Short Notice

 

Not always, I hope!

For a woman who touts the practice of present moment mindfulness, I sure miss a lot. I seldom miss the obvious (I hope) and I suspect most of what does escape my notice stems from knowing all is well in my world rather than indifference to my surroundings.

It’s a running joke between Ter and me that I don’t notice things. Buildings, for instance. I distinctly recall walking up Georgia Street in Vancouver and Ter later asking me about some detail or other on one of the plate glass skyscrapers we had passed. For the life of me, I could not picture the building she was talking about, so had to plead the fifth for an answer. That was years ago, but I can cite more recent examples of less glaring omissions.

Take the box of Haagen-Daz bars lodged in the freezer door. Due to sugar sensitivities, Ter has to eat even a mini ice cream bar in two sittings. Sometimes we’ll split one between us, but it’s not unusual for me to spy a cling-wrapped morsel one day awaiting its demise on another. During this past summer, however, we realized we were consuming way too much dairy/sugar/naughty treats and stopped replenishing our stock. After we decided to cut back, I glanced into the box and noted a pair of bars remaining. A few days later, Ter confessed to finishing one of them. “That leaves the other one, then?” I asked.

She actually looked sheepish. “No, they’re both gone.”

The little muncher had stealthily nibbled away until the last of the bars were gone, but I had been in the freezer that morning and was certain the box had still been there. Another box appeared some days later, and I had to ask her when she’d bought it because I was sure the space had been empty that morning. To my relief, the answer was “Today.” Yet I can almost guarantee if the ice cream confession hadn’t occurred, I could not have said when the Haagen Daz bars became dry garlic pork ribs.

These are tiny examples, of course. Dozens more would be listed if I could remember them all, but it seems that my not noticing things has taken root in Ter’s subconscious. One night she dreamed we were stuck on a hill behind traffic at a standstill. I was driving, so Ter got out to see what the holdup was. Whatever the snarl was, it cleared while she was still investigating, and I drove away without her.

At first, dream-Ter couldn’t believe it ... until her little voice said, “I bet she hasn’t noticed I’m not in the car!”

I would like to express my offense and outrage at being so callously perceived by the one I love most, but I can’t. The notion is not as absurd as it is possible. Not likely, I must insist, but possible.

*sigh*

Resistance is Futile

 

BC’s daily numbers have surged during the past week, so it’s time to accept that I live in a COVID-19 universe.

It’s been a luxury to ignore it until now. I work primarily from home, heading into town once a week to visit the new office space and have tea with a couple of friends. It’s mostly a social thing that has helped me adapt to wearing a mask in public. It felt weird and strange and awkward for the first few months, and I still don’t like it, but for the first time ever, it felt almost natural during a weekend trip to the mall.

I have stuck pretty close to home since all this started. Truly, if not for my weekly sojourns—chauffeured by Ter to avoid public transit—I’d probably be a hermit. Ter has adapted more quickly, as she goes out every couple of days to get groceries and some fresh air (she’s always been more restless than me; apparently I can stay home for days on end but she needs to get out and breathe ... even in a mask).

Anyway, this past weekend, our PVR crapped out so to kill some time, we did what we used to do without ever thinking about it. We went to the mall. Ter’s parking karma was in full force, scoring us a spot right near the identified entrance that some folks were still using as an exit (sigh). As I pulled my mask from my purse and fixed it in place before leaving the car, I felt like I was preparing to rob a bank, but other than that, I’m so accustomed to a face covering that I forgot about it within minutes.

And I had a ball! Standing in line to get into the bookstore, spritzing sanitizer on my hands at every shop entrance, conversing with clerks through two layers of cloth and a sheet of plexiglass—all that was different, but in this suddenly oddball existence it felt like a trip to the mall always feels:

Normal.

I was particularly happy to order New York fries—my go-to snack in any food court, though this time it was to go and the clerk had to hand me the condiments on request. It’s been interesting at Blenz and Bucky’s too, having the barista add sugar and cream to my tea rather than me loading it up myself. I’m tapping my debit/credit card instead of forking over the cash—I’ve had the same twenty dollar bill in my wallet since March—and on Saturday I tapped up a storm as I restocked my home supply of Paris Afternoon tea and Purdy’s chocolate, tried cinnamon buns from a new foodie outlet, and couldn’t leave without getting the aforementioned NY fries.

Sure, the bulk of my purchases were comfort carbs ... but with my history, that was normal, too!

Watching a toddler weaving in her mother’s wake, I wondered what she’ll remember of her childhood when she grows up. No one wants COVID to become the norm, but right now, there’s less harm in adapting to the rules than there is in fighting them. So far in my life, I have found that if I give myself three days, I can adapt to anything.

With love (and fries),

Take the Fall

 

It’s pumpkin spice and everything nice. My favourite time of year is the fall. This weekend is especially precious, being Thanksgiving on Monday and me being grateful for nothing. The calendar is clear; I have four whole days to fill with whatever takes my fancy and right now I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than nothing.

Perhaps I sound ungrateful? I’m not. Truly, I’m not. Every day is stuffed with miracles, some too tiny to see and some so blatantly obvious that only a fool could deny them. Granted, the latter seem to appear less frequently, but the little ones, the ones I don’t always see, probably mean the most. They are the ones keeping everything in motion—and after the week I’ve had, I am ever so grateful for the passage of time!

It’s been a busy autumn despite COVID restrictions and working from home. Ter and I both have birthdays in the fall, and last week was particularly busy with appointments. I had some dental work done (more than expected, actually), Ter and I both had chiropractic treatments, and she did chauffeuring duty for a friend who had tests at the hospital on two separate days. And it’s only Friday!

So you see why a weekend of nothing is something for which to be grateful.

I could run my usual list: Ter, of course. My siblings and co-workers, my friends, my job in a pandemic where lots of folks lost theirs, my health (which is pretty good despite the daily bones), living in Canada rather than a few miles south of Canada. I’m even grateful for the petty bickering of politicians during our provincial election in contrast to the catastrophic numbskullery of the American presidential race. I dislike using a negative to promote the positive, but really? Compared to what the US populace is enduring, our troubles are puny indeed.

Yep, the fall is my favourite. We’ve had a good run of sun and high temperatures through the latter half of September into October, but now I’m ready for the rain. I want my hour back from April so it’s a bit lighter in the morning and the candles are lit earlier in the evening. I want fuzzy socks and big mugs of tea, fat winter novels and holidays specials on TV. The house smells of apples and cinnamon and, this Sunday, of stuffing!!

Spring is pretty, summer is lovely, winter is sleepy, but of the four seasons?

I’ll take the fall.

Words, Words, Words

 

My parents always had a stack of books on the hob. One of my earliest birthday presents (my fifth or sixth, I think) was a hard cover book, the first in a series aimed at kids that I collected avidly over the next few years. School libraries kept me entertained with the “Henry and Beezus” novels by Beverly Cleary and horse stories galore by Marguerite Henry and Walter Farley. I was so obsessed with horses, in fact, that my first crack at writing a novel myself (at age twelve) was about a girl and a wild horse. Not surprisingly, it was never finished.

I read a bunch of other things at the same time – “Rosemary’s Baby” and “The Exorcist” spring to mind (where were Mum and Dad??) – then I tripped into my teens and discovered historical fiction. As my genre identity developed, bodice rippers shared shelf space with classic tales of kings and queens. A copy of Kathleen Winsor’s “Forever Amber” yet resides in my home library, along with Jean Plaidy’s Charles II trilogy and Dorothy Dunnett’s six-volume “Lymond Chronicle”. Lymond in particular was a coup for sixteen-year-old me, given the thickness of each volume and the tiny print on every page. But, man, it was a compelling ride from my perennial place on the sofa. It’s definitely a repeat read.

Reading it then probably saved my sanity in the daily struggle with my bones.

Sometimes I overreached. As a teenager in the 1970s, I wasn’t sophisticated enough to know that an author named Taylor Caldwell was actually a woman, but because “The Arm and the Darkness” had musketeers on the cover, I bought it in paperback and sat down to read.

I started but didn’t finish it. I’m not sure why; I think the subject was heavier than expected for the space I was in at the time. When I evolved to where I might have been able to sift the story from the excessive wordage, my focus had shifted from swashbucklers to night crawlers thanks to my older sister’s copy of “Interview with the Vampire”. From there, science fiction and fantasy pretty well owned me, though I maintain a deep and abiding love for the seventeenth century.

Yep, I’ve read a lot of books in my life. Lately, though, I’ve made a conscious effort to try new things, and I have discovered jewels in Indigenous and mainstream literature. Conversely, I’m equally inclined to revisit old favourites. Amazon may be an evil entity trying to swallow the world, but it’s also provided a means by which I can explore other worlds without leaving the house. In a COVID environment, it’s a handy tool. Handier still is the Kindle that allows me to read in bed without concussing myself when the book falls forward. Anyway, one night while pondering where to search next, I wondered if Taylor Caldwell was still in print. I remembered the book I couldn’t finish and wondered if I could grasp the story now. I did the search, and darned if “The Arm and the Darkness” isn’t available in a Kindle edition.

So I bought it. Downloaded it. Whatever.

It’s still a wordy read. It’s written in the style of the old masters—Dumas and Cervantes and their contemporaries—so I have to wade through a ton of narrative to find the plot itself, but at least I’m old enough to understand what’s happening and why. A lot of it escaped me the first time. Truth, the style is too cumbersome, though I see now how it might have influenced my own tendency to overwrite—a tendency, might I add, that I’ve tried to change over the years. I also must have read more of it than I thought the first time; a lot of it is familiar though the nuances are definitely easier to espy. I have just reached the point where memory fails and am moving into deeper water. The adventure I had anticipated as a teenager appears to be more of a cerebral treatise on religion and the social hierarchy—but I am finally old enough to get the point.

Took me a while, eh?

Seeing Stars

 

The Tampa Bay Lightning fulfilled their purpose and eliminated the Islanders in six games to win the eastern conference final. YES!!!! Despite my earlier intention to support them through the Stanley Cup final, however, I have changed my mind. It seems I’ve adopted the Dallas Stars as my championship team for the COVID-19 Cup.

But, Ru, what the ... ?

You may well ask. I didn’t mean to cheer for Dallas, but I accidentally watched the last couple of games in their series against the dishonourable Knights. Ter gets the blame for that – she’s the one who flipped the channel to prove if there’s a game on, we’ll watch it. The captain of the Stars (Jamie Benn) grew up in Brentwood Bay, the same community where Ter and I lived as teenagers before we met. It’s a small thing, but enough to pick a team for the duration of a game. That, and I was still mad at Vegas for the second empty net goal against Vancouver.

At the end of game five, Ter announced her support for Dallas to win the Cup. Not only could she not raise any enthusiasm for Tampa, she liked the idea of backing “Brentwood” Benn. I kind of agreed, but I’ve disliked Dallas in the past and, compared to my general indifference to the Lightning, that weighs more.

I waffled some when game six (the elimination game for Vegas) ended with the Stars’ overtime victory. It happened on the dumbest penalty call ever invented by the NHL: the infamous “delay of game”. By accident or design, when a player sends the puck goes over the glass in the defensive zone, it’s an automatic two-minute minor. I have no problem calling it when by design, but the puck glancing off the shaft of a stick engaged in a battle for said puck, I don’t see that being deliberate. Honestly, they delay the game by calling delay of game when they could treat it like icing or offside calls: just get another puck and have a faceoff. Anyway, it’s what happened to the Knights. Dallas scored on the power play and that was it: series over. On a dumb delay of game call that was clearly an accident. I was outraged at the injustice.

Then I remembered the snotty second empty net goal against Vancouver. Suddenly the hockey gods were repaying karma and I was good with the Dallas win. I was also a toe closer to going the distance with them, but not there yet.

At the start of Game One of the final round, Cardigan asked me which team I was hoping would win. I replied that I wouldn’t know until the first goal was scored. If I cheered, that was my team. If I swore, it wasn’t.

Dallas scored first. I cheered. Decision made.

Go, Stars.

This Radiant World

 

I read “Station Eleven” again this past spring. Given current circumstances, it seemed even more relevant than it did when I read it the first two times. Before I began this post, I revisited Bibliography 7 to remind myself of my initial impression of the book and was struck by my closing thought:

Will we create something better the next time? Or will we just want to go home?

Having lived with the threat of COVID-19 for the past six months, I’m afraid I have my answer.

Granted, watching the news is not the best way to feel good about human nature. Too many stories involve vandalized cars bearing out-of-province plates, or claims that mandatory wearing of masks on the bus is a human rights violation, or crowds of young ’uns flagrantly defying the rules meant to keep everyone safe. Fear-and-anger-mongering keeps the media solvent, after all. There is no money in keeping people calm unless you’re in the pharmaceutical industry.

I’m not afraid of the virus, myself. I follow the guidelines and respect the rules, but I’ll tell you, after six months, I’ve had enough. I am done with novelty face masks and working from home. I hate online shopping. I miss bacon cheeseburgers and Vietnamese noodles. I want to expand my bubble and get to know my neighbours. I want to browse in a bookstore. I want to explore my neighbourhood, to become a regular at Guido’s café and share a bench at the park. I want to have a conversation while standing in line. I want to see James Bond at the theatre in November. I want hockey in winter.

Bugger a brave new world. It appears that I want to go home.

But it ain’t over yet. And until it is, there is a line in the novel that resonates each time I read it, a line that encompasses everything about this life and the stage on which it is played. I have carried it with me since the very first reading, and though it hasn’t become a meme (gods forbid it ever does), it surfaces in singular moments.

One morning of late, I stepped onto the balcony after the sprinklers had stopped watering the lawn. It’s a lovely stretch of grass flanked by cedar hedges and dotted with magnolia and apple trees, with flowerbeds and a birdbath where the crows tend to bully the songbirds on a hot day. I’ve seen a raccoon stretching up for a drink, a deer resting in the shade, a squirrel cleaning its fur by wriggling in the dirt. Each of those occasions was a gift, but on this particular morning, the lawn was empty. I stood barefoot in a patch of sun, the floor warm beneath my feet, and I noticed that the tree by the birdbath was glistening. The water from the sprinklers lay thick on the leaves, sparkling like diamonds scattered over the green. It was so beautiful that I fetched the Canon with no hope of capturing the true glory of the shot. I initially called it “jewel tree”, until the line from “Station Eleven” reminded me of the tiny miracles in everyday life if I open my eyes to see them:

This radiant world.

Bibliography 15

 “Diary of a Bookseller” – Shaun Bythell

It seems I’ve read a ton of autobiographies this summer: Elton John’s Me, Tina Turner’s My Love Story, Stewart Copeland’s Strange Things Happen. I also read a bio of Freddie Mercury and Chris Heath’s fly-on-the-wall account of life with Robbie Williams. If you see a theme here, you’re right on the mark—the rock stars who have provided the soundtrack to my life are telling their stories and I’m devouring them. Each of the aforementioned is a worthy read. As laugh out loud funny as Copeland’s brash American POV is, Dame Elton’s voice is particularly enjoyable for its honesty and humour; the British tendency toward self-deprecation is as hilarious as it is harrowing ... which leads me to the subject of this post.

Shaun Bythell is a fellow from Scotland who returned to his hometown in 2001 and somehow ended up buying a used bookshop. At one point, given the daily dramas encountered with quirky staff and regular customers, not to mention the antics of rogue patrons as observed from behind the counter, he decided to keep a diary, the end result of which was first published in 2017 as Diary of a Bookseller.

It may be a keeper. The copy I read was loaned to me by a friend and I’m unsure if I will purchase my own, though after reading Shaun’s experience with online selling and the insatiable monster that is Amazon, I feel somewhat compelled to support the bookselling industry by amassing as many hard copies as possible, even if I don’t have room for more than a hundred volumes in my reduced living space. That’s one reason why I have a Kindle—I’ve been seduced into the space-saving advantage of e-books even though the original hype of “books at lower cost” is no longer true. These days a new release download costs the same as the paperback edition; the primary bonus to the buyer is the convenience of an entire library contained on a device the size of a drugstore pocket book. Only thinner.

I digress.

This is a great book for those moments “in between”: when waiting for tea to steep, my hair to dry, or Ter to get her shoes on. If I had a half-hour to spare, I’d pick it up and read a few entries. Some are longer than others, as is the way of diaries. Some days are busier than others. If nothing else, the overall glimpse into the world of used bookselling, particularly in a small town, gave me a greater appreciation for the stalwart souls determined to endure in a world of on demand print, cutthroat competition and online conglomerates. Or impossible customers, come to that. I try to be pleasant with store clerks, recognizing that dealing with random members of the public is hard work. Not everyone shares my perspective. The beauty of this book is that the author, who could easily swing from objective to objectionable, simply notes the customer’s tone and general mien during any exchange. Rarely does he descend to disparaging criticism of any individual, no matter how appalling the individual’s attitude. The echo of his inside voice is tempered by diplomacy for the PG-13 audience while being, in my opinion, completely justified. Oh, some incidents are hysterical.

The funniest observations, however, are of his staff, particularly his regular (opposed to seasonal) employee, who gives as good as she gets both to her boss and to the customers. It’s a slice-of-life-in-a-small-town story as much as a view from behind the counter. My overall impression is that bookselling is not to be undertaken lightly. It takes a special breed to take up the profession ... but if you’re not worried about making ends meet and have the people skills to manage characters too colourful to be invented, then selling used books might be the job for you.

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

 

The summer heat has been so intense of late that I’ve been leaving my bedroom window wide open through the night ... for all the good it’s done. I prefer my room on the cool side anyway, but “cool” has not been in the cards for early September. Even with the window cranked as far as it will go, I’ve kicked the covers onto the floor more than once.

It got worse one night earlier this week. I was awakened in the wee hours by the stink of rubbish and old cigarette ashes. My room smelled like a dirty ashtray. Already crabby from the heat, I thought resentfully of the dumpster belonging to the apartment building next door. It sits in their parking lot (the site of many an interesting bang, crash or sneeze depending on the day) and had not, until that moment, made its presence so keenly evident. I promptly determined that the heat and humidity were responsible for elevating the pong and started to steam over having to live with the stench of other people’s refuse. How do communities deal with neighbourly disruptions of the olfactory sort? Was it something our society board could address?

Ugh. Dopey and pissed about it, I buried my head under my quilt and drifted back to fitful sleep in hope that the wind—any wind—might shift and clear out the toxic air before sunrise.

Well, it didn’t. In fact, it was worse when I woke up a few hours later. Crappage. I got up, got dressed, got the bears up (they were cranky, too), then opened the blinds to see a sickly pall lying over the ’hood.

Fog? I thought. In this heat?

Then it dawned on me. It wasn’t fog. It was smoke.

I wandered out to where Ter had just emerged from her vacuum-sealed room. The whole suite smelled like an overstuffed ashtray. “It’s the forest fires in Washington state,” she said when she saw me. We hadn’t realized (or I hadn’t, anyway) that pretty much the entire west coast of America is on fire, but more appalling than the unbridled greed of ravenous flames south of the border was my initial reaction to the news.

Apparently I live in a bubble so dense that the reek of entire towns being burned out and thousands of folks losing their homes is okay if it means it’s not the dumpster next door!

Honestly, Ru, really???

Once I realized how messed up my priorities are, I adjusted them most speedily. Understanding has helped me to accept the ongoing haze and lingering acridity ... but, confidentially, I am still relieved. When I figure out what that says about me as a person, I’ll get back to you.

One’s Own Path

 

I am the protagonist in my own story. I am also a sister, neighbour, friend, colleague, aunt, and life partner. I play “random stranger” in countless other stories, too. Sometimes I forget and try to solve another person’s problem, but ultimately, and as difficult as it is when I would take someone else’s burden on myself, I can’t walk a path set for someone else. I can only walk alongside.

The path analogy is certainly not new, but it became more clear to me during a flânerie some weeks ago. It was a gorgeous sunny day in the urban forest. The light was gloriously dappled a dozen shades of green. I was surrounded by towering firs and abundant foliage, yet I plainly heard other people’s voices all around me. Strangely (or maybe not, to those who know me), I thought of those who have gone before, the unseen souls whom I have loved and who yet linger to help me navigate my way through this weighty, challenging, fleeting and paradoxically interminable third dimensional existence. I felt their combined presence beside me on the spongy cedar path, but when I glanced around, I was alone.

I didn’t feel alone, though. That was comforting ... to a point. I realized facing front that even if I can’t see them, they stay a step or two behind because the path before me is mine. My hand will not be held and the obstacles removed before I encounter them. I have to test the footing and trip over the roots and choose which way to go when I reach a fork in the trail. The best they can do—the best any of us can do—is lend support and encouragement from the sidelines.

It’s a hard lesson. I can’t imagine what a parent feels like when their child falls ill. My mother blamed herself when my arthritis was diagnosed; she thought God was punishing her through me. I distinctly remember telling her this was not so, that my bones were my challenge. She felt the ripple effect, as did the entire family to varying degrees, but in the end all she could do was help me while I tackled the problem.

So it is with life. Each of us has a map to follow, sometimes with company, sometimes not. People come and go according to their own maps, and when all is said and done, a magical story will have been told.

Lightning Up

 

Sometime during the night following the Flyers’ elimination from the Stanley Cup playoffs, I decided to root full bore for the Tampa Bay Lightning. Originally, I only supported the Bolts until they served their purpose by punting the Bruins in their second round series, but I had also hoped Philly would do in the Islanders and proceed to face Tampa in the eastern conference final.

Dreamer! Silly little dreamer!

Without getting into it (because it still makes me furious), the Flyers pushed their series against New York to a seventh game, but it was only by the grace of Carter Hart that they got that far. We had no offense unless you count lucky bounces, though the defense was solid (Ivan Provorov’s got a great future), and we had a fairly effective penalty kill—but an utterly piss poor power play. The PP was so pp, in fact, that I groaned aloud whenever we drew a penalty. It got worse when, hoping to break the NYI shutout, Alain Vigneault pulled Hart with six minutes to go in the third period. “What are you doing, you fool?” I screamed. “The goalie’s the best man on our power play!”

So, the boys are off to the golf course and Basher is off to post-playoff therapy. Of course I’m a Bolts fan for the eastern final—I can’t abide the Islanders in any way shape or form. And in the west, I’d have chosen Vegas over Dallas, but now I don’t care. My Plan B preference had been for Vegas to go all the way, until I witnessed a cheap-o WTF? move by the Knights when they put out Vancouver in game seven of their series.

Give the Canucks credit—they went further than any other Canadian team and I’d have been delighted to cheer them to the Cup, if only. They had to call on their backup goalie when Markstrom was hurt in game four, and darned if Thatcher Demko didn’t stop all but one of something like a hundred and twenty shots over two games. You start to believe anything is possible when a team comes back from a three game deficit to force a seventh. But Vegas came to play, and they play rough. Not good rough, either. Not only did they out-bang the Canucks, they got away with some sneaky shots and won by a score of 3 – 0. They only beat Demko once, though. The insurance goal was into the empty net after Vancouver pulled him to get the extra man on in the last few minutes of regulation time. With eighty-some seconds left in the game, Vegas potted a second empty-netter and celebrated like they’d come from behind in the nick of time.

Really? A second empty net goal? Talk about rubbing it in—and while I may be a fan of the old Broad Street Bullies, I vehemently disagree with such poor sportsmanship. In my mind, what the Knights did in that last minute was naught but a poke in the collective eye of Canuck players and fans alike. Boo, hiss!

But, Ru, you ask, what happens if the Islanders beat the Bolts?

Don’t ask.

The bears console Basher after the Flyers are eliminated

Gardening

 

When Ter and I lived on Rockland Avenue, our little deck between the gables was bright with baskets of fuchsias, pots of pansies, and assorted other vessels containing greenery of some ilk. One year, pepper, tomato and strawberry plants jostled for position with the petunias, azaleas and marigolds. The yield wasn’t great, though what fruit we did get was delicious beyond description, and my lasting memory is of fighting to remove the strawberry plant at the end of its season. The thing had sent runners beneath the planks of the deck and what looked like errant strands of twine actually possessed greater strength than a pair of human hands; alas, we resorted to shears when pride was on the line.

I say “we.” I mean “Ter.” Gardening is a spectator sport for me, but she helped her dad grow veggies in the back forty when she was a little girl. And she enjoyed it! So the Rockland rooftop garden was her doing. As has been my habit from the start of our relationship, I merely enjoyed the fruits of her labour.

Genetics can’t play that big a role in the colour of one’s thumb, however. My wee sister would have a garden to rival Buchart’s if she had the time and energy. She once told me that she enjoys planting random things just to see what pops up, and last spring she created a box garden to grow her own vegetables. I can’t imagine where that impulse comes from. As far as I know, none my other sibs are horticulturists, and the family front yard was rarely more than mowed. I think Mum might have done more, but she had her hands full with everything else domestic, and Dad was not at all interested.

It seems Ter and I have each followed our fathers’ examples. I can’t be bothered to water one indoor plant let alone a bunch of them, yet any time we’ve been house-hunting, she’s hoped for a balcony or a little corner in the yard where she can tend a few herbs and flowers.

I am happy to report that—ta da!—we now have a balcony! It’s not a big one, but Ter has kept it vibrant with a variety of plants that gets switched out as the seasons change. She’s out there every day, watering the tomatoes, trimming the mint, and deadheading the pansies. As one flower fades, she brings another home to replace it. She’s never happier than when she’s puttering with her ... I want to say “pot” garden, but in BC that means something entirely different.

Let’s go with “container.”

59

 

The Year of WTF??? My annual reflection on where I am versus where I thought I’d be has been derailed by my father’s death, a global pandemic, and what appears to be the precursor to a second civil war in America. History is being made even as it’s being erased. Change is not only happening. Change has happened. There is no going back now—not that going back is ever an option. We don’t go backward; we go into retrograde. Maybe this time, the changes will stick. Maybe this time, real change will result. Healthy change. Universal change. Change for the betterment of all.

While I’m dreaming ... I’d like a pony.

Oh, it’s easy to be cynical. Even I, trippy hippy Ru, have slipped off course in the past twelve months. Change on the heels of change in the teeth of change has taxed my coping skills to the max. Exhausted, I lie by the side of the road and watch the landscape undulate like a stormy sea and wonder how the heck will I find the strength to adapt, assuming the storm will pass?

It will pass. It has to. It always does—but man, this sustained assault has me questioning my own sanity as much as anyone else’s. The world has gone mad ... and yet how many generations have looked at their world and expressed this same sentiment?

All of them, I bet.

Finally, finally, my sightline is starting to level. It’s hard not to look back, to stop reiterating the litany of struggle against, yep, change that began years ago with Ter’s retirement (but probably goes even farther back) and ends (one hopes) with Dad’s passing this past June. In between? Chaos. Massive continual upheaval in my family, home and professional life, not to mention the effect of COVID-19 on all of the above. A category four onslaught of a metaphysical nature that could have—and very nearly did—destroy me.

Melodrama, you say? Could be. I am a writer, after all. That has not changed, thank the gods. At times I wondered, even feared, it was not so, but in my soul, it’s what I am. Still and forever, whether or not I am productive.

Yeah, this past year has been a bit of a gong show. I’ve lost some ground, but I can get it back. It likely won’t take as much energy as I fear, either. With energy at a premium these days, this fear seems legitimate, but I also know fear is the means by which my mind tries to control me. My mind, and CNN.

Having accepted that I am not remotely close to where I had thought to be at the end of my fifty-ninth year (today being the first day in my sixtieth on the planet), it’s time to look ahead. I’ve no idea and even less control over how the greater world will look this time next year, but I do have a say in my corner of it. In my year to come, I hope for inner peace. For more serenity, more success, more love, more creativity, more kindness ... more me. By reclaiming Ru, I know I will be the better for it, and I kinda think the world will be, too.

A windshield take up significantly more space than the rearview mirror, so eyes front and bring me that horizon. Happy birthday, Ru.

With love,

Athletic Supporters

 

The Flyers have made it to the second round of the playoffs for the first time since 2012. They got past Montreal in round one, but now they’re duking it out with the hated New York Islanders, who are a much better team than the Habs. They’re also similarly matched with Philly—though the Flyers offense, which is more powerful on paper, would give us the edge if it was a bit more effective on the ice. We lost a meagre lead and ultimately lost game three, which shattered Basher’s confidence and means the Isles lead the best of seven series two games to one. Game four happens tonight.

I sincerely hope that Philly blows NY outta the arena.

As a pinheaded hockey fan, I wonder if the suspension of play for a couple of days messed with the Flyers’ momentum because they fought (and won) a super second game. Game three was scheduled for the very next day, then word came down that the NHL players were joining the NBA, MLS and (I think) MLB in support of their non-white teammates by suspending play for a couple of days. It’s messiest in the States right now, but systemic racism is an ongoing issue everywhere. Pro sports is as diverse an example as any—so while I may be a pinheaded hockey fan, I also applaud the players who stand in support of racial equality and justice for all.

Hockey, one may argue, isn’t that diverse given the vast majority of players are of European descent, but it’s also a very expensive sport and economic disparity is a product of systemic racism. Kids from economically disadvantaged families can’t get on the ice unless non-profits step up to help them with equipment etc. The number of non-white kids playing pro hockey is growing, but it’s almost painfully slow in comparison to other sports leagues.

How did we explain to Basher, who’d spent all day Thursday gearing up for it, why game three was cancelled on Thursday night?

The bears tend to disregard anything I tell them so Ter, being the Bear Whisperer, got down to eye level and gave Basher the news. She described the unrest and protests happening beyond our bubble, and how people are doing what they can to offer support where they can, including pro athletes. He’s a little, er, slow on the uptake, but as she talked, the other bears gradually abandoned their soccer game and gathered around to listen. Burl and Elliot are the troublemakers, but they’re also the quickest to grasp a concept. They were pretty blunt with their opinion of racist attitudes, but they are also part of a multi-hued ursine community and will notice another bear before they notice the colour of its fur. They just don’t understand social injustice or racial inequality.

They understand solidarity, though. When I got them out of bed on Friday morning, they had rallied the whole gang to the cause. I was unanimously advised to leave the soccer ball in the drawer of my nightstand. No football was played until the playoffs resumed.

Blue for Who?

 

Poor grammar in the title, I know, but bigger than that, there’s been poor language around our house of late. This past week saw our TV flipping between two channels: CBC (Hockey Night in Canada) and CNN (the Democratic National Convention). Granted, the poorest language occurred during HNIC as the Flyers tangled with the Canadiens and ultimately—by the skin of their collective teeth, by the way—won the first round. Round Two, against the hated New York Islanders, starts on Monday. This is where “poor language” will morph into full on “swears”, as Cardigan reproachfully puts it, and you just know he’s aiming the frown at me. The only time Ter uses poor language is when the goalie deserts his post in favour of playing the puck. She’s a Flyer fan by association anyway; her true heart lies in the west, with either Edmonton or Vancouver, and while she didn’t watch the Canucks’ first round, she’s happy that they’ve made it to the second. Against the defending champions, no less.

Meanwhile, over on CNN, the DNC provided an interesting diversion from hockey. I actually preferred the virtual format to the “live” conventions of yore; sure, it was a little odd seeing candidates and their advocates speaking to empty rooms but, for me, the speeches packed more punch without the distraction of a cheering, applauding, stomping, sycophantic crowd. (Let’s face it; no one at these things has come to be convinced. They’re already diehard supporters.) The Republicans get their airtime next week ... and I can’t imagine how on earth they will find enough to convince anyone in eight hours that the present incumbent deserves another term at the White House. In toe-curling fairness, they should be given equal time despite the fear of how high my BP may climb as a result. Coupled with the playoffs, the reading may spike halfway to Mars. I’m an avid orange supporter in one arena, but definitely not in the other.

Ter declared the other day that she’s keeping the blue polish on her toenails until November. With my head stuck in the bubble, I immediately commended her loyalty. “Good for you! Hoping the Canucks will go the distance, eh?”

“No,” she replied, “I’m hoping the Democrats get in!”

Priorities.

Food Porn XII

“COVID Cooking”

Enough already! I can’t eat any more and there’s no space in the freezer! And yet it seems wholly appropriate that in this tapsalteerie world, I have baked an(other) upside down cake.

It came after a crumble and two batches of cookies, and before a batch of muffins. The cookies were an experiment (plus I was bored with my tea treats): a basic cookie dough adapted for GF flour was riddled with chocolate chips and peanuts, and turned out so well that Ter and I had to do another batch to ensure the recipe would work with different add-ins. Baking is a science, after all. Chemical compounds can alter the outcome of the simplest recipe if you’re not careful. The white chocolate/cranberry dough baked up perfectly, but we’ve agreed it needs a hit of orange next time (and there will be a next time!) Maybe for Christmas, because now I have a zillion cookies to munch through. Ter isn’t a sweet fan, so I’m on my own.

The corona virus has taken us through rhubarb season. And what rhubarb! The stalks Ter’s brought from the grocery store have been two feet long, and she doesn’t skimp on the number of them, either. I’ve stewed it, roasted it, frozen it, and baked it into the aforementioned crumble. It also topped the bottom of the upside down cake, liberally dosed with chopped candied ginger and delicious with a scoop of Dulce de Leche Haagen-Daaz. Admittedly, the cake still tastes a little dusty from the GF flour. I haven’t figured out how to improve on that, but perhaps next time (and there will be a next time), I’ll put the ginger in the batter rather in than the under-topping.

The muffins were going to be “rhuberry”; that is, rhubarb and blueberry, until Ter confirmed my mental yellow alert and suggested that maybe blueberries wouldn’t be the best add-in for the rhubarb-based batter. “There are strawberries in the freezer, though,” she reminded me.

Problem solved ... you’d think.

Though whole when stirred into the batter, the strawberries melted in the oven, creating chasms in the final product. I popped a muffy from the pan and it promptly fell over on the cooling rack. They ended up topside down on the rack, which is actually more appealing than the right side up. The rhubarb compote I used in the wet ingredients has made for a weird grayish hue that cries to be hidden by some form of frosting. Maybe cream cheese?

I’m not the only one in the COVID baking groove, either. I don’t frequent the grocery store by any means, but each time I’ve accompanied Ter of late, the hunt for dark brown sugar has been futile. Flour, sugar and chocolate chips have surpassed bottled water and toilet paper as the hoarder’s supply of choice.

Just as well. I need time to consume what already exists before I crank up the hotbox once more.

maybe these have in fact been somewhat nibbled

Bibliography XIV

“The Starless Sea” – Erin Morgenstern

Beautiful imagery, enchanting vignettes, compelling story, too many twists and turns. I got lost three-quarters in and felt vaguely cheated at the end. Maybe I missed something. Maybe I expected too much—and yet the writing itself did not disappoint.

I confess, I was in a scattered state of mind when I read the book. In that respect, I disappointed myself. Still, the main storyline intercut with seemingly unrelated stories would have confused me anyway. Just as I fell into the rhythm of the protagonist’s tale, the momentum was interrupted with a story from another realm. Sensing that these unrelated fairy tales were relevant to the main theme, I trusted all would be revealed as I read deeper into the book. But in the end, I missed the point.

Don’t get me wrong. The writing is beautiful, as magical as in “The Night Circus”, but depending on the passage, there is either too much unnecessary information or not enough where necessary. I admire the author’s ability to put me in a scene where I can hear the merest whisper and smell the faintest trace of cinnamon, so I appreciated the experience of being there. I just don’t know why I was there in the first place.

Yes, I do. This is Erin Morgenstern’s second novel, and I loved her first so much that I’ve read it every Christmas since 2012. Eight years later, I still look forward to the annual delight. Expectations were high on this one; perhaps she felt the pressure and overcompensated. There is a lot of writing in this book. I think it could have been shorter and thus made more sense ... but perhaps, as I say, my expectations were too high. I just don’t know.

I will read a good book more than once. Sometimes it’s simply because I enjoyed it so much the first time. More often, it’s to get a better grip on the story itself. As with a movie, the first round is spent getting familiar with the characters, following the action and trying to predict the outcome rather than noticing nuances. Knowing how “The Starless Sea” ends (sort of), it may make more sense to me the second time.

Am I trying to avoid disliking a book I was so eager to read?

Maybe. I was so confused at the end that I couldn’t tell whether or not I liked it at all.

At least I’m willing to give it another try.

Elements

the view from my bench

One of the many magical things I’ve discovered about Esquimalt is the wilder side of Victoria’s Inner Harbour – this lovely little part of the Capital Regional District features a coastline of tiny mountaintops poking up through the ocean, gusty winds at unexpected intervals, and an up-hill/down-dale topography that provides a better workout than anything I could probably get in a gym. And the same stunning view of the Olympic mountains is as readily available here as it was from the Ocean Room.

A recent flânerie took me, with my Canon, down to Saxe Point Park, the “over the bridge” version of Beacon Hill that features far fewer flower beds and a slightly less cultivated atmosphere than my former stomping ground. I walked the park’s perimeter with the ocean on my right and the urban forest on my left, until I rounded the point and came upon a wooden bench situated with a rock rise at its back and a stunning view of the water out front. By then a rest was welcome, so I sat down on the bench and took a minute to absorb the environment. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath in, let it out, and noted:

The sun’s warmth on my face;

The air stirring in my lungs;

The rock solid beneath my feet;

The sound of water gently lapping the shore.

In short, it was a perfectly pure mindful moment in which I was acutely aware of the four main elements that makes this world so beautiful. Wood and metal were also present in the bench beneath me, but this Virgo counts them with rock in the “earth” category.

This dimension is fraught with contrast. Life is not designed to be easy, but our loving, friendly and generous Universe has provided a glorious venue in which to find respite from the human experience. All we have to do is pay attention to it, and to ourselves. We are connected to the earth in ways we don’t fully comprehend, yet that moment on the bench at Saxe Point defined my connection more keenly than any book or documentary ever could.

It must have done, because I’ve remembered it.

Knighty Night

Looking for something to watch one Saturday evening, we landed on A Knight’s Tale. It’s one of our favourite movies, guaranteed to make us laugh and cheer and all the other warm fuzzy things aroused by an entertaining story wherein an ordinary man overcomes all odds to become a champion. It’s bright, it’s funny, it’s touching, it’s loud; except for a bit of clunky writing in one spot, it’s the perfect popcorn period piece.

“I love that film,” one of us remarked when it was done.

“Me too,” the other replied. “We should do another one next weekend.”

“A knight film?” Since we have a number of them in our DVD library, it seemed a theme might be fun. We began listing titles—King Arthur (starring, appropriately enough, Keira Knightley, bwahahaha), Kingdom of Heaven, Excalibur, even The Court Jester, which led to a round of terrible puns that left us breathless with more laughter:

“Saturday Knight at the Movies.”

“Saturday Knight Fever.”

“Give Me the Knight.”

“Knights in White Satin.”

“Knight of the Iguana.”

“One Knight in Bankok.”

Okay, most of them are song titles, but you get the idea. King Arthur was screened the following week, and Kingdom of Heaven ran last Saturday. Excalibur may be up next, but while pondering further possibilities, I asked Ter if Jedi knights count; if so, the Star Wars saga will prolong the theme for a couple more months. And I almost forgot: Monty Python and the Holy Grail!

It’s likely no coincidence that I am currently writing a story about knights returning from the Crusades, but I do wonder which came first, the story idea or the movie theme. Whichever it was, something has sparked the creative impulse and on my week off, I intend to make it count.

Count. Hm. Ter and I toyed with viewing vampire movies before “knights” fell. Perhaps our next round starts with Dracula ...

Survival of the Flittest

not our visitor, alas

For weeks, Ter has talked about getting a hummingbird feeder. She’s ventured out specifically to get one more than once, but the line ups to get into Canadian Tire are around the block before opening time these days – you’d think the Leps were coming to town but no, it’s probably because the corona lockdown has everyone engaged in knocking home improvement projects off the honey-do list. The backyard will be the primary vacation spot this summer, so get that garden in order!

I digress.

Finally, Ter found a feeder somewhere else and brought it home, where it sat for a few more weeks on the table in a corner, cooking, as my grandfather said when asked why his new suit still hung, unworn, six weeks after purchase. (It must be genetic. I do the same thing; a new shirt is not new if it’s been hanging in my closet for a month before I wear it to work.)

I digress again.

The hummingbird feeder is a tribute to Mum, who enjoyed watching the little guys congregate around the feeder outside her window back in the day, therefore it seemed appropriate that ours be installed in time for Mother’s Day. A sack of sucrose crystals was purchased along with the feeder, so on the Friday preceding, Ter and I followed the instructions by washing out the feeder, mixing up the syrup (wincing slightly at the cherry Kool-Aid colour), and affixing some picture wire from which to hang the contraption on our little balcony.

Oh, yeah. The balcony. Well, the floor of said balcony is angled to allow for drainage when it rains (and when it rains in Esquimalt, it rains); setting the step stool in place took some finagling before finding a relatively flat surface. My balance is pretty good, but while a tumble over the railing from the second floor likely wouldn’t kill me, I’d rather not go there. With Ter at my back and the rail at my knees, up I went to hitch the feeder to its hook.

Ta da! Not a problem!

Within twenty minutes, we had our first customer, a sizeable-for-the-species specimen who stopped by to sample from three of the four ports before zipping off to wherever hummingbirds go after topping up their tanks. The same (?) fellow came by a few more times before nightfall, and has made periodic visits every day since. We don’t always catch him in the act, and the liquid level hasn’t dropped a whole lot, but he’s definitely around. And when the season ramps up, I hope to see a frequent flurry of the little guys. In fact, I’m inclined to sit quietly in a corner and watch for them – a meditative moment with Nature. And who knows? If I have the Canon with me, I might even get a picture. “See that little blur ... ?”

Come and get it, boids!

Cold Stop

In the radio biz, a cold stop means a track that ends abruptly rather than fading out. It’s synonymous with “cold turkey” for quitting a habit right now. It can also mean a sudden stop in motion, or stopping in one’s tracks.

Nothing positive ever keeps me awake. Even when anticipating something good, anxiety over what could (but probably won’t) go wrong will rear mightier and scarier during darkest night than is possible in the light of day. I don’t remember what I used in nights before I took the picture at the top of this post; it was snapped during 2016’s winter off Dallas Road and I’ve wrestled with nocturnal demons for years. But I recently found myself wide awake and freaking out around three in the morning; desperate to silence the internal screaming, I somehow managed to conjure the red lollipop in a blizzard and issue the mental command: STOP!

Imagery is power. My best defence against nausea is to picture brittle blue skies, silver-frosted streams, and glistening sun on ice-coated branches. Imagining the blistering cold of ice on my tongue and snow on my face is a sure fire means to quell the roiling threat of flu or food poisoning. So perhaps it’s not surprising that the picture of a snowy stop sign, accompanied by a firm declaration, startled my hysterical mind into silence. And in that instant, I was able to redirect my thoughts to something more pleasant.

Well, the only fiction that interests my night time mind is dreaming up the worst possible outcome in a real-life predicament – a scenario of which there are countless versions, might I add. It’s not at all compelled to consider writing the next scene or developing a new story idea. Ironically, there is no creative value in lying awake between midnight and six a.m.

So when I next find myself tormented by the insomniac game of “Worst Case Scenario”, I’m calling in the cold stop and going back to sleep.

Food Porn XI

“Ter’s Granola”

*sung to the tune of My Sharona*

What to do at breakfast time, breakfast time?

What will fuel me up when there’s no granola?

Toast or cereal is fine, either’s fine

But I’d really rather have Ter’s granola.

In a bowl, or a jar, with some fruit, strain some yogurt

Spoon it on for the crunch, for the sweet and the yum,

Yum yum yum, aye aye, whoa!

T-T-T-Ter’s granola

Ooo, the level’s getting’ low, getting’ low

When’s she gonna make me some more granola?

If she makes a batch to go, I say, “No!”

I don’t wanna share my granola!

Toasted oats, ginger bits, chopped pecans; shred coconut

Cinnamon, just a touch, for some heat with the sweet

Yum yum yum aye aye whoa!

T-T-T-Ter’s granola

T-T-T-Ter’s granola

Ooooo …

… Ter’s granola!

No Shoes, No Service?

Know what I like best about working from home? No shoes! Socks are optional depending on the weather, but they hardly count as restrictive footwear and besides, I had begun running around in sock feet at the office before COVID sent us into isolation.

It’s been a few weeks now and I’m getting into a groove. The bears are accustomed to me being here all day every day, so much that I wonder if I should make them all take the Oath of Employment, or at least of Confidentiality. Not that they (or I, for that matter) are privy to classified information, but what they sometimes hear could get me fired for being at odds with the party line. All government employees are at risk of biting the hand that feeds them at some point in their lives, and when you’re thirty years in ...

I digress.

Working from home is a notion I’d resisted for the longest time. I want to keep my worlds separate, and turning my bed/writing room into an office was a threat to that dividing line.

Turns out it’s not that bad. My office junk fits in a file box that gets hidden in the closet overnight and on weekends, and the government laptop, though hooked up to my personal rig’s keyboard, monitor and mouse during the week, is unplugged every Friday at quitting time and sits neatly atop my writing box, which is promptly restored to working order until Sunday evening. I have access to a kitchen shared with one person instead of seventy others – and that one person kindly does my lunch dishes in real time opposed to me doing them with the dinner dishes that evening. I take my morning tea with her instead of Treena, and have purloined a supply of loose Mumbai chai so I’m not missing my favourite despite missing the Blenz crew and my office buddies. I do communicate with folks on work matters, and visit the office once or twice a week to pick up supplies and go for a “real” Mumbai chai, often as a latte with extra foam, but overall ... working from home is working.

I do, however, insist on dressing as if for the office. Hair, bling, pretty tops and black jeans. It helps to hold that dividing line between the worlds, bare feet notwithstanding. Taking a walk after work also helps in shifting to “home” mode (I wear shoes then, or course). Do I want to WAH indefinitely, though? Not really. Part-time sure, but I am a social creature ... and some bears are getting too curious for their own good ...