Sticks and Staples......by (Angela) Jean

I took advantage of the beautiful spring weather today and spent some time outside with the family. While on a walk along the path in our neighbourhood, I had a an idea.

Let me back up.... I bought this Boston Ivy at the end of last season.
My plan was to have it grow up along the fence, but I knew it would need some help getting started. I have been thinking about buying some kind of lattice to attach to the fence, and have gone to a few garden centres but still hadn't found something I really liked. Plus, I wasn't thrilled to pay a lot of money for something that would eventually be completely covered up.



So, back to the path. I spotted some dried out thistle branches along the ravine, and loved the colour of them. Much to the delight of the children, and the embarrassment of their father, I picked a big pile of them and carried them home.

I trimmed the branches so they would lie as flat as possible and then attached them to the fence with a staple gun. They were very light so the staples held them with no problems.

I love the way it turned out. It's prettier than any lattice I could have purchased at a store and best of all? It was free!

(you can click on the photos to enlarge them and see more detail)

The final step was to train the ivy along some of the branches. Now we'll just wait to see how it grows this year. I'll be sure to post an update for you later in the season.

The One Where Barbara Jean Gets her Groove Back.....by (Angela) Jean

I often tell people that I’m a retired musician. What I mean is, I used to identify myself as a musician, but I don’t anymore. 

I studied piano from as early as I can remember and singing from the time I was an adolescent. 

I played French Horn from grades 7 to 13 (full-on band geek). Music camp and choirs were experiences that defined my sense of self. That was who I was.  

When the time came to decide about university...well, I don’t even recall making a decision...I was going to study music. There was no question. I knew I loved to sing. I knew I loved to perform. I knew I was good at both. That’s all that mattered to me. I don’t recall if my parents tried to talk me out of it. I don’t remember if my teachers or guidance counselors did either.  I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have listened. I was 18 years old and I knew everything.

I did my auditions. I was accepted into the Faculty of Music at the University of Western Ontario to study voice. I had good friends that were already there, a year or two ahead of me. It felt like the natural next step in my life.

I have wealth of wonderful memories of my time at Western. I have a collection of ridiculously talented friends, all with accomplished music careers. I was fortunate to learn from some gifted and inspiring professors.

But somehow, slowly, the music in me began to die. 

I can’t pinpoint when, or where or how, but music stopped being my passion. Singing became competitive. Instead of experiencing performances and concerts, letting myself be enveloped, I learned to analyze music. I listened less for beauty, and more for historical time period, appropriate ornamentation, and impeccable intonation. I learned to raise my eyebrows when performers sang under the pitch...you know, to show others that I knew it was out of tune. I learned to encourage my peers outwardly but to criticize them inwardly, to compare them to myself.

I experienced the hierarchy of Performance Majors over Education Majors; Wind Ensemble vs Orchestra, Pianists and Composers and Singers vs everyone else. I discussed singing technique all the time. I was concerned about my soft palate, my diaphragm, my oral pharynx, my resonance spaces...I forgot I was supposed to be making music. I forgot I was supposed to be expressing myself, communicating though melody, sharing joy and beauty.

But probably most profound, was the shocking introduction to my own personal weaknesses. When you watch singers perform with pianists, an orchestra or in an opera, you see the final product. You see and hear team work, ensemble. You experience music-making. What you don’t hear are the hours, and hours and hours of solitary work learning the notes in the first place. I discovered that while I excelled at “working well with others”, at “practicing-all-by-myself-in-a-tiny-room-with-only-a-piano”, I sucked. Big Time. I couldn’t do it. I avoided it at all costs. I would enthusiastically attend opera rehearsals, choir practice, even one-on-ones with my piano accompanist. But me alone, learning music? Almost never. I did not know where to start. I didn’t realize there was a way to do it. I didn’t even consider that I could have asked someone how they did it. I could have learned to practice. I know that now. My sight-reading and ability to learn music really, really quickly (with help) saved me. If it wasn’t for the 3-day Recital Boot Camp Julie coached me through in 4^th year, I would not have graduated. 

And the craziest thing? That recital? It rocked. 

Long story short, I left music school dazed, quite bitter, and with very little confidence in my ability to be a musician. I had a large piece of paper that said I was a musician, but wasn’t even sure I liked music anymore.

What does a 22 year old Music Graduate do next? Move to the Big City and go to work in a record store, of course. This one.  

Most of my colleagues were just like me.

This was the place where music changed for me. Over the next several years I would learn to listen to music in a new way. I was fortunate to be in a place where I was being paid (albeit minimum wage) to listen to music for 9 hours a day. When I worked opening shifts I discovered the breathtaking simplicity of starting my morning with Erik Satie or Bach’s Goldberg Variations. I listened to what seemed like every recording of every opera ever made while discussing with crazy record collectors and opera fanatics the beauty of Leopold Simoneau and Nicolai Gedda’s voices. I remembered why I loved Renata Tebaldi and Mirella Freni. I was introduced to Luciano Berio and discovered that there was nothing better at midnight on a Saturday than Schnittke Quartets on full blast (try it, it's true).

But the best part was the opportunity to see live music. When artists were in town, we were often lucky enough to be given free tickets, courtesy of the record labels. In those days, the heydays of cd sales, we went to concerts multiple times a week. I could never mention them all, but there were life-changing ones for me--Ute Lemper at Massey Hall. Kronos Quartet at the George Weston Recital Hall and, Ben Heppner at Roy Thompson Hall.

At the same time, a whole new world of music was being opened up for me.  I fell in love with Blossom Dearie, and Carmen McRae. I met Han Bennink and Keith Jarrett, Brad Meldau and Zakir Hussain. I listened to Shuggie Otis and Boozoo Chavis.

During those years I was also fortunate to work with so many fascinating people. People who loved music. Some were musicians, but many were not. They were visual artists, writers, photographers, film makers, dancers, actors or students, but they were all passionate about music-every single kind of music you could possibly imagine. I even met the man who would end up as my husband there. He was a recovering music grad, just like me. I won’t go into detail about how amazing and inspiring he is because, that’s another story entirely, and this post is already too long.

My music store days are long gone and I now make my living as a Business Consultant doing process improvement work for the provincial government (Sounds fancy, right? Believe me, it is. One day I'll introduce you to the fancy people I work with now.).

But...BUT...and it’s a BIG BUT. Music is more important to me now than it ever has been before. I no longer think of myself as a musician, but I play the piano more (and better) than I ever have before. I sing more (probably not better) than I ever have before. My children have free, uninhibited music oozing out of every pore of their little bodies and it takes my breath away on a daily basis. They don’t judge my breath control or  intonation (or anyone else's for that matter). They just want to make music. And we do. Boy, do we ever.

What this post really was really supposed to be about was the concert that I went to on Thursday night.

I wanted to tell you about Tafelmusik and Beethoven and Bruno Weil. I wanted to tell you how hard I found it to stay in my seat during the second movement (why don’t we get to dance at symphony concerts anyway?) I wanted to tell you about the goose-bumps and how I wept--how the tears just wouldn’t stop. I was taken outside of myself. 

This is what music should be and I am so grateful for the experience.

Buy Me Some Peanuts and Cracker Jack... by Barbara (Ruth)

Last night my sister, brother-in-law and I went to the Jays vs A’s game at the SkyDome Rogers Centre. It was my first game in years and it brought back so many memories!

Elizabeth and I hamming it up (Tom is on the left, being quite
serious - it was probably in the early, dreadful, innings and
he was rightfully concerned!) 

My grandfather and father took me to my first baseball game at Yankee stadium in the late 70’s. I remember only a few things – my grandfather’s cigar smoke, the crazy names of some of the players (Bucky Dent and Sparky Lyle), and the size and roar of the crowd. I was hooked.

When we moved back to Canada in the early 80’s I was thrilled to be so close to a Major League team, and started going to see the Jays play fairly regularly. It was back in the days of Exhibition stadium – that’s where the ambiance really made me a fan. Sunshine, the CN tower overhead, hot dogs, Cracker Jack (still so good), the 7th inning stretch, and the announcer’s call of “Llllloyd MOSEbeeee”!

The Jays’ heyday was, of course, in 1992 and 1993 when they had back-to-back world series victories. By this time I was an avid fan – when I wasn’t at the game, I listened in the car. I knew the stats of each player, (especially Kelly Gruber) could explain the most complicated plays (including the infield fly rule), and thrilled with each W that took us closer to the Fall Classic.

Me with Mark Eichorn (Ignore my hair - it was 1993!)

One of the most exciting days of my life was in 1993 when I drove a Mustang in the World Series parade. Ford was a sponsor of the SkyDome, and as a Ford employee I was in the right place at the right time and got my name on the list. In my car I had Woody Williams and Mark Eichorn, both relief pitchers, and I have to say I was rather disappointed at first. In the car behind me were Pat Butler (catcher) and Todd Stottlemyer (pitcher), and I really wanted to be their driver and get to know them. As it turns out, I was the lucky one. Mark was hilarious, and he and Woody entertained me with stories for the entire 2.5 hour parade, and even stole the car (for a few mins) to freak me out when we were parked inside the Dome. Pat and Todd, on the other hand, were barely friendly to their driver, didn’t do much more than they had to, and were generally not fan favourites at the rally.

Joe Carter and his wife Diana

This photo captures the best moment of the day for me. Meeting Joe Carter, the hero of the game, the man who lived every little boys dream by hitting it out of the park in the bottom of the 9^th inning, winning the World Series for his team. I had an official team jersey with his name and number, 29, and he signed it for me and chatted for a minute. Such a nice man – he did not disappoint this fan!

Then the strike of 94-95 hit, and frankly I lost interest. All the players changed and things never felt the same. Certainly the Jays have never been the same! But I have high hopes for this year – they are 3 and 1 now, and last night was a very exciting game with a homer to win it in the 10^th.

I have only one beef. What is with the new uniforms? These are not baseball pants, they are Lulu Lemon yoga warmup pants! Both teams were sporting these sloppy looking excuses for baseball pants, with a few exceptions.

C’mon baseball fans, doesn’t this

 look better than this? 

Who’s with me??? 

Never mind, LET'S GO BLUE JAYS!

My Collection of......by (Angela) Jean

Tea Towels.

I have a confession. I'm a hoarder collector. It's a fine line, isn't it?
I can't remember how long I've collected tea towels....ever since I've lived on my own, I guess. I have a deep love for textiles of all kinds, but to me, there is something special about the tea towel.

I love the way mundane tasks like drying dishes or mopping up spills are elevated by using a cheerful tea towel. I love the way a bold graphic print catches my eye from across the room. I love the way the thick cotton feels in my hand. I love the way a stack of tea towels looks, freshly laundered and ironed. I love rotating my collection with the seasons, getting out the Christmas favourites, the Halloween and Easter ones. I love bringing a pretty tea towel with my contribution to a pot-luck and leaving it behind for the hostess. I love wrapping wedding shower gifts in tea towels. My little brother is getting married next year, but I've been saving tea towels (ones for every season) for them for years.

I have many, many tea towels. I just counted....drumroll please......287. Ludicrous, right? But wait! Let me explain....I have categories (seasonal & non-seasonal), and tiers (1,2,&3). The categories are obvious, but the tiers go like this: When I get a new tea towel, one that is special, it is kept as a Tier 1. These are my beauties, my most prized. They are ironed and neatly folded and kept in the bottom drawer of my buffet.

But it's full, you see, and so when a new towel comes into the fold, it's time for relegation. Which brings us to Tier 2. Tier 2's are my worker bees. They get ironed too, but they are the tea towels that we use every day.

If you came to my house right now you'd see a couple of Tier 2's hanging on the oven door. Once a Tier 2 gets a nasty tumeric or tomato sauce stain, he gets retired to Tier 3. Tier 3's are kept under the sink in the kitchen and in a cupboard above the washing machine in the laundry room. These unfortunate souls do the dirty work: scrubbing floors, washing cars, cleaning various bodily fluids off of...well....you get the idea... Tier 3's often get tossed after particularly ugly jobs.
To get your mind off pee and poo, let me show you some of my hoard collection.

I have a thing for stripes. They make me happy.

And fruits and veggies. They make me hungry.

I have some kitschy, touristy ones that I love.

Who wouldn't love to dry their dishes with Bill or George?

But my very most favouritest of all? MAPS!

You might remember from this post, that I don't get to travel very much, but I have friends and family that do, and they often bring me back beauties. Like this.

Or THESE!

The London Tube map. Awesome.

I have one special friend who is my dearest enabler contributor. She brought me these two last week which inspired the writing of this post.

scenes from Firenze

Habit de Parfumeur, Museé Carnavalet, Paris

The best thing about my collection? They can take me to Sorrento, Paris, Germany, London, Florence and St. Lucia...all while standing at my kitchen sink.

My Collection of... by Barbara (Ruth)

Thank you Angela for picking this week’s joint-post topic! At first I was a bit flummoxed (GW) by the topic, as I am not a collector of things. I don’t collect silver spoons from around the world, or shoes, or handbags, or teacups, or stamps, or coins, or beer steins (although I used to collect beer mats). I have a box of childhood mementos, and a few teddy bears that were important at the time, but that’s not a collection, really, as I can’t add to it. I have a bunch of candles, but I burn those when I think of it. In general, if I’m not using it, out it goes. 

My Grampy reading to me in 1967 or 8

My friend Beth is a writer and has a blog of her own that combines baking with any number of things: travel, movies, holidays and this week - literature. She inspired me when she linked food with books, and suddenly I remembered my only real collection. Books. My lifelong obsession. 

When I really like an author or a series, I get every book and read it over and over. The better the book, the more cracked the spine looks and dog-eared the pages become. I simply can’t imagine having an eReader these days, although maybe one for travel would be practical… The heft of a book, the smell of the pages when it’s new, or even when it’s old and dusty, the joy of browsing in the bookstore or the library – these things you can’t get electronically.

Being a process person with a bit of OCD, you can appreciate that my books are organized. The more “pop” books are, once read, sorted by “keepers” (Maeve Binchy, John Grisham, Richard North Patterson) and “mistakes”. The mistakes go to the library, the yard sale, or the recycle bin, and most of the keepers go to the cottage. Some of my very favourite keepers (Diana Gabaldon, James Michener) stay here.

The second grouping of books are my “rarities”. These are the books that I got from my parents' house when it was sold. I actually wanted the bookshelf itself, so before I moved it, I set about going through the books in it. Lo and behold, there were some real treasures in those shelves! Among them, a complete set of the leather bound works of Victor Hugo published in 1888 , copies of my grandfather’s high school Hamlet and Macbeth texts from 1905 and 1908 (with his notes in the margin), an 1878 copy of Shelley’s poems, and a 1901 copy of the Song of Hiawatha (that’s a lovely thing to read aloud). I’ve had everything valued by a couple of antique dealers, and they really aren’t worth much. Except to me!

My collection of childhood favourites.
Over on the left, incidentally, is the old
Henderson family Bible, c.1881.

Finally, the third group in my book collection. My childhood books. These are, perhaps, the most precious to me as they hold so many memories. I have the full series of the Little House books, all 13 Oz books (you didn’t know there were that many, did you), the four Mary Poppins books, the Narnia Chronicles, the Mother West Wind series, all of L.M. Montgomery’s books (including my favourite which is NOT Anne of Green Gables, but The Blue Castle), 9 Bobbsey Twin books, 12 Nancy Drew books, and my mother’s childhood series called “the Honey Bunch books” from the 1920’s. Then there are my single favourites like “The Jungle Book”, “A Little Princess”, “The Swiss Family Robinson”, “The Trumpet of the Swan”, and of course, “Are You My Mother?”

I think if you asked me to pick a favourite it would be like Sophie’s Choice and I just couldn’t do it. Between the covers of these books are snippets of my Dad’s voice as he becomes Baloo or Aslan or Reddy Fox or Fitzgerald Fieldmouse. There is magic, and talking animals, and triumph over tragedy, and even a little romance (Nancy and Ned, of course). These books are my friends, and took me on journeys and introduced me to history, fantasy and eventually "grown up" literature.

I guess this really isn’t a book collection then. It’s a memory collection, as strong and vivid as any photo album. I’ll happily loan them out and you can make your own. You can even fold down the corners of the pages - I don't mind.

Chic Babushkas & The Workroom...by (Angela) Jean

Does this ever happen to you?

You find yourself in a bit of a creative rut, but then magically, you stumble across something new that instantly starts the creative juices flowing again? Your fingers get itchy, and your heart begins to beat a little faster?  Does your mind start racing with all the things you want to create?

In case you need a little inspiration to get started on your next project, or you're just in the mood to see some pretty things, let me share one of my recent finds.

I have a friend named Irina. She is brilliantly creative and never ceases to inspire me. She introduced me to Japanese Paper many years ago, and when Shawn and I were planning our wedding we commissioned her to use some of our favourite Japanese Paper to design our stationary and invitations. These original collages remain among our most precious possessions. 

We have other pieces of her artwork all over our house.

These days, her talents are mostly focused on print-making, sewing, knitting and crocheting and she and I share a passion for beautiful fabric. The last time she came to visit she brought me some gorgeous pieces from here and left with a bag full of fabric from my stash. (Is there anything more fun than a good stash swap?)

Irina had been telling me about The Workroom for some time, but until recently, I hadn’t had a chance to check out their website. I spent a few minutes salivating over their beautiful fabric and now I can’t wait to get to the store. When I do, I’ll tell you all about it.

Here is the quilt I finished tonight using some of Irina’s fabric and some from my own collection.

aren't those little rocket ships adorable?

It’s for a special baby named Atticus. I hope he likes it.

Tempus Fugit... by Barbara (Ruth)

I'm picking my nephew up from the airport in a few hours. He's my favourite second oldest nephew - turning 22 next month, and graduating from university the month after that.

David's in Toronto this weekend for a whirlwind trip so that he can attend an interview for medical school at the University of Western Ontario in London on Sunday. I have to admit, I'm a little freaked out by that. Medical School. David. A doctor.

I think of university days with such nostalgia, as do most members of my family I think. We all had very different university experiences, yet we all have great stories of collegiate shenanigans, stories of miserable failures, bad dates, sporting victories, and ultimate success.

My Dad went to the University of New Brunswick in Fredericton in the late '40s and early '50s, eventually completing a PhD in organic chemistry. (By the way, chemistry was my lowest grade in high school. I can hear my Mum yelling at my Dad when he tried to help me: "David, you can't give a PhD answer to a high school student!") He went on to work most of his career in the pulp and paper industry, and eventually retired in 1993. This picture is my Dad in his boarding house, keeping warm in his UNB sweater (which I still have). Note the fabulous old radio which only died a few years ago.

Mum went to Queen's University in Kingston, like her father (my grandfather graduated from Queen's in 1913), and graduated with a degree in nursing science as well as an RN in 1953. Mum has amazing stories about Queen's life, being the "warden of Gorden" (basically the house warden of a residence), getting invited to the Science formal in first year, football games, and many many beaus.  This is her (on the left) participating in the capping ceremony for new nurses (the ceremony had a specific name, but I can't remember it - she'll probably correct me after she reads this). She went on to teach everything from Sunday School to university level science courses. I think her favourite teaching years were to grade school and high school students in the 70's and 80's.

I went to Queen's too, from 1984-1989. How could I not? Two sisters, a few cousins, my mother, an aunt, a brother-in-law, and my grandfather all went there. After years of visiting my sisters, there was no where else I wanted to go. This is a picture of my frosh week Gael Group - our theme was Risky Business, and we walked around all week in those shirts, tube sox and boxers. Ah, good times. 

It really doesn't seem that long ago for me. When I realize that I graduated from my undergraduate degree 24 years ago, I have to stop and catch my breath! So I find it hard to believe that my nephew has gone from this (circa 1994):

To this (on his summer course on Vancouver Island in 2010):

Thank goodness I haven't aged at all.  :)