Christmas prep in Upside-Down-Land

Our Upside down Christmas has been, well, weird. It's hot and sunny instead of cold and rainy and I don't have my usual holiday traditions to fall back on. To get myself in a festive mood, let me tell you about Aunt Margaret, who is always close to my heart at this time of year.

Great Aunt Margaret and Great Uncle Sherman were from my mom’s side of the family. He was an architect and she dedicated herself to the fine art of keeping a home and a family. Aunt Margaret was proficient in every single craft you could think of. She created dolls, bags, sweaters, stuffed animals and Christmas ornaments. She won awards at the county fairs for her hooked rugs and with a twinkle in her eye, proclaimed herself a “hooker” to whomever asked.  But her creations were never old lady crafts like the Barbie toilet roll holders or crocheted bookmarks you see in church bazaars. She made those types of things too, but hers seemed to transcend kitschiness and were always charming and cute.

This is Aunt Margaret the year Granny gave her a new bathing suit (note the Christmas cracker crown). One of my absolute favourite family pictures.

Presents from Aunt Margaret were guaranteed to be handmade. Every Christmas, I looked forward to her gifts even more than Santa’s and I saved her present until last, every single year. 

And I was never disappointed.

I still have the hand stitched Brownie doll from the one year I spent in Girl Guides. The doll wore an exact replica of the official Brownie uniform, complete with a sash and tiny embroidered badges. There were endless sweaters, slippers and other knitted items – always beautifully stitched and “cool” enough for a picky kid to wear. I have kept every gift she made for me.

Aunt Margaret didn’t like to show her affection in the traditional manner. She wasn’t the huggie sort and would never think of pinching a child’s cheeks. At Christmas, it was customary for the children to go around and give everyone a “thank you” kiss but, whenever I leaned in to give Aunt Margaret the obligatory peck, she would dodge at the last second and deliver a resounding raspberry on my cheek. Her love was demonstrated in every stitch of her beautiful gifts.

Aunt Margaret died many years ago, crafting until the very end. This time of year, I find myself frequently thinking of her as I try to put as much thought and attention into the gifts I prepare for my family and friends as she put into all of her creations.

Our Christmas Tree last year

Our Christmas tree at home is an homage to Aunt Margaret, really. To go on our Christmas tree, ornaments must be home made. I have a few that she made specifically for me – a felt gingerbread man and a mouse in a walnut shell. I have also managed to acquire a few of her other creations: the quilted angel tree topper came from Granny and Grandpa’s tree and somehow, my gingerbread man has multiplied (Megan and Christopher– I might have yours...) Our first Christmas together, Rob and I had an ornament making party and I think of our friends every year as I unpack the boxes: Jane’s stitched figures, Nick’s Santa stuck in the chimney, Sarah’s origami cranes, Steph’s painted ceramics, Irv’s yellow snowflake, Jess' tiny sweaters... I could go on for ages.

I also recognize Aunt Margaret's lesson in the Christmas traditions of my family:

• The holiday inspired (but not always child appropriate) Christmas playlist my brother creates for our festivities every year.
• The care my sister puts into making a spectacular Christmas dinner even though her house is filled with an entire village of extended family members, noisy children and their dogs
• The huge star my dad puts up on the topmost part of the roof every year, risking life and limb so the grandchildren can squeal in delight as they round the corner and see that big monstrosity with the wonky blinking lights
• The gingerbread house my mom makes, a different one each season, staying up until 2am for an entire week to create an architectural masterpiece which no-one is allowed to touch until Valentine’s Day (I exaggerate – that was just when we were kids. Now the grandchildren are allowed to destroy the gingerbread right after Christmas. It’s not fair, I tell you.)

Every year, as I prepare myself for the Christmas season, I cherish the memory of Aunt Margaret’s gifts – both the excitement I felt to receive them and the joy on her face as she watched me open them. Just because we’ll be celebrating Christmas on the beach this year and I won’t be unpacking all of my homemade tree ornaments, doesn’t mean I’m not thinking of all of you. I’ve made Alice’s nut loaf, Granny’s croissants and Sophie and I have built a gingerbread house. I spent last night ineptly wrestling with squares of origami paper, desperate for Sarah’s help to interpret the directions. I don't have my usual arsenal of craft supplies but I've still managed to make a few things for our new Australian friends and family because, for me, Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without a little crafting.

So, Merry Christmas everyone! May you all be surrounded by family, friends, good music and great food.

Self Directed Education: Tasmania Field Trip

Early on in the exchange, we decided that Tasmania was not on our list of places to go because, from all reports, it is very similar to Vancouver Island. However, Sophie got it in her head that she wanted to go, so I told her that if she did all the research, planning and booking for the trip, I would take her. Next thing I know, she's found flights, a campervan and mapped out a six day trip to the island state that involved wildlife parks, animal sanctuaries and the Cadbury Chocolate factory.

Our home for the week complete with a fridge, stove and surprisingly comfortable bed.

I can now confirm that the climate and scenery in Tassie is exactly Vancouver Island, as long as you ignore the different trees, loud birds and all the animals that could potentially kill you.

See? This could have been taken anywhere in the Gulf Islands

We spent a few days on the Tasman Peninsula, a huge chunk of land connected to the rest of Tassie by a narrow isthmus. Back in the day, convicts who had reoffended were sent to do hard time on the peninsula and the isthmus was guarded by a dog line to prevent the convicts from escaping.

A sculpture to show the size of the eighteen ferocious dogs strung across the dog line

Tasmanian Devils are in a spot of bother in Tassie - Facial Tumour cancer is wiping out the population in the northern parts of the state. The devils on the Tasman peninsula are still healthy so the dog line is going to be used again to deter the healthy devils from leaving the peninsula. Scientists are going to seed the isthmus with things the devils don't like to keep the healthy devils in the disease free zone.

These critters are pretty small - about the size of a rabbit - but very ferocious.

We visited several wildlife parks and fed scores of kangaroos and wallabys. They are messy eaters - my hand got goobered many times.

FYI - they like to be scratched on the chest, not the head or ears

Another highlight was our visit to the Cascades Female Factory where they housed women convicts. You get a tour of the site as well as an historical reinactment of what it was like to live in those times. 

Sophie is locked in solitary confinement and has to pick oakum out of rope as part of her punishment

I had a great time on the trip. The camper van took a little bit of getting used to - I had to practically tuck my knee into my armpit to put my foot on the clutch and I had to drive with my left hovering over the pedal because it was too high to rest my heel on the ground. The van was very comfy to sleep in, but I tried not to think about how many other people had used the sleeping bag before me. It was lovely to let Sophie make all the decisions - where to go, where to stay, how often to stop for coffee and croissants - I was just the chauffeur and credit card holder.

Guess what her favourite part of the trip was?

Off to the Races

A few weeks ago, Rob told me that we had been invited to the Derby (pronounced Dah-bee).
Great! I've always wanted to see a horse race.
A few days later, he told me that the party wasn't at the field, but in the car park outside of Flemington race course. A friend from work has access to a parking stall and invites people to join him every year.
Hmm. Alright, still sounds intriguing.
The day before the race, I'm told that I have to dress up for the event.
A dress and heels to party in a parking lot? You've got to be joking.
Not only did I need to wear heels (the higher, the better) but a fascinator as well.
For a party in a parking lot.
To be perfectly honest, I didn't believe them, but decided to play along, just in case.

Derby Day is traditionally black and white and by absolute fluke, so is the only dress I brought.

We caught the train at 9am and it hadn't even left the station before I learned how wrong I was. Everyone on the train was wearing fancy cocktail dresses and three piece suits. There were hats, fascinators, feathers, top hats, morning coats and sky high stilettos.
As we got closer to Flemington, the crowds got thicker and the outfits got fancier. By the time we arrived at the course, we were squashed in a seething mass of exquisitely dressed humanity. The car park was packed with marquis, tents, tables and gambling vans. And yes, everyone was dressed to the nines.

The white tent in the background? That's the gated car park party that people pay $70 to get into.

In the line for the touch screen, automated gambling machine

Our host's ute (packed with beer and champagne) to which he had tied a huge marquis. Good thing it was tied down because the day got progressively stormy.

Our host had a few passes to get into the race course so I got to witness the real event instead of just viewing it on a screen. The fashions inside were even more impressive.

The only woman I saw wearing pants, so I had to get a picture. The sides of  her outfit had huge slits and she was displaying an impressive amount of sideboob.

These "Gentlemen to Help" wander around rescuing fair maidens with bandaids, deodorant, blister packs and nail polish. As you can see, the breeze really picked up but I didn't want to move my hands from where they were to fix my hair. 

I happened to be at the right place at the right time and got to watch all of the horses come out onto the field.

A quick hop across picnic blankets and drunk twentysomethings and I was able to see the riders come in after the race too.

Back at the car park, Rob was betting on whoever our host suggested and sunk the last of our allotted cash on a longshot called Bonario. Most of the partygoers did. I came back just in time to watch the race with the group and let me tell you, there is a lot of yelling and cheering when your horse come charging up from the back of the pack to win the race.

So exciting.
Celebratory champagne flowed and the party in the car park carried on until dinner time. We made our way back home on the train, disheveled and footsore, but coming out even helps numb the pain a little.

Come on surfin' now, everybody's learning how.

Here is the sum total of my surf experience to date:

First attempt: September 29th. Point Leo with Rob

The ocean is still quite cold in Frankston so I wore a full wetsuit and booties and didn't feel a thing – beautiful. For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure, in order to get out to where the surf is, you need to lie on the board and windmill your arms through the waves while maintaining a monkey toe death grip with your feet in order not to get swept off every time a wave crashes into you.

Which is often.

Rob gave me a few pointers, pointed me in the right direction and encouraged me to follow him. If by “encourage” you mean charging ahead and occasionally yelling “sweep harder with your arms!” over his shoulder.

Once I had struggled out to Rob, he set me up to ride my first wave with the instruction to paddle hard as soon as he pushed me. The first time, he shot the board right out from under me and the second time, I paddled myself off the front end. The third time, my board and I shot out together, up until the point where I put too much pressure on the front end, nosedived into the foam and got barrel rolled over and over until I wasn’t sure which way was up. I clambered back up onto the board and recovered by bobbing around peacefully while Rob rode the waves.

I like the bobbing part.

Luckily… I mean unfortunately… Rob broke the leash on his board so we had to call it a day and head to shore about an hour after getting in the water. Even that short stint in the surf had me dripping seawater from my nasal passages for the entire afternoon.

Second Attempt: Emerald Bay 

We have just returned from a three weeks in NSW and Queensland. Rob and Isabelle have already done a fair bit of surfing at home in Frankston but they are made of much sterner stuff than Sophie and I. We need warmer water. Up on the East Coast, the weather is warm and sunny and the beaches are spectacular.

Now that I had a better idea of what to expect, I thought my next attempt might be more successful. All four of us suited up and hit the water at Emerald Bay, just north of Sydney.

As I waded out to where the waves were breaking, I noticed several dark shapes below the surface and chanted “please be seaweed, please be seaweed…” until I could jump onto the surfboard and tuck my feet up. Then it was just a matter of waiting for the right wave.

And waiting.

And waiting.

When you see one you like, you turn around (while trying not to bury the tip in the water and fall off), stroke frantically with your arms and flail with your legs until the wave picks you up. Or drops you like bag of rocks.

If it picks you up, you shoot forward in front of the wave and hold on for dear life.

I never achieved the standing up part. I gave up trying to surf properly and just had fun choosing the right wave to ride while I knelt on the board. That was a blast - I spent the whole time giggling like a school girl.

More pictures of our East coast surfing adventures:

Sophie spent most of her time doing handstands, bodyboarding and frolicking in the waves. She is obviously having no fun at all.

This is after a kayaking trip to go snorkeling and see dolphins. You can barely see it, but there's a pelican on the lightpost behind us. Word to the wise: do not park your car under a pelican.

Isabelle modeling her new wetsuit on the beach at Surfer's Paradise.

I didn't manage to get a decent picture of Rob standing up but he did. A lot.

Much more graceful than her mother.

Sophie and I spent a lot of time body boarding while Rob and Isabelle rode the waves

"Mountain" climbing

I use the term "mountain" cautiously because there is nothing on this island continent that we Canadians would classify as a mountain. Mt Arapiles is 370m high - to give you some perspective, the Grouse Grind is 853m. However, to get to the top of Grouse, you don't need to be strapped into a harness that cuts of the circulation to your lower extremities. Nor do you need to stick your fingers into tiny, spider web filled rock cracks and use previously undiscovered arm muscles to haul yourself up a sheer sandstone face.
But I digress...

After glamping with mobs of kangaroos at the base of Lake Bellfield in the Grampians,

Our campsite was in the little green patch right under the dam. Geological events and/or James Bond-esque explosions were often on my mind.

we headed to Mt. Arapiles to meet up with our friends, Tim, Andrea and Ella. We would be arriving first so Tim instructed us to head to the sites on the right because that's where all the serious climbers camp.

Yeah. Serious climber. That's me, alright. Watch me go all Edmund Hilary on your ass.

We chose a spot in the Upper Gums campsite, close to a fire pit and not too far from the long drops (translation: pit toilets). Over in The Pines, the less serious climbers got flush toilets, soap and running water. I know this because I frequently made the trek over to their facilities rather than use our own.

The view from my perch at the bottom of our first climb - you can barely see them, but there are more than a dozen climbers over there.

Arapiles looks like it has been dropped out of the sky, smack dab into hundreds of flat acres of sheep paddocks. The rock itself is stunning - acres and acres of beautiful craggy sandstone. There are over 2000 climbs ranging from grades 1 to 32, which means you could do four climbs a day for five years and still not run out of new routes to take.

Ready for a day on the hill

Tim, our fearless leader, has been climbing at Arapiles for more than thirty years.

The action around camp is really interesting. Throughout the day, climbers come back to their sites to refuel. Everyone has at least twenty pounds of ropes, carabiners, descenders, nuts, and cams dangling from their belts and harnesses.You can hear their approach from a long way off - imagine Gunslinger swaggering into camp with dozens of marimba resonators attached to his belt. After you've been there for a few days, you can identify who is coming through the bush by the timbre of their equipment.

You can't see, but underneath Rob's fingers there are spider webs in every handhold and poo on every ledge.

Sophie, guided by Andrea

I was surprised by the amount of young children at Arapiles. Not only were they frolicking all over the boldering rocks at the base of the cliffs, but there were just as many kids on the climbs as there were adults. Happy Harry, a five year old with a perma-grin, spent quite a bit of time at our campfire and told us it was the third time he had been climbing at Arapiles. The place is truly a breeding ground for adrenaline junkies.

With all that gear, Tim makes music wherever he goes.

Preparing for the 30m abseil

If you look really carefully, you can see Sophie and me abseiling down.

Rob and Isabelle did this climb with Tim - that's them in the red circle.

Helluh, Huhlow?, Halloey

Now that we've been here for six months, I feel I have enough experience to discuss something I find quite fascinating.

Accents.

I have no professional qualifications beyond one first year university linguistics course, but the topic is just too intriguing to ignore. Because I have now had the pleasure of living in both England and Australia, I've gathered enough aural data to compare their accents to my native Canadian one. The differences can really be heard in the way each accent treats its vowels.

For purposes of illustration, I'll use the common greeting,"Hello"

Canadians keep their vowels in the middle of the mouth, lying flat on the tongue. When saying "hello", the first syllable comes out sounding like "hell". As in, "Oh hell, I was hoping they wouldn't notice me." The second syllable sounds like "uh",  tending to get left on the middle of the tongue, neither too forward nor too reticent, for fear of offending.

The English keep their vowels tucked up in the roof of their mouth. They start their greeting with a "huh", a sigh of breath with a slightly disapproving inflection. The "low?" moves to the back of the tongue, unwilling to be too brash, and tips up into a question at the very end.

Australians like to savour their vowels by rolling them around their mouths for a while before letting them loose. "Hello" begins with a jovial "ha!", laughing and ready for a good time, followed by "lloey", moving the vowels gently forward on the tongue before ending in a slight lip pucker. As if to say "Welcome to the party, now give us a kiss."

Interesting how accents reflect the national stereotypes, don't you think?

Heading to the Lake

When I was a kid, our family would always head to Shuswap Lake for the last week of August. Granny and Grandpa had a time share at St Ives and we would join them for a week of fun on the lake.

This was in 2009 - the last time we went to Shuswap

There was no tv, and if anyone wanted to make a call, they had to go to the pay phone down by the resort office. Needless to say, the closest decent grocery store was an hours drive away so we had to bring most of our food. Granny would bake up a storm for ages beforehand and come laden with homemade bread, cookies, pies and cakes.

Granny and her crew - Sean is missing because I don't think he was even a twinkle yet

I have become my grandmother.
We are going to Lakes Entrance for a few days of tech-free adventuring and I have just spent the last 5 hours in the kitchen mixing, rolling and baking. I've made tortillas, muffins, cookies, croissants and lemon curd. (BTW, where had lemon curd been all my life? Only 4 ingredients and you can whip it up in no time. I could eat it by the bucketful).
I have no idea how we are going to fit all the food, coolers, backpacks, wetsuits and four humans into the Echo. We're trying to pack for all eventualities because you never know what the weather might bring in these parts. Yesterday was gorgeous and sunny but the day before gave us gale force winds, hail and flash floods. I'm sure the plague of frogs and storm of locusts will be coming soon.

Monday night on Victoria Street up in the city (photo credit: The Age)

Melbourne Writers Festival

One of the best things about living in Frankston is that it's far enough away from the city to be its own separate entity and yet close enough to take advantage of all of the fabulous arty events that go on in the CBD (translation: downtown). And the best part? The vast majority is free!

Even better? We don't have to pay an arm and a leg to get off an island to get to the closest major metropolis. No dashing for the ferry and enduring that ulcer inducing wait to see if you are going to make the next sailing to Vancouver. No pulse pounding interrogations at the border to get to Seattle. All the art and culture we could possibly want is at our veritable doorstep.

Last week, Sophie and I decided to go to a science fair at the Queen Victoria Market and one hour-long train ride later, BAM, we were there. We extracted DNA from strawberries, tasted all the stages of chocolate production, grew hand crafted bacteria samples and ate our way through several pastry stall samples. All for free. On the way back to Flinders Street station, we decided to pop into the National Gallery of Victoria (NGV) to revisit some sculpture we had previously enjoyed. Again, free.

this is actually from an art installation in Pahran, but you get the idea.

Today, I went into the city on my own to take advantage of the Melbourne Writers Festival. You guessed it - almost all of it was free.

My first session was "The Morning Read" - four authors gathered in a coffee bar to read from their current publications. When I walked in (a little late), a purple haired author was reading a chapter from her detective novel which, from what I could gather, involved half of a body sewn onto a deer's hindquarters. There were a lot of expletives and very graphic descriptions and I was only half listening while I tried to surreptitiously catch the attention of a server. Thankfully, once I had ordered my coffee and was paying attention again, an Irish author was giving voice to his main character, a gangsta rapper from Fremantle. Highly entertaining.

The next session was a group of three debut novelists - a platinum haired poet who "makes works around digital semiotics", a straight atheist who wrote a book about a homosexual boy in an orthodox Jewish community, and a forty-something tv critic who wrote about a fictional reality show called Survivor CBD. A very diverse bunch.

By this time, lunch was in order, so I wandered among the kazillion cafes and restaurants nearby and settled on a eggplant schnitzel baguette with a filtered coffee.
And what, you ask, is a filtered coffee?
I watched the barista weigh and grind the beans, place them delicately in a filter and fit it into a contraption that sits on top of a beaker.

He then poured hot water over the grinds, slowly, over several minutes, to extract a shot glass sized portion of coffee. He proudly poured this into a cup and with both hands, offered it to me. I asked for some milk (Australians don't do cream) and he looked absolutely horrified. I actually thought he was going  to snatch the coffee back from me.
"You should have left it, babe. It's far too delicate"
I didn't dare ask for sugar.

Back at Fed Square, I joined the queue for "Why I Read", a talk with Brain Picking's Maria Popova and literary editor Jason Steger. The session was oversold, so the line was long, but I managed to get in at the very front. I looked back to survey those behind me and saw that everyone in line was reading.
A book.
A real live paper book. No phones or iHooies to be seen.
The printed word is not dead.
The session itself was beyond awesome. Popova must have a photographic memory because I lost count of how many books she quoted from. Steger has a deep British voice and a chummy, laissez-faire attitude coupled with a quick wit. And an undying hatred for Ayn Rand.
I could have listened to them for days on end.

My final session, "Artists for the Environment" included a Michael Stipe-esque musician/writer and a bearded playwriter/installation artist who showed us a clip of himself on stage shoving ice in his underwear. Both of them are doing what they can to change public perception of climate change. They pointed out that we need to stop thinking about the environment as something we need to save and realize that the environment is an extension of our own selves. So, in fact, it is ourselves that we are working to save. In the Q&A, I asked:
"If you could make one small, easily digestible message go viral, what would it be?"
Both of them answered:
"Leave the coal in the ground"
We have our pipelines, Aussies have dirty coal.

So, my take aways from today?
I need to read more. Much more.
I need to stop buying $6 coffees in hopes that I may find something familiar.
I can throw out my unread copy of Atlas Shrugged.

I heart Melbourne

I’m feeling guilty about the amount of space I’ve devoted to complaining about the weather and the size of the coffee cups here. Let me tell you about some of the things I love about living in Australia and specifically, Melbourne.

The Art

The city of Melbourne has an impressive arts focus. Their Public Art Program states “The City of Melbourne recognises that artworks experienced in public space are visible and accessible to all, and serve as important markers reflective of our cultural identity.” As a result, there are astounding pieces every corner you turn. Even driving down Eastlink, a major traffic artery, is a cultural experience.

Case in point:

 

Hotel, by Callum Morton, is slightly smaller than life sized. Just enough to make you think WTF?! at you drive by.

Panorama Station by Louise Paramor. "based on an assemblage of found plastic objects" Eat your heart out, Mowry Baden with your Pavilion, Rock and Shell

And let’s not forget the laneway art:

The Seniors

I find the age to which Australian seniors remain active truly impressive. Some examples:

• While waiting for our flight to Uluru, Rob and the girls went to find candy for the journey and left me to wait with the luggage. A charming silver haired gent plonked himself next to me and struck up a conversation. “My daughter just left me at the entrance and told to me sort myself out. I’m 90 years old!” And then followed one of the most entertaining hours I’ve had in a long time. He was a skilled conversationalist and prompted me with questions while interspersing interesting tales from his own life. I learned about his family and he met all of mine. I asked him how he had met his wife and got the whole story, complete with the tale of her passing, after 61 years of marriage, at home, as he held her hand. Oh jeez, it still makes me tear up – look up and to the left – up and to the left. He is still living in his own home and holds a weekly salon for local artists and writers in between jaunts around the country to visit friends and family.
• Every weekend, exiting Plummer Ave. is extremely challenging because of the massive pelotons of cyclists plowing up Olivers Hill. As I wait for a break in the traffic, I get an up close and personal view of all of the riders and at least 80% of them are over the age of 60. 

• Recently, we stopped to watch a troop of surfers at Phillip Island. The surf was mid size (says she, who has never caught a wave in her life) and the dozen or so surfers out in the ocean looked like seasoned pros. As they started coming ashore because of the looming sunset, we saw that the vast majority of these neoprene clad people were silver haired seniors. I know wetsuits can hide a wealth of flaws but wow, these fogies were cut!

The markets

Oh, the markets.

Within an hours drive, I have at least four food markets that make Granville Island look like a quaint little backwoods stall.

• Queen Victoria Market, the grand dame of the city, takes hours to circumnavigate.
• Pahran Market, in an upscale hipster area, is where I found an avocado the size of an emu egg and Sophie wandered the baking aisles of Essential Ingredient with a look of ecstasy rivaling that of Bernini’s Saint Teresa.
• South Melbourne Market is close to Melbourne Sports and Aquatic Centre, where the girls have most of their meets. As you swim parents know, you spend eight hours at the pool to watch your pride and joys swim about four and a half minutes, leaving lots of time to shop. The last time I was at the market, I saw a stall with jam donuts filled with warm salted caramel. I circled that aisle five times trying to justify spending $5.50 on a donut that would be gone in two bites. I decided against it and haven’t stopped thinking about that donut since.
• Dandenong Market is only half an hour away and the meat stalls contain any kind of meat you could possibly imagine, and many that you prefer had been left to the imagination. (FYI - many place names in Australia sound like they have come straight out of Gulliver’s Travels – Dandenong, Woolloomooloo, Brobdingnag, Wangaratta etc.)

 And I haven't even begun to talk about the wildlife...