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The passing of a great lady....and family matriarch

10/25/2018

46 Comments

 
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Our family is steeped in sadness. My mother-in-law, Wynn passed away peacefully, drawing her last breath Sunday evening at the Whitecliff  Nursing facility in British Columbia with her three sons and loved ones by her side. 

As with her life, her death was distinctive; passing on her birthday.  While some might think that is extra sad, it is actually amazing that she lasted long enough to reach 100, a pinnacle that few embrace. Gregg was already on his way to BC  for a planned birthday celebration when he got word that she had taken ill.  She had pneumonia and kidney infection and wasn’t responding to an aggressive antibiotic treatment. He arrived in time for her to be aware enough of her surroundings to smile at him.  but she wasn't conversing more than mumbles, spending most of her time sleeping. In the next few days she became even less responsive and began the final decline Saturday October 20th, when she was put on palliative care, concentrating on keeping her pain free and comfortable. 

I counted down each minute hoping she would make it to Sunday October 21st for her birthday.  She no longer understood what was happening but to live that long she had to go the distance, allowing her sons to proudly boast that their mom reached a century old, to brag about family longevity and great genes.  To fall short of 100 would have been like a novel without the last page, to run a marathon and collapse within inches of the finish line, so we are over the moon that she held on long enough to make it across the line.  I think it’s a comfort to all that loved her that she reached that special crest, a final memory and story that we will all share.   
  
There were several strange little moments surrounding her passing.  The most extraordinary was the time of death pronounced at 7:47 pm.  I wasn’t there but I can imagine a gasp from her loved ones.  Jim, Gregg’s dad, exclusively flew the 747 airplanes for Air Canada during his 35 year career with them.  Of all the hours and minutes of P.M. timing, this number was called. Coincidence? I like to think not. Gregg also said there was an amazing plane contrail around the moon that evening.  Unfortunately he didn’t take a photo but that will be a memory he’ll not soon forgot.   

Wynn was a fraternal twin, a close sibling bond few get to experience.   In the photo above Wynn is on the right and her twin Lois is on the left.  They made their beautiful, matching and flowing dresses for graduation. They also had an older sister Edith who lived well up into her nineties so longevity is a family trait. Unfortunately, their father died when Wynn was two years old so she grew up without a father, surviving the depression that she talked about and frequently blamed for being so frugal.  She never wasted a thing or threw anything out because someday it might be needed.  She wasn’t a hoarder, their home was very neat and tidy but her closets hid an obsessive collection of bed sheets and linens. She did however bulk purchase consumable necessities such as Kleenex, toilet paper and of course food. She loved when Costco opened! 

Many a joke was told over their 18 cubic foot deep-freeze that held all manner of sale turkeys and meats, casseroles and pies, some of the latter were dated back so far they were referred to as mystery pies, you didn’t know what fruit they were until they came out of the oven, albeit still delicious with a crust to die for.  Wynn was a good cook and baker well known for her pastries especially her butter tarts. Their beast of a freezer was big enough to hide a body, perhaps several stacked on top of one another but she usually kept it full and rotated stock so there was no fear of falling in with the cover banging down on top of us as we selected a frozen entree and dessert for dinner.  Perhaps, doing without during the depression left a lasting impression, especially with a single mother that worked to put food on the table and doing the best she could to raise three daughters, perhaps all that made Wynn need the security of surplus in her own pantry.   One day after a trip to the grocery store where there was a sale on tins of tuna, of which I purchased a dozen cans, I said proudly to Gregg, “See, you did marry your mom.” And he jokingly replied, “No, mom would have bought it all.” 

Gregg’s dad was tall, handsome and broad of shoulder, an airline pilot entrusted with the 747’s during his career with Air Canada.   It provided a great life for the Little clan, many vacations and opportunities that some only dream of and by his own account, Gregg had an idyllic childhood. Wynn, a tall and willowy looker caught Jim's eye, they fell in love and married July 5th, 1946.   She had been working as a passenger agent for Trans-Canada Airlines but after they married she stayed home to care for her family while her husband was away on overseas flights but she volunteered more than her share, was physically active and said the secret to longevity was down to walking, swimming and keeping on the move.  She collected a large circle of friends and was loved by all. 
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I have never seen such a social butterfly. Her gift of conversation was honed to perfection, and it wasn’t put on, she had a genuine interest in people.  At Jim’s memorial gathering, I watched her move about the room engaging everyone, putting them at ease with their grief, while she stoically contained hers.   I always joke that I wanted to be like her when I grew up.  Social graces aren’t born they are learned and I’ve lacked the gift of gab, spending too much time in my own head as a child creating the perfect introvert.  That’s why I like words, I’m not intimidated by paper and pen and words flow freely whereas my mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton in a crowd.  Wynn was a natural communicator, always knew the perfect thing to say to draw the other person out, and I admired her to pieces. 

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Wynn worked as a ticket agent before she married.
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No sure what year this was taken but a lovely photo. 
When I first met Jim and Wynn I loved them instantly.   I always wanted to call them mom and dad, that’s the way I felt inside, but I was shy.  I was like an adopted child of sorts, a daughter-in-law that is. Every time we visited them in White Rock, BC it only fueled more feeling.  I made them a part of our life with constant emails, they experienced our lives through my stories, bridging the distance between us with words. 

I would write paragraph after paragraph, short stories really, that made our mundane lives seem far more exciting and interesting than they actually were.  I used to say I wrote a lot about nothing, I could take something like a simple apple and dress it up like a party.  I cut my writing teeth with four or more emails a week, if something popped up my first thought was to share it and was at the computer relaying the hot of the press news.  Once when I visited them I saw a tall stack of printed matter on Jim’s desk and discovered they were all my emails and was deeply touched.  I suppose he printed them for Wynn to read at the kitchen table but never threw them away like yesterday’s news.  Volumes of stories piled high, our life spelled out across sheets of paper, giving them a constant view into our comings and goings. 

We phoned as well, if Gregg didn’t automatically connect every couple of weeks I’d remind him because I wanted to hear their voices.  I can still hear his dad’s soft speech in my head, a melodic sound, warm and pleasant.   Of course I was shy and tongue tied most of the time, conversations were difficult for me even on the phone, but Gregg filled in the gaps while I hung on the other line feeling soothed by their banter.   Being the clown that I am, I’d manage to crack a few punch lines that would be rewarded by a chuckle and how I loved to hear them laugh.  Since Jim's passing,  Gregg and I kept Wynn smiling when we phoned her Sunday evenings although as she got closer to 100 we could tell she was failing a bit, not wanting to converse for long periods like before.  There was a time I Skyped with her several hours an evening, every evening, she could chat endlessly, so the fact that she tired quickly and said we should let her go was a sign of things to come.        

I’ve been thinking a lot about them.  One of my fondest funnies with Jim was while looking out their kitchen window at a hedge trimmer working in their back yard clipping the over growth.  He was there a couple of hours and I asked how much something like that service would cost here.  Jim said $1000.  My jaw dropped and after I picked it up off the table I commented, “Oh my god, I’d have chewed it off with my teeth for that much money!”  I’ll never forget his chuckle.  Everything grows twice as tall and fast in the more neutral temperatures and rain of the west.  Landscaping is huge business out there because of the need to keep up with the Jack in the Beanstalk kind of vegetation growth. 

By 1991 I was motherless; my mom was actually taken from us by infection, the same fate my mother-in-law succumbed too. Later when my father died in 2000, I was lost and felt like an orphan but Wynn and Jim filled the void so I was never really alone.  In the statistical family, the parents go before the children, so with the passing of his mom, Gregg and I have both lost the last buffer between our lives and our own deaths.  We are now one step higher on the ladder, making us the buffer for our children.   The cycle of life and death keeps on grinding away.   

After Jim died I shattered like a glass window.  It was terribly painful for me and I flew out to BC to be with Wynn for the week while we waited for everyone to make it home.  Gregg was in the field working and Wynn postponed the service until he could arrive.  She was always about the work, it came first no matter what and said that many times.  I had a week alone with her, a precious time for me that I will never forget.  We polished silver and organized her closets, all those dozens of sheet sets that she’d buy and bring home from the Peace Arch Hospital Auxiliary Superfluity Thrift Store where she volunteered; second hand and still in the wrapper sheets,  new and crisp while the ones on her bed could have been rotated right into the bin.  There was nothing I could do to convince her to wash and use a new set.  Something must have happened back in her childhood to worry about not having enough bed linens.  Every time I went out to visit I organized the closets, the sheets that got disorganized over time while that drab old, olive green set on their bed got even more knobby and thread bare. 

I listened while she reminisced, her memory as sharp as a pin. The fun, the dancing and wartime tales, once 18 dates in one summer, all the travel and family history, especially all the antics Gregg put her through with his devil may care spirit.  He apparently caused a few more grey hairs than the others, being fearless as a small boy and out for adventure.  I sat like a sponge absorbing her stories.  It was a very special time for me.  

She was a little stuck in her ways and at times curmudgeonly, but she was of a different generation and had seen and experienced so much in her lifetime she was allowed her idiosyncrasies.   The one constant that was undeniable was her grand love for her boys that always shone through like a brilliant ray of sunshine; Terry the eldest, Gregg the middle and Dale the youngest.  Any time someone snapped a photo of her with her boys her smile was just a wee bit bigger and the pride in her eye matched it.

I know she loved me although she wouldn’t verbalize her feelings, saying it was foolish to go around telling people you love them when they already know it, perhaps another miss planted idea from her youth.   I have physical proof of her love for me in a card she sent a few years ago. She told me she appreciated all the contact and sharing of our lives with them and that she loved me for it.  It makes me tear up every time I think of it, perhaps I’ll have the card framed. 

Writing my adoptive parents was never a duty or a chore; I needed them more than they needed me. All the correspondence was done with love and respect for the two people that gave me the wonderful husband I have today.  The man isn’t perfect, no one on this earth is, but by golly he’s darn near close.  He’s been my saving grace since the day I met him, pulling me from an unhappy past while bringing a bright light to shine through the grey clouds.  He is my rock and my anchor and I have his wonderful parents to thank for the grand life I love and live! 
Winnifred Little,
Oct 21, 1918 – Oct 21, 2018
Born in Tuberose Saskatchewn, Winnifred Achurch
You and Jim are sadly missed and will be for the rest of our lives.

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Terry and Gregg on a recent visit. 
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From left to right, Gregg, Terry, Dale and Wynn all smiles with her boys. 
46 Comments

It's been a rough year......

10/21/2018

4 Comments

 
I awoke this morning a little out of sorts.  Crap, who am I kidding, I’m a lot out of sorts. My knickers are in a twist, have been since January and I’m learning that time does not heal a bloody thing.   Once trust is gone can it ever be rejuvenated?   After you’ve been gutted can you put it all back, stitch it up and get past the pain when the scar is a blinking neon light?
 
Maybe this morning is worse because I slept little last evening, or perhaps it’s because my knee is acting up, the nerve feels like it’s being sawn in half with a dull blade.   Pain is a mood shaper, can drag anyone from a sunny porch to a dark, dank, windowless basement.  Discomfort is part of this slump, that’s a given, but only a portion of it.  Today  is like many when I forcible pull up the big girl panties, thank my lucky stars for all my blessings, repeat my mantra in the mirror that “I am a good person”, smile and be happy to be alive. 

Some days are heavier and harder to crawl out from under.  Today is one. Today I wallow.  I’m ashamed I can let others do this to me; it’s a bitter pill that I swallow, funny how swallow has wallow in it.  Perhaps one has to visit darker days to appreciate the brighter ones. 

Under all the gratitude, something persists, niggling at me until it accumulates into a large block so I stumble, then I get back up and it starts all over again.  This fog in my head, sadness, a thief to steal my bliss started on my birthday last year.   2018 has been tough on my personal life and its taken months to deal with and accept.  Everything can change in a minute, what you think you know can turn on you and you are left asking why?  There are never any answers, just assumptions but what it boils down to is people are fickle, they are out for their own agenda and loyalty isn’t guaranteed in any situation. Someone kicked my dog and all my friends deserted me, took their side even though I never asked anyone to take sides, my friendship carried less value I guess. It's was another kick, to my pride this time, knowing I'm as disposable as table scraps didn't do much for my self esteem.  The wife of the abuser told my husband I’m unstable and should be on drugs because I wrote a heartfelt blog of the traumatizing event, the abuser told my husband that he didn't mean to hit Jake in the face because he was aiming for his neck.  People are telling me that they are saying it didn’t happen, that it’s a lie.  My husband and I are not liars. 

Its been almost a year since it happened, yet for me it runs on a reel in my brain as if it was yesterday, the truth of it as ugly as when it happened.   Some will say I shouldn't write this, but the burden of this truth is too heavy to carry anymore, I have to heal it like any festering sore and putting my feelings into words is cathartic.  Besides, I have nothing else to lose; I’ve already lost it all. My husband says there was nothing to lose if it can be gone that easily and he’s right, I obviously thought more of my friends than they did me.  And that’s okay, the delusion I was under is gone.  

I’ve never been the happiest clown at the circus, I’ve lived through a lot of dark shit, I’ve seen how low humans can fall, I’ve been manipulated, abused and bullied by those I loved, those who were supposed to love me, and despite this I don’t begrudge my past, I am the person I am today because of it, honest, loyal, a gate keeper, I'm the kind of person you'd want to have your back, be your friend. 

I'm sending these words out into the universe to put an end to this unfortunate story so I can begin a new chapter.  I no longer want to dwell on it or give it another thought.  I'm hoping that 2019 will be a better year for me, and for my husband as he was as dismayed and shocked how everything turned out as I am.  This past year I've been perpetually sad, circumstances have even stolen my writing bliss so I've been silent.....its time to move on and recapture the old Christine but give her a new upgrade.     

​In my past, because I’ve seen the worst people can throw at me, I was able to appreciate the good, but, and there is always that but, I hoped that as I got older, away from the naysayers and people who didn’t have my best interest at heart, I would see more caring, more support, more of the positive sides of relationships.  Here I am almost 60, starting over and more dismayed than ever before.......   
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International Nonsuch Rendezvous 2018

10/11/2018

7 Comments

 
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Anyone that follows my blog know that I’ve missed the last three Nova Scotia Nonsuch Rendezvous Events, an annual get together dedicated to the Nonsuch sailboat and the happy people that sail them.   This year was the International gathering that happens every two years alternating between the US and Canada.  I wasn’t missing this one come hell or high water and we worked over a month getting Catalyst ready to attend.  I wanted her to shine as much as a thirty year old boat can and she sparkled in the glint of the sun’s eye. 

We left late Thursday morning assuming it would take between eight to ten hours to reach the Royal Nova Scotia Yacht Squadron.  I’m not sure what I expected of the passage from Mahone Bay to Halifax, my longest excursion on the water thus far.  Let’s face it, I’m rather naïve when it comes to the ways and means of sailing.  All I  can say is that the voyage to Halifax was quite an education and not necessarily a good one.   

The passage was a gyrating and white-knuckled carnival ride.  I’ve learned that a ship’s motion is divided into six components in the six degrees of freedom.   Heave, yaw, roll, surge, pitch and sway and we experienced them all in rapid succession like riding a mechanical bull set on high. Not being gimbaled like the stove, I was flopped around and my stomach also rolled and heaved. It was rough going, my internal organs rearranged as we pounded around in the lumpy seas.  A couple of weeks ago a program on CBC radio said a plug in one ear will quell seasickness and I improvised with rolled up toilet paper but the upset was already in motion before I inserted it in my ear canal and by then nothing could stop the outcome.   I must have been a sight hanging on to the counter for  dear life while retching into the galley sink with a big wad of paper hanging off the side of my head.  But, as every cloud has a silver lining, it certainly came in handy to wipe my chin. 

Hubby told me when he felt a bit queasy on a boat delivery to Hawaii, he went below to lie down and felt better, so I followed his advice.  The nausea faded away and I drifted off to sleep, shortening the trip for me which was another silver lining.  Even the rocking and pounding on swirling waves did little to jar me awake except for this one time I did rouse in time to hear hubby say, “Don’t worry, that’s what the deck wash hose is for.” I gathered someone else must have been woofing their cookies, ginger ones to be specific, that one of our guests, who must have known the ropes, brought as a seasickness preventative.  

I drifted back to sleep, unconsciousness saving me from more hours of swirling seas.  I must say that I didn’t relish returning home, being a cork in a whirlpool tub with jets on the highest setting is not my idea of a fun day on the water.  Perhaps over time rolling seas will grow on me, at least melt away the constant fear of our boat breaking apart and tossing us all into an angry sea. Perhaps with experience, I’ll develop a saltier disposition and a titanium stomach to match.  When starting at the bottom there’s only one direction one can go.   

After we arrived and tied up at the finger wharf we had a day and a half to rest and tidy up.  We washed the salt spray off her deck and topsides, vacuumed the cabin, polished a bit of salt encrusted stainless and then we were ready for the weekend. 

Friday evening, there was a social meet and greet with a serenading choir and tables of hors d'oeuvres.    Although the tent we collected under was as hot as Hades, with nary a breeze to cool simmering skin, we met some very nice people, especially Bob Cornell who came up from Connecticut with his wife Sue and lovely puggle Bailey for the event and planned to race with us on Catalyst.  Gregg with his 50 year history sailing and racing other boat designs had only raced a Nonsuch once and he was looking forward to learning some tricks.  I hadn’t realized how skilled and knowledgeable Bob would be, I’d only just met him on the internet through a Nonsuch Facebook site but he turned out to be a terrific find.

The rendezvous was well organized and full of fun things to do but I must say the pinnacle for me was the racing.  Even if the day started with clouds and rain, by the race start the sun was shining and the winds were perfect.  Quite the adrenaline rush, although I must confess I didn’t contribute much more then winching in the choker twice when called on.  Mostly I crawled around the cockpit taking photos of our crew and the other boats; a prettier sight was never seen.  I particularly love when they pass one another on the opposite tack and their sails cross in a V formation.  Not to sound too smug, most of the photos were taken from our stern as the entire fleet was behind us in the first two races; bullets they called them as we crossed the finish line first.  The third race Gregg made a tactical error that cost us a bit of time but we still managed to win the overall championship.  Bob and Gregg performed as if they’d raced together for years and it was thrilling to see Catalyst strut her stuff as the guys tweaked the best out of her ten year old sail and thirty year old hull.

There was a lot of socializing, Dark’n & Stormys consumed and late evening swims in the most exquisite salt water pool to wash away the sticky, oppressive heat of the day.  The Royal Nova Scotia Yacht Squadron is beautiful as well as steeped in history, established in 1837 marking it the oldest yacht club in North America.   We were welcomed by friendly and knowledgeable staff and we were immersed in an atmosphere of all things nautical.

The second evening was snack and hors d'oeuvres made by the boat owners.  I took Greek’s pudding, a local flavour of Lunenburg County which seemed fitting and I also made 72 mini butter tarts that disappeared quickly.   

One of the highlights of the weekend was the awards dinner when Chris Ouellette played guitar and sang the anthem he wrote for the Nonsuch.  He was accompanied by highly respected composer and musician Paul Halley on keyboard and his equally talented son Nick on the drums.  During the weekend, there always seemed to be music in the air, with Nick Halley hosting a sampling of his talented musician friends in the evenings. 

It was sad untying and leaving the dock for the trip home.  Saying goodbye to new friends, such beautiful surroundings and the laidback lifestyle one easily adapted too.  I’d never stayed on our boat for five days in a row and it was enough of a taste to know I’d like more.   The Nonsuch yacht exudes comfort, has all the amenities, and if not for the fact our poodles were home with a sitter, I might have asked to sail into the sunset and keep on going.

The journey home held no surprises the trip up had, except for hitting something submerged to grind us to an immediate stop. I was up on deck taking the sail cover off and the force pitched me forward, I jabbed my finger and broke a nail.   It could have been worse; if we’d been motoring faster I might have been tossed overboard.  Later, Gregg got in contact with the coast guard to report what looked like a four foot square cement block a couple of feet below the surface, perhaps part of a long ago peer?   The depth meter registered 40 feet one minute and then we were stopped dead in the water the next.  I’m sure our lead keel is sporting a dent that will need a bit of reshaping when she’s hauled out for winter.  We were only a short distance from the yacht club when it happened and more to the shore side than down the center of the channel but it wasn’t marked on the paper chart or on Navionics to indicate an object to avoid.  

The wind was on the nose so we motored for a while and when we finally hoisted the big sail, it was another beautiful day on the water.  The trip home was sweet, erasing the bitter of the trip up.  Charlie Mitchell, owner of Horsefeathers, a Nonsuch 36, joined us and helmed the entire way to Mahone Bay.  His boat is suffering some transmission problems so he wasn’t able to bring it to the rendezvous and we were happy to let him have some wheel time. 

We arrived home shortly after 8:00 pm.  The sun was beginning to slip below the horizon and the sky was ablaze with long, sweeping brush strokes of pink and orange.  Mahone Bay has some of the most incredible sunsets and sunrises and this one seemed to be an extra special welcome for us.   
 
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Bob tweaking the sail and Gregg at the helm. Teamwork at its very best.  
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Catalyst II above and below, Dark N' Stormy celebratory drinks after the race. 
​Gregg, Alison and Bob.  
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A ship's motion is divided into six components in the six degrees of freedom.
7 Comments

Linen Stinks....

10/9/2018

12 Comments

 
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I’ve noticed over the years, as the linen displaced burlap and took over the pattern room, that a hum was gathering in the four corners, sometimes drifting out into the main shop with a distinctive pong.  The back room can be pretty heady with hundreds of patterns hanging; the lingering odor permeating everything.  My nose is more sensitive than most, my hubby says I should take a job sniffing out bombs and drugs at the airport.  Big Ha-ha.  Sometimes being able to smell acutely is a bloody curse, assaulted by odors that I will spare you the details of.    

If I had a dollar for every time I droned on about the stench of the back pattern room, Deborah, Shane and I could all retire.  I might be a broken record but the smell bothers me, not in the sense that it makes me ill; it’s more of an embarrassment worrying what customers will think of the shop.  It’s bad enough Shane is dyeing wool all day, that also hums up the place with a distinctive smell akin to a wet dog.  I’m told I’m imagining things, that I’m nuts,  that it’s nowhere near the caliber to which I complain of, but my nose knows.  Linen smells like a barnyard.  Yup, there I said it.  It’s a heady mixture of cow dung and hay, a country farmer’s ode de toilette. 

To clarify the degree of my olfactory talents, if the average person can smell say 5 on the odor meter, I am somewhere between 12-20.  I think it developed back in the day when I suffered severe allergies, heightening my sense of smell so that I could get an early warning I was about to walk into something offensive so I could retreat before I stepped into lasting, negative effects.   I’m well now, but this gift/curse has remained.   Of course there are benefits, the flavours of food are more intense, flowers are brilliant and I know when my deodorant is failing or when its time to clean the refrigerator. It’s really too bad I don’t enjoy the taste of wine because I would make a fantastic sommelier.  

Some days are better than others depending on temperatures and whether or not the pattern room is lacking ventilation. Humidity brings out the worst in the woven flax, spinning it out of olfactory control and at times, on particularly sticky days, I’ve apologized to customers, blaming the stink where it belongs, trying to circumvent their thinking that my entire shop smells like a pile of steamy horse manure.  I’m super conscious of it and bless the hearts and souls of those who have come into the shop and reassured me that I was wrong, obviously beyond sweet and nose blind.

Well, two weekends ago the shop was crammed to the rafters with some of the 30,000 visitors that converged on our town for the Annual Scarecrow Festival.  It was standing room only on the sidewalks and traffic jams as folks arrived in droves to see the fantastic show of clever effigies of the resident’s and store owner’s imaginations that were displayed across town. 

A boy of around ten came in with his grandparents and he wasn’t there long when he said rather loudly with a wrinkled up nose, “This place stinks!”  Followed by, “Papa, why does it smell like a barn in here?”  The grandfather tried to rein him in with a hush, but the boy got one more comment in as he dragged away, “It smells like poop in here!” 

And then the truth teller was gone, arms flailing as he was quickly hustled out the door. 

The shop was full of people; I started laughing and shouted, “Finally someone speaks the truth!”

All eyes turned to me.  The grandmother, left behind to shop, looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. 

“Out of the mouths of babes!” I cried.  
  
So I’ve been vindicated although confirmation isn’t exactly a good thing, my shop obviously smells like poop which is nothing to be proud of.   The kid must have an over-developed olfactory sense like mine, where most only detect a hint of something but cannot quite put their finger on it he sniffed out the ugly fact.  Who knows why this boy was the only one to ever speak the truth, but now the truth has set me free, proving that I’m not crazy after all! 

12 Comments
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    Christine Little has been ranked #5​ out of the 60 top rug hooking bloggers by Rug Hooking Magazine!

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    Max Anderson, Australia, recipient of my Nova Scotia Treasures rug.  An award of excellence for promoting Canada through his writing.  
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    Gift Certificates are available for that special rug hooker in your life!  Any denomination, no expiry date! 

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    We have a pot to "Fiz" in!

Shop Hours:
Monday - Friday 10:00 AM - 5:00 PM 
Saturdays 12:00 PM - 4:00 PM
We are closed during ice and snow storms
​so please call ahead.  If school is cancelled we probably are as well.  

Toll Free: 1-855-624-0370
Local: 1-902-624-0370​
encompassingdesigns@gmail.com

498 Main Street
P.O. Box 437
Mahone Bay, N.S.
Canada B0J 2E0

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