Something engraved

Ever since I was a kid, I've liked graveyards.  Invariably, whenever people find this out about me the first thing they say is "WHY?", usually accompanied by a look of confusion on their face and incredulity in their voice. Now, of course this reaction makes sense. After all, the first thing most people would think of with a place where one buries the dead is...death.   Ooooh, isn't that an uneasy topic! Psychological studies have shown that death the #2 biggest common fear for people, only beaten by a fear of public speaking. My statement about liking graveyards has the side effect of plunging people into unintended mental proximity to one of the scariest things in life! *insert evil cackles here* And, if it's not death that gets them rattled, then it's ... ghosts.  You know, that thing that people say they don't really believe in, but actually kind of do in a spirituality-adjacent-but-creepy way.

Occasionally, however, following my declaration of graveyard love, the response I get back surprises me.  "I get it!" or "me too!"  There's something about these kind of responses that conjures a warm sense of fuzziness all the way from my heart to my toes. 

Look at this graveyard in the spring!

The people who get it usually understand this simple fact: graveyards are peaceful. There is the separation that occurs within a graveyard from the hubbub of society, and simultaneously with this separation comes a return to nature.  There is stone, grass, trees and quiet, calm. If this was the one redeeming quality of graveyards they would still be very lovable, but to borrow the words of the world's most infamous infomercials: wait, there's more! 

Beyond the space to think and breath within a busy life, there is also an incredible sacred dimension to graveyards.  In my graveyard wanderings I've found myself drawn into the story of life and death - of the circle of life.  I've become aware that I am part of that circle, part of the loop of common humanity.  I am not alone in my humanness.  The people who are buried around me are people who lived, laughed, loved, suffered, cried, felt trauma, failed, succeeded.... they weren't perfect but they did come before me and they paved the way for me to be here, now as I am.  Drawn into this story I feel an incredible sense of connectedness that transcends time even while including time. 

In memory of that time I sat on the kindness bench

Part of me is very aware at how long this preamble has been, but I felt like it was necessary to provide some context before I start posting pictures of random tombstones on my blog.  You see, this morning I decided to go for a walk and ended up in the nearby graveyard.  Once there I started with an activity I would recommend people try: reading tombstones.  And by "reading" I don't mean just look at the words - rather, take in their meaning, figure out what story they are telling.

 For example, take this gravestone family story:

From what I can piece together, we have John and Elizabeth, who were married (she was three years older than he was) and their daughter Christina who lived to a ripe old age of 92. It's hard to place Frederick - there's no age - but one would assume there is at least a 20 year age gap between him and Christina, judging by the dates of death and from what we know about normal life expectancy. So, I'm guessing Frederick is a grandson to John & Elizabeth, perhaps Christina's son??  If that is true though, why is he the one who gets to go on the tombstone over any other grandchild? Were there no other grandchildren?  The fact that Christina has her maiden name and no listed husband makes me wonder more - did she have this child out of wedlock?  Where is the father?  Was she a single mother and Frederick was her only child?  Are you not as fascinated as I am that we have stumbled into this mystery with only names, ages and dates?!

But I'm not done yet, there's more to the story this tombstone tells.  There's another name on the list, Alida, and she stands out because of the footnote that came only moments before.  She is not called the "wife of" Frederick, but he is called her husband.  If you study enough gravestones you'll realize how rare this is.  Women are often treated like belonging to the man rather than the other way around.  There is a subtle sense of hierarchy in this presentation, that when repeated indefinitely across hundreds or thousands of tombstones diminishes the value of women in general.  And yet here, I immediately felt the sense of respect in these words towards this woman who even though she is not related by blood to this lineage seems to be granted this place of esteem. He was her husband too, she was not just his wife.  

~

On my way home I found myself reflecting on some of the most common engravings to be seen on gravestones: "in loving memory", "loving wife", "loving husband", "I am the resurrection and the life" .... one of these things is not like the others.  There is so much that can be said in a few a words that adds context to the whole story. And yet, some phrases are used so often they have almost lost their meaning, they're basically platitudes.  So, I was wondering, what it might be like if we started including in these few words a story about the person that was a little less conventional?  Something like:

    "kicked ass in life"
    "epic level friend"
    "beloved by her cats and husband"   or
    "Canadian to the core"  

What do you think?  What story would you want people to read about you, if a random stranger was seeking your story on a gravestone and you only had a few words to tell it in?

Something fun!

 Pandemics suck.  I think we're all in agreement on this by now.

I'm no stranger to spending a lot of time at home.  As a teenager I was the queen hermit of indoor individual entertainment, computer games ftw.  The thing is that after a lot of growing up, reflection and work on my own mental health, I realized that I felt a lot better about myself if I introduced variation to my environment, if I went out and spent time with people and actually developed friendships, if I made sure to have some fun. Not that computer games aren't fun - THEY ARE. (And yes I fully acknowledge my own bias).  But there is something about the spontaneity of physical fun, that steps away from the computer screen and involves being in the material, tangible world, that touches a different part of the soul.  It's this kind of fun that (at least for me) has gotten vampire-sucked out of life by the pandemic.

I started realizing my lack of fun a little over a month ago.  I suddenly had a revelation it was the middle of March 2021 and OH MY GOD it's the middle of March 2021?!!!!  How had time passed by so fast and yet so slowly?! How had the year managed to suck so much that I could barely remember a moment of actually feeling true appreciation and excitement for life in almost three months???  The monotony was too real:  the same places, same activities, the same things every day, day in and day out. That was what life had been reduced to.

Since then I've been looking for small ways to bring fun into my life.  It's challenging, I admit... especially when one's only daily companion is an 85 year old half-deaf Italian roommate with whom there is almost nothing in common... but today I went for a walk by the river.  And in the course of walking by the river in the middle of this bustling city, I saw a small dirt path that left the paved trail and I decided to act on a whim of spontaneity.  Let's explore and see where this goes. I ended up walking through weeds to the edge of a small unpopulated peninsula that led straight to the water.  I saw a duck in a tree.  That was weird. 

Don't tell me
this isn't weird

 

And then after enjoying the silence, reflecting and praying, I began to seek the opportunity to get the ultimate selfie, because... why not? 😄  I  found myself engrossed in moving back and forth from the camera trying to get my phone to perch perfectly on a branch of a tree because I was nothing if not determined to get my picture, never mind the mortal risk to my phone from being in such a precarious position.  And I let myself get lost in moment, in the fun, because for me photography is a form of play.  And play these days, especially in the middle of a pandemic, is in such precious short supply.

So whether you think that selfies are vain or not, this photo was worth it because it allowed me to engage with the physical world and get some joy out of life today. I hope that you can find your fun too. 

💗

CHEESE!

 

Something velcro

It was after I arrived in Quebec that I began to see them.  They were everywhere - seemingly sprouting up around every corner - and I began to wonder to myself: "How many outdoor skating rinks does a city really need?"  No, I'm not talking about the frozen puddles in the middle of the street intersections or the ice-covered risk-your-life-to-use-them sidewalks. I'm talking about honest-to-goodness real-life skating rinks!



IT'S AWESOME!!! 

 

I have seen outdoor skating rinks before, but they have always been small and few and far between, kind of like my lottery ticket wins. It is probably because the winters in southern British Columbia are occasionally prone to periods of crazy thawing, making ice retention a bit of an issue. Take exhibits "A" and "B" for example, taken a month ago near my hometown:

 



EXHIBIT A:
Tulip Creek in Southern BC
Taken around January 16, 2016
Photo by Cristi-Lynn Villecourt

 "Winter in the Kootenays is kind of like having a generous aunt who shows up from time to time with cookies and a warm hug.  Winter in Quebec, by contrast, is like that cantankerous uncle with the frigid personality whom you can't seem to get to leave the house."
~ Myself, written right now 



EXHIBIT B:
Same place. It's only a little difference right?
Taken 2 weeks later, January 30, 2016
Photo by Stephanie Michelle Harron

A real benefit to the more consistently-cold winter of Quebec is that it allows for a genuine urban winter-culture to develop in and around the city.  And that culture manifests itself as skating rinks: many, many, beautiful puddles of frozen water for people to gracefully glide and fall on.  And seeing all of those many, many beautiful puddles of frozen water I couldn't help but feel an inner longing to join the people of the city in their winter-cultural pastime of gliding and falling.

Yes, it didn't take me long to make the decision: I needed a pair of skates.

Doing the mental math I quickly determined that it would probably be cheaper for me to purchase a pair of skates then trying to rent a pair any time the fancy to skate overtook my imagination.  My imagination can be rather overactive, and rentals average around $8 a pair per session. This equates to a hole burning through my pocketbook if I had to rent a pair everytime I wanted to step on the ice for 20 minutes.  And yes, I am under no illusions: my flights of fancy on the ice would last for almost exactly 20 minutes.  My feet have special magical skill of turning blue whenever they decide that they are getting too cold.  Spending prolonged periods of time in outdoor temperatures of minus something ridiculous is one of the fastest ways I can think of to tell my toes that I don't need them anymore.

On the other hand of the cost equation, I knew that the likelihood of using the skates again after I left Quebec City would probably be equivalent to me deciding to spend $6 for a head of cauliflower (aka: not likely; does anyone need cauliflower that much?).   The most economical decision therefore was to Google whatever "a thrift store" was in French (un magasin deuxieme-main) and hope that someone else in the city has perfectly average size 8 feet, just like me. 

Fortunately, stressing the perfectly average size of my feet and the abundance of skating ponds in the city, I correctly assumed that such thing would not be difficult to find.  The first thrift store I visited, La Village de Valeurs (translation: Value Village), had exactly 3 pairs of skates that would theoretically fit my feet.  One was missing the laces, the second pair was so rusted over that I wasn't even sure if they could be sharpened, and the third used Velcro fasteners that were falling off.  After weighing my options, I chose the pair with the least amount of rust - option #3 - and discovered that the skates were lacking one vital piece of information: a price tag.

It did not take me long to determine what needed to be done; I needed to go to the till and utilise my fledgling French communication skills to tell the cashier:

1. that I couldn't find the price tag, but
2. that the Velcro on the skates was falling off, and
3. ask if she could quote me a price for the skates. 

It would be like a right of passage for my advancement in Quebec society from "I can't speak French" to "I can communicate in rudimentary, pre-thought-out sentences!"  Advancement! What an exciting and novel concept: never before attempted on such a scale by yours truly!

I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders, taking out my phone.  First things first.  I needed to find out the French word for Velcro. 

Incidentally, it is Velcro.

And so, having officially passed that advancement test with flying colours, I am now the proud owner of a pair of size 8 used ladies skates that sport a minimal amount of rust and velcro that likes to fall off.

The best thing about the purchase was the price: $5.99.  Less than the cost of rentals!  Less than a head of cauliflower!  I am feeling like the queen of bargain hunters!

TA-DA!

Something about a tuque

Before I left home to study French in Quebec I had spend a lot of effort getting ready to prepare for the Québécois winter I had heard about in legend: 

• I had invested in a quality pair of winter boots that had extra insulation, super treads, and came in an incredible trendy combination of brown leather and teal. 
• I had dug out my Walmart special down-filled white winter jacket that was now a little off white and losing a few feathers, but still warm. 
• I was wearing my hand-crocheted blue winter scarf that is still a little singed from that time I wore it while cooking (don't ask). 
• I also had my awesome blue gloves on that let me type on my touch-screen while wearing them - you have no idea how amazingly useful this is!!! 

Yes, I was well equipped except for one thing: the night before I had left home I had somehow managed to misplace my favourite white, slightly stained and strangely large, winter tuque*.  I had torn my room apart but for some inexplicable reason it had disappeared!  I even bemoaned the fact to my mother in a whimpery voice, doing my best impression of a whiney child, "Moooommy, I can't find my tuuuque...."  As the day of my departure was literally one sleep away, I had to resort to packing what I considered to be my second-best winter apparel.

Bienvenue à Québéc! Il fait froid ici!

And so the first day of school in Quebec dawned, bright and clear with a forecasted temperature of -12**, feeling like -27 with its 40km/h humid wind that strips the warmth from your soul and leaves you feeling like your face had just been dipped in liquid nitrogen.  I donned tuque backup #1 for my 20 minute walk to school: a green knit beanie that likes to contract until it completely slides off my head.  The walk to school thus consisted of me walking with my hand up above my shoulders, tugging my beanie back down like it was a bra-strap that wouldn't stay up.  To be honest, I would have just taken the beanie off, except for the fact that I was pretty sure that if I didn't wear something on my head I would probably lose my ears to frostbite.

Frustrated with day one's experience I decided to try something different for day two: a pair of black sparkly earmuffs that would have no problem covering that particularly vulnerable area of my anatomy.  Ears fully protected, I ventured out into the cold only to be confronted with a completely new adversity; not even halfway to the school I began to get a temperature-inflicted headache. That's right, without the proper covering for my forehead I was getting brain-freeze!!!  Previously I had thought that brain-freeze was an affliction for those who liked to pig out on ice cream or drink their Slurpee's at record-breaking speeds. Now I know the truth: brain-freeze can also be mother nature's way of mocking you for wearing fuzzy earmuffs and not a more practical head-covering.  I went home that evening knowing that I would have to come up with a new solution or cave and buy a new tuque.

But I am stubborn.

And lucky.

That night, after I met my real host family and started unpacking my belongings into my new room I pulled a box of feminine products out of my suitcase that was bulging strangely.  I was instantly excited, because I suddenly remembered what had happened!!!  The day before I left to go to Quebec I had been packing my suitcase and thought that I might not have enough room in my suitcase for everything.  So, in an effort to save space, I had shoved my white tuque into the little bit of empty space that existed in my box of pads.  In hindsight I acknowledge that it was a really strange place for a tuque.  It was so strange that afterwards I never thought about looking back in there for the tuque.  Yes, I might be just a little dense...and strange.  But I was really happy!  So happy, in fact, that I found my tuque that I started to do a little happy dance in my room because I knew that on day three I would have a proper tuque!  On day three my head wouldn't freeze! On day three I could instead happily take this picture:

From Facebook:
"Il y a -17 degrés ici, mais je trouve ma tuque blanche donc maintenant je fait chaud!"

NOTES:
*Fun language fact: "La tuque" is a French word that refers to a winter hat that covers the entire head and ears, like a proper winter hat should.
**For any Americans: all temperatures posted in this post are in Celsius.  Please use Google's temperature conversion feature if you want to know how ridiculously cold it was in Fahrenheit.

Something snowy




While the rest of Canada was dreaming of a white Christmas
that never arrived, the weather in the southern interior of BC
was apologizing for last year.

I love driving in the snow.  Take that look off your face, I'm serious!  Having done my fair share of winters of driving back and forth between Calgary and BC - a seven and a half hour drive made tolerable only by sugar/caffeine induced hyper-awareness and top of the lungs sing-a-long - it is a simple fact that snowy roads are the most fun and interesting!  What would normally be a dangerous snorefest of driving becomes an adrenaline pumping theme park equivalent that moment the tires begin to spin and the back end fish-tails out.  Instantaneously you are fully aware and present as you call upon all of your honed video game driving skills to not go out of control.  A careful course correction performed masterfully gives the thrill that you are indeed that awesome and you are completely in control of the roads; the roads are not controlling you.  You observe the empty roads, free and clear of other traffic and smirk at the expense of all the cowardly souls that would rather not be out on snowy highways, revelling at the freedom their absence brings - a freedom to go as fast or as slow as your common sense or lead foot desires.  In that moment driving ironically becomes a most relaxing activity even while demanding your full attention and skill.  Winter driving is an example of oxymoron at its best. 

My favourite stretch of road between Calgary and BC is the imposing mountain pass locals fondly refer to as the Salmo-Creston, incidentally placed right between the towns of Salmo and Creston, BC. A intimidating enough challenge in the summer with its blind corners and incredibly steep grade that can easily push a vehicle well past the 100km/ph speed limit just by coasting, in the winter the pass becomes a veritable roller-coaster, full of twists and turns, ups and downs, and surprises around every corner. 

One winter in particular stands out in my memory on the Salmo-Creston pass, when on the way to BC there was black ice so thick on the down-side of the mountain that I was being pulled off the road going 20km/ph.  Imagine for a moment, driving at the lowest possible speed limit and pressing the brakes only to find your vehicle drifting to the huge cliff of boulders that line the side of the road and finding yourself grateful that at least you aren't drifting in the other direction towards the 50 storey plunge.  That was fun. 

That same year on the way back to Calgary I got stuck on the same slope by an avalanche.  That's right, an avalanche.  The traffic was lined up along the side of the mountain waiting patiently for the plows to clear a tunnel through the pile of the snow.  Meanwhile we were also crossing our fingers that no more avalanches were in the forecast while we were stalled in our merry line-up, like bowling pins waiting to be knocked down.  If my luck couldn't be worse, I also made the un-brilliant decision to turn off my car while leaving my headlights on.  Later on, after the snow was cleared, I tried the ignition only to find a dead battery, and me stalled on the side of the mountain, holding up traffic in an avalanche zone.  I ended up having to petition random strangers in the line of cars for a pair of jumper cables and a boost.  That was a little embarrassing.  Still, it was a learning adventure!

So by now you probably really think I'm crazy, especially if I claim that the Salmo-Creston is among my favourite stretches of road ever, especially in the winter.  However, to put my affection for winter driving into perspective, my brother put it best this past week when he stated "Other places get snow and they say 'Oh no! Close the roads!'.  People in the Kootenays get snow and they say 'Wheeee! Look what I can do!"  Well put, brother.  Well put.


So much snow!

We've got snow!



Why having so much snow is awesome!



Something full of holiday cheer

"I wanted to put up a Christmas tree for my birthday", my friend tells me as I visited her in Calgary at the end of November, "but some of my friends have a problem with Christmas trees."

"How can someone have a problem with Christmas trees?" I ask incredulously. "It's a tree with balls.  Lots and lots of balls!"

She takes one look at me and bursts out laughing.  "Oh, I missed you."


Runaway ball!!!

When I was a kid I remember being absolutely mesmerized by the concept of a Christmas tree.  After the tree was dressed I would sit at the base of the tree as the northern sky dimmed at its ridiculously early hour to complete blackness, allowing the multi-coloured illumination of the tree to become a spectacle that would enthrall me for hours on end as I stared up at it in wonder.  In those moments there was no need for thought or agenda; there was only a need for a deep sense of gratitude and joy.  My hyperactive imagination would pause as it stopped to consider the simple and majestic beauty the Christmas tree in front of me represented.  Needless to say, the Christmas tree has always been one of my favourite parts of Christmas.

Four years ago in December my dad died rather suddenly in a car accident. That year there was not much energy to celebrate Christmas, and so the Christmas tree did not go up.  The following year the tree went up only out of duress since we were hosting the family Christmas, but it was a half-hearted effort, going up at the last moment and not staying up past Boxing Day*.  Last year, our version of a Christmas tree was my mom's fake potted plant with multi-coloured lights on it, which we hadn't bothered taking off from the year before.  Maybe that passes for a Christmas tree in some households, but for my family the display was a lack of Christmas spirit at its finest.

Tree-dressing!

Which is why you should be able to understanding my surprise this year at the beginning November, when in mid-conversation my mother suddenly looked at me with a twinkle in her eye and a mischievous grin on her face and announced, "I feel like putting up the Christmas tree!!!"

I laughed and brushed it off, as I headed out the door to play board games at a friend's house.  After all, it was the beginning of November - and who puts up a Christmas tree at the beginning of November?

Well, apparently my family does, because when I got home I was shocked to discover a Christmas tree that I did not recognize standing proudly in the centre of the living room, completely decorated.  While I had been gone for the past 4 hours my mother had gone to Canadian Tire, bought a Christmas tree with my brother, brought it home, had my brother help her set it up in the middle of the living room and then decorated it and went to bed.

The funnier thing though is that this isn't the end of the story.  Dissatisfied with her choice of baubles, balls and lack of ribbon, on November 11th while we were exiled from the home to provide her housekeeper some personal space, we proceeded to travel across half of the West Kootenays in search of new ornaments to dress the tree with.  Then, after we got home, we promptly un-decorate the already-decorated tree in order to re-decorate it with the new decorations.  By the way, that was a completely decorous sentence. ~grins at bad pun~ 

Finished product! ~"Oh Christmas Tree"~

 

So suffice to say my family is in fine Christmas spirit this year.  The tree is up and it is beautiful and mesmerizing.  It has lights that can alternate between pristine white, and psychedelic multi-colour with patterns.  There are lots of balls on it.  The cat has already pulled the ribbon off of it at least once.  Yes, the tree this year is pretty much perfect in every way.  Merry Christmas everybody!

*Boxing day: December 26th, the Canadian equivalent of Black Friday - shopping day extraordinaire that was originally intended to be the day when people would "box up" the tree.

Something about Three Rivers

"I've booked three nights in Trois-Rivières."  After days of dragging my feet over settling on the next step of my travel plans, I was ready to divulge them to my fellow German traveller in my hostel in Quebec City.

She wrinkled her nose in disdain.  "I think maybe that is too long." She said in reply.  "There is nothing to do there; you will be so boring [sic]."

Most people would be put off by an endorsement like that.  Me?  I immediately felt exhilarated at the challenge!  I think it is part of my mental programming.  If someone tells me how I should think about something or what I should do my first instinct is to do the exact opposite.  So, nothing to do in Trois-Rivières?  Excellent!  I will make my own things to do.  Nothing to see?  There are always things to see!  They just might require a little more delving and searching.  I might never see this person again, but privately I resolved to have a wonderful time in Trois-Rivières just to prove her wrong.  What a rebel I am.

"Why do you want to go to Trois-Rivières?" Another traveller asked, baffled by my choice in tourist destinations.

"Well, I remember hearing its name when I was in social studies in school, but I don't remember why it was important."  Okay, my reasoning needed a bit of work, I admit, but it was true nonetheless.  I wanted to go to Trois-Rivières because something in my very dimwitted memory reminded me that it was a very important place for Canadian history.  I couldn't remember any of the details except the name, so I wanted to use my trip to remind me in a tangible way why the city was important, despite how trivial the other travellers around me seemed to considered it.

The first day in Trois-Rivières I decided to do a tour of the downtown sites.  I was done in a couple of hours. There was a boardwalk by the Saint Lawrence river that was quite beautiful, a few sculptures scattered around a park, a bunch of information panels written only in French (though later on I found I could scan a code with my cell-phone to get the English version of a lot of them), a free-to-use piano in a public city square and a giant light-brite in the local library (!!!!!).  A large portion of the city had been destroyed in a massive fire near the beginning of the 20th century so there were very few old ornate buildings left in place.  With so little tangible history present it was hard to believe that this was the 2nd oldest settlement in Canada, right behind Quebec City, and the site of a very important battle during the American Revolution that was key in preventing Canada from being absorbed as another state in the new United States of America.   Rather than finding a proud bustling metropolis befitting of such an important status, what I found was an endearing sleepy little city who embraced its history like a true Canadian: modestly.

And yet, despite the lack of tourist-centric organized activities that I probably wouldn't have paid for anyways because I'm so cheap, I found myself deeply captivated by the place.  Borrowing a bike from the hostel was free so I spent hours exploring the city.  I found out that the reason that it is called Trois-Rivières, Three Rivers in English, is because the river that feeds into the Saint Lawrence splits into three right before reaching it due to islands that interrupt the flow.  Those same islands gave me photo opportunities like this one that I took with my iPhone:

I also had the opportunity to go to a very key pilgrimage site for the Roman Catholic church, Notre-Dame-du-Cap, with a local francophone.  We attended a French mass where I didn't understand a single word, except "etre le premier".  Wracking my memory on what place in the Bible has the phrase "to be first", I correctly identified the passage of scripture that the homilist was using for his address. I managed to impress myself with that feat, I admit.  The grounds of the basilica were so beautiful that two days later I would revisit them to spend more time there.

There were a bunch of other things I did in the city while I was there, but what stands out in my memory is just how relaxing I found my time in the small city.  Without so many touristy things demanding my attention I was able to slow down and soak in the experience of this place called Trois-Rivières.  The food was super cheap too, so I bought groceries and ate like a queen during my entire visit there.  Despite the negative endorsement from my fellow travellers, I had found what I  already expected to be true: that the excitement and interest of a place is what you bring to it, not what it can bring to you.

Something political (part 3)

Who knew an election could be so lively? I had never been anywhere public to watch the national election results before, but the hum of energy in the theatre where I am sitting is tangible.  For a moment I regret that I am unable to hear the election coverage commentators over the myriad of conversationally engaged people around me.  But then I realize that not only can I still see the important stuff on the screen, but the ebb and flow of voices from the theatre are providing their own unique commentary. 



IPhone selfie with my popcorn!

The NDP* get a seat! They cheer! *New Democratic Party

The Liberals get a seat!  They cheer!

The Conservatives get a seat!  They boo!

A Conservative cabinet member gets upset!  The Liberal party wins the seat.  They cheer! LOUDLY.

An NDP member gets upset.  The Liberal party wins the seat.  There is a mixture of both disappointment and acceptance.

I take this all in and feel a tickling sense of amusement.  Just by the responses alone it is not hard to tell that I have found myself in the midst of a young vocal university crowd, a demographic that is notorious for being left-leaning.  I suppose it should be no surprise, as the cinema is in the middle of the University district of Toronto, but the unabashed vocal engagement of the crowd gives the sense that we are just as engaged in the results of the federal election as we would be in an epic Canadian hockey game! 

~Cue hockey announcer voice~ "That Liberal came out of nowhere, straight down centre ice.  It's a breakaway!  He shoots, he scores!  It's a Conservative upset!!!!" ~Cue massive fan cheering~ 

Olivia Chow, widow of the late Jack Layton former leader of the NDP, gets defeated.  Suddenly the deafening hum of voices in the theatre go silent all at once.  You could hear a pin drop.  The silence speaks volumes and you feel how stunned, sad and full of respect the population of the theatre is for her.  Coverage switches to show Olivia giving her concession speech and the crowd around me remains silent, listening intently for the duration of the speech.  Then the election results resume, and just as though someone flipped a switch, suddenly the voices pick up where they left off, robust as ever, drowning out the sounds of the television announcers.

It's only about 20 minutes after the polls in Ontario and Quebec when a message flashes across the screen LIBERAL VICTORY.  The voices in the theatre falter and I can hear the announcer on tv saying, "The analysts are calling it a Liberal victory.  The Liberals will be the ones to lead our next government."  Confusion rolls through the stunned theatre.  "What?" I can hear a dozen voices saying, "Isn't it way to soon to be calling this?"  After all, only a handful of ballot boxes in our most populous provinces have been counted.  I myself am skeptical and think that the guy sitting next to me is summarizing the situation perfectly, "Well, they better hope they are right or this is going to be the biggest embarrassment of Canadian news reporting history!"

It turns out the analysts were not wrong.  As the night goes on, the red Liberal wave sweeping the nation become apparent.  It is not even an hour later when the announcers update their announcements.  It will be a Liberal majority and the Conservative party will form the official opposition.  I find myself breathing a sigh of relief at the word "majority".  To me this means that the new government can be effective.  They  don't have to get caught up in trying to negotiate between warring factions, and they will have a chance to prove themselves, 4 years to be exact.  In the meantime Canadians won't have to return to the polls right away and we will have a chance to observe and see whether these politicians will live up to their promises.

The Canadian government before the 2015 election:
Conservatives 166  NDP 103  Liberals 34  Bloc Quebecois 4  Green 1

The Canadian government after the 2015 election:
Liberals 184  Conservatives 99  NDP 44  Bloc Quebecois 10  Green 1
(This is a massive change in government.  The Liberals gained 150 new seats).

As the night concluded and I went back to the hostel dorm to watch the after-election commentary on the internet until 3 in the morning (for the first time on my trip missing my BC time zone which meant I would have gone to sleep at midnight instead of 3am), I had only one thought go through my head:

A new government, a Blue Jays win, and a Star Wars trailer - it was truly a great night to be Canadian!


Canadian Parliament Buildings framed by the Canadian Museum of History

 



Something grave

"Graveyard!" I exclaim excitedly to my travelling companion Josh, who had joined me for the first two weeks of my foray to Eastern Canada.  We had driven up the east coast of Nova Scotia and were now in Cape Breton Island on our way to hike the Cabot Trail.  During this first week of being together I had caused no shortage of eye rolls from him in my enthusiasm for pointing out the multitude of neat little graveyards that dotted the sides of the road.  They had little crosses and headstones!  This was exciting to me!  After all, I had grown up in a place where headstones were uncommon.  Plaques parallel to the ground were used for easy lawncare purposes so that graveyards looked merely like rolling grassy hills than a place that monumented where people were buried.  So any graveyard that looked like an actual graveyard thrilled me.

Someone cleared their throat beside me.  "Perhaps you can tell me why you find a graveyard exciting?" A female voice spoke from the passenger seat, her tone not at all approving of my lighthearted appeal for a place of the dead.

I winced, even as I kept my eyes on the road ahead of me. I had forgotten for a moment that we had passengers travelling with us to go hiking who were complete strangers to us.  How does one explain a fetish for graveyards to a person they had just met?  Things in the car had just become very, very awkward.

I blame my childhood. This was before my small town had internet and our TV had only one channel, CBC, so I had a lot of free time.  And I used that free time to read, voraciously.  I steadily made my way through my mom's bookshelves of the books she deemed fit for me to read so it was there that I stumbled upon a Canadian author known as L.M. Montgomery, known internationally for writing the Anne of Green Gables series.  She also wrote a trio of lesser-known books called The Emily of New Moon series.  If I had to point to the instigator for my love of graveyards those books would be the culprit.  In her stories L.M. Montgomery made graveyards out to be mystical storied places where one can reflect upon and celebrate the lives of the people who came before.  They were places for exploration, discovery and adventure - not merely places to mourn.

Even years after growing up, L.M. Montgomery's influence remains on my perspective.  Before I left to the East Coast I spent a few nights visiting my dad's grave on a mountain hillside where I sat on the grass and looked at the moon next to the plaque that held his name.  For me that wasn't a tortured place.  It was a peaceful place. The grass was soft, the air was warm, the breeze was cool, the hills were illuminated with the pale light of a full moon and I felt closer to my father just by being there, enjoying the wonderful moment in his presence.

I explained all this to the woman in the car, feeling for a moment like a graveyard evangelist.  I proclaimed that they can be places of story, history, discovery and celebration of the lives that have come before.  Likewise they can be places of peacefulness, rest, and yes tearful remembrance, but remembrance that can be flavoured with thankfulness for the lives that were.  It was actually very impressive that I was able to explain myself without stumbling awkwardly over my words and so I felt superlatively elated when she admitted that she could see my point.  Score one for positive graveyard indoctrination!

Something involving rainbows

 

 I have a strange obsession with rainbows.  This I blame on my childhood, where the house we lived in was situated in prime rainbow-viewing territory. It was not unusual on a rainy day to be able to look out the window and see a full double bow illuminated end to end. Think about what that can do to the imagination of an impressionistic child.  My father thought the real-estate value of the house should have been increased just for the rainbow view.  I find myself wondering if other people would agree with him...

 

 As I grew into an adult the fascination for rainbows stayed with me. I remember once while living in Calgary (in my 20's) dashing outside my house and running as fast as I could to a nearby park in the rain, just so I could stand underneath one of the most beautiful and vivid array of colours I had ever seen. I had never been so close to the base of a rainbow before. If there had been a pot of gold I definitely would have found it! 

 

 This preoccupation with rainbows has become my chocolate of picture-taking.  It is so sweet and delicious, I just can't resist! A couple of months ago I was minding my own business, playing around on my computer in my apartment while a torrential downpour raged outside, when suddenly something caught my eye: sunlight, glorious setting sun-light, the kind of sunlight that makes the whole earth glow with the brilliance of its dazzling presence.  My eyes widened in horrible realization. The thought that went immediately through my head was "There is an incredible rainbow happening outside somewhere, and I'M MISSING IT!!!". I dashed throughout my house like a whirlwind, grabbing a jacket, shoes and my camera - quickly throwing on a pair of pants - and then vaulted out of my house in a full sprint.  This is a curious re-enactment to my experience in Calgary years earlier, now that I think about it.  I ran to the park nearby my apartment with the prayer on my breath that I was not too late.  I had to see the rainbow!!!
 

As I rounded the bend:

 I am curious, is there anyone reading this who would say that they share a similar fascination for rainbows? Or am I'm just a little over zealous for the colourful and completely wondrous interaction of water and light in the sky?  :-D

 

Something botanical (part 2)

 

If you have read part 1 of this saga then you know that my elite skills with house plants means that they usually end up dead.  Method of death: they would all eventually contract these little pesky flies that eventually overwhelmed and killed the plant.  Death by insect, what a way to go.

After a couple of failed attempts at being a responsible plant baron I gave up and bought no more house plants. I didn't want to be responsible for their cruel and untimely deaths. But then, one March for my housewarming party, two friends gave me plants as gifts. One was a leafy thing that was supposed to have yellow leaves year round, and the other was an enigmatic stalk-like plant growing out a giant bean called a lucky bean plant. I was terrified.  It was one thing to kill my own botanical experiments, it was another thing entirely for a person to entrust me with the life of another living thing, expecting that I had the capabilities to make it thrive. If I didn't keep the plants alive would that signal the end our friendship?

Terrified of the looming and very real threat of catastrophe, I did my research this time on how to raise house plants. I found out that my previous failures were not because I didn't love my plants enough - rather it was because I loved them too much. I had overwatered them, causing little mites in the soil to multiply out of control ultimately killing the plants. I learned that plants need moments of drought as much as they need water. They need air in the soil as much as they need moisture.  I needed to let the dirt dry out between waterings.  I resolved to apply my new knowledge with wisdom to ensure the survival of the house plant species.

Since that discovery, I have not killed a  plant. I have been worried several times.  They keep losing leaves for mysterious reasons.  Several of them have turned about as ugly as a potato plant, but the most important thing is they continue to live!!!  Only, I still identify myself as a failure as a raiser of house plants. Every time I get a new plant, it immediately loses its flowers, and they never come back. Even the plant that was supposed to have the yellow leaves year round turned green.  I can keep plants alive now, but I cannot make them happy. And that has made me sad.

So the reason I have told this incredibly way too long epic tale of plant raising is so that you can sympathize with me, and thus appropriately join me in celebrating exuberantly at this picture!

 

This is a geranium plant I got at a Mother's day event at my church (even though I am not a mother, I guess being female is enough to qualify me for a geranium plant).  True to form, immediately after receiving this plant, it lost all its flowers. Then its leaves started dying. Determined not to be a plant murderer again I learned that geraniums are actually desert plants and prefer receiving even less water than other plants, and that if I want it to flower it again I should locked it in a cool, dry and dark place for a couple of months and just ignore it. How is that for parenting advice? 

So that is what I did. I shut it up in a closet and ignored it for almost three months.  Then, with trepidation I brought it out and gave it some water. Leaves came! But poor thing, after being starved and ignored, it then suffered physical abuse.  Twice wind blew through the window, pitching the plant into the sink, scattering its dirt throughout my kitchen.  It lay there in my dish water looking pathetic and destroyed.  Resolutely I put the plant back on the window sill, begging it to forgive me for my negligence in ensuring its safety.

The plant forgave me. God bless geraniums: a plant that doesn't mind being horribly abused and still decides to flower!

Something caffeinated

Happiness is finding a coffee shop that is open in the evening. Finally my long drought is over! Or, as my sister aptly put it, I have "finally discovered the rare breed of small-town coffee shop." After many months of pining for a little place within easy reach where I could go in the twilight hours to relax, mingle and putter around on my laptop, a small coffee shop has opened in the downtown core that could effectively be the answer to my prayers. 

I discovered a long time ago, while I was slaving through my 5 year degree in Theology, that I do not do homework well at home alone. Where it is quiet. Where it is lonely. Where the silence itself is distracting. Where there is no one around to keep me accountable to do my homework. There any stray thought is an opportunity to be pounced on and eagerly taken advantage of, like a moth to a flame.  Destruction was only "one pretty light" away.

That was when I discovered that I actually focus much better in places where there are people and background noise. It's as though the bored parts of my mind, which would typically be doing cartwheels in my head when I try to focus on anything that does not involve them, get subconsciously distracted by everything that is going on in the background around me, allowing me to work in peace. It's my subterfuge on myself: distract the distracters hehehe. Of course the cup of caffeinated tea that finds its way inevitably into my hand probably helps as well.

Now that I have my evening coffee shop, I see many productive nights in front of me. It feels as though a part of my life has been made complete - coffee shop, where have you been all my life?  It's amazing how one little thing can make home feel more like home.

Something berry good

 

I have a fascination with berries.  Maybe it is due to my mountain upbringing, where every second berry plant you come upon the side of the trail is edible.  Or maybe I just think with my stomach.  But here in B.C. it is not uncommon to go for a stroll down the highway and BAM! in the ditch there is a daring bush full of delectable, juicy, ripe saskatoon berries just begging to be eaten on the spot.  Or to take walk near the beach by the tree line and ending up spending the entire afternoon huckleberry picking instead of swimming like you originally came for. True story.  And then there are the wild raspberries and wild strawberries - not as popular in some circles but a valid edible choice nonetheless.

 

The irony with this photo is that it was not taken in B.C., nor is it of an edible berry.  I took it in Calgary, AB near a place I used to work. I was fiddling around with my iphone on a lunch break, and these berries probably made me think of food.  After all, they are the exact colour and size of the huckleberry, which is my favourite of all the berries.  They have so much tastiness packed into such a small package, both tangy and sweet at the same time.  When you bite into them the flavour explodes into your mouth and fills it, and it is easy to get caught into the trap of eating them till your mouth turns blue. True story, many times.

 

The thing that I've learned about huckleberries is that not everyone appreciates them like I do.  If people have grown up in another province, say Saskatchewan, then the huckleberry is too tart for them.  Or maybe it's because the berry tends to grow on the sides of mountains, and people who have an attachment to the flat lands might hold a unconscious prejudice against things that will only grow in the not-so-flat lands.  That's another interesting fact about huckleberries - they refuse to be domesticated.  There is no such thing as a huckleberry farm, in the same way that there would be a blueberry farm.  No, if you want to pick a huckleberry, the best thing to do is to travel up a deserted logging road up the side of the mountain in your 4x4 and find one of those clear-cut areas that was cleared out a few years ago.  That's where all the best berries are.

 

This weekend I am going huckleberry picking.  And I am excited, because it is a family tradition.  And because I love huckleberries.