Real Winter

We get smug sometimes when we look at the weather endured by other parts of Canada. I confess to even having used this blog to "educate" some of our southern neighbours (yes, brit. spelling) about the climate of this part of the great white north. At one point I'd even posted a link to a site about the thousands of palm trees growing in our metro area.

Still, every so often--maybe five years or so--we get a little taste of what others take for granted each winter. It tends to show that we're not all that well prepared. Partly it's that we live surrounded by coastal rainforest, and that means very large trees with limbs that break when the snow and ice get too heavy, or which simply fall down entirely.

These can smash houses on rare occasions, but more often they bring down power lines and people struggle on without electricity for a while. One girl in my English class yesterday explained that she lives in an outlying area which hasn't had electricity for five days; I heard on the radio this morning that some such affected areas won't be getting any power before Saturday.

One area has also been without phone service for three days. Fortunately for us, we've been pretty much spared power outages.

It was -10 celcius last night, which is 14 on the Fahrenheit scale. It's about 22 right now and we're expecting snow to start within the next couple of hours. Still, they predict it will be rain by tomorrow.

On the bright side, our Australian exchange teacher, who finishes her year with us in a few weeks, is thrilled she got a taste of weather typical of elsewhere in Canada, and it's also very pretty to look at.

Here are a few pics:












Our street












also our street--looking next door












our back yard












my kids enjoying the snow








...and the fountain in our school courtyard yesterday--I wish I'd got the pic when the sun was still shining on it, though

Poetry by Dythandra

Field Trip Stowaway

It's an odd sensation--something's afoot
Yet I'm out of the loop.
My usual detachment seems insufficient
For somehow it's about me.

At lunch I hear them talking--my name
That name--I won't speak it--
and muffled phrases:
"She'd love that"
"Maybe she'd find a boyfriend there"
"It would be like christmas--or should
I say Halloween for her"

I glare at them but cannot allow myself
the luxury of asking.
Superior is as superior does
And my mystique is what shields me
From the "prepulent" rabble

Still, something is up, and I must know.
I take my usual approach--
Long smoke breaks in the girl's washroom
Hidden in the stall, I listen
But to no avail.

Then I stand behind the foyer pillar
But no one reveals anything more interesting
Than the identity of the narc
Old news--we spotted his wedding ring tanline
Even before we cringed at his
1997 ghetto slang.

Then a clue--a too-loud jock
No doubt compensating for steroidal shrinking
Sees fit to yell towards me as I pass:
"Hey Morticia--gonna find a prom date on that field trip?"

Now I have something to work with
And soon discover a notice
I'd passed by dozens of times
Without regard:

GRADE 12 BIOLOGY FIELD TRIP:
"Bodies in Motion" I am intrigued.
"...featuring almost 200 authentic human specimens
preserved using the extraordinary method of Plastination"

I gasp. This is school--a class--
They will see this, experience
What has been only fodder
For my fevered dreams.

I must go. I move at a pace faster
Than my usual apathy allows.
The biology teacher is eating lunch
As I blurt my wish to "take advantage
of this amazing learning opportunity".

He looks at me coldly.
"I remember you. The fetal pig kid."
I am horrified--it hadn't occurred to me
That last year's liberation of my pickled pet
Would still rankle in his formaldehyde-damaged brain.

"Uhm, yeah--but that wasn't me," I stammer.
He shakes his head. "It's for the senior biology class--only."
I am not beyond begging, but his eyes make it clear
So I go elsewhere to plot my strategy.

Our town is too small, and the chance to see the exhibit
Miles away in the city
Shrinks with the waning fall daylight--
It's scheduled to move on
Like a rare comet--passing this close once
In our tedious lifetimes.

I turn to my old standby--the counselling department.
They all fear me, and I know their secrets.
My typical requests--excused from P.E.,
early dismissal, free cafeteria food--are always granted
Without a moment's hesitation.

Still, this one requires all my wiles,
And after hinting at recordings and photos
That might exist--they comply.
I have an "independent biology study" class
And the field trip is now curricular.

The biology teacher scowls--tells me the cost.
I hand him twenty bucks--my share of the bus.
He glances at his list and then a wicked smile...
"Sorry, kid--the bus is full."

I leave the money--deposit for my place
On the "waiting list"--then wait for him
To go to answer the call I make to the office.

During his absence, I scan the class list.
I see my targets--it's survival of the fittest.
And even if I hadn't called the tip line
About the stash that somehow ended up in his locker
The drug-addled loser would have likely skipped
The opportunity of my lifetime.

My father raises an eyebrow as he glances at my mother
While she signs the travel form.
They know not to ask too many questions.

I have my camera safely hidden in my boot.
It will come in handy today.
I need a picture
For this year's Christmas cards.

Poetry by Dythandra

Unsafe at Any Speed

I
After the second "practice", visibly shaking
My mater called the driving school.
I was getting Mrs. Archibald--one of the good ones.
Good=unflappable.

She was, as I expected, formidable.
A cold glare assessed me--dismissed me
But she was paid to fulfill their promise:
"Creating safe drivers since 1992".

How exactly do you... create them?
An unfriendly eye regarded me; disregarded me.
"Keep your eyes on the road".
I pulled out the ones I stole from biology class
And tossed them out the window.

She started to say something, then,
Thinking better of it, shook her head
And scribbled some notes on her clipboard.

We parted--Will you be my instructor next week?She snorted, then walked away.

II
Two instructors and 17 lessons later,
They deemed me done.
Roy, the one who "survived" scribbled out a certificate.
"Show them this--it might help."
But Roy--you still haven't answered my question
Do you "create" them in test tubes,
Or the... old fashioned way?
He never answered.

III
Waiting at the DMV for my road test.
I know how to read people--there are three
Who can grant me the freedom of the streets.

The first--I know her kind.
All business. Everyone should fail the first time
I slip one place back in line.

The second--buzz cut bodybuilder.
Should be a football coach.
My fashion sense will sink me
Before we leave the parking lot.

Third time lucky--I slip one more place in line.
He's younger, awkward--
His voice cracks,
As I stare directly into his eyes.

He stammers directions as we leave the parking lot
Too overwhelmed to ask me to turn down the music
Meatloaf is way before my time
But "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" is still a classic
And torture for a 28 year old still trying
To complete his adolescence.

Nonchalance is my specialty,
And I sing along with the words and sounds
That flush his pockmarked skin crimson.

He seems not to notice when I miss the shoulder check
He comments not on my rolling stop,
My parallel park--5 minutes to perfect
Earns no critique.

We roll to a stop, back at the DMV.
So--how was I? He quickly hands me the affirmation
Of my driving expertise.
Dampened by his anxiety-moistened hand.

My first trip--the discount used lot
I have to hurry--
The hearse won't last long.