Lunenburg Lost

This is Lunenburg, a very pretty town.


But it's not the town I visited years ago. It's not that I want to stop progress to satisfy my nostalgic fantasy, but the touristy Lunenburg of today makes me cry. Makes many of the locals who grew up in the town cry too. One of the shopkeepers told me so.

Twenty-three years ago, we were two young women in our twenties. We went down east because we had never been before; we went without a travel plan or knowledge of the Maritimes. We drove into Lunenburg because someone at a gas station told us it was where the Bluenose of the Canadian dime was docked. Having nothing better to do, we went.

The charm of Lunenburg of old is that it was a thriving working waterfront. Townspeople built boats, fished, and transported lumber. My friend and I drove into town and saw a large dock with boats tied to shore. The roads were barely paved. We came down a bend into the dock and stopped inches from falling into the water. A fisherman waved us back and told us to park anywhere, just away from the dock.

I was looking into a backyard of colourful boats. The front view was from the water. Bustling activities, mostly of people and nets lined the dock. Horses and carriages pulled kids and wood and other cargo along the streets. Someone hauling a fishing net down the street told us they had been that way for 200 years and we should go look at the houses. People make a fuss about them for some reason, he said.

The houses were wooden shacks, brightly painted. I walked on narrow, winding dirt roads with houses that opened right onto the street. I felt apologetic as I trespassed on people's front yards. We asked where we could get some coffee. Someone suggested a diner might be open. It was the middle of the afternoon.

We stood on the street, holding our coffees, looking down on the dock. Tall masts and sails went every which way as people below them moved calmly about. I remember thinking, This is a time warp. How long will this place be undiscovered?

As we drove into Lunenburg this week, we first passed through Chester and Mahone Bay with their refurbished million dollar homes on the waterfront. Oh there is the charm of a well-to-do cottage town, and I picked out a place called Hairy Kids so The Boy can stop for a haircut on the way back. Lunenburg still had colourful houses, newly painted. The roads were paved streets with sidewalks and parking meters. Shops were everywhere, selling sportsgear to gifts to designer shoes.

The Bluenose was home, with a young crew of yuppy puppies welcoming visitors aboard its clean and sparking decks. A pay parking lot fronted the harbour. Restaurants lined the dock. Lunenburg has been gentrified, sanitized and Disneyfied.

I went into the Bluenose Shop where a woman sold souvenirs. I told her the Lunenburg I visited years before was very different. What happened? She said, The downturn of the fishery. When fishing dried up, Lunenburg almost died. What saved it was in 1995, the town was declared a UNESCO heritatge site, and some people came in to start new businesses. They still have bits of fishing and ship building, but the invisible industry is software development. That is, there are people in town who develop computer games. The town welcomed in tourism out of necessity. So Lunenburg survived when many older towns in Nova Scotia simply died.

Lunenburg is still pretty. It's just that the way of life the town symbolized is gone. What we see today is a ghost of its former self. It's hard not to lament a loss so unique in Canadian history.

This is the bend my friend and I came crashing around years ago.


That part of the once vibrant dock is now closed.


Further down is where the Bluenose is now docked.


With restaurants and shops facing the waterfront.


But in around the back streets of the town, the houses are still pretty, some quite grand, and more colourful than before.








They repaint the houses often. Here's someone doing just that.


As if the town would forget that fishery is an important part of the town's development, one of the church's steeples wears the sign of the fish.

Home

I guess three weeks with his parents is too much for The Boy. He missed his friends so. Three days ago, he was anxious to come home. He's planned an outing with his friends for Thursday night. Eager to comply, The Man drove as fast as he could and got us home Wednesday night.

The trip was enjoyable. But I agree with The Boy. As we got onto our street, he rolled down the window and said, Hmmm, smell that pollution. Just before we got out of the car, we did a group hug and he said, That was really fun and I am sure that we all look forward to not seeing each other for the next four days.

Now to download my photographs.

Future By The Sea

One day, I am going to relocate to Cape Breton Island. Summer temperature is rarely over 30C, winter is never colder than Montreal and they get powdery snow - the kind you can do stuff in. Alexander Graham Bell retired here because he read a book where the author decribed Baddeck (B'Deck, accent on the "deck" as in G'day) as a town where everyday is like a Sunday.

I am stunned by the physical beauty of the land - a perfect blend of mountain and ocean. We went through the Cape Breton Highlands National Park drive yesterday. That ride along the Cabot Trail is magical. I feel like I was on LSD - everything just seems so poignantly beautiful and majestic. The road is cut into the sides of the mountain. Every time you come over the horizon you gasp at the expanse of nature, height and harmony. I felt no fear of the cliffs; I even ran down one to pee so I wouldn't be seen from the highway. There is a peace and orderliness that I like, and still that capacity for unpredictably savageness. But any violence from the sea is contained by the mountains. I am absolutely giddy when I walk on the beach. I think that must also be why I like the Bay of Fundy. The waters are contained in the bay.

We saw pilot whales north of the park. On the way back, we saw a mother bear and her two cubs frolicking in the bush.

At the IT centre where I am using their internet service, they have a job board. I looked through it to get a better sense of what kind of work I could do out here. I could apply for a position as a researcher and program developer for Parks Canada to develop interpretative programs for their Alexander Graham Bell centre, at the smouldering wage of $9.75 an hour. Sigh.

But one way or another, my future home is where the mountains and the sea exist in harmony.

The House That Lucy Built

When I last visited PEI. I remember driving with a friend, looking for the Cavendish beach to hang for a couple of days. En route, driving on a dirt road, we came across a sign that said Green Gables. Thinking it must be Anne's house, we turned to follow the sign and drove up in front of a house. We went in and were told indeed, we were in the house that inspired Lucy Maud Montgomery to write about Anne of Green Gables. In the Anne fiction, that was the house where Anne lived. I remember thinking at the time, You'd think they could give better directions to this house so the visitor doesn't stumble upon it by surprise.

Fast forward 23 years. That'd take us to this week. We drove through the town of Cavendish. The main street is part of the highway 6, with Anne, Green Gables, Avonlea, and Village shops vying for attention. The poor visitor has a hard time separating the real Green Gables from tourist traps. Highway 6, or Route 66? I half expected a giant Anne head attached to the ground - the way giant hot dogs or ice cream cones are plunked into the ground - with her braids turned up, waving at unsuspecting passersby who subscribe to kitsch as a way of life.

When we got to Parks Canada's Green Gables, I see it is the same place I visited 23 years ago. Only we were travelling on a concrete highway, there were huge signs pointing the way, there was an entrance gate with a parking lot rivalling Casino Rama's, a gift shop, a visitor's centre, and an introductory movie. The grounds are well preserved. No, not preserved. Created. Created to be pleasant walks, with posts and fences, signs and explanations, steps to preserve the walk, benches for the weary. What the grounds have to do with Anne Shirley is kept secret from me.

The house is newly wallpapered, all wood shelves are woodblasted to reveal fresh grain. They have an industrious housekeeping crew, for the house is truly a pristinely kept...historical site, where a non-existent person lived. The whole Anne thing has become cartoon like, a parody of itself.

Still, PEI the island is beautiful. I love the grand open skies, with nary a tall building in sight. I love the rolling, pastural fields of different colours and textures. Every turn we make on the road opens onto a postcard moment. I keep threatening to bring home real lobster traps, to start a maritimes theme in my garden. We've had several lobster meals. The best one by far was when we bought cooked lobsters and fresh oysters from the fish market and ate them on a picnic table beside the harbour. The Boy shucked his first oyster. I'm working on him and The Man to better tackle a lobster in its shell.

The Tides Of Fundy

I absolutely love the Bay of Fundy. It's a miracle of nature that the tides go out and come back in everyday. I know it happens wherever the ocean is. But the bay is somewhat special. Everywhere you look are water falls, rolling hills and pastoral flats of green and water. Covered bridges are a common sight; Madison County should blush at its silly boast. Yet, you know that simmering just beneath the surface is a storm waiting to rage. It's the seeming peaceful waters that I love, knowing the same water can be so potently violent and unpredictable.

The Boy stood in the ocean floor and waited for the tide to come in. Within minutes, the water went from his shoes to his knees. He kept saying we have to come back with his cousins next year, Kid1 and Kid2, and in fact, why not organize our annual group camping trip at the Fundy Park. I think that would be a blast.

There is a town called Alma, just outside the park. We had all our meals there. Lobster dinners are available everywhere. I am trying to not overeat, as I already look well fed. There are houses on cliffs that overlook the tide. I want a house there, where I sit and really focus on writing.

But this is what I notice about New Brunswick. Despite all the efforts by the Maritime governments to promote tourism, the service industry in fact isn't quite prepared to receive customers. Every person, whether in a restaurant, tourist booth, or gas station, wears that Twin Peaks stare. It's a wait, size you up, then act friendly. I keep thinking behind their forced friendliness, they all belong to some midnight cult, and when they stare at us, they are really trying to decipher if we are one of them. Or maybe they just feel their land invaded by city folk.

We had lunch in a family restaurant once. The Boy ordered caesar salad and something else. The waitress came back after a while and said to us, We don't have Romaine lettuce so we sent someone out to get it. Later, she came by and said, We couldn't get Romaine lettuce, so do you want Iceberg lettuce in your caesar salad instead? It's quaint and all. But she might as well have said, Do you really want to eat here? We have a sacrificial ritual happening in the back and you're kinda in the way right now.

Today, we made it to Charlottetown, PEI. It's nice here, but it's not the Bay of Fundy. Even though the tide also goes in and out, and you get the greenery, and water is not far away, I am not as enamoured with PEI as I am with the bay. I don't feel the potential for violence in the air. I need to know passion lies beneath my feet.

Out Of Montreal

We're lost in Canada. We were. But we've found ourselves again, many times. This is what I know about The Man. He drives without knowing where he's going. When he says he needs a navigator, he really needs one. But he's a poor planner. For example, he drives off in the car, throws a map at me and asks me to tell him which way to go. I look at the map and say, I don't know where we are on this map, and I don't know where we are heading to on this map. That's how we ended up skirting Montreal for an hour before leaving the city.

The Boy is more in sync with The Man. He has an excellent sense of direction and seems to recognize street names and directions just like that. Once, when we were lost in Montreal, he directed us back to the loft. I don't know how he does it. The Man says if he ever goes on the Amazing Race, he wants The Boy with him.

But I still like Montreal. Aside from the Botanical Garden, we went to the Museum of Contemporary Art and saw amazing Italian designs. The things I saw made me happy - a mix of...I'm glad people are around to tend to the functional design side of life and a kid in a candy store kind of happy. I bought a sugar dispenser. The Boy has taken to mimicking me when I get excited.

On leaving the city, The Man filled up on gas while The Boy and I went into the store attached to the gas station. As he drove the car to a parking spot, the gas station owner came running after him asking if he intended to pay for the gas. I can imagine how embarrassed The Man was. But we got everything sorted out. Expensive gas.

We went to a friend's cottage in Quebec's Gatineau hills for Monday night. Beautiful cottage, beautiful kids. Wonderful hospitality, just like you'd find in the Middle East. So very hot today. 45C factoring in the humidex. Swam in the lake and didn't want to leave.

We are now in Quebec City, trying to act normal.

Each To His Own

We tried to catch the end of the Just For Laughs festival. We missed the free street performances, which ended July 23. But there are still some indoor shows on. We called for tickets for La Clique. Ah but they told us the show was sold out, and besides, it's entertainment for those 18 and up. Why? It's a burlesque show! No, they would not let The Boy in even if he is accompanied by his parents. Just as well. I don't want The Boy to think we make a point of lying about his age (as if he could pass for 18) and push and fight our way to get him in to see sex shows.

Well, there is the Outgames, the first althetic competition for gays. There is Twist Week - all night parties and a gay day at the beach. There is also Divers/Cite and Gay Pride Celebrations. Yup, we made it here for Pride Week! These three events take place in Gay Village. True, that's what it's called.

But our plans took a different twist. Last night, The Boy was watching a movie on his DVD player. He cupped the head of a halogen lamp into the front of a drawer to shade the light. I don't know why he didn't just turn the light off. The lamp burned a dark stained into the designer wood. This is The Man's cousin's designer loft. After her generous offer to let us stay here, the last thing we want is to burn her place down.

This morning, I got dropped off at the Botanical Garden while The Man and The Boy set out to find a solution to the burned drawer. No sense in all of us fretting in the heat. Good thing too. This excursion was one of the most satisfying and nourishing things I have ever done.

I am totally swept away by the different gardens and most impressed with the Chinese Garden. For one thing, I have never seen a real lotus. I never knew the flower grew on a stem way above water.





The Chinese Garden. It's called the Dream Lake Garden. The whole thing has the feel of the garden in Dream of Red Chamber. Long story.










I read that the Rose Garden was designed with the blind in mind. The designers wanted the blind to be able to walk through the garden following their nose only. I totally get it. At every turn, you are hit with a whiff of rose scent. Have I ever mentioned that I find the unscented flowers in supermarkets most unnatural?




I decided I like ferns, alot.


One of my favourite.

A Taste Of Quebec

I'm in Montreal right now.

We spent the night at The Man's cousin's in Hatley, an hour and a half outside of Montreal. Every time I go into one of these small towns, I think, Why am I not living in one. For one thing, when you drive around the bend, you see rolling hills and lush fields. In her one-acre backyard last night, golden finches were singing in the trees. She lives in a century old home and has decorated the place with old country furniture. You know, the kind of furniture you see in souvenir shops that look so charming and you wonder where you would put the piece in your house if you bought it. She's pulled that look together.

The cousin also owns a loft in Montreal, where we're staying till Monday. It is a beautifully designed and furnished place. Little wonder. She used to be an interior decorator.

I would make a poor tourist guide. We've been to Montreal before, yet I have no recollection of how the streets work and where things are. I see lots of construction in Old Montreal and directed The Man to drive the wrong way down a one way street until a bunch of people yelled, Hey wrong way. The Boy took the map from me after that. But I did get the map back from him later and put my eyeglasses on. And you know, everything looked so much clearer with no need to strain or squint at all.

We're gathering our wits at an internet cafe right now and devising a plan to take in more of Montreal.

And Away We Go

It really looks like we'll leave for PEI in the morning. 6 am. That's the plan anyway. I've had the delays I needed, now I just want to go and have fun.

A three-week outing, just the three of us. I am concerned about lack of energy, and the fact that every time I leave town, someone in my family ends up in Emergency. The Man thinks we need to build in alone time on the trip. Agreed. The Boy doesn't want too much historical tours and arguments. Agreed. We all aim to have a blast. Agreed.

I am leaving behind my mother, who is in the midst of an allergic reaction to her new cholestoral medication. What can I do for her when she's already in the capable care of Sis the doctor and Bro Bro the pharmacist? Maybe to accompany her to appointments if needed.

We leave The Boy's voiceover project. The studio has asked for our itinerary in case they need to fly out to meet us and do some more recording.

The Boy's friend, Jock, who has proven to be a most charming and articulate boy, will look after the house and plants for us. I have every confidence he will prove to be capable and responsible.

I leave two projects on hold. One to host a gathering to introduce our electoral candidate to our neighbours. We want her to unseat the current councillor at City Hall in November. The other to help promote and organize a dinner for an Asian scholarship.

I turned down an invitation to do an art course at the Haliburton School of the Arts because I'll be away.

Oh dear, I still sense some reluctance to go. I wonder why.

But maybe I'll get to visit internet cafes and write about my trip down east. Okay, let's go.

Cicada Moulting

As we gathered our things, preparing to decamp, Leiceshire Lilt took her pack off the tree and noticed a big brown bug drop. It landed on a black bag below the tree. She called out, Come see what a large bug!

We gathered around the thing and exclaimed, What an ugly bug. It had a huge head and four eyes. Bug Lady, who knew all about dragonflies, petted the bug's head. Then we made jokes about the bug being an alien.

The next time we looked at the bug, its head had separated into two. It was now a four-eyed, two-headed bug, one head on top of the other. That's when Bug Lady shrieked, This is not an alien, this bug is moulting.

We oohed and aahed around the bug. What is it? A giant cockroach? A junebug? Someone determined it was a cicada. Over the next two hours, we watched the bug's amazing process as it shed its old body and grew into a new one.

Here are the photographs Bug Lady took.

By the time we took the camera out and set it up, the bug had already come out half way. Note the tiny green things on its side.


Front view. It has come out some more.


Look how the green wings expand as it pushes itself out of its old body.


It is now mostly out.


It has fully detached from its old body and moves backwards.


It rests on its old body for a while. As it waits, its wings stretch.


See how its wings are almost full size and the bug's new shell is hardening.


A little while later, it walks over its over body and away...


...to inside the bag where it's protected. It hangs upside down, probably to let its wings dry and to wait for its new shell to harden some more.


Here's the discarded body.


Later, Bug Lady put it on the tree. See the camouflage.

The Good Rock

I had no idea how prophetic my last post was. The camping this weekend certainly was not wild.

We had checked the weather before departure - clear and hot all weekend. We rented canoes - $40 a day. We brought food - each person was assigned one meal. We were six women, geared for camping in the wilderness. The newcomers were very fine women of good humour and enthusiasm. I had nothing to worry about. Our destination: Rock Dunder, a property owned by a land trust near Kingston. This was a field visit of sorts. Rock Dunder is one of the projects that my friend's environmental fund gave money to earlier this year.

We arrived at the town dock in two cars. The director of the land trust told us our camp site is a 10-minute paddle from the dock, directly across from the first cottage. 10 minutes? cottage?

In fact, the paddle was no more than 5 minutes. From our site, we could see the dock, as well as four other cottages across the lake. The site had a huge rock that served as our patio. We sat on it often and dubbed it Siren Rock. The rock had marshy water on one side, and zebra musselled rocks and seaweeds on the other.

No sooner had we pitched our tents when motorized boats came screaming down the channel to the city dock, waterskiiers were towed by smaller crafts, and fishing trawlies wafted across the lake surface. I could see this was going to be an atypical camping trip. I mean, we were 5 minutes away from cars that could take us into restaurants in Kingston.

We went swimming. The water was warm, no, hot. It was like swimming in soup, it was hardly refreshing. Still, it's a giant bathtub I wouldn't have access to in the city.

Finally, we settled down to a hearty bowl of soup and saw this spectacular sky across from us.



How does it go? Red skies at night, sailors' delight?

The night was a disquiet one. Despite being deet-soaked and covered in netting, mosquitoes buzzed at my ears, making sleep under the open sky impossible. I finally crawled back into the tent where the buzzing stopped and I fell asleep to the sound of two frogs burping to each other, loons calling, and a large animal splashing in the water.

The next morning, the sky was overcast. We made french toast and coffee, packed our lunch, then headed out to climb Rock Dunder. We paddled an hour to the end of the bay and explored a cave. I had not brought my camera on this excursion so I have no pictures of the cave. But many before us had come to this same spot, climbed in, and wrote their names in huge letters across the cave. Brad had been there, so had Joannie, as had Kyle.

Then we went along the steep and weedy side of a moutain-like coast till we saw an orange tag tied to a tree. That was our entrance to the Rock. This was also the spot where we had our water mishap. Our budding Bug Lady fell in the water when we disembarked from the canoe. Ah but she was none the worse for wear. She simply said, A little water never hurt anyone.

Our Bird Song Lady walks with a cane. She hesitated about climbing the Rock. But we were there and she felt brave so she climbed the Rock all the way, reaching for a helping arm occasionally for balance.

At the top, we came out to an incredible field of large rocks, with blueberry, chokeberry and blackberry bushes growing in crevices. The vista looked down to the waters and trees of Whitefish Lake. This is what we had come for - to see this magnificent view from atop this rock.

Bug Lady and I pranced from boulder to boulder, peering over the edges to see whether the rock plunged down to your death or to the next rock. Soon, we realized we were the only two running around. The other four stood way back where the berry bushes grew, clustered together. Ha, they're afraid of heights, though neither Bug Lady nor I pointed that out to our companions.

We picked berries for breakfast, ate our lunch, then got back into the canoe. It rained for the rest of the day.

Back at camp, Bug Lady and Tree Hugger volunteered to go pump for drinking water in the rain. They took the filtration gear and set out in the canoe. Twenty minutes later they were back, with the 5-gallon jug filled with cold water. Wow, did they pump fast! No, they laughed. They saw some cottagers out on their dock so they simply paddled up and asked for water. The cottage owners were happy to help out as they receive water service from Kingston. Besides, how could they deny water to women in the rain.

All in all, it was a good trip, mostly because the company was great fun. Though we did comment that it wasn't exactly wilderness camping we were doing. It was more like spa camping. But next year, next year, we go to Killarney where only Northen Lights and flash lights may shine at night.

It's Not The Camping That's Wild

I am going away in the morning with two women I have never met before, again.

A few years ago, my sister-in-law asked if I wanted to go wilderness camping with her and some friends. I said yes. In the middle of the planning, she bowed out. But I stayed in. That meant I was going away for the weekend, to live in the bush, with women I didn't know. A few days before we left, these women revealed they were vegetarians. No protein and hanging out with vegetarians in the woods for a whole weekend? I had my doubts.

But I braved it out. Fortunately, these campers turned out to be excellent women - smart, funny, and easy-going, and not overly strict or preachy about their vegetarian ways. That year, I came home four pounds lighter! And I had fantastic fun with them.

So I've been camping with them each year since. I think this is our fourth year together. One year, I was partnered with a woman quite a bit older. She was a senior citizen. Oh you laugh, but I think she was a trooper, keeping up with the paddling and portaging. Okay, I did most of the paddling and lugging of stuff.

This year, there are some new campers. One of them has had a hip replacement and can't walk much. There are two women I don't know. They are picking me up in the morning. I will be driving with these strangers for a few hours and spending the weekend with them. I wonder if I should be worried.

A Birthday Walk

I had a birthday recently. The three of us went to a lobster dinner on Baldwin Street. Then we walked back and forth on Baldwin checking out the changes since we were last there.

But it wasn't the recent changes I saw. It was the long past I remembered. When our family first arrived in Canada, we landed in a house on McCaul Street, around the corner from Baldwin. Although I had been on Baldwin many times since we moved away, this was the first time I looked at the street with eyes from forty years ago.

The street didn't have all the shops it does now. In fact, most of the houses were residential. The apartment complex across the church wasn't there. The only store that was there was the variety store The Man walked in to get a newspaper. Same location, same business, different owners. The current owners are Oriental. Back then, the owners were white, the store without its stark fluorescent lights and much lively than it is now. It was our bread and milk store.

Dad was around of course, a young man of forty, with a wife and four young children. Each day, he gave me $1 to buy bread and milk - 25 cents for a loaf of white bread, and 75 cents for a gallon glass jug of milk. Oh the confusion and suspicion when the jug went to plastic.

We rented our house from a family who lived on Spadina, north of College. We lived on the ground floor - the four of us in the front room (the living room), my parents in the middle room (the dining room) and we cooked, ate, and did our homework in the kitchen. We rented the second floor to another family with six children, and the top floor to two university students.

In addition to renting out most of the house, dad held down two jobs to support us and make a go of it in Canada. He came home after 1 am every night. Often, mom waited up for him. He would sleep in during the day, getting up about 11 am to start work at noon at his cousin's grocery store as a delivery man, hauling sacks of rice over his shoulders to Chinese families.

Then at 5 pm, he'd go to the restaurant where he worked as a waiter till midnight.

At some point, he started coming home late. Sometimes, not till morning. Dad had joined a mah jongg club. A gambling joint. He said it was all very innocent. A men only club. He smoked, played mah jongg, sometimes cards. How mom and dad fought then. Mom didn't like being left on her own day and night. Dad said he needed to socialize, to unwind from the long day's labour. Sometimes dad lost a lot of money. Their fights got worse then.

But somehow, dad saved enough money to put a down payment on a house and we moved. Then we brought my grandmother and uncle to Canada. I wonder if dad's life had unfolded the way he had hoped. I wonder if in his wildest imagination he could have seen how his children would grow up. He told me a few months before he died that he was pleased with how we turned out.

It's funny that despite all the new shops and activities on Baldwin Street, it was my dad's absence I felt, remembering that he lived around the corner with us, forty years ago.

Butterfly Boy

That silly Boy and his friends. Butterfly Boy is one of my favourite.

The Boy made plans to spend the day with his friend, Handsome Dancer. But he hadn't okayed it with us first. The Man put a break on his plans and asked him to paint the front porch. The Boy did so without complaint and did an amazing job. Then The Man drove him to hook up with his friend.

Handsome Dancer was already at another friend's house. There, they watched some TV and ordered in Chinese for dinner. After, The Boy and Handsome Dancer went clear across town to visit Butterfly Boy. That's when The Boy phoned home to check in. He left a message on the answering machine telling me where he is, filling me in his plans for the evening and when he'd be home. At the end of his message, I heard Butterfly Boy say, I haven't talked to your mom for a long time. Let me talk to her. So he left me this message:

Hi Sylph. Hope you are having a good summer. It's good to see your whole family together again. I just want to say that your son is an amazing person. In fact, a masterpiece. So good job on that. We are very good friends. Okay, bye.

This message made me laugh, in a good way. On the one hand, I feel I had been Eddie Haskelled. But Butterfly Boy is a special kind of boy. For one thing, he hugs me every time he sees me. He's smart and funny. He has strict parents, almost as strict as me. He's a regular on one of the afterschool TV shows. I forget which one. I've never known him to be insincere. In fact, he strikes me as innocent and charming, happy to sing and dance, often just blurting out whatever's on his mind.

So I marvel at Butterfly Boy and admire his openness, forthrightness and spontaneity. I wonder whether he, The Boy and their friends are typical of today's teenagers. But if I had been Eddie Haskelled, I see why that approach incurs favour with a friend's parents. It certainly worked on me.

Sizzling

Greektown has its Taste of The Danforth, the Beaches has its jazz festival, even the Junction has its own street fair. We now have Salsa on St. Clair at our doorstep.

I just got back from the festival. Throngs and throngs of people, maybe wearing thongs under their clothes, in the street. Last year, without advertising, 200,000 people came through the two day festival. This year, there was extensive advertising, and the weather is hot, hot, hot. Who knows how many people the festival will draw. Tonight, these are the things that caught my eye:

- Latino women wear alluring clothes to the street festival. Slim or heavy, young or old, these women paint the nails on their hands and feet, coif their hair, put on makeup, and wear dresses that accentuate their every curve.

- Latino women really know how to move and shake their bodies in rhythm to the music, even when they are wearing high heel open-toe shoes.

- One slender woman with Bambi lashes and fauny waves had small tatooes on her arm, small of the back, and her right big toe. She stood proud and flirtatious. I wondered whether I had a lesbian streak in me.

- One young Latino man leaned on a fence wearing a black head band. He had beautiful clear skin and angelic features. His eyes held that faraway look, with passion simmering beneath. I wondered if I would be gay if I were a man.

- Most Latino men looked tough, with rugged jaw and rough skin. A couple of them stood by a wall sucking on their cigarettes, one wearing a sleeveless shirt, the other wearing a T-shirt with rolled-up sleeves. I get the sex appeal of the macho wife beater type now.

Bail Now

Married life is for the hardy - hard of heart and hard of mind.

In a good mood once, I proposed a road trip to PEI. I want to do this trip, but now I'm not sure I want to do it with my family. In my idyllic fantasy, I have us set out with the spirit of adventure, laughing in the car as we drive, camping under an incredible clear sky, taking in a B&B here and there, eating great seafood, doing lots of nature hikes, and swimming on the shores of Anne's land.

As soon as I close my eyes, I hear The Man complain about being uncomfortable in a tent, the hotel accommodation isn't luxurious enough, he just wants to sit at a cafe or see a movie instead of walking on another trail, he'll want to buy things we don't need. The Boy will complain he's bored, he's seen one tide come in, no need to see any more, and Halifax is just another hick town where life shouldn't exist in the first place.

I am dreading this trip with them. My head pounds, my shoulder pulses. My body is telling me bail now. I don't want two weeks of whining and complaining. And there are all these things we give up by going now. Everything tells me to delay the trip.

I really just want to laze somewhere with my girlfriends and do nothing right now.

Emptiness

The tree is gone. The plants I put in the hill this spring have been decimated. It looks a mess out there. We're bare backed.

How I hated that tree - the fact that it loomed large and threatening, that I always feared it falling on us whenever the wind blew, that it kept the whole yard from sun, that we had to landscape the backyard around it, that in the end it was such a hazard I had to pay to cut it down. Now that it's gone, I feel an emptiness in my heart, in my yard, and in my wallet.

The Man and I are grieving its loss and the attendant decimation of our yard. We feel bad that the tree cutters have damaged a mature dogwood in my neighbour's yard and humbled by our neighbour's gracious dismissal of the damage despite our offer to replace it.

I am perturbed and angry that Suspicious Opportunist's wife stood there and demanded we cut the tree clear off her yard. She says it's our tree therefore we need to cut it. But the law is on our side. Whatever growth extends to her side she has to deal with. If she wants to cut it, she can apply to the city for a permit and pay tree cutters to maintain her property. I have already paid the tree cutters extra to trim the tree back from her side and lift the branches off the phone wires, but I will not pay $1,000 extra to remove the whole limb just so leaves don't fall on her yard at all. Go live in an apartment.

This morning, I see clearly my neighour's house to the back, the hydro poles, and the phone lines. I feel exposed. I miss the shelter the tree provided. I never knew the hill where the tree stood received morning sun. If the shady plants I put in this spring grow back, they will die because of the new sun exposure.

I've now had a whole day to get used to the tree's absence. Every time I look out back, I see an abandoned warfield, without spoils of the war to bring home. Our yard gets more sun, but it's still shaded much of the day because of other trees around it. Things have dried up a bit from yesterday's all day downpour. I am going to leave this yard for a few weeks to see what grows back.

Neighbours On The Job

I'm waiting here this morning for the arborist to come take our Manitoba maple down. It's pouring rain out. I phoned the tree company to see if they will still work in the rain. They said yes, they would only cancel if there is lightning. I don't hear or see thunder and lightning yet.

The four neighbours affected by my tree cutting are the neighbours south of us (the Clampetts), the neighbour to the back (Crazy Dog Lady), and the neighbours whose property we must cross to access the extended tree branches (Cool Guy and Suspicious Opportunists).

If our tree falls, it would fall on the Clampetts' extension, and if their son, Burly, is sleeping in his bedroom, the collapse of his house might crush him. They have been very understanding and in fact, gave me the names and phone numbes of several tree service companies to help me get quotes. When I told them about the date scheduled to fell the tree, they said no problem, use their yard as we see fit.

Sure, they have an interest in ensuring safety to their people and property, but they could also have said, too bad, your problem, and if you trespass, we'll call the cops, and if we had gotten to that and required the city to issue forced access, well you know, that's how relations between neighbours deteriorate.

I was most concerned about talking to Crazy Dog Lady. She keeps dogs in the house. The dogs bark constantly. Once, The Man went to talk to her about the barking. She told him to fuck off and slammed the door in his face. I went to Crazy Dog Lady's house twice to talk to her, but each time, only the dogs came to the door with growls and snarls. Was I glad the door between us was locked.

But in the process, I met the other neighbours whose yards the tree cutters will need to cross. Cool Guy was very cool. He said he doesn't own his backyard. In times past, the previous owner of his house and the property next to it had wrangled strange deals at city hall so his backyard was sold off to the house next door.

The house next door is owned by Suspicious Opportunist. True, it's the previous owner that wrangled the purchase of the extra backyard, but this owner is just as opportunistic. I told him we may need to access his yard to cut the tree. He asked if we could cut part of the tree that also extends into his yard. I hadn't noticed this problem before. In fact, this branch also sits on phone wires and will cause bigger problems in a couple of years. I'll do it, but still, I wanted access, now he gets tree time too.

But it's his wife who creeps me out. She snoops around, glaring at us with suspicion every time we're out in the back. When I talked to her husband, she hid behind the laundry line on her balcony, giving us the evil eye, no doubt cursing me under her breath that we've done her wrong because we're the owners of a house that contains a tree that extends into her yard. They are practical Chinese people. I know the type. They want a concrete backyard with no maintenance and they believe trees near a house is the embodiment of evil spirits. Our feng shui practitioner told us that's what the Chinese believe.

Yesterday, still not having made contact with Crazy Dog Lady, I wrote a letter to let her know about our tree activities. To my great surprise, Crazy Dog Lady's daughter-in-law phoned me to thank me for taking action on this and letting them know what was happening. She too had noticed the tree problem and was going to try to contact us. So she was grateful and relieved we were looking after the problem already.

All in all, I am surprised by how cooperative and understanding everyone's been. I guess they all have an interest in keeping their properties safe, especially when I am paying for it. Still, I am glad they have not been obstructionists.

And now, the tree guys have arrived, in the rain. They are going ahead with the job. My god, they are young guys. Four of them. The lithe one in orange gear has climbed up the tree with a chain saw. The Man said they plan to work naked so I should gather all my girlfriends to our house. Ha ha.

Drunk

Some Chinese people can't hold their liquer. I'm one of those. I had a whoel beer tonight. Just a Sleezman. I'm full of dinner and sweat right now. I'm sitting here sweating and panting, trying to get myself together. I can't decise if I want to sleep, throw up or have desset.

In this state, i stare at my feet and wonder why they are so dry. / Yet they feel moist. They are swetaang tool. hope they dont' ssemll.

Man askes if there is pie. Of course ther's p;ie. Take it out of the oven and eat it. No, but he's waiting for me to get it out. It's a store boutgh bie for godsake. I put in the oven to warm up. it's not liek i baked it and have to do a presentation. or anything.

I'm busy right now.

ow come we have dinner guests on a tuesay nigt? Hey, I'm not the one who went to Yemen and came back looking for a party.

I wish i wasn't swetating. IT' liek swimming. I hate getting wet.

True Camouflage

I was up in Georgian Bay this weekend. One morning, I went for a hike and picked up a small butterfly in my camera. This butterfuly must be native to the area. I am astounded by its camouflage.

I saw it first in the leaves. Can you see it?


Here it is.


Then I followed it to the rock.


Here it is again.

It's A Mad Mad Street

St. Clair Avenue is full of people and cars right now. I've been hearing cars honking since getting home this evening at 6:30 pm. That's about an hour after Italy won the World Cup Soccer. The Boy and his friend couldn't resist the party. They went down to investigate.

They walked over to Dufferin and turned back. That's because that's as far as they could get. St. Clair was shut down from Bathurst to Lansdowne. That's a huge block of shut down. Still, some cars managed to get through. The street was packed - cars just idling and honking in the middle of the street going nowhere, people all walking towards Dufferin. There, everyone just stood around, as if waiting for something to happen. No one can see anything, no one can move. If you weren't already on St. Clair between Dufferin and Lansdowne when Italy won, you have no hope of getting on that strip of the street after the win.

On the way home from up north, there was a separate lane for cars carrying Italian flags on the highway. I surmise these are out-of-town Italians, rushing into Toronto once Italy's win was announced.

On my street, cars are parked on both sides. Many houses have huge flag banners up, mostly of Italy. Outside my door, I hear cars beeping up and down the street, people too head down to St. Clair, carrying Italian flags. Whole families of them, to do their shift as revellers while some make their way back, wearing Italy's blue soccer jersey. Little kids are running around waving flags and screaming, Vive Italia!

There's bean a constant drum beat coming from one of the houses, men and women carrying on loud conversations across the street at each other, in Italian.

And now, I hear sirens. Uh oh. Or maybe it's good that police is there to keep order.

I am so drained by my weekend I can't make my way down to St. Clair. I think it's because I'm sunburned and brain damaged.

The Butcher And The Duck

Stephen Harper is visiting George W. Bush to improve Canadian-American relations. cbc.ca has a backgrounder on this visit, plus a review of the relationships between Prime Minister and President of Canada-U.S. past.

I like CBC's backgrounders. They fill me in on what I've forgotten and what I never knew. But I am somewhat puzzled by the caption under the photographs of today's backgrounder.

I didn't think CBC put up opinions like this without being more specific. Who is the butcher? Which one is the duck? What's the dog meat? I don't for a minute think Harper incapable of being a butcher.

It's when CBC does things like this that they make me a fan for life.

Update:

Ah, but how quickly they change their mind. They've already revised their opinion and just inserted the leaders' names under the photographs. Oh well.

Those Sexy Boys

A friend and I were talking about the appeal of professional athletes. We agree that soccer players are the most desirable.

Physically, they are the most beautiful and graceful. They are trim, they have muscular legs, they run like the wind, and they all have this thing about their hair.

When the camera zooms in on them, you see them sweating, hair flinging, and they smile with good humour, knowing they did so foul even as they throw their arms saying, What? What did I do? And when they writhe on the ground after tripping over someone, you know they know that we know they are not hurt.

I like that players on opposing teams are camerades of the game. They extend an arm to help each other up when they are on the ground. When someone may truly be injured, opponents come to check them out and pat them on the back when they get up. When a team loses, you see the players are truly emoting. It tugs at a woman's heart to see a beautiful, sweating man cry.

Compare that to hockey players and football players (North American egg ball). You can't see what's under their bulky uniforms. And when you do see them, you see burly, toothless guys with cuts and black eyeliner on their faces. The real sport for hockey players is to hurt each other.

What about baseball players? Some of them are plain fat. When they are not, they are prissy.

And basketball players? They are so tall you feel like you are looking at a freak.

Tennis and golf? Prissy, prissy, prissy. Except when they act like bad boys, then they are just spoiled brats.

My friend is one of the organizers of the local soccer festival this year. I'm sure that for next year, we can come up with some kind of workshop for men on how to look yummy, like you are in the middle of a soccer game, even if you are not a player.

Puzzling Makeover

I am so stressed out the pain in my shoulder is back. I bought a new couch for the basement before The Man's return. The basement sofabed was a wreck. You can't sit on it without a piece of board under the seat, and you can't use the bed without falling through the mattress and getting stabbed by the wires on the bed frame. I was fine getting rid of it and bringing in a new sofabed.

But that wasn't enough for The Man. I don't know what's come over him. In a fit of negotiating, he talked a shop down on a discounted couch. In short, he got $600 off the couch and now, a new couch sits in the living room too. The Boy said, What does this couch do? I told him it's just a couch, it doesn't convert to anything. The Boy is not interested in sitting on it.

Only, I am reluctant to part with the old couch that was in the living room. It is 20 years old, it is spongy to sit on, it does look old and sad. But it was my first furniture purchase. It too is a sofabed; the bed has barely been used. This old couch now sits in the dining room, beside the dining room table. The room is a bit cramped and I feel like a refugee camping in someone's house. I have offered the couch to a friend who could use it at her cottage. But how to get the couch there?

Still, that wasn't enough for The Man. He has bought a new dining room table and chairs set. I've only seen pictures of this set and put my foot down. I don't want two dining room sets in the house. He's agreed to sell the one we have before bringing the new set in. The new set is a vintage set, custom made in the 1950's. It looks okay. I have no eye for used furniture. I just know he's getting rid of a set that we bought new in exchange for a used set. He promises it is narrower than what we have, which means it will fit in our dining room better.

I don't know why we need new furniture. I don't know how we'll pay for all these big purchases, cut the Manitoba maple, and go on vacation this summer. But I can't deny him his pleasure, especially when I'm not fussy about furniture. In the past, we've had too many fights over similar desires of purchase that resulted in drawn out cold wars and neither of us being happy.

In the long run, I benefit from his design decisions. That is, our history is that while I argue against his purchases and don't see a need for new things, I almost always end up enjoying the changes he makes more than he does.

I guess he is confident of a new contract next month. He said he works hard and needs to feel the security of beautiful possessions around him. I prefer the security of money in the bank. Meanwhile, I cringe with pain because that's my way of paying for his extravagances.

Whuppies 'R Us

Whuppies - white-haired urban professtionals are the new Yuppies, because they are no longer young. In fact, they have mellowed, in a nice way, and I like them much better now that they have ripened. Yuppies in their prime bothered me. They were too cocky, too preoccupied with material aquisition and the display of good taste. Fraser Crane, in a fit of annoyance, called them "trend-sucking dilettantes". But as whuppies, they wear their experience as confidence, not flaunt their success to boost confidence.

Yup, I like whuppies. Them and those soccer players I keep seeing on TV.

I went to my new favourite restaurant The Rushton last night. The place was full of whuppies, still trim of body and bright of mind. But I know it's their still bushy but white hair that I find sexy. It's like watching those soccer players - they are long and graceful and they move with the wind permanently in their hair.

I went to the restaurant with The Man and our neighbours, Architect and his Doctor wife. I know darn well Doctor and I dye our hair, and we look younger than our years. But Architect and The Man don't. I've walked by The Rushton often, seeing the gathering of whuppies in there and told myself, If I am lucky, I will season well like them, but I don't want to be one of them yet. But when I sat down at the table last night with my dinner companions, I looked around and thought, My god, my neighbour is one of them. What's more, I am married to one.

I hadn't counted on entering whuppydom so soon.

Stormy Weather

School's been out for The Boy since last Wednesday. He's been in non-stop party mode for over a week. Every time I see him, I ask, Do you still live with us?

Last night, he went to Curly's for another sleepover. So this morning, The Man and I borrowed the girl next door to play parents for a bit. No, it's because Girl's mom had appointments and asked if she could stay with us for the morning.

While we tended to our phone calls, e-mails and scheduling, Girl sat in a corner of the living room with her headset on, listening to her music and reading her book. She was quiet as a mouse.

Then we took Girl with us to meet my mother for lunch. After that, we went back to mom's to look through her paint supplies to see what else is needed before I take on the job of painting her basement. The Man and I decided to walk to a furniture store near her house to look around. So all four of us trooped out.

The sky became just a little cloudy and the wind picked up. For that reason, The Man handed Girl the car umbrella to hold. While inside the furniture store, the sky darkened and began a steady hosing of the ground. Not thinking much of it, we stepped out of the store to come home. No more than five steps later, thunder boomed, lightning clapped and the sky split open, pouring sheets of rain straight down.

Our umbrella went up immediately and the four of us - a middle-aged couple, a short senior citizen, and skinny 11-year-old Girl - huddled under it, exclaiming about the sudden and torrential nature of the rain, and noted it was not exactly rain that was coming down. It was hail - little pellets of ice that smattered to the ground and stayed ice.

Eight feet shuffled in uneven strides under the umbrella built for one, trying to head in the same direction, trying to not get wet and not trip each other. It was a futile effort. We hardly seemed able to move at all.

As we rounded a corner, we deeked into an alcove. Where did this opening in the wall come from? I've walked by this wall hundreds of times and have never noticed the alcove, a perfect piece of invisible shelter for a homeless person. Standing there with the umbrella as our awning, we expressed more admiration for the hail and rain that poured and poured, and how we could not see far in front of us.

The Man decided he would go get the car to pick us up. Girl wanted to go with him. This is an intersection in the city that is often home to the crazed, the homeless, prostitutes and drug addicts. So there mom and I stood, tucked in the wall, part of their streetscape as the rain beat around us. Mom said hello to two neighbours who went by.

The Man finally came around with the car. Girl came out with the umbrella to escort each of us into the car. We all got soaked anyway and Girl said she was cold. So I turned on the heat and told her she was a rescue ranger.

When Girl got home, she gave her mom the lunch we saved and related excitedly about her adventure and how pivotal she was in getting everyone into the car. Yeah, I think she'll remember us when she's a mom and tell her children of the day it hailed and what she did with Sylph and The Man that day.

Lazy And Lax

It is pleasant sitting here beside The Boy. He's on the desktop computer, I'm on my laptop. We sit side by side. He's playing Beatles tunes, some of which I have never heard.

The Man has gone to Port Hope to take his mother to Kingston for a doctor's appointment. It's a chance to get in some one-on-one time between mother and son, in both households.

The Boy and I have been fielding calls for The Man. Good friends have called to chat with him and welcome him back. We even have social invitations from family and friends. We are blessed to have these good people in our lives.

Other than that, I spent the day outside mostly. Sitting and reading. I wondered if my focus - my ability to concentrate on a reading a book - has returned now that The Man is back. It has not. I think it's not so much life disruptions, surprises and coasting that keep me from focusing. I think I need to wear eyeglasses full time. I concentrate better with them on. It's hard to pay attention to life when you can't see what's in front of you.

A few years ago, we all got new computers in the office. Everyone fiddled with their settings and screen colours, selecting the look and feel that defined their uniqueness. I set the default text on my computer to, well, to large. That way, I didn't have to strain to see what was on the screen. A coworker walked by, shielded his eyes and shrieked, Whoa, and those are settings for the visually impaired.

I think I have to face my impairment headon. Don the glasses and get on with reading. My book club won't wait.

Starting All Over

Now that The Man is home, he cooks. He easily slips back into his old routine. But he wakes up earlier, even without the call to prayer from the sound system of a nearby mosque.

This morning, The Man drove The Boy all the way to school. I don't do that with The Boy. I tell The Boy it's his responsibility to get up and leave the house in time to get to school on time. But The Man said he's missed The Boy's school for a whole year, so on the last day of school, he wanted to drive him. I tell The Boy this is an arrangement between him and his dad.

Later in the morning, The Man and I looked at photographs of his friends in Yemen, then we went out to do errands and have lunch on Bloor Street. I can't remember the name of the restaurant. Unmemorable food except for the fact their BLT is a triple-decker. Then we came home to set up my new free-standing hammock. I had to reconfigure my garden to fit it in. The hammock is bigger in my backyard than it looked in the garden centre.

Already, The Man has accused me of accusing him of being disagreeable. I tell him I wouldn't be having an argument about how to fix something if I just did it myself. Yesterday, I hung up an over-the-door shoe rack in the basement because it didn't fit over my closet door. He suggested I return the rack to the store. I was determined to make it work. So I built a ledge on a wall in the basement and hung the rack there. It is out of sight of living spaces and works perfectly now.

I think The Man is afraid of my new found power with electric tools and my Rambo style of getting things done. But I sure like having him around.

Home

The Man's flight was only one hour late. We checked with the airport before heading out. I drove, avoiding the highway. It was an easy, smooth ride.

The Boy and I each brought a long-stem rose - The Boy's in white with a red ribbon, mine in red with a white ribbon. The Boy didn't want to hold his rose in public, except when I had to use the washroom. Then he held both flowers, pressing himself against the wall, trying to be invisible. So I went to the washroom often.

We stood in the crowded waiting room, watching passengers come through the ramp. I said to The Boy, "I wonder if we should have tied a giant yellow ribbon around the tree."

"Why? What's the significance of that?"

"You know, from the song, Tie A Yellow Ribbon Around The Old Oak Tree."

"I know of the song. What are the lyrics?"

So I sang him the song, humming through the parts where I've forgotten the words. The Boy inched away from me. But I moved towards him with each step, keeping him close to my song. Finally, he said, "Stop mom. You're so embarrassing."

Then I saw The Man. "There he is," I said to The Boy.

Quick as a flash, we moved into position. We placed ourselves against a pillar directly in The Man's path. We leaned into it, each with a bent knee, then we turned away, trying to look nonchallant, so that he could happen to bump into us. But The Man walked past, looking through the crowd for us. As he walked away, we chased after him.

"Help you with your luggage, mister?" I said when I got behind him.

He looked good, not even tired. It felt like I could have seen him last just yesterday. I blessed telephone technology and the internet. We did a group hug.

We got to the parking lot. He said, "I'll drive." And just like that, The Man resumed his place in our lives.

The Bug

I want to share this story because I have the sweetest and cutest 4-year-old niece (Kid2). Sis and her family came for dinner last night and she sent this note to my sibs this morning...

------
Yesterday, there's this scary moth in The Boy's room. Kid2 watches in fearful glee as Aunt Sylph catches it in a container and asks, wide-eyed and brave, "Can I keep it?". Aunt Sylph instantly and easily makes it happen, transferring the bug into a Ziploc container. I have my reservations. Kid2 has been very obsessed with death since the loss of Granny, Dad and Friend, always asking me when I'm going to die, when Popo is going to die, etc.

Kid2 spends the rest of the evening worrying about "Princess", wanting her to get enough air, food, water. Holding onto the container in a half fascinated and half scared way, but insisting on keeping it with her as we go for gelato, as we travel in the car.

She wakes this morning and the first thing she says is "Where's Princess? Did she eat?". We come downstairs (I had given her water and some leaves before bed) and she's floating, lifeless in the water.

Kid2 is quiet and contemplative for awhile. She asks if the water bowl crushed her, if she didn't get enough air, etc. Then she starts to cry, really, really cry. Big tears streaming down her face. I hold her and start the "All living creatures have a life cycle and all moths die in about a day. Just like flowers. It's a part of life. Nothing could have stopped it." She's still crying. I'm beginning to curse Aunt Sylph.

I start the "But you gave Princess the happiest life she could have had. If you hadn't taken care of her, she would have ended her life on some wall, eventually getting wacked by a shoe. You gave her love and food and water and played with her. She died happy". That worked. She nods and smiles and says "I want to keep her in the house forever. I don't want to put her outside".

I explain that her body will fall apart and we can't do that. I remind her that we bury things that die and have funerals. I suggest we can do that in the backyard. "I'll put flowers on it and we'll live here forever and forever?". I say, "Yes".

"Can we do it now?" says Kid2. "Of course" I say, although it is 6:30 a.m., but she's no longer crying. We go to the kitchen and Princess is walking around the edge of the water bowl. We both startle a little and then we look at each other and start to laugh. I lift the lid and at the sight of Princess, Kid2 screams. She's still a little scared of Princess. It is a big, mottled, fluttering bug afterall.

"OK, so Princess isn't dead yet. You can still take care of her for now. But she probably will die sometime today and then we can have a funeral, OK?"

Thanks, Sylph.
------

That was a Kodak moment, no?

Final Touches

The new couch is in. This is a picture of it that the store took.

The couch is delivered flat. The Boy hates it because it is not bright red. He wanted instead the one he saw on the floor in the store. It is flaming red, permanently flat (so a bed really), has a sectional cupholder at one end, and swivel backs at the other end. Quite a gaudy and gadgety contraption, just what Austin Powers would have in his shag shack.

Despite not getting what he wanted, The Boy swung into action and assembled the couch on his own. I was most impressed. He needed just minimal help to hold the couch in certain positions and figure out where certain screws and bolts went.

The couch's arrival and removal of the old couch turned the house more upside down than before. But it was good impetus to get cleaning and tidying up. We started about 1:30 pm when the couch arrived and I did not finish cleaning until 6:00 pm. It was exhausting but I felt much better after. Today, I just need to do some beauty treatment (it is never too late), stock up on some food and finish the laundry. Then tonight, we bring The Man home.

Walls Come Tumbling Down

According to The Man's travel itinerary, he's landed in Dubai and will spend the day there. If he hooks up with his cousin, they will have dinner together. Then he resumes his return home in the morning, local time.

The last couple of communications we've had felt somewhat strained. He says he's eager to come home, though he doesn't like where our home is. He's never been fond of our street nor of our immediate neighoburs. In the nine months away, he's developed a network of friends and support, picked up a new language, and experienced a new culture. I feel sad this time for him has come to an ended, that he's leaving his network of friends and associates.

He said he just wants to slip back into the city quietly, resume life as if he never left. But I wonder if he will be more cantankerous to live with, now that he will no longer circulate among an elite society of ex-pats and diplomats. Already, he's finding fault with whether I am "eager" or "anxious" for him to come home. How can I not be both?

To allay my anxiety and hone my eagerness, I attended an opening last night of gay art. I mingled with creative men and looked at pictures of pretty boys and penises. One of the artists did pastels of close up objects in brilliant colours. Those colours certainly captured my mood. Another artist did black and white photographs of beautifully juxtaposed subjects with that David Hamiltonish sensuality. That too captured my mood. A third did flatware art - sculptures made of forks, knives and spoons welded together so that from afar, the pieces of flatware look like sinewy muscles. The rawness of the male figures also spoke to my mood.

I am all ajitters. I am sure my anxiey will pass when I put my house back in order. It gets messier while you're cleaning it. In fact, it will be a mad dash around today because I managed to arrange a couch delivery for the afternoon, and The Boy wants to go see a movie in the afternoon and either to Wonderland or his teacher's farewell party in the evening. I've said no to the movie. I want him to help me clean up the house, at least his room and the basement where's he's been ensconced for three months.

We'll all need to get used to being with each other again. I get to resume my role as the bad guy, the disciplinarian, where The Boy is concerned. Good thing The Man and I made a pact not to divorce within the first month of him being home.

Those Kinky Orchids

I have the impression the orchid is a rare and beautiful flower. Its acquisition is the subject of The Orchid Thief, which spawned the movie Adaptation.

So with curiosity, I clicked onto cbc.ca's article about a bisexual orchid.

The Holcoglossum Amesianum orchid grows high on tree trunks in China. It flowers during the drought season. High up and dry means no insects and no wind, the usual carriers of pollen. So what does this orchid do to reproduce? It self pollinates.

The pollen-bearing anther uncovers itself and rotates through 360 degrees to insert pollen into its female cavity, the stigma.

I may be new at gardening. But this sounds like the orchid is fucking itself. Those kinky orchids.

Which reminds me of The Boy the other day. He was reading Animal Farm the night before his English exam. After a while, I heard him shouting in the basement. Then he stomped upstairs, looking for a snack, muttering to himself, Those sneaky pigs, those sneaky pigs.

He said he had to take a break because those sneaky pigs were getting to him. How did pigs end up the bad guys? Sure, I read Charlotte's Web before Animal Farm. But that's just my point. In my world, pigs are naturally good guys.

And here I thought I was interferring with nature because tonight I took from my sister two clippings each of a white shrub rose and a japanese maple that I want to root. I have to buy rooting hormone powder and sterile potting soil for rooting.

What is natural? Is anyone normal? Whatever.

View From My Window

Now it's even sooner. The Man will be home Saturday night. That's four days from now.

I feel inexplicably anxious and paralyzed at the same time. Lots of nervous energy, but not the mental focus to get things done. I'm bursting with excitement to see him. But there is so much to do to get the house ready, and so little time. It's like exam paralysis all over again. Or maybe I am just nursing a knee injury, from tripping on my groovy long pants in my over-sized garden clogs going up the stairs and banging my knee into one of the steps.

The quote to take down the Manitoba maple ranges from $1,500 to $4,700. I am stunned. I will go with a quote in between that includes taking the wood away. But the latest arborist suggested I phone Bell because the tree is sitting on their lines. Removing that branch may mean taking down some of the lines, rendering our street without phone service.

Bell doesn't have a policy to cover what to do in preventative cases. The operator read through their policy with me. The problem, she said, is right now, their lines are fine, so they can't do anything about lines that are working fine. But she did promise to check into it and let me know if anything needs to be done to prevent disruption of service. Here I am trying to do the decent thing by alerting them to a potential problem.

I'm also trying to bring in a new couch before The Man arrives. Unlikely though unless I want to go pick it up. I need time and muscles.

I need to make room in the closet and clear my things out his side of the dresser. And can I lose 30 lbs by Saturday?

The Boy however is living moment to moment. He went off to his final exam this morning, asking me to make arrangements to spend time with his young cousins Kid1 and Kid2, as he left the house. What made him think of them this morning instead of his dad?

I am drinking my mint tea and taking stock of the landscape in front of me. I can't move mountains, nor the tree before The Man gets home. I suppose I can clean the house. I did stock the fridge with beer, and got a new grill surface for the barbeque. I even have a route to the airport. I wonder if I should take up smoking.

Penelope Gets Ready For Odysseus' Return

I don't know what to make of this. It looks like The Man is coming home. The Boy and I are thrilled. Then we asked each other, But where will he live? And we burst out laughing.

But seriously, I need to get the house ready for The Man's return. He could arrive as early as June 26. As eager as I am to see him, his return is badly timed.

For one thing, I have to give up a vacation to be home for his arrival. Construction workers are still on the street blasting away at the sidewalks starting at 8:00 a.m. Dust is everywhere. Our next door neighbours have moved out and contractors power up tools everyday to improve the house's curb appeal. Noise every minute. And then there is the tree with the split trunk in the backyard.

I've had six tree companies promise a quote. I've only received two so far. Two said they are backlogged and will get to us as soon as possible. Two were no shows.

To cut a mature tree, I need to get a permit from the city, which takes 90 days. But the two arborists who provided quotes said in our case, taking the tree down is urgent enough that they would do so without a permit. But they still have to submit paperwork and photos to the city, which means two weeks before they can start the work.

The Man will be coming home to a house taken over by workmen. Meanwhile, I'm devastated by the heat and am unable to move about much. So the house will be dirty too. And the garden unfinished. I don't want to seed grass and put in any more plants that could be destroyed with the tree removal. He's asked for cold beer.

Thank god the wind came in tonight to provide some relief. But the temperature promises to be hot for the rest of the week. Welcome home, dear.

The Game

Was that not the best hockey game?

I like playoff finals. The game is fast and intense, the players are focused on playing well. No fighting, few penalties. When they play like this, this is the kind of hockey I am proud to call Canada's national sport.

Next year, Go Leafs Go.

Carolina sealed their win by scoring into an empty net, winning 3 to 1 against Edmonton. Need I say more?

Re-routing

I get a kick out of talking to The Boy's friends on the phone. Yesterday, Curly called.

"Hello, is The Boy there?"

"No. Curly, is that you?"

"Yes. Umm, do you know where The Boy is?"

"Curly, he's with you."

"Wwwwhat?"

"Are you with Jock?"

"No. Jock is probably at his house."

"And you?"

"I'm at my house. (Shouts away from the phone) Mom, is Jock here? How about The Boy?"

"I dropped The Boy off at Jock's house an hour ago because he was meeting you there."

"Oh. I better get over there then. Bye."

Our Old House

Our sidewalks are being dug up. City workmen are putting in gas metres on the outside of each house. A few days ago, when I walked past one of the workmen, I asked him what they were doing on the street. He said, "Oh we're putting in a beer line, direct from the brewery to your house. Everyone gets a tap. You just turn it on and out comes beer. You want yours tapped to Labatt's or Molson's?" I said either is fine, just make sure it's cold.

This morning, I heard drilling and rumbling outside. When I came out, our car was covered in white dust. There was a retactangular hole in our sidewalk.

When The Boy came home from a shortened school day, he saw the workmen on our front lawn, sitting beneath the tree having their lunch. Some were sitting on our bench beside the flowers.

Ours is a nice looking, welcoming front. Not so pristine clean and pesticided you fear stepping on it would damage the grass or you. It says come rest here abit. When you come upon it, it's like finding the perfect camp site - it's rough, but looked after, shady but dry, casual but not shabby. Really, I think our house exudes friendliness.

I am honoured the workmen chose our lawn to lunch on.

Perfectly Timed

Cousin Kiki has been gone for less than half a day and already I miss her. It feels like we've been partying at the house non-stop since Saturday. Sil's husband dubbed her my "domestic partner for a couple of weeks".

This time around, Kiki helped me cut back the gnarly cedars, so overgrown they threatened to cast our garden in eternal darkness; she drew my attention to the giant crack in the Manitoba Maple, thereby saving surrounding houses from irreparable damage and possible loss of lives; she inspired the Wishing Rod, unleashing a flood of creative ideas in me; she showed me how to nip my neighbour's succulent plants and strike them (ha ha, I would never even have used words like these); she provided structure, stability and companionship that enabled me to get on with some of my projects, she gave reason for The Boy and I to see more of cousins from The Man's side of the family; she allowed me to share in the joy and trepidation about her activities.

I think we share a similar approach to life: While we appreciate order and planning, we don't let the details bog us down.

Too bad she doesn't like shoe shopping.

Like her last visit, she showed up this time like a perfectly timed dose of fertilizer for me. Who am I to question why things happen the way they do?

Power Ranger

Ever since I fixed my mother's drywall, I've been quite the handywoman.

I have done the following repairs:

1. Replaced door locks.
2. Unclogged the kitchen sink.
3. Changed the furnace filter.
4. Installed a horizontal rod that suspends from the ceiling so I can hang dry my delicates.
5. Rigged a keyless lock for my garden gate.
6. Replaced the coupling on a garden hose.
7. Repaired two leaks in a garden hose with clamp-style fittings.
8. Replaced the closer on a storm door. I like using the electric drill.
9. Repaired fencing. Hammer in hand feels goods.
10. Trimmed the overgrown cedars in the garden. I like using the electric hedger.
11. Replaced a bathtub faucet.

My latest work includes:

12. Mounting the first rendition of an installation art in the backyard.


The art is the one that looks like a dead stick in the ground to the untrained eye, not the silly light bamboo stick that The Boy uses as a gun and I forgot to remove before taking the photo.

This is a wishing rod that doubles as a bluejay perch. The bluejays have been coming in to use the birdbath. They rest on this stick between dips. But aside from that, this is a rod I can hang wishes on. It is an idea inspired by Kiki. I can write out my wish on a stroll and hang it on one of the pegs on the rod. Or I can hang a laminated photograph of someone I care about. Or I can hang an empty picture frame so that the framed view changes with the wind.

In later renditions, this will be a wishing tree, with long branches stretching from the trunk. This is an art installation that will evolve with the season, the materials available, and my mood.

13. Constructing a free-standing base for my trellis. See the stand that the trellis sits in? I designed and built it.


The trellis is now a free standing unit that requires no mounting to the house. It stands behind the rose bush, waiting for the rose vines to climb it.


And that's not all. My range of house projects runs deep and wide.

My biggest challenge to date will take place this weekend. I will drain and unhinge the toilet to replace the toilet seal to stop water leaking on the floor.

Then I will regrout the tiles on a bathroom wall.

And to think I only score in the 20th percentile in every mechanical aptitude test I've ever taken.

The Allure Of Celebrity Gossip

This whole Brangelina baby affair has got even me wagging my tongue in public as if I am a regular consumer of celebrity gossip. I am, but I am also in denial. I think celebrity gossip is my guilty pleasure the way some people secretly love...Barry Manilow, John Denver and Flakies, even though you know they are sickly sweet and bad for your image as an urban sophisticate.

So it is to my great delight that cousin Kiki, the multi-media artist, presenter at the University of Toronto's Subtle Technologies conference, guest feature of G5 Tech TV, and guest lecturer at the Canadian Film Institute, also follows paparazzi news. When we went shopping this week, she insisted on buying the National Enquirer and the People magazine featuring Angelina, Brad and Shiloh on the cover.

She knows more about what celebrities are up to than I do. For example, she exclaimed, What's going on with Katie and Matt? I ventured with, Urrr...Katie Holmes and Matt Dillon? She said, You're really struggling with that one. She meant Katie Couric and Matt Lauer. Duh, of course.

But the truth is, aside from knowing they are (was for Katie) the hosts of the Today show, I have never actually seen the show. In fact, most of the time, I don't know who the celebrities are that get gossiped about. Cousin Kiki admits as much - she doesn't know who most of the celebs are either. Yet, both of us are drawn to celebrity gossip the way a crack in the ground sucks in water.

Kiki has a friend who did a PHD thesis on the allure of celebrity gossip. Her theory is that in past times, there were the bible, Greek myths, Chinese gods, Indian deities. Almost every culture had its own polytheistic gods that bore human characteristics and interacted with humans. After that, people turned to kings and queens for stories. Their stories are our metanarrative - stories that are bigger than ourselves. In our secular world of technology, we have done away with the gods, royalty, and folklore. But we've got zoom cameras. So where we used to look for the numinous in our gods, we now we turn to celebrities for our metanarrative. We have the tools to look closer at lives that are beyond us. At the same time that we put celebrities on a pedestal, we want to squeeze the humanness out of them to make sure they are just like us.

Oh, I can say that I am doing social research, or I am assessing the social observations of Chaucer, Shakespeare and Dickens to see if they still apply in the 21st Century. But the truth is, celebrity gossip requires little effort or investment on my part. I can don a deliciously wicked persona without actuallly investing in a relationship. The carryings on of celebrities, or the way the paparazzi rewrites their lives, is highly entertaining. I really just want to do nothing and be entertained. It is my own theatre of the absurd. Wonder if Chaucer would have anything to say about that.

Soccer Lizard

How can I not do a picture of the soccer lizard?



And note the soccer rabbit.

Firewood, Anyone?

This is the left arm of a tree that is at least 20 years old. It sits in our backyard. It's been there since we moved into the house 18 years ago. The right arm, not shown, reaches straight up, with a trunk no less thick than the left arm.

I've seen this crack in the tree in the last few weeks but never noticed it. It's been like part of the scenery; I hadn't registered that it's a problem. Yesterday, cousin Kiki said to me, "What's that big crack in the tree?" That's when it dawned on me that must be the sound of wood splitting I keep hearing.

Even as we stood there looking at it, with the wind blowing fiercely above, we heard the sound of wood cracking. The bottom half of the trunk shook with each howl of the wind. The top half of the trunk leads to a branch that is sitting on Bell lines. The lines are now bent.

As I walked down the street in disbelief with Kiki, talking about what to do with the tree and wending our way to lunch, a truck drove by. It was a tree care truck. I flagged it down. The owner came back to the house with us straightaway. He sounded knowledgeable, was energetic, had clean, efficient looking equipment mounted on his truck, and both Kiki and I felt he was trustworthy.

He said he would treat our case as urgent. The tree will fall down before the end of the summer and cause a lot of damage, especially to the neighbours beside and behind us. It may come through our back window, depending on how it falls. He's quoted $1,500, half of what I feared. I had heard in the Spring someone had cut their tree down and it cost over $3,000. But his quote does not include getting rid of the wood.

I've call up a couple more arborists to obtain more quotes. Meanwhile, I'm scheming up ways to make a business of the wood that could be left in the yard. A firewood stand on the sidewalk to compete with kids selling lemonade?

Airheaded

I often make like I am high brow, but I can be as vacuous as the next gum-popping bimbo.

I was in a shoe store today and while the store manager was fitting me for the right size, a sales clerk came in to work. She was a twenty-something and carrying a magazine, which she immediately took over to a colleague and they poured over the magazine photos, oohing and aahing. I heard snippets of "baby" and "...lina". I knew exactly what they were talking about.

When the sales clerk got on the floor to work, I said to her, "Was that THE baby?"

We exchanged a look of immediate understanding. "Yes," she said.

"Oooh...lemme see, lemme see."

She brought the magazine out from the back and said to everyone in the store, "This is $4.1 million you're looking at."

I said, "Presenting, the new Jesus."

She showed a copy of the latest People magazine featuring Angelina Jolie, Brad Pitt and their child, Shiloh on the cover. She flipped to the middle pages to show more photographs of the baby and parents. We hovered about making more oohing and aahing sounds.

I said to the sales clerk, "Only people who read gossip columns know that People paid $4.1 million for these photographs."

She said, "Yeah, I read...and...and..." She listed the gossip websites she frequents. Turns out, we visit the same sites! So she went, "Did you read that blah blah blah blah?" and I went "Yeah. And what about blah blah blah blah."

The manager finally said to us, "You two have to be separated." To the sales clerk, she said, "You get back to work." To me, she said, "You continue shopping." To which I said, "No, I need to get a job here so we can talk about this kind of stuff," indicating the sales clerk and me. Then we all laughed.

Such a blast.

I did buy some shoes. Now that I am home, I am glad to see they are the pair I wanted.

Painting The Town Red

With The Boy involved in his school's 25th Anniversary activities and Kiki attending her conference, I found myself alone, again, all day Saturday. It rained and rained, till about 9 p.m. I was waiting for The Boy to phone at 11:30 pm for a pick up. What to do till then so I don't fall asleep?

I went first to Shopper's Drug Mart because I was completely out of shampoo. The drug store at night is a little bit weird. Its patrons were decrepit looking people and me. The asylum inmates were having an outing. We wander up and down the aisles looking for beauty products. Some of them gurgled at each other as they passed.

A scruffy young man with glistening eyes stood at the end of an aisle and waxed eloquently about the benefits of bath beads and why they make the perfect gift for a bridal shower or Mother's Day. There were intermitten sounds of mumbling, like when you don't know the words to a song and you go, Mhmm mhmm mm. I am sure he was mimicking a TV commercial I had seen. When I gathered what I needed, I shook my head (whaa-eee-whaa-eee-whaa-ee) to wake up from the nightmare.

Then I went to Home Depot to look for plexiglass shelves for the bathroom. This is a 24 hour hardware store. I've been in before at night, but with The Man. Walking in by myself is a new expereince. There were many people there - men and women, some on their own, some in groups. How is it that so many people are gathered in a hardware store so late at night planning home improvement projects? There were no workshops. They were just shopping. These were a different breed of midnight revellers. Some even looked artsy, unlike the gruff bunch that bulldozes through in the day. It was like discovering a secret society of late night do-it-yourselfers.

If I ever need advice on a project, I will get the best help late at night at this Home Depot. Such a find. Alas, I did not find pre-fab plexiglass shelves. But now I know I can custom make them. This pitches my project to a different level of desire. Not a "buy it, try it, don't like it, return it" effort any more. Custom-make means I have to be sure I want the shelves. Back to rethinking.

Going To The Dogs

At the soccer festival prep session yesterday, the organizers managed to get several dogs and their owners out for a preview of the soccer dog parade. There were big dogs and little dogs, all wearing soccer dog jerseys.

One of the organizers, a candidate trying to unseat the current city councillor in our ward, came with her little yappy dog. But she didn't have a proper dog jersey. She brought a tiny green t-shirt with a number on it. It belongs to one of her kids. She put the shirt on the dog and the dog wore it looking...none the worst.

After a while, the candidate handed the dog leash to my friend and said, "Can you hang onto him for a sec. I need to chase down the camera crew." My friend took the leash and peered at the dog this way and that. She's not a dog lover. But you wouldn't know it because she's a photographer and her specialty is dogs. She saw something out of whack with the yappy dog. One of his front legs had slipped out of the sleeve of the t-shirt, or maybe the leg was never in. She bent down and tried to fix the problem but she was obviously uncomfortable since she didn't want to touch the dog and she kept saying, "Yucky, yucky dog."

For goodness sake. You can't fix a shirt on a dog that the dog shouldn't be wearing by not touching the dog. So I bent down, patted the dog, and tucked his front leg into the t-shirt sleeve. The dog was surprisingly compliant.

When the candidate took her dog back, we walked about a bit. My friend pointed at the t-shirted dog and started laughing. The dog had peed in the t-shirt. The shirt was now dragging on the ground and the dog was tripping over it with every step. One of the shop owners agreed to lend the candidate a real dog jersey, which she quickly put on the dog.

Later, the candidate said, "I want to visit the stores to talk to the owners but I can't go in with my dog."

I said, "So leave your dog with us."

"But I'll be inside the stores. Sometimes he bites when he can't see me."

"Your little dog?"

"Yes."

"But he let me fix his t-shirt earlier. I picked him up and tucked his paw in the sleeve."

"He let you do that? You sure it was my dog?"

"Yes. I handled your attack dog?"

There was the dog, looking sillier than usual with a jersey on, sitting on the ground between us, quiet as a mouse. He was paying attention to another soccer dog.

That soccer dog is a lizard, about three feet long, resting on its owner's arm. It too was wearing a soccer jersey. Apparently, the lizard has been featured in many soccer stories in the community newspaper during soccer season. In the dog parade, the owner puts the lizard on a leash, soccer jersey and all, and it walks on the ground, trying to keep up with the dogs.

When the camera crew came, the dogs and lizard got all the attention. The samba drummers and dancer also got some footage. The rest of us were just backdrop.

I got home and took a nap, sleeping through the 6 o'clock news and missing our moment in the end. Ah well.

Anyone Tracking Our Minutes?

It's been fun these last few days.

The Boy ran for vice president of the student council and got elected. He did a rap on stage at the school assembly as his election speech, sound effects, dance movements and all. The way he tells it, cheering went on non-stop and teachers had to calm the students down. The 2-minute rap stretched to a 5-minute performance because of the screaming and cheering. After his win was announced over the P.A. system, he walked by a musical theatre class in progress where two of his friends were, the class applauded his win.

At home on MSN, congrats poured in from his friends and supporters. The Boy was bathing in glory.

Yesterday morning, he said, "Mom, now that I am v.p., can you drive me to the subway?"

I said, "No. And you still have to take out the garbage." He did. It was garbage day after all and it is his job to take out the garbage. It's my job to keep him grounded.

Cousin Kiki is staying with us. She's presenting at a multi-media conference at the university. One of the cable TV stations invited her on their show and taped a 7-minute interview to talk about her art. I was in the studio with her to lend moral support. It was her first TV appearance. How wonderful for her that she received some funding from the Austalian government to present her work in Canada and she brings back a TV segment. The program also airs in Australia. She was well-spoken and interesting.

And now, I'm off to the soccer festival head office. Why? Well, I've got some on-air minutes my way too. The CBC is filming festival organizers making festival preparation. The segment airs on today's 6 pm local news. My friend phoned to say they need bodies. I am a body. So I agreed to go. Need to head out now. See you on the 6 o'clock news!