THE STORY OF SOPHIE & BEA

It must have been close to 20 years ago when Sophie first came to our house.  She was tiny and shy, and she soon retreated to the safest place she could find to hide:  underneath my little grand piano.  The details are a little fuzzy, but I remember I couldn't lure her out, so eventually I took a plate of berries - raspberries?  strawberries?  No clue - and a little dish of sugar to dip them in, and I joined her there, while her parents negotiated the purchase of a gold ring with Ivaan.

The next time I saw Sophie was 2008, and we'd sold the house and moved to an open concept condo. Sophie remembered the piano, and was soon under it again, but at age four she was a bit taller and more sure of herself. This time she brought just dad along for a visit, as her mum was busy at home with a new baby, a sister named Beatrice.

Some busy years followed.  Their mum and I stayed in touch, as I moved around from place to place, and as the girls got older and developed interests of their own.  Both girls were active in team sports, and weekends must have been a blur for their family, shuttling them to and from hockey tournaments and other competitive events.  One place, however, was free from competition, and that was their home.  Sophie was unendingly supportive of her younger sister, and Bea looked up to, and emulated Sophie.

There's a magic number of years that siblings should be separated in age, and I think it must be four.  These girls liked and respected one another.  They shared a quick and easy repartee.  I remember an occasion where Bea and her mum visited Atelier Ivaan just before I closed the shop for good.  Bea selected a handful of silver rings for herself while her mum and I chatted about my plans for the future.

I'd mentioned I wanted to take a real risk, and not do something safe or timid for the next phase of my life.

So when Sophie inquired, that evening, what I was planning to do with my newfound freedom, Bea replied, "She wants to have something to regret".  Sophie quipped, "Well, then, why doesn't she just come here for dinner?"  I still laugh about that.

Some of Sophie's stash of Ivaan rings accompanied her to McGill University a few years ago, and the three rings she wears daily went with her on an exchange to the University of Edinburgh last January, then accompanied her on her travels to Norway, Portugal, Spain and Greece.  On returning home, she rediscovered Ivaan's more flamboyant rings and fell in love with them all over again.

That did it.  I sent their mum a photo of the Traffic Stopper ring, which I still had in two adjacent sizes, and both Sophie and Bea loved it.  Luckily, hockey gives you big fingers, so Bea got the larger ring and Dr. Sophie got the slightly smaller one.  And they both lived happily ever after.

                                                                        The End

WHERE I HANG MY HATS

When I made a decision to put rural life in the rearview mirror, one of my first considerations was what to do with my hats. They weren't the kind of possession you can consign to a moving van but, as they're all in individual boxes, they take up a fair amount of space.  My friend Sonia immediately came to mind, as she would understand the significance of the hats, and she had a house to store them in.  Each hatbox has a hand-drawn sketch of the hat on the outside, for easy reference, in case I can't be bothered to read the accompanying label.

There aren't dozens of hats, by any means. but I'd estimate there are ten of them, felt and straw, some custom made to my own design, others ready made, and all cared for with the same attention I give my shoes. 

Ivaan understood the significance of a hat.  He had just purchased a new navy fedora in December 2002, before he fell off his bicycle and embedded his face in the asphalt on Queen Street West.  Next morning he had to go to the funeral of a longtime friend.  He really should not have gone anywhere, but he wore the fedora to the funeral, to disguise his black eyes and swollen face.  Me?  I didn't attend, because I was pretty sure when people saw him they would bury the wrong person.

The day after the funeral, he suffered a massive stroke brought on by the collision of his face and the road, and I finally won the argument about whether he should ride his bike or not.  That's when the wheelchair entered our lives.

Twenty-two years later, I marvel that over the next six years he never developed a single pressure sore from sitting in that wheelchair, and I attribute that to the superb skin care routine I established for him early on: full-body massages with lotion, weekly pedicures that had staff in the rehabilitation hospital marvelling at his well-cared-for feet, and an over-all attention to detail that he normally reserved for his jewellery.  He always screamed when I approached with a basin of warm, soapy water, claiming that I was going to torture him again, but he proudly shared with me the compliments he received about his pampered state.

Back to Sonia:  I'm kind of amazed that Sonia, who is a marketing wizard, did not put my hatboxes up for sale in the time that she stored them in a corner of her living room.  She sold practically everything else I owned, and she was ruthless about it, too, because she knew I'd never again have 3000 square feet of space to squander on material possessions.  If you ever want to break up with your furniture, guilt-free, get yourself a Sonia.

Now that I'm no longer in my bucolic paradise, it's true: I'm living in a tiny space that I can renovate to my wallet's content.  As a matter of fact, much of that renovation is already complete.  New oak floors throughout, new 8 inch baseboards, new white paint, new through-the-wall air conditioner, new kitchen appliances, except that they're sitting in my dining room, uninstalled, as we're awaiting the arrival of a beautiful, huge white fireclay apron sink with a bowed front.  It'll be the pièce de résistance in the world's smallest kitchen.

I'm slowly getting out of the habit of wearing jeans, mismatched socks and boots, year-round.  The other day, I was spotted wearing a leopard-print silk skirt with a crinoline, black stockings, and Thierry Rabotin shoes with heels.  And I have an appointment with my hairdresser next week. One day soon, I'll break out one of my excellent hats and the transformation will be complete.