Where I Spend Most of My Time...

There's a distinct possibility that I've stolen this off of Emma's blog. That being said, thank you. It's made my year thus far.

Today is November 26...

so I set out to finish my Christmas shopping.

That's right, FINISH.

Reduced-Fat Eggnog Latte in hand, I bundled up and headed out.

Then I took off the hat. And the mittens. And the coat.

*insert confused-emoticon here. It's November 26. In South Western Ontario. Why isn't she wearing a coat?*

**just wait. It gets better.**

I then proceeded to open my sunroof. And roll down my windows. And turn my music up.

Why?

Because it's November 26. In South Western Ontario. And it's FIFTEEN DEGREES AND SUNNY.

This weather almost makes me consider sticking around.

Almost.

Big Willy Style

The school where I'm currently working is incredibly socially conscious. Our kids volunteer and conserve and generally fundraise like it's nobody's business. It's scary, in an indescribably super-amazing way.

Right now our Me to We group (a Craig Kielburger creation) is trying to generate funds to help with the drought in East Africa. Students have been organizing fun African-inspired activities like a drumming parade, water walk and bracelet making, in addition to your typical baked-goods-and t-shirt-sales. They also had a teacher karaoke "competition" (which, if I may be so bold as to point out, has absolutely nothing to do with Africa... at least not insofar as I'm aware...). in which students paid to see their teachers sing a song of their choice in the caf at lunch. In front of the whole school.

Of course this would be the time that my grade nine homeroom, who hasn't shown a drop of interest in anything all year, busts out the school spirit and I somehow find myself with a mic in my hand and Will Smith lyrics flashing across the karaoke screen.

Boy did I ever "Get Jiggy With It".

This is the point where I should probably mention that I got off lightly, seeing as their initial choice was LMFAO's "Sexy and I Know It".

I won't get into the details seeing as I'm positive that before long it will be on YouTube, but suffice it to say that I did Will Smith proud. And also that I'm more than a little embarrassed.

the thing about driving around with a box of Starburst in your back seat...

... is that you eat it.

All of it.

Even the yellow ones.

Argh.

Water Under the, Whatever.

It’s all Ancient History.

Or rather, my present and recent past have been all about Ancient History. My immediate and not-so-immediate future(s)(?) will most likely be all about ancient history too. As if this weren’t complicated enough as it is.

I suppose it’s easiest to begin at the beginning, if not somewhere around the middle-to-end.

In grade eleven I began an irrevocably passionate love affair with ancient history. I’m that person who willingly spends every possible minute on holiday in a museum (Berlin’s 170 museums/ galleries all but blew my mind), who can determine the historical significance (to say nothing of cause and effect) of a single rock, who stares reverently at “old stuff” in general... And so what if I have been known, from time to time, to shed a tear or two at particularly moving or influential historical sites? Temple Church, Canterbury Cathedral, Stonehenge… big things have happened in these places. Monumental things. THINGS that FOREVER changed the course of history!!!!

Let’s put it this way: if you ever lose me, chances are pretty good that I can be found in the History section at Chapters. If I’m not there it’s because I’m buying a one-way ticket to the poorhouse, courtesy of nationalgeographic.com

Fortunately I have several amazing friends who not only support my inner (ok, who are we kidding here… general all-over) historical fanatic, but who actually embrace and nurture it.

At the very least they’re willing to roll their eyes, pat my hand and inform me that they’ll be at the nearest gelateria when I emerge from my historically-induced coma and decide to rejoin the land of the living. After all, that Marks and Spencer picnic in Hyde Park won’t have itself.

The point being: I love history.

And this year I’ve been given the opportunity to teach it.

CHW3MI is the Holy Grail of courses for historically-minded individuals who find themselves working in our province’s secondary schools. This semester, it’s mine to cherish.

In language classes I tend to get confused looks and threats of visits from “the nice men in white coats” from my students whenever my eyes gloss over with reverence and passion whilst discussing a grammatical point (verb tenses get me EVERY TIME). But in CHW3MI, when I look out over those 31 smiling faces in my class and the fervour hits me, I realize that half of them are right there with me.

The other half are at least smiling pleasantly, dreaming of gelatto no doubt.

I feel like I could do this for the rest of my life and be completely happy.

(once the insane prep that is the… joy… that every teacher experiences their first time through a course subsides anyway.)

Except that it’s coming to an end.

It has been my experience that perfection tends to be short-lived and, being the Holy Grail, another teacher, one labelled as a “History teacher” (which, despite my qualifications, I am not) will soon be returning from maternity leave and reclaiming what is “rightfully” (technically?) hers.

Although it has lasted but a mere term, this short period and, more importantly, the students I have had the privilege of working with since September, have reminded me why I got into education in the first place. In many ways it’s been a breath of fresh air, revitalizing and re-energizing me, providing the positive reinforcement I needed to help get me to the next leg of my “professional journey”, so to speak. When I step into my classroom on the other side of the world next summer, as far from these students as I could possibly be, I’ll know that I owe the experience, at least in part, to them.

In the interim I suppose I’ll have to rely on that historically-induced coma. After all, it’s not a bad way to pass the time.

Another year

come and gone.

In Praise of Modern Amenities

How great are supermarkets?

Today I decided that I wanted a sandwich for lunch. A real sandwich. As in, not just some peanut butter slapped between two pieces of boring, preservative-enriched sliced bread, but something with substance. Something with meat and cheese and vegetables, crispy from the oven. Something on an Ace Bakery demi-baguette.

So I went to the supermarket to get what was needed.

Upon entering, I thought to myself “This is so CONVENIENT. Everything I need is RIGHT HERE!”

Think about it.

For my sandwich I purchased not only a demi-baguette, but also some spicy Genoa salami, provolone cheese, sprouts, dijon mustard, tomatoes, mushrooms and garlic-infused olive oil.

Had I not had a supermarket at which I could purchase these items, I would have had a lot of work on my hands.

After having grown the wheat, ground the wheat, combined my flour with whatever other ingredients make bread, I would have baked it. Most likely in a fire of some sort, seeing as if I don’t have access to a supermarket, it’s doubtful that I have access to a conventional oven.

While the bread was baking I would have meandered out to my garden to grab some tomatoes and mushrooms, although I’m betting that I would actually have had to find the mushrooms in the forest as opposed to in my garden, seeing as I doubt that they contain enough nutrients to warrant giving up the time and the space to actually grow them myself. But who knows, maybe I’m a frivolous pioneer woman.

Provided both items were to be found in my garden, and ripe enough to eat at that, I would have taken them inside, rinsed them off in a bucket of water my fifth son had recently fetched from the well, chopped them up, set them aside and proceeded to the smoking shed to grab some salami, which may or may not have actually been salami, and almost definitely would not have been Genoa salami, what with me being a pioneer woman, living in the relative seclusion of the Canadian wilderness, and most likely never even having heard of “Genoa”, never mind having tasted their particular brand of salami.

So I’m in the smoke shed, looking for the meat I want; the meat that came from the pig I slaughtered a few weeks back (let’s go with a few weeks… I have no idea how long it takes to smoke meat), butchered with my own bare hands (well, hopefully I at least had a knife or something to aid in the process), salted, spiced (apparently I AM frivolous), stuffed into the intestine of said-pig and hung in the shed to smoke.

We’re still missing the cheese, which probably wasn’t provolone, although I have no idea what makes provolone different than other cheeses so let’s say, for the sake of argument, that it was. Whatever. This cheese I made from the milk of my cow using a process with which, as a pioneer, I was intimately familiar but actually not because I am not, as I write this, actually a pioneer of any kind and have never, actually, made my own cheese.

The process of making a sandwich just took me several months.

So, having the luxury of living in a developed country in the twenty-first century, I’ve managed to neatly avoid the trouble of producing my own food stuffs and therefore saved myself considerable time and hardship.

It’s a good thing too, seeing as I have no idea where or how sprouts are grown, never mind what the heck constitutes “Dijon mustard”.



Editor’s Note: I’ve deliberately left out the garlic-infused olive oil from the receipe of pioneer me because I’m 99.9% sure that, in this role, I’ve never seen, heard of or tasted an olive. I’m guessing butter would have done the trick. Butter without garlic, because that’s probably saved for strictly medicinal use.