I am Canadian

I have always enjoyed Canada Day and not just because it is a holiday but because it is a day when everyone seems in the mood to celebrate. It is a day where the red in the flag seems brighter and everyone seems prouder to be a Canadian. However, I’m not sure that those of us home-grown Canadians truly understand how blessed we are to be a Canadian.

Canada Day has been more special to me in recent years because the other half of our family became Canadian citizens just five years ago. There was a wonderful ceremony at the Confederation Building, well attended and a quick glance around the room let everyone see the new Newfoundland and Labrador that is emerging. It was a truly multi-cultural experience.

It was clear to me that everyone receiving citizenship was excited and proud. There were friends and in some cases family there to cheer them on and to share in this special occasion. It was no different for us. We sat there beaming with pride and soaking up every word. It was a wonderful way to celebrate Canada Day and later we continued that celebration with a gathering of many of our friends and family. I know it is a day that we will remember forever.

However, the road to that wonderful day wasn’t an easy one. There is a misconception that Canada’s doors are wide open for any and all to enter. This is not true. Immigration is a challenging and often intimidating process. It starts with the very difficult decision to leave your home country. For many I’m sure this decision doesn’t come easy. Political unrest and even war to those of us who have never experienced it might seem like the perfect reasons to go somewhere else but it just isn’t that simply. There are so many things to consider.

Think about all the little things that you may have struggled with when you took your last holiday; driving on the other side of the road; none of the same brands of beverages; ordering dinner in a different language but then a couple weeks later you’re back home again. Now think about spending the rest of your life in the place you holidayed, far from friends and family. For most people immigration is a forever thing.

My experience with the immigration process was somewhat secondhand but extremely enlightening as I watch from the sidelines; the visas; the paperwork, the interviews, more paperwork, additional interviews, the costs, the legal advice and the struggles to adjust to so many new things and of course the months and years of waiting and wading through the process . This is definitely not for the faint of heart.

I remember distinctly the summons to an interview in Buffalo and Detroit. We were informed that the children were required to be there at this interview. It was flight costs to Toronto for everyone. Then rent a vehicle and drive to Buffalo; not a preferred holiday destination; only to be told the children were NOT required at the interview. No one even apologized and there was no discount to cover the several hundreds of dollars of that we had spent to accommodate the original request.

Once back home we continued the waiting game and continued our struggles to get everyone settled into their new country. I will state right up front that the first year is the most difficult as well as the most exciting. It is full of firsts.

There was that first day of driving on the “right” side of the road. There were the kids second “first” day at school. There was purchasing the first vehicle in your new country and then the buying that first home, just to mention a few of the obvious but there are the things that are no so obvious. Going to the grocery store and not recognizing any of the brands on the shelf. What to buy and how long before I discover with one I will like and what about the favourite things from home that you just can’t find here…more adjustments.

I finally decided that the process takes so long so that when you finally are an official Canadian citizen you have been Canadianized. You don’t need directions to the Confederation Building where the ceremony takes place and you are more than accustomed the side of the road that you take to get there.

Then you celebrate. Like most births all the pain of getting there is quickly forgotten and everyone stands and sings the national anthem…mumbling the French part and feeling that incredible sense of belonging and proudly announcing “I am Canadian”.

Fish out of water

Every once in a while a memory flashes into your mind out of nowhere; bringing you face to face with an embarrassing moment in your life that you’d rather forget.

I had one of those just the other day, a moment that in hindsight was somewhere between completely hilarious and totally mortifying. It was hilarious because 30 years have passed; mortifying because I can still feel the confusion and the embarrassment of being trapped in the Toronto Transit Commission.

“What goes around comes around,” my grandmother would have rightly stated. As is often the case, it took me awhile before I got the message.

Growing up on an island like Twillingate brings with it some special skills: I could moor a boat, cut out cod tongues and was nearly an expert at taking a sea cat off a hook. So, when the come-from-away teenagers came to visit as they did almost every summer, I took a little too much pleasure in watching them struggle with the things that I thought were part of everyday life.

If I had only known!

When the time came for me to head off to the big city in search of work; I had no idea I was about to live out the city/country mouse story of my childhood. Arriving in Toronto was both exciting and terrifying. Everything was new and much bigger.

After spending my first night in my new apartment I was ready to explore. My roommate called me to join her for coffee not far from where she worked. I can still remember the specific instructions she gave me: Make sure to put the chain lock on the door before you leave and at the Kipling Subway Station take the westbound train, then transfer to the No. 10 bus which I was assured stopped right in front of the Second Cup Coffee shop.

I remember repeating her instructions over and over so that when I was ready to leave the apartment and start my first real adventure into the streets of Toronto I’d get it right.

First; put the chain lock in place. Sounded simple enough, but after carefully inspecting the lock up and down I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how it worked. I stood outside the door for the longest time struggling to squirm my hand inside to put the latch in place. It was a total mystery to me. I finally did it, but darn near broke my wrist. The thought that I would have to do that every time I went out left me thinking that I’d be spending a lot of time apartment bound.

The next stop was the subway station. I carefully approached the ticket window and passed over my money in exchange for a funny looking coin. I was clever enough to know the coin was the key to get me aboard the train but before I could completely figure it out the person behind me impatiently told me what to do. I obediently dropped the coin in the slot and moved through the turnstile, which is when the fun began.

Finding the westbound train platform wasn’t so difficult and almost immediately there was a train. I felt total relief as I boarded and sat down. I watched carefully for my stop, and there indeed was Kipling Station. I immediately got off and went looking for the buses. I found them soon enough but couldn’t figure out where to buy a ticket. I looked and looked and watched people come from the subway and board the buses but I couldn’t see where they purchased their tickets. There was no wicket, no automatic coin dispenser, and no machine of any sort.

I was trapped in the TTC.

I eventually stopped someone and asked the brave question: “How do I get on the bus?”

“Don’t you have your transfer?” the person replied.

No, I didn’t. I didn’t even know what a transfer was, an important piece of information that my city-mouse roommate failed to mention.

Back I went to the eastbound platform, back to where I started my journey, got my transfer and started all over again. The moral of the story is that every once in a while when life gets downright confusing and the turns in the road leave you bewildered and frustrated, take comfort in the fact that there’s always a bus waiting.

Trick is to backtrack and start again. That’s the ticket.

Take a Hike

Are you up for the challenge? Well I thought I was but I guess I didn’t really know what the challenge was. Does that sound familiar? How many times have you gotten caught thinking something was a piece of cake (cheesecake that is) only to discover, much too late that you were so very wrong.

Admitting that I’m wrong isn’t one of my strong suits. To be totally honest I find it darn right difficult so when I agreed to hike the Long Range Mountains with a really good friend and outdoor enthusiast from Ontario I had no idea what I was agreeing to and seemingly no interest in knowing the difference. It just sounded like fun and that was all the mattered to me – least for that moment.

I was told to prepare. Prepare for what I thought. Sure, I’ve hiked many times in my life and wasn’t this my neck of the woods plus it was months before the trek and plenty of time to pull it together. Week after week my friend would call to remind me that I needed to take practice hikes with a backpack that that we would need certain supplies.

I dragged the backpack out of storage borrowed supplies from friends and each time I explained that I was going to hike the Long Range Mountains I would received that same response “Really?”. “Yes” I would reply confidently and head home to my ever growing stockpile of camping goodies. As it got closer to the time for my friend to arrive I was feeling more and more excited. So excited in fact I never noticed the tentative way in which person after person would respond to my news of hiking the Long Range Mountains.

The drive across the island was picture perfect. As we got closer to Gros Morne National Park my friend explains that before we hike we have to check in with the Park Warden. You have got to be kidding, whatever for? Was I in for a surprise!

We waited patiently for the Warden who was a quiet pleasant man that seemed overly intrigued with us and our quest. He pulled out a large map that reminded me of something straight out of my grade nine geography book.  “Can you read a topo map?” My friend replied a quick yes and I figured now was not a good time to say anything.

The Warden began to explain that the boat on Western Brook Pond would drop us at the dock at the base of a small water falls. That didn’t seem too bad…a boat…and dock and a small water falls. What came next wasn’t as comforting. He suggested that we hike up the left of the falls because there was a moose carcass on the right side and the bears had been feeding off it. Now he really had my attention but before I could say anything he pointed on the map where the first campsite was located.

Much better - a campsite! I listened as he explained the locations of several other campsites along the way and slowly started to relax again but not for long. We required permits and the hike would probably take 3 – 4 days – piece of cake I thought. But he continued; if your permits are not deposited in the box at the end of the trail by day 7 they would dispatch a search and rescue team. It took a couple of moments for that to sink in but suddenly a little voice inside whispered “You better start talking now because I think you may just be in over your head.”

Taking my time so not to appear alarmed or daft I asked a simple question; “how many people will we meet at the first campsite?” His reply still rings in my ears. “None. IF you complete the hike you will be the first to do so this year.” To which I replied “Really?”

I was speechless for one of the few times in my life and we were issued our permits and sent on our way.  The only thing running through my head was “pride goes before a fall” or being eaten by a bear. Still it was the next morning before I backed down from the Long Range Mountain challenge although the boat ride was pleasant.  I think I might be ready for that hike now, any takers?

How Not to Wear Panty Hose!

I almost died. From embarrassment, that is, and even today when I think about it I still get that’s sinking feeling. But then, within seconds, I laugh at the memory of it. Still, for a young aspiring marketing executive it was an hour or so of living hell.

I was living and working in downtown Toronto and had just found my way into the world of marketing and communications. We were working on a new fall promotion for a client and I was tasked with meeting their national marketing director to review the details. I was more than pleased at the opportunity, which was scheduled for 9 a.m. on a Monday morning.

Sleep was difficult Sunday night. I remember lying in bed going over and over the information in my mind, until finally drifting of into a deep sleep. When I awoke the next morning I immediately knew I was in trouble.

My alarm hadn’t gone off.

Damn. It was already 8 a.m. and it would take at least 30 to 40 minutes to drive to the meeting. I didn’t have much time or many choices. I grabbed the outfit I had worn the day before – navy pants, light-colored blouse and navy blazer. It would do just fine. I jumped in my car and flew through the morning traffic.

I pulled into the parking lot at precisely 8:50 a.m. Perfect. I wanted to make a good impression. The receptionist showed me to the marketing director’s office. It was impressive. There was a large mahogany desk and wonderful leather chairs. I made a mental note to have an office like it someday, but we were soon down to business.

I leaned over to collect files from my briefcase when something caught my eye.

“Oh my God,” I thought to myself. Hanging from my pants were the panty hose I had worn with the outfit the day before. Oh no. I started to sweat and feel a little sick.

“Coffee?”

“Yes, I’d love a cup.”

That might buy me some time, but no such luck. The national marketing director buzzed the receptionist and she brought in the coffee.

“Focus,” I told myself, but distracted I was. Then I had a brilliant idea. If I stepped on the end of the panty hose that was sticking out and gently pulled, maybe I could get them out that way. I could then tuck the panty hose into my briefcase and no one would be the wiser.

To summarize the situation: I was presenting to a major client, drinking coffee and trying to free panty hose from my pants.

It wasn’t my day.

The plan seemed simple enough, but the execution was less than flawless. As it happened, the panty hose were occupying both legs of my pants and freeing them was impossible, no matter how nonchalantly I pulled.

I was actually making things worse. I had only succeeded in dragging about six inches more of the panty hose from the pants, hardly the fashion statement I was trying to make.

The presentation continued. It went well and the marketing director didn’t seem to be aware of my personal struggle. That was good, because I was only catching every other word and feeling sicker as each moment went by.

Time for plan B: stuffing the panty hose further up my pant legs. Yes, that could work. I casually pushed my chair back a little from the desk, exchanging ideas and taking notes as I went. Then I crossed my legs so that I was closer to those damn panty hose. There, I could reach. At that point I was very grateful for the mahogany desk, which was shielding me from total embarrassment.

Stuffing the panty hose back into my pants worked better than trying to pull them out and finally there was nothing showing. What relief, and the meeting was almost over.

I slowly put all of my files back into my briefcase and thought about my options. Was there a washroom close by? No.

I had no choice but to take slow, deliberate steps towards the exit. The hallway seemed longer on the way out and I walked much slower than normal.

Concentrating, I remember feeling the panty hose slipping. I was at the reception desk when I felt them starting to escape.

Finally, I was out of the building. The panty hoses were slipping more by then. When I got to the car the panty hose were actually dragging on the ground. I quickly jumped into my car and tugged and tugged until those blasted panty hose were free.

Since then, I check the legs of my pants before every presentation.

Super Mom hits the snooze

No one can ever accuse me of being a morning person. I certainly don’t jump out of the bed and bid the day a cheery “hello”. No, I’m definitely a hit the snooze button several times kind of gal and I make no apologies for the fact that I prefer the quiet of late night to the tranquility of early morning. That might account for how and why my mind was able to trick me that morning a few years back.

That night ended like so many of my mid-winter nights, writing emails into the wee hours of the morning, making a list of all the things I would like to get to the next day knowing that many of them would probably go undone and taking the time to appreciate the sound of the telephone not ringing.

Like most moms I know, sleep is never far away once I hit the pillow and always as I drift off I think about the next morning’s routine…the alarm sounds. I hit the snooze button once – 10 more glorious minutes. The alarm sounds. I hit the snooze button again. Another 10 minutes but not so sound. The alarm sounds. Just in time for the morning school report.

Listening to the morning school report is a must any day but during the winter it is critical. “Today there is a blizzard. All schools and most businesses are closed.” Wow, I hadn’t even heard that we were expecting a storm. Typical, I never seem to have a handle on the weather or my grocery shopping. Oh well, only one real option, roll over and continue to sleep. I have learned to never argue with the school report.

Another hour goes by and my son creeps into the room. “Mom, are you getting up. We’ll be late for school.” I explain, “There’s a snow storm and school is cancelled. You go back to bed and we’ll check the news again later. Okay.”  What a welcome relief, a couple extra hours of sleep never go astray. Finally, time to face the day no matter what. I take a quick peek outside. Strange, it does seem to be so stormy, must be blowing through quickly.

Oh yeah, super moms feed their children breakfast. Considering we had the time bacon and eggs seem the best choice. Why, this is a treat, a leisurely breakfast in the middle of the week. I can only imagine what a whole bunch of days like this would be. Oh well, let’s just enjoy this one for a moment but only for a moment before the darn telephone rings. 

That’s strange, it’s the office. Who would be calling from there this morning? Am I okay? Sure, I’m okay, why wouldn’t I be okay. I didn’t show up for work and I didn’t call. Well, considering there is a snow storm why was that so unusual. No snow storm? No schools closed? All businesses are open. No way. I listened to this morning’s school report.

The children are hearing my conversation. No one is quite sure what is going on most certainly not me. I’m hearing the “Twilight Zone” theme music in the background and wonder if life hasn’t caught up with me in a big way.  Another more careful check outside confirmed the obvious, there was no snow storm.

So, what really happened? I can only offer a couple of possibilities; I forgot to set the alarm and my mind went through my morning routine without me. I think that is only fair considering how many mornings I go through my morning routine without my mind or maybe I did set my alarm and turned it off instead of hitting the snooze allowing a runaway dream to take over from there.

My children remind me often about that very strange morning. They are not shy about telling there friends about how they got to pip off school because Mom dreamed there was a snow storm. Me, I just smile at how my mind or maybe body got the better of me. And many mornings now when I hit the snooze button I wonder will it be 10 glorious minutes or a morning of leisure?

Hockey Starlets - 2005

This was written in early 2005 but it still one of my favourites:

Monday night hockey? Yes, it was suppose to be the last night of the season so I excitedly pulled into the parking lot (a little late as usual) only to see 22 women standing around looking anxious.

“Great; I’m not really that late,” was my first thought, followed by, “What the heck is happening?”

Turns out that the sign in front of the arena for the past month so announcing “Ice on until the 25^th” was not so. What a disappointment. For months the routine of Monday night hockey was something that I looked forward to, craved even.

Ice hockey you say? You bet.

It’s one of the fastest growing female sports in Canada and I’m hooked. It is hard to believe that before October of 2002 I had never really played ice hockey. I still snicker at the reactions I get as I dash from meetings with a quick apology: “Got to go. I have to be on the ice in 30 minutes”.

The best was going to trade-in a helmet that didn’t quite fit. I stood at the counter explaining to the salesperson that it was too narrow and that I wanted to trade it for a slightly wider model.

He listened carefully, nodded, looked around and said “so where is the young fellow?”

At first I was confused, but quickly responded “that’ll be me”.

So, what’s this all about; the idea of a women at my age and particular point in life picking up the game of hockey.  

Not a simple question to answer but I am certain it is not for the beer drinking in the dressing room afterward. (Sorry guys we don’t get that)

We all rush to the stadiums and, once the game is done, rush to our frantic lives. Maybe that is part of the answer; for about 50 minutes we’re free on the ice. Free to chase that silly black disk around and around; racing up and down the ice and occasionally getting that incredible opportunity to score a goal. There just isn’t a better feeling than seeing that puck pass the goal line and know that it came off the end of your stick. I know because I can proudly say that I have had that experience twice — once for my team and once for the other team.

Does the game get rough? Anytime you have 12 people on the ice all wanting the same thing — control of the puck — anything can happen.

The recreational league is non-contact, that is, if you don’t count the times when a player just can’t stop.  I love the pick up games we play for fun outside the league where we spice it up a little and friendly rivalry gives way to the odd bit of one-upmanship.

There the moves of some of the more skillful player are to be admired and, for a novice like me, envied. Most of us don’t shy away from the corners and an easy turnover is the last thing on anyone’s mind. It’s all in good fun and so far the only injury I have received is the mild bruising of my pride from time to time.

And we have referees. Some people think women playing recreational hockey don’t need referees; not so. We take our hockey seriously and are just as frustrated when the off-sides don’t get called or the icing call that we desperately want gets waved off. I do know that since I have started to play the game I have an increased respect for the role of the referee. Can you imagine having 12 women telling you all at once what they think the call should have been?

Today, I can’t picture my life without hockey although it will July before the summer games start so until then I have hung up my skates. I don’t know if the almost over night craze for women’s hockey some how changes the game but I would like to think that I have discover something truly special. Whether it is the friendships that develop naturally through playing any team sports or whether it is the fact that I feel great when I get off the ice I know that hockey is now a part of me. I’m not a great player, I’m not even a good player but by golly I have heart and an helmet the fits properly so I’m playing and I invite you give it a shot - oops no pun intended.

 

 

Letting Go

Early in my career as a mother, my own mother’s advice to me simply stated that the greatest gift I could give my children was independence. That seemed easy enough considering they were only young at the time. I was actually quite open to my children being independent. From potty training to feeding themselves I eagerly cheered; “bring it on”. Who doesn’t want to see their little ones conquer all those milestones that we have so carefully marked as important; first tooth, first word, and first step? We encourage each and every one of these as if our own worth as a parent is measured by their triumphant execution. However my mother forgot to tell me that to give this wonderful gift of dependence I would have to “let go”.

Those early years are so amazing. Each and every day brings something new and from our vantage point as parents it is even more exciting as we anticipate what is next. I was no different from many other young mothers, reveling in it all until that dreaded “first day of school.” Sure I was committed to this child’s independence but did he really have to walk across the street into that schoolyard every morning by himself for that to happen? It is a good thing that day one at school allows every parent to pretend that they travel to school with their children just to be a part of one of those “firsts” never once admitting how totally unprepared they are for this first experience of “letting go”.

Once I survived my “first day of school” I heaved a big sigh of relief thinking that’s behind me. Oh no, two years later the very same feelings and all the same fears. It was then that I began to realize why my mother felt it so necessary to share the importance allowing independence with me. This is no easy thing and it doesn’t get any easier.

I graduated from the walk across the road to the primary school to a bus to the elementary school. I know it sounds simple enough, oh no. It is scary. There are new and even bigger dangers lurking around every corner; older and bigger kids traveling alongside your son or daughter. Each time that I felt the urge to pile them into my car and drive them I would hear my mother’s words, take a deep breath and carry on.

I now have had many years of practicing this concept of “letting go” and my kids and I squarely disagree on how well I have performed. I give myself an “A” for all the times I choked back my fears and allowed them to face the challenges of growing up. They on the other hand would probably give me a “C” for all the times I wasn’t ready for their next steps.

I still believe that what my mother said was so true and I tried to always consider whether the decisions I made on behalf of my children held them back or held them up. Either way I would like to pass my mother’s advice along to you because at some time in the process of growing up children will need to make decisions for themselves and they need to know how.

So, here I am at probably the most difficult stage of this process of “letting go”. With four young adults ranging from 19 – 22, one getting ready to graduate from university in this spring, and three not far behind, they all now ask for the car keys and each definitely believe that a curfew is only for me and the dog. I find myself facing more “firsts” than ever. As the optimist that I am I keep hoping for it to get easier but no such luck. I still struggle with letting them make choices that I know from my experience they will regret. Exams and reports are perfect examples of me taking a far too active role in their decisions on when and how long to study. Then there are those things can have an even bigger impact like backing out of the driveway too fast…far too fast. (I hope you are reading this.)

I think I’m finally getting it, not that either of the four in this house would entirely agree with me. I on the other hand am quite proud of the fact that I am more excited than scared of the next couple of years where each leaving home will be inevitable. 

So, thanx Mom for that great advice.