Operators of the possibility theory live here

I interrupt this regularly-scheduled column to make a correction on a reference I made two weeks ago to something my dad often says—and I stand corrected.
“It’s always a possibility.”–Bruce Caldwell.
When I first learned of my faux pas from my relative neighbours, I thought to myself, “Anything is possible” and “It’s always a possibility” mean the same thing, so what’s the big deal?
But then I got to thinking about it, and as is (and has been the case on countless occasions since I was born) my parents were right.
There is a difference.
First, a competent writer should never misquote.
Secondly, and though anything is possible, there is more excitement, hope, and anticipation in believing “it’s always a possibility.”
This whole stewpot of word jostling had me revisiting my childhood—a marvelous, carefree world that I frequently long for these days, especially when this grown-up life tells us we are on the paying end at tax time.
For us kids (myself and my annoying younger brother), hearing a parent say “It’s always a possibility,” as the answer to your question, always left us hinged on the two scenarios juggling our imagination.
And I don’t think we ever disputed the response.
How cool for the parent was that? No rebuttal from the peanut gallery.
There was always a chance.
Of course, in the materialistic scheme of things, my brother and I weren’t asking for much. But we thought we were.
The DQ soft ice cream cone, or a Sunday drive in the country, dessert after supper, a boat trip down the creek, swimming at Boffin Lake, or a snowshoe trip across the creek in the winter to have a hotdog roast, were sought-after experiences.
And when I look back on the countless times we did those things, I’d say their odds were a craps game dream. But we didn’t know that at the time.
I am convinced the DNA of my dog, “Dot,” is overloaded with the possibility gene.
Everything she does appears to be with the understanding that she will win. Why else would a dog of her size believe that if she digs a hole in the ground, she just might come up with something?
Because she does. Five young groundhogs to be exact, followed by the matriarch.
Maybe I should send her to Saskatchewan with the “Gopher Getters” at the end of the month. She could be renamed “Scout,” the preliminary reconnaissance ratter.
At any rate, she certainly won the battle with her doghouse. The nemesis she’s been involuntarily attached to when I leave the yard has been reduced to a pile of chewed wood and sawdust in her bid to sever ties with it.
Looks like the basement hairy “dog” chair will not be going the dump after all, as it has become the refuge of a winning dog’s bid to not be at the end of a chain.
The words “It’s always a possibility” spilled off my lips and into unknown territory the other day when Daughter #1 asked me if I would pick up a piece of exercise equipment from the local department store.
Little did I know that it weighed more than my truck.
After sliding it down the stairs to the basement with pulleys and ropes in a two-woman powerhouse sideshow, I then was asked if I would put it together.
Because I was raised to be an optimist, I replied in the common manner.
Anybody who lives with me knows that in many ways I am very good at putting things together (and though I digress, that includes getting myself into Spanx underwear and recovering from a hissy fit as quickly as my Mac laptop does from an internal error).
However, I must have had a momentary lapse of intelligence when I agreed to tackle the evil exercise equipment thingy.
Like the painful memory of childbirth that magically disappears until the next time you have to do it, so had I forgotten my solemn oath to never ever come within 10 feet of an unassembled piece of anything that requires an Allen key.
Quite frankly, the Allen key is on my list of the stupidest inventions ever created and belongs in a fiery pit along with the cellophane wrap on CDs and DVDs.
And whatever machine is designed to seal the package of star washers and bolts in impenetrable plastic that comes with the stupid exercise equipment thingy can go into the fiery pit, too.
It is a well-documented fact that I cannot do math well, and now it would appear that I don’t know left from right, as was noted by the peanut gallery after I put the hand railings of the exercise equipment on opposite sides.
“Just use it backwards,” I quipped of the possibility.
All I got was the flat stare.
I reversed them, but not before Murphy’s Law raised its ugly head. I already had used the Allen key to torque the nuts and bolts on the railings tighter than I was held into my thigh shaper pantyhose at Christmas.
I went down to the creek bank and laid in the sun to recoup myself after the battle with the machine. And no sooner had I closed my eyes did “Cash” come bounding to where I was and in a screeching halt, inadvertently hurled long trails of doggy mouth mucous on my face and in my hair.
I just lay there and said out loud: “In my next life, can I just be a tree or something?”
I’m sure I heard something greater than myself reply, “It’s always a possibility.”

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