SUMMERTIME AT MOSS BANK: The Birthday Gift

 My sister, Lisl, is a textile artist. She has a good eye, and. she captures the small details of things I don’t notice….until they’re right in front of my face.

In today’s mail, I received a small package addressed in her handwriting. Here’s what was inside:

 Postcard-size, it’s just the sort of thing I like, not only for her skill, but because she instinctively knows the things that are important to me. 

When I moved to the country, I didn’t even know Moss Bank existed.  At the time, it was a very derelict little building that looked like a crime scene in a low-grade movie. Eventually, I worked up the courage to go into it, and once I’d been inside, all I wanted to do was tear it down.

Toronto politician Adam Vaughan persuaded me not to, arguing that not only was I sending all those building materials to the landfill, I was disrespecting all the labour that had gone into building it. Made sense, so I named it The Adam Vaughan.

Then, Adam went over to the political Dark Side. It happens sometimes.  By that time, The Adam Vaughan was pretty much rebuilt. But it needed a new name. Moss Bank came to mind. My nephew Ivor suggested I finish it in yellow, with a forest green metal roof, and a sweet name, as if it were a house in a Beatrix Potter story.

I posted this photo on my blog:

And that’s how I know that somebody reads this blog. 

Thank you, Lisl.

HITTING THE BOOKS AGAIN

 This September, I’ll be diving back into academia. I’ve applied to do my Master’s, in the Department of Italian Studies at the University of Toronto, and for some odd reason they’ve decided to accept me. It’ll be weird: almost all the people I knew there are either retired or deceased, so there will be a whole new crew to deal with. I’m lucky to be friends still with M: a fabulous prof who taught me Translation and some Literature courses in undergrad, and who insists on speaking only Italian to me, just to keep me on my toes.

Then there’s B,  my very engaging prof from first year who was so encouraging and had me laughing on even my worst days. I remember taking my nephew Ivor to class with me when he was about nine. He loved it, because of  “Monsieur qui crie tout le temps”.

I’ll be studying the poetry of an Italian American poet who is now in her mid 80s, whose writing was influenced by the New York Beat poets, who in turn were influenced by her experience and writing.

In between now and then, I’ll be moving to a new address, so it will be a busy summer.  I’ll be getting used to taking transit to class, because it’s too far to walk, but maybe as a treat I’ll take the car now and again.

CINQ À SEPT FROM THREE TO SIX

 This is the first fête I’m hosting at The Rabbit Warren: just half a dozen nice neighbours dropping in for a snack and a chat and a drink on a Sunday afternoon. I’m all ready for the onslaught, with an hour to spare.

Apple cider’s warming on the stove, coffee’s on, and a pot of Hibiscus tea for colour. Non alcoholic Prosecco for the Dry January crowd. Real Prosecco for the Late Adopters.  And now,  the important question: should the host wear shoes or slippers?

And because I have these new red shoes that I bought seven years ago (before farm life) and never wore, I guess it’s shoes for the win.

Roll the Credits: Cranberry Cashew Cheese Ball recipe by Sam Turnbull @bonappetegan.  Chocolate cake by Dufflet’s Bakery.  (It’s vegan). Cherries and Carrot Sticks by Mother Nature. Hot Punjabi Mix by … well, whoever makes chevdo out in B.C.