If you should be so lucky as to find yourself sitting beside an expanse of water in the early morning sunshine this summer you are one of the luckiest people in the world. I count myself among that fortunate diaspora when I get to live on an island for three months every summer and as glorious as that can be, I think it is the silence I enjoy the most.
The perfect beginning to a day begins with me perched overlooking the water, coffee at elbow, sunshine on my legs, watching the loons perform their ablutions. The only sounds are the chirp of birds, the click of a screen door on the next island, a rustle of breeze in the leaves, the distant buzz of a motorboat....ah, perfect. Oh, and the quiet hum of a refrigerator inside the cottage because cottaging is sooo much less enjoyable without easy storage and cooking of food. Thank-you to the 18th-century scientists and inventors who figured out electricity.
When my husband and I began this island adventure over 30 years ago--and it can be a daunting adventure when you're trying to get building materials, furniture, heck, even the weekly supply of groceries into boats, out of boats and up 30 steps--I thought it would be the solitude I loved most. As it turns out, solitude is not all it's cracked up to be. It is important, to be sure, but must be mixed judiciously with regular infusions of laughter with friends and family, witty conversation and games played with children. Apparently, though, it is silence that is the essential ingredient to successful cottaging for me.
Now to be overbearingly exact, there is a difference between solitude and silence. The former designates the state of being alone, ideal for hermits, loners and introverts. Silence, on the other hand, means no sound; zero decibels; nothing for your ear drums to do. Ideal for, apparently, only me.
Over the years I did not properly relish the bounty of silence that was mine for the taking. It was not until my husband, semi-retired and suddenly my new best friend, was also enjoying the cottage more...but in a perversely noisy way. All of a sudden there was equipment running from morning to night--lawn mower, leaf blower, pressure washer, chain saw, fire pump, compressor and other mysteriously useless but decibel-enhanced pieces of equipment. I complained and, for the most part, he has agreed to use them when I am away. Or when he forgets that I exist, which happens more often than one would imagine.
So having tamed that beast, it was with consternation that I realized I had come up against a much bigger wall of sound. Dogs. And before I hear from all the pet-lovers out there, full-disclosure, I like a well-trained, well-behaved dog. We owned one until we realized the dander was triggering asthma attacks in our daughter and either she or the dog had to go. We kept her, gave the dog to a good home and moved on.
To digress, the ideal society--the daily living that we do in conjunction with everyone else we come into contact with--pretty much mandates peace, order and good governance. Simple, right? Of course, the devil is always in the details. My definition of each will differ from my neighbour's and that is where "peace" comes in. I think of it as everyone trying to get along. If that cannot be achieved, governance sometimes is required.
Anyway, back to the cottage--where, you recall, I would like silence to reign supreme--I am surrounded on all sides by dog-owners. Not in close physical proximity but, given the propensity for sound to travel long distances over water, the dogs seem to be nearby. There are two at my neighbour's on this island and I can count up to a dozen on the islands in our bay. When one canine begins to bark, they all feel the need to join in. When one of the dogs next door decides to howl incessantly every 30 seconds until her owner returns from an outing, not only are other dogs yowling, other islanders are yelling to shut it up and I and my book are begrudgingly driven indoors.
There is no noise bylaw and, short of reverting to a police state, it would be impossible to oversee anyway. Besides that would be overkill. Shouldn't the key to success in this world just be us figuring out how to all get along? On little islands and across vast continents where tyrants rule and their populations flee or starve or shoot each other over differing ideologies?
I am happy to report that peace and, mostly, quiet has broken out in our little bay. My neighbour takes her sad little dog with her when she leaves. This makes me and all the other neighbours and their dogs a little happier. And my husband has only had one recent incident of the need to pressure-wash everything in sight. In spite of 40 days and nights of rain. It just goes to show that happiness (or the chance for silence??) begins at home.
Saturday, August 19, 2017
Sunday, July 30, 2017
Backing Onto Success
A remarkable event occurred in my life this week. I weeded my overgrown flower garden. I dug up a perennial and moved it to a sunnier location. (I know. I know. The Green Thumbs are wagging saying, You should wait until autumn to do that.) Never mind. Given the standard state of neglect reigning in my patch of Earth any TLC is as welcome as a whiff of freshly-baked bread.
Not only did I pull and dig and remove the offending growth with a wheelbarrow, I was able to walk--upright--back into the house at the end of the day.
Let me "back" up. Three months ago I would not have been able to achieve that level of normal function. As I edged (aged) into my sixties, my lower back pain had ratcheted up in step; two hours of manual labour would put me on the couch for the rest of that day and probably another as well, devouring Advil, with a heating pad cranked up to High against my lumbar region. My doctor ordered x-rays that showed degenerative disc disease and sent me to physiotherapy. The PT pooh-poohed that phrase, said there is no such disease, it is only normal wear and tear and ordered exercise. I went back to my heating pad.
The good news is the PT was right. The bad, of course, is that it took me way too long to accept her verdict and get down on the floor and do the exercises. My epiphany occurred while listening to an interview on CBC Radio with American journalist and author Cathryn Jackobson Ramin who, after a long tale of woe about back pain similar to my own--except she also had unsuccessful spinal surgery--investigated the "back industry" and wrote a book called Crooked, Outwitting the Back Pain Industry and Getting On the Road to Recovery. I do not regret immediately ordering it online and reading it late into the night, nodding all along the way. In fact, if my e-reading device develops dog-eared edges it will be Ms. Ramin's fault. She also has a very informative website: www.cathrynjacobsonramin.com which she updates as new information becomes available.
The book details, among other things, her discovery of University of Waterloo professor of spine biomechanics Stuart McGill and his simplification, explanation and demonstration of the Big Three exercises needed to maintain a healthy, functioning back. He has a very slick website (www.backfitpro.com) which frankly worried me a little with its slickness. On offer are courses, books, videos, testimonials and lumbar supports for purchase. Not to worry though. There is no need to set up an account or purchase material and there are helpful You Tube videos of the essential exercises.
I won't try to explain the exercises here but they are simple to perform and take a total of six minutes. I timed myself. It's a good idea to review the video occasionally because I just realized I should fine-tune my technique on a couple of them. But the most important technique is: Do Them Every Day. Dr. McGill likens it to brushing your teeth. Just because you brush your teeth one day and they are clean does not mean you don't get up and brush them again the next morning. Now I do my exercises right after I brush my teeth.
There are many good points that I took away from the book and it is important to remember that Ms. Ramin's experiences and research took place in the United States (as well as investigating innovative practitioners and programs from Europe, Australia and Canada) under a medical system that based much of the medical profession's remuneration on the number of diagnostic tests and surgical interventions. Counselling lifestyle changes, while the most effective solution in the majority of cases, did not generate revenue for doctors.
Two of the scariest outcomes for many American back-pain sufferers were unsuccessful surgery (not only did the surgery not relieve patients' symptoms, many were significantly worse afterward i.e. in more pain than before surgery); added to this was a breakdown in the evidence-based system for approval of opioid drugs, causing many back-surgery "failures" to become addicted and unable to function in their jobs, families etc.
We can be thankful for our Canadian health care system in that we avoided the American scenario. However, physiotherapy is not free and many health benefit plans either do not cover it or provide limited access. Luckily ongoing PT (or x-rays or chiropractic interventions, for that matter) should not be required in the journey to back health. Doing the back-strengthening exercises every day, not sitting more than three hours in a row ever (admittedly difficult to avoid in our sedentary, screen-oriented, lengthy-commute environment) and dropping the avoidance behaviour that we all thought would save our backs, seems to be the way to go.
So get back out there: weed your garden; carry your own groceries; move regularly. And maybe avoid Dr. Oz's advice. He did not fare well in the book. Next I'm going to enrol in the neighbourhood Tai Chi class and attempt to learn all 108 poses. Memory work as well!
Not only did I pull and dig and remove the offending growth with a wheelbarrow, I was able to walk--upright--back into the house at the end of the day.
Let me "back" up. Three months ago I would not have been able to achieve that level of normal function. As I edged (aged) into my sixties, my lower back pain had ratcheted up in step; two hours of manual labour would put me on the couch for the rest of that day and probably another as well, devouring Advil, with a heating pad cranked up to High against my lumbar region. My doctor ordered x-rays that showed degenerative disc disease and sent me to physiotherapy. The PT pooh-poohed that phrase, said there is no such disease, it is only normal wear and tear and ordered exercise. I went back to my heating pad.
The good news is the PT was right. The bad, of course, is that it took me way too long to accept her verdict and get down on the floor and do the exercises. My epiphany occurred while listening to an interview on CBC Radio with American journalist and author Cathryn Jackobson Ramin who, after a long tale of woe about back pain similar to my own--except she also had unsuccessful spinal surgery--investigated the "back industry" and wrote a book called Crooked, Outwitting the Back Pain Industry and Getting On the Road to Recovery. I do not regret immediately ordering it online and reading it late into the night, nodding all along the way. In fact, if my e-reading device develops dog-eared edges it will be Ms. Ramin's fault. She also has a very informative website: www.cathrynjacobsonramin.com which she updates as new information becomes available.
The book details, among other things, her discovery of University of Waterloo professor of spine biomechanics Stuart McGill and his simplification, explanation and demonstration of the Big Three exercises needed to maintain a healthy, functioning back. He has a very slick website (www.backfitpro.com) which frankly worried me a little with its slickness. On offer are courses, books, videos, testimonials and lumbar supports for purchase. Not to worry though. There is no need to set up an account or purchase material and there are helpful You Tube videos of the essential exercises.
I won't try to explain the exercises here but they are simple to perform and take a total of six minutes. I timed myself. It's a good idea to review the video occasionally because I just realized I should fine-tune my technique on a couple of them. But the most important technique is: Do Them Every Day. Dr. McGill likens it to brushing your teeth. Just because you brush your teeth one day and they are clean does not mean you don't get up and brush them again the next morning. Now I do my exercises right after I brush my teeth.
There are many good points that I took away from the book and it is important to remember that Ms. Ramin's experiences and research took place in the United States (as well as investigating innovative practitioners and programs from Europe, Australia and Canada) under a medical system that based much of the medical profession's remuneration on the number of diagnostic tests and surgical interventions. Counselling lifestyle changes, while the most effective solution in the majority of cases, did not generate revenue for doctors.
Two of the scariest outcomes for many American back-pain sufferers were unsuccessful surgery (not only did the surgery not relieve patients' symptoms, many were significantly worse afterward i.e. in more pain than before surgery); added to this was a breakdown in the evidence-based system for approval of opioid drugs, causing many back-surgery "failures" to become addicted and unable to function in their jobs, families etc.
We can be thankful for our Canadian health care system in that we avoided the American scenario. However, physiotherapy is not free and many health benefit plans either do not cover it or provide limited access. Luckily ongoing PT (or x-rays or chiropractic interventions, for that matter) should not be required in the journey to back health. Doing the back-strengthening exercises every day, not sitting more than three hours in a row ever (admittedly difficult to avoid in our sedentary, screen-oriented, lengthy-commute environment) and dropping the avoidance behaviour that we all thought would save our backs, seems to be the way to go.
So get back out there: weed your garden; carry your own groceries; move regularly. And maybe avoid Dr. Oz's advice. He did not fare well in the book. Next I'm going to enrol in the neighbourhood Tai Chi class and attempt to learn all 108 poses. Memory work as well!
Sunday, January 29, 2017
A Winter Wonderland
It can be a lonely time up here in the north in the winter in one's senior years. Luckily, we don't have to go outside in sleeting, blowing, freezing weather to earn a living (thank-you children of Baby Boomers everywhere who will be paying for our retirement into their retirement) but that fact leaves many isolated and stranded in front of the wasteland of the flat screen. There is much angst and unhappiness that accompanies viewing non-stop Ellen Degeneres re-runs apparently; so much that great hordes of perfectly sane 60- and 70-somethings perform financial gymnastics in order to escape to the warmer climes for months at a time.
On around March they start planning and conniving for the following winter, spending vast amounts of time (and money, I guess) searching rental sites, inspecting possibilities and paying down deposits. Once that is settled a great collective sigh must be heard being exhaled across Florida, Texas, Arizona, Mexico, Belize and Costa Rica. Then the trek home must be navigated; vans and trucks hauling trailers and RVs of every description clog all northbound thoroughfares, driving slow in the fast lane.
For those who prefer to fly to a warm destination, there is the time-saving miracle of departing from Point A in the morning and arriving at Point B by day's end. At one time this was a glamourous mode reserved for the well-to-do and well-dressed. No one who has flown since 2001 is under that illusion.
In order to get from Point A to your assigned seat you must pass through the agony of airport security. I liken it to being dragged from sleep in your warm bed, pummelled with questions that make no sense, firmly pounded on the forehead with one of those rubber stamps they like to bang around on all your official documents, kicked in the shins for good measure and then told to quickly get back to bed and sleep. I have been yelled at for leaving my shoes on, taking my shoes off, carrying a travel size toothpaste in my purse, offering to turn on my iPad and trying to wear a neck scarf through the x-ray machine. I watched my 80-year-old mother get roped off and stranded until a female security officer could snap on her blue gloves and roughly go over my mother's artificial knees.
There's nothing like the soul-soothing start to a vacation than getting all your rifled belongings into your backpack, your shoes on the right feet and the correct passport in hand. Usually before you've had a cup of coffee.
So now I take a pass. I sadly bid adieu to friends and family as they desert me in early January and I wish them well, I really do, as I read their posts and see their photos of beaches and sunsets. I send back gushing reports of the ski and snowshoe conditions. (This week I was fortunate enough to cross-country ski at the Wasi Ski Club, downhill at Antoine Mountain and snowshoe out my back door.) And at the end of the day my hot tub was bubbling away waiting for me.
It has been a wonderful winter so far and I am hoping it lasts until about the end of March. Then my friends will return and be ready to carry on with real life. In the meantime they are all wishing me lots of snow and I am wishing them a good time in the land of The Donald. Who knows what hoops they may have to jump through in March.
On around March they start planning and conniving for the following winter, spending vast amounts of time (and money, I guess) searching rental sites, inspecting possibilities and paying down deposits. Once that is settled a great collective sigh must be heard being exhaled across Florida, Texas, Arizona, Mexico, Belize and Costa Rica. Then the trek home must be navigated; vans and trucks hauling trailers and RVs of every description clog all northbound thoroughfares, driving slow in the fast lane.
For those who prefer to fly to a warm destination, there is the time-saving miracle of departing from Point A in the morning and arriving at Point B by day's end. At one time this was a glamourous mode reserved for the well-to-do and well-dressed. No one who has flown since 2001 is under that illusion.
In order to get from Point A to your assigned seat you must pass through the agony of airport security. I liken it to being dragged from sleep in your warm bed, pummelled with questions that make no sense, firmly pounded on the forehead with one of those rubber stamps they like to bang around on all your official documents, kicked in the shins for good measure and then told to quickly get back to bed and sleep. I have been yelled at for leaving my shoes on, taking my shoes off, carrying a travel size toothpaste in my purse, offering to turn on my iPad and trying to wear a neck scarf through the x-ray machine. I watched my 80-year-old mother get roped off and stranded until a female security officer could snap on her blue gloves and roughly go over my mother's artificial knees.
There's nothing like the soul-soothing start to a vacation than getting all your rifled belongings into your backpack, your shoes on the right feet and the correct passport in hand. Usually before you've had a cup of coffee.
So now I take a pass. I sadly bid adieu to friends and family as they desert me in early January and I wish them well, I really do, as I read their posts and see their photos of beaches and sunsets. I send back gushing reports of the ski and snowshoe conditions. (This week I was fortunate enough to cross-country ski at the Wasi Ski Club, downhill at Antoine Mountain and snowshoe out my back door.) And at the end of the day my hot tub was bubbling away waiting for me.
It has been a wonderful winter so far and I am hoping it lasts until about the end of March. Then my friends will return and be ready to carry on with real life. In the meantime they are all wishing me lots of snow and I am wishing them a good time in the land of The Donald. Who knows what hoops they may have to jump through in March.
Monday, December 12, 2016
The Seasonal Ride
Is it bad form to blog a Christmas message to your loved ones? I don't know and, in a maelstrom of emotion, one loses all perspective. One day you're bumbling along and it's November; the next time you look up the count down to Christmas is dangerously near single digits and the card and donation request pile is blithely undisturbed.
This morning I did that. As I swung my feet to the floor it was the first time in weeks that I did not feel like I was stepping off a roller coaster and I opened my eyes to the good intentions blanketing my dining room table.
2016 was an emotional roller coaster which glided to a peaceful stop this weekend. My 60-year-old brother died after his valiant struggle with stomach/esophagus cancer. He was at home until the last 36 hours, ever positive and witty and enjoying his visitors. I was honoured to spend much quality time with him and his family on that precarious, emotional ride. And, yes, I am glad it is over for him and everyone who loved him.
So Christmas will happen again this year, if a little weary and tattered around the edges. A new year will be rung in and life will go on, as it should.
2016 was also an important year for Peter and I, as we celebrated 40 years of wedded bliss with a European river cruise. It really was worth it. (The trip. The marriage..... just kidding.) We also travelled to Mexico in January, Calgary in May to meet Caitlin's Mom and enjoy the hospitality of Darren and Caitlin in their new home, and moved to the cottage for the extended summer months where we enjoyed visits from many friends and family. Peter got in plenty of snowmobiling last winter and hunting and ATVing in the fall. Mom and I visited Dawn and Mary Anne in Florida in January and I was able to fit in my three weeks of Avoiding November in a Florida Condo with great girlfriends and Jackie. I have also enjoyed many weekends away with ski girlfriends, quilting friends and my sisters.
Jackie and Serge are always welcoming and I take advantage of the mother-in-law suite more often than I probably should. It's just that there is so darned much good entertainment to take in in Toronto. Now that Mary Anne has moved to Barrie, she may tire of my frequent visits but I am really hoping to fit in some skiing at Hardwood Hills some year before she departs for the warmth at New Years. Not this year alas but some day....
She and I are going to fit in a lecture by Ian Brown downtown and The Nutcracker at the Four Season's Centre this week, battling the elements all the way likely. But hey! Life is short and meant to be lived. Bring on the Sugar Plum Fairy in her sparkly tutu and tiara.
I'll be hugging my loved ones a little tighter this year and, if that means doing it through cyberspace, so be it. My one wish is for good health for all. (And maybe a little less bluster from south of the border please?) Merry Christmas, Elaine (and Peter).
This morning I did that. As I swung my feet to the floor it was the first time in weeks that I did not feel like I was stepping off a roller coaster and I opened my eyes to the good intentions blanketing my dining room table.
2016 was an emotional roller coaster which glided to a peaceful stop this weekend. My 60-year-old brother died after his valiant struggle with stomach/esophagus cancer. He was at home until the last 36 hours, ever positive and witty and enjoying his visitors. I was honoured to spend much quality time with him and his family on that precarious, emotional ride. And, yes, I am glad it is over for him and everyone who loved him.
So Christmas will happen again this year, if a little weary and tattered around the edges. A new year will be rung in and life will go on, as it should.
2016 was also an important year for Peter and I, as we celebrated 40 years of wedded bliss with a European river cruise. It really was worth it. (The trip. The marriage..... just kidding.) We also travelled to Mexico in January, Calgary in May to meet Caitlin's Mom and enjoy the hospitality of Darren and Caitlin in their new home, and moved to the cottage for the extended summer months where we enjoyed visits from many friends and family. Peter got in plenty of snowmobiling last winter and hunting and ATVing in the fall. Mom and I visited Dawn and Mary Anne in Florida in January and I was able to fit in my three weeks of Avoiding November in a Florida Condo with great girlfriends and Jackie. I have also enjoyed many weekends away with ski girlfriends, quilting friends and my sisters.
Jackie and Serge are always welcoming and I take advantage of the mother-in-law suite more often than I probably should. It's just that there is so darned much good entertainment to take in in Toronto. Now that Mary Anne has moved to Barrie, she may tire of my frequent visits but I am really hoping to fit in some skiing at Hardwood Hills some year before she departs for the warmth at New Years. Not this year alas but some day....
She and I are going to fit in a lecture by Ian Brown downtown and The Nutcracker at the Four Season's Centre this week, battling the elements all the way likely. But hey! Life is short and meant to be lived. Bring on the Sugar Plum Fairy in her sparkly tutu and tiara.
I'll be hugging my loved ones a little tighter this year and, if that means doing it through cyberspace, so be it. My one wish is for good health for all. (And maybe a little less bluster from south of the border please?) Merry Christmas, Elaine (and Peter).
Sunday, October 16, 2016
Whoo-Hoo
The sun is shining brilliantly on red, orange and yellow leaves and I am lucky to view them in two directions from my favourite chair. This alone is enough to calm the soul and make one thankful for all we have but the autumn display is also the harbinger of a zen confluence of far greater magnificence. It is hunting season in Northern Ontario and the women-folk have been "abandoned" to their own devices.
Disclaimer: I know women who have bagged all manner of moose, deer and bear. They look forward to hunting season as excitedly as I, for different reasons. These are amazing women and I wish them well out there. I don't understand them but nor do I claim to know why some people like scrapbooking, running marathons or, heaven forbid, playing the bagpipes.
Never mind that hunting widows have been counting sleeps and mentally ticking days off calendars. Every year the weeks of preparatory guy phone calls, assembly point of all things camouflage and lethal and final exodus of trailers full of enough food, ATVs and alcohol to tax the sustainability of those tiny tires fill me with a delightful anticipatory thrum. Every year I find myself writing essentially the same blog about this most wonderful time. I can't help myself. It is my equivalent of the athletic airborne heel-click; the fist pump; the Facebook gush.
And what, you may ask, do I spend those precious days doing alone. In all honesty, not much. Except it is all about me. I get to finish sewing projects uninterrupted, read through mealtimes, watch girlie television (thank-you Netflix) to my heart's content and dine on the culinary delights of smoothies for breakfast, creative salads for lunch, popcorn and ice cream for dinner. I've been known to rip apart an entire room, paint it and get it back together before he gets back home. It is always interesting to see how long it takes him to notice the change in colour.
So wish me well in my solitude. I may be alone but I am never lonely.
Disclaimer: I know women who have bagged all manner of moose, deer and bear. They look forward to hunting season as excitedly as I, for different reasons. These are amazing women and I wish them well out there. I don't understand them but nor do I claim to know why some people like scrapbooking, running marathons or, heaven forbid, playing the bagpipes.
Never mind that hunting widows have been counting sleeps and mentally ticking days off calendars. Every year the weeks of preparatory guy phone calls, assembly point of all things camouflage and lethal and final exodus of trailers full of enough food, ATVs and alcohol to tax the sustainability of those tiny tires fill me with a delightful anticipatory thrum. Every year I find myself writing essentially the same blog about this most wonderful time. I can't help myself. It is my equivalent of the athletic airborne heel-click; the fist pump; the Facebook gush.
And what, you may ask, do I spend those precious days doing alone. In all honesty, not much. Except it is all about me. I get to finish sewing projects uninterrupted, read through mealtimes, watch girlie television (thank-you Netflix) to my heart's content and dine on the culinary delights of smoothies for breakfast, creative salads for lunch, popcorn and ice cream for dinner. I've been known to rip apart an entire room, paint it and get it back together before he gets back home. It is always interesting to see how long it takes him to notice the change in colour.
So wish me well in my solitude. I may be alone but I am never lonely.
Sunday, July 24, 2016
Summer Meanderings
Is there anything more bliss-inducing than finding yourself free of obligations with a comfortable chair to nestle into, a stack of interesting-looking books at hand and time to just let your mind wander? Freed of the monotonous soul-sapping thankless drudgery of running a household, the unexpected potentiality is somewhat daunting.
I am contemplating just such a delicious, precarious pile of tomes of eclectic persuasion, gleaned from the basement archives of the Powassan Library, commonly known as the used book store. Into this cool little cave are regularly deposited everything from the contents of Grandma's cottage bookshelf to the detritus of the departing college student. Such has been the largesse of donations lately that library staff had begun to beg anyone who looked like a volunteer and could employ the enviable skill of alphabetizing to please, please have a go at weeding out some of the less saleable material and shelving the rest.
So it was that I recently gamely headed down, only to emerge hours later with the bounty described above, now perching on the side of my desk. The cost of such a treasure is a donation of my own choosing. And while I hope to assist in the basement again I can't imagine it happening any time soon. If I get my nose into any one of my chosen dozen--and my butt into said comfortable deck chair--I fear I will be listed as AWOL by family and Facebook friends and library staff needing a hand.
A stunning, possibly mind-boggling array right? Ahh.
*****
The charms of summer have their ways and I have learned it is best to go with the serendipitousness. If company cancels, one should immediately freeze the planned meal ingredients, check that the supply of hot dogs is bountiful and dive into the nearest book. Thus it was that I found myself on the cottage deck with tears of laughter rolling onto the pages of David Rakoff's Don't Get Too Comfortable. It is an autobiographical collection of humorous essays by a former Canadian living in New York.
At one point, he riffs on the matrons who attend the couturier shows during fashion week as only a gay man can. Even though that scene is so far out of my milieu I can envision "those fabulously wealthy Ladies who actually buy and wear the dresses. They are a small group and, as far as I can tell, not related, but it is extraordinary how many of them look as alike as sisters. Perhaps it is their universal whippet thinness, the shared knife-blade noses, or the full, pillowy mouths. Or is it the look of constant surprise in their unnaturally wide, unblinking eyes? The Ladies are an uncanny cluster of genetic coincidence..."
No matter the topic, be it "the indignities of coach class, the torments of low thread count, the never-ending quest for artisanal olive oil and other First World problems", the book's subtitle, he succinctly documents our truths and ridiculousness in an intelligent David Seders-like style.
Sadly my discovery of this author has been tempered by research into his other publishings. They stopped abruptly in 2013 due to his death at 47 from cancer. So even though I have sworn off restocking my recently decluttered book shelves, I may have to make an exception in this case and scour about for all his works. Don't tell my husband.
*******
The other lovely discovery of my summer has been another Canadian author, Robertson Davies. (Also dead but at least he lived into his 80s and left us a bountiful trove of trilogies, novels and plays.) I am happily in the middle of The Cunning Man, enjoying the talent of a true wordsmith as he moves his story through Sioux Lookout and Toronto. I wonder if Canadian Lit students are studying him these days. In a way I hope not. Although he is a treasure I would hate to think of how the joy and artistry would be beaten out of his works in a typical high school novel study. Maybe better to spread free copies of his works around cafes and the internet for young people to discover.
Or convince them to spend some quality time in the new or used sections of a library. Happy reading.
I am contemplating just such a delicious, precarious pile of tomes of eclectic persuasion, gleaned from the basement archives of the Powassan Library, commonly known as the used book store. Into this cool little cave are regularly deposited everything from the contents of Grandma's cottage bookshelf to the detritus of the departing college student. Such has been the largesse of donations lately that library staff had begun to beg anyone who looked like a volunteer and could employ the enviable skill of alphabetizing to please, please have a go at weeding out some of the less saleable material and shelving the rest.
So it was that I recently gamely headed down, only to emerge hours later with the bounty described above, now perching on the side of my desk. The cost of such a treasure is a donation of my own choosing. And while I hope to assist in the basement again I can't imagine it happening any time soon. If I get my nose into any one of my chosen dozen--and my butt into said comfortable deck chair--I fear I will be listed as AWOL by family and Facebook friends and library staff needing a hand.
A stunning, possibly mind-boggling array right? Ahh.
*****
The charms of summer have their ways and I have learned it is best to go with the serendipitousness. If company cancels, one should immediately freeze the planned meal ingredients, check that the supply of hot dogs is bountiful and dive into the nearest book. Thus it was that I found myself on the cottage deck with tears of laughter rolling onto the pages of David Rakoff's Don't Get Too Comfortable. It is an autobiographical collection of humorous essays by a former Canadian living in New York.
At one point, he riffs on the matrons who attend the couturier shows during fashion week as only a gay man can. Even though that scene is so far out of my milieu I can envision "those fabulously wealthy Ladies who actually buy and wear the dresses. They are a small group and, as far as I can tell, not related, but it is extraordinary how many of them look as alike as sisters. Perhaps it is their universal whippet thinness, the shared knife-blade noses, or the full, pillowy mouths. Or is it the look of constant surprise in their unnaturally wide, unblinking eyes? The Ladies are an uncanny cluster of genetic coincidence..."
No matter the topic, be it "the indignities of coach class, the torments of low thread count, the never-ending quest for artisanal olive oil and other First World problems", the book's subtitle, he succinctly documents our truths and ridiculousness in an intelligent David Seders-like style.
Sadly my discovery of this author has been tempered by research into his other publishings. They stopped abruptly in 2013 due to his death at 47 from cancer. So even though I have sworn off restocking my recently decluttered book shelves, I may have to make an exception in this case and scour about for all his works. Don't tell my husband.
*******
The other lovely discovery of my summer has been another Canadian author, Robertson Davies. (Also dead but at least he lived into his 80s and left us a bountiful trove of trilogies, novels and plays.) I am happily in the middle of The Cunning Man, enjoying the talent of a true wordsmith as he moves his story through Sioux Lookout and Toronto. I wonder if Canadian Lit students are studying him these days. In a way I hope not. Although he is a treasure I would hate to think of how the joy and artistry would be beaten out of his works in a typical high school novel study. Maybe better to spread free copies of his works around cafes and the internet for young people to discover.
Or convince them to spend some quality time in the new or used sections of a library. Happy reading.
Saturday, October 31, 2015
It's The MOST Won-Der-Ful Time Of The Year
You're probably thinking tinsel and malls, peopled by harried grandparents on the quest for the perfect gift card and the poor down-sized buggar whose name floated to the surface in the unemployment centre's pool for a Santa.
No. And I'll give a hint. It is All Hallow's Eve. So you're now thinking miniature goblins and superheroes carrying pillow cases and UNICEF boxes.
You're getting there...but, no, Halloween is not a reason to celebrate (in my books). However, in an effort to be hauntingly correct (akin to political correctness but with more sugar) I did artfully plonk the illuminated plastic pumpkin into the planter by the front door in anticipation. I expect an onslaught of ten or so about 5.30 p.m. and then I will spend the remainder of the Zombie Apocalypse in the hot tub.
So why am I in such a celebratory mood? Wait for it.....it is the beginning of the delightful season of hunting. In time-honoured tradition, gun-owners of the mostly male persuasion hear the call of the wild and the male-bonding grunt in early November. Great quantities of fat-laden food and beverages of the alcoholic persuasion are gathered and loaded onto the backs of pick-up trucks along with generators, all-terrain vehicles, tools and TV satellite receivers. (Getting the Queen Mary under way involves fewer resources and special requests for favourite foods to be baked prior to departure.)
Eventually, however, they are off. Not without some last-minute instructions shouted in the door about not forgetting which days are for garbage and recycling pick-up. "And I left you some moose steaks in the freezer you can eat while I'm away." Yeah. Yeah. As if.
The first thing I am going to do is empty the fridge. All the dribs and drabs of chicken legs and ribs and roast pork may as well go out right now. In their place will be homemade leek soup, yogurt, inventive salads, a frozen pad thai entree. And chocolate.
More than casting off the meat-and-potatoes regime, however, hunting season is a time to breathe. In and out. Breathing in the cleanness and quiet. Reconnecting with me. And, often as not, just doing what I want and not stopping until I want to stop. Books will be read. Sewing projects will be completed and new ones started. And bags will be packed. Because I now celebrate November, The Dreary Month, in Florida. After a few days of peace and quiet--and, yes, getting the garbage and recycling to the curb on the correct days--I will join other Hunting Widows in warmer, sunnier climes.
And then, when I do return, it will be December. The Christmas decorations will have been in place at the mall for a full month and I may be ready to start cooking huge honking chunks of meat every night again. I know I will be refreshed and happy and brown.
It truly is the most wonderful time of the year.
No. And I'll give a hint. It is All Hallow's Eve. So you're now thinking miniature goblins and superheroes carrying pillow cases and UNICEF boxes.
You're getting there...but, no, Halloween is not a reason to celebrate (in my books). However, in an effort to be hauntingly correct (akin to political correctness but with more sugar) I did artfully plonk the illuminated plastic pumpkin into the planter by the front door in anticipation. I expect an onslaught of ten or so about 5.30 p.m. and then I will spend the remainder of the Zombie Apocalypse in the hot tub.
So why am I in such a celebratory mood? Wait for it.....it is the beginning of the delightful season of hunting. In time-honoured tradition, gun-owners of the mostly male persuasion hear the call of the wild and the male-bonding grunt in early November. Great quantities of fat-laden food and beverages of the alcoholic persuasion are gathered and loaded onto the backs of pick-up trucks along with generators, all-terrain vehicles, tools and TV satellite receivers. (Getting the Queen Mary under way involves fewer resources and special requests for favourite foods to be baked prior to departure.)
Eventually, however, they are off. Not without some last-minute instructions shouted in the door about not forgetting which days are for garbage and recycling pick-up. "And I left you some moose steaks in the freezer you can eat while I'm away." Yeah. Yeah. As if.
The first thing I am going to do is empty the fridge. All the dribs and drabs of chicken legs and ribs and roast pork may as well go out right now. In their place will be homemade leek soup, yogurt, inventive salads, a frozen pad thai entree. And chocolate.
More than casting off the meat-and-potatoes regime, however, hunting season is a time to breathe. In and out. Breathing in the cleanness and quiet. Reconnecting with me. And, often as not, just doing what I want and not stopping until I want to stop. Books will be read. Sewing projects will be completed and new ones started. And bags will be packed. Because I now celebrate November, The Dreary Month, in Florida. After a few days of peace and quiet--and, yes, getting the garbage and recycling to the curb on the correct days--I will join other Hunting Widows in warmer, sunnier climes.
And then, when I do return, it will be December. The Christmas decorations will have been in place at the mall for a full month and I may be ready to start cooking huge honking chunks of meat every night again. I know I will be refreshed and happy and brown.
It truly is the most wonderful time of the year.
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