If you need me, I’ll be in the laundry room. Yes, that’s right: the laundry room. It is where I currently reside. At one time, I had a home; a beautiful home, with four bedrooms and lots of shiny bathrooms. Wait, maybe I still have that home? Anyway, that doesn’t matter anymore, because I live in the laundry room. It’s not an unpleasant room, really. It is a pale, nameless cream colour and it has a window, through which I glimpse a sliver of a wide world that is sometimes sunny, or stormy, where people walk dogs and kids play ball.
In the laundry room, it’s hard to tell what time of day it is. It’s like those windowless casinos where they pump oxygen, so that you keep betting all night and the next day, with no sense of the hours that pass. I guess I don’t really need to know what time it is; I have my own clock in the laundry room. The hands strike the following hours:
HOUR ONE: Stinky whites, mostly balled-up or inside-out sports socks, as well as various pieces of underclothing with faded stains and yellowing tones. For the record, I start with whites because that’s how I learned to do laundry at my mother’s house, where her state-of-the-art 60’s machine would spew the slightly soiled, warm water into the adjacent sink after the whites had been through the rinse cycle so that the water could be re-used (how environmental and gross all at the same time!) for washing the next load, which had to be light colours that wouldn’t run.
HOUR TWO: Light colours, including towels that have been left on the floor, forgotten, retrieved and added to laundry piles in twisted, smelly piles that dampen and pollute all the clothes in the basket.
HOUR THREE: This round is for the additional twisted, malodorous whites that I find in gym bags, under the sofas, and in the bathrooms, which didn’t make it into the first load.
HOUR FOUR: Dark colours including more jeans than I have ever owned in my life, making me think that my teen-aged daughter is putting them in the dirty laundry pile, after simply trying them on in the tortured morning ritual of finding something to wear.
HOUR FIVE: Reds. Does anyone else separate reds? For some reason, I think I’m supposed to do that, so here we go with a smaller load of oranges, reds and purples with red undertones that are mostly sports jerseys and shorts that were supposed to be clean and dry for the game last night.
HOUR SIX: A final load of darks comprising clothes that I find in my husband’s gym bag, stiffened into artistic forms, and more sports shorts and shirts in which my pre-teen son lives these days – usually for an hour or so before changing to a fresh outfit for the next game or practice or whatever.
You may be thinking that six hours is a pretty short day and that I’m doing pretty well for myself but what you don’t know is that clothes were still piling up while I was washing. New heaps and trails of crumpled clothing in bedrooms, bathrooms and living areas mock me. It’s enough to make a grown woman cry! Well, okay, laugh maniacally, I guess! Anyway, if you need me, I’ll be in the laundry room.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Sunday, September 25, 2011
A Perfect Day in New York
Is there such a thing as a perfect day in New York; a day so perfect that I can still taste it later? Can New York dish up the kind of day that makes me want to sing and dance in Grand Central Station? Can it make me forget full taxis flying by, when I thought my feet would fall off? Can the splendid flower kiosks, stunning public parks, soaring majestic buildings, and endless delicious little restaurants make me overlook strange street smells, homeless people sleeping on grates, and a nearly naked lady playing guitar in Times Square? Can a city where it has rained ashes and bodies make me believe in mankind? Can it make me happy? I believe it can.
Is there such a thing as a perfect day in New York? Personally, I’ve had good ones and bad ones. I’ve felt trapped like a bird in a cage, vowing I’d never return, when I couldn’t leave to chase an angel whispering goodbye elsewhere. I’ve braced myself against bitter winds, bending forward, head bowed against the raging winter. I’ve dodged rain drops, chilling rain, and enormous dark puddles reflecting ubiquitous sirens. I’ve been stuck on the subway. I’ve been honked at and yelled at.
But, I’ve also been helped. Doors have been held open and people have smiled and waved. I have lingered under the European plane trees in Bryant Park at a wrought iron table enjoying the late afternoon summer sun as it filtered through the leaves. I’ve dawdled about on the monumental steps of the Public Library and at the edge of a pond in Central Park. I’ve been swept up in lost, joyous, crazy crowds at Times Square. I’ve walked long boulevards and avenues, where horse-drawn carriages once travelled, catching snippets of conversations and languages and dialects and accents and humanity.
In New York, a complete stranger told me I looked nice then scurried away. When people’s eyes meet, no-one looks away. They share jokes. They hear your thoughts. They agree. They disagree. They laugh. They leave. They turn. They connect. They intersect like a mad science experiment. No-one is from there; they’re all lost, asking for directions and unfolding maps. The energy is intoxicating, but it might be exhausting.
So, is there such a thing as a perfect day in New York? Yes, yes, there is! You start at the Museum of Modern Art, where you and your friends float through rooms filled with masterpieces and strange colours and clever designs. Then, you chance upon a tiny Italian restaurant next door to the theatre you’ll be attending later that afternoon. The restaurant is authentic: the waiters speak Italian or heavily-accented English and it smells like a garden, so you’ll reminisce about visiting Umbria once long ago.
Now, for a perfect day in New York, you and your friends will go to a Broadway show after your lovely omelette and salad and wine. The theatre district is bustling. There are actors and singers and stage managers wearing canvas bags over black t-shirts advertising current hits, sliding effortlessly through crowds of tourists reading billboards and lining up at ticket counters. Your perfect day should include – as mine did – a brand new play that’s just opened. “Relatively Speaking” is a show with three one-act plays, written by well-known comedians (including Woody Allen), and loaded with famous actors whose CVs would fill a book.
After the show, which might make you cry and will for sure make you laugh and shake your head in awe at the talent, you and your friends should be pampered at a Danny Meyer restaurant. Danny Meyer is the CEO of a company that owns and operates several wonderful restaurants in New York mostly around Union Square. We ate at Grammercy Tavern, a very popular restaurant known for its seamless but relaxed service, interesting wine list and, above all, absolutely delicious food. I started my perfect dinner on my perfect day with the “open ravioli”. I chose the ravioli because I’d been lucky enough to be treated to lunch the day before at Maialino, the latest in the Danny Meyer collection, where I ate the most heavenly ravioli ever – the pasta was as thin as tissue paper, and bulged with a rich ricotta mixture, all of it steeping in a brown butter, lemon and sage sauce.
After dinner, during which the staff will have effortlessly made you feel right at home, you will hail a taxi. Since it is a perfect day in New York, the first taxi on the scene will stop as soon as you raise your hand to hail it. The driver will kindly drop you right in front of the theatre where you’re going for the next Broadway show, even though it’s so crowded he can hardly get through the street. You will see a musical – ah the musical! There’s nothing like the singing and dancing! The costumes, the Cole Porter tunes, the innocent love! The show, “Anything Goes”, which has won a Tony for best revival, delivered on every count. The star, Sutton Foster, who plays feisty Reno Sweeny, is exactly the kind of confident, glamorous gal who can steal a show and drag everyone with her to bring a top performance every time. Her sense of fun and perfect timing were infectious; she just lit up the stage!
Oh, have I mentioned that it was sunny and warm, too?
Is there such a thing as a perfect day in New York? Personally, I’ve had good ones and bad ones. I’ve felt trapped like a bird in a cage, vowing I’d never return, when I couldn’t leave to chase an angel whispering goodbye elsewhere. I’ve braced myself against bitter winds, bending forward, head bowed against the raging winter. I’ve dodged rain drops, chilling rain, and enormous dark puddles reflecting ubiquitous sirens. I’ve been stuck on the subway. I’ve been honked at and yelled at.
But, I’ve also been helped. Doors have been held open and people have smiled and waved. I have lingered under the European plane trees in Bryant Park at a wrought iron table enjoying the late afternoon summer sun as it filtered through the leaves. I’ve dawdled about on the monumental steps of the Public Library and at the edge of a pond in Central Park. I’ve been swept up in lost, joyous, crazy crowds at Times Square. I’ve walked long boulevards and avenues, where horse-drawn carriages once travelled, catching snippets of conversations and languages and dialects and accents and humanity.
In New York, a complete stranger told me I looked nice then scurried away. When people’s eyes meet, no-one looks away. They share jokes. They hear your thoughts. They agree. They disagree. They laugh. They leave. They turn. They connect. They intersect like a mad science experiment. No-one is from there; they’re all lost, asking for directions and unfolding maps. The energy is intoxicating, but it might be exhausting.
So, is there such a thing as a perfect day in New York? Yes, yes, there is! You start at the Museum of Modern Art, where you and your friends float through rooms filled with masterpieces and strange colours and clever designs. Then, you chance upon a tiny Italian restaurant next door to the theatre you’ll be attending later that afternoon. The restaurant is authentic: the waiters speak Italian or heavily-accented English and it smells like a garden, so you’ll reminisce about visiting Umbria once long ago.
Now, for a perfect day in New York, you and your friends will go to a Broadway show after your lovely omelette and salad and wine. The theatre district is bustling. There are actors and singers and stage managers wearing canvas bags over black t-shirts advertising current hits, sliding effortlessly through crowds of tourists reading billboards and lining up at ticket counters. Your perfect day should include – as mine did – a brand new play that’s just opened. “Relatively Speaking” is a show with three one-act plays, written by well-known comedians (including Woody Allen), and loaded with famous actors whose CVs would fill a book.
After the show, which might make you cry and will for sure make you laugh and shake your head in awe at the talent, you and your friends should be pampered at a Danny Meyer restaurant. Danny Meyer is the CEO of a company that owns and operates several wonderful restaurants in New York mostly around Union Square. We ate at Grammercy Tavern, a very popular restaurant known for its seamless but relaxed service, interesting wine list and, above all, absolutely delicious food. I started my perfect dinner on my perfect day with the “open ravioli”. I chose the ravioli because I’d been lucky enough to be treated to lunch the day before at Maialino, the latest in the Danny Meyer collection, where I ate the most heavenly ravioli ever – the pasta was as thin as tissue paper, and bulged with a rich ricotta mixture, all of it steeping in a brown butter, lemon and sage sauce.
After dinner, during which the staff will have effortlessly made you feel right at home, you will hail a taxi. Since it is a perfect day in New York, the first taxi on the scene will stop as soon as you raise your hand to hail it. The driver will kindly drop you right in front of the theatre where you’re going for the next Broadway show, even though it’s so crowded he can hardly get through the street. You will see a musical – ah the musical! There’s nothing like the singing and dancing! The costumes, the Cole Porter tunes, the innocent love! The show, “Anything Goes”, which has won a Tony for best revival, delivered on every count. The star, Sutton Foster, who plays feisty Reno Sweeny, is exactly the kind of confident, glamorous gal who can steal a show and drag everyone with her to bring a top performance every time. Her sense of fun and perfect timing were infectious; she just lit up the stage!
Oh, have I mentioned that it was sunny and warm, too?
Monday, February 28, 2011
Punch-Buggy-Green-One-No-Punch-Backs!
I would have a major bone to pick with the marketing team that brought back punching when you see a VW Bug on the road, except that I strongly suspect the trend was revitalized by a 12-year old girl. Why ... because my 12 year-old girl derives SUCH pleasure from punching me under the pretence that it’s for the car.
Every punch is loaded. She punches hard. I, of course, am watching the road, trying to protect her life, which is my JOB. She, on the other hand, is adjusting the radio stations and volume, texting her friends, checking her face in the mirror and ... POW! “Red one”, she shouts!
She punches hard. I’m telling you: every punch is loaded. It has meaning. It has feeling. One says, “You woke me up too early”. Then ... POW! “Blue one! Ha ... that’s two already!” That punch feels like retaliation for making her finish her homework before playing on the computer. Just before turning into our street ... POW! POW! “Beige one! Double punch for convertibles!” That must have been for making her pick up her dirty laundry...
Think about it!? I mean, would you have been allowed to PUNCH your parents? I shudder thinking about it. I’m nearly 50 and I still wouldn’t even pretend to rap my mother’s knuckles! We grew up in the 60s, when moms said, “Wait ‘til your father gets home” and you’d be nervous stewing over what he’d say or do. In my house, my mother might have said that but she didn’t wait; she doled out a share of the wooden spoon first! Well, I spared my kids the proverbial rod and I’m sure all grandparents think whatever’s wrong with this generation is the result of that oversight! In any case, kids in our day were afraid to talk back, let alone PUNCH!
Yet, here we are just one generation later and my kid is bruising my right arm every time she sees a VW Bug. Maybe I need to buy a wooden spoon just for the car – ha ha! Unfortunately, St. Louis fared well through the recent recession so there are tons of brand new VW Bugs on the road right now ... red ones, green ones, yellow ones with daisies, black ones with soft tops, baby blue ones with white doors ... POW! POW! POW!
OW! OW! OW!
Every punch is loaded. She punches hard. I, of course, am watching the road, trying to protect her life, which is my JOB. She, on the other hand, is adjusting the radio stations and volume, texting her friends, checking her face in the mirror and ... POW! “Red one”, she shouts!
She punches hard. I’m telling you: every punch is loaded. It has meaning. It has feeling. One says, “You woke me up too early”. Then ... POW! “Blue one! Ha ... that’s two already!” That punch feels like retaliation for making her finish her homework before playing on the computer. Just before turning into our street ... POW! POW! “Beige one! Double punch for convertibles!” That must have been for making her pick up her dirty laundry...
Think about it!? I mean, would you have been allowed to PUNCH your parents? I shudder thinking about it. I’m nearly 50 and I still wouldn’t even pretend to rap my mother’s knuckles! We grew up in the 60s, when moms said, “Wait ‘til your father gets home” and you’d be nervous stewing over what he’d say or do. In my house, my mother might have said that but she didn’t wait; she doled out a share of the wooden spoon first! Well, I spared my kids the proverbial rod and I’m sure all grandparents think whatever’s wrong with this generation is the result of that oversight! In any case, kids in our day were afraid to talk back, let alone PUNCH!
Yet, here we are just one generation later and my kid is bruising my right arm every time she sees a VW Bug. Maybe I need to buy a wooden spoon just for the car – ha ha! Unfortunately, St. Louis fared well through the recent recession so there are tons of brand new VW Bugs on the road right now ... red ones, green ones, yellow ones with daisies, black ones with soft tops, baby blue ones with white doors ... POW! POW! POW!
OW! OW! OW!
Friday, February 25, 2011
Bring on the Moolah!
Last night, I had so much fun at the Moolah! What, you ask, is the Moolah? Well, don’t worry, I asked the same thing when I found out that it was playing the movie that my husband and I wanted to see. In fact, we’d wanted to see the movie at the same place that our daughter was attending a party so that we could pick her up right after the show but, alas! The movie was not playing there. So, I searched for the next closest theatre showing the movie and ... well, up popped The Moolah.
I thought there must have been some mistake. I’ve been here in St. Louis nearly one and a half years and I’d never even heard of it, despite my best efforts to visit everything this city has to offer in the way of museums, parks, art galleries, music, and live theatre. Well, an online search showed me that it was, indeed, a movie theatre and it was less than a mile from our daughter’s party, so off we went. From the Central West End, we drove east on Lindell until we hit St. Louis University, the large, mid-town, Jesuit university founded nearly two centuries ago. We parked and followed signs indicating the way to the theatre.
As we came around the side of the building toward the entrance, I stopped in stunned silence. The building is obviously old; no-one spends that much on beauty as well as function anymore. Its face is completely symmetrical, with three very tall, narrow, blue doors in the middle framed on either side by identical sets of three narrow windows. One tall, graceful arch of decorative stone reaches from one side of the entrance to the other, while two smaller, matching ones enclose the windows. A miniature arch above each door and window ties in with the larger arches. Between each window and each doors stretch tall, delicate, decorative columns, lending the building a Moorish feel. The building is made of dark brown brick, but adorned with pale blue tiles and a dark gold paint. I believe the design, with its repeated use of threes must be intentional for the Moolah Temple of the Mystic Shrine – as it is actually called – was built between 1912 and 1914 by the Shriners, who are Masons.
When I could finally stopped gawking and trying to soak up every detail of the facade, my husband led me inside, where other wonderful surprises awaited! I fell even deeper in love with the Moolah when I glanced into the intimate lounge on the left of the high-ceilinged, elegant entrance hall where a handful of young adults sipping drinks were nestled into big leather club seats and sofas watching an old Bugs Bunny rerun (remember the one where he’s a matador in Spain...?)! Yes, that’s right: feet up, slouched deep into the cushions, watching ... Bugs Bunny!
Straight ahead was the ticket counter and a small concession popping buttery popcorn, which promised that a movie theatre did indeed lurk somewhere in the building. I could barely take it all in; I was like a kid in a candy shop! To the right of the entrance hall, through a curved arch, a bar beckoned to us. It was like a movie set itself: a handsome, young bartender wiping down the counter; high shelves jammed with various bottles, mirrors and movie posters on the wall, and a long, curved, wooden bar anchored by a long line of stools. The bartender quietly cared for the couples huddled together toasting each other and the old guy nursing a whiskey, reading a newspaper. We found a quiet corner table by the massive wooden doorframe. “You can take them in”, said the bartender, nodding to the drinks he served us. (Can you believe this place?!)
Well, at this point, I barely needed to see a movie but my husband dragged me out of the bar when he saw a long line forming by the concession stand. They must have come out of the woodwork, those folks, because I have no idea where they all came from so suddenly! Anyway, they – the ones who beat us to the line – knew what they were doing. Let’s just say they were Moolah experts! You see, the Moolah theatre is a massive 500-person theatre with a wide balcony running all along the back of the theatre, two sets of movie seats on either side and a floor area stuffed with massive leather sofas, club chairs, side and coffee tables. I felt like a kid playing Musical Chairs, as my husband and I hustled to find an open loveseat amidst the crowd of regulars making a beeline for their favourite spot!
Well, the movie was great but the theatre ... well, it was simply spectacular.
I thought there must have been some mistake. I’ve been here in St. Louis nearly one and a half years and I’d never even heard of it, despite my best efforts to visit everything this city has to offer in the way of museums, parks, art galleries, music, and live theatre. Well, an online search showed me that it was, indeed, a movie theatre and it was less than a mile from our daughter’s party, so off we went. From the Central West End, we drove east on Lindell until we hit St. Louis University, the large, mid-town, Jesuit university founded nearly two centuries ago. We parked and followed signs indicating the way to the theatre.
As we came around the side of the building toward the entrance, I stopped in stunned silence. The building is obviously old; no-one spends that much on beauty as well as function anymore. Its face is completely symmetrical, with three very tall, narrow, blue doors in the middle framed on either side by identical sets of three narrow windows. One tall, graceful arch of decorative stone reaches from one side of the entrance to the other, while two smaller, matching ones enclose the windows. A miniature arch above each door and window ties in with the larger arches. Between each window and each doors stretch tall, delicate, decorative columns, lending the building a Moorish feel. The building is made of dark brown brick, but adorned with pale blue tiles and a dark gold paint. I believe the design, with its repeated use of threes must be intentional for the Moolah Temple of the Mystic Shrine – as it is actually called – was built between 1912 and 1914 by the Shriners, who are Masons.
When I could finally stopped gawking and trying to soak up every detail of the facade, my husband led me inside, where other wonderful surprises awaited! I fell even deeper in love with the Moolah when I glanced into the intimate lounge on the left of the high-ceilinged, elegant entrance hall where a handful of young adults sipping drinks were nestled into big leather club seats and sofas watching an old Bugs Bunny rerun (remember the one where he’s a matador in Spain...?)! Yes, that’s right: feet up, slouched deep into the cushions, watching ... Bugs Bunny!
Straight ahead was the ticket counter and a small concession popping buttery popcorn, which promised that a movie theatre did indeed lurk somewhere in the building. I could barely take it all in; I was like a kid in a candy shop! To the right of the entrance hall, through a curved arch, a bar beckoned to us. It was like a movie set itself: a handsome, young bartender wiping down the counter; high shelves jammed with various bottles, mirrors and movie posters on the wall, and a long, curved, wooden bar anchored by a long line of stools. The bartender quietly cared for the couples huddled together toasting each other and the old guy nursing a whiskey, reading a newspaper. We found a quiet corner table by the massive wooden doorframe. “You can take them in”, said the bartender, nodding to the drinks he served us. (Can you believe this place?!)
Well, at this point, I barely needed to see a movie but my husband dragged me out of the bar when he saw a long line forming by the concession stand. They must have come out of the woodwork, those folks, because I have no idea where they all came from so suddenly! Anyway, they – the ones who beat us to the line – knew what they were doing. Let’s just say they were Moolah experts! You see, the Moolah theatre is a massive 500-person theatre with a wide balcony running all along the back of the theatre, two sets of movie seats on either side and a floor area stuffed with massive leather sofas, club chairs, side and coffee tables. I felt like a kid playing Musical Chairs, as my husband and I hustled to find an open loveseat amidst the crowd of regulars making a beeline for their favourite spot!
Well, the movie was great but the theatre ... well, it was simply spectacular.
Monday, December 13, 2010
In Sickness and In Health
A death in the family is a cruel reminder that you live far from home. It makes you realize how far away you are when you worry that your later time zone makes it too late to call and let them know you’re coming. Indeed, you are very far away when you need a flight, a hotel and a rented car to get there. A visitor in the place you used to call home. Needing a map to find the funeral home makes that feeling a bright, brittle reality.
“Your aunt died”, is what my father said when he called. I knew when I saw his number on the call display that something must be wrong because he and his wife had visited me just two weeks ago when I was in Toronto to surprise my mother at her retirement party. “Your aunt died” was all he could say. He couldn’t say much more because she was less MY aunt than she was HIS sister, his beloved older sister, his only sister, his surrogate mother when he was younger. He could barely speak.
I lost my sister too. It was many years ago, but never stops feeling recent – like I forgot to move through all the stages of grief and got stuck on “denial”. I know exactly how your memory takes turns soothing you and torturing you with scene after vivid childhood scene. In a rush, you relive the good times, the bad times, the funny times, the sad times ... the short years that you had together. “Your sister” is how my father always refers to her, as if he too is still in denial and cannot utter “my daughter” for fear of making it real.
“Your aunt died” was all he could say. Well, okay, I’ll take her. I’ll happily own her and call her MINE. I am happy to have had any possession of her at all for she was a lot of fun and my memories of her are wonderful. No matter how many people were in her home or her cottage, in addition to her own five children, their friends, and random neighbourhood kids, she would always be smiling or laughing. A collage of pictures at the funeral show the Bev I knew as a child – chin held high, leaning slightly forward with a big grin on her face and her hands on her hips.
Occasionally, she would pretend to be exasperated by some joke or comment that her husband had made, shaking her head and admonishing him, but, in reality, she adored him. He adored her too and they were married 61 years. The photos of their courtship and married life confirm that a stunning teenager with high cheekbones and close-set pale blue eyes fell in love with a dashing, dark-haired man, who never seemed to stop smiling. They aged gracefully, producing multiple kids, grandkids and great-grandkids. In some photos, they are smiling at each other or out at the camera but they are nearly always touching; always together.
Several years ago, though, Alzheimer’s robbed my aunt of the ability to connect the face of her husband with his name or his relationship to her. These were sad days; like trying to save a drowning person whose hands slip slowly out of your grasp. From the time my aunt needed full-time care until her passing, my uncle spent every single day at the home helping her and the other clients. His biggest worry, when he needed minor surgery a couple of years ago, was that he would not be able to visit her for several days.
“Your aunt died” is what my father said when he called. Yes, indeed, she did and I’m as sorry for it as I am happy that I knew her at all. Goodbye, Aunt Bev. We loved you dearly.
“Your aunt died”, is what my father said when he called. I knew when I saw his number on the call display that something must be wrong because he and his wife had visited me just two weeks ago when I was in Toronto to surprise my mother at her retirement party. “Your aunt died” was all he could say. He couldn’t say much more because she was less MY aunt than she was HIS sister, his beloved older sister, his only sister, his surrogate mother when he was younger. He could barely speak.
I lost my sister too. It was many years ago, but never stops feeling recent – like I forgot to move through all the stages of grief and got stuck on “denial”. I know exactly how your memory takes turns soothing you and torturing you with scene after vivid childhood scene. In a rush, you relive the good times, the bad times, the funny times, the sad times ... the short years that you had together. “Your sister” is how my father always refers to her, as if he too is still in denial and cannot utter “my daughter” for fear of making it real.
“Your aunt died” was all he could say. Well, okay, I’ll take her. I’ll happily own her and call her MINE. I am happy to have had any possession of her at all for she was a lot of fun and my memories of her are wonderful. No matter how many people were in her home or her cottage, in addition to her own five children, their friends, and random neighbourhood kids, she would always be smiling or laughing. A collage of pictures at the funeral show the Bev I knew as a child – chin held high, leaning slightly forward with a big grin on her face and her hands on her hips.
Occasionally, she would pretend to be exasperated by some joke or comment that her husband had made, shaking her head and admonishing him, but, in reality, she adored him. He adored her too and they were married 61 years. The photos of their courtship and married life confirm that a stunning teenager with high cheekbones and close-set pale blue eyes fell in love with a dashing, dark-haired man, who never seemed to stop smiling. They aged gracefully, producing multiple kids, grandkids and great-grandkids. In some photos, they are smiling at each other or out at the camera but they are nearly always touching; always together.
Several years ago, though, Alzheimer’s robbed my aunt of the ability to connect the face of her husband with his name or his relationship to her. These were sad days; like trying to save a drowning person whose hands slip slowly out of your grasp. From the time my aunt needed full-time care until her passing, my uncle spent every single day at the home helping her and the other clients. His biggest worry, when he needed minor surgery a couple of years ago, was that he would not be able to visit her for several days.
“Your aunt died” is what my father said when he called. Yes, indeed, she did and I’m as sorry for it as I am happy that I knew her at all. Goodbye, Aunt Bev. We loved you dearly.
Friday, October 29, 2010
No Sense and No Sensibility
Jane Austen is destroying my productivity. I mean, ruining it! The laundry is piled sky-high and the kids have eaten freezer-to-oven chicken strips twice this week. I barely made it to my volunteer job two days ago. I have thank you notes to write and even this year’s Christmas letter to start. I have bills to pay and an invoice to submit for remuneration. But oh no! I’m reading Jane Austen!
Last week, I re-read Pride and Prejudice for what was probably the 20th time. It is my favourite of the handful of timelessly witty classics produced by this brilliant novelist. In fact, it had been my first Austen, back in 1993, when I was living in Vancouver and happened into a bookstore on Broadway, near my apartment where dozens of paperback classics were stacked on a table at the front. I returned the next day to buy three more Jane Austen novels: Emma; Mansfield Park; Sense and Sensibility. Six months later, I grabbed Persuasion, another favourite, while waiting for a flight at an airport in northern Canada. Later, Northanger Abbey completed my paperback collection.
These books have come with me all over the world, for I know that a craving for Ms. Austen’s words will come over me at least once per year and I will be obliged to read every book again. I linger over the words and how beautifully they are put together. I laugh at the wit (“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”) and her portrayals of the unending manoeuvring in society to preserve wealth, to obtain a position, to marry well, or to gain a livelihood – all keys to success in the day.
I never tire of the romances, for they nearly always turn out well, with a satisfying rich-boy-marries-poor-girl conclusion. I never tire of her characters; the way some are upheld for their virtue and steadfastness, while others are mocked for their vanity and pretentions! I never tire of Austen’s depictions of societies at Bath and London nor of her descriptions of the tiny hamlets and villages that still typify rural England.
Now, in addition to reading the novels, I have the luxury of watching the movies – those fabulously epic BBC versions of Austen’s best. Who could not be moved – weak at the knees actually – watching Colin Firth play Mr. Darcy with such intensity? Who would be immune to the attentions of such a handsome aristocrat? Who among us would not secretly wish such a man to be madly in love with us? I could watch that movie every day!
The problem is that once I started reading one Austen, I cannot get enough. I will re-read every novel I own, as well as a collection of fragmented and unpublished stories that I possess as well! Perhaps it is a blessing that the poor woman had only a handful of novels in print at the time of her passing at quite a young age; otherwise, I would never get anything accomplished at all! As it is, between the books and the movies, I can be out of commission for more than a week!
Even worse is my unexplained desire to adopt the dialogue of the books. Nowadays, when we see and hear so much rudeness, vulgarity and hate, I long for more civility in communication! It takes much longer for Jane Austen to express something, but that’s why it’s so pretty. Her characters rarely blurt out what’s on their mind; they’re more careful about the phrasing, but wouldn’t that kind of filter be welcome? Pity the friend who calls during an Austen week, as I’m likely to answer that I’m “honoured to have the privilege of dining with her in a fortnight” or that I am “indisposed at present” or that I am “vexed” by something that has happened.
Now, pray, madam, forgive me! If you’ll be so good as to excuse me, I must attend to my duties. (Ya, ya, I need to throw a load ‘o laundry in the machine and pick up the kids at school ... back to reality!)
Last week, I re-read Pride and Prejudice for what was probably the 20th time. It is my favourite of the handful of timelessly witty classics produced by this brilliant novelist. In fact, it had been my first Austen, back in 1993, when I was living in Vancouver and happened into a bookstore on Broadway, near my apartment where dozens of paperback classics were stacked on a table at the front. I returned the next day to buy three more Jane Austen novels: Emma; Mansfield Park; Sense and Sensibility. Six months later, I grabbed Persuasion, another favourite, while waiting for a flight at an airport in northern Canada. Later, Northanger Abbey completed my paperback collection.
These books have come with me all over the world, for I know that a craving for Ms. Austen’s words will come over me at least once per year and I will be obliged to read every book again. I linger over the words and how beautifully they are put together. I laugh at the wit (“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”) and her portrayals of the unending manoeuvring in society to preserve wealth, to obtain a position, to marry well, or to gain a livelihood – all keys to success in the day.
I never tire of the romances, for they nearly always turn out well, with a satisfying rich-boy-marries-poor-girl conclusion. I never tire of her characters; the way some are upheld for their virtue and steadfastness, while others are mocked for their vanity and pretentions! I never tire of Austen’s depictions of societies at Bath and London nor of her descriptions of the tiny hamlets and villages that still typify rural England.
Now, in addition to reading the novels, I have the luxury of watching the movies – those fabulously epic BBC versions of Austen’s best. Who could not be moved – weak at the knees actually – watching Colin Firth play Mr. Darcy with such intensity? Who would be immune to the attentions of such a handsome aristocrat? Who among us would not secretly wish such a man to be madly in love with us? I could watch that movie every day!
The problem is that once I started reading one Austen, I cannot get enough. I will re-read every novel I own, as well as a collection of fragmented and unpublished stories that I possess as well! Perhaps it is a blessing that the poor woman had only a handful of novels in print at the time of her passing at quite a young age; otherwise, I would never get anything accomplished at all! As it is, between the books and the movies, I can be out of commission for more than a week!
Even worse is my unexplained desire to adopt the dialogue of the books. Nowadays, when we see and hear so much rudeness, vulgarity and hate, I long for more civility in communication! It takes much longer for Jane Austen to express something, but that’s why it’s so pretty. Her characters rarely blurt out what’s on their mind; they’re more careful about the phrasing, but wouldn’t that kind of filter be welcome? Pity the friend who calls during an Austen week, as I’m likely to answer that I’m “honoured to have the privilege of dining with her in a fortnight” or that I am “indisposed at present” or that I am “vexed” by something that has happened.
Now, pray, madam, forgive me! If you’ll be so good as to excuse me, I must attend to my duties. (Ya, ya, I need to throw a load ‘o laundry in the machine and pick up the kids at school ... back to reality!)
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Vampires, Vamps and Voodoo
Last Saturday, this St. Louis alien jumped aboard her spacecraft and headed to a place that is so alien, she blended right in; no-one noticed the foreigner in their midst. How could they? For, we were in N’Awlins, former capital of French Louisiana during the 18th century, current home of home of vampires, vamps and voodoo!
My husband had to attend a conference down in The Big Easy, but I was just taking advantage of having my mother in town to look after the kids while I skipped out for one night to see another American city for the first time. But just seeing New Orleans is not enough. You need to breathe its dank, mysterious air. You need to drink its wicked cocktails and its magical spirit. You need to eat its unusual and mouth-watering food. You need to touch the fading colours of its stucco walls and run a hand across its finely filigreed balconies.
As soon as you step foot in New Orleans, you know you’re in a different place: cemeteries with crooked rows of tall, elegant crypts, housing generations of the city’s founders; the French style town-homes of the Old Quarter; the quiet villas of the Garden District; and the people, whose faces are an intriguing and beautiful mix of all the world has to offer.
We dumped our bags in the hotel and hit Bourbon Street, famous for its annual Mardi Gras parade, as well as its many restaurants and bars. We got into the spirit – so to speak – right away, with a frosty pina colada in a large plastic glass to go! I hadn’t quite finished mine when we were drawn into the open veranda doors of an establishment advertising home-made chicken gumbo and fresh fish.
A tiny blond waif of a hostess invited us in, waving plastic-coated menus. I wasn’t sure if we could go in with drinks from another bar, but she quickly put my worries to rest. “This ain’t Disneyland, Mama! Dis here is Bourbon Street!” Okay, I think I’m going to like this place....
Though already mid-October, the day was hot, like mid-summer in Toronto but without the humidity. A light breeze played hide-and-seek in the open doors, through which we could hear snippets of conversation from passersby and upbeat zydeco music from somewhere nearby. Ceiling fans rotated slowly, lending more romance than cool air to the atmosphere. A 12-foot stuffed alligator held court above an enormous wooden bar, across which the regulars leaned to hear the latest gossip from the bartender. Lamps made of saxophones and trumpets lit up dark corners, where waiters tried to make sense of their own notes and tallies.
From our table, I could see across to the other side of the road, where an impossibly tall transvestite all vamped up in a shimmering, bronze ball gown stood stock-still with his face turned up toward the sun (or a lover on the balcony above?), eyes closed and arms half-raised, as if to dry his feathers in the heat. When I turned to look again, he had vanished.
New Orleans is like that; people can just vanish. Here, they say those who can disappear and those who leap effortlessly over six and seven foot fences must be vampires. I’m not sure about the jumping, but the vanishing could be a pretty easy trick. Like many old European cities, most buildings down in the old district of New Orleans are separated by skinny little cobble-stoned pathways that seem to lead nowhere and just disappear in a deep shadow at the back. From those narrow alleyways emerge trickles of water, an occasional potted plant or rusty chair, strains of distant music, snatches of an argument, and a couple of old souls.
Needing a bit of exercise and to escape the drunken tentacles of Bourbon Street, we walked over to Canal Street, which takes you to the Mississippi River. This is a wide, vibrant avenue, bordered by towering trees and split in the middle by an ancient tram line whose turn-of-the-century cars waddled up and down all day, whistling and ringing their signal bells. After poking our heads in a few tourist shops lined with voodoo dolls, charms and spell-casting books, we made it to River Walk, just behind the gorgeous casino. Here, we wandered a bit and spent a pleasant hour with a steamy cafe-au-lait and hot, powdery beignets, watching the freight boats glide by.
If you close your eyes, you can smell the river and you can hear Dixieland music. You can feel the ripple of the air as Cajun spirits dance past you. You are hungry, but you’ve eaten too much. The food is rich and sensuous, with secret ingredients that Grandmama got from her Creole Grandmammy and will never share. Like its people, the recipes come from everywhere and nowhere, invented and inherited. They are full of spices and spells, memories and magic.
Although New Orleans is just a long boat-ride two states south of St. Louis on the same muddy river that defines my adopted home town, it could be another planet for all of its bewitching strangeness and beauty. I can’t wait to “land” here again soon!
My husband had to attend a conference down in The Big Easy, but I was just taking advantage of having my mother in town to look after the kids while I skipped out for one night to see another American city for the first time. But just seeing New Orleans is not enough. You need to breathe its dank, mysterious air. You need to drink its wicked cocktails and its magical spirit. You need to eat its unusual and mouth-watering food. You need to touch the fading colours of its stucco walls and run a hand across its finely filigreed balconies.
As soon as you step foot in New Orleans, you know you’re in a different place: cemeteries with crooked rows of tall, elegant crypts, housing generations of the city’s founders; the French style town-homes of the Old Quarter; the quiet villas of the Garden District; and the people, whose faces are an intriguing and beautiful mix of all the world has to offer.
We dumped our bags in the hotel and hit Bourbon Street, famous for its annual Mardi Gras parade, as well as its many restaurants and bars. We got into the spirit – so to speak – right away, with a frosty pina colada in a large plastic glass to go! I hadn’t quite finished mine when we were drawn into the open veranda doors of an establishment advertising home-made chicken gumbo and fresh fish.
A tiny blond waif of a hostess invited us in, waving plastic-coated menus. I wasn’t sure if we could go in with drinks from another bar, but she quickly put my worries to rest. “This ain’t Disneyland, Mama! Dis here is Bourbon Street!” Okay, I think I’m going to like this place....
Though already mid-October, the day was hot, like mid-summer in Toronto but without the humidity. A light breeze played hide-and-seek in the open doors, through which we could hear snippets of conversation from passersby and upbeat zydeco music from somewhere nearby. Ceiling fans rotated slowly, lending more romance than cool air to the atmosphere. A 12-foot stuffed alligator held court above an enormous wooden bar, across which the regulars leaned to hear the latest gossip from the bartender. Lamps made of saxophones and trumpets lit up dark corners, where waiters tried to make sense of their own notes and tallies.
From our table, I could see across to the other side of the road, where an impossibly tall transvestite all vamped up in a shimmering, bronze ball gown stood stock-still with his face turned up toward the sun (or a lover on the balcony above?), eyes closed and arms half-raised, as if to dry his feathers in the heat. When I turned to look again, he had vanished.
New Orleans is like that; people can just vanish. Here, they say those who can disappear and those who leap effortlessly over six and seven foot fences must be vampires. I’m not sure about the jumping, but the vanishing could be a pretty easy trick. Like many old European cities, most buildings down in the old district of New Orleans are separated by skinny little cobble-stoned pathways that seem to lead nowhere and just disappear in a deep shadow at the back. From those narrow alleyways emerge trickles of water, an occasional potted plant or rusty chair, strains of distant music, snatches of an argument, and a couple of old souls.
Needing a bit of exercise and to escape the drunken tentacles of Bourbon Street, we walked over to Canal Street, which takes you to the Mississippi River. This is a wide, vibrant avenue, bordered by towering trees and split in the middle by an ancient tram line whose turn-of-the-century cars waddled up and down all day, whistling and ringing their signal bells. After poking our heads in a few tourist shops lined with voodoo dolls, charms and spell-casting books, we made it to River Walk, just behind the gorgeous casino. Here, we wandered a bit and spent a pleasant hour with a steamy cafe-au-lait and hot, powdery beignets, watching the freight boats glide by.
If you close your eyes, you can smell the river and you can hear Dixieland music. You can feel the ripple of the air as Cajun spirits dance past you. You are hungry, but you’ve eaten too much. The food is rich and sensuous, with secret ingredients that Grandmama got from her Creole Grandmammy and will never share. Like its people, the recipes come from everywhere and nowhere, invented and inherited. They are full of spices and spells, memories and magic.
Although New Orleans is just a long boat-ride two states south of St. Louis on the same muddy river that defines my adopted home town, it could be another planet for all of its bewitching strangeness and beauty. I can’t wait to “land” here again soon!
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