Last month someone I know from Southern whose blog I follow did a 30-day writing challenge. A few months ago Jonathan and my mum did 30-day photo challenges. Since I'm not all that into photography I didn't join in with them. But when I saw Olivia's writing challenge I figured, being a communication major, that a writing challenge is something I can get involved in. I thought I'd use the list she used last month, but she just posted that she's doing another challenge this month and posted a new list of writing ideas. So I figured I might as well use that one, too. So here it goes. I'm in for the long haul.
Here's the list:
1. List 20 random facts about yourself.
2. Describe 3 legitimate fears you have and explain how they became fears.
3. Describe your relationship with your parents.
4. List 10 things you would tell your 16-year-old self, if you could.
5. What are the 5 things that make you most happy right now?
6. What is the hardest thing you have ever experienced?
7. What is your dream job, and why?
8. What are 5 passions you have?
9. List 10 people who have influenced you and describe how.
10. Describe your most embarrasing moment.
11. Describe 10 pet peeves you have.
12. Describe a typical day in your current life.
13. Describe 5 weaknesses you have.
14. Describe 5 strengths you have.
15. If you were an animal, what would you be and why?
16. What are your 5 greatest accomplishments?
17. What is the thing you most wish you were great at?
18. What has been the most difficult thing you have had to forgive?
19. If you could live anywhere, where would it be and why?
20. Describe 3 significant memories from your childhood.
21. If you could have one superpower, what would it be and what would you do with it first?
22. Where do you see yourself in 5 years? 10 years? 15 years?
23. List your top 5 hobbies and why you love them.
24. Describe your family dynamic of your childhood vs. your family dynamic now.
25. If you could have dinner with anyone in history, who would it be and what would you eat?
26. What popular notion do you think the world has most wrong?
27. What is your favorite part of your body and why?
28. What is your love language?
29. What do you think people misunderstand most about you?
30. List 10 things you would hope to be remembered for.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Monday, January 23, 2012
Lumby
*First posted on Dec. 19, 2009 on my WordPress blog
I was three years old and I wanted a cat. I had wanted one for months. I begged my parents to buy me a kitten. “If you got a cat what would you name it?” my mum once asked me. I thought for a minute. “Lumby,” I finally answered. While everyone thought I was adorable for coming up with that name, nobody was quite sure where I had heard the name of a small town an hour north of my hometown. They finally concluded that I must have heard my dad, the owner of a kitchen cabinet company, talk about delivering cabinets to Lumby. When my fourth birthday finally came, my parents took me to ChowTown, a local pet store, to pick out my new kitten. I stood in front of the glass window separating me from the cats inside the pen and watched the lively kittens skitter around the room. One kitten with unusual markings stood out to me among all the other kittens. I knew that cream and tan kitten was Lumby. When I pointed her out, the man helping us went around to the back door and scooped her up. I was overjoyed. Finally I had my own cat! As my parents paid for Lumby and all the extra kitten supplies, my dad asked the man if the cat was male or female. I was surprised. Didn’t my dad know that? Even I knew that cats were girls and dogs were boys. But before I could reveal my knowledge to my father, the man grasped Lumby around the middle and tipped her upside-down. “Male,” he said. A boy?! I couldn’t believe my ears. I tried to wrap my brain around the idea that cats could be both girls and boys during the ride home while Lumby meowed loudly from his small cardboard box on the floor of the car. I wanted to pull open the flaps and stroke his head or maybe even hold him on my lap, but my parents wouldn’t allow it. “He’ll be better off in the box until we get home,” my mum said. So I waited until my dad parked in the driveway and helped me carry the box into our living room. Finally I let Lumby free to explore his new home. My parents got to work setting up his living area in the garage. Then I cuddled Lumby to my chest as they taught me how to give him food and water and showed me where his litter box was. I’m sure I was the happiest four year old alive!
Lumby was my friend and most loyal confidant for seven years until he was suddenly injured. We had moved to Alberta two years before and the weather wasn’t too terribly cold for that time of year, but the morning we found out Lumby was hurt, he was curled up right outside our back door, visibly shivering despite his thick coat of fur. My dad took time off work to take Lumby to the vet on Dec. 19, 1995 (14 years ago today) while I had to sit through my Gr. 5 morning classes while worrying about my cat. Just before noon my dad appeared at the doors of the school gym as I was practicing a Christmas musical with my class. He talked to my music teacher and she called me away from my fellow shepherds gathered on the stage. Dad led me just outside the gym doors and bent down to look me in the eyes. “Ali.” His voice was somber, his eyes flecked with sorrow and pain. “I took Lumby to the vet.” “How is he?” I asked in a small voice, hoping for good news, but slowly realizing I might not be granted a Christmas miracle. “He’s pretty sick. The vet . . .” he broke off and paused, then licked his lips and continued. “The vet doesn’t think he’ll be strong enough to get better. She says the kindest thing for us to do would be to let her put Lumby to sleep.” A lump the size of the rocks surrounding our fake shepherd fire lodged in my throat. I swallowed hard, but it stayed put. An eternity of waiting, of trying to claw myself awake from the nightmare I was having, of grasping for any hope of saving my best and closest friend. Then I said it, past the rock nearly blocking my throat. “I don’t want him to hurt. If he’s too sick to get well, I guess we should let him go.” I couldn’t believe the words were coming from my mouth. Dad pulled me into a strong hug. My hands stayed tight to my side, but I let him rock me gently back and forth. Then he let me go and stood up. “Do you want to say good-bye?” I nodded. He went back into the gym to let my teacher know where I would be and then he stopped at the front office to inform the secretary, too, while I went to the shoe shelves in the entryway, yanked off my indoor shoes, threw them onto the shelf and shoved my feet into my Sorel boots.
We left the school and I slid my cold hand into my dad’s strong warm one as we walked to our car. The landscape passed my window in a blur of white and all too soon we drove up a hill and parked in front of a white building. My dad led the way inside and, after talking softly to the receptionist, took me to an examination room. Lumby lay on a thick wool blanket on the table. He was still shivering. A vet stood behind him, petting his head. She explained the process of putting cats to sleep to me, but I only caught some words. Circulatory. Can’t pump enough blood. Suffering. I kept up a slow steady rhythm as I petted my cat from the top of his brown-streaked head to the end of his ringed tail. I tried to talk to Lumby. You can’t die. You can’t leave me alone. But I couldn’t say the words. Finally one question chased all the other words from my mind. Why did this happen? Dad touched my shoulder. “Are you ready, Ali?” I scratched Lumby’s head slowly and then nodded, but my heart screamed, No! The vet had already prepared the needle. Now she gently pinched the fur on the back of Lumby’s neck and slid the needled through his skin. “Do you want to stay in the room while he dies?” she asked Dad, but looked at me. I kept scratching his head, not sure if I wanted to watch him die, but not wanting to leave. Dad looked down at my head bent over Lumby’s body and then said, “I think we should probably leave.” When he said it I knew that I didn’t want to be there when Lumby stopped breathing. I nodded and then ran my hand down Lumby’s body one last time before backing away from the table. I wanted to say something to him. I wanted to say good-bye. But I couldn’t form the words. I turned away from my cat and followed Dad from the room. As I walked through the door I looked back at my cat for the last time. He wasn’t shivering any more, just taking long, deep breaths, relaxing into the wool blanket. I tried once more to speak, but failed again. Good-bye my dearest pet. I’ll miss you. I thought, then turned and walked into the waiting room.
Minutes later the vet appeared and handed me Lumby’s collar across the front desk. She asked us if we wanted the body for a home burial. Dad looked at me, but I couldn’t imagine the idea of driving home with my dead cat in the car. I definitely didn’t want to see my favourite pet’s lifeless body. I shook my head slightly and Dad handed me the keys to the car. I walked outside while he arranged for the clinic to cremate Lumby. I didn’t want to hear about that. Dad joined me in the car and drove me back to school. My face felt like a mask. It had ever since Dad had first told me the bad news. We entered the school and Dad told the secretary I was back while I put my indoor shoes back on. Dad walked me down the hallway to my classroom and gave me one more hug and told me that he would tell my younger siblings, Bryna and Tyler. Then he opened the door and I moved to my desk at the back of the room. My classmates were eating lunch. The smells mixing in the air made my stomach turn. My teacher, Mr. Cheranpeski, came over to my desk, told me he was sorry about my loss and asked if I wanted to eat my lunch. I didn’t. He left me alone. The students around me glanced my way, then continued their happy conversations with their friends. I buried my head in my arms, smelling the pencil-lead-and-wood of my desktop. I didn’t cry. I couldn’t cry. The rock-lump wouldn’t let me. When school was over, I found my siblings and took them to the office. I called my mum and asked if she could drive us home. I didn’t want to spend an hour on the school bus with noisy kids yelling up and down the aisle. My mum came and picked me, my siblings and my cousins up and drove us home. By then my cousins knew about Lumby, too. My mum stopped at my Auntie Sandy’s house first to let off my older cousin Nathan and just then my sister asked, “Ali, aren’t you sad about Lumby?” The lump dislodged. My eyes burned with unshed tears and suddenly they cascaded down my cheeks. Sobs burst from my lips and I finally cried for Lumby. “Whoa,” my cousin Jeremy said. He and his brother Andrew and my siblings watched silently. Nathan froze in the sliding doorway of our van. My mum spoke quietly to the rest of the van while I cried and then Nathan got out and shut the door. We drove to my Auntie Judy’s house and let Jere and Andy off and then went home. By that time my sobs had nearly subsided. I ran to my room and stayed there until Mum called me for supper. Before I went downstairs I stood at my window looking out over the back yard that Lumby would never play in again. “Good-bye Lumby,” I whispered to the orange sun sinking toward the horizon.
I was three years old and I wanted a cat. I had wanted one for months. I begged my parents to buy me a kitten. “If you got a cat what would you name it?” my mum once asked me. I thought for a minute. “Lumby,” I finally answered. While everyone thought I was adorable for coming up with that name, nobody was quite sure where I had heard the name of a small town an hour north of my hometown. They finally concluded that I must have heard my dad, the owner of a kitchen cabinet company, talk about delivering cabinets to Lumby. When my fourth birthday finally came, my parents took me to ChowTown, a local pet store, to pick out my new kitten. I stood in front of the glass window separating me from the cats inside the pen and watched the lively kittens skitter around the room. One kitten with unusual markings stood out to me among all the other kittens. I knew that cream and tan kitten was Lumby. When I pointed her out, the man helping us went around to the back door and scooped her up. I was overjoyed. Finally I had my own cat! As my parents paid for Lumby and all the extra kitten supplies, my dad asked the man if the cat was male or female. I was surprised. Didn’t my dad know that? Even I knew that cats were girls and dogs were boys. But before I could reveal my knowledge to my father, the man grasped Lumby around the middle and tipped her upside-down. “Male,” he said. A boy?! I couldn’t believe my ears. I tried to wrap my brain around the idea that cats could be both girls and boys during the ride home while Lumby meowed loudly from his small cardboard box on the floor of the car. I wanted to pull open the flaps and stroke his head or maybe even hold him on my lap, but my parents wouldn’t allow it. “He’ll be better off in the box until we get home,” my mum said. So I waited until my dad parked in the driveway and helped me carry the box into our living room. Finally I let Lumby free to explore his new home. My parents got to work setting up his living area in the garage. Then I cuddled Lumby to my chest as they taught me how to give him food and water and showed me where his litter box was. I’m sure I was the happiest four year old alive!
 |
| Lumby, four-year-old-me and my older sister Becky playing in the snow |
Lumby was my friend and most loyal confidant for seven years until he was suddenly injured. We had moved to Alberta two years before and the weather wasn’t too terribly cold for that time of year, but the morning we found out Lumby was hurt, he was curled up right outside our back door, visibly shivering despite his thick coat of fur. My dad took time off work to take Lumby to the vet on Dec. 19, 1995 (14 years ago today) while I had to sit through my Gr. 5 morning classes while worrying about my cat. Just before noon my dad appeared at the doors of the school gym as I was practicing a Christmas musical with my class. He talked to my music teacher and she called me away from my fellow shepherds gathered on the stage. Dad led me just outside the gym doors and bent down to look me in the eyes. “Ali.” His voice was somber, his eyes flecked with sorrow and pain. “I took Lumby to the vet.” “How is he?” I asked in a small voice, hoping for good news, but slowly realizing I might not be granted a Christmas miracle. “He’s pretty sick. The vet . . .” he broke off and paused, then licked his lips and continued. “The vet doesn’t think he’ll be strong enough to get better. She says the kindest thing for us to do would be to let her put Lumby to sleep.” A lump the size of the rocks surrounding our fake shepherd fire lodged in my throat. I swallowed hard, but it stayed put. An eternity of waiting, of trying to claw myself awake from the nightmare I was having, of grasping for any hope of saving my best and closest friend. Then I said it, past the rock nearly blocking my throat. “I don’t want him to hurt. If he’s too sick to get well, I guess we should let him go.” I couldn’t believe the words were coming from my mouth. Dad pulled me into a strong hug. My hands stayed tight to my side, but I let him rock me gently back and forth. Then he let me go and stood up. “Do you want to say good-bye?” I nodded. He went back into the gym to let my teacher know where I would be and then he stopped at the front office to inform the secretary, too, while I went to the shoe shelves in the entryway, yanked off my indoor shoes, threw them onto the shelf and shoved my feet into my Sorel boots.
We left the school and I slid my cold hand into my dad’s strong warm one as we walked to our car. The landscape passed my window in a blur of white and all too soon we drove up a hill and parked in front of a white building. My dad led the way inside and, after talking softly to the receptionist, took me to an examination room. Lumby lay on a thick wool blanket on the table. He was still shivering. A vet stood behind him, petting his head. She explained the process of putting cats to sleep to me, but I only caught some words. Circulatory. Can’t pump enough blood. Suffering. I kept up a slow steady rhythm as I petted my cat from the top of his brown-streaked head to the end of his ringed tail. I tried to talk to Lumby. You can’t die. You can’t leave me alone. But I couldn’t say the words. Finally one question chased all the other words from my mind. Why did this happen? Dad touched my shoulder. “Are you ready, Ali?” I scratched Lumby’s head slowly and then nodded, but my heart screamed, No! The vet had already prepared the needle. Now she gently pinched the fur on the back of Lumby’s neck and slid the needled through his skin. “Do you want to stay in the room while he dies?” she asked Dad, but looked at me. I kept scratching his head, not sure if I wanted to watch him die, but not wanting to leave. Dad looked down at my head bent over Lumby’s body and then said, “I think we should probably leave.” When he said it I knew that I didn’t want to be there when Lumby stopped breathing. I nodded and then ran my hand down Lumby’s body one last time before backing away from the table. I wanted to say something to him. I wanted to say good-bye. But I couldn’t form the words. I turned away from my cat and followed Dad from the room. As I walked through the door I looked back at my cat for the last time. He wasn’t shivering any more, just taking long, deep breaths, relaxing into the wool blanket. I tried once more to speak, but failed again. Good-bye my dearest pet. I’ll miss you. I thought, then turned and walked into the waiting room.
Minutes later the vet appeared and handed me Lumby’s collar across the front desk. She asked us if we wanted the body for a home burial. Dad looked at me, but I couldn’t imagine the idea of driving home with my dead cat in the car. I definitely didn’t want to see my favourite pet’s lifeless body. I shook my head slightly and Dad handed me the keys to the car. I walked outside while he arranged for the clinic to cremate Lumby. I didn’t want to hear about that. Dad joined me in the car and drove me back to school. My face felt like a mask. It had ever since Dad had first told me the bad news. We entered the school and Dad told the secretary I was back while I put my indoor shoes back on. Dad walked me down the hallway to my classroom and gave me one more hug and told me that he would tell my younger siblings, Bryna and Tyler. Then he opened the door and I moved to my desk at the back of the room. My classmates were eating lunch. The smells mixing in the air made my stomach turn. My teacher, Mr. Cheranpeski, came over to my desk, told me he was sorry about my loss and asked if I wanted to eat my lunch. I didn’t. He left me alone. The students around me glanced my way, then continued their happy conversations with their friends. I buried my head in my arms, smelling the pencil-lead-and-wood of my desktop. I didn’t cry. I couldn’t cry. The rock-lump wouldn’t let me. When school was over, I found my siblings and took them to the office. I called my mum and asked if she could drive us home. I didn’t want to spend an hour on the school bus with noisy kids yelling up and down the aisle. My mum came and picked me, my siblings and my cousins up and drove us home. By then my cousins knew about Lumby, too. My mum stopped at my Auntie Sandy’s house first to let off my older cousin Nathan and just then my sister asked, “Ali, aren’t you sad about Lumby?” The lump dislodged. My eyes burned with unshed tears and suddenly they cascaded down my cheeks. Sobs burst from my lips and I finally cried for Lumby. “Whoa,” my cousin Jeremy said. He and his brother Andrew and my siblings watched silently. Nathan froze in the sliding doorway of our van. My mum spoke quietly to the rest of the van while I cried and then Nathan got out and shut the door. We drove to my Auntie Judy’s house and let Jere and Andy off and then went home. By that time my sobs had nearly subsided. I ran to my room and stayed there until Mum called me for supper. Before I went downstairs I stood at my window looking out over the back yard that Lumby would never play in again. “Good-bye Lumby,” I whispered to the orange sun sinking toward the horizon.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Childhood memories
For a long time I’ve been wanting to write down memories of my life so that I don’t forget them. I’m not exactly worried that I will forget, at least not at the moment, since I’ve remembered them so far, but I’d like to leave a written account of my earlier life for the generations of family members that could come after me. So I’ve decided. This blog is where I’ll chronicle my childhood and teen years. I hope you enjoy!I wrote that way back on Dec. 18, 2009 after starting a WordPress blog during a quest to help my mum find the best blog to use for her photography. I wanted to try WordPress out and see if I thought it would be easier for her to use than Blogger or Tumblr (which I'd also just signed up for). I thought I would use the WordPress blog to post memories from my childhood and the Tumblr ones to record all my random writing ideas. Of course, I'm a Blogger girl at heart and both WordPress and Tumblr soon fell by the wayside. Awhile ago I moved all my writing ideas posts from Tumblr to a Google Document (which I now use much more frequently and there is the added benefit that no one else will steal my ideas). And now I've decided the time has come for me to move my childhood memories from WordPress over to this blog. They are, after all, little snippets of creativity in a memory form. So in the next few days I'll be posting some short childhood stories on here. I hope you enjoy them in their more accessible form! :)
Friday, September 23, 2011
Background stories
One of my friends posted this link on Facebook this morning. It's incredible! Shea Hembrey, a contemporary artist from Arkansas unsatisfied with the quality of art work at biennial art shows, decided to host his own show. But after having trouble finding suitable artists to include in his show, Hembrey decided to make all the art pieces himself. He invented 100 artists, complete with individual personas and art projects, and created nearly 400 artworks in two years! His collection premiered at the TED 2011 conference and if you've got time to watch the whole 16-minute video, I'd recommend it. It's quite amusing, especially near the end when he goes through his alter-egos at rapid-pace.
Those of you who were in Creative Writing and Advanced Creative Writing classes with me will remember Mr. Lale often telling us that spending time doing background writing, thinking and researching about the characters and settings in our stories, was a valuable asset to our actual drafts. After reading this article and watching the TED video, I can see why. I shall endeavour to do more of this type of background writing in the future. I only wish I had one-tenth of Hembrey's creativity...
Those of you who were in Creative Writing and Advanced Creative Writing classes with me will remember Mr. Lale often telling us that spending time doing background writing, thinking and researching about the characters and settings in our stories, was a valuable asset to our actual drafts. After reading this article and watching the TED video, I can see why. I shall endeavour to do more of this type of background writing in the future. I only wish I had one-tenth of Hembrey's creativity...
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Spelling test
Matt's forehead crinkled into rows as uneven as the ones in his small garden spot behind the house. His eyes wandered from the lined notebook page on the table in front of him to the red barn-shaped bird feeder beyond the kitchen window. "Warble," his mother said, glancing at the teacher's book as she clinked clean silverware into the drawer. Outside a flash of colour swooped down to the perch in front of the miniature white painted doors. The black and red bird opened his tiny mouth, releasing a repeating melody into the warm morning breeze. "Warble," his mother intoned again. "And don't forget to write a sentence using the wo--" Her sentence broke off as she turned to the table. "Matt, please pay attention. I want to finish your spelling test before we have to go do errands in town. Please. Warble. It's your second last word." Matt sighed and looked back at his paper, his previous eight spelling words carved in heavy pencil lines after the numbers 1-9. "OK, OK," Matt groaned. Bending over the page, his tongue poked out in concentration as he wrote.
warbul The black and red bird warbuled loudly.
*Once again inspired by captcha :)
warbul The black and red bird warbuled loudly.
*Once again inspired by captcha :)
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Bedrooms show who we are
A few days ago one of my friends posted this link on Facebook. I absolutely LOVE the idea! James Mollison, a documentary photographer born in Kenya who grew up in England, wanted to represent needy children around the world in a new, unique way for a children's charity project. "When he visualized his own childhood, he realized that his bedroom said a lot about what sort of life he led. So he set out to find others." What better way to learn about children and how they are growing up than to find out about their homes and, specifically, their bedrooms? Mollison "posed his young subjects -- more than 200 of them -- against blank white backgrounds for their portraits, leaving their bedrooms to do the talking." I have to admit, I'm kind of jealous that someone else had this idea first... Now what other creative and interesting photojournalism projects are out there for me to undertake?? Guess I'll just have to keep my brain turned on and my thinking cap fastened, eh? Oh and, Mollison's new book, "Where Children Sleep," that stemmed from the project, is totally going on my Amazon Wish List!
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Mapping stories
While perusing my Google Reader feed I randomly noticed a headline and clicked on it to read the accompanying story. The Globe & Mail Q&A article featured Toronto writer Anne Michaels, an author of poetry and fiction, whose book The Winter Vault incorporates an idea that fascinated me. According to the article, a character in the novel, "meticulously assembles dozens of unusual maps. Maps of tree roots and wind corridors. A chocolate map. A remorse map. A map of the dead. A secret hope map."
The more I read of the article, the more fascinated with the idea I became. I think I might go to my local library to find a copy of The Winter Vault to read and learn more about this mapping stories concept. It just might be the jumpstart my brain needs to come up with interesting writing ideas of my own. I'll keep you all posted :)
The more I read of the article, the more fascinated with the idea I became. I think I might go to my local library to find a copy of The Winter Vault to read and learn more about this mapping stories concept. It just might be the jumpstart my brain needs to come up with interesting writing ideas of my own. I'll keep you all posted :)
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Good writing
There are a few things that pierce straight to my soul. Good writing is one of those things. It's so powerful that sometimes it captures me and pulls me in and drowns me in sea of emotion I didn't even know I had.
This piece of writing did that to me today. Last June this post also did it to me. And the previous year this story and its sequel tore at my heart as well. I don't know what it is about the country of Tchad, but much of the writing coming from the Béré Adventist Hospital there jolts my emotions awake. The true and current stories of missionaries are portrayed with complete honesty and devastatingly simple words.
I wish I could write that way. But I also don't. Because writing like that only happens when one experiences overwhelming loss.
I never have. And for that I am truly and continually grateful.
This piece of writing did that to me today. Last June this post also did it to me. And the previous year this story and its sequel tore at my heart as well. I don't know what it is about the country of Tchad, but much of the writing coming from the Béré Adventist Hospital there jolts my emotions awake. The true and current stories of missionaries are portrayed with complete honesty and devastatingly simple words.
I wish I could write that way. But I also don't. Because writing like that only happens when one experiences overwhelming loss.
I never have. And for that I am truly and continually grateful.
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