When asked I will say
I am firmly against early rising.
It shows a weakness of resolve,
And a marked disrespect
For the eight hours spent
Masterfully rumpling sheets
In my sleep.
Except when You come home.
Then, I raise early,
Make coffee, read quietly,
And listen to my house,
As it suddenly becomes Home again.
All the sleepy breaths,
And slow heartbeats,
Together.
Playing my favourite song.
Saturday, October 24, 2015
Friday, October 23, 2015
Triplicate is My Favourite Form Of All
Vogon: I am sorry ma'am, but that signature is not correct. It does not appear to be yours.
Me: I just signed it in front of you. You watched me do it, that's what "witness" means. How can a signature be incorrect?
V: It doesn't match the one on your passport. Can you do it again?
M: Can I have a few practice goes?
V: We aren't allowed to permit that, no.
Me: How's this?
V: Try making the "d" a bit loopier.
Twenty agonizing minutes later...
V: If you could just look into the camera...
M: *vacant expression*
V: Let me try one more, you look neutral but it might not be neutral enough.
Fifteen minutes after that...
V: Are you a felon?
M: No.
V: A drunk driver? A drug user? An addict of any kind?
M: No.
V: Do you wear glasses?
M: Yes. Seriously, though, that's on the same list?
V: You're a shifty bunch.
(I'm starting to like this guy)
Thirty Minutes Later, Oh My GAAAAAAAAAWD
V: (rather smugly, I felt) Can you tell me the exact date you were issued your first driving permit in Canada?
M: (equally as smugly) December 10, 1993. It was a rainy Friday.
V: I...you...that almost never happens.
M: Mazel tov.
After spending two days attempting to navigate the murky sea of red tape of Manitoba Public Insurance, which is the Manitoban Ministry for Driver's License, Motor Vehicle Registration, and Muggle Befuddlement, I feel like I can safely cancel that pending appointment for an exhaustively thorough medical examination.
Wednesday, October 21, 2015
Winnipeg Welcomes You
Right. Let's get this over with as painlessly as possible.
I can see your house from here.
Meeker ran away, and we watched him go for three days.
Gosh, what is up with that corner, it's, like, super confusing, eh?
That Luis Riel, he sure was a scamp, and no mistake.
Anyone want a Slurpee?
Call that a parka? You're going to need three more.
There's a Winnipeg on Mars now, and this one is still colder.
Come on down to the social at the curling rink and we'll listen to The Guess Who while we discuss the history of the Bluebombers, and Canadian Medicare.
Oot and aboot.
I think that just about sums up everything I've heard from all the people I've met who, pointedly, are not in Winnipeg.
From the people of Winnipeg themselves, I have repeatedly heard only the following:
Welcome. It's really nice ta meetcha.
I can see your house from here.
Meeker ran away, and we watched him go for three days.
Gosh, what is up with that corner, it's, like, super confusing, eh?
That Luis Riel, he sure was a scamp, and no mistake.
Anyone want a Slurpee?
Call that a parka? You're going to need three more.
There's a Winnipeg on Mars now, and this one is still colder.
Come on down to the social at the curling rink and we'll listen to The Guess Who while we discuss the history of the Bluebombers, and Canadian Medicare.
Oot and aboot.
I think that just about sums up everything I've heard from all the people I've met who, pointedly, are not in Winnipeg.
From the people of Winnipeg themselves, I have repeatedly heard only the following:
Welcome. It's really nice ta meetcha.
Wednesday, September 9, 2015
Blending In With Albertans
The Final Chapter
Today we head east. The family will make a new home in Winnipeg, Manitoba, hopefully one with as much to teach as Cold Lake.
I have learned a lot from Albertans during my residence here. I have learned how to properly complain about the weather; which obnoxious truck to buy and how poorly I should drive it; and to which city I should swear my undying fealty - the big C-City of Edmonton, not the small c-city of Calgary.
Albertans have given me countless opportunities to cultivate patience behind the wheel of my car, in drive-throughs, while waiting in line at Wal-Mart, living on my street, and while mistakenly thinking I had the right of way at intersections.
They have taught me that no matter how dry it is, it can always get drier, unless it's flood season and then it can always get floodier. Unless it's wildfire season. Or Mosquito season. Or January.
I think Albertans are some the toughest, most adaptable people I have ever met and it's probably significant that a lot of them are not from here. I am not suggesting that born-Albertans are not tough, far from it. I am attempting, rather clumsily, to explain that this can be a hard place to live; beautiful,certainly and fun, but hard. Alberta does not forgive foolishness or lack of foresight. To discover that so many people who describe themselves as Albertans are from so many other provinces and places, is testimony to how wonderful life can be here, if you'll allow it.
We did. We'll miss it.
Today we head east. The family will make a new home in Winnipeg, Manitoba, hopefully one with as much to teach as Cold Lake.
I have learned a lot from Albertans during my residence here. I have learned how to properly complain about the weather; which obnoxious truck to buy and how poorly I should drive it; and to which city I should swear my undying fealty - the big C-City of Edmonton, not the small c-city of Calgary.
Albertans have given me countless opportunities to cultivate patience behind the wheel of my car, in drive-throughs, while waiting in line at Wal-Mart, living on my street, and while mistakenly thinking I had the right of way at intersections.
They have taught me that no matter how dry it is, it can always get drier, unless it's flood season and then it can always get floodier. Unless it's wildfire season. Or Mosquito season. Or January.
We did. We'll miss it.
Good bye, Alberta. Thank you for everything.
Thursday, September 3, 2015
Amish Paradise
The movers have boxed up
the AppleTV, my iMac,
all of my art supplies,
all of my crochet hooks,
and every precious book that I own.
the AppleTV, my iMac,
all of my art supplies,
all of my crochet hooks,
and every precious book that I own.
Today is the day
I learn how to beat box.
I learn how to beat box.
Friday, August 28, 2015
No Capes
Do you know any heroes?
I don't mean someone you admire because they inspire you to start a business or run a marathon. I'm talking about someone who risks their life to save another, or maybe it was your life that was saved. That's the quintessential hero, someone who charges in on a white horse and carries you to safety.
Actually, the horse isn't really part of the job description, what with wear and tear on carpets and the rising cost of hay. Don't even get me started on live-animal transport regulations at border crossings. But how cool would that be, if a horse came with the job?
But would it change how you felt if you knew your hero was paid to save your life? If it was their job?
There it is again. That word. Job.
(The thumping and banging you hear is my soapbox being dragged to the center of the room.)
What if being a hero was actually a job? Not one you need a cape for, obviously, but a real paycheck-every-two-weeks, annual vacation, fill-out-the-paper-work-in-triplicate job? They are out there. Countless military members, firefighters, police officers and paramedics, most if not all of whom would certainly shrug off the idea that they are in any way heroic, receive a paycheck for what they do. Does that make them less heroic?
And what if it someone decided that it did?
What if someone, somewhere decided that your hero was just doing their job. Now, it's one thing for your hero to tell you this. Modesty is quite beguiling, after all. It's actually nice to know that there are people out there, people of great skill and compassion, who roam around looking for opportunities to save lives, with no thought of recognition or compensation beyond the ability to use their highly specific skill set. I sleep better just thinking about it.
It doesn't answer my question, though. What if it was decided that heroism is not just it's own reward but also it's only reward. That an act of selflessness should go unacknowledged and unawarded because the hero was on the payroll, and that to do otherwise could foster a culture of highly skilled risk-takers, who's actions are driven by the need for accolades and applause. Instead fostering a culture of highly-skilled risk-takers who's actions are driven by...what? The risk of PTSD, physical or career-ending injury, death or, possibly even worse, a bland, nut-free cake at their retirement dinner because Brenda in accounting once had cashews and they made her tongue feel weird.
We ask much of these servants to the public. We require them to run towards the screaming. We train them to walk into the burning buildings. We insist they stand up for the ideals of our country, even on foreign soil, away from their families and in the midst of insanity and injustice. We demand that they do their duty. Do we have the right to demand they do it without commendation? Do we have the right to insist they have no outward means to show quiet pride for their good works?
I mean, I got a certificate and a scratch n' sniff sticker from my employer for doing a years worth of lunch-time yard supervision, a duty actually outlined in my actual contract, and I talked about it for days.
Heroes do what they do because they have the will and skills to do the things that the rest of us can't or won't. They don't want books, or parks, or libraries, or the paparazzi trampling their azaleas. What they want is at the least a simple thank you from those they saved and at most an acknowledgment from their peers and superiors that they fulfilled their purpose, commendably, and with grace and humility. That they have, in fact, done their job.
Heroism is a choice, and one that should not go unawarded. Ask any preschooler why they want to be a police officer or a soldier and they won't say it's because the pension is good. They will tell you it is because they want to be heroes, they need to be heroes. And we need them, too. Presenting our heroes with a bauble to wear on their breast is not an encouragement of recklessness, it is recognition that they performed admirably, as expected, and prevailed when the worst was anticipated.
I am quite extraordinarily lucky. I know lots of heroes, many by name, and it's my privilege to know them when they are at their least heroic. I see them mowing their lawns and playing with their children. I've hosted them at backyard campfires and let them teach me washer-toss. I've listened to them laugh, curse, sing and complain about the weather. They are my neighbours, my community, my friends and my family. Thank you, to each and every one.
I don't mean someone you admire because they inspire you to start a business or run a marathon. I'm talking about someone who risks their life to save another, or maybe it was your life that was saved. That's the quintessential hero, someone who charges in on a white horse and carries you to safety.
Actually, the horse isn't really part of the job description, what with wear and tear on carpets and the rising cost of hay. Don't even get me started on live-animal transport regulations at border crossings. But how cool would that be, if a horse came with the job?
Imagine you were rescued. Pulled from the edge of disaster, returned to your life and loved ones; maybe whole, maybe broken, but returned and offered the chance to heal and carry on. What would you say, if you could? What would you do, if you had the chance to thank your saviour? I don't know about you but I'd build libraries and parks, dedicate statues, name happy hour cocktails. I'd certainly write a book. Everyone would know that somewhere out there, a person was selfless enough to change my life by saving it. I would do everything in my power to deserve that gift and I would ensure that my hero knew the depth of my appreciation.
There it is again. That word. Job.
(The thumping and banging you hear is my soapbox being dragged to the center of the room.)
What if being a hero was actually a job? Not one you need a cape for, obviously, but a real paycheck-every-two-weeks, annual vacation, fill-out-the-paper-work-in-triplicate job? They are out there. Countless military members, firefighters, police officers and paramedics, most if not all of whom would certainly shrug off the idea that they are in any way heroic, receive a paycheck for what they do. Does that make them less heroic?
And what if it someone decided that it did?
What if someone, somewhere decided that your hero was just doing their job. Now, it's one thing for your hero to tell you this. Modesty is quite beguiling, after all. It's actually nice to know that there are people out there, people of great skill and compassion, who roam around looking for opportunities to save lives, with no thought of recognition or compensation beyond the ability to use their highly specific skill set. I sleep better just thinking about it.
It doesn't answer my question, though. What if it was decided that heroism is not just it's own reward but also it's only reward. That an act of selflessness should go unacknowledged and unawarded because the hero was on the payroll, and that to do otherwise could foster a culture of highly skilled risk-takers, who's actions are driven by the need for accolades and applause. Instead fostering a culture of highly-skilled risk-takers who's actions are driven by...what? The risk of PTSD, physical or career-ending injury, death or, possibly even worse, a bland, nut-free cake at their retirement dinner because Brenda in accounting once had cashews and they made her tongue feel weird.
We ask much of these servants to the public. We require them to run towards the screaming. We train them to walk into the burning buildings. We insist they stand up for the ideals of our country, even on foreign soil, away from their families and in the midst of insanity and injustice. We demand that they do their duty. Do we have the right to demand they do it without commendation? Do we have the right to insist they have no outward means to show quiet pride for their good works?
I mean, I got a certificate and a scratch n' sniff sticker from my employer for doing a years worth of lunch-time yard supervision, a duty actually outlined in my actual contract, and I talked about it for days.
Heroes do what they do because they have the will and skills to do the things that the rest of us can't or won't. They don't want books, or parks, or libraries, or the paparazzi trampling their azaleas. What they want is at the least a simple thank you from those they saved and at most an acknowledgment from their peers and superiors that they fulfilled their purpose, commendably, and with grace and humility. That they have, in fact, done their job.
Heroism is a choice, and one that should not go unawarded. Ask any preschooler why they want to be a police officer or a soldier and they won't say it's because the pension is good. They will tell you it is because they want to be heroes, they need to be heroes. And we need them, too. Presenting our heroes with a bauble to wear on their breast is not an encouragement of recklessness, it is recognition that they performed admirably, as expected, and prevailed when the worst was anticipated.
I am quite extraordinarily lucky. I know lots of heroes, many by name, and it's my privilege to know them when they are at their least heroic. I see them mowing their lawns and playing with their children. I've hosted them at backyard campfires and let them teach me washer-toss. I've listened to them laugh, curse, sing and complain about the weather. They are my neighbours, my community, my friends and my family. Thank you, to each and every one.
Thursday, August 20, 2015
A Little Taste of Home
as your teeth burst through the smooth skin
of the summer's first ripe tomato,
still warm from sunshine and sweeter then holding hands,
spiced with the dust from your own earth;
as you lean out to let the seedy drops fall from your chin
and star-burst splatter your freckled toes;
as light and heat slip down your throat, you close your eyes
to watch the memories of soft cotton tea towels snapping on the line,
in the fluff-filled air of endless summer afternoons;
and you recall skinned knees
and the freedom of treetop forts on windy days...
then I think it's easy to know what happiness tastes like.
of the summer's first ripe tomato,
still warm from sunshine and sweeter then holding hands,
spiced with the dust from your own earth;
as you lean out to let the seedy drops fall from your chin
and star-burst splatter your freckled toes;
as light and heat slip down your throat, you close your eyes
to watch the memories of soft cotton tea towels snapping on the line,
in the fluff-filled air of endless summer afternoons;
and you recall skinned knees
and the freedom of treetop forts on windy days...
then I think it's easy to know what happiness tastes like.
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