Wood Buffalo Food Bank, The Food Hamper Challenge, and Defeat

When Arianna Johnson, the Executive Director of the Wood Buffalo Food Bank, suggested the idea to me I thought it sounded pretty good. The concept was simple - take a few people in the media and public eye and challenge them to living off the contents of a food bank hamper for one month. The goal was to experience what it is like to be dependent on that food hamper, unable to eat in restaurants or grab a coffee to go, limited to only what is provided to you. I *thought* it was a good idea, and I *thought* it would be hard, but people, I had no damn idea. This hasn't been hard. It's been a challenge that I am failing, miserably.

When I got the food hamper list the Intrepid Junior Blogger and I hit the local grocery store and quickly filled a cart. As the cart filled I noticed a growing number of boxes and cans, and very little in the way of fresh produce and meat. As we wheeled down the aisles the concern simply grew as it rapidly became clear this diet is based heavily on processed foods, the very things we are expected to avoid to achieve good health. I gazed at the cart as we approached the checkout, and realized with fear that this was going to be very, very difficult for me.

Even then I still had no idea but now, almost two weeks in, I have a very clear sense of how hard this is. The major challenge for me, my major enemy, is time. I am the sort who is constantly on the go, headed into and out of the door on a moment's notice, and that makes taking the time to cook very difficult. Add to that the fact that I am an abysmal cook (to which the Intrepid Junior Blogger can attest) and I am really the sort who relies on fresh food I can grab quickly and go - an apple here, a salad there, and, when all else fails, food picked up at local stores and restaurants to get me through my day. The challenge of needing to be home for a significant number of meal times worried me, and that is where I failed the challenge for the first time. Caught downtown, unable to get home between appointments, and hours from heading home, I was starving. There I was in the mall, food court ahead and money in hand, and so I grabbed a taco from Taco Time and wolfed it down, despite my guilt.

That was the first time I cheated on this challenge, but not the last. I am scheduled to do this until early December, which takes me right into Christmas party and cookie season, one of my favourite seasons and yet this year a tad bittersweet as I will battle between my conscience and my desire. I miss my fresh fruits and vegetables, and some days I would kill for a salad. Last night in the grocery store I found myself staring longingly at a fresh veggie tray, headed home to a can of soup instead (and people, after these two weeks I am so very, very weary of soup). And I have learned some things about myself, my willpower, my own spoiled nature, and what it must be like to be forced to do this, not out of choice or some blogging whim but rather necessity. And, in two words, it sucks.

So, what have I learned in two weeks? It is as follows:

1) If you donate to the food bank think beyond the soup can. Think about things like baking supplies and other "luxuries" we take for granted but that could liven up what is, quite frankly, a very boring diet.

2) If you have a choice between donating food and money, pick money. With money the food bank can purchase fresh goods and produce daily for distribution, while donated fresh goods need to be stored, which can be a challenge.

3) Think about what it would be like to not eat out for one month - no fast food, no coffee, no restaurants. Think about maybe doing it for a month, to show solidarity with those who don't have that option, and then take the money you would have spent and donate it to the food bank. It will go to good use, trust me, and you will have had just a taste of what it's like to be reliant on them.

4) When donating food to the food bank question if this is food YOU would like to eat. Would you really eat the contents of that box or can in your hand? If the answer is no then put it back on the shelf and find something else. 

5) Support the annual food drive coming up later this month - but don't forget the food bank at other times of the year. I've been there a lot recently due to this challenge and last week was troubled at how bare their shelves are at this time of year. I think there is a tendency to donate once a year and forget it, but please remember that the food bank is providing food for those in need - including children - 365 days a year. Help them make sure they have nutritious, healthy, and quality food to give to them.

Here is the deal, people. I have about another two weeks to go. I have lost some weight on this diet, and I've definitely lost some of my usual energy as I think it's been sapped by a constant diet of peanut butter sandwiches (a supply that is rapidly dwindling and I fear I am getting closer and closer to being forced to eat that can of corned beef, which terrifies me). I've gained something else, though. I have gained some perspective on what it's like to not have the options I do, I have gained some understanding of what it is like to subsist on this diet, and I have gained a better understanding of myself, too. I plan to see this through to the end, although I will likely cheat again along the way (hey, people, one of the things I also do is recognize my own myriad faults). And at the end of all this I plan to spend a couple of days stocking shelves at the food bank and compiling a list of what they need and what could make the lives of their clients better and healthier, and then sharing that list with everyone I know.

It was a good idea at the time, as I said. It is still a good idea even now, despite my struggles and my whining (which is, in fact, pathetic and laughable). It has been a challenge, and a learning experience. And frankly, it is one I doubt I will ever forget.

You can find further entries regarding my experience

with the Food Hamper Challenge

in my column at Connect Weekly :)

Why How Long You Have Lived In Fort McMurray is Irrelevant

I know the title of this post is a bit bold, and perhaps even a bit inflammatory. I know even saying it risks me receiving more hate mail, something I had the unfortunate occasion to receive for the first time recently (more on that later). I also know, though, that this sentiment has been in my heart and head for some time, and the time has come to put it onto paper (internet?) and commit to it. In Fort McMurray, people, how long you have lived here simply doesn't matter when it comes to discussions of our future - and here is why.

A few weeks ago my buddy Nolan Haukeness wrote an op-ed column stating almost this exact thing, except he talked about the "born heres" versus the "moved heres". It's a terrific piece, and I suggest you read it - but after reading it I felt I had more to say. Why? Because I believe that length of residency, whether you were born here or arrived here a few months ago, is totally irrelevant in the current discussions - at least in the sense that either gives you special status or input when it comes to discussions on the future of this community.

There are certainly people who have been here for decades, and those who have been born here. And those people have seen tremendous changes, cycles of boom and bust, times of prosperity and times of trouble. And so their opinion on this place is informed by experience and time, and so it should be given proper credence for that reason. However, there is another side to this. If you have been born here or lived here for decades there is every chance you are now living in a bit of a bubble. That's pretty natural, actually, and nothing to be ashamed about. And that is where new residents come in.

New residents, whether they have been here for 6 months or 6 years, bring with them not experience of this community but experience of other communities - other cities and provinces and countries. They see this community with fresh eyes, and may note things that those who are long-time residents may fail to see because so often we don't really "see" the things that change so gradually. New residents bring with them another perspective, informed perhaps not by an experience of THIS community but of other places that are both similar and different. And that is the beauty of it - because the future should not be determined by those who are "new" or those who are "old" but rather by all of us as we open a dialogue informed by the experience of all.

Too often in this community you see length of residency used as a "trump card". The phrase "well, I've been here x years", said in an arch tone denoting authority, troubles me for many reasons. It is wonderful that you have been here for "x" years, but someone has likely been here for "x" years longer. And of course it also means if someone was born here they automatically trump anyone who has moved here (a situation that could delight many toddlers as given our birth rate it means they should pretty much be in charge of the whole schmozzle). And then I always wonder if we should base it on percentage of life lived here, as opposed to years, meaning someone who moved here young and spent 75% of their life here would trump someone who came here later in life and has only been here 50% of their life. And if we make it generational then we really run into a situation fraught with difficulties, as the natural conclusion there is the First Nations people pretty much trump us all. So, is length of residency as determinant in value of opinions really the game we want or need to play here? Why do we need the trump card at all? And then there is another statistic that will soon make the whole discussion even more irrelevant, as if this community meets current growth projections every person here will be outnumbered by those who are new.

This community is anticipated to add some 130,000 residents over the next 18 years. Some will be born here, true, but the majority will come here from other places. This place will be full of new residents - and so we all need to get over our thinking that how long we have been here matters, because it simply doesn't, and it won't. If we adhere to thinking that our length of residency has some sort of sway we will find ourselves outnumbered, outvoted, and outdistanced by those who have been here less time - and so, perhaps, this is the time we need to begin the dialogue that leaves out the words "I've been here for x years".

I understand why we do it - even I catch myself saying that I've been here for a decade, although more for context than control, and recently I have started to not say it at all, only giving that number if asked directly. I was a bit surprised recently to receive anonymous hate mail (and maybe in a later blog post we will have a discussion about the level of cowardice shown by choosing to attack someone personally in an anonymous way) and one of the things they pointed out was my audacity in having an opinion after having been here only "a few short years". I was taken aback, as those years represent almost 1/4 of my life, and almost the longest time I have lived anywhere - but of course it's all relative as they may have been here for 20 years as opposed to my ten. And then again their 20 years may seem scanty compared to someone else's 30, or 40, or lifetime. What troubled me was the theory that only a certain length of time conferred on anyone the right to an opinion, private or public, as I could not help but wonder who set this arbitrary length? Who determined it?

Like I said at the beginning this post may raise some hackles. I do think, though, this needs to be said. I do have the audacity to have an opinion, and I will never disrespect the opinion of another regardless of how long they have been here (and in fact I think mere visitors to our city merit listening to as well, although we may choose to dismiss their opinions). The point is that our opinions may differ, but our right to hold them is the same no matter if we have been here 2 months, 2 years, 2 decades, or cradle to grave. The decisions we make now should be informed by the experience and wisdom and voices of all, not just those who are "new" or "old" (even those terms make me cringe with their subjective nature).

My fundamental belief is this: If you care enough about this community to call it home then you deserve to have an opinion, share it, and be respected. Others may not agree with it, and they may argue it - but your length of residency does not minimize your opinion or lend it special credence.

We are now making decisions in this community that will affect not just current residents, but future residents - our children, their children, and everyone else who chooses to make this home. Let's use our collective experiences, from here and around the world, and our wide knowledge, gleaned both in this community and others, to make decisions that will stand the test of time, make us proud, and show that we can engage in a dialogue that is open, productive, and inclusive. Let's make this place a place that we can all call home, regardless of how long we have been here - and let's do it now, at this special point in time, a time we can all point back to in the future and say "I was here when they did that, and we did it together".

Fort McMurray Remembrance Day 2012 - and Mourning A Loss

It is always a solemn affair, the annual Remembrance Day ceremonies. It is always a day when I find myself close to tears, and struggling to maintain my composure as I hear bagpipes and trumpets, and see photos and videos that threaten to make the tears flow. Remembrance Day 2012 in Fort McMurray is one I am unlikely to ever forget, as it is one of those days that tied together some loose threads in my life, something that often happens in this place I call home.

I got to MacDonald Island Park early on November 11, and noticed the parking lot filling rapidly. The Remembrance Day ceremonies here, hosted by our local Legion, always seem to attract a good-sized crowd, and this year was no different. I went inside and was escorted to my seat by a young cadet, who looked like he was probably in Grade 9 or 10. Many young cadets were escorting attendees to their seats, finding them good spots for their specific needs (in my case an aisle seat where I could escape to take photos).

I sat in my seat and looked at the program, noting the parts where I was likely to struggle with tears. The reading of Flanders Fields. The Last Post. Reveille. The laying of the wreaths. The auditorium quickly filled, with the elderly and the young, couples and families, and every demographic of our community represented. Moments before the ceremony was to begin I made my way to the entrance to watch the entry of all the service people present, from the RCMP, stunning in their red serge, to our local fire department, cadets, and even scouts and guides. In they marched behind the flags, there to honour and remember.

The Remembrance Day ceremony is, as I wrote last year, not short. It stretches over 2 hours, and a lot of ground is covered. Prayers are said, greetings from different levels of government are brought, and poems are read. Songs are sung, and, finally towards the end, wreaths are laid. This year for me was a bit different, though, as when they called the roll of those local individuals lost in the war I was listening and I heard a name that stopped my heart. David Walter Hill.

I had my camera in hand when I heard that name, as I stood at the side of the stage. I was there at the service as both community and media, my dual roles making me extra attentive to the details. And when I heard that name my blood ran a bit cold because the Hill family has become rather close to me this past year, even if they don't quite know it.

You see, this past summer I had the pleasure of interviewing Ken Hill for an article I wrote for Big Spirit Magazine. And then, during the FMPSD Centennial celebrations I got to meet Ken and his wife in person, and found them so wonderfully delightful. Ken and his parents, Walter and Gladys Hill, are what I would consider founding members of this community. Their names are synonymous with the past of this region, and in fact the new public elementary school in Eagle Ridge will bear the name "Walter and Gladys Hill". So you see when the name "David Walter Hill" was read in the roll of those deceased in war I wondered immediately if this was someone related to Ken and his parents.

My association with the Hill family goes even a bit deeper, although they don't know it. You see this past summer I did a little photo shoot with a photographer from Edmonton. When he and I discussed where to take the photos I knew I would choose the one location that sang to me of Fort McMurray and our history - Heritage Park. And so there it was on a bright August morning that we met, and there I, wearing a bright red 1950's style dress, was photographed in the Hill's old home, in the kitchen where Gladys cooked and the living room where they would gather around the radio. I was photographed in the drug store they ran for many, many years. It was an amazing experience, actually, as every time I touched a wall I thought of the people who had lived in that house and operated that drugstore, of all the memories those walls held inside them. What never occurred to me was that some of those memories were of deep pain.

You see, after the Remembrance Day ceremony this year I went to the Legion in Waterways, a place I have driven by many times but never gone into. I wandered around, speaking to those gathered (and it was a busy place, men and women in uniform and dozens of others, too). And then, at the front entrance, I spotted this:

David Walter Hill, eldest son of Walter and Gladys Hill, killed in February of 1945. I had spoken to Ken Hill at length about how he started school here in 1938, Grade One in a little two-room school on Franklin, and now I discovered that a mere seven years later Ken lost his older, and only, brother to war. I can't quite explain what it did to me to realize that. Suddenly everything was thrown into a new perspective. A year ago I did not know Ken and did not know the history of his family. A year ago the name David Walter Hill would not have stopped my heart, and I would not have felt a stab of pain as I realized how the little family in that little house in Heritage Park must have suffered when their learned of their loss. But this year, after meeting Ken, and spending time in that house, and learning more about the woven fabric of this community, how each family ties it together, I was heartsick.

I kept thinking back to the young cadet who had shown me to my seat, and I realized that he was probably about the age Ken would have been when he lost his brother. I realized that young cadet was likely only a bit younger than David Hill, a young man who went to war from our community and never returned. I realized, with heart stopping certainty, that the pain of the loss of David Hill probably never went away, and that his family likely still carries that loss today. And I thought about that young cadet, and about how if war broke out tomorrow this young man could eventually be one of those lost. I thought about how his family, even decades down the road, would still carry that pain. And I thought about how his name, read at a Remembrance Day ceremony, could catch the attention of someone like me who suddenly tied the threads together.

I didn't know David Hill, but I have met his brother Ken. I have spent time in the house his parents owned, and in the drugstore they ran in this community for many years. I have been at the ground breaking of the school that will bear his parents' name. And I have, for some reason, become very interested in the history of his family as I think it is so deeply reflective of the history of this community. And so I suppose that is why some 67 years after it happened I took the news of his death so hard. I thought about Ken Hill, and his parents, and the grief and pain they must have felt when they learned that David would never come home again. I thought about all the soldiers of all the wars who never came home, and the families who grieved them, too. I thought about all the houses like the Hill's house, houses that held memories of joy and happiness - and sorrow. And suddenly Remembrance Day 2012 had new meaning for me. You see until now I have never known anyone killed in war, and for that I have been so fortunate. And even though I never knew David Hill I felt his loss, almost seven decades ago, so keenly that it made me weep.

You see, people, the fabric of the community is the people in it. I imagine the loss of young David Hill, and all the others this community lost in various wars, ripped at that fabric. Their deaths would have caused great sorrow, and great pain. They were gone, but not forgotten. And so it is that on November 11th, 2012, I came to remember a young man named David Hill, gone but not forgotten. It is to David Hill, and all those who never came home to Fort McMurray and every other city or town in this country, that I dedicate this photo, this blog post, and this promise: I will remember, and honour, them.

Why Arkham Is Rising Around the Globe

A couple of months ago my friends at YMMPodcast hinted they were working on a new project. They asked me for a wee bit of assistance, and I gladly gave it as I knew whatever the project was that it would be incredible. You see, I've just come to expect that from them, as Toddske and Tito are pretty incredible men who put their passion and vision to work, and combine it with a drive that achieves results. They didn't tell me the details of the project, and I didn't ask, content to know that eventually they would share it with me. And share it with me they did, as I got a sneak preview of a fan film short that they have now not only shared with me but about 50,000 viewers all over the planet. That project, now gone viral, is called Arkham Rising.

This is probably where I should share that I'm not really a huge fan of superhero movies. Oh, I like them, don't get me wrong, but when you get into the details of characters and plot you will lose me. The beauty though is that you don't need to be a huge fan to appreciate Arkham Rising. All you need is an eye for quality, and appreciation for skill, and an understanding of what it takes to take something from idea to reality. If you have that you quickly see that Arkham Rising is a masterpiece.

You see this fan film short was created using all local talent, filmed in all local places. It is directed by Tito Guillen, a man who is rapidly gaining attention as a strong film-maker, and produced by Toddske, a man becoming known for his passionate "can do" attitude about everything. You combine those two forces, stir in some spectacular local talent, add in some people and organizations who allowed them to film it in their buildings, and what you have is spectacular. You have Fort McMurray arts and culture at it's finest. You have a showpiece you can send to friends with the message "this was done right here, by people I know". You have something of which the entire community can be proud.

Oh, there may be diehard superhero fans who may quibble with the details of this fan film short, or who debate the finer points, but that isn't really what matters. What matters is people who take an idea and run with it, who are able to take an idea from concept to reality, who are able to take a little fan film short and let it flow around the world. To say I am proud to know the people involved in this is ridiculous. I am beyond proud. I am honoured to know them and call them friends.

There is another video, this one about the making of Arkham Rising. I suggest watching it too, as you can see the attention to detail the director and producer employed on this project. It shows you how seriously they took this, and how they went about taking an idea, casually tossed about, and turned it into something that people all over the planet have now enjoyed. Perhaps you don't see the impact of that, but I do. I see how a group of people with a common goal can take a concept and turn it into a success. I see commitment to excellence, and I see passion and vision and drive. And I see community, too, a community of friends and others who work together to achieve a product of which they can be proud. And so they should be proud - just as proud as I am, although I was proud to know them even long before this project. I have just been proud to be their friend.

Arkham Rising

Arkham Rising - Behind the Scenes

Vinyl Cafe, Stuart McLean, and Listening With My Eyes Closed

You know, I wasn't going to blog about the recent two-night stint Stuart McLean and The Vinyl Cafe spent in our community. After all it happened last week already, and this seems like old news. I decided, however, to blog about it for two reasons. First, there are no rules to blogging, which is really the joy of the whole exercise. One can blog about what they want when they want and then just throw it out there, to be read or unread. The second reason is that some moments of the evening I spent with Stuart have stayed with me, and I feel the need to share them. And so this blog post is written, because really blogging is all about making your own rules and sharing whatever you think you need to share.

When I first heard Stuart McLean was coming to town I snatched up tickets as soon as they went on sale. You see I've been listening to him on CBC Radio for many years, his tales of Morley and Dave, their children and their friends, their neighbours and their adventures in life. Stuart is a masterful storyteller, perhaps the very best in the business, and I have spent many hours in rapt attention as his voice poured out of a radio or a car stereo or a pair of earphones. Many years ago I introduced the Intrepid Junior Blogger to the joy of The Vinyl Cafe, and have many times been delighted to find her in her room, listening to Stuart on the radio on her own accord, seeking him out as I have sought him out over the years. It has always felt somehow like Morley and Dave and their lives were part of our lives, too. They had become like family, and so too had the storyteller who deftly wove the narrative of their lives.

And so I bought three tickets, enough so our entire little family could go, and we found ourselves in Keyano Theatre anxiously awaiting the arrival of Stuart. That morning, while the Junior Blogger was eating her breakfast, I had played one of the Christmas stories from The Vinyl Cafe. It is entitled "Ferrets for Christmas", and since the Junior Blogger owns and adores three little ferrets of her own (variously known as "the weasels", "the wuffles", and "the woozles") I knew she would love the story of another Sam, this one a little boy, bringing home the class ferret over the Christmas holidays. She was enchanted with the story, and while her usual morning routine includes some time on the X-Box before school she happily spent that time listening to a tale about Christmas and family and ferrets instead.

That night when Stuart took the stage I think we all were a bit awestruck. None of us had ever seen him live, but as soon as he began to speak and that distinctive and melodious voice poured into the theatre we felt right at home. It was the same voice that had spoken to us almost every Sunday for years, a voice that had accompanied us on long car trips through the Canadian wilderness as we drove home from places like Edmonton and Saskatoon and Kenora and Dryden. It was the voice that had kept me company as I baked cookies and did crafts and, a very long time ago it seems, rocked a small baby to sleep. Hearing that voice was like magic, but there was only one problem for me. I couldn't look at Stuart.

You see I think for so long it has been just a voice, and I found watching Stuart, his hands flapping as he gesticulated points, his body in motion, too distracting. It threw me completely, and I felt quite off, like something wasn't quite right. And so I sank back into my chair at the theatre, closed my eyes - and there it was. Magic.

As soon as I closed my eyes and just let his voice wash over me I felt renewed. I listened as Stuart recounted three new Dave and Morley stories, taking us to a backyard waterpark, a yoga retreat, and a garden in the autumn. As he went on and the stories were told I found myself opening my eyes, having needed to only close them for a brief time to centre myself, and to centre that iconic voice. When I opened my eyes I no longer found Stuart's actual presence distracting, and instead I welcomed the nuances his live performance added to the stories I have come to love.

The Vinyl Cafe always has a musical guest, and so too it was here in Fort Mac when musician Harry Manx joined Stuart's regular musicians to play a few numbers. Harry is a talent indeed, someone who explores music the way a writer explores words, and the creativity he embodies is one I respect to my core.

At one point Stuart took questions from the audience, and someone asked him about writing. When he explained his process - how long it seems to take going from first pot of coffee to first actual word written, I laughed, and even more so when the Junior Blogger whispered "That sounds just like how YOU work!" as indeed it is. It is so fascinating to hear how he writes, and where, because I am always curious about the creative process of others. Later that night I would tweet that if I could write one-tenth as well as Stuart I would feel accomplished, and that is the truth. He is not only a masterful storyteller but a powerful writer, as every story he writes shows - but one in particular that evening caught me.

When Stuart told of Morley's garden in the autumn it was so evocative I almost cried. I could feel tears form in the corners of my eyes, as fall is my favourite season, and every fall I feel both happy and melancholy. I always feel that fall is entirely too short a season, over too soon and not giving you enough time to adjust from the bright, warm days of summer to the dark, cold days of winter. And yet I still love autumn, that all-too-brief season of change as the natural world quiets for the winter, and my heart thinks of all the autumns past. That the Intrepid Junior Blogger was born in fall should come as no surprise as in my life it seems all the best things have occurred in that season.

And so Stuart spoke of autumn and I was moved to tears. The other stories had made me laugh, but this one made me remember instead, made me recall the autumn my little girl was born, and all the autumns since. It made me wonder about all the autumns to come. With simple words, carefully crafted and delivered in that voice I have come to know so well, Stuart painted a picture right before my eyes, and I sat humbled by both the beauty of the story and his skill in creating it.

When I began this post I commented that I had spent the evening with Stuart. And okay, it was me and him and about 400 other people, and yet somehow it felt like it was just me and him chatting over tea as winter began to swirl outside. When Stuart commented that he felt like he was in Fort McMurray's living room that night I had to agree. It did not feel like we were inside a theatre at all. It felt, for all intent and purposes, like we were home.

And perhaps that is where the true power of a writer and storyteller like Stuart McLean lies. Perhaps it is his ability to make a theatre feel like home, even when normally you hear his stories in your own home or car. While at the beginning of the evening I could not watch him, had found it too disconcerting, by the end of the evening I felt like I was sitting at home in my favourite chair, radio tuned into The Vinyl Cafe, a mug of coffee beside me, and my eyes closed as I let the stories wash over me and into my heart. I truly hope he comes back to Fort McMurray some day, bringing with him new stories of Dave and Morley and their lives, but until then I will listen to him on the radio, eyes closed, and heart wide open.

Keyano Foundation Gala Discovery 2012 (Or A Better Late Than Never Blog Post)

Yes, people, I know this blog about the Keyano College Foundation Gala Discovery is a little late, especially given it happened on Saturday and as I sit to write this it is Wednesday. But you see the day after the gala I was on a Red Arrow bus bright and early, headed to Edmonton (a bit of poor planning, that, as a late night at the gala made a rather grumpy bus traveller the next morning). I arrived in Edmonton and discovered that I was having issues with certain website and internet functions, this one in particular, and so I have been anxiously checking every day to see if I was finally going to be able to share my thoughts - and here I am, so I guess today is the day.

I've written about the Keyano Gala before, last year in fact as it was the first time I ever attended. It is interesting to return to an event you've already experienced once, as you cannot help but draw comparisons. You find yourself comparing the food and drinks and atmosphere and entertainment, and you find yourself trying to determine if this year is "better" than the last. The funny thing is that each year is different - and yet each year the staff and volunteers who organize Keyano Gala manage to pull off a stellar event. This year, Gala Discovery 2012, was no different.

The kind folks at Keyano invited me to attend as media, something for which I am truly grateful. You see, I try to keep this blog revenue neutral, meaning I make no money from it and I try to expend as little money on it as possible (although I have and do buy tickets to various things to experience them with the aim of writing about them). Being invited as media allows me to continue this blog without it becoming a financial issue, and so right off the top I want to thank them for that and that alone. But I have far more to thank them for, too.

It's a bit ironic that last Saturday morning I got in my car very early, when it was still dark, and plugged in my iPhone. My music list, set to shuffle, immediately began to play Honeymoon Suite, and those who were there know that band was one of those who played the gala last year. I instantly got a smile on my face as I thought it must be an omen, a sign of good things to come later that night, and I was not wrong.

As the day went on I began to prepare for Gala. I had an appointment to get my hair done, something I very rarely do, and when that was completed I set about finally deciding what to wear. You see, I had two choices, and I had been torn for days. When I was in Vancouver this summer I had purchased a lovely designer gown, intending it for gala, but more recently I had purchased something that I had fallen in love with. It was an outfit from Nisa Collection, a purveyor of fine clothes from Pakistan, and when I found it I felt like a princess. I took out both gowns, and hung them on my closet doors. And while the designer gown was lovely the gown from Pakistan sang to me, because it hummed with the very theme of the gala. Discovery. Exploration. For me this gown had personal meaning because it sang to me of my journey of discover and exploration over this last year, including forays into our tremendous cultural diversity and all the wonderful people who embraced me when I wandered into their culture from my own. I plucked down the Pakistani gown, put the other back in the closet, and found the most sparkly glittery shoes I own.

I drove up to the Syncrude Sport and Wellness Centre early as the media got a little advance peek before the guests arrived, and in I walked to once again discover that the facility had been transformed. Somehow they do it every year, take a recreational facility and turn it into a nightclub venue, with an amazing atmosphere, scattered bars and food stations, an enormous stage, and, this year, an enormous screen stretching behind that stage and far beyond. The screen, the largest in North America, allowed everyone a closer glimpse of what was happening onstage, and provided an incredible backdrop that allowed for images of explorers and discoverers to be displayed. The screen, tied in with so many nautical touches from the prow of a ship to themed ice sculptures, helped to create the desired feeling for the gala, a sense of exploration and discovery.

I suppose I should mention the basics, like the food (which was terrific, and I'm genuinely embarrassed to say how many times I visited the dessert station that was entirely too close to my table), and the drinks (I only had the complimentary glass of champagne upon entry, as I was working and taking a bus very early the next day). Every report I heard on the food, which was supplied by Chartwells Catering, was positive, with many of my table mates complaining of unhappy and full bellies and yet appearing again and again with more food. The bars were popular as usual, with many commenting particularly on the scotch tasting bar (an area that was empty when I arrived and virtually impassable for the rest of the evening due to being clogged with people). And then there were the silent auction items and raffles, stunning items once again up for offer. There was the live auction, with trips to Prague and Paris waiting to be won by highest bid (and with auctioneer extraordinaire Ross Jacobs once again burning up the stage as he cajoled, teased, and generally harassed bidders until extracting the highest possible price). There were the usual speeches from those associated with the college, and then, in what was likely the most anticipated moment, there was the live entertainment.

Country band Hey Romeo was the surprise musical opening act, and they played to an appreciative audience, many of whom had seen them before when they have visited us to play. And then the reason I suspect many queued up to buy tickets to the gala this year hit the stage. You see tickets to gala sold out very rapidly, and while I know some of it had to do with the amazing food and atmosphere and drinks and general fun of gala some of it also had to do with a woman that many in the crowd had come to see - LeAnn Rimes.

I will admit here, just as I have often before, that I am not a fan of country music. I suppose it comes from a childhood of being subjected to it on long family drives, strapped down and forced to listen to country and western (as it was then known). Instead of developing a taste for it rather the opposite happened (which likely explains my fascination with alternative and punk music as I grew). The thing is, though, that regardless of where my musical preference lies I can recognize talent, and there is no doubt that Miss Rimes has considerable talent. The crowd was gathered around the stage before she even walked up the steps, anxiously waiting for the first note, the first glimpse, the first song - and they were not disappointed when she appeared looking fresh and happy and putting on a stunning performance, if slightly briefer than they'd hoped.

So you see now we are at the part where I am going to say some more thanks. As I said earlier I am grateful for the invitation to attend as media, but I am grateful for far more. I am grateful to Keyano College Foundation for working so hard to pull off an event that I know takes months of planning to execute. I am grateful to them for working so hard to raise money that will benefit the students who gain their education through Keyano College. I am grateful to all the volunteers who make this event possible, who work tirelessly to make it all appear effortless (when reality it is like a duck on water, appearing calm from above and paddling like hell underneath the surface). I suppose, though, I am most grateful to the community that comes out every year and supports events like this. They buy their gala tickets, they bid on the silent and live auctions, they buy tickets for raffles, they buy new dresses and rent tuxes and get their hair done (supporting the local economy), they eat the food and drink the alcohol and dance the night away to performers brought in especially for them to enjoy. It is, I suppose, to all of these people I say thank you, from the staff and volunteers to the community who simply comes out to support it all. In the end, community is exactly this - a gathering of people who share an evening, an event, a cause, and a place that we all call home. So galas might seem to be about food and drinks and music and dancing - but, in the end, they really are all about community. And that, people, is a cause I can always support.

Chateau Boo - The Horror of Haunted Houses and Neighbourhood Disputes

I am not a fan of haunted houses. There, I admitted it. In fact the Intrepid Junior Blogger now refuses to accompany me to anything scary because of my innate tendency to scream, cry, run, and sucker punch anyone who pops out unexpectedly. She's terrified I'll end up in jail, or, even worse, embarrass her, and so this past week when I wanted to take in Chateau Boo I found myself looking for company (because the only thing worse than a haunted house is going into one alone).

I posted on Facebook and my friend Toddske from YMMPodcast immediately said he'd join me, and then a young woman named Fiona who I met a few months ago said she didn't like haunted houses either but wanted to check it out. Toddske suggested she join us, and so it was set, the three of us headed to Dunvegan Gardens on Tuesday night to get scared.

I was pleased when at a recent municipal council meeting the decision was made to allow Chateau Boo to go ahead at Dunvegan this year. It's fairly complicated with a lot of stuff like bylaws and rewording and a neighbourhood dispute gotten ugly and apparently the involvement of solders who fought for freedom (don't ask about that bit, I don't get that either but someone opposing the holding of special events at Dunvegan brought this up). The long and short of it is that this year Chateau Boo had a home (a good thing too since it was already pretty much built by that time and the cancellation would have disappointed hundreds of children - and adults) but next year the future is uncertain as the situation on Draper Road continues to wind it's way through the the municipal administration and the court of public opinion. Regardless, this year The Boo got the green light, which is how I ended up there two nights ago.

Now, it was supposed to be Toddske and Fiona and I, but at the very final hour Toddske sent a message saying he had been "delayed at site due to accidents". I'm willing to grant this is possible but it could also be interpreted as "scared to scream like a little girl in front of two women", so you take your pick. All I know is that this left two women to face Chateau Boo alone, and two women who had already admitted to not being fans of horror.

Look, I don't even like horror movies. I watched Paranormal Activity and it made me scared to go into my laundry room alone, although the Intrepid Junior Blogger told me it was the lamest horror movie ever made (so I didn't tell her about the laundry room, although the family dog is getting really tired of being dragged in there to keep me company while I put a load in the wash). So tackling Chateau Boo was a bit like scaling Everest for me, right down to possibly needing an oxygen tank to get through it.

When we arrived at Dunvegan it was cold and dark, about 8:30, and I heard some screaming. Okay, it was some kids playing outside but it still set my teeth on edge. We walked to the entrance, opened the door, and stepped into the den of horrors.

Oh, it seemed innocuous enough on the surface, the admission guy who took our money and stamped our hands. But things got a little weird with the creepy figure at the entrance banging the baby doll against the wall. It was dark and it was a bit cold and frankly I was already horrified and I hadn't gone in yet.

After it was all over Fiona thanked me for going first, but I'm thinking maybe she misunderstood. I haven't seen a lot of horror movies but I've seen enough to know that I'm not the one who is going to be at the back of the line, as they are always the ones who are noticed missing at some point with people saying "hey, where did so-and-so go?". So-and-so ended up getting their brain eaten or some other such terror, and so while she thought I was being brave it was purely self-protection. We entered the haunted house and I went right into my "haunted house" mode.

What's that, you ask? Well, it's back to the wall, sidling along very slowly, cautiously lifting the drapes separating the rooms. It's peering carefully around corners and watching for shadows. It's being ready to run for the nearest exit, and trying to control my hands so they don't form fists and sucker punch some creature of the night that is just an actor in a suit. It's me, wearing not heels but Timberland boots, not a dress but jeans, with enough adrenalin in my system to run a marathon as if a horde of zombies were nipping at my brain.

And so we went through Chateau Boo, me in front, sidling along the walls. There were some hallways that particularly disturbed me, the white-sheeted one with bloodstains and body parts particularly making me wary. There was the werewolf character that seemed so still that I was sure it was a mannequin until I approached close enough for him to jump out at me eliciting a shrill shriek. There was the creepy baby in the crib, and all the rest. And then, just as we entered one hallway, there was a shadow on the floor. It was the shadow of hair.

Not just any hair, but clown hair. I whispered "There is a creepy clown right behind this corner", and when I turned there he was. Look, people, nobody likes clowns. I apologize if you are of the clowning-kind but frankly Stephen King ruined clowns forever, at least finishing clowns off for those of us who thought there might still be some hope for them and hadn't already been clown-traumatized. Clowns are now part of the creepy lexicon, and in fact might just be the creepiest. So, when I turned the corner and saw the clown the same words left my lips that I had been chanting since we entered Chateau Boo: "DO. NOT. LIKE." But I went into "do not like" overdrive, repeating it as we finished The Boo, left the last room, and dashed out to our respective cars. I'm pretty sure every person in Chateau Boo from the nice security people at the escape doors to the werewolf to the clown was pretty sure where I stood on things - "do not like".

And the funny thing is while I did not like the clowns and the body parts and the gore I LOVED Chateau Boo. I said good-bye to Fiona and got in my car, and sat there for a few minutes while I collected myself. I realized that I had some sort of chemical rush going on in my system, a fight-or-flight reaction that had pretty much taken over my body, and I knew I needed to calm down a bit. I had been frightened, no doubt, but in such a good way. As many of you know Chateau Boo is a fundraiser for the local Boys and Girls Club, an organization that does such amazing work in our community. They are one of the many non-profit organizations here that does so much with so little, that preserves the quality of life in this community, with staff and volunteers that give of themselves so others may benefit.They have been putting on Chateau Boo for many years now, and it has become a staple part of the local pre-Halloween scene. And I am damn proud of them all for doing it, too, even in the face of adversity and a neighbourhood dispute and all the other headaches that go along with mounting this kind of event.

I'm going to take a moment to talk about that neighbourhood dispute here, and some won't like what I have to say - but I am going to say it anyhow. One of the comments made to council about not allowing an exception for events like Chateau Boo was that it wasn't just that they didn't want it in their backyard, but that it shouldn't be in anyone's backyard - and I fundamentally disagree. If Chateau Boo wanted to set up in my backyard I would let them, because even though I am not a fan of haunted houses I am a fan of what this event does for the Boys and Girls Club. A few nights of inconvenience and shrieks and cars and people and laughter? I could deal with all that because I would be PROUD to have it be part of my neighbourhood and community. I would be delighted to be part of it in any way. I would try to put aside any animosity that had been generated by a neighbourhood dispute and I would instead delight in a community coming together with laughter and screaming and clowns. What I saw Tuesday night was not a defiant act of those who wished to disrupt a quiet little country residential neighbourhood. What I saw was not the latest salvo in a neighbourhood dispute raging out of control and threatening to rip apart the very neighbourhood it hopes to protect. What I saw was a little non-profit organization trying to raise some funds in a very fun, very scary, and very community-minded way. Others may see it differently, and they are entitled to do so, but that is what I saw. Well, all that and a clown, too.

So, Chateau Boo. Thanks for the memories, the adrenalin rush, the sleepless night, and the clown nightmare. Thanks for making me remember why haunted houses are so great, and reminding me why I shouldn't watch horror movies. Thanks for giving me a chance to look brave while actually leaving poor unsuspecting Fiona behind me so that she got eaten first should there be a zombie attack. Most of all, thanks for raising money for The Boys and Girls Club. In the end I "do not like" clowns and zombies and werewolves and neighbourhood disputes - but I really, really like Chateau Boo, and all that it stands for, too.

My sincere thanks to

The Boys and Girls Club

and all the volunteers

who made Chateau Boo a reality this year,

to Fiona for coming with me,

and to RMWB council

for allowing Chateau Boo 2012

to be a reality.

And to the creepy clown - yeah.

I still don't like you.

And I'm not sorry, either.