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I don’t save a lot of things, but I do save some things. After moving to and from four different provinces, I know how to purge. But there have been more than a few memorable items that have survived the yard sales and the spring-cleanings.

In a little gift bag in my craft room, I have every letter my grandmother ever wrote me. She’s deaf and has been for quite some time, so letters are how we’ve communicated over the years. I’ve saved newspaper clippings of my kids when they’ve appeared in the paper, I’ve saved the little notecard that was included with the first roses Stephen ever gave me, and I have a lock of each of my children’s hair.

In 2007 I saved a copy of an obituary I read online.

I’ve turned into my grandmother. While I don’t hold a physical paper most days, the first thing I read, on most occasions, are the obituaries.

This particular one caught my eye not because it was from someone well-known, but because it was long. I gravitate to long ones – hoping to glean snippets of wisdom in reading how someone lived their life – a life that many would now mourn.

This particular obituary was the beautiful story of a woman who spent her time, by everything mentioned, about as well as one should. Her story outlined the journey of a woman I never knew when she was alive, but think of in death. I have no idea who she is, or who her family is, or what she looked like, but I want to follow her example.

Her name was Karen Louise Weir (nee Brown). When she died in Halifax in February of 2007 she was just 60 years old. I remember thinking she was only two years younger than my Dad when he passed away in 2000. The paper read that she died “with her family holding her hands after an extended battle with brain cancer during which she amazed us all with her dignity and strength.”

In her short biography, there are sections I revisit every so often. Sometimes I’m looking for a bit of inspiration, other days a bit of hope. I always come away with the important reminder to be genuinely nice to people and to always remember that you can make a difference with just a smile or a gesture, or the smallest acts of kindness. There is the usual listing of workplaces and volunteer commitments, personal passions and those she leaves behind, but there is also this:

“Karen saw her children through rose-coloured glasses and her children never doubted that they had her unconditional love and support through all that life could throw at them … Karen assumed good in everyone, once even offering food to a man who broke into her home because she believed no one would do such a thing unless he was desperately hungry … In her memory take a few moments from your everyday life to do something especially kind for someone … Bring them flowers; make a cup of tea, have a chat, or say something kind that you’ve always meant to say. Don’t wait until something tragic happens, as it is so easy to do. Karen would really like that …”

In the words of my Aunt Joan, Karen was a light in a sea of darkness. I try to remember to be the light instead of the darkness – not just with family, but with everyone else in my life as well. This is where life can get a little messy.

Sometimes caring for so many means you put yourself out. Sometimes things get a little messy and complicated. Phone calls at awkward times, emails explaining life situations you’d rather not hear about, or the sleeplessness associated with caring about someone you know is in a horrible situation and you can’t help them because they don’t want to help themselves.

I don’t deal with the drama but rather with the facts. I’ve raised a teenager, so I find it easier to wade through the half-truths and the attention-seeking actions to find the real problem and help come up with solutions. Young people who need rides to the food bank, someone who needs help with his taxes, another who needs you to help her navigate a string of student-loan roadblocks. There are friends who need to know what to do in an emergency they’ve never encountered before, or another who just needs a hand to hold at the hospital.

There have been times when I’ve befriended and helped people, either through my work or through my volunteer commitments, and at the end of the day all I wanted to do was just take them home and mother them.

I used to wish I could turn this aspect of my personality off, but now understand I can’t control it, nor do I believe I have to. I know my limits, and have been successful at keeping to them. But just because my help has stopped doesn’t mean the caring has.

When my husband and I were following a marriage-counselling book a few months back, one of the exercises involved sharing our thoughts about each other – in particular the most endearing quality we found in our spouse.

His was easy. I love how he can always calm the kids (and his wife!) in any type of situation. He is our ballast – our steady guy in choppy waters. He never gets flustered and can keep his head about him in all situations. I think that’s part of what makes him a great firefighter.

I really had no idea what he’d say to the question. He took some time thinking before he answered. I was sure it would have something to do with trying to make family members feel special, like the little surprises I sometimes plan for the kids – a special outing, a special craft, or the sticky notes I put in lunches. Or maybe he’d say it was the way I crawl into bed with the kids each morning as I try to gently wake them and sneak a cuddle before they get up for the day.

What he said surprised me.

He admitted that the most endearing quality he felt I possessed is how I care for others. He said that I care for everyone, something he has a harder time with. He marvelled at how much empathy my heart carried.

The one thing in my personality that I felt he viewed as a flaw was what made me lovable.

Wow.

We have to willing to stick our necks out. Life is so busy and so hard and so messy for most of us that it’s easy to cocoon ourselves in our own little worlds and just deal with our own day-to-day problems. But when we reach out to others, offer a helping hand, hope and sometimes guidance, we are making the world a better place.

I sleep well at night knowing I spent my day caring – even if all I did was smile at someone and tell that person I was glad to see them today.

Sure, life gets busy and complicated because I care, but my life is made so much richer because of it. My children are being taught that you get far more back when you give, and that our lives are made richer by the compassionate connections we make through caring for others.

Like others, I was taught the golden rule: Do unto others, as you would have them do unto you.

Some people take that to mean we need to provide people with the help that we want or need or feel they could use. I try and follow the platinum rule instead: Treat others in the way they like to be treated. Sometimes following the platinum rule is hard – it puts us out of our comfort zone, it challenges us, and it makes us think. Anything worth working for – improving another person’s self-esteem, helping an individual succeed, providing someone with a compassionate ear, or a hand to hold – is never easy, but it does give back.

These encounters broaden our minds, renew our faith in humanity, and allow us to expand our hearts, our understanding and our community connections. It also allows us to follow in the footsteps of Karen Weir and honour the final request of someone who made the world a better place.

Theresa Blackburn is a wife, mother and New Brunswick Community College instructor who lives and writes in Woodstock. You can email her at theresa@mybigfatlife.ca, or join her group, Big Fat Life, on Facebook.  You can also follow her on Twitter @MY_BIG_FAT_LIFE

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I don’t know who delivered the orange posters but I wanted to say, you have no idea, do you? And that time I hurt my elbow -  it was white … Right?

If you didn’t understand what I just wrote, that can only mean one thing – you’re not my husband.

You see my husband is a genius – most days. He can figure out my half-sentences, my partial thoughts, and the stories I’ve started well into the plot – past the point of understanding anything about the tale I’m half-telling.

Maybe his ability to understand my fragmented communication comes from years of living with me. Maybe he’s totally in tune with my thoughts and feelings, maybe he’s really understanding my nuances – able to catch the partial phrases used over two-plus decades of togetherness and piece those words together like some mismatched quilt, because he truly understands and loves my mind.

OK, you can cue the ‘scratched-record-sound-effect’ right about here …

My husband cannot sew, and has a hard time with hints let alone nuances. And really, he’s behind the eight-ball before he even starts when it comes to trying to understand anything that comes out of my mouth on most days.

I am all over the place. I’m a hard girl to live with. I talk a lot, and thankfully he can zone me out. Some women are reading this and saying out loud – ‘She says she’s THANKFUL he can zone her out? Is she crazy? I hate it when my husband doesn’t listen to what I say!’

First, no, I’m not crazy, and second, really, I’m just afraid of housework.

Stephen and Theresa: Communicating through miscommunication for nearly 23 years!

Hear me out.

You see, I am a woman who talks a lot. (I’m really not as bad as I used to be … right Stephen? RIGHT??!!) To avoid my constant chatter when we’re home, Stephen must do things to occupy himself. Housework is one way to successfully zone me out. You can’t hear what I’m saying when you’re genuinely busy with a noisy vacuum cleaner or a tumbling dryer.

And I’m not a fan of bloody messes. It’s not that I worry that he’ll someday decide to kill me because I can’t shut up; no, he’s too kind for that. I have just figured that if he listens to every single thing I have to say his head would explode.

Seriously – KABOOM!

Information overload. That would be one messy cleanup I’d rather not contend with. I think of this fact whenever I’m about to get mad because I have to repeat myself, or he forgets one of the eight million bits of information I have imparted upon him over the years.

This is not to say we don’t talk. We do – and he does listen – or at least he tries.

There are sweet and tender conversations before bed, serious conversations about the kids, and great debates about news events and politics. Then there are the ‘other’ conversations – the ones that take place when we’re doing something together, like dishes, or folding laundry – where he’s held captive for a short time.

Sometimes I feed him half-thoughts and missed points and jumbled stories that I expect him to understand. Most days he takes a shot in the dark and guesses what I’m talking about. Other days he laughs out loud and questions what the heck I’ve just said. On days he gets it, I just keep going, nattering on, oblivious to the amazing mental acrobatics he’s just performed. On those days, where he deserves a medal, I unwittingly oblige and hand him a dish-towel or clean underwear to fold.

In those moments where he’s unable to perform amazing mind-bending feats in seconds (maybe he’s not had enough sleep, or not eaten the right foods – much like a marathon, you have to be prepared for these intense synaptic events), he laughs out loud, pokes a bit of fun and thus begins the usual to and fro-ing that has become the custom in our relationship.

He tells me he has no idea what I’ve just been talking about. I then come back with the obligatory ‘how could you not know?’ feigning innocence, and begin my pontification. I am confident he is wrong, and I am sure the entire story has been verbalized, and I believe he just wasn’t listening.

Most days he can quickly find the holes in my argument – easily pointing to inconsistencies in the conversation – a conversation that obviously began inside my head long before my mouth was engaged.

It is then I point out that I am merely trying to make him laugh, to keep him guessing, to shake things up – for the sake of our marriage. I point out that I’m the giver here – and that he better remember that fact.

This is usually the point where we both get the giggles and are quickly reminded of how lucky we are. He almost always laughs at my miscommunication instead of getting mad. Throughout much of our relationship we’ve been able to make fun of our/my silly misunderstandings instead of arguing about them. I know this is one of the main reasons we’re still happily married.

Because when it comes right down to it, Rick Mercer IS able to see him … and golf balls can’t be scooped out on their own … right?

Theresa Blackburn is a wife, mother and New Brunswick Community College instructor who lives and writes in Woodstock. You can email her at theresa@mybigfatlife.ca, or join her group, Big Fat Life, on Facebook.  You can also follow her on Twitter @MY_BIG_FAT_LIFE

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I am a member of the Woodstock Town Council.

That journey began shortly after I arrived in Woodstock in the summer of
2006.

After spending nearly 20 years as a journalist you become accustomed to
knowing what’s happening in your community. After our fourth week here, I
realized I knew very little and didn’t like it.

I joined a few groups and began attending bi-monthly town council
meetings.

My education was swift. In investing just a few hours of my time in the
council chambers each month I learned the state of our town’s finances, what
kind of tax base we had and what was being investigated to replace the tax base
we lost when the hospital was moved.

I discovered how many crimes were committed in my community, what those
crimes were, how many fires volunteers responded to each month, and how many
activities the recreation department put on.

I gained knowledge about our towns infrastructure: things we fixed, things
public works staff were about to fix, and things scheduled to be
replaced to avert future problems.

I learned what kinds of variances residents were requesting, how many
building permits were issued, and what bylaws were being changed.

In a short amount of time I learned an awful lot.

Less than two years later I ran for office. I spent some time writing in a
local paper about my first attempts at running for office, spent more time going
door to door, and even more time doing evening ‘phone outs’ – cold calling
constituents to talk to them about what they were looking for from their
municipal leaders.

Surprisingly I won. This ‘come from away’ with no previous political
experience, a woman no one really knew, gained a seat on Woodstock Town Council
after living here for less than 24 months.

Why? Because most people in this part of the world don’t care
about municipal politics. While I was elated at my luck, I was also saddened by
the harsh reality of the numbers.

I was one of only seven candidates for six positions. Our Mayor was
acclaimed. I won my seat with 457 votes – just 29 votes ahead of the only person
who lost that night.

That year Woodstock had 3,571 eligible voters. Do the math and you’ll
discover that I have a mandate from just over 12 per cent of the voting public.
I remember thinking, “What kind of mandate is that?” I can honestly say it’s
not a very convincing one.

And while most of my time on council has been pretty smooth, there have been
some controversial decisions.

I had some rude things said to me on the street, on the phone and even to my
face – at church, during mass of all places – after town council decided to
allow a piece of land to be rezoned that permitted the building of an apartment
complex.

People felt if we disallowed the rezoning the Wesleyan Church would be forced
to stop its demolition – stop the destruction of a church that had spent most of
its last 50 years crumbling into the ground.

It was argued the town should save the structure – in spite of the fact this
did not fall into our municipal mandate. Inspections revealed it would have cost
more than $1 million to restore the historic building – a price tag too costly
for the congregation at the time. We approved the rezoning, the structure was
demolished and a new building erected. Some people have vowed to never forgive
what we’ve done.

Now our council faces the decision on the possible rezoning of vacant industrial park
land to residential for the establishment of a mini-home park. Council members
are being pressured by industrial park landowners to nix the project. If you’ve
read the Bugle-Observer lately, you’ll know where I stand on the issue. I’ve
spent hours and hours trying to understand the concerns, talked with prospective
mini-home buyers and current owners, as well as developers and home
manufacturing businesses to try to get the other side.

Suffice it to say I am not very well liked by some business owners in town
at this moment. But I’m okay with that. I’m not here to make friends.

My sole purpose is to make sure I am a good steward of the tax dollars our
municipality is entrusted with.

What I find sad is that until people perceive something is wrong, they don’t
give our job or municipal politics even a fleeting thought. But once a decision
is made that people don’t agree with our jobs are suddenly of interest
to many.

Sometimes this causes problems. Many people, because they don’t pay attention
to their municipal council, don’t fully understand the processes involved or the
guidelines we work under.

Our jobs, and what we are and are not allowed to do, are tightly defined
within the province’s Municipalities Act. We don’t ‘make our own rules’ – we’re
not allowed to.

But I think one of the biggest misunderstandings about municipal government
rests with the act of governance. Councils only manage one employee – in our
case it’s our CAO – our Chief Administrative Officer. The rest of the town
employees are managed by the CAO. I find it funny when someone tells me that our
CAO runs the town.

My usual response – “Well, I hope so … that’s what we pay him for.” Council
makes decisions and our CAO implements those decisions. It’s a very basic
premise that some people have a hard time understanding.

So why am I telling you all of this now? I want you to be thinking about your
municipal government before the next election. I want you to be knowledgeable
and involved before going to the polls. In a little more than six months time
you will be given another chance to decide who will be in charge of your
municipal affairs. I want you to know what issues your councillors will face and
who is running to represent you. Maybe that knowledge will even prompt you to
run for a place on council.

You have a little more than six months to get the facts and get a feel for
the situations facing the municipality. This time frame also lends itself to you
understanding the processes involved in governing your community.

We are in tough economic times, and we, as municipal politicians, need all
the input we can get.

But you, as a voter and a tax payer and possibly a candidate, also need to
know who could be involved in the decisions that will impact you most.

You need to know your candidates and you need to get out and vote for
people.

Pay attention, remember municipal politics are important, and please be
engaged enough to take the time to vote for the people making critical
decisions.

How horrible a situation: having this democratic freedom to vote for the
people in charge of our affairs – and not exercise that freedom. People have
died for this – people in other countries dream of this – and we sit back and
act complacent.

I will probably offer my name again, but if the voting public decides to put
someone else in the chair, I’ll be happy to throw my continued support behind
council.

I know first hand how hard this job is – but I also know first hand how
dedicated the people around my table are, something I suspect is similar right
across the province.

I’ll step off my municipal soapbox for now – but only if you’ll step into the
municipal arena – even if it’s just to discover what we, as municipal
politicians, really do.

Maybe we’ll get the chance to meet in council chambers some evening.

I sure hope so.

Theresa Blackburn is a wife, mother and New Brunswick Community College
instructor who lives and writes in Woodstock. You can email her at
theresa@mybigfatlife.ca, or join her group, Big Fat Life, on Facebook. You can also follow her on Twitter @MY_BIG_FAT_LIFE

CLICK HERE FOR ORIGINAL ARTICLE

I had one of those weeks last week.

You know the kind – a week where you don’t know if you’re coming or going, 18 things on your schedule and you know you can only successfully get to 11 of them.

The week where you wear two different socks to work and hope no one notices; where you forget the weather forecast predicted rain for the afternoon and you send your kids to school in T-shirts because it was warm and sunny that morning.

It was that kind of week. The kind of week where you forget to pick up milk so everyone has toast one morning, which depletes the bread for lunches, and you have to dole out money. That week when you had the doctor appointment, and almost forgot, but arrive a few minutes late, relieved, until you discover that you forgot to bring the updated Medicare card, again – something you were reminded about at the last two visits.

My week flew by. With kids having band and hockey and piano and cadets, there was homework, meet the teacher, interviews for a new project I’m working on and physio for my boy.

That doesn’t include the three nights of staying late at work correcting assignments and creating lesson plans, or the quick trip to the hospital to help a friend who has no family in the area. Top that off with helping my own kids with homework and a social studies project, and trying to cook healthy meals for my family … I was ready to collapse.

I cursed myself this week. I made things even busier for myself when I promised to walk as part of the ‘Ball is in Your Court’ provincial wellness campaign. I committed to walking every weekday, on my lunch hour, until December, and last week wondered if I could really do this.

Mid-week I was ready to pull my hair out. Wednesday I arrived late for my walk, walked with my friend Tobi for the first 10 minutes and then finished the last two laps of the racetrack alone.

Wednesday was a nice day – sunny and warm. Wednesday was a day where the breeze came up just as I made the second turn on the track and cooled me as I began to break out in a sweat. Wednesday the clouds were beautiful and fluffy – high and moving fast, changing shape quickly – reminding me of my youth and the many hours spent laying on my front lawn watching the sky do its artistic dance.

Across the fence, as I made my way around the track’s third turn, I heard the beautiful sounds of Centennial Elementary School children. I heard the beautiful sounds of young kids playing and laughing, and I smiled because I knew my daughters voice was somewhere in that mix, envisioning her laughing, running, swinging on the swings … being her perfect, excitable self.

I instantly felt shame remembering how I grumbled to myself in the van as I drove from work to the track that day. That quiet time – just me, my sneakers and the fresh air – reminded me I have to remain thankful and need to slow down sometimes so I can see the beauty and the calm in this crazy, busy life of mine.

And while I could have easily said no to a lot of things this week, I didn’t.

I wonder if my inability to stay still gives me such peace in stillness?

I have no reason to complain, and so many more reasons to be thankful.

I am thankful for the smile that crept across my friend’s face as I sat with her at the hospital and joked that we just solved all the problems of the world after we talked about the health issues of her loved one and cried.

I am thankful for the reassuring smile I get each day from my friend Tobi, who is always positive, always uplifting and always willing to walk with me on her lunch hour.

I am thankful for my daughter sneaking up behind me in the morning after being unable to tuck her in the night before because of a meeting. She wrapped her arms around me as I sat eating my breakfast, quickly whispering in my ear, “I love you” before asking for a toasted bagel with cream cheese.

There are the lovely notes from my older daughter on my Facebook page: “I love you,” “I miss you.”

There is the thoughtful things my husband did last week – like taking my son’s cadet tunic to the seamstress so his badges could be sewn on, hoping to lighten my load (he can’t sew), or telling me to stay home from hockey, knowing I’m tired but feeling guilty about not going – reassuring me that it’s more than OK to rest.

I am thankful for the sweet hug I get from my son each morning after I’ve crawled in bed to wake him, rubbing his back, talking softly about the day ahead so he has a good start to his day even if we’ve argued about homework or chores the night before.

I give thanks for good friends who give me hugs when they know it’s been a crazy week, or continue to drop off homemade beets, or bread, or strawberries, even though I keep reminding them they don’t have to do this.

This week, a beautiful homemade scarf and lovely book made their way to my home, and I felt overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness.

That saying about reaping what you sow sometimes gets lost in the bustle that is our everyday lives. I reap so much more than I sow and need to be reminded of that, especially on those crazy, pull-your-hair-out kind of weeks.

Theresa Blackburn is a wife, mother and New Brunswick Community College instructor who lives and writes in Woodstock. You can email her at theresa@mybigfatlife.ca, or join her group, Big Fat Life, on Facebook.  You can also follow her on Twitter @MY_BIG_FAT_LIFE

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A new year, a new beginning and endless possibilities, if I allow them.

I consistently joke that my OCD helps me with my ADD.

Sometimes I’m trying to be funny, but most times it rings a little too true for me.

I struggle with distraction, but I also struggle with my need to do some things in a certain way. In my case, I am, at times, ultra-organized. Yes, just like all things in life, too much of a good thing is bad. I think that my drive to be organized can go too far – in our house, it tends to be a bad thing, especially if I happen to be your mom.

I think – no, check that – I know I make my kids feel inadequate when it comes to their organizational skills.

I don’t try to purposely make them feel like they can’t measure up, but sometimes my want for them to be as organized as possible means Mama takes over some duties so it gets done ‘right.’

I quickly forget that my doing these things can make my children feel like Mama doesn’t trust them, believe in them, or value their abilities.

My need to help my kids, in these cases, is not a good thing.

James hanging out at the family computer just before school started this year.

My son is a lot like me.

James is a caring and loving young man who is chatty like his mom, has a huge heart, and just like his mother, forgets things. The forgetting part is what I try to help him with – sometimes to excess. I consistently remind him of what he has to do, beg him not to forget his stuff, and organize things for him in the hopes that doing these things will make life easier for him. What I fail to recognize is that this is not my job. I am not supposed to make him feel like the world is an easy place to live. The damage I am inflicting by ‘helping,’ I believe, far outweighs the damage that could happen if I don’t help.

Really, allowing him find his own way of organizing his things will end up producing better outcomes. Despite this knowledge, I struggle.

What I’m doing when I organize things for my son is telling him that he is now, and forever could be, disorganized. By reminding him of things multiple times, and reinforcing organizational points time and time again I am also reminding him of his current shortcomings – over and over and over again.

I am affecting, for better or worse, his self-image every time I tell him ‘not to forget.’

I am telling my son that he is disorganized when, really, I should be telling him the opposite.

When our daughter was an alien (aka a teenager), we took a “Parenting Your Teenager” course through the mental health department at the regional hospital in Goose Bay, Labrador.

One week we were given poker chips and told to use them – to give them to your teenager when you said something positive to them. We were given 25 chips, and many of us come back to the next meeting with a few of them left over. For many parents, it was hard to distribute the ‘positive’ chips.

As parents we’re all pretty consistent with at least one thing when it comes to raising teenagers – we’re all pretty great at harping at them a lot and forgetting to praise them enough. It’s not that we’re bad parents – really, it’s the nature of ‘the beast’ – the teen years where kids push boundaries, have science experiments growing under their beds, and sometimes can’t seem to understand consequences.

And even after taking a course, I still have to be reminded (much like my son) of the important things – like reinforcing the good in our kids.

When my son remembered to bring home all of the school forms we had to sign, I didn’t remember to say, “Great job!”

When he did his homework after school like we asked, instead of telling him, “Good job!”, we sadly pointed out a few of the grammatical errors and asked him to fix them.

I have since apologized to my son for not pointing out all the good things he accomplished last week.

When I look at what I do and how I react to my own students and co-workers and friends, and then look at how I react to my own children in some situations, I feel ashamed.

I need to be more positive and not be ‘at them’ as much. I need to remind myself that they are not perfect and just like their mom, are ‘works in progress.’

But most importantly, I have stop trying to do everything for them and let them make some mistakes.

Some of my best life lessons have involved trying something and failing. Some of the best mistakes in life have taken me on amazing personal journeys, where I learned how to cope, and truly learned how to adapt. Getting yourself into a jam and figuring a way out of them helps foster healthy self-esteem and provides valuable tools that, in the end, ensure success.

I watch students come and go at the college and see some young people sink while others swim. Some who don’t succeed aren’t doing so because they lack ability but more because they lack the skills to cope when things go wrong. They’re hard on themselves when things aren’t perfect and can’t problem-solve when issues arise.

On the flip side of this, the majority of students who DO succeed at college aren’t doing so because they’ve been a perfect student throughout their program, but more because they’ve been able to overcome obstacles and continue when things aren’t perfect because they have great coping skills and can problem-solve.

When my daughter was born nearly 24 years ago, I wouldn’t have believed you if you told me that being a good parent included the ability to let your kids screw up from time to time. I’m not saying to stand by and let them ruin their lives, but if they get into a pinch, we shouldn’t rush to solve their minor problems.

I think if there was ever a perfect parenting checklist developed, “Let your child make mistakes and figure things out for themselves” would make the top five – right after “Teach your children to never eat yellow snow.”

Theresa Blackburn is a wife, mother and New Brunswick Community College instructor who lives and writes in Woodstock. You can email her at theresa@mybigfatlife.ca, or join her group, Big Fat Life, on Facebook.  You can also follow Theresa on Twitter @MY_BIG_FAT_LIFE

CLICK HERE FOR ORIGINAL ARTICLE

I’ve been asked by the Western Valley Wellness Network to take part in a new
initiative. As part a new provincial wellness campaign through the Department of
Wellness, Culture and Sport, I’ve been asked to be the wellness ambassador for
this region of the province.

I was shocked when they called.

I wanted to ask them if they knew how many times I’ve tried to get healthy
and failed? I wanted to ask them if they knew how much I weighed? I wanted to
ask them if they knew I ate chips after supper last night?

Really, I wanted to ask them if they couldn’t find someone more successful in
taking care of their own wellness?

But then my husband quickly reminded me that my journey is not so much about
what I’ve accomplished, but more about the fact that I haven’t given up.

And that may be the reason I was asked.

If you read my column, you know I struggle. I struggle with weight, with
stress, with trying to be a good example for my children. I struggle with taking
care of my physical health and my mental health and sometimes I get
discouraged.

But you also know I try and try and try. I try to get back on track after
each setback, and I’ve been successful in continuing the journey. I can’t stop
trying to be better at taking care of my health because giving up could mean an
early death. I love my children and husband too much to put them through
that.

So I struggle … every week, every day, sometimes hourly. I struggle with my
weight, with exercise, with wellness.

And writing about that struggle has created a community of people who connect
because they also struggle.

Many of us look at others who are successful at exercising daily; we watch
them eat the right foods consistently, and get enough rest to boot and think,
“Wow … I wish I could do that.”

But we sometimes fail to understand that as human beings we’re all different,
we’re all brought up differently and we all react to life and our circumstances
differently.

We can’t all be perfect in taking care of our own personal wellness, but we
can all try and keep trying.

And that’s what I’m trying to do.

Even though enrolling our daughter in hockey again this fall will throw our
family time into a crazy tailspin of rushing around to make practices in the
early evenings when I should be making supper, I embrace the chaos.

Why? Because of what this activity means to my daughter and also what it does
for my own health.

Having to spend a great deal of time at the Carleton Civic Centre on weekdays
means I will spend more time walking. I use the walking track regularly during
Kathryn’s practices. I feel good about going to the rink because we BOTH get
something very valuable out of it.

This fall I’m adding to my walking regime.

I’ve decided that to better care for not only my physical health but my
mental health, I need to take a lunch break every day – no matter what. For the
last few years, most of my lunch hours have been spent at the college – at my
desk – wolfing down food – and working.

This, I have discovered, does not get me anymore ahead of the game. In fact,
not taking a break is harmful. It doesn’t do anything for my students or for me.
I need to physically get out of the building – to get sunshine, to get fresh air
and to take a mental break so I can return to afternoon classes refreshed and
ready to go.

This year, starting Sept. 12, I’m going to be walking on my lunch hour and
would love if you could join me.

If you’re in the Woodstock area, you can meet me at the Connell Park Raceway.
We’ll be parking in the Y’s Men Club near the new fenced-in soccer pitch across
from Woodstock High School. We’ll be walking through the stable area to the
raceway just off Connell Park Drive.

We’re going to start walking at 12:20 p.m. for 30 minutes … rain or shine,
good weather and bad, every day of the week. Sometimes we have to be reminded
we’re not made of sugar and we won’t melt. I have this on good authority that we
will survive walking in a bit of weather. Remember, this is exactly what we had
to do when we were growing up – we walked to school, rain or shine, no matter
what the weather.

I’m taking a page from my friend Susan Pedler of CBC-TV in Windsor, Ontario.
If you watch The National, you’ll know that Susan set out, as part of the CBC’s
Live Right Now campaign, to walk every weekday for six months. She asked viewers
to join her. You can watch her journey online – just Google ‘Live Right Now
Susan Pedler.’

I’m sure you can guess what happened. Susan slept better, felt better, made
friends, changed lives and lost weight. It transformed her life. She was excited
when I called her and encouraged me to go through with this when I told her
about the idea. She was also very humble when I told her how much she inspired
me.

I’ve committed myself to walking every lunch hour from Sept. 12 through to
Dec. 16 – four months – and see where it takes me.

I may officially be your wellness ambassador, but I’m still on my own
journey. I think I’d prefer the title, “wellness cheerleader and friend.”

Either title, I just hope some of you become motivated enough to join me next
Monday at the raceway. And if your lunch hour doesn’t jive with the times, or
you live in another community, I challenge you to start a walking group where
you are and let me know how you make out.

Theresa Blackburn is a wife, mother and New Brunswick Community College
instructor who lives and writes in Woodstock. You can email her at
theresa@mybigfatlife.ca, or join her group, Big Fat Life, on Facebook.

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Some of the best memories I have of my father are tied to our ongoing conversations about politics.

For as long as I can remember, my father tried to teach me about the ways of the political world. But his teaching was skewed – he had blinders. He was a Conservative. For Dad, it didn’t matter what economic situation the country was in, he didn’t care who the leader was, and he definitely didn’t care who happened to be leading other parties – he was colourblind unless things were Tory blue.

Being the master of ‘challenge,’ I educated myself about the other candidates and leaders so I could challenge him.

The year he was dying of cancer and we had 1,900 kilometres between us, we had some of our best political discussions.

He was bed-ridden in his last months, and would call me often – at work, at home – for him it didn’t matter what I was doing – if a thought popped into his head about something we talked about the day before, he’d pick up the phone. I was ever so grateful for that.

The year was 2000, and we had lots to talk about. This was the year Stockwell Day took over the leadership of the Canadian Alliance Party (post Reform). It was also the year Rick Mercer got overwhelming support in his ‘referendum’ campaign to get Stockwell Day to change his name to Doris – making fun of Day’s proposal for referendum guidelines.

Jean Chrétien called a snap election that year – and in November led his party to yet another victory.

Missing the great debates: Theresa and her parents, Doug and Barb Blackburn. Easter, 1969

Dad and I had so much to discuss and debate. It was like the political gods shined down on us and knew we needed an interesting political year to close our lifetime of discussions.

I remember some big laughs – my father thought Day looked ridiculous when he arrived at a news conference in a wetsuit, on a JetSki – and sadness … Dad lamenting that he might never see the Conservatives rise again before he died; he felt they were the only ones who could ‘save the country.’

I’m glad he was gone before the election that November. I thought of him every minute of election night.

My father, from an early age, got involved in grassroots campaigns. Even though he often referred to CPAC as his ‘favourite channel’ and his conversations always seemed to gravitate toward federal politics, his passion was municipal politics.

“Municipal politics are the most important.”

He told me this time and time again.

My father worked on municipal campaigns most of his life. He dragged me along for the ride. Since about the age of 12, I would have ‘jobs’ in municipal campaigns in our district of, then, Halifax County. I answered phones, went door to door with candidates, distributed flyers and even did a stint as an election-night monitor when I was 18.

My father had a great respect for people who put their names forward for municipal positions.

I think his respect had a lot to do with why I ran for municipal office in Woodstock.

I also think my father’s passion for all things municipal has a lot to do with my respect for Jack Layton.

He started at the municipal level and connected with more people across this country as a federal leader because of his grassroots experience.

He worked in the political ‘trenches.’

I recently asked a man who was considering a run at provincial politics in this province why he hadn’t tried municipal politics first.

His answer: “Municipal politics is too much of a headache.”

He was referring to being stopped in grocery stores, called at home, and having to make difficult decisions that could upset his neighbours.

I wanted to say to him, “So you’re a coward? Is that it?” but held my tongue because my parents brought me up properly.

Jack wasn’t ‘afraid’ of the trenches. He honed his skills in the perfect place – a place where you have to foster a thick skin – a place where you get to truly know who you represent. A place where you can’t hide.

Maybe that’s why he connected with so many; maybe that’s why people are lamenting what could have been.

I also lament what could have been – but with regard to my Dad. I can envision the amazing and thoughtful discussions I would have had with my father had he lived to see the political coverage of Jack Layton’s death.

My Dad be gone 11 years this September.

Theresa Blackburn is a wife, mother and New Brunswick Community College instructor who lives and writes in Woodstock. You can email her at theresa@mybigfatlife.ca, or join her group, Big Fat Life, on Facebook.  You can also follow her on Twitter @MY_BIG_FAT_LIFE

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If Laura Burtt and Alyson Hubbard were horses, I think they might be Appaloosas. This breed of horse is intelligent, gentle and sure-footed. That perfectly describes how these two talented and sweet young women conducted themselves last week.

Students taking part in a riding camp at Green Meadow Stables in Wakefield, smile pretty for the camera just before a full day of learning begins. Pictured from left are instructor Alyson Hubbard; students Kaitlan Blackburn-MacLean; Olivia McCarthy; Major the horse; Kathryn Chisholm; Elizabeth Davidson; Emily McCready; and instructor Laura Burtt.

Laura and Alyson are instructors at Green Meadow Stables in Wakefield, just a few minutes outside of Woodstock. They conducted a riding camp at the stables last week.

My daughter Kathryn and my niece Kaitlan were two of the young studies taking part in the camp. Each night the two were quick to brush their teeth and say their prayers because going to sleep meant one thing – they got to wake up to the next day, where they spent their time with their favourite four-legged animals.

In fact, horses replaced family members when each child was counting blessings before bed.

The two were bursting with excitement each morning as we drove the few minutes through beautiful farming countryside to the stables.

There is a feeling of home when you walk onto the property. As you arrive at the farm, the stables’ official canine greeter, Thor, welcomes you. As you wander toward the barn, Casper the friendly goat, or Bacon, the pot-bellied pig, will sometime join you on your walk.

When we picked the girls up after their first day, they had a hard time leaving ‘their horses.’

“It was the BEST DAY EVER!” said Kaitlan. “It was the BEST DAY OF MY LIFE!” agreed Kathryn.

Kaitlan adopted the stables pony, Romeo.

Each day we heard how Romeo did on her riding lesson, how she fed and groomed him, what he liked to eat, what his personality was like, and of course how much Kaitlan loves ‘her Romeo.’

Kathryn fell in love with her horse, Major.

Major is a five-year-old quarter horse who is gentle and kind with Kathryn. She had a hard time leaving him each day. She hugged him goodbye when we left and ran to rub his nose when we arrived.

All week long both girls were dreading Friday; they didn’t want the week to end.

Kathryn and her new best friend Major

“I wish I could do this all summer!” was a sentence we heard a lot last week.

For five days, they learned not only how to ride, but how to care for the horses.

They’ve learned what the horses eat, and how they sleep. They’ve discovered how much a horse poops and pees and how much work is involved in cleaning that up.

“That’s the only part I really don’t like a whole lot!” said Kaitlan.

They learned grooming techniques and the horse vocabulary – words for everything related to horses and the equipment that they use to care for them.

But most importantly, Kathryn and Kaitlan have learned that horses are to be loved and respected.

Laura and Alyson have become heroes to the five girls taking part in the riding camp.

Kaitlan and her best buddy Romeo

Each night we heard a lot about what each young woman taught the students. There is a mixture of love and respect woven into every conversation the girls have about the camp and their instructors.

It has been a joy to listen to the girls talk so excitedly about their experiences and be excited about everything taught each and every day.

On Friday, families got to see firsthand what the campers learned and we couldn’t have been more proud to see them demonstrate their new skills.

My daughter and my niece now have beautiful memories to last a lifetime from their week at Green Meadow. And we have Laura and Alyson to thank for that.

Theresa Blackburn is a wife, mother and New Brunswick Community College instructor who lives and writes in Woodstock. You can email her at theresa@mybigfatlife.ca, or join her group, Big Fat Life, on Facebook.  You can also follow her on Twitter @MY_BIG_FAT_LIFE

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It’s a wonder my brother and I aren’t maimed, or in jail, or worse, still living in our mother’s basement.

We were not the sharpest tacks in the drawer in our early years.

We hated each other with a passion between the ages of about seven and 14.

Leonard and Theresa: siblings who wrestled together and still love each other - thankfully!

We would hit and scratch and pound on each other regularly. Most of this took place out of eye and earshot of our parents, most of it centred on the other being somehow inferior at that particular moment in time and needing to be punished for it.

In those early “hate” years, when my brother was younger and weaker, I, being the older sister, would regularly put him in his place. For example, when he called me names my response, if parents weren’t around, would be to haul back and give him a good sisterly whack – not hard mind you, but it was still a smack.

As years progressed and he grew stronger, I reverted to name calling and he became the designated hitter.

I don’t think I’m wrong in believing that the sibling fighting and wrestling we participated in during those years possibly made me a little safer. I mean, really, if I can stand up and wrestle with (and sometimes pummel) my brother, I probably wouldn’t be dragged into a car without doing some serious damage to someone.

I have to admit that at times we were barbaric and could be horribly cruel. I look back on some of our skirmishes and openly wonder why we were so horrible to each other. I sometimes think, “That really wasn’t me, was it?”

I think those memories are why I’m in awe of my own children.

I will admit that when my older daughter was an “alien” for a short while during her teen years she did, at times, openly express hatred for her younger siblings. But really those times didn’t last long, and I am thankful to report that overall each of my children truly like one another.

One of Mom's favourite pictures: James and Kathryn happy to see each other after James spent his first week away at camp last summer.

Even on those annoying days where they’re in close quarters, like our mini-van, and one’s driving another one nearly mad with their incessant, “Are we there yet?” or “So and so is staring at me again,” each of them posses the ability to empathize with the one another.

What I love the most about my children and their relationship with each other is how they react when they’re away from each other for any amount of time.

Since Kristen moved out, her younger siblings count the days and hours until she comes home for visits. When she walks through the door, she is ambushed by love. Recently, when James was at Cadet Camp and away for weeks at a time, his little sister couldn’t wait for his return.

Last year when James was at camp for the very first time, Kathryn penned him a little note. On one side of the paper she wrote, “Hi James. I miss you a lot. PS: I’m sleeping in your room.” On the other side, “I love you, Love Kathryn.” She wanted to sleep in his room while he was gone so she “wouldn’t miss him so much.”

That first summer we arrived on base for a two-hour visit after week number one was over. When she caught a glimpse of him coming across the grass to where we were seated in the shade, she ran to James. He was just as excited to see her and lifted Kathryn in the air and hugged her hard.

I was lucky enough to capture the moment. It is by far one of my favourite pictures.

During our short visit James revealed a secret – he had duct-taped her note to the inside of his beret. He had carried his sister’s love with him all week.

Theresa Blackburn is a wife, mother and New Brunswick Community College instructor who lives and writes in Woodstock. You can email her at theresa@mybigfatlife.ca, or join her group, Big Fat Life, on Facebook.  You can also follow her on Twitter @MY_BIG_FAT_LIFE

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The first time I heard the music of U2 I was in junior high. I danced to U2′s I Will Follow at a friend’s birthday party. By the end of the night the little 45 was probably played at least a dozen times.

I was instantly smitten.

U2 in their younger years

The year was 1980 and, like the lyrics in that first tune, I fell in love with their music, and it followed me throughout my life.

New Year’s Day, Two Hearts Beat As One, In the Name of Love, With Or Without You, Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For, Where the Streets Have No Name, Desire, Angel of Harlem, One, The Sweetest Thing, Vertigo, and Sometimes You Can’t Make it on Your Own to name just a few of my favourites. I’ve listened to these songs when I’ve been happy, sad or just indifferent.

U2 makes me think, makes me tap my feet, and most times has the ability to put me in my happy place when I’m feeling down. These songs make up most of the soundtrack of my life.

When I was in college a cover band for U2 came to Nova Scotia. My friend Nancy was as big a fan as I was, so we followed them.

For two nights, in two separate towns, in two separate bars, we paid the cover charge, asked for water at the bar, and danced to the group, Under a Blood Red Sky.

We never sat down until the band took their break between sets. We were two sweaty, giddy and happy young women.

Fast-forward more than 20 years and I was a sweaty, giddy and happy woman once again – minus the young part.

In April, when Moncton announced U2 was going to be performing at Magnetic Hill, my husband and I decided that instead of slipping away for a romantic weekend for our 15th wedding anniversary we would instead buy tickets to see U2.

Knowing we couldn’t bring lawn chairs to this concert, we bought grandstand tickets.

Everything was arranged. My aunt traveled from Halifax to Woodstock to take care of my kids and we were Moncton-bound by 10:30 Saturday morning, excitedly driving through pouring rain.

Theresa Blackburn and her husband Stephen Chisholm, along with their friends Kevin and Michelle Talbot, were excited as they made their way closer to the Magnetic Hill concert grounds. The band's stage, named The Claw, can be seen in the background.

We were going with dear friends we met when we were in Goose Bay. When we arrived at their home in Moncton, it was decided we’d wait until nearly suppertime so we could avoid the rain. Forecasters were predicting things would clear off by then.

They were right.

Friends of our friends dropped us off at the Petro Can at the overpass just after 6 p.m.

We made our way to the grounds, navigated muddy fields, and watched Arcade Fire while we waited in a food line for nearly an hour.

We ate our special ‘anniversary meal’ – two donairs and two bottles of pop costing a whopping $24 – while waiting in another line for about 45 minutes as we tried to get into the grandstand area. By 9:05 we were in our seats waiting for U2 to take the stage.

And magic began at 9:25.

I had goose bumps as the screens showed the band walking on stage.

I was teary eyed at the beginning – finally seeing the group I so adored.

I screamed, video taped some of the concert, danced, took pictures and hugged my husband throughout most of the concert. The band played favourites and sung a few bars of more than a couple surprise tunes. Bono made us think – with talk and video from Burma, songs dedicated to those in Somalia dreaming of the freedom we enjoyed and sometimes take for granted – and reminded us all of how lucky we are.

I know I’m lucky. I have three healthy children, the means to go to the concert, the ability to walk in and out of the field grounds, a home to go back to, a warm bed to sleep in and a beautiful man to share it with.

U2 consistently reminds the world through their actions that we need to strive to make freedom a reality for all.

Sure the concert field was muddy, and at times I was shoved in the lineups. Sure the food at the concessions cost too much and the rain made me question my tickets (only briefly). Sure we waited in lineups far too long, and some of the hill staff didn’t seem to know what they were doing at times. But I have to admit that I didn’t regret my choice once during the evening.

The light show for the concert was spectacular!

Some of my friends vowed never to attend a concert on the hill again because of some of these things, but I can’t look at it that way.

What I take from my brief time on the hill that day are images of 75 thousand relatively well-behaved individuals all there for the same reason. I see thousands of people who were acting very civil despite the rain and mud and frustration.

I also have images of a group of staff trying to do their best in not so perfect circumstances.

The rain came and went and people stayed away, then thousands arrived en masse just before the main show causing more than a few headaches for staff.

But the best thing about the evening was the music, the message and the partner I shared it with.

For me, 12:15 a.m. came all too soon … and in a flash it was over. Thankfully the memories will last much longer.

Happy anniversary, babe …

Theresa Blackburn is a wife, mother and New Brunswick Community College instructor who lives and writes in Woodstock. You can email her at theresa@mybigfatlife.ca, or join her group, Big Fat Life, on Facebook.  You can also follow her on Twitter @MY_BIG_FAT_LIFE