Author: carin

it’s just that they’re everywhere…

~ carin ~ 2 Comments

Hello, Sigmund. It’s me.

Yes, again.

I’m fine, really. No, really I am. I’m over the whole, you know… thing. I don’t even think about it anymore. Ever. Except when I’m walking around and I look up and there one is. Have you noticed how they’re everywhere?? Is it just me? They’re everywhere, right?

It’s just that I don’t really understand what the problem ever was. I mean, the guy could make anything. He built real houses, the on-the-ground kind, the kind people live in, have keys for. He tore apart and rebuilt the inside of our bungalow at least twelve hundred times. Nothing was ever a problem. Give him a few pieces of wood, some nails, and he could knock you up whatever you wanted. A couch, bookshelves, carport, fence, spice rack—the sky was the limit.

So you’ll excuse me if I find it hard to fathom that when I made my (what I still believe to be miniscule) request, he stood there and said—as if this made any sense at all: sorry, kiddo, the pear tree isn’t big enough for a tree house.

I can tell you, Sigmund, I nearly dropped my ice cream cone right there and then. Neopolitan.

Oh yeah? I wanted to say. Well, dad, it sure as hell looks big enough from where I stand…

But I didn’t say anything. Shock probably. And then he went whistling off in some direction, and eventually I took my neopolitan and my skipping rope and went slurping off in another, and that, I guess, was supposed to be that.

Thing is, Sigmund. Every other tree in the world is big enough… have you noticed?? Every other tree.  In the world.

But it doesn’t matter.

I’m fine.

Really.

I’m going to have a lactose-free cone now. Vanilla.

And if you don’t mind I’d like to be alone.

Best treehouse ever…? Click here.

That—in a pear tree—would do nicely thank you.
Is that asking too much??

(Late addition, because I will keep adding them as I find them: tree villa)

 

how to spend three days in niagara

~ carin ~ 9 Comments

 
Oh Niagara. How I do love thee. Let me count the bottles of wine and bushels of fruit.

—If you can, begin your Niagara love-in on a Thursday. Less traffic but close enough to the weekend to feel celebratory.

Begin with lunch en route, in Ancaster, at the Mill. Don’t worry if it’s raining, the room is all windows and made for watching rain fall while you eat. Have the pickerel and chips and Soiled Reputation salad greens with shaved black radish, carrot, fennel and Dijon dressing. Just have it. Order a glass of Tawes Echo chardonnay. And don’t forget the rain.

On the way to Hamilton—where you will spend a few happy hours strolling through the Art Gallery—stop at a roadside nursery and buy seeds: arugula, mesclun, radishes, beets, carrots, chicory. And one asparagus plant for the cats to eat until the goldenrod in the garden is big enough to pick for them. [Cat grass just sticks in their throat and makes them gag.]

If you’ve missed the William Kurelek exhibit… poor you.

Later, stop at Bryan Prince Books. Listen as the amazing and cheerful staff chat with customers by phone, in person, with each other, with the elderly man who toddles in, a paperback in his hand, and says it turns out he already read this book, can he return it and choose something else, and the amazing and cheerful staff say of course you can, Henry, and within two minutes Henry has chosen a hardcover, the title of which I can’t see, and happily pays the difference, and then toddles back outside, smiling, all flat cap and walking stick.

Consider stopping  for something just because a place looks like fun and you can see cupcakes through the window not to mention that you’re anxious to read what you bought at Bryan Prince. But, really, you have to admit you’re still full from the pickerel. Press on instead.

Take a picture of a fountain made for both mid-range and ground level thirsts, and smile at the woman who shakes her head as she passes and tells you that’s a silly thing to take a picture of…

Drive to your hotel in Niagara-on-the-Lake, which is one of your favourite places in all of the world and is privately owned and run by family that seems to enjoy what they do—and it shows. Go off season for good rates and fewer tourists. No one likes tourists… blech blech. You of course are not one.

Change and go for a swim.

Immediately.

Have a late dinner in the sports bar. Have a sublime thin crust pizza. Or quinoa salad.

And then… at last… climb into a most comfy bed and read that book you bought at Bryan Prince.

In the morning, swim. You will have the pool to yourself if you go at the right time. I’d like to tell you precisely what that time is, but I don’t know. Try to work it so you’re done your swim just before the aerobics class comes in, although, according to one of the women, you’re welcome to join them.

Have breakfast at Liv. Complimentary smoothies start things off. Might even be chocolate banana…

Have the eggs benny.

Begin the wine tour with Niagara College Winery, a teaching facility as well as winery and where they’ve built a whole new beautiful building—one of the loveliest features being a wall of wines, a bottle from each of the wineries in the area.

Visit the College greenhouses where you would love to be a student, and buy a small pot of oregano and a large potted snake plant. One to eat with eggs, the other because it’s happy minding its own business in the shade and has no appeal for cats.

Visit Staff Winery and be met by Brix, the happy giant puppy. Buy some Toute Sweet chocolate to go with the Baco Noir.

Visit Tawse Winery because they are bio and love talking about life without pesticides. And so do you. Buy some Riesling.

Drive to Beamsville via the back roads and pull over to walk or stretch or breathe fresh air whenever the mood strikes. Do not be tempted by the chocolate in the back seat.

Stop for lunch at August Restaurant, where even though the last customers are leaving because it’s twenty to three and they close at three for a couple of hours, the staff says don’t be silly, come on in. And the music is wonderful and no one will rush you and the waitress—who is charming and pleasant in exactly the right way—will tell you she started off as a customer and she loved the food so much she begged them to let her work there for free. Or meals. Or something. I think she gets paid now. She is a gem. And she’s not kidding about the food.

Think to yourself: at this moment I am completely and utterly happy.

Say it out loud if you’re with someone.

Drive slowly back to the outskirts of NOTL, where your comfy bed awaits for a short nap.

Stretch.

Shower.

Walk from your hotel through the gardens of Niagara College, to the College’s beautiful restaurant, Benchmark, where you will be surrounded by windows and wonderful views, culinary students eager to ply their newly learned skills, and food that has never failed to satisfy. Afterwards, you will be grateful you’re walking back to the hotel, but sorry it’s only less than ten minutes.

The final day [which may well be Saturday] wake and swim and have breakfast at Liv and walk through the grounds, then say your goodbyes to this delightful home away from home and promise to come back soon.

Discover a new winery. Make it a small one, off the beaten path–one that looks like nothing much from the outside, yet on the inside awaits a brilliant chat with owners and some excellent Riesling to add to your ever-growing Riesling cache.

Drive to St. Catharines and go directly to the Farmers’ Market. Buy arugula and blue iris, freshly caught trout, and whatever else demands to go home in your carrier bag. Then walk over to Hannelore’s Book Shop where, if you know the place well, you can navigate through the stacks and find just what you’re looking for. If you’re a newbie, give yourself time and enjoy the adventure. [Note: Hannelore has no website. She’s too cool for that. But anyone will be able to tell you where to find her.]

You could of course have lunch at the market or at any number of places downtown, but on this day you have a hankering for a lakeside table, so take yourself off to Port Dalhousie [where only the locals know how to pronounce it] and treat yourself to the joy at Treadwell, where the food is local and, I swear—it doesn’t matter what you have—out of this world delicious, where the staff is welcoming and smart and so happy to see you and you wonder if the house across the road might come up for sale so you can eat here every day.

Eat slowly. Sip your wine. Make this last. You won’t want to leave.

In fact what you’ll want to do is order the appetizer again for dessert. [And don’t think you haven’t done this before…]

If you’re so inclined, walk over to the beach, take a ride on the carousel if you dare. Be careful. Some of those critters move.

Eventually the QEW will beckon and it’ll be time to head home but not without first stopping at Foreign Affair to sample their unusual amarone wines and walk about the grounds of Vineland Research Centre, which used to be the Experimental Farm your parents took you to on Sundays when outings on Sundays meant suits and ties, hats, gloves, patent leather shoes and that horrible pink plaid pleated skirt that made climbing trees very difficult.

Have I mentioned it’s still raining?

Have I mentioned it matters not at all?
Greenhouse at Vineland Research Centre

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More Travel:

Montreal
Stratford
Prince Edward Island
Miami
Peterborough
Chile
Vancouver

a few trashy stories

~ carin ~ 4 Comments

So there’s the one about the guy who walks over, slow like, walks all the way over from wherever he lives on the street opposite the park where Peter and I are clearing litter from the tall grass area and creek bed that never gets mowed. It’s a pretty big space and we have a few green garbage bags already filled. So the slow walking guy stands there, hands in pockets, smiling, and says it’s great what we’re doing. He wants to know if we’re part of a group or something. (What, like the Kiwanis maybe? I’m not sure what he means). No, I say, we’re just  us. He looks momentarily confused, or perhaps it’s just gas, then rattles on about the sin of littering and how it brings down house prices. He asks if we live in the neighbourhood. Nope, I tell him, we’re on the other side of the ravine but we come through here all the time. His hands are still in his pockets. He’s wearing khakis and a golf shirt. Well, he says, bouncing a little on his toes, brightening considerably, why don’t we form a committee, get a group together to clean the area. But we are cleaning the area, I say, we do this all the time. I explain how you can’t just clean it once, it gets messy again very quickly, and how a group, nice as it would be to have company, won’t do any long-term good… better to just have many people pick up a few things on a daily basis. Or do bigger clean-ups on their own as and when they feel like it. I suggest that groups have a way of getting complicated. They argue. People will find ways to disagree about how to pick up litter. We’re not group people, I say finally… but, hey, thanks, and good luck.

He’s suddenly all crestfallen and slightly pissed off and I silently wonder if in declining the offer to whip up a litter committee what I’ve really done is dashed his hopes for whatever else was attached to the plan. (Brain-storming BBQs? Bake-sale to raise funds for garbage bags? Motivational street party with face-painting for the kids and Larry the Litter Loving clown?)

He mumbles something like yeah, right, and walks back from whence he came, hands still firmly planted in pockets.

If a committee has been formed, I haven’t noticed.
The litter continues to fall.
We continue to pick it up.
We’ve never seen the man nor his pockets again.

__

Then there’s the couple who sit on their porch comparing their lawn to everyone else’s. We don’t have a lawn. We’re weird. And when I walk past the porch-sitters the man says something I don’t hear and I shout back Yes, it’s a lovely day! and he repeats the thing that I don’t understand. I move closer and he says “What’s that in your hands?”

I tell him it’s litter; I say it’s amazing what you can pick up in just a short walk around the block. Ha!  I toss in some laughter to keep it light.

He makes a bad smell face, goes slightly indignant. The woman also, just stares. So now I’m standing way too close to their tidy porch holding a squashed Timmy’s cup and other bits of debris and I realize the exchange has ended, that I’ve been dismissed, and as I shuffle off I wonder how I’ve offended them. Have I caused them to feel guilty for not picking up litter? Or have I simply confirmed their suspicions about the sort-of-people-who-don’t-have-a-lawn? (Beware the Timmy’s cup, the flattened water bottle, the muddy Rothman’s pack… strange powers to unsettle the masses lurk there!)

__

A friend of mine gathers litter as she walks to work at King and Bay—which is brilliant because the better dressed the anti-litter warrior, the more influence they have in a 100 monkeys kind of way. (Recently I’ve noticed a guy around the corner who takes regular walks with a No Frills bag or two, filling them with rubbish. I honk as I pass. Wave and smile. I hope he doesn’t get the wrong idea.)

__

Last but not least is the woman who says—in her not-very-sincere-smiling way (and who insists recycling is a scam)—that it’s very nice to pick up litter and all but don’t I worry that I’m taking away the jobs of people who are employed to do such things?

Though I’ve never seen the ’employed’ scrambling through ravines… I call the Town, present my concerns, and am met with laughter.

Followed by reassurance that no one will lose jobs.

Seems there is indeed enough litter for us all.

On the street, in parks, wherever.

You can imagine my relief.

one of ‘those’ places…

~ carin ~ Leave a comment

“It’s a different time and it’s one of those homes for girls, a place for pregnant girls to go away to and have their babies quietly, a convent-type thing where it is hoped that all the hushed holiness will keep the girls from heaving and grunting too loudly. One of those places. You know. You’ve seen the same movies I have. It’s a home for these pregnant unweds and an institution for children with Down’s syndrome, a kind of catch-all clubhouse for the lost and stigmatized, for all these wounds received during the passion. What difference does it make what the name of the place is? Something French. Sacre Coeur or Notre Dame de Grace or something. Somewhere in Quebec. Imagine the Plains of Abraham minus the canons and the general war aura. Then imagine that orphanage in Oliver. Now put that orphanage on the Plains of Abraham—lots of green and land stretching out, prop up a cow or two, a wire fence that always needs fixing, and a gardener named Jacques-Louis who likes to rub their pregnant stomachs with his rough, muddy hands, and maybe he’s just a little slow, a bit retarded, so the girls can fantasize that he is a violent monster, but when that calf gets caught under the wire fence and the Mother Superior wants to slaughter it, isn’t it Jacques-Louis who saves the animal and nurses it back to health? And maybe there’s a mangy German shepherd, half blind but steadfast loyal to the Mother Superior to the point where these girls in trouble, these girls with reputations, are starting rumours. The English girls give the place a Native name. They call it Shegoneaway. When they see a new face, bloated and tired, thick waterlogged wrists and ankles, they say: Hello, and welcome to Shegoneaway.”

~ from ‘A Well-Imagined Life’ and the collection Can You Wave Bye Bye, Baby?  by Elyse Gasco  (1999, McClelland & Stewart)

—

I found this story especially powerful as I recalled the recent installation Foundling, by Michele Karch-Ackerman, at the Art Gallery of Peterborough—an homage to the memory of young girls sent away to homes for unwed mothers. Karch-Ackerman used, among other items, long tables set only with teacups and saucers, and rows and rows of hanging baby pyjamas made from 1960’s style drapery fabric. Lovely write-up here. She has a retrospective coming up this year at Tom Thomson Gallery. Making a note…

Michele Karch-Ackerman, ‘Foundling’ (detail)

call it what it is

~ carin ~ 3 Comments

Dear Hudson’s Bay Company:

Your cosmetics brochures. Every month or so when they come out it’s the same thing: a striking, artistically rendered cover, showing the manipulated face of a woman (manipulation including use of, not only the products listed in the brochure, but lighting, air-brushing and computer magic—standard tricks to achieve the ‘effect’).

All of which is fine. However none of it equals beauty.

Beauty would be the un-manipulated face of the models.

But if this ‘artistic’ rendering is what you prefer, then at least consider that your title is inappropriate and misleading. A more realistic title might be, for instance, ‘Makeup’.

There are other suggestions of course, but I’m trying to be helpful.

While I understand that the subliminal message being sent is important for your bottom line, I feel it’s equally important not to further confuse real beauty with manipulated appearance—given how young women and girls, especially, are already confused about what beauty is. A company with your clout could go a long way to make things better in that regard and still achieve a living wage bottom line. Or you could make it worse and continue to be part of the problem.

Just a thought.

Your choice of course.

Sincerely,

friday the thirteenth

~ carin ~ 8 Comments

Starts with a massage.

My occasional luxury of choice. (Which really isn’t a luxury at all if you talk to Hippocrates.)

No complaints there. Even though the massage therapist tells me she’s not a morning person. I worry momentarily about cold stiff hands and lethargic moves, yawning from above, but she turns out to be great. Even gives me a couple of tips:

1) buy a timer to remind myself to stand up at my desk now and then, move about, roll my shoulders, breathe, etc.

2) get a new mattress every ten years.

So I go to the dollar store and buy a timer in the shape of a pear and while I’m in line I think about evolution and wonder if humans accidentally stopped evolving a lot sooner than we were meant to. I mean, everything else in the universe seems to have the sense to remember to roll its shoulders without the help of plastic fruit.

The woman ahead of me has two baskets filled with what I recognize as the fixings for loot-bags and I remember the first birthday party I organized for my stepson. He was nine. We did the usual: cake, lunch, games, arts and crafts, then a trip to the bowling alley for some five pin action. At the end of the day, as the parents started arriving to pick up their kids, and as we waved and said bye bye now, you little darlings, one of the kids said: so where are the loot bags? I had no idea what he was talking about. Last kid party I’d attended I was nine myself and the only thing I brought home was a piece of cake wrapped in a soggy serviette.

From there I take my still squishy, flushed, massage face with its massage table indentations to the library where I hope not to frighten small children. I smile the smile of the freshly massaged who have three books waiting to be picked up:

Gould’s Book of Fish: a novel in twelve fish, by Richard Flanagan
Indian Horse, by Richard Wagamese
We Tell Ourselves Stories in Order to Live, by Joan Didion

I wander over to the free-giveaway shelves where I find a bumper crop of Canadian Gardening magazines. It would be selfish to scoop them all so I sit down and flip through each one in order to choose. Then scoop them all. (I paint a rosy cast over this unbecoming behaviour by telling myself I’ll return them to the giveaway shelves once I’ve finished reading them and have become a brilliant gardener; it could be a while…)

There are also a number of French books, including dozens of Harlequins, which remind me of a friend who once told me she learned French by reading stacks of Harlequins while living in Paris. I grab one for her for old times’ sake and one for me, as a learning aid.  Also find a copy of Gabrielle Roy: De quoi t’ennuies-tu, Eveline?  The cover shows a matronly woman in feathered hat and fur collared coat, a snow-covered field and two small houses in the background. I like it already. Er, that is… Je l’aime deja. (BTW, I had to google translate that, which tells you all you need to know about my French; I can only pray the Harlequin will do its magic.)

I should be heading home now but instead find myself entering a little second-hand clothing shop. The woman sitting by the till is covering for her daughter who has pleurisy. She’s taking care of her grandkids also. She looks tired. She lost her husband in February and helping her daughter keeps her mind off things, she says. I tell her she must remember to look after herself as well and she nods, smiles, says no one sails stormy seas forever. When I knock over a display with my shoulder bag she calmly fixes it while I apologize and worry about any teacups in the debris. She says no, nothing breakable, laughs, says it happens all the time. She’s one of those people. I’ll bet it doesn’t happen all the time at all.

I buy a floral print jacket in lime green and pale pink. An odd choice given that I mostly wear black with occasional splashes of white or grey. Never prints. Especially flower shaped ones. (Could it be that I picked up some weird pourquoi pas? c’est printemps! vibe among all those books with their covers of feathery hats, heaving bosoms and holiday themes…?)

By now it’s almost lunchtime so I decide to get some rotis and fish cakes from the Carribean place next door, and a new thing called ‘doubles’—a spicy chick pea wrap.

At home I pick dandelions in the garden, sorrel leaves too, make a salad and watch The Big Bang Theory, which I admit I’ve developed a slight addiction to.

I write.

I hang sheets.

I tidy the yard and make a note to buy more seeds.

Later I will have a glass of chardonnay on the patio and eat grilled salmon and Peter’s double baked potatoes, which we will douse with butter and sprinkle with garlic chives.

We will talk about the day. His, mine.

There will be reading.

Some gossip about the neighbours.

Plans for tomorrow.

And—despite the possiblilty of evolutionary glitches—very big chunks of gratitude.