Google scares me

What is it about this new Google+ that has even my husband onboard (he and around 18 million early users)? V, one of the most cautious, internet-security buffs I know, was the one who invited me to Google+. Why should I join? I asked the man who has refused Facebook and generally snubs social media.

He argued that Google+ has better privacy settings and controls. And there's the supposedly the big appeal of Google+ – their fancy-looking ‘circles’ which allow you to categorize your contacts into circles like friends, family, work colleagues, acquaintances. You can then decide who, in these categories, can see what you’ve posted.

(Google+ says, ‘not to worry, your contacts won’t know what circle you’ve placed them in.’ Just make sure to not post something too gossip-worthy for one circle since a ‘friend’ might mention it to a mere ‘acquaintance’ – thereby revealing to said acquaintance what esteem they have in your eyes.)

So my curiosity temporarily got the best of me and I opened a Google+ account. I closed it within a few hours – after some momentary panic when I read that if you try to close Goggle+ you will lose all other Google services like Gmail and this blogging service. Perhaps my house would cease to exist on the map.

Not surprisingly, it’s also rather hard to find good answers when you do a Google search for ‘close Google+ account’. And the Google+ help centre isn’t much better.

Thankfully Bing found me helpful video on youtube that showed me how easy it actually is to remove the + but keep the Google. But my relationship with Google has been soured by this experience.

I already depend on Google for my email, my calendar, maps, blogging... their creepy little virtual fingers seem to be reaching further and further into my life.

I often have the desire to completely unplug from the Internet – this desire has been bolstered by these months of daily blogging. I would rather invest in face-time than screen-time.

The last thing we need is another timewaster that draws personal information out of us and tricks us into thinking we are more social after spending more time alone with our computers.

I trust you

The first time I went on the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, I encountered a profound life lesson, that of learning to accept help from others, to be vulnerable and, overall, to move from my preferred state of solitary independence to one of integrated community.

I have continued to learn, being repeatedly taught through life’s encounters and circumstances, that life is best lived with trust and faith, that believing in the best in others is ultimately uplifting.

I have come to enjoy, and even to value, being someone who tries to assume the best of others, not the worst. Sure, this means that I have been, at times, taken advantage of. A guy showed up after a huge snow storm offering to shovel our driveway and walk. I paid him up front and he left after only doing the walkway. Another time, I nearly let some scam company lock us into an expensive energy deal.

Each time I’ve had such encounters, I make a note that I should be more cautious. But at the same time, I try to resist actually changing how I see other people. Sure, I know that anything that sounds too good to be true obviously is, and to report as spam any emails I get asking me to write back quickly because one of their clients with the same last name as mine just left a large pile of unclaimed money!!

But when someone says, ‘I can keep an eye on that for you while you run in’, I like the feeling it gives me to trust that person. I like putting my trust in a stranger, in this community we have suddenly created together, and honour that with my confidence. It makes me feel part of something bigger than myself. Makes me feel good about the place I live, the people who live around me. To me, these feelings are worth a moderate risk (i.e. sure, you can watch my bag of groceries, but I’ll take my daughter with me).

So when situations arise when I am reminded of the need for caution, to get everything in writing... I feel a loss much greater than the circumstance at hand.

Bring back the handkerchief

Mistakenly thinking that today was International Ice Cream Day (when in fact the third Sunday in July is America’s National Ice Cream Day), I bought V some Häagen-Dazs. I missed the festival, but the ice cream was still tasty. This also got me thinking how smart it would be to lobby the government for a national day for your product.

Someday, perhaps, there will be an international handkerchief day. Once I’m the highly-placed distributor and promoter of handkerchiefs, I may even lobby for it.

You see, bringing back the handkerchief, or hanky as it’s more affectionately known, is one of my life plans. It should have been on my bucket list, or even on my high school yearbook: Anita will bring back the handkerchief (instead it said something about planning to work with deaf children - which didn’t quite come about).

Why the hanky, you may ask?

1) It is environmentally friendly. If people are willing to use cloth diapers on poopy baby bums, I don’t think blowing their noses in cotton squares should be a stretch. Unlike dirty diapers, used hankies don’t stink and can be tossed in the wash on any old cycle.

Also, think of all the trees that are felled and the chemicals used to bleach and soften tissues so we can fill them with our snot and toss them in landfills. Then there are the boxes and plastics which package the tissues, the transportation to stock them at local stores... Switching to reusable cloth hankies could be your gift to Mother Nature this year, and to our future generations.

2) Hankies have much more personality than a bleached box of tissues. We used hankies all the time when I was a kid, and I remember the big plaid ones my dad and other men used, the smaller white ones my mother had, and the more colourful, patterned ones my sister and I used. I learned to iron with hankies. My friends and I embroidered little flowers on them. Hankies can be monogrammed, personalized, stylized. They have flair.

Have I convinced you? Get in touch – I have a bag full of hankies from India and am looking to seed the market...

Summer storms

A storm blew through Ottawa tonight with wind speeds up to 90 kilometres an hour – ripping leaves and branches off trees and collapsing the main stage at Bluesfest.

We’ve been melting in a heat wave these last few days - so the cool air the storm brought is welcome. Temperatures at Ottawa airport dropped by 12 degrees in roughly an hour.

We’re a big fan of thunderstorms at our place. We have a big window in the living room at which we will sit and watch the storm blow through. Tonight the cats nervously joined us, twitching as leaves and debris were being tossed around. If I catch a flash of lightening, I’ll tell Miya that thunder is coming and she eagerly waits for it, then imitates the rumble or jumps around with excitement.

Only once was she really startled by a storm, and that was mostly due to me. We were walking back from the park since the sky had suddenly clouded over and the winds picked up. I was carrying her on my shoulders when a clap of thunder burst right above our heads. I jumped – so M was startled both by the loud noise and my reaction.

I lifted her down and carried her the rest of the way, trying to make up for my show of fright by admiring the thunder that continued to rumble all around us. Often when she hears a particularly loud or drawn out thunder roll she’ll say seriously, “that’s pretty cool.”

I’ve always loved storms, even when I’ve been caught out in them. Although I’ve had some close calls with lightening on some canoe trips and have a healthy respect for the potentially destructive power of nature, I love watching the sky churn with dark clouds and wind, the trees bend with the invisible force, the driving rain...

I love how a storm changes and progresses – the winds of warning which come before, that momentarily lull before the first hard and sudden bursts of rain. Some storms settle down and stay awhile, soaking the ground and over-flowing drains and sewers. Others blow through so fast that a few hours later it almost seems like nothing happened.

#15 Blog about the cognitive capability of insect swarms.

The request was that I blog about the cognitive capabilities of insect swarms, which, I’ve discovred, is also known as ‘swarm intelligence’ (SI). I thought this was a facetious request at first, but not only have I found out such intelligence exists, it’s also long been a subject of intense study by biologists, mathematicians and others.

Swarm intelligence is when group acts “to solve a problem collectively, in a way that individuals cannot”. Essentially, SI means that without centralized control, interactions between individuals cause a sort of ‘intelligent’ behaviour beyond that of which individual would be capable.

Problems SI can solve include such things as where to find food. A sudden shift in direction by a swarm has been attributed to small errors adding up to big change – sort of a tipping point being reached, I guess.

Natural examples of SI include bird flocking, animal herding, bacterial growth, and fish schooling. Insects which move in swarms include: locusts, midges, mosquitoes, bees, ants, butterflies, milk bugs, gnats and termites.

Knowledge gained from studying SI is being studied for such things as cancer treatment and the development of artificial intelligence. It’s even been used in films, such as creating battle scenes (Lord of the Rings) or structuring behaviour (the Borg in Star Trek).

There are many mathematical models out there which are based upon swarm intelligence. But I admit that, given the scope of this blog, the hour of night and my waning interest in the minutia of details about swarm math models, I cannot understand nor explain them.

I content myself to relay what one blogger identified as the five most dangerous insect swarms in the world – all of which are dangerous not because each individual is so threatening, but because these insects act tenaciously en masse. The top five are: 5) locusts; 4) fire ants; 3) yellow jacket wasps; 2) army ants; 1) killer bees.

I will also note that there are some pictures on the Christian Science Monitor site of insect swarms that might make your skin crawl a little.

And as a point to ponder, I wonder how SI could relate to Jung’s theories of collective unconsciousness. Now that’s something I’m interested in...

Reading...

I’ve been talking books tonight with V, a conversation that is now spilling over into my blog.

At any given moment, I am likely to be part-way through at least half a dozen books. For example, right now I’m reading: The Sacrifice by Adele Wiseman, Selected Letters of Margaret Laurence and Adele Wiseman, Iris and the Friends by John Bayley, Connected Parenting by Jennifer Kolari and The No-Cry Potty Training Solution by Elizabeth Pantley.

I’m looking to add a French book to the mix, so tonight V is browsing the web and tossing out random suggestions at me.

We have three different bookshelves in our living room. The biggest one, which dominates one wall, is filled with a random selection of books from V’s and my combined libraries. This is an eclectic mix of poetry, Shakespeare, cognitive philosophy, travel books, pop-sci and sci-fi, among others. Another bookshelf, one which was given to me by my mother about 15 years ago and which has traveled with me across the country, is stocked with some of my classics (Dickens, Dostoyevsky, Conrad, Joyce...), philosophy and French lit.

The smallest, but the most cluttered bookshelf, is mostly filled with books both V and I have acquired and mean to get to at some point, but just haven’t quite got around to it yet. V keeps up a steady stream of books-on-hold from the public library and is usually racing to finish one before it’s due back – so he doesn’t have the time to read any of the books he actually owns. (The long-awaited A Dance with Dragons arrived Wednesday and V fell asleep a few pages in last night). I tend to read so many books at one time that to actually finish any one in particular takes much longer than it would if I just read it on its own.

Despite my acknowledgement that I read too many books at once, I’m actually looking for suggestions of good books from any readers out there – would be particularly interested in books in French and books by Canadian authors. I like rich narratives that focus more on the subtleties and complexities of relationships than on action and plot. Feedback welcome.

Toddler art

There is something so absolutely refreshing about doing arts and crafts with a two-year old. It is completely about the process, without any judgement on the outcome.

This freedom is something we lose early on and may spend a lifetime trying to get back.

When Miya draws, paints, glues, etc. it seems to be for the sheer fun of it. There seem to be no concerns about whether a line is correctly drawn, whether the chosen colour is the ‘right one’. She has fun experimenting with colour and things like glue, glitter, stickers, etc.

And while to many the outcome may just look like the scribbles of a toddler, it is exactly this that I find so fabulous about them. Once she starts actually trying to draw houses, trees, people, cats, flowers... well, then we’ll be moving toward judgement. She’ll begin questioning whether what she did reflects what she was aiming for. She’ll start comparing the house she drew to the house the kid next to her drew. She’ll learn that grass is green and the sky is blue and that she’s supposed to colour within the lines. How can I help her hang on to making art just for the pleasure of putting colour on paper?

Generally, we’ve been working hard to avoid that instinctive ‘good job!’ for everything our child does. I hear kids being praised all the time for standing, for drinking water, for splashing in the pool, for going down the slide... We’d like to encourage our daughter to do such things for her own reasons, or do them simply because they are normal things to do, not so that she will receive our approval or praise.

This is especially true when it comes to arts and crafts; we’re being very careful to not put our own judgement on the things she does (that’s beautiful!) or to suggest that art is a chore to be done for approval (good work!).

There is going to be enough time ahead for judgment and competition. Right now I’m doing all I can to hold on the glorious freedom I see in her when she bangs away with her markers and splashes with her paints.

What does honesty look like?

I’ve been thinking today about honesty and about what makes the difference between truth and lies. Is all lying morally wrong? What about lies of omission or intentional deception?

A study in the UK found that men lie an average of 6 times a day, and women 3. This study reports that the most common “lie” told by both sexes was: “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.”

While some may protest that lying is wrong and can only cause problems, I actually think most people lie to avoid problems – and often with just cause. Indeed, I think there are many situations in which the full truth is not warranted.

When I was in the military, we were taught to give information only on a ‘need to know’ basis. I tend to use the same principles in my daily life. This means that if I’m feeling particularly negative, annoyed, grouchy, or whatever and someone ask how I am, like the British, I’ll likely say I’m okay.

In fact, I tend to think being honest about one’s feelings can be dangerous and often regrettable. Back my single days when I would meet someone new, I may have thought this person was wonderful and I would marry him in a heartbeat and bear him many children ... but to tell him this on the first date would likely not have been wise. Instead, I usually waited to see how he felt about me, and whether or not my feelings about him changed.

Similarly, the first time we hit a rough patch and in my despair I imagined we were ruined and I thought he was the most inconsiderate louse on the planet, I would not rush to express this. Again, I would try to assess how he felt and start a careful conversation, which would likely make no mention of my thoughts which likened him to lice.

So I know myself to be someone who is guarded and careful. I do not easily talk about how I feel. I am reluctant to show the cards in my hand. But am I dishonest?

I almost never tell an outright lie. But neither can I say that I always tell the truth.

#19: Blog 'A Song of Fire and Ice' Summaries

One of V’s blog suggestions was that I blog summaries of the first four volumes of ‘A Song of Ice and Fire’. This is not that blog.

The first book in the Song of Ice and Fire series, A Game of Thrones, was 831 pages. The second book, A Clash of Kings, was 1,040 pages. The third book, A Storm of Swords, was 1,216 pages. The fourth book, A Feast for Crows was 1,104 pages. So forgive me, but I did not have time to read and summarize 4,191 pages in order to write this blog.

However, given that A Dance with Dragons, the much anticipated volume has finally been released today after a six-year wait, the least I can do is acknowledge V’s request.

In all honesty, I have not read any of George R. R. Martin’s books and have no plans to read this one. I did not even watch the Game of Thrones t.v. series on HBO. My husband tried to get me to watch the preview for it – but I found it violent enough that I walked away after 5 minutes. I have no stomach for television or movie violence and don't intend on acquiring one. (Although I do appreciate that our friends are watching it and providing free babysitting for us!)

That said, from browsing the Internet, listening to my husband and talking to some friends, I do know that the highly acclaimed Song of Ice and Fire series was inspired by England’s 1400s War of the Roses and that it reportedly has complex story lines and multifaceted characters who defy stereotypes and conventions. Many people have spoken very highly about these books and I’m sure there are fans all over the world tonight who are immersed in their brand-new copy of today’s 1,016-page release.

I pre-ordered A Dance with Dragons online for V awhile back, only to discover today that I didn’t really do him any favours since we now must wait for it to be shipped (imagine how many orders Amazon is processing today!) Seems I missed a chance to prove my love: I should have been lining up at midnight to get a first edition hardcover copy.

Land of plenty

I’m reading a book of letters between Margaret Laurence and her close friend Adele Wiseman. I love reading collected letters, especially when both sides of the correspondence are available. A couple years ago I read the correspondence between Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre. They weren’t published in the same book, so I was juggling various volumes, some English, some French, using the dates on the letters to try and match up the conversation. Read alongside with their biographies, autobiographies and other writings, it was a great immersion into two brilliant minds.

But I digress. What actually prompted me to write about the Laurence/Wisemen correspondence tonight is not the letters as a whole, or even the women behind them, but rather something which came up in passing in one of Laurence’s letters.

She was writing to her friend from London, England in June of 1950. Wiseman was about to move out to England and Laurence was advising her on what to pack. “Food is pretty good here now,” she writes, “with tinned meats, biscuits, jellies, rice, syrup, fruit juices, etc., now off the ration and quite easy to get.” She does add a post script though: “find out if you can bring some sugar – the ration is very small (1/2 lb per person per wk).”

This mention of rations got me wondering how such a concept would fly these days. I can’t imagine our government, in 2011, being able to impose rations on how much, or on what, people could spend.

A restriction on capital markets would fly in the face of all the economic recovery plans that seem based on getting people shopping again. And even if there were rations imposed, given the global world we now live in, people would just go order their sugar or canned goods on-line. Internet business would sky-rocket. Our postal system might even flourish.

In this day and age, restraint is not something which the government or even society in general encourages. One of the biggest challenges faced by people promoting the 100-mile diet or advocating for local foods is that consumers want everything anytime.

We live in the land of plenty as if it will last forever.

#12: Blog about the proper use of the hyphen versus the em dash.

Hyphens, which are narrower than dashes, should be used to break single words into parts, or to join separate words into a single compound (i.e. twentieth-century). Spaces shouldn’t be used before or after hyphens, except in the case of the hanging hyphen (the nineteenth- and twentieth-centuries).

Old-school style (note the hyphen use there) was to use hyphens with many prefixes (such as pre-school) but now-a-days (again, hyphen) most prefixes are not hyphenated (i.e. preschool). However, hyphens are required if you’re adding a prefix to a proper adjective (i.e. how very un-Canadian of him). Hyphens are also used with prefixes such as ex- (ex-boyfriend), self- (self-confident), all (all-encompassing), and with the suffix –elect (mayor-elect).

Generally, use a hyphen when:
1) joining two or more words together to serve as a single adjective before a noun (i.e. a one-way street, a well-known author) but not after the noun (i.e. the author was well known).
2) joining compound numbers (i.e. thirty-two).
3) avoiding confusion or an awkward combination of letters (i.e. re-sign the petition – so as not to confuse with resign).

The ‘en dash’, so named since it is roughly the width of an ‘n’, is slightly longer than a hyphen and is used for periods of time when you might otherwise use ‘to’. For example, I lived in Montreal during the years 1999–2000.

The ‘en dash’ is also used to contrast values or illustrate a relationship between two things. For example: mother–daughter relationship, Ottawa–Toronto flight, a score of 12–3.

The ‘em dash’, a dash which is the width of an ‘m’, is best for informal writing where it can replace commas, semicolons, colons or parentheses and indicates emphasis, an interruption, or a change of thought.

Examples include:
I find that blogging—especially blogging each day—can be quite challenging.
Tonight V’s out playing ultimate—I’m home with the baby.
I’m a big fan of the ‘em dash’ in my writing—although I try to avoid it in formal writing.

The em dash can also be used to replace the rest of a word that wouldn't be appropriate to spell out (a d— fine job).

Spaces are not recommended before or after the en or the em dash.

Hungry Poet Project III

“I used to write poetry,” a guy says to me after asking what I’m doing begging for words.

He’s wearing chinos and a button-up shirt on a Sunday morning, a cup of Starbucks in hand.

My ‘hungry poet’ moniker makes people think of starving artists and it seems everyone has romantic ideas about that.

This guy sits beside me and begins to tell me about the poetry and books he used to read before he got in to high-tech. Eventually he stops talking long enough to write a few words down. They’re good: ‘Immersed. Disconcerting. Hunger’, and I thank him sincerely.

I get ‘Love’ so often the word has become less meaningful than a one-night stand. Peace, serendipity and happiness are losing their charm for me too. All those pretty, smiley words. I guess people who stop and give words tend to be the happy type; or perhaps they uncomfortable writing something negative. How Canadian of them.

I was surprised once when a well-dressed, polite-looking woman wrote ‘anxiety’. Most women write ‘happy or ‘beautiful day’. It felt like this woman made some sort of confession to me, admitted something real.

Sitting cross-legged on sidewalks for an hour or more at a time, I’ve gotten used to reading people; predicting who will stop, who will brush me off. Those high-heeled, belly-button bearing stylish types won’t even look at me; old men will want to chat; young scruffy kids are always good for at least one word, and sometimes a slice of pizza or a gingerbread cookie. And I am often surprised by sudden generosity – a cup of coffee, a blessing, a song.

I see a grey-haired woman coming toward me, holding the hand of a little girl in pink. She looks the type – matronly, friendly – and moving slow enough to read my signs.

“Can you spare a word?” I ask as they get closer.

“I’m sorry dear, I’m from out of town.”

Well, you never can tell.

I begged for words throughout the summer of 2003 – hard to believe it was that ago. It was such a great experience that I can’t help turning my thoughts from time to time to ways to bring it back.

Read more:
Hungry Poet Project
Hungry Poet Project II

Hungry Poet Project II

I’d sit and beg for words a couple hours a time, usually in locations where there was a lot of foot traffic – like the Byward Market and the Glebe or on the fringes of arts and community festivals. I’d come back a few days later a paste a poem near where I’d been sitting – a poem based upon words that had been given to me at that spot.

[you] [are] [Rain]

[I am the Rose of Sharon]

[I dream of you

and] [blush],

(June 7, Glebe Art in the Park)


If they understood what I was asking for, many people were quite happy to ‘spare a word’. Often they’d hold the paper for long minutes, pondering, stroking their chins or gazing off in the distance. They’d write comments about the weather ‘humid’, ‘sunny’ or ‘rain’. They’d reveal pieces of themselves - their faith: ‘God is love’, or lack thereof: ‘delicious ambiguity, or their mood: ‘happy’ or ‘tired’. Sometimes they’d make a comment directed at me.

“Beautiful girl!” wrote an old man with a big belly stretching his faded t-shirt. Then he stood above me, swaying back and forth on his heels.

I looked away and saw a woman approaching, pushing a stroller with a toddler shuffling along beside.
“Can you spare a word,” I asked as they got closer. The baby stared at me with wide, blue eyes. I winked and he ducked his head shyly.

The woman hesitated, then took the outstretched paper. “What’s a word?” she asked her son, squatting down beside him. They always ask the kids. “Can you think of a word to give this lady?”

The kid stared at her with uneasy confusion. It’s an abstract concept for a toddler, so I tried to help him out. “What’s your favourite colour?” I asked.

“Blue,” he mumbled around the thumb jammed between his lips.

“Blue,” repeated his mother triumphantly as she wrote it down. She tore off the sheet with a flourish and handed it to me. She thanked me and began to move off down the sidewalk; the baby’s blue eyes watched me until his stroller blocked the view.

I noticed with relief that the old man had moved on.

Read more:
Hungry Poet Project
Hungry Poet Project III

Hungry Poet Project

I was telling a friend today about my hungry poet days. I’ve actually been thinking a lot about this project that I started back in 2003 and wondering if I could find the time to pick it up again…

For those who may not know about my time as the hungry poet, here is something I wrote about it awhile back – which will be continued and expanded on over the next couple blog posts.

“Can you spare a word?”
“Sorry. I don’t have time for that.”
He doesn’t look back as his shiny shoes clap off down the sidewalk. I should’ve known; suits don’t generally have words for begging poets.

A woman is coming toward me, casually well-dressed. She’s walking slowly enough to have time to read my signs – ‘Spare some WORDS?’ ‘Any WORD helps.’
“Can you spare a word?” I ask when she is within earshot. I hold out a little pad of paper and my lucky purple ballpoint pen.
She slows, smiles uncertainly. Her face looks shiny, like a freshly scrubbed gala apple.
“I’m just asking for words,” I say quickly. There is a small window of time to assure people my intentions are pure.
She takes the pad without speaking. ‘Exfoliate’ is written on it she hands it back to me. I’m guessing she’s just come from the little spa around the corner.
I tear off the word and put it in the shoebox beside me. After five months of begging for words, I probably have close to 1000 words in this box.

Of course, most people are confused by what I’m doing.
“You’re just asking for words? Not money?”
“Just words.”
“It says you’re the hungry poet. Does that mean you want food?”
“Hungry for words,” I say.

Some are suspicious. They’re looking for a catch. Panhandlers on the street are good-for-nothing bums.
“I don’t get it,” a lady wrote and walked away before I could explain that I’m building poems using only other people’s words, that I got tired of the solitary writing life and wanted to involve other people in my craft, or that I want people to think twice about those sitting on the street with cardboard signs.

Read more:
Hungry Poet Project II
Hungry Poet III

#3: Blog about the ending of the water ban in south Ottawa.

I am not sure why my husband asked me to blog about the water ban in Ottawa South – but he did, and so I will. His wish is my command. (Can you read sarcasm?) But the take I have on this issue is not likely to be one which would be popular in this city.

There was quite the stink when the water ban was imposed back on April 27 after the breakdown of a primary water main servicing the south end of Ottawa . The water ban was lifted on June 17, 2011 – less than 2 months later – meaning all water use is permitted, allowing such things as watering lawns and gardens, washing cars, filling pools and hot tubs, and that ridiculous wasteful practice of washing driveways.

Now I admit that my perspective might be a bit different if I actually lived in Ottawa South (as opposed to Ottawa Centre where we have had no bans on water usage), but it is certainly informed by having lived in countries such as Mali, Africa, where water is a scarce commodity, where we would walk to wells and pumps to draw water by hand and carry it home, where water was treated as the precious commodity that we in North America forget it is.

So forgive me, but I do not having a great deal of sympathy for those who were not able to water their lawns for less than two months, given that one in six people in the world lack access to safe drinking water (which Ottawa South residents continued to enjoy throughout the water ban) and that the daily per capita water consumption in North America is 350 litres – compared with 10 or 20 in other parts of the world such as sub-Saharan Africa. Forgive me if I fail to see a crisis in brown lawns and dirty driveways.

One good thing about the water ban – the City of Ottawa offered rebates on purchases of rain barrels. Wouldn’t it be great if because of this short-lived ban, people across the city actually started making long-term changes in their water consumption such as through the installation of water barrels?

Now I’m just talking crazy.

Juggling

If you know me, you’ll know I tend to juggle various engagements and contracts and usually enjoy the variety and challenge which this offers. However, every now and then I hit a point at which I have to temporarily still the balls I’m juggling, assess their weight and decide how much longer I can keep each one in the air.

This is the kind of assessment I’ve been doing lately and I’ve been thinking that many of my strengths in juggling can also be my weaknesses.

I can have, and enjoy having, multiple projects on the go. But the cost of this is that something going wrong with one project can often have a negative impact on others, i.e. if one project suddenly demands more time than I had originally budgeted, I have to scramble to realign the balance.

One of my strengths is that I have a lot of energy and enthusiasm for many issues and causes. But this can be bad when my enthusiasm has me biting off more than I can chew, and since a lot of what I do tends to be in the areas of social justice, advocacy and community development, I tend to invest a lot of myself in any given project – again, something which is both an asset and a liability.

My passion makes me driven and committed. It can also mean that I do not pay enough attention to the personal and financial costs of what I do. So part of my stepping back and looking at things from time to time is to conduct a little reality check on the amount of effort and time I am investing in something and how much it is costing. This is not much fun to do, but seems like a responsible, adult-like exercise.

So I’ve been looking at and weighing each of the balls I’ve been juggling over the last few months, as well as my capacity to juggle them. Some balls have grown so heavy they skew the balance. Some I keep around because their lightness counteracts the heaviness of others.

Once this process is done I can take a deep breath and set things in motion again.

#2: Blog about cricket

In the ‘Spirit of Cricket’ lecture, cricketer and former Sri Lankan team captain Kuman Sangakkara reportedly delivered a scathing criticism of Sri Lanka’s political struggles and reflected on the “the heavy responsibilities on Sri Lankan cricketer to promote reconciliation after the end of the civil war that blighted the country.”

And here I thought cricket was just a bunch of guys tossing a ball and running back and forth. Obviously I have much to learn. My husband has requested I blog about cricket, but as you will see I know very little and 365 words cannot hope to convey the complexity of this sport. But I’ll take a bat at it…

Cricket is a game played with a ball and a bat. That much I did know. However, add in wickets, bowlers, overs, dismissals, etc... and I quickly get confused.

Two teams with 11 players each face off on an oval field at the centre of which is a 22-yard long pitch. The team at bat will try to score as many runs as possible while the other team bowls and fields in attempts to dismiss the batsmen and thereby limit scoring. Once the batting side is all out, the inning is over and the teams switch places.

The bowler will toss a ball from one end of the pitch toward the batsman who will hit it and run. A run is scored by the batsman hitting the ball with his bat, running to the opposite end of the pitch without being ‘dismissed’. There are also wickets at each end of the pitch – stumps that are hammered into the ground and topped with 2 ‘bails’.

There are multiple ways in which a batsman can be dismissed, most of which I do not understand, but which can include the bowling team catching an ungrounded batted ball or knocking a bail off the wicket. But batsmen who have been dismissed must leave the field and be replaced by the next batsman on the team. An inning ends when 10 batters have been dismissed.

There are two batters playing at the same time, something about bowlers only throwing a certain number of overs, strategic things the ‘wicket-keeper’ does…

#4: Blog about the smoke points of various types of nut oils

Fats, though useful for adding flavour to food and for cooking food since they can be heated much more quickly and to a much higher temperature than water, have gotten a bad rep since saturated and trans fats (mainly found in animal fats such as butter, cheese, egg yolks and meat) are associated with obesity, high cholesterol and other health problems.

But there are plenty of healthy and tasty fats which can be used to cook and flavour your food – such as those from plants (like avocados and olives), seeds (like canola and grapeseed) and nuts.

Not surprisingly, given that fats can be produced from such different sources, different fats are best used for certain things and each will perform best within a certain range of temperature – in other words, some are best for high heat cooking while others have more intense flavours and are best drizzled cold in small quantities.

The smoke point of an oil or fat is the temperature at which it gives off smoke. You don’t want to heat oil beyond its smoke point since the flavour of your food could be wrecked and you’ll end up with a smelly kitchen and possibly even a kitchen fire.

Knowing the smoke points can help you know what to expect from various oils and how best to use them and so, as requested, here are the smoke points of some nut oils (all of which are monounsaturated fats):

Almond Oil has a subtle aroma and flavour, typically used in sautés and stir fries. Smoke Point: 420-430F

Hazelnut Oil is a delicate oil, best for salad dressings, marinades and baked goods. Smoke Point: 430F

Macadamia Nut Oil, a versatile oil that is similar in quality to the finest extra virgin olive oil, can be used in sautés, pan fry sears, deep fries, stir fries, grilling, broiling and baking. Smoke Point: 390F

Peanut Oil, a pale yellow oil with a subtle scent and flavour, is primarily used in Asian cooking and salad dressings. Smoke Point: 440-450F.

Walnut Oil is a medium-yellow oil with a nutty flavour and aroma that’s best for sautés, pan fry sears, deep fries, stir fries, grills and broils. Smoke Point: 400F.

#13: Blog about the life cycle of the spider plant.

The Spider Plant, or the Chlorophytum comosum, is a tropical perennial and popular houseplant. It can grow to several inches in height and width and does best as a hanging plant or when it is on a high shelf since it sends out long leaves and cascading stalks – lending it the nickname the ‘airplane plant’.

Spider plants are incredibly easy to grow and will tolerate a lot of neglect. They can also put up with various conditions in terms of lighting and temperature (although they don’t much like midday sun). Hard to kill a spider plant. Apparently they also reduce indoor air pollution.

Spider plants are probably among the easiest plants to propagate since they send out long stalks that produce small flowers on the end. They are hermaphrodites; any one will self-fertilize and produce these flowered stalks which are followed by little ‘baby’ spider plants.

Baby spider plants can easily be potted and grown to a plant that will produce babies of its own – so you can easily have generations of spider plants under the same roof.
One way is to grow the babies into separate plants is to prepare a small pot of soil, place it next to the ‘parent’ plant and bend the stalk until the baby is resting on the soil. Peg it in place or firmly pack some soil to keep it there. Once the baby is growing new leaves, you can snip the umbilical stalk.

Another way is to wait till the baby is sprouting some roots, then snip it off and set it in a bowl or cup of water. After a few days the roots should have grown quite long and you can transfer the little plant to a pot of soil.

So if don’t have a spider plant but find yourself intrigued by this hardy little self-propagator, please don’t bother buying one (although I’m sure they are pretty inexpensive). Just let me know and I’d be happy to pot the next baby one for you. And if it doesn’t survive, I’m sure I’ll have more to give you if the cats don’t get to them first (those flowering stalks hang down in such a tantalizing way...)

Canada Day

We did not join the estimated 300,000 people on Parliament Hill today. Canada Day usually attracts a large crowd to the city’s centre – add in the celebrity royals, William and Kate, and numbers swell beyond reason. Certainly beyond anything I would like to join.

So to celebrate our national holiday, we went, as we often do, the Experimental Farm. Miya is a big fan of the horses there and today she got to ride on a horse drawn wagon and watch some displays of horsemanship. Admittance was free and there were enough extra visitors and people clad in red to make things festive without being pressing or hectic. She even got her first taste of ice cream.

In the afternoon a couple of Miya’s friends came over to join her in the paddling pool and have a bbq. Hanging out with friends and toddlers in the backyard - a relaxing and casual way to mark a national holiday.

I was reading an article recently bemoaning the demise of non-commemorative, non-commercialized regular ol’ parties – where people simply get together to enjoy one another’s company, not because someone is getting a divorce, or planning a wedding, or revealing the sex of their baby, or some other self-referential ‘milestone’.

My approach to parties, at least those I’m hosting, is about as regular and non-commercialized as one can get, in fact they’re more the ‘beer’s in the fridge, food’s on the grill, mi casa es su casa’ type events. There’s a small part of me that would love to host a well-coordinated, trendy affair – but the realities of my life are otherwise.

Parties in our backyard are far more likely to include naked children peeing in the paddling pool than canapés and chilled wine served amid stylish decor.

That said, having a child has actually made me much more social and likely to throw a party – the peeing-in-the-pool variety that is. Miya enjoys playing with her friends and I appreciate our big backyard much more when there are a few toddlers running around in it. And since most of the people we have over seem to have a similar party sensibility to us, it all works out just fine.

#11: Blog about the postal strike being over

The postal strike is over and I’m glad it is for rather selfish reasons: I like sending and receiving mail.

I don’t think the way the strike was settled is going to be good in the long run for Canadians, labour and unions. Although I have talked to a few people in the last few weeks who feel no sympathy towards unions, I’m always concerned when capital and political power can so completely trump the concerns of the workers. The Tories are clearly showing that they have little sympathy for the working class – and while the NDPs put up an impressive fight and staged a record-shattering filibuster, the majority government was able to force their agenda through without concessions.

Those concerned about this country’s democracy and labour relations have many reasons to be concerned.

However, all that said, I admit to being selfishly happy the strike is over.

On the first day that our mail delivery was back, I received my master’s degree in the mail. That was nice.

And more importantly, Miya’s sticker club can get going again.

Back before the strike, Miya was invited to join a sticker club which functions along the lines of a basic chain letter: Miya sends a packet of stickers to the child whose name is 1 of 2 on the list. She then moves child #2’s name to the #1 spot, adds her own name at #2 and sends this off to 6 friends. In theory she will receive 36 packets of stickers in the coming weeks.

When I was a kid I remember joining a few chain letters – and while we never got the promised number of letters or whatever else, we were very likely to get at least some responses and that tended to make it all worthwhile.

I’m not sure how many stickers M will actually receive in the end, but even if it is just a few, she’s already having fun with the project – decorating envelopes to mail out with stickers of her own and posting them in the mailbox. She even got to see the mail van come to collect the letters.

So welcome back to our mail carriers and postal workers.

David loses to Goliath

The developers have bought out community groups opposing them in order to secure their 600-unit development plans for the Convent site.

Ashcroft Developments and the opposition community groups have signed a deal to drop their respective appeals with the Ontario Municipal Board (OMB). The community groups had been in opposition to the height and density of the development. Ashcroft’s response was to make an appeal for even greater height and density. This raised the stakes since community groups stood not just to lose their appeal, but to see Ashcroft awarded a decision that would make things even worse.

As part of the settlement, Ashcroft will give the community a $200,000 donation. Knowing the millions Ashcroft stands to gain, this seems a very paltry sum indeed.

The community groups and individuals involved in the appeal will form a non-profit corporation that will administer the money, the purpose of which is not yet determined.

I’m wondering what happens to the money that has been raised thus far by the community in support of these OMB appeals. Part of the fundraising included the sale of lawn-signs with slogans such as ‘Respect Community Plans’ and ‘Just say no to over development’. I contributed funds not only by purchasing a sign, but also though the fundraiser parade I organized – so I feel an obligation to all who came out and who donated to know what will happen to the funds raised by the community as well with the buy-out money offered by Ashcroft.

I’m discouraged about this for several reasons, not the least of which is that Ashcroft gets to go ahead with their plan without, as far as I can tell, any concessions to the community’s concerns about height and density.

I’m also sad for the community which put its hopes and money into local associations who ended up being backed into a corner and forced to make a deal to avoid further losses. Was this indeed the best course of action – accepting small gains instead of risking big losses? There were few options.

In this story, David does not beat Goliath. Goliath is not only 9-stories taller, he has deeper pockets and friends in all the right places.

Responding to blog suggestions

So yesterday I was given some suggestions on what to blog about. Let’s just get some of these out of the way, shall we?

1) How my husband keeps putting holes in his pants does not merit 365 words. It is likely because he, like many men, stuffs his wallet into his pants pocket and before long there is the outline of the wallet, followed by worn edges and small holes. He also has holes in his shorts and his shirts – which I suspect is simply due to the fact that several of these items of clothing are older than most 5th graders.

10) I do not know what to say about ‘whether a Java object is considered reachable by the garbage collector before its constructor is finished’ since I do not understand the statement. I do know that it is in reference to work my husband does, but that I do not understand either.

My daughter says that Daddy’s work is “pushing buttons” so, building on her insight, I will guess that the Java object’s reach-ability or collection or whatever could be considered dependent upon what buttons are pushed. Miya also knows that garbage collectors are men who drive around in big trucks every week - so perhaps Java objects should simply be left out on the curb.

16) I absolutely agree that yesterweek should be added to the common vocabulary. It already has been in our house.

17) I have found no evidence that beavers eat their young. They are exclusively herbivores and live in extended family units with monogamous mate-for-life parents. (D is invited to provide evidence for his alleged argument that beavers do in fact eat their young. I am sceptical.)

20) I will not quit this competition half-way through – although there are plenty of nights when I have been more than tempted and I’m sure there will be many more. I’m still not convinced of the value of this exercise beyond proving that I can make good on one of my impulsive ideas, but I do resolve to see this one through to the end. I already have enough examples of abandoned half-baked projects (i.e. a 30 foot scarf anyone?).

20 blog suggestions from V

Tonight I don’t know what to blog about. This isn’t unusual. So I solicit suggestions from my husband and here’s what he suggests:

1) Blog about how your husband keeps putting holes in his pants.
2) Blog about cricket.
3) Blog about the ending of the water ban in south Ottawa.
4) Blog about the relative densities and smoke points of various types of nut oils.
5) Blog about man and superman in the philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche (and he compliments me on knowing how to spell Nietzsche).
6) Just blog about Superman.
7) Blog about Sudan.
8) Blog about the bike path on Laurier.
9) Blog about our cat, Bacall, “otherwise known as Pope Pointyface, Feline of the Catolics”.
10) Blog about whether a Java object is considered reachable by the garbage collector before its constructor is finished (???)
11) Blog about the postal strike being over.
12) Blog about the proper use of the hyphen versus the em dash.
13) Blog about the life cycle of the spider plant.
14) Don’t blog about the life cycle of the common grouse (“because they are far too common”.)
15) Blog about the cognitive capability of insect swarms.
16) Blog about why ‘yesterweek’ should be a real word (it being frequently used in my daughter’s vocabulary).
17) Blog about whether beavers really eat their young.
18) Blog about the best way to promote vegetable growth by selective pruning.
19) Blog summaries of the first four volumes of ‘A Song of Ice and Fire’ (since the next volume is coming out this summer).
20) Blog about whether saying you could do something, but choose not to – i.e. quitting a race halfway through but arguing that you could have run its entirety – automatically disqualifies you from being able to say you could do it (this is in reference to my repeated suggestion that I quit this blogging challenge on June 30 having proved that I can do it for half a year).

If any of these topics appeal to you, let me know and I will do my best to write to it. If you have other ideas, they are also welcome. This list doesn’t exactly inspire me.

Another long day

Yesterday was long and my report of it, bleary-eyed. Sorry to say, but you can expect much the same from me tonight.

After a late night and little sleep, it was tough to get up this morning and keep up with my 2 year-old. My mum and I took her to the Children’s Museum – although she mostly wanted to run around outdoors. That was nice, although I perhaps looked like a bit of negligent parent when my daughter would go charging off to an open body of water and I would take a gulp of my coffee and slowly follow after her. I am lucky to be blessed with a cautious child, who upon beating me to said body of water would stop and ask, “Miya touch it?” and if I said no, she would stand and look at it. This is very helpful when one is sleep deprived and would be hard pressed to keep up and snatch a toddler back from jumping into a fountain or river.

In the afternoon I was back at the High Commissioner’s residence for a reception for 350 guests. Keeping that many people in canapés and drinks for a few hours is busy enough that time actually passes very quickly. Thank goodness.

This annual event is one of my favourites – it’s a fundraiser for local women’s shelters with the extra flair of including a fashion and hat show. Standing at the bar, we have ring-side view of the models strutting past in ridiculously high fashion and higher heels.

A local hat maker also attends the event and women can try on a wide variety of hats – like those seen at British weddings or polo matches, not typical Canadian Tilly hats or ball caps. It’s not often that we get to see people sporting purple feathered concoctions and the like on their heads. Makes the event quite fun and festive.

But for all the fun, fashion and festivity, I admit that I am quite wiped, I’ve spent almost a third of the last 30 some on my feet, serving food and beverages, lugging cases of wine, tables and chairs. I am very ready for bed. Apologies and good night.

A long Saturday

It is 1:29 a.m. According to the blogging agreement with V, this blog I am writing now counts as Saturday’s, even if we are in the early hours of Sunday morning, since I have not yet gone to bed. Similarly, although the record-breaking long filibuster debate in the House of Commons ended on Saturday, as long as the debate continued it was still Thursday, June 23rd, in the House of Commons. For the record, it is still Saturday, June 25 here.

And what a long Saturday it has been.

My daughter woke me at 5:30 this morning. Neither V or I could settle her over the next hour, so at 6:30 I begged him to just get up with her for the day. But she was over-tired and very sad, so I spent the next hour holding her so she would be soothed and doze a little in my arms. I had hoped we could both sleep, but I was not so lucky. She slept perhaps 20 minutes. I got a shoulder cramp but not a wink of sleep.

We were out of bed by 8. By around 9 I was working at getting a large tent set up for a dinner for 150 guests. One of the hats I wear is that of a server at the home of the British High Commissioner. Today was the Summer Ball – an annual event for Ottawa’s politicos and upper classes (although all the MP guests did not show given the on-going debate in Parliament).

It’s a fun event to work, although it does make for a very long day. We were setting up for about 4 hours this morning – 22 tables with linens, place settings, chair covers, etc. I came home and had the kind of nap that you wake up from feeling almost more tired than before, had some coffee and got ready to be back for the actual event.

So now, with aching feet and heavy eyes, I come home to find a post-it note saying ‘BLOG...!’ stuck to the door. It would have been tempting to let this one slide, but then I suppose the whole bet would be off. We can’t have that.

Grounded at the airport

Ottawa airport was grounded for a few hours tonight. Apparently ground crews don’t operate during a thunderstorm – such as we’ve been having on and off all day- meaning all departures are delayed and all arrivals have to sit on the tarmac until the storm is over.

When my mum’s flight arrived at 5:10 p.m., passengers were told that there would be a delay of “about 20 minutes”. She wasn’t let off the plane for 3 hours.

Miya and I arrived at the airport around 5:20 and I thought we might be late. But there were a lot of people waiting at the arrivals area, with nobody actually arriving. I spoke with a woman who’d already been waiting over an hour for her friend.

I went to the information desk where the woman took down my mum’s flight number, looked at her computer for awhile, then told me the flight had arrived. This I already knew from reading the display boards. What I wanted to know was when passengers would be let off it.

“Oh, I don’t know that,” she said. That depended on the weather.

Although not very helpful with information, she did give Miya “An Airport to Discover” colouring book and a small box of crayons. That actually was helpful.
Miya and I sat in a restaurant where we could see the planes sitting on the tarmac. The only movement, besides the driving rain, was the occasional drive past of an airport truck. Like watching buns rise.

Luckily my daughter seemed impressed enough with the novelty of the situation – esp. the giant planes outside giant windows. When I told her grandma was stuck on one of those planes she waved at them and hollered, “hi grandma!”

After we’d been waiting over an hour, the power went out in the airport. The back-up generator kicked in right away, but this didn’t seem to be a good sign. Thunder was still rolling outside and the downpour hadn’t slowed. It was also getting on M’s bedtime, so with no information forthcoming about when planes would actually start moving, we headed home empty handed and sent V out later to collect my mum –after she was finally released.

Debate on Postal Strike legislation

The lights are on late in the House of Commons tonight as politicians debate the back-to-work legislation tabled by Conservative Labour Minister, Lisa Raitt. At 10:20 a CBC blogger reports that there are 5 Tory MPs still present, 21 NDPs, 4 Liberals and 1 Elizabeth May.... I’m almost tempted to turn on CPAC.

But to be honest, I don’t understand the ins and outs of this and don’t know how union negotiations work. Why was it the union first initiating rotating strikes, but then the Crown Corporation that locked them out? Why does the back-to-work legislation give union workers a worse deal than that which was offered at the bargaining table? What exactly is at stake if Parliament approves this Bill? Why the filibustering tonight, don’t the Conservatives have a majority that can force anything through?

So many questions. And while I am curious to know the answers, I admit that I’m not quite curious enough to stay up all night researching them. The call of CPAC is not as strong as my pillow.

But I have a feeling that this issue is bigger than we think it is. There must be some politicking going on here – and certainly our new opposition NDP probably feels a significant amount of pressure to come out strong in support of Unions. The Conservatives may think it’s better to come down with a heavy hand and get rid of the problem – gambling that a couple days of grumbling or criticism wouldn’t hurt them as much as a prolonged strike which is already taking a significant toll on mail order businesses and remote communities (oh and brides-to-be, their ‘plight’ seems to come up regularly when I hear this issue debated. How will they get their RSVPs???).

And seeing as I don’t understand this whole issue very well, I am not sure where I stand. Admittedly, I would love to have postal service again. There is a sticker-exchange club that I’ve signed Miya up for which is post-dependent. There are grandparents and a 102 year-old great-grandma to send artwork and photos too. But as much as I don’t understand it all, my lefty-gut says support the unions...

I’ll keep you posted.

Home renos + cats

My mother is coming to visit this weekend, which has been a good incentive to try to finish some home reno projects. So I’ve been mudding and taping drywall, sanding, painting, washing and tidying.

But the cats conspire against me. Well, one in particular.

Bogey, our male cat is not very bright. He’s a cute pet and has some funny little quirks, but a few kibbles short. Often when he sees a strange cat in our backyard, he will attack our female cat, Bacall – especially if it happens to be the cat that looks much like her.

What could possibly be going through that small cat head of his? She is outside and she is inside too!! I must attack!!

It makes no sense to me. And poor Bacall is likely even more confused.

Last night at 4 a.m. we woke to hear cat shrieks and cries. Bogey must have seen something outside that upset him because he began viciously attacking Bacall. Poor thing did the submissive thing of pooping and peeing all over the sun room.
So the paint had barely dried on the walls and already they are stuck with cat fur and pee splatters.

And as I relayed earlier, my attempts to get Bogey to stop peeing in the basement - in hope of having a not quite so stinky ‘guest room’ for my mother – incited Bacall to start peeing upstairs. However, we turned off the Ssscat and Bacall has been appeased. Bogey seems to still be scared to go in the pee spot, so perhaps we’ve made some small progress after all.

Still, trying to get a house in order when there is a toddler to look after and two cats to wreck havoc… well, it’s not easy.

But I should mention that my daughter does like to help out with some of the home reno projects – especially building things. She’s watched me assemble two small pieces of furniture lately: a small bookshelf and a storage chest. Today she learned how to turn the allen key to tighten some screws.

So I guess I shouldn’t fret too much about the home renos – our daughter will be taking over in no time.

Short story: Miracle Shirt (finale)

“Have you thought about your rights?” Robert Peterson asked John and Murielle. He was seated at their dining room table one Monday afternoon, surrounded by officious looking forms.

“My rights?” John asked, staring dumbfounded at the lawyer. With his hair slicked down, clothed in an unmiraculous dress shirt, John looked much like an overgrown school boy.

“The rights to that Jesus shirt.”

Robert Peterson had no faith of his own. He believed Jesus had visited John Lundstom’s dress shirt as much as he believed pigs could fly – but this was the most interesting case of property rights he had come across in 34 years of small-town practice and he wasn’t going to let it slip by.

“I never thought about rights,” John mumbled. “I guess it’s my shirt, but I don’t think I can rightly stake a claim on any miracle.”

Murielle shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

“Yes, it is your shirt,” Robert Peterson said, speaking slowly and carefully in the way he had when dealing with farmers. “But you should think about legalizing your rights to the image, that picture of Christ. What if someone decides to make a copy of it and started selling that?” he asked. “They would be making money off your miracle. That’s not right.”

John and Murielle were not easily convinced. John felt there was something sacrilegious about claiming property rights on a miracle; Murielle did not welcome scrutiny. But Peterson was persistent and not only secured their rights for the image, but a significant percentage of profits for himself.

Peterson’s sister-in-law took a photo of the shirt and had postcards made up in the city. They sold for 50 cents at the church, in Peterson’s office and at Betty’s Sears outlet - where she advertised the miracle shirt as available in her catalogue and watched her business grow. Betty wondered how Murielle had got the image of Jesus onto the shirt. If they had been better friends she would have asked. She didn’t believe for a minute it had been a miracle; but she decided Murielle was a smarter cookie than anyone gave her credit for. Everyone knew that since the miracle John had stopped hitting his wife.

Short story: Miracle Shirt (part vi)

Whether or not the congregation believed Father Michael’s less than convincing presentation of the miracle shirt, curiosity proved to be as good as faith for improving a church attendance. People who hadn’t darkened a church door in years began attending services in the following weeks. Word of the miracle had spread like wildfire. Business was booming at the Sears outlet and Murielle had never done so much entertaining in her life.

Friends and distance acquaintances were suddenly making excuses to drop by the Lundstrom farmhouse for visits at all hours of the day. While she served coffee in her musty living room, Murielle could see her guests peering around the house, as if expecting Jesus or a saint to suddenly appear. With all this close examination, she became very conscientious about her house cleaning. The baseboards have never been cleaner. The curtains never before pressed.

Murielle also had to make three pots of coffee each day and at first spent a good deal of time baking squares or cookies so she would have something to offer. But many ladies came bearing plates of home baking, so soon she no longer had to make anything herself. She offered up one lady’s home baking to the next, cleared space in her freezer and began regularly taking leftovers to the old folks’ home on Preston Street.

She and John had agreed that they would say the shirt was discovered with its strange marking when Murielle brought it in off the clothesline. But neither of them was very good at lying, so the story came out a little different each time. Still, their fumbled retelling only served to turn the story into a myth and overtime everyone had their own version to believe in.

Two weeks after the shirt had been on display at church, Murielle went into her backyard to take the clothes off the line and found a woman rifling through her laundry. The woman was shamefaced but also defiant. She admitted she was looking for another image of Jesus. “Or maybe of Mary,” she said wistfully. “I would really love to see Mary.”

When Murielle was folding the laundry later, she noticed a sock was missing.

Short story: Miracle Shirt (part v)

Father Michael felt a sick nausea of fear rising from his stomach. Sweat began to bead on his forehead. But he fought to keep a calm authority in his voice. Reaching out to the shirt, he traced his long finger over the brow, the nose line, the shadow of lips – desperately praying that the others would see what he did.

When he heard the first murmur of ‘I see it,’ he nearly shouted with relief. He knew his credibility had been dangling like the shirt. Aware he still had but a small window to convince the whole congregation, he declared in what he hoped was an assured and generous tone that they could file past and see for themselves this image of their Lord.

Hesitant but curious, the congregation rose and came forward. One by one, they stood before the hanging shirt, squinting and tipping their heads until they were satisfied enough to move on. Upon resuming their seats, they immediately began whispering with their neighbours. Mureille did her best to ignore them. When it was her turn in front of the shirt, she paused as if considering the miracle. Really she was regretting that she hadn't finished ironing the front before burning the back.

When it was Betty Miller’s turn, she studied the shirt for a few minutes then exclaimed out loud, “Why that’s John Lundstrom’s shirt! I ordered it for him myself.” Betty Miller worked at the Sears outlet and took all the catalogue orders.

Betty’s declaration spread along the line of viewers and into the pews. All eyes turned to Murielle and John.

Murielle’s face flushed a deep red. She had told the priest she preferred not to be mentioned in connection to the shirt. Though she had been coming to church each Sunday for the five years she’d been married to John, she would never be Catholic born and bred and she had never felt fully accepted here. She did not think this miracle would be her ticket in. Unlike Father Michael, she had fully expected that the congregation would need some convincing - and if it was judged false, she didn’t want anyone to think this had been her idea.

Parade!

As soon as I woke up this morning a list of things to do started running through my head. Get the coffee, pack the noise makers, check if the bubble machines work... Today was parade day.

There was a lot of last minute rushing around this morning – and last night there’d been a late trip to Walmart to exchange a broken bubble machine – but with help from V and a great co-organizer, we had everything ready before 10.

V was at our destination park, waiting with coffee, lemonade and baked goods for a bake sale. M and I headed off to the starting point. The weather was perfect – couldn’t have asked for a better day.

M and I met a couple of families on the way over, which gave me hope that we would not be the only ones to show up. A reporter from the local community paper was waiting when we arrived. She asked me how many I expected and I said honestly that I had no idea. At this point we were about 10 and I was worried that might be all.

But I shouldn’t have worried. We have such a great community and word of the parade had gone viral on several different networks – and by word of mouth. There were probably 60 or more people who turned out – young and old.

Two guys from a local band led the parade – setting a great marching rhythm on various drums. People had been encouraged to dress fun and bring noise makers – so there were whistles, rattles, kazoos, cow bells, recorders... a great sound. There were also the requisite girls dressed as princesses and fairies and boys in super hero costume. M and I went with a beach theme and she wore a giant straw hat and a purple lei.

We got the park and our little bake sale was swarmed by hungry kids. Many people gave above the suggested price and we managed to raise $200 for the community’s OMB appeal.

What a fun morning. Love this community.

p.s. I hope to be able to add some pictures from friends to this blog soon. Here’s a link to a video someone made.

Short story: Miracle Shirt (part iv)

While studying in seminary, Father Michael had been involved in a small drama troupe which put on plays at Easter and Christmas. His sense of dramatic flair was revived as he imagined how best to present this miracle shirt. He couldn’t be too flashy or the shirt would be overshadowed. But to drape the shirt over a chair wouldn’t do either. In the end he decided to rig a clothes line pulley behind the altar so that when the time came to unveil the miracle the shirt would glide out of the alcoves, like an angel alighting in their midst.

A week later, after tantalizing the congregation with hints and suggestions for the better part of his service, Father Michael gave a nod to young Bobby Miller in the wings, who began to reel out the line. The shirt jerked into view, swaying and twisting with Bobby’s every tug. It turned on itself so that Father Michael had to go over and straighten it, stretching it out so the burn was clearly visible.

A puzzled hush fell over the church and Murielle could hear wasps buzzing angrily against the window panes, battering themselves against the glass like maddened prisoners. Everyone was waiting. Some wondered if Jesus would appear, wearing this stained shirt. Others wondered if the shirt would turn into a pair of wings. A couple of women hoped it would take itself off the line and fold into a laundry basket - that would be a miracle worth believing in. Old lady Pearl wondered why the priest was showing his dirty laundry in the middle of service.

Seeing blank faces and puzzled eyes, Father Michael realized he must explain. “It’s the image of Christ,” he said, in as much of an authoritative tone as he could muster.

The faces still looked puzzled and Father Michael sensed an undercurrent of anger, like that of petulant children who have been promised a treat that does not materialize. Quickly, fighting to keep the whine of anxiety from his voice, the pale priest explained this was the face of Christ, here on the shirt. There was still no reply, only sceptical silence and the insistent buzzing of wasps.

Short story: Miracle Shirt (part iii)

On Sunday, Father Michael told his congregation that the Lord had visited a home in their parish and left a sign of his presence. Murmurs rustled through the pews. This could be the most exciting thing since old lady Pearl was mistakenly thought to have died. Phone calls were being made to family members when Pearl sat up in bed and demanded a glass of water. She was sitting in the front row today, although she hadn’t heard a word Father Michael said since she’d been stone deaf since that brush with death.

“A miracle has visited the parish of Ross Creek,” Father Michael declared and the word ‘miracle’ seemed to reverberate from the church walls. “Next Sunday a special mass will be held and you will all be witnesses.”

Father Michael stood in the doorway after mass shaking hands as people filed past. No one talked about the weather or inquired after his health. They wanted to know what the miracle was and whose home was ‘visited’. But the priest, grinning like the Cheshire cat, told them to wait for next Sunday. He wanted to keep them guessing. He also wanted them to come back.

Murielle didn’t ask any questions when she filed past the priest. She was busy wondering how her husband’s shirt would be presented and if it mattered that the armpits were stained.

The question of presentation was discussed over tea the next day. Father Michael sat perched on the edge of John and Murielle’s faded, floral-patterned sofa, holding his saucer with his left hand, the tea-cup delicately in his right. “It should really be displayed in a glass case,” he said.

Murielle imagined the shirt hanging behind glass like new clothes on display in the Sears window on Main.

“There probably isn’t time though,” the priest added sadly.

He wanted to do this right, but he didn’t want to wait too long and lose interest from his unruly flock. He had been praying for a miracle to bless his struggling ministry for more than 15 years. This was not what he had expected, but he was prepared to make do with what he was given. Who was he to question?

2011 Federal Budget

I’m a bit late in blogging about this, since I’ve been trying to make sense of it – but here are some comments on the June 6 Federal Budget, with special attention to justice and public safety. (As an aside, if you want to see some hilariously bad photo editing, take a look at the cover of the Throne Speech.)

This budget was much the same as the one the Conservatives unsuccessfully tabled in May. They trotted it out again post-election and their majority passed it.

While you might expect me to be completely critical, I will say that the promised $20-million over the next two years for youth crime prevention programs could be a step in the right direction. Although this allocation is primarily targeted for youth at risk of gang involvement, hopefully it will support community-led initiatives that provide restorative, holistic responses to many at-risk youth.

The budget also allocates $26-million for victim services with an aim to “promote access to justice and participation by victims in the justice system.” Apparently there is some lack of clarity here, since the text of the budget says this $26-million is going to the Federal Victims’ Ombudsman, but the details of the budget show the funds to be distributed among other offices and departments. It would be good to see more support for victims, but I hope this is not just lip service, as some of the previous Conservatives initiatives seem to have been.

One of the reasons I didn’t write about the budget earlier was that I was trying to find out why there was nothing in the budget addressing the price tag on the crime omnibus bill that is expected to be tabled soon. This bill will be made up of 10 or more pieces of law and order legislation that weren’t passed during the previous session. The government has been very reluctant to come forward with the costs of all this ‘tough on crime’ legislation – indeed, their refusal to do so is what brought their last government down.

So perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s not addressed in the budget. The costs will be revealed only after it’s too late to stop it.

Short story: Miracle Shirt (part ii)

John was Catholic, devout in a childish, clumsy way. Insistent on their weekly church attendance, he kneeled in reverence and took communion directly into his open mouth, not the way Murielle did - holding out her hands so she could feed herself. She didn’t believe it was the body of Christ anyway since she saw the wafer crackers for sale at the Bible Bookstore on Fifth Avenue and she knew for a fact that Father Michael drank off the rest of the wine each Sunday after mass.

On John’s request, Father Michael came to their house and confirmed that the burn was indeed the image of Our Lord Jesus Christ. He too made the sign of the cross - over himself and over the shirt Murielle had draped over a kitchen chair. Before the priest arrived she had tried various ways of presenting the shirt: on a hanger, on a coat hook, or folded on the table. Nothing looked right. When she heard his car pull into the yard she’d quickly tossed it over a chair.

“The Lord has blessed this house,” Father Michael said. He felt a rush of excitement, of envy.

Murielle looked from the shirt to the cracked linoleum, the sagging ceiling and around the rest of the ramshackle house that wore years of neglect. The windows were dull, the roof leaked; the yellow and pink wallpaper was peeling. She looked again at the burnt shirt and sighed.

But John was breathless with agreement. He and Father Michael stood side by side with the shirt reflecting in their eyes. Father Michael was dressed in black, the thin white clerical collar tightly wrapped around his neck. His hands and face were pale; the skin under his eyes a consumptive yellow. His chest was like a birdcage. John, towering above him, had a torso like an oil drum. He wore a checkered flannel shirt, faded blue jeans and old boots. His neck was thick and red with wiry, rust-coloured hairs extending up into a dense thatch on his head and down into a thick coat on his muscular back.

“This is a sign,” Father Michael said.

“A sign,” John repeated.

“A sign,” Murielle sighed.

Planning a parade

A good friend of mine is event coordinator extraordinaire. She organizes multiple events throughout the year – rain, snow or sun – with artists, musicians, community groups and more. She puts on concerts, festivals, farmers markets, public art displays, outdoor curling bonspiels... Makes me often wish that I lived in Kitchener/Waterloo.

I, however, am not an event coordinator. For starters, I am an introvert. I don’t think anti-social people make good social planners. For second, I do not have a mind for the details. Carrying off a good event means managing all the 101 little details – 98 of which I am likely to forget about/be unaware of.

But sometimes my impulsiveness gets the best of me and I recently found myself suggesting that I organize an event. And then, since I wanted it to be a success, I told people about it and encouraged them to tell others. And before I knew it I have an event on my hands that I am now racing to coordinate. Again, I wish I lived in K/W and could tap in the genius of my friend. She would know what to do.

It was so simple to being with: have a parade.

The idea had been circulating in my head for awhile – planted by an episode of Sesame Street (and Elmo’s ‘little furry red monster parade’) and a trip to the Children’s Museum at Easter in which M and I happened to get swept up in a bunny parade – something she still talks about. Why not organize a parade in our little neighbourhood?

Then there’s been all this business of the community fighting for the park and pathway that’s across the street from our house. We’ve managed to stop the developers from cutting through our pathway, but the battle continues to get the developers to be reasonable about height and density. So why not make the parade a celebration of our pathway and a fundraiser for the community OMB appeal?

Then we need something happening at our arrival destination. Bubble party perhaps?

And then perhaps a bake sale/coffee/lemonade to tie into fundraising for the appeal?

This could either go very well and be great fun, or be a humiliating disaster.

Short story: Miracle Shirt (part i)

It’s been a weekend full of bbqs and hanging out in the backyard. Great to catch up with old friends and make some new ones, but at the end of the weekend I’m feeling rather uninspired about writing.

So once again I’m going to re-work an old story I’ve written – this one being a rather tongue-in-cheek take on a modern ‘miracle’.

Murielle had heard the Lord works in mysterious ways. She just never thought he’d use one of her appliances.

Distracted for a moment while ironing, she suddenly smelled burning. Snatching the iron off her husband’s white shirt, she discovered a bold burn between the shoulders. It was as wide as the iron, crisp and brown, pockmarked with steam holes.

This was John’s best shirt and Murielle was sick about what he’d do when he saw it. Her husband had a temper that was quick as a prairie fire; it flared up and roared at the slightest spark. But when John saw the shirt instead of burning red, he turned pale.

“Jesus,” he whispered and Murielle held her breath. But his thick hand didn't lift to strike - instead it made the sign of the cross. “It’s Jesus,” he said in a voice tight with fear and awe.
It took a few seconds for Murielle to understand what John was getting at. He just kept staring that shirt she held before him, his mouth gaping half open.

She turned the shirt around and held it at arm’s length, squinting at it through her wire-rimmed glasses. Closing one eye, she could make out brow-like arches along the top, an angular line cutting through the centre, a thin curve along the bottom. It still looked like a burn to her; but if John saw Jesus, and seeing Jesus kept him from losing his temper, she wasn't about to argue.

“Sure, okay,” she said hesitantly, casting a wary eye at her husband. She wondered if he wasn’t playing with her - like a barn cat with a mouse - but he was crossing himself again with shaking hands.

“This is a miracle, Murielle,” John said.

“A miracle?”

“Well how the hell else would Jesus get himself on my clothes?”

Cats 1, Ssscat 0

Before we had a baby, I would spend a lot of time working in my home office and Bogey, our male cat, would sit on my lap or on the floor near my feet. After Miya was born he would sit outside our bedroom door and glower at me, apparently jealous. It was months before he’d sit on my lap again.

We didn’t notice at first, but soon it became apparent that his protests weren’t limited to evil looks – he was also peeing in the basement, usually on places where the concrete has been exposed during our renovations.

We’d clean it up, only find more pee a few days later. Horrible smell.

I asked advice from our always helpful local pet food store and they suggested putting his food dish near where he was peeing, since most cats won’t pee near where they eat.

Well, no such luck with this guy. He has no qualms about urinating inches away from his food dish. We tried ‘urine-off’ to remove the smell, but still more pee.

So last time I was the pet food store, I asked for any other suggestions for stopping a cat from peeing outside the litter box. The girl suggested ‘Ssscat’ – a device that uses a motion sensor to trigger a strong puff of air. Cats hate the sound and the air in their faces, so this little canister can effectively keep cats away from plants, rooms, pee-spots etc.

I brought it home and set it up near Bogey’s favourite pee-spot, curious to see what would happen.

It was other cat, the wily female Bacall, who first triggered it. She leapt back and warily watched it from a distance, obviously displeased. I never actually saw Bogey trigger it, but it’s obvious that he is afraid of it since we now have to coax him downstairs to where his food dish is.

So far, there has been no pee from Bogey in the protected zone. Unfortunately, Bacall seems to be stressed by this device and has now started protest peeing upstairs – on M’s laundry bag, on my book bag!

So tonight the device is off. We are not faring well in this pee battle.

Summer hours

After a few days of record-breaking heat, it was a welcome relief today when temperatures stayed under 20 degrees – even though I’d invited a couple of Miya’s little friends (and parents) over for a paddling pool party and bbq.

Tonight there’s a cool breeze blowing through our open windows, carrying with it the music of outdoor concerts that are part of a local street festival. It sounds like summer, but the cool remnants of spring in the air are refreshing.

It must be something about being in a northern climate – as the days grow longer, we want to make the most of them. The long hours of sunlight seem to cry out to be filled with activity. In the dead of winter, when it's dark by the time you get home from work, it seems fitting to want to curl up with a bowl of stew and a good movie. But in the summer, well that is when we should be outside soaking up every last ray of the late-setting sun.

It is always a bit of an adjustment for me when I travel to or live somewhere close to the equator. In Canada, we associate warm days with long days, warm night with nights where the sun still lingers on the horizon late into the evening. But the closer you get to the equator, the more likely the sun is to set at the same time, no matter the season. It feels strange at first to experience hot, humid evenings that have little more sunlight than winter nights.

I remember the first few months of Miya’s life, when sleep was intermittent and broken. I was grateful for the long summer hours of daylight. Getting up at 5 a.m. didn’t seem quite so bad when the sun was already up too.

And this evening, even though the air was too cool for the paddling pool to be much of a success, it was still lovely to sit around with friends outside, eating dinner and playing with our kids. The sun wasn’t even thinking about setting before the party broke up in time to take kiddies in for bed. The long days of summer have begun.

just like a knitted flag...

There’s a gazebo in our local park whose circumference is approximately 42 feet.

Tonight my friend and I were out measuring the gazebo. We wanted to see how much more knitting we have to do.

We’re making knitted flags for our park – a park that already has fantastic community engagement and is decorated with paintings and flowers. Adding a bit knit graffiti seems perfectly appropriate.

My friend’s been working on flags since Christmas, teaching herself to knit by experimenting on these little colourful triangles. (A great way to learn!) We measured her flags tonight and she has a little over 12 feet so far. I have almost 8 feet of flags (each one being about 7 inches wide). So we’re not quite halfway there.

I’m organizing a kids’ parade for June 18th. We’re going to walk along the pathway that the community has been fighting so hard to protect and end up in the park for a bubble party. There will be lots of music and bubbles and community fun – so if you live in Ottawa I hope you will join us – and it would be nice to have our flags up for the event. But that means we have some serious knitting to do before the 18th – or just we hang up what we have and finish the circle over the summer.

It’s fun to have another knit graffiti project to be working on – and great to have a co-conspirator. In the summer knitting projects aren’t quite as obvious as they are once the weather is colder and mitts, scarves, hats and sweaters are in demand. But knitting up colourful little flags with scraps of yarn lets me keep my needles clicking away merrily.

In the photo you can see Bogey, our cat, guarding one of my flags. Our cats are great fans of my knitting, (although Bogey’s affections sometimes go a little too far with the door worm I made for M’s room). If I forget to put away my knitting at the end of the night we’ll often find a trail of yarn leading through the chair legs, down the stairs, around corners, under furniture...
Endless fun to be had with yarn.