After next week, when I'll be in Fredericton (New Brunswick, obvs), I'll be spending a lot of time in the Northern Peninsula. I just spoke with a woman from Conche, where I'll stay for the first week. It was our second conversation; the first ended with me uncertain about whether she understood that I wanted to stay in her basement apartment. She's L, for lady.
Me: I called you before about staying in your apartment?
L: Oh, yes, I knows.
Me: Great - do you have a room for June 6?
L: Oh yeah. You want to rent for the mon?
Me: [what is a mon?] Oh, no, just the week, I don't need it for the month.
L: Okay. I t'ink yer young and all, so I t'ought you'd like it for the mon. It's cheaper.
Me: That's okay, I'll just be there for a week.
L: You gots a dog, right?
Me: yeah, he's a nice one.
L: I'd like to take him fer walks.
Me: Great, yes, that would be excellent.
L: OH! Deyre's an iceberg out da window.
Me: That's wonderful! It must be beautiful!
L: No. We t'inks dey're ugly. You would t'ink dey're beautiful, 'cause you've not seen 'em.
Me: Yeah, only in pictures. I think they're beautiful, though.
L: Well, bring yer camera.
Me: What's your address?
L: [laughs] They's no address.
Me: So I just show up and ask for where L lives?
L: Yeah, dat's what you do. It's a small town. You'll like it. Quiet [pronounced "quite"] and peaceful.
So that's where I'll be, Conche.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Friday, May 13, 2011
The Story of Marvin, Part II
Marvin continued walking away from the ship, across the spongy, green ground. So many smells! Such colors! His tail wagged so vigorously that his whole body moved back and forth as he ran from smell to smell, taking the world in through his nose. He reached fast-flowing water and stopped in wonder. It was endless! He drank from it until he thought he would burst, then lay down for a while next to it, his face in a pile of rotting vegetation.
After some time, he realized how hungry he was. What would he do without the people and the cat-queens? He started to feel lonely, and sat gazing at the water for some time. Finally, he saw a quick movement out of the corner of his vision: a rat! When he turned and looked, though, he saw that it had a huge tail, and it was so fat that it could hardly run.
He sprinted after it, catching it just before it tried to leap up a tree. Overjoyed, Marvin shook his head in glee, and the squirrel died in an instant. Marvin dropped its lifeless body at his feet. Then he ate it.
He continued walking through the light-dark-light of the towering trees. He looked up and wondered at their height, and the birds in their boughs. He didn't know what they were, but he knew that they would taste as sweet as they sang. He felt that nothing could go wrong in this magical place of slow, fat food and quick-running water.
Then he heard a sound more frightening than any in his life. He could only think that a terrible creature was making the sound: a roaring, tearing sound that increased in volume, until the creature appeared, like a shiny demon. Marvin cowered in the bushes, as the creature sped away, on some unthinkable task of doom. Then another came! And another! Sometimes they traveled in packs, of twos and threes.
He stepped out into the sunshine, onto the road, and another one came and let out a shriek. HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK! And Marvin dashed to the other side of the road; but not before seeing that the creature was carrying other creatures - people! He knew people, and he knew these people were angry with him. He slunk into the bushes, feeling ashamed.
Marvin continued walking through the woods, but with less hope than before. This place also had people, who probably would banish him to the walls. But if there were people, there were cat-queens, and maybe (maybe) there were even other dogs! He almost didn't dare to hope, he hadn't seen any of his kind in so long.
He came to a field, full of giant four-leggers with pendulous tails. He ran under a sharp fence and over to a four-legger, and barked a greeting. The horse just gazed down at him, until he understood that the horse didn't want to speak with him. He kept moving along, tasting some of the delicious and warm horsefood, until he reached a house. He heard yelling. People!
Two little people, children, came running out of the house, chasing each other. Marvin became excited and ran after them, but the girl child turned and yelled at him. He backed away, unsure of what to do, and then a woman came out of the house, and he let out a sharp bark, his fur standing in a mohawk on his back. She wielded a long stick and looked scared of him, which made him even more scared. He barked with all his might, and she hit him across the shoulders, and he ran, as fast as he could, across the field and past the horses and then along the fence until he was far away from those people.
Marvin reached a cluster of houses, more magnificent than anything he had ever seen. On the ship, the ship was the whole world. Here, the people lived in houses better than any ship, and he could smell that they were full of food and people and probably dogs and... and... he turned a corner and it was a cat-queen! His heart leapt and he chased her, until she disappeared under a house.
He was busily digging the dirt to get to the cat queen when he was roughly pulled back. He tried to get away, but then he felt a loop around his neck, and he was thrown into a creature, a car, all metal and cold surfaces. Other dogs were in there, and though he was first happy to see dogs, they were barking so loudly he couldn't talk to them, and he could smell that they were scared. He barked with them, but nobody could hear him over the din, so he eventually just lay down, and put his head on his paws.
He was taken to a place like a ship, but where the floors were concrete and he stood in the sun all day. The walls were wire and he could see the bright world just beyond them, but he couldn't escape. At night, he went to sleep in a giant room with all the other dogs, most of whom were mean and stupid. They made fun of his small head and they barked threats to him, and when the food was thrown into the room they got it all and Marvin had to watch the big dogs eat all the food.
One day, a white, fuzzy dog approached slowly and sat near Marvin. He leaned over, you're new here.
Marvin was so surprised - it was the first dog who'd spoken to him. Yes, he said, my ship landed near here not too long ago.
The dog didn't reply to that, but said, you need to make friends with the people who come here. Just as fast as you can, make friends with them.
Marvin agreed, because the dog seemed to know what he was talking about. The dog continued, the people come and take the dogs and they're nice to them. But if you don't get taken, then the lady in the white coat comes. And when she comes, a lot of dogs don't make it.
What do you mean? asked Marvin.
But then the other dog got excited. Look, it's people!
Marvin watched as a group of people came to the wall-fence. He sat quietly, trying to be friendly. But it was hard when they were far away. He couldn't smell them, or beg from them, so he sat still. Like a good dog. It's what his mother told him to do. Be quiet and still.
The people moved on, picking a dog from the next cell. Marvin strained to see them over the concrete wall dividing the cells. He jumped up, again and again, to watch the people choose a dog, and take the dog, and leave with the dog. Marvin knew that he had to get people to take him, or he wouldn't last long.
Day after day, the people came and looked, and Marvin stood in the sun. He got skinnier and skinnier because he couldn't get to the food fast enough, and he felt sick all the time. He could hardly sleep because his bones hurt, and one day a lady in a white coat came, and he didn't see the friendly white dog after that. But he could hardly think about it, because he was so hungry.
One day, a person came and stood in front of his cell. Marvin sat quietly. The other dogs barked, or scratched themselves, or just wandered around. Marvin watched the person. A lady. She was big and scary, and he couldn't see her eyes because she had on a hat and sunglasses. She pointed at him and he started to lay down, afraid to follow her. But the world outside must be better than here!
He straightened up as the human-keeper put a leash on him, and he trotted, as best he could, out to the lady. She put a collar on him, to mark him, and then a leash. She gave him a tasty piece of crunchy meat. He followed her to her car, and climbed in. He decided to never leave this lady, and to follow her everywhere she went. As she drove down the road, he put his head out the window, sniffing as hard as he could.
The smells were overwhelming and they were hard to understand. But he thought that he had found home.
After some time, he realized how hungry he was. What would he do without the people and the cat-queens? He started to feel lonely, and sat gazing at the water for some time. Finally, he saw a quick movement out of the corner of his vision: a rat! When he turned and looked, though, he saw that it had a huge tail, and it was so fat that it could hardly run.
He sprinted after it, catching it just before it tried to leap up a tree. Overjoyed, Marvin shook his head in glee, and the squirrel died in an instant. Marvin dropped its lifeless body at his feet. Then he ate it.
He continued walking through the light-dark-light of the towering trees. He looked up and wondered at their height, and the birds in their boughs. He didn't know what they were, but he knew that they would taste as sweet as they sang. He felt that nothing could go wrong in this magical place of slow, fat food and quick-running water.
Then he heard a sound more frightening than any in his life. He could only think that a terrible creature was making the sound: a roaring, tearing sound that increased in volume, until the creature appeared, like a shiny demon. Marvin cowered in the bushes, as the creature sped away, on some unthinkable task of doom. Then another came! And another! Sometimes they traveled in packs, of twos and threes.
He stepped out into the sunshine, onto the road, and another one came and let out a shriek. HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK! And Marvin dashed to the other side of the road; but not before seeing that the creature was carrying other creatures - people! He knew people, and he knew these people were angry with him. He slunk into the bushes, feeling ashamed.
Marvin continued walking through the woods, but with less hope than before. This place also had people, who probably would banish him to the walls. But if there were people, there were cat-queens, and maybe (maybe) there were even other dogs! He almost didn't dare to hope, he hadn't seen any of his kind in so long.
He came to a field, full of giant four-leggers with pendulous tails. He ran under a sharp fence and over to a four-legger, and barked a greeting. The horse just gazed down at him, until he understood that the horse didn't want to speak with him. He kept moving along, tasting some of the delicious and warm horsefood, until he reached a house. He heard yelling. People!
Two little people, children, came running out of the house, chasing each other. Marvin became excited and ran after them, but the girl child turned and yelled at him. He backed away, unsure of what to do, and then a woman came out of the house, and he let out a sharp bark, his fur standing in a mohawk on his back. She wielded a long stick and looked scared of him, which made him even more scared. He barked with all his might, and she hit him across the shoulders, and he ran, as fast as he could, across the field and past the horses and then along the fence until he was far away from those people.
Marvin reached a cluster of houses, more magnificent than anything he had ever seen. On the ship, the ship was the whole world. Here, the people lived in houses better than any ship, and he could smell that they were full of food and people and probably dogs and... and... he turned a corner and it was a cat-queen! His heart leapt and he chased her, until she disappeared under a house.
He was busily digging the dirt to get to the cat queen when he was roughly pulled back. He tried to get away, but then he felt a loop around his neck, and he was thrown into a creature, a car, all metal and cold surfaces. Other dogs were in there, and though he was first happy to see dogs, they were barking so loudly he couldn't talk to them, and he could smell that they were scared. He barked with them, but nobody could hear him over the din, so he eventually just lay down, and put his head on his paws.
He was taken to a place like a ship, but where the floors were concrete and he stood in the sun all day. The walls were wire and he could see the bright world just beyond them, but he couldn't escape. At night, he went to sleep in a giant room with all the other dogs, most of whom were mean and stupid. They made fun of his small head and they barked threats to him, and when the food was thrown into the room they got it all and Marvin had to watch the big dogs eat all the food.
One day, a white, fuzzy dog approached slowly and sat near Marvin. He leaned over, you're new here.
Marvin was so surprised - it was the first dog who'd spoken to him. Yes, he said, my ship landed near here not too long ago.
The dog didn't reply to that, but said, you need to make friends with the people who come here. Just as fast as you can, make friends with them.
Marvin agreed, because the dog seemed to know what he was talking about. The dog continued, the people come and take the dogs and they're nice to them. But if you don't get taken, then the lady in the white coat comes. And when she comes, a lot of dogs don't make it.
What do you mean? asked Marvin.
But then the other dog got excited. Look, it's people!
Marvin watched as a group of people came to the wall-fence. He sat quietly, trying to be friendly. But it was hard when they were far away. He couldn't smell them, or beg from them, so he sat still. Like a good dog. It's what his mother told him to do. Be quiet and still.
The people moved on, picking a dog from the next cell. Marvin strained to see them over the concrete wall dividing the cells. He jumped up, again and again, to watch the people choose a dog, and take the dog, and leave with the dog. Marvin knew that he had to get people to take him, or he wouldn't last long.
Day after day, the people came and looked, and Marvin stood in the sun. He got skinnier and skinnier because he couldn't get to the food fast enough, and he felt sick all the time. He could hardly sleep because his bones hurt, and one day a lady in a white coat came, and he didn't see the friendly white dog after that. But he could hardly think about it, because he was so hungry.
One day, a person came and stood in front of his cell. Marvin sat quietly. The other dogs barked, or scratched themselves, or just wandered around. Marvin watched the person. A lady. She was big and scary, and he couldn't see her eyes because she had on a hat and sunglasses. She pointed at him and he started to lay down, afraid to follow her. But the world outside must be better than here!
He straightened up as the human-keeper put a leash on him, and he trotted, as best he could, out to the lady. She put a collar on him, to mark him, and then a leash. She gave him a tasty piece of crunchy meat. He followed her to her car, and climbed in. He decided to never leave this lady, and to follow her everywhere she went. As she drove down the road, he put his head out the window, sniffing as hard as he could.
The smells were overwhelming and they were hard to understand. But he thought that he had found home.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Unintended consequences
Spring has been creeping upon Newfoundland, though during my walk home today snowflakes were falling. The snow has melted into small heaps of gravel which was kicked up from the roads. It lends everything a strikingly gray, lumpy look, making me wonder how it all gets clean again.
I went to a presentation this evening about snow geese overpopulation and effects on salt marshes. It was connected, of course, to everything else in the world, as ecology (and sociology) tends to be. The rise in snow geese populations is a line that fits nicely onto the rising line for nitrogen used on corn fields in the midwest, and the subsequent productivity of those corn fields. I just had a final for my students, and one of the questions was about the Green Revolution - a time from the 1970s (through today) that we intensified crop production through various inputs, genetic modification, and monoculture plantations, leading to all sorts of unexpected results. This was certainly what Max Weber meant when he said that the modern virtues of efficiency and predictability lead to unintended consequences. The problem, of course, is that humans do not learn, or cannot learn as fast as they can do, and so we are constantly analyzing our own mistakes while making new ones.
I've been playing a lot of Settlers lately, between my usual walks and (now) walking up stairs that never go anywhere at the gym. Hockey season has ended, and I am sad. I think I made about 10 games, each time an improvement on the ice. By the end, I was able to stop confidently on one side and hesitantly on the other; I could receive and make passes; and I could skate backwards pretty fast. I'm inordinately proud of myself. Now I'm watching the Stanley Cup, which I have learned is a series of games and not just the championship. I am rooting for the Boston Bruins because I like their uniforms and they look like lurking, grizzled comic book heroes. Everyone else around here seems to be for the Montreal Canadiens, who are shorter and pluckier.
I continue to wear my winter hat (toque) nearly everyday, often indoors. My reflection has a bouncing ball on top of my head, making me look like an exotic creature.
This weekend M and I are headed to Twillingate to hopefully see icebergs and definitely see quaint Newfoundlandia. I went to a conference last week about rural revitalization and then I was talking with a friend who told me that Newfoundlanders might not want revitalization, they just want to keep living as they have. And I thought that was a nice idea, but you can't stand still in a moving current. So they cut wood and make lovely jams and shoot moose, but their kids leave and they scratch their heads at it. Several speakers at the conference said that kids these days are only interested in their ipods, but I wondered at the type of kids who would go into industries that are, clearly and implacably, dying. There aren't a lot of options for the kids to stay, and so they leave. They're trained to leave. It's an unintended consequence of mechanization, sure, of globalization and neoliberalism and a complacency in the pursuit of cheap. Weber said that we create iron cages - that our cultural rules are wound around us until we cannot move. I think he meant that we cannot make choices within the systems we've created, that what started as meaning becomes suffocating, ritualistic. We oversee the slow death of something that we thought we cared about, but that we don't know how to save.
I can't claim to really care about Newfoundlandia. I might just like the idea of it. And do I care if it disappears? I don't know. I suppose I would care about the loss of the funny accents, and the storytelling. I'm just an advocate for diversity, and yet I work against it. I've taught English, the great homogenizer in the world; I'm here to watch the Newfoundlanders as an ethnographer, taking notes on their decline. I'm here to analyze the mistakes of the past while making new ones as quickly as I can.
I went to a presentation this evening about snow geese overpopulation and effects on salt marshes. It was connected, of course, to everything else in the world, as ecology (and sociology) tends to be. The rise in snow geese populations is a line that fits nicely onto the rising line for nitrogen used on corn fields in the midwest, and the subsequent productivity of those corn fields. I just had a final for my students, and one of the questions was about the Green Revolution - a time from the 1970s (through today) that we intensified crop production through various inputs, genetic modification, and monoculture plantations, leading to all sorts of unexpected results. This was certainly what Max Weber meant when he said that the modern virtues of efficiency and predictability lead to unintended consequences. The problem, of course, is that humans do not learn, or cannot learn as fast as they can do, and so we are constantly analyzing our own mistakes while making new ones.
I've been playing a lot of Settlers lately, between my usual walks and (now) walking up stairs that never go anywhere at the gym. Hockey season has ended, and I am sad. I think I made about 10 games, each time an improvement on the ice. By the end, I was able to stop confidently on one side and hesitantly on the other; I could receive and make passes; and I could skate backwards pretty fast. I'm inordinately proud of myself. Now I'm watching the Stanley Cup, which I have learned is a series of games and not just the championship. I am rooting for the Boston Bruins because I like their uniforms and they look like lurking, grizzled comic book heroes. Everyone else around here seems to be for the Montreal Canadiens, who are shorter and pluckier.
I continue to wear my winter hat (toque) nearly everyday, often indoors. My reflection has a bouncing ball on top of my head, making me look like an exotic creature.
This weekend M and I are headed to Twillingate to hopefully see icebergs and definitely see quaint Newfoundlandia. I went to a conference last week about rural revitalization and then I was talking with a friend who told me that Newfoundlanders might not want revitalization, they just want to keep living as they have. And I thought that was a nice idea, but you can't stand still in a moving current. So they cut wood and make lovely jams and shoot moose, but their kids leave and they scratch their heads at it. Several speakers at the conference said that kids these days are only interested in their ipods, but I wondered at the type of kids who would go into industries that are, clearly and implacably, dying. There aren't a lot of options for the kids to stay, and so they leave. They're trained to leave. It's an unintended consequence of mechanization, sure, of globalization and neoliberalism and a complacency in the pursuit of cheap. Weber said that we create iron cages - that our cultural rules are wound around us until we cannot move. I think he meant that we cannot make choices within the systems we've created, that what started as meaning becomes suffocating, ritualistic. We oversee the slow death of something that we thought we cared about, but that we don't know how to save.
I can't claim to really care about Newfoundlandia. I might just like the idea of it. And do I care if it disappears? I don't know. I suppose I would care about the loss of the funny accents, and the storytelling. I'm just an advocate for diversity, and yet I work against it. I've taught English, the great homogenizer in the world; I'm here to watch the Newfoundlanders as an ethnographer, taking notes on their decline. I'm here to analyze the mistakes of the past while making new ones as quickly as I can.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
The tunnels of Newfoundland
I continue to walk to work almost every day, but my walk has changed with the season. As the snow started to fall, I would sink in up to my knees on the trails and I thought that I would have to switch to walking on sidewalks.
Not a chance! The sidewalks soon disappeared, not only because of the falling snow but because of the snow that was plowed off the roads, creating wedged hills sloping up from the sides of every street. Impossible to walk.
I continued on my paths, then: around the baseball field, by the park, behind the school. All of them have their challenges, but none are as frightening as walking down the street, looking over your shoulder for the slipping, sliding, unsteady cars driven by the blind.
As the snow built up over days and weeks, I fell into a pattern. The tunnels got higher, and the paths changed with the snowfall, growing longer and hillier and presenting new challenges with each storm. My most arduous path connects a park to the university; you must trudge up and over a hill of ice that loses its footholds with every snowfall. The school itself has taken to piling snow right against another path that takes me to my building, resulting in a three-foot drop that is impervious to my attempts to create steps.
There are several of us who take these paths. We see each other, sometimes. Mostly, we know that the others are there because of their footprints. I even know several others' names.
Yesterday, while walking through the park with Marvin, I saw a huge brown creature out of the corner of my eye. Turning, there was a moose not 15 feet away. I walked quickly to Marvin, who hadn't yet noticed the moose (because I think he's nearsighted), and put him on the leash. Then we stood on a bridge and watched the moose cross a creek, then amble awkwardly up a hill toward the school. Many reports bounced around the emails that day about the moose, but I felt that Marvin and I had a special bond with him.
Now, the tunnels have started to recede. The paths are growing flatter and the houses are reappearing. You can see around corners while driving, and people seem to be awakening from their deep winter sleeps and sometimes even stopping at the crosswalks for beleaguered pedestrians. Snow and ice are falling from roofs in great whoomps, breaking windows and smashing fences.
It is hard to believe that the paths will soon just be regular paths, walkable like anything, without rolling, shifting forms. Drip drip drip...
Not a chance! The sidewalks soon disappeared, not only because of the falling snow but because of the snow that was plowed off the roads, creating wedged hills sloping up from the sides of every street. Impossible to walk.
I continued on my paths, then: around the baseball field, by the park, behind the school. All of them have their challenges, but none are as frightening as walking down the street, looking over your shoulder for the slipping, sliding, unsteady cars driven by the blind.
As the snow built up over days and weeks, I fell into a pattern. The tunnels got higher, and the paths changed with the snowfall, growing longer and hillier and presenting new challenges with each storm. My most arduous path connects a park to the university; you must trudge up and over a hill of ice that loses its footholds with every snowfall. The school itself has taken to piling snow right against another path that takes me to my building, resulting in a three-foot drop that is impervious to my attempts to create steps.
There are several of us who take these paths. We see each other, sometimes. Mostly, we know that the others are there because of their footprints. I even know several others' names.
Yesterday, while walking through the park with Marvin, I saw a huge brown creature out of the corner of my eye. Turning, there was a moose not 15 feet away. I walked quickly to Marvin, who hadn't yet noticed the moose (because I think he's nearsighted), and put him on the leash. Then we stood on a bridge and watched the moose cross a creek, then amble awkwardly up a hill toward the school. Many reports bounced around the emails that day about the moose, but I felt that Marvin and I had a special bond with him.
Now, the tunnels have started to recede. The paths are growing flatter and the houses are reappearing. You can see around corners while driving, and people seem to be awakening from their deep winter sleeps and sometimes even stopping at the crosswalks for beleaguered pedestrians. Snow and ice are falling from roofs in great whoomps, breaking windows and smashing fences.
It is hard to believe that the paths will soon just be regular paths, walkable like anything, without rolling, shifting forms. Drip drip drip...
Sunday, January 16, 2011
The blessings of scarcity
The shelves in the grocery stores around town are suspiciously low on things like food. Oh sure, you can still get a bazillion variants of the potato chip, including the Canadian-specific Roast Chicken and All Dressed types, but at last check, there was no spinach, no lettuce, and only the saddest, floppiest species of broccoli.
Like many things about isolated places, this scarcity can be a blessing. In Korea, the quest for cheese took me to small back roads of Pusan and Seoul, paying mint for a block of non-processed cheddar. These adventures loom large in my imagination, informing my view of the hermit kingdom.
Corner Brook is another hermit kingdom. In this corner of the corner of Canada, the narrowing of options makes decisions simple. The single movie theater shows only two films at a time, one invariably a rom com starring Hugh Grant. Without the benefit of choice, evenings of board games have taken over my social schedule.
Speaking of changing options, I have begun my hockey era. On Friday night, I headed to the small hockey rink that resembled the indoor soccer fields of my Corvallis days. I followed my colleague Mario down the little hallway, carrying giant, distended shopping bags full of assorted padding. He headed into a small dressing room full of men, and I hung back until he popped his head back out and said "you're in here too." I headed in, greeting players that I recognized. People were lacing and taping and adjusting their assorted pads; there was one other woman, Crystal, a librarian that I've played lots of boardgames with. One other woman eventually showed up, the Vice President of Grenfell.
The assorted professors and staff walked onto the ice. Some were clearly great hockey players and they warmed up confidently, sprinting across the ice and stopping with a flourish of shaved ice crystals. I walked like a stiff-limbed marionette, until Marc, a friendly English professor, told me that hockey players skate with their legs bent. I hunched over and bent my legs and skated like he told me, my legs shooting to the sides. Then I tried stopping - and just spun in circles, my arms flailing around. This will be a challenge.
In the actual game, I did alright. I'm fast when I get going, but stopping or turning suddenly or using the stick in a more purposeful manner will require some practice. My stick was useful for holding me up as I skated fast, my back bent over, but it was less useful for hitting the puck.
Then yesterday, I went snowshoeing at the ski hill and then ate soup at the Tim Horton's in the little gas station at the bottom of the hill.
Turning shades of Canadian.
Like many things about isolated places, this scarcity can be a blessing. In Korea, the quest for cheese took me to small back roads of Pusan and Seoul, paying mint for a block of non-processed cheddar. These adventures loom large in my imagination, informing my view of the hermit kingdom.
Corner Brook is another hermit kingdom. In this corner of the corner of Canada, the narrowing of options makes decisions simple. The single movie theater shows only two films at a time, one invariably a rom com starring Hugh Grant. Without the benefit of choice, evenings of board games have taken over my social schedule.
Speaking of changing options, I have begun my hockey era. On Friday night, I headed to the small hockey rink that resembled the indoor soccer fields of my Corvallis days. I followed my colleague Mario down the little hallway, carrying giant, distended shopping bags full of assorted padding. He headed into a small dressing room full of men, and I hung back until he popped his head back out and said "you're in here too." I headed in, greeting players that I recognized. People were lacing and taping and adjusting their assorted pads; there was one other woman, Crystal, a librarian that I've played lots of boardgames with. One other woman eventually showed up, the Vice President of Grenfell.
The assorted professors and staff walked onto the ice. Some were clearly great hockey players and they warmed up confidently, sprinting across the ice and stopping with a flourish of shaved ice crystals. I walked like a stiff-limbed marionette, until Marc, a friendly English professor, told me that hockey players skate with their legs bent. I hunched over and bent my legs and skated like he told me, my legs shooting to the sides. Then I tried stopping - and just spun in circles, my arms flailing around. This will be a challenge.
In the actual game, I did alright. I'm fast when I get going, but stopping or turning suddenly or using the stick in a more purposeful manner will require some practice. My stick was useful for holding me up as I skated fast, my back bent over, but it was less useful for hitting the puck.
Then yesterday, I went snowshoeing at the ski hill and then ate soup at the Tim Horton's in the little gas station at the bottom of the hill.
Turning shades of Canadian.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Finding Oregon
The Holiday break is over, and I find myself back in Newfoundland.
Oregon had not changed. Portland was full of hipsters, young (18) and old (45), in eyeliner and tight jeans, smoking cigarettes and working in the service industry. My friend Lisa lived next to Pier Park in St. John's, and we walked amidst the tall trees, down the streets of St. John's. We ate Thai food until we almost burst, and had a few overpriced drinks from surly waiters.
Corvallis was time spent with friends from graduate school, and time spent walking with Em in Willamette Park; watching Pride and Prejudice (BBC version, obvs) with Jess and squealing over Mr. Darcy; playing Settlers; visiting thrift stores and wandering the aisles in search of bright colors and obnoxious prints; eating competitively against Thiel at the China Buffet; and generally marveling at the saturated green-ness and the air that smelled of life.
I drove toward home in a roundabout way, through Vancouver, in order to see my friend. Vancouver is the poorly planned, sprawling, strip mall-congested step-child of beautiful, hip Portland. I had lunch with Ry and oohed over her expanding belly. She told me she's having the baby at home, and we discussed the possibility that birth is not a medical problem over good salsa and cheesy enchiladas.
Driving down the gorge, the fog clung to the basalt and waterfalls were frozen mid-fall along the cliffs. I stopped in Cascade Locks to... um... cut my locks [ugh], and walked into a salon with a chirpy Vietnamese woman who cut my hair while telling me all about her time in the U.S. She gilded no lilies, this one, and told me straight about the difficulties of moving to a country she barely knew, to marry a man she did not know. But she was a wonderful hairdresser and an animated speaker, though her quick words flowed without hard consonants, so that I had to ask her to repeat herself a lot. My hair looked amazing.
I arrived in Hood River, where I played Settlers with my family, ate too much, and woke up every morning very early to go for a run with my dad. "We'll start out slow" he said at the start of every run. He has started every run with those words as long as I can remember. We shuffle off, discussing the various important topics of the day, including but not limited to: geography, history, religion, politics, TV shows, gossip, and scatological humor. I went shopping during the days, sometimes just walking among the shops and other times buying Christmas presents. I found a shirt I liked in a little shop: $200. For a shirt. I didn't buy it. My brother arrived home and we watched the new zombie TV show and all of us ran around the house, getting in each others' ways.
I headed toward the coast, first stopping at my advisor's house for dinner with his family and our small circle of radical devotees. We discussed things related to the College of Forestry, but mostly things unrelated to the College of Forestry, and ate lasagna made with homemade noodles.
NYE was spent with a group of about 17 people at some run-down, quirky little cabins along the coast, and I coined my new phrase: "happy nye!" which received mostly quizzically-raised eyebrows. We discussed meeting up at the beach house in the case of zombie attack, and that zombies in Oregon would be the most sustainable and ethical, keeping humans in free-range pens.
The next morning, I awoke with a mysterious headache and a 4.5 hour drive to The Dalles, where my dad's retirement party was held. I drove there frantically, stopping to shower and arrived at the venue, called Riverenza. I ran up to the door, not noticing that there were no cars. All was locked. Dear gods! No phone, no computer, and everyone expecting to see me! I drove to the nearest pay phone, which was oddly stranded in the middle of a parking lot, and deposited quarters. It didn't work. No dial tone, and the quarters just sat there, out of reach but not dropping. I drove to Safeway and used the phone, leaving messages on my mom's, then my dad's, then my brother's phones. Each one, um, hey guys, uh, I'm not sure I know where the party is, so I guess I'll try calling again. Yeah. Okay.
I realized, however, that there were only a few venues that could host such an event in town. I drove to the Civic Center, and upon seeing my father's car, practically wept with joy. On arriving, I saw an old boss from my cherry orchard days, and acted as though it was perfectly natural I should be flushed and flummoxed upon entering the party. The party was wonderful, full of Kellys and Taylors and friends of my parents.
After the party, some of my family went to a fancy hotel surrounded by magical fairy lights, where we ordered drinks and food. I sat between my dad and my uncle Terry, who reminded me why I have a tendency toward dark humor as they took turns stabbing me in the leg or side with their forks.
Ah, the holidays.
Oregon had not changed. Portland was full of hipsters, young (18) and old (45), in eyeliner and tight jeans, smoking cigarettes and working in the service industry. My friend Lisa lived next to Pier Park in St. John's, and we walked amidst the tall trees, down the streets of St. John's. We ate Thai food until we almost burst, and had a few overpriced drinks from surly waiters.
Corvallis was time spent with friends from graduate school, and time spent walking with Em in Willamette Park; watching Pride and Prejudice (BBC version, obvs) with Jess and squealing over Mr. Darcy; playing Settlers; visiting thrift stores and wandering the aisles in search of bright colors and obnoxious prints; eating competitively against Thiel at the China Buffet; and generally marveling at the saturated green-ness and the air that smelled of life.
I drove toward home in a roundabout way, through Vancouver, in order to see my friend. Vancouver is the poorly planned, sprawling, strip mall-congested step-child of beautiful, hip Portland. I had lunch with Ry and oohed over her expanding belly. She told me she's having the baby at home, and we discussed the possibility that birth is not a medical problem over good salsa and cheesy enchiladas.
Driving down the gorge, the fog clung to the basalt and waterfalls were frozen mid-fall along the cliffs. I stopped in Cascade Locks to... um... cut my locks [ugh], and walked into a salon with a chirpy Vietnamese woman who cut my hair while telling me all about her time in the U.S. She gilded no lilies, this one, and told me straight about the difficulties of moving to a country she barely knew, to marry a man she did not know. But she was a wonderful hairdresser and an animated speaker, though her quick words flowed without hard consonants, so that I had to ask her to repeat herself a lot. My hair looked amazing.
I arrived in Hood River, where I played Settlers with my family, ate too much, and woke up every morning very early to go for a run with my dad. "We'll start out slow" he said at the start of every run. He has started every run with those words as long as I can remember. We shuffle off, discussing the various important topics of the day, including but not limited to: geography, history, religion, politics, TV shows, gossip, and scatological humor. I went shopping during the days, sometimes just walking among the shops and other times buying Christmas presents. I found a shirt I liked in a little shop: $200. For a shirt. I didn't buy it. My brother arrived home and we watched the new zombie TV show and all of us ran around the house, getting in each others' ways.
I headed toward the coast, first stopping at my advisor's house for dinner with his family and our small circle of radical devotees. We discussed things related to the College of Forestry, but mostly things unrelated to the College of Forestry, and ate lasagna made with homemade noodles.
NYE was spent with a group of about 17 people at some run-down, quirky little cabins along the coast, and I coined my new phrase: "happy nye!" which received mostly quizzically-raised eyebrows. We discussed meeting up at the beach house in the case of zombie attack, and that zombies in Oregon would be the most sustainable and ethical, keeping humans in free-range pens.
The next morning, I awoke with a mysterious headache and a 4.5 hour drive to The Dalles, where my dad's retirement party was held. I drove there frantically, stopping to shower and arrived at the venue, called Riverenza. I ran up to the door, not noticing that there were no cars. All was locked. Dear gods! No phone, no computer, and everyone expecting to see me! I drove to the nearest pay phone, which was oddly stranded in the middle of a parking lot, and deposited quarters. It didn't work. No dial tone, and the quarters just sat there, out of reach but not dropping. I drove to Safeway and used the phone, leaving messages on my mom's, then my dad's, then my brother's phones. Each one, um, hey guys, uh, I'm not sure I know where the party is, so I guess I'll try calling again. Yeah. Okay.
I realized, however, that there were only a few venues that could host such an event in town. I drove to the Civic Center, and upon seeing my father's car, practically wept with joy. On arriving, I saw an old boss from my cherry orchard days, and acted as though it was perfectly natural I should be flushed and flummoxed upon entering the party. The party was wonderful, full of Kellys and Taylors and friends of my parents.
After the party, some of my family went to a fancy hotel surrounded by magical fairy lights, where we ordered drinks and food. I sat between my dad and my uncle Terry, who reminded me why I have a tendency toward dark humor as they took turns stabbing me in the leg or side with their forks.
Ah, the holidays.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
My house is a very very very fine house fine house
I have taken photos of my house in Corner Brook.
The weather isn't bad here; I wear dresses still, but sometimes with long underwear. I wear a hat and mittens and usually a pair of boots. But the snow has melted, and the sun is sometimes out, and my walk to and from work is actually lovely.
HELLO!
Mom, I made my bed:
My boy, hanging in the kitchen:
My room:
The weather isn't bad here; I wear dresses still, but sometimes with long underwear. I wear a hat and mittens and usually a pair of boots. But the snow has melted, and the sun is sometimes out, and my walk to and from work is actually lovely.
HELLO!
Mom, I made my bed:
My boy, hanging in the kitchen:
My room:
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