I’ve only ever been on one cruise in my 45 years, and it was more than half a lifetime ago. So, I was looking forward to a week-long break from the cold rainy weather we’ve been having in Toronto and from the monotony of work. Here is the first part my travel blog for this adventure with Tats, Rick and the boys...

Day 1 - Arrival in Puerto Rico

We arrived in Puerto Rico on the afternoon of December 1, after a 4-hour flight from Toronto. Our travel agent had suggested booking the flight a day early, in case of delays, and extending our weeklong vacation by one day by spending an overnight in San Juan. Although it’s not my usual style to do that sort of thing (I’d be more inclined to pack it in tight, and step directly off the plane and into a cab to the cruise ship terminal, LOL!), I’m really glad we took her advice.

What a delightfully surprising place Puerto Rico is: Warm, breezy weather, beaches within walking distance of where we were staying, and awesome vegetarian options on pretty much every restaurant menu we stopped to read! With its Spanish colonial architecture, Old San Juan reminded us a little of Havana... Minus the 1950s cars, of course. But a very similar vibe. So bizarre that this place is technically part of the US.

The Airbnb where the five of us spent the night was in the Old Town, and we were lucky enough to be graced with a waiter at dinner here who was studying political science. He educated us a bit about PR.

The little island has a long history of colonization, first by the Spanish, then by the Americans. Schooling continues to happen in Spanish, but everyone here seems to speak fluent English, too.

Technically, PR is not a US state. The citizens here do not vote for the president or senators. But they do have some representation in government that is supposed to advocate on their behalf. This is generally met with limited success (as evidenced by the US government's horrifically negligent response after the recent hurricane here).

The result is an urban and rural landscape that is in many ways stereotypical of so many Latin American countries, but at the same time dotted with the undeniable influence of the US - Walmart, KFC, McDonalds and the like are as easily found here as in any American city. From our brief observations, though, the Latin culture is alive and well - sitting on the balcony of our Airbnb this first evening of our travels, the cadence of Spanish conversations waft up from the small groups of people gathered here and there in the street below, and the lyrics of the pop music emanating from the bars and restaurants are almost exclusively in Spanish.

With the kids and Rick tucked safely into their beds, Tats and I decided to explore a little bit, and walked around town to the portlands, where we enjoyed some live music and tried with limited success to practise our Salsa moves in a local square!

Sunday, Dec 2 - Day 1 of Cruise
After a tasty breakfast at a cafe down the street from our Airbnb, we walked to a nearby beach for one last swim in the ocean before heading back to our rooms to pack up our bags and make our way via Uber to the Pan American cruise terminal (as Tats and I had discovered The night before, our Royal Caribbean cruise ship was setting sail from there rather than the closer terminal within walking distance). We learned from our Uber driver that after the storm, Puerto Rico found itself with an unemployment rate of over 14%. As a result, the Government became more open to "disruptive technologies" such as Uber, in hopes of finding solutions to the high unemployment rate.

Now it was time to board the ship. The terminal was an example of organized chaos: People crowded into various clusters to drop their luggage off at designated areas, then moved on to the security line and then on to yet another line to get checked in.

After ironing out a few other logistical details and attending our respective musters for the obligatory safety demonstration, we reconvened for dinner in the main dining room. A tasty array of options were offered, and everyone found something to suit their taste.
Afterwards, the boys once again dashed off on their own, this time to attend some teen club activities, and the adults found their way to the pool deck to watch the ship set sail.

Afterwards, Tats and I went dancing, took a stroll through the shopping area, played a game show, attended a performance and even saw a shooting star from the helipad before heading back to the room before midnight, where we found the boysies, teeth brushed, in their bed awaiting their mommies! (The deal was that everyone had to be in bed with teeth brushed by midnight.)

Dec 3 - Cruising to Curacao (Day at Sea)

After a somewhat restless night, Alex and I got up early-ish (8 am) and headed off to the library. While Alex wrote in his journal, I tried to capture the first few days in notes and photos on my phone, determined to post a blog at the earliest opportunity for free wifi!

While we waited for the others to wake up so that we could ask go to breakfast, I reflected on the advantages and disadvantages of life (as an amployee) on a cruise ship. Already we’d met folks from Ukraine, China, St. Vincent, the Philippines and the UK. This appealed to me. What an interesting work environment and a place for the incubation of diverse perspectives! But I know there are other considerations… for example I know from a family friend who spent a few seasons as a performer on a boat, as well as from my schema as an airline pilot's wife, that there are different “classes” of employment. Not everyone enjoys the same salary, living quarters or other benefits. Nevertheless, for the young, unattached worker, cruise ship life must offer a tremendous opportunity to do a bit of traveling, and meet people from all over the world, and even learn a few snippets of different languages over time. Nevertheless it must be an odd sort of life, too, with people constantly coming and going, as contracts and and new ones begin for different crew members. I remember from our friend, that constantly saying goodbye can be one of the greatest challenges of cruise ship life, and I heard that again from a personal trainer I met later on the cruise.

Our day at sea was relaxed but not boring. While having breakfast at the main buffet, we ran into Simon and Rick. Once we'd finished eating, I took everyone outside and showed them the helipad. We then deposited Rick on a lounge chair on the same deck, and the boys went off to enjoy some teen club activities while I return to our room to discern whether or not to Tats were still alive. She was, and had just woken up from a long slumber.

The rest of the day included some individual activities independent of one another, and a common lunch followed by shuffleboard on the promenade deck – – just like the 1950s!

Given our early arrival the next morning in Curacao, we decided on a relatively early bedtime, with lights out by about 10:30 PM.

Tuesday, Dec 4 - Curacao

Another restless night for me, though thankfully everyone else seemed to fare OK. By about 6:30 AM, I couldn’t bear the too soft/uncomfortable mattress any longer, and decided to abandon my tossing and turning iin favor of getting out of bed to enjoy a peaceful morning on the promenade deck.

By 7 AM, the helipad already had a few spectators gathered; it seems I was not the only one with the idea to use this vantage point to observe our arrival in Curaçao. Collectively, we observed a rainbow, and land ahead, and in the ocean around us, the first ships we had seen in a long time. We were no longer alone in this big body of water!

I found a deck chair on a more abandoned side of the promenade deck and enjoyed a moment of peace and quiet while capturing the previous afternoon’s events in writing.

Soon, I felt a distinct change in the movement of our big ship. The gentle rocking of the open water had ceased, and leaning out over the rail, I could see another enormous cruise ship ahead of us. We had landed in Curaçao!

After snapping a few more photos of our arrival and the set-up by the crew down below, I went back to the room to wake up the kids and head over to breakfast in the main dining room.

Tats had arranged for herself and the boys to do their open water dives as part of their scuba certification here, and so we walked through the city and on to “the Dive Bus“, about 3.5 km from the ports.

While the walk was not particularly long, the heat and humidity made it quite arduous, and we stopped about halfway for a lemonade, and decided at that point that those of us who are not up for the walk would continue on in a taxi. #BestFifteenDollarsEverSpent

Soon we arrived at the dive bus, and Alex, Simon and Tatsy got sorted out for their dive, while Rick and I rented some snorkel gear to use at the little beach across the street.

I was amazed at the variety of fish in such a small reef! Gorgeous colors, and fish in all shapes and sizes.

Afterwards, we walked down the road a little and settled in for a few hours a nicer beach, in a rented cabana, where we enjoyed pizza and the ocean breeze. Unfortunately, like so many places, this establishment insisted on blasting and noisy pop music, so our beach sojourn was not as relaxing as it could have been. However, it was nice to lie down and have a little rest on such a hot day!

I had lugged my novel along intending to start it now, but decided to take a little nap instead.

Afterwards, we walked back to the Dive Bus to meet Tats and the boys, who were just returning from their dive!

P.S. So blogging takes longer than spotty wifi permits--so this was finally posted while waiting on the ground at UYZ for our gate!

I’ve been a lesbian for so long I hardly even think about coming out anymore. Until tonight.

Let me clarify: I‘ve always been queer, of course, but I didn‘t actually come out of the closet (to myself or anyone else) until well into my thirties, by which time I had — inconveniently — already married a man and borne his children. Coming out was a tricky business, but one which was navigated long enough ago now that it no longer gives me heart palpitations to think about it. And, being fortunate enough to live in a reasonably socially just society like Canada, I don’t constantly have to question whether and to what extent I can reveal my identity: I have photos of my partner on my desk at work alongside the kids, and she‘s as welcome at any straight person‘s social gathering as any hetero spouse would be. There are laws that prohibit discrimination against me at work an in my personal life, and when Tats and I finally end our engagement with a wedding, it will be a marriage that is legally recognized.

So life is good. Now.

But... life has a funny way of reminding us at the most importune times of where we‘ve been while it unveils a little piece of where we might be going. And tonight was one of those funny/inopportune times!

I sing in a choir, of late, through one of my sons’ school community, and tonight we held our first concert of the year. The event took place in the sanctuary of my old church, that is, the church I attended for nearly two decades. The church where I was baptised, and that served as my spiritual home until I came out at 38.

Initially excited that the concert was so close to home (My partner, our kids and I still live in the neighbourhood, and their dad and his partner also reside nearby), I was surprised by how affected I was when I actually found myself in that space once again. I had performed musically there many times in the past, and had spent many Sundays in the pews with my children and what at the time was my church family, listening to our pastor share biblical passages and his reflections on them. I had broken bread with my fellow worshippers for many church anniversaries and old fashioned family Christmas dinners. It was a bit odd to be in that space now, in a completely secular context.

It wasn‘t until I dropped my coat off in the little room behind the choir loft, though, that the significance of being away for so long really hit me.

As I glanced around, I remembered that it was here in this small room, seated in the worn-out, old chairs, that my ex-husband and I met with our pastor and a church elder to advise them of our „predicament“, while my partner was at home, minding the kids. And it was here that — when I was most in need of some stability and graceful guidance as I navigated the complexity before me in my personal life — that I was instead abandoned by those from whom I had hoped to find said stability and guidance.

I don’t blame the pastor entirely. I mean, it was a small little blue collar baptist church. Even in the early 2000s in Toronto, it was a big deal. The kind of thing that could really tear a small congregation apart. The divorce was as „problematic“ in itself as the homosexuality. (Nevermind the connection between the two!) But the fact that I was an orphan with no family of my own to help me figure out „now what“ made it especially painful that my church family would not step up and have courageous conversations with me, and with each other to challenge their biases and assumptions. Whether or not they were - individually or collectively - cerebral enough to critically examine the scriptures that had so often been used to oppress people like me through the ages, it would have been nice if they had at least showed compassion. No one shunned me outright or anything like that... but no one reached out to check in on me and my little family (the twins were 6 at the time — they needed to know that their mother was accepted and loved; as it turned out, they got more acceptance of me through their dad‘s parents than their church family!) And, when we drifted away and finally stopped going to that church altogether, no one followed up. (In fact, when I came back to visit sometime later, people were surprised to learn that I had begun attending another church — funny how they all assumed I‘d come out of the closet and jumped straight into bed with the devil!)

I hadn‘t realized just how much this all still affected some part of me until tonight, when I stood in that little room behind the choir loft, looked around, and realized, „Oh, wow - the last time I was in here was when...“

I don‘t know where that church stands now on full inclusion for LGBTQ+ folks. I know I cannot have been the only queer person at that church, and my heart hurts for others who came before and after me who did not find dignity and fellowship in that place.


The irony of the the words we sang at the end of our final set this evening was not lost on me. Oscar Peterson‘s Hymn to Freedom, arranged for two-part choir by Seppo Hovi: „Any hour, any day, the time soon will come when all will live in dignity, that's when we'll be free.“ All. Period. Not just all heterosexual people.


Luckily, the time for dignity came long ago for me, and I am most certainly free to be who I am most of the time in most daily contexts now. It felt strange, therefore, to find myself temporarily back in a place where that had once not been the case.

What is it, exactly, that makes great teaching?

I’ve been thinking about this question a lot, as I think back to my time as a classroom teacher, and reflect on how my practice changed over the nearly 20 years I spent with students before moving to a permanent position as a public servant with the Ministry of Education. In particular, as a parent who is too often underwhelmed with the practice I observe through the experiences of my own children in the school system, I am compelled to consider what, specifically, is the difference between a good teacher and a great teacher. (And perhaps more poignantly, was I ever the latter?!)

The more I learn about the roots of public education (how many of you knew that it was originally intended in many places as a tool of eugenics, not much different in purpose from the residential school system here in Canada?!), the more I am convinced of the truth of Michael Fullan’s suggestion from his book, Stratesphere, that we are nearing the end of our current system’s useful life. (Some might argue, we’ve long exceeeded its usefulness... and yet, in many places right here in this very province, the factory model and all its accouterments continue to shine as an exemplary model of mediocrity!)

So, then, one must ask, what IS the purpose of public education, if not to inculcate the youth of a society with the cultural mores of that society? What is it that we want/need kids to learn?

One problem I’ve observed as a parent, a classroom educator and a system leader in various roles is our lack of courage to ask these very questions: What is our purpose here as a larger system? Why are we doing what we are doing? What are we hoping to achieve?

Though blissfully ignorant at the time (as a young, white, able-bodied settler) of the broader colonial implications, I personally always subscribed to what I interpreted to be a well-intended, equity-minded approach suggested by Susanna Moodie, an early settler to Canada, and a strong advocate for public education, namely, that “the want of an education” is the only thing that separates the different “classes” of people.

Though I know enough now to understand that things are a little more complex than I understood them to be as a new teacher some 20 years ago, I still believe in the potentional for public education to act as an opportunity for universal access. In my ideal world, any student, anywhere could get what they need from a public education system, and use it to lift themselves out of their current situation, whatever it may be, and into a situation that allows them to fulfil their potential. It also allows them to realize the moral imperative of lifting one another up and supporting one another in achieving their potential, but removing barriers they have the power to remove for one another.

But as I am coming to realize, this requires incredible insight and humility on the part of classroom educators and school and system leaders, and a willingness to make themselves (ourselves) vulnerable as we examine the probably enormous unearned privilege, in most cases, that brought each of us to a job in public education.

When I think back to my early years of teaching, I now finally realize just how NOT “woke” I was. Despite thinking I was, and wanting to be. I was a good teacher, but I wasn’t great. I know this because I can think of specific students whom I did not serve well.

There are numerous examples (more in the earlier years and fewer in later years, I think) of students to whom I spoke more harshly than I should have, with whom I was more impatient than I should have been, and for whom I just really lacked a deep understanding of the barriers they faced within the system that had (mostly) advantaged me, and which I — in the very act of being a school teacher — was contributing to upholding.

And there is a more general shortcoming, too. An eager learner and quick study, early in my teaching career, I was already doing many of the things the “good” (well, decent at best, in some cases, I would argue — but I know I’m judgy!!) teachers my own children have do now: I photocopied packages of handouts like crazy, communicated detailed unit plans with parents, and shared specific, graphic, classroom management and behaviour plans with my students and their families. And they loved it, because they didn’t know any better.

It wasn’t until my latter years as a classroom teacher that I began to let go of some of my obsessiveness about my classroom, and began to focus on the students rather than the program. I developed outlines, but left the details to be fleshed out with my learners. I moved away from assigned seating and more into daily circle time (yes, even for intermediate level students!) followed by self-selected seating in one of many work areas around the classroom. I allowed math to flow into language to flow into social studies and back into math again... and while I read with some students, others worked on an art project, or researched something they were interested in from an earlier conversation in social studies, or helped a peer figure out how to upload an assignment into the new online classroom we were all figure it out how to use, or went to the contained class and read with kids who had ASD.

Imagine the chaos! It was beautiful... and the vast majority of the students in the class were engaged.

On my arrival at the check-in desk in Toronto, the nice lady asked me where I was staying in Boston, to which I replied, “hmmm... I have no idea, I’m flying out with my partner, who is a first officer, and I don’t know the name of the hotel that’s been booked”.

And that’s were the trouble started.

“Is he a pilot with this airline?” The nice lady asked; “yes, she is”. (My gently corrective response.)

We debated back and forth whether — given that this was a company employee — the customer service rep might have access to the hotel info (my partner, probably engaged in her pre-flight briefing with the crew, was not responding to my texts).

Eventually the CSR summoned her colleague at the next kiosk and made the inquiry: “This lady is flying to Boston and her partner is a pilot on the flight; do we know which hotel the crew is staying at?”

The colleague wanted to ascertain everyone’s status: “He’s the captain on the flight, or the first officer?”

“She’s the FO” I calmly explained, and added a meek, “Sorry, she’s not responding to my texts right now.”

Long story short, we found a temporary solution until my female first officer partner finally texted me the details. But I was left with an annoyed sense of mistaken identity.

I couldn’t figure out whether it was gender stereotyping at play [Even people who know I’m gay do a double take when they find out Tats is a pilot — the first assumption when I say “my partner flies for (insert airline here)” is that she’s a flight attendant. Cause, you know, only men can be pilots apparently.] or heteronormativity (I’ve noticed that since I let my hair grow ever so slightly beyond my usual short fade/undercut, there is less of an assumption about my LGBTQ+ status... especially when I’m not decked out in plaid and/or Doc Martins!!)


It suddenly dawned on me that it actually didn’t matter whether gender bias or heteronormativity was the culprit — the use of the pronoun “they” would have solved either problem... AND would have signalled more generally a culture of inclusion on the part of the airline.

Here’s to the use of the pronoun “they”, and to the evolution of grammar in support of a more inclusive language!

So I finally experienced my first fall on PEI. A neighbour recently bought property across the road from us and has begun developing it, so we decided to go out for Thanksgiving weekend and tack on an extra few days, in part to check in on how the main building was progressing.

Most of the time I‘ve spent on my beloved isle has been in summer (though I have braved a few winter excursions as well), and I must say, it was caught off guard by how lovely this place is in autumn!

I‘ve read the Tourism PEI enticements to visit the island in the fall, but I‘d always sort of assumed that was mostly just a sale pitch. I was prepared to enjoy a nice thanksgiving meal and just play my drums and catch up on sleep for a few days close to home.

But it turns out the hype is legit: The island is largely rural, and as such, has lots of foliage to show off in fall. The caucophony of colours was spectacular wherever we went!

Although we did visit a new-to-us beach while there (Thunder Cove, to see the „teapot“), we actually spent less time by the ocean than on any other visit I have made to the island. Instead, we explored a few of the island‘s many trails.

Upon seeing several enticing forest paths on various PEI instagram accts I follow, I inquired where one goes for a walk in the forest; a friend and neighbour recommended Forest Hill Trail, south of St Peters, near Strathcona. So, off we went, dog in tow.

It had been rather a damp few weeks, and so mushrooms of all manner were blossoming majestically along the leafy forest path. We took several photos of the remarkably diverse species of fungi while the dog romped around the soggy leaves and went tearing happily back and forth along the trails.

We did some off-trail geocaching, and also lost (and thankfully found!) my phone before heading back to the car with soggy-pawed dog for the half hour drive to the Charlottetown airport.

If you‘ve never been to the island in fall, I highly recommend it. Especially if you are a lover of nature, it‘s a beautiful time to visit, and as an added bonus, the place is not overrun by tourists and mosquitoes, as is frequently the case during the summer months.

October PEI, I‘ll be back!

With all the commentary on toxic masculinity and patriarchal resentment in the media these days, I thought I’d weigh in it with my own perspective on the topic, from an aviation standpoint.

I recently read a comment on an Instagram photo posted by a male pilot, which applauded his misogynistic stance, and ridiculed the hashtag “girlpilots” that women in aviation sometimes use when posting aviation related photos to Instagram or other social media. What surprised me about the support of comment was that it had been written by another female pilot!

It reminded me of a story I heard not too long ago, from the leader of a women’s support group at a regional airline, about how some female pilots were quite resistant to joining said support group. It seemed as though they didn’t want to be treated any differently from their male peers, she noted, and they resented the spotlight being shone on them as women in a non-traditional Aviation role. They had fought so hard to get where they had gotten, they were afraid, almost, to discuss this reality with their female peers, and just wanted to be seen as “one of the boys”.

But we #GirlPilots are NOT like the boys we often have to fly with!

It’s not uncommon, even in 2018, for female pilots to be harassed either directly (think derogatory comments or inappropriate touching by male captains to female first officers) and indirectly (where “the boys“ make sexually inappropriate, jocular comments about the women they share the cockpit with, not knowing that those comments may be overheard by their female colleagues or males not comfortable with this sort of toxic masculinity.)

As I heard first-hand at a dinner celebrating the accomplishments of women in aviation the other night, this sort of nonsense still happens frequently. But rarely if ever the other way around. (Seriously, aviation friends, when was the last time you heard a female captain discussing with her peers the size of her first officer’s cock, and how that must’ve played a role in his getting hired?! Actually, let’s just leave it at the first part, when was the last time you heard a female captain? Case in point!)

The aviation and aerospace industry is still stacked strongly against women. 50% of the human population is represented in only 6% of most airline cockpits, and this imbalanced percentage is often reflected in other non-traditional aviation roles as well: aviation engineers, mechanics, flight instructors, rampies, etc.... Not surprisingly, it’s even lower for women of colour or other intersecting identities.

Having being a student pilot in a flight school overrun by disrespectful ground school peers and male instructors who were clueless at best and in some cases downright misogynistic, I know I’m not the only one who chose not to plow through that minefield and continue on to a career in the field of aviation once I finally earned my coveted PPL. There are only so many sexist “jokes” and comments you can take with a smile and and apparently nonchalant come back before wanting to poke your eyeballs out with hot skewers rather than go back voluntarily for more, just so that you can fly an airplane!

No, I stuck with my nice, safe, gender-appropriate profession (I’m a public educator with more than 20 years of teaching experience, surrounded largely by women)!

I can’t believe that all men are naturally misogynistic pigs, though. In fact, among the many examples of jerks I had to put up with while earning my PPL, were some shining examples of decent human beings. Young men who were doing their best to just teach flying and earn some hours so that they could go fly bigger planes. And I’ve seen enough very young boys to know that – – no matter how early the dangerous socialization begins – – humanity grows up with the potential to be nurturing, caring, fair and equitable, regardless of their sex.

Gender socialization, and the promotion of “strong men“/boys who don’t cry, and who discard femininity as worthless, is taught. It’s taught by the adults – – men and women – – that surround a young child. And its effects are so powerful, that many women themselves believe, albeit sometime subconsciously, that they are the inferior sex.

Personally, when I post an aviation related photo of myself, I often use #GirlPilot, not to show off, but rather to find my sisterhood. As a student pilot, I endured plenty of horse shit from the boys I had to deal with along the way, and although I did not make flying a career, I can imagine that with the industry average standing at just 6%, most fellow #GirlPilots who also happen to be #CommercialPilots are not likely to find that sisterhood among their immediate collegial circle!! So when I click the hashtag after I post, I’m immediately virtually surrounded by other girls who – – like me – – swam through the sea of toxic masculinity and patriarchal resentment, and earned their stripes!

It’s exciting and encouraging.

I saw another post on Instagram recently, too. It was a photograph of a young boy holding a sign. The second “boys“ in “boys will be boys“ had been crossed out and replaced with “good humans”.

Imagine a world where the approximately 50% of the population that identifies as male is not feared, despised and/or disrespected by the other 50%, but rather revered and respected, because they are decent humans who in turn revere and respect as valuable and necessary their female fellow humans, rather than seeing the as worthless pawns provided by some great deity for their personal sexual enjoyment, whether in aviation, or in any field. Imagine if a man‘s power came from his choice to be decent, kind and respectful, rather than to oppress.

In such a world, perhaps some of us would no longer feel the need to hashtag our aviation posts with #GirlPilot because we could just be #Pilots.

Before we embarked on our recent road trip to Newfoundland, I had heard many wondrous things about the beauty of this land. I wondered, before we left, if I would fall in love with it the way I had with PEI years earlier.

As we disembarked from the ferry in Port-aux-Basques and made our way carefully through the early morning fog that rolled across the landscape (a remnant of an overnight thunderstorm), we caught periodic glimpses of the majestic hills that define this part of the island. The view was so visually overwhelming that I wept. And for once, my kids -- also in awe of the magnificent beauty surrounding us -- didn't ask me why I was crying!
​
As we continued to work our way north along the Viking Trail (the highway that traces the island's west coast), through Gros Morne National Park, past many brooks and streams, towards St Anthony, we enjoyed a visual feast each day. There were few appetizers and little dessert. The landscape offered up mostly main courses: One strong and powerful rock formation gave way to another, always another. Water gushed and trickled and danced its way down the mountains, across the rugged landscape and out to the sea. And the sea was big and omnipresent, always to one side of us, creeping in and out to form little inlets for fishing villages, but always eventually stretching out, out, out towards eternity. 

A soundtrack of Stan Rogers and other Canadian east coast artists served as an auditory complement for many hours of most days, as we took in without boredom the feast laid out before us.

In the people we met along the way -- whether through a local theatre performance, a band accompanying our supper one night, or the tour guides on the whale boat and at L'Anse aux Meadows -- we sensed a deep appreciation for, and love of, this landscape. They were connected with the water in ways that I would say most other Canadians, even those from other east coast provinces, aren't. Every brook is marked (and many accompanied by hiking trails), and the ocean plays a key role in the history of almost every family on the island for generations back. Their pride in this land is evident in the way they speak, the way they carry themselves. 

The Newfies we met were confident and funny, without being arrogant; they were just very sure of who they were, geographically and culturally speaking.  Where many Canadians waver in terms of what one might call a national identity, Newfoundlanders stand tall and certain. It was clear: We were in Newfoundland, but Newfoundland was not in us the way it was in them!

I enjoyed our time on the road tremendously.  As a Canadian, getting to know this part of my country a little felt like an important pilgrimage.  And I was very impressed with the landscape. 
But I did not fall in love.
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As we wound our way back to the Confederation Bridge, and Nova Scotia gave way to New Brunswick, and we eventually were able to glimpse the red soil on the other side of the strait, my breath caught a little.  This beautiful place I get to call home sometimes is not nearly as impressive in its majesty as its larger sibling to the east, but it is a pretty little island, and strong in its own right.

Abegweit, the cradle in the waves, with its red soil, blue skies, endless potato farms and arguably the best beaches in Canada, is my one true love, and -- much as I was pleased with our time in Newfoundland -- when we finally crossed the bridge and found ourselves on familiar ground, I was happy to be home. And, when I flew back to Toronto about a week and a half later, I was still hungry for a few final glimpses of the red isle... as we took off into the sunset, I couldn't stop snapping picture after picture of my one true love!

Where words and photos sometimes fail, music steps into the gap! This post is a tribute to my teachers who introduced me, over a K-12 education, to some of the music that brings the the majestic landscapes and rich cultures of this magnificent country to life. In particular, it is an appreciation for the music of Stan Rogers, and East Coast music generally.

I recently returned from a road trip to NFLD.  ​With two teenagers in tow, I set out in our rental car from St Peter's Harbour, PEI, to St Anthony, on the north-western tip of the other island, primarily in hopes of seeing the whales.

​The journey there and back entailed 6 days of driving (big country we live in!!), and endless hours of music and podcasts. (On the latter, the boys and I enjoyed several episodes of Hidden Brain; I highly recommend for some thought-provoking discussion when on the road with teenagers.)

After being forced to listen to "Africa" by Toto for the 17th time in one day, I decided it was time expand our repertoire a little, and introduced the boys to Stan Rogers. They'd heard Barrett's Privateers before, but it was their first time with some of his other well-known numbers, and Northwest Passage soon became a favourite musical score to the rugged landscape that served as a backdrop while we whizzed along the Viking Trail in our rental vehicle.

I remember my Grade 13 music teacher insisting that we listen to Stan Rogers; he informed us that as Canadians, this was an artist whose work we should know.

My 18-year-old self had never been east of Quebec, and I was not particularly impressed, especially since my musical tastes at the time centred more around 80s rock genre and bands like Rush and Van Halen. My 45-year-old self, however, driving along the west coast of Newfoundland with the ocean on one side and mountainous terrain on the other, was considerably more appreciative.

After several hours of Stan Rogers on repeat, I downloaded some additional east coast favourites, and the boys soon replaced Africa and Northwest Passage with The Islander, which we had to listen to at full volume and sing along to at the top of our lungs ("Come on, Mom, sing!") multiple times a day.

While in NFLD, we went for supper one night at a restaurant with a live band and mummers. "I'se the Bye" was played and danced to, and I was taken back to my elementary school days, where Mr. Mec did his best to instill some Canadiana into us lowlifes through his commitment to a robust music program each year.  We sang this drinking song and others, too, and I quickly downloaded it for the next leg of our journey.

On that same album was What Shall we do with a Drunken Sailor, which I recalled from my junior Kindergarten days, where Ms. Burnell (sp?) played it for us on her autoharp, and we sang along with vigour, a bunch of 3- and 4-year-olds, blissfully ignorant that this east coast favourite was perhaps not super appropriate in its vocabulary or concepts for such young, impressionable minds.  The rhythm was catchy, Ms. B's enthusiasm was infectious, and our singing was loud and passionate (and probably a little off-key)!

Thus was crafted the foundation for my later appreciation of east coast drinking songs like The Night Pat Murphy Died and the afore-mentioned Islander, among others.

​As we neared the end of our 6-day odyssey around a mere smidgeon of the east coast, and were on route back to PEI so that one of my kids could catch his plane from Charlottetown back to Toronto, we played a few of the original playlist favourites again... but not without periodic interspersals -- at my boys' insistence -- of their new favourites, too! 

I'll be forever grateful for the memories we made together on this trip, the three of us, and for the magnificent eastern Canadian landscapes that photos cannot really do justice, and which brought tears to my eyes on many occasions as we drove.  But most especially, I'm grateful for the music teachers I had, from Kindergarten to high school, who -- by their exposure of us to this music -- made this adventure so much more pleasurable for all three of us.
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Thank you, Ms. Burnell, Mr. Mec and Mr. Van Zuylen!

If you’ve ever wondered about how lesbians do things, you’re in for a real treat: Today's post is about the lesbian lifestyle.

I've written about "the gay lifestyle" in the past, but this particular post is about a very specific aspect of lesbianism, namely, the struggles that two more masculine women face when managing stereotypically "female" situations.

In the past, when I reveal that my spouse is also a woman, I have more than once been asked "who's the man?"

I kid you not, this is not a one time question, and as I do not always know the questioners well enough to presume an "intimate" nature to their line of questioning, I can only assume they are asking more superficially, i.e. who takes on the classically "male" chores around the house.

When faced with important domestic tasks, it seems the answer is, "we're BOTH the man"!

This was clearly illustrated to me this past weekend, when I had to help my partner with an emergency hemming situation.

Now before you ask what could possibly constitute such an emergency, allow me to explain.

You see, my partner recently got hired as a first officer with a regional airline. As such, she was issued a standard uniform, and given a budget to customize said uniform to specs.

For example, pant leg length.

This next part is not so much about the lesbian lifestyle, but it is germane to the story, so bear with me while I set the context.

On Thursday, my partner took all three issued pairs of pants to be altered last week. On account of the long weekend, they were to be ready for pick up on Tuesday. Not a problem, since she was still awaiting her actual flight schedule, and assumed she was not working for the foreseeable future.

But on Friday, my partner got word that she was to report for duty first thing Monday morning for a two-day pairing with an overnight in Windsor! In other words, she needed an actual pair of uniform pants, with legs hemmed, before Tuesday.

And thus ensueth the "emergency hemming situation" referenced above.

My partner dashed over to the dry cleaner and demanded one pair of pants back immediately. ESL barriers (both hers and theirs) not withstanding, she soon returned with one slightly crumpled and of course still unhemmed pair of pants.

Now if we were in a nice, traditional (read "straight") relationship, the woman could simply hem the pants, and the man -- who does not know how to hem pants, but can fly airplanes -- could wear them to his pilot job, and all would be well with the world.

Alas, because we are lesbians, neither of us knows how to hem pants. So we would have been really screwed (and not in a good way), except that as everyone knows, all lesbians are good problem solvers and very creative.

My partner, determined not to report for her first official day of work in pinned up pants, began to google.

She soon came across that magical tool called "hem tape". Hem tape is a lovely little iron-on solution for those (like men and lesbians) who don't know how to sew. You simply cut the tape to the length you need, fold up the material you want to hem, and iron that sucker on high to bond the two parts together. Bingo, you got yourself a sweet little hem!

As soon as she mentioned it to me, I remembered I had used the stuff years ago (when I was married to a man but still did not know how to sew, because I was not a real woman even then, I was a lesbian, I just didn't know it yet) to "hem" a curtain.

Off we went to Walmart of all places (never again!!) and picked up a roll of the glorious substance.

And then it was off to "hem" the girl's pants.

Since the job still required the use of an iron (a borderline "female" task), it was going to be a two-lesbian job for sure.

And what a job it was! In my eagerness to help, I had forgotten the little detail about how a pants leg is actually a round loop, and a hell of a lot more complicated to hem (even with tape) than a straight edge curtain. Despite measuring with a ruler and trying our best not to iron out the pre-existing crease in the pants, we botched the job pretty good, and had to start over a few times.

Also we did it naked, but not because we are lesbians, but because it was super hot this weekend, and we don't have air conditioning in our apartment.

Despite a two-hour struggle to hem (with tape) one pair of pants, we managed to get the job done, and you can only tell if you look really close that one leg is slightly longer than the other.  Overall, though, she still looks pretty kick ass in her uniform, and went off to do two full days of flying and didn't crash the plane.

Despite being a lesbian!