For Ed, the story of my fist-fight.

When I was eleven, I was a small, quiet girl with a pigtail. I think I was about 4’9” and maybe 70 lbs. I didn’t talk much in class, because I had an English accent and kids often mimicked me. Something I still hate to this day. When I was eleven, I moved to a new school, in a small town in Southern Alberta, and in my new and strange classroom, I sat in front of a larger boy named Kevin. He called me flat-chested and skinny (both of which I was) and he would pull my braid, hard, and poke me with pencils, when the teacher was out of the room. Which was a lot. (As a side note, the boy’s name was indeed Kevin, but I’m not putting his last name, because I don’t want him reading this.) He would sometimes try to bug me on the playground, but mostly I could run away. It was while I was stuck in the classroom that his teasing and torturing was a problem.

I told my dad that this boy was bugging me, and dad said I should just hit him a few times and put a stop to it. To facilitate this, dad taught me how not to punch like a girl. Don’t tuck your thumb into your palm, he said, and keep your wrist flat. Dad let me punch him a fair bit, until I was good at it. I liked how it felt, but I didn’t think it was a good idea to start punching Kevin, so I didn’t.

However, while I was internally debating the ethics of defending myself, Kevin escalated his tactics. One particularly scary day, he put his hands around my neck while the teacher was out of the room, and strangled me. I could feel myself starting to pass out, and it hurt. When he stopped, I was angry. I said to him, from the bottom of my anger, “I’m gonna get you.” I don’t remember what he said exactly, but it was something sneering to the effect of, do you want to fight me after school, little girl, and I said yes.

Word got around. I don’t know how. But after school there was a crowd on the little kids’ playground, waiting for me and Kevin.

I remember the exhilaration. The feeling of acting out my anger, as I hit him, my self-righteous tower of anger at my own helplessness and Kevin’s cruelty. I think I hurt him. He went running inside, and later I heard he went to tell the principal that Katie was beating him up. It was said that the principal, a retired farmer, said, “What do you want me to do about it? You’re getting beaten up by a girl?”

I have to say, though. I have told this story a few times over the years, and the consensus among those I tell it to is that nowadays, if one of my daughters beat up a boy, something would be done about it, at school, because of the panic over violence among girls. There were no consequences, for me. Nobody was scared of me....

Ian's back. He very kindly password-protected my computer, while he was away in Quebec, but neglected to tell me the password when he returned. So tonight while he was out at cadets, I started it up for the first time since he got back, and spent some time guessing passwords. When he came home from cadets I greeted him with "Please tell me you know the password for my computer." He did. He says he didn't want anyone to play with my laptop while it was unattended at the science fair, which is fair enough, and thoughtful of him. He seems to be back in one piece, and I can use my computer again. I missed my blog. And my boy. He grew while he was gone, I swear. He says he had a great time, and he won 700 dollars and a 1500 dollar scholarship to Western University in Ontario. Yay Ian!

Jazzy's ashes arrived yesterday, and are now on top of the fridge. I think we'll probably go scatter them somewhere, when it warms up and the land's a bit less soggy. I miss her so much. Joeby's still lost. Kirsten pointed out to us that he rarely gets treats now because he doesn't know how to ask for them. That was Jazz's job. She went and stood by the treat cupboard and barked meaningfully, and then they both got treats. She was also the one who told me when they needed water, by flipping the metal bowl around on the kitchen floor, making a godawful noise. And she'd keep doing it until she got results. I have to remind myself to keep checking his water bowl. Poor boy. I also don't know when people come to the door. Jazz always barked, but Joeby just coughs politely once or twice. He doesn't go pee when we let him outside, either, now, he just stands there and stares at us. I guess he only knew that's what they were doing if Jazz did it first, I don't know. Either that or he's waiting for her to come out too and doesn't understand. Dumber than a bag of hammers. I'm trying not to be angry with him for being the stupid one who is still alive, and my sweetie's not...

Miguel's been away too, for two weeks, he just got back on the weekend. I've been interested to observe in my own behaviour that I cope really well while he's away; I take care of everything, and I don't whine to him on the phone or anything, I look after children, dog stuff, shop for food, feed people, while he was gone this time I even cleaned out the storage room and went to the dump, and did a whole bunch of baking for an open house at work, but when he gets back... (as a side note, the dump was an adventure, it's a half-charred wasteland featuring piles of caribou heads, empty liquor bottles and stinky diapers. Interesting place.) When he gets back I tend to fold, and stop making any decisions for a week or so, and let him do all the cooking. Fortunately he doesn't seem to mind. I make sure to give him a few days to rest before I abdicate responsibility. It used to be when he travelled (his jobs have required this for a few years now) that I would be so looking forward to him coming home (so that he could carry his weight again) that I would be really impatient when he needed to rest for a few days after his trip.

The sun now does not go down. At all. I have been having trouble sleeping. Although, the amount of coffee I drink might have something to do with that.