Surviving "Suicide Hill"

Who said "Suicide is painless"? Speaking of the hill, that is. The steep slope is just across the Trans Canada from McMahon Stadium.

My cousin told me not to go. After my first successful run down the slope without incident, I refrained from any more descents.

However, with the advent of a roll of duct tape and the re-inflation of our inflatable/deflatable sled, I was game to accompany my sweetheart down the hill. Bad idea.

My famous last words as we took off, "I'm stupid!", served to be prophetic about 5 seconds later. Our sled veered sharply to the left, headed towards not just one, but two ridges. The first ridge was not too eventful, but the second one was much higher, and we were suddenly three feet airborne.

I landed on my side with a sickening thud. Shades of "How the Mighty Have Fallen" (refer to an earlier blog entry, regarding my rapid descent from the back of a camel in Niger, West Africa). But I appeared to be the lucky one.

I glanced over at my wife who was laying motionless on her back a few feet below me on the slope. As I managed to wiggle my injured body closer, I noticed that Connie's face was bloodied and she was not responding to my inquiries about whether she was alright. I was helpless to do anything for her, as my own pain prevented me from getting up. Just then, I was relieved to hear the arrival of help from the top of the hill.

A paramedic trainee and his friend triaged and began focussing on Connie after I assured them that I was okay for now. Connie then regained consciousness and appeared to have movement in all her extremities. Once we regained our total senses (or at least as much sense as I had prior to that last ride, which you might surmise wasn't all that much), our helpers slowly walked us to our car and our friends, Isabella and Jeremy, drove us home.

We continue to mend slowly. Not much you can do for bruised ribs, except for sleeping sitting up on the couch and trying not to sneeze. Connie is fortunate, not only to be alive and intact, but also to be able to recline and sleep. Her hip injury is improving and her facial scrapes make her look tough.

Praise God that Connie and Marvin were not hurt much worse. Despite the pain from the mishap, there is a certain satisfaction we share that we got hurt in the same venture and we both walked away from it. Now we suffer together temporarily, and we can continue to enjoy our future joys and pains together after surviving 28 plus years of marriage.

The obvious question remains: when do we get to go tobogganing on the hill again?



PS: THIS JUST IN: BUSTED

The results from my February 21 x-ray: you guessed it; a couple of fractured ribs. Ouch. Oh well; I am fortunate to have Constance Nightingale living with me.


PSS: THIS JUST IN: SIX PACK

Sextuple ouch. My doctor informed me today, February 24, that I fractured ribs 3 to 8, inclusive. That would be six ribs. He kept congratulating me on doing such a good job. My sweetheart has me on strict immobility now. Sleeping vertically appears to be easier with codeine.

Tribute to Connie, on the occasion of her 50th birthday

What can I say about my lovely wife, my sweetheart? Well, lots. Connie has brought joy to my life ever since the moment we met. It was not love at first sight, but we did have an instant connection through my sister and her uncle and aunt having been schoolmates years earlier at the same college where Connie and I met. Connie and I sat across the dining hall table from each other for an entire week to kick off the school year, and wouldn't you know it, she fell for the guy beside me. However, she later came to her senses with the realization of who Mr. Right really was.

It is neat that Connie and I became friends before we became romantically infatuated with each other. It was the summer after we met that we first exchanged letters, and something just clicked between us. Later on that autumn we had our first date, and I realized then that there was a real magic in the way I felt about this girl.

After working through some hurdles, we became engaged and I really credit God with bringing us together after a period of not seeing each other. When I announced our engagement to my mother, I was told: “Well, Marvin, she really thinks the world of you.” That really sums up Connie's devotion to others.

It was a hoot attending university with my sweetheart. I was so proud of her when she received her first scholarship while I had to be content with ordinary grades. It was also interesting running about campus with this beautiful little woman who looked so young. I remember one of our schoolmates, on my introducing her to Connie, asked if she was my daughter. Through the years of our marriage, I'm sure there have been other times when people wondered a little bit. I have always been okay with that and with Connie outshining me in the classes we took together. In fact, I was fortunate to have her help in my trying to understand the subject matter.

I am grateful for Connie's gift to me of our three precious girls. I appreciate the great job she did in raising these kids while I was so busy with farming and law school. Once I finished my heavy studies, I tried to make up for lost time with my kids by spending every non-working moment with them that I could, but kind of forgot to spend more time with my sweetheart. Despite some problems that resulted, we survived in our marriage and as the kids got older, Connie plunged into her education once again.

I am so proud of her accomplishments in obtaining her education degree and her success in teaching. When her teaching contract ran out, Connie did not dismay, but spent a couple of years finishing her honours in English and nailed down scholarships and funding to pay her own way through her Master's program. Then somehow she talked me into following her to live in a foreign land (sorry, Albertans), and here we are.

When comparing notes on our roles in our respective marriages one time, my brother remarked to me that the women we married would definitely be faithful to these two farmboys. I do appreciate Connie's faithfulness to me. Apart from the occasional Roberto Alomar or Pierce Brosnan lapse, Connie has been a faithful partner and friend. In recent years we went through some troubled waters, but Connie was always faithful and committed enough to me to try to make it work. I love her, admire her and respect her for that.

Now that we are off in La La Land, away from the distractions of kids and kitties, Connie and I have watched our relationship boom again, as each looks out for the other and as we can spend some quality time together. I appreciate all the years that I have been fortunate to spend with Connie. It has been neat to watch her grow and mature as a person. It was an adjustment for her, the eldest of four siblings, to marry the baby of another family, but she has handled it well. It was neat for me, too, how Connie kind of doubled as the little sister that I never had. She also introduced me to a whole new set of younger siblings and terrific parents-in-law that I have been able to enjoy all these years.

What can I say about this amazing person? Connie, I love you and cherish you. You are my best friend. You are always there when I need you. With all my recent disability experiences, you never once suggested that I was lazy or told me to get off my worthless butt (except maybe in jest, or when you thought about the actual net worth of my butt).

You have been a wonderful wife and companion all these years. Thank you for all the socks you have folded, all the delicious meals you have fed me (even some of the interesting earlier ones), for every time when you listened to my problems and concerns and helped me through a situation.

I treasure you. You are so special that, in the words of Billy Talent, “I would have given my life for you.” I will try not to cry, but I want to relate the words of an old song to you:

You are so beautiful... to me
You are so beautiful... to me
Can't you see
You're everything I hoped for
You're everything I need
You are so beautiful... to me

I love you, sweetheart. Thank you for loving me and sharing your life with me.

- Marv

PS: I am looking forward to one day in the future when I can call you "Dr. Connie"

Billy Talent and the beer shower

"You're going to what?"

That's right; to a rock concert, featuring my favourite punk-type Canadien music group, Billy Talent. After all, why wouldn't I go?

I guess I really should blame all this obsession on my youngest daughter. Back in her high school days, when she played soccer and I coached her team, we travelled regularly to the soccer centre on the north side of Saskatoon. Melanie would always welcome the one-on-one time with Dad by inserting her favourite CD into the car player and cranking the volume. As I listened to all this noise, I queried her as to the name of the artist. "Billy Talent", I was told. "Oh", I replied.

Who could have predicted that after the third trip to soccer while listening to the same CD, I was hooked? When Billy Talent was scheduled to perform in Saskatoon thereafter at a small venue, I was determined to go. However, a sudden three-foot snowstorm put a halt to my plans (Actually, I think the weather may have resulted in the cancellation of the concert anyway).

Later in the autumn that same year, Billy Talent was again scheduled to perform in Saskatoon. Alas, I had to be out of town that week, and could not make it. Following that personal disappointment, I never lost my appreciation of their music, and was determined not to miss them again.

And so it was that in October, 2006 I learned that Billy Talent was scheduled to perform in Calgary on January 24, 2007 at the Pengrowth Saddledome. Should I go? How does one actually dither for three months? Finally, I coughed up for a ticket two days before the concert. "You're going to what?"... "Why?"

Granted, the idea of an overweight, balding, middle aged lawyer type dude going to a concert for a current punk group might be hard to fathom, but through the years, quite a number of people have had some trouble trying to understand me. I didn't think it was a good enough reason not to go, just because of what others might think. If you are a fan, go for it, regardless of the age difference.

Wow, what an age difference! Sure there were a few others that were almost as old as me, but they were either working in security or escorting their own children to the concert. Despite my being a couple of generations older than most of the crowd, I didn't receive any negative reactions from others I encountered. In fact, the youthful fans I met were very polite and friendly to me.

Once the concert began, I realized that I should have researched this event more thoroughly. I had no clue who the first warm up band was. I was relieved that a fan next to me knew nothing about them either. Still, I was impressed with the performance of Moneen. Their music was entertaining and the band members played with such enthusiasm. Especially the bass player who never missed a note while repeatedly jerking his head down and up, with his exceedingly long locks flipping down and up in time.

The second group, Anti Flag, were also entertaining. The lead singer sported an interesting tonsorial, partly shaved head and a large long strand from the other side. I liked his message of promoting equality. I am with you there, Pittsburgher. I liked your music too.

Not having researched as to how many warm up bands were to perform, I was expecting my favourites to appear after Anti Flag. However, when the lights came up on the third act, they didn't really look like or sound like Billy Talent. Did I somehow miss the release of a third album? No, I just had not heard of Rise Against. They were also great performers and the audience sang along with their music.

All right, three groups out of the way. When the lights went down again, there was an excited buzz in the audience. Suddenly, we heard a familiar riff and the lead guitarist for Billy Talent appeared in silouette form. That was just too cool. Then the drummer, then the bass player, and finally our lead singer appeared and launched us into an exhiliarating concert. Like the rest of the fans, I stood throughout the concert. I stood there with my hands in my pockets, "singing."

Why the reference to "the beer shower"? No, I did not discover an old bottle of "Body on Tap" shampoo. While I listened through the first three acts, and especially during Rise Against, I felt occasional misty sprays on my head. After my initial reaction of angry disgust, I then realized that this was part of the experience, to be in the line of fire of partially filled plastic cups of beer being hurled through the air.

Also, I noticed a fan to my right in the row behind, who animatedly gyrated, sung and gestured with his right hand through each song of Rise Against. In his left hand he clutched a plastic cup half full of beer, that was soon one-third full, then one-quarter full, but without his taking a drink. My row was the lucky recipient of the occasional splashes of beer.

While Billy Talent performed, I did my best to sing along, mimicking the sounds where ever I could. Now, it wasn't that I wasn't familiar with the music, but I have difficulty figuring out lyrics at the best of times. Nonetheless, I sang on, sometimes reciting gibberish that somewhat resembled the lyrics, and adjusting my voice to falsetto or screeching, as the need arose.

After a few Billy Talent songs, the dude in the row above me presented his hand and we shook hands and underwent some minimal bonding over our love for the group. After another song, he smiled at me and we shook hands again, and he was heard to remark "I like this guy" in reference to the old guy with his hands in his pockets.

Even though I stood out like a sore thumb, it was nice to have made a new friend. However, I seem to have lost track of him ever since he was escorted from the arena during the concert.

The road to the Super Bowl?

After my inglorious head over heels plunge down the steep sand dune, my host "rescued" my reputation by throwing his football to me. I ended up on the flat plain at the bottom of the slope and proceeded to pass the ball to various dune jumpers from our team. For the next 20 minutes I played quarterback and wide receiver, and somehow managed to nail each reception and pass attempt. After awhile, I began making my gradual ascent up the sand mountain.

I kept playing catch with young Mitchell on the way up the slope. Suddenly I noticed a couple of local boys who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere on the slope with us. I motioned to one of them and then threw the ball to him. He had no clue how to catch or throw the football, but he returned it to me. Then I repeated the process with the other Nigerien boy, with the same result. Following this, I crawled over to the boys and demonstrated to them the proper grip for throwing a North American football and let them try it over and over again. Their skills improved the more they attempted throwing and catching.

Later, after we had reached the summit and were about to leave the area, the two boys, one dressed in white, the other in black, resumed playing catch with me. It was neat to see the smiles on their faces, a look of satisfaction of acquiring a skill that these funny North American people kept showing off. I assume that these boys had never seen a football before, and their likelihood of obtaining a football scholarship to the University of Nebraska and eventually making it to the Super Bowl is remote. However, their exposure to a cultural item from the other side of the globe may help them to relate to cross-cultural experiences they may have in the future, even if it is only in their own neighborhood. I know that the experience of sharing my culture with them while witnessing their culture and environment is an experience I will never forget.

"Do you have a girlfriend?... Do you believe in love at first sight?..." (and various other lines used to survive in the Niamey marketplace)

They are almost literally all over you. The incident that spawned the utterances of this blog's title was no exception. A bunch of us were hanging out at the edge of the market street, waiting for our ride. This one particular well dressed merchant had noticed my penchant for purchasing camel leather boxes and so kept pushing a large one with a rounded lid. As I really had no desire to carry this bulky one home with our limited baggage situation, I politely and repeatedly answered him: "Non, merci" (no mercy?) My hostess then helped me by firmly explaining to the salesman that he needed to leave me alone.

Next thing I knew, this fellow had surreptitiously slipped by my hostess, and was resuming his sales pitch with me, in a very quiet whisper. The poor man, I just burst out laughing at him. He didn't seem to mind, as he barely paused for a breath in repeating the sales price to me, over and over and over. Finally, our ride arrived and we began boarding the truck. My friend and I, at the back of the lineup for the truck, had shopped together a bit, and I had explained to him my strategy for dealing with over aggressive merchants. I would start talking rapidly to them in English that they likely could not understand, and could say almost anything to them. That's when I heard my friend make the infamous remarks of our title, with the salesperson responding with the most perplexed look.

While wearing a hat with a Canada flag on its front, I heard "Aw, Canadien" many times in the market. Most of the time I would holler back "Aw, Nigerien." I was usually unafraid to speak back to the pushy merchants. One fellow in particular who relentlessly held three bracelets in my face with the sales pitch "Cinq milles, cinq milles, cinq milles, cinq..." was hard to take. Later when he was banging a drum near my ear and close to the ear of another friend who was much less brassy than me, I implored the salesman to "Get out of his face" and to "Take this drum and shove it." As you can guess, neither line was effective.

Still later, I was waiting at a corner of the market, with several men grabbing my arms, trying to lure me into their respective stores, while I waited for a salesman's "associate" to bring me a green Niger soccer shirt from elsewhere, but which never arrived. Tiring of the constant pressure on my mind, the noise in my ears and literally being pulled in several directions, I then became a pushy tourist and directed the merchants to line up side by side for me to take a picture of them. All at once they let out a collective groan and actually backed off for a few minutes. "Wow, I can't believe that actually worked."

Yet another time, I had followed my host into the market to purchase some fish, only to lose sight of him due to the long line of merchants that developed on his tail. When I turned back to wait for him along the street, some other merchants came after me, offering me tomatoes, oranges and anything else they held in their hands. Once again, I retorted with "Non, merci" and smiled as best that I could. And again, I came up with an idea.

Being a life long French student, I recognized an opportunity to practice. I began pointing to their wares and repeating the French word for each, "toe matt", "air ee coe", "pamp el moose." Each time I looked them in the face, seeking approval for my very basic display of vocabulary. Then I glanced further out into the street where I began commentary on various sights in the traffic speeding by.

I saw a number 22 Dallas Cowboys NFL jersey ride by on a motorbike and I exclaimed: "Aw, c'est le veston d'Emmitt Smith qui a jeue pour les vaches des garcons de Dallas." Of course, this was totally lost on my listener (as it most certainly would be on any native French speaker.) Then, I noticed a passerby wearing the jersey of an Italian football star, Totti, who plays for FC Roma. Excitedly, I began pointing to the number 10 jersey and talking about the Italian star, en francais, how he had scored an overtime goal in the World Cup and then had run around the field holding his thumb in his mouth to celebrate, not only the goal, but also the recent birth of his son.

I was then amazed that my listener, the tomato salesman, actually understood me. Not just my rudimentary French dialogue, but also the content about Totti's exciting goal in the World Cup tournament. The merchant stopped selling me tomatoes and we actually connected for the rest of the time I stood with him at the edge of the market. We were from vastly different cultures, but we realized that we still shared an awareness for and knowledge of personalities and events outside our respective spheres of influence. For a few minutes, it was no longer the battle of Nigerien merchant versus Canadien tourist under the hot sun. Instead, it was a couple of guys sharing their love for football on a street corner in Niamey.

I think of this incident often, and I think of my new Muslim friend in Calgary that I met at a Christmas party for my wife's English faculty and students last December. I really connected with my new friend in Calgary that late Saturday evening, over ginger ales and party food. I am planning to spend an evening with him and our wives, and to share more about each other's respective faiths and religious practices.

So often, caucasian North Americans seem to isolate people of the Islamic faith as "them and us" and to keep noncaucasian people at arm's length, without realizing that they are regular people, too . The people our team met in Niger are beautiful people, are extremely friendly and were appreciative of any friendliness that we showed to them. I am now embarrassed to remember occasions when some local Nigerien people would come to greet our team, and our first reaction was to stand at a distance and take pictures of them, before we realized that we needed to get closer and greet them, too. It is so important for us North Americans to venture out of our comfort zone occasionally and discover that it is really not that scary to get to know people who are different from us.

For all you Christian readers out there, have you hugged your Muslim friend today?

At the Musee de Niger

"Who are all these guys sticking these leather boxes in my face?" While many of our group surveyed and handled the display of fabric on a sidewalk in the Musee, I stood to the side, feeling very uncomfortable. I had paid 1,000 CFA to be admitted into the Musee to see some of Niger's exotic animals, only to be surrounded and hounded by numerous salesmen. Fortunately, it was Mike to the rescue.

Mike and I managed to sneak away, and wandered off to see the beloved hippos, the funny monkeys, some impressive lions and the unusual uranium museum. All very interesting. We also saw the remnants of probably the only tree in the Sahara, that some British adventurer had managed to drive over and kill. This was all fascinating, and such a welcome relief from the box merchants.

I then accompanied my host into a shaded restaurant area where we enjoyed some soft drinks. However, one of the sales dudes hovered near the exit, waiting for my departure. Previously, I had hopelessly undernegotiated with him the price of one of the larger boxes, leaving our potential transaction hanging. When the moment seemed right, he pounced into my personal space and sold me the box at the price I had offered. I was happy with my great deal.

Later at our compound, I began admiring my purchase while comparing it with another box I had procured earlier in the day for the same price. Somehow, the box from the Musee was smaller than the one I had bought previously. "Wait a minute... it's smaller... I just hate being taken." So much for a great deal.

Just another day at the Musee de Niger.

Mr. Popularity

Everywhere I go publicly in Niger, a throng of people follows me in the street. I venture into the marketplace and instantly several men surround me. People are ecstatic to greet me and to shake my hand. It is so wonderful to be popular

What a difference in Canada where you are largely ignored. It is just not the same walking down the street back home. The anonymity is a constant reminder that North American people generally do not consider you to be noteworthy.

I was amazed at the reception I received in the market pictured here. As you can see, I really stood out in a crowd. The most poignant moment for me in this obscure rural market was when a group of children stood outside my truck door as I got into the vehicle to leave. I rolled down the window and extended my hand. The children then clamoured to shake my hand and I shook as many of theirs as I could as the truck pulled away.

Although I felt a bit like a politician must feel, my heart ached for these poor children in Niger, who longed for anything new, including being able to see and to touch a non-descript middle aged white guy.