tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46198924695845591152024-03-17T15:01:33.619-06:00Confessions of a Progressively Irrelevant TeacherNicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556527235144353235noreply@blogger.comBlogger241125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4619892469584559115.post-42215946813569372962024-02-19T12:56:00.001-07:002024-02-19T12:56:48.861-07:00where your heart is<div class="separator"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">"I wish I had a house</span></div><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I'd fill it up with my life."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So sings Parker Millsap in his song "Homeless".</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I think a lot about houses these days. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The house I grew up in. We thought it was a castle. A castle with a double sided fireplace and a long living room and windows with views of the hills. A chaotic castle with four kids and friends coming and going, cats and dogs, my mom's endless projects, my dad tinkering in the basement. A castle where parties were hosted and noisy family dinners invariably ended with arguments over whose turn it was to plug in the kettle. Where battles were fought and lost. Where you knew who you were. Where you always belonged.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDg8JH6311KOVAP3uAwTiG-4BQBXTIgPF4PvaBmlI2WwdcKE7qZUpTLqrDyqRyTuyevW9rUMwnfKi-7Thcn4ft7Yfts3LPZJ7aPKZpKK1QW-SIIHrrjcTzizygiSHtPDKNlUJX90n5TMbfY8QSv9yY3TogeAIGKzH4G4T4v25aJgYu1uDLa0jZg80E8GKz/s2284/dchouse.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1492" data-original-width="2284" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDg8JH6311KOVAP3uAwTiG-4BQBXTIgPF4PvaBmlI2WwdcKE7qZUpTLqrDyqRyTuyevW9rUMwnfKi-7Thcn4ft7Yfts3LPZJ7aPKZpKK1QW-SIIHrrjcTzizygiSHtPDKNlUJX90n5TMbfY8QSv9yY3TogeAIGKzH4G4T4v25aJgYu1uDLa0jZg80E8GKz/w400-h261/dchouse.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;">The house where I grew up.</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZYAyL3jpyHkVH-akqM5hVZRURMT6163LVraFaZJkRyL_24hK-ocGWB_JYBZiDl2mayT7ZC6710IYoDG-wxZRLwgnBxUAfu0Jt6kMFKhuKNwuIZ89J4_WizyFGLv65o8ykmuTNqkycotZUR1pZ8CrGZWcwVxxuQiGlEcoea4lowAnaa3cjdBTtI7iLOwtD/s2560/easter.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="2560" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZYAyL3jpyHkVH-akqM5hVZRURMT6163LVraFaZJkRyL_24hK-ocGWB_JYBZiDl2mayT7ZC6710IYoDG-wxZRLwgnBxUAfu0Jt6kMFKhuKNwuIZ89J4_WizyFGLv65o8ykmuTNqkycotZUR1pZ8CrGZWcwVxxuQiGlEcoea4lowAnaa3cjdBTtI7iLOwtD/w400-h300/easter.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;">Easter</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRKpd1ewFjzOLg4zhUlGY-FXe1-0s5dNO7kXGijbSaH5Auev6tLNvpbKgpo1e4Ii9lfFZEee7O7-LpwFimsgvBXaxf0upbz7ygrW2uDS3y-vB56qBbgNeWcYfC8BoYhvicl3QF5JFDto6h6KlKyQekQ9rSyesOIIuBNPlInKiFmXPbtQqUbvqgNjs4zit_/s2520/slidey%20004.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1744" data-original-width="2520" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRKpd1ewFjzOLg4zhUlGY-FXe1-0s5dNO7kXGijbSaH5Auev6tLNvpbKgpo1e4Ii9lfFZEee7O7-LpwFimsgvBXaxf0upbz7ygrW2uDS3y-vB56qBbgNeWcYfC8BoYhvicl3QF5JFDto6h6KlKyQekQ9rSyesOIIuBNPlInKiFmXPbtQqUbvqgNjs4zit_/w400-h276/slidey%20004.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>The four of us in the front yard</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtPIbcRP4fVIDTvbRzecWLlZUweMul61TRG8XoH3JArEETyToMv_aDbglc35NmL2YWRe1A5egplqQtJlc-icuWszVnf4tJ7r1ASPe2gU6lhyYc2OJtcl2Z0TzoR5Tq94wvCS3qj_kXCK92IIbtwyxiX4jVo0TZ1AJbZ4vcFb6xopqfvHDW5bEj4RD_tGvX/s2560/patti%20and%20viv.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="2560" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtPIbcRP4fVIDTvbRzecWLlZUweMul61TRG8XoH3JArEETyToMv_aDbglc35NmL2YWRe1A5egplqQtJlc-icuWszVnf4tJ7r1ASPe2gU6lhyYc2OJtcl2Z0TzoR5Tq94wvCS3qj_kXCK92IIbtwyxiX4jVo0TZ1AJbZ4vcFb6xopqfvHDW5bEj4RD_tGvX/w400-h300/patti%20and%20viv.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;">Me and my two best friends on the front step</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">My parents' first Tumbler Ridge house, is now owned by my brother. My mom had so much fun designing and decorating it. I never lived in that house, but we got married there on the coldest day of the year. It was the house where we brought babies who grew into kids who played with their cousins and Christmas morning was filled with their whispers, "he came!" <br />The house where my parents grew old, too old to stay in a two story house.</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtH-9aEeUHV8P6sVHs5qOSBXldjMBNAPCNoQy0gB8gobDLiKprPzwV8xZg4bDbw2IVIBbev2SPLIteGzqpAl2NxSOIgqF-vrW2lHc87sOD-f0cP9_k7SzdMOxSpBnB7yXQS4mtQG4I28pxqw5G4WxuIRpmoczNDTQ1ZPaZ9npkuk96ZiirvAOdrIJqAZIY/s1492/100.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="984" data-original-width="1492" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtH-9aEeUHV8P6sVHs5qOSBXldjMBNAPCNoQy0gB8gobDLiKprPzwV8xZg4bDbw2IVIBbev2SPLIteGzqpAl2NxSOIgqF-vrW2lHc87sOD-f0cP9_k7SzdMOxSpBnB7yXQS4mtQG4I28pxqw5G4WxuIRpmoczNDTQ1ZPaZ9npkuk96ZiirvAOdrIJqAZIY/w400-h264/100.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQIfYuF4sAvO8kZB6YBLFSssCnQxUKI5KDRhRhNXchq2Wms1h1rR2rSq9qwLH7f1FUIbGN1EtMEGZ8zuFDVwKB8GTq4fEYJzpAXQ0vEFqW0C3cgt2ykVVoaqlF1okuKTI9K65cQCK8yjspt7sWBX-zdmX4_KZPV7ckAXIid_eyPMNyt8RkQDZMK76noZi_/s2000/hart%20copy.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1267" data-original-width="2000" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQIfYuF4sAvO8kZB6YBLFSssCnQxUKI5KDRhRhNXchq2Wms1h1rR2rSq9qwLH7f1FUIbGN1EtMEGZ8zuFDVwKB8GTq4fEYJzpAXQ0vEFqW0C3cgt2ykVVoaqlF1okuKTI9K65cQCK8yjspt7sWBX-zdmX4_KZPV7ckAXIid_eyPMNyt8RkQDZMK76noZi_/w400-h254/hart%20copy.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;">Our son and his granddad</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIpvsO1Dngbmd7nbjUte_6OcU2cbwvJj22ahcabXEAA77XjmBWjWTdBmUC66r4xM-0THFUgzIZ1InesI6fkrA_oofVlG0r7WAWk9jDHPLhEKzwt1LnUdSHjEz_S7as3_9eG2wN0ScQhnp-q0RUW5_AJVlEaZfJiRImGVejK_DyzbTKHmVDSxuUbthSKC0q/s2544/dar%20001.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="2328" data-original-width="2544" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIpvsO1Dngbmd7nbjUte_6OcU2cbwvJj22ahcabXEAA77XjmBWjWTdBmUC66r4xM-0THFUgzIZ1InesI6fkrA_oofVlG0r7WAWk9jDHPLhEKzwt1LnUdSHjEz_S7as3_9eG2wN0ScQhnp-q0RUW5_AJVlEaZfJiRImGVejK_DyzbTKHmVDSxuUbthSKC0q/w400-h366/dar%20001.jpg" width="400" /></i></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>Granddad and his granddaughter, Len and Anna the Jack Russell</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGMyS2N3MMzzyrCLkk3LkhJasLR3LWydnX5yU-rFEEfkxD_ihI7W1fekSyNuvH1a6f2c2G6xyWurjBfNEDgtBtLjwI726n7BlP7Z8qawp_-qXrgRHV2F8HSE7xtsxkYvlZH0dINbRXO6KduJxQsIbwqSOawh-UcWBXpwWcfRmHCAQqSs1AkpWNB5YrAtke/s2704/cooky2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1728" data-original-width="2704" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGMyS2N3MMzzyrCLkk3LkhJasLR3LWydnX5yU-rFEEfkxD_ihI7W1fekSyNuvH1a6f2c2G6xyWurjBfNEDgtBtLjwI726n7BlP7Z8qawp_-qXrgRHV2F8HSE7xtsxkYvlZH0dINbRXO6KduJxQsIbwqSOawh-UcWBXpwWcfRmHCAQqSs1AkpWNB5YrAtke/w400-h255/cooky2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>Cookie decorating</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Our first Slave Lake house. A little house where we lived a big life on a cul-de-sac where 18 other kids lived. My husband built a skating rink in the back yard that killed all the grass. He and his dad built another bedroom in the basement so every kid could have a room and he replaced every section of the fence, one piece at a time.. A house where babies turned into toddlers who grew into children who turned into teenagers. Where puppies peed on the carpet and saplings grew into trees. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">A poorly built house that was the best we could afford at the time, with its one bathroom and leaky wood basement and weird wiring. Magic shows and sleepovers and meetings of the "secret club" and puppet shows and dog birthdays and convoluted little boy games and special dinners with the good china in the little dining room with my home office in the corner. "Family" birthdays and big Christmas parties with the kids in the basement grinding cookie icing into the carpet. It burned to the ground in the Slave Lake wildfire.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAM-VKyB6_8Vuezt3kYaajumALZj-QYSPU5qWQFZdHPhyphenhyphen7i6a832y4hPcReBe0D4Br7FIdl63h5pd7nrYxig-3p0kYJlwaQMj4I1aSHejvJ7SmsiYy3nW11YzQBNNDeAQ7KFOxay8RAFHU2B9Cwhw8f1ciXS87Zg2TuVFi_l4DQ8G1GYg6N_yW3_-qR-t5/s2429/IMG_20240216_201712_edit_939534564036846.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1764" data-original-width="2429" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAM-VKyB6_8Vuezt3kYaajumALZj-QYSPU5qWQFZdHPhyphenhyphen7i6a832y4hPcReBe0D4Br7FIdl63h5pd7nrYxig-3p0kYJlwaQMj4I1aSHejvJ7SmsiYy3nW11YzQBNNDeAQ7KFOxay8RAFHU2B9Cwhw8f1ciXS87Zg2TuVFi_l4DQ8G1GYg6N_yW3_-qR-t5/s320/IMG_20240216_201712_edit_939534564036846.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxMEQ2D2k-tRDmFU8PxHHrVURS-HisYGFSiZ8ShA055CCyTxRFcqbS8gkJ79mSZB-fTIXkenzMN6dRPl5ObQ81LtXNvCxAMrWNlK06DbjXbcyfe5sF4-ZmmmzbiqzzMjpwR2LjYcJkipmKvroGiK_I494lYktNnRQ8pqBoY1P9UcSgwbfdnfHcnoDLg10V/s2586/IMG_20240216_201756_edit_939493815035810.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2586" data-original-width="1900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxMEQ2D2k-tRDmFU8PxHHrVURS-HisYGFSiZ8ShA055CCyTxRFcqbS8gkJ79mSZB-fTIXkenzMN6dRPl5ObQ81LtXNvCxAMrWNlK06DbjXbcyfe5sF4-ZmmmzbiqzzMjpwR2LjYcJkipmKvroGiK_I494lYktNnRQ8pqBoY1P9UcSgwbfdnfHcnoDLg10V/w294-h400/IMG_20240216_201756_edit_939493815035810.jpg" width="294" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1hm0wEUImRVGjOocYDb2_yor7YUcr5qRRuYyeHkXvs18UGrxZE_Hf_NfPQAHZ986L05Qwy-q3J8zIVWKSPLYc2zkYvM_jSG5gMXjs1bSd-OlQkkLe3U6ER7vhKSt5wzEmuXLbPx1F_J8YSdsSUoSI8XIuxULygLz9L8oFGbfmV58r5KvBnjtPEFxP-wR-/s3456/IMG_20240218_153613_edit_993540439316105.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1hm0wEUImRVGjOocYDb2_yor7YUcr5qRRuYyeHkXvs18UGrxZE_Hf_NfPQAHZ986L05Qwy-q3J8zIVWKSPLYc2zkYvM_jSG5gMXjs1bSd-OlQkkLe3U6ER7vhKSt5wzEmuXLbPx1F_J8YSdsSUoSI8XIuxULygLz9L8oFGbfmV58r5KvBnjtPEFxP-wR-/s320/IMG_20240218_153613_edit_993540439316105.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOy37Lnvzj8Rp_es0EjUIygSHe1Jsc5GJUZ2P9nke9MvWdnP_WN5dFHkRz0BccbmYNT4sEK1Bcchhj8jN6eCwx_KDs3DFZsmlCNSZ3ZlG_jRWZt91obDlzYu0v5gsyN9a04-nFX2fhTjLRQfMOwWf04INDq3ZsjSL2ZR8VSjPkNRZ_qLuphY_p2s_2Aicq/s3088/IMG_20240218_153533_edit_993577723682766.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="3028" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOy37Lnvzj8Rp_es0EjUIygSHe1Jsc5GJUZ2P9nke9MvWdnP_WN5dFHkRz0BccbmYNT4sEK1Bcchhj8jN6eCwx_KDs3DFZsmlCNSZ3ZlG_jRWZt91obDlzYu0v5gsyN9a04-nFX2fhTjLRQfMOwWf04INDq3ZsjSL2ZR8VSjPkNRZ_qLuphY_p2s_2Aicq/s320/IMG_20240218_153533_edit_993577723682766.jpg" width="314" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS2BLlVDPIr5EO2xaje5dwZVvtc15ueJG-TwQA-xOWZm2xk3LElvsXX89-WO8COKa6ukFFl-tmV18EgCQpmjCwg5-_13isC0qT-tsFL8PZBMwCtH6wCKzTu3DlRFKyHJFtd9qAbUF6PvVdAnh3vn4hJDye9RIyASqBf7jDtjYAzi4XVFVutSN1I0DBIhqo/s2454/IMG_20240218_153607_edit_993560749205164.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2156" data-original-width="2454" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS2BLlVDPIr5EO2xaje5dwZVvtc15ueJG-TwQA-xOWZm2xk3LElvsXX89-WO8COKa6ukFFl-tmV18EgCQpmjCwg5-_13isC0qT-tsFL8PZBMwCtH6wCKzTu3DlRFKyHJFtd9qAbUF6PvVdAnh3vn4hJDye9RIyASqBf7jDtjYAzi4XVFVutSN1I0DBIhqo/s320/IMG_20240218_153607_edit_993560749205164.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWLLb5fY248MHxPZgYyIXu8VWNJvoDu7gE_aXKPqJ2TeQNI1G_-GTEkoNebWjQI4soZqFs1a88uvLxF75YF3mwCBO8zcroXJgLfVmM9XsxRLzzuP_p3nO1DjwsdfVGBO5BxxJ7G3P_7pRdZsapA0iEeZ1lV1BhXZFjb69OW-jcCLiC-q241bslfNMXiKsb/s2853/IMG_20240218_153441_edit_993592053491618.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2619" data-original-width="2853" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWLLb5fY248MHxPZgYyIXu8VWNJvoDu7gE_aXKPqJ2TeQNI1G_-GTEkoNebWjQI4soZqFs1a88uvLxF75YF3mwCBO8zcroXJgLfVmM9XsxRLzzuP_p3nO1DjwsdfVGBO5BxxJ7G3P_7pRdZsapA0iEeZ1lV1BhXZFjb69OW-jcCLiC-q241bslfNMXiKsb/s320/IMG_20240218_153441_edit_993592053491618.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The next house in Slave Lake. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://progressivelyirrelevant.blogspot.com/2020/06/what-is-your-house-worth.html" target="_blank">I've said enough about it</a>, but you can read the link if you missed it,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I wept when we left it. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr5VOG5AfHzJStREzwVJNadHI8JLjgG0w1ii5fJC0IfnD5bfJ8L5mFq4GZuoha2DHzVyvckz_N_nVq_6p10U8Fc_UMmm576DMbr3MwmGs58nH9nERxdlS20R84QZzLyg5xSwXC_chyHJFb0VDJCwOLB03yFR3YSBOUc_Vegsqo61geBoQP682jHQOqeJ23/s3200/509.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2225" data-original-width="3200" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr5VOG5AfHzJStREzwVJNadHI8JLjgG0w1ii5fJC0IfnD5bfJ8L5mFq4GZuoha2DHzVyvckz_N_nVq_6p10U8Fc_UMmm576DMbr3MwmGs58nH9nERxdlS20R84QZzLyg5xSwXC_chyHJFb0VDJCwOLB03yFR3YSBOUc_Vegsqo61geBoQP682jHQOqeJ23/w400-h279/509.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicYE3-D9yCsrLisSNQfywexyolwD9lcZsys0paQqvXORTNDHqOkix9tOnmcflYvMdYeye_F1Q_mDGsgcmtuR660LnggNYNb3HBIwHinG-i8YRreaLoC4OzxHNrOLmp8RRAN2GiDD2rya65CCyuNtTS8Q5_BH7Tm0om0GgklFD-9PYQOERvLxDyIsiRQpDR/s1080/xmas%20copy.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicYE3-D9yCsrLisSNQfywexyolwD9lcZsys0paQqvXORTNDHqOkix9tOnmcflYvMdYeye_F1Q_mDGsgcmtuR660LnggNYNb3HBIwHinG-i8YRreaLoC4OzxHNrOLmp8RRAN2GiDD2rya65CCyuNtTS8Q5_BH7Tm0om0GgklFD-9PYQOERvLxDyIsiRQpDR/w400-h400/xmas%20copy.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">My Aunty Peggy's house. She and Uncle Sam built it in 1948. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">A house filled with plants and art. A house that grew and grew as the family expanded as my cousins grew up and married and had kids of their own. It was the centre of their family. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Meals around the big dining room table with conversations about people you never met.</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">After the kids moved out, she was always redecorating. We stayed in the "blue room" when we visited. She lived there for over 60 years. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjazHqoF9Um3OYN2SxJpwZ7q6r2qH_RXMb81VUqsnM0Ej3VwZI404ZXfSPS-U1zaHeS7TJSgG2dvXNQ20ia4uZyOG2vPKJOv1rKo3c9oQ9LmduGsBGDmHAxkShwvmB-znHemsbxYUMMYknpgrPbG-Q4-efPsM2imOv-uA-jTF3i3w7ucucMOUie41Qys7QG/s3600/Aunty%20Peggys%20House.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2466" data-original-width="3600" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjazHqoF9Um3OYN2SxJpwZ7q6r2qH_RXMb81VUqsnM0Ej3VwZI404ZXfSPS-U1zaHeS7TJSgG2dvXNQ20ia4uZyOG2vPKJOv1rKo3c9oQ9LmduGsBGDmHAxkShwvmB-znHemsbxYUMMYknpgrPbG-Q4-efPsM2imOv-uA-jTF3i3w7ucucMOUie41Qys7QG/w400-h274/Aunty%20Peggys%20House.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip2ONQHOs6rdB26cB1PoNn9Tbf6mmmXAKt_KBIIrsOZBsMzqZA97RYa3jw6dvEx8B5aIyDiKszMsvP0FnlsTnBgi9UPAUtGtF3Tq_xRgOsZS_eHVYwhbwmZWWPBdQvyK4B2PVQ7kRa41Wb0vB_GNAWFKwbZAZptGbRhonRQ6UYZo0N0bgkpdjoSrTHoE21/s528/ancestors.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="458" data-original-width="528" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip2ONQHOs6rdB26cB1PoNn9Tbf6mmmXAKt_KBIIrsOZBsMzqZA97RYa3jw6dvEx8B5aIyDiKszMsvP0FnlsTnBgi9UPAUtGtF3Tq_xRgOsZS_eHVYwhbwmZWWPBdQvyK4B2PVQ7kRa41Wb0vB_GNAWFKwbZAZptGbRhonRQ6UYZo0N0bgkpdjoSrTHoE21/s320/ancestors.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>Grandparents, uncles and aunts on the front step </i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI52BNGd7YqjV2MImjG5lfw4M1COeFJM1PM3eze7n3K5B2ql-I_NwAXr4r0LbVQ-jrqjEGXUANotTUGu8wZQo4H8n98M1F89HuwXWk0D-4yFh65ywlB4d7mpl23AlUnISojNUuqQxmtG5lJksufKgCgJouole0fcjuy_SWYob6lEcCRWKEEV36BMcRKley/s2381/IMG_20240216_201655_edit_939590412736316.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1555" data-original-width="2381" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI52BNGd7YqjV2MImjG5lfw4M1COeFJM1PM3eze7n3K5B2ql-I_NwAXr4r0LbVQ-jrqjEGXUANotTUGu8wZQo4H8n98M1F89HuwXWk0D-4yFh65ywlB4d7mpl23AlUnISojNUuqQxmtG5lJksufKgCgJouole0fcjuy_SWYob6lEcCRWKEEV36BMcRKley/w400-h261/IMG_20240216_201655_edit_939590412736316.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;">Around the table </span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">My grandparents lived in what used to be a log cabin on a northern homestead until it was converted into a more modern two story house with a "long room" above the original cabin where we played dressups, always unsupervised. It was the sound of my grandmother starting the fire before we were out of bed. It was the smell of baking bread. It was my mom and Granddad arguing over something on the morning news playing on the old blue radio. It was evenings playing canasta with our grandparents and our great aunts. It was picnics at the river and Christmas dinners with what seemed the whole neighbourhood at the table. A haven where you felt anchored to the past.</span><p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk78JAZFRd3BEA_NLFJgbUZIhxi5HecU9RQ_1ZSuoRrHCoiAztjvcjue0SWhGC1J7qHtmTqS5hGIsH9_p0Qyq3LYyR4hc44WwLu6zg2n-GzQQw5afpx0seuTwErzhkeJwkFX3OqDSTn93dBNieIWWPhp4fgLZwdGjgl6AV7WLzXs5YWu-dszxJ_HWjyBbw/s2052/PICT0155%20copy.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1216" data-original-width="2052" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk78JAZFRd3BEA_NLFJgbUZIhxi5HecU9RQ_1ZSuoRrHCoiAztjvcjue0SWhGC1J7qHtmTqS5hGIsH9_p0Qyq3LYyR4hc44WwLu6zg2n-GzQQw5afpx0seuTwErzhkeJwkFX3OqDSTn93dBNieIWWPhp4fgLZwdGjgl6AV7WLzXs5YWu-dszxJ_HWjyBbw/w400-h238/PICT0155%20copy.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>My grandparents' house, now owned by my cousin Peter and his wife Eileen.</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3xYREu_x-OoyrviPzsjSPtp3EuMoz0j9bZZ8xH4w08W8ufYaA7LqsuTVfETz8Pfrjh_NmZ-rYaouIIXYYxLMdOaMYUet2M0fdxGOJiRdkK-kRbreRVjsS8Ii1uy6btWBw46xW6WUfe_nefblJt-wx9pza1WZ4KfCwKdm1RQmAJaOaWerld4_RC2hdWNv9/s1688/Erin%20and%20Melanie.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1124" data-original-width="1688" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3xYREu_x-OoyrviPzsjSPtp3EuMoz0j9bZZ8xH4w08W8ufYaA7LqsuTVfETz8Pfrjh_NmZ-rYaouIIXYYxLMdOaMYUet2M0fdxGOJiRdkK-kRbreRVjsS8Ii1uy6btWBw46xW6WUfe_nefblJt-wx9pza1WZ4KfCwKdm1RQmAJaOaWerld4_RC2hdWNv9/w400-h266/Erin%20and%20Melanie.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>Little cousins playing dressups</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc4Wz2vrB_L0wNH9Mhi70BHfpvsXETldxC27fUpXzkh30o_Q7DlDw53thJZjcDAu4gdyK65V-Sd4uWyZ8aD5tfA5DhoszgNSjw9c7OQZy8mqe0uTCTuBauiR564Amu9PoKohxykMZhVg3vpJdBtp-cysS7eYzUJSvb7w0_a-d_ecuLi9AlhAfIW9fbpvRF/s1632/eve.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1632" data-original-width="1568" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc4Wz2vrB_L0wNH9Mhi70BHfpvsXETldxC27fUpXzkh30o_Q7DlDw53thJZjcDAu4gdyK65V-Sd4uWyZ8aD5tfA5DhoszgNSjw9c7OQZy8mqe0uTCTuBauiR564Amu9PoKohxykMZhVg3vpJdBtp-cysS7eYzUJSvb7w0_a-d_ecuLi9AlhAfIW9fbpvRF/w384-h400/eve.jpg" width="384" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;">Christmas with cousins</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-SIdJKMH2CniyX4mDBfxpwy0xbNhfhwBsehOzRpM44ee7Ruh43HnyVDMjTBSWAFuxSsKFoPgX20QFrofjZq0aAMkZ5oVZrY9BgaF792oxYOYmwfYKw7em7OUBaAILZc1j2bzyhBppVzky1byMmVu0KLZR0Twe9TK5EtU4Y_3TDQvLw1RdVZQwhd3pN_Uh/s1728/christmas%20001%20copy.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1728" data-original-width="1584" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-SIdJKMH2CniyX4mDBfxpwy0xbNhfhwBsehOzRpM44ee7Ruh43HnyVDMjTBSWAFuxSsKFoPgX20QFrofjZq0aAMkZ5oVZrY9BgaF792oxYOYmwfYKw7em7OUBaAILZc1j2bzyhBppVzky1byMmVu0KLZR0Twe9TK5EtU4Y_3TDQvLw1RdVZQwhd3pN_Uh/w366-h400/christmas%20001%20copy.jpeg" width="366" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>Granddad at the Christmas table.<br /><br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie1rH6x-DZClGEzSn85887unVXKQ_V0r_cClmakS2ybtIfElORNSFtOCfaNp8YN3pqsBocQf65_HJE41YDEcJI8aQi0jLk0VO1500T9SaafFL_eutkeVo2eqDEUzS3tIC8z1WV9pXu3e34lzZxt5M2_0N0gKaYaQePxrqfPuYHBvZle7UIHb7S_qpFGIw1/s4000/sarah%20and%20terry.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2708" data-original-width="4000" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie1rH6x-DZClGEzSn85887unVXKQ_V0r_cClmakS2ybtIfElORNSFtOCfaNp8YN3pqsBocQf65_HJE41YDEcJI8aQi0jLk0VO1500T9SaafFL_eutkeVo2eqDEUzS3tIC8z1WV9pXu3e34lzZxt5M2_0N0gKaYaQePxrqfPuYHBvZle7UIHb7S_qpFGIw1/w400-h271/sarah%20and%20terry.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>My cousin's wedding in the living room</i></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I think too about the houses our daughters now own, bought during the pandemic. They are places where they are building their own lives. Knickknacks from their travel years, and artwork and books and yards for dogs and room for entertaining and at least one baby. They have put their own stamp on their houses. I feel at home when I'm there. They seem so familiar to me. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkGkPYgPRGXvNY0TyS6U9NFsAdz6xR3zCywPXnC8bZmgql3zBpWGDNN3gzQ9EFpnWtIcs8rujkG8eeuS98X1lz0gn5Jj-3INiVEIG6JFYgqKVcXC9ryCkaYGaYaZH44XcMxZHLi6iNV68CoS5G2uXPM1fTQPqB4FFIOEQMKcADVZdnqiQd7sr9f_TDoLHN/s2736/sunningwell.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="2736" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkGkPYgPRGXvNY0TyS6U9NFsAdz6xR3zCywPXnC8bZmgql3zBpWGDNN3gzQ9EFpnWtIcs8rujkG8eeuS98X1lz0gn5Jj-3INiVEIG6JFYgqKVcXC9ryCkaYGaYaZH44XcMxZHLi6iNV68CoS5G2uXPM1fTQPqB4FFIOEQMKcADVZdnqiQd7sr9f_TDoLHN/s320/sunningwell.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJjELU3AwWjv6qJKBhr7auKujW8doQweUsRfrgcgpxRTPybwjil6xUlXSz5U0YA_zdc4y-MpMSybzbTE92NlHxcnq_df7d0Gjkz1orskztZsVSXxlpWKdBDHHjszeKkjWdl_1N4hKvKFb0bHPErqrb8ozhMGrHCOFhwxDHChGVe-iT_rvOddqZjoWDvBSw/s2736/baby%20george.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="2736" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtcfspL14D7r4M1x85-ubtFOSm0kP9X0Z_AoBscQEoIzJMeRMBZsn5IJ_HGygvWgH6FIoZ-lG-Z7wzYzhbGy1iZGPbM_jDyp2u8EpNNYAQ3zYRPzx1RDdNvXVTZJzjbtmlFg9yzYh3E6TqxneHLsk59NmHDsbrVSL_vMcObLnvPVxMqBEDTmmUpnqSUfzK/s320/IMG_20211109_085740.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7KWXbDUdZRMAaFVcm5kZ0UtZ8hmlE1JZg7v-gvMyM_SjyiFfVxo9R4ivB0bpPqyHw9_MDTJrWbC882qGILoFdhusnt7NRMnuAO097Aly02muO6v17XzBnersC99Qc7mmbPKykPaDcVnLyfV-cUkK8k3Kv4qudhhOkXhFRrLSamIfx78bOMIQZrevSWhS9/s2736/dogs.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="2736" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7KWXbDUdZRMAaFVcm5kZ0UtZ8hmlE1JZg7v-gvMyM_SjyiFfVxo9R4ivB0bpPqyHw9_MDTJrWbC882qGILoFdhusnt7NRMnuAO097Aly02muO6v17XzBnersC99Qc7mmbPKykPaDcVnLyfV-cUkK8k3Kv4qudhhOkXhFRrLSamIfx78bOMIQZrevSWhS9/s320/dogs.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAKcfjwXWiZPpbRkoeTvLARek7fUCLkwjF1qkIsIDFtRoGIOJ8GfcqW-bSh8Se7iGOgFbYSRMR5glANhOxkoi20v__ZsGSgaYCEgXg6X15f7svZSYFk6U_o4SGS3gUHGW-S8Wzz4AWRGwYwYi_1jwsw2qdLP0cNzgtmqFxyGmy91mD5TvGwSo0sXpH2ABR/s3456/liz.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAKcfjwXWiZPpbRkoeTvLARek7fUCLkwjF1qkIsIDFtRoGIOJ8GfcqW-bSh8Se7iGOgFbYSRMR5glANhOxkoi20v__ZsGSgaYCEgXg6X15f7svZSYFk6U_o4SGS3gUHGW-S8Wzz4AWRGwYwYi_1jwsw2qdLP0cNzgtmqFxyGmy91mD5TvGwSo0sXpH2ABR/s320/liz.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWicaOISdcYZgoX3mpzkNvdrzmpIT-eGR40WxFQ_aG-CB_lB-FWCUuvHbTpK0ekNPNel1__Q9Ay6WMLF98qiobcMvaH1DYCelq_IZjWqbEUY4z2L0E44uacBWX0-CEaLYUPG1niLvvJyiUm4kuYITMpPz9KSK4ZfXFsUrr7U80JcxYKexLfWyi6IgXWzgW/s3456/IMG_20211109_085939.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWicaOISdcYZgoX3mpzkNvdrzmpIT-eGR40WxFQ_aG-CB_lB-FWCUuvHbTpK0ekNPNel1__Q9Ay6WMLF98qiobcMvaH1DYCelq_IZjWqbEUY4z2L0E44uacBWX0-CEaLYUPG1niLvvJyiUm4kuYITMpPz9KSK4ZfXFsUrr7U80JcxYKexLfWyi6IgXWzgW/s320/IMG_20211109_085939.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Len's mom is still in the house he grew up in. A house where the Vilas furniture is always polished and milkglass is dusted and the African violets on the windowsill are always blooming. It's a house where nothing ever changes, not even the calendar. She's lived there for almost 60 years and she keeps coming up with reasons why she shouldn't move but none of them are true. </span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge8azAbkMhpGj5qXKRZovY5xmp0XAlRwMsSMQ1-8GVz1I0sgISaclMHh80l6DAkJQJS0dcvOdFIsopxXmjG1YnYiKjBLhzDNo0VHPfNRsdtix-0PAvbZwsWkuGbCO06FQWQ2kgRJkTPM-hDusAwfj_BiMouPeTC1DZ4iZomcJri29BqKtT_BTEMDZlbUiW/s4763/Dad%20carving%20Turkey%20Christmas.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3148" data-original-width="4763" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge8azAbkMhpGj5qXKRZovY5xmp0XAlRwMsSMQ1-8GVz1I0sgISaclMHh80l6DAkJQJS0dcvOdFIsopxXmjG1YnYiKjBLhzDNo0VHPfNRsdtix-0PAvbZwsWkuGbCO06FQWQ2kgRJkTPM-hDusAwfj_BiMouPeTC1DZ4iZomcJri29BqKtT_BTEMDZlbUiW/w400-h264/Dad%20carving%20Turkey%20Christmas.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidLiVv5LI7_qjQWRyntsKGzSyBCup771Z2CTQf5mremsJr2ASLme9ShyphenhyphenEEQsdiu5UFkxgOSF_R4zq2V_6fEWvfvHRgLsI3bQUxCKMW64LnJ7uLHUZSv5wmWv8sncS4Knz6Geo-Esif1NWPu9GZqcuUdQeTd6E-8gPXQ0jw__74k0p7Pv9V__RMGvFMzLqp/s4032/nana.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidLiVv5LI7_qjQWRyntsKGzSyBCup771Z2CTQf5mremsJr2ASLme9ShyphenhyphenEEQsdiu5UFkxgOSF_R4zq2V_6fEWvfvHRgLsI3bQUxCKMW64LnJ7uLHUZSv5wmWv8sncS4Knz6Geo-Esif1NWPu9GZqcuUdQeTd6E-8gPXQ0jw__74k0p7Pv9V__RMGvFMzLqp/w400-h300/nana.heic" width="400" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5pIElHsypOKEtgtKCeUz9ZPcHs7_E5sI8WzB6kWlVmuB-epwoRE2-tTq3xH5ucpMByquUrWDh7IhDphKSM202K5Agq7p_6AMvXWO5Ik8jUAko_NiXOEQjwMyt5ZMx-lxlveFg1mS0srZmmDGNUvIGbqmcN1kgczMOX8je8577oXNZUl0V4EC2hg1YSXs7/s2136/christmas%201966.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1316" data-original-width="2136" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5pIElHsypOKEtgtKCeUz9ZPcHs7_E5sI8WzB6kWlVmuB-epwoRE2-tTq3xH5ucpMByquUrWDh7IhDphKSM202K5Agq7p_6AMvXWO5Ik8jUAko_NiXOEQjwMyt5ZMx-lxlveFg1mS0srZmmDGNUvIGbqmcN1kgczMOX8je8577oXNZUl0V4EC2hg1YSXs7/w400-h246/christmas%201966.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Christmas 1966</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH5G6Yjau0ijY4VlMvAG0VmF3lC7lcGRuKyREbDoXxuEFv_flD-olr_rDRmVGOYRfEJczlQorTWbrE5KCzry8xzB_Z4kIG0ECVvqmDKRA9nYajV_18C6wnTVsTYYcmPltKYp3JkXswfnEcaDAOpMbrNIHP_Y_26vdXlepKrkjGNdaJ9_NYKjUDBprqtfRT/s2736/IMG_20240216_201830_edit_939432558501445.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1880" data-original-width="2736" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH5G6Yjau0ijY4VlMvAG0VmF3lC7lcGRuKyREbDoXxuEFv_flD-olr_rDRmVGOYRfEJczlQorTWbrE5KCzry8xzB_Z4kIG0ECVvqmDKRA9nYajV_18C6wnTVsTYYcmPltKYp3JkXswfnEcaDAOpMbrNIHP_Y_26vdXlepKrkjGNdaJ9_NYKjUDBprqtfRT/w400-h275/IMG_20240216_201830_edit_939432558501445.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2fCxSw2nVn6znnAtiH93jfLOKznHeKkjyToiTz99D99i7m4mILSrkzyNCn74g01MG5bSiEeD7KXdXO8T_oYevCXaNPcIdGNTICqdsjUM7dwxMauEVWmDtPFEdqI1L7d6DxfPDsrl7RSwWBOnhZHFDW-XFCffrSyWmuNUTuUR2D42qRU0YNBrg5q9QV_gM/s2051/nana.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2051" data-original-width="1863" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2fCxSw2nVn6znnAtiH93jfLOKznHeKkjyToiTz99D99i7m4mILSrkzyNCn74g01MG5bSiEeD7KXdXO8T_oYevCXaNPcIdGNTICqdsjUM7dwxMauEVWmDtPFEdqI1L7d6DxfPDsrl7RSwWBOnhZHFDW-XFCffrSyWmuNUTuUR2D42qRU0YNBrg5q9QV_gM/s320/nana.jpeg" width="291" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5fWype2bO8Xo5GEPG7CiXkWd3Krg6_fTzz5Pbz54dp5gdAT9wxMIHDT7KOyWuBABsJ2OaydedvFsmCHFE-k1JGgSjwgwLYQFpyhcJipbukRFUd8jHGCPVCFCQGPPbGaXqB_XhiSneTQNKn898Il0F7e3P3hEgxHnxlnRwczluW3YuOSZR1jnq9SAnqggw/s2706/IMG_20240216_201817_edit_939442982785818.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5fWype2bO8Xo5GEPG7CiXkWd3Krg6_fTzz5Pbz54dp5gdAT9wxMIHDT7KOyWuBABsJ2OaydedvFsmCHFE-k1JGgSjwgwLYQFpyhcJipbukRFUd8jHGCPVCFCQGPPbGaXqB_XhiSneTQNKn898Il0F7e3P3hEgxHnxlnRwczluW3YuOSZR1jnq9SAnqggw/w400-h303/IMG_20240216_201817_edit_939442982785818.jpg" /></a></div><br /><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The real reason she doesn't want to move is that her home isn't a bunch of</span> <span style="font-family: helvetica;">rooms filled with furniture. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">She's contained in its bits and pieces. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> It's where she has lived out the story of her life. For her,like most of us, the idea of home is family and and friends and community. It's memories and dreams. You inhabit it, and it inhabits you. It's where you belong. How do you walk away from that?</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In Canada, owning a single family dwelling is something most people aspire to. We don't have a "cafe culture" or a "pub culture" where people gather to visit. We do that in our homes. But that's a dream that is disappearing for many Canadians.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I recently saw a graph that shows how house prices compare with income over the past 30 years. You would have to be living in a bubble if you haven't noticed. Or maybe you, like many people in my demographic, are benefiting from the ever increasing value of house prices. You paid off your house long ago and you're enjoying your home equity line of credit or dreaming of the day you'll sell at a handsome profit. Maybe- also like people in my demographic- your kids got into the market at just the right time. Or maybe they didn't and now the only way they will ever afford a house is for you to sell your house. Or for someone to die. Otherwise, they will never own a house.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA4JwZHYT8wEE7CCg7jbLkKs66MKnH7hnob8J5-v7PIpuz97hZys6D8khDqDetiQdkInxQeQdQQVvG5QDjtrVdu0hAPUodlvZnjBzgPnRppvvZXk8NvbWz7mtTdQE7A2D2nfmd0B3HHk48f6aAau0BCtxrVRdwGOhojgh9q7GXklCxVhRYgLiCkAdXt35r/s892/house%20price.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="892" data-original-width="796" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA4JwZHYT8wEE7CCg7jbLkKs66MKnH7hnob8J5-v7PIpuz97hZys6D8khDqDetiQdkInxQeQdQQVvG5QDjtrVdu0hAPUodlvZnjBzgPnRppvvZXk8NvbWz7mtTdQE7A2D2nfmd0B3HHk48f6aAau0BCtxrVRdwGOhojgh9q7GXklCxVhRYgLiCkAdXt35r/w358-h400/house%20price.png" width="358" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>See full video <a href="https://youtu.be/a4Z7KVet6TA?feature=shared" target="_blank">here</a></i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We bought our first house in 1989 in Viking, Alberta. We imagined it as a house where we would live a full and happy life, which did not turn out to be the case. It cost $87,500 and we lost $10,000 when we sold it. It's the biggest house we have ever owned, with huge rooms and a beautiful yard and views of the farm fields beyond in an unfriendly town we were happy to leave. We were a single income household with a baby at home and another one on the way. My husband earned $27,000 a year and we were able to put 30% down. Today, a first year teacher in Alberta on average makes $60,000. That person could hardly afford to save a downpayment for an average home in Canada at $656,000. Even two teachers working full time would struggle to make their mortgage payments in today's market.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO6NgWPAlhP27n0AnViXs1bIKSdh6jpo9BSofZd2YxEUGLnO95zFjHuM3vQ8eI63XXu9-hu64dAAY0Gl93y2s8VeMwga5xDr9THj-FZoqKkidH5Dx5y8lI_AmuM-HOzGWIWXv9lF9X2gyOH3FpJLMlvQZcdcIfVKSBe-kDDR8-9H9JVjRlDp3qb5mx1io3/s2535/IMG_20240216_202003_edit_939407587099365.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1445" data-original-width="2535" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO6NgWPAlhP27n0AnViXs1bIKSdh6jpo9BSofZd2YxEUGLnO95zFjHuM3vQ8eI63XXu9-hu64dAAY0Gl93y2s8VeMwga5xDr9THj-FZoqKkidH5Dx5y8lI_AmuM-HOzGWIWXv9lF9X2gyOH3FpJLMlvQZcdcIfVKSBe-kDDR8-9H9JVjRlDp3qb5mx1io3/w400-h228/IMG_20240216_202003_edit_939407587099365.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>Our first house in Viking, Alberta</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH2m3VqBjSWMuk11RaycR2gN-XJicaaWnGEXb7omE6zvs_QhhVy7A0dxsEjquuXNHvl11Z8ZpcSqYtdqkFCGslHSQtwLjT4mlflwAc5MGl5hJTwPlRJKdNYUrO1JM2HZPDqQXajadoYsMcPSZYBruEg-GyGgwzeXjsphgOnOKziYX3dGrsMoDCziQaggEF/s2127/IMG_20240216_202016_edit_939390575323847.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2127" data-original-width="1456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH2m3VqBjSWMuk11RaycR2gN-XJicaaWnGEXb7omE6zvs_QhhVy7A0dxsEjquuXNHvl11Z8ZpcSqYtdqkFCGslHSQtwLjT4mlflwAc5MGl5hJTwPlRJKdNYUrO1JM2HZPDqQXajadoYsMcPSZYBruEg-GyGgwzeXjsphgOnOKziYX3dGrsMoDCziQaggEF/w274-h400/IMG_20240216_202016_edit_939390575323847.jpg" width="274" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />Nowadays, the media questions whether home ownership is worth it. Is a house really an "investment"? Will house prices continue to escalate and if they do, how do young people afford them? Rent isn't cheap. In cities like Victoria, some live in shared accommodation. Some, like my daughters' neighbours, live in minivans in driveways. Yet <a href="https://www.theglobeandmail.com/business/article-affordable-home-ownership-economist/?fbclid=IwAR0HhVDqan72XeKNZb-T7B4c9vc_nQKA4gcgIe8hPxUxd41P4LgNz1GKkvQ&login=true" target="_blank">economists</a> say that for housing to be affordable for the average Canadian, house prices need to drop by 40% or family incomes to rise by 66%. No one who owns a house now wants to see its value drop to that extent- for many people, their house is their only truly valuable asset. And obviously there is no chance incomes will rise to that extent.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /><span>My great grandparents lived in a house. So did my grandparents, parents and friends. My daughters both own houses, but will my son or grandson? Generally we in the so-called "developed" world on the whole live longer, healthier and safer lives. But can the next generation live <i>like</i> us</span><span>? Will their quality of life be as good as ours? Already, the era of the single income household has died. Will the era of the single family dwelling die as well?</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">There are many factors that have led to our current housing situation. Supply and demand. Population growth. Years of historically low interest rates. Single family homes turned into short term rentals. Speculation. Immigration. Foreign investment. Increasing life expectancy. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Income disparity. You might call it late stage capitalism.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Whatever you call it, it's not good.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHbIgNRVMO4-PixahHxFHYtKMXU8Ls6o4vErnwyOJSsLrrfrMd8ALVJ9Z0JjyhxYhgq2xSLkulwyMsno2oxgWKNr2aSs2oivMvGKIyjUxopMQ_Tp_xGElN3kB6ReKMc4uaBJGlrOnWsZ-pm1kyiw9UO3nM23zZyrt0Bh-s-SxUwPRb70VZFcsv9u2PAPU5/s5515/homesead.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3939" data-original-width="5515" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHbIgNRVMO4-PixahHxFHYtKMXU8Ls6o4vErnwyOJSsLrrfrMd8ALVJ9Z0JjyhxYhgq2xSLkulwyMsno2oxgWKNr2aSs2oivMvGKIyjUxopMQ_Tp_xGElN3kB6ReKMc4uaBJGlrOnWsZ-pm1kyiw9UO3nM23zZyrt0Bh-s-SxUwPRb70VZFcsv9u2PAPU5/w400-h286/homesead.jpeg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;">The homestead of my ancestors near Paris, Ontario. 1910.</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJaZeU2fG6Nuwydxbzocr-btC2ag67cwvpwI5JoQbM6jfLPLQ9mOJvPbo3kdiXD562R9PFh1ndrlH0x11oQZ1aryqNRP6nVaa5zyuTKfNfGh8Cl3UP3ady5H2e-nhl7YUAQMZPg8ZmR3GllAcdZJjQgYudVW70izamYaMayzcz3HV6d80tweFzS8wATkLf/s3200/homestead2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1805" data-original-width="3200" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJaZeU2fG6Nuwydxbzocr-btC2ag67cwvpwI5JoQbM6jfLPLQ9mOJvPbo3kdiXD562R9PFh1ndrlH0x11oQZ1aryqNRP6nVaa5zyuTKfNfGh8Cl3UP3ady5H2e-nhl7YUAQMZPg8ZmR3GllAcdZJjQgYudVW70izamYaMayzcz3HV6d80tweFzS8wATkLf/w400-h226/homestead2.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;">My great grandparents homestead, near Beaverlodge AB, now a designated historic site. </span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />You might say not everyone has been lucky enough to live in a house where they are accepted and loved, as I was. You might also say that you don’t need to own a house to have a home. You can make a home in a rented apartment, a condo, or even an RV. Maybe you will say the planet does not have enough space for all 7 billion people to own their own house. Be that as it may, most people do want a place that is permanently theirs in which to live their lives. They want the same thing their parents and grandparents had. They want the chance to build those lives in their own houses and that sense of belonging that a house can provide. They want what we and the rest of my generation were lucky enough to have. And they deserve to have it.<br /><br /><br />People don't buy a building to live in, they buy the life they imagine living. Maybe it’s the dream of a yard for your dogs to play in, or pretty bedrooms for kids yet unborn to sleep in. Maybe it’s the idea of friends all cooking together around that big island or family gathering under that tree that you are going to put right there. Maybe it’s another life that includes entertaining more, of winter evenings around the fireplace, and summer drinks on the patio, and places for visitors to sleep. Maybe it’s the dream of your grandchildren waking on Christmas morning to see if Santa came. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Whatever that dream is, it is out of reach for an increasing number of Canadians, and that’s not right. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoiP9AmkQZGk-zQQuSpaS2jn2ADDqeYbz1qacPMZ0owyJpYmPL7erx-Y4qyWuOzdGnWOgfPT3-dvWW3-mCbBDCTbCCX-mk_L_geK-9PiVJXoG-lrUICMq4iDo-6z-8h8ROYMGKyu1HxEBmJccDI4CHqxL1kok1kMpl5gao-87IOgyDwdRMirvgkib8dAyr/s3648/fairmont.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoiP9AmkQZGk-zQQuSpaS2jn2ADDqeYbz1qacPMZ0owyJpYmPL7erx-Y4qyWuOzdGnWOgfPT3-dvWW3-mCbBDCTbCCX-mk_L_geK-9PiVJXoG-lrUICMq4iDo-6z-8h8ROYMGKyu1HxEBmJccDI4CHqxL1kok1kMpl5gao-87IOgyDwdRMirvgkib8dAyr/s320/fairmont.jpeg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;">Our current house</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl9kEqS0gOoaxJUYvHaXm2SG266eL9Iq8StJlmbQFCa34APZ5OPjJSVqA25YjBmJlzne_ZAbDuANDaW_KfCInNSHDbT0SxOlv050Lllzx4fPgq1noLGe04vbXBWqSIhQbvWFvoe1G9X1PxeyBM8X4rl45p1Jgs92eztgxvzpvJbfQq8WkNC5X3tQF99M_Z/s2736/christmas.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="2736" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl9kEqS0gOoaxJUYvHaXm2SG266eL9Iq8StJlmbQFCa34APZ5OPjJSVqA25YjBmJlzne_ZAbDuANDaW_KfCInNSHDbT0SxOlv050Lllzx4fPgq1noLGe04vbXBWqSIhQbvWFvoe1G9X1PxeyBM8X4rl45p1Jgs92eztgxvzpvJbfQq8WkNC5X3tQF99M_Z/s320/christmas.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmEx9Gcvcc7g9sAJ-KgkgjUKcF7HBwPYZkdwh3-Iyh_MnGciDuQMvVHcVNulIYxHaYpkmLEsCcYJdY9S8499IsIaPemKUJMjVzoMRPjop2brjD8kiUeNIxBwrjImke6V34Fidbm3c-L83Z0pWmG0tEy4i-p7_62_UASj-yeHXd6CWsVqLw-pFdcSPKr6V5/s3456/christmasdinner.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmEx9Gcvcc7g9sAJ-KgkgjUKcF7HBwPYZkdwh3-Iyh_MnGciDuQMvVHcVNulIYxHaYpkmLEsCcYJdY9S8499IsIaPemKUJMjVzoMRPjop2brjD8kiUeNIxBwrjImke6V34Fidbm3c-L83Z0pWmG0tEy4i-p7_62_UASj-yeHXd6CWsVqLw-pFdcSPKr6V5/s320/christmasdinner.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;">Family</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGsyz5wRytbVWMgYDXWg_FbduWtf9W9NfDM4Rbuj19gR4NzV3l94WU3bhyphenhyphenDS4Fan0Ok7CO0J_n3DQ_URGtmmIM_jHqt0sS_EkC2OUimEnlamNoIhzrDo526rfT7bRnM6j3lvNFxGSkAvjHwNcPtMPtC2WG1i7Gaq5wiW73FVGnWIxCW_bzHtQw_EcLQsEQ/s2736/selac.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="2736" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGsyz5wRytbVWMgYDXWg_FbduWtf9W9NfDM4Rbuj19gR4NzV3l94WU3bhyphenhyphenDS4Fan0Ok7CO0J_n3DQ_URGtmmIM_jHqt0sS_EkC2OUimEnlamNoIhzrDo526rfT7bRnM6j3lvNFxGSkAvjHwNcPtMPtC2WG1i7Gaq5wiW73FVGnWIxCW_bzHtQw_EcLQsEQ/s320/selac.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;">Friends</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtVq3gTkZ5_kkeOaHuVncUed2f8rfjSjzJ7riEik6P0WYoerNOQrOWGOZExMQbtu9d0FXarAUNr6pKuK1VCZ4pY8dhyOIXP2cQyJe1gtsZoX0N9B-tMp_HPY1I_KEjGqBwVnBhcGvIxzV83PyULKsdoDaT0Jhbei-EvPgpskk6t2Mjnplm9wu1wxJKARgb/s3456/IMG_20221019_163332.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtVq3gTkZ5_kkeOaHuVncUed2f8rfjSjzJ7riEik6P0WYoerNOQrOWGOZExMQbtu9d0FXarAUNr6pKuK1VCZ4pY8dhyOIXP2cQyJe1gtsZoX0N9B-tMp_HPY1I_KEjGqBwVnBhcGvIxzV83PyULKsdoDaT0Jhbei-EvPgpskk6t2Mjnplm9wu1wxJKARgb/s320/IMG_20221019_163332.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><br />Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556527235144353235noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4619892469584559115.post-61974180516117453512023-03-11T12:20:00.002-07:002023-03-14T10:19:05.425-06:00Nicola vs Chair: Part Two<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Just before we moved I started restoring an old platform rocker. You might have read about it. If not, here's <a href="http://progressivelyirrelevant.blogspot.com/2020/06/nicola-vs-chair.html" target="_blank">the link</a>.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgazKlPDHbr9qTnFxl-rL2gyPT5la6tBBolIl-tW7NN15-J5crD-ofQ-7Ag1X3fBLfjfTyjgHBpkXlwm0Sj2_JothEEBp_7OWnX3ZHzdsIPMCDTUavhAqF4UevpofmMnMb3VWErToIRg_3DxdUQ9ZXU9HogrXxJCsGymrv3pwDa5jyHkl9RjJtTT41vDA/s1359/Screenshot_20220603_201011.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1359" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgazKlPDHbr9qTnFxl-rL2gyPT5la6tBBolIl-tW7NN15-J5crD-ofQ-7Ag1X3fBLfjfTyjgHBpkXlwm0Sj2_JothEEBp_7OWnX3ZHzdsIPMCDTUavhAqF4UevpofmMnMb3VWErToIRg_3DxdUQ9ZXU9HogrXxJCsGymrv3pwDa5jyHkl9RjJtTT41vDA/s320/Screenshot_20220603_201011.jpg" width="254" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I did not complete this job before we moved. The chair sat in the garage in the new house for almost another year before I got back to it. Another coat of paint. Still a little pink bleeding though on one arm. Len installed the high quality seat made by our friends Bruce and Kelly. It fit like a glove and is rock solid. I bought upholstery fabric, didn't like it, sold it and bought something else. I ordered foam, made a cushion and reupholstered the back using a staple gun. Then added the trim. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When it was all done, I sat down. And I smiled. It is a comfortable chair.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR0-lFUHZuSXiI3XcbzG3mXD9CXiwBxbRAFiyS6Hpb3OzTAzepQn_SXbe1dt2kKK_gVUQxL7GsUSfftgevaRimll1t1XYo8qOqTKwKxYx3TLK0flFnNbU1Te6EJDJxt2c_YXBo3Ex5TzTZFv3vmUxBQsk25NFKJJjVQQbKBrliHF6tXjTKpN919UJG0g/s1060/Screenshot_20220530_100634.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1060" data-original-width="869" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR0-lFUHZuSXiI3XcbzG3mXD9CXiwBxbRAFiyS6Hpb3OzTAzepQn_SXbe1dt2kKK_gVUQxL7GsUSfftgevaRimll1t1XYo8qOqTKwKxYx3TLK0flFnNbU1Te6EJDJxt2c_YXBo3Ex5TzTZFv3vmUxBQsk25NFKJJjVQQbKBrliHF6tXjTKpN919UJG0g/s320/Screenshot_20220530_100634.jpg" width="262" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">But I won't say I was 100% satisfied. There were drips on the paint. There's still a pinky undertone. I did not paint the underside which is still rough and reddish brown. I did a pretty amateurish job on the upholstery. But it was serviceable. The biggest problem was that it felt like you were going to topple over backwards when you sat in it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Our friends Glenn and Sheila came for a visit. We made sure they didn't sit in the chair. But Len did. As we were enjoying our cocktails on the veranda, there was a popping sound followed by a crash as Len went straight over backwards, narrowly avoiding punching a hole through the screen door. Somehow he managed to keep his drink aloft like a pro.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNFTshb30nJFCIllySUV2ifnS4zHTn0pI8dYUUt5lkjP2Xc4Ob3R_bc-03QkQ9JRMPeFIvJ8aZwCShTzOYoQ2QYi9Z_EPeQtihR4D3UiHgZziBoSEWg3p1s-IM5UD2IbELWtn9abw8yKzIt2etONuLA1H-_klVluFqMYfuef-OfKPa55trCnQSEzSxgA/s2736/IMG_20220528_081842.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="2736" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNFTshb30nJFCIllySUV2ifnS4zHTn0pI8dYUUt5lkjP2Xc4Ob3R_bc-03QkQ9JRMPeFIvJ8aZwCShTzOYoQ2QYi9Z_EPeQtihR4D3UiHgZziBoSEWg3p1s-IM5UD2IbELWtn9abw8yKzIt2etONuLA1H-_klVluFqMYfuef-OfKPa55trCnQSEzSxgA/s320/IMG_20220528_081842.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Closer investigation revealed that one of the springs had snapped. Back the chair went to the garage. New springs were ordered. In the meantime, I found almost the identical chair- in a much better state of repair- in Calgary for $90. We could have bought it, but we didn't. Stubbornly, I wanted to fix the chair. I needed to fix the chair. It had become a symbol to me. But a symbol of what?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The springs arrived, costing almost the same as a better version of the chair. And they weren't the same as the old springs. Len discovered the old screws holding the springs to the chair did not match. And they were painted to the chair. With some mineral spirits and elbow grease, they were removed. After a few missteps, the new springs </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">were attached-</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> two per side, much less bendy than the originals and with six screws per side. Much better than one loose rusty spring and two mismatched screws.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Looking more closely at the underside of the chair, we could see evidence of previous repairs. Blocks of plywood had been screwed in to hold the bits together. A couple dozen rusty old tacks had held down the two layers of upholstery. A mysterious wire seemed to be holding one leg in place although it seemed unnecessary. We left it where it was.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I continue to ponder what the chair means to me. I know it has something to do with preserving the past in a new place and something to do with creating a home.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In many countries people don't move far from where they were born. Their memories and their history surrounds them. Their sense of place and where they belong is set. For better or worse, their history is inescapable. In Canada though? Most of us have come from somewhere else. We carry our history and geography inside us-invisible to the world- although the result may bleed through. The stories of our ancestors, their successes and joys, their tragedies and injustices- both endured and inflicted-are known only to them. Our sense of who we are and where we belong is something we make for ourselves. This fact of our existence may be freeing, but it's also sad. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I imagine when the chair was new. I imagine a family bringing it to a pioneer home in the Peace Country. I think about the first person who sat on it, perhaps smiling as I did. I imagine the woman of the house standing back and admiring her new furniture with a sense of completion, maybe feeling that now, she had arrived. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Since that first family owned the chair, generations of people have seen something in it worth preserving. With its mismatched screws and bits of plywood and mysterious wire, it has survived many transitions. It is part of the past yet it continues on into the future. Just as we humans move forward, carrying our past with its secrets and joys and broken bits held tenuously together. Knowing what we know, we try to be our best selves wherever we are.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkg4daUf728arSyaOet__m_4Xd6Q1TM5vg708JfczZOQKU0sSDTXoe6T3lhW_2Ow-eh5PQxQ-23E_keXw_1vtKNWyVFmn41yyZPQPcTsL2udmsSNNWclRmYsxvO_r9MLIRecO3UGp10jZ5iQzSIqaYMi2tg5kIWSXVUa6GdIGFV7MA6fXO6Vs-sfDsxw/s5515/house%20001.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3939" data-original-width="5515" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkg4daUf728arSyaOet__m_4Xd6Q1TM5vg708JfczZOQKU0sSDTXoe6T3lhW_2Ow-eh5PQxQ-23E_keXw_1vtKNWyVFmn41yyZPQPcTsL2udmsSNNWclRmYsxvO_r9MLIRecO3UGp10jZ5iQzSIqaYMi2tg5kIWSXVUa6GdIGFV7MA6fXO6Vs-sfDsxw/s320/house%20001.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My great-grandparents' farm near Brantford</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjF9kM_KafqmnjIwah9FGJKL7gISxZaGgBQDkuC02wACbGARQRUqU9-f0qLKsew_NaDZlPKhzbiJdsMoVuKFpmlja_kbzMmjJ4QRAsn0mT5NzHITM3Y-_3TrNTYqXtAlSat9QMvB3Zwwi3Ixl8pooZyLl4tCIXHMbd5rG4_d75BmocJJudwi-CIXNw9A/s2104/ester.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1764" data-original-width="2104" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjF9kM_KafqmnjIwah9FGJKL7gISxZaGgBQDkuC02wACbGARQRUqU9-f0qLKsew_NaDZlPKhzbiJdsMoVuKFpmlja_kbzMmjJ4QRAsn0mT5NzHITM3Y-_3TrNTYqXtAlSat9QMvB3Zwwi3Ixl8pooZyLl4tCIXHMbd5rG4_d75BmocJJudwi-CIXNw9A/s320/ester.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Our Dawson Creek house</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTAetuLOeISXE0XY3-rELmlB4-VqSqmwNtzXXHzKTaoDLAgTT1CpE0x5Ii-Rgb1eqnuJoaWSZgMyIG03PwrTgU00koLzkikWbQr_R0J1tSMhgkAdhgfL97eFjXHvCJflAeKGJSgh27m16AEmqgwZrP-a2mYod8wceprtNeH5klia31ifkp20Hyz_qjGQ/s4608/sl%20house.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTAetuLOeISXE0XY3-rELmlB4-VqSqmwNtzXXHzKTaoDLAgTT1CpE0x5Ii-Rgb1eqnuJoaWSZgMyIG03PwrTgU00koLzkikWbQr_R0J1tSMhgkAdhgfL97eFjXHvCJflAeKGJSgh27m16AEmqgwZrP-a2mYod8wceprtNeH5klia31ifkp20Hyz_qjGQ/s320/sl%20house.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Our Slave Lake house</i><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So here we are in our new home, in a town with dozens of temporary residents in fancy vacation homes. We are making friends in this place where every day is a holiday and who you are in another place and time doesn't count for much. What counts is who you are now and what you're going to do today. </span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Winter came. We moved the chair from the veranda to the bedroom where our new grandson would sleep. The house-now fully furnished with bits and pieces cobbled together - is home. </span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3DclD6Ym11bYqgpbWQgLnFwlxwznwRflozAwSi1aDocHGEEGbaLjPPvK1j0A6xI9oXBNilOhFaBE1M6YnW2fTeRcnIf_LmC7YUasea4Igy6XczPIKkDLrb8Ro5pLsKuZlyU22Z4faUMEzYrVlTIn962m6aZGlPIpO3dg5yedPBeoLrblLcvAlwuCklg/s1294/xmas.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1294" data-original-width="1294" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3DclD6Ym11bYqgpbWQgLnFwlxwznwRflozAwSi1aDocHGEEGbaLjPPvK1j0A6xI9oXBNilOhFaBE1M6YnW2fTeRcnIf_LmC7YUasea4Igy6XczPIKkDLrb8Ro5pLsKuZlyU22Z4faUMEzYrVlTIn962m6aZGlPIpO3dg5yedPBeoLrblLcvAlwuCklg/w400-h400/xmas.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I am home.</span><p></p></div>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556527235144353235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4619892469584559115.post-41705395508194296122023-03-08T19:45:00.046-07:002023-03-08T20:18:07.247-07:00You've Come a Long Way, Baby<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> K, I don't know who needs to hear this, but International Women's' Day is a SOCIALIST day. It's not a feel-good celebration of how cool women are. It's about the rights of women and how they have been and continue to be denied for women around the world. Girls that can't go to school. Women who don't get promoted because they put family first. Women who aren't allowed out in public without a man. Women who don't get paid the same as men. Women who afraid to run for office because of misogyny. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">All day today I have seen posts like "Here's my daughter, I am so proud of her." or "Here's my mom, I loved her so much". </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Yeah, ok. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Cool.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I love my daughters. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I loved my mom and my grandmothers. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">it's good to celebrate the sisterhood we feel with other women.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">But let's think about what this day is supposed to be about. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://www.internationalwomensday.com/Activity/15586/The-history-of-IWD" target="_blank">International Women's' Day</a> was established by the Socialist Party of America as National Women's' Day in the US in 1909. It expanded to Europe the next year and became International Women's' Day in 1911. The Russians took up the cause in 1913. In those years, it was closely tied to demands for universal suffrage for women as well as demands for equal pay, the right to run for public office, improved working conditions and equal rights for women. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Women have fought for their rights in Canada and around the world for generations. There have been many gains but the battle is far from done. We can't just sit around being all proud of being female. We need to keep up the fight.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXrr8S-Be8ob5ZkgU7Mp4dYTwtpk1LQsgKvFvIPq3uzcp4AlpTXjXSkirfSgxTgQoMJq0i2cdb25K3eHdyxgShMqqMFiSP42qs8fRWUJXJ_MHZAEW_Mqw3z49J7qJAD7cuQYp_yq5sdnyK0PhQnHRqOioZRYLGDI5FeCAeK2Jx7gndy6FkXOLwV2gwAQ/s960/muni.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="960" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXrr8S-Be8ob5ZkgU7Mp4dYTwtpk1LQsgKvFvIPq3uzcp4AlpTXjXSkirfSgxTgQoMJq0i2cdb25K3eHdyxgShMqqMFiSP42qs8fRWUJXJ_MHZAEW_Mqw3z49J7qJAD7cuQYp_yq5sdnyK0PhQnHRqOioZRYLGDI5FeCAeK2Jx7gndy6FkXOLwV2gwAQ/s320/muni.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grandmother Marion, back row on the far left.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirhDd77ZYQDdOMJ0KXTCisPfn2U2Cm4DKCp9SpQ1tjL4rh-6mcZv2WSoKlyavMWxOyASthG0guX9kv59XDysWVjDeigXkcYcwFFJFmLhCSwx0Ogg2etLFE26WmSm6yp9TKDJIxdg5uQ7yvQrBy_hZId1F9uej2iplaLl1G2_Ngaev3zNHriVhsZhiaWQ/s3216/granny.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3216" data-original-width="2208" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirhDd77ZYQDdOMJ0KXTCisPfn2U2Cm4DKCp9SpQ1tjL4rh-6mcZv2WSoKlyavMWxOyASthG0guX9kv59XDysWVjDeigXkcYcwFFJFmLhCSwx0Ogg2etLFE26WmSm6yp9TKDJIxdg5uQ7yvQrBy_hZId1F9uej2iplaLl1G2_Ngaev3zNHriVhsZhiaWQ/s320/granny.jpg" width="220" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Granny Muriel Fryer</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In my own family, my maternal grandmother Jane Marion McNaught was accepted into nursing school but instead followed her family to northern Alberta where she taught school and married, then worked in a munitions factory in the UK before she was legally allowed to vote. My paternal grandmother Muriel Frances Fryer came from England to Canada where she became a nurse and matron of a hospital before she could vote. She went on to give birth to seven children and ran a soup kitchen out of her Vancouver home during the Depression. Following the death of her husband, she lied about her age so she could keep nursing. </span><div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">My mom was an excellent student who wanted to be an accountant but was told "that's a man's job." Three university degrees later, she was a teacher in small town Alberta. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWE3BzSHOi3gMHJsNR3sRiwZpDRMaKqd5YWL-o79Tr5uvW7CrTWBJrjdif9XWBQ_CuxeUCtKe8xQU_Ok29GIw8abqimotOMbPoFjokjnH-8RM4yz7b9AZCYPQIAWDbsCuXJhA8J225bBGJy1gSIwynpihxCOMTe7WbBan9j6ZxVKdsH3TJ3u69FOwS5g/s960/mom.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="724" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWE3BzSHOi3gMHJsNR3sRiwZpDRMaKqd5YWL-o79Tr5uvW7CrTWBJrjdif9XWBQ_CuxeUCtKe8xQU_Ok29GIw8abqimotOMbPoFjokjnH-8RM4yz7b9AZCYPQIAWDbsCuXJhA8J225bBGJy1gSIwynpihxCOMTe7WbBan9j6ZxVKdsH3TJ3u69FOwS5g/s320/mom.jpeg" width="241" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom getting her Bachelor of Commerce degree.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">They were happy and fulfilled women, but who knows who they might have become if barriers to their dreams were not put in their way because of their gender? Who knows what they might have contributed to society?</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7hx3zilkhswuz0YkOQBMUxOmSAYih81VIrrucJkcFJR3P6UxH9MJ90T7Pp5W4a-zsgr-fQYNb8ciktD3C90VjChtUK7XZ4EiwwDg1LZ67DIv5DS8FBgyx5z0zbXMH3VqEBBbjiiyMBp9QC8j0KKBRZNj4bt7bP-gBwDYvT_r6E4SI5Zwyy5oZZEf-cQ/s2816/CrutTHww.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2112" data-original-width="2816" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7hx3zilkhswuz0YkOQBMUxOmSAYih81VIrrucJkcFJR3P6UxH9MJ90T7Pp5W4a-zsgr-fQYNb8ciktD3C90VjChtUK7XZ4EiwwDg1LZ67DIv5DS8FBgyx5z0zbXMH3VqEBBbjiiyMBp9QC8j0KKBRZNj4bt7bP-gBwDYvT_r6E4SI5Zwyy5oZZEf-cQ/s320/CrutTHww.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We have two daughters. One holds a PhD from Cambridge and works for Oxford University. The other is a geophysicist with a Masters degree who lives and works as a scientist in Victoria BC. They are smart, hard working and successful. The opportunities they have had are far better than those of their grandmother and great grandmothers. But I would be lying if I said there have not been hurdles to their success based on the fact they are women. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I wrote about all of this before. But now I see what seems to be happening with this day, and I'm getting a bit annoyed. Are people just not getting the point?</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiifpmM5XV-OUGS7BdWvwy1KxlSKrk8HRj8AVPQ2UvqCExas4PhFO5t0P_FnBocQd3PlBjJvWfCh-D9jFMsnMMGHHqiRjLYb1bw6yG6K9ggeJAXTLlrsAoHmmBbe1I9VySrgFGOOnqi-XWQ6YWzFjO66b6oGdMf96Jc7Q3KPKoxSAN3aKmH8PHxY_txCw/s1100/baby_3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1100" data-original-width="814" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiifpmM5XV-OUGS7BdWvwy1KxlSKrk8HRj8AVPQ2UvqCExas4PhFO5t0P_FnBocQd3PlBjJvWfCh-D9jFMsnMMGHHqiRjLYb1bw6yG6K9ggeJAXTLlrsAoHmmBbe1I9VySrgFGOOnqi-XWQ6YWzFjO66b6oGdMf96Jc7Q3KPKoxSAN3aKmH8PHxY_txCw/w296-h400/baby_3.jpg" width="296" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Who else remembers Virginia Slims? A cigarette marketed to women. Their ads co-opted the women's civil rights movement in the US by equating a woman's right to smoke to the civil rights women had attained through concerted effort and protest. Will International Women's Day go the same way? Just some watered down day celebrating women in a generic feel-good way? If that's all it is, what is the point?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Generations of women have struggled and fought to gain equality with men. In Canada, we have come a long way, much further than places like Afghanistan. But there are still miles to go, brothers and sisters. Miles to go before we reach true equality around the world.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The world is hard. There are barriers everywhere that prevent people from reaching their potential. International Women's Day is one way we can promote the issues facing women by not just celebrating their achievements but also acknowledging the struggles women face around the world. By joining in the fight for all people. Let's not diminish these very real issues by making it a meaningless Hallmark holiday.</span></div></div></div>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556527235144353235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4619892469584559115.post-60444381428328852552022-03-24T13:23:00.004-06:002022-03-24T15:05:06.529-06:00in praise of small<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">At the time of confederation, just 19% of Canadians lived in "urban" areas. The rest lived on the land or in small towns. By the time I was born, nearly 60% of Canadians lived in an urban centre. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Now 80% of Canadians live in a city and just 13% live in small towns. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">With remote work, people are moving back to smaller centres. Some say they are moving due to the affordability of housing and the slower pace of life. The shorter commute and the comfort of community and wanting to give their kids a safe childhood are other reasons. Perhaps the pandemic has made people re-evaluate their priorities.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The recent CBC Contest "<a href="https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/british-columbia/search-bc-small-town-first-1.6377942" target="_blank">Best Small Town BC</a>" has brought back a lot of memories and made me think about small town Canada. What's good? What's bad? And how does it shape you as a person? </span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6t2ML7EKAjx89fzKtDwSM3I_nZaXYUXu0O8btubTgtMzs4Whty0RpuTZUYaiQE1v_ojNmD6A45-jN_gjmoRaDECzFSad4gTF6lmMKwUk_dupNGO9uIGshZdQ2pCjEEN66yqNXj7wQMcKDg1HqJY508J20Wzjp1MqGzaLyOuaOhX-0Vr5xuXkgiJU3LQ/s2560/trail.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="2560" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6t2ML7EKAjx89fzKtDwSM3I_nZaXYUXu0O8btubTgtMzs4Whty0RpuTZUYaiQE1v_ojNmD6A45-jN_gjmoRaDECzFSad4gTF6lmMKwUk_dupNGO9uIGshZdQ2pCjEEN66yqNXj7wQMcKDg1HqJY508J20Wzjp1MqGzaLyOuaOhX-0Vr5xuXkgiJU3LQ/w400-h300/trail.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Me and my mom. Trail, BC.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;">My dad grew up in Vancouver and my mom was from Edmonton. They met in Dawson Creek and lived in Victoria, then Trail where I was born, then back to Dawson Creek where I grew up, and then Tumbler Ridge. They were city people who chose small town life.</span><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV2UUzSvlsPLE0UuJwGxklssnCglq9dEYmgOpLhQgS0waDVFN4W4Vf6If__lSwoatB49rckAV74bWg5akf3qf27b6HA7XH4V6rdjHDcpaJUx8XR3M7RCbUOND1SUN2y9AQucntbm4Gw_Nme3PNEtj5Jz3HTbKxlKm2AEaJg0Ro_cP-NYFNpHnZ1AFMQA/s2560/me%20viv%20patti.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="2560" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV2UUzSvlsPLE0UuJwGxklssnCglq9dEYmgOpLhQgS0waDVFN4W4Vf6If__lSwoatB49rckAV74bWg5akf3qf27b6HA7XH4V6rdjHDcpaJUx8XR3M7RCbUOND1SUN2y9AQucntbm4Gw_Nme3PNEtj5Jz3HTbKxlKm2AEaJg0Ro_cP-NYFNpHnZ1AFMQA/w400-h300/me%20viv%20patti.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;">Me and my best friends Patti and Vivianne</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Your history shapes you and that's something you don't even think about while that shaping is happening. I know my small town childhood shaped me. If there was an event, we went to it. If there was a club, we joined it. We went to Sunday School. I learned to figure skate and swim and sing and play piano very badly. We volunteered or more accurately, were volunteered by our mom for various projects of her design. If someone needed help, we gave it. We went to the ballet and classical music performances and every eccentric play the drama teacher put on. We dressed up for Bonanza Days. We took drives into the countryside and had picnics in the wilderness. Our house was a madhouse of friends and committee meetings and awkward dinners with strangers. It was the Grand Central Station of my mom's un-ending megaprojects. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTwqZetcIfKghr_zTqrh4lMFtVsGkc7JkQ4FBGl5_ijHFsrp2FEAVIl63lwrWiLcOlQWoLlifANy-2uym0yfuYDeiRUhgmdGtbrqzaz8u-edw_U1DX8NKdepkKOqvnbx72tJPlhmBLwy0bewji-YWL9F2NI6IglE7e_OaePT1GRqdr5lQ2c-YQaiVcmQ/s2095/skate.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2095" data-original-width="1920" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTwqZetcIfKghr_zTqrh4lMFtVsGkc7JkQ4FBGl5_ijHFsrp2FEAVIl63lwrWiLcOlQWoLlifANy-2uym0yfuYDeiRUhgmdGtbrqzaz8u-edw_U1DX8NKdepkKOqvnbx72tJPlhmBLwy0bewji-YWL9F2NI6IglE7e_OaePT1GRqdr5lQ2c-YQaiVcmQ/w366-h400/skate.jpeg" width="366" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>Proud members of the Mile Zero Figuring Skating Club. <br />Where my mom made the costumes and my dad ran the lights and became a figure skating judge.</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In my small town, my classmates lived on farms and apartments and trailer parks and suburban homes. My friends' parents were geologists and engineers and mechanics and secretaries and truck drivers and ranchers and salesmen. That's who I hung out with. That's what I knew. When it was my birthday my mom insisted every girl in my class be invited so no one would feel left out. I didn't know there were places where richer people lived in one neighbourhood and poor people lived in another. I didn't know about classes or status or race.</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiazXlqvGHmZQDdtVDG5I2j_0OY88--5-b2STU6sPUcERTEqsk08f1eTlm4XteXFz6qe8tqzoEgU8r_9RrZ4o_NFRK38-cuMMCO0VHwTzIIMoAZnEdaJR22sH2xB_fNl4q1DCPENf-5FToReaETuFUd1_j2M5bL6sHWKQDO1JBc4mK8dsSLQAzb8igVMQ/s2560/kohse.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="2560" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiazXlqvGHmZQDdtVDG5I2j_0OY88--5-b2STU6sPUcERTEqsk08f1eTlm4XteXFz6qe8tqzoEgU8r_9RrZ4o_NFRK38-cuMMCO0VHwTzIIMoAZnEdaJR22sH2xB_fNl4q1DCPENf-5FToReaETuFUd1_j2M5bL6sHWKQDO1JBc4mK8dsSLQAzb8igVMQ/w400-h300/kohse.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">At the neighbours</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Our friends came and went. Mostly they went. Dawson Creek was a stopover for upwardly mobile people, a place to make a name for yourself and then move on. Unless you were teachers, which my parents were. Then you mostly stayed.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbijGyJOKHsBmu-Dh3ee4Pck5-V1DR663Z5R6iFPbwpV19eQKDoOH2BmGL8g1yDitVBw_LdT4xnONtcty6q9BVTKirFAUOlsmD6-CPPnRjqSgep-PmW9tTf7zzon1w9pJQ1VdDj-HrOQKi2M24dcoZ5JsXtgu8YA1C4ti7a3Jbhfao3h9juD53r-0bGg/s1760/cjdc.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1760" data-original-width="1760" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbijGyJOKHsBmu-Dh3ee4Pck5-V1DR663Z5R6iFPbwpV19eQKDoOH2BmGL8g1yDitVBw_LdT4xnONtcty6q9BVTKirFAUOlsmD6-CPPnRjqSgep-PmW9tTf7zzon1w9pJQ1VdDj-HrOQKi2M24dcoZ5JsXtgu8YA1C4ti7a3Jbhfao3h9juD53r-0bGg/w400-h400/cjdc.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>In front of our local TV station, CJDC.</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I don't remember feeling deprived of anything as a kid. Our house was big and beautiful, or so it seemed. We had friends. We had things to do. It never occurred to us the city might be a place where we could or would live. Cities were places you visited where you ate in restaurants and shopped at a mall and visited the museum and the zoo and the parliament buildings and the planetarium. Those were things you did on vacation, not daily life. I didn't get why you would want to live there.</span></p><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZU2a_r-AgEOew2rhZi0rZM_zrolv0x8gjT_ZCfQOv9pZJAt50al1rbA0kUvCfNei9jOw4K7y0mTzpMeQiifAUU6H-ZiBFZMd827jy-AHj_7bURmmfrC30uttFh_M5j_Xe4HzBH6xdxjS8WBud5ozfQDAxgyfLjVz6VmvY8kti34CY0yjqRDUM_11TSA/s2560/edmonton2.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="2560" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZU2a_r-AgEOew2rhZi0rZM_zrolv0x8gjT_ZCfQOv9pZJAt50al1rbA0kUvCfNei9jOw4K7y0mTzpMeQiifAUU6H-ZiBFZMd827jy-AHj_7bURmmfrC30uttFh_M5j_Xe4HzBH6xdxjS8WBud5ozfQDAxgyfLjVz6VmvY8kti34CY0yjqRDUM_11TSA/w400-h300/edmonton2.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;">At the legislature, Edmonton.</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">But you <i>do</i> need to live in a city to go to university and when it was time to go, I was ready. Ready to try the city. Ready to spread my wings and find out if there were more people like me out in the world. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">At university, almost everyone I met was from a small town. Places like Grimshaw and Manning and Fort St. John and Taber. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We had our similarities. For one thing, we spoke the common language of "Git 'er done" and "let "er rip". We were first to organize something and the last to leave. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We'd talk about where we were from with that mix of pride and shame small town people have. Making jokes that we all understood. We talked about our homes as places we were from, not places we were going back to. You go away to school so you can be your best self and maybe you can't be that person in your hometown.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRnFsj5sh0yG5Voy2FmVdXmhl9lLV3Qpzaksf6lsTPWj17gC4MrFB-5gAWxc5MqoYmV5vbwZyaYLBLB94PsnFwmovD6W5Nu3K4L836RCsp5v2ZD32qYMYumAxHZ3W-KpNln73XGmXQKwE6hVoVyKqU0UuK6jvpiNkJq4Dd9OCSF8kMwPLB9slxKFMSUA/s2560/granny.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="2560" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRnFsj5sh0yG5Voy2FmVdXmhl9lLV3Qpzaksf6lsTPWj17gC4MrFB-5gAWxc5MqoYmV5vbwZyaYLBLB94PsnFwmovD6W5Nu3K4L836RCsp5v2ZD32qYMYumAxHZ3W-KpNln73XGmXQKwE6hVoVyKqU0UuK6jvpiNkJq4Dd9OCSF8kMwPLB9slxKFMSUA/w400-h300/granny.jpeg" width="400" /></i></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Easter Sunday. with the family.</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Your town is part of you. Just like your family. You know there are shortcomings but it's yours. It's where you're from. It's part of who you are. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So when city people</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> said, "Oh my god, you're from a small town? </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">What do you do all day? How can you stand it?" I laughed along like a racialized person laughs at a racist joke, but it wasn't all that funny. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGJ8LyIsdQzv81BwiEO5j6IVy13LmXNGdybRq8iIPejc0xuPW004VvfeOxM4JGGNPvQbaTsRs_OnJie-6fywFoilMhYD2IB39LZhfdTSxzy2TxbhbWMOc99nZhiNQdDRBddu3BVSElhAs3pqq_zU9jhDLoN98CfO6jPJ-lGQGwNBlBIhKv76KAKpsWpQ/s1599/dawson.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1329" data-original-width="1599" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGJ8LyIsdQzv81BwiEO5j6IVy13LmXNGdybRq8iIPejc0xuPW004VvfeOxM4JGGNPvQbaTsRs_OnJie-6fywFoilMhYD2IB39LZhfdTSxzy2TxbhbWMOc99nZhiNQdDRBddu3BVSElhAs3pqq_zU9jhDLoN98CfO6jPJ-lGQGwNBlBIhKv76KAKpsWpQ/w400-h333/dawson.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;">My brother and me, junior cheerleaders for the South Peace Penguins.</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I never moved back to the town where I grew up. I looked for work in a city and didn't get it. I lived in Sexsmith, got married to a city man who would have preferred city life. But city life never happened. After Sexsmtih we travelled, then lived in Fort Resolution, followed by Viking, followed by Slave Lake- a town very much like Dawson Creek-where we raised our family. When it came time to retire, we moved to an even smaller and very different town that checked the boxes for what we valued and could afford. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1iULM2Xjma7GsvWY22V9j3Fr95huCXWOJp880-Xg0pGw_flgpX-mk0SJ7C-o7QeVl9kYyEp3E3jc77A9qQ4TNOOPfdJAHe5SM0GMdDXd0bW4USmv69Q_IMRAXdAqc7Rxsr64DpscsjGxNUammn5VUBc17AujZy13XdsXjcqoA7zV5diec3yvvrxXkpw/s2048/tipi.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1iULM2Xjma7GsvWY22V9j3Fr95huCXWOJp880-Xg0pGw_flgpX-mk0SJ7C-o7QeVl9kYyEp3E3jc77A9qQ4TNOOPfdJAHe5SM0GMdDXd0bW4USmv69Q_IMRAXdAqc7Rxsr64DpscsjGxNUammn5VUBc17AujZy13XdsXjcqoA7zV5diec3yvvrxXkpw/w400-h300/tipi.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>Slave Lake</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Over the years I have learned a few things.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In a small town, your life plays out on a small and highly visible stage. That is a challenge. Sometimes the character you play fits a stereotype that becomes impossible to shake. The busybody, the small town philosopher, the bully, the funny guy, the nerd, the person who came looking to follow a dream and then gave up. Often the stereotype is wrong as stereotypes are. If you want a different reputation,</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> it's hard to become a new "you". I know a few girls who were thought of as slutty. They had to leave so their reputation didn't become their destiny. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">"The rumour mill is deadly," says my cousin. But "I loved knowing everyone." For me, if I had stayed in Dawson Creek, I would always be the principal's daughter. The goody goody. I wanted to escape that reputation and it took me a few years to acknowledge that's what I am, and what I would have been no matter where I lived. As they say, wherever you go, there you are.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Z_5cySN1cYHlmh-UTzUFW8zdKwPtXxgrKuhIW20nQC-6kUsHj2R39xM2ksxFLuFOqksUo6YF-NlUQrWzz1aG68qQw9r-6BtMuWPBHC7EKsB6t4a-ZCWlqbLwUuKDZPoZE7atFJU5scUWlu9-Q7VsbvFR0XAqRXpfCwruPHyFbsrZi8XA9KKygovYxQ/s2412/boat.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2052" data-original-width="2412" height="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Z_5cySN1cYHlmh-UTzUFW8zdKwPtXxgrKuhIW20nQC-6kUsHj2R39xM2ksxFLuFOqksUo6YF-NlUQrWzz1aG68qQw9r-6BtMuWPBHC7EKsB6t4a-ZCWlqbLwUuKDZPoZE7atFJU5scUWlu9-Q7VsbvFR0XAqRXpfCwruPHyFbsrZi8XA9KKygovYxQ/w400-h340/boat.jpeg" width="400" /></span></i></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;">Me and my high school friends at the boat race, Dawson Creek</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">There aren't many people in small towns. So you end up with friends that might not be like you. Maybe not the nerdy chess club kid from high school. Maybe friends you would never have gotten to know in a bigger place where there are more people like you. That's a good thing. If you are a teacher in a small town, <a href="https://www.teachers.ab.ca/News%20Room/ata%20news/Volume%2035/Number%2012/Pages/Moot%20Points.aspx" target="_blank">your students are everywhere</a>. They are your servers and mechanics and your police officers. And who sometimes need your help. If your town is transient, many of your friends move away. That happened to me as a kid and again as an adult. It happened to my kids as well. That is not a good thing. It can make you lonely and sad and sometimes you might just feel like its not worth the effort to even make friends.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc8yfvKQizyIQLKhSGmNEz7dwfeZl3QYP6KjLiBR0122b4p5k4alAPiSHRVe24oEFWToe8V2sZykgH-ayvCAvVqOssZ-KRw9BuSAjbKif4qUBeSBsc7tAfWJrjfe-0cBQhK9o5ETEwsI1DEGrK3Ccy-fSSzDKGHf7Tztvu00XwUgZLNzRfGIJDVfQMyA/s4032/jorg.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc8yfvKQizyIQLKhSGmNEz7dwfeZl3QYP6KjLiBR0122b4p5k4alAPiSHRVe24oEFWToe8V2sZykgH-ayvCAvVqOssZ-KRw9BuSAjbKif4qUBeSBsc7tAfWJrjfe-0cBQhK9o5ETEwsI1DEGrK3Ccy-fSSzDKGHf7Tztvu00XwUgZLNzRfGIJDVfQMyA/w400-h300/jorg.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;">Our very good friends, the Jorgensons who moved away</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">One thing about small town life is that when people are "in your business" they can also have your back. When there's an accident or a death or a natural disaster, everyone knows. They know, they </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">empathize</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> and often, they help. Because whatever happened to your neighbour could also happen to you. During and after the Slave Lake fires neighbour helped neighbour. They helped each other get out of town. They helped each other rebuild. They helped other towns who had experienced their own disasters. When you are part of a community, that's what you do. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwgL84qLjuRiKArHpmwZXCnIlG8p4p_1l8ss9EwmB0LLYzQetpwAlRErqYTwc2K93sNOlxmJv-pbb13G4crKNLBMkrKXhlyVvObcjEP1pLRtGH9Z9g5NBKq-Gi2D9HfxJPGQjr1Dg9wou4JceztOR35Xu4SwXjAF0BkmAK2as33WnsNh4j8iC1-9JaAQ/s1181/CJS%20May%2015.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1088" data-original-width="1181" height="369" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwgL84qLjuRiKArHpmwZXCnIlG8p4p_1l8ss9EwmB0LLYzQetpwAlRErqYTwc2K93sNOlxmJv-pbb13G4crKNLBMkrKXhlyVvObcjEP1pLRtGH9Z9g5NBKq-Gi2D9HfxJPGQjr1Dg9wou4JceztOR35Xu4SwXjAF0BkmAK2as33WnsNh4j8iC1-9JaAQ/w400-h369/CJS%20May%2015.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;">Helping hands mural, CJ Schurter School, a mural created after the Slave Lake wildfires</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Small towns are not all alike. Some are friendly and welcoming and others are not. We lived in a prairie town for a whole year and only one person even said hello. Where we live now, every single one of our neighbours introduced themself within two hours of our arrival. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Some small towns are keen to let you try new things and others love the status quo. While in the unfriendly (and may I add, dying) town, we were never encouraged to participate in anything, in our next place I joined the choir, and my husband took up acting and stand up comedy. In our time there, with other community members, we produced 80 plays, wrote and self published a national bestseller, created a performing arts association, and organized the delivery of over 400 original works of art. Could we have done that in a city? Probably not, but then again maybe we wouldn't have needed to.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT004XMo7A4u1npRzbf5mjw2oqnWzKDNlEBWocth_9qmlUVdRz9hAa1GJVAUcVOjursMlfh8Ee2MAz5VLz4p9Xu3AZ5H8P2qRkuuPYW64uNhoyw2RCWfXG1J7jf-jD-tnh__dxLKg0ofEJ0axmEvCTEiddLzHc9vv6YHTkZrUKo7QIqq7dYFvn5eUDJw/s960/stage.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT004XMo7A4u1npRzbf5mjw2oqnWzKDNlEBWocth_9qmlUVdRz9hAa1GJVAUcVOjursMlfh8Ee2MAz5VLz4p9Xu3AZ5H8P2qRkuuPYW64uNhoyw2RCWfXG1J7jf-jD-tnh__dxLKg0ofEJ0axmEvCTEiddLzHc9vv6YHTkZrUKo7QIqq7dYFvn5eUDJw/w400-h300/stage.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>The Stage North crew, Slave Lake.</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">One of my friends says that in a small town you learn to do new things. Because you have to. If you want something to happen, you have to make it happen. If there is no live music and you value that, you organize it. If you love the theatre, you may have to build the theatre. If you love to eat good food, you might have to learn to cook - or make friends with people who can cook. If you enjoy soccer, or synchronized swimming or cricket, you have to use your skills to coach, organize and participate. If you want change in politics, you have to get involved. Whether it's lobbying or protesting or starting your own constituency association. You need new skills for those things and when you can make something happen, that's exhilarating. When you don't, it's depressing. And exhausting. </span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Small towns are often closer to the wilderness. That is something my husband and I love. It is what made Slave Lake a good fit for us for some time. It's why we chose to live where we do now. Proximity to the wilderness puts you in contact with people of different values. Some love the fishing, hunting and offroading opportunities. But it's also skiing and wild skating and hiking and paddling. That can lead to an uneasy coexistence between factions. But you already know how to coexist. Because you are from a small town where you have had to do that forever.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7stMBW9k37T9u1PHb5mx_OJ-wwktKt5qPv216Ka5yAq3O4sHVy4t9Gu1CJLfK4V-OeMeKX4AQoj8L0U_9cCGckm6JIi1UVOZi83LCfH3jY0Po_KhLUXgmdaP9-preYN_a7gDEJzg6GyKbB42g5zVWOHGYU-hAqI-tvDgCIKE8x3BsYp_AdoinLCsLwQ/s2736/IMG_20211217_140837.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="2736" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7stMBW9k37T9u1PHb5mx_OJ-wwktKt5qPv216Ka5yAq3O4sHVy4t9Gu1CJLfK4V-OeMeKX4AQoj8L0U_9cCGckm6JIi1UVOZi83LCfH3jY0Po_KhLUXgmdaP9-preYN_a7gDEJzg6GyKbB42g5zVWOHGYU-hAqI-tvDgCIKE8x3BsYp_AdoinLCsLwQ/w400-h400/IMG_20211217_140837.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>Columbia Valley views</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We do not all have the same feelings towards our small towns. My small town childhood informed my attitudes as much as my parents did. My own children no doubt have different feelings. All three of them live in cities quite happily and I imagine that's where they will stay. One of my cousins lived in a very small town, a small city and now an acreage. He says he made friends wherever he lived and "any place is what you make it." I suppose that's true. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Small towns are not for everyone; single people, those with specialized training, those who want to be entertained, those who like large malls or fancy restaurants or who want to easily engage in cultural events or attend professional sporting events. If you are a member of a minority group, you may not find anyone like you. But if you are one of those people thinking about moving to a small town for improved quality of life- if you like to be involved and make a difference, set aside your preconceived notions.Bring your imagination and your energy. Try small town life. You might just find a place to call home.</span></div></div>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556527235144353235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4619892469584559115.post-54653752698247726172022-03-11T13:12:00.005-07:002022-10-17T07:59:13.323-06:00March 11<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">How do we measure our lives?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Lives, measured in numbers.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Your bank balance</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Your height and weight</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The price at the pump</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Your phone number</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The amount on your paycheque</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The number on your tax bill</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Your social insurance number</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Your pension</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And a number </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">A number you track as it goes up and up and up </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Until it's too big and you stop paying attention</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Because it is so much easier just to pretend </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Lives, made up of people. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">People you know and love</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">People you have met</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">"Friends" on Facebook</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">"Followers" on Twitter</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">People who "like" your Instagram photos</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">People who hire you and fire you</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">People you work with and people you work for</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">People who lead and people who follow</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">People who are there when you need them even if you don't know who they are</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">People you will never meet</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Millions upon millions of people</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">People you chose to help</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And those you turned your back on</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Lives, made up of time.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Seconds and minutes and hours and days and weeks and months and years</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Moments of clarity</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Minutes of indescribable joy </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Hours of contentment</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Hours of despair</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The day you met the love of your life</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The day you met your dog for the first time</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The day your child was born</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The day your dad died </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The day your town burned to the ground</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The day a pandemic was declared</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Months of waiting</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Waiting for summer</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Waiting for Christmas </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Waiting to meet the "one"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Waiting to buy a house</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Waiting to sell a house</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Waiting to start your career and then waiting for it to end</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Waiting for it all to go back to normal. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Whatever "normal" means.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And years.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So many years</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Years of childhood</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Years of raising children</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Years of figuring it out and you never really do</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Years when you did your part,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Day after day, hour after hour, minute after minute</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And then</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">A second</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">A second when you made a choice</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The second you decided not to care.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjF6-8dbZDxqfXkDo2IIChphb-367qt9V7A1ZiQrGRInEDB3x1iaN4TwHeyf1VG2bXUmgXPYY8UeDTFrOyww2YK-YRkKr85xlWItgJvChBuTvIaLL77rXNOJAQzpUvyP7ZCIORA3AiukIXZeucLsBxiD-KhN3j_L4kZRyr6vUnhQbkI4Dw6jGFZyi59JQ=s2736" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="2736" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjF6-8dbZDxqfXkDo2IIChphb-367qt9V7A1ZiQrGRInEDB3x1iaN4TwHeyf1VG2bXUmgXPYY8UeDTFrOyww2YK-YRkKr85xlWItgJvChBuTvIaLL77rXNOJAQzpUvyP7ZCIORA3AiukIXZeucLsBxiD-KhN3j_L4kZRyr6vUnhQbkI4Dw6jGFZyi59JQ=w640-h640" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556527235144353235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4619892469584559115.post-89511053955225848752022-03-08T10:50:00.001-07:002022-03-08T11:54:39.240-07:00Charlotte Small<span style="font-family: helvetica;">Imagine a young Metis girl with a wiry build. A girl who was shy but also active and alert. She had black eyes and dark hair and glowing, almost copper coloured skin. When she was just six years old, her father abandoned his “country wife” and his three small children in a small village in northern Saskatchewan. It was a common practice back in those days- white men would marry strong, independent women with skills to survive in a rugged land, and then leave them behind as they returned to Europe where they married women who were- in the eyes of some- more “refined”. After she was abandoned, the girl’s mother made ends meet as best she could as a trader and a translator in the fur trade.<br /><br />The girl learned to read and write at a time when most women were illiterate. She was fluent in Cree, English and French as well as several other indigenous dialects. She could hunt and fish and build a shelter and manage a canoe. She was clever and resourceful with many skills that allowed her to travel not only throughout the wild northern lands, but also amongst the different peoples of Canada.<br /><br />When the girl was a teenager, she met an older man and they were married-not in a church but in a traditional Cree ceremony in a small northern village. She and her husband traveled over land, through steep mountain passes and burning hot plains, </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">her husband navigating by the stars</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">. They traveled by horseback, fording raging rivers and trudging through deep snow. They traveled by canoe on rivers large and small, portaging as needs be. Her skill with the canoe led to her being called "Woman of the Paddle Song". They lived in tents and hastily constructed forts. They hunted and fished and were often near starvation until she snared rabbits or caught fish. They were threatened by the Piegan. They traveled 42,000 kilometers in all - from Fort Vermilion to Kalispell- from the Pacific Ocean to the Great Lakes to the St Lawrence. Further than Lewis and Clark. Further than most Canadians.<br /><br />She acted as liaison for her husband in his work. She was able to speak the languages of the indigenous people they met on their journeys. She was instrumental in establishing good relations between her husband and the people they met. She helped negotiate alliances and find hardy people to help them travel, explore and find enough to eat. Over the course of 12 years, she gave birth to five babies, often traveling with her tiny ones and her newborns. Once her children were nearly crushed by a horse who her husband shot immediately in a fit of rage. Another time her daughter got lost along a river and was found 6 hours later, huddling near a snowbank. Sometimes she and the little ones were left behind at a trading post for months on end.</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Her husband called her his "lovely wife" and "the Blood of her people" but rarely mentioned her in his pages and pages of journals. He recognized that her skills gave him an advantage over other explorers and traders. There is no doubt their marriage was one of love and commitment.<br /><br />When their travels were over, she and her husband settled in the east where they were married in a church ceremony. She never felt she belonged. The skills that kept her family alive were not recognized. Where once having your feet in both worlds was an asset, now being of mixed blood was a liability. Yet she persevered. Two of her children died and she was heartbroken. She had more children. Two more died. 13 children in all. Initially successful in their business enterprises, some bad decisions led to bankruptcy. Her husband’s years of work- the maps he created and the journal he wrote- went unrecognized and unattributed in their lifetime. She and her husband lost everything and had to live their last years in poverty in a room in their daughter’s house. At night the two of them would walk out into the night and look at the stars, perhaps remembering the life they left behind, perhaps hoping they could chart a different course.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh12XgrOtHioZj-XJWghzFMdYHM1eQmg476iVHxe8Py1a_1tyVNYI99VCuL8JN79ocmdArPIcinKnvrwwbQx8DavTxuLtVyUEA84PosZkl3WO0-T38K0chgDN-Rfxl7Jc6dpbFAQ44CMb8HlSRvFUGtQBp8jf5W5Mae5p4KYTErvlZLbUEvMyZ2BkAYlQ=s1280" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh12XgrOtHioZj-XJWghzFMdYHM1eQmg476iVHxe8Py1a_1tyVNYI99VCuL8JN79ocmdArPIcinKnvrwwbQx8DavTxuLtVyUEA84PosZkl3WO0-T38K0chgDN-Rfxl7Jc6dpbFAQ44CMb8HlSRvFUGtQBp8jf5W5Mae5p4KYTErvlZLbUEvMyZ2BkAYlQ=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sculpture in Invermere BC. <br /><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ncF6vTuJupc">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ncF6vTuJupc</a></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /><br />Three months after her husband died, she also passed away. They were married for 58 years.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We know him as one of Canada's foremost adventurers and explorers. Would he have been able to accomplish all he had without her by his side? Without her unique knowledge and skills and her ability to live in both worlds? </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Some say their marriage helped define our nation. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /><br />We should know her name. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Charlotte Small.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Woman of the Paddle Song.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiO04c_vQHwMpjmBhzVD2nSv5SAWqLa47SY-CAX2nMW_zr21YQIOmR7e2FCCcbULHAFYPMtRlIll7H2Jsu12wlb2FQu9OY5amsSpF6vju37Q1Fp-jTEaM1hHOXLw0q7ijCQ6mIin0rZFpvfIREGbSZx78Va5z9d3QszUYP_2NyLn2TWu0a6ZJvpw4dq8w=s656" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="656" data-original-width="650" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiO04c_vQHwMpjmBhzVD2nSv5SAWqLa47SY-CAX2nMW_zr21YQIOmR7e2FCCcbULHAFYPMtRlIll7H2Jsu12wlb2FQu9OY5amsSpF6vju37Q1Fp-jTEaM1hHOXLw0q7ijCQ6mIin0rZFpvfIREGbSZx78Va5z9d3QszUYP_2NyLn2TWu0a6ZJvpw4dq8w=w396-h400" width="396" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: 15px; text-align: start;">Portrait of Charlotte Small. Artwork by Wandering Jayne Creatives.</em></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><a href="https://www.westernhorsereview.com/blogs/small-matters/">https://www.westernhorsereview.com/blogs/small-matters/</a></div><div><br /></div><div>Aretha van Herk, Travels with Charlotte, Canadian Geographic Journal<br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556527235144353235noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4619892469584559115.post-42084084445296378572022-02-22T09:36:00.001-07:002022-02-22T09:36:41.534-07:00if by freedom<span id="docs-internal-guid-bea9f2e7-7fff-b0e1-2b80-e1f12b617a89"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Freedom is much in the news these days. It is chanted on the streets. It is printed on trucks and banners and flags. It is used as an excuse for all manner of behaviour and as a rallying cry by those on the right and the left and in the centre. What does it mean, really? How can we talk to each other about freedom if we don't have a common understanding?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Here is what I think about freedom:</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If when you say freedom you mean</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you can pursue your own happiness regardless of its impact on others</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you can exploit people for your own selfish gain</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you can call people niggers and pakis or chong ching ching chang with impunity</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you can spit on a person you disagree with</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you can carry a gun that is more likely to be used against you than to protect you</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you are allowed to shoot anyone who trespasses on your property</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you can put your child in harm's way in defense of your principles</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you can hold a city hostage if you don't like the law</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you can refuse to recognize an elected government</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you can cut down every tree, pollute every waterway, and extract every resource to enrich your pocketbook-</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">if by freedom, that is what you mean</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">then certainly, I am against freedom.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgUAcuSQRZ6Eo0pFPdHMSJFKQ3WHqLUzn2gjBVhxxR-nlbotqlh2ARpVD5ZbX8TfTO3gnRE8ryiQtLU-YVmX9q-aaozVDYTG8swz6KjTVuCFgW5ii-jgaBpKFk7cpvRhHTpKdVxff88NPI_nwVcdIDp4VuqAHuv-gY7eeo85tjcmMfBLB-IvEKuMGzqsw=s2046" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="2046" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgUAcuSQRZ6Eo0pFPdHMSJFKQ3WHqLUzn2gjBVhxxR-nlbotqlh2ARpVD5ZbX8TfTO3gnRE8ryiQtLU-YVmX9q-aaozVDYTG8swz6KjTVuCFgW5ii-jgaBpKFk7cpvRhHTpKdVxff88NPI_nwVcdIDp4VuqAHuv-gY7eeo85tjcmMfBLB-IvEKuMGzqsw=w400-h245" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Retrieved from tsln.com</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But, if when you say freedom you mean</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you can follow your own path regardless of the colour of your skin</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you can choose who you love</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you can count on your fellow citizens to make sacrifices for the greater good</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you are protected from extreme poverty</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you can see society's children educated, hopeful and empowered to create a better future</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you can access skilled professionals who keep you healthy</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you can rely on the rule of law to ensure equal treatment for all persons</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you are protected from those who would do you harm</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you can vote in fair elections</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you can enjoy the majestic forests, mountains and lakes of our protected spaces- </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">if by freedom, that is what you mean</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">then by all means, I am all for it.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 6pt; margin-top: 6pt;"><br /></p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This is what I think about freedom.<br />This is my stand.<br />I will not retreat from it.</span></span></span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiIjv7qHpZj8EWyRh0J39_-MgbZOxJBvmN8TakpNhoQAYn-J28MV6c3ShOS5Bj4NjQjIjGgzKaSN9ugZEWuTdZ396sl765LrBQc1xn_maVzs2HcnVsdtOhlLGu79rov_K2mhIoPJZXN5Oxo4SkTtqo_0-QMaUi4ufEs_JfJexMBVtRAj75axRa8yyzxwA=s3456" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiIjv7qHpZj8EWyRh0J39_-MgbZOxJBvmN8TakpNhoQAYn-J28MV6c3ShOS5Bj4NjQjIjGgzKaSN9ugZEWuTdZ396sl765LrBQc1xn_maVzs2HcnVsdtOhlLGu79rov_K2mhIoPJZXN5Oxo4SkTtqo_0-QMaUi4ufEs_JfJexMBVtRAj75axRa8yyzxwA=w400-h400" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><i><span style="font-family: helvetica;">*In 1952 a lawmaker by the name of Noah AKA "Soggy” Sweat made a speech about prohibition in Mississippi. The speech, referred to as <a href="https://www.famous-speeches-and-speech-topics.info/famous-short-speeches/noah-s-sweat-whiskey-speech.htm" target="_blank">If by Whiskey</a> is a classic example of a relativist fallacy in which the speaker's position is dependent on the listeners point of view.</span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-family: helvetica;">After listening to this speech, I realized a similar argument could be made on the topic of freedom which is much in the news in Canada today. So, thanks to Mr. Sweat for the format of this piece.</span></i></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #202122; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #202122; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px;"><br /></p></div></div>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556527235144353235noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4619892469584559115.post-60007091944241547662022-01-05T19:40:00.004-07:002022-01-06T08:49:49.065-07:00your empty house<p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi8zoKFWnuubvTZLVGSLdjrhXXnIbS9GaFwPNGiuxiENFcWwF8k7IyZw6P_2QqnltuqFlYwGODen59iBYRMdYish8oDDT2utAEA61s3rgqF7B_xnXhjTBuOSIayfeES4y_hnCq1FHLXA7-t25Ixe9Qr3vaxunNOKaT3CcHlRqIZMOJ0rAaA_Ik4WuLnxg=s2736" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="2736" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi8zoKFWnuubvTZLVGSLdjrhXXnIbS9GaFwPNGiuxiENFcWwF8k7IyZw6P_2QqnltuqFlYwGODen59iBYRMdYish8oDDT2utAEA61s3rgqF7B_xnXhjTBuOSIayfeES4y_hnCq1FHLXA7-t25Ixe9Qr3vaxunNOKaT3CcHlRqIZMOJ0rAaA_Ik4WuLnxg=w400-h400" width="400" /></a></span></div><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The big coffee perk is still on the counter. The Christmas cookie plate covered in crumbs. The Christmas dishes in the dishwasher. Recycling bins overflowing. Unfinished bottles of wine. Stockings in a pile under the couch. A pile of as-yet unopened Christmas cards. </span></span><div><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The driveway covered in snow. </span></span><div><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Half made beds. </span></span></div><div><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Candles burned down to stubs.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; white-space: pre-wrap;">The calendar says December 2021 but it's not.</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-cc5603a5-7fff-7714-941e-930896a86c6b"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The calendar needs to be replaced. Bags need to be unpacked. The floor should be swept. Bedding washed. Boxes flattened. Bottles taken to the depot. Curling shoes and extra boots and pool towels and games and skis and toboggans put back in their places. The fridge checked for the last of the leftovers. The few remaining cookies eaten. The decorations returned to their bins in the basement. Christmas dishes packed up once again. The tree must come down, its lights and ornaments stowed away.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But that’s for another day.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Today we sit by the fire.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Today we listen to music. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Today we watch the birds.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Today we sit surrounded by the warmth of of a house so recently vacated it still feels full.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">So it's easy to imagine that</span></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; white-space: pre-wrap;"> big coffee perk will be filled in the morning and emptied by noon. The cookie plate will be restocked and the cookies consumed. The seven sets of unique dishes will be set around the table once again. Meals will be eaten. Wine will be drunk. Canasta will be played. The house will ring with laughter. And t</span><span style="font-family: helvetica; white-space: pre-wrap;">hose half made beds are just waiting for someone to crawl into them at the end of the night. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; white-space: pre-wrap;">Today we pretend. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><div><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="2736" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiB4e-XuZ2fsYdpxWEWZGwanbinEmzDSGTBJYV-MBYIYsbYVqIKykzj9ra9wNaIdQ0J6e23CAWG4ct809QcA9CV8kFHAjzbj2FY9IFrpjpa8v-qYtkvOd24ezCBFrSc-5V9WsZc1K9w75bXPoHn63nB6Aq5wL_uQLsEkeP44PcaIrOpkSQeILVRHuMfjQ=w400-h400" style="font-family: helvetica;" width="400" /></div></span></div></span></div></div>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556527235144353235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4619892469584559115.post-71644488706972637972021-12-20T07:34:00.042-07:002021-12-20T22:35:14.646-07:00You | Me<br /><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I don’t remember learning to play Canasta, although I am pretty sure I wasn’t born knowing. It is kind of a constant in our family and I don’t remember a time when we didn't play.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHRzRkZGiSt15xn1oCllIMKQ6GS364qPcYhpWEnghNOOeypL1DhTO8_G9dKjWHA8loYY6e3jYQShTK9rgQo_J3Ze3RNyjmjC7YnQeJCYrNUTd4MYPlPVyfMZD8uwAyJ9UkPYRup35-IaTKml8PSULgz_53jjZdxtvX0ztEGjHASauy41L46TrHwsUt4g=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1568" data-original-width="2048" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHRzRkZGiSt15xn1oCllIMKQ6GS364qPcYhpWEnghNOOeypL1DhTO8_G9dKjWHA8loYY6e3jYQShTK9rgQo_J3Ze3RNyjmjC7YnQeJCYrNUTd4MYPlPVyfMZD8uwAyJ9UkPYRup35-IaTKml8PSULgz_53jjZdxtvX0ztEGjHASauy41L46TrHwsUt4g=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My grandmother and the girls seated at the table where we played Canasta at the family farm.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />Canasta is a cross between bridge and rummy. It was developed in the late 1940s by an architect and a lawyer in Uruguay as an easy and time-efficient alternative to bridge. It became a craze in Latin America and then came to North America where it was all the rage for awhile. My grandmother took a course on how to play in the 1950s in Edmonton. She taught it to her husband and her three sisters. And so it went.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When we were kids in the 1960s visiting our grandparents in Beaverlodge, the aunts - or the “girls” as my grandfather called them, even though they were in their 70s and hated being called the “girls” or the “aunts” because "we're individuals"- would come over and we would play. My one brother would team up with Granddad, both of them with the same strategy of going out early just to catch others with cards in their hands. I doubt it won them any games. For them it was less about themselves winning and more about us losing. My younger brother played with my grandmother, both quiet and crafty. They won a lot. I often played with my mom, for whom the cards were secondary to the chatter around the table. Canasta is a game you can play without concentrating too hard, although it’s hard to win if you aren't paying attention. Which, as my husband kindly points out, is why I never win since I am not paying attention at all. (I think he's overstating it BTW.)</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjozySo8Seu5zk4PsOnaH-EB_WQktZN-4Dnfim4u5K_ksnM3UzYKoiM8RaAsNGFI9lA6VWitryE9bDF2pzrJoV2W8ChXMAhr4Jg2MSWN4FCy7GW6498jwLwVgFpy3ivZLEV4D6sW1hOsYDS8c1j53KrRi3fkK-G8Y0oF4tYcBWNNblhOymNDftKIWBJxQ=s2911" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1357" data-original-width="2911" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjozySo8Seu5zk4PsOnaH-EB_WQktZN-4Dnfim4u5K_ksnM3UzYKoiM8RaAsNGFI9lA6VWitryE9bDF2pzrJoV2W8ChXMAhr4Jg2MSWN4FCy7GW6498jwLwVgFpy3ivZLEV4D6sW1hOsYDS8c1j53KrRi3fkK-G8Y0oF4tYcBWNNblhOymNDftKIWBJxQ=w400-h186" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: times;">Hart is winning, Tumbler Ridge.</span><br /><br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table></div>In later years in Tumbler Ridge my sister learned a version called “Hand and Foot” where you have a second hand of cards -known as your “foot” - that you can only access when you have played down your hand. You need a lot of cards to play “Hand and Foot” and my parents had a chocolate box full of cards for that purpose. Hand and foot became the game of choice and it’s the version we play when we get together wherever we are.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRFmMSXP_BkJTajla5Ic_3YEeBBkU0KGWY29SoS6iaL7KnsiAZvic2S-vhv-wOsHY1_HAWmamPaMjxMx9KedZZMN_xK9fjMQ1UyvXjr3CcJI8IWJshyvZGZHStnRjk_bpFqrRmkhLc2BAA2L7-OOmmR7uPF3Ase4VBUZwTDON2IzOv-vd6As_8QDJmNg=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRFmMSXP_BkJTajla5Ic_3YEeBBkU0KGWY29SoS6iaL7KnsiAZvic2S-vhv-wOsHY1_HAWmamPaMjxMx9KedZZMN_xK9fjMQ1UyvXjr3CcJI8IWJshyvZGZHStnRjk_bpFqrRmkhLc2BAA2L7-OOmmR7uPF3Ase4VBUZwTDON2IzOv-vd6As_8QDJmNg=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />Everyone has some kind of idiosyncrasy when it comes to this game. Elizabeth never picks up the deck. My dad and my husband always pick up the deck and if you sit on one side of them, you will inevitably throw away something they will pick up and if you sit on the other side, you’ll be getting nothing but black threes all night. Cause for some cursing for sure. My brother is still quiet and crafty. It's important to know your partner's quirks because your cards need to merge advantageously with theirs in order for your team to win. Dave and Geordie, take note.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgGXrrafwViIYNbXLkXMqEluNdEpiFaXlAmEdrMvzJ3wAHMX-r7z0-5t4JVbWLR2uNPpI3fNUoH-CDEBd7RnOfZ0eGpxn3wGg5BGHG049TZAEi1Jz9Iu6nHuhhfU5-Bz5BibbJNP9cZ3mfL7tyVLvksdADWDI4LCV0O-uPcTbbSEY89wadh30Mt4PmGMQ=s3072" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="3072" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgGXrrafwViIYNbXLkXMqEluNdEpiFaXlAmEdrMvzJ3wAHMX-r7z0-5t4JVbWLR2uNPpI3fNUoH-CDEBd7RnOfZ0eGpxn3wGg5BGHG049TZAEi1Jz9Iu6nHuhhfU5-Bz5BibbJNP9cZ3mfL7tyVLvksdADWDI4LCV0O-uPcTbbSEY89wadh30Mt4PmGMQ=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Kerry ponders a move.<br /><br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: helvetica;">My cousin Kerry and I keep up the chit chat now, which is hard not to do because when you have a dozen people or more all playing, it takes a long time before your turn comes around. Sometimes there can be silliness, like the time the kids decided it would fun to play in crazy hats and speak with accents. Or they brought a dog to the table. My dad found that annoying. He played like he was in it to win it and didn’t appreciate the distractions. Although he would occasionally add his own distractions with some choice terms or an engineering song.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjhTEQnf9nD1GjDpg9SbcBiL_JAbYW6hgCqUCVGi254xhgQWx0aZCVSbO1-p1g72404q1Xwsr7rrux2GzakIT75cQ7pTU1NJF4nuRzSeiT8d-ZtusfSVSyajhcr0OmRLXfG3LCS4EWVXA4j7ldG3k-kgjqpGtZvi3MoA1ECTXPtbAajKBuiNzjb-R4xXA=s512" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjhTEQnf9nD1GjDpg9SbcBiL_JAbYW6hgCqUCVGi254xhgQWx0aZCVSbO1-p1g72404q1Xwsr7rrux2GzakIT75cQ7pTU1NJF4nuRzSeiT8d-ZtusfSVSyajhcr0OmRLXfG3LCS4EWVXA4j7ldG3k-kgjqpGtZvi3MoA1ECTXPtbAajKBuiNzjb-R4xXA=s320" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When we weren’t there, my parents often played with just the two of them, keeping score night after night. The records still remain in that Pot of Gold chocolate box. My mom complained bitterly that Dad always won, but did he? When they died, our eldest asked for that box. Inside, decks and decks of cards mingled together, many worn and dirty. And page after page of Canasta scores in my dad’s handwriting, columns neatly labelled “You” and “Me”, detailing every game the two of them played, year after year. Somewhere in those records is a tally of all their scores, completed by my dad. In all those years and years of games, the point total was so close. She must have won at least half the time.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0xQhFr7spdIM1TFCIfHAaLTd4Ou3f1skHKWfJEZOeRQWQEc8ECCWQLYqgb-3lPN2riNm_KrC1tkV2TItdMYpEEEs6mgz3bVd4BdeaNma9BzUt9H9GvqS_mouUniW3QHNq-PYR71LhTzAqObZgNYciov_vQIyaAMVfXGMR4scSkbdDiShInwRyyyfolQ=s2736" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="2736" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0xQhFr7spdIM1TFCIfHAaLTd4Ou3f1skHKWfJEZOeRQWQEc8ECCWQLYqgb-3lPN2riNm_KrC1tkV2TItdMYpEEEs6mgz3bVd4BdeaNma9BzUt9H9GvqS_mouUniW3QHNq-PYR71LhTzAqObZgNYciov_vQIyaAMVfXGMR4scSkbdDiShInwRyyyfolQ=w400-h400" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Dad's scoresheets.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When my mom’s dementia set in, she told us she couldn’t play. She didn’t know the rules. But then someone volunteered to play with her, maybe my cousin or my sister. In no time she had her hand organized. She <i>could</i> play. She remembered the rules even when she didn’t know what day or year it was or the names of her grandchildren sitting at the table. I guess when you do something so repeatedly, the rules get ingrained in you. Maybe that’s why Mom still knew the rules when so much else had fallen away.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjOgefivBcKiwvZsnYyuYgvzitZCqSEzaCZiJB5vlhuxDBi4Htgns2kGjxfakASPbSuLE8wjFRzWQw2k2dUnyD-FabRzbVA9TiI-XNAElu69drKENPgo0ikM12xmUTbnbQrAkYo9KbHQTxRmeYC7HgQ90mBx0XA3Ouc3CrLOaF_KZwtgTpWJEzmNK8mGg=s960" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjOgefivBcKiwvZsnYyuYgvzitZCqSEzaCZiJB5vlhuxDBi4Htgns2kGjxfakASPbSuLE8wjFRzWQw2k2dUnyD-FabRzbVA9TiI-XNAElu69drKENPgo0ikM12xmUTbnbQrAkYo9KbHQTxRmeYC7HgQ90mBx0XA3Ouc3CrLOaF_KZwtgTpWJEzmNK8mGg=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My sister is unimpressed with her hand <br /><br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Today's game doesn't much resemble the one my grandmother learned so long ago. It's a game so you should care about winning or losing but nobody really cares if it's "you" or "me" that ends up with the higher score. Our game spans decades and generations, modified by time, geography and family dynamics. And while the rules may have changed, the essence remains. Sitting around a table late at night surrounded by family, in a room filled with laughter. And maybe a little cursing.</span><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQWZBt7_NgrRf5226kq2w68CWIoJq1OtnvYtOnTTd10mBR0kxh51bR1W9coMtLmmwZRF0OQ9xHWB-0lCbJ7PckTV-Yxuj13vNu0s_Kmhth9i-MzO6zPSWJzIl_FfVD2nAcmFQsdYgLbRYYUgN5YBOGEl0dSleHSbbVgRSfM7LKI5cLZALe2io4nwU0oA=s4608" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQWZBt7_NgrRf5226kq2w68CWIoJq1OtnvYtOnTTd10mBR0kxh51bR1W9coMtLmmwZRF0OQ9xHWB-0lCbJ7PckTV-Yxuj13vNu0s_Kmhth9i-MzO6zPSWJzIl_FfVD2nAcmFQsdYgLbRYYUgN5YBOGEl0dSleHSbbVgRSfM7LKI5cLZALe2io4nwU0oA=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556527235144353235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4619892469584559115.post-21574237074922636642021-10-13T09:39:00.000-06:002021-10-13T09:39:57.425-06:00Not Written in Stone<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In January years ago I stood in the Halcourt cemetery watching my grandmother's casket being lowered into her grave. In the snow, surrounded by farm fields, with distant mountain views, surrounded by the Canadian red granite tombstones of my maternal ancestors. There was something comforting about knowing my grandmother's remains would rest near those of her family. I knew her soul had left her body and those were just old bones that we were burying, but still, it seemed right that she was interred near all those she had loved in a place she felt she belonged.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Eventually, I thought, my parents would be buried there. And so would I. Generations of a family all in one place.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Years passed. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And my dad said he didn't want a funeral, a grave or a tombstone. And really, what would connect him to the Halcourt cemetery? Those weren't his ancestors. That wasn't a place he had ever lived. It wasn't a place where <i>he</i> belonged.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">"Just throw my body into the ocean," he said, ignoring the law and the fact that he lived hundreds of miles from the sea. As he got closer to the end of his life, he made arrangements with the local funeral home for cremation. When we talked about his passing, he repeated that he did not want a funeral. I told him his funeral wasn't for him. He would not be there to witness it. It was for us and he couldn't tell us how to grieve. "Just let us say goodbye the way we want," I said. He conceded. "I just don't want a fuss. I don't want any crying," he said. We had a funeral. And a memorial service. And there was plenty of crying. Later, my brother and his partner put Dad's ashes into the ocean. That's as close to honouring his request as we got, as close as we got to returning his remains to the sea. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">My mom refused to discuss any details about her funeral. To her dying day she rejected the very idea she would ever pass away. When she died, we scattered her ashes in the Murray River. "The Murray runs into the Pacific, doesn't it?" my other brother said. He didn't say it but we all understood. Eventually mom and dad's remains would be united.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When my father-in-law died, my mother-in-law did not want a funeral. She wanted a notice in the newspaper and that was all. The family gathered for a dinner. She never asked what we did with the ashes. When she dies, she wants the same for herself. No ceremony. No grave. Eventually her ashes will be united with his. She doesn't know that and she doesn't need to.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">There are no tombstones to mark the lives of my parents or my father-in-law. There won't be one for my mother-in-law. There probably won't be one for me. Or my husband, when our time comes. No words etched on a rock sitting in a field of other rocks to remind others of our lives. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">My mom and dad live in my heart and memory and in the lives of all they touched-as all people do. As I imagine I will do. I don't need words on stone for that.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I talked to some of my friends about their plans. Some have cemetary plots or columbaria already purchased. Others have nothing. One friend said she did not know what she and her husband would do, but "there should be...something?" It is part of our culture to leave something tangible behind.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">As a young person I took comfort in thinking my remains would be surrounded by my ancestors in the place they once lived. But it is not a place where <i>I</i> have ever lived, nor is it a place where my kids will live. Part of me feels I belong there, but that feeling is fading with time. Now, I am connected to another family. We have lived in many places. Where I once felt connected to a particular piece of land, now I feel more of a connection with "the land" . My perception has shifted. I wonder about the point of buying a chunk of granite to sit in a graveyard. Wouldn't it be better to use that land to sustain the living instead of celebrating the dead?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I wonder why the fuss about statues erected to the memories of the "famous" people of history. What is the point? To remind us of their greatness? Of our history? If I don't need a tombstone to remind me that my dad lived, why do I need one for Sir John A MacDonald? Will I forget he was Canada's first Prime Minister if there is no statue in his name? Will I forget there was a world war without a cenotaph of inscribed names?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">History is not written in stone. History is alive and around us and influences us every day. My parents shaped who I am just as those who went before shaped Canada. Those influences, for good or ill, will continue to shape our identity as time marches on.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">But history is not just about our stories. It's also about place. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I think about the indigenous children who were buried in unmarked graves at residential schools across Canada. Not only the tragedy of their unnecessary deaths, but that their families had nowhere to go to mourn their passing. Where was their place? Like their lives, erased as if they had never been. Shouldn't there be ...<i>something</i>?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">My grandfather was sent to Canada as an orphan. He came here for a better life and stayed for love. He lies buried in the Halcourt cemetery next to my grandmother. But what about his ancestors? They are buried in a tiny cemetery in the UK. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb1rJLv67JPNAjlI1XnJl2JUwuIPvPckhv_vMesaOh2q_ccpuKkoMtq9GOnt71Qwl86aRtyV4HWl1dcHFgFB0YLcsVF7RkydIV3Q0hurqbEqR638JtvBP-a2KygeAO_yrVhkM3Vay5UvJX/s2048/IMG_20210612_120941_edit_58439103786394.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1548" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb1rJLv67JPNAjlI1XnJl2JUwuIPvPckhv_vMesaOh2q_ccpuKkoMtq9GOnt71Qwl86aRtyV4HWl1dcHFgFB0YLcsVF7RkydIV3Q0hurqbEqR638JtvBP-a2KygeAO_yrVhkM3Vay5UvJX/s320/IMG_20210612_120941_edit_58439103786394.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJjKGXeZcRr2Wp5iX3Wovy1-DuNPXm7W6tXKJPkVAiGXdJq_RWAZTYRDrVbax5qsrTlmUbZ5DClDdP81jEBQ9Uq4FirlFqEgiXs-oJhjHXR0QLKR9r2Q1AZZjdaYQJcK2SRViNkBLyfndW/s2048/IMG_20210612_120947_edit_58412895792648.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1514" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJjKGXeZcRr2Wp5iX3Wovy1-DuNPXm7W6tXKJPkVAiGXdJq_RWAZTYRDrVbax5qsrTlmUbZ5DClDdP81jEBQ9Uq4FirlFqEgiXs-oJhjHXR0QLKR9r2Q1AZZjdaYQJcK2SRViNkBLyfndW/s320/IMG_20210612_120947_edit_58412895792648.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />My daughter said she would go look for the tombstones as the town is not far from where she lives. Maybe if she finds them, she will find a link to her own heritage. A Canadian who left her home country to pursue an education, like her great grandfather, she stayed for love. Maybe those old tombstones will give her a sense of belonging to the land of her ancestors.</span><div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And in the end I wonder if that's the real point of a tombstone. Like a funeral, a tombstone is not for the dead but for the living. It's not to memorialize the past but to provide a connection for those who remain. It's a link to our heritage and to the people who left us their legacies-good and bad- and the land that shapes us. </span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqrjU1kfEG-5ITx3RDCGwWczmbikY5JAXEWLSITP3hqg6LRINZSVzBzRLh1UuZ0U7WoCcxlLJDlNgNumZhQeUnlEzIt3ONm387Cl9Cis0VtrzQ80fcukoQtD2wSPsHFEId6qzt7i6i2scq/s1602/Screen+Shot+2021-06-17+at+9.48.28+AM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="702" data-original-width="1602" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqrjU1kfEG-5ITx3RDCGwWczmbikY5JAXEWLSITP3hqg6LRINZSVzBzRLh1UuZ0U7WoCcxlLJDlNgNumZhQeUnlEzIt3ONm387Cl9Cis0VtrzQ80fcukoQtD2wSPsHFEId6qzt7i6i2scq/w640-h280/Screen+Shot+2021-06-17+at+9.48.28+AM.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://www.countygp.ab.ca/en/living-in-our-community/cemeteries.aspx" target="_blank">Halcourt Cemetery</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p></p></div>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556527235144353235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4619892469584559115.post-10913257311864253102021-10-11T20:43:00.001-06:002021-10-11T20:43:34.322-06:00All the things you took for granted<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Packing the car, taking special care of the thing you're supposed to bring for dinner</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The long drive and the luminous trees</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The driveway full of cars</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span>Cousins and aunts and uncles. R</span>elatives that don't "get" you, even though they try</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">New girlfriends and new husbands and new babies and neighbours you've never met</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The turkey plates</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The kids' table where you once sat</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Grandfather carving the bird</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Small talk</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The mounds of food. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Turkey and gravy and stuffing and home made buns with real butter and harvard beets and cranberry sauce and sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes and brussels sprouts and turnip and ham </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And the pies. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So many pies. Fruit pies. Pumpkin pies. Flapper pies. With whipped cream or ice cream or both.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The endless cups of coffee </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Cleaning up. The women in the kitchen. The men in the living room. Kids underfoot. You and your cousin sneaking another bun with turkey even though you feel you might explode.</span></p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The drive home </span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Looking at the stars. Stars that seem to go on forever. <br /><br />All the things you took for granted.</span><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_bZA3F-lzeRnyLxQcSlFAy0CTdOVSWTZurvFRk8URjNkwFEAzngPM58sbGc94V9FBVmcwkvFvdlC9FwckOJ7e7SuwI-c2qQ-vet8K9l_MkAoJZbrF0HDbp6Gwm64-cfq-BRsgdX7G9V9f/s1728/carving.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1728" data-original-width="1616" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_bZA3F-lzeRnyLxQcSlFAy0CTdOVSWTZurvFRk8URjNkwFEAzngPM58sbGc94V9FBVmcwkvFvdlC9FwckOJ7e7SuwI-c2qQ-vet8K9l_MkAoJZbrF0HDbp6Gwm64-cfq-BRsgdX7G9V9f/w374-h400/carving.jpeg" width="374" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">f</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMnM472WjiLV26WGtipJ5oz7n9SR54CLvZo1NcLO4xmBfVhdFil4P67k_ygGHA_1uICaL4VChQ-SHuwuy20W4QZhvCD-w4Gnsidm4QhWCKkJEbY0_p_OuseJRo_9n8Wh0xGVAYFGqT-0ne/s720/mom.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="572" data-original-width="720" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMnM472WjiLV26WGtipJ5oz7n9SR54CLvZo1NcLO4xmBfVhdFil4P67k_ygGHA_1uICaL4VChQ-SHuwuy20W4QZhvCD-w4Gnsidm4QhWCKkJEbY0_p_OuseJRo_9n8Wh0xGVAYFGqT-0ne/w400-h318/mom.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipm9yTdPdkNhyphenhyphenlikDKVovQ1mqjfgzlVxI4RtOAYArA9R-Lpm68UWugnedAtTwz_hwUvkBFc6NU74n8U6shZijqURwV9F1M9gR3DGOsf3F7syVH8dSIFljTWbugqfbq_6cMMYSxm9y14fLj/s960/sarah.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="960" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipm9yTdPdkNhyphenhyphenlikDKVovQ1mqjfgzlVxI4RtOAYArA9R-Lpm68UWugnedAtTwz_hwUvkBFc6NU74n8U6shZijqURwV9F1M9gR3DGOsf3F7syVH8dSIFljTWbugqfbq_6cMMYSxm9y14fLj/w400-h255/sarah.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_DsDMllSb7s6eAiEHcnycG7yLaUIzqAVF_L3g9PtFaunMHea9ggl1PMyHUCU5w-4kb09P0cZ5i1sBafkGqF34J2A5UgbgXXBExifdl3uhZsV-prg3wNYDL-r1_daBAGaEbVW5C73J0Q13/s1024/tha.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_DsDMllSb7s6eAiEHcnycG7yLaUIzqAVF_L3g9PtFaunMHea9ggl1PMyHUCU5w-4kb09P0cZ5i1sBafkGqF34J2A5UgbgXXBExifdl3uhZsV-prg3wNYDL-r1_daBAGaEbVW5C73J0Q13/w400-h300/tha.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><br /></p></div>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556527235144353235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4619892469584559115.post-82648887990411559292021-06-12T11:51:00.021-06:002021-11-13T23:00:45.744-07:00George Martin, My Grandfather<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG1grCNxoN5AzTyDy82Vk5HBW2TyNoMcHFuSin-G2SfD8k_zBW-_MUHSEJ-4JGMVp-ZMrcdhnAbN-2AXdIk6f_72-H2zazcfhxn3hwo3djoPesgtwLaAaN7JzZXo8khRgyXqEsPZnuemEF/s2048/grandad3.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1329" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG1grCNxoN5AzTyDy82Vk5HBW2TyNoMcHFuSin-G2SfD8k_zBW-_MUHSEJ-4JGMVp-ZMrcdhnAbN-2AXdIk6f_72-H2zazcfhxn3hwo3djoPesgtwLaAaN7JzZXo8khRgyXqEsPZnuemEF/w260-h400/grandad3.jpeg" width="260" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">My grandfather was as charming a man as you would ever want to meet. He was also funny, romantic, opinionated, a devoted family man, a great writer, and a worrier, especially about money. </span></div><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We were always told that he was an orphan who came to Canada to train to be an Anglican minister in the Eastern Townships of Quebec but he wasn't suited for that so instead he went to work for the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce where he worked until 1966. My cousin recalled being told he had once worked at the bank in Montreal where his job was to remove old bills from circulation. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoPLuTfn2bR5FrakYAWwlY0lSockx7dtEAhuFuuwam3wyTVGghBjO9M3sKuDNtKrRa5z7uLZYDIGy02rcWdWHzCSVaFI84sn61ccKt3ufg8PeMNyPrTu65wJR3fOypWfRAgV4kwvf7B8z2/s960/homestead+app.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoPLuTfn2bR5FrakYAWwlY0lSockx7dtEAhuFuuwam3wyTVGghBjO9M3sKuDNtKrRa5z7uLZYDIGy02rcWdWHzCSVaFI84sn61ccKt3ufg8PeMNyPrTu65wJR3fOypWfRAgV4kwvf7B8z2/s320/homestead+app.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Homestead Application</i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />He ended up in Lake Saskatoon in 1914 which was a small pioneer town at the time. He met and married my <a href="https://progressivelyirrelevant.blogspot.com/2015/11/girl.html">grandmother</a>, applied for a homestead, and then enlisted. A story he used to tell from this time period is how he extended his leave one weekend to marry my grandmother. He got into trouble when he returned to the barracks. "I'm very sorry, sir. I left to get married." "Good for you," his commanding officer said. "The army needs more brave men like you." </span><p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigIsyz31gvg2CY1UBsICXTxjT2UaJG3W3aFT0KOjpzKHz6A0WLxIR6IYDb_St2qb9vaJji6ESWn3M4cAC_1frtJKBSqn__6DlE36GTxYV_lvhnRYv9tIzlu5R_6QAW42T7dTMRCgj1eR2S/s918/Sarecee+001sm.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="705" data-original-width="918" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigIsyz31gvg2CY1UBsICXTxjT2UaJG3W3aFT0KOjpzKHz6A0WLxIR6IYDb_St2qb9vaJji6ESWn3M4cAC_1frtJKBSqn__6DlE36GTxYV_lvhnRYv9tIzlu5R_6QAW42T7dTMRCgj1eR2S/w400-h308/Sarecee+001sm.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Grandad at Sarcee Camp</i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj17sxRH_LITH23M252TBY3qwGH2gNMmD68IrWmEVi-sxmSucNxXGFFgs7KrJDpRCG6EJo2VC1VbIQVLrVSwwDCwenslR8xbuOTdgoujfC5q0d0NKTnaRe9lNyh7pxnKUKHlaYf9HkJJssk/s2048/grandad2.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1619" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj17sxRH_LITH23M252TBY3qwGH2gNMmD68IrWmEVi-sxmSucNxXGFFgs7KrJDpRCG6EJo2VC1VbIQVLrVSwwDCwenslR8xbuOTdgoujfC5q0d0NKTnaRe9lNyh7pxnKUKHlaYf9HkJJssk/s320/grandad2.jpeg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">During the war, my grandmother took a ship to England to be closer to my grandfather. She lived with his brother and sister-in-law, worked at a munitions factory, and met his relatives. He came home and worked in Lake Saskatoon. He must have given up on the homesteading idea and kept working for the bank in Pouce Coupe, Monitor, Delia, and finally Edmonton where he was in charge of the foreign exchange at the downtown branch. Finally he became manager of the Highlands Branch. </span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmBE0Hi3PImV2_kM_XYQiIVZ9MQau3J031XFjME9eVsbNqYV3fFBM4U4OZIkGelv7O2Pucji6Ll6Jyokld9IuTkAcYKV6lDWujE_BdqCJ0Z3kTelo9-BNO-Q6M4YgGDiyKpn7r-Cuqzoe_/s3153/clip.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3153" data-original-width="997" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmBE0Hi3PImV2_kM_XYQiIVZ9MQau3J031XFjME9eVsbNqYV3fFBM4U4OZIkGelv7O2Pucji6Ll6Jyokld9IuTkAcYKV6lDWujE_BdqCJ0Z3kTelo9-BNO-Q6M4YgGDiyKpn7r-Cuqzoe_/w126-h400/clip.jpeg" width="126" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">After he retired, he and my grandmother bought a farm near Beaverlodge, next to her family homestead. He relieved for bank managers in the far north, including Uranium City, Inuvik, Aklavik, and Fort Smith. He loved the north and in a letter, told my grandmother life was hard there but (and "don't tell a soul I said this") "I far prefer them to those quiet prairie farm towns". He would be gone up to 9 weeks at a stretch and kept this up every year until he was 74. His brother in law Harold was coming for a visit and he planned to take him on a road trip to Yellowknife.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinupjDqIIN8Vzb2rIH7FmQztt6U06QP8zTQEs2VB_aHPAUssTeaX3H-9bnOCFX2UbYMXfCxSkLl6bKotCsjItwMR29A_5xU2Aeyiq61Aa_LjCcaNdzJznZH1vptKztL3JglUB8qhO5_Qan/s2048/farm.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1455" data-original-width="2048" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinupjDqIIN8Vzb2rIH7FmQztt6U06QP8zTQEs2VB_aHPAUssTeaX3H-9bnOCFX2UbYMXfCxSkLl6bKotCsjItwMR29A_5xU2Aeyiq61Aa_LjCcaNdzJznZH1vptKztL3JglUB8qhO5_Qan/w400-h284/farm.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The farm</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I know a lot about my grandfather. My grandmother saved every letter he ever sent, and there were many. But I don't know anything about his life before he came to Canada. I knew he remained in contact with his brothers and sisters back in the UK. He visited the UK several times and a couple of his relatives visited Canada. But <i>was</i> he an orphan? Why did he come to Canada and his siblings stayed behind? Was he ever a domestic or farm labourer like many child immigrants? </span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyRUbAwwCOZWIuTaIUFtTFncCutYjvZinDeqQ2TALRhGEJb-bu0K6Uk01qUnGQjm3IXdofcF4TIZM_QyI8Gzq1w92xiZmG7RDwjrmYOUsLNamJsLUC-WGjWKo3oaoTKVKtCghRGGadeu92/s2048/kid.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1412" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyRUbAwwCOZWIuTaIUFtTFncCutYjvZinDeqQ2TALRhGEJb-bu0K6Uk01qUnGQjm3IXdofcF4TIZM_QyI8Gzq1w92xiZmG7RDwjrmYOUsLNamJsLUC-WGjWKo3oaoTKVKtCghRGGadeu92/w276-h400/kid.jpeg" width="276" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The young George Martin</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDt1zoxjTq0ZankgXNXfR5q45nuiA8XgWzHNojLsFC9dTNCESOVPR_PFtbgQJWd9viXiqusoOQyMQUTEAtuMfi34pdC3zye1NlifoZSQAsbdFoDUuX4KdLCld9bkhPG2JKuXWm5p2mf2KS/s647/virginian.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="410" data-original-width="647" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDt1zoxjTq0ZankgXNXfR5q45nuiA8XgWzHNojLsFC9dTNCESOVPR_PFtbgQJWd9viXiqusoOQyMQUTEAtuMfi34pdC3zye1NlifoZSQAsbdFoDUuX4KdLCld9bkhPG2JKuXWm5p2mf2KS/s320/virginian.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Virginian</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>Lately I started wondering if he was a British Home Child. A little digging told me he had arrived in Canada on the ship The Virginian in 1907 when he was 14 years old. From there I contacted the British Home Children Advocacy & Research Association and they were able to help me fill in some missing pieces.</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirjDe26Al20NFx3fc1l6qAboEOm0fXL-cblfJ9QuMJP2O-nUKA3uqzRGk0QCfzE6HoDRJPeSprPoV2m7aqCpdHD0Kov99q8U7ltW-bsExT7gTbjVsaDgmolieWGlvmtHmUXzQgDR1CCs9z/s2048/IMG_20210612_120941_edit_58439103786394.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1548" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirjDe26Al20NFx3fc1l6qAboEOm0fXL-cblfJ9QuMJP2O-nUKA3uqzRGk0QCfzE6HoDRJPeSprPoV2m7aqCpdHD0Kov99q8U7ltW-bsExT7gTbjVsaDgmolieWGlvmtHmUXzQgDR1CCs9z/s320/IMG_20210612_120941_edit_58439103786394.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwVclNAtDqk3JkvgrCJQ9PBHNbgmaQVrhuvrYTMkQnhl_ieoqWBgRZbnpwF9rsLV8XEuG9Zi2GOiLY6SV0IgMSTgVdlQ0hS55RPAYPbwiUmp_C42kXq3uhGnpE3U923nzNSj7Z3rl10pE6/s2048/IMG_20210612_120947_edit_58412895792648.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1514" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwVclNAtDqk3JkvgrCJQ9PBHNbgmaQVrhuvrYTMkQnhl_ieoqWBgRZbnpwF9rsLV8XEuG9Zi2GOiLY6SV0IgMSTgVdlQ0hS55RPAYPbwiUmp_C42kXq3uhGnpE3U923nzNSj7Z3rl10pE6/s320/IMG_20210612_120947_edit_58412895792648.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>From Granddad's letters.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />His parents were Arthur Martin (born 1862 in </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">St. Ippolyts,</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> a small village near Hitchen) and Elizabeth (Jackson). They were married October 22, 1881 at Barton le Clay, Bedford, England. Arthur's occupation is listed as horsekeeper on farm and they lived at <a href="https://www.blogger.com/#">Pound Cottage.</a> Elizabeth died in 1898 and Arthur died in 1901 when my grandfather was nine. One of my cousins remembers Granddad telling him that he watched his dad take his mom to the doctor in a wheelbarrow. According to my grandfather's postcard, they are both buried in St. Ippolyts Cemetery. My daughter lives in the UK and plans to look for those graves.</span><br /><div><span style="color: #0000ee; font-family: helvetica;"><u><br /></u></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZxZwjHYKDWrcTwDT5u4-H8a-MJcFQhCrNkJj8JwyZDrNGzQsMbQxZVeuQw99YrUl_bt8jv1KFhIlcNVnjxCAiaNJ-W9E2gTdn8vmSB1gR4XaOVtz0gDrpGA1SX9z2cqxotTSCzFsEmtHN/s350/Pound+Cottage+-+55+High+Street+March+2010.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="228" data-original-width="350" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZxZwjHYKDWrcTwDT5u4-H8a-MJcFQhCrNkJj8JwyZDrNGzQsMbQxZVeuQw99YrUl_bt8jv1KFhIlcNVnjxCAiaNJ-W9E2gTdn8vmSB1gR4XaOVtz0gDrpGA1SX9z2cqxotTSCzFsEmtHN/w400-h260/Pound+Cottage+-+55+High+Street+March+2010.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pound Cottage today</i></td></tr></tbody></table></a><br />My great grandparents had the following children:</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /><b>Lilly Martin</b> born 1882 married to Sidney Pinn, Child Ida Lilly born 1909.<br /><b>Berty Martin</b> born 1886 married to Annie M Mansell. My grandmother Marion lived with them during the war and was good friends with Annie, according to my grandfather's letters. Berty's occupation was listed as railway fireman and later railway mechanic. Children Marion and Victor. Marion was born in 1919 and I believe she was named after my grandmother.<br /><b>Percy Martin</b> born 1890 married to Emma Langridge 1911, occupation - railway carriage cleaner and later, woodkeeper. Children Lilian E Martin born 1917, Queenie S Martin born 1920, Stanley J Martin born 1923.</span><span face="system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif" style="background-color: #f0f2f5; color: #050505; font-size: 15px;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b>George Jackson Martin</b>, later named George William Martin, July 20 1892, </span> <span style="font-family: helvetica;">at Bishop's Stortford, an historic market town in Hertfordshire. M</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">arried Marion MacNaught, Dec 1914 Children Margaret Elizabeth Martin born March 20 1920 and (my mom) Janet Isabel Martin born July 9 1922.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b>Sarah (Cis) Martin</b>, born 1895, married to Harold Pontin, 24 May 1919,</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> child Ronald Pontin born 1932, died 1999.</span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnOC7HXEyyT9noxxcQ219E_KJdE9wTYbMdOH_O25f18phbzAWEqn9vivKb2aC5ypH_ZmwgiJpEoBB-uZ149ibaYdpFXhYsIudFu9WQeRg0ZbYTTXFV0fwaRkLWOXPCjj0Ob0w6WnfIb257/s1052/Screen+Shot+2021-06-12+at+10.39.28+AM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="798" data-original-width="1052" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnOC7HXEyyT9noxxcQ219E_KJdE9wTYbMdOH_O25f18phbzAWEqn9vivKb2aC5ypH_ZmwgiJpEoBB-uZ149ibaYdpFXhYsIudFu9WQeRg0ZbYTTXFV0fwaRkLWOXPCjj0Ob0w6WnfIb257/s320/Screen+Shot+2021-06-12+at+10.39.28+AM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Tunbridge Wells Home</i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When his parents died, my grandfather was placed in <a href="http://www.childrenshomes.org.uk/TunbridgeWellsWS/?fbclid=IwAR1ap4IQTgw5BWBRxBTHLLmGVHe_Djzt3PN7K24pnkUi1QRtCwELjv9d7Uo" target="_blank">St Georges Home for Boys</a> in Tunbridge Wells, run by the Church of England. I assume his older siblings were old enough to make a go of it on their own and his younger sister was taken care of by other relatives. By weird coincidence, my Canadian born daughter was married in Tunbridge Wells. Here she is in front of the old home for boys.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYpe9XbaigQ8_r3fELnCpYsgDdTMSLMkgVgspHmNKMx1An6cmbxE9nemPA2JXDA6irSWmThlU3Kcl2_G9c3d75Lm11WS15RHeAKu1Wo7IzTQkwPBLPwOe8jAcNcqlbtc6lBuouoiZqzJ02/s912/Jordan+in+Tunbridge+Wells.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="912" data-original-width="684" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYpe9XbaigQ8_r3fELnCpYsgDdTMSLMkgVgspHmNKMx1An6cmbxE9nemPA2JXDA6irSWmThlU3Kcl2_G9c3d75Lm11WS15RHeAKu1Wo7IzTQkwPBLPwOe8jAcNcqlbtc6lBuouoiZqzJ02/s320/Jordan+in+Tunbridge+Wells.jpeg" width="240" /></i></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Jordan at the former location of St. George's Home.</i></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho9J__u_ZWw0Tfe02aJ2n8KcCeOIBaV8IGcHbGlNRbXm7wksWQMXvpOm05BjNR-s1fev_KKM1351PaIllRbWM3AJp1hdf-UeQfq_xiYfHX0q6DtcaTBXFQtMjQ7ReV_06EKgA99qTyRkbu/s1600/manifest2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1027" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho9J__u_ZWw0Tfe02aJ2n8KcCeOIBaV8IGcHbGlNRbXm7wksWQMXvpOm05BjNR-s1fev_KKM1351PaIllRbWM3AJp1hdf-UeQfq_xiYfHX0q6DtcaTBXFQtMjQ7ReV_06EKgA99qTyRkbu/s320/manifest2.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Passenger List for The Virginian</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />From there Granddad travelled by ship along with 14 other boys, accompanied by a Mr. Brewster. My cousin Jansi remembers that he told her a nun on the ship gave him a small elephant carving. He collected elephants for his whole life and frequently made up stories about Jumbo the Elephant when we were kids . He went to <a href="http://www.childrenshomes.org.uk/SherbrookeGibbsWS/" target="_blank">Gibbs Home</a> in Sherbrooke Quebec when he arrived in Canada. I don't know what those years were like before he started with the bank. Did he really start training to be an Anglican minister? Did he work on a farm as many home children did? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmTEmDS0zdtO5ckIVYSPpgXdI5Whi1R1equxzf_6GebbQeGVsJQt4MsXijvpQHJlSE4gMLc_eUOLdpG4tSBm0zCi6SPpB7De3X301axrRsb08IAgxQuEJ02cE0K9fQGIqif7bhp8Pfqy3v/s1195/FB_IMG_1636869349984.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1195" data-original-width="749" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmTEmDS0zdtO5ckIVYSPpgXdI5Whi1R1equxzf_6GebbQeGVsJQt4MsXijvpQHJlSE4gMLc_eUOLdpG4tSBm0zCi6SPpB7De3X301axrRsb08IAgxQuEJ02cE0K9fQGIqif7bhp8Pfqy3v/s320/FB_IMG_1636869349984.jpg" width="201" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grandad's name appears in the middle column. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The helpful archivist at the Bank of Commerce was able to find out that he started work as a ledger keeper in Bishopton Quebec in 1912, moved to Winnipeg where he was a clerk, and then Lake Saskatoon where he met my grandmother. He stayed with the bank for decades, relieving for bank managers everywhere from Beaverlodge to Aklavik for years after his official retirement.</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikrBf44nipmTb3oyvH-u7AXfrqO3UhP8z5aHb67rqluuKG0TejtkW6PiGHxKwD1jQMrD_a4lr-ve8tY-Kd68zIw-ynNTN4EvA1tWUuSRbzuedCavO3ynjVcefAncSBR_VnGXa-3x1CV6jc/s1104/Screen+Shot+2021-06-10+at+8.02.06+PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1104" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikrBf44nipmTb3oyvH-u7AXfrqO3UhP8z5aHb67rqluuKG0TejtkW6PiGHxKwD1jQMrD_a4lr-ve8tY-Kd68zIw-ynNTN4EvA1tWUuSRbzuedCavO3ynjVcefAncSBR_VnGXa-3x1CV6jc/s320/Screen+Shot+2021-06-10+at+8.02.06+PM.png" width="320" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">My grandfather had a wonderful life. He <a href="https://progressivelyirrelevant.blogspot.com/2014/08/beloved.html">loved his wife</a> and family. He had a rewarding career, becoming bank manager in Monitor in 1929, and later manager of the Highlands Branch in Edmonton. He and my grandmother raised two daughters during the depression. Their home was a welcome haven for both new employees of the bank and soldiers from the Peace Country during WWII. My mom and aunt were educated with impressive careers of their own, they were great moms, and active members of their community. My grandparents were married for 62 years. They left behind 10 grandchildren, 21 great grandchildren and 25 great great grandchildren at last count. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicPrLtgI0NdYnKhWcA9LZR9ual4AnwzEv1bnpjvgM0PAUwoqlQWM9KG44AwQi4gNbjQEcW8Ky_x-ZKMGNwHdv9JpH3b1_WftQdJypJa4e0Z7PqG8-yoQJrW7Fxjbp9Awnye3epVB6LGCZH/s980/bank.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="702" data-original-width="980" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicPrLtgI0NdYnKhWcA9LZR9ual4AnwzEv1bnpjvgM0PAUwoqlQWM9KG44AwQi4gNbjQEcW8Ky_x-ZKMGNwHdv9JpH3b1_WftQdJypJa4e0Z7PqG8-yoQJrW7Fxjbp9Awnye3epVB6LGCZH/w400-h286/bank.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Granddad at Lake Saskatoon bank, supplied by CIBC Archives.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimDwMGFn6U8LcwsgD9BO9gSiYplNtrI1LbR_Xaj9GVUQj8kq7svjhFpbppHmHn0WgRPaD0BIOnGa30NDCeKLMTJRKLZbAXiG-PWdZumFhzUgGUdBgEZ1XA2bcOS9ziTOg4UqaaKbYhVkL7/s1720/monitor.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1014" data-original-width="1720" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimDwMGFn6U8LcwsgD9BO9gSiYplNtrI1LbR_Xaj9GVUQj8kq7svjhFpbppHmHn0WgRPaD0BIOnGa30NDCeKLMTJRKLZbAXiG-PWdZumFhzUgGUdBgEZ1XA2bcOS9ziTOg4UqaaKbYhVkL7/w400-h236/monitor.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Monitor Branch, supplied by CIBC Archives.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556527235144353235noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4619892469584559115.post-26674410189476412982021-05-26T10:02:00.000-06:002021-05-26T10:16:47.257-06:00Taking Root<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixkSlK-npYIQHJ2WZmV0-GPKu0QxPNpFInY_nc3jcWJ7MRMczBDRuea842CcilyWPjYNaqtv-h0SFx8_3vMKfwC53Qr_Sg6VkzExOtIaDq_6HyXuvtHu0rG0HvwyPtQuh97JwTRLExZoVx/s4608/IMG_20210506_161423.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixkSlK-npYIQHJ2WZmV0-GPKu0QxPNpFInY_nc3jcWJ7MRMczBDRuea842CcilyWPjYNaqtv-h0SFx8_3vMKfwC53Qr_Sg6VkzExOtIaDq_6HyXuvtHu0rG0HvwyPtQuh97JwTRLExZoVx/s320/IMG_20210506_161423.jpg" /></a></div></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div>Last year I wrote about <a href="https://progressivelyirrelevant.blogspot.com/2020/06/what-is-your-house-worth.html" target="_blank">leaving our house behind</a> for another family to use. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Leaving the house was hard. Leaving the yard that we spent years nurturing was really hard.</span><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOcKEvMISuice_o_o7os4CAS7tFofHbzgYjZB1376OHaWNn9iNe76Y3o_QSTWF1_D6NutvivRgkaMnRZOZOqK8BppMosc1reMKgdJ3dX6uEBZwmsNRJ3WaLdqXzMyiWySrU8C4CDa7_4mM/s4032/IMG_7485.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOcKEvMISuice_o_o7os4CAS7tFofHbzgYjZB1376OHaWNn9iNe76Y3o_QSTWF1_D6NutvivRgkaMnRZOZOqK8BppMosc1reMKgdJ3dX6uEBZwmsNRJ3WaLdqXzMyiWySrU8C4CDa7_4mM/w300-h400/IMG_7485.HEIC" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Len and Pippa on the back deck of the old house</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When we bought that house, we were the fourth owners in just over 20 years. Like many houses in our northern town, it had been owned by one family after another who perhaps knew they would not stay. Maybe that's why no one had had put much time or effort into the little yard. There was one spruce too close to the house, a pyramid cedar, and a scraggly lilac. Y</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">ou could see right into the neighbour's yards.</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> The first year we were there, we planted 9 trees. We added more over the years, along with some shrubs and numerous perennials and even a tiny raised plot for tomatoes. By the time we left, our modest and somewhat exposed yard was a green bower, shaded on all sides by growing things. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCV_QTYVPd1UcwwZA5H-nxQ4scgt_wzRoJDlHCA39q_umED9Ua4SEz7DmhLNjJPN_DIpH-fcZmYLwCQYA7tmQsrbPRs6ZNfQaAZKMh5p7DpVt5gsDowf_h6FU7qcJGQP_0b_kA0ftU7Uip/s3648/IMG_20200701_200801.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCV_QTYVPd1UcwwZA5H-nxQ4scgt_wzRoJDlHCA39q_umED9Ua4SEz7DmhLNjJPN_DIpH-fcZmYLwCQYA7tmQsrbPRs6ZNfQaAZKMh5p7DpVt5gsDowf_h6FU7qcJGQP_0b_kA0ftU7Uip/w300-h400/IMG_20200701_200801.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Back yard </i></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Every time we planted a tree in our little yard we would ask, "How big is this thing going to get? Will it be too big for the space?" And then we would shrug and say, "How long are we going to live here anyway? Not long enough for any tree to get too big." That wasn't true. We stayed for 14 years. Long enough for the apple to produce more fruit than we could ever eat. Long enough for the volunteer mountain ash we dug out of our previous yard to tower over the store bought mountain ash, the amur maple, the columnar cedars and Hart's grade one spruce tree.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1QlW03MG4WQ4ebtLD8uMNwATdWbFx9l7-u1K3TgVws-EsaTJM75KwXCRZHy3Thw8kuGHE5nsN5qjoeFSESbJOrFcn9HDCiNH2mdDNjc2rBxCSDbz_ZKK5wyqX_O1iAyRa4eD6tBnBSXx8/s4032/IMG_7477.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1QlW03MG4WQ4ebtLD8uMNwATdWbFx9l7-u1K3TgVws-EsaTJM75KwXCRZHy3Thw8kuGHE5nsN5qjoeFSESbJOrFcn9HDCiNH2mdDNjc2rBxCSDbz_ZKK5wyqX_O1iAyRa4eD6tBnBSXx8/w300-h400/IMG_7477.HEIC" width="300" /></a></div></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We had many failures in our tree planting adventures. A Chinese weeping willow from Hole's Greenhouse was a gorgeous tree for many years until a harsh winter caused it to die back. It kept regrowing from the base but it was no longer a tree- it was a weedy shrub that was impossible to kill. We had a fabulous flowering plum that thrived for years and then faded away and died. A hybrid rose that bloomed for years and then gradually died away. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqxg84zJ5mLum-89vzuCb8Lv6SM36A8RGf8WonbNjXGRxAIL14gm3Vl_Cjly0oFKx9ZLzLIwxSIgFFNPv2ldayt1X03dnE2h1pNQKEUp94k3Sf_rP2oW9FewKGalQR4igcA3m4kdZneHFP/s1939/IMG_20210519_104739.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1438" data-original-width="1939" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqxg84zJ5mLum-89vzuCb8Lv6SM36A8RGf8WonbNjXGRxAIL14gm3Vl_Cjly0oFKx9ZLzLIwxSIgFFNPv2ldayt1X03dnE2h1pNQKEUp94k3Sf_rP2oW9FewKGalQR4igcA3m4kdZneHFP/s320/IMG_20210519_104739.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The maple thriving in the back corner</i></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Our biggest challenge was in the back corner where a greenhouse had once stood. Try as we might, we could not get anything to grow there. We first tried a silver tip maple that lasted a year, obviously not hardy enough for that zone. Once we planted a Russian Olive, knowing that several neighbours had massive ones. Surely it would live. But no. It was frustrating. Around about that time, a maple started growing outside our bedroom window. The key must have blown over from the Tange's massive tree across the street. Under the window was no place for a tree since it was in a narrow passageway between two houses. But we let it grow because I loved seeing something green instead of a blank wall. However, it did not take long before it was just too big for the space. "Let's dig it out and stick it in the hole in the back corner," I suggested. By then this thing was a good 8 feet tall. My husband had to hack out most of the root since it was growing right up against the house. "That's not gonna live," we said as we stuck the bare root in the sad mix of clay and old muskeg in the back corner. But if we didn't transplant it, it was going to die anyway. It didn't cost us anything but labour. And it obviously liked our soil and climate. Darn it if the thing not only lived, but flourished. <br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Unlike our previous yard, the yard in our new house has not been neglected. Under the stewardship of its only owners, every inch of the yard has been meticulously landscaped and loved. The plants have been fertilized. The well-placed trees and shrubs have been pruned. When Jack and Nancy designed their yard, they designed it for the future. They grew a garden that they could enjoy for years. And now it's ours.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvxL6lAd1m_ntdTyJBKl7jBHA8VeoMG29oJ2dsL_beFT7qH87OWWI1hr1IbTId5V4DEBEEQ8fu-JvhfLKoqQ1B1EiYWmub7nsz9u_UyJq57nJwRU5H1jV2rDshflpzB3epUULruQNirgec/s3648/IMG_20210514_212713_edit_35977844519510.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvxL6lAd1m_ntdTyJBKl7jBHA8VeoMG29oJ2dsL_beFT7qH87OWWI1hr1IbTId5V4DEBEEQ8fu-JvhfLKoqQ1B1EiYWmub7nsz9u_UyJq57nJwRU5H1jV2rDshflpzB3epUULruQNirgec/w400-h300/IMG_20210514_212713_edit_35977844519510.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It is odd, tending someone else's garden. But it has also been fun discovering what grows. What plant is this popping up so soon in the front yard? Oh, it's a bleeding heart! The bears seem to like the shaggy nanking cherries-should we take them out? But oh no, look at how beautiful the blossoms are, how sweet it smells, how many bees buzz around. What are these, cropping up all along the retaining wall? Anemones nodding their white heads. Clematis creeping up the wall. The climbing rose. A little patch of rhubarb, nothing like abundant plant from the last house, which pleases my husband who apparently doesn't like rhubarb. Peonies that I was never ever able to get to grow in my muskeg based dirt. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkUFxSUuOuxJ9gcgWKLhqzPS89jN33LYi2ZiQxvRaMOB4-I0Vtoi4kPToMI7q2-GILXDTuXpgFoXOyK_UpWln_oJtZb-RNqfY8ht3k4CoQuDhvJfNR3f0M9MCmUuyT3XY8TDOt_19x1JjZ/s2048/IMG_20210518_153551.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkUFxSUuOuxJ9gcgWKLhqzPS89jN33LYi2ZiQxvRaMOB4-I0Vtoi4kPToMI7q2-GILXDTuXpgFoXOyK_UpWln_oJtZb-RNqfY8ht3k4CoQuDhvJfNR3f0M9MCmUuyT3XY8TDOt_19x1JjZ/s320/IMG_20210518_153551.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Peonies in the back garden</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">At the edge of the property, a patch of native </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i>mahonia aquifolium </i>blooms</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-style: italic;">. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Oregon Grape. It has planted itself along with a little nanking cherry and a willow. Found throughout the nearby forest, its early yellow blooms have the most amazing smell. Its holly like leaves last year-round and its bitter fruit makes a lovely jelly.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTYwG3kLL4jBIO-PbvYxyBFkMOKyoq7_D3yAdWafL64WBgbCCGjt5M0XJgPYiGwPKziJ35YxQXyFqB7F8YMZmEMw-BdAsm5uAXFAaCQGEDEE5j3K0OoXK1h9FSkDCMQwwtts8mC-jEbkGk/s2048/IMG_20210518_154807.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTYwG3kLL4jBIO-PbvYxyBFkMOKyoq7_D3yAdWafL64WBgbCCGjt5M0XJgPYiGwPKziJ35YxQXyFqB7F8YMZmEMw-BdAsm5uAXFAaCQGEDEE5j3K0OoXK1h9FSkDCMQwwtts8mC-jEbkGk/s320/IMG_20210518_154807.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Mahonia aquifolium</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Towering grasses and Humpty Dumpty dwarf pines and a massive maple whose red leaves are a sight to behold in fall. There is almost nothing to do with this yard but to enjoy it. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i></i><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYUjs9IRmvmtqshx021gZ-3L3Q-MTMbWxmFKMBXFpoNES0f8_kf3uZNpFhyBkfXW8wMSLS99P58ra5SGdmYYFa55m8SrkcGZQY_f8OfunlaykfttorUX6tfYMS_QmJsA4-wJDrdqCGDSRT/s3699/IMG_20201005_172659.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3699" data-original-width="2887" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYUjs9IRmvmtqshx021gZ-3L3Q-MTMbWxmFKMBXFpoNES0f8_kf3uZNpFhyBkfXW8wMSLS99P58ra5SGdmYYFa55m8SrkcGZQY_f8OfunlaykfttorUX6tfYMS_QmJsA4-wJDrdqCGDSRT/s320/IMG_20201005_172659.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Sir Isaac and Guapo under the maple</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Still we want to make it our own, just a little. We are trying to figure out where to plant an apricot tree and how to protect it from the deer and bears that wander freely through the unfenced neighbourhoods. There was a dead plant out front. "I think a hydrangea would do well there," I said to my husband. As he was digging out the old plant he said, "Did you know they used to have a hydrangea here?" For sure enough there was the old plastic tab of the previous hydrangea, a pink one, just like the one I bought with my Mother's Day gift certificate from my daughter. </span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinsgAS-AqY0e7lfXwCsumZPcsHZFWyCuIymT7crzMv8Dy9O8f6HH_tdc0XZbLhu_lrpkQqbWDDt_fbSN44dYwpDhVpM8180FiNWlc0-zQ7rWkhmFwhO2fwbY22stDmBYBtAgvStyR_LI9B/s2048/IMG_20200902_080511_edit_57062460718376.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinsgAS-AqY0e7lfXwCsumZPcsHZFWyCuIymT7crzMv8Dy9O8f6HH_tdc0XZbLhu_lrpkQqbWDDt_fbSN44dYwpDhVpM8180FiNWlc0-zQ7rWkhmFwhO2fwbY22stDmBYBtAgvStyR_LI9B/s320/IMG_20200902_080511_edit_57062460718376.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Deer hiding under the mountain ash</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;">One of the clematis in the back is dead so I dug out a wild <i>clematis columbiana</i>- a native species also known as "virgin's bower" - from the wooded lot next door and planted it next to the dead one in the garden. It had an impressive root system and I am not sure if it will survive. It is is a native species, and like that volunteer mountain ash in our old yard, I hope it will take root. But I also know not all wild things can survive in the richer soils of the domestic garden.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpacUZeQWVzN2aXGb06vmvbo9-OdMUejGZINTbDSBML0S5JDkc4aspCEtTgkAbBmKAEwZxNMjSw5iLTiI7BoM7OfxREzqMf084VAGwhHl0CIRfe9lF7WFWrQviV8Ey8j1gEPOSB72Re6UK/s3648/IMG_20210512_155201_edit_50604169146963.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpacUZeQWVzN2aXGb06vmvbo9-OdMUejGZINTbDSBML0S5JDkc4aspCEtTgkAbBmKAEwZxNMjSw5iLTiI7BoM7OfxREzqMf084VAGwhHl0CIRfe9lF7WFWrQviV8Ey8j1gEPOSB72Re6UK/w300-h400/IMG_20210512_155201_edit_50604169146963.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Clematis Columbiana in the wild</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Whenever I stick a new plant into the ground, I talk to it and encourage it to grow. "Bloom where you're planted' is nice sentiment. But it doesn't always apply to plants. Some plants cannot grow wherever we plant them, no matter how much care we give, any more than they can thrive wherever their seeds blow. But according to the saying plants and people are supposed to thrive wherever they find themselves. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqpwzrH5wHKMsA8PTz6uoku54IdG3HED5X01trlpHRsH_c0xKHZ7rKj1ITm4otw6jiaXYoswHHmihlCPBL3BhW-xAbOLEfsUnVSs7M-KxcSc9cWawl-S6huaJpPHLc7sxpsgGokay_aBHm/s1748/Beaverlodge.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1748" data-original-width="1130" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqpwzrH5wHKMsA8PTz6uoku54IdG3HED5X01trlpHRsH_c0xKHZ7rKj1ITm4otw6jiaXYoswHHmihlCPBL3BhW-xAbOLEfsUnVSs7M-KxcSc9cWawl-S6huaJpPHLc7sxpsgGokay_aBHm/w259-h400/Beaverlodge.jpg" width="259" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The McNaught descendents, Beaverlodge Alberta</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">My ancestors were pioneers. My great-grandparents and their many descendents have transplanted themselves far from where they were born, working hard to flourish in new environments from the Peace Country to southern Alberta to Vancouver Island to California to France to the UK. My husband's family is much the same. Some places are easier than others. Just as it is for plants, some species are best suited for certain environments. Some can adapt better than others. The ground may be fertile for a maple or a mountain ash, but not for a Russian Olive. The weather will be ideal for rhubarb but not hydrangeas. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Some species will take root, but others will find their environment too inhospitable. They may find their tender new growth eaten alive by animals or insects, mowed down by weed wackers, destroyed by herbicides or even blasted out by a tiger torch. Or they might try really hard for a long time but be taken out in a single season by unexpected events. Or eventually they may succumb to the elements, wither and die.</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> While some invasive and introduced species survive by nature or nurture, sometimes the indigenous species are all that will live. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNEThXtSoR0PuJoJrGnFUxY6Nj6E791i3Rm8K9RYg2B9Vv86HiNEuXA81rl8V_vW2AlY4HTsk9GTcj9Se9epFGthqJBvOGJr4YOyaDfDnpQ5WDe2sTLA_Xz2x0Y2lecr6UBTXPPrulQQho/s4608/IMG_20210524_133947_edit_86251115522775.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNEThXtSoR0PuJoJrGnFUxY6Nj6E791i3Rm8K9RYg2B9Vv86HiNEuXA81rl8V_vW2AlY4HTsk9GTcj9Se9epFGthqJBvOGJr4YOyaDfDnpQ5WDe2sTLA_Xz2x0Y2lecr6UBTXPPrulQQho/w300-h400/IMG_20210524_133947_edit_86251115522775.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Arrowleaf balsalmroot, a native species in the forest nearby<br /><br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table>Unlike plants, humans can try to create their own environment, water and fertilize and create their own little microclimate. Sometimes that works. But if you are fighting Mother Earth, eventually the real nature of the place will win. You might survive but you'll never blossom.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I have always tried to bloom where I was planted. Tried to live my best life no matter where I have lived. I haven't always succeeded. Sometimes I wonder if it's not just easier to relocate to a place where you fit in instead of constantly battling elements outside your control. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Will we thrive here? Right now we are finding the climate and soil pretty sustaining. Let's see if those roots will hold. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ByZX6afeRUSIrg9hTTsCEtzL14Vb7EB5jb-nQOvyZQV9SkeXKB6N8r3YjRARztDccqdmRGlUdhyBMVAtchfOIo6kg7rmzXLnZrQnS9gMzzO6qNY4Xr90561dQQGuGfLw8ArGRzMgVQ45/s2048/IMG_20200919_173030_edit_57098844174620.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ByZX6afeRUSIrg9hTTsCEtzL14Vb7EB5jb-nQOvyZQV9SkeXKB6N8r3YjRARztDccqdmRGlUdhyBMVAtchfOIo6kg7rmzXLnZrQnS9gMzzO6qNY4Xr90561dQQGuGfLw8ArGRzMgVQ45/w300-h400/IMG_20200919_173030_edit_57098844174620.jpg" width="300" /></a></div></div><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span></div></div>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556527235144353235noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4619892469584559115.post-38908748102026364332021-05-15T10:03:00.002-06:002021-05-15T10:03:49.546-06:00Before and After the Fire<p> <span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i>May 15 2011</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">If you didn't live there before the fire, you don't know.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">You don't know what it was like that day, watching the sky, talking to your neighbours, scanning social media and internet news.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">You don't know what it was like to listen. Listen so hard for a voice that told you to go. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">A voice that never came.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">You don't know how the news the fire had breached the highway shot through town like an electric current.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">You don't know the weird mix of fear and calm as you fled.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">You don't know the anxiousness of waiting. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Waiting to find out if anyone had died. Because surely someone had.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Waiting to find out if your house was still standing. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Waiting to hear who among your friends was homeless.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">You may have heard the stories, but you don't fully understand how people helped save each other. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And you can't know the stillness in your car when you drove back into your town. When you had no words to describe what you were seeing.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">You can't know the devastation that no picture can show, as much a feeling as an image. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">You can't know that particular sadness.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">But you might know. You should know how people came together to try to rebuild something. Something better.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Before the fire. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">After the fire.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">A day that defined Slave Lake.</span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRXDdHVGiE14xQyP04aXpv8HZN24gAOVz2zBFSTKDlV7U2vsjtSN07jgM74GlB4MpBKlc9992Oslus0EZILo8nxGGnV7tCQhl1kO3wrI86G15bpNu48E4iON4jfhU03hVMtolUrDz3bgxy/s2048/Fire+ball+HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRXDdHVGiE14xQyP04aXpv8HZN24gAOVz2zBFSTKDlV7U2vsjtSN07jgM74GlB4MpBKlc9992Oslus0EZILo8nxGGnV7tCQhl1kO3wrI86G15bpNu48E4iON4jfhU03hVMtolUrDz3bgxy/w400-h266/Fire+ball+HDR.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>In front of our house. Photo Credit: Len Ramsey</i></td></tr></tbody></table></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuUEr6Q3DTHOobit_QrSTM8ZkckPUj4zSRIXh1eEG2shXh5xlihWU978NTbAZehjVeW0VbbhGtE6w0mvyA4mf1sZ8uPNPo52Z618T4ww2mP5kUrjrF7OJOuA06nwMZ7dsxSkp_yJbEvlf1/s1024/IMAG1100-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="613" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuUEr6Q3DTHOobit_QrSTM8ZkckPUj4zSRIXh1eEG2shXh5xlihWU978NTbAZehjVeW0VbbhGtE6w0mvyA4mf1sZ8uPNPo52Z618T4ww2mP5kUrjrF7OJOuA06nwMZ7dsxSkp_yJbEvlf1/w400-h240/IMAG1100-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Fire breaches the highway. Photo credit: Bruce Turnbull</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_GOqcUzR5-LW-DtBQJWqQf7ERcLkTxTVfPD30aRkTP7d4qey8e-CIs72hEyAe12PaOaN_jRWgKjHJ6_IPrWUMrQDtxWGgcuqy66aoEhQPRPu54TsidA7_zY6WX0iSKkZ3bb7nvms9naH-/s2048/IMG_3218.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_GOqcUzR5-LW-DtBQJWqQf7ERcLkTxTVfPD30aRkTP7d4qey8e-CIs72hEyAe12PaOaN_jRWgKjHJ6_IPrWUMrQDtxWGgcuqy66aoEhQPRPu54TsidA7_zY6WX0iSKkZ3bb7nvms9naH-/w400-h266/IMG_3218.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Making our escape</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP9_MB-ihQRq4mxrbjBX2kyEn7Pw8HQAdmRfS9iHnYzmCeImUfcqIsj3C5iyvMOFrttTLvbD0EgaTPsCUUP0hZIQmOvP7ygjqqo7-y1-2HbrtadgR8jumoaCQTe69I-ich2-911tcp7k2P/s2048/IMG_3244.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP9_MB-ihQRq4mxrbjBX2kyEn7Pw8HQAdmRfS9iHnYzmCeImUfcqIsj3C5iyvMOFrttTLvbD0EgaTPsCUUP0hZIQmOvP7ygjqqo7-y1-2HbrtadgR8jumoaCQTe69I-ich2-911tcp7k2P/w400-h266/IMG_3244.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Watching the fire burn through town.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsx1YINOfzokQuaxrY0oNoIUBL6mnL9e4RME9qalFvOSsxkDwEFOXjvlXYlM1KLctGWQOp2sJ0nWnaQqs-UhvNDUaZ3Nf1sD8fJ5p1lwnXoR8H9KVRbqf2PhoqzeVUdwC-k5kZ7rD85Byt/s360/956.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="360" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsx1YINOfzokQuaxrY0oNoIUBL6mnL9e4RME9qalFvOSsxkDwEFOXjvlXYlM1KLctGWQOp2sJ0nWnaQqs-UhvNDUaZ3Nf1sD8fJ5p1lwnXoR8H9KVRbqf2PhoqzeVUdwC-k5kZ7rD85Byt/w400-h266/956.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4DMQ7wuEpyQRu-t7OmI6UOrTJJasDK2frcQy6K5YXOXRgtXfNxl7dY1u_eL7JJM0MOKAoya6rsbqtKj3R8eb8OtSM4Wsw6dEbBHdVvLI6SLH7jhDh1458jF5tm48HnU84-_MX1qxvwYuJ/s2048/Len+Ramsey+pink+tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4DMQ7wuEpyQRu-t7OmI6UOrTJJasDK2frcQy6K5YXOXRgtXfNxl7dY1u_eL7JJM0MOKAoya6rsbqtKj3R8eb8OtSM4Wsw6dEbBHdVvLI6SLH7jhDh1458jF5tm48HnU84-_MX1qxvwYuJ/w266-h400/Len+Ramsey+pink+tree.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Photo credit: Len Ramsey</i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /><br /></span><p></p>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556527235144353235noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4619892469584559115.post-6850603153874624242021-05-13T09:40:00.000-06:002021-05-13T09:40:47.902-06:00Where is your empathy?<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">A bunch of people at my former workplace were let go. One teacher with 14 years teaching at the same school survived the cuts. Another with 12 years experience was let go. The one who kept her job said she was wracked with "survivor guilt".</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">After wildfires destroyed much of Slave Lake ten years ago, a friend who had lost her home was visiting her sister who had not. As my friend walked up to the house, her sister leaped up from her gardening and dropped her trowel behind her. "What are you doing?" my friend asked. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">"Nothing," said the sister. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">"You are gardening," the friend said. "Why are you trying to pretend you are not?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">"I am just so guilty that I still have a garden and you don't. I don't want to rub it in. I don't want you to feel bad."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Survivor guilt is the term we use when we survive a tragedy and others don't. You lived but others died. You weren't hurt but others were. Your house didn't burn down, but others did. You kept your job and others lost theirs. It can be almost overwhelming. You want to be happy for yourself but at the same time you feel sad for others. But is guilt really the right word? Don't you feel guilt when you do something wrong- when you are <i>responsible</i> for the bad thing that happened to someone else? Maybe, but it's not guilt when it's not your fault. My colleague was not responsible for her friend losing her job. The gardening woman was not to blame for her sister's loss. But 'survivors' feel terrible for those who aren't as lucky as they are. They know it could just as easily have been them. In their minds, they have already experienced the loss of job, income, health, possessions, home or whatever, if only in their imagination. Because they have been so close to the loss themselves, they know the feelings others are experiencing. Their elation at surviving the tragedy while others suffer feels like guilt.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">But it's not really guilt they are feeling. They are feeling empathy. Empathy doesn't mean feeling sad for others. That is sympathy. Empathy is something else. Empathy is the ability to understand - to really know- people's feelings even if you are not experiencing them yourself. Empathy requires compassion and imagination. And in our culture, empathy is often thought of as weakness. Guilt however, is not.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Years ago, I took a bible study course with some ladies from church on spiritual gifts such as faith, prophecy, teaching, healing and so on. My friend Susan and I were both said to have the gift of empathy. "Great," said Susan in her classically cryptic fashion. "Why do I always get the crappy ones?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Why is empathy considered a "crappy" gift? Critics of empathy see it as weakness. They believe empathetic people "won't make the hard choices". Empathetic people are "easily taken advantage of". However, that is often patently false. Empathetic people may understand the impact of their decision but that doesn't mean they don't know it has to be made. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And empathy is hard to monetize. You can't sell empathy. You can't get rich by empathizing with others. Nursing, Child care, teaching and social work -often considered "woman's work" -require empathy to do well. Perhaps empathy is considered a feminine quality and thus has been traditionally undervalued. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">But where would we be without empathy? Our world would be a hard place indeed without people or governments that are able to put themselves in someone else's shoes and by so doing, go on to demonstrate compassion. Because empathy isn't just a feeling. It's also action driven by those emotions. Action that can include short term help for the suffering but also a more far reaching quest for justice. Not only in times of tragedy but also when things are going well. Rather than being a weakness, isn't empathy is a strength? You have to be strong to repeatedly endure powerful emotions and come up with ways to help.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Empathy keeps you awake at night. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Empathy hurts. It hurts to feel other people's' pain. It hurts not to be able to take it away. As one friend said, it can also be paralyzing. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Sometimes it feels like more of a curse than a blessing.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So when I hear these "tough guys" refusing to wear masks or stay home or take simple measures to protect others during the pandemic, I don't see strength. I see people who refuse to draw upon their own life experiences to remind them of what suffering is. I see people too cowardly to try to think about what it is like to watch a loved one suffer. I see people too afraid to admit to the reality of a disease that could easily strike them down. And instead of facing their fears, they deny deny deny, pretending "covid isn't real" or "the economy takes precedence over public health" or "you can't take away my rights..." That's not strength. That's selfishness. That's weakness.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Lack of empathy is confusing. I don't know how it is that some people don't have empathy. Was it how they were raised? Weren't they taught to try to understand what it would be like to be someone else? How is it possible not to care about other people? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Whatever the reason, I'm sick of it. I've had enough of the covid deniers and anti-maskers. I don't understand where they are coming from, as much as I try. I have no experience to draw upon to help me empathize with their lack of compassion. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGjvhMrxzia1X9tFyI94ZN_1vcwV9oXR8vqQU8_Am0XYMLuqEWckToPd7rJ615TNIluRfABuQZcn-2Jgx3kb9EG-rTSwEKbLHYbKhG9PqiexCAKlHCOtOWr_7gPdri88uHW9DOuPs5gtg5/s1440/Screen+Shot+2020-11-25+at+10.03.25+AM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1226" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGjvhMrxzia1X9tFyI94ZN_1vcwV9oXR8vqQU8_Am0XYMLuqEWckToPd7rJ615TNIluRfABuQZcn-2Jgx3kb9EG-rTSwEKbLHYbKhG9PqiexCAKlHCOtOWr_7gPdri88uHW9DOuPs5gtg5/w340-h400/Screen+Shot+2020-11-25+at+10.03.25+AM.png" width="340" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Image from <span face="-apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #5b7083; white-space: nowrap;">@BLCKSMTHdesign on Twitter</span></span></i></div></i><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p></p>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556527235144353235noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4619892469584559115.post-74144351381981474722021-05-03T10:29:00.000-06:002021-05-03T10:29:15.610-06:00Be Still and Listen<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYd65lany4uPAXgjaBhwTfO2_NDT1qZf-iT4S6dan4KrtHiKvFtGPBiCMPnQYbDNRRgtzwyxMQfOFdePFTsyx3OUV97clg7CU6hx8HZp_-PWP5VKREpo0hO4dDYmQ9K_Mkvjy7sdkrDew6/w269-h400/machu.jpg" width="269" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />The philosopher Pascal once said, "All of humanity's problems stem from man's inability to sit quietly in a room alone."<br /><br />Pascal was writing from 16th century France. I doubt he was thinking about a pandemic when he wrote those words. But since the advent of COVID-19, his words resonate. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Awhile ago my husband and I watched the Superbowl, alone in our basement. A far cry from every other year where we have joined a small group of friends to feast and laugh and sometimes watch football. Before the game started, U.S. President Joe Biden called for a moment of silence in memory of the over 440,000 Americans who lost their lives due to covid-a number that stands at 576,000 today. Here in Canada, our numbers have been better but with over 24,000 deaths at the end of April and rising every day, we have nothing to brag about.<br /><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It's no secret that the virus is spread through social contact and g</span>overnments around the world have instituted restrictions to control its escalation. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Yet it continues to spread. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In my own little valley our numbers were pretty good for weeks and weeks. And then our 2 cases a week became 14 and then 24 and then 46. My son lives alone in Calgary. Last week parts of the city had 753 active cases per 100,000. How is this happening?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We are social beings. It goes against our nature to be alone. Being alone is hard. <br /><br />A <a href="https://www.sciencemag.org/news/2014/07/people-would-rather-be-electrically-shocked-left-alone-their-thoughts" target="_blank">2014 stud</a>y found that people would rather give themselves electroshocks than be alone with nothing but their thoughts for 6 minutes. Perhaps it is that inability to be alone with their thoughts that drives people to events such as the "No More Lockdown" Rodeo Rally recently held in Central Alberta. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In today's world, some people will risk giving themselves and others a potentially fatal disease rather than spend time alone.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">You might say Pascal's words are truer today than at any time in history, but how alone are we, really?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />Today we can still connect with others via technology. We met our Superbowl friends for a little bit of the game. We couldn't share food, but we had a few laughs and there was even a little football talk. Every Sunday, we play D&D on Zoom with our kids who live far away. My husband meets monthly with old friends. I have reconnected with a group of university friends on What's App. Not a day goes by that we don't converse about topics ranging from how to get gummy stickers off glass to religion. My friend Heather started an online cooking class. Another friend started a Facebook group called the Covid Collective Isolation Fun Time Group. In some ways, I feel more connected today than pre-pandemic.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">That being said, the pandemic has forced us to be by ourselves for hours at at time. Being by yourself gives you time to consider your life. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Is it what you want it to be? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When you can't rush around socializing and doing this and that, what do you DO? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">That empty space may encourage us to re-evaluate our priorities.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Perhaps that re-evaluating accounts for much of what I see around me. I see people making major changes in their lives, as my husband and I have done. I see people changing jobs. I see people slowing down. I see parents-especially fathers-doing more things outside with their kids. I see people moving to communities that represent more of what they value in their day to day lives. I see huge numbers of people exercising, camping, boating and visiting our Canadian parks. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">My daughter figures it would be easier to get crack than a puppy. I see people taking up new hobbies, cooking better, reading more. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">A grade eight teacher asked her students to describe the impact of the pandemic. Many wrote about the positives of being unscheduled which allowed them to discover their creativity. They experienced a kind of power in learning how to be alone.</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> For many of us, time and solitude has allowed us to prioritize what matters and live with intention instead of just riding out the storm. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The pandemic has changed the world. But like all personal tragedies, it forces us to think and act differently. Perhaps the thought of our own possible impending doom "concentrates the mind wonderfully", as Samuel Johnson once said. </span></div><div><br /></div><div><p></p></div>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556527235144353235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4619892469584559115.post-29074898510292141362020-12-14T09:39:00.003-07:002020-12-14T09:54:31.494-07:00in the bleak<p style="text-align: right;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica;">QEII, December 10, 2020 </span></i></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">red pickup passes on the right.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">window sticker reads "Fuck Trudeau"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">black truck with an unsecured load passes on the left</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">driver is texting</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">one semi after another passes</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">not one pulled over</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">i'm going 117 on the QEII</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">hoar frost and gray sky </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">getting grayer </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">snow on snow</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">wind-drifted crystals float across 6 lanes of traffic</span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">pump jacks</span></div><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">rusted cranes</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">empty shops</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> "China virus! Buy the book!” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">"AB COVID. New Health Orders in Effect” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Alberta</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">bleak midwinter</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB26FmSLv6ntCNlDza_ySy-uPHd6SaHWIe7Uv5T9U3fs8SyBknWPeQKZB9YDTYYZvIuesqrXIBo-6PnWyvkAtQsKIPn2Ia4bWLvLh6DpitFhcr8ZMTRXQXhFWEp3-qZIIVnqc0UiLqbzmR/s4608/IMG_20200308_150004.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB26FmSLv6ntCNlDza_ySy-uPHd6SaHWIe7Uv5T9U3fs8SyBknWPeQKZB9YDTYYZvIuesqrXIBo-6PnWyvkAtQsKIPn2Ia4bWLvLh6DpitFhcr8ZMTRXQXhFWEp3-qZIIVnqc0UiLqbzmR/w400-h300/IMG_20200308_150004.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556527235144353235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4619892469584559115.post-90768188746381324472020-11-22T10:31:00.000-07:002020-11-22T10:31:11.120-07:00It didn't have to end this way<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">This week, close to 40 of my former colleagues were handed their termination notices.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">40 or more others took a buyout in the weeks preceding the terminations. A similar number of support staff are losing their jobs. This follows a massive buyout of senior staff two years ago when Alberta Distance Learning Centre restructured itself in a desperate bid to retain its longstanding government funding. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">All for nothing in this government's relentless quest to reduce services to Albertans.</span><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeIvayqqBCXMGzwlFcl7MpLE7Fy-Zsi5DX_soVWMfm-2Td26Di9ufkQr5Kp7GhPqtpjlT6a-2PNJlNLCWnOVo7F8LcEJCwlosBMu3gGN_MBoa1v8znJi50WrF_8DFXHgQJnOfHmHnvriLh/s2048/IMG_20201119_095127.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeIvayqqBCXMGzwlFcl7MpLE7Fy-Zsi5DX_soVWMfm-2Td26Di9ufkQr5Kp7GhPqtpjlT6a-2PNJlNLCWnOVo7F8LcEJCwlosBMu3gGN_MBoa1v8znJi50WrF_8DFXHgQJnOfHmHnvriLh/s320/IMG_20201119_095127.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">For nearly a hundred years, Alberta Distance Learning Centre has provided educational opportunities to Alberta's kids. From its humble beginnings as a one woman show in the back room of the legislature to its heyday with more than 30,000 students in schools and homes all over the world, ADLC has changed and grown in its quest to meet the needs of kids from virtually every walk of life. From kids living on remote farms, to families who moved abroad for work, to kids with addictions, to kids staying home to care for disabled parents, to gifted kids looking for enrichment, to adult students who fell through the cracks when they were younger. Kids with mobility issues and mental health issues and autoimmune disorders. Elite athletes and aspiring entrepreneurs. Students in small schools that cannot offer a full range of programming. Students wanting to learn another language or explore areas of interest such as Aboriginal Studies or forestry. Students who lost every worldly good due to fire and flood. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Students from large schools who don't fit it. From First Nations to recent immigrants. Christians and Muslims and those whose life experiences have left them with nothing to believe in. Teachers in outreach centres and private schools. And most recently, teachers and students who work remotely due to the COVID-19 pandemic. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">All of these-thousands of people-were able to use ADLC to teach and learn.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">All were welcome. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">"Success for every student" was not just a motto. It was something we believed in and worked to achieve.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Through the decades, ADLC teachers experimented with all kinds of technology to engage kids. Lessons delivered via CKUA radio. Television programming through the now-defunct ACCESS TV. Telephone conferencing. Online learning. Interactive virtual labs. Personalized instruction. Video conferencing. Forestry and rig simulators. ADLC and its programming was recognized throughout the world. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I spent 20 years trying to make course content come alive for thousands of kids. So did dozens of my colleagues who created and revised hundreds of courses at all grade levels. I don't know what will happen to the resources we so painstakingly created and left to others to tend. Left to a faceless bureaucrat to maintain until they wither and die from neglect, I imagine.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">As the threats to defund escalated, the restructuring began. Teachers who previously worked in communities across the province were brought back to the mothership in Barrhead, transferred or offered buyouts, removing almost all <a href="https://www.blogger.com/u/1/blog/post/edit/4619892469584559115/7921052457906928385" target="_blank">institutional memory</a> from the school. Regional offices closed. The time-tested, flexible and cost-effective marker model was eliminated. Services to adults were withdrawn. Summer school opportunities were reduced and then eliminated. It's not what I would have done. But it wasn't up to me. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When the announcement that funding would be phased out, rather than face death through a thousand cuts, ADLC decided it would close early, rather than try to do the impossible. It will close its doors for good in June 2021.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It is hard to know who to blame for this travesty. Certainly the government must accept the lion's share of the blame. But Alberta Education began the defunding process long before the UCP was elected. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Large boards like Calgary Public and Edmonton Public, with their own distributed learning platforms have long resented what they perceived as an unfair funding formula that favoured ADLC - despite the fact that they themselves benefitted from its province-wide mandate. They lobbied for funding to end. Ironically, thousands of students and families from Alberta's two largest cities make up the bulk of students at ADLC and its sister school, Vista Virtual. Make of that what you will.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Sadly, more than 60% of Alberta's superintendents said they did not need ADLC. Apparently the thousands of students from their schools who use ADLC can receive instruction at the hands of their own already overtaxed teachers who will now be expected to create their own materials and complete their own assessments. Or perhaps their schools can buy courses from Pearson or another corporation with a for-profit motive. Or maybe those students just will not have their needs met. Superintendents can take some responsibility as well.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Did local officials fight hard enough to retain this valuable resource? I don't know what they did or didn't do. Whatever it was, it wasn't enough.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Maybe it doesn't matter who is to blame. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Alberta's students will suffer. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And that makes my heart hurt.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I will honour the rich history and dedication of those who built Alberta Distance Learning Centre. Not only for their expertise, dedication, creativity, and vision but also for their very real love for their students. Alberta has lost a vital resource. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It did not have to end this way.</span></div>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556527235144353235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4619892469584559115.post-72442164196224609442020-11-07T10:15:00.002-07:002020-11-07T10:15:57.636-07:00Consent of the Governed<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I stand at my window.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Bright snow on the distant mountaintops.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjjhyDeOddIeLmMfPTck9XOz2SsO5drw260unaLV3_s3wIDfEehyphenhyphenao12dMFd0Rt3ckN2CVyBeG3RKuUEz-0HdIVeURHD3pM0vbePkyJoHTdOR0X_WC31D8mtiF7cePLoKt_InJva-ORMx9/s1440/IMG_20201107_095236.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjjhyDeOddIeLmMfPTck9XOz2SsO5drw260unaLV3_s3wIDfEehyphenhyphenao12dMFd0Rt3ckN2CVyBeG3RKuUEz-0HdIVeURHD3pM0vbePkyJoHTdOR0X_WC31D8mtiF7cePLoKt_InJva-ORMx9/w400-h300/IMG_20201107_095236.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Clouds drift up the valley from the south.</span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Not long ago, that same sky was filled with the purple orange smoke of a wildfire just kilometers away. The fire went from out of control, to being held, to extinguished, due to the hard work of over a thousand firefighters, supported by heavy machine operators and water bombers.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">As the sun creeps along the horizon, the frost on the metal rooftops dissipates. All around me, houses of stucco and concrete. Yards immaculately f<a href="https://firesmartcanada.ca/" target="_blank">iresmarted</a>. The community takes the wildfire threat seriously</span><span style="font-family: helvetica; text-align: left;">.</span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB6E-mbKEDFaOo-_lkWb5nZQJj5kGWqASj2NSgyExUKMe1ld4irclZNAbrsunmzC5qsU7hU1Kl6CxHBckTPUxMZEnK8K8HUnEP2FvArEyetxP8ATTrK9SNDezmAKJOWiYtDI9AJBD3XJOG/s2048/IMG_20201105_173922.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB6E-mbKEDFaOo-_lkWb5nZQJj5kGWqASj2NSgyExUKMe1ld4irclZNAbrsunmzC5qsU7hU1Kl6CxHBckTPUxMZEnK8K8HUnEP2FvArEyetxP8ATTrK9SNDezmAKJOWiYtDI9AJBD3XJOG/s320/IMG_20201105_173922.jpg" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I gaze out over lovely yards, through which bears and deer roam freely. The fall was busy as they forage for fruit. Sometimes they walk right through our yard. The regional district and the local community organization keep us updated with bear sightings. Just today, I read that a large grizzly boar is roaming the river bottom to the north. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We and our neighbours try to live in harmony with these creatures. If someone pulls out a gun, it's to scare them away- not kill them.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYbKTwhafmPse6xwiSAUt7t-8zEtL6TKI-N51jKstrCzgCmjG65sdFhkZx47F2NZd1xerWG9INle7dUhpRndaCdQuMjzjQ5v0vwuQz8lVeY8UMAkPlvxhAEC9atthk525PuLjsMOSxIIPY/s1797/IMG_20201105_173804.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1797" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYbKTwhafmPse6xwiSAUt7t-8zEtL6TKI-N51jKstrCzgCmjG65sdFhkZx47F2NZd1xerWG9INle7dUhpRndaCdQuMjzjQ5v0vwuQz8lVeY8UMAkPlvxhAEC9atthk525PuLjsMOSxIIPY/s320/IMG_20201105_173804.jpg" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The newsletter from the regional district informs me that there are 4 new covid-19 cases in the valley, bringing the total since the beginning of the pandemic to 43. Recently returned from an overseas trip, we are on day 7 of quarantine. We hope we do not add to the statistics and we report daily on the <a href="https://www.canada.ca/en/public-health/services/diseases/coronavirus-disease-covid-19/arrivecan.html" target="_blank">ArriveCan</a> app that we still have no symptoms.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Almost within earshot is the lovely Coldspring Creek which burbles happily down to the river. In spring however, the creek turns to a torrent, washing debris downstream and risking property damage. The regional district recently commissioned a study which recommends a mitigation project that will soon be underway.</span></p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdg48ioGoRFxGW8VOQe_2mBeMIwnFXvPDd712gU5m4L8ppvsZtkj10wbFc8WuZZToLMHMYGhfLXoH09iLrE2yZvggVZ1xXBQaUdBug3UlijTlxOMWU5-0glk8P1dPLyJps2fnWv7ALJozG/s1186/Screen+Shot+2020-11-07+at+8.51.22+AM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1186" data-original-width="996" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdg48ioGoRFxGW8VOQe_2mBeMIwnFXvPDd712gU5m4L8ppvsZtkj10wbFc8WuZZToLMHMYGhfLXoH09iLrE2yZvggVZ1xXBQaUdBug3UlijTlxOMWU5-0glk8P1dPLyJps2fnWv7ALJozG/s320/Screen+Shot+2020-11-07+at+8.51.22+AM.png" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Much further to the south, summer wildfires devastated parts of the country. 46 people died. The president blamed government agencies for mismanagement of forests. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Yesterday, there were over 1200 covid deaths in the U.S., bringing their death total to over 238,000 human lives since March. There were 53 in my own country- a total of just over 10,000. The U.S. has had 723 covid deaths per per million, while Canada has 273. Instead of listening to science, hundreds of thousands of citizens in the U.S. pretend that wearing a mask and avoiding large gatherings is a some kind of affront to their liberties. When it comes to "Give me liberty or give me death," it appears they have chosen death. A decision that mystifies me and most of my fellow Canadians, who have consented to respect the advice of government and the science on which they rely.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The US election is still not settled, with the sitting president tweeting that elections workers should stop counting votes. Armed, unmasked supporters surround voting stations and threaten elections workers. The National Guard is standing by. The rest of the world holds its breath.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And I wonder how it is that in my nation, the vast majority of citizens believe that the government is not the enemy. We may not always like the political party that was elected, but we recognize the right of the majority to form government. The vast majority believe in working together to keep each other safe and prosperous. That is how democracy is supposed to work.</span></p><p><br /></p><br />Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556527235144353235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4619892469584559115.post-57745304606381010042020-11-04T16:17:00.000-07:002020-11-04T16:17:42.717-07:00Aunt Nin and her quilt<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">This is my great great aunt, Jane McNaught. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIhlHE7liFqi0mtBt2foAvEdzVI_rNzbXjqHrkcKIEoHBl2zWY9NIgDGu6lqQBzY0OZgIpNz3fTp9NnYbwS385XzkPJBhmVlLIk-2Z7eLw37HF8sasuP5ImiYxu-f6_4vQwsFM9UfiD1qa/s1495/nin.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1495" data-original-width="1062" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIhlHE7liFqi0mtBt2foAvEdzVI_rNzbXjqHrkcKIEoHBl2zWY9NIgDGu6lqQBzY0OZgIpNz3fTp9NnYbwS385XzkPJBhmVlLIk-2Z7eLw37HF8sasuP5ImiYxu-f6_4vQwsFM9UfiD1qa/s320/nin.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">She was born in the mid 1800s and grew up on the family farm near Glen Morris, Ontario. She was the eldest of four children. She had three brothers- Charles, Robert-who was killed by a run-away cart,-and Samuel. Sam and his family moved to the Peace Country, followed in 1911 by my great grandfather Charles, my great grandmother Eliza, and some of their children, travelling by rail and then ox cart to their homestead near Beaverlodge. Aunt Nin, as she was known to my mom and aunt, followed in 1913 accompanied by a couple of my great aunts who were teenagers at the time.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I don't know much about my great great aunt except that she never married, was exceptionally talented at needlecraft and had a resourceful, pioneering spirit. She knew her new home would not be as established as the Ontario farm where she had always lived, so she brought with her a platform rocker so she would be comfortable on uneven floors. It sits in my living room today, and despite its rather delicate proportions, is a sturdy item that can seat a grown man comfortably.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbou9jMJphM5njLDcvSV2tOK996cGLK-IOv77gDBgwJU7O8Vs3xlSCYR99cTsAGSsc6ZKhLOdpjtUVXvtnZKolTi4MnrVMgm14Gfb1USZVicaiERZNvrOip_T9pFmdztnTrcwRJZF8wHJz/s3648/IMG_20200922_115744.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbou9jMJphM5njLDcvSV2tOK996cGLK-IOv77gDBgwJU7O8Vs3xlSCYR99cTsAGSsc6ZKhLOdpjtUVXvtnZKolTi4MnrVMgm14Gfb1USZVicaiERZNvrOip_T9pFmdztnTrcwRJZF8wHJz/s320/IMG_20200922_115744.jpg" /></a></span></div><p></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Aunt Nin's most famous creation was a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crazy_quilting" target="_blank">crazy quil</a>t she spent years making by hand. She took leftover pieces of brocade, taffeta, velvet, and silk and sewed them together imaginatively, embroidering delicate designs freehand on the plainer bits. Each piece was joined with colourful embroidered stitches, no two alike. The date she started -March 1887-and the date she finished-March 1893- can be found stitched into the quilt. The back is hand-stitched to the backing cloth in stitches so neat, even and tiny, one would think it was made by a machine. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj68glDF2p1SKLE-xa79JsK_gzyarNUDgQ07zfXGZxAujGPeJlJU-B0-LmtB6EAC0Gar6lthuHBphyD487GkJ6yrhfhMJGBGf5R45pvfQk-wNP4ns8QGDMJJSRPcYzypenpbslNCo3t9FOd/s3648/IMG_20200916_164226.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj68glDF2p1SKLE-xa79JsK_gzyarNUDgQ07zfXGZxAujGPeJlJU-B0-LmtB6EAC0Gar6lthuHBphyD487GkJ6yrhfhMJGBGf5R45pvfQk-wNP4ns8QGDMJJSRPcYzypenpbslNCo3t9FOd/s320/IMG_20200916_164226.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When Aunt Nin died, my grandmother-her namesake- inherited the quilt. When I was a kid, sometimes Gramain would take it out of the cabinet at the top of the stairs and show it to me and my cousins. We admired the handiwork. The bits of painted silk that had begun to rot. The little pictures this unknown aunt had stitched into the cloth. And, then the quilt went back into storage, too delicate to grace a bed. Too precious to be put to use. When my grandmother died, I inherited the quilt. I stored it in a special case, looking at it from time to time.</p></span><p></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It took Aunt Nin 6 years to make her quilt, but for well over a hundred years, it has been hidden from view. One day it will be nothing but scraps of cloth. Who will have seen it? Who will have appreciated the skill and creativity and the hours that went into its creation? Who will be there to speculate on the character of the woman who created it? To wonder what Aunt Nin was thinking of during the hours and days and years she toiled over this crazy quilt. Did she remember the parties and events each scrap of cloth represented? Did it fill her with the memories of younger days? Perhaps she imagined it would one day sit on her own bed in her own house. Perhaps she thought about how it would be passed down through the generations. Or perhaps it was just the result of a low cost hobby that helped her while away the time as she watched her brothers marry and settle down and raise their own children as she, the spinster aunt, aged.</span></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></span></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Aunt Nin was 41 years old when she started her quilt and 47 when she stitched the date signifying its completion. She was 67 whe she packed up her platform rocker and her quilt and her nieces and moved from the only home she had ever knew to a pioneer shack in the bush of northern Alberta. By the time she left Ontario, she must have known that quilt would never grace a bed in her own home. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">But it would always be a kaleidoscope of memories, pieced together one bit at a time. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It was the work of her own hand, something to comfort her as she lived out the rest of her days in her brother's house. </span></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We moved this summer. Starting a new life in a new house in a new province, I think about those who went before. Those who took a chance. Those who laboured to create a life in a new place. Those, like Aunt Nin, who made the most of what life offered.</span></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Aunt Nin's quilt now hangs on a wall in my house.</span></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When I look at it, I think about those who make the best of their circumstances. T</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">hose who take the scraps of what could be a drab and humdrum existence and make it into something beautiful.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtdiFjKgducmPrQxiz97pguQmtX3kND6auk0y7KJ3taonXH4kQ_AjXUNNUUtYNUxp-pPZ72N1Rlh6d0NXqjbkleZ2cTDKJaZsOUHeg5CXZkklY9tmkL_bcf6wCful4isTlVJI1KqffPXoJ/s3648/IMG_20200916_164320.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtdiFjKgducmPrQxiz97pguQmtX3kND6auk0y7KJ3taonXH4kQ_AjXUNNUUtYNUxp-pPZ72N1Rlh6d0NXqjbkleZ2cTDKJaZsOUHeg5CXZkklY9tmkL_bcf6wCful4isTlVJI1KqffPXoJ/w640-h480/IMG_20200916_164320.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div><p></p><br />Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556527235144353235noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4619892469584559115.post-60693056160204472642020-06-30T09:48:00.000-06:002020-07-02T08:09:29.707-06:00What is your house worth?<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">Real estate appraisers look at many things when they appraise the value of your home. Size, quality of finish, materials used, number of rooms and comparable sales in your neighbourhood. Realtors have other things they consider- mostly the market and what buyers are looking for.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQM_eLljBG5y7KFlRnjoSeSvtbAsAzglDInKPe9Iirsa2SqSmpEMhlyAgy6UlkkTGhUJMDCPdAnkBgD9V3HrwCL-Z23dQp8_CyKxVx11nMg0XdOaWdgrbFxQMrcw1yO2JeA8k5gZbJAz9W/s960/sold.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQM_eLljBG5y7KFlRnjoSeSvtbAsAzglDInKPe9Iirsa2SqSmpEMhlyAgy6UlkkTGhUJMDCPdAnkBgD9V3HrwCL-Z23dQp8_CyKxVx11nMg0XdOaWdgrbFxQMrcw1yO2JeA8k5gZbJAz9W/w375-h500/sold.jpg" width="375" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">Sellers have their own considerations, things they think about when they try to figure out what their house is worth. They know what they paid for it and they want a return on their investment. Surely it’s worth more now than when they bought it. It’s worth the labour they put into landscaping, the time-consuming effort of building up the claylike soil with years of compost, the time spent nurturing saplings as they grew into trees and seedlings turned into flowers. It’s worth the many dollars they put into upgrades. It’s worth the hours they spent on cleaning and maintenance. It’s worth the good taste they put into renovations.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuJqb-jN5aJPxyjlU2t8ZqOlu7Dyfh5B_aEBIGIOhrEgcNuGWYL7uv_0R5MqoS2cd6rDUS4t0aDSx7TKcMJrOJ8DpDNAS0hKbwSytKoc_FKz_VLDMkDm8Vg0RiV7y9W-XF9BsRej6Q5XID/s1440/cocktil.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuJqb-jN5aJPxyjlU2t8ZqOlu7Dyfh5B_aEBIGIOhrEgcNuGWYL7uv_0R5MqoS2cd6rDUS4t0aDSx7TKcMJrOJ8DpDNAS0hKbwSytKoc_FKz_VLDMkDm8Vg0RiV7y9W-XF9BsRej6Q5XID/w500-h500/cocktil.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">But when you sell your own home, how can you put a value on it? How much is your dining room worth- the place where hundreds of family meals have been consumed, the place where your lively book club has shared thoughts deep and shallow, the room where your entire family has gathered for Christmas dinners, the room filled with candlelight, laughter and love? </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0k1VHlUztwxi-UchTXPOPbId-OE5rfOQTeY6K1DeQ3O0ioJRZ7mvD7UFsWLeyOytJnR51LO4RUc1WmKOaAs7x72Q4Ohx-pBONYP1W8MV0OiljHjjgo_TIKsFYlomSSn9rUMC7cR4f4HuI/s960/christmas+di.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="960" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0k1VHlUztwxi-UchTXPOPbId-OE5rfOQTeY6K1DeQ3O0ioJRZ7mvD7UFsWLeyOytJnR51LO4RUc1WmKOaAs7x72Q4Ohx-pBONYP1W8MV0OiljHjjgo_TIKsFYlomSSn9rUMC7cR4f4HuI/w500-h313/christmas+di.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">The basement bathroom with its mural of tropical fish, painted by your daughters after a trip to Central America? How much is your living room worth- the site where your local arts presenting group Stage North was born, where local NDP volunteers strategized, the site of so many get-togethers? Where your dogs sit on the window seat and bark at Roxy and Annie and any other dog or child that walks by?</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyDKqNWzC0jw0DlyEY5kXOu0aItCsH7pMFD_vyqd1Myg1GDMM5xZKAK607UYtysqzH38UvJ8B8AqQ1iXE7EiIZoG__aM0IslvTABkpPrXvG7fg5aw0jvJP__kHRORrcxu16x2iuq7-n35p/s1196/Screen+Shot+2020-06-16+at+10.56.49+AM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1108" data-original-width="1196" height="463" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyDKqNWzC0jw0DlyEY5kXOu0aItCsH7pMFD_vyqd1Myg1GDMM5xZKAK607UYtysqzH38UvJ8B8AqQ1iXE7EiIZoG__aM0IslvTABkpPrXvG7fg5aw0jvJP__kHRORrcxu16x2iuq7-n35p/w500-h463/Screen+Shot+2020-06-16+at+10.56.49+AM.png" width="500" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">How can you put a dollar figure on the family room where you sit every morning watching the birds your husband lovingly feeds? The back deck where you drink your cocktails every summer evening, in your once-bare back yard, now surrounded by an impressive forest of trees? How do you evaluate your big basement with its long bar and cozy fireplace, home of your fabulous Christmas parties? The apple tree that has grown to produce enough apples to feed the neighbourhood? And what about that basement door, the one your teenagers snuck through after a night of partying? How much are those memories worth?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLWLzmqZcIdt6U_cqAET1Q4nMkQj1R90ZHJkOszwv1SeFeIHR6m6-Ufr9PREIDEXPWhh8htrl-c_WMsZzVH_VK1oH-f8hkERP4pCtASraHME6fA30zBWW4sBdGUeS6nhr9X6TR74IBQisz/s3264/DSC01056.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2136" data-original-width="3264" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLWLzmqZcIdt6U_cqAET1Q4nMkQj1R90ZHJkOszwv1SeFeIHR6m6-Ufr9PREIDEXPWhh8htrl-c_WMsZzVH_VK1oH-f8hkERP4pCtASraHME6fA30zBWW4sBdGUeS6nhr9X6TR74IBQisz/w500-h326/DSC01056.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">There is another element appraisers consider when evaluating a house- something they call “best possible use”. Best possible use means the best way for a property to be used. Maybe the little house your husband grew up in is better suited for its new location as a summer cottage on a Saskatchewan lake instead of its former spot on a residential Edmonton street. The 50s split level he grew up in- on “the biggest lot in the district” as his mother says- maybe the “best possible use” for that property is for it to be split into two like so many other lots, the house replaced with two modern two story homes. Maybe the best possible use for the elegant arts and crafts bungalow my dad grew up in West Point Grey was for it to be torn down and replaced with a pink stucco mansion.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizowsm-pjP9HX6A6ylSi2yrUkBXdnfa01TRO49KsJ96OPZWkGxkuK78q-H3ICZdmjDCm5tPxN72QnO6VJuyVcR3CsMSVernlcAkPVqG30rwFt8ztZNBGUq7a5Ga2ButnD5-QqeYcrUgfdM/s1080/fire.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizowsm-pjP9HX6A6ylSi2yrUkBXdnfa01TRO49KsJ96OPZWkGxkuK78q-H3ICZdmjDCm5tPxN72QnO6VJuyVcR3CsMSVernlcAkPVqG30rwFt8ztZNBGUq7a5Ga2ButnD5-QqeYcrUgfdM/w500-h500/fire.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">The bottom line is your house is worth what someone is willing to pay for it and in our case that number was a lot lower than I expected. But when I think about it, maybe now the house needs to be put to its best possible use. It’s a family home now occupied by two people. It has rooms that sit empty year after year. Maybe its best possible use is for it to once again be lived in by a family. A family with kids that can run in the yard and hammer out tunes on the piano and sit around the fireplace and grow up to sneak in and out of that basement door. A place where a new family can make their own memories.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMbIaVQ7Gg_hJBvUjBbols-gs17QAybBEp6KV4KzHrk-K1dJBkFgb1bVVonqMOXDu_wKcEgf-cgIJezsFHt36zZ84UxWcU6KW6SdFlzNp0pJaT_xiwFCaSykd5AP3x7l711oGs7gQlrlJg/s6000/DSC02030.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMbIaVQ7Gg_hJBvUjBbols-gs17QAybBEp6KV4KzHrk-K1dJBkFgb1bVVonqMOXDu_wKcEgf-cgIJezsFHt36zZ84UxWcU6KW6SdFlzNp0pJaT_xiwFCaSykd5AP3x7l711oGs7gQlrlJg/w500-h333/DSC02030.JPG" width="500" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">So I will say goodbye to our house.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">A house that has given me memories worth more than any dollar figure, memories I will take with me to my new house, wherever that may be.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">And I say welcome to this house, new family. May its fires warm you. May you harvest the apples from its tree. May your rooms be perfumed with flowers from its garden. May you share many dinners with candlelight, laughter, and love. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">And please. If it's not too much to ask. Could you feed the birds? They are going to miss us.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh4kCXyKDshXqOSbgj6zjZxKI6mtgS5ntuviroQcsAXBuh065DxBGiqKNyTROAZgS7ioYXKU3_lRhMnOM39YNkXMQOzAC3zTkutpyPVp1dVsQdvQdEQZRSL9m9PfNO4X6I_03c0F3cCRDx/s1080/birds.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh4kCXyKDshXqOSbgj6zjZxKI6mtgS5ntuviroQcsAXBuh065DxBGiqKNyTROAZgS7ioYXKU3_lRhMnOM39YNkXMQOzAC3zTkutpyPVp1dVsQdvQdEQZRSL9m9PfNO4X6I_03c0F3cCRDx/w500-h500/birds.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></p>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556527235144353235noreply@blogger.com3Township Rd 730A, Slave Lake, AB T0G 2A0, Canada55.294081299999988 -114.879919452.675783308286 -119.27445065 57.912379291713975 -110.48538815tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4619892469584559115.post-39201876890605291022020-06-24T23:39:00.003-06:002020-06-26T11:59:28.329-06:00nicola vs chair<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB9UkS_I1MKdX48lkikSYBhsbjwbv0kmX3qu4A6pgPMP9BVM0Bv5qLWvd2IjisectES5cJhmkNxcVjeb-x0ZXG1LnnTtLzZ5aA4rZWhYIUC2S-2qhH9HqTW2gJXw5CtcjevpVfIRk0NUVP/s3648/IMG_20200529_151626.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB9UkS_I1MKdX48lkikSYBhsbjwbv0kmX3qu4A6pgPMP9BVM0Bv5qLWvd2IjisectES5cJhmkNxcVjeb-x0ZXG1LnnTtLzZ5aA4rZWhYIUC2S-2qhH9HqTW2gJXw5CtcjevpVfIRk0NUVP/s320/IMG_20200529_151626.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">The chair wants to be pink.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">I want it to be white.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: start;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">For the past three weeks we have been engaged in a battle of wills- me as the aggressor and the chair as the passive-aggressive “victim”.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">In the middle of moving, for some reason, I decided to refinish this chair. I tell myself that I do not want to move it if it isn’t worth fixing. But I don’t think that’s the real reason. As I dismantle so much of the life I have spent the past thirty years building, part of me wants to hold on.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">My parents bought the chair- a decrepit platform rocker- along with a matching loveseat, at an estate auction near Beaverlodge in the early 70s. At the same time, they bought the oak table that currently sits in my dining room, the 6 chairs now owned by my middle child, and a spool bed now owned by my sister. While every other item has been refinished, reupholstered and put to use, the chair has languished in basements, garages and storage sheds for the past 50 years. The upholstery has faded to an ugly green-gray. Pieces have fallen off. The wood seat, replaced at one time with plywood, is mildewed and rotting. My dad tried refinishing it once and could not get past the red stain that someone, long ago, had applied. A stain that permeated the wood.<o:p></o:p></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDSVbpQsps6YzCXuoxHIM5IDB0hC261MLyRs0lBZ6oYBks9R_wgekECOU7ulCwlpj11zmAr6Xe9awdHJ62qPJMjysdTRgEKKNj0HpMx9ySq4cklH3FjXk-XdrGzeRpVSfJlC8TZzt4odKC/s3648/IMG_20200530_120908.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDSVbpQsps6YzCXuoxHIM5IDB0hC261MLyRs0lBZ6oYBks9R_wgekECOU7ulCwlpj11zmAr6Xe9awdHJ62qPJMjysdTRgEKKNj0HpMx9ySq4cklH3FjXk-XdrGzeRpVSfJlC8TZzt4odKC/s320/IMG_20200530_120908.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">My friend Kelly volunteered her husband Bruce to rebuild the seat, so that problem was solved. He is a master at fixing things.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">I decided to paint it white to go for a shabby chic look. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I should have talked to people first but instead I gave it a good wash with mineral spirits and sanded it down lightly before I started painting. The stain immediately bled through. I painted it again. And again. My friend Sheila said to use Bull’s Eye primer so it covered it over with that. Again and again. Still pink. Whatever stain was applied is resistant to change. The chair wants to be pink. My English teacher friends said try shellac primer. So I used that. Better. But still a little pink.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">The painting gives me time to think. I think about our upcoming move. We have lived in our current town<b> </b>for 30 years and in our present house for 14 years. Why are we moving? Moving away from our dearly beloved house and a community where we have great friends? A place where we can go to the local brewery and always find people to visit with over a pint? But our kids have moved far away and we want to be just a little bit closer to at least one of them. I do not like the politics of this place and I know I can’t change it. I don’t like the long winters. After the fire, I thought I could help remake the town into something new and better. But it will always be what it is. Part of me feels that if we stay, I will become like this chair, gradually fading away to nothing. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">I need something to restore me.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><font face=""><span style="font-size: 12pt;">When I move, what will change? Will a different life be a better life? After 30 years here, how much of me has been imbued with the culture and landscape of this place? How much of me will be resistant to change? We would like to move to the Columbia Valley. An acquaintance said, “Oh, then you’ll be mountain people.” We also thought of Vancouver Island, to which my brother’s partner said, “Oh, then you’ll be island people.” Are we mountain people? Are we island people? What would either of those identities entail? The only true geographic identity I have ever had is being a northerner. A </span>northerner<span style="font-size: 12pt;">, with all the </span>stubbornness,<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> resiliency, “can-do” attitude, creativity, and self-sufficiency that entails.</span></font></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">Can I be something else?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">I think I am winning my battle with the chair.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">It’s almost white. But I’m not done yet.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">I know that when I am finished, <span style="font-size: 12pt;">I will always see a little pink. I will always know that under the paint, there is a stain embedded deep in the wood. A stain that cannot be removed. Like the chair, for good or for ill, I will always be stained by my history and geography and all those who have impacted me. Whatever replaces the north as home will only ever be a layer over my true self. Underneath, I will be a northerner wherever I go.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><o:p></o:p></p></div>Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556527235144353235noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4619892469584559115.post-78864510478005322792020-04-21T12:31:00.000-06:002020-04-21T19:57:34.475-06:00Everything Breaks<div style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">First the watch stopped keeping time. </span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />You ordered a new one but it wasn't a priority item, so it would take over a month to ship. Time didn't seem to matter most days anyway so you just got used to never knowing the hour or even the day.</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />Then it was the "n" on the keyboard. It just stopped working. Funny how often you use the letter “n”. But the Apple store was closed so what could you do. The laptop seemed almost useless now. </span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />"</span><a href="https://youtu.be/ruPsljJB94s" style="color: #954f72;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">You don't know what you got till it's gone,</span></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">" played in your head.</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />Then the dishwasher stopped on one cycle, re-setting itself when it got down to "0". Then it just stopped altogether. Finally your husband reached the helpful local appliance guy over the phone. He said the machine wasn't worth fixing. You needed to buy a new one. He said they were easy to install by yourself but you knew you couldn't. So you started washing the dishes by hand. It was weirdly satisfying, your hands in the hot water, the grease and food residue disappearing in the suds. Like you were cleansing more than the plates and bowls. Something you could DO. Something tangible and familiar in the face of so many unknowns. </span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />"</span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8OyBtMPqpNY" style="color: #954f72;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">It's the e</span></a><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8OyBtMPqpNY" style="color: #954f72;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">nd of the world as we know it an</span></a><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8OyBtMPqpNY" style="color: #954f72;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">d I feel fine</span></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">” was your soundtrack those days.</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">You had to cancel your trip to meet your daughter and son-in-law. Would you get a refund? Right now, that seemed like the least of your worries. You just wanted to be safe. You wanted your family to be safe. Even if it meant you couldn’t see them. </span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 13.5pt;">Morrisey’s “</span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hZIY1J-V0SA" style="color: #954f72;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 13.5pt;">I Will See You in Far-Off Places”</span></a><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> kept running through your head.</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />Things started running out in the stores. Toilet paper. Hand sanitizer. Flour. Yeast. Eggs. Beans. Pasta. Things you couldn't predict. The outbreaks at meat packing plants caused shutdowns in production. And there was no accounting for what people were hoarding. It was like people were going back to their pioneer roots but without being self-sufficient and suddenly you realized how not self-sufficient you really were. How dependent you were on people you don’t even know just to get through every day. </span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />The internet was slow. Other times it was the cell service- your life-lines with the world.</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />People all around out of work, living off savings and credit cards and loans and government promises. First it was no one you knew, and then it was.<br /><br />And still the COVID-19 numbers were moving up and up. First creeping and then ballooning and there was nothing to do but watch and wait and hope. Hope that people would follow the instructions. That there would be a vaccine. That science would win before someone you knew died. You avoided the elderly and your own family and friends and for a long time, it was no one you knew who got sick. And then it was. </span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />Nat King Cole’s “</span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_X7mEmT7JWs" style="color: #954f72;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Smile</span></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">” was your theme song. Because you tried to smile, even though it felt like everything was breaking, including your heart.</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />You prayed those tax dollars would hold up and that single payer public health care system you believed in would be enough to save you. That the "economy" would hold. That property values wouldn’t collapse. That decades of savings would not be wiped out. That already high rates of inequality wouldn’t lead to greater disparity. In your heart, you knew that wasn’t true.<br /><br />Flatten the curve, you were told. Social isolation. Herd immunity. Physical distancing. The r-factor. New terms you tried to learn. New rules you tried to follow, counter intuitive as they seemed. Science you tried to understand. </span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />The one thing you did understand was the fear. Fear that someone you loved would fall ill and there would be nothing you could do to help. That they would die alone and all you could do was weep. Fear for yourself. Fear for those with mental illness. Fear your country would be the next Italy. </span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />In the middle of it, conspiracy theories. That China deliberately planted the virus to dominate the global economy. That your government was trying to screw you over. That your rights were being stripped away. People wanted someone to blame. They wanted to be angry. Because anger somehow felt more productive than fear.</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />You watched the news from south of the border. Lineups for food banks. The homeless sleeping in parking lots. Armed people on the steps of the legislature, demanding their “freedoms”. Demanding an end to the lockdown so they could get their hair cut and walk on the beach, regardless of who they infected, including themselves. “Give me liberty or give me death,” they said and where would that end? </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 13.5pt;">Then the news that the sale of guns and ammo was at an all-time high. You were afraid there would be some kind of anarchy. A fear that had you wishing you had been in that line up for a gun at Cabela’s before it got shut down. Fear you would be the next U.S.</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />Fred Eaglesmith’s “</span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xlEb3Zxhuwg" style="color: #954f72;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Time to Get a Gun</span></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">” started playing in your head.</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556527235144353235noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4619892469584559115.post-91754557909199064012020-04-10T08:18:00.002-06:002020-04-10T08:18:37.381-06:00Your Special Day<div bis_size="{"x":16,"y":8,"w":653,"h":252,"abs_x":144,"abs_y":145}" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
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Yesterday was my birthday.<o:p bis_size="{"x":209,"y":8,"w":0,"h":18,"abs_x":337,"abs_y":145}"></o:p></div>
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All things considered, it was a pretty good day. I talked to all my kids and a few other relatives. I got many warm wishes over Facebook. Some cookies and homemade face masks were dropped off at my house by a friend. My husband made French toast for breakfast, barbecued steaks, made a cake and somehow even managed to procure gifts. Pretty good considering we’re stuck here with three feet of snow outside in the middle of a pandemic. It doesn’t compare to last year when the world was good and <span bis_size="{"x":16,"y":134,"w":646,"h":54,"abs_x":144,"abs_y":271}" style="font-size: 12pt;">three kids were all in the same place at the same time and we went out for cocktails and dinner, but people made an effort to make me happy and it was appreciated.</span></div>
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<span bis_size="{"x":16,"y":188,"w":0,"h":18,"abs_x":144,"abs_y":325}" style="font-size: 12pt;"><br bis_size="{"x":16,"y":188,"w":0,"h":18,"abs_x":144,"abs_y":325}" /></span>
<span bis_size="{"x":16,"y":206,"w":623,"h":54,"abs_x":144,"abs_y":343}" style="font-size: 12pt;">Birthdays are funny things. No one asked to be born, yet we honour their existence with greetings and gifts on that one day. That one day when we are encouraged to be self indulgent, to celebrate our own uniqueness, rather than thinking about others.</span></div>
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I think back on the birthdays of long ago, those many birthdays of my childhood, a childhood where birthdays were big events thanks mostly to my mom. I try to find meaning. <o:p bis_size="{"x":589,"y":296,"w":0,"h":18,"abs_x":717,"abs_y":433}"></o:p></div>
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I am sure if she had been born in a different era, Mom would have been a career woman but she was a 1960s mom who put all her energies into home and community and family. She loved big projects and entertaining. She included everyone in these events. I wonder now if she had ever been excluded herself in her own childhood. Or if growing up in the depression made her more aware of the suffering of others. She never talked about it, but I wonder. Or perhaps as a teacher in a series of small towns, she had seen the pain that exclusion caused. Or maybe that was just who she was. Whatever the reason, Mom insisted that every girl in my class got invited to my big day. She spent weeks experimenting with crafts and games and cooking and making goody bags and always seemed to pull off the big event effortlessly. I know she wanted me to feel special and I did. And she wanted to be a good hostess by making all her guests feel welcome. These parties caused me stress. I was the centre of attention, something I have never enjoyed. I was a quiet introverted kid who mostly lived in a magical world of my own imagination and big crowds made me anxious.<o:p bis_size="{"x":642,"y":548,"w":0,"h":18,"abs_x":770,"abs_y":685}"></o:p></div>
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Grade two me.</div>
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In grade two there were 42 kids in our class, half girls, and they were all invited to my birthday. Mom went all out. Goody bags were paper lunch bags decorated with bunny faces and bunny ears. Cookies were little nests of dough rolled in coconut and filled with jellybean eggs. Crafts were making our own decoupage brooches out of photos cut from magazines. I had a new dress for the day. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgARNAK95jPqvufN1VEIhL-E13YeGp1Nn6SQ8l9Wgczm2CQuTFgXFJiu7pUFNzr91Apak7eRVZv5gklGzTFPgo2CKgPHufO6ToPgnnhbrPNrYL6NAuoeY3Cs_pUikeWK481dC_SqK9vGmQS/s1600/me+viv+patti.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgARNAK95jPqvufN1VEIhL-E13YeGp1Nn6SQ8l9Wgczm2CQuTFgXFJiu7pUFNzr91Apak7eRVZv5gklGzTFPgo2CKgPHufO6ToPgnnhbrPNrYL6NAuoeY3Cs_pUikeWK481dC_SqK9vGmQS/s320/me+viv+patti.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me with my best friends Patti and Vivianne</td></tr>
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It was spring, most of the snow had melted, and I was on my way back to school after lunch on party day when I was suddenly gripped by such stomach pains I had to lie down on the side of the road-it was pure nerves. Eventually I dragged my way back home where I was put promptly to bed before the party. On any other day, after school activities would have been cancelled. You don’t go to school, you don’t do anything else. But 20-plus little girls were coming to a party, so the party was going to happen.</div>
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And so it proceeded. A lot of running around. A cake shaped like a castle. So many presents. Colouring books and crayons and paper dolls. Girls I barely knew dressed in their party dresses, standing awkwardly with other girls. Shy girls, poor girls, farm girls, daughters of engineers and teachers and truck drivers and the unemployed- I guess. I didn’t think about that back then. I didn’t know unemployment or poverty existed. All I knew was that I was at the centre of things and I didn’t much like it. I was supposed to be friends with kids I didn’t even know. I was eight. It was supposed to be all about me. And it wasn’t about me at all.<o:p bis_size="{"x":36,"y":1303,"w":0,"h":18,"abs_x":164,"abs_y":1440}"></o:p></div>
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Girls and cake</div>
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It’s something I look back on and wonder about. I wonder what my mom was thinking. I know my grade three party was a lot smaller. And I think about how the most powerful lessons in life are not necessarily the intended lessons. My mom probably learned something about me that she didn’t know. I learned something about her. I also learned a little bit about what it means to be a hostess. Mostly what I learned was that nothing is ever all about you. Not really. Even when you want it to be.</div>
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<div bis_size="{"x":16,"y":1689,"w":653,"h":18,"abs_x":144,"abs_y":1826}">
Nothing.</div>
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<div bis_size="{"x":16,"y":1725,"w":653,"h":54,"abs_x":144,"abs_y":1862}">
As my big day unfolded yesterday, I read about impossible situations in our province, country, continent and globe. <span bis_size="{"x":16,"y":1743,"w":601,"h":36,"abs_x":144,"abs_y":1880}" style="font-size: 12pt;">Layoffs and shortages and homelessness. Uncertainty. Homelessness. Hunger. Fear.</span></div>
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<div bis_size="{"x":16,"y":1797,"w":653,"h":54,"abs_x":144,"abs_y":1934}">
As I celebrated being me, I watched the coronavirus numbers tick ever upward, so many infected and the dying here in my own province and in the world at large. Almost impossible to imagine as I sit here in my comfortable house in my little town.<o:p bis_size="{"x":473,"y":1833,"w":0,"h":18,"abs_x":601,"abs_y":1970}"></o:p></div>
<div bis_size="{"x":16,"y":1851,"w":653,"h":18,"abs_x":144,"abs_y":1988}">
<br bis_size="{"x":16,"y":1851,"w":0,"h":18,"abs_x":144,"abs_y":1988}" /></div>
<div bis_size="{"x":16,"y":1869,"w":653,"h":72,"abs_x":144,"abs_y":2006}">
<span bis_size="{"x":16,"y":1869,"w":653,"h":72,"abs_x":144,"abs_y":2006}" style="font-size: 12pt;">Every day we all go about our business, trying to fill our time, thinking about our minor inconveniences and our larger struggles but underneath it all, we wonder where things will end up when all is said and done. What will the world look like? How many will die? How will we live?</span></div>
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<div bis_size="{"x":16,"y":1959,"w":653,"h":54,"abs_x":144,"abs_y":2096}">
Yesterday was my birthday. It was full of well-wishes and phone calls and gifts and doing whatever I wanted. But it wasn’t just about me. It never is. Ticking away in the background is always injustice and inequality and uncertainty and people trying to make things better.</div>
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It’s a lesson that has taken me a long time to learn.</div>
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Thanks Mom.<b bis_size="{"x":112,"y":2067,"w":0,"h":18,"abs_x":240,"abs_y":2204}"><o:p bis_size="{"x":112,"y":2067,"w":0,"h":18,"abs_x":240,"abs_y":2204}"></o:p></b></div>
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Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556527235144353235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4619892469584559115.post-52083396369993275902020-03-29T11:01:00.004-06:002020-03-29T11:01:55.038-06:00waiting for the light<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">the light from a star takes years to reach your eyes<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">it is there but you can’t see it<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">flaming in space for years before it reaches you<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">you don’t know it, but you are waiting<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">waiting for the light<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">the virus at first so distant<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">now<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">here<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">in your country<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">in your town<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">in someone you know<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">maybe<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">in you<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">like the light from a star, it is here<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">but it takes days<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">before the symptoms can be seen<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">before the attack<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">before lives are forever changed<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and all you can do is wait<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">daughters and sons and parents and brothers and sisters and friends<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">each of you<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">sitting at your own table<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">the news rolling over you<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">wave after wave<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">each worse than the last<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">making small talk<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">ice in our hearts<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">as we wait.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wait for the light<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">in this war with an invisible enemy<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">the best action is no action<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">the best way to hold each other close is to stay apart<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and trust in the invisible warriors<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">whose light is shining even when we can’t see it<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">the grocery store clerks and health care aides<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">nursing home attendants and truck drivers<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">itinerant farm workers and warehousemen<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">doctors and nurses and scientists<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 18pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and all who sit and wait<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 54pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wait for the light.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Nicolahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556527235144353235noreply@blogger.com2