Yessir, I was feeling pretty smart. I was feeling pretty proud. I had been given a job to do and I figured I could really make a difference. My boss had called my coworker and me into her office in January to tell us that Health Canada (yes the federal government) in partnership with the Cree Nation wanted us to develop and teach a course called Introduction to Early Childhood Care and Education. We would teach this course to Early Childhood Assistants and Early Childhood Educators from remote First Nations communities all over Manitoba. We would teach about a variety of topics including health & safety, positive guidance and one of my favourites, the importance of play.
So I got busy. I was ready to wow them with Piagetian power point presentations covering the types, styles and stages of play, the factors that distinguish play from non-play (according to Rubin, Fein & Vandenberg no less) and the ways that play promotes the development of children’s physical, cognitive and affective domains, all pulled together with some clever and amusing anecdotes from my wealth of experience with young children. Yessiree, I was feeling pretty smug. I was gonna be a fabulous, fun teacher.
I had no idea.
I did not anticipate the stories that I would hear from my students.
I did not know what I would learn….
I asked, “How did you like to play when you were little?”
“What did you like to play with?” “Why was this important to you?”
And they responded. Some boisterous. Some laughing. Some shy. Some with tears.
"I loved to play school. I had no brothers or sisters or dolls. But I had a patchwork quilt on my bed. So each patch was a student and I would stand beside my bed and be the teacher. I taught them letters and numbers and how to behave. The patches were my students. I loved playing school."
"I grew up on the trap line with my grandparents so I didn’t have toys. I would find a stick or branch and wrap a rag around it and that would be my baby doll. I took very good care of it."
"My brother and me built a fort in the bush. We worked really hard on it. It was great. And it was a safe place if Mom and Dad were drinkin’… y’know?"
"I loved playing baseball. I played with my three cousins and they let me play even though I was a girl. We had so much fun. Then one summer when I was a teenager they were all killed in a car accident so I couldn’t play baseball anymore. I miss them."
"I didn’t get to play in the foster home. My sister and I had to work on the farm. When I was eight, I finally got to live with my real Mom again. She bought each of us a Barbie doll. It was my first doll. I loved her so much. I was so happy to be with my Mom. I still love Barbies and I’m forty years old!"
"Every spring my grandmother’s flooded garden became a magic lake."
And so my charts and facts and theories became irrelevant. I had forgotten the most important part. In the end, I was not the teacher. I became the humbled student. I learned about the vulnerable hearts of children and the resilient, resourceful souls of the adults they become.
So I’m not quite so self satisfied anymore. Yessir, I nudged myself down a notch or two. I know I can still pass on valuable information about children and play but my students taught me about true understanding.
Stop shopping and go play! Peace.
December 2006
(Note: Students’ stories are not direct quotes, but are as close to the real thing as I can remember!)
©Conni Cartlidge, 2006
Monday, July 26, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
Music Lessons
I can’t play music. I tried piano lessons. My big sister was going to teach me. Her expectations were high. I didn’t want to practice. I cried and pouted. She was mad. We shut it down after two classes.
I love music. I grew up with 78s and 45s and LPs and 8 tracks and cassettes and CDs. I listen to lots of music, preferably loud.
I’m sorry that I can’t play. I’m happy that I love music anyways. I’m thrilled that my kids love music and can play it too. As babies, they listened to Fred Penner and Raffi and Patsy Cline and John Hiatt and Led Zeppelin and Prince and George Harrison and Johnny Winter…
As young children, they actually enjoyed piano lessons with energetic, enthusiastic teachers (who were not related to them…important lesson learned).
In elementary school, they mastered recorders and ukuleles and proudly played them in crowded gyms for parents and grandparents and siblings.
Then came the big step up to junior high. I fussed and worried about how they would cope, given my somewhat unpleasant memories of those early teen years. I tried to keep an open mind, and was happy that each one chose to go into the band program.
My first son chose the clarinet. He squeaked along with the patient support and ready sense of humour of his band teacher. (Thank you Ms. Inniss!) My daughter chose the French horn. I’m told it’s difficult to play. She played it well. More support. More positive feedback. (Thank you Mr. Brandon!) My second son chose euphonium (what the heck is that, I wondered) then quickly switched to double bass. I don’t know if he got to change instruments because he was talented at bass or because he was simply big enough to handle this oversized device…but again, encouraging words and extra challenges (Thanks again Mr. Brandon!) helped my son play beautifully.
And so we got to high school (and I say we, because it’s the kids and the parents that have to make this new adjustment!) My clarinet player was now quite accomplished and chose to major in Performing Arts. In the beginning, his skills were nurtured by several teachers. (Thank you Ms. Dawson, Mr. Houston & Mr. Gardner!). In Grades 11 & 12, his skills were refined and perfected. Along with clarinet, he played guitar, bass and double bass. He played in concert band, symphonic band, jazz band. He accompanied the choir. He entertained at Star Search and WarChild. He became a musician. He graduated with honours. Thank you Mr. Johnson. Do you remember meeting us on a Saturday morning at St. John’s Music to help us pick out a professional clarinet? Do you remember giving us your home phone number so we could call you if we had any concerns or questions? I remember that.
My French horn player also chose to continue with the band program in high school. She was warmly welcomed. (Thank you again Mr. Houston & Mr. Gardner!) In Grade 11, she was ready for Mr. Johnson. She had watched him with her brother and knew that he was big and intimidating and funny and emotional and demanding. She was up for the challenge. She practiced. She played her horn with confidence. She learned some percussion too, when he needed her help. She became a musician. She graduated with honours. Thank you Mr. Johnson. Do you remember talking to me in September, a couple of years ago and asking me about my daughter’s trip to Second City Boot Camp in Chicago? Do you remember how excited we both were that she was brave enough to have done that? I remember.
My double bass player spent many evenings over the years squirming in uncomfortable seats in the theatre, watching Mr. Johnson conduct while his brother and sister played. This fall, it is my youngest son’s turn to play. As he chose his options for Grade 10, he decided to also major in Performing Arts. I told him that Mr. Johnson would not be teaching him. “I’m disappointed. I wanted to have him for a teacher,” he said. My son would have benefited from Mr. Johnson’s expertise and expectations at this higher level. The MBA Summer Band Camps have already given him a taste of future possibilities. Thank you Mr. Johnson. Do you remember sending me an email a while back saying that you were looking forward to teaching my last child? I do.
My family and I will always love music, even though I never did learn to play. My last son will continue in the band program, even though Mr. Johnson will not be there. We will miss Mr. Johnson.
We will enjoy my son’s concerts.
But I wonder if the notes will sound as sweet.
©Conni Cartlidge, 2008
I love music. I grew up with 78s and 45s and LPs and 8 tracks and cassettes and CDs. I listen to lots of music, preferably loud.
I’m sorry that I can’t play. I’m happy that I love music anyways. I’m thrilled that my kids love music and can play it too. As babies, they listened to Fred Penner and Raffi and Patsy Cline and John Hiatt and Led Zeppelin and Prince and George Harrison and Johnny Winter…
As young children, they actually enjoyed piano lessons with energetic, enthusiastic teachers (who were not related to them…important lesson learned).
In elementary school, they mastered recorders and ukuleles and proudly played them in crowded gyms for parents and grandparents and siblings.
Then came the big step up to junior high. I fussed and worried about how they would cope, given my somewhat unpleasant memories of those early teen years. I tried to keep an open mind, and was happy that each one chose to go into the band program.
My first son chose the clarinet. He squeaked along with the patient support and ready sense of humour of his band teacher. (Thank you Ms. Inniss!) My daughter chose the French horn. I’m told it’s difficult to play. She played it well. More support. More positive feedback. (Thank you Mr. Brandon!) My second son chose euphonium (what the heck is that, I wondered) then quickly switched to double bass. I don’t know if he got to change instruments because he was talented at bass or because he was simply big enough to handle this oversized device…but again, encouraging words and extra challenges (Thanks again Mr. Brandon!) helped my son play beautifully.
And so we got to high school (and I say we, because it’s the kids and the parents that have to make this new adjustment!) My clarinet player was now quite accomplished and chose to major in Performing Arts. In the beginning, his skills were nurtured by several teachers. (Thank you Ms. Dawson, Mr. Houston & Mr. Gardner!). In Grades 11 & 12, his skills were refined and perfected. Along with clarinet, he played guitar, bass and double bass. He played in concert band, symphonic band, jazz band. He accompanied the choir. He entertained at Star Search and WarChild. He became a musician. He graduated with honours. Thank you Mr. Johnson. Do you remember meeting us on a Saturday morning at St. John’s Music to help us pick out a professional clarinet? Do you remember giving us your home phone number so we could call you if we had any concerns or questions? I remember that.
My French horn player also chose to continue with the band program in high school. She was warmly welcomed. (Thank you again Mr. Houston & Mr. Gardner!) In Grade 11, she was ready for Mr. Johnson. She had watched him with her brother and knew that he was big and intimidating and funny and emotional and demanding. She was up for the challenge. She practiced. She played her horn with confidence. She learned some percussion too, when he needed her help. She became a musician. She graduated with honours. Thank you Mr. Johnson. Do you remember talking to me in September, a couple of years ago and asking me about my daughter’s trip to Second City Boot Camp in Chicago? Do you remember how excited we both were that she was brave enough to have done that? I remember.
My double bass player spent many evenings over the years squirming in uncomfortable seats in the theatre, watching Mr. Johnson conduct while his brother and sister played. This fall, it is my youngest son’s turn to play. As he chose his options for Grade 10, he decided to also major in Performing Arts. I told him that Mr. Johnson would not be teaching him. “I’m disappointed. I wanted to have him for a teacher,” he said. My son would have benefited from Mr. Johnson’s expertise and expectations at this higher level. The MBA Summer Band Camps have already given him a taste of future possibilities. Thank you Mr. Johnson. Do you remember sending me an email a while back saying that you were looking forward to teaching my last child? I do.
My family and I will always love music, even though I never did learn to play. My last son will continue in the band program, even though Mr. Johnson will not be there. We will miss Mr. Johnson.
We will enjoy my son’s concerts.
But I wonder if the notes will sound as sweet.
©Conni Cartlidge, 2008
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Chicken Bones and Nancy
 |
| Tea party. |
The street had been paved. It was no longer tar and gravel. It was paved and had beautiful black curbs. Chicken Bones walked behind Nancy. It was expected. Because Chicken Bones was little and Nancy was three years older. Chicken Bones was happy to walk behind her big sister though. From this vantage point, she could watch Nancy’s perfect blonde ponytail swing from side to side. (Chicken Bones had a mousy brown pixie cut.) She could watch Nancy prance along the top of the new curb. (Chicken Bones slipped off the sides and scraped her ankles.) She could admire Nancy’s cute pop top and coordinating pedal pushers. (Chicken Bones covered her skinny limbs with her striped grey t-shirt and faded red stretchies.) She could follow her down the smooth new street. She could love her from a distance.
2
The blizzard had hit. The drifts were piled to the eaves. It was cold and white and untouched. Chicken Bones followed Nancy outside. She didn’t know what to do with the backyard. She stood and shivered. Nancy designed and dug and created a labyrinth of tunnels. (Chicken Bones tried to not get lost.) Nancy carved out snow seats and tables and set them with frozen crystal dishes. (Chicken Bones licked her mitts.) Nancy fortified the entrances with sticks and blankets. (Chicken Bones got a little bit scared in the dark.) Nancy created a magical wintry world and she shared it with Chicken Bones. They stayed in it as long as they could. When they went in for supper, Nancy was proud of her work. (Chicken Bones cried because her fingers and toes were burning from the cold.) She cried, too, because she wanted to stay with Nancy. She loved her when they played together.
3
The bath was over. The teeth were brushed. Clean flannelette pyjamas were on. Chicken Bones sat with Nancy. Nancy was a good reader and Chicken Bones loved to listen. (Chicken Bones couldn’t read yet.) Nancy read “Susie Says” and “Just Josie” with a little bit of a lisp and Chicken Bones wished she could talk like that. Chicken Bones liked to watch, too, as Nancy’s mouth pronounced the words in a special way because she had one tooth that was just a tiny bit crooked. (Chicken Bones eventually grew extremely crooked teeth that required years of orthodontia. She never got a cute lisp.) Nancy would read and read and read until Chicken Bones was tired or cranky or fidgety. Then Chicken Bones would be sent to bed because she was the youngest and, according to the posted bedtime schedule, had to retire first. Nancy got to stay up an extra half hour and watch TV shows that Chicken Bones didn’t get to. (Chicken Bones would lie awake in bed straining to hear what the show was about.) She knew that Nancy would eventually find her way to their room. And Chicken Bones would fall asleep knowing that her big sister would be there in the morning. Chicken Bones loved Nancy day and night.
4
Their childhood was passed. The middle years had arrived. Chicken Bones and Nancy had their own kids and grandkids. (Chicken Bones got bigger than Nancy.) But Chicken Bones still looked up to her sister.
She loves her to this day.
July 2010
(Happy Birthday today, Nancy!)
 |
| Birthday party. |
©Conni Cartlidge, 2010
Monday, July 19, 2010
The Watcher
They called her “the watcher.” My daughter, Mary quietly sat at the playdough table for the first year of nursery school. As she rolled and patted, she watched. Her teachers wondered and worried a little. They tried to entice her into different activities and play experiences. But for the first year, she just watched. By the second year, she gradually branched out to puzzles and pretend, but she continued to watch.
In kindergarten, she walked around the playground at recess. She stayed close to a teacher and watched the shenanigans on the climbers and swings. When a key was lost in the sandbox, she patiently searched until it was found.
Adults began to appreciate her. She was not disruptive in school. She did her work and did it well. The good teachers realized that when she did speak, she usually had something important to say. Classmates learned to listen carefully.
The challenge of junior high was met with dignity, as she observed the girls getting sillier and the boys joining in. She was a part of it but also apart from it. She began to write. She edited the yearbook. She prepared herself for high school.
Now at age sixteen, she is finding her voice in the Royal Voice, her high school newspaper. Her careful observations of her surroundings are written into her humour column, “How to be…” (how to be bad, how to be politically charged, etc.)
A month ago, she asked me to take her to Chicago for two weeks this summer so that she can attend the Second City Boot Camp for sketch comedy writing. I said no. Then I said yes. My teenage daughter and I will leave our dead end gravel road in rural Manitoba to live in downtown Chicago from July 24 – August 4, 2006. I have only been to Chicago once before. It was the early 80’s and I was there to see a spiritual master (but that is another long story).
So Mary is working hard at her part-time job at the local corner store to save her money. My husband and I are trying to pull together some cash, too so that Mary and I can go on this huge adventure. We don’t know what to expect and to be honest, I’m terrified. But I will do this for Mary. I will do this because her watching is becoming her telling of life as she sees it.
©Conni Cartlidge, 2006
In kindergarten, she walked around the playground at recess. She stayed close to a teacher and watched the shenanigans on the climbers and swings. When a key was lost in the sandbox, she patiently searched until it was found.
Adults began to appreciate her. She was not disruptive in school. She did her work and did it well. The good teachers realized that when she did speak, she usually had something important to say. Classmates learned to listen carefully.
The challenge of junior high was met with dignity, as she observed the girls getting sillier and the boys joining in. She was a part of it but also apart from it. She began to write. She edited the yearbook. She prepared herself for high school.
Now at age sixteen, she is finding her voice in the Royal Voice, her high school newspaper. Her careful observations of her surroundings are written into her humour column, “How to be…” (how to be bad, how to be politically charged, etc.)
A month ago, she asked me to take her to Chicago for two weeks this summer so that she can attend the Second City Boot Camp for sketch comedy writing. I said no. Then I said yes. My teenage daughter and I will leave our dead end gravel road in rural Manitoba to live in downtown Chicago from July 24 – August 4, 2006. I have only been to Chicago once before. It was the early 80’s and I was there to see a spiritual master (but that is another long story).
So Mary is working hard at her part-time job at the local corner store to save her money. My husband and I are trying to pull together some cash, too so that Mary and I can go on this huge adventure. We don’t know what to expect and to be honest, I’m terrified. But I will do this for Mary. I will do this because her watching is becoming her telling of life as she sees it.
©Conni Cartlidge, 2006
Sunday, July 18, 2010
A Tribute to Dad on his 75th Birthday
“AL” ISMS
ISM: manner of action or behaviour characteristic of a specified person or thing; peculiar feature or trait (Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary)
ALISM: characteristic behaviour of Al C. or typical reactions of our Dad! (Conni & Nancy)
“Ticky boo”: how Al describes a job done according to his standards; how the lawn should look after a grandchild has mowed it.
“Perhaps”: Al’s response to a new grandchild asking if they can learn how to mow the lawn.
“Don’t be stunned”: Al’s admonition to six year old Conni when she gets too silly.
“I’m gonna phone Santa”: Al’s threat to Conni when the silliness still doesn’t stop!
“Okay folks…up & at ‘em…chop chop”: Al’s morning greeting to his sleeping children, in the tent, sometime before 7:00 am, somewhere where the temperature dips below freezing even in July!
“You better hustle”: Al’s back-up call to his still sleeping children, in the tent, sometime between 7:05 am and 7:06 am, somewhere where the temperature dips below freezing even in July!
“You’d better jolly well like it”: Al’s suggestion to his daughters as they go to visit a football stadium or baseball game during the aforementioned July holiday. The temperature has now skyrocketed to 38 degrees Celsius in the shade.
“Do you wanna get out and walk?”: Al’s fitness program for his three cranky, arguing daughters in the back seat of the car as they leave the sports event and head across the desert in Arizona. The temperature has now hit 40 degrees Celsius and air conditioning has not been invented yet.
“You don’t need a shower. You can have a swim in the lake.”: Al reassures his still cranky, hot and sweaty daughters as they arrive at a new campground, sometime in July.
“Well sir…”: Al begins a Little Albert story for his girls, at the end of a long day in July, by a bonfire, somewhere far away, in spite of their somewhat endless whining and sulking in the back seat of the car.
“No worries. She’ll be right.”: Al reassures his daughters during difficulties. (post-Australia)
“Isn’t that clever/ Aren’t you clever.”: Al’s response to an accomplishment; sometimes said with sincerity (a good report card), sometimes with sarcasm (a bad report card).
“He did a buster.”: Al’s description of a child wiping out on a bicycle, a skateboard, down the basement stairs, etc.
“It’s an easy paddle.”: Al reassures all novice canoeists before any canoe trip in any body of water.
“Wood ticks are my friends!”: Al exclaims to frantic grandchildren during any canoe trip in any body of water and in adjoining long grass on the edges of the water.
“Where’s the lipkissy?”: Al asks Mary for chapstick during any canoe and/or camping trip (as noted by his confused grandchildren).
“Tough times”: Al’s response to his children and grandchildren, during a crisis; always said with sincerity.
“It must be dreadful”: Al sympathizes, again with sincerity.
“Hope this might be helpful to you”: as Al gives time, money, understanding to his children and grandchildren during yet another crisis.
“Very wise decision”: Al supports the choices his children and grandchildren make.
“I really like that!”: Al’s response to gifts, especially home-made ones.
“Love, Dad”: signature accompanied by a drawing of a heart with an arrow through it, on all cards for all occasions.
Thanks Dad, for your “Al”isms, nasty and nice. They make you one of a kind!
September 2003
ISM: manner of action or behaviour characteristic of a specified person or thing; peculiar feature or trait (Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary)
ALISM: characteristic behaviour of Al C. or typical reactions of our Dad! (Conni & Nancy)
“Ticky boo”: how Al describes a job done according to his standards; how the lawn should look after a grandchild has mowed it.
“Perhaps”: Al’s response to a new grandchild asking if they can learn how to mow the lawn.
“Don’t be stunned”: Al’s admonition to six year old Conni when she gets too silly.
“I’m gonna phone Santa”: Al’s threat to Conni when the silliness still doesn’t stop!
“Okay folks…up & at ‘em…chop chop”: Al’s morning greeting to his sleeping children, in the tent, sometime before 7:00 am, somewhere where the temperature dips below freezing even in July!
“You better hustle”: Al’s back-up call to his still sleeping children, in the tent, sometime between 7:05 am and 7:06 am, somewhere where the temperature dips below freezing even in July!
“You’d better jolly well like it”: Al’s suggestion to his daughters as they go to visit a football stadium or baseball game during the aforementioned July holiday. The temperature has now skyrocketed to 38 degrees Celsius in the shade.
“Do you wanna get out and walk?”: Al’s fitness program for his three cranky, arguing daughters in the back seat of the car as they leave the sports event and head across the desert in Arizona. The temperature has now hit 40 degrees Celsius and air conditioning has not been invented yet.
“You don’t need a shower. You can have a swim in the lake.”: Al reassures his still cranky, hot and sweaty daughters as they arrive at a new campground, sometime in July.
“Well sir…”: Al begins a Little Albert story for his girls, at the end of a long day in July, by a bonfire, somewhere far away, in spite of their somewhat endless whining and sulking in the back seat of the car.
“No worries. She’ll be right.”: Al reassures his daughters during difficulties. (post-Australia)
“Isn’t that clever/ Aren’t you clever.”: Al’s response to an accomplishment; sometimes said with sincerity (a good report card), sometimes with sarcasm (a bad report card).
“He did a buster.”: Al’s description of a child wiping out on a bicycle, a skateboard, down the basement stairs, etc.
“It’s an easy paddle.”: Al reassures all novice canoeists before any canoe trip in any body of water.
“Wood ticks are my friends!”: Al exclaims to frantic grandchildren during any canoe trip in any body of water and in adjoining long grass on the edges of the water.
“Where’s the lipkissy?”: Al asks Mary for chapstick during any canoe and/or camping trip (as noted by his confused grandchildren).
“Tough times”: Al’s response to his children and grandchildren, during a crisis; always said with sincerity.
“It must be dreadful”: Al sympathizes, again with sincerity.
“Hope this might be helpful to you”: as Al gives time, money, understanding to his children and grandchildren during yet another crisis.
“Very wise decision”: Al supports the choices his children and grandchildren make.
“I really like that!”: Al’s response to gifts, especially home-made ones.
“Love, Dad”: signature accompanied by a drawing of a heart with an arrow through it, on all cards for all occasions.
Thanks Dad, for your “Al”isms, nasty and nice. They make you one of a kind!
September 2003
Saturday, July 17, 2010
At Seven O' Clock Take a Walk
At Seven O’ Clock Take a Walk
Part I
7:00 p.m. is the perfect time to take a walk. I don’t mean a power walk, with pedometers and ankle weights and athletic shoes. I mean a slow, steamy stroll down the street in old flip-flops. I mean a leisurely, puddly meander up the avenue in rubber boots. I mean a clumsy, cold trudge through the park in oversize Sorels. I mean exploring the neighbourhood with your partner. Holding hands. Grabbing the dog, too. Grasping the leash. Taking a sip of water now and then. Seeing the sights of your home, your city, heck, your whole province! Walking is the most intimate way to learn about your world; the one that you whiz by each day as you carry out the business of life. Walking slows you down and gives you time for the intricate details of life and living.
What have I seen on evening walks in my rural neighbourhood? Snapping turtles mating. (Ouch!) A three legged painted turtle that my kids affectionately called Stumpy. Four baby beavers playfully swimming in circles and squealing. A dead coyote. A stolen burnt car. Wild plums. Wild roses. Foxtails. Cattails. A mallard duck stranded in the ice. Baby wood ducks being pushed from the nest for the first time. Bear poop. Dragonflies. Damselflies. A snowy owl in a tree during a full moon. Northern lights. Shooting stars. A stray cat at the top of a tree with my dog sitting patiently at the base. My neighbours swimming in their pond. A farmer combining. A flax field burning. (Spectacular!) My children posing goofily on giant round bales. Mouse tracks in the snow. Deer tracks in the mud. Life in Manitoba. A little bit of living at seven o’ clock.
Part II
At 7:00, take a walk with the one you love. Here are a few tunes to inspire you:
Walkin’ After Midnight – Patsy Cline
These Boots are made for Walkin’ – Nancy Sinatra (not Jessica Simpson!!)
Walk This Way – Aerosmith
Walk on By – Dionne Worwick
Walk Away – Franz Ferdinand
Takin’ a Walk – John Prine
Walk the Line – Johnny Cash
Walk – Pantera
I Walk a Fiery Line – The Farrell Brothers
My Walkin’ Shoes – The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
Walk, Idiot, Walk – The Hives
Sidewalk When She Walks – Alexisonfire
The Blues Walk – Lyle Lovett
Walking Contradiction – Green Day
Walk On – John Hiatt
Walking in the Woods – The Pursuit of Happiness
Walkin’ Blues – Eric Clapton
Walking in the Fire – Resistance
Spiritwalker – The Cult
Walk of Life – Dire Straits
Walkin’ on the Sun – Smashmouth
Walking on Sunshine – Katrina and the Waves
Walking Away – Jonny Lang
If I was Your Woman/Walk on By – Alecia Keys
Walkin’ All Night – Little Feat
Don’t Walk Away Eileen – Sam Roberts
Walkin’ with a Mountain – Mott the Hoople
Walking on the Moon – The Police
Walk Right In – The Rooftop Singers
Walk on the Wild Side – Lou Reed (the ultimate classic!)
Part III
Over the days, months, weeks and years, enjoy walking through life together. Slowly. Holding hands. With lots of love.
September 2006
Part I
7:00 p.m. is the perfect time to take a walk. I don’t mean a power walk, with pedometers and ankle weights and athletic shoes. I mean a slow, steamy stroll down the street in old flip-flops. I mean a leisurely, puddly meander up the avenue in rubber boots. I mean a clumsy, cold trudge through the park in oversize Sorels. I mean exploring the neighbourhood with your partner. Holding hands. Grabbing the dog, too. Grasping the leash. Taking a sip of water now and then. Seeing the sights of your home, your city, heck, your whole province! Walking is the most intimate way to learn about your world; the one that you whiz by each day as you carry out the business of life. Walking slows you down and gives you time for the intricate details of life and living.
What have I seen on evening walks in my rural neighbourhood? Snapping turtles mating. (Ouch!) A three legged painted turtle that my kids affectionately called Stumpy. Four baby beavers playfully swimming in circles and squealing. A dead coyote. A stolen burnt car. Wild plums. Wild roses. Foxtails. Cattails. A mallard duck stranded in the ice. Baby wood ducks being pushed from the nest for the first time. Bear poop. Dragonflies. Damselflies. A snowy owl in a tree during a full moon. Northern lights. Shooting stars. A stray cat at the top of a tree with my dog sitting patiently at the base. My neighbours swimming in their pond. A farmer combining. A flax field burning. (Spectacular!) My children posing goofily on giant round bales. Mouse tracks in the snow. Deer tracks in the mud. Life in Manitoba. A little bit of living at seven o’ clock.
Part II
At 7:00, take a walk with the one you love. Here are a few tunes to inspire you:
Walkin’ After Midnight – Patsy Cline
These Boots are made for Walkin’ – Nancy Sinatra (not Jessica Simpson!!)
Walk This Way – Aerosmith
Walk on By – Dionne Worwick
Walk Away – Franz Ferdinand
Takin’ a Walk – John Prine
Walk the Line – Johnny Cash
Walk – Pantera
I Walk a Fiery Line – The Farrell Brothers
My Walkin’ Shoes – The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
Walk, Idiot, Walk – The Hives
Sidewalk When She Walks – Alexisonfire
The Blues Walk – Lyle Lovett
Walking Contradiction – Green Day
Walk On – John Hiatt
Walking in the Woods – The Pursuit of Happiness
Walkin’ Blues – Eric Clapton
Walking in the Fire – Resistance
Spiritwalker – The Cult
Walk of Life – Dire Straits
Walkin’ on the Sun – Smashmouth
Walking on Sunshine – Katrina and the Waves
Walking Away – Jonny Lang
If I was Your Woman/Walk on By – Alecia Keys
Walkin’ All Night – Little Feat
Don’t Walk Away Eileen – Sam Roberts
Walkin’ with a Mountain – Mott the Hoople
Walking on the Moon – The Police
Walk Right In – The Rooftop Singers
Walk on the Wild Side – Lou Reed (the ultimate classic!)
Part III
Over the days, months, weeks and years, enjoy walking through life together. Slowly. Holding hands. With lots of love.
September 2006
The Girl and Her Aunt
The Girl and Her Aunt
Once upon a time there was a scrawny young girl. She was a little bit shy and sometimes silly. She had an aunt that lived very far away from her. She didn’t see her aunt very often but she heard lots of stories about her because the aunt was the big sister of the girl’s mom. The girl heard that her aunt was very cute and could dance the jitterbug like nobody else when she was a teenager. The girl thought it was so romantic that the aunt had eloped with her boyfriend and that they had six children together. “What a big family!” the girl thought to herself.
One day, the girl’s mom and dad said they could all go to visit the aunt on her farm. So they drove and drove for many miles and finally the girl got to be with her aunt. She was so excited! The aunt didn’t dance the jitterbug anymore, but she did let the girl and her cousins use broomsticks and mops for microphones. They pretended they were The Supremes singing “Stop In The Name of Love”. The little girl was being very silly and the aunt laughed and laughed and she was silly, too! When it was time to leave the farm, the girl cried very hard, and so did the aunt. And this helped the girl to not feel so shy. This helped the girl to know her far away aunt better.
Time went on, and the girl became a teenager and the aunt moved farther away. One day, the teenage girl’s mom and dad said they could all go to visit the aunt at her home on an island. So they drove and drove for many miles and finally the girl got to be with her aunt again. She was so excited! The girl didn’t sing with broomsticks anymore, but she had fun swimming in the lake with her cousins and talking about things with her aunt. And she didn’t feel shy because her aunt let her say whatever she wanted. And her aunt said what she wanted, too. And they listened to each other. Sometimes they were sad together and sometimes they were silly. And this helped the girl to know her far away aunt better.
More time went by, and the girl grew up into a young woman. She got married and had children of her own. And her aunt sent the young woman and her children birthday cards every year. And the aunt poured out her thoughts on the cards so much that she would run out of room and have to write sideways to fit it all in. Some thoughts were very sad and some thoughts were silly and all of the thoughts were sent with hugs and kisses filled with love. And so the young woman stayed close to her far away aunt and her children did, too.
Many years passed, and the young woman got older and so did her aunt. One day, the woman’s parents said the aunt was very sick. The woman’s mother flew far away to be with the aunt. But this time, the woman could not go along. So she stood outside alone at night and talked to her far away aunt. And she knew that her thoughts would reach her aunt because it had never mattered to them how far apart they were. And the woman felt a little silly out there in the dark and quite sad because her aunt was so sick. “I love you, Auntie,” said the woman.
And when the aunt finally died, the woman knew that they would always love each other, wherever they were, happily ever after.
©Conni Cartlidge, 2005
Once upon a time there was a scrawny young girl. She was a little bit shy and sometimes silly. She had an aunt that lived very far away from her. She didn’t see her aunt very often but she heard lots of stories about her because the aunt was the big sister of the girl’s mom. The girl heard that her aunt was very cute and could dance the jitterbug like nobody else when she was a teenager. The girl thought it was so romantic that the aunt had eloped with her boyfriend and that they had six children together. “What a big family!” the girl thought to herself.
One day, the girl’s mom and dad said they could all go to visit the aunt on her farm. So they drove and drove for many miles and finally the girl got to be with her aunt. She was so excited! The aunt didn’t dance the jitterbug anymore, but she did let the girl and her cousins use broomsticks and mops for microphones. They pretended they were The Supremes singing “Stop In The Name of Love”. The little girl was being very silly and the aunt laughed and laughed and she was silly, too! When it was time to leave the farm, the girl cried very hard, and so did the aunt. And this helped the girl to not feel so shy. This helped the girl to know her far away aunt better.
Time went on, and the girl became a teenager and the aunt moved farther away. One day, the teenage girl’s mom and dad said they could all go to visit the aunt at her home on an island. So they drove and drove for many miles and finally the girl got to be with her aunt again. She was so excited! The girl didn’t sing with broomsticks anymore, but she had fun swimming in the lake with her cousins and talking about things with her aunt. And she didn’t feel shy because her aunt let her say whatever she wanted. And her aunt said what she wanted, too. And they listened to each other. Sometimes they were sad together and sometimes they were silly. And this helped the girl to know her far away aunt better.
More time went by, and the girl grew up into a young woman. She got married and had children of her own. And her aunt sent the young woman and her children birthday cards every year. And the aunt poured out her thoughts on the cards so much that she would run out of room and have to write sideways to fit it all in. Some thoughts were very sad and some thoughts were silly and all of the thoughts were sent with hugs and kisses filled with love. And so the young woman stayed close to her far away aunt and her children did, too.
Many years passed, and the young woman got older and so did her aunt. One day, the woman’s parents said the aunt was very sick. The woman’s mother flew far away to be with the aunt. But this time, the woman could not go along. So she stood outside alone at night and talked to her far away aunt. And she knew that her thoughts would reach her aunt because it had never mattered to them how far apart they were. And the woman felt a little silly out there in the dark and quite sad because her aunt was so sick. “I love you, Auntie,” said the woman.
And when the aunt finally died, the woman knew that they would always love each other, wherever they were, happily ever after.
©Conni Cartlidge, 2005
small boxes
small boxes
small boxes hold big treasures
a carved wooden apple opens and inside, a tiny tea set for a little girl’s imagination and delight
diminutive disneykin characters collected from toothpaste tubes
the magical world of polly pocket hidden within a plastic compact
a fake crystal container holds an imitation sapphire and diamond necklace, chosen by a four year old boy for his mom on her birthday
a converted chicken coop home for newlyweds
a three minute stand-up routine conveys all the love of a young woman for her contrary grandpa
a heart shaped pebble
a cozy bedtime story
fairy-winged maple seeds
a twenty minute slideshow of a sixty year marriage
one bedroom for five people, mom dad brother sister and baby
a kiss hello, a kiss good-bye
life changing events condensed into a rectangular newspaper column
a tiny newborn’s fist raised, foretells the future
a short song written from the heart
a simple wooden box holds the memories hopes pain laughter ashes of someone that was loved
brief moments, loving gestures, big treasures, small boxes
©Conni Cartlidge, 2010
small boxes hold big treasures
a carved wooden apple opens and inside, a tiny tea set for a little girl’s imagination and delight
diminutive disneykin characters collected from toothpaste tubes
the magical world of polly pocket hidden within a plastic compact
a fake crystal container holds an imitation sapphire and diamond necklace, chosen by a four year old boy for his mom on her birthday
a converted chicken coop home for newlyweds
a three minute stand-up routine conveys all the love of a young woman for her contrary grandpa
a heart shaped pebble
a cozy bedtime story
fairy-winged maple seeds
a twenty minute slideshow of a sixty year marriage
one bedroom for five people, mom dad brother sister and baby
a kiss hello, a kiss good-bye
life changing events condensed into a rectangular newspaper column
a tiny newborn’s fist raised, foretells the future
a short song written from the heart
a simple wooden box holds the memories hopes pain laughter ashes of someone that was loved
brief moments, loving gestures, big treasures, small boxes
©Conni Cartlidge, 2010
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)