012-Grandma

I’m going through hundreds of scanned pictures from my dad’s side of the family. Pictures hide as much as they reveal, of course, but if I borrow university-style objectivity, here are three things I’ve noticed so far.

First, Grandma almost always smiled for the camera. She doesn’t display melancholy or brooding seriousness. Instead she’s smiling as if she’s ever ready to be in on the joke. Her smile makes her recognizable.

Second, Grandma always looked hot, the kind of hot that favoured sleeveless summer shirts, and single layers and short hair. She is rarely pictured with sweaters and I bet she never tried on a turtleneck in her life. 

Third, her favourite accessory, the one she wore the most, was a watch. Other jewelry seemed to mark special occasions: visitors, First Communions, graduations. She was a nurse and the watch seems to accentuate the practicality of the profession; heartbeats in a minute, etc. See the time? It’s time to go!

011-Trees

When I was young, and we moved to a house from an apartment, the backyard contained a willow tree whose giant trunk was the size of a dining-room table. From its base, big enough to carve a coffin, my dad was sure, there stretched nine limbs, each one a respectable tree in itself, stretching up at all angles, like octopus arms. House-owners before us, hoping to keep together two limbs they feared might split and crack the base, had drilled into the trunks thick metal rods with a fastener to hold them in place. We used it like a ladder rung to get to a v-shaped seat that was level with the kitchen window. When I was in my teens, I’d sit in the v, reading Little Women, enamoured with the scene in my head: “girl reading in tree.” It wasn’t that comfortable, but my romantic idea was stronger than the discomfort. Besides, I towered over my siblings.

A few years ago, my sister and I who were in Saskatoon for a funeral, stopped by the childhood home our mother had sold, to spy on what we recognized and what had changed. The house was still the same colour, but security features had been added. And then we noticed that no willow-tree branches cascaded down, higher than the house, behind the roof. So we walked down the back alley and found, behind the garage, where we used to hide, a stack of willow branches, piled like enough firewood to last an entire winter. We felt a twinge of regret that we hadn’t been there to witness our friend being taken down. But the tree wasn’t ours, and in a way, it never had been. It had just held for awhile, our romantic ideas. Just like the house had held us awhile, indifferent to our story. No one carved a coffin out of the trunk to carry our dad who died twelve blocks away. And that idea was gone, first with my dad, now with the tree.

I recently read Jenny Odell’s book How To Do Nothing, and felt inspired by an argument she made for bioregionalism. She writes “similar to many indigenous cultures’ relationships to land, bioregionalism is first and foremost based on observation and recognition of what grows where, as well as an appreciation for the complex web of relationships among those actors. More than observation, it also suggests a way of identifying with place, weaving oneself into a region through observation of and responsibility to the local ecosystem.” So I took pictures of the trees in winter along the fifty-minute loop I walk, cataloging the clues they reveal in their denuded state. I borrowed books about trees at the library. Associating names to my amateurish observations felt as satisfying as a puzzle. The tree that dangles its seeds attractively like a woman’s pair of chandelier earrings is a linden. The pointy-tipped seed clusters in ombréed brown to blond hues cling to an ash. The double-sided leaves that refuse to drop all winter play an identification trick on me, and Lois Hole’s book taught me to call the silver poplar’s bluff: the “three-lobed leaves are dark green on top, bright silvery white underneath and shimmer in the wind [are] often mistaken for a maple because of the shape of [their] leaves.” Knowledge feels exciting, but it is only temporarily so… I soon leave my camera at home. I read a book of essays about trees by Ariel Gordon and feel silly for having pretended to know something about trees. There are real tree experts in Winnipeg, I realize, and my knowing is only superficial. Twice she writes about naming things: “knowing-the-names has become the way that people signal expertise.” I feel like blushing. Who was I trying to impress by casually working in an observation around the palmful of names I’d gathered? She also wrote: “naming things allows us, as writer and reader, to know that we’re talking about the same things. They’re suitcases that carry not only simple information but also historical allusions and memories…” I like that. Names carrying things, just like trees carrying things, ideas and projections.

I kept trying to make the trees mean something to me, but in the end I’ve had to make peace with my superficial appreciation. I care much more about stories. I’m fascinated by Gordon’s research into the families, some of them Métis, who planted the trees, or the city planner who came up with the idea that Winnipeg should have boulevards planted with elm. I feel awe for the giants spotted in Bois-des-Esprits, and on Pollock Island because they’re big, the biggest I’ve seen here in Manitoba. 

All trees point skyward. They grow and thicken while we muck about. There’s a pandemic now. We’re lucky enough to be able to still go outside and take walks. There are more people on the trails now, forced to take up this wholesome pursuit. The kids and I forgo the exercise video links in favour of a daily walk. They follow me like ducklings and move over obediently when physical distance is needed for passers-by. I’ve decided to put off the tree-identification activity I’d planned for them as an educational bonus, just to bask in their health-giving presence. My daughter finds that one willow-tree in particular, with its wild limbs splayed everywhere, looks creepy. My son climbs a thick-trunked one and makes a game of tearing off dead shoots from a cluster. Our appreciation is superficial, sure, but somehow they feel like conduits nurturing a deeper wellbeing. And even though I feel like I don’t care about trees enough, I am grateful to the people who expose a little of their beauty and importance.

010-Laundry

I always do laundry on Friday. When I was young and read Lucy Maud Montgomery's books, I nodded my head in approval when chores were assigned a day of the week. The order pleased me. Mostly, I thought the past - a vague idea without years assigned to it - was romantic with its dresses and etiquette. Now I know that laundry was a very large task and that it was assigned to a day because it took a whole day to do. Now, as Susan Strasser writes in Never Done, "modern women draw water and dry their clothes in the isolated privacy of their own homes, on any day they like" (p. 121). For us, it's Friday.

Domestic chores, historically assigned to women, followed this trend in my childhood home, and so, by default I think of my mother and her mother and the things we inherited of a tasks we’ve held in common. My grandma did a lot of ironing for example, whereas my mom refused to buy herself an ironing board. My mom was loathe to separate colours and folded shirts in half, tucked in the sleeves, and halved them again, lengthwise. I separate colours and fold shirts into thirds before halving them lengthwise. She used powder detergent, I use liquid.

As for the ennui of folding clothes – I have podcasts for diversion. Mom had no such thing. She folded laundry straight from the dryer in the silence of the windowless basement room. The most exciting thing to come from that time was a discovery that her youngest child had perfect pitch. He couldn’t yet talk but he had perfect pitch, humming sequences of notes back and forth. 

It seems antiquated to think of doing laundry according to a set of rules, and yet the phenomenon of Marie Kondo’s book and Netflix series makes me think otherwise. If there are inherent laundry habits you accept or reject from what you grew up seeing, there are still people willing to impart new lessons. Because of Marie Kondo’s cheerful persuasion, I fold shirts and socks differently than I used to. However, the conclusion here is not that there is a right way or a wrong way of doing laundry, but rather that there is no thing too small too mundane not to modify or adapt or learn more about. 

009-Where

When I made a return trip to the West from Quebec, to date Christian and marry him, I stopped in Ontario to visit my mother's family. I stayed with my Aunt and Uncle, and while my uncle was working, we'd visit my Grandma. She lived in a nice nursing home and one of her favourite things to do was to go shopping. Shopping, for my Grandma and Aunt had the aura of an endurance sport. You set out with a small mission and browse and browse, and only broke up the browsing with visits to the fitting rooms. Affection was manifested when things were bought. You accepted advice and bought something, or you accepted generosity while they bought you something. I have a grey merino wool cardigan I wear around the house, 16 years on from that day of shopping during the visit. It's extraordinary.

On our way to some destination or other in my aunt's comfortable car, on highways with so many lanes typical of the cities around Toronto, Grandma would be installed in the back, gazing out the front window with her watery pebble eyes and she would say "Look at all these people! Where are they all going?" I remember this clearly because she would repeat it, again and again, not because of dementia - which I don't think she had, but because, somehow, the rhetorical question pleased her. I couldn't understand that then because I was young and I was on a mission to date and marry Christian and that kind of question made me impatient. It is the kind of thing elderly people wonder, removed as they are from the world and its coming and going.

She comes back to my mind now in this period of pandemic-altered traffic flow. It was noticeable in Winnipeg at first: you could cross St. Mary's Road very easily. But it didn't last too long, and even as only essential businesses remained open, and then gradually others opened too, traffic picked up while we stayed home with the kids and hardly went anywhere. "Look at all these people! Where are they all going?"

If I multiply the out-of-house things we've done since social distancing has taken effect here, the list is as follows: shopping for food, shopping for craft materials, shopping for plants, Kijiji sales, getting to parks for novelty walks, and going to the post office to mail things. If the list were to include pets and affluent eating habits it would include: vet visits and food delivery. Still, the volume requires a supply of imagination, and so to fill in the gap a little, you might add: delivery people of all kinds - local, Amazon, and other - nurses, aids, tradespeople, construction workers and computer technicians. After that, my imagination starts to fail, and I worry I'm becoming like my Grandma: "Look at all these people! Where are they all going?"

008-Playfulness

I was at the post office the other day and I asked the blond-haired clerk wearing a mask, whether she had noticed an increase in postal service volume, like I’d heard from Christian. Yes, she said, people have nothing else to do, so they shop online, try clothes and return them, or elderly people find photos and mail them to their younger relatives. I don’t know what I was expecting as a response, but I hadn’t expected two detailed scenarios. People, sending pictures to each other? Huh. That isn’t happening in our family. What has happened instead, is that my sister scanned albums and albums worth of pictures and made them digitally available for everyone. 

Pictures without interpreters are like coded messages. Looking through the pictures, you can organize years, subjects and events and grouping them together helps a little. My grandparents were married in 1953, for example, and their first child was born in 1954. Pictures in 1955 contain only one bald-headed baby and are easy to recognize compared to the pictures later when there are more bald-headed babies. 

It’s delightful though when a message comes through. This happened when all the pictures for 1955 came together in a little pile and I was attempting to sort them from January to December, smaller baby to bigger baby, snow to snow. In the middle was summer, and a horse and the baby on the horse. I don’t know what the order of the pictures is, but for the sake of the story, I’ll assume it began with my grandpa taking a picture of my grandma holding the baby, Mary, on her hip on one side while a horse (I imagine it is chestnut coloured, white blaze and stockings) stands on her other side as she holds its lead. Grandma is wearing pants that are so big, I imagine she borrowed them from grandpa, for she’s rolled them up past her bare ankles.

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In the next picture, the baby is on the horse, she’s grabbing for its mane, and grandpa is holding her calf, his middle finger and thumb almost touching. The lead is slack as he holds the end and smiles for the camera, shirt tucked-in, sleeves rolled up.

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In the third picture, grandpa is mostly cropped out, because the viewer only sees the brim of his hat and his arms extended to support the baby.

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The fourth picture is taken from the other side of the horse. The baby is looking at the camera and grandpa’s hands supporting her are hidden at this angle. The only thing he hasn’t managed to hide are his back and legs visible under the horse’s neck.

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I think it’s a camera prank they made up. There in the warm weather and relaxed clothes, they have the leisure to imagine a silly scene with their new baby. There are my grandparents, and it makes me think of Joyce Carol Oates’ observation of her father in her memoir: “such playfulness suggests the youth of my father at this time, as it suggests the youth of the era…”.

007-Flowers

I was standing in line at Lacoste Garden Center, two meters from the persons in front, someone else, two meters behind me, and there beside a display of fertilizer, I wondered if this would be the way it was from now on. Then again, when I had walked in the store, pushing a cart whose handle had been conspicuously sanitized, I had felt a rush of emotion... I get these rushes of emotions now for any community feeling; I had it last when the Snowbirds flew by. At Lacoste, it was like relief: the flowers were there, packs upon packs of greenery and colour and some beacon of "this at least feels still the same".

I like puttering in the flower beds around our house. Newly married I would buy flowers and plants with such an impatient wish for an already-established and completely lucious garden landscape. Gardening encourages the imagination, because you plant things small and imagine the space they will fill when they are big and what impact it will have on the whole picture. You also get to contend with limits: not only the climate, but what grows and what doesn't in your yard. There's room for happy discoveries and endless fiddling and in a way, gardening is not that different from writing. Since I'm into our fifteenth summer here, perenials have become established, trees have spread, and I've got used to massed plantings of dependable annuals for colour and delight. Finding begonias and petunias and geraniums, a collection of herbs for the garden and lavendar close to the door for aromatherapeutic whiffs in passing, are all lilke renewing with old friends. 

I've become so familiar with my choices and the way plants are laid out in the greenhouse, I sometimes question whether or not my happiness is warranted. My yard won't win an award for floral design, my seven-year-old prefers yards with professional hardscaping, and the paltry amounts I do spend are nothing compared to some. But pleasures don't have to be big to be legitimate. 

Flowers are unselfconscious, blooming as they are designed to do. 

006-Narcissism

There are two misconceptions about narcissism I deplore.

The first is that everyone is a narcissist which therefore makes the label redundant. Narcissism is an invisible deformation of the ego. While everyone has an ego, not everyone has suffered a trauma to their self-image. 

The second is the idea that narcissism can be cured. A broken or shattered or deformed self-image can no more be fixed than a human amputee can re-grow a limb. It can no more be fixed than a crooked tree can straighten itself. It can no more be fixed than a patient with multiple sclerosis can regrow myelin.

A narcissistic person cannot change but the people around them can. The complexity of an issue can sometimes be explained with the simplicity of images. In my husband’s hometown of Aubigny, it was not possible to dig a well because the water was alkaline. Families therefore hauled water from the city, bearing the inconvenience for the sake of their farms. 

005-Chinese salad

There's this recipe I've typed and reprinted, that everytime I do, I feel a twinge of guilt. The recipe existed before Christian and I married. It was written in my husband's elongated up and down cursive on a sheet of paper yellowed with oil stains. It felt more like a piece of fabric by the time I transcribed it in Word under the title "Chinese Salad". 

The salad is made with a bag of cabbage slaw, Chow Mein noodles, and uncooked Ichiban noodles, as well as toasted almonds and sunflower seeds and sliced green onions. The dressing is made with the flavour packet from the Ichiban noodles, and even though I've disdained its mostly pre-fab ingredients, it's hard to dislike the salad once you've tasted it. Again and again, when Christian is tasked with bringing a dish to a staff potluck, he'll double the recipe, and come home with an empty serving bowl. 

The recipe comes from his mother, a woman who consistently entertained family and friends in her Aubigny home on the prairies. She and her sisters and her mother were this jolly set of women who loved thrilling their supper guests with quantity: heaps of silky-soft mashed potatoes, two kinds of meat, piles of carrots diced with a zig zag knife and fat slices of fresh white bread. You could almost count on Chinese Salad. 

I don't know where this recipe was picked up from. Most likely it got passed along in the community like an exotic but not too difficult thing that had a reliably good flavour, salt and umami, and a perfect blend of crunchy texture. It's name is so solidly affixed that it goes untranslated in French, where it stays "La Chinese Salad". 

I haven't had the heart to replace the recipe. Something else would be more complicated, and then, what would my husband bring to potlucks? Changing its name would upend a point of reference in the family and draw attention to what? An unnecessary distinction? A personal feeling of scrupulousness? So, I keep this recipe and reprint it as needs be, because, as a Google search reveals with 663 million results, the misnommer is harmless.

004-Silence (as it applies to large and small petty arguments)

There are all kinds of silence: guilty and false, or serious and unwilling, but the most frustrating silence is the prim silence... the one in which a party is holding back. The cliché, that silence is golden is a frustrating saying, because it suggests that the person keeping the silence has the higher merit. 

But that cannot always be the case. Apart from consent – good or bad – silence can be lazy, tired or discouraged. Words strung together can be like bridges, but sourcing the vocabulary and executing a plan take such a rallying effort that the effort collapses. And so, silence can simply be empty, like the hollowed shell of an abandoned place.

Here’s how to find golden silence. Here’s how to restore truth to the old cliché. First, do away with mute meekness, away with the frustration held in because it is socially better so, away with ideas regretfully unsaid, untried, untested. Away with the eager need to be clumsily understood. Away with all of that. Instead, let silence be proactive. Let it be giving and generous. Let the hurtful thoughts and impatient exasperation be transformed into blessing. How? By finding in meditative clam, a handful of blessings to send the other person. A blessing for their family, a blessing for their friends. A blessing for their life and a blessing for the place where they are. A blessing for their provocation and a blessing for your crossed paths. A blessing for what they teach you and a blessing for yourself.

With this handful of blessings, loose coins in change, thoughts pay a small fare in effort but take a different route. On that route, there is warmth and sunlight.

003-Oz

My daughter and I read children's literature every night, from a list of recommendations. We just finished reading The Wizard of Oz which is not only a pervading cultural reference, but also a classic movie I saw once at my Grandma's. 

My Grandma rarely babysat me. She lived for a time in the same apartment building I'd lived in until I was seven. So I must have been just a little bit older when I stayed at her place and she suggested we watch The Wizard of Oz. I was an over-sensitive child who had barely survived the trauma of Bambi and had taken refuge in my grade one teacher's ample bosom during The Rescuers Down Under. So when the green witch and her flying monkeys appeared on screen, I had long been sensing the mounting tension and devised a plan to excuse myself to go to the bathroom. My plan was nearly foiled when my grandma offered to pause the movie. I convinced her it was ok. She suggested I leave the bathroom door open so I could still see the screen, and I had to accept the compromise. Somehow, we got to the end of the movie. My unfamiliarity with her made me doubly nervous.

All this to say that the book is nothing like the movie. Had I seen a more faithful version, I'm sure I would have been fine. It is strange though that in the slew of remakes, no one has ventured to lay a finger on the Wizard of Oz, as if Judy Garland were a sacred finality.

002-Stories

The other day I watched Becoming – a documentary about Michelle Obama’s two-year book tour. It focuses on qualities of hard work, perseverance and self-confidence. It is about how working hard and having enough faith in yourself can land you in the presidency I guess... or how it did for them. It’s about how hard it was for them to become the exception, and it’s about fostering new exceptions. It features people basking in the shine of their glamour, like hikers warming their hands at a campfire. 

I can’t help but feel an uneasy ennuie. I like the Obamas. I believe their story. But does the narrative feel worn to you? Like advertising for excess capacity?

Do you know how often the Obamas talk about story? Thirty-four minutes into Becoming, Barak makes an appearance and says to an aid: 

“It’s fun listening to her tell these stories, some of which, part of me, is like (…) ‘That’s not exactly how it happened!’”

Michelle’s response to his on-stage teasing is: 

“My book, my version of reality!”

At the end of one of the shows, Barak has his hand on his wife’s back as they’re heading toward a car and he says,

“You’re just a good storyteller.”

Their production company Higher Ground has a mission “to harness the power of storytelling” and the documentary American Factory is their first investment. In a ten-minute feature interview with the producers, the word “story” is said 21 times. The repetition is to emphasize that everyone has a story, that there is power in telling stories, that stories create connection and solidarity and that there should be more stories out there. 

The word “story” has taken on the importance of an anchor, not the kind that moors a ship, but the kind used in rock climbing, to which are attached ropes and rock climbers. I wonder if it’s enough to secure higher ground for very many given the nature of the sport.

001-Tension

Sometimes I feel like I have to write or I will explode. I get sidetracked though because I get preoccupied with the wanting to explode part. I wonder, “Does everyone feel like they will explode? Why do I feel like I will explode? Why is it that I have this desire to write? Why is it that my life is preventing me from writing?”

Sarah Ruhl writes that “life is not an intrusion” and to view it that way is wrong. Brenda Ueland quotes a long passage by Vincent Van Gogh that a person “feels by instinct: yet I am good for something, my life has aim after all (…). There is something inside me, what can it be!” There is just, lately, so much life to deal with.

It’s not just that kids are home, now and into the foreseeable future, but that I imagine I should be doing something more than distributing printed sheets, overseeing writing assignments, keeping tabs on homework and making supper. 

Maybe I feel cheated? Only a few months ago, I was, for the first time in ten years, all alone in the house after the school bus had made its pick-up. There was time to think about gradual next steps. There was the illusion that bursting forth was next; a professional flowering, an exhale of pent-up energies. But maybe this was too narrow a vision. I’m mistaken: not a corpse flower, but a vine maybe, with the energy and flexibility to grow over all the hard things, making Bahaus-like outlines softer.

I miss solitude. I miss solitude so much that I wonder what is wrong with me. I’m ashamed about wanting so much to have solitude. My shame folds back in on itself and makes me feel impatient and sour and sad. I crave hearing of other people who need solitude because for the moment, I feel flawed. Ueland prescribes it, as though people have a harder time understanding its benefit than defending its use. She writes, “inspiration (…) comes into us slowly and quietly and all the time, though we must regularly and every day give it a little chance to start flowing, prime it with a little solitude…”

I need solitude, I say, because I need to make something, I need to prove something to myself! And I want to cry! Don’t you understand? But while I’m lacking solitude, these expectations are making the pain worse, and really, it would be better to let them go, just to ease the tension a bit. 

So I’m lowering the bar. Inspired by Sarah Ruhl, I’ll write 100 essays right here, Covid-themed. I need to focus on quantity to get over the paralysis of quality and the plague of perfectionism. So here’s a start.

Week 1 of Covid-19 - the plan

The kids were in school this last week, all the way until the end, as numbers dwindled and class time became more like fun. Manitoba’s numbers are exceptionally low right now for some reason, and so there is an odd sense of feeling safe while still practicing social distancing and having a week to adjust to the idea of living in isolation.

There is, I realize, a wealth of ideas online, of things to do with children at home. I’m grateful for that, of course, but for now, I’m trying to strike a balance between early-days optimism and a begrudging dutifulness. The only way I know how to do this is by having a plan. Part of the plan includes a modified schedule, and while schedules have popped up everywhere, and the school our children attend has emailed one for each child, ours is a modified routine. It feels silly to talk about this when it is THE solution everyone else has either discovered, shared or bucked. But our household has always run with a routine in place. Not having to negotiate bedtime, piano practice, or the end of tv-watching is one thing, but mostly it allows me to bank on small oases of quiet; early-morning, time in the afternoon, an evening of peace.  A schedule here is less about having something to do and more about managing expectations, both mine and the kids’.

Like I said, there is an abundance of creative ideas online already. Against that great wave of potential endless stimulation, I have erected what I imagine is a kind of mental breakwater. There are warnings everywhere that this isolation is not a matter of a few weeks, but more likely months, and so I’m arming myself by storing up the ideas and staggering their appearance. Unlike creative writing and made-for-television stories, where the modus operandi is to spend out, my impulse with the kids is about spacing the fun and deploying a variety of tactics.

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So this is the plan… Our family is comprised of two adults: one grade-six teacher, one university student with part-time tutoring and administrative jobs, and three kids; one in grade five, one in grade one, one in kindergarten. Mornings will be for school-type work. Fortunately the school division is doing a brilliant job of getting organized and will be providing revisions, lessons and work. I picked up supplementary school books at Librarie à la Page. Naturally, there will be a difference in workloads between the three, but we’re keeping it studious in the morning, and I have improvised a teacher’s desk for myself, for you know, parallel work, in theory. Not only is the school-division enabling this approach, but we re-arranged areas in our house to mean business. I covered the dining room table with thick plastic, added decorative colour-swatches underneath and made territorial delimitations with a fair 26 inches allotted to each child. I’ve sharpened pencils, pencil-crayons, and bought fresh markers so that the ‘tools’ feel inviting, even though the aquamarine is inexplicably chewed-up.

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There’ll be recess in our yard and a free-period before lunch for reading, or play, or hobbies like crochet. I have a medium-sized pile of books I scrounged up from the library before it closed and will dose their appearance carefully, carefully. I do hope the libraries will come up with some acceptable way to lend out books because our little family of bookworms (Christian excepted) worries more about lack of reading material than about three-ply.

Permit me a little word on activity books? I made a few last year for our weeks-long road trip to BC and they were a very successful effort. I made them using sketchbooks that lay flat when opened. I then took apart already-made activity books and split them, by interests and difficulty-levels, between the three. You might think that taping pages into a scrapbook diminishes the number of activities that can be done, and while this is true and sometimes there are choices that have to be made between pages, there is something about customizing a book to a child that makes it especially effective. Without a word from me, colouring-pages were more carefully filled-in and stickers placed next to their respective activities were properly applied. Their appreciation was an encouragement and so, at the St-Vital book sale in September, I picked up a pile of barely-used activity and colouring books in anticipation of the next road trip. There will be no road trip this summer, and instead there is a pandemic to get through and so, the books have come out of their storage and I’ve been at work assembling new ones with new sketchbooks and a box of double-sided photo squares. I admit that it’s something I like to do. I like picking activities, organizing mini-themes across pages, and decluttering (sometimes) cheap page layouts. I like making the sketchbook all fat with possibility. This time, the covers are identified not with their names but with their favourite colours. They were assembled over a few days this last week and do still contain some blank pages.

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But back to the plan, for lunch. I’m pretty sure I’ll continue to prepare lunches the night before as if they were still going to school and leave the nicer non-packed lunches for weekends and holidays when Christian is home. I imagine it will be more efficient this way, and there will be more time for proper hour-long walks.

There will be cookies made, as usual, and muffins too. Maybe my daughter and I will crochet side-by-side, maybe she’ll learn to type. The evening will be looser, Christian will be home and the usual things will happen… piano and television, screens until supper, and clamour while things cook. So that’s the plan, in part… we’ll see how it goes!

Three little encouragements

Sometimes, just by chance, you are listening to something, like a routine podcast on your podcast feed, and something is explained in a meaningful way. Recently, for me, it happened when Chani Nichols was describing to Debbie Millman the paradox she felt of needing to write and the intense self-doubt it unleashed. (See here). About 37 minutes into the podcast, Debbie Millman had asked: “I understand that when you first started writing you would literally be doubled over in shame and pain and self-doubt, but it also felt like something you had to do. Where did that pain come from?” Nichols answers the following:

I think that (…) when there’s a lot of neglect or you feel invisibilized by family or culture that when you bring yourself into form by writing something or acting something or building something or making something that other people can see and that you’re giving it out to them, there’s a way all of a sudden for me, I become more real. I’m defining myself by writing these things and putting them out. For me being somebody that was so low on the priority list of the adults in my life, it just brings up the feeling of having been left and denied and betrayed and abandoned. And so it’s this weird thing, it’s like I’m actively trying to heal this and bring myself into form and bring myself into the world and yet my experience of being forgotten and invisibilized becomes more pronounced as I do that. So it is [an] experience that comes in tandem; there’s like this “yay, I put something out” and a feeling of releasing of creative spirit from myself or creative energy into the world and yet all of my survival mechanisms, “stay small, stay quiet, stay invisible so that you don’t get harassed or something bad doesn’t happen,” like there’s so much chaos in the world and my life that I just had to keep everything as small and still as possible. So it’s just all that – and trauma response I think of being more present in the world.

I’m also fascinated by the story of Robert Walser on This American Life. He was content with this simple motto: “to be small and to stay small.” (See here).

Indirectly, it relates to this little scene that Emily Carr relates in her autobiography Growing Pains. She writes:

We discussed Georgia O’Keefe’s work. I told of how I had met her in the gallery of Mr. Steiglitz.

I said, “Some of the things I think beautiful, but she herself does not seem happy when she speaks of her week.”

Miss Dreier made an impatient gesture.
“Georgia O’Keefe wants to be the greatest painter. Everyone can’t be that, but all can contribute. Does the bird in the woods care if he is the best singer? He sings because he is happy. It is the altogether-happiness which makes one grand, great chorus.”

In 2019, I made it a project to read more about old age

Here are a few quotes that have stuck with me.

First off, Ann Patchet’s story called Love Sustained.

“My grandmother had spent her life taking care of other people, cooking their food, cleaning their houses. It was her proof that she was valuable in the world. Now I cleaned my grandmother’s apartment, which hurt her every single time. My cleaning was an accusation, no matter how quietly I went about it.”

“There are always those perfect times with the people we love, those moments of joy and equality that sustain us later on. I am living that time with my husband now. I try to study our happiness so that I will be able to remember it in the future, just in case something happens and we find ourselves in need. These moments are the foundation upon which we build the house that will shelter us into our final years, so that when love calls out, ‘How far would you go for me?’ you can look it in the eye and say truthfully, ‘Farther than you would ever have thought was possible.’”

Then Diana Athill’s book Somewhere Towards the End

“… but once that involuntary protest was over I hit my stride, becoming quite good at suspending my life, which is what has to be done when living with an old person. You buy and cook the food that suits her, eat it at her set mealtimes, work in the garden according to her instructions, put your own work aside, don’t listen to music because her hearing aid distorts it, and talk almost exclusively about her interests. She is no longer able to adapt to other people’s needs and tastes, and you are there to enable her to indulge her own.”

And Donald Hall’s Essays After Eighty

“However alert we are, however much we think we know what will happen, antiquity remains an unknown, unanticipated galaxy. It is alien, and old people are a separate form of life.”

“People’s response to our separateness can be callous, can be goodhearted, and is always condescending. (…) When kindness to the old is condescending, it is aware of itself as benignity while it asserts its power.”

Gabrielle Roy wrote in Ces enfants de ma vie

« De toutes les prisons que l’être humain se forge pour lui-même ou qu’il a à subir, aucun, encore aujourd’hui, ne me parait aussi intolérable que celle où l’enferme la vieillesse. »

Jane Gross wrote a helpful book about her experience taking care of her mother. It is called A Bittersweet Season and the following quote is about how brothers and sisters deal differently with their aging parents, something that she reiterates throughout her book.

“I believe this kind of remark is often a gender difference, and also a matter of temperament. When some angry adult daughters commented on the blog about their brothers’ deficiencies, I suggested, with wisdom that came to me years too late, that this was no time for a feminist hissy fit, which they obviously found politically incorrect and so turned their anger on me. I didn’t mind. But having done my time, so to speak, and wasted a ton of energy wanting Michael to worry in the same way I worried, and to be good at the same things I was good at, I have come to believe it is not sensible to be mad that someone else has a Y chromosome and you don’t. Put him in charge of the check book, not compression stockings. And certainly don’t fume because you’re obsessing and he isn’t.”

Gross also summarizes one of the ways society has changed.

“The changes wrought by the women’s movement have transformed how we care for our aged parents, a social dimension that exacerbates the current demographic one. In earlier generations, few women worked outside the home, and elder care was their responsibility, daughters and daughters-in-law alike. A woman took care of her frail mothers or mother-in-law at home - no easy task. But she would have been home anyway. Also, families were larger and less likely to be scattered, so an ailing parent would have had more hands on deck.”

This is something Mary Pipher writes too, in Another Country.

“Adults have always worried about aging parents, but our current situation is unique. Never before have so many people lived so far away from the old people they loved. And never have old people lived to be so old.” 

Pipher imparts a very tender understanding of old people.

“Those last years can be difficult, but also redemptive. As we care for our parents, we teach our children to care for us. As we see our parents age, we learn to age with courage and dignity. If the years are handled well, the old and young can help each other grow.”

“The two biggest changes over the course of this century have been our move from a pre-psychology to a post-psychology culture and our move from a communal to an individualistic culture. Most older people grew up surrounded by family. They shared bedrooms with half a dozen siblings and had grandparents or great-aunts in their homes or living nearby. They knew their neighbours, and their fun was other people. They tend to be gregarious and communal and turn toward others for support and entertainment.”

“For example, Great-aunt Martha’s concern about what the neighbours think isn’t necessarily superficial, as we tend to view such concerns in our independence-loving 1990s. Rather it is about respect and connection, about having a proper place in a communal universe.”

“They definitely did not state their own needs. In my experience, it is hard to get older women to say what they want. They have been trained to be indirect.”

“In the past, women’s roles were about enabling others to succeed. Women defined themselves by their service to others. Today, women have gone from basking in reflected glory to seeking their own glory. Sometimes this shift causes friction between women my age and their mothers.”

“Humans are wired so that we grow to love what we care for and hate what we abuse and ignore. What is loved reveals its loveliness. We mend what we value, and we value what we mend.”

“I witnessed the incredible calculus of old age - that as more is taken, there is more love for what remains. The great lesson to be learned in this last developmental stage is acceptance. That lesson well learned brings serenity. In the end, everything is about love.”

Things I don't get around to writing

  1. I have a job doing research. I love it because I learn lots of random facts, and sometimes, for the space of a research paper, or a chapter, I get immersed in another world. Take for example the creation of the Catholic diocese of Winnipeg. Right now, it doesn’t feel like all that big of a deal. But in 1915, when it happened, it was in the tense atmosphere of Irish Catholics demanding more attention, a loss of power and finance for the French Catholics and the first time that Rome acted so decisively in creating an independent diocese.

  2. Nellie McClung had no sympathy for the 1919 Winnipeg Strike. She visited the city, interviewed some strikers and took notes for an article she didn’t end up publishing. I wrote an essay proving that she was friends with J.S. Woodsworth but that they had very different views on the strike and the World War. Why didn’t McClung sympathize with the strikers? In part because she couldn’t understand how desperate their situation was, and in part because she came from a family of farmers. Authors have argued that the farmers and the workers on strike largely remained separate.

  3. I’m starting to enjoy newsletters as much as blog posts… The two that spur me on to write are Austin Kleon and Craig Mod.

Reading list: Moby Dick

How to start: This year marks the 200th anniversary of Herman Melville and the internet is abuzz with its commemoration. This doesn’t take-away from the fact that Moby Dick felt like a challenging read. Bryan Waterman’s Top 5 Bits of Advice for First-Time Readers of the book might have been helpful. As it was, an allusion to Melville’s being inspired to write better after studying Shakespeare was impetus enough to get me to work. Fortunately Melville is full of humour and that’s what I’d like to share in the quotes below.

Favourite quotes: No man prefers to sleep two in a bed. In fact you would a good deal rather not sleep with your own brother. I don’t know how it is, but people like to be private when they are sleeping. And when it comes to sleeping with an unknown stranger, in a strange inn, in a strange town, and that stranger a harpooner then your objections indefinitely multiply. (p 27)

“Just as you please; I’m sorry I can’t spare ye a table-cloth for a mattress, and it’s a plaguy rough board here” - feeling of the knots and notches. “But wait a bit, Skrimshander; I’ve got a carpenter’s plane there in the bar - wait, I say, and I’ll make ye snug enough.” So saying he procured the plane; and with his old silk handkerchief first dusting the bench, vigorously set to planning away at my bed, the while grinning like an ape. The shavings flew right and left; till at last the plane-iron came bump against an indestructible knot. The landlord was near spraining his wrist, and I told him for heaven’s sake to quit - the bed was soft enough to suit me, and I did not know how all the planing in the world could make eider down of a pine plank. (p 27)

Next: how shall we define the whale, by his obvious externals, so as conspicuously to label him for all time to come? To be short, then, a whale is a spouting fish with a horizontal tail. There you have him. However contracted, that definition is the result of expanded meditation. (p 111)

The fact is, that among his hunters at least, the whale would by all hands be considered a noble dish, were there not so much of him; but when you come to sit down before a meat-pie nearly one hundred feet long, it takes away your appetite. (p 230)

(…) he must die the death and be murdered, in order to light the gay bridals and other merry-makings of men, and also to illuminate the solemn churches that preach unconditional innoffensiveness by all to all. (p 270)

Applied to any other creature than the Leviathan - to an ant or a flea - such portly terms might justly be deemed unwarrantably grandiloquent. But when Leviathan is the text, the case is altered. Fain am I to stagger to this emprise under the weightiest words of the dictionary. And here be it said, that whenever it has been convenient to consult one in the course of these dissertations, I have invariably used a huge quarto edition of Johnson, expressly purchased for that purpose; because that famous lexicographer’s uncommon personal bulk more fitted him to compile a lexicon to be used by a whale author like me. (p 334)

Reading list: The Go-Between

How to start: I confess I really enjoyed this book. I brought it along during a three-week vacation and loved slipping away from the rudimentary demands of camping to a world of high-class English society and the author’s sophisticated use of words. L.P. Hartley has an interesting biography.

Quotes: “From being my enemy the summer had become my friend: this was another consequence of our Norwich shopping. I felt I had been given the freedom of the heat, and I roamed about in it as if I was exploring a new element. I liked to watch it rise shimmering from the ground and hang heavy on the tops of the darkening July trees. I liked the sense of suspended movement that it gave or seemed to give, reducing everything in Nature to the stillness of contemplation. I liked to touch it with my hand, and feel it on my throat and round my knees, which now were bare to its embrace. I learned to travel far, ever father into it, and achieve a close approximation with it; for I felt that my experience of it would somehow be cumulative and that if it would only get hotter and hotter there was a heart of heat I should attain to.”

“One remembers things at different levels. I still have an impression, distinct but hard to analyse, of the change that came over the household with Lord Trimingham’s arrival. Before, it had an air of self-sufficiency, and, in spite of Mrs. Maudsley’s hand on the reins, a go-as-you-please gait: now everyone seemed to be strung up, on tip-toe to face some test, as we were in the last weeks at school, with the examinations coming on. What one said and did seemed to matter more, as if something hung on it, as if it was contributing to a coming event.”

“Now the thought of the farmyard had lost its magic for me: it was as dead as a hobby that one has grown out of.”

“Also I knew we should not have the Litany, as we had had it last Sunday: this also was a great gain. Less than ever was I in a mood to repent of my sins or to feel that other people should repent of theirs: I could not find a flaw in the universe and was impatient with Christianity for bringing imperfection to my notice, so I closed my ears to its message and chose as a subject of meditation the annals of the Trimingham family emblazoned on the transept wall.”

“He indicated a row of small dark canvasses, set deep in heavy frames. (…) I didn’t like the look of the picture or its feeling; pictures, I thought, should be of something pretty, should record a moment chosen for its beauty. These people hadn’t even troubled to look their best; they were ugly and quite content to be so. They got something out of being their naked selves, their faces told me that: but this self-glory, depending on nobody’s approval but their own, struck me as rather shocking - more shocking than their occupations, unseemly as those were. They had forgotten themselves, that was it; and you should never forget yourself.”

“How everything else had been diminished by [the Ted and Marian relationship] and drained of quality! - for it was a standard of comparison but dwarfed other things. Its colours were brighter, its voice was louder, its power of attraction infinitely greater. It was a parasite of the emotions. Nothing else could live with it or have an independent existence while it was there. It created a desert, it wouldn’t share with anyone or anything, it wanted all the attention for itself. And being secret it contributed nothing to our daily life; it could no more be discussed than could some shameful illness.”

“We talked a little of my journey and of what I had done in life: both subjects that were easily disposed of. For conversational purpose, an ounce of incident is worth a pound of routine progress, and my life had little incident to record.”

Reading list: I Sailed with Magellan by Stuart Dybek

How to start: This is a fun collection of stories!

Favourite quotes: “He sang with facial expressions that caused him to cut himself shaving. He shaved with a straight razor rather than wasting money on blades, and he bled as he sang, the foam on the razor stained pink and his face stuck up with bloody clots of toilet paper. I was afraid that, reaching for a note, he’d cut his throat.” (p 15)

“I’d done it out of the same wildness that made for an alliance between us - a bond that turned life comic at the expense of anything gentle. An impulsiveness that permitted a stupid, callous curiosity, the same dangerous lack of sense that had made me ride one day down Luther, a sunless side street that ran only a block, and, peddling at full speed, attempt to jump off my J. C. Higgins bike and back on in a single bounce.” (p127)

“A curfew of cold had emptied the streets.” (p 164)

“Picnics on a windowsill: braunschweiger, Jewish rye, mayonnaise, raw onion, potato salad blushing with paprika, a cold beer, an enormous garlicky sea green pickle tonged just minutes before at the corner deli by a young woman with high cheekbones and a slavic accent, her golden hair standing from turquoise combs that could hardly contain the weight of curls, ample breasts so loose they had to be bare in the sleeveless blue sundress she wore, and the blond hair growing profusely under her arms flashing as she dipped into a huge glass crock where a school of kosher pickles darted away and tried to hide amidst the dill weed, roiled seeds, and wheeling peppercorns.” (p 217)

“Children herded by billowing nuns, jostled into lines.
”The pigeon-launching church bells tolled one o’clock, if a single ring can be considered a toll. Its reverberation filled my apartment.
”That was lunch at the Loyola Arms Hotel - on one or another of those days when nothing happened really but lunch - and yet I don’t remember ever feeling more free, or more alone, than when I’d watch the children marching into school, surrendering the street back to the pigeons and shadow until it was empty and quiet again, and I sat propped in the window, draining the foam, with the length of an entire afternoon still before me.” (p 232)

“At eight a.m., he was waiting in the doorway when the Chinese herbalist came to open his pharmacy. Mick stepped into the shop’s alien atmosphere of dried herbs and powdered animals and inhaled a smell that seemed in itself curative.” (p 264)

“The boy and his gran seem more real to him than his room in the present. Suddenly, it’s clear to him that memory is the channel by which the past conducts its powerful energy; it’s how the past continues to love.” (p 283)

Tangential: This interview he gave makes me want to sit down and write!

Year-end

I love year-end retrospectives, and so, joining in like a guest unafraid of water at a pool party, here’s mine!

I read about thirty books this year, some from a list of classics, including La Cousine Bette and Desperate Characters, and some specific self-help books including The Highly Sensitive Person, The Actor’s Life and The Business of Being a Writer. Some books went together, like Wuthering Heights and Elizabeth Gaskell’s biography of the author. I got immersed in Karl Ove Knausgaard’s My Struggle in March but came up for air after the first two books and decided not to plunge back in. I stuck a toe in graphic novels, including Can’t We Talk About Something More Pleasant? and Fun Home: A Family Tragicomic. Light reads included Theft by Finding and Brunch is Hell. Because I liked Carol Shield’s advice on writing, I read Stone Diaries. I liked Sally Mann’s book Hold Still, a choice influenced by Austin Kleon’s advice. University course subjects lead me to read Halfbreed by Maria Campbell and a collection of biographies on and writings by Nellie McClung. 

On a whim I like to take out cookbooks at the library. These included How to Cook a Wolf, Six Seasons, Love and Lemons, My Kitchen Year, and Repertoire. I follow a menu plan for the year that is flexible enough to allow for new recipes and improvements, like when Jessica Battaliana’s Pork Saltimbocca surpassed all previous Chicken Saltimbocca attempts. And we’d probably adopt Jeanine Donofrio’s Vegan Carrot Waffles forever were it not our son’s aversion to carrots even in their sneakiest form. Food 52’s Fasoolya Khadra was deceptively delicious. We also liked their Rosy Chicken paired with Joy of Cooking Baked Polenta. Another delight was Cauliflower Ragu from Six Seasons. I’ve upped my salad repertoire thanks to the New York Times list of 101 Simple Salads of which the in-season peaches and tomato salad is a tasty memory. An August brunch stands out for its Plum Poppy-Seed Muffins and Mushroom and Shallot Quiche. Deb Perelman is a go-to for so many good recipes. Marie-Hélène’s birthday supper request was her Everyday Meatballs with fresh pasta. The Ice Cream Cake Roll was an impressive birthday dessert. Fresh strawberries still make Strawberry Shortcake one of my favourite desserts. In the summer we make Tomato Corn Pie. Around Christian’s birthday, we look forward to Butter Chicken. His favourite dessert is an Apple Crisp without oatmeal in the topping.

Still-young children make for a lot of nights in, but we did try out The Mitchell Block, Passero, and Nuburger at the Common on dates out. On weekends we’ll make a treat of a drink and Netflix. After watching Mindhunter, Rectify, Charité, Halt and Catch Fire, Ozark, Better Call Saul, the rest of Suits and most of Fargo, we’re looking forward to new seasons! On regular television Life in Pieces makes us laugh the most. 

And you? Do you have any recommendations?