It's always 1984 at French language schools

EMC Editorial - With a baby on the way, my mind has been filled lately with thoughts of how my husband Steve and I can raise our daughter so as to give her as many opportunities in life as possible.

One of the first things we decided was that we would like her to grow up bilingual in English and French, and attend French schools from Kindergarten. We hope this will give her a more cultured, well-rounded upbringing, allowing her to connect with her French Canadian background on her father's side and ultimately help her to land a good job as an adult.

Not to mention the fact that I'm probably the biggest Francophile you'll ever meet. I found heaven when I visited Paris for the first time as a teenager, and to this day few things delight me more than delicately designed plates full of colourful macaroons and cheesy artistic renderings of the Eiffel Tower. I'm hoping I might be able to master the language alongside our daughter, and that having her around will finally inspire Steve to speak only in French at a designated times of the day - say over dinner, for example - to help me and baby girl learn it.

But then I read articles like the one that recently appeared in the National Post about all non-French languages being banned during recess at Montreal schools, and it almost makes me want to give up all these aspirations on principle. If a child is heard speaking English - or Spanish, Japanese, etc. - during "free time" on the school yard or in the cafeteria, a designated monitor will come over and ask them to please switch to French.

But that's only in Quebec, right? Where everyone is crazy about language anyway? Wrong. When I showed the article to Steve, he couldn't understand what all the fuss was about. He proceeded to tell me about his French elementary school in the Niagara region.

Every Friday, the school held a "Franco- fête", and only those who were not caught speaking English at recess or lunch by teachers or "god help us all" their own peers over the course of the week were invited. The kids were given bracelets at the start of each week that served as admittance to the fête, and it was the duty of students to police each other and confiscate bracelets if classmates dared to utter a syllable of English. Offenders spent the duration of the Franco- fête in a separate classroom writing lines about French grammar. A little extreme, no?

A quick scan through the comments at the bottom of the article about the Montreal schools reveals that most people seem to be against this sort of policy. A number of H-bombs (i.e. Hitler/Nazi comparisons) were dropped, which I find out of place for a situation like this - or most situations where these comparisons are made, for that matter, but that's another story.

Personally, I think these measures are more ridiculous and annoying than anything. I find such strict monitoring for something so trivial distasteful and a little disrespectful of these students' rights, but mostly I would like to see our teachers focus instead on making sure students receive the best possible education during regular school hours. In Canada, French is an important part of children's education, but let's allow them to relax a little and have fun during their free time.

Will stories like these cause me to change my opinion on sending baby girl to a French school? To be honest, I don't think so. That kind of attitude irks me, but in the end allowing her to have two first languages seems like too good an opportunity to pass up.

But rest assured the school will be made aware of my opinion if I ever catch wind of any playground language police.

hpratt-campbell@theheritageemc.ca

Arts Curtain Call?

EMC Editorial - I don't usually do too much ranting here, but I desperately need to get a few things off my chest.

I find the recent suspension of Queen's fine arts admissions deeply troubling, as I fear it spells the beginnings of a trend I have dreaded for a very long time now.

Throughout my entire life, I have listened to everyone from political leaders to my parents drone on about how math and science are the most important and useful subjects. Perhaps in an act of rebellion, I completed bachelor and master of arts degrees in English literature.

The kind of people who look down on the fine arts are equally scornful of my educational choices. I stopped caring what these people think of me a long time ago, but I must admit it does bother me when their philosophy starts to sneak its way into the practices of educational institutions.

Lately, even the humanities and social sciences have been getting a bad rap.

Earlier this month, Globe columnist Margaret Wente suggested that the Occupy protesters should blame their own poor choices of what to study in university for the fact that they are now unemployed or underemployed. She lambasted a young woman studying for a master of sociology for her own short-sightedness, claiming that such people need to concentrate less on making the world a better place and more on what employment opportunities are out there.

I guess Wente would prefer if everyone chose their major purely on the basis of in-demand employers, like the companies who run Alberta's tar sands. Let's try that out for a decade, shall we, and see where that lands us. Heaven forbid anyone ever dream of affecting positive change.

But just how much further will a degree in the sciences get you than one in the arts or humanities?

I haven't conducted any formal studies on the topic, but I have watched with interest the career paths of friends and acquaintances my own age who majored in a variety of subjects. Few who graduated in the past decade have jobs "in their field" that are also full-time, permanent and decently gainful. (With the notable exceptions of doctors, nurses and tradespeople.)

A dear friend of mine has a very prestigious, practical degree in environmental sciences. She has worked contracts for the Ministry of Natural Resources for the past five years in well-paying, career-building jobs, but has yet to be given a permanent position.

I know others who have completed engineering degrees and are in similar situations. I hear that many companies require engineer applicants to submit transcripts, and filter candidates out based on university exam writing capabilities. More often than not, a degree is simply not enough to land a good engineering job.

Alas, even the bachelor of education is no longer the ticket it used to be. I can't count the number of new teachers I know who have either sat on supply lists for the better part of a decade waiting to get hired full time or given up on the profession entirely. (Side note: I love running into the many people who quipped "so, you're going to teach" when they found out I was studying English, then rolled their eyes when I answered "no, I'm going to write.")

That's not to say that there aren't just as many underemployed people with arts degrees. It's just that nothing I have witnessed suggests that a bachelor degree in biology, chemistry or even accounting or marketing is truly any more practical than one in art, English or history when it comes to achieving the ultimate goal for most of us: a comfortable, secure life supported by a somewhat interesting or enjoyable job.

I don't claim to have the answer to the economic problems that are clearly the root cause of these issues. But I do believe people should have the right to pursue their interests without judgement and unnecessary roadblocks. How far they go in life will still depend upon who they know, timing and how badly they wish to work in a particular field.

hpratt-campbell@theheritageemc.ca

New look

I'm totally in love with these new Warby Parker glasses that arrived on our doorstep yesterday. I must admit I was a little nervous about ordering prescription glasses online, but the idea appealed to me all the same because I'm so sick of being ripped off at local frame/lens stores. Even with Steve's plan, we usually still end up paying close to $200. At $95 for great quality frames AND lenses, these WPs sounded almost too good to be true, and I pondered for a bit whether I wanted to go through with it.

The last straw was the rude treatment I received from the receptionist at the optometrist's office, who seemed personally offended that I wasn't getting new glasses from the store next to the doctor. She took it to the point of almost not giving me the full information I needed for my own prescription. I left fuming, determined that there was no way I was going to continue supporting such an operation, and placed my order for these "Huxley in Tennessee Whiskey" glasses as soon as I got home. They told me it would take ten business days for them to arrive. It took two. Hooray!

Steve says they make me look like an intellectual from the 1950s. I say great, I can certainly live with that.

Hoarder of the printed word

EMC Editorial - Last week, I had the pleasure of visiting the Kingston Frontenac Public Library's Central Branch for a story on the fantastic local charity Friends of the Library, and it got me thinking about books. That in itself is not too much of a stretch, I suppose, as I seem to be thinking about books most of the time anyway. Specifically, however, my visit to the library made me realize just how rarely I step foot in that fine institution considering my love of reading.

Make no mistake, I am passionate about what the library stands for and the services it provides. If I were still living in Toronto, I would most certainly be among those fighting tooth and nail to make sure the public libraries do not fall victim to the city's looming budget cuts.

The problem is that I have some pretty serious book hoarding issues, and the idea of having to finish and return books in such a limited amount of time does not fit with my reading habits.

What I prefer - and believe me, I'm not proud of this - is wandering around Chapters or Indigo, feasting my eyes on all the beautiful, pristine novels just itching to be cracked open and read for the first time. Usually, I'll leave with at least one new purchase. I'll get the book home and it will sit in a pile with the others, either beside the bed or on the edge of a bookshelf. When I'm feeling blue, I may take it out and lovingly smell and stroke it, running my fingers delicately over the orderly sentences and paragraphs on the back cover.

The advent of e-readers has given me a whole new way to hoard books. While the shopping experience is nowhere near as aesthetically pleasing as spending time in an actual book store, the idea that you purchase the novels online makes attaining them far too easy for the comfort of my husband, who often comments on the devastating consequences my book buying habit inflicts on our credit card balances. Sure, e-books are cheaper, but they're also much more apt to be purchased impulsively. Thus I am left with two additional, albeit virtual, piles of books to read - one on the Kobo and the other on the iPad.

Eventually I do read all these books, although never in the order in which they were purchased. The trouble is that e-readers are still very new to me, and I can't bring myself to make jump completely. Thus, after years and years of continuous book buying, I am left with more paperbacks and hard covers that I know what to do with. They all won't fit on our bookshelves and god knows nobody wants them.

The point I'm trying to make with all this is that I have been searching for something to do with the many boxes and bags of books that have been making our basement look like crap for the last three years. At last, I believe I have found an outlet that will allow me to rid our house of the excess literature, and feel great about it at the same time: Friends of the Library. They are always looking for people to donate books for their daily sales at the Isabel Turner and Central branches, as well as their major annual sale coming up later this month.

The best part is that all proceeds go toward maintaining excellent local library services and programming - all we need to do is look at the situation in Toronto for an example of why public support for libraries is absolutely critical.

I suppose a large part of my motivation comes from the desire to turn my soon-to-arrive daughter into a library person. I'll be thrilled if she shares my passion for reading, but would like to encourage her to borrow books instead of buying them. With any luck, maybe I can break some of my own bad habits along the way.

Little Pink Shoes

Yesterday, Steve and I found out we are having a baby girl. To be honest I was completely shocked, as previously whenever I pictured our baby all I could see was a little boy with blue eyes and dimples. And yet, I couldn't be more happy. I love the idea of having a little girl around who will (probably, fingers crossed) share my love of books, shoes and pretty things. Hopefully, she will someday become a friend too - once she is through her teenage years and has ceased to resent me.

To celebrate, I couldn't resist picking up these adorable pink shoes. I know she won't be able to wear them for a while yet, but just looking at them makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

It's a real bump!

I've totally popped over the last few days and wanted to share. My breasts also seem to have reached National Geographic proportions. They have been growing throughout my pregnancy and were quite sexy for a while but now I just feel enormous. Oh well, I guess that's all part of the fun of growing a baby. Tomorrow we will *probably* be able to find out whether it's a little boy or girl in there and I'm super excited.

Surviving the dos and mostly don'ts of expectant motherhood

EMC Editorial - When it comes to your health, is it possible to be too well-informed?

If you had asked me that question five months ago, my answer would have been a swift and definite "no". Then I got pregnant.

Over the summer, I embarked on a quest for knowledge on how to have the healthiest possible pregnancy with the help of What to Expect When You're Expecting and a plethora of websites dedicated to the education of women who are with child.

The list of dos and don'ts is long and daunting. There are the obvious ones: don't drink alcohol, eat right, try not to fall down the stairs, etc.

Then there are the not-so-obvious. Did you know, for instance, that a woman is supposed to take folic acid tablets daily AT LEAST three months before conception? If you don't, the baby is at a risk of developing neural tube defects. Gee, that's a really helpful piece of information to be told after you're already pregnant. My little embryo hadn't even developed limbs, and already I was feeling like a terrible mother.

Avoiding unpasteurized soft cheeses is another big one. I eat a largely plant-based diet, so this rule is not difficult for me to follow. However, when I do eat cheese it's usually at a restaurant, and almost always of the goat variety. On several occasions, I've had to inquire as to whether the cheese was pasteurized.

Surprisingly, this doesn't seem to be a question regularly posed at restaurants. Responses ranged from pure bewilderment to clearly offended cross-examinations. My personal favourite: "Why would we serve unpasteurized cheese when it's illegal in Ontario?" (For the record, it's not.) Either way, not exactly the best way to kick off a relaxing evening out.

Lately, the advice at the forefront of my mind has been "don't sleep on your back after the first trimester or you'll cut off the oxygen supply to the baby." Admittedly, my first reaction to this rule was "how on earth could the human race survive millennia of evolution if a woman accidentally rolling onto her back in her sleep could kill or severely damage the baby?"

Indeed, when I asked my midwife about it she burst out laughing and advised me to "just sleep". Still, worrying about inhibiting the flow of oxygen to the foetus did lose me more hours of sleep than I'd like to admit.

For me, though, the number one piece of worry-inducing advice that is repeated literally everywhere is this: "pregnancy is a time of weight gain, but you have to be very, very careful not to gain too much otherwise your and the baby's health will be at risk."

Honestly people, are you TRYING to stir up the ghosts of my old disordered eating patterns at a time in my life when they would undoubtedly be more destructive than ever?

Apparently, pregnant women are supposed to eat about 300 extra calories per day, but for every half hour you exercise you add another 150 calories. Healthy eating is an extremely important part of my life, but I purposefully forgot what 300 calories looks like a long time ago and don't care to reacquaint myself.

Full disclosure: I hadn't weighed myself in almost a decade prior to my first prenatal appointment. The nurse took my blood pressure directly after and it was off the charts because I was so nervous.

I actually ended up losing weight in my first trimester due to some nasty, day-long "morning" sickness. Still, the idea of gaining any amount of weight - let alone more than the 30 lbs. you're supposed to - is a very scary thought for me.

Recently, I was talking to my grandma about my many pregnancy worries.

"I sure wouldn't want to be pregnant today," she said. "In my day we just went on with life normally and did our best to stay healthy."

Not bad advice from a woman who gave birth to six healthy children sans pre-pregnancy folic acid. Advice I should probably consider taking.

Hooked on horror

I realized I forgot to post my column from two weeks ago. Here it is...

EMC Editorial - A great man recently tweeted that sometimes all we need is a good scary movie.

I don't know about you, but I love being scared -assuming, that is, that there is no actual danger involved. And it seems there's no better time for vicarious adrenaline thumping than the month of October. To be honest, it's really the only part of the whole Halloween festive season I can get behind.

For years, I've been something of a Halloween scrooge - largely as a result of my dog dying unexpectedly on the night of Oct. 31 when I was 15, and a subsequent string of unpleasant experiences at various parties and ghastly gatherings throughout high school and university.

Put on a truly scary movie, though, and I'm hooked. The only problem is, there aren't that many of them out there. My best friend and I went through a phase as teenagers where we rented pretty much every movie imaginable that was supposed to be scary with discouraging results.

My problem is that while I do appreciate the ironic beauty of a good slasher movie, spewing blood and guts just don't do it for me in the scare department. There has to be something more psychological or paranormal at stake before it really has an effect on me.

For years, the only movie that scared me was The Shining. I saw it for the first time at about 17, and certain images - those two creepy girls, room 237, and the random furries in the bedroom to name a few - stayed with me for a long time. Finally, I bought the DVD, and now I've seen The Shining so many times that all I can really do anymore is appreciate it for the brilliant film it is.

I'm almost embarrassed to admit it because of what a campfest this movie is in actuality, but Signs also scared me the first few times I saw it. Seriously - it's downright terrifying when they're standing in the boarded-up house, waiting for the aliens to find their way in.

More recently, watching Paranormal Activity has kept me up at night on more than one occasion. It was one of those movies that I laughed off at first, but later when I was lying in bed my mind turned to invisible demons whenever the house made even the faintest creak.

It seems finding a genuinely scary movie has become a rare and wonderful treat. Happily, though, October thrills have recently begun to manifest in non-cinematic forms too. Most notably, Fort Fright. I went for the first time two years ago not really expecting much, and ended up feeling more terrified than I've been in years.

I was already pretty impressed with the whole thing, but then on the way out one of the undead British guards latched onto my arm and escorted me all the way to the car, whispering the whole time for me to come back and stay with him. As we drove away, he literally ran after the car - all the way to the bottom of the hill. The friends I was with thought it was hilarious, but I have to admit I was more than a little creeped out on a number of levels.

Then last year there were the clowns. Nothing is scarier than clowns. Period. Especially when they jump out at you from behind a Shining-style hedge maze.

This year, I hear the theme is snakes and crawly things, and personally, I can't wait. I guess when it comes right down to it, it doesn't really matter if the scares are in 2D or 3D - just so long as I know I've paid for them.

hpratt-campbell@theheritageemc.ca

A new life

Well my dears, our secret is officially out: Steve and I are going to be parents - which means I can finally start writing about a few of the million thoughts that have been spinning around in my brain for the past three months or so.

Writing is how I make sense of things, but I find I’m not at all motivated to write unless I have some sort of audience. (Case in point: every one of my 15 quarter-full molskine journals is filled with Steve’s grocery lists, the names of people I photograph and random notes from Loyalist Township Council.) So please bear with me here as I try to work this whole thing out.

I am currently about 15.5 weeks pregnant, due on – of all days – April 1. I know this isn't much of a bump photo, but I've just recently started to "show" and am pretty excited about it. Oh and I don't intend on posting any ultrasound photos, but you can kind of see the first one on the fridge in the background, if you're interested.

While this pregnancy wasn’t specifically avoided, it wasn’t exactly planned either. Some of the financial goals we had been hoping to achieve before having a baby have not been met, but we could be in a worse position. Sure, we don’t own our own home, but at least we both have jobs we like and are on a path to digging ourselves out of debt. Plus I think in a way we wanted to get pregnant now, hence our knowingly dubious use of the rhythm method of birth control. Thus, after some initial shock and disbelief, we decided that we’re really quite happy about this development.

The summer was kind of rough for me. For almost two months, I couldn’t look at or smell the vast majority of food. Then I became violently ill with a terrible virus and had to be hospitalized. Thankfully, it ended up being unrelated to the pregnancy and the baby came through just fine.

Lately, I have been feeling much, much better and my appetite is back with a vengeance. I have been craving smoothies, frozen banana pureed in the food processor, vegan double chocolate cookies from the Goat and sweet cherry tomatoes.

Yet there are still a number of fears that are accompanying this pregnancy. I’m not sure whether they’re the result of hormones, legitimate concerns or a combination of both. When I got married, several significant relationships in my life were severely damaged, and have never been fully repaired or replaced. A large part of me fears that this next major life step will have similar consequences.

It doesn’t help that I’m the sort of person who needs lots of people around in my life. So many of those I consider friends live far away, and it’s extremely hard to meet new people. Not that I don’t meet new people every day through my job – but you can’t just propose friendship to random acquaintances. Not to mention, everyone seems to have their own little clique already, and be perfectly content in the friend department.

I think the reason I’ve been so emotional about it all is because I would like our baby’s life to be full of friends and good times. I feel anxious about my own loserdom. How is this poor child going to turn out if his or her mother has no one in her life but her husband and parents? (That said, I am extremely grateful to have three people who care about me so much.)

Then yesterday, I was moved to tears by the number of kind wishes sent our way by friends and family members on Facebook, and have begun to feel a bit better about the whole thing. I’m so glad people are in on our secret now, and that we don’t have to feel so alone anymore.

I know how self-indulgent and disjointed this all sounds. Don’t worry - I have no intention of regularly posting these senseless emotional ramblings. There's just so much on my mind at the moment, and combined with pregnancy hormones it's causing me to be a bit of a wreck. Anyway, thanks for reading.

Thanksgiving pies

I baked some pies today for Thanksgiving. (And of course took a photo of them with my new phone, which I am obsessed with.)

It's a tradition I took over after my nan, the world's greatest pie maker, became too sick to make them several years ago. Mine are not nearly as good as hers and probably never will be, but I'm working on it.

On this day, I'd like to acknowledge that I really do have so much to be thankful for. Too often I am inclined to focus on what's missing in my life - things I want but can never have. Every day, I work on silencing these feelings because I know they do not serve me - they only suck up the energy I should be using on other, more constructive tasks which could actually lead to genuine happiness. I'm not sure why I'm sharing this with you - albeit in a very vague manner. But it feels good to get it off my chest.

A few shots with new phone

I recently got beautiful new Android phone, and am completely obsessed with it. The camera in particular is quite amazing. You can set it to take vintage-style photos, allowing your entire life to take on that artsy glow. Here are a few of my favourites so far...

Full-fledged identity crisis

EMC Editorial - I have a confession to make. I hate my name. Specifically, I loathe the hyphen, and mentally cringe every time I have to tell someone my full name.

It’s not that I have anything against the concept of two last names. I just don’t think the hyphen is a good fit for me. I feel it makes me come off as more high maintenance than I am, or that it gives the impression I’m trying to make some grand statement when I’m really not.

I came by the hyphen through a combination of indecisiveness and sheer laziness. My original intention was to change my name to my husband’s – Campbell - when I got married. However, my all time biggest pet peeve has got to be dealing with bureaucratic institutions that require you to fill out forms, dig up old documents and produce nine different kinds of identification before they give you some new or renewed identifier.

As a result, I never did make it to the relevant ministries to have my name officially changed, and when forced to renew my health card and driver’s license this past summer I just couldn’t bring myself to get into it.

I know, I know. I could have the name changed if I gave it any kind of effort. The problem is also that I’m also far too sentimental and caught up in symbols of all kinds. Deep down, the thought of outright dropping my poor old maiden name makes me feel sad. My whole life I’ve been Hollie Pratt, and the name has served me well.

At the same time, I love how Steve and I are now our own little family. Someday, we will have children, and I would like us all to have the same last name. Our family will be “the Campbells” and I would like to avoid being the odd one out.

Thus I started calling myself Hollie Pratt-Campbell as a means of compromising between both sides of my personality. Despite the fact that I hate it, it’s always seemed like the least painful of three evils, and I get to avoid all the bureaucratic nonsense.

However, the situation came to a head a few weeks ago when I became extremely sick and needed to be rushed to the hospital by ambulance. The cause of my illness is not relevant, but the really pathetic thing is that in the midst of everything the precariousness of last name became an issue.

Steve – who would more than anything like me to be a Campbell – told the EMTs that my name is Hollie Campbell, and forms and whatnot were filled out accordingly. When we arrived at the hospital, I was required to produce my health card. Of course, according to the Ministry of Health, I’m still Hollie Pratt.

Much confusion ensued as I tried to explain the situation in my illness-induced delirium.

“Oh don’t worry hun,” said the nurse, who clearly assumed my wedding was five weeks ago instead of five years ago. “All you need to do is bring your marriage certificate down to the ministry and they’ll change it for you.”

Marriage certificate? I haven’t seen that thing since I graced it with my signature on my wedding day. Does that mean I need to call up some machine at Service Ontario and see if it can track down a copy of a piece of paper that will end up costing me $50+? Ugh.

Still, I believe the incident was a sign that the time has come for me to choose. Over the years, I’ve watched friends slip out of old last names and into new ones with effortless ease. I’ve watched others keep their names without even giving it a second thought. I don’t know why this is so difficult for me, and I’d really appreciate some advice.

What do you think, my friends? Should I keep my old name or take the plunge already and change it? Or perhaps you don’t mind hyphens? Women - what did/will you choose to do for your own name and why? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

My sporting life

EMC Editorial - Late summer/early fall is a great time of year for the sports fans in my family. You've got the baseball playoffs, my husband's favourite event, U.S. Open tennis, my favourite, and the beginning of the NFL football season, for which my dad lives and breathes.

Despite the fact that tennis is the only one of the three sports in which I'm genuinely interested, all three never fail to bring a smile to my face.

Baseball is just so gentlemanly and aesthetically pleasing. There's nothing like the crack of a bat on a warm, Indian summer evening, or the image of all the people in the stands enjoying their corndogs with mustard and over-priced beer. Burly men in tights aside, football is likewise a very beautiful game. I enjoy the strategy involved, and the way the tackles actually have a purpose as opposed to the showy, goon-like violence you get in hockey.

Still, for me baseball and football will probably never be much more than background ambiance. Like music, they set a mood - something I can half-follow if I so choose, and that will amuse the men in my life while I read or chat with a friend.

Yeah, I tend to watch sports with about as much enthusiasm as I play them.

Don't get me wrong - I regularly played and enjoyed sports growing up, but never with the kind of passion required for anything approaching athletic excellence. Weekly soccer games, for instance, were fantastic opportunities for socializing and enjoying sweet, juicy orange slices. The promise of post-game ice cream in the event of a win was really the only thing that motivated me to put any sort of effort into the game. Otherwise, what did I care if my team won? Life would go on as usual either way.

It always comes as a shock to those who have seen me attempt to play sports that I actually come from a very athletic family on my dad's side. Because both sides of my family have lived in the Kingston/South Frontenac area for decades, my job regularly brings me into contact with people who know my parents from way back. Often I'm asked if I am any relation to Don Pratt.

"Yes, he's my dad," I say.

Usually they reply with some version of "wow, he was one hell of a quarterback back in high school" or "you should have seen him on the basketball court."

Even those who didn't attend Sydenham High School - where my dad went - but grew up in the area in the late '70s seem to have an awareness of who he is.

Such conversations never fail to make my heart swell with pride at the thought of Dad, the "famous" athlete.

All the same, one of my favourite stories - for its sheer irony - details my mom's first meeting with dad's mom.

Apparently, the first thing Nan asked Mom was whether or not she had ever seen my dad play football.

"I just thought it was such a bizarre question," Mom always remarks when telling the story. "How on earth could I ever have seen Don play football when I didn't even know him in high school?"

At least I know where my attention span for sports comes from - although strangely enough, like me, Mom just cannot seem to get enough tennis. Maybe it's a girl thing. After all, tennis is really the only sport where women and men share the spotlight equally.

Still, tennis tournaments are sporadic and brief, and during the school year the majority of my sports viewing is done for my job. Usually, I cover high school basketball, which is conveniently my second favourite sport to watch. Again, it's probably more of an aesthetic thing for me, but the sheer excitement of high school sports - the glory, the rivalries, the electricity that fills the air during a tournament - always makes my day, and such events have become some of my favourite things to cover.

Who knows, maybe they'll make a sports fan out of me yet.

Big dog

First of all, hooray for the first non-column post in a really long time.

Things have been happening lately that have left me a little distracted. Soon, I hope to explain.

In the mean time, I hope you enjoy this photo. It was taken when we were in Montreal last month. I for one happen to find it funny. Then again, I'm pretty weird.

Back to school envy

EMC Editorial - The energy is everywhere this time of year - can you feel it? That unmistakable quality of back-to-school and the approaching fall is palpable no matter where you go - from the mall, where it hits you with the full force of a speeding mac truck whether you like it or not, to the peace and quiet of your back deck in the evening, where the intensity of the daytime's light and heat lingers less and less with each passing day.

For me, the only thing that will change the day after Labour Day is that I will increasingly dread doing anything outside for fear of being cold. For students of all ages, though, the end of August means the final few pages of one very distinct chapter of their lives, and the onset of a new one.

I recall that time fondly. Summer would float on by like a heavenly dream full of bike rides, days spent lounging by the pool and weekend trips to Sandbanks. All the same, by mid-August I was usually ready to get back to the books.

The shopping aspect of back-to-school always helped to fuel this desire. Every year around this time, my mom and I would head up to Toronto to shop. I would pick out new clothes and shoes, as well as crisp packages of lined paper and snappy new binders to put it in - all colour coordinated by subject, so full of potential.

As a self-identified nerd, I enjoyed school for the less popular reasons as well. Back then, I could still believe that beautiful myth perpetuated by parents and teachers everywhere that academic success would lead to success in the "real world." To me, this was fantastic news, as I was always one of those kids who considerably lacked in extra-curricular talents.

The best part was that the older I got, the better school became. High school was infinitely better than elementary school, and by the time I got to university it all just seemed too good to be true. I studied English literature, which meant that my days were spent doing either my favourite thing in the world: reading, or my second favourite: writing about what I had read.

To all you students out there, I say make the most of back-to-school while you still can. I understand that some of you are probably dreading the end of summer, but know that the time you spend in school is proportionally very small compared to the time you spend working. Unless you get lucky, as I did, and find yourself in a job you enjoy, chances are you'll long to transport yourself back to your school days once they are gone forever. Never again will you be given the opportunity to devote yourself full time to learning. It's a gift, really.

Also, while I'm on this advice-giving streak, please hear to this: pay attention in French class. I understand firsthand that bilingualism seems completely and utterly unnecessary when you're growing up here in Kingston, but in actuality it's one of the most vital skills you can have in this country. You'll come to this grim realization when you try to get one of those cushy, coveted government jobs 10 years down the road.

Finally, to those currently in your last years of high school, trying to decide what you will study post-secondary: for the love of god, choose something you enjoy, not whatever your parents think would be the most practical or prestigious. Trust me, you won't regret it.

A more peaceful world, just a ferry-ride away

EMC Editorial - Have you ever felt the need to just get away from it all and recharge for a few days? As one who is infamous for overflowing emotions and overreactions, you could say that I've been due for an exercise in stillness for a while now.

A friend and I had been dreaming about going to the Shanti Yoga Retreat on Wolfe Island since it opened last year. When I realized I had a rare free summer weekend in my schedule that coincided with a retreat date, I jumped at the chance to fill it with 48 hours of serenity.

Despite feeling a little intimidated when my friend ended up not being able to make it, I decided to suck it up and go stag. Happily, I wasn't the only one to go it alone, and my fellow retreat-takers were all incredibly friendly and kind.

Plus, worrying about petty social protocol kind of went against the entire idea behind the retreat, which provided a break from the everyday. For me, this meant no work, no husband, no pets to feed and walk, no food to prepare or order, no house to clean, no schedule to plan. I also loved how the entire weekend centred around yoga - one of my favourite activities in the world.

I've been practicing yoga for years, although lately not as much as I should. I gave up my infinity membership at Samatva when we briefly moved to Toronto last year, and wasn't able to renew it upon our return due to time and budgeting restrictions. These days, a visit to a studio is a treat. Otherwise, I get my yoga fix at home through DVDs, which is not the same thing at all.

The retreat weekend included, among other things, four two-hour yoga classes and delicious, homemade food, and was thus exactly what I was looking for. The fact that the location was absolutely beautiful, and that everything was experienced through the rose-coloured glasses of a perpetual yoga high only added to the weekend's blissful, relaxed mood. There's something about stretching, twisting and moving around on a mat while surrounded by willow trees, docks and calm water that leaves you feeling impervious to any sort of mental turmoil.

To be honest, part the schedule was a teeny bit heavy on two things I've personally never been a big fan of: silent meditation and breathing exercises. The latter took up the first half hour of each yoga class, which for me essentially meant 30 minutes of sitting cross-legged on the mat. I've tried to do similar exercises in the past, but for some reason holding or altering my breath for any extended length of time always prompts a near panic attack, and I prefer to abstain.

As for the silent meditation - well, last weekend made me realize once and for all that I am simply not cut out for it. The overarching idea is that it's okay to have thoughts, but you're somehow supposed to separate "yourself" from them, and mentally visualize the thoughts drifting in and out of your perfectly clear mind. As a relatively thought-oriented person, I find it much easier to meditate when I have something else to focus on, like a book or music or some sort of physical activity. The last place I'm going to be able to separate myself from my thoughts is a silent room, where they scream at me like a petulant child.

And you know what? I'm perfectly fine with that. I'm confident that I experienced just as much release as anyone else there when I skipped the final meditation session Saturday evening to hang out with a book on the dock overlooking the tranquil Brown's Bay.

Either way, I'd highly recommend Shanti to anyone who enjoys yoga and needs to take a little break from the world, meditation ability not required for a perfectly fulfilling and renewing experience.

It's Better on the Edge

EMC Editorial - Last week, I watched mesmerized as the co-hosts of Canada AM carefully negotiated the roof of the CN Tower's restaurant. Restrained by cords attached to complicated-looking red body suits at one end and the structure of the tower at the other, they proceeded to lean forwards and backwards over the edge, sans any sort of guardrail.

It's all part of a new attraction called EdgeWalk. For $175, you too can ascend the former world's tallest free-standing structure and feel what it's like to dangle 116 storeys in the air, nothing but sky between your body and the concrete jungle below.

"That looks fun," I said to my husband, Steve. "Let's give that a try."

I was met with a look of annoyed disbelief. To be honest, I kind of shocked myself too.

Ten years ago, I was afraid to go on the upside down roller coasters at Canada's Wonderland. It all stemmed from two traumatizing childhood experiences: one where I almost fell to my death from a zipper ride at the Calgary Stampede, and another where I was pressured against my will to ride the Jet Scream at Wonderland shortly thereafter - it's the one shaped like a rocket that sits upside down for five excruciatingly long seconds.

For years, I shied away from anything more extreme than the Ghoster Coaster. Then I visited Wonderland with Steve and his crazy friends, and experienced the park from a whole new perspective. Once again, I was pressured against my will to board the Jet Scream - and The Bat, and Top Gun (or whatever it is they're calling it now) - only to find that perhaps they aren't so scary after all.

Since then, I've turned into a somewhat unlikely adrenaline junkie. Wonderland, I must admit, has become a bit of a guilty pleasure. We went last summer only to realize that all other park visitors our age were there with small children, however, that didn't stop us from riding the new Behemoth coaster multiple times and loving every minute of it. To experience a 75-degree drop at 125 km/h with nothing but a small, inadequate-looking plastic rail to hold you in is pure exhilaration. It's the sort of thing that, if only for a minute, makes you feel impervious to anything else life can throw at you.

All the same, I often feel nostalgic for the time when my biggest fear constituted anticipating three minutes of terror at an amusement park.

These days, my greatest fears in life have to do with disease and financial ruin. Compared to these daunting thoughts, a quick and painless death by being flung from a malfunctioning roller coaster seems like a walk in the park.

Steve and I came to terms with exactly how much debt we had accumulated during our early 20s around the time the American economy tanked in 2008 - basically as a result everyone's debt spiralling out-of-control. Terrified, we set ourselves up with a plan to dig our way out, which we usually follow. All the same, our progress does little to eliminate the nagging - if unrealistic -fear of being financially dependent on family members with nothing to show for ourselves 10 years down the road.

As for disease - well, the mere thought of all the pesticides and hormones found in most foods these days is enough to make me nauseous. I imagine all those chemicals coursing through my blood, accumulating over time to cause cancer and god knows what else.

I'm not sure these fears fall into the same category as that of amusement park rides, but I am of the FDR school of thought in that I believe their root is one and the same: fear itself.

At the bottom of my quest for adrenaline, I think there is a wish to scare myself so much that I eliminate these other fears. Wonderland's scariest roller coasters can't quite get me there, but maybe the EdgeWalk will. Or perhaps even skydiving someday.

Like a summer with 1,000 Julys

EMC Editorial - My grandfather never made it to New York - a fact that probably seems irrelevant to those who didn't know him well. To those of us who had the good fortune to spend hours, days, and years in his company, though - rocking on the rusty old front porch swing at the cottage, cold drinks in hand, soft St. Lawrence breezes blowing as we tapped our bare feet to the perfectly-pitched tones of that classic crooner with whom Gramps shared a first name - to us, the fact that he never made it to that mythic city seems nothing short of ironic.

Sometimes Gramps would sing along to his favourite songs, and sometimes he would blare them so loudly you'd swear all of Howe Island could hear echoes of My Way, What a Wonderful World and New York, New York.

I have been to New York three times in my life, yet to this day whenever I read or hear about the city I think first about Gramps. Maybe it's because it was the hometown of his own father that Gramps always seemed to embody the glamorous spirit of the New York, or maybe it's because my impression of the city will forever be influenced by childhood memories of my family's cottage and the music that was played there.

I think I will always miss Gramps the most in the summertime - not just because he passed away earlier this month, and not necessarily because the summer serves as a canvass for the majority of my most treasured memories, for which a fair portion of the credit goes to my grandparents.

As a person, Gramps always reminded me of my favourite season for his calm, constant optimism, and for his faith that every situation and every person was full of the best sort of potential. He was always down for a good time, and not once did I ever hear Gramps criticize another person. To him, everyone deserved the benefit of the doubt and a second chance, no matter how monumental their failures. Don't get me wrong, Gramps could be impatient at times, but time wasted commenting on others' stupid decisions or social inadequacies behind their backs was time that could be spent helping them get back on their feet, or at least doing something productive in one's own life.

Certainly, Gramps was happiest when he had some sort of project on the go. I will forever remember him puttering around the cottage, renovating the kitchen, building the back deck or fixing the pump, always with music playing in the background.

I recall one time, when I was about five or six years old, lying awake in bed one evening at the cottage - an insomniac, even as a child. The teenagers who lived a few cottages down were having a pool party, and their rollicking fun was interfering with my ability to sleep. I padded out to the family room to tell Gramps of my troubles.

"Try to hear what they're saying," he told me.

Words to live by indeed. And it must have worked, because I don't remember trying to get to sleep anymore after that.

I don't think I fully realized until just a couple of years ago how profoundly Gramps influenced the way I view the world - even if I often fall very short of living up to his example. His shadow hangs over most all of the interactions I have with others - be they casual acquaintances or my dearest friends and family members. Most of all, he showed me that I don't need to travel to New York, or even to Howe Island, to experience the best of what life has to offer.

Review: Midnight in Paris

By some fluke, the new Woody Allen movie Midnight in Paris ended up at the Empire Theatre in downtown Kingston – a strange and wonderful phenomenon give the fact that very few artsy movies ever make it to the two main theatres here. The craziest thing is, the movie has been there for at least a month, and I have consistently been searching in vain for an opportunity to go – until yesterday, when I finally found myself with a couple hours of spare time. My mom, grandma and I took in the matinee performance after going out for lunch, making for a relaxing Sunday afternoon despite the mountains of work I knew I had to accomplish later that evening.

Happily, the movie was even better than I thought it was going to be, which seems to hardly ever happen when something’s been built up so much. The story tells of a writer named Gil (Owen Wilson) who has a steamy love affair with the city of Paris - particularly how he imagines it would have been in the 1920s - and a not-so-steamy relationship with his fiancée Inez (Rachel McAdams), who is to put it mildly a cold-hearted bitch. During a trip to the City of Lights with his deplorable in-laws, Gil is magically transported each night at midnight back to Paris of the 1920s, where he befriends the likes of F. Scott Fitzgerald, Hemmingway and Picasso.

Seeing as I’ve had my own love affair with everything Paris for over a decade now, not to mention an immense appreciation for modern literature and art, Paris at Midnight was right up my alley. It was just as much if not more aesthetically pleasing as I was hoping it would be, and just zany enough to hit the spot on a scorching July afternoon. (Naturally, however, it felt like mid-January in the theatre).

It probably wasn’t the most brilliantly-written Woody Allen film I’ve ever seen, but the charm of the actors and tongue-in-cheek treatment of humanity’s universal habit of glamorizing the past definitely fit together very nicely, and it didn’t feel like anything was missing.

What this movie did more than anything was vicariously fulfill a dream that I think most of us would be lying if we said we didn’t have: to be able to step back in time and pick the brains of our historical idols. Or have lengthy conversations with our contemporary idols, for that matter.

There’s no question that I’ll be buying this one on DVD, and watching it whenever I’m in need of a pick-me-up. Estimated DVD release date: October 2011. Let the countdown begin!

Design dreaming

I'm super excited about the new Design Sponge book, which is coming out in September. I love perusing that website, dreaming about someday having a house of my own to decorate. I can imagine that holding and flipping through the actual physical book will only enhance this experience. From the recent website preview, it looks like a lot of pretty wallpaper will be featured, which suits me just fine. My two favourite thing when it comes to decorating are wallpaper and colour - done tastefully, of course.

I'm not sure how my preferences will go down with Steve, though - we will likely have to come to some sort of compromise. Currently we have a cheerful yellow kitchen and a pastel green focal wall in the living room, which he very generously agreed to despite some obvious reservations. Perhaps I can give up ornate floral patterns if he agrees to no leather, or something like that.

Here are some of my favourites...

Back to the garden

EMC Lifestyle - It may well be the understatement of the century to claim that most of us are disconnected from our food - where it comes from, how it is produced. It's the kind of thing I go on about all the time in an effort to explain to people why I make the unconventional, seemingly high-maintenance dietary choices I do.

Yet I always feel like a bit of a hypocrite making such statements, as really I know very little about food and how it grows. Thus when the opportunity presented itself to spend a day working at Patchwork Gardens organic farm in Battersea, where my husband and I are CSA members, I felt I owed it to all those who have been subjected to my factory farm/food security rants to try my own hand at food production.

When planning my day at Patchwork Gardens, I was advised by farmers Ian Stutt and Eric Williams that staying for lunch was necessary in order to have the full experience. They explained that everyone who works there takes turns making lunch, and that the meal always includes freshly picked vegetables from the farm.

The whole thing seemed very romantic, and I arrived charged with idealistic notions of "getting back to the land" and, in the words of my father, an old farm boy himself, "putting in my first 'true' day's work."

Ian and Eric were there, and I also met Louise Cooper, Marie Bencze and Thor Hansgen, who were all very kind and patient about the fact that a reporter was tagging along, randomly bothering them for photos and sound bites.

Ian led me into the field, explaining that I would begin the day weeding tomatoes in the farm's one remaining greenhouse. Just over a month ago, there were four.

"We had three windstorms, and each demolished a greenhouse," he said, adding that the wetter than average spring was also a significant setback, as they were about 2-3 weeks later than usual getting onto the land.

"Then we lost our spinach...sugar snap peas and beets," said Ian, however, he was quick to add that he and the other farmers have many reasons to remain positive.

"What we've learned more than anything with farming is it's just so loaded with risk and there's not much you can do other than pick back up and keep going. I guess you've got to learn from it, and we're definitely going to build more structure into any future greenhouses."

He pointed out what looked to me like mini greenhouses, constructed using the materials from the ones that were destroyed.

"They're called low tunnels," he said. "They can kind of mimic what the greenhouse was doing...but don't replace the job it would have done. There are different tricks you can try and use."

Later, Thor also spoke about the rough spring, noting that working together has been key to overcoming the setbacks.

"There's a lot of experience here now, and we've got an incredible team in my opinion," he said. "Even today we're still catching up, but most of the stuff has caught up...it's just being able to overcome those circumstances as they come."

Indeed, as I proceeded with my tomato weeding, it struck me how much everyone at the farm seems to genuinely like each other. It was a pleasure to listen to and sometimes participate in friendly conversation while tiding the rows of plants, glancing back ever so often to view the rewarding difference between the weeded and non-weeded sections.

Later, I helped Marie tie trellises to the plants, which are intended to keep them from hanging onto the ground and allow for a better yield.

While I interviewed Ian, he was attaching the other end of the trellises to the ceiling of the greenhouse, allowing the tomato plants to stand upright. He moved carefully and methodically as he explained that organic farming means more than simply the absence of pesticides - it's also about promoting healthy soil, and being good stewards of the land. Healthy soil, he noted, means healthy food, and healthy food means healthy people.

Ian, who also co-ordinates the NFU's New Farm Project, explained that every year there is a huge increase in the number of organic farms in Canada.

"Probably most of the new farms in Canada are organic," he said. "But it's much more of a knowledge-based farming that requires a real skill base, which takes time to develop."

It was clear to me, however, he is more than up to the challenge:

"I love the hard work. I think it's endlessly creative. You're always needing to find new solutions to growing good crops, and in the end it's incredibly rewarding."

Later that day, Ian showed me one such creative method, pointing out a small potato crop that had been planted to act as a decoy for the beetles that routinely damage the plants. The idea, he said, was to invite the insects to dine on these 'bait' potatoes in hopes that they will not notice the main crop to be planted later.

Before that, however, we had the opportunity to taste some of the fruits of our labour: chilli, salad, bread and muffins all made from scratch by Marie with plenty of farm fresh vegetables like lettuce, rhubarb, beets and cilantro.

I felt privileged to partake in lunch, a beloved and long-held tradition at Patchwork Gardens.

"Lunch is fantastic," said Louise. "You just really look forward to what other people are making. We all really enjoy food and cooking, so it's nice to share the load and then experience the passion for food coming through in what they cook."

This is Louise's third summer working on the farm.

"I started out as a shareholder a few years ago," she said. "I had worked in community gardens in Vancouver and thought it would be a really good thing to learn about so I could garden more confidently."

She added that social and environmental issues are also key reasons she is passionate about farming.

"I'm pretty interested in...the other issues surrounding local food, energy consumption, that sort of thing. It just made sense to learn about this so I could grow as much of my own food as I possibly could."

I was continually inspired by this sort of passion, which was demonstrated by all my co-workers throughout the day. It may have been a bad spring - by far the worst these young farmers have ever experienced - but no one was wallowing in self-pity. Indeed, there wasn't time to, as there were still many thriving crops to attend to.

After lunch, I rounded out my day by planting some sweet corn, dill and cilantro. It was neat to think that those seeds will soon become food I and more than 50 other families receive in our CSA shares - not to mention ingredients in meals prepared by chefs at some of Kingston's top restaurants like Chien Noir, Olivea and Aqua Terra.

However, I'm not going to lie and say that working on the farm was easy. Days later, muscles I never realized I had continued to ache and wail in my legs from all the bending and kneeling involved in weeding, and my back is still spotted with dozens of itchy, swollen deerfly bites. Yet it helped to think there was a purpose to the pain - arguably the most important purpose of all: feeding people.

"I think on a larger scale (local, organic farming) creates communities that are more connected with one another - people that care not just about food, but about each other and other things that go on," said Louise.

Ian agreed, noting that "by being a farmer I'm doing all the things I want to do and that I think are needed to be done every day. In terms of soil, hard work outside, working with other people, and trying to live a life that feels right as far as being connected to the earth and really anchored in the local community."

As an admitted softy when it comes to physical labour, I was personally quite happy to return to writing the next day. Yet I wouldn't trade my experience at Patchwork Gardens for anything. I feel honoured that my five new friends let me share a day with them, teaching me so much about healthy, sustainable food production. Most of all, I was happy to see that the food I eat on a daily basis is grown in such a positive environment - in healthy soil, by people who are genuinely passionate about what they do.

hpratt-campbell@theemc.ca

The autumn of youth

EMC Editorial - What are your feelings on birthdays? Mixed? Yeah, mine too.

Unless you're a kid, of course. Birthdays are wonderful things if you're under a certain age. These days, one of my favourite aspects of my birthday - which is today - is having a legitimate excuse to reminisce about the era of pool parties, Dairy Queen cake and tantalizing anticipation surrounding what could be inside all those colourful packages.

Naturally, I never made an effort to mindfully appreciate the benefits of being the lucky kid with the summer birthday while they lasted, and when I found myself with work obligations for the first time at 17 it felt as though a grave injustice had been committed against me.

I'm over all that now, but a new concern has emerged in the last few years in the form of apprehension surrounding my perceived lack of life accomplishment in relation to the number of candles that appear on the cake. Or would, if the cake was large enough to hold them. I'm told these feelings are unwarranted - that they are the product of my over-achieving, anxiety-ridden mind. This could be true, but being aware of the possibility does little to alleviate such worries.

Today I turn 28. I know that probably seems young to many of you, but to me it means that I can no longer get away with claiming to be "in my mid-20s." "Late 20s" means almost 30, and for my generation 30 is widely considered to symbolize adulthood proper - a scary thought for many of us given the state of the world these days.

The physical effects of aging don't scare me quite as much - at least not yet. Since I was a teenager, people have generally assumed I'm younger than I actually am. More often than not, this has been a source of frustration as it I've needed to work extra hard to get them to take me seriously. It's also a little annoying to be constantly carded at the LCBO, and once in the not too distant past, the movie theatre. No joke.

Conversely, I have to cringe whenever I hear someone claim you can tell a woman's age by her hands. If that's true, I must be well into my golden years with my bony, chapped hands and crooked fingers - this despite the fact that I only completed my first full day of actual physical labour last week at Patchwork Gardens farm. At this rate, I'll be indistinguishable from the crypt keeper by 40 to proponents of the "age by hands" thesis.

Lately I've also had a number of people mistake me for my mom's sister. She insists that such comments are made only in search of a bigger tip, but all the same I'm never quite sure how to take them. I want to look more mature, but do I really want to look like I could be the sister of a 52-year-old?

Whether people assume I'm older or younger than I am, though, the fact remains that I have had enough birthdays in my life to know that the onus is on me alone to make the most of them. They may no longer include holidays, pool parties or showers of presents, but as of today I still have 731 long days left of socially-imposed adolescence. (Seeing as 2012 is a leap-year.) On the other hand, a little more officially recognized maturity isn't such a bad thing either. Who knows, maybe 28 is the perfect age after all.

Lost Together

EMC Editorial - Two weekends ago, my husband Steve and I attended a wedding in Welland, Ont. Steve's inability to find his way around the Niagara Region - where, for the record, he grew up - never ceases to amaze me. I will spare you the details of our frenetic 45-minute journey from his godparents' home in Chippewa, where we were staying, to the church in Font Hill, other than to say that it gave new meaning to our own wedding song, Lost Together by Blue Rodeo.

Over the course of the day, I got thinking about wedding songs and what a strange and wonderful thing it is to even attempt to choose a song that represents who you are as a couple.

Personally, I never really thought too much about our choice. Steve and I share similar tastes in a lot of things, but music is not one of them. As a result, the song to which we shared our first dance as a married couple didn't seem all that important. Steve is a big Blue Rodeo fan and I thought Lost Together was a nice song for a wedding and that was that.

Looking back, however, I find it interesting how we as a couple have grown into and out of the song over the years. On our wedding day, we knew exactly where we were going and what we were going to do to get there, and saw ourselves as anything but lost.

Then, we realized that much of the world is, in fact, "controlled by so few", and that landing our dream jobs, purchasing our own home and arriving at a place in life where we felt ready to have children wasn't going to be as easy as we once thought. Wrong turns were taken, forcing us to live in different cities at various points while we desperately clung to any job prospect that hinted at a half-decent career path.

Yes, there were disasters, but they were our disasters, and all of our endeavours - foiled or not - were for the growth of us as a couple. We worked, and still do work, as a team, combating life's obstacles together.

The path we are on now is very different from the one we had dreamed of, but at least it's a path as opposed to a dark and lonely forest. And in many ways, you could argue things worked out for the better.

For instance, I always dreamed of being a young mother and having at least three children - perhaps as a way of ensuring my kids don't inherit certain odd personality traits of mine, which I'm sure are the result of being an only child. Now, I'm quite happy to be childless at this point in my life, and feel that I will have different but equally positive things to offer my future children as a more mature mother.

I thought about all this as we made an unexpected turn that brought us into familiar territory on the way to the wedding. Getting there took a little longer than expected, but we arrived - about three minutes before the bride.

I thought about it again later when Lost Together was played at the reception hall. It wasn't even the official dance at that point -the song came on as part of the background music that was playing during dinner - and yet Steve insisted we get up and dance. (Yeah, we gave up trying to be cool a long time ago.)

During the dance, I said a silent thank you that for the time being at least it looks as though we have found our way. I'm not so naive as to think that we will never again stumble off the beaten path, but if we do, we will be lost together, and together we will find a new one.

Wedding Fun!

Is there anything better than a wedding? Personally, I don't think so. Our friends John and Megan got married on the weekend, and it was so much fun! Here are some highlights...

First dance as married couple...

The next to be wed....

The old married couple...

The soon-to-be parents...

Best of friends...

Tossing the garter...

Caught garter, wore as crown for remainder of evening :-)

Dancing!

Good times were had by all!

Words, Words, Words

EMC Editorial - Last week, I came across a piece in New York Times Magazine that captured my interest; the article referenced a list of words and phrases that annoyed former magazine editor Kurt Andersen, which he did not want to see used in his publication. Some, such as “hubby,” “celeb,” “eatery” and “a who’s who of” I agree with completely and try to avoid at all costs. Other list-makers, such as “overly” and “lifestyle,” I realize I am guilty of using all the time, and feel a certain duty to stand by.

Either way, the article got me thinking about language, and why we describe things the way we do. At the risk of sounding like a hopeless cliché, I have always been fascinated by the English language. I love how the right word can turn an otherwise boring sentence into something that is powerful and memorable. I also love how, unlike other languages such as French, English is self-consciously malleable, and relatively welcoming of change.

Indeed, fresh words emerge all the time to describe new fads or technologies. Many, like “smartphone,” are pretty much universally accepted as being necessary to describe something that did not exist in the past.

Others are more controversial. Every time I see or hear the word “foodie,” for instance, I feel as though someone is scratching their very long, sharp fingernails along a chalkboard. Don’t get me wrong – I do recognize that our culture needs a new word to describe one who participates in the recent fad of intense food appreciation – I simply find the look and sound of “foodie” distasteful. (No pun intended).

Interesting too how definitions of long-established words can shift to meet the needs of a new generation. I find it amusing, for example, how unfortunate situations can now be labelled “ironic” so long as the speaker qualifies that Alanis Morrissette brand of irony is being referred to. My head begins to spin when I try to calculate just how many levels of intentionality are present in such statements. I think it has to do with alluding to an ironic appreciation of a song that ironically does not reference any pre-existing version of irony– or something like that.

Furthermore, I believe that using “epic” to express something so ever-so-slightly grander than “great,” and “hot” to describe someone ever-so-slightly sexier than “good looking” really does add something to the language.

Other words, it seems, are collectively offensive to our culture. And I’m not just talking about profanity. Society’s curious fear of the word “me” is notable. If I had a dime for every time I’ve seen somebody on Facebook incorrectly describe a photo of being of “[friend’s name] and I,” I could retire tomorrow. Think about it, friends – if the photo was of you alone, would you write “this is a photo of I?”

The sheer ubiquity of this error has got to stem from countless, well-intentioned parents and teachers pounding into everyone’s head that “Jimmy and I are going to the store,” as opposed to “Jimmy and me,” etc. For some reason, the complete version of this rule never got told, and poor little old “me” was unjustly left with a less-than-favourable reputation.

My husband suspects that our aversion to the word may relate to a lingering cultural bias, and that we stay away from ‘me’ because it smacks of distasteful haughtiness and greed. I’m not sure I totally agree with him, but I certainly think that studying the way culture affects the language of personal pronouns could lead to some very exciting findings – at least for English nerds like me.

Thus, if I were to start my own list of objectionable words and phrases, it would undoubtedly include “I” when used as a first person object pronoun, as well as “foodie” and certain other abominations like “staycation” and “gamer.” But certainly not all new words are bad. What do you think, dear reader? What would be on your list?

Oh, Kingston!

This photo epitomizes why I love my hometown...where else can you find random people in 19th Century clothing just chillin' in a graveyard?