Stephen Harper sings Imagine with Maria Aragon

If you wait until the end of this election, all of the candidates will have documentation of themselves holding babies, interacting with delightful, supportive seniors, and something cute and unexpected like this.

Stephen Harper is bland. I know he’s my prime minister, I know he sits politically and economically right (especially so since he’s from Calgary). I know that he’s a Christian white guy with a white wife and two kids. He pretty much fits the cookie cutter image most Canadians want today. Other than that, I don’t really know anything about him. I’m somehow allowed to hate him because he stands as a symbol for a party who works against my interests. But the (non)apathetic Canadians voted his party in-twice.

I hope a party wins a majority this election, and I hope it’s one I can support. But while the cameras flash and the videos record things like this for the media to distribute so voters can have warm, fuzzy feelings when they go to the polls, I’m going to ignore all the bullshit surrounding politics and motive and knock it all down to this:

Stephen Harper can’t really sing, and when he is rightly fighting to be re-elected, he isn’t going to have time to perfect the notes for this song. He was asked to sit down with an adorable, talented little Canadian who deserves the recognition, and play an inspiring song which shows off more humbleness and personality than I’ve seen from him in a long time.

Good for the assistant who lined this up. It’s everything you want to be seen as in a campaign and I will not blame any politician for living up to his/her job description. If his party should be re-elected, or even if he’s just the next leader of opposition, I at least hope he will take the lyrics of this song to heart when representing the people of Canada. (Not Harper’s Government).

I'll Miss you, Gido (Speech from the Funeral)

When someone mentions 'grandfather' in my presence, my mind conjures an image of an adorable old man: short, stout, and usually wearing Arnold Palmer or maybe a Veteran’s cap and blazer with a long line of medals. He has a good appetite, a green thumb, and the ability to turn whistling from a hobby into an art form. Larissa, Heather, Robert and I were all lucky enough to have a close relationship with this man. Our Gido lived close, we saw him on every holiday and birthday, and we all had an open invitation to stop by whenever we wanted.

On Sunday I found a Canadian Army identification card of my Gido's tucked away in his wallet, dating back from February of 1943. The curves of Gido's right index finger are smudged in the bottom right corner, there is a handsome picture of him in the top right that reminds me of my brother Robert, and a whole slew of identifying characteristics including the scar on his upper lip, which my mom tells me is a marker of his life growing up on the farm in St. Paul when he was kicked by a horse.

I never knew this young 19 year old. If I wanted more proof of this I only had to look as far as line 4 of the card, which states his height to be a whopping five foot four. The Gido I knew was shorter than my own five foot two frame, so I can't help but find that statistic a little hard to believe. Gido's years serving in the army and his later career as an electrician were always stories for me; by the time I came into his life, he was retired, and busier than ever.

Gido was a source of stability for me that I don't think I could ever fully convey in words to you. Trips to Baba and Gido's house were a regular occurrence when I was younger, and if Gido wasn't doing puzzles or watching TV in the front room, he'd be in the backyard. If I was lucky, he'd be washing the dirt off carrots from his garden in a big silver bucket and handing them to me to eat as fresh as you can get.

On special occasions, I'd get to spend the whole day with Baba and Gido. Robert and I would get picked up in the morning, usually in Gido's little red and white truck, crawl into the bucket seats in the back that remain questionable in my mind in terms of modern safety standards, and go on the morning routine. First stop: McDonald's on Yellowhead and 142 street. Since they ate breakfast at home, Baba and Gido would just order coffee (except on Saturdays when they'd splurge on breakfast). After McDonald's came Westmount, where we would pick up items from Zellers and Safeway which were still side by side. Coming home, Gido made sandwiches for lunch which took place precisely at noon, and my afternoon was a choice between sports in the front room with Gido or soaps in the den with Baba.

I learned from a very young age to be proud of my Gido. Every Remembrance Day I would go to the Butterdome with my family and watch Gido acting as the Parade Marshall for the ceremony. But you know, my Gido was so grounded that he never let this fame go to his head. Even though he'd be side by side with the Mayor and Governor General at the Butterdome, he still came out to our schools during November. He's been to Larissa and Heather's to talk about Remembrance day and the Wars, and he was a staple Veteran for years at O'Leary celebrations where Robert and I went to high school.

Of course, as I have gotten older I no longer need Baba and Gido to take care of me... Well, that actually depends on the day. Anyways, those full days with Baba and Gido became less frequent, although one day in our mid-teens Gido's car was in the shop and Robert and I had to squish into those same tiny bucket seats in the truck. I really wish I had photographed that truck, because I don't know if I can do the small size justice. The seats were small for a 6 year old, let alone two teenagers. There was no such thing as personal space.

My parent's first night leaving my brother and I home alone was in 2009. Robert had to work, and out of all the possibilities of having a nice big house to myself, I went out for supper and then to the casino with Baba and Gido. Even if I wasn't such a pro at the slots, I wouldn't have wanted to spend the night any other way.

I went to cancel my Gido's cell phone at Kingsway on Wednesday, and the girl said to me “I'm really sorry to hear of his passing, I remember him.” Now this may have been because Gido was that guy, who brought his cell phone in a plastic ziploc baggie to pay his bill every month, but I think it was a bit more than that. Gido made connections with everyone, whether it's Bryan who does the yardwork or Jean, our old waitress for Sunday breakfast for Zellers who came out to the prayer service yesterday. He was outgoing and friendly to everyone and had a great sense of humour. Although he could have spent his retirement in a proper state of being 'retired', his calendar was usually busier than mine whether he was working with the legion, sitting on the board at the Ukrainian Cultural Village, or at any of the countless places he gave his time to.

As JK Rowling very wisely said, “To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.” Gido may have left us unexpectedly, but as I have been reflecting on his life over the past few days, I am positive that he lived up to this quote. Through his actions, he has taught me more than I may ever fully realize. Gido taught me the importance of lending a helping hand over the need of getting paid. Through his solid relationship with Baba, he showed me how much better it is to have someone to share the ups and downs of life with. Lastly, he lived every day as genuine person, which I know is harder than it sounds. I may be in a privileged position as his granddaughter who never had to doubt this, but I truly believe the world would be better off with a few more Bill's in it. When I picture Gido, I cannot see him without a smile on his face and a contentment behind his eyes that I strive to achieve. When I think of what he is doing now, my mind returns to the brave young man shown in his army identity card, full of ideals, hopes, and dreams for the future, ready to go out on his next adventure.

Farewell, Brave Soldier

This is Why You're Fat*

During the last few weeks, my mid-winter depression has really set in. Even though there have been a few days of sunshine and warm temperatures, my mind only registers the dull overcast skies and windchill that threatens to quickly decimate any skin left foolishly uncovered. The dip in my mood also unsurprisingly corresponds directly to the amount of homework I have piling up; in the next two weeks I need to write 4 essays and read around 1000 pages of challenging academic writing. In the face of all this, I spent my evening procrastinating like any good university student. The product: Oreo Stuffed Chocolate Chip Cookies!

I found the recipe a few weeks ago while mindlessly surfing the web and saved it in my favourites for a day when my sweet tooth went into overdrive. They were quite easy to make, but they made for some gigantic cookies. Normally, when I stick my hand into the cookie jar I come out with 2 or 3 cookies, but just one of these delicious concoctions filled me right up. This is probably a good thing, since the nutritional information for the Double Stuf Oreos I used as fillings says that 2 small cookies are worth 160 calories and 31% of your daily recommended intake of fat. Adding that to the amount of fat present in the recipe for chocolate chip cookies and you pretty much have a convenient heart attack in a hand.

One cookie makes for a pretty good dessert, especially when it's washed down with a large glass of milk. If you can ignore the sharp twinges of protest coming from your arteries like I can, you may even be able to eat two.

*This recipe didn't actually come from This is Why Your Fat, but I'm sure it's on there somewhere

The Bond Between Transit and a Girl

My Dearest ETS,

I don't say it nearly enough, so I just wanted to you write you a quick note to let you know how much I love and appreciate you. We may have been kept apart during my younger years from my parents who always insisted on taking me around the city themselves, but I think that throughout our relationship, we have proven that a bond between transit and a girl is stronger than anything—even the BO of that unfortunate man who always took the 180 to Londonderry with me. Well, you remember, you were there.

One of my earliest memories of us is from when I was 14, and nervous about going to Whyte Ave with you. I brought Kaitlyn along as a buffer, but I didn't really need her since the 3 transfers it took to get there were simple. You were so polite and timid, staying on time the whole way and helping me make sure I got to the right place. After that first hour and a half bus ride, I knew we were meant to be and couldn't wait to head back to the North side with you. Sure my mom would have gotten me there in 25 minutes, but as we both know, romance takes time.

When I started high school you picked me up right outside my crescent and dropped me off at the doors of my school. You never wanted me to leave and some days you even playfully refused to let me off near my house even after I yelled at you. But the five minutes added to my walk was worth the extra 30 seconds with you. I even forgive you for coming early and leaving impatiently without me all those times—we were so young then.

I knew you were the one after The Great Fight of 2008. I was an independent university student, and when I started to drive early in the year, I didn't spend enough time with you until it got to the point that we didn't see each other at all that summer. When I came crawling back in September, you welcomed me with open doors and brought me to school, although you still do make me walk that extra 15 minutes for a ride. You've told me it's for the benefit of keeping off the Freshman 15, and it's so nice to know you have my best interests at heart. My favourite time with you is the 10 minute wait we have at Westmount every day on the 128. It's nice to take a breather in the long, winding trek you take from Castledowns to the University, and it's fun watching everyone run around like busy little ants with things to do as we take the time to sit and admire the unique Edmonton aesthetic behind Westmount Mall.

I will be honest with you, I was really excited to see you after my night class yesterday, and I waited outside for you as soon as class was dismissed. My eyes scanned the far side of campus, looking for you to turn the corner at St. Joe's to come get me, but it soon became apparent you weren't coming. When you finally showed up half an hour late, you were anxious and in a hurry—you hit every pot hole and skidded on every patch of ice while you regularly smacked your right side into the snow drifts lining the side of the road. I felt so nauseous I wasn't sure if I would last the ride without being sick. I left without saying goodbye. You let me down, and had no explanation for me.

Tonight, I hoped to reconnect with you after I finished studying late on campus. At 9:45 I was ready for you—early, and you know how hard that is for me. You didn't show up. Again. After standing outside for 25 minutes in the quickly dropping temperatures, a taxi pulled up to the side of the road where I was standing with it's top light on trying to proposition me to pay for it's overpriced services. My toes had reached subzero temperatures, but as I looked at the taxi, I knew I would never get in. I would wait for you, even if it took an hour. I couldn't imagine it any other way.

I know we disagree on a lot of things, like where to go and how to get there. But I'm learning to compromise. I'm even starting to understand why you don't like going out late at night. No matter how angry I get with you, I want you to know that you're the transit system for me. Even when I say ridiculous things like “I'm moving to Vancouver where the bus service doesn't totally suck!” or “Why can't the LRT run in more than two directions like every other city in the world?,” I'm not being serious. You're amazing, and I'll be ready and waiting for you tomorrow whenever you're ready to show up.

Love,

Danielle