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.