How A Dentist Ruined my Holiday

In less than a week's time, I will be heading to Ontario (by plane). I will spend two weeks there visiting family and watching both of my Ontario-based grandchildren graduate from their respective schools. When that is all done, I will get on a train to Winnipeg and then hitchhike back to the island. It is not much of a trip, a far cry from those days when I hitched from Sudbury to the West Coast and then back again, or when I crossed the country twice in one year or when I included a stop in Yellowknife on my west. I think I may be getting just a little bit too old for all of the excitement of hitchhiking - or more likely my body is starting to fall apart. However, no matter how short my trip is - I should be a lot more excited.

For the past 17-18 years or so, I have hitchhiked long distances. In every one of those years I started to dream of travelling along the roads, the spots I would stop at, what my drivers would be like in late January or early February. Every year I was consumed by the desire to just get out on the road and travel. Every year except for this year. It is not that I have not, on occasion, found myself drifting into some fantasy about the open road because I have. But the dreams, whether I have been awake or not, have been much shorter, much less exciting.

There is no doubt that my concern about my ageing body and whether or not I can abuse it one more time is part of the diminished anticipation. There are some bloody long hills that I will have to climb to get to a good spot, and every year those high steps into a truckers' cab feel just a little bit more impossible to get up. For the first time, I have a little nagging sense of fear. But the real reason why, in the past month or so that my excitement has not grown to an almost unbearable pitch is my dentist.

I do not like dentists. They cause pain, they cost money while they, along with their staff, pretend to be nice people - why they bother asking me how I am when I arrive at the office is beyond me. How do they expect me to feel? I am at a bloody dentist office!!

A month or so ago I was experiencing some discomfort (to use the medical term - actually it hurt a lot). The doctor told me that I had an infected root and that there was little hope of saving the tooth. I needed to get it extracted. I did so a few days later.

Two weeks ago I went back to the dentist for a more thorough check-up and was told that I had two more teeth that were infected and that I needed to go see a specialist. I went yesterday and he suggested that the teeth could not be saved and needed to be pulled. It is worthy to note that all three of the teeth had had a root canal and a crown. Thousands of dollars wasted. Hours of discomfort and even more hours worrying about the procedures, the needles etc etc.

I have spent the last 4-5 weeks not sleeping well, in a state of dread and fear. It is hard to focus on anything else when I know that some stranger, along with his assistant is going to be jabbing me with sharp things, making my face feel all weird for hours afterwards and leaving two gaping holes in my mouth - won't that be an attractive sight? And while they are doing this, experimenting with how many implements of torture they can fit into my mouth, along of course, with their four hands - they will chat back and forth to each other about their weekend or their kids. Every once in a while they will ask me if I am okay. Of course, if I am not they will continue to work away.

I will not be getting those two teeth pulled until I get back....but even if they never hurt - I will not be able to forget what will happen when I return. Thank you doctor for messing up my holiday plans......

At the Market

Two weekends ago I attended both the Duncan and the Cedar Farmers' Market. During those two days, I had record sales. I made more in those two days than I had ever made in any other two days. It was wonderful. The problem, however, with having a day or two of record sales is that the next time one goes to the market and does not do as well - it feels as if it has all been a bit of a waste of time.

This weekend I was back at both of those markets. I did not do nearly as well - or at least it did not feel as if I did. But I did fine. In fact a year ago I would have been quite content with my total weekend sales. It is all a matter of perspectives and for me - remembering why I go to the markets.

At my first market of this season, it was windy, cold, wet and generally miserable. It was the kind of day when vendors wonder not only why they are standing in the cold and rain but also why anyone in their right mind would come out to shop. About half way through the morning I noticed a small bus pull up and a number of seniors getting off of it. Why anyone decided that a group of seniors from either a community-based group or a retirement home needed to visit the market on a really lousy Saturday morning is a question for people far brighter than me. However, the folks were in a good mood and seemed capable of ignoring the weather. A couple of them stopped and chatted with me as I tried to spin (it is much harder to spin when one is shivering).

I do not remember exactly what we talked about, but I imagine it was my usual conversation. Someone says - that looks so relaxing - I say something like "it is" -and then go on to talk about me sitting at home with my tea on one side and on the other side, my tablet playing an audiobook downloaded from the library and what a good life it is. Sometimes I talk about preparing the wool and how messy my house is with dust balls that are large enough to hide small children floating down the hall, other times I talk about where the wool has come from and the impracticality of trying to make a living from selling wool. Sometimes the visitor is or was a spinner or a knitter and so we talk about various projects, what kind of wool they like and the high cost of buying wool from a wool store.

I have these conversations throughout the day. They all sort of run together and most of my chats with the shoppers are not particularly remarkable - but this Sunday, a lady came up to me, knelt down beside me and said that she worked with seniors in a retirement home. One of the ladies in her knitting group at the home had talked to me at the Duncan Market. She had enjoyed the chat and had told everyone about our conversation. Our brief conversation had struck a note with her and it had perhaps if not inspired her, at least made her feel that she was still connected to an interesting part of the world.

I sell my weaving to make money - I need the money to pay for my hydro and for my food. I sell my things because I love playing with wool and if I didn't sell them -my house would be crammed with rugs and shawls etc. But I also go to the markets because I want people to have a connection to what they see every day. I want them to know that anyone can make textiles, that everyone should know where the things they use come from. I go to the market because I want to connect with the people in my community.

It is great when I sell lots of items. It is great when people spend what is to me a lot of money on a rug - it validates how I spend my time. But it is even better when I know that a conversation has had an impact on someone. That lady, on the cold wet Saturday morning did not buy anything - but she gave me something more important. Record sales days are great - meeting nice people is even better.