In A Pickle  

Farewell from In A Pickle - musings from a former Okanaganite.

Columnist says goodbye

Photo: Contributed

Columnist Doreen Zyderveld-Hagel on Six Mile Beach in the West Kootenay, one of the many interesting places in B.C. she travelled to during her years living in B.C.. She has now moved back to Alberta..

Jarred awake, I gasped as my heart threatened to punch its way through my chest. Sounds from Jurassic Park broke the silence of my first night on our West Kelowna farm. I couldn't take the shrieking.

“What the hell is that thing?” I asked my snoring husband. A tetradactyly’s call echoed above the house. It waited to ambush anyone stupid enough to go outside. The noise stopped when a rooster took over cock-a-doodle-doo-ing. I was relieved.

I hoped the dinosaur would catch the annoying chicken that crowed at 2 am. The chorus swelled as a donkey and a hound began to bray and bay. I covered my head with a pillow, praying for a swift end to the commotion.

This prairie gopher eventually learned the harmless quail made that eardrum-splitting awful sound. Those adorable hens and other nocturnal animals would become my nighttime nemesis, plague my dreams and leave me sleep-deprived for months.

Photo: Contributed

After years writing her In a Pickel column for Castanet, Doreen Zyderveld-Hagel-Hagel is signing off..

Despite their friendliness, our neighbours eyed us Albertans with a degree of suspicion. Still, they asked both of us to join a barn dance potluck and someone left a chocolate bar with a welcome note on the fence. I went horseback riding with a couple of women. Three years later, after a horse-riding accident, my neighbours and a riding buddy were instrumental in saving my life. I was critically injured and spent nine weeks hospitalized. We relocated to Kelowna soon after and lived there for the next eight years.

Despite the hardship, I continued my work as a home-care-aide. I believed that losing my job would result in hopeless depression, leaving me bedridden. Furthermore, I liked assisting others and gained a new understanding of helplessness. A ceiling lift got me into my wheelchair while hospitalized. My body's temporary failure humbled me, strengthening my desire to aid others with similar experiences. Whereas my recovery allowed me to assist, many of my clientele were terminally ill. Making a difference in their last months or days was my objective. It was a tough job, and I was burned out.

I'm thankful that I was able to receive a proper clinical diagnosis for complex PTSD later. The riding injury compounded existing mental health problems caused by a history of being abused in childhood and onward.

Invaluable counselling came from Kelowna Family Services and Elizabeth Fry Society, while Reaching Older Woman provided a supportive group of like-minded individuals seeking better lives. Our close-knit group lasted for years.

I paid it forward when I discovered a teenage girl in a ditch who’d allegedly been abducted and assaulted in a storage container for several days before escaping. She and I went straight to the RCMP. I was told later by a reputable source there was human trafficking nearby. It was fortunate she escaped before a one-way trip to an unknown foreign land.

Her rescue brought me joy, a reciprocal act considering the extensive support I received from the Kelowna community, especially my church.

You don't get to pick your relatives but you can choose friends who are like family—friends connected spiritually, not by blood.

There was more to life than just work and recovery. Len and I had a great time touring the province, particularly the West Kootenay.

Madam Molly Brown’s brothel in Sandon, a thriving silver mining town from 1892 to 1900, is now almost deserted. Molly used her ill-gotten gains to fund a hospital and school, a surprisingly philanthropic act. Her historic home was restored but it’s no longer a cat house.

Nelson also had a similarly tumultuous past, with the Sons of Freedom, Doukhobor activists who staged a nude protest outside the now historic courthouse in 1932. My city tour included a dangerous adventure, traversing the 6 Mile Beach, a site where many lost their lives due to a hazardous sandbar. Even though I didn't venture far, it felt ominous and I wouldn't do it again. I had to quit testing God. We also had countless calmer adventures, which I enjoyed sharing through my column.

Writing for Castanet as a columnist was therapeutic. My mentor, former editor Ross Freake, was determined to make me a better writer. He could be a taskmaster but when my dander was up and my ego bruised, he softened his stance and so did I. In so doing we arrived at a compromise.

At his suggestion, I found an editing program, ProWritingAide, to help with the boring but necessary part of writing. It was a game changer. Many times, Ross drove me to the brink of insanity. (Or did I arrive?) Regardless, I'm eternally grateful to him.

It’s been a slice my fellow Okanaganites, and you’ll see me online again somewhere sometime soon.

This article is written by or on behalf of an outsourced columnist and does not necessarily reflect the views of Castanet.

Farm helps horses rescued from the wilds of Alberta

Help for horses

Photo: Doreen Zyderveld-Hagel

Darrel Glover of HAWS, an Alberta horse rescue society, with rescued horse Nikita..

Queasiness gripped me as I entered the paddock.

These weren’t ordinary horses but wild, orphaned foals sharing pastures with their adoptive mothers and saddle ponies. Surrounded by curious youngsters, I gasped, feeling claustrophobic as they jostled for position to meet this stranger.

Although I've had extensive experience with equines, I lost my edge a long time ago. A devastating riding accident on my mustang quarter-horse cross in 2016 altered the course of my life.

Dusk, a yearling, moved in for a warm embrace by wrapping his head and neck around me. Wow! Did you catch that? I exclaimed. Being lovey-dovey was short-lived. The wild horse, predictably, then tried biting my ankle and arm. To subtly obstruct his approach, I positioned my elbow in his path. The manoeuvre was harmless to both of us, and Dusk moved on to hassle another colt.

My wild horse encounter took place at the North of 40 Ranch (home of Darrell Glover and Barb Robinson of HAWS (Help Alberta's Wildies Society) near Olds, Alberta. Their menagerie included everything from a donkey to abandoned cats, the latter having been callously dumped by someone on the roadside. The seniors saved every creature on their land from a horrible death.

I'm awestruck by their kindness and their ability to rally support for animals in need during crises. Before my visit, I checked out many YouTube and Facebook videos about them saving abandoned baby horses. For instance, Dusk, orphaned, sought to integrate with a new herd. He attempted to nurse from several mares, but they rejected him and the stallion chased him away.

Photo: Doreen Zyderveld-Hagel

Darrell Glover and Barb Robinson of HAWS.

The HAWS team received calls about Dusk from several people. At the ranch, he was raised by a substitute mother. The team’s searches often include lactating mares who recently lost their foals. To help mares accept orphaned colts, they're sometimes dressed in the hides of stillborn foals and the mares are given bonding drugs. Both the foal and its previously bereaved mother benefit because she thinks it is her own and raises it as such.

• When he was just a month old, Hunter's mom passed away. Left by his band beside his deceased mare, he remained there for more than a week, subsisting on foul water and fending off scavenging birds trying to feed on the carcass. It's remarkable that Hunter avoided detection by wolves, bears and cougars.

• Lost and alone, some outdoor enthusiasts found Nikita. The foal had infected puncture wounds from a coyote attack. Now with a foster equine mom, she's thriving.

• Upon discovery, Sarge was barely alive. Another stallion, not its father, tried to kill him by grabbing the foal's neck with its teeth and shaking him vigorously. Males perform infanticide to guarantee the female's return to estrus and subsequent reproduction. Thankfully, he wasn't successful. After getting a new mom at the ranch, the now weaned pinto is doing wonderfully in his new adoptive home.

However, not all the rescued survive. A young foal named Warrior had to be euthanized because of a purulent, paralyzed back leg, and his companion Timber suffered the same outcome later. Almost all foals on the ranch arrive immunodeficient, which could account for their desertion. TLC from HAWS helps most to recover. When old enough, the HAWS team places them with pre-screened human families.

My brief observation of Darrell and Barb revealed their humility, sincerity, and genuineness. Though fame followed naturally, it wasn't their goal. Their focus is solely on aiding wild horses in distress, encompassing both physical and political support. Because of their limited expertise and facilities, they can only help younger mustangs in need.

I applaud their resilience and determination, which was bolstered after their temporary incarceration with other HAWS members for a peaceful protest of trapped horses destined for slaughter.

"If you ever hold another demonstration, I'll go with you,” I said.

"Yes, I'll call if we need someone to go to jail with us," Darrell laughed.

HAWS is a powerful lobby group dedicated to saving Alberta Foothills' wild horses from a birth control program that would sterilize mares for years or even permanently. Predation and other natural causes result in the death of half of all wild foals.

Over 10 years of exploring crown land, I've seen countless wild horses killed by thrill-seeking poachers. Combine that with capture pens and death by other causes, their numbers are declining.

These unique horses are close to extinction, with approximately 1500 remaining. That the horses inhabit a large area unsuitable for humans further proves their harmlessness and positive environmental impact. They don’t compete with cattle for feed.

To help end the government of Alberta's equine genocide program, call (780 644-7353), email ([email protected] and cc: [email protected]) or write to Todd Loewen, Alberta’s Forestry and Parks minister, at: 323 Legislature Building, 10800 - 97 Avenue, Edmonton, AB, T5K 2B6.

This article is written by or on behalf of an outsourced columnist and does not necessarily reflect the views of Castanet.

Re-baptism as an adult brings new meaning to the ritual

Peculiar baptism practice

Photo: Doreen Zyderveld-Hagel

Columnist Doreen Zyderveld-Hagel was baptized in the river of her childhood hometown in Alberta.

I nervously stepped into the pond, and the unstable sandy ground shifted under my feet as I walked.

I felt like I was going down, down, down.

“Oh no, I worried. This is more than I bargained for. The property owner got in and out OK and so will the rest of us,” I reminded myself. “Besides, you’re here on a mission.”

With that, I carried on.

Even though we muddied the water, the top layer was quite clear. Tiny fish approached curiously to examine these strange humans in their habitat. The swampy scent assailed my nostrils, taking me back to my childhood spent in the nearby wetlands, or slough, as we called it. That smelly place was my playground with my young friends. We paddled about on makeshift leaky rafts and caught frogs in the bulrush.

To think, decades later, I’d be in that same general area, being baptized in the Rosebud River.

It wasn’t easy to get to this waterhole. First, the vehicles ahead kicked up a gigantic dust cloud on the gravel road. Trailing the pastor’s vehicle, we found ourselves in a rough, thistle-strewn pasture; cow paddies littered the ground like landmines. This was a stark reminder of our loss of the Garden of Eden.

Under Alberta’s clear blue skies, the warm sun shone down on us as we basked in the pleasant 30 C temperature.

Praying aloud with his hand raised, Pastor Rod created a surreal atmosphere.

“I baptize you in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,” he said and he and his assistant tilted me backward into the depths, then immediately pulled me back up. The bright sun shone above as I submerged, which struck me as odd because my eyes were closed and a cloth covered my face to prevent me from breathing in the untreated water.

Afterwards, we received help to ascend the steep, slippery bank following my husband’s baptism. The bottoms of my feet were covered in grass that got stuck in my sandals.

Our Christian family warmly welcomed Len and I and gifted us a colourful bouquet and a book of daily meditations.

“Baptism means death with Christ, and those who are dead to sin don’t go on living in it. And that means ‘all of us.’ That is, all Christians,” John Piper wrote on United with Christ in death and life, Part 2.

Historically, a religious leader immersed many converts in a large body of water during this ceremony. It was more than just a light sprinkling of water on the forehead, as practiced in some churches, which some claim is brainwashing, by splashing water on the frontal lobe area.

Age in baptism isn’t the only factor —maturity is critical. Since a free and informed decision is impossible for infants, dedication is a more suitable alternative to baptism for babies. Len and I reaffirmed our commitment by being re-baptized, mirroring the disciples’ actions after they gained new insights.

While many scriptural reasons support this (a topic beyond this discussion), baptism also has a darker, occult side. In satanic rituals, there are agents that perform a counterfeit baptism, Pastor Minervino Labrador Jr. stated.

He witnessed it as a former drug trafficker. The participants of the clandestine ceremony vow allegiance to spirit protectors, ensuring immunity from arrest and treachery. Although Labrador refused to partake, a demonic entity still plagued him. He turned to his religious parents for help, turned his life around and became a pastor.

Ironically, the dark side uses fragrances and floral water for their evil ritual to make the underworld seem glamorous. They come out of the water unclean. Whereas, many Christians, especially in historic times, used lakes, ponds and rivers in not-so-clean water, but they emerged reborn and spotless. It may seem counter-intuitive and downright bizarre.

It was interesting timing, coinciding with my sobriety birthdate of Sept. 7, 1993, to come full circle being baptized again on the same day 31 years later in my hometown. That was no coincidence. My past wild lifestyle is far behind me and I’m grateful I’m not who I used to be.

That being said, you can sober up a drunken horse thief but they’re still a horse thief. A 12-step program and returning to church helped me get on a better path. Life is full of choices, and we can change our minds for better or for worse.

Whether we like it or not, there are good and evil forces vying for our allegiance.

In not choosing, we still make our choice.

This article is written by or on behalf of an outsourced columnist and does not necessarily reflect the views of Castanet.

The impact of war lasts long after the fighting stops

The horrors of war

Photo: Contributed

My father, Jake Hagel, was part of the Canadian forces cleanup crew during WW2 in Europe.

It was a horrific job that haunted the man for the rest of his life. He was like a homicide detective in that he’d never forget the endless sea of faces of those slaughtered. The terror and pain etched in their features during their last moments of life was something my dad couldn’t unsee. That’s if they still had a face.

Though Dad seldom spoke of it, he told me about pulling bodies out of cellars in Holland. The Jews had been in hiding, waiting to be rescued by the Dutch resistance but starved or froze to death before that could happen. Then there were the Allied troops killed in battle, which I read about on Reddit. The clean-up crew members removed one dog tag to register the fallen soldier with the army and to notify their next-of-kin, leaving the other tag on the body for burial. Nazi personnel rigged dog tags with explosives, which would detonate if someone tried to take them off. The Germans also concealed land mines within the garments of the corpses.

A large proportion of them looked like boys because of many being teenagers who had misrepresented their age to serve their nation. Their lives were cut tragically short.

Often the cleaners had to roll a bloated cadaver on its front and press on the lower spine to release the gases, making it easier to remove and transport the body with the rest of the slain. To make matters worse, they sometimes encountered soldiers who were still alive but mortally wounded and begged to be euthanized, a request they granted. Afterwards, they had to return to camp and cook dinner for the troops.

When the war ended, the men returned home and tried to resume some semblance of normalcy. They all, including my dad, had PTSD, but it wasn’t a known phenomenon in those days. Instead, it was called “shell shock.” The veterans suffered in silence.

Photo: Contributed

Jack Hagel, who served in the Canadian army during the Second World War.

As a kid, I watched as Dad paced back and forth, restless as a caged lion. Hot ashes dropped from the cigarette dangling between his lips and were ground under his immaculately polished boots. In a trance-like state, he stared blankly ahead, his wide eyes seeming to see ghosts of his past. The flashbacks were likely filled with the sound of the military bugle playing Reveille, alongside the noises of war, and the lingering smell of death.

Mom came out in her nightgown and yelled at him for damaging the new flooring, but he just stared blankly. It was as though she was invisible.

With his piercing eyes, he scrutinized you, searching for any pretense or weakness, as if his gaze could penetrate your very soul. He learned that trait during his military training, essential for survival and to counter German spies. It was something that stuck with him.

He had a softer side, and I, being the youngest, revelled in it. Being a girl helped too, as he was much harder on his boys. However, he didn’t always treat me with kid gloves. After using corporal- punishment on me once, he came into my room and apologized. His eyes welled up and his voice wavered. I couldn’t help but respect and forgive him. Tears rolled down my face as I typed this.

He could not give what he didn’t have, but did remarkably well considering his lot in life. Like many European immigrants in the early 20th century, his father governed with an iron fist.

His parents, both German Russians, left Russia for Canada separately, eventually meeting and marrying here. The trauma of the two world wars poisoned generations before and after each conflict.

Every year as Remembrance Day draws closer, I pull out the photo collage my sister Pat Anderson made and display it proudly. It is a solemn reminder of Dad’s part in freeing us from Hitler’s diabolical scheme for world domination.

Had his generation not fought back, I would not be writing this piece now. In fact, most of us would not exist. He had 83 descendants, ranging from children to great-grandchildren and the number keeps growing.

Dad passed away in 1997 following a nine-year struggle with Alzheimer's and Parkinson's disease. That double whammy illness robbed Dad of both his mind and his physical strength, bit by bit.

During the graveside service on a cold and overcast windy spring day, we shivered and huddled together. As the priest stepped forward and spoke, the sun broke through the clouds and a vast flock of snow buntings soared overhead, the little birds singing nearly drown out his voice as they spiralled up towards the heavens and suddenly shot northbound, headed towards the nesting grounds in Antarctica.

I knew then Dad was OK.

Oh death, where is your sting? (1 Corinthians 15:54-56)

This article is written by or on behalf of an outsourced columnist and does not necessarily reflect the views of Castanet.