The Pear Tree Blog

Archive for March, 2010

“Every great journey begins with a single mistake.” Or so the saying goes.

Earlier this winter I had an unfortunate incident involving a cup of coffee and my lap top computer. The good news was that it was under warranty – but the closest shop we could find that would honour the warranty was in Kamloops. So, instead of paying a courier to transport the computer the two hours north, we decided to take a family day and drive it there ourselves.

I love driving – a declaration that no doubt stumps my mum and my grandma, both of whom had to endure bitter complaints about road trips both long and short. But I do, now, and if I wasn’t so insistent on playing with words for a living I’d probably be a long haul trucker or bus driver. There’s just something about the open road, the long drive, the eternal ribbon of asphalt, that never ceases to beckon.

The weather, when we embarked, was lovely. We were graced with a blue, spring sky that looks alluring but doesn’t bare the heat of summer. We stopped at the Starbucks near our place before officially launching out, to enhance the feel-good aura of it all with a grande something. Que the music (a round the world musical journey supplied by Putumayo).

The traffic was pleasantly light as we soared along the road, winding our way beside Wood Lake and Kalamalka Lake toward Vernon, and then beyond into the more wild countryside through Falkland, Westwold and Monte Lake.

When we got there, we dropped the computer off, ate lunch, played at the Riverside Park for a bit, and then piled into the car to return home. It may sound like a long way for so little, but we’re talking about someone who has, on more than one occasion, driven to Vancouver and back (more than four hours each way) for lunch.

It was a good drive. In addition to the music, we talked, looked for wild life (the most exotic thing we saw were some llamas – everything else was horses and cows), told stories and sang songs. Sometimes we just sat quietly and absorbed the landscape or contemplated thoughts such as how lucky I am to be married to a man that’s just plain amazing on so many levels, and to have two very small children who don’t whinge and cry like I did on trips that last more than 15 minutes.

I don’t believe in portable DVDs or MP3 Players or other technological tools that keep kids quiet but solitary. I think in 10 years my kids might hate me for that, but in 20 it will have paid off.

I was almost sorry to arrive at our destination. Given an unlimited supply of fuel, an absence of bills to pay and the right sort of company (say, that amazing husband and two kids I mentioned) I could have just kept going. It seems there’s always more to see – another corner to round, another road to cross. As soon as I find a way to make money from doing it (that doesn’t involve air brakes, 18 wheels or passengers), I think I could become one for the road.

Until then, I’ll just wait for my next excuse to travel. Hopefully it won’t involve a saturated motherboard.

I remember a time when I didn’t have to sweep toys off the couch before I could sit down. I wouldn’t trade having to now for anything.

This post is part of a series that runs Fridays and features a photo of the week accompanied by only a very few words. It’s just a snapshot of a favourite small moment. Feel free to leave a link to your own – I’d love to see it!

I love old buildings. Even ones that lean towards dilapidated pull just a little on my heart strings when I see them slated for demolition. While I am a fan of old school architecture, that’s not their only appeal. I’m fascinated by their stories – and the older they are, the more stories they hold inside of them.

Not all the stories are sensational, and they don’t have to be. Like I’ve said before on this blog, the most treasured memories in life don’t always show themselves to be spectacular at the time. It isn’t until months or years later that they bob to the surface of our hearts and take hold of us as something outstanding.

While a building is, supposedly, inanimate, I am quite convinced that they absorb, in their walls and floors and structure, all the stories that happened there. Whether it’s the love and determination of a business owner to make their business work or the laughter, conversation or sometimes even tears that are shared inside it, they’re all there, inhabiting the space like ghosts that never show themselves but quietly reside.

It is for that reason that I was excited to hear about the call from Kelowna Museums for stories about the Laurel Packinghouse. Known alternatively as The Laurel Building and The Packinghouse, the old brick building dates back to 1917. It was built from bricks made from Knox Mountain clay, and  operated as a packinghouse into the 1970s. Plans for its destruction were thwarted in 1982 when the Kelowna Museums Society made it the first designated heritage building in Kelowna.

Since then, the stories that have unfolded in the old place have been myriad, from Okanagan Wine Festival events to weddings, conferences and intimate concert performances. For the last several years, the upstairs has housed offices – mostly (but not exclusively) for arts related organizations. It has become, I would argue, a cornerstone of culture in the Central Okanagan.

My earliest memory of The Laurel involves auditioning for some kind of low budget (who knows if it even happened?) movie back in 1986. My mom let me skip school for the day and me and two friends headed down for what we thought would be our big break. The “casting agents” were cloistered in a room that is now the Orchard Industry Museum, and we sat in the lobby (I guess it was) for at least three hours waiting to get in. The parts we were trying for were advertised for women over the age of 18. Despite falling a few years below the mark we were sure we would be convincing enough to inspire them to pick us anyway. Looking back at pictures of myself now at that age, I see that quite the contrary was true and I actually looked about three years younger. We were the only ones who turned out for the audition, along with two completely strung out girls who had us in stitches the whole time, regaling us with their tales of hitch hiking adventures and other vignettes from their wild and wacky lives. When the guys in the room finally humoured us by letting us in, I was asked, for my audition part, to pretend to convince a police officer not to give me a speeding ticket. Not yet of driving age, I faltered and, yes, failed. Obviously, I never did become a movie star. But a piece of me – a yellowed memory – still lives in the old building, alongside the throngs of other people and their stories.

I’ll be watching this blog for other stories, memories shared, from this landmark building. I’m so glad that, as they renovate and restore the place they are finding a way to keep the old spirit alive.

Every Friday we’ve started posting a favourite shot from the week – one that defines a moment that was not, in and of itself, remarkable, but one that has made itself an important thread in the tapestry of our life. This one features our puppy Maizy out on a walk with her brother Snowy. They love to wrestle and pounce and chase and they seldom stay still long enough to focus the camera!

I took some time, this afternoon, to sort through some old clothes of my son’s. After he grew out of things, like many mothers, I packed them away just in case. In case my second was another boy and I would be lucky enough to have an entire wardrobe waiting for him.

I learned close to a year ago that my second (and final) baby would be – and is – a girl, but have avoided doing a major sort through of old clothes until today. One of my very best friends in the world is about to have a baby boy, and I’m going to pass along some of our stash.

I have to admit that I didn’t expect my reaction. The past two-and-three-quarter years feels like it has gone by so quickly – to the point where it sometimes feels like no time has gone by at all. But when I opened those boxes and pulled out the teensy sleepers, onesies, socks and shoes – which used to be so big on my tiny little boy – it suddenly felt like an eternity ago.

And just in case the point wasn’t driven home clearly enough on its own, Oliver, the aforementioned son, got into the clothes like a poor man in a dumpster. “Look at this, Mama,” he’d exclaim, sporting a little six-month-sized shirt now covering only half his trunk and stretched to capacity. He being about 30 months too big. Undeterred, he dove his hand into the box again and started struggling to put on a newborn size pair of socks. They didn’t go much past his big toe.

To him, it was all a lark – a plunge. He had no recollection of all the sweet little clothes that once defined him. It was dress-up time.

It’s funny how clothes can do that. Define a person. Especially when they don’t have words or (much) personality to work for them.

So as I contemplated what would be kept – only the most treasured, including hand made articles, or things that had been handed down from other family members and have become heirlooms that will be handed down again – I found my heart wrenching just a little bit to part with many of the items. He was crawling when he wore these overalls, I thought to myself. He took his first steps in this romper. Or I’d remember how his face looked, his expression of discovery or happiness in blue and red stripes. How his little bum rounded out his sleeper while he slept. Little bibs with stains that didn’t wash out – bananas and blueberries, two of his favourites, being the most likely suspects.

It might sound silly, but I ended up photographing most of my favourites. Part of me would like to keep them – to be able to revisit them every now and then, to hold them and remember the early years of motherhood and my once small baby boy. But we can’t keep everything. Not tangibly, that is. Of course the important things stay with us forever in our hearts. And that’s where they matter the most.

Still, I can’t help but wonder what new life this expected baby boy will bring to these things – how he will define them again, in his own way. And how his mother will someday see the same clothes I see and be flooded with a whole other set of wonderful memories.

Friday has become the day that we, at The Pear Tree, celebrate a little moment from the week before with a picture that speaks a thousand words. Or even just five.

Tut tut, looks like rain…

When I was young and aspired to be a writer, I had a vision of a life. It was a naively romantic vision and I find myself cringing as I share it with you now.

I saw myself set up in a big old house, ivy climbing up the side, seated at a table piled high with old books and several half-filled coffee cups – just enough room to accommodate a small typewriter (my vision predates the mainstreaming of computers). In front of me would be a large window with a sweeping view. The words, of course, would just pour out from my fingertips – clickity clack. When I wasn’t writing the Great Canadian Novel there, I would be camped out at my favourite coffee shop, Hemingway-like, inspiration hitting me like a double shot of espresso.

I’ve long since outgrown the first fancy. I’ve learned first hand that few freelance writers can afford big old ivy bound homes (unless they’re married to someone who actually makes some decent cash), that sweeping views can be unwelcome distractions and that there’s nothing ideal or easy about pouring your soul out onto a page (or screen).

I still like the idea of writing in coffee shops, however. You’ve probably read of my love for a good cuppa, but it goes deeper than that. Perhaps it’s the aroma, or the warm colours most coffee shops boast, that effects me. Maybe it’s the hum of conversations going on – an exchanging of ideas (some of them even good). Or just being in a relaxing place that allows your mind to decompress and free flow. Most likely it’s a combination of things that work together to stimulate my endorphins and get my creativity going.

Not that I’ve ever written anything of significance in a coffee shop. Mostly, I end up tweaking my To-Do lists, organizing my agenda or, well, laying my pen down and day dreaming while I sip slowly on a latte and watch what other people are doing.

I did write a news story in a Starbucks, once, a few years ago when I was covering a story in Penticton for The Province and needed access to wireless internet. I had to suppress the creative flow, however, since it was a sad story about a woman who had been murdered the night before.

Still. It was with this background that I learned about a new writing contest called Coffee Shop Author. The idea is to write the better part of a novel, book of short stories, collection of poetry or creative non-fiction in a favourite coffee shop. I think my skin tingled when I first read about it. It was like it was made for me.

Me. A writing machine, fuelled by good coffee and the occasional muffin. Sitting by the window, stopping every now and then to look out at the bustling street scene while mulling over a particularly catchy turn of phrase. Oh dear, it’s starting again – the romantic visioning. The idealizing.

Alas, with a small baby, an active toddler and a still-to-be-house-broken puppy all in my care, joining their ranks and spending several hours a day typing and slurping, slurping and typing, is not in the scope of reality any more than my ivy tower fantasy. At least not this year.

Although there’s still a little corner of me that says, “hang it all, just drop down the $30 and hit the coffee shop at night.” I just wouldn’t see much of my husband before the end of April (the deadline for submissions). I have until 15 March to think about it (the deadline for getting in on it).

It’s not that I have a story to write, short, novel or otherwise. It’s not that I want to win a trip to the Fernie Writers Conference. It’s not that I want that non-existent story to be published (okay, that I do want, eventually). I suppose I just want to live, if even for a month, a fortnight or a few days, to live that old ideal – what I once thought was a writer’s life. Before I became a writer and found out that life as a writer is just life. But with longer words. Because maybe there’s a Great Canadian Novel in me after all – I just haven’t found the right backdrop to help me tap into it…

One of my favourite bloggers that I follow, Soule Mama Amanda Soule, has started a Friday ritual of posting a favourite picture from the week. It’s a picture that captures a moment in time that’s small but big. I love this idea and since we, at The Pear Tree, are all about savouring special moments, I’ve decided to follow suit.

Our inaugural snapshot features my two-year-old son hard at work peeling an onion – his contribution to making dinner one evening this week. It was a job he took on himself and with a great sense of responsibility. I can’t remember, now, what we were making but I do remember that, contrary to the claims that if children help prepare the meal they’ll want to help eat it, he wasn’t interested in polishing it off once it was served to him. Still, he did an awesome job of peeling that onion!

Today I write with a cup of tea by my side. I usually slurp my inspiration from robust cups of coffee, but this month The Pear Tree is not a little bit preoccupied with tea cups, and so I thought my sipping practices should follow suit.

I have to admit that I’m not a big tea drinker. I want to be. I have tried to be. But as lovely as tea is – and don’t get me wrong, I do like it okay – given the choice between a light, fruity or floral cup of tea and a rich, intense cup of coffee, the coffee gets me every time.

But I do like the paraphernalia. The artful, elegant teacups, the small, ornamental spoons, the fat, round tea pots, the strainers that catch the loose leaves (because if I’m going to drink it I’m at least going to go for the good stuff). I like the culture of tea. I like the slowness of it – because heaven knows we could all use a little bit of that in our lives from time to time.

Anna Jacyszyn, the subject of our first story this month, calls it a lost art. I think that she’s right. In our our high speed, full to brimming worlds, there’s a need to be efficient. And hardy. Tea cups are neither efficient nor hardy. They’re delicate. They’re fussy. You’ve got a saucer to deal with as well as a fragile (relatively speaking) cup. You can’t just drag them around with you like a plastic tumbler full of your favourite drink.

That’s why we’re showcasing, this month, people who are bringing back the tea cup. They might not be drinking tea from it, but that’s okay. They’re finding a way to bring an old culture into the 21st Century and let it continue to be a bright spot in our lives.

Well, my cup is almost empty, and ready for a re-fill. I’ve been drinking Winter Warmer Tea, from Okanagan Lavender – a pungent blend of Earl Grey, sweet orange peel, rose petals, ground cinnamon and Provence lavender buds. It might not be coffee, but it is still rather nice. And, it has inspired me to pull out one of my favourite teacups (pictured above), made by local potter Bonnie Anderson. It really is an artful cup. I hope you join me, this month, in savouring a cup of tea – in a proper cup.