Worth Having

Come Autumn I need change... and things. 

It's been a summer full of fun, confusion and living like I was free.  It was rope swings and barbeques.  Rock climbing and iced coffee.  It was boys and camping and a star spread sky.  To much rain and not enough lightening.  Best friends and family, the two of those combined.  Long talks, happiness and the world beneath my motorbike.  It was mistakes for all of us, decisions among us and more good relationships than I could possibly have hoped.

It was a summer worth having.

And now I'm here.  In a big empty beige house with no furniture.  And in classrooms discussing Philosophy, Psychology and knowing I'll be struggling through homework.  Learning how to write creatively.  Because I've never dabbled in that before.  Thinking about taking on more freelance journalism through this all.  With a blue-eyed boy I care for.  In a city I've always thought was unattractive discovering hidden places where beauty exists.

Feeling seventeen sitting on the back step drinking lemonade out of mugs because we don't have chairs or glasses.  Holding hands, smiling lots.  Opening crisp new school supplies and learning my way around.

It's more change than I could possibly hope for.  It should be a fall worth having.

In My Blood

I'd like to start by saying that I grew up on motorbikes.  I'd like to, but I can't.  Still, I think it's somehow in my genes.  My parents fell in love on a motorcycle.  Riding out to band practice.  Taking of their helmets to kiss on that first date when they were younger than my now-youngest sibling.

By time I came along motorcycles were traded for a brown Toyota with car seats in the back and an ancient pick-up to go with a budding construction business.  Five kids later these eventually turned into a stubborn minivan and "Big Red," (hint: not a bike.)

I always knew, regardless, that my parents both held class 6 driver's licenses.  At ten I had my first ride when my Dad's oldest friend brought around his cruiser.  I don't remember what it was but I remember the thrill and the wind on my arms.  I clung tight as we accelerated.  I didn't know about counter-steering and had it explained to me after trying consistently to upright on corners.

Once a biker always in your blood, so I've been told.  Once you start you'll never really stop.  When I was fourteen my parents bought a little orange Yamaha Enduro 100 from roughly the stone-age, aka the 1970s.  That's what I learned to drive up and down our lane.  With a throttle in your fist and no license in your pocket 100ccs feels like a lot of power.  20MPH feels like a lot of speed.  An old gold helmet from your parent's dating days feels pretty cool.  And it starts to get in your blood.

At sixteen I drove it on Mexican highways to neighboring villages for an internet fix.  The smell of tortillas and the muggy wind on my face was nothing but pure independence.  I wanted more.  My little brother drives it around mountain roads with his friends now.

I moved out and my parent's young family grew up enough to justify getting rid of the minivan.  They bought a Honda 400.  This time only from the Dark Ages.  AKA, the early 1980s.  It looked like this only until my oldest brother turned his mad airbrushing skills its way.  I made it past the first two steps of licensing and then life got in the way.  I still hoped for the wind on my face and a ride down the lake but my lifetime commitment of achieving my own class 6 was still out of reach.

My middle brother fixed up a Honda 400 dual sport from the same era and would take me burning around mountain trails and rock outcroppings.  I learned to manage the kick start and I'd take it out on my own.  My cousin let me take a   less-than-legal spin on his 600 crotch rocket.  It was only a matter of time.  My license requirements finally fit themselves in last year.

Here's what I'm driving these days.  Yamaha Seca 550.  Check off item 24.  Apparently we have a thing for old-school bikes.  Yes, it's also from the dark ages.  But it's still a whole lotta fun.

Here

This post will not be long. It will not have photos, it will not rhyme, and my wording will not be impeccable. I will not be telling you to vote (my ballot was cast advance) or commenting on certain political developments. This is the first full blog post I am composing via iPad, but my reasons are good.

I am in Prince George, en route in a two week back-country hard-camping road trip to the Yukon. Last night we slept under Jasper stars and watched a hint of northern lights streaking the sky.

I recently turned down a job promotion, met a boy I share a lot of mutual like with, found a room mate with a thirst for adventure and a long history of learning to appreciate each other (we're succeeding). Pre-wrote half a month of paid posts and put my car on the road after biking for a month.

It's nice to have an open road, a full tank of gas and two of the coolest brothers you can imagine to share this with. This is here.

Getting in Hot Water

"Can you girls just hand me that beer?"

Let me back up a little.

After taking the wrong back road we managed to arrive just at dusk (this is Canada in January so, like, 5:30).  My Civic braved the mining road like the gem she is.  We'd parked on the far end of the pull off and set up our tent on top of two feet of snow and three tarps.  After unrolling our sub-temperature sleeping bags (that means "You will survive."  Not, "You will be comfortable.) We finally shivered our way into bathing suits, hoodies and snow boots.

Cue: Classic natural hot springs.  A beautiful set of pools surrounded by snowy overhangs.  large flat rocks, river within fifteen feet, the toking crowd and snowflakes that melt in your hair.  A star spread sky.

What makes it all worth it, as inclusion to the joy of getting in hot water, is the chance to spend hours with people you care about.  The rare opportunity to do so without cell phones.  Without texting, social etiquette concerns or pressing engagements.

Finally as our single water proof time-piece neared one AM the girls in our group climbed back onto the path.  By now the only people left in the pool were the guys from our group and a few others we came to dub "The Canadians."  Strange, yes, seeing that the rest of us excepting one fit that definition ourselves.

Rather then braving the outhouses at the top of the trail we opted to change on the path.  Four of us took turns holding up towels and dropping our wet suits into a frozen heap on the ground.  I stood holding the towel for a very naked friend.  The other two of us were also engaged in providing and using these make shift change rooms.  That's when The Canadians piped up.

"Uh, girls.  Is there, like another beer up there?  Just, yeah, do you see a Molson?"

I glanced down.  three feet to my right I could spy the top of a can.

"Yeah.  There's one right here."

"Oh, yeah, cool.  Do you, like, think you could just hand it to us?"

I glanced down.  My friend was looking for a bra in our snowy pile.  I was balancing a flashlight and a the two corners of the towel.  Since we'd been at this ten minutes already I would've thought that The Canadians could have figured out the inappropriateness of the request.

"Seriously?  Hand you your beer?  Umm, yeah.  Just let me drop my towel on my friend here and hand you your beer."

No, I didn't say that.  I mumbled something about in a minute.  Canadian dude started scrambling up the bank.

"Oh, there it is.  Just out of reach."

Luckily girl number five managed to reach us in time to hand him his Molson and they faded off to the bottom pool.

Why did we call them the The Canadians?  They were proof as to where our stereotypes actually come from.  And very much thanks to this quote.

"I f***in' drink beer all the time.  F***in' Christmas shopping, I drink beer.  In the f***in' shower I drink beer.  Driving to these hot springs I drink beer.  F***in' love beer, man!"

We figured out a better process the next morning.  Arrive at the pools when there is nobody around.  Toss a frozen chunk of suits and towel into the hottest pool.  Proceed to change.  It's really too bad that the colder it is in open air the better the hot spring experience.

I Like Boys Who Wear Bandannas

It seems as though I think it's hot every time I see a guy rocking a bandanna.  At least in real life.  But I didn't just say that.  

Well researching this topic I discovered that online I can't like boys in bandannas.  First of all, "research" means, of course, that I was lurking Google images and Deviant Art looking for good looking males wearing bandannas.  Imagine my chagrin when I realized there were so many bad pictures of said topic, and virtually none worth showing my readers.

The idea started when I was watching this music video on Youtube.

Of course I soon remembered that I can't possibly admit to watching this band even if it's because it has this guy and I'm checking out this wrist bandanna.  I then started to think about how I could list off all the super cool ways of wearing them.  It wasn't long before I realized that I can't really do it without sounding like a douche.

I can't do it without sounding like some degree of hippi, redneck, punk or emo (whether or not I am has yet to be seen...).  I'll sound like I like smelly old bikers, highly image-conscious jerks, wanksters or illegal skater kids (whether or not I do is quite well established.  Negative, thank-you very much).

(colinhill)

(loudxmusic)

So, on Because or Why Not I formally find guys in bandannas a very large turn-off.  I also would never consider wearing one myself.  Nope.  Bandannas are not hot.  Bandannas are, in fact, unattractive.

I won't let on that I have checked out young guys wearing bandannas the right way (no do-rags please!).  I also, without a doubt, believe that good looking young women should consider it a serious strike against their self esteem if they've even considered wearing one of these trashy accessories.

Unless I actually meet you.  Then, maybe, we can talk about bandannas another time...

The Middle of Nowhere in the Middle of the Night

Dec. 31st, 2009, 11:30 PM.  I needed change.

11:30 PM and someone said we should climb the lookout.  In the middle of a wildlife reserve.  In the dark.  We were in the middle of this nowhere anyway.  We were tired of flying down an icy hill on over-sized tubes and throwing gasoline on the fire.  I was tired of chocolate Christmas baking and being the oldest in the group.  I was tired of doing doughnuts in empty parking lots and hours spent running in a mild winter out of pure frustration.

twenty five of us piled into four cars and sped down to the empty reserve and a clear starry sky.  We ran down clapboard paths over dead winter marshes and up the four flights of steps to the open top.  We made it, breathless, by midnight.

I screamed at the emptiness and my small town's lights in the distance.  I grabbed my blonde friend and we looked at each other, jaws set.

"Get lost, 2009.  We're so done with you!"

She was going to Calgary.  I was going to Arizona.  I haven't seen her since.  I miss her, but I know her life has gone the way she wanted.

And myself.  I just didn't know.   I'm not my brothers that were hugging me, lifting me, threatening to throw me over the rail.  I'd given up construction long ago.  I was twenty three.  I'd seen the world.

Twenty four of us yelling in the new year.  Crammed in an open look-out tower blindly hugging and looking forward to 2010.  And me.

'Cause That's How We Roll

(C-Money)

Guess what I did?

You didn't guess.

That's okay.  You wouldn't anyway.  I entered a singing contest.

It better be fun.  I managed to convince a couple friends to join me.  One of them has the voice of that's as rich and strong as hot honey.  Hearing her sing puts me to sleep.  I wish I had a recording I could let you hear.

Which means I'm not going to win, but I'll have a good time.  That's o.k.  Who enters competitions with an intent to win, anyway?  I just love music, and my voice has always been my strongest instrument.  I sing without realizing it.

So now I'm hitting up Youtube Karaoke to see what I'm actually capable of.

That's all I wanted to say and only  'cause I think it's cool.  Sorry :)

A Halloween Wedding, Asian Justin Bieber and a White Belly Dancer.

Most of last week I was thinking to myself, "I should really do one of those trendy 'last minute costume option' posts."  I love dressing up.  Unfortunately, I also kinda suck at it.  I'm far too last minute and lacking in basic creativity.  So, lucky for you, I refrained.

I did work today.  One of my co-workers came in with her entire wedding (three family members, in costume), post wedding.  They got married in the park on Halloween.  Her dress was exactly like the picture at right, only purple instead of silver.  Her husband was rigged out in top-hat, bungee boots, leather pants and one exceptional coat and tails.

unorthodox, to say the most.  And I was thrilled for them.  It's so them, and they should tie the knot exactly the way they want.

Later I heard a little about a juvenile party my littl brother and his cohorts are throwing in a pasture.  It sounds like a lot of trouble.  What else is Halloween for?  I was cracking up as I was told about the little Asian kid dressing up like Justin Beiber.   My older brother gave me a play on how he was standing in front of the mirror trying to make himself white.  And turning out like Barbie.  Ah well, it's only a short step from there to Beiber.

And my Halloween hasn't even started.  Now I'm off to break out my Aladdin pants, scarves and eyeliner.  It's gonna be a good Halloween.  Hope yours, by time you read this, was appropriately creepy. 

The Notebook Chronicles

The little bald one with the glasses is the regular.  I know him only as the milk truck man.  He actually wears a blue collar.  I like to think I belong in that class, despite my ripped t-shirt.  We make our living off the same industry.  His job occasionally overlapping mine.  But that is all.

The milk truck man.

We exchange pleasantries before most of the world has even woken.  "Good morning," and, "How are you today?"

This morning as I finished clean-up I felt like we shared a bond.  Both of us the working class.  Earning our keep at jobs we do well.  Keeping our hours and making sure you get milk on your morning cheerios.

I grinned at him.  As though, somehow, we knew a common secret.  It not occurring to me that it was a connection noted only in my mind that particular AM.  He probably only thought I was strangely cheerful at a time when usually I look forward to is going back to bed.

I leave our farm as the sun rises.  My part of the process complete for now.  He finishes loading the fruit of my labour and continues on, his day just beginning.

The milk truck man pulls up to another parlour as I crawl beneath the covers.

---

The feature where I let you read the ramblings of my past.

Autumn Beats Me Up

(Source)

I know it's still the end of summer.  A season for freedom and carelessness and passion.  I know I was jumping from cliffs into beautifully fresh water this weekend.  Around this time we're usually melding into a beautiful Indian summer.  However, this year I've already tasted the crisp tang of fall.

The first emotion autumn brings me is an extreme urge to move on.  Summer's dying and I need to travel, quit my job... leave.  I need to learn, wander, wonder.  Time to work and move on and join autumn sports.  September is a learned habit to pack up, start school, travel, move.

Change.

And then, or at the same time, I start to want to settle down.  Cooling air makes me want fuzzy blankets and someone to share them with.  I want fall colours and cable stitch sweaters to wear with my bluejeans.  I want to make jam from our harvest, collect firewood, hunt and knit burnt orange touques to keep me warm through the winter cold.  I want an acreage and an orchard.  Some dark cool dirt to dig in and a fireplace to come inside to.

Settling in.

Here we can climb wooden ladders with laden canvas totes.  Gala, Honeycrisp, Delicious, Macintosh.  You better believe I can bake a mean pie.  I can milk a cow, make yogurt, cut meat to stock the freezer.  I've pressed juice, made pickles and dug potatoes.  This is where I'm from.

But I have a backpack by my bed.  And a tendency to search airline tickets when I'm supposed to be paying bills.  I have mind-stretching universities in my bookmarks and a tank full of gas that begs me to use it every time I drive to the edge of town.  Rusty Spanish that begs to be stretched out.  Energy to wear out on the ice, the judo mats, the ski hill.

Fall brings out both sides of my excess energy.  Estrogen and testosterone in a mad and endless clash. This fall neither will be much of an option.  I'll need my silly little side projects.  No month long road trips or beer in hostel basements.  No international markets, or no running my own local booth.  I'll be wearing out my fight in a dojo and wondering why I'm settling for middle ground.

Dance Like Summer Will Never End

(Timothy-Sim)

We'll blow the speakers by the end of the night playing last year's dance hits.  Everyone is here, now.  The kid in the fedora wanting to play dj.  There's always one.  The gorgeous indie girl kissing her boyfriend on the bale couch.  It's covered with a denim quilt.  The hipster, the player, the thinker.  Tonight this barn is the place to be.

The big dipper is visible through the door to this loft. I can lean on old silver wood and breathe in the field air. Fill my empty can from the hose or sit in the other room by an overturned washer to gossip with my best friend or chill with the guys.

We'll line dance, slow dance, and do the Macarena. Someone will teach me the Cha Cha and someone else the square step. Mostly we'll just dance and laugh and flirt a little.

It feels a little bit like prom night in skinny jeans and tank-tops. And a little bit like a bush party with a dance floor.  A little bit like the club we're trying to imitate.  A little bit alive and a little bit young. Christmas lights and a strobe light. Tonight we won't complain about the local nightlife. Tonight we've created our own.

You learn to love the summer nights here. The cool breeze on sweaty skin. An outdoors far too big to hold. Racing cars across the flats, evening fires by the lake, long talks and love and travelers to share a glance with. Autumn comes to soon.

---

I apologize for not taking any pictures of my own.  I came nowhere near finding a photo that captured this post properly.

This week I am Mama M's date from over at My Little Life.  Makes her the hottest Mom on my block.  I'm honoured, and a big welcome to all my visitors!

Also, I told you to visit The Spiraling Chronicles and leave a comment.  For my favourite followers in the world you're all pretty disobedient.  You're still the best, but you might want to think about it.

Tracing Patterns

She likes the way her fingers trace patterns on her arm when she's nervous.  She likes the way he's started to do it, too.  She likes that his head is up, his shoulders back, and that she can still tell by the small circles working their way up onto her shoulder.

She likes that she fits in that crook of that shoulder.  That she can shoot darting looks of contempt, all 5'3 of her, and feel safe.  The circles will trace faster well jaws get clenched and chins raised.  She likes wearing leather boots and bandanna cuffs and feeling bad-ass.  And she likes that if she could choose to wear heels and a summer dress it would still look good with his jeans and black t-shirt.

She likes that he's in control.  At least right here, right now.  And that she could turn it around by sliding her own hand down his back.

They are like this.  Her hands pushed deep in her pockets.  Nonchalant and brooding.  Comfortable.  Everyone knows them.  Not by name, just by the toques and bored glares.

You know they're not going anywhere.  The best part is that they don't care.  And, if they don't care you've got nothing on them.  They can own it, here.  Get off their main street.  Leave their concrete bench alone.  You don't want to sit there among broken glass anyway.

She doesn't remember when he first put his arm around her.  She knows it was somewhere back in grade nine.  Probably around the time she first started getting stoned on lunch break.  Back then when she wore her Silver jeans every single day.  Leaning against the chain link fence at the back of the school.

What she will always remember is sitting in the back of employment workshops, his arm around her.  She'll remember wanting to practice an interview, but making snarky comments instead.  It's the way they are. Learned complacency.

She likes it this way too much.  Needing it.  Suddenly realizing he also needs her.  She starts tracing circles on her arm.

(OrazioFlacco)

---

An American Dropout inspired me to try my hand at a little more fiction.  It's always been my favourite to write, so don't be surprised if you see more.  I'll be sure to always label it as such.  Thoughts?

Redneck Style: A Guide

There are a few things to bear in mind when dressing like a redneck.  First of all, the stereotypes are true.  If you think stretched confederate flags and ball caps are a myth, you're wrong.  We believe in sexy, but not so much in subtle.  I believe the correct word for this is "trashy."  Bear in mind that we're not feminists.  However, we can play with the boys, and that's partly why the teenage pregnancy rate is so outrageously high.  It's not all bad, though.

The secret is to stick to key pieces.  The essential will always be the ribbed tank top.  The effect is most effective when it's too tight.  They can be stocked up at Wal-Mart for three bucks a piece.  Logos and racer-backs are encouraged.  For full effect please be sure that lacy bra straps are visible at all times.

Pair this with a denim mini.  Durable and multi-functional this is an important part of every redneck girl's closet.  We especially like that they can be worn for any function from meeting the parents to weddings.  As an alternative daisy dukes make a good replacement.  These are so simple.  All you need is a pair of tight jeans and scissors!  They also work a bit better after you've passed out on the lawn of some house party.

If the brush is too thick, or the weather too chilly for this option ripped jeans are fine.  Also, we really do wear plaid shirts.  We like that the top four buttons can be left undone.  Print hoodies are a good functional option as well.  Don't forget that these can be tied, or slung.  Sweats or pj pants can be worn out shopping, or for 7/11 runs.  These, however, should be paired with low-cut tops and preferable should state "cutie," or similar sentiment across the butt.

Don't forget to accessorize!    Let's start with shoes.  Yes, we believe in heels!  These should mostly be worn during the day.  Say, when on a trip to the hardware store.  For bush parties, brand runners are much more practical.  Uggs are also good in winter.  You'll look pretty lame when, well trying to climb into the back of a lifted pickup to make-out, you slip on a patch of ice with your stilettos.

Jewelery is over rated.  Except piercings.  Belly button studs are hot, and you should have at least three or four piercings in each ear.  The best way to go, however, is tattoos.  There's not really such a thing is too many.  Favourite spots should include ankles, upper breasts, and the ever popular tramp stamp.

Then, the crowning glory.  Long is the norm.  Hair should also be at least streaked blond.  A full on bleach out is more typical.  Straw cowboy hats or trucker caps are also a good option.  Always keep a stock of simple bandannas.  There are several ways to wear them, and they'll always signal that you're up for a little mud bogging.  Also, make-up isn't really necessary except that heavy mascara should be worn at all times, such as when nursing your youngest well waiting for the bus.  It's so easy!  Take care of yourself first.

As you can see, dressing like a redneck has more to do with mindset then anything else.  With a little practice you'll be ready to take on the next bush party or mountain camping trip.  Don't worry about being over the top.  Just follow the simple tips above and you'll be ready to go.

Disclaimer: Even though I used we and us throughout this post I can say, err, most of it doesn't apply to me.
Also, what I learned from this post...  I can't spell accessorize, jewelery or stiletto...
Photo sources: Teethlikeswords, xxtwilightbellaxx, and chell-o on Deviant Art

When Skater Boys Strip

(Source: Afireoutsideme on Deviant Art)

Pretend it's June in North Ontario.  The sun is weak, the town is tiny and the area is stunningly beautiful.  It's also St. Jean Baptiste which means the Quebecers in my little group want to get wasted* and declare their sovereignty.

Now, I'm not all Vivre Quebec, but I enjoyed hanging out with the biggest Libre believer of them all.  Thom was a guitarist of the tenth degree.  A ponderer with a French-guy afro.  Funny, deep, and a little bit lost.  Being as it was Quebec's national holiday he got all introspective and wanted to wander off to the beach with his guitar.  I was bored on our free block and decided to go along.  Mostly, I confess, I wanted to sit looking over Lake Superior and listening to Thom's acoustic guitar.

As we got closer to the beach a cop car pulled up and informed us that a bear had just been reported on the beach.  There's another thing about this town.  It wasn't unusual to see black bears crossing the street in the middle of town.  With a dejected Thom I turned and meandered down towards main, stopping at their little skate park.

Laying on the curved concrete Thom played and I listened.

Groups of fourteen year-old boys can be a little obnoxious.  Especially when it's a birthday party and they're on the way to the corner store to try scam cigarettes.  They spotted us like prey on a field mouse.

"Dude, you're amazing.  Man, play us something."
"What do you want?"
"Play us some Slipknot!  Know any Metallica?  Dude, Slash!  Who's she?"
"Kris.  She sings."  I shot Thom my "way to try switch the heat" look.
"Dude!  Play us something and she can sing."

Kids don't shut-up easily.  Thom cued the opening bars of Hotel California, about the only song that we both knew he could play and I could sing through.  Amid just-breaking voices and experimental swearing he glanced at me.  Kind of a "just do it, I dare you."

As I started on dark desert highways and cool wind in my hair the miraculous happened.  The group shut-up.  They stood against the graffiti and stared.  When the guitar died they were all, "Man, that was amazing.  Amazing!  Beautiful!  Really."  That's right.  We got a fourteen year old male to use "beautiful" as description.

Then the birthday kid dropped twenty bucks in Thom's case.  Twenty-bucks!  We were on a youth volunteer program, so that was a night out at the Legion (yes, the Legion was the happening night life).  It was his birthday money, but he wouldn't take it back.

They headed off to the convenience store.  We returned to our non-heavy metal under the night sky, but it wasn't too long before they were back.

"Dude!  You were amazing!  But we're out of money, Man.  Here.  Have a rock."
"No way, Man.  They're too good for a rock!  Here, have my shirt.  No, seriously, take it!"
I was laughing.  Thom was like, "C'mon guys!  You can't go home without a shirt.  No, it's cool."
"No really.  Take my shirt.  Take my shoes."

"Here!  I'll give you my pants!"

To our chagrin a barely teen dropped his pants.  Right there on the skate park of a little northern town.

"Want my boxers, too?  I'll give 'em to you!"

Thom was freaking out a little.  I couldn't stop laughing.  We managed to get the kids to (mostly) keep their boxers on.  Eventually it was us who had to leave them running around the ramps partially dressed.

"I was scared," Thom confessed.  "Man, like, maybe we get in trouble for little kids strip in front of us!"

It was perfect.  My first and only St. Jean Baptist.  But regardless it'd probably be my favourite.

*Yes, I see the irony as the holiday is (apparently) named after a saint.

Carnival

It's great when the carnival comes to town.

I love the lights

The Friends

The music

And the late nights feeling like something's happening
Traveling carnivals just have a feeling about them...

Lovers in a Dangerous Time

First of all, our theatre is called the Tivoli, and has one of those spinning signs with some of those lights.  You know, the ones that blink and have the occasional bulb burnt out.  The inside is all gold molding and heavy brown curtains.  It's so vintage, and even if their reopening did close down the drive-in, I have to admit that it makes the movie going experience that much more enjoyable.  Nothing like feeling you've stepped back in time.

It's expensive, though.  So when a local movie was debuted tonight, for free, you knew half the town was going to be there.  Or as many as they could fit on chairs in the aisles.  Local movie!  Local.  It was entirely filmed here, by an originally local boy, with lots of localities in general.  Do you understand how unique this is?

Lovers in a Dangerous Time is the show.  It is poignant, realistic and not half as cheesy as it sounds.  Indeed it is obvious, as you watch it, that it is not a big budget film.  It has that small time feel to it.  Still, some of the filming is catching, and the storyline manages to be multi-dimensional.  The plot is surprising.  Certainly not least, the setting is beyond beautiful as they tribute the gorgeous valley in which they chose to film.

The story captures, more then I ever could on this little blog, the small town life I grew up in.  It acknowledges, in a big way, agriculture, pond hockey, bush parties, and many other aspects of where I'm from.  Obviously you can't go see this movie in theatres yourself.  The dvd hasn't been released.  Still, I'm a little proud to tell you that this is where I'm from, even if you can't see it.  The audience certainly appreciated it when he swore at Duck Lake, or the devastation of hail at harvest.


This is the best I can do.  The opening reunion scene is not the best of the movie.  But see that rink?  I've played hockey there.  See that lake?  I've spent my summers there.  See that bush fire?  I've gone Christmas treeing there.  See that orchard?  I've picked cherries there.  See those people?  I've known some of them.  This blog and my real life will never truly be able to meld.  But a little crossover can't hurt.

Things They Are A-Changing.

Change hates me, and I hate it.  But I thrive on it.  I crave it, need it, and fear it all at once.  I am in my comfort zone.  I like it here, like a baby likes the womb.   Which is exactly why I can't stay here.  I'll get fidgety, restless and terrified.

Got that all?  Bored to tears with the beginnings of another ramble from someone who kinda sucks?  Another moody young woman with no direction.  What?  Oh, you already quit reading.  I see.  Ok, because we're going to switch direction anyway.

Because or Why Not will going through a little identity crisis over the next month, or so.  Please bear with me, because you're swell, and I'm trying to apologize in advance here.  I'm being published in a local lifestyle magazine, and have been asked to be a regular contributor.  The content will be strongly blog linked.  As much as I am thrilled to be on board with this opportunity, I am getting a little nervous about what exactly it will mean for my semi-anonymous blogger side that I have so carefully guarded.

I know non-bloggers usually don't get it.  Chances of my writing being stalked by grandma aren't good.  Still, this is a small place and almost everyone who knows me in passing will see my little article.  I don't doubt curiosity will be peaked in sizable amounts, and a lot of actual people in my real life will be stopping by to see what I've put down to the internet.

I am determined to continue writing like I mean it.  I just know that's easier said then done.  Please don't judge me based on my blog.  I'm talking to you, Mom.  And you as well work manager, jaded best friend, ex-crush,  Sunday School teacher, and check-out girl at the grocery store.

And now, to lighten things up a bit, Because or Why Not has been featured Elsewhere.  As far as I can see, in.com is a source for all things Indian, but I'm a little confused.  Oddly enough, the few hits it generated came from Austria, Argentina, Belgium... Everywhere that is not India, really.  Apparently myself in a sari is worth entering in a try-not-to-laugh-at-this-photo competition.  Thanks in.com.  You made my day!

I like you all.  I'm not sure why you're here, but I know it's not because you want to see what I really thought when I pretended it didn't matter.  Thanks for that.

Somebody Call the Cops. The Neighbors are Fighting Again.

You are probably not from a small town.  According to my statistics (which, btw, I'm just making up) you are probably young, slightly more likely to be female, semi-driven, and a city dweller.  Don't be mad if I've buttoned holed you all wrong.  I know I've got my minorities out there, too.  I just figure I know who I'm talking to for the most part.

Now, I've told you this often, so you're probably aware that I grew up in a small town.  I'm sorry for driving this point home, but since you live in the city I feel a constant need to make my posts relevant to your life.  Actually, I am well aware that you have no idea what I'm on about small towns.  I could never truly make you understand, but I try.

I'm going to tell you about an accomplishment called the police blotters.  This is a section of the paper dedicated to every call-out in the small-town cop's life.  They have things like over width farm vehicles and wives moving their husband's golf clubs into the middle of the street.  The local paper is well aware of the fact that people read it for humour. What we try to do is get anonymously listed in these blotters.  Nothing like five minutes of fame.

One of the most effective ways to pull this off is to get listed as "shot's were fired in the fifth block of..."  Here are some of the ways people I've been, err, associated with have been listed.

Stealing garden ornaments is ever popular.  They are disappearing in most editions of the paper.  I have some friends who were briefly famous for successfully stealing the potted plants of a hilarious local character, Mrs.
Dalton.  She wipes her cat's bum, takes toys from small children until they learn their manners, and has a remarkable wardrobe of vintage outfits, gloves and ridiculous hats..

Ah yes, the time the cow got out.  Or, one of the times the cow got out.  This time she wandered, not off into the wilderness, but out onto the road and out into the neighborhood.  It was precious.  Mostly because I wasn't there.  It got considerably better when a female cop showed up.  My brother has a re-account where she yelled at him, "Stay where you are!" in all her female cop power trip.  Buttercup chewed her cud and meandering down the road well the poor lady in a uniform was quite at loss as to how ridiculous she appeared.

My littlest brother will quite forcefully state that they even stopped when cars went by.  Apparently that's not enough.  A collection of young hooligans tossing snowballs on main street is a truly valid reason to call 911.  Unfortunately, the youth had dispersed by time police arrived at the scene.

We've all done doughnuts in near empty parking lots, right?  That perfect little beater with the hand brake.  Those perfect frozen conditions with a light skiff of snow.  Now, who else has had their father reported for this activity at the local community centre?  I don't think you quite understand. My Dad had fled the scene after a serious case of reckless driving.


My own masked intruder almost deserves a full post to himself.  Except he wasn't masked, he was wasted out of his mind.  I was there and he dented the door a little bit well I fled out the front in my socks.  We'll keep it brief and note these two items.  1. my cousin, room mate, and best friend came in, saw the guy under my sink, and thought he was me before getting confronted and making her getaway.  2.  Our incompetent cops couldn't find my house.  Creepy intruder ended up being chased all over town and captured by my brother and Dad, even though I called 911.  They couldn't even find him when my Dad gave a play-by-play over the cell phone.  Turns out he was wanted in Alberta, anyway.  And, yes, for a while there I had restraining orders against two, possibly three people.  I'm hardcore like that.

No.  I don't know of anyone who's actually gone cow-tipping.

I hadn't been back in three and a half years, until yesterday.  I'd driven past many times, pointed it out occasionally, but hadn't visited.  I'm not sure why.  I'd spent more time there then with my family for two and a half years.  I still refer to the time I was a farm girl.  And by that I mean many long cold mornings milking cows.  Yes, I was a farm hand once upon a time.  I have changed so much since then.

The first thing was the smell.  You would wrinkle your nose in distaste.  And justifiably so.  Entering the parlour was weird.  Always wondered, why call it a parlour?  It's far from classy or clean.  It is much was as I remembered it.  They have music now!  Bernie brought me tea, Cheryl talked to me about politics, Doug explained the farm changes, Scott told me how he'd hit something on the tractor.  It had been a long time, but these people were still the same farmers I loved.

I put on gloves and remembered so much more then I thought I would.  I recognized one or two cows they still have, and many many more that I named when they were still cute and little.  Visiting the new calf pens I let them suck on my fingers, like I always used to.  I came home smelly and happy.  There are things I miss.

I miss working outdoors, and the physicalness of the job.  I miss being so good at what I do.  I knew those cows backwards, every number, name and history just by looking at their feet.  I was in charge of entire elements of the farm.  I miss the morning sun as I left work, the people, and peacefully driving tractor for hours. 

In short, I should've gone to visit on a winter morning shift when the machines broke down and I could remember working by myself for hours.

Remember my challenge to treat my hometown as somewhere new and exciting?  My interpretation?  Free swing dance class.
I was, oddly, a touch nervous as I walked into the hall.  Visions played in my head of old women in leopard-print skirts and men in tight sport jackets.  This was only very partially correct.  The class was extremely small and I was certainly the youngest.  Imagine my glee at finding I'd arrived in time for the last class of the series.  I'd meant to attend the week before, but had abandoned in favour of hockey.
We learned basic lindy-hop.  My fears of looking like a complete eejit faded as my college-age mind and my judo-trained reflexes stepped up.  The one male in the class made good spirited jokes about his beer belly and failed to absorb any concepts along with his wife, an attractive blond who moved like a ballerina as she missed steps on her attempted swivle.
Fortunently the instructor, Beth made an excellent lead, for a girl, and she had time to work with me.  I remembered the country swing bar I atteneded recently.  Suave cowboys moving me around the floor.  If there was one thing I learned there it's that a strong lead can work wonders.  Among the top disadvantages of being single is not having an automatic dance partner.
I love to dance.  I always have, pouring over books of Angelina Ballerina when I was five.  That is one complaint I do have in this town of aging rednecks.  Apart from my living room, boxers and music collection very few opportunities exist.  At 18 my girlfriends and I would waltz or line dance on my front deck.  I'm sure the neighbors assumed we'd gone postal.  And, being the tomboy farm girl then, I developed a really strong lead ability.  A definite problem when it came to future boyfriends.
But... I had a lot of fun at this swing dance class!  Beth grinned across from me as I picked up on the steps.  She is young, new to town, and milks cows for a living.  Which is something I just happen to know about.  She invited me to a swing conference coming up admitting that I'm a beginner, but encouraging me by telling me I'm good.  I will probably have to work, but if not I may try go.  Why wouldn't I be up for a challenge, a roadtrip, a new friend, and a chance to swing all weekend?
Next idea.  Touring a local brewery and winery.