The 'Maybe' Dress

It’s not like I didn’t know the day was coming.

I mean, not only had we known about it for the last 17 years, but 13 first days of school, countless school lunches, and too many late homework nights, surely should have been a reminder that the day would inevitably come; my son’s high school graduation day

And yes, the day IS all about him: what he wears (suit), what he does (party). But nostalgia, sentimentality and celebrations aside, the day is also a bit about me – what I’m going to wear.

A few months ago when I mentioned the coming day to my friend, her first response was “You’re gonna have to get a dress!” And honestly, at that point, I hadn’t really thought about it. I should have been a tad more proactive with that timely warning. But time and budget, both in small amounts, had me panicking two weeks before his big day. I had no choice; I had to get something. I don’t have a lot of fancy clothes, and what I do have is worn and dated. I don’t shop a lot – time and money has been spent on 17 years of child-rearing - so I was out of touch and out of practice. I was dreading it.

I started with one store and tried on five dresses. I hated them all. Of course the changing room mirrors didn’t help.

Exhausted and frustrated after all the changing of clothes, I put back the ‘duds’ and was about to leave when I spotted it – a ‘possibility.’ I didn’t have the energy or heart to try on yet another dress, but I needed to try.

Success!

The price was right and it fit okay; it would have to do. Thankful the task was over, I skipped home and hosted my own fashion show for my men.

They were kind and sweet, as complimentary and interested as three men can be about a dress. I strutted and twirled and checked-out every mirror in the house.

And suddenly - I hated it. I thought I could make it work with a throw or a wrap, a few safety pins here and there, and of course, sparkly accessories...but no. I wouldn’t take it back to the store just yet, however. I had one more weekend and one more store in my price range to visit. If all else failed, I would wear the dress I bought and make do.

...and cringe for all eternity as every time I would look at the photos from my son’s graduation, I would remember, “Oh, there’s that dress I hated so much.”

So the next weekend, the LAST weekend before the big day, I hit the pavement again. With my sister as support via cell phone, I marched into the store with a determination that would make any General going into battle, jealous. I flitted from rack to rack, my sister’s words of encouragement in my ear.

And then I found it. THE DRESS.

With six dresses in hand this time – I found five others I thought I should try – I said goodbye to my sister, and hustled into the change room.

I tried on THE DRESS, and it fit perfectly; no pins needed, no wraps or shawls needed to cover-up certain flabby parts.

I tried on the others, just in case. One was a ‘maybe.’ I hummed and hawed, trying them on again. I texted my sister from the change room, announcing I had found THE ONE. The ‘maybe’ was kind of growing on me, but THE ONE was best. I hoped/wondered if either/both were on sale. I couldn’t decide between the two. THE ONE fit just perfectly, but I was having doubts. There was just something ‘off’ about it. The ‘maybe’ was just that, a maybe. I couldn’t decide on either, so strong was my loyalty to THE ONE.

I was tired, stressed, and getting very short on time. I hustled to the cashier, and ta da! Both were on sale. I now had three dresses, and knew I would be returning one, if not two.

But I was in even more of a dilemma. What if whichever one I chose for the big day decided be a dud after all? I didn’t want to spend the day tugging, pulling and adjusting, worrying about every little flab and bulge.

But time was of the essence. The mall was closing in fifteen minutes, and I had to make one more stop in the mall. I could decide on which dress later.

As I charged through the mall, I stopped short. The dress of my dreams called to me through a store window. “Oh my God! That’s IT!” I wanted to cry. I ran in, oblivious to what store I was in. The sales lady with her power suit and over-sprayed hair assessed me over the rim of her glasses. I was in a high-end boutique, clearly out of my element.

I found the dress, and seeing the price tag, I swallowed a gag. Yes, one might say, ‘If you could afford three dresses, maybe you could afford that one if you returned the others.’ Um, no - not quite. The graduate would have to be sold for me to afford it.

With the sales clerk eyeing me, I tightened my pony tail, straightened my cat-hair-covered jacket, prayed she wouldn’t see the hole in the toe of my running shoe, and as regally as I could, exited the store. But I realized one critical error in my part. One thing I should have noticed before walking through the mall and entering such a ritzy boutique.

My shorts were on inside out.

It was time to go home. The girdle I needed would have to wait

In the end, two dresses were returned. The one I kept after all that? The ‘maybe.’

It wasn’t overly fancy. Nothing ‘fell out’ like in the first dress, nor did I feel matronly like when wearing THE ONE. The ‘maybe’ was comfortable; it was ‘me,’ it had a built-in tummy tuck panel, and it was just right.

I was happy – the graduation could proceed.

(it might not look like the fanciest dress in this picture, but it's actually really nice)

I Like Big Boats and I CAN-NOT Lie...

I saw THEM before anything else. Well, what do you expect when they are 61 meters tall?

I was ambling along Courtney Street in downtown Victoria, BC, minding my own business as I usually always do. I made my way towards Wharf Street, anxious to get to the harbour – the water always calls me.

Usually along Wharf Street, I sidestep tourists and tip-toe around horse droppings. The smell of the waterfront fish ‘n chip restaurants often tempt me to dine while watching the harbour planes take off and land.

And yes, the smell of fish ‘n chips can still be alluring despite being downwind from passing horse carriages.

But one day as I came out of the shadows of the old customs building on the corner of Courtney and Wharf, I gasped – and not from the smell of fresh horse droppings stewing in the sun. All the usual distractions instantly disappeared because before me was something that overwhelmed everything and everyone else around the harbour.

Three tall masts stood out like sore thumbs – but in a good way. Sure there had been the famous Tall Ships visiting in the past (think the ship from Pirates of the Caribbean). And sure the docks had only JUST been over-run by Swiftsure, the international yacht race held every year. And sure many naval ships had graced the docks before attracting attention from far and wide.

But that day ‘Athena’ was in port, and nothing else mattered.

Victoria’s harbour seemed like a baby’s bathtub what with the 295 foot long sailing ship moored at its docks. The folks at the Victoria Harbour Authority must have been having a fit, what with the boat able to displace 1000 tons of water.

As I would later read online, the ship is classed as one of the largest sailing ships in the world. But was it a yacht? What sailing ship has a movie theatre, a library, and room to carry a crew of 18 and 12 guests?

Everyone else on the sidewalks were exclaiming at the sight of the big boat. I had to get closer – and I had my camera.

As I made my way down, part of the deck of the big boat lifted up as though two interlocking flaps on the top of a box of crackers. Out came an arm-like crane carrying a boat - another boat INSIDE the boat! Crew skittered around, cleaning this, tying that. The sun glinted off the perfectly shined railings, the dark wood decor, inside and out, made my dining room set look like a grimy fast food restaurant.

Folks on the docks were mesmerized. Cameras were out, people joked about the size and extravagance of it all. A camera guy from the local news was there, and of course I sidled up to him, aching to see what kind of info I could get. He, too, was itching to know more. He had just done a segment on the boat, and was hoping to get on board for a closer look. Maybe I could follow him as his ‘assistant,’ I thought. But I knew that wasn’t going to happen.

Plus I was on my lunch break from work.

Oh right – work.

So I snuck down to some lower docks as best I could to get as many photos as I could – short of being arrested. I leaned, twisted and turned to get the coolest photos I could. I am not a ‘boat’ enthusiast, per se, and despite having lived around water much of my life, I know nothing about them. They are nice and pretty, and can be fun to ride on when they don’t sink. But that’s all I know.

I was leaning over the railings, trying to get THE BEST SHOT EVER, when I was hit! Splattered on! Pummeled by something wet! Others around me exclaimed! Seagulls!! We’re being attacked!

I couldn’t believe it! I had to go back to work – like this! I ran my hand over my head, knowing I was covered in white you-know-what. I couldn’t go back to work like this! I was sure everyone around me, those not covered in the gooey white mess, that is, were laughing at the stupid girl covered in seagull missiles. The seagulls, too, I was sure, were having a great laugh.

I pulled my hand away, and nothing. Just white, foamy...bubbles. It was soap!

I looked up, and way up in the sky a guy was tethered to one of the masts. Droplets kept coming down from his perch, denser than rain, and the smell of cleaner filled the air. He with his bird’s eye view was simply cleaning the masts. The masts! As if they needed cleaning! What about ME! Look at me!

Oh well, at least I was clean – and getting great photos to show for it.

But why clean the masts? They are ONLY masts. No one can even SEE up there. I get the whole ‘keeping a boat in ship-shape’ and all that, but I guess, as I would later learn, a boat up for sale for a cool $95 million needs to be clean.

Yes, rumors were swirling around the city surrounding the tiny harbour. Word on the cobblestone streets of Victoria were that the big boat had been sold and was here for a cleaning before heading up to its new owner in Alaska. Now don’t quote me on that. Rumors are just that – rumors.

Every day after that, I kept going down to the harbour anxious to get more photos before it left. A daily peek from my fifth-floor office window told me it was still there. I could see the masts high above the rooftops.

As I steered clear of any seagulls or mast-cleaning crew, I made my way to the opposite side of the harbour, keen on getting more photos (to what I would do with all these photos, I didn’t know). And as if karma, or whatever, was making up for me being hit with cleaning fluid, I happened to be there at the right time. An old sailing ship happened to come into port. Cousins of the sailing world all rallied together in the water that could tell stories to feed the gossiping locals. The ‘Athena,’ a yacht, a water taxi and the old sailing ship all bobbed in the historic waters of the harbour. I sometimes forget to admire the other boats around the harbour. I see them all the time, but I never really LOOK at them. I guess I sometimes take what is around me for granted

As I walked away, likely the last time I might ever see such a boat, I had the cliché running through my head - good things come in all sizes, big or small, tall or short. Everything has it's place in this world - enjoy everything for what it is. Even the greatest things come in small packages.

(For more pictures of the 'Athena,' please visit my 'photo gallery')

A Little Light on the Subject, Please.....

I treasure my early morning walks of solitude. I go year-round in rain, snow, sleet or hail. Depending on the time of year, I’m hitting the pavement before the sun himself finally rolls out of bed after hitting the snooze button one too many times. Lazy planet - sheesh.

I stay in well-lit areas as there are times I am just NOT in the mood for being abducted by the bogeyman. But those early mornings before the sun, and people, get out bed is the best time to see stuff - wildlife. And one neighborhood I trek through, one of hand-clipped lawns, freshly painted fences and tarp-covered RV’s bigger than my house gracing their driveways, where I always seem to find the best of nature.

I do see a lot of wildlife in my own back yard, but to see the variety I do, as often as I do, all in this area makes me wonder – did Dr. Doolittle retire there?

In one visit I have seen deer, racoons, rabbits, cats, and quail. They scurry through lawns, hide under cars, munch on prized gardens, and pick through garbage. And yes, although cats are not technically ‘wildlife’ as the astute will correct me, given the nearby nature sanctuary over-run by feral cats, I include them in my list.

So there.

I have been startled by an owl’s ominous shadow trailing the road a he flies under a streetlight. Strange birds chirp at me as I motor by, and something – a hawk, eagle or vulture, not sure – always glowers at me as I walk past the pole he or she guards. Even the moths can seem daunting, their shadows cast on the pavement below the light they are attracted to makes them seem 40 times their size. And trust me, sudden fluttering shadows at 4:30 am in the morning can be rather alarming.

But as the seasons change, the sun decides to set his alarm a little bit earlier (early bird catches the worm, and all that), and approaching summer means it’s a bit lighter as I head out to Dr. Doolittle’s neighborhood. Every morning the animals slowly dwindle in numbers – more light means more people, and things always look much different than they did in the dark.

Some of the trees don’t look so ominous and craggily, and some of those lawns aren’t as a manicured as I thought. What I thought was an über-fancy car hidden under a form-fitted tarp is really just an old beater. A little light on the subject always changes everything.

As I trekked along one morning, the early morning sunrise making stepping around wandering caterpillars a little easier, I saw a mound of something on someone’s lawn. Careful not to step on the grass, and careful to ensure the mound was not the result of one of Dr. Doolittle’s creatures, I leaned over and picked up what I soon realized was a formed mass of twigs and leaves – a nest! I scanned the lawn for eggshells and any inhabitants who might be amiss, but all was clear. The few remnants of shells on the bottom told me this was vacated long ago.

What a find! I knew no one was going to use it now. It was so far from a tree that trying to put it back in the same place for next years' returning guests wasn’t going to work. I knew it would likely end up in the garbage so I took it home as I knew some boys at my house would really appreciate seeing it.

Caked together with mud and poo, the twigs wove round and round, the middle a soft pillow of what looked like dryer lint, rabbit fur, and feathers. The soft bed had me wishing for my pajamas - curling up inside the nest for a nap was tempting (not that I would fit or anything).

As I headed home with the nest, the sun fully awake and enjoying his coffee, I started having deep philosophical thoughts comparing the nest to life and writing. Twig by twig, a little bit of this and a little bit of that and a whole bunch of determination, hard work and perseverance, and in the end of you have something to be proud of. I started to go on and on, forgetting to watch for caterpillars, but I stopped myself.

Life’s too short to be constantly over-analyzing things. Take it for what it is, enjoy it for what it is – it’s a nest. Leave it at that. Life's too complicated as is, what with the sun casting shadows when you least want them. Just enjoy the little things for what they are.

Funny what a little light shed on the matter can do. (I guess I got a little philosophical after all)

The Return of the Carriage Return

Sometimes when I’m supposed to be writing, I get side-tracked by the internet. I then chastise myself for doing so because I have then lost valuable writing minutes – precious minutes I have painfully sought out in my busy life. The smart writers shut off the internet component of their computers in the spirit of productivity, but in the spirit of ‘research’ and sometimes needed an occasional mental diversion, I leave mine on.

I’m not technologically ‘sound.’ I have an ancient cell phone I don’t want to upgrade, an e-reader that is barely used, and an iPod with songs I haven’t updated in 4 years. My laptop is basic with no bells and whistles, but I would DIE if it died. I will always carry notebooks and pencils.

Yet I really want an iPad.

And with all these gadgets at my disposal, I am technologically weak – no time, patience or understanding of how to properly use or update these things. I want and need them, they help me get by every day, but the time needed to sit and update/upgrade these things is precious time to write.

As long as I don’t surf the net while I’m writing.

I am one big confused technological contradiction.

One (of my many) my favorite sites is www.usedvictoria.com, a local online buy-and-sell site. I (honestly) don’t spend hours browsing; there are just two things I really only ever look for, unless there is a household need (like a canoe, for example – everyone needs a canoe). I browse through the purses for sale - and typewriters.

Yes, typewriters.

I dreamed of owning a good old fashioned typewriter, complete with carriage return lever, typebars and ribbons. Oh and don’t forget the little bell that dings when reaching the end of a sentence, telling you it’s time to push over the carriage. That’s the best part!

And why did I want one? I’m an amateur antique collector, and what writer doesn’t have a REAL typewriter? When the power goes out, laptops are only as good as the charged-battery and sometimes it’s nice to work on another medium. Although I have to say, my typing speed goes way, WAY down when having to push down the keys SO FAR – and the delete key isn’t where it should be.

So after eons of searching I found one at a great deal – a 1952 Smith Corona Silent (LC Smith & Corona Typewriters Inc, Made in the USA). I emailed the owner who was asking $47, and my bartering skills talked him down to $45 – a savings of $2! We e-shook hands over email, I shut down my laptop and with address in hand, my husband and I headed out. I swear he drove like a tortoise on the way there – I was too excited, and too impatient. I could have gotten there faster myself, but it’s always wise to take someone with you in these scenarios. The last thing I needed was to end up as a story on the internet as a missing person; I knew my husband wouldn’t have a decent photo of me to share.

Although any publicity is good publicity for a writer.

Anyways...

We found the house. The typewriter owner, a lawyer in his previous life who wore a purple beanie because he loves purple (there’s a story in there somewhere), reluctantly sold it to me. He was torn in his decision to sell - he had tinkered with it over the years, writing in spurts, but as he had a laptop and too much stuff in his house, he knew he had to let it go. Telling him I was a writer and that I would take care of it sealed the deal.

Money was exchanged, hands were shook, and as the lawyer gave a sad little wave to his typewriter, we hopped in the car with the typewriter securely on my lap. This time I wanted the ‘driver’ to drive like a tortoise so I could cherish the moment. It needed a bit of dusting (the typewriter, not the driver), but other than a small dent it was in perfect working condition. A few letters typed on the piece of paper already in the roller told me all was well.

But in my excitement during the exchange, I didn’t read what was already typed on the paper.

Where most people would type abc or their names with the real adventurous typing the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog, he, or to be specific, the ‘typewriter’, sent me a message:

Hello, I’m so glad someone wants to use me again.

Intriguing.....

We got home all too soon, and as I do every time I walk in the house, plunking whatever I’m carrying on the kitchen table by the front door, I gingerly placed my typewriter on the kitchen table for me to further inspect. I gushed over it for a bit, but as I had things to do like cooking and cleaning, there was no time to play.

As I dashed by throughout the day while doing my chores, my fingers would occasionally tap a deep key, my hand pushing the carriage return lever for fun.

It wasn’t till much later in the day that I stopped for a moment to check my email on my laptop; the same laptop that had sat all day on the kitchen table beside its ancient, ancient cousin, the typewriter.

Talk about contradiction. Talk about the ‘circle of life.’

I realized that sometimes in order to go forwards, we need to go backwards. Maybe writing on something without the lure of technology and internet would get me further. But without the internet, I wouldn’t have found the typewriter in the first place. But without my laptop and internet, I wouldn’t be sharing my (long) story with you. But without the typewriter, we might not be where we are today. And without my new/old typewriter, I might not have had a story to write.

So for now, I write on my laptop, dust my typewriter, and listen to 4-year-old songs on my iPod.

Excuse me – I have to go buy some more pencils.

Tapas in Chinatown

Sometimes a good, stark contradiction makes me giggle.

Like in the rainforests of the Amazon you wouldn’t expect to see someone wearing a parka with a hot pink boa, or in snow-filled Antarctica you wouldn’t expect to see a giraffe. It’s the unexpected that catches my attention, making me giggle, “To see a giraffe, here, in Antarctica of all places, and wearing a cravat!” And then I would roll on the ground laughing at the absurdity, yet at the same time embracing and reveling in the uniqueness of the situation. Plus, it would be rather funny for me to be in Antarctica in the first place.

When my sister recently came to visit from a land far away (an hour-and-forty-minute ferry ride away), we stopped in Chinatown, downtown Victoria, BC. We picked our way around crates of vegetables for sale on the sidewalk, sidestepped store owners and shoppers arguing over prices, and hustled past restaurants with cooked chickens hanging in the window. Its unique atmosphere packed into one street is in sharp contrast to the rest of downtown humming with old English heritage. But as much as I love Chinatown, I was anxious to show my sister a special place I once happened upon among the chaos; a place totally unexpected among the crates of imported vegetables and spices; a place dripping with serene peace and calm typically found only when having high tea.

When you walk through the white doors of Venus Sophia Tea Room and Vegetarian Eatery, you wonder if you are in the English-influenced Empress Hotel. Collections of dainty tea cups in well-lit curio cabinets greet you at the door, and doilies and cushions grace the chairs and loveseats in the eating area. Antique bikes – yes, bikes – hanging from the ceiling with their baskets full of silk flowers make you want to hop on for a leisurely bike ride in the countryside.

But you’re in Chinatown. Step outside the French-looking white doors, and you’re in the hustle and bustle of what feels like the Far East. Step back in, and you forget the sharp cultural difference just outside.

High tea is high on the menu - literally. Three-tiered plates adorned with vegetarian finger sandwiches wait for the dainty to dive in. For me, my growling stomach cancels out any grace or restraint, and finger sandwiches would be washed down the gullet with a mouthful of tea before I could lift my pinky. But I love the girly atmosphere, and what a perfect place for two sisters to gab!

But we wanted ‘lunch lunch’ - high tea wasn’t our forte for the afternoon. Our grimy sweats we wore for trudging around all day was not exactly ‘high tea’ attire, anyways. We perused the menu, and given that I'm not vegetarian it was all Greek to me. Soy this, tofu that, and vegetable concoctions I had never heard of. My more-worldly-than-I sister suggested tapas. I don’t get out much, so the ‘tapas’ concept was foreign to me, but given that one of the options was the all-too-familiar hummus - my fave - I knew it was gonna be good. Olives and feta cheese was another option, and the best part? Baba ghanoush. Not only is it fun to say, but the dish had been elusive in my life-quest to try new things. My house of straight-up meat-and-potatoes men makes trying new foods a challenge. All three dishes were divine; my mouth waters in remembrance.

So there we sat in Chinatown, wearing filthy old sweats, in a tea room fit for an English princess in the countryside. As we ate pita bread with hummus, babba ghanoush, and olives with feta cheese, foods likely straight out of the Middle East, for a minute we were culturally confused. Not only did we not have tea in the ‘tea room,’ but with all that was going on, where the heck were we?

But as I shoved another olive in my mouth – I never knew I was an olive person – I knew where we were. We were right where we should be – together, doing something different, and enjoying the contradictions of life that make the world a spicy, delicious place to be.

Be sure to check out Venus Sophia Tea Room and Vegetarian Eatery right in the heart of Chinatown, Victoria, BC. Vegetarian, Vegan or Gluten-free delights are sure to make your mouth water!

Chasing Trains for Fun

I`ve been recovering from my second abdominal hernia repair operation in two years, and have been feeling kinda....glum. Okay, alright, I’ll admit it – been kinda feeling sorry for myself. Being a very active person by nature, getting out there and doing fun stuff has been on hold during my recovery, and as for the future? Who knows. Body-building, bungy jumping and sky-diving are out, and even though I never really had great aspirations to do any of those things anyways, it’s the thought of NOT being able to do those things, if I ever wanted to, that has gotten me down. So while the recovery has been long, my future of doing stuff a bit bleak, I have been focusing on finding stuff that I CAN do – because hey, that’s what life’s all about, right? Getting out there and doing - stuff!

When I noticed a sign on the highway outside the Saanich Historical Artifacts Society at Heritage Acres in Victoria, BC, I knew what I could do! Added to that, I was sure it was something I could get an ever-growing teenager out doing with me!

So on that sunny Victoria Day long weekend (in these parts, it`s the May 20th weekend), I packed us a lunch and with a promise of a surprise, we headed out to Heritage Acres.

A woodsy place adorned with weeping willow trees, trails through the woods, and a pond abundant with lily pads, the grounds house replica buildings from `back in the day` of blacksmiths, schoolhouses, and a chapel. Among the heritage farming equipment donated from local farmers, a museum boasts antiques – everything from treadle sewing machines, to tools, to printing presses. A fun and educational place to look around, but honestly, that`s not what we were there for that day.

We were there to ride trains.

The Vancouver Island Model Engineers, a group of model train enthusiasts maintaining trains of all sizes as well as model aircraft and boats, host train ride days throughout the year. Decked out in traditional train engineer gear, members not only work on their model trains that are bigger than your average dog, but they maintain much bigger trains – trains you can ride!

With a donation, we hopped aboard. Sitting astride our car, our feet mere inches from the ground, off we went. With the engineer on the front, we toot-tooted and whizzed along foot-wide tracks, through tunnels, over bridges, around ponds, even past a garden gnome display! The 10-minute ride had us back at the station all too soon, where we promptly dropped in another donation into the cash box, got our `ticket` punched again, and away we went! With a whistle and clank of the gears, my son in front of me and my arms clenched tightly around his middle holding on for dear life, through the forest we went again. Though the log ride at Disneyland it was not, a scream through the darkened tunnel was duly called for!

As we had our lunch under a massive weeping willow tree, to stop later at the Whistlestop cafe for a freezie, I realized – I have lots to do, lots I can do, and no amount of hernias were going to stop me from having some kind of fun. Those trains clackety-clanking over the tracks reminded me to focus on what I COULD do, and not on what I couldn`t.
So be sure to hop aboard a train, even if it`s no bigger than a bike, and get riding!

The Vancouver Island Model Engineers are based based at the Saanich Historical Artifacts Society site at Heritage Acres, 7321 Lochside Drive. Be sure to check out their website at www.vime.ca for upcoming train ride schedules and be sure to get your ticket punched! Who knows what kind of fun you`ll have!

(Pop over to my photo gallery to see more pictures of the trains!)

Stamp Collecting 101

I’m a patron of the postal system. Yup, it’s true. Even in this world of ‘e’ everything, nothing beats mail. The act of sending and receiving something, the anticipation, the cute little stamps – I love it all. It’s like Christmas morning every time the mail carrier arrives. True, the mail isn’t delivered right to my door, but checking our postal box is just as fun. Even more exciting is sometimes finding a box sitting on my front door! Many times, however, there is disappointment – ‘nothing good in the mail today, dear’ – but then I always rev-up my excitement for next time.

Except, of course, when receiving a bill in the mail – now that’s no fun.

Blech.

And I am actually disappointed when someone tells me to send something electronically. Yes, it is cheaper and responses are quicker, but what fun is there to be had by not buying a stamp?

Aside from my addiction to sending and receiving mail, I recently realized that my patronage for all things postal ran deeper than I thought.

One day while waiting in line at the post office, I saw it - a shiny catalogue of newly designed stamps and coins currently for sale. Historical themes from everything to ’The Princess of Wales’ Own Regiment’ to ‘The War of 1812’ were gracing the pages. Then to add to my interest were sets titled ‘Adopt a Pet,’ ‘Chinatown Gates,’ ‘Motorcycles’ and fittingly, given my new-found interest, ‘250 years of Postal History.’

And that tingly feeling resurfaced from too many years ago. I had a need to collect and save.

When I was a kid, my cousin and I were big on the stamp collecting front – right up there with sticker collecting. True, we weren’t ‘professionals,’ steaming and soaking with tweezers in hand, but we loved saving stamps from near and far. For Christmas my Aunt gave me my OWN stamp album – a book fashioned with little pockets to store the treasured stamps. It filled pretty quickly because as word spread through my family I was collecting stamps. Every aunt, uncle and grandmother was sending me stamps torn from envelopes. I was a PROFESSIONAL.

And the bug never left me. Over the years, I would sometimes save a cool-looking stamp as I found one, and those who knew me would bring me stamps from their travels afar, and I would save them all. But I didn’t consider myself a ‘stamp collector.’ I would save them in a drawer, my nightstand or even my jewelry box. True stamp collectors everywhere are likely cringing at my less-than stellar preservation techniques, but this is what I did. As a mother of two boys – who over the years I desperately tried to get them on the hobby and without success – I didn’t have time to be a ‘true’ stamp collector.

Yes, I could have put them in a book, but I thought collecting was for...‘other’ people, not me. People who knew this history and worth of many stamps, never mind the proper-preservation of the tiny little squares. People who had time and patience to learn about each one.

Flipping through the catalogue, I was inspired, intrigued and suddenly itching to get my hands on a few - but not to use, of course, despite my postal system patronage. And I realized right then, I had to get an album, just like I had as a kid. It would be a relatively cheap hobby, and really, how hard COULD it be to throw a few stamps in a book? Waiting for new stamp designs to come on the market would give me a kick – just like waiting for the mail to arrive. I could put all the ones I had saved over the years in the book, and heck, if anything, they might be worth something to my kids one day.

So, on a Friday I finally got myself a brand new stamp album. Outside the main post office downtown, I flipped through the pages bearing little pockets in which to slide in my precious stamps. I couldn’t wait to get it home and start filling the pages. The day I picked up the catalogue, I had purchased two sets – just to start my new-found hobby on the right foot. I had saved them for when I could get an album, and I was itching to get home to those freshly minted stamps, and start scouring around my drawers, nightstands and jewelry boxes for stamps lovingly saved.

And I did insert my new stamps that night. I couldn’t wait to get it all together and show my kids, and maybe inspire them to get started. I re-traced my steps in my memory of where in the house I had ‘preserved’ all these stamps. I had to find them, and I had all weekend to do it! I could do it! How much time could it take to just find the stamps and slide them in the album?

But I should have known better. A busy mom whose weekends are often a blur with errands, kid duties, and preparing for the coming school/work week has no time for the quiet, slow hobby of stamp collecting. Despite my best efforts, I never got a chance to race around my house finding all the stamps I had saved. Next thing I knew Sunday night snuck up and my shoulders slumped like a soggy stamp. I never got around to finding all my stamps.

But, I brightened as I consoled myself, at LEAST I had a new book in which to save the precious little gems. All the stamps in the world weren’t going to magically disappear if I didn’t fill my book that weekend, and the ones stashed around my house weren’t going anywhere, either. There would be other times. Yes, my life is too busy for many things, but I took my re-entry to the stamp collecting world as another sign to slow down. Stopping to slide in a fresh, un-used stamp would take barely a few minutes. I could do that.

So my album sits on the shelf, waiting for my return. The stamps are stashed around the house, waiting for me to find them. The mail carrier is gearing up for the day, readying him/herself to bring me (hopefully) good mail – with hopefully good stamps. And in the end, am helping support and preserve the postal system that the ‘e’ world is threatening to extinct.

I am glad I started - I wonder if the mail will bring me the time I need?