The Plan

"My school has lockdown shutters," she says.

"What?", I say dully. I have heard her of course, as I hear every word she says and some she likely wishes I wouldn't. My heart stopped at the word "lockdown", though, as it always does, a small knot forming in the pit of my stomach. "What?", I say again, my forkful of food interrupted halfway on its journey to my mouth.

"Lockdown shutters. You know, if there is a shooting the shutters can be activated and then the shooter can't see in or get in through the windows". She says it so casually, as if it is just another tale of her day at school, like a story about one of her classes. "We had a lockdown drill but we need to do it again, because we were too noisy. Kind of defeats the purpose if we are loud enough to let a shooter find us," - and then she laughs a little, amused at how her classmates and she failed this lockdown drill because they are a giggly group of teenagers who could never imagine they would be on the wrong end of a rifle.

I actually feel my body temperature rising, and my eyesight going a bit dark. I swallow hard. This brave new world is so beyond what I knew growing up, when no one went into schools with guns and shot children, when that sort of act was so bizarre that one couldn't even comprehend it. But for my daughter it is so much a part of a routine that it has ceased to even be unusual.

She was in a lockdown once, in Beacon Hill when a man went into a neighbouring school, bloody and saying he had been shot. All the schools in the neighbourhood locked down, and even the entire area shut down as they searched for the gunman (as I recall it was a personal dispute, and a pellet gun was involved). She was in Grade Two then, I think, and I am of course grateful that her teachers knew what to do and how - I am just beyond saddened that anyone needs this knowledge at all.

The casual way she talks of lockdown shutters and shooters hurts my heart in a way I cannot explain. It is just part of her landscape, in the same way that she doesn't remember a world before 9/11 or when terrorists were something that happened in other countries, not ours. She doesn't remember a world before Columbine, or the other school shootings that have imprinted themselves on our souls, and our society. She doesn't remember a world before cyberbullying, and teens taking their lives because they have been so tormented they don't see another way out. And sometimes I forget the generation gap, and the differences in our worlds until she makes a comment like this one and reminds of the great divide between us.

"If there was ever a shooting I'd pull a body on top of me," she continues. "I'm small, so I can hide and play dead underneath other people", she says.

I get up from the table and turn my face away so she cannot see it. I cannot tell her it's a bad idea, because it's not. I am just in such pain that she has even thought about it that I cannot look at her.

"I think I'd survive a shooting," she says. "I've got a plan."

I think it is that she has a plan that destroys my heart the most. The most precious thing in my world has a plan to survive if someone is trying to kill her. I am glad she has a plan, you see. I am just devastated that she has had to devise it at all. I don't speak as she finishes her supper, but I quietly scrape mine into the garbage, my stomach still empty but my appetite gone, and my heart and head heavy with unshed tears.

Taking a Hard Line on "Impaired Driving" in Fort McMurray

I had about ten other ideas for my blog post today. There are so many things to write about, building up inside me as I tend to the other things in my life (my job, my freelancing, my kid, my menagerie of pets, my house, my relationships with friends and family) and that get written on a note with the heading "future blog topics". But today they all got pushed aside, and not because of some "feel good" story with a happy ending - as while this story had an ending that was perhaps "just" it could have had a very different ending, too, and one which makes me tremble to even think about writing.

Yesterday morning the driver of a tractor trailer on Highway 63 was involved in a crash with another tractor trailer, plowing into the other vehicle after sliding through a stop sign. The RCMP had already been searching for this tractor trailer, as it had forced an RCMP cruiser off the road in an earlier incident, when it was passing traffic in an unsafe manner. I heard various reports of those who witnessed this semi-truck careening down the highway, and many reported close calls with a driver who seemed to be out of control. But when RCMP located the tractor trailer and the driver they found he wasn't just out of control. He was, in fact, impaired.

We have a lot of words we use for people who drive under the influence of drugs or alcohol. We call it a "DUI", in fact, or say they were "intoxicated" or "inebriated" or "impaired". We call them "drunk drivers", but I think the time has come to call them what they are. Individuals who chose to drive when they are impaired, intoxicated, inebriated, or under the influence are guilty of nothing short of attempted murder. They have made a conscious decision to have a few drinks or a few pills or a few lines, and then pick up their keys and step into a vehicle, and behind the wheel of an automobile that in their hands becomes just as deadly as a gun or a knife. They wield tons of metal as their weapon, and their potential for causing death is massive. So, let's stop letting them off the hook already and call a spade a spade.

The incident yesterday could have ended very differently. What if that tractor trailer had collided with a smaller vehicle? What would the likelihood been of their survival? What if he had created a chain reaction of accidents, where even more lives could be lost? He is being charged with impaired driving, leaving the scene of a collision, and dangerous driving but I truly think it just isn't enough. Maybe it seems draconian, but I think it's time to charge drivers like this with attempted murder - because in essence that is exactly what they have done.

I have a local friend who has gone through tremendous pain after her husband was gravely injured in a collision with a drunk driver. I have known others who have lost family members to drunk drivers. I have even sat in a courtroom once long ago and watched a family writhe in agony as the "drunk driver" walked away with some minor charges while they walked away with their beloved family member in a coffin. The inequity of it all enraged me then, and it enrages me now. We have been very lenient and understanding for a very long time, I think. We have run campaigns to reduce impaired driving, to educate on the harm of impaired driving, and we have increased the penalties for driving impaired. But clearly it just hasn't been enough, because in this province we continue to see impaired drivers taking to our streets at a worrisome rate, and they continue to impact our lives.

When I heard the story yesterday I must admit I didn't think of the driver as intoxicated or inebriated. I didn't call him a "drunk driver". When I related the story to someone else I called him an "attempted murderer", because in my mind he attempted to murder every single person who crossed the path of his tractor trailer yesterday. He made a decision to get into his vehicle, start it up, and begin driving his weapon of choice down a highway loaded with innocent men, women, and children. Perhaps it seems pretty hardline of me to look at it that way, but I am so beyond tired of stories of "impaired drivers" who kill and mangle the lives of others. Maybe it is time to take a hardline, and today I am taking it.

Impaired driving is attempted murder. That's my hard line. And while I am normally an incredibly forgiving and understanding person in this case all my forgiveness and understanding have run out. If you drive drunk or high then you are guilty of attempted murder in my books - and I don't think any of us have any reason to forgive you, either. The time for leniency? It's over, because the second you make the decision to operate a vehicle while under the influence you stopped deserving any leniency. You became a threat, and a risk, and an attempted murderer. I just hope to hell you never succeed and become guilty of actually murdering someone with your vehicle, because in my world that means the gloves come off, and you are no different than every other murderer currently sitting in our jails - and I would be quite okay with seeing you sitting in a cell beside them, too. And for me that is the very bottom line.

On the Road to Fort McMoney

I hate the title of this post, but I have no choice but to use it since that is the title chosen for what I write about today. Some of you have likely heard about this or even seen the trailer, a web documentary and online game about Fort McMurray, and the oil sands. And, like me, the title probably offended you if you happen to call this place home, just as I was upset when weeks ago the filmmakers sent me the trailer in advance, with a note saying they knew the title would bother me but that they hoped I would see past it and recognize that they remained committed to a fair and balanced portrayal of this place. And the reason they sent it to me, with the explanation for the title, is because I was part of this project, and I gave it, and the filmmakers, a great deal of my time - and my trust.

The documentary filmmakers are from Quebec, and they contacted me months ago. They sent me an email explaining they read this blog every day, as well as my work on Huffington Post Alberta, and they asked if I would agree to be involved in their film project. I agreed to meet with them - warily - and so we did, our first meeting over dinner in the bustling Earl's downtown, sharing our thoughts over food, and occasionally laughing over struggles with language as while they spoke English well some phrases or words would escape them and we would have to work to recapture them so we could communicate clearly.

They told me they came here with the intent to spend a great deal of time and effort, and to interview a wide variety of people. They told me they came to tell the real story of Fort McMurray, the good and the bad, and all the things in between. And I was very candid with them, and I shared with them my story of life here, my excitement over our triumphs and successes, and my concerns over our issues. I trusted them, you see, knowing that there was a risk but also knowing that I had to do it despite any risk. And why?

Because others will tell our stories whether we speak to them or not. At least if we speak to them and share the stories of our life here we have some chance of influencing their opinion and the tale they tell - or, as someone said to me recently, "you miss 100% of the shots you don't take" - and so, despite the risk, I knew I had to take a shot.

And so I did, filming with them not one but at least three times, in different places, and finally culminating with an interview in a downtown hotel room. I had been very ill for days when the time for that interview came, and I was filled with trepidation by that point as the intensity of the project was becoming more clear to me. I was still unwell when I sat down with the three of them, and they turned on the lights and the camera.

I will be honest. It was a difficult interview, and while it covered things we had discussed questions were asked that we had not discussed, too. I felt I was being challenged to defend my community and my love for this place, and I suspect there are moments in the interview when my face likely betrayed the anger within, but I finished the interview. I recall very clearly going down to my car, climbing in, and calling a friend while crying, so angry and exhausted by the experience, upset enough that my friend was quite ready to confront the filmmakers and demand they hand over the footage and revoke my consent. But when I calmed down I explained that maybe the anger and tears were a good thing, because maybe that confrontation was what I needed. Maybe I had needed to confront those questions about pages of escorts ads in our phone book (not a section I've ever looked at, actually), and kits ensuring clean urine tests for those in our community who wish to hide usage of drugs. Maybe I needed to feel that hot flash of anger, and maybe that was the catharsis I needed, because I had been directly called on to defend my community - and so I did.

When I viewed the trailer weeks ago I did so with mounting concern. I heard my voice - and I know my voice well enough to recognize a tinge of anger - saying that we are more than money, more than oil, and that we are a community, and I saw my face at a Christmas event, glass of wine in hand, my braying donkey laugh (and no one hates that laugh more than me) interposed with a voice-over about oil barons and their lackeys (and to be clear I am neither oil baron nor lackey, so that juxtaposition upset me for days). I viewed the trailer with a fairly new sentiment for the most part, though - detachment.

You see, we cannot dictate what others will say about us, or what stories they will tell. I do not hope this documentary is a whitewash, portraying us as some utopia, as that is no more honest than one calling us the darkest heart of Mordor. I hope for a fair portrayal that shows our good and our bad, our successes and our failures, our bright spots and dark moments, because that is reality. I suppose I hope for the best, and am ready for the worst.

I did not participate in this project for personal gain, as I earned absolutely nothing from it, and as the potential risk far outweighed any possible gain. I did not participate to be seen on screen around the world, as may happen as it seems this little documentary project will be seen in many countries (and I am already troubled that my braying laugh may now define me). I participated because you lose one hundred percent of the shots you do not take, and I knew that I had to take a shot at sharing my story of life here because it was the only chance I had to influence the outcome of this project in some way. I await the finished product with a mixture of feelings, and I do not know how I will feel when I see it. I do know this, though: this is my home, it is Fort McMurray, and this is the first, and last, time I will call it "Fort McMoney". And while I will never again call it Fort McMoney there is something I will always and forever do - I will take whatever shot I need to take at telling my story of life here, and sharing with others the incredible community we are building - even if, in the end, I miss, because I would rather miss than have never taken a chance at all. I think I owe this place that much, and quite likely far more, because it has given me so very much. Now it is my turn to give back to it, even if it makes me cry in the process. I would say those are tears well spent, and I don't regret them for a heartbeat.

Fort McMoney

 

 

Connecting with the Intrepid Junior Blogger

I am your usual mom - insanely proud of my kid, and protective as a bear. I recognize we are all proud of our kids, and justifiably so - but in some sense I do think we know when our child has a talent or a gift, and our pride is thus not only natural but very well placed. I was reminded of this recently when the Intrepid Junior Blogger sent me a story she had written.

The IJB loves to write, but she hates to write non-fiction like I do. She prefers to write tales of mythology and lore, filled with mysterious creatures and characters. This time, however, her Language Arts teacher presented her class with a challenge - to write a "real life" story, no zombies or werewolves, no dragons or orcs. The IJB was flummoxed for a bit as "real life" stories are dull in her view, far too close to what we do every day and far too lacking in imagination. But she decided to write what she knows, and when she sent me the end result I was amazed.

I submitted the story for publication in a local magazine, and when I learned this week that it had been rejected by the guest editor I was mildly disappointed for the IJB but also pleased, as it meant that I could share it here. I don't have an issue with the rejection, incidentally, as they may have simply felt it did not fit with the theme of this issue, and since it is a blind process they could have no way of knowing it was written not by an adult but by a 14-year old young woman who already writes better than many adults two or three times her age.

I will be very honest. I think her talent easily rivals any that I have, and I believe with time and experience it will quickly overshadow my own, and I could not be happier as I think all parents want to see our children be even more than we are or could ever be. She has set the story in a small town in Ireland where we spent some time three years ago, and it clearly has impacted her deeply as she has captured the setting beautifully, including the glorious Rock of Cashel, a centuries old Irish castle that looms over the town, up on a hill and bathed at night in soft amber lights. The cafe in the story is inspired by a cafe we found in another Irish town called Kinsale, where we stopped one day for a hot chocolate that it seems will forever live in her memories of her time in Ireland.

This is the Intrepid Junior Blogger's story. I have not edited or changed a thing, because I didn't need to. I share it, I suppose, because on occasion we can all use something that is a bit of "real life" but not so real as to be mundane. There are no zombies or orcs in this, but there is something better, I think. There is a great deal of imagination, a lot of natural talent, and the soul of a young woman who observes the world quietly but closely. I present to you:

Connection

 I sat in my bed, hunched over the glowing screen of my MacBook Pro with my auburn bangs hanging in my face. A warm breath of midsummer air blew through my room, as I flipped effortlessly through my tabs. First I checked my Twitter mentions, finding only a spambot advertising ‘free followers fast!’ I rolled my eyes and reported for spam.

Next I checked YouTube and saw the new A-pop music video from Gunnarolla I had been waiting for. I clicked the link and while the video loaded I poked my head out the open window beside my bed, looking out over the familiar Irish landscape. For a minute, I admired the dark fields before me. Leaning back in, I saw that the video was done loading so I hit play. To my distress, the page, as well as all of my tabs, had suddenly gone blank.

I frantically checked each tab and tried refreshing the pages, all to no avail. I then noticed that my Wi-Fi signal was gone. I reached for the lamp on my bedside table and flicked the switch on it, only for nothing to happen. Uh-oh. Must be a power outage.

After grabbing the red lantern flashlight off my bedside table, I walked down the hall to the family room. Shining the light onto the wifi router on the table, I saw that all the little lights that usually blink randomly were off. I flipped the light switch experimentally. Nada. With a sigh I walked back to my room. Thinking over my options, I saw only two. I could wait out the outage, but who knows how long that could take. Or, I could head to the nearest town and go to the café there. They have wifi.

Back in my room, I prepared for my expedition. I changed out of my pajamas into jeans and a black Marilyn Manson t-shirt, with a purple zip-up hoodie on top. I quickly brushed my hair and laced up my pair of black Dr. Martens, before grabbing my navy blue backpack. I tossed in my laptop and its charging cable. I snuck downstairs and grabbed a couple cans of coke out of the fridge, throwing those in as well as a couple of chocolate bars from my candy stash. Lastly I threw my wallet into the bag and clipped the flashlight onto my belt.

I left out the front door and locked it behind me, figuring out the quickest route to Cashel in my head. If I just followed the road for a while and then crossed a few fields, I could be there nice and quick. I nodded and set off.

I walked along the side of the small, one-land country road, with squat and worn down stone walls on either side. The moon illuminated the long, winding stretch of road and the fields around it. I wouldn’t have to use my flashlight, at least not yet.

After following the road for a while, I came to a large field, filled with sheep. A hill stretched up beyond that, crowned with a crumbling stone watchtower. Once I had slipped through the fence I trekked across the long field, stepping around a sleeping ball of wool every now and then. Stopping at the base of the rather intimidating hill, I shifted my backpack and began to climb.

Finally reaching the apex of the hill, I turned and looked back at the land I had already crossed. In the distance I could see my house. I walked over to the ancient tower and sat on a large rock, pulling a can of coke out of my bag and popping open the lid. I took a swig of the sweet ichor within, and admired the gorgeous landscape before me.

Once I had emptied the can, I crushed it under my foot and tossed it into the rubble at the base of the tower. I peered around and saw the Rock of Cashel atop another hill, and the lights of the town just beyond it. I was so close! Now only a field and a small creek lay between my precious wifi and I. I began down the hill, a slight bounce in my step.

I reached another fence, this one taller and metal. I swung over the bars with ease as the moon slid behind a bank of clouds, plunging the world into darkness.

Swearing under my breath, I fumbled for the flashlight at my belt. At last I wrapped my hand around the handle and clicked the power button twice. It quickly turned on and switched to flashlight mode, then lantern mode. I sighed in relief as a glowing ring of light surrounded me, creating my own personal bubble of brightness. Continuing across the field cautiously, I headed towards the light of the town.

After walking for a while, I would’ve guessed I was about halfway there, I stopped and took the time to enjoy one of the chocolate bars I had packed. It was a cookies and cream bar, and it was very good. I speedily polished off the bar, then pushed to my feet and started on again. As I walked, I kept thinking I heard movement behind me. There couldn’t be anything back there, right? I hadn’t seen anything in this field. I mean, at least not yet. I nervously glanced behind my every now and then though, just in case.

I reached the creek at last, and I hadn’t heard anything from behind me in a while. Hopefully, I was in the clear. Looking up and down the burbling stream, I saw a path of stones weaving across. I took a breath, and easily hopped across via the partially submerged rocks.

I had only walked a couple metres away when I heard splashing behind me. I whipped around and gasped when I saw the massive black bull wading through the water. We stared at each other for a minute. Then his nostrils flared and he charged. I’ve never run faster in my life.

Feet pounding against the dirt. Breathe in. Breathe out. I was terrified, and all I could do was run from the massive brute bearing down on me. I saw a metal fence ahead, just at the base of the hill leading up to the Rock of Cashel. I vaulted over the fence and ran to town, not stopping until I reached the café.

Walking in, I was greeted by the friendly “We have wifi!” sign and the smell of fresh baking. I ordered a hot chocolate and a cinnamon bun, taking my usual seat just as the sun rose. Pulling out my laptop and hitting the power button, I listened to the familiar start-up tone with a smile.

It was all worth it.

Social Media Free-for-All

Social media is an incredible thing. It is no secret I am a huge fan of social media, as I love the dialogue and how it connects us. It allows us to expand our world, and interact with people we would likely otherwise never meet. And, as I have blogged about recently, it is tremendously popular in Fort McMurray, with a huge number of people using Facebook and Twitter to connect, to debate, to socialize, and to network. Social media is such a free and easy exchange of thoughts and ideas, and at times it seems it has no rules, a free for all of "come one, come all" opinions and statements...except that it isn't, and right here in our community it is time to recognize social media usage comes with responsibility, including legal liability for the things said on it.

When I first began this blog I spoke to a lawyer. We discussed terms like libel and defamation, and we discussed how things I say on this blog, or comments posted, could conceivably be used in a court of law. We discussed the parameters, and we talked about responsibility, including using Facebook or Twitter to promote this blog, and how those social media forums are also open to lawsuits. And I suppose my caution in this regard is why I have been watching with mounting horror as individuals take to the local social media outlets and begin posting things that could land them in some serious, serious, legal predicaments.

The reality is this: the law is setting precedent in regard to social media right now. Social media has not been around long enough for much precedent, and so cases currently being tried are setting those standards. And the other reality is people are being sued for comments made on social media, just as people in the past were sued over comments made in newspapers and magazines. This might be "new media" but the growing trend seems to be that the old rules regarding libel and defamation still apply.

And maybe you are thinking that your account is anonymous and so you have nothing to fear...except that social media providers are being sued themselves to force them to hand over information identifying users so lawsuits of this nature can be pursued. Even those who are "anonymous" aren't nearly as anonymous as they might think, and often those who use fake names or identities put enough "real life" information in their tweets to be tracked down by sleuths intent on uncovering their identities. Anonymity is not exactly the foil some would hope it to be, and neither is the good ol' delete button.

Look, there is no such thing as erasing something on the internet once you've put it there. It has been archived somewhere, or someone has taken a lovely screenshot of it. Once it is out there it is out there, and perhaps that is why I am so horrified when I see people exhibiting such poor judgment and posting things that are defamatory and can affect someone's livelihood or reputation.

Perhaps you think these types of lawsuits rarely succeed, and it is true many are dismissed - after a lot of sleepless nights and hours spent with lawyers, time most of us would probably rather spend elsewhere (like getting a root canal, perhaps). At the end of the day that little tweet of 140 characters could cost you big in terms of money, trouble, time, and grief - so why do people continue to act as if there are no consequences?

I don't really know the answer to that, but I do know that it is only a matter of time before someone is sued locally for libel, as I am seeing a rise in the numbers of comments that are outright defamatory and most likely actionable. Social media is not some free-for-all wild west where anything goes, and if you wouldn't say it to someone's face (and even if you would sometimes) you probably shouldn't be typing it out and hitting "post" or "tweet". Maybe you should consider every single thing you say online as permanent, and as potentially coming straight back at you, as can and does happen.

And there are likely those who may reply that social media should be a free-for-all where anything goes and we are free to say anything we want, "freedom of speech" they cry - except that this is the real world, not some fantasy where that is actually true. My final thought is this: If you post it or tweet it be ready to own it, and accept that whatever fallout occurs is yours alone to deal with. Remember that precedent with social media and libel suits is currently being set. You don't really want to be the local test case, do you?

Following the Fox in Fort McMurray

When I looked up and saw it I was completely thunderstruck. That isn't a word I use lightly, or often, but the serendipity of it all left me dumbstruck. It looked down at me from the wall of the art gallery, and the expression on the clever little face said "follow me". It was a photograph of a small red fox, and the instant I saw it I knew I must own it.

A couple of years ago I met someone at a local conference. We were dinner companions, and while at first it may seem we didn't have much in common we found something that night that has keep us in touch ever since. He is an aboriginal elder, with a life experience very different from my own, but that evening in our conversation we connected over talk of community, and making a difference, and our lives. He sent me a message later saying that he believed the Creator had sent me into his life at just that time to remind him that there were those who wanted to hear and tell the stories of those who did not have the means to tell their own tales. I am not a religious person, and nor would I even consider myself spiritual, but somehow his arrival in my life came at the exact right time for me, too, and so I cannot discount the hand of the Creator in bringing us together.

He and I have kept in touch over the years, including recently when I was working on a small project at work that is both a public art project and art program. My friend has an uncanny way of showing up exactly when he is needed, and so it has been this time when I needed his advice and thoughts as I worked on a project centred on a creature synonymous with this region - the red fox.

When the documents about this project crossed my desk I was intrigued. Something about it captured me completely, as the red fox seems such a perfect creature for this place, a resilient and stubborn little animal that learns to adapt to every environment, clever and innovative and so persistent. I was delighted to take this project under my wing a bit, and to write about it so the community could learn a bit more.

The project was recently unveiled at the State of the Island gala at MacDonald Island Park, where I now work, and the name of the project - and the little red fox at the centre of it - was revealed that night. The Miquwahkesis Project came to life when guests at the gala saw the bronze fox statue that forms the basis of the project, and an artist painting the first of several fibreglass foxes that will be installed around the still-in-development Interpretive Trail on the Island. That little fox, and the project, were named through a collective and collaborative naming process with the community, and so the project - and Mihko, the red fox, were born.

Miquwahkesis is very simply "red fox" in Cree, and Mihko is Cree for "red". And this is where my dear aboriginal friend came into play, as I relied on him for assistance with pronunciation of these words, and for a better understanding of the role the fox plays in aboriginal legend and tradition. I researched the fox for weeks, learning that the fox is revered in every country where he appears, and almost always playing an integral part in their legends. I discovered that in Finland the northern lights that appear there are named "revontulet", or "fox fires", and that they have traditionally believed that the northern lights are created by fox tails brushing up against the vast northern skies. I became so close to the fox, and it was becoming such a part of my life when I noticed something. I was seeing foxes everywhere.

Now, I have always seen fox here, but this was unusual. Suddenly I was seeing foxes on a daily basis, and in the most unexpected places. The parking lot at a local high school, and then another one behind a grocery store. On my street, and behind my house. At work, on my way to work, coming home from work, on weekends and on holidays. And even in other things, fox prints on scarves and on mittens, and then even a pop song that asked "What Does the Fox Say?".

One day I was on the phone with my aboriginal friend and I told him about all the foxes I was seeing, and how it seemed like a flood of foxes, a deluge of small furry red creatures, and what an odd coincidence it was. My friend laughed, and then he said, "The Creator sends us signs, but we don't always listen to them. Maybe you are supposed to follow the fox".

After I hung up the phone with him I thought a great deal about that statement. My friend does not and has never suggested I should revisit my relationship with the Creator, but he has said time and time again that the Creator speaks to us in ways we may not always understand. And while I am not religious or even spiritual I began to think that perhaps there was indeed something going on with this whole fox thing, and that the fox wasn't in my life by accident. I thought about my life in the last year, and how I have undergone such tremendous change, including going through some deeply challenging days. I thought about the red fox, that resourceful little creature that has found a way to adapt, a way to blend in, and a way to just keep going when its very habitat was disappearing. And I realized that just maybe he was right, and I needed to follow the fox. Maybe that little red fox was really just a metaphor for my heart, and I needed to stop and listen to see where he was going. Maybe Mihko was supposed to be my guide to help me find my way, and navigate my brave new world where so much has changed, just as his world has changed.

So you see when I was in the art gallery where I work and walked down that long hallway and saw the photograph I was thunderstruck. The photo, by a local photographer, music teacher, and artist named Erin Stinson, sang to me in a way I didn't really understand but that I knew in my heart I had to follow. So I contacted Erin and asked if it was for sale. I was genuinely relieved when she said it was, as I knew otherwise I would need to beg to buy it, because I knew I had to have it, and I knew exactly where I would hang it.

The fox, who I have dubbed Mihko, now hangs in my bedroom and directly across from my bed. Admittedly few people will see it there, but that isn't really the point. You see, I installed it in a place where I will see it every night when I go to sleep, and every morning when I wake up. I put it in a place where it watches over me. I put it in a place where it will remind me, every single day, to listen to my inner voice, find my hidden strength, focus my heart, and follow the fox.

I end this story with what happened this morning. I woke up early, thanks to the time change. I woke up feeling better than I have in days, especially after having been ill for the last two days, and enjoying that time after you have been sick and start to feel better again (it's a bit like coming back to life, I think, and one of my favourite feelings). I decided to head out early, before the Intrepid Junior Blogger awoke, in order to find a cup of coffee and some groceries. I hopped into my car and began to head downtown, and while driving down Thickwood Boulevard I looked to my right and there he was, a small red fox loping alongside the road, and finally diving into the forest. I don't entirely know where Mihko was going, you see, or where he will lead me - but I know that today, and in the future, I will follow him. I have finally learned to follow the fox.

"On Watch"

photography on brushed aluminum

Erin Stinson

Adjusting Expectations in Fort McMurray

I think we have a problem in this community. Actually, I recognize that we have a few problems, but I have identified a couple recently that have a lot to do with expectations. The trouble with expectations, of course, is that the higher they are the tougher it is to meet them, and the more chance for disappointment. I think we have some very high expectations in some cases, and while some are reasonable others might be so high as to be setting ourselves up for disappointment - and both centre around traffic.

The other day I was speaking to someone who was complaining bitterly about traffic delays. Now, don't get me wrong, as I do it too, and I am always and forever finding myself caught on the wrong side of the bridge (I have absolutely abysmal luck in this regard - if there is an accident, a large load, or a road closure I am invariably on the wrong side of it). I get stuck in traffic all the time, whiling away my time by singing out loud or listening to the radio or having conversations in my car where I present both sides of an argument (ah, my good ol' debate days coming to the front again, I guess). And while some of these delays are avoidable, and some are worthy of frustration and anger, many are related to the sheer volume of vehicles now on our roads. And that is why when the person I was speaking to said "well, it wasn't like this 15 years ago" I laughed.

I mean I actually laughed, snorted in fact, because I found it so startlingly funny. They are no doubt right, of course, as I am certain traffic wasn't like this over a decade ago, as I have been here for 12 years and it wasn't like this when I arrived, either. But if you are expecting traffic woes to be the same as they were 15 years ago I think you are setting yourself up for bitter disappointment, as 15 years here are probably like 45 years anywhere else.

Fifteen years ago entire neighbourhoods, schools, and roads didn't exist. And while other cities experience growth it is usually at a slow and steady pace, while here it is more like I once described to a visitor: "growth on steroids". It is hyper-growth, and our infrastructure struggles to keep up, and even while we build new roads and open them we are welcoming even more growth.

I see glimmers now and then, when new lanes open up crossing the bridge, for instance, of how things will flow when finished - but for a bit I think we need to exercise some patience, reserve our righteous indignation for those occasions that truly deserve it, and never expect this place to be like it was fifteen, ten, or even five years ago.

And this all brings me to my second point about adjusting some of our expectations. This one centres on traffic too, but also on social media, that double-edged sword. Social media is a terrific tool, but I think at times it has created a false sense of entitlement.

I recall once when a friend complained about the Facebook response time from a small-ish retail company. He was bemoaning that it took them almost 36 hours to reply to a message he sent them about a website order glitch, and he was both incredulous and indignant about it. When I asked what time he had sent his message he replied: "About 2 am on Christmas Eve, can you believe it took them over 36 hours to reply to me?".

I was not only bemused, but intrigued. I asked him if he realized real people run social media accounts, and if he understood that those people are not normally dedicated solely to social media (except perhaps in large corporations) but rather handle a wide spectrum of company communications. And I suggested that given those facts did he not think a 36-hour response was rather reasonable, given that it was a holiday and even those who run social media might conceivably be celebrating with their family? He told me he hadn't really thought of it that way as he had become accustomed to instant responses, and then we talked about how in the "old days" you could send an email and wait for days for a reply, and in even "older days" you sent a letter and waited for weeks.

I was reminded of that story this week when someone on Twitter seemed a bit annoyed that Alberta Transportation only seems to reply to their Twitter messages during certain hours. I was bemused once again, and while it would be nice if they could respond to us instantly, the reality is they deal with the entire province in terms of traffic and communication, and they too are "real people". I doubt they have employees devoted solely to social media (or solely to complaints from our region), and if they did I would wonder if that was an effective use of our tax dollars. I suggested once again that perhaps we have a sense of false entitlement to instant replies and immediate solutions, as we have become so "spoiled" by social media and the instant gratification it offers. Once again I think having that expectation sets us up for disappointment, because we are expecting things that just may not be realistic.

So, there you have my November 1 thoughts on adjusting some of our expectations in Fort McMurray. I think having expectations is important, because I believe we are reasonable to expect a certain standard in some regards - but I also believe we need to manage our expectations to avoid disappointment and unnecessary anger. I think on occasion it is wise to revisit our expectations and even scale them back a bit, so we are not expecting the traffic to be like it was 15 years ago, or instantaneous replies to our queries on form of engagement that didn't even exist until recently. I must admit I have begun looking at my own expectations, an "expectations audit" if you will, and plan to adjust them if necessary. Perhaps it is time for all of us to do the same.