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

The Cuban Poet - Jose Maria Heredia - Ode to Niagara

There is a plaque of a Cuban poet on the railing of Niagara Falls.  Why had I never noticed him before?

Sheathed in a ghostly mask, created by the Breath of the Falls, Jose’s Maria Heredia’s frozen face in disguise like The Phantom of the Opera and so I spotted him. 

The icy inscription, along with his poem was impossible to read, except for his name and so I was able to Google later. 

In December, the Fall’s mist molded and paralyzed the landscape into a dream of an alien planet, a weird and eerie winter wonderland.  Blades of grass were now mounds of iced marbles and trees were transformed into artistic sculptures.

 

We walked through crystallized gardens with statues of petrified past politicians (a suitable place for some MPs) and icicles hanging like Jack Frost’s daggers from touristy buildings.

Later, I learned that Jose wrote the poem, Niagara when he was only 20 years old, while seated on a rock near the edge of the falls; there was no railing back then.  A political exile from his homeland, homesick, disillusioned and anguished by a lost love, he dreams of Cuban warm seas and Palm trees swaying in sunshine.  His visit to Niagara Falls must have struck a romantic rush of regret and wonderment of nature, for his poem is both agonizing and beautiful.  He compares his experience of the fury of the sea to emotions felt upon viewing the grandeur of waves disappearing in thunder and foam, and at so young an age, he speaks of lying philosophers, blaspheming men and his withered youth.  So sad, we can only imagine the sort of terrible traumas that lead him into such despair.….but the bit that moved me the most and made me wish I was with him when he was twenty (and me, 20 too of course!) was the part where he wishes that a beloved would share his lonely walk, fearful of falling over as she clutches his side.  And in her fright, he imagines her all the more beautiful.  This to me suggests a melancholic madness and he definitely needed lots and lots of hugs.    

His trip to Niagara Falls took place in the summer of 1824 and I read that his poem may have disappeared into oblivion had it not been for the editor of a well-know literary journal who claimed the poem to be the best written to date about the Falls and he included an English translation. Jose did indeed write other poems, but as yet I cannot find any that have been translated into English, but I’ll keep searching. 

Not everyone loves poetry and if that’s the case, I recommend you read the last two verses only.  It is also sad to note that Jose only lived to be thirty three years old.

Below is the poem that touched my heart strings and many others, long ago.

Ode to Niagara

My Iyre! give me my Iyre! My bosom feels
The glow of inspiration. O how long
Have I been left in darkness since this light
Last visited my brow, Niagara!
Thou with thy rushing waters dost restore
The heavenly gift that sorrow took away.

Tremendous torrent! for an instant hush
The terrors of thy voice and cast aside
Those wide involving shadows, that my eyes
May see the fearful beauty of thy face!
I am not all unworthy of thy sight,
For from my very boyhood have I loved,
Shunning the meaner track of common minds,
To look on nature in her loftier moods.


At the fierce rushing of the hurricane,
At the near bursting of the thunderbolt,
I have been touched with joy; and when the sea
Lashed by the wind, hath rocked my bark and showed
Its yawning caves beneath me, I have loved
Its dangers and the wrath of elements.
But never yet the madness of the sea Hath moved me as thy grandeur moves me now.

Thou flowest on in quiet, till thy waves
Grow broken 'midst the rocks; thy current then
Shoots onward like the irresistable course
Of destiny. Ah, terribly they rage –
The hoarse and rapid whirIpools there!

My brain grows wild, my senses wander, as I gaze
Upon the hurrying waters, and my sight
Vainly would follow, as toward the verge
Sweeps the wide torrent – waves innumerable
Meet there and madden – waves innumerable
Urge on and overtake the waves before,
And disappear in thunder and foam.

They reach–they leap the barrier–the abyss.
Swallows insatiable the sinking waves.      
A thousand rainbows arch them, and woods      
Are deafened with the roar. The violent shock      
Shatters to vapor the descending sheets
A cloudy whirlwind fills the gulf, and heaves      
The mighty pyramid of circling mist      
To heaven. The solitary hunter near      
Pauses with terror in the forest shades.      
What seeks thy restless eye? Why are not here,
About the jaws of this abyss the palms      
Ah, the delicious palms-that on the plains      
of my own native Cuba spring and spread      
Their thickly foliaged summits to the sun,      
And, in the breathings of the ocean air,
Wave soft beneath the heaven's unspotted blue?      

But no, Niagara,–thy forest pines
Are fitter coronal for thee. The palm,      
The effeminate myrtle and frail rose may grow      
In gardens, arid give out their fragrance there,      
Unmanning him who breathes it. Thine it is
To do a nobler office. Generous minds      
Behold thee, and are moved, and learn to rise      
Above earth's frivolous pleasures; they partake      
Thy grandeur, at the utterance of thy name.      
God of all truth! in other lands I've seen
Lying philosophers, blaspheming Men,      
Questioners of thy mysteries, that draw      
Their fellows deep into impiety;      
And therefore doth my spirit seek thy face      
In earth's majestic solitudes. Even here
My heart doth open all itself to thee.      
In this immensity of loneliness      
I feel thy hand upon me. To my ear      
The eternal thunder of the cataract brings      
They voice, and I am humbled as I hear.

Dread torrent! that with wonder and with fear.
Dost overwhelm the soul of him that looks      
Upon thee, and dost bear it from itself,      
Whence hast though thy beginning? Who supplies,      
Age after age, thy unexhausted springs?
What power hath ordered, that, when all thy weight      
Descends into the deep, the swollen waves      
Rise not, and roll to overwhelm the earth?      
The Lord hath opened his omnipotent hand,      
Covered thy face with clouds, and given his voice
To thy down-rushing waters; he hath girt      
Thy terrible forehead with his radiant bow.      
I see thy never-resting waters run      
And I bethink me how the tide of time      
Sweeps to eternity. So pass of man–
Pass, like a noon-day dream–the blossoming days,      
And he awakes to sorrow. I, alas!      
Feel that my youth is withered, and my brow      
Plowed early with the lines of grief and care.      

Never have I so deeply felt as now 
The hopeless solitude, the abandonment,      
The anguish of a loveless life. Alas!      
How can the impassioned, the unfrozen heart      
Be happy without love? I would that one 
Beautiful,–worthy to be loved and joined      
In love with me,–now shared my lonely walk      
On this tremendous brink. 'Twere sweet to see      
Her sweet face touched with paleness, and become      
More beautiful from fear, and overspread
With a faint smile, while clinging to my side!      
Dreams–dreams! I am an exile, and for me      
There is no country and there is no love.      

Hear, dread Niagara, my latest voice!
Yet a few years, and the cold earth shall close      
Over the bones of him who sings thee now      
Thus feelingly. Would that this, my humble verse,      
Might be like thee, immortal! I, meanwhile, 
Cheerfully passing to the appointed rest,      
Might raise my radiant forehead in the clouds      
To listen to the echoes of my fame.      

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.

    

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.