My Book Sherpa

So, I read quickly. I always have. People have accused me of skimming, pretending to read, etc. and quizzed me on the contents of my reading. They usually never bothered me again after I was able to answer any questions they asked me. I've never taken a speed reading course; I've just always been able to read that fast. 

 

As you might imagine, being able to read quickly has a number of advantages. I've rarely had to renew library books, readings for classes or workshops don't take very long, and I can actually re-read entire textbooks when I'm studying for exams. I can also get through exams faster - in a multiple choice exam, I may take as long as anyone else to figure out the right answer, but I've been able to read the question and options more quickly.

The disadvantages of reading quickly are more bothersome when travelling. I can carry about 2-3 books in my travel backpack. Although I can read in a car (yay for no motion sickness!), I usually don't, since I prefer to look at the scenery and I'm often navigating or reading on behalf of the driver. The problem arises when I travel by plane. I can't usually sleep on a plane, so I read. My 2-3 books are usually done by the time we've reached our destination - then what? Ditch a book or two and buy more? Not possible - I tend to only buy books that I've read previously and have liked enough to own.

A few years ago, we went to Barbados right before Christmas. Actually, our travel plans were thus: fly to Toronto, go to the Terracotta Warriors exhibit at the ROM; fly to Barbados the next day, spend a week there; fly back to Toronto, spend a couple of days with friends just north of the city; take a train to Kingston; spend Christmas with Ken's sister and her family and Ken's parents; fly back to Saskatoon. Loads of time to read in transit. Ken and I exchanged Christmas presents before we left home (I was so not dragging or shipping a Black and Decker workbench to Kingston). When he gave me his gift, Ken said, "let me know if it's not something you want, because I can return it." Well. It was an e-reader (a KOBO, if you're interested). It came loaded with I don't know how many books (the older, out of copyright ones) and the capacity to carry 1000 books. 1000 BOOKS, Y'ALL! I was never going to run out of things to read again. And all in something that weighed as much as the average paperback, and was only about 1-2 cm thick.

As an added bonus, I could borrow e-books from the Saskatoon Public Library. Just download the e-books onto a computer, then transfer them to the e-reader. From anywhere. I "went to the library" in Kingston and in B.C.; if the internet connections hadn't been so dreadfully slow, I would have borrowed books while in Viet Nam. Just imagine - "What are you doing?" "I'm at the library. Shhh. " "But... you're sitting on the couch, drinking scotch, and cackling..." "Yes. SHHHH."

Now, make no mistake. I love physical books. I love the way they feel, smell, and look. It's much easier and quicker to flip back or forward in a "real" book. You can throw an annoying book (The Murder of King Tut, dear God) out the window without worrying about damaging any other books or technologies. I love old books, and the crafts of bookbinding and typesetting. But for sheer carrying convenience, I'm grateful for the invention of e-books.

Now, confession time. I was an...unusual child. ("Really??", chorused everyone who actually knows me.) I've always loved to read, and can't remember I time when I couldn't. When I was in grade 1, I used to schlep a big flipping black garbage bag full of books with me to school and back every day. These were books from our classroom which I really liked, and wanted to have with me at all times, in case I wanted to read them. (I'd like to take this opportunity to thank Mrs. Russell, my grade 1 teacher, for her patience and apparent sense of humour). Anyway, every time I take my e-reader somewhere, I feel that six year old grinning. And massaging her biceps.

Osteology and You

One of the classes I took last term was human osteology - lots of work (you have to be able to identify bones and their features in fragment form), but an excellent class.  I thought that I'd share some of my knowledge and insights from the class:

1. If you pass out during an exam, campus security has to come. Your backpack will get a ride to the Student Health Centre; you will walk over, accompanied by a security officer. (Ok, so that actually has nothing to do with osteology. But it's something I learned!)

2. There are three general types of joints in the human body (synovial, cartilaginous, and fibrous) and your vertebral column contains all three.

3. My favourite bone group is the vertebrae, partially because of the fun fact noted above, and partially because so many diseases, biomechanical markers, etc. are evidenced there.

4. My favourite individual bone is the sphenoid. It's complex, and sometimes difficult to identify in fragment, but very pretty. It reminds me of a butterfly, or this flower.

5. In trying to figure out which side is up for tarsals, metatarsals, and pedal phalanges (ankle bones, foot bones, and toes), the sides that are bulgy, rough, have grooves for nerves and ligaments, and generally look uncomfortable, are invariably the sides that you're walking on. Plantar fasciae are your friends.

6. There is incredible variation in number of bones per individual, bone robusticity, skull shape, etc., all within normal parameters. The average person may or may not have exactly 206 bones. Children have more. 

7. Most of the bone names are in Latin, with a few in Greek. They translate to some really....interesting things:

• Coracoid process (part of your scapula)= crow (shaped like a crow's beak)
• Malleolus (exterior ankle bones)= little hammer. 

Some of the really fascinating meanings got me wondering about who thought up the bone names in the first place and the circumstances under which the naming occurred. Here's one possible scenario:

Act 1, Scene 1: Somewhere in Europe, several hundred (or more) years ago. 

" Ok, y'all. We've got 15 articulated skeletons, 327 individual bones, vellum, ink, quills, and 47 bottles of Antonio's papa's home-made wine. LET'S DO THIS THING!!!"

Act 2, Scene 1: Several hours, and 34 bottles of Antonio's papa's home-made wine later.

"BOOBS! Heh heh heh.....skull has boobs. Mastoid process!! Skullboobs...heh heh heh....boobs."

"Duuuude...you could totally drink out of this thing. It's like a little wine goblet... for, like, squirrels."

"Yo, Bartholomeus! Wake up! You gettin' this %$^# down, bro?"

8. It's somehow satisfying to be able to identify and use the correct term for the exact bone that you've injured, stubbed, whatever. For example:

Slipping on ice before taking osteology: " Aggggrrrrrhhh! Owowowow! Goatbothering%^&^%&$#!!"
Slipping on ice after taking osteolgy: "I have landed on my sacrum! Aaaahhhhh! %$%$#*&@onastick!!

Much better.

Long Haired Freaky People Need Not Apply

Although, I've never actually seen one that says that in so many words.

Some people collect snow globes from different places they've visited; some collect miniature spoons (there's a fine collection in my mom's basement, if anyone's interested....). Lots of people like to take pictures of particular things in different places - architecture styles, street lights, statuary, their teenage children looking bored in front of any of the previous items, etc.

I've realized over the years that I tend to collect pictures of signs from various places, usually those yellow 'caution'-type ones. Sometimes, it's because I've never seen one like it before (in Saskatchewan, we don't have many signs warning against the possibility of high water or rock falls), but mostly because I think they're funny.

For example, I present you with the first sign photo I ever took:

This was from Pacific Rim National Park. Up to that point, the 'Slippery When Wet' signs I'd seen had mostly shown the stick person seemingly sitting on the ground, dejected, having already slipped and fallen. This one actually depicted the person in the act of slipping, quite spectacularly.

Some of the sign pictures I've taken are unintentionally hilarious:

I don't know if you can read this; most of the rules are pretty standard. Except for #7, which states "Bicycles, motorbike, pets, fire-arms, explosives, inflammable, stinking things and even prostitutes aren't allowed in the hotel."

Well, dammit. I was planning on bringing a ripe durian, an open bottle of fish sauce, a hand grenade, my bike, and my new best friend into my room. What am I supposed to do tonight instead?

This was from a hotel in Hoi An the first time we visited Viet Nam. We stayed at the same hotel this time, and we were both pleased to note that the rules hadn't changed.


 As I mentioned earlier, some of the signs warn of dangers that you don't typically face in Saskatchewan:

 

There's also the series that I like to call "Bad Things That Can Happen Near Cliffs": 

And my own personal favourite: "God Will Smite You"

 

Of course, these signs are here for our protection, so no matter how hilarious they may be, it's important to remember: 

Never step on anyone's head, and of course: 

Always watch where you walk.

A Vignette from Another Place

Today had been one of those odd ones, to say the least.

Buster had always been proud of being born and raised in a barn. He felt that, along with a wholesome upbringing and an appreciation for hearty outdoor activity, the experience had given him the flexibility and resilience to cope with unusual situations and unexpected change. Like the time he fell asleep on the back of his favourite sheep and woke up, still on Prunella, but in the middle of a nausea-inducing trailer ride to a new farm.

Or the time he woke up from a nap and found that the humans had brought home another cat. In kittenhood, Buster had learned to at least understand, if not speak 7 different animal languages (the low tonals of Bovish are almost impossible for a cat to replicate), but had never really learned the swear words in any of them. (It's a little known fact that domestic poultry curse almost constantly, but their language's grammar and syntax are difficult even for native speakers.). Over the next couple of days, Buster learned 27 new words, none typically used in polite company, from the new cat.

Anyway, today had started out normally with a bit of breakfast (he hadn't felt much like eating in the past few days), followed by two (!!) saucers of milk from the female human. He figured that he must have taken a nap at some point, because now he was......here.

And here was wonderful. Sunny and warm, with a mild breeze. He began to run through the field of grass he found himself in, pausing to leap at the occasional butterfly or listen to bird chatter. He stopped and rested for a bit, enjoying the sun's warmth on his fur; he hadn't felt strong enough to run in a long time, and wasn't quite back in shape yet.

Buster couldn't explain how or why, but somehow he knew that he eventually needed to reach a particular cottage and garden. He rose, stretched thoroughly and continued on his way, occasionally veering off-course to track a flicker of motion through the grass. Soon, he reached what he knew was his destination - there was the cottage, with its rose garden in full bloom. If he squinted, he could just make out the human, building something in the vegetable patch.

Then he saw her. The plump little tortoiseshell, basking in a sunny spot just outside of the shade of a peach tree. "I wonder if she still dreams about creme brulee?", Buster giggled to himself. He knew what he had to do next. Crouching low in the grass, he approached as stealthily as he could. When he reached the dozing cat, he leaned in, stuck his nose firmly in the nape of her neck, and sniffed as hard has he could.

As expected, the other cat immediately leaped to her feet, shrieking, "Eeeeeewwwww!" at the top of her lungs. She spun to face Buster, left paw cocked back. When she saw him, her round eyes got even rounder. "YOU!! I thought I was done dealing with you! I'll get you, you $#%@&!"

Buster turned and sprinted for the cottage, shouting, "I missed you too, Paris!" over his shoulder. He continued to run and look back, making sure that he was ahead of Paris (for a small cat, she had a powerful punch), but not so far ahead that she would give up the chase.
__________________________________________

2013 has been a good year in many ways; unfortunately, it's also the year in which we started out with two cats and ended up with none.

Buster and Paris were 17.5 and 16, respectively, when they passed on (that's 86 and 80 in cat years). They had long, adventure-filled lives, and in turn, filled our lives with adventure. They were both, in their own ways, unique personalities; I don't think there will ever be others like them.

They were loved beyond measure and are sorely missed.

Sky of Blue, Sea of Green

So, later today is a momentous day in the history of sport in my province of Saskatchewan. Not only is Regina hosting the 101st Grey Cup, the annual championship of the Canadian Football League (CFL), but the Saskatchewan Roughriders are playing, representing the Western Division against the Eastern Division champion Hamilton Tiger Cats. It will be wild - Roughrider fans have the reputation of being the most loyal, knowledgeable, critical, loudest, wildest, paint-yerself-green-and-stick-a-watermelon-on-yer-head fans in the league....and that's just for the exhibition games. I can't imagine what a home game championship game will be like.

It's not easy being a Roughrider fan sometimes. The team celebrated its 100th anniversary a couple of years ago; since its inception as the Regina Rugby Club, the team has won only 3 league championships, in 1966, 1989, and 2007. That's not to say that there haven't been good teams -in the  late 1950s to mid-70s, the team quite consistently made the playoffs, but either didn't advance to the Grey Cup, or did and lost, sometimes in a heartbreaking fashion (Tony Gabriel, I'm lookin' at you). After the mid-70's, the team embarked on a 20 or so year stretch of losing seasons.

Strangely enough, that's when I started to be a Rider fan. Not because I was a glutton for punishment, but I think because that's when I became aware of the team. As a child, I knew the team existed; I'm sure the 1976 Grey Cup game was on TV at our house. I remember having this idea that the 'cast' syllable in Ron Lancaster's (arguably one of the greatest CFL quarterbacks ever) name, was associated somehow with his seemingly frequent injuries towards the end of his career (I was 7. And weird. Give me a break).  I look back on those years of drought now, and especially on the accomplishments of some of the individual players, in amazement. This year, the Riders had three receivers with over 1000 reception yards; in 1991, one of the two other years in which that happened, the team had a 6-12 record. There are Roughriders from that era whose records still stand, who played on mediocre to flat-out bad teams.

Since the bad years, we've had good years, great years, erratic years, and frustrating years. I still find it odd to hear the Riders referred to as an 'elite' team in the league; it doesn't seem real to someone who lived through the 1980's, and started watching the 1989 Grey Cup game hoping that the team would at least put up a good fight (spoiler alert: they did.) The losing 2011 season was a nightmare -it seemed as though the previous winning seasons had been a dream, and we were waking up to the reality that nothing had changed; or that someone had sold their soul to get the winning seasons and it was now payback time.

It's not easy being a Roughrider player or coach sometimes. The best fans in the league, to be sure, but those fans won't hesitate to let you know that you should have caught that pass/called a different play/thrown to a different receiver/not thrown at all/ran/blocked/taken up polo... you get the idea. The community is also small enough that players and coaches are easily recognizable, and people may even know where you live, should they wish to express their feelings in a more direct fashion. The common saying is that the most popular guy in town after the Riders have lost a game is the backup quarterback.

But throughout the seasons, the fans have stayed. Other CFL teams have had bad seasons; even several seasons' worth. For those other teams, this has meant large numbers of empty seats in their stadiums, little community support, and diminishing media attention. Not here. I think that in Saskatchewan, we're used to persevering in the face of adversity. In the face of problems beyond anyone's control, whether it was poor crops, economic downturns, drought, hail, severe winters, or losing football seasons, there still had to be hope that things would get better. Without hope, there was nothing left - and giving up has never been the easy option here. Next year...next year things will be different....next year things will be better....is a way of life here. And that is what has kept the team and fans going throughout its history.

No matter what the outcome of today's game is, we will still bleed green, we will still support the Roughriders. But.....2013 Grey Cup Champions sounds really good...and I am curious about how many dancing people Albert Street will really hold. Next year is NOW - GO RIDERS!

At the Going Down of The Sun

Recently, I read a brief argument/exchange of views between a couple of Facebook users regarding the symbolism of the poppy on Remembrance Day. One person posted an article advocating the use of a white poppy; I don't know how common it is, but apparently this has been used in the UK since the 1930's to symbolize a denouncement of war and a hope for peace. As you might guess, the post set off a debate involving such themes as respect for veterans, pacifism, the meaning of Remembrance Day, and the meaning ascribed to war.

I'd heard some of the arguments before, having spent a reasonable amount of time around some individuals who believed that Remembrance Day and its accoutrements glorified war. I tended to bite my tongue quite a bit. I'm quite non-confrontational by nature and the idea of getting into a fight with someone about war just seemed ludicrous. And I have trouble articulating my feelings on the matter.

I am absolutely against war. Unfortunately, that seems to be how we, as humans, solve problems. Acquiring more knowledge and technology, more understanding of how everything works, and generally becoming more "advanced" than our ancestors doesn't seem to have changed this. But I still have hope that we can learn to solve problems peacefully.

It doesn't take much study of European history to see that World War I rose out of the struggle to fill the void in power left by the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. People of the lower socio-economic classes and the colonies were recruited to fight, convinced by appeals to their sense of duty, patriotism, and fear of the unknown and other. And they were slaughtered (see Beaumont Hamel, Ypres, Gallipoli, etc.). Did anyone's life improve as a result of the war? Due to the terms of the Treaty of Versailles and the worldwide economic downturn of the late 1920's, conditions in Germany after the war were horrific, and a perfect medium for the rise of someone like Hitler. Ultimately, World War II can be interpreted as the Allied nations performing damage control on a situation partially of their own making.

But I don't wear a poppy (a red one) for the nations or leaders who signed treaties or declared war or peace, nor do I wear one to honour the great military leaders or the battles "my side" won. I wear one for the young men and women from Royston, Dafoe, Muskoday, Swan River, Owen Sound, Paquetville, and Fogo who joined up because they thought that it was the right thing to do. I wear one for my aunt who, as a radio operator, heard pilots being shot down and came back with what would now likely be diagnosed as PTSD. For the people who stayed behind, worked, waited, and hoped. For the people who had their livelihoods taken away and were put in internment camps, because paranoia outweighs reason. I wear one for the people who hid and sheltered the persecuted and for the fishing vessels who crossed the English Channel to evacuate troops.

I wear a poppy in remembrance of the courage and horror of the past and in the continued hope that things can be different in the future.

Have you forgotten yet?...
Look up, and swear by the green of the spring that you’ll never forget.

'Aftermath', Siegfried Sassoon

Fall and Interesting Fruit

Since my last blog post, I've had to admit that summer is completely over. Leaves have changed colour and mostly fallen, we've had frost at night, and I've had to break down and wear socks every day. The garden has been cleaned up, the roses are covered, and I just dragged all the pots into the shed.

The backyard, prepped for winter

I always have mixed feelings this time of year. On one hand, I'm usually ready to be done with weeding, watering, picking tomatoes, transplanting, wondering what's eating the hostas, picking more tomatoes, deciding that beside the cushion spurge was a lousy place to plant a peony, cursing the "grass" in the front yard, tripping through the maze of squash vines to pick tomatoes...... But I really do love being outside in the yard among the plants. We had such a nice September and October that everything just kept on growing. I picked the last rose about two weeks ago, and the zinnias and lupins were still blooming until the most recent frost. I think the mint and thyme are still growing! It's a bit melancholic to watch the end of the growth cycle and to anticipate the inevitable coming of winter.

Late fall flowers - the zinnia on the right started out the paler shade of pink, then got darker as the weather cooled.

Few realize this, but zinnias make excellent hiding places

Of course, with fall comes the harvest of various items. We got a reasonable number of carrots, but

not many beets or potatoes ( I'm often glad that we're not trying to grow our winter food supply). For the last few years, including this one, our most bountiful harvest has been from our Aronia bush. I got the bush a number of years ago, mainly to fill in some space along the back fence. The ad in the catalogue extolled its attractive red fall colour and, in passing, mentioned some berries which could be made into juice. Well, the plant does turn a lovely shade of red in the fall. The leaves drop about 4 seconds after said lovely shade is achieved, so it doesn't really provide the fall colour I was hoping for. However, it does provide increasing numbers of berries. We didn't do anything with the berries for the first few years - there weren't that many, and they tasted like tart saskatoons, so they weren't great for eating out of hand.

As the harvest grew, I made some syrup, but ended up freezing most of the berries because I had no clue what to do with them. This year, we ended up with something like 8 cups (to join the 10 or so cups already frozen), so I resolved to find some use for them.

As an aside, Ken's dad and uncles are mainly former commercial fishermen and current recreational fishermen and hunters. I always tease him that for his family, the first questions asked on seeing a new animal are: "What is it? Can I eat it? What's the daily limit?" I've come to realize that I'm really similar with new fruits: "What is it? Can I eat it? How do I tell if it's ripe?"

Anyway, I've found that aronia, while not well known in this area, is popular in some areas of the US

(one of those dark purple antioxidant superfruits, y'know) - there are even aronia growers' associations! And importantly, lots of recipes. It's really good added to a regular banana bread recipe; I'm planning to make a pie at some point. One of the things I did with leftover Thanksgiving turkey was a black bean chili, adapted from this recipe. The aronia provided a sweet/tart counterpoint to the spice in the rest of the dish (one of my adaptations was to use chipotle for part of the chili powder requirement, so I suspect my version was spicier than the original).

Something you don't see every day - grapes on a telephone pole

Boyz in the Yard - seasonal inspection