Desert Island Discs

 

Do you remember the phenomenon of desert island discs? Famous people would compile lists of the (eight) records they would wish for, should they ever be trapped on a desert island.

Of course today, with the ubiquity of MP3 players and mobile phones, no one need ever be trapped with only eight records.

Still, the idea has intrigued me for decades, since I first learned of the concept. Perhaps now, with a fairly developed music collection, I am prepared to contemplate my own desert island discs.

1. Kate Bush, The Dreaming: "This album was made to be played loud," the liner notes say, and I have played it really, really loud over and over again for more than thirty years. I have performed choreographed dance routines to several of the tracks and know every word of every song. If my life were reduced to one record — if I could take only one disc to the desert island — this would be it. If you have never heard it — and how do you know me and why are you reading this post if you haven't? — it is by turns powerful, frightening, soaring, and haunting. Unquestionably the musical statement that has influenced me most.

2. Kate Bush, Hounds of Love: So much of my youth is wrapped up in this record; I have listened to it literally hundreds of times — perhaps more than a thousand times — on vinyl, cassette, CD, or MP3. The long-time-coming follow-up to The Dreaming, this record leads off with one of my very favourite KB tracks, runs through a string of singles, and then presents "The Ninth Wave," a mini-concept album that still delights me after nearly three decades. A masterpiece.

3. Tori Amos, Boys for Pele: I suppose a fan should pick Little Earthquakes, and certainly that remains a favourite, as does From the Choirgirl Hotel. But Boys is just a little more special. Tori is tied to a particular era of my life; her first several albums are musically brilliant and (for me) saturated with nuance and memory. After Scarlet's Walk, I lost the thread; but until then, I might have taken all of her discs to the island with me.

4. Simon and Garfunkel, Bridge Over Troubled Water: So difficult to choose! Part of me still thinks I'd rather have Bookends. But I simply cannot imagine never hearing "The Boxer" (in my opinion one of the most perfect songs ever recorded) again. (Maybe I'm taking this desert-island thing a little too seriously?) And by the way, there's no copping out and taking the "greatest hits" disc — though if that were an option... No, Bridge reflects the folky, lyrical, poetical me. Couldn't be without it.

5. The Pretenders, Learning to Crawl: Strangely, this is for my inner fifteen-year-old girl. Rock 'n' roll poetry. A little bit punk. Quite a lot angry. For me, this is a record about reaching for more. And if you're looking for women role models in music, Chrissie Hynde should be top of the list.

6. Joni Mitchell, Court and Spark: Could not be without this. I'd also want The Hissing of Summer Lawns and Ladies of the Canyon and Dog Eat Dog, of course, but since I'm pushed to choose only one ... shades of Sophie Zawistowska ... it has to be Court and Spark. I know, I know; the purists would choose Blue. But I imprinted on a different Joni, and C&S speaks to me like no other record. Going to listen to this one now ...

7. Film soundtrack, Jesus Christ Superstar: Can I get away with this? It's technically two discs, but in one package. Another record tied to my youth, but so formative. Comfort listening at its finest.

8. The Beatles, Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band: You know, I think Magical Mystery Tour is probably the better choice for me, but it's not really an album. Rubber Soul and Let It Be are jostling for my attention but ... no, SPLHCB it is.

Omg this was a difficult exercise. Every choice closed off half a dozen other choices — no other soundtracks? No other eighties discs? Nothing from Cat Stevens or U2 or Peter Gabriel or Heather Nova  or Sarah Slean or ...? And no ABBA? B can't believe there's no ABBA. I console myself with the thoughts that 1) I have a good memory for music and can play other records in my mind's ear and 2) I will not be on this imaginary desert island for very long.

So, that's my provisional list, subject to change tomorrow. What discs would you need? Inquiring minds and all that ...

Photographic "art"

At the torture-filled local school I went to for grades seven, eight, and nine, the Industrial Arts and Home Economics programs were organized so that every grade seven student took two units of IA and two units of Home Ec. In this way, I earned credits for cooking things I could cook with my eyes closed and for sewing a stuffed animal. In this way, I also reinforced that my career would not involve engines, tools, or anything vaguely mechanical or manual.

This is my final submission for the darkroom rotation in IA 1. We also made carvings on blocks of linoleum, printed posters using a very simple letterpress, turned a tin can into a Barbie chair, and turned a wine bottle into a giant long-stemmed glass. These objects have long since met the landfill, but the photographic evidence of my darkroom incompetence remains.

To be fair to myself, I should observe that it's not the darkroom processes that went wrong. (The green streak is an artifact of scanning.) The assignment was to assemble a simple image using our choices from a box filled with interesting bits of metal. My wobbly owl is a fine concept; the hurried execution remains an artistic issue, however.

I enjoyed the darkroom work. I also remember that while I was doing this task, some of the boys I was friendly with were obsessed with Bob and Doug McKenzie and the Great White North. So perhaps some of the owl's wobbliness is the inanimate object's effort to escape from excessive exhortations to "Take off, eh."

Grade seven in a nutshell. Not sure about the infinite space, but bad dreams? Check.

Work and Play

B will tell you that I do not understand the concept of a vacation. Or at least I do not seem to know how to relax. In my defence, I'd say that I've been living my life on double-speed for so long that I can rarely disentangle work from play. Let's examine the photographic record.

1. This is Zak at eight months old on the lawn of Dale's house in Calgary, May 1992. I'm all dressed up because a few hours earlier I had given a forestry presentation at a school in Red Deer. The next day, we flew to Victoria for a holiday. Zak made a great smiling baby!

2. This is Zak four years later (spring 1996). We're in a queue for the ferry, so we're en route back to Vancouver. Notice the contrast in clothing: clearly a vacation.

3. This is me on my way to a Hallowe'en party, standing on the stairs of my former workplace, the WBM house. Earl took this photo. OK, definitely a intertwingling of work and play...

4. Zak, MeMere, and me. Brooks, July 2006: a weekend party for PePere's birthday. Definitely en vacances.

Well, I'm not sure I've made a strong case that I know how to relax, but I enjoyed flipping through these photographs. In fact, when I unearthed the photo basket, I realized we have hundreds of photos that exist only as prints, not in digital copies, so I could spend the next few weeks scanning and saving them ... Or maybe that would only prove B's point ...

In step with the meme

Happy Thursday! Your correspondent is busily writing and editing and having long lunches with friends, and therefore missed posting yesterday. Oops.

To make up for my bad ways, I offer you a Throwback Thursday photo bonanza!

1. My dad as an infant. Props to my grandmother for this.

2. My family, summer 1982, at the Strathcona Science Park in east Edmonton. Courtesy of my Kodak 110.

3. C'est moi, spring 1983, in an alley in Belvedere.

4. Dad and me, Sherwood Park, August 1986.

OK, that was a long throw back! Now my arm is tired. Ta!

Tuesday, which is not Monday

Wow, this week is flying by. And wow, I drank a lot of milk today.

In keeping with my random theme, here are three photos. Random!

1. In Paris. July 2008. This shop is now closed. Wah.

 2. My avatar! Actually a mosaic in the NYC subway. February 2013.

3. At a Hallowe'en fundraiser. Waiting to hear Le Fuzz. October 2013

Randomnosity is fun. I think I'll do more of this. Cheers!

Do'h!

This afternoon I contributed in a tiny way to C's upcoming magazine issue by helping to roast dough twists over an open flame. That probably doesn't sound very appetizing, but when the roasted dough is rolled in butter and sprinkled with cinnamon sugar, it should be tasty (at least for people who like butter and sugar).

Working in the kitchen with C today reminded me of the great Marxist cookie event of May 2012, in which Carmen and I undertook to make a dozen or so Groucho Marx-style cookies. Whee! Here's a picture of the best pan.

So cute! I still like these guys.

Anyway. I'm hopeful good food styling and good camera work will disguise the fact that my dough twist looked like it was roasted by the family under-achiever. And kudos to C for coming up with a fun project for a Monday afternoon.

The vault of lost lyrics, chapter 87

This is my absolute favourite summer song, and also one of my top-ten heart songs. It reminds me of August evenings, creamy caramel light, sweetness and laughter. And though the original remains the best, Styx did a pretty kickass cover back in 2005, too.

**

"Summer in the City" (as recorded by The Lovin' Spoonful)

Hot town, summer in the city

Back of my neck getting dirty and gritty

Been down, isn't it a pity

Doesn't seem to be a shadow in the city

All around, people looking half dead

Walking on the sidewalk

Hotter than a match head

But at night it's a different world

Go out and find a girl

Come on, come on and dance all night

Despite the heat it'll be alright

And babe, don't you know it's a pity

That the days can't be like the nights

In the summer, in the city

In the summer, in the city

Cool town, evening in the city

Dressing so fine and looking so pretty

Cool cat, looking for a kitty

Gonna look in every corner of the city

Till I'm wheezing like a bus stop

Running up the stairs

Gonna meet you on the rooftop

But at night it's a different world

Go out and find a girl

Come on, come on and dance all night

Despite the heat it'll be alright

And babe, don't you know it's a pity

That the days can't be like the nights

In the summer, in the city

In the summer, in the city

(repeat verse 1 and chorus)

The vault of lost lyrics, chapter 66

(Before we go any further: little signal and little time on the VI circumnavigation trip, so no posts. Sorry!)

While no one will ever confuse Deep Purple with bubblegum pop, this song is a surprisingly summery selection for the band. The crunchy guitar, the snapping Hammond organ, the underplayed vocals? Perfect for June's big blue sun-drenched prairie skies. And on the wind, the breath of a voice.

**

"Hush" (as recorded by Deep Purple)

I got a certain little girl, she's on my mind

No doubt about it, she looks so fine

She's the best girl that I ever had

Sometime she's gonna make me feel so bad

Hush, hush

I thought I heard her calling my name now

Hush, hush

She broke my heart, but I love her just the same now

Hush, hush

Thought I heard her calling my name now

Hush, hush

I need her loving, and I'm not to blame now

(Love, love)

They got it early in the morning

(Love, love)

They got it late in the evening

(Love, love)

Well, I want and need it

(Love, love)

Oh, I gotta gotta have it

She got loving like quicksand

Only took one touch of her hand

To blow my mind, and I'm in so deep

That I can't eat and I can't sleep

Hush, hush

I thought I heard her calling my name now

Hush, hush

She broke my heart, but I love her just the same now

Hush, hush

Thought I heard her calling my name now

Hush, hush

I need her loving, and I'm not to blame now

(Love, love)

They got it early in the morning

(Love, love)

They got it late in the evening

(Love, love)

Well, I want and need it

(Love, love)

Hey, I gotta gotta have it ...

En fin

Saturday morning. It's been a tumultuous week, and also fairly productive. Finished the substantive edit on my Spring 2016 novel, read all the books I'm reviewing this month, started my reviews, baked, packed, and voted...

And now we're away for a couple of weeks. I will try to post an update or two here when we're at marinas. Our objective is to circumnavigate Vancouver Island; no idea what this particular adventure will hold. In previous years groups have encountered large groups of dolphins racing their boat, but I'm hoping for whales. Orcas. And a complete dearth of bad weather.

OK, off to pack my fluorescent-orange VIRG toque! Bonne chance!

Year Zero, Day 1

We did it. Alberta, I'm so proud of us.

In the spirit of graduation

Today is my last official day of work before starting vacation on Monday and starting sabbatical on July 1. A new phase of my career is beginning. In that spirit (and also, frankly, because I don't have much else to say today), here are three pictures from 1985 and 1986. I remember the event of the grad photo only — no idea when or where the others were taken, other than in a studio somewhere.

By complete random chance, I still own the earrings I'm wearing in the top photo, and was wearing (one of) them at the U of A convocation where I received Elmer.

Here's to a new adventure!

On the placement of "only"

In the last two weeks I have marked approximately one million student assignments and copyedited a novel alongside reading several published books. As I perform these activities, my editor brain remarks on consistent issues, such as writers' apparently irresistible desire to refer to certain birds as "Canadian" geese, rather than by their species name, Canada geese. Argh.

My current peeve, however, involves the placement of the modifier only. It's a tricky word, as my set of sample sentences demonstrates:

Only I will have your heart!

I only will have your heart!

I will only have your heart!

I will have only your heart!

I will have your only heart!

I will have your heart only!

So here's the drill: only should be placed close to the sentence constituent it modifies. In most English syntax, that placement means immediately before said constituent.

I may be one of the few editors in the world clinging to this principle, though. And despite that I teach the point in first-year grammar courses, student writers are especially frequent offenders in misplacing only.

Here are some examples. Read the sentences aloud, emphasizing the word or phrase after only. Do you perceive the improved clarity?

Worse: She only uses that word when something is good.

Better: She uses that word only when something is good.

Worse: She only got out of it what she put into it.

Better: She got out of it only what she put into it.

Worse: He could only save the one.

Better: He could save only the one.

The third sentence stands out because the "better" phrasing is not typical of the way we speak. That's the difference between writing and speaking: in writing, we have the opportunity to go back and rephrase an utterance for clarity. In writing we must be more considerate of the reader than we are of the listener when we speak. A listener has our presence and can ask for clarification, but a reader is normally reading without us and cannot ask for help.

In summary, the key idea of today's lesson is this: handle only with care. 

 

Yeah, yeah, uh-huh, I heard you

Haven't blogged lately. Sorry. Busy.

Here's a picture instead: late November 1990. Omg, we still have the descendants of that philodendron!

Super baby to the rescue!

Back to you after finals. Ta!

A child's logic

When I was in grade four — in 1979 — Supertramp released "The Logical Song" as a single, and it captivated even an ear as young as mine. In particular, I was fascinated by the structuring of these lines:

Now watch what you say or they'll be calling you a radical,

Liberal, fanatical, criminal.

Won't you sign up your name, we'd like to feel you're

Acceptable, respectable, presentable, a vegetable!

A radical, a liberal? Whoa. Though I couldn't have used the idea of linkage as a ten-year-old, I certainly perceived it.

If you know even the littlest thing about me today, you'll know that "they" are calling "me" exactly these things for my politics and beliefs. And what's wonderful about my brand of resilience is that I don't care. Or to adopt masculine diction: Bring it.

Not sure why I'd attribute so much influence to a pop song (OK, OK, a prog-rock song), but it has stuck with me. This morning, as I sang along with Roger Hodgson, I was reminded of all the little details that make a (more or less) whole person.

How sweet it is.

 

In a seemingly interminable meeting yesterday, one of the speakers, asked whether her committee had discussed a particular point of granular interest to the questioner, said the following:

I don't think we really had a fulsome discussion about that.

I also hope they didn't. Fulsome means "complimentary or flattering to an excessive degree." So Polonius's praise might be described as fulsome (or obsequious), but nothing about the bureaucratic process should be.

Malapropism has always amused me, and academic committee meetings are a wonderful place to observe it. And I have certainly produced my share of diction errors in my time. But this slip (not to mention the awkwardly placed modifier) made an otherwise wrist-slicingly boring meeting a little brighter.

Thus ends my gratitude affirmation for today. Now back to my regularly scheduled snark....

A word for my mind

In my reading today I discovered a word that describes my mind, and therefore my work habits, rather well: circumforanean. It means "going about or abroad," as in walking about a marketplace or wandering through a neighbourhood (with the implication that doing so is suspicious). Despite its lack of legs, my brain is circumforanean.

"See what else your old heart can take"

On Monday night I had the distinct pleasure of seeing Rosanne Cash performing at the Winspear Centre. Here's a picture of the stage at intermission:

I have been listening to Rosanne Cash's song "Seven Year Ache" regularly since 1981; in fact, until I lost all my 45s, I still owned the song as a single (backed with "Blue Moon with Heartache," a sad, sad song). In 1981, I was eleven, in grade six, really getting into popular music and starting to think seriously about my musical identity. If you had asked me at the time, I would have told you I didn't like country music, and I certainly didn't consider Rosanne Cash "country" — after all, I discovered her by listening to either 1260 CFRN or 630 CHED, both of which were at the time top-forty stations. And bizarrely and ironically — and truthfully — I did not connect Rosanne Cash to her very very famous father until I was much older. (Interestingly, Ms Cash does not consider herself a country artist either, but rather a singer and storyteller.)

At Monday's concert Cash and the band played through her latest album, The River and the Thread, in its entirety and in track sequence, with breaks between songs to explain their background and inspiration. I really enjoyed this presentation, as I like the new record. In the second half, Cash and the band presented a short set of hits, including "Blue Moon with Heartache," a stripped-down cover of "Long Black Veil," "Tennessee Flat Top Box," and of course "Seven Year Ache." I was swoony: I LOVE Rosanne Cash's voice: she sings with such longing. So for me it was a fine, fun evening.

That's likely it for major concert action this season. Always good to go out on a high!

Friends and Memories

Mornin'. It's snowy and blowy here in the city this morning; spring has been delayed. In its absence, here is a group of pictures of friends: more people who make me smile.

**

1. Dale, July 1987: This photo is from our Kate Bush Convention. Dale is about to sing and mime "Kashka from Baghdad." This is the Saturday evening, July 25, before the infamous Black Friday tornado, the following week. We are in Acacia Hall in Old Strathcona; the weather outside was hot, and the air inside the hall was stifling. Still, a very fun night.

2. Montreal, 1988 and 1989: One of the most spontaneous and unusual things Nicole ever agreed to do with me was to fly to Montreal over Reading Week in 1988 — we booked the trip less than two weeks before we departed, a big no-no back then. The first picture below is from that trip; also in the picture are Dave, our host, and his brother Donovan, to the far right. The second picture below is from my return trip, in April 1989. A big year. I recently read a cultural history of photobooths in Canada; images like these are definitely endangered.

3. Nicole, 1994: This is Nicole's Uni grad photo. Shortly after this photo was taken, Nik departed for a two-month trip to Egypt, Turkey, and various European destinations; when she returned from that trip, she and Jim got serious and then got married. I think you can still see Nik's early plans for world domination in the corners of her eyes.

5.  Jim in the 1990s: This is Zak's birthday party; I'm pretty sure the year is 1995, although I did not record that detail on the photo. We took Zak on the riverboat for his party and after had cake at the park alongside the riverboat landing. Just out of the image is Adrienne, Zak's closest playmate until we left King Edward Park. Jim is being tied up in this photo — always a good sport and great with kids.

6. School friends, May 1996: This photo was taken at a birthday party for my professor, at the right-hand side of the image. The woman on the left was my grad-school friend, Shazia. She was a great grad-school friend but we lost touch, as soon often happens after the bonding pressures of grad school have diminished.
 

5. Friends at Work, 1996: This photo was taken at the end of my term at Western Board. I'm very glad that Earl remains a friend and did not lose touch after my leaving — because if grad-school pressure was a bonding force, then the exigencies of working at WB were on a scale to create diamonds.

7. B in 2011!: Here is B at work. This photo was from the first Beers and Bouquets event. He's doing a cameo here because, he says, he never gets to be in any of these retro throwback picture sets — but that's true no more.

And so. Here's to good friends and people who keep us on the right side of the glass. Cheers!

Rory-racious Reading

For some reason I feel incredibly silly when I tell people the only television I've been watching for the last few weeks is Gilmore Girls. But I find the show well written, strongly woman-positive and strangely surreal (I mean, who wouldn't want to live in Stars Hollow?!?).

Rory, the youngest daughter character, is a committed reader and is often shown in scenes reading or holding a book. Some internet citizen with far more free time than I have collected a list of books read, shown, or referred to on the series — nearly 350 of them. I'm only in Season Two right now, but clearly there are many more books ahead.

My dear friend Gigi (who introduced me to Gilmore Girls in the first place) downloaded the list and highlighted the books she's read; she tagged 77. Then she passed the list on to me; I tagged 88. Some highlights from this process:

• My Hemingway list is hopelessly incomplete: I've read some of his lesser-known books but have missed two of the major novels.

• Ditto Jane Austen: I've never read Emma or Northanger Abbey.

• I abandon too many books unfinished: I could have added half a dozen books to my count if I hadn't given up (yes, I'm looking at you, Moby-Dick).

• B will love this: I need to make a more consistent effort to read the books I already own, as doing so would have added another half-dozen or so titles to this count.

• Thank goodness for my full-year undergrad Shakespeare course, where I read a pile of Shakespeare's minor plays (this point applies to the list and many other areas of my life, too).

• There are SO many books I want to read again. Working through the list made me miss certain books the way I miss people.

Here's to TV writers and directors who are not afraid to represent bookishness in a positive light. And yay, Rory! And thanks, Gigi!

Inexplicable life choices

This morning I said I'd rather be John Lennon than Paul McCartney. That, and my declaration of preference for Bert over Ernie (B is so definitely Ernie), elicited this comment: "I don't understand your life choices." Hmm.

Time to put on Sleeping at Last!

The vault of lost lyrics, chapter 86

I adore Joni Mitchell's music. I have been listening to her seriously for almost thirty years; Court and Spark is playing as I type this post. She is definitely one of the artists who has shaped my sense of self.

This song is from Dog Eat Dog, released in October 1985. I remember listening to this album (on cassette) incessantly in late 1985 and early 1986 as I commuted on the bus from home to school and back. With time, these lyrics have become much more poignant as I have watched friendships — and friends — come and go. A wry but truthful song, pointedly and accurately observed.

**

"Good Friends"

(Joni Mitchell, performed with Michael McDonald)

I have to come and see you

maybe once or twice a year

I think nothing would suit me better

than some downtown atmosphere

In the dance halls and the galleries

Or betting in the OTB

Synchronized like magic

Good friends you and me

The sun goes down in Jersey

Rises over Little Italy

We could talk it up

'Til the block gets up

Swapping stories

Sitting around in some all-night zoo

Watching it run like a movie

Synchronized like magic

Good friends you and me

No hearts of gold

No nerves of steel

No blame for what we can and cannot feel

But now it's cloak and dagger

Walk on eggshells and analyze

Every particle of difference

Gets like mountains in our eyes

You say "You're unscrupulous"

You say "You're naive"

Synchronized like magic

Good friends you and me

No hearts of gold

No nerves of steel

No blame for what we can and cannot feel

Sometimes change comes at you

Like a broadside accident

There is chaos to the order

Random things you can't prevent

There could be trouble around the corner

There could be beauty down the street

Synchronized like magic

Good friends you and me

No hearts of gold

No nerves of steel

No blame for what we can and cannot feel
No nerves of steel

No hearts of gold

No blame for what we can and can't control

Good friends you and me

Good friends you and me

Youthful Lack of Discretion

In seminar yesterday, the students were reading Feeling Sorry for Celia by Jaclyn Moriarty. Our presenter led us through an activity that involved writing a letter to a stranger, structured around five questions. One of those questions involved oatmeal, another enduring friendships.

When I was in grade eight, our French teacher (I loved her!) connected us with a school in Quebec and assigned us pen friends — much as happens in Celia. I sent one of the photos in the following set to my pen friend in Quebec. He wrote back once or twice, but as these things usually go, after the assignment was done, we forgot about it. Yesterday's seminar reminded me of it — and of these pictures from roughly the same era. As we all know, every picture has a story to tell.

***

1. Bonjour, c'est moi! This is the picture I sent to my pen friend. If he sent one in return, I don't have it. This photo was taken on New Year's Day 1983. Goodness only knows how I convinced my parents to get the film processed within the same calendar year.

2. Maternal grandparents: Another picture with my little C-110. The fancy china is on the table, so this is probably Christmas dinner, 1981. The "Beware Fo Pig" poster in the background is a demonstration of my poor talents in the industrial arts — in particular, setting type by hand. Of course I'd grow up to be an editor!

3. Family resemblance: Same dinner as #2 above. My mum and her mum. My mother looks so young! In this picture she's more than a decade younger than I am now. This is definitely Christmas dinner.

4. Family friends: This is Jason, the son of my parents' friends Roger and Darlene. The setting is my old bedroom (before I moved to the front bedroom), and the picture was taken in January 1982. My parents lost touch with Roger and Darlene, as with so many other friends, but Jason's younger sister Alyssa ended up working in St. Albert in the late 1990s, at the same time I was editing a book for the same business. It's difficult to start knowing someone again when nearly twenty years have passed. I heard Jason was well at the time and hope that's still true.

5. Party animals (a, b, c): All of these pictures were taken in December 1982, the event of my thirteenth birthday. The scene is my parents' basement, complete with dark faux-wood panelling. Photo A features my friends Rick and Kim. I love the expressions on both faces! Photo B is of Elaine, plus Kim's arm intruding on the left. Elaine was the girl with whom I went to my first "rock" concert: Air Supply at the Jubilee Auditorium, July 1982. We were still good friends at the time of this photo, but in grade nine things were very different. Photo C is of Jody, with whom I went to school from kindergarten to grade nine. You can't tell from the image, but he was a very small boy; he also had a wild sense of humour. With his back to us is Kent, one of the boys from my grade-eight home room. (Did you ever have to invite a boy's best friend to get a boy to come to a party? For this one, I did.) I love the details in the background of this series. For instance, that's my very own record player behind Jody. When the party was over and the guests had left, my father put up our Christmas tree.

5. Teen angst: Another birthday party, this one Kerri's thirteenth, in January 1983. In the foreground are Sheri and Raquel. Raquel and I were close through grades eight and nine and then lost touch when we went to different (and rival!) high schools. No idea about Sheri. In the background, to the left, are Kim and Rick, at the time a short-lived couple — "going around" together. To the right are Jody and my friend Tanya Lee. I'm deep in the shadows, wearing red.

6. Choose unemployment: For one day of my life — in late May 1983 — I worked for Dickee-Dee, the bike-pedalling ice-cream sellers. This picture was taken at the end of my "shift"; the photographer was my boyfriend at the time, Daryl (close friend of Rick, above). The location is the Londondale Centre on 144 Avenue; the store I'm entering is Little Gem, owned by the Lee family. At the time, their daughter, Grace, was part of the group I spent time with. We weren't close, but we were bonded through piano playing. At Grace's birthday party (of which I have no pictures) I ate the first Korean food of my life — and enjoyed it.

7. The old homestead: There's no date on this photo but it is unhelpfully captioned "Boxing Day" — I suspect 1982 because of the car in front of the house. This monster is the car I learned to drive in, so there's really no rational reason I'm so nervous in my current tiny-tiny car.

8. Cat and mouse: This is my first cat, Annie. She knows there are mice in the walls, and she caught them. I love — and despair about — the details of my childhood captured in this picture. No date on this one, but I'd guess it's late 1981 or early 1982, based on the appliances.

9. A new era: This picture was taken in July 1984 at the Strathcona Science Park. The photographer was my father, but the man I was dating at the time took a bunch of pictures of me that day, too. What you can't know from this picture is that my mother was furious at me because of the way I was dressed — ironic, since these are some of the last clothes she bought for me. But oh to be fourteen and fearless again. Well, then again, maybe not ...

Bonne chance to my erstwhile pen friend, who never saw the bigger story of my life in this period (lucky for him!). There's a letter in each of these pictures. What would you write about your pictures?

Missed again!

This week has been unusually hectic and I feel like I've been a few minutes late for everything. (Haven't really been, but perception —like context — is all.)

Maintaining the trend, here's something that actually is late: my Throwback Thursday pic. Quite a throw, this one.

This photo was taken at the Western Board Conference in September 1993. I'm sitting with the Treasurer, Pat. I have no idea who took the picture, but it was likely one of the other board members. This conference is only time I've been in Winnipeg, and though I stood on the corner of Portage and Main, I saw almost nothing else of the city.

(If you're into trivia, the dress I'm wearing was also my grad-banquet dress from 1986. A gorgeous three-quarter-length wool crepe with deep lace insets in the skirt. I loved that dress!)

Why Organize?

The history of progressives, socialists, and organized labour is long and tangled and anything but consistent. Just the same, here is a list of a few features of modern life fought for by progressives, some socialists, and labour unions.

1. The eight-hour work day: In 1886, four anarchists were executed in the aftermath of US-wide strikes for an eight-hour work day. This action is allegedly the real origin of May Day.

2. A living wage: Note: not available in all jurisdictions

3. Suffrage: Unions were major players in winning the vote for working men. In recognition of March 8, International Women's Day, I would have to note that some unions were also major players in resisting women's suffrage in the twentieth century.

4. Public services: Trade unions were some of the first to advance the idea of public health and public education for all. Regrettably, while unions themselves may still support these ideals today, my experience with individual union members differs.

5. Solidarity in the workplace: At least in theory, workers enjoy greater security in the workplace because of organized labour, meaning that we have the right to speak out against management and to work together to advance the greater good because our colleagues and co-workers will take our sides. A good theory.

Regrettably, unions globally are losing their traction, and locally some unions have grown complacent about their ongoing work toward social progress. My "professional association", for instance, gave up its right to strike a decade ago and is increasingly on side with management rather than working for the majority of its membership, who provide just-in-time, insecure teaching labour; no surprise that these members of the precariate are mostly women.

Despite gains in the twentieth century, we've lost a lot of ground en route to social inequality. We have a long way to go! Are you listening, Alberta?

Delhi, Not Dele

On his blog, B used to post pictures of performing-arts events we'd attend. He's fallen out of the habit (and of course we aren't seeing as many events as we once did), so I am taking up the challenge. Wish I'd thought of this at Big Sugar last week.

Last night Akemi and I saw Delhi 2 Dublin at the Arden Theatre. Though you get no idea whatsoever from this intermission picture, it was an incredibly high-energy show: so much fun! Even I was out of my seat. (I know!)

In the second half, the band gave away a single to those of us with mobile phones. Catchy! And even more impressively, the music got most of the Arden audience to its feet and dancing — you know that's no mean feat.

Delhi 2 Dublin was an infectiously exciting live show. I'd definitely see them again. Thanks again, Akemi, for a great time!

The vault of lost lyrics, chapter 15

You know, sometimes you have one of those days. Weeks. Months. Well ... whatever. You know how this feels. Or at least I do.

"I'm Going Slightly Mad" (as recorded by Queen)

When the outside temperature rises

And the meaning is oh so clear

One thousand and one yellow daffodils

Begin to dance in front of you — oh dear

Are they trying to tell you something?

You're missing that one final screw

You're simply not in the pink my dear

To be honest you haven't got a clue

I'm going slightly mad

I'm going slightly mad

It finally happened
It finally happened

It finally happened

I'm one card short of a full deck

I'm not quite the shilling

One wave short of a shipwreck

I'm not at my usual top billing

I'm coming down with a fever

I'm really out to sea

This kettle is boiling over

I think I'm a banana tree

I'm going slightly mad

I'm going slightly mad

It finally happened

It finally happened

It finally happened

I'm slightly mad

I'm knitting with only one needle

Unravelling fast, it's true

I'm driving only three wheels these days

But, my dear, how about you?

I'm going slightly mad

I'm going slightly mad

It finally happened

It finally happened

It finally happened

I'm slightly mad!

Just very slightly mad

And there you have it...

What a difference a day makes

OK. More accurately, that head would say "a date makes." But you get the idea.

I was thinking today about how quickly time moves and changes. Maybe a year is an insurmountable period. Maybe a year passes in the flash of an eye. Maybe both conditions exist simultaneously. Maybe a year is all in the mind of the person living through it.

Anyway. Speaking of years ...

C'est moi. January 1, 1983. Thirteen years and two weeks old. Nineteen eighty-three was a hugely important year in my life. By December 31, 1983, I would be almost entirely a different person and would have crossed some major milestones en route to adulthood. Gotta love perms, eh? Within the year I would perfect the curling iron.

If you're keeping track, this is the same kitchen I photographed a couple of years earlier. No longer yellow. Apparently my mother was on a tropical kick. And I'm not really that tall — I'm standing on a chair that you can't see in the frame of the photograph.

Do you know where you were on January 1, 1983? Was it a momentous day, if only in memory?

Am I Certifiable?

This has been a busy week. Teaching most of the week, along with a pile of meetings, including one to discuss succession planning at the publisher I volunteer for; plus general midterm busyness. Then the weekend in Toronto for a three-day meeting to discuss editorial certification and professional standards. I've reached Saturday feeling pretty wiped out.

I have worked as an editor for so long that I rarely think about my profession as a profession. The certification meeting has prompted me to do so. How should a body test prospective editors seeking to demonstrate that they have the skills to work successfully and appropriately as they enter the profession? A wholly knowledge-based test is likely insufficient, as there might be limited or no demonstration of actual skills; and a practice-based test, such as the exams I've marked in the past for one certifying body, is probably too rigorous for entry-level purposes. We want to demonstrate competence or proficiency, but not necessarily excellence. (A demonstration of excellence is the aim of the full certification exams.)

Do employers want to see confirmation of competence? Apparently they do.

Based on my experiences as an instructor of editing and publishing, I know that many students who leave my classroom, and my colleagues' classrooms, do not possess the knowledge, the skills, or the aptitudes to be successful professional editors — yet that doesn't deter some of them. And I've also met many writers who think that, because they work with words, they're inherently editors. Not every writer is an editor, and not every editor is a writer, although we have things in common. Perhaps a test of competencies would be valuable for writers who market themselves as writer/editors. And perhaps the same test would be valuable for people reaching retirement age who think they'd like to "dabble" in editing as an income supplement. I've taught a handful of potential dabblers over the years, as have my colleagues; as professionals, we need the dabblers to know there's more to editing than adding and deleting commas.

So perhaps an objective, knowledge-based test — an instrument that requires a degree of judgement as well as a thorough general knowledge of grammar, language vocabulary, publishing process, and basic editorial conventions — is something the market wants, or at least could use. I hope so: it's what I spent several hours discussing with national editing colleagues today. And I was surprised to discover it's something I have a strong opinion about. I'm no great fan of certification in general, but given that national editing societies are issuing statement of professional standards, then some form of testing for competency or proficiency seems warranted. All the better if, at least for our committee's purposes, the competency testing becomes a pathway to long-term professional development and even certification of excellence. (Frankly, that's not for me; and I doubt I could pass the certification exams anyway: they're much harder than anything I do in real life.)

When I was starting out as an editor, it was one of the last apprenticeship professions. That is, the best way to become an editor was at the elbow of an experienced editor. I have been lucky to have had great mentors along my professional journey (as well as some poorer supervisors who were instructive nonetheless). There was no coursework in editing when I was an undergrad, but I read every resource I could put my hands on — and I continue to do so. Today, of course, there is robust undergrad, diploma, and post-degree education in editing right across Canada. But as one of my heroes, Betsy Lerner, observes, the only person who really knows (at least in the context of book editing, my home turf) whether an editor edits, and edits well, is the author. And that doesn't seem right today, given the high stakes in book publishing specifically and in communications generally.

I'm pleased to find my feathers a little ruffled by the idea of competency testing. Going into this weekend's meeting, I would have said I would never be in favour of such testing. (In fact, I completed a survey to express exactly such a position.) Today, my position sits on the other side of the circle. I think that's personal growth, right?

 Enjoy the weekend!

Things that make me smile

It's the last day of Reading Week and I'm procrastinating. Have accomplished only a fraction of the goals I'd set for myself. Am anxious about the remaining eight weeks of school. So I thought I'd post some pictures of things that make me smile.

1. The boys: Queen E, 1986, across from my locker. They're all still characters.

2. Graffito: Not sure the year, but Earl snapped this on Whyte Avenue. It refers to the former premier, and I heartily endorsed the sentiment. (I wish I also had a picture of the graffito on Rice Howard Way from the 1980s, "Young People Speaking Their Minds" — it never occurred to me to take a photo of it.)

3. Good people: This is the group that travelled to Toronto and Montreal in May 2006 to look at models for our future building. Good people, good memories.

4. More good people: Two of my grads in Victoria earlier this month. The Marks, looking good!

 Ahhhh. That does feel better.