Posted on January 20, 2020 under Monday Morning Musings with no comments yet

How the cookie crumbles

 

I grew up in a large Catholic family in small town Nova Scotia. As youngsters, we feared God, but we feared the nuns who taught us far more than the Creator. Not only did they try and pound some knowledge into our questionable malleable brains with the three R’s, but they also provided spiritual guidance. We attended a Catholic school and religion was a core subject. The Sisters prepared us for the sacraments. If our attention wandered even a little bit, we might get a short, sharp rap on the knuckles with a ruler.

Why, in the dead of a northern winter, where the temperature rarely dips below -35 (maybe I’ve finally found the spot where “hell freezes over”!) would I be pondering the sacraments?

This is complex so bear with me. The sacrament of confession is a complicated piece of work especially when you are a youngster. Rather than try and explain it, for your reading pleasure, here is a story I wrote in 2013 about preparing for my first confession. https://www.week45.com/i-confess-2/. Obviously, some of the material is dated. There is a reference to Lance Armstrong .Cheating in sports has always been in vogue.

I was standing in the kitchen of my apartment here in Kangiqsujuaq the other day staring aimlessly at the cupboards. I’m not sure if I would consider this a spiritual moment or not but I was having an “examination of conscience” of sorts. In the Catholic tradition, before confessing your sins to a priest inside a dark confessional box, you were expected to examine your conscience and ask yourself some heavy- duty questions about how you may have offended God since your last confession. Now, truth be told, I wasn’t thinking about going to confession. I was wracking my brain trying to figure out how I could be a better teacher.

I won’t lie. Lying is a sin and I would have to confess this. I’m finding teaching very difficult especially after a 40-year hiatus. As I stood there, I thought of all the ways I could improve the classroom experience for my students. My mind suddenly cleared. I opened the cupboard and pulled a bag of Oreo cookies off the shelf. I quickly polished off a row (only one row?) washed down with a glass of ice-cold milk. It suddenly dawned on me that this was the answer to my question. I can be a better teacher by eating Oreo cookies. You won’t find this in any pedagogical journal.

A few weeks ago, I mentioned that I was given a photograph by someone who was a school principal here up north 50 years ago. Three teenage boys from Kangiqsujuaq were attending his school. I vowed to try and track them down. One of them is alive and well. His house is a stone’s throw away from the school. Last Saturday was bitterly cold as I made my way to Charlie’s home. I made some cookies to bring to his family. Regrettably, Charlie was far off in the wilderness at his fishing camp and wouldn’t be returning for a few days. I did, however, have a wonderful chat with his wife who got a great kick out of the picture. She suggested that I call to arrange a visit with Charlie.

You know how shy I am. I asked Charlie’s wife if Charlie might consider taking me ice fishing sometime. “Yes, but you’ll have to dress warmer than that.” At first, I thought she was joking but when she explained that the camp was 80 miles away by skidoo, I started taking her very seriously.

I already look like the Michelin man as I waddle to and from school every day with my new winter wear. Throw in my new goggles and I look like some space alien. How is it possible to dress warmer? “You need another jacket and pants and warmer boots.” I’m standing in front of her. Fully clad, I just about fill the doorway. I ask her about the parka. “Just go and find someone bigger and borrow theirs to go over the top of yours.” Northern logic 101. I’ll let you know how this goes.

Jordan Tootoo, the retired hockey player from Rankin Inlet, Nunavut, is coming to our community this week to speak to our students and people from the village. Jordan’s story is well-known to hockey fans. He was the first Inuit to play in the N.H.L. He was an alcoholic and his brother committed suicide. I am certain that he will deliver a powerful message.

This past week, we had two young women educators from Quebec City visit our school to talk about “project daily active”. This program fosters the notion of getting students and teachers to incorporate more activity into their daily routines for better physical and mental health. I first found this notion amusing and a bit counterintuitive. In the north, students are already very active. I would be interested in a program to try and slow them down. All kidding aside, this was very instructive and helpful. The two women (who had never been north before) commented that the children in our school are far more active than their counterparts down south. This probably has something to do with the absence of cell phones in the school. There is no cell service up here.

If you missed this last Thursday, here’s a true story about a colleague who got locked out of her apartment late at night when the temperature was -50. She wasn’t wearing any winter clothing at the time. https://www.week45.com/thursday-tidbits-209/

Have a great week.

P.S. I’ll be hearing confessions when I come home for Spring break in April!!!

Posted on January 13, 2020 under Monday Morning Musings with one comment

Hats off to balloons

 

“Would you like to ride in my beautiful balloon?
Would you like to ride in my beautiful balloon?
We could float among the stars together, you and I,
For we can fly, we can fly.”
Up, Up and Away – The 5th. Dimension

I was having a WhatsApp phone conversation with a buddy of mine on the weekend. For some reason unbeknownst to me, he reads my twice weekly column, something he’s been doing for years. I won’t embarrass him by outing him for this serious lack in judgment. We’ve been friends for well over forty years. Our conversations are easy and usually filled with insults. We have laughed together, lamented, commiserated and even shed a tear together. That’s what friendship is all about. Especially the insults which keep us humble.

I chuckled when he said that I could probably write an entire story on farts and farting. Sometimes I even surprise myself when I write 500 words about absolutely nothing. I guess I’m channeling my inner Jerry Seinfeld. I will not insult your intelligence or spoil your first coffee of the morning by discussing flatulence. Safe to say that it is impolite to fart on an elevator.

Now that I have your curiosity piqued, I want to have a serious discussion about balloons. Some of you probably popped a few on New Year’s Eve at midnight. Balloons are popular at birthdays. A few have been lucky and brave enough to fly in one. Up, up and away.
So, what’s with the picture at the top of the page? The geniuses amongst you will know exactly what that picture is all about.

When I was home for Christmas, I received a beautiful gift of a hat. Yes, that hat. It was made in a northern community decades ago. The colors are beautiful and the craftmanship simply amazing. The problem is that it is a few sizes too big. You may wonder how this is possible as some of you think that I have a swelled head as it is!

I know a bit about knitting. Forty years ago, I had my first of three knee surgeries. All that kneeling and praying on hard wooden floors saying the rosary finally took its toll! Truth be told, it was a hockey injury. During my convalescence, I learned how to knit. I went on a rampage and knitted about 10 lopi sweaters which were all the rage back then. When I screwed up a pattern (knit one, purl one), I would make a mad dash out to Marie MacKenzie’s home in Morristown and magically, she would clean up my mess. I knew enough that the knitted hat that was given to me couldn’t be fixed.

Rather than go to Google, I went and talked with the woman who made my parka. She told me to wash the hat in hot water and then blow up a balloon and sit the hat over the top in order to maintain its shape. My own solution is to go to the drugstore and get some Rogaine and see if I can grow some of my hair back.

So there. Just shy of 600 words about nothing.

Speaking of flatulence, I think I’ll go and listen to Mason Williams’ Classical Gas.

Have a great week.

P.S. If you’re ever bored, you can call me, but not by phone. Facetime, Messenger, WhatsApp and Skype all work reasonably well. The video occasionally works. The audio can be a bit spotty. I’m not lonely by the way, but I’m always happy to chat. If you think my writing is boring, you should hear me on the phone.

Posted on January 6, 2020 under Monday Morning Musings with no comments yet

Communal kitchen – Kuujjuaq Co-op Hotel

The transition from Christmas to January is amongst the toughest times of the years. Euphoria has been replaced by harsh reality. Your clothes don’t seem to fit, and your bank account has suffered a major hemorrhage. Carefree days of visiting friends or sitting at home in your pajamas reading a good book have been replaced with the humdrum of your normal routine. For most people under the age of 65, it means a return to work.

For some people over the age of 65, it means a return to work.

I often get puzzled looks from people who hear that I have returned to the work force after 4 years of retirement.” Why would anyone in their right mind return to work after settling into a life of leisure?” is a question I get a lot. Let that question settle for a few seconds!

After a fantastic holiday, it is time to head back north to fulfill my commitment teaching at the Arsaniq School in Kangiqsujuaq, Quebec. After a six-week trial run before Christmas, it is time to put the work boots back on. I mean mukluks.

I started my journey north on Saturday. Knowing what I know about northern weather, I decided not to check the forecast. There’s really no point. The weather is very changeable and travel interruptions are normal. Why fret about something over which you have no control. It was mild in Halifax and my 6:30 a.m. flight to Montreal proceeded without any issues. By the way, there’s one good thing about an early flight. There are no lineups going through security.

Now that I am a veteran of flying to the Nunavik region of Quebec (2 flights!), I know exactly where to go at Dorval airport to catch the Canadian Northern flight to Kuujjuaq, the capital city of the Nunavik region. Once again, the flight was on time and the two- hour flight passed quickly. The service on this airline is excellent, by the way.

The weather was clear in Kuujjuaq, a good omen for the next leg of the trip. Wrong. It doesn’t take long for bad news to travel fast. You could hear the groans from fellow passengers as we discovered that our next flight with Air Inuit had been cancelled due to blizzard conditions further up the line, including Kangiqsujuaq. This meant an overnighter in Kuujjuaq.

There are two hotels in Kuujjuaq. One is privately owned and near the airport. It has all the modern amenities including a restaurant, a bonus for stranded travelers. After waiting in line to use the phone, I was unable to get anyone at that hotel to answer the phone. My second and only other option was the Kuujjuaq Co-op Hotel. Nunavik co-op hotels are located in 13 communities in northern Quebec. Each hotel is owned by the local cooperative.

I called the hotel and spoke with a pleasant woman about getting a reservation. She gave me an 800 number to call which I found slightly odd in a community as small as Kuujjuaq. I dialed the number. The line was staticky. “Can you hold the line a minute? I’m just going through a green light.” The reservation agent was driving in rush hour traffic in Montreal. He carries a computer with him. He eventually pulled off to the side of the road and completed my booking. Once confirmed, the young woman at the hotel front desk was able to leave her post and come fetch me at the airport.

I grew up in one of the cradles of the cooperative movement, so it gave me pleasure to do business with this establishment. I checked in and was assigned a room with a code. The clerk had to make another airport run so she left me in the lobby with my bags and the code. I wandered down the hall, found my room, and entered the code. I entered it a half -dozen times. Twenty minutes later, I could hear the clerk returning with another load of stranded travelers. My room was visible from the front desk and I was desperate for her not to see this doddering old man camped out in the hallway. I reviewed the code one last time, saw my mistake, and just managed to slink into my room before being discovered.

If I was to describe my lodgings, I would say that it had components of a hotel and one of the many hostels I inhabited while walking the Camino. The rooms are private – no hundred- bed rooms filled with bunk beds and snoring pilgrims! It is the common areas that really define these types of facilities. Typically, there is a communal kitchen and dining area. If you like meeting new people, a hostel or a co-op hotel will provide ample opportunity to mingle with interesting folks.

It so happened that the Canadian Junior hockey team was playing its semi-final game when I arrived at the hotel. I flicked on the television and drew a blank. I nearly drove myself mad trying to get the g.d. thing to work. I went across the hall and asked my neighbor, a young, intelligent Inuk man for help. His television was working fine. He tried unsuccessfully to get mine going and then he remembered that his room came with two remotes. Can someone explain why, in 2020, do we need two remote controls to get a television set to work? My room came with one remote. Once I got my hands on the second remote, all was well with the world.

Although I had packed a box of Kraft Dinner (KD) in my carryon luggage on the advice of Maggie MacDonell for instances just like this (I also had three boxes of chocolate and four chocolate bars from Peace by Chocolate as gifts), I decided to go to the Northern grocery store for something more substantial.

I’ll spare you the details of my meal preparation in the beautiful and well-equipped kitchen (pictured above). My only regret is that there were only a small handful of hotel guests. I can only imagine what the kitchen looks like when all 32 hotel rooms are occupied, and everyone is making their own supper.

The only other thing of note about my room was the soundtrack. The plumbing must be old (like me) and I could hear water running through the pipes at 2- minute intervals during my entire stay. The Camino taught me many lessons about sleeping. You can get used to almost anything. Snoring, farting, and burping became so commonplace in the hostels that when I occasionally booked a hotel room, I found the silence deafening!

Oh yes. The staff on duty on the weekend, two young women, were simply wonderful. They were smart, pleasant and very helpful.

The final leg of the trip from Kuujjuaq to Kangiqsujuaq had a few glitches. At one point, an electrical problem with the plane had us concerned that we might get grounded.

We arrived early in the evening.

Stepping back into my warm apartment felt like coming home.

Have a great week.