i wonder

learning how to breathe

2009-11-08T19:50:00.002-06:00

When I was first told of this 10 day meditation course in Vipassana Meditation I had visions of mellow long-hairs with Peter, Paul, and Mary accompaniment sitting calmly facing a gold-leafed statue of The Buddha. The children's tent featured Sharon, Lois, and Bram and an all-you-can-eat raw vegetable stand up bar. Everything was flowing. The clothing was loose, the speech was liquid and tempered, and everything in between was certified organic. Rod had a bit of convincing to do, but I decided to join him.

We arrived on a Sunday late afternoon to register. We were again asked if we were willing participants and that we would seriously commit to the precepts laid down by the course. I also had to agree that I would not leave FOR ANY REASON (barring family emergency). At this point I became very hesitant. Sure, I new they would be requiring this of me...it said so right in the application form, but now it seemed very creepy. Next you'll be asking me if I'd like some Kool-Aid, and it's off to bed for a nice LONG nap. Longish mental hesitation (which really is only a few seconds in real time)...and I signed the agreement.

We were allowed to talk during the first meal...and sit on the female side of the dining room. I sat with a man whom I later found out was a real gem. Unselfish living to the extreme. Non-conforming, initiative-taking, earth and family-loving, spreader of real joy. This was his third course. I wondered at the time if he was a bit daft. I wondered if he was trying to escape like Dave whom I met at a summer tree planting job in 1986. We all thought he was hiding from the cops up there in Northern B.C...killed his wife, maybe. Slip out the back, Jack.

The meeting before entering the meditation hall for the first time was the last time that we were allowed to speak. We were given our final instructions and again had to agree to the precepts. When the bell rang, we moved to the outside of the hall. We were called in one by one and given our place on the floor where we would be returning every day for the meditation times. I was the last one to be let in...punctured to the core by Manitoba mosquitoes remembering precept # 1 - no killing. Since when is H at the end of the alphabet?

The hall was very quiet and inviting. We left our shoes by the door. The lighting was low and the colours were soft. There were three distinct areas. Men on the left and women on the right, teachers at the front facing the students. Made me think of the Old Colony Mennonite Church I attended my first 10 years of life. "Strike one", I thought.

Everyone had their place and all that they brought with them to sit. Mats, cushions, foam, chairs, benches, and braces. I was excited to see how things would turn out with my new cushion. There was an air of anticipation as we were ready to begin...we sat waiting for the start...legs crossed, back straight, arms at rest, and eyes closed. The Lotuses at the Green Spot would have taken a second glance...or at least half of them, anyways.

Focus on the breath as it enters and leaves the nostrils. Concentrate on the area just inside the nostrils and the area just on the outer edge of the nostrils. Notice if there are any sensations in that area...but just observe. Do not react to them...just observe. Just Observe.

Three days later...

We will now be moving from the area immediately surrounding the nostrils and the area just above the upper lip, to the rest of the body. Start at the top of the head and slowly move throughout the body passing through each part. Start at the top of the head and move through each part of the body, piece by piece...part by part. Passing through each part of the body separately. When you come to a part of the body where you notice a certain sensation, just stop and observe...just observe. Do not react with any kind of aversion or craving towards that sensation...just observe. Observe the truth as it is. Do not try to change anything...just observe. Sensations rise and they pass, rise and they pass. Everything is impermanent. Just observe them as they rise, and observe them until they pass. Do not react to them...just observe.

For 6 days we observed.

Strike two was pitched on day 8. A slider. Too much of what I didn't anticipate. The quiet bullpen was a good place to work it through and shake it off. It's too late in the game to slip out the back.

Day 9.

Tomorrow after the morning group sitting we will be allowed to speak once again. It's been good not to speak...takes the pressure off of managing the social with the work. Leaves more time for the work. The work has been difficult, but tomorrow I get to talk to Rod. I'm going to ask him if he knew it was me who left the rock in his shoe at the end of day 3. I'm going to ask if the refried bean burritos on day 6 wasn't the best thing ever, or if the homemade chocolate chip cookies on day 5 made anyone else just about cry, or if I could please get the recipe for the sunflower-tamari dressing.

Rod said he knew it must have been me who put the rock in his shoe. I saw how he was looking around when he noticed it. I tried not to communicate a smile. It was all I could do to not bust out. One becomes a little giddy after not talking for so many days.

At lunch on day 10 we were all pretty chatty. It felt a little strange looking into the face of the person across from you at the table. We had become accustomed to averting our eyes. Lunch took much more time now that there wasn't just chewing and swallowing. We could also finally put a voice to the face, and find out that many of our assumptions about our observations of people were dead wrong. Like the guy I sat with on the first Sunday at lunch. He was a pleasure to know. And the guy who I thought looked like a pretty rough individual, turned out to be a film director with a sensitive heart. And the woman who seemed to look like she knew me, did in fact live across the street from me in Brandon 10 years ago...and this is her 7th course!

There were many other strong connections made that last day, but I think they were as strong as they were because of all the days before that last one. We had an immediate bond. Old with young, male with female, privileged with marginalized, alike with same. We had all arrived as individuals and we would be leaving as a community. A community that set 10 precious days aside to learn how to breathe.

dad's latest thing

2009-11-01T18:30:00.021-06:00

I can't help it.

I have an addictive personality.

It's something that not even my daily meditation can cure.

But now I can proudly say that I have managed to gather some disciples at my feet.

And my followers' extra sets of eyes are perfect for dad's latest thing.

9found...932 733 to go.

the boy behind the mask

2009-10-31T23:55:00.003-05:00

Halloween.
One of the first things I think about on this day is a book which I have always had good intentions of reading...but never have. All Hallows' Eve by Charles Williams. I have a memory of the cover in my mind. A woman laying on her back on a table with her head hanging over the edge and facing the reader. I have always held the thinking that she is a virgin sacrificed to satan on the unholy sacred day...I never have read the book so I really don't know what the book is about. I just assumed that it was so from what I have long held Halloween to be about.

One of my very good memories from a bank filled with good ones is from a from years ago when I started taking Sam trick-or-treating. It didn't take Sam getting treats from more than one house before he began shouting in full sprint to the next one, "I LOVE HALLOWEEN!" And he would do this after every house for the next hour and a half. I can still hear it...that's because he still does it and did it tonight. Sure he's calmed down a bit and saves the comment for every fourth or fifth house, but that's because he's too busy saying stuff to homeowners like, "Thank you very much", and, "I love your pumpkins".

Today, in the middle of my joy of the season, I became momentarily sad. There was this masked man...o.k. a masked boy, really. He needed to get something off of his chest. I know this because he said it without any introductions...no usual fear as might usually be there if one were unhidden. Today, he said, I picked up the phone at three and there was a boy who asked if I was going trick-or-treating. I said yes, I was. Then he said that I hope you have fun worshipping satan. Long...astonished...but not entirely surprised...pause.
Homeschooler...probably never read the book...I said, awkwardly...hoping to comfort...for levity. We continued to go from well-lit door to welcoming smile...the dread of satan's touch always at our side.

Feet tired, we returned with our catch. Sort the loot and sigh... visions of jack o' lanterns still in our heads. Another good crop. The lord has seen fit to bless us once again.

All The Diamonds - Bruce Cockburn

2009-04-19T23:40:00.001-05:00

I spent four years studying at Briercrest. Four year of life that I seem to tell people these days that I am not paid for. No credit to me financially in my teaching career. But I often take the time to tell people of how one evening, I was asked by a fellow student to go for a walk in the chilled autumn evening to his car in the student parking lot to listen to a song. A song that had added colour to his life.
This moment of intentional sharing has paid dividends over the last 20 years that have likely been more valuable than any monetary compensation for my years of study.
The song was All The Diamonds by Bruce Cockburn.

while Lucifer was away

2009-03-08T10:08:00.003-05:00

Above, Cheri's black bean dip and below, her red pepper hummous.

Brian's fish croquettes

Cheri's smoked Salmon quiche

I seem to be serving this a lot after many meals...4-year old cheddar with dark chocolate, almonds, figs and dates.

kissed the girls and made them cry

2009-02-22T12:03:00.007-06:00

Deep-fried breaded dates stuffed with chorizo sausage and wrapped in bacon

Ooo la-la...Karla's dip

Yoghurty goodness

chicken liver fricassee

cheese empanadas with pepperoncini and olives

asparagus wrapped in prosciutto

nothing to see here

2009-02-07T09:55:00.013-06:00

Garlic-rubbed, tomato and basil topped toast, with smoked salmon, fresh mozzarella ball and parmesian shaving

Cheri's smoked salmon for her salad

roasted red pepper stuffed with tuna and capers

green olives with anchovies

sunday school material

2009-01-24T18:05:00.008-06:00

Cheri's brie quesadillas with mango chutney

Ricotta fritters

polenta, which I served warm with creamed salt cod

a little of everything

forget the silk, just give me the spices

2009-01-18T14:28:00.007-06:00

My birthday was on December 16 but things didn't work out during that time for Joyce and me to go out for dinner, so we left it until after Christmas.

Last year she took me to the best Indian food restaurant in the city, and this year we thought we'd try the second best...just so that we could compare.

As far as I'm concerned, the food was the same. There was not really any way for me to tell the difference. However the decors are worlds apart. Last year's trip brought us to a place of guilded wallpaper, woven carpets and gold leaf statues. This year's outing was all painted drywall and flatscreen T.V.s blasting all of the latest Baliwood music videos. But the company was fantastic, so the decor didn't really matter. What I really went for was the food and company anyway.

A result of the outing was that I got that India cuisine on the brain...all chutneyish and Tandoorified.

Of course I had to go home and see if I could make any of this myself. And the first place I went to check for authentic recipies was my Moosewood collection. It didn't take long. Book #2: The Enchanted Broccoli Forest...and all meatless.

The dishes displayed here are all of the ones mentioned on p.222 and 223. The Yellow dish is Indian Pulao. The Hearty one just to the right of the Pulao is spiced lentils. The three sauces are date and orange chutney, parsley chutney, and yogourt sauce or "Raita". The flatbread is called Chappatis.

I've taken a photo of the recipe book if anyone is interested in making these.

Whenever I make something new Sammy asks me what it tastes like. My answer is always the same...yummy goodness, Sam. Yummy goodness.

panpepato

2008-11-29T12:15:00.003-06:00

I've read that this is a Roman Christmas favourite. It's filled with nuts and fruit, sweetened with honey and wine, and dark with chocolate.

2 cups flour
1 tbsp unsweetened cocoa powder
1/2 tsp each pepper and ground nutmeg
1/4 tsp cinnamon
2-1/2 cups each whole unblanched almonds and hazelnuts
2-1/2 cups chopped walnuts
1-1/2 cups golden raisins
1-1/4 cup candied fruit
2/3 cup minced orange rind
1 cup liquid honey
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/4 cup dry white wine
3 oz semisweet chocolate, melted
icing sugar

In a small bowl, blend flour, cocoa, pepper, nutmeg and cinnamon; set aside. In separate bowl, combine almonds, hazelnuts, walnuts, raisins, candied fruit and orange rind; set asid.

In large saucepan, bring honey, sugar, and wine to a boil; reduce heat and simmer for 2 minutes. Remove from heat; stir in chocolate. Blend in flour mixture, then nut mixture.

Divide into 3 portions; place each on on waxed paper. With wet hands, shape into 10 x 4 inch logs, pressing to break air bubbles and pushing in any exposed nuts. (you wouldn't want yor nuts showing, afterall). Peel off paper; place on greased baking sheet.

Place in cold oven; turn to 350 F and bake for 40 minutes or until lightly browned. Let cool for 10 minutes; let cool completely on racks. Wrap in plastic and foil; let stand for 24 hours

To serve, sift icing sugar over top.

So...try it yourself, or show up to tapas on Friday. I'll be serving it with the coffee at about 9 or 10.

yummy goodness

2008-10-26T17:39:00.002-05:00

polenta

2008-09-28T15:22:00.001-05:00

We just got our last portion of the year from our share in a local garden Co-op. It's been quite a challenge some of the weeks to come up with dishes to make that the entire family will not turn their noses up at. Like, really...what are you supposed to do with an enviro bag full of kale?

Today, while everyone was at church, I was sitting at the dining room table looking through some of my Moosewood cookbooks and came across something I'd seen before, this recipe for a polenta dome. I've never made polenta, but always was intrigued by the thought of it.
It turned out great and everything was so fresh that, I'm thinking, this would only be this great at this time of year.

Polenta is to the Italians as what potatoes are to the North Americans and the Irish, and what rice is to the Orient. The most basic recipe of polenta is boiled cornmeal with a little salt. This polenta dome has caramelized onions and garlic, shredded summer squash, and grated cheddar and parmigiano-reggiano cheeses. It is served with marinated roasted vegetables. Almost any vegetables will do...the more colour, the better the photo opp.

holy!

2008-09-27T11:58:00.003-05:00

2 to the power of 1 = 2

2008-09-24T20:25:00.003-05:00

"Mr. H.? My sister said that you said that you believe in gays...is that true?"

"If by 'belief' you mean do I think that everyone has the right to love anyone they want to love and that everyone's sex life is their own business, then , yes, I do believe in gays."

Honestly...just because I stop believing in Santa Claus, doesn't mean that I stop believing in EVERYTHING!

tongue in cheek

2008-09-13T12:04:00.006-05:00

These things just seem to go too fast. The tapas Fridays, I mean. You know, you've got all these amazing people show up with fantastic food which they've prepared or finish preparing at our home, and then during the evening several tempting conversations are calling from all corners of the room, and then there's the fire and the homemade music coming from the boys outside...and, before you have a chance to take it all in, everyone is saying goodnight. All we're left with are feelings of warmth and wonderful mental (and digital) images of time well spent. Poor us. Boo hoo hoo.

gochisosamadeshita

2008-05-25T19:16:00.020-05:00

Translation from Japanese: it was an honourable feast.

_______________________________________

Tapas this week was smaller than usual in attendance, but not small on presentation and gastronomy. Here are some of the food highlights:

makizuchi - wrapped sushi [ Luci's sushi ]

Curried scallops and zucchini by Cheri

Cucumber cups with three different fillings by Brian.

Curry chicken
Mediterranean
Asian chicken

Spinach frittata by Cheri

"the best tapas...so far"

2008-04-12T13:26:00.017-05:00

Blue Cheese Potato Tarts

Sweet Pepper Salad and Lebanese Tabbouleh in Pita Bread

Marinated Pork Tenderloin Medallions with Apple Chutney

"You'd better sit down before trying that."

And the thing that put the bomp in the bomp-she-bomp-she-bomp, was the seemless transition from eating to opening instrument cases. There was the sound of music...people were putting a part of themselves "out there"...something that we have been hoping would happen for some time.

My only issue was that people left at 10:30. What's up with THAT? When it was just the food and drink, people used to stay well past midnight and sometimes till 2:00am. Now that the music has started, we'll have to keep that going AND get people to stay late.

If only we could get Cheri to stop yawning so early in the evening.

happy easter

2008-03-20T17:13:00.002-05:00

Resurrection Buns

Combine:

2 Tbsp yeast
2 tsp sugar
1 cup warm water

Let mixture rise. (indeed)

Combine in large mixing bowl:

3 cups warm water
1 cup oil
2 eggs
2 tsp salt
1/4 cup sugar

Add the yeast mixture and then add 10 cups of white flour and mix together until no longer sticky. You will probably need to add more flour as you adjust the texture. Kneed until smooth and elastic. (Approx. 8-10 minutes) Let rise in a greased bowl until double.

To form buns, cut off egg size pieces from the dough and pop a large marshmallow into the centre of your dough piece and pinch securely around the marshmallow. Roll on the the table to smooth the ball of dough into a nice bun shape. Dip top of ball into melted butter and roll in a mixture of brown sugar and cinnamon. Place on greased baking sheet and let rise for 90 minutes. Bake at 390 degrees for 16-18 minutes.

Makes 40-50 buns.

hope floats

2008-03-18T15:17:00.001-05:00

Speaking of GROANING...

I got invited to do the swim portion of the Morden Triathlon last year and fared quite well, but had an interesting experience, which lead me to believe that I'm perhaps not invincible.
The race organizer announced in the pre-race meeting that the water temperature fell within the range to allow wetsuits, to every one's relief. I, on the other hand, had never practiced swimming with mine, although I came equipped with it. Many people like the suits because of the warmth and the added buoyancy.

The race began and we all politely made our way into the water without fighting for positions. I was swimming along...swim...swim...swim...when suddenly I felt the long large zipper at the back of my suit open, and my suit begin to fill with cold, cold lake water. I began to panic. What happens when a suit gets completely filled? Will I sink? Should I call out for help and get pulled from the water and therefore disqualify myself? What would my relay team members think?
The suit didn't continue to fill and so some of the panic left me. I managed to redo the zipper and compose myself. Just a moment or so later I was back into active stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe mode. After the 2 kilometers of self speak, I came out of the water ahead of perhaps 50% of the pack, and feeling quite pleased with myself for pressing on when panic came, and for finishing well.

It wasn't until some time alone during the 90 minute drive home that I suddenly began to feel fragile. I remembered the feelings of panic I had in the water when I thought I was going to go down. The feelings were foreign. I felt out of control. I thought of my wife and kids. I thought that perhaps my recent decision to rethink my concept of God was ill-timed. I remembered someone once telling me that dying by drowning is a horrible thing but that the moment just before death, there is an experience of euphoria or ecstasy, or some crazy thing like that. Then I thought, well, if that's true, how do they know that's true? Who's the guy they get to do the experiment?

This year I heard rumblings that I will be asked again, which would suit me fine. I just hope that I can remain bouyant after losing all of this winter baggage. Hopefully the day will be another cold one and we can use the wet suits once again.

you say fah-ZHWAY-dah, I say fay-ZHWA-dah

2008-03-17T21:12:00.002-05:00

Moosewood Vegetarian Feijoada

tapas

2008-03-15T18:40:00.002-05:00

I've had tapas on the brain lately. So I made some...again...and will continue to do so every other Friday until my restaurant opens. If I get around to it, I'll eventually invite everyone who is interested in joining the crew who have passed through my Friday back door. Be prepared for much more than great tapas, but you'll have to be here to find out what you're missing.

lunar

2008-02-21T13:09:00.005-06:00

leaning into the winter wind

steadied by a pair of legs

a flash through hibernating limbs

an ensnared orb captured

new title

2008-01-04T13:34:00.000-06:00

I have changed to title of the blog to perhaps marry it with the intent of this space. The old title I Wonder no longer seemed appropriate as I have made the focus here to be more about food.

I have been thinking a little further about what I hope to accomplish here, and a title having to do with food would not be entirely fitting. Therefore I have chosen The Groaning Board to perhaps give a broader focus than simply food; although a groaning board has almost everything to do with food, and abundance, and plenty.

Simply put, a groaning board refers to how the cupboards on which the food was served in colonial times groaned under the weight of so much delicious food. It is a bountiful spread of delicious and nutricious food.

I'm not one to go around quoting bible verses, but something that comes to mind when I think of the word groaning, is a verse in Romans where the author says that when there is something in us that needs to get out, but we are unable to form the words, the spirit says them for us with groans that words cannot express. That is a lovely picture of what I hope the groaning board will do.

As I thought of this description, I immediately felt that it would be an appropriate name for the collective. It would not only be a fitting description of what I hope the restaurant will become, but leaves room for the much broader intent of the collective; which is to provide opportunities for an abundance of food, music, art, culture, discussion, understanding, and personal growth. To provide a place where people will share their lives in ways beyond simple language. To express their life passions with language that crosses many boundries.

So, here's another step towards the goal. Remember, though, I have 14 years to get this all together. Who knows what it will become. And you're not allowed to hold me to anything.

Mushroom Bisque

2008-01-02T08:01:00.000-06:00

I didn't think that I would quickly find a soup that I liked better than carrot, but it has happened; and on p. 21, seven pages before carrot in the Moosewood cookbook. Here it is:

6 Tbsp butter
1 stalk celery
3 fist-sized potatoes
1.5 cups chopped onion
1.5 cups stock or water
approx. 2 tsp. salt
1.5 lbs. fresh mushrooms
1/4 tsp. thyme
3 cups milk, scalded
1 cup heavy cream
2-3 Tbsp dry sherry (I used 3)
1-2 Tbsp. Tamari (which is a deluxe soy sauce; I used reg. soy)
fresh black pepper
freshly-chopped chives or scallions

Slice potatoes thinly. Chop celery and mushrooms coarsely. Begin cooking the onion in butter, adding 1 tsp. salt. When the onion becomes translucent add the potatoes and the celery. Continue to cook over fairly low heat, mixing well, so the butter coats everything. After several minutes add the mushrooms, water, and remaining salt. Cover and cook over medium heat 15 minutes. Remove from heat and let cool to room temperature.

Puree the entire mushroom mixture in a blender until absolutely smooth. Return it to a soup kattle (if possible, use a double boiler or a "waffle" heat-absorbing pad) and heat very slowly, with utmost care, as you whisk in the scalded milk, cream, sherry, and tamari. Heat only until hot enough to serve! If cooked or boiled, this soup will easily curdle and loose its texture.

Serve immediately, topped with freshly-chopped chives and freshly-grated black pepper. This soup goes well with garlic croutons.

carrot soup

2007-12-10T22:04:00.000-06:00

45 minutes to prepare. 4-5 servings.

Bring to a boil:

2 lbs. carrots, peeled or scrubbed, and chopped

4 cups stock or water (I used stock)

1 &1/2 tsp. salt

optional: 1 medium potato, chopped (for heartier soup) (I didn't use)

Cover and simmer 12-15 minutes. Let cool to room temperature.

Saute:

1 cup chopped onion
1-2 small cloves crushed garlic
1/3 cup chopped cashews or almonds ( I used almonds because Arianna loves almonds)in butter with a little salt, until onions are clear.

Puree everything together in a blender until smooth. Return the puree to a kettle or double-boiler and whisk in one of the following:

1 cup milk
1 cup yogurt or buttermilk plus a little honey
1/2 pint heavy cream
3/4 cup sour cream (I used this option, but next time I'm trying the buttermilk option)

Heat very slowly.

Seasoning combinations to choose from:

1. 2 pinches nutmeg, 1/2 tsp. dried mint, dash of cinnamon (I used this combination)

2. 1/2 to 1 tsp each of thyme, margoram, and basil

3. 1 tsp. fresh grated ginger root, sauted in butter plus a dash of sherry, (add just before serving)

Garnish with grated apple or toasted nuts or yogurt or sour cream. (I used sour cream because that's what was on hand).

In the beginning

2007-11-18T18:53:00.000-06:00

Have you ever had a deep desire for something, but were never able to describe it or give it a name?

Have you ever wondered about the possibilities of doing several things as a career other than what you are doing right now?

Ever been puzzled with why it is that you are competent or even really quite good at many skills but not really outstanding at any one?

I've had all of these questions for as long as I can remember. I've often thought that at any given moment, quite outside of my planning or actions, that one special opportunity or moment or meaningful..."thing"...will appear; as if guided by God as a part of some ordained plan.

It's a bit paralyzing when people tell you, in the context of faith, that they expect that one day great things will come from you. The tendency is to wait for God to do something rather than doing something with what you already know you are skilled in. You plod along as always; never trying to reach the next level of achievement because you are waiting for "it" to happen, because others are believing it will happen. Or so they said. It ends up being more of a curse than anything else. Or at least it was for me until I grew into some self confidence. Then some form of regret sets in because of all the wasted time. More time is wasted being remorseful.

A few months ago, very dear friends of ours had us over for dinner where a wonderful soup was served as one of the courses. Carrot soup. I asked for the recipe and was told that I already had it. In fact, it was something I possessed for more than two years. It was part of a cookbook which the hostess had given me one of the first times we met.

The first thing I did when I returned home was rifle through the cookbook shelf to find my copy. Sure enough...there it was. M00sew00d C00kb00k, and on p.28 was the recipe for the most amazing soup I had ever tasted. I instantly knew that I wanted to be a part of something larger than one recipe. I wanted a community. I saw a building that was filled with people, food, music, theatre, wood, stone, warmth. What the hell was in those carrots?

The idea is a collective. A collection of people who enjoy getting together to cook and eat, and who want to engage in a community project. This project could be a collection of many things, but the core of it will be a restaurant that provides meals which are nutritionally balanced and aesthetically pleasing. And at this stage I'm thinking that it will largely be vegetarian.

The plan is to grow this project over the next 14 years or so and watch what it becomes. I do not plan on doing it alone. I will not do it alone...that would defeat the purpose. I will wait for others to be assimilated...into the BORG. Brian's Organic Rice-eating Groupies.

First on the list is simply to cook, and to do it in community with others. We've started having happy hour every Friday at 5:00 where we will have various people over for something to drink, as is custom in a happy hour. But what I plan to do is to try several new recipes each week and come up with a tested list of things which I feel will work well in "the collective". I've bought nearly all the M00sew00d cookbooks now, and there are quite a few of them. My goal is to work through most of the recipes and share them with as many people as I can. The recipes are not only nutritious, but are well thought through and delicious. You'd never really think of them as vegetarian.

Next in the plan, and this will go on as the initial part is going on, is to keep my eyes opened for a plot of land and a building. My dream is a place in town where I can move a building onto. The building will be an old community centre, schoolhouse, church, firehall, etc., from another community where it is no longer appreciated...and for a real bargain. I'll buy it for a song and move it onto a new foundation on the plot of land which I will have also bought for a similar tune.

So, I guess for a while, this will turn into somewhat of a food blog where I will share some of the great food I will be experiencing. It will also be a place for you to share with me something that you wish for me to experience; food-related or otherwise.

I never thought that I could be so easily enticed by a dangling carrot.

Next post: Carrot Soup

new focus

2007-11-18T08:55:00.000-06:00

I'm a long ways away from early retirement.

14 years, in fact. 24 years from regular retirement.

That makes me feel good because I like what I do and I think I'll keep liking it for at least that long. But when it comes time to make those kinds of decisions, I don't want to make them in a panic.

Joyce and I have been to see the financial planners who tell us what we need to do from now until then, but it's all about money. He asked me what I did for a living and, after I told him I was a teacher, he said I guess your pretty much set then. I wasn't sure what to think about that. Was that good, was that bad? I later discovered that all he meant was that between now and my retirement, my income, aside from new contracts and Bill Gates sending me a tonne of cash for forwarding those emails, would stay pretty much the same. So we had to come up with a financial plan with what I could count on.

But, again, that's all about money. I hate it.

It's been about a year now since seeing the planner, and, well, things are pretty much the same...just like he said they'd be.

One thing has changed. I've begun to think about the time in my life when I won't be teaching. I've had visions of me standing and staring out the window just like I do with the first week of summer holidays. No plan for the day, just relax. Well before too long I'm driving Joyce crazy with the pacing and the staring. I'm sure I'll end up with a freshly sharpened #2HB pencil jabbed into the base of my neck before enjoying too much time at the window.

A couple of summers ago I realized that I had this tendancy, so I came up a plan for the entire summer long before the summer actually arrived. The plan took into account many of my passions and the things that I always wished that I had time for while school was in session. The transition was seamless. The plan actually went into effect a fews days before the summer started. Effortless motion from work to "rest".

So now, thinking about time on a much larger graphic organizer, I wish to plan, over the next 14 or so years, for a transition from work to a "whatever" and chronicling the evolution here. There is a definite direction. Like an idea with it's arms opened wide to embrace other ideas along the way. I'll do the forward motion and as you enter into my community we'll dine together on the present and the future.

The direction: A Philosophy.

Next post: In the beginning.

a change of direction

2007-11-12T07:47:00.000-06:00

Coming soon. Keep watching.

popular opinion

2007-10-11T13:05:00.000-05:00

"Mr. Hildebrand, we should take the Coke machines out of our school, because I heard that Coke supports the gays."

And still...we have to fight to get religious instruction out of the Public School system.

prince of tides

2007-07-23T21:55:00.000-05:00

About a billion years ago, I was heavily involved in triathlon training. The running and the cycling always seemed to be the easiest things in the world to find time for. The swimming was always weak. I usually started to panic two weeks before the season started, and then suddenly bought a membership to the pool. I never made it there more than two or three times for the early morning group swim...and then never was able to swim more than four lengths without stopping for 5 minutes. When it came to race day, I was usually one of the last out of the water.

Like I said...that was about a billion years ago. The tides have now turned. Swimming has become almost as natural as breathing, and the running and the cycling have all but ceased.

I was asked the other week if I would be interested in filling in a vacant spot in the swimming portion of a triathlon relay. This is a triathlon I had done all on my own oh so very long ago. But now all I had to do was swim...sounds too good to be true. "I'll do it. I'd love to."

I couldn't believe how anxious I became after I said yes. I was glad that it was really short notice, because I couldn't sleep, and I was driving my wife crazy. The night before was crazy...tossing, turning...more turning.

I was worried about lake swimming. All my training had been done in a pool. Very simple format...back and forth in an easy to negotiate lane, perhaps with one other person sharing the space.

The lake is unfamiliar. The lake is cold. I would be wearing an untested wetsuit, and there were about a hundred others attacking the space at the same time. The waiver I signed mentioned something about possible dangers in the swim portion: kicking, pushing, punching, scratching, drowning... How nice.

The race is now behind me and the t-shirt and finisher's medal are in hand. My time was only about 2 minutes slower than it would have been in a pool, so I am actually quite pleased.

There is something that tends to happen to a fella, though, at an event such as this. It's called inspiration. I have a feeling that the tides could be turning once again.

quit measuring already

2007-07-20T11:33:00.000-05:00

Some people choose to fritter their time away with Facebook, and others, like me and a few million others worldwide, have chosen to waste countless nighttime hours roleplaying on World of Warcraft. Mine is the make-believe life of Sammus, named after my youngest boy Sammy. Sammus is outfitted here with his Acrobatic Staff of Frozen Wrath, capable of inflicting serious damage...for a fancy stick anyway.

In the real world, this is Sammy on a sunny July Wednesday afternoon out on a fishing trip with the family, including grandma and grandpa. He is equipped here with the Zebco Staff of Water Wasteland, capable of inflicting SERIOUS damage to unsuspecting weedmonsters within 20 metres.

measure twice, cut once

2007-04-25T08:29:00.001-05:00

around the world in 4900 days

2007-04-23T22:06:00.000-05:00

One of my oldest nephews is near the end of his six week trip around Europe. A few days ago he was in Barcelona and was planning on staying there for a few days before taking a boat to somewhere in Italy. I remember well being 20ish and doing something quite similar, but I never did make it to Barcelona. It's now a destination on my life goals list.

I thought I'd do a little advance planning for the trip so I entered the "from" and "to" into Google maps. It seemed as though it was going to be a fairly straight forward trip, until I read #24 of the instructions on the left.

I currently swim about 9km per week. If I start now, I should be stepping out of the water on the shores of Spain just in time for my 53rd birthday.

manitoba spring

2007-04-08T21:18:00.000-05:00

Now that most of the larger piles of snow are but flat areas of ice, Manitoban's are out and about and doing the springtime jig.

Yesterday, my children spent the evening combing through the yard and picking up all of the winter garbage and whatever else they could find that was left over from a large town ice rink directly behind our house. A large garbage bag full of tins and candy wrappers, and 16 (and counting) hockey pucks.

The sun was out in full force yesterday and finally did some of the necessary thawing. It's such a wonderfull sight to see the town coming to life. People are starting to show themselves on walks. They may have been walking all winter long, but the sun never stayed in the sky long enough for us to see them. Now it's light well past 8:00pm.

Sammy thought that it would be a good time to go out and catch butterflies. He spent much of the day swooping the net through the air in hopes of catching one. I told him that it may be a little early for butterflies. The look on his face is telling enough what he thought of that
idea.

This is the year that we get a puppy...maybe two. We finally found a local breeder of mini australian shepherds. We've been put on the waiting list for the next litter late this summer or early fall. That will give us time to get the house and yard ready for a dog.
I'm hoping for a male black or red tri, and the girls are hoping for a female blue merle. I'm sure we'd quickly fall in love with whatever we get.

Are there any butterflies where you are?

crazy jane

2007-04-08T15:02:00.000-05:00

Happy 11th birthday Jane-Jane.

shades of red

2007-04-04T16:44:00.000-05:00

Happy Birthday Micah Brian Superhero!

spring project

2007-03-29T13:04:00.000-05:00

A number of months ago I started a home renovation project. It was one of those that kind of got bigger and bigger as time went along.

Can I have a show of hands for those that have seen a project that didn't become much more than intended. I didn't think so.

Joyce and I moved out of our bedroom on the main floor. I gutted the entire thing right down to the studs. The room had very poor wiring so I redid all of it before putting in all new drywall, flooring, mouldings and paint.

The room took on a new purpose. Joyce needed a sewing room and I needed a desk, so I had to make one that fit my needs and the space where the closet used to be.

I remembered some of Cream's great tile work from over a year ago and wanted to try my hand at breaking my own share, so I used my router to gouge out a groove in the desk top and used all the broken tile bits to create a bit of an inlay.

That didn't seem to be quite enough, so I did a bit of a cartoonish painting of a classroom with me in the middle of a lesson. If you look out the window you will see a man sitting in the park on a bench playing guitar...which is what I would rather be doing in the springtime.

Half of the desk will be used for the computer and the other for whatever else it is that teachers

do.

Oh, and if you're wondering where we're sleeping these days, we didn't think that the kids would mind if we slept on the floor of their bedrooms for a while. Joyce's blogging privacy is more important afterall. A woman's got to have space to be creative.

coffee nation

2007-03-21T17:24:00.000-05:00

Have you ever wished that you'd have come up with an idea first? When you see one, you sometimes want to smack your forehead with an open fist and say, "Now what was keeping ME from thinking of that?"

Talk around the staffroom table led to one person saying that every time we have trouble with something, it should be an opportunity for a new product. My synical mind immediately pictured ejector seats for student desks. Neh...that would never work. There's a ceiling in the way. What we need to think about is something truly unique...something truly Canadian.

Now why didn't I think of that? But that's not going to stop me from wishing others well during their times of success, Oh no. I'm going to do everything in my power to support the entrepreneurship of good Canadians.

Therefore, the first 20 people who email me with their complete mailing address and the words, "Brian, you make me so hot, but not in a sweaty kind of way" will receive one shiney new rimroller in the mail. Keep in mind that I'm a grade school teacher. I'll be checking for spelling.

Aaaaand, GO!

stacks

2007-03-20T07:35:00.000-05:00

Do you ever think that people care about what you read; so much so that you want to post a picture of your bedside table and the stack of books you are pretending to read to make yourself look good?

I often get really excited about the books I'm reading or planning to read. Occassionally I will gather them together to gain some perspective of where I am going with all of this. Sometimes I find that it is time to buy some new ones. Other times I need to either quit buying and read what I've already got, or head in a new direction.

This time, what I have on the go is exciting for me. There is one that I want to reread, but the others have all been recommended to me by friends. I'm mostly through Miriam Toews' A Complicated Kindness. So far it is fantastic. I'm waiting to get to the part where she gives a mention of my late brother-in-law. They used to be sweethearts. Aparently, she would drive out to the farm and she and Ken would spend the day driving around on the field in the tractor doing...uhmmm...farm stuff. It makes me feel like I kind of know her.

The others are not light reads, so I don't imagine to get through them quickly. I'm the kind of reader that needs to take heaviness slowly...in palatable chunks...with some robust Cabernet Sauvignon, perhaps.

What's in your stack? I'd actually really like to know. Perhaps I'll add some of yours to mine.

preaching to the children's choir

2007-03-18T11:55:00.000-05:00

I'm unapologetic about singing theme songs out loud in my classroom. However, it may be a little less embarrassing if I would sing something other than themes from preschool children's programming; but what's a simple guy supposed to do...

My grade 5 and 6 students cower in their desks every time I announce my entrance into the classroom by singing Mail Song from Blue's Clues

Here's the mail
It never fails
It makes me wanna wag my tail
When it comes I wanna wail...MAIL!!!

I have only one preschool child left at home. Sammy. His favourite show is George Shrinks. We LOVE singing the theme song to that one. I'm usually the one who starts it, and he is quick to join in. I'm sure that everyone else in the house is completely tired of hearing it, but I JUST CAN'T HELP IT.

Kids these days have a lot to be thankful for in their T.V. programming. Gone are the days when a kid's life was all about obedience and conformity. These days, they can be whatever they want to be. All it takes is "want to" because they already have what it takes.

Kids all around T.V. land chant these words each and every day:

Blue's Clues
Now it's time for so long
But we'll sing just one more song
Thanks for doing your part
You sure are smart!
You know, with me and you
And our friend Blue
We can do anything that we wanna do!

Blue's Clues
You know what to do!
Sit down in our Thinking Chair and think...think...think!
Cause when we use our mind, take a step at a time
We can do anything...that we wanna do!

We Figured It Out
We sat on down
Figured it out
What Blue's Clues are all about
Hey, you know what?
You're really smart!

George Shrinks
Well, the boy is kinda small
But it doesn't show at all
Cuz he's always acting tall
George Shrinks, George Shrinks
He's called

If a problem should be found
He's the boy to have around
Something big or something small
George Shrinks, George Shrinks
He's called
George always seems to find a way
To make his dreams come true each day

Rolie, Polie, Olie
He's short and smart and round

Tractor Tom
We couldn't do it without you.

Arthur
Everyday when you're walking down the street, everybody that you meet
Has an original point of view...
Get together and make things better
By working together!
It's a simple message and it comes from the heart
Believe in youself (echo: believe in yourself)
Well thats the place to start (to start)

Bob the Builder
Bob the Builder!
Can we fix it?
Bob the Builder!
Yes we can!

There is only one problem with all of this positive self-speak. Sometimes kids who really have no clue at all about something, think that they really do. If you don't believe me, there's nothing like an evening watching American Idol auditions to set you straight.

Thank goodness for Little Bear though and the programme's keeping up with the times. Cat and Little Bear are a lot nicer than Simon, but could perhaps be a little more honest.

O'Brian the Mennonite

2007-03-16T11:47:00.000-05:00

I have the rare privelege of knowing two men named Roderick. That's actually their formal name. Most of the time, people will know a Rod or a Rodney, but rarely a Roderick. And rarer still, two.

Every other Thursday, one of the Rodericks and I get together and have a guitar night. We meet at his house, close the door to his office, set out our guitars and the chips, and he pours the Scotch. That's our little arrangement. I provide the musical guidance and he provides the drink. He says that the better he gets at playing guitar, the better the scotch gets. I suggested that perhaps we should meet more often...you know...to speed things up a bit.

This Thursday I was running a little late after work and was looking forward to getting home and just putting my feet up. When I arrived home Joyce told me that Rod called and wanted me to call him back as soon as I got in. Something about going to the city to listen to some Irish music. I returned the call and he said he'd be over in 15 minutes to pick me up.

We drove to a part of the city I rarely see and were able to park nearly directly in front of the club's entrance. It was a small side entrance which immediately turned into stairs going up to the left. The room was large and homey. Two things immediately stuck out; the stage straight ahead by the fireplace, and the bar at the far right. The bar had a few of those decorative beer levers for pouring pints of Guinness and Smithwicks. I learned just a few days prior that Smithwicks is actually pronounced Smithicks. No w. I proudly answered the what'll ya have with Smithicks, please. At least I hope I remembered to say please. I was concentrating pretty hard on getting the beer correct. I didn't want to stand out too much.

We found a table near the front of the room where we'd be able to see the stage properly. Rod thought that the concert started at 7:00. We were just in time.

Looking around the room at some of the others seated, and still others arriving, gave me smile. Green hats, shirts, suspenders, and sashes. Guinness pride was everywhere, and well in hand. Everyone seemed to have their Friday faces on. I had on black jeans, black t-shirt and a Protestant orange vest over the shirt. I became quite conscious of the vest the more Rod spoke. He mentioned the lyrics to an old Irish tune he had learned as a lad where people were defined by the orange and the green. A glance around the room quickly reinforced the distinction between the two faiths. A map on the wall, lovingly made from metal by a member who teaches metal shops, clearly defined the poeple area groups. The people in the room were wearing their faith on their green sleeves. It felt a little like Christmas. I was beginning to feel a little out of place, despite my proper pronunciations. Rod said that if I got into a fight, he would be in my corner, which was way over there somewhere. Rather than leaving to avoid persecution, I removed the vest. I was all black...like Johnny Cash.

The evening was billed Traditional Night. The club memebers all knew what that meant. Irish fiddle tunes, chants, stories, yarns, and poems. They seemed to keep the star performers for the later evening. The Irish dancers, fully adorned in dress and curls, took the stage and shook the second level floor. I was thinking Riverdance while everyone else was thinking Traditional Night.

Remembering it was only Thursday, and the pints being empty anyways, we decided it was time to leave to ensure a proper bedtime. If we timed it correctly, we'd be home by 11:00. The highways out of the city were quiet and as we drove I wondered about the evening and thought about Rod and where he's from. Rod's an islander. A Newly Found Land by some wild well-armed seamen with circular shields in the year 1000. They didn't didn't stay long, however, as they didn't get along with the others who had already found it thousands of years prior to their finding it.

I mentioned to Rod that it must be nice to know where he's from. I said that it was a little confusing for me because I don't seem to have a homeland. I have a definite culture, but we're a little displaced. The Mennonites have been all over the place. Holland, Germany, Austria, Russia, and now the U.S. and Canada. It's hard to know what land I'm connected to. It's hard to know the answer to the question, where are you from? I'm from wherever we weren't persecuted for wearing our faith on our sleeves. We find someone else's land for a while until the one's who found it first begin to protest. Then, rather than taking off our orange for a while to avoid conflict, we leave.

I know gambling is against my colours, but I'm willing to bet that we've perhaps missed out on some fine Traditional Nights because we were too quick to leave.

Thanks for sharing, Roderick.

question #4: you're my inspiration

2007-03-02T23:12:00.000-06:00

All the way from somewhere in Ontario, Canada comes a question from Christine.

"I would like to know about the person who has inspired you the most."

One person immediately came to mind. My wife Joyce.

Joyce and I first met at summer camp back in 1984. It was the summer before final year in high school. She was the lifeguard assistant and I was the canoe instructor, which meant we were both on the waterfront for most of the day. She, in her deadly bluegrey bathing suit, and me with...well... Let's just say I was happy to see her. During what little free time we had, we managed to form a good friendship. I hoped that it would lead to more, but I was shy(ish) and she lived as far away as could possibly be. Only about an hour, but I didn't have a car so it may as well have been overseas.

We continued to communicate after the summer, but only through letters. I've never been any good on the phone. I think the letters stopped after she started to date another guy from summer camp. He lived even further away than I did, but he had a car; or at least his parents were willing to drive him. They went to a few concerts together in the city and held hands, I think. Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's all they did.

Six years later, after four years living away from home getting my first degree, I was living at home again and working as and educational assistant at the same high school I had graduated from and working evenings as a waiter at the local Smitty's Family Restaurant. One weekend afternoon, I felt the need to clean out my bedroom closet. After pulling out several boxes full of odds and ends I used to tinker with, I found a shoebox which had a stack of letters bound together with elastics. I had forgotten that they were there. Letters from Joyce. I suddenly wondered what she might be up to. I wrote her another letter and sent it to the return address on her letters. A sort of casting out into the winds of chance. I included my telephone number.

The letter I sent had a bit of an adventure. She, or her parents hadn't lived at that address for a few years. The new occupants were a Haldemann family who sort of knew where her parents moved to. They brought the letter to them. Joyce had moved to the big city and didn't come home on a regular basis, so the letter had to wait until one of those times. The day came, and I received a phone call. It didn't take long to discover that I really didn't mind talking on the phone. Conversation was easy. Let's meet. And we did.

Two years of dating and rings were exchanged. Four more years of school for me, four children, four different addresses, four vehicles, and fourteen of the most challenging years of my life; and not once have I been uninspired. And I have Joyce to thank for much it. You see, Joyce isn't your average woman. She's fun to be around, nurturing, creative, caring, nice to children and old people, and great with a keyboard. But the thing that inspires me the most, is that she is volatile. No, I didn't say vital...I said volatile. Let me explain.

About 10 years ago I heard an investment tip that was promising to make a number of people wealthy. I decided that it was an opportunity I couldn't pass up, so I took what cash I had and I joined in. The investment was in a stock on the VSE, and it was one of those stocks that you never really knew for sure what it was going to do. You had to watch it very closely and pay extra attention to it. If you saw it moving, you had to be ready to act. They called it a VOLATILE stock.

Recently, Joyce and I had a meeting with a financial advisor in hopes of us gaining a vision of a comfortable retirement 25 years from now. If we continue on the path we are on now, things seem like they will be just fine. But if what we want is more than what we've got now, we have to move our investments into something a little more volatile. It's risky, but the payoffs can be really good. And you have to be willing to do it.

My history with volatile finacial investments has not been good. In fact, I think I have approximately 3%left of my initial investment from that single transaction. But relationships are much different than money. My history with those has been a little better. I couldn't say for sure what kind of percentage I'm getting for what I'm putting in. There are a lot of ups and downs, and you really have to stay alert or you'll miss really important times. But I'm a better person for it. And I'm still willing to do it. All it takes is the heart and the right place to put your investment...and that I've got. Thanks Joycie.

question #3: grade 5 lunches

2007-03-02T17:44:00.000-06:00

I've decided to skip over question #2 in lieu of a lighter subject...for now. (Sorry Donn. But I think you'll understand).

Question #3 comes from Michele who lives at your local laundromat.

"Tell me about your school lunches in grade 5."

Wow...this seems like an extremely easy question to answer after my beautiful sister Janice's question #1... Or is it?!

Lunches in grade five is a bit of a mystery to me as, when the lunch bell rings at 12:05, I'm outta there. The E.A.s (they used to be called teacher assistants) supervise while I am away. The students are given 20 minutes to devour everything that mother (sometimes father) has prepared, and then they are shoo-shooed outside (unless of course it is below minus 30 degrees celcius). The only thing I notice about their lunches after lunch is the garbage can NEARLY FULL of "I don't like that stuff", or "My mom knows I don't like it but she always puts it in my lunch."

I taught grade one for two years at a private school and also grade two at a separate private school. During lunch, I was required to be in the classroom while the students ate their lunches. I had a policy in my classroom that when the students said they were finished, they had to show me their lunch bags and prove to me that they had indeed eaten what mamma sent. If there was anything that they didn't want, they certainly weren't allowed to throw it out...they had to take it home and tell mom. If there was ever a time when I wasn't able to be there for the full 20 minutes, I would check the trash bin on my way in, remove, and hold up anything that I found to be a wasted (intact) lunch portion.

I'd sometimes find ziplocks with entire bagels with lox and cream cheese, unopened cans of mango and passion fruit drink, whole bananas, oranges, and apples, symetrically folded waxpaper wrapped smoked turkey on pumpernickle, home made cookies, and those really expensive fruit cups with 100% organic fruit. It drove me crazy. Instead of holding it all high in the air and crying, "who the hell threw this out?" I felt like taking it all home and giving it to the less fortunate (my own children...it was private school remember. They seemed to think paying staff 76% of standard salary is what Jesus would do.)

I haven't yet done that with my grade 5/6 class. But now that I am thinking about it and reminded of the incredible WASTE it is, I think I'll raise a little HELL on Monday.

Do you know what your children are eating for lunch?

question #1: some clarification please

2007-02-27T20:45:00.000-06:00

In my last post I asked for someone to ask a question. Anything. And I would answer it honestly. My youngest of three sisters was first up to bat. Good question, Janice.

"About a month ago you left me wondering. Your post on Can I Get A Witness your thoughts were "guarded" (as you stated in the comments). My question to you or perhaps challenge is - to "unguard" your thoughts and write a post on how you really feel. And maybe do it in a way that we the people of plain speaking may understand it. And don't worry about scaring anyone away, I don't think we spook as easy as you might think."

Well here goes then...in plain speak.

Once again...the same post...with a little added clarity and a little less "guarded".

I've spent eight years of my life in post secondary education. (I sure wish that I was making $150,000.00 a year) That is not an entirely unusual thing. (But most of you are not nearly as educated as I am.) Most of the time though, people who dedicate that amount of time and effort, usually end up with something that they can truly hang their hat on. (Like $150,000.00 a year) A hook significant enough to securely hold their hat for a very long time.

My eight years actually produced two hooks. (Two sets of four years worth of student loans) The first was a four year religious education at a major Canadian Bible College. (I was looking for a submissive wife). The second was a four year degree in education at a secular university.(Some of my friends called it "real" school).

After my first degree, feeling the pride of my hat being well hung,(Not unlike other things) I fully expected that my formal education had officially come to an end.(I thought that maybe mom and dad were getting sick of supporting me financially). I was on my way to working in the comfort of the church's warm arms, securely tucked under the wings of an eagle.(I was the only one in my church with a degree, so I thought I was a shu-in). Spiritually speaking, that is.

Confused that I was unable to land anything of interest,(they thought I was a cocky bastard and didn't want to hire me). I became anxious about my options. (I was broke, owed the government $15,000.00, and living with my parents). Joyce and I had become serious in our relationship almost immediately and I felt pressure to make a move in a definite direction.(She had a great savings account).

Something having to do with a ship that's moving and being easier to steer got me thinking about hook number two.(I became desperate after thinking that I could attempt med school). I took the first steps and enrolled.(In the education program...how hard can it be to be a teacher? Summers off...a good pension plan). I could get a few courses credit from hook number one towards hook number two if I was willing to make religion my minor. A lot of good that had done me in the past.(What do secular professors know about religion anyway? They're not "real" Christians). I declined any credit, and so I was on square one. Four full years to go.(Dear God, not again). We can do this.(With a little help from Jack Daniels).

The years passed quickly.(I was drunk most of the time(not really)...but maintained a 3.8 GPA).

The first two of four children were born and I was feeling a little less anxious every year.(Actually Jane cried for her first full year of life which made me crazy, Joyce and I weren't getting along, I hated school and my job at The Keg, and we were barely making ends meet financially).

Teaching was definately my thing. I was good enough. I was smart enough. And gosh darn it, my students liked me.(My lessons consisted of sing-alongs with me on the guitar and a bucket of candy. What 8-year-old WOULDN'T like me?).

Nearly ten years and three schools of friends later(and maybe one janitorial enemy...no, not you Donny), I've come to love how my hat hangs firmly on it's place(Here's where things get a little more serious). Occasionally I walk past the place on the wall where the first hook is mounted.(I look back at all that I have ever learned and come to believe about God, the church, faith, history, science, truth, the future). I've taken some of the mounting hardware and used it elsewhere.(There is a lot that I no longer believe in about my learned Faith and have come to believe in something much more empirical). It hangs there loosely.(Actually it is barely holding on). I never use it.(I 'm not angry...or afraid...I just don't believe it anymore).

I was asked a few days ago by someone who uses a similar hook if I ever used it.(He asked me if I was a Christian). I had to say no.(Not in the sense that your typical North American fundamentalist would be).

I remembered a time when I would also move about asking anyone if they had a place to hang their hat, or whether they would like one.(I was on a Christian Service team at Bible College where we would go to the local University and try to win some souls). I actually took a freshman course where I was taught how to do this. I was told that I was salty and that when people tasted me, they would become thirsty.(We were quite full of ourselves). Taste and see that I am good. I was afraid.(Do people really want to have me come up to them, cold, and tell them that I've got it right?). I didn't want people to taste me.(What right did I have to assume that they wanted to?)

I was required to write about at least one actual contact where I offered my seasoning. Witnessing, it was called. That was the first and only assignment where I received a 0%.(I protested that this was an unfair assignment. I still received a zero).

Sinse then(Now that my change of heart has become more apparent), I've become a target.(people tend to say things a little differently than they would have a year ago). People are now coming to me with their salt and offer it sheepishly.(I think they are really still trying to convince themselves of it).
Taste and see...they say.(You just don't have enough faith...).
No thanks...I'm feeling a little full(It's just not believable anymore).

So now, Janice, if you're not too spooked, let's see what you have to say...or anyone else for that matter. I welcome your comments. Try to be nice.

I'll tell you no lies

2007-02-25T20:22:00.000-06:00

I've been prone to quiet spells in many of my relationships. I've left people wondering what is going on in my head and whether I'm alright. During these times, conversations do not come easily to me. I will feel the other side's tension, and I'll feel worse, and the silence will compound. They'll say, "Brian, you're so quiet...you're not always this quiet. Are you O.K.?"

I sometimes respond by saying that I just need someone to ask me some questions, and then I'll have something to say.

I seem to be in that sort of spot now with this blog. A very quiet space. Nothing to write about. Although there are many things going on.

So I'm asking you, ask me some questions, and I'll tell you no lies.

If I've any readers left, ask what you will, and I'll write a post about it...I promise.

reverse osmosis

2007-02-09T13:27:00.000-06:00

There really is little doubt about the statement that our lives become rich through reading.

But have you ever wondered if what we read becomes rich in colour by our reading it?

a little less bereft

2007-02-04T17:42:00.000-06:00

There was a meeting of the minds in Winnipeg.

It doesn't take much for people to come up with an excuse to get together and celebrate ANYTHING when it's -40 degrees. We'll attack the elements simply to get our internal furnaces together to have a combined efficiency in heat production.

Sometimes we get together with my friends and sometimes it's with Joyce's friends.
On the weekend it was with both. And I'm a little different for it, if not warmer.

Every time I think of the word "friends" I can't seem to escape a portion of the lyrics from a song by the Crash Test Dummies.

The Bereft Man's Song

...I can't stand her goddamned friends
But I will tolerate them, even though I hate them
( I don't, really )

I spent Sunday warm and content. Too cold to go to church, I stayed home and hung out in my long underwear and watched Apocalypto. I watched an ancient civilization become cursed and begin an unstoppable decimation. Fear and control. The film begins with historian Will Durant's famous quote: ''A great civilization is not conquered from without until it has destroyed itself within.'' I tried to see God's hands in all of this.

"God, damn the hands of glory
That hold the bloody firebrand high
Close the book and end the story
Of how so many men have died" ( Bruce Cockburn )

Life here in the cold outside and warm inside often has me wondering. Today I wondered that
perhaps God doesn't damn as much as he is given credit for.

Illustration Friday: RED

2007-01-26T21:44:00.000-06:00

My son Micah in a RED tube slide. He also has the most wonderful RED hair. He is also quite well READ ( mostly Calvin and Hobbes actually ).

using memories

2007-01-23T08:35:00.000-06:00

I'm going to be trying some poetry in my classroom over the next little while. It is suggested that one way to inspire students is for the teacher to write some of their own poetry.

blanket hog
When my wife
hogs the blanket,
the only thing to do
is yank it.

O.K. Maybe I'll try something a little more inspiring tomorrow.

What I'm really hoping to do is to make poetry part of the entire curriculum instead of saving it for a gigantic poetry unit in April. I want to link poetry to the real world. I think the best way for this to happen is if I become a poetry reader myself. If I read, then I will be able to find poems to read with my students which have personal meaning. I'll find an apple poem in the fall, a war poem when we study about current events, a poem about loss when someone in our community dies, a poem about living anytime.

I hope to, together, discover the joy of hearing our language used at its best...to hear the music of the words.

Some of you are already good at this. Perhaps you feel like sharing.

can I get a witness

2007-01-14T11:20:00.000-06:00

I've spent eight years of my life in post secondary education. That is not an entirely unusual thing. Most of the time though, people who dedicate that amount of time and effort, usually end up with something that they can truly hang their hat on. A hook significant enough to securely hold their hat for a very long time.

My eight years actually produced two hooks. The first was a four year religious education at a major Canadian Bible College. The second was a four year degree in education at a secular university. After my first degree, feeling the pride of my hat being well hung, I fully expected that my formal education had officially come to an end. I was on my way to working in the comfort of the church's warm arms, securely tucked under the wings of an eagle. Spiritually speaking, that is.

Confused that I was unable to land anything of interest, I became anxious about my options. Joyce and I had become serious in our relationship almost immediately and I felt pressure to make a move in a definite direction. Something having to do with a ship that's moving and being easier to steer got me thinking about hook number two. I took the first steps and enrolled. I could get a few courses credit from hook number one towards hook number two if I was willing to make religion my minor. A lot of good that had done me in the past. I declined any credit, and so I was on square one. Four full years to go. We can do this.

The years passed quickly. The first two of four children were born and I was feeling a little less anxious every year. Teaching was definately my thing. I was good enough. I was smart enough. And gosh darn it, my students liked me.

Nearly ten years and three schools of friends later, I've come to love how my hat hangs firmly on it's place. Occasionally I walk past the place on the wall where the first hook is mounted. I've taken some of the mounting hardware and used it elsewhere. It hangs there loosely. I never use it. I was asked a few days ago by someone who uses a similar hook if I ever used it. I had to say no.

I remembered a time when I would also move about asking anyone if they had a place to hang their hat, or whether they would like one. I actually took a freshman course where I was taught how to do this. I was told that I was salty and that when people tasted me, they would become thirsty. Taste and see that I am good. I was afraid. I didn't want people to taste me. I was required to write about at least one actual contact where I offered my seasoning. Witnessing, it was called. That was the first and only assignment where I received a 0%.

Sinse then, I've become a target. People are now coming to me with their salt and offer it sheepishly. Taste and see...they say.

No thanks...I'm feeling a little full.

art of motion

2007-01-11T19:17:00.000-06:00

I got the CD I ordered today. Andy is outa sight. I just knew I would not be disappointed. And I love the album title, Art of Motion. That's the reason for today's post. I believe that there is quite an art to the motion of day to day living, or MOVING through one's day.

The day began with me having the luxury of sleeping in. Instead of waking at 5:46, I was able to instead rise at 7:10 because Thursday is not a pool day. One of only two in the week. I look forward to instead waking to the smells of the coffee being prepared and the sounds of day care children arriving at the back door.

This day I had the luxury of slowly making my lunch while sipping my second cup of Christmas gift Tim Horton's while the van warms in the garage, remotely started on this frigid morning.

The students have become more and more accustomed to my expectations and have come to appreciate the care and attention I place on the finer details of the daily plan. Sure they whin and complain, but that's because they are nearing that time in their lives when, I tell them daily that this is coming, that their brains turn to mush, and all they will be able to utter are complaints and protests.

Sarcasm is a fantastic classroom management tool. They don't tell you of this one in teacher college. But we all quickly discover that it is one of the more efective tools to build rapport and respect. It only works, however, if it is accepted as going both ways. It's a beautiful thing when you can connect through the eyes with someone attempting a connection through making familiar. The little smile begins in the corner of the mouth, and then quickly transforms the face into a knowing smirk. There are no unit plans for this. It's about being human.

The work day is through, and before going home I make one final connection. He says that Thursday is martini night. Tanqueray gin, dry vermouth, and a couple of really great olives. My mouth waters and my brain's tonic begins to stir. A quick stop before home would produce the same tradition.

Not three steps into the back entrance and I am greeted by my love who says she has something for me. A suddenly compact universe of skin and breath and hair. "That's for the lights", she says. I never imagined that flourescents in the basement could be so bright.

Dinner's done. All six in one room. "We should do this every night...this is family. The T.V. is off, doing homework, kids playing and laughing, music........and a good drink."

"A woman after my own heart", I say...or at least after my own liver.

Andy Mckee - Drifting

2006-12-29T15:23:00.001-06:00

I found this guy on You Tube today. I nearly started to weep after just one minute of watching and listening to him.

Has anyone heard of him before?

I immediately oredered his CD from his website.

He makes me want to take more lessons.

red eye reduction

2006-12-28T16:17:00.000-06:00

( a photograph of my left eye )

The Christmas break is a great time to accomplish many things at the same time. You kind of feel like Superman, able to leap tall buildings with a single bound. The family also spends an inordinate amount of time together accomplishing tasks which, during the regular routine, would take weeks to accomplish.

Today, all six of us drove into the city and had eye examinations. I have recently been invited into the privileged group of the insured. There are all sorts of wonderful things awaiting the members at a mere 20% of the price offered to mortals.

After all the Christmas feasting has subsided, I think I'll need a reduction of some other kind.

crazy jane

2006-12-27T09:54:00.000-06:00

It's not every year that I come up with a great gift giving idea. Most of the time I don't even know what I've gotten for the kids until Christmas morning when all the gifts have been opened. Joyce usually has that all wrapped up somewhere by the end of lambing season.

I've been noticing for the last few years that I have a budding artist in the family in my daughter Jane. I decided that one of the best gifts I could give her this year would be motivation and recognition. Joyce keeps telling me that what she really wants the most from me is approval. Well, Jane...I approve and here's your own avenue of inspiration.

I wish you a long and colourful life filled with rich hues, multi-mediums, and warm textures.

Merry Christmas, Jane.

the most wonderful time of the year

2006-12-22T17:32:00.000-06:00

The wonderful thing about this day, the last day of classes before the winter break, is the excitement of my wife on my arrival home from work.

Normally, on any other given day, she usually has a frown for me if I stand in the kitchen and open a can of suds before all the daycare kids have gone. I'll sometimes stand around for an hour and finish off a couple before all the little darlings (aka: snot-encrusted beggers) have gone.

This day, the long-awaited holy day, after seeing my approach on the driveway, Joyce bounds to the refrigerater, and with one gigantic leap, crosses the ten metres from the fridge to the back entrance, and places an exceptionally frosted one in my deserving hand. I say deserving only because it is a hand that is ready to share.

Before I am ready to actually grasp the drink, I must first put down a familiar load. Joyce is well-aquainted with this burden. It's the anticipated weight of the season.

Joyce removes the yoke, and bears my yuletide burden yet again. Gratefully I sigh, and receive her offer of liquid refreshment...nourishment.

As I sit back and renew my strength, Joyce is busy attacking the burden which has so plagued me this day. By the time my anxiety has all but vanished, she has disassembled, evaluated, and categorized my lot into a fairly managable sum.

And it always adds up the same: White + Dark + Milk + With Nuts = Fat Ass

tired

2006-12-18T19:32:00.000-06:00

(My Micah looking like he'd rather be at home)

I would really like to post something especially nice about my children's Sunday School Christmas program. I really would. But I don't know if I can.

No, it's not that I don't think that the performances were poor, the lighting was bad, or there was loud feedback right when it was Jane's turn to sing a solo. I think it's quite a bit deeper than that. And by deeper, I don't mean that I am thinking on a higher level of intelligence than anyone else. What I am saying is that, just like the tired concept of groups calling door to door or on the phone to collect for local charities, the insistance on the subjecting an entire group of 100 hot, itchy and sleepy children to sit through and present an hour long program at Christmas time, is tired. Notice I didn't say stupid, or rediculous, or idiotic. I said tired. The concept of going to the community to ask for help by contributing food and clothes is a great idea, but have you noticed how tired people have become of the same old thing every giving season? The collection hampers are less full than they ever have been and the ones doing the collecting have to come up with newer ideas to stimulate giving every year.

Most of the kids are bored and completely tired of these programs, except the ones who are prominantly featured. The writers of these productions do their best to keep to the original text and yet bring the story home with a relevant focus. Like how the baby Jesus would like a lame soccer player as much as a star. Or how the angels had just as much personality as the wise men or shepherds. Or making Myrrh as important as Gold.

I'm not really sure what my point is. I'm ranting...you're right. When people are tired, they rant.

at least I'm still a man

2006-12-16T11:45:00.000-06:00

I wasn't looking forward to checking my personal profile this morning. I really liked the look of that 39 on the age line. But if that is the only change I'm going to have to deal with today, I think I'm going to be just fine.

lordy, lordy

2006-12-13T19:20:00.000-06:00

Like the above rinkside bench in the empty lot in my back yard, my blog has been quite vacant lately. I think I'm quite possibly experiencing the I'm-about-to-turn-forty syndrom. My birthday is on Saturday and I've tried to be quite grown up about it but, try as I might, I believe that I'm a little more conscious of it than I would have hoped.

My mind is telling the body that a little more effort is required to maintain that youthful appearance. The financial advisor is advising more financial responsibility if I ever hope to achieve Arizona status. The literacy team suggests greater compliance with the new incentives so that we can have more accurate records to store away in files so that we can say that we have files stored away. And the church, well...there's always the church.

I've never been the kind of person to put much stock into making New Year's resolutions. But I feel the need to make some sort of commitment as I pass from the third to the fourth decade of my life. It's a bit of an itch that needs attention. If I scratch too hard...

Have you ever had this rash?

late harvest

2006-11-15T21:31:00.000-06:00

I was eight years old the first time I smoked a cigarette, but it was not the store bought variety. We were a little more creative in the seventies.

It was the early seventies when I developed a curiosity for things that were typically taboo around home like swearing, nudey magazines, smoking, and parting my feathered hair down the middle. Afterall, Darryl, Edwin, Alvin, and Kelvin were all doing it, why shouldn't I?

Autumn was a time when young lads could easily find themselves tempted to be boys. The rotting leftover garden produce was a tempting harvest for the late evening. We would wait in the shadows alongside highway 32, waiting for unsuspecting travellers whom we could pelt with what we gleaned from our neighbour's backyards. It was always more exciting when they would screach to a halt, turn around, swerving from gravelled shoulder to gravelled shoulder, and begin the chase. We would run like the devil, thinking that we would be killed if caught. We never did end up dying.

Harvest time was usually better for hanging out late. At least it felt like it was late because it would get dark sooner. The harvest moons made the evenings seem mysterious. Late harvest was always a little better. Late harvest meant corn harvesting time. This was the time that the little tufts of hair protruding out from the tops of the ears of corn would be nice and sugary brown and thoroughly dried out. I'm not sure who was the first one to figure this out, but someone decided to take some of this prairie weed, roll it in zigzag paper, and light it up. Oh how sweet it was. We smoked a whole bunch of this stuff. We were cool. The sweet taste on the lips lingered until hours later. When it was time to go home I remember wishing that I didn't still taste it because surely mom would smell it. I can't recall that she ever did.

Last week, as I was driving home, and my hair not really parted at all any longer, I noticed a corn harvester pulling off a crop from a field to the south of the road. As I drove and looked left towards the field, I had a slight craving for that same sweet taste. I thought about my youth and retraced my curiosity.

My oldest son is eight years old. I wonder what he is curious about.

Canadian Blog Awards

2006-11-15T12:48:00.000-06:00

Voting has begun and I have been nominated in the category for best personal blog, as has my wife at Chronicles of Blunderview. I personally think her blog is a whole lot better than mine, so vote for her. But if you still want to vote for me then just click on the maple leaf link in my sidebar and it will take you to the voting page. Just scroll down to the appropriate category.

While you're there, check out some of the other great stuff you might find. Look for the names colouring outside the lines, Homo Escapeons and Snippets from Spaceship Orion.

You are allowed one vote per day, so happy voting.

Carla Kurt

2006-11-13T18:04:00.000-06:00

Christmas came a little early at the Hildebrand's today.

Instead of shopping for days and days with a gigantic list, my parents usually tell us to go out and buy ourselves something nice and they'll pay for it.

In February of this year, a blog aquaintance of mine via another blog aquaintance (I love how everything is connected in blogworld) posted a multimedia picture she had created. I had been watching her blog for a while but had not yet commented. I think we've all done that...lingered for a while and then when something stikes us (ouch) we finally take the step to make a comment.

When Carla posted this picture, I couldn't resist commenting. I also said that if she would ever consider selling the original, I would like her to remember me.

Last week she did just that. She was packing up several of her pieces and bringing them away to a special show. But she remembered my comment and wanted to give me a chance to buy it before she submitted it. I received a special delivery this afternoon.

I would probably do her work a great injustice if I attempted to describe it, so I will simply show you some of my favourites.

So thanks mom and dad for the gift...and thanks Carla.

eschatology

2006-11-12T20:18:00.000-06:00

Have you ever wondered at the extent to which you are willing to be taught by another human being. I mean, what is it, or what will it take for you to put your mind in the hands of another flawed human and be willing to accept, on a grand scale, their teaching.

I used to be quite enthralled and vehement in my study of the book of (eating too many funny leaves) or Revelations. I was VERY excited whenever the next book in the Left Behind series was released. I would gobble up every word in a day and a half and then settle in for another eight months of waiting for the next in the twelve book series to be released. I was quite saddend when it finally ended.

That was several years ago.

As life moves on and situations become more wonderfully diverse, minds also expand. The school of life is every bit as wonderful as eight years of formal post secondary education. I would argue that it has a lot more to offer. Especially when one puts their mind into the hands of someone honest to the realities of the world.

That may seem a bit ambiguous, and it would be correct; it is ambiguous. And it is entirely local.

I had a conversation with a relatively sane adult about the concept of truth. A statement he said has been with me for over a year; and that is, "Truth is local and (?) is universal." I can't recall what he said was universal. I'm looking forward to the next time we have dinner together so I can ask him. I want to learn from him.

This is what I think it means. People will believe what they want to believe, even if it is contrary to the stream, as long as there are enough "credible" people (i.e. people in their "locale") that believe the same thing. Or it may mean that something may be true for a time, like the Germans are consumed with world domination. That may have been true for a hundred years or more, but if you speak to a German today, that would not ring true.

I say all of this simply to bring up the issue of running out of fish. Yes, that's right. Fish. The CBC has recently issued an article online commenting that if current sea harvesting practices remain constant, scientists have warned that fish stocks throughout the world could be wiped out by 2048. We all know what that would mean for the rest of global life, don't we? So is this really the end times? Will it end this way? Consuming?

But is this really true? How do I know that this is not simply a local truth and not a (?).

I used to be consoled with the local truth that I would be rescued from one particular end result, but this one is quite different. On one hand, do I really believe it? And on the other, what does it mean for me and my four children who will be adults with young families during the crunch time of this outpouring of consequence. Makes me want to move to Wolseley, hug a tree, and protest malathion spraying. I think this sort of reaction is ingrained into all of us.

We really just don't want to be left behind.

the gods must be crazy

2006-11-11T11:08:00.000-06:00

It was a Saturday. 39 years ago. There was a flash in the sky and a star took its turn to fall to earth and begin a new life. The star was given to a family already filled with stars; they were in need of another one. This one added uniquely to the kaleidoscope.

The star was fed and it grew and went to several different star schools, becoming brighter as time passed. The star spent plenty of time dating other stars, all in hopes of finding the just so combination of wavelengths.

The final prism to bend the star's backlighting, was dating a dimlit from the other side of the spectrum. The interplay of light and shadow often created an unfocussed image, but with both deciding to remain on the same palette, an agreeable hue formed.

There were times when one wanted to throw the other back into the sky and shout at the darkness; asking the artist if there couldn't have been a set of instructions, or angrily asking if they really knew what they were doing, sending bright objects into such dark places.

It's been 39 years and the darkness has not won. The star has only become more radiant in spite of it. The day of your birth is a day to celebrate light.

It was a Saturday.

I promised

2006-11-10T18:57:00.000-06:00

In early October I wrote a post about an art project I was doing with my grade 5/6 students. At the time, we were studying about the first Canadians and one particular artform: painting on cedar planks. Michele reminded me that I promised to post a group shot of the student's work when it was all done. These were "sticky tacked" to a wall just outside my classroom for the whole junior high wing to enjoy. Only one fell off the wall and split in two. Tiffany said she liked hers better that way anyways. She's such a sweet kid.

We are currently studying about Canadian Explorers. Any art ideas for me, Jacques Cartier?

20 years ago

2006-11-09T17:43:00.000-06:00

This is a photo of me on the trampoline at my neighbour's house when I was approximately 20 years old. That would put my current age at approximately 40...but not quite. I still have a little over a month to go.

What I like about this photo is the "cut" of my jib . I think I see a developing six pack there in amongst the soap suds. The closest thing I have to a six pack these days I have to pay for in the "specialty isle" at the local Bigway store.

Other than that, I pretty much look like a f*cking dork.

This post was inspired bt Andrea.

morning after pill

2006-11-04T19:27:00.000-06:00

The day after a party is usually spent playing a type of catch up. The day begins normally with me getting to look at this beautiful face and then having some really great coffee.

You feel the need to spend some extra time with the kids doing whatever they feel like doing because you mostly ignored them the night before.
There isn't much food left in the house because you virtually emptied the cupboards to prepare and extravagant spread for your good friends. The result is that all there is left to eat is tuna; and that had to be stolen from the legs of the couch and replaced with whatever was left in dry storage.
Friday night, family night, was stolen so it had to be replaced. Thousands of beads. Becomes an instant family activity.

And now we're ready for the upcoming season of Christmas parties. I like this new commitment to celebrate more often.

This day has not been hard to swallow.

cozy

2006-11-04T16:13:00.000-06:00

You'll find it in all the magazines. Suggestions, lists, results of surveys, ancient energy techniques, and expert opinions, from both a queer or straight perspective, on what makes a home comfortable.

I have long loved to look through "home" type magazines. There is a certain appeal in seeing what people who can afford all the right stuff do with all of the right stuff. Leather couches, hand-crafted lamps, recessed lighting, real wood mouldings, and every variety of built-ins. Sometimes it's enough to make a man give in to envy and self-pity.

Most of the time, however, I use the time looking as an opportunity to be inspired. There are so many wonderful ideas out there and so many things to consider that I just would not have thought of. Some are very complex and required gobs of money or great skill. Luckily there are also those more simple ideas. The kind that we can all afford. Like the idea of inviting just the right combination of people over for a dinner. Having the lights turned down just so. A hard-drive loaded with just the right music set to continuous play. A few of everyones favourite drinks. All the kids playing outside in the snow and when they come in, their skin has that fresh smell of cold and outside.

The less I have to spend on the items on my list, the cozier I feel, 'cause there's nothing quite like the worry of a mountain of debt to rob me of that relaxed feeling. You never know if you'll have to give it all back one day.

Jane

2006-11-02T20:27:00.000-06:00

She's done it again. My second born child has come home from school with something that stirrs a feeling within me befitting the word pride.

When I was in university studying for my education degree, there was a seemingly endless barrage of group projects to be done. In a third-year English Language Arts class I was grouped with a couple of much younger students than myself. We became good friends. Two of my favourites were Natasha and Jane. They were both very interesting in their own ways. Natasha was tall, elegant, and had the most wonderful thick dark brown hair. Jane was cute, fun and, artistic, with a sensitive edge.

During this time, Joyce and I were expecting our second child. We were not the type of parents who chose to pre-know the sex of their children, so we needed to come up with name options for both. My groupmates both said that if we had a girl, we should use their names.

We discussed several options, but when the day finally came, Jane was the obvious choice. Ten years later, our admiration of her is ever increasing. She is definately a Jane...and definately not a Natasha.

power trip

2006-10-27T21:03:00.001-05:00

First it was building Keith's fence in the rain. Then it was setting up his gigantic pool. Then building an over-the-top really nice wooden gate. Finally the three sided deck which took two solid days from early morning to working with lights late at night.

But now it's finally my turn. Keith is arriving tomorrow from Brandon at 10:00am (or I'll kill him) and I finally get my garage wired.

What will I do when it's all done?

Plug stuff in, of course.

the commonwealth

2006-10-23T22:03:00.000-05:00

It's a better day when I begin it remembering where I come from.

Part of the morning routine is sitting during one of the three S's, either at home or at the aquatic centre. Every time I do, I check to see if there is sufficient paper to do a proper job. But I also check to see if the Queen's standards are being upheld.

meine Mutter

You see, when I was just a wee lad, my mother; I assume wanting her way in just this one little aspect of her multi-aspected, fury of activity, duty-filled life; told me that the only proper way of installing the lou paper roll was to have it coming out from underneath. She went as far as to say that if the Queen herself were to stop in for a visit (I fully expected this to happen from here on in) that her royal aids would be checking, before she entered our home, to see if the paper would dispense from the bottom. Since that moment of teaching, I've never wanted to disappoint Her Majesty.

I have also since realised that there are different teachings on the same subject, much like there are differing views about the Holy Scriptures. You can actually make your view count if you care to vote.

My fear regarding offeding royalty is really nothing compared to my fear of running out of natural resources.

remember the sabbath

2006-10-22T14:45:00.000-05:00

( a fuzzy close-up of Homo Escapeon's party shirt )

I always thought that Fridays were a better night to have church...er...a party. Especially because it was the same day that work ended for the week. It was a sweet taste to have on the pallet all day long in anticipation of the evening. Then, if you went a little overboard, you could sleep in as long as you needed to on Saturday. This could never happen on a Sunday because of church commitments.

This week, we remembered the Sabbath and kept it holy. Holy bacon-wrapped water chestnuts, that is.

Last night, my good friend Alice and her lap dog, Homo Escapeons, had us over, with another honoured couple, for dinner...er...no....appetizers and drinks. We arrived a minute before seven and did not consider leaving until seven hours later. This of course was greatly due to the arrival of the Messiah, whom Donn took full advantage of for the immediate receiving of grace and forgiveness of sins.

HE was so elated that he immediately began playing the "I've been forgiven" sonata on the coffee table piano,

which was followed by the Penticostal Polka.

What did "I "do all evening? Well, I was the D.D. What do you think I did? I sat in the corner and felt sorry for myself! Or at least that may have been a fleeting temptation. But as it was, I took advantage of the situation and watched as some wonderful people slowly let their hair down, and became real with one another.

I met a man with multiple gifts who looks a lot like Jesus. He was a human that was real, honest, and accepting. He has a passion for making right what is wrong. He is a gifted artist, a caring father, and a man who truly enjoys his wife. I watched him as he smiled, and I imagined his warm thoughts of his wife as he watched her dance and present vulnerability.

I saw three women, each having unique tales to tell of joy and vulnerable living, come together and find connection through common purpose and struggle.

And I saw another man, wise with years of learning, smooth from years of drinking creamy Keg Paralizers, and wonderful from the experience of being real with his children. He sang, he danced, and he welcomed us as we were. And to think, I was a bit nervous in anticipation of this gathering.

The bible says that we should not neglect the assembling of ourselves together. I didn't go to church this morning. I didn't need to. I went last night.

People are good. All anyone needs is for an opportunity to be seen as good. I truly love these people.

untitled

2006-10-17T23:11:00.000-05:00

The only problem with buying stuff is that you have to have a place to put it. The word "problem" here is problematic because it implies an unwanted difficulty. Not so in this case. I welcome it, but it still needs to be addressed.

I recently purchased the above drawing from Andrea's Etsy site. So, faced with the welcomed problem of how to display this new piece properly, I decided to make my own "frame". I told Andrea that I was making it, but it was a frame with a bit of a twist.

The main part of the frame looks much like a typical shadow box frame. I had a bit of leftover crown moulding from my most recent renovation project, so I cut it to size with the ends returned, and attached it to the top to make it into a small shelf.

The plan was to paint the frame, so I applied several coats of Gesso to both pieces.

Unbeknownst to Andrea, I've been a student of hers for some time now and have been trying to learn her methods of painting using layers. Rather than painting black lines at the end to make my section divisions, I painted the whole frame black, and the sections will be divided by the paint from underneath...from the areas of black that are "not" painted over.

So now I have a frame that is really wild looking to compliment a wonderful drawing. The only problem is that the frame is not supposed to take away from the art. Just like the accompanist is not supposed to take away from the soloist. The music is supposed to provide a frame for the words, not smother them. The frame is supposed to provide a fra...er...compli...uh...whatever. I think this frame is far to damn loud for Andrea's nice picture. Or is it?
You could look at it in this way. I love Andrea's work, so I bought some. I wanted to put it in a frame, so I made one. But I thought it would be honouring to her to make it look like I have been studying her work and trying to learn from it (she is a teacher after all. Perhaps I'll take a real course from her one day). Thus the frame compliments the art because the framer is trying to elevate the artist.

I asked my wife, Joyce, what she thought of my project. She smiled and said, "Not bad...for a cheater".

Oh yeah...the shelf is for an earlier Andrea purchase. Something I've been staring at quit a bit lately.

trough

2006-10-16T18:21:00.000-05:00

When I told Sammy not to eat his mashed potaoes with his fingers, I guess what I really should have told him was to use a fork.

life cycles

2006-10-14T13:25:00.000-05:00

The part of my resume which outlines past work experience includes two summers of tree planting in Northern British Columbia. The first time was in 1987 between years two and three at Briercrest. The second was after graduation in 1989.

Mostly, I did not enjoy my time planting trees. There are a few good memories that I have kept with me, but I did it purely for the money. The goal was to make at least $200.00 per day, which meant you had to plant about 2000 trees every day. There were a few start-up costs like buying planting bags for about $150.00, boots for about $200.00, and a shovel for $45.00. There were also daily camp costs of $25.00 which gave you as much food as one could possibly want, and a hot shower if one had enough energy to strip after eating dinner and before falling into bed.

I recently decided, while cleaning up and organizing the garage, that the bags and the boots finally had to go. That part of my life is over.

While tree planting you learn all sorts of interesting trivia which will likely never be used. Like that it takes about 65 years for a planted tree to grow into an adult tree ready to be harvested again. And also that the trees we planted had about an 85% chance of survival, which I thought was fairly good considering the various things which could hinder the growth of a forest.

Whenever it comes time for me to do a building project using wood, I think of all those thousands of trees I planted so long ago. They are a little under a third of the way through their growing time before they will show their rings again. I sometimes feel like thanking the trees for giving their lives so that we can use their lives to improve our own. My workmate Mar Cadiz from the Westin Hotel would always have this attitude when we would cut roses to put on all of the room service trays. He would apologize to each one and thank them for giving their lives for man's decadence.

One of the more recent building projects I was involved in was building a wheelchair ramp at Ken and Kate's home. Ken needed it for easier transfer during his frequent home visits between times of cancer treatment. I did not feel that the wood was being used in a decadent way for this project. A sacrifice of one for the life of another. After Ken died, there was no longer a need for the ramp, so we took it down and away.

I couldn't bear to see the loss of life compounded by the waste of good wood, so I sent Kate an email telling her of some of the things I thought would be a good use of the wood. She kindly replied saying thank you, but that she would rather not have anything to do with it as the ramp was a symbol of pain and sickness for her. I fully understood. But I had a burning need to do something meaningful with all of that precious lumber. I wanted to make a new beautiful symbol out of a bad one. This brought me to thinking about what Ken's life represented. There were many words which came to mind like family, friendship, community, hope, justice, freedom, being real. Ken brought people together, and so I tried to think of a symbol that also brings people together. An image of two people sitting on a bench came to mind. So I quickly set to making benches, as many as the ramp wood would allow. 13 perfect people connectors.
After seeing the first one finished at a party at Carol's house, Kate said that she did indeed want one. That put a smile on my face, but what I really wanted to do was cry. I'm not sure why.

Each family member will receive one, and the rest will be given to Ken and Kate's friends who would appreciate a thoughtful symbol of a friend now gone.
Mine will take an honourable spot next to another proud use of a tree's sacrifice.

no washing up required

2006-10-13T18:37:00.000-05:00

I didn't have enough fun with this on my own, so I made it a required visit during my students' computer lab today. Thanks Andrea.

I usually have my students practice their keyboarding skills for at least 10 minutes before having any time using Google tools or having free time playing games. I told them that they have to "paint" for at least five minutes, but many chose to create for the entire time.

I'm not ready yet

2006-10-09T11:39:00.000-05:00

Three days ago.

Three minutes ago.

what makes a red man red?

2006-10-08T16:19:00.000-05:00

According to Disney's Peter Pan, the answer to that question has something to do with seeing his mother-in-law for the first time. I learned differently last week.

I have two grade levels in my class this year, both grade 5 and 6. This creates a bit of a challenge when it comes to planning the year and how to manage covering the required curriculum. For the most part, I will be teaching the grade 6 material, as it is nearly impossible to teach all of both.

In the grade 6 Social Studies, the required material is Canadian history starting with, and including, Canada's first people, and then all the way to Confederation in 1867. We are still on the first unit. We are studying Canada's first people. The Northwest Coastal, Plateau, Plains, Subarctic, and Arctic Natives. Including all of the various included tribes.

When planning for the day, I seek to, as much as possible, try to find how one subject can mesh with another during the week. My art projects usually have something to do with Math, Science or Social Studies. This week month's art comes from Social Studies.

When studying about the NW Coastal Natives, we discovered that some of their art included paintings on cedar planks. I immediately thought of something we could do as a related art activity. I remembered those leftover bundles of cedar shingles from last-year's shed project. There are about 60 shingles per bundle and each bundle goes for about $20.00. They are No.4 Western Red Cedar shingles out of British Columbia. I felt good about this as that was the area of Canada we were studying.

The shingles are a little rough and quite porous, so I thought that they needed to be prepared before taking paint. I sanded a few more than what was needed for my class. I remembered a post of Andrea's where she was using Gesso to treat a wooden surface, so I decided to do the same thing. I put on two coats. I'm not sure if the second coat does anything but I did it anyways.
When it came time for the actual project, we looked around for some examples of Western Canadian Native art. A Google search didn't disappoint us. We were led to THE COGHLAN ART VIRTUAL GALLERY and the artwork of NORVAL MORRISSEAU.
I copied some of his paintings onto an overhead film and let the students choose which one they would trace onto their cedar boards.The reason I let them copy someone elses work was to have an immediately successful attempt. From my experience, much of young student's frustrations with art comes from self criticism as a result of failed attempts. My goal was to have them "create" something wonderful on their first try, even if it is "cheats art". My hope is that this success will be the impetus for further energy and confidence in the arts.

As with every art project I teach, I try to model the skills and medium needed for the project. I try to make it look as easy as possible. I modeled this project exactly as they would be doing it. This process is basically a glorified colour-by-numbers. The only thing different between mine and my students is that I did mine on a 19x22 prepared hardboard. My goal for the near future is to learn how to do this properly, in layers, not by small sections.

The students are currently working on their paintings, and probably will for the next week or so. I'll post a group shot when they are all done.

The answer to the question of What makes a red man red is he wasn't really red, but the Beothuks painted their bodies and clothing with red ochre paint. Many "Indians" used red ochre as an insect repellant, but the Beothuks considered red a sacred color and wore it all year long. Neighboring tribes called them the Red People, and the Europeans called them Red Indians. Some Europeans started using "Red Indians" to refer to all Native Americans, not just the Beothuk tribe. Other tribes strongly dislike this term, though. They consider "Red Indian" a racial insult, and prefer to be called First Nations. The Beothuks were the original natives of Newfoundland, Canada. They eventually became extinct after the Europeans grew tired of dealing with them and began hunting them for sport.

Canadians have a rich history...albeit colonial.

coming soon

2006-10-05T18:33:00.000-05:00

I was saving this picture for one of those times during the cold winter's week when school would be cancelled. But hey...isn't it great that it's still warm enough outside that a T-shirt is still common outer wear?

I promise I'll post something good soon. I'm working on something as we (as I) speak, er, write...whatever.

don't be surprised

2006-09-27T13:20:00.000-05:00

The things that matter in this life are the things that will be mentioned at your funeral.

A number of years ago I watched a movie many of you also watched. As Good as it Gets has, as one of it's main characters, a man played by Jack Nicholson, not to be confused with Jack Nicholas (the Bear), the golfer. Really, the only thing I remember from the movie, aside from Jack being a real ass when it came to getting his favourite table in a restaurant, was a single line spoken. "You make me want to be a better man".

I've sincerely thought, and have spoken those words regarding my wife many times. My track record of sticking with these renewed feelings is probably much like any other male out there. I have nothing to boast about. What I am grateful for is frequent times of renewal.

Yesterday morning I watched another movie. Or rather, I watched as 500 people gathered to become part of a moving picture of a young man's life. Each actor had a vital role. Some got speaking parts. The people who played the rocks or the trees spoke as clearly as all the others.
The feeling I retained after the life show was nearly the same as Jack's sentiment. After watching Ken's story, I wanted to be a better man.

In the next little while, don't be surprised if:

I do the ordinary in extraordinary ways, do the extraordinary in ordinary ways.
I not busy myself caring for my children to such a frenzy that I do so without CARE.
I go about my employment as the means to living my life with fullness of giving and not to fuel the desire to GET.
I use something outside of myself to keep kicking at the darkness until it bleeds daylight.

KEN KEHLER - father, husband, brother, son and friend, died September 20, 2006. He was 43 years old.

Where while that severed doth remain,

This grave partakes the fleshly birth,

Which cover lightly,

gentle earth.

In lieu of flowers, any donations to cancer research, CancerCare Manitoba or to anybody who is trying their best to help others, would be greatly appreciated.

L'chayim (to life)

wealth managment

2006-09-03T13:21:00.000-05:00

Down on Grandpa's farm...*

...there is a cute - little - boy
the boy - he makes a face like this (smirk, smirk)

...there is a huge - apple - tree

the tree - is ready to be picked (yum, yum)

...there is a pretty - young - girl

the girl - she likes to laugh out loud (ha, ha)

...there is a quick - humming - bird

the bird - it makes a sound like this (hum, hum)

...there is a red - haired - Jen

the Jen - she loves to run and play (yee, ha)

...there is a his - to - ry

the past - is captured one by one (snap, snap)

We're on our way, we're on our way,

On our way to Grandpa's farm.

We 're on our way, we're on our way

On our way to Grandpa's farm.

*apologies to those that don't know the song. The flow of this post will not make a lick of sense to you.
_______________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________

And then returning home...

...but before turning in, and instead of unloading the cargo space of the van, I decide to have some quiet time at one of my favourite rest-stops.

The next morning, unloading the van proved to be an excellent work-out substitute for an eight mile run. At almost 40 years of age, my mother still likes to pile it on. I kept asking her as we loaded this all into the van, "Are you sure you want to give all this away?...and doesn't anyone else wants some of this?" She simply said that this is why they have such a big garden. (It's about the size of Prince Edward Island).

Better than Christmas.

After all the unloading, I settled in to my regular, as of the last month, breakfast.

It's all part of the plan.

a rose by any other name

2006-09-01T11:47:00.000-05:00

As I drove in to work this morning, I was having one of those moments I expect everyone else also has. It's the kind of feeling one gets when remembering having done something quite stupid. Sometimes the reaction to the feeling can be a sudden shudder, slapping of the forehead, a Homer Simpson "D'oh", or simply an admitting smile.

My reaction this morning was a brief closing of the eyes and a gentle shaking of the head. I couldn't keep my eyes closed for very long seeing as I was driving. It was a memory from my adolescence, early teens I believe. I also smiled briefly as I drove, thinking how silly I was for feeling odd because of an event so long passed.

As a youth, I attended a youth group every Wednesday in our church. At the time we called it "young peoples". It was a time for the youth of our church to get together for energetic activities, peer socialisation, and Bible lessons. The lessons were quite evangelical in nature rich with pressure to conform. I recall one Wednesday when one of the leaders was talking about hell, and he said, "You know how hot a sauna is don't you...well, hell is going to be twice as hot as that". We always said he was a little "retarded" anyways.

Young Peoples was a great place for us to put on our best display of coolness for the opposite genders. I remember feeling quite confident walking into the church one particular Wednesday wearing a new pair of brown suede Hush Puppies. Now I was as cool as my friend Ray who smoked outside before and after the meetings.

I don't know if it was the Hush Puppies or not, but I do remember at some given time hearing that a girl in the group, Rose Blatz, liked me. She was cute. She has shoulder-length, slightly wavey, blond hair. She wore no makeup...she didn't need to. Pure and simple, just like you would imaging a Rose Blatz should look like. From then on, without us ever talking about it, I'm assuming we were considered, by her, to be a pair. We would occasionally say "hi" to each other and exchange glances paired with a nervous smile, but there was never any communication about an agreed union, as it were. Months would pass with this unspoken union.

Now here comes the memory which made me shake my head this morning. After the church Christmas concert one evening, Rose met me in the foyer on the South side of the church. She had her usual smile for me, and also a wrapped package. I didn't know what to say. All I did say, however, was, "Thanks...(awkward stare and near angina attack)...I'm sorry but I didn't get you anything". She told me that it was alright, and then I walked out the door, got into my parents blue Ford LTD, and went home. I fought with the image of Rose's disappointed face for a long time after that.

This morning I felt like finding out what ever happened to Rose. I wanted to call her up and ask her, "Are you O.K?...Did you turn out alright?...I'm so sorry, Rose, I didn't know what I was doing."

Sometimes I'm still not sure whether I know what I am doing. I'll often have recall of things that happened much more recently than my youth, and then I'll wonder at my current ability to be a good man. There are many roses in my life that are currently just as sweet and fragile as the Rose of my youth...and they are in full bloom. It would be a shame to miss it.

award-winning swears

2006-08-30T14:24:00.000-05:00

Growing up in a very conservative home and community, being a father of four, former Sunday school teacher, four year bachelor degree holder from a major Canadian Bible College, and being a grade school classroom teacher, I am quite cognizant of foul language. But, and it's a really BIG BUT, there is nothing that soothes the soul like a really good swear. And not just any swear, oh no, I'm talking about a swear RANT.

Everyone has their heroes. Mine happens to be Chevy Chase. Now here is a man who has been given great lines, or has been given the creative license to "have at it", as they say, when it comes to improvisation. I don't know if he has been included in anything lately, but, what I am currently speaking of is his role in Fletch, and the various Vacation films.
This man is f*cking brilliant. He doesn't give a sh*t what anyone thinks.

A direct quote, from the first Fletch, which has stayed firmly in my memory, and tends to resurface during times of prolonged stress, is "Jesus H. Christ on a popsicle stick". I think the "H" stands for "Holy".

Now I know full well that my heritage disallows taking the Lord's name in vain, but what am I supposed to do? It just seems so shocking that it becomes bloody hilarious to hear someone so callous and unsacremental.

Other well known, and side-splitting examples of Chase rants are:

Clark W. Griswold
Where do you think you're going? Nobody's leaving. Nobody's walking out on this fun, old-fashioned family Christmas. No, no. We're all in this together. This is a full-blown, four-alarm holiday emergency here. We're gonna press on, and we're gonna have the hap, hap, happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny fucking Kaye. And when Santa squeezes his fat white ass down that chimney tonight, he's gonna find the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse.
Listen to it here ( scroll down to, and click on, Christmas Vacation...and then nuthouse.wav )

or:

Clark W. Griswold
Hey. If any of you are looking for any last-minute gift ideas for me, I have one. I'd like Frank Shirley, my boss, right here tonight. I want him brought from his happy holiday slumber over there on Melody Lane with all the other rich people and I want him brought right here, with a big ribbon on his head, and I want to look him straight in the eye and I want to tell him what a cheap, lying, no-good, rotten, four-flushing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating, inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking, dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless, heartless, fat-ass, bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkey shit he is. Hallelujah. Holy shit. Where's the Tylenol?
Listen to it here( scroll down to, and click on, Christmas Vacation...and then giftidea.wav )

Truthfully, what makes these last two so gosh darn funny is hearing them in the company of my brother-in-law Mel, rocking and shaking while he laughs. Priceless. Award-winning.

Stephen Fearing

2006-08-23T23:17:00.000-05:00

Stephen Fearing is one of those artists that people hear at one point and remark on how good sounding he is; both his voice and his instrumentation. They promise themselves to check him out at a later point but then promptly forget to. This promise is only remembered upon hearing Fearing again. This is unfortunate for the career of Fearing who, by the excellent quality of his work, should be far more popular than he is. But I think that this is, perhaps, more telling of the music industry than of his craft.

I first hear Stephen's music at the Winnipeg Folk Festival back in the days when Joyce and I felt unencumbered enough to spend the long weekend sitting on tarps in the rain, eating bagels with cream cheese and cucumber slices, smoking American cigarettes, and bobbing our heads as we listed to some pretty amazing international folk music. I followed him around from stage to stage, trying to get as close to the front as possible to watch his hands. I would occasionally close my eyes to be haunted by his voice.

I heard him for the second time not long after when he opened for Bruce Cockburn. What a night that was. Two infectious artists in one night. It would be hard to choose who infected me more that evening. It was after this reminder that I was determined not to let his name slip from my memory.

Tonight I am listening, once again, to his fingers slide buttery over the strings and produce in me a feeling so strong that I want to call it holy. Set apart.

Some of you have had feelings similar to this.

TM

2006-08-23T19:19:00.000-05:00

I could sit and stare into a fire for hours. Then suddenly find, when I snap out of the trance, that my feet are covered in sunflower seed shells.

I've finally snapped out of my summer trance and made my way back to the classroom. I spent two hours today walking around and pretending to be busy, when all I was doing was moving piles around. Some were on my desk while others stayed at my feet, covering my sandles.

I returned home just in time for lunch and about seventy-five daycare kids crowded around the Dutch farmhouse table I crafted with frugal hands. I returned to the garage where there are also a few more piles to move around before the summer's over. I quickly fell into another trance.

I think I've been using too much WD-40 lately.

what's on the other side

2006-07-30T20:19:00.000-05:00

Just came home from spending the afternoon avoiding the 35 degree heat by diving into the heat of a different variety...theology.

Ocasioanlly I have this fear that I over-think certain issues. Then this fear was confirmed when I took this Muppet Personality Test which I found on Cherrypie's blog.

It would seem, so the experts say, that I am prone to over-think life's problems. But I'd be happy to sing you a thoughtful tune about it. A one, two, three four...

"Why are there so many, songs about rainbows..."

You Are Kermit

Hi, ho! Lovable and friendly, you get along well with everyone you know.

You're a big thinker, and sometimes you over think life's problems.

Don't worry - everyone know's it's not easy being green.

Just remember, time's fun when you're having flies!

The Muppet Personality Test

get to the point

2006-07-29T10:48:00.000-05:00

Carrying around sharp objects in your pocket is not usually recommended. On the other hand, something with a point can come in handy when the urge to write may suddenly arrise.

I always wonder, as I have a seat in a public washroom, where these people come up with their writing instruments. Sure it's probably keys or a small pebble, but more often than not, I will see colourful drawings utilizing a wide variety of mediums. Do these people plan for their restroom breaks by bringing their art supplies? Are campers usually that badly constipated that they need to provide amusements for the layover?

The writing and drawings are usually sexual. Evey now and again there will be a new joke respectfully scratched into the caretakers new paintjob. Most of the time, however, the pictures are common and the words, redundant.

Yesterday I read someones thoughts which were first of all scratched into the surface, and then traced with a permanent marker. I took this as a sign to pay attention. Someone's pain was real, and thoughts were provoking. Their point was well-intentioned.

I got it.

aim high, shoot low

2006-07-26T19:26:00.000-05:00

The tag hanging from my rear view mirror is good for only one thing. If I need to get into any Manitoba provincial park, the tag gives me passage into the fast lane. Slow down and wave are the only requirements.

I was craving a tag of a different variety this afternoon. Joyce wanted to pop into the General Hospital to see her brother for 15 minutes while I stayed in the car with a sleeping toddler. The only spot to park in that was in the shade and that didn't require a payment of three hours minimum, was one with a wheelchair sign. The large SUV in the spot next to it donned the required blue tag, hanging in the required visible position.

I pulled into the spot and left the car running so as to give everyone the impression that the stay was very temporary. I felt a little guilty. Then I saw another sign indicating that I was in an idle free zone. The guilt quickly compounded, but was not a deterrrant from keeping the car cool with the airconditioning running.

The SUV owners arrived with their handicapped rider and were about to leave when the man walked over to my car and tapped on the window and pointed at what I thought was the handicapped sign. As I was fumbling for the automatic window button, I was already forming my response, "Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm only here for a minute. What are you, some kind of parking patrol?"

The window smoothly lowered and the man once again pointed and said, "53". "I've got 53 minutes left on the meter...you can have my spot when I go". "Thanks man", I said with an awkward smile, feeling like a schmuck.

I need to spend a little more time at the firing range.

Why I haven't been posting

2006-07-21T13:30:00.000-05:00

meow moon

2006-07-11T20:57:00.000-05:00

When the moon is just right it seems to have a fairly significant effect on me and my family.
Most of the time, the effect will be quite tame and simply make us want to sit outside in the moonlight after the kids are in bed, and make a fire in the copper fire pit...perhaps enjoy a drink.
But there are other times when the children will go completely berserk, and all start acting like cats, complete with their own water dish.

Illustration Friday "Skyline"

2006-07-07T15:47:00.000-05:00

This is one of the only things I've ever painted. When I saw this week's topic, I thought I'd see what everyone thinks. This has also been my blog's banner for a few months now.

I'll also ask a question that The Unknown often asks..."Do you love me?"

Week number one

2006-07-07T15:18:00.000-05:00

This week has been all about summer...cool blue drinks, clothes lines, and home renovations. Only 60 days of holidays left..whatEVER will I do next?

off a duck's back

2006-06-29T18:21:00.000-05:00

I'm not all that surprised that my children look a lot like me. In fact, it's quite natural that they do, isn't it?

Today, for me only, was "take the boys to work" day. Joyce and the girls were in the next province over to the right celebrating Arianna's 12th birthday. I was left to manage with the boys. No problem. In fact it was fun to have some time all alone as the Hildebrand men.

The plan was for the babysitter to come over in the morning so that I could head off to my second last day of work before summer holidays. Two days of administration...no students. Simply cauterizing loose ends and enjoying a complementary catered lunch.

This morning, however, when it came time to leave for work, Sammy would not have anything to do with me leaving. He ran to me, with a look of panic in his eyes, and began to cry. I couldn't leave him, so I decided to take him with me. Nothing really pressing to do at work anyway, and it's always nice to show off the gene pool.

As I was entering the school, Sammy got a little ahead of me and got lost in the legs of a few others who where entering at the same time a few paces ahead of me. I knew there would be comments from the females about a cute little three year old boy. What I didn't expect to hear was, "He's just a cute version of Brian".

Thanks ladies...no harm done.

Full Market Value

2006-06-27T18:25:00.000-05:00

The price of pork is in a constant state of flux. If you watch the price at the grocers, you would never know, but if your income depends on a steady standing, you watch it intently.

I am a school teacher, and so for me, I couldn't give a rat's ass about the price of pork...or so I thought.

A few minutes ago I received a phone call from my brother-in-law who is the owner/operator of a large Southern Manitoba hog farm. Every seventeen weeks he receives, fattens, and ships off to market 5,000 hogs. Every now and again, during shipping time, there will be the odd hog with a limp or some sort of blemish which would make it unacceptable at the processing plant. One of the options is destroy the animal and send it off to the rendering plant. Another option is to call anyone you know and ask if they want 500 pounds of free pork, minus the cost of private butchering.

I spent the last few minutes with my hands waving in the air like a little schoolboy shouting out, "Pick me, pick me."

I just may have to buy another deep freeze to store all of this "other white meat" but at least I know what I'll be eating this summer. Anyone for a pork BBQ?

The Sacred Feminine

2006-06-19T16:12:00.000-05:00

Life is all about curves. We are made of curves, curves turn us on, curves are thrown at us, curves make us change our course, we look for what is around the curve, and we are evaluated on how well we negotiate curves.

The curvature of the spine. Spring training. Plans for the weekend. There's the pitch...and it's a curve ball to the lower right side. Lower back pain. Suddenly I'm concerned with negotiating my way through this unwanted event. I find myself alone in a house all weekend, flat on my back with a pain in my back. What a pain in the ass. Training buddy calls and says, "Are you ready to go?" Through gritted teeth I calmly say, "No, not tonight, I've got a headache." and hope that he's not too disappointed.

The Cherry veneered Walmart bookshelves are crammed with new books waiting to be read. I knew I would get around to them eventually. I start and finish this one, and begin to look for hidden codes in the stippled ceiling...as there is not much else to do when laying flat all day.

Su Doku puzzles. The easy ones are easy and the hard ones are difficult...go figure.

National geographic on the TV captures me with the pretty pictures. Elephants. Big ones. The ladies are in charge. Matriarchs they're called. I think of the Davinci Code and the Sacred Feminine. Another channel talks of violence against women and I think of our Patriarchs and wonder at how wrong it is.

Too much TV and I've got another headache. Time for more medication and another nap. I wake up thinking that I should probably eat something...it has been a day and a half without food. Too late. Too much anti-inflammatories and no food makes for a half a day wretching over the porcelain throne. More back spasms. I lay on the cold floor with tears in my eyes and wish that one of those Matriarchs would crush my head and take my life.

Sunday morning...race day. Happy Father's Day. The family is out of the country and my friends are running in Winnipeg without me. I feel envious and guilty. The church programs on TV offer no comfort. I long for something to hold, so I crawl to the bookshelf. I find what I'm looking for. I get a good start and wish that I could start again. There are many more things in life to hold sacred than "The Sacred".

Negotiating the curve. Self-Evaluation. I think this curve was part of a divine plan. Spring training. Today is race day.

Let me in

2006-06-06T16:55:00.000-05:00

Some days as I sit at my desk and try to find some activities for my German students to do to kill time until the end of the year, my mind wanders to the times I've spent in German speaking countries.

One of my favourite places in the whole world, besides home, is Austria. A number of years ago, when Joyce and I were about two months into our dating relationship, I packed up my touring bike and panniers and flew to Zurich, Switzerland. My destination was Salzburg, Austria, but I wanted a drop off point where I could do a fair amount of cycling on my way to where I would end up. I very quickly realized that I had not planned nearly well enough. In fact, I hadn't planned at all for cycling in Europe. I had no idea of the system of autobahns and roads suitable for cycling. It did not take me very long to realize that I was in over my head, so I cycled to the nearest hauptbahnhof (train station) and booked a ticket for me and my bike to Salzburg.

I knew Salzburg quite well as I had spent quite a bit of time there three years earlier. The city and surrounding areas are filled with visual and cultural treasures way beyond imagination. I took the Sound of Music tour once again with Panorama Tours, felt the mystery of the city's hilltop castle, and made my way to the nearby town of St. Gilgen.

When I checked into the youth hostel, I was asked if I would like a key to get into the front door after hours. They said that I might need it if I wanted to stay out late at some of the local clubs. As I had never been to a club in my life, I immediately said "nein danke", and felt confident with my decision.

After sorting my belongings and claiming one of the eight bunks in the room, I headed off to the main walking area of town where I very quickly found a quaint restaurant with a patio. I sat down and ordered "eine beer, bitte". Not more than five minutes later, along came two lovely ladies from somewhere across the English Channel. It was nice to hear their conversation as a familiar tongue takes far less concentration to follow. We looked over at each other about twenty or thirty times when one of the two finally came over and invited me to join them. "Where are you from?" and all that nonsense took no time to pass on the way to their invitation to join them at a local disco. I eagerly accepted and couldn't wait to see a real club...a European club at that.

It didn't take too long for the lovely pair to figure out that I wasn't a willing participant in making pelvic sandwiches or playing tongue touché, as I was quite enamored with my fresh love back home. That didn't stop me from making an utter fool of myself when it came to doing some funky solo dancing to Van Halen's Jump. After that song, which noone but me seemed to know, I decided that it was time to go. I bid my lady friends adieu, I'm sure they were relieved, and headed back to the hostel.

About halfway there, I began to think that it may have been a good idea to have accepted that key to the front door. I spent the next two hours banging on doors and windows, and calling out, "Konnten Sie die Tür bitte öffnen?" ( Could someone please open the door?). I sat quite despondent for some time before someone finally came out from the inside. They were on their way out to a club. I thanked them, and, feeling quite relieved, went to my room.

As the the chap from China in the bunk next to mine snored away, I thought about clubs, and that I haven't really missed out at all.

Good Morning

2006-06-05T20:07:00.000-05:00

We all have them don't we...a person in our lives that just seems to rub us the wrong way. Some of these people, when doing their best rubbing, seem to find the most annoying times to do their rituals, making the pain all the more, well, painful.

Mornings are often difficult enough for some people without having to deal with a Proverbs 27:14 greeting. There's something insanely irritating about a loud, uninvited, and insinsere "Good Morning." On the other hand, there's the man from the Viagra adverts who, you know for damn sure, is, understandably, loud and, on the verge of explosion, sincere. It's hard to hate a man for being so genuinely happy.

I recently received this forward:

"In Pharmacology, all drugs have two names, a trade name and generic name. For example, the trade name of Tylenol also has a generic name of Acetaminophen. Aleve is also called Naproxen. Amoxil is also call Amoxicillin and Advil is also called Ibuprofen.

The FDA has been looking for a generic name for Viagra. After careful consideration by a team of government experts, it recently announced that it has settled on the generic name of Mycoxafloppin. Also considered were Mycoxafailin, Mydixadrupin, Mydixarizin, Dixafix, and of course, Ibepokin.

Pfizer Corp. announced today that Viagra will soon be available in liquid form, and will be marketed by Pepsi Cola as a power beverage suitable for use as a mixer. It will now be possible for a man to literally pour himself a stiff one. Obviously we can no longer call this a soft drink, and it gives new meaning to the names of "cocktails", "highballs" and just a good old-fashioned "stiff drink". Pepsi will market the new concoction by the name of: MOUNT & DO.

Thought for the day: There is more money being spent on breast implants and Viagra today than on Alzheimer's research. This means that by 2040, there should be a large elderly
population with perky boobs and huge erections and absolutely no recollection of what to do with them. "

Normally, forwards are like those unwelcomed loud morning greetings, and I immediatley delete them. But not from this source...she always has a sincere, and thoroughly thoughtful greeting for me.

Bigger than a lake

2006-05-25T16:18:00.000-05:00

Today I gave my grade 7 and 8 history students a chapter review test. We had studied the time period ranging from The Middle Ages through The Renaissance, The Reformation, Colonialism and ended with the Industrial Revolution. Much of our study included map work, as one really cannot grasp relative location without it.

As a middle years teacher, I spend much of my time repeating myself. I've taken to making checklists with topic headings and marking each time I mention a topic, just to make sure that I have mentioned everything at least five times.

As I was preparing the test, I thought to put a significant emphasis on mapwork, as it had been so important during the study time. I also remembered to let the students know each day the week before the test that there would be a significant map section on the test, including five times yesterday, the day before the test. The map section would include locating and naming all the continents, several countries covered in the time period, and any body of water larger than a lake within the area of study...bodies of water that end with sea, canal, channel, seaway, ocean, etc.

I wasn't surprised at all today when some of the students, after looking at the first section of the test, the map section, said, "You didn't tell us there would be map questions." I simply smiled and showed them my checklist.

As I sit here and correct the map section, I'm looking at some of these bodies of water and recalling some of the ones I've been to, and wonder if and when I will see some of the others. I think it's time for a holiday.

How many bodies of water larger than a lake have you been to?

Production and Transfer

2006-05-23T21:35:00.000-05:00

I did not expect to see this. When I first noticed them, they were still far off in the partially cloudy distance. It took me only a moment to process what they might be. Immediately I recalled the last time I passed by here and wondered at what that Euro style crane was doing standing awkwardly in a Manitoba farmer's field. They couldn't be putting in skyscrapers here could they? Are there that many retiring farmers who need senior's housing?

There were at least fifty spinning steadily in the persistent South Westerly. Fifty giant exclamation marks rising from the warm soil. A farmer in the distance was sowing his crops. I wondered if he protested their presence. I felt as though I was a part of something progressive. Their presence was made beautiful through their purpose. They have a special purpose, just like Steve Martin did when he played The Jerk.

The power to create. To produce something out of nothing. Wind power. Invisible power. Spirit power. You can't see it, but you know it's real because you can see what it does.

Once the power is produced, it needs to be transfered. There is beauty in the mode of transfer, just as there is beauty in the production. The older vessels also stand awkwardly but familiarly on the landscape. They bring comfort to those around of the Spirit's presence, although some would rather that they be put underground to deny it's existence while still enjoying it's benefits.

Leaving Piltdown

2006-05-15T19:40:00.000-05:00

Beside me spins the wheel in the hamster cage. "Made in England", during the Industrial Revolution, I assume. As it spins, it brushes against the bed of wood shavings on the bottom, making a rythmic scraping. The hamster seems to know that he is going nowhere, but keeps purposefully running.

The attraction of the feed becomes too strong, and he rejects the wheel, leaving it for the upper level where the cash is stored. Nibble, nibble - some food for thought. Back to the race...I'm sure I can win this time.

Could someone tell me where the door is?

I closed my eyes...

2006-05-08T20:40:00.000-05:00

...drew back the curtain

To see for certain, what I thought I knew.

Far, far away, someone was weeping,

But the world was sleeping.

Any dream will do.

When I was a child, we did not have a television for much of the time. All of my friends had at least one in their home. I always wished that my parents would just give in to all the pressure we were putting on them, but they never did - until...

One day, when I was a little older, perhaps 11 or 12, my brother Randy was going to an auction sale. I had saved up some money and wanted to go with him to see if my $30.00 would get me anything. He willingly took me. We arrived early to have a look around before the bidding began.

I remember walking past it first off all, and not giving it a second thought, when it struck me...my $30.00 just might get me this. It was a 12 inch black and white portable T.V., brand new in the box. I couldn't think of anything else from there on. I had to have it...but what if the bidding goes higher than what I had? Let's just hope it doesn't.

After what seemed all night, my item came up. The air in that room was thick with dust from shuffling feet on the dirty concrete floor. I was sick with tension. I felt like a tightly wound wind up toy ready to release. The bidding began. I raised my number a number of times and nodded like I'd seen some of the old guys do, not smiling now...this is not a friendly game. Bloody serious. We were at 22, then 24, then 28. I shot a panic glance at Randy and he knew my thoughts. Somehow we came to the agreement that he would lend me the money if I needed to go higher. And higher it went...all the way to $50. But it was mine...all mine, new in the box with the twisty thing still holding the power cord newly coiled from the factory.

The memory of bringing it home and into the house is a little vague, but what I do remember is that we didn't plug it in that day because dad said it was cold and it would have to warm up over night. Electronics are fussy that way.

I'm also not certain how we came to this conclusion but my parents didn't think that it would be right for me to have my own T.V. when it was the only one in the house. So they bought it from me. Well actually they gave me my $30 back and gave Randy his 20. And seeing as it was sort of MY T.V., I got to have it in my room. Or rather in our room, as I shared a room with Garry and Randy.

The television soon became an instrument to draw the family together. I remember well our family all crowding into my bedroom to watch one of our favourite T.V programs...The Donny and Marie Show. I don't know if anyone in the family knew it, but I loved that show. I loved it so much that I would cry silently whenever it was over. The smiling pair would sing their closing song and I would be a blubbering mess. Most kids I knew wanted to run away and join the circus, but I wanted to join the Donny and Marie show. I always wondered if they were Christians, which was something we would ask of all television stars. Finding this out would be our justification for watching any program. They had to be...how could you look so happy and not be a believer?!

Now that I am older and much more seasoned, I found myself still crying with the Osmonds. Or at least with one of them. Every time I watch Joseph and the Amazing Technicolored Dreamcoat with Donny Osmond, I cry during the song Any Dream Will Do. I really don't know what it is, but it's a very real feeling of longing.

I feel that this is somewhat of a coming out of the closet moment for me. Most people wouldn't want to admit they liked the show. I guess I should also tell you I loved The Lawrence Welk Show, The Carol Burnett Show, Sonny and Cher, and the Irish Rovers. It must have been all that happy happy love joy stuff that drew me in.

What do you see when you close your eyes?

(the above photo was taken today at Arianna's soccer game, eyes closed, with camera pointed at random...lucky shot...and no cropping either)