Why potties are not allowed on the table!

Vavielle as a baby

My oldest daughter, Vavielle was a wonderful baby and toddler.  She slept through the night at just a few weeks, went to bed easy with no fuss (of course I gave her a bottle, we did not know any better in those days) and possessed a bright, cherubic manner.

When Vavielle was a year old we started potty training.   In a few weeks we had it mastered and often she would run off to the bathroom and spend time on her potty.   Then we flew to New Brunswick.  We had moved to British Columbia when Vavielle was an infant. However all of our families were back in New Brunswick so we visited whenever we could.   This trip we were flying and our route included a layover in Montreal.  Now in the sixties one dressed up to travel and I had my daughter decked out in a frilly little dress.  Mother and daughter were making their jaunt to the rest rooms and we discovered to our delight that there were tiny little flushes, just a potty height.  After I had Vavielle situated on the wee flush, no mean feat, think all those poufy skirts, I turned for a second.   Famous last words.

We should have had this set up\

 There was a loud roar, a whoosh and terrified cries.  I turned to find my little girl upended in the flush, only her tiny shoes remained above the rim and she was sobbing uncontrollably.   After I extricated her from the toilet, changed her clothing and calmed her down I discovered the flush mechanism was on the floor and childlike Vavielle had pushed it to see what would happen. 

 That episode set us back a long way.  Toilets were out, potties were in.  No worries of being drowned in a potty.  Fast forward to age three.  Our little family was driving, yes driving to New Brunswick from British Columbia.  I planned for every eventuality.  Knowing that bathroom facilities could be uncertain at best, I put the ever faithful potty in the back seat along with numerous rolls of toilet paper.  A few days into our trip we were stopped at a picnic site.   The place was bustling, every table was filled. In fact we were sharing our table with an elderly couple.  I was busy making the meal and Vavielle was chatting away to me.   Suddenly her father called her name in that “oh no” tone of voice, “Vav…ie..lle”!   I turned, and there on the picnic table, between my tablecloth and the other travellers food was an item you do not want to see.   Yes, it was the potty.  Better yet; perched on the potty was one bare bummed little three year old.

 Since I am the oldest of six, four of them brothers, I was not nearly as embarrassed as my husband.  We did pack up quickly; we did get back on the road.  Bathroom breaks were always closely supervised.  And no one asked me  Why potties are not allowed on the table!

why we call Steve Bumpie

No one asked me …….why we call Steve “Bumpie”

Some seventeen years ago, when we received the wonderful news that we were going to be grandparents, my husband Steve said “I have just one request”.  Now we are all familiar with his one request scenarios. However this one was uncomplicated.  “I want the baby to call me Bumpie”.   I assured my husband that the baby could call him Bumpie, in fact that the child would use whatever name or term we introduced.  Then Steve started to second guess himself. “Maybe it would be too confusing, Dad is Bumpie to Jane and Peters children and ….” 

Bumpy Dick, Nanny and their grandchildren

Time for explanations.  Steve’s father Richard, aka Dick, Bauer was grandfather to Leah and Mikey. They called him Grampy.  Enter the third grandchild, Emily.  Grampy was not a word that was working for her and she pronounced him Bumpie and so the original Bumpie was born. 

 I had heard of Bampie but Bumpie was a first for me.   Bumpie Dick had worn his title well. Now Steve was moving in.

Bumpie and new born Marcia Brooke Denton

One blustery evening in March of 1995 our granddaughter Marcia was born.  Her arrival was made even more special as she had a number of obstacles as she navigated the highway of birth.   Steve held Marcie in his arms and said “Hello, I am your Bumpie”.  And so he has become.  Marcie was never confused between her Bumpie and Bumpie Dick.  We waited ten long years for another grandchild.  Finally a little boy was to be born.  Sadly, Bumpie Dick was finishing his life.  Marcie asked me one day, “Gram, does God pick the person to die when he knows there is going to be a new baby?  Or when God knows someone is going to die, does he send a new baby so the family will not be so sad?’  We decided on the second scenario.  

Richard Bauer passed away November tenth, 2004.  Matthew Mourad was born Dec third, 2004.  Though not related by blood, they are tied by family.  And they share some character traits such as a love of sweets and a body built for athletics.    

Noah, Matty and Marcie 2010

In March of 2007 Marcie and Matty were joined by a brother Noah. Now Bumpie had two boys on his team. All three children love their adventures with Bumpie; biking, hiking, going to the beach, the list goes on and on. The boys are privy to a special game they call Monster Grampy and only a Bumpie can play.

our Jonah

In August 2011 we were once more blessed. Jonah Schlacter arrived to capture Bumpie’s heart and fill out the grandson roster.  Although Jonah lives in Burlington Steve will be a hands on Bumpie.



Even today Bumpie was at work, dropping off Marcie to visit her Mom in the hospital and taking the boys to McDonalds play land.   My husband likes his job, and title, so much that it forms his email accounts.  And least you doubt the validity of his title; Steve reports that it was very difficult to use Bumpie as his name; because so many are already in use.

Did I like walking a Rope Bridge?

Inspiration, the word itself conjures up visions of blue skies and bluer waters, lush foliage and wonderful music.  Perhaps for most however my daughter and I dance to a different drummer.   We find inspiration in children’s cartoons. 

My daughter Leisa is a jewellery artist. She works primarily in aluminum and sells under the name Leisa B.    While she was producing jewellery for the Christmas sales, she took a break to snuggle and watch cartoons with her four year old, Noah. A shadow on the wall caught her eye and Leisa translated that into a new ear ring design.

I too took inspiration from a cartoon. Mine is not as creative as my daughter’s’ but none the less, an idea was born.   The boys and I were watching cartoons and the animals were traversing a rope bridge, and I remembered my incident with the rope bridge.

Some fifty years ago, yes fifty! our family was visiting friends on the Miramichi.  This was a very interesting and beautiful area where one village flowed into the next. My Mother had always spoken of her friends in McNamee yet the youngsters referred to the locale as Priceville.  No matter, the road ran through and the river ran by.  There were few activities for children, and then someone suggested a walk.

Off we went, after we had trudged a fair distance we turned to the right onto a trail that which lead into bushes. I could hear water in the distance.  Then the path cleared and we were climbing wooden stairs.

How the bridge felt to me !

Up, up we went and suddenly we were on a platform. Stretching out from the platform was ….a wooden suspension bridge. The bridge stretched its toothpick like slats far, far across the river.  I soon made it clear that I was not going to cross THAT.  Heights have always bothered me; there is a family story about how I froze at the top of the Casa Loma staircase when I was seven.  Nor was I particularly athletic or well-coordinated.   Somehow the girls convinced me to come, I inched along with my hands in a death grip on the railing.  Part way out a boy came whizzing by us on a bicycle.  The bridge bucked and swayed, I was not sure if my heart would burst from its pounding or if it would simply stop. Finally I got the rythm and started walking, one foot after the other, looking at my friends and not down to the rushing river.

Then it happened,   boys at the far end of the bridge started to swing ithe bridge.  Yes, swing – as in pushing a swing and ever so slowly that swing was coming to us.  I am sure I cried, I imagined myself dashed over the side, or crumbled in fear and sliding through the meshwork.  My friends were responsible; one came behind me, one in front. We were all in body contact.

Bridge as it looks today

“Plant your feet, hang on to the top rope lightly,” as if!! 
“Now close your eyes and just pretend you are on a swing.” 
 I do not know how long it lasted.  Eventually we were still.  One of the girls gently turned me around.  I did not run, but I walked quickly back to our starting place.

I visited those friends all through my teen years.  We walked the rope bridge many times.  I never ran, never did anyone made the swing.  I never enjoyed the walk.

My Mother told me that the mothers of those girls had taken her to that same rope bridge. She had much the same experience.  Mother never went back.  My Father taught me to conquer my fears.

 No one asked me   Did I like walking a Rope Bridge?

for a Cabbage Patch Doll

The year was 1982, it was early in the fall and I was Christmas shopping for my two daughters who were then nine and fourteen.  We lived in a small rural community and the nearest place to shop was Woodstock, a town almost an hour’s drive away.   My last stop of the day was the newly opened Canadian Tire.   I was perusing the Christmas decoration when I heard a commotion. I followed the noise and discovered a staff member setting up a display of dolls.

 But a different kind of doll, Cabbage Patch dolls.  A crowd had gathered laughing and negating these new creations.  With round faces and pug noses, they proclaimed to have been harvested from the cabbage patch.  Their maker Xavier Roberts had signed every doll and provided them with adoption papers.  Intuitively I chose one doll with blonde hair and one with dark brown (just like my daughters).  They were $24.99, expensive in that day.  But I knew they were going to be popular.

I took them home and hid them in one of my many “secret” hiding places.  And waited.  I waited for the girls to talk about them, waited for commercials during the Saturday cartoons, waited to see them in the Christmas sales flyers.  Nothing.   October came and the girls made their Christmas lists, first draft.    November, second draft.  Still no word of Cabbage Patch dolls.  I was beginning to think my shoppers savvy had done me wrong.  End of November, the media blitz began. In days all stores were sold out.  Suddenly a Cabbage Patch doll was tops on Leisa’s list and Vavielle was saying they were “cute”.  I was very pleased with myself.

Then the ads began “Wanted to buy – Cabbage Patch doll, willing to pay any price.”  And so it went, the going price rose to $200.   That was half of our mortgage payment!   At that price I brought Vavielle into the decision.  Should Santa leave one for her or should it be sold.  Then she could have the money for other purchases, probably a skating dress.  Vavielle opted to sell.

 On Christmas morning when Leisa found her doll under the tree she was over joyed.  The adoption papers pronounced her to be “Lauren” and the official ceremony was oft repeated.  Truly my impromptu purchase gave my daughters Christmas the glow of happiness.

 Leisa loved that doll long and hard.   In an odd twist of fate she later won another Cabbage Patch doll at a community fund raiser.  But the second doll did not have the magic of her beloved Lauren.

As I write this Leisa is in the hospital, admitted for tests and observation for some troubling symptoms.  Nearing forty and a Mother herself, Leisa always is my little girl.  My wish for both my daughters is good health, loving families, happiness and financial stability. 

 Just as No one asked me   for a Cabbage Patch Kid, they do not ask me to  enchant their worlds.  However, I would if I could. Love you girls.

Am I afraid of intimidation?

The need for an Anti-Bullying rally seems to have filtered down to even the lowest common denominator.  This afternoon I received a call and the person on the other end starts to blast me. “Why did you say/do whatever about me/whoever?”  The anger and venom in their voice could cut like a knife.  A number of years ago I would have been reduced to tears, sputtering and trying to apologize; assuming that I was at fault.

But no more!   When the caller paused for breath; I responded.

“Are you trying to give me attitude?  If you are bring it on! And what do you mean calling me up and giving me a hard time about (whatever the issue)?”

I may be a legend in my own words but I am done taking flak.  In one of my former career incantations I was a Tenant Relations Officer for Public Housing.  I had hundreds of angry phone calls, and a number of angry face to face confrontations.  By then I had learned to stand my ground.  Those altercations are behind me, yet from time to time some uniformed individual thinks they can bully me with a loud voice and intimidation.   It will not work.

Some of my grief comes from being the president of my Housing Cooperation.  A Housing Coop is, by definition, a not for profit group in which each member has an equal say.  Yet all too many members are looking for a land lord when they perceive something is amiss.

In reality, we all face incidents when another person wants to rumble.  For a parking space, a grocery cart, a place in line – you know how it goes.  But like the child I was at six years old, I will not be bullied!  Anyone who wants to discuss a matter with me is welcome to do so, in a calm and reasonable manner.   Should they crank up the attitude and volume, they will get it right back!  

No one asked me   “ Am I afraid of intimidation”?

Why I write a blog

I have been a writer since forever and in the 1960’s received my first remuneration for my work.   Originally I wrote a free book review which became a paid “Readers” column in the weekend section of my local newspaper.  Fast and sure were my trademarks then as they are now.

 As I moved from coast to coast and my life, family and career changed; so did my writing.  Articles and short stories evolved into poetry.  Then I had a period of technical and business writing.  Most mornings as I drove to work, with the local CBC information morning show as my companion, I would write a mental “Talk Back” or commentary.

Then two events collided; I suffered a stroke and after thirty years as a public servant, I retired.  Now I would really write! I did some political commentary, which was fun but not quite what I wanted.

I started a novel, or rather what was to be the first in a series of mystery novels.  I wrote almost daily, and then life got in my way.   My computer crashed and I spent the next several years with a laptop from my cousin Brenda. It served well for email and Facebook but was not the work horse I wanted to WRITE.

Blogs have been on line since the late 1990’s.  The first that I read was created by Rebecca Moman, my niece.   This year I started reading fashion blogs especially one by Emma Barlow,  Full of Fabulous.    I would have loved to have left comments but I was confounded by the technology.   

Just eighteen days ago, January first, I determined to write a blog. And here we are. There will be a new No one Asked me every day.  Some will be hard hitting such as How to stop bullying (which has had almost two hundred page views and been read in ten countries in two days)!  Other will be amusing, reminiscing, self-portraits and family pieces.

My goal is to monetize, make money with my blog.  I am learning about this while “pinging” my blog so it will reach a larger audience.  Where have I acquired my knowledge?  From the internet. And no, I do not understand most of what I read. But I understand some of it and break the info down into chunks I can absorb.  It helps that during my library years I acquired good research skills.

I plan to continue my daily blog with something extra on February first. What is that you ask?  I am getting out the CD that holds my novel.

Why I never invited the minister to dinner

Having the minister or preacher as we called them in those days, to dinner was always a mixed blessing.   Positive because we appreciated his company and negative because one always wondered what to serve and how it would compare to dinners at the other parishioners.  We had recently built a house and felt the time was right to invite our minister to dinner.

My family was no help what so ever with three different suggestions for each course and then a chorus of “whatevers”.  As I contemplated my options I thought of our family dish Preachers Special which had been developed in the 1950’s by my Grandmother Lottie Rogers.  Since Grampy had the habit of inviting the visiting preacher home for a meal after the Sunday morning service; Grammy’s dilemma was what to serve.  This was before the days of convenience food or microwaves. In fact Grammy only had a big wood range and Grampy was notorious for having green wood in the wood box.  Grammy’s Preachers Special was a layered meal cooked in a double boiler to ensure it did not burn.  Cooked ground beef layered with rice, vegetables and a ubiquitous can of soup seemed to please all pallets. 

I decided on a more up tempo Beef Bourguignon, nice chunks of well-seasoned beef with mushrooms and wine. I would serve with little potatoes, a salad, rolls and dessert.  I was good to go.  By the time the beef was in the oven I was ready.  After the meat had cooked for the better part of an hour, I removed it from the oven and ……..dropped it on the floor.

I had not used oven mitts and the hot casserole had burned my hands!  Best part?  The Corningware casserole had shattered into a hundred pieces.  Not broken into two or three but shattered, glass shards were everywhere. I was in shock; I had nothing else to serve. It was the weekend, no stores open.   

I called my Mother to come pick up my children.  Primarily to remove them from the scene and secondly so they could not talk.   I put all the meat in a strainer. I washed, washed and rewashed. I browned more mushrooms and onions, I added wine, I added the washed meat.  I chose another Corning ware Casserole and put it in the oven.  I cleaned the kitchen; the burning dish had lifted pieces from my brand new flooring to say nothing of my poor burned hands.

The minister came, we ate, and I played with my food.  No one was hospitalized with a puncture in their digestive system.  And No one asked me   why I have never, ever invited a minister to dinner.