Sunday, December 21, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
I've Learned...
One of the things I've enjoyed most about learning to run are all the life lessons that go along with it. Among many things, I've learned about can't vs won't, I've learned that the easier something looks the harder it usually is, I've learned that you should buy running sneakers one size larger than your shoe size (who knew?), I've learned that you shouldn't eat garlic at lunch and then run after work and then this morning while Susan was punishing us with her crazy !*@#$% 40-minute treadmill drill, I learned perhaps the most important one of all.
This little gem came as a result of deliberately getting on the treadmill beside her in order to push myself, and even though I still fell behind the pack, I managed to do the 40 minutes leaving me completely exhausted but with one very important lesson: success isn't about being THE best, it's about being YOUR best. Go figure. And furthemore, if you want to be your best, stand with the best. That's why I run with the girls I do. (And because they let me.)
So on that note, I thought I'd share a few other life lessons I've learned along the way. I had originally presented this back in 2001 at a staff retreat and had completely forgotten about it until a colleague recently sent it to me. (Please note that anything with an "*" isn't an original and in most cases I don't know the author, but I've included it because I agree!)
Feel free to add your own life lessons in the comment section...
I’ve learned…
I’ve learned that learning and living mean the same thing.
I’ve learned you cannot put a price on contentment.
I’ve learned that you’re never too old to set a new goal; even if you think there’s no possible physical way you can achieve it.
*I’ve learned that making a living is not the same thing as making a life.
* I’ve learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the way they handle three things: A rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights. (Unknown)
I’ve learned that a good opportunity is not necessarily the right opportunity.
I’ve learned that stress is relative.
I’ve learned a strong work ethic from my parents.
*I’ve learned that the harder you try and get ahead of someone else, the farther behind you fall.
I’ve learned that when someone gets on my nerves, it’s usually because they’re highlighting a quality I don’t like about myself.
* I’ve learned that if you talk more than you listen, people stop hearing what you have to say.
I’ve learned that we often let go of an opportunity, not because we’re afraid we might fail,
but because we’re afraid we might succeed. The status quo is a comforting thing.
This little gem came as a result of deliberately getting on the treadmill beside her in order to push myself, and even though I still fell behind the pack, I managed to do the 40 minutes leaving me completely exhausted but with one very important lesson: success isn't about being THE best, it's about being YOUR best. Go figure. And furthemore, if you want to be your best, stand with the best. That's why I run with the girls I do. (And because they let me.)
So on that note, I thought I'd share a few other life lessons I've learned along the way. I had originally presented this back in 2001 at a staff retreat and had completely forgotten about it until a colleague recently sent it to me. (Please note that anything with an "*" isn't an original and in most cases I don't know the author, but I've included it because I agree!)
Feel free to add your own life lessons in the comment section...
I’ve learned…
I’ve learned that learning and living mean the same thing.
I’ve learned you cannot put a price on contentment.
I’ve learned that you’re never too old to set a new goal; even if you think there’s no possible physical way you can achieve it.
*I’ve learned that making a living is not the same thing as making a life.
* I’ve learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the way they handle three things: A rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights. (Unknown)
I’ve learned that a good opportunity is not necessarily the right opportunity.
I’ve learned that stress is relative.
I’ve learned a strong work ethic from my parents.
*I’ve learned that the harder you try and get ahead of someone else, the farther behind you fall.
I’ve learned that when someone gets on my nerves, it’s usually because they’re highlighting a quality I don’t like about myself.
* I’ve learned that if you talk more than you listen, people stop hearing what you have to say.
I’ve learned that we often let go of an opportunity, not because we’re afraid we might fail,
but because we’re afraid we might succeed. The status quo is a comforting thing.
I've learned that fear is the root of our anger and that our ego is the root of our fear.
I’ve learned that you can grow leaps and bounds when you feel the fear and do it anyway.
I’ve learned that if you’re the kind of person who likes to gossip,
you can always come sit by me. :)
I’ve learned that I would rather live in a small home than a big house.
*I’ve learned that being happy or unhappy starts with the realization that it’s a choice, and then making it everyday.
*I’ve learned that if you blame others for your own unhappiness, you will always be unhappy.
I’ve learned that people who choose to live their life as a victim have not figured out that the past does not determine the future.
I’ve learned that you can go a year without watching a soap and still know what’s happening.
I've learned that sarcasm is a cowardly way to make a point.
* I’ve learned that “why me” is not an acceptable question and should be replaced with “what’s next.” (Oprah)
I’ve learned that I have no tolerance for people who abuse three things: waiters, animals and nice shoes.
I’ve learned that sometimes you need to let go and trust that the current will take you to where you need to be. Has a current ever taken a river anywhere but toward the ocean?
I’ve learned that if you stop trying to find the answer, it will usually come to you. I’ve learned that when you stop needing something, you will usually get it and I’ve learned that when you stop looking for something, you will usually find it.
I’ve learned that it’s been in the hardest times that I have learned the most profound lessons.
I’ve learned that although you may not always get what you want, you usually get what you need.
I’ve learned that tequila does not mix well with beer, wine and guacamole. Definitely learned that one the hard way.
I’ve learned that I don’t understand people who instinctively always put their own convenience before that of another. I’ve also learned that it would probably do me good to do just that more often.
* I’ve learned that your life is an accurate reflection of how much you give.
*I’ve learned that whenever you decide something with an open heart, you usually make the right decision.
* I’ve learned that doing the right things is often more important than doing things right.
I’ve learned that it’s impossible to stay out of the Cadbury chocolate drawer at work.
* I’ve learned that life is not about what happens to you but how you handle what happens to you.
I’ve learned that those who maintain their grace and composure in times of adversity are the truest leaders.
I’ve learned that although you can’t judge a book by its cover, it’s usually enough to pull off a C on a book report.
* I’ve learned that in life no one is perfect and that nobody would invite you to dinner if you were anyway.
I’ve learned that the tone of your voice determines what others hear…not your words.
I’ve learned that your behaviour is how you want others to know you.
People can only believe what you show them. (Oprah)
I’ve learned that just because something is interesting and important to me does not mean that it’s interesting and important to someone else.
*I’ve learned that if you pursue happiness, it will elude you. But if you focus on your family, your friends, the needs of others, your work and doing the very best you can, happiness will find you.
I’ve learned that just because I know these things does not mean I deliver on them. But I’ve also learned that life is about the effort, not necessarily the result.
And if you need proof, take up running.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Remembering Vimy
August 1998.
We found ourselves without much to say as we waited for the train back to Paris. Our day had left us reflective, humbled, by our visit to Vimy Ridge.
Looking over my shoulder I took note of the small statue that stood in the center of town.
"What’s that?” I inquired.
“The statue? I noticed that too. The plaque said it was built as a dedication to the civilians who were injured or killed in the first world war.”
"I didn’t even notice it when we arrived. Why is it so chipped?”
"Those are bullet holes from when the area was reoccupied in the Second World War.”
As the train pulled away from the station, I tried to imagine how different this charming, french-countryside village would have been as the unwitting host of not one, but two invasions. It was difficult to picture anything other than the cooling pastries and warm faces that romanced us upon our arrival. But the reality of this entire region is a painful one still evident in the visible scars from two world wars, a constant reminder of both the horror, and grace, of mankind.
We awoke that morning at 4am full of anticipation to catch the train from Paris to Arras. Our destination was a small village on the outskirts of the Vimy Ridge Memorial - the site of the infamous World War I battle that took the lives of 3600 of the 100,000(1) Canadian soldiers whose triumphant sweep freed the hill from the relentless German hold.
We left Paris for the day to find the grave of my great great Uncle Hiram Stevenson of whom I had long heard the story of how his shady ways eventually caught up with him. From what I recall, the story goes that he left Chipman, NB in the early 1900’s to head West, where he later struck it rich in the goldmines.
Just as Hiram was staking his claim, he got into a brawl at a local watering hole. After the dust settled and he stood in front of the judge, he was given a choice - go to jail or go to war. He chose the latter becoming one of the oldest serving soldiers at Vimy Ridge at age 41.
Sadly, Hiram never returned to Canadian soil and now, 81 years later, we were on a mission to bring him greetings from home. Before leaving Halifax we found the details of his gravesite on the Veterans Affairs Canada website. Thelus Military Cemetery was where we would find him, 1km from Vimy Ridge.
The village was still sleepy when the train pulled up to the open-air station. The sun was just breaking from behind the clock tower casting cool, long shadows across the centre square. The early hour made our cobblestone footsteps particularly loud so with quiet care we followed our noses to freshly baked croissants. After washing two down with a leisurely cup of coffee, it was finally time to begin our adventure. I felt excited and anxious.
Entering the car rental office I greeted the gentleman standing behind the counter with my rusty French.
"Ah…you are Canadian, no?” he confirmed with a statement rather than a question.
"Oui. Yes. Nous sommes ici de trouver mon oncle. I have a relative buried at Vimy Ridge so we’re going to find his gravesite and then visit the memorial."
A large smile warmed his face. He came out from behind the counter to shake our hands.
"Bienvenue mes amis.” Welcome my friends, he said with a genuine grin.
Walking to the car I remarked on the enthusiastic greeting we had received. “It was almost as if he was expecting us.”
Perhaps he was.
And so we were off albeit naively as we soon realized this wasn’t going to be a simple task. Despite being just a few minutes from Vimy Ridge, we became disoriented by the number of war cemeteries outside Arras. At every turn, thousands of white markers stood at attention in perfect rows. Ornate gates and impeccable greenery welcomed visitors wishing to pay their respects.
After an hour of going around in circles, countless wrong turns and an unsuccessful discussion with two officers who didn’t speak English, we had started to lose hope.
“We must have passed it," I sighed heavily. "Are you sure we’re even going in the right direction? Maybe we should go back and ask again. Actually, never mind, maybe it’s not even here. Let’s just go to the…”
“Wait…there it is!” Richard exlaimed.
“Where?”
“In the field, on the left!”
Pulling the car to the side of the road, I spied the sign that pointed to 6 large maple trees surrounded by imaculately manicured hedges. Nestled far back in a cornfield, the Thelus Military Cemetery was significantly smaller than all the other sites we had seen. But there it sat, quiet, modest, without the need for any pomp or circumstance.
There it sat, so typically Canadian.
We jumped out of the car and for whatever reason, we both felt compelled to run through the field, possibly the pull of the proverbial needle in the haystack. Despite my haste I noticed two workers mowing the corn stalks who, when they saw us, turned off the machinery and got inside the white van parked just outside the entrance - perhaps a small gesture of respect for two familiar strangers.
Bursting through the entrance we immediately started searching and despite having the exact location of his plot, we couldn’t find it. My heart sank.
“But I don’t understand!” Panic raised in my voice as seconds passed. "Where is it? How can it not be here?"
My frantic search was finally broken by Richard's voice.
“Tammy."
I turned quickly to find him standing perfectly still on the other side of the cemetery.
"He's here. Hiram is right here,” he said softly.
I stared at him, unable to move.
“Come here,” he encouraged extending his hand in my direction.
Approaching the grave I was unexpectedly overwhelmed with emotion. Tears filled my eyes as I saw my own name come into focus. Bending down on one knee I traced the etched letters with my finger.
Stevenson.
I read the inscription out loud.
Private H. A. Stevenson
2nd Canadian Mounted Rifles
April 19, 1917
I felt Richard's hand on my shoulder. “I’ll give you a few moments alone."
Resting on both knees to take a closer look I was struck by the moment. I knew nothing of this man other than a bit of folklore but as I sat there in the middle of a cornfield, in a land far removed from all things familiar, I felt incredibly close to home.
After a few reflective moments, I pulled an envelope from my pocket. In it were petals from the lilac bush that grew on the original Stevenson homestead, Hiram's home 100 years prior. Still fragrant, I sprinkled them on the smooth, white stone. Wishing to complete the circle, I cradled a maple leaf in my hands that had fallen next to his marker.
Richard rejoined me to pay our final respects. We finished our visit by reading the names of the other 300 Canadian soldiers who had also been laid to rest in the Thelus Military Cemetery.
Passing through the cemetery gates I paused to look back. I couldn't have imagined how touched I would be by this experience. There was so much I felt should be said, but I chose just two words to express my feelings.
“Thank you.” I whispered.
We spent the remainder of the afternoon visiting the Vimy Ridge Memorial. There are no words to describe the realization that Mother Nature didn't have any part in carving out the lush rolling landscape and grassy knolls.
Standing in the stone-lined trenches you try to imagine how the meager bunkers provided shelter from not only the cold, driving Easter rain but from the driving bullets that rained down on the cold, young men.
As you move deeper into the Park, you are immediately silenced by the grandeur and ominous presence of the 150 foot limestone Monument. Completed in 1936, it took eleven years to build and stands as a testament to the nearly 66,000 Canadian soldiers who paid the ultimate sacrifice in World War I.
During World War II when the Germans reoccupied the area, it is said that Hitler ordered the monument remain untouched. Perhaps even he could revere its beauty and appreciate the courage of the soldiers for whom it was erected.
As the sun sat lower in the sky, we reluctantly knew it was time to leave.
During the train ride back to Paris I reflected on our day and how it ended in such contrast to how it began. Our excitement had been replaced by solemn respect and humility. I felt ashamed of how little I knew about this place, about this formative part of Canadian history.
A week later, we were back in Chipman happily reminiscing about our trip with mom and dad and Les and Judy. We enjoyed the opportunity to relive our Parisian experiences but even when all the memories were shared, there was still one important task to be done.
“Grampa, I want to show you something.”
I greeted him with a kiss on the cheek, his skin smelled of Old Spice. I pulled up a chair to sit close to him. The September sun warmed the porch as it poured through the windows. He set the geranium on the freezer and used his hand to remove stray blooms off the small table so I could lay out my pictures of Vimy Ridge.
Wiping the red dust on his pants he checked to make sure his hands were clean. He sat down and began to examine the photographs, one by one.
I told him of our train ride from Paris and our misadventures finding the cemetery. I described the monument and how Richard had found a piece of shrapnel in the cornfield. He smiled when I told him that the cadette on duty in the information booth had grown up on the same street as we had. "It's a small world indeed," he chuckled.
Watching him linger over pictures of the gravesite, I sensed his comfort in knowing that his uncle was resting in such a beautiful place. Although he didn't say it, I imagine he had the same hope for his brother Charlie who died in Sicily while serving in World War II.
“Oh, I almost forgot Grampa.” Offering the maple leaf I suggested we take it back to the old homestead on the Stevenson road.
Without pause, he replied “No. I know where that belongs. Can you drive?”
His response was so quick and abrupt I thought perhaps I had offended him. I was a little confused but did as he asked. Turning down the road, he didn’t really say anything other than give directions to head toward town.
“Just pull in here."
I parked the car in the United cemetery by Stewart MacLeod Park. Helping him out of the car, he took my arm and guided me to a modest, black granite stone.
“This is where it should go," he said quietly.
Moving in closer, I read the inscription:
John Stevenson, 1833 - 1906
His wife Esther, 1843-1918
And as I read the words below their names, I understood why we were there. Blinking away the tears I continued aloud:
Pte Hiram A. Stevenson
Killed at Vimy Ridge
April 19, 1917
Age 41 years
Helping him kneel down in front of the gravesite of Hiram's parents, I watched his frail fingers dig a little hole into which he motioned me to place the leaf. Gently covering it over, he looked up at me with a knowing smile. “They will appreciate that,” he said. "Thank you."
Many say that Canada came of age as a country on that fateful Easter Monday, 1917. Infact Vimy has been described as the site of our country's first true Canadian moment. I could have never anticipated at the beginning of our day, over 8 decades later, it would also be mine.
As so many Canadians, I am deeply proud that I have relatives who served in World War I and World War II, both from my Father's and Mother's side. They, like all others who have and are serving, deserve our eternal respect and gratitude.
Here are a few photos and websites of interest.
Thelus Military Cemetery (note the white van):
In front of Hiram's grave.
The Letter of Attestation signed by Hiram when he joined the military in 1916. You can see his signature on the bottom right.
Websites to visit:
(1) http://www.veterans.gc.ca/eng/remembrance/history/first-world-war/fact_sheets/vimy
CBC: Vimy Ridge Remembered
Vimy Ridge Memorial
Thelus Military Cemetery
We found ourselves without much to say as we waited for the train back to Paris. Our day had left us reflective, humbled, by our visit to Vimy Ridge.
Looking over my shoulder I took note of the small statue that stood in the center of town.
"What’s that?” I inquired.
“The statue? I noticed that too. The plaque said it was built as a dedication to the civilians who were injured or killed in the first world war.”
"I didn’t even notice it when we arrived. Why is it so chipped?”
"Those are bullet holes from when the area was reoccupied in the Second World War.”
As the train pulled away from the station, I tried to imagine how different this charming, french-countryside village would have been as the unwitting host of not one, but two invasions. It was difficult to picture anything other than the cooling pastries and warm faces that romanced us upon our arrival. But the reality of this entire region is a painful one still evident in the visible scars from two world wars, a constant reminder of both the horror, and grace, of mankind.
We awoke that morning at 4am full of anticipation to catch the train from Paris to Arras. Our destination was a small village on the outskirts of the Vimy Ridge Memorial - the site of the infamous World War I battle that took the lives of 3600 of the 100,000(1) Canadian soldiers whose triumphant sweep freed the hill from the relentless German hold.
We left Paris for the day to find the grave of my great great Uncle Hiram Stevenson of whom I had long heard the story of how his shady ways eventually caught up with him. From what I recall, the story goes that he left Chipman, NB in the early 1900’s to head West, where he later struck it rich in the goldmines.
Just as Hiram was staking his claim, he got into a brawl at a local watering hole. After the dust settled and he stood in front of the judge, he was given a choice - go to jail or go to war. He chose the latter becoming one of the oldest serving soldiers at Vimy Ridge at age 41.
Sadly, Hiram never returned to Canadian soil and now, 81 years later, we were on a mission to bring him greetings from home. Before leaving Halifax we found the details of his gravesite on the Veterans Affairs Canada website. Thelus Military Cemetery was where we would find him, 1km from Vimy Ridge.
The village was still sleepy when the train pulled up to the open-air station. The sun was just breaking from behind the clock tower casting cool, long shadows across the centre square. The early hour made our cobblestone footsteps particularly loud so with quiet care we followed our noses to freshly baked croissants. After washing two down with a leisurely cup of coffee, it was finally time to begin our adventure. I felt excited and anxious.
Entering the car rental office I greeted the gentleman standing behind the counter with my rusty French.
"Ah…you are Canadian, no?” he confirmed with a statement rather than a question.
"Oui. Yes. Nous sommes ici de trouver mon oncle. I have a relative buried at Vimy Ridge so we’re going to find his gravesite and then visit the memorial."
A large smile warmed his face. He came out from behind the counter to shake our hands.
"Bienvenue mes amis.” Welcome my friends, he said with a genuine grin.
Walking to the car I remarked on the enthusiastic greeting we had received. “It was almost as if he was expecting us.”
Perhaps he was.
And so we were off albeit naively as we soon realized this wasn’t going to be a simple task. Despite being just a few minutes from Vimy Ridge, we became disoriented by the number of war cemeteries outside Arras. At every turn, thousands of white markers stood at attention in perfect rows. Ornate gates and impeccable greenery welcomed visitors wishing to pay their respects.
After an hour of going around in circles, countless wrong turns and an unsuccessful discussion with two officers who didn’t speak English, we had started to lose hope.
“We must have passed it," I sighed heavily. "Are you sure we’re even going in the right direction? Maybe we should go back and ask again. Actually, never mind, maybe it’s not even here. Let’s just go to the…”
“Wait…there it is!” Richard exlaimed.
“Where?”
“In the field, on the left!”
Pulling the car to the side of the road, I spied the sign that pointed to 6 large maple trees surrounded by imaculately manicured hedges. Nestled far back in a cornfield, the Thelus Military Cemetery was significantly smaller than all the other sites we had seen. But there it sat, quiet, modest, without the need for any pomp or circumstance.
There it sat, so typically Canadian.
We jumped out of the car and for whatever reason, we both felt compelled to run through the field, possibly the pull of the proverbial needle in the haystack. Despite my haste I noticed two workers mowing the corn stalks who, when they saw us, turned off the machinery and got inside the white van parked just outside the entrance - perhaps a small gesture of respect for two familiar strangers.
Bursting through the entrance we immediately started searching and despite having the exact location of his plot, we couldn’t find it. My heart sank.
“But I don’t understand!” Panic raised in my voice as seconds passed. "Where is it? How can it not be here?"
My frantic search was finally broken by Richard's voice.
“Tammy."
I turned quickly to find him standing perfectly still on the other side of the cemetery.
"He's here. Hiram is right here,” he said softly.
I stared at him, unable to move.
“Come here,” he encouraged extending his hand in my direction.
Approaching the grave I was unexpectedly overwhelmed with emotion. Tears filled my eyes as I saw my own name come into focus. Bending down on one knee I traced the etched letters with my finger.
Stevenson.
I read the inscription out loud.
Private H. A. Stevenson
2nd Canadian Mounted Rifles
April 19, 1917
I felt Richard's hand on my shoulder. “I’ll give you a few moments alone."
Resting on both knees to take a closer look I was struck by the moment. I knew nothing of this man other than a bit of folklore but as I sat there in the middle of a cornfield, in a land far removed from all things familiar, I felt incredibly close to home.
After a few reflective moments, I pulled an envelope from my pocket. In it were petals from the lilac bush that grew on the original Stevenson homestead, Hiram's home 100 years prior. Still fragrant, I sprinkled them on the smooth, white stone. Wishing to complete the circle, I cradled a maple leaf in my hands that had fallen next to his marker.
Richard rejoined me to pay our final respects. We finished our visit by reading the names of the other 300 Canadian soldiers who had also been laid to rest in the Thelus Military Cemetery.
Passing through the cemetery gates I paused to look back. I couldn't have imagined how touched I would be by this experience. There was so much I felt should be said, but I chose just two words to express my feelings.
“Thank you.” I whispered.
We spent the remainder of the afternoon visiting the Vimy Ridge Memorial. There are no words to describe the realization that Mother Nature didn't have any part in carving out the lush rolling landscape and grassy knolls.
Standing in the stone-lined trenches you try to imagine how the meager bunkers provided shelter from not only the cold, driving Easter rain but from the driving bullets that rained down on the cold, young men.
As you move deeper into the Park, you are immediately silenced by the grandeur and ominous presence of the 150 foot limestone Monument. Completed in 1936, it took eleven years to build and stands as a testament to the nearly 66,000 Canadian soldiers who paid the ultimate sacrifice in World War I.
During World War II when the Germans reoccupied the area, it is said that Hitler ordered the monument remain untouched. Perhaps even he could revere its beauty and appreciate the courage of the soldiers for whom it was erected.
As the sun sat lower in the sky, we reluctantly knew it was time to leave.
During the train ride back to Paris I reflected on our day and how it ended in such contrast to how it began. Our excitement had been replaced by solemn respect and humility. I felt ashamed of how little I knew about this place, about this formative part of Canadian history.
A week later, we were back in Chipman happily reminiscing about our trip with mom and dad and Les and Judy. We enjoyed the opportunity to relive our Parisian experiences but even when all the memories were shared, there was still one important task to be done.
“Grampa, I want to show you something.”
I greeted him with a kiss on the cheek, his skin smelled of Old Spice. I pulled up a chair to sit close to him. The September sun warmed the porch as it poured through the windows. He set the geranium on the freezer and used his hand to remove stray blooms off the small table so I could lay out my pictures of Vimy Ridge.
Wiping the red dust on his pants he checked to make sure his hands were clean. He sat down and began to examine the photographs, one by one.
I told him of our train ride from Paris and our misadventures finding the cemetery. I described the monument and how Richard had found a piece of shrapnel in the cornfield. He smiled when I told him that the cadette on duty in the information booth had grown up on the same street as we had. "It's a small world indeed," he chuckled.
Watching him linger over pictures of the gravesite, I sensed his comfort in knowing that his uncle was resting in such a beautiful place. Although he didn't say it, I imagine he had the same hope for his brother Charlie who died in Sicily while serving in World War II.
“Oh, I almost forgot Grampa.” Offering the maple leaf I suggested we take it back to the old homestead on the Stevenson road.
Without pause, he replied “No. I know where that belongs. Can you drive?”
His response was so quick and abrupt I thought perhaps I had offended him. I was a little confused but did as he asked. Turning down the road, he didn’t really say anything other than give directions to head toward town.
“Just pull in here."
I parked the car in the United cemetery by Stewart MacLeod Park. Helping him out of the car, he took my arm and guided me to a modest, black granite stone.
“This is where it should go," he said quietly.
Moving in closer, I read the inscription:
John Stevenson, 1833 - 1906
His wife Esther, 1843-1918
And as I read the words below their names, I understood why we were there. Blinking away the tears I continued aloud:
Pte Hiram A. Stevenson
Killed at Vimy Ridge
April 19, 1917
Age 41 years
Helping him kneel down in front of the gravesite of Hiram's parents, I watched his frail fingers dig a little hole into which he motioned me to place the leaf. Gently covering it over, he looked up at me with a knowing smile. “They will appreciate that,” he said. "Thank you."
Many say that Canada came of age as a country on that fateful Easter Monday, 1917. Infact Vimy has been described as the site of our country's first true Canadian moment. I could have never anticipated at the beginning of our day, over 8 decades later, it would also be mine.
As so many Canadians, I am deeply proud that I have relatives who served in World War I and World War II, both from my Father's and Mother's side. They, like all others who have and are serving, deserve our eternal respect and gratitude.
Here are a few photos and websites of interest.
Thelus Military Cemetery (note the white van):
In front of Hiram's grave.
The Letter of Attestation signed by Hiram when he joined the military in 1916. You can see his signature on the bottom right.
Websites to visit:
(1) http://www.veterans.gc.ca/eng/remembrance/history/first-world-war/fact_sheets/vimy
CBC: Vimy Ridge Remembered
Vimy Ridge Memorial
Thelus Military Cemetery
Monday, November 3, 2008
Have you hugged your kitchen today?
Well, if you haven't you should! I never realized how much I took my kitchen for granted until I didn't have one for five, very long weeks. It's been an interesting journey to say the least but finally, FINALLY it's all back together, new and improved!
To refresh your memory, here is the before:
(Click here as a reminder of how it got like this)
and as of today, here is the after... TA DA!!!
So, allow me to share my learnings from this little experience:
1. Plumbers are our friends. Water dripping through your floor is not.
2. Your house insurance covers stupidity.
3. Depsite what Home Depot may say, there IS a limit to what "you can do." Become intimate with those limits.
4. When you're installing anything yourself and you say: "Hmmm...I should probably go buy a new dooflicky thingy because this one is worn out," DO IT!!!! Ignore the voice that says: "Nah, it's good enough."
5. You can have guests stay the weekend even when your house is a wreck. People who love you don't really care about how your house looks; they only care about how you are doing.
6. I no longer like Hawaiian pizza. Or pepperoni.
7. We do adjust to our surroundings. After cleaning on the weekend I actually thought the house looked presentable despite the entire kitchen being crammed into the dining room.
8. The bump on my head from hitting the dining room light fixture EIGHT TIMES A DAY is probably permanent.
9. And finally, despite what we see on Mike Holmes, there are good contractors out there. I have a renewed sense of faith that there are tradesmen who still take pride in their work and do their best for complete strangers. The people that worked on the kitchen, from the Insurance company, to the water damage specialists, to the tiler and to the carpenters, were all phenomenal. And I am so very grateful.
So now, if you will excuse me, I'm going to sit in the middle of the kitchen. Because I can. Feel free to join me. :)
To refresh your memory, here is the before:
(Click here as a reminder of how it got like this)
and as of today, here is the after... TA DA!!!
So, allow me to share my learnings from this little experience:
1. Plumbers are our friends. Water dripping through your floor is not.
2. Your house insurance covers stupidity.
3. Depsite what Home Depot may say, there IS a limit to what "you can do." Become intimate with those limits.
4. When you're installing anything yourself and you say: "Hmmm...I should probably go buy a new dooflicky thingy because this one is worn out," DO IT!!!! Ignore the voice that says: "Nah, it's good enough."
5. You can have guests stay the weekend even when your house is a wreck. People who love you don't really care about how your house looks; they only care about how you are doing.
6. I no longer like Hawaiian pizza. Or pepperoni.
7. We do adjust to our surroundings. After cleaning on the weekend I actually thought the house looked presentable despite the entire kitchen being crammed into the dining room.
8. The bump on my head from hitting the dining room light fixture EIGHT TIMES A DAY is probably permanent.
9. And finally, despite what we see on Mike Holmes, there are good contractors out there. I have a renewed sense of faith that there are tradesmen who still take pride in their work and do their best for complete strangers. The people that worked on the kitchen, from the Insurance company, to the water damage specialists, to the tiler and to the carpenters, were all phenomenal. And I am so very grateful.
So now, if you will excuse me, I'm going to sit in the middle of the kitchen. Because I can. Feel free to join me. :)
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Gettin' sick of pizza.
Leaky Diswasher Update: week 4 and still waiting for the new floor to go in. The water damage was extensive enough to get the insurance company involved who determined that the entire subfloor had to be removed and replaced with a new one. The good news is the tiler is coming tomorrow.
Nothing like having your entire kitchen crammed into the dining room.
When this is all done and the kitchen is back together, I'm going to make the biggest, yummiest, chicken dinner with all the fixins.
What?!? It could happen.
Nothing like having your entire kitchen crammed into the dining room.
When this is all done and the kitchen is back together, I'm going to make the biggest, yummiest, chicken dinner with all the fixins.
What?!? It could happen.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Bonjour.
They just followed me home. Honest!
Ok Ok, maybe it didn't happen quite like that but it did start innocently enough.
It all began during a girls' weekend in Moncton when we stopped by Winners. A quick look-see for winter boots turned into an unexpected encounter. In fact, it was one of those magical moments; upon first sight, I just knew it was something special.
Observing their shiny finish from a safe, emotionally-detached distance I couldn't help but admire their pretty posture despite the Saturday afternoon chaos that could be caused only by careless, haphazard females rumaging for a good buy. An array of mismatched sneakers and toppled Hushpuppies seemed to gather around as if to protect them from the mayhem that ensued. Apparently, they too appreciated their beauty.
Moving slowly as not to draw unwanted attention to these little gems, I plucked them gently from their shelf to take a closer look. Hmmm...my size. My heart skipped a beat. I cradled them in my arm. A little cuddle couldn't hurt could it?
Twenty minutes later, after searching through the rest of the offerings, I stood with two choices: practical, 3/4 length brown leather winter boots or completely unecessary, 3 inch black-patent, peep-toe Mary Janes. Faced with the age-old dilema of need vs want, I knew immediately who could help me out. Peeking up over the miles of racks, I spied her; her curly blond pigtails showed the way to enlightenment. Walking swiftly through the aisles of skirts, blouses and coats, I made my way to the one person who could make sense of it all. As demonstraded below, my cousin's adorable 21-month-old is a shoe officianado with impeccable taste.
I presented her with my dilema hoping secretly that she would choose the winter boots. I held my breath as she observed my well-selected bounty. And then, with a coy little smile, she endorsed the Mary-Janes as the clear winner. My heart sank; the boots I could justify, the shoes, not so much. I thanked her for her insight and wandered off somewhat bewildered by my pending decision. I could buy both I suppose but I didn't need both. I needed boots.
So I left with the boots.
Back in Halifax, I tried on my practical purchase again before putting them away to await the onset of winter. Slipping my foot in, they felt a bit odd. What was this? Did I get the wrong size? No, but they were definitely too big. How come I didn't notice that on Saturday?
Huhn.
I guess I would just have to return the boots, an easy task considering I was already scheduled to make a quick day-trip to Moncton later that same week.
Thanking the cashier, I tucked the return receipt into my wallet. As I turned to leave, I paused for but a moment. What could it hurt I thought? I would just be saying hello; they're probably not even there.
But they were. There they sat, still waiting, patiently, to be loved.
I approached cautiously; they still didn't seem practical nor reasonable. But you know, sometimes in life, you just have to give in to the impractical and the unreasonable. So I did. We left the store giggling and excited to start our new journey together and now they sit, displayed on my kitchen stool. I'll put them away soon but for now I just want to admire them, content in a way that only a woman could appreciate.
Men will never understand the relationship between a girl and her shoes, but that's ok; we don't really get their love affair with the automotive section at Canadian Tire.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Oh dear.
Looks like a new kitchen floor just got moved to the top
of the to-renovate list. This unexpected project is brought to you by
"my leaky dishwasher."
Incase it isn't clear in the photo, that greyish-white lump is (or rather) was my flooring, newly installed three years ago.
of the to-renovate list. This unexpected project is brought to you by
"my leaky dishwasher."
Incase it isn't clear in the photo, that greyish-white lump is (or rather) was my flooring, newly installed three years ago.
Smell-o-Vision
Friday, September 12, 2008
A "McReno" Update
Behold the hideousness that has been my basement for the last three years and to answer the obvious question: "NO I did not do this!!"
For those who have not had the jaw-dropping, lip-curling experience of witnessing this in person, or for those who may look at this and think "Hey, that colour ain't so bad," what you can't really appreciate from the photo is how the otherwise ok terracotta walls are accented by blood-red ceilings, yellow trim and the now-removed crown moulding made out of dark brown baseboards. Apparently, the previous owners felt that painting the entire basement in this array of couleurs would help sell their house. Ironically, it didn't deter me from buying it; if anything it made me want to reach out and save it...in a "Brangelina" kind of way.
New tile...
But don't let it's shiny new look woo you; the McDaddy of the McBasement is still hiding around the corner awaiting its makeover...
For those who have not had the jaw-dropping, lip-curling experience of witnessing this in person, or for those who may look at this and think "Hey, that colour ain't so bad," what you can't really appreciate from the photo is how the otherwise ok terracotta walls are accented by blood-red ceilings, yellow trim and the now-removed crown moulding made out of dark brown baseboards. Apparently, the previous owners felt that painting the entire basement in this array of couleurs would help sell their house. Ironically, it didn't deter me from buying it; if anything it made me want to reach out and save it...in a "Brangelina" kind of way.
So for SVW, who not only coined the term the "McBasement" but also made a public request on her blog to see an update on the McReno, here it is. Despite it still requiring a few finishing touches, like doors for the laundry area and a berber runner for the stairs, you'll get the jist.
New paint...
New doors…
New tile...
But don't let it's shiny new look woo you; the McDaddy of the McBasement is still hiding around the corner awaiting its makeover...
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Fall down go boom.
Well, not literally. Just mentally.
As a running check-point, this morning really tested my spirit as much as my hamstrings. It almost broke me gosh darn it. But thanks to Susan and Lisa who, as usual, sacrificed their pace for mine, I managed to dig deep and get ‘er done. But it wasn’t pretty.
In yoga, they say that falling out of a pose is a sign of progress. I sure hope that also applies to running.
sigh….
As a running check-point, this morning really tested my spirit as much as my hamstrings. It almost broke me gosh darn it. But thanks to Susan and Lisa who, as usual, sacrificed their pace for mine, I managed to dig deep and get ‘er done. But it wasn’t pretty.
In yoga, they say that falling out of a pose is a sign of progress. I sure hope that also applies to running.
sigh….
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Summer Bounty
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Running Progress Check-Point
August 13 - 6.44 km (actually it's probably more like 6.4 km because I cut through a parking lot when Queen Bee wasn't looking...)
At about the 4km mark, the conversation with Susan went something like this:
"Tammy, are you cursing me yet back there?"
"Nope! If I could teach myself everything I needed to know about running, I wouldn't need to be here."
Back at the gym I was feeling pretty good about the run and then as Susan was leaving she leaned in and said:
"We won't go as far tomorrow."
Oh yay!
"But we will go faster."
Ask me the question again.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Fiona's Apple!
As a follow up to my post "Apple Blossoms in Wilmot Park" (May),
look at what I found this weekend on Fiona!
look at what I found this weekend on Fiona!
Friday, July 25, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Saturday, July 12, 2008
A Toolbelt Moment...Before and After
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
A "Someday" Intervention
I did it. I ran with the big girls - meaning that elite group of gym goers who run marathons as a form of entertainment. I’ve watched them with envy for the last couple of years as they meet twice a week at the front desk to go running before they actually do their work out. When they return 30 minutes later laughing under the veil of that elusive runner’s high, I’ve always wondered if someday, I might be able to go too.
But that’s the thing about “someday.” We all know darn well that it rarely ever comes. It’s a word we use far too carlessly to describe what we would like to do or have, but never requires any type of committment to actually get it done. It just buys us another day of not making the changes we know need to be made in order to get there. So...despite wanting to make the change, I knew deep down that that unless there were ever some kind of major intervention, I will probably always be just a "someday" runner.
Well, without any kind of warning that “major intervention” came on Tuesday morning. It arrived in the form of a slightly intimidating and definitely unexpected conversation with the Queen Bee herself, the leader of the morning running pack, the woman who entertains us in the locker room with her stories of running marathons throughout Canada and the United States.
As I was leaving the gym that fateful day, she stopped me and said “You should come running with us tomorrow morning. We leave at 6:30am; Lisa tells me you’re doing really well.” After instinctively looking around to see to whom else she might be speaking, I slowly found my words and replied, “Ah thanks…but no. I still have some serious work to do before I can run with you guys. Maybe someday though.”
And there it was - a look of recognition from her that told me that at some point in her life she too had hung her hat, or in this case her sneakers, on “someday.” After a brief pause, she looked at me and said in a polite but firm tone: “No really. You should come. You’re more ready than you think.” I again thanked her for the invitation but suggested quite strongly that although I would consider it, she should leave without me if I wasn’t there in the morning.
Turning to walk away, I had a flashback of being in grade nine when for the first time ever, the “cool girls” decided to talk to me one day out of the blue. I can still remember my shock and awe when, for whatever reason, their Queen Bee took note of my otherwise invisible existence and offered me a rare but highly coveted invitation into their inner sanctum. (An invitation coincidentally that was revoked about a week later when they realized I just wasn't up to par. That's ok though.)
I got into my car reflecting on the odd conversation that had just transpired. The voice inside my head was giggling at the absurdity of joining their inner sanctum so ahead of schedule; talk about not being up to par. But as the day wore on, the internal critic uncharacteristically subsided and was replaced by what Queen Bee had said to me and by 4pm I had resolved to go. What’s the worst that could happen? I vomit? I fall down? Highly unlikely. The worst would probably be that I’d have to bow out gracefully and walk back to homebase, humbled but completely not surprised. Content to try it again, someday.
After a sleepless night, I arrived at the gym at 6:15am. Approaching the front desk I seriously considered just walking right on by but when Queen Bee came around the corner there was no escape. She gave me a big smile and said she was glad I decided to come out. And then she said something that will forever change my perception of her: “I should warn you; I’m a bit out of sorts today so I hope I don’t disappoint you.” Pardon? Disappoint me? What? The woman who uses the adjective “only” in front of 5K as in “we’ll only do 5K” was actually concerned about making a bad impression on me? Looking back at her she actually seemed human to me for the first time in two years. It had never occurred to me until now that maybe she hadn’t always been a runner, but rather someone who had always wanted to be one. I wondered what her “someday intervention” had been.
A few seconds later we met Lisa outside and away we went. 5K. Run 10 minutes, walk 1 minute. Gasp. Susan, aka Queen Bee led the charge setting our pace. She said a few technical things to us that I really have no idea what it meant, but as we turned out of the parking lot, I tucked myself neatly behind her and Lisa to observe their style, follow their pace, watch their arms. I didn’t say much; I just wanted to focus. I knew this could get ugly real quick.
Along the way, Susan and Lisa chatted with great ease but regularly looked back to make sure I was doing ok. A thumbs up was about all I had to offer but before I knew it, we had done our first 10 minutes and were enjoying a glorious one minute walk. Then 8 minutes were run. Walked one. 9 minutes. Walked one, and suddenly as I was holding on for dear life, dragging my cement feet, Susan turned to me with a victorious smile and said “You did it! We’re done! We just walk from here to cool down.” High fives were handed out and honestly, if they had looked closely, they would have seen the tears in my eyes. I didn’t vomit. I didn’t fall down. I didn’t turn around and go back to the gym. I didn’t walk while they ran. I did it. I did 5K with the big girls.
While stretching outside the gym, I finally mustered up the courage to ask Susan when she started to run. Imagine my surprise when she responded: “I only started when I was 40. A friend of mine ran a marathon when she was 50 so it inspired me to give it a try; I had always wanted to do it. My first time out I barely made it to the end of my driveway! That was five years ago now.”
Let me try and put this into perspective for you. This woman has legs of steel and is in crazy shape; if I had been asked, I would have testified that she was in her early 30’s. And serving as a confirmation that it wasn’t just a fluke, there too stood Lisa in the body of a 22 year old despite turning the big 4-0 earlier this year.
I learned a lot today. The first lesson came at about the 3K mark. Anyone who knows me knows that I have not been happy about approaching the end of my 30’s; in fact I’ve been downright whiney about it. Since turning 37, I have been desperately looking for a sign that, despite what society seems to want us to believe, it's not all downhill after 40. And this morning, while I focused on Susan’s and Lisa’s killer calves, I got that sign loud and clear. If they are what our 40’s can be, then bring it on.
The second thing I learned is that I just might be able to do this, because I just did. Obviously I have a long way to go and a lot to learn before I can actually call myself a runner but today, on a foggy morning in Burnside, someday finally arrived.
I won’t ever know why Susan stopped me that day. Maybe she recognized herself in me and decided to stage a “someday intervention.” Whatever the reason, I’m just glad she did. My hamstrings on the otherhand...well, they still need some convincing.
But that’s the thing about “someday.” We all know darn well that it rarely ever comes. It’s a word we use far too carlessly to describe what we would like to do or have, but never requires any type of committment to actually get it done. It just buys us another day of not making the changes we know need to be made in order to get there. So...despite wanting to make the change, I knew deep down that that unless there were ever some kind of major intervention, I will probably always be just a "someday" runner.
Well, without any kind of warning that “major intervention” came on Tuesday morning. It arrived in the form of a slightly intimidating and definitely unexpected conversation with the Queen Bee herself, the leader of the morning running pack, the woman who entertains us in the locker room with her stories of running marathons throughout Canada and the United States.
As I was leaving the gym that fateful day, she stopped me and said “You should come running with us tomorrow morning. We leave at 6:30am; Lisa tells me you’re doing really well.” After instinctively looking around to see to whom else she might be speaking, I slowly found my words and replied, “Ah thanks…but no. I still have some serious work to do before I can run with you guys. Maybe someday though.”
And there it was - a look of recognition from her that told me that at some point in her life she too had hung her hat, or in this case her sneakers, on “someday.” After a brief pause, she looked at me and said in a polite but firm tone: “No really. You should come. You’re more ready than you think.” I again thanked her for the invitation but suggested quite strongly that although I would consider it, she should leave without me if I wasn’t there in the morning.
Turning to walk away, I had a flashback of being in grade nine when for the first time ever, the “cool girls” decided to talk to me one day out of the blue. I can still remember my shock and awe when, for whatever reason, their Queen Bee took note of my otherwise invisible existence and offered me a rare but highly coveted invitation into their inner sanctum. (An invitation coincidentally that was revoked about a week later when they realized I just wasn't up to par. That's ok though.)
I got into my car reflecting on the odd conversation that had just transpired. The voice inside my head was giggling at the absurdity of joining their inner sanctum so ahead of schedule; talk about not being up to par. But as the day wore on, the internal critic uncharacteristically subsided and was replaced by what Queen Bee had said to me and by 4pm I had resolved to go. What’s the worst that could happen? I vomit? I fall down? Highly unlikely. The worst would probably be that I’d have to bow out gracefully and walk back to homebase, humbled but completely not surprised. Content to try it again, someday.
After a sleepless night, I arrived at the gym at 6:15am. Approaching the front desk I seriously considered just walking right on by but when Queen Bee came around the corner there was no escape. She gave me a big smile and said she was glad I decided to come out. And then she said something that will forever change my perception of her: “I should warn you; I’m a bit out of sorts today so I hope I don’t disappoint you.” Pardon? Disappoint me? What? The woman who uses the adjective “only” in front of 5K as in “we’ll only do 5K” was actually concerned about making a bad impression on me? Looking back at her she actually seemed human to me for the first time in two years. It had never occurred to me until now that maybe she hadn’t always been a runner, but rather someone who had always wanted to be one. I wondered what her “someday intervention” had been.
A few seconds later we met Lisa outside and away we went. 5K. Run 10 minutes, walk 1 minute. Gasp. Susan, aka Queen Bee led the charge setting our pace. She said a few technical things to us that I really have no idea what it meant, but as we turned out of the parking lot, I tucked myself neatly behind her and Lisa to observe their style, follow their pace, watch their arms. I didn’t say much; I just wanted to focus. I knew this could get ugly real quick.
Along the way, Susan and Lisa chatted with great ease but regularly looked back to make sure I was doing ok. A thumbs up was about all I had to offer but before I knew it, we had done our first 10 minutes and were enjoying a glorious one minute walk. Then 8 minutes were run. Walked one. 9 minutes. Walked one, and suddenly as I was holding on for dear life, dragging my cement feet, Susan turned to me with a victorious smile and said “You did it! We’re done! We just walk from here to cool down.” High fives were handed out and honestly, if they had looked closely, they would have seen the tears in my eyes. I didn’t vomit. I didn’t fall down. I didn’t turn around and go back to the gym. I didn’t walk while they ran. I did it. I did 5K with the big girls.
While stretching outside the gym, I finally mustered up the courage to ask Susan when she started to run. Imagine my surprise when she responded: “I only started when I was 40. A friend of mine ran a marathon when she was 50 so it inspired me to give it a try; I had always wanted to do it. My first time out I barely made it to the end of my driveway! That was five years ago now.”
Let me try and put this into perspective for you. This woman has legs of steel and is in crazy shape; if I had been asked, I would have testified that she was in her early 30’s. And serving as a confirmation that it wasn’t just a fluke, there too stood Lisa in the body of a 22 year old despite turning the big 4-0 earlier this year.
I learned a lot today. The first lesson came at about the 3K mark. Anyone who knows me knows that I have not been happy about approaching the end of my 30’s; in fact I’ve been downright whiney about it. Since turning 37, I have been desperately looking for a sign that, despite what society seems to want us to believe, it's not all downhill after 40. And this morning, while I focused on Susan’s and Lisa’s killer calves, I got that sign loud and clear. If they are what our 40’s can be, then bring it on.
The second thing I learned is that I just might be able to do this, because I just did. Obviously I have a long way to go and a lot to learn before I can actually call myself a runner but today, on a foggy morning in Burnside, someday finally arrived.
I won’t ever know why Susan stopped me that day. Maybe she recognized herself in me and decided to stage a “someday intervention.” Whatever the reason, I’m just glad she did. My hamstrings on the otherhand...well, they still need some convincing.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Run Run as fast as you can...or walk so you don't pass out.
Running Log Day Three. Thursday, July 4.
Met in Shube and did 5K but walked A LOT!!! Very hot night.
Learned harsh but valuable lesson; don't eat garlic pasta within five hours of running.
eeewww...
Running Log Day Two.
Sube Park with Lisa on Canada Day. (kinda hoping she might forget...)
3K in 25 minutes; mostly running, much less walking.
Didn’t puke. Goal fait accomplis.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Does my butt look smaller?
Day One of my new running regime.
6:30am. Burnside Nubody's to Walmart (ish) and back.
2km in 25 minutes (run, walk, run, walk, run, walk, walk walk, can't breathe...must rest...by this hydrant...)
Lisa, my 40 year old hard-bodied-bounce-a-dime-off-her-ass friend and inspiration kicked mine the whole way. And I love her for it.
We meet in Shube Park on Tuesday. I will try not to hurl.
6:30am. Burnside Nubody's to Walmart (ish) and back.
2km in 25 minutes (run, walk, run, walk, run, walk, walk walk, can't breathe...must rest...by this hydrant...)
Lisa, my 40 year old hard-bodied-bounce-a-dime-off-her-ass friend and inspiration kicked mine the whole way. And I love her for it.
We meet in Shube Park on Tuesday. I will try not to hurl.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
When friends move...
On Labour Day weekend, 1979, my family moved to Fredericton. I was nine years old. And even though it was only an hour away, it felt like we were moving to another country. On the morning that our moving van patiently awaited our departure, I vividly recall running down the street to say goodbye to my little friend, Jennifer. I saved her for last because I knew she would be the hardest to say goodbye to.
I had very mixed emotions that day. I was excited to move to a new city but I was also sad that I wouldn’t be able to run over to her house unannounced as we would often do to play an impromptu game of hopscotch, comb Barbie’s hair, spy on the neighborhood boys or run to DiCarlo’s to see if their annual back-to-school order of “fat chalk” had arrived.
On that sunny Saturday morning as I gave her a hug goodbye and told her that I would miss her, I remember her saying to me “I’m happy for you. But I’m sad. Is that ok?” With the truest of intentions that a 9-year old could have, I assured her that I would come back to visit her. Often. I had a bike.
Unfortunately, that was indeed the last time I laid eyes on her. Life is like that I guess.
So now I’m an adult (well in some ways, some days) and nearly 30 years later, I find myself having those same mixed emotions as I prepare for the move of my grown-up hopscotch friend, who lives down the street and who also is coincidentally named Jennifer. It's funny how adult situations can reconnect us to childhood feelings like that. The main difference between then and now, however, is that I have the insight to know that “moving away” doesn't necessarily mean “moving on,” primarily because of one, unavoidable, blatant fact: I no longer have to rely on my bicycle as my primary mode of transportation. I have a car.
So to my friend, as you prepare for this exciting change, please know that I am so very happy for you. But I’m also sad...is that ok?
I had very mixed emotions that day. I was excited to move to a new city but I was also sad that I wouldn’t be able to run over to her house unannounced as we would often do to play an impromptu game of hopscotch, comb Barbie’s hair, spy on the neighborhood boys or run to DiCarlo’s to see if their annual back-to-school order of “fat chalk” had arrived.
On that sunny Saturday morning as I gave her a hug goodbye and told her that I would miss her, I remember her saying to me “I’m happy for you. But I’m sad. Is that ok?” With the truest of intentions that a 9-year old could have, I assured her that I would come back to visit her. Often. I had a bike.
Unfortunately, that was indeed the last time I laid eyes on her. Life is like that I guess.
So now I’m an adult (well in some ways, some days) and nearly 30 years later, I find myself having those same mixed emotions as I prepare for the move of my grown-up hopscotch friend, who lives down the street and who also is coincidentally named Jennifer. It's funny how adult situations can reconnect us to childhood feelings like that. The main difference between then and now, however, is that I have the insight to know that “moving away” doesn't necessarily mean “moving on,” primarily because of one, unavoidable, blatant fact: I no longer have to rely on my bicycle as my primary mode of transportation. I have a car.
So to my friend, as you prepare for this exciting change, please know that I am so very happy for you. But I’m also sad...is that ok?
Monday, June 9, 2008
A Toolbelt Moment...Yoga anyone?
As per the "toolbelt" portion of my blog title, here is my latest reno. My new "yoga/ballet/computer/guest room" room.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Happy Birthday...
So, Sunday June 1st is my birthday. Oh joy.
But instead of writing a long diatribe lamenting about turning 36-ish, I’ve decided I would reflect on what it means to be a girl born in the early 70’s. So to my other 30-ish friends and family, perhaps you can relate.
Girls, you were born in the early 70's if...
You remember your mother’s friend wearing the coolest platform sneakers with the Pepsi wave on the side (or at least I do).
You had a Garfield eraser and practiced drawing him on your scribblers.
You just realized you can still draw Garfield.
Ma-Ma-Ma-Max actually means something to you.
You owned something with Holly Hobby on it. (I actually had the life-size playhouse in my room. Coolest thing ever.)
You remember how disgusting fruit-flavoured chips were. Thank God that didn't last.
Thursday nights meant hanging out with the gang from Cheers and seeing what the Cosby kids were up to.
Sunday nights were about watching the Wonderful World of Disney, the Beachcombers and Fraggle Rock, in that order.
Adults didn't seem concerned with the fact that kids could buy candied cigarettes...you know, the ones that had the little puff of "smoke" when you first blew into them?
You wore pins that held solid perfume in a secret compartment.
Barbie was a “superstar”.
You played “pong” on your black and white tv and wondered “what will they think of next?” And then Atari came out and completely blew your mind.
You spent four hours every Saturday afternoon listening to Dick Clark’s top 40 so you could record your favourite songs onto your cassette tapes.
You still can’t see a St. Bernard without having flashbacks of Cujo jumping on the passenger window of the car.
Your status in junior high was determined by three things: how many Swatches you owned, how many friendship pins you had on your sneakers and whether or not you had a real K-Way and not an imitation one.
You fought with your friends over who would get Shaun Cassidy when you played “boyfriends.” (Poor Parker.)
You had cases of Pop Shoppe Pop in your basement. (My favourite was black cherry.)
You folded up your already tapered jeans to make them even more tapered.
You owned the entire collection of Little House on the Prairie books.
You had a rainbow sweatshirt with puffy sleeves.
You also owned a bubble-knit sweater with pom-poms.
You actually had discussions about how you “trained your hair” to feather back.
You carried the fold over “comb and brush” combo in your back pocket for regular “feather” maintenance.
Olivia Newton John’s black outfit at the end of Grease was the raciest thing you had seen to that point. That's also when you wanted your first pair of high heels...just like the wooden ones she was wearing.
You choreographed your own routines to the entire Saturday Night Fever album.
Wal-Mart was Woolco and you remember the day hundreds of people lined up outside the local Woolco for the first shipment of Cabbage Patch Kids.
For my friends who lived near the NB/Maine border...you stayed up until 1am on Saturday nights to watch Stacy's Jamboree out of Bangor.
And finally...you remember playing with the dead hornets in the back window of your car. Why? Because you weren't restricted by those pesky seatbelts. :)
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Apple Blossoms in Wilmot Park
I have always been struck by how scent can instantly connect us to the past. The inside of my grandmother's cookie tin takes me back to being 6 years old sneaking a treat from the farmhouse pantry. A rare whiff of a certain type of 80's cologne will always remind my of a teenage love and perhaps one of the most universal of pleasant reminders, the smell of fresh cut grass.
During a recent business stopover in Fredericton, NB I was once again reminded of this phenomenon. Fredericton was my childhood home – the City of Stately Elms, home to the majestic Christ Church Cathedral and Salvador Dali’s Santiago El Grande, home to arguably one of this country’s most scenic riverfronts and home to the Boyce Farmer’s Market where eating a donair with a samosa-chaser before 8:30am is considered perfectly normal, if not a right of passage after a late night at Dolan’s Pub or the Lunar Rogue.
It is a city deeply engrained with rich cultural tones and is world renowned as a nurturing mecca for the arts and for both budding and seasoned musicians. And among countless other cherished hallmarks, one would be remiss in not mentioning the fierce but beloved battle of the hill – the age-old and ageless rivalry between the UNB Reds and the St. Thomas Tommies. It’s a city that walks confidently into the future while strolling thoughtfully through its past. If you’ve ever run your fingers along the ornate gates of Officer’s Square, found a unique trinket at Mazzuca's Variety Store, admired the simple brick lines of the Marysville Cotton Mill or have ever noticed the original GE George’s sign perched above Queen Street, then you know precisely what I mean.
This is indeed the place where I grew up. It is were I went to university before leaping off into adulthood and it is the place that I left in my late twenties. Ten years have since past and even though time has begun to fade my once steadfast connection to this fair town, it is here where I know myself best and it is here that I covet each opportunity to return – as infrequent as that may now be.
On this particularly glorious May morning, I paid my room bill at the Fredericton Delta and proceeded with my bags across the lobby. Stepping into the bright sunlight, a warm smile instantly embraced face. “Ah…it was good to be home,” I thought to myself. Greeting the moment with a slow, deliberate breath, I found myself unable to move. Much to the confusion of the young man holding the door, I could do nothing but stand perfectly still on the walkway; I was completely and utterly paralyzed. Perhaps but a few moments had passed before I was able to reconcile what was intoxicating my usual sober demeanour – it was, in fact, the unmistakable, sweet, fragrant aroma of the apple blossoms drifting effortlessly from Wilmot Park.
Tears welled up in my eyes. A kaleidoscope of memories flooded my senses all seemingly triggered by an unconscious awareness that is the veil of springtime in Fredericton. The rush was met with an overwhelming urge to turn back time and walk across the street to a small, cozy bungalow in Sunshine Gardens, the last place I lived before moving to Halifax.
But after a few surreal moments, and much to the doorman’s relief, I pressed stop on the silent movie playing in my head and stepped forward into my day, albeit with a little sadness in my heart and a longing to return to a place I knew so well.
Driving down the Woodstock road, I slowed at Wilmot Park to marvel at the beauty of the white and pink blossoms, branches so full that the flowers dripped heavily on to the pathway below. “How could I have never noticed this before but yet know it so well?” I asked out loud as if someone were listening. How had I never taken the time to stroll through the park for the mere pleasure of gazing upward into the chiffon buds?
But it’s like that sometimes isn’t it? It’s not until we leave that we appreciate where we’ve been.
Approaching the Vanier Hiway a persistent melancholy slid quietly on to the passenger seat beside me. During the four hour drive to Halifax, we lingered over memories of growing up in “Freddy Beach” - memories I had long since tucked away, memories that made me smile, sometimes cry. As much as I enjoyed Halifax and despite living there for the last decade, it had yet to feel like home. It was where I lived but it wasn’t where I was from and this morning’s experience reminded me just how much I loved the little city that sits snuggled up against the banks of the mighty Saint John.
I couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps it was time to reconsider my fate. Maybe it was time to return to my roots.
Just as the late afternoon sun danced across the Halifax Harbour, I finally made the right hand turn on to Shore Road in Eastern Passage – a small, quaint fishing village that still relies on, and respects deeply, the water’s bounty.
I bought a house here a few years prior and had come to appreciate the beauty of living so close to the coast – a stark contrast to growing up in land-locked central New Brunswick. Feeling a bit road weary, I took a moment to pull over at Fisherman’s Cove. Meandering slowly along the boardwalk, I breathed deeply to clear my senses. With salty air filling my lungs I couldn’t help but wonder if someday I might be as awestruck by the scent of the ocean as I was by the apple blossoms from Wilmot Park.
Maybe. Maybe someday.
A short time later, I unpacked the car and made my way into my little house-by-the-sea where I was greeted by the warmness of a kitty curled up on her green ottoman. Welcoming me home with a sleepy purr, I realized in that very sweet moment I would no doubt one day drive by this house and wish I could walk in and return to the comfort once found inside. Someday I would pass by and again wish I could turn back time - just as I had done earlier that morning. The thought provided some much-needed comfort but even more importantly, it offered a gentle reminder of how important it is to be, wherever it is, you are.
Home truly can be anywhere because where you’re from, never changes.
Ironically, just before leaving for my trip to NB, I had made the reluctant decision to dig up the small apple tree (aka "Fiona") in my backyard. She had been struggling to bloom ever since I transplanted her from the front yard when I moved in. Much to my chagrin, it had become apparent that perhaps she wasn’t going to be able to adjust to her new surroundings. But looking out at her now, the day’s experience had shifted my perspective and I felt a change of heart. Perhaps I needed to reconsider her fate; maybe all she needed was a little more time to take root. Turning away from the window, a warm smile embraced my face. It truly was good to be home.
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