ALICE

 This morning I woke up and decided it was a 4 out of 10 day.  Sometimes I can turn that kind of a day around and make it a solid 7. Sometimes I just have to get through it somehow or other. Rarely does it end up worse, but today it got worse.  Much worse. 

The first message I received was from my friend Alice’s husband, Tom.

Now, Alice and I got through 3 years of high school without ever meeting. We were in different classes. We were like two girls swimming in the same pool, but in different lanes. I knew of her, but I didn’t know her, until one day when I was in my 30s and I needed a new dentist.

My Dad went to a neighbourhood dentist, and recommended her highly.  Now, Dad recommending a dentist should have raised alarm bells in my head.  His idea of a good dentist was one who would charge less if you didn’t actually require an anaesthetic for … I don’t know, removing your wisdom teeth or extracting an abscessed molar. This latter dental procedure actually happened to me once, and it’s why I still wear a lead x-ray apron as a security blanket,  even for check-ups. 

So I went along to this new dentist, whose name was Alice Kazmierowski.  Once I was settled in the chair, in walked Alice Tuch, looking much the same as she had looked in high school, and I realized this was the same Alice,  just with a new surname.  We got on terrifically, though the conversation was often one-sided.  Best of all, she seemed to feel my pain even before I felt it. It was mostly pre-emptive pain, because she wasn’t stingy with the anaesthetic, but she just didn’t like inflicting pain on anyone. 

Alice shared a dental practice with her much elder sister, Lucie Tuch. Once, when Alice was away, I saw her sister instead, and Lucie was a different kettle of fish altogether. Lucie had gone to the same high school at least a decade before us. She was screamingly funny, in the slapstick way that comedians Wayne and Shuster (also fellow alumni) were, and Lucie was decisive as anything. She knew what she was going to do to you, she knew how much it was going to hurt you,  and there were none of those ‘Alice’ shenanigans, where she anguished over hurting you and thinking maybe she could do it a gentler way….nope! You just sat there trying not to choke on your laughter as she monologued her way through the fastest root canal in the annals of dentistry. Lucie never suffered from Impostor Syndrome for one second in her life. She had self-confidence to burn. But Alice? Alice felt my pain.

I may have grown a thicker skin in Lucie’s dental chair, but I learned more humanity from Alice.  Hers was the only bereavement card I saved,  during the greatest tragedy of my life. I can still quote it, word for word, I’ve read it so often. 

Lucie’s premature illness, and death, affected Alice grievously. She’d lost her mentor, her only sibling, her senior dental partner and her protector.  Alice struggled along with new dental associates in Lucie’s place, but more and more she took refuge in simply doing things with her husband, Tom, whom she’d first met in high school, and in the antics of her grandchildren. Tom encouraged her to exercise in the mornings, as he wanted them to have a long, active retirement together. Returning from a drive to Sault Ste-Marie to visit Kaitlin, their elder daughter, and Jason, and the kids, Alice began to feel unwell, and  after an ordeal in  a rural hospital, she and Tom found themselves back in Toronto with a diagnosis of Leukaemia.  She defied the odds by appearing to have driven it back several times over the next few years, hoping for more time with Tom - the most stalwart partner one could wish for - and they developed a love of live theatre, braving audiences (while masked) during a time when I was living a hermit-like existence on the farm. Tom was encouraging her to think of the big picture: would live theatre flame out as one of the early casualties of the pandemic?  Not if Tom and Alice could help it!

I’ve listened raptly to Alice’s tales of the joys of grandparenthood, to tales of the time their younger daughter, Hayley, broke a tooth one Hallowe’en while in Nursing School, and Tom and Alice drove out there,  picked her up, brought her home, got her tooth sorted, drove her back and never once asked if alcohol had been involved (thanks, Tom!)

I’ve secretly adopted Alice’s and Tom’s eldest grandson, Clem, as my fantasy grandchild. There’s a streak of something in Clem that I admire a whole lot: grit, determination and wacky humour.  Maybe a touch of Great Aunt Lucie. Alice’s emails were always rich with details about Clem’s passions and antics.

I won’t be getting those emails any more. Tom’s message this morning was that Alice has died and funeral preparations are under way. The only thing I got done today was to wash the car in honour of Alice and Lucie.  I’d fill it with egg cartons if I could. Lucie was an early supporter of Pollution Probe, and an avid recycler of egg cartons. 

I just can do nothing but be grateful for having had Alice in my life all these years. If there is a World To Come, she’ll be there with Lucie, and Lucie will be in awe of this huge, rich life Alice and Tom have created here on earth. Together, they contained multitudes.

Baruch Dayan Emet, my friend.                    

  

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.