Today I walked....

I went for a walk today, with a friend and the kids. It was the PERFECT winter day in Canada, and I don't mean snow - I mean it had snowed in the mountains, but not where I was standing, and the sun was gleaming off the mountains exposing a panoramic sugar dusted picture-scape against blue sky - STUNNING.

The sun was out and the breeze must have been tucked up under a log somewhere I think, because on clear winter days like these, the wind-chill factor is normally enough to send anyone diving back under the bed clothes exclaiming - "let me know when it is spring".

We walked along the dike at Steveston in Richmond; old river houses, many of which had seen better days, creaked on water logged stilts, looking cramped, cold and uninviting. And yet, though in a largely dilapidated and abandoned looking state, surrounded by old logs, black and heavy, bobbing in the wake of a passing river barge, these old river houses had a beauty about them. I don't really know what it was, perhaps an energy that encapsulated and radiated a long and colourful history.

There were definitely a few stories in those dank walls and darkened windows, dull like dead eyes. In the windless air your could almost hear whisperings of the souls of departed tenants....houses seem to do that to me.

There was also something about the entire area'; the bare trees stretching for the seldom seen winter sun; a large letter box stuck high in a towering tree, acting as a makeshift bird house (I suspect); an abandoned train track leading to a modern day industrial building that had never in its life had a used for the old line; the lulling of the water lapping at the river bank. It was all so peaceful. I could have walked all day.

After that walk, we all went to a cafe, had coffee, and then went our separate ways.

The day was too lovely to spend indoors, so we took the dogs and walked around the block. My son rode his bike.And to top it all off, the friend who I had walked with earlier, rang and urged me to go to my Nordic Walking group. I hadn't been since the flu and my slack old self was coming back to haunt. It is too easy for me to stay home. I feel so much better when I do venture out; so I was held accountable, and I am grateful for that.

The walking group was fantastic. I was dressed appropriately, unlike last time. I got so into it that I went into a zone. I could have run even (bit drastic).

I must have been a lot sicker last time than I thought, because I had none of the pinball kidney pain, like I experienced the last time and I could have walked longer. I am pumped for next week, and also for a repeat of today's weather.

Fashion for blokes

Last week we took my friend and her new bloke out for dinner at a local restaurant. For whatever reason, my friend and her new man starting talking amongst themselves. I wasn't paying any attention to what they were saying, until my friend turns to me and asks, in a tone that was pleading for support and reason. Her Question? What was my opinion about men wearing white socks with black dress pants.

The couple appeared to be at odds with the answer to this befuddling of questions and conflict makers, as there seems to be a camp of blokes who apparently passed down to their sons, the belief that it is the done thing to match your socks and shirt....at least that was my husband's argument many years ago, when I was merely the girlfriend of my beloved.

So to answer my friend's burning man-socks etiquette question, I had only one thing to offer, and it was the same as I blurted to my beloved sixteen years ago:

"Th-Th-Th-Thriller!"

Oh man, I could hardly contain myself. I turned into a pool of unrestrained giggling stupidity.

I do apologise, but please.....unless you are planning on drawing attention to your moonwalking feet - don't wear white socks with black dress pants.

Puzzled

When I was a child, I lived on a farm in the middle of nowhere...well, actually it was in the middle of a tiny rural community in the Murray Mallee district of Southern Australia.

Our farm could be found along a highway bound for Sydney. Neighbours were generally a drive away, so the sounds of the day were largely our own, and reasonably predictable.

In those days I guess I was an early riser, because I remember the sun rising in the morning, casting a glow across the land, and warming the night cooled sand beneath my bare feet.

The puzzling thing about this scene was a particular sound I would hear during the summer months at that time of day - sunrise. I later came to learn that this sound was in fact a freight train, snaking its way through the tiny township that sprawled in sporadic clusters just beyond the golden dunes and cereal crops, but at the time, I had concluded that the distant chugging of the steam train, was in fact the sound the sun made, when whomever it was, hoisted that tired and sleepy yellow orb begrudgingly into the darken sky, to light and herald in the new day.

To me, the "whats" of that sound were a no-brainer, since it seemed to occur around the same time of each day; just as the sun peaked over the dunes. Unfortunately my bubble burst on the whole idea, when I asked my Mum how the sun made that sound, to which she narrowed her confused eyes at me and told me it was the train. I argued with her about it, but alas, her argument seemed....mmm, saner.

Since that time, I have been searching for a reasonable description of the sound the sun makes when it rises, and I guess I would have to say that is warbles like a magpie, crows like a rooster, screeches like a parrot, laughs like a kookaburra, twitters like an orchestra of tiny birds, honks like the Canadian geese, thuds like the morning newspaper on my doorstep, sopranos like the creaky gate next to my house and rustles like drowsy children wrestling with the bed sheets.
I love it.

wining, dining and SOME were pining

So, what HAVE I been doing all week?

Well, my best friend, Heather, came to visit me last week, and indeed Lauraine, "to have a best friend" truly IS one of "the greatest things in the world". We had so much fun. And laugh! Oh how we laughed. Much of what was exchanged is unrepeatable, both through choice and perhaps censorship laws, but never mind, we had fun.

I don't have a whole lot of friends in this universe, but those who consider me so....well, I wouldn't trade them for anything. But a best friend, now that is someone special. A best friend can not be announced, such a friendship is established over time and through trials.

One's best friend is someone with whom you can be yourself 100%; someone you can entrust with your deepest fears and secrets, your pains and emotions and your wacko ideas. One can tell, ask or share anything with a best friend, and know that there might be laughter (sometimes unwelcome), perhaps tears, sometimes worry and occasionally frustration and even momentary lapses of anger accompanying that which is divulged... but there is never judgement.

I have missed all my friends from Australia so very much, but to have Heather visit me in my new land, to see how my children have grown since we last saw each other; where life has taken me and the new life our family has built, and for her to know what I am referring to when I talk about the local landscape, well that is pretty special, and I thank her for going out of her way to visit my family and I.

Heather currently resides in the sweltering centre of outback Australia, but is US born, with most of her immediate family living in Washington State. This week, after a wonderful time showing her some local Canadian sights, I had the privilege of driving her back to her Mum's house in the US.

It was a bit surreal that we were in Canada and the US together, which also caused some major eyebrow knitting at the border. One of the immigration guys just couldn't seem to wrap his head around the idea that the American was the resident of Australia, but the Australian was the resident of Canada and....WHAT THE HELL WERE WE DOING HERE TOGETHER ANYWAY?

We were asked how we knew each other, where we met, did we have men in our lives. Now people, do these questions sound relevant to national security? At no point were we asked if we were hauling drugs over the border, in possession of guns or harboring a family of illegals in the trunk. So, judging by the mirthful faces among the observing male US immigration personnel, it appears it is far more amusing, and important, to take bets on whether the two 30-something women travelling men-less, are lesbians, as opposed to devious evil-doers plotting to take-over the world. Anyway.....

I spent the night at the home of Hether's Mum and Step-Dad, Lauraine and John. I have met them before and they are always so very nice to me - wonderful people really, and very talented, the both of them. Lauraine is a fabulous quilter and seamstress and her cooking is so good. I certainly didn't knock back some of her cookies to take on the drive back to Canada - Boy were they good!

And you should see John's woodwork - stunning! He made his lovely wife a gorgeous heart shaped candy box for valentines day - how sweet is that! He also makes beautifully sculptured jewellery boxes, in all kinds of interesting woods....I really appreciate that kind of thing, as my Dad is also into wood work. He also made the heart shaped basket pictured here. It collapses flat, so you can use it for setting down hot dishes and the like. He told me he had seen one once and simply "worked out" how to make one like it, in his own style. It was such a cool piece, and I was lucky enough that my friend bought me this one - (there better have been an exchange of money). Some people have all the talent - sheesh!

The other wonderful thing that happened on the trip was my meeting, for the first time, a friend of Heather's family. I guess I met her first through blogger. Kathleen is just as lovely in person as she is over the Internet - if not, lovelier. I remember the first time I read her blog and commenting that it would be so great to be part of her family, since they sounded so dear to her, and for a moment yesterday, she made me feel that I was. It was so great to meet her and I hope to see her warm and cheerful face again.

It started to snow just as I was preparing to say my goodbyes to everyone. My desert dwelling friend stood huddled and shivering in PJ's and an overcoat, with a shower of glittering diamonds falling about her and tiny, glistening stars in her hair, "let this be your last image of me", she said. And with that befitting image frozen in mind, I hugged her, stepped into my car and left; chased all the way back to Canada by a clenched fist of black sky.

After a week of chatting with a much loved friend, meeting and catching up with great people, driving around like a tourist, shopping, wining and dining...I guess it is back to reality for me. Man I sure needed that! No wonder I feel SOOOOO much better.

Leave a light on for me

The other night at the Nordic Walking group, a woman said to me, "Lovely evening for a walk. Don't you think?"

It had snowed the week prior. The snow was still evident on the ground, although it had been well trodden - packed and icy. The air, though crisp, swirled with the scent of burning wood, which conjured up all sorts of warming imagery; like couples cuddling beside open fires, sipping mulled wine, or families playing board games, a raging fire in the background and hot chocolate carried in on a tray with a plate of cookies.

The night was clear enough to reveal a net of stars overhead, while night noises seemed to be more pronounced. Indeed, it seemed a perfect evening for a winter walk, so I agreed with much enthusiasm.

"I love looking into the houses", the woman announced, motioning to the house we were passing. The curtains were open wide; a soft yellow glow beckoning into a navy night.

At the time, I thought her comment a little off - voyeuristic and nosey...and why the hell don't these people close the drapes! So I kind of looked over at house to acknowledge the woman's statement and muttered "yeah", before attempting to change the subject. I noticed a chandelier. It was a well to-do neighbourhood, consisting of reasonably new houses that lined the streets like veneered teeth; perfect, proud, clean and well tended.

During the past week, I decided to go for an evening walk in my own neighbourhood. I was feeling a bit down, and just needed to get out of the house. There was no snow on the ground that night. In fact, it was quite pleasant to be out, and I only required a light jacket to ensure my comfort.

As I walked, I noticed many lights on in the houses I passed, and remembered what the woman had said.

The street over from my own is very nice and is considered affluent (why the disparity from one street to another around here, I will never know). The houses are all large with manicured gardens, that now loom in the evening shadows. Many of the houses appeared empty and seldom frequented (if you know what I mean), just as they do in the daytime; the windows closest the street were all dark, like soulless eyes.

One house I passed, had every light on throughout its lower level. I noticed a winding wooden staircase reaching into the obscurity of an unlit second floor. The walls of a freakishly large sitting room were painted eucalyptus green - not my favourite colour - too much in such a large space, and it looked a bit drab. A middle-aged man was working on his computer. His back was turned to the road, as was his computer monitor. He seemed to be the only one home.

A little further down the road I came to a gorgeous little house; one in which I had actually the fortune of entering. The owner once told me it had been a heritage home that was relocated into town a number of years ago. The owner and his wife had bought it, and renovated it themselves.
The house is painted in a lovely periwinkle blue with white trim. Shining polished wooden floors greet visitors, along with stain-glass windows and antique lace curtains. The space inside is intimate, warm and tastefully decorated. From the road it appears a tiny home, especailly when compared with its neighbouring gaints, but it is a deceiver. For once inside, you'll find that it actually contains three levels. A black steel staircase spirals from the corner of the dining room, opening up to a darling attic that harbours two of the sweetest little girls rooms one is ever likely to see. I just LOVE that house.

On the evening I went walking, the lace curtains were drawn, but through the curtains the family could be seen sharing a meal under soft golden hues. I imagined the happy banter of the family, sharing news about their day. It seemed such an idyllic scene.

Further down the road, I spotted a woman standing in a sitting room. The TV was on, but her back was facing it. She folded a white blanket in half, then lent down out of view. I imagined a child that had fallen asleep on the sofa, the mother leaning down to wrap her child in the blanket before carrying her slumbering bundle up to bed.

The scene drew me back to my own children. I had been desperate for a break, but it was supper time, and I would be absent from our table that evening. If I did not return soon, I would also miss tucking them in and receiving the last bear hug for the day. Bedtime is probably my favourite time of day with them. a time when they tell me all their thoughts and secrets, in an attempt to avoid the inevitable separation, and falling asleep. I knew it was time for me to head home.

An innocnt Eff Word

Olivia is nearly three. Her speech is coming along quite well, but today an utterance emerged from her sweet little cherry mouth; one I didn't expect to hear - The Eff-word.

"WHAT did you say!" I spluttered as we were driving along.

"*uck", she repeated, without flinching, she was looking out the car window.

I followed her gaze. OHHHHHH! "Truck!" sigh of relief, "yes, a truck. Can you say truck?"


"*uck".


"T-ruck"


"T-*uck"


"Listen to me, T-R-uck. Can you say that?"


"T-R-*uck", she giggled, repeating it continuously.


"We really need to work on that word, Olivia".


"Why?"


"Well, the way you say "truck" sounds like something else".


"What?"


"A bad word"


silence...


"*uck".


"Lets stop saying that now."


"Ok, Mummy".



Then today, we were in Dairy Queen....


"Look! *uck!", she yells out pointing to a truck outside.


A whiplash of head turn our way.


Where can I hide?


"Olivia, look at me", I whisper.


"Can you say T?"


"T"


"Good. Can you say R?"


"R"


Great. Can you say Uck?"


"Uck".


"Excellent. Now put 'em together. T-R- Uck"


"T-R-Uck"


"Now Truck"


"Truck"


"Yay"!

Thank God for that.

Love is....

Love is making 75 heart shaped ginger cookies for your son's pre-school Valentines party and staying up until 11pm icing each by hand.
Happy Valentines everybody.

Recent pics

Some pictures for the Grans. This is us at the Westham Island bird sanctuary over the weekend.

As you can see, the blue skies have returned, and they are most welcome to stay as long as they like.

Eyes

Alex awoke this morning with pink eye.

It worsened rapidly; a thick repulsive display of green muck collecting in the corners of his eye and oozing henceforth down his cheeks - his eyes clouded by the aggressive infection.

I took him to the doctor.

"Lots of open-eyed, warm water baths, followed by drops". The nightmare begins....

Alex screams the neighbourhood down when a snow flake dares upon his face, so can you imagine the drama in attempting to syphon some water into those swollen, blood shot things? "Is it going to hurt?" he asks. Yes or no,...it didn't matter which way I answered, he wasn't going to like it anyway.

They say animals smell fear, well I guess he could detect my anxiety, as I lurched nearer with the first cup of H2O, for he tensed up and tempted to push me away.

I reasoned with him; talked about it being for his own good; that is would help clear the infection quicker; that he wouldn't be able to go to his pre-school valentines party if his eyes didn't heal in time. And when all else failed I used guilt..."you don't want your friends to get that infection do you"? I sank.

Yes he wanted to go to the party. No he didn't want his friends getting the infection, but no, he wasn't going to allow he near his eye, under any terms.

Force was the only recourse. I doused his eyes in the water and scraped away the pusy residue, now crusted all over the place. Gross!

He screamed. He wailed. He Howled. He attempted to run. He hated me. Now for the drops...are you KIDDING me!

I was instructed by the pharmacist that I was not to allow the tip of the medication to dip into his eye or I would have to throw the entire bottle away.

I weighed the likelihoods of actually administering the precious medicine into the eyes of a violently resisting boy - it just wasn't gonna happen.

Exasperated I rang the doctor, requesting alternative healing methods... there were none.I don't know what I am going to do.

A light bulb moment

Today I had an epiphany... of sorts.

I am still struggling with the whole Toastmasters thing. I have committed myself to presenting my fourth speech (boo hiss).

I have a really bad attitude about it.

I have decided to steal a commenter's advice and deliver one of my blog posts. I thought this would take the pressure off the whole preparation stress that surrounds speech giving, for me. Well it kind of did, but my bad attitude remained.

I resent having to practice my speech, the speech bores me, like all my speech making attempts...I am bored by the experience.

Last time I wrote about my like/hate relationship with Toastmasters (I wouldn't happen to go so far as to say "love"), the lovely Kathleen, from Soul Food, suggested perhaps speech making just wasn't my thing. To which I thought, "yeah, but I still want to get over my fear...even if I DO suck at it".

But today, I had an epiphany...of sorts, as I have already mentioned.

I love writing. I tend to write off the cuff. I write what is in my head at that particular moment, and if you will allow me to become all diva-ish for a moment - I need to be inspired. I don't necessarily plan what I am going to say on these posts, but basically just blurt out a bunch of something, pray for teh best and hit publish ....which is why I have so many editing faux par's blaring out in plain, unabashed sight.

The thing for me, about speech making is, well, you have to prepare a good speech, and practice it, and so, by the time it reaches the ears of a glazed-eyed audience, it is old. It is tired and it lacks energy. I am bored by it, it is bored by me, and then I am in a panic that I will bore everyone else. Sure it is fresh to the audience, but I am just not that into it anymore - the passion has died.

So Kathleen, you are right; speech making is definitely not for me. And you know what? I actually feel relieved by that newly gained understanding. I feel relieved and my load feels lighter.

I quite enjoy evaluating other speech makers, when I am at Toastmasters; I am doing it off the cuff - but I think I will allow the speeches to be delivered by someone else from now on.

secondhand, but in good condition

I read this at I still see a spark in you - I liked it.

Fill your bowl to the brim
and it will spill.
Keep sharpening your knife
and it will blunt.
Chase after money and security
and your heart will never unclench.
Care about people's approval
and you will be their prisoner.
Do your work, then step back.
The only path to serenity.
- Lao Tzu

Tight Grip

I have always held my pen or pencil like it might try to escape from my hand.

So hard and firm is my grip that I literally develop a cramp if I write for too long; such as when I am writing a personal letter to a friend.

Not only is my grip firm, but I also tend to press the writing implement really hard into the page, as if I were trying to make certain that I made an impression, like I sub-consciously feared that my thoughts and words might evaporate or fly away if I didn't secure them tightly enough to the page.

I have a callous on the index finger of my right hand. It has been there forever; more evidence of a too firm grip. I have noticed, when I write, that the tip of my finger is usually white - white from the intense pressure I am applying.

I am mindfully trying not to squeeze the life from the pen I hold. Now-days, I attempt to dance across the page with my pen or pencil, considering it a babe in arms, rather than a knife welding intruder that I must overcome in order to protect myself.

It is hard...old habits die hard.

I constantly have to remind myself to release my grip...relax...allow the words to flow and glide.Consequently, my writing is not neat. It is legible, but a spidery scrawl of words creeping across the page like a twisted vine, when normally my writing has loomed like a line of dark glum soldiers standing to attention; their boots are shiny, gloves starched, each letter erect, disciplined, obedient....but my well formed words lack character and energy, they have had too many stiffling years behind them.

It is a control thing I think, but this strangle hold takes so much energy, and yet it has yielded so few gains.

Perks

Ashley is in Halifax for a couple of days. Travel is one of the perks of his job.

He doesn't travel all that often these days - but that is largely his choice. Since the kids have been on the scene, he has felt less motivation to hit the road, and I appreciate his nightly support.

He used to work away two weeks on, two weeks off, which wasn't all that bad really. A few times he has worked away for 6 weeks at a time, and perhaps once or twice, he has been away for 8 weeks. At least he is not a soldier.

I must say, while I am stuck at home with the kids doing the same ole same ole, I find myself feeling somewhat envious at his fortune to escape from the everyday once in a while, and see the world. I am also often left feeling like a total ignoramus after one of his expeditions, for I wish to know of his accounts first hand; see with my own eyes, smell with my own nose, let my prsence linger in the place of exploration a little longer, while letting a country or a region's presence impress upon me, and change me from the experience I had with it, in it and through its culture, people and moments.

I know Halifax is only on the other side of Canada, but I haven't been there before. I would love to. I am told that Nova Scotia is beautiful, although the weather in Halifax was suppose to be minus 12 or something today.

I can't help feeling left behind when he announces a forth-coming adventure. I can become quite snippy about it all... like he is rubbing my face in it. He knows I love to travel.

He went to Brazil in October. Holland last November. Norway in February last year. He is going to Nigeria in March, and has the opportunity of going to France in May, and Scotland in December - and these are just the opportunties I know about.

I can't really complain, I have been here and there, but I would love to accompany him on some of his trips - not all the time, perhaps just once or twice a year....it is a cost issue.

At least we all receive good gifts when he returns from a jaunt, but frankly, I would rather the experience....for that is what life is really all about....experience and memories.

The unsquared debt

A couple of weekends ago, while at home, Ashley received a call from his boss, asking if he could do him a favour.

"Sure", said Ashley, and thought nothing of it.

The next day at work, the boss insisted that Ashley take me out for dinner, "somewhere nice", to say thank you and, it seemed, to apologise for interrupting our evening.

Ashley told the boss not the worry about it, thinking that he was just expressing his gratitude, and the dinner idea was really just a suggestion that would be forgotten about soon enough, so Ashley never really followed the dinner thing up.

As the week drew to a close, however, the boss urged Ashley once more, to take me out to dinner "on him - taxi, baby sitter, the works". Well, it didn't really work out that weekend, so we didn't take up the offer, and felt that the moment had now expired.

The boss then became more insistent, like he owed us this great debt and it was not sitting well with him. So we relented and booked into a restaurant that the boss had recommended.

Unfortunately, the baby sitter couldn't make it, so yet another weekend went by the wayside; the boss's debt left unsquared.

Two Thursdays ago, we had it all set up - everyone was on board....I got the flu.

Monday Olivia got the flu.

.....Restaurant was fully booked out.

....the baby sitter couldn't make it.

.....Ashley going out of town next week.

It HAD to be Friday night or the boss would have kittens!

"Have you gone out for dinner YET?", the boss urged in an apparent exasperated sweat .

"We are going out tonight", Ashley was relieved to tell him.

"Good! It is easier to get an aircraft into Nigeria than getting you two out for dinner", was the bosses final frustrated word on the matter.

And so it seems the boss is correct. We don't get out much.

But we did go out last night and had a great evening. We went to La Belle Auberge, a fantastic culinary experience, that is practically on our door step.

Set in an old Victorian house and decorated in period furniture, the entire experience at La Belle Auberge is detailed, intimate and beautiful.

Chef Bruno Marti and his staff are award winners and the presentation of the food is pure art.

While you can order A La Carte, we decided to go all out try Table d'Hote; a "pre-set gastronomic 7-course menu".

Of everything I tried, I think my favourite was the Lobster Bisque - it was heavenly!

For dessert Ashley ordered this gorgeously presented chocolate terrine. It was wrapped in a chocolate and caramel chocolate "pear drop". It was almost too pretty to eat...I said almost.

Well, it was definitely a fine experience. We tend to love a great restaurant, such things are a bit of an interest to us, if "restauranting" could be considered "an interest".

So, thanks Boss. It wasn't that we didn't appreciate the offer, we just didn't expect it.