A Letter From Heaven

Not sure if she's in heaven or not, but otherwise ... picture perfect.

I miss you, Mom. Always will.
 


It seems appropriate somehow that this popped up in FaceBook feed today.

I was just cleaning up some stuff around the house and found Vicks Vapour Rub (I haven't used it since long before I became an adult, so it must have been my Mom's) and a bottle of her Oil of Olay, which I don't use, but kept anyway. I don't know why ... okay, maybe I do, but ... I don't know why.

It will be nine years in a few short days (Nov. 29) - time to throw this stuff out and move on?

Perhaps, but that's okay ... I still have two of her dresses hanging up downstairs.

Three Weeks Years On

It's hard to believe that it's been three years since I've heard Lex's voice. Actually, in some ways, it feel like much longer.

March 6th was the appropriate date - the anniversary of that sad event. I should have written then, I suppose.

But you see, March 6th is also my youngest daughter's birthday. And, interesting story there - on the first anniversary of Lex's death, I was painfully aware of these two polar opposite events occuring on the same day. On the second anniversary, the fact that March 6th was both the Kit Kat's birthday and the day Lex died was most definitely on my mind from the moment I opened FaceBook. But this year was different.

My baby turned 19, you see (and, by the by, what the hell is up with that?!) and, I am sad to say, the fact that it was also an anniversary of another, much sadder sort slipped my mind. Slipped my mind until I read a Face Book post written by a good friend who, appropriately, I never would have met but for Lex. And then, once again, I experienced that jarring sensation when that juxtaposition caught me unaware and struck me hard - the date my baby was born was also the date that Lex died.

I am "lucky", I supppose, (if that be the right word) ... yes, I *still* miss Lex; but, perhaps not to the depth, to the degree some do. I refer not, of course, to to his "real world" family and friends (no contest there, I am sure), but rather to the more faithful (for lack of a better word) Lexicans, as witnessed on the Neptunus Lex Super Secret FaceBook page.

I still read semi-regularly over there (if reading the first four or five posts at the top of the page a few times a week counts as semi-regularly) and pop up with a comment or post occasionally (okay, very, very occasionally), but ... actually I kind of wonder how people (not just my NepLex friends but all my FB friends) manage to find the time to spend as much time as they seem to on social networks while still meeting the other obligations and needs (including their own) that our reality entails. But that be another story for another day ...

At any rate, I just popped in here to say .. what?

Hmmm, strangely I don't really know. Perhaps just to state that not just as is so evident on the Nep Lex page and elsewhere on the interwebs, Lex is still missed by many significantly quieter voices in the blogsphere (including those who can really can only be counted as semi-irregular regular bloggers, at best).

Fair winds and following seas, Sir ...

Unintended Consequences

Oh, the irony, the title of my last post, the day before the 10th anniversary of September 11, 2001, being "Hard" ... as if I know what "hard' really is.

Kind of puts things in perspective, doesn't it?

~  ~  ~  ~

I've had a deep respect for Craig Kielburger for quite a few years ... ever since I first heard about his passion and his accomplishments back when I was a member of Results. For those that aren't familiar with Craig's work activism (and I see that apparently at some point along the way he has also been joined by his brother), I would strongly recommend that you read this. And this. And this.

Yeah, I told you I was a bit of a fan, right?

What can I say, but that my own children would turn out so well ...

At any rate, my eye tends to pick out news stories where Craig's name is mentioned. Which is exactly what happened this morning, when I read this story in amongst all the other 9/11 stories in today's newspaper.

A story in which Craig writes about his personal experiences on Sept 11, 2001 and the aftershocks that he feels ten years later in a sprawling refugee camp on the Somalia-Kenya border.

You see, within two weeks of that fateful day in 2001, President Bush signed an executive order making it illegal to provide "material benefit" to terrorists - including humanitarian aid.

To say that seems logical, makes sense, would be an understatement.  But, as I constantly find myself preaching to my children, "actions have consequences".  Sometimes very unintended consequences.

And so it is that relief workers in Dadaab ten years later are experiencing a great deal of difficulty when they try to feed the starving.

Innocent Somalis are dying, including 29,000 children. But U.S. anti-terrorism laws had prevented some U.S. charities from working in Somalia, and now many - despite recent policy changes - are wary of accepting U.S. aid money for fear of inadvertently funding terrorism. Aid could fall into the hands of Al-Shabaab, a group of Islamic militants with links to al-Qaeda, and that charity might be considered an accomplice to terrorism by the U.S. government.

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

While in Dadaab, relief workers voiced the difficulties they encounter and the extreme caution with which they try to feed the starving. They also talked of how Al-Shabaab's link to al-Qaeda is likely one of the factors that have stopped people from donating to the dying Somalis.

Although exceptions have been made to the law for groups acting "in good faith," confusion about the policy still reigns among U.S.-funded charities fearful of accidentally funding terrorists.

And, quite rightly, both journalists and donors question whether the food and money is going to "alQaeda-backed Al-Shabaab." A valid concern, it presents a moral quandary for donors and a challenging situation for organizations trying to save innocent starving civilians.

And yet it's not just the stark reality that the events of September 11, 2001, have resulted in the world not responding to a humanitarian crisis in Somalia ten years later as it has to other such crisis, such as the Haitian earthquake (despite similar concerns there like corruption and disrupted supplies) that grabbed my attention. 

What really grabbed me was the parallel drawn between the reaction of New Yorkers who gathered together in candle light vigils ten years ago tonight (a reaction not that dissimilar to that not just of other Americans but of many, many people around the world) and wondered what would happen to their loved ones, their city, their country; who were really asking the question "Are we going to be OK?" and the situation in the refugee camps today.

In Craig's words:

I thought about that vigil when I was in Dadaab. The camps aren't equipped with electricity, so candles illuminate rows and rows of tents and makeshift shelters. At night, the refugees gather in the flickering light to ask about their loved ones, and their country, as well as that very question I heard in New York. "Are we going to be OK?"

Perhaps part of the reason this article struck me so was because it resonated so well with my own feelings expressed on a previous 9/11 anniversary a few years ago.

It's truly sad that so many of us have lost that sense of compassion and empathy, of being united in a common cause. Or experience. Or perhaps it's some other word that I cannot quite touch at the moment. But I know it was there. Just as surely as I know we have lost it in the intervening years. And that, I think, is another tragedy born out of that day.

So, no, I will never forget September 11. 2001. I will never forget the horror of it all. I will never forget those many who lost their lives that day or the families and friends they left behind. I will never forget that there is true evil in the world and that I saw it in action, with my own eyes, that day.

But neither will I ever forget what it felt like to see so many united in our humanity. Or what it feels like to lose that.

Or, in the words of the Kielburger brothers:

It saddens me to think that a "with us or against us" mentality might have overshadowed our compassion. In the week following 9/11, I watched shell shock and terror dissolve into an incredible outpouring of kindness.

~  ~  ~  ~

It's an unfortunate irony; a terrorist act on 9/11 brought forth such kindness in people, and when compassion is called for again, a fear of terrorism has limited our ability to help those who need it most. There are no easy answers on how to bring aid to those in the snare of Al-Shabaab, but we have to continue to find a way to help compassion triumph over fear.

Theatre

I watched on the television news yesterday as the issue of the "Ground Zero mosque" (complicated by the Preacher from Hell who up until the last minute had appeared hell-bent on burning multiple copies of the Koran) spilled over into protests on the streets in New York on the anniversary of 9/11.

And it got me thinking.  In particular, it made me wonder, for those that hold the anniversary of 9/11 as something precious (or, for some, even sacred), how well do those sentiments mix with the political theatre we witnessed yesterday?

It seems to me that the anniversary of 9/11 should be a time of remembrance, a time of reflection.  Whatever your feelings on the Ground Zero mosque or Pastor Jones, I just can't see the justification for those issues spilling over into what occurred yesterday. 

I'm not suggesting that either one of the above aren't relevant, important issues - things that need to be discussed, debated and, yes, perhaps even protested.  But I just don't think those issues belonged on New York streets.  Not yesterday.

There were two different "camps" out there protesting so I am not condemning one side over the other.  I think that, in a sense, they both should be ashamed of themselves.  Or, at the very least, they should be seriously reconsidering the appropriateness of the choices they made yesterday. 

Because it was all about "choice' - nobody forced either side out on to the streets.  If you really believe these issues require public protest, then by all means protest - do so on September 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7,  8, 9 and 10.   Do so on September 12, 13, 14 and 15 and onward, if you must.  But please have the respect to leave one day out of 365 clear of these type of activities.

Yes, I realize that both issues are all directly linked to 9/11 - some might go so far as to say that are a part of 9/11 or symbolize what 9/11 is all about.  I won't argue that point.

But can we not, for just one day, move the political theatre off of centre stage?  Can we not, just for one day, show the victims of 9/11 and their families the respect and dignity they deserve?  Is that really too much to ask?

The group that plans to build the Grand Zero mosque profess to be about "a platform for multi-faith dialogue", something that will strive to promote "inter-community peace, tolerance and understanding locally in New York City, nationally in America, and globally".  Both they and their supporters might want to consider that loud noisy protests on the very day dedicated to the memory of those who lost their lives on 9/11 might not only be the antithesis of promitng "peace, tolerance and understanding" but could well be seen as very disrespectul of those victimes.

And those on the other side of the issue, who argue so strongly that allowing a mosque to be built so close to Ground Zero is a slap in the face to those victims and their families might want to consier affording those same victims and their families one day of dignity, quiet and remembrance.

To do otherwise is, in my opinion, pretty hypocrical of those on both sides of the issue.

I'm just saying.

'In a Company of Heroes'

As I mentioned, my brother was down this past week for a visit.

He's always putting me on to movies I've missed, usually bringing 2 or 3 from his massive collection down with him for us to watch. Often buying me one he thinks I particularly would like or need to have.

This time, he didn't bring any movies with him. Unless you count the entire six seasons of Get Smart on DVD which he bought down here and now brings back on every visit. He only watches it down here. It's kind of cool, reliving a piece of your childhood that way.

But the first night he was here, he asked if I had ever watched "Band of Brothers" on HBO. No, I hadn't but I had often seen it in the Guide. I really should watch it, he said, it was excellent. The following morning what was on TV but the entire Band of Brothers series, starting with the very first episode.

He convinced me that I could run my few errands the following day, that today this is what we would do. Unfortunately, the phone kept ringing. Then a friend came to the door. I kept returning to the show but after a few hours, I commented that although I was still following the story I had missed enough to still not really know who all the characters were.

Shortly thereafter, I apparently having missed something my brother considered significant, something that I had to see so I could understand and appreciate something that would come later, he proclaimed that he was hungry. We should turn off the TV and go out for lunch. No, really. That's what we should do.

I was a little perturbed. After all, he was the one who had wanted me to watch this, convinced me to give up the day for it and then here I was being essentially told that I couldn't watch the rest of it.

But we went out for lunch. And later, while I ran some errands he stopped in at the Future Shop. Nothing new there, it's one of his favourite places to browse, so I didn't think much of it. When we returned home, he handed me the DVD set of Band of Brothers. "Gee, thanks, but you didn't have to do that." "I know but now you will be able to watch the whole thing."

We started with where we had left off and made it through Part VI before he left, leaving me with four parts left to watch. But as I listened to talk about D-Day, Normandy and the assault on the beaches that would be going on at the same time as Easy Company went about their mission, I turned to my brother and commented on the Canadians at Juno Beach.

And I must admit that it was nice to finally (for once) have knowledge of something that he was a little more fuzzy on - he wasn't entirely sure of the Canadian soldiers involvement in D-Day.

I was.

It was about 2:30 p.m. when Westhaver, Westie to his buddies, landed on Juno Beach for an allied invasion that was the beginning of the end for the German forces pummelling Europe.

He’d joined the army in May 1942, flew to England in August of that year and trained for six or seven months to become a wireless operator with the Army Signal Corps. He and his fellow servicemen spent months more practising for battle on the beaches of Wales, "almost like a rehearsal for a show."

But no amount of training prepared the young men, many just 21 or 22, for what they encountered on that strip of Normandy sand.

WADING THROUGH BODIES

Sailing over the English Channel to get there, Westhaver huddled with British commandoes, who sharpened their knives for battle.

"But there wasn’t much talk," he says. "I think they were all like me because we had never been in action before so we didn’t really know what to expect."

The then-21-year-old spent his first few moments of action wading through bodies.

"The water was up around my shoulders . . . and here the water was full of dead Canadians floating by with their heads down and you could see Canada on their shoulder. . . . So I had to push these guys out of the way to get into the beach," he recalls.

"There were dead bodies everywhere, laying on the beach and everything. So I’m running up the beach — and I’ve thought about this many times — all of a sudden I see an airplane coming.

"Now I used to build airplanes when I was a kid, I was always interested in airplanes. This airplane had two engines, two motors and all of a sudden sparks started coming out of the wings and I’m looking at it . . . coming at me. And all of a sudden it dawned on me, ‘He’s firing at us.’

"This was a German, this was a German airplane so . . . there was a hole there and I ran and jumped in the hole. I landed on top of a dead Canadian."

He shakes his head, but like he did that day, he keeps going.

"As soon as the aircraft went over you could hear the guns going . . . but it was a very confusing day because there were bullets flying everywhere. . . . You’d hear them over your head and the Canadian Navy, they were firing over our heads into the German lines . . . and you could hear these great big shells going over your head — whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa — and I used to think, ‘Oh my God, let’s hope that they keep going.’ "

This dangerous chaos is what D-Day veterans of many stripes have described over the years.

But fewer of them are around these days to talk about the horror and heroism.

Nova Scotia vets Earl Gouchie and Irving Cromwell, now gone, lived the horror then and — off and on — for the remainder of their days.

On the eve of the 60th anniversary of D-Day six years ago, Gouchie, a former sniper, could still smell the blood of his fallen comrades, hear the rat-a-tat-tat of machine-gun fire and feel the artillery shells groan.

Cromwell, his hand still trembling from the "shell shock" of a long gone war, recalled a fear frozen in time — as if he still stood on that beach, on that day, as the bombs and soldiers fell.

It's hard to comprehend, to get your head around, what it must have been like for those young men, for those boys. In fact, I think it's a lot easier not to even try.

And yet, be that as it may, we owe them at least that much, don't you think?

I'm going back to watch some more of Band of Brothers. It's the least I could do.

'She is Gone'

“You can shed tears that she is gone,
or you can smile because she has lived.

You can close your eyes and pray that she'll come back,
or you can open your eyes and see all she's left.

Your heart can be empty because you can't see her,
or you can be full of the love you shared.

You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday,
or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday.

You can remember her only that she is gone,
or you can cherish her memory and let it live on.

You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your back.
Or you can do what she'd want: smile, open your eyes, love and go on.

David Harkins
Silloth, Cumbria, UK

With thanks to the Kit Kat

Les Miserables

It's been a rough few weeks month around here. I thought just for me, but apparently for all of us. If it was true that misery does indeed love company ... we would all be feeling a mite bit happier, I imagine.

As of last night, I finally went through every single picture from Mom's house, every photo album, every framed photograph and every stray one laying in the bottom of a box. Which, while it gave me a feeling of satisfaction (not that I'm 'done' with them, by any means, because I have quite a stack that I still need to figure out exactly what to do with) also left me feeling even more lost and alone.

I found Mom this morning, in my dreams, in the strangest place. She was in what I was calling a memory stick but was actually something more like the size and shape of I-Touch. Not a picture. Not even video. But actually Mom.

Walking around, smiling, talking with me but trapped inside the device. I realized it as a way to have her back, as the only way to have her back, so I was mostly okay with that and she certainly seemed happy enough in there. Still I remember telling her how much I wish I could actually hug her. Didn't seem to fizz her too much though. But then the alarm went off and I had to leave her behind.

Not too far behind though. It seems like she's been with me (or hovering nearby) most of the day. Not in a good way but in a sad way. And something tells me it's only going to get worse as we come closer and closer to that cursed date 11 days hence.

Ironically enough, the girls will be at bereavement retreat for teens that weekend. How strange is that? I think it will be good though. For them at least. And apparently the Kit Kat agrees. I was a little surprised by her comment the other day that she thought it would be a good place to be right then.

Although I must admit that I find myself wishing I had a similar place to go. I'm far from certain how, exactly, I am going to get through that weekend. And I realized today that my husband has similar feelings. It took me a while to realize (and I must confess, it's still very easy for me to forget) how much losing Mom was a personal loss for him, too. Not 'just' his mother-in-law but because both his parents died shortly after we were married and Mom lived with us or right next door for the past 16 years, I think, in a way, she became his mother, too.

Since we have to take the girls to the retreat which is a few hours away, we have decided to stay in Halifax for the weekend as opposed to spending most of it on the road. Which should be nice; we very rarely get away alone for a weekend. Somehow I don't much expect it to be though. Less something to be enjoyed; more something to be survived.

Disjointed

Driving to work this morning. Lost in thought. Mulling over this and that.

When I thought I heard news snippets from that other September 11th. 2001. And then, yeah, there it was again. On the radio.

The song "In a New York Minute", the same song that caused me to write this post one year ago today.

That was when I realized it was a repeat of what our local radio station did last year. Between 9:45 and 10:00 AM Atlantic Standard Time (perhaps when the first planes took off?) they played snippets of news tapes from that awful day, "In a New York Minute" and "I Will Remember You" interspersed between various commercials and The Parent Report.

I like that they do that, that they keep doing that. I wonder how many other Canadian radio stations do the same thing?

~ ~ ~ ~

I moseyed over to Homefront Six's blog today.

She wrote about her memory of that day eight years ago.

Her husband (MacGyver she calls him) is in the military and at the time they were stationed in Alaska. But I will let her tell the full story, from an earlier post in 2007.

We were in Alaska. About as far away from New York and the Pentagon as you can get and still be in the United States. MacGyver had come home from PT and was in the shower. I was on 1/2 days leading up to maternity leave and didn't have to be to school until 11am that day. My alarm went off and it was set to the local country station. When it went off, I slapped at the snooze button. About a half second after I hit the snooze button, my brain registered what the DJ had said..."a plane has crashed into the Pentagon. No word on casualties yet. This, in addition to the World Trade Center...".

I remember the words verbatim.

I sat bolt upright in bed and lunged for the radio and turned it back on and sat there for what felt like minutes but was actually more like seconds listening to the DJ go on about the events that had unfolded thousands of miles away while I slept.

MacGyver shut the shower off and I jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom. I about ran into him as he came out and told him (like millions of other people said that day), "You have to go downstairs and turn on the TV. Planes have hit the Pentagon and the World Trade center." That is all I could get out. I still couldn't wrap my brain around what I had heard and it would be days...weeks, even...before I was able to do so.

We went downstairs - MacGyver still dripping wet in his towel and me, 10 months pregnant - and turned on the television. We just stood there. I can still feel the sensation of my mouth literally hanging open. I kept closing it and it kept falling open. And we just watched.

Finally, MacGyver said something about maybe now not being the best time to bring a child into the world. I said something back to the effect that it was a little too late for that thought. He then started moving very quickly to get dressed and get to work. I remember him grabbing his A and B bags, not knowing if he would be home...

It was that last part is what struck me so vividly when I read it.

Or as she recalled it today:

We went downstairs and stood, gaping, at the television. We couldn't even cry. We were too shocked. I think the first tower fell while we were watching and that must have sparked MacGvyer to move. He bolted upstairs, threw on his BDUs, grabbed his overnight bag and some food, kissed me goodbye, and left. Still, there were no tears. I didn't know if I would see him again. In my mind, he would deploy. I don't know where I thought he was going or what I expected him to be doing but I did not expect him to come home. Mentally I was trying to steel myself to have this baby alone. And I was ok with that. Hell, after thinking about what the people in New York, DC, and Pennsylvania were going through, having a baby on my own was nothing compared to that.

Still, there were no tears.

Yeah. Can you imagine? I can't.

~ ~ ~ ~

So just how long is too long?

I recall some non-Americans questioning quite a few years ago why the US was still "going on and on" about 9/11. That other countries have had similar tragedies. Bigger tragedies, even. Suck it up and get over it, they said. "Why should you remember 9/11 while we are asked to forget ours?"

Imagine. As if anyone should could ask, could even suggest that some other nation should just "get over" their tragedy, whatever it was. The difference being (if there is one), I suppose, that historically we in North America had such a tradition of being *protected* from so much. Sure, read about it in the newspaper. Turn the page. See it on the TV news. Change the channel. Or just wait a minute. Much like the weather, the story will soon change to something more palatable, less horrifying.

After my first year of college, a good friend and I traveled to Europe. It was a wild trip, we went where we wanted when we wanted. And only came home when we finally ran out of money. Did a lot of backpacking and hitchhiking. Stayed in a lot of hostels.

I have a lot of amazing memories from that trip. But two things in particular are burned into my mind until this day.

One was walking through an open air market in Rome. Accidentally bumping into somebody. Looking up to apologize. And finding myself staring into the face of an old man with only one eye. No patch, no bandage to cover the missing organ. Just one eye. And what looked to my horrified eyes as literally a hole in his head where the other belonged.

I could handle the people begging in the street. Even the woman begging as she sat on the sidewalk while she breastfed her infant and three other little ones played nearby. The man with only one eye ... not so much.

The other incident occurred when we staying at a hostel in Greece. We met a young girl, around 14 or 15, from Israel. Very pretty. She was traveling by herself, which both my friend and I agreed was nuts.

Traveling as a duel, we documented at least 30 pairs teams of guys who tried were determined to pick us up, who were hard-pressed to take No for an answer when if we declined. And then there was the one guy in Paris who approached us on the street at night, grabbed my friend and tried to kiss her on the mouth. She pushed him away and we took off at a mad run for the hotel. Fortunately, he only followed for a block or two. So, yeah, we figured the Israeli girl was either very brave or very stupid. Or maybe a little of both.

And then she made the comment that I will never forget. That all she wanted in life was to find a place to live where you could wake up in the morning without wondering if your father or brother was dead. It completely blew me away, I couldn't imagine living that way.

I believe the word is sheltered. Protected. Not so much any more.

Perhaps that trip to Europe was a wake-up call to me. Perhaps 9/11 was another.

Once is once too often. And, for me at least, having it happen to the US was the same as watching some terrible, unthinkable tragedy happening to your next door neighbour's home. So even if your own house remained unscathed, your psyche didn't. It was the next worse thing to it actually happening in your home.

~ ~ ~ ~

This post. Disjointed.

Sort of like my memories of September 11, 2001, are today.

Sixty-Five Years Ago

D-Day. The invasion of Normady.

We have heard those words bandied around a lot today as the 65th anniversary of the "liberation of Europe".

A day with many fine speeches.

But let us never forget Juno Beach.

Juno Beach, an eight-kilometre-wide stretch of sand and bucolic fishing villages, was where 14,000 soldiers of the 3rd Canadian Infantry Division battled their way ashore against fierce resistance from 7,100 Germans of the 716th Infantry Division.

The Canadians overran the port of Courseulles-sur-Mer, France and two smaller villages to the east - Bernieres and St. Aubin. By nightfall on June 6, 1944, they penetrated further inland than either the Americans - or the British.

And although I'm no fan of the man, I must say that I did appreciate his words today.

"On this stretch of beach, code-named Juno, Canadian soldiers undertook what would prove to be one of the defining operations of our proud military history," Harper told a crew of dignitaries and veterans at Juno Beach.

"Canadian soldiers, sailors and airmen had pushed further inland than any other allied troops.

"Together they had breached Hitler's . . . Europe and effectively turned the tide of a war as bitter and bloody as any the world has ever known," said Harper.

The prime minister said that the soldiers fought for peace and freedom, the same things Canadians today are fighting for in Afghanistan.

It is no exaggeration to say that the course of history itself changed that very day," Harper said. "A triumph of this magnitude was not without sacrifice, of the 15,000 Canadians who took part in that initial assault, nearly 1,000 were killed or wounded. Over the course of the Normandy campaign, over 5,000 had paid the ultimate price.

"Through their bravery, skill and sheer determination, the shackle of the Nazi oppression was shattered and humanity was rescued from a future of tyranny, racism and cruelty."

All of them.

And might I suggest that you take a few minutes to peruse the first few videos to the far right of this page. And end with this nice piece from the UK Guardian.

By the by, as to Sarzosky's apparent desire to have today's ceremony limited to only President Obama and himself, to the exclusion of Canada and Britain, might I remind le president that his country was happy enough to see us there in 1944.

Something which the French people themselves do not seem to have forgotten, even if their leader has.

Missed It!

Just another blog anniversary.

Well, okay, maybe not just just another blog anniversary. It is my first one, after all. But apparently I missed it. Just realized that it passed on November 5th.

Oh, well. So be it.

It's been a fun year. Laughed a lot, cried a lot, researched a bit, posted a fair bit, made some lots of new friends. And got hooked on blogging. Really, really hooked on blogging.

And, oh yeah, 6590 unique visitors. Not so bad, I suppose.

So thanks for sticking around. Or even just dropping by once or twice. It's been fun. Hopefully there will be a lot more yet to follow.

Democracy And All That

The Year: 1758

The Place: Halifax, Nova Scotia

The Event: The Birth of Democracy in Canada

Pretty cool, no?
Well, I thought so, but apparently they didn't quite get it.

You Show Me Yours ...

I guess I've been lucky. I've spent very little of my working life in a cubicle. Oh sure, I had one for about four months when I first started articling. Until the firm started to fall apart, many lawyers left and I wrangled my way into a suddenly empty office with a gorgeous view of the harbour from the 14th floor.

Just about anything had to be a step down from there, I suppose. And so it was. First of all, to an office with a much less-intriguing view of that same harbour. Then to a windowless office. Those, by the way, need to be outlawed.

Back to cubicle of sorts, if having a desk facing a part wall, part window with no dividers counts as a cubicle. Different desks, different buildings. I think my second favourite workspace (nothing was ever going to top that first huge office with the gorgeous view) was actually the one I balked at the most when I first learned of it. The lawyer I was working for moved into his family home (an older house) and renovated it into an office. The kitchen became the secretary's office, the dining room was a waiting room, His Eminence took up digs in the living room, the spouse of His Eminence was assigned a back bedroom and the other bedroom was assigned the title of "War Room". Alas, what was to become of me? I wanted that War Room, you see. Nope, wasn't meant to be. I, poor hard-working me, was assigned to the front hallway.

Say what?! You expect me to work in the [literally] narrow confines of a hallway? Are you nuts? Well, by the time it was all said and done, I was quite happy in my new home. No, I didn't have clients (or anyone else) traipsing through my office. Only the side door was used. There was french doors between my office and that of His Eminence and with our chairs being literally almost back to back, it was easy for either one of us to open the door, lean back and chat. I was back to having a window. And eventually that window housed an air-conditioner which worked well for me. Add in royal blue carpet, some nice wood end tables from a nicely furnished home and the fact that I could close the door between my office and the secretary's office and then open the inside front door and put up the screen for a nice breeze in the summer and I was happy. Yeah, I know, I'm a cheap date. But sometimes there is something to be said for solitude, peace and quiet and coziness.

Or course, now there are many days that I feel I have neither an office or a cubicle. The one day a week that I work physically in the Barristers' Library, I have a cubicle of sorts. More like a computer work station, I suppose. But I never know for sure which one it might be until I get there. Because someone else just might be using my favourite one. At home I have an office ... yeah, right. What has variously been known as the computer room, the play room and mom's office throughout the years ... and now seems to retain aspects of all three to some degree. Although much less a 'play room' now, thank goodness, since the young'uns are much less young. Still, it's my favourite room in the house, especially in the evenings with just the desk lamp on. It retains a feeling of quiet and order .... all right, semi-order, anyway.

But remember this - whatever your physical work situation, it always could be worse. Apparently it's the 40th anniversary of the cubicle. Now there's something worth celebrating. NOT. But in honour of the occasion, OddOrama has compiled a collection of cubicles of 'Ten Cubicles That Are Cooler Than Yours (One That Isn't)'.

This first one reminds me of articling. Hmmm, wonder why?

Or perhaps you're more of a functional person?



Feeling a little more whimsical?



Go check out the rest of them. And remember, it could always be worse, eh?

H/T to R. Enochs, Esq.

Pssst ...

Stay tuned.
The next visitor will be the blog's 1,000 visitor.
Not too bad for a blog that's only 2 months old, I figure.

Two months ... 132 posts. I must like to blog, I guess.

















Update: Congratulations to the phantom I believe to be neoauteur. Thanks for shopping at Free Falling and please make sure you come back to check out more of our New Years specials. New stock arriving daily. Oh yeah, don't forget to pick up your gift certificate at the Customer Service counter.

May We Never Forget

Yesterday was a date of anniversaries.
Unfortunately, not the good kind.

The Halifax Explosion.

And 14 women shot and killed at Montreal's École Polytechnique. Just because. They were woman.

May we never forget.