Nest Building

Unequivocally Misquoted!

2012-01-30T11:03:00.000-08:00

Admit it ... we’ve all done it. It’s a slow day at work and we start by ‘Googling’ our friends and then, finally, we cave in and ‘Google’ ourselves. Usually when I resort to this form of entertainment, the predictable websites and references to my artwork or Nest Building book pop up. Most recently, however, a new Kate Bridger bio came up attributing all sorts of ‘unequivocally’ ludicrous statements to me by virtue of the fact that the words are housed in quotation marks.

This was a rather timely discovery because I had just finished reading Bill Bryson’s The Mother Tongue. In Chapter 14, Bryson discusses the often ludicrous and nonsensical results of direct and literal translation from one language to another where subtle expressions and idiom are not transferable. We’ve all experienced it when we struggle to understand assembly instructions for some item manufactured in Japan or the Philippines – the results can be hilarious, albeit not very helpful.

Excerpts from the article that follows have given me a fresh insight into my life and work. For example, until now I unequivocally had no idea there was a basement in our English home and that we spent much of our time living in the trees, nor did I know anything about the drugging and exportation of Brits, trafficking in Nelson and my ‘murderous’ tendencies!

So, here you go:

Ever given Kate Bridger was a child she desired design …

“I used to make Lego villages that took over a household, or finished things with boxes,” pronounced Bridger. “One of a things we unequivocally remember as a child in Britain is that we had a tiny basement — a basement to us didn’t meant a tree installation yet we’d go into a timberland and build this tiny place … we consider we had a unequivocally early nesting instinct.”

“My family changed for work … All these Brits were being drug over to work in Canada ….”

“By a time we was a teen we was portrayal my walls …. When we went to university we complicated landscape architecture … it morphed from there,” she said.

Design edged a approach behind into Bridger’s life when she became a owners of a tiny gallery and home taste emporium in a Nelson Trading Company.

It rambles on like this page after page, mercifully coming to an end with:

“My thought with interior pattern is to find a client’s style … it’s unequivocally unequivocally unequivocally critical that we learn to promulgate good so that a customer understands your ideas. … This is unequivocally wrong. … That unequivocally murderous me.”

Maybe the same author will translate my entire Nest Building book … unequivocally I cannot wait!

Beer Foam & Tangerine Tango

2011-12-29T11:46:00.000-08:00

“So, James, this is what I’m thinking,” begins Jane enthusiastically, “let’s do the foyer in Meadow Mist and then the living and dining areas in the Crème Caramel. The kitchen would look great in Sun Kisses and then we could do our bedroom in Gossamer Wings with a bold feature wall behind the bed in the Purple Princess! What do you think?”

James stares blankly into space like many men do when confronted with a collection of paint chips, fabric swatches and a hyperventilating spouse!

“OK,” says Jane with a begrudging sigh, “let’s try this again ... how about we paint the entrance in pale Pond Scum and do the living and dining rooms in Beer Foam. We could then paint the kitchen Boston Bruin Gold and the bedroom in Dead Wolf with a Road Rash accent wall. How does that sound?”

“Perfect!” exclaims James.

This little story proves, yet again, the importance of a name and while the male of the species will rarely respond to Wistful Willow, you’re sure to get his attention with Combat Olive. Perhaps the solution would be to have ‘bilingual’ paint sample books with her colour names on one side and his on the other!

I have always believed that our response to colours comes from a more primal place but, understanding the marketing machine as I do, I have also come to realize that if you change a label, you change the response. Think of New Zealand’s now famous export, the Kiwi fruit; originally named ‘Chinese Gooseberry’, it didn’t catch on but once it adopted its ‘Kiwi fruit’ moniker, it became exportable and trendy.

As we embark upon another New Year we are all eagerly awaiting Pantone’s announcement re: the

2012 Colour of the Year, right? Well—like it or not—this year’s lucky winner is Tangerine Tango! 2011 was Honeysuckle which wasn’t too far removed from Pepto Bismol, and the year before—my favourite colour year to date—was Turquoise which men could relate to as Tropical Shipwreck.

Any ideas how to translate TangerineTango into male-speak?

Happy colourful New Years, everybody!

Interior Design Is For The Birds!

2011-11-26T09:15:00.000-08:00

When I originally chose the name ‘Nest Building’ for my newspaper column and blog it was because the word ‘nest’ has always conjured up an image in my mind of a warm, safe and nurturing place. Later, I reused the name for my book: Nest Building – A Guide To Finding Your Inner Interior Designer.

Illustration by Chris Rohrmoser

The first time I realized that my title might be misconstrued was when I was promoting a Nest Building workshop. The editors of the course catalogue entered the write-up for the workshop in the fibre arts section. Needless so say, interest in the class was not overwhelming. Two people signed up and one of them rang me to ask if willow twigs would be the best kind to use and whether she could bring along some of her homemade felt to use as lining.

More recently, I spent four very long hours sitting in a shopping mall promoting my Nest Building book. It was all rather grim watching expressionless shoppers pushing shopping carts up and down the aisles without purpose. Many went out of their way to avoid eye contact with me, frightened that a mere smile or a nod would commit them to purchasing all my remaining stock.

The last straw (and I mean that almost literally) was when a very nice elderly gentleman approached my table and began flipping through the book. He wasn’t my typical customer but I was encouraged by his apparent interest. After a few moments he launched into a lengthy lecture chronicling his sixty years of bird watching and ended his speech by asking where and how I’d done my ‘nest building’ research!

Despite this, I stand by my title. Nesting is a comforting pursuit and whether it’s feathers, felt, or flooring, I’m happy to curl up in mine.

Of course I’m not the only one who has chosen a potentially confusing business name. A random web search came up with a few:

Effin Computers – actually, there’s not much to be confused about there, is there?

Salt ‘n Battery Fish & Chips – here’s a cause for vegetarians to support.

Dildo Run Provincial Park, Newfoundland – really, I don’t know what to say about this one!

Quality Assured Collision – I suppose if one has to have a collision it should be a good one?

It’s all in a name, they say. Next time I’m going to talk about the names of paint colours. They are remarkable, even poetic at times …

The Bog Blog

2011-10-24T15:32:00.000-07:00

Bathrooms are my favourite rooms to decorate. Of course, I’m not talking about opulent spa-like rooms with costly travertine tiles and marble vanities. I’m talking about those funny little bathrooms with functional fixtures, uninspired linoleum and institutional-looking walls that can be given a facelift and a new lease on life in a relatively short period of time and at no great expense. Unpretentious ensuites, basement loos and guest powder rooms don’t necessarily have to conform to the décor and style of the rest of your house. Turn them into little surprises and let your imagination play with colours, textures and accessories.

Here are three such bathrooms:

Served up on a platter, this bathroom developed its palette from the colours in a large, oval serving plate. When clients are uncertain where to begin when choosing colours for a renovation, I often suggest they start with something they love and tuck it under their wing whenever they are out shopping for supplies and accessories. I’ve known clients to carry around pages from calendars, pieces of clothing, photographs from travel brochures, placemats and, in this instance, a hand-painted ceramic plate.

This is a windowless basement bathroom/utility room that needed to be kept as light as possible. However, as someone resistant to plain white walls, this was the creative solution I came up with. It added a little interest and punch to what was otherwise a purely utilitarian space void of personality. All it took was paint and a few miles of masking tape.

Seafoam fixtures—a curse or an opportunity? Confronted by these original 1960s bathroom fixtures there were two possible options available (other than replacing them). Either I could forget they were there altogether and paint the bathroom any old way, or I could give them the respect they were due and decorate in such a way as to make them the stars. I chose the latter option and splashed seafoam on the floor and parts of the walls and tossed in some other vibrant colours to refresh the countertop and tile backsplash. This ensuite bathroom is like waking up and walking into a painting each morning!

For more about Kate Bridger and Nest Building visit: www.katebridger.ca or www.redfernhouse.ca

NEST BUILDING: The Book

2011-09-11T13:08:00.000-07:00

It is so exciting and gratifying to finally have years of work neatly bundled up, packaged and delivered into the hands of actual readers who have paid actual money to own it!

I have spent so much time with this project and am so intimately familiar with its content that I almost can’t remember what it’s about – which sounds contradictory, but isn’t. And so, it is especially pleasing to receive comments from readers identifying particular parts of the book that resonate with them on a personal level.

Many people have mentioned re-visiting some of their childhood memories, or chuckling over their own self-conscious decorating efforts. People have thanked me for reminding them that home is a safe and sacred sense of being to be enjoyed and modified, shared and protected. One reader credits me with giving her the courage to get rid of a painting she had never liked—let’s hope I’m not around when the relative who first gave it to her comes to visit. And here’s a big surprise … men are reading this book too!

I had always wanted to write a book but I didn’t know that this would be the one until a few years ago. Up until then I had been writing regular Nest Building columns for a local newspaper. I received positive responses to them and a certain local notoriety to boot so I began too look at my collection of 300-word columns and wondered if I could fill them out a bit and gather them all together in one volume. With the encouragement of friends and family, I got cracking.

Once I had a crude manuscript together I began developing my vision of how this book should look—not a glossy coffee table object, but an easy-read handbook with cartoon illustrations and short, sharp text grabbers. I wanted it to provoke thoughts and ideas, not provide them. Although the lack of ‘pretty pictures’ is one of the criticisms of the book, the choice to do it this way was entirely conscious and very deliberate. As the writer, designer and publisher, executing this vision was completely up to me and, at times, quite daunting but I’m pleased with the outcome. The book’s not perfect by any means, but it says what I wanted it to say.

Now, as I struggle with marketing and distribution, I can see that writing the book was a fairly minor part of the entire process! Getting it out there is a huge undertaking. I have charts of my charts … lists of my lists … tracking every phone call, every e-mail and every media kit sent, or to be sent. I’m like an angler—casting my line further and further afield and longing for a bite.

Meantime, my house looks like a warehouse and my dining table has become a shipping department. Like my book says, you have to be flexible and allow your home to respond and adapt to changing demands.

Visit www.redfernhouse.ca to learn more about my book!

Cottage Industry

2011-08-11T08:35:00.000-07:00

Setting off for the summer cottage on the weekends used to mean packing up the car with a few basic items and leaving behind the stresses, conveniences and technology relied upon during the rest of the week. Evenings at the cottage were spent dodging mosquitoes, reading in the dim light of a hissing propane lamp, burning our tongues on charred marshmallows and, after a quick trip to the outdoor biffy, curling up in a damp, sandy sleeping bag to outdo one another with the telling of scary stories right before bedtime.

Cottages were furnished with flea market treasures and other once-loved items no longer ‘good’ enough to be used at home—chipped cups and plates, threadbare rugs and rickety wooden chairs that gave you splinters in your behind if you didn’t sit still. Art on the wall was anything that could be hung on a nail—stained embroidery samplers, lumps of driftwood, faded old family photographs and paint-by-number copies of works by famous Dutch masters. No one worried about grit on the floors and fishing tackle in the living room until Sunday evening when it was time to give the place a good old sweep, pack up the car and get home in time for another Monday morning.

But ... things have changed. Many cottages how have electricity, indoor plumbing, screened-in porches, hot tubs, Internet and even satellite dishes. No one can survive a whole weekend without Blackberries—and I’m not referring to that juicy little fruit growing along country lanes.

An entire industry has evolved to support and encourage cottage culture and décor. There are numerous glossy cottager magazines available showing readers everything from how to maintain their septic system to stitch the perfect country pillow sham. There are specialized designers eager to help you choose a style—‘French country’, ‘American rustic’, ‘English quaint’—so you can decorate your picture-perfect cottage with just the right furnishings and accessories. Before you know it, you’re headed downtown in search of new dishes, furniture covers and curtains, ‘proper’ art, bedding, towels and floor coverings ... and so on and so forth ... no more trips to the flea market or noble attempts to rescue tired furniture from the dump.

In the designer cottage, sandy feet propped up on the coffee table and wet dogs recumbent on the imported chenille floor rug are not welcome, nor are fishing poles leaning against the sofa, or swimming togs hanging to dry from nails hammered randomly into the wood paneling. You’ll be far too busy to sit and play cards or paddle about in the canoe; there may be a dishwasher to load, a lawn to mow, beds to make and furniture to polish ... just like home.

What happened to the good old family cottage that was so appealing because of what it didn’t have? Perhaps we didn’t always love the cobwebbed outhouse, the trek to the lake to fetch water and the long empty evenings stretching out before us; on the other hand, however, there were some great stories and family lore born and shared over those weekends when there was no phone to ring, no game to watch and no ‘Facebook’ to keep up with.

Photo credits: Top – Blue moon in her eyes

Gotta Get a Gazebo!

2011-07-16T12:33:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the new home of my Nest Building column!

Photo: 'Gazing Out From The Gazebo', Fabric Art by Kate Bridger

With rumours of summer fast approaching, it’s time to make plans for outdoor living—why not build a gazebo!

‘Gazebo’ is not just a great sounding word, it also evokes images of warm, sultry mid-summer days sipping mint juleps, or relaxing with a good Somerset Maugham novel.

By definition, a gazebo is an outdoor structure with a roof and sides located in a park or garden. They have been part of pastoral and contrived landscapes for centuries starting in Egypt around 5,000 years ago. They began as small rooftop towers constructed to provide views of the surrounding area—hence the root of the word: ‘gaze’. Years later, they found their footings on the grounds of estates and gardens and were often referred to as summer houses, kiosks, screened houses, pavilions, or pagodas.

Gazebos were popular in ancient Rome and dotted the Mediterranean coast. They also showed up in the East. Chinese versions were particularly ornate while the Japanese ones, often referred to as teahouses, were much simpler to provide tranquil backdrops for traditional Tea Ceremonies.

Religious sects have also constructed garden houses, often using them as quiet places for meditation, worship and contemplation.

In Europe, gazebos were made popular by the French in the 14^th Century and later showed up in English gardens during the Elizabethan era where they were used primarily for entertaining.

Today elaborate gazebos are no longer the exclusive property of the rich and famous. North Americans, delighted to be free from the grips of winter, are always keen to get out of doors to barbecue, entertain, or relax. A gazebo is a great addition to any garden, providing a sheltered outdoor room to retreat to. A screened-in gazebo will also help keep those pesky mosquitoes out on a northern summer evening.

Gazebo designs range from exotic and whimsical all the way to plain and utilitarian. You can design your own, or purchase prefabricated kits from many home improvement stores. They come in all shapes and sizes—round, square, octagonal, large or small. They are usually built of wood with a few decorative elements added, but can also be made of ornate wrought iron.

Photo: Alans Factory gazebo

If your property is large enough, a gazebo tucked discreetly at the foot of the garden has the potential to become a very alluring, restorative and special place for you and your friends to enjoy.

NEST BUILDING: A Guide to Finding Your Inner Interior Designer, written by Kate Bridger and illustrated by Chris Rohrmoser is now available at: www.redfernhouse.ca

Order your copy now and save with the Early Bird Special

A Virtual Leader

2011-01-03T10:57:00.000-08:00

I’ve had a busy week already this year! We launched the marketing campaign for our brand new, energy efficient, super performance grocery cart. My team was all over it!

Janet did a fantastic job on the graphics although I had to bribe her with a larger computer monitor to get her properly motivated.

Ray looked after the ad copy and press releases. He can be a bit wordy sometimes which threatened to spoil Janet’s layouts but I was able to broker a compromise between them and it all went well after that.

Brian, as always, took a little reining in. It’s difficult working with a friend and trying to behave as his supervisor without compromising our relationship. He’s such a party animal, always wanting to quit work early and go for a drink. Because he’s my friend, he seems to think it’s OK to roll into work late some mornings so, as diplomatically as possible, I have had to put a stop to that. I ‘tasked’ (new age verb) him with organizing a celebratory barbecue for the team after the ad campaign hit the media; it was right up his alley and he did a marvelous job!

The truth is … Janet, Ray and Brian aren’t real. They are my new robotic virtual pals featured in an on-line leadership and management course I am currently taking. By the end of this programme, I will receive a certificate indicating that I have completed the requirements of the course and am now a project champion and team manager; all achieved without having spoken or worked with a single real live human. How alarming is that!

I will be qualified to supervise and negotiate with two-dimensional make-believe people who don’t yell and scream, who don’t gossip behind my back, who are consistently well-groomed and presentable, whose barbecued burgers are completely calorie-free and who don’t ever need a day off to look after a sick child with a virtual virus!

The disconcerting part of all of this is that I sometimes get so involved with my virtual office team that I am tempted to chat about Janet, Ray and Brian when I go to work in my real office on Monday mornings. While everyone else is discussing what they did over the weekend, I have to stop myself from telling them about the great barbecue I went to at Brian’s place!

Is this really how we are expected to learn in the 21^st Century? Acquiring leadership skills without the inconvenience of having ‘real’ people to lead is rather like becoming a pilot without ever leaving the ground.

Well, I must get back to work. I’ve scheduled performance reviews with Janet and Ray this morning and I don’t want to be late. Janet’s a bit of a whiner and I’m hoping to inject a bit of positive thinking into her. Ray’s attitude can cause him to trip over his ego once in a while and I’d like to encourage him to be more of a team player. Brian and I will have lunch later … I’ve decided he’s actually quite cute and so perhaps I can combine on-line dating with my on-line training!

Happy New Year, Everyone.

It's All Relative ...

2010-11-24T15:32:00.000-08:00

Yesterday marked Vancouver’s coldest November 23^rd on record. Thermometers plummeted to temperatures that, in other parts of the country, would be considered balmy.

When human beings react to weather extremes it has less to do with temperature scales and more to do with the degree of deviation from that which would be considered ‘normal’ for their part of the country. That makes perfect sense: what’s ‘cold’ in southern BC is very different from what’s ‘cold’ in Whitehorse.

But, what I find more surprising is that it is not only humans that adapt to their environments—becoming softer in warmer regions and tougher in colder ones—I’m beginning to think that even our technology develops variable thresholds of tolerance.

For example: after 5+ consecutive days of average minimum temperatures below -5°C, Vancouverites were advised to look out for burst pipes. People living on the Prairies or in the North don’t even think about their pipes until the mercury drops 20 or 30 more degrees. It makes one wonder … are not all pipes created equal?

Another example is our vehicles: this is my first winter with my current car. It was a sunny -14°C when I put the key in the ignition this morning and, with a reluctant diva-like moan, she finally deigned to turn over. I have driven the same make of vehicle for nearly three decades. I have lived in the North, kept my vehicle out of doors and, only on very rare occasions, have I had difficulty starting a car. This younger version that I now own was clearly born and raised on the West Coast. Would she even survive in a northern Ontario winter?

My final example to support my theory that even technology goes ‘soft’ in warmer climes also occurred this morning. I was checking out at my local supermarket when, after four unsuccessful attempts to use my debit card to pay for my purchases, the cashier told me the system was down because of the cold weather! So, how on earth do the residents in places like Winnipeg, Prince George, or Calgary—currently basking in -30º temperatures before the wind chill factor—buy milk?

How do they coax their vehicles out of bed in the morning, or convince their plumbing to just grin and bear it?

Well, I’m heading out again. I’m going to talk to Mildred—that’s my car—about her older and tougher predecessors and the winters they endured in the North ... just maybe I can appeal to her sense of pride and convince her to be a bit more stoical.

Bookmark This Moment

2010-06-20T15:48:00.000-07:00

Bookmark This Moment

Once in a while, there are moments in our lives we need to hold onto. In my experience, these worthy moments are not those associated with events or achievement, they are the moments when there is nothing—nothing but the naked moment itself.

A couple of years ago, I sat in an Eighth Century chapel in the middle of a field somewhere in Tuscany. I wasn’t alone by any means. There were a couple of charter buses noisily exhaling diesel out in the car park and a number of Nike-soled tourists strolling through the chapel looking puzzled—wondering why they were there if they weren’t allowed to take photos.

Amid it all, I sat in my own quiet bubble on a well-worn pew where presumably thousands before me had also rested. I could hear monks chanting through, or from, the ancient stone walls (probably on cassette tape, but it was still beautiful). At some point and without warning or gloomy thought, a small warm tear coasted down my right cheek. I knew then that I was supposed to pay attention and that this was one of those worthy moments. Maybe it lasted a few minutes, or just a few seconds, but I reined in my thoughts and took note, consciously filing the smells and sounds and dim lighting in my memory bank forever. It was just an ordinary moment waiting to be noticed and, fortunately, I was lucky enough to be present.

My most recent bookmark was found much closer to home and took a little more work.

My younger son is at home for a few weeks. Most evenings he ventures off into the mountains to his personal nature reserve where, with immeasurable ease and patience he sits, waits and watches for wildlife activity. When he returns after dark, he tells me what he has seen—bears munching their way through meadows of fresh clover, elk chewing on tender saplings on the opposite hillside—untroubled creatures quietly going about their business completely oblivious to any human presence.

“I want to see this too,” I say.

And so, after work one evening, my son and I head for the hills. Once we turn off the main highway, we cut back into a valley, climbing gently on a logging road. Twenty minutes later, we park the truck and begin a short, but dreadful, climb on foot to the sitting place. We are traversing the side of a very steep hill that is in the early stages of recovery after being clear-cut. Covered in a thick, green, spongy mat of clover, holes, abandoned logs and juicy piles of bear poop are hidden like booby-traps and landmines. Not only that, it has been raining for days and the clover is as slippery as a waterslide.

Between the slick vegetation and the brutal angle of the hillside, it is virtually impossible to find dependable footholds. Three yards into this adventure and both my feet are already paddling in their own private puddles. My son, of course, has tromped this route several times and has the appropriate footwear and the confidence of youth on his side; I don’t. I stumble along struggling to hold myself up with two crudely fashioned walking sticks knowing I dare not trust the ground beneath my feet. Without warning, it betrays me several times. All of a sudden I am flat on my face sliding downwards, desperate to grab on to something … anything; or I’m flat on my back flailing my walking sticks around in the hopes that one of them will catch on something solid. I’m really not enjoying it. In fact, I am terrified that I won’t be able to complete the walk.

“Just imagine how you’ll feel when this is over,” my son offers. The trouble is, I am imagining … imagining all too vividly. The picture in my head involves a continuous morphine drip and plenty of splints and bandages.

There are moments when I just want to cry but there’s nowhere I can stand upright for long enough to do so properly. In fact, I haven’t taken my eyes off the ground since we began; I have no idea how far we’ve come or where we’re headed.

“Are we nearly there?” I ask, sounding just like the child he once was.

“We’re never ‘there’,” he replies patiently, “we’re only ever ‘here’”.

Perhaps he’s very wise but, as I fight to remain erect one dubious step after another, I find his platitudes more annoying than insightful.

Eventually, of course, we do get ‘there’. Tentatively, I perch on a bit of a twig praying I don’t lose my balance and disappear rapidly down the hillside never to be seen again.

“Stay low," I’m told. “We don’t want the animals to be spooked by your blue jacket”.

Of course, my son is sporting a fine suit of camouflaged manmade fibres that keeps him dry, warm and virtually invisible. I, on the other hand, am already soaked to the skin from stress sweat and wearing only my everyday blue rain jacket. I’m now concerned that the hungry bears might mistake me for a juicy blueberry bush.

We sit for over an hour. During that time, we see a couple of beautiful golden bears calmly enjoying their evening browse and, with the binoculars, observe a few elk on the opposite hillside. Unfortunately, because I am so preoccupied with my new fear (that is, how in hell are we going to get down from here), it takes my mind most of this precious hour to settle.

But, eventually, the bookmark-worthy moment arrives. I am finally stable and numb enough on my perch to raise my head and gaze out at the mountains. I feel a wee hint of sun warming me up as it casts a magnificent glow over the mountaintops. Most importantly, I turn to my left and catch a glimpse of the look on my son’s face. He is truly in his element bathed in a most eloquent silence. He looks at me and smiles: “isn’t this the best place on earth?” he asks.

Yes.

Yes, this is the moment. I am clearly privileged to be sitting up here beside this fine young man who, somehow, knew I’d make it and knew I’d be glad that I did. I’m almost ready to forgive him … but not quite yet, that will have to wait until we are back on terra horizontalis.

The descent, of course, is much quicker—partly because we choose a more direct vertical route and partly because, for the last couple of metres, I spontaneously shoot down on my backside unencumbered by either restraint or dignity. Eventually, I come to an abrupt halt as the gravel road rises up to meet my astonished feet. Slowly, I survey the damage—a couple of bruises, a few bug bites, plenty of mud and soggy feet, but there’ll be no call for splints and bandages, just a hot bath and a stiff brandy when we get home.

I don’t suppose I’ll ever go up there again. I won’t need to. Somewhere in the middle of what has now become an amusing and soon-to-be embellished anecdote, I’ve bookmarked the important part forever.

What is Truth?

2010-03-27T12:23:00.000-07:00

What is Truth? That’s a pretty heavy question to pose, but it is one that has intrigued me most of my life.

As a child I remember being told repeatedly to tell the truth: “Do not lie. We won’t be cross as long as you tell us the truth” – (as it turned out, that very statement itself was not a truth either).

Like most children, however, I learned more from adult bahaviour than from threats and reprimands. Grown-ups seemed to enjoy telling, tweaking and re-telling stories of personal bravery, victory and achievement that weren’t always entirely plausible. I listened to well-honed tales of war and extraordinary accounts of athletic prowess that didn’t match the demeanour and disposition of the teller. I soon decided that verbal truth was, in fact, whatever a person wanted or needed it to be; and, the more one told a particular story—even as it slowly slid, inch by inch, further and further from the original kernel of absolute truth—the more the story became the teller’s truth to which he or she was totally committed and poised to defend.

Like most youngsters, I experimented with the boundaries of truth to varying degrees of success, including some unforgettable and humiliating moments when my delivery failed to convince, or when obvious facts and circumstances failed to support me. At other times, to my amazement, I seemed to ‘get away with it’ and so the tale would slide quietly into my truth trunk to be retrieved with ease at any time as part and parcel of my official legend.

As I continued to grow and observe the world about me, I soon decided that truth is less about content and more about context, purpose and intention—just another marketing project when you get right down to it.

Tooth fairies and Easter bunnies are temporary truths whose roles, we have collectively agreed, justify the deception … as does telling your hostess you enjoyed her (disgusting, inedible) dessert.

Then there are the truths we adopt in order to make ourselves feel better, or to explain away our insecurities. These are the stories that protect us from doing things we are afraid of, or justify our poor behaviour. These are the truths that become part of who we are, as etched upon us as the obvious, indisputable truths like the (original) colour of our hair and the number of toes on our left foot.

Recently, I experienced the sanctioned interpretation of truth as it plays out in a court of law. We—the plaintiff and the defendant—both vowed to tell “the whole truth and nothing but”, yet our truths were very different. Both our deliveries appeared reasonable and credible and I almost believed the words spilling out from my opponent even though I knew them to be as flawed as I believed mine to be true.

It all comes down to presentation and performance. It’s not what you say; it’s how you say it and what you are fighting for. For those who are on the receiving end, it’s also about what they hear and what they choose to hear. Truth, therefore, is compromised at both ends—at its source as well as where it lands.

There is no absolute truth in the words we speak, write, or hear and we should never be forced to promise to provide it. Truth gets squeezed, stretched, manipulated, softened, sharpened, twisted … whatever it takes to achieve its purpose. Even in its purest form, it has a tenuous hold on reality—it’s always subject to possible challenge, dismissal, ridicule, doubt and reinvention.

It reminds me of the work of a potter: truth begins as malleable workable clay. Soon it is spinning on the wheel and off the tongue. Once the potter is pleased with its form and it appears able to fulfill its purpose, it is placed in a kiln to harden and cure. After that and forever more the creator expects it to be a pot, or an urn, or an irrefutable truth … that is, until someone shatters it to pieces.

So, don’t get comfortable in truth. Don’t fool yourself into thinking your virtuous nature is protected and in tact because you uttered a truth. It’s not the solid foundation we make it out to be. It’s not the dependable ally we can necessarily rely upon. Truth, delivered in words, is elusive, innately flawed and subject to interpretation. At its best, it will do no harm … at it’s worst, it can be sanctimonious and downright misleading.

Real truth lies in, and emerges from, our actions and behaviour: the proof is in the pudding; walk your talk; actions speak louder than words …

Opening the 2010 Winter Games

2010-02-14T11:34:00.000-08:00

I’m not much of a sports fan but I must confess the Opening Ceremonies of the 2010 Winter Games in Vancouver was a spectacle worth seeing—even on TV.

Full marks go to the ceremony organizers who rewrote their speeches and seamlessly adjusted the programme to respectfully acknowledge the tragic death of one of the athletes just hours before.

The parade of athletic teams took a while so I managed to catch a bit of ‘Coronation Street’ before returning to CTV just in time to see the three Uzbekistan team members emerge sandwiched between the mighty U S of A and 206 ‘glowing hearts’ from Canada. I immediately ‘googled’ Uzbekistan and was surprised to discover it has a population of nearly 28 million all living within an area less than 500 thousand square kilometers (compare that to Canada where 33 million share close to 10 million square kilometers).

As always, Canada dusted off and brought out her First Nations People to perform. After it is all over, presumably they will return to neglect and obscurity until another national event comes up that needs a splash of pomp and ceremonial colour.

I was a little startled by the gigantic phallic totem figures that erupted from the floor of BC Place at the beginning of the event but, from then on, remained mesmerised by the magnificence and eloquence of the programme. The flawlessly choreographed lighting, special effects and talented performers were exquisite. The Northern Lights, the Spirit Bear, the Orcas and the dangling skiers must have been breathtaking for those lucky enough to occupy a seat in the audience. I thought the great expanse of central Canada was beautifully and expediently dealt with by the delightful acrobat who spun, twirled and tiptoed his way through and over waves of golden prairie grasses.

But the highlight of the entire evening, in my opinion, was when KD Lang took centre stage. She stood solidly planted in her bare feet, draped loosely in a cumbersome white 3-piece suit and filled that huge venue, millions of living rooms and millions of hearts around the world with her confident, deep and soul-stirring voice. It was an experience I was unprepared for and one I shall never forget.

The ceremonies concluded not without difficulty but despite some erectile dysfunction at centre stage after the torch arrived, Wayne Gretzky’s perpetually worried expression and the miserable weather outside, the ‘Great One’ pulled it off, successfully lighting the magnificent Olympic flame for all to see.

The Opening Ceremonies were a delightful distraction. For a couple of hours we could all forgot about the costs, inconveniences, politics and danger that come with the dubious honour of hosting the Games in the 21^st Century.

Good on ya, Canada—this peculiar country of geographical and climatic extremes, veggie bars and greasy spoons, kilts and fiddles. Apparently we’re still known for our good manners, humility and ties to the Queen. I hope none of that changes although, after this event, I suspect there may be fewer gibes and references to Canada as the great ‘white’ north.

Post-Holiday Meltdown

2010-01-10T09:54:00.000-08:00

Well, I think I’m just about over it: ‘it’ being Christmas, holidays and other welcome and not-so-welcome interruptions to my dull, but comfortable routine. I’m not alone in my quiet post-festive melt down. I have spoken to other depleted mothers whose homes burst at the seams for a week or so and who are now left feeling hollow, quiet and flaccid.

At my age and stage, Christmas becomes less and less about gifts, turkey dinners, drunken relatives and Father Christmas. For me, it is the long awaited, greatly anticipated, once-a-year return of my two grown up sons. I begin preparing early—not baking or making crafts—just getting excited about the impending visit.

I have done this for a few years now and am no longer naive enough to imagine that when they arrive we are going to sing Carols around a fake tree, challenge one another over a cosy game of Snakes ‘n Ladders, or even enjoy more than one or two significant meals together. They come home to rest, unravel, share a cold, ‘party’ and are soon bored—particularly during the daylight hours. Each one nurses his own laptop, cell phone in hand, texting people the rest of us have never met. There’s usually a hockey game on TV in the background with general whelps of delight or anger coming from the couch at regular intervals. The couch becomes the centre of our universe. Eventually, I wander off to bed and the youngsters begin their evening of debauchery, often returning home as the sun and I get up to begin another day.

For most of the year I live alone but for seven intense days around Christmas time my house is full of large feet, lads coming and going at all hours, rap music and profanity, bottles being opened, glassware and dishes disappearing from kitchen cupboards, and laughter – lots of it. My fridge hinges are exhausted—there’s always someone opening and closing the door, peering within to see if the shelves have grown some new food since they last checked … just minutes earlier.

We pass one another somewhere around the couch. I carefully try not to ask too many questions or repeat my offers of food, tea and Scrabble. I try not to appear to need to know if they will be remaining home for dinner or that it matters to me if they do or don’t. Through absolutely no fault of their own, they have enough juggling to do as they tactfully divide themselves between two households.

Then, all too soon it’s over. The last son slams the front door and drives off into God-knows-what kind of weather and I burst into tears—the tears I have so carefully restrained for the past few days as I have anticipated their departure.

I’m exhausted. It’s completely quiet now as if the very heart of the house has been sucked out. Part of me is angry—angry at how easily they can just come and go, grunt and tussle, leaving bedrooms that look like bombs went off in them. Wasn’t something ‘meaningful’ supposed to happen between us all? Like what? I ask myself.

And then I remember, it was all meaningful. It was time spent together. It was everyone on their best behaviour slowly and inevitably reverting to their less-best behaviour. It’s what safety, comfort and familiarity are all about. It’s a blessing. I miss them awfully and yet I am relieved the concentrated few days are over and that my sons are returning to the lives I’m so proud I helped prepare them for.

The post-Christmas meltdown is about all the mixed feelings that go with continually having to redefine my role and position as a parent. It is about the intensity of my anticipation before their arrival; the expectations that were exceeded and the expectations that weren’t met; the realization that there are places in their lives I no longer belong and places in my life they no longer fit. It is love at its most raw and most vulnerable. It is the culmination of all I ever wanted and much of what I feared.

I call my women friends whose grown up children are also somewhere on the snowy mountain passes. They too have been weeping. We understand it together. One of my friends says she feels like a trampled doormat. Another complains that she feels as though she’s been working as a chambermaid for the past week and a half without tips. Obviously, we only have ourselves to blame if we feel like that. Obviously, we set it up that way. And obviously, if we’re blessed, we’ll get do it all over again next year. I’m already beginning to look forward to it!

Trap Tragedy

2009-12-09T14:28:00.000-08:00

I have a friend who lives in a small town on the Ottawa River in Ontario. Early this December, she and her beloved dog were out walking in the woods when, all of a sudden her dog, who had wandered on ahead was heard yelping in distress a few metres off the trail. My friend approached her pet only to find him completely entangled in a trap, gasping for breath and writhing in pain. It was a gruesome sight and one not easily forgotten. The dog died after a few torturous minutes.

Of course this isn’t the first time such a tragedy has occurred in the woods of North America and licensed trapping is still a legitimate business or activity. It is controlled by various government agencies that require all traps to be readily identified with a marker or, in this case, an inverted bucket. That’s great if you are an adult human but quite unlikely to deter a curious canine, or even an inquisitive young child.

My friend had been enjoying her walk in an area regularly hiked by the locals—in the winter cross-country skiers and Snowmobilers make good use of it as well. And yet there was not a single sign posted warning the public that trap lines may be set and that pet owners would be advised to keep their animals on a leash and their children in view.

I share the opinion of many who believe that trapping is a completely outdated, cruel and unnecessary activity in our culture in this day and age. However, it is a legally endorsed operation and so, for the time being, we are probably forced to accept it. Would it be too much to ask for the placement of a few warning signs?

My heart goes out to my friend. Her loss is devastating and the residual images of the ordeal will haunt her for a long time to come. When she is feeling better, she will step up, tell her story and make a pitch to the appropriate agencies to make sure this kind of unforeseeable tragedy does not happen to anyone else’s beloved companion.

Her pup was only eight months old. He did not deserve to be betrayed by humans in such a barbaric fashion.

The Icy Beastie

2009-11-16T15:23:00.000-08:00

My son, a student at UNBC, was recently in a vehicular accident. Fortunately, he walked away physically unscathed and, like the responsible young man that he is, immediately contacted ICBC—the Icy Beastie—to initiate his claim.
As an undergrad university student, he has always retained his permanent address in his hometown, Nelson. This is where he comes to roost, where he votes, where any government documentation is sent, etc. Prince George is where he attends school. Most students, until they are established and working in the world, follow this practice to keep their home address consistent throughout their nomadic years.
My son purchased his car insurance in Prince George and, of course, provided his Nelson address as his permanent address.
The insurance agent obligingly sold him coverage—we thought—and happily took his money.
Now that my son has filed a claim we discover, all of a sudden, that he should have paid a higher premium because his vehicle spends most of its time in a territory outside Nelson where, apparently, coverage is more expensive. The insurance adjuster who interviewed him after his accident, told him he should step up and accept the responsibility of his error, i.e. purchasing inadequate insurance coverage.
I hardly think it was, in fact, my son’s error. However, he is willing to pay the difference.
Unfortunately, the adjuster chose not to let him off that easily. He applied a penalty that allowed him to multiply the shortfall by ten. In other words, if one inadvertently underpaid by six hundred dollars, for example, it would immediately become a six thousand dollar punitive payment!
Outrageous, unreasonable corporate bullying—that’s how I see it.
Surely the happy little agent who sold my son his policy is culpable. Surely he would have noticed the Nelson address and asked my son why he had come all the way to Prince George—a two-day drive from Nelson—to renew his auto insurance. But he didn’t and, in my opinion, failed to perform his due diligence by informing his client of the geographical ramifications of permanent and temporary addresses. And my son, who is not studying insurance agency law, was obviously unaware of this potential problem—as are most other laypeople I have spoken with since.
It’s another David ‘n Goliath story. I hate them. I really hate being in them. But, most of all, I can’t stand seeing my child struggling through a quagmire of rude and smug adults, corporate secrets and sanctioned extortion. Pedantic bureaucracy in action … and ‘they’ (the bureaucrats) do it for no other reason than because they can.
Eventually, after several phone calls made by both my son and his father (on occasions such as these, mothers are better off staying out of the way), the initial underpayment was revisited and considerably reduced so that the penalty was easier to bear—financially, at least. I still think, however, that the agent who sold the policy to my son should have acknowledged his oversight, apologized and made up the shortfall.
You’ll pay top price for insurance for the rest of your life, but don’t think for a moment that you are getting assurance in the package!

If You're Over 55 ...

2009-10-18T10:29:00.000-07:00

A couple of years ago my mother, a devout follower of CBC Radio, called me (I am her chronically underemployed daughter) to tell me she had been listening to a programme about a woman in BC who had a website for job seekers over the age of 55. Although I was still a year shy of that magic age of discounted motel rates and drugstore specials, I registered on the site. Since that time, 55PlusPros has attracted over two thousand ‘mature’ job seekers. Unfortunately however, few employers have chosen to tap into this pool rich in talent, experience and wisdom.

Recently, I spoke with Sherry Baker, sole proprietor of 55PlusPros. She is an energetic, savvy septuagenarian who took over the business three years ago. Like many of her age and stage in life, she has reinvented herself several times. Baker obtained a degree in Home Economics in 1960, degrees in Education and Business Administration in her mid-forties and then bravely returned to academia in her early fifties to obtain a Master’s degree in Applied Behavioural Science. She has always been a proactive member in her community; has served as a councilwoman in Chilliwack, BC; has raised and launched three children; sits on a variety of boards and committees; and works as a group facilitator with various community and non-profit organizations. Most recently, she took to the stage performing in a local production of “Simple Diagnosis”.

Our conversation soon revealed Ms. Baker as a woman on the go and a force to be reckoned with. We began talking about her 55PlusPros website and some of the challenges she has faced.

We discussed the pros and cons of hiring and working with ‘mature’ employees … is the workplace ready for us?

Who are these people who, instead of working on their golf swings, are working on their resumes?

How can we assure potential employers that we are willing, able and really quite useful to have around?

Ms. Baker was already in the process of overhauling her website and set up when we began our discussions. To attract more employers, she has decided to waive the fee they previously paid to cruise the talent pool. Instead, Ms. Baker will rely on independent advertising to support the site. She is also adding more content to the site including links to articles and other resources that are of interest to registrants.

I am a freelance writer and Ms. Baker very generously offered to give me a small corner on her website which will provide a direct link to articles I plan to write about the plight and pleasure of looking for work in the current marketplace and how we, as older contributors, must polish ourselves up a bit. I have dedicated a new page on my own website to accommodate these articles and hope that you will read them and then share your comments, thoughts and personal experiences with me.

Please visit Ms. Baker’s site: www.55pluspros.ca to learn more about the timely and well-conceived services she provides.

Visit me at: www.katebridger.ca and click on ‘Over 55’ to see what I’m going on about.

Shined or Shunned

2009-09-10T12:23:00.000-07:00

Left: "Lady In Pink", Fabric Art by Kate Bridger

Any moment now, hundreds of pimped and polished vintage wheels will be pulling into Nelson BC for the seventh annual Queen City Cruise. They will arrive, accompanied by their proud owners, from Idaho and Washington State, British Columbia and southern Alberta.

By Saturday morning they will line three blocks of Baker Street parked with the precision and discipline of a military airbase, each vehicle posing at exactly the same angle as its neighbour. The resulting rows of perfectly polished grills grinning towards the centre of the street will be reminiscent of the fixed sparkly smiles worn by a chorus line of beauty pageant contestants.

I love this spectacle. It turns an ordinary downtown thoroughfare into a sculpture garden. I’m not particularly interested in what’s under the hood. I’m far more impressed by the pleasing curve of a Rubenesque fender, or multi-coloured reflections swirling around a gleaming hubcap as if captured in a child’s kaleidoscope.

Owners hover around their protégés like over-protective parents with chamois cloths and polish at the ready to banish errant fingerprints and blemishes. Spectators are found in all sorts of contorted positions, lying on their bellies on the tarmac, or kneeling down on one knee hoping to capture the perfect image with their digital cameras. On a sunny day, this celebration of polished chrome practically lights up the town.

For old timers, the car show is a walk down memory lane—speakers up and down the street pump out vintage ‘50s rock and roll to accompany the experience. Youngsters listen to parents and grandparents brag about first cars, first dates and first kisses back in the days when ‘high speed’ was still measured in miles per hour, not megabytes per second.

Cars, trucks and lorries have fascinated me since I was a child. I had a pretty good collection of Matchbox toys growing up. They’re all lost now. Perhaps that is why I’m also attracted to abandoned vehicles—the ones that appear to grow up out of the forest floor, or peer through long grass in a field by the side of the road. They are as sculptural and intriguing as their pampered counterparts, but in a very different way.

Left to rot in a field they’re quickly picked over as if circling vultures had swooped down to pluck out their eyes and peck at their flesh. Headlights are smashed or gone, stuffing spills out of gaping wounds in the upholstery and eager saplings wrap themselves around the grill like they were climbing a garden trellis.

Sometimes I want to grab hold of the frail and rickety skeletons of these former family wagons and demand an explanation: “who did this to you?” Is this long-term parking space the result of some horrific accident; or did the last owner deliberately drive to this spot, gather up the last of his personal belongings from the glove compartment, remove the key from the ignition, turn his back and walk away? Was it done under cover of darkness? Were his friends waiting by the side of the road to give him a ride home?

It’s a sad and beautiful sight full of textures, transitions and tales best left to our imaginations.

Real Fine Deals

2009-08-27T11:53:00.000-07:00

Recently, I was driving through Hope, British Columbia, on Highway 1. The air was heavy with the smoke of forest fires burning to the north. Above the highway, barely readable through the thick atmosphere, was an illuminated sign threatening fines of $345.00 to any persons caught lighting campfires during the extreme fire danger. It seemed like an odd amount—why not at least make it a rounder number; say $500.00?

The City of Vancouver can fine pet owners who fail to pick up their pets’ pooh up to $2,000.00. That seems a bit harsh. While a bit of dog doo can wreck a good a pair of Gucci shoes, a campfire lit in the midst of a tinder-dry forest, has the potential to claim lives.

All this got me thinking about fines in general—who sets them and how the punitive amounts are determined. Unfortunately, my enquiries hit roadblocks after one or two googles and a couple of ‘phone calls and I couldn’t afford the time and effort it was going to take to get past the gatekeepers.

However, I did look into some of the other seemingly random fees imposed upon misdemeanants around the world:

~ If you really can’t bear picking up Spot’s doings, move to San Francisco—the most it will cost you there is C$319.00.

~ Public spitting is best done in Dubai at a cost of around C$148.00, compared to more than double that in Singapore.

~ Littering can be an expensive hobby costing you the equivalent of between $20 and $20,000 Cdn. in Athens, Greece; a mere C$100.00 in Britain; and up to C$1,000.00 in California (making abandoned dog pooh still a very good deal in San Francisco).

~ Edmonton, Alberta, charges up to C$250.00 for pedestrians who insist upon weaving their way through oncoming traffic to get to the other side of the street. In Singapore, jaywalking can cost up to C$1,500.00 and a mere C$180.00 in Texas. For half that price, if you happen to be driving through Houston, you can run a red light instead.

~ If, due to some serious lapse in concentration, you find yourself driving in the wrong direction on a divided highway in British Columbia, it will cost you approximately $109.00 to climb over the divider to put yourself right. Also, according to ICBC, you don’t want to drive over a fire hose as that could cost you $81.00 and, if you ‘coasted down grade illegally’ to do so, you can add another $121.00 to your bill.

When all is said and done, I still think the illegal campfire is probably the best deal. If you live in Vancouver and feel queasy about picking up dog feces. Just burn it—you could save as much as $1,600.00.

Dumpster Diners

2009-08-13T09:15:00.000-07:00

Written sometime in the middle of a July:

It’s another record-breaking hot day in Vancouver. The dumpster below my balcony is cooking up a fetid feast for its regulars. There is constant activity down there—old crumpled guys, young spaced-out kids, well-worn women and even the occasional skunk.

I’ve been watching the regular visitors who come to ‘my’ dumpster for the past few weeks. A few of them jump right in, their landing cushioned by the numerous knotted bags with mushy contents that have recently been tossed by those of us living on the apartment floors above. Some of my regulars are fortunate enough to own a pair of rubber gloves—others aren’t so lucky. They all get in there and start ripping and tearing at the bags we had so neatly and carefully secured. Most of them emerge chewing on something—something that I, or one of my neighbours, had already decided wasn’t fit to eat, or was simply tired of. It makes me worry about which bag I put the used kitty litter into.

Those who don’t come for the all-you-can-eat smorgasbord are looking for goods to trade. One woman emerged with a lovely rattan Ottoman last Tuesday. After some packing and repacking, she managed to stuff it into her buggy and continue on her rounds. Another fellow climbed out waving a floor lamp victoriously over his head. Several people have inspected a metal lantern that was tossed into the garbage a couple of days ago. They look at it carefully, turning it upside down, giving it a good shake and then, for some reason, they put it back. I’ve watched this happen more than half a dozen times. What could be so wrong with it?

There is old chap pushing a ‘borrowed’ Safeway buggy who comes by everyday gathering discarded cans and bottles for his inventory. He always stops to sort making sure pop cans are separate from beer cans and wine bottles are separate from soda bottles. If he finds an item in the wrong plastic bag he becomes agitated. He blames whoever happens to be walking past at the time. He blames God. Sometimes he blames ‘Charlie’, whoever that may be.

His younger colleagues on the street mock him mercilessly. But he gives back as good as he gets. He didn’t last this long by being meek.

Last week I watched another fellow try on a white sweater. He tugged it over his head, adjusted the sleeves, turned down the collar and paraded back and forth as if admiring himself in an imaginary mirror. Apparently, it didn’t pass the test. He took it off, folded it carefully and returned it to the dumpster. I wanted to yell out to him that I thought he looked quite dapper in it, but I kept quiet.

We all keep quiet, don’t we? We’re afraid to engage and yet my balcony is so close to the street that I could hand the foragers table scraps directly and save them the trouble of rummaging through the debris. But I won’t. I’m too close to it all.

In the prevailing economy, perhaps we’re all a little closer than we’d like to think. We’ve all heard tales about former CEOs of large companies falling from their lofty perches and winding up on the streets. Some people land there after a chain of unfortunate events—drinking, gambling, divorce; others do not pass ‘go’, do not collect their two hundred and fall directly from penthouse to pavement trading their worries about income tax, crabgrass and golf swings for concerns most basic. I’ll bet they soon get over the annoying back pain that used to disturb their ‘Posturepedic’ sleeps back in suburbia and that twinge of heartburn that followed a late night brandy.

It’s easier to observe the street if you don’t know the stories behind each character. I’m just pleased to see the regulars going about their daily business on schedule and in an orderly fashion much like they may have done in their previous lives. They have created a purpose for themselves—albeit a somewhat tenuous one. And that’s what most of us are seeking most of the time. We’d just prefer to do it from a second floor balcony rather than beneath one.

Well, gotta go. It’s my turn to take out the garbage.

From Penmanship to Blogmanship

2009-08-02T09:23:00.000-07:00

I have spent the better part of this summer in Vancouver attending writing and publishing workshops at Simon Fraser University. It has been a tremendous experience.

I am a mature student (in years, if not behaviour) and I am thoroughly enjoying learning and being taught by engaging and intelligent instructors. Our classes are comprised of a variety of students at all sorts of ages and stages in life. There’s always some who know a bit more than most of us and some who know a bit less. Women outnumber men probably 12 to 1, a fairly accurate reflection of the publishing industry in general.

I have been involved with print media for over a quarter of a century. I distinctly remember the pungent aroma and wetness of galleys fresh from the typesetting machine, and the cloying odour of contact cement, particularly on a hot day. With surgical precision, I could splice a single 9 pt letter into a misspelled word if necessary. I could roll out a half point ‘lettraset’ border with perfectly mitred corners to contain a column of text or photograph. I knew my way around a dark room—cranking out PMT headings, graphics and halftones.

I’ve come a long way since then. Like most people, I can now sit at home in my PJs if I want to, typesetting to my heart’s content, clicking and sizing borders at the touch of a button and dropping in photographs and graphics instantly on my laptop computer. Publishing is no longer a smelly job.

I have had my own website for many years. I regard it as larger-than-life business card and portable portfolio with infinitely more potential to inform and engage a potential client or patron .

Up until this month at SFU, however, I had not considered ‘blogging’. In fact, I wasn’t even sure what it was and why anyone would want to bother with it. I am not from the generation that comfortably reads screens and communicates with thumbs tapping franticly on miniature keyboards. I am unlikely to kick a good book out of my bed and cuddle up with a ‘Kindle’. My extensive collection of long playing records is not going to be reduced to an electronic play list that fits in the palm of my hand. Mind you, I am proud to announce that my VCR has gone the way of the obsolete 8-track tape player and I can now watch DVDs—all this within the first decade of the 21^st century!

We, of the bifocal set, are no longer the trendsetters. If we want to participate in the marketplace as fully functional and accessible business people, we have to keep up with the new generation of movers and shakers.

That said, however, I have a few concerns about this new and slightly obsessive age of instant communication:

With so much ‘blogging, ‘twittering’, and ‘chatting’, how do people have time to eat, sleep and have sex? Days, nights, commutes, vacations, mealtimes and even bathroom breaks are spent rattling off messages and checking to see if anyone has responded. Is all this electronic verbosity simply filling cyberspace with self-indulgent pulp?

Why do strangers sharing an elevator travel all the way to the 17^th floor without saying a word to one another and yet, when they arrive at the 17^th floor and settle down at their computers, they are suddenly compelled to blog and blab to the far corners of the world?

Whether I ‘get it’ or not, I feel the pressure to get on with it. During my month at SFU it became clear that a writer in today’s marketplace without a blog is like an artist without a portfolio. A blog is often the first place a publisher will go to look at a prospective writer’s work.

Therefore, I must blog (verb); have a blog (noun); develop blog-worthy (adjective) copy; and write bloggedly (adverb?).

I shall do my best to live up to the responsibilities of blogmanship, but I’ll need your help. If you are one of those people who, like me, is only just beginning to sneak the word ‘blog’ into conversation having finally discovered what it actually means, please drop me a line … before we get to the 17^th floor.