Sweeter After Difficulties

So Long, Farewell, But Not For Long

2010-01-25T16:34:00.002-04:00

Dear friends:

I'm moving, once again... I have grown accustomed to wordpress and now prefer it. So there you have it, bookmark (if you wish) www.sweeterafterdifficulties.wordpress.com. I appreciate each one of you - you know who you are - who still reads my oft neglected blog ! As always, here's a promise to do better next time.

Love, Rachel

Tis November

2009-11-03T14:37:00.003-04:00

and I am determined to have 30 posts by November 30th, by hook or by crook. Since the weather outside is frightfully grey (or gray, however you prefer), it's time to set my fingers ablaze across the keyboard and generate some small pleasure from the warmth of a goal set and accomplished.

I must admit that my first thought as the air turned wintry was what do I want to wear this season? Leather gloves, black heels, warm, thick tights, and a leopard print coat, the kind of coat that jackie o would wear with a pillbox hat. And of course, a flannel nightie to slip into when I come home at night.

My next thoughts were much less shallow and revolved around who would get to pick the Christmas tree this year, immediately deciding that it should be: me.

Finally, my mind took a decidedly January-ish turn and I began to set goals, lots and lots of goals. Since the time of year really is what you make it, here's what November is going to be like for me...

write write write write writing, hot chocolate on the couch, long grey drives around the coast for inspiration for my prince edward island novel, and many different cakes and cookies and sticky buns in the oven as I experiment in preparation for that most wonderful thing known as Christmas baking.

caveat: this is what I hope my November will be like. There also are the small things such as, dealing with student loans, waking up and going to bed in the dark, hair frizzing in the rain, and getting sick with the swine flu.

But hey... there's ginger cookies in the cupboard and I'm going to go eat one right now. Take that, November!

All I Wanted Was a Hot Dog

2009-08-19T22:51:00.002-03:00

I've been reading this remarkable book by Edna Ferber, called Giant, and I came to read it in a roundabout way, because I'm trying to read all the books that have won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, and Ferber's So Big was on the list, but the library only had Giant, and I thought maybe because the titles are so similar... but no. Giant and So Big are not the same book. Edna Ferber must have been hung up on the concept of hugeness.

Regardless. Giant is my new favorite novel. Giant is a love story. Giant is old-fashioned and staggeringly beautiful in scope. I love it because of the strong and fragile female protagonist and the way she's right even when she's wrong, the same way her male counterpart is as wrong as he is right. But when you come down to the bare bones of the story, it's really a book about place (in this case the great and of Texas) and about how the way Jordan Benedict loves Texas is entirely different from the way his Eastern wife Leslie loves Texas, and incredibly different from the way you or I would love it, if we would love it at all.

As reading is my favorite thing in the world to do, and place my favorite theme to read about (very Canadian Lit of me I know), Giant is entirely suited to my tastes. Oh, how doth Place fascinate me! (If only I could find a more romantic, less generic word.) Now, Natalie and I didn't read a lot on our trip, through Natalie brought along a hastily chosen yet very appropriate classic (No Great Mischief, and I hear you, oh I hear you sigh OF COURSE Rachel can't write a single blog post without mentioning That Book even though she just said Giant was her new favorite) and along the way I picked up Harris: In History and In Legend for my father but really for me. We never gave more than a sham performance at skimming through the respective pages - we were too deep into our very own very real very personal experience of place. More than stimulating enough. Still, there were pleasant moments snatched with words, with lists of words, with pages and pages of words, if they did not have quite the fulfilling, thrilling quality of reading a novel from start to finish.

In London, Natalie and I stumbled into a brand new hamburger joint off Covent Garden, dying for a plate of take-outy greasy goodness, blessed familiarity in a land of pubs offering veal and dumplings and other delights. "Good grief, give me grease!" I cried. "All I want is a good old hot dog." We scanned the menu, lots of words but none spelled h-o-t-d-o-g. So I inquired breathlessly of the young waiter, confident in the fact that in Canada, every restaurant serves that great food group on the children's menu. The waiter crinkled his forehead. "What is a hot dog?" The three of us stood in a suddenly bemused triangle on the step. What is a hot dog? (And really, who wants to know?) I could not bring myself to say wiener. Natalie tried to hold back a squeal of laughter. We re-read the menu and ended up with a steaming plate of french fries, english chips that were too thin, too soggy, and of a poor complexion, while black and white photos of British musicians presided above us in neat rows on the lime green wall. Bono and Lily Allen. This is one of them new-fangled hamburger joints. Dear children, Bono and Lily remarked incredulously. You're in London. Why are you asking for a common American Hot Dog? 'Excuse us,' we said politely. 'But we're Canadian.'

In Arisaig. A sticky leather sofa, with an odd-nosed dog at my feet, snoozing by the fire, a fire on the warmest of days, a fire with the odd-nosed dog besides, snoring on a warm maroon patterned carpet. A fat old navy-bound book in my hands. But my gaze isn't on the dusty inky creamy coloured pages, but on the darkly fading sun through the glass patio doors, and the silhouettes of the couple in front of those doors, scrounging through papers with glasses on top of their grey heads and sure, fumbling hands, edged in light. Where did you say you were born? I think Natalie is from this MacDonald family, Allan... Natalie, who is it in this picture? Oh, never mind me, do you girls want tea? 'Yes, please.'

Elizabeth lights up her eighth cigarette since we've arrived scarcely an hour ago, since Allan met us trundling our suitcases down the road, introduced us to Flora, the odd-nosed dog, showed us our twin-bedded bedroom and brought us down to the parlour to talk history and family and place and genealogy. She put out her first quickly in politeness, but politeness gives way to excitement. Smoke wavers through the dusty sunlit firelit air. My fingers cover the pages of A History of Inverness County, Nova Scotia, half reading, half listening to Natalie telepathing thoughts of I don't know anything about this help my dad is the one who knows this family stuff across the room to me, three books filled with sticky notes on her lap, eyes wide at the information Allen and Elizabeth MacDonald present her with unceasingly. They are giving with both hands.

With both hands, these humble retired bed and breakfast folk, with giant libraries both in their home and in their mind's eye, and with huge knowledge about Arisaig and its families. They accept Natalie as easily as if she were their own granddaughter and as if this was her own place. Oh, Allan and Elizabeth known better than we do that Arisaig is Natalie's own place, and accept just as easily that she will come back again and again, because they have seen this kind of thing before. Others have been led almost supernaturally to their door (as, I believe, we were) on a whim to seek knowledge of their ancestry (hoping for exciting skeletons under the rug?), and have been drawn back again, again, and again. Maybe you do have the self-control to eat only one potato chip in Scotland (especially if the flavour is Prawn Cocktail, or Builder's Breakfast, or Pickled Onion), but you cannot visit your ancestral place - oh, where is that more romantic, less generic word! - in Scotland just once. Unless you have not one sentimental bone in your body, and I think you do.

Elizabeth sits on the floor with her knees tucked beneath her, cigarette waving around in her right hand, wise as an owl. She pierces me with a look over the top of her round glasses. She's strong and fragile, a true Highland Scot who, among other things, believes in second sight, the Loch Ness monster, and race memories. At that moment, I do too. She is right in her wrongness; I am wrong in my rightness.

In my own place, on Harris, in Tarbert, in the Hotel Hebrides, lounging with my own legs tucked beneath me, I look up from the pages of Harris: In History and In Legend, and dream a little bit. If I crank the window as far open as it would go, then manoeuvre my upper body completely out of said window, I can see the beautiful and deserted harbour. Saturday night through Tuesday morning, we never saw a soul on or near the boats, neither for fishing nor for recreation. Now, however, my weary, too-traveled mind, confused on dates and times and things, can swirl through centuries of Harris history, and imagine any number of invaders creeping into the harbour, and residents of Harris, stubborn Morrisons and strong MacLeods, appearing among the sheep on the moonscape mountains, grim and silent. This is our place, our own place. It's gigantic, their insane belonging.

I come back to 2009. Natalie and I dress for dinner after a warm bus ride from Northton, and quietly go downstairs to the pub. We order the most delectable Angus beef burgers I've ever had, for the second night in a row. I have been putting forward my very best self, the most ladylike self, dressing for dinner and thinking of how well-traveled I am, when I suddenly realize I am very tired and would just like to be Canadian, please. And though being Canadian still means being very polite and ladylike, it also means I can put my elbows on the table and hold that burger up to my anxious mouth and close my eyes to better taste the delicious Cajun flavour. No matter how worldly I act, no matter how softly I lower my voice to hide my accent, any dirty working man in the room could pinpoint the Canadian in a flash. I will always be the girl old British men come up to saying, "I noticed you in the pub last night," to my dismay. Because I do not belong there the way they do, I am unusual to the people and to the place, and though I am accepted as a friend and a nice girl by the Allans and Elizabeths and Pauls and Marlenes, I was not born in Scotland, and will only ever vacation there. I, am, Canadian, in all senses of the phrase.

Natalie and I walk out of the hotel toward the harbour on our evening stroll, and she walks ahead, as always a little faster, with a cautious eye on Rachel coming up slowly behind. She is edged in light, in the darkly fading sun light. I wrap my sweater a little closer around myself and know myself to be, besides Canadian, a sentimental fool who listens to old owl-y ladies with piercing visions and sweetly singing tales of second sight and belonging in a strange land, in a strange way. Who reads numerous Scottish history books and sees invaders and defenders in the present, where there are none.

But they are there, they are there, and they are defending their own place for me, as it is my place, my own place. I remember it to be so. If my race memories did not arrive with invasive tears, as has happened with others, they arrived with a calm acceptance that I will come back again, and again, and again. Do I remember because I desperately want to, or think that I should, or simply because yes, I do remember this place, and it is my place, and I know it in a strange way and I love it in a different way than anyone else? How can I explain... In Harris, I never wanted a hot dog.

"She does have the island look," Marlene said to Paul at Ceol na Mara.

"Maybe," I could have replied skeptically. "Maybe that's because I've always lived on islands."

But instead I beamed, every sentimental bone in my body absolutely aching with delight.

PS. This is Arisaig on a beautiful June evening

This is Harris on a beautiful June afternoon

a garish red hat

2009-08-05T18:22:00.005-03:00

Travel Journal Post #2: Oh, the Dreadful Fog in Skye!

In February, a week or two before I bought a round trip ticket to London, the Morrison clan was sitting rather limply around Grandma's living room because it was the night before my grandfather's wake. It was a long night and a black night, with his wife and his children and grandchildren sitting there in conversation, whether silent or aloud. Before we left, Aunt Tracey pulled out a black knitted hat to give to Aunt Paula. A nice, neat black hat knitted by great-aunt Muriel, who in all senses of the phrase is a knitting machine. I filed that hat away under 'Mention to Muriel that I'd Like One Myself' and went back to working out the eulogy in my head.

There is nothing like a wake to try your patience. You vacillate between being strong and professional or weepy and sentimental. Do you stare at the coffin with watery eyes or skim clear eyes over it? It didn't look like Grandpa. They trimmed his beard. That helped. But when someone comes through the line and grasps your hand with a certain grip, and you look up at their eyes, and you know right away that they have lost their own father, or mother, or brother, then the tears arrive in a rush for both of you. And then there's the inappropriate laughter that rises up when someone comes through the line that Grandpa didn't like, or when my aunt gasps at a lady who once made a pass at Grandpa having the indecency to come through and shake Grandma's hand.

But whether you are laughing or not, tears linger at the back of your eyes until they have opportunity, and opportunity knocks often. When Muriel made her way through the line, she gave me a hug, and said, "I have something for you, Rachel, if you want it," and handed me a red knitted hat. So the tears moved uniformly to the front of my eyes, as I explained oh, that I did want it. I had been going to ask her for a hat. Muriel beamed, and said words of wisdom along the lines of: "This is to show you that the Lord knows exactly what you want and need long before you do."

I appreciated the message. I didn't wear the hat that often. It was too blatantly Canadian and garish in a particularly red and knitted way. But I stuffed it in my suitcase when I went off to Europe, and I ended up wearing it one long, foggy day on the Isle of Skye.

Allan, our B&B host in Arisaig, had woken us up at the crack of dawn and rushed us through a breakfast of toast and tea so we could make it to the Mallaig ferry for the early morning sailing. It was a lovely foggy morning over the sea, but we were tired, and we hadn't a clue where we were going to sleep that night, only that it would be on the Isle of Harris. This worried Allan. (This worried me!) He made sure that we understood that we were to go to the tourist bureau in Portree, Skye, and book a room in Harris with their humble services.

The ferry men were lovely, and carried our suitcases. The bus driver that picked us up at the terminal laughed because we looked so tired, and carried our suitcases. I believe it was at this point that I shoved my hand in my suitcase and pulled out the red hat, because the fog made my hair damp. The bus driver in Portree was a woman, was certainly not lovely, and did not carry our suitcases. I was so weary, and once up the million bus steps I cried "Natalie!" in a voice of despair, poor girl, who was struggling with her own luggage, as I could hardly move with the chill in my bones and the suitcase was stuck in the aisle. So a nice young man with extraordinarily shaggy hair and a tan wool sweater jumped up, handed me his coffee, and hauled the suitcase down the aisle to an available seat.

I sat down and burst into tears. Luckily, he had already left for his own seat. "He was so nice!" I wept. "It's fine, it will work out," Natalie said. We had gone to the tourist bureau and found that there were only three options on the Isle of Harris. Each option was far out of our price range, and two of them far from the ferry terminal, and we had no car. We debated. I had no clue the right thing to do was. Take our chances and maybe come across a friendly and cheap hostel? An absolutely horrified look passed over the lady's face. "They only have a one star hostel on Harris," she said. "Do you have any idea what a one star hostel is like?" So we paid the lady four extra pounds to book an expensive B&B five minutes from the ferry terminal in Tarbert, Harris, and I swiped my credit card with an air of what else is there to do. Money only goes so far, but a one star hostel lingers forever in the scars of bed-bug bites.

So we took the bus from Portree to Uig on the Isle of Skye, and waited for the ferry there. As I struggled to get my suitcase off the bus before the rush of people getting on the bus made it impossible, I nearly broke down again when a delightful ten-year-old-or-so boy said, "Can I help you, Miss?" I believe I said, "No, dear!" with a catch in my voice because he was so small and had so many freckles.

At Uig, we sat on a bench in the fog. We ate disgusting chicken burgers at a cafe. We bought magazines because they had free mascara enclosed and read them in the ferry terminal. It was freezing, and all the local businesses kept their doors wide open, even the liquor store, which we toured out of desperation for Something To Do. We waited six hours, and with every minute my despair grew. I made pointless calculations in my head and kicked myself for not booking cheap B&B's while sitting in the comfort of my own home. And for packing summer clothes when, who knew, England and Scotland are far colder than Canada in June. What an utterly miserable day!

Finally, six hours later, the ferry arrived, and we pulled our suitcases up a long ramp with metal bumps every foot - incredibly difficult. I can't remember if someone helped with my suitcase of not, but they probably did. I think it was something about the woebegone expression on my face when carting my bags that led many, many Scottish men to help me with my luggage (unlike the cold-hearted English men, or the head-in-the-clouds French men). After disposing of said luggage in the rack and making a hysterical joke along the lines of "Somebody, steal my luggage! Anybody, really!" we found seats by ourselves, in front of a TV. The Weakest Link was on. The ferry was like a meat freezer. "I didn't know that teeth chattering was just an expression," I said. "I don't ever want to get off," Natalie said. Ferries, cold as they may be, are little oasis' from all the problems of the world. I jammed the red hat further down on my head in dejection.

But stumbling off the ferry with ice in the very core of my being, someone definitely carried my suitcase. I think Natalie might have actually commanded him too. She was a trooper through and through, and managed her own luggage with gritted teeth in almost all circumstance (bravo), while keeping a motherly eye out for how far Rachel was behind her, exactly. The sun was out on Harris, and there were little girls in bright colours Highland dancing, meeting the ferry in a very touristy fashion. We watched them for a bit, and Paul, our B&B host, almost drove past us because we looked so young ourselves (time and time again, we watched the surprise on our host and hostess' faces, as they realized that the ladies they had been emailing with B&B details actually were seventeen. Oh sorry, we just looked seventeen). But Paul, poor man with a bad back, redeemed himself by helping to carry our suitcases upstairs, because our room was on the third floor of Ceol na Mara. Oh please excuse me, I mean our HEAVENLY room was on the third floor of Ceol na Mara.

I was almost afraid to touch the bed, it was so beautifully clean and plump with mounds of comforters, and we were so dirty from the day of travel. Everything was white. Through the window, sheep baaed happily (or unhappily, who can tell?). We padded over to the open window. No screen, because this is Scotland. It opened onto a vision of delight: navy blues and muted greens fading into the grey stone of the mountains. A long day, and a black day, but the night was full of light. Oh heavens, it was heavenly. We showered and put on the thick white robes folded pleasantly for our use in the armoire, and Natalie brewed a good cup of tea in the hospitality corner, opening up packets of shortbreads to crunch delicately between our teeth as we tried not to get crumbs in the fresh beds. And - "Natalie, the TV has 1000 channels!"

When we woke up the next morning, Paul and Marlene had ready a break of porridge and maple syrup, of homemade yogurt and fresh squeezed orange juice, of Danish pastries and fresh fruit, and oh, so much more deliciousness. They stopped to make conversation. Why were we on Harris? "Because I'm a Morrison," I said simply. They laughed. "Yes, Morrisons are a dime a dozen here," Marlene said. "You know, you do have the island look." "But rather more like the MacKinnons of Scalpay," Paul remarked. I beamed. They had connected me to this island in a deeper way than I could have forced.

Only now, looking back, do I realize that the Lord knew, long before I did, that my money would stretch far enough. He knew when I'd pull the garish hat out of my suitcase in dejection. He knew that perhaps my favorite memory would be opening the Ceol na Mara window to the sea loch and leaning out, trying to spot the sheep, my hair dripping blackly onto the tiles far below.

An Age Old Story

2009-08-04T14:21:00.003-03:00

Which is: Old Men Wanting Younger Women. Age-old (in more ways than one), and boring, but hopefully this won't be. While I was searching about in my mind for something interesting to write about, I realized that there are plenty of little tidbits from my trip, both silly and serious, that haven't been shared, so here, without further ado, is Travel Journal Post #1: Triple Threat.

There's absolutely no point in denying that when daydreaming about Scotland (and England, and France, but mostly Scotland), my mind (and Natalie's, I'm sure) drifted across the chance of whirling around the country in the delightful state of foreign romance, which is three times as romantic as normal, home-grown romance. A slight possibility, hmm? That our paths might cross with handsome, accented young men, and lead towards an, ahem, more permanent residence in Britain? If You Know What I Mean And I Think You Do.

But when our feet were set on foreign soil, Nat and I seemed to be in a constant yet subconscious attempt to hinder our chances at romances. Our sense of sensibility and safety led us to stay at quaint B&B's favored by older couples; to eat at pubs, but not at their bars, only in their elegant upper rooms that, once again, older couples favored; to ask only couples to take our pictures; and to sit only by old ladies on the bus. In short, we kept our feet strictly out of Young Men Territory.

This is not to say that this constant and subconscious attempt wasn't for the best because Natalie and I utterly enjoyed ourselves in a completely safe manner. Oh, oh yes. Older couples in Europe tend to be well-traveled, mannerly, and experts at conversation, or, if none of those, simply fascinatingly interesting. And the waitresses in the elegant upper rooms began to recognize us and seat us with views over castles and rivers, and the couples that took our pictures were sweet and smiley, asking for pictures in return, and we weren't sexually assaulted on the bus like one poor woman who sat a few rows ahead of us by a sketchy man. So, all good (for us). All stories that you will hear eventually. But there was one day in Scotland that male attention became both unparalleled (until Paris) and strangely unwanted.

Our bus was to leave Tarbert, Harris, at eleven. We had said our farewells to our beautiful, discounted hotel room, the blue and green harbour, the moonscape hills, and the ever-present sheep. We had lugged our suitcases out to the parking lot. Then we waited. The sun was hot, and Natalie's toe was bruised from the night before - she had tripped over my suitcase and almost fallen out of the hotel window (there seems to be no such thing as a window screen in Scotland, or sheets for that matter). And then came along an old man with a backpack and a baseball cap and a big old grin. "Are you waiting for the bus? I noticed you ladies at the bar last night."

What a beginning! First, it wasn't really a bar - just called one to distinguish it from the more expensive restaurant. Second, we certainly hadn't noticed him - too busy glancing at the young farmers with tousled hair and work shirts in the corner. And he was old - old enough to be our grandfather, and standing uncomfortably close. Unfortunately, I am far too polite to snub someone that obviously (unless they come up to Natalie and I in the Paris metro and repeat "C'est bon! C'est bon!") so we had to make half-hearted conversation about the fight in the bar that left a man stumbling around outside bloody and half blind with anger (we weren't present at the time; we spied on his conversation with the police out our hotel window). He was an architect, retired, and overly interested in sailing around the Hebrides. Finally he requested that we inform the bus driver not to leave the lot without him, and took off to make a phone call in the tourist bureau. Well, we sat on the bus, by two elderly ladies, sweet, innocent, moral people! And the bus driver was getting ready to leave. "Should we tell him to wait?" Natalie whispered. I groaned. And we did, because we are nice girls in general and in this case in particular. Luckily, the retired architect sat far ahead of us (turned off by the elderly ladies?) and left with a cheery wave in Stornoway. Goodbye to you, sir, and the leer in your bleary eyes!

We turned our gaze to the ferry, our favorite mode of travel in Scotland. (Why? You leave all your bags in a luggage rack. You walk around bookstores and giftshops. You stretch out on the long couches with a Coke in one hand and a Yorkie (not for girls!) in the other, and close your eyes, and fall asleep, and everyone does this, and no one is afraid of anyone stealing anything or being inappropriate in any way. It's bliss for the weary traveller.) After leaving our heavy suitcases with good riddance in the rack we sat down tiredly in a corner with access to both television and window, on a couch that curves its way completely across the room. On a nearby curve of the couch, sat down an elderly gentleman. Completely decked out in red and Canadian flags pinned all over his body. After deliberating for a moment, Natalie said politely: "What part of Canada are you from?" (Which, may I instruct all old men, is a much better opening than "I Saw You In the Bar".) He was from Vancouver (typical). "Oh - and we're from the Maritimes!" Natalie said. "And we're from Quebec!" Cheered the blond couple directly across from us. "This is the Canadian Corner!" someone said, and we all laughed in delirious recognition that we could just Let Our Guard Down and Be Canadian, whatever that means.

For the next hour or so, Mr. Vancouver regaled us with tales of his life and his children and his desire to cut his trip short. Out of the places he had traveled, he liked Glasgow best, which seems to be a trend among the working men I've known that have gone to Scotland. Shocking to my romantic eye- what can compare to the mysterious kitsch of Inverness and Nessie? The moonscape of Harris? The almost disturbing beauty of the highway from Fort William to Arisaig? But that is all, all, another story.

Mr. Vancouver continued, 'opening our eyes' to the wondrous invention that is the hostel. Well, I have been skeptical from the beginning of the trip of those particular inventions, not least because the PEI boy we met described our smoky B&B in Arisaig as a 'haven' away from hostels and drunken friends, though he eagerly participated in both hostels and drunkenness when with said friends. But my skepticism reached an all-time high point when Vancouver told the tale of $300 stolen from his pocket in his latest hostel. "But that hostel was beautiful!" I thought of the modern boutique hotel we had just left behind with fluffy white duvets and sparkling spring water and thick doors that locked very securely, for which we had paid only slightly more than a single room at a hostel. "Yes," I said. "I'm sure it was amazing."

Eventually, we managed to slump down enough in our seats for Vancouver to transfer his attention to the blond couple from Montreal, and we closed our eyes and stretched out and slept for two hours, to the music of the sea and the ferry engine and the news on the TV and Vancouver chat, chat, chatting away. We parted in Ullapool, as he strapped his backpack on and left in search of another beautiful and utterly amazing hostel.

But neither the Old Man in the Morning nor the Old Man in the Afternoon compare to the Old Man in the Evening. It was our second time in Inverness and we knew and thirsted for old haunts: Topshop; the Castle Tavern; Hootananny's. Sick of travel, we showered in three minutes (a record for me and laughing unbelief from Natalie) and put on summer dresses and sandals and left our hair to dry in the Scottish evening sunshine. "It's going to wave, badly," I said dubiously. But we were in too much of a hurry to wait to enjoy mango chicken curry and strawberry kiwi cheesecake (almost too beautiful to eat) at the Tavern and then to saunter down the road for a ceilidh at the famous Thai pub, Hootananny's, which is very fun to say and even funner to experience but not fun at all to type.

We slipped in the door of Hootananny's and went straight to the loo, which is the easiest way to navigate a pub such as this when you can't go up to the bar and lounge around with a drink in your hand. Then you tidy yourself up and survey the room from the relative safety of a neutral position. The trick is to watch everybody at once so when they begin to leave you can make a mad dash for their table. We had to sit on some speakers for about half an hour while we waited, tapping our feet to fiddles and accordions and banjos and you-name-it. However, when we made our mad dash for a table, so did an older gentlemen! Number three! I could hardly speak or believe my eyes when he sat down on the speaker beside us and asked permission to place his drink on our table for safekeeping. After thoughts jumbled together in my head I said of course you may, because better that than looking as if we were taking a table from a paying customer, which is exactly what was happening. Sorry. And we settled in for another conversation with a man old enough to be our grandfather. (One thing that annoyed me about each man was that they all hinted at or outright asked if we had money. Which, we didn't, because there are ways to take a trip cheaply while avoiding hostels and dives, but that was none of their business and I certainly didn't answer. What puzzled me was that in this sort of situation... shouldn't it be the other way around?)

But I must say that The Old Man in the Evening was my favorite. He was educated, healthy, a good conversationalist, and altogether interesting. He was a stockbroker... yes, you can imagine why he would need a break, and quite a break he took - traveling around the world on his own. He's been everywhere, knows everyone, offered to get us a job working for someone in Halifax, a minister of agriculture, but I said no thanks, I have no interest in agriculture unless it's to tramp across some fields of my own in muddy boots and an old coat with two black and white sheep dogs at my heels, plotting some plot in my mind to set down on paper. But nice man. Interesting. The sticky part came when two handsome - yes, oh yes - young men strolled in and took up position where they could keep an eye on us and an eye on the bar. I stared past the stock-broker longingly. In the exact same instant, one looked at me and smiled as the stockbroker asked to buy us a drink and a look of horror passed over my face. The young men laughed quietly behind their hands, as we shook our heads politely and died a little inside. It took us a good few minutes to convince him that we didn't drink alcohol and we didn't want a Coke (though I did - but thoughts of Natalie's mother warning us Never To Take a Drink From a Stranger danced menacingly through my head). He continued the conversation, the young men - exactly our types - moved to a distant table, and that was that.

We slipped out the door later that evening and put up the umbrella, each ahold of the handle. "You know," I said, as we walked in our lovely dresses and wavy hair through the dark Celtic night, lights reflecting off the wet cobblestone beside the castle, rain sliding off the umbrella merrily onto my shoes, "sometimes I think God sits up there and just has a good laugh at my life."

I certainly do.

my heavens

2009-07-08T12:59:00.002-03:00

Here I am, prompted into writing by the recent requests for 'more, please'. so here is 'more,' with hope that it won't prompt you to request 'that's enough, thanks'.

Life has been a slow whirlwind lately with loads happening but not much going on. If that makes sense... in short, I feel as if I'm doing lots but still waiting for my real life to begin (settle down with a job and maybe a little dog or something). I am forever jetting off somewhere and then coming home to chat the ears off my parents and recuperate. I graduated university, I went to London, I went to Scotland, I went to France, I came home for the grand opening of our new church building, and now my family is off on vacation for a Whole Month (can you believe it?) because we are all exhausted for various reasons. So at the moment, I have the best of both worlds: jetting off with my parents and everybody (that is, mom, dad, Joanna, Luke and I) chatting the ears off each other all at once. To illustrate:

Fifteen minutes after leaving home for Cape Breton....
Joanna: Mom, can I have a piece of gum?
Wendy: No gum until after lunch.
Luke: Lunch is in an hour!
Rachel: Heaven forbid we have a piece of gum BEFORE lunch!
Ross: Wendy, give the kids some gum. I. am. exhausted.
Wendy: Ross, I hate candy.
Everyone: WE KNOW.
Rachel: When I was in Paris I had pop and chocolate Every Night.
Luke: I'm not going to drink pop today because then I'm going to need to go to the bathroom every half hour.
Everyone: WE KNOW.
Rachel: Joanna, can I listen to your ipod?
Joanna: Rachel you took my ipod to Europe for three weeks without asking, and you're actually asking for it NOW...? Only if you promise to download this list of songs for me.
Rachel: Joanna there are 100+ songs on this list!
Joanna: I know.
Ross: Joanna are those CHRISTIAN songs?
Joanna: Dad, would you like a piece of gum?
Everyone chews contentedly (except for Wendy) for a few minutes.
Joanna: I just fell asleep and dreamed that there was a cow in the van. Luke brought a cow because you wouldn't let him bring Capt. Johnny. Dad you said Get That Cow out of the Van, I. Am. Exhausted. And then Luke needed to pee.
Ross: Let's get lunch now. At Wendy's.
Luke: I'm not going to get pop though because then I'll need to go to the bathroom.
Wendy: Ross! What about the good soup that I brought?
Rachel: Is it ok if I go to McDonalds? Please?
Wendy: Rachel, you've forgotten that the quality of McDonalds in PEI is not that of France.
Rachel: Well can I discover that for myself? Please?
Luke: I need to go to the bathroom!
Joanna: Can I please have a piece of gum?

Well seriously folks. There is nothing like a seven hour drive with your family. Two packs of gum and many memories later we arrived at home sweet home, because as I've repeated ad nauseum in previous posts, 'my heart's in the highlands...' we are all tremendously delighted to be here, comfortably ensconced in great-grandma's house which for some reason or another has mysteriously acquired highspeed internet and satellite tv over the winter. There is no need to ever leave the house, except... out the window are the trees and the mountains and two minutes across the field there's the river... excuse me I need to go for a quick dip.

Just kidding, it is freezing today. July should be scalding hot enough to swim morning, evening, and afternoon, and wake up in the middle of the night contemplating a midnight dunk as well, but instead it feels like October. But the river isn't the only source of entertainment. Yesterday my dear cousin Jordan biked over and we spent the evening eating chicken fingers and junk food from the take out, watching youtube videos and swapping university tall-tales. When my family came home we all watched Lassie on the satellite tv and laughed hysterically as that beautiful dog saved many grateful groundhogs from certain drowning death by damming a stream of water with a large rock.

I would be remiss in this post if I did not answer Mrs. Lindsay's question re: how did I get along cooking this year at school... let's say I enjoyed cooking when I cooked. Katie and Natalie and I made several delicious meals together (it's so much better to cook together than apart). One memorable night we invented several recipes such as apple-strawberry-berry pie with a coconut crust; another night Nat and I made a divine apricot chicken with parmesan toast; and Natalie and I also made good use out of a great garlic bread/grilled cheese sandwich combo. But to be completely honest, if you peeked into the kitchen on any given night... you would see Katie eating some sort of casserole from the freezer, Natalie serving up a lentil patty, and me toasting some sort of bread to eat with peanut butter. Either that or we all would be eating steak. We were all very good at steak by the end. Lots of soy sauce and garlic, five minutes under the broiler each side.

Food is so good! The French know exactly what they are doing when serving up a two hour, three course meal. Natalie and I experienced this when invited over to a couple's home in Paris for lunch. Dish after dish was placed in front of our large eyes and shrinking stomachs, drenched in cream, garnished with parsley, served with crusty bread, washed down with ice water. And finally, the coffee and chocolate conclusion, because otherwise we would all fall asleep in our seats from the immense amount of food consumed. Lovely. Everyone left with a big smile. Excellent conversation (even with the language barrier) and remarkable (for better or for worse) food. (But I am still bothered by the question....how on earth do they all stay so skinny?)

In many ways my grand European adventure was marked by the food. Fantastic pizza at a little Italian restaurant in London; the Inverness Thai food-serving Pub where we never actually ate because we could never get a table, but enjoyed many a good ceilidh there; the unbelievable Angus beef burgers on the Isle of Harris (More, Please!); baguettes and chocolate cake on my birthday in Paris. And at least one Chicken McNugget happy meal from a McDonald's at every location.

Oh... did I mention that I've learned that the quality of the McDonald's in PEI is not the quality of the McDonald's in France? That's enough for me, thanks.

unforgivable, i know

2009-03-09T10:12:00.001-03:00

what a lovely, spring-y day it is!
so much so i feel moved to write it down.
the winter is passing...
and so is my unforgivable hiatus away from this blog.
there'll be more to come :)

perfectionism

2008-08-27T20:45:00.003-03:00

Perfectionism insists that I post in a chronological order, but because I'm shuffling from one laptop to another, while working and packing and eating and sleeping almost simultaneously, I'm just realizing that if I post anything, any date, it will be an improvement on nothing at all. So take that, perfectionism. But still it tells me it doesn't really care because it has a capable hand in disorder, too.

So here are some pictures from the beginning of rainy, tired August, when my best friend Bridget came to visit from Ohio. And isn't it funny how after a while certain words begin to stick together? - it's hard to say 'Bridget' without saying 'from Ohio' now. Now THAT shows how careful you need to be when choosing your living space, because you even have to consider what you're sticking yourself to in a wordy sort of way as well as a literal one.

Actually, the only pictures I have from her visit are from Hopewell Rocks. Her aunt Linda and fun cousin Carly took us. And since I must give credit where credit is due: they are two tough cookies. Bridget and I clung to each other, gazing in disbelief at our unrecognizable feet (one of us might have wailed: ‘I have never been this dirty in all my life!’ and okay, it was me) that faded away ankle deep in chocolate pudding mud. That chocolate pudding mud is very deceiving. And though I’m trying very hard to be a good sport, the adjective disgusting is sticking to ‘chocolate pudding mud’. Anyway, while Bridget and I squirmed, laughing in disgust at the mud, and hair sticking to our faces from the mist, Linda walked out so far she was the size of my little finger. And Carly, laughing in a nice way, snapped a picture of our horrified faces (which I would like to get ahold of).

But these pictures are pre-mud, pre-mist, and pre-torrential rain. Pre-Rachel covered in mud, though I never fell, thanks to the child who stepped in front of us in line and promptly sprayed the mud off his legs unto mine. Here's the first view I had, off the top of the stairs (which my arthritic granny knees came to know very well indeed).
and a lucky lady with an umbrella! oh to be prepared.

And me. And Bridget. Not a good, clear photo. But we're together.
and here Bridget is viewing the walk out to the sea dispassionately.
After that the rain poured down and I had to stuff my camera in my sweatshirt pocket, so that I looked like a mama kangaroo. We pulled ourselves up the ramp, sliding helplessly in slimy flip flops. Though we cleaned up as best as we could with the hoses, we still bedraggled and straggled through the woods, bursting forth upon civilization as the rain stopped and the sun shone. I noticed more than one newly arrived silky haired tourist staring at our damp forms, perhaps wondering if we'd teleported from some South American country in the midst of the rainy season.

We ate two doughnuts apiece to sugar-rush our weary selves and immediately fell asleep.

An hour later we hugged muddily at the bus station and then I was delivered promptly at four in Summerside by the bus, and promptly at five at work, by my mother, STILL spattered with 'chocolate pudding'. I changed furiously fast in the bathroom so I could babble about my adventure. Disgusting? Oh, perhaps. But certainly worth it. While I bus-sed, Bridget flew. And it'll be a while before either of us are in a position, financially speaking I guess, to visit often.

So those four days we spent together were jewels. (I think C.S. Lewis says it best: 'My day was the colour of a peacock's chest.') Chatting over a pizza; visiting her old and sometimes crazy neighbors who insist you gulp down a filthy cup of tea, and nearly catch you hiding their frozen jelly roll in your napkin ('and I INSIST you try a spoonful of my beans'); singing vigorously along with her father, johnny cash kitchen parties into the wee hours; saying the most ridiculous, egotistical things to each other and laughing gleefully, unselfishly if we top each other; trying on as many things as possible in Smart Set, which is, sorry, Our Store and always has been, and don't those salesladies know it; and finally, beautifully, the Deep Sleepover Talk. Isn't there something about talking in the dark?

But maybe it's more just talking to Bridget. There's a certain thing I try not to complain about, and most people simply forget about it, which is more than fine with me. But I 'complain' to her. 'I know,' she says. 'I've learned to pick up your signals over the years.'

It's not that other people don't know my signals. It's that she knows even when I'm not signaling. It's our way. We both strive for perfection, but are sympathetic to the imperfection in each other.

It's why the words 'best friend' stick to 'Bridget'.

last minute

2008-08-27T20:30:00.003-03:00

can you believe it.

in exactly... three days... i will be traveling across this bridge to move into my first sort of house, sort of grown-up learned to cook and everything, might even have a stab at dusting, sort of an exhaustively exciting time of life.

well, goodness. i can't.

i don't even know if i'm really into this? or what that terribly constructed sentence even held for me?

i'll never forget youuu

2008-08-20T13:32:00.003-03:00

I haven't written in a while because my laptop, affectionately referred to as 'my husband', was in the shop. Happily, I just picked him up the other day! Unhappily, they couldn't find the parts to fix it, and charged me $46 just to tell me what was wrong with it - which I told them when I brought it in. Just the fan and the hinge was broken. So they passed it back to me saying the fan and the hinge are broken and ca-ching! Rang it up on the register. Last time I take a computer to Staples to be fixed. And I bought a new laptop from Future Shop. Hah!

It feels almost like a death in the family, giving up this laptop. Hubby was a graduation gift and has been with me through thick and thin for the first three years of my degree. Probably I could stretch him out over the last year, but the fan-that-doth-sound-like-an-airplane-taking-off has roared & growled once too often. Still - it now growls at me in betrayal as I await the arrival of the new man.

DAYS LATER

He's here! He's here! And it just isn't the same. The separation from my former love is almost too much to bear. I mean... the new keyboard... the glossy, unscratched screen... it's just a little too girly if you know what I mean. I think this one will have to settle for being just friends. You know how it is. Once I start remembering where the enter key actually is, and once I finally find out where the volume is... THEN we'll see what happens.

count-down

2008-07-21T19:22:00.004-03:00

In two days I'll be off to my favorite place in the world, during my favorite time of year, to spend time with my favorite people on the planet.

Okay. It's a family reunion.

But here's why you, too, should go to Cape Breton:

* Cape Breton Island ranked 1st in 2006 as the Top Island in Continental US and Canada by Travel & Leisure Magazine, and 4th in the world
* Ranked as an Island Paradise in Fodor's Travel News 2008
* March 2004 - Cape Breton rated #2 on National Geographic's Traveler Magazine destinations
* Rated the most beautiful island and amongst the most friendly people in the world by Condé Nast Traveler magazine!

Sorry. Now that I work in the tourism industry... you know.

When I return I'll try to start posting pictures again instead of just writing - but of course that means I have to stop posting at work, haha.

don't forget the plum sauce

2008-07-19T18:05:00.002-03:00

For years I've been meaning to learn to cook.

I LOVE food. Love it. If there's anything that brings me joy it's a luscious cake just coming out of the oven, or a perfectly shaped sugar cookie with a dollop of pink icing, or the smell of yeasty bread rising on the stove top. I love grilled steaks in the summertime and roasted turkeys at Christmas. I love hot cross buns on any and every holiday, but above all, I love when I don't have to do the cooking! Baking I can handle. I'll never forget bringing my first prize winning brownies home proudly from the exhibition, and suddenly having a terrifying flashback to putting plum sauce in them instead of corn syrup. I'll never live that down, even though they still were great! Still, though I can bake, I've never cooked as much as a hot dog. Why? Who knows. I'm a fan of the carb and the dairy - breads and pastries, milk and cheese - when my family is away I dine on pancakes and icecream. So I've had a long history of Not Cooking.

When I was little, my father and I baked together from an Anne of Green Gables cookbook, and proudly displayed our linimint cakes and our ruby tea biscuits. (We're both big fans of Dessert.) The supper table, however, was different. Supremely picky, my brother and I would sit there for hours rather than choke down whatever green and/or healthy thing was on our plate. When my mother decided to cut sugar and white flour out of our diets, that was just the last straw. Finding a candy in a coat pocket was a field day, and to this moment I cannot stand the taste of a whole wheat bagel. (I take my bagels white, with cinnamon and SUGAR please!) Thankfully, this phase didn't last very long, in the scheme of things.

My best friend from high school and I - our memories together - mostly revolve around food. Unhealthy food. We've split so many fries with the works & root beer floats that they all blur together in my mind. Same goes for the Greco pizzas we've consumed, while watching musicals on television, and of course the greasy chinese meals late at night aren't forgettable either. Then there's the chips and pop over a good game of Clue, and the fact that we drank a gallon of milk in a sitting, and are proud of it still. (Why... why?!)

Now in college, if there was anything to complain about it was most certainly the food. There was no robustness to the limp pasta, the fake meat, or the frozen vegetables. There was definitely no health to the soggy french fries, the re-heated pizza, or the grilled cheese sandwiches (some with the plastic wrapper still on the cheese). But that isn't to say that there wasn't a certain delight in complaining about the cafeteria - our lot was so hard - we deserved sympathy & bonded together against the mercenary adults who simply thought we were whiney teenagers. Didn't we know so much better? There was delight, too, in the microwavable pot roast we carved on my friend's dorm room floor. Delight in the peanut butter we ate in spoonfuls for protein, the Swiss Chalet delivery chicken dinners that fortified us through exam time, and the frozen cheesecake that was our only stab at luxurious food. And of course there was a certain desperate hope that this was the last time we would make a trip to the bookstore for chips, pop, and chocolate.

Now I'm moving on to a new stage in my life. The moving-out-of-dorm-into-real-house, almost-time-to-fully-leave-the-nest stage. And it feels... like I'm finally going to learn how to cook. So since my family left me lonely at home while they set off on vacation, it's a prime opportunity for me to practice. Last night I looked up a recipe for fried steak & pulled out an apron. Around ten, the smoke dectector went off - or would've, if the batteries weren't out of it (preparation, you see, is more than key when cooking) - and I was crawling around the floor looking for the fan, cracking the windows, and throwing a blanket over the bird cage so he wouldn't suffocate. The steak sizzled happily and the pasta bubbleth over. If you happened to have driven by, you might have seen a coughing girl in a long brown apron out on the deck, scraping black stuff out of a smoking pan with a spatula. Still - as I slumped messily at the table, with my charred steak & buttered parmesan pasta set before me, cookbooks & papers all around and smoke lingering at eye level - I thought - hey - I CAN cook.

It was a delicious moment.

Re-read. Re-bought

2008-07-12T20:55:00.002-03:00

Yesterday we went to the library for their annual book sale, and Luke brought his selections over to Mom.

Mom: 'Luke, we have this book at home.'
Luke: 'No we don't.'
Mom: 'Yes we do.'
Luke: 'NO we DON'T.'
Mom: 'Well this is our book that I gave to the library then!!'
Luke: 'horrified gasp'

And we bought back the book. I guess it's the Morrison way of donating to the library system.

the continuing adventures of the captain

2008-07-05T18:05:00.002-03:00

well luke went camping for a week & captain johnny decided to take off as well. giving us all mild cases of heart attack & strokes & impending doom in general.

that precious bird. well on canada day he hid, swinging silently on the door chain so that we locked him in between the two doors. and then when we came home as dusk, all barbequed out, he shot out of the door and burst into the sky, swinging round in long loops, chirping a song of freedom or of fright. we walked with him, from tree to tree, calling & cajoling him with bird cage and favorite treat in hand.

not only is a a frightening thing to have a pet escape and not want to come home - or understand that he needs to come home - but also we had the fear of luke in our hearts... returning from camp and bursting into tears at the news of his beloved bird's disappearence. and a bird isn't like a dog, or cat, that at least is grounded. johnny had all the skies to flee as well.

was it an hour or more later that we gave up, torn apart by mosquitoes and disappointment, leaving johnny in the neighbor's tallest tree? was it all night that we lay awake, praying for the safekeeping of the world's most annoying, chirpy, and viciously nippy budgie? the things we do for love.

our neighbor tried to cheer us up. 'when i was eight or nine,' she said, 'i lost my budgie for a year. then one day i found out it had flown across the river - a mile or so - and was happily residing at the Pridhams. so they returned him to me, that whole year later...'

could the same happen to johnny?

two days later, a lady called us. 'i was at a party in northport,' she said. 'and we saw something fly by the window. a bird landed on the barbeque, and walked right up the hostess' arm. he was starving so she brought him in and fed him a tomato on the counter. someone had a bird cage at home, so they put him in the cage and fed him some bread. and then i went home and was talking to a friend... and they said they saw you outside with a bird cage the other night, so i thought i'd give you a call.' and she gave us the lady's number. and the next day we picked up johnny, and brought him home.

he is not sorry at all that he went.

'glorious & free'

2008-07-05T16:48:00.003-03:00

maybe it's a bit late for an 'oh Canada happy birthday' type of post but none the less here one is.

my happiest memories of Canada Day are lying back on the cool grass by the lake in Baddeck, NS, and watching the fireworks burst off the boats, while lots of cousins ran around with glow sticks wrapped around their little bodies, in real danger of tumbling in the water and spending the rest of the evening proudly shivering, wrapped in blankets, imprisoned by unimpressed parents. so large are these long ago fireworks in my mind that the more famed ones in Charlottetown left me cold, a few years ago, and so i don't make the effort to take the trip, instead celebrating with a quiet barbeque in my home town.

but it's somewhat disconcerting that on the day we're supposed to celebrate our beloved nation it's just the celebration i think about - not all the things we're supposed to be celebrating. so i thought - well write down a list of what you like about Canada (inspired by kelley, i must add) and be very, very thankful! but as i began to mull this over, all the things i didn't like about Canada came to mind. this state of mind was aptly illustrated in the newspaper, which read (in paraphrase): 'let's celebrate what unites all of us Canadians... !&%# gas prices!' perhaps complaining does unite us, and i am thankful that we can complain about things like gas prices & the governement without fear of losing our heads!

what do i like about canada?

i love the land, literally - the earth under our feet. i love the way it gets in our blood. it's the first thing and the last that i think of when i think of Canada, when i picture Canada on the map. mountains rising & prairies stretching and the rivers throughout and especially the seasides! for the ocean gets in our blood too.

i love canadian literature. i love the way it knows us so well. the way its tones and cadences reflect us. the land. the ocean. feelings. that we understand but can't put into words. art, too - vivid portrayals that we don't always want to see, but do understand, and must admit so, quietly.

i love the people. and this is not so much in the cities, where i have been afraid to show any signs of reaching out to others, because others are afraid to reach out to you. who knows who you might be. who knows what you could become. but rather i love the people in the country, where a smile at anyone begins a conversation usually starting with your relatives and ending with an invitation to dinner. or freedom to walk someone else's land. or simply someone else to say hello too, and know their name, and their father's name.

i love the food! there is no need to go hungry, or want for variety. the restaurants, the farmers... i love them all.

i love my freedom, as a woman especially.

i love all these things, and more as well. there are a lot of things i don't love, but that's alright. i understand canada and the way it is. it's familiar; it's beautiful; it's home.

if you can't tell

2008-06-28T22:42:00.003-03:00

we're on an archaeological dig.seeking sea sponge...

...seaweed

...and seashells.

21 & so on

2008-06-28T22:15:00.005-03:00

this is the last birthday i plan to reveal my age.
a lady never tells.
so take note! you'll never hear it from me again!on the actual day i had to work, but still i awoke to a lovely birthday brunch and set off to work with a light heart. today i truly celebrated the coming year by having a delicious day, an unproclaimed birthday. after lunch joanna & luke & i went, playing loud summer music (YOU know), to the beach, where it was somewhat cloudy & mostly chilly, and the decidedly bracing wind just blew good health into you. we attempted to build a most magnificent wall but slowly i slipped away into my deck chair, bundled in blankets against the wind, sunglasses against the sun, summer classics like 'north & south' by elizabeth gaskell against the sleepiness of the season.
it's my birthday present, by the way, that teeny pink blot in the picture? a lounge chair that is terrible to carry, clanking and banging against your ankles, opening at the most inopportune times. also it is bright pink, so i am Legally Blonde. but when you shift your weight back just right your feet fly up into the sky happily, lounging delightfully. and when your feet become numb because all the blood is rushing to your head, you struggle back up, in position to keep eagle eyes on any children heading for an undertow. in short, it was a lovely present. a few chocolates and silken cushions later, and i shall be quite spoiled for any good work this summer.

after the beach, we detoured around a bridge being built over the river, and took the long route to the take-out, stopping on our old dirt road to gather lupins from the ditch. lupins are just as PEI as potatoes, and much prettier. then onwards for a baby cone of icecream and it was the perfect birthday. perhaps not the perfect summer day because it was cloudy & cool, but all & all, what could the sun have added?

natural & normal

2008-06-28T21:59:00.004-03:00

why can't we have a dog, like normal families?when i grow up i'm getting a dog.

(maybe a chihuahua. an irish setter like in the book 'big red'. or a scottish terrier that would have an uncanny resemblance to sherlock holmes.)

front desk, rachel speaking...

2008-06-28T21:39:00.005-03:00

well in may i applied to the Rodd for a housekeeping position, was interviewed for front desk & started work three weeks later. at first it was overwhelming. who knew there were so many little details to know & memorize & then serve up with a smile? at times i find myself thinking of last summer's job at the library, where I puttered around watering the plants & staring at the bookcases through the dusty sunlight, wondering what to read next. (often, i learned, you CAN judge a book by its cover) and yet i did not want to return there, and my wish not to return was granted, and i am grateful... there is a certain charm in slipping behind the scenes of a familiar place (in this case a hotel) and learning about the people that run it and the different ways it can be run. lots of material, in short. more than hard to believe: it is nearly july, and one month of my three month employment is complete. soon enough back to the books. and oh, i am sick of wanting to be learning during the summer, and wanting to be working during the winter! time for a change. must enjoy every moment of this beautiful summer and learn how to be joyfully industrious at any job that is my lot. isn't it funny how they didn't even bother interviewing me for housekeeping. how did they know i was never cut out to be a maid? of course the picture is pure sham.

books books books books books

2008-06-23T19:15:00.002-03:00

Who’s your all-time favorite author and why?

alistair macleod. he has only written one novel and a handful of short stories, but perhaps that's why every word is perfectly chosen & placed. and i suppose, above all, i love him because he writes about my home, cape breton, with an integrity that is lacking in fiction today. he knows his subject & he loves his subject, even the not nice bits. hallelujah for depth & profundity without heavy-handedness!

Who was your first favorite author and why? Do you still consider him/her among your favorites?

oh heavens, i have read and read and read and loved many an author. thinking about my bookshelves, overflowing with tattered copies of children's fiction (and i still love children's fiction better than almost any other genre)... i would have to say laura ingalls wilder. my parents gave me the box set of the little house books as a birthday present and they are beyond battered. i'll invest in another set soon, because they retain their healthy charm years later. but i loved so many others! enid blyton & her famous five, walter farley's black stallion series, etc etc etc.

Who’s the most recent addition to your list of favorite authors, and why?

margaret laurence. here's a familiar story: i read the stone angel in high school and thought it was 'good' but 'not my sort of book'. i then read it in college and thought it was 'better' but 'still not entirely interesting'. THEN i read it for another university course & finally gained enough insight to see a bit of the depth i had missed. but it was laurence's 'the prophet's camel bell' and 'a bird in the house' that truly blew me away. i have read those several times in six months and each time learn something new about the characters & themes, and 'prophet's camel bell' is the best non-fiction i've read in years. 'the diviners' is the only book of laurence's i can't bring myself to enjoy. the course i read these for was 'margaret laurence and margaret avison', and i suppose they are tied for most recent addition to favorite author, for avison's poetry i have been waiting all my life to meet. it is exactly to my taste, and i am marveled by how she shows her beliefs through poetry without being horribly criticized for it: a true sign of brilliance. at the moment, she is my favorite poet.

If someone asked you who your favorite authors were right now, which authors would first pop out of your mouth?

alistair macleod, margaret laurence, & margaret avison as previously noted. tolkien, because he is a truly astounding man and his Lord of the Rings fame is completely deserved, though I wish more would appreciate the books rather than the movies (and ditto for c. s. lewis, of course). margot benary isbert - a little known german author who writes with beautiful insight. i have a weakness for authors like dodie smith & caroline b. cooney, who write lovely novels for young adults that aren't classics, but rather well-written books that aren't a waste of time to read. i have a million others but my mind is blanking. rosemary sutcliff authors incredibly detailed historical novels, lots of battles with just enough romance to keep me happy. any period novel - you know typical austen & dickens - is lovely. those are the ones that would pop out of my mouth but sadly they leave out many an author who is deserving of mention.

what books have you bought or borrowed lately?

just last week i received a lovely parcel from amazon.ca! three books:

* 'just listen' which is by another young adult author i'm partial to, Sarah Dessan - again not a classic but a guilty pleasure that i've re-read several times. all her books are the similiar plot of a girl jaded against love for some reason, usually due to some family member's failure at relationships, and gradually learning that it is ok to love someone. sounds exactly like a book that's a guilty pleasure, doesn't it? this one is one of my favorites by Dessan, who has found her niche and makes the most of it.

* 'shadow in hawthorn bay' which is CLASSIC Canadian lit, by a classic Canadian author, Janet Lunn. begins in scotland and then transitions to canada, the early years. a girl with second sight coming to terms with the land.

* & finally the book i am embarrassed to say that I own, 'confessions of a serial kisser' by Wendelin Van Draanen. her book 'flipped' was amazing, alright? so i ordered this sure that despite the title it would be just as enjoyable. well, it CAN be judged by its cover - complete fluff. still better written than most of its kin, but this particular golden rule for writers flashes in my head as i read: 'cut cut CUT!' it's the story of a girl who deals with her divorced parents by kissing every boy in sight...so in short... pass these confessions by and read 'flipped'. :)

as for books i've borrowed from the library, i won't bore you with the long list - but i've been reading a lot of TRAVEL books because i am so excited for my long-awaited trip to europe next spring! i don't like to talk about it too much for fear it will fall through, but i am working lots and saving money to give myself that ultimate after-graduation present. still... if you have any tips (and the two people that i know read this have traveled! haha) i would love to hear all your advice.

who says alberton isn't exciting

2008-05-22T18:00:00.005-03:00

what with 10th birthday parties...
stanley cup victories...
and digging up a twenty-years-dead-and-buried whale...
i'd say it was pretty exhilarating around here!

new roofs to climb

2008-05-08T15:53:00.003-03:00

an hour before evening service on sunday i looked out my window and the fact that the porch roof was RIGHT there finally registered. so i merely inquired if...

'dad could you build a deck outside my window?'

'no, rachel, i can't build a deck outside your window.'

so i started figuring out how to get out there anyway. my window is an ancient and ridiculous one, incorporating about eight different layers of glass. i managed to heave it open to the screen, but no amount of panting and shoving could get the screen out.

'i could always cut it and duct tape it later...'

'no, rachel, you are not going to cut your screen out.'

so maybe we were going at this the wrong way. joanna decided to try from the outside. she pushed the garbage bin up to the house and put a large metal spool on top of that, and then hoisted herself up to the roof. meanwhile, inside the house mom was taking apart the window methodically, pane by pane. but even without the many layers the screen still wouldn't come out. luke's friend climbed up on the roof same way joanna did. 'look, i can take the screen out no problem,' he boasted. 'we break into houses all the time.' which dubious statement i chose to ignore and handed him the pliers. exactly one minute later he handed me the screen.

this is dad's face on learning my window was completely dismantled:
this is joanna trying out the shed roof in the delighted freedom that comes when you've conquered something new. like roof climbing. luke just wishes he was taller so he could as well.
and finally, luke's friend resting proudly on the roof after his labors. now i know who to call when i want to break in. not that i would call...
but it is nice to know right outside my window is a little retreat looking out at the fields and the trees and the birds and even the occasional fox. a cup of tea and a journal good. if only dad would build that deck so i wouldn't live in fear of rolling off one day...

first home, second home, home home

2008-05-08T15:03:00.005-03:00

my first home is alberton; my second home is moncton; my home home is margaree.

dad and i went for a quick three day trip the end of april.

this is my old backyard.

this neighbors my grandparents' property.

this is after the arduous trek down the cliff to the river. when i was a child it was all rock, but now soil is wedging itself between the stones, and this reedy bush grows, and leaves and natural refuse catch on the branches and look like some sort of earthy flower.

this is the road by my grandparent's house. it's gradually returning to the earth. forgotten by any officials in charge of road repair. and this is not the worst of it. on the bright side, it's a really fun road to drive because you never know what surprise awaits you!

last year i wrote a piece for class on how there was a little piece of land in margaree that i wanted more than any other.

excerpt: ' When I was less than 10, my mother, my younger brother and I walked halfway up my grandpa's mountain to visit my father at work. I can still remember the heat of the sun-warmed land, and my father sitting on a log in his orange gear, dirty and tired, the brush spread haphazardly over the cleared land, and then I ask about a single towering tree upright, smack in the middle.

"Grandpa couldn't cut it down," Dad tells me. "It's been there for a long time."

Being in Margaree for a weekend is beautiful, but then comes the leaving part, which we've done many times. Leaving repeatedly emphasizes the need I feel to put down roots in a place, for the first time I left Margaree, it taught me to fear change. Leaving makes me hang on to every tree, every memory and every tradition. Though there is always a time and a place for leaving, I hate it: goodbyes, packing, sitting on my suitcase to shut it, everything, all of it. I want to cling to that one tree of my Grandpa's because if someone didn't know, they might erase it off the mountain. I want to save it. I never want to let go.'

for me that particular elderly tree is a powerful image of the sense of survival that margareers know instinctively. the harsh canadian landscape typical of canadian lit is cape breton. the struggling and scratching to survive is natural to the descendants of the scottish settlers who left scotland for cape breton in hopes of a chance of survival accepting the nearly impossible difficulty of farming in the mountains because it reminded them so much of home.

it's instinctive, as i said previously. the love for the harsh land summed up so beautifully by Alistair MacLeod in No Great Mischief. the unbreakable bond of family drawn together by the need to survive, together. the forced exodus to the wealthier states, and then the helpless return to cape breton, because...

here i have a home but i have no money. there i have money but no home.
- No Great Mischief

i'm off track.

the reason dad and i traveled back in april was because of illness in the family. grandpa, he who would not cut down the tree, though he was in the business of cutting down trees. he respected the way the tree clung to the earth in survival. anyway, grandpa is ill. we went back because of it. it was a difficult three days.

dad had read my little composition. he liked it because he understood it naturally; it is even more his heritage than mine. so while we were in margaree, dad hiked up to the tree. like me, he searches out sentimental moments. but we didn't realize how sentimental this moment would be.

it was dying. he hid in the sawmill and cried.

later i said: 'if that was a metaphor in a book i'd think it was awfully heavy-handed'

i went down to the river for a long time and i wished i'd never written a word.

anyway. Grandpa and the tree. there's fight left in them yet. aren't they practiced in the art of survival?

i came by speed-reading honestly

2008-05-08T14:26:00.007-03:00

aren't they cute. notice the pile of back-up reading material on the floor.

we all read. but Luke is infinitely more interested in bionicle and redwall than the rest of us at the moment. oh and he actually does have all his limbs intact; i've no idea why he's using his foot as a bookrest.

captain johnny thinks we are all ridiculous and would rather bury his head in the couch than read a book. in other pet news...

i think i've convinced my family that a dog would be nice to have around the house. the tipping point was when i reminded dad of his favorite childhood book Walt and Pepper about a dog and cat that fight like - cats and dogs - but realize they quite like each other at the end. i said we could name the dog walt. and then we spent an hour thinking up good names (mostly from books or after hockey players) but of course we'll only know the name once we know the dog. actually dad would prefer a fat sassy cat (his words) but the rest of us have a soft spot for canines.

and all things are nice and quiet here in alberton.

jiggity jig

2008-04-27T15:45:00.003-03:00

meet captain johnny. the household budgie. we've had him for a year but only since we started letting him out of the cage has he developed any sort of personality. and he is a vicious, vicious bird! all he wants to do is bite. sit on you and nibble. here he is eating my shirt, but he also eats hair and tries to eat YOU. and he's pooped on luke's head twice, whilst sitting there, eating his hair.

so i am home for the summer.
third year is done.

such plain phrases with such weight behind them!

there is always so much adjusting to be done. unpacking, which I haven't done. tramping the main street of Alberton in search of a job, which i also haven't done. sharing a room with my sister, which i have done.

there is so much to look forward to. the silly moments with my family ("You're a Morrison, you have a bony butt. Embrace it." And somehow that turns into an entire song.) the beach - a blanket, a box of peak freans, a journal - the elusive tan - the ocean is optimistically cold - it's so typical of PEI, the beach. maybe I should take a box of potatoes instead of cookies. the weddings - this is the summer of love, and no mistake.

there are so many plans to make. europe trip next summer, after graduation? can i possibly be the spendthrift that i'm absolutely not, and save the millions of pennies that trip would take? and what about after that, when reality settles down watchfully in the fall, and i have to take the epic trip to toronto, for publishing school? would i really make a good editor? can i tear apart an author's work, or am i too nice, too empathetic? should i just huddle down in a one-room apartment somewhere, working days and then in the dark of night, writing, writing, writing, til i fall asleep on the desk? next year is my last at ABU. these are things to consider.

but in the mean-time it is summer.

silly brother

2008-03-18T22:25:00.002-03:00

perhaps a little inappropriate? this is the only way he'll let me take his picture, yet when i do manage to snap a nice one, funny how it always ends up as his facebook display. but the reason why i chose this one is because it is actually TWO pictures and sam photoshopped them together. two different moments in time and conversation, but would you ever know? intriguing to think of time and space erased and blurred and fading into one another so sharply, made even funnier because aunt glenda likely had the same expression on her face when samuel originally made that crude gesture. if samuel picks me up from the bus stop for easter, maybe i'll buy him a burger for his pains.

break to the march

2008-03-18T21:30:00.004-03:00

friendships in university are odd because it is a unique period in your life - you study study study with a group of familiar persons and then BOOM everyone disperses to the corners of the earth and you try desperately to hold on to communication or you put your chin up and make new friends right where you're at. anyway. what i meant to say is that Who Knew when Gabby and I met years ago that in March 2008 - spring break - she would be traipsing through Rome and Venice and I would be at home, overly happy to see green vegetables again after months of cafeteria pizza and chicken burgers.

Here is me simply loving a pea: Here is VENICE:
Here is Gabby bravely feeding the pigeons in VENICE:Here is my sister being a gangster - is she not the coolest thing in Alberton since rubber boats?
Though VENICE would be incredibly lovely, you can't knock time with family, and a week spent in the gorgeousness of HOME.

Meeting the BF

2008-03-17T23:56:00.010-03:00

... and by bf I mean best friend. though i'd heard many a tall tale about chantelle, never had the chance arisen to meet this best friend of natalie's. so finally, on the nova scotian march break, chantelle took the arduous bus journey to moncton, and after some whirlwind confusion and five near-accidents on the slippy roadway to the bus station, we began a quick-paced, tall-taled, and record-setting (literally) weekend.

after enormously delectable burgers at montana's, we trekked fashionably through a snowbank or two (or three) to value village. it's tradition to take the most ridiculous pictures there but of course secretly think we lead the most glamorous lives - rather incongruous with the grubby-dusted dressing cubicles and the glaring warehouse atmosphere. sadly, the best dress (award went to chantelle: white satin ribbing bursting out into a black satin stiffly short skirt with a large and glittering flower-anchor) remained unphotographed because of the toothy old value village employee, who yelled primly across the expanse of floor, between the amused, staring shoppers - "you could get sued for taking pictures, you know!" "And who's going to sue us, the lady who wore this dress last?" Danielle muttered under her breath. Really though, the last time we invoked our tradition of photography at value village, the employee laughed hysterically and gave us fashion tips. try this on for size. "Well then, I'M not going to buy these shoes after all," said Chantelle, who had been eying one pair of lightly pink sequined slippers. And she slipped into mine and Natalie's dressing room (we always share, back to back, poking each other with our elbows because of the small space) to take one last picture, with the flash off. But my favorite picture of the value village evening (besides the one I'm sworn not to post - let's just say it might involve a sort of pole dancing, but the person REALLY didn't mean to look THAT scandalous) could be this one. Mostly because Natalie looks like Cougar Mom Goes to the Office; Danielle is School Girl In Mourning; and Chantelle is At a New Year's Eve Party ("Dear, you're too young to wear that dress!" A shopper exclaimed. "What a coincidence - you're too old," Chantelle could have said, but didn't, because she's nice).

After VV, we crept out into the snowy night to examine Kyle's tunnel, because he put hours and days of work into that creation. Though we were too scared to crawl through, we praised it mightily, and fell in the snow 1 million 2 billion times trying to get out of the snowbank. We might have jumped and shoveled and laughed a bit too, as we cracked through the snow-glaze. And Danielle brought her umbrella for some reason, but when have we not made use of an available prop... I know that my mother will mention my hip in this picture and say something along the lines of "you are SUCH a poser and you CERTAINLY didn't get it from me!"
Inside, I turn up the heat (go figure) and we decorate valentine cookies, play truth or dare (but it's extremely boring because neither danielle and i dare, and after natalie pushed something along the floor with her nose, the game faded away) and discuss the next day's events. which include taking the 8:00 am bus to the mall, but if you know us at all you know that didn't happen. i shut off my alarm and slid sleepily back in my bed, but with one ear open for natalie. sure enough, ten minutes later she whispery croaks "Rachel, what do you think..." and she knows what I think, and we sleep in and take the noon bus.

best friends since childhood: the next evening we choreograph a dance video. oh so tough, gruff, & rough. just see those holy jeans and the black eyes. in short we are drama queens, if you know what i mean, and if you know family force 5 than i think you do. well perhaps not as dramatic as all that, but we did up a darling dance of dramatics, and really, i think our dance moves are slick enough for the big time - ha! but if not, we fail so charmingly that forgiveness must be tentatively granted, with a hearty laugh. this picture is not from the dance, by the way, even though chantelle is swaying inside the closet, it's from the preparation portion of the evening - attitude must be worked into the very seams of clothes and face to pull anything off, hmm?after the dancing drama (filmed in the 3rd floor's very own wing lounge) we simply moved over a step into the laundry room (another tradition) but at least twenty steps over in attitude to Manhattan's east side. perhaps not quite as dignified as that attitude calls for though... here chantelle and natalie model some very large sports bras in the true laundry spirit. best friends since college years....
If only we had pictures of the rest of the weekend... watching One Tree Hill and screaming together, making earrings, playing guitar hero (and finally, finally succeeding on hard), staying up til the wee hours and laughing hysterically... well... then there would be just too many pictures and who would want to read commentary on them except the eager participants?

all in all, it was a lovely jam-packed weekend, with not a single thought of schoolwork. hopefully the bf visits again and soon!

nat&rache: the tea diaries

2008-02-12T16:19:00.000-04:00

lately we have been so full of tea and hand written letters and woolen sweaters and early to bed and early to rise that we realized it was time to do something or the granny in us would take over. not that it is a bad thing to be a granny. in fact i would rather be a granny than a university student with towering student loans and silly papers that will disintegrate into worthlessness before i graduate. in fact i would rather drink tea. write letters. and go to bed early. than go as crazy as a good little christian girl could ie drinking mountains of caffeine, writing assignments minutes before deadlines, staying up til ridiculous hours and going bowling every night. but still - there is no harm in letting your true age in years show once in a while, and that's a fact. so since we are scarcely out of teenagehood, we decided to dress up and then go roll around a bit in the snow. we are going quite batty without the calming influence of gabby, our mother hen. here i am even trying to pretend i magically conjured a teacup out of my plastic dollar store hat that felicia bought us for a presentation on george eliot (who was actually mary ann evens but did not want to be associated with female writers! and as i wear that hat i wonder who would want to associate with me in that hat?). as for natalie, she firmly believes she is in the circus. all we need is gabby to join in our imaginative fun - perhaps giving a monologue in her crocodile hunter voice.
magically, we climbed into our closets and arrived in Narnia. in one piece, with a favorite umbrella. if it is going to snow every day, Canadians must make the best of it. At least we had Christmas.
natalie (or granny peggy as i like to call her) is sporting the levitating mushroom hat. at first it fits your head as cozily as a tea comforter, but slowly and sneakily it rises until it is barely balancing on air, considering a final burst to freedom. then it tumbles off and your hair turns cold and snowy in the seconds before you jam it back on in absent annoyance.

speaking of snow, it snowed yesterday and will snow again tomorrow. i have never felt so canadian as i do in this weather. i yearn for a fabulous neon snowsuit so i can go outside and have a proper skip in the powdery drifts. kyle is building a tunnel. i would like to build a lovely snow-house. but the granny in me prefers to look out my window with a teacup of burning hot tea, and a pen in familiar fingers, and the thermostat cranked up as high as must accommodate an arthritic, elderly person.

Morrisons in Winter

2008-01-29T13:23:00.000-04:00

Dad with his coffee cup; straightbacked; layers of long johns & woolen socks.
Mom out for a walk wearing my accessories & being mistaken for me.
Recreating a childhood picture in Grandma's jewelry. What a girly girl I am.
My handsome, savvy, not-as-angry-as-he-pretends, inexperienced truck driver brother.
Loving, motherly, not-quite-a-teenager Joanna, with one of the Morrison babies (not ours!).

Charming, hilarious Luke.

Portraits on Christmas Eve, etc

2008-01-29T12:59:00.000-04:00

Christmas morning - all dressed up and no place to go. Christmas morning - I bought her a Hard Rock Cafe shirt. Actually I bought it for myself and then had second thoughts & gave it to my little sister. That's what she's there for.
Christmas Eve. Luke & I had to stay home sick. That's what I thought of THAT.
Luke was more resigned. He's used to staying home with ear infections, pneumonia, etc.
It wasn't a Christmassy Christmas, for lack of a better word. But the tree was nice - good job Joanna for picking it out.

I know I'm still on the Christmas bit, but just a few more pictures and i'll be done... oh the always behind lifestyle of the student.

Church

2008-01-29T12:53:00.000-04:00

Our new church - well new to us. Actually it's the ancient Anglican church, but they have kindly rented their lovely building to us and our congregations share the premises amicably. A good scheme all round. And tis another step towards an actual new building for us.

Bestest.

2008-01-19T14:45:00.000-04:00

My best friend from high school years visited over Christmas Break... it has been over two years but the things we had in common are still there.

Bridget, myself, Cherie.

Would you like some Christmas Cake?

2008-01-19T14:40:00.000-04:00

Christmas Cake! I tried a new recipe, and it fell apart when I cut it free of the pan. So back in it went, and I soaked the crumbly mess with pink icing and crushed candy canes - actually turned out delicious, if somewhat soggy.

Christmas Banquet

2008-01-19T14:32:00.000-04:00

Of course we must have one event where we can dress up and look lovely - right before exams when we are at our most exhausted and enjoy the bags under our drooping eyes and our slightly hysterical movements & thoughts. But Christmas Banquet IS a lovely time - though actually the getting ready part is the best.

Gabrielle, Natalie, Rachel. Three Peas in a Pod. It's a sad sight now that Gabby is in England and we are not together.

Home for Christmas

2007-12-16T16:23:00.001-04:00

a little delirious with joy ...because even though my sister began wearing my clothes immediately...
i'm home, and beating my brother at table hockey (only because I cheat).
much more to come - i love Christmas & the many special events that surround it.

Exams

2007-12-10T15:22:00.001-04:00

Three girls.
One night.
An embarrassing amount of caffeine.
Hey who hasn't pulled an allnighter in university?

Christmas Card Photo

2007-12-10T14:59:00.000-04:00

School has never been canceled for snow - until this year! We had a splendid blizzard and all classes were canceled - a blessing from heaven. After supper we went out in the snow and jumped around - me in my jeans - thank heavens for long johns! They are worth their weight in gold.

New York Has My Heart

2007-12-10T14:21:00.000-04:00

My very first time in New York City was an eye-opening experience - and I fell in love with the city. Hopefully one day i will be able to spend much more time there! The crazyness of NYC is intoxicating. Went by much too fast - 40 some college kids cramped on a bus for a 14 hour drive there and back - was definitely worth my while. Now - here are some - admittedly - touristy pictures of the trip!

1. Overwhelmed, the first place we went was the familiar - McDonalds - in Times Squares. Yet the coolest McD's I've ever been in.
2. Here's a really touristy one - wasn't going to BUY any I heart NY stuff, so had to take a picture with it :)
3. Since almost everyone at ABU cheers for the Boston Red Sox, Natalie and I had to buy Yankees hats. I don't even like baseball but HEY. it's the New York YANKEES.
4. Our favorite show - Gossip Girl. You can barely see the billboard. This was in Chinatown, the creepiest part of NYC that I was in.
5. CHRISTIE'S.
6. Of course. It is a marvelous and thrilling statue experience.
7. NBC Studio Store.8. The famous, famous outdoor skating rink. 9. To skate here has always been their dream - the two on the left are figure skaters. 10. In the Marriott - a gleaming and glittering rich hotel that I will stay at one day. When I'm famous, you know.
11. Virgin Records - fantastic store. I could have stayed there for hours. In front of it with my best friend Natalie. 12. The point of the trip was to see Relient K & Switchfoot in concert. Here we are, waiting in line for 2 hours!
13. Finally inside the Hammerstein Ballroom, some of us quickly put on our newly purchased band shirts and prepare for probably one of the better concerts you could ever see in a lifetime. RK and Switchfoot are two of the greatest bands in the history of Christian music. Both creative, original, energetic, dedicated, and talented. Next year, anyone?

Campobello & the Fab Four

2007-12-10T13:47:00.000-04:00

One marvelous long weekend, the fabulous four set off on our very first road trip to Campobello. And what a weekend it was - many long hours in the car - new dance moves invented - six times across the border - freezing cold exploration of the island - becoming wilderness women. Here are a few of the places we visited.

1. The ferry that we had to take twice because we went to the wrong place...
2. the hotel in St. Stephens with huge lawn chairs
3. a beautifully built church on the way to Bangor, ME
4. a wild blueberry field on the way to Bangor, ME
5. Roosevelt's cottage on Campobello 6. At the most photographed lighthouse in Canada? I think. I like this picture because our faces are actually blue. I have never been so cold in all my life.
7. Natalie, our little Renaissance angel. the Wharf, Campobello
8. Our last stop on our love trip - an old shipwreck.
Good friends, good food (so many restaurant stops), adventure - twas a wonderful weekend. Sadly, as it is exam time, I don't have enough minutes to elaborate, but here is an excerpt from the trip - I wrote this for a class, about our lodging for the cold, dark nights...

Car-bound, for seven hours, two days in a row.

Our theme this road trip is repetition: two (unnecessary) ferry rides; six border crossings; the same songs flashing on the radio; identical scrubby trees floating by the windows.

Edith Lank Memorial Christian Camp lingers mutely in the darkness at the end of a loosely graveled driveway. A single steel street light glares over the camp, but we still can’t really tell the layout of the grounds. What we know is that the ocean lies blackly beyond the radius of light, and the salt wind scorches over Campobello Island, and we’re cold and headachy from driving. Our only desire is to settle into the house for the night.

Of course we’re locked out.

As we sit in the car, contemplating the situation, the house stands there quite complacently, squat in its white siding, curtains teasing us through the windows. There is warmth and shelter here. Just a regular farmhouse, nothing exotic or exciting, not unique, but square, well proportioned, settled into the earth – it’s seen a day or two.

Off we go to Pastor Robert’s home, because he’ll have a key.

Driving over the hard and scrubby hills and bridges, I can’t really see Campobello and I don’t really care to – don’t really care about sensing the feel and motive and attitude of this island. In the black of night it’s my own motives and feelings that I care about, and all I wish for is a marshmallow bed and a crystal clear sleep, and plenty of hot water in the morning.

None of us are cold-weather people. We’re here for Gabby, who head cooked at Edith Lank this summer, and who wishes to share the experience with her closest friends, but frankly, it’s not summer – it’s November – and we’re not getting the vibe. At Pastor Robert’s, we sit restlessly in the car and watch them converse through the window. In the window, Pastor Robert hands her keys to the camp. Time to drive back – the hill, the bridge, the trees on the gravelly road.

Of course the keys aren’t right.

Hunched over, shivering, Gabby fits one key after another in the lock, while we offer what little encouragement we can. “What about the other door?” and “C’mon, Gab, it’s freezing!”

“Grow yourself a Canadian body, Gabby!” Natalie yells, like a football coach. Coming from a tiny brunette shaking on the front porch of an old farmhouse, it is hilariously bizarre. And it’s no use – encouragement or not, keys that don’t fit, don’t fit, even as I close my fingers over Gabby’s chilly hand, and try myself.

After some driving around, looking for a set of keys, any keys that will open the farmhouse, we meet Pastor Robert, who is driving to meet us halfway on the gravelly road. “House is open, hot water’s on!” he calls to us cheerfully, and lucky for him we’re in different cars, or he might have received a kiss or two.

We stumble wearily into the deceptive house. So much for warmth: only the kitchen is heated, and the hot water certainly isn’t on. That night, we sleep in mittens and scarves, and I wake up curled around Danielle’s warm and sleeping form. I can see my breath in the frosty air, but I need the bathroom badly. As I stumble into the bedroom closet by mistake, my weary eyes focus on a small white box on the wall – yes, it is a thermostat. After cranking it up as high as possible, I run around the house, searching in every closet, behind every couch, and along every wall, until I’ve found the other four thermostats, and cranked them with numb fingers. So! The night before, we’d heated the kitchen and someone had shut the door in the middle of the night. That’s a story you’d rather not spread around.

Now, as we wash our hair in the Edith Lank Memorial Christian Camp dining hall dishwasher, the only tap that brings forth hot water (in a separate, unheated building, down the hill), we award ourselves the title of “wilderness women”, and think happily of the steaming hothouse that finally awaits us at the top of the hill. Pastor Robert might cringe when the oil bill arrives, but - at least - by now, we must have grown ourselves Canadian bodies. Our reward must be a little warmth.

Margaree in Autumn

2007-12-10T13:00:00.000-04:00

There is no place like home, and no place like Margaree in the fall, when the mountains are vibrant with color. Every season has something to offer but Fall is one of the most lovely and heart-wrenching when the leaves come off.

The Morrisons in Autumn

2007-12-10T12:44:00.000-04:00

For a thanksgiving treat we traveled home to Margaree. Of course I snapped pictures. My darling daddy, marvelous mother, scandalous Samuel, joyful Joanna and loving Luke.

value village vogue

2007-11-03T16:46:00.000-03:00

there is no other picture in the world that sums up our personalities and why they make our *core4* friendship work so well.

cooling off

2007-11-03T16:23:00.001-03:00

a very hot day in residence - the top floor is never comfortable in indian summer. so we walked down in the woods to the stream, and buried our toes in the chilly water .goofing off...
oh what beauties! :)
an attempt at glamour in the midst of nature...
and the glorious mud. i did end up with a leech on my foot, which ruined the mood! but it was worth it.

fabulous boots

2007-11-03T16:10:00.000-03:00

my BFF's and I delight in the scandalous and chic show Gossip Girl, and when Serena appeared on screen flaunting these gorgeous boots i could not help but desire them. a quick search online led me to Chinese Laundry and the fact that they were sold out across the country! however, i inquired further, and now i am on the backorder list with a friend. so we'll match- along with Gossip Girl lovers everywhere in North America.

visiting the relatives

2007-09-05T14:51:00.001-03:00

on the way to university we stopped in to visit some relatives we hadn't seen in a long time. they stuffed us full of food, and then we were off again, but not until we had snapped some very traditional grouped photos.i look a little angry - not sure why!

librarian no more

2007-08-31T22:59:00.001-03:00

the closing party for the summer reading program was a blinding success.here we have the champion reader: over 6,600 minutes this summer. attaboy!
some of my favorite children. but not all of them. two of the girls just showed up for the party.
on my last day of work the librarian wrote me a poem. here it is, in all its glory!
*
Just a little note of thanks
For all the work you've done
Your Summer Reading club of "Lost Worlds"
Was second to none!

Whether it was helping out of town visitors
To get on the Internet -
Or being very knowledgeable for Morgan
About Thomas the Train set!

For Olivia, Madeline, Ryder, Calvin, CJ, Carlee, Shannon, Alex, etc...
You went exploring with Gus and read lots (and lots) of stories
And never complained about weeding the (entire) bookshelves
And found most of the missing inventories.

You used your creative juices to design floats,
book and window displays
Crawled into a tent, had puppet shows, got dressed up
And survived the Albkinz craze.

But the summer couldn't be complete
Without giving you a tease
Dear Rachel...
"WHERE ARE YOUR KEYS?"
*
She also gave me a present consisting of seven key chains.
All in all it was a wonderful summer, and I loved being a librarian. But I am exhausted. Who knew it was so much work? and i owe the library $5.40 in overdue fines.

brand-new

2007-08-30T23:06:00.000-03:00

shades. cut. color. all new. improved?

beach bums

2007-08-30T22:38:00.000-03:00

the moon.

2007-08-30T22:31:00.000-03:00

in June. is a balloon. the moon, in August...

but what rhymes with August?

exhibition!

2007-08-23T20:07:00.000-03:00

a highlight of the summer. everyone loves the exhibition. I took in the excitement with two lovely little girls and my brother and sister. There is something intricately old fashioned about the whole thing, and I wouldn't miss it for the world.

the model boy looking up to the sky is my brother.

victory under a clearing sunset sky.

on parade!

2007-07-28T14:34:00.001-03:00

we went on a fishing boat for the very first time. Luke could not have been more excited. it was the parade of lights, so when it was dark all the boats turned on their Christmas lights and sailed around. quite fun!

Thoughts on fishing... In my opinion, as Dave Barry says: " Fishing is boring, unless you catch an actual fish, and then it is disgusting." " The charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of what is elusive but attainable, a perpetual series of occasions for hope" ~ John Buchan. " Nothing makes a fish bigger than almost being caught" ~Anonymous. Whatever is said, those who fish for a living are some of the hardest workers i know.

oh, canada

2007-07-06T21:23:00.000-03:00

i spent canada day weekend with my awesome roomie. no fireworks or glorious celebration, just a peaceful few days with a best friend. which is one of the most beautiful ways to spend your time.

my gorgeous best friend.

me. utterly happy.

a lovely old church we visited.

do they make doors like this anymore?

two peas in a pod.
Everyone hears what you say. Friends listen to what you say. Best friends listen to what you don't say.

It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them." (Ralph Waldo Emerson) "I do not wish to treat friendships daintily, but with the roughest courage. When they are real, they are not glass threads or frost-work, but the solidest thing we know." (Ralph Waldo Emerson) "Happiness is time spent with a friend and looking forward to sharing time with them again." (Lee Wilkinson)

i am twenty

2007-07-06T21:09:00.001-03:00

really. it's true.

happy birthday, lil brother

2007-06-24T20:53:00.000-03:00

what better way to celebrate my brother's eighteenth birthday and graduation than to post a collection of pictures from the weekend? all candid. he is all unknowing. i am so delighted to finally have some good pictures of him.
i was going to photoshop a girl into this next one ;)

this reminds me of when he was little, because he looks so sweet?

oh, my. Happy Birthday, Sam. I hope you won't ever find these pictures because I know you'd get rid of them.

reality

2007-06-15T13:54:00.000-03:00

sometimes you are trapped.
sometimes you are set free.
and sometimes you must step out into an unknown world.

a pile of shoes.

2007-06-14T22:18:00.000-03:00

a good friend sent me a list of things to photograph. including a pile of shoes. which i love. shoe quotes: if the shoe fits, wear it. the shoe that fits one person pinches another. I love to hear my Lord spoken of, and wherever I have seen the print of his shoe in the earth, there have I coveted to put mine also (John Bunyan). if the shoe fits, it's too expensive. funny that a pair of really nice shoes make us feel good in our heads - at the extreme opposite end of our bodies (Levende Waters).

my sister. my shoes.

2007-06-14T19:17:00.000-03:00

and this is only the beginning

2007-06-14T17:59:00.001-03:00

Hello.
Welcome.
These are a few of my favorite things.
in pictures.