the screaming pages

The hotel I’m staying at has a little kitchenette and complimentary popcorn. I’m a sucker for popcorn. All evening as I’ve been typing away I’ve been happily anticipating the time when I decide to shut down the laptop and make the popcorn. Best laid plans and all that. I popped the bag in the microwave only to be thwarted by a damanged inner spinning device. It stopped spinning, the popcorn bag got stuck on it’s side and started burning. When I stopped the microwave – early and as soon as I noticed the lopsided bag – it was too late. Now the room smells of burnt microwave popcorn. Worst still is the sad realization that the anticipated midnight snack has gone the way of the dodo and is not gracing my gullet. I think I’ll just give up and go to bed now.

Well that was certainly interesting. Rather than a quick upgrade, I discovered that I’m not fond of the new WP interface and that I can bugger up my install in less than 30 minutes. Killing the install was easy. Trying to recover from the mess was the interesting part. The Export function in WP exports everything! 1000+ pieces of month old stinky spam? No problem. *sigh* Then, the import function was limited to 2MB in the php.ini file. My backup file was 4MB. I tried editing max file size in the php.ini with no joy. Needless to say I had to manually edit back up files so I could import the old records. At least the recovery process for my pretty pictures and themes was pretty painless.

And somewhere during this mess I walked away from the laptop and headed out to dinner with a friend. I needed the break in so many ways.

For the moment, I’ve downgraded. Once I figure out how I blew up the upgraded install AND have a chunk of time available I may try again. In the meantime, I apologize for all the havock I’ve been wreaking on my glorious (and brilliant) reader’s RSS feeds. Mea culpa.

I haven’t managed to take any pictures while I was here. There hasn’t seemed a reason to bother. My sister is a great one for taking pictures. She’s always snapping moments in time. Usually capturing people as opposed to places.

I didn’t really pay much attention to the city when I was here in 2006. Who sightsees in their hometown? I noticed some development projects, new roads, silly things like that.

Driving around in the backseat of the car with my mum and sister a few days ago gave me time to look out windows and see what has become of my hometown. I always knew it was more of a small town, blue collar, working class city but I don’t think I ever really noticed just how dank and dirty it seems. Seedy in sections. It’s like an old grand dame who’s let herself go and doesn’t even realize it.

Now I sit in a hotel and stare out windows at broken pavement, broken cars and furniture in messy backyards, boarded windows and peeling roofing tiles. I wonder if the hotel planning team had taken a good look at the neighbourhood they were building in? Actually, from the front end the view is much different. I guess you can’t expect much separation between the glitter and the rough when you’re living in a small city. I wonder if it’s always been this way or if it’s simply my black mood that encourages my vision of this side of the city?

Many years ago I dyed my hair red. I kept it that colour for a few years. Most of the coworkers I met after that time automatically assumed I was a natural redhead and had no idea I’d been dying it. Apparently the skin tones of a blonde are similar to those of a redhead. It wasn’t until I had my head shaved for a charity event that my coworkers learned I was blonde and not a redhead.

I’m 1/4 Irish – my gran on my mum’s side of the family -and 3/4 Scots. The only explanation I have for the blonde hair and blue eyes is that someone in my family tree couldn’t run fast enough when the Norse invaders came calling many hundreds of years ago. Likely multiple someones over multiple generations. Ooh, dad always hated it when I said that…

For Halloween 2007, I dyed my hair red again. Since it’s gotten such a positive reaction, I’ve given up on letting my roots grow out and have decided to by another bottle of dye and recolour it red. I’m heading home to SJ in a few weeks and my mum hasn’t seen me with red hair in many moons. It’ll be interesting to see her reaction.

Beats having to shave my head again to let the natural colour grow back…

Culture, traditions and ethnicity seem to be topics I can’t escape from this week. Frank has been exploring the connection between culture and traditions over at DMB and a few members of an Instructional Technology forum I belong to have been discussing the differences between culture and ethnicity.

As a first generation child of immigrants I don’t think it’s as easy for me to separate the three concepts. Unlike many who are decades removed from their ethnic roots I am the first and only Canadian born member of my immediate family. The language, music, dances, and foodstuffs I was raised on aren’t things of long gone memories, but things brought from the home country when my parents immigrated. Rather than paying homage to a genetic memory it seemed we were carrying forward old traditions in a new land.

As a child, I acted as a translator for my parents on occassion. Some people seemed to have difficulty understanding the accent that I most often wasn’t able to hear. Like most first generation immigrant children I don’t share the accent of my parents. My sister, born in the old country, also speaks as any other Canadians might. The only differences in our speech is the occassional use of a word or turn of phrase we were raised with.

Growing up, we returned to the home country every few years for weeks (and sometimes months) on end. We met and renewed aquaintance with our cousins and grandparents. As an adult, I’ve continued forward following the traditions my parents taught me as a child. While I’m no longer graceful or energetic enough to continue dancing, I listen to folk music, attend ceilidh’s and am learning to play the pipes – on my father’s chanter, using his music books, and when ready, it will be his pipes I play.

Despite this, I was raised in Canadian culture. I watched CTV and CBC growing up. I played in the snow and have climbed mountains. I went camping and fishing. I attended Canadian public schools as a french immersion student and married a Canadian. I watch hockey, not football (soccer) and sing O Canada, not God Save the Queen.

Do the traditions I carry on as a part of my heritage reflect my culture, or are they just a reflection of ethnicity? Is it possible for first generation children of immigrants to separate culture, tradition and ethnicity when you are raised with all elements in the home?