spindrift and dreams

Excuses, excuses.

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

Cheeky Jazz left the following comment on my previous post:

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

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

And:

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

It doesn't grow on trees?

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

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

"Have you?"

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

"Hmmm, if you say so."

"Well I found the perfect one."

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

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

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

"Hmmm, whatever."

Good, he is distracted

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

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

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

"Over $300?."

"No." Phew!

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

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

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

"But, but, you said..."

"I was kidding."

And paying way more attention than I thought.

Overdue housekeeping

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

Through the rabbit hole

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

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

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

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

"Bullshit, all you cops got cars."

"I'm not a cop."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Highway of Heroes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Divine fish and dancing sky

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What a wonderful place this is!

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

North of sixty

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

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

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

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

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

The windows are made of ice.

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

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

For the birds

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pigs flew

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

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

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

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

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

Betrayed

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

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

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

Henry loves kitty cats

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can see a little light

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love menopause: the top five reasons

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

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

2. My heating bills are way down.

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

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

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

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

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

(What else can I do?)

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

Peace

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She came back for a meme?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Promise of light

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

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

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

Won't it?

Oh Christmas tree sawdust

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

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

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

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

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

And this one from Nova Scotia:

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

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

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

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

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

I saw a hippopotamus for Christmas. Redux

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I suppose we would be toast".

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

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

"Merry Christmas Darlin'."

And I realize again I found The Right One.

Part 2:
December 25, 2006, Serengeti, Tanzania

Ho! Ho! Ho!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part 3:
December 25, 2006, Serengeti, Tanzania

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On a serious note

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

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

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

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

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

At midnight she turned into Gene Simmons

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

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

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

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

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

Later, at about 12:00:

That's me on the left.

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

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

We closed down the party. Yippie Yi Yay.

Airplane crash and gun shots. A perfect hike.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a great hike.

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

To you

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

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

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

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

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

Trick or Panang curry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I have Thai Palace delivery."

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

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

Aliens among us

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

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

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

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

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

This morning I said to B:

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

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

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

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

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

Today's dream travel destination: Mars.