Shoe's Off

So as I said earlier, last weekend was the celebration of the reopening of the Capitol Theatre. There was much fanfare and the whole town was a twitter. The Capitol put on a fabulous show celebrating the diverse talent of this region...and I can't tell you just how much talent there is here. It gives me shivers just thinking about it. We saw singers, musicians, stand-up comedians, choirs, soloists, and the list goes on.

Until one has been to a truly local Nelson event, one can't quite grasp how intimate these shows can be. Of course when we invite outsiders to perform for us, there is never quite the same back and forth banter as we are really on our best behaviour for our out of town guests. But this was, in all senses, a local event, almost like a talent show one would hold in one's own living room, like the ones we used to put on when we were children to entertain the adults...but of course with much more talent.

The evening finished off with the showing of "Shoes Off," a Canadian short flick which I will share with you shortly. There are so many things about this little movie that are so Canadian, I could probably write another post about just that. But you need to know the local connection, so I will try to focus. The music was written by our very own, very talented Don McDonald. My understanding is that Don actually won a Cannes for this particular musical score. But the connection doesn't stop there. The soprano that you hear towards the end of the movie is Alison Girvan, Don's beautiful and equally talented wife. The violinist, Wendy Herbison, is another long time local, in fact, she was both of my sisters' music teacher for many years. So without any further delay, please join me in watching "Shoe's Off."

AtomFilms.com: Funny Videos | Funny Cartoons | Comedy Central

Local Celebrations - Capitol Theatre Restoration

Another week has come and gone. I meant to post this last week, and then life got away on me yet again. In any case, last weekend was the twentieth anniversary of the restoration and reopening of the Capitol Theatre here in Nelson. But the Capitol Theatre's history goes back to 1927 when it first opened at a cost of $75,000 which was, undoubtedly, a pretty penny back in those days, and indeed, it was lauded as one of the finest theatres on the continent at the time. It served mainly as a movie house in the Paramount chain of leased theatres, delighting audiences with all the earliest films following the silent movie era. These showings were interspersed with live dramatic performances of traveling companies and local groups.

The thirties were the hey-day of cinema and crowds flocked to see nightly shows complimented by live acts to introduce the movies. In the mid-thirties, the old Opera House in Nelson burnt down and the 1000 seat Civic Theatre, which I understand was a depression "make work" project, was built. It's initial purpose was for live theatre.

During the wartime forties, cinema began to fall out of fashion as people had less time and money. Eventually, Famous Player, holding the lease on both theatres, opted to book the larger Civic Theatre for films. The Capitol continued to sporadically show films along with live acts and music shows, however, as time went on, these began to dwindle in number. By the fifties, as necessary repairs and improvements to the building were neglected, the Capitol fell into disrepair. For awhile, it was used as an auction hall and furniture warehouse and at some point in the sixties, the seats were eventually removed. By this point, the roof leaked and the Theatre which had once held audiences spellbound, sat in a dank pool of water. Indeed, its future looked bleak.

By the early eighties, the seeds of a dream had been planted, and the Capitol Theatre Restoration Society had formed. Locals began to raise funds, and soon thereafter, the City of Nelson acquired the building. Through a fortuitous stroke of luck in the mid-eighties, a significant government grant allowed the project to really get under way. The Theatre was completely gutted, and received an extreme makeover. The original side murals on the walls were lovingly restored, the stage area was increased, and among other things, rich crimson carpets and seats were installed. By the time the repairs and restoration were finished, this original Art Deco Theatre had never looked more grand. Since this time, the Capitol Theatre has reclaimed its prestigious place in Nelson's history as it has once again become the hub of the performing arts in this community. If you're ever passing through, make sure you check out.

Raving Mad Rants

Teaching is not a lost art, but the regard for it is a lost tradition. - Jacques Barzun.

I'm struggling with whether to tell you a nice / funny story, which is most tempting, or to go on a rant. The present inclination is to rant.

Most of you know that I teach...or teach sometimes. I had taken a bit of a step back from it and was pursuing other interests, but still keeping my fingers in the pot, so to speak. And then late winter I was asked if I would step into a position, at least temporarily. The teacher was leaving and they needed someone quickly, however, it was a tough position to fill as it was French Immersion. I've worked at this school before and really like the staff and have a lot of respect for the administrators, so I agreed to take it on until the end of June.

In many ways, I really enjoy French immersion. Although we don't stream our kids for the program, overall, they tend to be highly motivated students with supportive parents. Sometimes, however, that "supportive" translates into "pushy" and out of touch with reality. This past week, I've been writing report cards. I've also been chasing down students for missing assignments and missed tests and at the same time giving them an idea of where they stood academically. In the process, I've fielded numerous calls and had some "emergency" meetings. The following are a few examples of how some of them went.

I had one mother come in with her daughter absolutely frantic when she heard that her daughter had only achieved a C+. I explained to this mother that it wasn't the end of the world, her daughter had a C+. Now you must understand that a C is supposed to be considered average. Therefore, anything above a C is above average. One really can't have everyone in the class having an "A" or an "A" would have no value, it would simply be average. An "A" is supposed to be exceptional. In fact, the definition we are given is "someone who exceeds expectations and outcomes." Now a student who hands in projects late and fails to take responsibility for making up missed tests hardly sounds like an exceptional student who has exceeded expectations. All that aside, at this point, the mother says, in front of her daughter, mind you, "You don't understand, this IS the end of the world for my daughter." My first thought was, "Your poor daughter, you are setting her up for a miserable life and failure." One can't always be the top and the best at all one does. And if one expects to always be, isn't he/she being set up for horrible disappointment. Isn't it more important that one enjoys what one does and feels motivated to continue...not so stressed that one doesn't even want to try? Isn't it more important for one to have acceptance and support from a parent regardless of academic performance?

On to my next story...a father called me and started out with, "I've never done this before but..." I am thinking, please don't do it then because I'm going to end up being really embarrassed for you. He continues on, "I understand that my son has 84%, do you think you could boost his mark by two percent so he gets an A?" Whoa! What's that about? First, a B is a pretty good mark. Second, what kind of message does that send to a child? I had to explain, NO! That is a very slippery slope. If I raise one student's mark by two percent, then to be fair about it, I would have to raise all my students' marks by two percent or be accused of playing favorites. If I'm raising everyone's mark, what's the value of the mark? What does that teach a child about work ethic and what sort of satisfaction does that give a student in terms of personal achievement? Could a child really be proud of receiving something that he/ she doesn't deserve and didn't earn? What sort of incentive would there then be for the child to work hard next time around? And if that's the way the system works, why would I bother writing report cards at all? Why wouldn't I just send the report cards home and have the parents fill them out with the mark they wanted their child to have. That would make everyone happy, it would save me the time of having to mark and write reports (which really is very time consuming), and everyone would be happy with their mark.

I had another mother come in with her daughter, and you must understand that this was after term cut off and the day that I was supposed to have my marks into the office. The mother said that her child was surprised at and disappointed in her mark. The more the conversation went on, however, the more obvious it was that it was the mother who was surprised and disappointed, I say this because of disparaging comments the mother made to her daughter regarding the quality of her work. This was another child with a "B." The mother wanted her child to be able to redo all assignments and tests. The child had already redone one test. Is it fair that a child is able to use her tests as practice sheets until she gets the mark she wants? How fair is that for the students who studied hard the first time and only wrote the test once? The other issue is that each time a student wants to rewrite, I need to rewrite the test...it wouldn't be fair to give the exact same test. If I did, it would mean that the students who only wrote the test once, wouldn't know the questions I was going to ask, but the student who writes it three times most certainly would. Also, if I have all this extra rewriting of tests and marking, then how am I going to adequately prep for the classes I have to deliver? How fair would it be to the other students that I deliver a less than satisfactory lesson because I am busy rewriting tests and doing extra marking so that one parent is happy and that I meet my obligation of getting my report cards written and handed in in a timely manner.

These incidents were highly disappointing for me and make me wonder at our society. I'm expected to deliver a quality education, yet asked to do things that would undoubtedly erode the system and make it meaningless. Such acts show a complete disregard for the educator and lack of respect for education in general. I am truly saddened as I hope for the success of each and every one of my students and spend countless hours over and above my obligations to ensure that my students meet the learning outcomes and attain that success. I want my students not just to succeed academically, but to become outstanding productive citizens and able to think for themselves and contribute to society in meaningful ways. I want them to be able to believe in themselves enough to take the risk to try new things even if they don't succeed the first time. I want my students to find passion and joy in their lives. I don't want my students to be burnt out before they are even twenty because of external pressures that have been placed upon them. There are many parents out there who do appreciate educators and also have these same goals for their children. To you I am truly thankful. Your children will be just fine.

Spring Has Sprung

After much eager anticipation, it seems that spring has finally decided it's time to show its face. She arrived this weekend bringing us weather reaching up to the 20's...that's Celsius for all you Americans reading. Virtually overnight a myriad of tulips and crocus decided to show their pleasure at the arrival of our long awaited visitor by donning the brightest array of colours they could muster up. The songbirds sang their hearts out in a symphony of chorus and we were all most pleased at the performance. We certainly hope honoured guest was too and that she will decide to stay.

As for me, I even took a wade up to my knees in our frigid Kootenay lake. My Nordic blood was overjoyed at the exhilaration of it all, but not quite enough to go for a total dip. Perhaps that's because I didn't have my swimsuit with me, nor a towel. Perhaps next time.

The Storm

The window to my soul flies open. Light floods in and the seed that has lain dormant on that fertile plot for a near eternity unexpectedly begins to germinate.

I find myself high in the mountains enshrouded in thinly veiled mist. We can still, however, look out over the vast range into the valleys far below. I imagine the rush soaring eagles must feel in the midst of each noble swoop peering over such majestic terrain.

The alpine fog thickens slightly as it swirls around the mountains’ highest peaks creating a mystical enchantment that charms us all. Under its spell, we are drawn in and rush towards the edge of the massive granite slab which drops precipitously into treacherous vertical cliffs beneath us.

Mountain weather moves in haste. The once light breeze strengthens its force as the sky begins to undulate and darken above us. The storm quickly envelops us and the others fade out of my view as thick fog quickly snakes around me. The air buzzes like a swarm of angry bees as icy rain bitterly begins to chafe my exposed skin raw. The hissing intensifies and luminous blue sparks explode off nearby rocks dancing fervently.

My hair begins to stand on end literally and I immediately realize the whole mountain is electrified. I call out frantically to the others, but the howling winds silence my pleas. I fight against the gale as I make my way to the nearby cabin to seek refuge. I desperately yell from the doorway into the face of the wind hoping the others will come.

Suddenly my sister emerges through the clouds running towards the doorway. She rushes in as the air explodes with a deafening thunderclap and simultaneous lightning flash. The others are nowhere. We huddle inside waiting for the calamity to pass.

April Fool's

Could someone tell me, is it true? Have we really passed the spring equinox? The weather seems to be a little confused these days and I think it's high time someone lets him know that spring was supposed to officially start almost a week and a half ago...this is what I woke up to this morning. Don't get me wrong, it's lovely, just not quite what I'd expect for April. I guess the groundhog must have seen his shadow this year.

Imperia

Es ist alles eitel...

Oh, Madame Konstanz with your coy smile,
What does go on behind those steely eyes
You stand guard in the harbour
Looking out across Bodensee,
Flaunting your sex for one and all to see
A noble stance, for a mere courtesan
As you raise your hands with pride,
Naked prince in right and pope in left
Such raw display of sweet dominion over power.

Paska

You have caught me in a rather domestic moment. Sometimes, when we get older, all we want is the comforts of our childhood, and no comfort is greater than food. Food can instantaneously transport us back to so many places with a mere wisp of an aroma or the tiniest nibble. Well, today the calls from ghosts of the past were strong. Growing up, one of my favorite things about Easter was that Grandma would make Paska, a traditional German Mennonite sweet bread made only at this time of year, although occasionally she would cheat and make it at other times of the year as she knew I liked it so much.

Now the recipe is as old as the hills...my grandmother made this, and her mother before her and so on right down the line, so there's no telling where this all began. That's also quite obvious with the recipe as so much of the cooking / baking we do is simply by feel...the feeling is a bit tough when you've never made the recipe before, but you simply have to trust your senses and run with it. You'll notice that the recipe doesn't mention any quantities for flour...not even a rough estimate. Partially that's because they believed that the quantities changed depending where you were living, the wheat that was grown there, the humidity etc. So just so you know, even though it's not mentioned, there is a lot of flour. Also, this makes quite a lot of loaves (as all those old recipes made large quantities), so be prepared to either freeze some or give some away. I hope you enjoy this as much as I do.


Paska

3 C sweet cream
3 C white sugar
10 eggs
2 pkg dry yeast
1 C potato water
1 1/2 C butter
Rind of 2 oranges
Rind of 1 lemon
Lemon juice from half a lemon
1 tsp vanilla
raisins if desired

Prepare yeast and 1 Tbsp sugar in potato water. Scald cream and 1 C of sugar. Cool and add beaten egg yolks then the beaten egg whites, prepared yeast and enough flour to make sponge like. Let rise until light (3/4 of an hour). Add remaining 2 cups of sugar, butter (melted), rind (finely chopped), lemon juice and vanilla and more flour. Keep adding flour and kneading to make a soft dough. Let rise until double in bulk. Grease round tins (traditionally these are cooked in cylindrical cans, like a coffee can...but as you can see, I had none, so baked mine in regular loaf pans). Let rise until double (about 45 minutes). Bake at 275 degrees for 45 minutes to an hour. Prepare regular butter icing to spread on top of the bread while still warm.

Fantastical Menagerie

This wonderful collection of someone's bizarre imaginings was found on a peaceful street in Konstanz. Each piece was so expressive as if it came with its own history and stories. I would have loved to have known what they were, but despite my long repose under the comforting shade of the nearby trees, not a one was willing to part with his secrets. Not this time.

It's All in the Name

I have a colleague who shares my name. That in and of itself is interesting as there are not many around here who have my name, and in fact, I have not run into many at all anywhere I’ve gone. I’ve often wondered if names impart certain personalities on the people who carry them. Many teachers, it would seem, think so. I can’t tell you how many times I have heard to never name a boy one of the dreaded "J" names. Apparently John or James is safe, but almost all the others are a teacher’s worst nightmare: Jason, Jordan, Jeremy, etc…all bad news: hard to manage, hyperactive, and the sort that “stir” up trouble. Of course I have no solid evidence on any of this, but it would make for an interesting study. But back to the story of my namesake.

Carla has a bubbly personality and a smile that would melt the coldest chunk of ice. Like me, she seems to attract interesting, bizarre situations which, if nothing else, make for wonderful stories. One day, she shared the following with me: She had just been in Vancouver and one of the afternoons she was there, she was walking down Robson Street when she sees this guy she is sure she recognizes. She thinks, “Hey, there is one of the Trail Italian boys my brother used to hang out with.

(As a side note, Trail is known for its large Italian population…for years, and we are just talking Canada here, it had the largest percentage of Italians per capita outside of Toronto. Also, in this area, it is very common to identify people with their ethnic / cultural heritage even if they were born in Canada. I could probably tell you the ethnic identity of every single person who was in my kindergarten class. Back then, we just called it nationality, but of course semantics have changed since then.)

In any case, Carla can’t remember this guy’s name, but in typical Carla fashion, she waltzes right up to him with a huge grin and says, “Hi, how are you?”

He smiles and politely replies, “I’m fine, how are you?”

She continues on, “Great. Wow! It’s been ages since I’ve seen you. What have you been up to? What are you doing these days?”

He says, “Well, I’m in the movie business. I’ve just finished making film.”

Carla’s thinking, “Whoa, that’s pretty good for a Trail boy,” and blurts out, “Wow! Who would have thought? You making movies? That’s fantastic! You must be pretty proud of yourself.”

The stranger smiles, in fact almost blushes, then says, “You have no idea who I am, do you?”

Carla takes a good hard look at his face and suddenly the penny drops. “OMG, you’re John Travolta, aren’t you?” Yes, indeed. She said that he was extremely personable, gracious and polite. And she got to walk away with a good story.

Fluff

When one gets to certain age, there are particular sorts of situations that amuse one immensely. Last week, I had one such incident. Many of you will remember my story a couple weeks ago about some of my students trying to guess my age. Although I found my students highly entertaining, I didn’t give much credence to the situation. What do twelve, thirteen and fourteen year olds really know about the fine art of determining one’s age? But nonetheless, it made for a humorous anecdote which provided an easy segway into conversation amidst peals of laughter.

Well, in a completely different class, there is a young fellow, R, who I met for the first time a couple weeks ago. He is presently working with one of my students as a TA (teacher’s assistant). Our initial exchange was short, as there’s really not much time to delve into deep conversation in the midst of teaching a class. After that, I didn’t see R for about a week. Then one day, I walked into the staff room during break, and there he was. He looks at me with a big grin and effusively greets me with a robust, “Hi! How are you?” Only, I misheard him. I flash him an equally wide smile and reply back with a cocky, “Hi,” and then continue on, playful lilt in my voice, with, “I’m twenty-eight… how old are you?” (It really was a blonde moment.)

Now before you all go on about what an absolute ditz I am, hear me out. All this put on was not all for R. Two of my friends, T and S were standing there. It just so happened that they had heard the previous story, so I knew they would “get” it immediately. Oh yes, aren’t I clever one? But there stood poor R, somewhat confused by my response. And then it suddenly dawned on me that he hadn’t actually asked me my age. Oh dear, what could he possibly be thinking? Now, totally overcome by giddiness whilst trying to pull my foot out of my mouth, or perhaps shoving it in further, I start explaining to R the story which engendered my bizarre response (all this, while my lovely friends listened with mounting snickers) . The thing is, the more I explained, the more baffled his expression became…it was a sort of, “and why are you telling me this,” sort of look. Finally, he quizzically says, “So you’re not twenty-eight?” I simply reply, “No, not even close.” To which he slowly inquires, “Then how old are you? Because I’m thirty-one, and I was convinced that you were younger than me.” Oh yes, it was a great day.

Paint my Silence with Music

Music expresses what words cannot. I fear that if I speak, I shall break the spell. There is something magical in the air. This one reminds me of the pied piper. Indeed, I think I would follow, run with full force, the wind at my back, right off the cliff for that intangible thing called hope planted deep within the hollows of my heart.



If you have time, and enjoyed that last song, you might wish to watch the full film “Heima,” or Homeland, Sigur Rós' first ever film (loose documentary). It was filmed during the summer of 2006 when the band decided to perform a series of free, unannounced concerts all over Iceland. The results of this generous gift are beautiful and inspirational in the way that it brought people of all ages and walks of life together. The images, along with the music are hauntingly beautiful.

The Widow

The world was full of happy widows. He had seen them go mad with grief at the sight of their husband's corpse, pleading to be buried alive in the same coffin so they would not have to face the future without him, but as they grew reconciled to the reality of their new condition he had seen them rise up from the ashes with renewed vitality. They began by living like parasites of gloom in their big empty houses, they became the confidantes of their servants, lovers of their pillows, with nothing to do after so many years of sterile captivity. They wasted their overabundant hours doing what they had not had time for before, sewing the buttons on the dead man's clothes, ironing and reironing the shirts with stiff collar and cuffs so that they would always be in perfect condition. They continued to put his soap in the bathroom, his monogrammed pillowcase on the bed; his place was always set at the table, in case he returned from the dead without warning, as he tended to do in life. But in those solitary Masses they began to be aware that once again they were mistresses of their fate, after having renounced not only their family name but their own identity in exchange for a security that was no more than another of a bride's many illusions.

In the restorative idleness of solitude, on the other hand, the widows discovered that the honorable way to live was at the body's bidding, eating only when one was hungry, loving without lies, sleeping without having to feign sleep in order to escape the indecency of official love, possessed at last of the right to an entire bed to themselves, where no one fought them for half of the sheet, half of the air they breathed, half of their night, until their bodies were satisfied with dreaming their own dreams, and they woke alone.

~Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Love in the Time of Cholera

Faith

Faith is a bird that feels dawn breaking and sings while it is
still dark.
- Scandinavian Saying

When I was growing up, my Mutti had a cleaning lady, Wilma, who came once a week. She was a good Dutch woman and an impeccable cleaner, probably the only one who has ever cleaned to my mother’s standards. This woman could make absolutely anything sparkle and shine and I am sure dust quivered in her shadow, we certainly did. She was just that kind of woman.

Thursday evenings were an inevitable stress for us kids as we had to “tidy” before Wilma came to clean, because you see, Wilma only cleaned. She was not there to pick up after us. She was very strict about that. Those were her rules. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was to get in the way of her cleaning.

The tension on Thursday nights was such that at one juncture one of my sisters, in the midst of a meltdown, took a purple wax crayon and in her scrawly grade one printing wrote, “Wilma, I just can’t take it anymore,” on the inside door panel of my mother’s antique washstand. Those were sentiments that I am sure we had all shared at one point or another, but luckily for us, my mother found this message of distress before Wilma ever happened upon it. If she would have, I am not quite sure what would have happened, but I am sure it wouldn’t have been good. We probably would have been down one good irreplaceable cleaning lady and sentenced to numerous years of cleaning penitence. But that’s not really what this story is about. You see, when Wilma started, she made it very clear to my mother that this was not a long term affair. She would only clean for my mother until her husband returned. He had left her some years previous, but she was adamant that at some point he would come to his senses, change his mind and they would be reunited. Well, weeks turned into months and months into years, but just the same, as if it were her mantra, she would say, “You know, I won’t be here for long. My husband is going to come back to me and when he does I will quit. I’m only cleaning until my husband returns.”

I know many of you are probably now thinking that this is a story of some highly delusional and probably obsessive compulsive woman, and it certainly might seem that way. Wilma was our faithful housecleaner for a good ten years or more, just as faithful to us as she was to her mantra. Then one day, just like that, out of the blue, she phoned my mother and said, “I won’t be cleaning for you any more, my husband has just come home.”

Apparently it only takes the faith of a mustard seed to move a mountain. At present, I’m working on trying to move molehills while attempting to remember that thoughts become things.

Cheese and Quackers

Okay guys, it's been a busy couple of weeks. Not that I don't love you, I'm just not oozing with endless creativity at the moment. I would love to have some time to concentrate on and preferably master the "art of slow," but am afraid that even that does not seem to be permitted at the moment. So instead, I leave you with some photos to highlight both my hunger and craziness. And if that makes no sense, so be it.

Fear

The ground is cool and dank beneath me, but the heat of that incessant hum still swirls in my eardrums like a pesky mosquito that eludes me in the darkness. I brace myself…waiting in a moment that feels like eternity. The nausea within me grows and I feel dizzy as I rest my head against the hard stones of the building behind me. I try to pace my breathing with his…he who sits beside me, but his breath is every bit as shallow as mine. Neither of us is immune, it is simply a matter of time.

Eventually it comes, blasting us like the blitz of a headstrong storm rolling in off the ocean. Within moments, the heavens close their doors and the sky darkens, snuffing out the eternal hope of a singular ray of sunshine. All comes crashing down around us as that relentless monotonous drone penetrates the inner recesses of my soul. I sit still and silent amongst the chaos showering down around me mirroring the war that rages from within. Above me, I make out the shadow of it swooping through the black smoke. I can see it through the awkward angle of the eves. It circles. I can feel the piercing red beady eyes through the smouldering air. I close mine own eyes, yet remain haunted by the image of those fluorescent beady eyes emblazoned on my memory. I imagine them looking and seeing straight through it all, straight through right to my raw beating heart, my heart beating furiously, pounding so hard to a nervous rhythm that it almost breaks free of my ribcage which holds it prisoner. I open my eyes slightly and gasp. So close, so close.

Dread

I peer through the fog and try to make out the unfocused images in the distance. I concentrate, perhaps unconsciously furrowing my eyebrows and squinting slightly. At first I see only nebulous shapes, but then slowly the shapes begin to materialize into something more concrete. Suddenly I am able to make out the pictures.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I am walking, hurrying down a narrow path through the trees. A bright canopy of green towers above me. It is mild and comfortable. I am not alone. There is a man with me. Under other circumstances it would have perhaps been a nice day, but anxiety lies thick upon my brow. We move quietly without talking. We move swiftly with our nervousness ringing continually in our ears. The trees open up and we pass into a clearing. Quickly we glance around to ensure that we are alone before proceeding, and then we keep moving. The long grass sways gently in the fields. There is a soft wind at our back. The conditions for travel are favourable.

Suddenly we hear that dreaded unmistakable low hum in the distance. We haven’t any time. Our tension mounts as we momentarily freeze like deer caught in headlights. We must act quickly. The hum grows steadily louder. I scan the landscape. Nothing but a black dot in the distant skyline. A small country church stands nearby. Interesting roofline, a small portion sweeps low on the backside, leaving a minute space where we could crawl through and crouch underneath. We rush towards it, hoping no one sees us. We approach from both sides and quickly contort ourselves through the opening and try to make ourselves comfortable in our confined space.

The Trade

Discarded object -
lost and forgotten treasure,
destined for trash can.

The Nitty Gritty

It was just a matter of time...but I've been caught. I was caught and tagged by Pandave over at Odi and Amo. Now it's up to me to carry on the game. Here are the rules:

The Rules:
- Link to the person that tagged you.
- Post the rules on your blog.
- Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself.
- Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
- Let each random person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.

1. I am a perfectionist. I believe that we are born with our personality traits. I was certainly born with this one, although I've worked hard over the years to try to mellow it out...but essentially it is who I am. My mother tells me that when I was a baby and learning to talk, that I could talk long before I would utter a word in front of anyone. She had placed a mirror in my crib and I would sit there and practice as long as I thought no one was watching. As soon as anyone would enter the room, I would stop. When I began speaking I essentially had a very good command of the language. I had the same struggle in Quebec when I was first learning French many years later. I hated the thought of making an error or talking like a toddler. Eventually I had to ask myself what was the worst thing that could happen was and just get out there and do it. Still, I tend to over do things. It's a bit of a stress.

2. I am also just a bit obsessive compulsive...another trait from birth. I have always loved books and I am told that from about the age of one, I would gravitate to my parents' beautiful coffee table books, which, of course, were at just the perfect height for me to reach. I would choose a page and then rip just the tiniest little bit...not even a millimeter. Sometimes I'd have more than one book going at a time. Every day, I would go back to those books, to those specific pages and rip just the tiniest bit more. It would take months for the rip to develop into a much larger tear that would eat its way to the centre of the page. When I would start on a page, my parents told me that they were never sure it was actually a rip, perhaps just a snag from wear, but when they would go back to those same pages after a space of time, that very same rip would be decidedly longer. Yes, I know what you are all thinking...I had a lot of issues. I was probably born with them. I am sure that Freud would have had a heyday with me.

3. I, and everyone in my family, have memories that go back to about the age of two or three. These aren't fabricated memories or things that I've heard people talking about and then adapted as my own, these are my actual memories. Memories from when I was younger are sometimes more of a visual memory and at other times I remember the situation or event because I remember specifically what I was thinking at the time when the event happened. I am always astonished when people tell me that they can't remember anything before the age of ten. That's a whole decade that is lost or forgotten. I simply cannot imagine.

4. I have never been able to sleep in moving vehicles, especially cars. When I was young, my family would drive to the coast several times a year to visit the grandparents. It's a long trip through numerous mountain passes. I had visions of the car driving off a cliff so I would force myself to stay awake and keep watch. I recently recounted this to my father who excitedly informed me that when I was a baby, I was in a vehicle with my mother who missed a corner and drove the car over the bank. We both wondered if this incident had somehow imprinted itself upon my cellular memory so that even though I don't consciously remember the event, somehow my body did.

5. I am a night owl. Always have been, probably always will be. There were at least a couple instances when I was young where I simply forgot to go to sleep. No, this was not when I was at university pulling all nighters, although that did happen much later. At sleep overs, I was always the last one awake and usually the first one up. Now, although I still tend to keep rather late hours, don't find it quite so easy to get up so early. I have considered that perhaps I was supposed to have been born in a different time zone, not sure how I would actually confirm that though.

6. Last but not least...I talk to myself a lot...or sometimes to people who aren't there. Okay, I usually don't do this when other people are around, or if I do, it's internal dialogue. I'm not an outright freak, at least not yet.

Now, who to tag, who to tag...eenie, meenie, minie moe, I choose Cheryl, JBelle, Fede, Pinks, Mone, and VE.

Deceleration

Most men pursue pleasure with such breathless haste that they hurry past it.

~Søren Kierkegaard (1813-1855)