JUST A GAL FROM GLIDDEN: Lessons in lineups, rigs, and road trips
By Kate Winquist
We’ve all heard the old sayings: a little hard work never hurt anyone, tell your loved ones you love them every day, be kind, don’t judge a book by its cover. Clichés, yes—but life has a way of reminding us why they matter. And often those reminders come in the most unexpected places—like a Tim Horton’s drive-thru, an oilfield rig, or a hotel room with only one king-sized bed.
Take last week at the drive-thru. Robert and I were waiting patiently (or at least he was). The truck ahead of us wasn’t moving. The driver was glued to his cell phone, and after a few seconds I muttered, “Come on, buddy, get moving already,” as though ten seconds were going to make a world of difference in my day.
When we finally reached the window to pick up our frozen lemonades, the cashier smiled and said, “You’re good to go—the guy ahead of you paid.” My impatience melted into guilt. That small act of kindness made me think. I’d been quick to judge, and he’d been generous enough to pay it forward. A reminder: you never really know what someone else is carrying, and sometimes a smile—or in this case, a surprise treat—can change the tone of someone’s whole day.
Life has been teaching my son Kalen some lessons, too. He’s been working hard in the oilfield near Rocky Mountain House this past year, putting in long hours and proving himself. Recently, his rig was shut down until November, leaving him worried about bills and payments—like so many young people just trying to make it. Luckily, a friend offered him some construction work in Gull Lake to help fill the gap.
One night, he turned off his phone early to get some rest before that job. In the morning, he woke to a text from one of the head honchos at his company: would he like to fill in on another rig starting October 1? Kalen texted back immediately—“Where do you need me? I’ll be there.” They could have called someone else, but they called him. I’d like to think it’s because his hard work and good attitude haven’t gone unnoticed.
Still, it hasn’t been an easy week. Three acquaintances of his passed away, two by suicide. At only 21, he’s seen more loss than anyone should—his first close friend died by suicide when he was just 14. This time, he phoned his dad, and the two of them talked for a long while.
That’s when I suggested to Robert that maybe Kalen should take my ticket to the Rider game in Edmonton. Robert and I had been planning the trip together, but a father-son weekend—watching football, talking rigs, sharing a few beers—sounded like exactly what Kalen needed. I’ll admit, Robert didn’t take much convincing.
When Kalen finished up his construction shift and called back, he was excited at the idea of a road trip with his dad. Of course, the excitement may fade a little when he discovers that I couldn’t switch the hotel reservation from a single king bed to two queens. Either they’ll figure out the pullout sofa—or Robert will just have to share the blankets.
Life has a funny way of delivering its lessons—sometimes through patience in a drive-thru, sometimes through the resilience of a young man finding his footing, and sometimes through the gift of simple time together.
The Canada Post situation has been another lesson for me. In last week’s column, I mentioned the good, the bad and the ugly—with Canada Post in the bad column. In the past days it’s gone from bad to ugly. My staff and I will do our best to make sure the papers get delivered, whether it’s Robert’s “Pony Express” to the outlying communities or people picking them up at our office or a few other locations. We’re also available online, and we can send a digital PDF to anyone who prefers to receive it that way.
I’m not going to lie—the Canada Post situation has been living rent free in my head for the past couple of weeks. It’s time they either pay the rent or get evicted.
But mental health is no laughing matter. Some people handle things better than others. The old me—20-something or 30-something me—might have turned to alcohol to make the misery go away. Older me knows I think clearer and feel better without it. It brings me back to the importance of support—family, friends, saying “I love you” even when you’re tempted to say something you’ll regret later. Robert called me a “senile old bat” the other day. “Well, that was rude,” I said. But then we both had a good laugh.
When all is said and done and my time on this earth is through, I’d like to think I’ve lived a good one, been happy, and made a difference. I know not everyone gets to enjoy such an existence. My heart breaks for those who felt that taking their own lives was the only answer left.
Life’s little lessons aren’t always neat or easy. But they do keep showing up—in lineups, on rigs, on the road—and they all point to the same truths: be patient, be kind, love one another, and work hard. The world won’t always make sense, but our choices can. And sometimes, in the middle of all the mess, you discover a little grace waiting at the next window.