The Stratford Swans - What a Lovely Fuss!

When I read about the Stratford Swans Annual Parade from their winter quarters to the Avon River, I immediately thought, What Fun! So, of course I had to attend. It was a drizzly dull day and I didn’t think there would be many in attendance. I was wrong.

The street next to the arena was lined with people of all ages, hiding under umbrellas or cloaked in rain wear. Somehow I managed to squeeze to the front of the crowd, an advantage of being incredibly short, emphathetic individuals usually make way for me.

“What a fuss over some bloody birds!” A man behind me with a northern English accent exclaimed.
“Dad, please it’s just a bit of fun. I thought you liked bag pipes.”
“My God, such bother!”

The woman sighed and I glanced back sympathetically as my mother had made a similar complaint when I suggested she accompany me.

“I can’t stand the sound of bagpipes.” This was news to me. My 84 year old mother, who was born in England yet raised in Scotland, surrounded by the lilting sounds, never had mentioned this before, so I’m not sure when this opinion took hold of her.
For me, The Stratford Swans being Bag Piped into the River was the most comical, yet beautiful sight I’ve ever witnessed at a public event. I found myself laughing aloud, yet with a surprising emotional lump in my throat.
The mystical Pied Pipers look serious and stern but lets face it, you can’t smile when you're puffing your cheeks and blowing all your wind into a small tube, all efforts consumed by creating a rare supernatural sound.

Yes! There is much fuss made over some lovely birds, but the heart-warming sight of the well-behaved swans waddling in confusion behind a kilted procession of Highlanders, all anxious for their long awaited wade, I think should be right up there with the Running of The Bulls.  Of course, I know, I know, not nearly so dangerous a gathering, yet similiar that the Bull event was originally a process of moving the beasts from the farm to the market.  The Swans, moving to the river provided a stimulating sense of man moving nature's creatures alongside the manmade mystic music of ancient Scotland and I have classified it as motivational. All in all a sensation that reminded me, how great it is to be alive and by the surrounding chuckles and ahh sounds from the hundreds of participants giving rapt attention to the odd sight, it was obvious they felt something too!

Now that I’ve experienced and got all emotional about this parade, I will mark it down in permanent marker on all my future calendars. I would not miss this event in a million years! What more can be said in that the streets were lined, even with the odd grumpy complainer, dancing children donning swan hats, during a drizzly wet Sunday, and you can see by my photographs I could hardly get a decent shot because of the huge crowd.

After the Swans passed by I was then swept up by the stampeding mob desparate to get a glimpse of their first immersion into the river of 2012.

The swans, now road weary, the journey completed, just dreaming for a fancy-free paddle, there was a collective sigh, as their tired, feathered, awkward bodies plunged, now gracefully into the cool water accelarating fast away from the encroaching crowd.

 

What more can I say? It was magic!

To Bieber or Not To Bieber

In returning to Stratford, it was all I expected and much more.  Although I haven’t skated on the river yet, or visited the Theatre, I am content sauntering the often snowy streets, peeking in an assortment of shops and restaurants all with their own unique character that I had recalled from childhood and the atmosphere of a friendly artistic, musical town, swans and all.

    

Yet, there is a change here, which I encounter, almost everyday.  A change I certainly did not expect.  In fact I expected more high rises, or (heaven forbid) a Wal-Mart!  Thankfully there isn’t either of these.  The change however, does borderline on commercialism and the Arts.  It's yes, yes, Justin Bieber.  This is something we never took into consideration, when moving here, for believe it or not, I had never even heard of Justin Bieber!

Star Plaque in front of Avon Theatre, next to Sir Alec Guiness

During a discussion with a colleague of mine in Victoria, B.C., I told her we were thinking of moving to Stratford.  Her eleven year old daughter, Virginia who looked completely bored out of her mind, suddenly piped up, her eyes all aglow,  “Oh!  You might see Justin Bieber!!”  Suddenly, I was interesting.

“Who?” 

“Justin Bieber!  Stratford, that’s where he’s from!”

“Never heard of him.”

She turned white, gawking at me, like I was Dead, or completely off my rocker.

Then my friend said, “How old is your daughter?”

“Twenty-two.”  I replied, giving me a valid excuse for my ignorance, she said, “Oh, well, that’s why she hasn’t heard of him, Virginia.”  Virginia, however remained unconvinced.  I was clearly a dinosaur specimen.

When I went home that evening I asked my daughter, Alana if she’d heard of this Justin Beaver guy.

“Mother, its Bieber!  Justin Bieber, he’s a pop star.  Young tweens love him.  So does Lia, in fact.”

“Lia?”  I couldn’t believe it.  Lia was one of my daughter’s most sophisticated friends, a Political Science Major and a no-nonsense kind of gal, very attractive with high standards, not the sort you’d think interested in a boy star.

“In fact, she’s going to see him perform in Vancouver next month.”

I was dumb struck.  “So what does he do exactly?”

“Oh my God, Mum, he’s a singer?”

Signed by Justin in Long & McQuade in Stratford

My sister and I decided to visit the Bata Shoe Museum in Toronto. There was a line up at the door that continued down Bloor Street and snaked onto St. George for miles!  What was happening?  How could a Shoe Museum be so popular?  The clue was in the queue, entirely made up of tumultuous tween girls ranging in age from nine to fourteen.  We asked a girl what was happening? 

“It’s Justin Bieber!”  Her delirious excitement was frightening.  “He’s just donated his shoes!”  The surrounding girls shrieked in a contagious wave that swelled infecting each cliquey fan.  Her mother rolled her eyes.  I remembered feeling mildly hysterical about David Cassidy, but I’m sure I never wanted to go and see his shoes.  We decided to leave the museum to another day.

The first week we moved to Stratford, I began to notice Bieber Paraphernalia in every shop.  T-shirts, socks, gloves, scarfs, notebooks, pens, etc.  Even in Shopper’s Drug Mart there was a life size cardboard cut out in the perfume section, apparently he has his own cologne.  Do sixteen year old boys wear cologne? Or is this for the Girls?  I’m confused.  Two girls were poised, stroking his torso, while their excited mother took photos.

I was pleased to discover the Theatre had a plaque for Maggie Smith, William Hutt, Christopher Plummer, even Obie Wan Kanobi, (Sir Alec Guiness) all who I had seen perform, all incredibly gifted actors. And alongside of course there is now a plaque for Justin. 

When I was just seventeen, I was privileged to be a part of the audience during a memorable performance given by Maggie Smith as Rosalind in As you Like It.  She was breathtakingly beautiful and also hilarious in the part. I had been a fan of hers since I was a child and saw the film, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie.  The huge thrill, at that time, was discovering that Maggie Smith was living in a house just down the road from my Auntie Joyce.  I remember we were on a walk and Maggie was trimming her roses in the garden and she spoke to us, I was speechless, while they chatted. It’s amazing that Maggie has continued on to become well known to the younger generation, of course because of her portrayal of Professor McGonagall in Harry Potter.  So my kids think it’s pretty cool that she lived in Stratford as well.

The House Maggie Smith occupied in the late 70's

This Christmas, my daughter visited from Victoria to see our house for the first time.  While we were shopping, there were several T-shirts in one of the windows,  “To Bieber or Not To Bieber”, which she immediately photographed on her phone and sent to her friend, Lia back in Victoria.

(I’m still flummoxed that you can take a photo on your phone and then immediately send to someone, thousands of miles away)

Anyway, Lia promptly replied, “To Bieber Of Course!”

T-Shirts sold at Treasures on Ontario St.

I've received emails from Virginia and some of her friends in Victoria asking if I've seen HIM!  Sorry girls, no sightings yet.  But I've promised them a tour if they come to visit.  (I AM Insane) as I discovered the Stratford's Tourist office  hav a map called Bieber-Iffic to all Justin's former hangouts.
http://www.welcometostratford.com/media/pdf/stajbmap2ndedweb.pdf

Jango's Trip Across Canada

As poor old Jango heaved himself into the passenger side of the Dodge Caravan, his back paws smacked lightly against the sill of the door panel, an effect of his recent doggie stroke.  He was naturally excited as dogs can be at the prospect of an outing. A trip to the beach?  A walk around the lake?   He had no idea, the poor bugger.

We had removed the passenger seat as there was no where else for him to lie down;  the van was packed floor to ceiling with electronic equipment, tools, bags full of clothes and  towels, guitar cases and the odd small appliance.  Did he notice this?  Did he notice that he lay on his fleecy bed that was normally on our deck?  And that his favourite squeaky toy was by his side?  He looked at me apprehensively and I realized he knew that this was not an ordinary car ride and I worried about the consequences the journey would have on him.

Jango, a gentle giant of 115lbs, over twelve years of age was about to embark on a long trek across Canada, from Victoria, B.C.  to Stratford, Ontario.  We were moving.  He wouldn’t be alone of course, Del, my other half, (one of Jango’s preferred people) was his chauffeur and travelling companion. As I waved goodbye, watching the van with 15ft trailer in tow, pull away from the curb, I was secretly relieved that there was no available space for me, but I feigned regret, blowing kisses, and prepared to fly on ahead to spend time with my mother in Toronto.

The first night for our travelers was relatively uneventful.  They arrived in good time into a campground just outside of Hope, BC.  Jango slept comfortably on his fleecy pillow under the van canopy outside.  Del, however had to re-arrange his planned sleeping compartment; it had become smaller during the packing, he discovered it was too squat and cramped, his feet rested on the accelerator pedal and his body was in the rather hairy area of where Jango had just lain.  Eventually, he managed to get somewhat comfy, said, “Goodnight Jango pupps.”  And fell asleep. 

   

Early next morning, on the road it began to rain, and rain and really rain.  A variety of radio stations as well as much loved CDs, such as Mark Knoffler, Doobie Brothers, Django Reinhardt (Jango’s namesake), Tom Petty and the Beatles, kept their spirits up as Del sang along.  Early evening the rain still had not abated and so they checked into a campsite.  Jango was drenched from going out for a pee, and the torrential down pour also prevented him from sleeping outside.  This had not been planned for.

They both settled in for a quiet night’s sleep.  However, the campsite turned into a party zone for teenagers as soon as the rain stopped and the loud music grew to a crescendo of festive whooping it up!  Jango paced and fussed stepping on his master and smelling literally like wet old dog.  When Del found Jango’s backside staring him in the face, he tried to wedge some plastic container lids as a barrier between them, looking for a bit of privacy, a bit of a break from the smell.  But with Jango so restless from the social activities, it was very difficult and Jango couldn’t understand why there should be distance and would insist on snuggling in closer.  Finally at around 11:00 p.m. the carousing stopped and the two began to fall asleep in their separate plastic cubicles. 

However, the nap was short-lived as all hell-broke loose with the bangs and pops of firecrackers.  Jango began to whimper, to shake and lay right on top of Del’s head, pushing his nose in between Del’s legs.  “Bloody Hell, what the f*#@ is going on?”  Del’s  yelling like that only made Jango tremble even more as Del jumped up and pushed his beloved doggie away.  Outside the fireworks were getting louder.  Jango, who grew up close to Butchart Gardens in BC, where fireworks happened every Saturday throughout the summer months was terrified and had never enjoyed.  He usually had to be shut in a closet or the bathroom while the display was on.  There was nothing to do, but start the engine and drive away from the noisy colourful display.  Jango banged his head a few times and fell over as he would not lay down.  Del looked at the clock and it was just past midnight, he had no idea where he was going, he was just trying to find a quiet spot to help Jango settle down.  Eventually, he found a desolate side street, pulled over and Jango lay down again on his bed and started to sleep.  Del slumped over the steering wheel in the driver’s seat and had a sporadic snooze.  Not sure how much time went by when there was a tapping at the window, a policeman with a flashlight…..Crikey!  what next?  Del thought.

“What seems to be the problem here Sir?”

Yawning, he replied. “Well, I don’t want to lie down with a wet dog, that’s all.”

“Do you have some I.D and what’s in the trailer?”

After a short explanation and a bad joke about letting sleeping dogs lie, the policeman directed Del to a motel that allowed pets.  Finally a dry bed and pillow and Del was dead to the world well past ten in the morning.  He had a shower, watched the news and a huge breakfast and Jango also benefited from a bit of bacon. 

When he called me in Toronto and explained their trip so far, all I could say was, “I am so glad I am NOT with you.”  However, he was optimistic that the trip could only get better. Unfortunately the month of June across Canada proved to be one of the wettest and all the scenery that he was so excited to see was lost in fog and wet wind.  All the fields Jango longed to explore and sniff were brief episodes, only traces of wild scents washed clean by the falling rain.  Too soon he was ordered back to the van before he had any chance of interpreting the old residue from passing animals.  His instinct was to stay and linger but this was not to be.  His ever hopeful doggie dreams were dashed and he reluctantly returned to the confined space of the moving vehicle.

After a few more days, the optimism Del had felt began to dissipate.  Large trucks barreled past spraying pints of  water onto his windscreen, blinding his view.  Each time he swore aloud, Jango would shudder, giving Del a hurt expression, glancing around for a place to escape to.  “Not you Jango Pups.”  And Del would give him a reassuring pat. But after many occasions, Jango wasn’t convinced and for the first time seemed afraid of his ill-tempered master.  It was getting dark and Louise the annoying voice of the  GPS unit kept commanding that Del was driving in the wrong direction.

Now too exhausted to drive, sick of the rain, sick of feeling road rage, sick of Louise’s voice and sick and tired of placating Jango. He wished for sunshine and a slightly less doggie companion. Ahead, he saw a hill and turned off the highway and drove toward it.  He had no idea why, just to get away from the traffic, he was lost and it was dark, all he knew was that he was now somewhere in Ontario near Thunder Bay.  He drove to the top, the signs said there was some kind of rest spot, but because of the road works it didn’t state where or what the spot was.  He parked and decided they would stay the night, there was no one else there.  The rain had just stopped and he and Jango got out of the van to explore.

They both lumbered along as Del tried to get his bearings, wondering why on earth he thought this was going to be a fun trip.  Ahead in the dark, he glimpsed some kind of large statue and so he walked toward it.

A sudden leap of understanding, as this was not an ordinary statue.  It was a memorial to an amazing and courageous, young man.  He was 22 and he had run across Canada with only one leg, of course it was Terry Fox.  The artist had captured his determination and agony, and each soft brown curl on his head. How trivial Del's agitations now seemed.  He had just driven across Canada in an air conditioned, automatic transmission, Dodge Caravan, a luxury indeed, compared to what Terry had to endure.  He had never given much thought to Terry Fox, not living in Canada when he had been alive.  And now standing looking up at Terry in the dark, Del truly felt humbled and blessed.  And even though the signs said, No Camping.  He and Jango spent the night with Terry.

From there the rain cleared and the scenery was beautiful, the sun, at last began to shine; Corny but true.  Jango spent over a month in Damax Kennels in Stratford while we looked for a house to buy.  When I worried again about him during the heat wave in July, Maxine, the caring lady who ran the kennel, emailed me a few photos of Jango, which brought a huge smile to my face and made me laugh.  It was of Jango and his new girl friend, Dolly playing in a wading pool along with his beloved squeaky toy.

    

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.