Author: carin

just doing it (my way)

~ carin ~ 4 Comments

There are a couple of people in my neighbourhood who don special outfits to go walking or running or cycling—bodysuits, skinny tops, colour-coordinated shoes and shorts and shades. I’m torn between thinking they’re making a bit of exercise way too complicated, and envying their whole dashing I-take-every-damn-thing-I-do-seriously “look”. 

I”m aware, of course, that there’s a multi-trillion dollar industry behind The Look—possibly men, possibly unfit—wielding extraordinary powers, convincing folk they need accoutrements to be fit. Even so, it doesn’t stop me occasionally thinking maybe I should get some spandex of my own, a tank top with wicking, one of those all-weather jackets that comes to a saucy little point at the back. A pedometre, a headband. I’d wear a water-bottle-belt (say that three times), read running magazines, get reflecting tape, strap a radio to my arm and groove to the beat as I thundered dashingly about town.

If people still groove to beats, that is…

It’s a colourful fantasy. Short-lived though. Fact is, I’d laugh if I wore spandex—it would crack me right up to see myself in The Correct Walking Outfit. This is for Other People. Not me. Despite illusions of being part of the active-wear set, the whole culture is counterintuitive to my DNA. Always was. As a kid I tried out for things, field hockey, for instance; I was so proud of my shin pads, walked around with them strung over my shoulder even when there wasn’t practice, hoping people would notice that I was an athlete. First time on the field though, when some big girl shoved me—which I didn’t know was part of the game—I found it so alarming I handed  my pads in right then and there. My parents signed me up for tennis lessons one summer but I preferred cherry popsicles and comics in the shade of a nearby tree. The instructor didn’t care, he’d been paid whether I played or not.  I was the last kid picked for the baseball team and I kind of liked it that way.  More time for hopscotch and skipping and walking in ditches after it rained.

I’m not made for organized activity. I’m made for writing postcards and taking them to the mailbox in my regular shoes, which are often sandals. And riding my bike to the grocery store and the library. I walk downtown and to the creek and along the beach, and I watch things—the way tall grass moves in the wind, geese land on water, a kid with a silver tinsel wig runs to catch up with friends. I hike and I cross-country and snowshoe in winter. I jump on a trampoline to work out plot points. I swim as a meditation. I work in the garden because it needs it, and so do I, and do yoga daily to bring myself back to the centre of my own life. I wash floors and windows and sort out closets because order helps me think. Sometimes before lunch, I dance.

So, yes, I think I’m finally old enough to admit that, despite the not-to-be-denied allure of the dashing active-wear crowd… that’s one club I’m never going to join.

salt, etc.

~ carin ~ 12 Comments

I don’t know where to begin exactly. Aren’t endings supposed to come with their own beginnings? Doors and windows closing and opening…that kind of thing…

When my mum (we called her Phyllis although her name was Elizabeth) died on Friday, a door slammed shut. Well… it closed anyway, firmly and forever. And then I got up and closed all the windows. And despite what I’ve been doing since: arrangements, calls, notes, wandering, staring, I’ve been doing it in this unfamiliar and increasingly airless room. The metaphor feels right and comfortable; no need for oxygen when you’re holding your breath.

But today, not quite a week later, I notice the sun is shining. It shows up the dust that’s accumulated from the ongoing basement reno, which, ironically, we began so that we’d have a place for Phyllis after her stroke. When I told her we wanted her to live with us she smiled, was grateful but said she hoped she’d die first, that she didn’t want to be a bother, that we might not get along. I worried about that too but I thought there might be enough that was good to make it work—and anyway, she’d be useful, she knew things I kept forgetting: how to prune the blackberries, make pumpkin compote, remove burned on stains from pots, cure sore throats and earaches with herbs from the garden—the original nature girl, raised on a farm, she used to milk cows, make butter, spin wool, grow flax, weave her own linen with it for god’s sake. She carried sacks of grain on her head to have them milled into flour. She had no idea any of this was interesting. I had to pry the stories out of her.

I open a window. There’s a breeze. Kite weather.

Not only is there dust everywhere, the house is in disarray, debris all over the kitchen table, a puddle of stationery that would take two seconds to stack, sling an elastic band around, but it’s more time than I care to give. And I’d have to walk to the kitchen drawer for the elastic.

The very idea exhausts me.

So I leave them spread out and messy instead, along with a box of Sifto from the nursing home where the eggs were always bland she said. What am I supposed to do with a box of Sifto?  I prefer sea salt. Should I throw it out? I don’t know. I don’t know… I’ll think about it later. And anyway it’s not hurting anything standing there next to a pair of green gloves from my coat pocket (it’s May, I don’t need gloves; where do they go?) and a new dust mop cover—pale blue, soft like a baby’s washcloth; I may use it soon. Or not. There’s a crossword, a tea stained mug, a basket of seeds, a few pens, a notebook, the Saturday comics with a Pardon My Planet that shows an old woman in her casket and beside her a man—husband? son?—telling the priest he’d like a few minutes alone with her while her mouth is shut. I’m not sure if I should find this funny or not but I leave it there next to the salt and the gloves and a stone from the beach that meant something once, I don’t remember what, and a bill from one of her caregivers and a letter I’d been writing to a friend before all this happened. Should I still send it? The old news is relevant though overshadowed by recent events…

I have no idea how to tidy this mess. The best I can do is ignore it, walk past it a dozen times a day, watch new things appear: sunglasses, lip balm, sixteen dollars and sixty two cents.

It’s the salt that finally gets to me.

I open a 1963 Pocket Book edition of Hints from Heloise—Phyllis thought Heloise was a genius for solving modern day problems such as getting gum out of shag rugs but the only use she offers for salt is to reduce suds from a dishwasher or washing machine. I do a google search. There are, apparently, 44 other things to do with salt.  #18 for instance: “Remove old stains from teacups by rubbing with salt and a bit of water.”

I take a long breath, pour some Sifto into a badly stained mug, add a drop of warm water and presto it’s like new.

That’s one.

It’s a start.

this is not a review: the cat’s pajama’s, by wallace edwards

~ carin ~ Leave a comment

While it’s true that The Cat’s Pajamas,  by Wallace Edwards, is another of the gorgeous picture book genre I adore—and while it’s also true that it’s been designed to amuse and enthral children, which it will certainly do, it must be said that even better than all that, it’s a tremendously fun parlour game for adults.

At least in my world.

I bought the book as a gift for a tiny person I know but haven’t given it away yet, in fact I’ll have to buy the kid another copy. This one’s mine. (I’ve since discovered it’s a follow-up to Edwards’ Monkey Business, which will be next on my list…)

As you may have worked out, The Cat’s Pajamas is heavy on idioms. Each page, a beautifully illustrated bit of quirkdom depicting one of the twenty-six idioms that make up the book—such as a panda seated at a table, playing a fiddle with a string of spaghetti (above text which reads: In order to have dinner music, Andy was forced to use his noodle.)

It doesn’t matter that the very young won’t get the nuanced brilliance of the compositions or the humour or the double entendres—they’ll be more than entertained with the absurdity of the pictures. (Did I mention that each illustration contains a hidden cat?)

Older kids though, and certain adult types (ahem)… will find that trying to guess the idiom being depicted is a whole other level of merriment.

Okay, picture this:

—A camel stands beside two small suitcases in what appears to be a desert; a single palm tree behind her, a train track in front. She’s draped in several colourful blankets, a feather headdress and beads. Each foot is placed deeply and firmly, it seems, inside either a strawberry or chocolate ice cream cone.
Text: “The Oasis Express was running late, so Camilla had to cool her heels.”

Or this—

An anteater in pearls, long tongue fully extended and in her hands, stands beside a goat in a striped dressing gown who points to a collection of quite hideous art.
Text: “The sight of Sir William’s new painting made Anita hold her tongue.”

Get it?

I actually played this with friends the other night. Granted, it could be that I hang around with fairly nerdish types, birds of a feather and all that, but it was just the thing between the soup and the nuts. And the bonus is that if you, like me, have an increasingly short memory, the game can be played any number of times with exactly the same level of challenge.

Oh, and don’t forget, you can also read it to the kidlets.

If you must.

~

first forage of the season

~ carin ~ Leave a comment

Consisting of: nettles, dandelion, and sorrel (our friendly garden rabbit finally had its fill and deigned to let us have a go).To which was added: olive oil, lemon juice, garlic, a handful of seasonings and slices of cold hamburger.
*Note: to eat nettles, pick off leaves and chop finely (discard stems)

on a brighter note…

~ carin ~ 6 Comments

I thought on this downer of a day after the night that wasn’t, I might share a bit of ancient wisdom, one of the mini philosophies my dad was semi famous for in certain circles (some of which run along the lines of: A parking lot is the most dangerous place in the world, and Never go to bed with your vice grip open).

The one that strikes me as most relevant to the current state of affairs however, was one he delivered when I was about twenty and having some major drama from which I was certain I’d never recover. We were in the car, he was driving, I was in the back seat—I’m not sure why, a cat may have been involved in some peripheral way—and when I finally stopped whinging about whatever my tragic situation was, long enough to blow my nose, he said something like this:

I hope you know how lucky you are.

Huh? Maybe my ears had blocked. Surely what he actually said was oh-you-poor-sweet-trodden-upon-angel-would-a-hundred-bucks-help?

But no. He repeated the luck thing and then explained how, when you were about as low as you could go, you should be happy because according to the law of physics or the universe, or possibly carpentry, you have no place to go but up. In his books, gloom and doom was precisely the time to rejoice.

Then he added: It’s when everything is going just fine that you have to worry.

I don’t remember saying thanks. Probably blew my nose a bit longer and started talking to the cat; it didn’t matter though, he’d worked his magic. I’ve never forgotten the message. Ever since, every time life seems to suck, I think, okay, don’t panic, an upswing is around the corner. And every time, there is.

The point—and there is one—of all this, is to say I’ve decided not to mourn ‘What Could Have Been’ had last night’s election gone differently, but to accept the reality as a kind of juicy lemon. There may well be some sort of ‘law of balances’ out there and all will magically revert to good, but I think the real key to finding success after failure is the way failure can feel like a kick in the butt that rocks you out of complacency.

The point is this: as individuals, we all have choices about our future, including the kind of society we create, and despite what ‘They’ would have us believe, our lives are not in someone else’s hands and society isn’t built by governments but by what ‘We’ do and what we support. Let’s remember that we live in a country where we can exercise choices every single day. And in the long run, maybe making the decision to make those daily choices count is what will serve us best.