Saturday, June 23, 2007

The Dead Lamp Collection

I call it my dead lamp collection. A corner of my basement, a darkened hallway, behind the bookshelf, all repositories of my wanton consumerism. This is where the cheap lamps lie, $12.99 from Costco, 10 bucks from the Stupidstore. New, plastic-wrapped, boxed, and functional…at least for awhile.

Now I mean this as a bit of a confession. A confession because my neighbourhood and my conscience are filled with ardent recyclers and greener than the grass types. And “a bit of” because I am not really certain how guilty I should feel. The social measure, the checks and balances, confuses me. It was for sale after all. And on sale. Aren’t I supposed to buy it? I need a lamp or two to light my living room. Here’s a lamp, next to the 100-pack of white gym socks, of course, where else would it be. $12.99. I need it, it needs me. Cha-ching.

The downside, as you may have guessed, is that they are cheap for a reason, they don’t live long. Duh, you may say. Yet, how often are you shocked when something recently purchased doesn’t perform, or gasps its dying breath 4000 days before you expected it to? Cheap or expensive, “I can’t believe it…what a piece of sh#%” is a common refrain. If it was an expensive piece of shit, you try to get your money back. If it was cheap, you grow a graveyard. But my growing graveyard of bargain illumination haunts me. What do I do with it all?

Landfill. Yup, that’s all I can do. My husband has replaced the metal fixture thingy at the top of an Ikea lamp more times than I can count. It’s dead. Put down the paddles. Mark the chart. And my blue box doesn’t take dead Ikea lamps. Or dead Costco lamps. No dead lamps period. Love thy basement.

My lightless, uncoffined skeletons make me want to redeem myself in other ways. I yearn to find cool clothes at my local twice-around shop. Trouble is: they charge more than the “out-sourced” clothing available at the mall. Plus they never have my size, and tiger-striped skirts were never my style. And not to make a long story long, but how much time is reasonable to spend searching for that fab previously-loved garment? 2? 3 hours? I do have a life you know.

One redemptive item, no kidding, is the gargantuan plastic play structure in my backyard. It is chunky purple and yellow plastic, with a slide and a steering wheel. My toddler loves it. It’s redeeming because a neighbour was giving it away…just left it!! At the bottom of the street. A “for free” sign nestled against it. And I scooped it, my 16-month old and I dragging it six houses uphill like cats that ate the canary, a big canary, a 200-pound canary. O.k., o.k., my husband came by in the car and hauled it home, but still. And there it towers, my testament to re-use, to what my grandma called a “hand-me-down”. Apparently, a long long time ago, there was something called “poverty”, or in some families “conservation”, in others “practicality”. During this magical time, consumer products were built to last and people responded accordingly: they passed items they no longer needed onto those who did require or want them, to family, to friends, to friends of friends. No basement graveyards. This is what my big hunk of plastic feels like, that magical time. Ha, you say. Not so, say I. Family making is community building and community building means sharesies.

There are of course many types of consumer mother or father to consider, but these two seem clear: that parent who must purchase the newest, trendiest, most-coveted toy, article of clothing, diaper, whatever-of-all. And, the one who freely gives and exchanges items of all sorts, however well-loved or unworn the item may have been. As a first-time mother 11 years ago, I know I was a member of the former. 11 years on and a new arrival, my views, my needs, my expectations, call them what you will are…well, open. To stuff. Your stuff. Pre-loved stuff. Old stuff. Good old stuff. Is there something in between a mom using a toy library and one using ToysRUs?

A trite eco-message this may seem but the trick is that we all want the best for our children, and for ourselves. The real trick is that the best may be a hand-me-down, not a shiny new penny. Or a shiny new $12.99 something. Even in my green green neighbourhood, the mothers are of moderate to high-income and have moderate to high consumer needs and expectations, according to the social measure of course. And as soon as the social measure is a social-conscience measure, shopping and not shopping may get easier.

My dead lamp collection is my dawning consumer-conscience. Their sad, skinny silhouettes in the half-lit cellar are constant reminders of my lack of common sense and short-sightedness. So, I propose my own one-tonne challenge, one Rick Mercer never spewed: Buy less crap. And covet the ass thy neighbour no longer wants. Or something like that.

Club Rest Stop

As a child I feared the rest stop. It was dark, or, in the day, desolate. Dirty toilets and a lone picnic table. The rest stop seemed a last resort, so to speak, a place for people who had nowhere else to stop. We, well, we always had a place to stop: the end of our journey, be it Vancouver, or Terrace, or Prince George, damn, sometimes Billy’s Puddle. There was no resting and no stopping. Mom and I, we were on a road trip, minus the trip, just a whole lot of road and then the end.

It was the 70’s and my mom was the only single mom I knew. Somehow our road trips connect to this. We were on the fringe and on the road. I was the only 7-year old I knew that belted out Jackson Browne by heart (and the squeaky voice at the end of “Stay” was my all- time favorite belting out moment). I know more songs by The Little River Band than any 30-something should know, or confess to. I’m not really certain now why we were ever on any road trips but there were two unspoken rules. Munchies and barreling through. Pee breaks only. Side of the road. Rest stops were for… well, not us.

So, 25 years later, I now find myself on the road with my little travelers, devastated that my 10-year old gets too car sick for munchies and by the fact that Baby Einstein squeaks from the portable dvd player in the back seat while I bemoan the absence of my mom’s devil-may-care tunes and timetable. The other fact is: my 15-month old needs a rest stop. Walking since he was 7 ½ months, our lil’ Tru is a man of action. Let no car seat stand in his way. Damn the torpedoes. These bowlegs are made for walking. Or something like that. In other words, if you don’t let me out of this car, I will flip my adorable lid. The Bramble rest stop was born. Literally.

Our first road trip en famille was to the Mile High Resort -- bearing no relation to the Mile High Club and, as it was a family reunion of sorts, such a connection would be most inappropriate and just plain weird-- near Logan Lake, in B.C.’s beautiful Interior. Somewhere around the Coquihalla summit, we see our wee one’s head start to spin around and, fearing projectile anything, we lurch into the nearest rest stop.

With trepidation, I unload the kids and survey the grounds. To my surprise, fellow travelers mill around chatting, bustle to the loos, gather around the food vending truck. It is almost festive. Nothing like the perceived rest stops of my childhood. Not dirty. Not desolate. No sagebrush lolling about rusted machines in the sand. No men in trench coats with bare knees. This was no Kalifornia. We make our own runs to the toilet, scrape change together for ice cream and poke at the leftover snow ‘round the picnic tables. Best of all: lil’ Tru stretches and stretches and stretches his legs. We can face the road again.

After the 3-day craziness of our Irish-Scots clan celebration—much alcohol, a little fishing, and endless stories round the fire, all at each other’s expense of course -- we buckle up and head home, but this time we know where we were going first. No mad-hope-through-Hope-you-don’t-get-a-ticket dash to the ferry for us. Nope. We are headed for a rest stop. When we arrive, our chosen stop boasts picnic tables sheltered by rustling birches, a hot/cold vendor, a wood craftsman selling his wares, and most importantly, running room & a clean bathroom. The kids meet a dog and some Japanese tourists while snacking on fresh blueberries and hitting golf balls. It seems, well, kind of like a vacation. Here we rested. As we pull away to make whatever ferry will have us and let us return to our island paradise, I realize this rest stop probably hasn’t changed much in the 25 years I had avoided it, but I have, and I suddenly understand that the rest stop is a magical place of rest and refuge when you need it and just a blue sign on the highway when you don’t. I know it sees its share of desolate moments as it does festive ones and the sign outside the bathroom entrance reminds me of this and of the many empty miles in our country far and wide: Keep this bathroom clean: you may be the next person to use it.

Oh, won’t you staaaaaaay just a little bit longer please please please stay just a little more. Hey hey hey.


(As published in Monday Magazine, August 2006)

Brand FOX

A month or so ago, my ten-year old and I were perusing the shelves of a local bookstore in search of a Winston Churchill biography. My son idolizes and idealizes the great War Prime Minister for reasons both understood and unfathomable to me. When I was ten, my Ken doll was hot and feathered hair was my one goal. However, support him I do, in all his frivolous schemes. So there we were, thumbing through lives of the rich or famous when a lovely photo-biography of Terry Fox caught our attention.

Of course, we’d both scraped pledges in the annual school runs; even at his tender age, my son has participated in no less than 5 Marathons of Hope. My own September primary school memories are grazed with a diaphanous image of “our” tousled-hair Terry and his endearing gait. Now, in our hands, was a touching, and in the way only photographs can be, painfully honest record of Terry’s life and achievements (I say and write “Terry” here as most Canadians do, as if he is a member of our own families, and, mistakenly, as if I knew him, knew his struggle, knew his heart).

I lie. The biography was not really honest or truly painful; it was no more honest than my knowledge of Terry is first-hand. It presented images of people and items from Terry’s short life and worthy dream: family barbeques, running shorts, the sock. In a small voice squeezed through the pinhole my airpipe had become, I declared to my son that it was a beautiful book about a beautiful and courageous young man. And it was and it is. Yet it is dishonest in that, however poignant, the clean images are as far removed from the stench of terminal illness as the glorious swath of school children streaming down the street each mid-September morning “marathon” are.

Within a few minutes of reading some perturbing reports of death and anarchy after Katrina and her ferocious waves tore through the bowl of a city known as New Orleans, I found myself humming a particular Hip tune. You know the one. I wondered to myself if it was getting some renewed airplay in light of events down south. I read several days later, to my indignation, that, in order to show sensitivity to those who have suffered great loss in New Orleans, “New Orleans is Sinking” by the Tragically Hip had been pulled from some radio playlists. First of all, I’m fairly certain it’s a clever metaphor of a song. Second, since when do the media decline to play or print stories that may be insensitive? Did no one see the photographs of floating bodies or catch the sensational headlines: “Katrina survivors screaming for help”, “All I found was a shoe”? Third, it’s true. New Orleans is sinking. Was and is. Besides, when your heart is broken, you don’t sing love songs, you sing down and nasty saaaaaaaaaaaad songs. With broken homes, hearts, souls and bodies, maybe that’s just what some New Orleanians want to sing and maybe, just maybe, they don’t wanna swim either. Gord and the guys just got too darned close to the truth, the honesty of the stench.

So here it is: we’ve wrapped up Terry in a beautiful branded box. This true hero: Brand Fox. A man who believed his struggle to raise awareness and hump his broken body across Canada paled in significance to the realities of the cancer ward.

A man whose name may be behind Adidas' The Terry Fox Limited Edition Replica Shoe, but who, in the words of Ken McQueen, was "even uncomfortable with the trademark three stripes on his running shoes".

Middle-class North America could use some down and nasty to desensitize their delicate souls just as it would behoove them to remember that fresh-faced youngsters are not the face of a devasting disease. They are symbols of Hope.

Though I never knew our Terry, he is remembered for igniting Hope but also for not wanting people to wander too far from the broken hearts and bodies. I think that’s what concerned him about corporate involvement and potential exploitation. The point is to raise awareness, to make the lucky hear and help those much less so, not to create a pretty distraction. I’m guessing Terry would have liked a little more Hip and a little less brand. I never knew our Terry, but I sure wish I had.


TRY, TRY AGAIN

The other night, my husband and I had a whopper of a fight. Our worst by far, and even in our few years together, that is saying quite a bit. I had lain awake in the wee hours of the morning piecing together the straw that would break not only the camel’s back, but his mother’s as well. You see, our beautiful brown-eyed six-month old has been sharing my breasts (not too much sharing really) and our marital bed for the last, well, six months. In the beginning, he was quite a bit smaller and frankly, a bit of a novelty. Little coochie coo pudgy pookanoo sucking and snuggling. Yes, well, he’s all that and more now; twelve pounds more to be exact. And, in addition to sucking and snuggling, he’s snoring and grunting and squirming and kicking. Kill Bill-Jackie Chan-type kicking. Did I mention the breastfeeding? So, there I was, in those wee hours, cursing my lot, and my back, as I flipped back from one side to the other to accommodate my little angel. Finally, I sat up and bellowed “I just can’t f&#@*en take this anymore!!!!!”

And that’s when my husband and I decided to Ferberize.

No, it’s not a Jane Fonda routine and what I don’t know about “the Ferber method” could fill a book (Richard Ferber’s Solve Your Child’s Sleep Problems probably) but my basic grasp of the concept is that parents should let their child “cry it out” during nighttime wakings, periodically checking and comforting the child, but NOT picking him or her up! The first night we tried it, our little pudgy poo cried for approximately 25 minutes and then went off to la la land. Phew. The next night was the night hubbie and I said some pretty mean stuff to each other, as babe screamed, every hour, on the hour.

I love my husband more than anything. I mean, don’t make me choose between him and my two sons if there is a bus bearing down on them, but I love him A LOT. Why did we spew venom at each other? First, that Ferber stuff is hard, harder than watching Troy, and hard stuff requires one make an effort. Not swearing at your spouse requires work. I once told a friend of mine that when I got grumpy with my ten- or forty-year-old it was emotional laziness on my part; it was simply me not mustering the energy to think of a better approach or to take a deep breath. I just react; I react because it’s easy. She responded that that was much too harsh an assessment, that we are doing our best, that we’re all trying.

Try is one of those great duplicitous words of the English lexicon. It can be both, or either, “to make an effort to do something that may be difficult” or “to experiment with an action that might be a solution to your problem”. We often use it after we have failed to do that difficult thing or find the fix, as in: I tried not to pick him up while he was bawling his eyes out and I tried burying my head in the pillow to muffle his screams. The progressive form often elicits a snide quip: I am trying!...Yes, you certainly are (trying my patience, that is) Trying not only sounds like tiring, it looks like it. Invariably, at the end of every failure, not only are we sick and tired, we always say we tried. At least the British give it a go.

Certain self-help gurus and “life coaches” say there is no try, only do. But try shouldn’t be relegated to the losers’ corner. The lie of try is the problem. Bulletin: we are not really trying. Most of the time we are making as little effort as possible. I am not so lame that most everything I try I fail at. I am either making a conscious effort to stop trying or I didn’t really try in the first place. Take my man Ferber. I wasn’t so married to his theory to begin with. Did I try? Not so much. Did I fail? No, I just stopped trying. If I’m truly honest with myself, I swore at my husband because I was tired, but not because I tried to do something different, like laugh, or eat a bowl of ice cream. Ditto with my parenting shortcomings. I need to exert myself. Do you remember hearing that it requires more muscles to frown than smile? Well, apparently, that is not strictly true. Some now say it takes 12 muscles to smile, 11 to frown. Splitting hairs perhaps, but energy is not only summoned by your muscles. Just try to smile next time you are really pissed off (and not an insincere one…although a fake smile costs you only two puny muscles). The mental energy required to switch tracks will exhaust you.

I often complain that my fellow joggers never smile or wave back at me. My husband suggested that perhaps they’re real runners and their energy is otherwise directed to the physical task at hand, whereas I’m just a weekend Pollyanna with a goofy gait and grin. Not so. I run hard; I push my limits every run. I really exert myself. I try hard. Raising my hand, smiling, and grunting good morning almost kills me, but it seems an important gesture. It should almost kill me to be kinder to my loved ones when everything goes pear-shaped too.

Crying babies are hard to take. Raising a family can be very trying. Nobody’s perfect, but I sure try.