This Just In

     Books play a very important role in my life. I crave information and books deliver what I need to feel inspired, to feel knowledgeable, and to feel productive. Among the many reasons I like books: I can pick up where I left off with a simple bookmark, I can readily flip back the pages to remind myself of clues, characters, and facts, books require no batteries, they can be free and reused over and over, they are portable, and best of all, no commercials.

     A book, in fact, may be the last bastion of all media not inundated with promoting itself. There is no sponsor telling me who my book was brought to me by; no running ticker at the bottom of the page giving me updates on the weather, current politics, and celebrity scandals; and no captions announcing the gist of the chapter under the heading “Breaking News” or “Happening Now”.

     I can safely read without an annoying advertisement to interrupt my concentration and pull me away from my brief suspension of reality. 
   
     My aversion to commercials goes back to when I first read a book about subliminal advertising as a teenager. My distaste for what was being spoon-fed through the television only grew so that by the time I had kids, the only children’s shows allowed in our house were commercial-free. Fortunately, public television aired educational programs such as Sesame Street and Arthur to keep us entertained and, the guilt for not having the extra cash to be a contributing viewer notwithstanding, I am grateful to the people who kept these shows going so that mom could have a break (to clean and make dinner).

     This parenting philosophy paid dividends when Today’s Parent magazine printed my idea for helping families save money and as a prize, sent us a book about raising money-smart Canadian kids. I wrote that children were targeted with persistent advertising while watching TV therefore I believed our family saved money by watching only commercial-free programs where advertisers were not telling my kids what to eat, what to wear, etc. When we did watch programs with commercials, we talked about how advertising works and taught the kids to question the motivations behind the slick marketing campaigns, for instance, does toilet paper need to be rebranded as “Cashmere”?

     We hardly watch commercials anymore thanks to my favourite toy in the house: our digital video recorder. Not only does this machine free-up hours by skipping commercials, it unchains us from the network-imposed deadlines that demand we stop every activity and rush to sit in front of the television for fear of missing the first five minutes. Even more civilized, we can rewind what we’ve missed instead of yelling at one another to stop talking while we listen to something, and we don’t have to be subjected to inappropriate commercials, horrific news stories coming up at eleven, and spots promoting the next crime drama, in detail, all while we watch family programming at 8 p.m.

     Pervasive advertising still sneaks in with the hosts pretending to clean using a sponsor’s product during their show, pop-up ads at the bottom of the screen, and product placement that is hardly subtle. Sports broadcasts are notorious for plastering brand names across the screen, the board, the ice, even the players. It’s like one big commercial with a game going on in the background.

     I understand how the economy works, and I appreciate the need for companies to sell their products, but I don’t want to be stalked by every available item on the market. If I want to buy something, I’ll do some research and make my own choices — I know the library has many books to help me decide what I want.

Wishing Upon a Star

     There is one time of year when I wish I didn't have any trees in my backyard. No, it's not autumn when the leaves blanket the ground waiting to be raked and composted, nor is it spring when the trees drip continuously on our driveway until a thick layer of sap, impervious to windshield washer fluid, covers my car. This short-lived dislike comes in August during the Perseid meteor shower. 

     My family started this ritual when our daughter was discussing the solar system in grade five science class, and one opportunistic glance upward had us hooked. We have a second-floor deck from which to view the ethereal display, away from the scavenging creatures that takeover our neighbourhood woods every night, where I set up sleeping bags, pillows, and every cushion I can get my hands on because lying on deck boards can be a form of torture.

     Around 1 a.m. I get the kids out of bed and we head out into the cool summer air on the night when astronomers predict the greatest number of meteors will occur. We tuck ourselves into the blankets and stare up at the starry sky wondering why we don't take in this perspective more often. And that's when I get miffed about the trees in our garden.

     Our house was built many years ago with a nod to nature that I will always appreciate but it's this walnut grove around us that causes the most interference. There are a variety of mature trees surrounding our deck, some pushing 25 metres tall, and becoming noticeably bigger every year, as evidence in the once sunny spots of our garden that no longer see any light.

     These beautiful trees provide hours of entertainment watching birds, animals, and insects; days of cool shade and dancing shadows; and months of a close-up appreciation for the changing seasons. They appear to cradle our house from large windows giving us a treehouse feeling from the main floor, which overlooks a ravine running through the backyard. I love these trees and I am grateful to the original owners for having such foresight fifty years ago.

     We are also guilty of contributing to the overshadowing of our house by adding trees that will one day dwarf the maples and oaks: sycamore, tulip, beech, Kentucky coffee, ginkgo, and cucumber trees. I can't help it, trees give me so much pleasure that I am addicted to their charm.

     It's only this time of year when I wish they would all disappear because our viewing area is diminished by fifty percent, which means we miss many of the stars streaming through parts of the sky covered in leaves. We could venture out to an open field but the logistics make it a daunting task in the wee hours of the night so we stick to our deck and marvel at every shooting star we are lucky enough to see. For the time being, we'll continue watching from our limited vantage point because it's a fun, free adventure to experience, even if we miss half the show, and, as you may know, every joke and bodily function is ten times funnier at three in the morning.