Country Mouse on her country perch.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Chuka-chuka (inside joke)
Last week I spent two days in Kedgwick inventorying their library. Inventory usually brings to mind the act of “counting” but this is much more involved, annoying and difficult. It’s more of an analysis, really.
We start out by scanning every item in the library and entering all the barcodes into the computer. Then I generate a report to match all the barcodes with item notices in the catalogue. Usually about four or five things go wrong during this process. Sometimes entire sections have to be scanned again. Luckily we have these nifty chuka-chuka Star Trek tricoder portable scanning devices, so we don’t have to be carting books back and forth to the scanner at the desk. At least that's one step out of about 500 that has been eliminated.
Once the scanning is complete and the first batch of reports is done you realize that two days have gone by and the inventory process isn’t even half over. Back at the regional office I begin the next set of reports that tells me all of the items that, for whatever reason, weren’t scanned. This time around there are 400. FOUR HUNDRED! Somehow that's four hundred books (mostly non-fiction for some mysterious reason) that were missed in our two days of scanning. Yes, sometimes reports lie. That’s why I ran this one several times, in several different ways, and always came up with the same number.
After much tearing out of the hair I decided that it’s going to take a trip back to Kedgwick (1.5 hours in the library-mobile) to pass this hurdle. If I don’t figure out where the 400 books are, and scan them, they will be identified as “missing” when I run the next batch of reports; *shudder* the notorious “Set item to missing" reports.
Ah the life of Technical Services! Some time ago I semi-idolized the Head of Cataloguing and Technical Services woman in the Provincial Office. Now I am realizing that much of her job is running reports, scheduling reports, helping schmucks like me sort out reports that aren’t working, creating new-fangled reports to streamline the collection and basically tearing her hair out all the time, instead of once a week or so, like I do.
On the other hand, I must be some kind of masochist because I get a big geeky thrill out of running a well-oiled report. The report that runs perfectly with all of it's appropriate tags ticked and fields filled makes me leap up and high-five unsuspecting and suprised librarians who are helping me with the inventory (true story). I don't want my readers to get the impression that I dislike my job. It's just that sometimes it's complicated, and really it's the complications that make for interesting posts right? Just like my car. Stay tuned.
Monday, August 10, 2009
found the green river, but still hunting for a swimming hole
This past weekend I biked down a small highway I had not yet explored and ended up in Riviere Verte. The town was almost a mirror image of Saint Basile with its one main road, little Caisse Populaire, little post office, little church with enormous Jesus statue, deserted play ground and elderly neighbours waving to you from their shady porches.
As I got to the end of the town I turned off the road and biked through a farmer's field and nearly fell in THE RIVER! I actually found a way to get to the illusive river that I have admired from afar, but have not actually been able to reach. In previous defeated attempts there were always too many obstacles in the forms of: Weedy vines, sticky mud, swamps, cat-tails, icky icky icky tent caterpillars and relentless black flies (the glands on my neck are perpetually swollen from so many bites on these adventures of mine).
As I got to the end of the town I turned off the road and biked through a farmer's field and nearly fell in THE RIVER! I actually found a way to get to the illusive river that I have admired from afar, but have not actually been able to reach. In previous defeated attempts there were always too many obstacles in the forms of: Weedy vines, sticky mud, swamps, cat-tails, icky icky icky tent caterpillars and relentless black flies (the glands on my neck are perpetually swollen from so many bites on these adventures of mine).
I don't think this is THE Saint John river but I'm fairly certain that it flows into the Saint John. Unfortunately, I'm not sure if it's swimmable. If it is Riviere Verte (which would make sense as that is the name of the town it flows beside) then it's aptly named; green slime covers the bottom of the bed and the banks are surrounded by green fields (which I imagine, makes for a lovely mixture of pesticide and manure run-off). I dipped my foot in, it's quite warm... maybe if I'm desperate enough one day I will take a plunge.
A soft green bed for my tired bike.
The secret road to the river.
Friday, August 7, 2009
multiculturalism
The regional director designated me as the ‘project coordinator’ for the spending of a large donation from governmental body. This means that a) she’s worried that I am getting bored with my job and b) I have to select 12 thousand dollars worth of multicultural books. The intent is to develop a core collection of multicultural resources for kids and young adults in each of our branches. That’s NOT 12 thousand per library (yikes!) that’s 12 thousand for the entire region. Still. Yikes.
She recommended that I try to select books that represent the communities’ multicultural profiles. So I turned to Stats Canada to see what I could see for the HSJ region. Here’s what I discovered:
In Saint Quentin there are 40 Arab people and 10 Korean people.
In Plaster Rock there are 25 Black people.
In Saint-Francois there are 10 Latin American females.
In Florenceville there are 40 S. Asian, 10 Latin American and 10 Arab.
In Saint-Léonard there are 20 Koreans.
In Edmundston (the most “diverse” by far) there are 15 Chinese, 10 S. Asian, 45 Black, 15 Latin American, 10 SE Asian, 15 Arab, 10 Korean and 45 who identified as “multiple visible minority.”
In Grand Falls there are 10 S. Asian, 30 Black, 10 Latin American and 10 SE. Asian.
In Perth-Andover there are no visible minorities.
In Kedgwick there are no visible minorities
In Nackawic there are no visible minorities.
In Hartland there are no visible minorities.
Of course these are small populations, and bear in mind that this is only representative of those people who actually completed the census, and who identify with the fairly broad classification terms supplied by Stats Can. BUT STILL! Compare these “multicultural profiles” to somewhere like Hamilton.
Oh small town life! How you often make me feel like I am wading in a bowl of oatmeal.
In a way, growing up in Southern Ontario I took for granted the variety of people, colours, languages, religions and backgrounds that surrounded me. Even moving to Halifax I was surprised at how “white” it was. Moving here and being suddenly immersed in the strictly Catholic, mostly white population it was as much a type of culture as it would be to move to, say, china-town in Toronto. I am uncomfortable and I feel out of place, and I’m craving something that is blatantly not here.
That’s not to say there isn’t any “culture” in HSJ. Acadian culture is rich, interesting and historical. I’m just not sure that there is “multiculture” which makes this selection project all at once very important, and also kind of elaborate.
She recommended that I try to select books that represent the communities’ multicultural profiles. So I turned to Stats Canada to see what I could see for the HSJ region. Here’s what I discovered:
In Saint Quentin there are 40 Arab people and 10 Korean people.
In Plaster Rock there are 25 Black people.
In Saint-Francois there are 10 Latin American females.
In Florenceville there are 40 S. Asian, 10 Latin American and 10 Arab.
In Saint-Léonard there are 20 Koreans.
In Edmundston (the most “diverse” by far) there are 15 Chinese, 10 S. Asian, 45 Black, 15 Latin American, 10 SE Asian, 15 Arab, 10 Korean and 45 who identified as “multiple visible minority.”
In Grand Falls there are 10 S. Asian, 30 Black, 10 Latin American and 10 SE. Asian.
In Perth-Andover there are no visible minorities.
In Kedgwick there are no visible minorities
In Nackawic there are no visible minorities.
In Hartland there are no visible minorities.
Of course these are small populations, and bear in mind that this is only representative of those people who actually completed the census, and who identify with the fairly broad classification terms supplied by Stats Can. BUT STILL! Compare these “multicultural profiles” to somewhere like Hamilton.
Oh small town life! How you often make me feel like I am wading in a bowl of oatmeal.
In a way, growing up in Southern Ontario I took for granted the variety of people, colours, languages, religions and backgrounds that surrounded me. Even moving to Halifax I was surprised at how “white” it was. Moving here and being suddenly immersed in the strictly Catholic, mostly white population it was as much a type of culture as it would be to move to, say, china-town in Toronto. I am uncomfortable and I feel out of place, and I’m craving something that is blatantly not here.
That’s not to say there isn’t any “culture” in HSJ. Acadian culture is rich, interesting and historical. I’m just not sure that there is “multiculture” which makes this selection project all at once very important, and also kind of elaborate.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
always read invitations carefully OR the moncton wedding saga OR country mouse is mortified OR my car exhaust fell off
This past weekend I attended my good friend from library school C.’s wedding. It was in Moncton. I received the invitation a few months ago. I knew this invitation was coming because several girls who were also invited and I had already discussed the weekend’s sleeping arrangements. So when I got it I admired the paper but didn’t actually read it.
Later my friend S. asked me what time I would leave, since the wedding was at 3 pm on Saturday. I told her in that case I would drive down on Saturday morning and meet up with her in Moncton, we could get ready and go over to the wedding together. It wasn’t until I was several hours into my trip that, for whatever reason, I finally read the invitation and almost crashed my car when I realized that I WAS ACTUALLY ONLY INVITED TO THE RECEPTION following the wedding, at 5 pm.
This wouldn’t be such a big deal (just hang out in Moncton and meet up at the reception later on right?) except for the fact that, with much mortification, I remembered a conversation that I had with the bride two weeks prior. I must have been shooting my mouth off a bit, being all giddy and excited for her upcoming big day, when she asked me:
“so you’re coming to the wedding?”
at this point I had already RSVPd so I was a bit confused “yes of course!” I said.
“the wedding and the reception?” she asked, slightly surprised.
“yes! of course!” I said again, and then hugged her and danced around like an imp, or something.
So I’m in my car, on the way to a wedding that I actually invited myself to, trying to decide what to do. Should I go? She IS expecting me now, after all. Or should I just wait around until the reception? Or would that be rude? The last thing I want to do is make her feel bad. After several failed attempts at phoning S. (who was REALLY invited to the wedding) and who is waiting for my arrival, I decide to go to the wedding, and grovel later. For the remainder of the drive I played out several “worst case scenarios” in my head including one where there isn’t a chair for me and I have to stand at the back, beet faced, awkward, overdressed.
Despite my mortification it turned out beautifully. I went as S’s “date” (since her original date RSVPd and then couldn’t make it) and when I apologized to C. later (and thanked her for accommodating me, raved over how beautiful she was, told her how happy I was to have seen her vows) she told me she was glad I was there and would have invited me anyways it was just that she was originally trying to keep the guest list small. Though it’s possible she was only saying this to protect my fragile ego, it seemed like she meant it. I believe she did.
Then we partied partied partied partied. Danced danced danced danced. It was truly a wonderful time and a night to remember. The weather could not have been more perfect for the outdoor event. Two great ideas that I hope to incorporate in my own wedding (one day!) are a) a big white tent strung with lights and lanterns for the meal and the party b) kegs of micro brew and hundreds of bottles of home made wine.
Chapter 2: “Something terrible happened to my exhaust.”
The saga of the Maroon-Mobile aka Battle Star Galactica is seemingly never ending. I really think it might be time to put a brick on the gas pedal and just let it drive itself into the Saint John river (like Battle Star Galactica into the Sun, you know?)
The day after the wedding S. and I decided to take a drive out to the beach. Armed with maps, waters, towels and books we set out on our adventure. It was a beautiful warm and sunny day and we were feeling pretty good about ourselves. I was noticing that my engine was a lot louder than usual but tried to remember what Jamie would tell me, which is “calm down you’re worrying too much.” But the rumbling was gradually accompanied by a terrifying rattling, and when I went over bumps a horrifying CLANG CLANG CLANG just couldn’t be ignored. I was no longer calm.
We found the beach, and despite frayed nerves I made a perfect parallel park. Just as I pulled the emergency brake into place, a crash and a scrape announced that something metallic had fallen from my car onto the road. S. and I looked at each other then climbed out of the car. A quick peek underneath confirmed my suspicious. The exhaust pipe had pretty much crumbled off the car and was hanging there pathetically like a broken limb. Luckily I have CAA *high five* but I needed a better description of the location besides just "the beach." Across the street there were a bunch of trailers gathered on a lot, and a friendly looking group of men and women enjoying the day. We approached with our tails between our legs, said we were having car trouble and needed to call CAA. We asked for the name of the town and street. All I knew was that we were 20 minutes outside of Moncton, on a side road off highway 133.
“What’s wrong with your car?” asked one of the men after a sip of beer, of which I was suddenly jealous.
“Something terrible happened to my exhaust” I said, holding back tears, every special feeling of sunny beach hopefulness rusting over and flaking away. Later S. told me I was “very calm.”
“Well, let me take a look at it” he suggested.
The incredibly nice man got me to drive my car (exhaust pipe scraping along the road, like nails on a black board) onto the lot. He quickly and efficiently tied it back up with some coat hanger. Said that it would make it back to Moncton, and probably to Saint Basile, but that I would have to get it checked out. Said that I could leave the car on the lot while S. and I spent the rest of the day at the beach.
And it turned out to be a perfect day. One of the best. The kindness of strangers reaffirmed, the sketchy-rough, sometimes strange beauty of New Brunswick soaked into every pore, a lot of laughter, an adventure and a story for later.
Battle Star Galactica did make it back to Saint Basile. Muffler dangling precariously, exhaust pipe held on with coat hanger, dripping in the sun, it awaits its fate in my backyard.
Later my friend S. asked me what time I would leave, since the wedding was at 3 pm on Saturday. I told her in that case I would drive down on Saturday morning and meet up with her in Moncton, we could get ready and go over to the wedding together. It wasn’t until I was several hours into my trip that, for whatever reason, I finally read the invitation and almost crashed my car when I realized that I WAS ACTUALLY ONLY INVITED TO THE RECEPTION following the wedding, at 5 pm.
This wouldn’t be such a big deal (just hang out in Moncton and meet up at the reception later on right?) except for the fact that, with much mortification, I remembered a conversation that I had with the bride two weeks prior. I must have been shooting my mouth off a bit, being all giddy and excited for her upcoming big day, when she asked me:
“so you’re coming to the wedding?”
at this point I had already RSVPd so I was a bit confused “yes of course!” I said.
“the wedding and the reception?” she asked, slightly surprised.
“yes! of course!” I said again, and then hugged her and danced around like an imp, or something.
So I’m in my car, on the way to a wedding that I actually invited myself to, trying to decide what to do. Should I go? She IS expecting me now, after all. Or should I just wait around until the reception? Or would that be rude? The last thing I want to do is make her feel bad. After several failed attempts at phoning S. (who was REALLY invited to the wedding) and who is waiting for my arrival, I decide to go to the wedding, and grovel later. For the remainder of the drive I played out several “worst case scenarios” in my head including one where there isn’t a chair for me and I have to stand at the back, beet faced, awkward, overdressed.
Despite my mortification it turned out beautifully. I went as S’s “date” (since her original date RSVPd and then couldn’t make it) and when I apologized to C. later (and thanked her for accommodating me, raved over how beautiful she was, told her how happy I was to have seen her vows) she told me she was glad I was there and would have invited me anyways it was just that she was originally trying to keep the guest list small. Though it’s possible she was only saying this to protect my fragile ego, it seemed like she meant it. I believe she did.
Then we partied partied partied partied. Danced danced danced danced. It was truly a wonderful time and a night to remember. The weather could not have been more perfect for the outdoor event. Two great ideas that I hope to incorporate in my own wedding (one day!) are a) a big white tent strung with lights and lanterns for the meal and the party b) kegs of micro brew and hundreds of bottles of home made wine.
Chapter 2: “Something terrible happened to my exhaust.”
The saga of the Maroon-Mobile aka Battle Star Galactica is seemingly never ending. I really think it might be time to put a brick on the gas pedal and just let it drive itself into the Saint John river (like Battle Star Galactica into the Sun, you know?)
The day after the wedding S. and I decided to take a drive out to the beach. Armed with maps, waters, towels and books we set out on our adventure. It was a beautiful warm and sunny day and we were feeling pretty good about ourselves. I was noticing that my engine was a lot louder than usual but tried to remember what Jamie would tell me, which is “calm down you’re worrying too much.” But the rumbling was gradually accompanied by a terrifying rattling, and when I went over bumps a horrifying CLANG CLANG CLANG just couldn’t be ignored. I was no longer calm.
We found the beach, and despite frayed nerves I made a perfect parallel park. Just as I pulled the emergency brake into place, a crash and a scrape announced that something metallic had fallen from my car onto the road. S. and I looked at each other then climbed out of the car. A quick peek underneath confirmed my suspicious. The exhaust pipe had pretty much crumbled off the car and was hanging there pathetically like a broken limb. Luckily I have CAA *high five* but I needed a better description of the location besides just "the beach." Across the street there were a bunch of trailers gathered on a lot, and a friendly looking group of men and women enjoying the day. We approached with our tails between our legs, said we were having car trouble and needed to call CAA. We asked for the name of the town and street. All I knew was that we were 20 minutes outside of Moncton, on a side road off highway 133.
“What’s wrong with your car?” asked one of the men after a sip of beer, of which I was suddenly jealous.
“Something terrible happened to my exhaust” I said, holding back tears, every special feeling of sunny beach hopefulness rusting over and flaking away. Later S. told me I was “very calm.”
“Well, let me take a look at it” he suggested.
The incredibly nice man got me to drive my car (exhaust pipe scraping along the road, like nails on a black board) onto the lot. He quickly and efficiently tied it back up with some coat hanger. Said that it would make it back to Moncton, and probably to Saint Basile, but that I would have to get it checked out. Said that I could leave the car on the lot while S. and I spent the rest of the day at the beach.
And it turned out to be a perfect day. One of the best. The kindness of strangers reaffirmed, the sketchy-rough, sometimes strange beauty of New Brunswick soaked into every pore, a lot of laughter, an adventure and a story for later.
Battle Star Galactica did make it back to Saint Basile. Muffler dangling precariously, exhaust pipe held on with coat hanger, dripping in the sun, it awaits its fate in my backyard.
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