It was an angry mob that put the thought of teaching in my head. As a conflict averse introvert, this was an uprising I would rather have avoided. However, I agreed our teacher had gone too far. The college curriculum of our computer studies program was challenging enough without our
I love parties thrown in my honour, even if they’re surprise parties (as long as someone discreetly steers me to the appropriate wardrobe choice). In particular, I look forward to milestone birthday and anniversary parties. It was a warm sunny June in Northern Ontario. Not only was our daughter
As with most things my mother forced me to do when I was a teenager, I found a way to comply while ensuring I got my way or at least making sure she hadn’t gotten hers. A major concern for a traditional Italian mother of daughters was guaranteeing we
I wanted to learn how to play guitar so badly when I was eleven but the Italian kids took accordion lessons if they learned any instrument at all. And it was often only the boys who had the option of taking lessons. It was unfair. My brother had no interest
I was the kid in high school who never did well in anything requiring athletic ability. I invented creative excuses to miss gym class, was the one left at the end when teams were picked, and perfected sneaking around the vaulting horse rather than jumping over it. Instead of trophies
I’d meant to organize my photos – twenty-years worth that lived in shoeboxes in closets and cupboards throughout the house. I hadn’t thought I’d be organizing the history of me and my mother. When I undertook this great task, I expected it would tax my organizational skills, and
“No, you have to hide the egg!” my twenty-two-year-old daughter demanded. I was covered with flour, had been up since dawn and my hands were starting to go numb. I didn’t need my twenty-two-year old acting like a two-year-old unless she was planning to help me with the bread
While on a family vacation in Italy, I listened to my Uncle Angelo and Uncle Leo discuss one of their favourite topics – wine. They were born in Southern Italy but Angelo settled in Motta di Livenza, a small town near Venice, where he was chief of police for many years.
I came home from university in early November to attend the Artillery Ball, an annual black-tie event, hosted by the 49th Field Regiment, of which my boyfriend Rob was not only a member, but a kilt-wearing one. He was a drummer in their pipe band and they were performing at
A few years ago, while we were in the process of selling our house and downsizing, we decided to sell some of our framed prints. I was new to the world of selling items online, and while I never considered myself paranoid, I was a bit nervous about the exchange
I avoid cemeteries, my serious stories detour into humour, and I leave the room at breakneck speed (mentally, if I can’t get to an exit in time) when the conversation turns to dead people, soon-to-be-dead people or forecasted-someday-soon-to-be-dead people.
Couples of long tenure often complete each other's sentences, as if there is an inverse relationship between years spent together and words required to get our point across. That being said, there was one morning about ten years ago when I guess I failed the “fill in the