I’d finished my second year of university and was a month into my summer job when mountain-fever hit me. Sitting at a desk—whether studying or working—was giving me an urge to get a breath of fresh air and stretch my legs. It wasn’t hard to convince Mom to go along; we searched through our hiker’s guide book and found a trail in Banff that we wanted to try. The start of the May long weekend found us at the park office, trying to register for the trail despite the grey weather.
That was when we found out that the trail we wanted to hike was still snowed in. So was every other trail in the park, except for Lake Minnewanka. And the only campground available on Lake Minnewanka for that night was twenty kilometres in. My brain thought back over the past two years of sitting at a desk and thought “maybe not” while Mom said “Sure!” In a few seconds, we were registered for two nights at that campground. Twenty kilometres, I thought. Okay.
The sun was starting to peek out of the clouds as we drove up to the trail head and pulled our packs and boots from Mom’s 4Runner. Within fifteen minutes, we were heading down the trail in high spirits. The lake was that beautiful turquoise colour of mountain lakes; the air was fresh with the smell of pine and evergreen; and it was even warm enough we didn’t need our jackets.
We kept up a steady pace. By late afternoon, the air had cooled and we stopped to pull out our jackets. Then we rounded a corner in the lake and walked straight into a snowstorm. Heavy, wet flakes were coming horizontally towards in. They stuck to our pants, our packs, our boots, until we looked like abominable snowmen. We had the entire trail to ourselves and could only wish for camp, just this side of a pass call Devil’s Gap.
When we finally reached it, early in the evening, we made our supper quickly and tried to start a fire. All our girl scout skills failing to get the wet wood burning, we dumped some stove fuel on it and then sat around warming our hands. The wind continued to howl towards us from Devil’s Gap and we began talking options. We could take it easy tomorrow, stay close to camp to see if the weather cleared, do a few short hikes...
Too cold to sit out in the wind any longer, we crawled into our sleeping bags around eight at night and tried to get to sleep. We were up early the next morning to find that our twenty-year-old tent wasn’t quite as waterproof as it had once been. Parts of our sleeping bags were soaked. The tent and campground were coated with several inches of wet snow. And the wind still howled from Devil’s Gap.
We ate our hot instant oatmeal and decided to hike out. There was no reason to sit around here in the cold and wet, especially with wet gear. In less than an hour, we’d broken camp and hit the trail, letting the activity warm us up. As soon as we got around that corner in the lake, we walked into nice weather again. It was like we’d stepped into a completely different world.
Somewhere around eight kilometres from the trailhead, I was done. Every muscle in my body ached. My pack was impossibly heavy. Eight kilometres seemed like a thousand. Mom was still chipper, still gung-ho about the trail and the scenery, and I could only think about putting each foot in front of the other, of making it to the 4Runner and then back to Grandma and Grandpa’s. Teeth gritted, head down, I walked.
I think of that story as I prepare for labour. Dr. Robert Bradley compares labour to running a marathon, recommending that women get in shape to do either. Sure, labour is tough; but I've done tough things. I've pushed myself to my limits and kept going, and I can do that again (though most people say my first labour was "easy" and I'm hoping this next one is better). When I was in labour with Sunshine, I hit a point where I wanted to quit, thought I couldn’t do it anymore. At the same time, like when I hiked Minnewanka, I knew there was no way out but to keep going—and I knew that I could do it, because I’d done it before.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Writers-on-Wednesday: Julianne Harvey
Julianne Harvey is a blogger whom I actually met in person before I began reading her blog. She lives a few towns away from me and we’re now in the same writer’s group. Besides writing screenplays, Julianne is involved with MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) and has a seven-year-old daughter and a four-year-old son. Her blog details her aspirations as a writer: The Dream to Write.
How did you become a writer?
I've always been a writer. As a child, I wrote many stories and remember a constant flow of ideas sparking in my brain. At fifteen, I saw the movie Field of Dreams and for some reason, it inspired in me a deep desire to make movies. At sixteen, I began writing my first screenplay (a story I'm still refining twenty-one years later) and I went on to study film at two different American Universities. My original goal was to write, direct, produce and star in movies, but over time I've chiseled that goal down to simply writing and selling a screenplay, and watching it come to life on the big screen.
I love all forms of writing. I've been blogging daily since January, had two short stories published since December, and I wrote an article for a Calgary-based magazine that will be published in June. My screenplay is in its 5th draft and I hope to begin submitting to agents later this year. In the meantime, I'm working on a new script, a comedy this time, and when I stop procrastinating and actually write, every single day, I'm amazed at how much joy and fulfilment it offers to me.
What inspires you to write?
Virtually everything is an inspiration. My two kids, conversations with friends, my life experiences to this point, movies I see, books I read—anything and everything gives me ideas. The problem comes in the form of time (not enough of it) and discipline (spotty when life is insanely busy). With two young children, a part-time job, a home business, teaching creative writing in the evenings, and general life busyness, finding time to write consistently is a challenge.
I wasted many years where I wanted to write but didn't for one reason or another, and my life was always missing that extra layer of satisfaction and pleasure. Since I began writing regularly again, 18 months ago, I know I don't ever want to take a long break again. I want to keep experimenting and improving at my craft. I want to keep my confidence level high to bring me to my goal of writing professionally.
Who is your favourite author and why?
Rosamunde Pilcher is my hands-down favourite for fiction. She writes family sagas set in England and Scotland, some present day and some during World War II. I love her description of the pedestrian and the mundane: she makes drinking a cup of coffee or working in a garden seem incredibly appealing and comforting. I would love to ground my stories as firmly in the everyday as she does with seemingly no visible effort. I read and re-read her novels annually and sometimes several times in a single year.
For nonfiction, my favourite author is Anne Lamott. Her book on writing, Bird by Bird, got me working again almost 2 years ago, and her essay-style books, Plan B and Traveling Mercies, are like a high bar that I strive to reach in my own blogging and essay writing. Her brave approach to honesty, with a no-holds-barred awareness of her own strengths and weaknesses, inspires me like no other writer ever has. If I can write half as well as Anne Lamott at the end of my writing career, I will be more than satisfied.
How did you become a writer?
I've always been a writer. As a child, I wrote many stories and remember a constant flow of ideas sparking in my brain. At fifteen, I saw the movie Field of Dreams and for some reason, it inspired in me a deep desire to make movies. At sixteen, I began writing my first screenplay (a story I'm still refining twenty-one years later) and I went on to study film at two different American Universities. My original goal was to write, direct, produce and star in movies, but over time I've chiseled that goal down to simply writing and selling a screenplay, and watching it come to life on the big screen.
I love all forms of writing. I've been blogging daily since January, had two short stories published since December, and I wrote an article for a Calgary-based magazine that will be published in June. My screenplay is in its 5th draft and I hope to begin submitting to agents later this year. In the meantime, I'm working on a new script, a comedy this time, and when I stop procrastinating and actually write, every single day, I'm amazed at how much joy and fulfilment it offers to me.
What inspires you to write?
Virtually everything is an inspiration. My two kids, conversations with friends, my life experiences to this point, movies I see, books I read—anything and everything gives me ideas. The problem comes in the form of time (not enough of it) and discipline (spotty when life is insanely busy). With two young children, a part-time job, a home business, teaching creative writing in the evenings, and general life busyness, finding time to write consistently is a challenge.
I wasted many years where I wanted to write but didn't for one reason or another, and my life was always missing that extra layer of satisfaction and pleasure. Since I began writing regularly again, 18 months ago, I know I don't ever want to take a long break again. I want to keep experimenting and improving at my craft. I want to keep my confidence level high to bring me to my goal of writing professionally.
Who is your favourite author and why?
Rosamunde Pilcher is my hands-down favourite for fiction. She writes family sagas set in England and Scotland, some present day and some during World War II. I love her description of the pedestrian and the mundane: she makes drinking a cup of coffee or working in a garden seem incredibly appealing and comforting. I would love to ground my stories as firmly in the everyday as she does with seemingly no visible effort. I read and re-read her novels annually and sometimes several times in a single year.
For nonfiction, my favourite author is Anne Lamott. Her book on writing, Bird by Bird, got me working again almost 2 years ago, and her essay-style books, Plan B and Traveling Mercies, are like a high bar that I strive to reach in my own blogging and essay writing. Her brave approach to honesty, with a no-holds-barred awareness of her own strengths and weaknesses, inspires me like no other writer ever has. If I can write half as well as Anne Lamott at the end of my writing career, I will be more than satisfied.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Book Review: Where Is God? by Dr. John Townsend
I requested Dr. John Townsend’s new book Where Is God? for review because the topic intrigued me. Lots of people ask where God is in the midst of problems and sufferings. Somehow, we seem to want to blame Him for what we’re going through or at least get answers, some reason for what happens to us. I wondered how Townsend would tackle this question.
I haven’t read any of Townsend’s other books, but I enjoyed this one. He has a casual way of writing that was easy to get into. It felt like sitting down to chat with him about this big question. Yet he didn’t just answer it; he turned it around again, got me thinking and asking more questions myself. Because, after all, there is no easy answer to this question. All of us ask the question for different reasons, at different times in our lives, and so there will be multiple different answers. Townsend provides ways of thinking about the question and our reasons for asking it, and then finding an answer.
As he does this, Townsend also challenges our view of who God is. For so much of this question comes from a faulty view of God’s character—we see God as a vengeful God, ready to pounce on us for doing something wrong; or as a Santa Claus God, sitting up in the sky handing out gifts at will; or in whatever other picture fits what we’ve learned or decided about God. Using Scripture, Townsend talks about several of these false images of God and shows what the real God is like—and how we can find Him.
With stories from his own life, Scriptures, and his counselling experience, Townsend does an excellent job of tackling one of life’s toughest questions.
This book was provided for review courtesy of Thomas Nelson's Book Sneeze book review blogger program.
I haven’t read any of Townsend’s other books, but I enjoyed this one. He has a casual way of writing that was easy to get into. It felt like sitting down to chat with him about this big question. Yet he didn’t just answer it; he turned it around again, got me thinking and asking more questions myself. Because, after all, there is no easy answer to this question. All of us ask the question for different reasons, at different times in our lives, and so there will be multiple different answers. Townsend provides ways of thinking about the question and our reasons for asking it, and then finding an answer.
As he does this, Townsend also challenges our view of who God is. For so much of this question comes from a faulty view of God’s character—we see God as a vengeful God, ready to pounce on us for doing something wrong; or as a Santa Claus God, sitting up in the sky handing out gifts at will; or in whatever other picture fits what we’ve learned or decided about God. Using Scripture, Townsend talks about several of these false images of God and shows what the real God is like—and how we can find Him.
With stories from his own life, Scriptures, and his counselling experience, Townsend does an excellent job of tackling one of life’s toughest questions.
This book was provided for review courtesy of Thomas Nelson's Book Sneeze book review blogger program.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Fiction Friday: Pages of Stories
The Pages of Stories website went live last week! This is a new online fiction magazine. The first issue is free; to read it, just follow the instructions to register and then click “view current issue.” The next issues will be available for subscription like a regular magazine. I like the “cozy atmosphere” of the website and think it really captures what Darlene is trying to do.
My short story, “The Summer of Ed,” is featured in this issue, along with a couple stories by other writers I know. And for writers: Pages of Stories is a paying market, so check it out!
I wrote “The Summer of Ed” a few years ago (while working my first summer job after university, I think) as an experiment in voice. I wanted the narrator to have a very distinctive voice. I was also playing with the idea of mistaken identity and how names affect how we think of a person. So pop on over to read the stories and let me know what you think.
Oh, and if you want more writing-related reading... the Just Write blog carnival is also up.
My short story, “The Summer of Ed,” is featured in this issue, along with a couple stories by other writers I know. And for writers: Pages of Stories is a paying market, so check it out!
I wrote “The Summer of Ed” a few years ago (while working my first summer job after university, I think) as an experiment in voice. I wanted the narrator to have a very distinctive voice. I was also playing with the idea of mistaken identity and how names affect how we think of a person. So pop on over to read the stories and let me know what you think.
Oh, and if you want more writing-related reading... the Just Write blog carnival is also up.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Motherhood Muse Contest
Pop over to Steena's blog today for an interview with Loren Christie, an editor and contributor to Motherhood Muse (a new mothering and writing magazine!) and the chance to win a subscription to the Muse!
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
1001 Baby Names
We were only a few months pregnant with Sunshine when we spent an hour discussing and choosing baby names while driving home from visiting friends. I was a bit surprised that we managed to find names that we both liked so quickly, considering that some of our other decisions had taken much more talking.
Once again, we’re talking baby names. We still have the boy’s name that we liked when we were picking names for Sunshine, but my husband likes one middle name and I like a different middle name. As for girls’ names... we seem to go around and around. Even last night, we were visiting my in-laws and the conversation revolved for several hours around baby names—this relative’s name and what this person named their kids and can you believe that someone would pick a name like this and did you know that great-grandpa’s middle was...
It’s a hard job, to choose a name that your child will have for the rest of their lives. I don’t like names that can be either a boys’ name or a girls’ name; I want people to know, just by looking at her name, that she’s a girl. (Though, even when Sunshine was clad entirely in pink, I still got the question, “Boy or girl?” so maybe the name isn’t so important either). I don’t like names that are too short or names that are too long. I don’t want a name that’s too uncommon (my husband likes suggesting Wunibald) or one that is too common (nothing on the top ten girls’ names charts or anything). And there’s a lot of names that just don’t go with our last name (but make for some good jokes).
I want a name that has some meaning, something the child can be proud of when they are asked why that’s their name. So I don’t mind using family names; Sunshine is named after both of her grandmothers as well as after her spiritual mother, Mary. Both my brothers were named for their grandfather. And several of the names we are tossing around for this baby are also family names.
With only a couple weeks left, we’re still tossing around names. Maybe we’ll just wait to meet the little person and see what name suits him or her.
Once again, we’re talking baby names. We still have the boy’s name that we liked when we were picking names for Sunshine, but my husband likes one middle name and I like a different middle name. As for girls’ names... we seem to go around and around. Even last night, we were visiting my in-laws and the conversation revolved for several hours around baby names—this relative’s name and what this person named their kids and can you believe that someone would pick a name like this and did you know that great-grandpa’s middle was...
It’s a hard job, to choose a name that your child will have for the rest of their lives. I don’t like names that can be either a boys’ name or a girls’ name; I want people to know, just by looking at her name, that she’s a girl. (Though, even when Sunshine was clad entirely in pink, I still got the question, “Boy or girl?” so maybe the name isn’t so important either). I don’t like names that are too short or names that are too long. I don’t want a name that’s too uncommon (my husband likes suggesting Wunibald) or one that is too common (nothing on the top ten girls’ names charts or anything). And there’s a lot of names that just don’t go with our last name (but make for some good jokes).
I want a name that has some meaning, something the child can be proud of when they are asked why that’s their name. So I don’t mind using family names; Sunshine is named after both of her grandmothers as well as after her spiritual mother, Mary. Both my brothers were named for their grandfather. And several of the names we are tossing around for this baby are also family names.
With only a couple weeks left, we’re still tossing around names. Maybe we’ll just wait to meet the little person and see what name suits him or her.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Book Review: This Little Prayer of Mine
We’ve been teaching Sunshine about praying for quite a while. Often, before we each lunch together, she looks at me and asks, “Pray?” She knows to fold her hands and to say “Amen” at the end. So when we sat down to read This Little Prayer of Mine by Anthony DeStefano (illustrated by Mark Elliott), I was pleased when she pointed at the first picture and said, “Pray!” Yes, the two kids were praying together.This Little Prayer of Mine is a beautiful, rhyming child’s prayer. The pictures show children of a variety of ages, mostly early elementary (the target audience for the book). Sunshine was very excited by a picture of a kitty on one page. Each page has only two to four lines of poetry on it, allowing the story to move quite quickly—it held Sunshine’s interest. An older child could probably read the story by themselves. The pictures would also provide further discussion prompts for parents of older children.
While Sunshine liked the pictures and the pace of the rhymes, I appreciated the depth in the prayer. The child moves from making requests (“Whenever I feel really scared / and want to hide my head, / please help me to be brave and strong / and face my fears instead”) to thanking God “for a bunch of other stuff.” The child also talks about sharing God’s love with others and asks for God’s guidance.
Overall, This Little Prayer of Mine is a delightful little book that I’m sure Sunshine will cherish for years to come—and I won’t mind reading to her every time she asks for a book.
This book was provided for review by the WaterBrook Multnomah Publishing Group.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Fiction Friday: Girl, I Lost You
This story has been included in Inscribed, the 30th anniversary anthology of the Inscribe Christian Writer's Fellowship. For more details about Inscribed or to order a copy, see Inscribe Writers Online.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Contest, Anyone?
Okay, as a historical fiction buff, I just have to share this. Carla Stewart reviewed Sarah Sundin's book A Distant Melody and it sounds really good. Plus, there's a cool contest. So click the links and enter if you like historical fiction as much as I do!
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Why Not Pay the Writers?
When I tell my husband that I’ve had another piece of writing accepted by a magazine or periodical, he often asks, “What do they pay?” Sometimes, I can wave a cheque at him or brag about what will be paid when the piece of published; more often, I have to admit that my payment will come in the form of contributor copies and a byline or writing credit. Figuring out my hourly wage as a starting-out freelance writer is a discouraging task. (Although, when I calculated my writing income for last year for our taxes this year, it was a nice figure—not enough to support us, but enough to nicely supplement our other income.)
A recent editorial by Hope Clark caught my attention. Hope mentioned receiving requests from several new literary magazines who wanted advertising space in a FundsForWriters newsletter—but don’t pay the writers. Hope points out, “1. They pay the printer to publish the journal. The online journals pay for Internet service and domain. Why not pay the writers? 2. They promise recognition . . . when they don't have any to promise. They are new, small, struggling. Who has heard of them? They need writers more than the writers need them. Why not pay the writers? 3. They are a business, like any other magazine. Any other business would pay for contracted or employed workers, not ask for volunteers. Why not pay the writers?”
It made me think of farming. The price of meat in the grocery store sometimes blows my mind (we usually buy meat on sale). Yet I know from my cattle-farmer uncle (who is now a grain farmer because there wasn’t enough money in cows) that the farmer isn’t getting much of what the average consumer pays for their meat. Why is it that the man who put the most work into bringing that steak to the table gets paid the least amount? Or why is it that the writer who put the most work into bringing an entertaining or informative magazine to the reader is the last one paid?
Hope’s newsletter increased my admiration for Pages of Stories, a new online fiction magazine just starting out that is paying their writers quite well. Hope provided a list of other literary magazines that also pay their writers—a list that I’ll be working my way through. I’ve found a few paying markets that I like and I’ll definitely be trying to work with those editors again.
As a reader, what do you think about the fact that the person who provided most of the content you enjoy in that periodical you’re reading isn’t getting paid for it? As a writer, do you writer for publications that don’t pay—and why or why not?
A recent editorial by Hope Clark caught my attention. Hope mentioned receiving requests from several new literary magazines who wanted advertising space in a FundsForWriters newsletter—but don’t pay the writers. Hope points out, “1. They pay the printer to publish the journal. The online journals pay for Internet service and domain. Why not pay the writers? 2. They promise recognition . . . when they don't have any to promise. They are new, small, struggling. Who has heard of them? They need writers more than the writers need them. Why not pay the writers? 3. They are a business, like any other magazine. Any other business would pay for contracted or employed workers, not ask for volunteers. Why not pay the writers?”
It made me think of farming. The price of meat in the grocery store sometimes blows my mind (we usually buy meat on sale). Yet I know from my cattle-farmer uncle (who is now a grain farmer because there wasn’t enough money in cows) that the farmer isn’t getting much of what the average consumer pays for their meat. Why is it that the man who put the most work into bringing that steak to the table gets paid the least amount? Or why is it that the writer who put the most work into bringing an entertaining or informative magazine to the reader is the last one paid?
Hope’s newsletter increased my admiration for Pages of Stories, a new online fiction magazine just starting out that is paying their writers quite well. Hope provided a list of other literary magazines that also pay their writers—a list that I’ll be working my way through. I’ve found a few paying markets that I like and I’ll definitely be trying to work with those editors again.
As a reader, what do you think about the fact that the person who provided most of the content you enjoy in that periodical you’re reading isn’t getting paid for it? As a writer, do you writer for publications that don’t pay—and why or why not?
Monday, April 12, 2010
Movie Review: Pistachio
Sunshine and I spent this morning doing laundry and watching Pistachio: The Little Boy that Woodn’t. I requested it for review because I thought Sunshine might be old enough now to enjoy VeggieTales. She sat through most of it and, when I asked her if she liked it, she said, “Yeah,” but she didn’t get quite as excited over the music and Silly Songs as I thought she would.Pistachio is VeggieTales’ version of the story of Pinocchio. Gelato is a lonely toymaker who is given an interesting piece of wood which he carves into a toy boy. That boy then comes to life and declares that he wants to do whatever he wants and he will not listen to Gelato. Gelato, along with his adopted ducklings, try to teach Pistachio a few lessons, but Pistachio soon gets distracted by a puppeteer and then led astray by two street-wise vegetables.
When Pistachio finally realizes that he should have listened to Gelato all along, he has to find a way to get back to his dad and learn a few more lessons in trusting that his dad knows better than he does. It’s been long enough since I read the original story that I enjoyed this retelling, especially some of the VeggieTales surprises and twists.
One storm scene near the centre of the movie may be scary for some young kids, though it didn’t bother Sunshine. Most of the movie is fairly upbeat and fun. The Silly Song in the middle was one of my favourite parts (as most of the Silly Songs are); it was an “Obsure Broadway Hit” that was done very well by Larry the Cucumber and another vegetable.
Pistachio was a fun movie that tries to teach kids to listen to their parents. It lived up to my expectations of fun music, good jokes, and a few twists to a familiar story.
DVD has been provided courtesy of David C Cook and Graf-Martin Communications, Inc. Available now at your local Christian retailer.
Friday, April 9, 2010
April in Alberta
I was sitting at the front of the store, checking my email on my laptop during my break, when I saw a patio chair go skittering across the patio. Milo went out to lock them up, leaning into the wind that threw sleet in his face and sent him scurrying back inside for a jacket. In the next half an hour, we watched the sleet turn to snow. To the east of the store, all we could see was a white wall; the Superstore less than a city block away was invisible.
The power flickered out for the first time shortly past five o'clock. We turned the oven, espresso bars, and dishwasher back on and I began thinking. If the power went down, what did we need to do? Since it was quiet, I began cleaning our espresso machines and anything else that could go through the dishwasher before we lost power. The power flickered a few more times, causing us to pause each time and then go around turning everything on again.
The customers coming in were no longer our regulars, but people off the highway seeking refuge from the store. We began working the grapevine: How were the roads? Where had they come from and where were they going? And then passing on the information: the highway is closed, nearest hotel is back at the lights and take a right.
The power died for good at seven, just as I'd poured milk to steam for a latte. We looked around and waited for it to come back again, as it had every time before. When the store remained dark, conversation gradually resumed. We served coffee until the pot was emtpy, tea until the hot water was gone, passed out coupons for the lattes that we couldn't make anymore, and began cleaning up the store. People trickled out the door as it became obvious that the power was out for a while and we locked up.
When we left, my husband (who was also off work early due to power outages) and I drove through town. It looked like a ghost town. No street lights, no awning lights, no store lights. Then, suddenly, on one side of the road the stores were still open but on the other side everything was dark. We found a restaurant that still had power and ate supper while we waited for the weather to clear and the highway to reopen. Then we joined the herds of truckers who'd also been waiting for the storm to blow past.
We inched our way along the highway, fighting the wind, watching the ice on the road, and trying not to count the cars in the ditch (four here, three over there, one tanker upside down). Southbound traffic was rerouted to the service roads and it was strange to see a long, empty stretch of highway to our left. In twice the time that it usually takes us to drive home, we made it safely back to our door. Sunshine stayed at her grandparents for the night, as we wouldn't risk the roads to continue out to get her.
This morning, we woke up to sunny skies and only the ice coating the streets as sign of the storm last night. Without Sunshine, the house was quiet as we prepared to go back into town for work. The highway was dry and clear, a strange contrast to our slow, ghostly drive of the night before. Today, talk in the store is all of the weather--who had power and who didn't and how long it was out for and what the roads were like. One last storm for the season; it is, after all, April in Alberta.
The power flickered out for the first time shortly past five o'clock. We turned the oven, espresso bars, and dishwasher back on and I began thinking. If the power went down, what did we need to do? Since it was quiet, I began cleaning our espresso machines and anything else that could go through the dishwasher before we lost power. The power flickered a few more times, causing us to pause each time and then go around turning everything on again.
The customers coming in were no longer our regulars, but people off the highway seeking refuge from the store. We began working the grapevine: How were the roads? Where had they come from and where were they going? And then passing on the information: the highway is closed, nearest hotel is back at the lights and take a right.
The power died for good at seven, just as I'd poured milk to steam for a latte. We looked around and waited for it to come back again, as it had every time before. When the store remained dark, conversation gradually resumed. We served coffee until the pot was emtpy, tea until the hot water was gone, passed out coupons for the lattes that we couldn't make anymore, and began cleaning up the store. People trickled out the door as it became obvious that the power was out for a while and we locked up.
When we left, my husband (who was also off work early due to power outages) and I drove through town. It looked like a ghost town. No street lights, no awning lights, no store lights. Then, suddenly, on one side of the road the stores were still open but on the other side everything was dark. We found a restaurant that still had power and ate supper while we waited for the weather to clear and the highway to reopen. Then we joined the herds of truckers who'd also been waiting for the storm to blow past.
We inched our way along the highway, fighting the wind, watching the ice on the road, and trying not to count the cars in the ditch (four here, three over there, one tanker upside down). Southbound traffic was rerouted to the service roads and it was strange to see a long, empty stretch of highway to our left. In twice the time that it usually takes us to drive home, we made it safely back to our door. Sunshine stayed at her grandparents for the night, as we wouldn't risk the roads to continue out to get her.
This morning, we woke up to sunny skies and only the ice coating the streets as sign of the storm last night. Without Sunshine, the house was quiet as we prepared to go back into town for work. The highway was dry and clear, a strange contrast to our slow, ghostly drive of the night before. Today, talk in the store is all of the weather--who had power and who didn't and how long it was out for and what the roads were like. One last storm for the season; it is, after all, April in Alberta.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Disgruntled Mama
Yesterday, I was supposed to have a prenatal appointment with Dr. O., the doctor who'll be assisting me in childbirth. I was excited to finally meet her, to ask questions and make sure she'll meet my expectations for a natural childbirth. Sunshine and I were up early and out the door on time to find the clinic. Then the car wouldn't start. We forgot to plug it in the night before, and our wimply little diesel thinks that the spring weather is still too cold. When my attempts to start it began killing the battery, I gave up.
I went back inside and called my regular doctor, Dr. B, to get a phone number for Dr. O. Then I called Dr. O's office to let her know I wouldn't make the appointment. The receptionist said, "Okay, we'll take you off the list. Thanks." No offer to rebook the appointment from either doctor's office.
Rather disgruntled by both offices, I began to think more seriously about Nat's suggestion to freebirth. Like any modern mom, I googled it. There weren't many results. I read a couple articles and found myself agreeing with what the women said. One lady commented that her husband "views birth differently now, less like a medical emergency and more like a simple, normal, natural life event." Which is exactly what it is.
In another more newsy article on freebirth, the author reports that a British doctor "has reacted angrily to growing interest in freebirth, saying babies born this way should have a right to legal recourse later in life. He says 'giving birth is the most dangerous thing that most woman will do during their life.'" I almost laughed at that. I can think of a few things I've done that were more dangerous than birthing my daughter.
Further in the article, another lady says, "I can’t claim to know why they feel this way, but my belief is that the majority of them — doctors and health authorities — truly do not think women are intellectually capable of making their own decisions when it comes to birth.” Again, I laughed. I aced a university degree and graduated top of my class, but I'm not capable of making choices about birthing my children? Yeah right. I know a variety of women who've made a variety of birthing choices in a variety situations, and I wouldn't say that any of them (or any of their husbands) were "intellectually incapable" of making the best choice for themselves and their babies.
When I expressed my disgruntlement to my husband, he—ever the practical one—suggested that perhaps I was overreacting slightly and should just call to rebook the appointment. So I did that this morning. I now have a prenatal appointment with Dr. O for the end of this month, one week before the baby is due, because she's so booked up that I couldn't get an appointment any sooner.
I also called Dr. B's office to let them know that I haven't had a prenatal appointment in over a month and won't be having one for about another three weeks. However, she is also booked up until the end of the month. So for the last two months of my pregnancy, I'll have one prenatal visit. At this point in my pregnancy with Sunshine, I was seeing my midwife twice a week.
I'm just a little bit frustrated here.
I went back inside and called my regular doctor, Dr. B, to get a phone number for Dr. O. Then I called Dr. O's office to let her know I wouldn't make the appointment. The receptionist said, "Okay, we'll take you off the list. Thanks." No offer to rebook the appointment from either doctor's office.
Rather disgruntled by both offices, I began to think more seriously about Nat's suggestion to freebirth. Like any modern mom, I googled it. There weren't many results. I read a couple articles and found myself agreeing with what the women said. One lady commented that her husband "views birth differently now, less like a medical emergency and more like a simple, normal, natural life event." Which is exactly what it is.
In another more newsy article on freebirth, the author reports that a British doctor "has reacted angrily to growing interest in freebirth, saying babies born this way should have a right to legal recourse later in life. He says 'giving birth is the most dangerous thing that most woman will do during their life.'" I almost laughed at that. I can think of a few things I've done that were more dangerous than birthing my daughter.
Further in the article, another lady says, "I can’t claim to know why they feel this way, but my belief is that the majority of them — doctors and health authorities — truly do not think women are intellectually capable of making their own decisions when it comes to birth.” Again, I laughed. I aced a university degree and graduated top of my class, but I'm not capable of making choices about birthing my children? Yeah right. I know a variety of women who've made a variety of birthing choices in a variety situations, and I wouldn't say that any of them (or any of their husbands) were "intellectually incapable" of making the best choice for themselves and their babies.
When I expressed my disgruntlement to my husband, he—ever the practical one—suggested that perhaps I was overreacting slightly and should just call to rebook the appointment. So I did that this morning. I now have a prenatal appointment with Dr. O for the end of this month, one week before the baby is due, because she's so booked up that I couldn't get an appointment any sooner.
I also called Dr. B's office to let them know that I haven't had a prenatal appointment in over a month and won't be having one for about another three weeks. However, she is also booked up until the end of the month. So for the last two months of my pregnancy, I'll have one prenatal visit. At this point in my pregnancy with Sunshine, I was seeing my midwife twice a week.
I'm just a little bit frustrated here.
Monday, April 5, 2010
One More Week
I’m halfway through editing an article for FellowScript when it occurs to me that Sunshine has been too quiet for the last several minutes. I swing around in my chair to find her curled up in the big armchair just behind me, hugging her dolly and a stuffy, sucking on her soother. She looks at me with big brown eyes, not saying anything. She doesn’t have to. The guilt settles over me as I glance back at the half-finished article on the computer and think of all the others waiting behind it, and of the book review I should write and the essay for my writing class—
“Do you want a book?” I ask, passing her a mini photo album that she likes flipping through. There’s a smile behind her soother as she accepts the album and begins looking. I turn back to the computer, trying to focus on proper spelling and grammar and good layout, but it’s like the eyes in the back of my head are still watching my woebegone daughter waiting for me to show her some attention.
I finish the article, turn off the computer, and ask if she wants to go outside. In seconds she’s scrambling for her coat and shoes, saying, “Outside? Outside?” She asks hopefully, “Jeep? Jeep?” It’s become her favourite vehicle lately—I’m not sure if that’s because we’ve been driving the car more or because she can see better from the bigger windows of the Jeep.
I tuck the cell phone into my pocket as we head out the door. Half an hour before I have to leave for work. I drag the stroller down the steps, strap her in, and wonder how far we can get in that half-hour. Post office? Bank? Park? Halfway downtown, I decide on the park. There’s a couple other families there and Sunshine watches the other kids as she makes her way slowly to the swings. Soon a four-year-old comes to join her on the swing. Her laughter echoes over the playground and I smile.
All too soon, I have to tell her to go down the slide one last time and then we have to go. Sunshine starts to protest, until I tell her that she’s going to play with Elizabeth—her babysitter’s four-year-old daughter. Back at home, she’s ready to jump in the Jeep right away, while I have to change and grab a lunch before dropping her off. As I drive away, I think, “One more week.” One more week to more time with her, more time to fit in parks and walks and yes, even the editing, because I won’t be rushing off to work.
“Do you want a book?” I ask, passing her a mini photo album that she likes flipping through. There’s a smile behind her soother as she accepts the album and begins looking. I turn back to the computer, trying to focus on proper spelling and grammar and good layout, but it’s like the eyes in the back of my head are still watching my woebegone daughter waiting for me to show her some attention.
I finish the article, turn off the computer, and ask if she wants to go outside. In seconds she’s scrambling for her coat and shoes, saying, “Outside? Outside?” She asks hopefully, “Jeep? Jeep?” It’s become her favourite vehicle lately—I’m not sure if that’s because we’ve been driving the car more or because she can see better from the bigger windows of the Jeep.
I tuck the cell phone into my pocket as we head out the door. Half an hour before I have to leave for work. I drag the stroller down the steps, strap her in, and wonder how far we can get in that half-hour. Post office? Bank? Park? Halfway downtown, I decide on the park. There’s a couple other families there and Sunshine watches the other kids as she makes her way slowly to the swings. Soon a four-year-old comes to join her on the swing. Her laughter echoes over the playground and I smile.
All too soon, I have to tell her to go down the slide one last time and then we have to go. Sunshine starts to protest, until I tell her that she’s going to play with Elizabeth—her babysitter’s four-year-old daughter. Back at home, she’s ready to jump in the Jeep right away, while I have to change and grab a lunch before dropping her off. As I drive away, I think, “One more week.” One more week to more time with her, more time to fit in parks and walks and yes, even the editing, because I won’t be rushing off to work.
Friday, April 2, 2010
The Family Dinner Table
My running shoes made a rapid “crunch crunch crunch” on the gravel road as my eyes darted ahead of me to the rise in the hill and the entrance to our subdivision. No vehicles appeared there, and I glanced over the lawns to my left, trying to see past the hill that blocked a view of my own house. With each step, I kicked myself for not watching the time, not leaving sooner. Slowly, my tall brown home emerged from behind the neighbour’s house. I was almost running now, craning my neck to see past the hill. There was mom’s van, parked closest to the road. Beside it... looked like an empty space... maybe... yes! Dad’s truck wasn’t there yet. I wouldn’t be grounded this week.
Dad had strict rules about the dinner table. One was that we had to be home by 5:00 for dinner—or at least before he got home. We always ate dinner together as a family. When Mom called that the food was ready, we stampeded to the table, said grace, ate our meal. Dessert wasn’t served until everyone had finished their main course and nobody left the table until everyone had finished dessert.
When my great-aunt visited us, meals seemed to take forever. She was a tall, slender, very proper lady who ate very carefully and slowly. Dad was always telling us that we should eat like her, instead of scarfing our food back. He bemoaned the fact that we could often finish a meal in ten minutes flat and get back to whatever we’d been doing before dinner began. Once, he made us put our forks down between every bite in an attempt to slow down our eating. Another time he made my twin brother—the fastest muncher of us all—chew each bite at least the recommended forty or fifty times.
On Saturdays, my twin brother would make us a big fancy breakfast—Eggs Benedict or waffles with fruit and whip cream or pina colada pancakes. He was always up first and that gave him something to do until the rest of us woke up to the smell of yummy food. Sunday night meals were Mom’s break and often usually just snack foods: popcorn, nachos and cheese, crackers with a melted topping of bacon, cheese and peanuts that we’d christened TDs. Weekday lunches were whatever my brothers and I felt like scrounging out of the fridge; leftovers, macaroni and cheese, hotdogs, peanut butter and jam sandwiches. Even that meal we ate together, if we were all home, summoning the others and offering to cook together once we’d agreed (or disagreed) on what we wanted for lunch.
We prided ourselves on the fact that we ate most of our meals together as a family, when that was the going family advice. In the end, though, that couldn’t keep our family together. Some meals were noisy and fun as we talked and joked and shared. More meals were silent, each of us at the same table but in our own worlds, with nothing to say to the other. Just before I got married, my parents’ marriage fell apart and my brothers and I moved out. In my quiet apartment, it seemed strange to be eating meals by myself after a lifetime of always having someone else to eat with.
Now, as my husband and I work a lot of evenings, family meals are few and far between. I enjoy the nights that I get to cook a nice meal (not something fast food or leftover) for us or the times that I stop at his parents’ for a visit and lunch before work. Meals and family to share them with are indeed important, worthy of the rules that my dad set to keep them sacred.
Dad had strict rules about the dinner table. One was that we had to be home by 5:00 for dinner—or at least before he got home. We always ate dinner together as a family. When Mom called that the food was ready, we stampeded to the table, said grace, ate our meal. Dessert wasn’t served until everyone had finished their main course and nobody left the table until everyone had finished dessert.
When my great-aunt visited us, meals seemed to take forever. She was a tall, slender, very proper lady who ate very carefully and slowly. Dad was always telling us that we should eat like her, instead of scarfing our food back. He bemoaned the fact that we could often finish a meal in ten minutes flat and get back to whatever we’d been doing before dinner began. Once, he made us put our forks down between every bite in an attempt to slow down our eating. Another time he made my twin brother—the fastest muncher of us all—chew each bite at least the recommended forty or fifty times.
On Saturdays, my twin brother would make us a big fancy breakfast—Eggs Benedict or waffles with fruit and whip cream or pina colada pancakes. He was always up first and that gave him something to do until the rest of us woke up to the smell of yummy food. Sunday night meals were Mom’s break and often usually just snack foods: popcorn, nachos and cheese, crackers with a melted topping of bacon, cheese and peanuts that we’d christened TDs. Weekday lunches were whatever my brothers and I felt like scrounging out of the fridge; leftovers, macaroni and cheese, hotdogs, peanut butter and jam sandwiches. Even that meal we ate together, if we were all home, summoning the others and offering to cook together once we’d agreed (or disagreed) on what we wanted for lunch.
We prided ourselves on the fact that we ate most of our meals together as a family, when that was the going family advice. In the end, though, that couldn’t keep our family together. Some meals were noisy and fun as we talked and joked and shared. More meals were silent, each of us at the same table but in our own worlds, with nothing to say to the other. Just before I got married, my parents’ marriage fell apart and my brothers and I moved out. In my quiet apartment, it seemed strange to be eating meals by myself after a lifetime of always having someone else to eat with.
Now, as my husband and I work a lot of evenings, family meals are few and far between. I enjoy the nights that I get to cook a nice meal (not something fast food or leftover) for us or the times that I stop at his parents’ for a visit and lunch before work. Meals and family to share them with are indeed important, worthy of the rules that my dad set to keep them sacred.
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