of my childhood in.

The trailer we had before, was tiny in comparison to what we'd eventually move into.  It was just a two bedroom.  My sister and I shared a bedroom in the front of the house and my parents room was in the rear.  Separating the two spaces was a small bathroom at the end of the hall, next to mom and dad's room, then a small kitchen/living room.  If one were to look at RV camper trailers, today, you'd find more luxury than you would have found in that dinky little dwelling.  Like I'd said before, our family didn't have a lot of money and my dad made due with what he had and if I were to reflect on that time, you'd find a twenty-something, new dad, new fledgling family and just trying to keep everything afloat.  My dad did good.

I remember watching Stampede Wrestling with my grandmother on an old black and white TV that was shoved in one corner of the living room space.  Across from that was a washer/dryer combo machine, that my mother confirmed the other day as being a real memory of mine.  It was so small in stature, that I was confused by it, but my mom confirmed that it was, indeed, a washer that was on wheels and could be maneuvered over to the kitchen sink for the hoses to hook up.  I recall having a poster on the back of my, sorry, my sister and mine's bedroom door, of the Jolly Green Giant, that also served as a measuring implement to gauge our growth.  The one other memory I have of this tiny dwelling, before I get to the main course of this Brain Matter edition, was the night my mom was attacked while she slept.

Being on a farm, it's not uncommon for some of the outside dwellers to come inside.  Perhaps seeking warmth from the coolness of the night or maybe to grab a nibble of a delinquent crumb or alike.  On this one particular night, my mother rose from a deep sleep to a stunning awakening, crying in distress.  Turns out a tiny mouse had ventured into our place, but instead of seeking out a forgotten cookie or a dropped piece of vegetables under the kitchen table, this little adventurer, found itself in my parents bedroom, where my mom's arm had slipped off the bed and was hanging just inches from the floor.  My mom had woken up to something chewing at the end of her finger.  It's crazy to think about just how vulnerable we, human beings, really are when we sleep.

I believe it was a Saturday night and I was all excited.  My dad wasn't home.  Probably at work.  He worked at the Cory Potash Mine, at the time, which involved a lot of shift work.  Something that remains to this day, I believe.  So it was up to my mom to cart this large box into the kitchen.  The box was nearly as big as the entire kitchen.  Eventually the box was emptied and taken into the porch to allow more room to work.  It was exciting.  Me dancing with glee and joy as my mom assembled this flashy red wagon together, piece by piece.  Finally it was down to just popping the red center caps on each wheel to hid the mechanism beneath.  Three successes and one that broke when being pressed on.  Little did I know, at the time, that this slight imperfection would be a running theme throughout my life.  Case and point: The day I bought my truck from Honda.  I'd only owned it for maybe ten minutes before someone, at the dealership I might add, parked next to me, flinging their passenger door into the side of my brand spanking new truck.  Now I owned a brand new spanking truck with a ding in the side of it already.  Because I'm not allowed to have anything nice.

Minor imperfection or not, I loved that wagon.  I took it everywhere with me on that farm.  I can only imagine the eye rolls I must have gotten when my dad would be hard at work, reassembling an engine or something in the shed and hearing the unmistakable rattle of my little red wagon and I coming to see what was going on.

I remember concocting something that would allow me to tow the wagon behind my bicycle (another memory just popped for that) and I used that wagon for everything it was worth.  I wonder if my mom ever stood back with pride, knowing that she'd been the one to build the toy that her eldest was having so much fun with.  I know if the roles were reversed and it was me looking at something that my kid was enjoying, I'd feel pride.  I get that now, when Monkey is playing with something I made for him.

The wagon got a lot of use over the years, eventually being drafted into service for my dad.  I'd find the wagon, now covered in dust and surface rust, sitting in a corner of the shop.  Smiling, almost, as I came into view.  Both of us, it an aging old toy and me a grown adult, sharing a moment of reflection, reminiscing about the old days we shared together.

After my dad passed away in ninety-nine, I don't know what happened to that little red wagon.  If I would have been smart, I would have taken it with me before the entire farmyard of equipment was sold at auction.  That was a heartbreaking event, in and of itself, which deserves it's own blog to discuss.  As for my wagon...  Who knows?  Probably snatched up by some auction bidder who never gave the wagon the respect it deserved and why would they?  To them it was only an implement.  To me, it was a show of freedom.  Freedom for a kid who never had a lot of stuff growing up, but I had that Radio Flyer.

"Could you spare a crumb or a berry? Even a finger if you're not using it."

FRIDAY - It's a Bitch Session

  Fridays.  As frightening to me as Monday's, but for a different reason.  Everyone hates Monday for the obvious.  Weekend was too short.  Work week is too long and no fun.  However, as much as I hate getting up bright and early Monday and driving into work, the process doesn't scare me near as much as it does on Fridays.  No matter what I might encounter in the days leading up to the weekend, nothing concerns me as much as Fridays, or more specifically, Friday afternoons.

It seems like, after lunch, everyone's brains head home early for the day and people get reckless & dangerous behind the wheel of their vehicles.  Everyone is in a rush, even though they don't need to be.

In the job I have now, I'm required to drive in traffic daily, destinations set from downtown to just a few miles from the shop.  Every day, I have a front row seat to how drivers in our fair city respond to whatever day of the week it is.  Mondays seem more relaxed.  No one is in much of a hurry to get anywhere and every subsequent day, is nearly the same, peppered with a few anomalies, because nobody is perfect.  Fridays, though.  Gives a whole new meaning to Freaky Friday.

My new job has me working at a facility in the south industrial section of our city.  We make RVs which are sold all over North America.  Most notably, is the Prince of Darkness, himself, Ozzy Osbourne having purchased two or three of the RVs.  There is a promotional poster hung all over the plant of Jack (Osbourne) and Ozzy posing in front of their beloved RV.  Come Friday afternoon, at quitting time, it's a mad dash by all to vacate the facility.  A couple of weeks ago, I had made a right turn onto a street, turning into the right-hand lane before signaling to get into the left.  That's when another fellow, who also works for the company that I do, decided that he was going to circumvent the normal rules of the road and rip into the left lane, Mad Max-style, nearly side-swiping me in the process.  He was clearly in the wrong, but holy f*ck if that guy doesn't hold a grudge.  That day, he slowed right down, trying to egg me on to a fist fight and in the weeks since that incident, he's treated me like a cockroach.  (He's one of the "higher-ups" in the company, so I just shrug it off.  It's his life that seems to be the most effected by the near-miss accident.)

Leaving the south industrial area is a breeze, every other day, but Friday.  At the conclusion of my first week of work, it took me 45 minutes just to leave the area, due to an extraordinary build up of traffic.  It was enough to nearly make me quit the job, I was so frustrated.  Every Friday afternoon, since that day, traffic is notoriously bad and when freedom is finally accomplished, the craziness doesn't end.

Let me breakdown yesterday, October 1st, 2021, for you.  After making a stop at Wal-Mart for milk and bread, I was lucky enough to leave Stonebridge (which is adjacent to the south industrial park), my adventure homeward was only beginning.  There was a near miss as I merged onto the freeway.  Likely someone with their nose buried in their phone, rather than focusing on the road.  Next was entering the clover-leaf, as nobody seems to know how to yield to oncoming traffic.  That's where a young lady had been rear-ended by another unattentive driver.  I foiled that debacle, steering around the scattered panels and marker lamps.  Around the loop and heading north, I managed to escape a driver whom I can only assume was Mario Andretti.  Although it was not a Formula One Ferrari blowing by me, it was a sporty Dodge Charger going like a bat outta Hell. (Maybe it was Meatloaf?)

I finally round the off-ramp that leads toward my house and this is where it's always f*cked up, regardless of what day of the week it is.  I don't know who designed that flow of traffic, but they should have had their head smacked.  It is completely R-worded.  Then, as if that overflow of traffic wasn't bad enough, there's a van stalled at the next set of lights, but the dummy behind the wheel didn't bother to put on her 4-way lights to alert other drivers that she was inoperable. Hoards of drivers were stuck behind her, myself included, all of us unbeknownst that she wasn't going anywhere.  Drivers are already being dicks and not allowing people to go around her, so many of us were stuck.  I was two cars behind her stranded van and I was there for nearly 15 minutes or roughly three songs on he radio.  They weren't even good songs, which made the experience even worse.

I love my truck.  I love driving my truck.  What I don't love is driving my truck in this minefield of ridiculous drivers.  As much as I think small towns suck, I doubt they ever need to deal with this much bullshit.

I don't have a point to this blog.  Not today.  There's no humour.  No thought-provoking discoveries.  Just a bitch-session.  In fact, I think that's what I'll title this blog, today.

Ozzy Osbourne posing with his Pleasure-Way RV.

Jack & Kelly Osbourne posing
with Ozzy's Pleasure-Way RV.

Karma is a Pain In The Ass

It is granted that I'm not active by any sense of the word, though lately, I've been leaving the house and getting out in the world more frequently than I was a few months ago, even though I'm essentially a glorified purse holder for my gal pal, Melissa.  She would argue that I purchase as often as she does, but her regular haunts are hardly places where I would freely purchase wares.

Usually a few hours out and about, results in my legs cramping up and my back getting unusually sore.  In January of 2014, I injured my spine really bad, an injury that left me with three compression fractures in three different vertebrae.  My T3, 4 and 5 were broke with patterns that reminded me of a spider web or a smashed car window.  I was reassured by medical professionals that I had nothing to worry about.  That there was little or no chance of any rogue pieces splintering off and dissecting my spinal cord.  Trusting their word, I continued to live life, albeit a lot more subdued.  Not that I was B.A.S.E. jumping or racing dune buggies, but my options, I felt, were limited after that.

After finishing treatment from my lovely physiotherapist, Elissa, I was unemployed and left to recover from other injuries sustained from my fall on the job.  Money being limited, I stayed pretty close to home, choosing to live vicarious adventure through heroes and characters viewed on my television set, rather than venturing into extracurricular activities.  I'd still go for walks in the park, with my boy, Monkey, just for a change of scenery, beneficial to him as well as myself, but mostly I stuck close to home.  My back never gave me much issue.  No overindulgence equaled very little, if any, pain and discomfort. 

Winter came, and unfortunately, my snow blower still won't start [*Boycott: Home Depot], resulting with my having to clear my two-and-a-half driveway (meaning I have room for two automobiles across plus space for a small RV).  It's a back-breaking process, excuse the pun.  Lately, with the abundant snowfall we've received, I've opted to only clearing a path from the street to my front door, in addition to the city walk in front of my house.  The last time I tackled that endeavour, was midway last week.  My back had stiffened, but hardly gave me issue.  Yesterday, my sixty-eight year old mother came to my house for supper, but before coming into the house, unbeknownst to me, she took it upon herself to clear a respectable patch of snow and ice and did so in half the time it takes me to do a patch half as wide.

It wasn't until her actions caught the attention of my cat, that I became aware of her actions.  I'm appreciative, but rushed outside to scold her of her actions.  She's sixty-eight years old, for f*ck sake.  A sixty-eight year old, who recently informed me that she requires a hip replacement.  What the f*ck is she thinking?  She reluctantly let go of the shovel and went inside, as I replaced the road salt that had been flung onto my snow covered lawn, an action that should reveal some interesting patterns of murdered grass, come springtime.

We watched a couple movies that she'd not seen before and had, what she described, was a tasty supper, before she left for home.  I laid down on the sofa, like I've done a thousand times before, over my eight year tenure at this address.  I chose a previously recorded show to watch and fell asleep, like usual.  About four hours later, I woke up with a desperate need to pee.  I expected to jump up and rush across the living room, but instead, I experienced a sharp shooting pain down my spine.  A blistering shot that is reminiscent of the early days that followed my initial injury.  There was no mad rush, but a slow painful hobble.

The great deal of discomfort I've felt in the hours that have passed, is unimaginable.  I'm hunched, fighting to straighten up to walk upright.  Sleeping was a little better, being that my mattress is ideal for sore ailing backs, and without a pillow under my head, was able to sleep in.  I'm walking a little more upward than I was last night and with a greater pace.  Getting up and mobilized is incredibly sore, however.  I'm hoping this recent flare-up is due to a sudden and dramatic drop in outside temperature, the barometric pressure wreaking havoc on old injured bones.  Especially, given that I need to go for a physical regarding this new job I'm trying out for.

I don't believe in luck, but I do believe in karma.  I don't know what I did in this life or what anyone could have done in a past life, to deserve as much bullshit as I've endured in this life, but holy f*ck!!!  When is enough going to be enough.

Unbearable

For the life of me, I can't understand why people enjoy camping.  My father loved it and I remember every summer vacation, being lead out to some remote lake, to live out of the trunk of our car and sleep under the stars in a leaky tent.  "Back to the basics." he'd say with a deep inhale of fresh air.  Early to bed, as there's very little to do at night, but stare into the flickering of the campfire and very early to rise as the early dawn brought about the screeching birds, and that was if we were lucky enough to not be rained on during the night.

To this day, I find it extremely difficult to recall a single time that our camping excursions never resulted in some kind of disastrous outcome.  Whether it be a misty rain bleeding through the sheer material of our tent, often resulting in the saturation of our sleeping bags; or the least of our troubles, the rocky terrain and stubble protruding through the tent floor and into our backs.  It wasn't until later that air mattresses were introduced into the camping experience.  The mattresses provided a more comfortable sleep, but never saved us from the flooding.

The tenting experience can be avoided with the advent of camper trailers, which if I were foolish enough to go camping, is the only way you'd ever find me out in the wilderness.  Bringing the creature comforts of home, out to the wild yonder.  Although this practice defeats the whole "getting back to the basics" that my late father enjoyed, it sure beats having to shit in the woods.  Cooking over an open fire is replaced with a propane cooking stove.  The shitty polystyrene cooler that always flaked off at the corner, littering the camp site with tiny balls of foam plastic, now replaced with a mini fridge secured safely under the faux oak cupboard in the RV.  The sole entertainment of watching the orange glow of logs slowly crumbling under the extreme heat of the campfire is now replaced by a mini plasma TV and DVD player, complete with surround sound.  Best of all though, is sleeping on (more) comfortable foam bedding, with real blankets and comforters, protected from the elements by a hardened shell of aluminum and fiberglass.

I remember as a kid, many times arriving at our destination well after the sun had gone down then being forced to listen to the barrage of cursing from my father as he fought with the problems of hammering tents pegs into the rocky ground.  Often times, the ground was too hard and the cheap ass metal spikes would bend violently as he'd attempt to hammer them into the ground.  Thinking back, I recall searching through the surrounding foliage for the hammer my dad was using.  Upon striking the hand holding the peg in place, the hammer would be flung into the darkness followed by expertly-voiced curses.  One of my fondest memories of my father, whether it be camping or just working around the yard, if he lost his cool, the string of curse words could link together was nothing short of poetry to my ears.  While I can intertwine a lovely collection of curses, I can only aspire to one day equal the skill level of my late father's degree of swearology.

Whatever the mode of the camping experience, people are inexplicably drawn to the wilderness.  Mine was vicarious through my father's desire.  From what I've been able to compile from Google, is a combination of the feeling of accomplishment; man over the wild; the sense of community as they visit with other camping enthusiasts.  Others feel it gives them an opportunity to reflect on their lives; and even bring themselves closer to God.  Personally, I don't understand what that aspect has to do with sleeping under the stars.  Homeless people do that year round and I'd imagine they feel more spited by God, than spiritually closer to "him".  None of the remarks that I was able to find, mentioned that it brought people closer to nature.  This poses a problem for me.

Friday afternoon, I was privy to a conversation people were engaging in the lunchroom at work.  There was talk of an upcoming camping trip by one of the folks, which soon moved to past encounters with bears.  Camping encroaches on the bear's territory.  Moose, elk, deer, wolves and bears are among the many creatures one may encounter out in the wild.  Every provincial and national park post instructions on how to enjoy the nature walks and avoid being attacked by the indigenous wildlife.  That being said, the fact that people wish harm to the bears that may wander into the camp sites, bothers me.

In the conversation, it was mentioned that if the same bear wanders into a populated camp site more than twice, it is immediately terminated as a nuisance.  Imagine that!  Killed for simply being a bear living in a forest.  The people around me couldn't understand my disdain for this practice, replying that the bear had no right to be in the camp sites. I shook my head with disbelief.  "That's like if someone came into my house and the police coming and taking ME away.  If I return to my house twice more, the police then take me out and shoot me."  I said.  

Man put these camp sites in the forest homes of bears and alike.  Not the other way around.  The bears didn't suddenly one day decide they needed to visit the city more often.  It's our inherent need to return to the wild, stupid as that is.  It's like swimming in shark infested waters for the adventure and excitement, then getting upset when we lose a f*cking leg.  People need to know the risks before they enter into these situations and accept them.  Realize that they're entering a dangerous environment.  That if they don't exercise some care and caution, they might be mauled by a f*ckin' bear.  It's a reasonable expectation.  Don't fault the bear for your own foolishness and stupidity.