It must be that time in my life. . .

It seems like people around me are dying.  Thisweek a former colleague of mine, Adam Wallace, was killed in a car accident.  His wife still works at my office and they have small children (I believe the youngest is three).  I've been feeling rather sombre all week, and my heart is broken for them.  Goodbye, Adam.  I'm glad I had a chance to know you.

 

Then, while searching for funeral info for him, I came across an obituary for Dylan Shaw, who was only 22 years old.  The name was so familiar, and since he is about Zach's age, I contacted Zach, and yes, it is the same Dylan Shaw who was friends with Zach in grade school.  Apparently he was epileptic and died of a seizure.








My mom is still hanging in there, but I don't know how much longer she will be.  She had her arterial blood oxygen tested this week and it was only 40% so she is on oxygen now, and says it is helping her feel much better, but I think it's just a matter of time.  And of course George's days are numbered as well, although I'm thinking and hoping he still has a few years.  I can see though, that the fight in him is starting to lessen, and he mentioned the other day that if he has to go into the hospital again, he doubts he would fight as hard as he has up to now.  After five years of dialysis, he is just getting tired of the battle.

C. Dylan SHAW

Obituary

Guest Book

• "Uncle John, Auntie Diana and Niki. We are so sorry for your..."
  - Kim Meyer

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SHAW, C. Dylan
June 11, 1993 – March 2, 2016
Beloved son of John and Diana Shaw and loving big brother to Nikki passed away suddenly on Wednesday, March 2, 2016. Dylan was a devoted and loving son, brother, nephew and friend to all who knew him and will be missed tremendously. Dylan was predeceased by his grandparents C. Ray Shaw and Bea Shaw and James and Marjorie Boulton. He is survived by his parents, John and Diana, his sister Nikki, his aunties Marianne, Shannon and Pat, his uncle Don and his cousins. He is also survived by his other "brother" Dan and all his friends that he treasured so much. Our hearts are broken. Those wishing to pay their respects may do so at McINNIS & HOLLOWAY (Park Memorial, 5008 Elbow Drive S.W. Calgary, AB) on Monday, March 7, 2016 from 7:00 p.m. to 8:30 p.m. Funeral Services will be held at McINNIS & HOLLOWAY (Park Memorial, 5008 Elbow Drive S.W. Calgary, AB) on Tuesday, March 8, 2016 at 10:30 a.m. Cremation to follow. Condolences may be forwarded through www.mcinnisandholloway.com. In lieu of flowers, memorial donations may be made directly to the Epilepsy Association of Calgary 4112 - 4th Street NW, Calgary, Alberta T2K 1A2 Telephone: (403) 230-2764 Toll Free: 1-866-EPILEPSY, http:/ /www.epilepsycalgary.com/donate. In living memory of Dylan Shaw, a tree will be planted at Fish Creek Provincial Park.

- See more at: http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/calgaryherald/obituary.aspx?n=c-dylan-shaw&pid=177936394&fhid=6135#sthash.c1X1hrhM.dpuf

C. Dylan SHAW

Obituary

Guest Book

• "Uncle John, Auntie Diana and Niki. We are so sorry for your..."
  - Kim Meyer

View Sign

SHAW, C. Dylan
June 11, 1993 – March 2, 2016
Beloved son of John and Diana Shaw and loving big brother to Nikki passed away suddenly on Wednesday, March 2, 2016. Dylan was a devoted and loving son, brother, nephew and friend to all who knew him and will be missed tremendously. Dylan was predeceased by his grandparents C. Ray Shaw and Bea Shaw and James and Marjorie Boulton. He is survived by his parents, John and Diana, his sister Nikki, his aunties Marianne, Shannon and Pat, his uncle Don and his cousins. He is also survived by his other "brother" Dan and all his friends that he treasured so much. Our hearts are broken. Those wishing to pay their respects may do so at McINNIS & HOLLOWAY (Park Memorial, 5008 Elbow Drive S.W. Calgary, AB) on Monday, March 7, 2016 from 7:00 p.m. to 8:30 p.m. Funeral Services will be held at McINNIS & HOLLOWAY (Park Memorial, 5008 Elbow Drive S.W. Calgary, AB) on Tuesday, March 8, 2016 at 10:30 a.m. Cremation to follow. Condolences may be forwarded through www.mcinnisandholloway.com. In lieu of flowers, memorial donations may be made directly to the Epilepsy Association of Calgary 4112 - 4th Street NW, Calgary, Alberta T2K 1A2 Telephone: (403) 230-2764 Toll Free: 1-866-EPILEPSY, http:/ /www.epilepsycalgary.com/donate. In living memory of Dylan Shaw, a tree will be planted at Fish Creek Provincial Park.

- See more at: http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/calgaryherald/obituary.aspx?n=c-dylan-shaw&pid=177936394&fhid=6135#sthash.c1X1hrhM.dpuf

Carol Hartfelder

I've never had a very easy time making friends.  When I was little, this was particularly painful to me, as I felt shy, awkward and unpopular.  My brother just older than me, Leon, was the brunt of a lot of school teasing (I've actually often wondered if perhaps he might have had a little undiagnosed Asperger's, but that's another story), which sometimes rubbed off on me.  This problem eventually ended up being the root of many of the bad choices I made later on, as I became determined to make friends and have some level of popularity even if it came at the price of choosing unsavoury companions.

One of my earliest childhood friends was a little girl named Carol Hartfelder.  Carol moved into the house next door when she was three and I was five.  I had seen the commotion of the moving van, and in those days of the baby boom, every home on the block had children, so we wondered what kind of children would be in this family.  I soon found out, when someone commented there was a little girl in our back yard, sitting on our swingset. 

Well!  I was completely indignant!  Imagine, someone just walking into our yard and playing on our swings without even asking our permission.  I determined she was going to have a piece of my mind.  Going to the back I discovered she was gone, so I marched right over to her house and rang the doorbell.  I was greeted by a woman, probably in her late twenties or early thirties (younger than my mom, who was 38 at that time).  I asked her if she had a daughter who had been over on our swings.  I guess she took this that I wanted to meet and play with her daughter, so she introduced me to a sweet little girl with long, shiny, golden-brown hair and big brown eyes.

I don't remember details after that, but somehow the sin was quickly forgiven and Carol and I, despite our two year age difference became fast friends.  I remember many days spent in her basement having tea parties (one of my favourite childhood activities), cooking on her pretend stove, playing Feely Meely (a game with objects in a box you had to place your hand into and guess what the items were),

Tip It (a game where you had to remove different coloured rings from pegs without knocking over a little man who balanced atop a central spire),






Kerplunk (a game where you had to remove sticks from a tube without dislodging marbles that were balanced on the sticks),

and many other similar childhood games.

In the summer we liked to play in the sandbox (her sandbox had nice, clean, fine sand, whereas ours was rocky and full of cat poop from our many felines), swing on the swingset, ride tricycles or bikes (once I finally learned to ride, which wasn't until I was seven), skip rope, and explore the neighbourhood as far as she was allowed, which was probably not more than two doors down in any direction, her mother being somewhat more protective than most of the others in the neighbourhood, and certainly much more than mine.

Carol and I usually got on quite well despite our age difference - certainly she played more with me than she did with my little sister Rosanna, who was a year her junior.

We remained friends for about three or four years.  The summer I turned nine we moved to Colombia for a year.  I missed Carol, but looked forward to renewing our friendship when we returned.  Unfortunately that was not to be. 

When we came back from Colombia I was now ten, Carol would have been eight.  Soon after we returned I called on her to visit.  That two year difference which seemed so minor before was suddenly huge now that I was beginning to show signs of puberty.  Carol teased me about my developing breasts, and suddenly seemed so childish and silly, I went away disappointed and embarrassed, and since we now lived across town, trying to rekindle the friendship seemed pointless to me.

I've often thought of her and wondered what became of her, but perhaps she will be forever lost to me.  I still remember fondly those years though, of running through the sprinkler on a sunny day, breaking rocks with hammers to see if they were sparkly inside (we were not allowed to do this of course), or blowing bubbles on the back porch.  I hope you're happy, Carol, wherever you are, and that maybe you think of me sometimes too.

Coming to the end of a life...

This has been a bit of a rough week.  My mom has heart failure and is slowly dying.  Last weekend we went to visit and found her very short of breath, barely able to speak or move around.  We decided she should probably go to the hospital, so took her in and they admitted her with congestive heart failure.  She's actually been struggling with this since last summer, but it's progressively getting worse. They did some tests and found her lungs were filling with fluid, and her oxygen levels and blood pressure were low.  It seems her heart is just getting too weak to do its job even though she was given a pacemaker last summer. 

She ended up spending a week in the hospital, so I visited her several times.  It was quite a long drive across town, and of course during rush hour, since I had to do my visiting after work.  We were able to have some really nice visits though.  Lots of times people complain she talks too much, and tells the same stories of her bygone days over and over, but I actually love to listen to them, and just enjoyed sitting by her bedside listening to her tell about her lovely friend Marjean, or the time her visiting teacher came over and found her crying over a huge pile of diapers in the middle of the living room floor, or why she chose the names she did for her children. 

I don't know how much longer we will have her around, but for now she is doing better, and I an glad for this precious time to spend with her towards the end of her life, and glad that I finally have enough maturity to appreciate her.

Mom wants to be able to see all her kids and grandkids before she goes, so has offered to give financial assistance to any who might need it to come and visit her.  Harley decided to come and see her, so drove down from St. Paul with his kids.  He had a bit of a rough trip, as Kate, the baby, was sick and threw up five times in the car.  It was still nice to see them though, so we visited with them and with mom, and took one evening to take Zane to the movies (Kung Fu Panda 3).  Unfortunately now Zane is sick too, but they made it home safely even though they had a howling chinook wind all the way home.

Marianne is supposed to be coming this weekend, and I have Friday off, so it will be nice to spend some time with her.  Then on Saturday I'm off to Edmonton to see Zach's play.

I'm so grateful for my family, and the opportunities I get to spend time with them.

Our unknown influence

One day when Zach was about three or four years old, he began asking me questions about what my life was like when I was little.  He asked me what kind of toys I had had.  I told him about my Easy Bake Oven and my Chatty Cathy. 

I told him about the old dolls we played with, with the chopped off hair and ink stained faces, a threadbare stuffed giraffe, plasticine cookies with a plastic tea set.

Months went by, and I never gave the conversation a second thought.  The following Christmas approached and we asked Zach what he wanted for Christmas.  "A stuffed giraffe," was the response.  I thought it was a bit of an odd request, but determined to find him a stuffed giraffe.  After all, it was the only thing he asked for.

Now this was in the days before Amazon or Ebay, and we had to actually go out hunting for the requested toy.  George and I both searched diligently but were unable to come up with a stuffed giraffe anywhere.  Of course, it's always the way, you might see a particular toy every year, but when it's the one your child wants, it's nowhere to be found.  We decided to try a new tack.  "Wouldn't you like some Lego, or a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle?  Maybe a Furby or a set of Power Rangers?"  No.  None of these things.  The only thing he wanted was a stuffed giraffe.  We never did find a stuffed giraffe that year, and Zach had to settle for other toys, but when the following Christmas rolled around we asked again, "what do you want for Christmas?" 

"A stuffed giraffe". 

Still?  This time George played the hero, and found a stuffed giraffe in a specialty store.  It was nothing special, maybe 10" tall, it was stuffed and it was a giraffe. 

We wrapped it up, put it under the tree.  Christmas morning Zach was delighted to find the stuffed giraffe he had longed for, for over a year. 

After the papers were gathered up, the ribbons and bows put away and Zach was busy with other pursuits, I picked up the giraffe and stroked its fur, wondering about his tenacity on wanting it.  "It's funny," I thought, "this reminds me of the stuffed giraffe I had as a child."  Suddenly it hit me.  The conversation from nearly two years previous came back to me in a rush.  He wanted a stuffed giraffe because I had had a stuffed giraffe.  The giraffe had never been special to me, it was just another toy in the box, and I happened to mention it.  It became special because I then realized how much more of an influence I was on him than I had ever dreamed.

Love for him filled my heart.  My little boy wanted to be like me!  I guess we just never know how our words or actions will affect someone, especially our children.

A few days ago I was on Facebook and it popped up some history for me.  This was an event I had totally forgotten about, but decided I want to save it here, because it was so meaningful to me at the time, and I don't want to forget it again.

The winter of 2014 was one of high snowfall here in Calgary.  Since we normally don't receive large amounts of snow, the City doesn't do much actual snow removal, mostly they just salt it and push it around.  Because of deep snow on the residential streets, getting around in a car became quite a challenge for many people.  The following is what I posted about one of my experiences with the snow.

Let me tell you about my morning.

Day before yesterday, the city crews came by and “ploughed” our street, which means that they just took the snow from the middle of the street and made it into a big pile beside our parked cars (they did this at 11 pm btw, so yes, our cars were parked on the street, go figure). Yesterday morning I managed to get out, but this morning, due to the thaw yesterday and the softening of the snow pile, I got stuck. Really, really stuck. Well, what to do? The very first thing I did was offer a little prayer. “Heavenly Father, please help me get my car unstuck so I can go to work”. Then I tried rocking the car back and forth. I tried putting salt down around my tires. I shovelled, put mats under my tires, shovelled some more, put down gravel. Nothing helped.

Let me interject here that in the past few weeks I have helped to push out four cars. I am 53 years old, morbidly obese and have a bad back. But when I see someone struggling I just can’t bear to abandon them without at least trying to help. You’d think that would build me up some good karma, but the few people to see me struggling during this time looked the other way. I thought about my little prayer, and how it seemed like it was going unanswered. I felt like crying, but knew that wasn’t going to help matters so I gulped back my tears, and decided to take another look to see if there was anything else to be done.

Looking under the car showed me I was probably high centered. I went to the shed and got a long-handled metal shovel and started shovelling out the ice chunks from under the car. I worked on it for over an hour.
Just as I had got to the point where I thought I had removed enough snow to try again, a young man in an SUV pulled up alongside, rolled down his window and asked me if I needed help. He pulled out a tow rope, attached it to my car and had me on my way in less than five minutes. I thanked him profusely, gave him a big hug, and proceeded to drive to work. Now the tears really did flow. I was SO grateful for his help.

I pondered this experience a lot on my drive in. Why had the Lord answered my prayer in this way? Certainly He could have sent someone along much quicker, and had me out sooner. But He waited until I had done ALL I could. The result was that when help came, I was a hundred times more grateful than if it had come immediately. I thought about my life and the times I have suffered and struggled and it seems like there no answers. I thought of those who suffer trials that seem unfair. Good people to whom bad things happen. I’ve always felt that those trials strengthen us and build our character, but today’s lesson really hit home about how much more grateful we are when we receive relief from something that is really hard.
So now I’m stiff and sore, my shoulders ache, my back hurts. But I am glad, and so grateful. Grateful for a stranger who stopped and was my knight in shining armour. And grateful for a loving Father who allows me to suffer a little, so I can learn life’s lessons.

My first job

My first job other than babysitting, which I did as much as possible so I could have money for Tiger Beat magazines and Donny Osmond records, came about the summer I was thirteen.  My parents never really gave us allowance much, so I always worked as much as I could starting at an early age so I could have spending money. 

Unfortunately there were not many jobs around for a thirteen year old girl. But that summer my older brother had been working for General Farm Supplies building metal wheels to put on irrigation pipe so the system could roll across the fields as it watered.  For some reason (perhaps when he took his canoe trip up the Oldman River, I can't remember for sure) he needed to take a few weeks off.  He didn't want to lose the work, so he sent me and my brother, Leon, in his place while he was gone.  So we worked together for about three weeks, first putting cleats on the half rims, then adding spokes between the rims and hubs, and finally assembling the two halves together to make a whole wheel.

The wheels we made were similar to those shown in the above picture; not exactly the same, but you get the idea.

Anyway, we were able to make about three wheels an hour together and were paid $2 per wheel, so split the $6 per hour between us.  Now you must understand that in the early 70s, minimum wage was $2 per hour, so to get $3 per hour, we really thought we were rolling in the dough.  It was hard work, but I'm glad I had a chance to do it.

Tender mercies

On Thursday evening, our ward Relief Society held their annual Christmas party.  The theme of the party was Our Loving Hands, and how we are the Saviour's hands to help others.  Ladies were encouraged to bring socks that were to be taken to the Drop In Centre, a shelter for the homeless.

While I was inside enjoying the party, someone broke into my car by smashing the passenger front window.  One other sisters' car was also vandalized this way.  George's cell phone was in the car and was stolen.  The really sad thing was that Donna Spackman, the other lady whose car was vandalized, had put the socks in her car, and they were also stolen.  I suppose that the thieves saw the bag and assumed it was Christmas presents.  Now, more than likely, they have been tossed in a dumpster somewhere.

Anyway, I was understandably upset, especially after all the financial hardships we have already faced this year, but began dealing with the issue as soon as I could.  I called the police, and was told I needed to go to the station to submit a report.  I arrived at the station to find it closed.  Who ever heard of that?  I've never heard of a police station closing.  What, do crimes only happen in the daytime?  But anyway, I got up early the following morning and went down to the station to file a report.

Upon arriving at home, I still had half an hour before the insurance company opened, so I opened up Facebook on my computer.  I had a private message from Pam Merrell: could I call her as soon as I got up.  I called, and it seems she had posted about the incident on a social media site she frequents.  Apparently she had received a reply from someone who wanted to pay for the repairs to our cars!  She gave me a number to call, and found that indeed, a man named Kelly had stepped forward wanting to pay for a new window.  I was given the name of the general manager at a local autobody shop, and contacted him.  He assured me it was true, so after checking out the shop to make sure it was legit and taking Pam and her hubby Dan with me just to be safe, I went to the shop.  Sure enough, a former employee of the shop had stepped up.  So I will be able to get my window repaired tomorrow.

 What is important about all this, is that a few days previous I had been reading an article in the Ensign, our church's magazine.  The article was from a talk given at the recent women's session of general conference.  The speaker said that if we had any doubts about our divine nature, we should pray and ask Heavenly Father if we are his daughters and if He loves us.  She promised us a wonderful experience if we would do this.  So I determined to try her words.

I prayed and asked the Father if I truly am His daughter and does He love me.  Although I tried to pray fervently, I really didn't feel any response at the time.  Slightly disappointed I carried on with my day.

When the response came that there were such good people out in the world willing to help me this way, I suddenly felt the spirit whisper to me, "This is the answer to your prayer.  Heavenly Father allowed this to happen to you so that He could magnify His power."

While going through all this, Pam said something that struck a chord with me:  Good always wins.  Sometimes it may take longer, sometimes it may be quick, but good will always win out over evil.  Satan may rage, but he doesn't win, he never will.  In the end so much more good came of this incident than bad.  Both Donna and I will have our cars repaired.  The newspaper ended up picking up the story, and because of that, Superstore is donating $50 per store to replace the socks that were stolen.  More socks are coming in from people who read the story.  Two people will be blessed by the Lord for their generosity towards us.  I am so grateful to the Lord and His tender mercies.