They Came at Night...

They came at night. I should have known they would. Earlier that evening I stepped out onto the back deck to call Cricket in for the night. Out of the shadows she bounded towards me, slipping past my legs and into the house. No pleading calls into the dusky evening required this time. As I turned to go back into the house something caught my attention from the corner of my eye. Tiny, muddy paw prints scattered around the cat's water dish, now empty except for a few drops of dirty water. What the....? Shaking my head in annoyance, I took the dish inside, rinsed it out and refilled it with fresh, clean water. I put it back outside for Gord's cat.

Hours later, as I was checking my email in my downstairs office before turning in for the evening, I heard several thumps coming from the vicinity of the back deck. Grumbling to myself, I hurried up the stairs, flipping on lights as I went. Cricket blinked at me in surprise as I barrelled into the kitchen, then resumed her agitated pacing on the ledge of the open, screened kitchen window. I shoved open the back door, turning the porch light on at the same time. My eyes darted to the cat's water dish, once again empty and surrounded by fresh muddy prints.

I scanned the deck quickly, taking a startled half step backwards when my searching eyes found 4 sets of masked eyes staring back at me. We stood there, frozen in time, the five of us, as though in some weird naturalist tableau, the clicking of the moths batting the outside light the only sound. Suddenly, spurred to action by the thought of these intruders daring to encroach on my territory, I leapt forward, stomping my feet and yelling at them to get out! Over and over again I stomped and yelled as they scrambled off the deck. All but one - the largest of the bunch. He hesitated by the railing, growling. I growled deep in my throat right back at him and threw my waving arms into the mix. That pushed him over the edge and he wedged his fat, furry body through the railings and into my flower bed before loping up onto the lawn where he stopped once again.

"Get OUT!" I yelled again, not caring that my neighbours were probably wondering by now what the commotion was. The little beast stood his ground, his tiny, clawed paws clenched as he growled, his dark, squinty eyes glaring at me in defiance, the black mask standing out in the beam from my porch light. I heard the others scrabbling furiously beneath my feet under the deck and stomped again but that only served to drive them deeper under the deck. The lone bandit on the lawn looked around, sizing up his chances of taking me on. My eyes darted around the deck, searching for something to chase him away with. The water hose was my only option but it was on the other side of the railing, too close to the enemy and I feared what might happen if I got within striking distance. I had no previous experience with these creatures. Finally, after yelling myself hoarse and almost giving myself shin splints from all the stomping the bandit loped away. The others below me cowered in fear but I had no desire to crawl under there after them. With the battle only partly won I went back into the house, muttering curses under my breath.

The next morning I went outside to assess the damage. Those little devils had clawed the tops off of two of my water pipes that contains the wiring for my underground sprinkler system. For some inexplicable reason they had dug up the dirt around them and deposited it in the pipes, filling them up to the top, completely covering the wiring! Then afterwards they had come up onto the deck and washed their 'hands' in the cat's water dish!!!

Raccoons! I used to think they were cute. Now I'm spending my days contemplating ways of bringing about their demise!!!

Once a Poet....

I used to love poetry. I suppose I still do but I just haven't been spending much (any?) time reading it. Or writing it. Which is what I did when I was a teenager. I suppose those anguished, Technicolour years are fertile ground for bad poetry but still, it helped define an era for me.

I remember writing poems about the current war at the time, the one being fought in Vietnam as well as the university campuses throughout America. And we here in Canada played our part by helpfully taking in the draft dodgers, trying to save lives in our own way. It was a war that couldn't be won and eventually a battle fatigued American government admitted what the protesters had been saying all along and left Vietnam, shamed and broken. Fast forward to Iraq today and the futility of that unjust war. Things never change.

One of the poems I wrote in high school was called Child Of War. I'd always felt especially sad for all the innocent children who suffer in wars. It was a dramatic and I thought emotionally touching poem. My English instructor thought it a tad too dramatic. I, of course, was outraged that he couldn't understand what I wanted to convey. I mean, how can a child's plight be too dramatic? Looking back now I think he was probably a bit jaded as perhaps maybe I am today too. For all the protests and concerts and international forums conducted in the name of stopping wars, well things haven't really changed, have they? Still, we struggle on and that's something, I suppose.

Awhile back I tried my hand at writing poetry again. A good friend had emailed me a poem she wrote and that inspired me to write. This time I forgot about trying to rhyme my lines, forgot about writing an epic length poem, forgot about writing a meaningful political message. Instead, I let my mind wander free flow and came up with just four lines. Still, I wasn't totally displeased with the result. And who knows, maybe the mood will strike me again someday and I'll come up with another four lines!

Into the heart of darkness
There is a distinct absence of pain;
The mystic chords of memory
Circumvent the brain to pierce the soul.

Operation Petticoat

Okanagan Lake - late summer afternoon

Just for fun the other day I took an online Myers-Briggs personality test. It's always hard to self-evaluate, which is why in the past I've bugged my friends to tell me what they really think of me. Of course, there's bound to be bias in their answers, especially if they value our friendship and want it to continue but still, I've been surprised more than once at some of their evaluations.

Anyway, back to the Myers-Briggs test. One bit of advice that I thought was interesting was to think back to when I was a child, preferably before the age of 12, because at that time in life our personalities haven't been changed or layered with all the shoulds and conventions of society. So I thought back to what I was like as a child, bearing in mind that we all filter our perceptions of ourselves, even in childhood. But also, I think, our memories of childhood can be extremely vivid. Somehow, childhood experiences seem to imprint on our brains in a way far more permanent than later experiences.

So what did I remember? I was a painfully shy child. Growing up with brothers in the country I had to learn to fend for myself and of course, there was that element of competition as well, even though my brothers were four and seven years older than me. Hence, I became a tomboy. And that trait probably stuck with me, even to this day. Maybe that's why I always pushed myself to do things that scared me slightly. Nothing really crazy but challenging enough to make me feel proud when I did it.

I remember I didn't want to be a cheerleader in high school, instead I wanted to be on the team. And I was, joining the basketball, grass hockey and tennis teams. Screw sitting around on the sidelines watching others play. There was the time my girlfriend asked me if I wanted to go in the White Truck Raft Race with her and without hesitation I said yes. Whereby we set about building our own raft out of plywood and two large truck inner tubes. We painted it a gaudy pink and named it Operation Petticoat, after a popular TV show at the time. A prophetic name, as it turned out since one tube popped shortly after we launched into the swirling vortex of rafts at the start of the race on Mission Creek. From then on we paddled furiously, struggling to guide our half-sunken raft down the creek to the lake miles away.

The interesting thing about that race that I remember to this day is that never once did we think of giving up. There were only 3 rafts that were manned by girls (we were only 19 at the time) and the rest were manned by guys, all stronger and apparently better raft builders than us. But, and here's the thing, as the race progressed we noticed some rafts pulling out. Guys just giving up. And there we were, laughing and paddling our way towards the lake and the Fintry Queen paddlewheeler off shore, which was our finish line.

We came in dead last. And we got a prize for it! For not giving up, for persevering, for being the best sports! And I remember being so happy and exhausted and a warm beer never tasted so good. Our parents were there at the dock cheering for us when the Fintry Queen came in. And my dad, who wasn't prone to lavish praise was given to telling his friends about the race months after the event. For me, that was probably the sweetest prize of all.

I Shake My Head

A short while ago....

So, I was running up the stairs and slipped and whacked my knee against the step. Waves of white hot pain swept over my body as I doubled over, clutching my knee in silent agony. I limped back to my computer and after a minute, unclenched my teeth as the pain mercifully eased and finally faded away.

So, I'm typing a reply to an email and into my consciousness seeps a dawning awareness of something sticky on my sweat pants. I reach down and notice a patch of dampness. Gingerly I pull up my pant leg to reveal a neat little gash just below my knee, a trickle of blood working its way down my leg. Jeez, I think to myself, the next time I'm in such agony maybe I should check for damage!

A little while later I'm taking the laundry out of the dryer. Mum pops into the laundry room and I comment on a particularly threadbare towel of hers. She tells me that's her favourite bath towel. Uses it all the time. Got it the same week that Frank and Bernice got married. Say what? Frank and Bernice got married over 45 years ago!!!! Do ya think it's time to throw it out? What for, she says? It's still good. You kids, she mutters under her breath, as though there are more than just me with her in the room. Always wanting to throw perfectly good things out. I return to folding the towels, giving in without a fight. What's the use? All I can do is give my head a shake.

A few days later...

I was doing laundry again - seems it's becoming a habit with me - and came across (wait.................wait........................yes, you guessed it..........) a threadbare ancient Hudson's Bay blanket, the edges frayed, darned squares scattered throughout - evidence of quiet winter evenings of long ago, my mother sitting on the chesterfield, hunched over the blanket, eyes straining in the light of the coal oil lamp as she darns yet another hole. And how long has this venerable blanket been in our family? Since Christmas 1952. Oh yes, that's right. The blanket has done one better than the 45 year old towel. It claims the honourary Energizer Bunny Throne at 54 years of age and still going strong!


Cricket looks on as Mum mends her blanket...again.

Time to Hunker Down For Winter

I can't deny it any longer. Summer is over. We're deep in the midst of autumn and yes, it truly is beautiful in my part of the world at this time of year. But...winter is coming. In fact, we had our first snowfall the other day. It only lasted a day but in that day, those 24 hours, we had 26 accidents on the road in the valley! Happens every year - no one is prepared for the snow - all season tires just don't cut it on slick roads.

Now it's just bleak and gray and rainy and ugh....typical November outside. I feel the need for something to ward off those November blues. So I comfort myself with the thought that in just over 6 weeks it will be the first day of winter - the shortest, darkest day of the year - and then after that the days get longer. The sun will return, I will drag myself out of the doldrums and life will resume as I know and love it.

Of course, if the sun comes out tomorrow then all this rubbish will be forgotten!

Weird Family

And you thought your family was weird? My sister-in-law picked up a couple of "joke" spectacles at the dollar store the other day and brought them to a family birthday party. As we all sat around chatting (and I swear, we were not drinking!) she handed them around and we all proceeded to laugh hysterically as each one of us in turn put them on. If anyone had driven up at that moment they might have thought we were suffering from mass insanity. But hey, it was just a normal night in the life of the Ficke family.

Cricket's Most Un-Excellent Adventure

So, last night after dinner I went outside to call Cricket in for the evening. Alas, the little minx was nowhere to be found. Every hour on the hour I poked my head out the back door and called in vain. At 9 p.m. my brother's cat showed up. At 10 p.m. my other brother's cat showed up. At 11 p.m. a black and white cat that I've never seen showed up. At midnight no one showed up. Just as I was about to go inside I heard a very faint meowing. (Thank God I wore ear protection all these years while operating heavy machinery!)

With my ears now perked and straining to discern where the meowing was coming from I grabbed a flashlight and started searching. Eventually my finely attuned ears led me to the old schoolhouse. (Yes, we have an historic schoolhouse on our property but that's another story.) At first I thought she was just locked inside but when I heaved open the heavy door and shone my flashlight in Cricket was nowhere to be seen. Then again, the place was so crammed full of, well, everything that my brother Gordon could possibly cram in there that I would have been hard pressed to find an elephant!

I didn't see Cricket but I sure could hear her. After stumbling around for ages with my puny flashlight I finally figured out that she was stuck up in the ceiling in the space between the ceiling and the roof. One of the boards had come away and there was Cricket's little face peering out at me, blinking in the beam of my flashlight. My heart sank when I realized that she was at least 20 feet up and out of my reach.

I found a ladder but it was no where near long enough. I propped it up against the wall where the roof slanted down to meet the wall. I grabbed a crowbar and climbed up. Cricket was by now excitedly running back and forth up top. I pried off a board to expose a narrow space between the roof and the inner wall and proceeded to call and cajole and wheedle and beseech Cricket to come down. And believe it or not, she crawled down the slanted side of the roof towards me. A little paw stuck out and vainly searched around for solid footing. I reached in and grabbed hold of her but she started to panic because of the tight space and I didn't have enough of her to hold onto and she scrambled back up to the ceiling. No amount of coaxing could get her back down and an hour later at just after 1 a.m. I reluctantly gave up and left her to spend the night in the schoolhouse.

This morning she was still up there. Once again I climbed the ladder but there was no way she was even attempting to come back down that narrow crawl space again. I enlisted the help of Gordon but he failed as well. We needed a longer ladder and I left in search of one. A phone call to my brother Ron's place found my nephew Martin at home. He never did answer me as to why he was home on a school day but be that as it may it was my good fortune. He brought down an extension ladder and set it up so that we could climb right up to the ceiling. He had to take the crowbar and pry out a couple of short boards and you can fill in the picture here with your imagination of the piles of bird and mouse and whatever else droppings that rained down on us as the boards popped out! Ugh! We're talking many, many, many years of accumulation!

Anyway, as I looked up through the swirling dust and debris there was Cricket's sweet little face poking out through the hole. But when Martin tried to reach for her she shied away. Little brat. So I went back into the house and got a packet of her favourite treats and climbed up the ladder with a mission. I was not coming down without that cat. I reached in with some treats in my hand and called her. Unsuspecting, she came right up to me and snatched one. When she came back for the second treat I reached in with my other hand and grabbed her. A struggle of epic proportions ensued but I doggedly hung onto the struggling mass of freaked out cat and finally, after nearly losing my grip twice I managed to haul her down through the hole in the ceiling and wrap her in my bird poop covered arms. Suddenly, the fight left her and she snuggled against me, her little heart beating furiously. Twelve hours after I had first discovered her stuck up in the school house the drama was over. Needless to say, Cricket is grounded!!!