How to stop Bullying

Myself winter 1955/56

The year was 1956 and I was a grade one student in Port Alberni, British Columbia.  One day I met my father at the door crying that a boy had hit me while we were on the playground.  “Daddy I want you to come tomorrow and hit him back!”  My father explained that was not possible but said that after supper he would teach me how to stand up for myself.  And he did.

First we started with a talk. Daddy asked why I would be afraid of a hit.  “Because it hurts!” I replied.  “You are tough” Dad replied, “you get spankings and never say boo (this was in the age of corporal punishment and I was very determined).”  And so the evening progressed.  Daddy taught me about “grounding myself”.  We worked all evening, my Dad on his knees to bring him to my height. “What are you going to do tomorrow?”  Dad coached. “Walk right up to the boy, ground myself, use my loudest voice to say How dare you strike me!”

 Did I follow the game plan?  Yes, and what did the boy do?   He turned and ran.  Was I bullied again?   Some children tried, .... but they did not succeed.  By the time I was in grade three we were living back in New Brunswick, and attending Cambridge Elementary School.   My brother Rodney was a bully magnet, underweight with white porcupine hair and a very slow drawling speech. Grade one and two had their playground on one side of the school and the older grades on the other.  Many days a child would come running over to our side calling “Valerie, Valerie they are beating Rodney!”  I would go and intercede.  Not once did I get in trouble for going on their side, or for “readjusting” the bully’s behaviour.  [Tip – older children can and should step in].

1960 grade 7

 My next incident of bullying happened in Grade five, again another change of location and another school.  [Notice a pattern? Often the new kid is bullied.]  This time it was not physical but more in the forms of put downs and exclusions.  I feigned ignorance and became the teacher’s helper. Soon I was accepted.

There was one more incident.   Grade seven and I was in high school, imagine – high school was grades seven to twelve!   I received anonymous letter contained a barrette.  The writers alluded to sexual activities I had supposedly conducted with some of our male classmates.   I recognized the handwriting.  The next school day I took one of the girls aside, casually showed her the barrette and asked what she knew of the letter.  She blanched, I had my answer.  “Anything more like this”, I said “and it goes straight to the principal and you know he can match handwriting”.   Within a day both girls came to beg my forgiveness.

 I wish I could say that I have never been the bully, but …..  In grade seven one of my friends developed a crush on a teacher. I thought it would be fun to write the teacher a letter pretending to be our friend. Others got in on the act.  It was not fun, it was mean and nasty and now almost fifty years later I am still ashamed!

Grade 9 - I am fierce!

There was an incident in High school when some of the boys thought they would call me "General Dairies".  I put an end to that!

In late years I have done anti-bullying programs with individual students.  This works about half of the time.  It is my experience that some children enjoy being the victim. It brings the attention they so crave.  Now I am not blaming the victim, what a sad statement that the child can only satisfy their need for attention by crying and tattling. I have spent a considerable time in local schools and seen many instances of adults bullying the students.   For bullying to end we need to;

·       Provide more ways to burn energy and aggression in schools, daily phys ed would be wonderful

·       Teach children how to stand up for themselves with their peers

·       Issue severe punishments for the bullies, loving those girls who cut the others hair is not my answer.

·       Teach, and expect, respect from the adults towards the children

Will any of my suggestions be considered?  I doubt it as No one Asked me    How to stop Bullying.

The night I met Stephen King

Some thirty years ago I heard that Stephen King would be giving a workshop at UMPI, in Presque Isle, Maine.   At the time I was the library manager in the village of Florenceville, a short hours drive away.   I had read his works to that date; Carrie, Salem’s Lot, the Shining and The Stand   and was anxious to meet the author.

I called the University to register; they explained that there had been a mistake.  This really was a course lecture and they expected about five hundred students.  However, since they had publicized, I could audit.  In vain I tried to persuade one of my friends to accompany me.

That cold January night saw me drive to Presque Isle.  As I checked into the motel, I had decided to spend the night, the temperature suddenly became warmer.  Soon I went to the dining room to have an early supper.  I was astonished to see that it was snowing furiously.  Ordering a coffee, I sat by the windows wondering how much snow would accumulate.  Staff turned on the radio to a local station. Soon there was an announcement that all evening classes at UMPI were cancelled, including the guest lecture by Stephen King.  I was devastated, I ordered a drink.

Lost in my pity party, I was vaguely aware of the server at my table.  “Miss”, he said “Are you here to see Stephen King?”   I replied to the affirmative.  “Then, Mr. King invites you to join him in the private dining room.”   I followed with no hesitation.  When the doors were shut and my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting I realized that I was one of just seven who was joining Stephen King.”  Food and drink was on him, however most of us were so awestruck we consumed little.  The opening question was “How did you become a writer?”  



King replied that he had been a high school English teacher, married with three small children. They had no medical insurance and every time one of the children needed to go to the doctor, the hospital or get a prescription; his wife would say “Write a story”.   And he would churn out a story featuring a scantily clad, ravaged female and a monster which in turn would be sold to a men’s magazine.    One year at a teacher’s conference King signed up for a workshop The English teacher as a writer.  His fellow teachers chided that he was no writer.  King replied that he wrote purple prose. 

That was not acceptable, so the challenge was given that to be a true writer his novel must meet several conditions.  The main character must be a teenage girl, she had to commence her menstruation, attend the prom and she had to be bullied.  King told us that he had great fun researching the novel, he hid in the girls wash rooms, he schlepped around the halls and by the next conference, Carrie was a reality.

The storm swirled outside; we were warm and cosy and lost in Stephen King’s trance.  At that time, long before his accident, King was big, dark and burly, possessed a hypnotic voice – the quintessential story teller.  He told us of how when he was buying car parts and researching Christine;   he was attacked by the dog who planted the seeds for Kujo.

 When asked why he wrote such horrific stories, King regaled us with tales of real life horrors and asked “Are mine any worse”?  That evening is long ago and far away. I seldom speak of it.  And No one asked me how I met Stephen King.

How to survive an earthquake

My eldest daughter has been reading my blog and suggested some events from our past that she felt would make interesting reading.  “Remember”, wrote Vavielle, “How we survived the earth quake”?  And I did remember.

5.9 Earthquake

 Were we on vacation in some foreign country?  No we were in our home in the small rural community of Fielding, New Brunswick. It was at 12:53 on January 9th, 1982, with an epicentre at Trousers Lake in remote Victoria County.  Although the earthquake was felt widely throughout the Maritime Provinces and the New England states, because of the remoteness of its location, the only damage reported was the development and extension of cracks in buildings and pavement at a few locations.  The main earthquake was followed by a long sequence of aftershocks, including one of 5.1 on the same day, another of 5.4 on January 11th, 1982 and one of 5.0 on March 31st, 1982.

However, we did not realize any of that scientific data.  My house was shaking, the dishes were rattling and my children were crying.  I gathered them together and we huddled under the arch way in the living room. Good choice?   Not!   I have now done my research and the best place to be is to find a vertical face, sturdy, like the back of a couch, or against the side of a kitchen counter (without a big lip).

It may seem like you should shelter under a table, but this is not such a good idea. If the quake takes your home, the roof and ceiling will fall down and collapse the table, leaving you a small space. There would be little place to move, no ventilation, and probably injuries. Do NOT shelter in a doorway. That is a myth. The action of an earthquake can twist a doorway and snap it like a two twigs.

5.2 eathquake

I found later that our earthquake measured between 5 and 6 on the Richter scale.  Worldwide, 1,319 earthquakes of this magnitude occur each year.

Our 1982 quake lasted only a few minutes yet it was time for me, like the broody hen, to gather my chicks under my wings.  I may not have chosen the best place to make my stand. But I acted and provided security for the girls. And now some thirty years later we can laugh together about surviving the earthquake.

But, No one asked me how to survive an earthquake.

How much is too much bacon?

A little too crispy for me

Who knew that bacon could be so political?  That there could be so many opinions re its place as a food, it's cooking method, how well it is to be cooked, drained or not drained, eaten with fingers or fork?

fresh bacon

For the first forty years of my life bacon was a food – period.  When I was a child we occasionally had smoked, cured bacon which would appear on the breakfast table.  More often our bacon was of the fresh variety.  We would fry it up until very crisp, draining off the fat several times.  That bacon fat was saved and used for numerous cooking processes.  Fresh bacon was served as the meat with our evening meal.

Once I was married and had children it was much the same.  I had studied nutrition and been warned of the dangers of the high saturated fat and nitrates which bacon contain.  Therefore we limited bacon to once a month as a breakfast treat and occasionally ate fresh bacon with winter suppers.

Then at forty I remarried Steve Bauer.  Little did I know he was …Mr. Bacon!  For Steve a day without bacon is like a day without sunshine.

Mr Bacon

If I do cook bacon, I do it low and slow in a cast iron pan, pouring off the grease as it accumulates.  Two slices are allowed per person, three if I am really generous and I like my bacon quite crispy.  Now my brother David Vail and mother Edna Vail like theirs much less cooked – flabby we call it! Steve cooks his in the microwave. If he does use a pan, he turns the stove to high and blasts the bejesus out of the pig.  His bacon is either very crispy or burned.  Six to eight slices are allowed per person, that person being Steve.  There is seldom a day when Steve does not have bacon.

Enter our grandsons who are Muslim and, of course, do not eat pork.  For a number of years I proclaimed an edict, “No cooking pork if the boys are in the house, even Bacon!”   And Steve has complied, if there is one thing he loves more than the pig it is his grandsons.  Now that the boys are older, seven and almost five, they are able to have chicken bacon.  And oh do they love these.  Bumpy (our appellation for grandfather) cooks these strips nice and crispy and they eat them out of hand.  Yes Bumpy Steve believes that bacon is finger food.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy bacon occasionally. My favorite way is in a BLT and Steve makes an awesome one.  Now we have a new bacon monster in the house.  Niece Bethany has taken up residence and she shares Steve’s passion. I saw her making a BLT and I am sure she cooked a half a pound of bacon.  I am not complaining, just commenting. In this day and age it is actually refreshing to see a young woman who enjoys food.  And Bethany certainly does not do this every day.

No Steve is still the king of bacon.  When asked what he had for breakfast he often replies “a bowl of cereal and a few pieces of bacon”.

How much is too much bacon?   No one Asked me?

What chair to buy

I turned a corner, she caught my eye, my heart raced, and then I walked on by.  A glimpse was all it took you see, there were butterflies and gilded leaves.  I had an impression of the colour blue. No closer inspection could be permitted; to my Master Card I am already indebted.    She is at Winners/Homesense on Consumer Drive, to live without her I shall strive.  But would it be wrong of me, If another glimpse I chance to see?



Homesense Chair far more beautiful


The chair that caught my eye and elicited my prose was hanging out in my local Winners/Homesense.  Their furniture sells so quickly that I am sure it will be gone tomorrow.  I have NO funds for furniture, yet I covet this unique chair.

our chair is much nicer ...

I have a fondness for chairs.  There is an upholstered green arm chair in our living room which my hubby and I both claim.  It is perfectly proportioned and has sheltered one or the other of us for this past ten years.  The best place to read, watch television or simply be, this chair is home for him and me.  But our chair is starting to wear. Last year I made a slipcover for one arm, now the other needs to be re done.  I cannot imagine replacing her.

Thanks to my daughter I have an ergo friendly , comfy office chair which she found at a resale outlet for $35.00!  Yet several years ago I found myself bracing my feet when I sat at this office chair.    Now I find myself doing the same at the kitchen table, The Ergo sum newsletter tells me

“If the seat of the chair slopes too much, the user will feel like he or she is sliding out of the chair and will brace his/her feet”.   Hmm, now how would I remedy that?  Since I am not longer bracing my feet in my office, at some point in time my chair has been realigned.  There is much to contemplate in the mystery of chairs.

One chair that needs no contemplation is the one in the hospital waiting areas.  These chairs a simply Too too!   Too small, backs too short, seats too hard, too manyconnected together!  To my horror I discovered that when our local hospital renovated the offenders were replaced with “brothers of another colour”!   Obviously NO ONE ASKED ME !

Where the missing socks go!

I have been pondering the problem of missing socks.  I do not remember it as a problem in my child hood, or even when my daughters were children. However for the last twenty years the issue of missing socks has been causing me immense grief.  The plot is simple; I purchase a pair of socks that I like.  I wear them once.  They go in the wash.  When I fold the laundry ….. not pair of socks but rather a sad, dejected singleton. 

Then the search is on.  I check every item from the dryer; perhaps the sock is caught up inside another garment.  Fantastic, I find the other in a pajama leg. But that only happened once.  My other places to look include; in the washer, the path from my room to the laundry, in my closet ( where the clothes hamper lives), in my bed, beside my bed, under my bed, in the bathroom and yes even in the drawer with my clean socks.  And I have found missing socks in all of those places – once for each place!

I lose about three socks a week, roughly one hundred and fifty a year, doing the math I have lost at least five thousand socks in the twenty five years I have lived in my home!   This is a major problem. I Goggled “missing socks”, 46,100,000 hits (in 0.15 seconds).  This is a problem of epidemic proportions.

We have all heard the excuse “the dryer, or substitute washer, ate it”.  Once I had appliance repair man disassemble both of my laundry machines.  And what did he find in the empty space between the frame and the drums?  Not one sock!  Another explanation shot down.

The sock war began, I would be the victor.  I purchased all black socks and tossed my collection of short, medium and talls; striped, checked and colours.  I did well for a while, then what had been five pairs or ten socks soon dwindled to seven. Fine, I would purchase more.  The original style was not available.   Now I had blacks to mix and match. If I paired two that were a different style they were uncomfortable to wear.  And the dilemma continues.

My granddaughter could not live with such stress. By the time she was eight she declared socks are socks and hers never match.  The man of the house has subscribed to the colour rule and has blacks and whites.  He is a man; they will make his styles forever.

Compression socks are currently my constant companions. They stay up and my neuropathic pain stays down.  I have two pairs, not the hundred dollar prescription type, but the $10.99 type from Wal-Mart. Whatever; they work.  I am very protective of these and have had them for all most a year.  How have they survived the fate of their cousins? 

I am relieved that No one Asked me    where the missing socks go; because I certainly do not know.  However, I do know that within a few days of disposing of a singleton……… the mate will reappear!

Why I drink Cappucino through a straw

For forty years I had a love affair with strong, hot, black coffee. Then, as suddenly as it began...it was over. I tried coffee with milk, cream..  then tea.  Nothing worked.   One day a friend made me a cappuccino and ....I fell in love again.

Like the heart in the froth, cappuccino does it for me.  I like mine with equal parts espresso, steamed milk and froth.  And the espresso plays a huge part.

Currently I am using a Tassimo. It is my second one and a Christmas gift from my husband.  My first I purchased last summer for $40 from Kiiiji.  However it had a problem in the disc line up area and I often wasted discs. 

So while I played Russian Roulette with my old Tassimo , I had time to go through trial and error with Tassimo products. 

While their espresso does not work for me (I use no sweetner) , the Cafe Crema gives me an acceptable espresso. I watch it closely and turn off the machine when my mug is half to a third full.

So how do I steam my milk and make foam?  In my old Krups expresso machine.  I know, I know I could also make expresso in this machine.  I purchased it a yard sale for two dollars and it is missing a part and no matter what expresso beans I use I do not get enough expresso, or it is too weak or something...  But it does a great job steaming and frothing milk.




I actually have this mug


Now I have my drink of choice made, and it is in my favorite mug - well one of my favorites...  For me the mug must be large, fine bone China and have a thin lip.  You see I had a stroke some years ago and the right side of my lip and mouth never recovered.  Now I need a mug that will deliver the steaming drink inside my mouth!

Almost done, just some flavour on the top. Easy if you like cinnamon.  Not so much if you favour other toppings.  I had two that were sold through home parties but have been delisted, of course.  I found an empty shaker and filled it with cocoa purchased from the Bulk Barn - quite acceptable.  And now I think I shall go prepare my nonfat, wet cappuccino.  Total cost, just under $1.00. Cost for same at Starbucks? $4.52

Starbucks, Java M  oose and McDonald's all make acceptable and sometimes even good cappuccinos.  Red Whale made an out standing cappuccino but their retail outlet closed. Oh, and if you see me going with a tell tale drink from one of the above businesses I will be drinking it through a straw.  Why?  no one asked Me?   But I will tell you. The straw accomplishes the delivery challenge plus prevensts coffee stain on my teeth.