Learning to be Thankful

Thanksgiving is one of my favourite "holidays."  Over time, I've learned to be more and more thankful of my life, my farmily and my friends. To have a day where we're reminded to be grateful is a wonderful thing.

I don't think I was ever an unthankful/ungrateful child (my mom can correct me if she so chooses to), but I remember the exact moment Thanksgiving gripped my life.

I was 18, in first year university.  I'd chosen to go to a school fairly far away and, despite my school being aghast with my decision, I'd selected an Englih university (not a popular decision at French schools, understandably).  I didn't realize at that time how poor my English skills were.  I was a fantasy reader by then, but I learned English by reading, not by listening.  And, turns out, fantasy vocabulary isn't necessarly the most useful for getting through university (go fig).

My first class, Archaeology 101, almost left me in tears (or at least terrors).  I had absolutely no clue what they'd been talking about. Not one clue.  I couldn't even grab enough words to contextualize the conversation (which is funny - archaeology is all about context!)

I made it through my first six weeks of school, but it was painful.  I didn't know how to craft English essays, I couldn't effectively crack jokes in English (anyone who knows me knows I think I'm funny), and some less informed Canadians made remarks that were less than tasteful about conquest and language barriers.  Those, I understood.

By the time I went home for Thanksgiving, braving the 8-hour train ride just to get to somewhere where I could finally speak and be understood, I was ready to call it quits.  Screw trying to do something more, screw a university degree, and screw not being understood.

I whined (a lot, I imagine) to my big brother, who looked at me with a slighly furrowed brow (or boredom).  When I informed him that I didn't want to go back, he told me to go back. He said that if I didn't want to go back after Christmas, once I'd completed a complete semester, then I could stay home.  But not before I'd really tried.  "Why don't you just embrace the experience instead of fighting against it? See what comes out of it?"  He said something like that, anyway. It struck me as pretty wise for my brother.

I went back ready to embrace, but mostly expecting to struggle.

A few things happened shortly after Thanksgiving that changed everything for me. A teacher with a French Canadian background understood my language barrier and offered me support.  I learned of the writing centre and they provided me with all kinds of resources.

But, most importantly, I met my friends, who are still sisters to this day.  We met quickly, one after the other, for a count of five of us in the end.  One is now the infamous (or long-suffering) Roomy.  The other is my sister-in-law.  Then there's Ren, whose house I'm now sitting in while the turkey cooks. I'm a good turkey watcher. There's one of us still a bit far, Kat.  I see her as often as I can.  She's coming right after Christmas with her husband, to stay for a week.

I'm in Ren's house because most of us are going to gather here, all of our families, to celebrate Thanksgiving.  To break bread and share laughter and stories.  And we do this at Christmas and Easter, too. Not because most of us are religious, but because it's about family, and we understand that bonds, whether blood or not, are maintained with love, friendship, and by remembering to be thankful for the people in our lives.

So, on Thanksgiving, I'm thankful my brother practically threw me into the train.  I'm thankful I met my friends, who are now my family.  I'm thankful that my friends helped me learn and embrace English, which then lead to so many great adventures and people that I've had the chance to meet over the years. I'm thankful  that every new addition to the family, whether husband or child, falls seamlessly into our stride, as though we'd all known each other forever.

But most of all, I'm thankful that I get to sit here, in a good friend's house, excited to see everyone in my family, and think of those who couldn't be with us today, and forge another beautiful memory.

And eat turkey.  Mmmm, turkey...

Happy Thanksgiving!

My group of friends (and their husbands including my brother and one child) at a random gathering last year.  Aren't we just a cute bunch? 

From Patchwork of Memories to Stories

Grandmothers

Today is my maternal grandmother's birthday.  Her name was Laurette Desjardins. She would have been 99 years old. Every year, my mom sends out an e-mail to me and my brother, reminding us that it's her birthday.

Every year, it leaves me nostalgic because I never really knew my grandmother.  She died when I was only two years old.  My memories of her are patchwork at best. Once, in a perfume store, my cousin and I recognized a scent but couldn't place it. My mother and my aunt came to investigate, and they informed us that it was the same scent as the pot-pourri my grandmother so loved and used in her home. Another time, a wallpaper caught my eye and tugged at my memories. It was the same wallpaper that had graced my grandmother's walls.

My other grandmother, Simonne Bilodeau, died before I was even born.  It was years before I learned she collected tea cups, just as I did.  I inherited the saucers, since the cups were long lost.  It's a funny connection to a woman I never knew, but hearing the stories my family shares, I feel as though I do know her.

Grandfathers

My maternal grandfather, Gérard Desjardins, died when I was six. I remember he used to give us cookies and he had a short leg (he had suffered from polio). My other grandfather, Louis-Georges Bilodeau, died when I was a bit older, but he was badly off in his final days, so I try not to remember the final visit we paid at the hospital. All I really remember is the pain on my dad's face when his father didn't recognize any of us.  Instead, I focus on the days we spent at his camp, and how he used to sit and smile as he listened to his children and grandchildren chat and laugh.

Roomy grew up with her grandparents. She stayed with them after school, celebrated occasions with them and even brought us home to their place once, our gang of girls, to meet them. Her grandfather slipped me $20 when I left.  I didn't know what to do, but apparently that's what grandparents do, Roomy informed me.  I learned a lot about grandparents from hearing her speak of them.

A patchwork of memories, at best.

What's in a Name?

As we celebrate my grandmother's 99th birthday, I can't help but think of how lucky my niece and nephew are.  All of their grandparents still live, and I sincerely hope they'll get to know all of them well. 

In a way, my grandparents live on in the stories we're told, and in our names. Mine captured my grandmothers' and my mom's (Suzanne Laurette Simonne Marie Bilodeau is my long catholic name).

My brother's captures the granddads' and dad's (Gilles Louis-Georges Gérard Jean-François Bilodeau. The priest said there was no room for Joseph. I might have screwed up the order of my brother's name - sorry, Jean! Note that on our baptisms our actual first names come right before our last names. I believe that's because once you get there, you won't remember everything that came beforehand.)

My nephew's name captures grandparents like nobody's business, George Henri Bilodeau.  My great-grandfather was Georges-Henri Bilodeau.  My sister-in-law's dad is George.  So they used the French spelling of Henri, the English spelling of George, and there you go. Pretty awesome, eh?

My niece is Ada-Marie Marguerite Bilodeau.  I'm sorry, but that's the cutest name in existence.  Ada was my sister-in-law's grandmother, an artist who studied with the Group of Seven (Ada Torrance). I get a hyphen, which touched me so much I actually didn't know what to say when they introduced me to their little girl and told me her name.  Marguerite is my sister-in-law's mother's middle name.

So what's in a name?  A history.  A story.  A link to those who came before us, and to those who'll come after us.

What's in a Story?

Last night, I had the great honour of being the feature performer at Voices of Venus, an Ottawa-based spoken word series focused on female performers (an awesome series, always with a warm and welcoming audience. Worth checking out!)  I was given a wide field to play in: tell stories of strong women on a cold December day.

I decided to hinge my stories on a hoe I had found behind the couch (you can imagine the fun we all had with the word play!)  That hoe, I now know, belonged to my great aunt. For years I was fascinated by the story of this strange object, broken in two, the wood old and coarse, the metal rust-covered. I carried it around with me, for a while. It's in my car trunk right now, actually. Don't ask me why - I honestly don't know. Yet it lives there. I guess that I've learned by now to let my mind explore stories in its own way. Sometimes, it feels like I'm just along for the ride.

I hinged the storytelling set yesterday on finding the perfect ending for Maribella, whom I'd given the hoe to, in my story. It took many tries, but I think that, in the end, we found it.

I tend to weave genealogy, family legends and history into my stories. I think part of it is that I never really knew my grandparents except through story. Their siblings, lives and histories all came to me as stories and suppositions.

Weaving them into stories is not necessarily leading to enlightening any actual history, but it does allow me to imagine I get to glimpse, for a brief moment, their dreams, desires and fears.

And they, in turn, get to wield swords and ride air ships. I think they'd like that. They are related to me, after all!

So, bonne fête grand-maman.  I'll meet you again and again in story. And I can't wait!

Letters with no Reply - Sears Canada Online

I totally had made diagrams and included pictures, but unfortunately lost them.  It was by far the most complex letter I'd ever sent.  But fear not - I reproduced a diagram just for you!  Or what I imagine it looked like, anyway....

Dear caretakers of Sears Canada Online Catalogue,

Let me begin by saying that yours is a very friendly service and that despite growing doubts that I will ever receive merchandise from you, I would certainly call again to delight in the warm reassurances of your customer service representatives.

I do sympathize - it must be very difficult to assist customers who are faceless.  Although I have always believed my voice and convivial phone demeanour were enough to convey some of my personality over the cold data lines, I was obviously mistaken and sincerely apologize for my error. 

But let me step back a moment and explain.  On January 28, I ordered a family ring (picture and online confirmation attached for your perusal).  The ring was for my mother’s 60^th birthday, which has come and past without a gift, but still boasted a very fine party involving much cake, laughter, and, as all great moments, a few tears shed purely out of love.  You may also be interested to know that of the seven stones affixed to her might-be ring, six represent each one of her children (the seventh and middle one being, of course, her own).  And what is even more interesting is that she only has two biological children, of which I am one (please see attached family album to further comprehend).

Marty, Kat's fiancé, also wanted on, but there was no room.  Wess is also my sister-in-law, but she was my BFF first, so I give her this title.  And now, Ren is married and has a son, my bro and Wess have two kids, and can you imagine the family jewelry now?  I mean, it'd have to be a broche!  A shiny, shiny broche!  See the business they're now missing out on?

As you have no doubt deduced by now, I never received the ring, but have often basked in the glow of your reassurances and promises.  Not prone to suspicion (although perhaps a tad to paranoia), I thought that perhaps you simply needed a face, or seven, as it may be, to expedite the process by which you feel we would most fairly be compensated.  My mother regrettably suffers from some ill health, and is in fact currently on sick leave, and I would love for nothing more than for her to be able to gaze down at her finger and see how loved she is, and always will be. 

But I cannot accomplish that goal without your help. I trust you will find the attached documentation to be sufficient, and encourage you to contact me at (819) ***-****, should you need further information. I have a wonderful picture of my mother in her twenties, and although I agonized over the possibility of sending it to you, in the end, I chose to preserve the keepsake and not submit it to harsh scanner light.  But I could be convinced otherwise.

I hope to hear from you soon and wish you a most marvelous day.

Love,

Marie

Note: My mom's good now and enjoys her ring and various grandchildren. So I guess we can close this case as a happy ending, though I did bring in pictures of my mother to one of their store counters in an attempt to gain either sympathy or speed.  Gained latter. 

3,200 kms, Two Cons and One Swamp Later...

The past two weeks have been rollicking crazy fun.  Roomy and I started off by going to the My Little Pony Fair in Providence, Rhode Island.  (She's the collector. I'm the enabler, the ride and the booth bunny!)  We started off our stay in Providence with a Lovecraft tour.  For the poor souls amongst you who are not aware, H.P. Lovecraft spent quite a bit of his life in Providence.  So did Edgar Allan Poe, while he courted the lovely poet Sarah Whitman (who ultimately rejected his boozy advances). 

Providence is really steep, really humid, and really hot.  It's a miracle Roomy and I survived.  Actually, it was all thanks to the frozen lemonade.  Bless those entrepreneurs who never give up on the lemonade stand dream.

See?  Steep.  Well, okay, you can't really tell, but trust me, it's steep and full of death!  Says so right there on the sign.

Cemetery where Lovecraft and Poe gained much inspiration.  After spending a cheerful sunny morning wandering its messy ranks of tombstones crumbling since before their time, I understand why.

... The Shunned House.  Aaah!  See the kitchen door behind the tree, opening onto the street...

The Shunned House is for sale!  Get your creepy real estate today!

Providence lines from the great floods which would have covered Roomy whole and swept her away.  Sad.

The Providence Athenaeum, where Lovecraft spent many an hour and Poe courted Sarah Whitman.

Lovecraft memorial, erected in 1990.

After a day wandering the streets after Lovecraft (and eating at the Cheesecake Factory with friends, mmm, cheesecake), we trekked off to Hasbro the next day.

This was the fourth My Little Pony Fair I attended.  The first was in Memphis, Tennessee, three days ride away (and two to come back when doing 90 mph through Kentucky.  Ah, you unbridled spirit, you.)  I had just bought my lovely car, Maude, when Roomy mentioned that she couldn't afford to go to the Fair that year.  Roomy was sad and I had a car, so I figured: road trip!  Ergo, one of the first things I did with my new (used) car was to drive it three days away. It was awesome.

So this was my fourth Fair (still a sucker for a road trip).  I helped Roomy build a diorama (last year, I constructed a model of the Kentucky Derby's Winner's Circle).  This year we went for a Fair theme.  The centrepiece was a carrousel, which used up all of my swear words several times.  A grand time was had by all.

Hasbro is fun.  They have a Lite Bright Lane. I can't show you any pics since their suited muscle forbade it (they had a lot of muscle), but it was neat.  Trust me.

Roomy's booth.  Lotsa ponies.

Carrousel that used up all of my swear words.  Cellophane is not the sturdiest material.  We made it there okay, but on the way back a large piece of luggage tipped right on top of it.  We heard its crinkly cry of death and laughed.

Roomy's custom entries.  My Little Cthulhu was very popular!

Cake.  Large slab cake.  I put this here to confess that I didn't have a piece.  I was on sugar overload from being in pink land already, so I feared diabetes would sweep me away right there and then.  Kind of like the flood waters of Providence might have swept Roomy away, many decades ago.

And a good time was had by all.  Roomy and I headed back to Ottawa through the Adirondacks.  There are some haunted buildings in those hills, I'd be willing to bet my nephew's favourite pair of socks on it. (Not mine.  He might not notice if he lost his favourite pair. I'd go into shock. Don't worry - I'd buy him even cooler socks. I'm a good aunty, thank you very much.)

Then I was off to the cottage!  I hung out with my family, including my cute drooly niece and my non-drooly nephew. It was relaxing, which is always lovely. I'm not a fan of posting pictures of my niece and nephew on my blog, but trust me, they're adorable.

Following a nap in the swamp, an inability to find a frog (possibly due to nap) and my brother's heroic and nearly leechy dive for a turtle, I decided to attempt kissing the shelled reptile to see what would happen.  Turns out the stories are true.  It's the frogs that turn into princes.

I went straight from there to Polaris 25.  Wait, first I dropped my mom off at the Toronto Union Station.  Toronto drivers?  Like, regular, day of the week, let's drive downtown Toronto drivers?  You're crazy.  Don't argue. You know as well as me that it's true.

Polaris was an awesome time. I hung out with lots of cool folk, mostly fellow author Erik Buchanan and his lovely lady at the Dragon Moon Press table.  Thanks to everyone who came to say hi and buy books, and to everyone who came to the launch of When the Hero Comes Home!  I still grieve having missed the ice cream social.  Next year, I'll just host my own. Oh ya, like I'll remember.  I'd manage to miss that, too!

Thanks to so many people, including Karen Dales, Violette Malan, J.M. Frey, my bus buddy (Thought Admiral Korath), K.W. Ramsey, Eric Choi... and so many others who made this con memorable!

I'd likst you (okay, I left this open for a second to run after a bad cat, and I have no idea what I was going on about, but it makes me sound drunk and bossy, so I'm leaving it in.  I think it's a good end to this post, too!)

Love,

Marie

A Whole Decade, eh? No Kidding.

I recently rambled about being invited back to my alma mater, Wilfrid Laurier University, to participate in a Religion and Culture alumni panel.  The idea was to show arts students a slew of career possibilities and that there was indeed life after an arts degree.  We were four, and it was great hearing the three other panelists, Jason Shim, Christine Mckinlay and Elysia Guzik, describe their post-degree experiences. 

But the oddest thing of all was that I was the old foggy.  I'm 32, so I haven't encountered that issue often.  All of the others were more recent grads, from 2007 and 2008.  And I have to admit, they had impressive experiences to share, so kudos to them for their ambition and time management techniques!  Two years after graduating, I'd held about ten jobs and wasn't even writing seriously yet.

The sheer act of being back on campus triggered some (rather rare) self-reflection.  Which then, of course, triggered a ramble.

I'm not overly concerned about my past.  I'm lucky in the fact that the only loved ones I've lost are pets, and I'm still in contact with all of my close family and friends.  I see the past as a road I traveled, and I hooked what was best of it along the way and I hope never to shed those things. Those are friends, family, hopes, dreams... the rest can stay on the road, with occasional (and sometimes unwanted) visits, of course.

But after ten years, plunging back into a place where you did so much growing up does stir memories.  Not necessarily of events, but rather of who I used to be.  Hopes and dreams I didn't even realize I'd left behind came back for a visit. Illusions surprised me, too, of who I was and what I could do.  And I hate to admit it, but some of that youthful optimism, heck, a lot of it, has gone to the wayside without my noticing.

Don't get me wrong, I think I still fit the "optimistic" definition in most people's dictionary, but wow was I wickedly more optimistic ten years ago.

I stopped and pondered, for a few brief seconds: was that loss a bad thing?  Maybe out of self-preservation or because of the simple realization that you really can't go back again, I decided it really wasn't.  I've been tempered by real-life experiences, by a journey that may have claimed a few dreams along the way, but that seeded many, many more.  What used to be dreams turned to plans, immediately removing that shiny glow, but adding actual results, too.  Many of the things I used to say that I would do I've now done, and the road is only wider from here on, and I have a much clearer idea of where it's leading me.  And, more importantly, of where I want it to lead me.

Optimism is still present, sure, but a more realistic optimism.  I may no longer believe I can change the world, but I do firmly believe I can change someone's day for the better.  Those beliefs are backed by the knowledge that I've done so before, and I intend to continue doing so, even if I have to hand out balloons to everyone in multiple shopping centres (try it someday.  Helium balloons make everyone happy, in my experience.)

And the best of what I had then I still have, like my friends.  I still have myself, too, and the core of what's always made me.  That was an important realization.  The filters through which I perceive the world may be a bit dustier and the light might not penetrate quite as well, but the system is tested and true and it gets regular cleanings.  I hate to quote the old saying "the more things change, the more they stay the same," but for the first time in my life I really felt that way about my life, about me, about my choices.  And it was at first scary, and then neat.  Looking at the road behind me highlighted how far I'd come and the lovely journey I'd undertaken.  And I still love it.

Being a bit more forward-looking, however, I can't help but turn back around and see the mountains of coolness coming my way.  Mountains that I'm sure I can climb nicely if I prepare, and it's all still in the works.  Shows, books, short stories... so much to do!  But I guess that was one of the main messages of the panel at my university: we're all works in progress.  It's lovely.

But, unlike me, my projects have very real deadlines and I can't tell a "still in progress" story!  So onward.  Thanks to my co-panelists and everyone else at Wilfrid Laurier University for a memorable, pleasant and striking stay.

Nostalgia (But not really). Part 2.

Once back at Laurier, I made a vow to try harder.  I'd made it this far, and it seemed silly to give up now, just because of a language barrier.  So I strapped down, visited the writing centre, talked to my teachers, got used to people screaming "pamplemousse" at me once they heard my accent (and stopped asking "excuse me?"), and joined clubs to meet new people.

I in fact became an exec with the science-fiction club, "Skiffy," thanks to the enthusiastic invite of the then-president, Rick Henderson.   It was the start of something wonderful.  I loved Skiffy and always will.

Anyway, so about the people who kept me at Laurier.  There were four of them, actually.

The first was in my German class and an archaeology major, as well (because learning a third language in a second language you barely understand is a fine idea, my friends!)  But despite all the classes we shared, I didn't notice her until one day in the cafeteria, near condiments.  She was wearing an "Excalibur" shirt.  I had no clue who the people on it where, but I was a fan of King Arthur, and I liked the look.  So I complimented her on the shirt.  She thanked me and asked if I liked Excalibur.  I said of course I did (I do love King Arthur).  She then offered to lend me comics, which she will admit to this day that it is something she never does (after almost fifteen years of friendship, I can attest to that).  She has been referred to in this blog before, as roomy, since she's currently (or again, whatever), my roomy.  But because it's now her official name, I'll give her a capital "R" - Roomy.  Makes it more official.

Roomy introduced me to her high school friend, Ren.  Ren was quiet and shy and oh-so very tall, and a hoot to be around, so the three of us had a ball.

Meanwhile, on my quest to make more friends, I went to the archaeology club meeting and decided, for some unknown reason, to sit in the third seat of the front row, in a four seat row (I know, I know, sitting in the front row isn't cool, but I'm a keener, what can I say).  Three people came in together.  One short girl with almond-shaped eyes sat beside me, and her tall roommate squeezed in the empty seat on the other side of me (the room was full, they had little choice.  MWA HA HA!)  The tall girl did not squeeze into that seat gracefully.  Her legs went everywhere and so did she.  I made fun of her and we were immediate friends.  Her name is Kat.  And her roommate's name is Wess.

So I had two groups of two friends.  I don't remember the awkward getting to know each other phase.  The next thing I really remember is having a timbits eating contest against Kat, and trying not to choke.  The contest was a tie.

The team, à la felt.

It turned out that all of these friends loved science-fiction as well, and I'm pretty certain that's how the whole group met.  And when we did meet, it was magic.  All five of us hit it off amongst ourselves.  By Christmas, we had taken over the lounge in Kat and Wess' dorm.  We played pool, watched Xena, laughed way too much, teased each other, wrote stories, debated the value of red shirts, and yes, at times we studied.  In second year we all moved in together, except Ren, who was a business student and actually needed more study time than the rest of us delinquents.  And even then, Ren would come live with us in the summers when Kat headed back home for work. The five of us became a team. 

By year 2, we had taken over Skiffy.  And we had a ball.  We all received good grades in school, although I don't remember studying.  By year 3, the club was so active that we won Most Active Club award.  Anime nights, game release parties, Magic the Gathering games, movie nights, Capture the Flag games, storytelling, Kill vs Save Pikachu fundraising events... we did it all.  My brother came down quite a few times to visit (he saved Pikachu with a large donation), and was instrumental in our Final Fantasy VIII launch party (disappointing game, good party!)

Oh, and my team and I played games, watched movies, read books, spoiled plots, watched stars and talked about the future, held each other when family members passed away and made bad jokes on bad days and studied together and oh ya, we shouted at each other, too, and had wicked battles and always made up.  We napped in lounges, made football guys watch soap operas, stole each other's stuff and were just a general chaotic force of nature.  And we loved it.

By Reading Week of our first year in February, Wess and I decided to stay behind on campus and enjoy the week together.  We didn't have the money to take the train home, and I certainly didn't mind.  We had a blast and ate lots of beefaronis.  By the end of first year, my funds were tight.  Roomy's mom, who had never met me before, offered to rent a van, come up to Waterloo to pick me and my stuff up (and her daughter), and drive to Ottawa.  They live in Belleville, so that's three hours (times two) out of their way.  I remember thinking that this family was worth keeping.

And we all did.  Four years later, Ren and I graduated first, and we cried when we left our friends (following a repeat of the timbits eating contest.  Another tie.)  Ren moved  in with my mom and I, and when we both had jobs and could afford to live on our own, we got apartments in the same building.  And a cat!  We undertook our journeys in the "real world" together, trying to find our footing and careers in the vast sea of employment.  When the rest of the girls graduated a year later, we headed down to Waterloo to celebrate with them.  Kat headed back home to Amherstburg, near Windsor. 

Wess came up a couple of years later, and although her family lives in Ottawa, she moved in with me (I'm fun!)  We had a riot.  Just sitting and chatting by candlelight long into the night, convincing ourselves the high school behind our house was haunted, adopting random strays my brother brought into the house (he's useful, that one).

And then Roomy came up to do her PhD at the University of Ottawa, and she moved only an apartment building away.

And Wess moved out, to live with my brother (they shared cooties).  At their wedding, Wess' father joked in his speech that the five of us were together so often that they'd wondered if we were all going on the honeymoon (we didn't.  Cause ew.)

When Roomy's funding was drawing to an end, I invited her to join me in my apartment.  Why not?  It was big and her family's kindness from the end of first year was never forgotten.  How we managed to combine our two apartments into mine still boggles my mind. 

Ren then moved away, to be closer to work, since her commute was long and involved crossing a very full bridge.  With Wess and Ren now living further away, and our apartment developing what we fondly called Lake Bilodeau, we too moved, and we're not too far from our friends again. And we see them regularly, with and without husbands.  Girls' night once every two weeks!

And Kat? Well, she's still in Amherstburg.  She's married to a man she loves.  We all headed down for her wedding, they came up for Ren's wedding (freshly married for almost a year, now).  The best part is that all of the husbands are now like brothers, too (well, one of them IS my brother, technically).

Every time we see Kat, it's like no time has passed at all.  We were still the first she told when she found out she was pregnant, and the first she contacted when she miscarried.  And we all cried with her and toasted the unborn baby's life.  We're all going to be her children's aunties, after all.

All 8.5 team members, husbands and babies.

We see Kat at least twice a year.  We in fact spent a whole week together at a cottage this summer, somewhat but not really midpoint between our hometowns.  That's eight adults and a two-year old toddler, in a five-room cottage.  We had a blast again, and I can't remember a single argument.  And I capsized my roomy into the lake, too!

So that's what I was thinking of when I was writing about what kept me at Laurier.  It was the people.  These four, to be precise.  Other friends came and went, but some people became family.  They became a priority in my life, and I make time for them, no matter what book deadline I'm under or what storytelling gig is coming up.  Nowadays, our families are as mixed as our friendships.  My friends will go out with my mom, we'll celebrate occasions as one big family and we'll share joy and sadness. 

That bond that kept me going through university, that saw me happily going back to it after my first year Christmas, is still very much alive.  No crises or disaster needs to be faced alone, no bitterness swallowed whole, no scream go unheard with my team.  It's a wicked feeling, and it still keeps me going.  Rough days are easier to bear knowing that, although they are not always by my side, with one phone call, one e-mail, one Facebook update, even, they'll still rally and have my back.

We've all grown, changed, pursued different dreams, and I hope we continue to do so, and that our friendship continues to grow, as well.  It got me through university, it got me through other tight spots, and it's nice to feel as though it'll always be there, no matter what.

And that's why I entitled these blog posts "Nostalgia (But not really)."  I'm not feeling nostalgic for something I no longer have, since I still have it.  I don't feel nostalgic for days gone by, since I still have what was best in them.

It's not nostalgia so much as gratefulness for where I am today, and for the people who made it all possible, whether they were aware of it or not.

Art by Roomy

Nostalgia (But not really). Part 1.

I've been invited by my alma mater, Wilfrid Laurier University, to come and speak about how my Religion and Culture degree has helped me forge my path.  As part of my speaker engagement, I had to provide a biography outlining three things: What brought me to WLU, what I loved about it, and how I've used the learning.

Obviously, a religion and culture degree has proved very helpful in both storytelling and writing.  I learned enough myths, mythic structures, archetypes, cultural differences and textual intricacies to fuel another few hundred books.  So how it's proved useful was the easy part to write.  The before and during parts, however, were more difficult.

I mean, do you remember choosing your degree and university?  I do, sort of.  It's actually the time in my life I most used my diary, which means I have two entries on it (I have about twenty entries in all detailing my life.  I'm a terrible diary writer).  Last night, I popped open that shiny pink diary given to me by my godmother when I was maybe ten years old, to remind myself.  And wow, angsty.  You hate to look back and think you were an angsty teenager, but I really was.  I remember not being in a good place, and definitely wanting an "out," which was why I'd convinced my second high school (we moved after tenth grade) that it was okay for me to take grade 12 courses instead of grade 11.  I'm still not sure how I convinced them, but it worked, and although it accounted for lower marks, I still left home a year earlier than anticipated.

And I remember I wanted to go far.  Geographically far. Everyone else in my school was going to the University of Ottawa, since it's the only French (or at least bilingual) university in Ontario.  How dull was that!  And, I must say, at the time at least, options for French high school graduates in Ontario were very limited.  Quebec didn't make their universities accessible to us, and the only other bilingual university was Moncton.  And I didn't want to go there, either.

So my acceptance papers came in, including a full scholarship from the University of Ottawa.  I even rented a room from some nuns in Ottawa, ready or rather resigned to begin there in the Fall.  Then I changed my mind.  Wilfrid Laurier University offered me no money. It was a day's travel away.  And it was an English only school.  I'd been accepted in Archaeology (I later switched to Religion and Culture).

The two entries in my diary don't cover my actual decision.  I don't know if I felt I needed a fresh start, though I'd already had many of those in my day (at least five grade schools and two high schools).  I don't remember if I was mad at something or someone and decided to go further away.  Well, I was a teenager, so technically I WAS mad at everything and everyone, but I don't recall a specific event or reason.  But that's where I turned up, three days before the opening of the student dorms, in the town of Waterloo.

I remember my first class.  I had no idea what they were talking about.  Seriously no clue.  It was shingles, I later learned.  Roof shingles.  I think.  That's when I realized my conversational English wasn't good enough for university level classes.  The worst feeling in the world is taking a chance and feeling right away like the most basic of skills are going to undo you immediately.  I didn't know how to write an essay.  No clue.  I knew a dissertation, in French, but arguments are presented differently in an essay.  I was already on the verge of flunking, and I'd never foreseen this. I was the "smart" kid in high school.  I scored high marks without trying, even after skipping an entire grade. 

And yet here I was, unable to do the simplest of tasks, or understand the world around me.

It was scary, I'll admit.  And ya, I almost gave up.  I wasn't going to go home after Thanksgiving.  I took the train down, crying most of the way.  My family was proud of me for going to university.   They did what they could to support my goals, even if financial help was impossible.  I couldn't stand the thought of letting them down, and I felt sick to my stomach just thinking about it.

My bro. Who wouldn't trust that man?

I admitted it to my older brother.  Growing up, it was mostly just him, my mom and me, so we were close.  We moved a lot, and we didn't bother making too many friends.  It wasn't worth the effort, really.  And I loved my brother.  He never received his high school diploma, but he was working in what he loved: programming.  He was an inspiration to me, and still is.

So I didn't argue when my big brother looked me in the eyes, put his hands on my shoulders and said: "You're going back to university.  You're finishing your term. If you don't want to go back when you come down for Christmas, then we'll figure it out.  But right now, you're going back."  (I think he was actually that eloquent, too.  Rare occasion, really...)

I packed my bags, boarded the train with a lump in my throat, watched my brother's figure become so very small on the horizon as we rode away, and I was ready to at least give it another six or so weeks of battle.  But I didn't believe I'd stay.  I really didn't.  I wanted home.  I wanted people who had no personal space.  I needed to be able to perform simple transactions in my language.  And to be understood when I made jokes. Heck, I wanted to feel smart again.  It's amazing how much you lose when you can't communicate in your first language.

And I didn't want to lose those things again, even if only for a few weeks.  But I had promised my brother to stay until the end of term.

I did, and everything changed.  That's the stuff I couldn't put in my biography for the university.  Because what changed for me wasn't the learning or the teaching, though some teachers and the Writing Centre made a world of difference. 

What changed for me were the people.  With the simple act of commenting on a shirt and sitting in a middle seat, I met the people who saw me through the rest of university, whether knowingly or not.

But what made me stay at university is worthy of a whole other blog post.  Next Friday's rambling, I suppose!