Mother McLeod

Anyone who has had a friend or relative living at Sunset Manor in Collingwood has had contact with a firm and funny, sometimes brusque and business-like nurse who has tenderly cared for thousands of people over the last 40 or so years.

Her fellow nurses call her Mother McLeod.
I call her Mom.

Maureen Herrington graduated as a nurse from Royal Victoria Hospital, class of 1962.
This week, 52 years later, Maureen McLeod, RN, will work her final shift.

Mom started her nursing career looking after babies.Later, she worked on a surgical floor at Collingwood's hospital and after a few years off to have babies of her own, she went back to nursing when I was about 6 years old.

As a kid, I thought it was normal to come home from school to a sleepy-eyed mommy in a dressing gown and bare feet. She worked nights for the most part, so she could sleep during the day when we kids were at school, and be home to ferry us to our lessons and practices, 4-H, choirs and hockey in the evenings.

Mom credits working part-time for being able to afford the figure skates and the lessons, the piano, and the hockey leagues my brothers played in, since there were years that the income from a 250-acre mixed farm in Ontario couldn't cover all the bills. She also says since she was 'only' working part-time, she has been able to continue to enjoy her job for 50 years, never feeling too burned-out or resentful.

Working nights sometimes meant a sleepy 25 minute commute home (Oh, who am I kidding, she's a speed demon and made it door-to-door in 15...), and more than once, she fell asleep somewhere between Duntroon and Glen Huron. One time, she ditched the car just a few hundred feet from our driveway.

Most Christmas mornings, when our friends were swimming through a sea of discarded wrapping paper, we were still waiting for Mom to come home. Our Christmas morning waited because she would be at work until 7 am, and, after giving report and handing off her duties, usually wouldn't be home until 7:30 or even 8am. It was torture for a kid at Christmas, having to wait until 8 o'clock to rip into the gifts. Mom knew, as a part-timer, she would be working either Christmas or New Year's Eve, and she generally chose Christmas, not only to be sure other people's families had their fun, but also, so she could get a night of dancing with my dad.

In the winter, Mom had a partner on the job, since my father would often have to pull out the tractor and snowblower in howling winds at 10:30 at night to clear the quarter-mile to the road so she could make it in to work. There were times he was back out with the tractor at 7:30 the next morning to clear her a way back in. Once, he used the tractor to blow snow all the way from our farm to what was then Highway 24, more than 2.5 miles away, because there was no one else to come in to work on such a snowy night.

My mom turned 72 in May. Her dedication to her job is legendary at Sunset Manor, and for at least the last 10 years, a near-majority of her patients have been her age or younger. For the last several years, we've been teasing her that on her last day, we're sending her to work with a suitcase, so she can just move right in. She has spent the last few years working mostly the evening shift, the one she loathed when she was younger. "You miss EVERYTHING on afternoons," she used to say, but she has found overnights too tough, and she says she wanted to spare other nursing mothers from having to 'miss everything'.

I can't tell you how many of her fellow nurses and Manor workers have come up to me at public functions to sing her praises.

I'm a little concerned about her, frankly, since so much of her identity is tied up in her career, and she will grieve its loss.

She was the kind of nurse you want at your bedside. The kind who wants to be providing actual, hands-on care to people. She didn't care to escape "the floor" to work on the scheduling or in management. She was in it for the patients and I'm told, spends much training time with new recruits explaining to them that the patient is their focus.

Over the years, my mom has also seen many of her friends' and neighbors' family members come through the doors at The Manor, and most of them leave feet-first, obviously, since it's a home for the aged. I can promise you, she has never betrayed your confidence by telling tales about your family members' declining health or behavioral difficulties, no matter how much she was pressed for a tidbit of gossip. She would sometimes tell about an incident involving a patient, but never with a name. It was very frustrating to certain classmates who may have been, shall we say, somewhat less than circumspect when it came to confidentiality.

She saw a lot of changes in nursing in 50 years. She's an RN, but in the 60s, Registered Nurse was the only nursing designation, a two-year program, most of it hands-on learning and the nurses-in-training lived, dined, learned and partied together at a residence attached to the hospital where they worked 12- and 15-hour days. These women bonded in a way most of us can't understand. They still get together twice a year to talk and reminisce. They were at each other's weddings, and in some cases, caused those weddings with fixups at country dances 'back in the day'. Their friendships are deep and their phone calls are frequent and lengthy. I often tell the story of being told to, "bleed over the sink, I'm on the 'phone!", although I wonder if it's somewhat apocryphal.

What really did happen, though, is that in the 60s, if a nurse, even a fully-qualified one, was on an elevator and the doors opened to a doctor, the nurse had to exit to to let the doctor on.

These days, most patient care is given by Registered Practical Nurses, who also have two years of training, plus there are Health Care Aides and Personal Service Workers, all with their own roles within any health care facilty. The RNs are the ones with a four-year degree, and to hear Mom tell it, the 'degree nurses' often think their extra education gives them a free pass on things like midnight shifts, bedside care, lifts and pesky things like talking with patients.

Of her disappointments at work, I will offer that her biggest is with relatives who show up only rarely and seem to feel they have to show a year's worth of caring for their loved one in that time, making sure the caregivers get a lot of bossing around and instructions in a few short hours. She is also disappointed by the family members who appear to think nurses take up their careers for the sheer pleasure of ignoring or torturing their particular family member.

I note the compassion in Mom's voice any time she tells the story of a patient who is no longer themselves; people who, through the ravages of age or dementia, become violent or who forget where food is supposed to go or how to use utensils. There are far more of the violent ones than you might think, and no one wants to admit their dear, sweet, loving auntie just punched a pregnant nurse, but it happens. The patients who beg my mother to kill them are very tough on her, too since she doesn't like to see her people in pain, whether it's physical or in the heart. She also notes that nasty people don't suddenly become sweet little old men as they age. Generally, she says, awful people are worse and more demanding in their dotage.

That being said, there is a particular trait I've noticed among nurses, which is that they don't like to think of their own family members as a possible patient. I came home from figure skating one night in the mid-80s with a broken wrist. I was convinced it was broken by the shooting pain whenever I moved it. Mom The Nurse grabbed my arm, put her ear next to the injured limb, and started moving my hand up and down while I nearly passed out. She declared that she couldn't hear any 'crepsis' whatever the hell that is, and that with some Tylenol and time, I would be fine.
My brother took me to the doctor the next day and sure enough, I came home with a cast. She was dumbfounded to think her child could possibly be truly hurt.

I've said that I'm concerned about my mother, considering how large her identity as a nurse has loomed in her life, but I'm also confident she'll find ways to fill her time.

She's an avid traveler, having now been to every English-speaking country in the world, plus Scotland. She has toured every legislature in Canada, although she has not yet made it to the territories.

With retirement, she can turn her attentions full-time to her job at the Collingwood Fair Board, the church she faithfully attends each Sunday, the endless array of community dinners she goes to with her circle of widow-friends and of course, her three beloved grandchildren, who nearly broke her heart when they moved to Australia. They're back and they're wonderful and I think they're decorating a spare room for her frequent stays at their home.

She may also do a little bit of sewing. I say that tongue in cheek since her sewing room is so full, I could lock her in there for the next five straight years and she still would not run out of fabric that needs to go into just the right quilt block.

So, I don't worry she'll have a lack of things to do in her retirement. I just hope she can find the time to take her dear darling daughter out for lunch once in a while.

Guess who's not coming to dinner

When was the last time you watched the clock, counting down the hours until your something wonderful happened?
That's where I'm at right now, counting the hours to a week off work. I need the week so I can get some important stuff done. Important stuff like lounging with a novel, taking off my watch and leaving the news feeds behind for seven blissful sleeps.

I know how badly I need the time off after I scared a lovely couple out of my house a few weeks ago with a rant about male entitlement which became a slanging match about women's safety.

It has been a long year in strained gender relations for me. It started with the #yesallwomen hashtag movement in May after yet another mass shooting, then Ray Rice the NFL wife puncher, which morphed into a non-stop series of upsetting news items before the Jian Ghomeshi revelations in September and now the Bill Cosby allegations. I'm finding it exhausting. I feel like I have only one nerve left and it's raw.

The dinner-party squabble started when I told my friends about an incident that had happened when I was out with my dog on the trails that week. I had been asked for my take on the latest from 'The Jian Ghomeshi thing,' and I said, "Here's the thing: Ghomeshi isn't a surprise to most women. We deal with jerks all the time. Maybe we haven't been actually punched, but the actions of men curtail women's lives every day, and men, even nice ones like you, have no idea that you basically live in a whole different country from women, even the women who live under the very same roof as you do."

I then told the story of my encounter on the trail, to illustrate my point.

It was a Thursday. The guy with the dog and the bicycle had been going east and I was walking west. Our dogs stopped to greet each other. While the dogs romped, the man and I spoke a bit about the weather, and I commented that it had been a lovely fall as the leaves changed colour on the 10k out-and-back I run on these very trails. The conversation was maybe 35 seconds, likely less. The dogs appeared done with their play and I resumed my walk. Rather than continuing his walk, the man fell in beside me, even though he had a bicycle and had been walking the opposite direction when we encountered one another. I had not invited him to join me. After a fairly short distance, I said, "This is as far as I'm going today. Have a nice day," and I turned around and went home. This guy seemed to think that he gets to walk with me simply because he wants to. He did not ask if I wanted company, this guy seemed to think that he was entitled to my time, kind of like the men on the street who seem to think they have a right to demand a smile from any woman passing by. Because of this man's sense of entitlement, I curtailed my outdoor activity and fled home to exercise indoors.

Rather than hearing my story and saying what I had hoped to hear, something like, "Wow, that really does suck," my male dining companions told me in serious, concerned tones that I had made what might be a grave mistake in telling this guy where I run, and that henceforth I should likely run elsewhere, as a matter of safety. Rather than saying it's terrible that we women have to change our behaviour because of men, they suggested I change my behaviour some more.

I like that my friends are concerned for my safety, but in one breath, both men, both my friends, had turned the story of male entitlement into a story about women's victimization, placing the blame for any possible future trouble squarely on the shoulders of the victim. I was flabbergasted (but not speechless) and demanded to know from the men at my table whether they were truly of the opinion that if I were to be assaulted by this guy at some future date, they would deem it my fault for having been forthcoming in a random, 30 second conversation. "Well..." they demurred, "Not really, but, well, kinda..." Things quickly devolved to yelling, with me shouting, "So, I'm in the hospital, having been attacked and you're going to come to my bedside and tell me that I can expect no sympathy from you because the mere act of talking to a stranger on a trail makes it my fault that the guy attacked me? I guess if I'd been wearing shorts, I'd be asking for it! Are you f*&^$#g kidding me?! What you're suggesting is that assaults on women are somehow the woman's fault because the guy who's doing the assaulting is unstoppable and that assaults are inevitable and it's the woman's job to prevent them, to send the predator on to some other, less clever woman. Should it be your daughter to whom he is sent?"

The guests left shortly thereafter, not surprisingly, after making comments about realism and reality and naivete and that the world is the way the world is and we have to adapt to it and while it wouldn't be my fault, per se, it would, well, yeah, kinda be my fault if I were attacked, because I hadn't been careful enough. Because - and let this sink in- while out for a walk with my dog on a sunny Thursday afternoon, I hadn't been careful enough in a random conversation with a man.

It's 2014 and even the best men I know believe it's a woman's actions that lead to assaults, not the actions of the men who do the assaulting. Sadly, the reaction of my friends proves my point about women living in a different country from men, doesn't it, although not quite in the way I had intended.

Yup, I really need a week off. Now, if only all women, even in this great and enlightened country, could get a week off from being put upon, hit on and disbelieved. We're all so bloody tired of being told the cruel and unexplainable things men do are our own bloody fault.

Explanations, wanted and not

My sweetheart and I are in the process of making our Christmas lists.

Each year, we make a list of things we might like to have, and post it to a word document on the desktop of the computer. More recently we talk about what we'd like, and put notes in our 'phones.

Sweetie and I have been watching Bones on Netflix and he now wants crazy socks like Booth wears, so those are on his list. Yesterday, I mentioned I might like Rebecca Solnit's new book.

Had I made a less awesome choice of sweetheart, I might not be in a position to ask for such a present under my tree, but I was very smart in the long-ago, and so I will likely find the badly wrapped book among my collection of presents this year.

Solnit's book is titled, "Men Explain Things to Me." She's a print journalist, the long-form kind, who usually writes books rather than magazine or newspaper stuff. Solnit delves deep into her topics, and her interests vary widely. The idea for this book arrived when she was at a party with a girlfriend and they ended up in a conversation with a fellow guest on a topic about which Solnit had just published a book. The topic is esoteric and foreign and escapes me now, but the conversation between the author and the random guy at the party features him explaining to her the thesis of this book that's just been written on this esoteric and foreign topic. He doesn't stop explaining even after being told at least three times that he's addressing the author of the very work he's citing. Even once he realises, he continues with his explanations for a while.

You probably know where I'm going with this, but just in case you don't, here's my gist: the explaining thing by men to women is not rare. It's very, very common. Men talk about 'hen parties' and chattering women, but you put a man in a room with a woman and it won't be long before it's the man doing all the talking and more often than not, they're opining or explaining. At my curling club, I once got a long explanation about the radio news business, in which I've worked for 20 years. The man who told me all about it was in no way connected to broadcasting or journalism and I don't think had ever even called in to a phone-in radio show, but he sure wasn't shy explaining to me how radio journalism works.

Here's the rest of my gist: The explaining thing is part of a continuum of behaviour, waaaaaay at the far end of the continuum, but nonetheless on the continuum that starts with explaining and ends with women being knocked unconscious in elevators or worse. It's about entitlement.

The Jian Ghomeshi story, as shocking as it is, (and it is...) was more shocking to some men than it is to many women, because it shone a light on the fact that even the toughest woman lives in a very different world than even the nicest man. Women are explained to, interrupted, marginalised, and we know from a young age that we are not safe on our own streets and in our own homes, because some men feel they are entitled to whatever they want, even if what they want is to shout that they'd like to have sex or punch someone when they get excited.

Maybe a man could explain to me what that's like.

Soldiers in the Street

This image that made me cry at work this morning is from the Halifax Chronicle Herald's brilliant Bruce MacKinnon. What an moving piece of imagination.

I had been pretty much numb from the moment I saw the first bit of news about what was going on in Ottawa yesterday. I had wondered in passing why I wasn't more upset. What I inured to this stuff, becoming cynical? At about half-past seven I saw that cartoon and basically turned into a blubbering mess at my desk in the newsroom.

That picture says more than a thousand words about the waste of a life, about how soldiers think of each other and their duties, reminding me how strangers rushed to the aid of the mortally wounded man even though there was no guarantee the shooting was over. The image says something about how solders in the past and present are linked by service and sacrifice and a sense of duty, reminding me there were 60-thousand or so other Canadian volunteers who gave their lives in the Great War that started a century ago as of this year. It also makes me aware that we are still in a war; a long and protracted battle we don't understand the half of.

On a side note,
In my own reporting, I try to emulate the amazing Peter Mansbridge who, it seems, didn't take even one breath during six solid hours of commercial-free on-air reportage yesterday. He and his wonderful team treated the unfolding story with the seriousness it deserved, but reported only what was known for sure, constantly referring back to how we know what we know, refraining from comment on anything but the facts at hand.

Did you notice there were no 'experts' brought in for 'analysis' of the events before the events were complete? Did you notice there was little 'naming' of the coverage? Few computer-generated sweeps of the shiny words, "Breaking news"? Did you notice Mansbridge himself was rarely seen in the coverage, nor were many of the reporters? It was radio coverage with pictures and video and reporters on the 'phone. At CTV, they, too, stuck to the story, not needing to reach conclusions about motive, not asking for speculation. Actually, both major Canadian networks eschewed speculation, which for anyone who has watched these things unfold so often in the US, was nearly as stunning as the events themselves. Some have called the coverage yesterday, "a masterclass" put on by our national public broadcaster, and they're right.

Pant, Pant, Pants.

Well, let's hear it for goals achieved.
Hopefully.

I have spent the last six weeks preparing for the hot and sweaty hour I'm going to spend running tomorrow morning. I set a goal earlier this year of running a 10k race in under an hour, and I've spent most of the summer on long and short runs, learning the difference between a stride and an interval, figuring out tempo pace versus easy versus race pace.

Tomorrow's the day. I'm lacing up at Run Collingwood. It's a new race, only two years old, basically in my backyard, and some of the money raised from the race goes to the local hospital, so it's all good. If I don't hit my goal, I'm OK with that, too, because I've hit so many other goals along the way.,

I took up running three summers ago, as a way of slimming down and making memories with my family.

I had a number in mind on the scale, and I hit it in the first several months by eating less and moving more. The 'all about the bass' crowd doesn't want to hear this, but it's a pretty simple formula.

There are other benefits to running besides smaller pants. Research out this week shows exercise is one of the most potent methods to fight depression.

Imagine that- a way to fight two of the big troubles facing our entire society, obesity and depression, locked right there into two shoes, one foot in front of the other, for an hour and sometimes more.

No Respect? Pity.

I didn't say anything about Rob Ford on my radio show today. I have nothing nice to say, so I completely refrained.

I am not proud of feeling this way, but I can't bring myself to adopt the hushed tones of respect that have taken over Twitter and facebook and the TV news, with people saying things that invariably begin with, 'I don't agree with his politics but...' and then express hope for a speedy recovery, continue with an expression of how cancer sucks and then wind up with a bunch of other high-minded stuff that is really only about the fact that the writer or speaker wants you to think well of them for having a big heart.

I don't know what I do wish, but right now, today, I can't summon good wishes for a person who has been such a complete and utter jerk for so very long.

Here are some examples of how Rob Ford himself shows respect, in his own words:

“If you are not doing needles and you are not gay, you wouldn’t get AIDS probably, that’s the bottom line.”

“My heart bleeds for them (cyclists) when someone gets killed. But it’s their own fault at the end of the day.”

“This is an insult to my constituents to even think about having a (homeless) shelter in my ward!”

and let's not forget, "I have plenty to eat at home."

Rob Ford is an ass, and now he has a tumour in his ass. Like so much in the Ford saga, you just can't make this stuff up. Although Rob Ford has made up plenty, like telling a reporter just this week that he had a lung biopsy, which he did not. He told the same reporter this week, from his hospital bed, that he had a tumour removed from his appendix a few years ago, which he did not.

Just because someone is sick, they're not suddenly a saint. Please, let's stop the solemn tones of respect for someone who has squandered any right he has to it.

Pity, yes, for the cancer, for the neediness, for the addiction, for the drugs and the booze and the lying and the bullying and the shame he has brought to a great city. But not respect. No bloody way.

About those Celebrity Pics

I'm so glad I grew up in the age before the Internet. I can only imagine how much trouble I would have gotten my impulsive self into if I'd had a cellphone camera in my teens.

No doubt you've heard how Jennifer Lawrence and other celebrities had their private stashes of intimate self-portraits stolen and posted online by creepy hackers in a corner of the Internet many of us would rather not visit.

Those pictures could easily be of your daughter or granddaughter. Or maybe your son. Many, many people take nude selfies these days, especially those of us who work hard on and are proud of our bodies.

Some people say the celebrities shouldn't have racy pictures of themselves, but that is totally blaming the victim.

What if, instead of pictures that were stolen by the hackers, they were love letters or bank account access? What if the pictures were hard copies and in a safety deposit box? Still the celebrities' fault?

It's exactly the same thing. Private property. Stolen.

And, while I hate to say this, Playboy had it right, asking readers not to look at the purloined pics in an article saying that consent is the sexiest thing they can think of. Although, Playboy may have a conflict of interest.

I also have noticed a different set of beliefs for men and women: I'm a huge, huge fan of Hugh Jackman, but even if he sent it directly to me himself, I never, ever want to see a picture of his junk.

Offhand

If you spend any time with me at all, you'll know I'm a talker.
I even talk in my sleep, although I have only my Sweetie's word on that.
I speak for a living, working at various radio stations over the past 20+ years since I graduated journalism school.

In the seven years since I started hosting the morning show and the morning news at our little station in Wasaga Beach, I have done thousands of breaks, thousands of newscasts and done thousands of interviews.

Even though my job is to inform and entertain out loud, and we literally bank on the fact that people are listening in, I sometimes wonder. Is there anyone out there? Are they paying attention, and if they're paying attention, am I informing or entertaining them? Even 20 years later, I remain surprised when someone says they've heard something I've told them, or tells me that I made them laugh.

Several years ago, I was flabbergasted when a woman I know from childhood told me I had saved her life one snowy night as she crept her way down Airport Road in a terrible snowstorm. I was working the night shift at a station in Toronto at the time, and she says she was calmed by hearing the voice of someone she knew personally, coming out of her car radio.

There have been times when what I've said has gotten me in trouble, too. I find most people who are upset calm down a lot when they get the chance to explain why they're angry. That said, I have never and will never apologize to anyone who calls me names or otherwise abuses me or anyone I work with.

Today, I was the beneficiary of simply being out there, on the air.

Last week, I made mention of a networking meeting in Wasaga Beach that was being held at the candy store at the main end. Offhandedly, I said, "Hey, if anyone is going, could you pick me up some Thrills?" You remember Thrills, don't you? It's chewing gum, purple and the worst tasting stuff you can imagine. It's lavender flavoured. Yup, it tastes like soap.

Sure enough, this morning, Trudie from the Wasaga Beach Chamber of Commerce dropped by the station, carrying two packs of the horrible gum. I love it, and I love the reminder that usually, somewhere, someone really is listening.

RIP Williams

For anyone who has sat on their bed on a sunny Tuesday and cried their eyes out for no good reason and felt like a loser and then felt nothing at all:

You don't have to tough it out.

You don't have to be strong or noble or right or anything else.

But you matter.

Just because you do.

You do!

and if you're thinking that maybe the world would be better off without you, it wouldn't
and if you're thinking that maybe you'd be happier if you weren't here, you wouldn't
and if you're thinking that you want to do something, something big, to make the pain go away, don't

Tell someone.
Call me!

It may be overwhelming but wait a little while, just please hang on.

Kitchen Adventure Review: Pretentious Burger

I think I might be sold on my pretentious veggie non-burgers.

They were a lot of work, what with the 17 ingredients, some of which needed to be roasted beforehand, but most new recipes are a lot of work the first time. One finds a rhythm and shortcuts in subsequent makings.

The New York Times Ultimate Veggie Burger lived up to is name with a satisfying meatiness that was different than beef, but excellent. There was a hint of falafel about them, even though there were no chickpeas involved.

The patties cooked on the barbecue five minutes a side. They were hot right through and I noticed that I had no concern about whether they were cooked enough. They took on grill marks just like a 'real' burger and held their shape. I see myself making them and putting them in the freezer for a quick-cooking meal in the winter, when my extracurriculars sometimes mean rushed mealtimes.

When I make them next time, I will make a few changes: I would divide this recipe into eight patties instead of six. I made five, thinking as I formed the patties that they they seemed small. It turns out they weren't small and they didn't shrink like hamburgers do when cooked, so they were huge and very filling once I got them on the table.

Also, if I'm choosing the veggie patty instead of a burger for the sake of calories rather than taste or ethics, I will switch out the cashews for some other nut. By my calculations, each of the five patties I made came in at a whopping 450 calories. Add the bun and your 'burger' is 570 calories - more than a Big Mac, although without the excess fat and salt and ethical issues involving underpaid foreign workers in slaughterhouses and fast food joints. Smaller patties and almonds instead of cashews should bring them in line, calories-wise.

Here's how I know I will make these again: I brought them to work for my breakfast, and I never, never do that with leftover beefburgers. That said, Sweetie didn't take any, and he always, always takes the leftover beefburgers. Hmmm.

Kitchen Adventure - The Pretentious Burger

Right off the top, let me say that I love me some meat.

(I'm not sure why I feel I have to put a caveat on it, but I do...) I have a freezer full of beef, pork, chicken, lamb, venison and even some moose to attest to my loving relationship with sinews and muscle, steak and sausage, oxtail and everything meaty in between.

In recent years though, I have had to spend more and more time reconciling the food I eat with the way it's produced.

On my farm, when I was a kid, we kept a series of cows in the barn to have milk for our family table. The rest of the cattle were on pasture in the summer and in winter, were given hay we grew and harvested on the farm. Our pigs ate the grain we grew and in their pens, the pigs played with a chain hanging from the ceiling so they'd have something to occupy them. It prevented fights. The sheep were on grass when they busy weren't escaping (stupid, stupid creatures!) and our chickens had the run of the barn until the dog died and the foxes moved in.

We cared for our animals, named them sometimes, showed them at the fair and eventually ate some of them. I didn't think much about it as a kid, but as an adult, I rest easy in the knowledge that the animals had a decent life before they met their end and we or someone else ate them. I was in the small abattoirs where the animals were killed and dismembered; their deaths were quick and merciful.

Now, though, the more I know about massive filthy feedlots, monocultures required to feed the animals therein and the treatment of the humans who work in the slaughterhouses, the more I'm re-thinking what goes into the grocery cart.

I buy beef from a farmer I know. My chickens, too, mostly, but maybe it's time for more of us to think about how much meat we eat. Sweetie and I plan our meals, and I try to slip one non-meat meal in there each week.

Which leads me to today's experiment.

On a whim one day about 20 years ago, I had a veggie burger at a restaurant in Toronto. It was terrific, and I have tried and failed many times to find one as good.

17 ingredients and two hours of roasting and mixing later, I will form and barbecue my own, homemade version of a veggie burger, from a recipe I read in the New York Times. I'm calling it the Pretentious Burger, because... New York Times.

Yup. SEVENTEEN ingredients, including some I had trouble finding in small-town Ontario, like tempeh, and others that are more pedestrian, like beets.

I'll let you know how it turns out, that is, IF I'm still alive tomorrow...

The art of the shave

I am a little disturbed to admit how much I enjoyed watching my sweetheart wield a sharp blade across his own skin this weekend.

We were spending some time with friends and it was my job to pick up our takeaway dinner. Upon my return, I found my darling and his male buddy, soaking wet, wrapped in towels in the bathroom, Sweetie getting a lesson in the manly art of shaving, just like every 15 year old boy needs. Except he's not 15; he's rounding the corner toward fifty.

To put it kindly, these two guys are rather hirsute. Less gently, they're hairy. Really freaking hairy and it started early; you can tell from their baby pictures they were going to have five o'clock shadows for much of their lives. Both of them, at some unfortunate time in high school, sported a horrible scraggly moustache that screamed, "I have hair on my lip! Lookit me! I'm a MAN now!"

For reasons lost in the vapor of time, neither of them was ever taught the finer points of gentlemanly grooming. Like most North American men of their vintage, they learned to shave by trial and error or maybe from TV or more likely, from friends. Over the years, they've used cheapy blades from the drug store, whatever was on sale, and somewhere along the line, graduated to the new five, six, and seven blade machines which are quite pricey.

Now, thanks to the miracle of Youtube, Sweetie's friend has become a connoisseur of shaving the old-fashioned way: cup of soap, brush and a single, replaceable blade inside a safety razor. He has not yet graduated to the straightedge but his wife is concerned a strop may be his next purchase.

Last night, my discovery of the two hairy men in towels was Sweetie's introduction to this old-fashioned ritual of manhood, and it's a very involved ritual indeed: at least fifteen minutes of rinsing and soaking and soaping and scraping and alum and pomades and admittedly, some blood. Honestly, I really don't know what all they got up to in there.

Sweetie's not sure he's interested in all the fuss; it seemed to him the cost/benefit of time versus smooth skin might not work out in his favour, and he says his life is not so stressful that he requires a lot of grooming time to get 'centred' at the start of his day. I'll say, though, I've never felt his face any softer and I couldn't keep my sweet lips off it, so maybe that will tip the balance. The question is, which way?

Homeward Bound

Maybe you were wondering what that sound was on Friday evening at about 5:30. It was a "Squeee!!!" from me.

Sweetie and I were dining with my mother when the 'phone rang and it was my seven year old niece calling from Brisbane. She wanted to talk to me, and wanted to know if I would run a 5K race with her on Labour Day. In Toronto. The 'squeeee' came when I figured out that my fractured family is reuniting!

My brilliant and amazing sister in law has a big fancy promotion, even bigger than the one that took she and her family to Brisbane two and a half years ago. Apparently, divisions within the corporation she works for have had to duke it out over her talents. The family will be home for the start of the Canadian school year, no doubt wearing toques and scarves after their time in the Australian sun.

One of the children is less happy about the return trip than the others; the one that's been thriving in an elite school, but a girl who earned her way into a State school on academics and athletics is likely to thrive anywhere. We'll just have to jolly her along until she finds her path here.

Until then, I'm looking for races and working on my times so I won't be so embarrassed by the children I finally get to run with again.

Did I mention, Squeeee!

best. day. ever.

Today is one of the best days of the entire year if you're a kid. OK, it's not Christmas, but it's still pretty good: it's the last day of school. If you're leaving elementary school, you get your report card and your classes for the first day of high school. If you're still in elementary school, you might find out who your teacher is next year, hopefully the 'good' one.

One of my colleagues spent some time with a group of young students this week, finding out what they were looking forward to in the long hot days of summer.
One of the wee ones said, 'I'm going to ride my bike....' and that was pretty much the sum total of her plans. She was planning to ride her bike.

It sounded... heavenly.

Remember the days when summer consisted of vast acres of time, riding your bike, maybe hanging out near a creek, maybe going to a midway?

Let's make a deal, you and me: instead of complaining about the heat and the air conditioning or the politicians or the bills, for the next two so very short months, let's go ride our bikes and see if maybe, just maybe, somewhere up the trail or across the street, we might catch a glimpse of our former, innocent and unjaded self, enjoying the freedom of a sunny summer day.

Closing the School

The elementary school I attended up to Grade Four will end its life as a school at the end of this month. I don't know what the plan is for building in Creemore that was first a high school, and later an elementary school, and was the first school I attended. There will still be an education offered to young people in Creemore, it's just that the "annex" is closing, and all classes are being consolidated into a newer building nearby. With its high ceilings and large windows, the old school would make an excellent set of condos. I was asked by the editor of the Creemore Echo to put together some of my memories of NCCS, and here's what I submitted.


There may have been a hierarchy at play when I was a student at the 'tall school' in Creemore. Kindergarten was in the basement, Grade Four on the top floor. Yellow shag carpeting dotted with red was no doubt designed to cover spilled paint, dirt and the occasional barf that rained down on it.

Two of the little boys in my Kindergarten were so shy, they would not come into the class. They stayed in the hall, terrified. For one of them, it may have been Christmas before he screwed up the courage to join the Birthday Circle. Miss Bambrick was very patient, and it may have been the lure of a chocolate treat to finally bring him in.

The first year I was in the split Grade One/Two class taught by Mrs. Davidson, I was assured at home that I was so smart, I was being paired up with the 'slow' kids from Grade Two. However, when I was on the Grade Two side of the split a year later, the story changed: I was so bright, I was being recruited to help those poor dummies in Grade One. When I was in a split class again in Grade Four, I noticed there was no one in my class whose surname started with B, F, or H. We were the Ms to Zs, and there were no dummies.

I got into trouble in Grade Two when Lisa Prime busted out a swear word I had taught her in the confines of our snow fort during lunch hour. The teacher didn't believe golden-haired little me had provided that piece of Lisa's education until I confirmed it and solemnly promised never to bring 'barn words' to school again. Two years later, in the middle of a geography lesson, I was engrossed in a Harlequin Romance stolen from under my mother's sewing table when I heard my name and looked up just in time to see a huge cloud of white chalk dust rising around Mrs. Marion Hawkins. I had been so immersed in my purloined love story, I didn't hear her call on me. She had finally lost her temper and slammed her hand onto the chalkboard in frustration.

I ran into Mrs. Davidson the other day, and no matter how many years have passed since I was in her classroom, I can't call her Audrey. I just can't. There was no question of she or Mrs. Hawkins, Mrs. Arnold, Mr. Bell or Mrs. McArthur being referred to by anything other than their honorific and heaven forbid any of those venerable ladies showed up to school in slacks!

I can't remember if we obeyed the stone-carved 'boys' and 'girls' entrances, although I do remember thinking it was pretty stupid to divide us, even while I practiced writing out my married name if I were to partner up with the only boy in my class taller than I. During cold winter recesses, we girls huddled around the front door, chanting, "Mis-ter-Bell, ring-the-bell!" to let us back into the warmth of the building. Once inside, there could be no sneaking around - the din from those squeaky old wooden stairs was so loud it would overwhelm even the laughing, screaming kids as they hustled up or down on their way to learn.

Yup. All of Us.

More than a million posts have been written on the social media site, Twitter with the hashtag #YesAllWomen.

Even if you're not a twitter subscriber, (and 98% of us are not) this is a pretty impressive number of people weighing in on a topic dear to them.

To catch you up, a twisted teenager went on one of those all-too-familiar shooting rampages in the US on Friday, killing six people at the University of California campus in Santa Barbara. Beforehand, he posted a bunch of videos on Youtube, talking about why he was about to do it. He was pretty clear; he was mad at being a virgin at the age of 22, and wanted revenge on the women who had rejected him. He went to a sorority house, but didn't get in, so, thwarted, ran down some people, shot some others and then finally, apparently, himself.

Some Twitter users posted their thoughts with the hashtag #notallmen, making the point that not all men hate women.

Saturday night, someone created #YesAllWomen, as a reply to not all men. As in, maybe not all men are mean to women, but yes, all women deal with the fallout of men's behaviour toward us and here's an example.

The people post about being groped and grabbed, honked at and whistled at. The posters note young women are taught to avoid being raped but wonder how much effort is put into teaching men about consent, or that they don't have a right to sex. They write about how it's unfair how many of us are afraid to walk alone at night, fearful that a man will attack us. When alone in our homes, we worry about being attacked by a man. On a smaller plane, but still on the same continuum, when speaking our minds, we are often silenced. Men explain things to us, even when we know more about those things than they do. Yes, it's a wide range of experiences, from silencing all the way through some dumb jerk grabbing a boob, right up to rape. All women experience some of it. And yes, things are better in North America than they are elsewhere, but better doesn't mean right or fair.

So far, somewhere around 1.3 million people have posted. You should join Twitter, even for just a day, to read some of the posts, especially if you're reading this, and thinking, "But not all men are bad!" or, "But things are worse somewhere else," or really anything that begins with a "but". Let the million examples of small nastiness and big horrors women experience every day wash over you, and then think.

The Lines in Your Head

I almost burst out laughing during a newscast today, telling the story of a pair of alligators rescued from a backyard shed north of Toronto, where they were being kept as family pets.

I wasn't the story itself that made me laugh - it was the memory that came with it.

Nearly every time I hear the word, alligator, I am immediately transported back to the lazy summer days of my childhood, when lunch in our farmhouse was served promptly at 12:30, just as soon as Leave It To Beaver was over. The episode connected to the alligators is the one where the boys go to visit Captain Jack, the local keeper of the alligator farm, who told the boys if they were to fall into the alligator enclosure, the animals would not "chew your arm off, they would SAW it off!" Later, the children get their own alligator, and mayhem ensues.

I'm not sure how this particular line embedded itself in me, but it gets me, every single time.

The city of Red Deer also makes me giggle every single time I have to say it, but that's connected to a dirty joke.

Requiem for a Run

It's not just this blog I abandoned a few months ago.
I haven't been quilting or doing calligraphy or working in the garden or doing much that's very useful, for quite some time.

I blame Netflix and Mother Nature.

House of Cards, Happy Endings, Downton Abbey, My Boys, Mad Men, The Newsroom, (OK, that was borrowed from a friend...) House of Cards again, Portlandia and now, Bones plus movies and documentaries and TED talks galore: these are things that have occupied a lot of my non-working, non-sleeping moments for the last five months or so.

I have a huge cupboard full of movies, several bookshelves full of terrific novels and non-fiction works along with a tall stack of books I bought with my "Christmas money", but there's something about the Netflix that draws me in, day after day.

I don't want to be one of those tiresome and pretentious people who says they don't watch television, but I will say Sweetie and I haven't had cable or satellite television for nine years. We were over-the-air analog with about seven channels and now, with the digital revolution, we're down to three. No hockey, no baseball, no reality shows, not at our place; it's news and Netflix, and my house has never been dirtier or my running shoes so abandoned.

Because of my addiction to the tube and the snuggly blankets on the couch, I will have a painful, embarrassing and sore Sunday morning in Toronto.

In a reckless fit of optimism in January, I signed up for the Sporting Life 10K, a road race down Yonge Street. Not only did I sign up, I convinced my running buddy to come along.
AND I was doubly optimistic and signed up for a faster corral than last year, thinking I might improve my time from last year's race.

But I wasn't counting on the coldest winter in memory. Last week, there was still snow on the trail I run - yes, last week!

So, spare a little pity for me, even though it's my own fault that I will be puffing and huffing and wanting to die on Yonge Street Sunday, and likely a very sorry girl on Monday.

I'll recover with the rest of season three of Portlandia.

School is in

The last few weeks have been a time of great learning for me. Some of the information I have come across shook cherished and long-held beliefs and some has given me a feeling of lightness and growth that's really quite addictive.

A sample:
1/Just because I like someone, doesn't mean they're widely liked.
I tend toward the drama queens and the narcissists for my friendships because, let's face it, they're FUN. At least, they're fun at first, with all the drama and the excitement and whatnot. It's only after a while I find out I am but a bit player and of no real consequence to the narcissistic drama queen, and I bow out. (If we've been friends for a long time, you're likely neither a drama queen nor a narcissist, fyi, so refrain from snarky comments below, please!) I also tend toward the quirky. I have found that quirky folk are also generally thoughtful and kind, and their messups are far less damaging than those of The Dramatic. Further, The Quirky usually have skills worth admiration. I have recently learned that some people aren't willing to put in the time to plumb the depths of the Quirky's admirable traits, which makes me sad for both parties.


2/ Sometimes, you have to step up.
There is some sort of trouble at the club where I curl. 5 of 11 members of the Board of Directors have quit. Among the people who walked away? 100 percent of the women. My pun for the situation: "That sure seems like some sort of cock-up to me!"
Seriously, though, I've been a member of the club for 10 years, playing as often as four times a week. I usually help out at one bonspiel a year. I've let other people volunteer to run the scheduling, bonspiels, bar, committees and all other organizational stuff that needs done. Sitting back is all well and good, but I realize as of this week, I forfeit the right to complain if I don't pitch in.

3/ Cars need oil, and they're not kidding about it.
My beloved and elderly Volkswagen Beetle left me stranded by the side of the road Monday. I thought the oil light meant, "Hey, maybe, if you're not too busy, could you perhaps swing by a store later today and pick up some oil?" It actually means, "HOLY MOTHER OF ALL, I'M DYING HERE!!!!", and might mean, "Goodbye, cruel world....". I'm hoping for a diagnosis later today.
Before you think me an idiot, please know I was diligent about the oil changes for beloved Byng the Bug for the first 13.5 years of our relationship. It's only in the last while, when Sweetie and I are getting so very close to finding the perfect replacement, that I have been somewhat (OK, thoroughly) negligent.

Oh there's more, but I'm too embarrassed to put some of it into words.

Preposterous Prepositions

Prepositions are very small words but they're really quite important.

A preposition links nouns, pronouns and phrases to other words in a sentence to help the reader or listener understand the relationship between the object of the sentence and the rest of it.

To, from, at, with and a whole host of other little words can make a massive difference to the meaning of a sentence.

If you sit NEAR the fire, it's a lot different than sitting IN the fire.
Spitting AT someone can have markedly different consequences than spitting ON them.

Which brings me to Rob Ford's appearance on tonight's episode of Jimmy Kimmel's talk show.
Ford appears to be a victim of a grammatical mistake of some sort, unaware he's being laughed AT, not WITH.

Toronto's Mayor he has been the butt of Kimmel's jokes for several months. OK, he's been the butt of most of our jokes for months now, but Kimmel has been particularly eloquent and persistent. He had Chris Daughtry write and perform a particularly well-researched song, in addition to hiring a look-alike for fake interviews. The jokes Kimmel has been telling at Ford's expense are actually the cornerstone of one of Toronto's Mayoral contestants' campaigns. David Socknacki's posters read: 'Never heard of me? Neither has Jimmy Kimmel.'

Kimmel showing up at the airport, taking Ford to an Oscars after party? It's for the footage, for the 'get'; not because he admires, likes or supports Ford. It's a hideous real-life version of the movies Dogfight or Carrie, where meanies take the ugliest girl to the dance, the girl not realizing she is fodder for a bet.

Ford appears oblivious, too, and not just in this case. He mistakes gawkers for supporters, taking selfies with anyone who wants to, seemingly unable to tell that in a lot of cases, it's not admiration that motivates the photo-taker, at least, that's not the expression on their face. I have been puzzling over this one and I can't quite figure out the reason people want pictures with Ford. Maybe those selfies are being taken by people who, like Ford, don't know there is a difference between celebrity and infamy.

Part of me hopes that if and when the crack smoking, drunk driving Mayor of Toronto finally figures it out, that it happens live on air, so we at least we can watch the epiphany unfold on his red and sweaty face, and maybe something might be learned from this long and ugly escapade.

Olympic Cheese

I am finding it tough to watch the Olympics in Russia, and it's not only because of the Russian treatment of its own people, the workers who weren't paid for construction, the half-finished, empty venues or the anti-gay Russian sentiment.

It's not entirely because of the entirely plausible cheating scenario in ice dance.

It's also not because of my refusal to pay for television; there are lots of ways to find the games without paying for cable - mothers in law, for example and this year, the Internet has been particularly helpful. What a difference from Vancouver when Bell/CTV wouldn't broadcast anything without your fees paying for it.

It's certainly not the performance of our athletes.

No, it's the commercials.

Now, I've been crying at sappy commercials as long as Bell has been exploiting familial love for profit, but this year's crop is so laced with saccharine, my teeth are aching.

The first time I saw the salute to motherhood, I admit I teared up.

The fifty-first time I saw the salute to motherhood, I was disgusted at the sheer emotional manipulation coming from the advertisers (and I still teared up).

The Coke spots tugging at the heartstrings with Special Olympians while congratulating me on drinking 16 teaspoons of sugar at a time? That one really gets me caffeinated.

Add the sonorous, tinkly-music profiles of the athletes' 'profiles in courage', and I doubt I could carry on a conversation with any of them if I were ever in the same room.

Here's the thing: there's PLENTY of drama on the ice, the snow and the tracks. Must everything be so over-the-top?

We already won.

A bright spot has arrived in what seems to be an unrelenting winter and I'm not talking about the delicious-smelling pot of groundhog stew bubbling away on the stove.

Georgian bay is mostly frozen over, which means any new snow has to come from the south.
We now know there are fewer days of winter ahead of us than behind us.
The sun is still out at six pm.
We're feeling hope.

And now, in tropical Sochi, Russia, Canada's winter athletes are skating, skiing and sliding their little hearts out while we here at home are amazed at their grace and fortitude.

A poll released recently said most Canadians consider the games a success for Canada only if our millionaire hockey players get another gold to add to their basement honour walls.

I think they've already been won, on the tracks: the cross-country ski track, where a Russian racer broke his ski and the Canadian coach came running with the replacement; the long track where a Canadian skating racer felt his teammate had a better shot at a good result and handed over his place at the games which had been earned, fair and square.

Those are the stories that will stick with me. I don't care if Sidney Crosby nets the overtime winner against the US - been there, done that.

It's the humanity in the face of adversity that makes me happy, and you can call me as sappy as the saccharine, tear-jerking commercials all you want.

Haiku for a Refusal to Run in Winter

Oh, I see you there, man
In your goggles and your tights.
I will not join you.

I am not hurting
Not broken, injured or bowed
But merely lazy

Clinging to my girth
Which I earned with carbs and sloth
I refuse the cold.

Minus ten is it.
Colder and I don't leave home
Tough Canuck? Not me!

Springtime please come soon,
I cannot afford new pants.
Shoes await gravel.

Stoppit

When I get home from work today, I will choose whether to have a beer to end my day.

If I have the beer, I will likely have some popcorn to go with it, and if I have the popcorn, I will likely turn on the TV while I eat it, and I will likely wake up in about an hour with a fuzzy, drooly head. My fuzzy, drooly head will likely mean I won't go for a walk today. If I don't go for a walk today, the dog will be restless tonight, which means I won't get a decent sleep, which means tomorrow is going to be a tougher day than it needs to be. So, I'm not going to have a beer. I want one. I really really do. But I'm not going to have one today. I have decided. Tomorrow when I get home, I will make another decision and it might be different.

Earlier today, when I ate 15 enormous gumdrops left over from Christmas, that, too, was a choice. I decided to eat them. I feel terrible right now and I want to barf, but I'm not going to blame my tummy ache on anything other than my terrible, delicious, sugary choice.

Every day is a choice. Every meal is choice, every cigarette, every workout, every time you change your sheets or yell at your kids, it's a decision. That's the difference, I think, between people who are happy and those who are not. The ownership of the decision. Happy people, even if they're doing things that are ruinous to their health and well being, generally tell me they have chosen their path with clear eyes. One of my girlfriends recently said, "I'm done with the gym. I'm not going any more." She seems pretty happy. She found an hour a day with which to do other things.

Another dear friend is in a bit of a pickle. I love her and I want her to be happy, but right now, she's not happy. What she is, is frantic and a bit scattered, not sleeping well, unsure of why she's doing what she's doing and equally unsure about what she can do to change her situation.

I wasn't sure what else to say about my lovely friend's predicament. I have listened and not judged and not held back my affection as she works through her situation, but she seemed stuck, so, as Marilla Cuthburt would say, I, '...put my oar in.'

Her face was blank for a second when I said to her, "You know, you could just stop. If you wanted to. It's not easy, but it can be done. You can just stop. Just decide. And stop."

Does it matter what her situation is? Alcohol, obesity, a bad job, a broken heart, spouse treating her badly? Nope, not really. Your behaviour is your choice. Your reaction is your choice. My reaching for the 20 disgusting, amazing gumdrops? A choice. I know where the garbage can is, and so do you. Of course there are consequences: 25 gumdrops = 1 tummy ache. Refusing to accept your circumstances = a whole bunch of other decisions, some scary, some exciting.

Weigh the consequences, make a choice. Tomorrow, you get to make it all over again.

Let's not call it a Resolution

We've heard a lot in the last few days about New Year's Resolutions and whether we make them, how quickly we drop them or how we regret making them out loud in a drunken voice at a big party.

I heard a terrific idea this week, and I think I am going to try it, and I'd like you to consider it, too: you get yourself a big jar or crock or container of some sort and some wee scraps of paper to keep handily nearby.

Through the year, when something terrific, awesome, extraordinary, amazing or even just good happens, you write a bit of a detail about it on one of those little scraps, and drop it into the jar.

Next New Year, you open the jar to remember all the times you were amazed or blessed or felt lucky.

You don't have to put something in every single day, but only when the spirit moves you. Honestly, there are no rules.

I expect my jar will be have a few notes about how happy I am that my dog did not eat anything toxic or deadly today, or that I made it home from the grocery store with every single thing on my list.


This little idea seems like a good resolution; fairly easy to keep and it might even be a fun event for next year's New Year's Eve Party - "Look! Another day Emma didn't kill herself by eating my socks! Yeah!"

It's this or lose those pesky ten pounds that keep following me around.

Ya, totally going for the jar, as soon as I finish the peanut butter inside.