The White Kitten

Most weekends I talk to my Dad on the phone. The older he gets the more time he spends reminiscing about the past. This past weekend he re-told a story I’ve heard before but hearing it this time somehow caught my attention on another level. As he re-told the story, I could hear the excitement re-lived by his childhood self. It was touching to hear the impact one particular Christmas present had on him over sixty years ago.

By the time my Father was six years old he and his three siblings had left their childhood home in Morell and were being raised by their Aunt Hilda (Auntie) and Uncle Harold in Greenwich. His father had died when he was ten months old only to be followed by the tragic death of his mother six years later. To say this young family had a rough start would be an understatement, but they were fortunate in that Harold and Auntie kept the children together and raised them in a loving, structured home.

Christmas of 1944 was his first Christmas in Greenwich. My father, two months shy of his seventh birthday, remembers that winter well. One pastime the children had was watching their next door neighbour Walter Hayden from the east window in the kitchen. Everyday Mr. Hayden would walk to the back woods to see if he had caught anything in his traps and Dad said they would always watch him as he made his way back to his farm to see if he caught anything. Dad recalls that he was barely tall enough to see over the window ledge.

On Christmas day, 1944, Dad recalled that everyone sat in for dinner at the kitchen table and before long there was a knock at the door. Harold got up to answer the door and he heard Mr. Hayden at the door say “Is Bob there?” Dad said he nervously got up and went to door. When he got there Mr. Hayden reached into an inside pocket in his long black coat, pulled out a little white kitten, and said “Merry Christmas Bob.”

Dad recalled the excitement both he and his siblings expressed and remembered how difficult it was to then sit down to Christmas dinner. Ever since that Christmas, we have always had white cats on our farm – and if we don’t, Dad is in search of them. As I said, I’ve heard this story many times. But hearing it again recently I put it into context and saw, and felt it in a whole new light. I suddenly realized the impact that that the gift of this little white kitten would have on a child who at only six years of age had recently experienced such great tragedy in his life. I never knew Mr. Hayden but, but am touched by his gentle gesture. It is another reminder for me at this time of the year as to the true meaning of Christmas.


The Hayden Farm

A glimpse of Ireland

A few collages of my trip to Ireland.

Many times man lives and dies

Between his two eternities,

That of race and that of soul,

And ancient Ireland knew it all.

Whether man die in his bed

Or the rifle knocks him dead,

A brief parting from those dear

Is the worst man has to fear.

Though grave-diggers' toil is long,

Sharp their spades, their muscles strong.

They but thrust their buried men

Back in the human mind again.

- William Butler Yeats

"Under Ben Bulben"

Josie

It has been fourteen years since she died. I was in Japan when I got the call from Dad. That night I went to bed and dreamed about her. She was young, healthy, smiling, tanned and looked so beautiful. She looked so happy. The next morning I awoke and was shaken – the dream about her was so real. Maybe Dad’s telephone call had been the dream instead? I decided to call my Aunt Hilda that morning and as soon as I heard her voice I knew it had been real. Josie was gone.

Josie was the second youngest of five siblings in my Mother’s family. According to family reports Josie was spoiled from the get go. In her father’s eyes she could do no wrong, which of course sometimes frustrated the other children, including my Mom. While the older siblings were in school, Josie would get into their “stuff.” All the precious little items that at the time meant so much to them, such as make up samples betrothed onto them by their mother. Coming home to find Josie “made-up” with their makeup smeared all over her face resulted in an immediate kerfuffle. In later years Josie said to my Mother “I remember thinking that you hated me” and without skipping a beat my Mother replied “Because I often did” after which they broke into peels of laughter.

There are many others who know so many more of the details of Josie’s life than I. Time and time again, I’ve heard how incredibly popular Josie was and that always had “a million” friends. She was a beauty queen having been crowned “Queen of the Sea” while in high school, and she always had a boyfriend. She had it all. My childhood memories of Josie include images of many weekends she came to spend with us at the farm. My mother always looked forward to these visits. They would sit at the kitchen table and talk and smoke their brains out well into the night. It was the only time my Mother smoked, which I still find strange, but I believe they had a hell of a time. Looking back now, I realize that Mom and Josie were the most alike in their dispositions. They were both very secure in themselves, loved to laugh, have fun and enjoy life. They were both so real – nothing phoney at all – and that was what attracted people to them.



All of us in bed with Josie...when we were not supposed to be!

Josie married Jimbo, and we all thought the world of him. I remember bits and pieces of her wedding day. I remember Mom’s pink bridesmaid dress (which was later cut to a knee length dress that our cousin Maura wore to a prom dance) and how sweet Erica looked as her flower girl. I was in charge of throwing the confetti outside the church and was reminded on more than one occasion by Josie how I threw it in one big lump onto her head when she exited the church. All I remember is being nervous and letting it go, which in retrospect proved to be an early example of how I do not work well under pressure.

Josie and Jim bought a home on Queen Elizabeth Drive in Charlottetown and it was a home I would come to know well. After graduation, I moved into ‘town’ at ca. seventeen years of age and where I spent the subsequent two years. At that time, I shared a two bedroom apartment with three other girls and yes, it was hell. So during those two years, it wouldn’t be a stretch to say I spent the majority of my time at Josie’s house when I wasn’t at school or working. I had started my undergraduate studies at the local University and I worked at Cows on evenings and weekends. I often had to work late shifts and instead of taking a cab home, Josie often offered to come and get me. I can still see her waiting in the car for me on Queen’s Street. We’d go back to her place and would sit up watching late night TV, and I always stayed for the night. We had so many great chats and of course a lot of laughs. She was so easy to be with and she made me feel so loved. I am so grateful for those memories and for that time in my life.

At a very young age Josie was diagnosed with Chron’s Disease and it was a bad case from the outset. She had countless surgeries numerous periods of remission. When Josie was well, the world was hers. But when she was sick, she was naturally like a different person. The large doses of prednisone she took over the years resulted in her bones becoming very brittle very quickly. A number of effects and side effects from Chron’s Disease ultimately took their toll and Josie died in September of 1997. She left us much sooner than she should have, but we knew she was in a much better place. Her final days in this world were incredibly difficult and painful for her.

This time every September, I inevitably think of Josie. I think of her beautiful brown sparkling eyes and her laughter. I think of her manicured nails that often held a cigarette in place. I think of her and my mother sitting at our kitchen table in Greenwich talking and laughing. I think of all the good times and positive things, and am not sad because I truly believe she is in a better place. And I know she is still talking, laughing and making friends easily.

Dark Side of the Sun

I’ve always loved history. Looking back, I now realize I’ve always had a preference for social history. I avoided military history at all costs in University and remember being annoyed at the ‘guns and boats’ history students (mostly boys) who felt nothing else mattered in the grand scheme of things.

My grandfather Eugene Francis Rossiter served in WWI. It wasn’t until his war medals surfaced ca. ten years ago did I experience my first flicker of interest in military history. Once it became a personal story I could relate to, I saw military history in a completely different light. I placed an order for his Attestation Papers from Library and Archives Canada (that are now available online) and it provided me with more information than I had ever previously known about him.


His regimental number was 713255 and he enlisted on May 30th, 1916, when he was nineteen years old. My Grandfather served in the 105th Battalion along with many other Island men during WWI and he saw battle in France. Because my grandfather died when my father was only ten months old, we know very little about him. I was therefore grateful for every little piece of information gleaned from these papers – including the fact that like me he had “grey” eyes.



For Christmas, my brother Peter gave me the book Dark Side of the Sun by Michael Palmer. The book is about the author’s grandfather George Palmer and the Canadian Prisoners of War (POWs) in Hong Kong, and subsequently in the Omine Camp in Kyushu, Japan. It just so happens that George Palmer is from my hometown, St. Peters Bay. So again, this is story concerning military history is one that I had a connection to.

I babysat for George’s son Norbert and his daughter Joan – seven of his grandchildren in total. And a lot of those evenings where spent in his old home – the Palmer homestead in Cable Head. Before George passed away in 1991, my Mother (a nurse) did private duty with him in Souris hospital. I remember babysitting for Norbert and Mary the weekend of George’s wake and funeral. As I read this book I thought of all these connections but realized I knew nothing of George himself.

I had always heard that George would seldom talk of his war time experiences. I knew that he had been a POW in Japan and that was about it. I remember telling his daughter Joan that I was going to Japan to teach English. She responded be counting to ten in Japanese. I asked her how she knew to do that and she said her father George had taught her (he had learned from the Japanese guards who counted the POWS several times daily). It was these accounts and memories of George’s children that Michael Palmer relied on and incorporated into the book to trace George’s military service during WWII. With his children’s memories, personal letters written by George during the war and a myriad of primary and secondary sources, Michael weaved together his grandfather’s story and it was a fascinating read.

I learned a lot reading this book. For instance, the Geneva Convention (1929) marked the first time in history the treatment of military prisoners was governed – on paper. Unfortunately for the Allied Forces, including George Palmer, who surrendered in Hong Kong on Christmas Day in 1941, Japan ignored the provisions of the Geneva Convention, as did the Soviet Union and Germany.

Descriptions of the initial Japanese POW camps in Hong Kong were shockingly bad. The lack of food, quality of food, dysentery, no running water or electricity, no medical supplies, blankets, the mice, bed bugs, mice and rat infested conditions. It was shocking to read so I can’t even begin to imagine the reality of it all. The POWs were transported to Japan and arrived in Kyushu on January 22, 1943. The Allied Prisoners of war imprisoned in Omine Camp were ‘employed’ by the Farakawa Mining Company, from January 1943 until Japan’s surrender in August of 1945. Having changed its name several times his company is still in existence and is now called the Furukawa Equipment and Metals.

The camps in Japan were not as bad as in Hong Kong, but conditions were still dire. There was never enough food. George weighed 165 pounds upon enlistment and went down to 99 pounds by 1945, having lost approximately 40% of his body weight. As the war progressed, food shortages also took their toll on the Japanese homeland. It wasn’t only the POWs who suffered. Food was scarce for civilians too. Japanese army personnel often did not get much better food than their prisoners. Red Cross parcels were a godsend for prisoners, but were rare, and often did not make it to the POWs in the Omine Camp. The Japanese camp commanders camp them for themselves in case of invasion.

My great-uncle Pius Steele was also a Japanese POW in WWII. I was always told growing up that he knew George Palmer because they had met in a POW camp. This book dispelled that story as the book provides a list of Canadian POWs in the Omine Camp and does not include Pius’ name. I am now left to question if Pius was in other POW camps near Tokyo?

One quote from the book struck me: “George just happened to survive.” I am not sure if it was that simple. Surviving the conditions George faced as a POW took a special kind of emotional, mental and physical strength. Growing up, I always heard George Palmer described as a hero in our community. After reading this book, I now understand why. This book has also left me wanting to know more of my Grandfather’s military story.

One Thing I Know You Will Never Be Is a Nurse!

I think one's feelings waste themselves in words; they ought all to be distilled into actions which bring results.
- Florence Nightingale

When I was a child, I always said I was going to be a nurse. My Mom was a nurse, two Aunts were nurses, and my paternal Grandmother had been a nurse. It therefore seemed like a logical life path for me as well. When I was nineteen, I had surgery and spent five days in the hospital. The biggest lesson learned from that hospital stay was that I did *not* have the characteristics needed to be a caregiver. Not even close. What had I been thinking?

I’ve been thinking a lot about the nursing profession in the past week as my Mom is coming closer and closer to retirement. Her remaining shifts now number in the single digits. Unlike me, however, she did not envision a nursing profession in her future when she was a child. A memorable story in my Mom’s family concerned an episode in Rollo Bay Church one Sunday when George Mullally Sr. fainted. Mom grabbed her little sister’s hand and ran out of the church. Upon returning home that day she was barked at by her father “And where did you go?” My Mom promptly responded “Josie had to use the bathroom!” Her Mother then laughed and said “Well, one thing I know you will never be is a nurse.” My grandmother often laughed when reminiscing about that story and subsequent statement she made.

Mom did go on to be a nurse. Influenced by her friend Helen, Mom moved to Charlottetown and graduated from the PEI Licensed Nursing Assistant Program in 1966. Her sister Margie followed a similar path and graduated from the PEI School of Nursing a few years later. For as long as I can remember Mom and Margie’s nurses graduation photos sat on the mantle in my Grandmother’s living room. She was obviously very proud of her two nurses.


This is the photo that sat on my Grandmother’s mantle for as long as I remember.

Mom stopped nursing shortly after I was born in the early 1970s, and stayed home until I was in grade twelve. Looking back now, I realize how fortunate we were to be raised in the environment we were. We grew up in a small close knit community where neighbours helped and supported each other. We went to school with cousins and up until grade eight our father drove us to school every day on the school bus. In the nucleus of it all was our Mom. We sat down as a family and ate a home cooked meal together every evening. Mom helped us and oversaw our homework every night. She did everything and made our house a home.

When I was in grade twelve, Mom made the brave decision to go back to work. Undertaking an extremely intensive refresher course, Mom achieved the highest marks in her class, and renewed her nursing license. She immediately went back to work, this time at Souris Hospital. Starting off working casual, it didn’t take long for her to obtain a permanent full time position – and she never looked back. For the last twenty-two years, she has devoted herself to her patients at Souris Hospital in one of the most physically demanding professions in the workplace today – always with patience, warmth, a smile on her face and a seemingly endless supply of one-liners that kept her co-workers laughing.

Over the years, I have heard many describe my Mom as a ‘very special nurse.’ This was further evident in the many thank you cards, Christmas cards and occasional bouquet of flowers Mom received from former patients or families of patients. I’ve seen her time and time again, visit some of her elderly patients after they went home. After they passed away, she often went to their wake and funeral. She never did any of this for personal gain. She saw it as the final step – to show support and respect for her patients and their families – as that is supposed to be what wakes and funerals are for. In a nutshell, her heart has always been in the right place and accompanying it, no end to the giving.

Little did my Grandmother know how much her daughter’s nursing skills would prove to also have an impact on her own life. My grandmother lived to be ninety-three and in her final years, my Mom, with her nursing skills, was able to therefore see to Grammie’s cares and make sure her medications, dietary necessities and what not were are all taken care of. My Grandmother died in Souris Hospital where my Mom worked. In the years following her death, she watched other families go through the same loss she had endured, and in the same room where Grammie had died. Having been through it, she knew what these families were going through and therefore intrinsically knew what they needed to help them through this difficult time. As Florence Nightingale said above, Mom has the ability to distil her emotions into actions which always bring results.

Unlike most people when they retire, Mom is not “burnt out.” After all these years, she still loves what she does, she enjoys her work and gets along well with all her co-workers. It is simply her time. She was fortunate in that she was able to make the choice as to when she would retire. Because she is great physical health, the possibilities are endless as to what she will choose to do in the upcoming years. I am so excited for this next chapter in her life and am so incredibly proud of her. We are not the type of family to express a lot of emotion openly (thank God). In typical Irish fashion, we’d rather affectionately torture each other. But I can’t let this occasion go without thanking her for being the best role model. We all aim to ‘give back to society’ in some way through our life’s work. Mom is the perfect example of this. She is a nurse – and a damn good one...but I am of course a little biased.

The Imperfectionists

"Not at all. I get you. I believe every person on this planet needs human contact to be normal, to be sane. Simple as that. And I’ll admit, I’m no exception."

The Imperfectionists is the first novel by Tom Rachman. London born and University of Toronto graduate, Rachman’s story is set in Rome and concerns the newspaper business. Even though I know absolutely nothing about the newspaper business, I was drawn into this book. More specifically, I was drawn into the lives of the characters portrayed in the book.

I’ve worked in a multitude of jobs, in many places and along the way encountered a variety of “personalities” in the workplace. We all have. But as the old saying goes, how well do you ever really know someone? In this book, I saw the traits of many people I’ve encountered in the workplace. This book, however, gives you a glimpse into the lives of these “personalities” - a behind-the-scenes look if you will. In doing this, I somehow felt I got a glimpse into some of the “personalities” I’ve encountered myself over the years.

There are many things I liked about this book. The length was perfect (269 pages). Each chapter was devoted to a different “character” and every chapter left me hanging – wanting to know more. Substantial questions were answered discretely – and not in the final two pages of the book. I like that Rachman took two pages at the end of the book to thank and acknowledge people in his life – because for too many it is only ever about *them.* With the prevalence of book clubs, I believe The “Readers Guide” at the end of the book will be helpful for many. It contains a conversation with Malcolm Gladwell and a page of questions for topics of discussion.

I got this book as a gift in January and am very grateful for this story. Let’s face it – the world is full of crazies and we’ve all encountered our fair share in the workplace. You will be sure to recognize someone you once knew in this book – and perhaps understand them a little better after reading Rachman’s office tale.

The New Yorker
"[An] acute début ... Rachman, a former editor for the International Herald Tribune, paints the characters’ small dramas and private disappointments with humanity and humor."

Bye till Tuesday

For me, the most enjoyable part of archival work is the processing of private acquisitions. Such as in life, some projects are more interesting than others, but the great thing is that there are generally always a few things in every collection that prove interesting. Every now and again, I get to process a fonds that completely intrigues me. This year, I came across such a gem. The physical extent wasn’t that large and only consisted of a couple of boxes of textual records. But the content was addicting and it completely engulfed me.

This fonds consisted of records created and accumulated by a woman I will refer to as “B.” The majority of the records consisted of her diaries and correspondence written by and to her. Prior to beginning the processing, I knew that the monetary value of the records largely lay in early pen-pal correspondence between her and noted Canadian author Louis Dudek. These letters were interesting and will no doubt prove to be of be great research value for academics and students in the future. What surprised me and touched me, however, was the correspondence between “B” and her husband “M.”

Her husband had a job that required him to spend a lot of time away from home, which resulted in a lot of correspondence between the young couple. There were three times as many letters from “M” to “B.” This doesn’t mean that he wrote to her more often than she wrote to him. I believe that in typical female fashion (of which I am too often guilty of as well) she merely saved all his letters. The correspondence document their courtship and first decade of marriage. His letters were written neatly and were easy to read, which is surprising for a man.

The difference in tone and content between the two sets of correspondence was amusing. In general, he was not nearly as romantic, evidenced in one letter when he asked her if she had gained weight over the holidays. I was, however, impressed with the sentiment that he was able to muster at times. On July 23rd, 1943 he wrote “Remember that I am waiting to hug you and kiss you, and miss you terribly also.” Only five days later he was still love struck when he wrote on July 28th “Well dear, this is just a note to tell you how much I miss you and love you. Need I tell you that?”

There were only eleven letters in total from “B” to “M” and what a treasure they are. I read all eleven letters several times. There letters were written between 1943 and 1948 – almost seventy years ago. The paper was rigid. Forcing them open unveiled commentary from a young recently married woman who was full of hope, romance and optimism for her future. The letters were incredibly touching in her honestly and openness. In these eleven letters, I felt her love. I can only imagine how they touched her young husband, how many times he unfolded them to read them again, and how he much have treasured them.

“However, as to us, my darling, what it makes it possible for me to flirt with you at this time – to play lightly around our love with words, is the fact that at the depth there is no need for it. We are fundamentally serious and can therefore afford to be gay with each other.” (March 6th, 1945)

“Oh my dearest, how every much we have to look forward to in the future with such a present to build on.” (March 6th, 1945)

“Golly, I love you darling and I’m so looking forward to the day when we settle down and become ordinary folk. More than anything, I want to see you in a job you love – working for yourself preferably. And for myself, to live a clean and honest life with you and ours.” (January 19, 1947)

“I am sitting here tonight dreaming such dreams for us. All the good things of life can be ours – love, laughter, satisfaction in a job well done. These are the things that bring contentment and relaxation.” (Saturday night, undated, ca. 1948).

“B” ended this letter by saying to “M” “Bye till Tuesday, and hurry, hurry, Tuesday.” Her pink kiss, now sixty three years old, sealed the letter and has stood the test of time. As the majority of the correspondence ends by the 1950s, I was left feeling like I had finished watching a movie. How did the subsequent chapters of their lives play out? Did they remain in love? I hope they did. I am grateful for that quick glimpse I was allowed into their lives.

Five Pink Roses

Over a year ago, Hilda unearthed another one of Auntie’s unfinished rug hooking projects. Auntie had completed the whip stitch border and left it at that. The rug remained unfinished over home for many years. Now that the rug is completed, it will return with me to PEI on my next trip home and will be placed in the parlour over home with the rest of Auntie’s completed rugs.

Green is my favourite colour. The celery green in this rug is my latest favourite shade of green. I found it on my last trip to MacAuslands Woolen Mill and instantly knew I had to incorporate it into my next project. I choose pink for the roses for two reasons. One is that it contrasted nicely with the green. Secondly, because my mother’s wedding bouquet was made up of pink roses.

From start to finish here it is:



























And here is Aunite.

What does your fridge look like?

My own little backlog project

Card from Beth – from Turkey (2001)

Most Archives have “backlog projects” on its annual work plan. These projects come about for a variety of reasons and most Archivists have worked on such a project at one time or another. Both personal and work projects get halted for a myriad of reasons – all of which seem valid at the time. As time passes, however, it gets increasingly difficult to both ignore and justify the reasons for not getting such backlog projects organized and completed – at least at work. Not having to report to anyone in my personal life on any kind of basis sometimes results in my own personal backlog projects lingering on for an indefinite period.

When I moved to Toronto in 2005, I brought a lot of stuff with me – a Budget truck full in fact. I tried to move up as much stuff as possible and included in the truck was one personal background project of my own – my scrapbooking backlog. I began scrapbooking in the early 1990s along with my Acadia pal Krista. We always claimed that we scrapbooked before it became trendy to do so. Although the scrapbooks of this time were not “archival” and did not have the “acid free paper” that became the standard for later books, they nevertheless hold our memories and served the purpose.

Upon returning from Japan, I made a scrapbook for each of my three years there. When I now look at them, I am so glad I did this. I received so many beautiful cards from my Japanese friends and students, and included so many lovely memories into these books I might have otherwise forgotten about. I continued to do this up until 2001, at which time my scrapbooking trail runs cold. I can’t recall why I stopped, but I did. For the last ten years I have continued to keep – but not organize. I simply kept adding “stuff” to a box. Ten years later when the box had reached its limit, I knew the time had come to bit the proverbial bullet.


I emptied the box and began organizing all the contents into its respective years from 2001 to 2010. It wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be. Everything fell into place pretty easily and before I knew it, I had almost a decade of memories labelled with sticky notes across my living room floor.












Some years contained a lot more documents than others. Here is the 2003 stack for example:















What did surprise me going through this bundle was what I saved. This included invitations to heritage events I never went to, Christmas cards from people I really wasn’t that close to, and envelopes – for everything! I did an initial quick round of culling and then bundled everything, year by year, into oversize envelopes. The scrapbooking backlog had officially made it through its first phase of processing.



In the course of my archival work, I now realize that everything cannot be kept. The process of appraisal can be a daunting one at its outset, but gets easier and easier with practice. I now have to use my archival appraisal skills for my own personal project. Since getting all my memories organized, I have spent a lot of time thinking about what I should, could, and will cull from my collected memories. It’s always a much more difficult practice to apply to your own records opposed to those of a strangers. I am grateful, however, for a lot of what I kept. I saved all my cards and notes from Grammie and Auntie. Every time I come across one of these memories, my heart is warmed when I see their handwriting.





I am now looking forward to getting into this project and seeing what other memories I will unearth along the way.

Hitching Rides With Buddha

“The settler versus the traveller. The farmer versus the nomad. Our two primeval urges: the nesting instinct versus the migratory.” Those who stay at home and those who don’t.” - Will Ferguson

Will Ferguson and I have something in common: we both lived in Japan and taught ESL on the Jet Programme. On his website he is quoted as saying "I planned on staying one year to clear up some debts and get a break from film. I ended up staying five years and forgetting all about my original career plans." I too went to Japan with the intention of paying off debts (my undergrad student loan). After three years I had accomplished that. Like Ferguson, I had also abandoned my initial career plans after my time in Japan.

In Hitching Rides With Buddha, Ferguson documents his journey of hitchhiking through Japan. His trek earned him the title of being the first person to ever follow Japan's "Cherry Blossom Front" as it moved north across the Japanese archipelago, from Cape Sata in the south, to Cape Soya in the north. The journey ended on Rishiri Island off the coast of Siberia.

I took a long time to read this book because it was quite simply a book I hated to finish. Ferguson’s endless tales of humorous encounters that almost always had cultural differences or language barriers at the source propelled me back to my three years in Tottori. It brought back memories of my friends there, the students I taught, and the trips I made. It brought me back to a different time and place – a chapter of my life I don’t often get to visit.

“That night I lay awake looking at the ceiling, thinking about people and places. I remembered friends I hadn’t thought of in years. I tried to make sense of my trip, my past. But it was all jumbled together like a box of slides that had fallen over and then been thrown back together, out of order. The images flashed upon the screen without rhyme or reason. Landscapes. Faces. Sunsets. Airplane wings. Tourist snapshots mixed in with still-life portraits of flowers.” - Will Ferguson

Half way through the book, I realized that Ferguson rarely even mentions or acknowledges the cherry blossoms. Following the Sakura front provided a reason for the trip but like so many of life's grand experiences, the trip ended up being so much more then what he had originally planned for. International experiences such as this are life changing. Ferguson did what so many others have done – including me. He simply took his time in Japan one more step further. And that is what makes him and his story so unique.

For anyone who has lived in Japan or spent any considerable amount of time there, this book is a must read.

Routine rockers and large purses

Lately I have been thinking a lot about habits, routines and rituals. In many ways, I am a creature of habit and take comfort in my various routines. When I write, for example, even if it is just a mere blog post, I light tea lights, put on some easy-listening music and wear my grandmother’s ring. I am sure it is all in my head, but when I do so, the words always seem to come.

Those close to me know that I am not a morning person. I don’t mind getting up and going to work, I’m just not capable of much interaction before 8am. I have my routine and without it, I would probably not be able to get out the door in the morning. Every weekday morning I get up at 5:30am. I stay in bed for at least 5 minutes after the alarm goes off. I eat the same thing for breakfast (bran buds with blueberries and sliced almonds) at the same time every morning. What can I say, I love my routine. What is frightening, however, is how easily I veer off course without it. One classic example of this happened last June.

Last spring, I was accepted to make a presentation with two co-workers at the 2010 Archives Association of Ontario (AAO) conference that was held in Barrie. Taking the work van meant I had to get up even earlier than usual to meet my co-workers at the AO bright and early for the drive to Barrie. The night before the big presentation, I had ironed my clothes and had everything ready to go. That morning I was preoccupied with thoughts of the presentation. I was prepared, had practiced and was ready to go, but I was still ‘preoccupied.’ We knew the Archivist of Ontario was giving the opening address at the conference, but we also found out the day before that she planned to stay for our presentation, which added some more pressure.

Walking to the subway that morning, I recall going over everything in my head to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. I had my presentation notes and our power point presentation on my USB key, but I had this nagging feeling that I had forgotten something. Standing on the subway platform at 6:30am it dawned on me what my snafu had been:

I had forgotten to put on deodorant!!!

At first I was in disbelief. “Noooo, I must have.” Yet, I had no recollection of applying it. One quick check confirmed that yes, I had somehow missed that step in my routine. Preoccupied with dressing up, putting on pearls, conference notes and USB keys had knocked me right off my routine’s proverbial rocker. I recall the panic I felt, which was quickly followed by disbelief. I mean, I had been putting on deodorant every day for over thirty-five years. How could I have missed that step today of all days?

Although Toronto is a big city, I quickly discovered that there is not much open at 6:30am. Then I remembered the little convenience shop at Downsview Station. Going in I did a quick trip through the shop but didn’t see anything ‘cosmetic’ for sale. Asking the lady at the counter in a whisper if they had any deodorant for sale resulted in a very loud “EH?” At first I thought she didn’t hear me but I then realized she didn’t understand me. Not wanting to have an ESL lesson that early in the morning, I gave up pretty quickly and continued on. Getting to York, it was still too early for any of the shops in York lanes to be open. I reluctantly went to meet my co-workers who were waiting for me in the AO van. I climbed in the back seat and spent the next hour talking and moving as little as possible. I was no longer preoccupied with the presentation because my focus had of course shifted and I was completely mono-focused on trying not to sweat.

We finally arrived and in the parking lot at Georgian College and I had to confide my dilemma in someone. I took my best bud Adz (one of my co-presenters) aside and said “I have a problem.” With concern he said “What’s wrong?” I said “I forgot to put on deodorant” to which he burst into a hysterical fit of laughter. At least he didn’t think I was a grosser. It somehow always helps to just tell someone.

After registering and collecting my conference package I went to the conference host committee table and asked where the nearest drug store was. They didn’t know. They asked what I needed – and I of course was very vague with my response. As I was walking away one lady suddenly remembered that the campus bookstore was open and directed me there. Needless to say I took no time finding said bookstore. A quick sprint through the shop led me to the shelf that contained a few limited feminine products that included 3 sticks of Adidas women’s deodorant for athletes. I snapped one up and as I proceeded to the cash I recall chucking and thinking that I needed an athletic potent deodorant by that time.

The presentation went very well. The Archivist of Ontario reported back to our manager that she was very pleased with our work. And I hoped no one was any wiser as to my early day dilemma. I now carry an additional stick of deodorant in my purse ‘just in case,’ which means of course it will probably never happen again. The deodorant is in a small cosmetic bag along with dental floss, polysporin, band aids, Tylenol, and other feminine products. As a child I wondered why my Mother needed such a large purse. Now I know why.

When does your New Year start?

I never celebrate the traditional New Year. I haven’t since the early 1990s (Gerard Holland’s house party in Charlottetown has left me forever traumatized). Nor do I really believe in New Year resolutions. I am a constant list maker so as far as I am concerned as long as I continue to make lists and check the items off as I complete them then I am on the right track – or some sort of a track. Spending twenty years in school meant that for many years my New Year started in September. After working for the government for only four years, I recently realized that I have began organizing my year in quarters just like my work and now subconsciously recognize April 1st as the beginning of my New Year.

At work last week there was discussion on creating a routine servicing schedule for the Umatic and Betacam videocassette machines. It made perfect sense of course. Every year before the silage season begins my brother and father have all the necessary farm equipment serviced. Otherwise there will inevitably be breakdowns. This led me to think about the things I try to do once a year.

Due to allergies, I replace my bed pillows once a year. Once a year I try and use my Canadian Tire money. I do this to avoid overwhelming the person at the checkout, but watching the new TLC show “Extreme Couponing” this past week made me feel less guilty about this. Then of course there is the annual “big clean.” Everyone who knows me knows that I love to clean – and organize – and iron. I love having a weekend all to myself, especially to do all these things. I find it very therapeutic to clean – especially the once a year cleaning when you dig out and organize those nooks and crannies you only have do once a year. Let’s just say that this weekend I got organized. The dust flew and I was subsequently rendered with a flare up of sinus and allergies, but it was worth it.

When my Mom visited in January she got me started. We re-potted two of my three plants. Both plants have already perked up. Reviving my Zebra plant has given me a small victory for which I am sure Grammie Mahar would be proud. Grammie had such a knack with flowers and plants. The florist told me the plant needed little water and indirect sunlight. When the leaves subsequently all fell off I decided to cut it down and try the opposite – a lot of water and direct sunlight. The results were immediately obvious:





I am really looking forward to the upcoming year. The past few months have already yielded all kinds of positive results. I had one of the best Christmas vacations ever. I had a great victory at work and I just completed a writing project/deadline. I have plans and hopes for 2011 that have left me more optimistic for the future than ever. In the meantime, the one thing I am going to work on in the upcoming quarter is to read more. I’ve created the reading nook and that’s why I bought the chaise in the first place. People keep giving me books and now it is time that I wipe the dust off and start reading them.