Spelling Bees

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.. aren’t for the faint of heart.

 From the

Sharon Dunn
Spelling bees aren’t for the faint of heart
Luckily, the kids are there to help their parents through it

[Photo: Carlo Allegri, National Post]
Shanana Visuvanathan pauses to think about it for a few seconds at the 15th annual Spelling Bee of Canada at Metro Hall.

Spelling bees have never been more popular than they are now — at least in part because Spellbound, the documentary that premiered at last year’s Toronto filmfest, garnered an Academy Award nomination for best documentary and is now showing at the Cumberland. So yesterday I headed to the finals of the 15th annual Spelling Bee of Canada at Metro Hall. On my arrival, I see a pretty girl and her mother sitting on the steps, looking none too happy. It seems she came second in her bee in Hamilton and was erroneously told to come to Toronto for the finals. Once here, the organizers tell her this is for first-place winners only. The girl is devastated.

I can see right off that these bees are tough business.Julie Spence, the founder and president of the bee, is dressed in her yellow and black bee outfit (that is, a black suit and yellow blouse). She tells me of her hopes of expanding the competition to every province in Canada.
“I just love spelling,” she says, “It’s so important.”
She’s not the only one. The room is jammed with nervous-looking spellers and their even more nervous-looking parents. While we wait for the competition to start, I talk to 13-year-old Christopher Massucci, a Grade 8 student from Maple, Ont., who ranked first in Vaughan in the senior division. (When I point out that his name is listed as “Masuccitti” in the program, he says, “Yeah, they spelled it wrong.”) Being a pretty good speller myself, I ask Christopher to try me out on a few of the more challenging words in his category.
“OK, ‘chromosome,’ ” he says.”
“Chromosome, that’s too easy,” I tell him, rolling my eyes. I get it right. No problem. “Give me another?” I challenge. Next he gives me a word that sounds to my ears like “onomonopio.” I try to puzzle it out phonetically. “Onomonopio, Is that correct?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he admits.
“What does it mean?”
“It has something to do with poetry,” he tells me. (Later I figure out he must have meant “onomatopoeia.”)I ask him how he got to be such a good speller? “I read all the time — mostly action, mystery and adventure.” He then points out today’s prizes.

First prize in each category is a humongous (is that spelled correctly?) trophy, a computer, an Oxford dictionary, books, cash and more.The senior competition gets underway, and indeed there are some tricky words: dactylology, bonsai, paranoia, analgesia, hackneyed. Christopher correctly spells “idolize,” “angular” and “canopy.” But he misses ‘druid’.

After 22 rounds, the final tie-breaking words are “euphony” and “aghast.” The winner is Duluxan Sritharan. Jeffrey Lavellee, 7, wins in the primary category, and Ashwin Baskaran, 9, wins in the junior group. The intermediate winner, which goes an amazing 49 rounds, is Kiruthihla Vimalakanthan, 11.
I just hope I spelled those winning names correctly.

by Sharon Dunn

Christopher Ondaatje

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My lesson on Hemingway

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Sharon Dunn
My lesson on Hemingway
Sir Christopher Ondaatje expounds on famous author

[Photo: Sharon Dunn, National Post]
Sir Christopher Ondaatje’s book about Hemingway and Africa is to be released in the fall.

CHESTER – It has been a year since I’ve seen Christopher Ondaatje and so much has happened. To him, that is. He’s been knighted, has had hip surgery and is preparing for the release of his latest book, Hemingway in Africa: The Last Safari. I see that the ageless adventurer looks good, tanned and relaxed, as I walk in to meet him at his favourite local café, Julian’s, in Chester. The newly knighted Sir Christopher spends the summer here on his gorgeous island property, just outside Chester Harbour; he spends his winters in England.
“It was quite a shock, really,” he says about the honour from the Queen. “I didn’t know it was coming.” Ondaatje received a Commander of the Order of the British Empire in June, 2000, and tells me, “Usually, you don’t get any other honours for at least five years after that.”
That having been said, it seems to me that it would be difficult to deny a man whose philanthropy is well-known on either side of the pond. In Canada, the Royal Ontario Museum, the Art Gallery of Nova Scotia and the Chester Playhouse have all benefited. In Britain, the Royal Geographical Society and The Ondaatje Foundation to benefit arts and education have received generous donations totalling many millions of dollars. I mean, really, why would they not twice honour such a man?

On the topic of his new book, which hits the shelves on Oct. 1, Ondaatje is enthusiastic.”I’ve been writing it for four years. The first book that Hemingway ever reviewed was Batouala, by Rene Maran (Toronto Star, 1921),” he informs me. I know that a lesson on Hemingway is forthcoming, and there’s no stopping him. “When you read that book, it’s like reading Hemingway. Basically, it is a simple, truthful statement,” Ondaatje says. “Here’s a guy I respect so much as a literary person. I try to emulate his efforts to write the simple statement, and it’s a hell of a lot of hard work to put a sentence into a simple statement. For me,” Ondaatje adds, “Hemingway’s book The Snows of Kilimanjaro has been the model and formula for everything I have written. He was arguing with his alter ego throughout this book. I delve into the personal inspiration behind the story.”

“Start a new paragraph,” Ondaatje orders. I’m unfazed by his demand since, during our interview last year, Ondaatje actually started writing in my notepad. I can tell he trusts me more this year. I pretend to start a new paragraph.”Hemingway, the man, wanted to be a hero, he was always looking out for his image. I love him and I abhor him,” Ondaatje continues. “He was a man who sacrificed everything, except his art.” On Hemingway’s colourful personal life, he says, “His fourth, and final, wife, Mary, stopped the publishing of the book True At First Light because it would have shown her and Hemingway in a bad light [it was published posthumously]. And third wife, Martha Gellhorn, was very independent and promiscuous. Hemingway accused her of sleeping with the whole Polish army. He said sleeping with Martha was like coming into Grand Central Station.”

Ondaatje is quick to point out, “I don’t identify with Hemingway, I’m not the same person, not at all. That’s not to say that I wouldn’t take my clothes off and jump in the river, because I would. But I’m more of an anthropologist than an explorer. I understand risk, and risk is like an aphrodisiac to me. But Hemingway pushed himself for the experience of the story.”

“Draw a line here,” Ondaatje demands.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“Draw a line,” he says.I pretend to draw a line.
“I got the closest to Hemingway, not baiting leopards or carousing in a bar or going on some lion hunt or big-game fishing,” Ondaatje says.”I got closest in the morning waiting for the day to begin, with the sun casting long yellow shafts of light from the Acacias, listening to the shriek of the Hadad Ibis and the melodic tenor of the African Bou Bou, smelling the wood smoke and waiting for my first cup of coffee. I understand Hemingway, Sharon.” Ondaatje is utterly mesmerizing. He tells me, “Hemingway said he would wake up in the morning, and be homesick for Africa, and he hadn’t even left it. I feel the same way about Africa, and about Chester. They both have the same magnetism.”

by Sharon Dunn

Bargain Shopping

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A ball gown for $7 – try to top that

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Sharon Dunn
A ball gown for $7 – try to top that
In these uncertain economic times, there’s no point spending money needlessly.
When my editor asked me to do a piece for the ‘frugal ‘series, I knew she was on to me. It must have been my bragging that did it, because I do love to save a buck, particularly on clothes, and I do love to talk about it. I think it goes back to my university days at Dalhousie in Halifax, when I bought a ‘hot’ sheepskin coat off the street for 20 bucks. I didn’t know it was hot at the time, but when I recall how the ‘sales clerks’ (tough looking dudes) jumped off the back of a white, unmarked van with about 100 coats for a two-minute sales frenzy before folding up and disappearing into the night, I think it’s safe to say the garment was suspect. Although that was the beginning and end of the purchasing of stolen goods for me, it does seem to have been the start of my addiction to buying clothes at good prices — really good prices.

And it can be fun being frugal. Last year, I met CNN’s Larry King, and he complimented me on the dress I was wearing. It was a Chinese-inspired red (with gold background) brocade that cost me a whopping $24. I graciously accepted the compliment as though I was wearing Valentino, instead of five-and-dime couture. Luckily, he didn’t ask the name of the designer, although that has happened. I once wore a one-shouldered black sheath dress to a large awards show. I was an underpaid television news anchor at the time. A Toronto columnist, recognizing me, stopped and complimented me on it. When she asked who designed it, I froze for a moment, before telling her I didn’t quite remember. (I actually remembered very well. I had bought it from a clearance house for $19 from a rack of thousands.) I told her I thought I had bought the dress at Holt Renfrew, the most expensive store I could think of in Toronto where I lived. Fortunately, she left it at that.

There are braver sorts than me out there. Take Toronto society maven Catherine Nugent, just back from France, who told me, “I bought a wonderful caftan in the market in the South of France for $30. It had three layers with silver weights holding down the layers. I bought it four years ago and wear it still. I dress it up with nice beads and jewellery.” Nugent had no problem letting people know where she got the frock. “I told them the truth,” she said, “I got it at the market.” And they all ran out to get one,” she laughed, although she did concede that not all society types would shop for clothes at a market. “I think it takes courage and selfassurance”, she said. “Buoyed by Nugent’s example, I’m now about to make a bold admission, to go where no woman has gone before. (I’ll probably regret this, but here goes.) To last year’s Brazilian Ball, I wore a copper-coloured gown that cost me $7 — yes, that’s $7. I bought it at Winners. Even for Winners this is a very low price, but I guess the price just kept going down because the dress didn’t fit anyone. Of course it didn’t fit me, either, but that didn’t stop me — a deal’s a deal. The amazing thing is that I liked the dress even before I looked at the price tag, and then after looking at the price tag I really liked it.

I feel I should admit that the night I wore the gown, I was also carrying a $1,200 Christian Dior purse. I should also admit that the Dior bag didn’t exactly cost me $1,200. (I bought it at an outlet mall for about $200.) In my opinion, that purse, which I’ve had for years, is the only reason I was able to get away with the $7 gown, assuming I did get away with it. I knew Marlene Borins, the president of the Mount Sinai Hospital Auxiliary, would tell me the truth. She’s a fabulous dresser herself and a blunt and forthright type. I’d spent time at her table during the ball and asked if she remembered the dress I wore. Insisting she did, she said, “I thought it looked great.” When I told her that it cost a mere seven bucks, she replied, “Best $7 you’ve ever spent.” Was she surprised at the price? “Yes,” she said, “I thought it cost a few more zeros.” When I asked if she would ever consider wearing such a dress, she answered wryly, “I haven’t been as lucky as you, to find a dress at that price point.” Though she did admit that, unlike me, she wasn’t looking for a dress at that price point. And, by the way, she doesn’t even recall my Dior bag!

In my opinion, the best-dressed women I’ve met are not necessarily the ones who walk out of the couture houses, the ones who insist on being dressed from head to toe in Gucci or Chanel at all times, even while gardening or power walking. No, the best dressers I’ve encountered tend to be ‘costumers’, ‘eclectic dressers’, those who mix expensive and chic. Speaking of chic, take Suzanne Boyd, editor-in-chief of Flare magazine. The first time I met her, she was sporting what appeared to be a man’s shirt, open to the waist, exposing a frilly pink bra. The effect was incredible. Suzanne was not only able to pull it off with class, she actually looked dignified.
Let me point out that if I wore that outfit, I would be arrested.

by Sharon Dunn
Edited Jan5/24

Sandra Beckett

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“The most reaction I’ve ever seen”

 From the

Sharon Dunn
‘The most reaction I’ve ever seen’
But not everyone at the races loves my $575 see-through number with the marabou fur trim

[Photo: Peter Redman, National Post]
Milliner Sandra Beckett dons a Philip Treacy creation at her Chelsea’s of Oakville hat stand at Woodbine on Queen’s Plate day. In the hat trade for 12 years, Beckett says that her business has grown tremendously. “It used to be older clientele, but our store has changed. Now it’s 18 years to 80.”

Did you know that at Woodbine Racetrack on Queen’s Plate day, there is actually a hat shop set up off the second floor for last-minute purchases? It’s a fine layout of lavish brims, provided by Chelsea’s of Oakville, owned by milliner Sandra Beckett, who sounds a lot like Sharon Osbourne. I bring along my one and only hat, a sorry black number with long feathers that my son says makes it look like a crow landed on my head. It’s sporting years of dust. When I last wore it, to the Kentucky Derby eons ago, my head ended up in the sought-after society pages of The Louisville Herald solely because of my unusual hat. Sandra likes it, but I have no intention of donning it again. I’m already salivating over her grandiose selection. I convince her to let me “borrow” a hat from her store. She agrees, and I find a couple of candidates that look marvellous — until they reach the top of my head.
“You have a big head,” Sandra says, as she tries to pull a bowler number over my skull.
Yes, a big head has always been my problem, but that’s another story.
“What about that one?” I ask, pointing to an extra-wide-brimmed see-through straw hat with white marabou fur trim.
“Yes, you can wear that, but in black,” Sandra tells me. “Black is more severe.” She says black will stand the test of time.
“But I only need it for an hour or so,” I remind her. “I don’t want severe.” She insists I try a huge black and hot-pink heavy straw hat that feels as if the roof of a car has fallen on my head. It must weigh at least 20 pounds.
“You look like a wizard,” says my son Jay, ecstatically, not the look I’m trying for, so I reject that option. In a final attempt, Beckett plops a Philip Treacy of London straw on my head. We agree that I do nothing for the hat, with its asymmetrical crown and “profile brim,” so I head off with my transparent white marabou, and the milliner’s blessing. (By the way, the hat I’ve chosen costs a hefty $575, for those who are paying, that is.) Sandra promises me that it’s an attention getter. “It is a hat that you would see in Hello magazine. It’s by the number one designer for Royal Ascot,” she boasts, even showing me the stamp of approval on the label.

“Who approved it?” I want to know. “The Queen,” she says, with a car salesman’s zeal. The Queen?
I don’t think so, but it’s a good selling pitch, just the same. Today, her highest priced hat is $700, but in the past, she tells me, she has usually had one for around $1,400. “Best to keep things moderately priced this year,” she whispers. Her more popular section includes a number of Eric Javits hats, the renowned packable hat, ranging in price from $250 (for a small one, I’m told) to $1,000 (I guess that’s for a really big one). “Good for a horse race, or a wedding abroad,” she says. “When it comes out of the suitcase, it springs back into shape. Some of these are investment pieces,” Beckett insists when I balk at the prices. “A milliner will only cut so many pieces, like a Chanel purse.” For the faint of pocketbook, Beckett carries a Canadian packable hat by Heaslip out of Hamilton for $45.

Beckett, who says she does many of the hats for MuchMusic and did all of the hats for the movie Four Weddings and a Funeral, even has hats for men. My son buys a Tropic 504 by Kangol, the same cap, he tells me, Samuel L. Jackson wears. It costs a mere $40.
“J.Lo, Madonna and Gwyneth Paltrow all wear these hats,” Beckett says. And Joy Behar of The View recently dropped into her Oakville shop, “during a visit to see her daughter, who lives in the area. “Three-quarters of the hats in the walking ring today are ours,” says Beckett proudly. “The ones that aren’t, don’t complement the woman or the outfit.” The key, she says, is in the fitting of the hat. “You don’t want a red line across your forehead. And,” she adds, “you have to have discretion. If we have a dozen ladies to the Four Seasons for lunch, we must make sure they look unique.”

In the hat trade for 12 years, Beckett tells me that her business has grown tremendously. “It used to be older clientele, but our store has changed. Now it’s 18 years to 80.” Part of the reason, she says, is skin cancer. “People want to protect their skin from the sun, so the manufacturers are becoming more youth-oriented.” Now that I have my protection, I decide to hit the stands and try out my hat.
“It’s the best I’ve seen,” says one of the racing officials, and I do observe nudges, and some oohs and aahs, but I quickly discover that I’m still missing a lot of the action. My son, walking a few paces behind me, is getting the real truth.
“It’s the most reaction I’ve ever seen to one piece of apparel,” he gasps, obviously taken aback. I notice a friend of mine in the distance, pointing at me and laughing, and that’s even before she knows it’s me under the topper. “It’s cute, it really is,” she says as I get closer and she recognizes me, but still, she rolls her eyes.


[Photo: Peter Redman, National Post]
Sharon Dunn in the transparent white marabou that Sandra Beckett promised was an attention getter.

“Yes, yes” is a man’s enthusiastic reaction as I walk by. I haven’t heard that one for a long time, and I mean a long time.
“A Georgian-style hat,” says a good-looking man who approaches. “I want one for my girlfriend. I like that it’s see-through,” he says. His girlfriend walks up.
“Isn’t this a beautiful hat?” he says to her.
“I don’t want that hat,” she barks. “I don’t like it.” I try to explain that I’m testing it, and that there are more conservative ones available, but she obviously doesn’t feel like talking. She glares at me and walks off. The boyfriend trails behind her, about to be reprimanded for talking to the girl with the see-through hat.
“Give me a break,” I call after her, “it’s not like it’s a see-through bikini or something. Yeesh, it’s just a hat.”
“Some women are saying, look at that ridiculous hat,’ ” my son confides, terror sweeping across his face, and that does it. Bruised and deflated, I head back to the hat store. When I tell hat clerk Agatha what happened, she nods knowingly. “Pam Anderson wore that hat. I think that’s why men go crazy.” When Pam wore the hat, I suggest, she probably wasn’t wearing much else.
“Men who come into our store love when their wives put on a hat. They think it’s sexy. 90% of women who’ve never worn hats before come back and tell us how many men compliment them. It’s a way to feel sexy, and confident about yourself, and it’s very feminine.” One hat browser, decked out in a classic black straw, offers another theory for their popularity. “Men like women in hats because it’s one more thing to take off.”

by Sharon Dunn

Hey, hands off

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the sourdough, lady.

 From the

Sharon Dunn
Hey, hands off the sourdough, lady!
Who says bread squeezing is a victimless crime?

[Photo: Bill Keay, The Vancouver Sun]
Don’t even think about it.

A few days ago I ran into my local grocery store to pick up my favourite fresh bread. As I approached the crusty bread counter, I couldn’t help but notice a middle-aged woman (OK, she was about my age) dressed in high-end tennis wear, looking sweaty and hot — probably fresh off the court, I thought. She appeared to be in a rush as she quickly grabbed a loaf of bread and gave it a good squeeze. She then threw the bread back on the shelf and proceeded to squeeze more loaves. Now keep in mind, this manhandled bread was half-wrapped in a paper bag, so she could have squeezed the bagged end. But no, the ‘lady’ in question pushed the bag aside in each case and proceeded to squeeze the naked end, sometimes using both hands to do her dastardly deed. I must admit she showed no prejudice in her squeezing, first grabbing the French stick and then the challah, the pumpernickel, the rye, the Italian-style — no loaf was safe from her probing, sweaty mitts. After she had rejected and thrown back about a dozen loaves, I finally sputtered, “I can’t believe you did that! You touched all the bread, and now I can’t have any.” Arrogant, she glared at me and announced, “I didn’t touch all the bread.”

Walking through the store fuming, I decided to confront the offender again and, as I passed her in an aisle, I hissed, “You didn’t touch all the bread, but you touched most of it!” She kept walking, totally unconcerned, but another shopper politely asked, “Are you talking to me?” I told her I wasn’t, but related the story of the bread squeezer. She was as shocked as I was, and encouraged me to report the woman. Spurred on by her reaction — and the prepackaged mixture of not-too-fresh buns under my arm — I headed for the customer service counter. I did feel a little silly, but I rationalized my zeal by focusing on the fact that I’d been denied my beloved French stick. And what about SARS? I don’t even touch my own bread until I’ve washed my hands.

Once at the counter, the clerk seemed very sympathetic, especially when a second customer jumped on the bandwagon and backed me up. Buoyed by growing support, I insisted the manager be paged. In the meantime, the bread squeezer was trying to make her escape through the express checkout, her own crusty bread tucked safely under her arm. I was afraid she might leave before the manager arrived, but no fear, she wasn’t going anywhere without her fresh loaf, and lucky for me the express checkout wasn’t living up to its name. The manager arrived and appeared aghast by my tale of woe, although he did admit there is no way to police this kind of thing. “You just expect people to do the right thing,” he said. I pointed out the bread squeezer and started to feel pretty good about what I was trying to do — standing up for all unsuspecting bread lovers everywhere. But wanting to do even more, I decided to try to come up with a way to prevent this kind of situation.

Oh, I know what you’re thinking — no big deal, a store can just hire a security guard. But you’d be wrong, and here’s why. I recently upset a carton of strawberries that ended up strewn across a grocers floor. A security guard came over and offered to pick them up for me. I thanked him and continued on my merry way, only to look back to see that, after he had collected the berries off the floor, he placed them back on the shelf! I still feel bad for the poor, unsuspecting customer who was none the wiser and ended up paying top dollar for the well-travelled berries. I wanted to say something, I really did, but the security guard had been so nice to me, offering to help and all… Determined to never again let my guard down, I decided to do an in-depth investigation on bread squeezing (yes, this is how I spend my days). Finally, my efforts paid off. I’ve discovered there is at least one bread squeezer who’s gotten his just desserts. It happened in Philadelphia in November, 2000. A 38-year-old advertising executive was convicted of bread squeezing and given a US$1000 fine and 90-day suspended sentence (he was given an extra 90 days for cookie crumbling).

In his remarks the judge said, “You engaged in behaviour that caused harm to people.” After manhandling bread and cookies over a two-year period, the judge pointed out that the accused’s actions amounted to vandalism. The judge also noted a psychiatric report that quoted the accused as saying the real bread squeezer was still on the loose. Aha! But he was charged after the grocery manager gave police a surveillance videotape that showed the accused poking and squeezing his way through the store’s bread aisle. AHA! So there is a way to stop these bread-squeezing bandits. I’m getting out my phone camera, since things are not always what they seem — like that freshly baked bread you just bought, or those healthy, ripe strawberries. After the manager approached my bread squeezer, she denied everything before adding, as though to prove her case, “I’m a nurse.” A nurse? Who would have guessed!

by Sharon Dunn
edited Jan 5/24,

Camp …

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was hard on me, and I wasn’t even there.

 From the

Sharon Dunn
Camp was hard on me, and I wasn’t even there
Two days after my son left, I did the unthinkable. I called

AH, THE JOYS OF SUMMER CAMP: the swimming, the deep water, the bugs, the danger … maybe I should call …

“Why didn’t I put my son in camp?” I fret every year about this time, as I enviously watch other parents with nights free to explore the city, days free to pursue their dreams, weekends free to lounge in their yards with tall cool drinks in their hands — no reason to move, save to pick up and read heartwarming letters from their kids in camp who, by the way, are always “having a ball. And here I am spending many of my summer days and nights in ice hockey arena with my son, who has decided to get ready for the new season. Don’t worry about him — he’s not interested in camp. He’s as happy as a cold, wet clam, but I know there are more satisfying ways of cooling off. Trust me, it’s an odd feeling to go from 30-degree weather into a sub-zero skating rink. But it wasn’t always this way. Luke once yearned for the camp experience. So, and it doesn’t seem that long ago, we decided to give it a try. Two weeks, we agreed, was plenty long enough. Other parents, true adventurous types, seemed to have no trouble sending their children away for two months every summer, some leaving the day after school ends, not to return until Labour Day weekend. We know their real motive, don’t we? But we were starting slowly. I enrolled Luke in the trendy camp of the day, “before all the spots are gone,” I was warned, which is incredible in itself when you consider the high cost of these very basic camps. We merrily said our goodbyes at the bus depot, until I noticed campers and parents alike sobbing hysterically. And these were the repeat campers. You’d think they were going to war. What do they know that I don’t, I wondered. My heart sank as my son smiled bravely and travelled into the realm of the unknown. The mothers who had been crying the most, quickly dried their eyes, and waved happily to me as they sped off in their cars. But I didn’t fare as well. I watched the kids’ bus turn the final corner and then went home to a very empty and quiet house where I sat and worried for two days, and then I did the unthinkable.

I called the camp. This is usually absolutely forbidden by camp officials, and I had been warned, but I was desperate. I needed to see how he was doing — in other words, if he was still alive. After a number of calls that turned into pathetic pleas, I finally received a call back from someone who had actually met my son.”He’s so sweet,” she assured me, “but I only saw him once, the day he arrived.”
“What do you mean you only saw him once?” I gasped. “I thought you were his counsellor.”
“I am,” she said, “but I haven’t seen him lately because he’s on a canoe trip.”
“Where?” I managed to spit out.
“I don’t know,” she giggled again. “Somewhere in the Muskokas. He should be back in a couple of days.”
At this point I was blubbering senselessly. Finally she seemed to notice the fear and dread in my voice.
“Don’t worry,” she said lightly, “they’ll be OK. They took lots of Smarties with them, and the kids looking after them are really fun.”
“Smarties, the candy?” I stammered.”
Yes. Lots,” she confirmed. This was supposed to ease my fears?

I hung up, more desperate now, than when I had called. Maybe I even went to the Muskoka’s and rented a boat for the day, going from shore to shore searching for him with my binoculars. Of course, even if I did that, I would never admit it, since it would make me look like a total lunatic, but let’s face it, separation anxiety is a powerful emotion. I spent another two nights tossing and turning, as I pictured my then seven-year-old being eaten alive by mosquitoes, or who knows what. After threats and intimidation (on my part of course), I finally got the news from camp that I was yearning for: He had returned from the canoe trip — alive! “And such a good sport” I was told (whatever that was supposed to mean). I still wasn’t permitted to speak with him.

With renewed hope, I counted the days until pick-up and, and on the final day, I showed up a couple of hours early, not wanting to tempt fate. I was even invited to stay for lunch, which turned out to be something that vaguely resembled Kraft Dinner — although not nearly as tasty. My macaroni lunch was the pièce de résistance to all of those sleepless nights and to finally see my burnt and bitten son. This is what I had paid country club prices for? So, although I might think I’d like to have my son in camp this summer, I really don’t think I could survive it again. You know, hanging around the hockey rink all summer isn’t so bad after all.

by Sharon Dunn

Chester, NS

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Not your average village
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Not your average village
CHESTER, NS – ‘Our market is driven by the Americans purchasing property in Nova Scotia,” Tim Harris, of Tradewinds Realty, tells me as we tour Chester harbour by boat. Although Harris admits there has been a decline in the number of U.S. residents coming to purchase this year, he tells me his website (www.seanovascotia.com) has an incredible “900,000 hits a month and 70% of those are American origin. When Americans are here purchasing, it puts pressure on Canadians to purchase. Canadians tend to wait for the downturn in prices, then they see property selling to Americans and they get worried. In the 15 years I’ve been in the business,” says Harris, “there’s never been a downturn in real estate.”We pass a waterfront home owned by Wick McNeely, of a fifth-generation Chester summer family from Virginia, who bought the property last year for a rumoured $4-million. I’m told McNeely is in the concrete business and doesn’t give interviews. Like many Chester summer families, he’s understated, and does things for the community, anonymously.”You don’t have to be wealthy to live here,” says Harris. “You can still buy a house in Chester for $200,000, but not on the water.” In the village of Chester, the average price for an acre of land on the water, with no buildings, is approximately $1-million. “An acre of land with 200 feet on the water just sold to a man from the U.K. for $1.1-million. Many of the people who come here and pay the big prices, have an ex-patriot as a spouse, or they may both be Canadians returning home after doing well, and Chester is the place they’ll buy.” says Harris. “Chester has so much to offer, including the yacht club and the Chester Golf Club.”We pass McNeely’s magnificent sailboat, a Hinckley 51, and see McNeely in a raft with one of his grandsons. He tells me the sailboat, named Night Train, sells in the seven-figure range. “I hear it’s the nicest boat in Chester,” I tell him.”Last year, it was one of the nicest boats in St. Bart’s,” he informs me. The well-tanned McNeely tells me his great grandmother first came to Chester in 1851. As we continue on our tour, he encourages, “Say something nice about Chester.”But they don’t come to Chester only from the United States and Britain. One local artist is from Barcelona. Jose Valverde Alcalde has bridged the gap from Spanish villas to sailboats. When I visit him and his wife, Doreen, in their studio home on the main street of Chester, Valverde sweeps downstairs, dressed more for Spanish dancing in his black pants and crisp white shirt, than for painting.”When we came to Chester 22 years ago, we loved it, it’s so beautiful, the most beautiful place in the world. We raised our kids in Chester.” But he admits he winters in the coastal Spanish village of Sitges.His Nova Scotia sailboat art, he says, was inspired three years ago during some schooner races. He ships pieces around the globe.”There are people here from every different background,” he says. “You go to the yacht club, you see people and you want to give them your trousers [they look so poor], and then you find out that they are multimillionaires. It is a lovely place to live and to do business.”

by Sharon Dunn

Danielle Crittenden

by Uncategorized

Having learned that I was a pioneer …

 From the

Sharon Dunn
Having learned that I was a pioneer …
I’m feeling brave enough to ask Danielle Crittenden about that e-mail

[Photo: Kevin Van Paassen, National Post]
“Ten years ago if you went to the park, it was filled with nannies. Now, it’s filled with sleek-looking mothers in their capris and sunglasses,” says Danielle Crittenden, whose first novel, amanda bright@home, is about a woman who abandons her job to raise her children. I’m looking forward to meeting Danielle Crittenden, in town to promote her first novel, amanda bright@home, which started as a serialized novel for The Wall Street Journal, and was also recently featured in People magazine. The book is good, but I must admit, it’s not the only thing on my mind as I start the interview. There’s also that infamous e-mail incident. You remember. Crittenden sent an e-mail to some friends informing them that her husband, David Frum, then a speechwriter for the Bush administration, coined the presidential phrase “axis of evil,” an e-mail that some say resulted in Frum’s firing from the White House (a claim, by the way, he has publicly refuted). But I’ll get to the e-mail later. It would be downright rude to start the interview with that question. I’ll have to build up to it, I decide.”I like your book,” I tell Crittenden, and I mean it. It’s a book I can relate to, because, like Crittenden’s character, Amanda, I found myself (is it really almost 20 years ago?) abandoning my job (as a TV news anchor) to raise kids.

Amanda, Crittenden tells me, originated in a piece she wrote for George magazine, “but George folded just before my article was to appear.” After the serialization in The Wall Street Journal, Crittenden reworked the story into a book, and added an ending.”The issue I’ve always been interested in, is this generation I’ve grown up with, ambitious women having children. When your whole life is directed towards having a career, what happens when you have children?” That’s where Crittenden’s fictional character, the angst-filled Amanda, enters the picture. “Things have changed,” says Crittenden. “Ten years ago if you went to the park, it was filled with nannies. Now, it’s filled with sleek-looking mothers in their capris and sunglasses. Some are former lawyers and bankers, and now they’re at home.” Crittenden’s research has shown her that this new breed of woman is totally surprised by motherhood. “It was like an explosion going off in their life,” she says. “Ten years ago, any career woman was expected to go back to work and make child-care arrangements, and if you didn’t go back to work, you were a freak.”


“Was I a freak?” I ask, about my decision to leave television. Apparently so, but times have changed, according to Crittenden. “Work, to these women today, is no longer the new frontier. They expect to have jobs. But these new mothers have no idea how to be at-home mothers and at-home wives, and it affects every aspect of their being. Aside from economics, they’re not doing at 35 what they imagined they’d be doing at 35, when they were 20. Instead they’re sitting in the park singing Itsy Bitsy Spider.”And it’s not just the mothers who are affected.

Crittenden, who also explores the dynamic of marriage in the book, says, “What happens when the woman stops working, is it’s just as hard for the man to adjust. Remember he’s a modern guy, he didn’t know that he was going to have to support a family, he thought he would be supporting half a family, and his wife would be contributing.” In comparison to her own mom, Yvonne, also a writer, Crittenden says, “What I’m most envious of is that, with my mother, it was all subconscious. It wasn’t an issue, she just did what she thought was right.” But, adds Crittenden, “there are so many moms from that generation who were either ‘frustrated housewives’ saying to their daughters, ‘Don’t make the same mistake I made,’ or feminists saying, ‘Go to work.’ ” As Crittenden explains it, “Amanda is very torn and miserable, but this story is about not just learning to accept, but learning to value the role you play.”
“So what’s the answer for women?” I ask.
“I don’t think there is a perfect answer,” she says, “but as they say in the Disney movies, ‘Follow your heart.’ Many women are afraid to do that.

A woman shouldn’t be afraid and embarrassed to stay at home if that’s what she feels.”
“So when I left my career to raise kids and clean the stove, I was a pioneer?” I marvel. She nods. After all my years housebound with kids, after all my friends saying, “Are you crazy, why did you leave your job?,” finally, vindication! Gee, I feel better.And now having established myself as a pioneer, I’m feeling braver. No better time to ask a probing question. “Is that a plastic bra you’re wearing?” What looks like a plastic bra strap is showing on Crittenden’s shoulder. “No,” she assures me, aghast, “it’s supposed to be an invisible strap.” I feel I should be honest.
“It’s not invisible,” I tell her. With that, all of a sudden, it doesn’t seem so difficult to ask that other question. “What happened with the infamous e-mail?”
“It’s an interesting coincidence,” Crittenden tells me, still focusing on her novel. “In the book, Amanda gets her husband in trouble. She talks to a gossip columnist and her words get distorted, and bring embarrassment to her husband. I wrote that in 2001,” she tells me, “and the e-mail incident didn’t occur until January, 2002. This wasn’t life imitating art,” she laughs. “It was the other way around.”
I ask her how she felt when the whole e-mail fiasco hit the media.” Half of me was completely mortified,” she confides, “but the other half, the writer half, was intrigued.”
She says that she couldn’t help but compare her own situation to her character’s similarly embarrassing dilemma in the novel. “I didn’t know going through it would be so hard,” she admits. “But at least my character and I both had to throw a reporter off our front stoop.”
“Do you think you were treated fairly by the media?” I ask.
“It’s just the way it is,” she shrugs, adding, “am I happy someone forwarded my private e-mail to Slate magazine? No.”
“Are you more careful now with what you write in your e-mails?” I ask. “Yes, my e-mails are now very boring.”

by Sharon Dunn