Tonight

Tonight, I am in the house alone. Andrew took the kids to Cubs and afterwards to a friend's house where they are sleeping over.

Tonight, I am working late to make up for taking two unexpected days off. It's March Break, and we decided to head into our capital city for a mini break. I took my laptop, somehow convincing myself I would find time to do a bit of work, but seriously, who was I kidding?

Tonight, I completed final edits on a manuscript. Edits I will look at again tomorrow in the light of day to make sure nothing slipped past my tired brain.

Tonight, I am preparing for classes tomorrow. I want to discuss the influence of Russian writers on 19th and 20th century fiction, and my memory is a little rusty. But as I get into it, it comes back to me, and I remember. It makes me sad and happy. Sad that so much of what we learn gets lost, but happy that it isn't really lost and if we dust it off, it's still there somewhere.

Tonight, I am ignoring the detritus that is my house after a hasty dinner, a bunch of unpacked and repacked suitcases, and a rushed evening, not to mention a week of kids being home.

Tonight, the only sound is the thrum of the washing machine, and the faint strains of Sergei Rachmaninoff's piano playing on the stereo (inspiration for the Russian literature).

Tonight, I am feeling a bit chilled, and am drinking hot tea.

Tonight, I am looking forward to a good night's sleep in my own bed.

Transition

Where there should be fields, there are lakes.

Where there was a merrily burning wood stove, there are ashes.

Where there was ice and snow, there are patches of grass and pavement.

Where there were clean floors, there are muddy tracks and doggy footprints.

We are in Transition. Winter is bowing out, none too gracefully.

It's messy and soggy and damp and grubby.

But we love it.

Spring is coming.

Coffee shops

I am sitting here at The Grind, a downtown coffee shop that, incidentally sells great panini lunches and conveniently has wireless internet. I just finished making grammar fun (I hope - did you know ghoti spells fish?) for my college comms class, and normally I'd be heading home to edit. But Anna won her class speaking competition and is participating in the school competition today at 1:30, and she has invited me to go. Since I am not going home only to turn around and come back (the joys of living in the country), I thought I'd spend an hour editing here instead.

Except....that's not what I am doing, is it.

And why not? Because I am nosy, and I'm far more interested in the people around me than I am in working. It's very distracting. Those three in the corner...business colleagues, or old friends out for a long-overdue lunch. And the man by the fireplace...in for a coffee because he's retired and this is a nice place to get away for an hour, or because he has nowhere else to go? The two young girls in thigh high leather boots and short skirts...trendy entrepreneurs or best friends skipping class?

Oh, I don't eavesdrop - I am above that - but snippets of conversation do float across the rom from time to time, and it fascinates me, probably more than it should, to hear what people are talking about, and to try and piece together not who they are, but who they could be. There is potential in everyone. It is no wonder writers write in coffee shops.

I've always had this fascination with cafe's. The Green Bean in Halifax was the first one I was introduced to back when I first spent summers in that amazing city with the navy. People played chess in the corners, and there was organic fair trade coffee way, way, WAY before it was mainstream. And artsy or subversive student newspapers full of idealism. Loved that spot, though I was never edgy enough to really fit in. The Cave too - for late night coffee and cheesecake where we talked about philosophy and politics deep into the night by the light of dripping wax candles in ancient wine bottles. Do people still do that? It seems so long ago.

Or the little coffee house (can't recall it's name) on Duckworth STreet in Saint Johns, NFLD, where I went every morning for two weeks to drink their strong house blend, eat a blueberry muffin, and write while I was in the city on an exercise.

Cafe Du Monde in Quebec City. The Bagel place in Kitsilano, Vancouver (where I first had bagels covered in baked-in asiago cheese - Mmm!) So many great coffee shops. So many great places to sit and people watch.

And write.

Emergency

Late this afternoon, I sliced the top of my right index finger open on a sharp can lid while I was sorting the recycling.

Crap, that hurt.

Now I have cut myself cooking numerous times. But I knew right away this was something bigger. Maybe it was the blood running down my finger and into the white sink; maybe the flapping skin; maybe just the absolute moment of agony. I ran my hand under cold water, grabbed paper towel and wraped my finger up in it. Classic first aid. The kids were doing homework and asking me questions. Quesitons I did not answer. Instead - and why I cannot explain - I found it comforting to walk in circles around the kitchen, clutching my finger, and pausing every couple of laps to run under the cold water. It numbed the pain.

And then I started to feel faint.

I've cut my finger open, it's bleeding, and I'm going to faint, I announced, making my way giddily into the living room to the couch.

I lay on the couch feeling the sweat of shock over my skin, and the room began to fade in and out. And there were voices.

Will she die? (Grace)
No! (Erik, scathingly). Her eyes are opening.
We should put her in the recovery position. (Grace)
We should apply pressure (Anna)
Can we put her in the recovery position? (Grace)
Get some bandaids and paper towel (Erik)
I could stitch it up. (Anna)
No! (Erik, scathingly)
She could choke on her tongue. We should put her in the... (Grace)
She doesn't need the recovery position until she passes out (Erik)
You won't die, Mom (Grace, rather cheerfully)

Good to know the first aid training they did at Cubs paid off. They sat there, Anna clasping my finger to staunch the flow of blood; Grace touching my forhead to see how hot I was, and trying to convince the others to let her practice the recovery position; and Erik taking charge and telling me it would be okay. And gradually the room receded and stabilized again. They gave me fresh paper towel, a dry towel to wrap around it, and a hot cup of sweet tea.

And hey, we were able to save the whole finger. It still hurts like heck. And when I get up the courage to take the bandage off, we'll see just how bad it is.

Until then, thank you to my little first aiders!

The Lunch Tramp

Welcome to the Won't You Be My Neighbour series, started by Amy of The Never True Tales. I was introduced to this series by Christine of Coffee and Commutes, so please head over to both those sites to meet some more great people. Today's guest blogger is my friend, Keitha Fisher, aka The Lunch Tramp.

The Lunch Tramp

Denise asked me to be a guest blogger a couple of weeks ago and I jumped right in to say yes. I’m a frequent reader of View From the Glen and I love the normalcy of the kids and the dogs and the after school activities and the husband. Our own normal is canine-free but I like to think I’m doing a not terrible job of balancing the hectic with the wonders of H learning to spell her name and E discovering that if you follow the instructions that come with the legos, you can actually build the thing on the box.

Until quite recently, I had the 50 hour/wk job to add to the hectic pace. At the beginning of last summer, I made the decision after leaving the job I thought I would love but quickly discovered that I loathed, that I would not jump into the next thing. I’d gone from fulfilling but time consuming self-employment to time reasonable but dreadfully boring corporate employment to frenetic time sucking management in just under three years and frankly, I wanted to take some time to figure out if there might not be something to be said for not doing any of those things for a while.

Given that this is a blog posting and not an autobiography, I’ll leave a bit of a blank here (that I will spend a bit of time writing about on my own blog) but suffice to say that taking some time off to volunteer for some of the organizations I’m passionate about and to sit on some of the committees I’d always thought I’d like to contribute to if only I had the time has given me a multitude of opportunities to consider when thinking about my next career move. AND it has given me time to lunch.

Yes, lunch as a verb. I hadn’t given this activity a whole lot of thought until a few weeks ago when I wrote on facebook that I “thought my four lunch dates were all pretty spectacular.”

As you may imagine, this status update caused a bit of a furor. In all, there were 19 comments about this, including but not limited to: 4 people at once or 4 single lunch dates in an afternoon? Either way I may have to judge you as a lunch tramp.

And so, the Lunch Tramp was born. (see business card for details)

While I’d done a fair amount of lunching prior to having the title bestowed to me via facebook, it was not until I’d lived with the title (and designed the business card) that I took the time to actually think about the social ramifications of being a professional lunch enthusiast. There are two schools of thought about this lifestyle choice (okay, there are probably more – but for the purpose of this blog, there are two.) The first, often said with dripping sarcasm is, “Oh, isn’t it nice to be able to drop your kids off at school and have nothing to do all day.”

My response to that is, “Um, yes, it’s sort of awesome.”

The ensuing pause where the sarcastic speaker takes a moment to wonder whether or not I detected the sarcasm is one of those things money can’t buy – and I’m a pretty big fan of those types of things.

The second response, the one that comes from almost everyone who knows me and who realizes that my “radical sabbatical” is hardly the time off others assume it to be is very different. Brevity is not my strong suit so I’ve done my best to pare it down: “Wow! Good for you! I wish I made time for myself to do this kind of thing. You should write a book about how much you’ve learned about yourself and others being the Lunch Tramp!”

Sadly, I have given my status a Lunch Tramp a shelf life. I have made a decision to return to work in the coming months which will clearly put a damper on the lifestyle to which I’ve become accustomed. However, I would be remiss to leave you wondering what there is to learn taking a six month hiatus from “work” for the sake of discovering “work I enjoy” that still pays the bills.

• People who take the time to have lunch with little to no agenda often leave with a smile – which often results in a really cool follow-up email

• Almost everyone will say yes to a lunch date

• Everyone understands when you cancel lunch because you have a sick child at home

• You can meet people you’ve never met before at lunch and laugh until you can’t breathe

• You can meet people who will offer you a job on the spot

• You can meet people who will call you in the coming weeks to offer you a job

• You can inspire other people to take an hour or two for themselves they may not have taken before

• You can be asked to write a fun blog entry for a friend

• If you throw out a lunch invitation to random people you know on a sort-of basis and assemble them together, it can be entertaining to not just those at the table but for pretty much everyone in the listening area

• There are pretty amazing people out there waiting to have lunch with you

Where the future of the Lunch Tramp lies is still undetermined. I’m thinking that regardless of having a real job again soon, the name can live on. Almost everyone I lunch with actually has a job to return to – which means I can and will do the same. That said, this time to just be wherever with whomever has taught me there’s a lot more to people than their jobs, although I gotta be honest with you – if someone said they’d pay me to be the Lunch Tramp full time I’d be all over it!

Thanks, Keitha for your always inspiring words. When she is not guest posting, lunching, or looking after her twins, Keitha does blog occasionally herself. Drop by and say hello.

The Last Run

I follow the children down the mountain, swooshing slowly from side to side in a gentle run, all the better to admire them. How did they become so elegant, so effortless, in their graceful carve down and round and down to the bottom? Only a few short years ago I despaired that they would ever get down the bunny hill in one go, and now they pass me in a confident arc and a buzz of laughter and conversation.

We were up in the Laurentians last weekend as Val Saint Come, and the day was magificent. Minus 16, said Erik, checking the weather forcast at 7 am. Great day for snowboarding! And it was. The sun shone all day, the snow was crisp with just enough powder and no ice, and the mountain was relatively quiet.

We ride up together, enjoying the feel of the air as we get higher up. It changes the sound. It's as if everything is amplified. We pause at the top to admire the view - the forest which stretches out to all sides, ad the clear vastness of the sky. Then we are off, down through the dark stand of trees, across the sparkling path of snow. Sometimes we ski and board down together, conversationally. Other times the children and Andrew - filled with adrenaline and competance - leave me behind in their wake.

Left to my own devices, I enjoy my own time on the hill. Admiring them as they vanish with laughter, knowing they will wait for me at the bottom. I take my time, composing poetry in my head as I make broad sweeps of the mountain, listening for the scrape of the ski edge as I turn, following the carve of those who have gone before me down this same stretch of mountain.

There are diamonds underfoot, and I want the run to last forever. I could ski down forever at this pace, but it's blue dusk and the last run. As I reach the bottom, gliding to a halt beside pink cheeks and glowing eyes, I look forward to the next time.

Winter Camp

Last weekend, the kids and Andrew went camping with the Cubs.

It was their first winter camping experience, and they had a great time. They built a lean-to with sticks lashed together and covered it with a tarp. And crawled into winter sleeping bags for the night.

I was so impressed they all made it.

Erik is a senior cub. He and the other senior cubs made their own lean to and slept on their own. You can no doubt imagine what four 10-year old boys did on their own. Apparently when the leaders investigated a gale of giggles from their lean to, they found four boys experimenting with, um, bodily gases, and how they warm up the inside of a sleeping bag at minus 15 degrees.

Yah.

Anna and Grace and some of the other cubs slept with two of the leaders in another lean to. The youngest cubs mostly slept inside a nearby cabin , but Grace (who is actually still Beaver aged, and only gets to be in Cubs because her dad is the leader) was tough enough to brazen it out in the great outdoors.

It was Anna I was concerned about. Not because she isn't tough, but because she is always cold. Even at home. While Grace and Erik kick off all their covers in the night, Anna huddles under two duvets with a hot water bottle.. But she was fine too. Warm enough in fact that she stuck her arm out in the morning and said it felt good. Apparently their sleeping bags were warm enough.

The worst part, they all agreed, was getting in and out of the sleeping bags. Andrew said they looked at him like he was mad when he told them they had to get their outer clothes off before getting into their sleeping bags. And Anna asked if she could be carried in her sleeping bag to the cabin in the morning to get dressed. (The answer was a snort of derisive laughter from her father!)

They came home after two days of living outdoors very proud of themselves. And Erik still laughs when he tells the, um, bodily gas story. What can I say? He's 10.