Antiquated Laws

Is our world any crazier than it ever was? If we look at some of the old laws that are still in existence, but are not invoked, perhaps it isn’t after all.

Canada has old laws on their books that most of its citizens have never heard of and if challenged by either the citizens or the law courts have the potential for problems.

In Canada, it is illegal to pay for anything over 25 cents in pennies. What’s to be done with all the pennies? Perhaps it’s the pennies that should be outlawed.

Citizens cannot publicly remove bandages. If this law were ever invoked, many children would end up behind bars since they are notorious ‘bandage peelers’.

It is illegal to kill a sick person by frightening them. It would be difficult to determine how they were frightened and whether it was the frightening that killed them. Can ‘frightening’ be determined by autopsy?

It is also illegal to pretend to practice witchcraft. The supposition is that it is legal to practice witchcraft as long as you’re not pretending.

In Alberta, Canada, this outdated law has perhaps the most serious consequences if invoked, “if a person is released from prison, it is required that he/she be given a handgun with bullets and a horse so they can ride out of town.’

In Etobicoke, Ontario, a bylaw states that no more than 3.5 inches of water is allowed in a bathtub. If this law was taken seriously, the cost of officers would certainly increase and be a drain on our system.

In Cobourg, Ontario, it is required that if you have a water trough in your front yard, it must be filled by 5:00 a.m. It would probably be best to dispense with the water trough.

In Oshawa, Ontario, the city laws state that it is illegal to climb trees. This is not a biggie unless the trees are.

In Ottawa, Ontario, it is illegal to eat ice-cream on Bank Street on a Sunday.

Toronto, Ontario laws state you are not allowed to drag a dead horse down Yonge Street on a Sunday. If tested, I’m sure most streets would have the same law enacted.

In Wawa, Ontario the law states you cannot paint a ladder as it will be slippery when wet.

In Nova Scotia, a person is not allowed to water his lawn when it is raining.

Our 'Griswold's' Family Vacation

Our ‘Griswold’s family vacation’ started out like any other normal vacation with two grandparents and three grandchildren about to embark on a three week trip. Some might say, “Three grandchildren; are you crazy?” Well there’s crazy and then there’s crazy.

We drove four long, hot days with no air conditioning in our hottest weather. I know what you’re thinking. I thought so too but..... It took us one day to drive through Washington, one day through Oregon and two days through California. It was not until we had almost reached Palm Springs before a little voice asked, “Are we almost there yet?” The first leg of our trip was over and we were welcomed at our destination with cold drinks and a refreshingly cool swimming pool. We weren’t crazy.

We spent two days in Palm Springs and then drove to Anaheim for four lovely, hot, fun-filled days of walking around Disneyland fighting the crowds. Some again might say we were crazy but it all depends how you look at it. If you love Space Mountain or the Hollywood Tower, I think you’re crazy. I’m not one of them but I did get conned by one of my sons who joined us there into going on Thunder Mountain. I should have been suspicious because last time we were there he told me Space Mountain wasn’t a roller coaster ride; it was only a ‘roller coaster-type ride’ and I fell for it. Uhmm.

From there we returned to Palm Springs late in the evening. As we drove up to my brother’s place – tired, hot and sticky – my partner misjudged the outside overhang of our motorhome and knocked their mailbox over. The cement base lay in crumbling little pieces on the ground while the children and I carefully stepped over it. I won’t say crazy but my husband spent two days rebuilding the cement base to its ‘almost back to original state' while the children and I enjoyed the swimming pool.

After a four day rest from Disneyland, we decided to set off for Arizona in 48 degree weather with, like I mentioned, no air conditioner. But like troopers we persevered because we had promised the children a visit to the Grand Canyon. Through deserts and over mountains we travelled until finally we stopped near a small town, hoping to find a campsite. The funny or not so funny thing was that once we stopped, the motorhome wouldn’t start again. I laughed. Really what else was there to do?

“It’s our lucky day,” I declared.

“How so?” my partner asked grumpily.

“Well, we could’ve broken down in the middle of nowhere.”

“We are in the middle of nowhere,” one grandson pointed out.

“But it’s not as ‘nowhere’ as it could’ve been,” I told him logically. “We’re very, very close to a campsite and to a town if need be,” I pointed out. Now who was crazy?

However, we did make it to the Grand Canyon and what an awesome sight that was! There is nothing to compare to it. But while we were leaving our campsite the following morning my partner failed to notice a tree stump and tore the corner out of our motorhome. It was the corner that housed the secondary battery that the fridge ran on while we were driving. Well what the heck - warm drinks, melted freezies and canned meals are better than nothing. One can’t quibble about the little things.

Then we stopped at Bryce Canyon in Utah – another unbelievable sight and one we were glad we had not missed. But when we arrived at our campsite that night and hooked up our water supply, we ended up with water all over the bathroom floor – a loose connection and not the appropriate tools to fix it with. So we used pots and kettles to bring water into the motorhome. It was just like camping in the ‘good old days’ only better because we didn’t have to sleep on the ground.

From there we travelled to Nevada where we stopped at Virginia City. Another great place to visit and one I’d like to go back to again when our motorhome is in a little better shape. When we went to our campsite, I asked my partner if he would like me to direct him while he backed up.

“No,” he said, “it’ll be fine.”

I shouldn’t have listened. I should have risked life and limb and jumped out of our moving RV because within minutes he had ‘somehow’ attached himself to a metal fence post. That wasn’t too bad though. The problem was when he tried to pull away and the bumper and part of the back wall of the motorhome came away also. Have you got a clear picture of our holiday yet?

So back to two grandparents and three grandchildren – the children were fabulous; they weren’t an ounce of trouble. I would take them anywhere again. My partner I’m not so sure about.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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'.