Memories of a Flight - Or How Not to Import an Alien into the U.S.

Tortola to Toronto 1992

Boarding a small aircraft in the Caribbean with my two small children was originally undertaken with my usual nonchalant attitude; for I believed I was totally prepared with all the necessary equipment, such as diapers, wipes, nutritious snacks, crayons and toys.  Yet I was blissfully unaware what the next nine hours would result in.

I had taken this route many times in the past, Tortola to San Juan, San Juan to Chicago, Chicago to Toronto and back again. Living and working at a Hotel on the island of Tortola, it was necessary to make the trip at least once a year to visit my family.  But I never dreamed there would be so many requirements and regulations regarding even babies!  Also, my inquisitive little girl’s amusement that managed to sound off alarms and almost get us arrested.  Luckily this was long before September 11^th or it may have been a different story.

Her small face was pressed hard against the glass; clouds strolled by like huge dinosaurs in a perfect Caribbean sky.  She turned and said, “Mummy, my tummy’s doing flip flops.”  The paper bag fetched just in time for her to be sick, this happened every time we flew.  My daughter, Alana a vivacious three-year old and my son, Tyler three months old and I were on a journey.  Tortola to Toronto.

First stop was San Juan, Puerto Rico where we proceeded through U.S. Immigration.   They studied my Canadian passport with Alana added and then took a look at baby Tyler’s newly acquisitioned British Virgin Island passport.

I explained that once I was in Toronto I would be applying for his Canadian citizenship and have him added to my passport as well; there hadn’t been the time to do this beforehand.  The smiling official seemed satisfied, stamped his approval, but as an afterthought, he enquired if I was sure that we would not be staying in the United States for any length of time.  I promised him that no, if he looked at our tickets, we flew straight out of Chicago and onto Toronto to stay with my parents, he seemed convinced and waved the three of us onwards.

Soon we were onboard our flight to Chicago O’Hare airport. Alana looked at picture books, sang songs and asked about what animals we might see at our planned trip to the Toronto Zoo with her Grandaddy. Tyler slept and fed.  Halfway through the flight, over the loud speaker came an announcement, “Would Mr. Tyler Fitzpatrick, please come to the front of the aircraft.”  How funny I thought, there’s someone on board with the same name, and so I forgot about it.  However, fifteen minutes went by and again but with more authority came the voice, “Would Mr. Tyler Fitzpatrick come to the front of the aircraft at once.”

“Mummy, someone wants to see Tyler.”  Said Alana during mid scribble. 

“Well, I guess we better go up there and see.”  I replied with a sense of unease.

Any young mother will tell you that it’s not easy moving around in small spaces particularly buses, trains, airplanes and washrooms with two young ones in tow.  The task of coming to the front of the aircraft was easier said than done.  All with one arm around the baby, I lugged the bag out from under the seat, coaxed Alana to gather up her crayons and books, balanced her cup of juice and stowed the tray table.  Then Alana scrambles onto the floor to find her precious teddy.  Upon rising she bangs her head, I wince feeling her pain and rubbed the ouch gently, reassuring her that she would be alright.  Next I carefully placed Tyler on my own seat, whilst I tried to maneuver out of the tiny space, inevitably I knocked the person in front’s headrest, said my apologies, then tried to pick Tyler up without waking him.  But of course this doesn’t happen and he begins to cry. Alana tries to console him by tickling his ear which makes him cry even louder.

Reading passengers glance over, some with a look of pity, some with a look of annoyance at being interrupted.

Finally in the aisle, Alana is barefoot and has managed to Houdini out of her skirt.  With living in the Tropics all her life, she hated the confines of certain clothing, finally she wriggles into her skirt and we are strolling up the aisle with Alana touching hands with everyone she meets.  The front of the aircraft seemed a long way off as Alana tries out empty seats in the First Class section.  A Flight attendant rushes towards us and wants to know if I need any assistance, we are not allowed in the this section, then again we hear the same command over the speakers about Mr. Fitzpatrick.  “Yes, I say to her, you’ve been calling for my son.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Mr. Fitzpatrick.”  I say nodding towards the bundle in my arms. “This is Tyler Fitzpatrick.”

“Where?”  She says looking around.

“Here.”

She looks down perplexed.  “Oh. Are you sure?”

“Well, I think I know my son.  But are you sure you have the right name?”

“Oh?  Please wait while I go check.”

While we stand behind the curtain between First Class and the front cabin, Alana ducks beneath the categorizing curtain, and sits down next to a man working on some papers. 

“Your seat is so much bigger than mine, what are you doing?”  She asks and takes one of his extra pens and draws a small circle on one of his papers.  He looks up startled and says, “You can’t draw here, these are important papers.”

“I’m sorry,” I say rushing over.  “Come on Alana, you can’t sit here.”

“Look,” she says to the man.  “My mummy just had a baby, do you want to see her scar?”  Horrified I lunge forward, grab her hand and drag her out of the spare seat.  Thankfully this man proves to be an understanding individual, “Nice to meet you Alana, he says back to her. “My name is Tony and I have a niece just about your age.”

The Flight Attendant appears. “I’m sorry; you can’t be in this section.”

“It’s okay,” says Tony.  “This is my new friend, Alana.”

The flight attendant asks us to follow. “Bye Tony, can I visit you again?”   He nods and winks.

The tiny person, oblivious to the commotion he’s creating is beginning to get restless.

“I’ve been informed by U.S. Immigration that Mr. Fitzpatrick is to remain on the aircraft.  Please stay seated until everyone has deplaned to wait for the escort.

“You’re kidding.”  Tyler begins to moan.

“No, sorry I’m not.”

Back in our seats, Alana decides to visit Tony while I’m breastfeeding and before I protest she has zipped off delighting in the daring scheme of escaping the confines of her seat, knocking over her container of Cheerios in the process. “Alana!”

An older woman in front turns around and smiles.  “Having a few problems dear?”

“Just a bit.” 

“Don’t tell me that’s Mr. Fitzpatrick?”

“Yes, this is he.”

“Would you like me to find your daughter?”

“I’d really appreciate it.”

She returns with Alana explaining Tony wasn’t there and Alana was sitting in his seat trying to open his briefcase. 

“This is my new friend, Mary.  I told her about the scar on your tummy.”   Mary smiles sympathetically.  Alana says she needs to pee, Mary obliges and when they return she offers to sit with the children while I have a washroom break. 

In approximately thirty minutes we’ll arrive at our destination, Flight Attendants stroll by checking seatbelts and reminds me to wait for Immigration

After waving goodbye to Mary, who turned out to be a Romance novelist, and stopping Alana from squeezing through the queue to say goodbye to her businessman friend, Tony, everyone has now disembarked and I stood rocking my baby and watching Alana singing and strutting up the empty aisles.   

It’s funny how a small child introduces you to a whole new world whereby you would never experience.  I was always a naturally shy person who rarely spoke to strangers; however, my daughter was such an outgoing, precocious child that I was forced into a foreign frontier of socializing outside of my comfort zone.  Gradually however, I discovered that I was grateful for her happy, pure curiosity and her infectious ways upon others, bringing out the best in everyone around her.  I was privileged to meet many interesting, friendly individuals in passing that normally I would never have spoken to.  Anyone interrupted in their tasks by this adorable fairy creature became captivated; she managed to melt the most serious of souls.  

And so, when two of the largest, sternest looking men I had ever seen, stepped onto the abandoned aircraft, announcing for Mr. Tyler Fitzpatrick, I shuddered and there was a tense moment of silence as they glared at me. Until Alana, pirouetted barefoot, dancing like a miniature Isadora Duncan, she weaved her unknown magic and landed at their feet practically kissing their polished black boots.

“Shh, he’s sleeping you know.”

The men, looked down on her and one said, “Where is your father?” 

“He’s back at the hotel of course, you silly.”

Where we used to live and work, The Tamarind Club Hotel, British Virgin Islands

I nearly wet myself.  These men resembled prison guards!  Knees knocking, I managed to babble out, “This is Tyler Fitzpatrick.” 

“What do you mean this is Tyler Fitzpatrick?”

“Well he just is.”

There was another silent pause while the men peered way down at me holding Tyler, then they looked at one another with genuine surprise replacing their wooden expressions.

“Ma’am, may I see Mr. Fitzpatrick’s passport please?”  I handed over the alleged criminal’s passport and they both turned their backs on me while they examined the document closer.  Then “Ma'am, we are to escort Mr. Fitzpatrick to his flight to Canada and to ensure he does not leave the airport security lounge.”

“Okay, but he is a baby, you know.”  Was no one going to acknowledge this fact? 

They stood there like sentinels, a Goliath version of Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee, they watched as I changed the culprit’s diaper and coaxed Alana to get her socks and shoes on. Her Sippy cup had gone missing as well and I was on my hands and knees peering under the seats in front of us.  There was a stroller to be retrieved, stored at the front of the aircraft and the two men followed close behind in case we attempted a bold getaway.  

With Tyler safely strapped in, my carryon bag filled, we were ready to trail our guards, when Alana tapped on one immense calf, “You’re the biggest man in the world.  Can you give me a ride?”

I was just about to say no, when a transformation took place.  Something in her candid stare must have caught his GI Joe heartstrings or perhaps it was the realization that this situation might be different that this baby wasn’t going to crawl into the masses and disappear into their blessed country! Astonishingly, he helped her climb onto his shoulders, her giggle made him smile as she shouted, “Now I’m the biggest in the whole world!”

It was this man’s gesture that spurred his partner to follow suit, for suddenly, he noticed me, saw my shoulder sagging under the weight of a large bag, pushing a baby stroller and without a word, he grabbed then flung the satchel onto his own shoulder like it was a doll’s purse, he even pushed the stroller. 

Our new friends, Bill and Trevor, led us into an Immigration office for a briefing on the alleged crime of importing an alien. 

Filling in endless forms, while a pinched faced woman pontificated, that if we dare arrive on U.S. territory again without Mr. Fitzpatrick’s proper papers we would be refused entry, did I understand?  

 “Of course, it will never happen again.”  

And if he suddenly disappeared, I would be responsible, did I understand. 

“Of course, I’m his mother.”   

Alana’s laughter echoed through the sterile room as her new friend, Trevor bounced her on his knee.  Miss Pinch Face glowered at him.  

Finally we were dismissed just in time, our plane was boarding. Thank goodness, I just wanted to get to Toronto and to my waiting parents; however, our troubles were not over yet.

Alana hugged Trevor goodbye and we lined at the Gate.  As I bent over and rummaged through the side pockets looking for our boarding passes, Alana, suddenly was not where she was supposed to be.  I stood, looking frantically through the throngs of people, I unhinged Tyler from the stroller, abandoned my bags and with babe in arms, I speed walk and stand in a chair, searching, calling her name. 

 A loud alarm went off.  Then a scream.  Imagining all sorts of horrors, I race to where I see security men surrounding tiny Alana atop of some chairs, cordoned off by silky rope and orange bollards  where she had seen and been tempted by a pretty lever marked Alarm.  Trevor lifts her down, she bursts into tears, saying the button looked magic. The Immigration woman returns insinuating, I’d intentionally ordered my child to create a diversion in order for Mr. Fitzpatrick’s escape.  I finally, managed an angry retort, “Are you kidding me, do you think I want to stay here?  Believe it or not I don’t  and why can’t you acknowledge that he is a baby? " 

All I got was a blank look and another warning.  I can’t remember her exact questions but if it hadn’t been for Trevor’s interjections and Alana’s winning ways, we probably would have missed our flight, for Trevor took Immigration Lady aside and waved us away. 

Finally in Toronto, after a very large glass of wine, (or two) we related the journey to my parent’s amazement.

Alana and Tye arrive at my parent's in Toronto, Alana of course has removed her  restrictive clothing.

On our return journey, Toronto to Tortola, so afraid of a reoccurrence, I shook whilst passing through Immigration and yet because Tyler was now a Canadian citizen, no questions were asked, nothing was mentioned.  Alana however, sulked that Trevor wasn’t there and why couldn’t we go find him?

Today, Alana is twenty-three, a History Major and still throws up on planes.  Tyler is nearly twenty and despite the ruckus he caused on his first flight, he is a solo traveler, visiting Bosnia, Croatia, Slovenia, Montengro, Turkey, England, Germany, and has even braved the United States.  

HOW To Renovate A Kitchen Yourself - OR - WTF - Completely Destroy

It was suggested to me that I might write a Blurb on renovating a kitchen and since my man and I have completed this undertaking many times, I agreed that it might be a good idea.

We always dive right in with lots of spontaneous enthusiasm, never do we spend too much time the way I’ve seen some people do, humming and ahhing over colours or countertops, what’s the point in that?  All we know is that,  the old is Yuck/Ghastly and has to go.
And so with quite alot of swearing by my man, the transition happens fairly quickly.  I myself am not big on swearing but since the invention of texting etc., I love that I can now say “What The F?” whenever I like and so does my 84 year old mother.

The renovation in question, is taking place within our new (old ) house in Stratford that is 135 years old, however, as I explained in my Stripping the Stairs blog, the previous owners had rather peculiar tastes in their décor which mainly, probably took place in the fifties and again in the seventies.

So this particular kitchen overhaul is basically a RIP-Out and RE-Place kind of operation.  Lots of DIRT, DUST and Greasy old plumbing.  This How To is not necessarily how most people would go about their kitchen reno especially those who are ardent fans of  Décor Divas, such as Martha Stewart or Debbie whats her name?  I don’t have anything against these women but they obviously have too much time & money on their hands and too many state of the art tools at their fingertips that no real person could possibly acquire on a normal paycheque.  Anyways, our way certainly won't be for everybody.

First of all of course, you need a really, ugly old kitchen.  

For example:  Like this one:

Have you ever seen such a horrid kitchen?  Complete with grey linoleum tile, acid yellow walls while sporting a delightful ducky border on one side, shells and snails on the other.  I also love how the previous owner was being ever so careful to protect his kitchen table with a plastic sheet. Oh and please take note of the lava lamp in front of the ironing board cupboard.  Now when I see these photos, I wonder what were we thinking?  How did we see the potential?  The great asset in this upstairs kitchen are the three large windows, which you can’t see properly due to the hideous window coverings, but they are in fact of course, painted in a gooey off white, which by the way, is not even a colour.  

And,

Second of all, you need a rare breed of a HandyMan. (sorry girls, I’m sure one of you out there will prove me wrong, but I've yet to see a female one.) Yes, A man with Brute Force, lots of proper savvy and experienced know-how. They are almost extinct I know, but Luckily I happen to have one of them. (Mine is Exceptional) And fortunately I don’t pay him either, he’s also very agreeable when not swearing. But, if you don't have one of these, then it's going to cost you rather a lot of cash as you'll probably have to hire about four or five of them to do the job of my one man.

And,

Third, Make sure you have a camera. To document the entire transition.  In the past I made the mistake of believing these kinds of photos were rather dull, but then realized their value in the Before and After process.  Because as time went by, I couldn’t remember the Before stage.  How was it possible that we’d forgotten, I mean we’d spent so much time on the transformation?  When you (argh) of an age, even when it’s oh so slightly, the brain gets rickety and needs solid reinforcements, like photographs to give it a bit of boost, and you say, “Oh yes, now I remember!”  It’s like pressure treated wood, a bit of resistance to corrosion. (does that make sense?)

I have two cameras, I wish I had two brains (cause mine is so tiny, also another set of teeth would be good too)

One camera is my friendly Nikon, which I use all the time for documenting time going by, it’s my very first digital camera, my transition from the dark ages of the darkroom, to the enlightened digital world.  Happily these digital cameras, so far seem to outlive their cousins, the computers.  Now the Nikon is over ten years old with eight megapixels and it continues to take excellent photos.

My second more expensive camera, I generally use only for creative portrait work.  However, when I forget to charge the Nikon battery, I’ll use the Canon 50D, which has way too many mechanical mysteries to it’s inner workings that I’ll never master or even need or want to.  The quality is perfect, better than real life and I’m very happy with it.

So, back to our Checklist.

1. Ugly Kitchen 

2. HandyMan with Real  Tools 

3. Camera



Because the first basic plan is that you just want rid of what’s in place, right now it does not matter what you want after,  Just GO Ahead - Destroy and Enjoy! Because this phase doesn't actually cost too much money.

So, like this!

Walls come down to open up to the hallway

***IMPORTANT***
Having worked with a Structural Engineer for the past 15yrs, My Handyman was able to work out and locate the Beam size and Load Points necessary to remove the wall.  He also installed a new overhead beam.  Sorry, you may have to have an Engineer take a look if there is no Amazing HandyMan in your life.

This is where the Savvy Handy Man is most Vital  - He's deduced where the hidden electric and plumbing workings are!  So take extra care in the Destruction Phase. 

Cupboards ripped out (revealing more fetching wallpaper and protruding rude plumbing)

Again my HandyMan can accurately assess the potency of the plumbing and calculate costs for upgrades , i.e. In my case, No Plumber required, he alone can do the upgrades.  And we'll install new sink in relatively the same space, so no need to re-route pipes.

Next, the Art of handling a Heat Gun and WTF More Paint Stripping on all the windows. (I was busy stripping the staircase as this point and in between my job was removing the piles shown above and below which is wall rubble)

The Worst was the realization that the electrics were not at all in a good way.  And so, alas, an electrician had to be called in even though in the province of BC, my HandyMan could have re-wired on his own, but here in Ontario it is not legal.  This was the most expensive part of the job and we had the entire 2nd floor re-wired.

All that's left of the kitchen now.  There are new electrics, a few upgrades to the plumbing, linoleum has been stripped, one window's paint removed.  (A Few duckies are still at the far top right.)

A sanding machine was then hired as again to save money we decided to keep the floor that was hidden beneath the linoleum, Lovely old Fir floor boards!

Notice the BLACK Goo left behind by Linoleum Tile - A Bugger to remove, especially in the corners.

Now, comes the fun part!  A trip to IKEA!

(For the Sake of your Sanity, Do Not Visit on a weekend)

Make sure you bring a sketch of your kitchen, with all the measurements!  Including the height of your ceiling and size of windows.  
We strolled through the charming kitchen displays and quickly found one that we both agreed upon and was in our limited price range, so this narrows down the choice tremendously, too much selection is not conducive to finishing the job promptly.  A very efficient girl, set us up on one of their computers, that has an amazing Plan your Kitchen kind of software.  From there you choose the right size cupboards, fridge, stove, dishwasher, sink etc. all to fit the measurements (which you input) of your future kitchen.  You can then view in 3 D or in the original draftsman type plan.  DOUBLE double check the measurements (including height, width of windows) before placing your order.  We decided to go with the cheapest white fridge and dishwater, but spent more on an extra wide gas oven with five burners and we don't regret it.  We also ordered an inexpensive counter-top which does the job and looks great!  I don't see the point on fussing over what kind of outrageously expensive stone counter to buy, when you can admire it's cold glossiness at someone else's house. (in other words, we can't afford)  In total we spent three hours in IKEA.

In Just a Few Weeks - Our Kitchen Arrived!  Looked like this!

Now, again, most people wouldn't have a clue what to do with this neat bundle that doesn't look anything like a Kitchen!  But of course, I have my Live-In HandyMan and he set straight to work like the Real Live HandyMan he is.  (IKEA will send an installer if you need one.)

Because the cupboards were basically floor to ceiling there is no need for drywall (thank God) and so plywood was screwed tight to the walls as the base for the cupboards.

Keeping Him frequently nourished with Coffee, Tea, Loud Rock music and sandwiches he barely even takes a Break!  And at Five O'Clock, he requires his Glass of Wine, so I can squeeze another hour out of him each day.

PROGRESS!

RED TILES!!!!
Because never in my life have I owned anything SO RED! (Plus, they were on Sale) 

And so, after many days of very hard work on my Man's part.  We are very Pleased and Happy with the Finished Product all completed on the strictest Budget.  I LOVE how my Teapots and Teacups appear to be Floating In Mid-Air!!  

RARE SIGHT of daughter washing dishes

Please email me with any questions.   NEXT BLOG - Bathroom Renos!!

Heart

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.