Great-Uncle William and the month of March

How is it possibly April? Auntie once told me that elderly people believed that if they lived through the month of March they would live for another year. Her Uncle William Lewis (my great-great Uncle) lived out his remaining days with them on the Lewis family's Cable Head farm and lived to be 103 years of age. In his 101st year, he apparently went to bed the first of March and stayed there until the month was over – only to get up and proclaim that he would live another year.

Another March has passed and I too feel like I will survive another year. We met a massive deadline at work this past Wednesday - thus no blog posts in March on Neater’s part. A lot of late evenings at work left little for the imagination in the free evening hours. Weekends were spent playing catch up with everything else. Meeting deadlines, however, is always rewarding. It’s also a bonus if at the end of the grind, you are proud of the work you’ve done and how you did it. I am happy to report that I am.

Four years ago, I was at this time preparing for a summer Internship in South Africa. Needless to say, it was both exciting and stressful with all the preparation work. Somehow I also managed to write a book – Contemporary Canada – in the week between school ending and my departure for Africa. Not quite sure how I pulled that one off. Four years later, I am working full time and have recently survived another series of moves. It has been eight months since I moved to the north end of the city to accommodate a move by my place of work. This move had lessened my daily commute in half, but it also has resulted in me rarely going south of the dew line. When I do go downtown I find myself filled with nostalgia: whether it is walking in my old familiar haunts around U of T, window shopping along Bloor or strolling in the vicinity of Bay/College. It is always a treat. Even if it is raining.

A few weeks ago, I returned to my alma mata, the Faculty of Information [Studies] at the University of Toronto to interview students applying for that same Internship I participated in a few years ago. The latest candidate has been chosen and will she will soon be on her way to South Africa. I am excited for her knowing what awaits and am happy to still have a small part of play in the entire process. For the past two years, I have enjoyed reading the student's applications and talking with them because they inspire me.

Making the most of my trip south, upon completion of the interviews, I was also excited to return to my beloved east end for a Greek meal with friends on the Danforth. Enroute to the Danforth, I quickly realized I had also forgotten how congested the Bloor/Danforth subway line can be. Getting on at Spadina, I stood because of a lack of seats. Standing beside an old man, I was immediately uncomfortable to discover the old dog blatantly staring at my chest – so I moved.

Finding a seat after the car emptied out at St. George, I then found myself preoccupied with another old man who stood near me. This fella looked a little like pictures of old Scottish stock with his long unkempt white hair and beard, not at all unlike photos of Great-Uncle William. The one difference between this man and Great-Uncle William was that he was wearing pristine white square toed shoes, which oddly did not have a mark on them.

This man had a huge raindrop sitting on the end of his nose. As it had been pouring all day, it wasn’t startling to see a raindrop of gigantic proportions – what was unusual was the length of time it sat there. Relief set in when it finally evaporated in that yes, it had in fact been a raindrop and not something else. So as to not stare I looked away, and my eyes fell upon a woman nearby who was holding a shopping bag on her lap. Sticking out of the bag was one of those black velvet coloring packages to be colored with markers (those of you who grew up in the 1970s might remember) that had “BUTTER” spelled out in large letters. I am not sure why, but it made me laugh. The laughter quickly faded when a young punk kid came and stood beside, who had his iPod so loud it was instantly annoying. I quickly re-joined my fellow commuters in adopting the blank “I take public transit because I have to” stare.

It is April.

There are beautiful orange tulips in a new vase on my kitchen table.

A new fiscal year has started at work.

It is unseasonably warm outside.

I always thought of myself as a person who enjoys winter – but am beginning to realize I may need to re-think that.

Happy Easter everyone.

PEI bobsledders and Swiss Flags

When did ski cross become an Olympic event? I wonder who thought it up – ski down a steep mountainous slope as fast as you can only to encounter massive hills along the way. Don’t even get me going on the skeleton – or luge. I sit here in awe at these athlete’s talent and gumption as most days I am just happy to get to work in the morning without falling down.

This evening Canadians watched our men’s hockey team lose to the Americans. The comments on twitter and face book were amusing. Commentary ranged from “Oh no” to Uh Oh” to people completely winging out. Dare I say “It’s only a game people?” It brought me back to the 1998 Olympics in Nagano where I watched all the events from my apartment in Tottori City. I recall that Canada bet the Americans for Olympic Gold (I think). I also recall having an argument about the outcome of the game with my American friend Brian. From that point onward, I decided the only mantra I could follow so as to not loose friends was “It’s only a game.” I know – it’s very un-Canadian of me eh.

The 1998 Nagano Olympics are the one Olympics that stand out for me because I happened to have been been living in Japan at that time. It was the Japanese athletes who were featured on all the television footage, and I only understood a fraction of the commentary, but it was exciting nonetheless. This was of course the Olympics that witnessed the first athlete from PEI to win an Olympic Gold medal. I was unaware of it at that time and while watching the bobsled events on TV, I saw a flash of a sign in the crowd that I was sure said something about PEI. A phone call to my parents confirmed I was not cracking up and they were in disbelief that I hadn’t heard about David Eli MacEachen. This week Heather Moyse did PEI proud again with her Gold Medal performance in the bobsled. I guess PEIers are good bobsledders.

I didn’t go to Nagano to experience the Olympics but my friend (and American pal) Michele did. I also recall that she brought me back a souvenir. At times I took some flack for being the only Canuck in our group of friends but I always wore my Canadian flag and identy proudly. More as a joke than anything, Michele brought me back a Canadian flag from Nagano. Upon opening the small flag, however, I quickly discovered she had brought me back a flag of Switzerland by mistake. We all had a good laugh and I believe her comment went something like “I just saw all that red and assumed it had to be your flag.”

I still have my little Swiss flag somewhere back on PEI. It has been ten years since I have returned from Japan and unfortunately I have never unpacked my trunk of treasurers from those years. It will be a delightful tickle trunk of delights when I get into one day.

Hisashiburi

On a few occasions last week, I have found myself reminiscing about my travels – mostly about my time in Japan. I’ve lead a pretty blessed life as in addition to traveling, I have been able to study, live and work abroad in a variety of places, all of which have been for the most part incredibly positive experiences for which I am very grateful.

Almost three years into my 9-5 government job, these experiences at times seem a lifetime away now. Recalling my travels and life abroad, and seeing how much the audience (mostly Dee at our tea breaks) enjoyed my tales, I decided that it might be time to re-live some of these stories. My blog has been so neglected lately; I thought it would be as good a platform as any to present them.

I can’t guarantee these stories will appear in any sort of chronological order – they will appear as they come to me. But I do hope they make you smile – and perhaps produce a chuckle or two.

A surfboard?

On 9 February 1990, the Cabinet approved the order for the release of the world’s longest-serving political prisoner. Records show that Nelson Mandela left with 22 boxes, a trunk, four baskets, an urn, a footstool, a cardboard hat, two large umbrellas, a set of exercise weights, an exercise bicycle, one giant birthday card and a surfboard!

- A Prisoner in the Garden: Opening Nelson Mandela’s Archive

An un-folky farm

I gave Auntie a stamped mat for Christmas in 2002. This mat had a farm scene on it, and featured cows, sheep, chickens, a duck and a pig lying on its back. I thought it was amusing and so did she. We immediately began discussing what colors should go in the mat. I suggested that the barn be red, and the pink pig, and I was quickly cut off by Auntie asking me, "How many barns so you see that are red? AND pigs are not pink!" She was correct of course.

One of the first things she said after examining the mat, however, was "I will never finish that." Sadly, she was right. In the months after Christmas Auntie bound the mat, which for me is the most difficult and time consuming part of the entire process. She also outlined the pig in Ivory. And that was all she finished. She died in October of the following year.

In the fall of 2008, I was home on the farm for my vacation. Rummaging around upstairs at Aunties (a favorite pastime of mine), I was surprised to find this mat still sown into Auntie's rug hooking frames. Five years had passed and I had forgotten about the mat. I looked at the binding and then was amused to see the pig outlined in Ivory. I immediately asked Hilda if I could take the mat back to Toronto to finish it and she was more than happy to pass it over to me.

At the end of October I went into my craft cabinet and once again the mat fell into view. I decided to put it in the frames and get at it. Recalling the discussion I had with Auntie about the colors for the mat, I decided to make the farm appear as realistic and un-folky as possible. I decided upon the colors, placed an order to MacAusland's Woolen Mill and began.

The cows were done in brown and white to represent our Ayrshire cows on the farm. I also made the tilled soil red to represent PEI's vibrant red soil....and it really is vibrant if you have not seen it first hand.

I put Auntie's initials - HL 03 - in the upper right hand corner and my initials - JR 08 in the lower right corner.

I was particularly happy with the tree as I am slowly mastering the art of circles and developing some texture into my hooked mats. I finished the mat the week before going home for Christmas. I took it home and gave it to Auntie Hoolie (aka Hilda) for Christmas and she seemed pleased. Knowing that the mat now resides with Auntie's other hooked mats on the parlour floor makes me very happy. I hope it makes Auntie happy too.

Began by Auntie in 2003.

Completed by Juanita in 2008.

A super long and weird stop light

This is a wall in my kitchen. I had become so accustomed to looking at it, I didn't notice how much these hoses needed some serious 'covering up.' I had made a mild attempt at doing so by taping the above circular pieces of funky well wishes (on a job interview) to the wall. It worked - I quickly didn't notice the hoses anymore. One day when Taya was downstairs in my kitchen she looked at the said display and mentioned that a 'wall covering' would like nice (perhaps better than the circular pieces of paper!). I thought, "I can make that." I decided to simply hook a rug - that I would hang on the wall. So I got busy.

The first thing I had to do was cut out - or rather measure a piece of burlap to adequately cover the wall in question. Luckily enough, I had some burlap on hand that had been given to me by my cousin Erica, which had been left over from her wedding decorations.

Next, I had to come up with a design for the rug. Looking through 5 or so issues of my Rug Hooking Magazine, I came up with a design pretty quickly. I am partial to geometric designs, maybe becasue my grandmother had also loved them and I grew up looking at such designs. As this was my first rug to "design," however, I decided I had better keep it simple. I outlined the rug in black. In Hook Me A Story by Deanne Fitzpatrick, I discovered the following:

"She discovered that inexplicably, many Island women hooked geometrics...Virtually everyone finished their mat with a thin black binding, and all outling done in the mat was done in black."

Evident is the fact that I had trouble mastering the circles, which I am happy to say look more circle-like on a subsequent mat. My friend Adam was over a visit the day I took these pictures and I asked him to choose the color for the final circle/hexagon. He choose lavendar - which is the same color I had in mind. Knowing he is partially colour blind, I then had a ton of fun having him identify all the colours on the mat. I know, I am cruel.

It was actually tricky getting the lines to match up exactly. Some of the yarn was 2ply and some was 3ply (all from MacAusland's Woolen Mill on PEI), so spacing was tricky. In the end - after a bit of ripping and re-doing - everything lined up. I think.

Then came the time for the officially hanging. Until that point, I had forgot that a curtain rod would be involved. Hanging the darn curtain rod was probably the most difficult and frustrating aspect of this process. I cursed, I swore, and I might have even shed a tear or two. But that damn thing was going up hell or high water.

Wholla. Well, the rug doesn't cover all the outlets and hoses. My hope is that the colous will be so mesmerizing that it will simply distract visiting folk from the other distractions. It is all about distraction isn't it?

In the end, I am a firm believer that hooked rugs belong on the floor - not hanging on the wall. It just looks more normal. My next abode will feature this rug - what one of my friends called "a super long and weird stop light" where it should - on the floor.

“We must remember we are free today – we are free! We are free! But remember the cost of that freedom. Our freedom is not cheap. Please, please, please, please, treat it has something fragile. … Debate, debate, debate as vigorously as you can – but know the other person has the right to respond … My father used to say to me: ‘Don’t raise your voice; improve your argument.’”

Archbishop Desmond Tutu

Remembering

Who can tell your story?

See the sky about to rain,
broken clouds and rain.
Locomotive, pull the train,
whistle blowing through my brain.
Signals curling on an open plain,
rolling down the track again.
See the sky about to rain.

Some are bound for happiness,
some are bound to glory.
Some are bound to live with less,
who can tell your story?

See the sky about to rain,

broken clouds and rain.

Locomotive, pull the train,
whistle blowin'through my brain.
Signals curlin' on an open plain,

rollin' down the track again.

See the sky about to rain.

I was down in Dixie Land,

played a silver fiddle.

Played it loud and then the man broke it down the middle.

See the sky about to rain.

The Guardian

I try to read the PEI Guardian everyday to keep up on my Island news. Today, however, I came across an article by a young writer that was both witty and entertaining. I can't remember the last time an article from the Guardian caught my attention....especially with so many stories that have been devoted to that dead blue whale lately.

Anywho, I digress. In reference to the Queens County Fiddlers annual spring concert, journalist Todd MacLean wrote a most amusing article that contained several references to the Chaisson family and my old (actually quite young) fiddle teacher Timothy Chiasson. A few amusing passages:

First up was Elmer Deagle, who proceeded to wow the audience into mesmerization, as he played some of the most smoothly picked out traditional pieces on a banjo that I’ve ever heard. Accompanied by two other giants on the Island music scene, his cousin Tim Chaisson on guitar, and his uncle Kevin Chaisson on piano, the trio did it all so easily that one was apt to think they could probably do it all asleep while standing on their heads. These Chaissons, I’m telling you — it’s almost sickening. And we all love them insatiably for it, of course. But, God, do they just hand them a pile of instruments as soon as they’re out of the womb or something and say, “Learn these or we won’t feed ya.”?

...Kristyn Visser did a fantastic step dance set, followed by Tim Chaisson playing fiddle this time, accompanied by Kevin and Elmer, as the three of them juggled knives and grenades in between chords to finish off the first half...

The article in its entirety: Stacked show on a stacked weekend

Madiba, Dundee, and cranky old archivists

Madiba visiting Oliver Tambo in London, 1962

An article appeared on the Nelson Mandela Foundation website this week under the caption,"Foundation Receives 1962 Mandela photos." Updated regularly, this is a website I generally check a couple of times a week. Because of the time I spent there, I am curious as to the ongoing activities of the NMF. I am also especially interested in the archival documents and photographs of Madiba that have turned up in the past few months.

The latest photographs, including the one above, were taken of Madiba when he visited Oliver Tambo and his family in London in 1962. At the conclusion of the article, I was surprised to see that the photographs are part of the Michael Peto Photographic Collection at the Dundee University Archives. In the early 1990s, I spent an exchange year at The University of Dundee in Dundee, Scotland. It was a fantastic year in every way (well, perhaps not academically), it was my first time away from home and I have friends from that year that I still keep in touch with. This was my pre-archival days and only now I realize it would not have occurred to me to even remotely having considered looking for the University archives. The irony is, however, one of my first introductions to archives actually did happen that year - just not in Dundee.

My Aunt Hilda sent me money that year with the request that I to go to Dumfries to see what information I could find concerning my paternal grandmother’s Lewis/Douglas ancestors. More excited about seeing this unfamiliar corner of Scotland, I accepted the challenge – and the money, and recall thinking, “How difficult could it possibly be?”
I took the bus to Dumfries. I toured the seemingly endless sites that claimed a connection to Bobbie Burns. I took a bus to neighbouring Castle Douglas and walked through famer’s fields (yes it was in the middle of nowhere) to visit the ruins of Threave Caste, one time home to the Douglas Clan. Yah, you guessed it – I put off the visit to the archives for as long as I could.

Threave Castle, Castle Douglas, Scotland

With family history notes from my aunt tucked under my arm, I made my way to the Dumfries and Galloway Archives I was met by a stereotypical, stern-looking archivist who peered over her glasses at me and asked me what I wanted. Thinking my Canadian accent would result in her wanting to help me, as I had come such a long distance to visit her small archives, I simply said, like many others before me and probably like many after me, “I am here for the next two days and I want to research my family tree.” With little sympathy and less direction, she set me loose in her reading room. Within five minutes she was screaming at me because unknowingly, I had inserted the microfilm into the reader the wrong way.

Looking back, it is amusing to see where I ended up.

Class Notes

I must admit that I always take a glance through the “Class Notes” section of my Acadia Alumni bulletin – just to see if there is anybody there I remember. It is neat to see people’s wedding photos, baby photos of their kids, etc. Today, I actually read through the (Fall 2007) section a little more thoroughly and came across what I believe to be the most amusing entry I have ever read from a fellow class of ’96 alumni, who shall remain nameless. I don’t think I know him, but with goggle searches, well, let’s just keep this anonymous shall we.

“S.B” is still unmarried, still single, has no children, and doesn’t even own a dog. However he is the proud uncle of four amazing boys who he loves to spoil, but is more than happy to hand back when they cry, throw tantrums or make a mess...

He then goes on to say that he is still studying and he recently ran a marathon in Hawaii to raise money in memory of his mother who died while he was studying at Acadia. I’m not sure if I will ever have anything to report in the “Class Notes” but S.B. has inspired me to think of unique ways in which to do so.

The Charlottetown Guardian (31 March 2008) :

Charlottetown police seek suspect in armed robbery at Tim Hortons outlet:

Charlottetown City Police are seeking a male suspect in connection with an armed robbery early Saturday at the Tim Hortons outlet on St. Peters Road.Police said they received a call at 3:15 a.m. after a man walked up to the drive-thru window and offered up a roll of quarters.The female attendant said the man then pulled out a knife and demanded the cash drawer. The clerk passed the drawer through the window and the man fled on foot with an undisclosed amount of cash...

Why didn't she just close the window?

Monday all day

It is Monday. I lost an hour of sleep this weekend. Ugh.

But, I live in TO and living in TO means taking public transport everyday – which can often offer one the equivalent of a gong show. Today, I got off at my usual subway station and saw the following, in order, within five minutes:

• A tiny little woman wearing PINK knee high rubber boots got off the subway in front of me.

I was mostly in awe and perhaps a little jealous of her fancy footwear. She wasn’t trying to be fancy. Her entire outfit if anything screamed of practicality. But how can one wear knee high pink rubber boots and not be a little fancy? I insist on wearing black leather boots – the left shoe of which leaks. But alas, I have neither the gall nor gumption to make the shift to pink rubber boots.

• Walking up the stairs to leave the subway station, a man passed me wearing a floor length fur coat. How could I not notice? I thought I was being overtaken by a grizzly.

This may not seem out of the ordinary, and if this gentleman had been by himself I probably would not have given him a second glance. But on this man’s heels was another gentleman who was also wearing a floor length fur coat. I know starring is a bad habit, but who wasn’t staring? The coats were so bulky it made these men appear to be twice as big as they probably were and they took up the entire sidewalk. It wasn’t even that cold out. If they were going for mere shock value they got it.

• When I finally reached the Danforth, I stood waiting for the light to change and tried to stop starring at the fur coats beside me. I was suddenly distracted by a semi-intoxicated man who decided he was not going to wait for the light to change. In his black leather cowboy boots, he managed to cross the slippery road and not get hit by the cars whizzing around him.

All in all, it was an entertaining five minutes.

Getting home, I remembered I needed to fish out some course readings lists for a friend who is still at FIS. Pulling my box of FIS course notes/papers out from under my bed, I was shocked to open it and find two bags of uncooked/unopened spaghetti. I vaguely recall putting them there when I moved…..last November. If Julia had not asked for the course reading lists, when the heck would I have discovered it?

This reminds me that I still have not found two packages of party napkins since my last move…

Return to Jo'burg - take II

Now that I am back in my freezing native land, the week I spent in Jo’Burg is a bit of a blur. I have made the comment more than once upon returning that I cannot believe I pulled that little jaunt off. I spent part of the week working on a report of the Anti-Apartheid movement in Canada. This reminded me of school and I enjoyed doing it. I hated writing papers in my undergrad but for some reason, loved it in grad school.

Now to retrace to the last blog posting…When my luggage finally surfaced Tuesday evening, I was surprised at how happy I was to see old familiar clothing. I recall lying in bed that night, going over the contents of my luggage when it suddenly dawned on me that Jill’s cell phone was missing from my luggage. It had been the cell phone we had used during the summer of our Internship. I offered to take the phone back with me to see if would charge up - and now we’ll never know. It is the first and hopefully the last thing I will ever have stolen from my luggage….although technically it was not mine. So I guess this means I still have a clean record of having nothing stolen – or perhaps nothing worth stealing.

The rest of my time was spent working on the Madiba Materials database. I was able to meet and spend time with Peter, the NMF’s database guy, and this proved to be time well spent and I was able to get quite a bit of the Canadian content relating to Madiba archival materials entered.

This time around, I ended up spending quite a bit of time with Heather, for which I was grateful. As mentioned previously, she took me shopping, we went out for dinner, and she also had me over to her house for supper one evening. I enjoyed all her stories and am glad for the time I was able to spend with her. I also had an enjoyable evening out with Verne and Shadrack. We walked all over Melville looking for a place to eat but it being Valentines Day, it proved easier said than done to find a place that wasn’t fully booked. We ended up at an Indian restaurant. The more gin that was consumed, the more freely the stories flowed, and it helped us to realize that an hour had passed with no food being served. The longer we waited, the more we drank, and the crazier the whole scenario became. Looking around, Verne suddenly realized that it seemed nobody at the restaurant had food. I can’t remember when I laughed so much or enjoyed Valentines Day so much – probably because I forgot it was Valentines Day. Or perhaps it was Verne’s cursing and sarcastic remarks about Valentines and Valentine’s couples that I found comforting.

By Thursday of that week, the jet lag got the better of me. I was going to bed by 11pm, waking up circa 3-3:30am and not sleeping anymore than that. By noon on Thursday, I was nearly bonkers. I felt like I was going to be sick, or faint, or do something I really did not want to do in front of the NMF staff. Then I got weepy, and because I am not a crier by nature, this freaked me out. I was too tired to walk back to the guest house, too hungry to walk to the nearest shop for lunch and the tears felt so near. I simply put my head on my desk and literally died. I am sure I slept for at least 45 minutes, only to be awoken to laughter and screaming. Knowing that Celine Dion was scheduled to visit the Foundation that day, I recall groggily waking up and thinking, “Is Celine Dion here?” Which was quickly followed by “I really don’t care because I need to sleep more.” Celine Dion did come and visit Madiba, and some staff went up to witness the big photo shoot in front of the NMF. I managed to sleep through the entire thing. I awoke though to find a rose sitting on my desk. Instead of wondering who put it there, my first thought was “ Was I snoring when they brought it? Was I drooling?” The next day I found out the rose had come from Yase – the funny man himself.

That was it. Peter – the database guy- and I shared a shuttle to the airport Friday afternoon as he was flying back to Cape Town. The shuttle driver was late picking us up as he thought he was to pick us up at the guest house, and then he didn’t know where the NMF was….yadda yadda yadda. I asked to be taken to the airport an hour early so I could shop. Besides tearing to the Shell station (down the street from the NMF) to get Jill’s Tumbles (candy) Friday morning, I had no chance to shop. Strolling through the “Out of Africa” shop at the Airport, I saw all the items I and bought from all over South Africa and Swaziland in this one shop. It was like Wal-Mart – one stop shopping. In addition to buying souvenirs for family, I needed to buy something for co-workers who ended up having to do stuff for me while I was away. In that hour, I managed to buy 20-25 of the smallest items imaginable – much to the dismay of the cashier.

On the way over, I flew Washington to Jo’Burg direct – 14.5 hours. What was not indicated on my itinerary was then the return trip differed slightly. It wasn’t until I boarded the plane and saw that the flight was destined for Dakar did I realize that I was flying Jo’Burg to Senegal (8 hours) and then Senegal to Washington (9 hours). The only thing I know about Dakar is its infamous Dakar Rally. I now know that that if you fly into Senegal - and if the plane is destined for the USA, the plane must first be searched by Senegal airport security and the inside of the plane sprayed - with some sort of mystical and pleasant smelling spray - becasue of malaria. I therefore regret that my first visit to Senegal consisted of sitting for two hours on the tarmac.

This is the first time I have flown internationally though the US since 1996. I was therefore surprised that although I was in transit to Canada, I still had to go through US Customs and Immigration and re-check my checked luggage. What a pain the proverbial ass. There was over 100 of us “Non-US citizens” in line and only two Customs officers working. It took forever. After being cooped up in airplane for so long, we were all nearly nuts, but of course nobody said anything, myself included. This delay meant I missed my connecting flight to Toronto and had to spend an additional 4 hours in the Washington airport. After the fact, this was probably a good thing because if I had returned to Toronto on Saturday morning as planned, I would probably have gone to bed and therefore messed up my sleeping schedule. Not getting back to TO until Saturday afternoon meant I napped in the airport and ended up going to sleep at a normal hour Saturday night. Mind you, I slept for 14 hours.

I am once again reminded, however, that everything does happen for a reason - including encounters with slow and cranky US Customs Officers.

A return to Johannesburg

The day I left Toronto it was -10 degrees. Needless to say I jumped at the chance to return to Johannesburg in the middle of a Canadian winter. Even though there were thundershowers in Johannesburg this afternoon, it has only made the countryside more green and lush. As I write, the window is open, a fresh breeze is blowing in, and the birds are abundant in the garden outside my window. If I was in Toronto, I would just be getting home from work at this time, my feet would be frozen and the window certainly would not be open – even if it was, I would be looking into an alley way – not a beautiful garden like I am this evening.

I have only been here in Jo’Burg for two days and already the funny occurrences have begun. The last time I flew to SA, I flew through London and had a day long stopover. This time around, I flew through Washington. Due to high winds at the Dulles airport, my flight leaving Toronto was delayed. With only an hour and a half initially scheduled between my arrival and connecting flight in Washington, I realized that with the delay there stood a huge chance of me missing my connecting flight. As the United flight pulled into the loading dock in Washington, I looked out the window and to my disbelief there was a South African Airways plane parked immediately to the right of our plane. I then realized I stood a pretty good chance of catching my connecting flight. Tearing through the airport, I got to the gate and saw that the doors were already closed and thought, “Okay, get ready to cry,” but I didn’t have to. The South African Airways staff was brilliant and in lightening speed, I was checked in, people were unlocking doors (they actually had to unlock three sets of doors to get me to the plane) and there I was the very last person to get on that plane. I am one of those geeks who usually arrive hours before any scheduled flight so let’s just say it was an interesting experience being on the other end of the spectrum.

The flight was only half full but when I found my seat, I discovered that someone was already sitting there. The young man expressed that he did not want to sit in the bulk head seats (the row at the very front of the plane). I thought, “Are you kidding me?” In all my trips to and from Japan the bulk head were the coveted seats as they provide the most leg room and freedom one can possibly get on a plane. I told him to stay put and that I would gladly trade seats with him. There was no one sitting in any of the four bulk head seats so I thought I was going to be able to stretch out, until an old American fart came along, squatted and dashed my hopes of a semi-normal sleep. But boy did I have leg room and with it being a 14.5 hour flight, it was bloody fantastic.

I watched George Clooney in Michael Clayton, which was so-so, but quickly, if not surprisingly fell fast sleep. I actually managed to get quite a bit of sleep, despite the usual baby crying in the seat behind me and the man snoring loudly in the seat behind him. What was strange was that every time I did wake up, I saw the same older woman going to the bathroom. I realize that most airlines suggest increasing the amount of water you drink on long flights, but I do the direct opposite. Public washrooms are sometimes gross but it has been my experience that airplane washrooms are always gross. This of course means I get off the plane completely dehydrated - but after a 14 hour flight, one never gets off a plane looking anything but like complete and utter crap.

I finally got to Jo’Burg but my luggage did not. All I had is my carry on, which means I had nothing – no toiletries, no change of clothes, but the jet lag was so bad, I really did’t care. There was a shuttle service waiting for me, but I took so long to get through the line at the “Missing Baggage” counter, the poor chauffeur was pacing and Shadrack and Heather (from the NMF) have already called him a few times. I wasn’t sure if I was going directly to the guest house or to the NMF so I asked the chauffeur where he was taking me, to which he replied, “This is the Oliver Tambo International Airport.” Thus the fun began.

I finally figure out that he is taking me to the guest house. He is a good driver and navigates his way through the insane Jo’Burg traffic with ease. The closer we got to Sandton/Abbotsford, his confidence fades, however, as I slowly realize he does not know where the guest house is and can’t find it. So here I am in Jo’Burg, with nothing to my name, wanting to burn the clothes I am in, and the man that is supposed to deliver me to my guest house is lost. Again, I realize that jet lag is a wonderful thing because did I get upset? Nope – I was simply too tired to care – and I also knew that the NMF staff would take care of me.

When Shadrack called and I told him I had no luggage, first there was silence and then I hear “shit.” Knowing I would need to go and buy clothes and all those feminine items that men are clueless about, he wisely turned to Heather who came to the rescue. Meeting me at the guest house, she whisked me away to a local mall where we tore into Woolworths and within approximately eight minutes, she had helped me purchase two blouses, two tank tops, some black socks, and a nightie – no, wait – two nighties off the sale rack (two for the price of one, both of which featured variations of Snoopy with a Santa Clause hat). Oh yes, the socks were listed as fitting woman’s 4-7 shoe. I had forgotten that women having a size 10 shoe is unheard of, and again, jet lag resulted in me not caring. I gratefully grabbed the “cotton rich” socks and ran.

After a good nights rest and two showers, I felt ready for combat this morning. I had to put the same lotion on my face that I did on my feet and I hoped for the best. I had no gel for my hair, or deodorant, which resulted in another trip to the mall today with my personal shopper Heather. I was only too happy to return to the familiar Rosebank Mall and like a lot of women my age, willing shelled out some mulla for some make up hoping this was transform my zombie like appearance.

It is great to be back at the NMF and see all the familiar faces. I got caught up with Verne and Shadrack and my funny man Yase. It was all very surreal as none of the physical surroundings had changed much at all. I was given my first task and after drowning 4 cups of coffee and 2 diet cokes, I managed to get through the day with a whole lot of shaking and no sleeping. Mission accomplished.

So I am back at the guest house. I just called the airport and my luggage arrived this afternoon on the flight from Washington. Shadrack called immediately after that and coming to my rescue again, he took me to the airport to pick up said baggage. What would I do without my friends here in SA?

I just tried the TV and it is now up and running – just in time for the SABC evening news. Tomorrow it is going to be 25 degrees. Life is good.

Trying on shoes

Last weekend I watched Babel starring Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett. I thought it was a really good movie and liked how the story wove together the lives of individuals living on different countries on different continents. It aptly showed the reality of how small the world has really become.

Watching Cate Blanchett’s character suffer from a gun shot wound in a rural Moroccan village made me cringe. It was one of those situations that you would never want to find yourself in. I have done a lot of travelling and have been fortunate in the fact that nothing traumatic has ever really happened to me – with the exception of a plane slamming on its brakes prior to taking off on a runway in Guam! I have flown both Air China and Aeroflot domestically and lived to tell the tale. I took a train through Yugoslavia two weeks before they literally shut down the trains and all forms of public transport in February of 1992. That isn’t to say that things have not happened to those travelling with me.

One of my most eventful trips was a trek I did through South East Asia with Sarah and Michele in the spring of 1998. We were all teaching in Japan and I believe it was the Golden Week Holidays that we used to facilitate our trip. We got a great deal on tickets through a travel agent in California that organized tours and packages for teachers on the Jet Program. We didn’t go on a tour, but rather bought tickets that enabled us to hop around Malaysia, Thailand, Singapore and the Philippines rather cheaply for two weeks. The final leg of this journey was a stop in Manila. We had planned to use this short stop in the Philippines to buy the customary Omiyage (souvenirs) that were expected by our co-workers back in Tottori (where we lived in Japan).

It was a Friday afternoon. We were shopping in a mall and had split up, agreeing to meet up at a designated spot at 2pm. Now, we knew that the crime in Manila was bad – bad bad. We had been warned about the pick pocketers and had taken all the necessary precautions. But it was the last day of our trip, and hey, we were concentrating on the shopping. Michele had a fanny pack on and bending over to try a pair of shoes on, she turned her fanny pack around to her back….blam, it was gone within seconds: her wallet, that had tucked in it her passport, airplane ticket, and of course, all her money. When Sarah found me and told me what happened I couldn’t believe it. Finding Michele and seeing her burst into tears confirmed it.

Sarah and I immediately went into damage control. It was Friday afternoon, 2pm. Our flight was at 6am the next morning. We decided our first stop was to be the American Embassy – which proved to be the easiest aspect in what became a long process of document recovery. While Michele wiped the tears away, and had her picture taken, Sarah and I filled out the paperwork and paid for her new passport. The Diplomat who helped us was a former JET himself and he was a great help. Within half an hour, she had a new passport.

The next stop was at the Philippine Airlines office. They would not replace her ticket because we had not gone through the proper channels of filing a police report. We were given directions to a police station, got in a cab, and seemed to sit in rush hour traffic forever. Getting to the police station, there were men walking around with BIG GUNS – and none of these men LOOKED like policemen. We were given seats within arms reach of cells - that had people/prisoners in them. A policeman got out his typewriter and carbon paper, and using two fingers he proceed to type up the report. We then headed back to the airline office only to be told by another employer that we had gone (or rather been told to go) to the wrong police station. Back we went to another police station and pretty much relived the first experience.

By this time, it was after 5pm and the airline office had closed. We decided to head to the International airport to try our luck there. Traffic in Manila is insane and we spent a hell of a lot of time riding around sitting in cabs in heavy traffic. It was dark by the time we got to the airport and NOTHING was open. We managed to find the one greasy spoon of a restaurant open so we went there and sat with 3 other foreigners also waiting out the night at the airport. I can’t remember how we found out, or who came up with the idea, but we decided to go to the domestic airport back in the city to see if we could get Michele’s ticket replaced there. Leaving the International airport, I remember walking by a closed restaurant that had a light on inside: and I couldn’t count the mice that were running around the floor. We stared in momentary disbelief, but were not surprised.

We get to the domestic airport in the early morning and in sharp contrast to the International airport, the place was hoping. We went to the Philippine Air desk, explained what had happened and poof, within minutes they re-issued Michele another ticket. They were so nice and we couldn’t believe how easy it had been. Back to the International Airport we went.

So, at 5am we are in line to get our packs checked and get our boarding passes. Michele went ahead of us and after some discussion she turned around, looked at us, and shook her head. By this time, none of us had slept, or eaten and we were, of course nearly bonkers. I stormed up to the desk and asked what the problem was: She had her passport. She had her ticket – what more could they want? Well, they wanted to see the stamp in her passport telling them when she had entered the country. We explained this was impossible because the passport had been stolen. I said that the airport / customs would have to have a record of when she came in. The airline staff said that it would, but they were uncertain as to when that office opened. Luckily, someone came and opened the Customs/Immigration office at 5:30am. They found the necessary documentation, gave Michele her ticket and we ran – and I mean ran to the plane. We were exhausted. It was the only time in my life I fell asleep before the plane actually took off – and we managed to get on the plane with five minutes to spare.

Prior to leaving on this trip, we had made plans to meet our friend Gwen at Osaka Kuko (airport) when we returned. Her parents had flown in to Japan for a visit and were leaving for the US the day we got back. We got to the airport and sure enough, there was Gwen waiting for us. We all go into a tirade of what had transpired in the last 24 hours. After blabbering on forever, we then remembered to ask how her visit had been with her parents. At that point Gwen proceed to tell us that her father had dropped dead of a heart attack on an Island off Hiroshima that week and had died. Her Mom was on her way back to the US with the cremated remains. We just stood there in disbelief. Then of course we all stood and bawled.

So ya, that is probably my worst travel story ever. Nothing bad actually happened to me, but when tragic events and difficult circumstances affect your friends and those close to you, it might as well be happening to you. Moral of the story:

• Don’t try on shoes in the Philippines. Bad things happen when you do.
• Avoid police stations in Manila if at all possible.
• Don’t eat at any of the restaurants in Manila's International airport.
• If you need to replace an International airline ticket in the Philippines – do it at the domestic airport.
• The easiest thing in the world to replace is a passport.
• It took the death of our friend’s Dad to snap us back in reality and make us realize very quickly how easy our so called ‘tragedy” had been.

An olympic move

I have moved again.

This past weekend, I moved and obtained my fifteenth different address in eighteen years. Besides my three year stint in Japan, I have basically made some sort of move or another once a year, for every year of my adult life. I am so bloody sick of moving it is not funny. Fifteen different addresses. Four difference provinces. Four different countries. Three different continents.

Perhaps that is why this move did not phase me. I would have been happier not to do it, but it was pretty uneventful - with the exception of my box of Swaziland glass bouncing down the stairs into my basement apartment. This was quickly followed by the thought, "You fool." I had moved that box myself because I was sure it would get killed by the movers. Surprisingly enough, the contents went unharmed and my elephant lived to see another day.

This Ngwenya Glass factory in Swaziland was one of the most interesting places I visited in southern Africa last summer.

Teeth and knees

To explain more about the last post...

Okay, I should admit that I didn't shatter my knee when "Ayr Bay Cora" knocked me down. Basically the cow figured out pretty quickly that I did not have a clue what I was doing. After leaving the show ring with Cora (and our third place ribbon), she abruptly stopped, whirled her head back and sent me flying. The next thing I knew I was on the ground and all I saw were hoofs. I looked up to see my father staring down at me saying, "Get up, you're okay." I recall thinking, "Okay? All I see are hoofs. I'm going to die." What I didn't know is that my brother had given me the oldest, slowest cow in the barn to show. Cora just stood there and waited for somebody who knew what they doing to take the reins. I was glad to give them up - that and my third place ribbon, which I gave to my little cousin Ellen from Calgary who still has it hanging on her bulletin board. Although I gave my knee a good wack, it didn't shatter...only my ego took a beating that day.

Speaking of shattering, I managed to crack a tooth on Thanksgiving weekend. Last night I had trip number two of three to my new dentist. I put absolutely no thought or research into picking out my Toronto dentist. I walked down to the Danforth and walked into the first clinic I found. I love my new dentist and his clinic. He took pictures of my tooth and then brought it right up on a computer. There are TVs attached to the ceiling so I could watch Ellen and then the news during my 1.5 hour appointment.

Last night the dentist took impressions for both my temporary and permanent crown. After taking the impressions, the dental assistant handed me a warm packaged wipe and a mirror. I thought "What is this for?" A quick look in the mirror made me burst into laughter: my cheek and chin were covered in the white plaster like substance that had been used to take the impression. With my face frozen, I would never have noticed. The proceeding to 'rinse and spit', I merely managed to drool all over myself. One has to laugh at oneself otherwise it would just be pathetic.

Ayr Bay Farm

My father inherited his farm from his uncle Harold and the name came with it: Ayr Bay Farms. "Ayr" becasue of the Ayrshire cows that made up the majority of the cows in the herd and "Bay" because of St. Peters Bay, the bay of water on which the farm borders. For many years, my father has taken our cows to show at local fairs such as the Dundas Ploughing Match or the Provincial Old Home Week fair in Charlottetown. Showing cattle is no easy feat and many people over the years have told me what a good good showman Dad was. I showed the grand total of 1 cow, which knocked me down, shattered my ego and left knee, but that is another post.

My younger brother has taken over the farm and is continuing the tradition of showing cattle. This year was probably the best showing our farm has had both at Old Home Week and at the Atlantic Winter Fair in Halifax. The pictures above display some of the winnings from Charlottetown. My Mom is pictured with the trophies, which is kinda funny as she has never shown a cow in her life. The other picture shows all the ribbons on display and if I can count correctly I see at least 5 red ribbons. I am glad my bed is serving a purpose in my absence.

The boys also did well enough to make it on the cover of Ayrshire Canada this quarter.

Headlines

I have been processing a collection of film at work. Here are some of the more interesting headlines I have come across:

• Bucky the deer eats with cows
• Norwich Bride and Groom receive Tractor
• Piano Smashing to Raise Money
• Western Fair Hurdy Gurdy man with Monkey
• St. Thomas’ Miss “Hot Pants” contest
• Port Rowan Frog Jumping Contest
• Aylmer chickens have five toes on each foot
• Goderich dog receives death sentence for biting boy
• Two bicycles collide in London
• Annual convention of the Canadian Pigeon Union held in London
• Dog rescued from ice
• Port Stanley lake freezes and boats and a loon are rescued
• Santa visits Dorchester by truck
• Mute swans released at Long Point replace dead swan
• Boy scratched by unidentified cat will undergo rabies shots
• 10 millionth car in the market parking lot
• Tillsonburg’s St. John’s Anglican Church “Jumping for Jesus” trampoline fund raiser
• Two young Prince Edward Islanders visit Controller Frank Flitton at London’s City Hall
• East London couple wins a live cow Your Future’s in the Suds: Psychic Reader Beverly Smith reads beer suds

The Piano Man's Daughter

Eliza blinked and wondered what Ede would do when she discovered the noise a city makes, and the fact that a city never sleeps. And the sorry news that she’d seen her last cow and would never hear a rooster crow or step out the door into a world of fields. Well – there was always the train to McCaskill’s Mills and a person could always come home. “I’ll be at home,” said Ede.“No,” said Eliza. “Home is where you where you were born, not where you bide.”

Timothy Findley
The Piano Man’s Daughter

And beyond all that, outside, unseen, the beach in the darkness, the sand cool on top but keeping still the day’s warmth underneath, and the long lines of white waves breaking on the bias, lit from inside themselves somehow, and over everything the night, silent, secret, and intent.

John Banville

The Sea

Dante’s Prayer

by 
Loreena McKennitt

When the dark wood fell before me
And all the paths were overgrown
When the priests of pride say there is no other way
I tilled the sorrows of stone

I did not believe because I could not see
Though you came to me in the night
When the dawn seemed forever lost
You showed me your love in the light of the stars

Cast your eyes on the ocean
Cast your soul to the sea
When the dark night seems endless
Please remember me

Then the mountain rose before me
By the deep well of desireFrom the mountain of forgiveness
Beyond the ice and the fire

Cast your eyes on the ocean
Cast your soul to the sea
When the dark night seems endless
Please remember me

Though we share this humble path, alone
How fragile is the heartOh give these clay feet wings to fly
To touch the face of the stars

Breathe life into this feeble heart
Lift this mortal veil of fear
Take these crumbled hopes, etched with tears
We’ll rise above these earthly cares

Cast your eyes on the ocean
Cast your soul to the seaWhen the dark night seems endless
Please remember me

“The Book of Secrets” (1997)

Thomas

John David Thomas, 1951-2007

After meeting randomly on the fourth floor of the BAC, it was Krista (Blaikie) Hughes who introduced me to the inner workings of the Acadia History Society and to John Thomas. Not knowing who he was, or much about him at all, I initially thought his first name was “Thomas,” which subsequently provided fodder for teasing over the years. He was henceforth christened “Thomas” and I was awarded (or allowed) sole custody of addressing him in such a manner.

Along with Aaron, Jennifer, Pearl, I took three courses with Thomas while at Acadia. He was also the faculty supervisor of the history society so for two years, I was under his direction when it came to the planning and carrying out of the history society’s participation in the annual homecoming parade. By “participation,” I mean: Thomas would come up with a theme. I would go to the drama department to borrow costumes. I would then beg, threaten and produce tears if necessary to convince my friends and fellow students to go on the float. By “float,” I mean a flatbed trailer that a local farmer out of the goodness of his heart would volunteer and then use his tractor to pull through the main, and only street in Wolfville.

Acadia History Society Floats, 1995 and 1996

The sad thing is that Thomas had so much to do with all those floats and there are few if any photos to document his participation as he took all the photos! I can see him now, wearing his red sweatshirt, blue ball cap and khaki pants, running alongside the float as it was paraded through Wolfville, with a minimum of at least three cameras around his neck (usually mine, his and Kristas)! If it wasn’t for him, nothing would have been undertaken – or documented. Nobody fell off, the history society won first prize for best float three years in a row and I now realize I would never have undertaken such a feat without the direction, encouragement and orders from Thomas. Thank you Krista for starting me down that path.

Acadia is a small campus, with a small student population, set in Nova Scotia’s picturesque Annapolis Valley. Having grown up in rural PEI, this atmosphere was not completely foreign to me: but the university environment was. I am a first generation university graduate in my family. The university atmosphere was therefore initially a completely foreign, at times bewildering, and sometimes a lonely place for me. Thomas sensed this and he gave me a lot of guidance. He used to give me lists of movies to watch, lists of books to read, and endless, endless advice. He knew I needed it. That was the beauty of Acadia. Small classes meant you got to known your Professors. He was one of the few professors who came to our graduation ceremony, sat there beaming as we crossed the stage to get our degrees, met our parents at the reception afterwards and had pictures taken with us.

I spent a lot of time in his office on the fourth floor of the BAC chatting, laughing and exchanging stories – especially in my fourth year when I was procrastinating in writing my thesis. He always seemed to have an indefinite amount of time – for all of us. He loved nothing more than a good story and you knew when you delivered a good one when he did the characteristic slap on the knee, always followed by heartfelt laughter.

Over the years I kept in touch with Thomas via letters, email, Christmas cards, the odd telephone call. In the fall of 2005, I moved to Toronto and for the first time in almost ten years, we finally had a reunion. Thomas had relocated back to Toronto to teach at Upper Canada College (UCC). That fall, Jason Crowtz (fellow Acadia Hist. Hons ’96 grad) and I had two sessions with Thomas, both of which consisted of a beer swilling, knee slapping and laughter-filled stroll down memory lane. We planned to get together early in the New Year and I very much looked forward to such future sessions. Sadly, it never happened.

On the 20 December 2005, Thomas was diagnosed with cancer – on his tongue. After successful (but invasive) surgery, Thomas underwent chemo, radiation, as well as speech therapy. He was not able to have visitors so Jason and I wrote letters and emails, often accompanied by an original Jason cartoon depicting some of the sadder facets of our mundane lives. It made him laugh and that seemed to be all he wanted.

I was away all last summer so I did not get to see Thomas until this past fall. Once again, it was Krista who brought us together. A visit from Krista and Tammy prompted another reunion. Thomas was thinner and visibly altered from his year long battle, but it was still the same old Thomas – and it was great to see him. Sadly it would be the last. In November doctors confirmed that his cancer had returned. He waited until after the holidays and on the 2nd of January emailed us to tell us his condition was terminal. On the 14 March 2007, he died peacefully in his sleep at his parent’s home; sixteen days shy of his 56th birthday.

Before he died, Thomas decided he did not want the traditional wake and funeral. Instead, he opted for an old fashioned variety show, “when laughter came easily.” Amazingly enough, he organized the entire show himself in the last months of his life. He asked Tammy, Krista and I in February if we would contribute a short presentation on the antics surrounding the history society’s homecoming floats. On the 18th of May, family, friends, students and colleagues of Thomas gathered at UCC in Toronto for the variety show in his memory. We were one of over twenty acts that day that featured every facet of his life. Presentations were made by family, including one by John’s brother Steve that included childhood and college photos of Thomas that few of us had ever seen. Other chapters of his life represented in the presentations included memories from his camp counseling days, the baseball team he played with, UCC students, UCC colleagues with hilarious stories from Thomas’ involvement with the football team, as well as college friends and colleagues. I laughed a lot more then I thought I would and I think Thomas would have been pleased with how the day unfolded. The variety show was followed by a buffet meal and drinks – all on John. It was a chance for all of us, from various aspects of his life, to come together and share stories, as well as make and renew old friendships.

Acadia history grads:

Tammy Windsor ('94), Julia Kinnear ('93), Krista Hughes ('94), Juanita Rossiter ('96) and Jason Crowtz ('96)

The history gang with Professor Rob Morrison, now at Queen's University, but a good friend and colleague of John's while at Acadia.

Next week, I will be walking across the stage of convocation hall at U of T and I will be thinking about Thomas. Although it was now over ten years ago, I can see him sitting there at Acadia’s UHall, like it was yesterday, one familiar face among all the academic robes, smiling, camera in hand. There is hardly a day passes that I don’t think about him and the impact that he has had on my life. I miss him, but most of all, I am grateful for having known him. He was a great teacher. He was my friend.

Acadia History Grads 1996

Thesis Year madness - rewind - 1996

The original: a Pre-Raphaelite print on a card. I once remarked to Jason resembled the various stages of me in the writing of my thesis in 1995-1996:

Jason's photoshoped rendition, highlighting aspects of life for myself, Jas, Ken and Kim that year:

Shodo

During the three years I was in Japan, I studied shodo at the high school I taught at (Tottori Higashi koko) in Japan. During the first month of school, I was "urged" to attend classes once a week with Shubayama sensei. I was later told that I could probably never afford to take classes with Shubayama sensei and I was lucky to be getting the lessons for free. This did not mean much to me as I spent the majority of my time that first year in frustration and really not enjoying the free lessons very much at all.

Then something clicked and I can't really put my finer on it, but blam: suddenly the squiggly abstract lines made sense to me and I began to enjoy it. Shubayama sensei didn't speak a word of English and I barely spoke Japanese, but it was a friendship that surpassed language and culture. Oddly enough, the fact that we could barely communicate did not impede us becoming great friends at all.

The print on the left means "Success" and it was the last drawing I did in 1999. To give you an idea of the size, the photos below it are in 5x7 frames. It is probably the best shodo I have done, but it is not my favorite. The drawing on the right means "Ocean" I did this my first semester in Japan, in the Fall of 1996 and it is still my favorite. I grew up on an Island, have always swam in and loved the ocean and I am also a water sign. Shybayama sensei did not know any of this but still picked the perfect character for me to draw during my first few months in Japan.

When I left Tottori in 1999, the high school asked me what I wanted as a good-bye present (Yes, can you imagine?). I asked for one of Shubayama's prints, thinking this was a respectable and practical gift. You can imagine my surprise when, expecting an 8x10 print, I was presented with a MASSIVE, beautifully framed print, in a beautiful silver frame at my good-bye party. It is gorgeous and I will treasure it always. Sadly though, it is carefully wrapped and stowed away at my parent's home on PEI.

Tottori Higashi High school, Tottori, Japan

Grammie's mat

This is the first mat I hooked by myself, which was completed in 2004. I bought the stamped mat on PEI, used wool from MacAusland's woolen mill in Bloomfield, PEI., and hooked it with my great-grandmother's (Sarah Lewis) hook. I had recently returned from a trip to the Magdalene Islands and had been inspired by the colorful houses I saw there. The white car represents my very first car (1995 olds achieva) and the blue car is my second car (2000 buick century). Upon completion, I gave the mat to my grandmother. 

Roddie Steele's fiddle

This is one of my most treasured possessions - my great grandfather, Roddie Steele's fiddle. I have taken lessons, but nearly enough....let's just say it is hard to "pick up" an instrument at my age. I will always be indebted to Mel MacPhee for giving me this fiddle and returning it to our family, and to Timothy Chaisson for trying to teach someone to play who does not have "an ear."

Namibian needlework

I still have not got pillows made for these pillowcases, my favorite purchase from my summer '06 travels. Bought in Windhoek, Namibia, these pillowcases represent the needle work for which Namibian women are well know. I purchased these items at Penduka, located in the township just outside Windhoek. There were many beautiful items for sale - curtains, oven mitts, you name it.

There were two aspects of these pillow cases that attracted me. First was the use of color. I love the combination and presence of orange, red and yellow. I also liked the folksy feeling the images provoked.

More about Penduka:

Penduka is a community-focused women’s project in Katutura district of Windhoek, the capital of Namibia. Women with disabilities and women living in the Katutura, Windhoek district, plagued by poverty work for Penduka. In addition to this women from the agricultural region around Windhoek are involved in embroidery projects in Penduka.

The project runs a handicraft shop, cloth printing workshop, embroidery and sewing activities, a restaurant and a cottage hostel for backpack travellers. About 400 women are working for Penduka. Some of the women are full-time workers while others participate in projects.

Almost all the woman in the embroidery projects is a single mother, making the earnings from the projects critical for the survival of the families. Together with other income sources and the food supplies from farming it is enough to make a living.

Besides income Penduka is offering other prospects for the women. It is considered positive to work together with other women and learn new skills. Sharing their skills with the women of the community is important.

Women can take care of the children while working at home. There is a gathering in Penduka once a week where the products are collected. In each three embroidery groups there is a quality controller and a leader.

Some African souvenirs

I love my souvenirs and now have quite the assorted mix of "stuff" from the various places I have visited. Below are some things I purchased while in South and southern Africa this summer. The art I purchased in Johannesburg. I had a nice long chat with the artist and I liked the pinks in the painting. The ladies in the picture are "Anna" and "Sarah." I also bought a mask in each country I visited with the exception of Lesotho. From left to right, the masks were bought in South Africa, Swaziland, Namibia and Botswana.