Thoughts while folding sheets one summer's eve...

Me as a 1st year nursing student, 1970

Never do I make my bed or fold sheets without thinking about Nursing Arts class, and its instructor, the kind and always jovial Mrs Rolffs. And so I did again this day, while pulling them out of the dryer, and while tucking one corner into the other, folding the sides and then the tops inwards, my thoughts all the while thinking about that class, 42 yrs ago, Bedmaking 101.
I must start by confessing. I had a fear of this particular class. My sisters Mary and Aletta had both gone to Nursing Aide school and had told me stories about the persnickety-ness of their instructors, how the corners had to be perfect, the sheets pulled so tight a coin could bounce on then, AND it had be done in a very short period of time.  I was quite certain that I could NEVER accomplish THAT. So when the time came to decide what career I should pursue, I decided that it would be safer for me to work in a role where there were no beds to be made, but yet, medically involved: a lab technologist. That would be interesting, I thought, and my friend Shelly agreed, and the two of us decided to pursue that goal together. For a while that was our common goal, until she decided she was more suited to be a secretary, and found other friends with similar goals. In the mean time, my parents, with me in tow, moved to BC. A few more years passed by, and although I had attended a career day at on of the nursing schools in LA where I lived, and had acutely felt its draw, I just felt I did not have what it took to be a good nurse, specifically Bed Making Skills.
Fast forward to the day in August of 1970 when I received the rejection letter from BCIT. Sorry , it said, no Chemistry 12, no admittance to Medical Lab Tech program. The counselllor at the high school where I went to register for grade 13 to get the needed chemistry, asked why, if I was so adverse to taking chemistry, was I  going in for lab tech? I don't know, I answered, that's all I ever planned for. It so happened that she had just received a call from St Paul's Hospital in Vancouver informing her that they had an open spot to fill, due to a last minute cancellation. And from talking to me, she sort of sensed that I might be more suited to nursing...No I objected, I don't fancy carrying bedpans( or making beds!) Oh, she the teacher smoothly assured me, RNs don't do THAT anymore, that is what the LPNs and Aides are for. The RN's help the doctors...
Through some ironic twist of fate, or perhaps the will of my Maker, two weeks later, there I was, at St Paul's Hospital in the Nursing Arts lab, about to learn how to make a bed. THIS was it. Would I be able to cut the mustard? Would I be able to learn that dreaded skill, that I was so sure of flubbing?
My imaginings of this scenario did not include anyone at all like Mrs Rolffs. I had imagined the coin bouncing, corner tugging instructor to be strict, cruel and unforgiving, with a stop watch firmly clutched in her hand. Mrs R couldn't be more different that that. First of all, the woman was somewhat matronly and wrinkled, all the wrinkles from smiles and laughter. She had a way of teaching with humor and warmth, and never did she raise her voice in anger or scorn. We practised making beds with a partner, one who was equally as ignorant of making hospital beds as I was. Back then of course, we only had flat sheets; no elasticized corners to make it easy. The mattresses were all rubberized and slippery, and it took real skill to get those corners to stay put and look tidy. And after we learned how to make an empty bed, then we had to learn how to make an occupied bed, one with the patient still in it. First with a dummy (one with orifices into which we later learned to give enemas and insert catheters) then with a fellow student acting as a patient. Not only did we learn how to make the bed, but we had to learn how to strip the bed, and remake it with the same linen, using a now outdated method to turn the sheets, fold them properly, hang them neatly over the back of a chair, then remake the bed so that the clean side of the sheet was against the patient. This was recycling and reusing before those words were in the dictionary! If indeed the sheets were soiled, we were to place them in a receptacle that we were taught to make from the used drawsheet(which did not need to be turned over and reused) knotted around the barred foot of the bed. All these things were taught to us so flawlessly, in such a stress-free environment, that it was actually fun. There was always lots of laughter, but wow did we learn how to make beds. Never did I see a coin bounced on a bed, and never were disparaging remarks made about imperfect corners, and nary a stopwatch in sight! All that worry, and nearly a different career choice, all because of my perceptions. Mrs R., I am sure, was one of a kind, sort of a Paula Deen of the nursing world. Herself a St Paul's grad, she made sure we were taught all the skills we needed to give the most basic and but still important care to our patients.
Now nurses are provided with fitted sheets, and less slippery mattresses. Beds seem only to be made when patients have been in them more than three days in a row, or if they are soiled. There are laundry hampers that are moved to the bedside when needed. There is still a need to know how to make an occupied bed so not all of those skills are obsolete. But it still strikes me as ironic that I nearly allowed my Fear of Bedmaking keep me from my life's calling. The work I do now does not require bedmaking, but if one day, I was required to make an occupied bed and change all the sheet, I know for certain I could still do it to the same precision in which I was taught, thanks to Mrs Rollfs, RN, Nursing Arts Instructor, St Pauls Hospital School of Nursing, Vancouver BC. She has long since passed on, but I will continue to be reminded of her whenever I fold sheets, or make my bed.  

Not exactly a rant...

Yesterday would have been her 69th birthday. It so happens that my daughter was born on her birthday 35 years ago, so every year on the 26th of November, I remember my sister, Jannie, even though no one in the family mentions her. Yesterday I remembered her briefly, sadly, angrily, about her wasted potential, about mental illness complicated by oppressive religion, and then changed my mind and thought about something else.
Today, however, I was sewing and baking and cooking, while listening to all my iPod songs in a mixed up jumble, when, from the soundtrack of Oklahoma!, came the song, "Oh What a Beautiful Morning" I've heard it a hundred times, but this time I was reminded that it was from Jannie that I first heard that song. She would sing it loudly, in its entirety in our bedroom in the morning, when the last thing I wanted to do was to wake up. Who knows where she heard it, although it could have been a radio hit back then in the mid sixties. For certain she didn't hear it while watching the movie, Oklahoma! Remembering this about my sister, made me feel a bit better about her life; reminded me that she wasn't always sad, depressed and guilty. When she was well, she was happy, funny, kind, compassionate, giving, caring, and generous. And she loved to sing, and could carry a tune as well as anyone. Particularly when the dishes were being done(she always washed, and was most annoyed if you were to put something back because it wasn't clean yet) there was always a song to be sung, usually one that translated to "Farmer, what say you about my chickens, farmer what say you about my rooster. Haven't they got lovely feathers, or don't you care for the colors" Yup that's a dutch song for you! Anyhow, it sounded lovely when sung by us especially in harmony. And than she'd get the giggles, and then the rest of us would, and my dad would sigh and say, Mama, I think it's going to storm. He said that a lot.
She died when she was 49. April 16, 1992. She would have been 50 that November. She was mostly blind, starting to lose her hearing, and chronically depressed, seemingly without hope. She had asked me a week before her death what would happen if she took all of her Ativan. I, shocked almost speechless, said that mainly she'd have a deep sleep. I asked her then was she thinking of harming herself, and if she was, I would take her to ER . She denied that she was serious but I told her that if she DID do that, I would have to seriously reconsider my faith in the existence of God, as I had been assured that God's people were protected from committing suicide. (when I was a young teen I often worried about my father, as he too was often depressed and despondent) I didn't think that she would then act out my biggest fear, as she sure wouldn't want to jeopardize my faith...
The day following this conversation, she had gone to the mental health clinic and had again verbalized her thoughts of suicide, and was taken to Emergency at that time. While there, they removed her meds from her possesion, and sent her home, as there was an HEU strike on and admissions were limited, ironically, to life threatening emergencies. A few days later, she went to her gp, told him she was no longer suicidal but needed her meds back. He gave her a new prescription, including a full bottle of triclylic antidepressants. He may as well have given her a loaded gun, which would have been equally deadly.
She was found already dead by my other sister,Mary, who with her daughter, had come to bring her a meal, which she did every week. Mary was late this day, and still believes that her being late contributed to Jannie's death, and to this day carries that burden. I don't believe that. I believe that Jannie was not rational, and made this decision totally devoid of awareness of the consequences, and the pain it would cause her family.
About a year ago, while I was attending orientation session for hospice volunteer, we were shown a video about a young man's untimely death, and included interviews with various family members in the months following his death. I broke down and wept uncontrollably, out of proportion to the sadness of the film. Suddenly my grief for Jannie's tragic life and death came pouring out of me, and fortunately, there were compassionate counselors there who listened to my boiled-over grief. I was surprised and shocked that these feeling were still so volatile in me.
I often wonder what would have made a difference for Jannie. What if she had been in an apartment that would have allowed her to keep a small dog for company? She would have had someone of her own to love and cherish. What if my mom had still been alive? Would Jannie have taken her own life? I was relieved that neither of my parents were witness to their daughter's death; they would have been devastated.
Jannie, my sister you were, and my sister you will always be. Your last words to me were"I love you", and I thank you for that. I always felt loved by you, and I hope you felt that from me as well. Somehow, I know you and Mom are having a perpetual cup of tea up there, perhaps while knitting; all of your problems no longer existent, Dad a short distance away, possibly fishing with Old Mr Stam in that great Fishing Hole in the Sky. Who knows. All I know, is that you only did the only thing you were able to do, to get away from the psychic pain and suffering that was your life. I hope this Birthday was your happiest ever. I wish I could share with you my joy about my grandbaby, Avery. How you would have loved her. Take care, sister, until we meet again.

For cryin' out loud!

Okay. it's been awhile, but I have a rant at last. And no, it's not about what I got or didn't get for Christmas. Christmas was great, as a matter of fact. We are very blessed, I know that for sure. We have a wonderful loving family without any of that discordant dysfunction that seems to be so popular these days. Oh we have our moments, but what we know for sure, is that we all love each other, and are each other's greatest support system.
But I digress,as is often my habit...
On the news Christmas Day, there was a long segment about the warming temperatures and varying snow conditions. There were interviews with avalanche patrols about the critical danger levels in BC's back country with advice from the experts to stay out. I said to Bob, "you watch, in the next few days some assholes will get themselves killed." And sure enough, eight people, "experienced, fully equipped" but apparently incredibly stupid and selfish, get themselves wiped out by an avalanche in Sparwood. Not only do they impact their relations, who are left to mourn, including little children who will now grow up without their fathers, but they endanger a whole mess of other people's lives who find it their duty to find their remains. This makes me so angry. It's not enough that they pollute the serenity of the back country with their noisy, gas guzzling machinery, but then they do so when it is unsafe, ruin people's lives(besides their own) and cause a pall of sadness to fall over the human community. Boy, I hope that last trip was good for them. I am MAD at them. I can hardly watch the news, as I start spouting off, and sounding very self righteous and judgmental, which in most areas of my life, I try hard not to be.So I thought if I wrote it down, I could get over it, and feel compassion for the survivors.
Maybe someone could explain to me the draw of snowmobiling/snowshoeing/skiing that make people do it in OBVIOUS and well publicized danger. What made these people turn their backs on the warnings and do it anyways: a suicidal undertaking, as surely as if they had driven over a cliff!!! And now we are meant to feel sorry, what a tragedy that this happened, and who can we blame this time...
No my friends, This is NOT a tragedy, this was sheer unadulterated stupidity, selfish and thoughtless satisfaction of an urge with NO thought to the consequences.
WHAT in my opinion, is a tragedy, you may ask? An eight year old girl, opening the door on Christmas Eve to Santa Clause, and getting shot in the face, then witnessing Santa go on a shooting rampage and subsequently setting the house on fire, killing nine family members, and then surviving: THAT is a tragedy. Dear God, I hope this girl has a really good support system, and I hope it was not her father, who did the shooting. Because then , aside from her having to heal from her physical injuries, she would have to heal from the psychic trauma of having a father who turned out to be a maniac murderer, who them killed himself, leaving no opportunity to get explanations or answers. Could there be any, other than insanity? So sad, so tragic, so unbelievably pointless. I pray for that family, that life will ge on and that somehow, someday, forgiveness and understanding may be theirs, because only then, will they be free.
Okay, now I feel better...

November already

Where does the time go???Isn't that what old people say all the time? Lots has happened and it seemed like it was time to unload a bit. Of course the highlight of September was the occasion of my "retirement" My last day of work was particularly satisfying as I spent it in PAR, and the day was especially enjoyable. They had a pot luck luncheon that day, as they always do when people leave, and this day was no different. Lots of people including the docs came by to eat of course(they'll do anything for food) and say good bye. Like they've seen the last of me. No such luck. I have every intention of continuing to work, just on my terms, when and where I want. On the Monday was my retirement party, a dinner at the"Curry Pot" in downtown Vernon. It was well attended and I felt very special. For a retirement gift, I received a gift certificate for painting lessons from Maureen Krause, a very talented acrylic artist whose work I have respected for some time. Also I was given a certificate for supplies which will augment what Bob and the kids had given me for my bd. So that was all pretty cool.
Then the jaunt down to Vancouver and back, for a visit with Joan, my best friend from training, at her home in Maple Ridge. We had lots of fun; whenever we get together it feels like we are girls again, giggling about the same immature stuff that we did when we were 20. Harry made himself scarce, which was nice, as I certainly don't have much in common with him. He is a very successful business man who spends every spare minute watching sports on TV. However Joan seems to like him just fine(She works full time plus, so I suspect they don't spend a huge amount of time together, that would make him more tolerable I guess...)
Spent part of one day with Larry, my old buddy from ER days, who is aging quickly and seems to have given up on looking presentable for the ladies(or men, I'm not quite sure) His mother proving to be a terrible albatross around his neck, is totally dependent on him and is insistent that she and he move in together(his father died a year ago)She is quite young, in her mid sixties i think. He seems at his wits end, but thankfully it is not my problem. I hope that just my listening helped him sort out things in his head.
On the Saturday night, Joan and I went to our 35 yr reunion, at Deer Lake Restaurant in Burnaby. There were 28 of us there, mostly the same ones that have been there at previous reunions. It was quite fun but the party was over early, attesting to our advancing ages, and progressively less tolerance to alcohol and sleep deprivation.
After a Sunday quietly spent with Ruth, my bosom buddy, while Bill was at work (I had the world's worst head cold) I headed back home on the Monday. We changed our mind about going to Edmonton as I didn't think it was kind of me to share my virus with my brother or great nieces(their mother would never forgive me) so we spent a pleasant week together, pretending we were both retired, as Bob was on vacation. I procrastinated about packing for Indonesia, thinking I had LOTs of time. Did some shopping (Value Village for appropriate clothing to wear in a Muslim country) and had company over for Thanksgiving dinner on the weekend. Our anniversary was in there as well, spent it quietly and we elected to have dinner at home, Bob cooked Toast and Eggs(his specialty) made all the more special by the cheese he grated over all! What a guy!
Then on Tuesday, upon direction of my travel agent, I tried to confirm my seat with Singapore Airlines, only to find that they rejected my passport, as it was set to expire in less than 6 months. That started a chain of events that saw us rushing down to Vancouver for an emergency passport application and all that it involves. It was a pretty stressful time but on the positive side it took my mind away from the actual trip. It was tempting to throw it all into the wind and say, gee it wasn't meant to be. But that would have been a cop out, because I was SOOO tempted to do just that. The rest is history and can be found to a certain degree, in my travel blog, www.bobana.travellerspoint.com
So now I have been home for 5 days. By the end of the trip, I was exhausted , having been up an unprecedented 28 hrs prior to my arrival home. I did, perhaps, have one or two half hour naps during the long flight, but invariably was awakened by one of my seat mates needing to pee. Sheesh. I was also unbelievable cranky, and was increasingly irritable with my roommate Linda, whose chronic cheerfulness really started to grate on my nerves. I am SUCH a bitch sometimes, it is surprising that I have any friends at all!
In hindsite, the trip was an amazing experience, although not the least bit fun, nor even THAT fulfilling. I do hope that I, as part of the team, contributed somewhat to the health and well being of some of the people.
The Christian aspect of the project seemed empty and insincere, in my perception. Every morning there was a rushed"devotion" in the time period after breakfast, before the bus arrived to take us to Klampok. Mathias was particularly disappointing to me, it seems he talks the talk but doesn't walk the walk. His testimony conflicts with the cold way he treats people, especially his aloofness with the people who we were there to help.Some of them just wanted to shake his hand and thank him after the surgery and he acted as though it was a hardship to take the time to do that. It was always rush rush rush, as though nothing was as important as numbers. If Ione and I got to sit for 15 minute for our lunch it was a miracle, he would already be pacing, waiting for us to get back into the OR. I thought this experience would make me warm up to him (as he has been my ophthalmologist for 8 yrs) and I would see a softer, warmer side of him, but alas, it appears he doesn't have one...
The positive aspects of the experience were the Indonesian people, who were largely friendly and welcoming, and very warm. The scenery was spectacular, and I was only sorry I didn't get more chances to photograph it. My roommate was sweet and unbelievable tolerant, and chronically good natured; Pollyanna would be amazed. The weather was actually pretty nice, what we saw of it. Luckily the rainy season had started otherwise I think the heat would have been intolerable. It was extremely humid some days, and I was very thankful to be working in the air-conditioned OR. The group was a good one for the most part, although we were pretty isolated from them during those long days in the OR. Evenings I had no energy left to stay up and socialize after supper.
I am working on making a book about my experience, and am hoping I will get some photos sent to me from other group members. And of course I hope some of the others will want to buy a copy of the book so I can start making some money with my Heritage Makers business... At which point I must point out, that in December's Oprah magazine, she lists Heritage Makers as one of her all time favorite things!!! That should be good for business!
There, that is that. I am still unbelievable happy to be at home and with my Bobby. I missed him more than ever and continually would think about what he might be doing. I kept track of what time it was at home which was 15 hrs behind the time that it was in Indonesia. Isn't that pathetic for someone who has been married to the same man for 34 years???
Well, this wasn't exactly a rant, but just verbalizing some of my feeling. Boring as it may have been for other readers, for which I am sorry. Til next time!

loyalty rewarded (or not)

About a week ago, at an evening dinner/staff meeting, at which we were all a bit surprised to see our grand kahuna (the Director of Surgical services for the North Okanagan) I received a special presentation. It turns out the reason she had come, was to present me with my TEN YEAR SERVICE PIN! I, like most of the other people there, was speechless, not by the amazing thoughtfulness of Interior Health for presenting me with this genuine sterling silver lapel pin with its telling IH swoosh (which has some deep significance that I have forgotten), rather, by the fact that it was a TEN YEAR Pin. What the....?I have been working at the same hospital, according to my calculations, for 22 years, since March 1986, when I selfishly uprooted my family, and made them move some 400 miles to the east, so I could take a job as Critical Care float at the Vernon Jubilee Hospital. I was tickled to be here and they were lucky to have me(they were terribly short of CC nurses back then, not like now(haha)). It was a win-win situation. Nine short months later, my part time job as a float became a full time one in the ER, something I stuck with for 12 years, finally burning out as a result of substandard staffing levels, and an increasing feeling of impending doom, if I didn't get the heck out of Dodge. So, in 1998 after having spent a fair bit of my own money and time taking palliative care courses by correspondence, I applied for and won a casual position in the community(Home Care as it was then called) In order to do that I had to leave my full time job, so I converted my status, ie I did not quit, to casual, at the hospital as well, to allow me an opportunity to spread my wings and get back to a career that I loved. Moreover, by now, everything: the hospital, the community and whatever else there is , was all blanketed by the grand quilt known as the Interior Health Authority. Bad enough that by changing to casual status, my accumulated sick time(some 750 hrs) and vacation time was deleted from the records, never to find its rightful way back to me, even three years later when I returned to a regular Part time position in PAR (due to health reasons which interfered with my driving abilities, and a need for benefits)
Now here it is 2008 and on IH's records, they have me listed as having a start date of June 4th 1998, which was approximately when I started with home care. So somewhere in the vast wasteland that is the records of the entire Interior Health Region, my first 12 years of work at VJH, has slipped into oblivion. So, any wonder that I was less than thrilled to get that service pin??? As it was I think I was pretty darn polite and put on a pretty little, appropriately grateful fake smile, for it was not this lady's fault, she only arrived on the scene in 2000. And she later told me that she gets these pins in bulk in a big brown envelope with instructions to distribute them tastefully.
So what did I do, you may wonder. I wrote a mostly polite but obviously irrate letter to the Chief Human Resources Officer for Interior Health in Kelowna enclosing the said pin so it can be regifted to someone withonly 10 yrs of service. I also sent copies to my boss, the administrator (or whatever the modern title is now) of the hospital, and the director of Employee and Labor relations, as well as my union steward. Now it is a waiting game.
Why the big deal? First of all, being denied appropriate credit for years served, affects my severance pay at retirement, which in case you, dear reader, need reminding, takes place in 9 short days. Secondly it feels like a sharp kick in the head, to have twelve years of my working life negated, or made to be non existent. I really don't want to end my working relationship with IH on a negative note, and then carry that bitterness with me into retirement. I have seen that happen to a former coworker, and it is not pretty. So I am staying positive with hope that the records will be corrected without me having to resort to a grievance, which I have managed to avoid until this point.
Are you bored beyond belief? Well it's not like you didn't have warning that this would be a rant, Re-read the title of this blog, honey. Another day, I will amuse you with my wit and candor, but today is a rant day.

Thoughts on getting older

Another birthday under my belt. Wow, fifty seven years old. To be honest I feel like an imposter. A young perhaps a bit immature, liberal minded thirty something woman in a 57yr old(hence forth to be known a FSYOs)body. FSYOs should be fairly sure of the way they feel about life, be wise with all their experience, and know definitely whether they believe in life after death. They shouldn't be waffling between about complete surety one day, and total skepticism the next. Also FSYOs, in my view, shouldn't relish gobbling down candy with as much relish as the little girl in me enjoys doing. And I still can't knit. Shouldn't a woman my age be knitting themselves silly, preparing entire layettes for grandchildren, present or future? At present, it appears I'll never have any of those so there's no sense even learning to knit, probably biting my lower lip needlessly in the attempt. Perhaps it's all my fault, this grandchildlessness. The great Planner doesn't see me as being a mature enough FSYO to be the grandmother to any child...Ah well, so be it. I won't need to worry about him/her attending a crystal meth/ecstacy party when he/she is thirteen either. Something to be said for freedom from that worry when I am seventy.
Yesterday, with a couple of friends, I attended the Superwalk for Parkinson's at Polson Park. There were about 50 of us there, a somewhat sad showing for a common disease. I guess it just isn't as trendy as, say, breast cancer, or any cancer for that matter. Most people(although not all) with Parkinsons are elderly and get hidden away in nursing homes or other sorts of facilities. The young(of whom I now know three (including MJF)) who get it are however are severely impacted in their lives and because it isn't such a trendy ailment, it is not as socially acceptable as the aforementioned conditions.
After the walk we went to brunch out at Friesens. While there, I saw a man, a very young man, perhaps 22 or so, who had a facial deformity that I have only ever seen on TV. His face was grossly enlarged and contorted, with nodules protruding from every surface, some type of tumor I would assume(neuroblastoma?) It appeared that he couldn't speak normally, and even eating appeared to be somewhat of a challenge. He was with a friend and the most amazing thing about it was that he appeared like he wasn't aware that he was any different that anyone else! I wanted so badly to study him, go up to him and ask him what it felt like to be so different yet appear not to care. To ask him from whence he obtained his confidence or was it just plain courage??? But studying him would be perceived as rudely staring, and compassionate interest would be interpreted as morbid curiosity. Sheesh, and here I am continually being self conscious about some part of me, well, mainly my larger than average rear end, and I often imagine that people speaking are rudely or laughing about me. Really, is that mature??? Is that what other FSYOs do? I doubt it, but like I always say , i yam whadiyam! Perhaps some day I will get to that stage in my life where I am totally confident and content about who and what I am. I keep getting that poetic email from people, that implies that I should be there by now. Am somedays I feel totally like that, not giving a shit about what people think of me, physically or otherwise, and then those other days... I can't even blame it on hormones anymore as i am clean out of those. So perhaps I am destined to remain permanently (although sporadically) immature and unsure of who and why I am...In the meantime, I will go day by day, keep my chin up, as it makes the 2nd and 3rd ones less conspicuous. Often I find if I focus more on others, rather than myself, I am much happier, and generally if I spend to much time thinking about myself and my shortcomings, I get grumpier and more depressed. So I work at it, and especially now on the threshold of retirement, it will be a challenge for me to utilize my time in a creative and productive manner, and to stay out of that rut of self deprecation.

Addicted

Okay I confess: I am an addict. I cannot control myself. I had to have it. Even as I spoke firmly to myself, and said, Anna my dear, you don't need it and it is not good for you, I bought it anyway. And I bought it somewhat hastily, so no one I knew would see me, and the minute I got in the car, I checked all around to see no one was looking, and then I USED... And it was GOOD!
Approximately 20 pieces of dutch licorice(aka zoute droppies) later, nausea set in and I distinctly remembered the acute attack of vertigo I had the last time I imbibed. I scrunched the top of the little paper baggie up tight and hid it in the bottom of the grocery bag from whence it came. I tried to tell myself, oh you didn't have that many, and at least it wasn't zwart wit (which translates to blackwhite) a little pill shaped candy consisting of a half tablet of light brown salt, glued to another tablet of ivory colored salt. It is very good and vaguely tastes like sweet very salty licorice. Hmmm my mouth waters even as we speak...Anyhow as I was saying, at least I had NONE of those little blood pressure pills(The kind that increase it) I did however have the ones called Krijt (white ones that resemble chalk, hence the name) Whoever thought up the idea of making a candy resembling something that you write with, on a blackboard no less. And I also had the little black salty fish covered in sugar, to tittilate all of the taste buds at once. And the little soft chewy brown cubes, also covered in sugar, not quite as salty but yummy none the less. When we were young in Lethbridge, Mr Schalk came around to the door on Saturday mornings with baked goods, especially Dutch imports, and we, my sister and I , were mostly interested in the "droppies"( named so because eventually they WILL make you drop dead of a stroke) Back then I especially like the big diamond shaped extra salty (Dubbel zout) slabs(they were about 4 inches long) that you could just lick and lick, til they got thin, and then you shoved the whole thing in your mouth and chewed your little heart out. DELICIOUS... And our parents supported this habit, that is they actually paid for this "candy"
People it seems, that is the non-Dutch , are either programmed to either love the stuff or hate it. I have a theory that it is a genetic trait, this love for insanely salty lumps of black stuff. One of my daughters likes it, and the other hates it... Their father of course frowns dreadfully whenever I bring it anywhere close to the house which was the reason for my hiding it, and subsequently discreetly throwing the remainders in the garbage and burying it deep amongst wet stinky other stuff (so I wouldn't be tempted to dig it out later) He remembers helping me to the bathroom when the room was spinning so badly I couldn't walk, the night after a day of gorging on the stuff. I think today I only used enough to make my craving subside, and so far I feel no untoward effects. The size of the bags under my eyes in the morning will be a true indicator of just how much of a droppie-pig I was.
So no, its not crack cocaine, or crystal meth, or heroin, but it is white(salt, that is), and it does temporarily make me lose all reason, with regards to my health. Luckily it isn't too expensive so it doesn't affect the family budget and drive us to bankruptcy, and really, today is the first time in about two years that I have given in to this craving and then only because I happened to be in a store with a BULK BIN OF DROPPIES, which I truly feel should be against the law... And really, I don't HAVE to have it. I can quit any time... its not like I NEED it...
Bob has gone to bed, I wonder whether he took the garbage out...