anthropological studies

dear media people:

~ carin ~ 14 Comments

I mean many of you (not all, see p.s.) but especially you, dear CBC Radio, because you are the media people I often pay attention to and lately I’ve heard you mention a little too often, a certain store about to open in the Toronto area. Soft openings. Grand openings. Why and when and what and oh golly!— each time I switch off the radio and mutter bad words in frustration.

Worse, I fear there’s more of it to come as soft openings and grand openings approach.

I don’t know much, but I do know this: this [yet another] big American store doesn’t need our help although I’m sure it’s grateful for all the attention it’s getting. Free and regular promos. From our public broadcaster no less. And so, as someone who happily and proudly supports you in many ways, I have a question:

Why are you doing this??

I mean it’s not like big American stores opening up in Canada and selling loads of cheap stuff made under questionable conditions in countries far, far away is news. And if you’re worried that they might open and no one will notice and you feel duty bound to inform us of such goings-on, may you rest assured that word will spread even if you utter not another syllable about it.

Surely a store opening is not news, nor are the stages of its development worthy of monitoring. At least not this kind of store. Unfortunately, this store will do just fine without one bit of media interest.

Who might benefit from your attention, however, are the smaller, local indies that will suffer in the shadow of this most recent behemoth. Why not save your air time for THAT kind of news? News of butchers and bakers and candlestick makers that, despite being largely ignored by the media, and against the odds, continue in their Sisyphean task of slowing the rate of the world’s devolution to soulless Big Box status.

It’s the candlestick makers that keep us human.

Here’s the thing… No one will build communities for us. Builders only build profits. It’s up to us to build communities. And we build them by being informed of what’s out there and then supporting it. And I don’t mean only the new or funky patios in certain neighbourhoods but all manner of businesses across the city, the GTA, the province, the country—stores, restaurants, markets, manufacturers, service providers—real people who make a living despite the Goliaths, and who make those livings in real ways, and deserve real support.

If the Big Store Opening must be mentioned on your airwaves, although I have NO IDEA why it must be… then please leave it for the top of the hour news on the day of the opening. That’s more than enough ‘information’.

There’s worthier out there, and the power you wield is no small potatoes.

Please use that power wisely.

Yours sincerely,

carin makuz.

p.s. Thank you to THIS Magazine for continuing to be you, with *this*… WTF, indeed.

♦◊♦

maybe the kids’ll be alright after all…

~ carin ~ 6 Comments

1. At the No Frills, where I go looking for a box to make a temporary three-sided bed for our elderly cat and for the first time in history find NO boxes in the discard bin — just as I’m giving up on that plan, a young man walks by, an employee, with a carton of just the right proportions, which he’s just about to pitch… and in the most happy-to-have-bumped-into-me way says yes, of course, I’m very welcome to have it as if he couldn’t be more delighted to have found such a good home for this stray bit of cardboard. And I think: what are the odds of that — the timing, certainly, but the gift of such good cheer from an unlikely source… especially when much needed.

2. A scruffy looking boy with dyed jet black hair, long and unkempt, smoking, jeans that begin somewhere around his thighs and a ragged shirt. Very bored, very detached demeanor, standing outside the plaza. I drive by [the carton from No Frills in my back seat] and notice an elderly woman exit the dental office with what looks like a large pizza box. Ten or so metres along, l look in my rear-view mirror, curious as to whether I’m imagining the pizza box and I see her fall on the icy pavement. I stop the car and in that instant of thinking I must go back to help, I see — still in the rear-view mirror — that, without missing a beat, the scruffy boy has leapt to her aid. They chat for a moment and then she and he go their separate ways.

3. On the way home I notice a hockey net on the frozen pond, and when I stop to take a picture, a boy appears, alone, with a hockey stick, heading in its direction.

That’s it.
That’s enough, I decide.
There’s hope still.
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dear person who

~ carin ~ 4 Comments

Dear Person at Sobeys Who Left a Cup in the Cup Holder of Shopping Cart:

What is it you’re buying that takes so long and creates such a thirst that you can’t do it without knocking back a little something in the process? And while we’re at it… why, Ms/Mr Sobeys, do you encourage people to drink while they shop by installing cup holders on your otherwise fine chocolate brown carts? I would have thought it counter-productive. After all, thirsty people will buy more juice and pop and bottles of Clamato. And so forth. Those who are suffonsified will buy less. And so forth.

I’m no expert in these things but I’m guessing that if you were to add TV trays, cutlery and condiments to the carts, you would see a significant drop in deli, whole roasted chicken, and possibly other, sales.

So I’m advising you against it. Not that you asked.

But back to you, Dear Person Who Can’t Shop Without a Drink. For god’s sake, pull yourself together. Surely you can function for twenty minutes without one.

And if you can’t do that, then would you please have the courtesy to place your pacifier in the garbage (or better yet, take it home to your recycling bin) and not leave it in the cart for the next person to find… Some of us like to use that space to store our tulips.

Thanks a bunch.
And have a nice day.
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what’s not litter

~ carin ~ 2 Comments

1.  A green tennis ball stuck to the ice, immoveable, which is just as well once I realize that a gallumping, tail-wagging, tongue-lolling beast will likely be back tonight or tomorrow to look for it. And if it’s not IN ITS PLACE there will be hell to pay.IMG_0298

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2. Anything red and ribbony and tied to a tree.IMG_0300IMG_0301IMG_0303Or indeed any ribbony colour.IMG_0324
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3. Things on TOP of a garbage bin.IMG_0314Especially if that thing turns out to be a full Timmy’s.IMG_0316

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4. See #1 above. [No ice but same reasoning applies.]IMG_0335

xmas stockings

~ carin ~ 31 Comments

 

So I’m in the men’s sock department at Winners and this elderly woman keeps bumping into me and leaning across whatever I’m looking at until I say: sorry, am I in your way?  And she says “What do you think about these?” She holds up a three-pack. “I like the argyle,” she says, “but why do they have to put in the others?”  The others are big bold stripes and she’s not sure her neighbour who takes out the garbage for her will wear them. She gets him a little something every year. “It’s so hard to know what kind of socks someone will like,” she says.

She’s the picture of Santa’s wife. White hair, wire-rimmed glasses. Rosy cheeks. A beige anorak. Navy slacks.

She shows me a single pair she’s also considering, black with a tiny red line at the top, asks what I think and I tell her they’re classic, that no one would have a problem with them. She agrees, but keeps looking. I continue looking too. I say the bold patterns make the most sense, easier to match them up. She laughs, says yes, but easier still is to buy all the same kind, which is what she did for her husband. Dozens of the same plain black, she says. Never a problem making pairs. She tells me she’d wait until he was down to one or two then fill the washer with only socks, every one of them turned inside out.

“That way they don’t get fuzzy from other things, or all pilly.”

It all seems a bit too much work, I say, all that turning inside out and back again and she says pooh, it’s no trouble, you just pile them on the chesterfield and sit down and go at it for a few minutes.

I tell her I’m not actually very fond of socks, the sheer number of them and the way they take it upon themselves to disappear one day, turn up weeks later or not at all. But mostly I really hate sorting them.

Something changes in her face, she goes quiet. Her eyes are blue. She looks at me through her Mrs. Claus glasses and I have an idea of what’s coming.

“I’d give anything to sort my husband’s socks again,” she says, then turns her head.

She tries to smile, shrugs, ruffles through the display as she tells me he died three months ago, that the family’s coming together and she can’t let herself get sad because they’re coming from Nova Scotia and Kingston and there’s the grandchildren to think of. She stops, looks up again. “But…” she says, and her sweet blue eyes are suddenly red-rimmed and we’re standing there in the socks and her lips are trembling—and I put my hand on her arm and I say, “But it’ll be hard.”

And she nods. Composes herself and we each say this and that and eventually laugh a little and then goodbye and the whole time I want to hug her but we’re in the socks at Winners and I have the feeling she’d rather not make a big thing of this, that she’s doing the best she can.

When I leave her she’s still debating about the argyle/stripes combo or the single classic black.

I buy a couple of three-packs.

Count my blessings.
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pink toys R girls + blue R boys = *sigh*

~ carin ~ 9 Comments

 
Against my better judgement I ventured into a toy store recently. Toys aren’t what I love giving the kids in my world. I prefer the idea of books and clay and donkeys and paint a whole lot more. But I wondered if maybe I was missing out on something, so off I went on a toy hunt. My first reaction was to be stunned with the enormity of choice so I asked a sales clerk if they might be able to help, to offer some ideas for children of various ages. I started with a toddler.

Is it a boy or a girl? the clerk asked.

Does it matter? I said. They can barely walk.

I was assured that, yes, it does indeed matter and once I’d identified the recipient as a girl child, was whisked to the pink side of the room where the shelves were so shockingly bright I momentarily lost focus, barely heard what the clerk said. Something about unicorns. When I asked what she would recommend for a boy the same age she directed me to the opposite wall, said trains were popular.

I was fascinated yet disheartened by this girl/boy division and considered taking solace in the world’s softest snowy white owl—for myself—but the lines were too long. Instead, I decided to to undertake an informal survey of area toy stores, popping into various ones over the next few days, asking for gift ideas for different ages. Result of survey: whether it was a small independent shop, a medium-sized chain or a huge honking warehouse, in every single case but one, the first question, regardless of age, was: is it a boy or a girl?

When I said I’d rather not be limited by gender specific toys, and that I’d prefer if they could just go by age appropriateness instead, sales clerks were flummoxed. It was clearly so ingrained that this stuff is for boys and this stuff is for girls, that it actually took them a moment to consider what to give an individual “kid”.

I kept expecting the first question to be what interests the child had, but no one asked that, at least not until they determined how said child peed.

In one case I was asked if the girl was a girly girl or a tomboy… with a distinct negative tone on the word ‘tomboy’, as if offering condolences. Message received: girly girl = good; tomboy = possibly cute, but slightly off the mark.

In another instance, when I said I was shopping for both a girl and a boy, of approximately the same age, I was shown a fabulous MegaBlocks set complete with helicopter, police station, cars, bulldozer, roads, cruisers—more than 1700 pieces in all.  I said that the girl would love this. The owner of the shop, a man, informed me it would be better for the boy and then, pointing to a small shelf behind me said, This is for girls… it’s pink. He actually said It’s pink. It was also MegaBlocks, but in a plastic storage bin. The label showed that inside were the ingredients to build a domestic scene:  a small house, a cat, a bush, a few flowers and a tiny car. I said it looked a bit dull, not much to do here but drive up to the house and back out again, maybe water your tree. It hardly compared with the helicopter and police station possibilities for saving the world. The guy shrugged, said, yeah, but… it’s for girls…

I began to realize how limiting and subliminally ‘shaping’ is this world of toys. For example, if your boy child likes gardening, I hope you [and he] have the chops to deal with the fact that  ‘gardening’ kits are pink and/or have a girl on the cover. Ditto foodie/cooking type stuff.

In one store the boy’s side had signs indicating “Science Books”, “Science & Discovery”, “Brio”, “Thomas Railway”, “LEGO & Duplo”, “K’Nex” and “Chugginton”.

The girl’s side signage listed: “Dress-Up”, “Fashion & Bling”, “Arts & Crafts” [all pink], “Doll Houses”, “Corolle Dolls” and “Calico”.

The boy’s side included toboggans, table hockey and all manner of balls and racquets and sports things as well as kites, cars, walkie-talkies, wagons, sci-fi material and science projects.

The girl’s side: tiaras, wings, pink and silver slippers, life-size doll heads for practicing hair styles [age 3+], Princess Castle, Sparkle Kittens, glitter art, Bling Bracelets, button making, finger-nail art, costumes, My Sweet Diary, dolls and a whole line of Project Runway merchandise including a makeup and hair design sketch portfolio [age 8+].

In another store, a whole section of pink was devoted to merchandise of an early motherhood training variety. Not that there’s anything wrong with dolls and dolly car seats and other domestic paraphernalia… it’s that it’s all pink.

One can go pink mad.

And I think I did.

Which is why I’ve given up on the toy shops. Am sticking to books and paint and things that allow kids to think, not to mention donkeys and bears…
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this isn’t about trains

~ carin ~ 8 Comments

I have a history with train tracks. Used to walk along them to school eating bunches of dark purple grapes from a nearby vineyard. This was before the invention of Canadian wine, when Ontario grapes were only useful for jelly, juice, or Baby Duck.

I think of this whenever I walk the path beside the tracks not far from my house—I remember the boys who played chicken with oncoming trains, and a ditch of tall grasses where older kids would hide and smoke at recess. The Brew Hole it was called. Maybe they drank beer too. I wouldn’t know. I was happy enough eating stolen grapes.

I also think of hoboes [different from tramps; hoboes work] and Arlo Guthrie. I imagine a kind of romance about riding the rails, leaning up against a bale of hay, watching the world swish by through an open door.

But tonight there’s no train. Just a few kids playing soccer in the field on the far side, near the school. Their voices so clear, laughter cutting through the evening chill. They’re not even playing a game, just kicking the ball around, making the most of the weather, keeping warm.

This is just before sunset. A brilliance of mango-ey light falls across the neighbourhood, over rooftops, making windows look almost liquid. I try to capture it but it never looks right; it’s like trying to photograph fairies.

The path beside the tracks eventually connects to the street where a woman about my age is strolling with her elderly mum. The mum uses a walker and goes slow and the daughter, hands in pockets, walks slightly ahead. I hear snippets of conversation: something something term deposits. It’s partly English and partly another language and only when I get close enough do I realize it’s German. The mother is asking questions about money and the daughter is short-tempered in her answers. The mother changes the subject. The daughter remains miffed. I feel for them both, but want to tell them: this time you have together… don’t waste it.

A man puts snow tires on his car while two boys ride different sized tricycles on the sidewalk around him.

And a few houses along two girls, maybe eleven or twelve, are drawing in chalk on their driveway. They wave as I pass and smile and they’re the ones who say hello first. It occurs to me how rare this is, the smiling and waving and speaking. Children have had so much of that warned out of them. But these girls—bless their brave souls—are fearless!

I loop around through the park, head homeward, and then I hear it.

The train.

If I hurry I might be able to make it back to the path and catch at least some of it but just as I get there the last car speeds by on the other side of the trees and then—silence. All those imaginary hoboes heading off to who knows where, who knows what kind of adventure, what sights await through that open door.

The sky has gone from orange and crimson to a yellow silvery blue.

The rooftops and windows look solid again.

I find a penny on the sidewalk, new and very shiny.

I toss it over my shoulder.

♦◊♦

“Life is a train of moods like a string of beads, and as we pass through them they prove to be many-coloured lenses which paint the world their own hue and each shows only what lies in its own focus.”  —Ralph Waldo Emerson

questions [some more urgent than others]

~ carin ~ 5 Comments

The Miss, Mrs., Ms. thing?  So unfair. All those choices for women… and men have only Mr. —How then are the poor souls meant to indicate on various forms where it shouldn’t matter in the slightest, or in social settings where it’s also no one’s business…whether they are indeed single, married or merely ambiguous with an attitude?

And who came up with the idea of blowing on birthday cake then offering guests a slice? [Assuming this precedes the invention of flu?]

If recycling is so green why are recycling boxes blue?

And the Canadian Tire logo—why is that a triangle??

And is it just me or is CBC radio starting to get more than a little American-centric in its content? Am I just a worrier or might that be in preparation for the much-rumoured and possibly inevitable ads?

Which reminds me: whatever happened to the RoboCalls story? And why isn’t this a very, VERY, big deal?

—Have I missed anything?

 

encounters in stillness

~ carin ~ 11 Comments

The first shock of frost on the grass this morning and in the sunrise, contrails suggesting warmer destinations. But I’m happy to be right here walking in this lightly iced air, watching my breath, proof that I am, indeed, here.

A faint scrunch underfoot, so small I have to concentrate to hear it. And then a bare patch where the earth is slick and a different kind of attention is necessary until, further along still, where the leaves are thick on the ground and the light filters through and there’s no ice, only a scent of hibernation, transformation, where leaves are leaving as leaves, changing not only colour but molecules, breaking down with a view to reappearing as loam—possibly as early as Spring—that’s where I let my guard down, on this decomposing carpet where the soles of my moderately priced runners feel secure.

There are places where the tall grass has bent over as if there’s no point in arguing, the cold mornings have won; it acquiesces, prepares to serve as a nest or bed for whoever or whatever would care to nest or bed there.

I walk down a slope toward the creek, once more careful, it’s muddy and slippery, warmer here, protected from wind, the sound of water like a conversation. I take off my red and white maple leaf mittens and do a quick standing salutation to the sun. This, before I notice a dog and walker a few metres away. I say good morning and expect a strange look but there’s only a glimmer of curiosity followed by an open, friendly smile.

I walk past the Italian man’s garden that faces the park, all tidy and empty, unlike mine, which still sports all manner of herbs and dandelions, still food. But we’re different styles, he and I. He grows vast quantities to preserve: tomatoes, beans, peppers, zucchini, eggplant. I grow the same things but mostly just enough to eat during the season, a few extra jars of this or that. I stop and talk to him sometimes. He invites me to take tomatoes. I never do. I tell him I grow my own and he smiles. He knows I’m an amateur and he’s right. Still, my garlic is not to be sniffed at.

On the way home I meet a neighbour who walks with a different purpose. Whereas I dress in babushka and an anorak, she’s got glow in the dark stripes and a proper walking toque. She stops and tells me to hang on a minute while she tries to turn off her device, grumbles that it’s finicky; I wait while she fiddles with the dial, eventually settling on turning it down because off isn’t working. Then she invites me to a xmas thing at her house. I promise to check the calendar.

Back through the creek I climb small hills, follow the narrow shoreline and wonder if the campers are down there again this year with their plywood lean-to and other comforts of home. They’re not, just bits of litter. I will never understand the mentality of letting something fall from your hand onto the ground…

The possibility of running into the campers changes my mood. I decide to go back up top where it’s open and then I catch a glimpse of something dark and big behind me.

There are coyotes in the ravine, I sometimes hear them at night. But it’s not them I worry about. I remember a conversation I had with my stepdaughter when she was very young, whether it would be scary to sleep in a cemetery all night. I said I wouldn’t be afraid as long as I could be guaranteed no people would show up.

Especially live ones.

I still feel the same way.

It’s never the outside that’s scary.

Even the dead bits.

Still…

I turn around.

A juniper bush stares back.

I let out a frosty breath and head home.