Fifteen Seconds of Fame

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

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?

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

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

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

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)

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.