I'm sorry, Sis

While growing up on a farm in Southern Ontario, I spent much of my time playing with my little sister. Because I was five years older, I was convinced that I was the boss of her. That assumption — and my feeble attempt to bribe her — landed us both in hot water.

Our parents set a strict house rule for their four kids: no food or dishes outside of the kitchen (picnics excepted). Our mom had enough to do without also having to gather dirty bowls and plates scattered all over our large farmhouse.

When I was 8 or 9 (my sister 3 or 4), I broke that rule.

Lunch had interrupted our game of Pick-up Sticks. As usual, my sister finished eating before I did. Back into the living room she marched to take her turn. Always the slowest eater in the family, I followed right behind her with the last morsels of sandwich on my plate. I didn’t trust her not to shift those sticks to her advantage if I wasn’t watching.

After my last bite, I set the plate down on the living-room floor. Our game ended (she won), we ran upstairs to play with our dolls.

When our parents called us both back into the living room, they were standing over that plate in the middle of the floor. My mom asked which one of us was responsible. My sister and I exchanged glances, and said nothing. (Our brothers weren’t home. We were the only suspects.)

When we didn’t answer, we were banished to our bedroom until someone confessed.

To save my own skin, I asked my sister to say she’d done it. Our parents would go easy on her as the baby of the family. She usually got little more than a stern warning.

She protested that she hadn’t left the plate there and didn’t want to lie.

I was in a tight spot. She might rat me out or just keep quiet until I cracked. But I knew how to ratchet up the pressure. “If you admit to it, you’ll get a candy,” I said, without mentioning that I’d be the one to give it to her. She capitulated.

Our parents were talking in their bedroom across the hall, so we headed over. Walking in first, my sister announced that she’d left the plate on the floor.

My parents looked at each other, and my dad thanked her for being brave and confessing. For a split second, I felt a huge sense of relief. That is, until my sister looked up at them with innocent eyes, and asked for her candy….

I froze. My parents exchanged puzzled glances, and my mom asked her to explain. She blurted out exactly what I’d told her about getting a candy.

My dad snorted in amusement. My mom turned her face away, perhaps to hide a smile.

In the end, we were both punished.

Who knows? If only I’d been smart enough to tell her that I’d be giving her the candy, the whole scheme might have worked. I never tried it again.

Sorry, Sis. You deserved better.

No, I was never a three-year-old runaway

Intrepid Ms. Fluffster, ignoring the camera, at the cottage with her family

According to Fluffster family lore, I ran away from home when I was three.

It’s time to set the record straight: I didn’t run away. In fact, I believed my family had gone off to the cottage without me, and I had to catch up to them.

When I was three, going on four, we lived in a house with a small back yard in the heart of Toronto. Getting out of the city in the summer was a Big Deal. So it was with excitement that I heard my parents planning another trip to the cottage where we’d spent an exciting vacation the previous summer. For weeks, I pestered them: “Are we going today?” The answer was always no, not yet.

One morning, still in my pyjamas, I was next door playing on the neighbour’s swing set, equipment we didn’t have in our back yard. My mom had always encouraged us to play outside, so I was usually either in our yard or the neighbour’s. That neighbour kept an eye on me from her kitchen window whenever I showed up in her yard while her own kids were at school. Her swing set drew me there, but I often stuck around hoping to taste-test her fresh-out-of-the-oven cookies!

I didn’t pay much attention to which family members were still in my house when I scampered outside after breakfast. An adult would always show up if I needed one.

When I’d had enough of the swing and no cookies had appeared, it was time to find out what was for lunch at home. I walked into the house and called out. Nobody answered. I wandered around downstairs. Nobody there. Not old enough to know the difference between weekends and weekdays, it didn’t occur to me that my dad was at work and my brothers at school. Oma (my Dutch grandmother) was upstairs in her bedroom but didn’t hear me calling, and my mom was out grocery shopping.

In my mind, the empty house meant that everyone must have left for the cottage without me! I wasn’t upset, but I had to catch up with them.

Out I went, still in my pyjamas, but not before picking up my new change purse with two pennies in it (my mom always took her purse whenever she went out). That bright red change purse, a gift from Oma, had one side that was clear plastic so I could always see how rich I was.

After about two hours, I’d wandered at least three and a half kilometres from home when a family finally stopped me near Runnymede subway station. A pre-schooler in her pyjamas walking along busy Toronto streets had to attract attention sooner or later, even in the late ‘50s when free-range parenting was the norm.

Google Maps screenshot of the most direct route from our house to Runnymede Station; I don’t recall the exact route I took.

The mom of the family opened the passenger door of their car, asked where I was going, and offered me a ride. Climbing onto her lap, I said I was going to the cottage, and proudly showed off my change purse. They drove up to the first police car they came across, and a policeman took me home. At three, I hadn’t yet learned about stranger danger. But my parents had taught me to memorize my address and telephone number, which I proudly recited to anyone who asked for it.

Exactly what happened after I got home, other than some uncomfortably tight hugs from my relieved mom and Oma, is blurred in my memory. But I clearly remember getting a lollipop from the policeman on the way home. That’s what really mattered.

Memories of a capricious pony

Ms. Fluffster, in cowboy hat and Western gear, riding her pony at a Southern Ontario horse show

The year I turned 13, I fulfilled my dream of owning a pony. I’d longed for one ever since I met the girl with a pony who’d moved into a neighbouring farm a year earlier.

She became my best friend and as teenagers we spent long hours together on horseback. She still rides horses. I now have a lower-maintenance bicycle. No carrots or petting required.

My family knew I wanted a pony more than anything. I’d started saving up, but it would have taken me years to collect enough money. So my mother decided to surprise me when I got back from a visit to relatives in Montreal.

The afternoon I got home, my two brothers gleefully announced that they’d bought me some ducks. I was suspicious, since I’d never expressed any interest in ducks, but played along when they steered me to the “duck coop,” a little-used shed with a window at floor level, through which I spotted brown hooves.

Inside was a five-year-old pony named Lightning. Beside myself with delight, I begged to ride him right away. For months, I’d been riding my friend’s pony bareback, so I knew I was ready.

Minutes later, we trotted off. Lightning broke into a gallop as we neared a fence where we’d have to go through a gate. I tried to slow him down but failed. Charging towards the gate, he made a sudden U-turn. Over the gate I sailed, landing hard on the other side of the fence while he trotted back to his shed (and dinner). I limped home, only my pride seriously injured.

Too late to do me any good, I remembered being warned that some ponies use stunts like these to throw their riders.

We negotiated a truce after that first misadventure. I discovered that food was the best way to manage him. If I let him stop to eat grass regularly, he’d let me stay on his back.

I never liked riding fast, preferring an easy gallop at best. When my friends raced, Lightning and I would fall behind. He didn’t mind being a little behind, but if the others got too far ahead, he’d take the bit between his teeth and defy my efforts to slow him down.

Still, whoever named him was being hopeful. He sped up only if he got hungry or fell too far behind the pack. His usual slow-as-molasses pace suited me just fine.

When hungry or bored, he’d sometimes lie down and roll over mid-ride, forcing me to scramble off his back and out of the way, a trick he once played as we rode down Main Street in the Santa Claus parade. The spectators found it funny. I didn’t.

Despite his quirks, he was an affectionate companion who greeted me with a friendly nuzzle every morning. For nearly four years, we spent most of our waking hours together. As I got to know him, I learned how to pick up on his warning signals — and avoid being thrown.

In our second summer together, we started winning ribbons at local horse shows. We were at our best in trail class, which involves manoeuvres like jumping low rails, backing up between posts (see below), and negotiating a gate (opening, passing through, and closing). One summer we got the season trophy in this category, winning enough ribbons/points to beat out all competitors.

I have one unhappy memory from our time together. Lightning got hit by a car one foggy evening while my mother and I were out for dinner. When we got home, my brother said that a stranger reeking of alcohol had banged at the door, complaining that a herd of horses had charged at his car right in front of our farm. My brother went to show him that our two ponies (Lightning and my sister’s pony, Misty) were standing in their field. In the near-dark, they couldn’t see the new break in the fence. The man staggered back to his car and drove away.

The next morning I found that break and confirmed that our ponies had indeed escaped, encountered the car, and returned. Further evidence? Lightning’s mutilated and still bleeding muzzle, which required veterinary care. The wound was too ragged to stitch, so all we could do was apply salve and hope it would heal. He was left with an unsightly hole above one nostril that whistled whenever he exerted himself (admittedly not often). Nursing him back to health took several months.

When I was 16, we sold the farm and moved to a small town near Toronto, so we had to sell Lightning. I was heartbroken, but thankful that the new owners of our farm decided to buy him along with the property. He got to stay home and keep eating grass.

As if the world needs another Wordle fan

I blame the Fluffster offspring. Knowing I can’t resist word games, he sent me the message above about Wordle, the daily puzzle that involves guessing a five-letter word — without any clues — in six tries or fewer. Since it sounded like fun, I started playing.

Two months have passed, and I’m hooked, along with millions of others. Some days I don’t get much done, but I always finish the Wordle. Fortunately, it doesn’t take long.

The Toronto Star recently reported that Canada beats the US at Wordle, and Torontonians are slightly ahead of Vancouverites (see below and article). As a West Coast resident, I must object. Toronto can’t be permitted to beat us at this game.

That said, I’m also suspicious of these results. The article relies on Twitter data, not official Wordle scores. How do we know these Twitter posts are reliable? Perhaps the writer of WordTips cherry-picked a time period that favoured Toronto to arrive at this ranking. I await more persuasive evidence before conceding defeat.

On days when I feel I need more practice, I tackle one of the one of the variations on Wordle.

Hello Wordl lets you choose longer words (5 to 11 letters), plus unlimited rounds. This site will be my fallback when the New York Times puts the currently free Wordle behind a paywall. Not because of the longer words and unlimited rounds, though; the satisfaction I get from playing is because I can complete it quickly and then look forward to the next day’s challenge. Oh, and because it’s free.

I do Quordle when I need a bigger challenge. Guessing four different words at the same time, using the same five letters in 9 tries or fewer, is hard. I’m slowly improving. I’ll keep trying. Just not every day.

Canuckle requires words unique to Canada. Some, like kayak or maple, make sense. Others are a stretch, like cabin or tower (the latter refers to the CN Tower — not so obvious outside Toronto). Apparently landmarks are legitimate solutions. This one’s for occasional use only.

Wordle lets you post your results (how many tries you needed) on social media without giving away the solution (see below). Inevitably, some folks mess up and reveal the answer instead. Ms. Fluffster usually does the Wordle first thing in the morning, and shares her results on Twitter with minimal comments. Then she blocks the spoilsports.

As I discovered when we tried to play the game together, the Fluffster offspring doesn’t try to guess the answer; he first plugs in words with as many different letters as possible to narrow down his options. Sure, this strategy increases his odds of success in the end, but sharply reduces the chance of guessing correctly in three tries or fewer.

We decided that we weren’t compatible co-Wordlers because I’m a gambler. I start out semi-methodically with a standard word or two, then make wild guesses. Consequently, I fail more often than he does. That’s ok. It’s not just about the win streaks. Today, I got it in two!

Crossword by Adrien Coquet from NounProject.com

Construction ate my neighbourhood

Above, a photo of the bend in my street, dug up and refilled for the umpteenth time to install new pipes. Due to numerous new developments underway, this occurs regularly. Almost every time I drive around that bend, I see workers peering down into a new hole in the street, moving pipes about, or guiding/driving front-end loaders to transport large piles of gravel.

My neighbourhood used to be quiet. The complex of six high-rise buildings I live in was surrounded by evergreens and mostly single-family homes. The residents of our apartments were the only significant traffic generator. Sometimes cars would back up onto the bridge (the only way to drive out of our complex), but those lineups were quiet. Outside of rush-hour traffic noise, the roar of the nearby river was the loudest sound I used to hear.

The street was entirely residential, with just a small corner grocery store that sold milk, bananas, and canned beans (the essentials, especially the bananas) within easy walking distance.

In 2017, several new construction projects were announced. The first would be a townhouse/apartment complex with a community recreation centre, a library, a small grocery store, and more. Those sounded like Good Things. Mr. Fluffster and I dreamed of having a decent coffee shop close by to spare ourselves that half-hour trek to the nearest cafe that meets our exacting latte standards.

Construction of that first development, now nearly complete (below), provided interesting viewing on daily walks. No sign of the promised grocery store, however.

Meanwhile, the corner grocery expanded its deli counter, started making sandwiches for the scores of construction workers, and added a couple of tables out front. No more canned beans.

In under a year, a row of townhouses replaced a half-dozen single-family homes torn down over one summer. The first crash-bang of house demolition jolted me awake at 7 am, but I soon got used to it. On Saturdays, however, I’d lie in bed cursing the early wake-up call.

I took this photo in 2018 of a home slated for demolition, with some local raccoons checking out progress. Curiously, it’s still standing vacant today, minus fence and raccoons. Its only apparent purpose — a temporary surface for “No Parking” and “Site Superintendent Parking Only” signs.

Still later, the corner store removed more shelves, added indoor seating and an ice cream counter, and expanded its menu. Goodbye 4-litre jugs of milk and bananas (my favourite food).

In 2018, we learned that our parking garage membrane was well past its best-by date, which explained why water seeped down walls and dripped onto our cars whenever it rained. Also why hunks of concrete periodically dropped off rusted-out rebar in the ceiling. The water-proofing membrane in the garage roof needed replacing ASAP, which would require removing the gardens, tall evergreens, and fountains installed on top of the garage, replacing the membrane, and restoring the gardens. Bye-bye 50-year-old aging fountains and even older trees. I’ll miss the trees.

Financing issues, red tape, and that pesky pandemic delayed this four-year project until late in 2021. By then we were so used to construction noise we barely noticed when our garage repairs started.

Now, we’re completely surrounded by construction. Not so bad really. Additional heavy equipment and a few more construction workers and traffic flaggers who are now like neighbours. The only (temporary) drawbacks: no shortcut to the strata office or garden to sit in. But we still have the river (below).

In March 2020, my work moved home, and construction noise briefly intruded. I adjusted. Closed the windows, muted my mic, and apologized for background sounds during videocalls and Zoom meetings. In time, either the noise — or my hearing — faded.

In its largest renovation yet, the corner store added umbrellas and decorative panels around their outdoor seating and dropped produce and canned/packaged foods altogether to become a café popular with the construction workers. I’ll have to try their lattes one day — if I can forgive them for ditching bananas.

I may have to; that nearby coffee shop is still a far-off dream.