Hollywood North goes Bucolic

I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later. We are within a relatively short distance from 'Hollywood North' after all. Ten episodes of a new television show are going to be made here in our town as well as in other locations around the Fraser Valley. The park on one side of our main street has been transformed by a long row of false-fronted buildings in order to give the appearance of shops on both sides of the street in a 'bucolic small town in Idaho'. Filming is due to begin in the first week of September and happen here intermittently over the next several months.

A temporarily widened sidewalk was poured as well.

The park's flowers bloom behind the framing for the false storefronts

Other filming for movies has happened here in recent years as well, a crash scene from the third X-Men film probably being the most internationally noteworthy. Of course, First Blood, starring Sylvester Stallone was filmed in Hope, a town not too far from here in the early 1980's, and they have been milking that noteriety ever since. There was even a huge public outcry in that town when the district announced it was replacing the famous 'Rambo Bridge'. The popular ABC show Once Upon a Time is filmed in Steveston, which is also near Vancouver, and that little seaside community will probably never be the same. Of course, it remains to be seen whether the show being filmed here will enjoy the popularity of Once Upon a Time. Its director, M. Night Shyamalan has not enjoyed much success in recent years with his projects, but Matt Dillon, the star of the new show is already garnering much attention around here. He is the sort of actor who, in his younger cute-boy days, graced the covers and pin-up centerfolds of teen magazines such as Tiger Beat, but, fortunately, was taken quite seriously by the acting/directing community for his work in the film adaptations of S.E. Hinton's novels The Outsiders, Tex, and Rumble Fish and went on to star in notable films such as Drugstore Cowboy and later, Crash, There's Something about Mary, and Beautiful Girls. 

When my youngest daughter found out that Wayward Pines was going to be filmed here, she immediately leaped to the conclusion that she would somehow be a part of it. She spent the last year taking acting classes with the performing arts school in our area, and I would say she has a fairly pronounced case of the acting bug. Last Saturday, we arrived a few minutes early to a casting call held in one of the conference rooms of a local hotel. Originally, I was not going to put myself in for an extras role, but in the end I decided to have my photo taken along with my daughter. If she was called back, I would have to accompany her during filming anyway, so why not give it a try? The worst that could happen would be that they would ask me to lose ten pounds. Or maybe twenty - Hollywood is Hollywood. The line-up was already out the door, but my daughter and I, along with everyone else, were given forms to fill out and a take-home information sheet outlining the requirements of extras. We met an older man we knew who was also trying out - his son works in the movie business and had encouraged him to come - and chatted with him while we waited. After about 45 minutes we were given a number and asked if we were mother and daughter. A short wait later, my daughter and I each held a sheet of paper with a large '70' printed on it, hers with an 'A' attached to it, and mine with a 'B' while we had our photos taken. The casting staff were friendly but expedient and we were moved along quickly to make room for number 71. As we went out through the doors of the conference room, we walked alongside the line-up, which extended by then to the side entrance doors of the hotel itself. People - the tall and the small, the old, the young and the middle aged, but not many children -  had come from all around for the casting call and I was relieved we had decided to come when we had.

I imagine we will find out quickly if we are to be called back, with filming starting so soon. Extras are paid, but I have no idea how much. It must be enough to make it worth standing hours in line for. Or perhaps people see it as their way into the glamourous movie business. I am not at all sure if I want to be an extra. From what I have seen it involves a lot of 'hurry up and wait'. Each day, according to the requirement sheet, extras must arrive with three possible outfits for their role, and wearing the one they deem the best of the three. They must have their own touch-up makeup if they are women and have freshly washed and styled hair, pressed neutrally coloured clothing, as well as various choices of hats, scarves and handbags. That sounds like a lot of work for me, although I think I can manage the clean hair and the hats. My daughter only sees the positive side of the situation. She just wants to have the experience, and since we live only a few blocks from the film site, I don't mind accommodating her for the few days of filming per month. For her sake, I hope she is called back at least.

This morning, my daughter and I went for a walk downtown. I brought along my camera to capture the work-in-progress that is the fictional town of Wayward Pines, the setting of a mystery show involving Secret Service agent Ethan Burke (Matt Dillon) after he is in a car accident and becomes trapped in a strange, but bucolic (there's that word again) town with no money, cell phone or I.D., and as he tries to leave he realizes he is immersed in a conspiracy. The place was buzzing with men and women dressed in hardhats, work boots and orange safety vests, with machinery, onlookers, and a general vibe of excitement and of working to deadline. Apart from the Fall Fair parade, Pioneer Avenue does not normally see so much action. Our town is, in fact, quite bucolic, and its citizens are not used to fighting for parking spaces along our main street - until now.

Some of the architectural details are prettier than those on the
real buildings across the street

Painting begins

Parking is presently at a premium on weekdays

Our newspaper office will be transformed into a quaint coffee shop.
Some pieces of playground equipment await their placement on the set.

Midsummer Blues... and Reds, Greens and Browns

Midsummer is a time when I seem to drift in the doldrums. August seems an endless string of blue-beaded days: blue skies, blue water, blue mountains, blue berries, and just a little blue in my soul. I know very well that I have absolutely no real reason whatsoever to feel blue, but for some reason I do, just a little tiny bit. Usually there comes in late July or August a respite from these doldrums. The refreshing winds of change, in the form of a holiday away, fill my little sails with renewed energy and hope and I am carried along to some other shore where blue is still the colour of the day, but not in me. I am suddenly filled with sunshine yellow and the spongy, mossy green of life.

This summer there is no wind of change to fill my sails and carry me off to those far distant shores, so I have to make my own little daily breezes. I have to find joy and beauty, colour and refreshment in what I see before me. Every morning I get the chores done: the majority of the cooking, the laundry, the watering of the garden, phone calls, the important emails, the cleaning all happen early in the day when I seem to have the most energy. Sometimes a walk with my youngest daughter into the town to do some errands must also be accomplished before the heat of the day sets in. Then, it is time for lunch and a bit of a break in the day when I sit with a book or a magazine - or my PC - and a cup of tea. When the caffeine from the tea takes effect, I get up once more and get back to work. There is always more food preparation to be done; I think I spend half my time thinking about and preparing meals. This year, we are part of a veggie garden co-op and I am always looking for new and exciting things to do with Swiss chard, beets, kale and zucchini. Carrots, peas, cucumbers and potatoes are easy, not to mention the bounty of berries, peaches and nectarines available from the markets at present. After supper is the time to visit with the family, go for a walk, and later, watch a movie or TV show to wind down. In all this activity and routine I try to find ways to make the days better. Often I pack a picnic, pick up whomever is off work at the end of the day and go off in search of a good spot to sit by the water. The water is warm by this time of year and swimming is a glorious way to wash off the cares and the grime of the day; two of my kids work in a busy cafe and my husband is flat out busy, working up a sweat at the hotel where he is employed. On my husband's days off we try to take a little road trip, often to a favourite swimming place or hiking trail, sometimes to a town or city not too far away from here where we can find some unique places to have a coffee and a treat or search for books or collectibles.

A couple of Sundays ago, we went for a short road trip to a town west of here called Mission. Our teenagers had to be at work by 3:30 p.m. so we had a few hours to enjoy together. Mission is the home of the beautiful Westminster Abbey , which some of us have also visited recently, and also the western-most station for the West Coast Express train which many commuters use to come and go to work in Vancouver. Most of the shops in the downtown core were closed, it being Sunday, but we found a fantastic antiques/collectibles shop to spend an hour in. The place was packed with everything from old pulleys and wagon wheels to vintage milk glass bowls and complete sets of fine china displayed in gorgeous antique sideboards, thousands of records, hundreds of old books, and seemingly millions of light fixtures hanging from the ceiling beams. We had a great time hunting through the maze of treasures. I had my eyes open for transferware, which I collect, and books, which I also collect. I cannot afford to spend much on either, but I seem to do alright. That day I found some transferware, but it was not the sort I wanted. Still, I hunted on, looking for some little thing I could take home, and found it in a small, hardbound copy of a book from 1889 called Dick's Common Sense Letter Writer. Inside, were examples of acceptable correspondence covering everything from Letters of Introduction, Recommendations of Character and Ability, Letters of Love and Courtship, to Letters of Invitation and Acceptance. My favourite letter that I have found so far is under the heading, '218. Invitation to a Friend in the County to Visit the City':

DEAR LIZZIE:

A family conclave decided this morning that you had been permitted to vegetate in the country quite long enough. We therefore propose to capture you next week and compel you to come to the city, to dance, to visit opera, theatre, concert picture galleries, stores, and indulge in every other kind of delightful dissipation which we can think of. We warn you beforehand that we have made all preparations for your coming, and that we will not quietly submit to any refusal. Don't dare to disappoint us. Name your day and train, and a deputation from the family will meet you at the depot. 

Your loving friend,

LUCY

If I were Lizzie, I could easily imagine my response to such a letter and would send the following reply post-haste:

DEAR LUCY:

Yes, please! I will catch the West Coast Express from Mission this coming Friday at 7:30 a.m. and will arrive at the station in Vancouver by 9:30 a.m. I very much look forward to a culturally rich and happy time with you all in the city. Thank you so very much for your kind invitation, which is timely to say the least.

Your equally loving friend,

LIZZIE

The letters in Dick's Common Sense Letter Writer are enough to transport me to another time and place when correspondence was the way people separated by any distance was conducted. Before telephones, before email and texting with emoticons and abbreviations for everything, there was the letter, and how such letters were written was of great importance. The book cost me all of two dollars, but in addition to providing me with amusement it will serve as a souvenir of our visit to the shop where I found it and remind me to go again some day.

Even though I found no transferware that day, I decided to take out some of my collection this morning and photograph it. I love these dishes and while some have been gifts from friends and family, I have found most of them in thrift shops and yard sales for a few dollars each. I have done a little research and found out that transferware dishes were the first 'pretty crockery' available to the average person. They really are just monochromatic images transferred onto plain ironstone pottery before the glazing process and final firing, but I enjoy their history, and relate to that little lift it would have given those hardworking women of old to sip their afternoon tea from a cup decorated with some romantic pastoral image...just a little breeze in their sails to carry them through the day.

For more summer blues, head on over to Stella`s Virtual Cafe where she has a couple of delicious blueberry themed recipes.

And, if you would like to check out UK artist Paul Scott`s blog to see what he does with the transferware he collects, visit his site: http://www.natureofmending.co.uk/artist/paul-scott/. Wonderful!

Fumbling Toward Independence

In some of the older books I have read like Little Women and Anne of Green Gables, young characters of talent who did not come from a family of means would have to go without a formal education once they reached a certain age, unless some wealthy aunt chose to take them abroad to study art or died and left them a bequest, which usually happened in a moment of crisis for the main character. Before the days of student loans, the future of young people was basically determined by their situation in life and whether their parents needed them to help provide for the family by going out into the world and finding suitable work. Now, whatever our social demographic our children generally live with us until they are finished high school, and in some cases, a local college course, and university is open to anyone with decent grades and the ability to apply for a loan.

When the student loan program was introduced in Canada in 1964 it provided thousands of young people from families of modest means, like myself, the opportunity to pursue their educational dreams. Most students lived as frugally as possible in sparse accommodations using milk crates as furniture and eating tuna and peanut butter to get by until their next care package from home arrived. They found jobs in summer, which rarely paid enough to fund another complete year of education, but they saved as much as possible and supplemented their savings with another loan. When the four years or more were over, they found work in their field and began their careers, paying off their loans month by month and gradually saving up for that first car that wasn't a rusty Datsun 210 or first home which was often their last home until they retired. Student life was simple and a bit of a struggle, but it was also fun and didn't seem to carry quite the financial weight that it seems to now. Paying for one's education provided an excellent transition into adult life and its inherent responsibilities.

If the television commercials of the past decade or so are to be believed, the onus is now on parents to save for their children's post-secondary education. One such ad depicts a man running and jumping over financial obstacles. A narrator says, "At fifty I didn't think I could ever retire. I had a mortgage, a struggling business to keep afloat and kids to put through university. But with the help of (insert financial institution here) I finally did it."  Apparently, it is no longer perceived to be enough to house, clothe and feed one's children until they reach the age of majority, we are expected to provide for them beyond that in order to save them from accruing massive debts of their own. Here is where I hold up my hand and say, 'Wait a minute,' because unless I win the lottery, my kids are paying their own way through life, and I should not have to feel guilty about that.

I advised my boys to begin saving for college in Grade eleven, putting half of their income from their jobs in a savings account. After his high school graduation, my eldest son, Ian had the wonderful opportunity to spend five weeks in Europe. The invitation came quite suddenly from a friend and he decided to spend his savings to go on the trip of a lifetime. We contributed what we could afford, which wasn't much, but he appreciated us helping him with the cost of his food. The trip was a life-changing experience for him and he came home not quite sure what to do next. He very much wanted to move to the city before too long, so, taking my advice he decided to take a year off, stay home and work to save again for college. He managed to find work in a local coffee place and by the following September he only had to take out a small loan to help fund his first term. He found a part time job at a music store in the city to help with his living expenses, but then was unfortunately laid off from his job in the low season. Through friends, we found him a good temporary job, and on a trip to visit him, we treated him to supper at a favourite Italian pizza place. He informed us that he had decided not to return to the college after Christmas. He resented the idea of borrowing more money for another term of college courses he felt he was just taking for the experience of it. He told us that unless he knew exactly why he was taking courses he didn't see the point in going into more debt. The news was a bit tough for me to swallow, but his dad and I understood his reasons for his decision. He wanted to work and be free to pursue his musical ambitions in the city. He knew what college was like, believed it had provided him with a good introduction to life on his own, and could go back at some point if he knew it would benefit him in a real way. When he came home for Christmas he received a call from his former workplace, the music store. He was offered a full time job. He took the job and has since been very active and happy doing what he is doing at this stage of his life.

Our second son will be off with his prized violin to study orchestral performance at a university in Vancouver this fall. Between the scholarships and bursaries he earned in high school and all the savings he has accrued working at a local cafe during his year off, he will be able to fund his first year. After that, he will most likely have to rely on student loans. Each year it will cost him many thousands of dollars and I know he will apply for whatever scholarships become available. He will also work in the summers and save as much as possible. It will certainly not be easy. The average summer job earns a student ten to twelve dollars per hour, and they are lucky to save enough over the summers to cover their tuition and books. Living expenses in Vancouver are high and I certainly feel the pressure to help our son in any way I can.

Admittedly, sometimes I wish my husband and I could afford to put our kids through school, to give them a financial headstart, but I know such a plan is unrealistic for us and the way we have chosen to live and support each other. Furthermore, and at the risk of appearing callous, I ask why we parents keep extending the rights of our children to claim us as their source of funding when they are adults?  If we truly have the means to fund their educations, pay for their fancy weddings and give them a down payment on their first home, then perhaps we should, but if we do not, then I would argue against the belief that we should feel obligated to sacrifice our own happiness to do so. My husband I have done and are doing our best to live good quality lives with our children - putting them in sports, music and drama lessons, feeding them nutritious homemade food, spending time with them and supporting them emotionally - while putting away a little for our own retirement. I had to make my way through school and make decisions in my young adult life based on the reality of my own financial situation, so why should not my children? My husband agrees. He started working in high school to pay room and board to his single mother, worked his way up into a successful retail career and then finally went to college at the age of twenty-seven.

As parents of moderate means we will support our children in the following ways as they enter the realm of adulthood: we will deliver the occasional care package to our sons, and if they run short of money for reasons other than they have spent too much on unnecessary things, we will do our best to help them. We will attend as many of their concerts and events as we can and cheer them on unobtrusively from our seats. We will let them know it is lovely to have them home for the Christmas holidays and will cook their favourite things. We will let them live at home rent-free in the summer if they choose to come home to work and save for the next year of college or university. We will be here for them if they need to call home and talk out a problem or give us some good news. In other words, we will continue to be their mom and dad who love them.

Yes, life is hard for kids in these days of pricey educations and an uncertain job market, but it was a lot harder before social programs, student loans, and flexible course schedules came along. My kids, like many others out there, are smart, creative and full of energy. They can do this! And I'm going to let them.

A World of Music, with Small Town Roots

A few weeks into our relocation from a semi-remote rustic lodge on the rocky lake shore of central Vancouver Island to the lowland agricultural community we now call home my mother phoned to see how it was going.

I told her I was enjoying anonymity for the time being after living among a small collection of families who lived and worked at the outdoor education facility. I also told her I was a bit worried about finding a place for myself in this small town where, from what I had seen, it seemed that maintaining perfect lawns and power washing their houses' vinyl siding, driveways and vehicles were the chosen past times of its residents. 'Don't worry', she said. 'The artists are there. They're hiding. They'll reveal themselves sooner or later'. That conversation took place ten years ago.

A few miles north of our town was Harrison Hot Springs, a little hamlet of a resort community built up around a large hotel, my husband's workplace and the reason we had relocated. We thought the village was a magical little spot and visited often that first summer. We had left a lake shore community and it seemed important to visit our new nearby lake as often as possible. The Island was still very fresh in our minds and hearts and we were reluctant to pledge allegiance to our new home. Spending time by the water connected us to our recent past and helped bridge our lives between the two places.

By the fall I had discovered the presence of a little art gallery in a former forest ranger station on the east shore of Harrison Bay, just outside of the village center, and soon after, through a connection of my sister who was heavily involved in the arts community in her town of Prince Rupert, I found myself introduced to, and then elected as the secretary of, the executive of the small district arts council. The former ranger station was also home to the offices of The Harrison Festival of the Arts. The arts council and the Festival Society were separate organizations fulfilling different needs in the community but we shared the facility and the society helped us with running the gallery. Over the next couple of years I got to know the Creative Director of the Festival, Phyllis Stenson and the General Manager, her husband Ed Stenson, as well as their right hand man, Kevin Jones. Within two years of moving to the area I was working for them coordinating the festival Children's Day, a position I held for five years.

Working with Phyllis and Ed was like being a cog in a well oiled machine. Phyllis and I soon discovered we were both detail-oriented people. Phyllis shared her strategies with me on how to cope with the many small, but important aspects of putting on the event, which were, basically, to be super organized, work away steadily, and if things go sideways to repeat her mantra: 'If my family is well, I've got my health and they can't put me in jail, then everything is alright.' Ed, ever steady, always willing to share in the humour of any situation, helpful, encouraging, relaxed and realistic, was the rock that worriers  like me needed to lean against when the going got tough.

From our early days in the area, we attended the Festival, a ten day celebration of world and roots music and art. Soon, we were all volunteering, my husband, our four kids and myself after I had handed the Children's Day reins to someone else. From annual festival to annual festival we began to see a pattern. Not only did every year's festival shine with some unexpected performances such as the gospel-punk band Reverent Peyton from Lousiana, and the eleven piece very loud theatrical folk band Bellowhead from Britain, and some expected excellent ones like uber-guitarist David Lindley and traditional Cape Breton group Beolach or the dance band Rastrillos from Mexico, it also shone with the coming together of locals and non locals alike who shared a love for great music. People from every walk of life attended the free concerts on the beach stage. Enjoying the lake breezes in the shade of the willow trees and the Festival tents, young families, teenagers, high income people, low income people, elderly people and those with special needs sat on lawn chairs or blankets on the grass in front of the stage. And there were also those people who, having not expected to do anything but walk by the spectacle, found themselves spellbound by the sights and sounds and vibrations of energy emanating from the performers on the stage. As the Festival regulars met at the start of each day's concerts they asked each other, "Did you see the concert last night? Wasn't he/she/they amazing?" or even shared critiques: "I didn't care for that performer. Every song sounded the same to me."

The famous willow tree by the beach stage

Every July the Festival spans two full weekends of beach stage and hall performances as well as an all-day art market set up all along the esplanade. The Friday and Saturday night concerts are generally rousing and dance-able giving everyone a chance to cut loose and 'leave it all on the dance floor'. Sunday evening's concerts start earlier in the evening than the other nights' and are generally more thoughtful or stirring, and are generated to put everyone back together before normal, non festival life resumes. This planning of who should perform when and where is no accident. Over the years, Phyllis has fine-tuned her performance schedule, working with performers' agents to keep as many variables in mind as possible, which is an art in itself. Ed and his helpers run the production side of things to keep the Festival running smoothly, troubleshooting along the way and coming up with umpteen creative solutions. Our eldest was one of those hired stage hands last summer and saw first hand how well the event was run. Of course, very little of an event of this magnitude would be possible without hundreds of volunteer hours. It is to Ed and Phyllis' credit that volunteers like us clamor for an opportunity to become involved in the festival.  After all, we are treated so well, given a free pass to all ten of the evening hall shows (which are the only events in the festival that require purchased tickets) and have a party thrown for us at the end in thanks for our services. Well, we do work pretty hard sometimes.

This year's Harrison Festival of the Arts was the 35th annual, and Phyllis and Ed's last. Phyllis and Ed are retiring, and Kevin is moving on to other projects. In keeping with the way things work around the Festival, succession planning was well under way over a year ago, and come September two new people will be at the helm of the event. The festival society board will continue on providing continuity, focus, and support, but the new directors, who are younger and bring different skills and talents with them will undoubtedly put their own stamp on the event we have all come to love and look forward to each year.

There is no doubt that I consider the Harrison Festival to be one of the main reasons I began to feel at home here in this valley. I have met several friends through the festival, found work and made connections that have proven valuable to my sense of community. The Festival has also become a family affair, and I know my children will go out into the world seeking and perhaps even helping to create similar positive and uplifting community events wherever they choose to call home in the future. Long live the Festival! And a big thanks to Phyllis and Ed, and Kevin, who have worked so hard for many, many years to bring a rich and diverse world of music and art to all of us in this quiet corner of the upper Fraser Valley.


As someone out there said, the 'earth' without 'art' is just 'eh'.

The title of this post is taken from the theme of the Harrison Festival: World Music and Art, Small Town Roots.

I have taken a little summer hiatus from blogging and reading blogs but it is apparent that it is now over. See you soon! 

A Room of my Own

The summer after I graduated from high school I took a train from Revelstoke to Winnipeg to spend the summer with my sisters who lived in that fair city of the Canadian prairies back then. That summer of '87 was filled with touring around the city visiting sites and cafes, and of staying up late on humid nights. Of looking after the house plants of a friend of my eldest sister and riding my bike down Portage Avenue using hand signals to change lanes in the not-too-busy traffic. Of helping my eldest sister Monica cook - she was pregnant and ill at the sight of any meat whatsoever. Of keeping the attentions of an older guy named Garth at bay: 'No thank you' said with a smile.

Monica and her husband and daughter were moving back to our hometown in BC at the end of August, so, after my summer away I returned home with them. In those days you could just show up to our local college at the end of summer and register, so on the advice of my Dad, I did just that. He put a quick stop to my ideas of taking a gap year to 'you know, just work' saying: you will be bored.

I was the youngest of six children in a three bedroom house and now that the last of my siblings had moved out I finally had a room of my own. My mom suggested we redecorate it in the weeks before classes would start. We went down to the hardware store and chose a paint colour called Apple White, which was a pale, pale shade of green like the Transparent variety of apple. It took four thick coats to cover the wallpaper - taking it down would have also brought the plaster down so we didn't dare try - and I brushed and rolled on those four coats accompanied by a cassette tape of Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony which echoed in that empty room with its Victorian era high ceilings. The floor of my room was hardwood in need of refinishing, so instead of undertaking that multi-stepped process we simply scrubbed the existing dark brown carpet on our hands and knees and brought it back to soft and fluffy life. I had inherited a very pretty glass topped antique white dresser from my Granny, I had a double futon bed from who-knows-where and a little painted desk. I put up art posters and dance posters, china masks and a little curio shelf also inherited from my Granny. White and muted green curtains framed my window which looked out on the back yard cherry tree over the kitchen roof. When the work was done, I sat on my bed with the blankets and pillows arranged 'just so' to view the final effect - and saw that it was good. Not too cluttered, bright yet calming and airy. Just right for a girl starting her post-secondary education.

I wrote countless essays at my desk in that pale green room, dreamed my girlhood dreams, cried my girlhood tears, ached my girlhood heartaches. My room was at the top of the winding staircase, next to the bathroom.Often, on their way up the stairs members of my family would poke their heads into my room to make a favourable comment about my new decor or to ask me something. Kiko, our black cat with the little white patch under his chin made many visits to me in my room, looking for someone to curl up with. My Quebec exchange student partner, Nadine stayed with me in that room as well as my sister Clare when she returned home temporarily from a four month trip to New Zealand and Australia, waking me up from my customary deep sleep to surprise me. One fall I gave my room over to my eldest sister Monica and her family while they stayed with us between houses, my cherubic little niece Gisele's white-blonde curls glowing in the sunlight from my window.

When I left home for good, my parents put a new green carpet, a few shades darker than the walls, in my room and turned it into a library/study. It also serves as a guest room for single guests sometimes. Sadly, the cherry tree which bloomed into glorious pinky whiteness each spring had to be taken down. Its former ground is now a part of my parents' large and productive garden, the view still lovely with climbing roses on the fence and honeysuckle against the garden shed.

Last summer, my eldest daughter also got a room of her own. We chose a pale shade of sky blue for the walls and rented a carpet cleaner to give new life to the cream coloured wool carpet. She has decorated her room in her own style, which is somewhat similar to mine but updated, of course, and with her own treasures. My youngest daughter also has her own room now. Slowly, with her sister's help she is making it into her own little space in which to dream, read, and practice her lines. Hopefully, the girlhood tears and heartaches will be at a minimum, but I'm not counting on it.  Apples don't fall far from trees, as they say. However, when they do happen we will be here with comforting words, guidance and cups of tea, just as my family was for me when I was growing up.

The delightful painting above is:  'a girl writing' by Henriette Brown (1829-1901). It lives at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London.

Big Fun at Damp Camp

On Sunday evening we received a message from our youngest daughter's teacher: "Would either you or your husband be able to come on the camping trip on Wednesday? We are short parents. Let me know. Bye."

Mrs. G has been taking her class to Camp Squeah annually for ten years. In every other year but this one, not only has the weather cooperated, parents have clamored to go on the trip, but with the looming weather forecast and a few communication problems, four of the parents that had said they would go earlier in the year, pulled out at the last minute. I had not signed up because it seemed like so many other parents wanted to go, and until the teacher's phone call I had no reason to believe otherwise. I had also thought perhaps it might be a good opportunity for my daughter to have an adventure without her parents tagging along.

My husband certainly could not go on such short notice, so I looked at my schedule and after school on Monday struck a compromise with Mrs. G. I could meet the class at the camp, which is only about a half hour drive from our house, on Wednesday noon, stay the night, and leave the following day at supper time. I had a couple of commitments this week, but could fit the camp in for 36 hours or so. She said yes to the compromise and I went home to get organized.

The rain was pouring as I drove to the camp, the semi trucks spewing up clouds of mist. I pulled into the camp and parked behind our friend Jim who was one of the drivers. I found him and another parent putting the finishing touches on an elaborate system of tarps over the various tents. Although I had been invited to share the teacher's tent she informed me that plans had changed and some boys had been instructed to pitch me a small tent. I found the tent and began to put my things inside. I soon pulled them out. No ground sheet had been placed under the tent and the bottom was already soaked. I decided to sleep in the back of my van. At least I would be dry, there would be room for my daughter if her sleeping situation was not working out - her group's tent walls were already wet on the inside - and I prepared for a bit of a rough night. Oh well, I told myself. I will survive, as would the kids, if no one caught pneumonia before morning.

I joined my daughter's group at the high ropes course for their afternoon session. The other group was canoeing. After nearly every child gave the course a try, I decided to give it a go and chose an element which consisted of a wire stretched tightly between two poles. I climbed the pole on the right, using the large metal staples which had been inserted all the way up to a wire suspended at about 35 feet in the air. I was, of course, in a full harness and attached to a rope/pulley system held on the ground by one of the instructors, but I was still fairly nervous at being so high up. I began to make my way across the wire to the other side, holding on to the ropes hung at various intervals along the way. I discovered that sliding my feet and keeping my heels down helped to steady me. When I reached the other side I was instructed to lean back and was let down to the ground. Good fun, but I was glad to be on solid earth again. Later on in the day I went in to our group's lodge to help with supper. The lodge, which was warm and dry, housed bathrooms, a food preparation area and a large meeting area with couches. As all the kids came in from their activities, many complained of wet feet and wet towels, and asked, 'where do we hang our stuff to dry?' Very good question, I thought. We would be lucky to make it through the night at this rate. Soon afterwards an instructor offered the use of a large industrial propane dryer in the back room of the building, and we began what was to be a fairly constant cycle of drying wet socks, pants, hooded sweatshirts, and towels. We could not dry shoes, and many of the kids still had wet feet when they returned to the school on Friday afternoon.

After a good supper that night of pasta, garlic toast and salad, the teacher made an announcement. We had been offered the use of the cabins. While a few hearty and well prepared kids decided to stay in their tents, most decided to move into the cabins. The teacher, another female parent and I occupied a deluxe, and slightly musty cabin which even had a bathroom and a small kitchen of sorts. In comparison with how I thought my night would be spent in the back of my Honda van, the cabin seemed like The Ritz. I settled into one of the three bedrooms and then joined the rest of the group around the campfire for an evening of stories, s'mores, and games. Bedtime was to begin at 10:00. By 10:20 my tired daughter had left her cabin full of girls who were not nearly as eager for sleep as she was and joined me in my room. We enjoyed a fairly good night's sleep as the rain fell with the constancy of a waterfall.

The next morning we awoke to more rain and we adults rose early-ish to make a hearty breakfast of eggs, ham and cheese served on toasted English muffins, with orange juice and camp coffee. I joined my group on a nature hike in the dripping rainforest and then helped with lunch. After lunch, I helped with the clean up while my daughter's group went canoeing. I kept an eye on the big dryer, folded clothes and arranged them on the picnic tables for the kids. Then, I packed up my own things. I visited with the other adults for a while and then said goodbye to my daughter who was enjoying herself at the archery range. I drove home, my windshield wipers on low by now, a bit sorry to be leaving the camp, but I had a singing engagement for the evening. I needed to get home, eat supper, shower and warm up my voice.

Even though it had rained constantly, the beauty of the forested setting of the camp was not dampened. The scent of rain-soaked ferns, moss and cedar filled me up with the sense of well-being I always have in the forest. I shared that well-being with the kids, who although fairly wet a lot of the time, were generally delighted with all the activities and opportunities for fun on the trip. They appreciated the food, the warm, dry clothes and towels after canoeing or hiking in the rain. They lined up gratefully for hot chocolate and participated in the campfire games with enthusiasm. Any attempts to hold on to their carefully guarded too-cool-for-school persona, seemed all but washed away in that setting, and then warmed up by the campfire they helped to make with old man's beard, a dry moss which hangs off tree limbs, in their bush-craft classes. Not everyone behaved perfectly, but overall a general sense of camaraderie pervaded the atmosphere and it was easy for me to enjoy the kids, and to embrace the experience. I felt lucky to be there, and lucky to have such good rain gear.

The camping trip reminded me of the importance of exposing children and families to outdoor experiences, to the challenges they present and also the opportunities for self-knowledge and improvement. Many of the kids who conquered elements on the high ropes were amazed at themselves. One particular girl came out of her shell in a big way and joined in all the girl chatter in her cabin, much to the surprise of her bunk-mates. I heard one boy thank my daughter for teaching him 'that cool game last night'. My daughter is not one of the cool kids, but in her own way, she is a leader. I saw proof of that fact when the teacher asked her to lead some drama games around the campfire. Everyone, including the adults, had so much fun playing 'Bang!' and 'Concentration'. The boys and girls who persevered in the tents were proud of themselves, and the less well-prepared ones who decided on the cabins were relieved and grateful for the rescue from inevitably wet bedding - most department store tents are not made for wet conditions. (There is also an art to setting up tents in the rain, and tarps can only do so much.) I remembered my family's years working and living in a camp setting similar to Camp Squeah. All the hours spent outside, rain or shine, the hikes to the lookout, the swimming, canoeing and kayaking in the lake was time spent in the best and healthiest way for my children, myself and my husband. Those years formed us into people who seek the benefits of a healthy lifestyle, although it is not always easy keep up the standards we once maintained as a family as the kids get older.

This summer, I vow to spend more time with my kids outside, and I am determined to get some more camping in. It is far too easy these days to allow ourselves to become overloaded with tasks or distracted by things that do not, in the big picture of life, really matter. True perspective is so easily lost and the wrong things can become relied upon to soothe and entertain us.

I also hope for the kids I spent 36 hours with this week. They have seen and experienced what their lives can be like with lots of exercise, fun, healthy food and fresh air, even in the rain. Perhaps they can take a little of that, hold onto it, and let it define their future for the better.

The badge above is available here. I'd like to order one for all the kids. 

A Visit to Children's Hospital

We waited two months for BC Children's Hospital to call us with an appointment date. Then, when we got that, we waited another two months for the actual appointment. All that time we reassured our daughter that the pediatric cardiologist just wanted to do some tests, and if the doctors had thought the situation serious she would have been tested straight away. Still, if one is eleven years old with an imagination as big as a rising hot air balloon, and one hears the words 'tests on your heart', one is bound to be a little nervous as the date for those tests approaches.

Our daughter had fainted at school back in January and scared her teacher by the jerky motions of her faint. She had not swooned or simply dropped to the floor. She had rocked backwards, then forwards, then dropped shaking onto the floor. We took her to our family doctor who decided to run a few tests on her blood, an ECG, blood pressure, etc. While everything to do with her blood was fine, the ECG came back with an indication suggesting an enlarged left ventricle and a request for an appointment at Children's was dispatched from our clinic.

I knew our girl had been thinking about her appointment because the day before, when her brother spoke to her about it, she had a little speech prepared for him, "Oh yeah, they are just going to do an Echo test on me - that's a sort of ultrasound for my heart and stuff, and then another ECG and then we'll meet with the cardiologist. Mom said if it had been really serious I would have been sent to Children's right away, so this is just sort of routine stuff to make sure I'm okay." All delivered with exaggerated cheerfulness.

The day arrived, clear and sunny for a drive into Vancouver. We had to leave by 7:30 a.m. to account for traffic, and on the advice of our friend Kim, whose son is a cardiac patient having had a couple of major surgeries at Children's, to find a parking spot. Traffic was heavy and we finally pulled into the Children's Hospital parking lot off 28th Street, also on the advice of the experienced Kim, at around 9:30 in plenty of time for our 10:00 appointment. I had read the letter sent from the hospital and had preregistered the day before, so there was no need to wait in line for a hospital blue card. The cardiac unit already had it.

We found our way to the cardiac unit and as we walked down the hallway I noticed artwork everywhere I looked, some of it done by children, and some done for children by adult artists. The cardiac unit was full of colourful vinyl covered sofas, toys, more wonderful artwork, a large television showing one of the Shrek franchise films, and of course families. Children, all much younger than our long-legged daughter, played in the toy corner. Parents waited. Doctors and technicians called family after family. I attempted to read my book. Our turn came and we went with our daughter into the Echo room. My husband and I were seated on our choice of rocking chair, exercise ball, or regular chair. Our daughter was hooked up and we settled in for a sleepy half hour in the darkened room while Disney's Enchanted, our daughter's choice of movie played on the little TV screen mounted on the wall across from her. My husband and I watched the computer screen from time to time, recognizing valves and arteries, but not much else inside our daughter's chest and tummy.

When the Echo test was done we went out to the waiting room again. At one point two young women came around with a cart full of board games offering to play with any child. There were no takers, but I was impressed with the thoughfulness of whomever had come up with that idea. Shortly after, we were directed into an ECG room, but the machinery was having static issues, so we went into another. The ECG was a quick test and we went back out into the waiting room and listened to, and shared smiles with, families speaking various languages to their children. I felt sympathy for any family for whom language was a barrier to understanding what was needed for their children. However, efficiency and kindness are paramount in Children's hospital, it seems. We never had to wait long at all. Soon, a short-ish woman in what appeared to be her mid to late sixties with a British accent rounded off by many years in Canada, black framed glasses and a friendly smile called us in to her office for a consult. She began by asking our daughter to describe her fainting spell, examined our daughter's chest and stomach, and had her to do a few exercises with a blood pressure cuff on. When the examination was over the doctor sat down again and said to our daughter, "Well, I think you have a healthy heart."

Our daughter has an expressive face, but her whole body expressed her relief at the doctor's diagnosis. "Really?" she exclaimed.

"Yes. Why? Did you think there was something wrong with you?" said the doctor, smiling.

"YES!" And we all laughed with her.

We then asked the cardiologist why the original ECG had shown an enlarged left ventricle. She explained that ECGs were only one piece of the puzzle when it came to the heart. Our daughter and one of our sons has a chest that is slightly concave in the middle. She gave us a medical term for it which went in one ear and out the other, but apparently the shape of our daughter's chest moves things around a bit inside giving the impression on the ECG of an enlarged left ventricle.

After a few more questions on our side and some serious advice to our daughter from the fit-looking cardiologist with the Ironman Timex watch to get plenty of exercise, and also to be careful of rising too quickly after a long time sitting, we were on our way, an hour earlier than predicted. We went downstairs to the Second Cup cafe to celebrate our daughter's good health with a treat.

As we drove to our next stop, I felt so thankful. I thought of all the children for whom the news had been and would not be so good. I thought also, as I had over the past few months of waiting for our appointment, of my beloved sister in law, Lea who had developed pulmonary hypertension by her late twenties and had undergone a heart and double lung transplant in 1992 which she survived only a few short months. I knew that great advancements had been made in the field of cardiology since Lea's surgery, however, and silently wished everyone I had met in the Children's Hospital cardiology unit that day success with whichever treatment their child might need, from the bottom of my blessedly healthy heart.

I didn't take the photo above. I got if from the BC Children's Hospital website. It is however, just how the entrance to the heart centre looked on the day of our visit.