THE YEAR OF BLUE HAIR AND NO CITIZENSHIP

It's been a year. 

So much has happened, it'll be hard to sum it up.  I didn't even know where to begin, so I referred back to previous posts to see what has changed.

I decided to change the colour of my hair while I was at school.  I remember thinking it was just an experiment that I'd undertake for a year, because I am opposed to using hair colour on principle, but having hair that is naturally the colour of slush makes me look so washed out.  I could presumably have fallen into a Toronto snowdrift and no one would find me until spring.

So I have blue hair.  It helps to make a student stand out at school when classmates can say, "Eya?  She's the one with the blue hair".  Then they don't have to think up synonyms for "decrepit".

Thesis Defense Day

June 24, 2026

So, rewinding to April 28, 2025, that's the day I submitted an application for proof of Canadian Citizenship.  I'd lost my wallet-size citizenship card while I was living in the wilds of southern Ontario and the government no longer issues wallet-size citizenship cards, so I applied for proof of Canadian Citizenship.  

On May 13, 2025, Citizenship and Immigration Canada wrote to me saying they'd received my application.  I checked back periodically and learned that it was somewhere in the queue.  I contacted my MP's office around Christmas time and they told me I'd have to wait some more.  In early May 2026 I contacted them again.  Same answer.

I'm still waiting.  

Yesterday, my sister pointed out that I had gotten my Master's degree in way less time than I had spent waiting for my proof of Canadian citizenship.  She is correct.  And I probably had a lot more fun in the process.  I am now the holder of a Master of Arts in Italian Studies (with High Distinction) from the University of Toronto.  I'd told myself I wouldn't bother going to Convocation in October unless I were to graduate with High Distinction, and as it happens, I will be going to Convocation.

I defended my thesis last Wednesday, and it was accepted  "as it stands", which means that the Thesis Committee has not sent it back for any revisions.  This is entirely due to my having a sensational thesis supervisor.  This man is such a genius that every great thought I've ever had in my life, he's had that thought by the time he was six years old and long forgotten it.  He is not only a true scholar, but he's the wisest and most patient and the kindest man on the planet.  Professor Andrea Lanza walks on water, as far as I am concerned.  

When I learned who was going to be on my Thesis Committee, I could hardly believe my good fortune.  Second Reader was Professor Luca Somigli, who is the Emilio Goggio Chair in Italian Studies, and the Chair of the Thesis Committee was Professor Laura Ingallinella, who taught me Renaissance Italian Theatre in the first semester.  She is a stellar prof and  above reproach in every way. I was so lucky.  I didn't even have to wait long - maybe a minute - for them to make their decision.

During my first semester, I suffered a stroke which hasn't affected my physical ability or appearance, but has resulted in some deficits in my brain.  I initially thought I was losing my hearing and went to an audiologist who determined that it was a neurological deficit caused by a stroke.  I am fighting back, because I know early intervention is key to stroke recovery.  One of the ways I am fighting back is by learning Mathematics.  Luckily, my nephew Philippe is a teacher, and he's agreed to tutor me. He's quite intuitive about figuring out why I have such a mental block about Mathematics.  I can do Arithmetic very readily, but when it comes to Algebra, Geometry and Calculus, I was lost even before I'd had the stroke.  If anyone can get me solving math problems, it's Philippe.  Besides, this way I get a visit from him each week.

Things aren't all rainbows and fluffy white clouds and warm sunshine in my life, that's for sure.  It's been a brutal year for losing friends.  It's been a full year since the death of Alice Kazmierowski.  I often think of her and her first grandson, Clem, and wonder what extraordinary things he's getting up to without her.  In April, 2026, my young friend Emma Turnbull died, and that has been utterly wrenching.  The world seems greatly diminished without her in it.  A whole swath of Southern Ontario seems to be imbued with the spirit of Emma and all the people she influenced.  Emma is a legend.

My youngest nephew, Ivor, and his beloved Laurie are getting married this October in Ottawa.  Neither Ivor nor Laurie likes being the centre of attention, but they feel this is an occasion that needs to be marked in a traditional way, with both families present.  Honestly, I would like to know the names and addresses of the mutual friends who introduced Ivor and Laurie.  I could send them a Christmas card every year, because they have such great discernment and excellent taste.   Ivor and Laurie are perfect together.  She has such a generosity of spirit where Ivor is concerned, I just fell in love with her the second I met her.  And  Ivor has always been the most stalwart and independent young man - quietly taking charge and getting things done in an incredibly competent way.  Their wedding is going to be just like that, a blend of both their best qualities.

And you never know, I might get my proof of Canadian Citizenship  before the wedding. 

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.

NOVEMBER 15, 2004 - NOVEMBER 15, 2024

💔💔💔

OUT ON THE TOWN: (I May Not Know Art, But I Know What I Like)

 I was going westbound along Dupont Street a few weeks ago when I nearly drove off the road. An art gallery had just opened, named Caviar20, and in the window I saw a piece of....well, art.  Pretty much the only way I buy anything is because I've seen it in a shop window and I feel such a strong magnetic pull to it that I can't think of anything else.  (This may explain why I don't have a lot of stuff, because I clearly don't look in shop windows enough).  

Life is busy and I had to wait two weeks till I was again headed westbound on Dupont.  The same piece was in the window.  I went online that night, looked for the gallery's website, and on it was the same piece of art. Heart pounding, I drove back to the vicinity of the gallery, and the piece in the window was gone.  I made an immediate plan to go into the gallery, find out the name and address of the buyer, kill them, and slip out the door with the piece of art (it was a lithograph) under my arm.

Luckily, I didn't have to follow through, because the gallery owner had merely changed the window display, and my piece was framed and carefully wrapped in vapour barrier (that's how I know Troy Seidman and I can be friends, because I like vapour barrier too) on the lower level of the gallery.

It's the centenary of the birth of Harold Town, and this is one of a series of Town paintings and lithographs from the very early 1970s.  There was no hesitation in my mind as to where I'd hang it. That it worked perfectly on that wall goes without saying.  I'm very mindful of the fact that I now occupy a tiny co-own in a gritty part of town (okay, I lied.  The only thing gritty about my new address is the ongoing construction of several nine-million-dollar houses on the next street over).  Be that as it may, I live a spare life.  I don't even buy a cabbage till I desperately need one.

I had a quick look around the gallery while Troy was doing the paperwork, and I saw some quite excellent artwork on the walls.  Galleries are like icebergs: 90% of the beauty is not available to the eye.  Caviar20 is an exception.  I'd have stayed longer, but I was desperate to get Blue Raspberry Stretch onto my wall.

If you're in Toronto on a Saturday and you want something to fill up your eyes, you might want to stop in at 647 Dupont.  Tell Troy I sent you.