This week I pass and celebrate a teeny tiny milestone in what I hope will be a long path: Okanagan Writing Services has been 'open for business' on the Internet for one month. Along with the website is the evolution of this blog, telling a bit of the OWS story and celebrating those who have helped bring about this voice.
Another milestone is celebrated this week: that of the birth of our country. Writers, poets, and storytellers of all kinds have pontificated and presumed what it is to be Canadian. I'm not about to attempt a definition in this small space - it is woefully not suited for such an undertaking. However, I have some gut feelings about why it's important for us to say who we aren't as opposed to who we are.
Someone once said that the last new thing had been invented, and despite all of our most valiant efforts we would not see a genuinely new idea again. Isn't that just like most of these little stories? Often beginning with 'someone once said...', and carrying on with a plausible yet slightly negative statement. How very limiting - the thought that your best imagined things aren't really yours. To that, I say a resounding boo.
Maybe it's a combination of events: brilliant thinkers and imaginative people creating and then inspiring others to be imaginative and creative. No beginning, no end - simply one large surge of growth and renewal. That image is truly Canadian.
I believe we are our best good intentions, and more. As Canadians, I believe we struggle and celebrate together - at times with only the common bond of one thing Canadian as the string that holds a fragile connection between us. I believe we are a tapestry woven with a multitude of fibers, not representing any one thing but coming together as a unique lacing and layering of different stories. Interpretive art with many right answers to the question: 'what do you think this picture represents'.
My parents are from Nova Scotia - one of Acadian hertiage, the other a descendant of Dutch and German ancestry. I married a man who's father immigrated as a child from Dublin, Ireland. My closest friends are first generation Chinese-Canadian, grandchildren (or great-grandchildren) of Maritime land owners, daughters of traditional south Asian families and sons adopted by Americans who also immigrated to Canada.
We are not the blending of many fragments; instead, we are the magician's scarf, pulled slowly from a sleeve, individual bits of fabric joined by finely woven thread.
I have spent the last month preparing to tell a story, but not really telling it. The feeling is like that of standing on the bank of a river: the current is running deep beneath the surface, barely noticable, but you know it's there. I've been trying to determine a launch site to join the movement without disrupting the flow of events. Where to start this part of the ongoing story.
When I'm stuck for a starting point, I often think of my mother for inspiration. So, I guess that's where we will start next time: my mom.
Until then, please celebrate the Canadian-ness in you - wherever you are.
~ Jeannette
Monday, June 29, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
Kitchen stories
We are continuously telling stories: to our friends, around the lunch table at work, to children in the hopes of getting them to sleep. Before we become adults and have had our storytelling somewhat stunted by what is perceived as fact, as children we see the world through story. One story of my childhood is about the need to tell stories despite ideal conditions.
We lived in many different houses as I was growing up, but I distinctly remember the heating system of one of them. Well, the term 'heating system' is a loose one: scrap the mental image of a monstrous furnace buried in the basement that may be brewing in your head and replace that image with this one - that of a black, iron stove. It lived smack in the middle of the main floor of our home. We lived in an older two storey home, complete with wavy and worn linoleum on the kitchen floor; it had seen many feet before ours.
The main floor was primarily taken up by this kitchen, and I remember it as being the hub of all activity. It was large, and every room on the first floor opened up to it as if acknowledging its place of importance. The living room and play room were tucked off to one side, their combined square footage not powerful enough to knock the kitchen off centre stage. Hulking in the kitchen, spotlight seemingly drawing everyone's attention to it, was the one item which kept our home cosy through the cold Ontario winters - an old cast iron airtight stove.
For those of you who haven't had the pleasure of feeling the warmth emitted from one of these beasts, let me attempt a description: close your eyes and find yourself on the other side of a pane of glass on a sunny day in spring - you know, those days when one can start to feel the intensity of the sun after months of abandonment. It could be March, April or even May - but the feeling is distinct. A deep warmth from the sun penetrates our chilled outer layer, and the heat seems targeted to our core. That is the feeling of the warmth from one of these old iron stoves.
Above the stove was a large hole that allowed for air flow to the upper floor. The hole was covered with an iron grate, intricately designed and ornately carved for a humble farm style house. Covered by decades of paint, the iron surface was incredibly smooth; curls of metal became flowers and vines as my small fingers traced along the surface of the grate in an effort to determine how long I could keep finger to metal without a break.
The grate served two purposes, in actual fact: yes, it allowed for warm air to rise and circulate into the bedrooms and bath overhead, but it also allowed for a young girl sequestered in her room to communicate with her sister below. I was occasionally sent to my room for some wrongdoing - I'm sure it was a set up, but I was never once given a chance to prove my innocence.
During these times when I was sent to my room to 'think about what I had done', I spent the time writing notes to my sister who was somewhere downstairs. Our method of communication was to write a note as small as possible, attach it to a piece of thread, and lower it through the grate when the other walked below.
I remember hunching on the floor of our shared bedroom, scribbling thoughts in small handwriting, tying the string and lowering note after note to my sister. We were partners in our defiance, telling stories to one another that had been told dozens of times.
There is something about writing those notes that I miss.
I haven't thought about this story in quite some time, nor have I told it in ages - if at all. In fact, I can't recall telling this story to anyone.
This is only one of many kitchens stories from my childhood - from my family. The kitchen attracted us like moths to a bulb on a dark night: I didn't understand why, but we just needed to be there. It's likely because my family has a history of kitchen dwelling; Acadian families had large kitchens, usually holding the main heat source for the home which on cold winter nights would draw the family close. I guess that is one reason why I like my kitchen to be inviting, warm, and comfortable - and why I tend to end up in the kitchen with my friends when we entertain. It's a good place to be, and a great place to tell and share stories.
Now, the smell of an Acadian kitchen is another story entirely.
~ Jeannette
We lived in many different houses as I was growing up, but I distinctly remember the heating system of one of them. Well, the term 'heating system' is a loose one: scrap the mental image of a monstrous furnace buried in the basement that may be brewing in your head and replace that image with this one - that of a black, iron stove. It lived smack in the middle of the main floor of our home. We lived in an older two storey home, complete with wavy and worn linoleum on the kitchen floor; it had seen many feet before ours.
The main floor was primarily taken up by this kitchen, and I remember it as being the hub of all activity. It was large, and every room on the first floor opened up to it as if acknowledging its place of importance. The living room and play room were tucked off to one side, their combined square footage not powerful enough to knock the kitchen off centre stage. Hulking in the kitchen, spotlight seemingly drawing everyone's attention to it, was the one item which kept our home cosy through the cold Ontario winters - an old cast iron airtight stove.
For those of you who haven't had the pleasure of feeling the warmth emitted from one of these beasts, let me attempt a description: close your eyes and find yourself on the other side of a pane of glass on a sunny day in spring - you know, those days when one can start to feel the intensity of the sun after months of abandonment. It could be March, April or even May - but the feeling is distinct. A deep warmth from the sun penetrates our chilled outer layer, and the heat seems targeted to our core. That is the feeling of the warmth from one of these old iron stoves.
Above the stove was a large hole that allowed for air flow to the upper floor. The hole was covered with an iron grate, intricately designed and ornately carved for a humble farm style house. Covered by decades of paint, the iron surface was incredibly smooth; curls of metal became flowers and vines as my small fingers traced along the surface of the grate in an effort to determine how long I could keep finger to metal without a break.
The grate served two purposes, in actual fact: yes, it allowed for warm air to rise and circulate into the bedrooms and bath overhead, but it also allowed for a young girl sequestered in her room to communicate with her sister below. I was occasionally sent to my room for some wrongdoing - I'm sure it was a set up, but I was never once given a chance to prove my innocence.
During these times when I was sent to my room to 'think about what I had done', I spent the time writing notes to my sister who was somewhere downstairs. Our method of communication was to write a note as small as possible, attach it to a piece of thread, and lower it through the grate when the other walked below.
I remember hunching on the floor of our shared bedroom, scribbling thoughts in small handwriting, tying the string and lowering note after note to my sister. We were partners in our defiance, telling stories to one another that had been told dozens of times.
There is something about writing those notes that I miss.
I haven't thought about this story in quite some time, nor have I told it in ages - if at all. In fact, I can't recall telling this story to anyone.
This is only one of many kitchens stories from my childhood - from my family. The kitchen attracted us like moths to a bulb on a dark night: I didn't understand why, but we just needed to be there. It's likely because my family has a history of kitchen dwelling; Acadian families had large kitchens, usually holding the main heat source for the home which on cold winter nights would draw the family close. I guess that is one reason why I like my kitchen to be inviting, warm, and comfortable - and why I tend to end up in the kitchen with my friends when we entertain. It's a good place to be, and a great place to tell and share stories.
Now, the smell of an Acadian kitchen is another story entirely.
~ Jeannette
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Stories old and new
We have stories about many things: about our past, what could have happened but didn't, or maybe a tall tale or two that seems to change and morph with each storytelling. One common theme that we as people share is the story, and the fact that we each have many stories that affect how we approach our new beginnings. Perhaps new beginnings aren't quite new, but are really next chapters in a very large book.
At each junction of our lives, before each decision we make, and behind the preparation of every new step taken is the culmination of years - perhaps generations - of stories. We are in a growing anthology; a book of stories with no beginning, middle or end.
The art of storytelling is something that has not quite been lost, but of late it certainly hasn't held centre court very often. There may be a connection between this gentle drift from storytelling and our struggles as communities - personal and professional - to communicate.
In this case, my story was inherited from a set of parents born and raised on the East coast of Canada. Steeped in folklore and held together by a fiercely strong sense of family, eastern Canadian Maritimers - particularly Acadians, as in my case - are brimming with stories. Our story of Okanagan Writing Services, and how we came to this point, is intrinsically linked to many stories of Acadia.
Listening to Acadian stories as a child was a gift, but also a challenge: colourful and extravagant in texture and content, but sometimes difficult to follow. It might be where I caught my first glimpse into the intricacies of our language. Acadian French is a loose mix - a bit of French, some English, and some words which are entirely and uniquely Acadian. This blend of language is both easy and difficult simultaneously. Acadian stories are a little like a hearty stew, the individual flavours might be difficult to pinpoint but the overall flavour comes through.
And so, a new chapter in this storytelling continues. As promised, you heard it here first.
Okanagan Writing Services is live, launched, and open for business. Please stop in for a visit.
So many thoughts and emotions are flitting through and around me today. One feeling that trumps most others, and the one that I continue to return to, is certainty. Not certainty of 'success', product offering, or future - but certainty of voice. It's been a long time coming that I have felt a degree of certainty in my own voice for storytelling of any kind. Yes, the other thoughts and feelings of uncertainty are still there; likely they always will be with me in some concentration.
For now, I am certain that I have a strong voice to share in the telling of this story, and in the stories of others. With any luck, OWS will allow me to share the stories of others - and lead me into the rest of my own story.
Meanwhile, I invite you to celebrate this pivotal moment with me - many of you have been part of the stories that brought me here, and many more will be part of the stories that grow from here. Thank you for the stories, old and new.
~ Jeannette
At each junction of our lives, before each decision we make, and behind the preparation of every new step taken is the culmination of years - perhaps generations - of stories. We are in a growing anthology; a book of stories with no beginning, middle or end.
The art of storytelling is something that has not quite been lost, but of late it certainly hasn't held centre court very often. There may be a connection between this gentle drift from storytelling and our struggles as communities - personal and professional - to communicate.
In this case, my story was inherited from a set of parents born and raised on the East coast of Canada. Steeped in folklore and held together by a fiercely strong sense of family, eastern Canadian Maritimers - particularly Acadians, as in my case - are brimming with stories. Our story of Okanagan Writing Services, and how we came to this point, is intrinsically linked to many stories of Acadia.
Listening to Acadian stories as a child was a gift, but also a challenge: colourful and extravagant in texture and content, but sometimes difficult to follow. It might be where I caught my first glimpse into the intricacies of our language. Acadian French is a loose mix - a bit of French, some English, and some words which are entirely and uniquely Acadian. This blend of language is both easy and difficult simultaneously. Acadian stories are a little like a hearty stew, the individual flavours might be difficult to pinpoint but the overall flavour comes through.
And so, a new chapter in this storytelling continues. As promised, you heard it here first.
Okanagan Writing Services is live, launched, and open for business. Please stop in for a visit.
So many thoughts and emotions are flitting through and around me today. One feeling that trumps most others, and the one that I continue to return to, is certainty. Not certainty of 'success', product offering, or future - but certainty of voice. It's been a long time coming that I have felt a degree of certainty in my own voice for storytelling of any kind. Yes, the other thoughts and feelings of uncertainty are still there; likely they always will be with me in some concentration.
For now, I am certain that I have a strong voice to share in the telling of this story, and in the stories of others. With any luck, OWS will allow me to share the stories of others - and lead me into the rest of my own story.
Meanwhile, I invite you to celebrate this pivotal moment with me - many of you have been part of the stories that brought me here, and many more will be part of the stories that grow from here. Thank you for the stories, old and new.
~ Jeannette
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