"No": A Complete Sentence I Don't Like

You know what my most un-favo(u)rite word is?

It's "no."

Normally I'd be writing about that word here, in reference to receiving rejections from publications and publishers.

But I have discovered that there are lots of ways to augment the complete sentence that is "no," and many of them are not to my liking.

Most recently, these are my least-favo(u)rites.

"No, you are not a match for your brother" (who, as you may recall, will likely require a stem cell transplant in 2011).

"No, your sister is not, either."

"Oh, and your cousin? No, she isn't, either."

Grrr.

Having two other brothers is hopeful.

But while we're on the subject, could I just urge you to think of doing something I can't? Please consider joining the National Donor Registry. In Canada, go here. In the US, go here.

I live in Canada and am thus directed to join the Canadian program. However, the Canadian program accepts donors only between the ages of 17 and 50. Maybe I should have kept a mailing address in Minnesota (you can be in the US registry till the age of 60).

As I whine about this situation, I remember I am not the patient. To patients, the worst "no" of all would be, "No, we can't find a donor for you."

It's a "no" no one should have to hear--including (selfishly) my brother.

Unexpected

To truly appreciate a holiday like Christmas, it's important to remain open and alert to the possibility of meaning in unexpected places.

Here are a few memorable moments from this holiday weekend.

Christmas Morning
Mummy: WHAT IS THIS, POO? WHO? WHO POO-D??
All: Not me. Nope. No!
Mummy: OK then, HOW DID THE POO GET ON THE SMARTIES??

Driving Through the Woods to G's House
Mummy: Oh, look! Three deer! Aren't they beautiful? Oh, how sweet. (Etc.)
Isaac (aged 8 tomorrow): I wish I had a flamethrower.

Welcoming Prayer, Boxing Day
Minister: You have shown us Your love in the coos of a baby....
Choir member [thinking]: The poos of a baby?

See? Sometimes, the true spirit of Christmas requires you to accept that the box of candy you thought you wanted isn't such a great thing. That the urge to hunt will assert itself eventually, no matter how cute the object. That you see love in your way, and others see love in theirs.

So far, the poo is winning over the flamethrower, 2 to 1.

What It's Like

Most Canadians have only a vague idea of (and vague-r interest in) where Oklahoma is. I usually explain it's "Texas lite."

What is impossible to explain is what it's like to live there. How you can have regular conversations with people who are so kind and generous, and then hear them say that they hate people whose skin is a slightly different color. People who are polite and thoughtful but wonder why you don't drape your life in the stars and stripes--are you not patriotic?

What's impossible to understand is how easy it is to give up hope. It's easier to not speak up, because speaking up isn't successful, and it makes you a target. Because money, especially oil money, wins over people every. single. time. That truth, and it is TRUE, leads people, especially those who are liberal politically, to be very good at analyzing problems and not so good at finding solutions. Lots of dinner table complaining to those of like minds, less effort to change minds and policies.

So when I run into someoneo who can express this mixed bag of feelings, I share.

Here, watch this.



Here are some of my favo(u)rite lines:
"billboards with hate-sized font"
"looking for a sign" "a fish with feet"
"where the sunset stretches its arms wide as forgiveness across stolen plains"
"do not apologize for your presence"

Here's one I'm not sure I believe, but I'm glad she does.
"Oklahoma is worth the wait."

Did you also notice what she does in this piece? She gives those who live there--those with family there, those who are staying there for work or to raise children--coping strategies. Hono(u)r Woody Guthrie, learn your history (you'll note that the plains are stolen), show others you love them even though you don't understand them. She shows them a way to hope, a way to take action to support that hope.

Go Lauren! For more of her poetry (which is excellent), go to www.laurenzuniga.com.

Our Regularly Scheduled...Whatever It Is

As I have mentioned (albeit obliquely) before, my brother Pete is having health issues. Specifically, this year he's had six rounds of chemotherapy for chronic lymphocytic leukemia. His post-chemo checkup a few weeks ago didn't bring the results we were all hoping for. He's having a second opinion in the new year, but his future may well include a stem cell transplant.

Obviously, this news is upsetting and is alone enough to distract me. Fortunately, Pete is quite positive; he and his family are strong and caring. Though they also worry, they realize that remaining upbeat works for them. I'm in awe.

In this case, however, life is behaving like a late-night commercial: But wait! There's more!

Not "more" in the sense of "bad stuff." More in the sense of "distracting stuff."

If a stem cell transplant is in his future, his best chance at a match is a sibling. I sent my blood off today for typing. My fingers are metaphorically crossed. (Literally crossing them makes it hard to type.)

And yes, there's still more, which helps give me the attention span of something with a really short attention span.

Even if I'm not “that” sibling, or if the match is not a sibling at all, the stem cell transplant will occur somewhere other than his home in New York State. His family will find it difficult to get away and, because my life is more flexible, I've offered to be with him whenever they can't be.

So at some point in 2011, my life will likely include travel, along with lots of other unknowns and uncontrollables. Dealing with which is not exactly my strong suit. However, I have done (almost) all I can do about this (aside from obsessively tracking the delivery of my blood to the lab) (okay I'm back...still in transit!). Though I'm still easily distracted and find it difficult to do long-term planning, I am mostly ready to return to taking care of the things that need to be done, at least in this household.

Like planning the family holiday. Which means, of course food and grocery lists and shopping trips. And then the cooking.

Like figuring out how all my “grownup clothes” (aka “not jeans”) got dirty at the same time. Which means sorting and washing. (As a side note, how many days in a row HAVE I been wearing these jeans?)

Like wrapping gifts. I bought the paper years ago, so it's too late to reduce my carbon footprint by using something else. Woo-hoo! Gaudy many-coloured gifts under a tree!

Like writing (I'm behind on gifts), baking cookies, and otherwise enjoying the holiday. Which will likely include some of those “is this me or is this an American/Canadian thing?” moments. Which I will share here.

All of which is just to say that the usual mishmash of Canmerican? Americadian? content will continue. In a perhaps-more-easily distracted form.

George VI

Not about the movie with Colin Firth that is getting such buzz. (No doubt deservedly so. And, yes, Colin Firth reading the phone book would be worth seeing.)

Instead, this is about something King George VI said in his Christmas message of 1939. Europe was at war.

A new year is at hand. We cannot tell what it will bring. If it brings a peace, how thankful we shall all be. If it bring us continued struggle, we shall remain undaunted. In the meantime, I feel that we shall find a message of encouragement in the lines which in my closing words I would like to say to you:

"I said to the man who stood at the Gate of the Year, 'Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.' And he replied, 'Go out into the darkness, and put your hand into the Hand of God. That shall be to you better than light, and safer than a known way.'"

May that Almighty Hand guide and uphold us all.

You can hear the King give this address at this CBC site. The full text of the poem, which is by an American, Minnie Louise Haskins, is available here. This quote was so meaningful to Queen Elizabeth (who became the Queen Mother) that she put it up on plaques at various homes; it was also read at her funeral.

This space tends to be a religion-free zone. However, many people I know are heading into difficult times or at least facing new experiences that have uncertain outcomes.

A friend shared this quote with me last night. It has helped me, an uber control freak, to remember that sometimes all we can do is trust and have faith--and perhaps it doesn't matter whether that faith is in each other, in our own resilience, in a specific external Deity, or in the power of love.

Happy 2010, and high hopes for 2011.

Q: Sleet is...what?

A: The term "sleet" is American for what Canadians call "mixed rain and snow." Not to be confused with "freezing rain," which falls as liquid and freezes on the way down and creates yucky stuff that coats trees and snaps power lines.

Wikipedia has an entire entry about Canadian severe weather terminoloy. The horse itself is here: you will go to Environment Canada's glossary at the letter "s," where you will notice nothing about "sleet."

Fortunately, we don't have anything like that happening here today. Instead, we have clear skies. Which means hardly anything in terms of warmth. This morning was 15 below F. That's, like, I dunno. Cold.

Could be worse, though. Could have freezing rain or mixed rain and snow.

My point? Just that even conversations about the weather between Canadians and Americans still have plenty of room for miscommunication. Though "brr" seems understandable to both.

Adventures in Healthcare and Aging, Part Bazillion

"Well, I painted on the strips today."

Thus began a conversation the rest of which I will spare you, because it is about collecting samples for the Fecal Occult Blood Test. Trust me, you haven't lived until you've heard a Canada Geek describe the bridge he made with toilet paper to, uh, facilitate smear collection.

This conversation was a good thing. It happened because a new nurse practitioner clinic opened recently in Thunder Bay. Finally, my retirement-age husband, whose asthma and allergies make him a surprisingly delicate flower most of the year, has healthcare again. See? A good thing.

He had the same family practice doc for decades. This doc finally retired two or three years ago, after threatening to for several years. Apparently physicians in their 70s prefer retirement, what a crazy idea. In any case, the doc referred lots of his patients but "orphaned" more--thousands of patients. Including my husband.

About 18 months ago I got into a regular practice by virtue of knowing people. My husband was accepted by this new nurse practitioner clinic by virtue of my nagging ability and his own good sense. I'm relieved for lots of reasons, not the least of which is that we are now both monitoring our health, collecting information about our bodies when we are healthy, so that when they are not, we have a better chance of noticing.

And as I have said before, ad nauseam (which, LOOK! It's spelled correctly!!), healthcare systems are systems, and are thus inherently flawed. On both sides of the border, proactive care of one's health is important. Which, when one gets to a certain age, means doing the fecal occult blood test.

But only one is at that age. The other of us had our mammogram last year, and is not anxious to volunteer to do any painting, thanks just the same.

That Moment

Just now, it happened.

I was standing at the front window, looking out. The view is different today. Yesterday at this time, the skies were clear; the thermometer hovered around 0F. The crisp breeze sharpened the edges of the needles on the pines and balsams.

Today is gray and warmer, about 10F. Snowflakes fall but they're the kind of snowflakes that would be mist if they were water. Periodic breezes nudge poplars and birches into motion. The trees lean toward each other and away, whispering.

Just now, as I stood there watching the snow, our outdoor light went out. At nearly 9 a.m., the morning finally grew light enough to trigger the sensor that turns it off.

How often does that happen? How often do you know something has changed at the exact moment it changes?

You probably think this is a "where were you?" moment about John Lennon or JFK or, God help us, Princess Diana or Michael Jackson. It's not. It's not even about the shooting, 21 years ago this week, of 14 female engineering students in Montreal.

And I could argue that it's not really one of "those moments," the ones where you know your life is different, for better or worse. Like standing on a beach to promise forever, or sitting at a bedside when the goodbye has already been said.

This is just one event in a string of them, one pearl in a necklace. I could even say that it's an event in someone else's life, not mine.

But saying that would distance myself from the truth. Yesterday afternoon, I received an email with someone else's scary news. Today, things are different--for me, too. On the up side, I may be able to be of use, to do something concrete to help one of my brothers. On the down side, one of my brothers needs help. Big help. He needs new blood. He can have mine, if it is of use to him. We will find out, in time.

Snow falls, and I imagine each flake as a blessing, a prayer, a wish for health--not only for my brother, but for anyone who's frightened, depressed, sick, or in pain.

So today's view through the window is different.

Wikileak Worthy

I've been trying to come up with something to say about the Wikileaks "revelations" about Canada. I'm feeling a little...torn, I guess you could say.

Here's what my Canadian half has to say.

I don't know, I just wonder, maybe, I guess I'm saying that what I think I might want to say, isn't really, you know, very...pithy or interesting or...valid. It's not as good as what Americans say about Canada, that's for sure.

Because they think we have an, um, inferiority complex? Like, we are so inferior, because of being, um, smaller and not-American, as a country, that is (because we are waaaay bigger in square miles, really, and three coastlines to contend with), and sometimes we show how bad we feel about ourselves by overcompensating and pretending to act all superior and smug.

Like when we make the U.S. the bad guys on our TV shows, and I might add those are based on real-life stories like Maher Arar, but maybe, you know, that's out of line.

Or maybe when we point out that we're actually, like, BIGGER than the U.S. as well as a whole separate country, and therefore, not-American is pretty much exactly how we should feel.

I'm sorry. Was I too loud? Just...I need a moment. Thanks.

Here's what my American half has to say.

Canada. Yeah. Hmm. They're like, north of Alaska? We don't really need them, not for anything important like oil or building materials or minerals or anything. Wait, let me check my BlackBerry...C-a-n-a... Oh, the Olympics, right. Like that hockey game meant something. They speak some French up there, don't they, and have a lady on their money?

I don't mean to make mock. Well, maybe a little mock.

But hey, World, here's the deal: Diplomacy is not the same as honesty. They have a separate word for it and everything.

Now, isn't there something else we could all be doing? Like maybe not bombing each other?

A Matter of Degree

A degree, or two, or four, changes this

to this

and vice versa, I suppose.

Technically, of course, it doesn't change bushes to a road. Just the snow to rain and ice.

Two WikiThoughts

So, Wikileaks. So what?

1. News flash: DIPLOMACY REQUIRES TACT.

2. As the World High School Turns: Episode summary.

Chris, the crusading and/or conniving editor of the school newspaper, found a diary containing the most personal and private thoughts of Usa, the most popular girl in the school (just ask her).

Chris, being the crusading type, or possibly the connving type, plans to publish the diary in the school newspaper, page by page, thus drawing out the drama all week long.

The school is all a-twitter. (Twitter: See how au courant I am?) What does Usa think of us? Of me?

Those in the Asia club huddle to gossip, but then North Korea pokes South Korea in the eye and China says, "Don't make me come back there" and they lose their focus.

The members of the African club try not to be concerned. Australia and New Zealand shrug and go surfing with their Pacific Islander friends. Central and South America pretend to go about their business but hang out in the hallway outside the newspaper office.

Two groups of loners (yes, it's oxymoronic)--the Middle East and India/Pakistan/Bangladesh--brace themselves for the publication of nonsense about them (though Israel and India secretly think they'll come out looking relatively good).

Poor Haiti. It's home sick. (Seriously. Haiti deserves a better 2011.)

The Scandinavian Club remains aloof, as usual. Somone in the former Soviet club insults a former Baltic state and a scuffle ensues. Russia officiates.

The groups disband and reform: the History club (members of the former British Empire) meet to share rumors, then report back to their home continents. The former Soviet republics touch base with Turkey, the Middle East loners, and north Africa, then drift back.

Even the European Club, focused though they are on ekeing out each other's allowances, can't pretend they don't know that Usa's most secret feelings are going to be made public.

Meanwhile, Canada sits at the window, staring out into the evening. What will Usa say about me? Will Usa recognize my loyalty? Will she compliment my mission in Afghanistan, my compliance in trade negotiations, my leadership, uh, followership, uh, "being there"-ness in environmental and security issues? Will Usa go on record and tell everybody we're really best friends?

A horrible thought crosses Canada's mind: what if Usa doesn't say anything about me at all?

Tune in tomorrow, when Canada is forced to write her pal Usa a sternly worded letter (in invisible ink) in As The World High School Turns.

47 Days of Thanks: The Wrapup

Here are the posts from the final partial week, along with some closing thoughts. For what this is all about, go here and start at the bottom.

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 43: I'm grateful for the opportunity to see a live production of The Laramie Project last night. The acting was impressive but the real inspiration was the tangible commitment to the project. It was a wonderful cap to a week full of challenge and insight around our human creative (and destructive) potential.

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 44: I'm grateful that I made myself brave the swirling snow and yucky roads yesterday morning to go where I needed to go and do what I needed to do. Sometimes snow is an opportunity to take a break; sometimes it's an opportunity to keep going.

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 45: I'm grateful that my brother, Pete, celebrates his birthday today. It's been a difficult year for him, health-wise, but he's doing well. I'm happy he's part of my life!

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 46: I'm grateful that so much of my work, both paid and unpaid, is about imagining a future and bringing it to life.

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 47: I'm grateful to friends and family, many of whom have accompanied me on this journey, and all of whom have given me so much to be grateful for!

I finish this adventure with mixed feelings, which is par for the course with me. This week in particular was busy and productive, and it was hard not to feel nostalgic in advance that I was coming to the end of the 47 days.

Here are some of the highlights (for me) of the experience as a whole.

On one hand, 47 days is a whacking long time. Coming up with something to post on Facebook first thing in the morning was sometimes more difficult than I expected. On the other hand, 47 days is also only one-and-a-half months--a blink in a lifetime, less than 1/6th of a year.

Regardless of my perception of the rate of time passing, lots of “stuff” happened during this 47 days.

Some of the stuff was big stuff. One of my aunts died--that family's first loss of a parent, which marks a new stage of life for my cousins, bless them. One of my brothers had his last round of chemo and celebrated his birthday feeling strong and optimistic. I am now eligible for CARP membership myself.

Some of it was less-big stuff, though not small. A cousin's son (in fact, the grandson of the aunt who died) is in a vocal singing group whose video of Lady Gaga's Bad Romance went viral. It was fun to see the video appear on diverse friends' Facebook pages. Also, there was much busy-ness about jobs and work and clients and organizations.

In fact, much of what I was grateful for reflected the groups I am part of: a church and its Wednesday evening series, a writing group's readings and workshops, the book club, the occasional theatre production (as audience).

Some of my gratitude reflected the time of the year. A windstorm suspended electricity and took down trees and I was reminded, again, that my life is far easier than many. In summer, we might shrug at all the opportunities to see wildlife. In the fall, birds on the deck or a fox trotting through the yard are Events again, and thus reasons to stop and watch.

When I started, I felt somewhat petulant and in need of an attitude adjustment. This exercise certainly helped me focus on gratitude for at least a small part of each day. As the American holiday approached, I began feeling positively festive, so much so that I made a celebratory meal yesterday and took the day “off.”

Therefore, my Thanksgiving-Day-to-Thanksgiving-Day journey is complete, but the experience will stay with me for awhile.

One insight I'm still mulling over. Early on, I said that it's possible to find things to be grateful for even in the face of difficult times. That continues to be true for me.

But I can also see how someone could focus on gratitude as a form of denial. Your daughter stays out past curfew but, hey, you're grateful she didn't end up in jail. You're behind on a project and don't want to tell your boss, so you focus on the beauty of the lemons in the bowl on the counter. Turning your face toward gratitude could become a way to turn your back on challenges--having those difficult conversations, exercising the self-discipline you know will make you happier in the long run, or even making large, difficult life changes. “It's not as bad as it could be” could be either a positive insight or, ultimately, a destructive one, if it keeps you from fixing things you can actually fix.

But I'm still thinking about that, and about the other lessons from the whole 47 days. And I think I'm most grateful for that--the fact that this experience has given me so many rewards, so much to contemplate--most of all.

I Walk in Beauty

See?

I buy exercise gear when it is on sale and I'm at a discount department store in the U.S. Those are my main criteria. So I'm not even sure what brand these shoes are. They were on sale, though.

As a bonus, I'm leaving butterfly-wing footprints all over the driveway!

47 Days of Thanky Gratitudinal Goodness

Here we are, week 6 already. One partial week left.

For what this is all about, go here and start reading at the bottom.

Here's a recap of the week, with thoughts at the bottom.

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 36: I'm grateful for the first snow of the season! It's a beautiful addition to the otherwise relatively bland November landscape.

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 37: I'm grateful for the sense of continuity that comes in a day when you can see life at both "ends." Yesterday I remembered loved ones lost and got to see pictures of a friend's brand-new granddaughter.

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 38: I'm grateful for my iPod and CBC radio podcasts. Sometimes when I'm walking or working outside, they're just background noise, but often I get a gem--new musician or writer or quote--that stays with me.

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 39: I'm most grateful for the opportunity at a writing workshop last night to play around with characters--creating them, defining them, presenting them. It's useful sometimes to remember that creativity is FUN.

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 40: I'm grateful for another evening that gave me a compelling idea--happiness is like a mirror. Other emotions can pass in front of it but it doesn't change the mirror's essential nature. That's what I'm finding about the life I live today

47 Days of Thanks, Day 41: I'm grateful for days when I wake up in a winter wonderland. I know that snow is a pain in the neck for some; I know rain will make the world a sloppy mess this afternoon. But now, this minute, it's beautiful, and I'm grateful.

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 42: I'm grateful that not ALL the scones got burned on the bottom. Sigh.

Again, another mix of sublime and mundane, which is a reflection of my life. Lots of my days are taken up with twiddling and fixing--reorganizing others' ideas and clarifying their meaning. Yet I also have time for creative work and I'm grateful for the structure of a couple of groups that formally address creative living.

The first snowfall mostly disappeared before we got the heavy, covering snow, some of which has itself blown away. I left the scones in about a minute too long. But why must these scones be destined for sharing with company??

Ah, well. Into each life a little snow, and burned pastry, must fall. It's just my turn, I guess!

One Expression, One Pronunciation

Recently, I have been trying to collect other language observations but still have just one expression and one pronunciation. So here you go.

1. Expression: "keener," as in, "The keeners who finished their assignments early got a lollipop."

From context, a keener is enthusiastic. She is eager. She is on that project right away. A quick trip to the urban dictionary confirms my sense that a "keener" is a little like a brownnoser but not as nerdy.

I don't know an American equivalent. Do we scorn eagerness and achievement? Do we answer rhetorical questions? We do: indeed, we do.

2. Pronunciation: "juke," as in, the Grand Old one from York with ten thousand men who marched them up the hill (and then he marched them down again).

"Duke" has cropped up on TV fairly often recently, for some reason (perhaps Prince William's engagement? but he's a prince...hmm). Often it's pronounced as "dee-YUKE," run together quickly. But I've heard a fair amount of "juke." Since moving here, I have heard mercifully less "dook," which is what my "dee-YUKE" pronunciation was teased into, lo those many decades ago. Apparently the "y" sound conveys a certain refinement, a sense of "who do you think you are?" intolerable to my peers. And I caved to their pressure. I pronounced down.

Also, in this country I am apparently surrounded by "KYOO-pon" rather than "KOO-pon," which ditto with the teasing, although my husband says "KOO-pon."

And I, embracing my inner keener, have found myself returning to "KYOO-pon" and "dee-YUKE." And now, I'm off to march up and down hills!

First Snow

The first snow of the season came this weekend. We got just a little out here. Folks in town had more.

So you have to wonder: will it stay or melt before we get more?

Because there will be more. Meanwhile, we're sorta like this rock--
half and half, and half and half.
Brown/black, wet/dry.
Half hoping, half dreading. Half excited, half resigned.

And, like the rock, we're not getting up to go elsewhere.
Yet we reserve the right to the mixed feelings.

47 Days of Gratitude and/or Thanks, Week 5

Here's this week's round-up. For what this is all about, go here and start at the bottom.

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 29: I'm grateful for aaaaalll the laughter about changing the clocks: "I turned all the clocks back!" "But I did some of them already" "Did you do this one?" "I don't know, what does it say?" "Well what time is it?" Etc. Note to self: next year, this is the job of ONE PERSON.

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 30: I'm grateful for a day with some chunks of time to put toward projects, as opposed to the slivers that have been more typical of my days lately.

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 31: I'm grateful for the ongoing warmish weather, which is allowing us to clear the trees off the camp roads in shorter sessions, a couple of hours a day, instead of in two or three backbreaking days. We're maybe 1/3 done. Good exercise!

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 32: I'm grateful for the wee aches and twinges my body shares when I do real work outside instead of an approximation of work in a gym setting. It's a nice grounding in the physical. (Also nice to get trees off the path.)

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 33: I'm grateful for those who speak their truth about their experiences so that I learn what their sacrifice was like.

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 34: I'm grateful for days that bring a variety of tasks. If something isn't going well, I can move to something else for awhile.

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 35: I'm grateful for today's lesson in the meaning of the term "exponential." As in, two grandsons cause exponentially less mayhem than three.

This week brought a nice mixture of ceremonial gratitude, with Remembrance Day, and solitary gratitude, with opportunities to work outside. It started with the companionable laughter of the two of us bumbling our way through life's tasks, and ended with a more boisterous family time, when two grandsons spent a night and a day and reminded us again that learning the right way to safely cut your sandwich with a sharp serrated knife is really fun.

As my husband is wont to say, "Life is good."

How Much?

Here's what it looks like around here today.

This is just one tree, too.

There will be firewood! And yes, it also looks like this sometimes, or it did a few weeks ago.

Living here is definitely worth the work.

47 Days of Gratitudinous Thanks, Week 4

The days are flying by (tickety-boo*), rather like the years (tickety-boo-hoo) and we come to the end of another week.

For what this is all about, go here and start at the bottom.

Here are the individual days from Week 4, followed by a lesson or two.

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 22: I'm grateful that I shared part of my afternoon yesterday with a whiskey jack (gray jay). While I sat at the dining room table shuffling papers and scribbling notes, s/he hunted flies outside, first on the front porch and then on the back deck. They have a way of looking at you that is so friendly!

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 23: I'm grateful for the comfort and nurturing of quiet morning routines: making coffee, emptying and refilling the dishwasher, taking out the garbage.

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 24: I'm grateful to have made it through a full five decades of life. I can't wait to see what the next ones bring!

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 25: I'm grateful for all the kind birthday wishes and for being in touch with family and friends via FB, via regular mail, and in "real life." Also, last night I had the opportunity to remember "the saints"--those who live on in my mind and heart. It was a great (grate-ful) day.

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 26: I'm grateful for the lesson I learned yesterday while watching a pileated woodpecker go to town on the insides of a downed pine tree: find a likely spot, work like hell, and don't let anything distract you or scare you off.

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 27: I'm grateful to have a front-row seat to the changing seasons. This morning, the lake sports a thin skin of ice near the shore.

47 Days of Thanks, Day 28: I'm grateful for the security of having food in the pantry and refrigerator--and even some choice about what to eat!

The effects of the storm and power outage linger in the form of gratitude for the simple and natural things, like the company of animals (I didn't write about the pair of foxes that came to play on the lawn between the house and the lake, or the several deer that have cavorted through).

Also, speaking of the power outage, we threw away a lot of food that was spoiled, though we didn't lose too much. It's nice to know our food supply is safely replenished--and I am recognizing first-hand the role of food as a measure of security.

Again and again, and especially this week, I am reminded of just how wealthy I am, in family and friends, in life circumstances, in health. It's humbling, and inspiring.

*Hmm, I knew "tickety-boo" reminded me of something. Pooh's "tiddley-pom," anyone?

Hi Ho Hip Hooray

Well, it happened. I heard my third "tickety-boo" today. And when n = 3, and none of those "n"s is is a relative, and especially when one of them was a CBC pundit, I feel compelled to share.

So, here you go: "Things were going along tickety-boo when all hell broke loose."

I have never heard it used when it wasn't followed by the sense of "but I was mistaken" or "but that didn't last long."

As in, the economy was chugging along tickety-boo until the housing market collapsed. Or I was running all my errands, tickety-boo, and then I got slowed by road construction.

A brief Google search reveals that it may be Scottish, and that's likely how it came into Canada.

It also revealed the following earworm, with which I leave you:



It is, after all, a peaches-and-creamy day, on which one wants to bless mankind, including one's attackers.

My Birthday Gift

Today I am older--by one day, yeah, but also by a year and that year ends in "0" and I am now officially a crotchety old lady.

In that spirit, here's what I want for my birthday this year.

Americans: Vote. I don't care how angry or disillusioned you are, go vote. Then stop focusing on what "the government" is or isn't doing, did or didn't do, will or won't do. If you have a job, work and be glad. If it isn't the perfect job, work and be glad and learn what you can. Feed your soul and exercise your body. With the rest of your time, be with your kids instead of fretting about what you can't buy them--have them read to you or tell you a story. Go visit old people--smile at the chronically ill. Clean up the trash on the highway. Volunteer somewhere, somehow. There is always something that needs doing. So stop talking and go do it.

Canadians: Let go of the smug. The Canadian economy is barely hanging on and Canadians are getting more deeply into personal debt. An election is coming, sooner or later, and you'll have the opportunity then to choose your leadership. Meanwhile, you can also stop complaining--about the Harper government's disdain for scientific expertise and basic honesty, perhaps; both issues well worth complaining about--and work with your chosen party to research and propose some alternatives. But mostly, don't bother feeling superior to your neighbours in the U.S. Complaining about the government that's in power but refusing to clamour for its removal is its own form of insanity.

Don't make me come back there, y'all. Just smarten up and we'll get along fine for the next several decades.

47 Days of Thanks/Gratitude, Week 3

Here are the posts from Week 3. To see "What the heck is this?" and weeks 1 and 2, go here and start at the bottom.

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 15: I'm grateful for days when the toughest pre-9 a.m. decision is "Is THIS gorgeous sunrise worth taking pictures of?"

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 16: I'm grateful for friends whose infectious laughter cuts through the hubbub of a restaurant and makes everyone smile.

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 17: I'm grateful that I stopped to investigate that black thing bobbing in my morning coffee. It WAS a bug. And now it's down the drain, and I get to drink fresh coffee while sitting inside, dry and warm, on a windy, rainy morning.

47 Days of Thanks, Day 18: I'm so grateful the high winds haven't knocked our power ou--

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 19: I'm grateful our power is back on. In this house, that means not only light, heat, refrigeration, and Internet, but also running water! Flush toilets and warm showers!

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 20: I'm grateful that of the ~25 trees we will have to deal with (not counting ones that fell that we're leaving), only two came close to structures, and the damage was minimal (one eave).

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 21: I'm very grateful to be married to someone who, when hearing that trees are down, rubs his hands together and says, "This will be fun!" Then he gets out the chainsaw.

And here's what I learned.

1. Never say "I wonder what Week X will bring." Week 3 brought gale-force winds and a big storm that brought down trees. As you might have gathered. Which was slightly freaky to me, as you also might have gathered. On the up side, being without power for more than 30 hours has made me more mindful of the little things: Lights that come on when you flick the switch. A functioning plumbing system. The invention of things like candles and batteries.

2. Doing this exercise has kept me mindful longer of those things, which is usually not the case. When I'm sick, I long to feel well. But when I'm well, well becomes "normal" and I long for something else. Because of reviewing the things I can be grateful for, the gratitude for normal has stuck around longer.

3. As I told a friend over coffee, I would suck as a Chilean miner. It wasn't so much the discomforts of being without power that bugged me--those were minimal. It was the not knowing, and the many, many arenas in which I couldn't know. When would the lights be back on? Was that balsam at the point coming down on the little camp? Where else would the roof leak? What's happening in town (they also lost power in spots)? That balsam--we should have taken it down but how could we when it wasn't safe? And speaking of safe, when will it be safe to go outside and check the trees? Et cetera.

4. Even in the middle of the gale, there really was a lot to be grateful for. Namely, that I was in a house, however leaky when rain is driven at the windows with such force, and thus relatively safe. Also, 30 hours is not that long in the scheme of things. It's October (though the weather has turned chilly), not January, so heating was not as big an issue as it could have been. Lots of extenuating circumstances and I was more aware than otherwise of those, thanks to this gratitude exercise.

LOTS of learning this week. Evidently I enjoy control and routine. Also being able to take a shower whenever I want. Which isn't learning so much as re-learning or being reminded of. Which is okay, too.

A Clampett Moment (30+ Hours Without Power)

I hail from Oklahoma. Got my higher education in Arkansas. Clampett country, all of it, though I have to say that my own family isn't particularly Clampett-esque. Love the Clampetts. Nothing wrong with 'em. It's just that normally, I ain't one.

However, sometimes having the Clampett cultural reference to draw upon helps explain things. Such as the tires as landscaping aids (which did not in fact get to the dump, er, landfill this summer, darn it all). Even though these things aren't even in the U. S. of A. Even though they're in Canada.

Here's the deal. We have had 30+ power-free hours around here since Tuesday. I don't respond well to the lack of control. Also, with the wind and rain came leakage around the windows. That's water dripping in around the HOUSE windows. Water to the extent that we have to rig up plastic tubs under those beautiful bay windows I love the rest of the time.

Also, when we lose power, we lose the ability to flush toilets and take showers. I can do that when I camp. I can also live by candlelight and huddle near the wood stove. But living in a house should not be camping. Also, the control.

Here's what the wind has been up to. And this is later, when it was calm enough to go outside, y'all.



Here are the other results of those gale-force winds that caused our power outage. They are generally not as bad as they first appear. (This post is labeled "today" even though these are more properly "yesterday.")



This tree is barely kissing the front of the larger camp. No windows were damaged in the uprooting of this tree. No roof damage occurred. Whew.

Speaking of uprooting, let's take a virtual tour of the smaller camp, shall we?

Uh-huh. These would be the roots, as in, "what was left." Here's what happened.



Yikes! I get the willies looking at it and I know how safe this was. Here's the damage:



Yup. That's it. That's all. Just a bit of roof on the corner of the eave. It's not even leaking (from THAT spot, anyway) into the camp structure proper.

We have been watching this tree since May. I would swear I had taken a picture of the base, but perhaps I just shuddered and walked past instead. Anyway, the trunk was pretty well eaten away by bugs and birds.

We (both of us) had wondered how we (Roy) would fell this thing without first fretting us (me) to death. We could not figure out a direction to take it down that wouldn't endanger the camp, other trees, and/or the worker(s).

And now it's done been done fer us.

Whew and double whew.

In the ultimate Clampett moment, Roy said, "At least there's been enough water leaking in to flush the toilets with."

That's my Finn-Swede Clampett husband, folks. Just looking on the bright side.

Countries Behaving Badly

Of all the bad timing in the world...

I have to renew my permanent residence card. My residence status isn't changing at all. I just need a card to prove my status when I cross the border using a commercial form of transportation. Renewing it requires filling out bazoodles of paperwork and then waiting a year and a day (well, 2/3 of a year), all of which is a blog topic for another day.

Because today I'm heartsick. Like Canadian officials, I've been ignoring Omar Khadr. Yesterday, the 24-year-old, who has spent 1/3 of his life locked up in Guantanamo and the other 2/3 growing up brainwashed by his family into becoming an American-hating future terrorist, entered a guilty plea in front of a U.S. military tribunal.

The "gold standard" evidence, crowed the U.S. military officials, was a confession that he threw a grenade that killed an American soldier and wounded others. The part that they didn't brag about was that they tortured him, a teenager, to get it.

It is believed--certainly by Khadr--that he will serve one year of his sentence at Guantanamo Bay, and "the rest of his sentence" in Canada.

Or, more properly, he will serve one MORE year at Guantanamo Bay. That's one MORE year, after some 8 years already. And the Harper government here is making no promises about taking him back after that.

In fact, CBC reports that more and more often, Canada is refusing to allow Canadians serving time in the U.S. to transfer to Canada, where they have access to rehabilitation and are closer to their families. Instead, Canadian officials leave them in the U.S., where they are denied access to rehabilitative services (because they're foreign nationals) and leave prison without any information about their offenses on their Canadian record. How exactly is this helping anyone? The offender gets no help and no support from family to re-enter the general population to live in a more constructive way. And Canadian officials don't know that s/he's just done time in the U.S.

Safety? Security? How does the treatment of Omar Khadr by either country, and the Harper government's so-called "tough on crime" attitude, help anyone? How many future terrorists were inflamed into action, not intimidated or prevented from action, by the way Omar Khadr has been treated?

So it is again time for me to choose to live in Canada. It is with a heavy heart that I collect documents and fill out paperwork proving that I am who I say I am.

I'm committed to my life in Canada. I am not ready to cut ties to the U.S., where I was born and where I also have family. But today, I am not particularly proud of the official actions of either country.

The only bright spot in all of this is that I have the ability to say so. At least for now.

(And oh by the way, here's hoping that the reason I am allowed to exercise this right to speak freely has everything to do with my citizenship and my immigration status, and nothing to do with the fact that I am a white, nominally Christian person.)

47 Days of Thanks and/or Gratitude, Week 2

The round-up from the second week of this grand experiment (go here to see what this is or here for Week 1):

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 8: I'm grateful that our dump (uh, landfill) recycles paint! We got rid of a lot of old stuff and are ready to start fresh in the spring.

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 9: I'm grateful that the round of chemo my brother Pete starts today is his last and that his bloodwork keeps giving such good results. Thanks, medicine! Go, Pete!

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 10: I am inexpressibly grateful to have about 38 hours when I can work from home and just BE here without any need to go to meetings in town. First extended time at home since last Monday (including weekends). Ahh.

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 11: I'm grateful that my brother, Pete, is surrounded by such a loving and gifted family. I admire how his wife, Lois; his daughter, Elizabeth Agnew Cochran (her husband Mike keeps their home fires burning); and his son, the irrepressible Peter, work together to care for Pete and each other. Thanks, y'all!

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 12: I'm grateful for two opportunities yesterday to contemplate happiness. One here in a FB discussion and one at Trinity United Church--part of a series of 8 (Weds at 7:30; 6 more times; all independent yet linked) led by Rev. Randy Boyd and linking research in positive psychology to faith. So thought-inspiring!

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 13: I'm grateful for technology that connects me to extended family and friends. Through FB, I can stay in touch with cousins during a difficult time or have a "hi how are you?" moment with someone I knew well 30 years ago and still miss. Could I do this with old technology like pen/paper? Yes, but would I? Not sure.

47 Days of Thanks, Day 14: I'm grateful when my schedule allows me to sleep in and my body cooperates! It's great to feel rested.

Here's what I learned this week.

1. I haven't run out of gratitude! I am finding both cosmic and local things to be authentically grateful for. And here I thought I was more curmudgeonly than your average bear. Which leads me to #2.

2. It's possible to be grateful when I'm sad or blue or stressed or curmudgeonly or generally fretful. For example, this week is my brother's last chemo treatment, and I am conscious of his ordeal yet hopeful at his results. Also, my aunt lies in a health crisis, and my heart goes out to my uncle and cousins. I'm sad not only remembering my own family's passage through that valley but also because my vital, vivacious aunt's time with them seems near its end. Yet I can still be grateful for discussions of happiness and for the ability to stay in touch with them in their important time.

3. Feeling gratitude doesn't magically transform those other feelings. I didn't feel any less stressed or blue when I stopped to feel grateful. But the conscious exercise of gratitude does remind me that my life is a kaleidoscope of feelings. I am more than the quivering, nervous, martyred, unachieving creature I sometimes feel myself to be. I am also blessed, and grateful for it. Even if I feel it only for a moment.

I wonder what Week 3 will bring.

Brown, with Gold and Ruddy Accents

April is definitely the brownest month around here, but late October isn't far behind.

I haven't been around the house much--running hither and thither in town--so haven't been taking many pictures. Anyway, here are a couple.

Here's the light.

Here's the tree.


So yeah, I've been in town. But also, it's just harder to get excited about taking pictures when you're documenting the decline of verdancy.

I realize the same process documents the ascendance of winter. Ya-hoo.

No matter way I try to reframe it, taking pictures at this time of year--after the leaves fall but before any snow does--just doesn't enthrall me as much.

And as we know, November will be gray. Or grey. Depending.

Everywhere except the top of my head, that is. Which, like October, will be ...
(see title of post).

47 Days of Gratitude, Week 1

Here are the status updates from Week 1. You'll notice (or maybe you won't) I use "Gratitude" in the tag but changed that to "Thanks" in Facebook to save characters. And then I didn't need all those characters after all, which is probably for the best.

47 Days of Thanks, Day 1: A quiet north-of-the-border Thanksgiving. I'm so grateful I had the chance to be with family recently!

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 2: I'm grateful that I enjoy my regular life so much that I spend holidays, like today, doing many of the same things.

47 Days of Thanks, Day 3: I'm grateful that yesterday I happened to be in the right place (kitchen) at the right time (staring out the window at about noon) to see two bald eagles doing aerobatics over the bay.

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 4: I'm VERY grateful for the inspiration of hearing good writing read VERY well last night at the reading sponsored by the Northwestern Ontario Writers Workshop. People around here do good work!

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 5: I'm grateful that creative, dedicated people go into science and engineering to make possible new technology that will improve our lives--and pull off feats like the miner rescue in Chile. Now, how about making it safer to be a miner??

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 6: I'm grateful that gray, cloudy days (like yesterday) can start with a colo(u)rful, striking sunrise! And I get another one this morning--bonus!

‎47 Days of Thanks, Day 7: I'm grateful for all the online resources that make it possible for me to participate in today's Book Club discussion without re-reading every single word of A Tale of Two Cities. (It was an issue of time, not interest, but I know my high school English teacher looks down on me in disapproval. Sigh.)

It's been an interesting journey so far. Of course I have developed "rules," or anyway "rule." I have picked one thing from that morning or the previous day that actually inspired the feeling of gratitude in me, instead of casting about for something I think should be grateful for or going for a "motherhood" topic.

I'm also finding that I stop occasionally during the day to notice feeling grateful for something, because I know I will have to pick something for my status update. Which, as my mother would say, is the benefit of the discipline of doing gratitude this way.

So...on we go.

Glove Love

This week I've been doing things to close up "it may be a shack but it's our shack." Things like bringing chairs up from the beach, bringing loads of towels etc. back, clearing out cans of old old old (yes, that old) paint.

I've been wearing work gloves. As a bonus, I also found a pair of work gloves over there, a pair I thought I'd lost.

After doing stuff on Monday, I left the gloves on the bench on the front porch of the house to, I don't know what. To get some sun, I guess. To air out. To be dealt with later, is probably the most honest statement.

This morning, one of the gloves was lying on the grass in the side yard. The other three are nowhere to be found.

This would be called Glove Mystery except that while I was off visiting family a couple of weeks ago, Roy happened to see a young fox playing with a shoe in the yard on the lake side of the house. Playing like a dog, in fact--shaking the shoe as if to break its little neck.

The shoe, which we left in the yard in the hope that the fox would reappear, is not mine and certainly not Roy's.

The shoe apparently showed up with the fox.

Who apparently thinks that white eyelet slipons are so five minutes ago (much like the phrase "so five minutes ago").

Who apparently has developed an extra-special liking for my work gloves.

Roy checked a few obvious places this morning for the other three gloves, to no avail. We suspect they are the new wallpaper or bedding in a den somewhere. I hope whoever has them enjoys them! And I'm trying not to feel rewarded by this. Because now I don't have to decide whether the gloves are salvageable. Plus I have only one to throw away! The benefits of procrastination.

But mostly, it's really weird to think that the fox came onto the porch and took the gloves.

I guess it's no weirder than when the bear took a swipe at the front door handle.

Yeah, civilization and wilderness. Not so different around here.

Forty-Seven Days of Thanks

As I said last year in November, I have a personal history of feeling ambivalent about Thanksgiving. The ambivalence pre-dates my move to Canada, but now that I'm here, I have two days to feel ambivalent about it. I guess that keeps me balanced.

This year, I'm trying something different. Today is Thanksgiving in Canada. (Tomorrow is the holiday, but today is Thanksgiving. No, I don't understand it, but that's how my husband explained it.) November 25 is Thanksgiving in the U.S. By my count, that's 47 days, counting both today and November 25.

For each of these days, my Facebook status will be something I'm grateful for. Something different. I am grateful for chocolate every day, but I can't say that more than once during these 47 days. (And that was just an example, so yes, it's still an option. Sheesh with the rules, already.) I accidentally started today, even though I wasn't aware that this was a plan.

I would like to think I could sit and list 47 things I'm grateful for--sincerely grateful for, not just funny-ha-ha-grateful, like chocolate--but I suspect the exercise will be harder than I imagine. In any case, I'm hoping to not prepare more than a day or two in advance.

I will report back here from time to time, too, but mostly it will happen on Facebook.

Other Americans, Canadians, and Camericans (Can-mericans? Canamericans? Ameradians?) are welcome to play, too, publicly or privately.

Because from where I sit, it seems that focusing on gratitude might do us all some good.

Seriously?

It's October. It's almost not even early October anymore.
So seriously: this is still in the front garden?

I swear, this place is so beautiful it makes me cry.
See this picture? It's all blurry because I was crying when I took it.

Not really. But you probably knew that.
I'm serious about the beautiful and crying, though.

A Secret

As I do my rounds of the blogs in the morning,* I sometimes find that one of my regulars hasn't updated in awhile.

"Oh," I think. "She must be too busy living her fascinating life in her fascinating city, which is more fascinating than the life I live here. She is probably spending time doing worthy things, things far more worthy than entertaining me on a day when I don't feel like doing my own worthy things." I often feel a trifle sad and indulge in a low-self-esteem moment.

It occured to me this morning that I (as someone who has somehow posted 400+ times, how did that happen?) actually know better. First hand, even.

I haven't been here in more than a week. Yes, I have been off doing fascinating things with my family: talking shop with my brother and sister-in-law, couting dogs and admiring art with my nephew, chatting about models and life and work with my sister.

But sometimes, when I haven't posted something here or on the website, it's not because I'm doing something "better" or "more interesting."

I haven't posted because I got nuthin'.

Which is today. I did have a wonderful time on my holiday. I had a bunch of stuff to take care of before I left and have been catching up since I've been home. But that's not why I'm not here. The head cold I brought back also is not responsible for the lack of posting.

I got nuthin', that's all.

So maybe those low-self-esteem moments have been unnecessary. Maybe the great bloggers, the other not-quite-Andrew Sullivans of the blogging world, also have days where they have nuthin' and THAT's why they're not posting.

Or maybe not. But anyway, that's me, today. It's obviously a day that calls for a pedicure. Bye.

*Yes, I know I could put them on some kind of feed or something and therefore KNOW when they're updated. Where is the fun in that? Sometimes what I need isn't to KNOW something, what I need is the chance to surf around mindlessly and be entertained, or perhaps feel sad and low-self-esteemy.

Why, Again?

Here's what it looks like around here. Not today, exactly, but recently.

And yet, I'm vacating for a bit. Why is that, again?

Oh, yeah. People I love live elsewhere, too. Why, again?
Oh yeah. So I can visit them.
And then come home.

What is this Stuff?

I have written elsewhere about chocolate-oatmeal macaroons. (They are distressingly easy to make.) (And I am proud to report that I haven't made any this whole week.)

The recipe calls for margarine. Since I had never made them before, I actually used margarine, though I am not nuts about its flavo(u)r, or lack thereof.

Side note: last week on CBC's Rewind program, they played an interview from 1949 with Kate Aitken, in which both Kate and her Vancouver host discuss the "bone of contention" that they call "MARG-rin." Not "MAR-juh-rin." Hard "g," two syllables. The whole interview is here (the first option); marg-rin appears at about 5 minutes. The podcast as a whole is a fun little trip into 1949 post-war radio. The voices sound different in a way that can't all be ascribed to patronizing condescension toward domesticity.

Anyway. I challenge you: without examining the labels, pick out the "marg-rin" from the samples above.

Yup. It's the bronze-wrapped thing.

See, back in The Old Country, all butter or butter-esque products come in long sticks, like the one center-top, above. (Or in tubs, but we pretend they don't exist because they're usually margarine and we don't like it and you can't cook with the kind that comes in tubs because it's whipped and doesn't measure correctly.)

In The Old Country, many recipes call for "a stick of butter." Imagine my surprise when I came to Canada and discovered that butter comes in "sticks" like the one to the right. A stick that says, "We're a logging country. We don't mess around with little sticks. Here, have some butter." Cutting 1/4 or 1/2 cup off that log o' butter is a different experience.

Fortunately, the powers that package marg-rin in Canada are aware of all those recipes. That square hockey puck thing is a half-cup, which makes it the Canadian equivalent to "a stick of margarine."

Logs o' butter, pucks o' marg-rin. Oh Canada.

Ah, you say, but isn't that thing at the top also a stick of butter? Yes, it is. But also, it is not. It is a product made by Lactantia, a Parmalat company. This particular product is a "butter" called "My Country." It is an unsalted, uncultured product with a "distinctive European flavour." This particular version is "Swiss flavour."

You know how the Swiss like their butter? Without flavo(u)r. Maybe it tastes like fat, but not in a particularly satisfying way. (I came into some of this product when our renters left and donated the contents of their fridge. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with it.)

I am a fan of butter. That is, I'm a fan of the kind of butter that tastes like something, and I don't want to hear how that "something" is added salt and chemicals required by some process or other. I don't care. I love the butter like the stuff to the right in the picture, stuff that has the taste from The Old Country. The kind that, in this country, comes in a big inconveniently shaped log.

Did I mention the inconvenience of the shape? Try cutting a piece to put into one of those butter dishes. The butter dishes of which we have several in this house. Yes, you'll find you're cutting a piece that's...the shape of a U.S.-style stick of butter.

I know. The log o' butter means less packaging. (One piece of foil, no cardboard box.) But dealing with it dirties at least one knife, and my fingers, every single time.

I also recognize that the butter dishes that are ubiquitous in this house were likely manufactured and imported as part of a trade agreement with The Old Country. Still. Logs o' butter do not lend themselves to pieces that fit into them.

At least the butter, the REAL butter, tastes good.

I didn't say this was earth-shattering stuff. When you're on vacation, something like this may be cute and interesting and a bit quaint. But when you're a resident, a permanent one, this stuff requires mental adjustments. And, like the oven wars of 2007, it's these little things in the New Country that are the most surprising and disconcerting.

Like finally finding a stick of butter, only to discover it doesn't taste like butter.

Or mentally changing your idea of a "butter dish" so that the dish resembles a small plate, because it's easier to saw an appropriately shaped piece off the log to fit a plate.

It's almost enough to make one wish for a batch of chocolate-oatmeal macaroons, just to take the edge off. Fortunately, the hockey pucks come in packages of 12. (Yes, 12 pucks of marg-rin to a box!) We've had only three batches of macaroons so far. Hmmm.

Red means "Stop"

Around here, sometimes red means "pretty."

But.

Sometimes it means "stop." As in, "Here's the edge of your property."

Metaphorically, in my life these days there's too much of the second kind of red: as in "No."
Or at least the wrong kind of "Yes."
But perhaps that's just my perspective at this moment.
Perhaps it will change.


At least I still get to live here. Well, not here exactly, but darn close.
Yesss!!!

Spelling as a Political Act

Lately, I've been having what I have come to think of as Sherman Alexie moments. That is, those moments in which I feel "between cultures."

One of those between-culture moments has to do with language, perhaps not surprisingly, given what I do. As you might expect from an American living in Canada and working with words, I have had to create some mental rules around spelling.

When I write something, I use the spelling that the audience expects. American clients expect "color," and Canadians expect "colour." Great. That's easy. Usually, with the guidance of MS Word's language default setting and my own reading of Canadian periodicals, I can get it right. This rule works even in the creative work I'm writing more of nowadays: if it's designed for Canadian audiences, it gets Canadian spelling.

On Facebook, I've adopted some practices, mostly to see how they work. For example, I celebrated "Labour Day" this year because I celebrated it in Canada. When I converse online with American friends, I tend to "type American"; for Canadians, I "type Canadian."

You've seen me use parentheses on the blog here for things like
"favo(u)rite." It's a way to type "between cultures." Hey, we're an inclusive place here.

But then I wondered: when I'm just me, writing just for me, what do I use?

And THEN I wondered: when on earth do I write "just for me"?

The answer is, I don't. Even the journaling I do will be read by someone other than the writer. Even if that "someone" is some future version of me--well, that version of me won't be the same person that I am at the "now" in which I write.

This also ties in with something I first heard discussed in graduate school: writing is a powerful act. One of my professors said his favorite (he was American) students were those he taught in a penitentiary. They were extremely motivated to learn. Learning to read and write effective arguments could help with their appeals and help them gain parole. For them, writing was highly personal, political, powerful.

I was more recently reminded when listening to CBC's Sunday morning news program, which featured a panel discussion about language issues, that even spelling is political. Someone on the panel mentioned Noah Webster, who of course is famous for changing the spellings of words such as "center," "defense," and "traveler." He did it for unashamedly ideological reasons: American English should be different from British English.

So, I am tempted to say, "Oh for crying out loud, this is not a big deal." Except that it is. Language and identity are so closely related as to be inseparable. It gets to Sherman Alexie's statement that whoever lives between cultures eventually is at home in neither.

Is spelling going to be my measuring stick? (Notice how I avoided using "yardstick"?)

If so, I guess it's time to take a baseline measurement. At present, the default setting for my spelling is still American. I wonder how much longer that will be true.

There and Back Again

Seasons on the calendar are closer than they appear.

The sun slants differently.

The water level in the lake is dropping again.
It's less cause for concern than in May--the renters are leaving soon,
and in any case, Roy's fix kept it fixed.

This pretty much says it all.

And so, we walk home again.

Rhyming Risks

"The past is not dead. It's not even past."

William Faulkner was onto something. Twenty-five years ago, my sister and mother looked at each other across a dish of wild mushrooms, gathered from our property here. The mushroom expert was an artist, married to the musician who was also writing a biography of my uncle (see the link to Sackbut Blues at left).

The mushrooms were meant as food, by the way, not a mind-blowing experience. Although they proved to be one in their own way, I guess.

My mother was wary. My sister was wary. But each watched the other take mushrooms, to be polite, and take a bite. Later, each said, "I only ate it because YOU did!"

The mushrooms were fine. My mother and sister were fine. But the lengths people go to, just to be polite! Holy cow.

Despite this ultimately positive experience, our family did not turn into "eat off the land" food gurus.

Yesterday a neighbour brought me a dish of risotto with parmesan and wild mushrooms. The wild mushrooms has been gathered from the "fairy ring" in our back yard.

I looked at her. "You've eaten some of this?" She assured me she had. "You're not dead?" She was not.

So I ate a bite. And of course, they were fabulous. Well, the risotto was great; what's not to love about creamy, cheesy ricey stuff? And the mushrooms were good. I like mushrooms. I suffered no ill effects.

But geez, the lengths people will go to, just to be polite.

The past isn't dead, and neither am I. So far.

The Hour without Power

We've had one this morning. I was in mid-post, too.

But fortunately, we've had only the one.
(So far, I add, trying to walk the line between guarded optimism and "sucker!!".)

There's a leak into my office--not a bad one, and it's stopped.
(For now, I add, ditto with the guarded optimism.)

Anyway, it's like this here today.

Oh, and the kids go (back) to school today.
Wonder how many believe the sky is crying just for them.

Trans-Canada Geography

This morning, on my way into town to run an early errand, I passed a van pulled into a...pull-into-thingy, as I call it...along the side of the road. The van was white, with an orange-gold-yellow-red flame/sun/bright design on it (I was driving at highway speeds so can't be more specific) and had a sign that said, in big letters, SAD.

I chuckled at the contrast between lettering and colouring. But I also knew what it was: a guy is biking across Canada to raise awareness of seasonal affective disorder (SAD).

We see a lot of those vans supporting folks biking/walking/running across Canada. Most notably, Terry Fox, whose attempt to run trans-Canada sadly ended near the city.

You might be surprised that everyone comes through Thunder Bay. Especially when you think about these numbers:

1. Canada, east-west, about 5514 kilometres (3300+ miles)
2. Canada, north-south, about 4634 km (2780+ miles)
3. U.S., east-west (continental), 4500 km (2800 miles)
4. U.S., north-south (continental), 3300 km (2000 miles)

Yes, give or take, depends on where you measure, yeah, yeah, all of that.

Your take-away: Canada is a honking big country--with one highway crossing it. ONE. Cleverly called the Trans-Canada highway (though it goes by lots of numbers), it comes right through Thunder Bay.

This is not to say that Canada has only one highway everywhere. One of my main objections to Toronto (or the GTA as we likes to say) is that it's all paved over. However, for much of the east-west breadth of this country, one road is all you get.

North-south, you got...nuthin', mostly. Yes, you can drive into Alaska, but that's, again, one highway, out west. Much of the country's north-south travel is by plane.

There are stories of bridges (train and now car) that, if demolished by acts of violence--say, a bomb in World War II or, in today's terms, an act of terrorism--would cripple the movement of people and goods from east to west. Of course, assuming the violence isn't perpetrated by Americans, Canadians could still GET from points east to points west, but they'd have to go through the U.S.

Which they would do, for the shopping.

My point is that Thunder Bay in many ways feels remote, isolated--one of the famed "ends of the earth." (Tell that to people in Sioux Lookout or a fly-in community. This is their "big city," their shopping destination.) However, it's really right smack in the middle of things, which makes it kind of a fun place to be.

(Cue Ontario Tourism music.)

It's Raining!

Hooray. And whew, because of the dry-ish* well.

* Technically, it wasn't completely dry. But each "ask" from the pump produced only a couple of cups of water. Until suddenly we got a few vertical inches, as measured on the side of the cistern. Then several more hours of teaspoons, cups, teaspoons. Then another glut. Each glut still smaller than the normal amount the well produces in response to an "ask," but more than the accumulated total from the beads of nervous sweat we were producing.

In any case, the cistern filled last night. And this morning, rain!

So, now what?

When the cistern is full, we can no longer see how the well is doing.
(The down side of a full well.)

We have decreed:
Back to "normal."
Tentative normal, that is.
No more rainwater flushes.
No more coldwater washes.

Yet.
I don't "normally" cross fingers and toes,
send up a faint breath
of gratitude and (yes) an "ask" of my own
before starting a load of laundry.

But perhaps I should.

It Ain't Just a Metaphor

This may come as a shock to you, as it did to me: the term "dry well" actually refers to something in the real world.

It's not just a dismissive way to talk of someone who doesn't have the emotional wherewithal to be intimate.

It's not just a description for your creativity when it needs time to meander and stare out the window instead of produce actual creative-ness.

There's a concrete thing to which that metaphor refers, and that, my friends, is what we have here today.

We do NOT have a failure to communicate between pump and well and cistern.

We have, essentially, a dry well.

A state of affairs I have fretted over and anticipated for oh, two or three years.

It's a dry year. The lake levels are lower than any other year that anyone around here remembers. The birch leaves, which are yellow and falling, are actually dry. These all should have been my clues.

After our eleven days' worth of company left, I blithely waited for the cistern to fill, which it did, and then started in on laundry. Yesterday the cistern had fallen below the spot where it normally asks for water and the well wasn't delivering, but we've had that problem already this summer, and it turned out to be the pump. So surely it was the pump again. Right?

Uh.

We opened the well cap and performed the Pebble Test. You would know this as "dropping a rock down the pipe." It fell and fell and bounced off the sides of things and eventually plunked.

I've worried about this before. And now, apparently, it has come to pass.

I'm feeling all "Laura and Mary" except that we have it better than they did. We already drink "town water," which we keep in attractive (?) blue jugs on our kitchen counter. We put that into the cistern and every time we go to town will fill up with another 19 liters to add. We could have a man with a water truck come bring us water, but we're not quite ready for that.

We are flushing toilets with the accumulated rainwater. This whole situation may also get me back to my health club, where I understand there's a shower. Of course I'd be too embarrassed to shower only so I'd have to work out, too, and that would be a good thing.

We are actually fine, in the sense that there's a lake in front of us and we have access to potable water.

But we could use some rain. Normal amounts. I wish Pakistan could send us some of their water. They probably do, too.

In Celebration of Our Wedding Anniversary

Dear Mother, to use the name you signed to the letters you wrote,

Sorry to bother you wherever it is you are. I suspect heaven, to be heaven to you, would include a class for you to teach, and you are probably pretty busy. But I think you're going to like what I am going to say. It was something I couldn't or wouldn't tell you while you were alive.

Remember how furious I was with you for selling the middle portion of the family property in the mid-1980s? Of course the property was yours to sell, and you had what you thought were good reasons to sell it. I did grow to appreciate the nice bathroom you added to the bigger camp, because it allowed us to take hot showers while still experiencing the rusticity of the original camp property.

However, the sale occasioned much wailing and gnashing of teeth on my part. Lots of “How could you?” and all that. While I grew quieter about it, I never really got over it. Partly I was afraid that you'd sell more of the property without consulting us kids. But mostly, I grieved the loss of the whole—our family legacy had been ten acres in the most beautiful place in the world, our Paradise, and now the middle was gone.

Not only that, the buyers bulldozed most of the trees and built a honkin' year-round home there. Who knows what nefarious plans they had that would change our experience of the place? And before I could relax about that, they had to sell to some other couple with two kids, all complete unknowns to us. At least these new people owned a canoe, let trees grow up, and left much of the shoreline natural, which we considered hopeful signs.

But still, as the years became a deacade plus, I
harbo(u)red a resentment, the one that starts “if only.” If only I had been older and presumably more flush with the money you needed. If only I had won the lottery or cured cancer or published a spectacular best-seller or otherwise amassed enough wherewithal to prevent that sale. Ah, I sighed, “If only.”

Well, I am telling you today what I should have known all along: you did the right thing. Not only is it okay that you sold the property. It was the wise and right thing to do, and I am grateful for it. You were right, an infinite number of times over.

Here's what happened. The family that bought the house endured happy times and sad times. The kids grew up and spread their wings. The wife grew sick and passed away, because sadness and death come, even in Paradise.

Seasons change. Eras come to an end. You knew this. You had watched your own parents age and, eventually, die. I heard you talk of it, but I didn't understand the consequences of the turning of the earth and accumulation of years. I know now.

As it happened, the man living alone in the house still knew himself to be Paradise, even in the sad times, even in the fallow time after his wife's death. While he waited for life and hope to grow again, he watched the fawns appear and grow until they lost their spots and even had fawns of their own. He saw a fox dancing with snowflakes. He skied over his property, and ours, and he walked carefully and lightly on it, and he saw that it was beautiful.

You'll recognize this, Mommy: “Reader, I married him.” How could I not—a man of such sense and caring, who shares my values so explicitly? Three years (thirty-six months) ago today, in fact, we stood on the beach in front of the little camp where I write this, which your father built 85 years ago. We cried through the reading from Ecclesiastes—“To every thing there is a season and a time to every purpose under the heaven”—and through our vows to ourselves and to each other. This morning, I woke up with my husband in the house you made possible some 25 years ago, when you sold the middle part of our Paradise.

I cannot say enough good things about this man. Get this: he likes the family. Really, he does! He welcomes friends and relatives, some of whom are virtual strangers to us both, and helps them enjoy our Paradise in whatever way they like best. He was my Mr. Knightley in the time of Daddy's sickness and death. He somehow accepts me as I am, with all my imperfections, and yet challenges me to be my best self.

I'm not sure what I do for him. Sometimes I bring him coffee or bake scones. When we go out in the canoe, I let him steer. He gets to do projects. For example, he put a new roof on the little camp and dug the piano out of the collapsing floor in the back room and shored up the floor and foundations. He has the fun of using his chainsaw on the trees that threaten the various structures here. These things seem hardly enough, yet he claims they are plenty.

Mom, I am not daft enough to imagine you could have foreseen this particular life for me. But you and Daddy were people of faith. You believed, among other things, in the inherent goodness of humanity. You believed that we all have the responsibility to do what we believe to be the right thing, even when that action is unpleasant, while trusting that doing the right thing is the best way to serve the greater good. So you showed that faith is a verb. You sold the property and you trusted in the outcome.

And that is the greatest lesson for me in all this. I can't see the future, but I read Ecclesiastes, and I know that death will come again to Paradise. As if I needed a reminder, gold leaves are falling from the birches as I type this. Someday, my husband and I, as well as the rest of your “kids” and grandkids, will have more decisions to make. They may be hard decisions. They may require active trust and faith in the process of birth, death, and renewal, of a time for every purpose under the heaven.

Fortunately, we have your example to guide us.

Best of all, we don't have to make those decisions today. Today, our only decision is whether it's a good day for canoeing, because in Paradise, the best way to celebrate one's third anniversary (or pretty much any day) is by going out in a canoe, or on skis, depending on the season. Or even for a walk, perhaps with a chainsaw or camera.

In closing, Mother dear, I'll say again: thank you—you were right.

Love,
Marion