Category: Life, the Universe and Everything

Dear Mother Nature,

I give up. There’s no way I can keep up with you. The back yard is yours.

But I reserve the right to try again next year.

Signed,
DaniGirl

I’m very excited to see our tomato plants are fat with fruit. (The cukes and sunflowers never did see the light of day, and the jalapenos were lost in an unfortunate incident involving a yellow ball and an excited toddler.)

We’ve been noshing on the cherry tomatoes for a week now, but I’m not sure what to do with the beefsteak tomatoes. A question for the more experienced gardener peeps out there: should I let them ripen on the vine, or pick them green and let them ripen on the window sill?

Is it me, or have the people down at the weather office taken to drinking in the afternoons? Or maybe in the mornings? I mean, I know weather forecasting is more art than science, and that there’s a reason they deal in probabilities. But seriously? They’ve been wrong more often than they’ve been right in the last month.

This one takes the cake, though. I was checking the forecast for Canada Day and the upcoming week this morning when I saw this:

That’s right, they’re calling for snow. On Canada Day.

I’m going to hope they’re wrong on this one. But maybe I should dig out my red and white scarf just in case?

P.S. Snow aside, isn’t that just about a perfect vacation-week forecast? Sigh. If I had even the least bit of confidence in their prognostication skills, I’d be annoyed.

I think the Rogers Cable people have been reading my blog. Just days after whinging about the pathetic lack of viewable TV in the month of June, they call me up and offer me free digital cable. Now, I kind of like the fact that we’re old skool with our TV channels, considering we’re such TV junkies. 65 channels has always seemed like plenty to me. Maybe it’s because I can still clearly remember our 13-channel TV, where channel 1 was UHF, channel 7 was French and channel 13 was red, green and blue striped informational text. And in an era where we are struggling to make ends meet, digital or satellite cable has always struck me as an indulgence we could easily forgo.

But because I am so very tired of settling for crap in the hour or so each night that Beloved and I watch TV before the kids go to bed, and because I’d love to one day explore the range of TV options beyond 9 pm (hey, 5 am comes early!) I was particularly vulnerable to the nice East Indian chap who called this afternoon. Instead of abruptly cutting him off, I listened to his pitch with a detached kind of interest, still pretty sure I was going to blow him off. The gist of it was that the digital channels — hundreds upon hundreds of them, including Teletoon Retro, the only one I knew we’d collectively love — for an extra $7 a month, with the first six months free. Meh, $7 isn’t much. Couple of coffees at Tim Horton’s a month. Okay, I’m wavering.

“How about you throw in a free PVR?” I say, shooting for the moon. I desperately want a PVR but can’t justify getting one as long as our VCR still functions. There are very few gadgets outside of the photographic realm that I covet, but I have been deeply jonesing for a PVR for more than a year, mostly when I am rummaging through stacks of unlabelled tapes, hunting for one I can use 75 seconds before Lost begins. When I find out someone has a PVR, I immediately and obsessively must know the details of their viewing habits, what they have stored and what they record regularly. I really, really want a PVR.

“I can do that,” says my new best friend, and my mouth drops open in surprise. “It will cost you $19.99 a month to rent after the six-month trial period is over, though, and another $2 for the digital channels.” I am busy flipping calendar pages in my head as I count off the months on my fingers… September, October, November — we could have a free PVR and digital cable through December if I agree to this deal. I am hooked like a trout.

We can go pick up our no-strings-attached PVR on Monday. I’m so excited I could dance. Oh, the TV we will watch this summer! We may never actually leave the living room. And it’s free! Free and TV, two of my favourite things!

(Anybody want to lay odds on the chances of us returning the PVR to Rogers in December when the free trial period is up? Ah well, in classic Scarlett O’Hara fashion, we can think about that tomorrow…)

You don’t have to read too deeply into the blog to know I’m a daddy’s girl, though and through. When I was growing up, my mother would often comment that though I look just like her, I’ve got a LOT of my dad in my personality. I’m not sure what she meant; I mean, the only thing we really have in common is the the sense of humour. Oh, and the stubbornness, and maybe the optimism. Oh yeah, and that ridiculous need to be loved by everyone. And the obsessive tendencies, the temper, the loquaciousness, the gregariousness… okay, maybe I can see her point. 🙂

My dad was born in Dusseldorf, Germany, on May 29, 1944, just before the end of the second world war, the only child of Maria Katarina, a German, and Henry Donders, a Dutchman. He was born when my grandmother was 41 years old. When he was still very young, the family moved to Tilburg, Holland. Post-war Holland was not a very friendly place for a Germans, and my grandmother told stories of people throwing rocks at her while she was pushing my father in his pram.

My father loved music from an early age, and formed a pipe-and-drum band while he was still in elementary school. When he was ten years old, his family emigrated yet again, this time to Canada. He arrived in London, Ontario speaking not a word of English, and his family lived at first with his uncle and his family.

By the time he was attending Catholic Central High School, he had bought his family’s first car. It wasn’t the most reliable of vehicles, and on more than one occasion he fed it an ice-cream cone to keep it from overheating. His stomach was also rather unreliable due to an ulcer, and the nuns who were the teachers at Catholic Central were vexed by his standing permission note to leave class any time to go for a milk shake to settle his burning stomach. The nuns were already unimpressed with my dad, though, because by the time he was in high school he was playing music professionally in night clubs — even though he was far too young to drink. While in school, he traveled with his high school band back to Europe, where he was greeted by the members of the same pipe-and-drum band he’d formed as a child!

Catholic Central was also where he met Frances, the woman he would marry in 1966. The first day he drove her home from school, she repaid his courtesy by reading a letter from another suitor the whole way home! I guess stubbornness as a family trait has come in handy a few times.

My dad has had a variety of careers, many of them while struggling to supplement his career as a drummer. He was a taxi driver; he had a printing business that printed the menus for McDonalds; he sold encyclopedias door-to-door. He was good friends with Daniel Lanois (yes, that Daniel Lanois, the one who has produced records for Peter Gabriel and U2, among others) and his brother and used to hang out in their Hamilton recording studio. Eventually, though, he and Danny parted ways as my dad had a young family to support. Musicianship gave way to salesmanship in the 1970s, and my dad took on a career as a professional fund raiser.

Looking back, I can see where I get my stubborn tenacity and obsessive tendencies. Once my dad turned to sales and fundraising for a living, he applied himself with a vigour that led to him being salesman of the year several times in the late 1970s and early 1980s. Once my dad decides he’s going to do something, by god he does it and he does it well! I love this about him.

As many of you know, he got sick in the early 1990s from Hepatitis C, from the ‘tainted blood’ scandal. He had a liver transplant in 2001, and when they removed his liver they found it was riddled with cancer. I still shudder to think about it.

A man is so much more than his day job, though. In my humble opinion, the true measure of a man is in the lives he’s touched, and especially those he’s shaped by influence and by example. I look at my brother, who is one of the finest examples of mankind I know, and I see my father’s best work. I see the love between my parents, even after 43 years of marriage, and I am in awe of the endless expanses of true love.

Growing up, I always knew I could count on my dad. He dedicated himself to his family, and I’ve defined my role as a parent on the foundations I learned from his example. When I look back on my youth, I remember the simple joy of spending time with him — sometimes driving the countryside as he took me along to the various schools he was working with, sometimes on the little boat we had when I was a teen, sometimes just sitting on the back deck watching the sunset. My dad has been my safe harbour, my sounding board, and my inspiration. A lifetime ago, at my first (I call it the ‘practice’ marriage) wedding ceremony, we danced to Bette Middler’s Wind Beneath My Wings because I couldn’t then and still couldn’t think of a song that better describes our relationship. Except that maybe we’d be jostling each other for that spotlight. Hey, I come by my love of attention honestly!

And yet, of all the gifts my father has given me, the one I most treasure is the genuine warmth and affection that defines his relationship with my boys, and with my brother’s children. Is there a greater gift than unconditional love?

Happy birthday, Papa Lou. You are loved beyond words.

Oh my — I just stood behind someone at Tim’s who ordered a medium coffee with three cream and five (FIVE!) sugars. Can you even disolve that much sugar in a medium coffee? Wouldn’t it have the viscosity of fudge? (I’m horrified by the idea of even one sugar in my coffee, so maybe I shouldn’t judge!)