spindrift and dreams

Goodbye sweet old girl.

2011-03-02T20:59:00.001-08:00

I said goodbye to a beloved friend today. For thirteen years she has given love, comfort, companionship, and play. We have hiked up mountains together, and shared a tent in the snow and in the sand many times. She has been a pillow for my tears and happy playmate in good times. A protector of her household of humans, cats, and her buddy Henry. Part lab, part German Shepherd, she was so gentle with little kittens and puppies, but took her job as our family protector seriously. She was not so keen on most other adult dogs, unless they were males with all their dangly bits intact. She was a bit of a slut that way.

She was a mutt named Tika. I got her as a refugee from the Vancouver city pound when she was about 9 months old. She was big, untrained and rambunctious; throwing herself against me and licking my face when I went to the pound to walk her as a volunteer at the pound. I bought her a condo. Really. When I met her my 11 year old son and I were living in a rental house that did not allow pets. I loved that old house. But I loved Tika more. So I borrowed a down payment from my sister, and bought a pet friendly condo so I could adopt the dog who had stolen my heart. I had never had a dog before. Or more correctly, a dog had never had me before. And she had me. Oh, she had me.

She loved to hike. On future hikes I will always feel her spirit jogging ahead of me down the path, waiting for me to catch up when I lag. She loved to sing and play with our cat Oliver, and if any of the cats tried to eat from her bowl she would step aside for them. She accepted our new puppy Henry five years ago, a little reluctantly at first. But they became great friends, wrestling, playing, and chasing chipmunks together. Henry will miss her as much as I will.

Cancer finally took her spirit. In the last few weeks her body was here, but her eyes held no life. She was often miserable, could barely walk, and on pills for pain. My heart ached for her. On the weekend we made the decision that it was TIME. We made the fateful vet appointment for today at 4:00. At the vet's, we were shown into a special quiet room. Everyone was so kind. The vet tech put a catheter in Tika's leg vien, then the vet came in and gently explained exactly what would happen, and said we could take as much time as we needed. Finally, I nodded and sobbed "O.K. it's time." A few seconds later, as I held her, Tikas's head slumped in my arms and it was over.

Goodbye my beloved Tika. A big chunk of my heart went with you today. It will heal, in time. But you will have a place in it forever.

The most wonderful time of the year

2010-05-21T08:54:00.004-07:00

No, your browser has not screwed up and sent you into a post from December. Christmas is O.K., but it does not compare to the first really HOT WEEKEND AT THE LAKE.

It was the weekend the deck got a good scrubbing, and the cobwebs were washed off the umbrella. The boat got cleaned of its winter debris. The screens and windows got a bath.

So did Henry:

The deck chairs were pulled out of storage and the spiders were sent packing.

Then we had lunch al fresco on the gleaming table and chairs, talking about the summer ahead. Swimming, wakeboarding, the rope swing, B's famous margueritas and friends visiting.

As the sun headed west we sat on the dock with cold drinks, reading, dozing, and making plans for the many long hot weekends to come. Bliss.

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P.S. The beach in the previous post is Carter's beach, Nova Scotia.

Back from...

2010-05-14T13:31:00.004-07:00

I have not just been away from the Internet, I've been away from home. Although, one is never very far away from the Internet, at least not in most of the places I've visited. I've logged into cyberspace from Kathmandu, the Serengeti, Koh Pan Gan Thailand, Guatemala, and tiny villages in Canada's north... Oh. Does that sound like I'm showing off? Putting on airs? Of course it does, because I was. But I'll stop. For now.

Anyway, I had a lovely time away. There was leisure time to take long walks, read, drink a cold brew in the sunshine, spend time with family, and feel the warm white sand on my feet as turquoise waves lapped at my toes.

You may be thinking, "she must have gone to the Caribbean, or Mexico, or maybe Hawaii. Or even the South Pacific." It takes as long to fly to those places as it did to the place I really went, but it wasn't one of them. I'll give you a hint:

We did not eat this monster, but we sure enjoyed several of his great-grandchildren.

Have you guessed where I was? First person to get the country and region gets a big round of applause. The first person to name the actual beach in these photos gets first prize: an all expense paid trip to anywhere in the world you can toss a ball to from your own home. Really. I am that generous.

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Wet nose wisdom: Lessons from my dogs

2010-04-24T08:49:00.000-07:00

I herded the dogs into the car for the short drive to a park not far from my home. In this city of beautiful parks, this one is not. It is a ribbon of land along the Fraser river, not more than 200 metres wide, bordered by light industry on one side, and log booms on the other.

But it has an off-leash area the size of a football field, and a three kilometre off-leash trail along an ugly slough. There is a scummy pond to swim in. To Tika and Henry, it is paradise.

As we walked along the trail, I stopped whenever the dogs paused to sniff, or cool off in the slough, and I looked around me more closely. There is beauty in this unappealing park.

(Do you see the snail in the yellow blossoms above?)

An old apple tree survives here. (Can you spot the snail here too?)

A spotted towhee watched me carefully. He may have been guarding a nest.

Even skunk cabbage has a kind of elegance.

My happy dogs had put me in the mood to see the loveliness. The lesson is, whether I look for ugliness or beauty, I'll find it. So look for the beauty.

Sundance

2010-04-15T08:29:00.000-07:00

Yesterday afternoon as I travelled through my neighbourhood with the dogs, it may have looked like I was walking. But oh, no, I:

Tiptoed through the tulips:

Belly danced through the bluebells:

Rumbad through the Rhodos:

Did the bossa nova in the bleeding heart:

Arabesqued past the azaleas:

Do-si-doed around the dogwood tree:

And fox-trotted through flowers I don't know the names of (do you?):

I even discoed through the dandilions:

Because when flowers are singing in the spring sunshine, my soul has to dance.

My mean streak

2010-04-08T20:57:00.001-07:00

I rushed in the front door.

"Hi Honey, how was your day! Guess what, I have exciting news! I have tickets for a lecture tonight."

"Tickets? As in two?

"Yes, we are so lucky. They are sold out but my friend Sue is sick and she gave them to me."

"Um, for tonight?"

"Yup. We will have to hurry, it's at University of the Fraser Valley, and it starts in an hour and a half. It will take almost that long to get there."

"Um, a lecture you said?

"Yes, about the archaeology of the Old Crow site in the Yukon. Dr. Harlan Smith is speaking! I can't wait!"

"You didn't tell me about this lecture Sweetie, I wish you had called."

"Sorry, my cell phone was dead. But you know how much I love archaeolgy, so I knew you would be excited to share this with me. It will be so INTERESTING. And afterword there is an open question session we have to stay for. I want to ask Dr. Smith to explain his statistical sampling algorythm."

My Beloved looked stricken. I decided to end his misery.

"APRIL FOOL'S!!!! Go turn on the Canucks game, I'll bring us a couple of beers."
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In case of fire or earthquake

2010-03-22T14:10:00.001-07:00

Recently I wrote about a sculpture I love, and said that it would be the second piece of art I would save if my house was on fire. The first piece I would save is so important, I have always hung it near the front door in the four successive homes I have lived in since it was created in 1991. As I have told the artist, that's so I can easily grab it as I flee from the flames. Here it is, right beside the door:

The artist is my son, and the title is "My Fourth Birthday Party". But there is no need to tell you the title, because of course you knew it depicted a birthday party as soon as you saw it. Right? The orange birthday cake with glowing candles (very Dali-esque in perspective) gives the subject away:

The wild, fifteen-toed creature lighting the candles to the left of the cake is me. Clearly, my kid will spend many future hours on a shrink's couch dealing with mother issues. The happy person in red to the right of the cake is the birthday boy artist.

There are many gifts with lovely loopy bows and ribbons, which you can see stacked on the left of the painting. In fact there are more gifts than people, perhaps indicative of the relative importance of the former over the latter in the artist's psyche. On top of the gifts, depicted in orange with five legs, is the cat.

It was a sunny day, but there was also a rainbow, because rainbows are such happy additions to a party. The sun looks rather piqued about being upstaged by the rainbow.

If my house ever catches fire, or gets rattled in an earthquake, I will be standing on the street in my pajamas (such disasters are always at night you know,) clutching this masterpiece. Other than the people and the furry creatures, there is nothing else so precious in my home.

Happy Saint Paddy's day

2010-03-17T09:24:00.003-07:00

Top o' the marnin to ya!

I always feel like smiling on St. Patrick's day, though I can't explain why. There is nothing remotely Irish about me except the shamrocks currently blooming in my front yard.

(Aside: I have not seen any other outdoor blooming shamrocks here in Vancouver except in a plant nursery. I found a tiny clump of these in a hidden corner of my side yard when we moved into this house six years ago, and transplanted them to the front. They have thrived and colonised, even through the nastiest of winters, and delight me by blooming every year around leprechaun day.)

As I was saying, despite the red hair and a fondness for a bottle of O'Hara's Red, I have no Irish blood. I am seventh generation Canadian, a Heinz 57 mix of Scot and several other nationalities, including native Indian.

So why do I have an affection for St. Patrick's day? Bartenders ruin beer in his name by turning it green. Leprechauns are greedy, gold chasing little buggers. Irish people talk funny so. I don't even know an Irish person.

Wait a minute, I do know an Irish person. Or did, once. Dilip Kerrigan. He was Indo-Irish, with caramel skin, licorice hair, and deep navy eyes. His smile radiated sensuality way beyond his 16 years. I was 15, and Dilip was my first boyfriend. We met at a party of ex-pat teens in Dar Es Salaam in 1973. We were both home for holidays from boarding school, his in Dublin, mine in Nairobi. We had four weeks before we had to return to school, and we met every day after that party.

Dilip had a motor scooter. We would ride it to one of the empty beaches north of town and swim, then make out under palm trees. I learned from Dilip that kissing could transport me to an exquisite new world, and the shy touch of his fingertips on my breast could ignite a fire that thrilled and terrified me. In the evenings when most ex-pat parents were at the gymkhanna club playing bridge or snooker, we met up with friends and went to Etienne's. Etienne was a French bar owner with a passion for African bands and no scruples about serving beer (but no hard liquor) to under-age kids. That month I developed a taste for beer. And kissing.

Etienne's was an open-air bar with rickety tables and a dirt floor. The drumbeats would reach up through the ground and free our timid western limbs into wild dancing, leaving us sweat soaked and breathless when we hurried home to make our curfews.

When Dilip and I returned to school we wrote to each other for a while. Dilip wrote me vaguely suggestive poems which I hid in my Swahili textbook and devoured nightly after lights out. I never saw Dilip Kerrigan again. Our next school holidays did not coincide, and later that year my family and I returned to Canada.

Perhaps St Patrick's day, with its reminders and celebration of all things Irish, evokes the sensation of the first awakening of sensual passion in my life by that sweet Irish boy. Now that's a reason to celebrate.

Beannachtam na Femle Padraig!

Puck, Prime Minister, people swilling beer:

2010-03-15T09:50:00.012-07:00

At ten o'clock on a Saturday morning. Oh Canada.

I was at the first sledge hockey game of the Paralympics last week. Generally, Paralympic athletes do not get the recognition they deserve. I have to admit, the Paralympics would hardly be on my radar, except that the sister of a friend of mine was an Olympian in wheelchair rugby some years ago, making me a little more aware. Now the games are here in Vancouver, and I am happy to see them generate so much excitement.

That excitement was evident at the sold out Canada versus Italy game last week. It is Hockey, after all, and this is Canada. Our red blood cells look like microscopic pucks. Our passports are the same shape as the blade of a goalie stick, and their covers are dyed to match the blue line.

At the game, the beer was flowing, the flags were waved, and the cheers were deafening. There had been no tedious security checks coming in: in fact the only hold up at the entrance was the line up at the beer taps.

Our Prime Minister was there, looking like someone had shoved a pickle up his...um...conservative platform. His advisers forgot to tell him this was not a somber occasion. Someone should have brought Stephen a beer. Are we sure he is Canadian?

Water therapy

2010-03-09T10:49:00.020-08:00

"I'm going out in the Kayak," I informed B on Saturday morning. "I'll just be an hour or two."

It was a glorious spring day. I decided to paddle up the lake to Seal Bay, about two kilometers away.

It was silent but for the drip of my paddle, and the little rivulets of melt water cascading from the rocks, onto me (and the camera lens)when I went in to explore a little cove.

I got to Seal Bay, and decided to continue further north, by then mesmerized by the rhythm of paddling, and the sun on my shoulders. Our weathered old kayak, which we bought from a friend for a case of beer, is fast and sleek. She whispers through the water. I decided to head for the Indian pictographs, painted by ancestors of the Katzie First Nation.

When I had been gone longer than expected, my pit crew showed up with lunch. I was happy to see them, and hungry, but I enjoyed my solitude again after they went back to the cabin. I paddled on.

Eventually, as the sun dropped closer to the mountain tops, I turned for home. As I paddled into our bay, the snow on Golden Ears Mountain gleamed, and the afternoon light sparkled on the lake.

Days like that are imprinted on my soul.
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In the eye of the beholder

2010-03-03T09:17:00.025-08:00

I own very little original artwork apart from some inexpensive pieces picked up in markets on my travels, and a few paintings by a talented great aunt. But I have one piece of painted wooden sculpture that I love so much I would grab it second on my way out of my burning home. The first, most cherished piece of art I would grab is my son's painting of his fourth birthday party. But that's another story.

I call my sculpture "Silly Little Man", although that is not what the artist called it. It depicts a small man with arms outstretched, standing in front of three large salmon swimming toward him. Here it is:

If you are thinking "Is she kidding? That's junk," you are not alone. Someone once asked me if I bought it at a garage sale.

I love it.

I love that the salmon are so fluidly carved, and done in otherworldly colours, while the person (to me he is a man, but could be female I suppose,) is blocky and rough, with no nuances of colour.

I love that the salmon look as if they are about to swim right over the man, barely seeing him and his outstretched arms.

I love that this piece symbolizes for me the mystical power of the salmon runs; so much a part of our west coast culture, both from prehistory to right now, for first nations and all of us. Anyone who has seen a shallow stream roil with the ruby backs of salmon on their fatal upstream journey, or watched them arc high over a waterfall cannot be but awed.

I love that, while the body of the fish are painted in jewel bright colours, their eyes reflect the raw cedar forests that line the streams they travel.

But what I love most about this piece of art is the foolishness of the little man in trying to stop the salmon from swimming upstream. At the same time, I identify with his hubris at trying. When I bought this sculpture, in 1992, he was me. I was a single mom of a toddler, still wet behind the ears in the practice of law, and going through an ugly divorce. It was just beginning to dawn on me that I was not CEO of the universe, and I had to let go of trying to control things I had no power over, or go crazy. I saw the "Silly Little Man" in a gallery window downtown, and it stopped me cold. I knew at once I had to have it, though at the time I could not have fully articulated the reasons. It is only in retrospect that I came to realize why it "spoke" to me. It cost far more than I could comfortably afford then (or even uncomfortably afford). I ate many meals of cheap mac & cheese after buying "Little Man". It was worth every noodle.

So "Silly Little Man" sits on my mantel, and I love it even more than when I got it 17 years ago. He still makes me chuckle. At both of us.

The artist, Peter Kiss, would likely be surprised by my interpretation of "Silly Little Man". His title for it, printed on the underside, is "Fish Guides". If you look closely at Little Man's right hand, it is pointing backwards, as if perhaps he is showing the salmon which direction they are to take. (And, yes, one finger of the right hand is broken. Sorry Mr. Kiss, your art is a little too delicate for the number of times I have moved house.) Perhaps the artist intended to portray the whimsical idea that, instead of salmon having a mystical force guiding them to the spot they were born, there are actually little traffic cops showing them the way.

What do you think?

Do you have a piece of artwork that you were compelled to have?

The day the country turned blue

2010-03-01T09:18:00.011-08:00

The Olympics are over. I have mixed feelings about the whole Olympicorporation, though I do admire the athletes and their dedication. Today, I am happy to have my city return to some kind of normal.

Yesterday though, my ambivalence was on vacation. Gone so far it could not even text me a little reminder. No matter how I feel about the Olympics, I AM a hockey fan. Multiply fan by a thousand and you have the level of passion for the sport felt by my beloved and his father. So yesterday, we went en famille (me, husband, son, father-in-law and mother-in-law) to the packed local pub to watch the game on the big screen.

The game was a nail biter, though when only 24 seconds were left and we were a goal ahead it seemed time to start celebrating gold. Then; "OH NO!!!", and people across our puck-crazed Dominion groaned when the U.S. scored. I swear I heard a guy in Corner Brook scream "SON OF A BITCH! Lads, pass the screech, quick!" In the pub we shook our heads, disbelieving that the game was tied and would go into sudden death overtime.

In the interval, I commiserated by phone with my sister, who was watching from New Zealand. (She is a bigger hockey fan than I am, once mortifying me at a Canucks game by standing and screaming "I love you Trevor", after Linden was sent to the penalty box.) The pub patrons wondered how they could bear the tension. Many more pitchers of Molson Canadian seemed the answer at most tables. (I saw one young woman at a nearby table drinking a Corona. She must be foreign.)

The puck dropped for the overtime period. The din in the pub made the lampposts outside tremble. A rowdy woman kept shrieking at the T.V., "GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT!GET IT OUT!" It was my 80 year old mother-in-law. I looked nervously at my 89 year old father-in-law, who was half out of his chair, fists clenched. I mentally reviewed my CPR training. After five minutes , the tension and the beer forced me to take a very speedy trip to the ladies'. Too bad medals are not given for fastest trip to the loo. The score was still zip all when I breathlessly returned. Then the beer caught up with my son and he jogged off to the Gents'. Just as Son was out of sight, Crosby scored for Canada, and the Country let out its collective breath. My son came running back. "I missed it," he wailed. Many of you have seen the ensuing decorus pleasure shown by us reserved, shy Canadians. We went ape shit.

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My mother claims that my father had a talent for being in the bathroom whenever something important happened. It looks like that gift has skipped a generation.

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Dad

2010-02-24T20:38:00.021-08:00

My Dad died at the end of September last year. He had brain cancer.

I spent most of August and September back in Nova Scotia, visiting him every day in his palliative care ward. On his good days I would take him for a walk outside in a wheelchair, and we talked, or listened to music. He loved Mozart. And Patsy Cline.

On worse days, near the end, he lay in bed, desperately gasping to stay alive while I read to him and held his hand, hoping, or pretending, that he knew I was there. I silently wept.

I have written about my Dad here, and the beginning of his illness here. Those words give only a glimpse into the complicated love of our relationship. Now, thoughts of Dad smack me many times a day, leaving me sometimes smiling, sometimes aching, sometimes anguished. I can't write about them. Yet.

I didn't know that losing my Dad would be so hard, or that the pain would still be so dense. I miss him.

Above photo: Dad in 1988 (with my son).

Top photo: Dad in 2000 at Machu Picchu, Peru. He gave me my love of travel and of mountains.
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She just couldn't stay away

2010-02-22T14:16:00.018-08:00

You thought she was a goner, but...

Apologies to Fred Penner for abusing his lyrics.

Yes, I am back. I missed you all. And I was recently given an irresistable reason to write my blog posts again. A reason I could not ignore, that just set my typing fingers a twitchin! I've been banned from blogging. By my work. Well, not exactly banned, but my employer has ~~commanded~~ said that we should not participate in blogs, facebook, twitter, or any other social networking activity. Even on our own time. This is supposedly for our own safety, as my job has somewhat of a public recognition factor, by people who are not always happy with the result of my labour. Which does not explain why the edict applies to everyone, from the virtually anonymous file clerks in our records department to those of us in the public eye. I think the real reason for the ban is so the Minister does not have to worry about one of us flashing boobs or balls on facebook. Which makes me want to open a facebook page and...

I have been busy, as my last post whined about. Much has happened since then. But I have been writing, (just not blog posts) and I may even receive a little coin for some of my scribbles. More about that later.

Thanks to the Olympics, downtown Vancouver is virtually shut down for all but the revellers. That means many of us downtown worker drones are ~~teleworking from home~~ walking the dog in the middle of one of the most glorious stretches of spring weather I can remember. As you can see:

These beauties are blooming in the traffic circle on my block.

Who knew azaleas, daffodils, crocuses and cherry trees could all bloom at the same time? I've never seen that before.

I enjoyed watching the kids play at recess at the local primary school. Until I got kicked off the school grounds because dogs are not allowed.

Some spring blossoms are not so welcome:

Here is a photo from the weekend. I had a lovely long paddle in the kayak in shirtsleeves! Is this the result of global warming? Bring it on!

Excuses, excuses.

2009-06-11T19:44:00.012-07:00

Cheeky Jazz left the following comment on my previous post:

"Hhmph! It seems posts don't grow on trees either." She is surely referring to the fact that I have not posted in several weeks.

Well Jazz, here is what I have to say to you:

And:

Yes I just flipped Jazz the finger, but I like her, so I mean it in the nicest possible way. But have you ever tried to type on a keyboard with this damn contraption on the middle finger of your dominant hand? (I dislocated my finger and tore the tendon - dull story. Let's just say I did it cattle roping at a rodeo. Or hang gliding. Yes, that's it, hang gliding.)

But that's only one of my excuses for not posting in a while. It's a good one though, really plays the sympathy card.

The other impediment to me recording my scintillating prose, or drivel, depending on one's opinion, is TIME. I can't find enough of it. I have been out of town where there is no Internet every weekend since Easter. (Pictorial post on that coming soon. What......? Who just muttered "I won't hold my breath?") Weekday evenings are taken up with domestic science, and trying to get a little gardening done before the plants eat the house. If you live on the hyper-fecund Wet Coast of BC, you know what I mean. I swear we can sit in the yard with a beer, and watch the morning glories grow a metre by the time we are ready to fetch the second.

Blogging sites are blocked by firewalls at my workplace, so I can't even get an illicit blog word or two written or read while there. Even if I could I would only do so on breaks of course. (See you in that early meeting tomorrow boss.)

Tonight I should actually thank Jazz instead of flipping her the bird. Because I would much rather write than fold laundry, clean the kitchen, pull weeds, or scrape the peeling paint off the front porch. And thanks to Jazz I said "bugger that" to those chores, and opened my lap top. Which I will shortly use to journey to your blogs that I love to read, and actually take time to comment.

But tell me, where do YOU ALL find, steal, or borrow the time? Any hints?

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It doesn't grow on trees?

2009-04-21T19:45:00.020-07:00

"Sweetie, you know how I've been searching for a new purse?"

"Have you?"

"Yes, we've talked about my hunt for a well made purse with a long shoulder strap and lots of compartments."

"Hmmm, if you say so."

"Well I found the perfect one."

What I am not saying yet is that I found it months ago at Roots Canada, but refused then to pay the outrageous price. Yesterday I saw it was on sale by 30 percent, which took the price down from in-orbit to only sky high.

"That's good" replies B, soaping up my back. I have deliberately begun this conversation while we are in the shower, where B is usually a little, um, distracted.

"I have a confession though, it was a mite expensive." (Massive understatement)

"Hmmm, whatever."

Good, he is distracted

"Well actually, it was more than a little expensive", I admit.

B is hardly even listening to me now, as he mumbles, "It wasn't over $500 was it?"

"Hell no!" I am relieved that he would calmly imagine I could have spent that much.

"Over $300?."

"No." Phew!

"Well it couldn't have been that expensive then."

B nuzzles my neck, and this is the perfect time for me to say "It was only $210."

"WHAT!!!! TWO HUNDRED AND TEN DOLLARS! FOR A PURSE? I didn't know a purse could cost that much!" B shrieks.

"But, but, you said..."

"I was kidding."

And paying way more attention than I thought.

Overdue housekeeping

2009-04-16T20:21:00.013-07:00

I got back from the Great White North a week ago. After my last post from Yellowknife I went on to the town of Fort Smith, Northwest Territories, on the edge of Wood Buffalo National Park. Besides Buffaloes, there is an amazing wildlife fact about Fort Smith, but I'm going to only tease you with it for now. I will wait until I return in June and hope to actually get a photo of this phenomenon before reporting about it here. Stay tuned.

One of the reasons I love my work in the North is the opportunity to get into small communities, work with, and meet the people there. I am always impressed by people in these communities who work so hard to combat the demons of social, economic and historical problems that too often plague remote northern, mostly First Nations communities.

On the charter flight back to Yellowknife, we were served coffee from a thermos, and cranberry bread baked by the co-pilot's wife. Now that's great airline food service!

On arriving home, B and I immediately headed for our refuge. Our escape to a little piece of Heaven. Our cabin. This is the view from our deck on Easter Sunday.

And now for some overdue housekeeping. I was recently given awards by both Ian and David. I am especially honoured because I must be one of the most unsatisfying people to bestow a blogging reward upon. I am often shamefully late in acknowledging them, and I never follow the awards rules. Instead of passing on the awards, I invite you to read Ian's and David's fine writing. (See, I told you I don't follow rules well.) Thank you Ian and David.

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Through the rabbit hole

2009-04-03T22:45:00.000-07:00

As you can see by this photo from my hotel room, I am back in Yellowknife for work, after less than a week home in Vancouver. Yesterday evening here was surreal. First of all, it was still light at 8:15 at night. Not just light, but sunny. At this time of year the days lengthen by about 10 minutes per day.

As I walked to a restaurant for dinner, a man came running toward me from the legion hall. "Can you give me a ride to the airport?" he shouts. "I hafta get to the airport."

"No," I reply, "I, um, don't have a car."

"Bullshit, all you cops got cars."

"I'm not a cop."

"Yes you are, I can tell by your clothes. And I seen you in your cop car before."

I looked down at my clothes: A red Mountain Equipment Co-op jacket, boots, blue fleece hat, mittens,and jeans. Jeans with bright embroidery around one leg. (Yes, I still embroider my jeans. You can take the girl out of the '70s but.....)

I just shrugged and walked on as he continued to implore me for a ride to the airport in my cop car. Incredulous, a block later I pulled out the little camera I carry in my pocket, and pointed it at my foot. Does this look like the leg of RCMP-issued trousers to you?

I opened the door to the restaurant, having found it easily. My northern colleague, who was meeting me there, had explained "You can't miss Thornton's, it is in the same building as the bowling alley". I expected bowling alley ambiance. What I saw was this:

A maitre de whisked my jacket away, seated me, and gave me food and wine menus. This was no Bullock's Bistro.

But what happened next truly set the world spinning upside down. The waiter asked me for I.D. when I ordered a beer. He carded me??!!?? I looked for his white cane or seeing-eye-dog. None. At my age, this is not flattering, or funny, it's just plain wrong. Bizarre. The last time I got asked for I.D. was 16 years ago at a bar in Whistler. I had been wearing ski clothes, a hat, and sun glasses when I went in. A bouncer came up behind me, tapped me on the shoulder and said "Miss, I need to see your I.D." I turned to him, took off my hat and sunglasses, and began fumbling in my pocket for my wallet. The tactless punk then looked at me and said "Never mind Ma'am, that's O.K."

The only explanation I could think of this time was this establishment must have a policy of checking every patron, no matter how decrepit, for I.D. Or the waiter was bucking for one helluva tip. But when my much younger colleague arrived a few minutes later, she ordered her wine without incident.

I commented to my dinner companion that the restaurant was not very busy. There were only two occupied tables, although she had told me earlier that Thornton's was very popular. "Restaurants around here are all slow right now," she replied. "It's the start of home barbecue season, a spring ritual." WTF? BARBECUE SEASON? Granted, the day had warmed up somewhat from the -24 chill I walked to work in that morning. But Barbecue season? This is what the start of the barbecue season looks like here:

After a delicious (and crazy expensive) dinner of shared tapas, I walked back to my hotel. A couple of the local Franken-Ravens, (bigger, cleverer creatures compared to their southern cousins) followed me, hoping I had saved some crumbs from dinner for them. I have been followed from a restaurant by ravens before up here.

It was a strange, enchanting evening. The north always surprises me. I love that.

Highway of Heroes

2009-03-30T18:45:00.019-07:00

While I was away last week, Canada lost four more soldiers in Afghanistan. I was working long hours, and did not have much time to read the papers or listen to the news. I was aware of the deaths, but I am ashamed to say they did not register with the usual heart wrench I feel at such news.

Today it registered, hard, and I cried for the senseless loss of those four young soldiers. And for the men and one woman that have already died in this Canadian mission. It was a video I saw for the first time on Rositta's blog that hit me.

Now, I don't normally get political on this blog, other than to occasionally curse politicians or bureaucracy, but that's just sport. And I am not really going to get political now. But I will say that I do not support Canada's mission in Afghanistan. It is a combat role, not the traditional peacekeeping role of which Canadians can be so proud. And more importantly, I don't believe combat can solve the complex situation in Afghanistan. I don't pretend to have the answers to solve the strife in that country, although if you have an hour or two and would like to discuss it with me I have plenty of ideas and opinions.

Regardless of my opinion on whether our troops should be there, I have nothing but respect for the individual soldiers serving in Afghanistan. Their dedication to duty, bravery, and belief in the work they do, makes me proud. (And they have done some good work on a grassroots level, just not a long-term solution level.)

What made me cry were images of the soldiers coming home on the Highway of Heroes. For those who are not Canadian, let me explain. The bodies of dead soldiers from Afghanistan arrive home by plane at the Armed Forces base at Trenton Ontario. There, they are met by their families, dignitaries and government officials. From Trenton their hearses travel 170 km. to the coroner's office in Toronto, accompanied by their families in limousines. The route is closed to all other traffic as they pass. As soldiers began making that last journey along highway 401 a few years ago, more and more people started to gather along the highway and overpasses to show pride, respect, and sorrow for the fallen, and support for their families. Local police and firefighters joined in. Now, virtually the whole route, which takes an hour and a half to drive, is lined by people saluting, waving flags, crying, or waving in tribute.

I am proud that, despite the fact that there is little support in Canada for our continued combat presence in Afghanistan, we do not hold it against our soldiers. They deserve only our respect. And I hope the journey along the Highway of Heroes (now officially named) gives the devastated families some comfort, in knowing that they are not alone in grieving their sons' (and one daughter's) sacrifice.

Here is the video. The Ontario Provincial Police created this tribute, and it is the OPP "Voices in Blue" that sings in it. Maybe the fact that I have a 22 year old son makes this more poignant for me. But I bet you too will not have dry eyes by the end, no matter how you feel about the war in Afghanistan.

Divine fish and dancing sky

2009-03-26T10:56:00.045-07:00

I pause. Is this really the restaurant? I shyly open the door to this log building, which was built in the thirties as a store on the lakefront. A vivacious woman with abundant blond curly hair escaping from her baseball cap grins and yells out, "Look, our new waitress finally showed up."

"What's the pay for your waitress job?" I reply, immediately feeling at home. She, I find out later, is named Renata, and she is the chef, waitress, owner, dishwasher and entertainer of Bullock's Bistro in Yellowknife, Northwest Territories.

"Come on through, sit down," Renata invites, and leads me into a dining area about the size of my hotel room. All seven tables are full, so I take a stool at the tiny bar. "If you want a drink, help yourself from the cooler over there. Today we've got fresh whitefish, pike, trout, pickerel and arctic char, and all the meat on the menu." The meat on the menu is muskox, caribou, and buffalo. Fish can be battered, pan fried or grilled. All meals come with salad and freshly made fries. There are two choices of home made salad dressing: garlic or feta cheese.

I order pan fried arctic char. This delicate, pink fleshed fish looks like pale salmon, but has a flavour unlike any other fish I've tasted. It is only found in arctic and sub arctic waters. I try to get some every time I come north, but it is hard to find and rarely appears wild and fresh on menus.

For a single diner, there is no lack of reading material, on the walls, the ceiling, and even on the funky caribou's horns.

While watching Renata cook, which she does right behind the bar, I strike up conversation with my bar stool neighbours, both here on business like I am. One is a lab technician from Calgary, the other is a cable T.V. consultant from Florida, on his first trip to Canada. He is enchanted by the north. "They will never believe me at home when I tell them I drove on an ice road!" he says, shaking his head. He offers me a taste of his Great Slave Lake pickerel, which is sweet, firm, and a serious rival to my mouth watering arctic char.

Renata and her one helper keep the whole place laughing with her stories and banter. She serves my coffee with a warning: "Honey, be careful, this coffee will make your bra pop off." (Huh?)

Time to go. I zip up my parka, pull my hat down making sure it covers my ears, put my big mittens on over my gloves, and step out of Bullock's. After a moment I realize dogs are barking everywhere, all over town. Then in between barks I hear why; wolves are howling across the bay. The haunting sound of singing wolves brings sweet tears. When I was a girl my Grandpa Gordon taught me how to call to the wolves through a birch bark megaphone at our family cabin in Quebec. It took a lot of practice, but I got good enough to make them answer almost every time I called them.

As I walk back to my hotel, the northern lights dance and weave over my head. I have seen them several times on this trip, from my hotel balcony, but never so bright. The lights of the big city of Yellowknife (pop 17,000) had dimmed my view from the hotel. But here by the lake on the edge of town they are spectacular.*

What a wonderful place this is!

*(I do not have my good camera or a tripod with me, only a point & shoot, so I did not take the northern lights photo above. But it is very close in colour and pattern to the lights I saw that night.)

North of sixty

2009-03-22T15:12:00.027-07:00

Ignore my whining about winter in my recent posts. Today I am going to rave about it. Seriously. It is cold, very cold, and there is fresh snow on the ground. But I am revelling in it! Look at me over there on the left, smiling in the snow. No, I have not gone mad.

I am in the arctic. In Yellowknife, Northwest Territories. Where winter is not just endured, it is celebrated!

So to enjoy the winterness of this brilliant day in Yellowknife, I went where the locals go: on the lake. Yes ON it. Great Slave Lake. Where I watched kite snowboarding.

There were folks walking dogs, skiing, playing on snowmobiles, and flying regular kites on the lake. And visiting the art gallery. That's right, the art gallery in an ice castle. ON the lake.

The windows are made of ice.

I had a lively discussion with the creator, caretaker, and curator of this ice castle art gallery, the "Snow King", A.K.A. Anthony Foliot. He told me his ice architectural skills began when he was growing up in Northern Quebec, and neighbourhoods would compete with each other to make the best snow structures.When the ice is thin on Great Slave Lake in November, he saws out bocks to make the windows in the castle.

So, I had great time today time in the snowy cold. In March. Who'd have guessed it!Oh, and please, while I love all your comments, I ask you to refrain from making fashion fun of my over-sized parka with the real fur hood (ick). It's government issue. I'm working you see. Except for a few fun hours today.

For the birds

2009-03-17T08:06:00.001-07:00

We went up to our cabin on Pitt Lake this past weekend. The weather forecast called for rain, but that's not so bad. We have complete rain canvas for the boat (which is the only way to get there), and a weekend spent curled up in front of the fire with a book, without T.V., telephones, or crackberrys is bliss. (An aside here: although our cell phones do not work up there, we do have a portable marine VHF radio, so we can call for help if one of us cuts off a foot with the chain saw. So don't worry Mom.)

The main reason I was anxious to get to the cabin was to put up the hummingbird feeders. I adore hummingbirds. Thirty years ago a First Nations Elder in a community near where I was working on an archaeology dig gave me the name "Hummingbird" in Salish. I have considered this beautiful, fearless, little creature my totem ever since. We get dozens of Rufous hummingbirds at the lake, flashing in the sunlight, dancing and diving around the hummingbird feeders. In summer, with the windows open, often the first sound I hear at dawn is the soft drum-roll of their tiny wings.

We also get the occasional Anna's hummingbird. This is the northernmost edge of Anna's range. A few will even winter over in southern Vancouver Island and some parts of Vancouver. At Pitt Lake, they are still only seasonal visitors. Their iridescent scarlet heads are breathtaking.

Hummingbirds usually return here about the first week of March. Some years they can be spotted at the end of February. I knew their migration north has been a little slow this year, but it was important to me to get those feeders up and ready. The little jewels arrive exhausted after their long flight from Mexico. (Hell, even I'M tired after a flight from Mexico, and that's just from ordering cerveza on board the plane. I don't have to flap my wings.)

So the feeders are up, but there are no hummingbirds yet. In fact they may be very late this year. If they have any sense.

If any of you in more southern climes see my hummingbirds flying north, tell them from me: "Little ones, you should hang around in California a while. As much as I would love to see you, you don't want to be here yet."

Here are some photos I took Sunday as we were leaving the lake.

Pigs flew

2009-03-15T18:38:00.005-07:00

Friday I was walking down Howe Street, heading back to my office with my take out lunch from Salad Loop. It was a crisp but bright day, and I was walking slowly, to enjoy the sun on my face. Suddenly a vintage Camaro with two young men in it swerved over to the curb beside me. I could see the passenger studying a map. The driver rolled down his window (He was closest to me, Howe is a one way street) and asked: "Hello, can you help us? Can you tell us how to get to the Lions Gate Bridge?"

"Sure", I said, "go down two blocks to Georgia Street, turn left, and Georgia Street will lead you right over the bridge."

"Great, thanks very much, and you have a good day."

"Guys, I should thank you, for making my day. Two men stopping to ask for directions!!!! I'm calling the Guinness book of Records!"

Betrayed

2009-03-09T13:47:00.016-07:00

Just over a week ago I wrote about spring in the air, crocuses and primulas blooming, and the promise that the winter blahs (full blown SAD in my case) would soon be gone. I did not just post those pics to annoy my Mom (although it is tradition, for 20 years or so I have been teasing her yearly with letters, then e-mail, and then blog posts about Vancouver's February flowers). But I had truly felt a lifting of spirit. A hint of a promise that I will soon go outside and feel lovely sunshine on my face, and warm soil in my garden.

But now I have been sucker punched. Mother nature is one sadistic bitch. Look at these photos I took today:

Henry loves kitty cats

2009-03-06T20:07:00.009-08:00

"Honey, I'm just taking the dogs out for their bedtime pee."

Henry, Tika, come on, lets go out. Walkies!"

"Man it's dark out here guys...Tika, what's wrong, why are you whining old girl? Hey! Tika, where are you going? Why are you running back to the house, you didn't even pee yet."

"Henry, where are you? OH NO! Henry come! No don't go over that way!!! Go back to the house with Tika. Ignore that kitty, he does NOT want to play with you. It's a bad bad, kitty. NOOO!!!! Oh shit, not again. Get over here you stupid, half-witted dog. That's the third time now, and you still have not learned. Oh god, right in your face again. You are spectacularly stupid."

"I've told you, IGNORE the black kitties with the white stripes down their back, you stinking idiot."

I can see a little light

2009-02-28T20:09:00.023-08:00

I have been SAD since October. Not just sad, but really SAD. Seasonal Affective Disorder. SAD is depression caused by winter lack of light. When I first heard of SAD years ago, I scoffed. I was derisive. "Another excuse made up by malingerers" I thought. Until my yearly Autumn descent into lethargy, dark thoughts, and constant fatigue became too scary to try to deal with on my own. I finally sought medical help and, depending on the year,I have sometimes required pharmaceutical assistance to get through the darkest days. This is hard to admit.

And if Tom Cruise reads this I will be subjected to a lecture on the evils of antidepressants and the natural joy of Scientology. Yah, Yah, I know what you're thinking: "She is not only depressed, she is delusional if she thinks Tom Cruise reads her blog, or even if he stumbled on it he'd give a rat's ass about her SAD".

But Tom, I don't need Scientology now. While it's true I am still soooo tired, and wake up every morning with ennui, I feel a tiny bit hopeful. Not because I actually feel better, but because I see the signs that assure me I really will feel better soon. Thank goodness I live where the first signs of spring arrive early.

I shot these photos on our walk to the dog park today:

Winter is on the wane. I'm gonna be O.K.

I love menopause: the top five reasons

2009-02-08T20:33:00.021-08:00

1. Several times a day I get to go on sizzling tropical vacations. For free!

2. My heating bills are way down.

3. By January 2 I had forgotten what my new years resolutions were. In fact, I forget if I even made any.

4. Getting dressed in the morning is like a fun trip to the casino. Do I bet on my skinny pants because I sweated off 7 kilos of water weight in the night? Or will it be one of those mornings when I'm bloated up like the Hindenburg, and only my husband's trousers will fit me?

5. I've no need to spend big bucks at the spa. I get steam baths many times every night.

6. There is exciting new mystery in my marriage. The mystery is, my husband never knows from one minute to the next whether I will be a weeping mess or a screaming shrew. One thing he can depend on, I will not be the boring, joyful, even tempered woman he first met.

O.K., I realize I have now listed six reasons, not five. I should go back into the title of this post and change the number, in the interests of accuracy. Normally I would. But here's the seventh reason I love menopause: I don't give a shit about accuracy or much of anything else. I am a hot, cranky, depressed, brain-deranged harridan. I celebrate this bitch!

(What else can I do?)

So, my lovely internet friends, leave a comment. I dare you.

Peace

2009-01-22T20:14:00.009-08:00

Last night I woke up at 3:23 in the wee hours. I'm not sure what woke me; amazingly it was not one of the fiery hot flashes that usually disturb my nights these days. But that's another story, one you will certainly be subjected to in due course. Bet you can't wait for that one!

As I lay in bed, the house was silent. Almost. Henry snuffled on his dog bed, Tika twitched on hers, dreaming about chasing the squirrels of her youth. B was gently snoring beside me, our legs entwined. Our cuddliest cat Snuffy was in her usual place between us on the bed. We call that place Snuffy Canyon. It is just about as well established as the Grand Canyon. Oliver was stretched out at my feet. Our rebel kitty Squirt was probably out selling crack-laced catnip.

My son had navigated another day at college and on the roads safely, and was asleep in his messy room downstairs.

I have many moments in my life when I give thanks for the blessings of my life. This was one. But it was also one of those perfect, peaceful moments when the outside world and all its cares could never get through the front door.

Snow. Make it go, make it go, make it go.

2009-01-06T20:57:00.037-08:00

I can't make Vancouver's freakish giant snow banks melt faster, but maybe I can whisk you away from them for a few minutes. O.K., here we go:

Imagine you are on a salt sprayed lounger chair on a sweltering tropical beach, a good book and icy beer at hand. Shade from a low palm tree and a brisk breeze keep you cool, as long as you don't move any more than it takes to turn the page. (Yes, you're getting close, concentrate now.) Hear the swoosh of the waves, feel the warm white sand in your toes. See the pelicans hover over the water before they fold up like missiles and speed dive into the surf. Now you've got it! You are in Placencia, Belize.

The local beach bum dogs are hanging out around your beach Cabana, because you are a pushover, and have been feeding them choice leftovers.

A few days ago you were at Caye Caulker, snorkeling at the world's second largest, and in my opinion, most spectacular, barrier reef. The highlight was swimming with a huge spotted eagle ray.

The barracudas were more graceful than fierce looking. But the lemon sharks, despite the snorkel guide's assurances that they were uninterested in humans, made you pee your pants. Or rather bathing suit.

As you walk around town, people of Garifuna, Caribe, African, and Mayan decent smile at you and shout greetings in a unique Caribbean / Belizian patois. As you pass a local house, built on stilts to catch the breezes and as a hedge against flooding, a young boy eyes your bag of groceries and sees a possibility of making a little money. "Dat bag, he look heavy, lady. I carry he for yo, O.K.?"

Your lovely day wanes as you snooze in a hammock, dreaming of the next adventure, Guatemala, to start tomorrow.

Well gentle readers, has that helped you forget the snow for a little while? Do you feel warmer, more relaxed, and virtually sun kissed?

WELL I DON'T!!!! Now I'm more sick of winter than ever. Because that Belize trip is over. Soooo over. Last March it was over. Oh, for the whisper of wind in palm fronds lulling me to sleep. Sob!

She came back for a meme?

2009-01-04T19:22:00.022-08:00

Yah, yah, I know what you are thinking, "Voyager has ignored us for almost a year, and then all she gives us is a meme post?"

Well, that's the way it is folks. I read Ian's (a.k.a. curmudgeon, but really a pussycat) answers to a retrospective meme of 2008, and thought "I want to do that." His thoughtful and sometimes funny answers to this meme inspired me to come out of blogger sabbatical. And so:

1.What did you do in 2008 that you’d never done before? Had a delightful, if halting, conversation with a woman who did not care that my Spanish sucks, in a roadside stand in Remate, Guatemala. We watched the sun set over Lake Peten, and learned a little about each other's lives while she grilled me up a delicious meal of fish, beans, and rice with hot sauce.

2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year? No and no. Nuff said.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth? YES!!!! My little sister had her first baby in March, my sweet little nephew. Here they are on New Year's day near their home in New Zealand:

4. Did anyone close to you die? Yes, an old friend who I shared a birthdate with died much too young of a rare cancer. I miss her light.

5. What countries did you visit? Guatemala, Belize, and several trips to Nova Scotia here in Canada.

6. What would you like to have in 2009 that you lacked in 2008? The opportunity to see my new (and only) nephew.

7. What dates from 2008 will remain etched upon your memory, and why? December 31, 2008. Which I got to spend with both my parents, despite the fact that a year ago my Dad was told by his oncologist he would not likely see another New Year. He continues to defy his doctor's expectations and all odds. You rock Dad.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year? Some exciting new work challenges in the Arctic.

9. What was your biggest failure? None. Not that I did everything perfectly, but I truly believe in the adage that falling down is not failure, as long as you get up again and carry on.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury? No. Well I did break my toe in August. Since that was the only health problem I had in 2008, I am blessed!

11. What was the best thing you bought? B and I bought a cabin in paradise. A dream come true.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration? My darling B for supporting me with tolerance and humour through the craziness of the menopausal past year.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed? Our political so-called leaders.

14. Where did most of your money go? I wish I knew.

15. What did you get really, really, excited about? See answer to number 11 above.

16. What song will always remind you of 2008? Verdi's "Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves". Because my Dad asked for it for Christmas, and he was here to enjoy getting it.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:(a) happier or sadder? Happier.(b) thinner or fatter? Thinner a little. (O.K., a very little) (c) richer or poorer? Poorer, I think. But so what, I have everything I need.

18. What do you wish you’d done more of? Travel.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of? Waste time worrying.

20. How did you spend Christmas? With my Beloved, and my parents at their home in Nova Scotia. Quietly, gratefully. And soooo well fed.

21. Did you fall in love in 2008? All over again, every day.

22. What was your favorite TV program? Anything involving doctors.

23. What was the best book you read in 2008? "What is the What" by Dave Eggers.

24. What was your greatest musical discovery? Can't think of one.

25. What did you want and get? A year of living, loving, and health.

26. What did you want and not get? Winning a big lottery.

27. What was your favorite film of this year? I actually did not see any 2008 films. I may, once they are on pay-for-view. But I am not much of a film buff.

28. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you? I went to work as usual and turned 51. Yawn.

29. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying? A month, or three, of travel.

30. What kept you sane? My Beloved spouse. (Actually, we are not formally married, but there is no ceremony that could make me more committed to this dear, precious man.)

31. What political issue stirred you the most? The prorogue of Canadian Parliament. What a stupid fucking mistake that was.

32. Who did you miss? My Sister in New Zealand and my brand new nephew. And at times, myself.

33. Who was the best new person you met? A young woman at work to whom I was a volunteer mentor during her first year as a lawyer. Her energy, optimism, and intelligence was inspirational. J, You have a great future!

34. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2008. It does not matter how many times you fall down, only how many times you get up again.

38. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year. "But you'll always get by with a smile girl."

Promise of light

2008-01-14T20:59:00.000-08:00

This is a long, worrisome winter. But even in these grey January days, there are hopeful signs of light to come. Of renewed life, and the promise of warm sunshine on my shoulder. I don't have to look any further than my garden.

The sun will blaze again, and banish the darkest shadows.

Won't it?

Oh Christmas tree sawdust

2008-01-07T20:54:00.000-08:00

I carted the Christmas tree off to the charity tree chipping event this weekend. While most folks dumped their tree and left, I waited, and watched with sadness as the firemen pushed it through the chipper. "So long you pretty little tree. Don't worry, you'll have fun as...um, mulch."

Here in British Columbia we can cut Christmas trees on unoccupied Crown land in most Forest Districts. The only rules are, they have to be growing under power lines or within 3 metres either side of a logging road, or in designated areas set aside and rotated over the years. We head out each year to our "spot" in the Squamish Forest Distict, just off the Squamish main line logging road. I can't tell you any more than that, it's our secret! It's only an hour from Vancouver, and bonus: the Squamish Brew Pub is on the route home.

I am ambivalent about Christmas, but not the Christmas tree. I still feel childish excitement when the tree goes up, filling the house with the smell of the woods; transforming into magic as each light and bauble goes on.

One reason I still love it so much is because of a tradition I started over 20 years ago. Whenever I travel, I shop for a Christmas tree ornament that will remind me of the trip. Sometimes the find is easy, like this one from San Francisco:

And this one from Nova Scotia:

And these ones from Nepal and from Thailand. (Who knew you could find Christmas tree ornaments in Buddhist/Hindu and Buddhist/Muslim countries?)

If I can't find an actual tree ornament, I look for something I can make into one by attaching a little screw eyelet into the top for hanging. That's how I turned these souvenirs that sell in tourist shops in Mexico into treasured Christmas ornaments.

Each Christmas tree is a wonderful reminder of the places I have been in this big, amazing world. As I hang each ornament on a branch (and even when I take them down again) I get to remember gazing at Mayan ruins, a hike up a tropical mountain, or the sight of a cow with a red dot on its forehead sleeping in a busy intersection.

Here are some more of my travel memory decorations, from, in order, Tanzania, London, and Singapore.

My favourite Christmas tree ornament of all is a reminder of a different journey. A long one. The most rewarding, difficult, important, and exciting journey I will ever take. The ornament is home made, and very precious.

I saw a hippopotamus for Christmas. Redux

2007-12-28T20:40:00.000-08:00

I'm a litle preoccupied right now. (See previous post) Christmas this year was quiet and introspective, filled with the love of family and good fiends. While it was just what I need now, it does not make for a very exciting story.

Christmas last year though, that's a story! In three parts! For those who were not hanging around this little corner of blogworld last year, here it is.

Part 1:
Christmas Eve, 2006, Kori Bustard Camp, Serengeti, Tanzania.

“Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer, had a very shiny nose...”

We are sleepily singing, sitting around the camp fire. Les has strung some battery-operated Christmas lights around an acacia bush. The stars are out. It has been an exciting day of game viewing (3 cheetahs, 11 lions, countless giraffes, hyenas, rare foxes, and more!) in the Gol Kopjes area of the Serengeti, followed by a long drive to our camp.(above photo courtesy of G. Vandegriend)

We drift off to bed in our tents, looking forward to tomorrow: sunny skies, wildlife, and a special Christmas dinner for our last day of camping.

At 2:30 a.m. I wake up and hear the patter of a few raindrops on our tent. Oh shit. We had to cross three rivers to get to this special campsite. The previous week, one had flooded in a heavy rain, stranding people in the northern Serengeti for days. But the skies were so clear when we went to sleep, it must just be a shower. I cuddle close to my Beloved, or as close as we can get while bundled in mummy bags, and go back to sleep.

BOOOOOM! KERAACK! KERBOOOM!! Sweet Mother of God! Thunder and simultaneous lightening right over my head jolts me from sleep to instant terror. A Niagara of rain is pounding on our tent. CRACK! BOOM! CRACK! again. "Holy Crap" I yell. We are camped on an open plain, with only the occasional waist high acacia bush to draw lightening away from our tall tents with metal poles. "Sweetie", I shout at B, who is awake, "What happens if lightening hits our tent?"

"I suppose we would be toast".

In between thunder blasts,we can hear a lion growl and grunt, warning other lions "this is MY territory". We have heard the roar of lions most every night while camping, but our guides Lyimo and Wellking assured us they would not come into camp. Especially with the campfire and several kerosene lamps which are put around the campsite at night. I open the tent flap and peer out into inky blackness. The wind and rain have doused the campfire and lanterns. I have to pee. It is 3:30 am, and no way can I wait until morning. Throwing a blanket around me, I put on my headlamp and run out in bare feet, hoping no cat's eyes shine back at me. The ground cannot soak up the torrential rain fast enough, so water is swirling over my toes as I scamper behind the tent.

Settled back in the tent, I realize there are rivulets running along the floor, soaking into our foam mattresses, and up into our sleeping bags. Then we both have to shuffle and move our pillows to avoid leaking spots from the roof. The thunderstorm seems to be going around in a circle, coming back overhead every 20 minutes. The downpour never lets up. We are wet, sleepless, and separated from lions and lightening only by a little soaked canvas that could collapse any second in the wind. We could be stranded by floods for days. "Merry Christmas," I mutter wryly to B. He starts to shake, and I wonder if he is shivering or crying. Or both. But no, he is giggling, then laughing out loud. He hugs me tightly, smacks a big kiss on my lips, and says between snorts and chuckles:

"Merry Christmas Darlin'."

And I realize again I found The Right One.

Part 2:
December 25, 2006, Serengeti, Tanzania

Ho! Ho! Ho!

That is not Santa. It is a chorus of evil African Ho gods, laughing at us. Dancing in glee. Our campsite is awash, and we have been awake half the night. As the sky changes from pitch black to dull soggy grey, the rain continues. But this is not just rain. It is an ark-building, life-raft-launching, deluge. That has been pounding us since 2:30 am.

Breakfast is out of the question. We huddle in our tents, hungry and wet, trying to read soggy paperbacks, while one of our over-worked guides goes to check the level of the nearest river.There are three swollen rivers we will have to cross to get out of the northern Serengeti.

"Do you want jujubes or licorice allsorts for breakfast?" asks B, digging through his candy stash.

Suddenly D and A's tent collapses. We don't see them crawl out, so we run over to help. Turns out they were... um, ahem, naked, and are now frantically trying to find clothes. You gotta admire that. In the circumstances.

By 10:30 am. the decision is made to evacuate camp. If we can get out. We are 4 or 5 kilometres off the "main" road. Even then, we have nowhere to stay; It is Christmas day, and we were supposed to camp here tonight. Lodges have been booked up for months. But we cannot stay here, in places the water is over our ankles.

Almost three hours later we reach the road, having pushed the vehicles several times out of muck. Our driver/guides Lyimo and Wellking alternately dug us out and made wild dashes through new lakes that have appeared overnight.

Muddy, soaked, and stinky, (except for A, who was always fresh and chic when the rest of us looked and smelled like refugees from Planet Pig Pen) we pull in half an hour later to a very classy, expensive lodge. We can't stay there, it is full. Anyway, it costs almost $400 bucks a night. But they do offer us use of a couple of rooms to shower and change, and we can eat lunch in the fancy dining room. In dry clothes, with hot food and cold beer in front of us, our spirits climb. Quietly, L begins singing:

"Oh, you better watch out, you better not cry,"
and we join in;

"You better not pout, I'm telling you why"...

By the end of the song we are singing with gusto, and earn a round of applause from the well-heeled lodge guests.

But we still have three engorged rivers to cross, nowhere to stay, and the Ho gods are not finished dancing.

Part 3:
December 25, 2006, Serengeti, Tanzania

If you have followed the story of my 2006 Christmas day so far, I congratulate you on your perseverance or excess hours of nothing better to do. Either is to be envied. For those with a normal attention span and a real job, a recap: After a night wondering whether we would wake up (or not wake up, to be accurate) as lion kibble or charred toast, and a morning doing the breast stroke across the Serengeti plain, the story left off with us eating heartily and singing "Santa Clause is Coming" to a bemused audience of starched and pressed expensive safari suits.

Giddy with the roller coaster ride that was our Christmas so far, we headed out on the road again, ready for anything. Our safari outfitter, busy on the phone back in Arusha, had finally found a lodge that could take us in, but it was out of the park, a long drive away on flooded tracks.

We crossed the first two rivers with no problems. Then, at the Seronera River, the evil Ho gods struck again. A line of vehicles snaked up the road on either side of the bridge. Or where a bridge would have been if it was not covered by swirling rapids and a waterfall.

Here is our guide Wellking and our worried camp staff as they seriously studied the flooded bridge situation.

Actually, no-one was very concerned, because the sun was out and the river level was falling. Our guides were confident the wait to cross would be only an hour or so. It turned out to be almost three hours. But G set up the i-pod speakers, and a rousing card tournament was played on the hood of the truck. G & my Beloved opened wine we had planned to save for Christmas dinner. They made wine glasses out of plastic water bottles sliced in half, and we toasted the lowering sun and the hippos wandering around the riverbanks.

Crossing the flooded bridge we held our breath. No problem. But a few kilometres further we came upon another stopped line of vehicles. Road wash out. Our fabulous guides knew another route around using the flooded back roads. There were more wild rides with the wheels spewing huge arcs of spray. A flat tire. Then we picked up a stranded Chilean / Spanish couple whose truck had broken down. The final stretch in the dark along a soaked track was eerie, with wildebeest and zebra scampering in and out of our headlights.

Finally, exhausted, we pulled into the lovely old Ndutu Lodge, where a decadent Christmas buffet was waiting. We pulled the Christmas crackers, put on the goofy paper hats and read the lame jokes. Just like Christmas at home. Well, except for the genets lounging in the rafters.

(Photo # 1 & 4 courtesy of our friend and fellow adventurer G. Vandegriend)

On a serious note

2007-12-22T18:38:00.000-08:00

In writing this blog I've hoped to amuse, to entertain, and to provoke some thought. In return I get to bring my creative side out to play in a welcoming arena. And I discovered a benefit I never imagined when I began; connecting and caring about people and their lives in so many places.

But today I have nothing to give you: no amusing story, no travel photos, no dream travel destination. Today I am doing something I've never done here. In fact I find it difficult to do at all, whether here or with the people I connect with in person every day. I'm asking for your help. I need your prayers. In whatever form or to wherever your beliefs direct.

Since I last posted, my Dad fell ill and has been diagnosed with a serious brain tumour. I've written about my Dad and how special he is here and here. A few days after Christmas he will begin a tough daily treatment of radiation and chemotherapy. I wish I could be beside him and my Mom on the other side of the country every day of this.

I believe in the power of love, of community, and prayer. Not necessarily prayer to the God of my Dad's Anglican church, that Dad sings in and is a lay preacher for. (But hey, if you share that particular God, great. Dad and He are on a first name basis.) When I pray I can't really say what I pray to, the Universe, Nature, Creation, Love, whatever. But I believe in it. And I ask now for yours. For my Dad. Please.

At midnight she turned into Gene Simmons

2007-11-26T20:52:00.000-08:00

I yawned as we pulled out of the rink parking lot Saturday evening. B and I had just played hockey, changed into demure party clothes in the locker rooms, and were on our way to his company Christmas party at a swank golf club.

"Don't worry Sweetie, we don't have to stay long. We'll just make a little small talk to my bosses, compliment their spouses' outfits, eat dinner and get outta there by 9:30."

"I hate it when when I can't remember their names. When I give you that pained look, it's your signal to say, 'So-and-so, have you met my wife?'"

"Sure. Thanks for being a trooper, I realize my company party is an ordeal. You only meet these folks once a year, they'll talk shop, and you have to sit through speeches and the President's report on our yearly corporate profits. I promise we'll leave as soon as we decently can."

Later, at about 12:00:

That's me on the left.

As I sat down, sweating from my Kiss performance, B said: "O.K. Sweetie, it's really time to go home now."

Then the D.J. cued up the song "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy." I dragged B to the dance floor as his eyes rolled.

We closed down the party. Yippie Yi Yay.

Airplane crash and gun shots. A perfect hike.

2007-11-13T20:14:00.000-08:00

I've been given a dummy award! And I am delighted. Thanks Dumdad. I always enjoy a trip over to Dumdad's posts from Paris.

Dumdad's tribute was a nice surprise upon arrival home from a long weekend away. We took advantage of a brief break in the November rains to head up to the cabin and hike in the mountains. We chose the Mount Slesse area, and gave our city slicker SUV a lesson in real four wheelin' to reach the trail head up a labyrinth of logging roads.

It was lovely. There was a dusting of new snow on the peaks.

The dogs were in heaven, chasing scents and each other down the trail. We hiked in peaceful silence, perhaps feeling a bit eerie knowing that in 1956 a Trans Canada Airline plane crashed into the side of Mount Slesse, killing all on board.

Then: Bang! Bang! Bang! Oh shit. Hunting season. Nothing ruins a good hike like the thought of stray bullets from beer guzzling, animal murdering red necks. "Fucking hunters" I mumbled to B. " Hey!!!" I shouted. "Don't shoot this way!!

Around the next corner ran a young man dressed completely in camouflage, carrying a rifle. "Hi" he said. "Are you guys O.K.? I thought I heard an S.O.S blast on an air horn, so I fired three rounds in the air in answer, and I was heading that way to help." We had heard the air horn too, but knew it was just a choker chain warning from a small logging operation we had seen down the mountain. We explained, and with a cheerful "Have a great hike guys!" helpful hunter dude went on his way. Damn, another cherished stereotype ruined.

It was a great hike.

Today's dream travel destination: One of my favourite hikes, that I did with an old friend about 10 years ago. A warmer one than any trails here right now. The Kalalau trail in Kauai, Hawaii.

To you

2007-11-06T20:13:00.000-08:00

Angela has given me a "Best Kept Secret" award. (For some reason, I can't download the icon.) Thank you Angela, I appreciate the fact that you think my blog deserves a bigger readership. But the truth is, I am happy to have a handful of readers who keep coming back, and leaving comments. Thank you my cyber friends. I never expected that more people than my Mom and a few old friends would be interested in what I have to say. Best of all, by you stopping by here, I have found my way to your blogs, which make me laugh, and think, and learn. You brighten my day and expand my world.

When I first started this little blog, just over a year ago (a year! wow) I figured it would be a good way to keep my friends and family informed about my travels. I was about to head to Tanzania for an amazing journey. But after the last post about my trip was finished, I just kept on writing. I looked forward to my time with the keyboard. I missed it if I got too busy to write a post. And I love the connections I've made with all of you.

So, I dedicate this post to you, all of you readers who keep coming by. You may not be a huge number, but I treasure each one of your comments. I still get a thrill when someone finds that something I write resonates. And you astound me with the insights, lovely turns of phrase, and honesty that you put in your blogs.

Today's dream travel destination: A tropical island, one I could invite you all to for a week, and we would get to meet in person, and talk, and laugh together. It would have wireless Internet connections under the palm trees on the beach, where we could write whenever we want. Wanna come?

Trick or Panang curry

2007-11-02T21:18:00.000-07:00

I rushed out of work Wednesday to be home before dusk. I love Halloween. I didn't want to miss a single witch, princess or bumble bee. Walking home from the skytrain, I admired the haunted yards and spooky jack-o-lanterns in my 'hood.

When I got home I kissed B hello, then got ORGANISED for trick or treat night. I lit the candles in the pumpkins and put the treats in a big bowl. There seemed to be a lot less than the number I bought. I made a note to cross examine B and my son on the disappearing chocolate bars. As I hurried to the storage room to grab the laughing skeleton, I vaguely heard B say, "I ordered in Thai food for dinner."

The first adorable little bunnies and lions in their daddies' arms came by. Then a couple of preschooler Ninja Turtles (they're still around?). Every time kids rang the door bell, Henry ran to the door wagging his tail. KIDS ARE HERE!! Then he watched forlornly as they walked down the steps instead of coming in to play.

The door bell rang again. B called out "I'll get it this time". I heard two girls' voices sing out "Trick or Treat". Then, silence. I looked toward B and he was frozen, staring at the trick-or-treaters, not reaching for the candy bowl or asking the kids to shake the hand of the hanging skeleton, our usual schtick. I came up to the door and saw why B was paralysed. On the porch were two pubescent girls dressed as cops. Not real cops, pole dancing cops. Short skirts, red lips, tight barely buttoned shirts, aviator-style sun glasses tucked into high young cleavage, shiny black boots. B was speechless.

The next time the door bell rang I answered it, since the blood was barely returning to B's brain. I opened the door to a lone Asian young man, holding a bag. He was dressed in a white jacket and white pants, but I couldn't figure out what his costume was. "He's a bit old for trick-or-treating" I thought. But, whatever.

(Y'all know where this is going, don't you?)

"What are you dressed up as?" I asked. He looked at me blankly, and just held out the bag. I offered him the bowl of treats.

"I have Thai Palace delivery."

B, who had recovered now, was peeing his pants laughing.

Oh please earth, just open up and swallow me now.

Aliens among us

2007-10-29T21:37:00.000-07:00

I got home last night from a long work trip to the civil servant mothership. Our nation's capital. Ottawa. Once home, after I had a good whine about the glacial speed of government bureaucracy, the total wrongness of working all week and then through the weekend, and the $6 stale sandwiches on Air Canada, I asked B:

"So Sweetie, what's new at home?"

"Hmmm, well, the dogs are fine. I finished grouting the new tiles in the bathroom. Oh, and the kitchen sink is plugged and backed up. I have to buy a plumber's snake tomorrow." Ah bliss, I'm home again.

B turned on the dishwasher just before we crawled into bed. He fell asleep right away, but I had slept on the flight and was wide awake, so I read in bed with my itty-bitty-book-light. After over an hour of reading, I realized that the dishwasher had been making the same grinding, rhythmic sound of the first wash cycle for far too long. I turned it off, because something was clearly wrong. And I went to sleep.

This morning I said to B:

"I had to stop the dishwasher last night, it seemed to be stuck on the first wash cycle. I think what may be happening is that it likely has a sensor, or valve, that senses the kitchen drain pipe is blocked with water, and it will not switch into the drain cycle until the blocked drain is clear. It's probably a safety mechanism."

B gave me the look and said, "You can't really believe the dishwasher can sense the drain is blocked. No way. Trust me, they don't make them like that."

I just shrugged. Whatever. He's the one with an engineering education.

Tonight we had dinner with B's parents. Over desert, after B's Mom complained that her electric kettle was on the fritz, B said, in what I believe was genuine innocence, "Oh, yah, don't get me started on the topic of appliances breaking down. Yesterday our dishwasher got stuck on the first wash cycle. I think what may be happening is that it likely has a sensor, or valve, that senses that our kitchen drain pipe is blocked with water, and it will not switch into the drain cycle until the blocked drain is clear. It's probably a safety mechanism."

I stared, gobsmacked, at this creature who I love so dearly. I looked out the window to see if the spaceship was coming to pick him up. Cuz men, as much as I love 'em, are truly from another planet.

Today's dream travel destination: Mars.

Trouser torture

2007-10-18T18:17:00.000-07:00

I detest clothes shopping. I would rather enter a grizzly den than the mall. I consider root canals and cleaning toilets more fun than trying on clothes. But my old black dress pants are literally falling apart at the seams. Wearing them to work puts me in imminent danger of exposing my nickers to the office.

So, at lunch time today I entered the HOUSE OF HORRORS. Also known as Sears. First I went to the petites department, because I am only 5'2". On a good day. I tried on 12, yes TWELVE! pairs of pants. They were all wrong, wrong, wrong. If they fit at the waist, the bum and hips ballooned loosely. If the butt and hips fit properly, the waist would not do up without divine intervention.

O.K., forget the petites section. I went to the regular section. Nothing fit. So I branched out into the rest of the mall. I tried on pants made by Tommy Hilfiger, Mexx, Jones of New York, Louben, Aritsia, and in one desperate, mad moment; Prada. Thank god those last ones didn't fit.

I left the mall in shame. A failure at shopping. And then I got mad! Hey you clothes makers: Not all women are built like Betty Boop. Or Barbie. What about those of us shaped more like, well, tree stumps with jiggly bits? Especially those of us who are looking at age 50 from the wrong side. It's bad enough we get hot flashes akin to nuclear fission. (I swear I am personally responsible for significant global warming.) Our waists will never again be 15 inches smaller than our hips. Many of us have carried babies to term in these bodies, and it shows. We like good food. And what if we don't want, or need, to lose 25 pounds? WHY CAN'T YOU MAKE US PANTS THAT FIT?

Today's dream travel destination: Tahiti. Where I could just wear a sarong every day.

Everything I need to know I learned from Grandpa

2007-10-10T20:06:00.000-07:00

"Remember, Janie, slow, smooth paddle strokes. No splashing." (Whispering now) "If we're really quiet going around the next bend, maybe we'll see them."

"See what Grampa?"

"Shhhhhh, just watch."

As they rounded the bend in the river, he reached forward to the little girl in the bow of the canoe, tapped her shoulder and pointed at the far bank. A flash of movement caught her eye. Then another. She grinned in delight. Four young river otters were cavorting and belly sliding down the muddy riverbank. Mama otter was watching carefully. When mama decided the strange creatures in the canoe were too close she gave a chirp and they all dove under water.

That was me with my Grandpa 42 years ago. He died 16 years ago this month, and October winds always bring him into my thoughts. He only had a grade six education, but my Grandpa Gordon taught me some of the most important lessons of my life. Like:

I learned how to bait a fish hook. Where the biggest trout hid in the Old Mill Rapids on Priest Creek. And how to clean them for the breakfast pan.

I learned the surefire way to make a camp fire with only one match.

I learned to know the sound of wolves calling in the distance at the family cottage in Quebec. And how to yip and howl through the birch bark bull horn until they would answer back.

I learned there really was magic in this world. Grandpa and I would spread special magic seeds on the lawn at bedtime, and when I woke up, lollipops (Laura Secord suckers for you Canadians) were growing everywhere.

He taught me how to drive with a standard transmission, first on my great uncle's haying tractor, then using my grandparents' Volkswagen Westfalia. I was a slow learner, but Grandpa never gave up on me, even when I almost rolled the van taking a corner too fast. He just calmly nodded and said "Now you know to take those curves a little slower Janie. Remember to gear down when you head into the curve." Every car I have owned has had a standard transmission. Thanks to my Grandpa, I love to drive feeling the road through the stick shift.

Every time I watched him run down the road to the fire hall to take up his post on the volunteer fire department, I learned the importance of giving back to one's community.

I learned that an honest day's work is something to be proud of. Grandpa swelled with pride the day he took me through the paper mill he toiled in all his working years. The paper rolls were huge, and loud as the newsprint roared around them. I was so thrilled that my Grandpa, MY OWN GRANDPA! knew how to work them. And how to fix them if they broke.

I learned never to trump my partner's ace in a game of Euchre. Or life.

As well as being a teacher of IMPORTANT LESSONS, Grandpa was my biggest fan. He believed, and never let me forget, I could do anything.

One day, not long before he died, my Mom picked him up from his nursing home and drove him to a medical appointment in Ottawa. He had been suffering with increasing dementia for several years, probably Alzheimer's, and mostly did not understand what was going on around him any more. By then, I was a new lawyer and new mother, living on the other side of the country, wrapped up in my own life. The last time I had talked to him he seemed to think I was a child again, and had no apparent understanding of my adult life.

But as they drove past the Supreme Court of Canada on Ottawa's Wellington Street my usually silent Grandpa looked towards it and announced, "Someday Janie will be there."

I'll probably never be a Supreme Court Judge. But I still turn corners quietly in a canoe, kayak or on a hike. I think Grandpa would be proud of that
too.

Life gets in the way

2007-10-06T19:39:00.000-07:00

Miss y'all.

Yes I'm still here. No, my muse has not gone AWOL. In fact she is sitting on my shoulder hissing and spitting because I have no time to write. And, I. Need. To. Write. I love to write. Give me just a pencil and paper, and I can have a rip roaring party.

But life has taken my pencil away temporarily.

A family member has had cancer surgery this week. My sister and her husband are visiting from overseas, and I want to spend every minute I can with them (and my first niece or nephew, due in March!) I'm hosting Thanksgiving dinner (Canadian)this weekend, and I haven't picked up our Thanksgiving sockeye salmon yet. And work has been crazy. I have neglected you.

I'll be back soon. In my absence, I leave you with this for your amusement. Unlike the last funny foto I left you with, I have not actually seen this place. I've gotta add it to my dream travel destination list.

You drive me crazy

2007-09-26T19:39:00.000-07:00

The scene: B and I are on vacation in Nova Scotia, on the last and longest day of a road trip around the Cabot Trail and then off of Cape Breton Island. I am behind the wheel of our rental car we have nicknamed the Gangsta-car. (For the record, we ordered a compact, this is what they gave us.)

B: "There's an on-ramp ahead, better move over to the left."

Me: "Yah, O.K."

B: "It's clear on the left, you can switch lanes now."

Me: "I can see that, thank you."

B: "Are we going to get off at the next exit for gas?"

Me: "Yes, that's what I said I was going to do two minutes ago."

[A few kilometres later:]

B: "There's a gas station, on the left. You can go in there."

Me: "I see it."

B: " There's no left turn lane, you'll have to wait at the light now."

Me: "I'm aware of that."

B: "Wait, wait, not yet... O.K., all clear, you can turn in now. Bay two is empty, pull in there."

Me: "SWEET MOTHER OF GOD!!! Please stop the CONSTANT FREAKIN' NARRATIVE about my driving. I've been driving for 34 years without a single accident. When I got my licence you were still getting dinky toys for Christmas. Relax, enjoy the scenery."

B: "Sorry, I was trying to be helpful."

Me: "Well you're helping me go insane."

For the next 50 kilometres or so B silently studies the map and the road signs.

Me: "I'm getting tired, do you want to drive for a while?"

We pull over and change places. A few minutes later:

Me: "You're going too fast for this curvy road. And we are too close to that truck ahead."

B gives me a quick icy stare.

Me: "Sorry, I'll keep quiet."

B and I are incredibly compatible. Soulmates. But, Oh. My. God. we do not drive together well. We both know we drive better than the other. In fact, better than most anybody else on the road.

In between nattering at each other, we did catch glimpses of the scenery. Which ranged from the sublime:

To the ridiculous:

Which fork now?

2007-09-21T19:31:00.000-07:00

Now I am over the shock of turning...um...ah...oh shit...fifty. Oh yes, sooo over it.

So, let's get back to where we left off just before that b..b..b.b.birth.d.d.day.

On vacation in Nova Scotia in early September. We headed up to Cape Breton Island. It is spectacular and rugged, much of it national park. We hiked in the brilliant, fall-kissed sunshine. Our first morning we hiked to Ingonish beach and around the lake behind it. I have never seen such a beach: Salt water on one side, and a freshwater beach behind the long spit. Except for a few terns and gulls, we had it to ourselves.

Then we took Middle Head trail out to the end of a peninsula for a picnic lunch high on the headland.

Late in the afternoon, with pleasantly achy leg muscles, we got back to our:
Tent? no.....
Backpacker's hostel? no...
Inexpensive cabin?...no

Because we were staying at the luxurious, decadent, way out-of-our-budget Keltic Lodge. This was a birthday gift from my generous parents. If you ever want to treat yourself, oh man, this is the place to do it. Look:

When the third course of our four course dinner was served B whispered: "Which fork do we use this time?"

I shrugged. Even If I knew, I could not have answered. My mouth was full of lobster. Succulent, pink and white, tender lobster, drenched in fresh squeezed lemon. This was worth turning fifty for! Thanks Mom and Dad.

Just another monday

2007-09-17T18:24:00.000-07:00

It was an ordinary day today. There was a bit of fall nip in the air when I was waiting for the skytrain. The only seat left when I got on was beside a very fat woman, and she took up her own seat plus half the one next to her. I struggled with the dilemma of whether to sit next to her, uncomfortably perched on one butt cheek, or to stand, offending her because it would be obvious I did not want to sit beside her. I stood. Apparently my compassion ends where numb bum begins.

At work I went to a meeting where I had to defend a decision I had taken last week. The meeting attendees were not happy about it, and had asked for the meeting to let me know just how unhappy they were. That was fun.

My sister called from Spain, excited about her recent pregnancy scan of her baby, due in March. I was thrilled to hear her talk about seeing the tiny fingers move.

For lunch I had left over macaroni salad.

On the way home I stopped at the bank to deposit two little expense cheques. B and I went out to the local sea food place for dinner, and dropped in at his parents to pick up a bag of apples from their tree.

Yup, just another ordinary Monday. Oh, except for one more little thing. I, um, I, I...I.... Oh God,....I turned....um....ah...oh shit,.....fifty.

Oh how I wish I was 21 again.

Or maybe not. Now that's a photo guaranteed to dispel any longing for my lost youth.

The Tancook Island ghost

2007-09-13T20:53:00.000-07:00

One day on vacation last week, we were headed by ferry and bicycles for a day trip to Tancook Island. It lies about an hour's boat ride from Chester, and a million miles from the well visited coves that dot the tourist routes of Nova Scotia.

"How many people live on Tancook?" I asked the ferry captain.

"A hunnert-tirty" he said. "Plus twenny-far more on Little Tancook Island."

When we arrived at "big" Tancook, it seemed most of the hunnert-tirty residents were there to meet passengers or pick up stuff unloaded by the big red crane on the ferry.

There is no store, gas station, or any business other than a small cafe on the Island. The cars there do not have licence plates, or presumably, insurance either.

So I tightened the strap on my bike helmet before we hit the road. All ten dirt kilometres of it. I wonder how many targets there are for the owner of this souped up Tancook chick magnet?

Despite the warm sunshine, Tancook Island had a chilly, eerie feel. We stopped at the top of a hill half way across the Island and explored the graveyard. The graves here date back to the late 1700's. There are dozens of sad little headstones from a smallpox outbreak in the 1870's. One family lost twelve children.

Walking through the whole graveyard, we counted only 7 different surnames on over 200 years of headstones. I began to hear echoes of duelling banjos (or maritime fiddles?)

Near the end of the road we rounded a bend and came across a black and white cat lying near a small red building. He stretched, sauntered over to us for a rub, and walked into the single room red shed. Then we saw the little sign over the open door: TANCOOK ISLAND MUSEUM. We followed him inside. Someone has collected antique tools, photographs, furniture and household items from Tancook, and gathered them here. There was a donation box for "money for the lights". Despite the bright day, it was dark inside, and the lights were on. The cat rubbed up against our ankles as we walked around the "exhibits".

About 50 metres past the museum we stopped to greet two men painting a barn. "Hello, what is the museum cat's name?" I asked.

"What cat?" one man said.

"The friendly black and white one, hanging around the museum just up the road," I explained.

They looked at each other, shrugged, and one answered, "I daown't naow any cat up theyah".

When we rode past the museum on our return to the ferry later, after our picnic lunch, we stopped and looked for our feline tour guide, but he (she?) had dissappeared.

It was a ghost kitty, I'm sure of it. Perhaps the beloved pet of one of the young children in the graveyard. Guarding the child's treasures now on display in the museum. A very fat, well fed ghost, I'll admit. But still.

What I did on my summer vacation

2007-09-11T18:41:00.000-07:00

We have been on holiday in Nova Scotia. Since this was B's first trip to the Maritimes, we visited some of of the usual sites on the first few days.

Like historical Lunenburg,a UNESCO world heritage site:

The schooner Bluenose was in port (she graces the front of our dimes too.):

We stopped to photograph the famous three churches of Mahone Bay.

We paid our respects at the memorial to the passengers of SwissAir flight 111. We did not know until afterward we were there on the ninth anniversary of the tragedy.

The windswept rocks near Peggy's Cove made for several hours of hiking and exploring:

Tiny Blue Rocks harbour was gorgeous:

We explored the lovely village of Chester on foot:

Which of course earned us a Kieth's Pale Ale and a Moosehead Lager on the deck of the Rope Loft pub.

Where we plotted our Nova Scotia adventures ahead. Which would take us on a ferry ride and an encounter with a ghost. Stay tuned.

I like my legs

2007-08-31T17:07:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, HeartinSanFrancisco tagged me with an invitation to tell ten things I like about me. “ I can do that” I thought, “I am my favourite topic.” I sat down at the computer and wrote… nothing. Or rather I would type a sentence, then delete it, it sounded too braggadocious*. I’ve read other people’s delightful posts on this topic, written with grace and insight. Like HISF's here. But trying to write my own 10 things was uncomfortable. Prickly. Awkward.

Then I got the idea of changing the point of view to the second person. It worked. I couldn't tell you what I like about me, but I could tell Voyager what I like about her. After I had my list, I realized that most of the ten things were variations on a theme. Sure, I’m kind to animals, babies love me, and I have a green thumb, but mainly the list was about spirit. Gumption**. So I decided to just post the first item on the list instead of all ten. It kind of sums up what I like most about me, and anyway, I never follow meme rules well. Here it is, the way I originally wrote it:

1. Voyager, I like your legs. No, not the way they look (though that’s pretty good too, not counting those jiggly upper thighs.) I mean I like their strength. They have hauled you up magnificent mountains, taken you climbing on some gnarly rock climbing routes***, hiked miles, even held up all the way to the bottom of, and more importantly, back to the top of, the Grand Canyon carrying a full backpack on a solo trip. They competently perform whatever you ask of them, no matter what crazy things you put on the bottom of them: skis, snowshoes, rollerblades, hockey skates, a wake board, bike pedals, and occasionally even high heels. Dependable old pegs they are.

Of course this is not really about your legs. What I really like is that you have been blessed with an adventurous spirit, and the courage to follow where it leads you. It is a huge gift in your life, along with the energy and good health (mostly) to enjoy it.

So, what I like about you Voyager is: You’ve got mettle baby!

Thanks for the tag HeartinSanFrancisco. My response time was pitiful I know. But it was HARD!

Think it’s easy? You try it. Go on, I challenge anyone who has not already tried this to write ten things you like about yourself. You can always cheat like me and write in the second person P.O.V.

*Is “braggadocious” not a fabulous word!?

** Gumption is another great word, taken straight from my Grandmother's lexicon. I don’t think I have ever used it before. I wonder what made me think of it. Grannie, if you get internet service in heaven, thanks.

***I no longer rock climb. Complications from heart surgery a couple of years ago has left me with some missing sternum bone and reduced upper body strength. That’s O.K. It opened the door to try other adventures that I don’t need strong arms for. Climbing was fun though, and I enjoyed many challenging hours with adventurous, irreverent climbing friends. My son climbed with me for a few years too, and I loved those days with him at the climbing gym or on the rocks. (But try explaining to a nine year old why the route he is climbing has the name “Early Morning Woody” or “Lichen in Her Panties”.)

Today’s travel destination: Nova Scotia. Notice I did not write “Today’s dream travel destination”? Because it’s not a dream. Our flight leaves tonight. Vacation blogging, coming up!

Fiction writers

2007-08-27T20:45:00.000-07:00

B and I camped in the rain this past weekend. This is a rare and noteworthy event. Usually we do not venture out to camp unless the weather report estimates the chance of rain as less than the chance we will win the 649 lottery.

So we headed to our favourite spot at Pitt Lake, with assurances of "sun with only a few clouds" from the ~~monkeys on computers~~, I mean ~~novelists~~, I'm trying to say meteorologists, at the Environment Canada Weather Centre.

Saturday morning we got light showers. But hey, we are intrepid. I stuck it out reading by the camp fire, teaching the sun umbrella what a west coast umbrella is really for.

B retired to the reading room.

By late afternoon it was intermittent rain. We did manage to cook our dinner in only a spitting drizzle. But after we went to bed the downpour began. Sunday morning we gave up, packed up our soaking gear and soaking dogs, and rode down the lake in defeat. Tails between legs. Ours', not the dogs'. They thought the weather rocked.

Two minutes before we pulled into the driveway the rain stopped and the sun came out for the rest of the day. The weather forcasters were having a good chuckle by then. Probably playing poker to see who would get to make up the next weather report. At least it dried the wet camping gear.

If you ask me officially, I will say I am only a fair weather camper. But I have to admit, it was lovely and cozy curled up with my beloved, listening to the raindrops patter on the tent. And there is a peaceful beauty in the mist soaked mountains.

Today's dream travel destination: I don't have one. Where I was, was perfect. Just a little damp.

Busted

2007-08-24T07:50:00.000-07:00

"Oh. My. God." I say, my eyes glued to the newspaper.

"What's up?" replies my son L, who was nearby in the kitchen.

"Listen to this, I'll read it to you."

Acting on a tip, police in [area of Vancouver] found a 360 plant marijuana grow operation Tuesday. It was in the basement of a home in the [xxxx] block of [xxxx] Avenue.

"Holy shit, that's our block!" exclaims L.

"Actually, it's only four houses down. B and I saw all the police cars there Tuesday night, now I know why" I said.

L is quiet for a minute. "Hey Mom, remember that time last year when you came home early and said you smelled marijuana? And you blamed me and my friend Joe?"

I lower the paper and look at L with one eyebrow raised. I know where this is going. I'm sure you do too.

"Well, it must have been the people down the street."

"I smelled smoked marijuana, not the plant."

"Yah, but if they were growing it they must have been smoking it too."

"What, they broke into our house and went into your room to light up a fat one? And I suppose they must be the ones who once planted a pot plant in with my tomatoes?"

L grins at me. With the special, eyes sparkling, cheek dimpled smile he's had since babyhood. The one that makes me want to smother him with kisses, even when he has broken a vase. Or crunched the bumper of my car. Or committed an indictable offence.

Today's dream travel destination: Amsterdam, where my plant-loving neighbours would not have been busted, they would be pillars of the business community.

If I could turn back time

2007-08-21T19:40:00.000-07:00

Saturday night we were at an African themed dinner party at a friend’s house.

“Can I do anything to help?” I asked hopefully, poking my head into the kitchen. If I didn't help now, I’d be one of the ones stuck doing the dishes after dinner.

“No thanks,” replied my husband, as he prepared a spicy Moroccan vegetable dish.

“No, it’s all under control,” L said as he slid marinated prawns onto a skewar.

“Sure, can you take this drink out to my wife?” asked D, checking the coconut rice pilaf.

I left the three men in the kitchen, measuring, chopping, sipping wine, and laughing as they put the big meal together. I bet they slapped each other’s ass after a particularly good taste test, just like after a sweet goal on the rink.

A generation ago it would have been different. The kitchen would not be a testosterone zone when dinner was prepared. It was the 70’s, and women were driving the equality train, demanding that men take their share of household work. But most men then had not been brought up learning how to cook. Meal preparation was a mystery. So they dutifully (or under threat of no sex) took on the job of cleaning the kitchen up after meals. My father, for example, jumps up after a meal and heads to the kitchen, where he washes, wipes, scrubs, and packages and labels leftovers with military precision. Every item in the dishwasher goes in its assigned place. (He once accused me of “dishwasher anarchy” when I loaded it.) Dad’s lack of culinary skill is legendary, so he took on the job of chief pot scrubber without complaint.

These days, one person cooks, the other cleans up, just like in the 70’s. It’s only fair. But now, our men cook! They look up recipes, try out new spices, even (gasp) wear aprons. Their enlightened mothers taught them what a kitchen is for. They took mandatory home-ec at school. Men are now liberated from the prison of pot scrubbing and plate scraping. They get to experience the creative side of the spatula. They bask in praise from their dinner guests. They bond over woks. This is a splendid development. My brothers, I rejoice with you in your freedom from baked-on grease!

Oh bullshit. Women were subjugated by men for thousands of years. Couldn’t we have kept men scrubbing all the crusty pans for just a little while longer?

Today's dream travel destination: 1979.

Something stinks here

2007-08-17T17:28:00.000-07:00

Vancouver is in week four of a municipal workers strike. Managers are supposedly trying to keep up with some of the most needed city services. I saw one of these managers this morning on my way in to work. He was wearing a vest with the municipal insignia, working hard at:

Picking up the overflowing garbage? No.

Filling in for my friend who works for the city providing physical recreation programs for disabled kids? No again.

Working at the library, trying to at least keep the kid’s section open? Nope.

Cleaning up parks and children’s playgrounds? No way.

Leading the osteoporosis prevention exercise class at the seniors centre? No.

He was doing a much more important municipal job. Collecting the freakin coins from the PARKING METERS!!!!!!

Today's dream travel destination Maligne Lake, Jasper Park, Canada: The first lake I ever swam (well waded and splashed) in. And it has to smell better than here.

Chase this old bus baby!

2007-08-08T19:25:00.000-07:00

I had lunch recently with an old friend from university days. She embarked on a deliciously gossipy tale of a mutual acquaintance of ours who works in her company. A few months ago he began a liaison with a coworker. The fellow and his coworker were frequently away on business trips at the same time, and rumours swirled. But the whole thing came to a head, so to speak, when the secretary of one phoned her boss's hotel very early one morning and the other answered, rather breathless. Busted. The wife found out, the marital shit hit the fan, and they are now choking through the first course at the divorce buffet.

What, you think I shouldn't indulge in this sort of gossip? That my lunch time would be better spent at the latest art gallery exhibit? Screw that! I was riveted, salivating for every detail. Best lunch date I've had in ages.

But I also found it unsettling. Usually when I hear tales of philandering acquaintances I think, "Well that doesn't surprise me." I can usually predict the skirt (and trouser) chasers. But this one surprised me.

I found myself pondering what makes a man risk everything he used to cherish (and maybe still does) to go after an illicit sexual dalliance. If dangerous adventure is the lure, why not go trekking in Afghanistan? Or join a nudist ice hockey club?

I can't ask my husband this question, because any husband with an ounce of sense who values his testicles will reply with the SC (spousally correct) answer. "Sweetheart, I'd never dream of it. Even if Angelina Jolie suddenly appeared naked in my bed. No, I mean, I wasn't thinking of Angie or anything, it's just an example." Blah Blah foot-in-the-mouth blah.

So I asked a male, married, dear old friend of mine for an honest answer. We are the same age. On the wrong side of 49.

"You know," he said, "There was a time when I would have been very tempted. Actually was tempted. In fact went a little further than tempted. But now, at my age, it would be like a dog chasing a bus. What the hell would I do with it if I actually caught it? The whole idea just makes me want to take a nap."

Great. I've reached the age where inertia will keep my man from straying. Note to self: Cancel that plastic surgery consultation. But wait, my man is five years younger than I am. He may have the odd bus chase in him yet. Excuse me while I go out to buy a sexy neglige. I'm going to do whatever I can to make sure I'm that bus.

Life lesson at the parade

2007-08-06T18:31:00.000-07:00

I spent the last three days at the tiny community of Lindell Beach on Cultus Lake, BC. For 55 years this community has held a regatta on the August long weekend. It included a parade of decorated wagons, bikes and kids.

With a marching (sort of) band.

There were water sports, contests, and even fireworks. B, with our friend Cathy, made the finals in the egg toss contest.

It was a great time with friends and family.

But the moment I will remember most came at the end of the parade, when I overheard a young boy complaining to his dad that his bicycle was uncomfortable. The father's advice to him could apply to riding a bike or, well, life:

"Son, relax, and ride sitting back on your bum, not forward on your willie."

Today's dream travel destination: Whitby, England. Where a slightly more famous regatta is held every August.

The wedding suit

2007-08-01T15:34:00.001-07:00

It was late Saturday afternoon when I finally finished my errands and got back home. I had been all over town, to the grocery store, to Hop On produce market off Marine Drive, the garden centre, and several furniture stores looking for bar stools. It was hot. I quickly changed into gardening clothes, and looked forward to a peaceful couple of hours planting, pruning, watering and weeding.

“Hey Mom,” my son called out just as I began deadheading the marigolds. “Did you hem my pants yet?”

Shit. I had promised him I would hem the pants on his suit, because he had to go to a wedding the next day. I said farewell to the marigolds and went back inside.

“Oh and Mom, I need new shoes to wear, I only have white runners.”

“What happened to your old black shoes you wore when you worked at Safeway?”

“I lost one.”

How does someone lose one shoe? I’m not sure I want to know. So I changed out of my gardening clothes and we went out to buy shoes. Then I got down to the business of hemming.

The suit, the only one my son owns, was a hand-me-down from his dad. My son and his dad are about the same height, but my son wears his pants slung way low, held up only by some invisible force field. Thus the need for hemming. The first time my son wore the suit was at his dad’s wedding two years ago, where his grandma stapled up the hem of the pants. Fortunately the suit is kind of silvery grey, so the staples were not too obvious. But this time he would have a proper hem. If they were ordinary pants, I would have told him to hem them himself, he knows how to use the sewing machine. But this lovely old hand tailored wool suit needs a hand sewn invisible hem, way beyond his domestic skills.

If I do say so, my kid looked very handsome as he went off to a cousin’s wedding the next day, in grey pinstriped suit, crisp white shirt, jaunty maroon handkerchief in his jacket pocket, and shiny new shoes.

I wonder if my son’s father realizes the suit, the one he gave our son to wear at his second wedding, is the one he wore when he married me. 23 years ago.

Good vibes

2007-07-22T15:50:00.000-07:00

A little while ago one of my favourite writers, Ian, tagged me with an invitation to write about five things that raise my vibrations. I loved reading his five, and immediately started thinking about what gives me good vibrations.

First though, for those of you who got here by googling "vibes", stop reading now. Just click this link and ignore the rest of this post. It's not what you're looking for.

So, back to what gives me good vibes. There are many things. I'm going to limit this post to one. And I am not going to tag anyone, but if you feel so inspired, pick up the theme. What raises your vibrations?

For me, one thing soars far above all the rest, lifts my spirit, my soul, and my eyes. It's a place, or actually many places. I can pick up angels there. Who then watch over me to make sure I don't fall asleep and miss my life, even when I'm down. Down in spirit or elevation.

Have you guessed? I'm talking about mountains. I adore mountains.
Climbing them:

Gazing at them:

Sharing the thrill of reaching the peak:

Playing in them:

And sleeping in them.

When I travel, I seek out the mountains. On my first trip to New Zealand I gave up the heat of a Canadian summer in August and went straight to the snowy Remarkable Range in the South Island. In the U.K., Big Ben, the Tower of London, and even Stonehenge were a bit of a snore. I really came alive on Mt. Snowdon in Wales.

Sacred Massai Gods live on Mount Ol Donyo Langai in Tanzania. I had to go up and pay my respects of course.

Even in Hawaii, the mountainous cliffs of Kauai's Na Pali coast beckon to me more than the beaches below.

My first real view of the Himalaya Range was of the Annapurna peaks at dawn from Poon Hill, Nepal, which I had climbed by the light of a headlamp before dawn. As the sun rose and these magnificent peaks came into focus I sat and cried in absolute joy.

I'm not sure if my love of mountains comes from some deep yearning to touch heaven, or simply because my first memories start when my family was living in the heart of the Canadian Rockies between Banff and Jasper. Mom and Dad strapped skis on me at Marmot Basin almost as soon as I could walk. They loved to climb mountains too. I have their long old-fashioned ice axes from their mountaineering days. Here they are next to mine:

Best of all is being in the mountains with the people I love. My son started skiing in the mountains with me when he was four. By nine years old he was beating me down black diamond runs. Now he is an awesome snowboarding dude.

In summers my son has hiked and rock climbed with me. But I don't think he has ever felt the same pulling, aching need I have to be in the mountains.

My Beloved has also joined me in the mountains from time to time. When he does though, it is not the mountains, but me he wants to be near. I love him for that.

I told B that when I croak I want my ashes scattered in the mountains. "Can it be Splash Mountain in Florida or the Matterhorn ride in Disneyland?" he asked.

"No way!"

"But what if I'm in a wheel chair by then?"

"You won't be, you're five years younger than I am."

"But what if?"

"O.K., whatever, I suppose I won't know the difference."

So, if you are ever at Disneyland in 40 or 50 years and see spindrift blowing off the peak of the Matterhorn, that will likely be me.

Today's dream travel destination, the Swiss Alps. A mountain range I have not yet seen. Home of the real Matterhorn.

Schmoozed

2007-07-16T20:58:00.000-07:00

Ian at Or so I thought has given me a "Blogging Community Involvement" award. Apparently my blog has "the power of schmooze". I'm flattered, thank you Ian. But I'm not exactly sure what this means. So I'll take it to be an indication of a blogger that can schmooze folks in. One who who relishes the blogger community contact in return. Because I do truly enjoy the interaction, "conversation" and cyber-frienships that have developed since I started this little blog. It was totally unexpected, but the best part of this blogging gig.

Apparently I am to name five other blogs for this award. But I am going to break the rules (yes, again.) Because I do not follow many blogs. I've read many, but only a few have caught me (schmoozed me?) and drawn me to follow every post they write. So I could name all of those blogs listed over there on the right under the title "You'll love these" for this award. But I am going to limit it to one. One of the first blogs I began to read, and the first that got me hooked into coming back to it over and over. And the one that got me thinking "I want to try that". Now that's schmooze power!

And the award goes to: Alda at theIceland Weather Report. Often side splittingly funny, frequently deeply insightful, sometimes achingly honest and personal. I love her descriptions of "Niceland" and Icleanders, and if I ever need to fly to Reykjavik on the spur of the moment, I will know what time the sun will set.

Today's dream travel destination: Iceland of course. A destination way up on my gotta go list.

Service interruptions due to weather

2007-07-10T18:40:00.000-07:00

This blog is on summer hours. Fine weather and long daylight hours may result in unavoidable service interruptions. Regular service will resume with the rain.

I am spending very little time indoors. Saturday we spent the day on the boat at Pitt Lake. Sunday an old friend was in town, and we cycled 68 km to the Richmond Dikes and Steveston Village. The winter's mould is finally baking out of our brains, and the sun has our damp joints moving again.

Evenings have been spent in the garden, where we are ~~making a huge mess~~ landscaping. Lumberjacks are removing a massive overgrown cedar hedge. Two sad trees will also come down. Listen for their screams. Weed beds are under attack. I am finally getting a place to plant my long-wished for Ginkgo Biloba tree.

When darkness falls, making chainsaw use a gamble, we reluctantly drag our aching old bones inside, shower, and collapse. Dust is building up on the forlorn computer. The lonely mouse sits on the mouse pad squinting out at the hot, cloudless sky, wishing for a storm.

Today's dream travel destination, Steveston Village, Richmond, B.C. Where the freshest seafood is sold right off the boats at the docks. And the halibut & chips at Dave's is mouthwatering.

Party animals

2007-07-04T19:35:00.000-07:00

Dateline: Saturday June 30, 2007. B and I are taking the dogs for an evening walk in the 'hood.

"Oh look, the Smiths finally finished that retaining wall" I say.

"It looks good. That stone would look great around the edge of the back flower bed we've been planning" B answers.

"The one we have been planning for five years? The one we dug up half the back lawn for, that is now a giant weed heaven?"

"Yeah, that one."

"Oh, cool, look over there, Crazy Hoarding Neighbour has a new member of her lawn gnome family."

"That's no gnome, it's a hung over troll."

"How can you tell?"

"He's cross-eyed and looks about to puke."

"No, I mean how do you know he's a troll and not a gnome?"

B gives me THE LOOK that indicates my lengthy, expensive education was a waste.

A few blocks later, when we have looped back to our front door, I ask, "What do you want to do now? It is Saturday night."

"We could go to a movie."

This time I give B THE LOOK. "Who are you kidding, we haven't watched a movie except on our own T.V. in 4 years." We talk about going, then just wait until it comes out on pay-per-view. Where we can watch it snuggled on the couch with a glass of wine, wearing sweatpants and torn tee-shirts. And pause it for refills and pee breaks.

We check the listings and there is nothing interesting on pay-per-view. Still, it is a long weekend and all, so I suggest: "We could go up to the pub for a beer."

"We have beer here, and it's cheaper. Besides, we've just been for a walk, I don't feel like walking up to the pub. And if we drive, one of us can't have beer."

So we have a short soak in the hot tub and go to bed with books. It's 9:45 on a Saturday night. My God, we are so wild and crazy.

Today's dream travel destination: Montmartre, Paris. Where we would just be starting dinner at 9:45 on a Saturday evening.

I'm one of the Rockin' Girls!

2007-07-01T20:01:00.000-07:00

After a few days away from the computer (the weather is finally too good to stay inside for long) I came back to find that CS (Another Tangential Thinker) has given me a Rockin' Girl Blogger award. Now it has been a long time since I've been called a girl and a longer time since I actually was one. And I've never been called "Rockin'". Cool! With my 50th birthday hurtling towards me I am delighted. Thank you C.S. Coming from a rockinest mom, woman, snake lover, photographer blogger I am truly honoured. Proud to be considered one of the girls.

Now I get to hand out five more. To female bloggers that rock. Oh my, where to start? Stay tuned, I need a little time to think about this.

Today's dream travel destination: Parliament Hill, Ottawa. The best place to be for Canada Day celebrations. Where I celebrated Canada's 100th birthday 40 years ago, and where my son celebrated his first Canada Day 20 years ago.

On a roll

2007-06-23T18:32:00.000-07:00

Would you call a middle aged woman who is in-line skating for the first time in over 4 years, praying fervently for her life at the top of every slope to Jesus, Buddha, Allah, and the Virgin Mary....

An old holy roller?

Here is my darling husband, who also has not been on his roller blades for over 4 years, showing off how good he is. And of course being a guy, refusing to wear a brain bucket.

Today's dream travel destination: The The 10 km Seymour Valley Trailway, a little-advertised gem in north Vancouver. Running up the Seymour valley, it is a wide, paved trail, excellent for bikers and rollerbladers. We used to rollerblade it regularly, and are getting ready to again this summer.

Of course Holland would be great too. Flat. Flat is good.

The 1969 science fair

2007-06-17T13:27:00.000-07:00

" I can't decide whether to take the money or the prize."
"Take the prize" Dad advised. "The money will be spent next week, but this prize is something you will use forever."

I thought longingly of the five dollars. I could buy this new stuff that had just come out, shiny lip gloss. And some aqua blue eye shadow. In 1969, in grade 7, these were precious items. But in the end I took my Dad's advice, and chose the prize. Sophia Caccione, the third place winner, got the five bucks. I had won second place in the Junior High science fair. Well, actually my Dad did.

My science fair project was grandiosely called a "base-2 computer". Weeks earlier, when I was struggling with ideas for a science fair project, my Dad had asked, "Well, what are you studying right now in math class?"

"Um, binary numbers. I don't really understand it" I said. (I said this about math class often.)

"Well, that's great," said Dad. "We could make a kind of counting computer that displays numbers in binary code, base-2."

I had no idea what Dad was talking about, but I liked the sound of "WE". My Dad is a civil engineer. "Let's sit down and draw up some plans" he said. We sat. He drew. The next weekend, plans in hand, we went to the hobby store and bought meccano stuff: gears, wires, little levers, lights and a battery. I could not have put these together to make a base-2 counter any more than I could have ridden my pink banana bike to the moon.

We spent many evenings in the basement workshop, putting this marvel together. I watched a lot, or occasionally held something steady, while Dad bolted parts, connected wires, and patiently explained the concepts as we progressed. By the end of this project, I actually understood how binary code worked. And still do. When it was finished, it was amazing. You could press a lever marked 1 through ten, and the number would be displayed in binary code in a series of lights that went off or on to represent zero or one.

~~Dad~~ I should have won first place. Instead of Danny Finkelstein's stupid exploding volcano. Anyone can mix vinegar and baking soda and put it under a paper volcano. ~~Dad~~ I had made a freakin base-2 computer. How cool is that!

There were other projects my Dad and I did together over the years. (Remember the huge plaster model of a glacial valley Dad? ~~You~~ I got an A in geography that year because of it.)

Thanks for that Dad. Those hours in the workshop working with you were special. Your patience and help were priceless. I love you for it. So in honour of Father's Day, I am passing on to you the prize you advised me to take at the 1969 science fair. The one you said I would use forever. The one I gave up lip gloss and blue eye shadow for.

The slide rule.

It's not all about me. This time.

2007-06-13T20:20:00.000-07:00

This post is related to the "Eight Random Things About Me" meme. Except I am bending the rules (whaddya mean you're not surprised?) I'm writing eight random things about B. My Beloved. My man. The one it took me 45 years to find.

So, here are eight random things about B:

1. He rescues spiders from the bath tub and gently carries them outside to the yard. (Where Snuffy the cat hunts and eats them for snacks.) But it’s the thought that counts. He also rescues them off the boat, so they don’t blow away and drown. I’ve seen him wade through icy water to deposit an eight legged stowaway back on shore.

2. He finishes my abandoned projects. I am good at starting various endeavours, but I get bored easily, especially when it becomes apparent the job will not look as perfect as I hoped. With only minimal eye rolling, to which he is surely entitled, B picks up my discarded paint brush, or hedge trimmer, or chain saw, or rake, and quietly finishes what I started.

3. B gets cranky as a grizzly bear with a hang over when he is hungry.

4. So it is a good thing he can cook. He does wonderful curries, especially Thai.

5. He no longer writes “don’t buy any of that low fat shit” on our grocery list. But when I’m not around to make gagging noises and pantomime heart attacks, his favourite meals are cheese perogies with bacon and sour cream, or greasy fish and chips from the local take out.

6. B is a very good hockey player. But he prefers playing on mixed teams of men and women “because it’s more civilized that way”. He always says something positive about my play, and believe me it can’t be easy. In my best season I got two goals. One was in my own net.

7. When we got together 5 years ago B took on the old bitch without complaint. No not me, Tika, my huge, smelly, lab/shepherd cross whose personal mission is to annihilate motorcycles, skateboarders, and most other dogs. I’ve even caught him hugging her while cooing “How’s my special big brown girl?”

8. B is convinced he is a better driver than I am (and most everybody else). While I know for sure that I drive better than he does (and most everybody else). It makes road trips...um...interesting. And sometimes loud. And then icily silent.

Today's dream travel destination: Costa Rica. We are planning a trip there in the fall. Where we may, for the first time in our travels together, rent a car. Or maybe one each.

You can get to heaven in a boat

2007-06-08T20:27:00.000-07:00

B and I have a summer weekend special place. The kind of "happy place" you go to in your mind when the dentist is drilling, when you're walking home from work in the dark at 4:30 on a November evening, or when cold rain is dripping down your collar on Groundhog day.

We were there last weekend, for the first time this year. It will be repeated as often this summer as time and weather will permit. And providing B has not already made other weekend plans. (But if you are a regular reader, you know how I can get B to change his plans.)

I'll take you on a tour. Follow me. First we rush home from work on Friday afternoon and drive 20 minutes to launch our boat in a side channel of the Pitt River.

Then it takes about 20 more minutes to get to Pitt Lake. From here on there are no roads, it's boat access only. The stress and cares of our everyday life start to blow away behind us.

We arrive at one of of several small secluded beaches that dot this 20 km long lake. There are 4 or 5 spots that we go to, depending on tides (this lake is one of few lakes in the world affected by tides from the nearby ocean) and the weather.

A glass of wine by the camp fire as the sun sets dissolves all trace of stress:

For the rest of the weekend we play, read, and nap:

And we hike up to a waterfall, picking salmon berries on the way.

Have you ever seen a five star hotel this inviting? I don't think so:

Sunday afternoon, we head home sun kissed and happy, rejuvenated by the mountains, water, and solitude.

A busy Canada Goose and her family accompanies us the last 100 metres to the boat ramp.

Hope you enjoyed the tour. Thanks for coming along.

Wherein B changes his plans

2007-06-01T14:07:00.000-07:00

"What a gorgeous day!" I say to B while we are getting ready for work. "The radio said it could go up to 29 on Sunday. Let's go camping."

"But we already decided to only spend a day at Pitt Lake this weekend," said B.

"That's what we talked about, but we didn't know then how hot and sunny it would be. This is the first hot weekend this year, let's go!"

"But I only planned on going for the day, I was going to do some work around the house too."

"It can wait, there's nothing urgent. Give me one good reason why we shouldn't enjoy this incredible weather and camp for the weekend."

"Sure it would be nice, it's just not what I planned to do, my head isn't there. I can't change plans at the last minute."

The "last minute" is still ten hours away. But B has trouble changing plans. His proposed course of action gets burned in his brain, and he suffers the pain of unanaesthetised neurosurgery if made to change course. Oddly, he has no problem going with the flow when there are no plans, and loves to travel with no set itinerary, just letting each day unfold as it will. My mistake was even mentioning weekend plans a few days before. But all is not lost.

I wrap my arms around him, and whisper in his ear: "If we go camping I'll.... [censored]."

B pauses for a millisecond, then starts to do a little jig. "We're goin' campin', oh yeah, goin' campin' tonight."

There's a lesson here women. If you can't bring your man's brain around to your way of thinking, bypass it. Go straight to command central.

We're off to the lake! Back Sunday night. Have a good weekend everyone.

Hollow gut and sweaty palms.

2007-05-28T18:03:00.000-07:00

I was driving to work this morning when the radio traffic reporter announced “A serious five car pile up on highway 91 near number 4 road in Richmond has traffic backed up for miles. Try highway 10 or Marine drive…”

I immediately thought “Oh my God!”. My son took that route to work this morning, and he was not very familiar with the highway and its exits. I got that involuntary stab of fear that hits parents at the thought their child could be in danger.

My rational brain fought with my mom brain:

Rational Brain: “It is 8:30 now, and he left the house at 6:30. He must have driven by that spot long before the accident.”

Mom Brain: “ But if it was a serious accident, it could still be tying up traffic two hours later.”

RB: “He would have called from his cell phone if he was in trouble.”

MB: “Not if he is unconscious, …or worse.”

RB: “His old ’91 Ford Escort can’t even go very fast.”

MB: “If a speeding semi trailer, or drunk driver hit him it doesn’t matter.”

And so it went for a few minutes, until I heard that the accident was in the other direction than his. I breathed again.

I worry about the health and safety of my other loved ones, of course. When my mom had heart surgery, I was tense and anxious. When my sister e-mails or texts me that they are in a big storm (she sails for a living) I am apprehensive. When my husband opened his chin playing hockey and had to have stitches I was concerned. (Actually annoyed too, because he had not bothered to do up the chin strap on his face guard. Men. He now has a manly scar like Harrison Ford, whereas a scar on my chin would simply be unsightly.) And I worry about him driving across the accident plagued Patullo Bridge every day.

But nothing is the same as the blood draining, visceral fear that strikes when something happens, or could happen to endanger my child. Like the day a few years ago when I got a phone call from the ski patrol at Grouse Mountain, that started, “Your son has had a snowboarding accident.” My knees started to buckle and I felt faint for a few seconds, thinking “head injury?” "broken neck?" until the patroller added, “He may have broken his wrist”.

I wonder if this lasts forever?

Todays dream travel destination: Grouse Mountain, which is a lovely local ski area, despite my son breaking his wrist there.

Too sexy for my clothes.

2007-05-22T15:06:00.000-07:00

I am applying mascara when my Beloved struts up behind me, preening in the mirror. He is about to leave for work. "This looks pretty good on me, don't ya think?" he asks. It was B's birthday a few days ago, and he is wearing new clothes he got from me and from his mom.

"It looks great."

"You don't think the shirt is too light to go with these pants?"

"No they go together well."

"Is the shirt O.K., it's a bit wrinkled?"

"Only a little on one arm, no one will notice," I assure him.

"The shirt is cool, I like this colour."

"Yes, it's a good colour on you Sweetie."

"I do look great, don't I?" B is clearly pleased with his dapper image.

"Yes dear. One thing though, you may want to do up your fly."

What would men do without us?

Today's dream travel destination: Wreck Beach, Vancouver, where clothes, and undone flies don't matter.

Happy Queen's day

2007-05-18T19:58:00.001-07:00

This is the beginning of a holiday weekend in Canada. For those who do not live here, let me explain. It is not a celebration of happy gay men as my title may lead you to think. No, it is in honour of our head of state's birthday. Queen Lizzie. It falls on the weekend closest to May 24. Although that is not Lizzie's birthday at all, it is old Queen Victoria's. Liz may be queen and all, but she doesn't get her own day.

We treat this weekend as the unofficial beginning of summer. Cottages are opened up and aired of their winter mustiness, gardens are planted, boats are washed and waxed, decks are power washed, the first camping trips of the season are taken, and much beer is drunk. But unless they happen to attend the movie starring Helen Murrin this weekend, no one will actually think of the Queen at all. In fact, most of us call this "the May 24 long weekend," not Victoria Day. I read that in a recent poll, less than 10 % of young Canadians even know the Queen is our head of state. There are no parades, speeches, or even square dances this weekend honouring the monarch. Well, except maybe for the butterfly. But not for Liz. In Eastern Canada, there will be a few fireworks marking the day, but here in the west we save our fireworks for a really important occasion, Halloween.

It is not clear to me, and to many Canadians, why we cling to the monarchy, and the Commonwealth. There are no benefits, and the Queen wields no actual power over us. Perhaps it is just inertia and reluctance to challenge tradition. Or unwillingness to give up a long weekend dedicated mostly to quaffing large amounts of Molson Canadian Lager.

I'll drink to that.

Today's dream travel destination: Buckingham Palace, where Vicky's birthday is likely not celebrated by guzzling lager in the sun.

Quick pics and funny fotos # 2

2007-05-15T13:03:00.000-07:00

One wonders how many gents from Penrith have been hit by trains while teetering hopefully on the edge of the platform.

Screaming meme-y. Or me me.

2007-05-11T20:28:00.000-07:00

There is an interview meme going around, and I took up Ian's offer. How could I resist, he's a professional journalist. Certainly it had nothing to do with my giant screaming ego.

The questions are interesting, and some are tough, not that I would expect anything less from the thoughtful pro. He got to ask five, and the deal is, I'll answer them, and in turn interview you with five questions. Yes you, just invite me to interview you in a comment below. Don't be shy. The rules are, up to five people can pick up this challenge.

Well, here goes.

1. Obviously by your blog name, you love to travel and have travelled to a number of exotic locales. What is the most satisfying and inspiring trip you've made?

Without a doubt, it was kayaking in Gwaii Haanas Park, Haida Gwaii (or Queen Charlotte Islands, BC, Canada) five years ago. For a week our companions were eagles, ravens, seals and orca whales. We slept on gorgeous beaches or rocky knolls, eating fresh fish or crab every night (not to mention the delicious goodies we packed. The beauty of a kayaking trip is there is room to pack lots of good food.) The peace and beauty, the ripple of the paddle, and the eagle laughter inspired me in deep places that even the most profound words cannot reach.
Trekking in the Annapurna Range in Nepal comes a very close second.

2. What, on the other hand, but still on the travel theme, is your favorite R&R getaway?

In summer, camping at the far end of Pitt Lake, at a special beach we know, accessible only by boat. In winter, snowshoeing in Manning Park, staying at the little cabins.

3. In your career what gives you the most satisfaction?

Uummm, vacations? No, I am kidding, I am fortunate to have a challenging and interesting career. It is very hard work sometimes, which can bring its own satisfaction. But once in a while, I get to feel like I've made a real difference for the world my son and the next generation will inherit. That's the big payoff.

4. When you were a pretty little redheaded girl -- assuming you were a redheaded girl -- what did you want your future to look like? By this I don't mean just career wise, but the whole spectrum and panorama of life.

I was indeed a red-headed little girl, as was my mother, her mother, and hers too. That's the easy part to answer.
I knew from age seven I wanted to be an archaeologist, and make great discoveries. So I did become an archaeologist, and had a great time doing it, although the biggest discovery I made was that archaeologists have very dirty fingernails. As a child I never really imagined a husband and baby in the picture, but they happened, and my life changed. So at 29 I found myself married, pregnant and in law school, something I NEVER pictured as a kid.

5. Your quest and your obligation is to 'fix' just one thing either in your own society or on the planet. What would that thing be, and how would you go about it? I realize there are two questions in one here, but what the hell.

Ian, (batting my eyelashes here) I plan to eradicate world hunger, cure cancer, and broker world peace. And win this beauty pageant.

Seriously though, where to start? If I held the world's purse strings, I would pull money out of waging wars and immediately fix the things that are fixable today. Like children dying of malnutrition or dysentery. It is heartbreaking, and incomprehensible to me that in the next few minutes, tens of thousands of dollars will be spent to drop a bomb somewhere, and somewhere else, a baby will die from lack of food, or lack of a simple rehydration mixture. But the only purse strings I hold are my own. B and I sponsor three children and their families through World Vision. Is it enough? Hell no. I wish I had a better answer Ian. Some days I think I should chuck everything, sell all my possessions, and move to Africa to feed babies. But that's not realistic. What I can do, is help provide for three, for now. Plus lobby and vote for change. And rejoice in the smiles of the few that I can help today.

Running to catch up with myself

2007-05-11T09:28:00.000-07:00

Crazy week. Moved office. Worked late. Secretary left. I miss writing here. All I can do until weekend is the above pic for your amusement.

Lights in the darkness

2007-05-03T17:43:00.000-07:00

A gaunt woman with missing front teeth weaves down the sidewalk, shouting obscenities. Her face is scabbed and oozing, a sure sign of a long heroin habit. I pass a group of three men openly sharing a crack pipe in the filthy doorway of a decrepit hotel. A half dozen people are sleeping or passed out on the steps of the Anglican church. I have seen four quick drug deals while walking as many blocks. They typically involve two people: A dealer, who stands off to one side, and a "hired" addict who actually gives a buyer the drugs and receives the money, taking the risk of being arrested in return for a sliver of crack the dealer will give her when she hands over the sale proceeds.

My work frequently takes me to a building in this area of Vancouver dubbed the poorest postal code in Canada. It is the downtown east side, populated by the most hopeless and vulnerable members of our society. Homelessness, addiction, and mental illness are the norm here.

I often walk here from my uptown office, or from the skytrain station. I am never afraid walking in this infamous neighbourhood, at least not in daylight. The streets are always teeming with people. Many are helpful and friendly, and say "hello", or "nice day" as I walk past. More than once I have seen horrified lost tourists here from the nearby cruise ship terminal, surrounded by helpful locals giving directions. I am comfortable here. No one takes much notice of me, since I am not buying or selling anything, and I'm obviously not a cop. Yet a few years ago, before I had ever been in this neighbourhood except to drive through it with locked doors, I was afraid of it.

I am saddened by the pain and despair in these streets, and enraged by the failure of many expensive, ill-conceived political "solutions" thrown at the area. But I am always touched by the signs of hope and goodness here. Like a carefully tended flower box of geraniums in the window of a run down rooming house. And a storefront turned into a drop-in First Nations friendship centre. The needle-exchange nurses greeting their regulars by name. And the ever-present group of smoking men outside the door to the Salvation Army detox centre. They are trying, at least for today, to fight the addictions that crush them.

At the next intersection, an elderly drunk is starting to cross the street against a red light. He is swaying and his knees buckle. I grab his elbow and steer him back to the curb. "Come on Buddy, wait for the green light so you don't get run over." He stares at me for a few moments, and focuses on my turquoise jacket.

"Honey" he says grinning, "You look pretty as a robin's egg."

My day is made.

April showers bring...

2007-04-29T17:33:00.000-07:00

On a beautiful spring Sunday, on a leisurely walk through the neighbourhood, I concede there is some point to the endless April ~~showers~~ ~~rain~~ torrential freakin constant downpour of the last few weeks.

Most of these photos are from my neighbours' gardens. Guess which one is from mine.

Today's dream travel destination: Not far. Van Dusen Gardens, Vancouver. My favourite place to take a walk with my sister. She flew back to Europe yesterday after a two week visit. I miss her already.

Make my day

2007-04-27T17:56:00.000-07:00

Today is National Hairball Awareness Day. I’m not kidding, check it out. Now that is a wasted national day. The only people who need to be aware of hairballs are already way too familiar with the whole concept. We step on them in the middle of the night, clean them out of the carpet, and pretend oblivion when the cat whorks, cacks and gags up a whopper right behind a guest’s chair at dinner. If, like us, you have three cats, you could open up a hairball bowling alley.

Who gets to decide these “days”? What moron snagged May 8 as No Socks day? Or National Talk Like a Pirate day on September 19? Did some 15 year old geek hack into all the calendar companies so that May 1 is now designated National Teen day? I’m quite sure no parent proposed that one. The person who approved May 27 as National Grape Popsickle day needs a good shake and a real job.

This has gone too far. What stupid day will someone come up with next, National Beer Appreciation day?

“What? It falls on January 24?” Huh.

Actually, I could get behind that one.

Today's dream travel destination: Bavaria, the place to be next January 24.

Oooh, the things we do for love

2007-04-23T22:32:00.000-07:00

I am a tree hugger. An environmentalist. Environmental protection is a large part of my job. I have always smugly believed that recreational activities should be of the self propelled kind, there is no need to burn fossil fuels to have fun. So how did I mark Earth Day?

I went shopping for an SUV. A behemoth, belching, gorilla of an SUV. To replace the slightly smaller, but still belching, guzzling pig already sitting in our driveway.

“Why?” you ask.

For love of course.

When B and I met over five years ago we had some different interests. B enthusiastically embraced a lot of mine, like hiking, kayaking, and snowshoeing. I took up hockey and we play on a beer league co-ed team together. But B’s big love is waterskiing. It has been since he was barely out of diapers. He is an awesome skier, gracefully cutting huge arcs of spray. He can even ski barefoot. And on his wakeboard he jumps around like a 20 year old dude.

As our first summer together approached, I was in conflict. B really wanted me to share his love of boating and skiing. But hauling the boat up to the lake with a gas guzzling SUV, and then spending the day burning more fuel with a powerful motor boat was against my principles.

So what did I do? See for yourself:

I took up wakeboarding. At age 45. I even have my own chick board, wet suit and gloves. Apparently my principles fly out the window when love walks through the door. Actually love only got me started, it was the discovery that playing on the lake with a powerful boat is huge fun that really made me sell out. So I am a slut for a good time.

How do I rationalize my environmentalism with my motorized fun? I don’t. I am gifted at rationalization, but even I can’t think of one for this.

Back to the Earth Day SUV shopping. Our old SUV does not have the cojones to safely pull the new boat we bought last year. We need a, gulp, um, bigger one.

Yes, I am headed to eco-hell for sure, where I will spend eternity cleaning out toxic ashes from the devil’s furnaces. But I’ll have a roaring good time getting there.

Today's dream travel destination: Pitt Lake, on a hot summer weekend, swimming, skiing, wakeboarding, and having a barbeque on a secluded beach with friends.

Late thirties. Really late.

2007-04-20T19:08:00.000-07:00

B and I are reading the weekend paper in what we call the reading room. Which is simply our bedroom on a Sunday morning. There are three animals on the bed with us, a special Sunday morning treat. Normally they are not allowed. Not the dogs anyway, the cats know no rules. I have Snuffy the cat curled up in my lap, Henry warming my toes, a cup of strong tea at hand, and the local news section of the paper.

Suddenly my bliss is shattered.

"No freakin' way!" I say to B.

"What's wrong?"

"Centennial House Seniors' old timers softball league is looking for players."

"Old farts playing softball? What's wrong with that?" asks B.

"No, you don't understand," I wail. "I QUALIFY!"

There it is in black and white. The newspaper ad says that women who will be 50 years old any time in 2007 are eligible. (While men have to be 55. WTF? Women are old timers at 50, but men not so much?)

It hits me like a meteor. A real "holy shit" moment. I will be, gasp, 50 this year. Not for a few months yet, but it is approaching like a runaway train. Of course, I can count, and I have been aware of this coming birthday for, well, almost 50 years. But apparently I have been cruising down De Nile River. I can only blame myself for that. I never went through my forties. Because when I turned forty I told people I was in my late thirties. Then I would coyly say, "thirty-ten." (Actually, I didn't always add that last bit.) The next year I was thirty-eleven. It was funny. Even when I was saying I was thirty-fifteen it got an occasional chuckle. I should have dropped it then, because telling people "I am in my late thirties wink thirty-nineteen," is pathetic.

So, note to self: Chin up, attitude check, embrace reality. Embrace 50. Maybe even join the old timers softball league. But wait, I can't throw or catch a ball.

Thank god.

Today's dream travel destination: Rio de Janeiro. Where facelifts are cheap, and everybody does it. Because soon I will be thirty-twenty.

It's going to cost HOW much?

2007-04-16T17:56:00.000-07:00

I just got home from the vet, with an assortment of pills and instructions, a sick dog, and a much lighter wallet. Henry has been vomiting and diarrheaing off and on since Friday night. Today he has bloody diarrhea (sorry, no way to convey that less graphically,) so I rushed home from work and got him right to the vet.

After giving him a complete physical work up, putting him on I.V. fluid, drawing blood, and testing urine, the vet announced it was a total mystery. And then presented me with a bill that will cover the next three payments on her Mercedes. I should have collected money from the folks driving past the vet clinic. I provided them with great entertainment as I knelt behind Henry on the little front lawn, in the pissing rain (catch that pun?) trying to snag some pee in a dipper thingy they gave me.

If he is not better tomorrow, she wants me to bring him in to the clinic in the morning where he will go back on an I.V., have x-rays and who knows what other pricey tests.

Seriously though, the money is not an issue, at least not yet. We just want him to get well. But I've wondered at times what our limit would be to pay for a sick or injured pet. Would there even be one? I suppose there has to be, although I have no idea what it would be, and I am thankful it is not a decision I have ever had to face. I have a friend who sold her car and borrowed thousands of dollars from family and friends to pay vet bills after her beloved dog got hit by a car. Would I go that far? The dog survived, only to die of cancer a year later.

Here is the furry woebegone patient, who is lying beside me on an old sheet.

I hope you feel better soon buddy. We have lots of adventures ahead. And I never want to have to choose between you and the mortgage payment.

Who knew?

2007-04-10T18:08:00.000-07:00

"women wetting their panties over a flat tire"

Those are the exact words of a Google search that directed somebody to one of my blog posts yesterday. I'm sure the person was not expecting a blog about a rainy day in the Serengeti, Tanzania.

But that search was nothing compared to the word searches that brought people to my recent post about Squirt the cat. They were not looking for an amusing anecdote about a wandering house pet. If I knew when I wrote the post what the verb "squirt" means to some people, I would never have used it as a post title. I can't repeat any of the actual words in those searches here because my Mom and some of her retired friends read this blog. And I'm not sure about access to heart defibrillators in rural Nova Scotia. Some of the search phrases gave ME palpitations!

The hits on my blog more than doubled on the "Squirt" post day. Imagine if I had also used the words "pussy cat".

What is the most outrageous search term that led someone to your blog?

Today's dream travel destination: Snowshoeing in the mountains of Manning Park, in the spring sunshine, with whiskey jacks eating from our hands. Only three hours away, but we don't get there often enough. This was from last April.

Just call Mom

2007-04-05T19:17:00.000-07:00

While I was in Ottawa on business last week I got a phone call from my son.

"Mom, I lost my car keys."

"And you expect me to do what, exactly?" I replied.

I have some parenting talents, but finding a set of keys from 4500 kilometres away is not one. I told him he had two choices: find the keys, or call, and pay for, a locksmith. Manchild was not happy with this answer.

Fortunately that call came when the formal part of my meeting was finished. But I was reminded of a similar phone call about four years ago. I was in meetings in Ottawa then too. I had left my son on his own overnight for the first time. He had instructions to call me at set times, but not during the meeting hours unless it was a dire emergency. I was nervous about this big leap into responsibility, so I kept my cell phone out on the table on "silent", just in case.

At a crucial point in our discussions, my phone began vibrating and dancing around the table. The display showed the call was from home, so I grabbed it and ran out on 25 people in the boardroom. "Ohmigod, what's wrong?" I thought. "Is the house on fire? Did he cut a finger off preparing lunch?"

"Hello, what's wrong, are you O.K.?"

"Hi Mom, have you seen my grey hoodie?"

Today's dream travel destination: Wookey Hole Caves, Somerset England. Beautiful, cool, magestic. And that deep underground, no cell phone service.

Babel

2007-03-31T15:11:00.000-07:00

Tableau de bord | Aide | Déconnexion
Envoi Parametres Modele

I am in Ottawa, for a working weekend of meetings. The lap top I am using belongs to a colleague from Montreal, and it only speaks French. Yes, I mean the computer. All of the Blogger dashboard is in French. At the moment I am récupérer le message. Which sounds way sexier than the English version.

The above was written on Saturday, and I gave up on the French version of Blogger when I tried to upload photos. I can manage a little light conversation in French, but geek French is beyond me.

At my meetings there were six of us, from across the country. One is Francophone, three are bilingual in both official languages, also one speaks Hindi, one German, and another Mandarin. You gotta love this big multi-cultural country.

Our Francophone colleague delights us with his translations of French expressions. Once he thanked me for some work I had done "from the bottom of my hearth." And he had us in stitches when he declared he was "as happy as a veal running across the prairie." Apparently there is a French expression "happy as a calf running across the meadow." We should adopt that don't you think? It makes more sense than "happy as a clam." And conveys a more pleasant image than "happier than a pig in shit."

I've made bigger language gaffes. Once I was having dinner in a restaurant in Quebec with my parents, who are bilingual. At the end of the meal I announced loudly "Je suis plein" (I am full). My mother informed me I had just proclaimed in local slang "I am pregnant".

Today's dream travel destination: Paris. Where I would receive haughty stares for mangling the language. But who cares. It would be Paris. In April.

"I'm never gonna stop the rain by complaining"

2007-03-27T19:52:00.000-07:00

"How are you Voyager?", you ask.

"Oh, can't complain."

I mean literally. I cannot complain. I took up the challenge by Shelagh Rogers on the CBC radio program Sounds Like Canada, to give up complaining for a week. Starting yesterday. I figured it would be easy, I'm not much of a complainer anyway. Huh. Turns out I'm full of crap.

I can't whine about the fact that the first two sunny days we have had in months have fallen on a Monday and Tuesday. And I cleaned up the cat puke this morning with a smile. Waited forty-five minutes in the doctor's office for a two minute prescription renewal appointment, never once sighing and looking pointedly at my watch. I never said a word when I snagged a half-hour old pair of panty hose. And happily paid my car insurance of $1758.

$1758!!? WTF? It's not a Ferrari, it's an Acura for God's sake. Just a tarted up Honda!....Ooops, I mean, I'm sure the Insurance Company of BC will put my reasonable premiums to very good use.

Oh, man, it is going to be a very long week. Not that I'm complaining, mind you.

Today's dream travel destination: Cathedral grove forest, Vancouver Island. Because if a woman complains in the middle of a forest and no-one hears her, she has not actually complained, right?

Chillin' and cookin' on a Zanzibar beach: That's a wrap.

2007-03-23T18:43:00.000-07:00

January 2007, Kendwa, Zanzibar, Tanzania.

“Do you want to go for a walk down the beach?”

“No, it’s too hot.”

“Hungry?”

“No, you?”

“Nope. Pass the sunscreen please sweetie.”

“How’s your book?”

“O.K. I guess. It’s too hot to concentrate.”

“In a few minutes when I get the energy, I’m going to go get a cold Tusker from the bar, want one?”

“Now you’re talking.”

Our final five days in Tanzania were passed in this desultory fashion, on Kendwa Beach, Zanzibar. We swam in the impossibly turquoise Indian Ocean, walked the kilometre down the snow-white beach to the next village (once), had henna designs painted on us by Muslim women walking up and down the beach (yes, even the guys got tattoo-like motifs), read books, and marked our days by moving our chairs to follow the shade under the thatched palapas.

The biggest excitements were rushing after breakfast to bag our favourite palapa near the bar, and betting at dinner whether the meal would arrive in under two hours. It never did. Nor did it matter.

After our safari we had taken a kamikaze bus ride from Arusha to Dar Es Salaam. There we celebrated New Years Eve in the midst of the bigger Muslim holiday Eid-Al-Adha (Festival of Sacrifice at the end of Hajj). I discovered the house I had lived in as a teenager is now the parking lot for the new British High Commission. A fine fenced parking lot, with peacocks in it. But still.

We spent a couple of days exploring the spicy historic lane maze which is Zanzibar's Stone Town. It felt more like an Arab Souk than sub-Sahara Africa.

Finally we washed up on Kendwa Beach, and barely moved. After all our adventures, we were just too tired. And it was. just. too. hot.

{This is the last installment of my posts about our 2006 / 2007 trip to Tanzania. Here you can see all of them together. And if you want more info and gorgeous photos, check out our friends and fellow adventurers'web sites about the trip:
G. Vandegriend's web site. The first three photos in this post are his, thanks Hound.
Indra's blog}

When I grow up

2007-03-20T20:08:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine recently sent me an e-mail quiz. One of the questions was: Name four jobs you've held.
My answer was:
1. grocery clerk
2. lawyer
3. waitress
4. archaeologist
You'll have to guess which of the four is my current job.

The question got me thinking about my son, who is in his "gap year" between high school and....whatever. Gap year is a British euphemism for "What the fuck do I do now?"

At age 20, my son has already tried more jobs than I have in my lifetime. They have included, grocery clerk, (do you see a pattern here?) bus boy, babysitter, ski lift operator, pita sandwich maker, surveyor's assistant, various construction jobs, farm labourer, and probably a few I've forgotten. Some of these were just part time jobs while in high school, but what a collection. Some lasted a few months, some only a few days. He left them all by his own choice, except for the surveying job, where he was laid off because winter slowed the work down. But he had already decided it was not for him. This year is meant to help him sort out what he wants to take in college, or even whether to go. To, you know, find a direction. Three words he must hate passionately by now.

Mind you he has narrowed it down some. Currently his career goals are: "No way can I work 9 to 5 for 8 hours a day." Well, it's a direction of sorts.

I am officially reinstating "Today's Dream Travel Destination". It's the Sahara Desert. Actually any desert, anywhere, no matter how miserable or war-torn. BECAUSE WE ARE DROWNING HERE, AND SUNSHINE IS JUST A FADING MEMORY.

Reigning Cats and Dogs, Part 3: Squirt

2007-03-03T17:01:00.000-08:00

I wrote recently about my encounter with a gang dude. But the truth is, we have a gang member living right here in our household. Well, sort of living here. He buggers off for days sometimes, and never calls us to say where he's gone. He is nicked and scarred from gangland brawls. We suspect he sells crack catnip out of the garage. His name is Squirt.

Squirt lived with my Beloved before we met. He was a free spirit, usually preferring the freedom of outdoors over the comfort of a warm couch. When B and Squirt moved in with me a few years ago, Squirt took off within a week. For two or three days we didn’t worry, but then we started searching the neighbourhood. After a week or so we put up “LOST CAT” posters. We got phone calls from many kind people, but none of the sightings turned out to be Squirt.

After two months we had pretty much given up hope of ever seeing Squirt again. I missed the little guy, but I was heart sick for B, who had loved Squirt since he was a kitten. I don’t know why, but I got the idea that if we took in a cat that really needed a home, some of the resulting good karma might help poor lost Squirt, and he would find a loving home too.

So I went to the SPCA and asked if they had any cats that were hard to adopt out. They had one all right. He was a pathetic, desperately unhappy tabby that had been abandoned by his owners. He was freaked out and had not touched food since arriving at the shelter several days earlier. He was covered in shit, having lost control from the trauma of being caged. He hissed, spat, and clawed at anyone who came close. I paid, thinking "hell, they should pay me," and took him home. After a little patience and TLC, he turned out to be a wonderful cat. And Henry's best friend.

Five days later the karma jackpot paid out. We got a phone call from a man called George whose neighbour had seen one of our posters. George lived in an apartment building on the edge of an oceanside park, a couple of kilometers and a busy four lane highway away from our former home. A cat lover, he put daily food out for a gang of feral cats living in the park. When his neighbour showed him our poster, George thought a cat that had joined his Vanier Park gang a few weeks earlier could be Squirt. It was.

We hauled his ass home, but he escaped twice more over the next few months, both times returning to his wild gang. Squirt quit that gang only when we moved to our current house 4 years ago. The Vanier Park gang is now 20 kilometres away. We had to get him deprogrammed, have his tatoos lasered off, and promise he could park his little Harley in the driveway, but he more or less stays around home now. And his rough gang days were not a total waste: He is now teaching little Snuffy how to guard our beer at parties.

This is just wrong

2007-03-01T08:00:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago I wrote a smug, all gloaty post about spring in Vancouver. There were photos of flowers flowering, buds budding, and grass grassing. I took insufferable pokes at folks still in the icy grip of winter. It must have especially annoyed my mother who lives in Nova Scotia, and warns me every February: “Don’t tell me about your damned blooming flowers.”

Today, I eat my words. Take a look at this while I go cut a big piece of crow pie:

Mom, did you arrange this somehow?