I live in Northern Alberta. We are a people who take -35C as if it were a walk in the park. We know our grandparents stories of “when I was your age snow drifts were higher than the barn” are true because we’ve seen them for ourselves.

Spit freezes before it hits the ground and our nostrils freeze shut if we inhale too deeply.

Eyelashes become covered with frost then melt and cause rivulets of mascara to run down our cheeks when we go indoors.

We thumb our noses at old man winter and defy him to wreck his frigid havoc upon us hearty courageous folk.

Oh, who am I kidding. -35 was a lot more fun when I was a kid and didn’t have to warm up my vehicle and take Advil for the aching in my bones.

All I want to do is wear flannel and eat grease and carbohydrates….the three “Bs”

bread,

butter

and bacon.

It seems as though it really so cold as to freeze words before they are even uttered, and have them suspended frozen in the crystal ether until spring or at least until the weather turns. Which shouldn’t be too far of, prophetically by those who we believe know these things, only four days away when it’s supposed to warm up by 30 degrees.

And I have to admit, there is some comedy that comes with über subzero weather. The springs in your car seat get so stiff you can bump your head on the roof when you drive over bumps. Interestingly explosive things happen when you keep canned Coke on your balcony. The dry air causes hysterically static hair.

But, as much as I can sit here and attempt to amuse myself with whatever whimsy the harsh weather may provide, I am about to gravitate towards the flannel

and maybe even make myself some toast.

Fortunately I’m not desperate enough to break open the bacon.

The Ravens are out.

Everywhere I look.

Harbingers. But of what?

Folklore says death or evil or something just as foreboding. At first they seemed calculating, scavenging for morsels (they say they’ll “go for the eyes”) and far too intelligent for my liking.

Sitting in pairs and bullying anyone and anything in the vicinity.

But, now I see them as big scruffy signs of spring. Sure, they may not sing sweetly and cheerfully in the tree outside my window like sparrows or chickadees and rather croak and gutturally gurgle at me from the lamppost in the parking lot.

Leaving me a “gift” on the hood of my vehicle.

They remind me of grumpy old men

like Statler and Waldorf.

Sitting in the same comfortable familiar place either on that lamppost or on the ledge above the door at work. Both of them sidled up together seemingly commenting on the goings on below them. Cocking their heads to blink at me with one beady black eye.

They are familiar now.

And instead of scolding I believe they great me every morning. By the end of the day they are gone. And I miss their cheeky squawks.

Who would have thought my “blue bird of happiness” would end up being a couple of crotchety ol’ Corvidae.

Seems intriguingly fitting.

1.  The podcast “This American Life”.  Thought provoking.  Emotional.  Each episode possesses a theme and then you hear various anecdotes and opinions centred on this theme.  You can find it free on iTunes.  Learn about it here.

2.  Love all the homes on this site.

3.  The AMC series “Hell on Wheels“.  I’ve downloaded all of them off iTunes.  A great “Western” fix and Mr. Bohannon ain’t bad to set yer eyes on either.

4.  The novel “The Book of Human Skin”.  I’ve just started reading it and I’m hooked.  Nuns in 18th century France are anything but boring.

5.  This site made me laugh.  Especially the links on cats.

6.  Glen Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade”.  1939 enchantment.  I challenge you to listen to it and NOT smile.

7.  ”Brick” magazine.  To bad I have to go to Edmonton to buy it.

Have a wonderfully winter week everyone.

I sometimes have the tendency to over analyze.

Ok, I often have the tendency to over analyze and question and stew which ultimately leads me to doubt my interpretation and second guess my response.

At times it’s exhausting.

And I wonder,

wouldn’t it be wonderfully freeing to once in a while absorb information simply at face value.

It is what it is.

To view it as a manifestation of truth with no assembly necessary. To see something just to see it. To see someone just to see him or her.

To observe without elucidation or analysis.

To experience without intention.

Sometimes this is easy. Immersing myself in nature. Sitting on a beach looking out over the great expanse of the ocean. Inhaling deeply the salty air and listening to the lapping of the water.

Or

driving through the mountains the white peaks, the small trickles of melted water relenting to gravitational force and winding their way down the mountain side.

Watching fields of golden wheat dance in the wind.

No interpretation needed.

Each

just

is.

It’s unfortunate such experiences don’t happen as often as they should. The life we create for ourselves, especially in adulthood, is crammed full of exterior stimulus of the electronic nature. Constant bombardment of information that needs to be processed and either stored or dismissed. Evaluation required.

Maybe we all have the eyes of an artist we just need to “pull out our brain” in order to use them.

Have you ever been too busy to notice?

Where you’ve had the kind of day where your focus is way ,

way

far ahead of your being

and you are concentrating on everything that has to be done before the sun sets…

else all things fall to wrack and ruin.

And all the day long you are looking to see what needs to be accomplished next, what tasks need completion,

without really paying attention to what is going on around you at present.

I had that kind of day today, where before I was fully awake, I was planning my day.

Every minute possessed it’s own schedule.

“Multitask” my middle name.

And now, as I sit on my sofa at the end of the day, I feel as though I’ve accomplished almost everything I intended to do

but

missed something important.

I missed talking to my colleagues. I missed teasing my students.

I missed the violent pink sunrise that greats me every morning outside my classroom window.

I missed tasting the rare delicious lunch I had packed.

Why is it that sometimes we reach the end of our day and think “what just happened? “ It’s like arriving at work and not remembering the drive there.

Wouldn’t it horrible if life was like this day. So busy but filled with nothing memorable.

I guess the thing to do is pause once in a while,

in the middle of the blur

and look,

or listen,

or taste.

And appreciate the moment for the moment.

Just so that we have something to remember from the day.

Sundays were made for naps.

A time to reboot oneself at the start of a new work week.

When I have the pleasure of indulging in one, it serves as a capping off of school work and household tasks and errands that have all been completed (if I’m lucky). An erasing of a filled slate that a week before had been chock full of “stuff” that had to get done.

Sundays is a day for “nap potential”. As a kid I’d wake up and go to mass with the family. Afterward we’d go for breakfast either at my grandmothers or to a restaurant than back home where most of us would find a quiet little spot and snooze like a pride of lions lounging on the Serengeti. Then one would begin to stir, usually my mother, and it would be time for homework and the making of school lunches.

A nap was  a bridge between last week and this week.

Now, I admit I feel guilty taking a nap and have convinced myself that it’s only forgivable if accidental,

which happens only when I’m grading papers in a sunbeam.

Needless to say I found my sunbeam today.

It’s not that I hate hockey, it’s just that I’m disturbingly indifferent for a Canadian.

Those who love hockey seem a passionate people. Highly charged and emotionally involved in any match they happen to be viewing. All worries of the day seem superfluous when a favourite team is playing.

And it seems like such a bonding experience. Strangers sharing a common experience, united under a single jersey.

I’m not completely unenthusiastic about the sport. I do feel some excitement during Olympic matches when it’s a gold medal game and we’re playing the U.S. But once the buzzer goes off and the victory is won

it’s gone.

Over.

Years ago, eons really, I did attend a match. It’s was when the Oilers were at the height of their brilliancy and well on their way to winning their third Stanley Cup. I was at university and a friend of mine had tickets and invited me to come along.  The only reason I went was because I had a gargantuan crush on Paul Coffey.I spent the entire game watching him, and when he was out of view I watched the spectators in seats, intrigued with the über fandom that surrounded me.

I felt like a fake sitting there.

A phony.

I wasn’t a true hockey fan. It was like someone had bought me the quality caviar and I couldn’t appreciate it’s taste.

My detachment could be because I don’t have brothers or sons or friends who play and therefore have no personal connection. I’ve tried to cultivate an interest. I’ve attempted to watch a game in its entirety…just to lose myself in a book, or fall asleep on the couch.

Maybe my indifference is a defense strategy. Maybe I’m afraid to pick a team and invest time and emotion into something that will disappoint me and lose and then I’ll realize that I’m nothing but the ficklest of fans.

Maybe have to find someone who can show me how marvelous hockey can be, the strategy, and the athletic prowess of the players.

Or maybe I just need to find myself another Paul Coffey.

I get all sorts of grandiose ideas for cooking when I watch the culinary prowess of Mario Batali or Bobby Flay.

And what wouldn’t I give to sit on the panel and sample their fare?

Anyway, after watching an episode or two I start to believe that I too can be an Iron Chef. Not that I have the confidence to actually invite someone over for dinner and eat what I’ve created.

No, I’m too insecure for that and would much rather use myself as the lone guinea pig.

Besides, it’s probably “gastrically” safer this way.

The problem is I’m only half inspired. I watch the cooking shows, I buy “Fine Dining Magazine”, I even go as far as buying the ingredients

but,

often I resort to eating the fancy cheese, intended for a lasagna, melted on a cracker.

Or the red pepper bought for grilling and mixing in pasta is merely chopped and put in a basic salad.

And today, I admit to the most shameful example of my failure to follow through on creating a culinary feast. I have the plumpest, freshest asparagus stalks sitting in the crisper of my refrigerator.  Throughout the entire day I dreamed of making fresh spaghetti with asparagus, pancetta bacon, Parmesan, olive oil and lemon.

As my students worked quietly at their desk I visualized how I would fry the bacon and stir in the steamed asparagus pieces. I’d cook the fresh pasta until it was perfectly el dente then toss lightly with olive oil and lemon juice . Then I’d gently grate the Parmesan cheese exquisitely on top.

At the end of the day I drove directly to the grocery story to buy the ingredients to complete my culinary masterpiece

salivating all the while.

After I purchased my treasures, I hurried home, dodging slow traffic, cutting through back alleys,

to start my delectable supper

and

promptly sat down and ate a can of smoked oysters and crackers as soon as arrived home.

It seemed, as I carried my grocery bags out of my vehicle,

across the parkade

and up the three flights of stairs to my condo,

I could feel the weariness of the day settle on my body

with each plodding step I took.

When I got home all I wanted to eat

was something simple.

So, the groceries for my pasta dinner sit in my refrigerator. Waiting.

I’m sure I will put them to good use eventually although maybe not in the manner in which they were originally intended.

But, there is always hope.

As I type this Mario is on the television dazzling me with ingenious ways to prepare fresh tuna.

Which makes me wonder, does Save On sell fresh tuna steaks?

or sprain your thumb

or bruise your hip.

It’s good only because the dull ache of your minor injury can momentarily distract you from feeling sorry for yourself.

Sorry that it’s the first day back to work after a wonderfully restful holiday.

Sorry that your students were mostly catatonic at having to wake up four hours earlier than they had on their time away from school and they’re anything but productive.

Sorry that there is now a nice pile of marking to keep me busy for the evening when I would rather be reading my novel.

Sorry that it decided to rain “freezing rain” and I wasn’t careful enough navigating the salted sidewalk at home and slipped and fell on my right buttock.

But,

now the dull ache in said buttock is pulling me away from my pity party

reminding me that I am alive

and that my life is dynamic.

And that feeling sorry for myself is really nothing but a waste of time.

~Henry David Thoreau, Walden


I’ve always relied on books for company. In fact I can remember the titles of specific books that have kept me company during some of the loneliest times in my life. Even when it was difficult to concentrate for any length of time because of some sort of emotional tumult, I’ve always reached for a story to soothe or distract me.

They were convenient company.

As a child my closest friend lived over a mile away and the sisters and I weren’t always the most bosom of buddies so I would lose myself in Nancy Drew. I still have a lovely collection of yellow bound Nancy Drew Mysteries sitting in my cupboard.  And discovering Judy Blume’s “Blubber” was a moment I’ll always remember because the voice was familiar and the story could have been taken directly from the halls of my elementary school (and I as a chubby girl so I could relate). But I think the MOST important book of my childhood was “Gone with the Wind”. I would read, and reread the story, reading all of Scarlett O’Hara’s lines aloud pretending to be a “Southern Bell” instead of a Northern Alberta farm kid.

Junior High, that purgatorial time of melodrama and moodiness, I found distraction from bullies and boys with the likes of Agatha Christie (“The Murder of Roger Ackroyd” and “Curtain” being my favourites). I was also entranced by Mary Stewart’s Merlin series (“The Crystal Cave”, “The Hollow Hills”, “The Last Enchantment”). Puberty was all about murder and intrigue or magicians and knights.

High School, when most of my friends would sit and snuggle in the school hallways with their boyfriends or walk to McDonald’s for a lunch date of fries, I’d sit with my newfound love Charles Dickens. I remember reading “Great Expectations”, paper lunch bag at my side, eating my cheese and lettuce (no mayo) sandwich and questioning Miss Havisham’s reason for warping Estella’s view of men. Years later, after my first break up with a boy, I understood Havisham’s motivation for wanting to rip out someone’s heart and stomp it into a grimy pulp. I also loved Daphne du Maurier’s “Jamaica Inn” and thought Jem was one of the most dashing figures in literature. It’s hard not to fall in love with a horse thief.

At university, when I’d feel insecure in my relationship with the boyfriend at the time, I’d read and re-read “Wuthering Heights”. It just seemed appropriate. As an adult, I remember the titles of books that have kept me company during chosen times of solitude. “Mrs. Dalloway” when took to London by myself. Then sitting on a deck chair by a lake in Jasper trying to get through” Wings of the Dove” by Henry James but being too distracted by the fact I had my heart-broken. “Anil’s Ghost” by Michael Ondaatje whilst on my way to Paris. Sitting silently with my mom on the deck of a cruise ship in the middle of the Caribbean reading “The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi” by Jacqueline Park and thinking how wonderful it was to have my mother to myself.

The latest “new era” defined by a book started two years ago when I was in an automobile accident. For about four months I was unable to concentrate for any length of time on story and could only consume magazine fodder. Many a night I would lie awake unable to read the pile of books calling to me from the corner of my room. The whole experience was frustrating and distressful. To me, the inability to read for any length of time was like losing the ability to take a deep breath. I could inhale little shallow catches of prose in magazines and newspapers, but I could not breath deeply the essence and delicacies of a well-told story. That was until four months later when I went on a weekend excursion to the “big city” with my sister and attempted to read “Angelology” by Danielle Trussoni.

And I read and read and read and took a deep breath.

Since then I have surrounded myself with books waiting patiently to be read. I think I may be somewhat fearful of feeling alone and desolate without my “friends” though and am over compensating. I now have collected a multitude of hardcovers, several eBooks (as well as 4 digital titles signed out of the library). I wonder if this is a sign I’m afraid to be lonely and feel the need to surround myself with “friends”?

Probably.

But patiently they’ll sit waiting for me to invite them into my life and keep me company even during the most trying times.