paroxysms of laughter and copious tears

~ carin ~ Leave a comment

“My mother read to all three of us when we were children. I loved A.A. Milne’s Winnie-the-Pooh stories, mostly because it fascinated me to see my mother tied up in paroxysms of laughter over words on a page. In particular I adored the bit when Piglet fell down the hole and was so terrified he mixed up his words, and cried out “Help help a Herrible Hoffalump,” etc.

“My older sister had German measles and scarlet fever when I was perhaps seven, and I was supposed to sit in the room with her so I would catch it, and therefore have had it, so I wouldn’t catch it later (this was the logic of the fifties). During that time my mother read aloud to us a novel set in Scotland called Lad with a Whistle, and we all wept copious tears. It was a wonderful book, and has now disappeared entirely from circulation. I did not catch scarlet fever or German measles.

“After I could write my name in cursive, I was allowed to search out my own books in the adult section of the library. One of my first discoveries was Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables in English translation. I read it, gripped in horror at the life of persecution which followed Jean Valjean’s theft of a loaf of bread. It certainly turned me off any thoughts I might have had of pursing a life of petty crime.”

Katherine Govier, from Everybody’s Favourites: Canadians talk about books that changed their lives (by Arlene Perly Rae; Viking, 1997)

things i saw

~ carin ~ 2 Comments

A tiny elderly woman in a bulky red parka and too-short trousers the colour of recycling boxes, black boots, the kind you might imagine Winnie the Pooh wearing; in fact her whole look had a sort of Pooh-ish vibe about it. Grey hair fresh out of curlers. She waited in line at the Bulk Barn looking cranky as she held a ridiculously small bag of chocolates and nothing else. I wanted to say: get more… you’re only going to eat these in five minutes and then be cranky again. But then I thought, a) I don’t want to scare her and, b) maybe the whole point is running out… so she has reason to come back the next day.

Another elderly woman. Also in a checkout line. This one at the grocery store. Behind her is a young lad, tall and dark-haired, maybe fifteen. He’s buying a piece of chicken and a case of spring water. The woman ahead of him is taking forever finding precisely the right change to pay; her knobbly fingers look stiff as she fumbles with pennies and nickles. The young lad watches, laughs to himself, and I want to reach up and tap his shoulder, tell him not to be such an ass. Does he not have a grandmother? Does he not think he’ll have stiff old fingers himself one day… if he’s lucky. The cashier, a young girl, not much older than him, is patient and gracious to the woman who finally snaps shut her change purse and toddles off. The still-smirking lad is up next and when he hands the cashier his credit card, she apologizes, says they don’t take credit cards. He stammers, fumbles around in all his pockets before scraping together the cash. The smirk has faded. The cashier, bless her, is still gracious.

Another young lad. Also about fifteen. And a girl, the same age. He in baggy jeans and a long jacket; she in skin-tight leggings and a very short one. They race across a parking lot to the library. She, although much smaller, easily takes the lead as he hangs back and admires the view.

Feathers. In the backyard this morning. Always makes me sad. Dove. I’m not sure if it was neighbourhood stray or hawk; there was a hawk hanging around in the trees the other day. Do they eat doves? I wonder if it was a descendent of Orville and Wilbur, the two that were born in our wisteria who took their first wonky, tentative, zig-zaggy flight across our garden as we sat on the patio and watched. They lived among the spruce here for years. It’s always a mistake to name them.

i’ve got mail…

~ carin ~ 2 Comments

An especially nice delivery today included the gorgeous piece of always-art that is The New Quarterly, issue 121—reason enough to stop everything, boil some leaves and find a comfy chair—but this issue also features a [new] novel excerpt from the smart and funny Michelle Berry. 

[Note to self: brew extra big pot of tea.]

Also got three lovely chapbooks, ordered through Alberta Books after hearing about their literary salons. Events are intimate gatherings of twenty or so in private living rooms throughout Calgary—not designed to sell wagon-loads of books, but rather to appreciate words in the best way: with others who appreciate words. Each chapbook, simple but beautifully presented, is signed by all contributing authors, who vary from established to emerging and include, among others, Aritha van Herk, Jeramy Dodds and Betty Jane Hegerat.

What I love best is the nod these salons give to perhaps a more elegant past when life was possibly a bit slower and the world definitely a bit smaller and the pleasure of one’s company was what it was all about.

And the word ‘salon’.
I just love that word.

 “Mohammed told me that Palestinians are born knowing how to sling a stone. He joked that West Bank boys emerge from their mother’s womb swinging their umbilical cords over their heads. I stood behind the shabaab, afraid of being hit by an errant rock, and watched as they co-opted King David’s weapon against his own heirs. Some wrapped keffiyehs around their head to hide their faces, but most didn’t bother. The rain slickened cheeks too young for beards, and soaked through their blue jeans. Slings dangled from pockets like something cool.”  ~from In the Shadow of the Wall: Travels Along the Barricades, by Marcello Di Cintio (to be released by Goose Lane Editions in Fall, 2012)

More Mail:

—art lesson

—pocalogging to my own tune

—dear mr. postman

—the reason i like mail

fogs i have known; one i have loved

~ carin ~ 2 Comments

You’re driving in the pea soup of the Yorkshire moors, certain you can hear those puppies of Baskerville at every turn—not that every, or any, turn can actually be seen—and then, after some miracle of finding the way back to where you’re staying you hear the news that the roads in the moors have been closed all afternoon due to especially bad weather. 

In Newfoundland, you sit on the rocks right at the edge of the sea with a picnic dinner and a bottle of wine, when out in the distance, over the water, comes a mist. At first it’s pretty, ha ha, you say, look at the pretty mist… But you’re from Ontario and you have no idea. You think you will continue sipping your wine, that the mist will just stay where it is, but then you notice it’s moving or, more accurately: ominously marching your way. In seconds it travels what appears to be miles, obliterating the landscape as it goes. Poof!  Now you see rocks and trees and ocean. Now you don’t. And you can’t help thinking you’ll soon be next. You grab your picnic and head for the shelter of your B&B, which is much further away than you’d like at this point—and The Thing continues to come. The air is suddenly icy and within moments you can see nothing. It’s like being invaded by some silent invisible army. You sit on the porch, grateful for your wine, because if this is the end of the world at least you have that. Later, in the B&B, you tell the lovely owners about this extraordinary event and the way they look at you… well, you have never felt more like you’re from Ontario.

The ferry from Victoria to Vancouver. It’s your first crossing and you’re lucky, the ship is almost empty, you can sit where you like. You look forward to the view; you’ve been told it’s spectacular. But boo, there’s heavy fog. For a while you worry how the ship will find it’s way, you become tense and slightly pissed off about the non-view. But then something about all that nothingness turns comforting. The world seems bigger somehow precisely because you can’t see it. You write and sketch and take hazy photos. You don’t even like boats but sailing through this cloud is one of the most relaxing things you’ve ever done...

mad weather soup stock

~ carin ~ 1 Comment

Includes snow-covered celery.

This, thanks to erratic temps. Plus ten one day, minus twenty the next. Rain, snow, heatwave, snow. The poor plants haven’t known quite what to do. Up, down, die, live?  It’s been all happy confusion. In fact, until recently I was still [amazingly] snipping the odd bit of greenery—arugula, parsley, thyme, celery leaf.

Alas, I think the foraging party may be over. Seems the gardening season has finally, officially, and abruptly, come to some sort of pause.

condoronto

~ carin ~ 6 Comments

Once upon a time there was a place, a kind of delightfully welcoming hole in the wall across the street from the ROM, where you could get a couple of spring rolls, the best BBQ pork, greens, a bowl of soup and an endless pot of tea for not much money. So you’d leave a huge tip because the owners were so amazing and lovely and even though the place was always crowded with regulars, and you only went in a few times a year, they knew you, remembered what you liked, were all smiles as you walked in. As if it hadn’t been half a year.

The decor was mostly red with magic marker specials that never seemed to change on sheets of bristol board stapled to panelling. There were jars of soy sauce and chili flakes and plastic roses on the tables, the kind that look wet—the first time I saw them, fifteen years ago, I thought they were real. That was before I had a good look around.

We were there a few weeks ago and found a handwritten sign in very bad English taped to the door. The place had closed. The sign said they hoped to re-open sometime. Somewhere. They didn’t yet know where. (Have since googled them and found they’ve moved to a whole different part of the city, a whole different city in fact… )

So sad to lose places that give character and sweetness to a neighbourhood. And how ironic that it’s precisely these places that are part of what draws people to wanting to move there, yet the very act of moving more people in forces the charming places to move out.

Oh Condoronto, whatever are you doing?? (Fun fact: there are more high rises/condos being built in Toronto than anywhere else in North America.)

I’d be surprised if a year from now there’s even one restaurant left in this neck of the woods (or many others) that has anything resembling plastic roses with fake water droplets and people who shout Hello! and remember, even after six months, that you like the pork lean and always with baby bok choy.

Whatever they build, they can’t build that.