Unexpected

When we moved into our new house it was September 24th, and as fall had arrived we had little time to inspect our new yard. It wasn't long before the snowflakes began to fall, and very quickly the yard was blanketed by several feet of snow. It was fascinating this week to watch as spring arrived and our new yard sprang into life again.

The first sign was little buds on the trees, tiny bits of green at first but quickly appearing as little leaves. Those green leaves were expected, of course, as in spring almost every living tree begins to show some greenery. What I didn't expect, though, was when our new yard began to bloom.

It began with these shrubs. My husband had been trimming them, which is a new task as we've never had shrubbery before (and frankly the very word "shrubbery" always makes me think of Monty Python and giggle a bit). I was out on an errand while he was trimming and when I returned home he told me I must come see the shrub beside the house. There, on the bottom branches of the shrubs, were the most beautiful little pink flowers. What began as small numbers of flowers quickly became masses of pink blooms, spreading from the bottom branches upwards.

Next I noticed these yellow flowers. One day they were not there, and the next day they were. It was astonishing, really. They are delicate and lovely.

To my delight another tree in our yard began to show tiny white blossoms, and the scent was unmistakable - lilac! It's a beautiful tree, too, tall and very showy.

Finally, I noticed the large tree in our front yard was greening up, but there also seemed to be something unusual about the colour. When I went closer I realized the entire tree was covered with flower buds about to open. I was astonished. When those pink flower buds opened they became the most delicate little flowers, and the smell was wonderful - it smells like cherries!  It appears our new yard holds several surprises for us, each more delightful than the last.

 I am a person who has always loved flowers. Every spring I have invested hundreds of dollars in buying flowers to plant in planters and hanging baskets. I'm actually not much of a gardener. I don't enjoy the actual gardening but I love the end result. This year, though, I will need to buy far fewer flowers. I thank the previous owners of my home who unwittingly provided me with such joy and pleasure this spring. The only thing better than flowers, dear friends, are the flowers that spring into your life unexpected.

An Invitation...

I have started another blog and would like to extend a warm invitation to all of the readers and dear friends from this blog. As a reader you might have noticed I have a little problem (!) with shoes, and as such I decided I needed an outlet to both explore and share this addiction (can we call it a passion, please?!?). Anyhow, if you want to see some great shoes c'mon over to The Greatest Shoe On Earth. If you want to read about Ireland, my kid, or my life in general then you will continue to find that here. Most shoe-related items will now be found in the new blog. Well, most of the time. Sometimes you'll still find shoe stuff here - because frankly, that's just how I roll! 

International Fluevog Day

I suppose this is a holiday not many people are familiar with. It was just recently, on Sunday May 15th, in fact. What is a Fluevog you ask, dear friends? A Fluevog is a shoe, of course, but not just any shoe.

Designer John Fluevog started out selling shoes in Vancouver, not designing them. It was serendipity when a warehouse full of turn-of-the-century unused shoes came up for sale, and John (and then partner Peter Fox) purchased the whole lot. They opened their own store, and quickly turned into shoe designers as well as sellers. Peter Fox went off eventually to design wedding shoes, but John remained in Vancouver, designing and "flogging" his shoes.

I first heard about Fluevog in the late 80's. I would meet people wearing great shoes and say "where did you find those?!?", and the answer was always the same - Fluevog, in Vancouver. After awhile I just stopped asking because I knew if I saw a great shoe it likely originated with John (and the styles were pretty recognizable, too). At the time I couldn't afford Fluevogs, so I admired them but didn't own a single pair, much to my sorrow.

For many years of my adult life I forgot about Fluevogs (and, well, about fashion, really - struggling to survive and having children does this to you). In recent years, though, I remembered John, his great shoes, and realized something wonderful - I could afford Fluevogs now. Initially I paused - perhaps his shoes were too young for me, now in my forties? Perhaps I should stick to shoes less interesting and less unusual? I quickly put those thoughts aside when I visited the  Fluevog website. I didn't have any choice. I didn't just want these shoes - I needed these shoes.

Opportunity knocked as I had a trip to Vancouver planned, and I carefully plotted out the route from my hotel to the Fluevog store on Granville. The second morning of my visit I trotted off down Granville in hot pursuit of those shoes-that-must-be-owned, and into my very first Fluevog store.

It was all very kid-in-a-candy-store, with so many delicious options - but I knew what I had come for. On the site I had seen these:

I had looked at this photo for weeks, and had to try them. I had also seen another shoe that I lusted after, but on the site it appeared my size was gone. As these shoes tend to be produced in limited numbers I feared that I'd never own them, but what harm was there in asking? So, I asked about these, and they miraculously had my size!

In a state of excitement I tried on both pairs. The fit? Incredible. The quality? Amazing. The way they made me feel? Indescribable. It might have been decades since I'd learned about Fluevog but it was quite entirely worth the wait to own these. I bought them both. That's right, both. I couldn't leave the store with only one pair, so both came home with me.

Later that day a friend took me to Gastown and told me that he had to show me this store with amazing architecture. It had been an open space between two buildings, and they had glassed in the entire area to create this beautiful atrium. He had no idea what kind of store it was as he had never looked, but he was sure I'd love the building. As he led me to the doors I stopped in wonder. I looked at him and said "Don't you realize that this is the Fluevog store and design studio?". I picked my chin up off the ground, and we went in and admired the building. After we left my friend said "Maybe the next time you come to Vancouver we can visit the store again and you can help me pick out some shoes?". My friend, who had been in the store many times to look at the building (engineers do this sort of thing) had finally noticed the shoes, and it seems he too had been struck with Fluevog Fever.

When I arrived back in my home city I went to Facebook and found the John Fluevog page. I quickly "liked" it and began to see notices about the upcoming International Fluevog Day. Okay, I admit it, I'd never heard of it, either, but it sounded awfully good. Free shipping. Contests. 15% off in store. Every 41st web order free! I was in! (as I may have mentioned before I am an "all or nothing" kind of girl, and I was certainly all about this day)

I posted on their page a few times that day. I posted my wishes for a Happy International Fluevog Day. I posted about how I wore my Fluevogs to the grocery store that day to honour John. I "liked" the status updates that showed someone had won shoes. And okay, confession time - I ordered a pair of shoes. I had recently found an amazing black and red jacket, and these shoes will look awesome with it this fall:

Ordering these shoes will be news to my husband, so...sorry, honey, I had to! It was Fluevog Day! My husband actually came up to me that day and said "You know it's just a made-up holiday, right?" and I replied that it was on the calendar, which made it official (okay, so I wrote it on the calendar, but still!).

Anyhow, Fluevog Day was great. I actually got into some brief discussions with other Fluevog fans, I got a new pair of Vogs (should arrive here soon!), and I indulged myself in one of my loves. I also felt vindicated, I guess. I spent all those years when I was young wanting these shoes and  wishing to be part of the Fluevog world (and trust me, the Fluevog fans are a loyal and die-hard bunch). I was finally there, owning the shoes, and participating in the cult of Fluevog. Every time I wear my Fluevogs I get tons of compliments, of course. They are shoes that get noticed, especially in my little northern Alberta city. I often get asked where I found them. How do I reply? I say "Fluevog, in Vancouver" - just as people answered me so many years ago. And so the Fluevog Fever spreads, little by little.

Irish Vs. English - And I Don't Mean Football

I've been watching the visit of Queen Elizabeth II to Ireland with some degree of bemusement. The last time a British monarch visited Ireland was in 1911, and frankly that event sparked a revolution in Ireland. It's been a hundred years since that last visit, and one would think that over time the Irish feelings for the English would have mellowed. After visiting Ireland recently I can only say this - they haven't really changed. In fact what I found was that the Irish continue to pretty much despise the English, and are quite happy to tell you why, too. They also aren't shy about sharing those feelings, either, as I found them expressed by almost every Irish person I met if the topic of the English happened to arise.

When I arrived in Ireland I quickly realized that my lovely new Aspinal of London purse, proudly emblazoned with the Union Jack and just purchased in London, would need to stay under wraps until my return to Canada. The first day we were there we heard anti-English sentiments and it didn't take a genius to recognize that sporting the Union Jack would be, as they say, a bloody bad idea. Fair enough, I thought - many Canadians aren't fond of their American neighbours, either, so it seemed a similar sort of antipathy - except that the roots of anti-English sentiment run much deeper and for far darker reasons than anything North Americans could imagine.

The English have, over hundreds of years, treated the Irish horribly. They have been starved, enslaved, imprisoned, outright murdered, and otherwise abused. It's a desperately dark history, and once one learns about it one quickly understands why these anti-English feelings have managed to last so very long. The Irish are a long-suffering people who have been oppressed, and, while they are generally an incredibly genial and good-natured sort, their treatment at the hands of the English has quite reasonably left them bitter.

One night in a pub in Dublin we were waiting for an Irish friend to join us. While we waited we met a man named Connor. Connor had red hair, a strong Irish accent, and introduced himself as an Irish native although he now spends much of his time overseas pursuing his career in photography. Connor also happened to be one of the musicians who would play for us that evening. He knew all the Irish ballads and traditional songs by heart, and sang them with great gusto when the music began.

Shortly after meeting Connor my husband made a comment about our recent visit to Westminster Abbey in London. The musicians in the pub were tuning up and he made a joke about some note the musicians were playing and how we had heard the organist at the Abbey tuning that same note. I almost kicked my spouse under the table as you could see Connor visibly recoil at the mention of the English, and his response was swift and vitriolic. No comparison between the Irish and the English was welcome, thank you, and it was clear he held deeply seated hatred for the English. Connor was clearly one of those Irish folks who held those deep feelings of anger and enmity very close.

When our friend arrived I introduced him to Connor. A few minutes later my Irish friend quietly leaned into me and whispered in my ear "He's not really Irish, you know". I looked at my dark-haired, lilting-accented friend with astonishment and replied "Whaddya mean?". After all, Connor had an Irish name, Irish accent, had grown up in Ireland, and carried an Irish passport. He hated the English with a passion, which seemed fairly typical of most Irish we had met. He knew every traditional Irish song. He looked at women like they were a sandwich and he hadn't eaten in weeks (a behaviour shared by most Irish men, I must say - they study a woman like no other men I've ever known - there's a blog post in that!). As they say, if it talks like a duck(Irishman) and walks like a duck(Irishman), then most likely....

But no, our friend explained. Connor was "Scots-Irish", meaning he likely had Scottish roots, and therefore didn't count as Irish. I was mildly amused and a bit baffled, too. It seemed the division between the Irish and the British/English was even more complicated than I thought. It seemed this Canadian would never fully understand, and truly I guess I gave up trying at that point. There is a compexity to these feelings and relationships that I suspect can only be understood by those within the country, and the attempt of an outsider to understand it will only end in failure.

When we arrived home I met someone originally from England, Yorkshire specifically. He told me a story about a time when he and several English friends went to Ireland. They had gone to a pub in Killarney and had been warned to stay away from certain towns and pubs because their nationality would put them in serious danger. The Irish were, to us Canadians, warm and welcoming and kind - but my new English friend said that this was not true of the Irish he encountered.

So, the Queen's visit might be a "reconciliation", as they claim in the press. Perhaps it will build some goodwill in Ireland, but I must say I have some serious doubts as to whether it will truly have any significant impact on Irish feelings about the English. The fact that an improvised explosive device was found and defused just hours before her arrival indicates to me that the Irish have no intention of letting go of that long-simmering resentment and anger (incidentally I took some heat, perhaps well deserved, for referring to that explosive as "impromptu Irish fireworks" - never claimed my sense of humour was politically correct!). And really, you know what? I don't blame the Irish one little bit. I think they have bloody good reasons to be angry, and in this I side quite firmly with them. But dear friends, one thing - don't tell my Irish friends about my Union Jack purse, eh?

Steel Magnolia

Recently the title of this post has become a term that I've thought about a great deal. I did some web research on it, and found the movie that made this term famous, of course. I also found a country group by this name that I didn't know existed, and I found this definition at Urban Dictionary:

steel magnolia :
A southern woman who is strong and independent yet very feminine.


So you might be wondering why exactly I've been thinking about this term. It's not because I saw the movie recently - in fact, I've never seen the movie. I certainly wasn't thinking about the country duo, because as I mentioned above I didn't even know they existed. I suppose I've been thinking about it because of me.


As I've mentioned before in this blog I underwent some pretty profound personal changes in the last two years. Some of these changes were internal ones, and some were decidedly external. One of these changes has been how I dress and present myself to the world. For many years my daily uniform was the ubiquitous jeans and t-shirt that seem emblematic of motherhood. After losing a significant amount of weight, though, I found my long-lost love of clothing and shoes re-awakened, and suddenly my appearance became much more important. I began colouring my hair to hide those sneaky strands of grey. I bought far more dresses and skirts. I began to collect shoes. I began to find and wear interesting pieces of jewelry - not necessarily expensive, just unique. I began to see dressing up as something to do daily and not reserved for special occasions.  


I also began to talk much more about fashion, and shoes in particular. I realized I could expound at length about the merits of various shoe manufacturers, and which online shoe websites offer the best selection (Schuh, obviously!). A recent incident made me reflect on whether or not this was the image I truly wanted to project, though. Someone from California that I'd met recently commented that I would be right at home in "Orange County".  I suspected this might not be a compliment but rather a reference to my ability to get into "deep" (shallow?) discussions on shoes. I don't believe it was meant as an insult, either, but it did give me pause. Did my love of shoes and fashion mean I was superficial? Did it mean I was going to be seen as someone shallow and without intellect?


After some thought I realized that we all have different aspects to our personalities. I'm not going to claim I am the brightest person in the world - I am not a mathematician or a "rocket scientist". I think I have a reasonable intellect, though, and I know I have an insatiable curiosity about the world and what makes it tick. My feet might be clad in espadrilles and my body in a dress but that doesn't dull my intellect one bit. Now, when I get going on a shoe tangent I suppose it would be easy enough to assume that I am incredibly shallow - but anyone who knows me knows there is far more to me than all that.


I suppose what I realized, and what I want my daughter to know, is that being into shoes and fashion does not preclude being intelligent. It doesn't demean you in any way. It can be just another aspect of who you are. We may not be southern (in fact I am as about far from the south as you can get!) but we can still be steel magnolias - women who are strong and independent (and smart!) and yet very feminine. We don't have to sacrifice one for the other - we can be all those things we want to be. We can talk about shoes and dresses and world politics all in the same evening, and we can be respected for our opinions on all those topics, too. We don't have to apologize for our love of anything, including shoes. I guess that's why I've been thinking about the term steel magnolias. I suppose it's because it's what I aspire to be.

 This video has nothing to do with magnolias, steel or otherwise - but it combines two other great loves of mine, David Bowie and Arcade Fire. I have loved the thin white duke since I was about 12, and in recent years fell for Arcade Fire. Seeing them together makes my heart sing.

Love, Light, and Letting Go

I've always known I have a problem with letting go. This goes for possessions, like shoes and clothing, and, well, people, too. I get deeply attached to something, or someone, and when the time comes to let go I struggle with it terribly.

As I've gotten older I've recognized that our life flows like a river, and people come in to and out of it as their own river takes it's course. Sometimes they are taken from us, and sometimes they choose to leave us. Either way accepting the loss and moving on has always been very difficult for me. I tend to hang on with all my might, as if I can fight the flow of that river. As we all know, though, rivers go where they will and trying to control them is futile. So too it is with the people in our lives who choose to move on or away from us.

I suppose what I have tried to learn to do is to be grateful for what these individuals have brought to my life. Perhaps it was some support I needed, or an occasional good laugh. Perhaps their presence in my life taught me something about myself. Perhaps them being there awakened something in me that had been asleep. That gratitude should exist whether these people are taken from me or have chosen to leave. I try to ensure that I explore those feelings of thankfulness, even if I do not share them directly with those people.

Losing people is painful. If they are taken from you by death then there is some sense that at least it was not their choice to walk away. If they leave you by choice then you feel that perhaps there is something wrong with you, or that you have forced them to depart. In some situations this may be true - but in some it may just be that their river has now diverged from yours, and that you now follow separate paths. This can be tough to accept - I know how tough it is because I do not accept it well at all. I struggle with feelings of hurt and rejection, frustration and anger. There are times, though, when we have no choice but to accept - and move on.

A few months ago I saw the movie "Eat, Pray, Love". Generally speaking I thought it was pretty awful - full of the typical cliches and very touchy-feely, just too sappy for me. One thing I remembered from it, though, is the concept of thinking of those in our life with whom we have struggled - those we have hurt, or those who have hurt us, those we have left, or those who have left us - with these three things : Love, Light, and Letting Go. This doesn't seem a bad practice at all, really, and perhaps one I need to embrace when I find myself struggling. Instead of thinking bitter thoughts of regret or hurt, anger or resentment, I mentally send those who have touched my life these things : love and light, and, if they wish it and have chosen it, I let them go. I still struggle, dear friends, but I am slowing learning that when you let go with love and light it can, sometimes, free you, too.

The Return of My (p)Ride

As regular readers of this blog know my beloved (p)ride had a little incident about six weeks ago. I had left her in the parking lot of the local shopping mall and gone in to pick up hairspray for my upcoming trip to Vancouver (I've noticed sympathy from men about this incident tends to drop a bit when I mention why I was at the mall, but I'm not sure why that matters!). To my horror when I exited the mall I discovered a pickup truck attached to the front bumper of my car. The resulting damage looked like this:

I'll be honest - I was horribly upset about it. There was my poor car minding her own business when she was viciously attacked by a pick-up truck. I realize I was a bit dramatic about it, but that's perhaps when I realized just how attached I was to this car. I took this injury personally.

As there is no BMW repair shop in my city we had to arrange for my baby to be taken to a larger city. She couldn't be driven as she was leaving plastic bits of herself all over the ground when driven. This is her on the flatbed on her way for repair:

I'm not ashamed to admit that I told the flatbed truck driver that this was my baby and that he needed to take good care of her. I'm only mildly embarrassed that I also called the body shop and told them the same thing. I just figured they should know that this car was pretty much family and that she needed some TLC. I didn't expect them to cuddle her in blankets at night or sing to her (well, not that I would mind if they did that, but I know it's absurd to expect).

I'm pleased to report that she returned home about three weeks ago, and the body shop did an excellent job with the repair. Since her return home she and I have been engaged in a little love-fest, as spring has truly arrived and there is nothing like having the sun roof open, windows down, and music blasting. Last week I narrowly escaped a speeding ticket, though, as I was merrily clipping along doing about 75 k in a 60 zone when a motorcycle whipped by me. I realized that if he was going that fast I must be speeding as well, and I slowed down - just as yellow-vested police officer stepped out and flagged us down. The motorcycle pulled over, and, just as I was changing lanes to pull over as well(feeling horribly chastened as my pristine driving record was about to be besmirched), the officer waved me to drive on. So, we are now engaging in our little love affair at lower speeds, but it is still burning brightly.

So, I am thrilled to have my (p)ride back. I must admit that in parking lots I now park even further away from other vehicles than I used to (and even then I parked far, far away). I also tend to give pick-up trucks that get too close to me dark and ugly looks as obviously they can't be trusted around my baby. I've pretty much gotten over the parking lot incident, though, and I know that she is just a car. I also know that she really belongs to my husband, as his name is on the registration, and he gets a bit huffy when I refer to her as mine. Just as with the family dog, though, the person who spends the most time with them becomes their primary caregiver, and dear friends, my (p)ride may not be mine in name but that doesn't diminish my affection for her one bit. My (p)ride is home and safe and whole, and the world is right again. I know some day she may be damaged again, and perhaps even some day beyond repair - but until then I will enjoy our time together, and hope that day is a long, long way from today.