Water Woes

The joys of home ownership are making themselves increasingly known at the Toddheim. I am enjoying my morning shower when Hubby sticks his head in the bathroom door. 

“Rinse off and get out! We’re getting water in the basement.”

I just cleaned the basement the day before. Naturally. We both need to leave for work. Naturally. We expect house guests the next day. Naturally.

So I towel off, wrap my robe around me and head downstairs. Hubby already has the Rainbow vacuum going; I toss a stack of old towels onto the floor and grab a mop. I decide I definitely do not enjoy the feel of wet concrete on my bare feet. By the time we’ve soaked up the worst of the flood, my bathrobe is soaked too. I go get dressed.

“What are you DOING?” Hubby hollers. I figure he’s ticked off because I’ve abandoned him. Turns out he hears a new, swooshing sound and what other explanation could there be than that I must be “doing something?” We search around for the source of the sound, much like the way a washing machine sounds while agitating – except our washer sits idle and empty.

“Turn off the breaker to the furnace,” Hubby instructs. I do, and the swooshing noise stops. Turns out the thing-a-ma-bob in the plumbing pipes is clogged, sending water into the doo-hickey on the furnace. The drum that houses the furnace fan is half-full of water, so when the furnace tries to cut in, the fan creates a washing machine agitator sound. I wonder briefly if I should throw in a load of clothes and a little detergent, but I keep the thought to myself. Hubby’s sense of humour is not at a high point right now.

At least the furnace fan is getting nice and clean, but this is beyond our expertise. Good ol’ Beauchamp Plumbing comes to the rescue. Later that morning, they have everything unplugged, cleaned up, dried out, and running again. I haven’t seen the bill yet, but we’ll worry about that when it arrives. I wonder if they’ll consider accepting our firstborn in lieu of cash. They’ve always been fond of him.

Two days later, I see water running out from under the freezer—the same freezer we’d moved two days earlier so we could dry the floor. We start searching around for the source. The phone rings. While hubby’s on the phone, I listen carefully and hear drip… drip… drip.  With my trusty flashlight, I track the sound like Sherlock Holmes. The water is coming from an unused pipe overhead – totally unrelated to the earlier incident. This time, it’s the doo-jiggy at fault. (A side benefit to this adventure is my learning the technical names for all these thingy-bobs.) 

Beauchamp Plumbing comes to the rescue again. I hope they don’t charge extra for showing up in superhero capes. (OK, I’m not actually present when they arrive, so I can’t say for certain they are wearing capes. But why wouldn’t they?) This time, pipe ends are expertly capped and soldered shut—never to leak again.

I try to look on the bright side and realize how much worse things could have been. I’m thankful that both times, we were at home and able to investigate immediately. I’m thankful the damage didn’t extend to the drywall (so far, anyway.) I’m thankful for plumbers who come on a Saturday. I’m thankful for our vacuum that sucks up water. I’m still thankful for our cozy house, which I love. And I’m extremely thankful sewage wasn’t involved!

“In everything, give thanks.” That instruction comes from an important book I’ve tried to follow most of my life. Not always easy, but far more healthy than whining. In everything. Give thanks.

“Lord, what fools these mortals be!”

The course of true love never did run smooth, but Shakespeare’s audiences must have been experts at untangling complicated plots. It may be one of the earliest romantic comedies ever written and I missed my chance to audition because…well, truthfully? I chickened out. Methinkest memorizing all that Elizabethan English seemeth too tough a challenge for this ol’ wench. 

But there are younger and braver souls than I among the Prairie Players. So young, in fact, that few of the present cast were alive when the group began in 1969—which speaks to the excellent health of the company. And so brave, they’ve taken all that Shakespearean syntax and added further challenges. For starters, change the time frame to 1960 and adjust costumes accordingly. Then, just because you can, move it to New Orleans. Which, of course, requires delivering all those old English lines with Louisiana accents. Now throw in some toe-tappin’ fiddling for the wedding dance. Oh yes, and just for fun, turn the fairies and wood nymphs into zombies.

Well, why not? Dreams are weird, and this is a dream after all. I wonder if Freud ever tried to interpret the deeper meaning of this one.

If it’s been a while since you’ve seen or read A Midsummer Night’s Dream, let me refresh you. Don’t worry, this isn’t a spoiler. Trust me, you’ll enjoy the play more if you already understand the gist of the story.

Hermia is in love with Lysander, but her father wants her to marry Demetrius. To escape the arranged marriage, she and Lysander escape into the woods. Demetrius follows, but is pursued by Helena, who nurses an unrequited passion for him. A love quadrangle develops among the young lovers when the mischievous Puck plays Cupid. You with me so far?

Meanwhile, a group of amateur actors rehearse a badly-written play to perform at the wedding of Theseus and Hippolyta, set simultaneously in the woodland, under the light of the moon. But soon the actors find their lives changed by the doings of Oberon and Titania, the quarreling king and queen of the fairies. Oberon seeks to punish Titania’s disobedience and recruits Puck to help him apply a potion which makes the victim fall in love with the first living thing they see when they wake. Still with me?

Puck uses the spell on the four lovers, resulting in Lysander and Demetrius both falling in love with Helena and leaving Hermia out in the cold. Helena’s convinced they’re all mocking her and a rollicking good catfight ensues. Puck also works some magic on Bottom, one of the amateur actors, turning his head into that of an ass. Unfortunately, it’s Bottom whom Titania first sees upon waking, and is now in love with him, ass-head and all. Still following?

Eventually, all is restored, a three-way wedding takes place and Bottom gets his head back. Forsooth and forthwith, you’ll holler “Yee-HAW!” as the hillbilly hootenanny unfolds.

Bravo, Prairie Players, for taking on an enormous challenge and breathing so much life and color into an old story in this, our 45^th anniversary. Directed by Mary McCown and assisted by Stephanie Kaufmann, the cast features Jordan Thiessen, Kimberly Cairns, Paul Warthe, Ember Rodgers, Tyrone Taylor, Travis Roberts, Jenn Bach, Fran Myles, Sebastien McCown-Kobinger, Mary McCown, Alistair Wright, Tessa Lupkowski, Shania Jack, Josh Walker, Lisa Marie Tessier, Jeffrey Arndt, Simone Switzer, Carolann Roy-Kobinger, Emily Hutchinson, Meghan Anderson, Vicki Hooke, Ashley Anderson, and Rachel Sokolowski.

This lively production runs at the William Glesby Centre for three nights: April 24, 25, and 26 at 8:00. Tickets cost $13 and are available at the door or during regular box office hours, or by calling 204-239-5591. 

Fare thee well, y’all!

The Value of a Good Question

What is the most significant question anyone has ever asked you? (Not counting that one.) Think about this now. Probably, you’ll quickly eliminate those which you’ve been asked repeatedly:

·         Would you like fries with that?

·         Did you remember to put out the garbage?

·         Can I interest you in a great offer on long distance services?

·         Got milk?

Your mind skips instead to the “biggies” you have been asked only once or still long to hear:

·         Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?

·         Will you accept the position?

·         For one million dollars, is that your final answer?

And then there are those questions we hope we’re never asked:

·         Sorry to wake you, Ma’am, but is this your son?

·         Where were you on the night of...?

·         Have you ever used…lied about…been convicted of…cheated on...? You can fill in the blank.

Sometimes one seemingly simple question holds enough power to send us into a tailspin. Jesus Christ proved himself a master at asking questions. Often, he answered others’ questions with another question—a technique I find irritating when it’s used on me because it forces me to think, and I don’t always want to think. When the religious leaders of Jesus’ day tried to catch him off-guard with tricky questions, he came back with clever questions of his own, beating them at their game and leaving them speechless. (For more on this, check out Matthew 12:9-14 and 22:15-22.)

Whichever question you deem the most significant pales in comparison to the life and death question Jesus asked his disciples in Mark chapter 8. It’s the same question he will eventually ask you and me: “Who do you say I am?” Like his disciples, we can easily deliver the things others say about Jesus. A good man. A prophet. A holy man. An example. A legend. A little misguided. A naive idealist. A boat-rocking, rabble-rousing rebel. 

But what others say won’t matter one whit when the day comes that you find yourself face to face with Jesus and he asks “Who do YOU say I am?” This Easter season, you owe it to yourself to check out the claims he made about himself and decide what your answer will be.

What was it that riled those leaders so much they wanted him destroyed? Do you really think he’d have been put to a brutal death for being a good teacher, a loving healer, or even a little misguided?

It was his claim to be the Son of God, the long awaited Messiah, the Resurrection and the Life, that got him nailed to a cross. How dare he? If that’s who he was, it meant he possessed authority, a closely guarded commodity already diminished by the presence of a foreign government. Any further threats, even from God himself, were unthinkable. No wonder they would do anything to prevent this man from influencing the crowds. Too bad they were so short-sighted they missed the most significant question of all: “Who do YOU say I am?” 

Don’t let it happen to you.

Keeping the "imp" in "Mission Impossible"

This spring break, I decided to take a week’s vacation so Grandpa and I could host sleepovers for our grandsons – three in a row, one rascal at a time. Knowing the solo stays would be easier to manage, I told myself they would provide a chance to get to know the boys as individuals. I stocked up on children’s books and videos from the library and shopped for easy-to-prepare food and treats. 

I knew better than to clean the house.

Alfalfa, six, was first in line. We took him to our local theatre for the matinee presentation of Mr. Peabody and Sherman. Back home, we played Scrabble Junior. Alfalfa showed off his reading skills by reading a couple of books aloud. After supper, we played hide and seek and discovered Grandpa finds the best hiding spots while Grandma tends to rely on camouflage.

 

A few rounds of Uno, some ice cream and berries, and a Snoopy video got us to bedtime. The next morning we found time for a couple games before church, a fast food lunch after, and a few computer games before home time. I felt pretty smug about how Project Sleepover was going.

While Grandma napped in preparation for round two, Grandpa took Alfalfa home and picked up Buckwheat, age four. With him, we played Candyland and Memory and made the coolest fort EVER where we ate popcorn and watched Duck Dodgers. Buckwheat slept in the fort. 

Due to circumstances beyond my control, his sleepover stretched into two nights. I watched while Grandpa and his boy spent a good hour in the PCU Centre pool. That evening, my energy giving out and round three still ahead, I started questioning my sanity.

By the time we arrived home with Spanky, age two, it was supper time of the fourth day. Did I mention Spanky is also known as Hurricane Spanky? If it moves, he chases it. If it doesn’t, he moves it. If it’s tall, he climbs it, and if it has a button, he pushes it. His mom advised that taking him outside or putting him in the bath tub would make him go to sleep faster. We did both, to be sure. 

Next morning, books and games didn’t make Spanky’s agenda, just a lot of chasing around. Grandma was rapidly wilting. I took him outside awhile, only to discover he could easily walk on top of the high snow drifts and escape while I plunged in hip deep. I swear this kid’s guardian angel deserves some kind of medal.

Back inside, I peeled off his coat, mitts, and boots first. In the time it took to remove my own, Spanky had made his way to Grandpa’s home office, photocopied the entire phone book, and Skyped with somebody in Venezuela.

After lunch, Grandpa took over while I fell exhausted onto the couch, feeling less and less successful as the involved grandparent I fancied myself. I was still there when Grandpa returned after taking Spanky home, a miserable lump of a failure sitting in the middle of the chaos.

“Guess what?” Grandpa reported.  “The boys’ daddy hinted that maybe this could become an annual tradition. Alfalfa and Buckwheat haven’t stopped talking about their sleepovers.” 

I know the day is coming, faster than we’d like, when the rascals will lose interest in sleepovers at our house. Until then, I truly do hope we can make it a tradition.

Just let me take a long nap before I commit.