The Importance of Tea (Part IV)

“Relativitea”

when sisters go wrong

My two sisters and I have a standing coffee date. We work within a block of each other, so on the first Thursday of every month, we converge on the nearest Blenz and spend our lunch break catching up over coffee or tea or …

Last month, I spent a half-hour deciding what I wanted to drink before I got there. I settled on a dark hot chocolate made with almond milk … until I got to the counter. At the last second, I balked and ordered something else.

Big Sister arrived next, put in her order, and joined me with a glass mug (the “for here” option) full of something dark that swirled into tawny as it blended with the cream she’d added. “What did you get?” I asked her.

“An Americano,” she replied. “What about you?”

“Tangerine sencha.”

“Tea?”

I nodded, making a face. “I wanted a dark hot chocolate.”

“Yes,” she sighed, “I wanted a strawberry tea latte.”

At which we nodded, understanding what would mystify onlookers, the inner working of the Greig female mind.

My little sister arrived with her buddy who, despite being male, has been adopted as an honorary sister. He went to order their drinks while Little Sister pulled up a chair next to me. We exchanged greetings, than I asked her what she was having. “An Americano misto,” she said.

“Is that what you wanted?” I asked.

“I wanted a cappuchillo, but it’s too cold for one, and … I don’t know.” Shrugging it off, Little Sister peered into my cup. “What do you have?”

She put the same question to Big Sister, since we like to know what the others are drinking, even if only to make a droll comment about it. We had all ordered something other than what we wanted and lamented (some would call it whining) how we had spent a chunk of time deciding what we wanted only to abandon it in the crunch.

Boy Sister joined the group with a London Fog.

“Is it what you wanted?” I asked.

Though he knows better by now, he gave me a justifiably puzzled look. “Yes.”

“Did you know ahead of time?”

“No,” he said, “I decided at the counter.”

“Ah,” Big Sister mused, nodding sagely at Little Sister and me. “That’s where we went wrong. We over-thought it.” So next time, we’re going in cold.

Typical of us as a family, really, and as sisters especially. One day I’ll explain the non-workings of the Greig Communications Plan (GCP), or how we can all agree to meet at an appointed place and still miss each other.

I love my sibs.

All The Pretty Horses

This isn’t an Auto Biography. It’s just plain drooling.

The Vancouver Island Mustang Club held its annual Pony show this past weekend. A bunch of other cool old cars were present, but I was there for the ’Stangs – specifically, those built in 1966, but having written a ’67 GT into one of my stories, I snapped a photo of the closest version in the show (Cassie’s is white, not copper) for future reference.

The rest of my time was spent murmuring and caressing assorted fenders while Ter kept watch for signs of imminent blubbering. I’m a car freak from my earliest memory, but my absolute, all time, irrefutable favourite is the Ford Mustang. Not the fake ones produced over the last 30 years, but the originals, the first out-of-the-gate beauties that set the tone and the bar for the competition ever after. Maybe I’m partial because I actually owned one for a few years (an Auto Biography to come), but honestly, all I could think as I roamed the field was how they don’t make cars like these anymore. Too much plastic, not enough chrome, all model numbers and no defining names – blech. My interest waned after the body style changed in 1979; the Mustang II was a pretty little thing, but for rubber-burning, rib-shuddering, G-force-generating power, there was nothing like the Boss Mustang or the Mach 1.

Even I know my limitations. Trying to rein in one of those bad boys would be against my nature. I could drive one, but they were built to run at the speed of sound and I have too much respect for the animal to keep it in second gear all the time.

No, my former ride was a compact V-6 automatic that looked suspiciously like this one:

If I hoped to find my baby restored to her former glory at this show, I was … relieved. My heart fluttered for a minute, but my Mustang had bucket seats and this one didn’t. Phew. If I had run into my old car, Ter would have had to call for restraints.

We wandered along the lines from 1965 to present day, noting shapes and colours and varying specifics that made each vehicle unique (and also noting the alarming tendency for the average owner to be my age, greying, and paunchy), and when we were finally ready to head out, I picked my Best in Show:

A 1966 black V-8 hardtop that was so stunning I was willing to exchange my silver blue memory for a new midnight black future. If it had been for sale … well, let’s just be grateful that it wasn’t. 

Oh, and the sexiest sound ever to rattle an eardrum? The engine on the 1965 Shelby fastback that rumbled in just as we were leaving. No picture; I was frozen and slack-jawed as it prowled past. 

I love my Volkswagen; truly I do. But in my dreams, in my stories, and in my heart, I am always driving a Mustang.

“A Royal Encounter (Part Two)”

In Which Margaret Finds a King
 

 

At supper that night, my father told us to stay close to the house until the danger was past. Troops from Cromwell’s army were scouring the countryside in search of the renegade King, and we were not to place ourselves at risk by straying beyond the yard.

John’s eyes lit. “You mean the King is here?”

“I doubt it,” Father replied, “but he’s a wanted man so they must search everywhere and I won’t have my children running afoul of the Roundheads. Our position is precarious enough as it is.” He fixed me with a stern glare. “Have you tethered your pony properly?”

I nodded around a mouthful of pudding. I was tempted to ask what the King looked like, but thought I already knew. It was general knowledge that he was tall and lean with black hair and black eyes—a description which matched the servant Will perfectly.

“Do you think he’ll get away, Mama?” I asked as my mother tucked me into bed.

“Not if you’ve tethered him,” she replied.

“Not Pumpkin, Mama. I mean the King.”

She sighed. She looked tired. The war had been as hard on her as on anyone—it had fallen to her as the lady of the manor to comfort the women who had lost sons and husbands recruited on the King’s behalf. I think she felt guilty that her own son had been spared, and she wore the grief of others as penance for her good fortune. “I don’t know, Meg,” she said wearily. “In truth, I don’t see how he can escape.”

“But they’ll kill him if they find him.”

“Probably they will. It’s no concern of ours anymore. The war is won and we lost. There is nothing more we can do but save ourselves. Close your eyes now, and sweet dreams, my dear.” She bent over me and kissed my forehead.

I did not sleep. I could not. Young as I was, it seemed the country had been in turmoil for all of my life. I did not understand the purpose of men and the hardships they inflicted on the innocent in their pursuit of power. Despite the countless conversations I had overheard in the drawing room and at the dining table, I knew only that King Charles had been a good man and General Cromwell had murdered him in order to seize the throne of England. Even then, I was not sure what difference it made to my family. No one deigned to educate me on the matter. Not even my brother John. He was old enough to take part in adult discussion, and to be taken seriously, but I was a child and a girl to boot—I was expected to do as my elders bid me without question.

But I was beginning to question everything. I was beginning to wonder why the war had been fought at all, why the King had been beheaded and why the people who had supported his son could not be left in peace. The war was over, but fear ran in dark currents through the household, trickling unseen beneath the floorboards and seeping between the bricks. It permeated everything.

I woke later that night to a heightened tension that differed from the norm. Perhaps that was what had wakened me. There was movement in the house, but it was quiet, stealthy, secret movement as if something surreptitious was underway. I got up and went to the door, pressing my ear to the wood. There were voices on the other side: my parents taking pains to ensure that the children were asleep. “I’ll look in on John,” my mother said, “but I’m sure Meg is long gone.”

“I want to be sure,” Papa declared.

I bounded back to my bed and burrowed deep beneath the covers, my heart skipping with excitement. What was going on? Why were my parents so concerned that John and I be sound asleep?

The door clicked open and I heard my father’s step on the floor. He always walked softly, he was such a gentle soul and very fond of me. Under other circumstances, I would have felt free to sit up and ask what was happening. In this instance, however, I sensed the prudence of feigning sleep and had to will my heart to slow its pounding lest the quivering of the bedclothes betray me.

His big hand touched my shoulder through the blankets. Unable to stay still, I took the opportunity to give a languorous stretch and roll over. His hand lifted, then moved to stroke my hair from my forehead in a loving caress. “Dream on, my little sweetheart,” he murmured before he left.

I lay quiet for some moments afterward. The house was not silent but the sounds of activity were muted, coming from the lower floor and the kitchens. Then I heard a muffled bump that was so loud I jumped. At first I wondered if I had fallen asleep and started myself awake by dreaming it, then I heard it again, quieter this time but definitely overhead, removed from the bustle at the opposite end of the house.

Someone was in the attic. I was accustomed to hearing the servants up there in the daytime, but never at night. The narrow staircase was concealed by a door cut into the painting at the end of the corridor; I had climbed it myself many a time. There was nothing up there but old clothes and broken furniture. It was a great place to play—and a greater place to hide.

Barefoot in my shift, I cracked open the door of my room and peered into the hallway. The night sky was dark through the gallery windows. No candles burned to light the way of servants or family members. This part of the house was silent, set to sleep until daybreak. A quick peek through the glass and I saw a sentry pacing the yard below, keeping watch for unwelcome soldiers. It was a common enough post these days. I should have thought nothing of it, but my imagination had been aroused. There was something worth protecting in this house tonight. There was someone—and I knew who it was.

I ran on tiptoe down the hall to the portrait of my great-grandfather and felt in the dark for the doorknob. A heavy velvet drape hung just inside; I swept it out of my way and quietly clicked the door closed behind me. I went up the stone stairs, feeling cautiously with my toes for the next step, bracing myself with a hand on the wall, climbing toward the light. For there was light at the top, a light too dim to be seen from outside, but a light nonetheless. My heart beat faster with every step. He was here. I knew he was here. A few more steps and I saw him, his long frame cramped into a space too small to be comfortable, sitting beyond reach of the lone candle set to light his shadowy hiding place.

He was bent forward, rubbing his feet with his hands. They were the biggest feet I had ever seen and I wondered how on earth he found shoes to fit him. It turned out that this was as difficult a task as I imagined, for the offending footwear had been tossed to one side as if in pained exasperation. This brief exhibition of temper had probably accounted for the noise I had heard below. Blankets and a pillow were stacked nearby, with a bottle of my father’s best wine. They knew, then. My parents knew that this was King Charles.

“Were the Roundheads waiting at Bristol?” I asked.

He startled, his face tense as his head came up with a jerk. On seeing me, a child in her nightgown, his shoulders relaxed and he offered a smile weakened by fatigue. “Do you even know what a Roundhead is?” he inquired.

“Of course I do. They’re the men who want to kill you.”

He looked suddenly wary, as if uncertain whether my innocent tongue could be trusted with the truth of his identity. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“You woke me up when you threw your shoes in the corner.” I went and picked one up in my hands. It was poorly made and worn at the sides, as if his foot had tried to hatch out of it. “Is this the best you could do?” I asked him.

“I fear so,” he sighed. “If I ever find myself back in God’s good graces, I swear I will never be so tortured by a pair of shoes again. What’s your name, my dear?”

“Margaret.”

“Well, Margaret, this is no fit place for a lady.”

“It’s no fit place for a King, either.”

He chuckled softly. The sound was strangely comforting in this precarious circumstance. I took it a sign that he accepted my knowledge of who he was. “For this King, my dear, any safe place is a fit place.”

I sat beside him in the shadow. He was big but not bulky; rather than feeling dwarfed by his size, I felt dainty. “Are you not afraid that they’ll catch you?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

He glanced down at me, a faint smile playing about the corner of his mouth. “Perhaps a little,” he allowed, though more for my benefit than because it was true. “I am more afraid for your parents than for myself. I do understand the danger my presence has brought to their home and their family.”

“It’s only dangerous if the army finds you here, and they won’t. We won’t let them.”

He leaned back against the wall, slumping a little to give himself an inch of space above his head.

“How did you get so tall?” I asked.

“Two of my grandparents were tall. How did you get so pretty?”

I giggled. “I’m not pretty.”

“I think you are. I thought so when I saw you in the wood this afternoon. Did you find your pony?”

“Yes. My brother found him. Would you like to see him? He’s tethered in the stable.”

“I would, my dear, but I can’t this time. I must stay here, out of sight, and you must go back to your bed before someone discovers you gone.”

“I want to stay here with you.”

“That’s commendable, Margaret, but not practical. Do as I say, now, and off to bed with you.”

I regarded him through narrowed eyes. “You don’t sound like a King,” I told him. “You sound like my father.”

He laughed aloud at that, stifling the outburst at the last moment with one hand.

I really did want to stay with him. I wanted to share his meagre blankets and single thin pillow with him, to sleep by his side and take warmth from his body. For the first time in my life, the tension that haunted our house had dissipated and I knew that he was the cause. He would have to go in the morning, of course, but if I could have these few short hours alone with him, I would be content.

“Won’t you let me stay?” I pleaded, putting on my best, most beguiling face in hopes that he might be persuaded to change his mind as my father often was.

He smiled down at me, his black eyes sparkling. He took my face in his hands and placed a gentle kiss on my forehead. “Not this time, my dear,” he murmured. “Not this time.”

 

copyright 1999 Ruth R. Greig

 

“A Royal Encounter (Part One)”

In Which Margaret Loses Her Pony ...

 

I remember well the day when Pumpkin disappeared. I was a week past my eighth birthday and the powers that be had blessed us with a fine end to summer. I had risen earlier than usual, hoping to get my ride in before breakfast. The pony had been a gift from my parents and, though we were still in the initial stages of bonding, I already adored him. How he got away was never fully determined; all that mattered at the time was the fact that he was not in the stable when I went to fetch him.

The hue and cry I raised as a result sent the house into a panic. We had few servants left; the young men had been lost to the war, fighting for the King at Worcester against the opposing—and victorious—forces of General Cromwell. Every day, my father worried that the property would be confiscated and himself thrown in irons. Hearing my screams from the yard, he had feared the worst and been relieved to discover that the cause of my distress was as simple as the disappearance of my pony. “We’ll find him, Meg,” he told me. “He can’t have gone far.”

My older brother saddled up to search the grounds. I spent the morning fretting and pacing the length of the gallery; when he returned at noon with no news, I burst into fresh tears and determined to set out on my own. “Go with her, John,” my mother said. “The last thing we need is for her to go missing as well.”

“It’s dangerous out there,” John replied, chewing on a chunk of crusty bread. “A troop of Roundheads have been sighted near the town.”

My parents exchanged dubious glances. “I don’t care!” I cried, reading their faces. “I must find Pumpkin!”

My mother shook her head. “Margaret,” she sighed, “you don’t understand.”

“No, Mama,” I retorted fiercely, “you don’t understand. I have to find Pumpkin. He might be hurt or frightened, and if the Roundheads find him, he’ll be in danger as well.”

“I’ll be watchful, Mother,” John promised. He flashed a reassuring smile at me. “Perhaps he’s headed back where he came from. We’ll try that next.”

I was devastated at the suggestion that my pony might prefer his previous owner over me. I talked endlessly of it to John as we rode together on his horse. John was fourteen and old enough to have joined the army had he not been lame in his left leg. He had cursed the infirmity even as our mother had praised God for it; he had wanted nothing more than to join the fight for the Prince of Wales. Only the Prince was not the Prince anymore; he was the King, and had been for the past two years. The battle fought at Worcester some weeks previous had been his last attempt at reclaiming the throne of England. The defeat had signalled the end of an era which my family would mourn for years to come.

It made no difference to me. All I cared about was Pumpkin.

“Let me down,” I said, wriggling in my brother’s arms. “If something spooked him, he might have run into the wood.”

“I’ve searched the wood, Meg. There was no sign of him.”

I struggled harder. “Let me down!”

John relented. I was the spoiled daughter of older parents and he liked me to learn my lessons the hard way. “I’m going this way,” he told me, turning his horse’s head.

“You go then,” I said. “I know my way.”

He regarded me with a smirk. “You’ll certainly have it, whether you know it or not,” he agreed. “What will you do if the army comes upon you?”

“I shall ask if they’ve seen my pony. I’m not afraid of them, Johnny. They’re just men. They’ve won the war; why should they care to make trouble for a little girl?”

“I’d advise you to keep a civil tongue as a precaution,” he said.

“I know my manners,” I reminded him.

“Very well, then,” he sighed. He put his heels to his horse and set off at a canter. I stood and watched him ride away, determined not to be afraid. Pumpkin needed me. I could not afford to crumble.

But I cursed my brother under my breath as I ventured into the shade of the wood. Being angry with him helped to hold the fear at bay, so I grumbled against his superior air and the cruelty of abandoning me in this wilderness. If something did happen to me, my mother would kill him and it would serve him right. Knowing John, however, I suspected that he had doubled back and was patrolling the area for my safety, perhaps even shadowing me as I followed a well-worn track through the trees. He was a wily spy; there was no sound to betray him. There was no sign of Pumpkin, either, and I began to curse him as well.

All was forgiven in the instant when I heard more than one horse approaching. I had given up the search for the moment, pausing for a bout of frightened tears which was not quite over. Drying my eyes with my hands, I turned, expecting to see my brother and a penitent pony. I was disappointed.

It was a small group of strangers: three men and a woman on a journey. None of them were remarkable but for the one man who was more finely-dressed than the others, and who carried himself with an air of nobility more assumed than inbred. I took him to be the leader of the group and made my entreaty to him. “Please, sir,” I said, forcing him to draw rein by stepping into his path, “have you or your companions seen a chestnut pony hereabouts? He won’t be harnessed and he has a white sock on his near forefoot.”

“Nay, child,” the gentleman replied, “the only horses we have seen are these. Stand aside now, or you’ll be trampled.”

“Then which way have you come, sir, so I know not to look there?”

He hesitated for a heartbeat. I caught the briefest of glances between the woman and the second man, and deduced that I was about to be told a lie.

“We are headed for Bristol, miss.”

The third man had spoken; the one riding behind the woman. I had not taken specific notice of him, but his voice drew my eye to his face. It was a wonderful voice, deep and calming—and speaking the truth. I knew by the way the others fell oddly silent. And his face was kind, the black eyes warm with sympathy for my plight. I was immediately soothed and did not know why except that he was the source.

“Are you looking alone for your pony?” the woman inquired.

“My brother has gone the other way.”

“And your parents?” she persisted.

“Waiting at home. It’s not so important to them. They have their own concerns.” I was speaking to the third man, my eyes locked on his. He should have been the leader; there was something naturally commanding about him. “Would you help me find my pony?” I asked.

His smile widened. He was young and handsome, dark like my father and brother. I thought he might agree to help if his master permitted. I hoped he would.

“We cannot delay further,” the first man declared. He, too, spoke to the third man. “Come along, Will.”

Will nodded and straightened up in the saddle. He rode tall, sitting his horse like a hero without making an effort to do so. The first man clucked to his mount and I jumped out of the way to watch them pass. They started off at a brisk trot, and in the seconds before his horse picked up the pace, Will doffed his hat to me. His thick hair was long and black. “I hope you find your pony, miss,” he said.

I curtsied as my nanny had taught me. “Thank you, sir. Have a safe journey.”

He chuckled as he passed by, spurring his horse to a canter to catch up to the others.

“Margaret!” It was John, calling from the other side of the wood. I turned and ran toward his voice, promptly dismissing the encounter in my haste to see Pumpkin again.

copyright 1999 Ruth R. Greig

My Eddie

Gee - can you tell I'm a fan?

He sang with a band called Moist in the 1990s. I saw their video for “Silver” on Muchmusic and immediately thought, Who is that? He stood out – his voice, his presence, his black hair and exotic eyes. He lived and breathed the awful torment of that fabulous lyric and I was absolutely enthralled.

His name is David Usher.

Moist didn’t survive, though they put out enough hits to make a compilation titled “Machine Punch Through” which showcases his voice. I almost regret buying none of their albums, except that David went solo and continues recording to this day. His eighth album came out last October. I didn’t bother to wait for amazon to ship it. I bought it cold from HMV.

You’d think from his lyrics that he’s the gloomiest, angriest, most messed-up man on the planet, but I believe he’s actually a pretty happy guy. Though his songs may be rife with rage and corruption, the music is hardly discordant. Much of it is quite beautiful, unplugged and featuring the occasional cello riff (?!) I hardly ever hear him on the radio out here; he gets more air time in Montreal, where he’s based, and he does show up in entertainment news around an album’s release. Last winter, when “Songs From the Last Day on Earth” came out, I caught a clip of him talking a) about the album’s cheerful title, and b) about his other life as a techno-geek developing social media software currently in use by two western Canadian NHL teams and his work with Amnesty International and McGill University. Make no mistake. This guy is the son of an Oxford economics professor and an artist, and has a degree in political science. He’s a smart man.

His voice soars from breathy lullaby to impassioned howl in one long note. He can pour so much feeling into a single word that my skin responds with goosebumps. He’s one of the rare few whose work I will buy unheard. The joy for me is in discovering new gems in the jewel box.

I wonder sometimes why his music calls to me so strongly. I used to razz Laura about playing Pearl Jam during my massage appointments, but I learned to appreciate Eddie Vedder’s gift for making art of apocalyptic emotion. One song (I never knew the title) was a cheery toe-tapper that turned out to be a condemned man’s countdown to the noose, and danged if that didn’t beat all. “Good old Ed,” I remarked dryly, “always the happy-go-lucky optimist.” And Laura loosed her throaty smoke-and-whiskey laugh. The day I learned she was ill, the first song on David’s new album flared to mind and looped me into scattering stars for her across my office bulletin board.

Here at the end of the world, I can still see the stars.

Then it hit me. David Usher is my Eddie Vedder.

(Ru note - This post was scheduled last weekend for uploading today. It turns out to be an strange coincidence. Pearl Jam is playing Vancouver on December 4. I got the pre-sale notification yesterday and my first thought was: Laura would love to be there! Silly me. She now has an all access pass. Yes, I miss her, but after the initial reminder of loss, the smiles returned with the memories. As Theodore Geisel once said, "Don't cry because it's over; smile because it happened.")

Unforgettable

I was listening to Nat “King” Cole the other night and had to stop what I was doing when Unforgettable started playing. That’s a sign. There are songs I stop to hear for one reason or another at any given time, and then there are songs that I stop to hear whenever, wherever, every time. Unforgettable is such a song.

It takes me back to dancing with my dad in my parents’ living room; swaying and stumbling, really, because I never learned to dance, but it felt so good to be in his arms while he crooned along with Nat and I tried not to cry. I dunno, maybe that’s when the song became so precious to me, but in truth, I loved it before then. I must have, because I was vexed when the Ford Motor Co. used it to sell Thunderbirds. That was when David Foster got the brilliant idea to have Natalie Cole sing along to her father’s recording and started the trend of duets with dead people, no disrespect intended to those who went before.

I don’t know if Unforgettable was Nat’s signature tune; he recorded so many beautiful pieces that it’s hard to name them all, so I’m lucky to have an actual favourite. I love Mona Lisa and Nature Boy and Autumn Leaves and Stardust, but Unforgettable trumps them all. I can sing most of it before I start to choke; the last two lines will always make me cry:

That’s why, darling, it’s incredible

That someone so unforgettable
Thinks that I am unforgettable, too.

It's a Boy!!

 

 

I admit, I’m a Royalist, so I would be delighted about the newborn British prince anyway, but the added bonus to yesterday’s arrival of Will and Kate’s son is that it shoved all the bad news in the world aside for a while.

 

Isn’t it nice to hear something good on the news for a change? To have the anchors and reporters be smiling as they report it? There is already so much negativity in on the air: kill-or-be-killed cupcake wars, the Real Narcissistic Housewives of Whocares, scratching-and-clawing competitions to be the best of a bunch of losers, serial murderers outwitting the good guys – and that’s just prime time entertainment. I can’t speak about the news so much, not since The Newsroom has taught me how to watch the evening news. It’s the fall of the Roman Empire, man. Death, destruction, plague and flood and a host of other Biblical weather bombs … even the planet is trying to win ratings by outdoing itself in extremes.

 

Sure, the little prince is only one of three hundred thousand babies born on July 22, 2013. Every baby should be celebrated at birth. So many aren’t, and I feel for them because they get no press at all. There is so little happiness on the air these days. The networks rarely report random acts of kindness. I guess the focus groups indicate that they want to be paranoid and fearful about everything and everyone.

 

I don’t. I’m happy to hear about Kate’s little guy. I’m glad to know that one child in the world is loved by his parents, that he will have all that every child deserves (except the paparazzi hounding his every move, of course). I’m happy to watch people celebrating a royal birth rather than destroying a city over the loss of a sports trophy. Yes, there is tragedy and loss and illness and politics and all manner of reasons to slash your wrists if you let it get to you … I’m just saying that once in a while, some good news is welcome.

 

The Prince of Cambridge has a lot to live up to … but for now, he’s just a newborn babe who has managed to make the world (or most of it) pause to smile.

 

We now return you to our regularly scheduled chaos …

100 Years B.P.



The Big Pink 2013

The house where we live is known as The Big Pink. It was built in 1913. Yesterday, the strata threw it a birthday party to which we – the Lone Renters – were invited, along with numerous friends of our four neighbours, and as many previous owners/tenants as the search crew could find.

It was a gas.

We didn’t stay long, however. The annual Moss Street Paint-In happened yesterday as well, and as it’s a perennial must-do event, we took a couple of hours to stroll up and down the street that practically backs onto the Pink property, checking out the artists and the crowds and the market at the corner, all in pristine sunshine and a festive state of Now.

Then we dropped into the party. The planning committee had researched the house’s history through the City Archives, and posted around the yard were pictures of the Pink and its neighbours as newly-constructed buildings, bits and blurbs of the City of Victoria throughout the last century, and we saw our own names added to the tenants’ list dating back to the 1920s and 30s.

Four suites for 80-plus years and five since the penthouse was put on in the late 1990s. All were rental units until 1995, when it was converted to condos – this loved and lovely old house has weathered a hundred west coast winters and the combined energy of its occupants over a full century.

If the Big Pink could talk, what would she say?

Be welcome. Be safe. Be at peace.

That’s what I felt on my first visit in July 2012. It turns out that the current residents are all kind and generous people and I have grown very fond of them, but back then, there was only the house to make an impression. After 100 years of sheltering souls, the Pink was willing to embrace and shelter Ter and me (and we were badly wounded, but that’s another story).

If any ghosts live here, they are contented ones. It’s not a tormented, haunted house. It’s not a sick and neglected house. It’s not even the oldest house we’ve called home – but it is easily the most benevolent and tranquil house, and we are immeasurably grateful that it found us.

Happy 100^th, old girl. Long may ye reign.

Anise in Wonderland

Music can inspire me to visions of Russian winters and Arabian nights, but once in a while, I hear something that throws me down a rabbit hole and into a scene so vivid that I must recreate it.

That’s how “Cafe de Nuit” came to be.

This week I was introduced to the music of Adam Hurst, a musician out of Portland who has so much credibility that I can’t do him any sort of justice here except to plug in a link to his website (click on his name to go there). A friend had posted a link to a couple of absolutely gorgeous tracks that sent Ter straight for the iTunes Store. The album is called “Ritual”, and I’m pretty sure it won’t be the lone Hurst album in our collection.

As each track played, I found myself slipping into fiction – picturing images, hearing bits of conversation, sensing raw emotion, that sort of thing. The music was dreamy enough to lull me into my angels’ world ... but then the last track started and everything changed.

The piece is called “Midnight Waltz” (hear here). From the first note, I was drinking absinthe with the Impressionists at that Parisian cafe. I smelled the cigarette smoke and heard the glasses tinkling, the voices murmuring; I felt the night air on my skin and the idle promise of something deeply, delightfully sensual to come. The scene was so strong, so overwhelming, that I had to write it all down before it would let me sleep.

It emerged as the blurb I posted on July 16. It’s both curious and thrilling how that sole piece of music was able to transport me to another time and place. That’s the magic of creativity, of writing and music and imagination. One begets another and art is born.

But is “Cafe de Nuit” art? Or is it a fragmental memory of another life?



Bus Rider

It's Not a Bus; It's the Community Limousine

For years and years, I plotted to avoid taking public transit. It’s not as if I suffered some traumatic encounter in childhood or anything, city buses just made my toes curl. It might be genetic: my two sisters share a similar reluctance to ride with strangers and have subsequently overcome that reluctance for one reason or another – though my younger sister confided that she continued to drive her car 100 kms every day for six months after receiving her transit pass through payroll deduction. Road rage was her downfall, though she’s never said whether it was hers or someone else’s.

I was lucky. Ter and I worked in the same office for a dozen years so we commuted together, and when I moved to my current job, the office fell within easy walking distance of home. It got sticky when we moved to the ’burbs in 2011. Ter’s office lay to the north and mine lay to the south … and she has free parking. It was time for Ru to face the transit demon.

When I was a kid, I never turned my back to the closet door at night. I figured that the monsters wouldn’t come for me if they saw I was ready for them. So the best way to beat the transit monster was to face it square-on. For a whole year, with clenched teeth and clammy palms, I rode the No. 24 to and from work. It took a while to get comfortable with ringing the bell for myself alone (I started by hopping off at the nearest stop to mine that someone else wanted; I couldn’t make myself interrupt the flow to let me off where I wanted – roll your eyes here), but after that, it became, well, less uncomfortable. Now that I’m living back in town, Ter drops me at work in the morning and the No. 3 gets me home. The best I can say is that, at this point in my life, I’ve adapted to riding “the community limo”. I’m pleased to add that I have even opted to use it on the occasional day off!

A few weeks ago, I was on the distribution list for an email joke titled “25 Reasons Not to Ride the Bus”. It was sent in good faith with absolutely no offensive intention, but before I automatically opened it, I stopped to consider what I was doing. I’m a recovering transitophobe. I need 25 Reasons To Ride the Bus, not 25 More Excuses to Avoid It at All Costs. Knowing my history and where I am in my recovery, and while I appreciated the harmless sentiment, I did what was best for me. I deleted the email, unread.

Fear is a bully. It’s best not to encourage it.