Okanagan Writing Services

changes - not the David Bowie kind

2010-03-04T18:55:00.000-08:00

Ah, few but favoured readers and blog followers. I love each of you, in my own disaffected way. And because of that I need to tell you something: I'm leaving.

It's time for a change. Not a change of blogging - think I'll shut up that easily? No way. It's a change in blogging. New digs. A room with a view.

Blogger has been a good spot for OWS to get its blogging feet wet. But it's time to make a move, one that matches up nicely with the OWS website.

It's part of a transition to a new website, a new look and a new relationship with a web-type person who helps me negotiate the challenging waters of the internet. Big shout out to Dale at http://www.sketchtopixels.com/ for getting me set up all pretty and stuff - Dale, you rock my virtual world.

Farewell to Blogger; the blogs will stay here for a while, but nothing new will come through these e-doors.

I'd love for you to stop by my new digs and take a look around. So would Dale, I'm sure. It's all his hard work, after all. www.okanaganwriting.com/wordpress

Until next time,

Jeannette

this writing thing

2010-02-26T14:27:00.000-08:00

The first time I ever read aloud to a large group - larger than my classroom - was in grade six. Maybe it was grade seven. I can't quite remember.

I know Mr. Luty (yeah, the kids called him loonie Luty - how original) was my grade six teacher, and I can't remember him fitting in with this memory. But Mr. Strongitharm (no one called him any nicknames - he was too cool) was my seventh grade teacher and I'm almost certain it wasn't in his class. Whatever. I was young.

My mom tells the story over and over, to anyone who will listen. I won an award for an essay I wrote on The Diary of Anne Frank, and part of the "reward" was to get up in front of the entire school and read part of the essay. Oh, goodie. It's just what a sixth grader wants to do when she's gangly, entering puberty (late) and taller than everyone in the school except a few teachers.

I've never fit in, and I'm okay with that now. I'm sure it makes for more interesting stories. In the sixth grade I wanted to have graceful movements like Theresa or be good at sports like Renée. But I didn't and I wasn't. Instead, I could write. It's too bad that I didn't get some sort of good eye/hand/foot coordination, because even a writer can use that. Especially a young writer about to climb up the echo-y wooden stairs onto a wide, empty stage in front of a gymnasium packed with kids.

I stubbed my toe, lost my balance and fell. In front of the entire school.

I don't remember much about that day except for that one moment of pure humiliation. I was wearing a brown skirt and white top, and I'm pretty sure my hair was doing its straight-as-a-board thing, except for the flippy ends that didn't flip in unison. Nothing I had or wore was in style, even for the un-stylish era that was known as the very early 80's.

What I like best about this memory is that it's all me - not some watered-down version of me. It's a memory of the gangly, uncoordinated girl that spent lunches in the library and recesses with her one or two friends in the back field picking wild strawberries, trying to avoid being kissed by a kid named Jason - not that I was special; Jason tried to kiss every girl on the playground.

I was me - unaltered and going ahead despite whatever obstacles were in my way, including the obstacles that were my own feet.

I find this writing thing to be a lot like that. Once I get out of the way of my own feet, I'm fine.

I'm going to channel a bit of my mom here and boast a little, like she still does about that essay. OWS has its first writing gig: paid and published. Okay, so it's paid in wine and so it's published online. I'm happy with it. And who wouldn't want to be paid in wine? I live in wine country - moving here wasn't a coincidence.

Maybe I still trip going up the stairs, and maybe I'm still not fashionable or good at sports. But I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing. I'm writing.

www.thewinefestivals.com/blog

~ Jeannette

good local eats

2010-02-15T20:40:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer: this is not an advertorial, paid plug or anything else I received any sort of currency for - wine, food or otherwise. Sometimes the stars align just so, and you gotta sit down and give kudos when kudos are due.

I've been to this spot and written about it before. But I'm sure I didn't do it justice then and there's a good chance I won't do it justice now. Unless you have the interactive plug-in feature with smell-o-read. Since that doesn't exist - that I know of - you'll just have to take my word for it on this one.

Local Lounge & Grille in Summerland, BC is the bee's knees, the not-so-hidden gem, the get-my-mouth-watering-just-thinking-about-it place to eat.

There. I said it.

We've had lunch, brunch and dinner cooked by executive chef Paul Cecconi and his team, been greeted by biz guy Cameron Bond and enjoyed the spectacular view of Lake Okanagan from both the Lounge and the Grille. There isn't a bad seat in the place.

This weekend my fella and I took to dining out for the Day Of International Love (otherwise known as Valentine's Day), and when we think of dining out in the Okanagan, we think of Local. So what if we live in Oliver and they're in Summerland? It's worth the drive. Always.

Knowing they book up quickly, I made sure to reserve with Cam in advance. He replied to my hesitant 'hope you still have room for us on the 14th' query with a welcoming 'will give you the best seats in the house'. Considering any seat is the best seat, it wasn't a difficult promise to follow through on. And damn I loved that corner booth.

When you're at Local, you feel like a local. It's a rare night when Cam's not somewhere near the door to welcome you. As the popularity of the joint increases I don't expect him to always be everywhere, all the time. But it's a super nice way to start the visit.

Service is spot-on. It's the perfect combination of make-you-feel-at-home with pamper-you-just-a-bit, and these servers are pros. If you've had exceptional service, you know what I mean. If you haven't, well, you haven't been to Local.

I fell in love with Paul's salmon & risotto, and my fella goes weak at the knees for Paul's ground chuck burger - complete with blue cheese and other yummy toppings. So of course I had to tuck into a perfectly seared wild BC specimen, and of course my fella had to wrangle with that beef. We shared a new salad: baby iceberg, smoked bacon, mushrooms and blue cheese dressing. I'm asking Paul for the recipe. Yum.

The wine selection is stellar. There's great representation from a variety of BC wineries, and you'd be hard-pressed to find a gap in the offerings. I enjoyed a deliciously pretty Pinot Noir from See Ya Later Ranch. Did I say 'yum' yet?

We ended the night with a ridiculously decadent dark chocolate cake (which was so warm I think it was just made, like right after I ordered it), peppermint ice cream and raspberry pipe sauce. Taste bud overload; the party in my mouth hit a whole new level.

And we met Paul, whose culinary creations we salivate over weeks before we get to the restaurant. While I'm a bit sad to say goodbye to the salmon, I'm excited to try the new menu coming out Tuesday Feb 16. Oh, and I want to say thanks to Cam and Paul for holding out on switching the menu until I had that salmon one last time. If the sable fish is anything like your salmon, Paul, I'll be eating it right out of the kitchen. Saves the server a trip to the table.

They're never in a rush. The food's always good. There's a lot of smiling faces, customers and staff alike. Chairs and booths are comfy. It's a good place to be.

Be a Local local. You won't be disappointed. And if you want company, just drop me a line. I'll take any excuse to go back.

~ Jeannette

5 things to do that don't involve 5 rings

2010-02-10T10:49:00.001-08:00

I live 4.5 hours drive away from Vancouver, but I can feel it in the air even here.

It's excitement over the big Olympic stuff - but more palpable is the tension this event has created in our different Canadian communities. I say Canadian because although the games are in British Columbia (and BC taxpayers will be shouldering a burden for a while), let's not forget the feds that have put us collectively on the hook for this dinner bill.

Okay, I'll put my soapbox aside. There are positives and not-so-positives for every super duper expensive thing that our government decides or not decides to do on our behalf. I'm grateful that I can bring my voice forward and have these conversations with people.

Wat about the zillions of people who aren't going to have anything to do with this year's big deal?

If you're not attending the gig with the five big rings, don't fret: this is Canada and we have a lot of nifty stuff going on. The ring games are in BC so I'll keep the details here; just to let everyone know they still have options. However, if you live elsewhere, take the spirit of the list and apply it to your neck of the woods. Your local businesses will love you for it.

drink wine

Oh come on. You should know by now that if it's a to-do list made by me it's going to have something to do with fermentation.

Great wine is closer than you think. It's a local winery, a VQA store, your local liquor store (private or BCL) or your cousin Teresa's basement. It's even available for you to purchase online. And Vinifico does a great job of wine blogging for those computer types. There's also winecountrybc for information on great grapes. Have a glass. It's good for your health.

visit art

Public art galleries, private studios or city graffiti - art is everywhere. And it's significantly underfunded. Yeah, yeah...I know. I won't get on the soapbox again. Promise. But it's true - your local arts and culture organizations are having a tough go financially and they can really use your support. If you don't know where to start, let your fingers do the walking on your keyboard here for tips on finding great local art-type stuff.

But don't take my word for it. Get in touch with your local chamber of commerce to find out where the art stuffs are in your neighbourhood. Go get cultured.

go outside

It's winter. It's Canada. There's a good chance you're a) covered in snow, b) covered in ice, or c) stuck without access to your usual local playgrounds because of a set of five colourful rings.

We're Canadians. We adapt, overcome and do it all with a smile on our faces - and a coffee in hand. Snow hates snowshoes, so go rent some and stomp that snow to smithereens. Ice doesn't like skates, so grab a pair and carve up that surface (or stumble a lot like I do). Walk on the beach, wheel along the sidewalk or head into the woods. Whatever you do, do it outside. Take a bottle of BC wine with you; it won't need a cooler, and with those handy twist-off caps you're all set. Just remember to pack in and pack out.

cook (or eat) something

I'm with the bears when it comes to winter: I hibernate. My personal addition to their winter ritual is that I eat. More.

Winter is the best time to get creative with food. Sure, there's less local fresh produce available (by less I mean nil), but that shouldn't stop you. Go to your favourite snack spot and chat up the chef - chances are he or she has a little more time on their hands right now, but that just means they'll have more time to talk about how and what they love to cook. Have a good meal, made either by yourself, someone you love or someone who you love what they cook. Invite others to join you. Feed.

read more

With Canada Reads and Canada Also Reads practically sitting in our laps, it's time to hit the books. With gusto.

Maybe you're a Kindle fan (I still think it sounds like it's made of chocolate), or maybe you like the feel and smell of pulp and paper. Doesn't matter. There are a ton of ways to join the read action. You can do it at home alone, with friends or in public - and unlike some other fun things, it's completely legal. Get a book and get your read on.

If you're feeling adventurous you can do it all in one day: go for a walk, hit the local art gallery, visit the bookstore and go for dinner with a friend before heading home to curl up under a thick blanket with a glass of wine and that new read.

Overcome, Canadians. Don't let the rings get you down.

~ Jeannette

I cop to the chapstick

2010-02-04T19:04:00.000-08:00

Today I overheard a fourteen-year-old girl talking to her school principal about the newest, deepest and most misunderstood love of her life. It sort of went like this.

Girl: "...and I walked by his house eight times yesterday, and picked up a rock from his driveway every time. I've got, like, nineteen rocks now."

Principal: "That's stalker behaviour, you know."

The girl is crestfallen. I can't let that happen. She's a sister, a comrade in arms in the battle of her rationale mind versus her hormones. I get it.

Me: "I kept a piece of cloth in a shoebox for six months. This guy I had a big thing for used it at a concert. It reeked. Eventually my mom told me to throw it out. I did - after another month."

Not quite a lie but not quite the truth - I know I was asked to throw some reeking piece of something away which reminded me of an unrequited adolescent obsession; what the item was I can't remember. But it works. We grin at each other. Co-conspirators. The principal doesn't look pleased.

Principal: "Oh, that doesn't help. Don't play along. Come on - help me out."

Help him out? Puh-leeze. He's sitting there in his Lacoste shirt, Burberry jacket and comfortable shoes, judging her. Without even trying to put himself in her place.

He doesn't get the teeter-totter emotions, the sudden highs and devastating lows. He doesn't get that everything at that point in a chick's life is high-tension wire, elastic bands stretched to capacity, everything at the far end of the spectrum. Sometimes I miss it.

A few months ago, I went to see a teen flick with a friend, her seventeen-year-old daughter and the daughter's-boyfriend's-younger-sister. (that's how we talk, you know) I was immersed in a total girl teen experience. Nervous giggling, disaffected stares, ear-drum rupturing squeals, feet up on seats and eyes peeking above denim-clad knees. Collective sighs and sharp intakes of breath at the glimpse of the heartthrob. Smells of popcorn and cherry chapstick. Okay, I cop to the chapstick.

It was awesome. Total adolescent girl nirvana.

My friend and I talked about how good it felt to be surrounded by the girl-ness of it all. The great unknown, the experiencing things for the first time, the fluttery chest feelings and butterflies flitting everywhere, taking over our brain. Our logical, rational brain. The one that beat everyone on the debate team. Then that distracted, hummingbird movement brain thing takes over for a few years and it's earth shattering. Amazing, awkward, devastating and magnificent all rolled up in one big ball of energy.

I still get those butterflies - especially when my fella grabs my hand and I'm not expecting it. But sometimes I miss laying in bed, looking at my ceiling and wondering all the nonsensical things my fifteen-year-old-girl brain wondered.

Then I grab a glass of wine and realize it's pretty good when the elastic isn't stretched to capacity. Mostly. Here's to all the crazy, ridiculous things we did - and do - as those people we were. And are.

~ Jeannette

tempted by a ghost

2010-01-27T19:32:00.000-08:00

I'm being tested.

Not in the sit-in-a-gymnasium-and-write-for-three-hours tested, but in the put-your-money-where-your-mouth-is tested. Do-what-you-said-you-believed-in tested. Yeah, that kind. The kind that makes you say 'dang, the road I'm meant to travel has to be gravelly and full of pot holes, doesn't it'.

Here I sit, in the heart of self-proclaimed wine country (and yes, there are some teeth to that statement - I have a glass of Black Cloud Wine Pinot Noir in hand as I type this). We turned our backs to the trappings and civility of the Big City in exchange for a chance to float our own boat, so to speak. We headed for the hills, intent on starting a life more true to who we were. Who we are. Who I am.

Opportunity doesn't always have the best timing. And life has a wicked sense of humour.

A few years ago, while on the treadmill of urban living, my 'career' was on a certain trajectory. I worked for a great organization, one that was envied as a Top Employer. And my supervisor was keen on getting my career on the fast track, too. I had a Plan.

Then I went back to school. I met different people; like minded people. I found a mentor. This push/pull me in the direction of my life thing started to happen. My compass realigned and I listened to myself. We ended up here, and better for it.

Two plus years in, things are starting to fall into place. The life I - and we - want to have is germinating. Stuff is growing. Things are sprouting. It feels very right, and very good. It figures that smack-dab in the middle of all this feel good-ness, I get it. The news, that is.

What would have once been my dream job is posted. And I have a connection. An in. Someone I know who wants me in that job. A job that pays very, very well.

The former dream job is in Vancouver.

I sleep on it. In the morning, I realize that what I'm tempted by is only a ghost. It's the ghost of what could have been, a skewed sense of accomplishment measured against the wrong horizon. For me.

Did I pass the test? I'm not sure. Part of me wants to apply, enter the competition and win - if only to decline, but know I could have had what I'd once wanted.

Another part of me, the one that slaves over the ninth edit of a still unpublishable manuscript, says to hell with it. Then that part tells me to get back to work - my real work.

And I listen. So here I am, drinking a beautiful glass of local wine, heeding the call of putting words to a page. Telling a story.

Cheers.

~ Jeannette

the case for sketchy

2010-01-21T15:03:00.000-08:00

I’m not much of a planner. People think I am, but I'm not. Now that the cat's out of the bag on the planning stuff, please let me explain.

It’s not that I don’t like to plan. I’m learning that my best thought out plans – even with contingency – don’t see the light of day. Unseen forces and lurking variables throw my plans way off track. And that’s okay.

While in high school I had planned on entering the very competitive world of photography. I had secret dreams of landing a sweet gig with National Geographic. Who wouldn’t? Always having a dose of pragmatism, even then, I diligently planned my learning and researched careers. I thought I had a good grasp on what the first few steps could look like. I had a plan.

My plans changed. Several times. And that’s a good thing, because it brought me here.

So what do we do if we don’t plan? We sketch.

The best plans I’ve found focus on this concept of sketching. And I’ve seen good sketches everywhere: from businesses and organizations, to personal goal setting. Maybe your sketch evolves, holding enough detail to make it seem like a plan. It’s not. A sketch is flexible, scalable and dynamic. Like us.

We change, grow and are impacted by elements beyond our control. Every day. How can we expect ourselves to stick to a plan? If it’s not attainable, we won’t get there. And that just plain sucks.

Stop building your next plan and start a sketch. Leave some areas blank. Don’t box yourself in, even if you think you’re designing a perfect container. That’s only the now talking, not the later. It’s the later that will throw the curve ball at you.

I started being sketchy last year, and I’ve seen a little momentum. Some sketches have almost become pictures. How sweet is that? Maybe not National Geographic sweet, but sweet.

Go be sketchy.

~ Jeannette

the social of the media

2010-01-10T15:44:00.000-08:00

If you did something really, really well, would you consider yourself an expert? A guru?

Maybe. Let's explore. But by the title of this post you likely know where I'm going...or suspect.

I'm really good at math, but I'm not an expert - it's more like an aptitude for understanding math than any wealth of knowledge I hold. And I don't hold any such wealth of knowledge; if I did, I might be a mathematician. It wasn't a popular career choice when I was sitting with the guidance counselor in the 10th grade.

My friend is really good at websites. He got me hooked up and hosts mine. He has an understanding of what I need and a sound knowledge of the technical stuff. But I wouldn't call him a guru. Sorry, Jim.

When I think of experts, I think of witnesses in trials and hired guns selling something. Gurus bring a whole other disturbing image to mind; predominately creepy dudes in robes. Dirty robes. And I mean absolutely no disrespect to anyone who is taking the word guru at a literal translation. I'm not.

Aside from writing and blogging I've been spending time on Twitter, building what some would say is 'brand recognition' but what I call relationships. I'm the new kid on the block. I need to get to know people and let them get to know me. That's fine. It's fun and I've met loads of great people.

Something is disturbing about what I think is social media, though. The fact that I'm not even sure I know what it is disturbs me. There's a penchant for people to gravitate to those calling themselves experts or gurus without looking around at the wider circle. It feels a bit like the telemarketer - but more insidious. Because it's a whole new electronic world out there. Kind of like international waters.

I think of social, and I think of relationships, connecting and sharing. Then I think of media and I imagine platforms and ways through which to share news and information - writing, broadcasting, etc. Pen and paper are media, too.

A relationship platform news and information sharing guru? Expert? Doesn't have as nice a ring to it as "social media expert", does it?

There are oodles of people who have a lot of experience with social media and can help with marketing your brand as you sail through these troubling waters. In the short time that I've been on Twitter I have discovered many of these people, including Bradley Cooper, Cameron Herold and Un-marketing. They are informed, active in the areas of which they speak and are willing to share knowledge with you. Without asking for your credit card.

Maybe that's the real guru: the one who will share their knowledge, on any level. Yes, at times for profit (a person's gotta eat). But at other times they share just to share.

Anyone else calling themselves a guru or an expert is just a shill. Don't get taken in. There's no such thing as a passive income (despite my wish for it to be true), because someone somewhere is doing something to make that happen.

I'd like to send a big thank-you out to the people who are making my social media experience a nice one. I hope to have to hire one of you soon, and I will when I need it. Because I know I'm no expert.

Just don't show up wearing dirty robes or the deal's off.

~Jeannette

who are you & how did you get here

2010-01-06T12:12:00.000-08:00

What a question. I might be over thinking this one, but I’m pretty sure that’s a story that will take a lot longer than the quick ten minutes I'm allotted.

I joined a group who are keen to ‘invest in self’ in a time of financial restraint – it's kick started by the organization I work for, but includes community partners. I’m ditching my preconceptions as I uncover them. They hide, especially when challenged.

We met first in November, and it was all honeymoon and glow. People were hesitant but excited to be there. A first date is like that: a bit clumsy and usually seen through a heady hue of beautiful colours because it’s all fresh and new. We can’t see any other tracks in the snow but ours.

Now that we’re on the second date the ante has officially been upped. It’s time to look more closely at the veneer, if not yet beneath it – both ours and those around the table with us. Each participant is asked to bring a story to share. Initially, the request seemed innocuous enough – tell us who you are through sharing a little about how you got here.

Yikes.

Which ‘here’ should I choose? There are a few. Meeting my partner was a significant fork in the road of how I got here. Actually, it was getting lost on Lexington Avenue that derailed my train. But there are forks farther back along the route than that.

Dad lost the keys to our car while we camped in a farmer’s field outside of Renfrew, Ontario. Grandpa and grandma stayed with us one winter when I was four, and they spoke little english. My family was trapped for days on a boat stuck in a hydro-electric lift lock – I think in the summer of '79 – when a lightning storm knocked out power (and it wasn't as glamorous as it might sound). I caught a ride to Mexico with a total stranger one winter and drove from Ontario to Mexico in a 3-cylinder Pontiac Firefly.

My point isn’t that some strange things have happened to me – or that I’ve done some strange things. What’s being revealed to me through this simple question is that how I got here is not just by my own actions. It's through a culmination of things: a series of events, time spent with people I love (or not) and unusual situations I put or found myself in.

I’m looking forward to listening to how others interpret this question, and what they choose to share with us. But I’m also interested to see what part of my story I’ll share with these sixteen people that I barely know. It’s storytelling, and it’s what I love.

Oh, and the move to Mexico was to start a life with a fella who isn’t the man I’m now in love with. Plus I didn’t get a job in Toronto that I had wanted desperately. Oh, but that’s a good story...

~ Jeannette

what I forgot

2010-01-05T14:15:00.000-08:00

It amazes me sometimes; knowing what I've forgotten. After I remember it, of course.

I listen to CBC Radio often, as many who know me are aware. I’ve blogged about listening to the CBC in the past, I’m sure of it. And I know I’ve blogged about my favourite CBC Radio host, Jian Ghomeshi; the object of my not-so-secret crush.

Last week, Jian broadcast an interview with Rosanne Cash, daughter of Johnny Cash. They spoke about Rosanne’s new album called The List, which features some of the 100 songs her dad said were the quintessential country songs.

I spent the past week listening to Rosanne’s new album (great listening) and lots of Johnny Cash songs. As I wrote (and went through the eleventh edit of a novel on which I have a fragile hold at the moment), I was taken back to weekends of my childhood. I could almost smell the farmers fields in Renfrew, hear the rushing water of Temagami.

During gospel sessions on Sunday mornings and over impromptu pickin’ around the campfire, The Man in Black had an impact on our bluegrass weekends that I’m now realizing. My tacit knowledge that these songs were old Cash songs and remembering dad pickin’ Tennessee Flat-Top Box on his old Gibson...well, these are two different things.

One song took me back to the Sunday gospel stage and those nights around the campfire. We weren’t religious - for me, the strongest pull here is the sense of family. Something makes me think Johnny wouldn’t mind.

Thanks, dad, for giving me such great memories to get me through. I think your pickin’ would hold up next to Johnny’s in a heartbeat.

I can't wait to remember what else I forgot.

~ Jeannette

Daddy Sang Bass

I remember when I was a lad,
times were hard and things were bad.
But there's a silver lining behind every cloud.
Just poor people, that's all we were.
Trying to make a living out of black land dirt.
We'd get together in a family circle singing loud.

Daddy sang bass,
Mama sang tenor.
Me and little brother would join right in there.
Singing seems to help a troubled soul.

One of these days and it won't be long.
I'll rejoin them in a song.
I'm gonna join the family circle at the Throne.
No, the circle won't be broken.
By and by, Lord, by and by.

Daddy sang bass,
Mama sang tenor.
Me and little brother would join right in there.
In the sky, Lord, in the sky.

Now I remember after work,
Mama would call in all of us.
You could hear us singing for a country mile.
Now little brother has done gone on.
But, I'll rejoin him in a song.
We'll be together again up yonder in a little while.

Daddy sang bass,
Mama sang tenor.
Me and little brother would join right in there.
Cause singing seems to help a troubled soul.

One of these days and it won't be long,
I'll rejoin them in a song.
I'm gonna join the family circle at the Throne.
Oh, no the circle won't be broken.
By and by, Lord, by and by.

Daddy sang bass,
Mama sang tenor.
Me and little brother would join right in there.
In the sky, Lord, in the sky.
In the sky, Lord, in the sky.

it's in the genes

2009-12-22T17:29:00.000-08:00

I don't often give much thought to age - mine or others. I'm terrible at guessing, too, so please don't ask me to hunch the number of times you've experienced a trip around the sun. I'll be way off and you won't talk to me for weeks. Or months.

I've got this relative, see, who is old. Like really old. She's a great aunt (my dad's father's sister, I think) who lives in Nova Scotia.

In the mail today - among the holiday cards, credit card bills and extended chances to renew useless magazines for up to 60% off - I received a letter from my mom. I love hearing from my mom. We still write letters. Okay, so my parents don't have email. Regardless, mom and I wrote each other letters even when they did have a computer. But letters from my mom aren't the point. What came in the letter was a photo of my dad and his aunt, Chantal, taken this past fall.

Chantal will be 109 years old as of December 31 2009.

The last time I saw her was in 1996, which also was my last visit to Nova Scotia. Aunt Chantal looks smaller, but her face is the same - maybe a few more wrinkles.

In the photo Aunt Chantal is turned toward the camera, but she's looking at my dad out of the corner of her eye. She doesn't talk much anymore; she just answers "oui" when asked questions. And she doesn't move around without help.

The look on her face in this photo would make me believe that it's all an act. She's grinning and biting her finger like she's holding back a big secret. I like to think she has her share of secrets after this many years.

I've had many relatives pass on at an early age, and then there's Aunt Chantal who was born at the turn of the century. Whether it's hereditary, good living, karma or someone spinning a big roulette wheel somewhere doesn't really matter to me.

I want to look like Aunt Chantal does, leaning in and biting her finger to hold back a big secret with a cat-that-ate-the-canary look on my face. At any age.

~ Jeannette
(36 revolutions around the sun, and loving every one of them)

something wicked this way comes

2009-12-10T18:50:00.001-08:00

Maybe it's not entirely wicked, but it's coming. In many places, it's been here since the Halloween candy aisle got heavily stickered with 50% off signs. The festive holidays are upon us. Again. Didn't we just do this around this same time last year? I thought so.

OWS isn't anti-non-denominational-seasonal-celebration. Don't get me wrong; I like an excuse to get fun presents, eat lots and drink silly amounts of boozy substances just as much as the next person. I do want to know whether to wish you a happy *whatever* without insulting you, and I also want to not have to listen to over a thousand versions of the same eight holiday songs... everywhere I go.

It's only for a month (or so), and it's only one month out of twelve. I can survive.

Maybe I've been away from my family for so long I don't get particularly festive; I haven't had a Christmas (there's that word) with my immediate family since 1996. That's a long time. There are now several new faces in the extended family - just on my side alone. And since I got hitched I haven't spent any of those special days with the in-laws, either. I like my mother-in-law, too. She's nice people.

My partner and I have our own traditions now. While living in a larger urban centre we would sleep in, gorge ourselves on chocolate (tradition left over from my childhood where my sister and I would only eat chocolate all day, until dinner), head out for a matinee and then go for Korean hot-pot or BBQ. After a few years we graduated to leaving the city entirely. We started going to Seattle for a few days. That was fun.

The small town we live in now doesn't have anything open on December 25 (not surprising - out of 4,500 people there are over 20 places of worship). We've bought a house, so we've got less disposable income to spend on fancy trips to sparkly Seattle. Our friends here - the few we have - have family elsewhere, so they'll be leaving.

We'll do what we always do: let the day pass, eat chocolate and think about the fact that we're pretty damn lucky to have met one another. Despite all of our perceived barriers, we know we're in the fortunate group. That's worth celebrating just on its own.

Tolerate the holiday carols. Graciously let the person in front of you take the spot in the parking lot that you've been lined up for. Give the bus driver some Toblerone on the eve of the 24th. Call family or friends that you've been meaning to call (but haven't) and tell them they rock your world.

Then, quietly, forgive yourself. For whatever injustices you think you have done to others and for the guilt you may feel for being one of the 'haves' while we live in a country riddled with 'have-nots'.

After all of that is done and over with, get involved. Change your perspective. Remember why you are here and what you want to do with yourself. Don't talk about doing things: write them down, tick them off and do them.

December 25th is one day. If we play our cards right, though - we can make it everyday. I try.

Thank you to everyone who has helped push, pull and drag me into the larger conversation - with myself, and with others. And thanks to you. For reading my words. They're only words, but they're mine to share with you and, until someone reads them, they aren't a whole heck of a lot.

Happy everything, wherever you are.

~Jeannette

a night with local lounge & township7

2009-12-05T10:20:00.000-08:00

At the start of a week there's nothing more exciting than thinking of all the possibilities for the days stretched out ahead of you. As someone who still needs a traditional 9-5 gig on weekdays (hopefully not for long), my time to shine is evenings - and weekends.

During these times, I covet. Things. Events. Food. Wine, too.

Last Sunday I crossed a distinct finish line: I had pledged to write a novel (minimum 50,000 words) in the month of November (30 days). After a challenging month I crossed my finish line on Sunday, November 29 at 9:16pm pacific time...well above the minimum word count. But the challenge for me wasn't the number of words - it was getting the darn thing done. And I did. So I decided we needed to celebrate.

I started to plan.

Friday, December 4 was going to be the eve of celebration. My husband and I extended the invite to include a couple of friends. The more the merrier.

What was I to covet? Two things: a dinner at Local Lounge & Grille and a bottle of Township7 2007 Merlot / Cabernet Sauvignon. Yum.

I thought about Friday night all week. My husband was almost salivating at the thought of a juicy, perfect chuck burger. Our heads swam with thoughts of sensory delights. It was a great week to live through. The before part - the coveting - was almost as good as the event. Almost.

Our server - Goldie - was attentive, personable and engaging. Owner Cam stopped by for a chat, which made us feel welcome and appreciated. We ordered some wine and beer (great selections of both, by the way) and spent some time with the menu before deciding. It was a tough decision, as always.

My friends - and hubby - indulged in what has been described as the best restaurant burger. Ever. That's a serious claim, but it holds true each visit we make. Made with ground chuck and topped with honey dijon, yellow (seasonal) beets and whatever ridiculously good seasoning the chef uses, the burger is stacked, dripping and magnificent.

I upped the ante and ordered the salmon with risotto. I don't know how many words there are for perfection but I'll have to start researching now. Slightly seared outside and melt-in-your-mouth soft in the middle, my salmon was just the right combination of textures and flavour. As for the risotto...well...words can't describe.

By the end of the meal we were sufficiently sated so we headed out - after a tour of the newly opened lounge, which was beautifully appointed and had a great energy. Four of our original five convened in an apartment in Penticton to relax and share a bottle of Township7 2007 Merlot/Cabernet Sauvignon.

The wine was, well, dangerously drinkable. I'm consistently happy with each Township7 bottle I drink. My predilection is for full reds and this winery does not disappoint. There was a party in my glass, and I was invited.

The wine smelled like fall hikes I'd take in the forests back in Ontario. It was a ritual that my mom and I had: each fall we would find the first day that showed an edge to the air - the kind of day with bright sunlight and red-tipped noses - and we would go to a local conservation area to walk the trails, collect leaves and talk about anything.

By the time my glass was half finished I was immersed in one of those hikes. I felt warm, close to the earth and the crisp air. The wine captured a feeling of being outdoors on a fall afternoon, skin slightly warmed by the last intense rays of a waning sun. I could close my eyes and hear the leaves crunch under my feet.

My glass drained far too quickly. Like I said - dangerously drinkable.

Take a walk with this easy drinker. You'll be amazed where you end up.

~Jeannette

Black Cloud Wine: 2006 Pinot Noir

2009-11-30T19:11:00.001-08:00

OWS started to Twitter about three months ago, maybe a bit more - I can't remember exactly. The whole social networking thing is a bit strange, but it's a place to have conversation, to explore language, so I'm all over it. Well, as all over it as I can be without a mobile communication device. Yes, I still update everything through the tired, old laptop. No cell phone for me.

Through this world of Twitter I have discovered a cornucopia of exciting things in and around the Okanagan. Somehow, a whole other world opened up - like pulling on the thread in your sweater and realizing just how long it is...and what it's connected to.

One Twitter-er (should I call them Twits? I'm still not sure) I met is a winemaker at a Naramata winery called Township7. Me and the OWS hubby have enjoyed their wines in the past, and in the present. I found a 2005 Cabernet Sauvignon particularly delicious about two weeks ago as I was in the midst of writing a ridiculous amount of prose.

This fellow, who goes by the Twitter handle @bradinator (aka Bradley Cooper), decided to start up his own label outside of Township7. I was immediately intrigued. A new winery? Let me at it.

After a few false starts I managed to get myself to Township7 Mr. Cooper's new wine - Black Cloud Wine - is made under license. I was fortunate enough this past weekend to swing by the winery, snag a couple of Township7 bottles and some of bottles of the BCloud - as well as meet the notorious Mr. Cooper himself.

The inaugural vintage is a 2006 Pinot Noir. As you may note from my previous post, I'm not a wine writer, wine critic, nor am I schooled in any form of wine review. Which, I think, is just fine and dandy. I can't speak to the complexity of this wine, or the balance - or any other structural component. Instead, I can speak to what it speaks to in me.

The wine is a delicious looking garnet colour as it pours into the glass, like a liquid jewel. I let it sit on the counter for about 30 minutes as I did some dishes - like a good friend, it sat with me in the kitchen as I cleaned up.

I took a sniff and immediately thought of fruit stands in July. The kind of fruit stand where the fruit is achingly ripe, spilling over the edges of those little green boxes and waiting to stain your jeans. If you haven't had that experience, find it. My own memory dug up images of boating on long weekends as a kid in Ontario, through the Trent-Severn waterways. We would always take a huge bag of cherries on the boat (when in season), and this smelled like that bag of cherries after they had sat in the warmth of the sun. Mmmm.

By the time I took a sip of the Pinot Noir I was already on the dock under the summer sun, remembering the feeling of jumping off the end of the dock and into the cool water of the lake. Sometimes I still had a handful of cherries as I surfaced. There's nothing like that feeling.

It's that kind of wine. Sure, it's the last day of November and reaching temperatures below zero at night. And I haven't been barefoot for an entire day since late September - okay, maybe early October, but that was pushing it. But delving into this liquid jewel is like taking that long summer weekend and extending it by a day, or two. The stolen days that always feel so much better than the planned ones.

Grab yourself a bottle of Black Cloud Pinot Noir, and join the maiden voyage. Let me know what your memories are; the ones you make with the wine, and the ones the wine makes with you.

Cheers.

~Jeannette

to combined passions: writing and wine-ing

2009-11-30T19:07:00.000-08:00

This past month I have spent a lot of time on two things: writing and drinking wine. The writing came from entering something called National Novel Writing Month, and the wine drinking occurred as a direct result of the writing. I write, I drink. It’s that simple. So, I figured it was time to combine the two.

I don’t have wine-writer speak; I’ve not taken any courses on how to write about wine, how to drink wine or how to do anything with wine. I’m what you’d call home-grown. Self-taught. Some writers get paid to drink wine and write about it. I drink wine, and no one has to pay me a cent. Well, someone could, but no one does.

Wine is conversational, whether you’re having a conversation about it with a partner, a friend or even your goldfish. Maybe you’re sipping a glass in a chic restaurant, the kind of place where prices aren’t listed on the menu (and hopefully someone else is paying), or you’re swilling a glass as you frantically write into the wee hours of the night (not that I have any experience with that whatsoever).

There are plenty of places to learn about wine: about its structure, balance, complexity and even how to sniff, swirl and sip it. This isn’t one of those places.

I’m here because I tell stories – mine, yours and ours. I think we need to remember that wine is gulp-able, swig-able and mess-around-with-your-friends-able. Wine is drinkable joy, sorrow, commiseration and celebration. We make memories with wine, with friends and with friends drinking wine. We make good stories, too.

My sincere hope is that this will be a place that might help you remember some of that. If not, go drink some wine and make some more stories to tell.

Cheers.

~Jeannette

legacies 2010 - continued

2009-11-24T22:58:00.000-08:00

I can't sleep much lately; there are stories unfolding in my head that may or may not be coherent, but I need to get them down. I'm writing more, sleeping less and consuming a bit more wine. Through this, I'm pretty happy.

The thought of contributing to the Penticton Art Gallery show in January is pressing on my grey matter, forcing the story to the simmer burner once in a while. Tonight is one of those nights.

I've hastily drafted prose part II of my submission. Here it is, in the raw.

~ Jeannette

Promise (very bad working title)

Promises, platforms and ponies
the display detracts from content
and we sway so easily

A river of bodies rush in
and slowly trickle out of the
tidal pools, each day

Sitting, standing, riding behind
glass, steel and plastic but not
able to see the real show

Empty, hungry and cold
could describe us on both
sides of the glass

We have a place for
everything, but nothing
is in its' place.

legacies 2010

2009-11-15T16:59:00.000-08:00

Legacy. An interesting word in many ways - a word with incredible weight and many layers, bringing different things to different people, depending on their perspective.

The Penticton Art Gallery will be hosting a show in January around the legacy of the 2010 Olympics on the province of British Columbia. True to form, artists are invited to participate in whatever medium they choose and capture a voice of what legacy will live beyond the days of games. I have been invited to participate and I have humbly accepted. I'm a bit nervous now, to be honest. An art exhibition? My writing? My preconceptions are getting in my own way.

My own legacy should come to mind in times like this, but it doesn't, really. Perhaps the concept of my own legacy is actually in me on a regular basis, so tied up in my concern for capturing my true voice that I can't tease it apart. Somehow, though, it doesn't seem appropriate to be thinking of my legacy. But, then again, maybe it's something we should all be thinking - even as we grocery shop. Active participation in our own lives.

This is the very, very first draft of a work I'm considering using in my wee contribution to this show. It's the first of two pieces of prose that I hope to use in two mediums: print and audio. The technicalities of the audio might be a bit beyond my reach, but I'm going to try.

For your consideration...

~Jeannette

______________________________

(untitled)

I see myself reflected in the differences
Between us, in the small spaces which
Crowd the edges of the frame

Unspoken dreams, unrealized fortune
Or fame; these are not the reasons
You wake each day at six

A still, white surface greets you
In harmony with visiting thoughts
Stealing into your head, briefly

These borrowed minutes are few
And far from where you wanted
To be and where you are

But you are now
Precisely where
You need to be

speak your voice

2009-11-10T15:16:00.000-08:00

Making presentations, despite the amount of preparation, can be nerve wracking. I admit that sometimes I zone out a little in the interaction part - you know, the moment at the end of a presentation when we as presenters are supposed to be listening to our audience for questions and clarification. That part.

In the heat of the moment, I sometimes lose it a wee bit. I can concentrate so hard on the moment that I don't provide enough directionto my brain to store the information in anything resembling the original. Yes, I recall the flavour of the questions - and sometimes even the flavour of my responses - but I often don't have the mental agility to recall specifics. After spending that much time focusing on presenting to the audience in a way that they will be receptive, it can be difficult to switch gears and become the sponge.

The last post here was about a presentation I did for the BC Standing Committee on Finance in response to a request for consultation on the 2010 budget for our province. I spent a lot of time thinking about my audience, hunching their interests and crafting language that I thought would resonate a bit - while getting my main points across in my own voice. It's a challenge.

Now that a few weeks have passed, I realize that I don't entirely recall (with much clarity) the questions posed to me at the end of my presentation - or how I answered them. Sure, I remember the flavour of each question and how my emotions were triggered. But the analytical side of things seemed to shut down.

Fortunately, our taxpayer dollars have been hard at work these past few weeks. The transcript of the session in Kelowna (where I participated) can be found here. Skim down, not too far, and you'll find me. I was the first presenter. Yep. Do I need to mention the challenges that come with presenting first?

There were some good questions asked, and I think I responded with fair answers. But, don't let me tell you about it - go ahead and find out for yourself. I know you couldn't all be there with me, so here's your little glimpse into that fateful day. And yes, this is a draft transcript - as was stamped all over the internet version. Please keep that in mind.

~ Jeannette

[DRAFT TRANSCRIPT ONLY]
Questions from anyone?

M. Mungall: Thanks very much, Jeanette. You state that health care, education, economic stability and arts and culture aren't exclusive — that, in fact, they're often very interconnected. There's plenty of research that shows, for instance, how art therapy can benefit people who have been marginalized in our society or children with FASD and so on.

Recognizing that and recognizing that one of the reasons we have the deficit that we do is actually because of declining revenue due to tax cuts for corporations, would you rather see the province of British Columbia retain that revenue source — the taxes from corporations — than, for instance, this year giving oil and gas a $120 million cut to their royalties? Would you rather see us retain that revenue and make sure that things like health, education and the arts are funded?

J. Montgomery: That is a very difficult question for me to answer without any additional information on my part. I am a small voice who represents one of a million small voices.

I do believe that our elected officials and our government have the information in front of them to make informed decisions. I don't know if that's an informed decision that I can particularly speak to. I would speak from my heart rather than my mind, and I would like to have both present to be able to make that kind of decision right now.

I would like to see continued support on an equitable scale to as many places as possible. I do know that's very difficult. I really don't have enough information to be able to answer that. I'm sorry.

D. Donaldson (Deputy Chair): Hi, Jeanette. Thanks for the very eloquent presentation. You bring up lots of big ideas, and it's nice to have the zooming out and the zooming in.

As far as one aspect you touched on, on your second page, about often being asked to choose between supporting one thing or the other — arts or businesses…. You talk about this being an adversarial approach in what, in fact, is a multiple-bottom-line economic model. Can you just comment on that or expand on that thought a little bit more?

J. Montgomery: I think there's a lot more progression towards thinking of a multiple-bottom-line model. It is not just asking people to choose between supporting one area or the other. It's like asking to choose between industry or theatre. I like to think that we have made more progress in addressing ethical and sustainable decisions financially without just saying: "What is our net gain at the end of the day?"

I think that's becoming a little more prevalent in financial management, and I'd like to think that it's becoming a little more prevalent in our provincial government's financial management as well. I include it there to ask people to remember that there is more than just one vision or version of wealth.

J. Rustad: Jeanette, thank you very much for the passion you brought with your presentation. It's never easy to come and present, but obviously, in your heart, your belief in the arts and support of the arts…. It's great to see that come through.

I myself have spent a great deal of time in and around the arts. I know the value, the importance of that to community and to the overall health within a community. I just want to make one comment and ask a question around the same thing that Doug just asked about — the choices between industry or arts, those sorts of things.

I actually look at it more as that we have some very difficult challenges around budgets in health and budgets in education. Revenue source, of course, is one question. But I do also believe there's a balance.

The question I have for you is: what is the revenue that the organizations that you've been involved with are getting from government, and their sources — gaming grants or other types of grants?

J. Montgomery: One I know of was through gaming grants.

I'm not as well versed or have the information in front of me to be able to address it. I would be happy to carry on the conversation and find out more information after this and get back to you.

J. Rustad: If you could e-mail us the details on that and where those funding sources are, it gives us a chance to be able to look and be a little more focused.

J. Montgomery: Certainly.

[DRAFT TRANSCRIPT ONLY]

speak out

2009-10-15T19:51:00.001-07:00

A few weeks ago, a friend sent me a notice that our legislative assembly was sending the finance committee out and about in the province to get the pulse of the people, and hear what's important to British Columbians. It's under the guise of getting input on priorities for the next BC budget (2010). I suspect it's a bit along the lines of the illusion of transparency, but I am an optimistic realist, so I took the bait.

After looking into the website for the finance committee and what was happening around the province, I decided to apply to speak to the committee and get my voice heard. When else would I get the opportunity to speak to 11 MLAs in one sitting? When else would I get to speak to any MLA about the budget?

It was an interesting experience, and I'm digesting it as I type (and the excellent dinner we had after at Local Lounge in Summerland, too).

For anyone interested in how I chose to put voice to my concerns, below is a copy of the address I made today, at 4:05pm, in the Kelowna Best Western. I was the first of about a dozen speakers, and we left after my presentation - not to disrespect other presenters, but we were hungry.

It might be the government, but it's our voice. Remember to be heard.

______________________________________________

I would like to thank the Committee for providing me with the opportunity to share my views through these consultations. I and many others believe it’s important that our communities engage in dialogue with our elected government around the planning of British Columbia’s future.

I wish to speak about the significant reduction in funding to the areas of Arts & Culture in British Columbia, and I ask the Committee and our government to be mindful of the impact their coming decisions will have on our province. You play a significant role in the guardianship of our investment in self and story, and that warrants some care.

I have watched over the past few years as a small art gallery in Penticton has brought new and exciting things to the area. Along with celebrated artists of significant notoriety, the gallery provides space for middle and secondary school students works. Summer sessions are available to inspire young minds, and the limited staff challenges themselves to deliver more and increasingly unique ideas to the people in and around Penticton.

While fund raising and annual auctions bring much needed revenue to this small organization, the gallery relies on financial support from our provincial government to remain active members in the community.

Our Penticton Art Gallery is one of dozens or more who have seen significant cuts in financial support from government - support needed for them to be a contributing voice to British Columbia's arts and culture.

We owe it to ourselves and generations after us to invest in Arts & Culture. We are what we create, inspire and envision. We are what we are encouraged to be curious of, and what we leave behind for others to be curious about.

Through the Arts there are ways in which we can responsibly leave an imprint of ourselves behind; ways that we can pass on the telling of our collective hopes, dreams and lives for future peoples. We can tell the stories of our journeys and of this moment in time, tell tales which celebrate the creativity of the human mind and those which record our spectacular disasters.

As the caretakers of the now, we can share with future peoples the joy of our collaborations and the sorrow we feel for our flaws. This is storytelling – and story sharing – and it’s the backbone of our Arts communities. Right now, it’s floundering.

Through the development and support of our creative endeavours we preserve and educate future generations about who we were, and of what we could have been. If the world and our people are ailing, our Arts & Culture communities are the instruments of measure for our collective temperature. It is the information which we use to be effective guardians of our human spirit.

Federal, provincial and local governments often ask us to choose between supporting businesses or the Arts. This adversarial approach, to what in reality is a multiple-bottom-line economic model, erodes our very foundation. By asking us to support one or the other – as opposed to one and the other – we as a people are put in jeopardy of losing an entire generation, or more, of a vision of history.

People in the communities of British Columbia are voicing distress and fear over this decline in support in the areas of Arts & Culture.

This address is not a complaint. It is a plea to that part of each of us in which lies the smallest of embers to kindle, and the strongest of fires to feed.

I respectfully ask the committee to reflect on the level of support provided to the areas of Arts & Culture in the 2010 budget. We risk losing our valuable contribution to the larger arts and culture arena, which might never be regained, if we aren’t effective caretakers of the voices of our people.

I ask that the Committee kindly consider the following requests on behalf of our communities when the Committee and our government are planning this next budget.

Nurture emerging talent

The emerging voice is a tenuous one. Re-evaluation of existing support mechanisms is a key part in removing barriers for emerging talent to succeed. Review existing and past financial support structures. Support the development of new resource pools, and include stakeholders to participate in the construction of alternatives.

Sustain established arts institutions

Traditional fundraising efforts are often not enough to acquire, keep and share our collections. Collaborate with our organizations in developing appropriate budgets based on current, innovative best practices. Invest in scalable infrastructure to adequately support the growth and development our communities need to acquire, maintain and showcase our history and future.

Engage community in dialogue

Our communities are where we sing our songs, paint our canvasses and perform our works of art. They are the places which hold our culture. We do not ask our political leaders to own the success of our resolutions; instead, we ask them to engage our communities so we can together perform to our best expectations.

Remain accessible

Removing barriers – financial, physical or other – for communities to participate in arts and culture is vital to the health and growth of a community. The arts inspire, motivate and engage at every level, and our collections should remain available to all – regardless of where one is in life.

Be mindful of what we have obliged ourselves to

We have a collective responsibility to ensure the success of our arts. Should we commit to an endeavour, we must hold to our task. It is our responsibility to be mindful of what we have promised of ourselves and of our government.

Empower our people to be the stewards of our own stories

Ask us to be, and remain, engaged. Provide us with the support we need – when we ask – to do the work we need to do which will ensure our creative visions will come to exist beyond ourselves. Charge our people with the stewardship of our own voices; then support our efforts to do so.

The 2010 Budget Consultation Paper addresses the British Columbia “competitive edge”, our need for “sound fiscal management”, the emphasis for “creating jobs”, a need to continue “protecting vital services” and the goal of “building on the foundation”.

Yes, there are numerous priorities for financial support and government spending. There always are, and there always will be as long as we remain a country and a province that holds strong belief in delivering social services.

Health care, education, economic sustainability and arts & culture support aren’t mutually exclusive endeavours. Wise investors wouldn’t ask their investment specialist to select one or two areas alone to invest in – no, the wise investor acknowledges the diversity of the market, and that the success of one investment often relies on the development of another.

We can educate and train ourselves and our future generations to develop, research, construct and cure. But we also need to be encouraged and supported to dream, create and express.

We need our government to be strong and provide for every area of our province’s development. I ask that this Committee and this government recognize our arts & culture’s contribution to the economic growth of the province by making it a priority.

Wealth has more than one measure.

Thank you.

~ Jeannette

(c) Okanagan Writing Services

if a leaf falls

2009-10-06T13:01:00.000-07:00

I love the smell of falling leaves. Yes, they actually have a distinct smell to them, and if you pay close attention on a sunny fall afternoon you will likely notice this. It's not the pre-rot of foliage as it lays on the ground, but that does give us a good backdrop on the scented stage. This smell is a clean, yet dusty aroma that seems to kick our instincts into low gear for the upcoming cooler season.

This past weekend I had the opportunity to visit some of our Okanagan communities, and even stretched the road trip as far as the West Kootenay area to include Revelstoke, Nakusp & Kaslo. The drive took us through some spectacular mountain roads and across small ferries, into communities preparing for a winter sleep away from the busy season of the tourist.

Through it all was the undeniable scent of falling leaves. The smell made part of me want to heat up big cauldrons of stew and settle in a comfy chair. Another part of me had childhood memories triggered by that unusual and unique scent. These back country roads, empty except for the occasional deer looking for a snack, brought out the memory of our annual fall family ritual.

Some kids remember fall as the time of sports sign up, soccer games and the fitting of last season's snow suits. I remember fall as the time of outdoor weekend adventures in the wilderness with my family, miles from nowhere, deep in the forests of Ontario. That heated stew made an appearance, too.

September for me brought text books, the dreaded school bus, and wood. Lots and lots of wood. We heated our home with a wood burning, air-tight stove, and to make it through a winter we needed anywhere between 5 and 8 cord of wood. What's a cord? Well, think two wilderness trees of average height, cut down into little four foot lengths. Now think that five to eight times over. That's a lot of wood.

Each September, our family would start the weekend outings to whatever area on Crown land (land owned by the province) that we had obtained a permit to fell (cut down) and buck up (cut into manageable lengths) our own trees. This was an all weekend event, over many weekends, starting early Saturday morning and ending late Sunday evening. And it was so much fun - for us kids, anyway.

Early in the day, mist laying low among small openings in the woods along the roadside, and we were already hard at it. By eight in the morning there was usually one or more trees felled across the road at our designated work site, and my dad would work quickly to clear a car lane while my sister and I stood a distance away for traffic control. If there even was any traffic. Usually not.

This pattern continued from September and into October - sometimes even to November, with the lightest of snowfalls. We were in the bush, the back country, each weekend, and we were happy. Big trees became road blocks, which eventually became a chair or a table for our impromptu lunch. Mom would get a fire going to heat a big pot of stew - sometimes chicken, but usually venison - which we would eat with mittens and gloved fingers, breath pluming out around our faces while we laughed about one almost accident or another.

The days were shorter and cooler, but we didn't mind. All around us was bright sunlight and the smell of falling leaves. To this day, the smells and sights of fall can quickly take me back to those days spent in and around the back roads of Ontario. It's an easy and welcome journey.

Grab a pumpkin, take a walk, drive along your favourite stretch of road. Whatever your favourite fall stories are, don't forget to make new ones to tell next year.

~ Jeannette

photo essay: where I am

2009-09-18T15:26:00.001-07:00

(Before I get started, this is a warning: grab a cup, glass, mug or stein of something. This is going to be a long one. Yes, there will be visual breaks – photos! – but it’s a bit wordier today. Be warned.)

Knowing who your friends are is important. In the last while I’ve also learned that knowing where your friends are is also important. Please allow me to explain.

In 2007, when darling husband Ian and I made the move to the Okanagan from our life in the Lower Mainland, I had one year remaining to complete of an undergraduate degree at Simon Fraser University. Determined to finish, I planned on commuting between the sun drenched benches of Oliver and the rain soaked streets of Vancouver. Every two weeks. For almost a year.

I was fortunate in many ways. The cohort to which I belonged was incredibly supportive. The faculty at SFU helped facilitate information sharing when I was snow bound in January. Ian didn’t complain too loudly about my leaving him behind every other weekend on my journeys to the coast. The trusty Suzuki held its’ own against the mountain range in icy/snowy/wildlife-crossing-the-road-frequently conditions.

We planned for everything and more. Accommodation (thanks to my cohort friends I always had a comfy bed – even if it belonged to one of their kids), transportation, food & beverage (what happens at wine nights stays at wine nights), and even entertainment. But there’s always one thing that gets missed, even in the best laid plans.

In this case we forgot to plan for what life would be like without me there; the time spent with my friends outside of scheduled classes. No easy gatherings after work during the week for me. No quick stops at someone’s work to grab a book or borrow a paper. I was sequestered in my Okanagan life, and my friends saw me pop in and out of their lives without knowing where I was spending my non-class time. One friend – Darlene – said she couldn’t see me in our new place: she had no visual of what my life was when I wasn’t around, and she didn’t know where I was. Literally.

It’s been two years since our relocation, and many of our friends haven’t made the journey to our new home. Life, work and other distractions interfere with plans of having our friends connect with us in the Montgomery back yard over a glass (or two) of wine.

A request was made of me well over a year ago, and it was a rather simple one: take pictures. I’ve taken lots of pictures over the past two years, and while they reflect our new environment, it’s not a ‘day in the life’ window like that through which we can often see our closest (geographic) friends.

So, this is for you, Darlene. And for all those who have heard me describe my morning walk to work. It’s one day, and only part of one season. But I think it speaks volumes about where I am.

__________________________________________

Ode for Darlene (and other far off friends)

The day begins with sun, rain or cloud
but I always manage to take one
last and long look at the small part of
this world that is ours.

Everything and anything can happen once
my feet leave the gravel of our drive;
today, though, the goal is to walk
and walk toward the light.

I begin at the top of all things, or so
it may seem, and my feet take
me across asphalt and past dogs and
cats until my eyes see an opening.

The valley opens before me and I know that
I am one of many people at the start of a
day, and this day means many things
all at the same time.

The sun hits my side as I turn to the south,
walking along the bench for just a moment
but long enough to see the remains of the
work of my neighbours.

This valley, our valley stretches from south
to north; it snakes through fields and plants
and lives and brick, offering little shelter from
whatever the wind brings with it.

What we think lay behind us really only
depends on our perspective; today
the alley is my companion as we both
are warmed by the late September sun.

Behind the grey stone and concrete of our
forgotten bureaucracy is a life that trumpets
through the summer, sharing a bright tune
as it prepares for a winter of rest.

The early morning light hides many things of
the coming day: barren hills are tricked into softening
their stance, and fields green with irrigation are
humbled into the background.

The valley, our valley brings life to places far
away; work goes unnoticed in the corners,
empty crates awaiting their fruit cargo are seen
by a few who travel narrow roads.

The low structure interrupts a vision of hay field
and vineyard, orchard and desolation; it offers
nothing but what the people inside bring
to it each day.

After shutting the door to the hills, rocks and green
of our valley, I walk to a desk that beckons, drains
and provides - and open the blinds to welcome
the same sun that blankets everything
outside these walls.

_______________________________________

Thanks for reading, to all my friends far and near. OWS is wherever our friends are, wherever my heart is and has been. And it will likely always be this way.

~ Jeannette

keeping us here

2009-09-14T19:55:00.000-07:00

I spent the morning listening to CBC Radio, as is usual. Well, I was working - but I was also tuned in to hear Jian interview one of my favourite writers. Douglas Coupland. His unique writing style is engaging, slightly sarcastic and assumes a level of knowledge in his audience. I love it.

Douglas was talking about his new book, "Generation A". I must admit that I haven't done any investigation into his latest work, and that disturbed me a bit. I mean, I'm a writer - or aspiring to be one - and I'm not even keeping my finger on the pulse of the writing community that I am desperate to be part of. Well, not desperate. Anxious might be a better descriptor. Regardless, I have left the helm of my search vessel and am floating randomly at sea.

I need direction. I crave direction.

I also need space, time and the freedom to wander. One of the most difficult hurdles in this path of following one's voice is just that: I can't seem to allow myself the unknown amount of time, space or freedom to explore. The corporate culture that I flirt with to pay the trappings of my existence has curtailed the devil-may-care attitude; instead, it's encouraging this deadline-oriented psycopathy.

Oh no. Where do I go from here?

Well, I blog here. And I tweet on Twitter. I've also just written a draft of a manifesto which addresses the debilitating reduction of funding to the B.C. Arts & Culture community.

And I wait.

I wait for the voice to push out from inside, demanding to be acknowledged and ignoring all of the milestones, markers or dates I have previously circled in the calendar of my mind. Touchstones of progress. Status updates and project reports. Works-in-progress summaries.

Sometimes, I start by writing a sentence about listening to my favourite author on CBC Radio and I watch where it leads me.

I'll plant the seeds now for future blogs. Thinking about why I started this and what I intended to do with it. Tell the story of OWS; not just how I got here, but also how I live here. Being here is just as vital as getting here. Maybe it's more important, because it's right now.

The stories of OWS weave in and out, take you back in time with me to my youth and development (okay, maybe not the gangly parts). We lurch forward to the now, bring you into the garage with my sweetie as I hear him argue with the door panel of a 1964 Buick. Maybe we'll project into the future, but hopefully not too much.

Here is the now: I have submitted two draft works of writing to my friend Jim who was looking for the legalese of his website to be made 'fun'; a manifesto sits brewing on the hard drive, waiting for introduction at a local writer's group I'm to attend on Thursday; I'm anxious about bowling tomorrow night for the first time in ages; and, Ian is still arguing with the Buick.

Douglas Coupland, expressing today the concern that he would become the narrator in the heads of his audience, is indeed milling around inside my head. He's got company with the critic that's been working on editing my manifesto. Hopefully Douglas can reason with the critic, and maybe keep her quiet for a while. I'd love another narrator for a few days.

To the things that keep us here, just as much as the ones that get us here. Cheers.

~ Jeannette

send to me a postcard, from anywhere...

2009-09-07T16:59:00.000-07:00

Ah, Buffalo Tom. One of our favourite artists here at OWS. For those who haven't heard of BT, they're tight. I mean tight. One of those bands who sound like they have played together forever and ever. Full sound, crazy/wonderful lyrics and all over the map with their music.

But I digress.

The title of this blog is courtesy of a Buffalo Tom song called, conveniently, 'Postcard'. I wanted to pay tribute to the source and ensure I wasn't doing on any sort of bad stealing karma thing. My favourite lines in the song are at the very end:

Too easily you choose
My version of the truth
When all I ask of you
Is send me a postcard when you get there
Send to me a postcard from anywhere...

What, you may ask, does a Buffalo Tom song - which you may or may not even know - have anything to do with OWS?

We have a postcard.

A nifty postcard.

And we designed it all by ourselves. Alright, maybe not entirely by ourselves. There are some that need acknowledgement. Like the site that provides some great templates to help me create a snazzy design (http://www.uprinting.com/). And my friends, who always help me put my best foot forward: Darlene, Patti & Jim. Thanks, stumps.

This first run was limited at 50 cards - the coffers of OWS aren't quite flush yet, so we're keeping things on the super low at present. And this is the first proof which is not quite the final product; it's the version before our last minute adjustments to layout and font. But it gives our faithful OWS followers an idea of what the final product looks like.

Now to find the local businesses who will be the lucky recipients of the coveted first OWS postcard campaign. Time to drum up some business to fill up those coffers.

Please, send me a postcard. From anywhere. We love hearing from you!

~ Jeannette

arts, culture & a manifesto

2009-09-03T07:20:00.000-07:00

We stretch ourselves in unusual ways when something speaks to our heart, our values and our moral compass. A response isn't optional: we simply must engage, or wither.

I know I am not alone in my sentiments on the funding crisis for arts & culture in British Columbia. Chronic underfunding, lack of communication between vastly differing audiences and competing financial priorities have left our social backbone significantly weakened. Too often we hear the divisive word 'or' rather than the inclusive word 'and' in provincial and federal budgets.

This is not a political forum for any organized party. Our arts and culture transcend traditional political party lines, bring people together from a variety of backgrounds and should be a springboard for creative dialogue. Challenging our perceptions, our assumptions and stimulating our intellect, our British Columbia artists and culture contributors push us to new frontiers and engage us on levels we ourselves often don't fully understand.

I've mentioned it before, and there is another one in the works, but I have now found another voice that desires an outlet. It's that beautiful, often misunderstood and very underutilized medium. The Manifesto.

Watch for online publication of the OWS Arts & Culture Manifesto, likely under some swanky - hopefully marketable - title.

Now, off to see to the writing of that Manifesto...

~ Jeannette

letting go

2009-08-27T11:17:00.000-07:00

Sometimes we simply need to let go of our wants, send them fluttering out to the great powers that be and let something else make the decision for us. At least, that's what I tell myself when things aren't going according to my anticipated plan - regardless of how loose that plan is.

A woman I recently met had been pining for a dog, but her and her family couldn't find the right fit for their family. After putting so much effort into finding the right dog, the woman eventually decided to put her want out to the universe. It answered.

She found a lost dog in a local park and located the owners. They met one evening in her home and enjoyed good conversation over a glass of wine. By the end of the evening, Archie the dog was adopted to his new home and the original owners bid Archie a fond farewell.

Maybe, in order to find the right fit for us, we sometimes need to allow something else to oversee the whole thing. We are often too close to our own wants to be able to fully assess the situation.

I have also been pining for a dog, and after hearing the story of Archie I decided to let go of that want and leave it up to whatever lives in, outside and around our universe. It was difficult, but I sent the thoughts out and let them fly beyond the scope of my vision.

The next day, while selecting my next ripe cucumber out of the garden, I was disturbed by something outside of the fence. When I looked in the direction of the noise, two light brown eyes stared back at me. There she was: a beautiful golden coloured dog.

Yes, we were found by a lovely little girl dog. Yes, she spent some time at our home and landed with a big thump right on top of our hearts. And yes, she had parents of her own.

No, she didn't stay with us. Our found dog had a touching reunion with her mom in our driveway on a warm Monday evening, and then she left us. She left us with a few gifts: hope that there is the right dog fit for our lives when we're ready, an increased awareness of things greater than ourselves and a knowledge that the universe is listening.

OWS is learning, growing and letting go. All that is meant to come our way will, but not before it's meant to happen.

~ Jeannette

setting the bar

2009-08-07T13:51:00.000-07:00

The Diary of Anne Frank was one of the first books that hit me hard. I might have been in grade six when I read and wrote about the famous diary; I honestly can't remember exactly, but I'm sure my mom can. I do remember that I won some sort of award for writing a book report, and to this day the teacher who presented it to me - and whom my mom still sees occasionally - talks about how wonderful my book report was.

How's that for setting a bar pretty high - the need to constantly feel you are living up to some faded memory of writing a remarkable book report on one of the most moving stories ever told? And we know with memories, the tricky thing is that the good ones become great, and the not-so-good ones become horribly bad.

This book report may have escalated to some unrealistic representation of itself in the memory of a seventy-year-old woman who clearly recalls handing a trophy to a nervous young girl on stage, but who doesn't recall what she had for lunch the day before. In my mind, said book report is now a holy grail, a mysterious beacon that continually calls to me. Funny that I don't even remember what I wrote.

Now each of you knows what haunts me: a book report from ages and ages ago. Phew. I feel so much better.

Every one of us has that bar, visible (awards, trophies or other mementos) or invisible (the intangible memories of those who witnessed some of our shinier moments). What matters about these bars is that we hold them for what they are: moments in time.

These bars aren't measuring sticks, place holders along a series of anticipated events, or even contenders for a highlights reel. No, each of these bars - and some of us have many - are simply moments in time when we had something click with someone. We hope to have many of them, because we hope to have something click with many people.

The best thing we can do with these bars is to remember them for what they are, bring them out occasionally for a visit, then put them back in their place and forge ahead.

Okanagan Writing Services has been forging ahead - we're now on Twitter and are Tweeting almost daily about a variety of subjects; we've got a fan page on Facebook; we're slowly working through some assignments from our 'strategic partner' (love that phrase) Mintaka Solutions; and OWS has just sent out our first mailing to local Okanagan wineries to introduce ourselves and our services. To top things off, OWS is developing a postcard campaign to mail out soon - another little marketing stunt to hopefully raise awareness of our services.

That's a lot of work for what is supposed to be summer fun-time. But hey, we're worth it.

But OWS isn't just about work; it's also about play. Summer is a great time to play, especially if one resides in or near the remarkable Okanagan. We've traveled near and far: Maple Ridge, Vancouver, Langley, Spokane and the Shuswap (now affectionately known as the Shu'). We've visited friends, spent time recharging and rejeuvenating, and have met new people along the way.

The best part of the OWS summer is that it's not over quite yet.

Stories are unfolding all around, and we'll be trying to capture them as they land. The bar is high, and I have every confidence that new memories will be happily mingling with the ranks of those ones seated along those on the highest bar.

Thanks to everyone for making the OWS summer so rich and full thus far.

~ Jeannette

campfire nights

2009-07-23T21:46:00.000-07:00

Much of my childhood was filled with stories, noise and music. My parents were pretty big Bluegrass music fans, and that meant summers full of weekend adventures all around Ontario to attend festivals. We camped, played, and stayed up until the wee hours of the night with friends and friends-like-family. I remember falling alseep to the sounds of crackling campfire, upright bass and the harmony of instruments played by those who have spent many hours pickin' together. Stories meandered from song to tall tale, and punctuated the laughter of familiar voices.

I was driving down a lonely road one dark and stormy night
When a little girl by the roadside showed up in my headlights
I stopped and she got in back, and in a shaky tone
She said: My name is Mary, please won't you take me home?

It seems that no matter what story I tell - or what story I hear my parents tell - about those festival camping weekends, one common theme emerges: late nights were spent talking and laughing with good friends. And not just any good friends; these were good friends that my parents would see occasionally, sometimes in the summer at many festivals, but sometimes not for a year at a time. Each time my parents connected with their friends it was like they had seen one another just the night before, regardless of what time had passed.

She must have been so frightened all alone there in the night
There was something strange about her, for her face was deathly white
She sat so pale and quiet in the back seat all alone
I never will forget that night I took Mary home

It seems now that my parents friendships with these people - this wild, crazy, loving bunch of people - was initially based on the common love of a particular kind of music, and then it transformed into a larger and deeper connection. Maybe without the weight of being connected to the surface issues of daily life, these friendships managed to negotiate the deeper waters of the true bonds of friendship more nimbly.

Sure, they chatted about how work was going and whether the garden gave a good yield this year; I distinctly remember a summer when all the talk seemed to focus around tent caterpillars (it was an infestation - something about a cycle every seven years). But the main elements I can pull out of memories stored in a then sleepy nine-year-old's brain are memories of the larger conversations. Not 'save the world' conversations. More like 'shared values' conversations. 'What's wrong with the world' conversations. Nothing radical, just an open acknowldgement of the fact that this group of people wanted to live life in a particular way that might have been different from that of the larger group around them.

I pulled into the driveway where she told me to go
Got out to help her from the car and opened up the door
But I just could not believe my eyes 'cause the back seat was bare
I looked all around the car but Mary wasn't there

I believe we seek out, subconsiously and unintentially, the people who are like-minded. Many people I speak to have at least one good friend that they describe to me "...oh yeah, whenever I see him/her, it doesn't matter if it's been a week or a year; we always seem to fall back into it. It's comfortable." Those are the friendships that my parents had then, and those are the friendships I value the most.

We spend less and less time on the things we love, and more time on the things that distract us from the things (and people) we love. That's not front-page story material: anyone who is engaged on some level with technology knows this. Computers and the internet make it handy to keep in touch, but they also allow one extra level of distance that didn't exist on those campfire nights in Ontario provincial parks that I remember. Somehow, these 'lighter', less weighed down friendships are still here, despite the ease of not connecting in person.

A light shone from the porch, someone opened up the door
I asked about the little girl that I was looking for
Then a lady gently smiled and brushed a tear away
She said: It sure was nice of you to go out of your way

It was a storm of random events that brought my parents bluegrass group together: some were from Nova Scotia and remembered one another, some didn't yet they hung out anyway; others met through work in and around Toronto; a few wandered toward the campfire glow like moths. After the first few summers of bluegrass-ing, word spread among the like minded peoples and they all came together. Folks got married, cheated or were cheated on, got divorced and remarried. Others had kids, split up and got back together again. Still others stayed together through the whole crazy show of it all; through kids, drink, bankruptcy and times good or bad.

I can't recall exactly when the bluegrass weekends started, but in June of this year my parents attended the 26th annual Tottenham Bluegrass Festival. I remember being at the first one, so that says something. The Dixie Flyers have been around almost as long as me. There are two amazing things about the Tottenham festival: one is that my parents still go and meet those pickin' friends - and the other is that my sister has continued to go (after a bit of a break), now camping with her husband and their two children. My nephew is determined to learn how to play guitar, too. He strums right along with my dad - his Papa.

But thirteen years ago today in a wreck just down the road
Our darling Mary lost her life, and we miss her so
Thank you for your trouble and the kindness you have shown
You're the thirteenth one who's been here, bringing Mary home

The memory of this story was prompted by a weekend this summer of noise, stories and music. A good friend - who I haven't seen in over two years - came to Penticton with his band to play at a skateboard & graffiti art exhibition at the Penticton Art Gallery. The music that his band plays is certainly not bluegrass, but that's not the focus of this connection. He's a dear friend, and we stayed up until the wee hours of the night - talking. And talking. About, well, you name it - we likely talked about it.

I'm thinking about my own search for like-minded people, and the inspiration that those people bring to me to be the person I'm supposed to be. The seeds of that search were planted many years ago while I was snug in my sleeping bag, thin walls of the trailer barely muffling the sounds of my dad pickin' on his Gibson while my mom sang as out of tune as the rest of them. Those are the best sounds I know.

~ Jeannette

Lyrics in italics are from an old bluegrass tune called 'Bringing Mary Home', which was - and still is - one of my favourite bluegrass songs. I sang this song with my dad the summer after I got married. He played guitar, and we were sitting around a campfire one night at a wedding camp-in celebration that my parents held for my husband and I. With us were many of those pickin' friends - and their motorhomes were circled around the fire like wagons. Protecting, nurturing, and welcoming.

The holder of string

2009-07-06T15:14:00.000-07:00

Each of us will often have a number of active families in our lives: the family we were born to, family we sought when first we stepped into the vast open space of life as an ‘adult’, maybe even collecting a family that holds shared values but whom we connect with rarely.

Regardless of how we define family or which family we refer to here, there is often one person in each of these families who loosely holds the strings of connection – and is the glue of each of our families.

That glue – or string-holder – is the person who remembers each story, or enough of each story, to get us started talking. Sometimes it’s the person who is the recurring character in many stories, holding the larger collective family story bound tightly. My shared DNA family – the one I grew up with – had one of those people to keep the strings together: my mother.

“Didn’t you tell him about the time your bathing suit got caught on the top of that waterslide? Well, we were at this marina…”

“But, of course, there was the summer we had to start the car with a screwdriver after your father lost the keys at…”

“I always knew you would write something – didn’t I say that when you got that award that time in sixth grade for your book report on…”

Encouraging, incredible, and at times perhaps a bit embarrassing – my mother knows a little bit (if not more) of every story in our family. To this day I ask her, during our regular bi-weekly telephone calls, to recount details of some trial or tribulation I/we/she/us encountered as part of our family.

I think that perhaps talking to my mother was my first experience with using some form of a heuristic, before I knew what it even was. School projects, those beloved book reports, and on to what and who Okanagan Writing Services really is – my mother has continually been asking questions, gently pushing me along whatever path is in front of me, and regularly helping me define my voice.

My stories wouldn’t ever become my writing without my mother’s memory illuminating the dim corners of my frayed recollections.

Occasionally I feel the combination of inspiration (whatever that is), motivation and courage enough to attempt a bit of poetry. Most of my scribblings are lumped into the general category of 'prose' until otherwise assigned, but this time it's something special. After all, it is my mom.

Thanks, mom. I look at my hands and see you, in so many ways – what a remarkable gift.

Sounds of sleep

Mesmerizing sounds of
musicians playing, voices soaring
the distinct clink of glass
collides in thick air

Someone’s house in this
suburban town, transformed as
the sun falls to sleep
changing places with the moon

Festive evening wear softly
murmurs appreciation of curved hips;
occasional caresses by loving
hands as couples dance

Upstairs, children dream among coats
of Sunday’s best; a tangle of
arms and legs and feet on beds
not their own, but familiar

Close my eyes and hear/feel
the sound/pulse of my
mother: talking, laughing, singing
my head argues with sleep

Small fingers clasp tightly onto
loving healing guiding hands
I lean against her chest and finally
fall
through
everything
fall into
sounds of sleep

~ Jeannette

Growth & renewal

2009-06-29T20:53:00.000-07:00

This week I pass and celebrate a teeny tiny milestone in what I hope will be a long path: Okanagan Writing Services has been 'open for business' on the Internet for one month. Along with the website is the evolution of this blog, telling a bit of the OWS story and celebrating those who have helped bring about this voice.

Another milestone is celebrated this week: that of the birth of our country. Writers, poets, and storytellers of all kinds have pontificated and presumed what it is to be Canadian. I'm not about to attempt a definition in this small space - it is woefully not suited for such an undertaking. However, I have some gut feelings about why it's important for us to say who we aren't as opposed to who we are.

Someone once said that the last new thing had been invented, and despite all of our most valiant efforts we would not see a genuinely new idea again. Isn't that just like most of these little stories? Often beginning with 'someone once said...', and carrying on with a plausible yet slightly negative statement. How very limiting - the thought that your best imagined things aren't really yours. To that, I say a resounding boo.

Maybe it's a combination of events: brilliant thinkers and imaginative people creating and then inspiring others to be imaginative and creative. No beginning, no end - simply one large surge of growth and renewal. That image is truly Canadian.

I believe we are our best good intentions, and more. As Canadians, I believe we struggle and celebrate together - at times with only the common bond of one thing Canadian as the string that holds a fragile connection between us. I believe we are a tapestry woven with a multitude of fibers, not representing any one thing but coming together as a unique lacing and layering of different stories. Interpretive art with many right answers to the question: 'what do you think this picture represents'.

My parents are from Nova Scotia - one of Acadian hertiage, the other a descendant of Dutch and German ancestry. I married a man who's father immigrated as a child from Dublin, Ireland. My closest friends are first generation Chinese-Canadian, grandchildren (or great-grandchildren) of Maritime land owners, daughters of traditional south Asian families and sons adopted by Americans who also immigrated to Canada.

We are not the blending of many fragments; instead, we are the magician's scarf, pulled slowly from a sleeve, individual bits of fabric joined by finely woven thread.

I have spent the last month preparing to tell a story, but not really telling it. The feeling is like that of standing on the bank of a river: the current is running deep beneath the surface, barely noticable, but you know it's there. I've been trying to determine a launch site to join the movement without disrupting the flow of events. Where to start this part of the ongoing story.

When I'm stuck for a starting point, I often think of my mother for inspiration. So, I guess that's where we will start next time: my mom.

Until then, please celebrate the Canadian-ness in you - wherever you are.

~ Jeannette

Kitchen stories

2009-06-19T08:43:00.000-07:00

We are continuously telling stories: to our friends, around the lunch table at work, to children in the hopes of getting them to sleep. Before we become adults and have had our storytelling somewhat stunted by what is perceived as fact, as children we see the world through story. One story of my childhood is about the need to tell stories despite ideal conditions.

We lived in many different houses as I was growing up, but I distinctly remember the heating system of one of them. Well, the term 'heating system' is a loose one: scrap the mental image of a monstrous furnace buried in the basement that may be brewing in your head and replace that image with this one - that of a black, iron stove. It lived smack in the middle of the main floor of our home. We lived in an older two storey home, complete with wavy and worn linoleum on the kitchen floor; it had seen many feet before ours.

The main floor was primarily taken up by this kitchen, and I remember it as being the hub of all activity. It was large, and every room on the first floor opened up to it as if acknowledging its place of importance. The living room and play room were tucked off to one side, their combined square footage not powerful enough to knock the kitchen off centre stage. Hulking in the kitchen, spotlight seemingly drawing everyone's attention to it, was the one item which kept our home cosy through the cold Ontario winters - an old cast iron airtight stove.

For those of you who haven't had the pleasure of feeling the warmth emitted from one of these beasts, let me attempt a description: close your eyes and find yourself on the other side of a pane of glass on a sunny day in spring - you know, those days when one can start to feel the intensity of the sun after months of abandonment. It could be March, April or even May - but the feeling is distinct. A deep warmth from the sun penetrates our chilled outer layer, and the heat seems targeted to our core. That is the feeling of the warmth from one of these old iron stoves.

Above the stove was a large hole that allowed for air flow to the upper floor. The hole was covered with an iron grate, intricately designed and ornately carved for a humble farm style house. Covered by decades of paint, the iron surface was incredibly smooth; curls of metal became flowers and vines as my small fingers traced along the surface of the grate in an effort to determine how long I could keep finger to metal without a break.

The grate served two purposes, in actual fact: yes, it allowed for warm air to rise and circulate into the bedrooms and bath overhead, but it also allowed for a young girl sequestered in her room to communicate with her sister below. I was occasionally sent to my room for some wrongdoing - I'm sure it was a set up, but I was never once given a chance to prove my innocence.

During these times when I was sent to my room to 'think about what I had done', I spent the time writing notes to my sister who was somewhere downstairs. Our method of communication was to write a note as small as possible, attach it to a piece of thread, and lower it through the grate when the other walked below.

I remember hunching on the floor of our shared bedroom, scribbling thoughts in small handwriting, tying the string and lowering note after note to my sister. We were partners in our defiance, telling stories to one another that had been told dozens of times.

There is something about writing those notes that I miss.

I haven't thought about this story in quite some time, nor have I told it in ages - if at all. In fact, I can't recall telling this story to anyone.

This is only one of many kitchens stories from my childhood - from my family. The kitchen attracted us like moths to a bulb on a dark night: I didn't understand why, but we just needed to be there. It's likely because my family has a history of kitchen dwelling; Acadian families had large kitchens, usually holding the main heat source for the home which on cold winter nights would draw the family close. I guess that is one reason why I like my kitchen to be inviting, warm, and comfortable - and why I tend to end up in the kitchen with my friends when we entertain. It's a good place to be, and a great place to tell and share stories.

Now, the smell of an Acadian kitchen is another story entirely.

~ Jeannette

Stories old and new

2009-06-04T08:41:00.000-07:00

We have stories about many things: about our past, what could have happened but didn't, or maybe a tall tale or two that seems to change and morph with each storytelling. One common theme that we as people share is the story, and the fact that we each have many stories that affect how we approach our new beginnings. Perhaps new beginnings aren't quite new, but are really next chapters in a very large book.

At each junction of our lives, before each decision we make, and behind the preparation of every new step taken is the culmination of years - perhaps generations - of stories. We are in a growing anthology; a book of stories with no beginning, middle or end.

The art of storytelling is something that has not quite been lost, but of late it certainly hasn't held centre court very often. There may be a connection between this gentle drift from storytelling and our struggles as communities - personal and professional - to communicate.

In this case, my story was inherited from a set of parents born and raised on the East coast of Canada. Steeped in folklore and held together by a fiercely strong sense of family, eastern Canadian Maritimers - particularly Acadians, as in my case - are brimming with stories. Our story of Okanagan Writing Services, and how we came to this point, is intrinsically linked to many stories of Acadia.

Listening to Acadian stories as a child was a gift, but also a challenge: colourful and extravagant in texture and content, but sometimes difficult to follow. It might be where I caught my first glimpse into the intricacies of our language. Acadian French is a loose mix - a bit of French, some English, and some words which are entirely and uniquely Acadian. This blend of language is both easy and difficult simultaneously. Acadian stories are a little like a hearty stew, the individual flavours might be difficult to pinpoint but the overall flavour comes through.

And so, a new chapter in this storytelling continues. As promised, you heard it here first.

Okanagan Writing Services is live, launched, and open for business. Please stop in for a visit.

So many thoughts and emotions are flitting through and around me today. One feeling that trumps most others, and the one that I continue to return to, is certainty. Not certainty of 'success', product offering, or future - but certainty of voice. It's been a long time coming that I have felt a degree of certainty in my own voice for storytelling of any kind. Yes, the other thoughts and feelings of uncertainty are still there; likely they always will be with me in some concentration.

For now, I am certain that I have a strong voice to share in the telling of this story, and in the stories of others. With any luck, OWS will allow me to share the stories of others - and lead me into the rest of my own story.

Meanwhile, I invite you to celebrate this pivotal moment with me - many of you have been part of the stories that brought me here, and many more will be part of the stories that grow from here. Thank you for the stories, old and new.

~ Jeannette

Announcing: new business venture!

2009-05-27T13:42:00.000-07:00

Family, friends & colleagues,

I believe we surround ourselves with people who bring gifts to our lives and who press us to be the person we know we truly are. We bring these people into our lives - or stumble over - and we go about the process of living, dreaming and hoping with them.

These are the people who we spend most of our 'quality' time with, away from an office or the din of everyday. Across dinner tables littered with the remnants of a good meal, we sit back and chat; we rest when in the comfort and familiarity of those we love and trust. Maybe it's a sunny afternoon and we have found solace in the shade of a tree, or perhaps a train ride with good friends - regardless how the time emerges, the people we spend it with are the people who we are safe to dream and hope with.

There is a difference between a friend and a good friend. Friends provide that safe and comfortable place from which to dream and hope; good friends push us to realize those dreams and hopes once the table has been cleared or the train ride is over. I have friends, but I also have good friends.

It's a result of these good friends - and the ongoing, unwavering support of my beloved husband - that I am pushed into the realization of some of my hopes and dreams. Pushed, pulled, and at times dragged...after many train rides, evenings across tables wrought with the destruction of fine food, and through the murky glass of many empty wine bottles. Cabernet Sauvignon can be a particularly inspiring tool in the right hands.

I am pleased, nervous, excited, anxious (and many other adjectives) to announce the formation of a new business. The intentions of this weblog are to chronicle my journey as a new business, capture the story as it unfolds, and pay tribute to the many people who help me find my voice. I suppose it's a bit of a brag book; perhaps not completely professional or appropriate for a business website, but terrifically relevant to my spirit.

Very, very soon I will be launching a website for my new business, and it will be posted here first. With Okanagan Writing Services, I hope to offer a bridge to cross communication gaps, an ethical voice in professional writing, and an opportunity to explore the use of language.

And, it's ours.

I can't say it's completely mine, because this business is the result of brilliant collaboration over the past several years. Many of my good friends should see a little bit of themselves in my voice, and I hope this weblog will help pay adequate tribute to that collaboration.

Upon the launch of Okanagan Writing Services, I aim to bring the spirit of my good friends to this weblog, thanking each of them for their contribution to my voice. It will be a reflection of how my good friends have pushed, pulled or dragged me into the adventure; like giving others a peek into my treasure chest.

Please, I invite you to watch for the website launch - and some of the stories behind how it came to be.

~ Jeannette