carin

A good reason to check each freshly picked garden leaf before chopping.

Audible sigh of relief as guest is returned to place of origin. (Note: no caterpillars were harmed in the making of either this post or pot of sorrel soup.)
~

I don’t want to cause alarm.

But…

I have a thing for gorillas, but not for zoos, so it’s been years since I’ve had the pleasure of being in the presence of Charles, Samantha, et al, denizens of the Toronto Zoo. And it was a pleasure. I marvelled at how, unlike the orangutans—and people—the gorillas carried themselves with such dignity, grace despite their size, and purpose.

I remember trying to lock eyes with them—not easy—but when it happened, instead of the thrill I’d expected, I’d feel suddenly humbled by my stupid aim. So now we’re looking at each other, so now what? the gorilla seemed to be saying. Good point, I thought. It’s all about control for us humans. I got you to look at me. I win. This is how small and daft we are by comparison—while they spend their time in much more useful pursuits. Picking nits off each other, for instance.

My anti-zoo stance has been gradual, strengthening every time there’s a sideshow-like marketing campaign to announce the koalas or pandas or dancing white tigers are in town. Or some other spectacle—how about an authentic African Savannah, right here, in Toronto? Because we can all believe that can’t we? Imagine the smiles on the faces of all those African animals…

No one ever mentions the polar bears are still pacing, the elephants are eating jellybeans and the whales are going stark raving mad.

When I heard that Samantha the gorilla died this morning, I felt unexplainably sad and overcome with a kind of regret—the sort one feels when an old uncle passes away who, for whatever reason, you’ve neglected visiting and now it’s too late and you realize you’ve missed something.

While I’d rather learn about exotic animals from books and films produced by a handful of serious folk who respect and study them, than from invading their territory as a ‘tourist’ (eco or otherwise) or hauling them out of it into ours, I recognize that there is something magical when that connection between human and animal is made. At least for the human. I do believe we can be the better for it. It might even have been one of those connections with one of the Toronto gorillas that started my own ‘thing’ for them. And I guess that’s not entirely bad.

Even so, I can’t support zoos, at least not the run of the mill variety that allow for the import of camels and giraffes to Ontario and the export of dolphins to Asia and the Middle East. However, if they were designed to house indigenous animals only, and then for reasons of rescue, safety and rehabilitation, only, well, that would be a beast of a different colour. Our relationship with animals should be something special—when it happens it’s a gift. It shouldn’t be on tap for us to view as merely an ‘exhibit’, as if the very purpose of animals is to entertain us. And oh, of course, teach us. Mustn’t forget how much we’re constantly learning at the zoo and on safari and watching seals jump through hoops while we nibble on hot dogs and wonder what time the elephant rides start. If we really wanted to learn about animals, how about starting with the ones right around us? Cats, dogs, horses, foxes, coyotes, deer. Or how about the ones we eat—chickens, cows, pigs, lamb. We could do well to understand them a bit more and how we all affect one another, before we line up to watch a whale in a tank in the name of education.

Co-incidentally (I love a good co-incidence) I recently found an excellent book (Gorillas, by Sara Godwin) at the Sally Ann that I’m anxious to pass along to my young niece who has yet to discover the brilliance of gorillas and still thinks they’re scary, a la Godzilla or King Kong (unfair myths if ever there were any). I plan to give her a DVD of Gorillas in the Mist at the same time, and any good documentaries I can find, and then maybe after we’ve read and watched and talked—maybe I’ll take her to the zoo to pay our respects to Samantha’s friends and family.

I’ll tell her why I don’t much like to go there, as well as the magic of making connections, and she might get what I’m saying or she might find me tiresome and un-fun, but either way, I’ll let her take it from there to wander her own path because, ultimately, that’s all any of us can do.

Except the animals of course.

“As thoroughly as Homo sapiens as a species has earned James Joyce’s painfully accurate description of “manunkind”, so Gorilla gorilla gorilla deserves the title “gentleman” in a way few humans can honestly claim.”—from Gorillas, by Sara Godwin, Friedman Group

“…Confucius’ sayings, his wisdom and philosophy, had deeply influenced the way Chinatown raised first sons like me.

“What kind of human being was he to have established as one of the tenets of his philosophy, “What you do not want done to yourself, do not do to others”? How different the assumption that our fear of how others can harm us is the most specific and universal deterrent compared to what has filtered down to Western culture as “Do unto others what you would have them do unto you.” How dangerous to assume that whatever pleases you might please me. None of his teachings ever touched upon the afterlife, none considered the possibilities of a heaven or hell. His concern was with how one might live life in the present. Having survived my almost dying, I was moved by the answer he offered when one of his followers, speaking of death, asked, “But what comes next?”

“Confucius said, “If you do not understand life, how will you know about death?”

—from the memoir, Not Yet, by Wayson Choy, Random House

queen anne’s lace, relative of the carrot, scented only in the sun

I’m kneeling on a kneeling chair as I write, but I keep sliding off. The chair was recommended to me by my massage therapist, Beth, whom I haven’t seen in almost a year—ever since I got the chair, which I got because I slightly screwed up my hip and back from bad sitting habits in my previous chair whose pricey, ergodynamically correct engineering is completely wasted on me given that I sit cross-legged, or with alternating feet tucked under my bottom.

I remember the instructions for the kneeling chair said something like… this chair is not made for extensive kneeling; try to keep most of your weight off your knees and on your butt. Maybe it said derierre.

In any case I’ve never really understood how to work it and am pretty sure I’m doing it wrong because my back and hip still hurt. Also my knees now. Makes me long for the days when my only complaint was excruciatingly tight shoulder and neck muscles that even Beth found shocking.

I’m guessing that a certain amount of ache is part of the territory, that anyone who sits for long periods obsessing about semi colons or whether to use the word ‘car’ or ‘vehicle’ is eventually the beneficiary of a few sore parts and maybe also the owner of a few gadgets to help ease the soreness (heat packs, massage thingies, roller wotsits, cedar blocks for yoga stretches, Theraband bands for other stretches—all of which only work, I’ve discovered, if you use them).

Or maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m a wimp, or have some unique structural problems. (Actually, least said about structural problems right now the better…)

So I got the kneeling chair and what I’ve been doing is alternating between it, the original chair, and a medium sized Theraband ball, which, when I told a physiotherapist I sat on while working, she laughed, called an associate into the room and had me repeat the story so they could share a professional chuckle.

Despite its apparent effect on physiotherapists, the ball works rather well for me. Furthermore, my chiropractor, whom I also haven’t seen since winter, said it should be fine.

Anyway, moving between these three seats I’ve noticed that—in addition to giving me much needed breaks in my position (because it rarely occurs to me to do anything as simple as stand up and stretch)—I’ve developed a preference for sitting differently for different tasks. For instance, revising is best done on the bouncy Theraband and almost impossible to do effectively on the kneeling chair (which I prefer for composing). Emails are more cheerfully answered, and less often misunderstood, if I write from one of various contortions on the ergo chair, whereas, for on-line reading, I go back to the Theraband. And so on.

Here’s what worries me: at some point will I need a fourth chair?

If so, I’m thinking lawn chair (one of the most brilliantly designed chairs of all time). I’m also thinking spiral notebook instead of screen, pen instead of keyboard… seagull voice, negative ions, beach glass, stones for skipping. Lunch in a paper sack.

In fact that may be exactly what my achy self needs. Not ergo wotsits.

And it just occurred to me—that’s twice in less than two weeks my rambling has led to the same place.

Right. Enough kneeling and bouncing and moaning. I’m off.

Dinner on the Beach, Natural History Society Camp, c 1918 (Photo: New Brunswick Museum)

“In 1881 women were allowed to join the newly formed Ladies’ Auxiliary of the Natural History Society of New Brunswick. Saint John women interested in natural history, history and science enthusiastically embraced the group, and by 1892 they had taken control of the auxiliary, electing members, establishing objectives and offering programs. Their motto, “Progress is the law of life,” underscored their “commitment of self improvement, technological advancement and social uplift,” which they felt was best gained through education. The Society offered lectures, museum tours, field trips and teas. The Saint John-based group was so successful that by 1905 women outnumbered the men of the Natural History Society two to one. As time passed they expanded their programs, focusing on education directed at women and children.*

“Among the most popular activities were summer science camps and clubs for children and youth. In the photo shown above, science camp participants are enjoying a meal on the beach. Most of the young women are wearing middies and bloomers—popular sportswear of the period. That the participants appear to be female shows that even 100 years ago, girls and women embraced science education when given an opportunity.”

(From: Herstory, 2010, The Women’s Calendar)

* Collecting and museum work offered opportunities for scientifically minded women to engage in high-profile cultural and intellectual activities in their communities, thereby offsetting as well as challenging their lack of political rights.

For one mad moment as I sat down to write my post, I thought: oh crud, I have to date the thing—and on this particular day that was enough to make it all feel like just too much to take on. Date?? What date it is? I haven’t a clue, something in August and I can’t be bothered trying to find my calendar or googling for help and why don’t I remember anyway? Didn’t I know this morning what date it was? I’m sure I did…

So then I thought: screw the post, it’s all too complicated.

Then I remembered—posts date themselves. In which case I decided I’d say this—and not much more: it’s been a mad mad time of late. So crazy in fact that I’m considering a separate blog dedicated to the madness. Possibly soon to appear, preceded by an announcement on these very (self-dated) pages.

In the meantime, having given up on the original post, may I offer the following— (for no good reason except I enjoyed stumbling across this place, imagining a simpler time when posts did not date themselves, summer was longer and holiday spots, it seems, were wonderfully Batesian…)

Hey, what’s that?

Hmm. Says motel, but I’m not sure…

No, wait. It is a motel, and look, they’ve got COLOR (sic) tv! Oh my god, let’s stop HERE!!!

Perfeck.

Couldn’t be happier to have stumbled over a bit of info (please don’t ask how) advising that today, in 1583, the first English settlement in North America was founded at St. John’s, Newfoundland—an event I picture as involving a large sign reading Hands Off!, signed England, some merry jigs and a kitchen party or two.

I first went to that beautiful land a couple of years ago and while I was initially frightened by fog and ragged cliffs and isolated ports, I soon fell in love with fog and cliffs and isolation. And then I went to St. John’s… and was hooked forever.

So I may have to celebrate with some pan-fried cod (or equivalent) and scrunchions (there is no equivalent and I don’t know how to make them so forget that idea).

Or I’ll re-read of one of my new favourite writers or flip through my gorgeous glossy copy of Riddle Fence (still on issue #4) inside which is ‘A Conversation Between Two Fiction Writers’, namely Bernice Morgan and Joan Clark, who, among other things “…discuss the squatters in their heads, the nature of genocide, and that nasty little bugbear of political correctness: appropriation of voice.” Which reminds me I have yet to read Cloud of Bone. Or I could open House of Hate by Percy James, which I bought at the very wonderful Afterwords Bookstore on Duckworth Street and have wanted to read for yonks and which fits (kind of) the memoir-ish theme I’m working on these days. Okay it doesn’t fit at all but I’d like to read it anyway. And for something completely different, and not in the least memoir-ish either, could be it’s time for Come Thou Tortoise, which for reasons unknown has been on my mind a while…

Heck, why don’t I just push the boat right out… slap on some Ron Hynes , open a bottle of something lovely (no, definitely not that); mabye flip through the photo album, remember hiking Gross Morne in the snow, in June. All those moose, the picnic of cheese and water at Tablelands that was so amazingly delicious; feasting on fresh crab and lobster and cloudberry jam. And the way people talk—really talk—to you. The woman named Hazel who cooked us haigs and bacon in Twillingate while we watched hicebergs float by her livingroom window. And the guy who was mowing his lawn when we stopped to ask directions and how we ended up learning how many pounds of carrots and potatoes he generally harvested and how it got god almighty cold in winter with the wind coming in across the water straight at their house and, yes, my dear, it might seem like there wasn’t much around to love but he wouldn’t live anywhere else and that he had a son in Toronto who lived in an apartment overlooking the 401 and couldn’t wait to get home to the wind and cold and the nothing that is actually ‘everything’ that’s important.

Oh yes. I love that rock.

Happy August 5th.

And I don’t mean cheerio as in ‘goodbye’, but as in cereal… of course.

There used to be an ad when I was about eight or nine where this little kid would wake up before anyone else in his house and pour himself a bowl of Cheerios then set off on his bike into the wild blue yonder. Everything looked so appealing. The way he poured the perfect amount of Cheerios and milk into a perfect bowl in a perfect kitchen, his bike waiting for him right outside the back door, like the perfect friend. How he didn’t have to bother telling anyone where he was going, and the way the sun was just starting to light the sky and the day was all his—anything was possible and all of it was good.

After that I asked my mum to stop buying Cap’n Crunch, Fruit Loops and Honeycomb. They had nothing to offer; there was only one cereal that suited the adventurous outdoorsy freewheelin’ kinda lifestyle I wanted.

All that summer I ate a bowl of Cheerios every morning and then headed out on my gigantic rusted green bike that was an ancient hand-me-down from my very much older sister, and which was too big for me to sit on the seat and pedal at the same time—and I’d cycle to the other side of the canal to hunt for tadpoles and steal peaches from the orchards whenever I got hot and thirsty enough. (This was before the invention of water bottles.)

All of this comes home to me on certain summer mornings when the smell or feel or something about the air—some indefinable combination of summer warmth and early morning crisp—or maybe it’s the light or just a quality of the earliest hours of the day at exactly the right moment—that catches me by surprise (because it’s always a surprise)—and reminds me that our days, regardless of age or circumstance, quality of bike or choice of breakfast food—are filled to the brim with, if not tadpoles, then certainly the potential for their equivalent…