Problem Solving

There is nothing more satisfying for me then successfully troubleshooting a problem. My Dad modeled logical, methodical troubleshooting whenever we encountered a problem together. While we usually tackled problems of a  mechanical nature when I was farming, in the years since I started teaching I took on all kinds of problems with him as my advisor. The whole while he modeled a thoughful, logical attack on a situation.

Tonight, when I turned the dishwasher on, it did what it normally does. However, ten minutes later, when I went to add in a missed dish, it became apparent that something was wrong. I opened the door and there was no water in the dishwasher. I know nothing about dishwashers, so did a bit of googling to see what I was up against. The How Stuff Works site had a great page on repairing a dishwasher. While it didn’t solve my problem, it helped me understand that there are two main systems to deal with — the system that supplies the water, and the system that evacuates it. My problem was with the supply. I hauled the built-in dishwasher out of the space in the cabinets (removing two screws was all it took) and looked under. I turned the dishwasher on, and listened. The evacuation pump ran for about a minute, which is normal. Usually, the dishwasher would then fill but it wasn’t — I surmised that the supply pump must be shot. However, when I listened closely, I could hear it whirring away. I decided to work backwards from the pump to the supply line first because this was easier than messing around with the internal workings. I turned the dishwasher on its side (removing the racks full of dishes first – don’t worry!) and took the braided silver line off. It was very cold, but I didn’t think twice about this – our kitchen is notoriously cold and the line runs inches from the outside wall. At this point, B came over and asked if she could help – I explained the situation and she asked if it was possible that the line had frozen. (She remembered the shoddy plumbing in our last house where the clothes washer supply line ran on top of an uninsulated pony wall and froze, burst, and made a big mess one Christmas holiday.) I ran some warm water through the line and out came some chunks of ice. A phone call to a friend who was at Home Depot, and an hour later I had heat-tape wrapped around the line, extra insulation between the dishwasher and the wall, and a dishwasher running like new.

With this success under my belt, I headed to the garage to try to figure out why the remote car starter for our Vibe wasn’t working. I checked the antenna on the inside of the car, and pushed it against the windshield where it had started to peel off. I tested the keyfob, and the red button activated the alarm. Turns out it was the panic button. I was shocked, and didn’t know how to make it stop. Eventually I figured out that it would turn off if I pushed the stop-sign shaped button. I knew the keyless entry wasn’t hooked up, so I ignored the lock/unlock buttons, leaving only one button to push. It had a picture of a key on it. The car started. I returned to the house, handed B the keyfob, and asked her what button she thought would start the car. She didn’ t hesitate – “The key,” she said. Oh. Two points for B.

So, in the span of an hour, she had solved both of the problems that I had spent a fair bit of mental energy and time tackling. It’s nice to know that even though Dad isn’t here to help me solve problems, his methods are, and B is here to help as well.

Missing a friend…

I’ve been a bit miserable and cranky lately. Maybe I should say I’ve been “more” miserable and cranky lately. In an effort to feel better, I have been trying to put my finger on the cause of my general malaise. When comparing my life now to times in the past, I feel like I don’t seem to have as many friends as I used to – sure, I may have over 450 on Facebook, but I mean real friends. Friends who you can call and who call you. But, going through the people I see and talk to regularly, not much has changed – sure, friendships evolve, and people’s lives are more hectic at some times than others, but, overall, my friend-pool is pretty much the same size as it always has been.

On the way in from the farm the other day it hit me. I am missing my Dad. I talked to him a lot – on the phone, over email, and in person. And now I don’t have him. The void I am noticing in my life has nothing to do with my current friendships, and everything to do with Dad.

B pointed out how lucky I am to have had such a close relationship with my dad – she reminded me that not many people can really truly call their parent a friend. And I do know how lucky I was to be so close to Dad. However, this “luck” doesn’t really make the pain any less now that he is gone…

Granola Kid

Growing up, my parents did their best to provide wholesome food for us. They grew their own grain, ground it into flour, cultivated a massive garden growing everything from asparagus to zucchini, and bought anything they couldn’t grow at Old Fashioned Foods. Baking was sweetened with honey, not white sugar. We learned to appreciate simple treats, like fresh raspberries on ice cream, or, even better, fresh raspberries on granola and ice cream.

Not that I fully embraced this approach to food, mind you. I resented the thick whole wheat bread that seemed to suck the moisture from your mouth while you tried to eat a peanut-butter sandwich. I looked longingly at the processed meat my classmates ate, while I chewed grudgingly through a deer-sausage sandwich with homemade pickles. While I resented the bread then, I sure appreciate it now. And find that the older I get, the more closely I emulate my parents. Norah will grow up eating thick slices of brown bread, organic fruits and veggies, and locally sourced meats, much like I did. Norah will learn the joys of a fresh bowl of granola, much like the one I had last night after making a batch of Mom and Dad’s signature granola. I had forgotten how good homemade granola was until our last visit to see my Mom. Over the two weeks we wolfed down bowl after bowl of granola and I wondered how I lived without it in my daily diet. Since then, I’ve had granola for breakfast most days. And last night B and I made a double batch after Norah went to sleep. For those of you interested or inclined, here is the recipe we used:

3/4 c packed dark brown sugar (we used 1 c in a double batch and it is still sweet enough, I think.)

1/2 c butter

1 tsp. nutmeg

1 tsp cinnamon

1 tsp vanilla

6 c oats

1 c each – cashews, slived almonds, walnuts, pecans, sunflower seeds (shelled)

Raisins

Heat butter, brown sugar, and spices. Add vanilla after you take it off the heat.

Mix dry in a big bowl. Add the liquid and mix it up.

Cook on baking sheets at 350 for 15-30 minutes until golden, stirring occasionally while cooking. Add raisins or currents once it is cooled.

There are a lot worse things than being a granola kid, I think…

Popcorn

My dad could eat popcorn in a volume and at a speed unmatched by anyone I know. Except perhaps me. As a kid, I remember dad making three or four batches of popcorn in the hot-air popper, filling our huge bread mixing bowl to the top. We’d sit in the living room or at the kitchen table at the farm devouring the popcorn in all its buttery-salty glory. I’m not sure whether we ate so much because we didn’t always have full meals for supper (or supper at all), or because our quick metabolism enabled us to do so without any noticeable physical side effects. Regardless, following his modeling, I learned to take big handfulls, eat them quickly, and dig in again. It is a habit I haven’t broken yet. Now, when B and I have popcorn, we split it into two bowls. It’s just safer for her that way. Though I do sometimes reach over to her bowl once mine is empty…

Giving Thanks #7 – The Power of a Word

When Dad was killed, people followed a predictable script when interacting with me: “It’s such a shame,” “It sure is too bad,” “It will get better,” “An accident like this could have happened to anyone” – You get the idea. I know these words were meant to comfort. I know these words came from places of deep sympathy. I know that Dad would say that these people were doing the best they that knew how. But I also know that these words meant very little to me. Not that I didn’t appreciate the sentiment, but these wishes seemed so insignificant. So meaningless, because they did nothing to address the emotional turmoil that I was going through.

However, since that horrible accident at the end of June, there has been one situation that sticks out in my mind where the words said by someone were comforting. Really comforting.

After the accident, we spent a lot of time with our close family friends that we grew up with. Our common experience growing up on the farm created a strong bond, and true to that bond, when we needed them, they were there. One evening before the funeral we had them over to our place in the city for a bar-b-que. I showed my Uncle around our house, and we ended up in the demolished basement, which I had been planning to spend the summer putting back together. I was feeling very overwhelmed by the thought of doing the renovation, and asked him if he could come by when we decided on a floor plan so that he could come and take a look and make sure I wasn’t making rookie mistakes. This is something Dad had offered to do, and I was feeling down about not being able to seek his advice. He said he would be happy to come by.

A few weeks later he was over and I was showing him the taped out floor plan. The only thing I was uncertain about was the bathroom — I thought that to make use of the existing plumbing would be tricky, but didn’t feel confident enough to tackle moving it on my own. He looked at me and said, matter-of-factly, “Well, what we’ll do is just take out the bathroom floor and re-do the plumbing. Then you can put things where you want them. It’s not a big job – it won’t take us any time at all.”

And with that comment – that simple statement – I felt so comforted. So loved. It is so lonely to be without Dad. He was always there to bounce ideas off, to think problems through with, or to tackle big jobs alongside. But the way that my Uncle said “we” when he could have just as easily said “you” was so comforting and so kind. It was the first time I really felt like I could go on living without Dad, because there would be someone there to help fill part of the void left by his death. Amazing the power of a pronoun.

Giving Thanks #5

I dreamt about my dad the other night. I had been waiting to dream about him. Wanting to dream about him. Wanting to feel connected to him again. Wanting to talk to him again. Afraid I’d never dream of him. Never see him.

It was bittersweet seeing him. I was at the farm, and he was sitting across from me at the kitchen table at the farm and looked happy. We didn’t talk, and I didn’t want him to go away, so I was hesitant to look at him. When I did look, he smiled at me. I reached out and touched his arm, and could feel it. Then I woke up. I was so happy when I first woke up, but now as I think of the brief connection it makes me sad.

It still feels like he can’t really be gone.

I am very slowly working at finishing the basement and I have so many “I’ll have to ask Dad about…” moments. He was such a big part of my life, all my life, even when I was half-way around the world. I remember our calls on skype from Cambodia, the long lag doing nothing to slow down the pace of the conversation. He was my stability, my safety, my everything-else-fails-we-move-to-the-farm backup plan. And it’s hard to believe that he is gone.

Giving Thanks #2

While at grief counseling today, I mentioned my Grandfather, and how I dealt with his loss when I was sixteen. Part of my healing then involved using creative-non-fiction to record my memories of Grandpa. When she asked about my relationship with Gramps, I described the days of my childhood spent chasing my father and grandfather around the farm, and evenings spent sitting on one of their laps, perusing flyers from the mail. My couselor made an observation that, though it seemed obvious after she said it, I hadn’t ever verbalized. I was lucky to have two affectionate, kind, gentle men for role models. Men who knew how to make you feel special. Men who knew how to tease and tickle. Men who knew how to laugh. Men who knew the importance of a hug. The gift of being able to grow up with these two remarkable men is one I took for granted. Up until today.

Giving Thanks

I know this blog post would have been more appropriate last weekend. However…

Shortly after Dad was killed, I remember chatting with my older sister and she noted that something tragic like the accident was bound to happen, because we had had such a good life so far. I recall agreeing — We were both understandably quite pessimistic at the time. However, as I look back on it now, she was right about one thing — how lucky we have been, and continue to be, even in light of this summer’s tragedy. I was listening to Zarqa Nawaz (Creator of Little Mosque) on CBC radio the other day, and she was explaining that during the five times a day that she prays, she tries to spend at least half of the time being thankful. She said that this has helped her to acknowledge all the good in her life. As such, and along the lines of Schmutzie’s Grace in Small Things, I will do my best to post about thing or things I am grateful for at the end of every day. So, to begin:

Last night we went over to our oldest and dearest family friends, the Perogies. We grew up with the Perogies. We spent our childhoods running around the farm, or their house on 20-Block Queen, playing hide-and-seek, chasing each other with fire-tipped sticks (really, where were our parents during this?), hiding out in the play-corner, and generally just immersing ourselves in new worlds we created. There were five Perogies and three of us, and the eight of us kids occupied each other so our parents could have a no doubt well-deserved break. As is wont to happen, as we grew older, we got together less frequently. We would touch base infrequently, often running into each other and bemoaning the length of time between visits. However, when word of the accident came, the Perogies repositioned themselves back in our lives. The loss of Dad has left a massive void, and the loss becomes all-the-more-apparent during holidays. With that in mind no doubt, the Perogies invited us to celebrate a belated Thanksgiving with them last night. The food was wonderful, the company even better. We caught up on new adventures, and reminisced about old ones. And as we visited, our kids (okay, the 2 of the 5 that are mobile) occupied each other. And it was delightful. Thanks, Perogies…

Dad and Small Engine Repair

I bought a rototiller a few weeks back. More accurately, I bought 1/3 of a rototiller. I brought it home in the 1/4 of a truck I also own. The tiller is old, but has a brand-new Champion engine from Princess Auto. A brand-new Champion engine with intermittant spark, meaning, a brand-new Champion engine that doesn’t run all the time you want it to. A brand-new Champion engine with the type of problem my Dad would curse – one that is intermittent. Dad had a love-hate relationship with small engines. He loved them when they ran. He hated them when he had to spend hours fixing them when they didn’t. This lead Dad to have a great understanding of troubleshooting small engine problems – filing points, cleaning air filters, finding a faulty kill switch – he could think his way through any problem. Not that he enjoyed using this knowledge, mind you.

I remember Dad stopping by our place one day on his way to the farm, and showing me his latest purchase – a new pressure washer. For years we used the spray gun on the air compressor dipped into a bucket of water to clean things. Dad had had enough. He bought the biggest electric pressure washer he could find. It wa 240V and ran on a dryer plug. I chided him for buying an electric instead of a gas, and he responded by telling me that he was constantly battling gas engines that weren’t reliable. He’d had enough. Anywhere he had water, he reasoned, he had electricity, too. So, he installed dryer plugs on the barns, the outside of the house, and in the garage.

So, as one of the co-owners and I sat in the garage the other night, trying to troubleshoot intermittant spark, I though two things – first off, that all it would take would be a five minute phone call with Dad to figure out what was wrong. The second though, which came later as we gave up, for now anyway, was that perhaps now I need to learn all that he did. And in the way that he did. The hard way. Though I do have google on my side. Now, to find out how a kill switch can only have one wire running to it…

Grandpa’s Magic Touch

Norah was not an easy baby for the first three months. She suffered from colic, and it didn’t seem to matter what we did, she cried. Wailed. I slept for the better part of 10 weeks on our reclining loveseat with Norah on my chest, since this was the only way she would stay asleep.

On the Saturday after a particularly challenging week, Brenda had an appointment, and I was watching Norah alone for the morning. Dad came in from the farm to offer me some respite. Perhaps my tear-filled phone call earlier in the week brought back memories of raising his own kids. When he arrived, Brenda had just left, and I was holding Norah, who was winding up for a screamfest. Dad took her and told me to go have a shower. After I protested somewhat, I took advantage, and jumped in, savouring the warm water, and, for the first time, appreciating the loud bathroom fan that blocked out Norah’s crying. I came out after the shower, and Dad and my brother Dave were sitting at the kitchen table. I was shocked, and asked where Norah was. “Oh, asleep in her bassinet,” Dad casually said. Norah hadn’t slept on her own in the bassinet for weeks. But now she was. After giving the details on how he worked his magic, Dad told me I should go have a nap.

I didn’t have a nap, and I was glad then and am glad now that I didn’t — we sat for the better part of an hour and visited while Norah slept. It was a good visit, as all visits with Dad were, with wide-ranging topics and thought provoking discussion. Dad was the kind of person you could visit with for a whole day and still feel like there was so much more to talk about. That morning, he gave me two gifts — my little girl was finally sleeping peacefully, and I got a good visit in. And at the end of the day, there’s nothing that beats a good visit.