Words By Whittall

Bunion “The word is bunion,” I said. “Bunyan, as in Paul Bunyan?” my husband asked.   I assured him, the word was bun-I-on, not bun-yan.   “Are you certain?” he asked.   “You could do a whole series on legendary lumberjacks and foresters of folklore: Paul Bunyan, Davey Crocket, Al Gore, Johnny Appleseed …” “Wait. Al Gore?” We decided that, if talking about “folklore” then perhaps the former politician would fit, since he was going about trying to save the planet, a legend in his own mind, akin to the giant of folklore with the big axe and blue ox.    Unmentioned at the time, was the actual forester and environmentalist in the family, my brother-in-law Richard.   Rich could look at a tree and tell you if it was healthy, roughly how old it was and if it was natural to the area.   He worked on Vancouver Island, identifying and protecting old growth trees, removing trees sustainably, while planting and protecting new growth.   He sent us lovely pictures of his workplac

Blue Who thought up this topic? Oh, that’s right. It was me.   New to the group, it fell to me to pick a word – any word – to blog about.   Out of the blue and out of my mouth came the word “blue”. Why blue?   It is my third least favourite colour behind orange and yellow.     I have no memorable blue clothing, furniture or vehicles.    My favourite sports team is the Toronto Blue Jays. The original owners, Labatt’s, hoped people would call them “the Blues,” to promote their beer. But everyone calls them “the Jays.”   There’s a hockey team called the Blues, and another one called the Blue Jackets.   The computer that took on Garry Kasparov was called “Big Blue.”   Is chess a sport? Blue is supposed to be calming.   The folks who sell paint will tell you that pale blue creates a serene and soothing atmosphere.   Sherwin Williams posted “126 hues of blues” on Pinterest. Pablo Picasso had a blue period. But that’s a different kind of paint. The word blue is ever-present

Making Beds is Hard Work  I grew up on a farm where hard work and long hours are a given. But even this didn’t prepare me for my job as a chambermaid.   It had sounded so romantic, when a friend spent a summer working at a hotel out west. The job came with lodging, so it seemed like a great way for me to support myself for a while and escape the drudgery of the farm. All that summer, I practiced. In addition to my usual chores stacking hay bales in the barn, picking stones from the fields and weeding the garden, I made all the beds in the house – even the ones we didn’t use.   Then I unmade the beds and made them again. My mother, who had some training as a nurse, taught me how to properly make “hospital bed corners,” although she wasn’t happy that clean sheets had been wasted in my practice chambermaiding. By the time I was hired at the Banff Park Lodge, I thought I had the upper body strength, stamina and bed-making expertise to handle my new exotic new career.   I was mist

The Silhouette It is a dangerous word, Candice thought. Menacing.   “What we’re trying to do here,” Hamish explained at the first dress rehearsal, “… is to create a silhouette …” Silhouette . It immediately conjures up an image of all my lumps.   Candice looks at the other girls in the dressing room and thinks how much prettier, how much thinner, their silhouettes appear. Disappointment and shame wash over her. She eyed her silhouette in the mirror. Most people have only two boobs, and I’ve got six, she thought, remembering how she looked in the ghastly strapless, pink dress she had squeezed into at Stacey’s behest.   Blobs of fat spilling out under the arms of the dress and at the back – back fat cleavage! And now, it was happening again.   Squeezing into the push up bra and harness, she poked her finger into the sponginess under her arms. Poke. Disappointment. Poke. Shame.   Oh, how she wanted a drink right now.   A lovely glass of sweet bubbly Moscato.   Some p

The In-Between Christmas The Christmas memories of my childhood are as magical as Hallmark would have you believe.   Each eve and morning were filled with joy and wonder, and then the inevitable hissy fit when, after opening our new toys, we had to immediately set them aside to attend church.    Once, when I was very young, we arrived home late after a Christmas Eve dinner with relatives in the city.   It might have been one of many harrowing drives through a snow storm, I’m not sure. For whatever reason, my parents announced that my brother and I could each open one gift under the tree.   It was magnificent.   I can’t recall which pretty box I opened, but we, kids, went to bed happy, and a family tradition was born. This is my earliest Christmas memory. A stand-out memory as an adult, is the Christmas I realized I was an adult. (And, not a moment too soon, as I was in my mid 30’s.)   My future husband and I had bought a house in a lovely, leafy neighbourhood, taking poss