Erin's Journals

Just a thought… Whenever you feel uncomfortable, instead of retreating back into your old comfort zone, pat yourself on the back and say, “I must be growing,” and continue moving forward. [T. Harv Eker]

Whoo – so much to catch you up on this week! Now, if you listened to Gracefully and Frankly last week, you may know some of my stories (including losing my weighted blanket ’cause I put it in carry-on) but here you’ll get pictures, too. And if you do listen to my podcast with former Toronto broadcaster Lisa Brandt, thank you. If you don’t, you’re missing out on a half-hour of weekly discussion between two Queenagers on things that affect us and, more importantly, you. So give it a whirl!

Of course, we couldn’t do the show without support from our sponsors sierrasil.com (the Canadian natural anti-inflammatory my Rob, Lisa, Derek and our dogs have used for years) or envypillow.com (the women-run company that sells quality and unique pillows, sheets and other sleep accessories that make your life and ours so much better). Even flying, I took mine with me for the comforts of home in a yurt on the mainland, near Vernon, BC!

My sister Leslie and I had a three-night stay in a glampsite on a lovely king-sized bed, and I can honestly say that although I went in with a lot of trepidation (outdoor toilet? Yikes!) I hated to leave and can’t wait to do it again. I’ve been looking at sites to take Rob in early September before he gets back into hockey. Here are a few shots of the inside.

We slept so well that after the first morning awakening at 11 am I had to set an alarm. So, Leslie out-slept me and I was the one going out and boiling water on the barbecue and making coffee with the ground beans Rob had blended for me before I left home. It was delicious, and can I say that the chef’s kiss on the whole experience was only slapping at bugs once.

We toured the area and found a beach with gentle access to put in our inflatable paddleboards on the Sunday of the long weekend. Mostly we paddled gently, tethered by ankle rings to each other, but I did attempt to get up on the board a few times, without success. My next possible yurt stay is near a pond, so I’ll have better luck there, methinks. If not, the frogs will be in for a good laugh.

The best memories were made on that trip: getting ice cream at a dairy, dropping in to any working bathrooms we passed, so as to stave off outhouse visits, laughing with my sister as we attempted (in vain) to powder dip her nails, and just sharing stories. I can’t believe she doesn’t remember getting stung by a bee on her girl parts during an outhouse visit when we went camping as kids; I’ve remembered it ever since. Well, friend, I can assure you: she’ll remember it now from my telling!

I didn’t completely “unplug” as we had cell service and a few battery chargers, but we did enjoy a lot of time of just relaxing, unwinding and being together. We had a lot of privacy, the weather was great during the day, with dramatic thunderstorms and downpours at night (such a glorious experience in a big canvas yurt!) and our dinners of glammed-down charcuterie were perfection.

We laughed every time I threatened to take a picture of her peeing in a large plastic potato salad tub (and she returned the threats) but it reminded us of sleeping in our grandparents’ basement where the pee pail was a life saver in the night!

There’s something so freeing about trying things that scare you – and yes, I did have a lot of trepidation about the entire experience, assuaged only by the knowledge that Les had been camping a few times already this summer – and coming out even better in the end.

Plus there’s the added bonus of coming home to a husband and dogs who missed you, hot showers and a flush toilet, plus that glorious coffee Rob makes. There’s no place like home, but sometimes you have to venture outside it to grow. Have a great week and thanks for sharing the adventure!

Just a thought… The hardest thing to do is leaving your comfort zone. But you have to let go of the life you’re familiar with and take the risk to live the life you dream about. [T. Arigo]

I’ve always thought of this long August weekend as sort of a re-set, on par with Labour Day and the “back to” everything that we feel. It’s like a gut check: what have you not done this summer that you hoped to do? As we know, life is short and it has far too few sweet summer days. So I’m diving in – and I promise you will be hearing details about it!

As you read this, I’m in an area with no power to fire up a laptop, little/no cell service and, yes, no indoor plumbing. A bidet is out…unless I’m surprised by a rogue sprinkler system. But I DID bring my own toilet paper.

Don’t send a SWAT team, I haven’t been kidnapped. I’m doing something I haven’t done since I was in my 20s when my boyfriend and I would go to Tobermory in Ontario, or even down to the Keys in Florida: I am camping!

Okay, you might call it glamping, but I will beg to differ. Here’s how this came to be.

A month or so ago, I decided to fly in and surprise my sister on a special occasion last Thursday. Somewhere between booking my flight and arriving at Kelowna International Airport, I thought Les and I should just have a girls’ getaway.

I looked at hotels (what few rooms were available) and hated the price tag for three nights. Leslie’s been camping of late with her husband and grandson and really enjoying it, so I asked her what she thought of the two of us “roughing it” for a few nights.

Once she cleaned up the coffee she’d spit out and caught her breath, she sent me an app that lists campgrounds, cabins and so on that we could choose from. Pickings were slim at our late date, but I found a yurt in Sicamous, about a two-hour drive from her place, that looked bearable nice. Here’s what our accommodations look like from the website. And the nightly rate is about half what a hotel room would be. I guess the discount comes with not having electricity or plumbing!

The money that might have been saved on accommodations was spent renting a car big enough for a campstove, cooler and all of the things needed for the three nights. As you read this, we’ll be packing up and heading back to WiFi, warm showers and all of the comforts to which we’re so accustomed.

I look forward to making a mental list of the things we take for granted every day. But more than that, I’m really hoping that by today, Leslie and I will have made some good memories, had fun on paddle boards, not been eaten alive, and enjoyed some meaningful time together.

That, or we may never speak to each other again.

How I, the woman who travels with my enVy pillow, a weighted blanket, air fryer, Nespresso, Sodastream and pillow speaker, will have managed in the wilderness for three nights is going to be a story in itself and I promise that even if I don’t, you will have lots of fun reading (and listening this Thursday to Gracefully and Frankly).

I feel a little like Lisa Douglas on the old Green Acres TV show, but with ball caps instead of ball gowns, ear plugs rather than earrings, and eye drops rather than eyeliner. The lacy peignoir set stays at home.

Memories in the woods with my sister? Priceless.

Talk to you Thursday!

Just a thought… Oh! I have breached the surly bonds of earth… put out my hand and touched the face of God. [John Gillespie Magee, “High Flight”]

Our sweet smiling dad took his final breath this morning. After a few days of steadily declining health, the man who taught me more about accepting what life sends us than anyone else ran his checklist one last time and ascended into whatever level of the stratosphere he’d set his altimeter for the other side.

Don Davis had much to be proud of in his life, although he often reminded us, if we got too full of ourselves, to “get off your ego trip.” A high-ranking military man to the core, fitting in was better than standing out, but if you tried to go above and beyond, you’d better be humble in the process.

He lived his life joyfully, seeing the world through his career, saving money and spending carefully. Wait – maybe that was Mom pinching pennies. Come to think of it, after she died in 2012, there was no one to tell him not to buy the latest Apple or Bose product, all the better to listen to his beloved barbershop music or the marches to which he would walk daily to maintain his fitness.

Although he dabbled in guitar in his youth, it wasn’t until he retired that Dad dove headlong into lessons for clarinet and saxophone. He bought whatever instrument caught his fancy, and even paid an exorbitant amount for a tiny soundproof studio for his retirement home unit so as not to disturb others. We kept asking, “Dad, WHEN IS THE GIG?”

My three sisters and I were surrounded by instruments and lessons as we grew up. Music was as much a part of this newer branch of the family tree as the ever-present moving vans: Dad served 26 years in the Canadian Armed Forces flying jets, 707s and later serving as Squadron Leader at CFB Trenton (C-130 Hercules).

When he was shuffled to desk duty, Dad checked with the tower (Mom), switched runways and flew commercially, achieving chief pilot status at Worldways and flying hulking L-1011 charter planes, where he quickly earned the respect and affection of “his girls” (yes, we corrected him on that – and often!) and the rest of the flight crew.

In fact, just last month I heard from a former flight attendant on Dad’s crew, confirming what we already knew: Dad was a much-loved and caring man. Still, it was nice to hear it from someone outside the family!

He laughed easily, sang often and parented as well as he could, given his frequent absences. How frequent? I was conceived on a visit home from his posting on the Defence Early Warning (DEW) Line up in the Arctic!

When he was home, he’d come up with ways to save on taxes like starting a hobby farm of sorts, buying dozens of rabbits and a few horses and goats…and then head off in his diesel Jetta to the airport for another flight, leaving Mom literally in the muck. God, it’s a wonder she didn’t drink, being in menopause with teenaged girls at home. Or maybe that’s why he flew so often?

His loving daughters like to think that Dad had much to be proud of in us, but there’s a “get off your ego trip” story Rob and I will laugh about for the rest of our lives.

In the early spring of 2015, Rogers invited some of their better known personalities and their dads to come to a ball game and be interviewed for pieces to run later, during the Father’s Day Blue Jays game telecast. But once Dad was mic’d up and ready to go, and they asked why he was proud of me, his response was that he was equally proud of all four of his girls. Silence.

I guess I didn’t warn him they’d ask about me and I doubt the video even made it onto the broadcast, but we DID have a wonderful time. And yes, was I humbled!

The last decade of Dad’s life was a hard one to witness (especially for younger sister Leslie who nursed him at her home for as long as she could) as his brilliant mind disappeared into the dense cloud of dementia.

On our final group visit to him in June, all four sisters celebrated his 92^nd birthday with singing, gifts and a cake. He seemed to enjoy us being there and knew our names (L-R Cindy, Erin, Leslie, Heather).

But we all left with a sense of wishing he would be allowed to go peacefully and soon. We also departed with a deepening determination to set some kind of pact or will that allows us to go before we reach the stage at which we found our dear ol’ Dad.

Today we all get our wish for Dad and he is dancing with the woman he knew when they were both pre-elementary school: the one he grew up with and, once she’d graduated nursing school and he from University of Alberta, eventually married. They got to raising a family right away, learning that the Catholic “rhythm” method of birth control was not exactly reliable. Eight years and four daughters later, they were done.

We all strove hard to make our mom and dad proud, all four of us sisters. Goodness knows, he made us proud. A loving father, husband, son, brother, dad, grandfather and great-grandfather, we are overwhelmed with gratitude beyond all measure to have had him steering our lives.

In a last exchange as he lay sleeping yesterday, my sister held up her phone and we told him gently the same words he said to us on the nights he was home to tuck us in: “Now, turn over and go to sleep.”

As he did this one last time, I love to imagine Dad and Mom – him in his military dress kit tuxedo and her in a gown she likely sewed herself – reunited in some celestial ball room. Mom’s father is leading the small dance band, and the last song of the night is “Now is the Hour,” Grandad’s signature closing number. They were always meant to be together in this and every other life, and it brings me joy that their wait has finally come to an end.

“I’ll be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you.”

Just a thought… Life is full of awe and grace and truth, mystery and wonder. I live in that atmosphere. [Dion DiMucci]

Well, for once I have a valid excuse if there are typos or any other oddities in today’s blog: on Thursday in Victoria I had a cataract removed and a new lens put in.

Now you or someone you know may have already had it done, and I hope you find this interesting. Let me share for you in my own words some of the experiences I had in light of the operation, and I’ll try to keep my puns to a minimum. We’ll see…(oops).

I didn’t think cataracts were a thing for me yet; at 62 and with glasses that served me well, I was surprised when our eye doctor told me that, not only was Rob a candidate (although not at the point that BC Health would cover the whole tab for either of us), I was too, thanks to two tiny ones that had shown up. We had the choice of waiting years until we needed to join the queue, but decided to do it now.

We started the process of appointments, dilations, tests and price lists. I was ready to back out last week during our last pre-surgical meeting; I just didn’t feel like spending $3850 (after the $1000 off from the govt.) when it wasn’t a necessity. Don’t forget we still have a house for sale. But Rob’s operation was: he plays in goal without his glasses and felt that he was losing his perspective, misjudging too many pucks and allowing too many goals. But somehow I got in on a cancellation and ended up going first.

If you haven’t had it done and are nervous about this surgery, let me please reassure you that it’s so much easier than you can imagine. Numbing drops do their thing, a pill to relax you does the rest and the doctors have done these hundreds and thousands of times. My procedure came in two steps: blasting the cataract and removing the tiny shards, a 20-minute rest (during which I slept, so relaxed was I) and then the insertion of the new lens. All you need is someone to get you there, take you home and tuck you in, and you’re fine.

To find out I was even eligible for any kind of sight improvement (having had an experimental Radial Keratotomy scalpel surgery 30 years ago before laser was so widespread) was a huge surprise, as I’d since been told by a Toronto clinic that they wouldn’t touch my scarred eyes with a ten-foot laser.

When I learned I could have cataract surgery after all, I was instantly disappointed to hear that I wasn’t going to have the sight I took for granted before puberty hit. I had to choose between lenses for far away or close up. So, as I type this and my right eye recovers, I’m wearing a contact lens in the other, no glasses, and still unable to read small print in front of me. It’ll all adjust and so will I. And in about three weeks, I do it all again and cannot wait!

Recovery is easy – I slept most of the afternoon Thursday and rested again Friday and Saturday. My step counter is very disappointed in me, but it’ll live! The most onerous part is putting three different drops in my eye, four minutes apart, four times daily, plus sleeping with an eye shield and a mask over top. No biggie.

I’m resting easy these days at having some improvement, while trying not to calculate how much my future expenditures on fancy readers are going to be. Mostly I’m just feeling extremely grateful that this tiny lens has made such a big difference already. Bring on number two – and thank you, science, once again!

Just a thought… Old age is an excellent time for outrage. My goal is to say or do at least one outrageous thing every week. [Maggie Kuhn]

It’s 7-7 – Ringo Starr’s 85^th birthday. Now that is old age – not you or I, my friend! In honour of one of the last two remaining Beatles, Ringo is asking that at noon today – wherever you are – you just raise your fingers in the peace sign, and say, “Peace and Love.” Why not, right? I mean, these days, can it hurt?

I don’t know how much help I’ve been in making our world a little better – at least here on Vancouver Island – but I’ve had my fighting pants on during the past week. Okay, maybe not pants as such, more like shorts. It’s nice and comfortable here with 20C days (sorry if you’re sweltering as you read this) and my rants aren’t long. So shorts seem appropriate.

I first pulled them on when we got an email with the local grocery chain’s specials for the week starting July 2. Fresh off a spectacular red, white and maple syrup-flavoured celebration of this wonderful country of ours, it felt like a slap in the face to see this:

Peaches or nectarines, product of California. I wrote to their website through their “contact us” link and expressed my disdain to see fruit from the country that is threatening to erase our sovereignty promoted in their flyer. Calling themselves “Proudly Canadian,” Thrifty’s is a chain exclusive to Vancouver Island (which most decidedly does not live up to its money-saving moniker) but they’re ours. And this is what they’re putting on sale!

I’m not naïve and realize that as shoppers we have the choice of not buying their US produce, regardless of whether the sneaky little signs say “US or Mexico.” Because, yeah, it’s usually US. I also know that people on a tight budget will buy what they can afford to feed their family well, and I won’t look in someone’s cart and judge them. I DO, however, judge Thrifty Foods for choosing to highlight products from the USA in their sale flyer.

Their response? A cut-and-paste email that said they offer all produce, blah blah blah. I’m doubtful any human eyes even saw my note. But if their produce is as soft and rotten as their morals, I’ll pass, thanks. Keep your stupid peaches. We have the Okanagan.

Then there’s the flag flap in our bucolic little tourist town of Sidney, BC. Since the summer season began, there have been stars and stripes flying aside the flags of Canada and BC along our pristine and perfect waterfront, and at certain hotels. It was a decision taken after a 4-3 vote at town council, which was influenced by the number of Americans who own businesses here. Gotta keep them happy, right? They also say it’s in the interests of tourism. Well, having been fortunate to travel many countries of the world, I never once checked to see if our maple leaf was flying there before I felt welcome. It’s just a flag – until it’s someone else’s. Can’t imagine the Russian flag flies in many places in Ukraine, can you?

It’s infuriating to see that flag anywhere near our own. It does not belong here. Being literal minutes from the US border, we welcome our share of American tourists here. Yesterday I saw a woman wearing a Memphis t-shirt; a man in an Ohio State pullover was at a table adjacent to us on Saturday evening. On Canada Day I saw tone-deaf Brooklyn, NY and Palm Springs Ts being worn. Wear what you want (except for that red hat, an anagram of “hatred” that might as well be a swastika at this point). But the American flag should not be flying over our town.

I wrote to town council Friday and am awaiting a response. I told them that it’s only the first week of July and it’s not too late to replace that symbol of greed, injustice and anything but freedom with a Pride flag or an Indigenous Canadian flag (which is what we’ve hung from our balcony this month). If I get anything but a namby pamby “there there” from our mayor and his council, I’ll share it with you next week.

Maybe our Queenager years are when we step into our loud voices; when we are the change we want to see in the world. When muttering under our breath or tapping angrily online becomes writing, and even attending marches and protests. Logistical difficulties prevented Rob and me from marching in Victoria’s Pride parade yesterday under the Liberal party banner, but I had already tried to figure out how to combine red with rainbows. Next year!

Call me woke if you want – I wear that badge proudly. Just don’t ask me to approve of the flag of a country that is still lying about us (claiming yesterday that we steal their fish?????? WHAT?????) and stirring up ill feelings about a land so many of their people never even paid attention to unless it was to add an unhumorous “eh?” to their posts about hockey, baseball or whatever.

I’m done sitting quietly. Raging Grannies, Unite! And bring your guys with you. Somebody has to speak up and I’m fed up with “Boomer” being used online in an attempt to insult us. We put up with a lot of misogynistic BS and inequity in our careers and lives and fought quietly for rights (“not too loud, now, or you’ll upset the apple cart!”).

Well that cart – that ship – has sailed. We’re going to continue to fight.

You know, maybe if we stop throwing names and start calling out, we’ll get farther – together. Who’s with me?