The Librarian: a post from the past

I originally wrote this post in April of 2010. Librarians played such an integral part of my childhood and now many people I know and tolerate love (including my sister) are librarians.

As I am currently researching and writing for my contract work, I thought fondly of doing papers with the support and knowledge of our local librarians.

If you know a librarian, or you know how to find anything about any topic, thank them for enriching your mind and our lives.

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The Librarian

Since the beginning of time, or at least the beginning of our lives in this city, my family has been going to the same library.

Every weekend, my mother would bundle the four of us kids up and we would begin the trek down the street to the library.  It was not a far walk, by any means, but it seemed that way to us.  A baby in a stroller, an older toddler, a geeky trouble maker, me (practically perfect in every way), and Mom wandered down the 4 or 5 blocks to the library.

Can't you just smell the knowledge?

We had certain rules and guidelines before we were let loose in the library.  No running, no yelling, and only as many books as we can carry home.  This usually meant 10 - 15 children's books for me.  It wasn't near enough, but I knew we would be coming back the next week.

Many of the librarians in our library were there from the beginning.  There is the lady who looks like Dave Foley in drag, the lady with the really long hair and low voice, the other lady, and the one who we moved next door to about 15 years later.  They were the staples of our library.  They knew our names, what we liked to read, what grade we were in, and which movies were playing on Kid's Movie Day.

I never really thought about them much.  I knew they would always be there.  I knew that the one with the long hair would sneak me racy Western novels when I was 13 and Mom wasn't looking.  I knew they existed in the library, but didn't think of them in the outside world.  To me, they would just always be there.

Old timey librarians (via)

This week, I went in to get a new library card.  The long haired librarian with the smokey voice was there.  She instantly knew who I was despite the fact it had been years since I had seen her.  She asked about my sisters, my brother, my father in Ukraine.  She was thrilled that I had gotten married and wanted to know all about it.

We talked about the last time I got a new card (I was 12 and thus allowed to check out books without Mom's permission!) and how many years it had been since I had been visiting the branch.  We thought about it and realized it has been over 25 years.  She laughed.  The first time she met our family, she was 10 years younger than I am today.

Getting older is a bitch.

We chatted for a bit and I carried on my way with a handful of knitting books and a promise to come in and visit more often.  I thought about it and realized how lucky we are.  It is a rare place indeed where the staff of an establishment watches you grow up and becomes such a huge part of your life.

I like how small the world is some days.

My life in places: my first apartment

Yesterday, I introduced you to the first house I ever owned. A friend then reminded me of my first apartment ever. I thought it would be a nice addition to the list -- especially on Throwback Thursday!

My apartment building 

Freedom

When I was 19, I moved out of my parent's home. I knew the only way to do that was to go to school in another city, so I transferred all my credits and went to Saskatoon.

I rented a tiny bachelor suite in a building that smelled like cat pee.

I have no idea how I rented the suite because I didn't see it until I got there with all my things, but there I was. My mom and I brought the family van packed to the gills with all the things I'd been collecting since I was 14 so I could move out.

You would think they starved and beat me, I was so desperate to move, but that wasn't the case.

My new apartment building was within walking distance from the University. I could walk through the park, across the longest bridge ever, and be at my class within 25 minutes. I made that walk no matter the temperature or time of day.

I was too scared to learn how to use the bus system.

I also washed my clothes in the bathtub because the basement laundry was too scary.

I don't like new things.

Security

The building was 2 blocks from my cousin and his room mate as well as a half-way house. I didn't learn about the half-way house until I was already moved in for a month and I smartly did not tell my mother about it.

It would not have gone well.  The first night we moved in, my mother saw there was only a chain and a handle lock, so she slept between me and the door until the landlord could put a dead bolt in. I can imagine what she would have done if there were criminals next door.

Quality

The apartment was $210 a month (out of my $500/mo living allowance). At the time, I thought that was unreal. Now? I think it would go for at least $600, even with it's flaws (of which there were many.)

The front window was broken. It was one of the coldest winters that year, so I stuffed a sleeping bag in the window and duct taped it in place. It stayed like that until I moved that summer.  The heat was an old radiator in front of the window and I'm not sure who controlled it.

I can safely say it wasn't me. For the entire 10 months I lived there, the heat was full blast. I turned off all the knobs, but I'm pretty sure they didn't work any way. However, with the wind blasting through the window and the heat blasting from the rad, I think the temp evened out eventually.

My first layout

It was small, but I loved it. The kitchen was tiny, but I think I cooked twice that year anyway. You had to close the door to watch TV and it fit about 6 people in the room comfortably, but it was the first place I was solely responsible for.

Friends and neighbours

While it wasn't the place to be all the time, my small home did become a regular hangout for a few friends -- like the one who came to stay for a week and never moved out (Hi Carla!) It was just a place to be comfortable, hang out watching my 2 TV channels, and listen to my downstairs neighbours speak loudly in Chinese.

The day I moved out was the day I met my hall neighbour. I was carrying my last box into the hall when a tiny little woman peeked her head out of her doorway, squeaked, and slammed the door again.

She seemed nice.


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Somewhere in the recesses of packed boxes, there is a photo album with pictures of this place. If I ever find it, I will have to scan them. Stupid technology.

My life in places: My first house

For most of my life, the only thing I ever really wanted was a house of my own.

Home

It wasn't about the picket fence and the family for me; a home of my own was about putting down roots. It was about taking something and saying "This is where I am."

I've always been a home-body. I would get homesick on sleepovers until I was a teenager. I needed that sense of security.

Stability.

My mom, my brother, and I shared that need. The rest of our family was happy planning for what strange land they would visit, while we wanted nothing more to be at home with the people we loved.

My mom and I spent hours going through magazines and the Sears catalogue cutting out pictures of things we would decorate with if we only had the money.  We wandered through the neighbourhood peering into people's windows for decorating inspiration (and sheer nosiness!)  We loved to see how others lived and talk about what we would have done instead.

For both of us, having a home where people could come and be themselves was top on our lists.

Let the rest of my family travel.  I want my own bed. My own bathroom.

When my mom died, I used my inheritance for one thing I knew she would understand.  A BRAND NEW CAR!!!!!!!

No, wait.  That's The Price is Right.

What I did was use a big chunk of it for a downpayment on a house.

Deciding to buy

My dad did what they always tell people not to do in the first few months of grief -- he made major life decisions.  He sold the house where he, my mother, and my sister lived and bought a condo.  My sister was suddenly homeless and our family had no centre.

I felt like I needed to create a new base to make up for the one we had all lost when Mom died.

So, you know, I made a major life decision.

I spent a long time looking for the house of my dreams.  I'm sure we looked at 20 before I found the one I wanted. I saw a lot of houses, but the ranged from the "meh" to the "ugh".

Finally, I walked into the house on Chinook.  It was very 70s and not the good retro kind. Old cupboards with older hardware. Wooden spindles creating room separation.  A backyard that was all garden (aka: a weed plot)  It wasn't much, but I knew it could be home.

I bought it and less than two months later was in the doors.

My very first house.  It had a ton of hydrengeas which I happily tore out.

Much to the dismay of everyone else in the neighbourhood.

My first home

My sister, Lyn, moved in with me.

We went to town picking out paint chips, deciding on room layout, painting, and decorating. I made a hundred to scale room designs complete with cut out furniture I could arrange and rearrange.

We started painting almost immediately and had a lot of it done before we moved in.

When the time came, I had a house that was almost totally me. I painted almost every inch of the house.

Of course, being the procrastinators we were (are), we decided to wait until we moved in to paint the kitchen a gorgeous cherry red.

In the 3 years we lived there, it never got done.

I left the paint for the next owners.

My living room: Eggplant on the main wall, Lilac on the other.  

I bought the blue furniture brand new and won a trip to Mexico.

Mine

I loved that house.  Every room had my touch (except Lyn's room... I wouldn't touch that if you paid me) and it all meant a lot to me.  I scoured books to learn how to do electrical work and I changed every outlet on my own.

I fixed things and built things and hung shelves and pictures.

It was exactly how I wanted it to be.

It broke my heart that my mom couldn't see it.  But, I was doing what she couldn't anymore -- I was trying to create a home for my family to migrate to.

My bedroom displaying my paintings and the plant I kept alive for 3 years.  

Thanks to Ky.  She watered it everytime she came to visit.  Once a month.

Despite all the trouble there was in that place -- a ever-renewing lake in the basement, an entire yard of weeds that were supposed to be a garden, the biggest lawn known to mankind -- it was my home.

I loved it.

Too much of a good thing

When my sister Ky moved in with Lyn and I, we were the happiest bunch of happies that ever happed. We were three sisters living the dream.

We watched a lot of So You Think You Can Dance and ate a lot of take out, but we had a great time.

Then one day,  the neighbours mentioned to me how great it was to see the place as it was meant to be.  They explained how three spinster sisters had moved to the house in the 70s and lived there until the last one of them died just before I bought the house.

I joined Lava Life the next day.

The rest is history.

My life in places: North Battleford Church Camp

Yesterday, I described my childhood home and what it meant to me.

Today, I want to tell you about my home away from home. North Battleford, Saskatchewan.

Church Camp

I have to admit, when you think of a great place that impacted every moment of your life, North Battleford is not the place you normally go to first.

It is a small city (two small cities, really) on the road to nowhere.  It is a beautiful community with lots of greenery, a river flowing through it, and the worse options of restaurants in the province.

I mean, unless Pizza Hut and A&W are your thing.  Then you're golden.

For my family, North Battleford was the epicentre of our summers.  It was not the town itself; it was the little section of land off Airport Road where we grew up: Sharon Schools.

Originally grounds housing a bible school and orphanage, this quiet little community made up of old airplane hangers and pilot barracks holds church camps at least twice a year.  My grandparents moved there in the 60s to take over supervising the orphanage and never left.  Grandma stayed nearly 50 years until we had to move her to a care home in Lloydminster.

Family

My mother grew up here.  Her childhood is here.  My grandparents adopted my two uncles and all but adopted my auntie.  They impacted more lives than we can ever know with their love and open door.  My grandpa built the hockey rink every winter and tended flowers every summer.  My grandma spent time in the gardens.

Every hug my grandfather ever gave me is here.

Every piece of advice my grandma gave is here.

My family spent a lot of time there and it is where my heart feels at peace.

The church at Sharon Schools.  Where my mom and dad got married.

As I planned to write this piece, I looked through all my photos for pictures to show.  I have none.  I went online and found some a friend had taken and he graciously allowed me to use them here.  Of course, he has none of my Grandparent's home, but he looked for me.

Sometimes, you are in a place so long, you forget that you might want to see pictures of it in your future.

Every year for a weekend at Easter and a week in July, between 300 - 500 people arrive to go to church meetings.

Togetherness

Everyone stays in the dorms that boast retro décor -- retro meaning that everything is from the 40s.  Not much has changed except the mattresses are no longer stuffed with straw.

We all go to church twice a day, eat together at the dining hall, play sports on one of the many areas dedicated to it, sit around the camp-fire, snack at the canteen, and soak up as much time with each other as possible.

The H building (it's built in the shape of an H -- clever) and the men's dorm.

The girls all stayed in the girl's dorm at the far east end of the grounds.  From 13 years to married, we all crowded into 6 rooms with two plug ins and one mirror each.  One large bathroom to share and a furnace room that held all late night conferences.

I have so many great memories of that place -- staying up all night talking, singing as loud as we could, exchanging clothes, and laughing past lights out until the dorm mothers came to yell at us.

Grandma

Once I was too old for the dorm, but not yet married (stupid old person biases on the importance of having a man in your life bollocks!!) I returned to my grandma's home during those weeks.

It was then I got to rekindle my relationship with Grandma.  She has provided me with a lot of amusement, wonder, frustration and love.

The main road from the centre of the grounds looking west.

This small area outside of the little city has been where I have experienced so much.

I have met life long friends, most of my old boyfriends, and people who have been my mentors and guides. It has been a part of my life before I had life and will continue to be important to me for many years to come.

I know every inch of this land and have spent hours exploring every building and piece of grass.

It is the home of my family.  The home of my friends.

It is where I know I belong.


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Please note: all photos used here have been generously provided by my friend Dale.  He's a good chap.

My life in places: Sunset Drive

The Guy and I are preparing to move into our new home sometime this week. We are busy packing and working and stewing and planning. I thought while we were doing that, I would share my life in 5 places with you. I came across this question a few years ago and wrote about it on my old site. No one read it, so I figured it would be okay to pretend it was brand new!

If you had to describe your life in five places, which sites would you choose and why?

I love questions with that kind of history and depth to them. Also, I like when someone or something else tells me what to do. Also, I can take this to mean anything -- cities, locations, houses, etc.  That is why I've decided to show you the 5 most important places that have shaped my life.

This is the first in a five part series:

My childhood home

We moved to Regina the fall I turned 7 years old.  The house on Sunset Drive is the house in my memory when I think of being a child.

Shaped like a milk carton and decorated with bits of stone and glass, it was a perfect house for small kids: three houses from the school, a huge backyard, near tons of other kids, and close enough to walk to the library.

This house is the background for my favourite memories.

It is the place where my playhouse was built.  The place where I soaked my neighbour's birthday party with the garden hose.

It's where we tied my little sister to the tree and where she ran away to Canadian Tire before anyone noticed she was gone.  It's where my brother broke the window playing baseball and where my Mom watched us play out the kitchen window while she baked bread.

It is the house where Dad and I would put lights on the huge fir tree in front during the coldest blizzard in November using two long sticks nailed together with a T bar on the top.

Front of our house on Sunset Drive.

It is the backyard that holds the most importance for me here.  It is where we spent most of our time.

It's where the neighbourhood kids congregated and where I felt the safest.

It was also where I spent a lot of time being grounded for doing stupid things outside the yard, but that's a different story.

The left quarter was where Mom's little garden was and our playhouse was built on top of the sandbox once we outgrew it.  Three lilic trees grew along the back fence and created a perfect hideaway for scented excursions.

But the best was the playset.

The centre of my childhood. The swingset my Dad built for us.

Dad installed this shortly after we moved in.  We spent hours climbing the rope, swinging the swing as high as it would go, trying to make the entire structure sway.

It was part of the set up in our elaborate game of K!ll the Russians (can you tell we knew all about the Cold War?) where you had to climb the rope, jump down, climb the fence, run around the house, climb the gate, climb the tree, jump off the playhouse, and get back to the swing set.

I'm not sure what the rules of this game was, but I know we didn't actually kill anyone.  And, honestly, we like Russians now. (Hi Russian Step-Mom!)  -- Note, this part was written before all the mess between Russia and Ukraine where my dad and stepmom live. I'm not a huge fan of those ones.

We moved from this house when I turned 12.  My sisters remember the house, but don't have the same attachment to it that I did.  They have childhood memories in the house on Pasqua whereas I was a surly teen who stayed in my room for 4 years.

I drove past this house the other day when I was in the neighbourhood.  They have cut the huge Christmas tree down from the front yard.  They removed the playset from the backyard and painted all the trim on the house blue.  It is no longer the same home I knew and has likely seen many other families since ours roamed it's narrow halls.

I loved that house and the time we spent there.

While it's true you can't go home again, it will always be one of my favourite places.

Top 3 time periods I wish I'd lived

The other night while at supper with a friend, we were chatting about times in history and how women lived and worked.  I asked the question: if you could choose any other time in history to live, what would you choose? 

Apparently, most grown women do not often contemplate questions like these! Fortunately, she was a good sport despite thinking I'm a bit nuts.

Being that we're friends, she should know that.

In an effort to share all my thoughts with the public, I thought I would share my top 3 times/places in history I wish I had lived.


The American Wild West

picture via

I grew up on Louis L'Amour books and John Wayne movies. I was impressed with the attitude all the women of the time possessed and I wanted to be the tough, but loveable single woman who ran her own ranch or brothel (depending on how sassy I'm feeling). I wanted to be the woman who pretended to be a man and proved she could shoot, ride, etc. as well as a man only to reveal her identity and convince everyone that gender stereotypes were wrong.

In all actuality, I would be the hard and angry woman with 14 children, a husband she doesn't respect, who one day goes out to cut fire wood because the lazy so-and-so didn't who would accidentally lodge the ax in her own leg and die instantly.

I shouldn't kid myself.

Aside: please look at my role model, Annie Oakley, whom I once believed to be the epitome of beautiful and capable woman. She actually looks like the opposite of what I envisioned -- a man, dressed as a woman, complete with her (his) own moustache.


Spy in World War II

Women were widely used in WW2 for missions and roles they had not been in the past. The SOE employed many women who were trained in combat (weapons and hand-to-hand) who were invaluable to the war efforts.

I was (and am) in awe of these women.

Odette Sansom (pic via)

Violette Szabo (pic via)

If I were alive in this time, I would want to be the women who fought in public (and in secret) for the good of her country. I am lost in the romance and ghoulishness of the strength these woman would have had to possess to do what they needed to do.

Again, if it were real life, I would have been a factory worker of thousands putting rivets into things all day. No less important, but exceedingly less exciting.


The Future: Deep Space

Firefly badass Zoe (pic via)

Yes, I know, the future hasn't happened yet and we can't guarantee there will be space ships and space travel and awesome fights against human looking cylons, but if there is? I want to be there.

I realize I am a big big nerd. I'm comfortable with that and you should be too.

I want to be Zoe. I want to be the tough chick on the ship guarding her people while her gentle and wise cracking husband pilots and hides when trouble comes.

In all reality, I will move to the moon, forget to put my helmet on, and die instantly from lack of oxygen.

My Ukrainian worry: My Dad in Lederhosen

Many of you know, my father (known as Blog Fodder online) lives in the Ukraine.  He has lived there about 7 years after he married a wonderful and tough lady, my mail-order-step-mom, Tanya.  Tanya is a Russian woman from Siberia who has lived and worked in Ukraine for many years.  Dad moved there and was warmly invited into her family of two sons (my younger step-brother passed away a year ago), two daughter-in-laws, and two granddaughters, Masha and Dasha.

Because my Dad was always a historian in his spare time, he is well versed in the goings-on between Russia and the rest of the world.  He has been fascinated with the leaders, the people, and the history for as long as he knew about them. This fascination could explain why my siblings and I played the game "K!ll the Russians" during the Cold War.  I now wish we had given it a slightly different name.

Dad could not be in a more perfect place to see this up close.  He was even in Maidan the day the fires began. His wife wanted to see what was happening up close and mentioned if she were younger, she would be right there on the lines.  Understandably, they are both worried for the people of Ukraine. The corruption that has led such wonderful, hard-working people to a bad place. The pressure from another corrupt nation that may cost them freedom, lives, and basic necessities.

I am worried sick. My family -- people I have met and love (and even my Dad) -- are in a place where there is the great likelihood of imminent danger and I cannot get them out.  Now, they live in a smaller village outside of a larger town that is closer to a larger city, so likely the fighting will not come knocking on their door.  But I don't know.

I hate not knowing.

Because I have been more aware of what is going on in Ukraine than I ever am of world events (yes, I'm an Ostrich, thank-you-very-much) I am trying to figure out exit strategies for my family if it comes to that. Somehow, in my head, I am imagining them having to flee Russian invasion like many had to flee the Nazis.

This leads me to the lederhosen.

One night, I was thinking about my dad, his wife, their son, two daughters, and granddaughters (one 9 months old) having to flee in the middle of the night with nothing but the clothes on their backs. I imagined my rather large and poorly exercised father trying to climb mountains and walk for hundreds of miles to safety.

Suddenly, I flashed to a scene from Sound of Music where the Von Trapps had to escape Austria during the night in the midst of a concert so they could get to safety.  It went from Captain Von Trapp, to Lederhosen, to my father, to my father in Lederhosen.

picture via

After picturing a 6'3" 350lb old man in Lederhosen fleeing the Nazis, I realized perhaps I was a little over worried about this.

I later told my Dad about my worry for his safety and my vision of his escape from Ukraine. He laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. He then asked his wife if they could fin Lederhosen in his size. She looked at him with the cocked eyebrow only wives can give that said "You're a special kind of stupid, aren't you?"

I've managed to keep my panic under control since then.

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If you are interested in reading about the Ukrainian issues from a Canadian ex-pat who is also a historian and a news junkie, here you are:

My Dad's f posts on Ukraine troubles:
I break radio silence 
Winning the peace
Fascism, Russian, and Ukraine
Crimea heats up
Extreme apprehension
All talk, no shooting - so far
No war until Monday
In search of an honest man

This isn't even all of them he's written. I just caught the main ones. Hope it helps clear things up and encourages you to keep the Ukrainian people in your hearts and minds.

Irish settler: my green genetics

Today is the day of my people. No, not binge drinkers (although I have some of those in my people too) but the Irish.  I'm not just Irish, but it's the one I relate to the most.  My family is a mutt-mix of English, Irish, and Scottish. I think there is a random Dutch thrown in there, but I'm not sure.

My family has never really participated in the any cultural events, not even Irish. No scary River dancing, no beer, no violent uprisings. We were Canadian from the day we landed and fully embraced the culture of apologizing and wishing we lived in a warmer climate.

 So, happy day some weird dude played the flute and led snakes out of Ireland. Or something. 

My great-grandfather Freke's signature entering Ellis Island