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

Compare and Contrast.....

I always loved exam questions that started out with that phrase... blargh.

Anyway, one of the more interesting aspects of going back to university after a long absence has been observing how things have changed (or stayed the same, for that matter) since the early-mid 1990s. Buildings have been renovated, new classes have been added, and regulations have changed. Not only can you now eat and drink in the library (which I find really odd - does this mean that book lice are now extinct?), but there's even a library Starbucks for your convenience.

One of the main changes has been the technology available. When I finished my master's degree, the internet was just becoming a Thing. Professors had email access through the university servers, but students didn't. It was just starting to be common for people to have email addresses and home internet access - always dial-up, of course. Most businesses didn't have email or a company website. Cell phones were big, clunky things, most often used by people who spent time working away from their offices, or for emergency purposes. I don't think I have to spend much time talking about how all of this has changed!

For students, all communication from the university, class announcements, grades, assignments, etc. is done online. Instead of interlibrary loans for journals the library doesn't have, you can access resources online. Much as a I love physically going to a library, I really enjoy the experience of  "going to the library to do research" at home, on my couch, with a nice glass of Ardbeg beside me. Lots of people bring laptops to class to write notes; instructors use PowerPoint- no more frantically copying notes off hand-written overheads. Many post their lectures online - any time I don't have to read my own or someone else's handwriting is a bonus.

Everyone seems to have a cell phone or smartphone, which leads to the interesting condition of being both connected and disconnected at the same time. Connected for obvious reasons -people can text friends, or post on Facebook, Twitter, etc. any time. However, they tend to be disconnected from their immediate surroundings because they spend most of their time looking down to text, or listening only to their own playlist. One consequence of this that I've noticed - students don't talk to the people sitting next to them in class unless they already know them. Instead, they text, surf, or check email until class starts. This does change in smaller or upper year classes, as people are more likely to know those around them, but it's especially noticeable in the larger, mainly first year classes. And I find that phenomenon odd - how are people supposed to get to know each other? When I first moved to Saskatoon to start university as an 18 year old, I didn't come as part of an existing group of friends. If I wanted friends, I had to make new ones. I'm still friends today with a couple of people that I initially met because I talked to the person sitting next to me in class. I don't know that someone starting university today will be able to say that in 20 years.

And, there are the fashions. Well, of course, those have changed, right? Weeelllll......you know the saying that everything comes back into style? As it happens, my return to campus has coincided with one of those cycles. The cycle from 1989. This has lead to some interesting internal comments:

" I had that shirt and those glasses! BEFORE YOU WERE BORN."

"Hmmm. Maybe I should have kept my desert boots."

"Please tell me that you're wearing that sweater ironically and not because you find that particular colour combination soothing."

" Are those....acid...washed?? Excuse me, I need to assume a fetal position now."

One of the strangest fashion (I don't know what else to call it) changes has been in backpack wearing. Everyone has a backpack, and these days, most people wear it on their backs, straps over both shoulders in order to correctly and evenly distribute weight over the whole back and adjusted so that the shoulder or pelvic girdle take the most strain blah blah blah ergonomics. All of which makes perfectly logical sense.

However, back in the day, that was not the case. When I attended first-year orientation, we were instructed that backpacks should be worn with one strap over one shoulder only. Both straps was Simply Not Done. Also, one's backpack should not look new. So, if you had a new backpack (and what first year didn't), you should rub dirt on it, use it as a placemat for a messy sandwich, etc. Why? Because otherwise you might look like a first year!! Ohs noes! Not wanting to look like a first year, I complied with instructions. Looking back now, I have no idea what consequences I might have faced; my university has never had much of a reputation for violence or freshie hazing. Since I wasn't in engineering or agriculture, I had no reason to fear being kidnapped or taped to anything.

I'm quite happy the backpack fashions have changed - much less back and shoulder strain that way. However, I would be most grateful if someone could explain to me the significance of the Hello Kitty mustache backpack....

About Me II: Newfoundland and Blackadder

So, part the second of why I have trouble with the "What do you do?" question.

I went to university right after high school, completed a 4-year Bachelor's degree, did a year of  undergraduate prerequisites, then entered graduate studies. By the time I had finished my Master's degree, I had been in school of some sort for 21 years straight. I was probably burned out; I was certainly sick of the whole thing. It wasn't until very close to the time that I took my leave of absence that I could even contemplate the possibility of entering some type of formal education setting without starting to twitch.

A couple of things started to click for me in my leave of absence year. One click had started while I was still working. I'd always had a bit of an interest in archaeology, and had even participated in a week or so long archaeology day camp concept when I was 14 (which had thoroughly turned me off archaeology as a career). One day, while reading one of my magazines, I saw an ad for some kind of archaeology program, hosted by Tony Robinson. "Huh," I thought, "that name sounds a bit familiar, and that one guy in the ad looks a bit familiar." Then, it hit me - Baldrick from Blackadder! I initially watched the show out of curiosity to see what Tony Robinson was like when he wasn't being Baldrick.  The show, Time Team, was a British archaeology show that really renewed my interest in and taught me a great deal about the practise of archaeology and the various careers and professionals involved in excavation and analysis.

The second click happened during our trip to Newfoundland. I've spent most of my life looking at the ground and picking up interesting rocks.  As a child on holidays, there was always at least one bag of rocks stuffed under the seats of the Chevy Bel Air for my parents to stub their toes on. The rocks in Newfoundland are wonderful, and as I learned, unique. And yes, my suitcase did weigh a bit more when I came back home. Two main ideas came out of the Newfoundland trip: next time, bring more pairs of socks (seriously, I had no idea how cold wind coming off the North Atlantic could be); and maybe it would be interesting to learn something about all the rocks I'd been picking up.

Here and above, Rocky Harbour, NL

Bonne Bay, Gros Morne National Park

So, I re-applied to the University of Saskatchewan (no application fee for alumni!) and registered in an introductory geology class. Almost as an afterthought, I added an introductory archaeology class. I loved both of the classes, and then took another class in each subject that fall. I'd started out as an unclassified student, but an administrative error forced me to declare a major. I knew I didn't want to do a degree in geology (no desire to haul the Schmidt hammer up a mountain), so I selected archaeology.

I've enjoyed all the archaeology classes I've taken so far, but in many ways, am no closer to figuring out "what's next?" than I ever was. I find osteoarchaeology (a field that I didn't know existed until seeing Time Team) and paleopathology fascinating; I also find ceramics really interesting. Bone and bone china....sort of makes sense? I like the Near Eastern and historical archaeology classes that I've taken, but I don't find Plains pre-contact archaeology that interesting. The bit of excavation I've done so far has been.....ok, but I don't love it. I'm someone who usually has a plan of where I'm going, how to get there, how long it will take, and what I'm going to have for lunch in the meantime. It feels disconcerting not to have a plan (yet) in this case, but strangely enough, I'm not upset by the uncertainty.

Oh, and I still walk around picking up rocks.

About Me, Or Why I Find It Awkward When People Ask Me What I Do

So, since I'm back home from Viet Nam and back to real life (laundry, weeding the garden, catching whatever stupid cold is going around), this blog will actually start to reflect its name - posts on a variety of potentially unrelated topics.

So, I'll introduce myself for those of you who don't already know me. I'm an introvert; one thing that many of us have in common is that we find introductions and meeting new people uncomfortable in general (much better if I don't have to see you in person. No offence). Making a "good first impression" in a social setting is seen as synonymous with making an impression of being talkative, outgoing, and overtly fun; this just doesn't fit with who I am. And to make an uncomfortable situation worse, the inevitable question always comes up, "So, what do you do?"

That's when I'm tempted to say "Did you see that hyena?!" And then hide under the nearest table while the other person is distracted. It's not that I'm an axe murderer by trade, it's just that I really don't know what to say much of the time. The fact is that I'm um.... over 40 and haven't figured out what I want to be when I grow up.

Let's back up a few years. I was respectably and gainfully employed with a local immigrant serving organization. I coordinated an employment program for professionally trained immigrants who were looking for work in Saskatchewan in their area of expertise. And I was good at it. The program was extremely successful, highly subscribed to, and respected. The people who participated in the program were amazing. Think about this -you have a good, high level job, your friends and family nearby, and a familiar environment. You make the decision to step into the unknown, where you don't know anyone, don't speak the language fluently, and may never again work in your profession, let alone attain the level of position you once held. I have an indescribable amount of respect for my participants - their strength, resourcefulness, and capacity to both learn and teach. I think that I and many others would have collapsed under similar conditions.

I'd held that position for over 8 years; I'd seen changes, both good and bad, and I'd seen many things stay the same. Most days, I still enjoyed what I did. Most of the time, I still enjoyed my workplace and coworkers. But, I increasingly felt that I was DONE. Not burnt out, just...finished. However, I didn't know what else I wanted to do. For a variety of reasons, I wasn't interested in working for another immigrant serving organization; there was little opportunity to do something different in the organization I worked with. I'd come into my position in the first place due to opportunity, rather than as part of a career plan, so not surprisingly, I didn't have a plan of what to do next. So, I asked for and was granted an unpaid year's leave of absence, so that I would have time and space to figure out what to do.

I realized very quickly that I did not have it in me to return to my previous position; the fact that I missed very little about my work was a quite blatant clue! I officially resigned about three-quarters through my leave.

Lovely. Now I knew what I didn't want to do, but not so much what I did. I had been doing some contract writing and editing work for the provincial immigration department, aided by the work I'd done and contacts that I'd made over the last number of years. Perhaps freelance writing as a career?


Since that time, I've done several more writing contracts, and reached some conclusions. Getting government contracts is fine, but inconsistent. I have huge issues with trying to market myself to others, partially because I'd rather chew off my own foot than make cold calls, and partially because I've done very little work not related somehow to immigrant/immigration issues. And in spite of having the "right" affiliations (Associate Member, Professional Writers' Association of Canada and Editors' Association of Canada), I don't feel like a writer if I'm not working on anything at the moment. Blog notwithstanding, I also don't feel particularly compelled to write; most "proper" writers that I've spoken to do have the compulsion.

What else could I do? 

Stay tuned for "About Me...." part 2, wherein our heroine learns that rocks, ceramics and bones are great fun, and sometimes you just have to deal with being older than everyone else in the room.

And for reading this far, here's a picture for you:

Our late lamented Paris explains to Buster why there is no &^%$#! way she is sharing the chair