December 29, 2014

Christmas Wit Da Homey

My ancient grandmother (a.k.a. Oma, or "Homey") is slowing down . . .

She has always had an unusual vigor, as if she regularly sips just enough from the Fountain of Youth to keep her spirit in its teenage form. In fact, my little brother and I often sing the "Spiderman" song of our own youth with a few slight alterations:

"Alte Frau. Alte Frau.
Friendly neighbourhood alte Frau.
Can she swing from a thread?
Take a look overhead! Hey there . . .
There goes the Alte Frau.

Is she strong? Listen, bud.
She's got geriatric blood . . . "

And so on.

I wouldn't exactly call Ruth Strosser a mentor--she tried to teach me, in my teenage years, to avoid the sexual advances of young gentlemen by using her soap operas as illustrations of good behaviour (I believe it was Ashley who was abstinent). And her moral decisions do change from situation to situation. Beseeching God to help one get through Customs when one has purchased a fur coat and doesn't want to pay extra charges doesn't exactly constitute ethical behaviour. (Note that God answered her prayers in the form of another wee old lady who agreed to wear said coat and, whilst sweating profusely, pass it off as her own. God works in mysterious ways . . . or maybe not. Maybe he just shakes his head or enjoys a good chuckle.)

That said, Ruth Strosser is a fine example of living out each one of your days with enthusiasm. She is almost 96, but still lives in her home. When she recently fell, knocking herself unconscious, she fought the emergency team who wished to escort her to the hospital.

"But I'm all ready for church!" she protested. (Why waste a nice outfit and combed hair on an emergency room, however kind the staff?)

She continues to fly to Hawaii each year, and she embraces the funerals of her peers with enthusiasm. (Why waste the opportunity to enjoy a fine spread--free of charge, of course--and to watch a certain degree of drama unfold?)

This Christmas she definitely showed the signs of aging, and I was a little sad about that. After all, we've enjoyed her through many seasons of life. I recall annually decorating her with tinsel during the many years tinsel was used to smother our gangly Christmas tree.

Where have the years gone? Where has the tinsel gone?

We love you, Alte Frau. You've got geriatric blood, and you make my kids a little nervous, but you've been our Oma for so long that I can hardly believe that there will someday be a Christmas without you.

December 3, 2014

Best Report Memories . . . the Final Countdown

Here we are, folks. The final two reasons why I'll never forget my stint at the Report.


2. The Anti-Virus Campaign

My first computer at the Report had a green cursor and no images--that's how out-of-date things were with the magazine's limited budget. Eventually I was given a real computer.

Since I was often on the crime beat, covering unspeakable atrocities (such as the Rebecca Bluff case), I had to do some less-than-pleasant research. One day, I (tech savvy person that I was) discovered that my computer was no longer working. Rapidly turning it off and on--on-off-on-off-on-off--didn't solve the issue.

Tony, the computer tech guy, was appalled that I hadn't updated my anti-virus software. I had viruses coming out of my yin-yang. I thought that he would have taken care of things such as that--I was a writer with the tender heart of a poet, not the sort to attract vicious and brutal computer viruses. I took my computer's illness as a personal affront.

Alas! My computer fell ill a second time, since I did not actually know how to update the protection that Tony had installed on my computer. (I had merely nodded my head and said, "Uh huh.") This time, I accused my computer of having loose morals.

It was then that I took decisive action. Kevin Steel had purchased a nativity set for the Christmas cover photo, and the pieces of this set were just sitting around. Why not ask a higher power to care for my computer--and all the computers around the office? And so I took a sheep, a donkey, etc., and placed one gently, reverently, on the top of every computer.

It was an unfortunate coincidence that another news agency came in (armed to the hilt with video cameras) shortly thereafter to do a piece on the Report. Everyone was a little ill at ease because the Report did not always garner positive attention. (I have no idea why. We were nice folks. Albertans.)

It was unlucky, too, that a puzzled reporter with the other news agency said to Kevin Steel, "What's with the nativity pieces on the computers?"

"It's our anti-virus software," Kevin said, quite seriously, before moving on.




The strange thing is that I never again had a virus on that computer. Tony could have learned a thing or two.


1. What Happens at the Water Cooler . . .

Ah, the water cooler. The place where thirsty reporters converge to share a drink and a tidbit of news or gossip.

I never really understood how water coolers worked. I assumed that the water that dribbled into the drip tray went somewhere. Did it go back to join the ocean from whence it came? Did the liquid leak into Narnia, or Atlantis? I did not know.

What I did know was that it was a long walk from my desk to the restroom. And I had little patience for disposing any leftovers (rinds and leftover liquids and such) in the restroom garbage. So I simply walked the few steps to the water cooler and dropped the liquids and any other remains that would fit into the drip tray. It was an easy and efficient method.

One day Dave Stevens said, "Hey, have you guys noticed a smell lately?" I had not.

Then David said, "Seriously, I think the smell is coming from around here." He circled around the vicinity of the water cooler, sniffing the air with great concentration. Kevin Steel joined him, equally bewildered.

"That's strange," they said.

It was then that I understood the truth about water coolers. And about myself. This was a profound moment of clarity--a moment I will never forget.

I snorted, and tried to choke down the laughter. I failed miserably. Kevin Steel raised an eyebrow.

I then confessed. Kevin Steel removed the drip tray to discover the moldy horrors within. No Narnia! No Atlantis! It was truly a moment I'd never forget, and the muscles of my stomach still recall the workout I got trying to contain my mirth.

Thank you, dear Report, for these memories.