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.

NEW KITCHEN CONFIDENTIAL

 I've been heard to say (frequently and at great length) that the anticipation of an event is often more of a pleasure than the event itself.  And so it was with my tiny kitchen here at the Rabbit Warren.  I dreamed of it nightly for the three and a half long months it took to have it built.  I am no architect, God knows, but I have one absolute law about small spaces:  Go Big Or Go Home.

None of these tiny bar sinks for me.  

I want the polar opposite.  Who cares if I can't fit the fridge in alongside it?  (Actually, I can't, but that's a whole other story).  Just give me the biggest, whitest, shiniest sink there is.  I first saw this sink in the kitchen and bath department at the hardware store across from my former commercial building on Dupont.  And I bought it.  Well, I ordered it.  And waited....for weeks.  Finally, the manager of the store phoned me and tried to persuade me to buy a smaller sink.  He had lots of reasons:

#1  The price was going up.

#2  I might have to wait even longer.

#3  The price was going up.

#4  Customers weren't exactly falling over themselves to buy the sink, because it was huge and heavy.

#5  The price was going up.

#6  He was sure I wouldn't want the display model, would I now?

"Steve", I said, (because that was his name), "the heart knows what it wants".  Desperate, he offered me the display model, at a substantially discounted price, and threw in the metal grate at the bottom of the sink, free of charge.

I said yes.  I got in the car, drove right over, and we did the paperwork.  I got the display model, which was in brand new condition, plus I got three hardware store guys with strong backs to deliver it to the back of my car.  And I drove the sink directly to Fox Custom Woodworks, who were building my kitchen and needed the actual sink immediately to do precise measurements on it.

This was pretty brilliant thinking.  Let the Fox guys bring it to my new place!  Otherwise I'd have it in the back of my car for weeks. 

Right after Thanksgiving, my kitchen cabinets and sink were installed.  Two weeks later, the quartz countertops.  An electrician hooked up the dishwasher.  A plumber hooked up the faucet and sink.  An appliance installer hooked up the water and drain lines for the dishwasher.  And, just like that, I had a kitchen.

Of course, it's been so long since I cooked anything, I've forgotten what a kitchen is for. No worries.  This will be my show kitchen.  It's the display model.  And it's perfect.

Here's a photo taken just before the faucet was installed.

CLOTHES MAKE THE WOMAN

 I had an entirely discretionary day today.  I slept in until embarrassingly late in the morning and my only thought on waking was:  when I go out, do I take the lovely Bertha with me or not?  I opted to take her (okay, that's my car's name, and it's pronounced in the German manner, Bear-ta, but when I'm making a U  turn in her, I call her the Queen Mary because, like the luxury ocean liner,  she has such a wide turning radius).  I wanted to get the most out of my day.  

First stop was the Manulife Centre, to pick up a book chosen by my book club: The Tennis Partner, by Abraham Verghese.  They didn't have it in stock.  All right, I'll figure that out later, I told myself.  Next stop:  the Art Gallery of Ontario, to see the Pacita Abad exhibit.  She was a textile artist who lived in the Philippines during the Ferdinand Marcos regime and her artworks are huge, handsewn, colourful pieces, very brave politically.  One depicted Marcos and his henchmen eating plastic dolls, representing the ruthless corruption for which he was eventually deposed in, I think, 1976.  Another was a series of pennants sewn of fabrics, newer and older,  which she collected from all over the Philippines, sewn in a seemingly haphazard patchwork style.  Barriers were placed around the pieces, to prevent viewers getting too close and touching the pieces.  They were almost irresistible.

I never let myself view too many exhibits at one time.  It's really disorienting.  Oh!  I should mention that I wore my AGO shoes,  As Portuguesas brand. They were bought for the purpose of  going to galleries with unyielding floors.  They are red, boiled wool, and look a bit like hobbit shoes. 

 I wasn't the least bit tired after all that walking, but I was hungry and took myself down to the Members' Lounge in The Grange for a pot  of tea and a bowl of soup.

Refreshed, I went out and retrieved Bertha from her convenient parking spot on the west side of McCaul Street, headed east on Dundas, past Parliament, to my friend and former neighbour Sanghun Oh's dress shop on Queen Street East.   Having already visited GravityPope on Queen Street West for  a few pairs of shoes last week, I thought I'd be brave enough to try on clothes.  Sanghun's shop is called 290 Ion, but it's at 380 Queen Street East.  Every time I go there, I think I will never find anything, but Sang is just the right sort of shopkeeper for me:  not at all pushy.  I've found some brilliant things there, including the black wool coat dress by Icelandic designer Matthildur that I happened to be wearing today.  While we gabbed about mutual friends, I pawed through her racks, finally shedding my coat dress and standing there in my skivvies (okay, black leggings and t shirt) and tried on a few knit pieces.

Here's what I bought: a knit wool top with a print that suggests I was unsuccessfully feeding a baby an avocado…

…a blue wool cowlneck sweater and a generous light wool scarf…

…and a midnight blue silk-and-cotton knit jacket which (gazing modestly at herself in the mirror) looks fantastic on me.

Now, you may think that’s quite enough of a good day for anyone, but there’s more: when I got home, there was a package waiting outside my door with a brand new book inside, called The Tennis Partner, by Abraham Verghese. I have *no clue* who sent it to me, but a very big thank you to whichever nice person it was. 

This is about all the fall colour I can cope with, but it was my first time clothes shopping in about six years and it was time.

80

Not a long post today, nor a funny one.  Just wishing Ivaan many happy returns of the day on his 80th birthday and hoping all is well in his new life.  I woke up to supportive messages from good friends, and I have a busy day ahead, which will include going to the cemetery with some birthday cake for the birds and squirrels.

The earth would have been a lot different, Ivaan, without your bright light shining on it, illuminating all the beauty and casting shadows at times, just for contrast.

Thank you, Ivaan.  You illuminated my life and encouraged me to make it gorgeous.

Vichnaya Pam'yat.

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.

THE THOUSANDAIRE

When I was a kid, a millionaire was a rare and special thing to be. The only millionaire I remember did things like send us gift boxes of cellophane tape at Christmas. I confess I’ve always thought of tape as a luxury item, to be used sparingly, and not as a mere convenience for attaching sheets of paper to other sheets of paper.  The gentleman in question was a Detroit-based millionaire named Charles E. Feinberg, who, my father said, was a shareholder in  3M, the company that manufactured all kinds of tape. I’m guessing that every Christmas he received a large gift box from 3M, comprising all their products for domestic use, and then had to figure out who among his acquaintances would be the beneficiary of his largesse. We knew he didn’t care about Christmas, being Jewish, and we sure weren’t going to tell him we had a common ancestor. This was easy. Dad took pains to disguise that unhappy accident of birth, even sending us to a Baptist Sunday School for tips on how best to assimilate. We suspected the real reason was Free Babysitting on Sundays.

At first we were neutral about it. Later it became a burden when it was impressed upon us by fellow churchgoers that we couldn’t get into heaven because we were not baptized. Finally, neighbour women were sent to convey to our mother that it was frowned upon to send their unbaptized children to Sunday School with our paltry collection coins in our sweaty palms. Our mother imperiously conveyed a message in return: that she could understand their need for a church to attend because they were weak people, while she herself was strong and did not need a guiding hand to raise her children.  I could have added that she had a pretty good hand and applied it regularly to her children, but even I was embarrassed and ashamed when she once invoked the little-known fact that our neighbour had a child who lived in an institution, and this might be the reason she was in need of spiritual guidance. That was a low blow, and I knew it. I started going to the park on Sunday mornings, and despite the subterfuge, no one ratted me out. Eventually I dropped the pretence, and stopped going outside altogether. For some reason, I never connected the slightly diminished Baptist collection plate with our frugal mother’s equanimity at my disobedience. 

But back to our millionaire. I imagined all millionaires did was count their money and invest in Honeywell, a company that manufactured thermostats, but which I imagined provided vats of honey to millionaires. I didn’t even like honey, but this seemed like a reasonably luxurious thing to have on hand if one were very rich. And honey, like cellophane tape, was sticky.

It’s no longer 1961, and probably Charles E. Feinberg of Detroit, Michigan  managed to increase his earthly fortune before shuffling off this mortal coil. He was elderly at the time, which only added to his mystique. I guess that I am now about the age of Charles E. Feinberg and I, too, am a millionaire. At least, I reason, if I can purchase a house for a million dollars cash, and have some left over, I must be a foreign member of that Detroit Jewish élite who keep a vat of honey in their cupboard. I haven’t quite risen to the level of owning shares in 3M, so I’d better exercise caution and refer to myself as a thousandaire. 

There’s no point in attracting undue attention to oneself, after all.

WORKING HANDS

 Some people have hands that look like they’ve never done a day’s work in their lives. Their fingers are long and slim, their nails are manicured, and they probably could not pick up a five-pound bag of potatoes if they tried. I am not one of those people.  I lost the habit of using nail polish when I opened Atelier Ivaan, and I never picked it up again. Polishing jewellery is filthy work. If you survive a session on the polishing machine without black grime under your nails, you’re not polishing hard enough. 

Jewellery polishing compound comes in various grades.  The rough grade is called Tripoli. The finer grade is called Rouge.  To complicate matters, there’s red Rouge and green Rouge: red for polishing yellow gold and green Rouge for polishing white gold, and for silver. There are other colours, for polishing Platinum and other metals, but let’s leave it there, because all you need to know is that it turns black, and that which doesn’t embed itself in your fingers ends up inside your nose. This will horrify you, the first time you realize it. After that, you accept that this is just a part of life.

I used to have thin, pliable fingernails.  By contrast, Ivaan had nails that resembled a coal miner’s. But once I took over the business, my nails grew thicker and less flexible. My fingers changed too. They’ve always been strong and substantial, but nowadays they are even more so.

I marvelled at the slender fingers of women who were shopping for an engagement ring. Honestly, sometimes I felt like saying, “Come back when you’ve put a few miles on those fingers”.  And I steered them toward rings that had some negative space on the reverse that I could use to enlarge the ring in a couple of years (or babies).

A few years ago, just before the Covid-19 pandemic, I  consulted a hand surgeon who diagnosed trigger finger on the middle and fourth fingers of my right hand. Those fingers would no longer open and close without encountering an obstacle. The surgeon offered the operating room for an immediate procedure if I was willing. “You’ll have some scars on your palm afterwards”, he warned, but added that I was very unlikely to get a job as a hand model anyway. Point taken! He operated, bandaged me up, and injected enough painkillers that I was able to drive my manual transmission car home without feeling a thing.

Then Covid hit.  I was not able to attend the hospital for hand therapy due to the lockdown. Slowly my hand healed. Once the bandages came off, I noticed my fingers could no longer open completely. But the hand functioned quite well, and I got used to joking that I had one hand and one claw: quite useful for dredging the ponds. Dr. A didn’t think that was quite as funny as I did. I have no idea why. After all, he and I had bought our rural properties at the same time, and we were regularly exchanging funny stories about being newly-minted farmers.  

I was crushed in the spring of 2023 to receive a letter from Dr. A, saying due to the effects of Long Covid, he was retiring from his surgery practice. It was particularly hard because I’d been his patient for 20 years, since he was injecting my thumb joints with steroids, to undo the damage done by pushing Ivaan’s wheelchair.

It’s been a long time since I pushed a wheelchair, and I’m thinking of going back to the hospital for hand therapy to straighten out my claw.  It’ll be hard, returning to the “scene of the crime”, but at least I can feel grateful that my fingernails are finally clean. 

MASTERING LA BELLA LINGUA

 I guess it’s the season. Being stuck in the house for months has that effect on me.  I’m not a cold weather outdoor sort of person, which sort of begs the question “Then why do you live in the country? In Canada? In winter?” Well, in my defence, I moved here in April, and I’m impulsive by nature. I was not thinking that far ahead.  In summer, I always remind myself that I’ll want to remember these beautiful hot days during the long winters ahead.  Then winter comes, and  I spend my days fixing things around the interior of the house. It’s a big house, admittedly, so until last winter there was a fair amount to fix. I’d always imagined I would do all the work myself, but that idea dissolved last January when I started putting in new windows. The windows here are massive. Michael, whose company installed them, is extremely tall. I’m guessing 6 foot 8.   I don’t think he’s as tall as the windows.  They’re a real showstopper, no doubt about it.

Once I’d painted the exterior (indigo),  painted the interior (white), and installed new kitchen counters (blue) and sink (white), there was precious little to do. I didn’t want to get caught up in that endless cycle of demolition and renewal that keeps home improvement magazines afloat, so I’ve been strict about what I’ll do and not do.

In 2023/24,  I reached Peak Reno.  Yes, there are things I’d like to replace, like light fixtures, but none so urgently that the anodyne ones that came with the house are in any danger of disposal.  I am really happy with the house.  It’s like me:  seasoned, but responding enthusiastically to even amateur efforts at remediation. This leaves me with at least 100 days of fallow time till I can get outside and have fun. Last year, I studied Scots Gaelic to while away the winter.  I always do better at languages that bear no resemblance to any I have a passing acquaintance with.  So now I can amuse myself by saying aloud “Madainn mhath, a caraid. Ciamar a tha thu?” and respond, shaking my head sadly, “Tha fuar. Chan eil snog”.  My Scots relatives are dubious.  They’re from the eastern side  of Scotland and speak Doric, which is what you often hear when people are imitating Scotsmen. It’s based loosely on English and has a great many native speakers. Gaidhlig (Gaelic) has probably … 12? 13? I imagine that all of them will be on hand to welcome me if ever I go to the Isle of Skye.

But to return to  the subject of this blog post,  and my 100 fallow days.  I’m feeling very energetic, despite having suffered memory loss due to Covid. So I decided that I’d like to do my Masters in Italian. When  I came here, Italian dripped off my tongue like I was a native speaker. Either due to Covid or old age, even English doesn’t do that any more. So I called up the Istituto Italiano di Cultura in Toronto and sought their help. I would need it badly, it seemed.  Fortunately, they indicated they would lighten my wallet by only $320 in return for an intermediate review course over Zoom. Sold!

A dear friend who is a former Musicology prof expressed concern. Grad school was much more intense than Undergrad.  Had I thought about all the changes that had occurred at the University? I wouldn’t have my regular crew of well-meaning profs to encourage me. They have all retired…or died. Another Musicology friend feared I’d be that much older, with a crew of age 20-something classmates to support me and compete with me. A third Musicology friend, equally well-informed, said, “The hell with it! Just go. What’s the worst that can happen?”

So a plan is forming.  Next week I start my Istituto course. Now all I need is un po' di coraggio ed un sacco di bella fortuna.

 

IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE

This afternoon, I went for a stomp around the property.

I went down to the island, and instantly was transported to May of 2019. I mean, you couldn't walk three steps on the island in 2019 without being hit in the face by overgrown brush. Then there was the time, a few weeks later, when my dear friends Jim and Annette had come up from Toronto for a visit. I was giving them a tour, so we walked down the hill, to the bridge to the island. I had cleared a bit of overgrowth already. I leaned my hand against a tree trunk while I turned to say something to them...and the tree promptly fell over. I tried to make it look as though this had been my intention all along. It didn't fool them one iota. The island has been a microcosm of my life here: a lot of brute labour, a dearth of expertise. But slowly, slowly, it has borne fruit. I can now walk across the island unimpeded. As long as I've got my eyes glued to the ground, I'm safe on the island. 

Exactly five years ago today, where was I? It was my final day in the shop, Atelier Ivaan, and I was excited about winding down my stint as jeweller-in-residence, and even more excited about what was yet to come. I had no idea what I'd be doing next, but after seven years of doing the impossible and making it look like no big deal, I was ready for action. I often say my building was so compact, I could fit it into my swimming pool. That's no exaggeration. I worked there, I lived there, I saw clients in there, and I gardened on the roof deck. I so badly wanted some fresh air and some space around me that didn't include clients wanting something from me. I felt occasional pangs of guilt about abandoning Ivaan, but I'd spent more than a decade grieving him. It wasn't so much his death I was grieving; it was his life. I was dimly aware that in grieving the foreshortening of his life, I was also foreshortening mine. I was now older than he had ever been. I don't know what's going to happen next. I never know. But I guess I'll know it when I see it. 

Happy New Year's Eve 2023.

TRA DUE SEDIE

Climate Change Christmas is upon us. It's time to participate in some new ancient traditions: waterskiing, pumping water out of the basement, and bemoaning the various wildlife species we're about to eliminate. A friend told me of a pair of geese and their newly hatched goslings on a pond in London, Ontario on Christmas Day. Here, I've noticed squirrels the size of small rabbits, awake and foraging when they should be hibernating, and giant crows, with unshelled peanuts in their beaks. I didn't even know crows ate peanuts, but there you go. They adapt, or die. However refreshing it is to see green outside, instead of unending white, I wonder whether we'll be taking a raincheck on really cold weather, and we 'll find snow on the ground in June. This is one of the drawbacks of rural living. When there's snow in the yard, it's acres of snow, for months. A couple of years ago, I halfheartedly embraced the idea that it's not the winter, it's our response to it that matters. We just have to wear layers, or goose down, or Goretex, or whatever they're selling this season. I call baloney on that. If the snow is ubiquitous enough, it's also deep. Thigh high, at least. This property is hilly; that's one of its charms. Walking in deep snow is exhausting and dangerous. Snowshoes? - I can just hear you now. No thanks. Not on hills. I don't want to be found by my relatives next spring (in, say, September). That's not the hill I want to die on. So I'm (as the Italians say) tra due sedie: between two chairs, neither here nor there. In short, I'm indoors. On one side of the dining room, I have this semi-tropical region: I call it the State of Florida.

Whatever I could say about the building of this house's old wing, I can't fault the siting of the building. It's brilliant. It takes full advantage of the morning sun, and that makes mornings here a joy. That won't change with Climate Change. I don't have curtains on the windows, because I don't need them. Yet the sun is so strong, I marvel that the carpet here hasn't faded. It's like travelling by plane, without any of the associated guilt, delays, cancellations, or announcements from your Captain. If I have to be tra due sedie in 2024, I will gladly take this seat. It probably comes with peanuts as a mid-flight snack. Served by crows.

BEWARE OF FALSE PROFITS (see what I did there?)

I guess it's better than being female, of a certain age, and broke.

“It”, in this case, is being female, of a certain age, self-sufficient, and not broke. I am the target audience for all kinds of males whose means aren't proportional to their wants. Notice I don't say "men", because these guys aren't men. They're biologically similar to men, but they're so emotionally stunted that they're positive they're just what I needed. Their names are monosyllabic. Their goals are simple. Their modus operandi is strangely familiar. They're a friend-of-a-friend. Or a former acquaintance of Ivaan's. But not a friend, because he was acquainted with a boatload of people, yet counted his friends on his fingers. They come namaste-ing their way up to Ivaan's portrait...and my pocketbook. 

Right after Ivaan died, a decent cross-section of "lifelong bachelors" began showing up, bearing chocolates, wine, flowers, and in one case homemade hummus...all intent on one thing: to "comfort the afflicted". My Dad was the first one to burst my balloon. When the first bachelor gamely tried out his courting ritual (at the actual funeral), Dad summed it up eloquently. "He probably thinks you're good at looking after people. That must be the attraction", opined Dad. I mean, why bother with niceties when you can convey precisely what you mean AND flatten the romantic aspirations of a newly-bereaved widow at the same time? Just kidding. All I really wanted was to go home, and climb into bed. Alone. And sleep for about two months straight. But Dad is a male too, and he was once widowed and solvent. As I recall, the first candidate for the role of Wicked Stepmother arrived at our family's door soon after our mother's death, without fanfare, but with luggage, which Dad promptly threw out said door.

 So, back to the issue at hand. I have summarily rejected all applicants for the job of whatever you call a male hanger-on of a woman of mature years and adequate means, regardless of their self-proclaimed attractions, and will continue to do so for, I hope, many years to come. So you can take that, Mack, Mick, Mark, Mike, or whatever monosyllable you are currently going by, and go fishing with it in the shallower end of the genetic pool than the one in which you currently stand. The one with the leeches. FIN.

RESILIENCE

Resilience. I got none. For nearly five years, I've lived alone, happily and healthily, on my five-acre rectangle of rural paradise, untroubled by the cares of city folk and city life in general. I eat well, I sleep well, I go to bed early, I talk to myself, sing to myself, enjoy the company of good friends when they visit, and enjoy waving goodbye when they return to the city. I pride myself on being independent. I'm never lonely. For three years and seven months, I've successfully avoided Covid-19 by avoiding people. My luck ran out two weeks ago. Three friends were coming to lunch. I tested negative beforehand, and I felt just fine. After lunch, we all went through to the living room, sprawled ourselves out on sofas and chairs, and were laughing and talking when suddenly I coughed, just a bit. A minute later, I coughed again. Annette asked if I felt okay. Sure, I did, and I'd tested negative, I replied. After they headed home, I tested twice more, just to be certain. Both negative. Next morning, I felt miserable, but still tested negative. The next test was positive. My friends were perfectly fine. But the worse I felt, the worse I felt. I started to unravel, day by day. Within three days, I was feral. I was trying to do the normal things a person does every day. Make tea. Sweep. Brush teeth. I couldn't. I was in a rage. I couldn't do anything requiring two steps. Like chew and swallow. Like be polite to people who wanted me to fill out a form. Twelve days later, I'm still testing positive. But I've been out in the car twice. I have come to the conclusion that I haven't been changing my mask often enough. It's that simple. User error. I'm sure I'll be testing negative again within the next few days. But it's humbling to know that the resilience I wear with pride most of the time is a pretty thin veneer.

SHOOTING POOL

Closing of the swimming pool is set to take place twelve days from now, which means I have twelve more days of trying to keep the pool clean and free of leaves, debris, pine needles and newly hatched turtles. No one on earth is going to want to swim in it in the meantime. The water is 10° Celsius.

Last time anybody went in, it was 14.5° and that was cold enough that I had to warm up a bag of beach towels in the dryer for them. That was September 24th: my friends Finn (on the diving board) and Matt demonstrating their raw courage. Willow, on the left, was supervising the guys. The colder the water is, the easier it is to keep clean. For the last two days, I have been down skimming and vacuuming and as a result it looks like an advertisement for a swimming pool. Yesterday I found three newly hatched turtles at the bottom of the shallow end. That was very sad. As I finished my work today, I suddenly thought: what if an emergency happened and I had to sell the property before the winter cover comes off the pool at the end of June next year? Unlikely, but you never know. So I decided to take some photos of the very clean pool with my iPad, which has a surprisingly great camera. That way, the real estate listing would include pool pics. It is very difficult to photograph a swimming pool and make it look attractive. These photos are what I came up with. If you see this pool in a real estate listing, you'll know that's my place.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, IVAAN

Today Ivaan would have turned 79. I woke up thinking that, if he had to choose between being 79 and being dead, he'd probably have chosen death. Nonethleless, it was nice to receive birthday greetings on his behalf from quite a few of his friends. In the 15 years since his death, I've been impressed by the people who continued to remember him so fondly and who never fail to check in on me in case I'm feeling bereft. Ivaan was a very generous soul. I'd be hard pressed to think of a family member of mine who hasn't materially benefited from his kindness. If they wear a piece of jewellery by Ivaan, it was a gift from him. If their spouse wears a piece of jewellery by Ivaan, they received it as a gift from Ivaan. If they went on a vacation to Cuba with their kid, it was a gift from Ivaan. If their adult kids had professional driving lessons, it was a gift from Ivaan. If it was a girlfriend's birthday and they had no money for a birthday gift, Ivaan stepped up. If they planned a trip to the UK for a milestone birthday, Ivaan paid their airfare. If someone needed a place to stay and to be fed during a challenging time in their life, Ivaan made them welcome. Ivaan made a significant difference in my life and my family's life. It was a pretty empty feeling remembering his birthday today. I'm very grateful for his friends' abiding kindness. Happy birthday, Ivaan. I hope they have popsicles where you are.