Journalism 101

It was a warm sunny day as I entered the doctor's office on a mission. My homework assignment for my online writing course was to write about an everyday place like a park or a coffee shop. I thought: Why not a doctor's waiting room? Since I had taught all day and I had to pick up my kids immediately after my appointment, I thought it was the only way to get the assignment completed and a great way to kill time.

Opening up my notebook, I pulled a pencil out of my purse, intent on getting a story eventhough I wasn't an official journalist and I didn't think I had that "go get 'em" attitude. Using my five senses, I described the scene which started to unfold. I mentioned the colours of the paintings on the wall, the periodic ringing of the phone, the sterile smell of the air, the regular calling out of surnames by the receptionist and the honking of the cars and trucks which passed by on the street outside.

Thinking that I was writing a mundane piece, I turned out to be dead wrong. I started to eavesdrop on the conversation between the elderly man on my left and the teenage girl on my right. The man asked: "How did you break your arm?" The girl explained: "It's a long story. I was driving around with my Mom when we were passed by a criminal followed by a police car. The police officer shot at the criminal and missed, hitting me instead." She described how the bone had been damaged and the man started to talk about how he hunted deer and therefore had some experience with bullet wounds.

My mouth dropped wide open. I had read about this the other day in the local paper. You might expect this type of story in Toronto, but not in Brantford. I started scribbling furiously to make sure I didn't miss anything. After several minutes, I put my pencil down, thinking that I had my scoop for the day.

After over an hour, the receptionist called for "Jonasson". I entered the doctor's office and he introduced himself. He examined my finger and assured me that he would be able to remove the hematoma safely. As the doctor wrote down the details of my surgery, I glanced at a large photograph on his wall with him in a white military uniform surrounded by his family. I asked: "Were you in the Vietnam War?" He replied: "Yes, I was a medic. I treated injured soldiers." Story #2. Apparently, he had to retrain as a doctor once he immigrated.

I continued to probe, asking: "How did you end up in Canada?" He answered: "I was a boat person." Story #3. Once again my mouth dropped open. I'd heard of the boat people when I was growing up, but I didn't realize we had one right here in our midst. I examined the walls further and discovered a picture of the doctor in a white gi with a black belt. He was a karate master. Next, we moved to the topic of music. He explained that he was an amateur jazz musician and had recorded a CD with his small group. Add another talent to his resume. I mentioned that my Dad was also a jazz musician. Pleased that I was interested in his family history, he offered me an autographed CD. I thanked him, shook his hand and hurriedly left the office, knowing that my children would be waiting.

When I had arrived at the doctor's office, I had been doubtful that I would get a story. Instead, a scoop had fallen right into my lap -- in fact, three scoops. I had entered that waiting room a patient and I had left a journalist. Open your eyes and ears; you'll be surprised at what you discover right under your nose!



Cartoon courtesy http://www.carstoonstock.com

Coming out of the Ice

Years ago, I read a book called Coming out of the Ice about an American named Victor Herman. Victor's Russian father had emigrated from the Soviet Union to America before Victor was born. He had settled in Dearborn, Michigan outside of Detroit and worked for the Ford Motor Company. It was there that Victor and his siblings were born. However, Mr. Herman missed home and got the idea to bring free enterprise to the Soviet Union by opening a Ford dealership there.

He packed the family up and returned to the Soviet Union to complete his task. Victor excelled in school, particularly in sports, and was soon making a name for himself at sports events. He even was billed "The Lindbergh of Russia" for his record-breaking parachute jumps, earning him many medals. As a young adult, it soon became apparent that although Victor was an excellent athlete, he was not a politically correct citizen. Wanting to return to the United States, Soviet officials insisted that he renounce his American citizenship which he refused to do.

Victor became a target of the Soviet regime and was put in jail for being a political dissident. He made the long cross country trek on the Trans-Siberian railroad to the infamous Gulag where he would serve out his sentence. In the work camp, he was worked to the bone. One task that he and many other workers were given was to fell the giant trees and stack a certain number of logs row upon row. Each worker had a quota that he had to fill; otherwise he would be sent to solitary confinement, or even to his death. Victor worked like a dog for the first few hours, but quickly realized that it would be impossible to fill the quota. Therefore, he figured out a way to stack the logs so it appeared like there were many more than there actually were. It became a game of survival.

At one point, the Gulag officials were only feeding Victor a watery soup. He was getting weaker and weaker and knew he had to get protein or he would die; he even started to go blind. Once again, his survival instinct kicked in and he trapped giant rats in the communal washroom, drowned them in the toilet, cooked them on a fire and ate them. His eyesight was almost instantly restored.

Released for short periods of time, he met and married his Russian wife who gave birth to a daughter. Although the threesome lived in an ice cave in the Gulag for a year, they were forced to spend many years apart as Victor went in and out of the prison system. Although his time in prison weakened him physically, he refused to let the Gulag break his spirit.

It took 18 years in total, but Victor finally "came out of the ice". One of the joys of his release was being able to eat an apple again, a delicacy in Siberia, but an everyday food back in Michigan where he had spent his early childhood. Victor and his family moved to an apartment in Moscow, but eventually, when the laws were loosened, Victor returned to the United States with his Russian wife and daughter.

Victor's book was first published during the Cold War. It's hard to believe how far we have come since the 1980's. Communism does not have the hold it once did on Eastern Europe. The Soviet Union is no more. The Eastern Bloc regimes have fallen, one by one. Now only China, North Korea, Vietnam and Cuba remain Communist. It's time for these countries to "come out of the ice", too.



Book cover courtesy http://covers.openlibrary.org

The Freedom Writers

Ever since I started keeping a blog, I have felt a sense of liberation. There is no better feeling than to know that you have a voice and that your voice matters. Here is a journal entry that I made back in 2008 as part of my online writing course.

I just finished reading The Freedom Writers Diary with Erin Gruwell. Ms. Gruwell's story was recently made into a movie starring Hillary Swank. In 1994, Erin Gruwell was a new high school teacher in Long Beach, California assigned to teach a group of "unteachable, at-risk" students. Rather than saying they had nothing to offer, Ms. Gruwell told each and every student that they indeed had something valuable to offer. She encouraged them to keep a journal. The students were hesitant to do so. However, eventually, every last student took her up on her suggestion. At first, they didn't write about Shakespeare or Tolstoy; they wrote about their everyday lives. Many of them came from single parent homes; some faced eviction; some had parents who were alcoholics or drug addicts; many belonged to gangs and faced death everyday. The writing process became cathartic for them. The more they wrote,the more they wanted to write. Suddenly, they were on fire to write; some stayed late into the evening to complete their latest writing assignment. A local businessman even donated 35 computers so that the students could type rather than write their assignments. These journal entries were eventually published as The Freedom Writers Diary.

Erin Gruwell not only turned them on to writing, but also reading. Once they had established their journals, she introduced them to literature, starting with The Diary of Anne Frank. The students were so moved by Anne Frank's writing that they invited the Dutch woman who sheltered her, Miep Gies, to visit them in the United States. They raised enough money to pay for her round-trip plane ticket. Ms. Gruwell also had them read Zlata's Diary: A Child's Life in Sarajevo about a young girl from Yugoslavia who experienced atrocities of the Bosnian War in the 1990's and eventually fled to Ireland. Once again, they invited Zlata to their school. Bosnia and L.A. didn't seem so far apart after all: while Zlata had experienced the Bosnian conflict, the American teenagers had experienced the L.A. riots. Her message of hope was just what they needed to hear.

Erin Gruwell didn't simply feed her students information; she lit a fire beneath them. They developped a burning desire to learn more. They also read about Rosa Parks who sparked the bus boycott staged by the "Freedom Riders" in the 1950's during the early phase of the American Black Civil Rights movement. One student suggested that since they were avid writers attempting to overcome adversity, they should name themselves the "Freedom Writers". Ms. Gruwell not only gave them a taste for literature, but also for history.

The learning became infectious and soon everyone wanted to be in Erin Gruwell's English class. She made these former gang members put down their weapons and pick up a pen. She made them realize that their stories mattered: every story had worth just as every life had worth. The Freedom Writers achieved great success, many of them going on to college or university after their high school graduation. They were even interviewed by a People magazine reporter as well as by Connie Chung on "Prime Time Live". What an inspiration!

Photo courtesy http://upload.wikipedia.org
             

                                                             

Be Careful What You Wish For!

I was raised by a licensed auto mechanic who could build a car from scratch. As I grew up, I lived, ate and breathed cars. Every family photo my Dad ever took was of my siblings and I in front of the family car. I could tell you what make of car Mr. Smith drove, what colour it was and even guess at the year it was made and usually be correct. In our house, we drove Fords only, my father being a Ford employee and a loyal man. My Dad had his winter beaters which were used cars that he drove through the slush and salt. He also had his new cars which he kept in the garage and only drove in the summer.

His first new car, a baby blue 1953 Ford Convertible, was the car that my parents took to California on their honeymoon. It sat in our garage most of the year and my Mom would only drive it once a year to take us to the dentist. We held our breath the whole ride there and back. I can remember my first fluoride treatment. My friend Brian across the street gave me a banana to eat right before I went to the clinic. I hated the taste of the fluoride and up the banana came, right in the dentist's chair. All I can recall thinking was: Thank goodness I didn't throw up in my Dad's convertible!

It was practical having a father who could fix his own car when it broke down. However, like the plumber whose house always has a leaky faucet, our house always had a car on blocks in the driveway. Sometimes I was recruited by my Dad to help with car repairs, even though I didn't inherit one iota of my father's mechanical ability. By the time I grew up, I'd had my fill of cars.

So, I vowed there and then to marry someone who had zero interest in automobiles. I was finished with car talk; I wanted nothing to do with it. Enter Rob Jonasson. As my father's friend Bill Chalmers said in his toast to the bride on our wedding day, when he first met Rob he pulled up in a Chrysler K-car with one headlight out. Enough said. Rob was not raised during the glory years of the automoblie. He could not have cared less how big the car's engine was or whether it had a nice hood ornament. Rather than parking a mile away to avoid door bangers, he would park in the closest spot to his destination. He had never washed a car; my Dad washed his car everyday. For Rob, an automobile was simply a means of getting from Point A to Point B.

For the daughter of a mechanic, Rob was my dream man!!! In the first years of our marriage, I reveled in the fact that I could park wherever I wanted to, regardless of door bashers. I didn't have to wash the car if I didn't want to. I could even eat in the car! And I didn't even have to buy a Ford, although we continued to do so. I enjoyed this freedom for a time. After several Fords, we did make the break and bought our first GM. And Rob ate his lunch everyday in the Cavalier on his long commute to work, evidenced by the crumbs littering the front seat. After a few years, my mother-in-law commented to my son about how our car didn't look very clean. My son responded with: "I know. That junky Kleenex box in the back is nine years old!" While my son had exaggerated since the car itself was only five years old, he had made his point.

Well, it's been 19 years since Rob and I got married. Everything in our house is breaking down. In the past four months we have replaced our dryer, television, computer and now our van. If Rob knew how to do simple repairs, we wouldn't have to pay the dealership so much to fix our cars. We also wouldn't be duped by shady garage owners. However, just as my Dad has talents that my husband lacks, my husband has his own set of skills. For instance, Rob is the son of an accountant and has inherited a gift for numbers, enabling him to complete our tax return every year in a calm manner. This was always a painful event in our household. I usually leave the banking to Rob as well. Yes, I am confident with my husband to deal with financial matters. But don't ask him to assemble a car, or even a barbecue: you'll end up with a hole in your brand new couch!



Photo courtesy www.misterw.com

Pigtails

PUT HER HAIR IN PIGTAILS

Put her hair in braids today;
It may be your only chance.
Give her a nice red ribbon.
Time wil pass very quickly
And before you tie the bow,
I think she'll be all grown up.
Little girls become young women fast;
So put her hair in pigtails for it sure won't last.

There is a scene in the remake of Father of the Bride(1991) where the family is seated at the dining room table and the daughter announces that she is engaged. The father, played by Steve Martin, gives his daughter a double take, tells her she is too young to get married and imagines her once again as a little girl with pigtails sitting across from him.

Before I had children, parents would advise me that when I had children, I would blink and they would be all grown up. I didn't believe it until I saw it with my own eyes. It seems like yesterday my son was born and now he is almost as tall as me. He is going through a growth spurt and is hungry all of the time. I never thought that I would see anyone eat faster than my husband, but I think my son has broken his record. Similarly, it seems like only a couple of years ago I was pregnant with my little girl and now she has outgrown her car booster seat.

Usually, I style my daughter's hair with either a ponytail, a braid, or a bun. However, today, for the first time in a year or more, I put my little girl's hair in pigtails. There seems to be some confusion as to what pigtails are so I looked up the term in the dictionary and discovered that they are definitely braids (they ressemble a pig's tail), not ponytails. I was happy to see that although my daughter is growing up fast, she is still definitely young enough for pigtails.

So, before another year passes, I'll have to "put her hair in pigtails while I have the chance". Because before I know it, she'll be sitting at my dining room table announcing: "Guess what, Mom & Dad? I'm engaged!"



Photo courtesy http://image.shutterstock.com

The Prize Winner of Defiance, Ohio

Nineteen-fifties housewife Mrs. Evelyn Ryan from Defiance, Ohio raised ten children successfully, despite being married to an alcoholic. How did she do it? She wrote. She wrote essays and poems for newspapers. More significantly, at a time when many companies were looking for input from their consumers, she would write ditties for their advertisements. She would enter contest after contest, mailing numerous entries under variations on her name like E. Ryan or Evelyn Ryan or Mrs. E. Ryan or even substituting one of her children's names. Just when she had no money left to pay the milkman, she would get a letter in the mail saying she had won a contest and a small cheque was enclosed. While her husband, Kelly, was squandering his pay cheque at the bar, she was writing. She wrote when she ironed. She wrote while she watched television. She wrote while she cooked dinner. She never stopped. She won many products, from something as small as a toaster to something as big as a sports car, which she subsequently gave to her son. When she wrote, she had a knack of saying a lot in only a few words (usually 25 words or less) and companies recognized that. At one point, she won a large freezer, but she had no money to buy food to put in it. However, on another occasion, she won a shopping spree, racing with her children from aisle to aisle as she loaded the cart while the stopwatch ticked, and therefore was able to fill the freezer to overflowing. She even won a trip to New York City, something exciting for someone who didn't even own a car. In the meantime, her husband continued to drink away their bank account, even taking out a second mortgage on the house, but failing to make payments. Just as the bank was about to foreclose on the house, she won a Dr. Pepper contest and was able to burn the mortgage.

Her husband, rather than being appreciative, often resented his wife when she won these contests, making him feeling inadequate since he couldn't pay the bills on his own. He was often verbally abusive to her and the children; they knew that when objects started to fly, it was time to vacate the room. Even so, Evelyn tried to remain positive and loving towards everyone, especially the children, despite her husband's negativity.

The Prizewinner of Defiance, Ohio is the title of the book about Evelyn Ryan's life written by one of her daughters, Terry. In 2005, the book was made into a movie filmed in Paris, Ontario. If you watch closely, you will notice the scene where Julianne Moore (Evelyn) drives across a bridge; it's the lower level bridge across the Grand River.

It is inspiring to hear about a woman who, despite having a troubled marriage and financial woes, used her talent for writing to make a living and raise ten children. A devout Roman Catholic, she counted her blessings and not her burdens. What an incredible woman!



Photo courtesy http://images.betterworldbooks.com

The Bike-a-thon

Last June, my little girl did not yet know how to ride a two-wheeler bicycle without the training wheels. My son still had his kiddy bike and we hadn't yet bought him a new one. We decided to make it our mission to start going on family bike rides. So, I purchased two bikes for my husband and me with our airmiles. I then bought a bigger bike for my son. And my son removed the training wheels from my daughter's bike. She took off! It turned out to be easier than we thought. Now we were all ready to ride and we biked along Gretzky Parkway to a local park. My daughter loved the experience, even though she had to work ten times as hard as the rest of us, her little legs peddling as fast as she could to keep up. It became a weekly tradition for the summer.

The following Spring arrived and our kids' school announced their annual bike-a-thon. My daughter had grown so much that she was ready for a bigger bike. We found a sidewalk bike on sale at Zellers and she tested it out. It was perfect. I signed us up for the bike-a-thon, knowing that this was the first year we could all participate. I was ready to check off the 5 km route but my daughter wanted to ride all the way (25 km). I said, "See how you feel when we reach 5 km."

Saturday dawned dark and dreary. We arranged to meet my daughter's friend and her family at the starting line since my little girl had slept over at her house the night before. Unfortunately, I had the wrong meeting place. We sat in our vehicle and waited and waited. In the meantime, a thunderstorm was brewing. Shortly after unloading all four bikes from our van, we proceeded to put them back in the van. I certainly didn't want anyone getting hit by lightning on the bike path!

Finally I decided to circle the block and see if I could find the family we planned to meet. After some searching, we hooked up at the school. Some people had already started to bike and were drenched; others were trapped under bridges trying to ride out the storm; others still were disappointed because they didn't get to bike at all. My daughter and her friend were in the last category. Thankfully, they were able to stay for the barbecue and play laser tag. I then drove my daughter home in the car (my husband and son had gone home early in the van with the bikes). We promised the kids that we would bike the next day since the weather forecast looked promising.

Sunday arrived sunny and warm -- the perfect day for a bike ride. We went to church in the morning, stopped at home for lunch and then headed to the rail trail with our bikes. When we reached the trail,I realized that I had forgotten to bring anything to drink, but I thought we would be okay, assuming the trial would be shaded. However, I was wrong. Setting out, the first section of the trip was comfortable thanks to the trees and the cool breeze coming off of the river. However, once we reached open ground away from the water, the air started to heat up. My daughter, full of energy at the beginning of the journey, started to wane before we reached the halfway point. My husband and son were game to push on and against my better judgement, my daughter and I followed. The sun was beating down mercilessly and under her helmet my daughter was getting more and more uncomfortable. At first she said her legs were getting tired. Finally I insisted that we turn around and as we started to head back, my daughter said that she felt like she was going to pass out. I asked her if we needed to find shelter under beside a bush or if she could make it a few yards to a highway overpass. She said she would try to make it, but that her tummy felt funny. By this point, she was off her bike and was pushing it at a snail's pace. I coaxed her bit by bit until we reached the overpass.

In the meantime, I had sent my husband and son on ahead to the van where they could drive to the closest variety store and get water. Thankfully, under the bridge, my daughter took off her helmet and sat down in the shade where she got a chance to rest. Her face lost its red beet colour and she stopped sweating. Now it was just a waiting game. A couple of people from our church walked past. A trio of boys paused at the overpass to shoot the breeze. A man in black jogged by. And still we waited.

It must have been close to half an hour before I was relieved to see my son pedal up to the bridge. He climbed off his bike, and took two cold bottle of water out of his oversized pockets. Hallelujah! My daughter guzzled the contents of her bottle down and was once again ready for the journey. I asked where my husband was and my son said that when they had reached the end of the bike path, his tire had blown. So he bought the water and then sent my son on without him. On the last stage of the trip, my daughter was able to keep up and only stopped for breath once. How relieved we were when we reached the end of the rail trail.

Battling the rain on Saturday and the sun on Sunday, it took us all weekend to complete the bike-a-thon, but we finally finished. Here's to perseverance! And the next time we bike, we'll come prepared.



Picture courtesy www.massbike.org