The Year of the Pause

Though I don’t make New Year’s resolutions, I do begin each year with a blank office bulletin board, and every year that board has a theme. 2017 was about the moon and stars. I sprinkled the paper with celestial quotes from Shakespeare to Einstein to Neil Degrasse-Tyson and drew pictures in higher chakra colours to lend a calming “night sky” atmosphere to my increasingly crazy workdays.

It didn’t always work, but it was always gratifying to see my colleagues smile so maybe it worked better than I think.

As January 1 approached, I began contemplating my theme for 2018. On Christmas Day, rather than annoy myself by surfing F***book, I was prompted to pay a rare visit to the Paper Teapot and catch up on far too many of Nicole’s poems. In calmer times, I dropped into the Pot quite often; altered priorities of late have put the screws to that, to my detriment. Nic’s poetry is both beautiful and practical, as it encourages my creativity and my interpretive skills—an artistic two-for-one that I confess has been taken for granted in light of more pressing (yet ultimately less important) issues.

I digress.

As I scrolled through her unread posts, my admiration—and, yes, envy—was reawakened. Her turn of phrase, her magical metaphors and airbrushed imagery held me in thrall until I could no longer stand it: I had to email her and gush about the handful of gems she managed to wring from spare moments around her epic year-long writing project.

One poem in particular pounced: a flame so pure in its perfection that it sparked the theme for my 2018 bulletin board and may even have prompted my first NY resolution in decades. It’s called “This Pause” and here’s what it inspired:

·         In the midst of chaos, hit the pause button.

·         Stop the carousel and take a conscious breath.

·         Hear the space between the notes.

·         See beauty in unexpected places (like the mirror).

·         Don’t buy into drama.

·         Foster your connection to the things that really count and release the rest.

Some days will be tougher than others. My resolve is an exercise in mindfulness, but it will be worth it when I remember to pause.

Thank you, Beanie.

Happy New Year!

With love,

The Best You Can Be

Could you have done more? Could you have said it differently? Been kinder? Been more generous? More forgiving? Tried harder? On another day, maybe.

Just not today.

Each day comes with a unique set of experiences and challenges, and we live each day to the best of our ability. That ability, however, is as unique as the day itself. You might think later that you didn’t do enough or say the right thing, but you did the best you could at the time.

I struggle with my shortcomings. I’m human; I have a lot of them. My intention is always to “do no harm”, but I can’t control how word or deed is received—and I admit, there are days when I don’t particularly care. On some days, I’m golden. On others, I goof up. The fact remains that, on all days, I always do the best I can.

So do you. The trick is to recognize, accept and forgive that whatever you did or didn’t do would have been done differently on another day. Let’s face it, sometimes, you just don’t feel well. You’re sick. You’re in pain. Stressed at work. Stressed at home. Sleep deprived. Over medicated. Under medicated. It’s easy to be less enthusiastic about interacting with your fellow man when you feel less divine and more human.

Tomorrow will be different and so will you. Do your best (and don’t fool yourself—you know when you’re cutting corners); that’s all the Universe asks of you because the Universe knows all you ever are is the best you can be in any given moment, period.

“Alfie the Christmas Tree”

This year I wanted to write a meaningful piece for Christmas Eve; something wondrous and magical that reflects the spirit of the season. Alas, nothing original came—but I remembered a poem that was written by the late John Denver and performed on a TV special with the Muppets many years ago (John Denver and the Muppets: A Christmas Together). I’m unsure that it’s as powerful in writing as it was when he read it aloud, but the sentiment speaks to my wish for the holiday this year, so I thought I’d share.

Merry Christmas, with love.

* * *

Did you ever hear the story of the Christmas tree that didn’t want to change the show?

He liked living in the wood, he liked icicles and snow.

He liked wolves and eagles and grizzly bears, and critters and creatures that crawl.

Why, bugs were some of his very best friends, spiders and ants and all.

Now that’s not to say that he ever looked down on twinkle lights

Or mirrored bubbles and peppermint canes and a thousand other delights,

And he often had dreams of tiny reindeer and a jolly old man in a sleigh

Full of toys and presents and wonderful things, and the story of Christmas Day.

Oh, Alfie believed in Christmas, all right. He was full of Christmas cheer

All of each and every day, all throughout the year.

To him it was more than a special time, much more than a special day.

It was more than a beautiful story; it was a special kind of way.

You see, some folks have never heard a jingle bell ring and they’ve never heard of Santa Claus.

They’ve never heard the story of the Son of God, and that made Alfie pause:

Did that mean that they’d never know of peace on earth or the brotherhood of man,

Or how to love or know how to give? If they can’t, no one can.

You see, life is a very special kind of thing, not just for a chosen few,

But for each and every living breathing thing, not just me and you.

So in your Christmas prayers this year, Alfie asked me if I’d ask you

To say a prayer for the wind and the water and the wood—and those who live there too.

Do You See What I See?

What do you see when you look in the mirror? Do you see someone worth loving? Someone who is loved? Do you see someone whom you love?

Many of us tolerate their our reflections for practical purposes, like teeth-brushing and face-washing, but lots of us don’t like to look that closely at ourselves. We see what we’re told to see, and the mirror only shows the flaws that have dogged us from birth. We focus on our buckteeth and bug eyes because our peers focused on them and we mistook teasing for truth. Beauty, for most of us, was unattainable without certain products, and even then, Revlon has never worked the same magic on me as it did on Cindy Crawford.

She was the supermodel I figured I had the best shot at emulating. Trust me—it never happened.

That’s okay. I know now that her Cosmo covers were touched up to make her more than she actually was. None of us is perfect; we’ve established that. Unfortunately, we are primed to pay more attention to our imperfections than they deserve, and at the cost of what makes us beautiful.

You are so much more than what you see in the glass. Mirrors only show us two dimensions. I wonder sometimes how I appear to other people. I’m happy in my own skin (finally!), but I know some beautiful people who loathe to look in the mirror. What gives?

Here’s the best kept secret in the cosmos: everyone is beautiful. That’s the dimension the mirror cannot capture, and thus the one whose existence we insist on doubting. Our divinity eludes the tool we use to measure our appeal, yet our divinity is what makes us each unique and special and extraordinary. How can you be all those things and not be beautiful? A smile—even a bucktoothed one—is irresistible when it animates the smiler’s eyes. When we accept that we are divine, we allow ourselves to be loved. When we feel loved, we feel beautiful, and our distorted perception of ourselves is realigned to reveal the inescapable truth. Beauty resides in the soul, and everybody has one of those. Some of us are out of touch with it, but we have one nonetheless.

The next time you catch your own eye, take a minute to look—really look—at yourself, and don’t look away until you glimpse that beauty. I promise you, it’s there. I can see it, even if (right now) you can’t.

With love,

Reading Material

I’m one-third of the way through my annual visit to The Night Circus and it’s as magical as ever despite its familiarity. There are no throwaway scenes, no skip-over passages; in fact, there are scenes where I wriggle with delight at what I know is to come. Everything is so beautifully executed. It’s a joy to read.

The best book this year was ML Rio’s debut novel If We Were Villains, and unexpected feast that I was compelled to pick up and subsequently read twice in a row. I finished the last page, then flipped immediately to the first and started over again—in the same sitting! A book that good is always a treasure, probably because they’re so rare. Villains was favourably likened to Donna Tartt’s The Secret History, so I proceeded to read that as well.

It wasn’t the same at all. None of the characters was remotely likable, and the tragic secret that bound them was something I’d have done just because the guy was so insufferably irritating. Nor did I find the professor who supposedly seduced his idiot students into committing the original, accidental, crime particularly charismatic. The whole story left me utterly cold.

But the most disappointing read of 2017 had to be Juliet’s Nurse. The premise was certainly intriguing, especially to a Shakespeare fan who has three different versions of Romeo and Juliet on DVD (and Tybalt steals the show in every one), but the execution fell far short of the expectation. It’s hardly the author’s fault that I’d hoped for a new twist on the tragedy and she gave me more of the nurse’s background than I anticipated. The kids weren’t even born at the beginning of this story. Once I realized that we weren’t starting with the Montague/Capulet conflict in full swing, it was quite engaging, and it was a bonus to meet Tybalt as a child, even if it was never entirely clear why he grew up with such a hate-on for the Montagues. The so-called blood feud was barely explained let alone investigated, but what really bugged me was the portrayal of Juliet as a sweet young thing and Romeo as an awkward stripling suddenly turned conniving traitor to the precious girl’s tender (ha!) heart.

I’m sorry but, hello? Has the author even read the play? Seen the movie? Romeo as a double-crossing womanizer? Seriously? I have never seen him as anything other than a poet with heroic intentions too easily foiled by fate and his own romantic nature. Juliet, on the other hand, is a pampered, impetuous firebrand whose willful passion drives the whole story.

So, toward the end of the novel, I was reading to get it over with, caring nothing for any of the players and bitter that the news of Tybalt’s death was given tabloid drama status and the reason for it never fully defined—except, of course, for that amoral scoundrel being solely responsible. Honestly, when I wasn’t impatient with the nurse’s histrionics, I was snickering at the play by play. I was saved by my library card on this one—I borrowed rather than bought the book, which had been haunting me for some while. In the end, the story I told myself about the story was far better than the story I was told!

It’s good to be reading again, though. Of late, I haven’t been as immersed in words as much as behooves my creativity; I can’t write if I don’t read, as it seems I need the work of other writers to inspire me. I have learned how to write (and how not to write!) through their efforts, for all of which I am grateful whether or not I actually enjoyed the experience. I think now, with few weeks of vacation ahead and my mind turning from mere survival to more pleasurable pursuits, it might be time to renew my passion for my craft and see where it takes me.

Overheard At a Hockey Game

Flyers 4 - Oilers 2

Cardigan doesn’t know much about hockey. He probably doesn’t care a whole lot, either, but Basher is his friend so he tries to be supportive when the Flyers are on TV.

Last month, when the Canucks were in Philadelphia, he cheered when Vancouver scored their first goal. Basher immediately pounced. “No, no,” he said, “we’re rooting for the guys in the orange sweaters, not the white ones.”

Cardie looked confused. “But, your sweater is white.”

“Yah, white with black and orange,” Basher replied, which did nothing to help Cardie’s bewilderment.

“The visiting team wears white,” I added. “We want the home team to win.”

“Oh,” said Cardigan, without any conviction at all in his tone. He cheered when the Flyers scored, however, so Basher and I figured he’d got the  message.

Until Wednesday, when the Flyers played in Edmonton. The Oilers also wear orange, and their home sweaters are even more aggressively so than Philly’s. The Flyers scored, Basher and I cheered, but Cardigan was silent. The Oilers scored, Basher said something I would have smacked his ears for except that I said it at the same time, and Cardigan said nothing.

After a while, he whispered to Basher, “I’m confused.”

“Why?” Basher asked.

“Because last time, you told me to cheer for the orange sweaters instead of the white ones. Now you’re cheering for the white ones instead of the orange ones, so I don’t know what I’m supposed to do!”

At this point, Ter chimed in to elaborate on the home versus visiting sweaters, and that it’s better to cheer for the crest on the sweater rather than the colour. Cardigan took a long, hard look at the Flyer logo on Basher’s chest, and proceeded to cheer for the visiting team (who won, incidentally—woo hoo!)

The next night, Philly played in Vancouver. “Do you know who to root for?” Basher asked his nerdy friend.

“Yup,” Cardie happily replied. “The white sweaters!”

Basher looked pleased, until Cardigan added, “Because the other ones are blue!”

Christmas Tree Lights

I love this quote from Maya Angelou. I don’t travel enough to have lost any luggage, but I live in a rainforest and at tree-trimming time each year, I am reminded of the best opening line to a story I have yet to write:

“They found the body in dumpster, a string of Christmas tree lights wrapped tight around its neck.”

I’ve not determined whether the body is male or female, but there have been years when it’s been blonde and of Scottish/Finnish heritage. The time it takes to wire 400 twinkle lights in place is the perennial test of patience, Ter because she’s the one wiring them, me because I’m the one trailing behind her, doling out the string bulb by bulb, and intermittently declaring, “Hey, this one’s dead!” to which she traditionally replies, “How the h*** did that happen? They were fine when we tested them!”

In the Rockland days, she fussed more about getting the lights “just right” and I thought more about strangling her with them. I occasionally consider hanging myself with them when half the cursed bulbs burn out, but remember the 60s and 70s, when one dead bulb killed the entire string? I bet my mother does, as she’s the one who strung the lights before we kids put up the ornaments.

We bought a string of LEDs for the bears’ tree one year. Duly christened “the jellybean lights”, the wires were so thick and horrible to work with that they didn’t make it onto the tree at all. We remain fans of the old school fairy lights. In fact, we’re almost hoarding them for fear of losing the option in years to come, due to some silly government regulation about fire safety.

One of our oldest and dearest ornaments is Tigger in his Christmas sock. It’s an “ornamotion”, one of those fun decorations plugged into an empty bulb socket to make it move. Unfortunately, Tigger is so old that his plug is no longer compatible with the light sockets. Let’s face it, twinkle lights are not made to last forever, and the Noma strings we’ve preserved specifically for Tigger have all shorted out, never to be heard from again. Ever hopeful, we will always try the plug in a new string, but even present day Nomas no longer comply. So, for the past couple of years, Tigger has peered over the top of his sock, but not popped in and out of it.

Some traditions are forced into retirement.

This year, the lights were untangled on a rainy day—addressing two of Maya’s three checkboxes. We got a late start and at the time of this writing, the tree is still in pieces let alone strung with those rackinfrackin fairy lights, but somehow or other we’ll get ʼer done. No one will die and the end result will be fabulous as always.

That holiday murder mystery won’t be written this year … I don’t think …

Holidaze

For years now, people have complained about Christmas showing up in October. That’s never bothered me, probably because I love Christmas, but this year I’ve noticed something I’m sure was not the ordinary until now.

There used to be space between holidays. Sometime after school started, harvest froufrou would kick off Thanksgiving (breathe), then Hallowe’en (not an “official” holiday but you’ll see my point) would be proclaimed (breathe), then Remembrance Day (breathe), then Christmas would get into gear, followed (followed, mind you) too soon by Boxing Day and New Year’s, after which we’d get a few weeks off before being confronted with Valentine’s Day in early February. Retailers gave consumers a break between reasons to consume, but that no longer happens.

Hallowe’en candy is in stores just after school starts. Thanksgiving is celebrated with little to no preamble, probably since it’s counter-intuitive to promote acquiring more stuff at a time when we’re meant to be grateful for what we have. Poppies are on lapels before Hallowe’en – no discredit there, as November 11 is hardly a goldmine for the veterans – but this year I saw my first Christmas commercial mere hours before the first trick-or-treaters emerged on October 31. Geez. That blew my mind. I mean, I try to restrain my Yuletide spirit until November 11, and I believe the rest of the world should do the same thing.

What’s that, Ru? The rest of the world should wait until the veterans have been remembered before we launch into the annual consumer frenzy like good little lab rats? And where were you on the first weekend in November, hmmmmmm?

Okay, okay. I confess—I was at Canadian Tire, topping up on twinkle lights and stopping at Starbucks for a steamed eggnog. Sue me. I have lately been so overwhelmed by the bad news and negativity in the world that I was desperate for something to make me happy. Well, Christmas makes me happy. The lights, the food, the music, the convivial cheer that seems more prevalent among strangers—in the face of death and destruction and people behaving badly, I’m all for indulging in a little premature holiday spirit.

I digress. Sort of. As Dr Seuss pointed out, and contrary to what the big eastern syndicate would have us believe, Christmas doesn’t come from a store. And it doesn’t matter anyway, when I know what’s coming on December 24: the first Boxing Day sale ads, mixed in with New Year’s sale ads, bleeding into Valentine’s Day diamond commercials in January, blurred by Easter treat blurbs in February, Mother’s Day flower adverts in April and so on and so on ...

Believe me, I’m into the holidays this year, and because I’m into them, I want to slow down and enjoy them—even the commercials (the celebratory food and drink ones, not the appalling Black Friday ones)—before the marketing moguls snatch the Yuletide season from my grasp.

Merry Christmas in advance!

This Wind

It has a personality of its own, this wind. It alternately teases and threatens as it blinds me with my own hair and pushes me along the sidewalk. Even the trees are daunted, shivering at its touch as they never do in spring. They feel its insistent tug on their leaves. They know its mercurial nature, its changeable moods. They know, and so do I.

It smells of autumn, this wind. Crisp and cold, blended echoes of wood smoke and dark moist earth tickle my nose. The stink of seaweed at low tide is equally pungent on a cloudy day. The placid time of green perfume is past. Winter chill rides on this wind.

It has teeth, this wind. I sense its potential to bite as it brushes by my cheek, though when it hints at more than a nip, I have the sense to stay indoors.

It’s a vocal beast, this wind. It whispers through those shivering trees (and what do they hear that makes them tremble so?); it murmurs and moans and even chuckles as it chases the leaves in frantic circles around my feet. Once in a while, it roars. It picks up the ocean and flings it at the shore. It pummels the roof with rain and howls along the street, funnelled between buildings that amplify its voice to epic decibels.

It can also be a friend, this wind. It strokes my hair and kisses my ear, and curls like an amiable arm about my shoulders. I like it best in this congenial humour, when it accepts me as part of Nature’s greater whole. We sit together by the sea, saying nothing. We are aware of each other and content in company—then, without warning, the mood shifts. The sky lowers and the sea grows dark. The waves churn, white-capped and surly, in the rising gale. It’s time to go indoors.

It’s in front of me, this bullying wind. I would hurry, but the playful menace blows me back toward the beach, goading me, pulling at my scarf, tearing at my hair. Seagulls float overhead; they’ve figured out how to work with this wind. So have the little birds. They make themselves into torpedoes and aim themselves for home. What a good idea! I huddle into my coat. I duck my head. I push against the flow and manage to gain the street. It comes from all directions, this crazy-making wind. I can’t see through my hair, I can’t hear past the wailing in my ears, but I persevere and gain the safety of home.

Upstairs, I stand at the window with a mug of tea in my hands. I watch the raging surf and the wild trees, and am reminded of something humbling.

I am so much smaller than this wind.

A Patch of Poppies

I was in a bit of a quandary about Remembrance Day this year. Too many newscasts fraught with gun violence and acts of terrorism, and civil wars in places we don’t hear about because there’s no business interest for the West – I’ve been pretty cynical of late, so the timing wasn’t great for November 11. It seemed to me that the sacrifices made, the lives lost and families destroyed during, well, every darned war we’ve seen since The Great One and The One to Stop All Others, have all been for naught. Pointless. A truly senseless waste because, looking at where we are now, it solved nothing. The world is still in conflicted turmoil with no apparent end in sight.

Toss my deity, Sting, into the mix. For months, I’ve been looping Children’s Crusade, one of my favourite songs from his first solo album. I don’t think he’s that wild about it, but I love it despite – or perhaps because of –  its tragic theme. Poppies are prominent throughout, starting with the boys who perished in the first World War, through to 1980s London, where the next generation have become what he poetically called “opium slaves”. It’s hardly his fault that I happened on a rogue patch of poppies and the phrase “poppies for young men” immediately came to mind. I thought, Brilliant – a theme for my Remembrance Day blog post! Only in the months between then and now, I lost my perspective.

Duelling dictators, ongoing problems in the Middle East, the Russians (another subject on Sting’s first album that remains annoyingly relevant), religious wars, civil wars, nuclear wars ... the list goes on and on, ad nauseum. By this time last week, I was nothing more than resigned to go through the motions. I mean, you have to wear a poppy, right? Otherwise, you’re being disrespectful. But inside, I viewed the poppy as a symbol of a failed exercise.

When Ter and I talked about Remembrance Day, I ’fessed up with my mixed feelings. She did not disagree. She even sympathized, as I had a point about how messed up the world remains despite the staggering loss of life in those two wars. A few hours later, after she’d pondered the predicament, she was able to adjust my perspective by reminding me of context.

“Don’t look at the world right now,” she said. “You have to remember that the threat back then was present moment. If those sacrifices had not been made, our parents’ lives would have been vastly different and so would ours. In that respect, what they gave was supremely profound and made a definite difference at the time. And at the time is what matters.”

She was right, of course. Then, as if to prove her point, I saw news interviews with a couple of the few surviving veterans who fought in WWII. They each told a story of imminent threat, of an enemy so powerful that neither thought anything of signing up to stop it. They were not fighting against future dictators or nuclear nutballs or religious extremists. They were fighting to save their Now.

The same might be said of every war that’s ever been fought; after all, the beast was not invented in 1914. It seems there’s always a threat. So long as we believe that war is the way to peace, my little patch of poppies is a blood-coloured point on a long and grisly timeline. However, I want to end this post on a positive note, so here goes:

Remembrance Day will outlast the soldiers who survived those battles. Veterans of more recent conflicts will take their places rather than stand beside them at the ceremonies in successive years. So they should. No one who goes to war should be forgotten or ignored; they deserve our respect and our gratitude. The world has become a more perilous place, yet there are still men and women brave enough to stand in defence of human rights and freedom. If one day a year is all they ask of me in return, I can give this much.

I can wear a poppy and I can mean it.

Rufus

Rufus and Ru in 2006

Rufus came to us either in 1993 or 1995; I don’t recall exactly, though I do know we were living in Number 15 and he was a birthday present from Ter. He’s a Boyd’s bear, a collector’s item probably picked because his name matched my then-nickname, but I may be completely wrong about that. Ter picked him from the crowd – or he picked her – and, once he was adopted, he made himself at home and began exerting his personality.

Ter says he’s sensitive. I say he’s a drama queen. One year I got a pair slipper socks for Christmas and he appropriated one to wear on his head. Fashionable in a 1600s French-Canadian trapper sort of way, he’s worn it ever since and fusses like mad when Ter adjusts it, which she does quite frequently because the elastic has lost its grip and is in constant danger of falling off. That really upsets him, but he won’t be convinced that adjusting his hat is a preventative measure and not done to vex him. He also wears a bell on his wrist, the summons for bedtime cuddles and smooches because, at heart, he really is an affectionate and loving little bear.

One Sunday, I woke him up with the announcement that it was sanga day for him and his pals. He looked at me like I was an idiot and said, “I know it’s sanga day, Mum. When you and Tanta (what he calls Ter) are home together for a whole day, the next day is always a sanga day.”

Well, I thought, aren’t you smart? Of course I didn’t say it, since that would set him off, but when I mentioned it to Ter later that morning, her response was similar to the look Rufie had given me on waking.

“He’s no bear of very little brain,” she said. “He knows what’s going on.”

I have to agree with that. If any of our bears are comparable to Winnie-the-Pooh, it’s not Rufus. It’s Moon Pie. Before I left for work the other day, the little puffball asked me if I was going to tango with world again. At first I couldn’t figure out what he was talking about, until I realized I’d said on a previous morning, “You guys have a good day while Ter and I are off tangling with the real world.”

Ironically, he’s helped to change my somewhat surly attitude toward workdays. Dancing is more fun than wrangling, right? Now I try to tango, thanks to little Moonie.

Every bear is clever in his own way.

Auto Biography XV

“A Fine Set of Wheels”

This photo is not the photo I would have used for this post; however, the shot I would have used was never taken. It’s forever etched in my mind, though. If a picture is worth a thousand words, put up your feet while I try to describe the scenario on the night before we traded Jules for a new Volkswagen.

Our dear friend Treena has a professional grade camera and offered to take some photos for posterity. We don’t have many pictures of our beloved Camaro. What we do have are “working” snaps, pictures taken on road trips or after weather events like the Blizzard of ’96. We never did do the photo op we talked about when he was brand new. That’s why, in the shots Treena took, there’s a dent in his right flank and the hood on the driver’s door mirror is still wearing its factory primer (we never got it painted after the lens went phht!—but that’s another story). All the same, we took immaculate care of his motor and safety features; he had over 160,000 kms on him when we let him go, but he still ran like a dream.

I digress.

On his last night with us, I drove Treena up to Craigdarroch Castle and watched her do her photographer thing. She circled the car, snapping this way and that, taking cool background shots, artsy angle shots, and whatever else shots she felt would do justice to her unwitting subject. Through it all, Jules stood quietly, not posing precisely, but behaving like a gentleman for the lady. I wish I’d thought to bring my own camera, not to try my hand at emulating Treena, but to catch the moment when Jules ceased to be an inanimate object and became, for a brief instant, a living, breathing creature.

I was standing behind and to the right of the car as she crouched to get this shot. Treena is a delicate little thing, a fairy child with hollow bones, who might be blown into the trees by an aggressive gust of wind. Jules was coiled like panther, muscles bunched and thrumming, as she hunkered by his nose and lifted her camera. In that moment, in the mystic evening light, he looked about to pounce ... but then he lowered his head and let her take his picture. Seeing the two of them in that frame created a delightful memory which, unfortunately, I can only share through these inadequate words, but which will stay with me for the rest of my days.

The Hoodie Incident

People are funny, eh? You can never tell what drives someone to offer an opinion or observation, or a plainly idiotic statement. One thing is sure: our perceptions are coloured by our individual experience. Fear and prejudice can wring the most curious responses ... though, admittedly, some folks are simply out to create a reaction.

Take the hoodie incident.

When shopping for Ter’s birthday, I bought her a pair of silly socks from Sugar & Cotton. Since then, I’ve been getting promos from their site. Cool cutlery, pretty jewellery, glittery scarves ... and an asymmetrical hoodie that I think is awesome in a Star Wars, Sithy kind of way. (The Sith, for the sadly uninitiated, are the villains in a galaxy far, far away; villains to whom I am partial for reasons that yet elude rational explanation.) Each time I log into FB—which is not all that often—an ad for this hoodie pops up and finally, unable to resist the notion of sporting a functional garment given a wicked cool twist, I ordered one. In black, of course.

Then I noticed the FB comments. I pay little attention to reviews, choosing instead to trust my own sense of whether or not something is worth my time and/or money, but sprinkled among those comments of “love it!” or “can get it cheaper here” were a couple of scathing observations that likened this trendy runway item to, of all things, a birka. A birka? Seriously? I took a second to shake off that one, then caught further comments along similar lines. A sort of religious tussle almost ensued as people took sides ... arguing about radical Islam tainting fashion design.

Okay, maybe I’m missing something. I hope I would have a bit of an issue myself with a frivolous industry building on a practice that oppresses women. If I thought for an instant that the designer of this item was less a Star Wars fan and more a radical Islamic nutball, I probably wouldn’t have bought one. But I don’t think that. The possibility never even occurred to me. That it occurred to someone—anyone—else is a show of hypersensitivity that may either be connected to past experience, or it may just be a guy with a biased intent to cause an uproar.

I don’t live under a rock. I am aware of global events and social upheaval and cultural oppression and political hot potatoes ... yet when I saw this hoodie, all I thought was “Cool!” I didn’t dig deeper because I didn’t feel the need. You can call me shallow for missing what’s apparently obvious to others. You may call the dissenters socially conscious and applaud them, but if we all relax, we might also see this for what it really is:

A hoodie.

If It Ain’t Baroque ...

Whenever I see the title of JS Bach’s “Air on the G String”, all I can think is how chilly it must feel.

If the radio is set to a baroque station, I know that Ter has been ironing. This cracks me up because ... actually, I’m not sure why it’s so funny, but her choice of laundry music does make me smile.

This is how seriously I perceive the music of my favourite century. Despite my fondness for the 1600s, it seems I don’t much care for the tuneage of the time. I don’t mind it, of course, but I won’t play it myself unless I’m writing a piece relevant to the period. Strangely enough, the soundtrack for “Versailles” isn’t reflective of the century, either. It smacks more of present day Ibiza than baroque Europe (though I’d probably get the CD anyway, even if it was crammed with Bach, Handel and a Hallelujah Host of Others).

Baroque music makes for good ambient noise, however. One of my cultured co-workers (she plays both classical guitar and Celtic harp—the talent pool at work is proof that there’s no money to be made in the arts) has a radio in her cubicle. Wedged between offices as she is, and placed on a high traffic corner, she finds it easier to concentrate on her job if Seattle’s National Public Radio is playing in the background. On a crazy day in any workweek, I’ll speed from my office, where the playlist ranges from classic Motown to cool jazz to 70s rock, and be rushing to the copy room when the lilting strains of a baroque violin will stop me in my tracks. Sometimes, I’ll even drop into my co-worker’s guest chair. When she looks inquiringly at me, I’ll say, “Just taking a civility break.”

Such music may be that which was claimed to soothe the savage breast. It certainly calms me in the midst of a hectic workday. It inspires images of perfectly aligned gardens, fashionable ladies and stylish gentlemen, all well-mannered and treating each other so cordially that it’s almost offensive. Better times and better men, yes?

Heck, no. The French Revolution might not have happened had the aristocracy been as elegant and ordered as the music of the day. Perhaps it’s merely an example of paradox sprung from a composer’s will to hide the truth of society at the time. Art these days is a more accurate reflection of where we’re at—a film parade of serial killers, political extremists, spies, renegades in fast cars, and superheroes sworn to save us from annihilating ourselves; music from angry children grown into angry adults, and underage girls shaking their collective booty as if a show of skin is empowering. Culture these days isn’t terribly cultured at all. Between the honesty in present day art and the hypocrisy in baroque composition, that civility break looks pretty darned good.

Squirrely

As soon as I woke up on Saturday morning, my mind started screaming. “What about this?” “What about that?” “How are you going to ... ?” “When are you going to ... ?” It was like being in bed with a hysterical toddler. Finally, I gave up and got up to discover Ter was already up for pretty much the same reason. Our individual issues might have differed, but the mental histrionics were identical.

I am grateful to her for many things, but our ongoing conversation—now in its thirty-somethingth year—is always in the top five. Quite simply, we talk. We share and sympathize and advise and caution and help each other to feel better because monsters are more easily faced with a wingman than by yourself, and sometimes just naming the beast to someone you trust will neutralize it.

Imagination is not always a good thing. Oh, those sparks of inspiration can pave the way to joy, happiness and creative climax. They can also drive me to the depths of despair. I don’t just tell stories, you see. I tell myself stories. I might be mildly anxious about something, but given too long a rein, my imagination can make it into a category five catastrophe.

It’s all about perspective.

A couple of weeks ago, Ter disappeared into the Ocean Room. She retreats to that room when seeking solace from the daily grind, the (real) toddler downstairs, the loud-mouthed roommate, and/or her own incredibly powerful intellect. After a while, I joined her for tea. We chatted a little, then she told me about the aforementioned perils of imagination running down a dark road. Turned out she’d been fretting a bit more than usual about something—okay, many things, but that’s how she rolls—and it had occurred to her that, since we each create our own reality, if she continued to indulge a particular line of thought, disaster was almost inevitable. Once checked, however, she was able to turn her imagination back toward the light. By the time I came into the room, she felt stronger and more positive about resolving what was bothering her.

Then she told me what the Universe had presented as an example to put it in perspective.

After mulling the imagination thing for a bit, she’d got up from her chair and glanced out the front window. It was late afternoon and the sun had moved behind the house, and the shadow she glimpsed crawling up the neighbours’ van was a honking huge critter that looked about to swallow the vehicle whole. What the hell is that? she thought, bug-eyed on adrenaline. Then she saw what cast the shadow:

It was a little squirrel, running up a tree.

Think about it.

Auto Biography XIV

“Jules”

Mum: “Jings, Betsy.”

Older older brother: “It looks like it’s going 100 miles an hour and it's standing still!”

Management co-worker: “Clearly the admin staff are making too much money.”

To this day, I don’t know how much our brand new Camaro cost. I do remember that the purchase process was excruciating. I went to three banks and was told at each that I wasn’t a good risk because I had no collateral and the car wouldn’t be worth what I was paying for it. (That’s when I learned that loans are only given to people who don’t need the money.)

I don’t even remember how we wound up at the dealership in the summer of 1996, perusing a shiny automatic that looked green from one angle, blue from another, and purple at a third. The colour was called “mystic teal”. The sales dude was called Anthony. From the instant we set foot on the lot, he was on us like white on rice. A likeable young chap, determined to get us the car of our dreams. Well, of Ter’s dreams. She was the Camaro freak – but if I had to own a Chev, the body style in 1996 was my first choice. The old Camaro was starting its death spiral, so my sole condition for upgrading was that a replacement have no previous owner. No abused lease rejects, no neglected pre-owned wheels spiffed up for suckers. I wanted to manage a new vehicle from scratch.

That new vehicle eluded us for weeks because of the “no collateral” clause. We test-drove a less-expensive Cavalier, but who were we kidding? It was Camaro or bust. Eventually, we told Anthony thanks but no thanks and drove our crotchety old wheels back home.

The gods—and Anthony—were not about to let us go, however. Some days after bidding Mystic Teal a final farewell, the phone rang. “I’ve found two new Camaros for you, ladies, but I know you won’t want one of them.”

I dared to ask why not.

The kid replied, “It’s silver.”

Oh, yeah. Aside from “no previous owner”, my other sole condition was “not silver”. (I still don’t understand the appeal of silver cars.) “Okay,” I said, “what’s the other one?”

“Black.”

I sighed. “We’ll be right out.”

Driving down Cook Street, we were absolutely silent. I was fed up thinking about how to get a car we clearly couldn’t afford, until my little voice murmured the very words that Ter spoke aloud as she turned left onto Bay Street.

“We could call him ‘Jules’.”

Well, that was akin to kissing the bear’s nose. Once he had a name, he was ours. Or, rather, we were his.

The financial whiz at the dealership wheedled a deal with one of the banks that had originally told me to sod off—this after I refused, at the age of 35, to ask my dad to co-sign a loan—they gave us a handful of clams for Ter’s old Camaro, and the two of us left work early to collect our new toy on the first day of autumn in 1996.

The car was being shipped from the mainland and hadn’t arrived yet. I will always remember sitting at the dealership, looking out the plate glass window at the traffic streaming along the highway. Suddenly, there he was: sleek, black, shiny; a panther prowling up the outside lane, a tawny yellow eye blinking right as he turned off the main road. “There it is,” Anthony announced “your new Camaro.”

Taking possession of a brand new sportscar is a joy unlike any other. A new mother doesn’t feel as much for her newborn as I felt on first glance at our fabulous, glossy, witchy-eyed ride. I was practically salivating. I’ve no idea what Ter was thinking or how she felt ... but have I mentioned that our fresh-from-the-shell baby was a standard shift and she had learned on an automatic? That’s right, folks. Ter did not know how to drive a stick.

But, in typical Ter fashion, she was fearless in her enthusiasm to learn. The very next night, we were in the mall parking lot, she behind the wheel, me having kittens in the passenger seat—to this day, I don’t know how I taught her to work the gears but I must have done something right because she was soon cruising in expanding circles around the lot. “Let me take it home,” she said, bubbling over with pride at her mastery of clutch and gears. (In truth, she did pick it up pretty fast.)

Erm, ahhhh, uhhhh ... “Okay,” I croaked.

So, of course she chose the route that featured what we refer to as “the Fat Choy Hill”—an intersection at the crest of a 40% grade with a Chinese market perched on one corner. It would have been fine had the light stayed with us, but no, as we approached, green turned to amber turned to red. I, who had once rolled my dad’s Toyota about twelve feet back on a gentle slope, recommended downshifting to keep the wheels in motion, to no avail. And, yes, the car stalled not once but twice, with a BMW breathing on our bumper and me freaking out at Ter’s elbow. Give credit where it’s due, though: flustered as she was, the bumblebee got her wings whirring and achieved liftoff as the light went red again. We got through the light.

The BMW, naturally, ran it.

* * *

It feels odd to write so clearly about a vehicle long gone, but he served us well and we loved him to the last. I have said before that you can’t own a car for fourteen years and not have a bunch of stories to tell, so further tales from “Ter and Ru and a Car Named Jules” will be posted as more memories surface. Stay tuned!

Park Plates

Ter and I have long considered putting personal plates our vehicle. The problem is, what to put on them? She wouldn’t be any keener on DURAN E or HOK E HOS than I’d be for FOOD E or WIK N WU. We’d thought of putting JULES on Jules, but it’s good that we didn’t because Jules is no longer with us. As it was, Tiggy inherited his predecessor’s plates, which were at insurance time this year, over twenty years old.

The dilemma would have continued indefinitely had ICBC not ridden to the rescue. Earlier this year, in cooperation with BC Provincial Parks, they’ve issued a number of license plates featuring four “super, natural” vistas—mountains, lakes, forests ... and a spirit bear.

Well, shoot. Problem solved.

The bear plates have been cropping up on cars all over town. The numbering sequence started at PA000A. By the time we got our plates, so many had been sold that the sequence began with PB. “ ‘Peanut Butter’,” I said to Ter at the insurance agent’s office, where we were both required to sign the changeover from our old license number.

She glanced at me, pen in hand, and said nothing.

“Or ‘Panda Bear’,” I continued, musing.

That got a slightly better result, but still no hats and horns. Since our brains are not geared toward accepting blends of letters and numerals, it’s always helped me to use either the phonetic alphabet or make up a word association of my own. For instance, our old plates began with “JBM”, which, in the phonetic alphabet, translates to “Juliet Bravo Mike”. Thanks to my wee sister, who suggested it when I asked what she’d use, it also translated to “Jellybum.”

Anyway, we signed the papers and took our shiny new plates out to the strip mall lot, where a freshly-laundered Tiggy eagerly awaited his new tags. Getting them into the plate holders proved a tad challenging, as the holders have been bashed about but good over the past seven years, but Ter persevered and eventually they slid into place. Affixing them to the bumpers required new screws to replace the old rusted ones (our first stop on this little adventure was the hardware store), and no small skill in lining up the holes. Ter hunkered by the back bumper and spent a while doing just that, with varying degrees of success. Eye to eye with “PB” while her patience gradually thinned, she finally looked up at me and said, “We could also use ‘Pooh Bartz’.”

That did me in. I howled. “Pooh bartz” is an interjection originally coined by my older sister in lieu of a metaphor more colourful while yet residing in our parents’ house (both my sisters have an odd gift for coining words/phrases/sayings), and it’s stayed with me deep into my relationship with Ter. That she would blurt it out in relation to our prized new plates slew me right there in the parking lot.

Later, she tried to override the option with “Polar Bear”, but I fear I was ruined for anything else when it comes to remembering my new license number.

Pooh bartz.

Vive “Versailles”!

Speaking of Charles II (see Diana), his Bourbon cousins, Louis and Phillippe, figure prominently in the latest period drama to have taken over Chez Ru and Ter: a rollicking, racy, extravagantly produced series about life in the Sun King’s court, aptly titled “Versailles”.

I spied the title in the Movie Channel listings one night in July and realized it was episode three of a series in its second season. Second season?? How had we missed the first? And was it worth watching in any case? Rather than risk being completely lost by watching episode three live, we discovered the first two episodes available on demand and promptly fell under its spell. Alas, season one was not listed, neither could we order it from Amazon (it shows on the European sites, but won’t ship to Canada).

I have no idea which of the angels prompted me, but I suddenly remembered that the Greater Victoria Public Library loans DVDs of everything from popular TV series (like NCIS) to obscure European productions, all for the price of nothing! I immediately got online and to my ecstatic delight, “Versailles - Season One” was not only in the catalogue, copies were available! I renewed my library card the same morning (the central branch is across the street from my office) and Ter and I were set for marathon viewing over the next few weekends.

We’re caught up as of this writing, with two episodes to go in Season Two. I can’t gush enough about this series. Seventeenth century royalty is an obsession of mine, but honestly, this show is so well written, acted, directed and produced (they film in the palace itself, among other French locations) that it deserves to be gushed about. I did spend a good part of the first few episodes trying to place the guy who plays Louis—Ter finally Googled him and discovered he’s the same actor who played Athelstan on “Vikings” (a waste of his talent, if you ask me)—and the fellow who portrays his younger brother, Phillippe ... okay, even if he wasn’t stunningly gorgeous, he’s brought that character to life in a way that history has failed to do. By reputation, “Monsieur”, as he was called in the day, was a mean, vindictive, cretinous little man, but in this series, he comes across as vulnerable and sympathetic, if not a complete fool in love. His relationship with his brother is alternately painful and magical, as are his affair with his lover, the incorrigible Chevalier de Lorraine (brilliantly played as a baroque David Lee Roth), and his marriage of political convenience to a German princess.

The main focus is on these relationships, as well as the usual court intrigue brought about by Louis’ decree to have all the nobles in France reside where he can see them. Ninety percent of the story is allegedly based on historic record, but these days, alternate history is as prevalent as alternate fact. I’m willing to forgo some things in favour of artistic license, but really, if the outrageous antics of Louis XIV’s dissolute and devil-worshipping court is halfway accurate, I’m more than a little peeved that my beloved Charles was criticized for not keeping on top of his gang in England at the same time.

He makes an appearance at the end of the first season, by the way. The actor wasn’t tall enough, his eyes were blue, and the voice was all wrong. You can’t play fast and loose with the image of my king and come out unscathed—but that’s my only issue with this fabulous, opulent, fascinating show. Series for which I fall this hard are generally cancelled after the first year. Best news of all: Season Three began filming in April 2017!