THE CURSE

I was trying to think of a suitable Cheering Holiday post; however with all the paint stripping and visiting family preparations, my brain is more idle than usual.  And so, the only story that came to my mind took place a few years ago, in my sister’s neighbourhood of Toronto’s Beaches. 

A few weeks ago, walking down Queen St East, I happily discovered that a certain restaurant was intact and seemed to be enjoying a steady flow of satisfied patrons; all inside, undeniably and blissfully oblivious to The CURSE hovering in the heavens overhead waiting to wallop.

Why is it not a good idea to go to your favourite neighbourhood restaurant with several seniors in tow, especially when one of them has a history of acting mildly inappropriate and eccentric?  The answer is told in this story and even though, Auntie B was literally as sweet as pie, not one unkind word uttered in weeks, she was “Raindrops on Roses and Whiskers on Kittens, Warm Woolen Mittens, etc. etc.”  But when the “Schnitzel with Noodle” wasn’t quite right….ahh ha….that is where the trouble began.

Our Wee eighty-three year old Auntie, visiting from Glasgow, insisted on taking us all out for dinner, a lovely suggestion…. or so we thought.

The restaurant in question boasts a quintessential atmosphere and features a diverse mix of Italian pasta dishes and a variety of salad and seafood dishes. Truly scrumptious and well priced.

Perhaps the Curse placed had been abated by the name of the restaurant?  A name I learned was chosen out of pure love for the owner’s daughter.  This love perhaps, acted as a shield (like in Harry Potter’s case) and protected this peaceful locale against the rage of a vexed Scottish woman’s retaliation.   I was into about my third mouthful of the most delicious Fettuccini with grilled chicken, leeks, pine nuts, goat cheese and sweet basil pesto sauce, when I noticed the transformation taking place beside me. 

My mother, two sisters, brother-in-law and ninety year old stepfather, G, were quite merry, however, Auntie B’s facial expression had changed from the amorous Auntie to one who now pondered her surroundings with contempt. 



Perhaps it was too much wine, we didn’t know what medication she was on. Auntie had chosen the least expensive item on the menu and so perhaps she was cross that we all hadn’t followed suit.  She began by complaining that her meal was bland and played around with her utensils.   My sister vainly sought to readjust her disposition in order to save the mood over our lovely meal, yet it was plain that the scolding supremacy that was a dark hidden part of her personality had become UNLEASHED.  The night was doomed. 

She began by insulting her favourite victims; MEN., looking around the room and criticizing them all.  Then she looked at me with a scornful smile and told me that I could no longer PULL. – TRANSLATION – I was no longer attractive to the opposite sex.  She looked around the table and decided that none of us, “Could PULL.”  I choked on my chicken and had a fit of the giggles, only to be told flatly that, “it was a shame that not only had I lost my attractiveness but I was clearly SIMPLE as well!”  This only made me laugh harder, and I was given a look of CONTEMPT, with a loud comment, “GONE OFF YOUR CRUMPET, you have.” 

She then turned on poor unsuspecting G, who is over 90!  “Look at you!”  she said, “You don’t know if it’s Christmas or Easter, and deaf as a post as well,"  (which is true) so he only smiled and waved. 

 My younger sister then became victim, to be told that her dancing lessons were a waste of time, obviously she had no talent and at her age why did she bother at all?  And why had they chosen to come to this place, she pointed at my brother-in-law, who is a talented chef, why wasn’t he cooking the meal?  I can’t remember what she said to my other sister.  The only one who managed to escape the Flings of Fury was my Mother.  She looked at her with tears in her eyes, “None of you girls come close to the beauty of that woman over there.  She is the only one here who can still PULL.”   “What?”  said G.  “Did you say you were FULL?  Is that why you’re not eating?”



Again, my sisters and I sought to turn the situation around but to no avail, we talked of happy times we’d had in Glasgow, past parties, shopping sprees and dancing to Frank Sinatra.  But again, tinged with mocking drama she insulted our dance moves, and decided we had chosen petty conservative lives.  So, after dragging us all through the dirt, and Gulping our glasses of wine, my sisters and I eyed one another with a mutual understanding of, “let’s get the hell out of here and shove them all into a taxi so that we can enjoy ourselves.”

My Mother became angry, “Oh you’ve always been such a Drama Queen, what’s your problem this evening?”

Auntie B replied, “Look at her! She’s so lovely when she’s angry.”  Then with tears in her eyes she handed the incredibly pleasant Server her Maestro Credit Card to pay the bill.

The Server examined the card and asked Auntie a sensible question, “Is this a credit card Madam?  I haven’t seen this Maestro before.”

“Of course it’s a credit card, you silly girl!”

“I’m sorry Madam we don’t accept Maestro, only Visa or Mastercard.”

“What bullshit!”  Auntie shrieked.  It was then that the rest of the patrons began to notice our not so happy little group.

“I truly am sorry but we are not equipped to accept Maestro.”

“I’ve never heard such idioticy, well then take this.”  She pulled a wad of American Dollars out of her handbag.

The server took the currency but definitely had a worried expression.  Again to no avail, we tried to restore Auntie B’s lost good humour.  The night then took a turn for the worst when the poor server returned and announced that unfortunately they were not able to accept the American dollars, they were a small establishment and given that it was a Saturday night could not presume the correct exchange rate. 

Petite and frightening Auntie rose from her chair, puffing out her chest, eyes flashing daggers, again she shrieked, “What UTTER Bullshit!  What kind of a Dim Whit do you think I am?”  She howled.  Quickly my sisters began gathering purses, coats, canes and escorted Auntie to the door, while my very patient brother-in-law apologized profusely and hurried away with the server to pay the bill. 

“A plague on this house!”  She cried before we managed to push her out the front door.  By this time, understandably all the patrons were frozen in mid meal gawking with horrid fascination. 

My mother yelled back, “I’m not going anywhere with you any longer, what drama you create.”

“I haven’t finished my dinner.”  Said G, “Why are we leaving?”

My older sister managed to hail a cab, G and my mother quickly got in, but Auntie B raised her cane towards the dark night and waved it purposely, shouting, “Come on Thunder, Lightning strike!”

“What are you doing?”  My Younger sister said looking panic stricken. “This is my favourite restaurant!  Are you putting a curse on it?  Oh my God, she putting a curse on my favourite restaurant!”

“Stop it Auntie B, get in the taxi.”  My Older sister practically picked her up and shoved her into the back of the cab with a very apprehensive driver wondering who the hell he’d picked up as she yelled out the window, “FIRE sonny boy, strike with Fire and Flash.”  The cabbie then sped off.

We three sisters stood there staring after them and turned simultaneously towards the bistro window, every single customer was open mouthed wondering what kind of mad insane people we were.

“We’ll never be able to come to this restaurant again.”  My wee sister almost was in tears as her husband joined us, it was then together that we had a case of hysterics and hurried off down the road.  Normally you would think the story could end here but as we crossed the streetcar tracks and turned onto my sister’s road, a white haired man literally jumped out from behind a bush.  “Did you see that?”  he exclaimed with a wild look in his eye.  “What?”  I asked.

“The Flash, it was coming from down there.”  And he pointed towards the Bistro.  “I have to go and see the Fire.”  As he hurried off, we stopped laughing feeling perplexed by the entire episode, but promptly went home for a night of music and much wine, hoping that the Restaurant would survive the night.

If you happen to be acquainted with my Auntie B, I would greatly appreciate her not knowing about this post, for the Bistro is a solid structure of bricks and mortar and I am only flesh and bone and maybe a wee bit vulnerable to a mighty Scottish curse.  And although she occasionally slips into LaLa Land, I do love her.  My sister did return to her favourite restaurant with trepidation, worried that not enough time had lapsed and that someone would remember that night.  She was relieved that no one seemed to recognize her, although she did wear dark glasses and a large hat.  Happy New Year Everyone!



Stripping Vs. Dentistry

It had originally been my intention to write about my travels and interesting incidences whilst living in the Caribbean.  However, my life has changed dramatically since moving from BC to Ontario and renovating our 1879 house and so; I can’t help but write about my new non-paid, Exciting job of Stripping Paint.  Does this sound dull?  Yes, I suppose it does, but I’ve actually found the job to be quite thought provoking and inspirational.  Weird, I know.

As I began the mammoth task of stripping a glorious but damaged staircase coated in years of sticky 50’s to 70’s fashion, I decided to literally take one step at a time so the task of unearthing the beast would not be so daunting.  Strangely the staircase transformed for me, into an uncomplaining living thing waiting in hibernation to be liberated.

On good days I felt like a Paleontologist, uncovering a rare fossil from Prehistoric times, but on days when the grimy substance would not budge, and the layers turned into gummy goo, I was then a Dentist, scraping plaque from the rotten teeth of an unhygienic decaying old man, whose breath is an appalling chemically smell.  Each molar had years of tartar, red wine, cavities and dirt. But then I realized how privileged I was compared to a Dentist.  I swore out loud and often and I could apply brute force and ignorance without having to placate my patient or worry that I was causing pain. 

My tools of the trade were also similar to a Dentist, various sizes of scrapers, and a heat gun for removal of plague as opposed to the high whining of the water pic thingy.  My patient was so still and quiet, despite the grinding and scraping and I could take my time, not worrying about my patient’s molar and if there was still a piece of root left behind. Sure a Dentist or Hygienist is well paid, whereas I am not, yet the stress of their job would be too much for me.  Oh, and by the way, when they vacuum up all that saliva, blood and god knows what else from a person’s mouth, where does it go?  Has anyone ever asked that question?  Whereas my waste/scrapings fell to the floor as hot bendy twists that later hardened into interesting arty designs that I gathered up in my dustpan, I had no fear of touching them without latex gloves whilst I slowly examined their shapes, wondering if I could make a picture.

The worst aspect I encountered was having a hot paint chip fly up and land on my lip, giving me a wee burn, but I was able to unleash another round of swearing, a privilege of working alone. Also, I learned that wearing flip flops was not the ideal footwear.

But the absolute wonderment of my stripping task is that I actually made a Super Duper unique discovery; under layers of yellowy white, green and a dreadful shade of purple, that this someone (whom I now hate with a passion) had actually painted over the most remarkable Art Deco design!! A swirling motif stained in on the side of each twelve steps, what a crime to have painted over this!  To me, all this stripping was so worthwhile and exciting!

 Now what Dentist can say he’s found treasure in his patient’s mouth?, unless he’s planning on digging out a gold filling?  I thought this must be how an Archeologist feels when they make a discovery such as the possibility of hidden Roman Ruins!  My excitement was growing to euphoric proportions as I carefully uncovered one by one all the motifs, I can sense the beast groaning in ecstasy as he awakens from his long sleep, it breathes deep at last free of the smothering layers and trembles beneath me.  

What?  I lay down my tools as I begin to realize that I’m inhaling way too many paint fumes as the world begins to swirl and I feel as if I’m taking flight.  I suppose my patient’s breath is a little toxic.  Do you think I should be wearing a mask, like my Dentist friend?

Time for dinner, a glass of wine and to marvel at the serene, clean and almost completed work of art, my friend, my beautiful living staircase.  Peanut Tai Chicken anyone?

Invisibility

While I am waiting for our Cornish Hens to Roast for our Thanksgiving Dinner, (Cornish Hens for my Cornish Man) thought I would share an amusing story.  Well, I think it's ironically hilarious .....

To me, moving around relatively unseen is a new agreeable experience.  I can stroll amongst tourists, teens and wealthy theatre patrons without being noticed at all.  No one perceives Moi with bike stopping to take photographs of old buildings, flowers, and the public enjoying their day.  I welcome and yes, love this new feeling of Invisibility.  (like Harry Potter wearing his magic cloak)

Young people generally don’t observe people my age unless you are directly useful.  They hone in and detect others of their same era, noting if they are trendy, beautiful, geeky, etc; looking for contact, looking for approval. They are so engrossed in their mission, that quite often you literally have to sidestep or jump off the pavement otherwise you’ll be mowed down by a chatting group. Again I'm Invisible.

I remember the attention I received in my youth; to avoid a group of males, to dodge comment or harassment would take planning.  Especially passing by construction sites which evoked a feeling of mortification and a need to hurry away; a note to self to steer clear of that street in future.

I can now observe construction sites undetected and I like it, they're interesting places. 

So, definitely Invisibility has its many positives.  This new awareness brings on liberties and autonomy that I longed for in my early twenties; worrying about how one looks or dresses is not too important anymore and with that when I do approach someone to chat about the peaceful scenery, the lovely day etc., the encounter is one more of trust and connection between two human beings on the same level, not based on appearance or sexuality.

So, imagine my surprise the other day when I biked down a silent street in Stratford, with my husband in tow (for a change) and passed a group of three males who looked to be about our son’s age of nineteen to twenty.  A loud voice cut through the quiet, “Yo Baby, WhaSUP Hun?”

My brakes screeched to a halt and I leaned on the curb and looked around as I hadn’t noticed anyone else around.  One of the boys, gave a flirtatious gesture and again I looked around; oh my, he was looking at me! “Is he looking at me?”  I asked my Cornishman, (who obviously was invisible to this youth.)  “Yeah he is.”  He smirked, and his eyes crinkled into a smile.  I cackled and waved back, then pedaled fast away before the poor boy realized I’m old enough to be his mother and horribly embarrass himself in front of his friends. 
Further down the street, we stopped as I was nearly keeling over with laughter. “Either that fellow is high, blind or I look deceptively hot in my helmet and father’s old plaid shirt.”  

“You look good to me.”  Replied Del. 
As my father would have said, "It's one Dandy of a Tartan shirt!"
Happy Thanksgiving Everyone.

Remembering Father on the Beach

My days of nothing have come to an end, and we are now in the middle of renovating a grand old Victorian House, so my blogging has slowed up somewhat.  But I love to reflect and now that my computer and scanner has been unearthed from my giant pile of stuff, I shall continue on for the sake of a story and for anyone who cares to read.  Luckily the front porch is a haven of peace, with comfy wicker chairs, so that I can muse and write anything down without interruption.

I'm not sure when I realized that my father was a person that you would call, accident prone but I think it was shortly after a few events in the British Virgin Islands.
As I described in my last blog, these accidents seem to take place on or near a beach.
A memorable day in particular was again on the island of Tortola at a glorious, deserted, white sand paradise called, Elizabeth Bay. Unfortunately, now there is a large resort, but when we used to visit, there was only two small cabins which always seemed deserted.  This story also occurs before my wee boy came into this world, his whereabouts evident by the enormous pink dress I had to wear (only piece of clothing that would house me). Ugh! not a fan of pink, but my daughter, Alana loved it.

Anyway, Alana and her friend, my visiting father, our dog, Una and I drove the zig zaggy road over the brow of the hill, down towards the perfect palm treed beach, a dreamy sanctuary of a place.  This is where we were to enjoy our picnic.  As I suspected, we were the only occupants.  The girls peeled off their dresses, and began to construct sand castles decorated with pastel coloured seashells found littered along the seashore.  All very idealistic, but that's the way it was.  I savour these delicious moments of my life.
The swells at Elizabeth beach should have been a surfer's dream but as far as I knew, the waves remained undiscovered. 

My father in his captain's hat, bright blue shorts, navy shirt and up market flip flops, decided to take a stroll; a natural desire in a perfect place on a perfect sunny day.  The surf was strong and my Dad assured me that he would not be swimming.  The girls and I stayed within the shade of the palms and they chatted happily inventing their make believe world.
What seemed like a short time, Alana stopped in her play and pointed down the beach, "Look Mummy, Grandaddy has just gone under."
"What?"  I turned in his direction but failed to see him. Waddling as fast as I could as the girls ran ahead with Una who bounded along happy to be on a walk, I found one of Dad's flip flops about to be carried away with the flow of a receding wave.  Alana then shouted, "There he is!"
All I saw was an outstretched arm rising above the crest of a wave, reaching towards the heavens.
Struggling with the idea of rescue, with my pregnant belly and leaving 2 four year olds on the beach to try and save a man over seventy, did not seem like a prospect with a positive outcome.  So I reluctantly decided to stay and watch.  Soon he breached like a whale spouting water and body surfed amateurishly into shore. He landed practically at my feet on his belly.  "Grandaddy, can you do that again?"
Stunned, I helped him up and he stumbled, but managed to reply, "No, I don't think so dear."  He removed his cap which miraculously was still on his head and we made our way back to the picnic site.

Peanut butter and banana as well as cheese and tomato sandwiches were consumed and I poured Dad his British tea from a flask.  "Dad what the hell happened?  I thought you were a goner."
He stood holding his one flip flop, gulped his tea, then said,  "Well the sea snatched one of my shoes and I decided to go after it, but I couldn't find it.  I think I'll walk down again and see if it's washed up."
"No Dad, we're going in a minute and the waves are getting rougher."
"But Lass, I bought them especially for this trip!"
"Crikey Dad, you nearly drowned.  We're going now."  I started to gather up all our stuff, I was afraid, he'd go off again, as he could be very stubborn.
He sat down on his folding deck chair, gazing out to the horizon, his gray hair stiff with saltwater, plastered to the side of his head.  The girls happily cooperated with the news we would go in the pool once we returned and we loaded up the jeep along with Una who jumped in and sat on the folded blanket.
"Come on Dad, we're going."  The children were strapped into their seats. 
I started up the engine and he slowly got up, folding his chair, stowing it, and climbed into the passenger seat and then he made one more long plea to go and look for his flip flop. 
"Dad, will you stop going on about your damned flip flop.  It's gone, just accept it!"
He sighed deeply as if he'd lost a good friend and reached for his breast pocket, took out his pack of cigarettes, retrieved one and placed it between his lips, as he fumbled to find his lighter.  The cigarette drooped to his chin in its sogginess and I suppressed my laughter as he looked even sadder.
Alana, who always knew what to say, (and still does)  said, "Poor Grandaddy, can't even smoke anymore."  Then she pulled off her one of her own flip flops and offered to him as a gift.  "Here you go Grandaddy, you can have my shoe."
I stared at him, worried as he could sometimes turn a small situation into a gloomy mood that could last for hours,  but he looked at his grand daughter and smiled then finally began to laugh.
She scolded, "You're good at surfing, but next time you shouldn't wear all your clothes."
"You're right darling!" and he laughed again, throwing his cigarette out the window.

Photo on the Day, before he went under.

And because this is the 10th Anniversary of my Father's Death, here's another one of him in Tortola, I miss you Dad.

A Survivor of WW II and the surf at Elizabeth Beach.

Feast of Musicians

Never before have I seen so many amazing musicians all in one small area.  It was a privilege to walk amongst so many performers, a real feast of sight and sound; such colour, texture and rich notes reverberating to the beach and ringing through the streetcar tracks.  I glided through lightheaded, a permanent smile stuck on my face. Thank-you JazzFest! 



And then walking home there was a wedding on the beach.

My Children on the Beach

What a glorious childhood my children had growing up in the tropics, raised in a small hotel where their parents both worked.  Swimming in the pool, dancing with customers and receiving toys and tips for being so darned adorable, and when I wasn’t working (slogging away serving and fetching for  umpteen tourists) we would set off for the palm fringed, almost idealic white sand beach, of Josiah’s Bay, just down the road.  They strolled naked down the peaceful arc of the bay and built sand castles while I clicked away and shot endless photographs. 

My daughter, Alana was fearless in the water, body surfing at a young age and nimbly jumping from rock to rock at the bay’s edge.  At only 10 months old, she was swimming under water in the deep end of the pool; she had her own style of swimming, totally submerged at the bottom, only to surface occasionally, spurting water like a counterfeit mermaid, golden hair trailing down to her bottom.  My son, Tye however, was not so brave, he had to be coaxed and sweet talked into the water and even then he would cling fast to me.  Gradually though with time, he began to feel more comfortable and to enjoy himself, but he was never entirely trusting of the water and didn’t like to go under.

 There was a day when my visiting father took him into the water, whilst I swam further out into the waves with Alana.  And, my Dad went a little deeper than his grandson was used to (he was only 2 years old).  Luckily I looked over to see how they were faring and my father was topping a small boy on his head, Tye’s little arms and legs were wrapped round his Granddad’s neck, looks of terror on both their faces, the older not being able to breathe and the younger clutching on for dear life, convinced he was going to go under.  By the time I reached them, Tye looked like a wee frog sitting on a lily pad.  Alana took her brother ashore to play in the sand while I led my choking father over to Rufus’s beach hut where Cane Garden Bay Rum Punches were served.  He downed his Rum Punch and laughed exclaiming how he had survived WW11 but had nearly drowned with a 2 yr old boy on his head.  Crikey!

Beaches

Surfing inevitably makes me think on beaches.  I have been extremely fortunate to have lived near a beach in almost every place I've resided. Every day the mood of a beach changes and if you are lucky enough to live near one, walking the beach daily will comfort a stressed mind as well as give a rare joy of relishing in the act of doing nothing.  Gazing to where water meets sky, stimulates positive thoughts, reflections and puts aside trivial worries.  When I say stimulates thoughts, this can also mean again, stimulate thoughts of nothing and since I’m basically a lazy person, doing and thinking of nothing suits me enormously, especially after a huge move and leaving behind a tormenting job. (Hurray!)

The beach I now stroll aimlessly each morning is one that I had not forgotten, but think I failed to appreciate when I lived here years ago, this is Lake Ontario in Toronto.  It certainly helps that the days have been sunny and hot, the azure waters sparkle like the Caribbean Sea and sailing ships bob dreamily on the horizon.  Can this really be a lake?  An elderly gentleman with tweed cap, cane and brilliant red shorts sat next to me on a bench, (dedicated to a man called “Hot Tubs”) at Kew beach yesterday, and explained proudly that the whole of the British Isles could fit into Lake Ontario.  “How mind-boggling!”  I responded.  But then as I strolled down the board walk, I thought, (Oh, but I’m thinking too much) as I’m starting to imagine it all, this mess, looking down from outer space. How could all those people fit into Lake Ontario, along with all their houses, planes, trains, Double Decker buses, taxis, roads, farms with sheep and highland cows?  Not to mention all the fish and chips, teacups & saucers, bacon and eggs, the Royal Family and all their palaces.  I’ve spent a lot of time in Britain and so, I think this dear old bloke must have got this wrong; the population of Britain is over 60 million, while the whole of Canada is just over 34 million. I’ll have to do some research.

Anyway Kew Beach on Lake Ontario and eastward to the water treatment plant is an ideal place to wander and wade in the now clear waters for a delicious break.  Photo below taken with my mother's pocket Sony as I was too lazy to carry my big Canon. 

And who would have thought to find a Pirate ship on Lake Ontario on the way to Niagara Falls.  Amazing!

Surfing

While I am on the subject of surfing, I must say, I have always been fascinated by the sport and I have tried it myself many times while in the Caribbean.  After multiple mouthfulls of sand, rolling ashore without my bathing suit bottoms, and crashing my head a few times, I decided I wasn't very good at it and so, settled for body surfing and even then I found the waves humbling, I learnt to read the undertow, the moods of the tide and determine my own short comings in the depths of the invigorating waters. I can watch surfers for hours and the sea is definitely my favourite swimming pool.

Moving

It's amazing to me that I am back in Ontario.  Twenty-eight years ago I left for the beautiful Caribbean island of Tortola in the British Virgin Islands to work at a small hotel.  I intended to stay for a year or two and yet it turned out to be twelve amazing years.  I have been extraordinarily blessed to have a wonderful partner and two fabulous kids, daughter born in Cornwall, England and son in Tortola.  Now once more, after spending fifteen years on another lovely island, Vancouver Island, at a variety of locales and diverse jobs, we decided to make another change.
I have never blogged in my life before, (thought it was a dirty word actually)  so, I thought it might be a new beginning to post photos of where I've been and the wonderful people I've met.  I'm obsessed with taking photos (drove my kids bonkers) and I have thousands that I've never shared.
Anyway, I thought this would be a suitable outlet for sharing, with family and friends, (if you're interested) so bear with me please, as I'm not very organized, so photos and thoughts will probably bounce all over the place.

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Right now, my partner and son are in Cornwall England, beautiful place where surfing is huge!  Many people who've never been to the South West of England are surprized by this. 

My old, loveable dog, Jango, resting on my brother's lawn in Victoria, before his big drive across Canada