I began today dancing alone to Joni Mitchell’s ‘River’ before the sun or anyone else was even up.
Then I ate a sugar plum made by a very clever faerie.
And followed that with tea and The Terrible Troll Bird, a picture book classic by Ingri and Edgar Parin D’Aulaire, which I found in a box of unwanted books someone delivered to the library. Thank you, someone.
Thank you, faerie.
Last year I was with my mother on November 11th for Rememberance Day ceremonies at her nursing home. I remember how much she enjoyed the outing, slept through the whole shebang. This year, she’s no longer here and at 11 a.m. I found myself somewhere far less reverential, in a busy shop, running late. I don’t wear a watch and didn’t know the time until a bugle suddenly sounded from outside; a few people looked at each other as if wondering what they should do, I mean, in the middle of a store and all, in the middle of shopping. But no one ignored it.
And then—unlike a fire bell where you assume it’s probably not even real—everyone, every single person, just stopped what they were doing. No one came in or went out. The cash registers were quiet, people stood still, stopped talking. I don’t think anyone even looked around. It was just this amazing group action, this vibe of tacit reverence, and whatever individual things were going through individual minds was overshadowed by a kind of collective understanding. Though still taken by surprise in many cases, and distracted to some degree, people were nonetheless willing—seemed grateful even—for the opportunity to recognize this moment, and to do so in a public space—a space that too often keeps people separate. Just for this moment, all of us, strangers from countless backgrounds, saw each other in a different light, one that reminds us that on possibly the only level that really matters we are deeply connected.
And I think we liked that thought very much.
For that and so much more, hats off to the men and women of the past and not so long ago, who did their best on our behalf in the insanity of war.
More than ever, here’s to peace.
Anybody know how to open this thing?
There’s beer inside. And sardines.
Taking pen and paper, maybe a sandwich… and heading offline for a week to commune with deer, gaze at the Milky Way and search for a left-handed windshifter.
—Because a right-handed one…well…that would just be silly.
Eastern Coast, Vancouver Island: heavy rain.
Cowichan Valley: we barrel through despite the hand knit sweaters and wineries; we’ll stop on our way back when the weather’s nicer. Same with the totems in Duncan, though we do stop at the grocery store for water and other supplies. The cashier gives us a tourist discount. I wonder how she guessed, we’re not decked out in tear-away pants, many zippered vests or hats with strings attached. No backpacks, hula shirts or white loafers. In fact we’re wearing the same stuff we wear at home where no one ever offers us the tourist discount.
At Chemainus we don’t walk around looking at murals the way you’re supposed to; it’s still pouring, so we’ll do that on the way back too… Instead, we just use a public restroom and duck back in the car.
By Ladysmith the rain has slowed to a steady drizzle so we stretch our legs, browse shops on the main street; I find a dollar copy of Marian Engle’s Bear [if you want to meet the nicest people in any town, go to the book store]. Across the road, the Ladysmith Trading Company is not to be missed. Creaking hardwood floors and wooden shelves stacked with the most bizarre collection of things. If, for example, you went in looking for, oh, let’s say… lipstick, then decided you needed a floor lamp, underwear, moccasins, a few thousand skeins of wool, hinges for your kitchen cabinets, a souvenir tee-shirt, curlers and a mousetrap—you would be in the right place.
I’m there looking for shoelaces.
Someone I take to be the owner—a truly delicious man who so obviously was born to be a shopkeeper, so happy is he keeping shop—smiles and asks what kind of shoelaces? Flat or round? Cotton, nylon or leather? What colour? And, most importantly, what length?
Unfortunately I’m not wearing the shoes needing the laces so I do my best to explain them. He listens intently, nodding, then without missing a beat, recommends thirty-six inch, flat (they stay tied better) brown cotton. Okie dokie, I say, and he fetches a pair, writes up a bill in a little receipt book with carbon paper; he tears off my copy. Ninety-seven cents, including tax. I look around, don’t see a cash register.
From there we wander into a self-described ‘antique parlour’ where the guy offers his sympathies when he finds out we’re from Ontario. Calls it a parking lot, says he used to live there, wouldn’t go back for a million bucks, why should he, he says, now that he lives in lotus land, and as for the weather, well, this is the one day of winter they get… sunshine from here on out, he tells us.
Pompous ass.
I am, however, happy to hear the weather’s improving as we’re already about as soggy as you can get.
1. Not much.
2. This.
Some people ask for an Hermes scarf when their chap goes to Paris. Me, I just wanted some good dandelion seed.
The chap did not disappoint!
Et voila! The shady corner of the garden where pissenlit (translation: ‘wets the bed’—dandelion is a known diuretic so maybe best not to eat bucketsful before lights out) shares space with the domestic variety, as well as horseradish, nettles and returning tufts of raddicho. The naked bits are where seeds have been sown for a fresh Fall crop. (Think salad… with chopped egg, garlic and a warm grainy mustard/bacon vinaigrette.)
Try doing that with a scarf.
Soap. The kind that used to come in a small round metal container with a picture of a tiny bouquet, tied with a white ribbon, on the lid. The soap itself, wrapped in paper, was so fragrant, so creamy and perfect, you never used it except to place it in a sweater drawer. Or pyjama one.
Sundays at the Vineland Experimental Farm, which has changed somewhat. Or maybe we just didn’t know it was part of the U. of Guelph. In any case, to walk the grounds on a Sunday was a destination worthy of my dad wearing a jacket and tie; my mother in matching purse and shoes—there was likely a large hat involved, certainly a dress cinched at the waist, stockings and a girdle. And me in knee socks, white patent leather shoes with a giant buckle, pleated skirt and matching, stiff, faux linen jacket over a sleeveless blouse with frills down the front. All topped off with a pilled, nylon hairband and tiny new brown leather shoulder bag containing pennies and a hankie and worn crosswise over my chest like the hipster I was. I dimly recall someone instructing me to stand still, smell a blossom or something, and for god’s sake smile!
Click.
The resulting photo—black and white but I distinctly remember the outfit was cotton candy pink—is me beside a giant lilac bush yanking on a branch and scowling at the camera. (I would have preferred being left to commune with them alone over a mustard sandwich, but alas, there were more pictures to be taken…)
Hay. Easily one of my favourite things in the garden. Used to flavour wine (surprisingly, I haven’t tried this yet) and to make hay scented sachets and pillows (and mattresses too). So far all I’ve done with it is enjoy its loveliness.
No question. Bubblegum.
Am thinking of adopting this as a year-round sentiment. Saves changing the guest towels…
Truth #15: A few lawns were mown in the neighbourhood yesterday and on my evening walk that smell was in the air reminding me I haven’t entirely outgrown the desire to play tag after supper…
Matilda Magtree 