Scars

I have scars all over. I think that I hurt myself every summer so bad that I always needed stitches. Needles and pain don’t really bother me and I do not get queasy at the sight of blood; I have been in a lot of physical pain in my life. Here are three short, how I got those, stories.

I had three stitches in my head, right on the top of my crown almost in the middle. If my head was the target for lawn darts, my cousin who threw the dart would have won. Oh that’s right, we were playing lawn darts and it did hit me on the top of my head. We were playing in my Grandpa’s front yard. I wanted to see the dart hit the ground so I was standing by the target. My Cousin Mitch threw the dart as high as he could and then yelled at me to move. I ran 10’ away from the target and then thud. I got hit in the noggin. Three stitches later I was a poster boy for why that toy got banned.

I almost lost the baby toe on my right foot. I was at my Uncle’s cabin in the Whiteshell. We were just having a great time swimming and going for boat rides. The Whiteshell is full of islands most of which have cabins on them. You have no choice but to get around on boats. We were getting ready to leave so I stepped in our boat. I did not know that my toe had gone into a small draining hole under the front bench. The boat was aluminum so the sharp metal cut a full circle around my toe. We wrapped the foot in a shirt and a towel and rushed to the local hospital. I don’t know how many stitches I got, but it was an intense situation.

The last scar story happened to my hand. I have a 1 inch scar on the upper part of my right palm just above the joint that connects my ring and middle finger to my hand, the knuckle. It was winter and I was playing during recess at John Prichard, my elementary school. I was standing near the chain link fence and I slipped. I tried to grab the cross bar to keep myself from falling, but instead I put a sharp prong from the top of the chain fence through my palm, between my fingers and up into the skin on the back of my hand. The spike did not break through the other side. I ripped my hand off the fence, held my hand as tight as I could and went on with my day. I did not get stitches for this one.

First Movie

The first movie I watched on the big screen was Disney’s Robin Hood at the King’s Theatre in Winnipeg on Portage Ave. I watched it with my Grandpa, JJ.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

Singing In Germany

I sang Mozart’s Mass in C Minor last night for over 2 hours. Our choir is preparing for our Legendary Haydn/Mozart concert on April 9.11. Every Tuesday we rehearse from 7:30 to 10:00. I look forward to it every week. It is safe to assume that I love to sing. I sing whenever I get a chance or my spirit moves me.

This story is an example of how an opportunity to sing fused with my spirit. After going on a student exchange program in Lithuania, I toured around Europe with two friends, J and Sammy. On our 3^rd day we were in the south of Germany staying in a town called Fussen tucked away in the Bavarian mountains. We took a local bus out into the country side to see the castle that inspired the Disney “Cinderella Castle.” It is called Neuschwanstien. I will save everyone from a history lesson but it is a very interesting castle.

We wandered around the grounds and eventually decided to pay for an English tour. At the time I enjoyed learning about history so it was lots of fun. Of course the highlight of the tour has to do with singing. To my delight, we entered a grand hall that was built specifically for private performances. It was beautiful. I was not really listening to our tour guide. I was looking around. There was something really special about this room. My ears perked up when the tour guide said that this performance hall was acoustically perfect.

I went from being a young man in my 20s to a kid in a candy store where everything is free. I was nervous because I had to sing and I did not know how it could happen. There were approximately 15 people in our tour group plus the guide. I looked around for signs or security and found none. My mind was all over the place trying to solve my problem. My heart was racing. I had to find a way. I had to sing.

My chance came as I was lagging behind at the back of the group. We were lead to a small door with a tiny staircase that went down 2 stories to the kitchen. I made sure that I was the last person to go down. As you may have guessed, I stopped at the top, turned around and went back into the hall. Standing in the middle of the room I sang O Holy Night from start to finish. If there is anything that I would equate to soaring through the clouds like a bird, it was singing in that hall.

JJ Riediger

I have been thinking about my Grandpa. His name was J.J. Riediger. He was my favourite person in the world. I mean that. Of all the people that are in my life, my Grandpa was special. He died not long ago and I miss him terribly. He was a peaceful man with what could have been limitless wisdom. I was completely shocked that most of the people I know from the Mennonite Brethren Community were at his funeral. I think they were equally surprised that I was JJ’s grandson. I realized that there was so much to the life of my Grandpa that I did not know. In his death he became more of a mystery and even more special.

My hope is that I can remember him and somehow through my words give justice to our relationship. This is a man that I never want to forget and now that I have set my lofty goal, I need to start somewhere.

When JJ retired from the MB conference, buttons and a t-shirt were created with a drawing of his smiling face. The words “Trust Me” were written underneath. There is no question that at some point after meeting JJ, you would hear those words come out of his mouth. I’ve heard it many times. However, to be fair, I did not trust at first.

My Grandpa used to get up at 5:30 in the morning to have breakfast. Whenever I stayed over I wanted him to wake me up so I could eat with him. He always said he would, but I did not believe him. I needed to make sure I got up. I made a plan. During the day I had collected a spool of thread, a tin camping kettle and various tin plates and bowls. I was around 8 years old and I did not know about an alarm clock yet. Being a heavy sleeper, I knew that I needed a noise to wake me up.

The room that I was sleeping in was across the hall from my Grandparents bedroom. When I thought both of them were sleeping, I set my plan in motion. I took the thread and tied one end to a cold air return vent. I ran the thread across the door frame of their bedroom at shin level. Then I looped the thread around the bottom door hinge, ran it up to the top hinge, across the hall and looped it around the two hinges on my door. It took a moment to figure the next part out because I needed some height to ensure enough noise to wake me up.

My Grandma’s sewing machine from the early 1900’s was in my room. I looped the thread around the spindle on the side of the cast iron beast and tied the tin kettle 2’ off the ground above the assortment of tin plates and bowls. It was really late so I fell asleep with ease. At around 5:30 in the morning, the kettle dropped, hit the plates and bowls and scared me awake. I jumped out of bed and ran into the hallway. My Grandpa turned and looked at me. There was a small grin on his face. His eyes looked through me like he knew my deepest secrets.

I was a little scarred. He was looking at me not saying a word. Then it happened. A moment between two people that rarely happens in life, his smile got bigger and he said “let’s eat.” Those brief seconds and the look from JJ, my Grandpa, were forever imprinted on my soul. I never doubted him again.

Nickname

I recently found out that there are several people who know about my blog or are now reading it. This includes my Mom who asked whether she should have a look. Of course it did help that I posted it on Facebook. However, it got me thinking that perhaps another explanation is required. I told the story of how I chose the name of my blog, Fat Man’s Hustle. I think it would be important to explain why I use  “Wave hog” as my blogger name.

"Wave hog” is a nickname that only one person uses. His name is Vic Janzen. There is a fun story around that name. But first it would be prudent to let you know how much nicknames mean to me. I believe that a nickname is a term of endearment used to describe how a person sees you. Some names are mean, but those are rarely used to your face. Each nickname in this list has a story but those will have to wait for another time. These are some of the names that have been used throughout my life:

Buller – Used for over 2 years to the point where my first name was almost nonexistent
Bull – Given by Sammy
Big G – Use often
Wave Hog – Only by Vic Janzen
Wave – Use by Marlene Janzen, Vic’s wife
Big Guy – Used by customers when I was running a furniture store in Winnipeg
G Man – The younger generation at many of the theatres I worked at
Eclipse – My Brother-in-Law

The Janzen family will always hold a special place in my heart. Vic and Marlene have 4 boys and I was their baby-sitter. Just imagine 5 boys in a house with near free rein. I was a very responsible teen, but really, how could we not play cops and robbers, hide and seek all night long. I loved to look after those boys and from what I have been told; I was the family’s favourite. The Janzen family and I share a bond. They trusted me to look after their family so I did the best I knew how.

Here is where the name came from. It was the summer and my Mom had just gone shopping to buy me new clothes. I got shorts and t-shirts. Nothing out of the ordinary for a young teenager. However, as you may have noticed from the list, most of my nicknames are related to my size. I was at least 280 lbs at this point and over 6’ tall. I was not small.

I was going over to the Janzen's cottage to baby-sit their kids. It just so happened that I was wearing one of my new t-shirts. It was red with a pig surfing and the words “Wave Hog” were written across the chest. One look from Vic and that handle bar moustached face smiled from ear to ear. I think he said something like, “Oh that’s perfect, Wave Hog.” They have never looked back. It has almost been 20 years since that time and Vic still uses it.

It is one of those names that I secretly enjoy. At the time it described me perfectly. I would spend hours in the lake swimming and body surfing the waves. Add the shirt and it was the perfect way to describe me. It was and still is a wonderful term of endearment saved solely for the Janzen Family.

Onions

This morning I woke up and I thought about onions. A somewhat strange thought to start a day. There is a story behind onions as with most things in my life and I do love a good story.

I have always been a picky eater. Growing up my pallet was limited. I ate peanut butter and honey sandwiches until grade 7 when I switched to ham and cheese. I stayed with that sandwich until an onion broke my stubborn eating choices.

My mom used to make spaghetti and meat sauce at least once a week. I did not understand that an important ingredient in spaghetti sauce is in fact the onion. What ever the reason, I would spend as much time as needed to pick out every visible onion I could find in my mom’s spaghetti sauce. This could take up to 5 min before I was ready to eat.

Then I went to Lithuania. After a few months of eating local dishes and more potatoes than ever, we were craving some kind of food that reminded us of home. At just the right time we discovered a pizza place. We each ordered our own. I had a thin crust pepperoni with mozzarella cheese. The smell of our pizzas cooking was intoxicating. We could not wait.

Our pizzas came to our table and to my horror, there was an entire onion sliced up and all over the pizza. I think I almost cried. My two friends started eating and I started to pick away. Using my fingers, I slowly picked each slice of onion off my pizza. My friends were almost done eating and I had yet to take a bite. Embarrassment and hunger finally took over and I started eating.

The first few bits were delicious. Then I hit an onion. The texture almost made me stop. But after 3 months, it was too good to refuse. I had for the first time in my life eaten onion slices and survived. Two weeks later, we were back at the pizza place and this time no picking, just eating. Onion after onion was chewed up and swallowed.

Now I love onions.

First Crime

I broke into a house once. I don’t know exactly how old I was but I was still living on Hawthorne and going to John Prichard elementary. I guess I was around 8. My friend Christopher and I were riding our bikes around the neighborhood on a weekend. The house that attracted our attention was almost built, but the outside was still under construction. There were no stairs on the outside and the yard was just dirt.

Chris and I climbed up to the back patio door and jimmied the lock. To our surprise, the lock clicked and the door slid open. Two 8 year old boys had just committed a crime. How cool was that. Our hearts were racing. We walked in and started to explore. It was a lot of fun. We were just looking around. We were not going to take anything and we were not going to add any additional art work.

Then it happened, 10 minutes into our exploration we heard voices. I was upstairs so I hid in a closet. My friend hid in the kitchen. Of course the home owner and the building planner would come straight upstairs and into the bedroom that I was hiding in. I was scared out of my mind so as soon as they came in, I ran. I got chased a little but they did not follow me down. Thankfully we did not damage anything or I may have one of those sealed juvie records in a police file somewhere.

This is just one of those stories about my life that I want to remember. It was a time of change, crossing over that line that divides the innocence of my youth into the realm of mischief.