Author: Words & S’mores

Writer. Transcriber. Lover of the Oxford comma. Aspiring Ghostwriter. My favourite stories to write are the ones you want told🌼
curling · fitness

Curling for Christmas

Words & S’mores

It’s 2025—a new year for making resolutions and embracing growth. But before you tackle these goals, I want you to dream with me. Let’s go to 10ish months from now when bosses of large and small companies alike begin preparation for corporate holiday parties. Yes, we just passed this season, but I want to share what a company I work for has been doing annually for their Christmas party. And I want to share it now out of generosity, for you’ll likely want to borrow the idea for your next holiday shindig.

I work part-time as a report writer for a small environmental firm in the oil and gas sector. Every Christmas, to kick off the holiday break, all staff members, including employers, make their way across the city to a humble curling rink called the Shamrock—a clever name with a nod to the sport’s namesake stones. Here, they gather in teams and hit the ice to begin a multi-game curling tournament.

Seems simple enough, but what makes this event special is the personable and hilarious happenings that take place in the lead-up and throughout.

First, there’s the battle for Golden Tickets. These tickets, while not inviting you to an all-you-can-eat chocolate factory, serve as a form of immunity (hello Survivor watchers). Earned through winning trivia, participating in Hot Ones challenges, or other such activities, Golden Tickets allow the holder to place a star player on their team or, for sabotage, move a star player off another team.  As many only ever curl at the Christmas party, or for staff members like me who had never played before, a Golden Ticket could make or break your team’s success.

The coworkers in charge of these lead-up events, especially our power-woman of a safety officer who orchestrated all of these seamlessly with the main event, put personalized efforts into making them fun and inclusive. For example, if someone wasn’t able to be in the office for a trivia event, they had an online option. One coworker even set up watch parties for the classic Christmas movies that were to be one of the trivia themes. In doing this, some of them even disqualified themselves from a Golden Ticket win.

This brings me to the draw. The draw, conducted over a lunch hour in the office, involves all staff and is what determines the teams for the curling tournament. Assembled by assigning skips (those actually versed in curling) as captains and fishing the rest of the names out of a hat, the teams remain randomized each year to keep them competitively equal. There are, of course, those who ride their competitive nature strong and have been known to bribe their way into a stacked team— I may or may not have been traded off a team for a 6-pack of craft beer—but it’s all part of the fun.

Once teams are established, a hush spreads over the office as teammates collude in whispers about what their costumes could be. That’s right. Costumes. Tournaments can be uninviting if you’re not the competitive or athletic type. Knowing that there can only be one tournament winner, this office has devised two alternate manners of winning. One is through the toilet bowl—a final game between the teams with the least wins in the tournament. The other is through the costume contest. So, if you’re a team with questionable curling skills, you can choose to pour your efforts into the costume contest.

This year’s costumes did not disappoint. One team handcrafted themselves into Sim characters, another turned themselves into Christmas presents, and another kept to the sports theme and dressed themselves to look like some of the most popular athletes from the 2024 Summer Olympics: the Turkish pistol shooter, the Australian breakdancer, and the French pole vaulter—PVC pole positioned at the junk included.

Though the competition was fierce, I am proud to say that the team I belonged to won the contest with Grinch-inspired outfits. The tallest of us was Max, our skip was decked in a very convincing Grinch outfit, and the two of us girls were Whos. I believe it was our obvious effort on our hair that snagged us the win.

Taking my first crouch at the hack (what you push off from to curl), decked in Whoville attire.

A woman with decorative hair and wearing a long, red sweater crouches low at the hack on a curling sheet. She holds a yellow curling rock in her right hand and a balance tool in her left.

After the sporting and costuming, the staff enjoys a catered buffet supper in the rink’s upstairs lounge; and with perogies included, you can bet supper was enjoyed by all.

What follows is an enjoyable half hour of raffle draws. For simply attending and remaining at the Christmas party, each staff member is given a raffle ticket. These tickets offer everyone a chance to win one of a dozen prizes.

This part of the evening is special as it showcases the good relationships maintained between the company and their vendors and clients. Due to the company’s size, many clients and vendors know multiple staff members and are recognized when they step into the office. Phone calls are personable, and presents are often hand-delivered. A lounge table stacked with gift baskets, appliances, and other desired goods is a direct result of these friendly partnerships.

Sadly, neither my husband nor I won any raffles, but watching others win was still enjoyable.

Cheering each other on for raffles is one way to feel staff cohesion, but the best team-building activity of the night was probably speed darts, courtesy of the curling rink’s two dart boards. With all participants divided into two teams, the goal was to hit every number around the board in successive order. Once someone got their dart in space 1, we moved on to space 2, then 3, then 4, and so forth until the first team hit all the numbers and successfully hit the bullseye to win. It was a blast, though minorly dangerous. I highly suggest finding dart boards on opposite walls.

The Christmas party capped off with casual visiting and a little dancing when a song hit just right. A full-day event spent with coworkers was as enjoyable as if spent with friends. I look forward to doing this again.

So, with the holiday season approaching us in 11 months, you now have a head start on what to do: book a local curling rink, have some fun with your coworkers, and challenge yourself to make the most of learning new activities.

Stephanie Morris is a transcriptionist and writer based in Alberta, Canada. She is a wife, mom of two, and owner of writing services company, Words & S’mores. As a fancier of history and literature, she aspires to blend the two in fiction and nonfiction pieces. To follow Stephanie’s writing adventures, find her at @words.and.smores on Instagram or visit her website wordsandsmores.square.site.

fitness

Dancing Queen

Words & S’mores2 Comments

On an early November morning, as the threat of winter began to descend upon a central Albertan city, 16 friends were nestled tightly in a Boeing 737 about to depart for a place that promised a beautiful wedding and a return to summer. One of these friends, seated an aisle away from the comforting nearness of her husband, was trying to sort through the turbulence in her mind. Would her kids be alright? What if something happens to them while they’re away? What if they get sick and can’t attend the wedding? What if her speech isn’t received well? As the plane took off towards the Gulf of Mexico, she wondered when, or even if, she would relax.

Spoiler: it took her four days.

Second spoiler: it’s me. Hi. Not Taylor Swift, but Stephanie Morris as the main character of this story. And, yes, it is based on real events.

Hot equator sun, refreshing salt-water breeze, and crippling anxiety—that’s what I found in Mexico when my husband and I ventured to the beautiful Grand Sirenis Resort for the celebration of my best friend’s wedding.

I wager my anxiousness stemmed from a mixture of mom guilt, wondering what mother dares to revel in a week of no obligations?;and ignorance towards slowing down, thinking choosing inefficiency is simply a preposterous notion, is it not? These were the nagging questions as my mind grappled with its new location and lack of responsibilities.

Ironically, the understimulation of my to-do/to-think list became a stimulant itself. No one needed me. I didn’t need me. No cooking, cleaning, parenting, or working for seven whole days. Soon I found myself searching for familiarity, for place, for purpose—only to be met with no plan, no time restrictions, and no distractions.

It was agonizing.

In recent years, my life has been under increasing pressure—pressure to be enough “mom” for each of my children, to be present enough for my friends, to excel at something outside of my home for my own sake, and, most recently, to excel at something outside of my home for economic necessity.

So why, with toes in the sand and ocean mist upon my cheeks, did I not feel this pressure release? Why couldn’t I let go and just rest?

I have known for some time that rest is not restricted to sleep or motionlessness; it’s not even simply letting your mind drift away and think of nothing. While these practices can be restful, battery-filling, life-giving rest may call for a more active remedy.

The antidote to my restlessness?

A hefty dose of disco.

For three of the seven nights we were blessed to be in Mexico, my husband and I made the longish (I say -ish because it was a resort and the bar for inconveniences was awfully low) trek along the cobbled path, past the habitations, to the remote side of the resort where the silence of nature was interrupted by the reverberating Discoteca.  

Night one, we stumbled in to find a Columbian wedding reception was underway. As it was a public disco, we were welcomed to the venue and were treated to an energetic mix of cultural and Top-40 hits. At the request of one of our party, we got the privilege of teaching the beautiful wedding guests a Canadian line dance. That brought me my first taste of enjoyment.

Night two at the disco was less crowded with about a dozen guests, but I was determined to have a good time. I have always loved to dance, and I was desperate for catharsis. Some may blame it on Wilberth the bartender’s Electric Lemonades, but I credit ABBA for being the catalyst for enjoyment that night. It was a very mindful experience as I nearly forced myself to abandon thought and absorb the music. I may not have had the most skillful dance moves, but I can guarantee they were soulful—and I brought a slightly more relaxed soul back from the disco that night because of them.

Night three at the disco happened on Day 5 of our trip—the wedding day. The night prior, I was on the brink of an anxiety attack. Without a reason in sight and already 4 days behind me in physical relaxation, I cried out desperately in the night for a breakthrough for my mind.

The next day, I tepidly passed the hours. I needed to balance my fragility with my honoured role in my best friend’s wedding. Thankfully, weddings are a beautiful distraction, and the bride was a joy to be around. While getting ready in the spa room, the bridesmaids turned on some 90s and early 00s music—and it was the perfect start to the rest for the rest of the vacation. As I had practiced on previous disco nights, I let the music absorb my energy, and I let go.

Sweet release! The rest of the afternoon, the ceremony, the reception, and even my speech, glided off my shoulders as pressures used to when I was a young child.

And it didn’t stop there.

The groom has a background in DJing, and, with the help of his wife, he compiled a vitalizing reception playlist that lasted four hours.

Still high on joy over the blissful occasion, after the reception finished, we waited a mere half hour for the Discoteca to open. We topped our night off with two more hours of soulful dancing. I felt like a true Dancing Queen.

When I say I relaxed the last two days of the trip, I really did. My mind floated in my head as delicately as my body did on the ocean.

I would never have thought that three nights of physical exertion was the key to my ability to relax on an all-inclusive vacation, but I guess that’s why the professionals point anxious minds like mine toward fitness. Mind and body really are bound together.

Stephanie Morris is a transcriptionist and writer based in Alberta, Canada. She is a wife, mom of two, and owner of writing services company, Words & S’mores. As a fancier of history and literature, she aspires to blend the two in fiction and nonfiction pieces. To follow Stephanie’s writing adventures, find her at @words.and.smores on Instagram or visit her website wordsandsmores.square.site.

fitness

Catch & Release

Words & S’mores1 Comment

This past summer, I decided to invest in my fitness journey—sort of.

I paid $12 for 8 weeks on a workout app. It was a deal I couldn’t pass up, or so the advertisement sold me. Such marketing isn’t too far-fetched either since a single drop-in class ranges between 10 and 20 dollars in my area. Even if I only used the app once, it would pay for itself. A worthwhile investment, is it not?

Well, I did only use it once.

What followed was a membership cancellation and, after an onslaught of messages feebly attempting to keep my business, a cancelled email subscription.

Sound familiar? While this may or may not be your experience, statistics don’t lie. With COVID-19 supplying a generous subject pool for online and application-based studies, it wasn’t hard to find some information regarding workout apps.

All that is remaining of my latest workout app.

A cellphone is shown with a page open to a Log In screen. The screen says “Your session expired” across the top.

According to one research study out of Anhui University, of every 100 people who sign up for workout apps similar to the one I had, 45 of them abandon the app (Guo et al., 2022). Another report from analysts at Business of Apps, a globally respected app information company, concludes that only 37% of workout app users retain their subscriptions after the first day of use, and this number plummets to a meager 9% by day 28 (Curry, 2024).  Unfortunately, my churn rate is reflective of these statistics.

In fact, I’ve done this app catch and release before. Hilariously, I’ve even done it with the exact app that I just abandoned—almost an exact year prior to my most recent activation date too. Apparently, my New Year’s resolutions start in July.

What is it that draws people to these low-retention workout apps? Perhaps it’s the promise of a pseudo-escape that would satisfy those of us who feel housebound. Maybe it’s our ever-aging bodies instinctively desiring health-bolstering activities.

The reason may even be societal. In an era where social media influencers fulfill their titled role by steering viewers towards fitness and healthy living, an app that offers a “how to be like X influencer in 20 days” solves two needs at once: the need for social engagement and belonging, and the need for instant gratification.

Or maybe it’s neither of those. Perhaps, it’s what drew me in: the cost.

Life as a busy mom makes engaging in regular fitness difficult. Add the price of gym memberships or fitness classes and my wallet, with contents already taken up by bills and the kids’ extra-curriculars, is adamant that I cannot take on those expenses. These workout apps, with their low initial costs, break that barrier and make fitness appear attainable. All it requires is participation.

An app can look attractive and make promises, but do they deliver, and are they really user friendly? Probably for the self-motivated and homebody folk. What about those who, like me, thrive in tangible community or are unreliable in the area of self-discipline?

Most of us who have engaged with the fitness world understand that there is no one-size-fits-all solution to achieving fitness success. Each body and soul has unique functions and needs. My deficient willpower in this area as well as the lack of readily available space in my house for these exercises make me an ill-fitted candidate for workout apps. My soul just doesn’t vibe well with them. As my catch-and-release count suggests, I should hit the drawing board again.

Have you tried workout apps? Do they work for you? I’d love to read your reflections below in the comment section.

Citations

Guo, Y., Ma, X., Chen, D., & Zhang, H. (2022, November 22). Factors Influencing Use of Fitness Apps by Adults under Influence of Covid-19. PubMed Central, National Library of Medicine: National Center for Biotechnology Information. https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC9740845/

Curry, D. (2024, November 6). Health & Fitness App Report 2024. Business of Apps. https://www.businessofapps.com/data/health-fitness-app-report/#:~:text=What%20is%20the%20retention%20rate,to%209%25%20by%20day%2028.

Stephanie Morris is a transcriptionist and writer based in Alberta, Canada. She is a wife, mom of two, and owner of her writing services company, Words & S’mores. As a fancier of history and literature, she aspires to blend the two in fiction and nonfiction pieces. To follow Stephanie’s writing adventures, find her at @words.and.smores on Instagram or visit her website wordsandsmores.square.site.

archery · fitness

The Ultimate Motivator

Words & S’mores2 Comments

Days ago, I was transported back in time.

This weekend, I had the good fortune of celebrating a friend’s birthday at medieval camp. Good Knights Entertainment in the small town of Three Hills, Alberta, offers an immersive glamping experience with a medieval twist. It’s a place where farmland meets thoughtful landscaping; where ruggedness compels the visitor to believe they have been transported back in time, while simultaneously feeling comfortable and safe among the mowed grass and trodden trails.

Beyond the landscape, evidence of the founders’ passion is found in hand-sewn costumes with inclusive sizing, numerous well-constructed and clean lodging options, and an array of activity offerings.

I am pictured clearing the debris we brought into our Hobbit Hole lodging with a straw broom.

Of these activities, more than half are physical and include archery, sword fighting, and nature walking. Archery, a sport I was introduced to during middle-school gym class, caught my eye during our visit.

During those months of gym class, each time I approached a bow, I transformed. With each step, the millennium era fell away to a medieval one.  Denim jeans, layered tank tops, and rubber sneakers morphed into a cotton tunic over a linen chemise and velvety leather slippers. An internal fierceness would transport my body from the gymnasium to high hills above a trembling army or dense forest. For war or for hunting, I felt within me an adrenaline rush that demanded my focus and attention.  

Then I’d meet the bow. Moulding my fingers around the plastic grip, my left hand would ready itself as my right hand clipped the arrow’s nock into its corresponding point on the string with a satisfying click.

What followed was my favourite part. As I lifted the bow to eye level, my right fingers would roll the string confidently from my palm into the secure notch of my third knuckles, my pointer finger firmly trapping the arrow against the bow. A tilt to the left would begin my pullback, and nothing felt more satisfying than when my middle finger grazed the corner of my mouth and rested, ready to launch, ready for battle.

This is the image I had in mind when I approached the bow at Good Knights. There I was in the medieval garb that had once been mere imagination. This was my dream-come-true moment.

Though the arrow was missing because we were there to pose for photos and not engage in an archery lesson (we were a group of gals that chose moments of chatter over planned events during this particular visit), I approached the setup with imaginative vigor. I was about to be the strong female triumphing in an era when women were given little to no recognition outside of their homes.

We lined up. We grabbed the bows. My left hand welcomed the sweet caress of the grip. The right hand readied and I drank up excitement as I rolled the string along my fingers. My cheek quaked with anticipation of being kissed by my fingertip. So I pulled back. I pulled back. I—pulled—back—I…couldn’t. I was thirteen the last time I drew back a bow. It had felt so easy, yet over half a lifetime later, I couldn’t even bring the string close to my face.

I was stunned and disappointed. Instead of being transported to the harsh hills of the 14th century, or even to the body-odoured gymnasium of 2 decades ago, I became grossly aware of my reality.

Our group posing for our archery picture. Myself in blue struggling to keep my bow taut.

Where medieval women had strength built from hauling heavy fabrics, tending to their gardens, and hoisting children as they scrubbed and laboured over the household chores, my strength has been worn away from a life of easy-glide mops, portable vacuums, laundry and dishwashing machines, and cartoons. I’m not fighting raiding outlaws, fending off wild animals, or walking kilometers a day to market. I’m reading on a couch, sweating over a stovetop, or driving the 700 meters uphill to our school when we’re running late.

Once again, I am faced with the reality that if I want to meet my fitness goals, I need to do more than dream of other me’s in other worlds.

If you are an archer, I respect you and ask that you reserve judgment on my naivety regarding your sport. It is an art and a strength to use a bow and arrow. Perhaps this will finally motivate me to work on that strength-building that my doctor has encouraged me to do for some time now. Who knew that a journey across Alberta and through my memory would be the ultimate motivator?

I hope to visit Good Knights again to partake in all of their immersive activities, and I will be testing my fitness growth at the archery range. May all my disappointments in life spur me into healthy lifestyle choices. Here’s hoping I hit the bullseye on this one.

Please visit www.goodknights.ca to learn about this incredible business. If you find yourself on the Albertan plains or aching to fulfill a childhood dream, stay for a visit.

Stephanie Morris is a transcriptionist and writer based in Alberta, Canada. She is a wife, a mom of two, and a newcomer to the career-writing world. As a fancier of history and literature, she aspires to blend the two in fiction and nonfiction pieces. To follow Stephanie’s writing adventures, find her at @words.and.smores on Instagram.

fitness · hiking

Hey, Bear!

Words & S’mores

               “Hey, Bear!!” We took turns bellowing this phrase as our family of four trekked along the narrow path of the Wild Sculpture Trail in Alberta’s Sundance Provincial Park. While our warning calls were interspersed throughout our adventure, my ears were constantly peeled to the potential guttural response of the resident black bears. Our yells eased my fears of a bear encounter because at least we wouldn’t be surprising it.

Hiking is not my forte—it does not bring me exuberant joy, excitement, or even calm. Hiking is what my husband does and what he’s inviting our kids to do. So why was I also in tow on that holiday Monday expedition? Two reasons. One, it was my five-year-old’s inaugural hike. Two, my darling eight-year-old daughter wanted me to come.

My husband had offered for me to stay home, read books, work on my writing, take a nap, or have a visit—all daily wish-list activities. But, while I am an indoors-loving, book-craving writer, I am also a mother. So, though a day of reprieve was baited so deliciously in front of me, the weight of responsibility and love turned my gaze and produced a response of, “No, I think I’ll come for the hike.”

I want to say that it was a joy-filled decision, after all, it was a promise of exercise (something I’ve been struggling to keep consistent in my daily life—a regular theme in my blog posts) and a promise of quality time with my family (something I am constantly yearning for), but it was not a decision made with eager joy.

I. do. not. like. hiking. I do not like the threat of large predators, the plethoric presence of insects, nor the unpredictable physical exertion. Will I be scrambling up a shaley bank? Will I be expected to hang on desperately to a mountain’s edge? How many ups and downs are in store for me? If it sounds like I’m whining, I am. And I do every time I’m offered the chance to go for a hike. I don’t like doing things that make challenge me.

I often wish I could adopt the Canadian/Albertan mindset of loving nature and craving to be in its undisturbed presence. I see images of women, strong and glowing on the peaks of mountains, some with carriers loaded with 30-pound toddlers. These women amaze me. I have at least two close female friends who take their families on camping adventures, willingly sacrificing the comforts of home to bask in the Creator’s masterpiece. Their being outdoors does something to my perception of them. They become even more super than the super-moms they are in my eyes.

When I watched my daughter scramble up the trail’s sandy hoodoos, I noticed two things. One, she was brave and gave it her all; and two, she knew her limits and was confident enough to make it known when she was uncomfortable. On a particularly steep part of the hoodoo, my daughter tried to climb up to the top ledge but was unable to lift her leg high enough. She didn’t give up right away but rather shifted her weight and position to accommodate the awkward rock as best she could. When she still couldn’t get up, she simply shed a few frustrated tears and then bounded up a different path that would still lead her to the top ledge.

My family on the hoodoos of the Wild Sculpture Trail.

A man and two children dressed for a hike stand with a dog on sandy hoodoos. The man is pointing his hiking stick upwards and the children are following his gaze. The dog stares contentedly in the opposite direction.

If it were me in her position, I would likely have grumbled and spat out my justified distaste towards hiking. My feelings of inadequacy would have veiled the logic of simply trying a different way.

When I see those determined outdoorsy women, I often compare myself to them. If only I liked that activity, I could be fit. I could be cool. I could boast about the benefits to my skin and body after breathing fresh air for more than two hours a day. My kids could look to me as a beacon of health and strength. My distaste for their beloved activity makes me feel like I’ll never measure up to the “fit and healthy” girls. They don’t appear to be afraid of bears, or at least they don’t let that stop them.

Upon reflecting on how my daughter managed in the woods and on the hoodoos, I am reminded that a woman’s strength does not lie in the specific activity she performs. Instead, it lies in the attitude she brings to it. Sure, she enjoys the outdoors, but I think that comes from having an open mind about the trials she is bound to come across. The outdoors is not in fact a determiner of which women have found the most success and which have not. Being or not being afraid of bears does not dictate my worth.

My daughter is determined but also cautious. Hiking is not always predictable. Without comparing herself to other girls and without catering to her fears, my daughter allows herself to enjoy an activity that challenges her.

I also am a cautious person and a determined one in many areas of my life, so why can’t I also accept a challenge every once in a while?

I do not need to fall in love with hiking. I can keep my favourite pastimes. But I will say yes to going on another hike with my children. I will show up and be the example my daughter set for me: if I find myself in a situation where I’m not having fun and doubting my abilities, whether it’s outdoors or not, I can yell “Hey, bear!” at the things that scare me, adapt in ways that allow me to stay true to myself, and step up in confidence to things that challenge me.

fitness

A Good Inheritance

Words & S’mores

Three weeks ago, I lost my grandma. After days of indecision, I finally hopped on a plane and frantically flew to British Columbia. By the time I got to the hospital, Grandma wasn’t able to talk much. As sharp as I knew her mind still was, her physical body was betraying her. In a room full of sons and daughters racing to meet their mother’s needs and grandchildren to aid where they could, I began to process the loss that would inevitably take place. How could I say goodbye to a woman I had too much to say to? After years of selfish childhood followed by years of exhausted parenting, I felt that I was just entering a phase of life where I could take the time and ask to hear her stories, receive her wisdom, and simply know her. How could I reconcile all the questions that would go unanswered?

With the busyness of the atmosphere, I settled for no deep words at all. I didn’t feel I had the time. I was already too late. For two hours, I helped fan away her discomfort, stroked her curly wisps of silver hair, offered pain-relieving suggestions, and overfilled cups of water. Then I said good-bye. Within five minutes of leaving the hospital to take my airport bags to her house, we got the call that she was gone.  

Now that she’s relieved of all pain and jamming with the angels, I can’t fathom wishing for her to be back here, even for our sakes. Instead, I will remember my grandma through the pieces of her life I was able to share in. She was a fiery woman who strove for holistic health in manners of physical exercise, fresh food, spiritual freedom, and strong character. So I dedicate this small reflection to her.

My grandma, Darlene.

An elderly woman sits on a bench between two planters filled with red petunias. She has curly, short, silver hair, is smiling, and is wearing a navy sleeveless outfit.

Grandma was an athlete. Baseball, fishing, and curling were notable sports she showcased her strength in, having a Provincial Championship in curling and the envy of all the boys in fishing. Her equestrian skills were second nature and pickleball had its season of passion. But my favourite sport that my grandma partook in was swimming. I loved that she got to share in a sport that was dear to my heart. I remember hearing of the lanes she and Grandpa would swim, and I would think, “Gosh, I hope I’m doing that in my seventies.”

Out of the pool, off the field, or whatever exit was made from her physical endeavours, Grandma ensured that rich, replenishing food was on the horizon for her at home. She once made a point of showing me how to peel the film off a rack of ribs. Her assumption that I would have the gumption to tackle a fresh rack at home was a testament to her insistence that good food aids in good health. She had been an owner of a health food store, an avid gardener, a master canner and jam maker, and an incredible cook. A most popular rave was of her ability to cook for a busload of people—which, when all of her kids and grandkids got together, we were about that size—and despite the size of the job, her ability allowed for all the dishes to finish simultaneously and be served hot. My skills in the kitchen are a far cry from hers, but I cherish the example she set. If I do find myself tackling a rack of ribs, I will gladly reflect on the master chef who was my grandma.

Of course, “man does not live on bread alone,” as Matthew 4:4 of the Christian Bible states. My grandma was a strong woman of faith. She didn’t shy away from conversations that challenged her faith but rather leaned into them. She held space for people to freely question and express doubt and challenge her beliefs. What I respected most about her was that if she wasn’t satisfied with her knowledge of a subject, she would keep digging. She would ask the questions to other people, to her ministers, and to her God. To be able to engage in her faith so freely remained a source of strength for her right to the end.

Grandma’s strength was so apparent that even as she was experiencing pain in the hospital, she was determined to do things her way. Always a fiercely independent, get ‘er done woman, I imagined how annoyed she must have been at the kerfuffle of people trying to anticipate her needs and advocate for her. She would roll her eyes exasperated at everyone talking over her while she was trying to get her point across, even mouthing “never mind” many times during my visit with her. Of course, near the end, she needed the help, but I could imagine her inner monologue saying something like, “Boy, if I could, I would be shooing you all away and taking matters into my own hands.”

However, her proud, independent strength was also beautifully coupled with a strong, humble character. As annoyed as she may have been by people trying to do life for her, I know she was deeply appreciative. Her love for her family, friends, and community was impenetrable. In my memory, I can see Grandma frustrated at people inserting themselves in her plans only to come back later with an apology and humble appreciation for the help she received. Could she do it all on her own? Absolutely. Did she recognize that relationship mattered? Absolutely.

If I could speak to her now, I’d wonder at her thoughts on my reflections of her. I hope you as the reader accept these words as my personal memories of her, and I hope you got to enjoy her a bit through my eyes. If you had known her personally, you would have seen how much more she truly was. A matriarch. A legacy-builder. A force. My grandma. If I inherit a quarter of her grit, I will consider it a good inheritance.

In loving memory of Darlene Clarke (1940-2024).

fitness · illness

The Waiting List

Words & S’mores1 Comment

Someone very close to me was recently told that they’re next up for battling the Big C. I say “next up” because it seems as though Cancer rears its nasty head up to everyone eventually. I know that isn’t true, but my pessimism wins out in my psyche from time to time as more of those dear to me face the diagnosis.

Right now, my friend is in the waiting stage. You know, that dreadful countdown of some mysterious length towards an end that will finally give you some answers and a plan of action. I have experienced a waiting stage like that, but not of this length, and not of this severity.

How many strong people are waiting in silence every day? Whether it’s waiting on a diagnosis, healing, news from a loved one, or even news of a baby or job offer, imagine days that last forever. Imagine waking up every morning and being reminded of your altered perspective of time. And then there’s your phone. Which hour in this marathon of days will give you the mercy of more information, of next steps, of hope? Will it be today?

Now imagine that, while you wait, you cannot access your regular coping methods. You’ve had surgery—you cannot exercise yet. You need to be available for last-minute treatment—you cannot travel. It’s not your news to share so you are awaiting the go-ahead—you cannot speak freely with your close friends.

So what does one do? What can one do? I am not an expert on this topic, but, being inspired to offer suggestions to those struggling in the waiting period, I thought I’d compile a mini list of “try me” potentials to take the burden of thinking away a bit.

Time does funny things when you’re in a period of waiting.

A brass alarm clock sits on a surface. It’s black hands signify 12:25.

With the understanding that these options are not universal and therefore cannot be assumed relative to everyone’s journey, here is a short list of things you can try that may make the waiting game less treacherous:

  • Join a book club. Reading is a standard option for passing the time, but why not put some intention behind your readings? Websites like bookclubs.com allow people from all over the world to engage in book clubs online. There are many book clubs to choose from that can cater to your needs in this season. You can also try searching Facebook or contacting your local library to see if there are any online or casual book clubs available.
  • Volunteer. “A generous person will prosper; whoever refreshes others will be refreshed” (Proverbs 11:25 [NIV]). Giving your time and energy to the causes of others is not meant to discredit your own experience. Rather, serving others allows for the special opportunity to engage with others’ struggles in a human-to-human way. Volunteer to relate. Volunteer to connect. Volunteer to engage with the world in a way that is outside the societal message of you, you, you. Then, when you’re there and giving of yourself, embrace the gift that it offers in return. Embrace refreshment. Soak it in and acknowledge that your life means more to the world than you may have thought. You are a unique person who has a lot to offer. Let yourself experience the pleasure of offering yourself to others (and yes, animals count).
  • Sit and cry in peace. Sometimes you just need to sit and wait and feel the heaviness of your current situation. This is not a place to be stuck in, but your body and mind may need the permission and freedom to be authentic and access release. This season is a difficult one and your body knows it. Tears release oxytocin and endorphins—two hormones that are credited with producing good feelings and aiding in pain management, respectively.[1] Invite someone to hold you while you cry, or make space to have a moment by yourself for yourself.

There’s my list. It’s small, but maybe there’s something sparked a bit of life into you. If not, I hope it inspired you to think about what an option for you could be. What would you put on your waiting list? All I know is that, for those of you who find yourselves trapped in an hourglass, there is hope out there. It will look different for each person, but I encourage you to find out what that hope is and lean into it. Let it comfort and strengthen you. Blessings to you all.

[1] Dariush Dfarhud, Maryam Malmir, Mohammad Khanahmadi, “Happiness & Health: The Biological Factors- Systematic Review Article,” Iranian Journal of Public Health 43, 11 (2014): 1468–1477, https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC4449495/.

Stephanie Morris is a transcriptionist and writer based in Alberta, Canada. She is a wife, a mom of two, and a newcomer to the career-writing world. As a fancier of history and literature, she aspires to blend the two in fiction and nonfiction pieces. To follow Stephanie’s writing adventures, find her at @words.and.smores on Instagram.

fitness

3 Gifts Costumed Events Give Us

Words & S’mores

Last weekend, I had the privilege of attending a small-town Ladies Night. This annual intergenerational event offered games, door prizes, and a silent auction to raise funds for the local Agricultural Society. A crowd of 150 women from the surrounding areas gathered amidst ticket stubs and plastic drink receptacles. We all enjoyed a thoughtfully made dinner which prepared our bodies for the four hours of passionate dancing that followed. This event was incredible.

What distinguished this fundraiser from others that I have been to was one particularly endearing quality: it was a costumed event. This year’s theme was Greek Goddess, and let me tell you, the guests showed up loud and proud.

Inspired by the energy in the room, I began to think about how excellent costumed events are. Thus, using examples from this event, I’ve compiled a list of three gifts costumed events give to us.

Gift #1: Creativity

When my sister informed us a week before the event that it was costumed, I admittedly started to panic. How was I, in less than a week, supposed to come up with a Greek goddess-inspired outfit that didn’t hurt the wallet and didn’t require online shopping? As a mom of two younger children, I needed to get creative.

The four of us ladies planning to go to the event together took different approaches to completing this task.

My sister’s friend chose to represent a specific goddess—Athena, the goddess of arts and crafts— and scoured her closet to find articles of clothing that fit her muse. She then added a personal touch by customizing a necklace to display symbols of arts and crafts.

I also scoured my closet, but without specific inspiration, I struggled to piece things together. I opted to repurpose an old angel costume from my Halloween tote. With a gold studded belt, some gold jewelry, and a convenient gold-leaf headpiece that was also found in the tote, I was satisfied enough with my outfit.

My mom, a problem-solving Queen, chose to contact our local costume store and was able to find a perfectly themed Greek outfit to rent.

My sister opted to follow our mother’s lead and got her to purchase an on-sale outfit from the costume store for her.

Costumed events make people dive down these avenues of “How am I—Where am I going to find something for this?” Based on the outfits I saw that evening, it was evident that many creative methods were activated in preparation for the event. 

Some women jazzed up their regular dresses with Greek-inspired jewelry. Some showed off gorgeous online-ordered put-together outfits. Others proudly wore cleverly folded sheets tied with a rope—true toga fashion.

My favourite display of creativity? The two women who donned tissue paper, balloons, and Styrofoam to make themselves into servings of Greek salad. Creativity at its finest.

Gift #2: Confidence

You don’t show up to an event dressed as Greek salad without a bit of confidence. Admittedly, I was trepidatious as I was getting ready for the event. I don’t like being singled out or not fitting in. I didn’t want to show up to this costumed event overdressed, underdressed, or oddly dressed. It was advertised as a costumed event, yet I still worried we would be the only ones in actual costumes.

Thankfully, when we arrived at the event, my worries vanished. Every single person was dressed up and proud to be. The variety of outfits on display were adorned by women who looked comfortable and confident in them.

Knowing how the four of us each got to our final outfits made me realize that a bit of each person’s personality was displayed in their costumes. This was a touching realization as it made me appreciate each person for their individuality more than if I were at a non-costumed event.

Some of my favourite displays of confidence were from a group of girls who wore Greek yogurt containers on their heads as their costumes. They were giggling and enjoying the simple things all night long. Another memorable moment was when one of the Greek salad ladies vigorously took to the dancefloor and began showering the other dancers with shreds of her well-worn outfit. It was a display of confidence in confetti.

Gift #3: Camaraderie

The best gift I believe costumed events give is a sense of camaraderie. The concept of coming together and purposefully matching or complimenting strangers is a beautiful one—literally. This event was visually satisfying.

Upon arrival, the feeling of camaraderie was palpable. When I walked into the hall and saw the first handful of women in togas, I was instantly captivated. Not only was I proud to see so many women confidently suited up in atypical outfits, but I was mesmerized by the colours and grandeur of it all. We were goddesses! Yes, that particular point is theme-specific, but the attitude in the room was to fully embrace the theme. That is what was so fantastic. 

In our group of four specifically, our camaraderie started from the moment we heard about the event being costumed. We conversed on social media about outfit ideas, sent pictures, and asked for advice.

On the day of, we amusingly squished into one bathroom so that we could do our hair and put on our makeup together. Dressed in our outfits, we asked for touch-up advice and traded accessories. Even throughout the night, I witnessed the occasional exchange of jewelry from other ladies.

Being united in theme felt like we were all a part of a team. When raffles were being drawn, we were cheering each other on, even though it meant we were cheering against ourselves.

There was a general understanding of taking care of each other. As women, we know how important that is. At a costumed event, the intentionality was only heightened. The verbal affirmations from one goddess to another, the sharing of the mop that was brought out to clean spills on the dance floor, and the group effort in clearing off the tables at the end are prime examples of the camaraderie displayed that evening.

As the dancing continued into the early hours of the next day, the group of strangers, some slightly influenced by their used-up drink tickets, were dancing together as if they were friends all along.

Us as Greek goddesses at a rural Ladies Night.

Four ladies are dressed in white and gold, Greek goddess-inspired outfits. Behind them is a backdrop comprised of vines, latticing, and an arch veiled in white sheets.

Costumed events have the potential to be expensive, awkward, and isolating. However, I think those attributes are more untrue than true of actual costumed events. The people who choose to engage in them are people I want to be around: creative, confident, dependable people.

I am already planning to attend next year’s Ladies Night. I’ll just be sure to ask for the theme earlier on.  

Comment below on which gifts you agree with or which you would add.

Stephanie Morris is a transcriptionist and writer based in Alberta, Canada. She is a wife, a mom of two, and a newcomer to the career-writing world. As a fancier of history and literature, she aspires to blend the two in fiction and nonfiction pieces. To follow Stephanie’s writing adventures, find her at @words.and.smores on Instagram.

fitness

Peaceful Playgrounds

Words & S’mores

Our family walking along the small-town road on Easter.

A group of people walk along at different distances along a quiet street. A man and young girl walking a dog are in the forefront. It is early spring with the remnants of snow and puddles lining the road.

“Wow! Busy day in town.” I exclaimed as our herd moved to the shoulders of the sidewalk-less road.

It was Easter, and the nine of us who gathered to celebrate were on an afternoon walk. We were moving over for two vehicles driving towards us in opposite directions when a third one came into our view at the crossroad ahead. Three cars in thirty seconds boasted unfamiliar liveliness in the small Albertan town my sister lives in.

Taking a walk has become an expected practice when we come to visit my sister. From my outsider’s viewpoint, this town is either dying or painfully tired. The main street might as well have a tumbleweed roll across as no one is seen perusing shops, attending to business, or even taking a stroll. Many of the buildings are boarded up with only a few bearing signs of life with “For Lease” plastered on their windows. Are they displayed as dreams for progress, or are they there as pleas for release? What do these sleepy towns have to hope for?

I had grown up in a town of roughly 4000 people. Walking in the middle of streets where the ditches were our sidewalks, where drivers raised a hand in greeting as they passed, where wandering parent-less until sundown was a way of life, is how I experienced my years of innocence. When I lived there, the town was prosperous and growing.

But then it started to die.

Industry left the area. Families, like mine, and individuals found themselves pursuing opportunities in the cities. The wounds of economic scarcity started to appear.

When I visited my hometown in later years, I felt like I was walking through a ghost town. Although the town wasn’t dying to the extent that my sister’s town seems to be, the town that I knew was no longer there. Isn’t that the journey of growing up? Much of what we know as children takes on new meaning as adults.

When I do visit my hometown, I often find myself at the school playground. Standing beneath worn monkey bars and cautiously climbing contorted ladders brings me back to innocence. I look at the tire swing and get flashbacks of “around the world” pushes and the dizzying ecstasy it yielded. I imagine schoolmates all around; some running, some chasing, others huddled, and the rest occupied by the pieces of equipment.

What bewilders me the most during my visits is that the equipment looks unchanged. Twenty years and the same plastic slides welcomed my use. The large wooden posts stand sturdy and just as full of splinter potential as they did in the past. The peace that comes with realizing that not everything has changed is tangible.

In the small Albertan town where there are at least three active townspeople, I experienced echoes of that same peace. As soon as the vehicles departed, my children, knowing we were heading towards a playground, noticed the worn rungs of a slide ladder peaking out the back of an alleyway.  

“The playground!” my youngest yelled. With only the one structure in partial view, I was uncertain how my kids would react to an old small-town playground. With my erroneous belief that newer means safer, I also wondered how I would fare as their mother.

As we neared and began to see the rest of the equipment appear, my worries were quelled. What I saw was my past. Jagged wood that threatened splinters, metal that lacked the lustre of newness, sand that holds evidence of generations of kids between every grain, rubber and plastic that was warped and cracked from decades facing the elements—every good material used to produce this circa 1990s playground equipment echoed the joys that were absorbed into it by the many children that graced its parts.

It looked so much like the playground I grew up on. I loved it. The sentimental touch of a bin full of intergenerational Tonka trucks and sand pales showcased the beauty of small-town intimacy. As I watched my children, husband, sister, and dog run freely across all the structures, my heart swelled.

I am unsure why I didn’t walk on the structure or climb the monkey bar pyramid or slide down a slide or even sit on the swings. It seems bizarre since playgrounds have been such a grounding source for me. But it didn’t even cross my mind.

Reflecting on it, perhaps it’s because I didn’t feel the need to be the kid again. Perhaps the stresses of adulthood left me as I stepped into the sand. I didn’t need to frolic or shut my eyes and pump my legs to reach the highest height of the swings. I didn’t need to feel the wooden bridge waver beneath my feet. I just needed to be in the sand. I just needed to watch my kids learn to slide down the fire pole and slip down gritty, silver slides.

Their living of the life I used to live brought me immense joy. At that moment, I developed an ardent hope that this town would survive, that the pendulum of its population would swing from decline to flourishing. I hope the shops sell and that the new owners take pride in running a business in a vintage town. I hope the residents of that town commit to bringing life into the community.

But most of all, I hope that the playground stays intact, just as it is.

May the toy bin be forever emptied and refilled by playful children. May the necessary maintenance be allotted to the structures. And may the adults reminisce and allow their children to experience the unique activities that small towns afford, like walking down the middle of streets and finding peace standing in the sand of an old playground.

Stephanie Morris is a transcriptionist and writer based in Alberta, Canada. She is a wife, a mom of two, and a newcomer to the career-writing world. As a fancier of history and literature, she aspires to blend the two in fiction and nonfiction pieces. To follow Stephanie’s writing adventures, find her at @words.and.smores on Instagram.

family · fitness · walking

A Walk to Remember

Words & S’mores

It’s blustery. It’s cold. There’s a struggle to zip up playground-stained mittens over synthetic down jacket sleeves. Our daughter, 5, accepts the lovingly crocheted scarf that I’ve wrapped around her neck. I look at her, satisfied with her bundled body, and proudly watch as she sets off, walking up the hill towards her school with her dad. She will be protected and warm, I think to myself. My pride sinks slightly as I watch her grab the scarf and tuck it under her chin, exposing her sweet cheeks to the frosty air.

It’s bright. It’s warm. The sun streams through the window, highlighting the living room furniture. My family bounds with natural energy.  Our daughter, 6, comes down the stairs arrayed in patterns. Floral pants, a graphic t-shirt, and a speckled sweater clash in a medley of colours and fabrics. Confidence beams through her eyes, and I smile affectionately when she caps off her outfit by stretching mismatched Monsters Inc. socks over her pant cuffs. She insists that she won’t need a jacket, but I make her bring one in her backpack just in case— after all, Alberta is known for its unpredictable climate.

It’s sopping. It’s wet. The rubber boots are too small. A self-proclaimed water-resistant pair of yellow combat boots is the only option. Our daughter, 7, zips them up and ties the aesthetic-only laces, excited to be wearing them. Internally, I worry that she’ll catch severe illness if her toes get wet and remain so for the duration of the school day. I throw an extra pair of socks in her backpack. She hears my instruction to put them on if her socks get wet. I’m sure she forgets her affirmation upon reaching the sidewalk.

A rainy walk to school.

A man and his young daughter walk up a rain-soaked sidewalk. The man is wearing all black and looking down affectionately at his daughter. The daughter is holding a speckled umbrella above her head.

When we bought our house at the bottom of the hill, one of the highlights was its proximity to the local elementary school. From the date of purchase, I envisioned uphill walks filled with dreams for the day ahead and downhill returns replete with tales of recess and the classroom.

We are three years into my daughter’s elementary years, and our reality is not far-off from these visions. For the most part, my husband walks our daughter up to the school before walking to work, and I get the privilege of walking her home.

Our walks are filled with learned moments for all of us. The trudge up the hill has been enlightening as we speak the wisdom of physical exercise and mental perseverance to our tired children. Admittedly, walking up a snowy hill in snow pants and boots really descries the concept of “an uphill battle.” Although she sometimes complains about the walk, I am thankful she gets to learn these difficult lessons gently. Walks down the hill are my time to learn as I listen to what fun and affliction look like to her generation.

When I pick her up on the snowy days, she is dressed in much less fabric than when I sent her out the door. Her mittens are lodged in her backpack, buried by her scarf and often her snow pants. Minus 20 degrees Celsius hits kids differently than it does us adults. On our walk home, if I suggest she put on her winter accessories on our walk home, she will insist that she’s “boiling.”

On warmer days, I watch her burst out of the school doors, beaming like the rays of the sun. Often, she is just in a t-shirt, even if the temperature would support wearing a sweater. If she does exit the school in a sweater, it is bound to end up draped on my arm on our walk down the hill.

When an umbrella is warranted, I arrive at the school to find her splashing in the puddles and her backpack sitting in one. Are her socks wet? Yes. Have they been wet all day? “Mostly,” she responds humorously and then continues to skip joyfully down the soggy sidewalk.

Our family candidly enjoying a walk by our local river.

A family of four way away from the camera. From the left there is a man, a young girl, a younger boy, and a woman. All face away except for the young girl who is looking delightfully at her younger brother. It is a beautiful day with a blue sky and green grass.

It is not lost on me how fortunate I am to work from home and spend these precious moments with my daughter (and son, since he’s three years younger and often in tow). I have had the privilege of watching her grow from running ecstatically to me at pick-up to dropping her backpack at my feet and racing off to join her friends in the schoolyard. She tucks her socks under her pant cuffs now, and I would be lying if I said that I didn’t mourn it a bit. I take solace in that she still often chooses unconventional outfit pairings. I am safe from the loss of this innocence for a while.

Each year, her personality changes like the weather. There is no predicting who she will be as time meanders on. What I do know is that I’ll be proudly watching as she grows and adapts to what each season brings. Of course, I’ll have many suggestions for her, but I know she’ll find her own path. All I can hope is that she welcomes me and her dad on the walks with her up and down the hill for many more years. And with each passing season, I will hold close to my heart the memories of releasing her in the mornings and excitedly reuniting in the afternoons. Each walk will be a walk to remember.

Stephanie Morris is a transcriptionist and writer based in Alberta, Canada. She is a wife, a mom of two, and a newcomer to the career-writing world. As a fancier of history and literature, she aspires to blend the two in fiction and nonfiction pieces. To follow Stephanie’s writing adventures, find her at @words.and.smores on Instagram.