Yes, I have an opinion....

I'm incredibly opinionated. Actually, that's a bit of an understatement.

First of all, feel sorry for my husband, for he owns the ears that are most often subjected to my vocalizations of opinion. If anyone is likely to know what my opinion on something is, it's him, & I'm not so sure he considers that an honour.

The worst part of being opinionated is that it's rare anyone else shares an opinion with you. Being opinionated also means having a penchant for argument & debate, because that's often what comes of defending one's opinion. Again, pity my husband, because he's often the one to bail me out of such a debate.

Being opinionated leads to loneliness. No one really wants you around, because it's a known fact that you're likely to volunteer your view-point, even if it's considered a form of suicide.

When I was in college, it didn't long before instructors and professors learned to dread seeing my hand raised to ask a question during a lecture. My classmates considered this a form of entertainment, even if the instructors didn't. At least it was obvious I'd done my homework, although I've no doubt a few instructors wished I hadn't.

Being opinionated also means being intolerant. I admit to having difficulty being around those lacking in education &/or life experience, because they don't tend to have unique opinions of their own: they're no fun to talk to, don't challenge me, or make me think. They sort of remind me of the colour beige: boring, non-descript, and bland.

Behind closed doors, my husband can be equally opinionated. We've engaged in some incredibly intricate conversations based on differing view points. He has one talent that I do not share: he can 'shut it off' at will, & tends to do so when there's others around. No one has ever been subjected to the diversity of his opinions unless having requested the privilege. He's not unaware of how favourably this trait of his is viewed by others.

Being opinionated can mean being volunteered to speak for a group, even if you don't feel like it. Those around you figure you're the most capable of voicing THEIR opinions, when you're area of expertise lies in merely voicing your own; others don't seem to differentiate between those distinctions.

Hubby will try to save me embarrassment and nudge me to get me off of a tangent; age has tempered my willingness to speak out as I once did, too.

Yea, I'm incredibly opinionated, to the point that it could be considered a handicap. It doesn't matter if it's in verbal or written form, I have to be careful of what I say, when, where, and to whom, or re-live some of my less-than-fond memories of times past.

Then again, now that I'm older, it's expected that I'll have an opinion: the trick, now, is finding those that deserve to hear it.

Mich's Mumbles © 2011

The Great absinthe experiment: Part III , the final chapter

Continued from PART II

A second drink in hand, sitting at my computer desk, I felt gypped. Sure, I had a buzz on, but nothing to brag about, let alone claim surreal or metaphysical experiences from. Feeling a little duped, I logged into a game of mini-golf: mindless, and a time-killer, it would let time pass and so let me unwind.

I took a healthy belt of drink Number Two, and proceeded to play said mini-golf game. I had reached the third hole of the game, felt a fit of pique, and backed another healthy belt of my custom-blended beverage.

Another two holes, and it hit me.

I experienced a clarity of thought, a near-alarming self-insight, that was startling in it's intensity. It was as if a door of some sort had opened in my mind, and I could 'see' clearly, as I could never see before. It didn't matter what arena or subject I put my head to, I saw things from a wholly different perspective.

I stood from my post in from of the computer, and noticed an odd tingling running down my legs, something reminiscent of a tequila-drunk of yore. I wanted a cigarette, which stood to reason as I would often smoke more when under the influence of alcohol. Marvelling at the movement of my legs, I descended the seven stairs to the front foyer, and exited the front door.

Decimated hedges, and struggling flower beds, greeted my eyes in the dull of night. I could easily picture what I wanted to see in a few months time from them, as if transported to a future time. As I plunked my bulk down to light a cigarette, I became aware of a transient lidocaine-like feeling through my lips and face.... it wasn't scary, but it did make me wonder. I had brought that second drink with me, having added more ice to it's contents: it was sort of like a licorice-tasting water, very refreshing, and oddly not an imposition on my sensitive guts and reactivity to things alcoholic.

I lit a cigarette, oddly aware of my surroundings: it was as if they could speak to me, but not on a level that could be heard by human ears. That disconcerted me, so I turned my thoughts to another topic. I reflected on my marriage of more than 25 years, where it had taken me, what I had learned (sometimes it took a sledge hammer for me to get the message, I admit that in all candor), why it might have been NECESSARY for some of those experiences to have occurred. The reality of just how much I love that man, and why, was so intense it almost hurt. I reflected, too, upon Estate matters.... o my gosh, that's a very very long tale, but one that, upon reflection, I felt damned good about. I may be a 'bull in a china shop' when it comes to social proprieties, but I'll stand on my track record: it's pretty damned skookum.

I finished that drink, having decamped for the relative safety of the living room and my stereo. A legacy from my father, I have a love of music that defies a definition, and I got lost in guitar acoustics while listening to a Classic Rock Station.

The Hubster came out to inquire of me and my well being.... and what can I say, I was my usual blunt self: ...“ I'm enjoying the difference of perception, and the half-twiddled state that goes with it”. He gave a half-chuckle, and went back to his project-at-hand. I finished that second drink, amazed by the difference in how I perceived the world around me, let alone the people-politics I lived with. Similar to a tequila-drunk, my head was perfectly funtional: in truth, it was so clear in it's perceptions as to be unsettling. My mouth seemed reasonably cooperative, I wasn't slurring my words, albeit I was choosing them very carefully. That lidocaine-like buzz had become transient in both my legs AND my lips.... yet it still didn't put me off or in any way alarm me.

It was bedtime, by now, and I'm a notoriously early-retirer, because I prefer to be up before 0600h as a rule (blame my daughter for that one: she insisted on getting up at 0500h for the first 2 and a half years of her life).... I knew that booze and head-spins are a common occurence with me, and so I was apprehensive as I commanded my now-twiddled being to lumber for the master bedroom and the sanctity of my bed. My head seemed to be functioning on a level removed from my body, and any circumstance I chose to reflect upon left me feeling unsettled: I needed to get away from that, I didn't feel strong enough to endure any resulting epiphanies. T he human ego isn't as tough as some would like to make it out to be, and this was bordering on overload: mistakes and choices of the past came back at me like ghosts and haunted my consciousness.

The sanctity of my bed was found, along with a new determination: I was going to further explore this 'mythical' substance, but I was going to give myself a few days to process and digest the perceptual differences I'd experienced.

I'd also realized that anyone with a penchant for booze would find this stuff “too easy”, and would likely be poor candidates for the “insights” I'd gleaned from my first experience with absinthe. Most booze-hounds drink for a reason, and I could see absinthe opening doors and trains of thought that really need the input of a therapist and not the under-the-influence self! That it seemed to be too easy too drink when 'built' the way that I 'built' a drink of the stuff, and could give the same booze-high as more than twice the same amount of hard spirits, colored it as dangerous to anyone with a taste for booze. Sleep came quickly, easily, without my guts rousting me in the dead of night for relief.

Mich found herself a new bad habit.

I LIKE that sh*t. I like that it doesn't upset my guts in the same way that mixed drinks can, that it lets me 'see' things from a different perspective. I have yet to suffer a hang-over from it, but that may be in part because of how I “prepare” a drink of the stuff. Yes, it's expensive, yes, it's “TOO EASY”.... but I like it. I really, really like it.

Mich's Mumbles © 2011

The Great absinthe experiment: Part II, "Here we go"

I did a lot of experimenting, by the time I was 21, and had 'written off' most of what I'd tried. For whatever reason, the only illegal thing that held any appeal was pot. Anything chemical simply wasn't up my alley, and was just a waste of time, money, and opportunity. A typical redneck, I love my beer, and can do some serious damage to a bottle of single-male scotch, but I'm not really a drinker (I think I mentioned, previously, that I get hung-over at the drop of a hat?). For the most part, I outgrew that wild side and became a semblance of a responsible adult.

I'd spent more than 20 years dabbling and researching folk medicine and herb lore; I'd learned to garden and could brag quite the 'tea patch'. Food can be medicine, I'd learned, and I wielded it at every opportunity. The computer age merely saw my research efforts get easier, because I wasn't obligated to regular trips to the library any more. And yet that curiosity about salvia, and absinthe, lingered.... wasn't I getting too old for that sort of crap? A forty-five year old, experimenting?

I found myself, one Saturday night, face to face with a bottle of absinthe.... the time had finally arrived that I could try this mythical liquor., a birthday gift from The Hubster. Our daughter was away for the night, we were home alone together goofing off: it seemed wisest to 'dabble' when we were home alone. The gold label affixed a clear bottle of lime-jello-colored liquid gave the bottle the appearance of a perfume.; one whiff, however made sure that notion was quickly dispelled.

The bottle had come with sugar cubes, a glass, and a special spoon.... I'd read what to do with all of that, and went about following the instructions to fix myself a 'shnort. I used a shot-glass to measure out 2 ounces. I set the slotted spoon across the top of the glass, set 2 sugar-cubes atop it, and slowly poured the absinthe over the sugar cubes and into the glass. Using a lighter, I light the sugar cubes afire, until they caramelized; 2 ounces of water was then poured over the caramelized sugar cubes and into the glass.

OK, I was ready... and promptly burnt my lips when I attempted to sip from the glass: the top of it was blazing hot from the blue-flame act I'd performed caramelizing the sugar cubes. That obligated me to wait a few minutes for the top of the glass to cool, I admit I was little annoyed at myself for not seeing that happenstance in advance. After distracting myself in the kitchen for a bit, I returned to the now-cooled glass, and nonchalantly tossed a mouthful back.

Yuck. Warm booze, with a bite to it (and a healthy bite, I may add). The licorice flavor was kind of nice, but my toes and guts were on fire, my mouth felt like I'd gargled with isopropyl alcohol, and there was something about the temperature that was just, well, WRONG. That may be the 'traditional way' of fixing a drink of absinthe, but no one has ever used the word “traditional” where I'm concerned: tradition wasn't going to limit my experiment so quickly. I tossed a few ice cubes into the glass, put it into the freezer, and went off to occupy myself for an hour. My reasoning was that maybe it was like crappy scotch: enough water and ice, and you can choke it down. I just knew I wasn't wasting booze and pouring it out, and certainly not a birthday present from my husband.

A while later, I retrieved the drink from the freezer, and took a sip of it. OK, not so much of a bite, but wowsers, was that bitter. Adding more table sugar made it palatable. The licorice flavor was actually nice, not quite as 'in your face' as say, sambuca or ouzo. And despite all that I'd read and seen, the liquor didn't turn cloudy when water was added: it remained clear. I took another, bigger swig from the glass, and the water-like liquid was easily swallowed .... it was sort of like a licorice-tasting water, really, and quite refreshing. Arguing with myself that it was in the name of knowledge, I made short work of that drink, and consumed it in less than a half an hour.

I sat down to await the effects of the absinthe, wondering what descriptions like “mild psychelic properties” and “lucid drunk” translated to, as regards my impending experiences(s). Forty minutes later, I detected a glow that I recognized as the effects of 3 ceasar drinks: I had a buzz on, but nada as regards psychedelic experiences, or any cerebral effects. It was a decent buzz, I most definitely had a glow on, but nothing a half-sack of beer couldn't produce over a few hours of good convo.

Well, I was home alone with my hubby, and if I wound up hungover, I deserved it. I went back to the kitchen, measured out another 2 ounces of absinthe, added a tablespoon of sugar, added 4 oz of water and a few ice cubes.... and sat down at my computer.

END PART TWO
Mich's Mumbles © 2011

The Great absinthe experiment: part one "The Lead Up"

I've never made excuses for my innate curiosities as regards the metaphysical. The things and experiences that defy scientific explanation intrigue me, as do those that involve the use of substances to achieve transcendence.

I'm what could be called “a dabbler” when it comes to using various natural means to alter my head-space.

Cigarettes were my first introduction to an altered head-space, my Dad's one sister 'nicking smokes from her mom (my grandmother.... we're less than 3 years apart in age, me and that one aunt), Cameo menthols.... and discovering a head rush. I soon sought it out on my own, my Dad and Mom both smoked in those days and were easy to 'pinch' from. That habit, unfortunately, remains with me to this day, but I'm considered a “part time” smoker: I rarely if ever smoke outside of my property boundaries (and never in the house).

Three years later, the result of friends with older siblings and a return to living in the city, it was pot. Holy cow, I'd found my calling: when I smoked the stuff, I shut up, and became focused like a laser beam. I had patience that I didn't normally have, and an odd wisdom about keeping my damned mouth shut. By the time I was 16, I'd learned that not having it around for any length of time was detrimental to me: somehow, I was 'wired differently', and what would normally f**k a person up and turn them into a zombie of sorts would leave me in a state of “normal”. Going without for more than a few days saw me snap off at anyone and anything, and viciously, at that. My family paid for that bit of self-insight, and in some really nasty ways: I was one angry teenager at points, and I did more to hurt my parents in the space of a year than most do in a lifetime (and I'm still apologizing for it, more than 30 years later).

Pot wasn't acceptable, it was illegal... and I had my first real drunk when I was 16: a dare saw me down 1/2 of a 40 oz bottle of Canadian Club whiskey. HOLY DRUNK MUCH, and with the likelihood of alcohol poisoning, I found myself very ill and at school the next day. That my Dad's sense of humor saw me served half-cooked bacon and greasy eggs for breakie the next morning taught me a few lessons: I've filed that bit of treachery for future use, believe me.

I didn't like Acid. Speed, o jeez, that's just a disaster looking for a place to happen: I am not the kind of person that does well “amplified”. Cocaine was a real treat, but it scared the Hell out of me: the addiction risk put it in the same category as Valium (which I'd also tried, and found I liked), and so while it and benzodiazapine-family drugs suited me, I avoided them.

Mushrooms, and tequila.... holy cow, each a unique trip. I didn't like mushrooms, I felt out of control, and there was always a lingering fear that the harvester had mis-identified the fungi I'd just ingested.

Tequila did something really odd to me: I was fully functional, physically, and mentally sharp.... but could not speak without sounding like a cerebral palsy sufferer. I could pursue almost any project or effort while 'cut' on tequila, but talking to me was a total waste of time and netted you indecipherable responses.

There was two things on my “list” of “wanting to try”, when I turned 45. I had yet to try salvia divinorum, and I had yet to meet up with a bottle of absinthe. I'd spent time researching both substances, curious about their history, their uses, what made them sought out....

Because I live in Canada, absinthe is easily sourced: it's not illegal here. Because it can be found in a liquor store, my partner was okay with the idea: to him, was just over-proof booze made from something that doesn't grow here. I'd read about famous people like Oscar Wilde and their experiences with absinthe; I was damned leery of the potential hangover, I tend to be a lousy drunk for that very reason: I pay for it, I get hung-over at the drop of a hat.

He bought me a bottle of absinthe for my birthday, and the box even had the spoon, glass, and sugar cubes in it. At 70% alcohol (140 proof), and with supposed psychedelic properties (short-lived, the research had said), the bright green liquid reminded me of a bottle of vodka someone had dripped green food coloring into: it was the same consistency, to my eye. I knew it was supposed licorice in flavor.... I like licorice, just not in quantity.

Our daughter was going to be away for a night over the upcoming weekend, and that was when I decided to open that bottle of absinthe.

END OF PART 1

Mich's Mumbles © 2011

A birthday gift of legacy

Family history has always intrigued me, perhaps because there's some of it that is known but never spoken about. One branch of my family has been in North America since the 1600's, and a line of it has been verifiably traced back to that time.

That line of the family was 'seen to' by the girls: it's history was passed on from Mother to Daughter, Grandmother to Granddaughter, sometimes across the stretch of decades. Some of the lore is absolutely mind-blowing, and one has to wonder just how much of it has been 'embroidered' by the retelling.

With my 45^th birthday drawing near, my parents found reason to drop by over the weekend. My Mother handed me a plastic bag, inside of which appeared to be a very faded linen tea towel... and a hand-written note on yellow-aged paper affront it. That hand-writing was oddly familiar to me, and I took off my glasses to get a better read of it.

The hand-writing was that of my one great grandmother, the only one that I had known any well, my Dad's grandmother on his Mom's side.

Lora Mulvihill was born in 1900, in Oklahoma, and married to the son of Irish immigrants; they'd found themselves in Western Canada by the time WW1 started. She'd been alive when I was growing up, passing away in 1977. My birth had been something of an occasion for the woman, I have a hand-written note from her in my baby book: she'd sent a $20 bill with the note, and that was a LOT of money in those days.

Her hand-writing was in front of me again, decades after her death. She makes reference to “Jimmie”, which is how my Dad is called by his family (no one else would dare): he's the oldest of her 8 grandchildren.

The note reads as follows:

Great Great Grandma Smith was born July 31 – 1841.

This belonged to Jimmies Great Great Grandma Smith.

I have had it since 1927

See how many generations it will still be in use

Grandma Mulvihill

It is a linen tea towel, that appears to have once been pink and white striped. Each “stripe” was hand-tatted in, the lace trim is hand-tatted linen thread. My great-grandmother had sent it to my Mother when I was born, and without a word, my Mother had kept it, through 15 moves that included different provinces.

I have a small piece of the family history, a legacy, sitting on my desk today. It's more than a birthday gift, it's something of a wonder: Grandma Smith and family lived through the Civil War. The family lore claims she lived til the age of 99, and a picture of her exists from the 30's: records indicate that to be a truth. It's likely that the lady made it with her own hands, with purchased material: it indicates a certain degree of financial comfort in her world. That it's been handed on as it has been also speaks to it's quality.

My birthday present was a gift of legacy, from a woman I have never met, and only vaguely knew by name as being a long-living relative; she missed my fathers' birth by a matter of months.

Why such a thing would bring about such sentimentality in me is also a wonder. I'm humbled, and admit that my Mother keeping mum about it for 45 years is a little disconcerting, too: I wonder how many other such 'secrets' she's keeping.

As a birthday gift, it's more than oddly important to me, it's priceless. I am now the fifth generation to be in possession of it, and that's really neat.

Mich's Mumbles © 2011

A redneck view on Immigration in Canada

Western Europe countries have adopted “zero immigration” policies, and I think it's too bad that Canada can't do the same thing.

Now, before you criticize and condemn, stop and think a minute about the freedom you're about to exercise.... and let me admit that I had dual citizenship with a Scandinavian country until the age of 21.

Canada is a great and generous country; many ethnicities call Canada “home”. There are a few difficulties that need to be addressed, however. While I'm likely to be labelled a racist, I really don't care: a perpetual victim of reverse discrimination, I'm tired of MY opinion “not counting” because I'm white and speak without an accent. I'm also the child of an immigrant, one that grew up before the advent of ESL and other integrational tools.

Ethnic and special interest groups have become so focused upon their own needs, they've become selfish and inconsiderate of those around them. A long-time Canadian tradition, the RCMP, has had to amend their dress code to accommodate turban-wearing Sikhs. What's next, ceremonial daggers and curly-toed shoes? Immigration involves integration and assimilation, not take-over, change-to-suit, and/or alter. Freedom of religion is a noble thing, but I draw the line when the fragile tapestry of Canadian heritage is violated to accommodate a select few. Just because your religious choice requires a specific form of dress does NOT give you the right to change a century-old tradition, and thus alter the symbolism of our not-so-distant past. Historically speaking, it's an affront.

I'm tired of people and signs that don't communicate in either of Canada's national languages: I'm capable in both. I'm discriminated against every time I encounter signage that is not in one of those two languages. Tax monies fund English as a Second Language (ESL) programs, and yet the recipients don't speak English when out and about in public. Various ethnic groups have been linked to purchasing drivers' licences, drug importation, gang activity, and other VERY negative things. Until such issues are settled effectively, is it fair to the rest of Canadian society yo continue to allow people access to our great country, when it's already embroiled in difficulties with it's CURRENT population?

Immigration has allowed almost EVERY Canadian to live in our great country --- some, centuries ago, some but a month ago. We don't want to be intolerant, but your ethnicity or religion does NOT mean you can cry 'discrimination' if you don't get the job you applied for, that you can say you're 'entitled' to ANYTHING: EARN the right, don't TAKE it, BE CANADIAN and WORK for what you want, don't expect to be given it.

We've a lot of work to do to sort out our differences. We need to learn a lot more consideration, too.

Please, let us do just that. Don't add any more wood to the fire until we've learned better management of the fireplace: we're getting burned. Please, don't let any more people into Canada. There's too many struggling to survive here already, and that 'melting pot' isn't blending very well. We've a lot of issues and problems to contend with, as it is.

No more immigration. Please.

For Canada's sake.

Mich's Mumbles © 2011

Are Canadian RRSP laws fair...? A ponderable....

Are Canadian RRSP laws fair?

As a late-in-life parent, I have reason to think about things from a perspective of an older as to what constitutes “taking care” of our only child. Without an extended family to rely upon, the child will be nothing short of an orphan when her parents die: she won't have us to help her, and no one to turn to for support or guidance. It gave me pause, because we all need help now and then (and 'help' can take many, many forms, not just financial ones).

Her maternal grandparents had started her a bank account, which I had control over. I thought I was being a smart alec when I hit upon the idea of opening an RRSP in the child's name. By my uninformed thinking, I would be able to convert her bank account to a Registered Retirement Savings plan, all I needed was to secure her a Social Insurance Number (S.I.N.); I could take the tax breaks myself, and make sure she had financial security long after we are gone.

I went about getting the SIN for the child , a simple matter of paperwork and waiting.

I went in to see an Accounts Manager at our local bank, where the child's account was (along with other family accounts), armed with that SIN card. Imagine my surprise when I was told that I couldn't do what I wanted to: the only way the child can have an RRSP set up in Canada is after her first year as a wage-earner. Wealth transfer from the upper 5% of income earners (to duck taxes) was one of the reasons I was given for this law.

I was dumbfounded, and yet, I did understand the logic. Trust funds are already abused by the wealthy as means of ducking taxes, allowing the upper 5% of income earners another “out” to avoid paying taxes would surely be taken advantage of: that doesn't stop them helping those same kids once they do start working, though.

I'm torn as to what to think about it. One part of me is indignant because I can't do what I wanted to do, to ensure a financially secure future for our only child: I didn't say the emotion was rational, I said it was present underneath things. Part of me is saddened by the commentary such a law can be turned into as regards the Average Joe not having a level playing field when it comes to taxation and retirement saving: it puts society in a rather shabby light. Part of me is grateful that the wealthy haven't got another such “loophole” to take advantage of, too. Like I said, I'm torn.

So Heaven help me, that bank account is being converted to an RRSP as soon as I can swing it. An only child with no extended family to speak of is a poor child, in many senses, and I'm determined to make sure she doesn't suffer in the financial sense as well. Memories won't help her security, and that's all she'll really have.

I guess it makes sense, but that doesn't make it any less dismaying when you're faced with 15 years of lost compound interest or more....which is probably another reason why it can't be done: the banks don't want to pay out such large amounts of interest over decades, either.

Mich's Mumbles © 2011

"What's wrong with me?"

  French Immersion schooling has become a major part of the education system where I live. Parents queue up to enroll their darlings in schools that offer Immersion programs, believing it gives their children an advantage.

When our daughter reached school-age, we had a lot of very long discussions about whether to enroll her in Immersion, or in Mainstream. Choosing French or English as the language of instruction was what we were faced with, in a Province that lists Cantonese as it's predominant 'second' language.

We'd done our homework: talked to young adults (now in their mid-20's) that were among the first to know education in an Immersion program, talked to those that did a “late” Immersion program (starting in Grade Six), talked with other parents as well as teachers, talked to managers in government agencies; and reflected on the fact that Momma, here, did a form of “late” Immersion, and while I'm awfully rusty, je peut parler en francais aujourd'hui.

We heard stories of students unable to write properly in English, but unable to pass the language testing for bilingualism for employment in Government offices. One particularly candid young lady had taken the trouble to track down former classmates: she was one of more than half that had had to take remedial English courses post high school in order to gain employment. She was quite bitter about it, as were a few of her former classmates: parental egos and misinformation about the benefits of Immersion were pointed at as having contributed to hardships they'd not have known in Mainstream.

We decided that it would be best for the tyke to be enrolled in the Mainstream program; if she wants to do “late” Immersion come Grade Six, it's HER decision, and not ours. The basics of English will already be in her arsenal, and given that English is the predominant language spoken outside of school, that made sense to us. It would let her have say in the matter: at five, there was no way she could choose for herself.

There was only 11 children in the Kindergarten class (English) that year. There was 44 in the Immersion program, 2 full classes of kids being instructed in French. With Kindergarten being so insular, the child wasn't aware that the class she was in was unusually small, she just knew she liked going to school.

Come Grade One, our daughter was excited: larger classes and exposure to other kids on the playground had her very eager to start the year. It didn't take long for that excitement to wear off, and before the first month of school was done, she'd become quiet, almost sad.

“What's wrong with me?”, she quietly asked me, one afternoon after school.

It turns out that because she was in the Mainstream (English) school program, her class was home to all of the ESL kids, the behaviorally challenged, and the disabled. There were 22 kids, a regular teacher, a student teacher, 2 teachers aides, and a lot of “out of the classroom” sessions with support staff. One young man was prone to violent outbursts that included profanities; he actually bit our daughter during one of his rages. A non-speaking Autistic child that would shriek and hit, three children absolutely incapable of communicating in English with another 10 challenged by a language barrier and participating in ESL; there was another handful that required out-of-class counselling during the week, all involving behavioral issues. Our daughter was one of only four in a class of 22 that wasn't somehow in need of 'extra' input, counselling, or special resources. She had become convinced that she, too, must have a problem, because the Immersion classes didn't have students like that: there had to be something “wrong” with her. Nothing I said would convince her that she was just another kid in an English Grade One class, her own observations contradicted what I said, outright.

A parent-teacher conference had her Father and I bring that up: the teachers (2 of the four were present) were horrified at the question she'd asked of me. No child in past had reached such a conclusion, in classes of similar make-up. After hearing the explanations we knew were coming, her Father and I asked a question of our own: what was the school going to do to disavow the child of the conclusion she had reached? They were as responsible for addressing the matter as we were (as far as we were concerned), and we were looking it the issue from a “team” approach: help us help her make peace with the classroom environment and perform to the best of her abilities.

The child's scholastic performance was stellar. Behaviourally....

A few years have passed since that initial meeting. The question is still asked by the child, and dutifully taken to the teacher(s) at parent-teacher conferences. The school has done nothing to address her beliefs that she, too, must have an “issue” of some sort to be in a class full of children with “issues”. She has taken to back-talk, petulance, disrespect, and other “misbehaviors” in imitation of her classmates: my 6 yr old was taught to cuss in the school yard, throw tantrums when frustrated, and be non-compliant in the classroom : “I don't get it” is her catch-phrase of choice to avoid doing something she doesn't want to. The ESL kids have begun to teach her Chinese word-characters: she can write a dozen or more.

We're now questioning if we did the right thing by having the child in Mainstream: we'd never stopped to consider that it would also be the only place for students with special needs, regardless of the form, and in such numbers. When 18 out of 22 children have some sort of need for extra support, counselling, and resources, it's not hard to commiserate with the tyke and the conclusions she's drawn from her experiences.

There were no behavioural issues to speak of prior to Grade One. Now there is. “What's wrong with me?” has become an effort to fit in, and be like the others in the class, in all it's ugliness. We told the child that swearing and violence were for those not smart enough to use their words properly, but that's a tough line to follow when you're being hit and called a “f**king b**ch” by a classmate. When the other children are given less work than you are, because they're language-challenged, you feel resentful and don't want to do the extra work: it doesn't seem “fair”.

“What's wrong with me?” .... not a damned thing, until a Mainstream class placement in an Immersion school lent itself to an education of a different sort.No one wants to talk about it, or work to finding a solution, either. There's absolutely no accountability or help to be had, we're on our own to deal with the issue ourselves.

I've reached the conclusion that Immersion and Mainstream don't belong in the same school. I've got walking proof that the kids NOT in Immersion are suffering for their placement in bilingual school set-ups. I wanted my child to be proficient in her Mother Language, which happens to be the accepted International language of business and commerce, before she learned another.

The result is that I have a daughter that can read and write extremely well for her age, and that is now a behavioural handful and disciplinary issue.

Mich's Mumbles © 2011

How it started: an odyssey into Elder Care

Christmas of 1976 was one of excitement and anticipation. Our family had moved in to the Interior, to my Dad's family's farm; my Mom had relatives in that small town, too.

Part of the excitement was that us kids were to see two really BIG Christmas celebrations over two days : one with our Mom's Danish side, and one with our Dad's farming side. ALL of the family members (on both sides) were present that year, including my father's 76 yr old grandmother, Gramma Lora.

Lora lived in an extended care unit attached to the hospital in town. A brain aneurism in her late 60's had left her a hemi-plegic on the left side, and with a nasty speech slur. Wheel-chair dependent, she wasn't happy about where she was living ... but also knew, there wasn't a helluva lot of choice. I remember my Dad bribing us kids with DQ sundaes , so we'd go with him to visit Gramma Lora in the hospital with him : we HATED goin' there, it smelled ooky, and there was all these old people reaching out to try and touch us and talk to us (until Gramma Lora clued in , and then she'd bark to leave her kin be ).

My Mom had always wanted to be a nurse, and had even gone as far as getting textbooks from a friend to read up and study the subject ... but it would be another 10 yrs before she acted on that desire and followed through. As soon as my Dad and Granddad got back to the farmhouse with Gramma Lora, my Mom snapped into action ... and what a show.

It was like my Mom had an INSTINCT for helping mind Gramma Lora : it was as if she had precognitive abilities, she was anticipating things that others didn't seem to .

As the drinks were poured and the conversations got louder, my Mom leaned over and said to Gramma Lora " Gramma, I have to use the lil girls room, c'mon, let's go, you're coming with me ... " , then leaned over and fetched her makeup bag from her purse with the comment , "and we'll freshen up before dinner while we're at it".

My Mom wheeled Gramma Lora down to the main bathroom, closed the door ... and what the Hell, I hear GIGGLES from Gramma Lora ?

If they were gone for 5 minutes of "real" time, I'm a liar ... but my Mom had known that the old girl wouldn't ask to be taken and transferred to a toilet , it was too embarassing for her to do so ... there'd been a previous visit when my Mom had NOT been there, and a pee accident was the result : that wasn't happening on my Mom's watch !

Gramma Lora was returned to the head of the table, fresh powder and lipstick on her face, BEAMING , and with an empty bladder. My nose told me that my Mom had found Gramma Fran's baby powder in the main bathroom, and it was obvious she'd helped Gramma Lora with a comb, as well. No one else took Gramma Lora to pee that night : my Mom kept an eye on what she was drinking and when, and used her OWN bladder as an excuse to take Gramma Lora WITH HER to the bathroom : sorta like the ladies will do at a restaurant, going together to find a ladies room.

There was humor and dignity in my Mom's actions that Christmas, ones that ensured Gramma Lora adored her as much as she adored my Dad . The nursing home could serve Gramma Lora poached eggs and toast for breakfast, and she'd KICK at the nurses with her good foot ... but if WE served it at the farmhouse for her, it was five-star dining ... both of my parents would tease about that when she wasn't around to hear.

I decided, then and there, that nursing homes / extended care units were not good places, and be damned my mom or dad would ever know what it was like to be in one.

Fast forward 9 years ... the Summer of 1985. We were back in Vancouver by then, Gramma Lora had passed away the Summer following that awesome Christmas. I met my husband that year, and was surprised to discover that his mom and my Dad's mom were the same age : both women were born in 1922. As we talked and came to know one another, I made it quite clear that I could not be married to a man that did not share my views on taking care of older parents : he shared that view. He'd watched as his parents had tried to take care of HIS grandma, and resort to a care home for her when they couldn't muster the necessary support ; he wanted better for his own mother.

I took two runs at nurses training over the next 7 yrs ... nope, didn't graduate, didn't licence, and did NOT like working in the field, either : undignified assmebly line care that didn't acknowledge the PERSON within , was a huge piss off and was disrespectful to the clientele.

In 1999, hubby's mom approached us ... she was 77 years old, and was going blind . She lived in fear of being in a care-home , but knew that it wouldn't be much longer before she was gonna be unsafe in her own house ....

And so, the odyssey began.

We made a deal to BUY the house from my Mother-in-Law, and let her live on in it . We'd suite the basement and live down there --- her overhead meant I could hear her better (and she became prone to falling, so this was a wise move on our part !).

We had NO idea of what we'd gotten ourselves into ... but I'd like to share some of what we learned . I'd have given almost anything to have had such an option in '99, there was no information for us to wield as regards help and outside resources .

I called that woman, "Skinny Blind Thang" , and kid ya not, she'd laugh about it .... I remember my Dad calling Gramma Lora "Old Chickie Skin", and Lora laughing in the same way .

That twisted sense of humor was to be integral to the next 8 years. I was puked on, shit on, and argued with ; issues of immediacy and manipulation were rife. But until her final illness, Skinny Blind Thang was cared for and minded in her home of 40 years.

What an odyssey it turned out to be, too.

Mich's Mumbles © 2011

My Daughter's Nickname

 We all do it: our children are given a name, and somehow or another end up with a "pet" name within the family.  There's love to be had in those goofy monikers.

Many years ago now, KOKANEE beer was hitting the air with commercials for (what was then) a new brew. These commercials featured a sasquatch, of all things, and played off of the legends of the creatures in B.C.. One of the commercials had said sasquatch speaking to his Missus, unseen by the camera: he referred to her as his "MugWump".


Once our infant daughter was mobile, she proved to be very determined to get into mud and mud- puddles: anything to do with water, and she made a bee- line for it. As her first birthday approached, and I was spending time out in the back yard gardening and such, it was a daily battle to keep that child from wearing the outdoors into the indoors! Of course, being the evil Momma that I am, I have video footage of the child playing naked in a mud puddle: she'd stripped herself down on her way to play in it. Her blue eyes were the only part of her recognizable, all else was hidden by the mud she'd painted herself in.

"O you little MuDwump", is what came out of my mouth with a sigh.  Her Dad just roared, and she had a nickname, one that remains with her to this day.

Anyone that knows me any well knows I've a love of reading and trivia. I'd rather poke my nose into a book than to watch TV at night. The local library is a favorite weekend trip for all of us, and was so again just recently.

I'm reading a trivia book called "- ISMS AND - OLOGIES", by Arthur Goldwag... and came across this entry:

MUGWUMPISM
Probably a corruption of MUGGUOMP, an Algonquin word for "war chief".

Apparently Ambrose Bierce's DEVILS DICTIONARY defines it as " one who is afflicted with self respect and addicted to the vice of independence". (that is SO my daughter.... rofl).

The term was given a negative connotation in the 1930's , as being "one of them boys who always has his mug on one side of the political fence, and his wump on the other"; that connotation is apparently the still- present one (boo).

I find irony in discovering the history of the word, and it's meanings .... and hooo boy, does the first two definitions ever suit the determined scamp: while there isn't a destructive or mean bone in her body, she will do battle over anything she doesn't want to do.... she'll simply refuse to cooperate, and question you to death as a stall tactic.

I'm raising a MUDWUMP.... and arguing my way through a lot of laundry.



Mich's Mumbles©2011