Letters to the World

A Whiteout and a Silver Thaw

2012-01-28T10:35:00.000-08:00

Last week, we in the Fraser Valley experienced what local long-timers are calling 'the worst storm since '96'. One Vancouver TV meteorologist temporarily named our region 'The Freezer Valley,' and my husband, who commutes a mere ten minutes by car to his work at a hotel just north of here and has years of winter driving under his belt admitted that the driving certainly had been 'a bit crazy'. On one of his days off, the police even closed the road to the next town where my husband works because of white-out conditions. The next day, the road was open, and my husband acted as a taxi for a few employees in his department who didn't want to drive themselves. I had asked him to let me know when they had arrived at the hotel, and when he finally called me he said he had been unable to see anything at all for 18-20 seconds of his drive. Several of our friends who work in the city west of here gave up trying to get to work at all.

Our road crews worked overtime to keep the main thoroughfares passable, but with farm fields knee deep in powdery snow which was lifted and tossed ceaselessly by arctic winds for days on end, the drifts in some places were meters high. While the Real Canada laughed from afar at we wimpy west coasters, we, unused to the blasts of winter felt regularly by the rest of Canada dealt with it as best we could. Our temperatures reached shocking lows of -16 while Alberta had -45. While our children gloated on Facebook about their schools being closed all week, my sister's kids in Manitoba where it was -41 were miffed because their buses only stop running when the temperature dips to -47. Dressed in multiple layers and a scarf up to my eyes, I ventured out everyday as well, just to get some exercise and a few supplies from the dwindling shelves of the greengrocer. My kids spent at least part of every snow day outside, building forts and tunnels, and shovelling the driveway.

Amazingly, even though I had pots of water at the ready in case of a power outage, which I thought was inevitable, we never lost power nor did we lose internet access. The days were spent in relative contentment by all of us at home. I finished the archaeological adventure I was reading and started a murder mystery which I had been given for Christmas.

We watched movies, baked cookies, played a few board games, and caught up on our sleep. All in all, our snow-week was a gift, a chance to gear down and spend some time holed up together.

The weather had calmed considerably by Friday and many of the shops that had closed their doors for a few days were back in business. The grocery stores were restocked with milk and bread, but everyone was bracing themselves for the freezing rain that was promised. Saturday morning, we woke up to a world covered in several millimeters of ice. I went outside to capture some of the beauty on camera before the 'silver thaw', as my friend Sue called it, began in earnest.

Within half an hour, the sun was burning through the clouds and the delicate ice which coated everything in sight began to lose it's grip. Every motion of the wind sent a brittle shower onto the shell of ice-covered snow below. As the morning thaw continued nature provided a chorus of water music. The powerlines and the eaves on the houses dripped in constant percussion, and the hungry, noisy birds came out from their shelters deep within the cedar trees.

Sunday was a gloomier day. The lovely silver thaw had turned to a gritty brown melt. The rain dissolved the white crust to reveal the layers of sand and gravel poured on the snow and ice over the week by the road crews. I was beginning to be desperate for a run, so I went off to the local gym in search of a treadmill.

The week of being mainly housebound may have been good for my spirit, but it had done a number on my waistline.

Shrinking the Generation Gap, Part Two

2012-01-20T10:49:00.000-08:00

My son Galen loves to play for people, and he thoroughly enjoys playing with other musicians. To my continued amazement he thinks nothing of getting up in front of a large audience and performing whatever he has been rehearsing. He plays with a local orchestra and recently took part in a performance of Handel's Messiah with a youth ensemble. Practicing his violin is a daily solo effort, so he relishes the chance to get together with other like minded people to do what he loves best.

When our friend Diane asked him if he would consider playing some duets over the Holidays with her 95 year old friend and neighbour, Ella, the answer was "Sure!" Galen had heard me exclaim over Ella's talent and continued abiltity at the piano, and he had no reason to disbelieve me. Ella, on the other hand, had been informed of Galen's talent but it was clear she wasn't holding her breath. She had been sent musical partners recently and had been disappointed. She, however, agreed to give him a try and after a few more calls back and forth, a date was set for their musical meeting.

It was agreed that Galen and Ella would meet at her home at 2:00 p.m. the following Thursday for a one hour session. Diane and Jim would be away that day, but they were to leave me a key so I could go in their house for a cup of tea after letting out the chickens and herding the ducks into the garden. My youngest daughter Katie came with us and after we had dropped Galen off at Ella's, Katie and I went off to do our farm chores. The rest of the hour passed quickly with me stoking the fire in the kitchen wood stove and enjoying some tea, and with Katie discovering a Garfield comic book in the house.

We pulled the car around the circular driveway in front of Ella's and peeked in the living room window. Ella and Galen were in the middle of a piece and so, not wanting to disturb them, Katie and I stayed outside to listen. From where we stood the duo sounded great and we let them finish. They noticed us but started another piece at Ella's request. Katie and I continued to stand awkwardly outside the window, enjoying the sounds coming from inside and the view of Ella's diminutive, incredibly animated form at the Steinway grand piano. The hour was stretching by the minute and fearing that Ella would soon grow tired I knocked on the door at what I thought was an appropriate moment.

The door was opened and we entered the foyer. Ella's face was full of excitement. She clapped her hands together and exclaimed, "I had heard Galen was good, but not this good! I made so many mistakes. I was so amazed I just wanted to stop and listen to him. So much talent! How? Where? From whom did he get such talent?" she demanded.

"I do have a very musical family," I said.

"My goodness. And you! Don't you play the piano?" she asked.

"Yes, but not very well. Let's just say I have a nice touch." I said. "He gets his discipline and goal-driven determination from his father."

Ella continued to talk about the session in a disjointed way; I think she was rather stunned by how it had gone. I do not think she ever expected Galen to be so accomplished, not at his age, not of his generation, perhaps. She also questioned Katie about her piano lessons and encouraged her to carry on.

"I'm sure Galen would like to play with you again, if you would like to," I said.

"Do you?" she said. "I would think he might not after all the mistakes I made. I'm afraid I was not very good today." She laughed and abashedly put a wrinkled but fine hand over her mouth.

Galen assured her that he would like to, and we all left it at that.

We have not heard from Ella since that day, but I do hope she will give playing with Galen another try. During a phone call the next day, Diane and Jim assured us that Ella had indeed been delighted with the session, and that she probably needs some time to let the experience sink in.

At the very least, even if she decides not to invite Galen for another session, I hope this disappointing world appears just a little bit brighter since that afternoon.
I leave you with another great Victor Borge clip, this time another unlikely but successful duet. Enjoy!
Wishing you a wonderful weekend.

Shrinking the Generation Gap

2012-01-13T19:12:00.000-08:00

It must be a challenge sometimes for the elderly to stay hopeful in this world, especially when so many of them watch daytime television. If the world were truly represented by what is available as news and 'reality' TV, even Pollyannas would lose their irrespressible optimism. The world has changed a great deal over the past century, and those who have been through one or both of the Great Wars really must feel as though they have seen all there is to see. The advancements in technology alone are enough to make one's head spin; for example, cable television used to require only a cable plugged into the wall and voila! Now, it requires research and excess equipment, decisions about PVRs and digital boxes, and mysterious contracts in a language hitherto unfamiliar to most people.

Thanks to the digitally shrinking globe we are surrounded, bombarded almost, with the events of the day from around the world. It takes a bit of detachment and a philosophical attitude to keep everything in perspective. I can see how an elderly person might be tempted to despair if all they see of the younger generations are bad news stories and the baggy-pants swagger of the texting, smoking, swearing young who hang around outside the shops of our downtown streets.

Some good friends of ours, Jim and Diane and their two children, live on a farm just outside of town. On their farm are two houses, theirs which they built and a larger one which was once the family home of Jim's parents. A few years ago, Jim and Diane renovated a section of the house for their elderly friend, Ella. Ella is now 95. She cooks for herself, still drives her red sedan, and likes things around her, home and garden, arranged just so. Jim keeps her house warm by tending the fire and looks after any maintenance issues which may arise. Most of Ella's family live in the U.K. but she is by no means friendless. She enjoys company but like any elderly person, in small doses. She enjoys the view of mountains and fields in the distance and the pond with its bird life only a few meters from her kitchen windows. Wonderfully, Ella spends time most mornings playing one of two pianos in the spacious, light-filled living room of her apartment. Ella has maintained her amazing sight reading ability, and having heard her play once or twice, I can attest to her tremendous talent.

I have had a few conversations with Ella, mainly outside the greengrocer we both frequent, and while she is sharp and quick-witted, she has gained a rather jaded view of mankind in his present form. The world is often referred to as 'going to hell in a handbasket' or something like it. Families don't stay together anymore, children are badly behaved and have no attention span, no-one has any discipline, people are far too materialistic, politicians are evil, crime is rampant, life used to be simpler, life used to be better. She subscibes to cable via a sattelite dish, and enjoys television which I will admit can be fine company depending on the show, but perhaps, as stated above, it can be blamed for some of her despondency. I can hardly blame Ella; I sometimes get fed up with the world as well, but perhaps my relative youth and health work in my favour and I can never despair for long. My children and their friends and cousins with their talents, their energy and their optimism serve as examples (most days) of why there is also hope for the future.

On an evening before the Christmas break, our local high school put on a band concert. As has been the tradition for two years now, my violinist son Galen played a solo sometime during the concert. This time he teamed up with his pianist friend, Kieran to play a duet of Vittorio Monti's Czardas. Unbeknownst to us, while they were rehearsing during their lunch hours in the band room, they were concocting a slightly comical rendition of the piece. They realized that they had to turn their pages at precisely the same moment in the piece, and rather than appeal to friends to turn their pages for them they decided to perform the song in a style similar to the great classical music comedien Victor Borge. When it was time to turn their pages, they would stop, turn them together, then start up again. What made it so funny and surprising for the audience was the fact that they were so skilled at their instruments, but willing to show the lighter side of 'serious' music.

Diane and Jim happened to be at the concert that night and thoroughly enjoyed the boys' performance. A week or so later I received a call from Diane. Apparently, Ella had recently been partnered with a student from the local academy of music. The student came out to Ella's house and attempted some duets with her. For whatever reason the partnering was not a success, and the search was continuing for a suitable partner. And that is where Galen came into the picture. Would he be interested in playing some duets with Ella, whom he had met once or twice? Diane had heard Galen at the concert and thought, 'aha! There is the perfect partner for Ella.' Should she approach Ella with the plan if Galen agreed to it?

Tune in next week to part two of this story. In the meantime, here is a lovely video of Victor Borge and violinist Anton Kontra performing their rendition of Czardas:

As for the photo above, unfortunately, I can't find out who took it. I found it on a careers website.

The Reluctant but Enthusiastic Gourmet

2012-01-05T13:00:00.000-08:00

Someone once said, "Restaurants are to the 80's what theatre was to the 60's." Actually, it was a character in the Nora Ephron, Rob Reiner movie When Harry Met Sally, and judging by all the restaurant scenes in the film, his comment must have been true. The 80's were also a great decade for film, so my kids tell me, and, strange, imaginative child that I was, I think I spent half my time back then trying to emulate the scenes, characters and clothing from Hannah and her Sisters, Out of Africa, or select John Hughes movies.

When I was a teenager, a few of my friends and I would save up our spending money and go out for a fancy French meal at Justine's, an establishment no longer open in my hometown. Justine's was an airy, peach and white downtown restaurant with glass block dividers and live jazz. We would dress up in our finest 80's fashions and, I'm sure, impress and/or amuse the adult regulars with our yuppies-in-training ways. Until I found out it was raw meat, I always ordered steak tartare as my appetizer, and generally an entree with chicken or scallops. Eating out at Justine's was the epitome of elegance to we small-town kids looking for a bigger life, and the atmosphere caused us to sit up straight and use our best table manners and hushed voices.

And then there were the dinner parties. My childhood friend Molly's mother, Panny was, and I'm sure still is a phenomenal cook and she and Molly's dad had newly purchased the former Anglican manse which had a large dining room. With Panny's help Molly hosted a few dinner parties, with each of us guests supplying a dish. I remember making Greek salad. How exotic it seemed back then. Molly's mother cooked from books with names like The Enchanted Broccoli Forest, and later, opened a great little restaurant, The Wild Onion, with her sister Vicky. My own family was into good eating as well, though generally of a slightly humbler variety - one of our commonly consulted cookbooks was called More-with-Less.

When I was a child I did a fair amount of baking, but I didn't start cooking until I'd pretty much left home. When in university I lived with my sister, Clare who taught me how to make soup from scratch and other budget-friendly meals. My last year I lived with a pack of roomates and we were each responsible for our own meals. I lived on veggie burgers and stirfry. And vietnamese salad rolls from the canteen in the UBC arts lounge. When I got married a year later, I could throw together a meal of sorts, but I was far from being an artist in the kitchen. For a wedding gift, Clare bought us a subscription to Canadian Living magazine, which was perfect as a teaching tool for me. My husband had become a decent 'cook for one' from his ten years as a bachelor, but when it came to cooking for a family I was more the natural in the kitchen. Plus, I was keen. I love food, and I love good food more, so I was eager to learn all I could. Still, there were never what I would call gourmet meals issuing forth from my kitchen. We had children straight away and so it was healthy family cooking, trial by fire. Over the years, I became a fairly good children's cook. To this day, other people's children tell their parents what a good cook I am, and how they like eating at our house. While I appreciate their praise very much, I am humbled by it. I know Michelin, the organization that grants restaurants the highly valued 'Michelin Stars' would never grant me so much as a a twinkle. But I don't mind that. To me, that's what restaurants like Justine's are, and were, for - to give we family cooks a break from spaghetti and home-made pizza - and give us a taste of something fresh and exciting, which in turn will enhance our own home cooking and dare us to try something new.

In this town of few restaurants of any real quality there exist a surpising number of skilled culinary artists, and many of the best meals to be had here are cooked and eaten in the home. Our friend Marilee's husband Stefan is a fine chef who happens to run the kitchen in one of the area's major prisons (one of the largest employers here), and last weekend, they gathered twelve of their friends together for a New Year's Eve meal to remember. A week beforehand an email was sent to all the guests with the information that Stefan would be making Saltimbocca with local pork scallopini (to prevent the usual outcry against veal) with prosciutto and sage, and parsnip gratin with wilted pea sprouts. Each couple was asked to choose a side dish or dessert to prepare. At the fashionable hour of 8:30 pm the guests began to arrive and gather in the beautifully transformed dining/ living room of Marilee and Stefan's home. The menu consisted of small and beautifully plated servings of the following courses:

mini crab cakes with dill mayonnaise

mixed greens with walnuts, goat cheese and orange sections

carrot ginger soup (my contribution)

Saltimbocca and parsnip gratin

meyer lemon granitee served in frozen blood orange halves and garnished with pomegranate seeds and candied lemon zest

triple chocolate dessert: white chocolate mousse, chocolate cassis pate and a hazelnut ice cream macaroon garnished with a champagne sauce and sugared rose petals.

And of course there were endless bottles of wine passed around during the meal.

At precisely 11:58 pm pink champagne was served and we toasted the new year in high spirits, to say the least. The platter of 'Lady Jane', 'Castle Blue' and 'Cranberry Caerphilly' cheeses was then brought in with a bottle of port and most of us found a bit more room for them. It was during the dessert course when I looked up from my incredibly delectable chocolate pate and said to its creator, the local cheesemaker seated opposite, "I'm wondering how I got here!" And she said,

"Well, you must have done something good this year!"

The conversation flowed as quickly and as richly as the incredible meal deserved and soon it was time to organize rides home with sober drivers. I am not much of a drinker, so I had enjoyed my usual small amount of wine and could drive my husband and I safely home to our house across town. In fact, when we were toasting the new year, Marilee asked us to proclaim our resolutions. I don't tend to make resolutions, so I made a joke instead: "I'm not going to drink anymore!" to which there were resounding 'boos'. "I'm not going to drink any less either!" which brought forth cheers and laughter from the crowd before I admitted the joke was a favourite line from a movie.

Meryl Streep's character in Postcards from the Edge says another favourite movie line of mine: "I don't want life to imitate art, I want life to be art!" Every once in a while I will reflect on an event in my life and think it has come pretty close to being art, or at least come close to being a scene in a good film.

If my dreaming, sixteen year old self could have looked forward into New Year's Eve, 2011 she would have thought the future looked promising indeed.

Celebrating with Confidence

2011-12-29T11:18:00.000-08:00

A couple of summers ago, I was visiting my parents with the kids and was sitting with my mom in her room. We got to talking about my life, about creativity and work, and suddenly my mom said, "You always had an issue with confidence."

After gaping at her for a second I said, "Yes, that's true! I was always either incredibly overconfident or incredibly underconfident." The truth of her statement hit me like a lightning bolt and the effects have stayed with me ever since. I wonder if the fact had only just occurred to her as well, or if she was just waiting for the right time to tell me. For some reason, since I turned forty, I have made leaps and bounds in the confidence department. It mostly has to do with not caring so much about what other people think. Of course, I still do care, but I think it is fair to say it no longer rules my life.

Most of my life, I have struggled to stay on track with what I am supposed to be doing. I still find it hard sometimes not to compare myself to other people, not to think those with the better 'things' have the better life. I have struggled to maintain a steady confidence in my abilities and when I was younger would often be crushed when I didn't succeed to my own ridiculously high standards. I sometimes even thought things were not worth doing unless I could be as good as the best at them. I honestly do not know where I got these notions, but I think my pride was at play a lot of the time. It was years of working on my nearly twenty year marriage, raising four incredible children, and seeing various projects through, both paid and volunteer which finally made the difference for me. I realized, at long last, that any success in life for me would be achieved by a slow and steady climb.

There is a lot to be said for confidence, and confidence in one's purpose in life is the most important kind of confidence. I am not talking about the self assurance that makes one walk around as if one owns the world, I'm talking about that deeper, intuitive knowing inside that I am steadily climbing toward the light in my daily work, whatever the result - which gives me a sense of calm when the going gets tough. I am much less liable to entertain rash decisions now or waste time worrying about things I have no control over, and that feels like an achievement in itself.

2011 was a good year for me. I joined a singing group and I wrote a blog post that got 187 views in two days. I did good work for the arts council and grew a semi-decent crop of garlic. I saw my eldest son off to Europe, and all but conquered my long held fear of winter driving by successfully getting my younger son and myself safely home during a snowstorm. I enjoyed many, many good times with friends and family, and good health overall. There are plenty of things I did not accomplish, but I choose not to think about those right now.

During these times of upheaval in our world, it is becoming more and more important to realize our potential for good, no matter how small the results. To discount, or lose confidence in our contribution simply because it may not bring us fame and fortune or big-bang results is to lose a bit of our humanity. True, life can be hard. We do have to battle (mainly ourselves), but I believe if we keep at it even our small achievements will be well worth celebrating.

On a PBS station out of Seattle, travel guru Rick Steves made an excellent point during one of the episodes of his popular program Rick Steves' Europe. He said one of the things he noticed about Europeans on his travels was that, in comparison with North Americans, they really knew how to celebrate life. He said most North Americans were so bogged down by work and ambition that they forgot to take the time to celebrate the truly good things in life and the fruits of their labour, like food and family, friendship and love. This Christmas season I decided to think like those Europeans and make more time to celebrate. We worked hard to make our house 'fair as (we were) able, to trim the hearth and set the table' and then invited friends for Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and this evening. Our friends seem to feel the same way, for we've had four invites for this weekend.

The following are the closing remarks in an open letter to subscribers from the CEO of OurStage.com, an organization that helps promote up and coming musicians. His words inspired this blog post today.

"In closing, I hope you get to take the time to share a few days with loved ones and tune out from all the stress, hardship, and worry of day-to-day life. No matter the perfection portrayed in the media, the cold truth is that life is hard for everyone: rich or poor, fat or skinny, old or young—no one rides this bus for free. We all have to earn it. So, if you're in the game and still climbing the mountain, you are a winner. I hope you can take some time in the coming days to relax and celebrate your achievements this year before you dive back into the battle in 2012."

I wish the same for you.

Happy New Year!

The Friendly Beasts around Him Stood

2011-12-20T10:50:00.000-08:00

I've always felt connected to the land. I am no great gardener, but I am a lover of trees, of the natural world, and of the simple miracle of how a huge sunflower grows from a tiny little black seed planted in soil. Now that I live in farm country, this connection to the land inevitably includes a certain affinity for animals. Growing up in a small city in the mountains I was not used to being up close and personal with any breed larger than a medium-sized dog (Shag) or a cat (Kiko). Through my daughter, however, I have become fairly comfortable around horses, and by embracing my farm country life, I have been introduced to cows, goats, chickens and donkeys. Although, admittedly, I don't think I have what it takes to become a farmer myself, I have great respect for my friends and neighbours who are.

This past Saturday, I took part in a live pageant called 'A Journey to Bethlehem'. This annual event is made possible by some wonderful local people. Farmer extraordinaire George, an ex-pat Yorkshireman and his wife Deborah, a Swiss-trained cheesemaker put their skills to work creating a business which has created award-winning cheeses and continues to draw weekenders from all over the Lower Mainland. Using their outbuildings, their animals, and several of their friends and family members, George and Deborah create a memorable experience which recalls Mary and Joseph's search for a room during the Roman census taking place in Bethlehem. We all know where that room ended up being, in a stable kept warm by the breath and body heat of animals.

Two re-enactments of the Journey to Bethlehem were presented, one in the afternoon to a medium sized crowd of families, and an evening one to a very large crowd. I am one of four in an a-cappella quartet, and we were invited to play the angel chorus for the pageant. I had not worn an angel costume since playing one in a pageant in high school. We were a group of rather puffy looking angels with white robes worn over our vests and scarves. We had four places along the route where we were to appear to have arrived like real angels and sing. Our first location was by the cow barn where Mary and Joseph appeared from around the building, Mary riding a real donkey. I wonder if the real Mary and Joseph's donkey was that stubborn - it took all of Joseph's strength to keep him on task.

We couldn't edit that gleam out of Marilee's eyes.

While Mary and Joseph toured the farm's outbuildings looking for a room, they encountered several people: a woodcutter with a German accent and a spinning woman with a British one, several inn owners with children shouting 'no room' to the amusement of the crowd. We angels hummed the tune of 'What Child is This' while it became clear that there was indeed no room that night for Mary and Joseph anywhere in Bethlehem. While the crowd was directed to another location by the narrator with a megaphone, we angels sneaked around the back of the building and climbed up a ladder to a hayloft from where we sang to the shepherds keeping watch over their sheep in the fields:

When the shepherds left their field to search for the 'babe lying in a manger' we angels climbed back down the ladder and snuck around the back of the stable where the Clydesdale draft horses live, ducked under a railing and met the shepherds, goats, a calf and three wise men at the manger where Mary and Joseph now resided with the swaddled baby doll Jesus. Gathered behind the Holy Family we sang 'Joseph Dearest, Joseph Mine' while crowds of thirty or so people at a time visited the final scene in the pageant. Children scooped up barn kittens and oohed and aahed at the sweet baby goats and the calf which were near enough at hand to pet.

Only three of us angels could make it to the evening performance.
The fourth had to keep watch over a birthday party.

When we had finished singing and the crowds were moving on to the pine huts where vendors served hot chocolate, spiced apple cider and cookies we climbed out of the manger. There were still some people milling around visiting with the animals in the goat barn. While I climbed out, a little dark haired girl looked at me in amazement. "You're wearing BOOTS?" I suppose most angels are able to go without something so earthly as mud-proof footwear.

Every Christmas there is something with a bit of magic in it. The Farmhouse Cheese pageant was one such event, for me at least. In the hustle and bustle of trying to help make Christmas special for my family, and with all the shopping and the baking, the recitals and the concerts, it can be easy to get caught up in the whirwind of the Season. I so enjoyed going back to the simple, beautiful roots of it, beasts and all.

Thanks to my daughter for taking photos that night.

I tried to find Peter, Paul and Mary's version of The Friendly Beasts, but I found this one instead, which will do nicely, I think, and reminds me of Christmas singalongs from my childhood. Have a magical week, all!

Rebecca

A Christmas Carol Day

2011-12-12T14:30:00.000-08:00

I did not want to go with the school choir on their day tour of senior's care homes. I did not. I was tired and had a list of chores and errands to do before hosting Saturday evening's dinner party. The acappella group I sing with had worked hard for weeks to prepare for our own performance at the previous evening's choral festival. Our performance had gone well, but all during the night, my mind had sung our carol over and over without my permission:

Gaudete! Gaudete Christus est natus
Ex Maria, virgine. Gaudete!

That is always the way after a performance. Nevertheless, I had woken up feeling like something the cat dragged in. Ugh.

I had told my daughter's music teacher that I would come along on the tour only if not enough parents stepped forward, that I was really busy. She phoned me the day before the tour and asked me to come. I couldn't say no. The next day, Katie and I got up a bit earlier than usual, made our lunches for the day, and packed our bags with some activities to do on the bus between care homes. When we arrived at the school's music room we learned there had been a mix-up with the buses so we would have to walk to our first care home. It was a sunny, windless, brilliant day with frost on the rooftops and lawns, so I welcomed the walk of several blocks, and I think it was a good way to start the day for all the children, too. With one of the parents carrying the keyboard, we paraded down the street in a long, jolly line. The first care home was brand new and quite elegant with chandeliers and Victorian furniture, high ceilings, sweeping staircases and lush carpeting. The choir performed a half hour set for a large group of residents in varying states of awareness and several cheerful and attentive staff members, and then it was time to leave for the next town. A bus had appeared out of thin air, it seemed, and we were off.

We visited three more care homes that day, none as fancy as the first. The children had been informed of the kind of audience they could expect, and were asked, instead of shaking hands with the seniors who were vulnerable to the kind of germs children are bound to carry, to go around and wish them a good day and a Merry Christmas after the set of carols. The choir did their best, but by the third care home the kids were visibly drooping. The rooms were overly warm, the air stuffy and they had sung the same set of songs all morning. The other parents and I made hand signals from the back of the room in an effort to encourage the kids to sing out, and at least cover their mouths when they yawned. Fortunately, the next item on the iternarary was lunch and a runaround in a nearby playground, which was most welcome for all of us.

I was moved several times that day by the reaction of many of the elderly audience members. While most of them merely listened or slept through the performance, there would always be a few singing along, usually quietly, but with sweet enjoyment. Most of the songs the choir sang were fairly typical choral arrangements of songs written for school choirs and not immediately recognizable to most people, but there were a few familiar verses like The First Noel, which the director would invite the seniors to sing. On the bus between care homes, the kids would belt out Santa Clause is Coming to Town, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, Jingle Bells, and all those old favourites, but by the third care home their enthusiasm was waning for their prescribed set list. Another mom suggested to me that maybe the choir should mix in some fun carols with their set list. She must have said something to the choir director, too, because that is exactly what they did. The kids were delighted to mix up their last set with some new/old songs, and the seniors loved it, too. I particularly recall two elderly residents, who sang at the top of their voices whenever something familiar was sung by the choir. One was a lady who would sing loudly in between efforts to attract the attention of a rather severe looking care aide who would instruct her to 'sit down!', and the other was a tall gentleman in a reclining wheel chair. With his head dropped down on his chest and his eyes closed, he sang with the voice of someone much younger. Even during the unfamiliar songs he would find a single, repeated word and sing that word out whenever it came up. It was hard not to develop a few tears at such an endearing sight, and I found I was glad I had put aside my relentless to-do list and come.

There was something Dickensian about touring those care homes and singing Christmas carols (the parents sang too) for the elderly and infirm. I sensed a warning to look after myself and my family well, to never forget that I, and my husband too, would eventually grow old and dependant upon others. I thought how important it was to treat others as I wished to be treated, and to always remind my children to be kind, caring, generous, tolerant and considerate of others. I am hardly an Ebenezer Scrooge, but I can learn, as he did, and pledge to "honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Sprirts of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach."

"God Bless Us, Every One!"

The above photo was found at Victorian-Era.org.

The Food Bank: Friend or Foe?

2011-12-01T10:30:00.000-08:00

So, there I was setting up a food bank drive for our church's after-school program, and feeling good about it. I asked the children to each bring an item to add to the basket each week during Advent, and on the last day we would bring the food down to the Community Services office and probably receive a thank-you card in the mail which we would put up on the bulletin board after Christmas as proof of our good deed done. Just a few days before we were to begin the food bank drive I heard on CBC radio a single mother of two special needs boys talk about her use of the food bank to help make ends meet. Tears rolling down my face, I felt deep in my soul the unfairness of her predicament. She was on government disability, she worked four days a week at a part time job. She had only three mouths to feed, and still, she could not make it without help from the food bank. Something was wrong with this picture, but I was determined to help people like her through our small effort at the church.

Then, on Monday, on the way home from shopping, my husband and I listened to the noon-hour call-in show on the radio. CBC Vancouver is gearing up for their full day broadcast of their food bank drive where they have been raising over one million dollars annually for the city's food banks. Interestingly, they had two sides represented for the show: one, a food bank coordinator who was obviously for food banks, the need for which she witnessed on a daily basis, and one against. Against? I thought. Who could possibly be against food banks? They help feed families. They are necessary in our society today....or is that the problem? A social work professor from the University of British Columbia thinks so.

The social work professor raised several key points when he spoke out against food banks. Apparently, food banks in Canada were started during the 1980's recession to help families temporarily. Back then, experts predicted we would only see them for three years, and then they would be gone. Well, obviously they haven't gone anywhere. In fact, the need for them has only increased, exponentially. Every community I know of has a food bank, and every year, around Christmas, we are asked to donate cereals at our elementary school, canned goods at various public events, and non-perishable items at church. Gardeners routinely and increasingly 'grow a row' to feed needy families in their communities, and every time we go shopping, we are given the opportunity to throw a few items in the food bank bin at the exit, or add two dollars to our grocery bill for the food bank. Donating to the food bank has become the norm, and still, the need grows, and grows like P.D. Eastman's goldfish.

So why is giving to the food bank a problem? The professor admitted that there is nothing wrong with the act of giving to the food bank, the gesture of generosity. He said the problem is in the need for food banks at all in a wealthy country like ours, and that food banks take the pressure off government to do something real about the increasing gap between the haves and the have nots. It occurred to me last night that the poor can no longer afford to be poor. Back in the 80's in my hometown, students, artists, single parents and the like could rent a decent apartment for about one third of their income and have the rest to buy necessities like clothing, bus passes, and, of course, food. Low income people could live with relative dignity. They may not own a car, but they didn't have to queue up in a bread line either, taking handouts of foods they did not choose for themselves. These days in my hometown, a young person working in the service industry is lucky to find an apartment for less than seventy-five percent of their income, and I'm not kidding. Sure, there is some low-income housing, but it has waiting lists. The same is true for many communities and cities across Canada. Incomes are staying stable and the cost of living just keeps on rising. Food banks, the professor argued are just a band-aid solution that masks the real problem, and perhaps it is time to rip off the band-aid and expose the wounded society for what it really is.

Am I about to pull the plug on my food bank drive? No, the present need is just too great in our town. However, I have begun to think that perhaps it is time for a different, big picture approach to the problem which food banks try to address. Other people think so too - I heard another professor speak out against the concept of food banks on another CBC broadcast for many of the same reasons as the first. I also think, perhaps selfishly, as a person who chairs the board of an arts organization, that if the volunteer base of our society is increasingly needed to address basic issues such as homelessness, despair, and hunger so shockingly prevalent in our communities, then the chance of gaining volunteers for an organization like ours, which aims to lift a theoretically wealthy society out of its increasingly Philistine pursuits will prove more and more difficult. And where will Canada be then?

Fruitcake Redeemed

2011-11-26T07:30:00.000-08:00

Fruitcake has a bad reputation, earned in large part, by the traditional Christmas fruitcake which begins to pop up in supermarkets and department store catalogues this time of year. That seasonal brick of bizarre ingredients: gloopy cherries in unlikely shades of day-glo green and lollipop red, gelatinous candied citron peel and ancient nuts (if any) bound together with a syrupy-sweet blend of mysterious ingredients, the traditional Christmas fruitcake can be loved only by World War II survivors for whom anything was a step up from Spam and powdered potatoes. A fan of this type of fruitcake, like everyone else who claims to hate fruitcake, I am not in the least, but I do love what I like to call 'real' fruitcake.

I first discovered 'real' fruitcake at the age of sixteen, when our family friend Catherine, who was trained as a pastry chef, gave my parents a cake as part of a Christmas basket of home-baked treats. The cake was dark, very dark, with a thick layer of marzipan frosting, and it exuded a fragrance so deep, so rich, as could only be achieved by many months' soaking in brandy. No dye-injected maraschino cherries here, only dried fruits and fresh nuts cured to a wondrous flavour which married well with the sweet almond paste - delicious, and meant to be consumed in small quantities.

Many years later, I read an article in Martha Stewart Living about fruitcakes. The article claimed to be able to change virtually every fruitcake hater's mind about this ancient dessert which in its basic form dates from seventh century Persia, and included several recipes with names like 'Chocolate Panforte' full of dried cherries and hazelnuts, 'The Dowager Duchess Fruitcake' spiked with sherry, and the 'Fruit and Stout Cake' doused weekly with 1/4 cup of Guinness (I presume the baker consumes what's left in the bottle?). The food editors' favourite fruitcake was from an Australian family recipe called 'The Backhouse Family Fruitcake.' I decided to try that one. It was delicious, and each November since, around the American Thanksgiving and the beginning of the Advent Season, I have made the Backhouse Family Fruitcake. My husband cannot imagine Christmas without a slice of this fruitcake and a glass of port, and I have come to enjoy the making and then weekly tending of what he likes to call 'the booze cake.'*

I begin by locating my battered copy of Martha Stewart Living, December 2000.

I purchase my ingredients and set aside a morning for baking.

I cut the dried pineapple, apricots, dates, and cherries with scissors, chop the almonds and brazil nuts, and mix them all together in a large bowl.

A rich batter flavoured with vanilla and rum will bind the nuts and fruit together, deliciously I might add.

The cakes are ready for the oven.

They bake for an hour and a half turning golden brown and aromatic.

After the cakes cool, I wrap them in muslin and douse them in rum. Each week I will bathe them in more rum.

As they soak up the alcohol, the nuts and fruit cure to a slice-able state, and later in December, when we are putting up and decorating the Christmas tree, we will test the first cake and enjoy a slice with a glass of port. At least my husband and I will...the kids still won't touch the stuff. "Fruitcake? Hmm... no thanks."
That's alright, all the more for us. I'm willing to bet I could change their mind about fruitcake with some chocolate panforte, which I also plan to make this year.

*My husband borrowed the phrase from our nephew Christopher who used to call Panettone, the Italian Christmas cake, 'booze cake' when he was little. It was a favourite of his.

* * *

In other news...I was thrilled last week to receive, compliments of Lucille from Useful or Beautiful, her giveaway prize of a Nelson Ball Clock. Here, I give her a blogger's extra-large thank-you. The clock is admired by the residents of our house, as well as its visitors. I know we will enjoy passing the time with it for years to come.

Happy Weekend!

A Welcome Winterlude

2011-11-18T12:29:00.001-08:00

Last week was this particular autumn's swan song. Raging against the cold nights, the leaves on the trees injected themselves with intense colour and the blue, blue sky and the snow-capped peaks made a contrasting backdrop for the sun-fired reds, yellows and oranges as they performed their dramatic finale.

Then came the mighty winds, the famous local blow-down-the-valley-tunnel winds. The leaves gave up their clinging ways and fell to the ground, creating colourful carpets on lawns and sidewalks. Out came the rakes, the orange garden bags, and the kids in rubber boots and gloves. Out came the hot chocolate as a reward for their help and as a remedy against freezing wet fingers. Because of course, it had also rained.

Two days ago it tried to snow, but only managed some freezing pellets that melted on contact. Unfazed, Mother Nature dropped the temperature and last night, we had snow. Waking up to an inch of white covering fields, shrubs and rooftops, we all said, 'hurrah!' Snow is bright, snow is quiet, snow is much, much prettier than the shabby, sad grey-ness of cold weather rain.

Now in the afternoon the sun is out and the streets are shining wet with the melt. Bear Mountain looks eager to shake out her frosted fur, and there is just enough snow left on the lawn for a cat, or a ten-year old daughter, to leave her prints in.

One Unforgettable Meal

2011-11-10T15:45:00.000-08:00

Maybe it was because I had been reading too many early 19th Century romantic novels (Jane Austen) that I decided, of all the choices on the menu, to order The Quail.The gentlemen in those novels are always going off shooting in the fall, and returning with all sorts of birds for the cook to roast over an open fire. Or, perhaps it was because, several years before, a family friend had arrived for a visit bringing with her a basket of tiny quail eggs which she pan-fried and served, four to a piece of toast, and they were so delicious that I thought the bird might be worth eating as well.

I was sharing an apartment with my sister and her husband, just off the colourful Commercial Drive in Vancouver. I was a student at UBC and living on a tight student loan budget. Eating out was a rare event, but one night my new boyfriend, my sister and her husband who was a masters student at UBC, and I decided to treat ourselves to a decent dinner at one of the Drive's many ethnic eateries. We chose a Mexican place with very plain decor - it looked like an office tacked up with cheap souvenir decorations - but with a reputation from at least one source for good food at reasonable prices.

I had eaten less than usual that day to make room for the Mexican feast and was starving by the time we arrived at the restaurant. Perhaps it was an off night for the cook because, while we all ordered our meals at the same time, we were each served at different times over the next hour and a half, with my boyfriend waiting ninety minutes for his meal. I cannot remember what the others ordered or if they enjoyed their food. Those details are eclipsed by the memory of the appearance of the small platter placed before me when The Quail finally arrived. I am not sure what I was expecting. Perhaps something like this dish described in Julia Child's wonderful book My Life in France:

The patron beautifully and swiftly carved off legs, wings, and breast, and served each person an entire bird, including the back, feet, head, and neck (when eating game, you nibble everything). He had placed the breast upon the canape, an oval-shaped slice of white bread browned in clarified butter, topped with the liver - which had been chopped fine with a little fresh bacon - then mixed with drops of port wine and seasonings before a brief run under the broiler. The sauce? A simple deglazing of the roasting juices with a little port and a swirl of butter. Delicious!

There was nothing gourmet about my serving of quail. Spread-eagled, beak up on a single, large piece of green lettuce, my poor little bird was charred to the bone like some kind of burn victim from the apocolypse. I looked down at my 'meal' and wondered what to do. In an effort to honour what I thought was some sort of Mexican delicacy, I took my fork and knife and attempted to scrape away some of the blackened flesh of which there was very little. I tasted it, and decided not to proceed. Still extremely hungry I picked at the lettuce and finished my beer.

We left the restaurant in a terrible mood, some of us still extremely hungry. I'm sure we went home and made some unromantic but satisfying toast and cheese. It was no accident that I spent the next phase of my life as an almost, very pretty nearly, vegetarian.

The other evening I assisted my pastry chef friend at her table at an annual event for local foodies. While my friend and I manned her table filled with hundreds of tiny blackberry buttercream macaroons and s'mores tarts (little graham cracker cups filled with chocolate ganache and topped with her famous homemade marshmallow which we toasted at some risk to ourselves using a butane blow-torch) her mother made the rounds to the other chefs' tables and brought us back tastes of everything. Over the course of the evening, we enjoyed chicken liver pate flavoured with brandy on rounds of sourdough baguette, tender rare bison, bocconcini skewers with cherry tomatoes, salmon tartare, various wines and flavoured mead. I was feeling adventurous by then and as I bit into a particularly foreign-looking canape I asked what it was. "Duck Confit with two kinds of duck!", said my friend.

"Ah", I said, and bravely finished my portion, washing it down with some lovely red wine. I think Julia Child would have approved of the duck confit, but I had to admit after tasting it that while I had made my peace with meat-birds long ago, I would never quite learn to appreciate anything more exotic than a plump, golden chicken or a wine-basted turkey.

Have a wonderful weekend, and if you go out for a meal try something new on the menu...or not.

Thank you Bill Watterson for the great comic from Calvin and Hobbes.

All Souls Day

2011-11-02T09:39:00.000-07:00

This past week I have revelled in the deep richness of the fall foliage. Today, realizing it is All Souls Day, I remembered this poem I wrote on this day last year. It is a rare event when I write a poem, but sometimes the thoughts and words just seems to organize themselves in verses. On that day the words seemed to fall together as some sort of gift from the muse, just as the leaves are falling to the ground outside my window at this moment, with some help from the intermittent gusts of wind.

Today I am taking some time to remember

all those souls I have known

who have moved on from this mixed bag of beauty and sorrow:

Lea, Peter, Nana and Grandad, Granny and Grampa,

Grampa Warren, Great-Grandad Matthew, Nana Brown,

and schoolmates

Pat, Laurel, and Jason

For whom we now Pray.

Also those souls I did not know but think of nonetheless:

my brother Michael who was born and died long before I came along,

(Would I be here had he lived?)

various ancestors whose DNA I share with my children

and authors and artists who filled the treasure chest of thought and vision

I look to for inspiration and comfort -

'We read to know we are not alone,' says C.S. Lewis' student in Shadowlands.

And then there are those with no one to remember them

in November we look upon the trees

singing their swan song in ruby red dress

Spirits waving in the fields

seem to say 'Vanity, vanity, all is vanity,'

'Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die'

My heart reaches out to lift them up and set them free

to the place where I hope to go

someday long from now

if only someone will remember me

Family, Revisited

2011-10-28T14:11:00.000-07:00

At one time in our lives, four of my five siblings and I lived within a three hour drive of each other, and the fifth lived just a day's drive away from the rest of us. We were all used to frequent visits and family gatherings. Then in 1996 it was like God dropped a stick of dynamite into the center of our happy proximity and blasted us all apart. One sister, Clare moved to Manitoba, where her husband had grown up and had now landed a good job. Our eldest sister Monica moved with her family to Prince Rupert on the north coast of British Columbia, which doesn't sound far but required two solid days of driving to cover the distance, for her husband Matthew's new job with the Forest Service. My own husband was transferred from Kimberley to central Vancouver Island, accessible only by plane or ferry. Our sister Pauline and brother Francis both stayed with their families in the same town as our parents, and Pauline still lives there, while one brother lives in Calgary with his family and my other brother now lives in Vancouver.

My husband and I managed to visit Prince Rupert once with our children when my eldest daughter was a baby, travelling overnight by boat on the Inside Passage - most of us were sea-sick. I plan to make it to Manitoba in the next year or two as I have not yet been to visit Clare in her home; she has come to us once, but we mostly just meet the odd summer at our parents' house. We've been to Calgary, too and had the occasional visit from family when we lived on the Island. While it was not ideal for all of us to be flung about Canada, we have all gained from the experience as our families have grown and each formed their own identity, in part due to the various natural environments in which we have lived. For example, it rains a lot in stormy Prince Rupert, so Monica and her family became resiliant in all weather, came to love the ocean and the wildness of that part of the world. Clare and Stephen and their families live through typically long, cold and snowy winters and enjoy skating, snowshoeing, skiing and sledding and all that good snow fun which they are required to embrace if they don't want to spent the long winters entirely indoors. My husband and I and our family have lived most of our years on the coast, near water, and where the damp invades our bones in winter. What have we gained from the experience? We know that it is imperative for us to dress in layers and that we love Beautiful British Columbia enough to keep us from moving somewhere else more affordable, like Saskatchewan.

Last year, almost to prove that we are never safe from surprises, the Forestry office in Prince Rupert after a steady downsizing, was shut down entirely by the government. My brother-in-law, Matthew got a new job with the Ministry of Envronment in Williams Lake, which is in the Cariboo region of B.C. just a five hour drive north of where I sit typing this blog post, and a nine hour drive to our hometown and my parents and sister, Pauline. The newspaper Monica was reporting for in Rupert was also bought out by a large newspaper chain, but she decided to stay there for one more year with her children, work as a freelance reporter and as an archives assistant at the local museum, while Matthew got used to his new job in the Cariboo and took his time looking for a house for them. The year went by fairly quickly for them with several visits back and forth, and at the end of August, Monica and their two youngest boys, now aged 12 and 15, made the move down to Williams Lake where Matthew had found a rambling, character-full home for them within walking distance of the downtown area and with a view of the water. "When are you coming to visit?" they asked us.

Monica is the eldest in my family of siblings and nine years older than I. Monica was always a busy, social, energetic sort of person, and I don't remember spending too much time with her when I was little, but the time I did spend was always fun. She used to pay me exhorbitant amounts of money to clean out her sock drawer or give her a neck rub. Monica was a Bee Gees fan in the Seventies and I had seen enough album covers lying around to be familiar with the look of the band. Around the same time, she had a bearded boyfriend who played the bagpipes, and years later I told her I had always thought of him as Barry Gibb in a kilt. She laughed - hard. She organized family games of poker with penny candy for betting chips, but I was too small to play. I was not too young to enjoy the baked treats she brought home every Saturday night after her shift at the bakery of some family friends, and Sunday mornings breakfasts were often composed of oven-warmed danishes and other delectible pastries. My memories of her are somewhat vague from those years, but I know she was kind, honest and generous to all of us.When I was nine she moved out of the house and by the time I was ten or eleven, she had moved with a friend half way across the country. One year, Monica brought Matthew home from Winnipeg for Christmas, and the next summer they were married in our Cathedral with myself as one of the five bridesmaids. I was thirteen and it was all terribly exciting. When I was seventeen and freshly graduated from high school, my mother suggested I travel by train with my bicycle to Winnipeg and spend the summer with Monica and Matthew and their little girl, Anna. It was that summer when our real friendship as sisters began. Our sister Clare was living in Winnipeg, too, newly married and we had a great time touring (and eating our way around) the city, attending the Winnipeg folk festival, and taking weekend trips. Monica and Matthew moved back to B.C. after that summer so Matthew could attend the Forestry program at the college near my hometown and Monica and I began to spend a lot of time together. We had plenty in common and grew very close although I was so much her junior in every way. Already an experienced mother herself, Monica was there for me when I had my first child, and my second, teaching me about feeding routines and the importance of naps, all with her trademark generosity and good humour.

Last weekend we accepted Monica and Matthew's invitation and took the kids for a three-day trip up to the Cariboo. We drove through the misty Fraser Canyon along the old Trans-Canada highway, up along the Fraser River before veering west along the Thompson River.

One of the many tunnels in the Fraser Canyon

A scene repeated throughout our journey through the Lytton area

We drove out of the coastal rain forest into the drier region of the Thompson Platea where the rolling hills and yellow grasses are marked by the old roadhouse numbers from the days of the Cariboo Gold Rush: 70 Mile House, 100 Mile House, 108 Mile House, 150 Mile House. Old log buildings, some refurbished and some left to the elements, dotted the landscape, and it was not hard to imagine the gold seekers seeking their uncertain fortunes and enduring all kinds of challenges along the way. By the time we reached Lac la Hache the sky was blue and the air markedly chilly compared to what we are used to.

One of the original roadhouses, now a heritage site

Just entering the Williams Lake region

We arrived at the house just after Monica and her older son had returned from his soccer match. Eager for a walk to work out the kinks from five solid hours in the car, my husband and I and a couple of the kids accepted Monica's invitation to walk and meet Matthew on his way home from work. The cousins got re-aquainted quickly. It had been just over two years since we had all been together at our family reunion.

We spent the weekend cooking together, going for long walks in the sunshine, exploring some great shops Monica had discovered, watching my nephew play ice hockey with some team-mates twice his size, my sister and I talking steadily and Matthew and my husband doing the same. We gathered around the table in the mornings, enjoying the view of the lake through the autumn foliage in their front yard, drinking coffee with cream and just, well, celebrating being together with the prospect of being able to do so much more often than we had in a very long time.

I love the elasticity of life. I had long ago accepted the fact that our families would stay connected mainly through writing and Facebook and the telephone, with the physical distances between us all being somewhat forbidding. Now, however, with my own family on the mainland, Monica's just north of us, and the others with children growing to the point of independence, visits are happening with greater regularity. Our family life is a bit like 'old times', but even richer somehow, after living far apart for so long and bringing a diversity of experience to share at the table. I'm looking forward to our next visit already.

Have a wonderful weekend!

And....We're Off.

2011-10-20T09:17:00.000-07:00

The other night in Pricesmart, in the forefront of the Halloween candy display, I noticed a full shelf of imported cookies in tins and boxes. They weren't decorated in a Christmas theme, but it was pretty clear the store had brought them in as a first hint of the looming, (did I say 'looming'? I meant 'coming') Season. Beside the shelf of cookies was a cardboard stand full of Christmas cards, which I thought was fine for October 9, if someone needed to mail cards to relatives in some far off place like an undiscovered village deep in the Amazon Rainforest or the International Space Station. Last weekend, in the ever-shameless Superstore, we were greeted with a sign declaring: HALLOWEEN COSTUMES 25% OFF, while over in the seasonal display area, the Halloween stuff was already being pushed rudely aside in preparation for the piles of the more lucrative Christmas paraphenalia. I suppose that means the Thanksgiving things were out in July, but I must have wilfully ignored them. (I have also recently observed that the traditional holiday decorations are cross-pollenating: one can now buy Easter tree decorations and Thanksgiving crackers - the kind that go 'bang' when pulled, not the kind you eat). Don't they know that we parents are just trying to deal with one holiday at a time?

I'll admit I felt differently as a child. When I was little the Sears Wish Book would arrive in early fall and my brother, Stephen and I would pore over the pages, make fun of the ultra-serious male models in turtlenecks and satin smoking jackets, and mark all the toys and games we liked. We'd lie in bed at night asking each other what we wanted for Christmas and dream of air hockey, Easy-bake ovens, and velveteen skirt and jacket sets with lace collared blouses (at least in my case). I'm pretty sure it was mid-November when I would break out the 'Radar the Happy Reindeer' record. I'd sit in my dad's big green chair with heater and massage feature, listening on earphones to the story and music (the earphones were considered a great peace-keeping invention in our house.) After all, looking forward to Christmas is half the fun of it, but really, there are limits!

Is it truly necessary for the malls and shops to break out the Christmas decorations before Remembrance Day? It never hurts to be organized with one's shopping and preparations, but can't we do it on the sly instead of being so damned obvious about it?; ie. if I see something I think would make a great gift I will probably buy it and store it away in my hidden cache, but I don't need to be surrounded by tinsel and animated plastic Santas to do it. I mean, by the time Christmas is over I'm sick to death of hearing Elvis' 'Blue Christmas' while I shop for bread, milk and toilet paper. I would be the first to vote for a law against PDC's (Public Displays of Christmas) until December first.

My family and I spent this Thanksgiving with some very good friends at their farm. Since the day promised to be fine, we opted for a mid-day meal followed by a walk in the fields. It was wonderful to spend the morning cooking and the afternoon, after a huge turkey dinner followed by dessert and coffee, out in the fall sunshine. We first walked to the salmon spawning channel where the last of the coho struggled and splashed, next we walked to the second furthest field and spotted a big black bear enjoying the furthest field's grass. We watched the bear for a few minutes until it seemed to notice us, then headed south towards the house. We admired the row of sugar maples, all yellow and glowing against the deep blue of the mountains, we hunted for and dissected owl pellets in the cedar grove, and picked all the pumpkins in the farm's patch and loaded them onto the wagon. Back at the house we did the dishes while the children nibbled on pie and leftover potatoes, and then home we went, our bellies too full for anything resembling supper. And the best part? We didn't think about Christmas even once.

The above is a re-posting of a blog post I wrote two years ago. I hope you enjoyed it (and don't get me wrong, I love Christmas, truly I do!) My kids saw the first 'Holiday' themed TV ad of the year back near the end of August.

A Very Canadian Thanksgiving

2011-10-14T13:15:00.000-07:00

It seems for the thousands of Wooly Bear caterpillars that risk their lives to cross the roads here in the fall year after year, the grass must truly be greener on the other side. Why would they risk the perilous crossing otherwise, poor things? Squashed, runover caterpillars appear everywhere, and soft hearted people swerve in an attempt to miss the ones still inching their way across the asphalt. Fall is the tragic, but beautiful death of the year. From the smoke from crackling bonfires of fallen leaves and pruned branches and the damp, earthy scents after days of cool rain, to the overripe sweetness of apples and plums fallen to the ground and the water's edge smell of decaying salmon that have completed their epic spawning mission and succomed to their exhaustion, the air is full of it. It is during the middle of this season when we Canadians celebrate Thanksgiving. The idea for celebrating it at this time is to enjoy the bounty of the recent harvest and to give thanks for the cycle of life and all its gifts, a practise inherited from our European and British ancestors. The holiday also gives us a day off in October. During the latter part of the 1800's and before World War I, we celebrated Thanksgiving in November. After World War I, which brought the November 11th Remembrance Day holiday, the Canadian government decided to move Thanksgiving back to the second Monday in October. Americans celebrate their Thanksgiving late in November to commemorate the arrival of the first Pilgrims to their shores, and they, being further south enjoy a typically later harvest.

We spent our Thanksgiving Sunday with our friends again on their beautiful farm. Across the road from their house are man-made spawning channels, an extension of the natural slough that surrounds the island on which they live. After a delicious mid-day meal of roasted turkey and all the trimmings, and while their two children and three of ours (our eldest spent the week visiting his grandparents) went canoeing, we adults walked along the shore of the channels, watching the coho and spring salmon fight and splash their way up the stream.

launching the girls' canoe

And the boys are off

A beaver trail leading from the water to some
very fine trees for dam building

rosehips and racing!

Still water reflection

Beautiful fiery sumac on the walk back to the house

Room for rent

After our outdoor adventure, we headed back indoors for dessert, which consisted of pumpkin pie made with maple syrup as the sweetener (you cannot get much more Canadian than that) and delicious blackberry pie with plenty of whipped cream. My husband and I did as many dishes as our hosts would allow us to do, and then we rounded up the kids who were enjoying a rousing battle with 'nerf darts'. We are so thankful for these friends who shared their holiday and their harvest with us. We came home with fresh eggs, potatoes directly from the field, apples and pears from their trees, but more than that, we came home with pictures, in our camera to share with you, and in our minds to keep forever.

Opening a Can of Worms...and not for Fishing

2011-10-05T16:54:00.000-07:00

There is a family joke about me when I began Kindergarten. My teacher, Mrs. Campbell, who had taught Kindergarten to, I believe, all of my five older siblings, took my mother aside after the first day. "Mrs. Lamb, you did very well with all of your other children in preparing them for Kindergarten. They were independant and capable, but you've missed the boat with this one." Apparently, although I arrived at Kindergarten already knowing how to read, when it was time to go outside I had stood with my coat in one hand and my shoes in the other, waiting for the servants to put them on me. I think my mother was aghast, and I was taught to tie my shoes post-haste, or at least buckle them by myself.

After school, I would meet my mother down at the corner of Ward and Baker streets where the buses were waiting. She often wore her beautiful red coat with the black frog buttons, her long, dark hair pulled back in a barette and I could always spot her from far away. Sometimes we rode the bus home together, and sometimes she took me for a treat at the Woolworth counter. Other times she would take me to visit the nuns up the hill at the convent - they always had good cookies, or to visit one of her interesting artist friends. Sometimes she had her bicycle with her and would 'race' the bus home. I only had to go to school for half the day, but truly, I think it was enough for me. I don't remember making a fuss about going to Kindergarten where we acted out The Three Billy Goats Gruff and spent 'quiet time' on bits of carpet samples, but I treasured the afternoon time alone with my mother too much not to look forward to it. My wonderful, noisy crowd of siblings would be home soon enough, and often my parents were out in the evenings at play rehearsals or choir practise. Those evenings I would be put to bed by one of my sisters or one of the university students who boarded with us in our large rented house by the lakeshore.

These memories came to the surface the other day when I had walked with my youngest daughter, who is turning ten soon, to school. This fall, for the first time in this corner of Canada, five-year olds must go to school for the full day. It is mandatory and legislated by the government. The official reason for all-day Kindergarten is that too many children are arriving at Kindergarten without even the basics of numeracy or literacy, not to mention the social skills necessary to function in a crowd of eighteen children. The unofficial reason seems to me to be an answer to the inconvenience that half days give for working parents, which is fair enough in this day and age, I suppose. Somehow, though, the idea of full day Kindergarten for all these tiny little urchins makes me sad.

My youngest child was the first of my children to go to Kindergarten in a public school. The others were taught by me at home. She went for the mornings, and a couple of days per week, when I picked her up, I brought home her friend Simon with us. Simon's mother is a teacher at our school and his father is a farmer who needed some regular afternoons to get his chores done without a five year old 'helper'. Simon and Katie would eat their lunch at our table and then spend the afternoon playing games together, which often invoved both our collection of small plastic dinosaurs and our doll house, reading with me, and if the weather was fine, going to the park. Simon's parents paid me to look after him, but sometimes I thought I should pay them for supplying Katie with such a fine playmate. That being said, about once a week, Katie would ask, "Mommy, when can we have a you-and-me day?" and then she and I would hatch a plan for an outing or an activity together one afternoon when her brothers and sister were at school and Simon was at home helping his dad with the vacuuming.

I do realize that children are incredibly adaptive creatures. Is full day Kindergarten really the end of the world? Probably not, and some will handle the days packed with prescribed learning outcomes very well, but I can think of two of my own children who would have found the long days very hard. My second son would have come home completly tied in knots after a full day of trying to 'get along well with others', and Katie, who is incredibly sensitive and finds it hard to keep up with the energy of the class even now, would have missed me too much. She and Simon may have been happy enough ignoring me as they played, but they both knew I was there and were content in the knowledge that I would basically leave them be, until they needed a snack or asked for 'book time' as we called it, while they got on with the business of being children.

I suppose what I am trying to say is that children grow up so fast as it is. Perhaps, rather than farming children out into the school system full time in Kindergarten, we should be supporting parents to stay at home, read to them, let them play, take them outside, and build a stronger parent-child bond. The numeracy and literacy will come soon enough if the schools are allowed to do their job properly. If this nineteenth day of the March on Wall Street proves anything, it is that our society needs to do a much better job of prioritizing what really matters in life. This endless drive toward owning and consuming, which then causing a domino effect, creates an economic environment in which it is expected that both parents will work outside the home or that single parents will hold down two or more jobs, leaves the schools to deal with the fallout. My heart goes out to all the people camping on Wall Street, and those who are going to gather at the steps of the Vancouver Art Gallery on October 15, as well as in other locations around North America. They say 'enough is enough' and for the sake of our children, I say 'hear hear'.

A Blog Challenge...Pass it On

2011-10-01T14:54:00.000-07:00

My good friend Alistair from Crivens, jings, and help ma Boab, (a great blog, by the way, which includes several adventures with The Lovely G and a cat named Jess) tagged me in a challenge earlier this week. It was a good thing, for he gave me a blog topic for a week when all my creative energy was being sucked into an onerous vortex of grant and report writing. Workwise, it was a week from, as we say here in Canada, H-E-double-hockey-sticks, but I have begun to surface from beneath an Everest sized pile of papers. The Report was delivered yesterday morning and the grant application, completed with no time to spare, put into the hands of the fine folks at Snail Mail Incorporated (Canada Post) for its journey to the British Columbia Arts Council headquarters in Victoria. A lot of other things happened this week as well, but I won't bore my friends with the details. Instead, I will get on with answering the following questions before I tag five more friends.
Nominated blogs have to create a list of the following:

What's your most beautiful post.

What's been your most popular post.

What's been your most controversial post.

What's been your most helpful post.

Which posts success has surprised you most.

Which of your posts do you feel didn't get the attention it deserved.

Which post are you proudest of

My most beautiful post? I'd have to say A Week Away because writing it was a beautiful, multi-sensory experience the result of which nearly equalled my vision for the post. That does not happen very often!

My most popular post? Well, this answers the next question as well. My most popular post, according to my stats anyway, was A Trip from Bountiful about two Fundamentalist Mormon young women I went to college with. This post garnered a lot of attention and some heated debate between myself and a friend. I was glad to move on to the next topic after that!

My most helpful post? I would have to say The Turning Point because this post seemed to reassure some parents, and give some others something to think about regarding their own children in a positive way. It also served to help me articulate some of the deeper thoughts I have about parenting children in what can sometimes be a callous world.

Which post's success surprised me the most? One of my earliest posts, "I Had a Farm in Africa", brought comments from people all over the blogosphere and beyond. The post is about my friends who did, and do still, have a farm in Africa, but its title was what initially attracted so many visits and shows how well loved the book and film Out of Africa is around the world. I had never had a post gain so many comments and it was a delightful surprise way back in 2009 when I had only just begun as a blogger.

Which of my posts didn't get the attention it deserved? Gosh, that sounds a bit like sour grapes. However, if I have to pick one, it would be The Dancer who Rattled the Boards, because when I posted it, not many people knew I even had a blog, let alone were following my posts! This post is about a dance I went to once, and a very special dancer who cleared the floor.

Which post am I proudest of? I'm going to go out on a limb (pardon the pun) and say, at least for today, I am proud of my post Tractor Yoga, because it was funny, well received, informative...and I dearly love to be funny if I possibly can.

Now it is my turn to tag five friends for the blogger challenge! (Thanks to Al for the Calvin and Hobbes pic.)

1. Anita from Beyond the Diapers and Spills because she's always making her readers think by framing every post as a question, and now it's our turn to return the favour!

2. Lucille from Useful or Beautiful because her blog title says it all. Lucille manages, with a few crafted images, words, borrowed or original, to evoke a life worth living. She takes beauty very seriously, but there is always an underlying whimsey to her posts. And she can be very funny, too! (see her 'Cow Patty Cake' post)

3. Brian from Waystation One because he has a huge variety of posts to choose from, and I'd like to see what he comes up with as answers to each question...maybe some poems I haven't had the chance to read?

4. Tracey from Unos dos Tracey because she needs something to challenge her after her recent ten-day Alaskan cruise. And because she has some very, very funny posts!

5. Vince from Reeds because he is interesting, provoking, thoughtful, and wacky by turns. His blog is like that friend you don't always agree with but can always be counted on to liven things up.

So, I hope these friends take up the challenge. If they can't be bothered then I won't be offended...these tag things are supposed to be fun in any case, not a burden.

Cheers, all! And happy reading.

A poem for September (the ninth month of the year)

2011-09-22T15:39:00.000-07:00

"September is beautiful, but kind of heavy" says Emily.

Where Emily lives winters are a serious business,

only eight weeks until the snow flies up there.

Down here in the south

The heaviest thing about September are the peaches.

The Red Havens weigh down your hand like a five-pin bowling ball.

The early Gala apples, too

coloured over in a pencil crayon blush of 'rosy red' and 'yellow green',

So loaded with the fullness of autumn they fall to the ground

if you don't catch them first.

"September is beautiful, but kind of heavy" says Emily.

Winter encroaches with melancholy sweetness.

The heaviness lies in the work to be done.

The weight of the harvest requires a sturdy handled basket,

It is always tempting to gather too much.

Plums and apricots, beets and cabbages,

corn and blackberries, peppers and grapes,

Mounds of hearty plumpness heaped on the table,

Some for the freezer - for months down the road.

The peaches I leave in the bowl for today,

Preferring to save their juicy ripeness as a surprise again for next year.

We eat them standing, leaning over the sink.

Toothsome glory running down our chins.

*************

I discovered a wonderful recipe which uses fresh peaches and plums, or any other seasonal fruit, and had to share it. Enjoy!

Plum-Peach Crisp (from The Splendid Grain by Rebecca Wood)

4 ripe Italian prune plums
4 ripe peaches
1/4 cup maple syrup
1 Tbsp unbleached all-purpose flour
1 Tbsp orange liqueur (such as Grand Marnier or Cointreau) optional
1 Tbsp finely slivered or grated orange zest

1/4 cup oatmeal
1/2 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
1/2 cup packed light brown sugar or Sucanat
Pinch of sea salt
4 Tbsp cold butter, cut into small pieces
1/2 cup walnuts or pecans, toasted

Whipped cream (optional)

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees Celcius. Butter a 9 inch pie pan or a deep baking dish.
Scald the plums and peaches in boiling water for about 15 seconds. Pour into a colander, rinse with cold water, and slip off the skins. Cut in half and remove the pits. Place the plums on the bottom of the pie pan. Arrange peach halves over the plums. Combine the maple syrup, 1 Tbsp flour, liqueur, and orange zest in a small bowl. Pour over the fruit.
Mix the oatmeal, flour, Sucanat, and salt in a food processor or bowl. Add the butter pieces. Process or cut the butter with 2 knives until crumbly. Stir in the pecans. Sprinkle the topping over the fruit. Bake for 35-40 minutes, or until the crust is golden. Let cool for 10 minutes to allow the top to become crisp. Serve warm, garnished with dollops of whipped cream, if desired.

The Delicate Art of Listening

2011-09-16T10:02:00.000-07:00

I have heard it said, that if everyone around were to throw their problems in a big pile with the option of trading for someone else's, most people, after thinking about it, would pull their own problems back out again. I would guess the person from whom this quote came meant that, like a pair of worn-in shoes, our own difficulties and challenges are tailor made for us and best worn by ourselves. I feel that way sometimes, especially after I hear about some of the struggles other people are dealing with.

When we are wrapped up in our own world which, arguably, with the invention of earbuds and smartphones, happens with increasing regularity, it can be tempting to believe so one else suffers like we do, no one else has struggles like ours. During one of my recent visits home, my dad said he had heard some stories lately from people he knew, about what they had been through in their lives, and he wondered how they could carry on. If it is true that we are each only given what we can handle, then I would argue that many people must be far stronger than I. When I stop and think about it, I have it good.

Some days I get a lot of things done, and those are my 'productive' days. On those days, I take care of business, go for a run, cook my family a great meal, get some work done around the house. Other days, I write, go for a walk to clear my head, find a treasure at the thrift shop. Those are good days, too. Other days, I don't know if I'm coming or going. Nothing seems to get accomplished and my ears ache. Those are the days I need to listen to my body and have a nap after lunch, or go to bed early with a good book and try again tomorrow. Some days I spend socially, whether by working with people or by meeting friends for coffee. I have several good friends here and I love to visit with them. Generally, we take turns talking and spend the visit catching up, but sometimes I have to sit and listen because someone just needs my ear.

One of my old friends' mother was a teacher. She frequently told me I would make a good teacher, and when I asked her why, she said it was because I was a good listener. That surprised me because, until then, I had not considered myself a good listener, and I always believed the job of a teacher was to stand up in front of a classroom and lecture. As I later learned, that was a small part of effective teaching. A good teacher listens to the responses of her students and knows how to proceed with the lesson. She must make adjustments for each child, and make allowances for her student's situation in life and temperament. I learned so much from teaching my own children to read, for example. I learned intimately how each of their minds processed information and put different elements together from the give and take of our lessons. When I was a child in school I often lamented how long it took me to 'get' a concept, particularly in science and math, and sometimes I had to read story problems over and over to focus enough to understand them. Reading is a type of listening, and little did I know I was learning the art of listening with every challenging concept.

I don't think everyone is as attached to listening as an artform. I remember driving with my husband, shortly after we were married, up the Alaska Highway to Whitehorse. It was the 50th anniversary of the world- famous highway and the frost heaved asphalt, which was always under construction in summer, was bumper to bumper with recreational vehicles. At one construction road block, we had to wait for quite a long time. We got out of the car to stretch our legs as did the couple in the R.V. in front of us, which was tattooed with stickers from the 50 States. The couple decided to chat with us and began the conversation with a question, which was followed by another question, which was followed by another. The couple never waited for our answer before they asked the next question, merely said "uh huh?" and looked around impatiently before asking another question they didn't really want an answer to. To be a good listener, you have to like the sound of other people's voices almost as much as the sound of your own.

Yesterday afternoon, after spending a good chunk of my day listening to the tearful, very personal struggles of a couple of friends, I had a half hour to myself before my youngest daughter would be home from school. My eldest, home from a trip abroad and searching for his next opportunity in life, was even out with a friend. I made some tea and sat down to enjoy it. I thought how honoured I was to have the trust and friendship of those two women, and even though I had produced little to show for my day - no housework except some sheets washed and piled in a heap on a chair - I felt good. I felt good about myself as a friend - I wasn't always so compassionate - and I felt happy that my own struggles were not weighing me down enough to close my ears to others' troubles. I knew inevitably they would again sometime in the future, and then it would be my turn to talk. I pondered my youngest's recent struggles with adjusting to the back-to-school routine and was glad I was able to listen well to her and respond accordingly. She is settling in nicely now.

I sat back with my tea to enjoy my quiet half hour. After about three minutes of blissful silence, the front door opened and my eldest son leapt up the stairs, two at a time. I felt myself inhale sharply.

"How was your day, Mom?"

I exhaled slowly and resumed sipping my tea. "Good, how was yours?"

And so it goes.

Experiencing France via Armchair Airlines

2011-09-09T19:04:00.000-07:00

We did not pick up our son from the airport. The parents of one of his travelling companions owned a van large enough to fit the whole group and their luggage. I was in the kitchen when the door opened and a familiar, "Hello family!" sounded in the hallway. Ian, eighteen years old and recently graduated from high school, spent five weeks of the summer touring around Western Europe. Now he was home. After giving everyone a brief hug, he immediately emptied the contents of his backpack onto the floor and passed around the gifts he had bought for all of us: beautiful scarves for the girls and I, a Tour de France t-shirt for his dad, a 'Roma City' t-shirt with a map of all the sights for his brother, and ten bars of Swiss chocolate, less one. "I got hungry on the plane," he explained.

We had so many questions. The emails and facebook messages had been few and far between, which was good. I had told him to enjoy everything without worrying about us at home. The entire time Ian was away, he told us, he had not been annoyed or bothered by anything. Anytime anything or anyone became difficult he would say to himself 'Whatever. I'm in Rome!" or," Who cares. I'm in Paris!' We spent the evening listening to stories and anecdotes of his adventures and looked forward to viewing the 1500 photos stored on the memory card of the camera his sister had loaned him for the trip. I watched his face, which positively glowed as he talked, and it was obvious to me that his heart was still among the lights, sights and sounds of the last city he visited - Paris.

As we chatted I soaked his words up like a sponge, wetting the colours of my own imagination in an attempt to paint pictures in my mind of Holland, Switzerland, Italy, Spain and France, countries where I have never been. I have always loved to listen to the stories of travellers, and to read descriptive books with settings in faraway lands. One of my favourite writer's novels are often set in Greece. When I read of Athens and Mikonos I can see the wild gladiolas on the cliffs, hear the birds call, and taste the dust of the roads baked by the heat. Sometimes I watch the film version of Mamma Mia just so I can gaze at the extraordinary scenery of that particular part of Greece.

Yesterday, still recovering from a bad cold, I watched a film I have been meaning to see for ten years. When Ian and the people he had travelled to Europe with gathered for coffee one morning last week, they invited my daughters and I to join them. We were looking at one of the group's photos of their day in Montmartre, where Sacre Coeur cathedral keeps watch atop the highest point in Paris. In the photos were several photos of Cafe des 2 Moulins - Cafe of the two Windmills - an art deco cafe made famous by the French film Amelie.

The young man in the black apron on the left with
the two young women is the waiter in question

Apparently, if you sit in a booth at Cafe des 2 Moulins your cafe au lait costs 3.80 euros, but if you stand at the counter it costs 2.50 euros. To sit in the spot where Amelie's love interest sat, well, that costs even more. One of the photos shows Ian, and four others sitting at a table. The other of their party, the father of one of the girls chose to stand at the counter, muttering something about not paying good money to sit in a booth. In one photo Ian and his travelling companions are posing with a waiter, a young man who played up his quirky Frenchness - and gained many repeat customers among the tourists that way - my husband added drily when Ian told him the story. As we passed the photos around the table of our own local coffee house, I mentioned that I had always wanted to see Amelie, and had never been able to due to it not being available at any of the video stores I knew. One of the young women said she owned a copy of the film and would be happy to lend it to me. She dropped it off at my house early the next morning on her way out of town. She was off to begin her second year of university in Vancouver.

The original French movie poster. In North America
the film was simply titled Amelie.

Amelie was nominated for five Academy Awards in 2001. Now that I have seen it, I think it must have been quite a revelation to film lovers at that time. Everything about it, except for the plot which, to me is a fantastically dressed fairytale, is unique, or was in 2001. I do not want to give the plot away too much to the, perhaps, ten other people on the planet who have not seen Amelie, but suffice it to say, Travelocity's use of a travelling garden gnome in their ads is not an original idea, and the main character of the film is so well loved I know of at least one person who named her first born child after her. Most of all, the film is full of flavour, one that is distinctly and evocatively Parisian. I have seen other French films (I do not mind subtitles at all having grown up reading the bass clef and treble clef simultaneously when studying the piano) and while they are all unique stories, they all still share something of the same French flavour, one that is steeped in wine and wonderful food, a tumultuous past, and a passion for life and for love. Now that I've finally seen Amelie, and gotten a taste of that Parisian flavour, I think I'll continue my armchair travels of France with some more films...Chocolat, A Year in Provence, J'aime Paris, etc.,etc.,etc. The arts are rather useful that way.

A Time to Ponder, then carry on.

2011-09-02T17:10:00.000-07:00

Her nametag read 'Senior Accounts Manager'. She wore a soft, ruffled pink and cream floral blouse with a light cardigan, and her dark curls were pulled off her face but let fall on her shoulders. She came out to greet us in the bank's main hall, and with a soft, kind voice, invited us in to her office. Two of us had arrived on time, the third member of our party was running late. As we began to fill out the paperwork for our non-profit arts organization, the accounts manager helped us along, explaining her familiarity with non-profits by her own involvement on the board of a local women's transition house society. Part of the paperwork involved listing the occupations of all our board's directors. One of us is a full time artist and art instructor and one of us is a general manager for an arts festival. One of us is a tax accountant, another is an administrative assistant in a training facility for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. We are a small board of directors and it was soon time to state my occupation. I said what has been my answer to this official question for the past twenty years: homemaker. As we waited for our third member to arrive, we chatted some more. It turned out the senior accounts manager is also a silversmith (she makes jewellery) and something of a painter.

I rarely meet such a kindred spirit in a bank setting, and it proves, once again, that people are often so much more than the label on their nametag. Late that night, as I tossed and turned, trying to get back to sleep after a spell of wakefulness, I pondered the whole classification of occupation, particularly mine of 'homemaker'. I know that many women are content with cleaning, organizing, sewing, baking and cooking, and gardening as their job description. If only I were, it would make life a whole lot easier. It is not that I don't enjoy making a home for my family, I honestly do. I consider myself lucky to be home for my kids when they come home from school, and usually have some fresh baking for them, just as my mother had for us. I know how important it is to provide a welcoming place for my hard working husband to 'land' after a day of problem solving, trouble shooting, and human resources issues at the hotel where he is a manager. It does my heart good to see him look up from his dinner plate with a weary smile and say to me, "This is really good." The thing is, homemaking is not quite enough for me; I am compelled, like many other women, including my mother before me, to reach out to the world beyond my little home sphere. So, while for official purposes I must write 'homemaker' on the dotted line, I, like the senior accounts manager at the bank, am occupied with much more than my title would suggest.

In addition to heading two volunteer-run organizations, I also have begun to sing with an acapella quartet of women - we have performed once already, and have begun to rehearse for an event in October. I also hold an on-call paid postion, work I welcome because money is sometimes tight. As if I weren't busy enough, there is also a sort of underground stream of consciousness running in my brain, which is constant and demands attention as well. This stream is my creative self. When I heed its demands and work with it, it does what a stream does, refreshes me and conquers this constant thirst I have to make sense of things by putting them into words. I am beginning to think I need to let that stream widen and flow with more assurance, but how? There is always so much else to do.

I have been reading the autobiography of a favourite writer, Rumer Godden. I have read several of her books, some of which I think brilliant in depicting the emotional landscape of sensitive souls. Godden was more than a writer, she was an artist in every sense of the word. Writing was her life's blood, not just a stream running through her other pursuits. Her life was often difficult, but she was propelled forward by the need to be true to her great gift as a writer. Sometimes she made decisions which required her to, in her own words, 'harden (her) heart.' A single mother (until she married the capable, solid and supportive James Haynes-Dixon) whose children often kept her sane, Godden placed her girls in boarding school when they were old enough so she could concentrate on her writing, although her children desired strongly to stay with her. She, of course, had to make a living as she received no child support, and this fact was also an impetus. Unskilled in the kitchen and lacking in household management skills, Godden hired help. She became highly successful and fulfilled, but she worked, and worked, and worked at her writing. As with other successful artists, the right people came into her life at the right time, and helped her carry on, often when she believed all hope was lost.

While not in Rumer Godden's class, I understand and appreciate much of what she says in her autobiography. It is clear she knew what she was meant to do on this earth, and did it to the exclusion of most other things - although for a time she supported her family as a dance teacher, and during the Second World War while she and her children were exiled in Kashmir, India, she and a friend earned money by growing and collecting herbs for tisanes and herbal remedies. While Godden genuinely loved children, enjoyed teaching, being a mother, and making herbal remedies for a time, she always knew in her core that writing was the piper she must follow. When her children were very young, she rose at 4:30 a.m. and wrote in the cold. Stories often just came to her, their characters growing almost of their own accord, and by the end of her long life, Godden had produced an impressive list of works, many of which can be found in the Classics section of quality book stores. Most wise people say, 'choose one thing to do, and do that one thing well.' I envy people who can operate that way. When I think of devoting myself entirely to writing, I know I would find it hard to figure out which of my other occupations to give up. They all seem important and worth doing, so for now, I do them all.

September is particularly taxing with grant applications to write, programs to start up, kids to help adjust to new teachers and courses in school, but I muddle along and somehow everything gets done. I live in hope that one day I will be struck by some defining idea of the one thing I should do, and do well, and I will know how to proceed. Until then, I suppose I will continue to marvel at those who have already been struck and been brave enough to act on that inspiration. Or perhaps I am just one of those people whose many occupations serve to make a whole person with a wider view of the world, much like the lovely senior accounts manager who surprised me and brightened my day. Time, and my evolving life, will tell.

Other People's Words

2011-08-26T21:26:00.000-07:00

I came across the above quote in my new day planner, just before I sat down to write my last post. I still use a book style day planner as I have neither a Blackberry nor an iphone to keep track of my life for me. I still like to write things down with a pen on paper, make lists, and cross off tasks as I complete them. Call me old fashioned.

I use student planners because they go from August to August, tracking the school year, just as I, the mother of school-aged children do. They are also reasonably priced. My newest planner, created by the fine company Polestar Press has a quote for each week of the year, meant to inspire the student, of course, but I find the quotes work just as well for me. I'm often looking for little ways to keep motivated and organized. Call me human.

Being a words person, I've liked quotes since I was a young teenager. I remember suggesting to my family that we put a small chalk board by the telephone (the center of the house) and take turns writing funny or inspiring quotes to live by. "Wouldn't that be great?" I said with all the conviction of youthful enthusiasm. My dad looked over his glasses at me and cocked an eyebrow. Okay, maybe not. We did share quotes from time to time, and put funny comic strips on the fridge. Close enough.

Some of my favourite quotes are from artists, like the one above. I was given a gift certificate to a book store as a prize in my last year of school. I bought The Book Lover's Birthday Book from the Metropolitain Museum of Art to keep track of the birthdays of my friends and large family (eighteen nieces and nephews at last count). The book, which I still have and use is full of illustrations from a great variety of classic books, birth dates of writers, and a great quote from a writer for each day. I still enjoy all the quotes, many of which are not commonly known.

Facebook seems to be a haven for quote collectors of all stripes. I've read quotes by everyone from the Dalai Lama and Mother Teresa to the boy band The Jonas Brothers, thanks to my diverse group of Facebook friends. The quotes range from extremely cheesy to funny or inspiring. Most recently, fifteen Facebook friends posted the last hopeful message from a popular Canadian politician who was dying of cancer.

Why do people love quotes so much? Not long ago The Bible was the most quoted book in the Western Hemisphere. Nowadays I'm not sure if many people realize that many of the things they say are actually quotes from the Bible. "To everything there is a season," for example, is from Ecclesiastes. After I saw a production of the musical Godspell, I heard the people sitting in front of us remark on all the great lines in the play. My mom leaned over to me and said quietly, "Well, it's hard to get better quotes than from Jesus himself." I think people are searching for words of insight and wisdom all the time, words on which to hang their hat and make sense of our common human plight.

One of my favourite lines in the Steve Martin film, Roxanne, is actually a mis-quote spoken by Roxanne's dimwitted love interest, Chris. Chris is being fed whispered lines from Steve Martin's much more brilliant and eloquent Cyrano de Bergerac-type character, from his hiding place in bushes. Chris is repeating those lines and calling them up to Roxanne who is leaning starry eyed over the balcony rail above. At one point, Roxanne asks Chris why he hasn't spoken so eloquently in person before. Steve whispers from the bushes: "I was afraid of words, Roxanne, words!"

Chris gives Steve a baffled look, then calls up to Roxanne: "I was afraid of worms, Roxanne, worms!"

I have many favourite quotes, but here are ten off the top of my head:

"We read to know we are not alone." C.S. Lewis

"Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth." The Beatitudes

"Sometimes you're the Louisville Slugger, baby, sometimes you're the ball." Mark Knopfler

"Don't borrow trouble 'till trouble borrows you." A well known saying that originated from 'The Sermon on the Mount', I believe.

"We learn from history that we don't learn from history." Bishop Desmond Tutu

"You must be the change you want to see in the world." Ghandi

"You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes you get what you need." The Rolling Stones

"If we have a natural disaster and everything is destroyed, it will be the Third World that has to show us how to live." My younger son

"It's a dog-eat-dog world and I'm wearing Milkbone underwear." Norm Peterson

"It's not the mountain ahead that wears you down; it's the sand in your shoe." Robert W. Service

Have a great weekend and please share a favourite quote if you have one!

A Week Away

2011-08-19T21:57:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I returned from a week away. 'A week away' has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? It just rolls off the tongue like 'Back in a minute,' or 'Make yourself at home,' and opens up vistas of possiblilty in the imagination. A regular week around here goes by in the wink of an eye, and is usually made up of a list of Monday to Friday chores, weekend activity, and whatever is good on TV. A week away, however, is a completely different thing: another place, a different scene, another schedule entirely. A week away from being in charge of things at home is a real vacation. For seven days I stayed at a house where someone else thought about watering the garden, someone else made the coffee and asked me if I would like tea, and where someone else did the majority of the cooking. Don't get me wrong, I did plenty of dishes, helped with the cooking and with the entertaining of the many cousins who congregated there, but that is not the same as being in charge of it all. For a whole week I knew somewhere in the back of my mind that the end of summer was coming with its back-to-school shopping, its recommence of volunteer and paid work, and fall cleaning, but I could cast those cares aside for later. I was on holiday.

Earlyish on a Monday morning three of my kids and I threw our bags, coolers and pillows in the back of our minivan. My husband was not able to join us and our eldest was in Europe, so we were able to spread out and be comfortable travellers, each with their own bucket seat complete with arm rests and adjustable back rests. We stocked up with cold water, music, snacks and a packed lunch, and hit the road. We drove up through the twists and turns of Manning Park, our first mountain pass. The air was cool when we reached the summit, fragrant with the scent of alpine trees and flowers. Once in Princeton, we drove alongside the shallow ripples of the beautiful Kettle River, through ranchland and fruit-stand territory. We stopped for lunch in Osoyoos, which is in the northern part of the Sonora desert. With irrigation, Osoyoos has become a fruit and wine-grape growing hub dissected by a long, warm lake for swimming and boating. We sat in the shade on the beach just below the tourist strip and a couple of us went for a swim in the mid-day heat. I thought about what my friend had said a few days before when she had returned from a trip across the province. She said that every two hours of driving brought her to a completely different geoclimatic zone, and how fascinating that was. I agreed.

One of the many Osoyoos wineries

Stopping for lunch in Osoyoos

We continued on through the dry sagebrush country, following for a time a rather uncertain recreational vehicle driver pulling a boat that wove back and forth, and passing him at the first opportunity. We picked up fresh peaches for my parents along the way and refreshing drinks for ourselves, and after a few hours the scenery became green again and we began another climb up into the mountains to the Blueberry Paulson - a destination for backcountry skiers in winter - and down the other side. Finally, we arrived at my parents' house in my hometown in time for supper. I was offered a stein of my dad's homemade beer, chilled and with a large head of fluffy foam. It was delicious and most welcome after a full day of driving.

Comfortable beds had been set up for the girls and I out on the porch, the place I slept with my sisters and brothers all summer long when I was a child. My son slept in the attic which my parents had converted to a sleeping/storage loft a few years ago. The nights were cool and scented with the herbs of the surrounding gardens. We kept my parents' hours, retiring early and rising early, too, enjoying the effect of a second cup of coffee on the energy of the conversation around the breakfast table. Nelson has a downtown full of interesting shops so the kids were eager to go most mornings, and since my parents' house is only a few blocks up the hill, I could help clean up the breakfast dishes and relax a bit before I walked down to meet them. My son bought several vinyl albums at second hand shops and enjoyed the chocolate mousse cake at one of the fine bakeries.

My kids' favourite bakery cafe

My teenage daughter shopped for clothes and found some unique pieces, and also enjoyed buying treats she couldn't find at home. My youngest shopped for books with her savings, and bought a bizarre foam substance that bounces whatever shape she moulds it into. I didn't shop much. I was there to visit family, to talk, to share stories, go for walks up and down the numerous hills and to see a couple of old friends.

My brother arrived on the Friday with his boys and the next day he took them and my son for a hike to the brand new cabin in Kokanee Provincial Park, where a celebration was being held for the 100th Anniversary of British Columbia Parks. My mom was also at the cabin providing historical information to the visitors. I took all the girl cousins and my sister to a favourite beach for the day.

My teenage daughter would have liked to hike with the boys, but she had forgotten her sturdy shoes. I promised her a hike up the the top of the town the next morning. "Can we come?" said the girl cousins. We ended up taking the boy cousins, too.

The view from our hike to the top of the town

A few more beach days, a few more walks and visits, a morning of shopping for a few presents for my husband, and it was time to pack up for the return trip home. Tears from my youngest - "I want to go home and see Daddy, but I don't want to leave Grandma and Grampa" - and a promise from Grandma to come and visit us, and many hugs later, we began the journey homeward. We stopped in the orchard country again and picked up peaches for home this time. We ate lunch in the car and stopped for ice cream instead. We drove down from Manning Park into the Fraser Valley in the late part of the day, shadows of the forest stretching across the ribbon of highway, and the sun low enough to shine into my eyes.

Happy to reach home at last, we unpacked the van and put the organic peaches, the Nelson Chocofellar chocolate, the Nacho chips we seem to only be able to find in Nelson, and an edition of Kootenay Mountain Culture magazine on the table for Dad to find when he came home from work.

We came home on Tuesday. Today is Friday. With my head still full of the doings and enjoyments of 'a week away' I am reluctant to pick up the threads of all there is to do here at home. Sure, I've done laundry and the cooking, read my emails and even answered a few, but a part of me, a big part, is hanging on to that holiday mind space. Everywhere I walked and ran in Nelson there was a view, of mountains, of the glacier, of the West Arm of Kootenay Lake.

I was so impressed with these gardens in Lakeside Park.
They are like a painting.

Nelson, already full of natural beauties, is also a place which honors its past and celebrates its culture. Old houses and buildings are renovated and restored, and art is everywhere you look - starting with my parents' front hall:

Food and healthy living are major focuses of both my family and the community at large. One day we had Florentine paninis for lunch with homemade foccacia bread and homegrown spinach. Another day I cooked the organic roast I had brought from my own freezer and my mom and I made a potato salad and a green salad with all the ingredients harvested from their wonderful garden. The kids and I know how good it was to be away, but we aren't talking about it much. I think we are all still there for a few more days, in our hearts anyway. Nelson will always be a part of us, and we a part of it. We don't have to live there to know that.

So much of who I am is explained by the way I was brought up and by the place I was fortunate enough to be brought up in. I love to go to my hometown to reconnect with that place and those people I love so much. I enjoy every minute of it. But then, after a while, it is time to come home and dig in generously. I try to take some of what I am and spread it around in the place I live now. I hope I make a difference, even if it is small (which it undoubtedly is), to the people around me.

Capturing a Place

2011-07-29T15:53:00.000-07:00

I've never thought much of the lyrics of the song that goes "If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with," until I saw photos of my eldest son on Facebook, touring around Amsterdam. If I could not be with him, enjoying the sites of Europe, I could put more effort into appreciating the area that I was able to explore - my home here in Beautiful British Columbia (as is proclaimed on our vehicle license plates).

Earlier this week my girls and I went off to the nearby village, which is a resort destination and contains, among its many shops on the esplanade, the summer employers of many local young people including my second son. We brought our cameras with us and decided to play tourist. We found it fun to try and see such familiar sites through the imagined eyes of visitors taking everything in for the first time. The result was a collection of photos, I am sure, quite similar to those of the thousands of people who flock here every summer.

A cold, glacier fed, Canadian lake

My eldest daughter treated us to one of these favourite confections.

A tart, crisp apple coated in delicious chocolate, caramel and almonds. Yummy.

Where many, many local teenagers work for the summers. There's also a great coffee shop next door.

A dragon boat regatta was happening, with thousands of participants.

One of the dragon boats coming into shore with the caller/drummer at the bow.

A wonderful and famous Canadian painter named Toni Onley used to come here, too. He would fly in on his float plane to sketch and paint. He would not paint scenes like the ones I posted above, of people, shops and flowers. He painted scenes much more like this one:

Unfortunately, Toni Onley died in a plane crash several years ago. I grew up knowing and admiring his work and only now am I able to put into words the beauty and mystery of his deceptively simple layers of watercolour. People are often heard to exclaim, when viewing a coastal landscape, "That looks just like a Toni Onley painting!" Toni could capture the essence of place and landscape like few others can. He painted abstracts, arctic landscapes, and scenes from Mexico, Hawaii, and the BC Coast. His paintings seem to float somewhere between earth and heaven, and he is loved equally among art critics and 'regular folks'.

Someone once said that great art picks up where nature ends. And so I leave you with one of Toni's works.

I found this painting on the Winchester Galleries website. I'm having trouble providing a link, so if you google 'Winchester Galleries Toni Onley" you will find more of Toni's wonderful work. The site is well worth the visit.

I'm Sending a Book to...

2011-07-22T14:37:00.000-07:00

...the winner of my summer giveaway. My daughters put the names of the entries in a hat and pulled out...Brian Miller of Waystationone!

Brian, you will find my email link on my profile page, so you can send me your mailing address. Congratulations! I think you'll really enjoy Antonia Banyard's novel Never Going Back.

Brian Miller is a super-talented, gritty, tender and prolific poet, so please check out his blog! His group, One Stop Poetry, recently won a Shorty Award for art. They travelled to New York City to attend the gala, but I think Brian became somewhat distracted from the accolades after his disarming tour of the ten floors of the NYC Macy's department store. Read his great poem about it here.

I will be writing a post soon. We've been getting ready to send our eldest off to Europe on Monday. Even though I am not going with him, I feel like I may as well be after all the mental/spiritual/physical preparations. I'll be ~~living vicariously through him~~ with him in spirit.

Cheers!

A Summer Giveaway

2011-07-15T09:54:00.000-07:00

For the past week my family and I have been taking in as many events at our local Festival of the Arts as we can manage. We all volunteer for the festival, which gains us passes for free entry into every event. Over seventy volunteers make the festival possible and are sometimes the most enthusiastic members of the audience.

This particular festival is in its thirty-third year and runs like a well-oiled machine. The weather has not been ideal, but the sun shone for a few days over the weekend and I found myself, one warm, breezy evening, lying on the grass above the lakeshore listening to live music, and looking up at the umbrella of branches of a sprawling willow tree - a blissful occupation. The band frontman introduced each of the six band members and told us where they were born. Each of them was from a different country: Cuba, Mexico, El Salvador, Phillippines, Canada, and Trinidad. Our festival highlights world music and by the time the ten-day festival is over we will have attended concerts given by artists from Africa, Ireland, Spain, Louisiana, Vienna, Hawaii and Haiti. The festival is always a wonderful time, and I become a bit of a mental sponge, absorbing it all. I find I am overwhelmed by the talent and passion of all these artists and their stories and the event tends to be a time of intense music appreciation for me. I suppose every creative person needs her own well refilled now and again, and the festival is one of those times. Music is not the only art form represented at the festival. We attended a play on Tuesday evening, and spend hours (and dollars) visiting the art market which forms a long, colourful row of tents along the beach walk on the weekends.

One of the colourful vendors at the art market
(The backdrop isn't bad either)

This evening we are all rather tired and will give the evening concert a miss. I, for one, need to get to bed before midnight at least one night this week. My husband has been dividing his time between the festival concerts, work, and Le Tour de France on T.V. On Sunday, he will take our eldest to Vancouver where Ian will perform in the young songwriters circle at the Vancouver Folk Music Festival, a much larger event than the one we attend in the nearby resort village. I wish I could go too, but I will be volunteering with our youngest at the local festival and enjoying, hopefully, some more music in the warm sunshine (please?).

The willow tree by the beach stage

So, since I am somewhat preoccupied with the Festival, I thought this would be a good time to have a bit of fun on this blog. Last week I received a parcel in the mail from a blogger friend, Tracey in California. I had won her giveaway of a sampler tin of Jelly Belly jellybeans. What a pleasant surprise! Earlier in the year, I won another giveaway, a beautiful photograph, from Ireland's Ciara of Milkmoon. I began to think perhaps it might be my turn to return the favour...but what would I give away?

One of my daughters helping herself to a Jelly Belly.

I decided I would order a copy of my friend Antonia Banyard's novel Never Going Back, and offer it as a gift to one lucky friend. Antonia Banyard and I have been friends since we were six years old. I have written two blog posts about the impression her family had on me, and about our friendship and her career as a writer/editor. Never Going Back is her first novel. The following is a description of the story,

Four days, five friends, a birth, a death, a suicide.

Evan, Siobhan, Lance, Lea, and Mandy were once inseperable, but in the tenyears since high school, they have barely spoken. When a memorial finds themreunited in their hometown of Nelson, BC, a small town with a big reputation,each friend is forced to confront secrets from the past. If they don't face themselves, each other, and the central trauma of their lives, they'll never be able to move on.

I have read the book a few times and enjoy it more each time. Of course, there is so much in it that is familiar to me, the setting (my hometown of Nelson), the types of characters, the humour of the writer, but the story stands alone very well as an engaging read for anyone who ever negotiated their way through the challenges of the inevitable changes in friendships that endure after high school is over.

So, if you would like to enter for a chance to win the book, just leave a comment on this post telling me you would like the book, and next week I will put all the names in a hat and draw a name. You also have to be willing, if your name is drawn, to email me your full name and mailing address so I can send you the book!

Good luck! (Now back to the festival)

Years Through the Lens

2011-07-08T09:00:00.000-07:00

The first summer we lived here I sorted through five years worth of photos I had neglected to keep in order. As I spent a few days sorting and filing the photos, I swore I would never leave the task so long again. I would be more like my friend who, when she picked up a new batch of developed photos (three copies of each) would place them in albums and number each photo with the corresponding negative, keep a set to send to her mother and brother in Poland, and pass out the rest to friends.

Last Sunday, I pulled a large cardboard box of photos out of the laundry room where they had been stored and ignored. Despite the 'never again' promises to myself from eight years ago, each new envelope of photos had been unceremoniously tossed in the box and become jumbled, waiting for the day when I would find the time and will to deal with them properly. That day had come and I was suddenly quite determined to get my act together and put the photos in acid free albums. I felt the need to move on to developing a good system for organizing and printing my growing collection of digital photos before another eight years passed, but I knew I had to deal with the my pre-digital collection first.

On Sunday afternoon I sat down to try and make sense of the eight years worth of photos. Putting the photos in chronological order was the most difficult part. In the end I tracked the years by the progress of my youngest child's teeth. In Kindergarten, she had a row of tiny little baby teeth, in Grade One she had lost a few, in Grade Two the two front teeth were almost fully in, etc. Additional clues were held in the length of my eldest's hair, which grew longer and longer into his teen years, and in the number of candles on the various birthday cakes. The process was a bit like detective work and by nine o'clock each evening I would become exhausted and need to stop. Last night the job was done, and eight hundred photos were filed in two large albums, their copies (I usually ordered doubles) and any extras I chose not to include in the albums put in order in a shoe box for the kids to use for their own albums later on.

While the job of sorting through eight years of photos may seem like a tedious chore I found I was enjoying myself. I had not looked at many of the photos for years and as I did, I realized the great value of the family photo album. When I look at the albums from the past years of our lives together I am able to see those years both in individual moments and as a whole. The photos of family camping trips, visits with friends and family -several series of photos show a myriad of cousins playing on the beach - celebrations of birthdays, holidays, First Communions and Confirmations, of record snowfalls measured on the outdoor table, and of performances and recitals, as a whole give the impression of a good and happy childhood. In the pictures the kids are smiling or looking thoughtful, being silly together or laughing unconstrainedly. They appear active and interested, enthusiastic and innocent. Their dad is hugging them, talking to them, showing them something interesting or teaching them to chop wood for the campfire. There are not many of me because I was usually behind the camera.

I remember a time several years ago when family life was hard for me. I wanted to rebel against my chosen lot of wifedom and motherhood. We had recently moved away from civilization and I felt like a trickster had pulled my comfortable town life out from under me leaving me emotionally uncertain and reaching out for something to hang onto. At one dark point I took out our album of wedding photos, hoping to find some meaning there. As I pored over the pictures of a happy couple ready to take on the world, I knew I would be okay. I knew I was at this place in my life for a reason that was larger than myself and I trusted that fact to lead me through the difficult phase I was in.

Even now it is easy to become bogged down by the negative day-to-day stresses and mundane details of life. I tend to lose perspective from time to time, and there are weeks when all the demons I've ever known rise up to try and undermine any positive feelings I may have about my life and work. I don't take pictures of those times deliberately, but sometimes I will find a particular photo which will trigger a memory of some period of painful growth and difficulty. In addition to providing proof of our ability to ride the ebb and flow of family life, the photo albums exist to mark the series of experiences that have made our family what we are. They provide a chronicle which my patchy journals alone cannot supply.

The albums also show, repeatedly, the reason why we signed our youngest up for a musical theatre camp this summer, and why she is having the time of her life. From the age of two she was a ham!

Tea for Two and for You!

2011-06-30T15:29:00.000-07:00

My daughter Emma, who shot and edited this little tea-making video, which I think shows promise (she is thinking about a career in film these days), celebrated the last day of school by going out to a local cafe with her friends and enjoying a London Fog - Earl Grey tea with steamed milk and a shot of vanilla syrup. Hold on - when I think about last days of school for the summer, I generally imagine an exodus of kids in shorts and sundresses heading to the convenience store to buy a crushed ice drink. Well, we are still waiting for the summer part of 'summer holidays' to kick in. Every time we look at the two weather websites we frequent, we are assured that even though there is a chance of rain today, two weeks of solid sunshine and warmer temperatures are just around the corner. As my friend Sue pointed out, perhaps the ongoing promise of better weather is a plot by the weather people to prevent the population from harming themselves en masse because those solid two weeks of sunshine have yet to materialize. We, in the southwest corner of Canada have been following the carrot in front of our noses for the past two months and never quite reaching it - so far this spring/summer we have yet to see three days of decent weather in a row. It is still cozy up-with-a-cup-of-tea-and-a-book weather, still 'put on a sweater and let's go for hot chocolate' weather, and we are starting to get, as my mother would say, a bit 'owly'.

They tell us this Canada Day/Independence Day weekend is supposed to be the start of a warming trend. I hope to God that is true because when I was driving my son to the golf course this morning I was forced to turn on the heat in the car, which seems ridiculous in June but in these parts, not unheard of. Our climate is already a humid one. Add pouring rain and cool temperatures and the damp begins to invade our bones. Last year the spring was equally wet and cool, and summer was not that much better. Our tomatoes and garlic and basil all grew, but they never really took off like they have in other summers. On the other hand, the lawn is lush and emerald green and grows like a hay field in this weather, and I don't have to spend my evenings watering the garden amid the mosquitoes which have just hatched with a gleeful vengeance this week.

Canadians are known, I believe, for two things: being nice and well-mannered in foreign countries, and complaining about the weather. Trust me, we complain when it is cool and wet, and when the sun comes out and warms things up we complain it is too hot and dry - though we will apologize for doing so. Even the Tim Hortons coffee and donut chain has commercials on the subject. Now that I think of it, a post lamenting the weather seems like a fitting way to celebrate Canada Day, eh? I have invited some friends for a barbecue tomorrow evening. That seems rather optomistic of me considering the weather, but it won't be the first time my husband has flipped burgers in the rain.

The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge arrived in Ottawa today and will celebrate July First in our nation's capital tomorrow. I hope for three things for their visit: 1) The sun shines on them with a nice temperature, say in the mid to high 20's celcius without too much of that awful Ontario humidity 2) The Canadian public behaves as beautifully as they generally do for visiting royals, and 3) that someone makes them a decent cup of tea now and then. My girls are up to the challenge.

I also wish my parents a very happy 52nd Wedding Anniversary tomorrow!

The music for Emma's video is 'Glass of Water' by Andrew Bird.

Let's Dance!

2011-06-23T18:38:00.000-07:00

My hometown must have had a large Scottish contingent, for when I was a young girl the annual Highland Games were a highlight and the local Scottish Country Dance troupe entertained at several events throughout the year. I remember watching in fascination as tall, elegant Mrs. Neville moved gracefully among her partners in the dance wearing a long tartan skirt, white blouse and lace up black leather Highland Dance slippers. The Scottish Country Dance troupe moved as a whole, weaving in and out to the music and creating a beautiful image in my young mind that I would never forget.

A couple of years after my husband and I and our young family had moved to the Comox Valley on Vancouver Island I saw an advertisement in the newspaper inviting new members to join the local Scottish Country Dancers. I was always eager to dance in any case, but with fond memories of watching the dances in my childhood, I called the number in the ad straight away. The teacher happened to be the mother of a childhood friend whose family had returned to the Island a few years before - what a small world! I was only able to join the group for a few months before we moved farther north up the Island, following a new job offer for my husband, but I enjoyed every minute of it. I may have been the youngest dancer but by far the least experienced. The dances were fairly intricate because they involved footwork and patterns, and for me, a fairly steep learning curve as I had done little folk dancing, but the ladies and gentlemen were true ladies and gents and guided me along gently and with good humour. I had a ballet/modern dance background so my feet found the steps before too long and the necessary gracefulness followed. Like Eliza Doolittle, "I could have danced all night, and still have begged for more," but once we had moved north, I knew I could not realistically continue with the troupe when it would involve a three hour round trip. Our third child was still a baby at the time.

When we had lived through one glorious spring and a golden, fragrant summer at the lodge on the North Island I began to hear about the annual Folk Weekend which took place in the lodge building affectionately called 'the barn' each November. Workshops were held throughout the weekend in a variety of disciplines including theatre for children, bodhran (a Celtic drum) lessons, and instruction in making natural remedies from local flora. We took part in many of the activities during Folk Weekend, but the highlight of the weekend, at least for me, was the Saturday night Contra dance. I have consulted a Contra Dancing website for help in explaining what a Contra Dance is for the uninitiated:

"A caller, usually working with a group of live musicians, guides new and experienced dancers alike through a variety of dances. A dancer and his or her partner dance a series of figures, or moves, with each other and with another couple for a short time. They then repeat the same figures with another couple, and so on. The figures are similar to those of old-time square dancing. The figures are combined in different ways for each different dance.

The caller teaches each dance before it is actually done to the music. This gives everyone an idea of what to expect so the movements can be easily executed. The caller leads the dances while they are being done to music, so dancers are able to perform each movement to the music. Once the dancers appear to have mastered a particular dance, the caller may stop calling, leaving the dancers to enjoy the movement with music alone."

People of all ages and lifestyles, including children, are welcome. Contra dances are a place where people from many walks of life come together to dance and socialize. Dancers often go out to a restaurant after the dance, have a potluck before or during the dance, or hang out with musicians in jam sessions and song circles."

Contra dancing requires no previous dance training, just a sense of rhythm (and is not even very particular about that), and a desire to participate, dance with many partners and have fun. Most of the dances require only a walking step and an ability to follow the caller's direction. Contra dancing is more about fun than finesse, more about participation than performance.

Our friend Mike and I getting the timing right!

Last weekend my family and I, after several years living here, were able to again take part in a Contra dance. Our friend Marilee, when she lived in Vancouver used to belong to a dance band which played fiddle tunes, many of which Marilee wrote, for Contra dances. Marilee and her husband Stefan celebrated their twentieth wedding anniversary and decided to hold a family dance, hiring the members of her old band to come and play for it. Around fifty of us gathered in the Anglican church hall late on Sunday afternoon and danced for two hours straight. We learned dance after dance, including standbys like The Virginia Reel, and some simple English and Scottish Country Dances. Laughter rang through the hall as we all, many of us strangers to each other, repeatedly missed our step or clapped hands on the wrong beat, but no one minded. When the dancing was done, it was time for supper. Everyone pitched in to set up the tables and decorate them with ivy, glittering stars and seashells. We certainly had worked up an appetite and ate the delicious potluck meal (there were many gifted cooks and bakers in that crowd) with enthusiasm. My daughters thoroughly enjoyed themselves, glad to be included in the celebration. The dancing was all they could talk about the next morning. They found it strange (and a bit hilarious) to have danced with so many different partners, as the dances are set up to introduce and mix as many people as possible. They had danced with young children, they had danced with middle aged women and elderly men.They were also surprised at their dad, who had danced every dance!

Marilee's Contra dance made me think about the tradition of community dances. I don't know the history of dancing in detail, but I do know that English and Scottish Country Dancing have been around for hundreds of years and that Contra dancing is a North American countrified, simplified version of both. The fact that it was commonplace for whole villages to gather in the assembly rooms to dance together on a regular basis is something I wish we still did today. I think it would greatly add to the health and sociability of the community, but perhaps that happens in other forms today.

When I was searching for information on Contra Dancing I came across a few videos - and like I said previously, Contra dancing is more about participation than performance. I soon moved on to some videos of Scottish Country Dancing, and they proved to be a bit more enjoyable to watch. The one I include here reminds me very much of the dancing I used to watch Mrs. Neville and her troupe do in Lakeside Park during the Highland Games all those years ago.

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A Labour of Love is Never Lost

2011-06-16T13:19:00.000-07:00

Last year, before we cut back the cable to the bare minimum, my daughter Emma's favourite channel was The Food Network, and her favourite show was Ace of Cakes. She loved watching the team of Baltimore cake artists create what looked less like cakes and more like sculptures, using a substance called fondant. Fondant is moldable, rollable, dye-able icing which is used to give a smooth, sculptured finish to professionally made cakes for weddings and other special occasions. It is made much like candy since it involves the heating of sugar water to an exact temperature and consistency. Fondant-making is not for the faint of heart in the kitchen, but my daughter, who had seen the senior cooking class make an easy version out of a marshmallow base was determined to make fondant from scratch for a Father's Day cake for her dad.

As my sister Monica is wont to say, "There is the ideal and then there is the real."

Since our Father's Day weekend is jam-packed with planned activity Emma asked if last weekend would be a better time to make the cake. I thought it was, so on Saturday with her sister as videographer and myself on standby in case of a culinary emergency, Emma made the cake and then started the fondant. The first step, heating the sugar water to the correct temperature and 'soft ball' stage was the easiest. When the right consistency was achieved, Emma poured it into a large rimmed baking sheet to cool. After waiting about a half an hour she followed the Joy of Cooking instructions to the letter and began to stir the mixture in a figure eight motion. She stirred, and she stirred, and she stirred some more. She appealed for help. I stirred, and stirred and stirred some more. Then we kneaded and kneaded and kneaded the fondant. There was icing sugar everywhere, and I think it took us an hour and a half to get the right, white consistency. Exhausted, but happy, Emma put the fondant in the fridge to ripen and spent another hour cleaning up one incredibly sticky kitchen.

The next afternoon, after exercising her horse, Emma came home to decorate the cake. I had a meeting so she would have to wrestle with the fondant herself. Her dad was forbidden to enter the kitchen, so even he could not be of service. When I returned from my meeting, Emma was still cleaning up another sticky mess and looking pale and spent. When I asked about the cake she said it was in the downstairs fridge. She also announced that she would NEVER, EVER attempt to make fondant again; it was TOO HARD! The cake was lovingly decorated with a fondant tennis racket on a lavendar background, with the words 'Dad' scrolled on one side. I could see how much work had gone into the cake and hugged Emma, who, though laughing, was visibly frustrated with the outcome of the project. The result had not matched her expectation and hopes for a Father's Day gift. Emma suggested we have the cake then and there, so I went out to the garden to tell my husband what was waiting for him in the house. When the cake was presented with everyone gathered around the kitchen table, Emma could see how pleased and touched her dad was that she had gone to all that trouble for him and she forgot about her disapointment in the result. She still said she would never attempt fondant again, and we agreed that mere sugar, water and foodcolouring were not worth all the stress (and buttercream tastes better anyway), but her effort had been appreciated and the results, praised by the very person they were meant to please.

As almost everyone knows by now, riots erupted on the streets of downtown Vancouver last night after the Vancouver Canucks hockey team lost the final game of the Stanley Cup Playoffs. My daughters and I returned from the youngest's piano recital to see the televised reports of cars set on fire, alcohol fuelled fights between rioters who defiantly refused to obey the police orders to leave the downtown or be arrested, the smashing of shop windows, reports of looting, etc., etc. etc. At one point we watched two police cars being trashed by a gang of hooligans - mainly young men in their early twenties, by the look of them. Male after male jumped up on the cars to try to smash the windows or make dents in the roof. A really young boy joined in on the action and climbed up on top of one of the cars. Just as he began to jump, and adult male came over, pulled him down off the police car and hauled him away and the boy did not bother trying to resist. I am not sure if the man was the boy's father, uncle, friend, or just someone who knew this kid should not get caught up in the destruction. Soon after that scene, someone threw a firecracker in the car and the rioters achieved their goal, which was to set the cars on fire and see them explode into flame. The police did not bother stopping the burning of their property, for public safety was their main concern and they were far outnumbered by the crowd. The crowd was full of people with cameras, taking pictures and video of the proceedings. I believe strongly that their presence did little to help the police at the time, but perhaps a few of them will come forward with evidence which will lead to arrests. The newspaper was full of photos this morning, clear images of young men jacked up on alcohol, testosterone, and perhaps other substances as well, involved in criminal acts of all kinds. What a mess they created, and for what noble, or at least understandable, cause? For none.

As Father's Day approaches I want to express my appreciation to my dad, my husband, and the other fine fathers and father-figures I know. I am so grateful my brothers and I, my children and their friends, had, or have someone in their lives like that unnamed man who pulled the young boy off the police car, someone who cared enough to nip that kind of behaviour in the bud, and offer a healthier way of finding some excitement in their lives.

Happy Father's Day to all!

A World of Hope and a World of Fears

2011-06-09T20:50:00.000-07:00

Perhaps people talk about the 'good old days' mainly because they were the days when they were young and strong and the world seemed full of things to explore rather than things to fear. I am sure that when I was young my parent's generation pitied mine for our short attention spans and far too easy time of it, just as my generation pities our children's. I don't think I could be accused of romanticizing my childhood, but I do realize, looking back, I spent a great deal of time out of doors with friends and family, a great deal of time reading and being engaged in creative activity, a fair amount watching television or studying. My husband and I have tried to model our children's upbringing on the good parts of our own, but I admit it has not been easy to maintain a balance of enough work, rest, play, fresh air, study, scheduled activity, time to just 'be' and sit-down family dinners in these times of a million little distractions. We managed to keep video games out of our house until fairly recently, and I believe that to have been for the best for our family, but the digital world is a world of wonder, and a bit of a rabbit hole at times.

At my son's high school graduation last weekend, my friend Ron, a school board trustee and technology enthusiast, made a speech to the group of young men and women decked out in ball gowns and tuxedos. He talked about how in the past ten years technology has changed the world to such an extent that it has made the former ways of communication, research, and recreation almost unrecognizable to the present generation. Their knowledge base has expanded exponentially and the results are both a blessing and a challenge. As he spoke, I began to think about the future of this group of graduates.We, their parent's generation grew up with the idea of a large world with parts still relatively unreachable by the touch of modern man. Now, it truly is 'a small world after all,' thanks to global communication networks and multi-national corporations. The sentiment 'there's so much that we share, that it's time we're aware' has come true in a big way, but perhaps not exactly as the Disney theme song writer had in mind.

The school principal echoed my friend's thoughts in her own speech, expanding on them further to point out the present generation had lived a very different childhood, overall, than that of their parents. Their lives were packed with extra-curricular lessons and play-dates. They had been delivered to the school door and chauffeured to the after school activity. They would find it a challenge to branch out on their own without the preparation through exploratory experiences enjoyed by their parents, grandparents and great-grandparents who spent entire days away from home at the age of ten, were told to return for supper, only to head outdoors again for a game of hide-and-seek with the entire neighbourhood (honestly though, sometimes we could have used a little more supervision). This generation would have to navigate their way through largely uncharted territory. Of course, the speeches ended on a positive 'you have the power to change the world' note, but I left the graduation ceremonies just a little low in spirits. I knew these kids had a lot of growing up to do, and hoped the world would be patient with them.

I wondered if our generation had missed the boat in preparing our children for life in this new world. In filling their days with supervised acitivity, had we robbed them of the opportunity to learn to chart their own course? Had we taught them to fear a life without material riches, rather than to hope for true fulfillment? I think it must be confusing for many kids today. Everyone expects them, upon graduation, to know what their next step will be, but they are not always given the freedom to question and explore all the possibilities. One grad's father admitted to steering his son toward a career with a pension and security, but have we not learned from the present economic climate that there is no such thing as financial security? Post-secondary education is more expensive than ever, and when young people do finish university or certification they expect to land high-paying jobs to keep up the expensive, tech-dependent lifestyle they are used to thanks to accomodating parents.

I remember last year my eldest asked if he could go for a walk at 9 pm. I looked at him and said, "You are seventeen years old. Of course you can go for a walk." It was not easy to feign such nonchalance, because I was busy wondering what made him feel he had to ask. We live in a small farming community with a population of less than six thousand where 'the wrong side of the tracks' means you have missed your turn and are on your way out of town. Ever since, my son has revelled in these solitary rambles and just this morning, a friend said he'd been teasing him because he has seen him walking on top of the railway cars. After he observed my face losing its colour, he hastened to add that they were stationary rail cars, without their containers. This loosening of the apron strings has been a gradual process but as necessary for me as it has been for my son. In allowing our boys to walk home after the evening shift at work since they were fourteen, and gradually letting our eldest find his own way to Vancouver to attend concerts with friends, I have weaned myself off of that hands-on parenting style which came through parenting this generation. I need to know that when my son goes to Europe this summer, he will have the much needed trust in his own instincts, the tools to figure out what to do when challenges arise, as well as the faith not to panic if things go awry. He is going with a group, but they will have independence in some situations and I hope he will gain everything he can from the adventure.

The other day my nine year old daughter said to me, "Mom, when are you going to let me go places by myself?" I do let her go to the store or to the neighbourhood parks with friends, but alone? No, not yet. I know I am protective, but when she asked me my mind went through a complete revolution from imagining the bad things that could happen to her, to the realization that I will have to begin to let her go, too. But it doesn't get any easier, especially with girls. Maybe I'll just stop watching the news.

The photo is of our graduate looking out to sea from Mystic Beach on Vancouver Island.

This Post is for the Birds

2011-06-02T14:30:00.000-07:00

From my behaviour every spring over the past few years, I think it is safe to say that I really, truly, love birds. I love their warm, plump little quivering bodies covered in feathers of all colours and patterns. I love the way they make our feeder swing and spin while they perch and eat with quick, jabbing movements, wary all the time of what is going on around them and prepared for fight or flight. And I love their wings and the very fact they can soar up in the air whenever they wish, alight on a power line in a group and appear to gossip and plan their next move. I think I first noticed the wonder of birds the first spring we lived at Strathcona Park Lodge on Vancouver Island. Early in the mornings I would hear a long, almost piercing whistle and wonder what creature it belonged to. Someone at the lodge told me to ask Chris. He knew pretty much everything there was to know about local birds.

"That's a varied thrush" Chris said, and pointed one out to me, the size and shape of a robin, only stripey orange on the wings. Soon I was combing our Peterson Field Guides: Western Birds for examples of birds I was seeing around the property. The juncos, chickadees, finches, hummingbirds, tanagers, and woodpeckers all became delightfully interesting and entertaining to me (and not least for the fact of their signifying warmer weather), and I learned to mimic the raven's hollow-tapping 'took, took, took', the distinctive sound of the coast I could hear every day outside my window.

I would not go so far as to say I became a 'birder'. I have never kept a log book of birds I have seen or planned my vacations according to where I may find this or that species. I just get excited when a new kind of bird visits our feeder, or when the juncos return, which is a sign that winter is nearly over. Our feeder is a squirrel-proof variety which hangs from the maple tree in our front yard. We hang it there for two reasons: we have two birdhouses in the back yard and the sparrows pretty much own them, so we wanted them to have to share the birdseed, and first thing in the morning and often in the evening our girls will sit on the sofa by the living room window and watch for new birds, calling me over if they see something new. This year, we have been graced with the presence of some new varieties we have never seen:

lazuli bunting, a rare sight I was told

black headed grosbeak

We have tried to take our own photos, but that has proved extremely difficult as the birds inevitably fly away whenever we come anywhere near. The above photos are from Google images and the Washington State Sierra Club website. Our best photos look like this:

American Goldfinch taken by my daughter
(We'll leave the avian photography to those with the mega telephoto lenses)

About the same time we had the lazuli bunting arrive, we were puzzled by the all-day hooting of what we believed to be an owl hidden in the leaves of the copper beech tree across the street. We couldn't see the 'owl', so could not be sure. Who-who-oo-hoo was a call not located on any owl website I could find and I began to think perhaps our owl was not an owl at all. I called my birder friend, Rosa to ask her opinion. I wondered if our owl was in fact, a dove, but was unsure as I had never seen any doves around here - pigeons, yes, but never a dove. She said, indeed it was a dove; Eurasian collared doves had been brought as pets to the Okanagan region of our province and released several years ago. They had bred and been attracted to the warm, moist climate of the Fraser Valley, two or three years ago. Rosa's information was further proven by the appearance that day of our noisy bird-friend on the power line near the copper beech.

Eurasian collared dove from Google images

As spring spans into summer we will keep on filling the feeder and watching for new and returning birds. We will also keep our eyes open by the lake which is a few kilometers from here, for kingfishers, eagles, and shore birds. I also hope to visit the heron reserve further west in the valley at some point. Spring is unfolding slowly and gently this year. I have yet to wear shorts for anything but running, and the Fraser river is gaining in volume as the snowpack begins to melt. I hope for a continuation of the gradual warming trend because sudden and extended heat will cause flooding in some areas. That would be terrible for the farmers who were finally able to plant the early corn only a few weeks ago. The birds rejoiced when the fields were plowed and all those insect treats were unearthed. And one day, when my son and I were driving home on the freeway a mother duck and her troop of ducklings waddled bravely along on the shoulder.

I wish I had a picture of that.

My Apologies to Oprah's Fans...

2011-05-26T15:52:00.000-07:00

After twenty five years, 3,700 episodes aired in 145 countries, the daytime phenomenon that is The Oprah Winfrey Show has drawn the curtains, turned down the lights, and pulled the plug. The last show's ad spots went for a SuperBowl matching rate of $1 million dollars per 30 seconds, and no, I was not tuned in yesterday to watch the tearful goodbye. I read about it in TVWeek.

I was not an Oprah Winfrey Show devotee. I'm sure Oprah is a nice person who can do major things for your career and all, but besides the fact that I'm usually cooking supper at four o'clock in the afternoon when her show has been on, I've generally only tuned in on occasion to see what interesting guest her starpower has drawn in. It was a stroke of luck then, that had me turning on the TV just in time to catch the infamous couch-jumping interview with Tom Cruise. I also saw a terribly embarrassing interview a few years ago with Hugh Grant, Colin Firth, and Renee Zellweger who were cruising the talk show circuit to promote one of the Bridget Jones's Diary movies. Oprah made the fatal mistake of attempting a game with Hugh wherein she played a slideshow of female actors he had worked with and asked him for the first word that came to mind. I think she was expecting a series of gushing, Hollywood style reactions to the slides, but that is not at all what she got. When Julia Roberts appeared on the screen, Hugh said something like "freak". When Sandra Bullock appeared, I believe "utter nutcase" was the reaction. Oprah was visibly put off, but Renee appeared to back her boys and never gave in to the usual 'I'll pat your back, you pat mine' mode of celebrity exchange that has made Oprah one of the most smug looking talk-show hosts I have ever seen. I also don't think Oprah realized that 'freak' and 'utter nutcase' are good natured compliments shared between chums in the U.K. (and parts of Canada). Colin Firth looked rigid and uncomfortable throughout, and rarely have four people been happier to part ways.

It is interesting to look back on Oprah's influence on society, however. She certainly found a way to tap into the psyche of women (and I'm sure many men and teenage girls) all over the world. What else would keep her on the air for twenty five years, sell her magazine, and give her the idea of her worth as an entire network? Oprah figured out a way to tell millions of people what to read, what movies to see, what products to buy, what food to cook, what clothes to wear and how to wear them, what expert advice to listen to (namely physician Dr. Oz, psychiatrist Dr. Phil, finance guru Suze Ormon, celebrity chef Rachel Ray, who all have their own shows now), and even who to vote for for President. Her show covered it all. Oprah's own rags to riches story was interesting in itself and encompassed the elusive idea of the American Dream-come-true, which only made her more popular with viewers. So why am I not a fan?

First of all, I already follow a religion (ba doom ching!) Seriously, though, I just find Oprah too bossy. You may remember that girl in school, the one who made it her business to come up to you in the hallway, toss her glossy, well groomed head and put on a confidential, condescending tone while she advised you to start wearing a bra or told you your hair looked better short. Oprah reminds me of that girl, and frankly, I'm beyond putting up with that now that I'm in my 40's. I was flipping channels recently and saw that poor tabloid-fodder Octomom sandwiched between annoying finance guru Suze Ormon and Oprah. Both women were going at her like the glossy haired bossy girls in the school hallway. "Do this, do that, don't do this, you need to do that...!" If I were Octomom, I would have told them to mind their own business, but then, she was probably paid a handsome sum to appear on the show - and that buys a lot of diapers. But really, is that type of interview journalism? No, and perhaps it's not meant to be. But then, what is it?

I have often found talk-shows a bit odd. The best hosts seem to be comedians when the interviews are less interviews than opportunities for more comedy, or adversely, serious journalists asking intelligent questions people care to hear the answer to. Oprah's particular style of talk-show has morphed from its original focus on sensationalist topics (I believe she started out in journalism) to a format for do-gooders gone wild. Bossy do-gooders - even worse. Now they have a whole channel to themselves, the subscription only Oprah Winfrey Network, otherwise known as OWN. Will people pay extra for OWN, and if yes, for how long? Time will tell. They'd better invite some A-list celebrities and musical guests to leaven the mood or I have a feeling even the biggest fans will start to lose interest.

Photo by George Burns and found here on the Hollywood Reporter website.

Post-Mothers Day Musings

2011-05-19T16:04:00.000-07:00

Mr. Letters to the World and I last summer

Mothers are amazing creations. I know. I am one. That may seem conceited, but believe me, I am as amazed as anyone at how motherhood has changed me and helped form me into something almost unrecognizable to my former childless self.

I was reminded of this fact on Monday, which was the nineteenth wedding anniversary of my husband and I. I was thinking back to myself as the young bride, of my preoccupations, my prejudices, my notions of how life and love should be, my ideas of how my future would pan out. I said my vows with conviction and opened our gifts with gusto. We would wait a year or two before we thought about children and space them responsibly. My husband would do exactly half of everything and our kids would never misbehave in the grocery store. By the fall I was pregnant.

At my first visit to the doctor, I'm not sure what I expected - a reproof? - but my doctor said my pregnancy was great news. Women who had their first child under thirty had greatly reduced risks of breast cancer and birth defects, healthier pregnancies and easier births overall. What was that he said about 'healthier pregnancies?" I would think as I endured alternating waves of voracious hunger and horrible nausea most of the time. Looking back, I think it was all a preparation for motherhood. The birth of our first son went very well, was not too long, and little baby Ian took to feeding immediately. Caring for a tiny, needy, hungry infant seemed almost easy in comparison with the everpresent nausea and back pain of pregnancy, but what really surprised me was the incredible happiness I felt at suddenly finding myself a mother. My husband was a real hands-on kind of dad, even though at first, every time Ian cried my husband said, "I think he's hungry."

Becoming a mother made my life make sense for some reason. To cement that point, we had another son fifteen months later and a daughter two and a half years after that. And another daughter five years after that. I took to motherhood like a fish to water, well, a fish that sometimes loses its temper and has occasional mini nervous breakdowns, but overall I was happy being 'Mommy'. Our family was a little world of our own where love reigned supreme and naps came a close second. Books and birthdays, bike rides and soccer practise, homeschooling first, then public school (and lessons in learning to accept each others differences) filled up the days, the years, and now, almost two decades.

"Enjoy your children while they are little. They grow up too fast," said my Italian neighbour wistfully and often when we lived in Kimberly with the boys before their sisters were born. Her regular shouting matches with her grown up son when he visited could be heard all the way down the block.

Now we have three teenagers and a nine year old who aspires to be one. I cook (a lot), I clean (when I have to), I volunteer at Sports Day and in the school library. I listen, I talk, I advise, I comfort. I assess health and energy level with a mere sweeping glance, and nip attitude in the bud. I laugh at their jokes and make my own (they even find them funny sometimes). I say 'yes' as often as possible and 'no' when necessary. I find a way for my son to attend the Arcade Fire concert after all hope seems lost, and I find a way to pay for braces and violin lessons, horseback riding and theatre camps. I tend to the sick and boost the work-weary. I stand up for my children and give teachers 'a call' if needed. I come up with ideas for limericks and proofread essays. I lead by example and raise hell when I have to. How do I do it? How does any mother do it?

She does it a bit at a time, learning as she goes. She works on her patience, she learns (stubbornly sometimes) to give without keeping score or counting the cost. She knows her investment now will pay off later, or at least she has faith that it will, so she gives mothering everything she's got - but reasonably. She keeps a little time for herself. She needs to keep sane and so she reads in the bathtub, goes for walks or runs or to yoga class, works on projects and at part-time jobs that keep her foot in the door and her brain working. She asks her kids to help around the house and talks about her day with her husband. She phones a friend or writes a letter...she has a blog...she dreams...she prays...

Our eldest son turned eighteen early in May. In June he graduates from high school and this summer he is going to Europe for a month. He's a good kid who, I believe, will be a good man. When he first became a teenager, I would sometimes introduce him to a new friend by joking, "Meet my son Ian. We grew up together." My own mother was a wonderful example for me to follow and my children taught me everything else about what it means to be a grownup. I am grateful for everything I have gained from motherhood. It has been my best gift. (The tea in bed on Mother's Day morning was pretty nice, too.)

I wouldn't be a mother if I didn't take the occasional opportunity to show off my children. Our eldest recently performed at a youth festival in Vancouver. My daughter loaned me her camera and I took a video of the performance. The video quality isn't great, thanks to my lack of experience, but we posted it anyway.
He's the one on guitar and vocals.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ax2Zbt91NIk

Walls and Windows (or Treeplanter For a Day)

2011-05-11T09:35:00.002-07:00

Treeplanter in action by Hugh Stimson

While doing some driving around on Mother's Day afternoon, I was enjoying a radio program called The Vinyl Cafe on CBC. The Vinyl Cafe is a weekly variety hour hosted by Stuart McLean, who, as well as reading aloud letters from all over Canada, reads his own stories and welcomes a wide range of musical guests. It's an old fashioned concept which works very well on radio (think Garrison Keelor), and like so much of what the CBC does, serves to connect people from all corners of this vast country. This past Sunday, the theme of the stories was treeplanting, a job thousands of tough, young Canadians do to put themselves through school or to make their next adventure possible. Stuart first read out a wonderful letter written by a man from Winnipeg, whose adventurous 62 year old father-in-law spent a summer with a treeplanting crew, and while he wrote home despairing at his lack of treeplanting ability (it has got to be one of the toughest jobs out there) he proved to be a wonder at keeping up the spirits of the rest of the crew with his fireside stories and encouragement. After the letter, Stuart read one of his own stories about the fictional family of Dave and Morley and their two children, Stephanie and Sam. This week's tale was an uplifting and comical one about Stephanie's summer (and great success - a final daily tally of 2600 trees - after much perseverance) treeplanting in the blackfly-ridden bedrock of Northern Ontario.The story was so good and brought back so many memories that I sat parked outside the video store until it was over.

The following post is an edited version of the fifth one I ever wrote. I'm posting it because it has a bit about my own experience with treeplanting, and also because, in our recent Federal election the Conservative Party won a majority government for the first time in years and there are rumours they want to do away with, or greatly cut back on funding for the CBC - something which concerns me greatly. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this reposting.

***

Last week I was rifling through my CD collection, looking for something different, when I found Paul Simon's Graceland album. I put it on and was struck by the colourful imagery of the lyrics. I listened to the album every day for a week and each time I listened I heard more and more in it - a far cry from my response in 1986 when the album first came out. Back then I was carried away by the African rhythms and the words were, to me, more of a prop than anything. The fourth song on the album, called 'Gumboots' has a particularly fantastic line. I even posted the line on my Facebook page:

"Believing I had supernatural powers I slammed into a brick wall."

I think the song is about love but the line stands alone for me like a mantra. A few Facebook friends, one now in Toronto, one in Salt Lake City, one in Vancouver recognized the lyric and responded like the album really meant something to them too. I love when that happens - when a little community comes together for a moment over a joke or a shared passion for something. I guess that's the beauty of these social networking things.

Anyway, last week, after I had found the album I put it on and started cooking dinner. (My kids, who had never heard the album, asked if it was some of my 80's music- and then scattered.) That line about slamming into a brick wall jumped out at me and I've been thinking about it ever since. Now I think I know why. When I was younger, a lot younger, I didn't exactly put bath towel capes over my shoulders and leap off the shed roof, but I did want, like many kids, to be, to do, so many things. In many ways I wished I had been born a boy, because I believed they had much more fun than girls. My closest sibling in age was a boy, two years older than me, and he and I played together most of the time. I always got along well with boys because I found them much less complicated than girls. When I was a skinny, undeveloped eleven and twelve year old I used to wear cut off jeans and baseball shirts and kept my fine hair short. I remember going into Woolworth's to use the bathroom, and when I asked for the key, the woman at the counter said, "Um...would that be for...um...the girl's bathroom?" She really wasn't sure. Not too long after that, when I was walking with my friend, Toni, who was extremely pretty, some boys called out, "Toni's got a boyfriend!" That was my first brick wall. I knew that even I could not be both a girl and a boy, and since I was getting to 'that age' I was pretty sure I preferred to be recognized as a girl. When my mom took me shopping for grade eight clothes I let her buy me a flowered blouse. Even so, my young life continued to include a series of attempts to be something I was not destined to be. Granted, I had many successes, but I would invariably take on too many extracurricular activities, and then crash hard when I could not handle my superhuman efforts.

After my high school graduation I took a twenty-eight hour trip by train to visit my sisters in Winnipeg. Travelling alone was so unnerving that I stayed with my food basket in the one car the entire time, even though I knew one could move around most of the train - so I did what came easily. I introduced myself to the only person my age on the car and he and I stayed up almost all night talking quietly. During my third year of post-secondary education (I was still living at home with my parents) I decided that I should go to Europe. After all, everyone else was doing it, my friends were all well travelled, and it seemed like a rite of passage for college students. My sister Clare and her friend had recently come back from four months in New Zealand and Australia and I wanted to be able to do what she had done. I began saving money and looking around for someone to travel with. When none of my friends proved available, I began to think about going alone. The more I thought about it, however, the more I knew I couldn't do it. Every fibre of my being told me it was a bad idea; I just knew I did not have the confidence and worldliness necessary.

The travelling given up I decided to try treeplanting - my brother was making loads of money at it, and I had university to save up for now. I was hired immediately by my brother's crew boss on recommendation alone. We rookies were to be bused in and out each day during a two week trial. The first day we left at 5:30 a.m. I had my new caulk boots and shovel, a plaid shirt and cargo pants, so I looked the part at least. We were given our heavy shoulder bags of pesticide soaked baby trees, given some instruction and a plot of slashburnt slope and told to go for it. I had never been one for hard labour and I wasn't sure how holding a treeplanting shovel in one hand and a baby tree in the other was going to change that, but I was willing to try. The girls around me were encouraging, but it seemed they already knew what they were doing, particulary one European girl who was built like a brick #$%*house. I planted tree after tree, about 500 by the end of the day. That doesn't sound bad for a beginner except for the fact that I planted at least a hundred on the wrong line and the European girl came to my rescue and helped me replant them. One day of the two week trial was all I managed in my very short career as a treeplanter. I came home after the first day with badly stretched achilles tendons, which had been shortened by being a dancer for several years, and could barely walk for a week. Oh, the humiliation of having to quit after one day! And yet another brick wall. A few days later, however, my mother's friend offered me a job working for her at the Kootenay Lake Summer School of the Arts as an administrative assistant. She had told my mom that if she had known I was going to try treeplanting, she would have talked me out of it. She had once owned a treeplanting company and knew it would not be the right kind of work for 'someone like me'. I was a bit choked when I heard that, but relieved about the arts admin. position, a job I loved and held for three summers, and a field I continue to feel at home in.

Brick walls are, undoubtedly, hard to face up to and extremely humbling, but in the end, can prove to be our greatest friends. There is that old saying after all: "When a door is closed, somewhere a window opens," usually a window into our own natures and our limits, with a better view of the path we are meant to be on.

Click here to see Gumboots performed live by Paul Simon

A City Transformed

2011-05-05T15:00:00.000-07:00

My parents met in the late 1950's in Vancouver at the University of British Columbia, and even though they had left the city long before I was born, they maintained a strong connection to it and thought they may retire there one day. Both sets of grandparents lived near Vancouver and any holiday visits were spent exploring the beautiful city on Burrard Inlet.

The Vancouver of my parents' day was very different from the Vancouver of today. Back then it was a big town full of bridges they talked about walking across late at night without reservation, a town full of culture and buzzing with activity, but with an expansive sense of space and community as well. I had a taste of that Vancouver on several occasions during my childhood, but even I, at the tender age of sixteen, sensed the city would never be same after Expo 86.

At sixteen I had been invited to join TheatrePeace, an existing teen theatre group that was to travel to Vancouver on two occasions to perform a play written by the group of kids from the Kootenay area where I was from. Four of the original writer/performers had moved away and I was one of the newbies who was asked to fill their shoes. The play was a comedic take on the hot-button issues surrounding Ronald Reagan's 'Star Wars' policies of the Cold War era, and the question of peace in general. We held regular rehearsals up at the Student Union Building of the former David Thompson University campus in Nelson with two formidable women as our directors. In late spring of 1986 we travelled to the central Kootenays to audition to perform in the British Columbia Pavilion at Expo 86. We were accepted and a short time later we were off to spend a week performing our play for the world.

I remember watching Prince Charles and Princess Diana, with a huge crowd of spectators looking on, open Expo 86 on television in May of that year and hearing about all the concerts and performers who would be on stage every night of Expo, Annie Lennox and Julian Lennon among them. The theme of Expo 86 was 'Transportation and Communication,' which frankly didn't capture my imagination at the time, although when I arrived at the site and spent my free time visiting pavillions with my theatre group friends, I became utterly fascinated by the imaginative installations by many of the countries represented; visitors to the Switzerland Pavilion, for example, were greeted by a 25-metre-high watch. At that time, the Swiss made Swatch watch was the must-have accessory and I bought a bright blue one. Once inside, exhibits included a diorama of the longest tunnels in the world. Built in the 19th Century, Switzerland's Alpine railway opened a much needed route between northern and southern Europe. (The Swiss Pavillion also had a cool game to play called Jollyball). I was equally fascinated by the thousands of daily visitors to the exposition. I came from a small town and had never seen anything like the crowds of people lining up to visit the pavillions.

The giant Swatch

May 2nd marked the 25th anniversary of the opening of Expo 86; I was reminded of the fact when my husband and I were dining last week at our favourite east Vancouver pizzaria, Lombardo's, and our waitress gave me a little questionnaire to fill out. Lombardo's is also making the most out of their own 25th anniversary by having a little contest: they asked customers what we were doing twenty five years ago. When I saw the question I immediately thought of my time spent at Expo.

The Expo 86 site was a former industrial wasteland on the waterfront. It has since been home to the trendy False Creek neighbourhood and Concord Place. I remember busing around Vancouver with my friend and theatre mate Molly. It seemed that everything was under construction. The city had finished the first line of its light rail transit, SkyTrain in time for Expo. Condos were sprouting up everwhere and the roads were lined with brightly coloured temporary fencing guarding the construction zones. Molly and I were billeted at the home of some family friends of hers. We came and went as we pleased, taking the last bus home at 11 pm one night and receiving a scolding. Our host family may have worried about us, but we felt perfectly comfortable navigating our way through the city independantly. There were still hippies in the Kitsilano district then, occupying funky, run down Victorian houses, which are now all restored and selling for a million dollars each. Kids in studded leather jackets, Doc Martens boots and red mohawk hairdos still hung around the fountain downtown near the Hudson's Bay department Store back then, and though Molly and I were slightly less exoticly dressed, we felt at home and completely at liberty.

Bill Bennett, who was British Columbia's premier at the time was quoted in a CBC.ca article yesterday. "We all grew together. Business got better, people were having fun, but they were also making more money."

And according to Darcy Rezak, who was on the Vancouver Board of Trade during Expo, Expo also changed physical aspects of the city: "The SkyTrain, infrastructure, port facilities, the cruise ship business came hard on the heels of Expo," Rezak said. "So, a terrific transformation."

I was there when it was happening, but Expo 86 was just another teenage adventure for me. In fact, I went on to write a rather scathing speech about the exposition for a French language competition because I had heard about the one thousand downtown eastside residents who had been made homeless by the new construction. Now, however, I look back and think the growth of Vancouver was bound to happen, and Expo 86, just like the Vancouver 2010 Olympics was a reason to build some needed infrastructure for the growing city.

Although they still love the city where they met, my parents never did retire to Vancouver.

The top photo is of a Belgian bumper sticker from Expo, which I found online. I remember seeing that picture at Expo.

Fifteen Seconds of Fame

2011-04-28T09:45:00.000-07:00

After a day of welcoming visitors, answering questions, and relearning how to use a gas powered generator to run the coffeemaker at the annual Tulip Festival yesterday, my tired feet and I returned home and checked the neighbourhood mailbox, which is right outside our driveway. Amongst the bills and gaudily coloured political party propoganda, of which we have received much as of late, it being the last week of the lead-up to the Federal election, was this unassuming little postcard:

Today I Saw was one of the very first blogs I ever followed. London, England's Jill Wignall, artist, craftsperson, and blogger was chosen as a Blog of Note just after I had started my blog, and I immediately subscribed after visiting her unique site. Each day, Jill draws a pen drawing on a postcard of something she has seen of interest that day, photographs it and posts it on her blog with the name of the person she intends to send it to. I regret that I have not been the most consistent follower of Jill's blog, although I love the concept and admire her creativity greatly. I suppose most of us follow the blogs most consistently of people with whom we have made an online community. As far as I know, Jill is not a reader of my blog, at least, she has never left a comment. Needless to say, I was surprised and delighted to discover she had pulled my name out of the proverbial hat and sent me one of her whimsical postcards, sent on February 4th of this year. I had not seen the post wherein she posted the above postcard and announced me as the recipient. I immediately went to her blog and after scrolling through some lovely artwork and craft projects I found the three month old post:

I laughed when I realized I had received Jill's 'Year of the Rabbit' themed postcard just in time for Easter another season of the bunny rabbit. I was also relieved to realize I had a subject for this week's post, as humble as it seems. Working at the tulip festival makes for a busy few weeks every April, and I struggle to find time for blogging and reading my favourite blogs.

After supper, I sat down to watch the news on TV. A reporter and cameraman from CTV News Vancouver had visited the Tulip Festival in the morning and I hoped to see the product of their hour of work on the fields, which are just starting to bloom in all their forty acres of rainbow-ribboned glory. The story ran in the first fifteen minutes of the news program and to my surprise (and okay, a slight thrill,) I could be seen, for nearly a full second, welcoming a busload of visitors from Vancouver - although no one except me would have recognized that sideview of a woman standing in the crowd of tourists. My friend Kate, whose festival it is, was actually interviewed for several minutes, so she got nearly five seconds of full facial airtime, while the tulips themselves earned the most focus - probably a full twenty seconds. I am expecting a busy day at the fields tomorrow after all that promotion!

It truly is a funny world. Little surprises occur when I least expect them, and often when I need them the most. I have been dragging my backside around these days, trying to keep up with everything there is to do. I am also recovering from the busyness of the Easter weekend followed by a late night spent attending a wonderful evening of music (including my eldest and friends) at the Ignite Youth Music Festival in Vancouver on Monday. Who knew that a 4 X 6 handmade postcard with a Royal Mail stamp could give me such a lift? So, today as I gear up for another day at the Tulip Festival I am thinking of Jill in her home in sunny London, surrounded by Royal Wedding mania, and wondering what she is thinking of it all. I am also wishing her well, and saying 'thank you for the lovely postcard!' from my soggy corner of Canada.

Mixed Messages

2011-04-21T17:52:00.000-07:00

Would anyone ever go up to Annie Lennox or Bono and say, "Come on now, admit it, you made a poor career choice"? I don't think so. How about Colin Firth or Judy Dench? Claude Monet or Jackson Pollock (if they were still alive in person)? Nope. How about J.K. Rowling or Stephen King? Never. At some point in their young lives, I am pretty certain that someone, somewhere along their road to success, once tried to dissuade them from following their dreams. I think most of us are relieved they ignored that advice and got on with using their God-given talents.

If our kids are to believe the message in nearly every Disney movie and Hollywood film, they should feel mightily encouraged to follow their dreams, and up until the last year of highschool, my son was getting that message from his school teachers. He was even depicted, playing his guitar, in a slide show on the theme of 'following your dreams' at last year's graduation ceremony. And then, when he was well into grade twelve (his last year) someone implied it was time to 'get serious' and think about making sensible decisions concerning his future. That someone was the overseer of the Graduation Transitions Portfolio Project, a government initiative meant to get kids to align their post-high school plans (or come up with a convincing story if they haven't got any). In theory, I suppose this is a good idea, especially if your child has firm plans to become a teacher, a nurse, or an electrician and needs steering in the right direction. But an artist? There don't seem to be any boxes to tick for that career choice.

We have raised our children to apply themselves, to strive, to work hard, to appreciate and use their talents to the best of their ability, to believe in themselves, and to have faith in the future. I have kids with all kinds of dreams and goals. At present, the youngest wants to be a writer when she grows up. My other daughter is interested in cinematography and photography and horses, usually all at the same time. One of my sons is a living catalogue of boroque music, plays violin in a community orchestra and has a strong interest in archaeology, and my eldest is already making plans to record his first CD of original songs. I have no idea if these interests and passions will be their 'jobs' for life, but it is exciting to think of the possiblilities inherent in each field - and isn't being young all about that wide open sense of a world of possibilities?

The Graduation Transitions Portfolio Project involves gathering applicable schoolwork and projects from a student's history in order to prove their interest in a particular area. When all the materials are assembled in a neat and presentable folder, each student undergoes a dress rehearsal interview with the overseeing teacher before they present their portfolios to a table of local figureheads from the town. My eldest procrastinated on his portfolio but pulled it together over a few weeks before the dress rehearsal. He provided recordings of his music, documentation of his application to a post-secondary music program and interview, newspaper articles and posters from his many performances, and a reflective essay on his high school years and his plans for the future which included pursuing a career in music. He had everything organized, attractively presented, and on the morning of his rehearsal interview, he donned a white collared shirt and a grey wool suit jacket over his jeans, brushed his long blonde hair and headed off with his portfolio tucked under his arm.

When he returned home after school, I asked him how the dress rehearsal had gone. "Pretty much as I had expected. Mr. _____ said I had done a good job on my portfolio and everything was in order, but he dismissed my plans to become a musician, even though I gave him examples of people I knew who made a good living doing just that, like that drummer I told you about in Vancouver who lives very well of playing on other musicians' records, Mom. He didn't come out directly and tell me my dreams were unrealistic, but he did argue that they weren't much of a career choice and that I should get real and consider other options."

My son reflected quite philosophically on the whole situation. "I didn't expect him to understand, but didn't he have dreams at some point? Oh wait. He's probably bitter because he ended up working at our little school." (That's our boy, always at the ready with a sarcastic quip, but it is a sign of his well developed disdain for the status quo and all its suppressive tendencies.) Then our son went on to say that he could understand the teacher's hesitation if he had just suddenly come up with a grandiose plan to become a rock star without any musical skill or previous inclinations at all to pursue such an endeavor. The teacher was new to the school this year, and perhaps knows little of our son's love affair with music. It really is his life. I'm not saying my son will be the next big thing, but shouldn't he at least be given the encouragement to try? He has been champing at the bit to leave school and get started. And for crying out loud, it's not like he's got a wife and kids at home to support.

When children are spreading their wings and beginning to prepare for the launch out of the nest into the big wide world, shouldn't we adults be their main cheering section? We know from experience they may fall to the ground, so then we should fly down to meet them and nudge them back up again, over and over until they are flying on their own. It would be unnatural to say, 'Well son, if you want to fly then you're nothing but a dreamer. Better not try it, boy. Better stay safe here up in the tree'.

I have a theory about the up and coming generations. I think part of their job is to critically examine the legacy of their parents' generation, to cut through the B.S., because there will always be a bit of that, and adopt the good. I do believe that is exactly how many artists and visionaries get their start.

So, Mr. _____, just try and stop them!

Here's a great performance of the Supertramp song 'Dreamer'.

And by the way, A VERY HAPPY EASTER TO ALL!

One Hundred Posts. Does That Make me an Author?

2011-04-14T12:26:00.000-07:00

This is my one hundredth post. I am amazed and delighted by this fact, of which I was informed when I went to my dashboard this morning.

I am grateful to Blogger for giving me a forum to share my thoughts and ideas, my concerns and observations. I appreciate the way the whole thing works, the visual appeal of a blog, the opportunity to post photos and links, video and music. I enjoy sharing ideas about the world and humanity with the many bloggers and readers I have met through this wonderful venue. Writing is the loneliest of professions, and just to be able to post something and find a reaction by way of a comment the next day is what propels someone like me to continue. And continue I have, to post every week. Be it an essay, a poem, a story, a memory, my posts have helped me to know myself better, and to gain confidence in my urge to share what is inside my heart and mind with readers.

Several weeks ago, I was again at the library for the annual event I organize with my friend Terrill the local public library supervisor. The first part of the event was a workshop with Canadian author Robert Weirsema. It was an unusual workshop; we didn't do any writing except to make a few notes on the handout he gave us - A list of Ten Thoughts for Writers (actually there were eleven). Robert did give a fascinating lecture on the day in the life of a working writer, the various stages of a book, from notes to finished product, and I enjoyed the event along with the rest of the large group who attended. The second event was an evening of readings by local writers. Not many of us showed up (we found out later that most people believed the event to be on the Thursday evening, two days later, as it had been every other year), but the group who did, placed our chairs in a circle and read to each other. My friend Marilee and I sang a little a capella duet she wrote, we read to each other some more, and then we ate and drank tea. All in all, it was a happy evening among friends. Even my husband showed up to support me and ended up telling a story - ad lib - about our rafting trip up north nineteen years ago.

After the event, Terrill, my husband and I cleaned up and talked about the evening. Terrill began to tell me of an idea she had. She said I should put together the best of my essays, write an introduction, and send it off to some literary agents. She said: "You've been writing for years. You're good, your essays are great. It is time." I went home and pondered this for a few weeks. I'm a real slow mover.

Last week I got one of those emails from our regional library informing me of some books that had come in for me. I didn't recognize the titles, though I did recognize one of the authors, Nick Hornby. When had I ordered these books? They weren't the kind of titles anyone in my family would order, although my son Ian was expanding his reading horizons and I thought they may be his choices...but why order them on my account when he had his own? (He works at the library.) Slightly baffled but curious, I went to the library to pick up the books. Two volumes of essays were presented to me by one of library workers. Attached was a short note:

Rebecca - These are essays. People put their essays in a book. Ahem.

Of course the note was from Terrill. She had ordered the books for me. The audacity!

So now, I am reading one of the books, Nick Hornby's Songbook. The other is From A to X: A Story in Letters by John Berger. I am starting to get 'ideas' for my own collection. And if it actually gets published, I know one person at least, besides my ever-supportive parents, who will buy a copy.

It's good to have a friend in your corner.

The picture above was borrowed from here.

Mothers and Children in the Promised Land

2011-04-08T13:29:00.000-07:00

I have moved several times in search of a better life, and I have been a nanny of sorts, looking after the children of some teacher friends for several years until the children all reached the first grade, but I have never had the experience of doing both at the same time. Thousands upon thousands of women do just that. Their own country cannot supply them with the life they would like to live, the opportunities they would like to have, and so they take the leap and sign up with a nanny agency as a way in to Canada. They leave home and family, a culture and a language they know, and come to Canada to work for a family they have never met. For eighteen months the foreign nanny, most often Filipina in origin, exists in the doorway of the country she would like to live in, and once she has put in her time, she can apply for permanent residency.

When my youngest daughter started Kindergarten, I went every day to pick her and her friend Simon up from school to bring back home after the morning class. I would often chat with the other mothers and caregivers who were there waiting with me. I got to know two caregivers fairly well, one young Russian woman who was working for a local family with many children, and one Filipina woman who was working for a family with two children. Both would arrive daily to fetch their five year-old charges. The young Russian woman was bubbly and happy for the first month or so of her stay, but as the fall wore on, she visibly began to wilt. She was obviously terribly homesick and unhappy - she missed her mother and her sister, who had just had a baby. She went home to Russia not long after winter was over. Her Au Pair experience had been an eye-opener, and she told me her next adventure was going to be some time spent meditating in a convent. I wondered if the Filipina nanny was homesick as well. If she was, she hid it well.

I had been given a few parenting magazines by a friend and one day, came across an article on the foreign nanny trade in Canada, a subject I knew little about. It caught my interest because, of course, I had recently met two foreign nannies. The article focussed on the Filipina nannies, and explained how many, if not most of them, had left not only their country and parents behind, but often husbands and children, too. As I read the article, a thought gathered itself and a suspicion regarding my new aquaintance began to dawn on me. I wondered if the Filipina nanny I was getting to know, who appeared to be in her late 30's, had also left a husband and children behind. I did not want to ask her directly, so we talked every day at the school about other things. I asked her about her native country. I asked her if she had been employed there, and found out she was a trained teacher. Eventually, I found out she had come to be a nanny in Canada because she wanted to bring her whole family over and immigrate, but she could not begin to apply for that until she had permanent residency status herself. And so the conversation progressed:

"Your family?" I asked. "Do you have children back in the Philippines?"

"Yes, three children. One teenager and two young children."

"Who is looking after them while you work over here?"

"My husband and my mother." She explained how her employers let her use their computer to Skype with her family, and how grateful she was for that.

"Just out of curiosity, why did your husband not come to work in Canada instead of you?" I asked.

She explained that if he came he would have to not only find work, but would have to pay for an apartment. If she worked as a nanny, she could live with the family employing her and send a lot of money home. The Canadian dollar was worth three times as much back home.

"How common is is for Filipina nannies to have children back home?" I asked

"Very common. Almost all of them do."

"That must be hard. You must miss your husband and children a great deal," I said.

"Oh yes, I do. Very, very much." But she went on to explain how she wanted her children to have the opportunites open to Canadian children. To go to University, to get good jobs, to have a good life. If they stayed in the Phillippines they would continue in poverty and feel like they had no real future. I nodded and took in all she said. She seemed so strong, so determined. Then I thought back to the article I had read. It spoke about the difficulties families faced when they were finally reunited - how children and mothers who had spent so much time apart during the formative growing years had to get to know each other all over again, and sometimes felt like strangers. The nanny told me she was nearly finished her stay with the family and was soon going to join her brother in a community closer to Vancouver. There she would find employment and proceed with the endless paperwork involved in immigration. She hoped to bring her family over in a year or two. I wished her all the best.

I got to know another Filipina nanny after the first one had moved away. She also had children and a husband back home, and was employed by a hardworking and appreciative local family. After this nanny had lived with and worked for them, they accompanied her to the Philippines, visited her family and got to see the country she was trying to leave for good. When the nanny and the family returned from their trip I talked to all of them, as it happened, seperately, about their experiences. The nanny told me that it felt very strange and irritating to sleep beside her husband after all that time living apart. She had become used to sleeping alone, and she liked it, she said, laughing. My heart felt heavy after our conversation even though she was one of the lucky ones. Her employers helped her with her paperwork and continued to be her good friends, even after she had left them to work elsewhere. I know from watching documentaries and reading further articles, that not all Filipina nannies enjoy such a supportive atmosphere here in Canada.

Even though it is extremely hard for me to imagine myself leaving my own children for any length of time over a week or two, I cannot pass judgement on anyone who chooses to do what these Filipina women have done. How can I? Every mother wants what she thinks is best for her children, and hopes the sacrifices she has made for them turn out to be worth it in the end. I truly hope the women I had the privilege to meet are successful in bringing their families over to Canada after all the investment of time, resources, and emotional energy they have put in. I can only feel empathy for them in their difficult separation from their families and feel grateful that I do not feel pushed by circumstance, by extreme poverty, or by a lack of hope for the future of my own beloved country, to do the same.

I am remembering now that film, Paris, Je t'aime, a montage of stories from the various quarters of Paris. In what is, to me, the most poignant storyline, we follow a young, single, immigrant mother

who rises very early to prepare for work. She gathers her young child in her arms and in the dark,

takes him still sleeping to a large daycare. We follow her long journey by train

from the outer suburbs of Paris into the inner quarters. We watch as she goes

up the steps of an elegant townhouse where she works.

She is a nanny for a rich family's children,

and will not see her own child again

until the day is over

and she has made

her long morning's

journey

in reverse.

The photo above is from a related article in the Montreal Gazette newspaper.

Welsh Cakes for a Royal Wedding

2011-03-30T09:29:00.000-07:00

Canada is in the Commonwealth and, even though we have had our our own constitution fully in place since 1982, we still acknowlege the Queen as our head of state - which means she is on our coins, our twenty dollar bills, and on special Royal occasions, our stamps. We have a Prime Minister, not a President, and a Queen's representative called the Governor General who resides in our capital city, Ottawa. The Queen calls Canada her 'home away from home' (after Balmoral Castle, I'm sure) and Prince William and Kate Middleton have taken us up on our offer to host them for nine days of their honeymoon tour. Of course, much of the country is pretty excited about that and many will even show up to see them in person.

When I was a child I watched the Queen's televised annual Christmas message with my parents and found I was interested in the doings of her family. My dad's mom, whom we called Nana, had a real love for the Royal Family. According to her my Great-Nana, who had come to Canada from London, had the same tartan as the Queen Mother, although I was never able to figure out what that meant to my family. My Nana brought us souvenirs of Charles and Diana's wedding when she visited one summer. We watched Charles and Di's wedding on television and when baby William was born, my Nana sent me a collectible spoon commemorating the great event. When I visited my sisters in Winnipeg the summer I turned eighteen, we went to see Prince Andrew and his bride Sarah Ferguson on their honeymoon tour. They looked like very normal people, and I was, I admit, a little disappointed. Perhaps I thought they would glow or something. When my daughter, Emma the horse lover was little, she saw a picture of Queen Elizabeth riding a horse and decided she was alright. Emma even wrote her a letter that said, "Dear Queen Elizabeth, I like horses, too!" Unfortunately, I forgot to mail it. I turned into a bit of a Royal watcher after my Nana got me started, and therefore, can be found skimming through Hello! Canada Magazine when in the supermarket checkout line or reaching for Majesty in the orthodontist's waiting room, rather than O Magazine or Prevention.

So, being the Monarchist that I seem to find myself, I was a bit put out when listening to an interview with an American historian on CBC Radio the other day, when she said to the interviewer: "So, I know you all have this thing with your ex-queen, like you all get excited when she's going to go to Banff of something like that."

The interviewer, Brent Bambry, sort of laughed uncomfortably and said, "Ex-Queen? Do you know something I don't know?"

The historian said, "Okay, your sort-of queen. But you must admit, the whole relationship between Canada and the monarchy is ridiculous."

Bambry quickly changed the subject, most likely in an effort to calm those listeners who were probably already calling or emailing the station to protest, and asked her about her recent book on the annexation of Hawaii (which once had a monarchy, by the way) by the United States. I thought the historian was quite rude, but more so, ignorant, about Canada's long, and in the words of our present Prime Minister Stephen Harper, "loyal and affectionate relationship" with Queen Elizabeth II and her predecessors. If I had been so motivated to call the CBC, it would have been to complain about their guest not doing her homework. As far as I know, our relationship to the Monarchy has never been the cause of any major strife, and in fact, the only reason my beautiful province of British Columbia is part of Canada is because Queen Victoria's governor James Douglas hopped to it and pronounced it Crown Land before the U.S. could annex it during the Cariboo Gold Rush. (We screwed up over Alaska, and lost it, but that is a whole other long story.) I know the historian interviewed does not represent the sentiment of the U.S. as a whole. Plenty of Americans have great respect for the Royal Family, and treated Lady Diana as one of their own.

Banishing thoughts of scornful, mocking historians to the recesses of my mind, I was wondering what title the Queen would confer on Prince William and Kate when they are married a month from now. According to my research ( ten minutes spent looking around on various royal-watcher websites), whatever title the Queen gives them on their wedding day, once Prince Charles becomes King, William will inherit the title Prince of Wales from his father and Kate will be Princess William of Wales, or something like that. In any case, I am looking forward to viewing the whole thing on television, though my family will tease me unmercifully for it. Able to partake in neither the Royal Wedding Fruitcake nor the famous Chocolate Biscuit Cake because my 1987 within-ten-meters viewing of Andrew and Fergie was not enough of a connection be warrant an invitation to Westminster Abbey for Will and Kate's wedding, I will most likely commemorate the occasion with a pot of Earl Grey tea and a plate of Welsh cakes, a recipe I found years ago and make a few times every spring for my family. Even if they don't care too much about the Royal Wedding, my family will enjoy the cakes, which are the size of a cookie, the texture of a scone, and the flavour of a delicate fruitcake.

I include the recipe for Welsh Cakes here, in honour of the future Prince and Princess of Wales, in case there are others out there who would like to join me in making them. They can be served with cheese, jam or butter or rolled in sugar when hot. They really are good! By the way, I won't be seeing Will and Kate when they come to Canada. They are snubbing Vancouver in favour of Nunavut, but that's okay. Judging from previous experience, I think I almost prefer to view my Royalty at a distance...or on TV. Will and Kate, best of luck. I'm pulling for you.

Welsh Cakes

2 cups all purpose flour (not self-raising) (500 ml)
1/2 cup granulated sugar (125 ml)
2 teaspoons baking powder (10 ml)
1/2 teaspoon salt (2 ml)
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg (1 ml)
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon (1 ml)
1/2 cup butter, margarine, lard or even solidified coconut oil ( but you'd need to experiment with it) (125 ml)
1/2 cup currants (125 ml)
1/4 cup mixed candied citrus peel (or just the grated peel of a lemon or orange) (50 ml)

1 egg
1/3 cup milk or substitute (soy, almond, rice, coconut, etc. milks) (75 ml)
1/4 teaspoon almond flavouring (optional) (1 ml)

Using large bowl, put flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, nutmeg and cinnamon and stir together well. Cut in butter until crumbly. Stir in currants and peel.

Beat egg with fork. Add egg and milk and almond flavouring (if using) to dry ingredients. Stir into dough as for pie crust. Roll 1/4 inch (2/3 cm) thick on floured surface. Cut into 3 inch (7 cm) rounds with biscuit cutter. Fry in ungreased frying pan over medium heat, letting rise a little and browning both sides. To test pan for heat, drops of water should sizzle but not bounce around on pan. Makes 2 dozen or more if smaller rounds are cut.

Enjoy, and happy baking!

Cheerio,

Rebecca

The above photo of Welsh cakes is from flickr and is also featured on squidoo, where more traditional Welsh recipes can be found. The photo of Will and Kate was taken by Ben Stansal and was borrowed from the Guardian newspaper website.

Language Lessons

2011-03-24T19:36:00.000-07:00

Canada is known as a bilingual country, but the working ability of most western Canadians to speak French is limited at best. We all take French in school, most of us learning to conjugate a few verbs and to ask for directions to the bathroom by the time we graduate. Some lucky kids, like my friend's daughter attend French Immersion schools in the nearby city where her mom travels to work each day, but most do not. I knew a lot more French in high school than my public school friends because I went to a Catholic elementary school where it seemed to be more of a priority. My children are presently not even able to take French classes beyond their Grade 11 year; there simply is not the demand in their small public high school. It is sad, really, that in our school system it has to be all French or almost nothing. I believe that if we are to call ourselves a bilingual country, then a language program should be just as important as any other course in school. I suppose I have felt that way for a long time because I continued to take French in college.

I was not the greatest French scholar, but I loved to speak it, even coming third in a regional high school French speech contest. I wrote my speech on Vancouver's Expo 86, which I had been a part of for a week with a teen theatre group, putting on a play with an anti-nuclear message two or three times a day at the British Columbia Pavillion.

During my second year of college I had the opportunity to participate with my class in an exchange with another college in Sept Iles, Quebec. By the time I was in college I had been on an airplane only once and had never been east of Kenora, Ontario, so the prospect of an exchange was exciting. Each college would host the other for two weeks, and Sept Iles came to us first. We hosted them in Kootenay style, took them sledding, on sightseeing bus tours, etc., and introduced them to our friends at the college. I designed a t-shirt for our exchange with a circle logo of snowy trees, mountains and two gold stars above them to represent our two colleges. Some of our guests spoke English very well, many telling us they improved their skills by watching English daytime dramas, but others, like my guest, spoke very broken English and would translate directly from French. We would laugh together when she said things like, "I have to go at the bathroom for to makes the peepee."

And then it was our turn to go to them. We flew out of Castlegar sometime in March and landed six hours later in Quebec City, where we met our exchange partners with whom we stayed in a motel for two nights. We got reaquainted with each other, exploring the beautiful old city and eating in a restaurant with an interior sign which translated as, "Get ready to unbuckle your belt". Someone told me that the sign used to say, "If you can eat it all, it's free," but they started having to give away too many meals and wisely changed their tactic. Coming from a health-foodie background, I was not enamoured with the heavy, fat-laden Quebecois cuisine so I mainly ordered 'le club sandwiche, s'il vous plait', which came heaped on a platter surrounded by pomme frites (french fries). I rarely ate a third of it, and I'm no bird.

Quebec city is very much like any old European city, I would imagine. The buildings in Place Cartier are over four hundred years old, made of stone, and are beautifully heavy with history. Although the sidewalks were slushy and the ice on the St. Lawrence river just beginning to break up, we had good weather which contined when we travelled by bus along the frost-heaved road to Sept Iles. Although a bit carsick I was still able to take in the scenery along the north shore of the St. Lawrence River, which was dotted with characteristic Quebecois stone farmhouses with steep pitched rooves for the snow.

I do not remember much about Sept Iles itself. Translated, it means Seven Islands. I remember taking a helicopter trip over the islands but the day was cloudy and wet and the scenery snowy and monochromatic that time of year. I remember going to various houses and socializing in a combination of broken French and broken English, and I remember that my host family lived southwest from Sept Iles along the Gulf of St. Lawrence, in a small town called Port Cartier, so we did a lot of driving. Unlike in the larger cities and the Anglophone neighbourhoods in Montreal, the people of the towns up the St. Lawrence were completely French speaking. My host family spoke to me only in French and I struggled to understand their patois. We went to a large Catholic church for Mass on Sunday and I was happy to see they had all the French lyrics up on the wall via an overhead projector, so at least I could sing along. I think everyone knows that it is one thing to have conversations in academic French with teachers and fellow students, and quite another to speak the language with dyed-in-the-wool locals in a small region of France or Quebec. My host family was wonderfully kind and generous to me. My host student, Nadine was a gentle soul with an equally gentle mother, a twinkly-eyed father, and a shy younger brother. When we all gathered at the breakfast table I watched in barely guarded astonishment as Nadine and her brother devoured sugary cereals and buried their toast in caramel spread. "Would you have any peanut butter?" I asked.

The sweetness continued when we spent a glorious sunny day at one family's elegant summer cabin on the Gulf of St. Lawrence. There we partook in the famous Cabin au Sucre, or Sugar Shack, which is the traditional celebration of the sugaring off of the maple trees. We pulled hot maple taffy and put it down in the snow to cool. We ate ham glazed in maple syrup (delicious), and Les Oureilles de Christ (ears of Christ) - eggs fried in lard and smothered in, yes, more maple syrup (not my favourite dish-and not only due to its off-putting name). I put my hand in the icy Atlantic gulf water there and I remember we bought fresh prawns from a fish shop on the wharf. The prawns were boiled whole with their roe attached, and my new friends showed me how to pull off their shells and eat them by the bagfull while we walked along the wharf.

At that time in Quebec a language bill was a major bone of contention and the idea of separation from Canada always hung in the air; I know there was a small degree of tension between our groups because of it. As the two weeks wore on, the topic would come up more often from our French hosts and we would struggle to understand. Fortunately, our French teacher was a wonderful, understanding woman, and she did her best to help us figure out what the issue was all about. To remain a distinct society within Canada, our French-Canadian friends wanted to do everything in their power to keep their language the dominant one in their province, and I had no problem with that. Quebec did feel like a bit of a different world to me, but I was open to its differences and only wished my French were better so I could take more in of its culture. On our final evening together in Quebec our adult leaders held a debriefing session with us. We were each to give our impressions of our experiences in our own language, which would be translated for the benefit of the whole group. Some of us took the chance to air our political concerns regarding the language bill, while some of us made tearful Academy Award-type acceptance speeches. Instead of being a time when we should have focussed on the good that had come of the exchange, it quickly descended into dangerous territory. I was one of the last to speak. I don't remember much of what I said, but I think I expressed my frustration at what I thought was the wrong approach for our last evening together as a group. I remember voicing my concern that instead of taking away all the fun times we had learning how much we were alike, and the progress we had made in bilingualism, we were in danger of parting from the experience with a bad taste in our mouths, and how unfortunate that would be.

The next morning we all went to the airport and said our goodbyes. The tension had lifted somewhat and the good will had mainly returned. One of the French-Canadian students came up to me and in an expressive manner, made a long speech to me. I did not know her very well, but she had hosted a party at her parents' opulent home. She was very pretty with sleek dark hair and a genuine thoroughbred elegance about her. As she spoke to me in rapid French, I worked very hard to try and get a grasp on what she was telling me. She kept stopping to ask if I understood, and I would say yes, (but only every third word). When she was finished her speech she gave me a firm hug and kissed me on both cheeks. I understood enough to know she appreciated how hard I tried to speak French at all times when in Sept Iles, that she appreciated what I had said the evening before in the debriefing session, and that she was expressing warm feelings toward me. Although I was dying to know all she was telling me, I just didn't have the heart to tell her I could barely understand a third of what she was saying. I think I felt shame in that.

When I got married a few years later, my husband's French was so much more limited than mine that he used to tell people I was practically bilingual. I wish I were. It is a beautiful language, and I could get by in a restaurant or reading signs, but of course, that is not enough. I am saddened by how little French my children are taught in school and that the initiative to gain bilingualism in Canada is mainly up to the individual. Many federal jobs require proficiency in both languages (to my mind the reason for the funding of French Immersion programs by the government), the cereal box on the kitchen table has ingredients listed in both languages (and often in Spanish as well), and the bank machine asks if you prefer your service in French or English, but that is about as far as it goes out here in the west. Even if my French were perfect, I wouldn't have much of a chance to use it.

In Switzerland, much of the population can speak French, Italian and German, but then Switzerland is a much smaller country than vast and expansive Canada. The distance from here to Quebec could encompass much of Western Europe, I believe. Canada is also a multicultural country and in British Columbia it may seem more useful to learn Cantonese rather than French. It is also true that many immigrants have a hard enough time learning one of the languages of their adopted countries, let alone two, and First Nations people are relearning their own languages.

However, if my experience in Quebec taught me anything, it is that we have to work harder and smarter for a sense of national unity. In short, we have to learn to speak each others language, whether literally or figuratively.

The above photo was found here.

Happy St. Joseph's Day (a reposting)

2011-03-19T13:02:00.001-07:00

Yes, yes, I know, we've just finished with the green beer and the shamrocks, the corned beef and cabbage, the dancing of jigs and the transatlantic greetings, but today is an important holiday, too. At least it could be if we all made more of a fuss about it.

Today is the feast of St. Joseph, husband of Mary, mother of Jesus and, according to my research, patron saint of all of the following: the Universal Church, Canada, travellers, fathers, workers, families, schools and a happy death. That just about covers it - at least in my life.

To be sure, St. Patrick's day is important for all of us who claim even an ounce of Irish blood in our veins. According to my family tree, my great-grandmother on my mother's father's side was Irish. In my younger days that was enough of a heritage to send me and my friends to an Irish pub to dance and drink the rainy night away on the 17th of March. By the looks of it, the Irish celebrate this national holiday with great gusto; after all, St. Patrick brought them something new to fight about and then drove out all the snakes. Kidding aside, a country like Ireland, whose Christian heritage has played such an obvious role in its riveting history, does well to acknowledge and celebrate St. Patrick. It makes good sense.

Following that line of logic, wouldn't Canada celebrate St. Joseph's day the same way as the Irish celebrate their patron saint's? Not so much. Canada is funny that way. It's full of saint-honouring Christians from a multitude of ethnic backgrounds, who have played a major role in the education of its citizens, the leadership of the nation, the building of it's infrastructure, and, let's face it, the building of the population itself, so shouldn't we have parades, dress up in brown linen robes and fake beards and decorate our homes and businesses in a hammer and saw motif (St. Joseph was a carpenter, in case you didn't know)? We wouldn't even have to dye our beer. It's available in a multitude of shades of brown already.

Perhaps the times are a-changin', though. I see in the local news that St. Ann's Parish in Abbotsford is having a 'Paddy and Joe Festival' this Saturday with dinner by Dutchman Caterer's (3 entree selection), a live band "The Groggin Noggins", cash bar, and Irish Dancing Entertainment. This new festival is apparently to celebrate the 'solemnity of St. Joseph, Patron Saint of Canada', but everything about it screams St. Patrick's Day. How typically Canadian. We lure you in with the promise of a good party, and while you're here we introduce, very tentatively, a new concept. We don't want to ruffle your feathers or come on like a tonne of bricks, which brings me to my final point: St. Joseph was, by all accounts, a quiet and gentle man, who taught his son how to work with wood, and was supportive to his wife - the ideal family man. He isn't the kind of saint with a resume of flashy miracles performed and wars averted by his influence. To my imagination he is like the good things about Canada itself: understated, humble, subtle in its international influence, but at the same time, always there working away for the good of the world, peacefully smiling over its challenges, enduring 'stormy weather' with patience, and wisely guiding and educating the next generation of 'bright lights'.

So, perhaps we Canadians are more correct than we know in how we celebrate our patron saint's day. St. Joseph probably wouldn't want much of a fuss made over him anyway. Still, while I will not be attending St. Ann's 'Paddy and Joe Festival', I will raise my glass of amber Kilkenny ale and wish you, from my heart, a very happy St. Joseph's Day.

The painting is Georges de la Tour's "St. Joseph the Carpenter" available as a print from http://www.art-prints-on-demand.com/.

This post was originally from this time last year. I hope you enjoyed it.

I'm Wearing Green Today!

2011-03-17T14:15:00.000-07:00

shamrock boutonierre from marthastewart.com

I had another idea for this post, but I will put that aside for St. Patrick's day, put on the green and celebrate my deep Irish heritage. By deep, I mean I have to dig a little deeply to find my bit of Irish heritage. Nevertheless, I have always felt an affinity for the Gaelic territory of my Irish ancestor, my mother's grandmother on her father's side.

My great-grandmother Mary was born some time around 1881 (my sister reminded us all in the family in an email this morning) in the city of Letterkenny, which is in County Donegal in the Ulster Province of Northern Ireland.

Letterkenny in 1910

Mary married my great-grandfather, a Scotsman, and they emigrated to Canada. This great grandmother is the only Irish ancestor on both sides of my parents' families that I know of, and even her ancestors were originally from Scotland. Even so, she was Irish and it is due to this strand of lineage that I feel justified in celebrating this day, as I always have. (Incidentally, the unique shape of mine and my mother's nose came from that Irish/Scotch branch of the family, as I found out when my mom showed me photos of my great-grandparents.)

Usually I like to celebrate St. Patrick's day by going to a dance. A couple of weeks ago, my husband and I spent the night dancing our socks off to the Gaelic/Latin/Funk band The Paperboys, and since we didn't make it to hear the fiddler April Verch last Friday night, I have decided that The Paperboys dance was my official St. Patty's day dance, albeit early. Today, I am wearing green and very much looking forward to the landscape around me doing the same. St. Patrick's day is always a wonderful sign of the fullness of the spring to come. I present the following ten reasons to love the Irish by way of tribute to this day which has been embraced by people in many corners, even by the orthodontic office where my daughter had her braces re-tooled this morning. It was decorated with shiny foil shamrocks all over the place.

One Canadian's Top Ten Reasons to Love the Irish (in no particular order)

1) The Commitments soundtrack (I think the D.J. played 'Mustang Sally' every night at the night club where I danced with my friends in the 1980's)

2) Guinness stout. Mmmmmmm.....although I didn't appreciate it until about ten years ago

3) U2 (see here for an account of the time I finally saw the band live after being a fan since 1984)

4) The Humble Shamrock. St. Patrick used the shamrock to illustrate the concept of the three-in-one Holy Trinity when bringing Christianity to the Irish. I believe the shamrock is also a symbol of the luck o' the Irish, at least here in Canada.

5) Irish Film. There is something magical and mystical about the Irish films I have had the pleasure to see. Some of my favourites include Once, Three Boys (and girl) from County Clare and Into the West, and as I stated above The Commitments. A rich sense of humour, and often plenty of swearing, is also evident in these films.

6) Fr. Ted. We love this show about three very unlikely priests from Craggy Island.

7) Irish music. When I'm in the mood I love to listen to some good, traditional fiddle and harp-centric music. The Chieftains are a favourite, as well as the grittier, more modern sounds of The Pogues and The Waterboys.

8) Irish history. Often sad and full of conflict...but fascinating!

9) The Irish accent. It is lilting and musical and probably one of the most fun accents to attempt to imitate.

10) St. Patrick's Day!

Erin go bragh!

I cannot seem to find a source for the photo above of Letterkenny in 1910. I just found it on Google images. I apologize to whomever it is credited.

A Poem for Today

2011-03-10T13:30:00.000-08:00

The Church is his Jumbo Pass

He’s willing to lie down in front of bulldozers for it and get arrested.

He’ll lead the chant and write the letters, signing his name in sweat and tears.

“If you were charged with being a Christian, would there be enough evidence to convict you?”

Says the poster in the parish hall.

He can answer yes, sometimes an almost unbearable amount.

Maybe that’s why he and Harry Potter are mates,

Because Harry knows life isn’t about cute little fairies or watching out for toadstools that might give you a bit of a tummy ache,

Life is about fighting the scariest bloody dragon of your worst bloody nightmares.

But anger and protest are so loud

And eclipse in our senses the steady, quietly burning love that is so much greater.

Like the logging company with its profits and its bottom line, we don’t want to hear the opposition or acknowledge the far-seeing truth of the statements on the placards he holds.

‘Think about tomorrow – today is almost over.’

Though five percent ogre he is ninety five percent your greatest ally and friend on earth

Never will you find a person more on your side, or a more positive champion of your efforts and talents, No one more supportive to bring you up when the world pulls you down.

If he hadn’t had the guts to kick our asses every once in a while

Our world would look very differently.

The forest needs its thousand year old trees standing tall

And its grizzly bears among them.

Jumbo Pass has been a battleground between environmentalists and ski resort developers in the Kootenay Region of BC for many years now.

From the Royal BC Museum in Victoria

Running on Empty

2011-03-03T14:23:00.000-08:00

Last week was one of those weeks. I had a million things on the go and was starting to get bogged down in the details. Despite the fact that I listened intently to the news from Libya at least twice a day, news of a whole country in crisis, a life and death situation for its people, I couldn't seem to get past my own tribulations. I'm like that sometimes, caving inward, obsessing over things I can't control, like the weather report or the ever present possibility of an outbreak of headlice at my daughter's school, all the while knowing I'm being ridiculous, praying for deliverance and trying desperately to look at the bigger picture to gain some perspective for crying out loud. Finally, after a few days of struggling to be heard my inner voice of reason spoke up. She said firmly, "Sit down, pick up an absorbing book and start reading. Do it now!" I obeyed, and as my hamster wheel of a mind slowed down and focussed on something outside myself, I gradually started to regain my sanity and an overall sense of calm.

I am a mother of four, a volunteer, an event coordinator and a writer. My mind is usually going a mile a minute and I'm putting out energy left, right, and center all the time. Some weeks, like last week, are particularly packed and by the end of it I've really got nothing left. The tank is running on empty, and beginning to consume itself. If I don't put some fuel in the tank my mind is left to its own destructive tendencies and things can go from bad to breakdown. But what exactly is my fuel? I think everyone has their own fuel. For some people it's a good bottle of wine shared with a spouse over dinner or a weekend getaway. Those are both fine options but can get a bit expensive. My fuel is more readily available and budget friendly.

Yesterday I took much of the day 'off'. By that I mean I took one day to just relax and not expect too much productivity from myself. I spent the whole morning watching a DVD I'd borrowed from the library and had not yet made time to watch. I had tried to renew it online but was prevented by the fact there was a hold on it. The DVD, a three hour and twenty minute BBC production of George Eliot's beautiful story Daniel Deronda literally did take my whole morning, and I enjoyed every minute of being able to watch it without interruption (apart from the breaks I took to make a cup of tea and visit the bathroom). No one even phoned which was real luxury. After lunch I went for a walk downtown to pick up some buns to go with the leftover chicken soup I had made the day before - so I didn't even have to make supper. After supper my husband and I did the few dishes there were and then settled down again in front of the television as the weather was too nasty for an evening walk. The Washington State PBS channel had a great show on about The Troubadour - a Los Angeles club where basically all the big names in the 1970's singer-songwriter genre got their start. James Taylor, Carole King, Jackson Browne, Eagles, Crosby Stills Nash and Young and even a twenty-three year old Elton John were all in that L.A. music scene in the early '70's. They were also all part of the soundtrack of my childhood so I watched the program with special interest while my mind kept drifting back to my parents' pine panelled living room with its record player and hundreds of records. (We also noted that Jackson Browne had exactly the same hair style back then as our eldest son has now.) After the program I had my customary evening soak in the tub, read my absorbing murder mystery novel and went to bed.

This morning I woke up ready to take on the world once again. I had no idea what I was going to blog about this week but I sat down at the computer and immediately thought of Jackson Browne's song, "Running on Empty". I typed that in to my title box and started writing this post. I wrote a bit, then went to have my weekly coffee out with friends. After coffee I put up posters around town for the annual Writer's Workshop and 'Open Mike' evening I organize with my friend The Librarian and walked home for lunch. The warm sun was breaking through the clouds. The birds were rioting in the trees and the hope of spring coming at last was visible on the faces of almost everyone I met. I noticed that the snow from the last two snowfalls was melting fast and had revealed, to my great relief, that my snowdrops, which had begun to bloom weeks ago, had survived.

My tank runneth over.

Here's Jackson Browne performing Running on Empty in 1978. David Lindley, whom we saw perform last summer at our local music festival plays the great slide guitar solo near the end. Enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2O_1plEd3i4

A Bit of Show and Tell

2011-02-24T19:09:00.000-08:00

"You have a story for everything!" said my schoolmate after I finished telling her the tale behind something I was wearing. I can't remember if it was a piece of jewellery or an item of clothing, but I do remember her comment made me laugh and then pause to acknowledge its truthfulness.

"Yes, I suppose I do," I said.

Even now, many of the objects in my home have a little history, a connection to some small though memorable event, and when I use them my mind will drift back to the time and place when I acquired them.

I remember going into the local Community Services Thrift Shop a few years ago and buying two china cups and saucers, one in pink and one in blue, for my daughters. I think they were five dollars each. The volunteer at the counter that day remarked on my desire to collect old things. She told me her daughter did not want to inherit any of her mother's china or furniture, and preferred everything brand new and to her own taste. She found that sad, and so did I. But then, I am a collector.

It was my mother who taught me the phrase 'Waste not, want not.' She often brought home useful things unwanted by others (and still does!) when I was a child. She is also an historian and archivist and likes objects rich in history and family connection. Much of our home was furnished with second-hand items and inherited objects from the homes of my grandparents. I cannot truthfully say that my home is made up of the same; we are outfitted with IKEA pine mainly, and have yet to reach the stage (thankfully) of inheritances - though I do have a few special things from my deceased grandparents. I have added to these treasures 'finds' from the thrift stores of the various communities in which we have lived. Not being of the budget to frequent antique shops, I rely on my fairly good eye and my 'Spidey senses' to lead me to hidden treasures in the thrift shops. Over the years I have been very lucky. I have a special fondness for vintage dishes and books, but I also keep my eyes open for kitchen items, wool sweaters, and paintings.

Many of the ladies at the local thrift shop know me well. I go there once a week when time permits, I generally walk or ride my bike, carrying my green backpack. One elderly lady, who no longer works there apparently took note of my taste in dishes. One day, when I had only four dollars in my wallet, (they take only cash) I visited the shop when she was working. She quietly called me over and said, "A nice Wedgewood cream and sugar set came in and so I put it aside for you." She then took it out and placed it on the counter. I did like it, and tentatively asked how much it was. "Would four dollars be fair? It is Wedgewood." I thought it would be fair and emptied my wallet.

The pitcher pours perfectly - no drips at all. I date these from the 1960's.

Another time I found a wonderful Sadler teapot, which also pours perfectly, unlike my old one, for two dollars. As I lined up to pay for it, the woman behind me said, "You are walking out with the best deal in here today!" I liked the teapot because it was just so gloriously 1980's in its graphic black and white colouring and shape. My son took an immediately liking to it and wants to inherit it. It is rather masculine in style.

This pitcher I found at the shop one day, and when I looked it up on the internet I was thrilled to find that it was worth over ten times what I paid for it. However, I would have loved it it any case. It was made by California's Vernon Kilns and is from Don Blanding's 'Honolulu' series. To me, the pitcher just shouts 1930's and the golden age of Hollywood. I felt very lucky to find it. Apparently the series was discontinued in 1939.

I have four active children, and dishes get broken from time to time. A few of my treasures have been broken over the years, which is always very sad but not devastating as I've rarely paid more than five dollars for them and they have no family history. Besides it gives me an excuse to keep the treasure hunt going. I do have a deal with my husband, though. To keep the house from becoming completely cluttered with my findings, I have to purge every once in a while. It is fair to say we regularly donate as much as we buy from the thrift shop.

By far, the rarest find in the thrift shop is an original drawing or painting to my taste. That is not to say the shop isn't filled with framed pictures of all kinds, I just rarely like any of them. This week I lucked out, however. After spending the morning working away at various projects I decided to go for a walk in the rare winter sunshine. I had not been to the thrift shop for a few weeks and as it is at least a half mile from my house I thought it a good destination. I threw on my backpack and ventured out. Wandering around the shop, visiting the kitchenware room first, then making my way to the back to look at the books and pictures I found, on the floor, leaning against another dusty picture, an oil painting. I picked it up, studied it, put it back down and walked a few paces away to see how it looked from there. I took it up to the counter and inquired as to the price. "Four dollars, all pictures are four dollars today," said Rosie the shop manager. I decided I liked the painting too much to leave it in the shop, but to walk home with it would be cumbersome. I was considering whether to ask if they would keep it for me until I could bring my car, when my neighbours who were also in the shop, offered to give me a ride home with my painting. That in itself was very kind, but the fact that their automobile is a huge diesel monster truck with 'Git 'r done' emblazoned across the back window makes my tale that much more amusing.

We walked out with our goods to the parking lot. I went around to the side of the truck. My neighbour pushed a button and a step unfolded from under the door. The back seat was at the level of my head and so I hoisted myself up using the step and placed my painting on the leather seat beside me. My painting and I were carried in style to the tune of 10 miles to the gallon, amid a discussion of what the truck was used for (Search and Rescue missions and hauling their travel trailer). When I was dropped off at my door I thanked my kind neighbours profusely for the ride home. The step was unfolded once again, except this time my foot slipped a little on it and I sort of slid unceremoniously out of the truck to the ground far below.

I hung up my new, four dollar painting straight away. I loved how my eye was drawn around past the headland to the sunlit hill beyond. It made me think of the book Swallows and Amazons by Arthur Ransome. I have no idea who the artist is - a P or D Newton - or where in the world he/she was when he/she painted it, and although I am curious to know the painting's story, I'm still rather preoccupied with my own story - about how I brought it home.

The frame could use a little work

Tractor Yoga

2011-02-17T09:30:00.000-08:00

The first time I was exposed to Yoga, at eighteen, I didn't even know it. I was taking a week long modern dance workshop with the wonderful instructor Diane Black from Los Angeles and having the best time! Diane was like a tiny, smiling, jet black-haired sparkplug, was incredibly encouraging and in tune with the core elements that can bring out the dancer in everyone. In essence, a truly gifted teacher.

At the beginning of each class she had us lie down on our backs, stretch out our legs and raise our arms above our heads. Grabbing the left wrist with the right hand she had us stretch toward the right and breathe into our left sides, then she repeated the same on the other side. It was a foreign concept to 'breathe into' some part of the anatomy other than the nose or mouth, but I used my imagination and tried it. Diane had us go through a number of similar exercises all the while breathing deeply into various parts of our bodies. By the time we stood up ready to dance we were thoroughly warmed up, in perfect balance and aware of and alive to every part of our bodies. I had never felt that way before when dancing and it made everything better. I was more alert, my reactions to instructions were quicker than ever before, my body more limber and strong, or at least so it seemed to me, and thus my confidence rose in my own ability to express myself through the various movements. Three years ago, when I started attending yoga classes instructed by my friend Mike I recognized many of the same poses and breathing exercises from Diane Black's classes twenty-odd years before, and I was immediately hooked.

Mike holds drop-in yoga classes in two locations in my town, in a multipurpose studio in the Fitness Center and in the viewing lounge of the riding stables where my eldest daughter rides and works with horses. I prefer the large, airy room which overlooks the riding arena because it's quiet even when people are riding below, the lighting is adjustable and warm, and there is plenty of room for everyone to spread their yoga mats on the wood floor and stretch out.  The room at the Fitness Center is okay too, apart from the concrete floor and harsh lighting - though Mike usually turns off the flourescents and lights candles instead - but it can also feel a bit cramped if a lot of people show up.

Last evening I went to the stables, arrived early and claimed a good spot in the back row. One of the great things about Mike is his approach to yoga. As well as being a certified yoga instructor, Mike is also an artist, a designer and builder, so yoga is something that is just part of what enriches his life and keeps his active body flexible, strong, and limber; he is eager to share what he knows with all of us. He also has a great sense of humour and often ends the class, after we've meditated through the savasana and done our three 'ohms', with a joke. There is no yoga-snobbery about his class, though he certainly challenges us each and every week. The usual attendees of the class include a couple of school teachers, a Swiss chef, a librarian, a dairy farmer, a jewellery designer, and me. We have a lot of fun, especially when we lose our balance in the tree pose (hands raised above the head, body perfectly aligned, with one foot raised in a variety of positions) - "It's windy in here!" says Mike.  Last evening's was another great class - a thorough warm-up, a good variety of poses, and I even managed to the accomplish the 'wheel pose' with a little help. We ended the class, as always, with savasana, which is when everyone lies down on their mats, hands with palms up a little away from the sides, feet a little more than hip width apart, eyes closed, lights lowered to minimum.  The room becomes very quiet and we are encouraged to slow down our breathing, meditate for several minutes and 'relax, relax, relax...'

Cue the tractor. With an earth-shaking diesel roar, the tractor raked the sand of the riding arena. Around and around it went like a Zamboni cleaning the ice between the periods of a hockey game. So much for relaxation...I got the giggles. Mike started to say 'calming' things like, "Feel the roar of the tractor as you relax your fingertips, your toes, your forehead." More giggles. We all tried in vain to remain meditative as the tractor carried on roaring and raking below us, it's hard top just visible like something out of a cartoon through the large viewing windows of the room. Usually, at the end of savasana, when we are all off in our own worlds, Mike gently brings us back with the ringing of a special kind of bell, softly at first and then slightly gaining volume two more times. When he rang the bell last night, barely perceptible above the roar of the tractor's engine, I really lost it.  Mike rushed through the rest of the 'coming gently back to awareness' part of the class, laughing too, but with a tinge of annoyance. (I'm sure he will be having a word with the stable manager.)

All of us were now up, adjusting our various versions of the lotus position, and ready to chant our three 'ohms' - apart from Richard, the dairy farmer. He had fallen fast asleep.

"Richard! Wake up!"  hissed Joe, the Swiss chef who occupied the mat just in front of him.

Richard got up and in a bit of a daze said, "That tractor put me right to sleep. There's no more relaxing sound in the world!" Spoken like a true farmer.

Recently I heard an interview with a Vancouver yoga instructor. He was offering classes with heavy metal music playing. He said the concept was to train people to learn to block out all noise and distraction, the idea being that if they could meditate to heavy metal or other distracting noise, they could do yoga and meditate anywhere and in every situation. I suppose there is a certain wisdom to that theory...it obviously works for Richard. There is also something called Laughter Yoga. I got a taste of that last night...and I think it works for me...on occasion.

The pose pictured above is the single leg raised wheel pose. Fitting, for tractor yoga don't you think? I also want to thank Kate for the Stylish Blogger Award (at right). I am honoured and cheered by it! I will pass it on to seven worthy recipients in my next post.

In the Land of the Giants

2011-02-10T13:17:00.000-08:00

It is a well known fact that the rise and fall of civilizations can be tracked in their art and architecture. I learned about this in my art history courses in University and found it utterly fascinating. The wealthier and more powerful a civilization became the more decorative and ornate its art and architecture and the more trampled upon became its lower classes. Think European rococo architecture with its elaborate ornamentation in the 18th century and the subsequent French Revolution. Think the Roman Empire with its coliseums and palaces and its equally famous decline and fall. And there exist countless examples amongst the Central and South American civilizations as well.

I have heard grumblings recently in the media and other places about our place as a civilization in terms of the aforementioned lifespan. We in the western world and to some degree those in parts of the east exist in a somewhat blinding swirl of excess. Everywhere we turn there are examples of bigger, more, higher, faster, stronger, fancier, busier, richer, but chewed up and spat out from that swirl are equally noticable examples of the lesser, smaller, slower, weaker, disenfranchised, disillusioned, poorer and more desperately in debt. The phrase, "Something's gotta give" springs to mind. While I wouldn't say this excess is necessarily expressed in our art - I don't know enough about the present art world, it is expressed in our architecture: endless luxury highrises, big box stores and mega-casinos, and in our technology and design: cellphones that do everything but tie our shoes for us (although I am sure there is a app for that), personal hot drink machines which read the barcode of each single serving plastic 'pod' and concoct the perfect cappucino for us, and endless disposable cleaning products with the catchy phrase: 'just use, and toss!' (without a thought for the landfill).

I fear that this swirl of excess is causing our society to lose our footing and our perspective. Last week I delivered a letter to my municipal council expressing my concern about the amending of a bylaw which would allow the opening of another liquor store in our community. While I used the fact of the well known local problems with addictions in our community and the drawing away of business from the several other liquor outlets, not to mention the downtown core in the area, to support my argument, in my heart of hearts I knew that my objections to the new business mainly stemmed from my sometimes puritanical aversion to excess, ie: did we NEED another liquor store? No.

I feel exactly the same way about the brand new Walmart Supercenter in the nearby mid-sized city. There are already several large grocery and department stores serving the city, with some of them Canadian owned with good reputations for treating their employees well. It's not like any of these large stores have ridiculously long lineups at any time but Christmas and summer long weekends. Did the area need yet another supermarket/department store to serve the population? Absolutely not. But people will shop at the new Walmart because they are convinced the prices are lower - at what cost, though? Their produce is often overpackaged as if it were something other than food and trucked in from faraway lands, and their clothing line cheaply made in sweatshops. I know senior citizens and sleep-deprived moms might appreciate the one-stop shopping of a Walmart Supercenter, so I will concede on that point if I must, but I would argue that our Canadian Superstore offers almost all the same products and services with more of an emphasis on groceries.

Furthermore, many people I know will forgo the Walmart entirely in favour of driving even further west to the nearest Costco, where a membership for the privilege of shopping there will cost fifty dollars. Costco shoppers are a dedicated lot. They buy their clothing, televisions, computers, bulk-sized food products, furniture, garden supplies, all at Costco. Once on the way back from an event in Abbotsford, the friend I carpooled with, a Costco member, stopped there to pick up a few things. I had not been in a Costco for many years. My thought was immediate: if I owned a restaurant I might want to shop here, for everything was in huge quantities, but for my family of six? It would be too easy for me to lose perspective. Years ago my eldest sister once warned me against the buying of groceries is such large quantities. 'The more you buy, the more you'll eat', and it is true! When I bought the 2 kilogram bag of tortilla chips and the 2 litre jug of salsa, I ate much more of it than was good for me. Everywhere I looked in Costco there were triple sized boxes of everything from cereal to diapers. I felt like I was in the Land of the Giants. I half expected to see Hagrid come around the corner with a triple package of chicken legs to feed his pet dragon. For a nation of overeaters, these supercenters do little to help, though for the truly organized and disciplined I suppose the value can be good for the money, even with the extra fuel needed to get there (?).

People will argue with me that it is all about choice, not consumptiveness. I agree, some choice is good and democratic, but too much is just confusing and wasteful. One only needs to go in a liquidation store to see what happens with all the junk nobody needed to buy when it was first new. The number of large second hand stores such as Value Village also reflects the amount of cheap quality throw-away clothing that is produced in the world. While some people must routinely clear out their accumulation of clutter, still others have psychological problems which cause them to buy and hoard stuff until their homes are bursting at the roof joints. I don't want to come across as hypocritical, because I am a dedicated buyer of second hand books, vintage dishes and clothing, so I benefit from other's purchasing and am just as guilty as many other people purely by association and habit. My objection is not to people having what they have and enjoying it, it is against buying what we truly do not need for happiness or survival and placing too little value on quality versus quantity.

I am not about to join my voice to the doomsday club, I have great hopes for society as more and more people are choosing to live in humbler dwellings, grow their own food, walk or take public transit, etc., but with the rumour of forty more Walmart Supercenters going up in Canada, there is cause for concern and activism. Globally, I am afraid, unless something happens to stop it, we will continue to be the giants, greedily stuffing our faces and plundering the earth to fill our coffers while stomping on or ignoring the 'little people' down below while they only ask for a dignified way to carry on living. We shouldn't be surprised when little Jack and his magic beanstalk infiltrate our cozy swirl and run away with the goose that lays the golden eggs. It might even be good for us in the long run.

When I was looking for an image for this post I found the one above - the ad for an actual television show from long ago called The Land of the Giants - so I used it.

Gung Hay Fat Choy!

2011-02-02T12:18:00.000-08:00

My husband is a Rabbit. This year is supposed
to be a good, peaceful one for him. Let's hope so!

Celebrating the Lunar New Year is a big deal in this part of the world. Vancouver has had a healthy Asian, and particularly Chinese, population from the beginning of its days as a city. Immigration has remained steady over the past one hundred years and the Chinese and related cultures have grown to make up a large percentage of the population here in the Lower Mainland. When I was a student at the University of British Columbia in Vancouver, forty percent of my fellow students were of Asian descent and I believe that number is even higher now. In cities like Richmond, just outside Vancouver, whole shopping centres are Asian in theme and content, and several of the public gardens are beautifully and decidedly Asian in design. CBC Vancouver morning radio is occupied with Chinese New Year these days, as well. The descriptions of special dishes and family gatherings are reminiscent of Christmas and my mouth waters to hear of Wonton soup and shrimp salad rolls - a delicious snack I enjoyed often at the UBC Arts lounge.

The end of January is a good time to start looking forward to something. The weather, especially last week, was particularly gloomy here - the rain came down relentlessly and the damp invaded my bones. Some friends of ours, not in the least Chinese themselves, nevertheless put on a Chinese New Year party every year as a way of cheering everyone up. We are all expected to arrive with some indication in our appearance of the animal that is our birth year's sign. I am a rooster, but since I don't own anything roosterish to wear I figured it would be acceptable enough to arrive dressed in New Year colours of red and gold. It wasn't. Before long, my friend Sue, the hostess, found a rooster figurine (a salt shaker actually), threaded it with a piece of red ribbon and hung it around my neck. I'm really going to have to look for some rooster earrings or a scarf for next year! Believe it or not, most people were good sports and arrived with tiger tails, rat ears, piggy masks, or dragon shirts. The party was a supper pot-luck and most of the dishes were Asian in origin, so we enjoyed plenty of spicy coconut based dishes, rice and vegetables. (The desserts were decidedly North American, though.) We all had to sign in with the 'front office staff' of the party - my youngest daughter and her friend - under our respective animal signs, and then we were photographed with our fellow roosters, dogs, sheep etc. A good time was had by all and the effect was the one desired: we were certainly cheered up!

Growing up in caucasian-filled eastern British Columbia, Chinese New Year was not something I knew anything about, but the college I attended had an English as a Second Language department (for which I tutored throughout the year and then worked for as a teacher assistant one summer) and welcomed mainly Chinese speaking students from Hong Kong as well as several Japanese young people. The department celebrated the Lunar New Year and hosted various events throughout the college and so my friends and I were introduced to the traditions. When I worked for the department we went for traditional Chinese New Year supper at a restaurant near the college. It was the first and only time I ever attempted to eat duck served with the head and feet intact.

The other day I was shopping for a gift for a friend whose birthday happens to fall on Chinese New Year and noticed that Purdy's chocolate shop (founded in Vancouver in 1907) had a display of 'Year of the Rabbit' chocolate medallions and 'Good Luck' chocolate coins wrapped in red and gold paper. The rest of the shop was filled with the reds and pinks of the upcoming Valentine's Day wrappings. The girl at the counter told me she was tired of red (the shop had been filled with red since well before Christmas) and couldn't wait for the pastel-coloured wrappings of Easter, which will, no doubt, be the overwhelming theme in the shops come February 15th (bunnies and eggs are already making an appearance in the grocery stores). When Easter is over, Purdy's will go back to their usual regal purple and gold wrappings with a few apple themed teacher gifts thrown in for the end of the school year.

The annual Chinese New Year parade during the 2010
Olympics in Vancouver

As I get older, the holidays seem to follow each other in increasingly rapid succession in the commercial world, providing more reasons for Lindt or Purdy's to cash in appearing all the time. While I don't really take ownership of something like Chinese New Year - as my Polish friend Agnieszka would say, "I didn't grow up vis it" - I certainly don't mind piggybacking onto the celebrations for the sake of breaking up the late winter doldrums. The wait for one of the most important holidays in my life, Easter, which isn't until April 24th this year, will be long enough. Besides, acknowledging the importance of the Lunar New Year to our Asian-Canadian neighbours is just good manners, right? Party on!

Note: Gung Hay Fat Choy means 'Best Wishes and congratulations. Have a prosperous and good year.'

The photo at right is from the Toronto Sun's website.