The dictionary states that nurture is to nourish, feed, educate, encourage, tenderly care for, and to help grow or develop. To enable is to provide with the means, knowledge or opportunity to make possible and to give sanction to something. When nurturing has gone too far, it can become enabling; there is a fine line between them.
A nurturing person is one who helps others; supports their ideas and what they do; offers encouragement and praise, and is kind and patient. A nurturer will help loved ones be responsible for their actions even if it means becoming the target for another’s anger. Those with problems should be encouraged to be responsible for their own problems. It is the same actions as those of a parent who will disapprove of the behaviour of their child but will still love him.
Being an enabler allows loved ones to behave in ways that are destructive. i.e.: an enabler may buy an alcoholic spouse alcohol; continue to lend someone money who is constantly going into debt again. By trying to help and protect, they are inadvertently making a chronic problem worse.
Some enablers also become codependents. As a codependent, they may adapt to or ignore problems. By allowing the continuation of a problem in order to avoid conflicts, it allows the person to continue to act in a destructive way. i.e.: a person who covers for her husband after being abused; or one who will make excuses for an alcoholic spouse. An enabler feels the need to be needed but on the other hand will feel taken advantage of. The enabler will sometimes enable out of fear of reprisal but lack of conflict does not solve the problem as it was intended to do.
The difference between helping and enabling is: to help is to do something for someone that they are not capable of doing themselves; to enable is to do something for them when they are capable of doing it themselves.
Tough love may become necessary when the person’s behaviour continues or becomes worse. Most enablers act out of love, loyalty and concern but they nurture dependency. Enabling can be positive. i.e.: time spent with a child, listening and letting them know how important they are to you as the parent. As a result they have enabled the child to be confident and happy. There is a fine line between the roles of nurturer and the enabler who nurtures dependency.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Expectations - A Thought
According to the dictionary, expectations are the probability of a thing happening.
In the past century, expectations were to live to the ripe old age of thirty years; the realization that many babies would not see one year old; that one’s belly would more often growl with hunger than sigh with contentment; that children would have rickets and most people would go to their grave without a full set of their own teeth.
Conditions gradually improved. People lived longer; babies had a better chance of living past their first year and fewer new mothers died during child birth. The cause of rickets was discovered and the expectation was to grow up without the bowed legs of deprivation. Many of today’s seniors may not die with their own teeth but with education and preventative measures, the expectation of young people is that they will.
More recently the dream was to have a small plot of land and a modest home. If they were able to have a car, they considered themselves the lucky ones. They worked long hours and if no catastrophe befell them, they managed a week vacation in the summertime. Their children did not have music lessons and likely ran barefoot in the summer because shoes were expensive. People lived in fear that if the father, usually the primary wage earner, fell ill or died, the family would become destitute. People had less; wanted less and were satisfied with less because they had few expectations that there could be more.
Today our expectations are higher. We expect that we will have fancy, big houses; the best of furniture and two relatively new cars. Our children likely have designer clothes; more than they will ever wear and none they will ever wear out. They have more toys than they even know they own and the latest and greatest of everything. They have lessons in everything but no time for family. The work day is shorter but the time to relax less. The feeling of gratitude for what life has given us no longer exists.
We expect higher wages and faraway and exotic vacations – going camping is no longer considered to be an enjoyable holiday. Family time is valued less and adult time is valued more. We have fewer children because we do not have time for more and large families are expensive. Our expectations are to be successful so we work towards promotions and the next rung in our chosen field.
With our new expectations, we have lost close family connections; the joy of spending fun time with a child; spending a rainy afternoon reading a book or having a relaxing meal with family without the necessity of rushing to a game, a meeting or a lesson. There’s been a swing of the pendulum. We are more self-centered – we are the ‘me’ generation. What will our expectations bring us next?
In the past century, expectations were to live to the ripe old age of thirty years; the realization that many babies would not see one year old; that one’s belly would more often growl with hunger than sigh with contentment; that children would have rickets and most people would go to their grave without a full set of their own teeth.
Conditions gradually improved. People lived longer; babies had a better chance of living past their first year and fewer new mothers died during child birth. The cause of rickets was discovered and the expectation was to grow up without the bowed legs of deprivation. Many of today’s seniors may not die with their own teeth but with education and preventative measures, the expectation of young people is that they will.
More recently the dream was to have a small plot of land and a modest home. If they were able to have a car, they considered themselves the lucky ones. They worked long hours and if no catastrophe befell them, they managed a week vacation in the summertime. Their children did not have music lessons and likely ran barefoot in the summer because shoes were expensive. People lived in fear that if the father, usually the primary wage earner, fell ill or died, the family would become destitute. People had less; wanted less and were satisfied with less because they had few expectations that there could be more.
Today our expectations are higher. We expect that we will have fancy, big houses; the best of furniture and two relatively new cars. Our children likely have designer clothes; more than they will ever wear and none they will ever wear out. They have more toys than they even know they own and the latest and greatest of everything. They have lessons in everything but no time for family. The work day is shorter but the time to relax less. The feeling of gratitude for what life has given us no longer exists.
We expect higher wages and faraway and exotic vacations – going camping is no longer considered to be an enjoyable holiday. Family time is valued less and adult time is valued more. We have fewer children because we do not have time for more and large families are expensive. Our expectations are to be successful so we work towards promotions and the next rung in our chosen field.
With our new expectations, we have lost close family connections; the joy of spending fun time with a child; spending a rainy afternoon reading a book or having a relaxing meal with family without the necessity of rushing to a game, a meeting or a lesson. There’s been a swing of the pendulum. We are more self-centered – we are the ‘me’ generation. What will our expectations bring us next?
Monday, June 22, 2009
How The Times Have Changed
My brothers and I were all within three years of age. We played together with the animals on our hobby farm, swung from vine maple trees, explored the ten acres our home sat on, made forts in the fern fields, caught mice in the pastures so we could frighten our mother; made up games, picked cascarra bark to sell, swam in Kanaka Creek and skated on the frozen lake in the winter. We roamed the countryside and followed the meandering creek wherever it took us. When we walked up the logging road on Blue Mountain we often branched off following animal trails, sometimes finding old miners shacks and rusting prospector’s equipment. We rode our bikes and exploring wherever our adventures took us, we didn’t realize how lucky we were to be living in a time when it was safe to do that. We were able to enjoy the nature that was around us; to see beauty that few young children would now see unless accompanied by parents that are most often too busy to take the time to enjoy such adventures with them.
There were few rules when I was a child. We left in the morning, promised to be careful and to be home by dinnertime. If we weren’t home by dinnertime, that’s when the rules came crashing down upon our heads. This happened seldom. Our sense of time was almost as accurate as our sense of direction.
Our lives were not filled with a lot of ‘have-to’s’; our ‘have-to’s’ consisted of doing our chores, our homework, keeping our rooms tidy and minding our manners. They did not consist of having every evening filled with soccer, baseball, karate or anything else. Our lives were not filled with a lot of structured time. We had a few music lessons and some swimming lessons. Period. Our every minute was not mapped out from morning until night. We sat over dinner talking and sometimes giggling. Actually ‘giggling at the dinner table’ was a big no-no. I still don’t see the logic of that particular rule but there were few, as I said, so I won’t make an issue of it.
Family talk was part of everyday life. We learned about our parents’ lives before we were born (was there really such a time?) and about our grandparents’ lives; we reminisced about past happy days with family and excursions taken in those early days of our childhood. We knew about family because there was time to talk about it. Dinners were not gulped down because one of us had a practice to go to.
My parents occasionally played ‘scrub’ with our friends and us and sometimes came to the creek with us; we picked berries and fruit together and we laughed often.
No doubt part of the reason for this idyllic lifestyle is that we lived in the ‘boonies’. We were not close to organized sports teams and town and school were ten miles away. Did we feel that we were missing out on anything? Perhaps we would have if there had not been other children in the area to play with.
But we improvised and were creative. At one point I attempted to organize a ‘Club’. I was the President and the Secretary because no one else wanted to be the Secretary. We had no need of a Treasurer unless someone was overdue in returning their ‘library’ book but few were interested in my small ‘library’ anyway so it was rarely a problem. I tried to organize a play. This failed miserably. I appeared to be the only one interested in producing a Play. Any limited interest in the ‘Club’ slowly petered out and eventually it disbanded, much to my disappointment.
I later came up with the idea of having a Carnival when I was about 12 years old or so. Making posters, I attached them to telephone poles in the neighbourhood to advertise the event. I wrapped old, small toys for the ‘fishing well’ game; had balloons blown up which people could try to break with darts; I sold ice cream cones, slices of watermelon and Kool Aid. And I sold old toys that my brothers and I no longer wanted.
I raised the money to purchase the ice cream, watermelon and Kool Aid originally by selling huckleberry branches (with the berries still on). I also bought a box of chocolates a couple of times and sold raffle tickets for them. I was fortunate that I didn’t get busted for not having a business license. Also most of the neighbours seemed to be pretty good sports about my entrepreneurial spirit as I heard no complaints about my ‘money earning’ techniques.
The Carnival was a huge success as not only the kids in the neigbourhood came but also many of their parents. I made enough from the Carnival to pay for the lumber so my grandfather could build a clubhouse - a girls only club - though I suspect that the money hardly covered the cost of it at all.
I look back on that Carnival day as a very exciting experience from my childhood. It is a sad thought that the children of today are unlikely to be able to enjoy these innocent adventures of youth because of the constraints of time, safety issues and other things that have taken away freedom from our children.
There were few rules when I was a child. We left in the morning, promised to be careful and to be home by dinnertime. If we weren’t home by dinnertime, that’s when the rules came crashing down upon our heads. This happened seldom. Our sense of time was almost as accurate as our sense of direction.
Our lives were not filled with a lot of ‘have-to’s’; our ‘have-to’s’ consisted of doing our chores, our homework, keeping our rooms tidy and minding our manners. They did not consist of having every evening filled with soccer, baseball, karate or anything else. Our lives were not filled with a lot of structured time. We had a few music lessons and some swimming lessons. Period. Our every minute was not mapped out from morning until night. We sat over dinner talking and sometimes giggling. Actually ‘giggling at the dinner table’ was a big no-no. I still don’t see the logic of that particular rule but there were few, as I said, so I won’t make an issue of it.
Family talk was part of everyday life. We learned about our parents’ lives before we were born (was there really such a time?) and about our grandparents’ lives; we reminisced about past happy days with family and excursions taken in those early days of our childhood. We knew about family because there was time to talk about it. Dinners were not gulped down because one of us had a practice to go to.
My parents occasionally played ‘scrub’ with our friends and us and sometimes came to the creek with us; we picked berries and fruit together and we laughed often.
No doubt part of the reason for this idyllic lifestyle is that we lived in the ‘boonies’. We were not close to organized sports teams and town and school were ten miles away. Did we feel that we were missing out on anything? Perhaps we would have if there had not been other children in the area to play with.
But we improvised and were creative. At one point I attempted to organize a ‘Club’. I was the President and the Secretary because no one else wanted to be the Secretary. We had no need of a Treasurer unless someone was overdue in returning their ‘library’ book but few were interested in my small ‘library’ anyway so it was rarely a problem. I tried to organize a play. This failed miserably. I appeared to be the only one interested in producing a Play. Any limited interest in the ‘Club’ slowly petered out and eventually it disbanded, much to my disappointment.
I later came up with the idea of having a Carnival when I was about 12 years old or so. Making posters, I attached them to telephone poles in the neighbourhood to advertise the event. I wrapped old, small toys for the ‘fishing well’ game; had balloons blown up which people could try to break with darts; I sold ice cream cones, slices of watermelon and Kool Aid. And I sold old toys that my brothers and I no longer wanted.
I raised the money to purchase the ice cream, watermelon and Kool Aid originally by selling huckleberry branches (with the berries still on). I also bought a box of chocolates a couple of times and sold raffle tickets for them. I was fortunate that I didn’t get busted for not having a business license. Also most of the neighbours seemed to be pretty good sports about my entrepreneurial spirit as I heard no complaints about my ‘money earning’ techniques.
The Carnival was a huge success as not only the kids in the neigbourhood came but also many of their parents. I made enough from the Carnival to pay for the lumber so my grandfather could build a clubhouse - a girls only club - though I suspect that the money hardly covered the cost of it at all.
I look back on that Carnival day as a very exciting experience from my childhood. It is a sad thought that the children of today are unlikely to be able to enjoy these innocent adventures of youth because of the constraints of time, safety issues and other things that have taken away freedom from our children.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
The Motorhome Experience
After acquiring a motorhome, but having driven nothing much bigger than a Toyota Echo, I was a little concerned about my ability to handle 28 feet of metal traveling along the highway in the company of big-rig trucks. “There’s nothing to it,” those with experience told me. “You just have to watch your back end when you turn a corner,” they added. While these things are true, I felt there must be a whole lot more that they had failed to mention. What about the width, the height, the lack of visibility, my nervousness? They had forgotten to mention those things.
As I climbed behind the wheel for the first time, I looked in the side mirror and was convinced the motorhome was closer to 100 feet long rather than the 28 feet they told us it was when we bought it. Shifting into gear, I inched away from our house while I kept my eyes on all of the mirrors. “Don’t worry about the rear-view mirror,” I was told. I inwardly scoffed. ‘Who had ever heard such nonsense?’
I drove slowly, heading towards an area of quiet streets to do my practicing. Block by block I slowly began to gain confidence and an hour later I felt comfortable enough to drive into a garage for gas. It was easier than I had anticipated. I hadn’t broken out into a sweat and nor had I had any near misses. This certainly wasn’t as bad as I had expected when I lay awake thinking about my ‘maiden’ trip the night before.
With two hours of experience under my belt, we headed for the open highway on our first trip with me as the driver. We were going to be traveling through mountainous terrain. Having always prided myself on taking ‘the bull by the horns’, there was no way those words, ‘I can’t do it’ would ever pass my lips. However, to be on the safe side, another couple followed us for my first experience ‘just in case’ I happened to turn chicken on route.
We traveled the Hope Princeton Highway which is considered to be one of the most difficult roads in the province of British Columbia. I was told when we set off, ‘don’t worry and don’t look down’. I believe they thought those were words to instill confidence in my first-time effort to navigate this highway while driving a motorhome. As we traveled, I kept my eyes on the road; they looked nowhere else.
I began to realize as I drove that ‘voices of experience’ are so comfortable that they forget to tell all they learned as new drivers of a motorhome. There were several things I learned in those first few hours that those experienced drivers didn’t think to tell me.
- In spite of what I was told, the rear-view mirror is a big help. When vehicles traveled too close behind me, I was able to see the tops of their roofs even if I wasn’t able to see them in my side mirrors; so I was aware that someone was traveling much too closely behind me.
- Keeping a firm grip on the steering wheel I found was very important when traveling where big rigs are sharing the road with you. I was surprised to discover that the wind they make as they pass will rock the motorhome. Also, when traveling in open spaces, there is a strong likelihood there will be gusts of wind across the highway and the motorhome could shift quite significantly.
- Steer wide when making right-hand turns.
- Stay at a speed that is comfortable to you. I felt 90 km/h was a comfortable speed to begin with. (When traveling at a consistent speed, gas consumption is also reduced.)
- The small round mirrors on the side mirrors can save your life; they are the ones that will let you know if someone is in your blind spot. Make good use of them.
- Try to angle the vehicle when pulling into traffic in order to get the best view possible of approaching traffic.
- Stay in the slow lane and don’t feel pressured to go faster than you are comfortable with.
When we stopped in Princeton for coffee, our friends told me that if I can drive the Hope-Princeton Highway, I will be able to drive anywhere. I proceeded to our next destination with a lot more confidence than I had when we first began our trip.
Once again the words, ‘I can’t do it’ didn’t pass my lips and I was able to do what I initially thought would be even scarier than a trip to the dentist. After several trips, I now feel very comfortable driving our motorhome.
As I climbed behind the wheel for the first time, I looked in the side mirror and was convinced the motorhome was closer to 100 feet long rather than the 28 feet they told us it was when we bought it. Shifting into gear, I inched away from our house while I kept my eyes on all of the mirrors. “Don’t worry about the rear-view mirror,” I was told. I inwardly scoffed. ‘Who had ever heard such nonsense?’
I drove slowly, heading towards an area of quiet streets to do my practicing. Block by block I slowly began to gain confidence and an hour later I felt comfortable enough to drive into a garage for gas. It was easier than I had anticipated. I hadn’t broken out into a sweat and nor had I had any near misses. This certainly wasn’t as bad as I had expected when I lay awake thinking about my ‘maiden’ trip the night before.
With two hours of experience under my belt, we headed for the open highway on our first trip with me as the driver. We were going to be traveling through mountainous terrain. Having always prided myself on taking ‘the bull by the horns’, there was no way those words, ‘I can’t do it’ would ever pass my lips. However, to be on the safe side, another couple followed us for my first experience ‘just in case’ I happened to turn chicken on route.
We traveled the Hope Princeton Highway which is considered to be one of the most difficult roads in the province of British Columbia. I was told when we set off, ‘don’t worry and don’t look down’. I believe they thought those were words to instill confidence in my first-time effort to navigate this highway while driving a motorhome. As we traveled, I kept my eyes on the road; they looked nowhere else.
I began to realize as I drove that ‘voices of experience’ are so comfortable that they forget to tell all they learned as new drivers of a motorhome. There were several things I learned in those first few hours that those experienced drivers didn’t think to tell me.
- In spite of what I was told, the rear-view mirror is a big help. When vehicles traveled too close behind me, I was able to see the tops of their roofs even if I wasn’t able to see them in my side mirrors; so I was aware that someone was traveling much too closely behind me.
- Keeping a firm grip on the steering wheel I found was very important when traveling where big rigs are sharing the road with you. I was surprised to discover that the wind they make as they pass will rock the motorhome. Also, when traveling in open spaces, there is a strong likelihood there will be gusts of wind across the highway and the motorhome could shift quite significantly.
- Steer wide when making right-hand turns.
- Stay at a speed that is comfortable to you. I felt 90 km/h was a comfortable speed to begin with. (When traveling at a consistent speed, gas consumption is also reduced.)
- The small round mirrors on the side mirrors can save your life; they are the ones that will let you know if someone is in your blind spot. Make good use of them.
- Try to angle the vehicle when pulling into traffic in order to get the best view possible of approaching traffic.
- Stay in the slow lane and don’t feel pressured to go faster than you are comfortable with.
When we stopped in Princeton for coffee, our friends told me that if I can drive the Hope-Princeton Highway, I will be able to drive anywhere. I proceeded to our next destination with a lot more confidence than I had when we first began our trip.
Once again the words, ‘I can’t do it’ didn’t pass my lips and I was able to do what I initially thought would be even scarier than a trip to the dentist. After several trips, I now feel very comfortable driving our motorhome.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
A Tomboy In Skirts
As a girl, with a mother who believed a girl should look like a girl, I had a serious problem. There were so many maple branches to swing from, trees to climb, hollow stumps to play in and fern fields for building forts. There were also field mice to catch, creeks to explore, bike rides to take, mountains to climb and chickens to chase.
With my skirt tied between my legs was not how my mother envisioned her only daughter; nor were dresses ripped and hemlines hanging. Her words, ‘young ladies don’t swing from maple branches or climb trees’, fell on my deaf ears. Being a ‘young lady’ was not my idea of fun.
Her additional dilemma was the fact that I was the only girl in a neighborhood of boys. She tried, with determination and effort, to make a girly-girl out of me but I strongly rebelled against bows, ruffles and lace. How could a girl become a member of a boys’ group wearing bows and ruffles? A skirt may be overlooked, as long as I could keep up with the boys, but ruffles would have guaranteed my banishment from this elite group forever.
Although I was the only girl in the gang, I was accepted because I could ride a bike as well and as far as any of them did, could keep up when they hiked and I caught as many field mice as the best of them. Admittedly I did have a little trouble trying to put a worm on my hook. The rule was if I wanted to go fishing with them, I had to bait my own line. Shaking slimy creatures that looked as if they had escaped from an alien world onto the ground while trying to stick the hook into them without touching their wiggling bodies was more difficult than I could have imagined and invariably they would fall off into the quick running current of the creek. Losing a worm like that was considered unforgivable, especially when the boys remembered the fact that I had not helped dig the wiggling and squirming creatures from the mud beneath the rocks. After a few lost worms, one of the softer hearted of the boys finally agreed to bait my hook when he saw the hint of tears glistening in my eyes. The catch of my first little trout was an exciting moment and even the boys were impressed. ‘I wasn’t bad for a girl’, they all reluctantly agreed.
From my adult perspective, I feel fortunate that I was allowed to be part of this group of boys and was probably privy to more adventures than the average little girl has before the hormones of the teenage years change the perspective on what is fun and considered worthwhile to be doing.
However, before that gradual change took place we hung out by the river with its deadly currents and whirlpools, where we were not allowed to go; raided corn fields, which would have given our parents heart attacks had they known; climbed the tower on top of the hill which gave us a heavenly view of the valley below, after having climbed over a barbed-wire fence; and had corn roasts with flames leaping high into the late summer skies. We played in the cold creek in the summer when none of us could swim, skated on the frozen lake in the winters sometimes hearing the ice crack behind us as the weather became warmer; and explored the countryside for miles around from morning until night. We climbed our local mountain following animal trails into the dense bush and trees and investigated deserted miners’ shacks and mining equipment. We walked up the logging road, which was forbidden by our parents as well as by the logging company, dodging massive logging trucks as they hurtled down the mountainside weighted down by newly logged trees. We had few rules and fewer that we followed. I had more freedom than I no doubt would have had if I had not been in the company of my brothers and the other boys. My parents considered I was well protected. While it was true that they looked after me, there was none who looked after them as we pursued one crazy idea after another.
As we grew older and the years passed cars took the place of bicycles. We were now able to travel further afield and could drive into the big city exploring unknown territory. During this time I vaguely became aware that a change had begun to take place in how the boys treated me. Most of them, with the exception of my brothers, began not to mind if I had trouble keeping up to them; they patiently waited for me. They didn’t expect me to go on corn raids anymore but I was always invited to the corn roasts and my hook was each and every time baited for me. They never swore in front of me and if someone forgot and did, they were properly chastised by the other members of the group. They began to be quieter and calmer around me, self-consciously doing little favors for me. They began to care what I thought. I was now a different entity. I was no longer quite one of them.
We later began to go to drive-in movies and eventually to house parties when cars became our regular mode of transportation. Around this time, I was also beginning to realize that it was no longer as much fun to be a tomboy and I didn’t want to be ‘one of the boys’ anymore. My brothers were beginning to openly resent my inclusion in activities with ‘their’ friends.
It wasn’t long before I began to be invited on my own, on a ‘date’; it was no longer always the whole group and most often my brothers were not included. They were not impressed with this new status quo.
Make-up, curls and shoes with heels suddenly became very attractive; gone was the ponytail, sneakers and my brothers’ jeans. I now made an effort to cover my freckles. What had I been thinking, I wondered? I could no longer imagine not wanting to look like a girl. Walking in a lady-like fashion took the place of running, fishing lost its appeal, sitting in a tree was a thing of the past and corn roasts were for kids.
‘What happened to her?’ I heard my parents whisper.
I spent hours locked in the bathroom standing before the mirror curling my hair, plucking my eyebrows, worrying about zits or just looking at this girl even I hardly knew. It wasn’t only my parents who wondered where she had come from.
My brothers no longer treated me as they had previously done. “What’s taking you so long?’ they would yell from the other side of the bathroom door. When I’d finally emerge, they’d glare and grumble, “It took you that long to look like this? You wasted your time.”
My brothers and parents no longer seemed to be as pleasant as they once had been; they criticized and complained; their intolerance grew and their patience wore thin. It was a time of disquiet in the household. I couldn’t understand how they could all have changed so drastically.
My hormones had kicked in and my metamorphosis as a girl had begun. My parents now yearned for their tomboy and my brothers wished for another brother; anyone other than someone who spent so much time in the bathroom.
With my skirt tied between my legs was not how my mother envisioned her only daughter; nor were dresses ripped and hemlines hanging. Her words, ‘young ladies don’t swing from maple branches or climb trees’, fell on my deaf ears. Being a ‘young lady’ was not my idea of fun.
Her additional dilemma was the fact that I was the only girl in a neighborhood of boys. She tried, with determination and effort, to make a girly-girl out of me but I strongly rebelled against bows, ruffles and lace. How could a girl become a member of a boys’ group wearing bows and ruffles? A skirt may be overlooked, as long as I could keep up with the boys, but ruffles would have guaranteed my banishment from this elite group forever.
Although I was the only girl in the gang, I was accepted because I could ride a bike as well and as far as any of them did, could keep up when they hiked and I caught as many field mice as the best of them. Admittedly I did have a little trouble trying to put a worm on my hook. The rule was if I wanted to go fishing with them, I had to bait my own line. Shaking slimy creatures that looked as if they had escaped from an alien world onto the ground while trying to stick the hook into them without touching their wiggling bodies was more difficult than I could have imagined and invariably they would fall off into the quick running current of the creek. Losing a worm like that was considered unforgivable, especially when the boys remembered the fact that I had not helped dig the wiggling and squirming creatures from the mud beneath the rocks. After a few lost worms, one of the softer hearted of the boys finally agreed to bait my hook when he saw the hint of tears glistening in my eyes. The catch of my first little trout was an exciting moment and even the boys were impressed. ‘I wasn’t bad for a girl’, they all reluctantly agreed.
From my adult perspective, I feel fortunate that I was allowed to be part of this group of boys and was probably privy to more adventures than the average little girl has before the hormones of the teenage years change the perspective on what is fun and considered worthwhile to be doing.
However, before that gradual change took place we hung out by the river with its deadly currents and whirlpools, where we were not allowed to go; raided corn fields, which would have given our parents heart attacks had they known; climbed the tower on top of the hill which gave us a heavenly view of the valley below, after having climbed over a barbed-wire fence; and had corn roasts with flames leaping high into the late summer skies. We played in the cold creek in the summer when none of us could swim, skated on the frozen lake in the winters sometimes hearing the ice crack behind us as the weather became warmer; and explored the countryside for miles around from morning until night. We climbed our local mountain following animal trails into the dense bush and trees and investigated deserted miners’ shacks and mining equipment. We walked up the logging road, which was forbidden by our parents as well as by the logging company, dodging massive logging trucks as they hurtled down the mountainside weighted down by newly logged trees. We had few rules and fewer that we followed. I had more freedom than I no doubt would have had if I had not been in the company of my brothers and the other boys. My parents considered I was well protected. While it was true that they looked after me, there was none who looked after them as we pursued one crazy idea after another.
As we grew older and the years passed cars took the place of bicycles. We were now able to travel further afield and could drive into the big city exploring unknown territory. During this time I vaguely became aware that a change had begun to take place in how the boys treated me. Most of them, with the exception of my brothers, began not to mind if I had trouble keeping up to them; they patiently waited for me. They didn’t expect me to go on corn raids anymore but I was always invited to the corn roasts and my hook was each and every time baited for me. They never swore in front of me and if someone forgot and did, they were properly chastised by the other members of the group. They began to be quieter and calmer around me, self-consciously doing little favors for me. They began to care what I thought. I was now a different entity. I was no longer quite one of them.
We later began to go to drive-in movies and eventually to house parties when cars became our regular mode of transportation. Around this time, I was also beginning to realize that it was no longer as much fun to be a tomboy and I didn’t want to be ‘one of the boys’ anymore. My brothers were beginning to openly resent my inclusion in activities with ‘their’ friends.
It wasn’t long before I began to be invited on my own, on a ‘date’; it was no longer always the whole group and most often my brothers were not included. They were not impressed with this new status quo.
Make-up, curls and shoes with heels suddenly became very attractive; gone was the ponytail, sneakers and my brothers’ jeans. I now made an effort to cover my freckles. What had I been thinking, I wondered? I could no longer imagine not wanting to look like a girl. Walking in a lady-like fashion took the place of running, fishing lost its appeal, sitting in a tree was a thing of the past and corn roasts were for kids.
‘What happened to her?’ I heard my parents whisper.
I spent hours locked in the bathroom standing before the mirror curling my hair, plucking my eyebrows, worrying about zits or just looking at this girl even I hardly knew. It wasn’t only my parents who wondered where she had come from.
My brothers no longer treated me as they had previously done. “What’s taking you so long?’ they would yell from the other side of the bathroom door. When I’d finally emerge, they’d glare and grumble, “It took you that long to look like this? You wasted your time.”
My brothers and parents no longer seemed to be as pleasant as they once had been; they criticized and complained; their intolerance grew and their patience wore thin. It was a time of disquiet in the household. I couldn’t understand how they could all have changed so drastically.
My hormones had kicked in and my metamorphosis as a girl had begun. My parents now yearned for their tomboy and my brothers wished for another brother; anyone other than someone who spent so much time in the bathroom.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
My Mother's Fur Coat
She stood at the edge of the ditch, her fur coat dripping, her hair thick with mud and plastered to her face. She was my mother.
When last I had looked at her walking a few steps behind me she was dressed in her finest; a fur coat inherited from a deceased aunt, brand new rhinestone earrings and her hair newly coiffed. And because it was a rainy evening, she wore her gumboots. Anyone living on a farm knows you don’t wear your best shoes when it’s pouring cats and dogs, no matter what special event it is you are attending. As a child of eight years old, this transformation in my mother was a shock.
Walking with my head tucked into the collar of my coat, leaning into the wind, I had failed to hear her muffled calls for help. But fortunately her friend had. “Sir,” she had called to a passing gentleman, “would you be kind enough to help my friend out of the ditch?”
Time has not dimmed the memory of that man’s expression as he looked first at my mother’s friend, then at me before his eyes finally and reluctantly looked down at the sodden spectacle in the water-filled ditch.
“How did she get there?”
I think now that it was not the first question he should have asked. But to a young child, his question was reasonable and I wanted to know also. I knew without a doubt that if I had ended up in the ditch wearing my very best clothes, I would’ve been in very big trouble and explanations would have been required to more than just this stranger.
“Will you help please, Sir?” she asked again.
Reluctantly he reached down to grab my mother’s muddy outstretched hand. I’m not sure everyone knows this but a fur coat that has been submerged in a water-filled ditch is not the easiest thing to pull up a bank, especially when it has a woman in it who is wearing gumboots filled with water.
Eventually with a lot of grunting and groaning, on the part of the stranger, the two of them managed to pull my mother to the top of the ditch.
“Thank you Sir,” my mother stammered to the man’s quickly retreating back.
Together we slogged to where the special event was going to be held and made a bee-line for the washroom. As my mother and her friend attempted to squeeze the water out of the fur coat, they began to giggle. Tears actually ran down their faces in their mirth. I couldn’t believe it. Now if I had ended up in a ditch and then giggled, I really would’ve been in big, big trouble.
My mother used paper towels in an attempt to dry her hair but the mud stayed. They emptied the gumboots of water. And still they giggled. (I don’t know if anyone knows this either but wet fur coats smell like wet dogs. So while they giggled, I gagged.)
“Well we’ve got to see the show,” my mother insisted. “We’ve come all this way and we have to wait to get the bus home anyway.”
“Yes,” her friend sensibly agreed.
With a last glance in the mirror, her hair not looking a whole lot better than when she had first been dragged out of the ditch, we left the washroom.
At eight years old, I had not as yet developed any great understanding for my mother’s predicament. In fact I felt very embarrassed to be walking down the aisle behind this disheveled looking woman who people might realize was my mother.
Now as an adult, I have to give her kudos when I think of her walking to her seat with squelching gumboots, her hair still in muddy wet strings, carrying a dripping fur coat but still wearing her brand new rhinestone earrings.
My mother’s memory of that evening is somewhat different to mine.
She does not remember giggling – at all. She remembers very definitely that it was not a laughing matter. She remembers going too close to the edge of the ditch and sliding much too quickly into the freezing, muddy water. So now I finally have my answer to that stranger’s long-ago question.
She also remembers a very long evening in very wet clothes and wet feet but with a smile plastered onto her face like the mud in her hair.
The fur coat was never quite the same either. It certainly was no longer wearable to special events anymore even by someone as practical as my mother.
When last I had looked at her walking a few steps behind me she was dressed in her finest; a fur coat inherited from a deceased aunt, brand new rhinestone earrings and her hair newly coiffed. And because it was a rainy evening, she wore her gumboots. Anyone living on a farm knows you don’t wear your best shoes when it’s pouring cats and dogs, no matter what special event it is you are attending. As a child of eight years old, this transformation in my mother was a shock.
Walking with my head tucked into the collar of my coat, leaning into the wind, I had failed to hear her muffled calls for help. But fortunately her friend had. “Sir,” she had called to a passing gentleman, “would you be kind enough to help my friend out of the ditch?”
Time has not dimmed the memory of that man’s expression as he looked first at my mother’s friend, then at me before his eyes finally and reluctantly looked down at the sodden spectacle in the water-filled ditch.
“How did she get there?”
I think now that it was not the first question he should have asked. But to a young child, his question was reasonable and I wanted to know also. I knew without a doubt that if I had ended up in the ditch wearing my very best clothes, I would’ve been in very big trouble and explanations would have been required to more than just this stranger.
“Will you help please, Sir?” she asked again.
Reluctantly he reached down to grab my mother’s muddy outstretched hand. I’m not sure everyone knows this but a fur coat that has been submerged in a water-filled ditch is not the easiest thing to pull up a bank, especially when it has a woman in it who is wearing gumboots filled with water.
Eventually with a lot of grunting and groaning, on the part of the stranger, the two of them managed to pull my mother to the top of the ditch.
“Thank you Sir,” my mother stammered to the man’s quickly retreating back.
Together we slogged to where the special event was going to be held and made a bee-line for the washroom. As my mother and her friend attempted to squeeze the water out of the fur coat, they began to giggle. Tears actually ran down their faces in their mirth. I couldn’t believe it. Now if I had ended up in a ditch and then giggled, I really would’ve been in big, big trouble.
My mother used paper towels in an attempt to dry her hair but the mud stayed. They emptied the gumboots of water. And still they giggled. (I don’t know if anyone knows this either but wet fur coats smell like wet dogs. So while they giggled, I gagged.)
“Well we’ve got to see the show,” my mother insisted. “We’ve come all this way and we have to wait to get the bus home anyway.”
“Yes,” her friend sensibly agreed.
With a last glance in the mirror, her hair not looking a whole lot better than when she had first been dragged out of the ditch, we left the washroom.
At eight years old, I had not as yet developed any great understanding for my mother’s predicament. In fact I felt very embarrassed to be walking down the aisle behind this disheveled looking woman who people might realize was my mother.
Now as an adult, I have to give her kudos when I think of her walking to her seat with squelching gumboots, her hair still in muddy wet strings, carrying a dripping fur coat but still wearing her brand new rhinestone earrings.
My mother’s memory of that evening is somewhat different to mine.
She does not remember giggling – at all. She remembers very definitely that it was not a laughing matter. She remembers going too close to the edge of the ditch and sliding much too quickly into the freezing, muddy water. So now I finally have my answer to that stranger’s long-ago question.
She also remembers a very long evening in very wet clothes and wet feet but with a smile plastered onto her face like the mud in her hair.
The fur coat was never quite the same either. It certainly was no longer wearable to special events anymore even by someone as practical as my mother.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Waking late and feeling guilty about a wasted day, I borrowed my son’s truck to take advantage of the ‘free compost’ recently advertised at a local nursery.
“How much would you like, Ma’am?”
“Oh, fill it up,” I replied. “I have quite a large garden area to do.”
Eyebrows raised, “Are you sure?” he asked.
Smiling, I watched the back-hoe fill my truck with all the wonderful compost that would give me a bumper crop of vegetables and beautiful flowers. I could hardly wait to get home with it.
“There you go,” he said. Shaking his head he finished putting the last shovel full into the truck.
Approaching the truck, I gasped as my eyes started to tear. “What is that awful smell?”
“Pig manure, Ma’am.”
“Pig manure? I thought it was compost.”
“It is compost, Ma’am like I told you; pig manure.”
“I can’t take that home. My neighbors will kill me, not to mention my son.”
“Well, I can’t take it out of your truck with this,” he said indicating the huge back-hoe.
“What am I going to do?”
Shrugging he moved off to help another excited customer. I wondered briefly whether I should warn the poor unsuspecting man. It was slowly beginning to dawn on me that the smell permeating the air, and which I had discounted as coming from a nearby farm, was in fact emanating from that pile of ‘compost’.
After considering my dilemma, I unhappily backed the truck up to the huge pile and began shoveling the now ‘not so wonderful compost’ back onto the mound of still unclaimed treasure. I know this sounds very strong-minded of me but I have never been one to give up on a project. I also realized there were few other options available.
The more I shoveled the more it appeared to multiply right there on the back of my truck. I tried calling my sons; I tried phoning my daughter; I even tried phoning my mother, for heaven sakes. None were available – it was as if they all knew I was out there shoveling pig manure.
Finally overcome with nausea as a result of the …..I shudder still when I think of it…. ‘free compost’, I realized I was probably not the nurseries’ best advertisement. But I continued to stand on top of that damned pile of manure shoveling it back onto the pile from whence it came.
Eventually a pick-up pulled in beside me. I put on my best smiling face. By now though my face was a pale shade of what it had been and my freckles stood out like boulders on a white sandy beach. I explained my dilemma and with difficulty held back my threatening tears while also managing to control my gag reflexes. I was extremely proud of myself for that brief moment.
“Well, I can take a little but I don’t need that much,” the fellow said. However, his ‘little’ didn’t amount to a dent.
After what seemed like hours of, ‘I wish I was in bed wasting my day’ shoveling and a few more bouts of nausea, a kindly gentleman pulled in beside me. Explaining my dilemma, he, kind soul that he was, suggested he could unload the rest of my truck at his place if I followed him. With three-quarters of a load still in the truck (like I said it wasn’t going down very quickly), I would have been prepared to follow him to Australia if I had to.
Did I mention previously that I wanted a full load because of my large garden? By this time I had lost interest in any kind of a garden let alone a large one.
On arrival at our destination, it took me only a matter of minutes to realize that his wife was not pleased to see me, or the truckload of manure. “Well,” I confided to her in an effort at friendship, “I’m not very pleased with the manure myself but it’s amazing what men get excited about, isn’t it.” She barely responded, unable to remove her eyes from the boulders on my face.
Returning home, I heaved a sigh of relief while I forced the bile back down my throat. The truck was finally empty and only the smell of the wonders of nature remained of my week-end adventure. But with one look at my son’s face, I realized the day was not yet over. With one small sniff (I swear that’s all it took him), he glared at me and declared his truck would be off-limits to me in the future. I was a little hurt, to say the least, that he hadn’t appreciated my well-intended efforts.
The moral of the story is: Don’t worry about a wasted day in bed. We all deserve one.
“How much would you like, Ma’am?”
“Oh, fill it up,” I replied. “I have quite a large garden area to do.”
Eyebrows raised, “Are you sure?” he asked.
Smiling, I watched the back-hoe fill my truck with all the wonderful compost that would give me a bumper crop of vegetables and beautiful flowers. I could hardly wait to get home with it.
“There you go,” he said. Shaking his head he finished putting the last shovel full into the truck.
Approaching the truck, I gasped as my eyes started to tear. “What is that awful smell?”
“Pig manure, Ma’am.”
“Pig manure? I thought it was compost.”
“It is compost, Ma’am like I told you; pig manure.”
“I can’t take that home. My neighbors will kill me, not to mention my son.”
“Well, I can’t take it out of your truck with this,” he said indicating the huge back-hoe.
“What am I going to do?”
Shrugging he moved off to help another excited customer. I wondered briefly whether I should warn the poor unsuspecting man. It was slowly beginning to dawn on me that the smell permeating the air, and which I had discounted as coming from a nearby farm, was in fact emanating from that pile of ‘compost’.
After considering my dilemma, I unhappily backed the truck up to the huge pile and began shoveling the now ‘not so wonderful compost’ back onto the mound of still unclaimed treasure. I know this sounds very strong-minded of me but I have never been one to give up on a project. I also realized there were few other options available.
The more I shoveled the more it appeared to multiply right there on the back of my truck. I tried calling my sons; I tried phoning my daughter; I even tried phoning my mother, for heaven sakes. None were available – it was as if they all knew I was out there shoveling pig manure.
Finally overcome with nausea as a result of the …..I shudder still when I think of it…. ‘free compost’, I realized I was probably not the nurseries’ best advertisement. But I continued to stand on top of that damned pile of manure shoveling it back onto the pile from whence it came.
Eventually a pick-up pulled in beside me. I put on my best smiling face. By now though my face was a pale shade of what it had been and my freckles stood out like boulders on a white sandy beach. I explained my dilemma and with difficulty held back my threatening tears while also managing to control my gag reflexes. I was extremely proud of myself for that brief moment.
“Well, I can take a little but I don’t need that much,” the fellow said. However, his ‘little’ didn’t amount to a dent.
After what seemed like hours of, ‘I wish I was in bed wasting my day’ shoveling and a few more bouts of nausea, a kindly gentleman pulled in beside me. Explaining my dilemma, he, kind soul that he was, suggested he could unload the rest of my truck at his place if I followed him. With three-quarters of a load still in the truck (like I said it wasn’t going down very quickly), I would have been prepared to follow him to Australia if I had to.
Did I mention previously that I wanted a full load because of my large garden? By this time I had lost interest in any kind of a garden let alone a large one.
On arrival at our destination, it took me only a matter of minutes to realize that his wife was not pleased to see me, or the truckload of manure. “Well,” I confided to her in an effort at friendship, “I’m not very pleased with the manure myself but it’s amazing what men get excited about, isn’t it.” She barely responded, unable to remove her eyes from the boulders on my face.
Returning home, I heaved a sigh of relief while I forced the bile back down my throat. The truck was finally empty and only the smell of the wonders of nature remained of my week-end adventure. But with one look at my son’s face, I realized the day was not yet over. With one small sniff (I swear that’s all it took him), he glared at me and declared his truck would be off-limits to me in the future. I was a little hurt, to say the least, that he hadn’t appreciated my well-intended efforts.
The moral of the story is: Don’t worry about a wasted day in bed. We all deserve one.
Friday, June 12, 2009
A Simple Choice?
While doing my will, my lawyer asked what should have been a simple question, “Do you wish to be cremated or buried?”
Not liking either idea, I considered my options. An idea began to form.
“I could be stuffed,” I said presenting the idea to my five offspring. None were impressed. “Think of the opportunities. I could attend all the family functions. I could share your lives. I really can’t think of anything nicer!”
They obviously could because not one jumped to say they would take me first. In fact, not one said they would take me, period. Each one insisted that while it may be a good idea (although they weren’t convinced), someone else could keep me. How could they not want me when they loved me? I soon learned that love me they do but decline me they did.
Undaunted I mulled over my idea. Hinged knees and elbows would be a necessity. They must never let my hair go grey. But most important, don’t let me miss anything. They know how I hate to miss a good party.
But I was fighting an uphill battle. I decided to convince the grandchildren that a ‘stuffed’ me would be great to have around. There was no success in that area either. A ‘stuffed’ me did not seem to appeal to anyone except me. If nothing else, I should be a conversation piece right up there with ownership of a Wayne Gretzky hockey puck. But Wayne Gretzky’s hockey puck won hands down.
I began to hear rumblings that I may be stuffed in a closet (not exactly my idea of being stuffed), if I persisted with my notion. I was rethinking my idea when my grandson suggested that it might be a good idea after all. They could put me out beside the garbage cans to help keep the crows away.
Now back to that simple question.
Not liking either idea, I considered my options. An idea began to form.
“I could be stuffed,” I said presenting the idea to my five offspring. None were impressed. “Think of the opportunities. I could attend all the family functions. I could share your lives. I really can’t think of anything nicer!”
They obviously could because not one jumped to say they would take me first. In fact, not one said they would take me, period. Each one insisted that while it may be a good idea (although they weren’t convinced), someone else could keep me. How could they not want me when they loved me? I soon learned that love me they do but decline me they did.
Undaunted I mulled over my idea. Hinged knees and elbows would be a necessity. They must never let my hair go grey. But most important, don’t let me miss anything. They know how I hate to miss a good party.
But I was fighting an uphill battle. I decided to convince the grandchildren that a ‘stuffed’ me would be great to have around. There was no success in that area either. A ‘stuffed’ me did not seem to appeal to anyone except me. If nothing else, I should be a conversation piece right up there with ownership of a Wayne Gretzky hockey puck. But Wayne Gretzky’s hockey puck won hands down.
I began to hear rumblings that I may be stuffed in a closet (not exactly my idea of being stuffed), if I persisted with my notion. I was rethinking my idea when my grandson suggested that it might be a good idea after all. They could put me out beside the garbage cans to help keep the crows away.
Now back to that simple question.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
How NOT To Eat Pineapple
We all know the rules. We’ve drummed them into the heads of our children just as they were drummed into our heads. Remembering them though is another matter and in this case I didn’t until I was lying flat on my back on a backyard sidewalk.
While admittedly taking a bigger bite than I could properly chew and talking while I had something in my mouth is not very ladylike, I did manage to land on the ground with much grace and little fanfare.
With the piece of pineapple lodged in my esophagus, I must have remembered other rules like, ‘don’t ruin a good party’ and ‘don’t make a spectacle of yourself’ because I made no comment about the explosion of pain in my chest. Waking slowly on the cold cement I realized I had, with no prior planning involved, become the entertainment for this social occasion. I also became aware somewhat belatedly that my performance wasn’t designed for a two year olds’ birthday celebration.
Feeling better when I woke up after my bout on the ground than I had felt before my debut, I was anxious to get up. ‘Wait until the ambulance gets here,’ I was told. Lying prone, I felt conspicuous as many of the party-goers focused their attention upon me. I closed my eyes and listened realizing that a party takes on a much different perspective when you are a guest in a horizontal position.
It is much like when you’re giving birth to what seems to be a twenty pound baby and the nurses are talking over your perspiring body about the dinner party they attended the previous evening. In this case, a few chatted about inconsequential subjects as if unconscious of the interruption, one cried while another comforted her; others tried to console me when all I wanted to do was get up; and small children were kept away from the upsetting vision of a lady having an ‘unscheduled nap’ on the sidewalk.
When the event was over and I was finally led to a chair to recover from my plummeting blood pressure, the party resumed and I had time to think and to reassess my deplorable eating habits. As with everything, there are always lessons to be learned.
The rules are simple. First, ‘don’t bite off more than you can chew’; rule number two is ‘don’t talk while your mouth is full’ and a lesser known rule is number three, ‘don’t try to play acrobatics with a pineapple that is in your mouth’.
I remembered the simple ‘rules’ but thought there must surely be other, more important ones that should be followed. How about, ‘cut every morsel of food into minute pieces before placing in mouth and then chew each mouthful ten times’ to ensure that nothing is large enough to become stuck’. This may, however, reduce your dinner invitations if you remain at the table an hour after the last person has departed. Secondly, ‘think before speaking, or as in my situation, answering – just nod your head’. You will be considered the hit of the party because of your intelligent conversational abilities. Third, ‘don’t take deep breaths while eating, only small shallow puffs’. The children will be entranced; they’ll think you’re a guppy. But probably the most important thing to remember is to say, 'no thanks, I don't eat pineapple'.
While admittedly taking a bigger bite than I could properly chew and talking while I had something in my mouth is not very ladylike, I did manage to land on the ground with much grace and little fanfare.
With the piece of pineapple lodged in my esophagus, I must have remembered other rules like, ‘don’t ruin a good party’ and ‘don’t make a spectacle of yourself’ because I made no comment about the explosion of pain in my chest. Waking slowly on the cold cement I realized I had, with no prior planning involved, become the entertainment for this social occasion. I also became aware somewhat belatedly that my performance wasn’t designed for a two year olds’ birthday celebration.
Feeling better when I woke up after my bout on the ground than I had felt before my debut, I was anxious to get up. ‘Wait until the ambulance gets here,’ I was told. Lying prone, I felt conspicuous as many of the party-goers focused their attention upon me. I closed my eyes and listened realizing that a party takes on a much different perspective when you are a guest in a horizontal position.
It is much like when you’re giving birth to what seems to be a twenty pound baby and the nurses are talking over your perspiring body about the dinner party they attended the previous evening. In this case, a few chatted about inconsequential subjects as if unconscious of the interruption, one cried while another comforted her; others tried to console me when all I wanted to do was get up; and small children were kept away from the upsetting vision of a lady having an ‘unscheduled nap’ on the sidewalk.
When the event was over and I was finally led to a chair to recover from my plummeting blood pressure, the party resumed and I had time to think and to reassess my deplorable eating habits. As with everything, there are always lessons to be learned.
The rules are simple. First, ‘don’t bite off more than you can chew’; rule number two is ‘don’t talk while your mouth is full’ and a lesser known rule is number three, ‘don’t try to play acrobatics with a pineapple that is in your mouth’.
I remembered the simple ‘rules’ but thought there must surely be other, more important ones that should be followed. How about, ‘cut every morsel of food into minute pieces before placing in mouth and then chew each mouthful ten times’ to ensure that nothing is large enough to become stuck’. This may, however, reduce your dinner invitations if you remain at the table an hour after the last person has departed. Secondly, ‘think before speaking, or as in my situation, answering – just nod your head’. You will be considered the hit of the party because of your intelligent conversational abilities. Third, ‘don’t take deep breaths while eating, only small shallow puffs’. The children will be entranced; they’ll think you’re a guppy. But probably the most important thing to remember is to say, 'no thanks, I don't eat pineapple'.
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