What Woman, Maria?

(Part of the story)

"You always do that, Campbell," Maria said as she glared at her husband.

"Do what? I have no idea what you're talking about, Maria."

"You stop talking and decide to go do something when we're in the middle of an argument."

"An argument? I thought we were having a discussion and that we were finished." Campbell shook his head, a puzzled frown on his face.

"Did we come to a solution, Campbell?" Maria's voice was beginning to reach a higher octave. Campbell didn't like it when her voice began to climb the musical scale.

"I didn't think we had a problem, Maria. I thought everything was going along just fine." Campbell threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "I don't understand women at all."

"And I don't understand men. But that's the problem. You always think everything is just fine, you don't listen, you never seem to understand anything I say and you'd rather walk away than solve a problem."

"But we don't have a problem. You're making a problem when none exists. I'm going to my workshop. When I have a problem out there, I know what it is. It's plan and simple, not something that's been built up out of nothing and exaggerated out of all proportion. Keep it simple, Babe and then there isn't a problem."

"You haven't heard anything I've said this whole last week, have you? The problem is that woman, you Knucklehead." Maria's voice had reached almost the highest level on the musical scale. Not a good sign as far as Campbell was concerned.

"I'm listening and you have my attention but I really have no idea what woman you're talking about. What about this hypothetical woman?>"

"You know very well who I'm talking about; the one at Corey's baseball game." Maria banged the cupboard door to emphasize that what she was saying was something he'd better not miss.

"Which woman at the game? I still don't know what you're talking about. You know, I think this whole conversation is getting ridiculous. When you've figured out what you're really upset about, let me know. I'll be in the workshop."

Maria could feel her blood pressure soar as she watched Campbell walk nonchalantly out of the kitchen, as if he had not a care in the world. She knew he thought she was dramatizing but she had seen the exchange between her husband and Michelle, Matt's mother. And this wasn't the first time she'd noticed them flirting. She wanted him to know that he wasn't pulling anything over on her. 'And he brought me that bouquet of flowers on Friday too. I wonder if it was because of guilty feelings? I'd sure like to know what he's up to?' Maria fumed.

Campbell measured the piece of wood for the garden planter he was building for the back yard. 'What was that all about?' he wondered. 'I don't have a clue what woman she's talking about. Probably another one of her jealousy attacks.' He shook his head impatiently. 'Oh well, I'm not going to worry about it. Hopefully she'll cool down by dinner time.'

As he worked, he could hear the cupboards slamming in the kitchen and an angry outburst directed at one of the children. 'Well maybe not by dinner time. Hopefully by bedtime.' He smiled at the thought of that. Maybe he'd suggest they have a glass of wine later, after the children were in bed. It had been a while. He thought the flowers would have earned him some brownie points but they probably just made her think he was up to something. Instead they had gone to bed that night and she had turned her back on him again and in only moments had fallen asleep. More times than not she was either too tired, had a headache or stayed up until the wee hours of the morning on the computer. 'The wine probably won't work any better than the flowers did,' he reminded himself.

Maria came in to the workshop and saw him bent over the pieces of cedar, tape measure in hand. Picking up the pieces, he began to walk towards the table saw. "Campbell, dinner is ready."

"What? Oh, okay I'll be right there."

'He probably hasn't given what I said another thought since he came in here. It's so typical of a man. Everything in one ear and out the other. He's so good at tuning me out,' Maria thought angrily. "If you wait too long, it's going to be cold," she said as she flounced out of the room. "Then you can bloody well heat it up yourself."

Campbell glanced after her and wondered again what had brought this whole thing on. Shrugging, he decided to cut just a few more of the board lengths before going in for dinner. He knew it would probably be another ten minutes anyway before it was on the table. He'd rather be out in the workshop than go into the kitchen and feel the below freezing atmosphere there.

Whistling as he worked he was planning the other planters he was going to make for the deck. 'And maybe a bench with planters at each end with a trellis behind. That would be nice,' he thought, 'to have clematis growing up behind where you sat. A nice colorful area to sit in and relax.' Coming to the end of his cuts, he suddenly became aware of the feeling of daggers driving their sharp edges into his back. He glanced at his watch and grimaced. 'It has been half an hour, at least, since she called me in for dinner. She's going to kill me.'

Turning slowly, he pasted what he hoped was a charming smile on his face. 'Wine probably won't help tonight, I'm guessing,' he told himself. "Sorry, Honey. The time kind of got away from me."

"So I noticed but why change now?" There was no warmth in her voice, and no humour and definitely no smile on her face. "You know Campbell, it doesn't take much to make me happy."

"Yeah? The flowers I brought you on Friday night didn't seem to make you happy."

"That's the first flowers you've bought me in three years. They made me more inclined to wonder why than to be happy about them. All I need are little things. If you were to come home from work and put your arms around me and tell me you loved me regularly, I'd be ecstatic. And not just when you want a toss in the hay. You rarely do it even then, Campbell."

"We're married for Pete's sake, Maria." He ran his hands angrily through his hair making it stand up in spikey blonde tufts.

"So you don't think you need to show affection when you're married?"

Campbell, looking confused, shrugged. "I show you affection."

"When Campbell?" Maria stood with her hands on her hips. "When we're having sex?"

"Well, yes." Campbell was wishing he'd gone in for dinner when she'd first called him. This was not a conversation he wanted to have. He hated talking about touchy-feeling things like Maria always wanted to do. 'And she always thinks she's right about everything,' he thought angrily.

"You're not affectionate then either. You don't tell me you love me even then. It's an act for you, a physical release I guess you men call it; it's having sex but has nothing to do with making love."

'Wow!' Campbell thought. 'Who the hell is this woman she's been yammering about? That's what probably got all of this started. Now she's going to drag out every little thing that's been bothering her for the last five years or so.'

"I've been thinking, Campbell. I think we should go and see a counselor together."

'Yup, here it goes,' Campbell thought. "A counselor? What in the hell for? I thought we were getting along just fine. At least until the last few days when you started harping on me. I don't get it, Maria. I really don't."

"Because you're a man. Any woman would understand and feel exactly like I do."

"You know, Maria, I'm going to go and get my dinner now. And I know," Campbell held up his hand, "it'll be cold. I don't really care at this point."

"You're running off again, Campbell. We can't have any discussion without you doing the disappearing act. I'm going to make an appointment with a counselor," she said as she brushed past him and did her own disappearing act.

As he put his plate of food into the microwave to heat, he thought, 'I think I'll save the wine. It would just be a waste of good wine now.'

* * * * * *

Lost Treasures

As the mother of five, four of which were boys, I was almost a stranger to 'tidy'. I had always appreciated and enjoyed this state but unfortunately, my four boys did not feel the same way I did. They equated 'tidy' with 'loss'.

The loss of a treasure equaled, in their eyes, the absence of a dear friend on vacation. Or worse, because that treasure was gone forever. In their eyes, I became an Ogre, belching fire as I tossed and sorted.

In any small boy's room, as most parents of boys know, there is a discrepancy in definition - garbage versus treasures. Every discovery and every possession is a veritable mine of treasures to a young boy's eye.

To a mother's eye, these treasures often mean something quite different entirely. I once discovered a dehydrated frog lovingly tucked away. I shall probably never know whether it was already in this state when it was so carefully placed there or whether nature stepped in later. For this lack of knowledge, I am eternally thankful since a certain degree of ignorance no doubt, helped me retain my sanity during my sojourn as the mother of five children.

Among other 'treasured' collectibles discovered was chewing gum covered in lint, orange peelings, chocolate bar and gum wrappers, broken crayons, hockey cards, prized broken toys, old game score sheets, special 'collector' rocks, reams of old art work, crumpled posters that couldn't possibly be parted with, and many an only sock, always lacking its mate.

The toy box was usually the receptacle for the above collectibles but was also home to pajama tops or bottoms, (never the whole pair), or one shoe or mitten. There seemed to be an unwritten law at our house against two of anything ever being in the same place at the same time. But I could always be sure that the second one would turn up when the need for it had passed, been thrown out, or been outgrown.

When cleaning my sons' rooms, I found it necessary to follow some very basic and simple rules: never, never, never do it while they are around. On one occasion, I didn't follow this necessary rule and after hours of wading and sorting, discovered that ninety-nine percent of these 'treasures' had found their way back to their original place. Those tearful pleas, 'But you can't throw this out, it's still good,' were difficult to ignore. The fact that its wheels were missing was of no consequence, it was a valued possession in the eyes of its owner.

And this one is the toughest of all. After I had sorted the 'extra special drawings' from the 'ordinary' drawings, they gathered up the reject pile and said, 'But Mom, I drew these for you.' I probably don't have to say what happened to those drawings. Yes! They were taped to the hallway wall, the fridge and the kitchen walls. I drew a line at the entrance hall however.

The second most important rule to follow was to never spread the job over two days. 'Attack when unsuspecting', was my motto. While they were still wondering what was happening, the task was complete. If this rule wasn't strictly adhered to, all that would be accomplished was that the room would be rearranged but relatively intact.

I was always disappointed that after hours of working my way through the jungle, the response was not, 'Heh Mom, thanks' as I might possibly have expected but instead was, 'Heh Mom, what did you do this for?' or 'Heh Mom, you threw out all the good stuff!'

I will however, leave you with this heartwarming thought. You have my word, as the voice of experience, that the room always reverted back to its original condition in less than a week, (whether I followed the rules or not). However, a particularly enthusiastic child could do it in less time than that.

The heartwarming part, you ask? I always had artwork taped to my hallway and kitchen walls so painting was never a requirement. The heartwarming part for other parents was the fact that it was taped to my walls and not theirs.

Life is Great

As a young mother of five, I thought life was great,

Instead of joining the rat race doing work I would hate,

I stayed home with my children and taught them to be kind,

To love, and to share, and to care, and to mind.

We went on excursions I knew they would like,

We played games, and sometimes we'd hike.

Our home was a place other children came to,

And often the line-up was long at the loo.

A three-story treehouse we had high in our trees,

And one day I counted twelve boys through the leaves.

The forts that they built covered the floor,

With hardly a path there was to the door.

And when it was bedtime, we made it a game,

We'd race down the hallway; it was always the same.

They'd beat me by a long, long mile,

But I'd give them a kiss and then I'd smile,

And say, "Next time I'll win, you wait and see."

They'd just grin their mischievous grins at me.

Then a grandchild I was blessed with from heaven above,

And then there were six more for me to love,

When I look into each sweet trusting face,

Holding chubby hands, I feel my heart race,

Of my flesh and blood, I swell with pride,

And with happiness, I've sometimes cried.

With Eyes Wide Open

WHAT YOU SEE WHEN YOU'RE LOOKING - Most of us, in our rush through life rarely see what's before us, seeing only the obvious and the expected, we look for nothing more. Life offers so much more if we keep our eyes wide open.

If we look we'll see the magic, the wonder and the beauty of nature. We'll see sights that will make our hearts expand with pleasure and happiness pulling us, if only for a short moment in time, away from the abyss of stress that everyday living can cause. With eyes wide open, we will look at things that are old with an eye that sees its beauty, not with the jaundiced eye that has taught us to view all things old as dispensable. Old is beautiful if we look with eyes of acceptance and love. Viewing things differently can change our perspective and help our lives take on new meaning.

If we keep our eyes wide open, we will notice the wondrous sunsets, each different but each beautiful, much like people. We will look at the many faces of the Fraser River and see how the light and weather conditions can change each scene before us, IF we are looking. We can appreciate what is on our own doorstep and marvel at the beauty, serenity, history and life before us.

Like so many things in life, we may see something of beauty that could so easily have been missed. The fungus, if it hadn't been for its vibrant and vivid colour, would have been lost amidst the ferns and leaves that surroundeded it had we not been looking. It was another of nature's amazing creations, impossible for man to duplicate in its perfection.

The fungis, (what an ordinary name for something of such beauty), its edges ruffled like gathered lace was a lighter shade on its underside. It was as beautiful as any flower in a well-tended garden or greenhouse, made even more lovely because of its natural surroundings. No artist could improve on this masterpiece of nature.

On the same hike we saw them, roots firmly entrenched, not giving up what was theirs, they belonged. They had probably been part of the forest for over a hundred years. Not all of us have roots so entrenchd, so firmly planted, so determined not to give up. But it would take nothing less than a disaster to wrench these roots free from where they belonged. What we can see when we were looking!

Writing, Excerpts and Publications

The Tranquility and Mystery That is Smuggler's Cove

There's tranquility in the calm blue waters mirroring clouds that drift like disappearing smoke. The water softly creeps into nooks and crannies, its only sounds the swish of ripples lapping at pebbles on the beach. An eagle in a distant tree watches for his next dinner while birds flutter nearby, their voices raised in cheerful song. The breeze, warm on my already sun-bronzed skin, tickles my face like the gentle stroke of an ostrich feather. It is a place so tranquil that my chest constricts with the beauty of it.

But there is mystery also behind every outcropping of rocks that rise from the waters protecting what can't be seen. Clusters of small islands huddle like stepping stones near the edge of the distant shore. What is nature hiding? What has it hidden before human eyes discovered its tranquility and beauty? What is the mystery of Smuggler's Cove?

Popular folklore, considered fact by some and rumor by others, is that the bay was used by Larry "Pig Iron" Kelly to smuggle Chinese labourers from Canada into the United States. Having completed their work on the Canadian Pacific Railway, these Chinese labourers were no longer considered a necessary commodity. Charging one hundred dollars for every man he transported, the Captain gave strict orders that no sound was to be made while they were in the bay or the offending party would be dropped to the bottom of the ocean.

The cove was also believed by many to be where bootleg liquor, produced on neighbouring Texada Island, was taken on board to be smuggled into the United States during the Prohibition era.

Whether these stories are true or false, one can almost imagine a ship hovering behind a rock outcropping waiting for its next contraband pick-up. Exploration of this area may offer other mysteries as well for the adventuresome explorer.

Writing, Excerpts and Publications

Barkerville, BC's Most Popular Historic Site

Barkerville is the gateway to the past with over 125 heritage buildings. Visitors to this infamous town can follow the route taken by miners in the Cariboo gold rush days so many years ago. In the late 1850's, prospectors followed the Fraser River to the creeks of the Cariboo in the northern country as gold became more difficult to find in other areas. Billy Barker was one of those prospectors. In 1862 he struck gold and before long, news of his gold strike spread and thousands of miners poured into the area hoping to stake their own claims. Gold fever had hit the Cariboo.

Between 1862 and 1870 over one hundred thousand people had traveled the Cariboo Wagon Road to reach these gold fields hoping to find gold along the many creeks that meander through the Cariboo. Built in various stages, it was 1865 before the road was completed. Previous to this, food and supplies were transported either upon the backs of the miners or by pack trains. After its completion, it became possible for larger freight wagons to be used to transport these goods. Stage coaches were then able to travel the distance between Yale and Barkerville carrying miners and passengers to their destination and the small city mushroomed. The most well-known of the stage coach lines was the Barnard Express Stagecoach Lines.

The Chinese played a large part in the formation of this town helping with the construction and building of the Cariboo Wagon Road. Barkerville's Chinatown is now the oldest surviving Chinatown in North America.

The historic cemetery in Barkerville came into being when the first person was buried on the hill on July 24, 1863. Peter Gibson was laid to rest at 31 years of age. On a walk through this interesting cemetery, a visitor will notice that the average age of those buried in it is about 32. It is the last resting place of some of the great and possibly not so great residents of Barkerville.

At its height Barkerville was considered to be the largest city west of Chicago and north of San Francisco. Even during the quieter time between 1910 and the 1930's, the town managed to thrive until the 1940's when the new mining town of Wells came into being. This once thriving gold town became somewhat of a ghost town until 1957 when the BC government began to restore and reconstruct the buildings into what they now are.

Barkerville is not a town to miss but especially if you are interested in ghost towns and old towns with their history and stories.

Writing, Excerpts and Publications

My Unique Collection

Beginning as a young girl, I received many small dolls from Scotland and Germany, gifts from unknown relatives. As I grew older, I expanded on my collection to include Ashton Drake baby dolls.

Enjoying my dolls, I later decided to expand on this collection to include sons; four to be exact. All similar in that they were boys but each special and different in their own unique way. The first son was quiet, gentle, easy-going and a brown-eyed charmer. The second son was shy and not liking to be the center of attention resisted my attempts to show off what I considered extreme intelligence in a child so young. The third son was feisty and mischievous and kept everyone busy from morning 'til night. The fourth, blonde haired and blue-eyed watched the other three with eyes wide open and became an interesting combination of each of the other three versions.

Enjoying my four sons, I decided to add a daughter to give my collection a little different look. She was blonde-haired, brown-eyed, beautiful and intelligent, Later, unable to find another that fit as well into my collection, I decided not to add any more daughters.

The years passed and I enjoyed the small collection I had until I realized that grandchildren would be a wonderful addition. The first of my grandchildren is a beautiful dark haired girl with an athletic streak. The second addition is a dark haired boy with a beautiful smile and a devotion to bugs and computers. Third is a golden-haired girl with big shining eyes and the voice of an angel. My next addition is another boy with blonde hair and large blue eyes. He believes his role is to entertain the entire group. My most recent addition is the replica of his father in looks. He is the son of the third son of the first collection. I am expecting to add two more grandchildren additions this year. No doubt the grandchildren addition will become much larger than my original collection.

I have discovered that the grandchildren portion of my collection is much easier to look after than was my original collection. No maintenance is needed and, in fact, no decisions at all are required relating to them. They are looked after predominately by the first group and will expand and grow over the years with no particular effort on my part.

My entire collection was, and still is, beautiful. I doubt very much that I could find another collection that I cherish as much as the ones I have. I would recommend collections such as these for almost everyone. Over time they become self-sustaining and the enjoyment derived from them increases with every year that passes. I don't believe there are many collectors who can boast of similar advantages.

Writing, Excerpts and Publications