Best system I’ve ever seen (actually had more bins/categories than I’m showing). I get excited about well-organized garbage. Also about garbage well used. Like these beautiful duds made entirely from recycled pop bottles (amazing; stuff like this makes my heart sing).
And all this, in a teeny weeny grocery in teeny weeny Keremeos, B.C.
All of which begs the question of how to make this level of ‘separation’ normal everywhere— and more clothing manufacture (etc.) from the takings… aka: Garbage for Good.
excuse me a minute while i navel gaze
While I don’t completely love the fact that our tidy new bookshelves hold considerably fewer books than our old disorganized disaster, I’m enjoying the eclectic reading it’s allowing as I do a very careful scan of every volume before chucking on the Keep, Toss or Not Sure pile. This weekend included a few memoirs, one by May Sarton—Recovering—about the writing life, solitude, loss, the need for occasional navel gazing, and ultimately getting back in gear. Written in 1980 when Sarton was in her late sixties, it smacks of a gentler time in some ways, yet, at the root of things, not that much has changed. We still thrash about when it comes to ‘the writing life’, still need solitude—maybe more than ever—still need to limit the navel gazing and find ways of getting back to work, no matter what. Because that’s what the whole shebang is about, n’est pas?
Another was an obscure book of tiny essays, observations mostly, some letters, reminiscences, Creative Living, by someone I’ve never heard of, Doris Henderson. I didn’t mean to read every word, but before I knew it, I had. Born in 1900, she writes about her involvement with the Esperanto movement in 1961; she remembers the first world war, the second…
“While the people of all lands had been relaxing from [WWI] and drugging themselves with the uncomfortable belief that another war would be unthinkable, their military establishments had been increasing the quantity and efficiency of their arms, with great financial profits to all concerned.”
… the Korean.
She writes about the privileges of being a British woman in China in 1920 and how that made her both grateful and uncomfortable. About the shock of racism in 1950’s Louisiana and how in 1965, she and her husband were in Wales and on a whim decided to drop in on Bertrand Russell, someone they admired but didn’t know from Adam.
“When we knocked on the door of his home, a grandchild came and invited us in. After we told the child we were from Canada and hoped Lord Russel could spare us five or ten minutes of his time for a brief visit, Bertrand Russell greeted us and invited us into his office.”
Okay. Some things have changed.
One of my favourite bits is from 1970 when she found hippies camping on her property and instead of shooing them away she tried to understand their philosophies and in the process began a long friendship and correspondence with one of them, a young woman named Gail, who wrote: “…This is one of my reasons for my optimistic outlook for my generation. We may appear to be rebels, but we are not rebelling against the basic philosophies of religion and the Good and Right. We are rebelling against [the hypocrisy of nationalism] that can rationalize war, capitalistic Americans who can rationalize exploitation, and religious loyalists who can rationalize bigotry and prejudice.”
—and signed off with Love and Peace.
Then again, some things don’t change…
I also found a thin volume titled Mark Twain: By The Riverside, which contains many of his bon mots, short essays, pictures of Hannibal, Missouri, and something called a Mental Photograph Album, a short questionnaire, sent to him by an unnamed New York publisher. Am thinking of making it my xmas card this year, sending it to friends with a return envelope. (You know who you are and you’ve been warned.)
For now, I thought I’d include it here—and then follow it with my own answers. Which is where the navel gazing really begins.
~
Mr. Twain’s—
WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE TREE?
Any that bears forbidden fruit.
FAVOURITE GEM?
The Jack of Diamonds, when it is trump.
WHAT IS YOUR IDEA OF HAPPINESS?
Finding the buttons all on.
WHAT DO YOU MOST DREAD?
Exposure.
WHAT DO YOU BELIEVE TO BE YOUR DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTIC?
Hunger.
WHAT ARE THE SADDEST WORDS IN THE WORD?
“Dust unto dust.”
WHAT ARE THE SWEETEST?
Not guilty.
WHAT IS YOUR AIM IN LIFE?
To endeavour to be absent when my time comes.
WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
Be virtuous and you will be eccentric.
~
And mine—
WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE TREE?
Pear. Have spent many happy hours in one (some years ago now).
FAVOURITE GEM?
Beach glass.
WHAT IS YOUR IDEA OF HAPPINESS?
Radish sandwiches in a cabin in the rain.
WHAT DO YOU MOST DREAD?
Running out of garlic.
WHAT DO YOU BELIEVE TO BE YOUR DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTIC?
A combination of something naive, earnest and skeptical.
WHAT ARE THE SADDEST WORDS IN THE WORD?
I hate.
WHAT ARE THE SWEETEST?
Hello you.
WHAT IS YOUR AIM IN LIFE?
To finish all those projects.
WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
Remember to say thank you.
can a guy get a little privacy?
…at least long enough to eat his Thanksgiving seeds??
Thank you.
Happy Turkey, Pie and Seeds Day!
apropos of nothing
The Mousetrap played at the Toronto Truck Theatre on Belmont Street from 1977 to 2004. For years I walked past the place on my way to and from work, yet didn’t see the production until minutes before it closed for good. Lucky for me, I’d never read a thing about it or spoke with anyone who’d seen it or heard the slightest peep about the premise. In other words, I was completely and blissfully in the dark—the perfect condition for going in. Certainly Agatha Christie would have approved. It’s said she requested that audiences be asked, at the end of each performance, not to divulge who-dunnit to those ‘on the outside’.
It might be worth mentioning that I’m the kind of person who doesn’t flip to the end of a book to see how it turns out and if you give me a journal filled with juicy bits of gossip and ask me not to open it, there’s a very good chance I won’t. Nor do I poke, shake or otherwise try to determine what’s in a wrapped gift before its time. I’m not especially blessed with willpower, my curiosity just doesn’t live in those areas. Well, okay, the journal would be interesting…
Plus I tend to prefer a natural unfolding of events.
In any case.
And apropos of nothing—
—except that the dust on the poster on my wall caught my attention recently and reminded me how, a couple of days before we were about to see the show—in the last week of its 27 year run— Andy Barrie, on CBC’s Metro Morning happened to be talking one day about having seen the Mousetrap in London and how he was late getting to the theatre and forgot to tip the cab driver who was so pissed off he yelled after him: The (XXX) did it!
Only in his version he said Who did it. (I’m omitting that bit in respect of Ms. Christie’s request…)
Ha ha! Oh that Andy Barrie, I thought. He does tell a good story… and then it occurred to me that… pffft… just like that, a whole lifetime of useful ignorance on my part was down the pan.
The good news is that, in the end, it didn’t actually matter because the story is brilliant and much bigger than Who.
[Does it ruin it for you to know the ending of a book/play/story/film?]
helllooo down there…
Anybody know how to open this thing?
There’s beer inside. And sardines.
country roads
the power of retreat
The bay window of a friend’s Muskoka kitchen.
Giant black Newfoundland pup snoring by the back door. Green tea.
No one else around. I sit on pillows, watch blue herons flaap flaap by; a black squirrel travels down a long path, jumps onto the deck of the boathouse, peeks around the corner, realizes it’s a dead end, not to mention a poor place to hide nuts. He comes back up, disappears. I have some tea, open the book I’ve brought. I have two hours to read before I need to be anywhere. I close the book. Reach for a stack of typed pages—the chapter I’ve been working on for a month and which somewhere along the line has turned into cement, an ugly confusion that just stares back at me, obstinate, exactly what you’d expect from cement. I should throw it out but I have optimistic moments when I think there’s something in there—I just don’t know where, or how, to make the crack to let it out.
I reach for the book again.
The squirrel, the herons, are gone. The view remains. My tea is cold but still good. I put the book down and my hand reaches for the typed pages even as part of me shouts You fool… you’re about to waste two perfectly good hours in Shangri-la on GD cement…
I make notes, draw arrows. I jot “Insert A” then write a scene and call it A. I find B within the existing mess. Then C. I mark it, move it to a better place. The dog is still snoring as I re-write what becomes D, and find E. I print “Insert E”. More arrows. And then, checking the clock, I jot a final scene and christen it F and I know—despite the tangle of lines and notes, inserts and cross outs—that a bouncing baby chapter has been born.
I’m stunned at first, that I could do in two hours what I hadn’t been able to crack in weeks. I’m inclined to put it down to the view, the solitude, the drowsy dog—all of which is great, all of which has set a mood—but it occurs to me that what is really powerful is the way my friend’s house makes no demands of me—how my thoughts are allowed the freedom to just ‘be’.
Because, truthfully, I have peace and solitude at home also. But laundry winks. Floors scowl. And the squirrels don’t mind their own business on long paths, they knock on windows and complain that they’re out of bird food. I can work at home of course—it’s where I’m happiest—but sometimes what’s necessary—for clarity, for permission to colour outside the lines, the courage to smash the cement… not merely find a ‘crack’—isn’t the familiar, but the bountiful disentanglements of ‘away’.
That, and an unfamiliar window.
today’s colour
the harvest hokey pokey
There’s a sense of urgency at this time of year. Something primal, a scrap of DNA left over from hunter-gatherer days that makes us forget there are grocery stores [and, bonus, they’re open all winter!]. We see produce, feel a chill in the air, think: uh oh, frost, starvation, scurvy, ice storms, must stock up, and before we know it we’re surrounded by heads of cauliflower and cabbage, bunches of beets and carrots, more green beans than seems right, zucchini and peppers, potatoes, eggplant, onions, broccoli, did I say carrots?, celery—celery root for god’s sake. And it has to be hauled home all at once because next week might be the week the farmers are no longer at the market or all they’re selling is those crocheted toilet paper roll dresses.
It starts small. You put up the odd jar of relish, quince jelly, pear and apple butter, you feel organized in that way you feel in the garden in spring—when the weeds are just starting to show, when plucking one here and there is enough to keep things tidy and every year you think: heck, this isn’t so bad, I must be getting better at being organized [uh huh]—and then suddenly there’s so much fresh food in the house it’s impossible to imagine eating it all and one day it seems entirely normal—what? what’s the problem?—to be making vats of borscht in your pyjamas at six on Sunday mornings, all day spaghetti sauces, cranberry, rum and raisin conserves before lights out; jars of pickles and marmalades taking precedence over everything, over reading. The pop of lids is both a joy to behold and annoying and your back throbs and the vinegar makes your eyes water but the good news is that should you fancy a bit of cheddar one December evening, you will be able to eat it with a green tomato and apple chutney. Not to mention a rosemary infused carrot if the mood takes you.
And that, dear friends, is what it’s all about.
So happy harvest trails and best of the season!
GREEN TOMATO AND APPLE CHUTNEY
(makes about 6 – 7 8oz (250 mL) jars
(from Well Preserved, by Mary Anne Dragan)
1 lemon
5 C finely chopped green tomatoes (1.2L)
2 C finely chopped apples (457 mL)
1 C finely chopped onions (240 mL)
2 cloves garlic, peeled and minced
1 C currants (240 mL)
1 C brown sugar (240 mL)
1 C cider vinegar (240 mL)
1 TBSP mustard seeds (15 mL)
1 1/2 tsp dried chili flakes (7.5 mL)
1 tsp salt (5 mL)
1 tsp ginger (5 mL)
Prepare the preserving jars.
Slice the lemon very thinly, discarding the ends and seeds. Chop very finely.
Combine all the ingredients in your preserving pot. Simmer over medium heat for 25-30 minutes, or until thickened. Stir often to prevent sticking, especially during the last 10 minutes of cooking time.
Remove from the heat. Spoon the chutney into hot, sterilized jars, leaving 1/2 inch (1.2 cm) head space. Wipe the rims clean. Seal according to manufacturer’s directions. Process the jars in a boiling water bath for 10 minutes.
(A traditional English condiment, this chutney is excellent in a sandwich with any type of meat or cheese. It is a great accompaniment to beef dishes such as meat loaf, scrambled eggs or macaroni and cheese.) ~ from Well Preserved, by Mary Anne Dragan
a new category is born: *judy sightings
*Judy: a long-suffering (make-the-best-of-it) dame of a certain vintage, usually attached to a male of a similar vintage.
~
MORNING AT TIM HORTON’S, PENTICTON
Judy, shoulder length brassy blonde hair, wears a white blouse, black slacks, name tag—My name is Judy—pale blue cardigan. Sits with sturdy, well fed man in race car driver sunglasses, football shirt, jeans and gold windbreaker. They begin their day in silence, blowing synchronicity onto their tea.
DEPARTURE LOUNGE, KELOWNA AIRPORT
Judy in crimson cardigan, black polyester tee, black purse rests on knees and what look like long johns poke out from the bottom of black slacks. Bare feet in black shoes. She files her nails beside a guy, a slow but incessant talker, in navy cap, navy golf shirt worn and faded, khakis, white socks, black sensible-sneaker-shoes. They both wear eye-glasses. Both have small carry-ons; hers, striped, crimson, white and black; his, royal blue with red trim. She rarely speaks and then in a high pitch, like a child, like her voice is seven decades younger than the rest of her. He answers in a way that whatever she has said, he’s setting her straight. He has all the answers. He knows. She listens, continues to file her nails, sometimes swings her feet that, if she turns her toes up just a titch, don’t quite reach the floor. He keeps his firmly crossed and locked—right mid-calf resting on left knee. She has been filing her nails beside him for 50 years.
CALGARY AIRPORT
Judy, short and squarish with grey hair, also short and square, glasses, maybe some hip issues, ortho type white sneakers, limping along the concourse with her guy, each pulling trollies, he in a lumber jacket (red and black), she stopping, making him stop too, placing a raccoon hat, grabbed from a display, on his head. Too small. She laughs. Hat clerk laughs too. Guy smiles, shakes his raccoon’d head. She is a riot everywhere they go.
Matilda Magtree 