Country Mouse, City Mouse

I pretty much grew up in the bush just outside of Prince George. You know, where mud pies, bugs (mosquitos, spiders, ants), tree-forts, wildflowers, massive snow drifts, and critters are in abundance (one time we had some moose walk through our yard). I liked that we had to run down a muddy dirt road to catch the bus with our jackets half on and our lunchboxes flapping against our legs. I liked that when I was in grade five, the grade seven graduating class had three students. I liked that when you drove down the road and met a car, you gave them a little wave because that's just what you did in the country. I liked that it didn't even matter that we only had two snowy channels on the TV-- I, instead, got lost in a world where the imagination brought a whole world of entertainment. I liked the country. I liked its solitude, its simplicity, its speed.

Then we moved to the "big city" of P.G. where it smelled no longer of wild grasses and trees, but pulp mills! I remembered realizing how sheltered I had been from the world, especially city life. I can clearly recall the day when my friend Tracey taught me what J-walking was. But I mean, it was Prince George, so the hick in me was still a little bit at home. (Last night I actually dreamt of our house in P.G. and it had all been renovated. I wonder if we renovate our memories -- people give us a little bit more detail, or something triggers an additional memory and we add it to the pile.)

Kamloops was next, then Vancouver. It was a pretty big jump to go from the 'Loops to the 'Couv. In Kamloops we'd spend lazy summer afternoons floading down the river beneath the desert-like hills. Often when people drive through Kamloops they comment on what an ugly city it is, and I'm always shocked. I find its geography to be quite stunning and unique -- nowhere else in Canada is like that (people study Kamloops in Geography classes, you know). Plus, I lived there and knew its people, its hidden charms. But, when I had to leave, I was really excited to move to a REAL city -- it was like my evolution would then be complete.

The jump wasn't really that big, though. Sometimes it would hit me kind of funny that I was living in such a big place of culture and ideas and noise and speed. But I liked it. I was ready for it. I would go for walks around my neighbourhood and feel oddly connected to the people outside trimming their lawns or walking their dogs, even though I never talked to them. There's something magical about Vancouver; everyone can feel it.

I have been living on the fourth floor of an apartment building in Aldergrove for two months now. It's crazy. Again there's that sense of everyone being connected, yet we don't really talk to each other. When I'm in the elevator and someone comes in, I'm not sure what to do with myself (and I think I'm generally friendly). Sometimes we chit chat about the weather, and sometimes it's really awkward and I just look at the red numbers changing as we go past floors.

This morning my sleepy ears were met with the sounds of hammers, people laughing, screaming babies, doors slamming, and it was the weirdest thing. All of that chaos was going on at once, in the same place. I looked out my window and could see six pick-up trucks filled with possessions and a whole bunch of friends scurrying around, helping a family move. (I was reminded of when my sister and I would find the biggest ant hills and kick the crap out of them, just so we could see all the ants go nuts.) Other people leaving the building would open the doors to help the army of movers; meanwhile, people were installing hardwood floors in the apartment below me. This bustling of activity made me feel part of something. Part of a community, oddly enough. Then the theme song from Mr. Rogers Neighbourhood began to play -- and I figured it was time to end this post.

t. end.

Currently

Interpretation needed? Naaaaw (gnaw?). Just look at the date.

Lots of Urgent Right Now, It Seems

Tyrrany of the Urgent

Charles E. Hummel

When we stop to evaluate, we realize that our dilemma goes deeper than shortage of time; it is basically the problem of priorities. Hard work does not hurt us. We all know what it is to go full speed for long hours, totally involved in an important task. The resulting weariness is matched by a sense of achievement and joy. Not hard work, but doubt and misgiving produce anxiety as we review a month or year and become oppressed by the pile of unfinished tasks. We sense uneasily that we may have failed to do the important. The winds of other people's demands have driven us onto a reef of frustration. We confess, quite apart from our sins, "We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; and we have done those things which we ought not to have done."

Several years ago an experienced cotton mill manager said to me, "Your greatest danger is letting the urgent things crowd out the important." He didn't realize how hard his maxim hit. It often returns to haunt and rebuke me by raising the critical problem of priorities.

We live in constant tension between the urgent and the important. The problem is that the important task must rarely be done today or even this week. Extra hours of prayer and Bible study, a visit with a friend, careful study of an important book: these projects can wait. But the urgent tasks call for instant action -- endless demands pressure every hour and day.

A man's home is no longer his castle; it is no longer a place away from ugent tasks because the telephone breaches the walls with imperious demands. The momentary appeal of these tasks seems irresistible and imortant, and they devour our energy. But in the light of time's perspective their deceptive prominence fades; with a sense of loss we recall the important task pushed aside. We realize we've become slaves to the tyrrany of the urgent.

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True, but I still have to get my report cards done and my wedding organized. I still have to go to all the year-end bbqs and ceremonies, the wedding showers, the actual weddings, and so on.

Coffee is going to have to wait for a bit.

RSVP

So many people are planning on wearing bells to our wedding.

How odd.

1) I mean, I guess bells can be fashionable -- Santa (not Satan, although sometimes I think there is a connection between them: they both wear red a lot) has been wearing bells of all shapes and sizes for decades.
2) And, well, Andy and I are both quite musical, so it is fitting.
3) Lately I've been fiddling with all sorts of bells and whistles, too, so maybe people think I really like bells or something.
4) Plus, I'm a teacher and my entire day is pretty much determined by, yes, bells again.
5) As you may have noticed, bell is also a fun/weird word if you say (read, write) it over and over and over again. There is a labialized l sound in there, I think.

Fine [exasperated sigh]. If you want to wear bells to our wedding, I'm all for it. I love symbolism.

It might be weird if people wore whistles, though (oh, but I do whistle while I work, so I guess there is a connection there).

Licking

Remember that Seinfeld show? Well, I sure do; in fact, I find it quite brilliant. There are many episodes that I carry around in my heart of hearts.

So, I'm working on invitations, see, and one such episode pops into my head: where George's fiance (Carol??) is licking envelopes and DIES. Right. So here I am, readying myself for the massive lick-fest, and I can't help but pause. Am I willing to DIE for this? Do I want to get married so bad that I will risk DYING? (This could be the beginning of a very deep inner scrutiny, but I will save you from that for today.)

Then my little brain went a step further. I'm pretty sick right now. I'm on my SECOND day of not going to work (which is saying a lot, cuz I hardly ever call in sick). I have one of those viruses that would wipe out the motherboard of your computer, that could fill the rivers with phlegm (and be much more of a concern than the ice caps melting), and that makes a chronic smoker's cough look like child's play. And I plan on smearing this virus ALL OVER every single envelope. Awesomeness!!

So, either I will die whilst licking, or I will pass on a nasty virus to the unsuspecting innocent.

Maybe I should go buy a sponge or something. Or just make Andy do all the work and have a nap instead. Ooh, I like the latter.

M.I.A.

To Whom It May Concern,

I have lost my voice. All I seem to be able to find is a squeak (and sometimes phlegm balls). If you happen to stumble upon my voice, I'd like it back. I can be reached at 555-TALK.

Thank-you,
Bott