Family Lines

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Tag: Calgary (page 4 of 7)

Come out to the festival

Me at the podium.

At the podium for Friends and Mentors: Sharing Experiences. A behind-the-scenes look at TMC.

Yesterday I was at the Calgary library talking about my experiences teaching memoir writing workshops to participants from the Drop-In Centre, Alpha House and Women’s Centre. My presentation was one of five and part of the This Is My City Festival 2015.

I’m a volunteer with This is My City (TMC). TMC matches artists with people living at the margins of society and together we write, dance, sing and create art. I run memoir writing sessions and get to hear many different anecdotes from the homeless and those at risk of homelessness.

The festival is free and there are many things to see and hear and do this upcoming week. From art exhibits to found poetry to a photo walk, you’re invited to join us: http://bit.ly/1FN3j1R. It’s a great way to see, hear, read and listen about the people most of us have forgotten.

Found poetry,.

TMC: Found Poetry.

Whip it real good

caramel caffè macchiato.

A Starbucks caramel caffè macchiato.

We’ve all had those days or weeks or months or years. When things are tough. When things aren’t going smoothly. When everything you do ends up on the proverbial floor. Today though, I’m finding humour in the unfunny. Turning the tables on the rough stuff and looking through the gloominess and into the sunshine.

During a particularly bad week, I went to Starbucks. At least here I get exactly what I want: a non-fat, half-sweet chai latte with a tart and tasty slice of lemon loaf on the side. The barista who took my order was an acquaintance. I don’t know anything about her except her name and she’s a student. We made some small talk as I hand over my loaded gift card to be swiped.

“It says zero,” she says.

Oh… My face heats up like the milk being steamed for my drink. I madly check all my pockets looking for change, for a piece of plastic, anything. Nope. Nothing. I took the wrong gift card. And I didn’t have any money or a debit or credit card on me.

Crap.

“This is embarrassing,” I say to the barista as I step towards the door. “I’ll have to skip the drink today.”

“It’s already made so don’t worry about it.”

Isn’t that nice.

“Thank you!”

I grab my drink and go to put a lid on it. When I look down at the hot beverage it’s not what I ordered. It’s a caramel caffè macchiato..and I don’t drink coffee. However, I really can’t send a free latte back. Oh well. There’s whip cream on top…and I like that.

 

Making friends

Thursday and Lisa.

Thursday and her friend Lisa.

I’m missing a family member today. Thursday, our cat, died last week. I wrote about how I met her a few weeks ago but I hadn’t had a chance to post her story. Here is it now.

She’s orange and white. Yes, a female and that’s unusual for an orange cat. Her name is Thursday and she’s 19 years old. And yes, that’s old for a cat found on the street several years ago.

Thursday has a beige bump on her nose that’s a different colour then the rest of her pink nose. She wears a shiny gold collar that’s a bit bold for a senior. When I first met Thursday five years ago, she was just the guy who I was dating’s cat.

Back then, she was plump and her fur was shiny. She ran here and there and jumped up and down. In the summer, she hung out on the balcony and watched the birds. She never tried to leap into the air and catch any of them. She’s too dignified for that. She’s not too elegant to beg for cheese though. She gets a piece every morning and evening and chows down on it quickly and then looks for more.

Five years ago, she didn’t really have much to do with me. She would glare at me from her spot on her favourite chair and then close her eyes again. Blocking me from her world.

When I moved in with my boyfriend Thursday would move away from me whenever I sat next to her on the chesterfield. She didn’t like me being in her space. She especially didn’t like me sitting beside her dad. That space was reserved for her and not me.

Getting treats on Christmas '14.

Getting treats on Christmas ’14.

Gradually as the months passed, she began to sit near me. Then next to me. Then on me. But only when her dad was not around. We spend many of our days together as I work from home a lot. She likes to supervise my writing and keeps me on deadline. Okay, her deadline. When it’s 6 p.m. she makes sure I know it’s time to give her treats and cheese.

Now she is having trouble springing onto the couch and is losing weight. Her fur no longer catches the light but is dull and coarse. When my husband and I sit on the couch Thursday wants cuddles from me. Even though her dad is right there. She loves me and I love her and I couldn’t imagine a day without her.

Please excuse me

note.

A collection of reflections

cover_threeRita H. Araujo is a client of mine. I published her collection of reflections on the various Mysteries of the Rosary. The book, The Rosary and Global Evangelism, is not-for-profit and if you purchase a copy you are only paying for the printing and shipping costs. She also made the book into a PDF and it’s free to download here: TheRosaryandGlobalEvangelism

To buy a copy of The Rosary and Global Evangelism, go here: http://blur.by/1yn6bQK

This book is $ 9.03 CAD plus shipping.

Rita hopes and prays her book will serve as a tool to aid in global evangelization.

Target, Zellers and Grade 7

bus.

Here comes the bus!

I walked past some Calgary seniors last Thursday lamenting the loss of Target. It sounded like they were truly upset. However, one woman asked, “What was wrong with Zellers? I miss that place.” I have to agree with her. While Target and Zellers are only two of the many retailers fading away, the Mom and Pop clothing stores that used to be open on our main streets are almost all gone. But not from some of our memories. Target’s closing caused a very buried story to resurface.

Living in rural Nova Scotia meant my two younger sisters and I had to take the bus to and from school. We waited for the bus to pick us up in all types of weather: wind, rain, sleet or snow and had to be prepared to fight these elements. Therefore, from November to March, we were dressed in snow gear.

In the fall of Grade 7 my mom took us shopping in Windsor, Nova Scotia. It was in a family-run clothing store that I met and fell in love with a matching ski jacket and pants: bright yellow and puffy with a faux-leather finish. The coat had a big late 80s asymmetrical collar and a large and shiny brass belt – that buckled in the front. Fabulous! My middle sister got the same suit in blue.

These were expensive purchases at the time and my mother told me the yellow wasn’t a “practical colour.” I guess that meant it wasn’t flattering. There was nothing she could say to turn my head from the sunshine suit. It was mine.

“Looking good!” I thought to myself when I got home and tried on my new winter gear again. The trousers were slightly flared at the bottom to fit over my boots and the jacket cinched nicely at the waist so I did not appear all one shape: blobish. I wished I didn’t have to take my snow and ice clothing off – ever. I wanted everyone to admire my spiffy duds.

Soon after getting my new gear, I was outside Wolfville Junior High School waiting for the bus to take me home. There was a crowd of country kids in the parking lot and I was the only one in a gorgeous and swanky ski suit. I was standing with my friend Angela talking about, what do you think? Boys. Then the guy I had a crush on, a townie, walked by.

Wolfville High.

Scene of the teenage humiliation.

I certainly remember his name because Angela began yelling it at the top of her lungs.

“Steve! Steve! The girl in the yellow ski suit likes you!”

When he turned around she pointed at me. Which she didn’t have to do, as I was the only one in a bright yellow, top to bottom, snowsuit. My face was bright red.

The snowbanks around the school were piled high and I wanted to dive into one and bury myself. But shame still would have found me, as my yellow snowsuit would have been a beacon to light the way. I wanted to rip off the garish trousers and throw the stupid jacket to the wind to be carried far, far, far away from me. Oh the teenage humiliation!

Angela finally shut up and Steve kept walking away. But I was left with hatred for my previously glamourous outfit. From then on I dreaded wearing it and being identified as “The girl in the yellow ski suit with the crush on Steve.”

Of course my parents weren’t going to let me buy something else and I was too big to trade suits with my sister. I just made sure every time I came and left school Steve was nowhere in sight. Even though you could see me coming from a mile away.

Top five Christmas 2013 memories

Zurich.

Zurich.

Last Christmas 2013 was amazing. Fantastic. Superuber wonderful. It should have been: my husband and I went on our honeymoon to Europe. We went to Switzerland and Norway. Today I’m listing our top five trip moments.

 #1. Having our luggage arrive with us on our numerous flights across Canada and Europe

I’ve flown both Air Canada and WestJet and both carriers have managed to screw up my baggage on various North American trips. Imagine my surprise when our bags made it to our destination in Oslo, Norway despite plane delays.

Our flight originated in Zurich, Switzerland and we had to switch planes in Berlin. The Air Berlin flight was late leaving Zurich and we thought the gate for our connecting Air Berlin flight to Oslo would be nearby.

Nope. Not a chance. We had to change terminals!

We had about 15 minutes to get from Point A to Point B and a bunch of smoking and slow-walking airport people in front of us. We also had to go through security…again. With a long line ahead of us it was all we could do not to push through to the front. But we made it on the plane, keeping the reputation of polite Canadians intact but imagining the worst for our luggage.

To see it roll down the conveyor belt in the Norwegian airport was an awesome sight.

#2. The Spengler Cup

I play hockey and watch hockey: both NHL and the Spengler. In my twenties in Nova Scotia

Vaillant Arena in Davos. Look at those beams.

Vaillant Arena in Davos. Look at those beams.

we would tune into the European hockey tournament Boxing Day and I would think how silly the uniforms were with all the advertising on them. But it didn’t take away from the play under the magnificent cathedral ceilings of the Vaillant Arena in Davos, Switzerland.

Being in the arena was a dream come true. I got to see lots of good hockey and enjoyed seeing the Red Army take to the ice. Alex Radulov is a fantastic player even if he gets tired after 30 seconds of having the puck.

#3. The view from our friends’ house

Two generous friends allowed us to stay at their beautiful mountain home in Fanas, Switzerland while they were away for Christmas. Fanas is spectacular and photos don’t do it justice. We spent New Year’s Eve there and it was a sight to see (and hear).

View in Fanas.

That’s just one side of the amazing view.

Fireworks went off up and down the valley and from peak to peak for miles. The sky was illuminated from 11 p.m. until almost dawn. Church bells rang out not just at midnight but for hours and hours. The whole experience was just like out of a story book.

 #4. Seeing friends

I worked as a sport reporter at the Vancouver 2012 Olympic/Paralympic Games in Whistler. I met and lived with people from around the world. In Switzerland and Norway I got the chance to meet up with some European friends again, a month before the 2014 winter games.

 #5. Norway

Family_Lines_2013_three

In Oslo at the Akershus Castle and Fortress. This part sort of reminded me of the Halifax Citadel.

I felt at home in Norway as did my husband. The country’s capital, Oslo, is easy to get around in and there’s much to see and do. We took buses to museums and the subway to the outskirts of the city where there’s a quaint and cozy restaurant called the Frognerseteren. I had a delicious meal of fish cakes (which aren’t like Maritime fish cakes but actually pancakes with fish in them) and my husband had an elk burger. We had our lunch beside a roaring bright fire. Truly a meal (and price) to remember.

This Christmas will be decidedly duller. Calgary is home though and we have lots of friends here even though we’ll be far away from family.

Merry Christmas everyone.

Cooking up dreams

Marché Mövenpick in Toronto.

Marché Mövenpick in Toronto.

Walking past a downtown Calgary restaurant the other day I smelled something good. What wafted through a restaurant door, hitting my nostrils on the cool winter day, was a mixture of inviting and warm comfort food: tomatoes, fresh bread and a hint of cinnamon. Maybe not something you might think of together but for me it combined into a memory of the Marché Mövenpick in Toronto.

The Marché was just off Yonge Street and near Front Street, close to Lake Ontario. The restaurant was where my friends and I would go on chilly December Saturdays or freezing February evenings after dancing the night away in the late nineties. We were young and going to Ryerson University, taking demanding second degrees in fields like journalism and landscape architecture. We had the world by the throat. Ready to go once the gates of academia opened, letting us out to pursue anything and everything like ravenous monsters with wide-open jaws.

We were hungry. Hungry for life and hungry for a good, hearty (and cheap) meal. That’s what we would get at the Mövenpick. It was cafeteria-type place with lots of food stations so we could each get our fix of whatever we wanted to eat. From bruschetta to steak to waffles, it was there for the feasting. The three of us – me, Mo and R – would stash our mittens and heavy winter coats at a hard-to-get table and then go our separate ways in search of what would make us smile.

I truly can’t remember what I ate. Just that it was delicious. It was the atmosphere of the place I recall best. It was always a bit dark in the restaurant, dim, and with the low lighting it was dream-like for me. We were hovering in a different world, one that helped us escape the realities of school life for an hour or two.

It was always warm and cozy in the Marché. We abandoned our scarves and extra sweaters and toques in the tropical, lively restaurant, almost floating around we were so light. Unused to being weightless without all our winter gear holding us down to earth.

apartment.

Saying “hello” to a former apartment in Toronto. I lived here for a time during my Ryerson years.

Once back at our table, each with a different meal, our conversation would continue from 20 minutes before. Picking up from where we had left off before we sat down. We talked about boys, our classes, boys in our classes and eventually, our future careers. For me I would be a newspaper reporter, hopefully a foreign correspondent. Little did I know then that journalism would eventually seize up and stall. Forcing me to find another future. But at the time, the time at the Marché, everything was wide open. There were no limits. Everything was blue sky ahead.

The Mövenpick was where life was fresh and dreams were cooked along with the tomatoes and bread. When I smelled that familiar Marché smell the other day, many years and restaurants later, it sent me back to that time. I thought about how some of my dreams from then had come true, while others hadn’t. But life has turned out just the way I wanted.

Sacrifice

crosses.

Field of Crosses in Calgary: http://www.fieldofcrosses.com/

Dressing like a “gangsta”

pen.For the past four weeks I’ve been spending some time at the Calgary Drop-In and Rehab Centre teaching a memoir writing workshop. Every Wednesday morning for about an hour a few people write around a table in the midst of a busy room buzzing with conversation and movement and a movie blaring on the TV in the corner. It’s not hard to block out the distractions: my participants are keen on learning how to craft their stories and ask a lot of questions.

The workshop is offered through This is My City (TMC). TMC is a non-profit society that brings art and people together no matter their income bracket or social status. As a TMC volunteer I’ve been offering my four-week memoir session to homeless and detox shelters for about two years now. Last week was my last trip to the Drop-In this fall.

We talked about using description, show: don’t tell, in our stories. For example: Janice was very angry. That’s telling. Janice was waving her fists in the air and her face was very red. That’s showing. Description paints the scene for the reader by proving details that appeal to the senses using the senses. What do you see? What do you smell? What do you hear? How do you feel? These bring a world to life in your story instead of just telling a reader what he or she should be experiencing.

I asked my Drop-In participants to describe something. One man decided to illustrate himself with words. Here is his piece:

I am a large teddy bear on steroids with long curly hair, a weathered looking face with an unwanted belly that travels in front, defying my efforts at reduction. This belly laughs at me, “Hah, hah!” it says. “Try and lose me, my friend.”

“I will lose you,” I retort, “one day.”

When I am in decent shape I dress “gangsta.” I dress in Ray-Ban, True Religion, FUBU. I look good, sexy. I’ve been taught to do that. I like the look.

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