Heating Up

Ridiculous. It's not even June. We're into our first heat wave of the year. Last week, we still had our furnace on. Yesterday, my neighbour turned on her air conditioner. I suppose I will have to turn mine on as well at some point to get rid of the moisture in the house. The temperature is in the mid-thirties, which is tolerable, but it's the humidity that sticks and drains the life out of you.

Looks like this wave will last about four days. This is day two.

Not an exaggeration any more when we say Southern Ontario has only two seasons - winter and summer. It's enough to make me want to move to British Columbia or Iceland.

But life goes on here.

I have my appointments today, going down to fix Mom's water faucet problem, and getting ready to receive our cousin late tonight. The Boy has his election "speech" done for the school assembly today. It's actually a rap, quite ingeniously written by himself. I was blown away when he did it for me the first time. He's well rehearsed now, including a late night call to Sis last night, and an early morning call to The Man this morning to practise.

The TTC is back to work today. Means I worry less about The Boy's ability to travel on his own. But it doesn't mean I trust the public transit system any more. Unions are great to protect the rights of exploited workers. But at some point, they outlive their usefulness. The workers they protect are no longer exploited. I mean, where else do high school graduates make $60,000 a year, with full benefits, working 35 hour week? Big unions have now become more of a threat and nuisance to essential services.

Is Harper right, that we all turn Conservative sooner or later? Can't be. But these big unions that support the NDP sure make it hard for voters not to give the enemy more serious consideration. My disillusionment continues.

Strike That

A public transit strike took the city by surprise this morning. Because 800 mainenance workers wanted a better deal with the city, 700,000 commuters are left to find their own way to work, to school and to make it to their appointments.

The Boy phoned his school to see if there will be a regular school day. He was told yes. But his school isn't a neighbourhood school. 80% of the students commute in, some from as far away as Oakville. I drove The Boy in.

What kind of society do we live in that employers and schools expect people to show up as usual when their usual means of transportation is not available? That they should show up as usual when there is a snow storm or hurricane. I blame our go-go-go-man-over-nature-every-man-for-himself-only-our-individuality-counts mentality.

Yes, we strive to do our best, yes, we embrace productivity and efficiency, yes, we want to prove we are in control of our destiny. But where is the balance and acceptance that we are part of nature, that our strengths and limitations are rooted in nature. And what are we all rushing so fast towards?

Easy for me to say as I sit home while most people are at work. But maybe that's one of the reasons I am not at work. I have opted out of a mindless race that has no identifiable or enjoyable end. Sometimes it feels like the choices are, harmony and freedom or survival? But those are the wrong options. Can we thrive, with harmony and freedom? I think that is the quest.

Coming Of Age

I attended a bat mitzvah this weekend.

Most of the service was conducted in Hebrew. Despite my not understanding the service, I found it warming. I like rites of passage. They give structure to our existence and guide social conduct. I like that because my friend's daughter had turned twelve, the parents had gathered all their friends and family to witness their daughter embrace the duties of womanhood, that of observing the commandments in the Torah.

One group of Native people - can't remember Indian or Inuit - sends their adolescent boys into the wilderness to find their spiritual mentor in nature. This is usually an animal that symbolizes the young adult's character and strength.

Christians hold Confirmations. Like the Bar Mitzvah or Bat Mitzvah, the Confirmation is the final step in bringing a young person into adulthood, the bestowing of Christian duties on a person.

Someone told me once of a custom where the father, on his son's 16th birthday, takes the son to a brothel, where a woman of experience initiates the son into manhood.

The Chinese make the transformation from childhood to adulthood through marriage. You become an adult only when you get married. As a married person, you no longer receive lai see (lucky money pouches). In fact, as an adult now, you have to give lai see to unmarried friends and children.

The Man's cousins once gave a large party for their 21-year-old son. It was a coming of age party, where friends and family gather to congratulate the young man for entering adulthood. No ceremony, just a party and good wishes.

All of this makes me think how to mark The Boy's coming of age and when to herald it in. There is a cost to the freedom and independence we enjoy in secular North America. We have pared down the communal rituals and ceremonies that mark significant events in life to birth, marriage and death. Nothing much in between. Kind of like, you are born, you live, you die.

I will have have to invent some more, especially for The Boy. I think it's not a bad idea to gather our community of family, friends and neighbours to embrace The Boy becoming a man, to have him reflect on how he wants to conduct his life. No, no, no, circumcision is not a good idea.

What The Dickens

The Boy told me a funny story last night about a grade 11 student, Marvin. As a culminating activity in English, he had to make a presentation to the class about a book they had read. When the students were seated, the teacher said, "Okay Marvin, you're up."

Marvin, not having done his work nor read his book, had no material to present. He said to the teacher, "Okay, but can I go to the washroom first?" The teacher said sure.

Marvin then ran as fast as he could to the library and got on the internet. He thought, "Let's see, the book is by Charles Dickens so there must be a class theme." He googled "Class Prejudice Dickens", clicked on the first item that came up and printed it. Then he ran back into the class to make his presentation.

Facing the class, he said, "In Dickens' time, there were many classes of people." He drew four squares on the board, labelling the first Upper Class, the second Middle Class, the third Lower Class, and the fourth The Rest.

He glanced at his printout and picked up a word. He said, "It was impossible to move between the classes because they were locked." He drew a door in each square, then a lock on each door.

"But according to..." He referred to his note. "According to Professor Stanley from Sandford University, you could move to a different class if you had the key." He drew keys to each lock.

He went on this way without ever referring specifically to his book. Half the class was bent over with silent laughter. The teacher sat and listened with a grimace. When he finished, he thanked everyone for their attention and sat down. After class, he said to his friend in the hallway, "What was the name of that book we were supposed to have read?"

The Boy said Marvin had set a new standard of unpreparedness. Maybe. But you gotta give the guy credit for being quick and ballsy, and having general knowledge of Dickens. Can't wait to hear what grade he got.

Layering

In addition to making soccer banners, I am now making "pins" for The Boy's election campaign. He's running for V.P. of the student council for next year. They are actually cardboard medallions hung on a piece of bright yarn. He's handing them out to everyone at school to wear. Did I come up with a winning idea or what.

The gardening is an endless job. I trimmed the cedars today with a buzz saw. I can't quite reach to hack the tops of the trees off. They have grown wild and woolly, compete for sun with the crabapple and maple trees. Stupid trees all of them, surely the weeds of the tree family. I am considering an extension to our shed. Maybe a second floor of sorts. So I went to look at lumber today. I think I can do it. It's a question of whether I have time before The Man comes back. He will object for sure. So build an extension or buy a plastic storage bin?

Our cousin Kiki is coming to town at the end of the month. Our cousin. She's actually The Man's cousin from Australia. But he's not here. So she's my cousin now. It's weird. I feel like she's coming home. I'm making The Boy clean his room so she can sleep in there. The Boy has been occupying the basement for two months now so he won't feel inconvenienced. In fact, this gives him a legitimate reason to not sleep in his room.

Despite these goings on, nothing could stop me from joining Taximan, Bro Bro and The Assistant for pho today. I brought my own pho trough. But it is too big! I am still so full I cannot eat dinner. But I feel a need to eat fruit and drink tea, so as to rebalance the flow of energy in my body or something.

And now, I need to meditate.

Lost and Found

It feels like I haven't seen The Boy for days. I see him, dashing in and out of the house, but I haven't talked to him except for quick exchanges of scheduling information. He's been busy with school projects, rehearsals, performances, and school council activities.

Last night, The Boy and friend Butterfly Boy, left the school when their part of the performance was over. They charged into the house at 9:57 pm, just in time to see Taylor Hicks win the American Idol crown and to catch the season finale of Lost. That's what they timed their day's activities to - making it back to watch Lost.

I don't watch Lost so I don't know what their hooting, hollering and shriekings of "Can you believe that?" were about. But it's nice to have found The Boy and his friend again.

Paint By Number

This is what I know: artists often aren't able to carry a project through from conception to production. I know this because I've worked with desginers. But I'm cool as a cucumber when there is a crisis and I am good at improvising, coming up with alternate ways to get the job done. And when I work with someone who doesn't freak out when things go wrong, we do good work together.

I spent the last few days making soccer banners. The artist had come up with a beautiful design and colour choices. But the execution of the banners is a nightmare. Having painted them all brillant colours, we found the stencilling method the artist provided for doesn't work. The stencil simply isn't stiff enough. It curls up at all the wrong places. We were supposed to spray glue on the stencil and adhere it to the painted banner so we can spray in the soccer player and ball. But the glue doesn't hold, and white sticky blotches smear on the painted surface. The paint given to us to spray with? It runs.

As if the process wasn't manual enough, we now trace the soccer player and ball onto the painted surface with a marker, then we colour in the figures with a brush. There are 38 banners to do. We haven't figure out how to do the lettering yet. But I suspect we will use a permanent marker on top of the acrylic paint and just write in the festival name and date. The festival starts next Friday. It would have been better if we had the banners done and up already, but as it is, we are more than half way there with the production.

Still, the banners look amazing, from afar. But I marvel at why the artist thought his process would work.

Lilac Quest

Victoria Day weekend. According to garden centres in town, this is the long weekend people start working on their gardens. I didn't know there was such a protocol. This weekend, I joined forces with my neighbour and stole away to the garden centre together in the middle of the day.

When we create our lives, we put into it the things, activities, thoughts and people that we like. Sometimes, we go into new, unexplored areas. Oftentimes, we rely on what's tried and true, especially what's familiar from our childhood. No different when we create our gardens.

At the garden centre, my neighbour and I wandered through the rows of plants, shrubs, and trees, each looking for a new experience in cultivated growth, while hoping to run into a bit of our past. Neither of us really knew what we were looking for. Neighbour relied on the little information sticks that come with each potted plant, that of pictures of flowers in full bloom. What else do I have to go by? she rationalized. I looked at those tags too, but for information on sun requirement and size of plant when full grown. I had woodland plants in mind.

And then, we saw it, our common quest. We saw the lilac trees. Some were already in bloom. We inhaled. It was a blast from the past, with a hint of the future. Neighbour's father grows lilacs and roses in his garden. He gave her a rose bush last year, but she's always wanted a lilac tree. Only, she's never bought one because her husband is allergic to lilacs.

When my family first came to Canada, we lived in a house that had lilacs in the back. Everyone had lilacs in their backyards. In fact, lilacs were in many front yards, street corners and public parks too. As a 10-year-old making my own way across town from summer school, I often followed my own lilac trail on city streets and in back lanes. Those were fragrant days of carefree meandering, discovering the different ways home in the big city. Over the years, many lilacs disappeared as the city grew bigger.

This weekend, Neighbour and I each bought a lilac treeling. Lilac vulgaris, the most common and most fragrant variety of lilacs. She took her plant into her garden and put in the very back, as far away from the house as possible. She said to her husband, It's just a plant. I rearranged my garden, again, and put it in the only sunny spot the garden has.

Now we tend the plants. This year's planting has barely begun. Already we await next year's bloom.

Neophyteness

Being new at a job has its challenges. There are many things you don't know until you actually do the job and make mistakes.

Being new at looking after my car, I ignored its sudden sluggishness. Bro drove it and said, You may have lost your turbo. Then one of the headlights went out and the windshield fluid stopped spraying.

So I was forced to bring the car in to the garage this morning. The mechanic and I went for a spin, he checked several things, then said, Nothing wrong with your turbo, but your car is sluggish. He checked the oil. I didn't have any. He checked the windshield wipers. They were broken. He checked around the car. I pointed to a gap on the side. He said that's the molding beginning to fall off. I said sometimes water gets in the car when it's raining, even when I have the window closed. He looked at the rubber trim around the window and said, Look how dirty that is.

So I left the car in his capable care. Those were all maintenance issues I didn't know to keep an eye on.

For the rest of the morning, I wanted to work in the garden. I walked to the local garden centre and bought a cartful of plants. The plant lady said, Make sure you ruff up the roots and spread them before putting them into the ground.

As a new gardener, I didn't know I had to do that. Now I have to go back and dig up all my plants to loosen the roots so they will grab onto the soil.

At the cash, it dawned on me, How will I get all these plants home without the car? I'll have to walk the trip several times. The plant lady said, I trust you so I'll let you wheel the cart home. But you have to promise to bring the cart back. It costs me $200.

No problem there. I carted the plants home then brought the cart back. I'm so glad that despite being in mid-life, there are still so many things to learn, so many opportunities to learn them, and so many people willing to lend a hand.

I Can Be So Pissy

I can be so pissy and judgemental. I try to live and let live, but it's hard sometimes. Even when I know I am passing judgement, I can't help it.

I was in the supermarket today in the vegetable section. The green bean bin was full. But the beans looked rather...mottled. A big, slovenly man stood in front of the bin, picking over the beans. Here's the judgement: If I were to identify which of the shoppers were on welfare, I would have picked him. He picked up the beans one after another and threw most back down, keeping only the healthier looking ones. I thought, My god, why doesn't he climb a beanstalk to choose his beans.

I looked the batch over. Not liking what I saw on top, I dug my hand in the batch and pulled out the beans from the bottom. They were very good looking beans under. So I scooped up what I needed and left. As I was doing this, the man had stopped moving and stared at me the whole time. I could sense him turning around and watching me as I left. My thought was, You creepy looking guy. Instead of fingering all the beans, why didn't you just dig up the better looking ones at the bottom, or didn't you think of doing that.

I passed back his way shortly after. He was still standing at the beans. This time, he's taking the beans I had pulled up from the bottom and snapping the ends off each before putting the beans in his bag. I thought, This is a very slow man and not very bright. But smart enough to know he doesn't want to pay for the ends of the beans because that's like paying for refuse. But it doesn't mean he should leave his garbage for other shoppers to sort through. So he's dumb, poor and self-centred. It's people like him who make supermarkets pre-package all their produce. But what's with the supermarket dumping bad beans on top of good ones to force customers to pick through them? It's like one wrong leads to another.

After clearing the cash, several people were stalled under the supermarket's awning, afraid to run to their cars because it was pouring rain. Two fat young women with dyed hair were hugging their shopping bags and whining loudly about the rain. I had parked far from the exit, closer to the garden centre. When the rain lightened for a sec, I made a run for the car. Five minutes later, as I drove by the supermarket exit, the rain had stopped. The two whining women crossed the road to their car. It was parked right in front of the exit! It would have taken them less than 10 steps. By young women, I mean they were adults, probably mothers, certainly old enough to drive. So what was with the whining?

Sometimes, it's so hard not to pass judgement.

The Rain In Spain Came To Stay

I'm working with a friend to create 19 banners, each approximately 2 ft X 4 ft, for an upcoming soccer festival. Here is the design that the artist rendered.



We are using old banners purchased by another organization, but that organization, being generally nasty and unfriendly to their customers, the local residents, must never find out we are recyling their cast-off materials. We are painting over them and stenciling in the lettering, soccer player and ball using spray paint.

So this afternoon, despite the forecast for rain, we set to work. We painted all the vinyl banners on both sides grey, covering up all the colours and lettering of the previous design. When they dried, we painted the background colours. So far, we've done the orange and green. That's as far as we got today. Even though the sky was overcast all afternoon, neither my friend nor I believed it was going to rain. I mean, c'mon, it's rained for almost a week now, it has to stop some time. It was so warm and sunny this morning, how could we believe it would really rain?

But at some point, the warnings from the sky became more ominous. It started spitting. Still, I thought, it's just teasing. But we had the good sense that it was getting on to 4 o'clock and we need to let the paint dry on the one side before flipping them over to do the other side. So we started putting things away.

As we wrapped up, the sky spat heavier. We hurried. And just as we got the last piece into the garage, the sky went KABOOM and down poured torrential rain with such hefty force we were unable to run into the house from the garage. We started laughing. How lucky was that! We lost no work.

Finally, we braved the rain to run into the house, then we braved the rain again to run into the car so my friend could drive me home. It was one of those rains where your wipers are going but you can't see anything in front of you. The car crept along slowly, moving only when we could see a clearance in front. Good thing we didn't have far to go.

Once I got into the house, thunder clapped and house lights flickered to signal my return. I realized I was covered in paint and hadn't had lunch. The Boy would be home soon; I may even have to pick him up from the subway. Better put my mothering hat back on.

Vampire For A Day

I went to see the optometrist this morning. I hadn't been for years and I have this thing in my eye that wasn't impairing my vision, but it feels like sand when I am tired.

The optometrist put drops in my eyes, looked into my eyes, had me read, etc. In short, a regular eye exam. I don't remember having had so much done in his office before. But then it has been six years since my last visit. After the eye drops, I waited to get the back of my eyes photographed. Two technicians came up, peered into my eyes and said, Nope, have to wait a bit more.

I thought, What are we waiting for? What were they looking for in my eyes? So I looked into the mirror behind me. I have never seen my eyes look like that before! The pupils were these dark dots in the middle of my eyes. Were they bigger or smaller? I couldn't tell. I have just never seen the different parts of my eyes so distinctly before. Finally, one technician looked into my eyes, then lead me into a room to take the photographs.

After, as I waited to see the optometrist again, I took out my book to read. My page was a blur of print. Funny, I didn't feel any differently, but I could not see the words on the page no matter how far or close I positioned the book for focus. Another optometrist walked by and saw me struggling with the book and my vision. He gave me a pair of viewers that you hold up to your eyes. It was instant clarity. The words suddenly jumped back onto the page within the frames of the viewer. Pure magic.

In the end, there is nothing wrong with my eyes. I have pinguecula, a benign little fatty deposit beside the cornea that grew from too much sun, wind and dust. I cannot have it removed. If it starts to grow and attacks the whites of the eye, then I can have surgery.

As I prepared to leave the office, the receptionist said to me, Do you have your sunglasses? I said, No, I didn't bring them. She gave me a piece of dark film shaped like glasses to put over my eyes. She said, You'll need to cover your eyes when you get outside.

I had no idea what she meant until I walked out into the sunlight. Ahhhg. I buried my head under my sweater and cowered in it, wondering what had happened. This must be how a vampire feels. The sun stung the eyes so and I couldn't keep them open. Even if I tried, I couldn't see a thing, I was blinded by the dazzling light. I felt like I would melt. I have never experienced blindness before. I put the film of shade over my eyes and again, instantly, my world transformed. I could see again. So I wore that film of shade home, looking no doubt like an illiterate vampire.

Muddy Shoes and Happiness

Again, I borrow from Alexander McCall Smith. This time, it's because I've been tracking mud all over the house and my garden is coming together.

I sat in the backyard for a bit this afternoon. Sitting there, looking around, there are some things I like very much about my backyard despite its lack of landscaping and the mud having deposited itself where it shouldn't.

The yard has a certain look and feel. It is our style - The Man and mine - of mostly wild and woolly order. It is created partly by intent and partly by neglect. In the garden's managed chaos, I carved out order with a set of flowers here, some plants there. But it's mostly The Man's influence of designating sections where certain types of plants go that has imposed the most order of the disorganized kind.

I've spent the afternoon edging, weeding, sweeping and getting rid of more garbage. The overall effect of the garden is a reigning in of wilderness, reflecting more of my nature than I readily admit.

This yard is actually quite a marvellous creation. When we bought the house, the yard was nothing more than a mount of dirt, literally. Over the years, we've created a tamed wilderness where blue jays, cardinals, swallows and sparrows fly about, and at night raccoons and skunks come visit.

But the thing is, when I sit there and look at the yard, it speaks to me and tells me what needs to be done to it, and I feel happy.

Never Return A Dish Empty

Yesterday, I got The Boy to returned a plate to one neighbour and a bowl to another. In each dish I placed a fruit and some candies. My mother saw me do this and asked me why. I've been doing this for so long with my one neighbour I had to think about how it got started.

My grandmother used to do that, put food or lucky money in an empty dish before returning it. She said it's bad manners to give someone an empty dish. Receiving an empty dish is bad luck - it signals a bare table and hungry stomachs. If someone's been kind enough to give food to you in their dish, you must not be so ungrateful as to give them the bad luck of returning the dish empty.

A few years ago, I sent some Christmas cookies to my neighbour. She returned the plate the next day with a few of her own cookies and a fruit. I asked her why she did that. She said, It's an Italian custom that you never return a dish empty; it's for good luck. I said, Us too, except no one I know practises this so I haven't done it. But since that day, when we return an empty dish to each other, we put something in it. Gradually, I've extended that practice to whoever I return a dish to.

In the initimable style of Martha Stewart, it's a small thing, but it's a good thing.

Frick and Frack: Women With A Barrel

I've had a few successes lately. I patched a hole in a wall, I've put in flowers in the garden so much so that a real estate agent came by and said my flowers in front had raised the price of our house. Spurred by yesterday's success of patching a much larger section of a wall, I decided to re-jig my potted plants.

You know those half wooden barrels? We had one in front of the house. I put a rhododendron in it this year, with white impatiens around the rim. The barrel bloomed pink and white. But I decided what I really wanted was to move the rhododendron to the back garden and grow a climbing rose in the front instead. I bought a second wooden barrel.

Well the rhododendron was already in the barrel so the climbing rose had to go in the new barrel, right? That required me to move the rhododendron barrel to the back garden so I can put the new barrel in its place in the front.

I slipped some small plastic wheels under the barrel, disturbing many worms and had to run away to shake off the heebie-jeebies. I wheeled the barrel along the concrete walk beside the house towards the back. A piece of the bottom fell off. Damn. If I could just get the barrel to the spot I was aiming for, a fallen bottom is okay. But no go. The concrete walk ended and I was on soil and grass. The wheels wouldn't budge. I moved the barrel off the wheels. More of the bottom fell off. Now the barrel sat bottomless in the middle of the driveway. If I lifted the barrel, the soil in it would fall out.

I stood back and surveyed the situation, pacing the side of the house. A neighbour came by to see what I was in such deep thought about. When I explained my situation, she said, No problem, we just need the barrel and soil to stay in tack long enough to move the thing 20 feet to the spot you want. We can do it!

Sure.

She rolled up her sleeves and we lifted the barrel. More soil fell out. Then she had the brilliant idea of rolling the barrel on its side. So we did. Soil tumbled out from both top and bottom of the barrel now. To prevent damage to the flowers, I took the rhododendron and impatiens out. We rolled the barrel on its side again. With little soil and no bottom to give the barrel shape, the barrel planks collapsed in a heap.

Now I had a huge pile of soil at the entrance to the backyard, a heap of unhinged wood, and a rhododendron and impatiens unearthed. What to do?

My neighbour said, I'm going home now. So she did.

Then she send over a slab of pie to make me feel better. And you know, it did.

This morning, it occurred to me that all I had to do was transplant the flowers to the new barrel and left the old one where it was. My task today: buy a new barrel to replace the collapsed one.

The Worms Were Out!

After every rainfall, greenery in the city seems more abundant, livelier, glistening with lushness. All the trees and bush and flowers and plants and weeds stand taller, as if in full bloom. I'm good with that. But I swear the vines in our backyard stretch their tenacles taller and straighter into the sky. Scary. The leaves on our Maple tree are larger today than yesterday. And so too are the worms. I'm not good with that.

Because I've been gardening, I've come across many worms in the last while. They creep me out, all slimy, wet, shiny and mottled, as if you're looking at someone's intestine writhing and curling about on the ground. Every time I move a pot or a stone, I see a worm under. My stomach does a little flip and I put soil over it to let it slither back into the earth. I make allowances for them being there because they are in the garden.

But I hate walking down the concrete sidewalk and having to hop over giant worms laying about. How did they get on the concrete where they don't belong? When I see one on the sidewalk - no, not one, they are usually in clusters. Are they party worms? - fear and anger take over me. Fear because they are slimy, slithery, wet, ugly and disgusting. I fear they would creep into my ear and eat my brain. Or I accidentally inhale one and it gets stuck in my sinuses. I can't eat when there's a worm nearby. But anger? I feel the sidewalk is my space. I leave the garden to them, they should leave the sidewalk to me.

They are the only creatures I see lying in the middle of the road and I see a car coming and I don't even try to get them out of the way. In fact, a gladness comes over me that another one got squished. So unbuddhist of me.

Early Morning Rain

We had a tremendous rainfall last night. I was awakened by the pounding and pouring in mid-slumber. Because of the rain, I received a knock on the door this morning at 7:15.

I was still in bed, in that half awake state, debating whether to get up now or in a few minutes. At the first knock, I thought, It must be a mistake, it's just the wind knocking things about, it sure blew hard on our door knocker and from a weird angle to make it sound like someone is knocking on our door.

When the knock came a second time, more determinedly, I had to admit this was an intentional knock by someone outside wanting my attention. I looked out the window and saw someone in a green shirt. It's funny. Though I couldn't actually see his face, I knew exactly who it was by his shirt.

The family next door has had some trouble lately. Two months ago, the sister and mother were in a car accident. The mother died. The sister received a hip replacement and spent two months in rehab. A second sister came in from Hong Kong during this time. She and her brother - the man who knocked on my door this morning - took care of the house and their sister in rehab. When Sister One came out of rehab, the retaining wall in their backyard collapsed. I've chatted with them and gave them some suggestions for repairing the wall. They are now working with their neighbour to the back to fix it.

In the last two weeks, I've seen Sister Two and Brother out all the time, tying up wood and garbage from the wall. Sister One also goes out each day with her walker for exercise. It's unusual to see this family out, they have been so reclusive in the past. Maybe we've just kept different hours. But I know it's more than that. They stay inside the house when they are home. Me, I stand outside and talk to my neighbours. Plus little kids on our street call on The Boy all the time because they like to hang out with an older boy who's fun and entertaining with little kids.

What I notice about the family next door is, Sister Two and Brother wear the same outfits all the time. It's like a uniform. Sister Two wears a teal track suit. I recognize her way down in the street by the flash of teal going by. Brother wears a bright green shirt and blue jeans. I see him in the back clearing wood by the bright green flash through the trees. In the last few weeks, I have never seen them wear anything else.

So I saw the bright green shirt at my door and knew it was the man next door. Knowing how little they like to socialize, I suspected it was something urgent that prompted a knock on my door at 7:15 a.m. in the pouring rain. He muttered nervously to me that he wanted to go into our backyard to fix the downspout because it was draining water down their wall. I said, Of course and led him through the back.

To my great surprise, it wasn't his downspout he wanted to fix. It was ours. It had come off at the base and rain poured out from the pipe flooding their yard. The flood was at the foot of their wall and would next flood their basement from their basement entrance if the water was not diverted. He picked up the spout on the ground and re-attached it to the portion on the wall. Then he moved my propane tank that I happened to have filled but neglected to put away under the spout to keep the two pieces in place. Now the water will run to the middle of the yard, safely away from both houses.

I apologized for not knowing about the broken spout and neglecting a house repair that caused the flood. He apologized more profusely for calling on me so early in the morning. Orientals and Canadians. Both known to wear apology as a cultural badge of honour. Being Oriental and Canadian at the same time means apologies spew quicker than flash lightning. So much shame for doing the neighbour wrong so early in the morning.

Good thing I know how to use use the drill gun now. I will need to bolt the downspout pieces together as soon as it stops raining.

The Art of Drywall Repair

I patched a hole in a wall today. I have to go back and sand it, then put drywall compound on it again to smooth out the spot.

Know what the secret is to doing a good job? You have to have the right tools. Then you gotta know how to use the tools.

I read up on how to repair the patch. It was a 4" x 6" spot and quite indented, a large enough hole that I needed to square it off and cut a piece of drywall to fit into the square. The instructions call for me to insert a piece of wood in the hole so that the wood sits inside the wall. Then I screw the wood to the wall so that the wood is secured. Next I insert the square of drywall and screw that to the wood. It was quite simple really.

But I realized after a bit of struggling I didn't have the right drill bit for my screws. So I ran down to the hardware store and bought one. Then I had the worst time trying to drill the screws into the wood. It just wouldn't go in no matter how hard I pushed on the drill. I even had mom hold the wood steady while I tried to blast my way in. We decided the wood was too hard. And here I thought pine was a soft lumber.

After a while, having made more holes in the wall than was necessary, I gave up in frustration and disgust. It was when I cooled down that I fiddled with the drill and somehow, drilled a screw into the wood. I repeated the action to see what I did. Turns out I had to reverse the drill direction to get the screw into the wood. The problem was, I just didn't know how to use the drill.

But now that I figured it out, I am ever pleased with myself. So the patch went in, the drywall tape went on, the compound went over.

Encouraged by the progress, I tackled a second spot, which I thought just needed some compound smeared on top. But when I pressed on the wall, it crumbled in my hand. The more I touched the wall, the more of the wall fell off. That section of the wall had gone soft and moldy. When I pulled the rotten parts out, I could see that the wood under was still damp. This was now a large hole. More accurately, it was a 3 ft x 1 ft opening to the wall studs.

I left it to dry and will tackle it another day. I am fearless now.

Argh

My mother has a way of conveying information that makes me panic. She delivers her news urgently, as if the situation needs to be rectified immediately or it'll be too late. She shouts out the information without context. It requires detective work to decipher what she's talking about. The phone call today.

"Hello?"

"Wah, $550 this month for the hydro. Why is that?"

"Your hydro bill?"

"No, why would I use so much hydro."

"Whose hydro bill?"

"The rented house."

"I don't know why it's $550 this month."

"It's never been that much before, never in the 20 years has the hydro bill been that high for that house."

"Someone must've been using the hydro a lot, or you are being charged for something else."

"What are they doing that uses so much hydro?"

"I don't know."

"Call them to find out."

'I'd like to look at the bill first to see what the charges are."

"Call the hydro company and see why they've billed me so much."

"I want to look at the bill first."

"We have to sort this out right away."

"I'll be there Wednesday, so I'll look at the bill then."

"But I got the bill today."

"It can wait till Wednesday."

"Okay, nothing else I could do then."

I bet she's phoned my sibs and thrown the same problem at them.

Rhapsodic Blues

Dinner's on the stove. I am waiting for the marinate to cool so I can pour it over the salmon filets. There are nine of us for dinner tonight. I've invited my neighbours to the right and to the left over. They are bringing dessert. The Boy has helped clean up and is now doing his homework as we wait for our guests to arrive. He's asked me to show him how to do some special effects in PowerPoint for his English presentation. When did he learn to use PowerPoint?

Despite my being the sole chef right now, I don't feel alone. I'm often surprised how social a creature I am despite my quiet nature.

I was telling Bro today that while meditation is a solitary activity, I am hooking up with a friend to do it together. In fact, we are joining a meditation clinic to meditate with a group. He said, Masturbation used to be a solitary activity too, but now there are jerk circles.

I don't think you can compare mediation to masturbation. Or can you? Both are personal experiences, supposedly requiring some degree of privacy. While meditation does not exactly require social engagement, there have always been temples where monks gather as a group to meditate. Can the same be said for masturbation? Or is that called an orgy?

But the point is that we are social beings. Even Bro, who claims to hate people and thinks everyone is an asshole, admits that. Though he prefers his social circle small. Me, I generally like having lots of people around me whether I am engaged in their activities or not.

We had a great dinner tonight. My neighbours and their kids are gracious guests. I like that we all sit at the table, adults, teen and kids under 12. The kids are well-behaved. They are now playing Scategories, at The Boy's instigation. Noisy and argumentative. I like the sound of lively enjoyment in our house.

I have not joined their game. I tell them it's because I am bad at it and I am a sore loser. But it's really because I want to give my spot to the 9-year-old, who's trying to follow the game with her own set of cards. And I want to sit back and take in this moment of merriment gathered at my dinning room table, a canvas in the warm glow of our pod lights.

Some of them have now teamed up. The two adults and The Boy are each on their own. The 11-year-old and and 10-year-old have joined forces. The 9-year-old is helping her mother. The 6-year-old is playing with toy soldiers on the floor and he's giving me a play-by-play of his battle.

In my mind, the background music to this scene is Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue.

Life Imitating Itself

These last few days have been exhausting. I hurt all over. That's because until today, the weather's been glorious. Truly my favourite weather - warm and sunny without humidity during the day, dips much cooler at night so you still need a blanket.

I've been gardening. Weeding and garbage clearing actually. I had to do it. The vines in the garden were so overgrown that they had taken over the entrance gate. We could not open it without snagging the growth, and we cannot pass through without getting entangled. But in the process, I've killed off good plants I'm sure. It's distressing when I cut dead vines, then discover they are not dead. They just haven't sprouted leaves yet. That must've been how I killed our clematises last year. That's why I'm not seeing any this year.

The garden centre lady said to me, "Taking care of a garden is like taking care of children. You have to help the garden get rid of the bad things, put in a good foundation for healthy growth, keep nurturing it and train it to grow vibrant. Otherwise, you just get wild weeds that are hard to kill because they can survive in poor quality soil."

The Man took up flying fishing a while back. Mark Kingwell wrote a book called Catch and Release. It's about trout fishing and the meaning of life.

How often have you experienced the phenomenon of using the same recipe as someone else but cooking up an entirely different dish? Someone told me once it's not the ingredients or instructions, it's how much TLC, how much of yourself you put into your cooking.

And what about sleep? Sleep is a reflection of how you conduct your life. Those who lead healthy, productive, satisfying lives sleep peacefully and wake up refreshed. Those who carry unresolved issues have disturbed sleep and thrash about in bed. Bah, I hate this one.

Is everything in life a metaphor of itself?

In The Company Of Cheerful Ladies

I know I am borrowing from Alexander McCall Smith again. But what can I do when the man comes up with titles that inspire me?

When the Fab5 sisterhood gets together, especially after the sun goes down, and the night is warm, and there is wine involved, we let down our hair. Okay, more like, I slouch and take up smoking, which I only do in the company of a certain woman. I hope she quits smoking soon for both our sake. You hear that?

But my sisters drink and they like to talk over each other and argue even though they are saying the same thing. I can't get a word in. I am quieter by nature, but more often, I just don't see the point. I mean, why would I want to argue when all sides are saying the same thing and I like that differences are the flavourful spices of life?

Okay, maybe sometimes I egg them on. But only because my sisters are so thoughtful that they stop their ranting and proselytizing to ask me what I think. Really, they need very little help to be on their way.

Take last night. No, no, can't divulge details because we have a secrecy pact.

Once the sun went down and the wine came out, there was much laughing and crying in the backyard. We talked about sons and lovers, and mothers and sons. I saw that each of us loves our husband, that between each couple, there is a deep, tender connection. I know that from how we say what we say about our husbands, and what we don't say about them. When I see the interactions between each couple, they substantiate one's value, compatibility and significance in the other's life.

All four of us have first born sons, all in their teen years now. We each have a fierce love for our sons rivalling the love for our husbands. Is it because they are our sons, or is it because they are our first borns? Each of us deals with the separation of mother and son differently; we are different women, the boys - young men now really - are different people. I think each of us shares the same angst. The young boys that we had such an intense bond with are now creating lives of their own over which we have little influence. I sure hope the fathers have a better grip on their sons entering manhood.

As these conversations raged on in the dark, black cats prowled for worms, men ran away, boys and girls were sent away, there was smoke all around, and finally, some of us stumbled about in the street in the wee hours with sore feet and broken toes. It was a grand night. I love these women.

Full Cupboard Of Life

Life is good. In the course of a day, a week, a month, certain periods in our lives, we laugh, we cry, we get angry, we feel lonely, we feel at one with the world. I would rather have the full cupboard of life in my kitchen, to borrow from The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency. My cupboard is pretty full. Yes, life is hard sometimes, tears are therapeutic, and we'll all be fine.

Today, after The Boy left for school, I went into his room and saw this.



I am so not going to clean it up because I want to give him heck when he gets home.

I have often complained about the hydro wires that hang above our streets. They are ugly and make me think we have not advanced much since the turn of the 20th Century. How come we can send people to the moon and we can't make our streets prettier and safer? Apparently, the concern is cost. It's expensive to bury hydro and phone wires underground.

So when a friend sent a note to tell me about the possibility of funding such a project on our local main street, I dashed off this letter to city hall to give my support.

I understand a motion will be considered by the Works Committee tomorrow to secure $11.6 million through Development Charges to underground hydro wires and improve street lighting, road surfacing and sidewalk construction on St. Clair Avenue.

Even as a teenager in Toronto, I have felt the hydro and communication wires that dangle above our heads on city streets are unsightly and dangerous, visually keeping the city stuck in the early 20th Century and undermining our sense of community intelligence. Toronto cannot be a safe and trusted world class city when visible signs of decay and danger literally hang over our heads. Right now, residents and visitors look up not to magnificent architecture backdropped by a blue sky but to a tangle of old wires that you hope will not fall on your head when the wind blows.

The St. Clair Right Of Way project now affords us an opportunity to rebalance our cityscape at least on St. Clair. Burying hydro wires as part of the project is a cost-effective use of time and public money and poses less disruption to businesses and residents in the community.

Please convey my support for funding to underground hydro wires and improve St. Clair's streetscape.

I'm trying to figure out what to do with my violas. At the garden centre this morning, I had my eye on black clovers and black pansies. They were beautiful. I loaded up my cart and started for the cashier. Then I saw the woman who tends the shop and started talking to her about trees and shrubs that will grow in the shade.

In the course of our conversation, she convinced me my problem is not lack of sun. It's poor quality soil and the Manitoba Maple roots competing with whatever I try to plant. I put back all the black plants; they would surely die in our soil before the summer is out. Right there in the garden centre, I started to design a Japanese rock garden instead. Ain't easy being an instantaneous designer without experience or knowledge. I need to do some research.

But I couldn't resist the black flowers and the warm orange ones. So I came home with some violas for my pots.



And I am looking forward to having dinner with my Fab5 buddies tonight, though there will only be four of us. We are trying out the fancy new local dig.

All in the course of a day.

If

I just know my shrink is going to tell me I suffer from penis envy. I've been seeing Dr. Noggin more or less regularly for over a month now. I don't know what happens in his office. I have yet to not cry when I am there.

This week, I talked about my regret at not being able to give something back to my father before he died, that I would have liked to take him to Australia, pay for his trip and accompany him on the trip, especially when he was in remission from cancer. I should have fulfill my filial duty and serve my father better in his last years. I balled my eyes out that I hadn't been able to do that.

But I had not given that regret much thought. I hadn't thought about it at all - not this week, not this month, not since my father died. Then I went into the doctor's office and started talking about it.

I also told him that as the first born, I've always felt it was my duty to look after my parents, that maybe it would have been easier if I had been a son. I don't know why I said that. I have never wanted to be a man. And I felt quite relieved and felt a solidarity of support when my siblings demonstrated they would take an equal part in caring for them. But I guess that came later. In my formative years, I certainly felt it was my responsibility to look after my parents, and my siblings for that matter.

And I guess I wondered if I would have done a better job of taking care of everyone if I had become a lawyer, if I had been a millionaire entrepreneur, if I had been a son, what if I were a robot, if...

This must be how therapy works. Having talked about it, and now having written about it, I see how unreasonable it was that I should feel responsible for so many people's well-being. My expectations are unrealistic. No epiphany. I've suspected this. But I've never felt it. Now I do.

A Gathering Of Women

It's been windy all day up in the eagle's nest. The babies have not hatched yet. The latest from CBC is that one of the eggs is missing, though I clearly saw two yesterday. They are also saying there is only a slender chance that the baby will survive. How cruel.

I had lunch at our local Thai restaurant today. To the restaurant's credit, the place is clean and light, the service friendly and efficient, offering good food at reasonable prices. No instant food keeping warm in the kitchen waiting to be put on plates here. You know your food is freshly prepared because sitting at the table, you can hear the chef in the kitchen chopping on a wood block and clanging his woks and dishes. Exactly the kind of place a lone woman would go in the middle of the day in search of food and rest.

So into this restaurant I walked at lunch time. There was a lively chatter between three lone women sitting at different tables in the small restaurant. One woman was about 60, the other two in their 40's. Two other couples at their tables politely kept to themselves.

No doubt these women started a conversation because they were enjoying their food so much, they had to exchange comments of appreciation. They may even have consulted each other on what to order. The clean and safe environment of the restaurant promoted socializing.

When I ordered Basil rice with chicken, the woman who sat closest to me said, "Oh that's good. I had that too." So I kind of joined their conversation too.

When one of the women got up to leave, everyone exchanged names, expressed their appreciation for the good food once more, promising to see each other again next time they're in. My food arrived. The two remaining women sat together to continue their converation so they wouldn't be shouting across me to talk to each other. The older woman was telling the younger about her travels with her husband.

It was pretty neat, this little restaurant being a gathering place where lone women find company over lunch.