Yukon Chatter Bug

Although I know that place names don’t necessarily match the place itself and are sometimes a ploy to trick people (think Greenland), I was looking forward to my visit to Paradise.  As you’ve seen with previous posts about Newfoundland, it truly is a wondrous place with breathtaking views. But what about Paradise itself?

Paradise has been in the news lately thanks to the most recent municipal elections where Kurtis Coombs beat Ralph Wiseman by three votes. After a couple of recounts, it ended in a tie that was broken by a draw from a hat – literally. This put Coombs at the losing end, but had he won, he would’ve been the youngest mayor in Canada’s history.

But more about the town itself, Paradise is the fastest growing town/city in Atlantic Canada, and construction crews have a hard time keeping up with laying roads and building houses. With this explosion of suburbia, the locals are calling it Paradise Lost.

Below is a built-up area next to Adam’s Pond. There are houses and roads all around this pond now which don’t  show up on Google maps yet.

We went down to Vancouver a few years ago to meet up with Dave’s brother who was visiting from South Korea. We decided to take a little side trip to Victoria to visit this fine city and meet up with some of my old work colleagues at the Canoe Brewpub. This place has their own idea of blending quirkiness, artsiness, practicality, and innovativeness…in the washroom. The handwashing facilities consist of a long trough that is shared by both the men’s and ladies’ washroom. A mirrored wall extends down far enough into the trough that you can’t see the other side, except perhaps soap-lathered hands from the other side (though in truth, I don’t remember if you could actually see hands on the other side). It was kind of weird and fun at the same time.

On our most recent trip to Ontario, I found other examples of things that are uncommon:

I had a bite in well-known pub called D’Arcy McGee’s. In the ladies’ washroom was a commercial flat iron, and I couldn’t resist taking a picture despite the embarassment of knowing that people might see the flash going off. The washroom door had an opaque window pane.

In another public washroom was a hand-dryer from the future. The air coming out of this thing was so powerful that your hands literally dried in seconds.

Okay, maybe by now you’re thinking that I’m the quirky one for taking these photos. Well, it runs in the family. Here’s a picture of my sister’s idea of tools for removing the cover on a computer’s power supply.

And if you’re trying to find parking in St. John’s, NFLD and don’t speak English Newfounese, no worries. A picture is worth a thousand words, as they say.

Of course with different climate come different warnings. This one’s for Baino. These signs were on the doors of most businesses.

From a courthouse in Ottawa (Ontario Court House). Who woulda thunk putting rocks in the side of a building? I wonder if this was a statement linked with the intended use of the building.

Ever get those e-mails where there’s a joke and then you have to scroll down…scroll down…keep scrolling? This last picture is boingboing worthy. We got off the highway to make a phone call and came across the following. I’ll leave it up to you to come up with a title for the billboard.

My second year of teaching is well under way, and what a relief it’s been that the learning curve isn’t as steep as last year. I still feel scattered and overwhelmed, but having a year under my belt makes for a much reduced stress level.

For one, I already knew most of my students before the first school bell rang. A huge advantage I have over a regular classroom teacher is that I get to teach my students year after year, so I see them grow in their knowledge and blossom in their language skills. The drawback is that I only get to see them a short period each day, so building rapport is tougher; I don’t get to know them as well as their homeroom teacher.

I’m also familiar with the school’s routines, staff, and layout, which makes navigating the system much smoother. I’m still getting hit by information overload but of a different kind, and I can actually assimilate more of what I’m receiving.

The curriculum is not all new, and I’m starting to get a better feel for what students at different grade levels should be able to do. I know I missed plenty last year and probably will again this year. Things will eventually fall into place…thank God.

Teaching is such a complicated job, and those not in the business really have no clue what it’s all about. They only see the visible part of teaching: students working in class; lessons being taught; workbooks being filled. They don’t see the hours (outside of 8-4) of preparation and marking. There is more that goes on behind the scenes than what is visible. Kind of like the old analogy of a duck looking calm on the surface but paddling like hell underwater.

I’m feeling good about this new venture, which is more than I could say this time last year. Things are getting better.

As much as flying reduces the time needed to get somewhere, driving has so many advantages. You get to appreciate the scenery, and you can stop and explore little nooks and crannies.

For example, this summer was the second time I drove through Saskatchewan. Anyone who’s not from the prairies always describes them as flat with nothing to see (except maybe your dog running away for three days…old joke). Except, of course, for those living there,  Canadians in general do not have an appreciation for the prairies. I was one of them. This last drive has opened my eyes to the beauty of this part of our country.

It was very early in the morning when we drove through, and a layer of mist hung over the fields of bright yellow canola. Some fields had cattle lazily grazing with tails flicking. With the sun’s morning rays being filtered by the mist, the view was heavenly. At regular intervals along the road, ponds and marshes were nestled inside tall stands of trees.

Why didn’t I stop to take a photo? I don’t know. Maybe I was wrapped up in the beauty of it all. It was so peaceful.

When visiting family in Ontario, I don’t usually get to uncles, aunts, and cousins because they’re spread out. Driving through, this year, afforded me the opportunity to stop in and say hello.

One such stop was in Astorville (near North Bay) at my grandmother’s old farmhouse. She’s passed away now, but my uncle purchased the property and has been living there for some time.

Gauthier Farm

Renovations on the old house have drastically changed the look of it, but some old parts on the inside are still recognizable: the large wooden beams in the original living room are now painted white; the upstairs, where my sister and I used to sleep during our traditional Easter visit, is left almost untouched; and the postage stamp-sized kitchenette-cum-bathroom is still there. Again, why didn’t I take pictures of the inside?

The Renovated House

Memories came flooding back when I took a tour around the property. Dave and I had to make our own path through tall grasses to get to the old tree house from my childhood. The path is long gone, and I worried about poison ivy (or was it poison oak) that grew in and around the area when I was a kid. Here’s Dave, who stands 6’6″, in the grasses. They were as tall as I am.

Dave in the tall grasses

I couldn’t miss the tree. There it stood like an old faithful friend, waiting for the return of little hands and feet searching for crevices to grab onto, waiting for the whispered secrets and squeaky laughs of children hiding up on the rugged platform, and ready and able to take in the pounding of nails into its hard frame to support the memories that would be built in and around it.

Old Faithful: A couple of wooden boards are still visible

My sister, my uncle (who, incidentally, was my sister’s age), and I worked on that tree house a little bit each year. My uncle did the bulk of the work since it was in his backyard, while we were there only a few days each year. But how we loved to climb those crooked wooden rungs and sit up high overlooking surrounding fields. It was our own little nook.

While looking up at my childhood friend, my mind wandered back to a tumble I once had, and my right hand instantly reached for a small ridge on my left hand between the thumb and index finger. There’s still a scar there thirty-three years later. The details are fading, but kids being kids, my sister and I had had a spat, and I was now barred from the tree house. Ignoring her warnings not to come up, I stubbornly kept climbing the rungs until she gave me a hard push. Down I went with the wrong end of a rusty nail finding its way into my hand. All is long-forgiven now, and when my sister and I get together, we laugh ’til we cry telling stories from the old farm house.

A rotting platform remains