My Granny.

On September 30th, after a long fight with cancer, my Granny - the last of my grandparents - passed away. But I don't want to write about how she died. I want to write about how she lived.

My Granny lived with a zest for life that endeared her to everyone she met. It didn't matter with whom or where, it would take only seconds. We could be at a restaurant about to be served by an obviously cranky waiter then, all of a sudden, my Granny would say something and BOOM! the waiter would go from cranky to doting. Instant endearment.

It was the same with my friends. She was always a hit, even when I was a teenager. Seriously, how many teenaged kids get to hear their friends say "Your Granny is cool"?

My Granny always swore that her outgoing nature was borne from nervousness, not confidence. Watching her, you'd never know.

My Granny was (and always will be) famous for several other things. This is, by no means, an exhaustive list:

• Her Granny chin
• Her curly hair
• Sloppy kisses
• Trying rollerblading for the first time while in her sixties (earning her the nickname "Supergran"
• Her knitting proficiency. She knit us all a new sweater every year for Christmas, which was something that we all looked forward to. Some of her knitted items were modeled on the covers of national magazines!

The many mitts knitted for my sister's wedding.

My Granny and Pop were an inspiration for my own marriage.  During their last visit with us, my Granny mentioned to Fawn that she would have left my Pop on several occasions - if she'd had someplace else to go.  Watching them look lovingly at each other, it would be hard to imagine them ever having a single argument.  All those years later and they were still moon-eyed and dreamy over each other.  That has helped Fawn and me get through some tough times.

Tough times, according to my Granny, were "all character building".

I was in Toronto last week because of my Granny and Pop.  They didn't want a bunch of friends and family crying and feeling sorry at a funeral or memorial service.  Instead we had a "Celebration of Life".

It was very appropriate.  Very appropriate, indeed.

My Granny.

Never grab a Mountie's firearm.

I just had to share this story from Clare's blog, The House and Other Arctic Musings.

It will get better.

Last year, about this time, things were not good. Not good at all.

Jade was having constant seizures and Fawn and I were at the end of our ropes - and near the end of our hopes. We were exhausted, eating poorly, and always on-guard. What hope we had was because of the ketogenic diet. We would soon be taking Jade to Vancouver to get her on the diet.

The night before the Jade's induction, a very pregnant Fawn woke up with intense abdominal pain. It was so bad that I had to call an ambulance, but couldn't follow her to the hospital. I needed to stay with Jade.

Lying awake on that couch, feeling absolutely exhausted but completely unable to sleep, waiting for a call from the hospital, wondering if my wife and unborn child were going to be alright, and wondering if my first child would ever be more than a constantly-seizing, heavily-medicated shell, was the absolute lowest point in my entire life. I wondered how things could possibly get worse, knowing deep in my heart that they could.

But I never gave up. Fawn never gave up. Jade never gave up.

With a lot of work, teamwork, research, determination, winging-it, trial and error, hope, and support from family, friends, and strangers alike, things got better.

In fact, we've come a long, long way since last year.

No, things aren't perfect. Jade's still having small seizures that disrupt her sleep, but we're working on getting rid of those, too. But dietary restrictions and some language delays aside, you'd think that she's just like any other almost-four-year-old. Halia's happy, healthy, and walking. Fawn and I are still married. We're eating better. We're spending more time together. In spite of Halia's best efforts, we're sleeping better. We're happier.  Things are much, much better.

The lesson? No matter how bad it gets (and it can get awfully bad) if you refuse to give up, it will get better. It will get better.

It will get better.

When badder English is gooder than good English.

I'm in Watson Lake where I'm attending a conference. Every good conference has a little break between the sessions and when the evening's activities begin. Right now, it's that time.

The break is just enough time to watch an episode of Knight Rider, but I don't have it here with me. Fawn and I will be watching all of the season one episodes together. It's nice to spend time with my wife, snuggled up on the couch, watching television from the '80s. I wish she was here now - not because I want to watch Knight Rider, of course, but because I love her and miss her.

Thinking about Knight Rider and how I came by my prize reminded me of something I wrote a little while back. You see, originally, I won first place in Megan's "Being David Hasselhoff" contest. First place was 24-hours of where I could post anything I wanted to her blog. If you don't read her blog, you should. It's a shine to the wonderfulness that is good grammar.

I really wanted second place (Season 1 of Knight Rider), so I sent Megan a copy of the following. Obviously, it worked.

Let me apologize in advance if reading it makes your brain hurt.

When badder English is gooder than good English. An Assay.
Its a raiser sharp lion betwixt yer goodness and yer gracious. I was gunnin' fir goodness to get yer number too Beaning David Kalashnikov pries (a lass, I wanted to season one of yer night riders), but ended up with gracious and got there in the first place. It coulda bean wurst, I wreckin', 'cause in steady yer knight riding, I get twenny-fore ours two rights on the snow covered hills.

Norma Lee I wood right on the snow covered hills in shades of yeller, but I dint wanna get my ol' mackytosh apple confuser wet. They don't like it when you use your floppy disk fir ta download inter the ram. Jest like on the farm.

In stud, this righting has bin dun bye pokin' a keyed board with m'digits and up-chucking it all through yer Inter-nuts. Its anime-zing world weir livin' in.

So what does a guy right-a-bout when he has unfluttered axis fir ta rite on a slog that emotes the use of good grammaticality? When I was younger than I am now, I was taught the queen's English - and thats pretty, good English if'n yer a queen. Butt I'm knot a queen and even dough I use her Royal Hiney's English olive the thyme, its knot gonna make me a queen gnome matter how much I try to be won. In stud, I decisive too jest letter loose and cellar-brake the use of the Farq's-own-English.

What's that, yer askin? You donut no what I mean, you says? What, the Farq? The Farq's-own-English?

We oh the Farq's-own-English too Charlie Farquharson. He's not reel, mind you, butt he's quite the character. He's deformed bye actor Don Harron; a man who's talents are hard too miss if'n you bean keepin' yer eyes open ovary ears.

He's a lot more than jest a peachy guy from some Dell Mountie adder-ties-mints. He was a nactor, a come median, and a leery cyst (He wrote the leer Ricks to "Annov Green Garbles the Moosie Call"). Now he's demoting mobility fer yer seniles (Click the lanky and watch yer first eppy-soda). Most impotently to me, dough, he was a nauther - won of those guise what rites yer friction and yer non-friction.

Charlie showed me that you can have yer absolutionly ambrosias grammaticabilities and still be anode worthy author. What's more, you can half only yer base sick reprehension of the English languish and still bee able two commune E. Kate some very impotent points.

Why? Bee cause insertioning malapropriatisms, in yer endos, and other watch-yer-Ma-called-its into yer righting makes people stop and think - and making people think is won of the hardest things we can doo.

But here's more meat fir yer jaw fir ta masturbate on. Charlie's first book of nun-fraction, "Histry of Canada" was about a sub-eject that most of us wood not touch, even in yer Halls of Yearning. Sew was his necks book, "Jogfree of Canada". Lurid bye his righting-style, I red them both from their fronts too there ends. Why? Because Charlie's fresh reproach took an old, dry tropic and made it inner-testing.

Sew, take a paige from good ol' Charlie Farquharson: He didn't care about his pelling or what yer grammerarians wood say. He didn't care where he put his colon or his catastrophes. He jest rote.

And you should right two, even if yer Gramma's kills are lacking. Doo knot lit yer Gramma Queens freightin' you aweigh. If you right and enjoin it, the rest will cum soon enough.

And chick out won of Charlie's books from yer lie berry well yer attic.

Opportunity.

As you may recall, I drove down to Edmonton the other week for a conference. I didn't take a single picture on the way down, driving the entire way stopping only for food, fuel, and sleep. I was well on my way to doing the same for the return trip, but when I caught a feeling of sleepiness creeping in, I knew it was time to stop, stretch my legs, and get some fresh air. That would reinvigorate me. There were animals hiding behind hills and curves all along the road, necessitating frequent braking. I needed to be at my most alert - for their sakes and mine.

Hey! Isn't he that caribou from the quarter? (A question for those of my readers who use/have used Canadian currency.)

A luxurious winter coat.

The timing of my sleepiness couldn't have been better. I was near beautiful Muncho Lake in Northern BC. Every time I drive through this area, I look around and think I want to go hiking there! And there! And there!

Alas, I shall never have the time to do all the hiking I would like to do. Usually, I must resign myself to the fact that I have responsibilities and commitments that come first.

But now the opportunity to go for a hike presented itself so that I had no choice but to go and stretch my legs. It was a safety thing. For me and the animals.

I parked at a road-side pull-out at one of the larger alluvial fans along the lake. How many times have I longingly looked up the seemingly dry creek bed, wanting to explore its upper reaches? How many times have I pursed my lips and driven by, hoping to return another day? I've lost count.


View Larger Map

Opportunity is a funny thing. Conventional wisdom states that opportunity comes only once: You either seize it or miss it. I am learning, though, that when the timing isn't quite right, it pays to be patient and let the occasional opportunity slip away. By doing so, you're giving the opportunity the chance to present itself again when you're really ready (I get the feeling that opportunities don't like rejection). Preparedness is what makes the difference between a good opportunity and a great one.

And here I was, prepared to go for a hike, and therefore presented with a great opportunity. I would finally get to hike up a valley that I have long desired to explore.

An alluring alluvial fan.

The air was cool but the sun was warm. I began trotting across the fan towards the higher ground on the left side of the valley.

Sometimes, it's hard to get a sense of scale in the open places in mountain country. It's hard to gauge how big something is when you don't have a point of reference. Sure, there are trees, but just how big are those trees off in the distance? Having no sense of time contributes to this phenomenon. Knowing how long it takes to get from A to B gives us a sense of scale.

The walking was brisk and it felt like no time at all before I was across the fan, but I really have no idea how long it took. I wasn't wearing a watch and felt no sense of time. It's a wonderful feeling.

Looking back across the fan towards Muncho Lake, trying to get a sense of scale. Can you see my car? (Click to enlarge.)

There it is!

I was enjoying the sunshine and decided to follow the left fork up the valley, where the sun was shining the strongest. A creek was burbling down over the rocks, creating ice sculptures as it froze along the way. I didn't recall hearing or crossing a creek when I crossed the alluvial fan, so it must go deep under the rocks at some point. Although I was intrigued by the disappearing creek, I was more intrigued by the valley. I continued upwards.

During the summer, the creek would have been more difficult to cross - if not impossible - because of the melt-waters from the surrounding mountains. I knew I was lucky that this opportunity had come when it did.

Taking the left fork.

Freezing-up.

Looking further up where the valley narrowed, dark shadows cast a mysterious gloom. I could see some unusual shapes and wanted to investigate. The air went suddenly cold as I stepped out of the sunlight and into the shadow. A cold breeze drifted down the valley from the snow-capped peaks beyond. Out of the sun, I could now see that I was standing in the Valley of the Hoodoos.

Valley of the hoodoos.

It felt like I was stepping into a science fiction movie, lost on a dark, alien planet.

Alien structures.

Oyster mushroom hoodoos.

Like something out of Star Wars. Except for the trees. Those hoodoos are big!

Like the castle walls of an exotic empire

More to explore.

After skirting a small waterfall, I knew that I would soon have to turn back. The rocks were now covered with snow. This would not be a good place to injure myself, I reasoned. The narrowing valley presented another danger. Hearing a loud cracking sound, I looked up the large talus slope on the left side of the valley. A cloud of rock dust drifted from behind a large boulder as a watermelon-sized rock ricocheted off and flew down the slope. As it rolled, it knocked more rocks loose, each of which triggered more flying rocks. They were flying down the slope, leaping with high arcs. With the speed that they were flying, even the smallest of the rocks could cause serious harm.

While I was slightly higher than the projected course of the rocky missiles, I didn't want to take any chances. After I saw the first large stone, I started scrambling for higher ground. When I knew I was safe, I looked back. The rocks were flying across the creek bed and up the opposite slope - where I had been walking just minutes before.

I stared up the talus slope, looking for what might have triggered the first rock. Nothing moved.

Looking towards the upper reaches of the valley and suspecting that the risk of dangerous flying rock slides only increased, I saw the situation as an opportune time to start heading back. I turned around and carefully made my way back down the valley.

Time to turn around.

As I made my way back to the car, refreshed and invigorated, I thought about the valley, savouring the views and wanting to explore more. What did it look like over that last rise? Over the peak of the mountain at the end of the valley? What is it like to be up and among the hoodoos. I wondered, will I get the opportunity to go back?

I'll just have to wait and see. The opportunity may choose to present itself again - when the timing is right.

Waiting for the next opportunity.

The Northern Documentary - Part 3

The north's most prolific northern documentary production company has to be Igloolik Isuma Productions, based out of Igloolik, Nunavut. Remember the international sensation Atanarjuat: The Fast Runner? That was an Isuma production. Atanarjuat wasn't a documentary, but Isuma started as one and has since taught and inspired many other northerners to share their stories through documentary film-making. A quick check of their Wikipedia entry shows no less than eighteen documentaries credited to Isuma. I am certain there are many more.

Through film-making, Isuma has helped to preserve Inuit stories and culture and share that culture with the rest of the world. It has given northerners a voice, become a driver for economic development and, not surprisingly, become a source of local pride.

Isuma hasn't rested on its laurels. The launch of IsumaTV has given indigenous peoples from around the world a place to share their stories and their films. Think of it as an indigenous youtube, but with longer videos, often in the traditional language of the film-maker.

As film-making and video editing continues to become easier and more affordable, and with the emergence of sites like IsumaTV, where people can share their documentaries with the world, I have no doubt that the tradition of northern documentary film-making will continue to grow.

I, for one, am really looking forward to it.

The Northern Documentary - Part 2

The tradition of documentary film-making is thriving in the north. At the top of my list of northern-film-makers-to-watch is Dennis Allen. Dennis has his own production company, Mackenzie Delta Films.

I first met Dennis at a fiddle and drum dance. He was accompanying the fiddler on his guitar. I met him again at the 24-hour Play-writing Competition. He is a gifted story-teller and tells those stories through film. Firmly rooted in the north, he has the gift of sharing northern stories from a northern perspective. One of those stories, which I'm hoping to see soon, is about Fort MacPherson's radio station, CBQM.

Here's a synopsis:

Dennis Allen's feature-length documentary, CBQM, is about Fort McPherson, a Teetl'it Gwich'in community in the Northwest Territories, and its citizen-run radio station. A resilient expression of Aboriginal pride, CBQM serves a far-flung and loyal listenership – and plays the best damn country music in the Mackenzie Delta.

Click here to watch the trailer.

The Northern Documentary - Part 1

The art of feature-length documentary was born in Canada's North. It started with Robert J. Flaherty and his film Nanook of the North.

For a while now, I have been on the hunt for a shorter documentary-type film. Thanks to Neil Hartling of Nahanni River Adventures/Canadian River Expeditions, I was able to watch it this morning.

Here's a brief synopsis:

The short film, Nahanni, focuses on the legend of a lost gold mine and a river in the Northwest Territories that lured men to their doom. Albert Faille, an aging prospector, set out time and again to find hidden gold.

Having lived in the area, I was lucky enough to meet people who knew him. Some say he was kind and helpful, knew his stuff, and have nothing but high praise for him. Some say he was mean. Some say he was scary and some say he was crazy. Some say he wasn't really looking for gold; he just liked getting out on the land. Opinions of Albert Faille depend on who you ask, but that's how these things go; we all remember something different about the people we've meet. In many ways, though, Faille transcended the "I remember him" stories into the stuff of legend.

Watch the mini-documentary yourself and learn a little more about a character you won't soon forget.

I was David Hasselhoff.

If you don't read Megan's blog, Reflections in the Snow-Covered Hills, you might have missed her "Being David Hasselhoff" contest.

Well, when I saw that second prize was Season 1 of Knight Rider, I just had to go for second place!


I had my idea for a second-place-worthy entry almost right away. You can see my entry here, but don't do it if you're in a public place. Even with that warning, I recommend that you click the link before reading any further.

My entry wasn't easy to prepare. You see, at the time, I was in Vancouver for a conference. I was accessing the Internet at one of the millions of busy Starbucks. The layout of the coffee shop didn't provide an out-of-the-way spot for someone to do a Google search for "male buttocks". As uncomfortable as doing that search was, it was made even more uncomfortable when I realized that the "safe" feature on my Google search tool had been turned off.

The images popped up and, as I quickly scanned the, ahem, not-for-public-consumption pictures for one that I could use, my mind raced through all of the awful and embarrassing things that could happen to a guy who was inadvertently "looking" at gay porn in a busy Starbucks.

Jail! Lawsuits! Some guy seeing an opening and trying to pick me up! I could just imagine it:

"Hi," he would say, "Mind if I join you?"
"Um, actually, I'm a little busy right now," I would reply.
"So I see. What are you doing later?" he would ask.
"I'm married," I would counter.
"Oh! Lucky guy," he would continue.
"He's a she," I would explain.
"Oh! That must make things interesting..." he would reply.

Fortunately, it wasn't long before I found a creative commons image on Wikipedia. Good ol' Wikipedia. I photoshopped the picture back at my hotel room and uploaded it the next day (which was also quite embarrassing).

But was it all worth it? As it turned out, I didn't win second place. I got first place. But I wanted second!!!

Luckily for me, though, I was able to trade first place for second place and today I received Season 1 of Knight Rider. Yaaaaayyyyy!

Let the resurgence of childhood memories begin!

Thanks, Megan!

Seven.

Although it wasn't always easy, year seven was much luckier than year six. Eight's an even luckier number, right?

I'm looking forward to spending it with you, dear.

Happy Anniversary.

The Cheap Motel School of Interior Design

I recently drove from Whitehorse to Edmonton (and back) for a conference. It's a 2,000 km drive each way so I needed to stop somewhere to get some sleep. Because I'm self-employed and "thrifty", I would normally save money by sleeping in the back of my car (one of the many advantages of owning a station wagon). This time, however, the back of the car was filled by a defective mattress that I was returning to the retailer. The mattress didn't leave any room for sleeping. How's that for irony?

My dad once told me that, if you want to find the inexpensive but good restaurants, look for the ones that have a bunch of old people in them. I owe a lot to the generation that lived through the Great Depression. Their frugality saved me a small fortune on bad and over-priced restaurant food. Too bad there aren't many of them dining at restaurants anymore.

I mention the restaurateurs because, after fifteen hours of driving, I needed to get some sleep. Having developed my own rule, I pulled into a motel that looked simultaneously busy and run-down. You can always count on an old, run-down motel if its parking lot is filled with work trucks. It will be both clean and inexpensive.

I really enjoy this type of motel for two reasons: Firstly, they're relatively inexpensive. Secondly, they're like the underdog of the overnight accommodations world and I love rooting for the underdog. Sure, you don't get the latest in hotel interior design. Sure, the furniture is old and maybe there are rust stains in the sink and bathtub. Sure, the carpet might be from the 1960s, but how much do you want to pay for a newer carpet if you're only staying for a night?

I enjoy the quirky near-antiqued interior design that I've never seen anywhere but a cheap motel. I also enjoy the (almost always) comfy bed and gushing shower, powerful enough to strip the enamel off of teeth should anyone be reckless enough to open their mouth under its fire-hose-like force.

But it's really the interior design that distinguishes the cheap motel. No graduate of interior design studies could possibly duplicate the interior of an inexpensive motel. It's because inexpensive motel rooms are continuously evolving works of art. It's because inexpensive motel rooms are like improvisational jazz. It's hard to match tiles from the 70s with lamps from the 80s with furniture from the 90s. You just can't just rush out to your local furnishing stores and get this stuff; it must be acquired over decades and added on the fly.

Want to see what I'm talking about? Take your first lesson from the Cheap Motel School of Interior Design and check this out:

Yellow wall tiles, clashing pink counter top, and non-matching brown and off-brown floor tiles. You won't find these colours together on any paint swatch!

Scratched-up yet still stylish clam-shell toilet seat.

The yellow on the wall tiles and pink on the counter top show up really nicely when paired with the greenish wallpaper strip on the door. Yes, there is a strip of wallpaper on the door.

White cement-block walls, a vase full of artificial flowers, large, pinkish lampshades, one of which is on a baby-blue lamp, and a maroon pleather chair in front of a plastic collapsible table that acts as a desk speaks of motel with class. In fact, when I checked in, the night manager told me through his thick Japanese accent, "Oh, you have the best room here. It has a desk!"

When you see a lampshade like this, what do you want to do more? Turn on the light? Or take of the lampshade and wear it like a dress?

The decor may not get the overhaul it needs, but priorities are priorities. How else could they afford such a sweet TV? Too bad the wiring was done in such a way that you had to choose between any two of the lamp, fridge, microwave, or TV.

I am SO in the Hallowe'en spirit now...