changes - not the David Bowie kind

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until next time,

Jeannette

this writing thing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

www.thewinefestivals.com/blog


~ Jeannette

good local eats

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

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

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

There. I said it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


~ Jeannette

5 things to do that don't involve 5 rings

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

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

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

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

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


drink wine

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

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


visit art

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

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


go outside

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

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


cook (or eat) something

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

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


read more

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

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


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

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


~ Jeannette

I cop to the chapstick

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was awesome. Total adolescent girl nirvana.

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

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

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


~ Jeannette

tempted by a ghost

I'm being tested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The former dream job is in Vancouver.

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

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

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

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

Cheers.


~ Jeannette

the case for sketchy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Go be sketchy.


~ Jeannette

the social of the media

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


~Jeannette

who are you & how did you get here

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

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

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

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

Yikes.

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

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

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

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

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


~ Jeannette

what I forgot

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


~ Jeannette



Daddy Sang Bass

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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