Ghouls and goblins, witches and warlocks… Halloween you say? No, no my friends, I’m talking about… Picture Day. I don’t know about you all, but high school yearbook photos might as well have been akin to costumes and dress up – too much make up, hair dye (Patricia much?), teenage fashion (which is a costume in and of itself) and a whole lot of tricks (how can the retake photo be worse then the original?) and treats (that rare high school photo you were actually happy with!) You see kids, when Patricia and I were in high school, you would be herded into the auditorium, get ONE photo taken, and then have to wait two or three weeks to see the results. Can. You. Imagine. Nothing could make or break your day more than getting your photos back – you either crushed them to your chest so no one could see until you had a chance to bury them deep in your locker, or you “accidentally” left them face up on your desk all day. Now, this is most definitely the female POV regarding picture ...

It’s that time of year where we decorate our windows with spooky images and silhouettes, carve pumpkins for our front porch, get dressed up in costume, hand out candy and watch the young ghouls and goblins run the streets on all hallows eve. It’s a unique celebration where you can be someone or something you aspire to be without judgement. When we were young, we really looked forward to Halloween. From making spooky crafts in elementary school to watching scary-ish movies like the Goonies or the Addams Family by candlelight with your family. We hunted for weeks for the perfect costume, which in the 80s was usually made up of a cat, Zorro, a witch, a vampire, or your favourite He-Man type character – with a plastic mask where seeing was optional and the elastic tied a little too tight around your head. We could proudly carry plastic weapons and our suits were most-likely flammable – but we didn’t care. We just wanted to be out there, in the dark, past our bedtime. It felt so rebellious....

Some women today would not dare admit that they colour their hair or cover their greys. And as a blonde, I held out for decades until a hairdresser I frequented years ago told me my blonde was… uh… “mousie”. Might as well rip out a girl’s heart and hand it to her on a plate. The gawl. Mousie hair. How dare he? But he was right. My blonde used to be a beautiful, natural platinum colour highlighted with sunshine. I loved it. Over the years is had darkened a little – but let's just call it rounding out to a more full-bodied, natural mature blonde… which of course I highlight now if only to hold on to a little piece of my youth that still fit. But where did it all start? In Grace’s basement of course. Whenever we had sleepovers, someone always seemed to want to have their hair dyed. Before any night in together, a few of us would venture over to the local drug store to find the perfect colour in our price range. Funny how times had changed from our younger days when we used to steal le...

It’s difficult to ignore the current political climate of our neighbours to the south, two weeks today is election day for America and already over 29 million people have cast their votes. We often talk about firsts as teenagers in this blog – first kisses, first day of school, first friends –   and voting for the first time is right up there as one of those formative milestones. But before we were of age to vote, we experienced politics in a different way: student council. In my final year of high school, my dad would drop me off early every Monday morning to attend our student council meetings as head of publicity. We would all group together in the library conference room – head of arts, athletics, grad, social, student services, secretary/treasurer, vice president and  president with our faculty supervisor Mr. Kent – and brainstorm ways to better the student body experience. In our yearbook, a little poem was written to commemorate that time, so here it is, with 2020...