Chop sticks, green shirts and paper umbrellas

There is another first day of school I can’t believe I forgot to mention in my last blog post - my first day of school on the other side of the desk. From the Fall of 1996 to the Summer of 1999, I taught English as a Second Language (ESL) at Tottori Higashi High School in Tottori, Japan. I was a sensei, or at least that was what my students called me. Let me recount my steps that brought me to the other side of the desk...

In the fall of 1995, I had entered the last year of my undergrad. I can’t recall the exact moment when I decided I wanted to go to Japan upon completion of my studies. Looking back, I think there were two factors that played into this choice. The first is that I had been writing to my pen-pal Naoko since ca. 1986, which was really my first introduction to all things Japanese. Secondly, I knew two people in my small village of ca. 500 people who had gone to Japan to teach on the JET Programme and lived to tell the tale. Two classmates of my older brother had “done the Japan thing.” I went to talk to one of them when I was home the summer before my last year at Acadia. In retrospect, talking to Brent was the best thing I could have done. He reassured me of the quality of the JET Program and that it really was the best route to take if I was planning to teach English in Japan. He recounted tales of the two years he spent there and I remember getting excited listening to his stories. I was sold. But he did warn me that it was not an easy program in which to get accepted.

I applied to JET in the Fall of 1995. Professor Thomas made me re-write my statement of Interest included in my application package five times until it was perfect in his eyes. I think I was pretty happy with draft three. Professor Baldwin, who had spent a year in Tokyo on sabbatical the year before, spoke to me in Japanese everyday and yes, this drove me nuts. He thought learning the basic greetings would help me if I got an interview. Krista helped me pick out a black suit. I spent the majority of that fall and winter prepping and haven’t before or since, did so much work for one interview. This was primarily due to the fact that I had no plan B. I had put all my eggs in one basket so it was Japan or bust.

Before Christmas, I found out I had got an interview. I took the train to Montreal for the interview during study break in February of 1996. Montreal was the most easterly Canadian place offered by JET in which to undertake your interview (I sincerely hope they’ve improved this process by now for the far flung east coasters applying). My fellow Acadia History student, Tom, also had an interview and ended up taking that same train. We prepped for most of the train ride there. I wore my new black suit Krista had helped me pick out (but managed to forget the accompanying scarf at home) and endured the most stressful interview of my life to date. I thought I had done a terrible job in the interview and recall the agony of that long train ride back to Nova Scotia where I went over and over it in my mind. No one was more surprised than me when I got my acceptance. I knew a lot (over 100) had applied and only 30 were being selected from the Montreal interviews. Somehow I had beaten the odds. In April, I received my acceptance letter and can still remember the excitement I felt at seeing that fat envelope in my post office box in Wolfville. Cyndy Allen was the first person I came across after leaving the post office and when I told her my news she said, ‘Wow, I’ve never known anyone who got accepted to JET.” I graduated from Acadia in May and in July I was off. I’ll leave out the part about the horrifyingly tearful good-byes. For my family, I might as well have been going to Mars.

I had to depart from Montreal as I had chosen to undertake my interview there, but made a quick side trip to Ottawa to visit my friend Beth first. The night before I left Ottawa, I recall her casually asking me “Have you ever used chop sticks before?” That was my first moment of panic. I grew up on a farm in rural PEI – of course I had not used chop sticks before. I *thought* I had prepared for everything. I had spent the entire year reading about Japan. I could say “Hello” and goodbye” in Japanese. What more could there possibly be? This – the having to eat with chopsticks component – was the first in a very long and distinguished list of things I never remotely considered or put any thought into before going.

Next came a two day pre-departure orientation for the thirty of us who were leaving from Montreal. Like my very first day of grade school, I also can’t recall one thing from these sessions. Perhaps I was still mono-focused on the fact that I couldn’t use chop sticks and would spend the next year eating all my food with my fingers? The next thing I knew, I was on a plane with thirty strangers heading to the other side of the world. JET paid for the flight over, which meant we flew business class all the way to Tokyo. Picture it: thirty recent graduates with not two quarters to rub together – in business class. Needless to say, we were easy to please. We were all giddy with excitement – mostly due to the fact that we knew it would probably be the last time any of would ever fly business class on a long haul International flight again.

Arriving in Tokyo I recall three things: First was the feeling of death that comes with experiencing extreme jet lag for the first time. Second, was the wall of humidity that met me upon leaving the airport and wondering why anyone hadn’t warned me about this? Third was the army of green shirts. That same day that I arrived in Tokyo, so did three thousand other JET participants from all over the world. In preparation for this, there was an army of volunteers (mostly 2nd and 3rd year participants) wearing green tee shirts directing us everywhere: Go here to pick up your luggage – go there to drop it off – go here to get the bus if you are staying at this hotel – go here – go there – go here. Thank God. I was grateful to every one of them for every order they shouted at me. I had been on an International flight before, but nowhere as far away as Japan. Without that army of green tee shirts, I would probably still be stumbling around Narita airport trying to figure it all out.

In the midst of what seemed like at the time, insurmountable jet lag, I had another two day orientation session in Tokyo. I recall nothing from those sessions either, but do remember the excitement of walking around Tokyo in the evenings. During the course of the orientation, I did manage to find a few other JETs also destined for Tottori, and I met Michele who had been sent by the Tottori Prefecture Board of Education to collect us all and bring us to Tottori. Michele was a second year JET from Hawaii who had a job that was split working at the Tottori Board of Education and teaching at a local high school. I recall that she was very dressy, had perfectly applied make-up, wore tons of jewellery - gold rings and chains - and I recall my first reaction was “We will never be friends.” Little did I know she would become one of my best fiends over the course of the next two years. The next thing I knew, I was on yet another flight – this time it was destined for Tottori. The journey had encompassed a bus (Charlottetown to Moncton), two trains (Moncton to Ottawa – Ottawa to Montreal), and three flights (Montreal to Detroit – Detroit to Tokyo – Tokyo to Tottori), but it was finally over. It is only when you are young and foolish do you do these things. Just thinking about it now makes me tired.

We arrived in Japan a month before school began and it was a strategic move on JET’s part. That first month was so overwhelming. It really did take a few weeks to get my feet under me. I lived in an apartment that was owned by my school and the three teachers before me lived there as well. Although it was the size of a matchbox, it took the better part of a week to clean it thoroughly as the teacher before me was, well, not much of a housekeeper. Luckily enough, being in a small city like Tottori-shi, the second and third year JETs were quick to root us out and show us around. I recall them taking us through the city and showing us everything: what store sold sour cream and where we could get peanut butter; how to use the Japanese ATM machines; where the bus and train station were located; good bike stores, etc… It was humid as hell tramping around, but again, I was very grateful for the help.

That first month also proved to be quite a bit of fun. I explored the city, got to know the other JETs in the vicinity, and got used to the locals pointing at me and saying “gaijan” (the Japanese word for foreigner that literally translates as “alien”). I danced in the local Shan-Shan festival with other JETs and I use the term *dance* loosely. We made several trips to Mochigase, a village just outside Tottori who had for whatever reason invited us to dance with the village residents, so as to learn the steps of the dance. I believe there were only three steps, but we also had to learn how to contend with the paper umbrellas that were also an integral part of the dance. Dancing in that festival was the most humid three hour trek I ever hope to have to make with a paper umbrella, but it was my first cultural experience in Japan – and it was a great one. It helped to block out the other cultural experience I had that month in my rather unsuccessful participation in the local Chizu log pull. I’ll save that story for another post.




In that month, I also quickly realized that I was infinitely lucky in that two other JETs also lived at OM Mansion (my apartment building). Sarah and Michele were both American JETs in their second year of the program and both could speak and write Japanese fluently. I could say “Konichiwa” (hello) and “Sayonara” (good-bye). If nothing else I was comic relief for them that first year. Unlike other first year JETs who earnestly started Japanese lessons upon arriving in Tottori, I could have cared less. I was tired of school, tired of studying and you couldn’t have paid me to study Japanese. I picked up a bit here and there watching TV, but I got by with carrying around a pocket sized Japanese/English dictionary and I of course had Sarah and Michele to rely on – and we ended up doing everything together. It got to the point where when we went to the bus station to go somewhere Sarah would automatically just fill out my ticket for me. I know, I was a lazy arse.



As the first day of school approached, it became more and more real – I was expected to teach. I mean really teach - 400 students a week. How could I possibly remember names? Especially Japanese names? I went into school the week before classes began to get acquainted with everything. The first thing I noticed was that the school had done a lot of work for my arrival. My various lockers, my desk, my supplies were all clearly labelled – “Mary sensei.” At first I thought it was for someone else. I slowly clicked in and realized that all my official paperwork had been sent ahead to my school long before my actual arrival. To them, I was Mary – not Juanita. This was a school that over 1200 students and 80 teachers. After taking an hour to explain to three people that I go by my middle name, I quickly decided “Mary it is.”

I spent the majority of that week getting my lesson plans organized and familiarizing myself with the lay out of the school. Part way through the week, I was asked to make a speech at the opening ceremony for the new semester at school so as to introduce myself to the students. Although I am shy, I surprisingly don’t mind public speaking so I had no problem with it. The one problem I did have was that they asked me to make the speech in JAPANESE. At first I thought they were joking. When I realized they were not, I panicked – panicked panicked. A teacher had written a speech for me and helped with practice the pronunciation, but I knew what the end result was going to be. No matter what I did, I was going to look like a big gaijan idiot. And that was pretty much how it played out.

Because the opening ceremony was considered a formal occasion, I had to wear my black suit – and the heat and humidity was so bad. Every now and again I would head a “thud” not realizing at the time this noise was actually students passing out from the heat. When the time finally came for my speech, I was so hot and overwhelmed, I didn’t care: “Watashi wa Mary desu” (Hello my name is Mary) is all I remember. I rambled on in broken Japanese for what seemed like a hundred hours, and while doing so realized it was the first time during the course of that painful ceremony that the students giggled and smiled. They were of course laughing at my butchering of the Japanese language, but I didn’t care, mostly because I was too hot. I was the only person to make them smile at that ceremony. I hoped it was an omen of good things to come – and it was.

First days of school

This morning I noticed the increase in traffic. Public transit was busier than usual. Then there was a longer wait in the coffee line. Yes, for many little kids, big kids and kids at heart, break was over and the school bell rang. For teachers and students alike, it was back to the trenches.

I’ve had a lot of first days at school, some of which I remember, some of which I don’t. Do you remember your very first day of school? Mom took a picture to mark the event and when I now look at it now, I can see that I looked nervous. I was a shy and backward child, so I am sure I must have been terrified. Yet, I have no memory of that day. In fact, I have no memory of grade one at all. And the only memory I have of grade two is fighting over Lego blocks with Jamie Lewis.


Elementary school for me is a bit of a blur. I remember random things about my teachers. Isabel Lewis stored her markers in a Pringles chip can. Frances MacAulay had a two tone pink sweater (Gladys King had one the same) and it was that sweater she wore the day a pen burst in her face and all over her clothes (some kids in the front row got it too).George Knox made us stand up straight and really sing the National Anthem every morning. Every year Mr. Coffin gave his students the finger – and we all waited with baited breath (what on earth he did that I can’t for the life of me remember). Mr. Sheppard, well, he was just the nicest teacher in the world – only to be rivalled by our music teacher Cathy Knox. For some reason it was cool to be in the alto section of the choir. I can still hear her saying to me, “Juanita, if you promise to actually sing, I will put you in the alto section.” I was shy – and used to just mouth the words for fear of going off key.

The pinnacle of my elementary school years would probably have to be my grade eight school trip to Louisburg. That was my first big trip and I was excited for the adventure. I did not want my Mother to go and still remember the anger I felt (and no doubt expressed) when I found out that other parents said they would not go unless she went – mostly because Mom is a nurse and they felt safer with her on board. One full day with a bus load of teenagers, however, resulted in Mom developing a first class migraine that she conquered by popping a gravol as soon as we got to Sydney Mines the first night of the trip. We could have torn the place apart for all she cared. Because the gravol knocked her out and she didn’t stay up half the night screaming at us to go to sleep like the other parents, I suddenly had a very cool Mom in the eyes of all my friends.

I also don’t remember my first day of high school but recall the general sense of dread that stayed with throughout all of grade nine. With high school came many new people - and I was still so very shy. I really didn’t say much at all that entire year, but I didn’t really have to. I was David’s sister, which meant people pretty much left me alone (unlike poor Jamie Lewis who ended up in garbage can his first week of school). David was in grade twelve so it also meant that all of the seniors were nice to me. David gave me money every time I asked him for it, which was pretty much every day. Grade nine would have been a much more difficult place to navigate without him.

Looking back, I stumbled through high school. I didn’t strive academically, in fact, in many ways I floundered. But I did enough – and I did the things you are supposed to do. I was on the student union executive, volunteered for EVERYTHING and was a member of gazillion committees all at the same time. Heck, I was even a peer education instructor, which looking back was probably not a good idea at all. I mean really? When you’re sixteen years old what do you know about anything – except that you are a mess most of the time but not willing to admit it.

The best part of high school was of course leaving high school. Rose Mary and my cousin Tammy led the class. Scott Dingwell was the Valedictorian. I gave the Salutation address at the beginning of my graduation ceremony and now cringe with the memory of the sappy speech I gave. The best part of all was the party at our house after my graduation ceremony. My family and extended family have always been very supportive at turning out for these milestone events. Even the Larkin kids I used to babysat came as I recall Mom saying they looked like the three Wiseman as the three of them marched into our house that night each with a gift in their hand. This past summer I reminisced in a card to my cousin Toddy that her and Aquinas have always been present at these events. For my high school graduation, they gave me a bottle of perfume and a pair of silver earrings. When I finished my graduate degree the gift had matured to a lovely piece of pottery and a calendar of half naked local male celebrities from the Annapolis Valley. Much to Toddy’s horror, it was the first gift I opened at that party...

I had a short stint at UPEI and a brief layover at The University of Dundee in Scotland before I planted myself at Acadia University in Nova Scotia’s beautiful Annapolis Valley. Before going, I had no idea where Acadia even was and had to phone the Ryans for directions. It was a hot humid day in the Valley on my first day at Acadia and I looked it in my Acadia ID card. Unlike my other previous first days of school, however, I was not nervous at Acadia. I loved the fact that I didn’t know anybody – except Ian who I met in Dundee the previous year – and of course my cousin Maura. It was Maura who introduced me to Acadia and inspired me to go (and let me store my stuff in her basement during the summer when I went home to PEI). Auntie Hoolie made the trek with me every fall, and Dad took me back after Christmas.


It was at Acadia that I met some really special people – many of whom remain my best friends to this day. Most were a positive influence on me academically and brought me out of my shell socially. If it wasn’t Krista persuading me to get involved in the History Society and organize floats for the homecoming parade, it was Marlene forcing me out of my comfort zone around every twist and turn just by being in her presence. Thesis year was an unexpectedly memorable year as it brought with a great deal of fun in three unexpected but fun filled friendships with Kenny, Crowtzie boy and Kim.






Unlike high school, I came into my own in my undergrad. I was no great academic but I discovered my love of History, Art History, Canadian Fiction and Women’s Studies. I had fantastic Professors who pushed and demanded more of me than at any other time in my life. Bottom line – they made me work. Two of these Professors later became friends. Acadia is such a special place – for those of who are fortunate enough to pass through its Valley home.

My final first day of school happened only five years ago. After being out of school for over ten years, I decided to test fate, turn my brain on, and return to school in my thirties for a graduate degree. I picked up stakes, moved to Toronto and rolled the dice. In retrospect, it was the best thing I could have done. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I needed the challenge badly. And I was back to being a nervous first grader. In class, I found myself surrounded by students ten years younger than me. Like Acadia, however, I met some really great people. I had great classmates, and some great Professors and mentors. Professor Baldwin, from my Acadia days, welcomed me into his family. Having survived being my thesis advisor at Acadia, Doug and his wife Patty invited me to live with them in Toronto. Little did they know it would take four years for me to leave their Baldwin fold completely.


This evening when I came home, I smiled when looking at my Cousin Maureen’s photo of her twins first day at Kindergarten. Today was also my little cousin Marianne’s first day at school on PEI. It made me start thinking about my first days at my various schools. I’ve spent twenty years in school – half my life to be precise. It’s been a long road, but I am glad for all I encountered and grateful for all the help I got along the way. It is my wish for these little ones starting school this week that they’ll have a great journey, have some great teachers and meet some fantastic people en route.

Trimmers Lane

As I mentioned in my previous post, visiting Rathmacknee Castle was one of two goals we undertook the day we spent visiting County Wexford. The other goal was to find Trimmers Lane in Wexford Town (picture above) – and see where my Great-Great Grandfather Patrick Rossiter lived with his family before he and his brother John left Ireland ca. 1815. Figuring out where they lived in Wexford was not as difficult as I thought it would be which was mostly due to the generosity of a local expert on Wexford history.


Our family has always known that our Rossiter ancestors lived in Wexford County (highlighted in green above), but nothing more specific than that. Brendan O’Grady’s book (yes, the same Professor mentioned in my previous post that terrified me my first year of University) Exiles and Islanders: The Irish Settlers of Prince Edward Island (2004) provided me with the first context in which to place my ancestor’s immigration. In his book, O’Grady classifies Irish immigration to PEI into three groups: (1) The colonial pioneers (1767-1810); (2) the southeastern immigrants (1810-1835); and (3) the Monaghan settlers (1830-1850). A newspaper reference found at the PEI Archives and Records Office established that Patrick and John were both living on PEI ca.1820, which means the Rossiter brothers where part of the second phase of immigration of overwhelmingly Roman Catholic Irish immigrant settlers from southeastern Ireland.

Every family has its own genealogist. In our family, it is my cousin Melvin. For years, he has traced and documented our family’s vital stats and compiled a wealth of information. It was Melvin’s digging that resulted in uncovering the names of Patrick’s parents and other siblings in 2003. In January, I decided to start the New Year off on the right foot and decided I needed to start making my own contribution to our family history by uncovering where our Rossiter family lived in Wexford. Not being familiar with the Irish genealogical primary sources, I decided to take the easy route and pay someone to do it for me. Before going on the website for the National Archives of Ireland, I shot off a couple of emails to local heritage institutions for the heck of it. I told them that I knew Patrick was one of four children of Anthony Rossiter and Mary Waddick and I had the dates of birth for all four children. In addition to finding out where they lived in Wexford, I was basically looking for any other little nuggets of information that could be uncovered.

One of these institutions I emailed, the County Wexford Centre, was closed so they took it upon themselves to forward my email request to the Irish Family History Foundation (IFHF), who was coincidentally in the process of transcribing and scanning all of the Wexford County parish registers and accompanying data into their database. The IFHF emailed me back and told me that they searched the available Wexford data in their possession and located baptismal records of five children of Anthony Rossiter and Mary Waddick (There was a fifth child, Lucy, of whom we had previously been unaware). Although they were not able to find any information concerning the marriage of Anthony Rossiter and Mary Waddick, they were able to tell me that the records of my Rossiter ancestors were located in the Roman Catholic parish of Wexford Town. The IFHF were incredibly generous in the information they provided, especially as I had not paid any money for it. With this one simple email exchange, I already knew the town where Patrick had lived. Suddenly, I was hooked and found myself hot on the ancestral trail.

My next step was to go to the National Archives of Ireland website where I found a list of certified researchers and genealogists and decided to begin with the researcher who specialized in Wexford County. My excitement at the discoveries via the IFHF quickly fizzled when this researcher explained to me that because the time frame in which I was looking for information was prior to the beginning of many of the church baptism records and before the creation of Tithe Applotment books (ca.1837) and Griffiths Valuation (the first survey of property ownership by Irelands Valuation office, 1853) it would be very difficult to get anything concrete. He further explained that because there were no real combined records for the County of Wexford it would entail searching each parish individually. As an Archivist, I knew this potentially meant a colossal amount of work.

In my head I already had the image of me spending hours upon hours having my eyes ripped out of my head by looking at microfilm at the National Library of Ireland in Dublin. That was enough to spur me into making one last attempt and I decided to contact the local Wexford Archives next to see if I would have any more luck there. The Archivist got back to me and stated that “Although we do not generally recommend individual genealogists, there was a local man who is very thorough in local history research for clients. His name is Hilary Murphy.” I couldn’t believe it. Here he was again - the same Hilary Murphy whose book twenty years previously had led me to the discovery of Rathmacknee Castle. I was suddenly excited again and wondered if this Hilary Murphy might too lead me to my Wexford roots? I sent him an email and hoped for the best.

Hilary replied to my email within a day and expressed regret that the early Wexford parish registers did give addresses. He then wrote, “I sense you know of the references in Kathleen Merryweather's book The Irish Rossiter to Anthony Rossiter and Mary Waddick living in Trimmers Lane in the 1780s/90s? A Tobias Waddick is listed as a tenant there in Griffith's Valuation, published in 1853. He would, of course, have been resident there for a number of years previously.”

I remember sitting at my desk and upon reading this email said out loud “Ahhh – no?” There it was – right in front of me – the answer I had been looking for. And it was Hilary Murphy again, who led me to it. When I told him how grateful I was to get this information he then took it upon himself to email me a scan of the page of the book that referenced Trimmers Lane. He also gave me his phone number and told me to drop by with my parents for a visit when we were in Wexford. How do you thank somebody like this?

So within a very short period of time and after only a handful of emails, I had the answers to the questions I had sought – and it was all due to the generosity of the researchers I came across. I contacted Kathleen Merryweather via her website with the plan to purchase a copy of her book before going to Ireland but that didn’t happen. The book was 20 Euros and the shipping was 20 Euros (ca. $55) and I simply didn’t have the money. As luck would have it, however, we actually found her book for sale at the Dunbrody Famine Ship Interpretive Centre in New Ross, Wexford and purchased it on the spot.

When we did finally go to Wexford Town, I found it very surreal walking through the main streets of this quaint little seaside town where my ancestors once lived.



Naoko forged ahead in search of Trimmers Lane and I stumbled along behind her, completely pre-occupied with taking in all the sites around me. Medieval walls run through the city and narrow laneways run steeply from the main street – some of which date from the Viking period over thousand years ago. Trimmers Lane turned out to not be that easy to find. None of the locals we asked had heard of it and once we finally did find it, there were no signs marking it.

The Trimmers Lane of today is very different from what it would have looked like 200 years ago. What I discovered when we finally found it is that there is a Trimmers Lane East and Trimmers Lane West. In Griffiths Valuation of 1853 there were 20 houses with yards noted in Trimmers Lane West. No longer the narrow little lane with rows of small dwellings, the uninhabitable houses of Trimmers Lane West were demolished in August of 1919 and the lane widened. It has been developed into an attractive centre with a few restaurants on one side and professional and business premises on the other.


Trimmers Lane East, however, still shows its age:


Once again I am grateful to Hilary Murphy. I regret not having been able to meet him while in Wexford as our time there was so very limited - but it is my hope to return very soon. I look forward to being able to knock on his door, give him some sort of Canadian souvenir and gift of thanks and perhaps have a cup of tea with him. Hilary led me to both Rathmacknee and Trimmers Lane and I was so happy to have been able to find my way back. I hope ole Paddy was happy too.

Rathmacknee

Having just returned from a trip to Ireland with my parents, I am slowly digesting all that we saw and encountered. This trip was a first in many ways. This was the first trip abroad for my parents. It was the first time for me to travel with them together. It was also my first trip to Ireland – home of my Rossiter ancestors.

Over the years people often expressed surprise when I revealed that I hadn’t been to Ireland yet. I have been fortunate in having been able to undertake a lot of international travel over the years, which began with an exchange year in Scotland many years ago. I recall the one regret I had from that year was the fact that I was not able to go to Ireland, but I am reminded once again that everything happens for a reason. Waiting all these years meant I had a much firmer grasp on my family’s history which enabled the trip to touch me on level that would not have happened before. Being able to experience this with my parents made it all the more special.

All my life I knew I was “Irish.” I knew there had been two brothers leave Ireland and come to PEI way back when and for many years that was the extent of my genealogical knowledge of my Rossiter family history. The first spark of interest in my Irish roots came during my first year of university which I undertook at UPEI. In my first year, I enrolled in the mandatory English 101 class and ended up with Brendan O’Grady for a Professor. I recall having to go to see him for some reason or another during the course of the semester and in doing so saw a large map of Ireland on the wall in his office. When he saw me looking at the map he said “Well, with a Rossiter surname you know where you come from.” The blank stare he received told him otherwise. He was immediately aghast at the fact that I didn’t seem to know – or care – about my Irish ancestry. He promptly ordered me to go to the library and read a book by Hilary Murphy entitled The Families of County Wexford. He kind of scared me and being a first year timid county kid, I did what I was told. It was with this book I discovered Rathmacknee.

Rathmacknee Castle is situated in the barony of Forth in the county of Wexford. The first mention of the Rossiters of Rathmacknee is documented in 1307 and a plaque on the outside of the castle states that Rathmacknee Castle was built ca. 1450 by John Rosseter. Rathmacknee Church existed even earlier – ca. 1240. After reading Hilary Murphy’s book, I knew I would go to see this castle one day.

My Japanese pen pal Naoko was the first person I knew to find this castle. Upon moving from Japan to Ireland in 2000, I casually mentioned my Irish heritage to her in a letter and about the existence of the Rathmacknee Castle. To my surprise and much to her credit, Naoko wasted no time in making the trip to Wexford to find Rathmacknee. I recall getting the padded envelope in the mail that was full of pictures she had taken of the castle – and I remember the excitement I felt. Going to Ireland for his honeymoon in 1996, I recall my cousin Gerry asking me about what he should see with respect to our Irish background. At the time, the only item I had to offer him was Rathmacknee. So he and his wife Linda were the first of the clan to make their way back. Last week, I finally got my chance – and much to her credit again, Naoko had a huge part to play in the adventure.

We had set up the coordinates via email and although I wasn’t sure what the day would bring, I was excited to see her. Naoko came to Killkenny to meet us and it was actually only the third time we had met in our lives: first in 1992 when Naoko came to PEI for a two week stay; secondly in 1998 when I met her for lunch in Tokyo; and the third time in Ireland – last week. Before departing for Wexford, we reminisced about her 1992 trip to PEI and my parents were very surprised at everything she remembered. We had lots to get caught up on and we chatted effortlessly. Naoko made the comment that I really hadn’t changed much, but I knew this wasn’t true. We were both very different. We are both now in our late 30s - strong, single, independent women – so different from the girls that met each other for the first time back in 1992. Before I knew it, it was time to set off for Wexford and the adventure of the Rossiter ancestral trail began.

The first of two goals for the day was to find Rathmacknee Castle, which we decided to do first before heading to Wexford town. We got lost a few times, but for me it was incredibly fun driving around lost on back roads in the Irish countryside. We stopped to ask for directions but people didn’t seem to know where the Castle was. Then it occurred to us to consult a guide book, which offered directions PEI style and went something to the effect: When driving through town keep the school on your left - turn left at the fork – turn left again at the T junction, etc... Well, we kept turning left and before I knew it Rathmacknee was right in front of me.

The Rathmacknee Castle and Church are now on private property, evidenced by the fact that a clothes line hangs directly beside the castle.



The first order of business was therefore to knock on the homeowner’s door and ask permission to enter their premises (their house is built in the courtyard of the castle). After a lengthy wait, the lady of her house opened her door – in her bathrobe (yep, we got her out of the bath) - and gave us the keys to the castle. Naoko suggested it should be me that unlock the door.



Dad opted to stay in the courtyard and Mom decided she had had enough of crawling around steep, damp slippery castle steps so it was Naoko and I that did the exploring.



This castle has been described as a “tower house” and it is one of the best preserved of its type in Ireland. There were initially five storeys but visitors are only allowed to visit the second story – for obvious safety reasons. In this second story the most noticeable element is the remains of a fireplace.



There is a well preserved machicolation over the doorway to the yard on the east side of the castle, which served to defend the entrance. Through this boiling oil or stones could be thrown on people attacking the castle.



All of the windows have ogee cusped beads of the XVth century type.






Although the Rathmacknee church which stands alongside the castle existed in 1240, the present Protestant church was built ca. 1830 and the roof was removed in 1957. There were a few things that surprised me about the church. The first was the tile work that was still very visible, where the altar would have once stood.





The second was the absolute jungle state of the graveyard beside the church. We tried to be respectful, but it was difficult to know where the graves were so we stumbled around and were successful in not spraining any ankles. One thing I know for sure is that it is hard to keep Bob out of a graveyard.





I was so incredibly happy to finally visit Rathmacknee. A genealogist I have been working with in England believes our family to be descendants of the Rathmacknee line. The current owners of the property say that they don’t get a lot of visitors, but every year there are a few Rossiters that trickle back to Rathmacknee. It took me almost twenty years, but I am so glad to have been able to visit this place with my parents, and I have Naoko, my Japanese pen pal of 20+ years to thank for it. It never ceases to amaze me how corners of my life intersect to produce the most amazing experiences. I now have a Wexford chapter to add to the book.

Red mud and pink blossoms

Growing up on PEI, spring was definitely not my favorite season. It was always nice to bid another Canadian winter adieu, but with spring came warmer temperatures – and mud - lots and lots of bright red mud. PEI’s famous red soil is vibrant but not when it covers your boots, your car, and much to my mother’s dismay got tracked into the house daily. Having a long dirt lane to walk so as to catch the school bus was a challenge. Keeping your shoes or boots clean was impossible. This is why I dreaded spring. I also think of my Uncle Frank who used to make his bi-annual trip home to the Island every May. He said he could always guarantee to have a puddle of bright red mud stream down his driveway from his car and tires after the first good rain upon returning to Montreal. The red mud was simply inescapable.

It wasn’t until I lived in Japan that I discovered a love for the arrival of spring. This “arrival” happened every year on the first day of March. To have winter turned off on the last day of February was unknown to me. In 1995, the year before I moved to Japan, there was a heavy snow fall in eastern Canada the first weekend in May. I remember this because I had a number of friends graduating from university that weekend at my alma mater, Acadia University. I recall one of them telling me how crazy it was to see the girls all dressed up the graduation formal in dresses with floral spring prints climbing through snow banks to get to the dance. So to have spring arrive the first of March and no red mud to deal with, well, yes, I was down with that.

With my first spring in Japan came an introduction to the “sakura” – the cherry blossoms. I heard my fellow teachers talk in excited anticipation about the arrival of sakura but of course, I did not get what all the fuss was about. What on earth could be so exciting about pink blossoms? I wouldn’t admit that I even liked the color pink and to be honest, found it very unmanly when all the male teachers around me talked and fussed as much about the arrival of the sakura as the female teachers. I thought they were all loony. Then again, I spent the majority of my first year in Japan thinking a lot of things I saw and heard were loony. Then the sakura arrived – and I got it. They weren’t loony after all. Or perhaps I was just an easy convert.

It is hard to describe how these delicate pink blossoms in varying shades of pink affected everyday life in Japan. The trees are incredibly beautiful and once they bloomed, they seemed to be everywhere. My daily walk to school followed a small canal most of the way, which is pretty uneventful when you’ve grown up on an Island at the cusp of an Ocean. Add cherry blossoms to the mixture, however, and even this small canal surrounded by concrete rivaled the Atlantic. The blossoms were beautiful, delicate, and were every shade of pink you could imagine. And I could not stop taking pictures of them.

This annual occurrence in Japan is an event. There is “Cherry Blossom Forecast” that appears nightly on the NHK news (as well as online). This forecast predicts the best hanami (cherry blossom viewing) periods for geographical areas. For example, right now if we all rushed to Matsumoto in Nagano, we’d had a grand view awaiting us. Seeing as that is probably not going to happen, this will have to suffice:



At the moment I am reading a book by Will Ferguson called Hitching Rides with Buddha. In this book Ferguson re-counts a journey he undertook to follow the cherry blossom viewing from the southern to the most northerly tip of Japan. It’s a book I simply don’t want to finish because in reading it, I feel like I am in Japan again. So many of the funny experiences Ferguson encountered along the way were very similar to many day to day experiences I had while living in Japan.

Although they are polar opposites in many ways, the only equivalent that I have to compare to the sakura are mayflowers. They are not nearly as plentiful or as large as the sakura. As a matter of fact, they can be down right difficult to find. What is similar is the delicate beauty of the bloom. Every spring my Great-Uncle Harold would go into the forest behind our farm and bring a large bouquet of mayflowers home to his sister, Auntie. In retrospect, for an old bachelor, this gesture was as delicate as the flowers he brought.

So wherever I am, there are two places I think of with the arrival of spring. I think of Tottori, the life I had there and my daily walks to school under the veil of cherry blossoms every spring. I also think of home, the mayflowers that bloom secretly in the forest behind the farm. And I envision Harold picking his annual bouquet for Auntie. With every change of seasons and with every change in my life, I think of home.

I am also happy to report that my parent’s have long since added gravel to the long lane and yard for the farm. The arrival of a PEI spring is no longer to be dreaded. And on that note, I will leave you with some mayflowers.

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…