2011 in photos

One of my New Year's Resolutions was to write more. You can see how that's going. January 15 and this is my first post since October. Although I have been to the gym every day since the New Year. So give me a freakin' break. 

2011 was a good year for me. Here's my annual year in review shown in photographs. 

Happy New Year. See you soon (I promise!) 

Soundtrack is Good Life by One Republic.


2011 in photos from Kate McLaren on Vimeo.

Perfection

Learning to appreciate the beauty in the simple things is probably the most important lesson I've learned from writing these posts. I was inspired (yet again) by this poem by Tony Hoagland. How can something so simple be so beautiful? Here's an account of the first 5 minutes of my day today - as close to perfect as it gets.

I wake up, stretch. Panic for a split second because it's light out and it shouldn't be light out yet and oh my god I'm late for work I've slept in I'll be fired or at least I won't be the first one in the office and then everyone will know I'm not really all that hardcore I'm just a big phony who sleeps 'till it's light out.

Realize it's Saturday. BEST. FEELING. EVER. I almost say "yessss!" out loud but stop myself because I'm not the only one relishing this perfect Saturday morning. The light snores coming from the other side of the bed don't bother me, but make me feel comforted and cozy.

Outside, frost covers the cars, sticks to every blade of grass. We are slowly being prepared for the long, wicked winter that hovers just around the corner. Right now, though, I'm not thinking about the frost or the cold air. I'm still warm and cozy in bed remember, the heat of the computer on my lap and the duvet creating a combination that makes me never want to leave. And I don't have to. Because it's Saturday.

The beauty of having absolutely no plans makes me feel so free. I will most likely get up, see my sister who is visiting for the weekend. I might take a drive to the lake to see my Dad. It's mornings like this I miss him, and think about him a lot. I wonder if I would appreciate this quiet Saturday morning as much if I didn't have someone sleeping peacefully beside me.

Yeah, I'll get out of this bed eventually. Pull on my jeans, open the door, face the bright world outside. Make coffee, maybe have some toast. Look out the window and say "Oh my god, look at the frost, isn't that terrible. Winter is coming." But deep down, I'm not dreading it. Because I know winter means many more mornings like this, curled up and warm, reading poetry and listening to nothing at all.  

The heat kicks in, the whoosh of the furnace adds some life to the otherwise hushed apartment.

I know my life won't always be like this. Eventually - likely sooner than later - it will get hectic, responsibilities will grow, kids will shatter the silence of a weekend morning (in the best way possible.) Saturday will take on a whole new meaning, and I'll have a whole new reason to look forward to it. 

But for now, I think I'll stay right here. Curled up in a warm bed, warm air tickling my face, fall morning light hitting the curtains, not a worry in the world.

An absolutely perfect Saturday morning. (Coffee would be nice, but I'll take what I can get.)

Ten years

I remember exactly where I was on September 11, 2001. It was the beginning of my Grade 13 year of highschool. I was sitting in the cafeteria with my friend Franny. We were probably studying. Or sharing a giant chocolate chip cookie and talking about the weekend, our hair, our crushes. 

I remember my friends Nick and Danny coming in, saying "this is crazy." Franny and I had no idea what they were talking about. I didn't wrap my head around the hugeness of it until I went home for lunch later and turned on the news. That's when I saw footage of the second jet hitting the South tower. I remember putting my hands over my mouth in shock. Saying "oh my god" out loud, even though I was alone.

I remember being in class that afternoon. My teacher said "this is going to be in the history books." He brought a TV into class so we could watch.

"You guys are watching history in the making," he said. The usually-energetic classroom was so quiet. Even though we lived far away from the horrible scene, we watched, wide-eyed. I didn't know anyone who lived in New York, but people were talking about a possible attack on the CN Tower in Toronto.

Ground Zero, 2008

I remember going to see my Nana after school. She was getting older, and needed to be checked on by my dad, my sister and I every day. Even though she was often confused, that day, she was glued to the TV like everyone else. When I walked in, she looked at me for a second, then back at the news. 
"This is the beginning of World War III," she said. "This is bad. This is just the beginning of something big." 

A few days later, Nana had a stroke. She never woke up. 

In 2008, seven years after that terrifying day, I visited New York city with three girlfriends. The City of Lights was alive with excitement. We stayed in Times Square, where the air crackled with energy. There were people everywhere, car horns blazing every second. The people of New York had begun to recover. Life had returned to Manhattan.

We walked to Ground Zero one morning. There, it was a different story. The spot where the Twin Towers had once stood was now a huge hole, surrounded by construction fencing. Unlike the air in Times Square, the air in Ground Zero did not crackle. It was so quiet. Sacred ground.

We went into a church across the street. Despite the explosions and massive amounts of debris, the church stood unharmed. This is where emergency workers stayed in the weeks following the attacks. It's now been converted into a makeshift memorial.

Ten years later, people have moved on. The rebuilding continues. But for people who were there on that day, people who ran from the dust clouds, who lost loved ones, for people across America and the world, one fall day in 2001 will never be the same. The words September 11th now hold a shared sadness for people everywhere.

Today, as the sun shines, the blue sky sparkles, and the wind whispers through the changing leaves, I think back to that day in 2001. Everyone has a story about where they were. How they heard.

My teacher was right. We were experiencing possibly the biggest moment in history many of us would ever see. It's still hard to understand why it happened. To imagine how scared those people felt as they sat at their desks and watched a 747 fly toward them.

Hard to understand, to imagine. Impossible to forget.

Judging by the stories told today, and over the last 10 years, we never will.

Thank you

I'm embarrassed to be writing this, seeing as the last time I did anything to this website there was clearly still snow on the ground and no leaves on the trees. A fact I documented with a photograph and uploaded, as to let everyone know how much of a lazy and uninterested writer blogger I am.


"You see this here picture? The one of the beautiful winter sunset? It's all you're going to see on here for the next six months while I frolic in the strawberry fields and eat bonbons, all the while laughing at my (six) readers who are stuck in a mid-April winter evening. ENJOY."


Anyway, wow. Tangent! All of that to say I'm sorry I haven't been more involved. LET'S HUG IT OUT, BITCHES.


A large majority of my time the past couple of weeks has been spent organizing a fundraiser for the media's Relay for Life team. Relay for Life is an all-night relay that raises money for the Canadian Cancer Society. Basically a full 12 hours of taking turns walking around a track, listening to amazing survival stories, helping to fund cancer research. It's a super empowering event, so when I was invited to participate with the media team, I jumped at the chance.


Then I found out each team member had to raise $100. I started having flashbacks to grade school, when, walking up the neighbors' driveways (with Girl Guide cookies, chocolate bars, pledge forms, or car wash flyers in hand) I'd hear the front door close ever-so softly and an almost inaudible whisper.


"Here she comes again," they would hiss. "And she has sausages this time. Didn't we just buy an entire collection of encyclopedias from her? HIDE."

So, when I heard about the mandatory $100 (which, really isn't a lot, especially when it's for cancer research,) I said "Hey, why don't we just have a fundraiser and raise all of the money from that, and then we won't have to ask our friends and family for money and then people will still like us and we'll be the local heroes who raised the most money in history with our totally innovative and awesome event!" (When I aim, I aim high.)


Word to the wise: if you ever have a thought like this, just raise the money. Ask your family and friends to sponsor you. THAT'S WHAT THEY'RE THERE FOR.


We got to work (and really, I never realized how much work it would be) organizing our fundraiser, an "Arcade Night" at a local indoor golf centre, where people could play video games and win prizes. We only had two weeks to organize (WHAT? Media people, waiting until the last minute, barely squeaking by under deadline? UNHEARD OF.) so naturally, I was a fast-talking, list-making, bossy Tasmanian devil the ENTIRE time.

But it was so worth it. 


Looking around Friday night, as our friends and colleagues (and even people we didn't know) played games, laughed, and filled our brown manila envelope with cash, I felt like a proud mama. We'd done it. It had worked.


During the organization of the fundraiser, we hit up many local businesses for cash and prize donations. While we prepared ourselves for the word "no", (and I found myself checking under the cracks of front doors for stealthy feet shadows,) it never came. Virtually, everyone said yes.


My co-organizer Amanda and I were shopping for last-minute snacks (donated by a local grocery store,) and saw a businessman we work with on a regular basis. He asked what we were doing with all those bags of chips (trying to hide the look of horror on his face,) and we told him about our fundraiser. He pulled a $50 bill from his pocket and handed it to us on the spot.


Even an hour before the event, I ran into a local politician at the hardware store. He too pulled out his wallet and asked "what do you need?" 


People came, made extra donations, bought slices of (donated) pizza, played our games. Even people who couldn't make it bought tickets to support us.


Although I write about fundraising events and take pictures of cheque presentations on an almost-daily basis, I've never experienced generosity so directly as I did last night. I work in the news industry, so yes, I know bad things happen every day (I'm STILL not over the Jennifer Aniston/Brad Pitt breakup. If they can't make it work I may as well go out and buy 18 cats now.) but I also know that most people have good, kind, warm hearts.

 As a team, we raised a couple thousand dollars for the Canadian Cancer Society. But personally, this event helped me too. It made me feel so lucky to live in a place where people are willing to empty their pockets just to make fools of themselves dancing around in front of a video game screen, and act absolutely ecstatic when they win a Fridge Tamer. All because they know there are people out there, most of them complete strangers, who are sick, who are dying, who are fighting for their lives right at this very moment, and who need their help.

It's these awesome people who make life so beautiful. Who make the world so wonderful.


What I'm trying to say, I guess, with this uber-wordy, emotional (albeit humourous and well-written) soliloquy is this:


To everyone who supported us, from our sponsors, to the participants, to our fellow team members, who withstood various "How are ticket sales going?" and "Who can help us move this giant prize with their big, strong manly truck" emails:


The sincerest THANK YOU.

You guys rock (both literally - I saw you handling those Rock Band drums - and at life in general.)

Twilight at Nellie Lake

Something I recently learned: that time of night, when it's almost dark but there's still a little light in the sky and the world sky is alive with colour? It's called twilight. 

I could have sworn it was called "the part of the night that makes you wanna grab a glass of wine and a partner and get to business." 

Whatever you want to call it, it's my favorite time of day at the lake.  

One of the things I'll miss the most. 

The original moose man

Even as young kids, my sister and I never hesitated to make fun of my dad. Many cheesy jokes and one-liners were met with eye-rolls and groans.  

My dad's always been an outdoors man, a conservationist. While he hunted, I think it pained him sometimes to kill an animal. 

Growing up, moose were always presented as majestic, sacred, almost magical creatures. This has been ingrained into Gilly and I since an early age. Dad loved moose. He loved watching them on TV, he loved reading about them. When the urge hit him, what he loved most though, was tracking them.  

I remember one particular family trip when dad spotted a cow moose and two calves on the side of the road. 

"LOOKITTHEMOOSE!" he said, hitting the brakes.  

After pulling to the side of the road, he got out of the car and proceeded down the ditch.  

"Mom, what's he doing?" I asked, fear in my voice.  

My mom rolled down the window.  

"Bill!" she hissed, not wanting to scare the moose further into the bush. "Get back here!"  

Ever the limit-pusher, Dad walked toward the moose. The cow stood her ground. The hair on the back of her neck went up. Dad turned around and quickly crossed the ditch, walked back to the car, as three wide-eyed faces stared at him from the window.  

"That was somethin', eh guys?!" he said, his excitement filling the stuffy car.  

Gill and I (and my mom, I'm assuming, though I could only see the back of her head from the back seat,) rolled our eyes. 

One summer day, driving out to the cottage, my sister, Dad and I came across a calf moose trotting down the side of the lake road. Barely bigger than a Great Dane. When the calf saw our truck rounding the corner, it crossed the road into one of the cottage yards on the lake. 

Dad pulled a U-turn, and followed the calf down a driveway. The neighbors were sitting on their deck, having a drink.  

Dad got out of the truck. Gilly and I lowered ourselves onto the seat, trying to be as invisible as possible.  

"Have you seen a calf moose run through here?" he asked. 

"Like it's his moose," Gill said under her breath. I stifled a giggle. 

"Actually, yeah. We just did," said the neighbor, pointing. "It went into the bush there."

Dad got back into the truck. Gill and I looked at each other. Rolled our eyes.  

"Ok girls, let's go get into the canoe. If my estimations are right, that calf is just the other side of Freeman's Bay now." 

So off we paddled, the three of us, in the canoe, in search of Dad's calf.  

We never did spot it, but this adventure gave Gill and I some good teasing ammunition for a few years. 

This morning, I went for a walk on the Farm with my Dad. He had seen a cow and calf moose on the highway recently, and "if his estimations were right," they'd be roaming around his farm today.  

Without fail, there they were. Super-fresh moose tracks cutting right across the walking trail and into the bush.  

"They were just here," my Dad said, bending down to examine the tracks. "Chances are, we scared them off when we got out of the truck."  

Without hesitating, I stepped off the trail and into the bush, expecting to sink to my knees in snow. The thick crust stayed strong, holding my weight. I looked at Dad.  

"Let's follow it," I said. No eye-rolling. No groans. Just the excitement of being that close to a moose. I could feel her near me. (Ok, I know what you're thinking. Get a grip. It's a moose. But you don't understand. These are the creatures we'd chased in a canoe, received dozens of lessons about, watched countless TV specials on. And I was SO close.) 

The tracks led us over a farmer's fence, through dense bush. Not a word was spoken. Well, except when I peed on my pants in an attempt to squat over a fallen log. And when I expressed my amazement that "LOOK! Moose poop DOES really look like chocolate-covered almonds! WHADDYA KNOW!" Also, that one time crossing over a beaver pond when Dad told me exactly where not to walk and I walked there anyways? That "sploosh" you heard may or may not have been my leg breaking through the ice into the swamp water. MY BAD.

I didn't even notice how long we'd been walking. Following. Tracking. Didn't notice whether or not I was cold. We were on a mission, dang-it, and I was going to see moose.  

The payoff was excellent.  

OK. So this last part didn't happen. But wouldn't that have been a totally AMAZEBALLS way to end this post? If you're thinking that's just a random picture of a cow and calf stolen borrowed from the Internet, you're absolutely right. GUILTY!  

But really, it didn't matter that the morning didn't end with us spotting the (quite elusive, as I'm finding out) animals. Betcha think I'm about to get all sappy and say it was the bonding experience with my Dad that really mattered, right? WRONG. Through the log-peeing, wet feet, branch smacks across the face and dodging moose poop, we didn't do much talking.  

But this morning, I finally felt it. I felt what my Dad's been feeling for years. The excitement of tracking a moose. Being so close you can feel it. Not knowing if the next turn is going to lead to the sighting of the strong, majestic, almost magical animal.  

I finally caught my family's moose mania.

Cleaning the moose-poop off my boots, I can't imagine a better way to spend my day off.  

Thanks, Pop.

My girl

Annie and I play in a basement playroom, undressing barbies, putting their clothes back on. 

"Are you sad today?" I ask, sensing a shift in my friend's mood from the day before, when we played together after school. 

"Some of the kids were mean today," says Annie. The usually cheerful blonde with sparkly blue eyes seems forlorn and quiet. 

"What did they say?" I put my doll down, focusing on my friend.

"They were singing mean things. About my mom." 

This is the first time Annie has mentioned her mother, but I have heard the adults talking. I know Annie's mom died in a car accident a couple of years ago. I know she lives with her uncle, grandfather, and brother.

Hearing about the kids who are hurting my friend makes me mad. 

"Don't be sad," I say, rising from the floor. "We've got Rainbow Chips Ahoy. Let's go ask my mom for some." 

"Ok," says Annie, the flicker of a smile crossing her lips.

Although we play together often, like the same music, giggle at the same jokes, I always had the feeling our lives were worlds apart. Annie seemed older, forced to grow up faster than her friends. Motherly. 

 

As the years go by, we drift apart and float back together. Always across-the-street neighbors, we talk on occasion and say hello in passing. Growing up, developing different groups of friends, different interests, has left us simple acquaintances. Neither of us know a chilly day in February 1998 will change our friendship forever, fusing our hearts together.

I sit downstairs on the couch, surrounded by girlfriends, kleenex wadded in my hand, eyes red rimmed. No one knows what to say to me. I can tell my girlfriends are uncomfortable. They talk to each other in low voices. I stare into space. 

Suddenly, someone comes down the stairs. First, a pair of jean-clad legs, then a boy's hockey coat. It is Annie. Ignoring the other girls on the couch, she beelines straight for me, hugs me tight. She doesn't cry. She is steady as a rock. She pulls away from the hug and speaks, authoritative but gentle. 

"Ok, you know I know exactly what you're going through. I know how you feel. Things are going to be ok. It's going to be bad for awhile. You're going to have bad dreams. You're going to be sad.

"But in the end, things are going to be ok." 

I now see that hug, those words, as a defining moment in my life. A moment that cemented one of the greatest friendships I have ever known. Now, I can't recall a school dance, house party, heartbreak or triumph when Annie wasn't by my side. 

We spent an entire summer sleeping in my family's boat house on the lake. Listening to music until the early hours of the morning. Through many high school break-ups, fights, and victories, we were each other's champions. 

One of the things I admire most about my friend was she never wanted to be cool. Not like the other girls in high school. She never cared what people thought. She was always up for a good time. Kind, and generous. Even after all she'd been through. 

A recent tragedy in Annie's family brought back feelings from years gone by. Annie standing in my corner. Telling me everything was going to be ok. Mothering me, when I needed it the most.

Driving an hour late at night to be with Annie was a no-brainer. I knew my friend would do the same for me in a heartbeat. Lying beside my friend that night, she rolled over, nestled her head onto my chest. Her face was wet with sorrow.

Feeling a warm tear drip onto my own skin, I realized why this scenario felt strange, yet familiar. For the first time in my life, I was comforting my strong, optimistic, caring, nurturing friend. Instead of being the mother, like always, Annie was being mothered. 

In any friendship, just like a good love story, there are ups and downs. Moments of victory and defeat. Days filled with happiness and laughter, and others with despair and tears.

These are the defining moments, the ones that make things clear. That reinforce the reason this friendship has come to rest in your heart. 

I feel so honoured to be able to share moments like these with my good friend Annie. One of the most amazing people I know, whose bright soul shines out through every pore. 

A fighter. A champion. Against all odds.

A true, everyday beauty.