Oil Boil

Is it just me or does anyone notice what is going on with oil pricing regulation in P.E.I. lately that seems just a wee bit "out there"?
Let's circle back for just a minute.
I read an article in The Guardian about IRAC's recent decision to NOT put heating fuel prices down 10 to 15 cents a litre on the first of the month, because Irving would not like it. IRAC, which is short for Island Regulatory and Appeals Commission, is a board of people who make decisions about things like enforcement of Island property laws and other bylaws and, as what concerns me today, prices of fuels, in particular, furnace oil. Generally, fuel prices, both furnace oil and gasoline for automobiles, go either up or down on the first and fifteenth of each month, here in P.E.I., because of the intervention of the members of this board.
In order to determine what they call fair prices for consumers and vendors alike, the members take many factors into consideration. The usual; prices world wide and in the North American market, time of year, strength of the economy and so on. No secrets there.
Irving, on the other hand is the oil processing company that supplies a good deal of the oil products in the Maritime provinces and even further afield. For those who are foreign to this soil, K.C. Irving, who founded the corporation many years ago, based in New Brunswick, was one of the world's wealthiest men before he passed away. He wasn't known for being gracious.
What made me sit up straighter while reading this article was something the IRAC rep said to the reporter. He said, they would have LOVED to put prices down as an early Christmas gift to Islanders but felt they couldn't because it would affect supply and demand. I scratched my head, wondering what he was talking about, as, to the best of my knowledge, there is still no shortage of oil on planet earth quite yet. And here is where I started to see red. He said if they were to put prices down right now, Irving would refuse to supply the retailers with product and there would be a shortage here on Island.
Duh.
ISN'T that sort of how extortion works, folks? As long as you give us your money, we won't beat you up. I mean, this is nothing short of ridiculous and it does not take a genius to see through it all. And yet, this article made the papers with very little fallout. I believe I was the only one to point out the obvious on The Guardian website, after it was posted online.
When I was in high school, my big brother got interested in socioeconomic theory. He started reading books written by Karl Marx and Lenin, whose literature and lives were hugely instrumental in the Russian revolution at the turn of the last century. As a result of his interest, my brother got involved with the legal Marxist Leninist Communist Party of Canada. So he brought home all these newsletters citing financial atrocities done with our tax dollars in favour of big business, at all levels of government. Stories about multi-million dollar grants having been given to large corporations out of public coffers. And many of these dealings were actually exposed by decent journalistic efforts in years to follow. My brother's hobby was vindicated.
Now, before we go any further, don't get me wrong. I am not saying I support communism or think China, the U.S.S.R. or North Korea were and are somehow doing better things than we.
Nah, not by a long shot, because I know, full well, that human nature, left to its own devices, sucks. These ways of governing have proven to be just as faulty and corrupted as the ones we question here in what we call the "free world".
BUT - We really need to take a deeper look at what is going on all around us. This imbalance of financial justice, as rendered by Irving's apparent monopoly of the oil product market here in P.E.I. is, to me, just one prime example of how we are being blatantly, financially abused and we are not lifting a finger about it.
And what's sad is, if this had happened about fifty years ago, the company would have, at least, tried its best to hide what it was doing, because a monopoly, to the best of my understanding, is actually illegal in this country - Isn't that the whole fulcrum of healthy capitalism, after all? That it thrives in a system which refuses to harbour those companies who want total control of any particular market in order to make as high a profit margin as possible?
It's kind of like the old story about the frog who got boiled to death. It hopped into the pot when things were rather cool and inviting and slowly the heat was turned up, so that the frog barely noticed. Frogs, being cold blooded, don't respond to the change in temperature with any sense of panic and you know the rest of the story.
Perhaps because we have been in this pot of water for so long and have had the temperature turned up so gradually, we aren't aware of how hot it is. I say this because, sadly, based on the typical lack of response from the public to the IRAC article, it appears as if we really don't care.
I think it's called learned helplessness. What a sad state of affairs.
All I can say is, the CEO at Irving must really like frog's legs.

Kitty Kudos

I really like cats. Growing up, my family always seemed to have one around and I learned their language over the years. I also learned to respect them.
Many people claim that dogs are actually more intelligent and loyal, but I honestly believe that is because they just haven't taken the time to understand cats. I also think that those who say these things have had bad experiences with them. Which is a shame, cause cats are really neat.
OK, now that we've established that, let me tell you why I think this way.
Primarily, I admire them for their loyalty.
When we were first married, we adopted two different cats. First Naomi, who was a Tabby-Siamese mix and then, Amber, whose mom was an Abyssinian and dad was - who knows? The owner's daughter bred Abbys and one of her females got outside one time and bred with a tom who just happened to be passing through the neighbourhood. So she was giving away this batch and her mother was one of the first recipients, only to discover she was allergic to cats and could not keep it. That's where we came in.
Naomi had been with us for a couple of years, so she was sort of our first born. You know the type. More like the adults; all serious like. When Amber came along, she mothered the younger kitten for awhile until Amber decided she was going to be the new boss in our home. Amber, being part Abyssinian,  was dominant by nature and lorded it over Naomi, who outweighed her by about 10 pounds. If I sat too close to Naomi, Amber would spit at her and Naomi would take the hint and move further away from me. With the establishment of this new pecking order, you'd think things would be tense in our household. But, each evening, we'd still see them cuddled up together somewhere and Naomi grooming the smaller cat.
They were, admittedly, strange bedfellows, but it soon became clear they had a deep, albeit, unusual bond. A couple of years into Amber's fast paced little life, she disappeared one autumn day. We were heartbroken and began our search for her in the neighbourhood, all to no avail. There was no Amber to be found. On the first day of our search, I got this zany idea to actually ask Naomi where Amber was. So I did. My husband was skeptical, but went along with it. I don't know who was more surprised, hubby or me, when the older tabby started across the street and into a neighbourhood we figured the two cats just never visited. My husband followed her until she came to a stop on a curbside next to a busy street. I guess she just sat there and looked up at him with her big, green eyes wide open. He didn't know what to do so just picked her up and carried her back home.
What a waste of time that had been. Of course, Naomi could not understand what we had asked her and had just lead us on a wild goose chase.
Or so we thought until, two days later, we had just about given up looking for Amber and, on a lark, he decided to go, once again, to the spot where Naomi had taken him. While he was there, a man came walking with his dog and saw my husband searching along the road. He stopped him and asked him if he might be looking for a small, grey coloured cat. My husband said, "Yes." The man told him he had found the little cat, obviously our little Amber, who had apparently been hit by a car on that first rainy day. He examined her and, finding she was dead, buried her on the side of the road, close to the spot where Naomi had taken my husband earlier.
And that wasn't the first time Naomi amazed us. She was smart, too.
Before Amber joined our family, we lived in a small, attic apartment in the west end of Halifax. Because the apartment was on the top level, we overlooked a flat roof that covered the other two apartments our landlord had added to the side of his house. Our bathroom and living room window gave us a full view of that rooftop. Which wasn't so bad because we were surrounded by old trees whose foliage gave the impression we lived in a tree house. For some reason, our bathroom had no screen on its window, so, in order to have a cross breeze in the hot summers, we had to keep that window open, despite the lack of protection from insects. As a result, Naomi would sneak out through that open window and onto that rooftop where she'd snoop around, no doubt, watching birds and passersby when they least expected it. Because we were two stories up, she was at risk for injury or even death, if she fell, so I knew we had a problem.
Leaving the window closed was simply not an option. So, as soon as I knew she had escaped, I began to tempt her back in with tidbits of her favourite foods. Bacon and cheese were on the top of her list. It got so she would come running as soon as I said the words. I often wonder what the neighbours thought whenever they heard me calling, "Naomi. Bacon. Cheese," in the tops of those trees. Perhaps that was the real reason we didn't get invited over for tea and crumpets.
In the meanwhile, I came to the conclusion that Naomi understood English. I tested my theory by calling out other words, like, "donuts," or "applesauce," using the same tone of voice I used when saying, "cheese," or "bacon," and she'd just stay put on that roof, looking at me as if to say, "Are you kidding me?"
Eventually, that screen appeared on the scene and, some years later, Naomi eventually went the way all cats do. But I shall never forget how that cat got savvy to get a tasty snack.
Yup. I really like cats.

They've seen Paris So Forget It...

One important thing we did not anticipate when moving to Prince Edward Island was the state of medical care in the province. Having previously lived in capital cities; first, Halifax and then, Ottawa, we had become accustomed to having access to a broad choice of physicians at any given time.
We did not realize that, because P.E.I. had no medical school, it was literally without the ability to attract new med school grads and, therefore, hadn't had enough doctors for its population in years. Its declining population, I might add. It seems to me that P.E.I. has actually experienced negative population growth in some recent years, because of its young people leaving in search of employment; in particular, going to Alberta while the oil boom was on. Yet, there are thousands of people on provincial registries who still haven't managed to get a family physician, sad to say, despite the lower numbers.
Experts say the problem is universal and is caused by a combination of young grads wanting shorter hours than ever before and women entering medicine in larger numbers. Women take time off for pregnancy or child care leave. But the number of spots in med schools has not increased to compensate for these dramatic changes. So, essentially, there are fewer doctor hours available for people, worldwide. Add to that the lack of a med school and the fact that grads often find work or start practices in the provinces where they study, that leaves little old P.E.I. with a huge problem.
So we did not get a new doctor right away. Which was OK because our youngest would qualify for care from a pediatrician because of special needs and otherwise, we are pretty much a healthy family. Besides, we figured we could always go to clinics or the emergency outpatients department at our local hospital.
Yeah, sure.
If we did not mind waiting a minimum of three hours to see a doctor or having to compete with others vying for a spot in line in one of the clinics' foyers - I have literally seen lineups, during flu season, of 20 or 30 people, a couple of hours before a clinic opened its doors.
There have been some suggestions made to government about how to remedy the problem. Suggestions tailored to bring radical, positive change to the system. Like bringing in physicians' assistants, which are, incidentally, used in many American hospitals on the front lines, for similar reasons. And then there have been incentive programs set up to attract out-of-province and, sometimes, out-of-country doctors here to Spud Island. But none of it seems to be working.
Let's talk about why.
First of all, I'll share my experience with the one doctor I actually was assigned to after being on the "list" for about four years. The first time I saw him, I was really impressed with his professionalism, ability and bedside manner. I also got the feeling he really cared and wasn't in it for status or money or because everyone in his family had been a doctor. He explained things to me in a way that did not leave my head spinning. So far, so good. Then he sent me for a whole lot of blood work. While I was getting that done, the blood tech said that I must have Dr. So and So and, because she was right, I asked her how she knew. She told me that he always ran a lot of tests and that he wasn't making the province happy with it, either.
Gee whiz - I could hear this train coming before I saw it.
I guess none of the tests were positive so I did not see him for a few months after. But when I tried to see him again, the receptionist at the clinic where he had his practice told me he and his family had moved back to the States. Something about his wife missing her family.
Of course! And it had nothing to do with the fact he was repeatedly requesting tests that the province just did not want to pay for.
So, about six months later, lo and behold, I got another one of those phone calls from the province. Apparently the patients from the previous doctor were being given to a new one who had just moved to the Island. I had lucked out. But I didn't even get to see him before, he too, moved back home.
Which begged the question, "What the heck was going on here, anyway?"
And then I started thinking. In summer, P.E.I.  is a pretty place to be. The ocean warms up and there are many sandy beaches as well as world class golf. It never gets too hot because there's always a cool breeze blowing.
But that's for about three months out of the year, otherwise known as the tourist season. I have heard it told that P.E.I. can see almost two million tourists in a good year. When you consider the population of the province is just under 140,000, that speaks volumes about how this little island literally comes to life around June 15 each year.
What those who only visit don't know is, on or around mid October, the whole Island, with the exception of Charlottetown, Summerside and possibly Montague, shuts down, culturally, for a long, bleak off season. The locals, born and raised here are fine with it too. Heck, they've been waiting on, cleaning up after and entertaining Off Islanders for possibly more than a hundred summers now, so they've earned their peace and quiet. When you couple that with the fact that the other two industries which support the economy are fishing and farming, you haven't got what we call really good chemistry for trendy, state of the art, cultural integrity.
Not to say it's completely dead here. No, we have our university and a few colleges as well as a lively bar scene in the capital. But leave Charlottetown and, other than outdoor sports,  there isn't really much to do of an evening outside of the tourist season.
And don't get me talking about the shopping. Or should I say, lack of. Suffice to say, even Islanders with well established family roots regularly pay that awful bridge toll to shop in either Halifax or Moncton. When a designer clothing store dares to open, it is rarely patronized and generally goes under, sometimes within a couple of years.
Strange but true.
Finally  - and I left this for last 'cause it really is the clincher - Islanders have this way of politely keeping newcomers at arm's length for long periods of time after they move here. Haven't a clue why. But it's true. Since having arrived here some 10 years ago, my family and I have been relegated to the population of what we affectionately call Come From Aways. We've only managed to get close to two families and they moved here from off Island too. Luckily for us, we were warned about it before we moved so were amply prepared to dig in our heels, come what may. We take a humorous approach to the whole thing, actually. But we have known others who are mystified and hurt by the cool reception they have received.
So, tell me - if you were a physician with a higher than average family income who has practiced and lived in a city - any city; either in Canada or the U.S. - would you relocate here?
I rest my case.

Pondering the Gene Pool

Our sixteen-year-old son makes me very proud. Yeah, sure, he can cop an attitude once in a while and I have to remind him to put his homework before gaming about once a week. He even refuses to take his laundry downstairs and throws his used Kleenex on the floor when his allergies are acting up. In this respect, he's a typical teenager. No big deal. Those things, I have decided, are mutable and I am the lowest common denominator in most of them. Which means, I am probably able to change them all with a bit more genuine effort.

When his baby sister was born, he had been the king of the roost for almost three-and-a-half years and was accustomed to being the centre of attention. Typical first-born. Then, along she came and, right from the get go, stole that spot light from him, by merit of her medical conditions. She was born with Down Syndrome and had some life-threatening issues, like septicemia, thick blood, elevated hemoglobin and the need for open heart surgery to correct a serious heart defect. Just a few days after she was born my husband and I were brought into a conference with her medical team. I had a chance to talk without interruption and told the team we wanted to have another child so our firstborn would not grow up to be selfish. I added, "I guess there's not much chance of that happening now." I meant it as a rather brave attempt at humour, but you could hear a pin drop.

And, I have to say, through it all, he has shown an amazing sense of awareness of the unspoken, as he has sailed through the ins and outs of his sister's special care needs over the years. Even before she was born, when my belly was big and made it hard for me to navigate, he would open car doors for me, in the absence of having been shown how to do that by his father or uncle, who lived with us during that period. Only once or twice has he ever voiced any suspicions of having been overlooked because of his sister's needs. And I am pretty sure it wasn't because he was shy about it, either. That just isn't his style. He's always been very transparent. If there was something wrong, he'd let us know, sooner or later. And, I might add, it wasn't like we were ideal parents, either. God knows we made loads of mistakes.

No, it had nothing to do with our being that picture perfect family. I won't try to delude anyone about that. It was simply that this young man has something really special going on inside him. Something undefinable, unique and unexpected. He knows things and he acts in accordance with that knowledge. He always has. Even as a toddler, whenever he met someone new, he would step back and we could almost see the wheels turning inside him as he sized up this stranger, whether it was a child or an adult. Whatever he said to them, once he came to any kind of conclusion, usually summed things up pretty astutely. It was uncanny. He nailed them every time. He seemed to have some kind of radar for what was going on inside people. Once, that ability mortified me when our new landlord approached him and he said, "Bad man," right to the man's face. We all laughed and I mumbled something about him watching a cartoon on television. As it turned out, the guy was stepping out on his wife. Who knew?

I have heard it suggested that all children have this ability to read people, to see through their subterfuge. But it has never left him over the years. If anything, it has gotten more finely tuned. Perhaps out of necessity.

When he was about eight years old, I took his sister and he and moved out of the household, for reasons I won't disclose here. We lived in another city about a 45 minute drive from the children's Dad. It was tough on all of us, but we adjusted, somehow. Each weekend, I drove the children to their Dad's house, where they stayed until first thing Monday morning and then it was back to my house for another week of school.

We did this for almost seven years. Then, with healing, we reconciled and remarried in 2010. 

So our children have experienced some hardships. Through it all, I did my best to teach them, little by little, to be responsible for themselves; to be in tune and do their best to help themselves. It was all I had to give them and my circumstances, operating as a single mother with no family support, left me no choice but to do things this way. At the time, it felt like abandonment. But I knew it was the best thing for them so I persevered.

Yet I can't take credit for many of the characteristics I began to see developing in our son.

I'll give you an example of what I mean.

When he was about 10 or 11, he was dealing with some frustration that would lead to losing his temper.It happened on a regular basis, mostly because he has a mild learning disability which predisposes him to some confusion over abstract ideas. It wasn't too bad because he wasn't physically violent but he would get upset and then not have as much time to get his work done on that particular night. So, I realized he needed to learn to nip it in the bud. So I tried to explain it to him. He just listened, not saying too much.

Then, one night, I could see he was brewing something inside. All the signs were there. He was using words that indicated his frustration and I expected the inevitable. Then, nothing. Instead, he turned around and slowly walked upstairs. About fifteen minutes later, he came downstairs and apologized to me. I asked him where he had gone and why and he told me he had given himself a time out in his room until he could calm down and think.

I tell ya, I have never been so surprised and delighted. Who woulda thunk it?

Now, he's getting older, beginning to make plans for his life and, each time he reaches a new plateau of understanding and intimate insight about life and its ups and downs, I inwardly salute his strength of character and realize, truly, when we dedicated this young man into the care of God at a tender age, it was a very good decision. Because, despite the errors in judgement we have made over the years, he has, slowly but surely, shown by his actions and insights, that he is becoming a well-adjusted person with wisdom beyond his years. And I wonder, how did that happen and was he swapped at birth because I don't remember being the same way at his age. Nor does his father. Truly astounding.

Then I catch him teasing his sister, who tells him, "Be nice," and I remember, he is, after all, a teenager with foibles, shortcomings and growth pains.

Either way, he sure has taken us by storm. 

Oh yeah, have I told you? I'm really proud of our son.

Comic Relief

The other day, having reached a point of no return with something, I blurted out, "Eep". Yes, you read it right the first time. Pronounced just as it is spelled.
Until that moment, I honestly thought nobody ever actually said it. I assumed it was something that had been made up by cartoonists, who had all gone to the same commercial art school. Birds of a feather and all that.
I was alone. Talking to myself. You know how it goes. You're on your fifteenth attempt to accomplish something and it just isn't happening. Steam is building up inside and you just want to let a bit of it vent. So, you let slip the first thing that comes to mind. I could have just as easily said, "crap", or some other mild expletive. I blushed slightly when I realized what I'd said, too. Not because it was "naughty" but because it just seemed so bizarre. It was like someone had taken possession of my mouth for a moment.
Then I chuckled. And I remembered.
You see, my father was a bathroom reader.
I grew up in a tiny little house in steel town, Nova Scotia. This tiny little house, like many of its kind, had only one bathroom, which was also tiny.
 I'll try to give you a picture.
Once, my mother had to make arrangements to have the old, cracked sink replaced and I suggested she might want to consider having a cabinet installed under the new sink. But she told me there just wouldn't be room for it. And I realized she was right. Later, she asked a handyman about installing a fan and he told her to just open the window a crack, because it would not take long for such a small room to air itself out. Problem resolved. There was no room for the usual cleaning supplies or extra rolls of toilet paper, either. She kept them on a shelf over the basement stairs. Forget about a box of Kleenex. She told us to use some of the toilet paper, instead. And there weren't any towels except for the small hand towel to the left of the sink and the fancy pair over which my mother would spread her worn out shower cap, when we took a shower, to prevent them from getting wet. From a sitting position we could reach out and easily touch every wall.
To this cramped environment, at some point, my father introduced his collection of reading material.
My father, like many aging parents - I was born when he was well past forty - had, shall we say, "digestive" issues. Which translated into concerted effort and extended bathroom time for him. Somewhere along the way he discovered, with a fair amount of mental preparation, things went more smoothly; which came in the form of simple reading, involving simple reading material - his comic books. In particular, Archie or Sad Sack comics, with a couple of issues of Beetle Bailey thrown in for good measure. Understand, he bought these comics himself. He never borrowed, begged or stole any of my brother's or mine.
So, despite the lack of space in that bathroom,there were always at least a couple of them on the floor, next to the tub. Once "seated", I could rarely resist reading a few pages. It wasn't like there was much else to do.
Hence, my first exposure to the word, "Eep".
And there were others. Like "gadzooks", "peachy keen", "nifty" and the infamous "egad". All of which I have casually used when the occasion merited it. I justified their use with the fact they were real words.
But I never used "Eep". Mostly, I think, because I was never really convinced it was a real word and I am picky. If it ain't in the dictionary, it ain't comin' out of my mouth.
And there were even longer phrases I remembered. Like "Dilton Doiley's Down the Drain", which was from a story about Archie tutoring Moose in English grammar and the lesson of the day was on alliteration. I can still see Dilton peeping up through the manhole slot in the curb, while Archie tore around town, shouting the aforementioned, panic-struck sentence. Moose, having finally gotten the concept, complimented Archie on his superior use of the literary device. And Dilton remained in that drain. In response, Archie tore his hair out and said, "Eep."
Then there was the story from Sad Sack where our hero and his fellow soldiers were on bivouac in the wilds and it was raining. The cook was serving homemade soup and told them all to "take all they wanted but eat all they took". The scene pans to Sad Sack, sobbing over his bowl of soup, sitting in the rain. No matter how fast he supped, he could not seem to come to the end of that bowl of soup, as the rain kept refilling it.You guessed it. The story ended with him saying, "Eep."
Suffice to say, Dad probably read those comics hundreds of times and so did we.
I often wonder what would have happened if he had been interested in physics, investing or medical science.
Don't get me wrong. Outside my father's "reading room" I read earlier and more often than most children I knew. In fact, I was considered the smart nerd in my neighbourhood who withstood an onslaught of teasing because of it. I read everything I could get my hands on, from adult novels of questionable origin to a lot of the great classics of English literature. By the time I was 12, I was a regular at our city's library, going there after school, once a week, to get my latest tome. If memory serves me correctly, I retained, at least for a duration, a good deal of what I read, too, because I was always spouting some kind of non-essential stuff to my peers - hence, the torment I suffered at their hands.
So here we are, many years later. Dad is gone to that great bathroom in the sky - I really do hope they have some new editions of Archie up there for him - and I still read a lot of good material. My sixteen-year-old son has an uncanny interest in Archie and the gang - he owns a collection of digests he keeps on the top shelf of his desk in his bedroom but I haven't looked at them at all. Honest.
To top it off, I am a self-avowed word wonk. I am a journalist, editor and writer. I love how the parts of language all flow together; rhythm and sound evolving into symbols that bear relevance for us all.
And yet, what comes out at the point of my greatest frustration?
"Eep."

Referendum Rant or Making It Clear For My Yankee Friends

One of the most challenging topics of conversation for me when I was discussing Canadian culture with Americans on my frequent visits to the Pacific Northwest was trying to explain why and how English and French Canada became two distinct nations within one. Needless to say, describing the subtleties of the relationship the two cultures had with each other often seemed beyond even my talkative bent.
But it never stopped me from trying.
I'd usually begin with a history lesson; Americans are big on all things militant, so I'd usually hold their collective attention whenever I'd do that; you know, talking about how the French held Fortress Louisbourg in Cape Breton, then the English had it, then the French and finally the English - then I'd usually go on to explain that was how things went down in Maritime Canada. It had been different in what we formerly referred to as Upper and Lower Canada, which are now Ontario and Quebec provinces, respectfully. At this point, I usually got smiles and often, totally baffling responsive comments like, "Well, the French are like that. Look what they did after 9/11?" and other hugely unrelated stuff.
But at least, it was tragically clear they were, at least, trying.
Generally, when the listeners reached this point of total misunderstanding - which I classified up there with telling me they had visited Canada once before, whenever I told them I was from Prince Edward Island in eastern Canada and wasn't that near Vancouver? What's more, they REALLY liked Canadians! They were REALLY nice!! - I would notice my teeth begin this autonomic grinding. And then I would start this eye blinking I just couldn't get a handle on. Have you ever been with someone who was blinking rapidly? It is most disconcerting and leaves you with the uncomfortable feeling that they would much rather be interrogated in the Spanish inquisition than be present with you.
Being the polite, accommodating Canuck that I am, I hesitate to leave anyone with this impression so I searched, high and low, for a solution to my dilemma.
I had learned, in short order, to make the connection for this bunch it was going to take more than a few history lessons and quotes from General Montcalm. For awhile I was really mystified about how, exactly, to accomplish this, until I fell upon the solution - quite by accident.
At this juncture, I want to make it perfectly clear that I did not blame my Yankee friends at all. I understood there were huge cultural and sociopolitical reasons these folks would never understand what I tried, over and over, to convey and failed so miserably at. But they really did try to grasp it all with genuine enthusiasm. It just seemed so impossible. Short of sharing whole chapters of detailed history books, I knew it was a losing battle. Like explaining light to someone who was blind, or the concept of budgeting to Paris Hilton. It was hopelessly pointless and I knew it.
Just for the record, though, I want to reiterate, I have NEVER been so affably misunderstood. I guess that was what made me keep trying.
In the meanwhile, until I discovered how to get through to them, I would usually smile sweetly and move on to easier topics like barbecue recipes or Obama's popularity or lack of it, depending on who I was conversing with.
Then, out of the blue one time, I remembered something from my first years married to my husband. Something that brought the relevance all back to my cultural exposes and with which no American could respond by regaling some personal irrelevant experience or fact about U.S. federal policy. It became, please excuse my French, my piece de resistance - as cliche as that sounds.
(I wonder if the ironic use of those last two phrases will be lost on anyone but my Canadian readers?...)
And here is what I recalled.
My husband's mother was born and raised in Shawinigan, Quebec. In French Canada, being French Canadian, of course. Incidentally, which is, for those of us in the know, the same Shawinigan in which resided the illustrious family of one of our former Liberal Prime Ministers, Jean Chretien and a few professional hockey players, if memory serves me correctly. In fact, one of my mother-in-law's sisters had dated one of his brothers, but, as she told it, the young lady actually had her eye on Jean. Unfortunately or fortunately, depending on which side of the fence you are on, he never asked her out and so ended that fine tale.
Apparently my mother-in-law was not infected by the same Liberal virus while growing up alongside the Chretiens and, like many of her thinking Francophone peers, she developed a nationalistic bent. Which was understandable. Having traveled several times to her other sister's abode and heard the honest stories of how the English land and business owners lorded it over the poorer, struggling French Canadian labourers in the days of their childhood, I could empathize. I grew up in Cape Breton and learned how blue collar workers were downtrodden by those who ran industry, including in the coal mines and at the Steel Plant in Sydney.
But remember, I was trying to find a simple, yet delicate way of explaining the French/English conflict back home to Americans who hadn't a clue. So this is how my memory served me well.
It seems to me that during Chretien's last years in office, which coincided with the early years of my marriage to my husband, a provincial vote was taken, called a referendum, in Quebec, on behalf of residents, to decide whether the province would declare itself a nation and separate from Canada. And for those of you in my readership who either grew up in Canada or are still here, this is not news for us, as there had been several other votes of this nature taken previously, which culminated in the government of Canada granting special benefits to the province of Quebec in exchange for that province staying in Confederation.
One day, just before the vote was to take place, I had a short but telling conversation with my mother-in-law, who had moved with her English-speaking husband to the Maritime provinces some years earlier, but who had, very much, kept her ear to the ground when it came to all things Quebecois. I had to admire her tenacity and cultural loyalty.
I asked her how she thought the vote would go and she shrugged her shoulders and took a deep breath. Her words gave me succinct ammunition, south of the border, whenever the urge overcame me to educate my American friends on Canadian cultural diversity, for some time after.
And that was this:
"I am sad to say that some of the young separatists in Montreal really want to separate." Emphasis on the word, "really".
I think it speaks for itself.

Usin' What Ya Got or Chit Chat Choice

Being a professional communicator has offered up many object lessons to me - especially, in light of how I have been, once again, reduced to being a domestic engineer whose days are inundated with caring for my family's needs. Not that I mind, but this has given me ample material to use.
One of the most poignant ones has been the experience of teaching our daughter better speech skills.
I have mentioned she has Down Syndrome. What I haven't told you is she has, unfortunately, inherited her Dad's allergies and, for the first few years of her life, her eardrums were housing fluid. It affected her hearing and, in turn, her speech acquisition, which has been delayed even more than the average person who has Down Syndrome. As a result, she is 13 and still hesitates to form full sentences. Which is OK because she is, despite it all, a very well adjusted little girl and I figure she will catch up sooner or later.
Here's how it all went down.
We took her to an ENT when she was a toddler who told us, after testing her, she was hearing sound as if her head were immersed in water - not unlike when we lay back in the tub. In turn, it even affected how she was hearing her own voice. This affected her confidence, because she actually is high functioning and could hear just enough to know she was producing speech which sounds much different than that of her peers. As a result, it is hard to get her to try real speech, at times.
But she has her own little language she has developed.
Let me explain this one to you.
Over the past years, we have used speech therapists who have given us all kinds of tips and strategies; even suggesting we teach her sign language, because studies show, with normal babies, it decreases frustration and thereby motivates the children to attempt real speech. I instinctively objected, strenuously, however, and I am glad I did.  In the absence of clear speech, she developed, all on her own, this homemade sign language, which, frankly, became a crutch for her, actually having the opposite effect. It seemed to keep her lazy.In response, we have not allowed her to use it, by refusing to reward it with what she wanted. Whenever she does use real speech, no matter how faulty, I have discovered she is more apt to try again if I give her a high five and a big hug. Works all the time.
She knows what we want and, slowly but surely, she is picking up some pieces of legible speech and has, more or less, ditched the sign language. But, for the most part, she still speaks haltingly and with timidity.
This is not to say she does not talk. Au contraire, mon amis! Nothing could be further from the truth. She talks non stop - it's just that most of it is illegible gibberish. Let's just say, we ALWAYS know when she gets out of bed in the morning because we can hear her enchanting, made-up chit chat from anywhere in our house; and we have a big house.
You know that adage about the silver lining in every cloud? Well, I had a chance to see this in application this past year as our daughter's delayed speech turned out to be a blessing for us.
You see, I read this article about how people thwart telemarketers. There are, apparently, all kinds of methods used, from the rude to the subtle, all of which, according to each user, work well enough. Some have blown whistles into their phones, others have faked foreign accents; the list goes on and on.
Now, we get our share of these calls, like anyone who has a land line. And they are annoying. I won't even begin to talk about that subject. What amazes me, even in light of the fact that there is technology out there to address call making for business purposes, these calling centres keep insisting on using live callers. To me, this is a downfall, an oversight, of which anyone can take advantage.
And that's just exactly what I did recently.
The setting is early evening. My family is home and we are sitting at the kitchen table. Grace having just been said, we are enjoying our meal when, you guessed it, the phone rings and it is one of these offensive callers. Now, of course, I can refuse to answer the phone by allowing it to ring, or I can even turn off the ringer. But you know what would happen if I did that. That's just when someone important would call. It's bound to happen. So I refuse to do that.
Essentially, we are sitting phone ducks.
This one evening, I decide I have had it. There is almost nothing I won't do to protect the privacy of a family meal - it is sacred to me and I am quite serious about this. In this day and age, families, with their hurry scurry and individual schedules, benefit from honouring some cherished, timeworn traditions and eating the evening meal together is one we still engage in as it offers up one of the only times we have for regular, good quality interaction. There are plenty of studies that show that, surprisingly enough, Canadians do this much more than those in other nations and because of that, negative, family-related issues are, apparently, much lower. And I believe them. It's too darned cold to go outside and, besides, Canadians are notoriously careful about parting with their hard earned cash. So what is left is eating supper together at home.
Which brings me back to my story.
So, without explaining what I am doing, I put my right index finger to my lips, shushing everyone while I pick the phone up and quietly hand it to our daughter. She starts talking and, of course, it is her energetic, personal language she is using. Once my husband and her brother grasp what is going on they can barely hold in their infectious laughter, made all the more taboo by the fact that they know they have to keep absolutely quiet, or her cover is blown sky high.
But she is oblivious. Either that, or she simply does not care. She doesn't get too many phone calls, so she's making hay while the sun shines.
Her chatter continues, dotted with actual English phrases like, "Daddy, gone town," and, "Mommy (pause) work," and other such illegible stuff and, finally, I realize the caller has hung up. I honestly don't think they ever knew what hit them. Then I politely take the phone from her and put it back on its cradle.
Our daughter says, "Gone, Mommy?" and I nod and reply, "That's the idea, Sweetie."
I smile. My work is done here.
Still laughing, but with volume now, both my husband and son applaud. They get it.
I am pleased to say we didn't get any more telemarketing calls for about three weeks afterward.
Perhaps that is the average turnover in those calling centres.

Let's Get the Bugs Out or Thanks Mom!!

Reality shows - WAIT! Don't leave NOW, I was just getting started!
But first, let me preface this with a little bit of personal history.
My mother's parents were British Newfoundlanders who passed their notorious reputation for being cheap onto their children and, as such, Mom was a self-confessed Marketplace fanatic.
Let me explain.
Marketplace was a CBC television program which took a journalistic stroll into consumer watchdog stories. It started, I believe, in the 70s and carried on with many successful seasons. Apparently my mother wasn't the only person who loved it.
She even had a pen and pad in place beside her chair - yes, true to form, she had her chair - and, often took notes when some product or service was covered that caught her attention. She was a woman with a purpose; which was to never let another human being gain access to more than they deserved of her hard earned cash. Not such a bad place to be, in theory.
But, often, it caused her more grief than she has ever admitted to. Like, every time the local grocery store overcharged her, even as little as one cent, she would don her togs and tramp down to berate the management and get her cent back. Even in the coldest part of the wintertime. She was undaunted. I used to say to her that it seemed a bit much to waste all that time to regain one cent and she would purse her lips and tell me it was the point of the matter.
In similar fashion, when some new product came on the market, she would wait before purchasing it; sometimes for years. Even at the expense of going without something that would make her workday much easier.
Like the microwave oven for example.
I asked her why she didn't buy one when they first came out and her reply was she was waiting for manufacturers to get the bugs out and, of course, for the price to go down. And all along, I figured it was because she just couldn't afford it. A sort of sour grapes thing. You know what I mean.
And then there was the dryer. Good grief, the woman would hang clothes out on our clothesline, even in the dead of winter and her fingers would be chilled to the bone. Although I hafta admit, her determination to delay buying that dryer she finally caved in and got once I was in university in the early 80s - yes, she waited that long - brought out the inventor in her when she set up a little clothesline in our tiny basement and had my father put a fire on in the little pot belly stove. This was her backup when it rained or snowed heavily and it worked for years.
Right about now, you are wondering what the heck this has to do with reality shows. I'm getting there.
See, Mom taught me over the years, with her frugality, to never trust something when it was first released. The best approach, according to her, was to sit back and wait for others to come to the conclusion that this is not the best this thing could be. And I have applied that to my own life when it comes to similar ventures.
What I have discovered is, sometimes it actually has hurt me too. I can't even recall how many times that learned paranoia has prevented me from purchasing something that I really could not get at a better price and which I would only later regret taking advantage of. I digress...
But, recently, I have had the opportunity to apply it in a wider application and I have to say, my hats off to you, Mom, for having offered up those examples all those years ago.
And this brings me to Reality Shows. The proverbial wart on the nose of modern television programming.
When Survivor first came out, we didn't even have access to programming, so resisting the urge to watch was easy. And in this instance, as I was to learn in later years, ignorance really was bliss.
Don't get me wrong; we owned a television. Just didn't have cable or satellite. By choice. Our first child had just come along and I was determined not to expose him to anything harmful, like sugar or poor quality TV programs. Typical, overprotective Yuppie mentality. Guilty as charged.
Whenever I would go out in public, of course, I saw the magazines which told of these new attempts on behalf of tinsel town's writers to get the attention of bored watchers out here in la-la land. And my friends spoke about Survivor, among others, almost every time I saw them. I would have had to live in a bubble not to be aware of their sudden appearance on the scene.
The interesting thing was, whenever I would hear people talk about the show, I could not understand the fascination with it. I got it, immediately, that it featured wannabe acters who portrayed these competitors who would overcome any obstacles thrown at them to gain a prize of money; albeit, it was a substantial amount, which, under real circumstances, was certainly worth competing for, but, this was all fake so what was the point?
See, I knew instinctively that the show had to be loosely scripted and was sure to be trite, even bordering on the predictable. Which, as season after season has proven, is true. At least for anyone with the ability to form an original thought. And yet, many intelligent, creative people admitted to be hooked.
Here's where I scratch my head. Is anyone paying attention to this trend at all? I mean, how many copy cat shows have sprung up since its inception? There must be dozens.  Given the fact they stay on, year after year, the ratings must be very high. Which translates to millions watching. Go figure.
Needless to say, even after having lightened up on my no television programming for our household rules, I have never had the inclination to watch an episode. Once I tuned in and couldn't even fake my attention span for more than two minutes. I mean, come ON!
Generally I have, pretty much, a live and let live attitude towards stuff like this. It may not be for me but I can usually understand why someone else might enjoy it. But on this issue I draw the line.
I believe there are absolutely no redeeming qualities in these types of programs. Not even for the entertainment challenged. The bugs just aren't out yet.
One of these days, we are going to corporately wake up and conclude that we have been duped and went along with it anyway, to our great humiliation.
Then, maybe, the major networks will move on to something better and I will have been avenged.
Thanks Mom!

Milk It For All It's Worth

When I was pregnant with our son, my sensitivity to all things dairy, suddenly escalated to monolithic proportions. I even had to change my margarine to one of those lactose-free brands. Yuck. But it did not stop me from giving in to the inevitable craving for pizza or ice cream, every so often. Sadly, to my demise, as it generally meant a panic stricken search for a clean washroom within just a few short hours of my having cheated.
In those days we were struggling financially. My husband had just finished his last year of education, we hadn't a car and we were frantically looking for a larger abode to happily accommodate baby and us.
One particular fall day, after he had found employment at a museum in Halifax, we had been loaned an in-law's vehicle for a short period of time and were driving throughout Herring Cove, which is south of Halifax, looking for "apartment for rent" signs that looked promising.
At this juncture, you need to understand that, just a few short hours earlier, I had indeed indulged in some of my forbidden fruits - a huge chunk of cheese, crumbled up into a homemade Greek salad, having justified that perhaps, as it was sheep's milk cheese, perhaps the effect would not be as dramatic as usual. And honestly? -  I had forgotten about it.
This was when Murphy's Law kicked in with a huge vengeance for the first time in my recollection.
So far the search had not produced any results but we were enjoying the ride at least. I believe it was when we had just rounded a corner to head back into the city again when the first abdominal cramps hit me. And I mentioned to my husband that I should probably start to look for a washroom any time soon, assuming, since we were about to reenter a commercial district within about five minutes, I would be quite all right. No need to panic.
And then something inside me decided to make things interesting when my bowel suddenly told me to step up the search. Now I know, about now, you are saying, "Ew, too much information..." and you would, essentially, be right; except to say, like language censors in the film industry, I need to let this one slide because it gives my story drama and really, it wouldn't mean much to you without these intimate details. Permission having been granted to get graphic I will say this one thing.
When a pregnancy begins to asset itself, even early on, the carrier of such learns very quickly to cooperate with it - or else. As was the case on this particular day with me. I was about to get a lesson on who the boss was, now that my fertility had been established, and I can say with intense certainty, it sure wasn't me.
My husband suddenly, without warning, caught my panic when he drove like a demon past a wildlife park and, having decided there had to be a public washroom within its boundaries, turned in the long driveway, taking us speedily into its interiors. When the car plummeted over a deeply rutted road to come to a stop in front of a dead end surrounded by trees and shrubs, he turned to me and told me to check the glove box for some paper towels or Kleenex; anything that could free me up to be on my merry way. I complied and, having found nothing, he appealed to my prehistoric instinctual urges, suggesting I use a few leaves for final cleanup.
Now, before we go any further, I must say that one thing that kicks in when a woman is expecting is this inane sense of what experts call nest making, which often manifests in a brand new need for cleanliness and hygiene. Obviously this is to protect the new baby and it is a strong urge, I can tell you.
Needless to say, that urge actually overruled my need to "go" and I told him there was no way in Hades I was gonna use some leaves and if he did not find me a real washroom I did not know what I was going to do. I distinctly remember crying. But softly, lest my howls unleash the monster that lurked within.
Incidentally, I never understood why that borrowed car had neither Kleenex or even leftover napkins from a fast food meal, stashed in the car somewhere. It just didn't seem normal.
So, he put the car in reverse and tore over the dirt road once again. I believe I can attest to his beginning, at this point, to have sympathy pains, which is common with very empathic men when their mates give birth. I tell you, my pains were beginning to feel a bit like I imagined contractions might, so things were looking pretty dicey in that car.
Mercifully, there were no cops with radar guns waiting on any corners in Herring Cove Road that day. I honestly don't think I would have made it had we gotten pulled over for speeding. Imagine explaining that one in court.
Just when I thought I had reached the point of no return, he practically yelled out, "There's the golden M! We made it" He made a sharp left and we were parked in the lot. I tore into McDonalds, flew to the washroom and, wouldn't you know it, there were only two one-seaters at this store, and the one that had the little graphic picture of a stick woman, complete with triangular dress, had a short line in front of it.
I hastily looked across the hall. There was nobody in front of the men's washroom. I took in a deep breath and knocked on the door, pretending the three women in the lineup weren't tsk tsking and giving me odd looks. I wasn't even showing yet so they had no reason to excuse me.
But at that point, I can tell you, I just didn't give a rat's patootie.
When I finally emerged, having made a solemn pact with myself never to take such culinary risks again, or at least until I had given birth, I ventured out into the lobby where my husband was waiting.
He had two ice cream cones, one in each hand, and he was licking one.
Without batting an eyelid, he held the one out to me that he was not tasting and said, "Do you want one?"
I looked at him and felt my blood pressure rise instantly.
I asked him if he were trying to kill me.
It was then I realized, with chagrin, that he must have ADD. I had heard, somewhere, that it was genetically passed on. I figured that was why there were no Kleenex in that borrowed car that day.

Where`s the Restroom? or Why Aren't Canadians Just Like Us?

So once upon a time, I used to visit Oregon about two or three times a year. I had some temporary connections to a particular community and stayed with friends for three to five weeks at a time. I lived as one of the nationals, not as a tourist and, I have to admit, I enjoyed the lifestyle, perhaps because it was so different from what I had known in eastern Canada for most of my life. It was like I would drop into this microcosm and time stood still for awhile.
During those visits, I came to be amazed at how insular Americans really are. I felt like I imagined Rick Mercer must feel when he went out with crew and camera, south of the border, to interview our southern cousins on all things Canadian. It was surreal at times.
The first time I ate in an Oregon restaurant, the waitress sidled over, pen and pad in hand. Her name tag said, "Jennie Lou" or something equally redneck and when I looked up into her eyes, I am pretty sure she must have used a whole tube of mascara first thing that morning. Not to mention her eye shadow. I mean, isn't there a rule against using that particular shade of light blue on the eyelids? Frankly, it looked more like a small child had used a crayon. My mind quickly made excuses for her appearance, saying, well, maybe she needed glasses and could not afford them or had some kind of colour blindness.
Then she spoke. She called me "Hon" and it was then I realized I had the real thing.
Shortly after, a local told me that this town had been the western headquarters for the KKK for a long time until someone had the good sense to give them the boot. It all made sense.
The next day, we took a visit to the nearest Burger King and half way through the meal, I had to go to the little girls room. And I forgot, temporarily, that I was now in conservative, small town America. And, after all, it WAS Burger King. So when I asked the cashier at the counter to direct me to the "washroom", she got the most peculiar look on her face. I panicked, regrouped and then changed my wording to "restroom". She resumed breathing and, still not taking her eyes off me, pointed to the back of the restaurant. All I could think about was thank goodness for American television programming all those years.
Once, during those years of visits, after I had established a few good neighbourhood relationships, I had been invited for a meal over the back fence. They served barbecue and it was wonderful! After our main course we were sipping a glass of wine and the host, an outdoorsy kind of guy who did landscaping for a living and who would not hurt a fly, mentioned a trip he had taken to British Columbia a few years earlier, where he had had a run in with the Canadian Customs agent.
"He wouldn't let me take my rifle over the border," he said, holding his glass of wine like it was a brandy snifter, swirling the contents inside.
So I asked him why not. Big mistake.
He went on to say he wanted it for protection against bears or other wild animals while he was camping in the wilderness of B.C. A legitimate claim, but not something a Canadian Customs agent wanted to hear and you got it right, the guy smiled at my friend and told him he was giving him another chance to tell him why he needed the rifle, saying he wouldn't let him take it in unless he told him what he wanted to hear. See, what my friend did not know was, in Canada, unless you have a special licence, you can't own a rifle for any other reason than to hunt or do target practice at a skeet club or rifle range. But, of course, in America, one has the right to "bear arms". Hence, the confusion. And, as I was to soon learn, this guy wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer.
So my friend ranted for ten minutes on how he had to lie to take his gun in. All pretty predictable grievances and I sympathized with him.
Then he said something that made me look more closely at how much wine he had consumed. Because it made no sense at all, at least, from the standpoint of a Canadian.
And this was what he said.
"I don't see why I couldn't use a gun to protect myself in Canada. If I can do it in America, I should be able to do it in another country."
I bit my tongue and resisted the gross temptation to give him a lecture about honouring the laws and customs of other nations. Especially when we travel to them.
And I offered him another glass of wine. I think it was made in Canada.

Out Of The Closet

Been wanting to talk about this for a very long time. It's been eating me up inside and I just have to get it out. For a long time I've been looking all around me at people who are confessing to all sorts of things from the insane to the inane and now it's my turn. I suspect it has been good for the confessors, too, to get those things off their collective chests. At least that's what the religious pundits agree on. And, as I am only human, I need to vent too.
So here's the deal.
In 1998 our daughter was born with Down Syndrome. We weren't expecting it. It shocked us. We grieved, grew and moved on. She has proven to be a huge blessing to us in ways I will discuss on another occasion. But she also represents a great deal of extra work and stress for us. Especially now that she is starting to go through puberty. There's always something. You don't want to know.
Since that time I have noticed something. People have this general idea, I think, with the exception of medical personnel and special needs workers, that she is somehow disposable. Well, before I take this any further, I don't particularly mean our daughter, but others who share some kind of mental or physical handicap.
See, it goes like this.
In most first world countries, the unborn are not considered human beings. So, thereby, they do not share the legal rights of a human being who has made it, free and clear, out of the womb. Which, as we know, translates into legal abortion on demand. A women's right to do with her bodies as she sees fit, and all that stuff.  I get it. I don't agree, personally, with abortion, but I get why people may want to abort an unborn child. For other reasons. Rape, extreme poverty, under aged mother, ill mother. There are many understandable reasons.
Before our daughter was born, I was asked by my doctor if I wanted genetic counselling. A pretty fancy name and, at the time, I thought she was referring to some new advance in medicine that might help us determine the colour of our children's eyes or some other genetic factor.
After she was born, I found out it actually referred to our right to an abortion, if we found out, before that time, she was severely handicapped; in particular, if she had Down Syndrome or some other genetic disorder or syndrome. Apparently there are many of them.
Needless to say, I did some research on the incidence of Down Syndrome in the general population and it occurs once in about every 700 live births. And more and more, they are being born to very young parents. Additionally, the potential for a false positive Downs amniotic genetic screening test is higher than you might imagine. In fact I met a mother who was told her baby was Downs, who gave birth to a perfect baby girl.
And the genetic counselors did not advise her of the odds.
Strange.
OK, so we've established I am not in favour of abortion. But that isn't what makes my blood boil. Here's what's troubling me.
If we don't want these children, because they are such an inconvenience, than why aren't we doing something to prevent them from being conceived this way? Why isn't there more money pumped into research to see what exactly causes the extra chromosome to develop? Medical science has only been guessing up until now about why it all transpires. They know how it happens but no real inroads have been made into why.
Other than national organizations like the Down Syndrome Association, which raises and provide monies for research of this nature, there are no other real lobby groups who do. As opposed to, say, research for a cure for AIDS and AIDS related illness.
If one were to stack up the figures in dollars for the two, the contrast would be striking. Shameful, may I add. And maybe that is our fault. Maybe if children with Down Syndrome weren't quite so disposable, the powers that be would promulgate vigorous energy towards raising those needed funds. Dare I suggest, to mirror that, if those who contracted AIDS were treated so lightly, with so little compassion or dignity, perhaps there would not be hundreds of millions of research dollars made available for research for a cure for that terrible killer.
So, now you know. It's official. I'm out of the closet.
I think the rights of the unborn handicapped are as important as those who get sick after they are born.

I Don't Do Hard News...

There's been a double murder, just down the street. And before you think, good grief, what a macabre way to write a first blog post, let me first explain.
I graduated from J-school about two years ago. I  missed out on the opportunity to intern at a local paper and so missed a golden opportunity to be doing this for a living. Just a bad break.
While I was in school, however, I would always avoid covering bad news; hard news we call it in the business. Two times I was in the right place at the right time and purposefully refused to rush to the scene of the breaking event to get timely coverage, interviews and photos - and that in light of the fact that the two major media giants here on Island, the Guardian and CBC radio and TV, did not get a scoop on either story. My fortuitous opportunities would have made me relatively marketable here as a reporter. But I ditched it. For stupid reasons I am gonna share further down below.
So here I am, not working in traditional journalism, ghost writing and editing, instead. Which is OK, but it is not cutting edge, potentially award winning journalism. No surprises there.
And I admit, I am BORED!! Out of my skull. I mean, I am only here on Island to raise my two children with my husband, whose job is more or less secure and keeps the wolf at the door. And there just isn't any kind of work, short of remote editing or freelance off Island. With a restructuring in Transcontinental's Maritime papers, there is simply no work to be had.
If we lived anywhere else, I might be tempted to try to get some freelance; cover some stories that skeleton reporter crews just never get to. Off Island there is a market for it. There really is.
But here, it is pointless to even try. And here's why.
Humour me while I circle back.
So, a double murder takes place just five minutes from my back door two days ago. But I refused to even try to get remotely close to the story to get some photos or a preliminary story I can pitch to one of Transcontinental's two Island papers; even in the face of knowing the reporter at either paper would not be on the scene for at least 45 minutes because that is how long it takes to drive from Charlottetown. Even Summerside is farther away than our house so I was a shoe in for a scoop.
Before you roll your eyes, assuming I have to be the laziest member of the press you've ever heard of, hear me out.
Members of the press here in P.E.I. cooperate with each other. Once a story is officially breaking there is no such thing as a scoop. And I suspect this phenomena only happens here.
So here is how it works - as described by a seasoned reporter who took us on our first year tour of the Island's main newspaper. A story leaks, somehow. Reporters and photographers are dispatched from various media sources. The person representing the information that needs to be gleaned is standing behind an impromptu podium and everyone is surrounding that person. So far, it looks like an average, picture perfect press conference.
And here is where things get weird, almost dreamlike.
Someone asks a question after an initial statement is read. Reporters politely take notes. Nobody gets walked on. Nobody talks at the same time. It's like old Home Week. A reporter from the Guardian comes in a bit later and turns to the CBC reporter and says, "What did I miss?" The reporter from CBC turns back to him and actually answers the question, complete with correct spellings, just in case the reporter from the Guardian missed it.
So, even if I had wanted to drive like a maniac, trying to get the story about the tragedy that took place in New Annan this Sunday past, it wouldn't have meant anything to editors here. Cause they knew that I would have been obligated to share what I got with whoever showed up late. And they were already on staff.
I guess you can't expect anything different from a province with a population of about 140,000.
Turns out, my babysitter, who showed up a couple of hours after the story broke, knew a heck of a lot more about what actually happened than any of the officially published stories could ever reveal.
Only in P.E.I.