yippeee!

Babies! Babies are finally arriving!

wowzers

So, for no particular reason, I have been re-reading my blog posts and comments... though I am only up to mid 2007!
And I have come to a great realization:
you people have become my family. I almost hate facebook right now because it just does not allow for that... what is the word?... that... intimacy we have all shared, and still share, albeit a little more sporadically lately. I am ever so guilty of not being on enough, and I use the excuse of dial up far too often.
But in reading back, and especially your comments back and forth, bring to my mind a kitchen, one where we would all gather for coffee and talking and sharing and... and... so much love.
I guess what I am trying to say, is thank you... thank all of you. I, without reserve, love each and every one of you. You are my tribe, and I will never give any of you up.
We are all so busy these days, and I know we will have lulls and ebbs, but how very good it is to know you are all out there... just a keystroke away...
thank you.
xo
Stevie

just because I liked the memory...

was re-reading some old posts... wrote this one in early 2007... and decided to repost it cuz... well I just like I the zone I was in when I wrote it.

When I refer to my Calgary, I speak of what it is I see when I walk down the street, or drive downtown very late at night.
Stephen Ave. is my first walk when I arrive, always. It takes as long as it takes, sometimes hours, but the stark, almost brutal contrasts that are always present make the artist in me thrill, the untrained social worker in me long to be doing more, and the philosopher in me wax poetic. I have taken photos of Stephen Avenue before, and no doubt will again.
My Calgary is CUPS, The Mustard Seed, The Salvation Army. It is the skuzzy downtown cafes and pawn shops. It is the old architecture, the decaying buildings on which you can still see the old words that advertised what the business was. It is the ghosts of better days on the façade of the Grand Theatre on Stephen Ave, the homeless, the hopeless, the hopeful, the street vendors. It is the man who today, professing to be a “real gypsy, 100 percent, not like those other guys” who read my tarot cards on a bench for $10, really just a good study of human characteristics saying what he thought I wanted to hear.
He watched me when I bought an old native man coffee a few benches down. Easy mark, that’s me.
After he read a few cards, he told me, I am “more man than any man will ever be, and more woman than any man could ever handle.”
I could care less if it is true or not, I am going to run with that one.
What really strikes me about that avenue is that absolute juxtaposition of so many worlds, of past and present, of rich and poor, stunning beauty and contrasting ugliness, of the good hearts and the ones who would happily relieve you of your wallet. More than any other spot I walk in Calgary, it is that Avenue that is my Calgary, so old, so new, so downtrodden in one step and upbeat on the next. There is a whisper on that avenue, one that speaks if you listen closely. But so few will, do, or want to. It tells of a thousand heartaches, even more of laughter, of lovers, and quarrels, and total despair and of unbridled passion. That avenue is like a secret preacher, speaking only to those who truly stop to listen, telling stories only told to a privileged few.
But in my own contrast, my Calgary is also sitting in Devonian Gardens, inhaling the heady, scent particular to greenhouses, earthy and moist. It is the little shops, like Art of My Heart, the owner of which, Howard, has never failed to remember me over the past 10 or 15 years of sporadic visits. It is the bartender at The Unicorn, Greg, who knows, even though I stop in only a few times a year, I drink Oban neat, I like the barstool at the far end corner, and he keeps the drunks away from me. Calls me young lady, like it is my title, though he knows my name is Stephanie. My Calgary includes art galleries, mostly on the Avenue mind you, and the theatres, the Glenbow Museum… still all on that avenue. It is CKUA instead of CJ92, it is The Unicorn at 11 p.m. on a weekday or The Auburn Saloon at 6 p.m. any day. It is in the faces I remember and the ones I will never forget. It is in the ones I will buy a coffee or sandwich for, and the ones I know may need help but are beyond me. It is the old man who walked with contented, aimless purpose ahead of me this morning, smoking his pipe, just going where he was going with no hurry or concern. I stayed a few steps behind him to inhale the fragrance of his pipe tobacco. It is the old woman, white hair down in an up-do with what must be a hundred cans of hairspray, decked out in her old fur, her makeup overdone in 1940s style, all that she owns that glitters on her neck, ears, fingers, her warped feet still thrust into shoes with heels, still carrying herself with a bearing of class and days gone by.
It is the little girl skipping on that brick avenue in the sun, her mother not far behind keeping a close eye on her.
My Calgary has become like a patient and ever forgiving lover, one that amazes me, makes me joyful, makes me weep, gives me both hours of hope and moments of despair, one that will always be there waiting for me, eternally patient and ready to take me in its arms to share its secrets, fill my soul, and bring me home.

the road home all started with a contest...

"While it's just a fun contest - we start shooting Dragons Den in a month - I will likely be at 8,000 followers by then on Twitter - but Kevin Oleary is tracking about the same numbers and rate of growth. How do I get to 10,000 serious honest genuine followers before he gets to 8,000? Game on!"

So read the Facebook post by my friend Brett Wilson. I met B several years ago when he hosted a fundraiser for my youth centre. We forged a friendship, and keep in touch, albeit via email as he has joined the ranks of celebrity and we really do not travel in the same circles.
Anyhow, I figured, what the heck, and posted on my own Facebook for people to help Brett out.
My friend, and former publisher, Sheila wrote me a note the other day regarding this.
It read:
"So I was on Brett Wilson's webpage like you suggested and was checking out some of the links he has, other organizations he has helped out. I noticed a 'fuckcancer' bracelet and checked it out. I have corresponded with the designer and she is giving me one for our Kickoff party and any that we sell because of our promoting it, she will give us $50 per bracelet for the Relay. How great is that?"

I responded, "not just great, but fucking great!"
You see, Sheila beat breast cancer a few years ago, so raising money for cancer research via the Relay For Life (same event I shaved my head for a few years back) has taken a more personal note for her.
Then, after going to her page, (I so rarely go to individual pages as I am on dial up... poor excuse, I know), I realized she has cancer again.
And my heart fell.
Just now it is still falling... I will stiffen my spine and cowgirl up tomorrow.
Sheila and I had our moments of butting heads, one strong woman to another, but one thing I can be certain of is she is a woman I always want in my life, though I have moved away and rarely see her.
She is funny. She is strong. She is witty. She has a huge heart, and strong conviction. I have such respect for her.
She is a force to be reckoned with.
She is my friend. And she has cancer.
I am ordering a bracelet, and I am including the link if you want to see it... or order one yourself.
Funny, how a light-hearted contest for Twitter followers would be the thing that brought me back 'round to base, back to my roots, to friends I have left behind physically, but whom have not left my heart.
The world is a curious place... made all the richer for the presence of one Sheila Tutty.
Fuck Cancer Sheila. Fuck it.


"did the ol' head shave today. Took the grandkids with me and had a bit of fun with it. I did not know I looked so much like my brother, until I was bald. Clearly Tesslin doesn't care. She just kept rubbing my head and patting my cheeks. Aren't children wonderful?"
http://www.fcancerembracelife.com/

heh heh.

the wind is blowing.
like, really blowing.
it makes me consider
buying a kite.

(I am pretending that is a poem.)

Instead, I will stay inside and bake bread today. and create some lovely stuffed pasta dish for dinner.

I know these can sometimes be overdone, but I am feeling frivolous today. I am going to list some questions, and tag all who read this to answer them... do the old copy and paste thing... pretty please?

I'll go first.

1) If you could go for a coffee with one friend, anywhere in the world, right now, that you have not seen for years, spend a few hours catching up, and just pop back home, who is the first person to come to mind?

Peter. Because if there is one person whom I know would enrich my soul today, that I could talk to for hours and listen to for hours, it would be him.

2) Do you truly find Seinfeld THAT funny?

Not really. EVERY character irritates me. And yet I still find myself watching it now and then. Weird. Must be subliminal.

3)If you could travel back in time, where would you go?

I'd really like to know the truth about Jesus. I am sure he existed, but was he really the son of God, or was he just a charismatic, incredible leader that inspired and continues to inspire?

4) If you could have one superpower, what would it be?

I usually say I would fly, but then I think breathing under water would be good because I am a really lousy swimmer. But flying wins out.

5) What makes you giggle?

When Tony says celery. It is just the way he says it.

6) Would you ever want to be famous? Would you trade privacy and risk being the target of the paparazzi?

No. well, maybe for a week.

7) What is the one talent you wish you had that you just cannot seem to cultivate?

Singing. Definitely singing.

your hands will tell you...

I look at my hands. Snarled up, scarred, callouses. Fingernails short by necessity, cuticles often stained purple with Cristol from treating one alpaca, or red from iodine after sterilizing the cord of a newborn cria. I like what I see. They are hardworking hands. Hands that while are not trained for a vet, do see their share of healing animals, delivering babies, reaching far into the dam if need be to untwist a baby's long neck or guide it down the birth canal. Hands that learned to run new equipment, shaking a little sometimes because the machine's power occasionally scares me. Hands that hold a rake, a pitchfork, that carry newborns into the green pasture to learn to stand and reach for mama's milk. I have rancher's hands.
Hands that reach for my husband's face as he makes me laugh day after day.
Hands that once, sometimes, were soft, nails long and painted, work of a different kind allowing for such cosmetic graces.
I think this way today, because I am blessed to have had so many opportunities in my life.
From waitress and chambermaid when I was young, waitress when I was older too, to landscaper, then journalist, writer, youth worker, photographer, ski tuner, running the deli at the Banff School of Fine Arts (what a way to be 17 that was!) grocery store clerk, and once, for a short two weeks, a door to door encyclopedia salesman. I never sold a single set. I was very bad at that job!
So many things, such variety. And still so many things to try! For now, ranching suits me though. I like this calling.
I do not think I am at all unique this way. You, reading this now, have surely had such variety in your life. Your hands tell stories, create them, mold them. As surely mine have.
Tell me your stories.... what one, what job or experience, or moment in general, do you hold in your hands?
I await with bated breath...