Lately, in my political writing, I’ve received more than a few messages from people in my age bracket telling me that if someone came near our country, they would bear arms and defend it. Boomers and older than Boomers. I respect the sentiment. I really do and I even thought “maybe I could do that.” But today it reminded me I may be ill equipped for that type of scenario. Heck I’m too uncoordinated to manage a trip to my back yard. I went outside to untangle my dog. She’s a 110 pound 13 year old husky/lab cross who still believes she is a spry two year old wolf. Even though we live on 17 acres, she has to be tied because the husky brain says run forever and the senior body says absolutely not.
So out I go. I’ve got my boots on and have the leash in hand. Reminder here that this is rural Alberta and neighbours are not nearby. There’s a creek on one side, railway tracks on the other. Just me and the prairie.
What I forgot, entirely, is that recently there was some digging done near the septic system. A vent thing that left a message hole. But it’s now covered by snow. Deceptively innocent snow I might add.
Important visual detail: I work from home, which means most days I change from nighttime pajamas into daytime pajamas. Today’s daytime pajamas were a satiny, Chinese-style kimono situation with matching pants. This was not tactical clothing.
I step forward. The ground disappears. I don’t fall into the hole. I fall ALL the way into the hole. Full body, gone like a character from a 60’s Wile E. Coyote cartoon.
I’m wedged. My ankle hurts. My wrist hurts. I start calling for help. And I realize two things at once. No one can hear me and satin is not a traction fabric.
I try to climb out. I slide back in. I try again. Slide again. I attempt what can only be described as a shimmy.
At this point the wrap around kimono has opinions of its own and is opting out of the situation entirely. So there I am, clothing compromised, fully stuck, echoing into the vast Alberta nothingness and thinking, well, this is how people disappear.
Eventually, through a combination of stubbornness, one cooperative wrist, and pure spite, I manage to extract myself. The dog watches calmly. She does not help. She does, however, get to pee.
Now I’m inside. Warm and changed and mostly uninjured. Pride severely bruised. And this is where I circle back to the gun thing.
If the fate of the nation depended on me navigating snowy ground in satin pajamas, holding a rifle we’re doomed.
So no this post is not my normal political post. This is Nancy Unfiltered, and today Nancy Unfiltered needed a break. Today is about knowing your limits. About winter, about aging dogs and their people, hidden septic vents, and the important distinction between bravery and balance.
The upside? It is a stunning Alberta winter day. Blue sky. Sunlight. Barely a cloud. Not even that cold. And so far, despite the heaviness of the world there are still spaces I can find joy and humour.
For those who know me, you’ll say: That is so Nancy. For those who don’t, you’ll say: This woman does not have her poop together.
Both are correct.
Nancy's Notes 