Sounds of life

This morning, while I was walking on the edge of the marsh, I was reminded of this column I wrote several years ago.  In its original form, it was published in Mount Allison University’s student newspaper, The Argosy, as a guest writer for Through Stained Glass, the weekly reflection from the University Chaplain (whom I happen to know!).

Like pretty much anywhere in North America, bikers and runners are fairly frequent sights on our streets and roads.  I often see them near my home and out on the marsh.  Almost always, they are listening to some form of electronic device.  Young people, likewise, always seem to be plugged into their tunes.  In order to even start a basic conversation, you must wait for them first to notice you, and then to take out their ear buds. 

This morning, I went for a walk on the marsh.  I made a conscious effort to listen as I walked along the path.  These are the sounds I would have missed if I had been plugged into my iPod (yes, I still have an iPod!).  The sound of the water lapping at the edge of the lake, thanks to the heavy northwest breeze.  Someone mowing their lawn.  Cattle bawling as the tractor brought their morning bale of hay.  The squishing of their feet as they walked through the muddy farm yard.  The breeze in the newly formed leaves and the unmown hay.   The clear, sweet song of the song sparrow.  A robin chirping.  The water from the stream gently passing under the bridge.  The distant sound of traffic on the highway.  The loud buzzing of a very large bumblebee.  My own breaths.  And above everything, the soft, high whistles of cedar waxwings.

If I were walking in an urban downtown, I would have heard different sounds.  Perhaps car brakes, the sound of many feet pounding the pavement, car horns and engines, the squeaking of a traffic light waving in the wind, a cell phone (or 9 or 10) ringing,  doors opening and closing, the voices of people in conversation with companions (or with themselves), coins rattling in a tin can held out by a panhandler.  “The music of the traffic in the city,” as Petula Clark says in her classic song “Downtown.”

Listening helps us to connect with our surroundings.  So does the sense of smell.  In Sackville, we sometimes smell the salt air, which reminds us of our proximity to the Bay of Fundy and ultimately the Atlantic Ocean.  Out where I live, we frequently smell farm smells.  Mostly, it is bearable, and sometimes, like the when we pass a tractor pulling a very full tank of liquid manure, it’s enough to make our eyes water and our lungs gasp for fresh air.  I have often said that the every day smells of the barns don’t bother me at all.  They represent the honest, hard work of producing food, and remind us of our connection to our agricultural roots.

We are all guilty of being “plugged into” things that prevent us from connecting with our surroundings.  If it isn’t the seemingly ever–present music device, it is a mobile phone ear piece, or perhaps a social networking site on our laptops, or in the case of parents, maybe we are “plugged into” our children, or our careers, or the stress of trying to accomplish all the tasks in our busy lives.  We are so connected with our technology and our own lives that we become disconnected from our surroundings, and more importantly, from the people surrounding us. 

The Chapel on the Mount A campus is one place which helps us reconnect with our surroundings and those around us.  On any given day in the Chapel, there are a myriad of sounds that can help us connect with other people, with ourselves and with that which is bigger than any of us.  I always think of the Chapel as a quiet place, until I go in during an organ student’s practice time.  There is something about the largeness of the chapel that seems to inspire organists to open up the stops as much as possible, and the result is so much loudness that it is sometimes scary.  Other times, it is so quiet you can hear the occasional voices of people outside.  I have listened to the wind against the stone walls, and the rain against the stained glass.  I have heard the voices of choirs and soloists, the notes of flutes and trumpets, the strumming of guitars, and the lovely mellow tones of a euphonium echo off the sandstone walls. You can always hear the heavy doors squeaking closed when someone is late for chapel, no matter how carefully they enter.

Sackville’s own poet laureate, Douglas Lochhead, wrote:

life
is listening

is finding
sounds

is feeling
rhythms

in all
things

life
is waiting

is standing
here and there

is saying
words

is praying
everywhere

I hope today, wherever you are, you have the opportunity to find the sounds and feel the rhythms that connect you with the world and the people around you.

Fox River

I’ve been more neglectful than usual in finishing up a post (and that’s saying something!).  I was working on a reflection of Mother’s Day and motherhood, and it wasn’t coming together the way I wanted it to, so I put it aside.  My intention was to finish it this weekend, and post it.

Instead, I am writing about Prince Edward Island.  Again.  We were here just about a year ago, and at that time, I wrote about how magical a place this is for me.  I honestly had no intention of writing about PEI this weekend. 

But circumstances change.  I discovered, when we checked in to our cottage yesterday, that this will be the last summer we will be able to rent it.  The owners have been wanting to retire for some time now, and they have decided this is the year.

Once in a while, if you’re lucky, you find somewhere that immediately feels special, where you feel an instant connection with the place, the scenery, the ambiance.  I have been fortunate enough to find places like that several times throughout my life.  Fox River is one.

Fox River Cottages are owned by Belinda and Glen Machon, in Murray Harbour, Prince Edward Island.  History runs deep here.  There have been people living in this area at least since the Acadian Expulsion in 1755; likely both the Acadians and Mi’kmaq had settled in this area at some point before then.  Machons were among a group of immigrants from Guernsey in 1806.  Like much of PEI, agriculture has played an important part in the life of Murray Harbour, but the dominant culture here is the sea.  There are at least half a dozen wharves within a 5 or 6 minute drive of the cottage.  As I write this, it is lobster season, but mussels, tuna, clams, oysters and crabs are also caught in season.  The lore of the sea holds a certain romantic appeal for me, growing up as I did mainly in the landlocked prairies, and one of the most enjoyable things about Fox River has been watching the fishing boats coming and going, and hearing the pulse of their engines early in the morning and throughout the day.

I think the first time we stayed here was almost exactly ten years ago.  We were looking for somewhere special to celebrate our 20th anniversary, and my husband happened upon the web page for Fox River.  It looked quiet, and lovely, and peaceful, and it was affordable.  When we arrived, it felt like home.

Since that first visit, I have been back several times.  I came with my kids, my parents and my brother’s family one year, and at various other times, I have brought my daughter, friends, and my husband.  I haven’t been here every year, but I have probably been here at least ten times in the past ten years.  I have recommended Fox River to many people, in the hope that they would find it as peaceful and relaxing as I have.

This place has been a haven for me.  I have spent some of the most near-perfect days in this place.  One afternoon in particular will always stand out in my mind.  It was June, and I came with a friend.  My friend had other plans, so she left me at the cottage by myself.  It was a perfect sunny, warm day.  I spent the day sitting on the deck watching the lobster boats, and when it got too hot, I moved into the screened in porch.  I walked on the beach, ate when I felt hungry, read, and had a nap in the sunshine.  I was completely alone and I loved every second of it. 

During our visit last year, the weather was uncooperative.  It was cool and rainy, and we were pretty much confined to the cottage.  While my husband bemoaned the lack of good cycling weather, I curled up in the porch with a blanket, a stack of books, and a hot cup of tea, and spent the time watching the lobster boats and the bird life.  It was another almost perfect day. 

We have been lulled and soothed by the rhythm of the ocean tide, the sound of the waves on the shore and the boats in the water.  We’ve found hundreds of blue starfish on the beach here, as well as mussel, oyster, clam, snail, and scallop shells, beach glass, and the shells of crabs.  We’ve watched herons, osprey, bald eagles, terns, cormorants, gulls, and rabbits.  Ironically, although PEI is noted for its abundance of foxes, and we’ve seen foxes many times on the Island, we have never seen one at Fox River (edit: the day after I posted this, a little fox trotted along the shore). 

I am sure there are hundreds of other wonderful, peaceful, and beautiful places here on PEI.  And maybe we will find another cottage where we will want to return year after year.  But I can’t imagine any of them will evoke the same feelings as Fox River. 

I’m hoping to squeeze one more visit in the fall before they close for the last time.  I don’t know if it will happen.  I am happy for the Machons, that they are taking the time to do the things they have always wanted to do.  They are lovely people, and they deserve their retirement.  I am exceedingly grateful for the chance encounter on Google that originally brought us here, and I am grateful for the opportunities I’ve had over the past years to retreat to this lovely haven.  I will miss Fox River Cottages, and I will treasure my memories of time spent in this place.

Sunrise at Fox River (photo courtesy of John Perkin)

Family and all that...

I have been thinking about my family lately.  Specifically, my dad’s family.  There have been some changes recently, and there are inevitably more to come.  Sadly, my dad’s generation is almost gone, and that realization has caused me to reflect on my family.

I am almost the youngest of about 23 cousins on my dad’s side.  As a child, I felt isolated from this side of the family, mostly because we lived far away from them and rarely saw them.  When we did get together, most of my other cousins were already adults and they didn’t really want to hang around with us younger kids. 

My dad’s family was Mennonite.  My grandparents started off fairly well, but in the 1920s, they were pressured to move to Mexico with a large group of Mennonites from Saskatchewan who wanted freedom from the restrictions the Government was placing on education.  So they packed up their year-old son, my uncle, left their farmland, and got on a train to Mexico.  It was a disastrous move for them, and before long, they were attempting to return to Canada.  It took them several years, but they finally made it; in the interim, 4 more children were born, one of whom was left in a small grave in Mexico.  Arriving back in the Canadian prairies in the middle of the Great Depression, my grandparents never really recovered financially, and spent a large part of their family’s life moving around western Canada trying to establish themselves.  They finally settled in the lower mainland, and bought a hunk of land which has since been divided into lots and had houses built on it.  There is a street named after my grandparents that runs along that land.  I’m not sure if any of my aunts or uncles finished public school.  My dad left school after grade 9, but eventually received a University degree, the first in his family to do so. 

My mom’s family is about as opposite as can be.  I am often amazed that my parents grew up in the same century.  My mom’s family consisted of three sisters, and they were raised in a middle-class, white collar home in suburban Montreal.   My grandfather worked in an office in downtown Montreal for his entire career, and my grandmother was a traditional suburban housewife.  My mom and her sisters all went to high school and beyond.  On this side of the family, there are 4 of us cousins, with an age difference of about 4 years between the oldest and the youngest.  For a couple of years when we were growing up, my cousins spent parts of the summer with us on our farm in southwestern Manitoba, and I always felt that we interacted more like siblings than like cousins.  My mom and her sisters are very close, and we have remained knit together through their connection, even though we now live on opposite sides of the continent.

In more recent years, I have reconnected in various ways with my father’s side of the family, even though we live a great distance from them.  Several years ago now, we had a mini-family reunion in southwest Saskatchewan, and I “met” some of my cousins for the first time as an adult.  Some  of my cousins have visited us in the Maritimes, and I have visited some of them out west.  I have really treasured these times spent together.  Living in a place like the Maritimes where family roots reach deeper than the beginning of this country, I deeply feel the sense of being disconnected from my roots. 

It’s a strange thing, this concept of family, and the genetics that go with it.  I think we probably spend our lives creating and re-creating “families” wherever we happen to live or work.  We adopt “grandparents” for our kids, we have close friends with whom we share a “sisterly” connection, and our kids' friends become our "other kids."  Sports teams often talk about being “family.”  All of these people are special and significant.  We spend time with them, we nurture those relationships, we tell our stories and share experiences, and we forge lifelong bonds.  I wouldn’t be without my friends and my adopted “family.”  And yet... when I am with my cousins, there is a very real, very familial connection, even though we live a distance apart, and even though I have never had the opportunity to spend a lot of time with them.  It is intangible and deeper than friendship.  Somehow, even though the experiences of our parents and grandparents are stories to us, the lives they lived and experiences they shared, the people they were, create this deep bond among us. 

It is fascinating to see the similarities between us.  Some of them are physical (curly hair for some of us!).  Others are mannerisms, gestures, ways of speaking.  While visiting us a couple of years ago, the husband of one of my cousins commented more than once how obvious it was that we were related because of the mannerisms we shared.  I look at photos of my dad and his siblings when they were young, and see the likenesses between them and my cousins.  I found a portrait of my dad’s family, taken on the occasion of my grandparents’ 50th anniversary, and was immediately struck by the resemblance between one of my uncles at around age 30, and my youngest nephew at the age of 4. 

I treasure my memories of my uncles and aunts:  Carl, who, when we lived in northern BC, shared his family’s summer cottage with us, where I caught my first fish, and saw cougars in the wild (my last memory of him is him standing outside an old outhouse on the site of one of the schools they attended in southern Saskatchewan when they were children, telling a story of how the boys would get into mischief);  Frank, who always had a sparkle in his eye and a joke or a laugh to share, and the last time I was out west, even though he wasn’t in the best of health, drove 2 hours with his wife to have supper with my daughter and me;  Hank, who helped us get settled in a new home, and occasionally let me tag along to different sporting events with him.  And my beautiful aunts, all of whom have given legacies of being women of strong and meaningful faith:  Sue, with her lovely smile and generous and loving heart; gentle Agnes, who cooked me Mennonite food, taught me some Mennonite words, and has always been happy to share my Mennonite heritage with me; Peggy, who is like my second mother and has been here for so many significant events in our lives; and Ann, fun, funny, loving and faithful.

I believe that the experiences and the people that have gone before are all part of who I am.  I am grateful for each of my aunts and uncles.  I am grateful for opportunities to be connected to some of my cousins and their families.  I am grateful for the stories, the laughter, the memories.  Ours is a legacy of gentleness, faith, strength, love and joy.

What have we done to our children?

My daughter phoned me this morning to rant a little bit.  It seems that the university pub decided to offer a Men’s Night on Friday, featuring wings and an NHL hockey game on the big screen.  They created a Facebook event page, and people (including my daughter and a couple of her female friends) began to RSVP; it wasn’t meant to be a “men only” evening, just an evening where the activities and themes were male-oriented.

Inevitably, a young woman posted a comment that this event made her feel uncomfortable, and that she didn’t believe that it was healthy to promote a Men’s themed event in the pub, especially given all the recent publicity about rape culture on campus and the report this week that our campus had the highest number of sexual assaults reported from universities in our province.  Other young women chimed in, and by this morning,  the event apparently had been cancelled.

I should mention that there was a Ladies’ Night held recently at the same pub, with free admission for women, and drink specials.  I don’t believe there was an outcry about that.

This conversation with my daughter made me wonder, not for the first time, “What have we done to our children?” 

I have two kids.  My son is 24 and my daughter is 20.  I remember when our son was born, and as he grew into a toddler and a young child, we deliberately raised him to be a gentle person.  We did not buy into the “boys will be boys” mentality – that is, that boys are naturally and inevitably more destructive and physically harmful than girls are, and that this supposedly innate quality excused poor behaviour.  When he would pat (or hit) our faces, we told him to “be gentle.”  When he tried to take a toy away from another child, he was told to “be gentle.”  When he touched delicate or breakable objects, or read a book, we said “be gentle.”   We did the same with our daughter.

When he was 7 years old, our son became involved with the university football team, and he has been involved with them ever since.  Now he is employed with a professional football team.  Football, as you know, is anything but a gentle atmosphere.  And although I love football, as I’ve previously discussed, I know that in football, and in the male-dominated realm of professional sports, there is a systemic atmosphere of sexism and homophobia, even with the recent numbers of top athletes who have openly expressed their sexuality, and with the increased level of public outcry at the violent off-field antics of some NFL players.

I am not naive, and I know that our football team is not immune from this sexist and homophobic influence, even though there are a large number of very decent young men who have been associated with it over the years.  I have heard the rumours about wild football parties, and young women who make themselves available for *whatever.* I’ve heard how some male students (not just football players) talk about their female counterparts.  Heck, I’ve heard 45-year-old men sitting in the crowds at football games talk about how hot their teenage daughters’ friends are, and exactly what they’d like to do to them if they ever had the chance. 

My son and I have had several conversations over the years about male sports culture and how women are treated within this culture.  I have reminded him that our family’s values require us to see things differently, that women in any context are worthy of respect, just as men are.  I have told him that the way sports culture treats women is unequivocally unacceptable to me, and that I expect and hope it is unequivocally unacceptable to him as well.  Even though he has many very close friends through football, some of his best friends are young women. 

My daughter was raised around the football team.  She was definitely a girly girl when she was little – we used to tell our family when they asked about birthday and Christmas gifts “If it’s bright pink, green or orange, and it has sparkles or feathers, she’ll like it.”  But she learned how to “belch” at the age of 4 from one of the football boys (thanks, Fitzy!), she played front yard baseball and football and soccer, and she grew up not being afraid of the football boys (or any others), and able and willing to stand up for herself and for others. 

At the same time, I have tried to teach her to be wise in her choices.  Even though “No” should mean “No”, I want her to be thoughtful about the situations in which she finds herself.  If she walks into a room where there is a group of young men and she is the only woman, should she stay in that room?  Who are the young men?  Is it a party where everyone has been drinking excessively?  Or is it a study group?  Perhaps if it is a party, and she is the only young woman, it might not be wise to stay.  I want her to be fearless but I want her also to be smart and safe.  

The problem with the scenario above, where Men’s Night is banned from the student pub, is that it does absolutely nothing to minimize “rape culture” on campus.  It does nothing to foster a spirit of community or an atmosphere of trying to solve these problems together. 

I think it is a sad commentary on our society.

We’ve created a society where women feel obliged and entitled to take offense at anything male-related.  Where people with penises are automatically considered potential rapists.  Where an unwelcome or an inadvertent touch from a man is treated with the same severity as a rape.  Where women can say and do anything they feel like doing, because “No means No.”

I think we’ve probably created a society where many young men are confused, frustrated and fearful.  We have basically isolated any expression of “maleness” to team sports, and told them that any other gatherings that are gender-specifically male oriented are unacceptable, while we continue to have our Ladies’ Nights and Montreal Massacre rallies and Vagina Monologues.   I can’t imagine being a young man on a date or at a bar, and wondering whether anything I’ve done could possibly be construed as sexual assault.   We have created a society where it is almost shameful to be a man, and where there are indeed many blurred lines between what is acceptable and what is unacceptable in the relationship between men and women.

And ultimately, we have created a society of double standards.  A society where it’s okay to have Ladies’ Night, but not okay to have Men’s Night.  Where it’s okay for a girl to pat a guy on his cute butt, but if a guy were to pat a girl on her cute butt, it would be called “assault” and carry the same stigma as if he had raped her.  A society where womanhood is to be celebrated and manhood is to be denigrated.  I totally get that in the mix of gender relations and feminism there is a reaction to centuries of paternalism.  In the words of that classic Virginia Slims ad, we have come a long way, baby – but maybe we’ve gone a bit too far.

Several years ago, we had a guest speaker on campus.  Don McPherson was a quarterback in both the CFL and NFL.  He now speaks about gender roles and domestic violence.  I remember him saying that violence against women is not a women’s issue, but a men’s issue.  He talked about how we raise our boys to contain their emotions, to be tough and strong, and how this gender construct fails to teach boys how to appropriately express their honest feelings and emotions.  He told us that his pivotal “Ah-ha!”moment occurred in an airport, when a little boy about 3 years old fell down and hurt himself and was crying.  His mother – his MOTHER! – told the little boy to stop crying and to BE A MAN.

I’d like to ask these young women, who are so opposed to anything man-related, how they will raise their sons.  Are they going to look at them from their very first days of babyhood and see potential rapists?  Are they going to raise them to “Be a man”?  To not cry or admit that they are scared or hurt or unsure?  Or are they going to nurture and celebrate the things that are good and healthy and wonderful about boys and men and being human, and teach them to own and respect their feelings? 

I am by no means downplaying the reality of sexual assault and rape culture.  I know it exists.  I know it exists in our town and in our university.  I have friends who are victims.  Recent high profile incidents in our region, like the Dalhousie dentistry scandal, the Saint Mary’s orientation chant, the Rehtaeh Parsons suicide, and even, I would add, the societal acceptance and celebration of music like Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines”, are proof that these issues are very real and very deeply ingrained in our culture.

We women have great power to change things.  Just ask any of the Famous Five (if you don’t know who they are, you should).  We need to use that power for good, to ensure that everyone is valued and respected and celebrated, and to nurture all that is good in ALL of us, male and female.  Nothing good will come from alienating and victimizing each other.  We need to be willing to work together to create deep and lasting change.

We also need to take care in how we react to completely innocent things.  Like Men’s Night at the pub.

Christmas Cheer

Early last week, my daughter and I participated in our (almost) annual tradition of helping to pack Christmas Cheer bags for needy families in our community.  We have done this since she was a young child, almost every year, with a few exceptions because of illness or work. 

In our town, the process has evolved into a smooth operation.  Churches and community members buy toys, books, clothing and other items for children up to age 12, and donate them to the Christmas Cheer programme.  There are guidelines: they ask for no computer games, movies or music because some families might not have the appropriate electronic equipment, and they also request that batteries be given with electronic toys. 

On packing day at one of the local churches, all of the donated items are sorted by age and gender.  Large red bags are placed in a pile, one bag per family.  Each bag has a tag on it indicating the age, gender and clothing size of the children in the family.  Volunteer packers each take a bag, and go around the room selecting appropriate gifts for their bag. 

It is a humbling experience to pack Christmas Cheer bags.  I am always struck by how thoughtful many of the gifts are.  There are women in our community who spend hours knitting beautiful socks and mittens especially for Christmas Cheer.  Often, there are wonderful books, sometimes classics, and I think about how those same books created excitement and wonder in my children when they were little.  There are always lots of crayons and colouring books, and stuffed animals.

I am equally moved by how seriously the volunteers take their job of packing the bags.  We frequently ask each other if an item is appropriate (“Do you think a 12 year old girl would like this?”).  Great care is taken to choose the prettiest mittens, or the nicest sweater, or the coolest book or toy for their child.  This year, my daughter saw a Hello Kitty sandwich grill, and the first bag she picked up was for two girls aged 10 and 12 years.  The sandwich grill went into that bag with great excitement as she imagined how much they would enjoy that gift. 

I am continually amazed at the generosity of ordinary people at Christmas time.  Just yesterday, a friend of mine from a nearby city posted on Facebook that she had heard of a single parent family in the city, someone she didn’t know, who was facing a Christmas with nothing.  No special dinner, no gifts, not even a Christmas tree stand for their tree.  She asked if anyone was willing or able to help, and 9 hours later, she was on that family’s doorstep with gifts, 20 bags of groceries, and almost $1600 in gift cards and cash.  This friend, a young mum with two small kids and all of her own last minute preparations, basically donated a day of her time and energy to help another family she didn’t even know.  I know that this friend of mine also collects winter coats for kids in her children’s school, and does a lot of other work in her city throughout the year to help people in need.  I am in awe.

I have some issues with the fact that in our society of plenty, we need Christmas Cheer programmes and Food Banks, and I struggle with the commercialism of Christmas and other holidays and events.  But those are for another time.  At this moment, I want to revel in the good that Christmas represents, to celebrate the goodness of people, the concern for others, the love for our fellow human beings that motivates us to act in the most outrageous spirit of generosity. 

Although this is a Christian holiday, I know that there are many who celebrate Christmas who are not Christian, or even people of faith. But I hope that whether you believe in a Merry Christmas, a Happy Chanukah, or Happy Holidays, you will experience in a real and lasting way the joy, peace, hope and love that I believe this Christmas season represents.  And I hope that maybe together, we can find a way to be outrageously generous and kind not just at Christmas, but throughout the year.

Why I like football

The past couple of years have been very exciting for our local university football team, the Mount Allison Mounties.  After a fairly successful run in the late 1990s, the new millennium has not been kind.  We are a small school, with a small football budget, in a small town and a have-not province, and although academically we are one of the very best of the best in Canada, our football programme has often struggled.

In 2013, it looked like it was going to be another one of those years.  Our team started out with a record of 1-4.  However, something happened to our team.  Our players met together to discuss their season and their goals, and at the end of the regular season, our record was 4-4, and we had earned a playoff spot in our conference. 

I’m not sure I can describe how exciting the end of last season was.  Those of you who aren’t sports fans probably can’t even identify with getting excited about a game.  But for me, the end of last season will stand out as a highlight.

Let me go back a bit.  My dad was a huge sports fan, and we always watched Hockey Night in Canada as a family.  He also watched CFL football on television.  I was a hockey fan, or maybe even a hockey fanatic.  I knew who every player in the NHL was, and could give you statistics and information about them all.  I used to listen to hockey games on my radio when I was supposed to be in bed sleeping.  I absolutely loved hockey.

Then I got married and moved to southern Ontario, where the only game in town was the Toronto Maple Leafs.  After growing up with successful and talented western teams (like the Gretzky-era Oilers), I just could not watch the Leafs, and my hockey fanaticism waned (sorry, Leafs fans... it’s the sad truth).  Also, I was married, working full-time and eventually had children, so other things captured my attention.

I watched some football when I was a kid, but after seeing a CFL game on television where a player sustained a critical injury and died, I decided that this was not the game for me.  I didn’t watch another game until I was in high school, and then only because I had to.  I was part of the school newspaper and yearbook committee, and one of my assignments was to cover football.

After I was married, I worked in the office of a sports physician who counted among his many responsibilities caring for a CFL team.  I got to know a few of the players (the injured ones), and my husband and I started attending some of the games.  I enjoyed the game, and grew to respect the players I saw in the clinic, who overcame injuries, some of them devastating, to play the game they loved.

When we moved to Sackville, we were too busy settling in and growing our family to attend the local university games.  But after a couple of years, everything changed.  The Mounties and the university had attracted the attention of a young running back from Quebec named Eric Lapointe.  Eric won the national Rookie of the Year award, and during his next season, we decided it was time to check out the hype around this young man and his teammates.  We went to a game, and then to a post-game reception for players and fans.  My young son, who was 6 at the time, met some of the players, including Eric, and in his eyes, a hero was born. 

It was not smooth sailing from here though.  A couple of weeks later, a Mountie player tested positive for using steroids.  The player was suspended, the coach was fired, and several of the players quit in protest of how the university handled the situation.  My son wrote a letter of support to some of the players he had met.  To make a long story short, just before the very next game, every one of the players returned to the team, the Mounties finished the season with a 4-4 record, and Eric broke the national record for rushing yards, despite being injured for one game.  He went on to have a very successful college career and in the CFL.  More importantly, he became an inspiration and a friend to my son and indeed, to our whole family, the first of many Mounties to do so.  Over the next 17 years, Mountie football was a way of life for our family, and especially for me and my son. It became the special “thing” that we did together for 8 weeks every autumn.  He did not miss a game over those 17 years, and I only missed 3 games.  My son went from being the Mounties’ #1 fan, drawing posters and offering encouragement, to being a ball boy, then a water boy, and then their equipment manager for about 7 years.  His involvement with the Mounties led directly to his present job as an equipment manager for the CFL’s RedBlacks. 

Fast forward to the end of last season, November 2013.  Our team travelled to Halifax to play our nemesis Saint Mary’s Huskies in the conference championship game.  Until last season, our team had not won a game in Halifax since the late 90s.  The stands were filled with Mountie fans, who significantly outnumbered and out-cheered the Huskies fans.  The atmosphere was electric, and our boys were bursting with confidence.  We won that championship game on a last minute field goal, and the crowd erupted.  That moment, the excitement, the joy, feeling of achievement, is a moment I won’t forget soon. 

After the terrible and shocking shooting in Ottawa in October, James Duthie, a sportscaster for TSN, wrote an online article reflecting on the city where he grew up.  http://www.tsn.ca/talent/duthie-a-great-city-with-great-people-will-persevere-1.113629  What particularly caught my eye was one of the comments underneath his article.  Jamey Boudreau wrote:  "It's nice that in spite of something so terrible we can sit back & take stock of our lives & appreciate things we might sometimes take for granted. That real life requires the same sort of perseverance as sports, yet a loss in sports could never equate to a loss of life. That the thrill of victory & glory of being a champion, as great as that is, will always be secondary to the triumph of the human spirit. For that is the one thing that could never truly be defeated."

This is why I like football.  It is not the sum total of life, but it represents some of what life is about.  Perseverance.  Working together toward a common goal.  Confidence.  Sometimes wonderful examples of sportsmanship.  Unbreakable bonds of friendship and family.  The poetry of watching naturally gifted athletes in motion.  The thrill of victory, especially measured against the agony of previous defeats.  Unanticipated challenges and unexpected success.  And yes, as clichéd as it is, the triumph of the human spirit, winning against the odds. 

So this weekend, I will be in Hamilton, cheering on our boys as they play to advance to the national championship.  It will be heart-breaking if they lose, and it will be amazing if they win.  Nothing is certain, and that’s why the games are played.  We don’t have the biggest budget, the best facilities or the best field, but as our head coach says, it isn’t the facilities that win the game, it’s the team.  I’m excited about the weekend, reconnecting with players from past years, and family members and friends.  And I feel good about our chances.  GO MOUNTIES!

Note: I originally wrote this post in 2014, but now, on November 14, 2015, it seems appropriate to update it, especially after the recent events in Paris.  Today, as people around the world grieve and are shocked at the events in Paris yesterday, it seemed a bit frivolous to be excited about a football game. But I think it's an important reminder that life is short and unpredictable. Even in the midst of tragedy and horror, there are values, people and experiences we can choose to find joy in. So I am able to wholeheartedly shout "Go Mounties", at the same time as my heart weeps for all the tragedies around the world.  Unfortunately, my Mounties lost in the championship game, but that in no way changes the pride I feel for this team, and the lessons we can learn from football.

Reflections on my kitchen table

I really want a new kitchen table.

The table we have now is about 17 years old.  It is an ordinary table bought from a furniture chain store, for not too much money, after we decided that our old yard sale table (which seated 4) just would not do any longer.  The top is solid pine, and it is nicked and scratched, and the extension leaf has never really fit properly.  The apron underneath the table is starting to shift, so the two pieces of the table top don’t quite meet in the middle any more.  There are rings where people have left their mugs and cups, and a stain from when someone spilled water on the tablecloth and I didn’t discover it was wet until the next morning.  It’s a mess.

I really do want a new kitchen table.  I even have one picked out.

And yet...

I am a sentimental idiot.  I look at that beat up table, and I can remember when most of those marks were made.  I think of all the people who have sat around that table, all the meals that have been eaten, the cups of tea shared, games played, conversations, homework and projects completed at that table.

At various times, we have had seated around our table an off-Broadway actor, professional football players and amateur athletes, award-winning authors, musicians, a television and movie actor, University presidents, RCMP officers, politicians, teachers, doctors.  We’ve shared meals with university students, friends, neighbours, and family.  My children have grown up around that table.

That table has held staggering amounts of food at Thanksgiving dinners and birthday bashes.  We’ve taught students how to play Dutch Blitz at that table, and it has the scars to prove it – despite the fact that it is a card game invented by the peaceful Amish!  Friends have unburdened their souls at that table, young people have shared their hopes and dreams, and more than one teardrop has landed on its surface.  People who have sat around that table have shared good news, and bad news.  We have laughed and cried, learned and taught, talked and argued, and of course, eaten.

In the Maritimes, the kitchen is the centre of the house.  Here, the Gaelic tradition of ceilidhs (which usually include music, dancing, food and drink) has evolved into the Maritime kitchen party, where the party always ends up in the kitchen (also with music, dancing, food and drink).  Great Big Sea’s song “Goin’ Up”captures the spirit of a Maritime kitchen party.  There’s a line in it: “There’s thirty people in the kitchen and there’s always room for more.”   That’s what a kitchen table should represent, a place where there is always room, where people are welcomed and treasured and fed.

It’s just a table.  I know that.  And yet, it is so much more.  That battered table represents the connectedness we have experienced with so many people.  It represents friendship, family, warmth, love.  It represents home. 

At some point, we will have to get our new kitchen table.  It will start out blemish-free, a clean slate.  New memories will be created around it, and eventually, it will get banged up and scarred, too.  And although the experiences around the table will be different from the old table, I hope that what those experiences represent will continue to inspire me, and that there will always be room for more. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uECyM7H4Ors