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A vow at a wedding is better than a promise on the campaign trail

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Snowdrops are symbols of the promise that winter will end and spring will begin. On the Canadian prairie, every year, we desperately want to believe the promise of this tiny flower. The news is full of the US election. So many words, so much hot air, so many calls for Kamala Harris to get specific on policy. But I am fine with her focus on being “a joyful warrior for the people”, on generating “an opportunity economy”, and on her commitment to “not going back”. I am fine with this so-called soft approach, because I don’t put much stock in hard promises made on the campaign trail. A lot can happen between a promise made on the trail and that promise becoming law in office — wars can break out, pandemics can arise, economics can take a dive. And, regardless of any chaos that might arise, we expect our leaders to pivot on their platform and to keep our lives and our livelihoods on track. So, promises will, inevitably, get broken, though not always with good reason. Here in Canada, many of
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As a girl, my ambition was to smoke

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I blame Katharine Hepburn . Maybe Lauren Bacall . Possibly Audrey Hepburn . But mostly Katharine Hepburn. With her glamorous looks, chic sense of style (those flowing, high-waisted trousers!), and her fierce independent spirit, I loved her on screen. I wanted what she had. Phooey — I wanted to be her. The closest I came was to smoke. Back in the 1960s, when I was not yet 10 years old, a woman smoking represented a woman independent, a woman of her own mind, a woman doing her own thing. That was the woman I wanted to be. So I smoked. To be sure, not real actual cigarettes. I ‘smoked’ short pencils or tightly rolled up paper, glued together and coloured at one end to represent the burning part. As you can see in the top photo, my siblings got in on the act and I was my most suave and sophisticated 8- or 9-year-old self lighting my sister’s ‘cigarette’. In high school, my best friend taught me how to inhale. Menthol cigarettes, pilfered from her mother’s supply as I recall. No wonder th
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A good life: The story of Magdalen and Matilda

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This week's post is a short story inspired by four things: a quote from Kay Redfield Jamison's memoir An Unquiet Mind (“Love, like life, is much stranger and far more complicated than one is brought up to believe.”); a photo of two young girls (below); the painting titled “Tea” by the astonishing American artist Andrew Kowch (see it here ); and a piece by my writing friend Darlene D that she read aloud in one of our "Spark your Writing" sessions. While writing is a solo act, it is most fun -- and often most productive -- when pursued in the company of generous and willing writers who share their talent and uplift my own efforts in the pursuit of story of every kind.  The story below is fiction; the core message of loving friendship is not.  Magdalen and Matilda: A good life The lifelong friendship between Magdalen and Matilda began in kindergarten and persisted into their old age. The abiding love between them overrode the niggling annoyances that any genuine friends
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I don't want that freedom...

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I watch the nightly news  in the vain hope  it won’t be all bad.  It is.  Bombs there. Murder here. Pain and suffering everywhere.  And, also, talk of freedom.  But I don’t want that freedom of more guns and  tighter borders and  lower taxes and  values so shallow they obliterate me.  I want the real thing.  Complex.  Challenging.  Alive with the tension of  difference and  nuance and  change, and seeded with love and respect and  community. I do not always understand this freedom  but I know with certainty it will hold me,  will take me into a future not yet spoken  but one that would speak for all.  A future built on the freedom  to be who we are,  to love whom we love,  to live in simple dignity.  Not one up or  one over the other, but  side by side. This freedom is  clean air to breathe,  pure water to drink,  real food to eat.  This freedom is  open borders,   open hearts,  open minds.  Vain hope?  I hope not.   I hope... ...........................................................
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When my trash is your treasure, the planet is a better place

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German pottery:  blue-grey, salt-glazed, heavy, and lovely; formerly Mum ’ s, now Jane ’ s   By the end, all that was left was one inherently unattractive flowerpot. I didn’t want it, and clearly nobody else did either. But that one pot represented an almost complete victory for me this past weekend — our city’s semi-annual curb-side give-away weekend. What had started out as a motley collection of miscellaneous household and gardening items with a few kitchen utensils thrown into the pile had been reduced to that one pot. I will next place in the back lane — our year-round ‘please take it off our hands’ give-away spot  —  hoping to never see it again. I’ve come a long way since my early childhood when my mother’s penchant for finding treasures at the curb filled me with shame. One time, Mum had been driving me somewhere in the little German village where we were living (my father’s work had taken us there) and 9-year-old me expected to get to that destination without incident, but Mum
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If the hat fits, I wear it OR Identity lays on my head

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Amanda wearing various hats: a toque in winter; my city hat for a January 2017 protest march; my pink pussyhat for a climate day action; and my cottage Tilley hat for outdoor chores. Cottage living is not country living but on our way to the cottage we pass through the country and, over the years, I have definitely adopted some country ways. I wave at every car I pass on the gravel road heading towards the cottage. I call HELLO loudly as I walk down a cottage driveway to alert the owners to my presence. I made friends with the most forthcoming of the various men who have managed the ‘transfer station’, aka, the dump, in our cottage development. And I have learned to wear a hat. It’s a particular hat, bought especially as my cottage hat. It’s a Tilley hat , broad brimmed, white canvas, indestructible. It doesn’t do much for my looks, but it does wonders for my sense of self as a cottage person. No matter what the outdoor chore or activity is, I reach first for my hat. Once donned, I am
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Airwaves and words: The ties that connect us

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When I was in my mid-20s, I moved from Alberta to Nova Scotia. A job was waiting for my partner, but I was heading into a void. I knew no one where we were going; it was old fashioned methods of connection that saved me from isolation and loneliness. I found that connection first through CBC Radio. I knew that the Peter Gzowski morning show that I was listening to in Bedford would soon be on in my mother’s kitchen in Edmonton, and later in our afternoons we would both have the pleasure and enjoyment of Vicky Gabereau’s wit and charm on air. Though I was thousands of miles away, I felt connected to my mother through the radio. The other connection came via a letter that a friend in Edmonton had sent to an acquaintance of hers in Bedford. We all three were involved in the abortion rights movement and that letter from Sheila in Edmonton to Kathy in Bedford opened the door for me to a vibrant community of feminist women in Halifax and Nova Scotia among whom I made many good friendships, so
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