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.
Monday, December 13, 2010
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!
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
And the Home of the Brave
Today, for the first time, I cried when I heard the American anthem. It’s hard to explain why. I only recently started getting a catch in my throat during the playing of my own national anthem, “Oh Canada”, which is so faithful and sweet. I think the “true North strong and free” makes me miss my fellow Canadians who are indeed strong and free.
But the American anthem is strong and powerful. I have always admired it and the way this country’s citizens do, in fact, rise – persevere actually – in the face of the “bombs bursting in air”. I live in the United States now, so I have ample opportunity to study the words to this stirring song, as it is played before every sporting event, political dinner, and school function; even at a recent tourist attraction to which I had dragged the kids.
It’s a stirring and patriotic song. However, until today, I have not been reduced to tears upon hearing it. Today was different though. Today was a cold, clear autumn day. The sky was an incredible blue that artists could only hope to capture on a canvas. Birds flitted about. Dogs strained on leashes and sniffed the air with anticipation. Folks had dragged out hats and scarves from last year to ward off the chill in the morning air.
Right at the stirring moment when the Star Spangled Banner rises to “over the land of the free” and then pauses dramatically before finishing powerfully with, “and the home of the brave”, I lost it. I lost it because I was at the Junior Diabetes Walk for a Cure with my son, who has diabetes, and is one of the bravest people I have ever known. The words just spoke to me today. By “land of the free”, I was already thinking “land of the hope” as I looked around the crowd of more than 25,000 walkers, all hoping for a cure for this crazy auto-immune disease that robs kids of their own insulin production and forever banishes them to a life of blood tests, needles, and increased risk for complications such as blindness and nerve damage.
My son was diagnosed with Type One Diabetes when he was six years old. He had been a big, vibrant, energetic child until an ear-nose-throat infection felled him. He never recovered. He started wetting his bed and drinking all the time to appease an insatiable thirst that confused and preoccupied him. He started losing weight and his school picture from that year shows a wan child with dark circles triple-wrapped around tired little eyes that once danced with energy and delight. If you’re a parent, you’ll understand when I say how hard it was to call the doctor and say that I suspected diabetes because just saying it made it real. Up until a certain moment, you can convince yourself that you can handle it; that you can make your child get better like you always do.
Once you say it, you can never take it back. In the beginning you look for the moment when you cursed your luck, when you gave your child this disease. You think back to your pregnancy and wonder if you drank too much milk or ate a piece of chocolate. Did I crave something? What was it that I craved? Did I give into it? I can’t remember. Over time, as you absorb the shock and do everything in your power to adjust the invisible protective plastic bubble that surrounds your child to include this new life-threatening disease, you begin to understand that you didn’t cause it and neither did he. It is simply an auto-immune disease that attacks the pancreas and kills the insulin-producing cells forever.
What never goes away – what never changes – is my wish to take it from him. How many nights have I stood above him while he slept, after I stuck yet another needle in him to adjust his insulin-to-blood sugar ratios, and prayed that the disease could somehow be transferred to me Just give it to me ... I’ll be strong ... I can handle it. Please, please, please, give him back his life! Give him back his perfect fingers that aren’t pock-marked from blood checks. Give him back his strong, tanned little arms with no bruises from insulin needles. Give him back the freedom to eat the chocolate doughnuts that his classmates bring in for every birthday without having to count the carbohydrates and slip another needle full of insulin under his shirt into his belly.
But praying for me to have this disease instead of him is fruitless. Today, as I wiped away my tears, I realized that I should be praying for a more realistic goal – one that is in sight – a cure for this disease. As we passed under a balloon-filled arch with thousands of other families and friends, I grabbed my son’s hand and gave it a squeeze. Nowadays, he’s a big, strong, independent 10-year old who likes to think he only has diabetes for brief moments during the day when he runs down to the nurse’s office and matches his carbs with an insulin injection. He plays soccer and baseball. He loves performing on stage. He sings beautifully and is obsessed with magic card tricks. He doesn’t want to hold his mom’s hand, but shakes me off gently, so as not to hurt my feelings. Then, he and his sister feint tripping each other and giggling away, just like any other siblings in the world.
I give a nod, in the home of the brave, to my brave young son and let go of his hand. Even without a cure, he can live a full life if he takes exceptional care of himself. With a cure, though, he will truly be free. He will rejoin the land of the free. Now that’s something to hope for.
But the American anthem is strong and powerful. I have always admired it and the way this country’s citizens do, in fact, rise – persevere actually – in the face of the “bombs bursting in air”. I live in the United States now, so I have ample opportunity to study the words to this stirring song, as it is played before every sporting event, political dinner, and school function; even at a recent tourist attraction to which I had dragged the kids.
It’s a stirring and patriotic song. However, until today, I have not been reduced to tears upon hearing it. Today was different though. Today was a cold, clear autumn day. The sky was an incredible blue that artists could only hope to capture on a canvas. Birds flitted about. Dogs strained on leashes and sniffed the air with anticipation. Folks had dragged out hats and scarves from last year to ward off the chill in the morning air.
Right at the stirring moment when the Star Spangled Banner rises to “over the land of the free” and then pauses dramatically before finishing powerfully with, “and the home of the brave”, I lost it. I lost it because I was at the Junior Diabetes Walk for a Cure with my son, who has diabetes, and is one of the bravest people I have ever known. The words just spoke to me today. By “land of the free”, I was already thinking “land of the hope” as I looked around the crowd of more than 25,000 walkers, all hoping for a cure for this crazy auto-immune disease that robs kids of their own insulin production and forever banishes them to a life of blood tests, needles, and increased risk for complications such as blindness and nerve damage.
My son was diagnosed with Type One Diabetes when he was six years old. He had been a big, vibrant, energetic child until an ear-nose-throat infection felled him. He never recovered. He started wetting his bed and drinking all the time to appease an insatiable thirst that confused and preoccupied him. He started losing weight and his school picture from that year shows a wan child with dark circles triple-wrapped around tired little eyes that once danced with energy and delight. If you’re a parent, you’ll understand when I say how hard it was to call the doctor and say that I suspected diabetes because just saying it made it real. Up until a certain moment, you can convince yourself that you can handle it; that you can make your child get better like you always do.
Once you say it, you can never take it back. In the beginning you look for the moment when you cursed your luck, when you gave your child this disease. You think back to your pregnancy and wonder if you drank too much milk or ate a piece of chocolate. Did I crave something? What was it that I craved? Did I give into it? I can’t remember. Over time, as you absorb the shock and do everything in your power to adjust the invisible protective plastic bubble that surrounds your child to include this new life-threatening disease, you begin to understand that you didn’t cause it and neither did he. It is simply an auto-immune disease that attacks the pancreas and kills the insulin-producing cells forever.
What never goes away – what never changes – is my wish to take it from him. How many nights have I stood above him while he slept, after I stuck yet another needle in him to adjust his insulin-to-blood sugar ratios, and prayed that the disease could somehow be transferred to me Just give it to me ... I’ll be strong ... I can handle it. Please, please, please, give him back his life! Give him back his perfect fingers that aren’t pock-marked from blood checks. Give him back his strong, tanned little arms with no bruises from insulin needles. Give him back the freedom to eat the chocolate doughnuts that his classmates bring in for every birthday without having to count the carbohydrates and slip another needle full of insulin under his shirt into his belly.
But praying for me to have this disease instead of him is fruitless. Today, as I wiped away my tears, I realized that I should be praying for a more realistic goal – one that is in sight – a cure for this disease. As we passed under a balloon-filled arch with thousands of other families and friends, I grabbed my son’s hand and gave it a squeeze. Nowadays, he’s a big, strong, independent 10-year old who likes to think he only has diabetes for brief moments during the day when he runs down to the nurse’s office and matches his carbs with an insulin injection. He plays soccer and baseball. He loves performing on stage. He sings beautifully and is obsessed with magic card tricks. He doesn’t want to hold his mom’s hand, but shakes me off gently, so as not to hurt my feelings. Then, he and his sister feint tripping each other and giggling away, just like any other siblings in the world.
I give a nod, in the home of the brave, to my brave young son and let go of his hand. Even without a cure, he can live a full life if he takes exceptional care of himself. With a cure, though, he will truly be free. He will rejoin the land of the free. Now that’s something to hope for.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Curl your larshes and darsh out!
Why do people here in Missouri say: “warsh” instead of wash? They do their warshing in warshing machines and call the nation’s capital “Warshington”. I mean, they don’t darsh out of the house with a pocket full of carsh to spend in Narshville. Nor do they marsh their potatoes or eat yellow squarsh! So why warsh?
Whenever you move to a new place, you try to adapt and one of the biggest signs of being an outsider is an accent. So, by extension, one of the best ways to blend in is to speak like the locals. For the most part, I think I sound the same as Missourians. But, alas, my daughter tells me that her friends think I have a strong, funny accent. Oh, great. Funny? I doubt they mean ha-ha; it’s just a polite way of saying “weird”. They have no idea how hard it was to drop the urge to finish statements with the proverbial Canadian “eh” that humbly invites a listener to agree or disagree with stated opinions.
Other than “warsh”, however, there don’t appear to be many words that differ from the English that I learned to speak. It’s more that the vowels here are stretched out. Try it: say “sorry” like me and then say it like a local. First is SOH-REE with almost no differentiation in the emphasis placed on each syllable. Now the local way: SAAAAW-REE. Here’s another flashing “you are an alien” neon sign: I tell my daughter to finish her PRO-JECT, while her classmates say PRAW-JECT.
Yesterday, while volunteering, I asked the director for the fax number. She was very puzzled. She asked “Fox Number?” and I repeated “Fax”. She asked, “What’s a FOX number?”. I replied that I was trying to find the number for the office’s facsimile machines ... you know (I added for extra emphasis), the machine that sends and receives documents. “Oh!”, she said, “a FAAAAAAAAAHHHHHX machine!” You can’t take it for granted that you’re being understood, I guess.
It reminded me of a time years ago in Ireland, when my teen-aged nephew told me that he hadn’t understood a word that anyone had been saying since we arrived on the Emerald Isle. I told him that the local people probably didn’t understand anything he was saying either. He was astounded. He stopped walking to contemplate my words. I guess the revelation was too great to absorb while walking. “Why?”, he asked me, “I don’t have an accent!”
It’s always that way, isn’t it? We can’t hear our own accents. When I speak French, I think I sound exactly like the locals but the puzzled look that sometimes creases the brows of my French-speaking friends leads me to believe that I’m occasionally making them work really hard to follow my train of thought!
It’s the same here, even though it’s English. I am conscious of the look. There’s surprise, followed by curiosity and definitely confusion. I no longer have to ask people to repeat questions, but when I first got here, I had to concentrate to understand the checkout lady’s “Paper or plastic, honey?”
My strategy is to speak slowly and to adjust some of my words so that they’re longer and softer – so that they sound less alien, if you know what I mean. I’ll apologise now, however, because I’m sure that I shall never learn to say “warsh” and “warshing”. I guess I’ll never fully blend in.
Whenever you move to a new place, you try to adapt and one of the biggest signs of being an outsider is an accent. So, by extension, one of the best ways to blend in is to speak like the locals. For the most part, I think I sound the same as Missourians. But, alas, my daughter tells me that her friends think I have a strong, funny accent. Oh, great. Funny? I doubt they mean ha-ha; it’s just a polite way of saying “weird”. They have no idea how hard it was to drop the urge to finish statements with the proverbial Canadian “eh” that humbly invites a listener to agree or disagree with stated opinions.
Other than “warsh”, however, there don’t appear to be many words that differ from the English that I learned to speak. It’s more that the vowels here are stretched out. Try it: say “sorry” like me and then say it like a local. First is SOH-REE with almost no differentiation in the emphasis placed on each syllable. Now the local way: SAAAAW-REE. Here’s another flashing “you are an alien” neon sign: I tell my daughter to finish her PRO-JECT, while her classmates say PRAW-JECT.
Yesterday, while volunteering, I asked the director for the fax number. She was very puzzled. She asked “Fox Number?” and I repeated “Fax”. She asked, “What’s a FOX number?”. I replied that I was trying to find the number for the office’s facsimile machines ... you know (I added for extra emphasis), the machine that sends and receives documents. “Oh!”, she said, “a FAAAAAAAAAHHHHHX machine!” You can’t take it for granted that you’re being understood, I guess.
It reminded me of a time years ago in Ireland, when my teen-aged nephew told me that he hadn’t understood a word that anyone had been saying since we arrived on the Emerald Isle. I told him that the local people probably didn’t understand anything he was saying either. He was astounded. He stopped walking to contemplate my words. I guess the revelation was too great to absorb while walking. “Why?”, he asked me, “I don’t have an accent!”
It’s always that way, isn’t it? We can’t hear our own accents. When I speak French, I think I sound exactly like the locals but the puzzled look that sometimes creases the brows of my French-speaking friends leads me to believe that I’m occasionally making them work really hard to follow my train of thought!
It’s the same here, even though it’s English. I am conscious of the look. There’s surprise, followed by curiosity and definitely confusion. I no longer have to ask people to repeat questions, but when I first got here, I had to concentrate to understand the checkout lady’s “Paper or plastic, honey?”
My strategy is to speak slowly and to adjust some of my words so that they’re longer and softer – so that they sound less alien, if you know what I mean. I’ll apologise now, however, because I’m sure that I shall never learn to say “warsh” and “warshing”. I guess I’ll never fully blend in.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Easy Rider
Okay, we’re back in St. Louis, after a long (but mostly interesting and beautiful) drive back from our family vacation in Toronto. The house looks the same, although the grass was pretty high and the pool pump was sucking air because the water level had dropped during the 110 degree Fahrenheit days. The street still looks the same. The neighbours still look the same. The garbage guy came on Monday, just the same as always.
But something has changed. Something is different.
This week, since being back in St. Louis, I have seen at least a dozen Vespa scooters. The last time I saw a motorized scooter was in Brussels where it seems that every high school student owns one. Beware of driving right before school starts and in the early afternoon, when school is out, when thousands of teens are zipping in and out of traffic, doubling up on the tiny seats and shouting back and forth to each other, clutching cell phones and school bags. Scooters are extremely practical in a city like Brussels, where parking spots are few and far between, gas is expensive and roads are crowded.
My first exposure to Vespa scooters, however, was in Rome many years ago. There, in that ancient city, amid the ruins and the dusty heat, there is a constant buzz, like a distant swarm of bees, broken occasionally by the roar of a nearby engine revving up. It is the sound of Rome. It is the sound of its people, of which I think several hundred thousand must own scooters! Most of the drivers are impossibly gorgeous young Italian men and women, expertly navigating roundabouts at breakneck speed, swerving around tourists who struggle to signal, read a map (argue) and drive at the same time. Somehow, they just make it all look so darn glamorous. The girls would hitch up there pencil-thin skirts and straddle the bikes, while the model-handsome boys would nearly always have a nonchalant girlfriend hitching a ride.
But, in St. Louis, the riders seem ... well, how should I say this ... they seem ... uh ... a little larger than the Belgian and Italian riders I’ve seen. Also, they are ... oh dear, how should I say this ... definitely not teenagers, if you know what I mean? So, what’s with the scooters? I was so curious that I searched VESPA+St. Louis online and, guess what? There are two stores! The photos on the site show handsome, young men and women either posing beside a shiny new bike, or sitting astride a bike, laughing with other riders in the sun, in some idyllic place.
I searched every photo to find the type of rider I’ve seen in St. Louis, but I could not find one. I did not find the older lady in grey sweatpants and a Land’s End windbreaker hunched over the handlebars leaving the grocery store. I did not see the six-foot-plus bald guy, whose wide buttocks engulfed the tiny scooter seat. I did not see the wannabee biker guy with his dog riding in the side car. Who are these people and why on earth did they buy a scooter?
Is it a new kind of toy here in the Land o’ SUV? We certainly do not have the same traffic congestion and parking issues as in crowded European capitals, although to be fair, there are some folks who would like to reduce gas consumption here. The VespaUSA website shows several models, advertising that “reducing traffic congestion and saving fuel never looked so good”. In Europe, the Vespa is not a toy. It remains an inexpensive and practical means of transportation – the impetus for its invention in 1946 in war-torn, poverty-stricken Italy.
To be honest, I can’t think of any practical reasons to own a scooter. I move two children to and from school and various sports programs and buy more groceries than could possibly fit into its storage compartment. I can, however, think of several fun reasons to own one! I feel myself falling under its spell. I already feel the wind in my hair. I’m thinking of the colour I like. I’m already relishing telling friends how little gas I use! I’m picturing how Italian I’ll look. Young? Well, let’s not push it – ha!
But something has changed. Something is different.
This week, since being back in St. Louis, I have seen at least a dozen Vespa scooters. The last time I saw a motorized scooter was in Brussels where it seems that every high school student owns one. Beware of driving right before school starts and in the early afternoon, when school is out, when thousands of teens are zipping in and out of traffic, doubling up on the tiny seats and shouting back and forth to each other, clutching cell phones and school bags. Scooters are extremely practical in a city like Brussels, where parking spots are few and far between, gas is expensive and roads are crowded.
My first exposure to Vespa scooters, however, was in Rome many years ago. There, in that ancient city, amid the ruins and the dusty heat, there is a constant buzz, like a distant swarm of bees, broken occasionally by the roar of a nearby engine revving up. It is the sound of Rome. It is the sound of its people, of which I think several hundred thousand must own scooters! Most of the drivers are impossibly gorgeous young Italian men and women, expertly navigating roundabouts at breakneck speed, swerving around tourists who struggle to signal, read a map (argue) and drive at the same time. Somehow, they just make it all look so darn glamorous. The girls would hitch up there pencil-thin skirts and straddle the bikes, while the model-handsome boys would nearly always have a nonchalant girlfriend hitching a ride.
But, in St. Louis, the riders seem ... well, how should I say this ... they seem ... uh ... a little larger than the Belgian and Italian riders I’ve seen. Also, they are ... oh dear, how should I say this ... definitely not teenagers, if you know what I mean? So, what’s with the scooters? I was so curious that I searched VESPA+St. Louis online and, guess what? There are two stores! The photos on the site show handsome, young men and women either posing beside a shiny new bike, or sitting astride a bike, laughing with other riders in the sun, in some idyllic place.
I searched every photo to find the type of rider I’ve seen in St. Louis, but I could not find one. I did not find the older lady in grey sweatpants and a Land’s End windbreaker hunched over the handlebars leaving the grocery store. I did not see the six-foot-plus bald guy, whose wide buttocks engulfed the tiny scooter seat. I did not see the wannabee biker guy with his dog riding in the side car. Who are these people and why on earth did they buy a scooter?
Is it a new kind of toy here in the Land o’ SUV? We certainly do not have the same traffic congestion and parking issues as in crowded European capitals, although to be fair, there are some folks who would like to reduce gas consumption here. The VespaUSA website shows several models, advertising that “reducing traffic congestion and saving fuel never looked so good”. In Europe, the Vespa is not a toy. It remains an inexpensive and practical means of transportation – the impetus for its invention in 1946 in war-torn, poverty-stricken Italy.
To be honest, I can’t think of any practical reasons to own a scooter. I move two children to and from school and various sports programs and buy more groceries than could possibly fit into its storage compartment. I can, however, think of several fun reasons to own one! I feel myself falling under its spell. I already feel the wind in my hair. I’m thinking of the colour I like. I’m already relishing telling friends how little gas I use! I’m picturing how Italian I’ll look. Young? Well, let’s not push it – ha!
Friday, July 9, 2010
Bridging the Gap
Good news: I played my first real game of bridge last week. Bridge ... you know ... the card game...? Hey, I can hear you laughing! Do you think I can’t hear you?
Yes, yes, I play bridge! I took lessons at the local recreation centre, at the persuasion of my friend, Veronica, who retired early from pharmacy and is anxious to keep the old grey cells alive, if you know what I mean. At first, I resisted because I thought bridge was an older person’s game. In fact, my mother plays every week and raves about it. She’s always after me to learn how to play.
Previously, I resisted learning because it seemed complicated and I didn’t have the time (or interest) necessary to concentrate on the rules of the game. Not too long ago, I was playing endless games of “Go Fish” and “Hungry Hippo” with my kids, so my capacity for learning a complicated card game was significantly diminished. More importantly, I didn’t know anyone else who played – except my mother, her best friend and the best friend’s 97-year old mother. Need I say more?
But, I’m in a new place ... an alien place ... and things are different. Lots of people who have not yet collected old age security play. Indeed, lots of middle-aged people play and, whether I like it or not, I somehow became middle-aged. I actually fit the vague demographic category I so smugly scorned as being the right age to play bridge. Besides, it turns out that bridge is popular even among young students at universities in the USA.
Let’s just say that, when Veronica asked if I would take bridge lessons, I’m sorry now to say that I was less than enthusiastic. I may even have laughed. But, she rallied and I joined in. I was a bit late for the first class, so I slid into the only available seat at the card table near the door, beside a tiny, white-haired lady in a wheelchair and across from an older gentlemen with pale wisps of hair that shot out in various directions and thick red suspenders holding up trousers several sizes too large for his shrunken waist. I groaned.
Yes, I groaned, but I shouldn’t have. For they, like the rest of the members of the class, turned out to be intelligent, fun folks, who were looking to learn a social card game. They were ... well ... just like me. Is it not human nature to interact? To seek out similarly-minded people with whom to form networks ... social links? Bridge is ... well ... it’s a bridge over a gap. It’s a bridge that reaches from one person to another. It’s a game played with a partner against another pair.
During the game, it’s quiet as the players count cards and plot moves to earn the most points. But in between games, while cards are being shuffled and dealt, it’s noisy as friends pick up threads and ask about a daughter’s wedding, a son’s graduation, or a recent vacation. It’s a time for partners to make quick eye contact and roll their eyes at the quiet, tight argument that broke out between a husband and wife about an Ace that should or should not have been played. Not my style, but you play against all kinds.
We’re lucky because two of the other women in the class are around the same age as Veronica and me. They are interested in playing regularly with us. They have known each other for years and years. They are smart. They love cards. They love to laugh.
The gap just got smaller.
Yes, yes, I play bridge! I took lessons at the local recreation centre, at the persuasion of my friend, Veronica, who retired early from pharmacy and is anxious to keep the old grey cells alive, if you know what I mean. At first, I resisted because I thought bridge was an older person’s game. In fact, my mother plays every week and raves about it. She’s always after me to learn how to play.
Previously, I resisted learning because it seemed complicated and I didn’t have the time (or interest) necessary to concentrate on the rules of the game. Not too long ago, I was playing endless games of “Go Fish” and “Hungry Hippo” with my kids, so my capacity for learning a complicated card game was significantly diminished. More importantly, I didn’t know anyone else who played – except my mother, her best friend and the best friend’s 97-year old mother. Need I say more?
But, I’m in a new place ... an alien place ... and things are different. Lots of people who have not yet collected old age security play. Indeed, lots of middle-aged people play and, whether I like it or not, I somehow became middle-aged. I actually fit the vague demographic category I so smugly scorned as being the right age to play bridge. Besides, it turns out that bridge is popular even among young students at universities in the USA.
Let’s just say that, when Veronica asked if I would take bridge lessons, I’m sorry now to say that I was less than enthusiastic. I may even have laughed. But, she rallied and I joined in. I was a bit late for the first class, so I slid into the only available seat at the card table near the door, beside a tiny, white-haired lady in a wheelchair and across from an older gentlemen with pale wisps of hair that shot out in various directions and thick red suspenders holding up trousers several sizes too large for his shrunken waist. I groaned.
Yes, I groaned, but I shouldn’t have. For they, like the rest of the members of the class, turned out to be intelligent, fun folks, who were looking to learn a social card game. They were ... well ... just like me. Is it not human nature to interact? To seek out similarly-minded people with whom to form networks ... social links? Bridge is ... well ... it’s a bridge over a gap. It’s a bridge that reaches from one person to another. It’s a game played with a partner against another pair.
During the game, it’s quiet as the players count cards and plot moves to earn the most points. But in between games, while cards are being shuffled and dealt, it’s noisy as friends pick up threads and ask about a daughter’s wedding, a son’s graduation, or a recent vacation. It’s a time for partners to make quick eye contact and roll their eyes at the quiet, tight argument that broke out between a husband and wife about an Ace that should or should not have been played. Not my style, but you play against all kinds.
We’re lucky because two of the other women in the class are around the same age as Veronica and me. They are interested in playing regularly with us. They have known each other for years and years. They are smart. They love cards. They love to laugh.
The gap just got smaller.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Goodbye Mississippi!
I love a road trip. I don’t know why really but I think, in my heart, I must be a wanderer. I don’t actually like to drive; I just like to sit there and look out the window, taking in the views as they flash by. Sometimes, my kids are doing the same thing and, from the back seat, they’ll shout out if they see a hawk reeling in the sky overhead or pretty horses in the fields. My husband, who is usually driving, reads signs aloud (“PRISON NEARBY. DO NOT PICK UP HITCHHIKERS”) and licence plates from far away (“Nebraska – have we seen that one yet?”).
I like watching the landscape change. A couple of days ago, I had ample opportunity for this peaceful pastime, as we made the 15-hour drive from St. Louis in Missouri up to the shores of Lake Huron in Canada, where we are now. Before leaving, we studied the map and booked an overnight stop but, in this age of GP systems and online map resources, we are lazier now than we used to be about planning routes.
We told the kids that they would be in four different states in the same day. We laughed at their surprise when we left the first one – Missouri – within 15 minutes of settling in the car, which was loaded with several suitcases, tons of toys and games, a portable DVD player, an i-Pod and the puppy. As we crossed over the majestic, hypnotic, muddy waters of the Mississippi River, whose swollen banks still flood surrounding land from the spring runoff, we looked ahead to the endless, rich, flat farmlands of the land of Lincoln.
By mid-morning, we were in Indiana through which my husband – a sports and pop-culture junkie – entertained us by listing off the names of famous athletes from the big-name colleges and old rock stars from small, nearly-forgotten towns that dot the landscape. We ate lunch in a place called Brazil – for what reason I don’t know – not the stop, I mean, but the name. Why is it called Brazil? Regardless of the origin of its name, the Brazil Grill served up delicious five dollar hamburgers and steaming grilled cheese sandwiches with lots of thick fries and bottomless sodas.
By early evening, we had passed through Fort Wayne, one of the region’s oldest settlements on what had originally been indigenous lands, into the state of Michigan. Immediately, the land started to rise and fall, rounding out softly with low hills, tall trees, and hundreds of small, deep, dark blue lakes. The air cooled. I breathed deeply. The dog pranced and frisked and sniffed the air, rolling frequently on the blankets of thick green grass around our hotel in Lansing. A stunning sunset tucked us in for the night, as Fourth-of-July fireworks echoed from town.
The next morning, the feeling of anticipation was strong as we lined up to enter Canada, behind half a mile of cars, camper caravans and boats tugged on trailers. From Port Huron/ Sarnia to Collingwood, we shared the driving, weaving east, then north, then east, then north, over and over again on remote county side roads. As much as I love a road trip and believe that the journey can be as great as the destination itself, I was happy to haul my squished bottom out of the car and park it on our deck with a cold glass of white wine that my visiting mother had ready for me!
A gentle breeze is blowing now, although it’s very hot, even by Ontario summer standards. Even the birds are quiet, conserving their energy for nightfall, when they can feast on fat mosquitoes and other juicy tidbits. The geese and swans have half-grown babies trailing after them but I haven’t yet seen the giant white crane that fishes quietly in the protected wetlands behind our place. There’s not even a ripple out on Lake Huron, where summer storms can whip up massive steel grey waves that crash the rocky shoreline. It’s lush and green and smells like wildflowers.
It’s good to be home.
I like watching the landscape change. A couple of days ago, I had ample opportunity for this peaceful pastime, as we made the 15-hour drive from St. Louis in Missouri up to the shores of Lake Huron in Canada, where we are now. Before leaving, we studied the map and booked an overnight stop but, in this age of GP systems and online map resources, we are lazier now than we used to be about planning routes.
We told the kids that they would be in four different states in the same day. We laughed at their surprise when we left the first one – Missouri – within 15 minutes of settling in the car, which was loaded with several suitcases, tons of toys and games, a portable DVD player, an i-Pod and the puppy. As we crossed over the majestic, hypnotic, muddy waters of the Mississippi River, whose swollen banks still flood surrounding land from the spring runoff, we looked ahead to the endless, rich, flat farmlands of the land of Lincoln.
By mid-morning, we were in Indiana through which my husband – a sports and pop-culture junkie – entertained us by listing off the names of famous athletes from the big-name colleges and old rock stars from small, nearly-forgotten towns that dot the landscape. We ate lunch in a place called Brazil – for what reason I don’t know – not the stop, I mean, but the name. Why is it called Brazil? Regardless of the origin of its name, the Brazil Grill served up delicious five dollar hamburgers and steaming grilled cheese sandwiches with lots of thick fries and bottomless sodas.
By early evening, we had passed through Fort Wayne, one of the region’s oldest settlements on what had originally been indigenous lands, into the state of Michigan. Immediately, the land started to rise and fall, rounding out softly with low hills, tall trees, and hundreds of small, deep, dark blue lakes. The air cooled. I breathed deeply. The dog pranced and frisked and sniffed the air, rolling frequently on the blankets of thick green grass around our hotel in Lansing. A stunning sunset tucked us in for the night, as Fourth-of-July fireworks echoed from town.
The next morning, the feeling of anticipation was strong as we lined up to enter Canada, behind half a mile of cars, camper caravans and boats tugged on trailers. From Port Huron/ Sarnia to Collingwood, we shared the driving, weaving east, then north, then east, then north, over and over again on remote county side roads. As much as I love a road trip and believe that the journey can be as great as the destination itself, I was happy to haul my squished bottom out of the car and park it on our deck with a cold glass of white wine that my visiting mother had ready for me!
A gentle breeze is blowing now, although it’s very hot, even by Ontario summer standards. Even the birds are quiet, conserving their energy for nightfall, when they can feast on fat mosquitoes and other juicy tidbits. The geese and swans have half-grown babies trailing after them but I haven’t yet seen the giant white crane that fishes quietly in the protected wetlands behind our place. There’s not even a ripple out on Lake Huron, where summer storms can whip up massive steel grey waves that crash the rocky shoreline. It’s lush and green and smells like wildflowers.
It’s good to be home.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
A Shady Deal
Man, is it hot here. Even now, at the end of May, it’s over 80 degrees by nine in the morning. At least, it cools down a bit a night. If fact, last night, I think it went down to about 79.
Last year, we arrived in late July to what was apparently a “cold” summer for the mid-West. To this little Canadian, who’d been living under overcast Belgian skies for a couple of years, temperatures last summer felt like they ranged from hot and humid to VERY hot and humid, with a couple of highs that made it hard to breathe outdoors. Shortly after arriving last July, I observed that my daughter was panting... yes, panting! She was trying to see if it’s easier to cool down like a dog, since cooling down as a human was not working.
So, now we’re living our first real, mid-western summer. You really notice it in the full sun at the Cardinals game, when bald heads glitter with beads of sweat, kids wilt against sticky parents and spectators leak from every possible pore on their bodies. Last week, at the game, I felt like I’d showered in my clothes; they were so wet. I tried to slip paper napkins under my bare legs where they were stuck to the metal seat but my daughter caught me and said she was dying of embarrassment. When she looked the other way, I did it anyway because ... well, I guess my comfort is more important than her dignity!
I’m not even converting back to Celsius any more. It’s not worth it. I don’t need to. Hot is hot. I used to think it would be nice to turn off the air conditioner and sleep with the windows open at night. I tried it a couple of times, but I’d always forget to program the AC to come back on and my husband would wake up during the night in a panic, dreaming about being caught in a fire or suffocating.
This heat makes people behave differently. Take parking, for example. Parking lots here are massive. Many shopping malls have multi-storied parking garages with ample room for thousands and thousands of cars. Others have acres of paved land, neatly partitioned into wide, well-aligned spots. Naturally, you will look for a spot closest to the door, so you won’t have far to walk. After all, you drove your car for a reason; you don’t want to walk.
Ah, but no! Here, it’s the shady spots that are taken first – even the ones that are a mile from the store. These are clever people, you know. You see, if you don’t park in the shade, your car instantly becomes a convection oven that bakes you like a tin foil potato the minute you step foot back in it, even if your errand was only five minutes. I mean you could boil water and have a cup of tea in there! It doesn’t matter how long you’re out of your car or how cold the AC got the interior before you parked. When you re-enter, you will positively WILT.
And, how about clothes? At first, in April, I was thrilled to start wearing all the cute summer t-shirts and skirts that had been virtually untouched in Belgium. You see, Belgium never gets really hot. It’s what they call “moderate” (aka “overcast all the time”). In Belgium, you can pretty much wear the same set of clothes all year round. I was looking forward to four distinct seasons again. I want crisp autumn mornings! I want snow in winter, followed by warm spring breezes that hint of upcoming summer heat!
But, I’m in the mid-West (darlin’) so I guess I’d better get used to it. This is a two-shower-a-day kind of place! Ugh, where’s the shade...
Last year, we arrived in late July to what was apparently a “cold” summer for the mid-West. To this little Canadian, who’d been living under overcast Belgian skies for a couple of years, temperatures last summer felt like they ranged from hot and humid to VERY hot and humid, with a couple of highs that made it hard to breathe outdoors. Shortly after arriving last July, I observed that my daughter was panting... yes, panting! She was trying to see if it’s easier to cool down like a dog, since cooling down as a human was not working.
So, now we’re living our first real, mid-western summer. You really notice it in the full sun at the Cardinals game, when bald heads glitter with beads of sweat, kids wilt against sticky parents and spectators leak from every possible pore on their bodies. Last week, at the game, I felt like I’d showered in my clothes; they were so wet. I tried to slip paper napkins under my bare legs where they were stuck to the metal seat but my daughter caught me and said she was dying of embarrassment. When she looked the other way, I did it anyway because ... well, I guess my comfort is more important than her dignity!
I’m not even converting back to Celsius any more. It’s not worth it. I don’t need to. Hot is hot. I used to think it would be nice to turn off the air conditioner and sleep with the windows open at night. I tried it a couple of times, but I’d always forget to program the AC to come back on and my husband would wake up during the night in a panic, dreaming about being caught in a fire or suffocating.
This heat makes people behave differently. Take parking, for example. Parking lots here are massive. Many shopping malls have multi-storied parking garages with ample room for thousands and thousands of cars. Others have acres of paved land, neatly partitioned into wide, well-aligned spots. Naturally, you will look for a spot closest to the door, so you won’t have far to walk. After all, you drove your car for a reason; you don’t want to walk.
Ah, but no! Here, it’s the shady spots that are taken first – even the ones that are a mile from the store. These are clever people, you know. You see, if you don’t park in the shade, your car instantly becomes a convection oven that bakes you like a tin foil potato the minute you step foot back in it, even if your errand was only five minutes. I mean you could boil water and have a cup of tea in there! It doesn’t matter how long you’re out of your car or how cold the AC got the interior before you parked. When you re-enter, you will positively WILT.
And, how about clothes? At first, in April, I was thrilled to start wearing all the cute summer t-shirts and skirts that had been virtually untouched in Belgium. You see, Belgium never gets really hot. It’s what they call “moderate” (aka “overcast all the time”). In Belgium, you can pretty much wear the same set of clothes all year round. I was looking forward to four distinct seasons again. I want crisp autumn mornings! I want snow in winter, followed by warm spring breezes that hint of upcoming summer heat!
But, I’m in the mid-West (darlin’) so I guess I’d better get used to it. This is a two-shower-a-day kind of place! Ugh, where’s the shade...
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Singapore Sling
Have you ever had a Singapore Sling? It’s a drink that was invented and has been served at the famous Long Bar in the historic Raffles Hotel in Singapore since the early 1900s. Like other foods or drinks named after cities (think Brussels sprouts, Bolognese sauce, Yorkshire puddings), the place is so much a part of the name that you don’t necessarily think about it separately. Such was the case for me with Singapore.
Long before going to Singapore to visit some friends last week, I had tasted a Sling or two. I don’t know what possessed me to order one in the first place, but I recall enjoying it. In one form or another, you need: 1 to 1 ½ ounces of gin, ½ ounce of cherry brandy, ¼ ounce of Cointreau (orange liqueur), ¼ ounce Benedictine herbal liqueur, 1/3 ounce grenadine syrup, 4 ounces of pineapple juice, ¼ ounce of lime juice, and a dash of Bitters. You shake the ingredients together with ice and then strain the drink into an ice-filled glass, garnished with a cherry and a slice of pineapple.
An interesting mix, don’t you think? Funny how you can blow the dust off enough old bottles of alcohol and throw the contents together with juice to get something that tastes so good. Well, Singapore is just like that. Somebody mixed together a bunch of smart people, a blend of very diverse cultures, and a pinch of unusual history and circumstance, then strained it through the tropics and poured it into a tiny glass of an island called the Republic of Singapore.
The result: an interesting mix. It’s young, but very old. Its youth belies its age, for its history is much older than its birth as an independent country. The known history of the island dates back to the 11th century, but its modern history appears to date to the establishment of a prosperous British port by Sir Thomas Stamford Raffles in 1819. Later, after a stint under Japanese control during WW2, a couple of decades of self-government back under the British, and an experiment in partnership with Malaysia in the early 60s, Singapore became independent in 1965.
Singapore is advanced but ancient. It clings to its traditions. English is spoken everywhere and children must learn it and one other national language (Mandarin Chinese, Malay or Tamil) in school. But slip into the Chinese market downtown, or the local neighbourhood markets and you’ll hear nothing but Mandarin, Malay and Tamil, as well as various dialects of older and newer immigrants. Throughout the year, one can witness a wide-range of celebrations that include the Chinese New Year and mid-Autumn Festival, Tamil Thaipusam, Hindu Deepavali, Buddhist Vesak Day, and Muslim Hari Raya Puasa.
Singapore is conservative, but very creative. The very word “conserve” means to keep; to protect what exists. But Singaporeans are imaginative about this. They have to be; it’s one of the densest countries in the world. As a result, you get a mix of colonial and contemporary. Historic ethnic neighbourhoods, places of worship, and old “bungalow” residences, protected by the Urban Redevelopment Authority’s Conservation Master Plan, seem to ruffle around the bases of modern skyscrapers whose height is limited to allow safe air flight but whose design and creativity appears to be unlimited in every way. Buildings bend and lean. They weave and wend. They stretch in various directions. They are spheres and ovals and rockets. They are pale green, or shades or orange. Roofs are multi-tiered, curved, and wavy – a tribute to Gaudi or maybe Dr. Seuss?
Singapore is efficient but charming. The port is like a perfect Lego design: neatly stacked containers form long, straight rows and cranes carefully shift loads here and there in a non-chaotic, almost rhythmic way. Empty cargo ships, whose deep water measures bob above the water, wait for loads out in the open water. Then, you call a taxi, and a weathered gentleman speaking broken English pulls up in a rickety old car, which resembles a Lada for awkwardness and effectiveness, and welcomes you into its sweaty, vinyl depths. Or, at midnight, you order a noodle dish from a hawker stand and sit amongst a crowd of people jabbering in various languages. Or you stumble upon a row of heritage Tudor houses. Or, at the market, you watch a young salesman feverishly gesticulating and comparing various toothpastes, all glued to a flimsy, white poster board.
In short, Singapore is just like its Sling: delicious in every way!
Long before going to Singapore to visit some friends last week, I had tasted a Sling or two. I don’t know what possessed me to order one in the first place, but I recall enjoying it. In one form or another, you need: 1 to 1 ½ ounces of gin, ½ ounce of cherry brandy, ¼ ounce of Cointreau (orange liqueur), ¼ ounce Benedictine herbal liqueur, 1/3 ounce grenadine syrup, 4 ounces of pineapple juice, ¼ ounce of lime juice, and a dash of Bitters. You shake the ingredients together with ice and then strain the drink into an ice-filled glass, garnished with a cherry and a slice of pineapple.
An interesting mix, don’t you think? Funny how you can blow the dust off enough old bottles of alcohol and throw the contents together with juice to get something that tastes so good. Well, Singapore is just like that. Somebody mixed together a bunch of smart people, a blend of very diverse cultures, and a pinch of unusual history and circumstance, then strained it through the tropics and poured it into a tiny glass of an island called the Republic of Singapore.
The result: an interesting mix. It’s young, but very old. Its youth belies its age, for its history is much older than its birth as an independent country. The known history of the island dates back to the 11th century, but its modern history appears to date to the establishment of a prosperous British port by Sir Thomas Stamford Raffles in 1819. Later, after a stint under Japanese control during WW2, a couple of decades of self-government back under the British, and an experiment in partnership with Malaysia in the early 60s, Singapore became independent in 1965.
Singapore is advanced but ancient. It clings to its traditions. English is spoken everywhere and children must learn it and one other national language (Mandarin Chinese, Malay or Tamil) in school. But slip into the Chinese market downtown, or the local neighbourhood markets and you’ll hear nothing but Mandarin, Malay and Tamil, as well as various dialects of older and newer immigrants. Throughout the year, one can witness a wide-range of celebrations that include the Chinese New Year and mid-Autumn Festival, Tamil Thaipusam, Hindu Deepavali, Buddhist Vesak Day, and Muslim Hari Raya Puasa.
Singapore is conservative, but very creative. The very word “conserve” means to keep; to protect what exists. But Singaporeans are imaginative about this. They have to be; it’s one of the densest countries in the world. As a result, you get a mix of colonial and contemporary. Historic ethnic neighbourhoods, places of worship, and old “bungalow” residences, protected by the Urban Redevelopment Authority’s Conservation Master Plan, seem to ruffle around the bases of modern skyscrapers whose height is limited to allow safe air flight but whose design and creativity appears to be unlimited in every way. Buildings bend and lean. They weave and wend. They stretch in various directions. They are spheres and ovals and rockets. They are pale green, or shades or orange. Roofs are multi-tiered, curved, and wavy – a tribute to Gaudi or maybe Dr. Seuss?
Singapore is efficient but charming. The port is like a perfect Lego design: neatly stacked containers form long, straight rows and cranes carefully shift loads here and there in a non-chaotic, almost rhythmic way. Empty cargo ships, whose deep water measures bob above the water, wait for loads out in the open water. Then, you call a taxi, and a weathered gentleman speaking broken English pulls up in a rickety old car, which resembles a Lada for awkwardness and effectiveness, and welcomes you into its sweaty, vinyl depths. Or, at midnight, you order a noodle dish from a hawker stand and sit amongst a crowd of people jabbering in various languages. Or you stumble upon a row of heritage Tudor houses. Or, at the market, you watch a young salesman feverishly gesticulating and comparing various toothpastes, all glued to a flimsy, white poster board.
In short, Singapore is just like its Sling: delicious in every way!
Tuning In
I am bonding with my morning people. Not my morning kids; they’re kind of grumpy in the morning. My son’s okay, after he shakes off the weight of his slumber – tail starts wagging, a little morning hug and hungry as a bear. But, my pre-teen daughter ... well, that’s another story: she doesn’t want to bond in the morning. In fact, come to think of it, she doesn’t want to bond in the afternoon or evening either. In subtle ways, she’s asking for more space and, in not-so-subtle ways, she wipes away my kisses with a back-handed swipe of her hand.
No, the morning people I’m bonding with are the members of morning radio team on a St. Louis station. I hadn’t realized how much I was missing morning radio! In Belgium, I walked the kids to school and used my bicycle to run errands, so I wasn’t in my car much. When we were in the car, we’d surf for good stations, but the strength of the signals is not great in and around Brussels so, ironically, you’d lose French stations not long after crossing the “language barrier” into Dutch-speaking Belgium and vice-versa.
Not that losing the station was worth crying over anyway. I’ve never heard so much Barry White and ABBA in all my life. Also, do you pay lower royalties for not playing the whole song? I mean, what was with that? No matter what station you tune into in Belgium, the songs get cut off at the end with some goofy announcer naming the song or some enigmatic ad for grocery stores, computer repairs or dish soap.
In addition, there was this weird voice-over thing that would interrupt any station to give VERY LOUD TRAFFIC UPDATES. They reminded me of those weird station identification/ emergency preparedness signals we heard as kids. Do you remember that? I grew up near Toronto and from time-to-time, you’d hear a startlingly loud, long, solid tone not unlike a ship’s whistle but with no rise at the end. After about 30 seconds, you’d hear a man announcing, in a serious but mildly urgent way, that we had just heard a practice emergency signal and that, in the case of a real emergency, instructions would follow. Well, the traffic voice-over in Belgium was like that. As if announcing an impending air raid, a loud voice would urgently reel off a list of all traffic obstructions and accidents of which to be wary or avoid.
I did okay with the traffic updates in French, although it was faster than I or anyone I have ever met would (could?) speak. The Dutch announcements, however, were a real mystery. All I could ever catch was blah, blah, E411, blah, blah, and then Barry White would be back on. The Dutch channels only played English (by that I mean mostly North American) music, albeit two or three decades old. The French channels played a mix of French and English songs. On some stations, you’d hear a hint of what I’d classify as a morning program, but it was usually pretty silly.
Here in St. Louis, I spent the first month or so looking for radio stations I liked. While stopped at traffic lights, I’d use my scan button to jump from one station to another, depressing a pre-programmed key when I heard something I liked. Then, my husband would drive my car and change the stations to baseball play-by-play and talk radio channels – yuck. So, I’d start all over again. I have to say that there’s a lot of preachin’ and cryin’ (religious and country ‘n’ western) available here, but I’ve been gravitating towards more of the soft rock genre. At least with the soft rock stations, you get some new songs, as well as the tried-and-true, so my 11-year old girl will stop asking me to change the channel all the time.
Mostly, I tune to 98.1, where my morning people work. It is a soft rock station that plays a lot of new songs. They don’t bill themselves as soft rock, but they are. It reminds me of a station that I liked in Toronto before I moved; just a good mix of music, banter and news. When I was a kid, I remember thinking it sounded soothing, but super boring, so I forgive my daughter for impatiently asking for MUSIC whenever the talking comes on. Now that I’m super boring, I like that kind of station. I love the banter and I usually turn up the volume to catch the funny stuff.
Here in St. Louis, my morning team consists of two men and two women. I know their names now and I can tell their voices apart. I know which one is more serious and which one will tease the serious one. I find myself listening closely and laughing along with the jokes and stories. After I drop the kids at school, I turn up the radio louder. Today, I nearly drove off the road for laughing! They were doing some kind of improvisation comedy thing where each person had to start the next sentence with the subsequent letter of the alphabet. They got stuck at F and although no-one swore, it was obvious what they were thinking and, as they broke into giggles, so did I.
Bonus: no emergency signals so far!
No, the morning people I’m bonding with are the members of morning radio team on a St. Louis station. I hadn’t realized how much I was missing morning radio! In Belgium, I walked the kids to school and used my bicycle to run errands, so I wasn’t in my car much. When we were in the car, we’d surf for good stations, but the strength of the signals is not great in and around Brussels so, ironically, you’d lose French stations not long after crossing the “language barrier” into Dutch-speaking Belgium and vice-versa.
Not that losing the station was worth crying over anyway. I’ve never heard so much Barry White and ABBA in all my life. Also, do you pay lower royalties for not playing the whole song? I mean, what was with that? No matter what station you tune into in Belgium, the songs get cut off at the end with some goofy announcer naming the song or some enigmatic ad for grocery stores, computer repairs or dish soap.
In addition, there was this weird voice-over thing that would interrupt any station to give VERY LOUD TRAFFIC UPDATES. They reminded me of those weird station identification/ emergency preparedness signals we heard as kids. Do you remember that? I grew up near Toronto and from time-to-time, you’d hear a startlingly loud, long, solid tone not unlike a ship’s whistle but with no rise at the end. After about 30 seconds, you’d hear a man announcing, in a serious but mildly urgent way, that we had just heard a practice emergency signal and that, in the case of a real emergency, instructions would follow. Well, the traffic voice-over in Belgium was like that. As if announcing an impending air raid, a loud voice would urgently reel off a list of all traffic obstructions and accidents of which to be wary or avoid.
I did okay with the traffic updates in French, although it was faster than I or anyone I have ever met would (could?) speak. The Dutch announcements, however, were a real mystery. All I could ever catch was blah, blah, E411, blah, blah, and then Barry White would be back on. The Dutch channels only played English (by that I mean mostly North American) music, albeit two or three decades old. The French channels played a mix of French and English songs. On some stations, you’d hear a hint of what I’d classify as a morning program, but it was usually pretty silly.
Here in St. Louis, I spent the first month or so looking for radio stations I liked. While stopped at traffic lights, I’d use my scan button to jump from one station to another, depressing a pre-programmed key when I heard something I liked. Then, my husband would drive my car and change the stations to baseball play-by-play and talk radio channels – yuck. So, I’d start all over again. I have to say that there’s a lot of preachin’ and cryin’ (religious and country ‘n’ western) available here, but I’ve been gravitating towards more of the soft rock genre. At least with the soft rock stations, you get some new songs, as well as the tried-and-true, so my 11-year old girl will stop asking me to change the channel all the time.
Mostly, I tune to 98.1, where my morning people work. It is a soft rock station that plays a lot of new songs. They don’t bill themselves as soft rock, but they are. It reminds me of a station that I liked in Toronto before I moved; just a good mix of music, banter and news. When I was a kid, I remember thinking it sounded soothing, but super boring, so I forgive my daughter for impatiently asking for MUSIC whenever the talking comes on. Now that I’m super boring, I like that kind of station. I love the banter and I usually turn up the volume to catch the funny stuff.
Here in St. Louis, my morning team consists of two men and two women. I know their names now and I can tell their voices apart. I know which one is more serious and which one will tease the serious one. I find myself listening closely and laughing along with the jokes and stories. After I drop the kids at school, I turn up the radio louder. Today, I nearly drove off the road for laughing! They were doing some kind of improvisation comedy thing where each person had to start the next sentence with the subsequent letter of the alphabet. They got stuck at F and although no-one swore, it was obvious what they were thinking and, as they broke into giggles, so did I.
Bonus: no emergency signals so far!
Advanced and Disadvantageous
Yesterday, I mentioned to someone from St. Louis that I write a blog about being an “alien” here. She asked if I wrote every day, which made me realize that I hadn’t written in a very long time. I’d love to write every day, but I can’t seem to find the time lately and, quite frankly, I’m acclimatising, so I don’t feel quite so foreign anymore. In other words, I feel less alien.
Every once in awhile though, I’m reminded that I’m not from here and never will be! In fact, it was a policeman who brought this salient fact to my attention. You see, he pulled me over because I got stuck in an intersection. Picture this: he was facing me in the left turn lane but he criss-crossed two neighbouring lanes to catch me after I finally made it out of there alive.
You just have to imagine this – especially if you’re from Europe where the beloved roundabouts eliminate the need for traffic lights and, especially, advanced greens, which allow left turners to make their turns before other traffic moves. (By the way, does it bug anyone else when the “advanced” green comes after all vehicular traffic has moved through the intersection? I mean, that’s not advanced; it’s retarded. No, no, I’m not being mean and I hate that label anyway. I mean it in the TRUE sense of the word before it was misused, meaning “later”.)
In every city in which I’ve driven – and there have been PLENTY in the past 30 years (oh geez, has it really been 30 years since my sister and I got our licences on our 16th birthday?) – left turners advance into the intersection on a green light to await their chance to turn, unless otherwise signed that they are to wait for an advanced green arrow or signal. Well, welcome to St. Louis! Here, you wait behind the white intersection line, even though all lights, including your special one, is green and the sign simply says, “Yield to oncoming traffic on green”.
On the fateful day when I was lucky enough to fully understand the unique driving rules of this city, while facing an officer of the law, I pulled into the intersection on the green and waited. When my light turned yellow, I advanced a little more, preparing to make my left turn and clear out of the intersection (you know, the way other people all over the world do it ...) when I noticed that the oncoming traffic was not slowing down. They just kept barrelling through the intersection. I threw up my hands in exasperation and whined, “They’re running the red light!” to no-one in particular, although my kids were in the back seat trusting me foolishly with their lives.
Finally, the oncoming traffic slowed, but then the opposite direction got the green and those drivers advanced quickly, like lions on the last hyena at the water hole, honking and making a show of slamming on their brakes and making “You are insane” motions with their hands. (Oh ya, as if you didn’t notice me stranded there before!?) Well, I scooted out of there fast, but pulled over to the side of the road for the inevitable ticket from the officer, whose face I could plainly see across the intersection. He was licking his lips, calculating the size of the ticket he would give me. Do they get commissions on those tickets?
He leapt out of his car, censure on his lips, mockery in his eyes. “That was a really stupid thing to do, you know”, is how he greeted me. Yes sir. He looked into the back seat where my little angels tried for that mix of: I’m afraid of you – Yes, she is a bad driver – She’s our mother so she can do no wrong. “You could have gotten yourself killed, you know” is how he followed up. Yes sir. As I reached for my licence and insurance papers, he stopped me and told me benevolently that I should stop and buy an ice cream for my kids, ‘cause I’d just saved myself $130. And, off he went. Yes sir.
When I’m wrong, I’m wrong and I’ll admit it (although not always fully and completely if I’m in the heat of an argument with my hubby – ha ha!). But, I didn’t think I was wrong. You see, as a foreigner, I had to qualify for a Missouri licence recently. That’s right; the multiple choice test with several pimply 16 year-olds and the driving test, where someone sits beside you and marks everything you do. I think I lost a lot of marks right off the bat for trying to chat to the examiner, who was nearly half my age. Anyway, I studied the manual. I passed with flying colours, might I add! When I got home from my left turn incident, I consulted my much-studied copy of the Department of Transportation’s driving manual. Guess what? Nothing.
Still, lesson learned. This little alien will dutifully stop her UFO well behind the line until there’s room to go!
Every once in awhile though, I’m reminded that I’m not from here and never will be! In fact, it was a policeman who brought this salient fact to my attention. You see, he pulled me over because I got stuck in an intersection. Picture this: he was facing me in the left turn lane but he criss-crossed two neighbouring lanes to catch me after I finally made it out of there alive.
You just have to imagine this – especially if you’re from Europe where the beloved roundabouts eliminate the need for traffic lights and, especially, advanced greens, which allow left turners to make their turns before other traffic moves. (By the way, does it bug anyone else when the “advanced” green comes after all vehicular traffic has moved through the intersection? I mean, that’s not advanced; it’s retarded. No, no, I’m not being mean and I hate that label anyway. I mean it in the TRUE sense of the word before it was misused, meaning “later”.)
In every city in which I’ve driven – and there have been PLENTY in the past 30 years (oh geez, has it really been 30 years since my sister and I got our licences on our 16th birthday?) – left turners advance into the intersection on a green light to await their chance to turn, unless otherwise signed that they are to wait for an advanced green arrow or signal. Well, welcome to St. Louis! Here, you wait behind the white intersection line, even though all lights, including your special one, is green and the sign simply says, “Yield to oncoming traffic on green”.
On the fateful day when I was lucky enough to fully understand the unique driving rules of this city, while facing an officer of the law, I pulled into the intersection on the green and waited. When my light turned yellow, I advanced a little more, preparing to make my left turn and clear out of the intersection (you know, the way other people all over the world do it ...) when I noticed that the oncoming traffic was not slowing down. They just kept barrelling through the intersection. I threw up my hands in exasperation and whined, “They’re running the red light!” to no-one in particular, although my kids were in the back seat trusting me foolishly with their lives.
Finally, the oncoming traffic slowed, but then the opposite direction got the green and those drivers advanced quickly, like lions on the last hyena at the water hole, honking and making a show of slamming on their brakes and making “You are insane” motions with their hands. (Oh ya, as if you didn’t notice me stranded there before!?) Well, I scooted out of there fast, but pulled over to the side of the road for the inevitable ticket from the officer, whose face I could plainly see across the intersection. He was licking his lips, calculating the size of the ticket he would give me. Do they get commissions on those tickets?
He leapt out of his car, censure on his lips, mockery in his eyes. “That was a really stupid thing to do, you know”, is how he greeted me. Yes sir. He looked into the back seat where my little angels tried for that mix of: I’m afraid of you – Yes, she is a bad driver – She’s our mother so she can do no wrong. “You could have gotten yourself killed, you know” is how he followed up. Yes sir. As I reached for my licence and insurance papers, he stopped me and told me benevolently that I should stop and buy an ice cream for my kids, ‘cause I’d just saved myself $130. And, off he went. Yes sir.
When I’m wrong, I’m wrong and I’ll admit it (although not always fully and completely if I’m in the heat of an argument with my hubby – ha ha!). But, I didn’t think I was wrong. You see, as a foreigner, I had to qualify for a Missouri licence recently. That’s right; the multiple choice test with several pimply 16 year-olds and the driving test, where someone sits beside you and marks everything you do. I think I lost a lot of marks right off the bat for trying to chat to the examiner, who was nearly half my age. Anyway, I studied the manual. I passed with flying colours, might I add! When I got home from my left turn incident, I consulted my much-studied copy of the Department of Transportation’s driving manual. Guess what? Nothing.
Still, lesson learned. This little alien will dutifully stop her UFO well behind the line until there’s room to go!
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Weather Forecast: Baseball
St. Louis is baseball crazy. Last Monday, when the Cardinals opened at home against the Houston Astros, productivity levels in the city plummeted. At noon, thousands of fans streamed out from office buildings around the city, loosening their ties and rolling up shirt sleeves, heading to watch the game down at Busch Stadium or to join friends crowded around big screens at the local bars.
They delivered a win that night and again on Wednesday, when my family and I were lucky enough to have been offered seats at the game. It’s already so hot here that we had unearthed our summer clothes weeks ago, including all the Cardinals paraphernalia: red hats, red t-shirts, red flags, red, red, red...! We donned the colours and joined 40,000 other fans to enjoy our strong roster of talent, including a first basemen that is well on his way to becoming legendary.
The Cardinals were due to wrap up their three game series against the Astros on Friday night. That morning, on the way to drop the kids at school, I was tuned into my favourite St. Louis radio station when I heard something that convinced me that this city is CRAZY. Crazy, I’m telling you! The weather guy comes on and says, “You may have noticed that we got some rain last night, but don’t worry; it’s going to clear up for the game tonight.” Then, they were on to the traffic and a couple of songs – the usual morning show line-up. No temperature. No forecast. No storm warnings. No nothing! Weather forecast: baseball!
It’s not just baseball; this city regularly sells out its NHL and NFL games as well. At the beginning of March, when St. Louis hosted the “Arch Madness” Mississippi Valley conference, every seat was filled. Even at my daughter’s volleyball game today, not one parent left. Every one of them spent the entire gruelling day there, camped out on folding chairs, clapping, cheering, and giving the players free tips at the top of their lungs (ugh). I’m telling you; it’s this city! They are sports mad here!
My husband and I attended a fabulous black-tie fundraiser last night: the Bob Kostas event for Cardinal Glennon Children’s Medical Center. During his welcome and introduction and then in between the wickedly funny stand-up performances by Wayne Federman and Jimmy Fallon, Kostas kept the anxious audience updated on the Cardinals progress throughout the entire 20-inning game, which eventually ended in a loss for us! He even invited audience members to shout out score updates if they should happen to be tuned in via i-Phone or Blackberry devices! Good thing the game ended before Jennifer Hudson sang! What a night!
Tonight, we played out of town against the Mets, so the weather forecasts were back to normal. I heard the usual dawn temperatures and precipitation predictions, followed by the expected high of the day and any other meteorologically important fact that we needed to know. After the Friday forecast, it seemed so ordinary, so boring. I can’t wait ‘til the Cards play at home again!
They delivered a win that night and again on Wednesday, when my family and I were lucky enough to have been offered seats at the game. It’s already so hot here that we had unearthed our summer clothes weeks ago, including all the Cardinals paraphernalia: red hats, red t-shirts, red flags, red, red, red...! We donned the colours and joined 40,000 other fans to enjoy our strong roster of talent, including a first basemen that is well on his way to becoming legendary.
The Cardinals were due to wrap up their three game series against the Astros on Friday night. That morning, on the way to drop the kids at school, I was tuned into my favourite St. Louis radio station when I heard something that convinced me that this city is CRAZY. Crazy, I’m telling you! The weather guy comes on and says, “You may have noticed that we got some rain last night, but don’t worry; it’s going to clear up for the game tonight.” Then, they were on to the traffic and a couple of songs – the usual morning show line-up. No temperature. No forecast. No storm warnings. No nothing! Weather forecast: baseball!
It’s not just baseball; this city regularly sells out its NHL and NFL games as well. At the beginning of March, when St. Louis hosted the “Arch Madness” Mississippi Valley conference, every seat was filled. Even at my daughter’s volleyball game today, not one parent left. Every one of them spent the entire gruelling day there, camped out on folding chairs, clapping, cheering, and giving the players free tips at the top of their lungs (ugh). I’m telling you; it’s this city! They are sports mad here!
My husband and I attended a fabulous black-tie fundraiser last night: the Bob Kostas event for Cardinal Glennon Children’s Medical Center. During his welcome and introduction and then in between the wickedly funny stand-up performances by Wayne Federman and Jimmy Fallon, Kostas kept the anxious audience updated on the Cardinals progress throughout the entire 20-inning game, which eventually ended in a loss for us! He even invited audience members to shout out score updates if they should happen to be tuned in via i-Phone or Blackberry devices! Good thing the game ended before Jennifer Hudson sang! What a night!
Tonight, we played out of town against the Mets, so the weather forecasts were back to normal. I heard the usual dawn temperatures and precipitation predictions, followed by the expected high of the day and any other meteorologically important fact that we needed to know. After the Friday forecast, it seemed so ordinary, so boring. I can’t wait ‘til the Cards play at home again!
Monday, April 5, 2010
A preacher, a carpenter and a king
We are determined to take advantage of our posting in St. Louis to get to know the United States better. We are planning to travel to as many states as we can while living here to broaden our understanding of this great country and to see its many natural wonders.
Although Canadians learn American history and geography in school, first-hand experience is so much more relevant. For example, when we first arrived, I was desperate to stand on the shore of the Mississippi River, to see for myself that it really existed and was not just a figment of Mark Twain’s imagination. I had heard of Lincoln – I mean, who hasn’t? – but, he became living history to me once I had visited his home and museum in Springfield, Illinois.
This past Easter weekend, we drove down to Memphis, Tennessee for no other reason than to see it. It is a good four-hour drive south of St. Louis. We didn’t have a guide book and, quite honestly, had nothing but the hotel and a Friday night basketball game pre-booked. But, we all love history and I love Elvis, so we roughed out some plans to see the Civil Rights Museum on Saturday and to visit Graceland on Sunday, after Easter services.
Nothing could have prepared me for the museum, located at the Lorraine Motel, where a very determined, charismatic, and well-spoken preacher named Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. was gunned down on April 4th 1968, one day later and forty-two years earlier than our April 3rd pilgrimage to the memorial. He was 39 years old. In his short life, he had been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, led national organizations, boycotts and marches against injustices for Negro Americans and fought for civil rights everywhere. He had been arrested, beaten, and abused multiple times. This amazing museum tells the story of the civil rights movement from the time of the first immigrants and colonies in America, through the Civil War and its ensuing years, especially during the civil rights movements of the 50s and 60s. The museum is full of photos, artefacts and newspaper clippings, as well as sobering black-and-white film footage of lynchings, burnings, and beatings.
On Sunday, we attended Easter services at the beautiful St. Peter’s Church in downtown Memphis. The church dates back to the mid-1800s and is one of the oldest buildings in Memphis today. In addition to fabulous artwork, statues and light fixtures, the church’s windows shine with vibrant stained glass, including several panels constructed in Germany and installed in the early 1900s. The windows depict what are known as the Joyful and the Glorious mysteries, the latter of which includes fundamentals of the Christian faith, especially as it differs from other religions. In particular, one window tells the story of Easter: Jesus, known also as God, appeared on Earth as a man – the son of a carpenter – and was resurrected after his death.
After a lovely breakfast, we joined a tour going to Graceland, the home and final resting place of a singing and movie sensation known as the king of rock ‘n roll: Elvis Presley. It was his home for over twenty years. His young wife and baby girl lived there with him, as did his parents. His doors were always open to friends and family and, according to personal accounts, there were always people around enjoying Elvis’ effervescent and creative spirit. But, it is a sad place. It is a tribute to a man who died young, at only 42 years of age. The museum rooms are jammed with tributes, awards, plaques, photos, movie posters, old cheque stubs and innocuous telegrams. His music plays and many of the visitors sing along or tap their toes to the catchy tunes.
As we got back in the car to return to St. Louis, the whole family agreed that we’d had a lovely time (including the ribs at Rendezvous and the duck parade at The Peabody Hotel!). Though we had not expressly planned to do so, we felt that we’d stepped back in time on several occasions during the weekend. I think Memphis does that to you. There, history simmers just below the new veneer of a revitalised downtown, seeping out like a vapour, showing itself in the cobblestones that peek from under broken cement on Beale Street and in the Mississippi mud bricks of the old warehouses. It was the perfect place to re-live history; to consider the lives of a preacher, a carpenter, and a king.
Although Canadians learn American history and geography in school, first-hand experience is so much more relevant. For example, when we first arrived, I was desperate to stand on the shore of the Mississippi River, to see for myself that it really existed and was not just a figment of Mark Twain’s imagination. I had heard of Lincoln – I mean, who hasn’t? – but, he became living history to me once I had visited his home and museum in Springfield, Illinois.
This past Easter weekend, we drove down to Memphis, Tennessee for no other reason than to see it. It is a good four-hour drive south of St. Louis. We didn’t have a guide book and, quite honestly, had nothing but the hotel and a Friday night basketball game pre-booked. But, we all love history and I love Elvis, so we roughed out some plans to see the Civil Rights Museum on Saturday and to visit Graceland on Sunday, after Easter services.
Nothing could have prepared me for the museum, located at the Lorraine Motel, where a very determined, charismatic, and well-spoken preacher named Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. was gunned down on April 4th 1968, one day later and forty-two years earlier than our April 3rd pilgrimage to the memorial. He was 39 years old. In his short life, he had been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, led national organizations, boycotts and marches against injustices for Negro Americans and fought for civil rights everywhere. He had been arrested, beaten, and abused multiple times. This amazing museum tells the story of the civil rights movement from the time of the first immigrants and colonies in America, through the Civil War and its ensuing years, especially during the civil rights movements of the 50s and 60s. The museum is full of photos, artefacts and newspaper clippings, as well as sobering black-and-white film footage of lynchings, burnings, and beatings.
On Sunday, we attended Easter services at the beautiful St. Peter’s Church in downtown Memphis. The church dates back to the mid-1800s and is one of the oldest buildings in Memphis today. In addition to fabulous artwork, statues and light fixtures, the church’s windows shine with vibrant stained glass, including several panels constructed in Germany and installed in the early 1900s. The windows depict what are known as the Joyful and the Glorious mysteries, the latter of which includes fundamentals of the Christian faith, especially as it differs from other religions. In particular, one window tells the story of Easter: Jesus, known also as God, appeared on Earth as a man – the son of a carpenter – and was resurrected after his death.
After a lovely breakfast, we joined a tour going to Graceland, the home and final resting place of a singing and movie sensation known as the king of rock ‘n roll: Elvis Presley. It was his home for over twenty years. His young wife and baby girl lived there with him, as did his parents. His doors were always open to friends and family and, according to personal accounts, there were always people around enjoying Elvis’ effervescent and creative spirit. But, it is a sad place. It is a tribute to a man who died young, at only 42 years of age. The museum rooms are jammed with tributes, awards, plaques, photos, movie posters, old cheque stubs and innocuous telegrams. His music plays and many of the visitors sing along or tap their toes to the catchy tunes.
As we got back in the car to return to St. Louis, the whole family agreed that we’d had a lovely time (including the ribs at Rendezvous and the duck parade at The Peabody Hotel!). Though we had not expressly planned to do so, we felt that we’d stepped back in time on several occasions during the weekend. I think Memphis does that to you. There, history simmers just below the new veneer of a revitalised downtown, seeping out like a vapour, showing itself in the cobblestones that peek from under broken cement on Beale Street and in the Mississippi mud bricks of the old warehouses. It was the perfect place to re-live history; to consider the lives of a preacher, a carpenter, and a king.
Wish you were here.
April 2010
Dear Kelly,
We’re on a tour of Graceland, near Memphis, in Tennessee. I have been thinking of you the whole time I have been here seeing Elvis’ house and reliving his songs and films at the various museums that showcase all of his awards, movie posters, records and other memorabilia. You would love it here. I wish you were here!
Do you remember that summer when we were around twelve or thirteen years old, when we spent one entire week in August on the anniversary of his passing, glued to the TV, watching rerun after rerun of every Elvis film ever made? Even now, when I see an Elvis movie advertised or hear an old recording of one of his songs, I think back to that great summer, before we had jobs, when it was okay to have absolutely nothing to do.
Remember how corny those movies were? Remember how Elvis always played the poor “hard-done-by” boy? He was uncommonly handsome and we were in love! In the movies, do you recall how he always succeeded despite some major adversity and how he always won the love of the scantily-clad, beautiful leading lady? We’d be pie-eyed from watching back-to-back movies during the long, hot summer days when Mom was at work. Where was Kevin? I think that was the summer he went to sailing camp but, if not, I don’t remember what he did while we hogged the TV all day, do you?
We’d study the TV guide, looking ahead to see what movies were coming up, circling our favourites, so we wouldn’t miss them for sure. I’m always trying to explain to the kids how there were no DVDs in those days, so you could only watch a show on TV when it was scheduled to be shown. It was even before VCR machines, so you couldn’t tape a show and watch it later. Do you remember that time I wanted to watch The Unsinkable Molly Brown, which aired at two in the morning? My crying, when it concluded at half past four woke up Mom, who thought something horrible had happened!
That’s what it was like, though, right? I mean, you just had to watch a show when it was being shown, no matter what time of day or night. So, that’s why the anniversary of Elvis’ passing was sad but also kind of fun: they showed three or four Elvis movies a day for a whole week! Had he lived, he would have been about three times our age that summer, when we stretched out on the carpet, plumped up on the sofa pillows, and got lost in his silly movies! But the beauty of those pictures is that they captured The King at his prime, when his body was still lithe, his skin clear, his eyes seductive and his hair black as night.
Graceland is a wonderful showcase for Elvis’ remarkable recording, acting and touring career. But, it is bittersweet because everywhere you are reminded that his life was cut short. There are no pictures of him as a middle-aged man, nor as an old man, as he would be now. There are no pictures of him attending his daughter’s graduation or walking her down the aisle when she got married. His hair didn’t go grey and he didn’t need glasses. He’s captured in time as a young man. His stories are finite, like yours. They just ended suddenly one day. It’s like a book whose final chapters were ripped out and thrown away. You just never know how it might have ended. I sure wish you were here.
Signed,
Your loving sister
Dear Kelly,
We’re on a tour of Graceland, near Memphis, in Tennessee. I have been thinking of you the whole time I have been here seeing Elvis’ house and reliving his songs and films at the various museums that showcase all of his awards, movie posters, records and other memorabilia. You would love it here. I wish you were here!
Do you remember that summer when we were around twelve or thirteen years old, when we spent one entire week in August on the anniversary of his passing, glued to the TV, watching rerun after rerun of every Elvis film ever made? Even now, when I see an Elvis movie advertised or hear an old recording of one of his songs, I think back to that great summer, before we had jobs, when it was okay to have absolutely nothing to do.
Remember how corny those movies were? Remember how Elvis always played the poor “hard-done-by” boy? He was uncommonly handsome and we were in love! In the movies, do you recall how he always succeeded despite some major adversity and how he always won the love of the scantily-clad, beautiful leading lady? We’d be pie-eyed from watching back-to-back movies during the long, hot summer days when Mom was at work. Where was Kevin? I think that was the summer he went to sailing camp but, if not, I don’t remember what he did while we hogged the TV all day, do you?
We’d study the TV guide, looking ahead to see what movies were coming up, circling our favourites, so we wouldn’t miss them for sure. I’m always trying to explain to the kids how there were no DVDs in those days, so you could only watch a show on TV when it was scheduled to be shown. It was even before VCR machines, so you couldn’t tape a show and watch it later. Do you remember that time I wanted to watch The Unsinkable Molly Brown, which aired at two in the morning? My crying, when it concluded at half past four woke up Mom, who thought something horrible had happened!
That’s what it was like, though, right? I mean, you just had to watch a show when it was being shown, no matter what time of day or night. So, that’s why the anniversary of Elvis’ passing was sad but also kind of fun: they showed three or four Elvis movies a day for a whole week! Had he lived, he would have been about three times our age that summer, when we stretched out on the carpet, plumped up on the sofa pillows, and got lost in his silly movies! But the beauty of those pictures is that they captured The King at his prime, when his body was still lithe, his skin clear, his eyes seductive and his hair black as night.
Graceland is a wonderful showcase for Elvis’ remarkable recording, acting and touring career. But, it is bittersweet because everywhere you are reminded that his life was cut short. There are no pictures of him as a middle-aged man, nor as an old man, as he would be now. There are no pictures of him attending his daughter’s graduation or walking her down the aisle when she got married. His hair didn’t go grey and he didn’t need glasses. He’s captured in time as a young man. His stories are finite, like yours. They just ended suddenly one day. It’s like a book whose final chapters were ripped out and thrown away. You just never know how it might have ended. I sure wish you were here.
Signed,
Your loving sister
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Priority Boarding Only!
In Dallas, last Saturday, on our way from St. Louis to Vail, Colorado for a ski vacation, two ground crew attendants attempted to control the crowd trying to board an AA flight. The flight was late and most passengers were travelling with young kids, who were starting to squirm and whine.
In fact, the crowd was not rowdy. No-one pushed. The problem was that every single person was crammed in the line-up labelled “Priority”, which is reserved for AA’s platinum and gold members and first-class passengers. Not one single person was in the regular line-up!
The attendant kept using the loudspeaker to announce the brief delay and to demand that, “Y’all need to step back! This is priority boarding only!” I thought this was uproariously funny and assumed that AA had been overly generous with points, allowing a disproportionate number of travellers to enjoy privileges normally reserved for high-paying customers and frequent flyers.
I was wrong.
A short flight brought us to Vail-Eagle, a beautiful new airport nestled in the Colorado Mountains, a short drive from world-class Vail ski resort and family-friendly Beaver Creek resort. I anticipated that our bags would arrive first on the baggage carrousel because my husband’s Platinum status meant that our suitcases had been checked with bright red “priority” tags.
I was wrong.
Our bags were nearly last to appear on the carrousel after approximately 50 other suitcases tagged with bright red “priority” tags! Every single bag was priority checked! Are you starting to get it? It took me awhile. Maybe I’m naive. Maybe I just wasn’t paying attention? To be fair, I’ve only lived in the United States for seven months and I never dreamed I’d get to ski at Vail, a destination that seemed so far away when we lived in Canada.
As we hopped into our $350 40-minute shuttle to the $500 per night hotel, I began to realise why every person and every bag had been priority checked ... let’s just say that Vail, Colorado is not exactly your average cheap vacation spot!
Even Beaver Creek’s tongue-in-cheek “Not exactly roughing it!” slogan recognises the fact that this is luxury skiing at its best. Runs are carefully groomed every night. Young people on four-month visas from all over the world cheerfully work tables at fabulous restaurants serving fine wines, imported beers, and local specialties such as elk, bison and trout, as well as imported delicacies.
Even the sunny blue skies looked like they’d been bought! Did Vail arrange for a foot of fresh, fluffy powder to fall all day on Friday? How did they do it? This place is magic and ... yes, very expensive. As we wait at the airport to return home, pockets a bit emptier, faces a little more tanned, and grateful for being able to take such a wonderful family vacation, I count my blessings and wait for the Priority Boarding call!!!
In fact, the crowd was not rowdy. No-one pushed. The problem was that every single person was crammed in the line-up labelled “Priority”, which is reserved for AA’s platinum and gold members and first-class passengers. Not one single person was in the regular line-up!
The attendant kept using the loudspeaker to announce the brief delay and to demand that, “Y’all need to step back! This is priority boarding only!” I thought this was uproariously funny and assumed that AA had been overly generous with points, allowing a disproportionate number of travellers to enjoy privileges normally reserved for high-paying customers and frequent flyers.
I was wrong.
A short flight brought us to Vail-Eagle, a beautiful new airport nestled in the Colorado Mountains, a short drive from world-class Vail ski resort and family-friendly Beaver Creek resort. I anticipated that our bags would arrive first on the baggage carrousel because my husband’s Platinum status meant that our suitcases had been checked with bright red “priority” tags.
I was wrong.
Our bags were nearly last to appear on the carrousel after approximately 50 other suitcases tagged with bright red “priority” tags! Every single bag was priority checked! Are you starting to get it? It took me awhile. Maybe I’m naive. Maybe I just wasn’t paying attention? To be fair, I’ve only lived in the United States for seven months and I never dreamed I’d get to ski at Vail, a destination that seemed so far away when we lived in Canada.
As we hopped into our $350 40-minute shuttle to the $500 per night hotel, I began to realise why every person and every bag had been priority checked ... let’s just say that Vail, Colorado is not exactly your average cheap vacation spot!
Even Beaver Creek’s tongue-in-cheek “Not exactly roughing it!” slogan recognises the fact that this is luxury skiing at its best. Runs are carefully groomed every night. Young people on four-month visas from all over the world cheerfully work tables at fabulous restaurants serving fine wines, imported beers, and local specialties such as elk, bison and trout, as well as imported delicacies.
Even the sunny blue skies looked like they’d been bought! Did Vail arrange for a foot of fresh, fluffy powder to fall all day on Friday? How did they do it? This place is magic and ... yes, very expensive. As we wait at the airport to return home, pockets a bit emptier, faces a little more tanned, and grateful for being able to take such a wonderful family vacation, I count my blessings and wait for the Priority Boarding call!!!
Monday, March 22, 2010
Lovey stayed home.
Lovey is a stuffed bunny. She is small and very well-loved. More than 10 years ago, when she was new, you might have recognised her as the grey bunny in blue-and-white striped pyjamas from the children’s book, “Goodnight Moon”. In fact, Lovey came to us as a gift with that very book.
Lovey belongs to my 11-year old daughter. Even before she could speak – in those early months, when she could just raise her head and “creep” across the floor – our little girl always reached for the same bunny. Thinking it would be useful to have a special “lovey”, as parenting books call them, I started putting the bunny into the baby’s crib at night and during naptime, so it would always have her scent and, hopefully, be of comfort to her wherever we went.
Well, it turns out that we went a lot of places and that bunny has come along every time, starting with an amazing trip to visit friends in Europe before our daughter had even turned one. The bunny is in every picture.
It was around that time that she indicated in every possible way that she wanted her Lovey Bunny – as we called her by then – pretty much all the time. It was also around that time that she started rubbing the bottom of the bunny’s soft rubbery feet against her cheeks to soothe herself to sleep. As a result, Lovey Bunny started to wear thin in the feet, even before her colour started to fade and before the fluff inside her got compacted from love and washing.
When our daughter was nearly two years old, I left her in good hands – her father’s – the night after the birth of our baby boy. That evening, I received a frantic call at the hospital from my husband, saying that our daughter kept asking for her bunny and he that couldn’t find it. She spoke fairly early but, like all young children, not clearly. She kept saying, “Bunny. Lawn-dwee”, so my husband searched the laundry room. Then, he searched her room. Then, with rising degrees of panic, he searched every room in the house for, by now, she was firmly attached to that bunny and could not sleep without it!
Now, I had been prepared for this situation and had a spare bunny up on the top shelf on the linen cupboard, which I instructed him to give to her. Second frantic call: she rejected it saying, “Dat NEW bunny. Dat not my bunny.” Finally, I recalled her toy plastic washing machine in the basement, which is, in fact, where bunny was. Crisis averted.
Over the years, there have been many frantic searches for Lovey. We always found her, often twisted in the sheets, under the bed or tucked in the sofa cushions. Lovey continued to travel with us and, indeed, would have an impressive passport had we kept one for her! When our daughter went away on her first overnight school trip in third grade at the International School of Brussels, I packed Lovey in the pyjamas, instructing her to look after my little girl. The next year, when the class went to France, Lovey helped out with a couple of homesick moments. By fifth grade, I asked if I should pack Lovey, which we did for “just in case”.
Now, here in St. Louis, there are no overnight school trips. However, sleepovers are popular and our daughter has her new friends here some weekends or gets invited elsewhere. Recently, when three of her new friends spent the night, I noticed that Lovey was nowhere near the bed but resided instead with all the other stuffed toys for the night. I said nothing.
For the first couple of sleepovers elsewhere, I asked if I should pack Lovey, who by now is tiny and faded, but still soft. Her little plastic eyes are worn but still seem gentle and reassuring somehow. But, Lovey has not gone to any sleepovers in St. Louis. So, when our daughter spent the night at a friend’s house the night before leaving for a ski vacation in Colorado, I did not pack Lovey in the overnight bag. Nor – for the first time – did I pack her for the vacation. It was an accident and I didn’t think of it until we were at the airport.
Lovey stayed home. I regret to say that we’re just fine.
Lovey belongs to my 11-year old daughter. Even before she could speak – in those early months, when she could just raise her head and “creep” across the floor – our little girl always reached for the same bunny. Thinking it would be useful to have a special “lovey”, as parenting books call them, I started putting the bunny into the baby’s crib at night and during naptime, so it would always have her scent and, hopefully, be of comfort to her wherever we went.
Well, it turns out that we went a lot of places and that bunny has come along every time, starting with an amazing trip to visit friends in Europe before our daughter had even turned one. The bunny is in every picture.
It was around that time that she indicated in every possible way that she wanted her Lovey Bunny – as we called her by then – pretty much all the time. It was also around that time that she started rubbing the bottom of the bunny’s soft rubbery feet against her cheeks to soothe herself to sleep. As a result, Lovey Bunny started to wear thin in the feet, even before her colour started to fade and before the fluff inside her got compacted from love and washing.
When our daughter was nearly two years old, I left her in good hands – her father’s – the night after the birth of our baby boy. That evening, I received a frantic call at the hospital from my husband, saying that our daughter kept asking for her bunny and he that couldn’t find it. She spoke fairly early but, like all young children, not clearly. She kept saying, “Bunny. Lawn-dwee”, so my husband searched the laundry room. Then, he searched her room. Then, with rising degrees of panic, he searched every room in the house for, by now, she was firmly attached to that bunny and could not sleep without it!
Now, I had been prepared for this situation and had a spare bunny up on the top shelf on the linen cupboard, which I instructed him to give to her. Second frantic call: she rejected it saying, “Dat NEW bunny. Dat not my bunny.” Finally, I recalled her toy plastic washing machine in the basement, which is, in fact, where bunny was. Crisis averted.
Over the years, there have been many frantic searches for Lovey. We always found her, often twisted in the sheets, under the bed or tucked in the sofa cushions. Lovey continued to travel with us and, indeed, would have an impressive passport had we kept one for her! When our daughter went away on her first overnight school trip in third grade at the International School of Brussels, I packed Lovey in the pyjamas, instructing her to look after my little girl. The next year, when the class went to France, Lovey helped out with a couple of homesick moments. By fifth grade, I asked if I should pack Lovey, which we did for “just in case”.
Now, here in St. Louis, there are no overnight school trips. However, sleepovers are popular and our daughter has her new friends here some weekends or gets invited elsewhere. Recently, when three of her new friends spent the night, I noticed that Lovey was nowhere near the bed but resided instead with all the other stuffed toys for the night. I said nothing.
For the first couple of sleepovers elsewhere, I asked if I should pack Lovey, who by now is tiny and faded, but still soft. Her little plastic eyes are worn but still seem gentle and reassuring somehow. But, Lovey has not gone to any sleepovers in St. Louis. So, when our daughter spent the night at a friend’s house the night before leaving for a ski vacation in Colorado, I did not pack Lovey in the overnight bag. Nor – for the first time – did I pack her for the vacation. It was an accident and I didn’t think of it until we were at the airport.
Lovey stayed home. I regret to say that we’re just fine.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Overtime, Overjoyed, Overtired!
Did you see the men’s final hockey game at the Olympics in Vancouver? Wasn’t that exciting? We were there, up in the last row, against the wall at about centre ice. We barely sat down the whole game. We screamed ourselves hoarse. We cheered when the Canadians scored early and then doubled it up midway through the game. We groaned when the Americans scored and then cried when they tied up the game with a mere 20 seconds left in the third period.
Then, our voices joined millions of others across Canada, wildly and joyously celebrating our 3-2 victory in overtime. There was more “wild” and “joyous” at the events and at post-event all-night parties than I’ve ever seen in my life. The streets of downtown Vancouver were jammed with people cheering, singing and screaming the entire time we were there. It was all in good fun; even the firemen, whose trucks were parked strategically across several streets to help with traffic and people flow, were honking passionately.
I’m so glad that we got to be there in Vancouver for the last five days of this worldwide celebration of sports. As a Canadian who has lived abroad for the past three years, I was anxious to see how my fellow countrymen would manage. I felt a bit like a parent who has come to visit her grown-up child. That child – Canada – is now an independent adult – of me and like me, but separate all the same. I accept its faults, I revel in its complexity, I cry for its beauty, and I am in awe of what it has become. Mostly, though, I am thankful that I am part of it at all.
The host city did a wonderful job and there were so many volunteers, they were practically falling over each other to help fans at the events! What better city to welcome visitors from around the world than one which is already so international itself? Day after day, I looked around at the myriad of faces in the streets and in the stands, and I soaked up the multi-ethnicity of that beautiful city. I was thirsty for it; the ease with which people from so many different places live and play together in effortless harmony.
For the first week and a half of the Olympics, NBC was our window into that exciting world, as we watched the competitions on television from our home in St. Louis, Missouri in the United States. NBC introduced the Games with a beautiful piece about the lengthy friendship between the U.S. and its northern neighbour, including visuals of Vancouver and its majestic mountains, and footage of world and regional wars the two countries have fought and continue to fight side-by-side. I hope Canadians get a chance to see it; it will make my apologetic and sometimes insecure compatriots realise how much we are valued by our southern friends.
NBC’s coverage and commentary was fabulous – interesting and entertaining, although they were resoundingly criticized here for tape-delaying the first Canada-U.S. hockey game! I was pleasantly surprised by the amount of exposure given to Canadians and other countries in competition, including the fascinating profiles of various athletes between events and during re-runs. Still, though, I have to admit that I was thrilled to get to Canada and watch non-stop Canadian interviews, footage and celebrations in both English and French. When Canadians weren’t competing, they just showed re-runs of the Canadian curling teams!
Curling isn’t that popular here in the U.S., although NBC showed a ton of it during the Games. Before I left for Vancouver, my book club friends here in St. Louis asked me what the “older people throwing big stones down the ice” are doing. However, my neighbour here claims that there’s a real spike in interest in curling and predicts the sport will take off (eh?) in the U.S! Was it the Norwegian curling pants – grey and red argyle-inspired diamonds? Was it the gorgeous faces and impeccable hair of the Swiss men’s and Swedish women’s teams? Was it the happy, young faces of the Chinese bronze medalists? Was it the seriousness with which the rocks were thrown? Was it the fact that they made sweeping look fun – like a sport, rather than a chore?
You certainly couldn’t blame the unmasked joy on the faces of the curling medal winners for the increase in interest in the game, for that was common to every sport. You couldn’t help but be happy for all of the athletes and, particularly, the medal winners at the end of a winning race, as they embraced their families and friends, and as they stepped onto the podium with shaking hands and a look of disbelief. They certainly adhered to the Olympic motto: “Faster! Higher! Stronger!”
My son couldn’t tear himself from the speed skating, so we were very lucky to have had a chance to see the short-track and a relay live in Vancouver. For him, the race, with its speed and intensity, is mesmerizing and he is desperate to learn how to do it. He warned me that I should be prepared to see him at the 2018 Games! I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he’s never been on skates before.
I guess that’s the Olympic dream!
Then, our voices joined millions of others across Canada, wildly and joyously celebrating our 3-2 victory in overtime. There was more “wild” and “joyous” at the events and at post-event all-night parties than I’ve ever seen in my life. The streets of downtown Vancouver were jammed with people cheering, singing and screaming the entire time we were there. It was all in good fun; even the firemen, whose trucks were parked strategically across several streets to help with traffic and people flow, were honking passionately.
I’m so glad that we got to be there in Vancouver for the last five days of this worldwide celebration of sports. As a Canadian who has lived abroad for the past three years, I was anxious to see how my fellow countrymen would manage. I felt a bit like a parent who has come to visit her grown-up child. That child – Canada – is now an independent adult – of me and like me, but separate all the same. I accept its faults, I revel in its complexity, I cry for its beauty, and I am in awe of what it has become. Mostly, though, I am thankful that I am part of it at all.
The host city did a wonderful job and there were so many volunteers, they were practically falling over each other to help fans at the events! What better city to welcome visitors from around the world than one which is already so international itself? Day after day, I looked around at the myriad of faces in the streets and in the stands, and I soaked up the multi-ethnicity of that beautiful city. I was thirsty for it; the ease with which people from so many different places live and play together in effortless harmony.
For the first week and a half of the Olympics, NBC was our window into that exciting world, as we watched the competitions on television from our home in St. Louis, Missouri in the United States. NBC introduced the Games with a beautiful piece about the lengthy friendship between the U.S. and its northern neighbour, including visuals of Vancouver and its majestic mountains, and footage of world and regional wars the two countries have fought and continue to fight side-by-side. I hope Canadians get a chance to see it; it will make my apologetic and sometimes insecure compatriots realise how much we are valued by our southern friends.
NBC’s coverage and commentary was fabulous – interesting and entertaining, although they were resoundingly criticized here for tape-delaying the first Canada-U.S. hockey game! I was pleasantly surprised by the amount of exposure given to Canadians and other countries in competition, including the fascinating profiles of various athletes between events and during re-runs. Still, though, I have to admit that I was thrilled to get to Canada and watch non-stop Canadian interviews, footage and celebrations in both English and French. When Canadians weren’t competing, they just showed re-runs of the Canadian curling teams!
Curling isn’t that popular here in the U.S., although NBC showed a ton of it during the Games. Before I left for Vancouver, my book club friends here in St. Louis asked me what the “older people throwing big stones down the ice” are doing. However, my neighbour here claims that there’s a real spike in interest in curling and predicts the sport will take off (eh?) in the U.S! Was it the Norwegian curling pants – grey and red argyle-inspired diamonds? Was it the gorgeous faces and impeccable hair of the Swiss men’s and Swedish women’s teams? Was it the happy, young faces of the Chinese bronze medalists? Was it the seriousness with which the rocks were thrown? Was it the fact that they made sweeping look fun – like a sport, rather than a chore?
You certainly couldn’t blame the unmasked joy on the faces of the curling medal winners for the increase in interest in the game, for that was common to every sport. You couldn’t help but be happy for all of the athletes and, particularly, the medal winners at the end of a winning race, as they embraced their families and friends, and as they stepped onto the podium with shaking hands and a look of disbelief. They certainly adhered to the Olympic motto: “Faster! Higher! Stronger!”
My son couldn’t tear himself from the speed skating, so we were very lucky to have had a chance to see the short-track and a relay live in Vancouver. For him, the race, with its speed and intensity, is mesmerizing and he is desperate to learn how to do it. He warned me that I should be prepared to see him at the 2018 Games! I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he’s never been on skates before.
I guess that’s the Olympic dream!
Friday, February 19, 2010
Six Degrees of Separation from Primates
Yesterday, I climbed a tree. It is not a big tree; it’s probably no more than 50 or 60 feet tall with a trunk about two feet around. Why, on earth, you ask, is a 40-something year-old woman climbing a tree in the middle of winter on a quiet, well-established street in St. Louis? Have I gone crazy? Is it a sign that I’m sliding – surely, steadily, but with gathering speed – down the steep slope of dementia?
I assure you that I’ve not gone barmy! My neighbour was throwing our dog toy – which is a ball on a rope – for both his dog and mine. One wild throw sent it up and through the tree, where it wrapped itself snugly around one of the thinner, bare branches about 10 feet off the ground.
You have to understand that my neighbour’s dog is BALL CRAZY. I mean, that dog will chase a ball until her feet bleed from running back and forth. She’ll run after a ball with such abandon that she’ll crash into rocks, cars and bushes in her pursuit. So, when that ball went up into the tree, she went NUTS. She was crying and running in circles, trying to find the precious toy to return obediently to her master. The problem is that the precious toy was up a tree. How do you explain that to a dog? “Fetch”, is two-dimensional for a man’s best friend; there is no height in their fetch perspective!
So, while my neighbour ran inside to get something with which to knock the ball-on-a-rope off the branch, I studied the tree. As I said, it was about 50 or 60 feet tall with a good, solid trunk. In its early life, someone had taken good care with the pruning, because there were three thick lower branches about six feet up in a nicely spaced ring around the trunk followed by another perfect ring of branches about two feet higher and so on until the branches started criss-crossing wildly with abandon. With a scattering of knots on the trunk, it made a perfect climbing tree.
I climbed a lot of trees when I was a kid. I probably drove my parents crazy but I loved climbing. I would look at every tree as an opportunity to get closer to the sky; closer to the birds I so loved drawing and recording in my journal. I found it easy, actually. One branch to grab and a knot for a toe-hold and I was all set. If you can just get to the first set of branches – a challenge on older trees whose lower branches have fallen off or been cut – the rest are usually close enough to grab and keep going.
So, when my neighbour came back out with a lacrosse stick, I knew he couldn’t help. My brain reverted to childhood. Something came over me. I grasped the lowest branch and lodged my right foot on a knot. At first, my foot slipped. For some reason, I just felt surprised, not defeated. Not once did I calculate that it had been roughly 30 years since I’d last climbed a tree. I tried again and, this time, was able to pull myself up, where I balanced on the branch and reached for the next highest one. Holding it tightly, I reached even higher to shake the offending limb that had stolen and kept our toy. With little effort, the toy came loose and fell. Coming down was even easier, although my concentration was thrown off by my neighbour’s wife screaming at him from the front door to catch me. I’m convinced that she was more worried about the liability than for my fragile bones, but it still felt good to have an audience as I swung easily to the ground.
Search and rescue complete. Neighbours officially think Canadians are savages who climb trees. The dog loves me. Time to join a class at the local climbing wall...
I assure you that I’ve not gone barmy! My neighbour was throwing our dog toy – which is a ball on a rope – for both his dog and mine. One wild throw sent it up and through the tree, where it wrapped itself snugly around one of the thinner, bare branches about 10 feet off the ground.
You have to understand that my neighbour’s dog is BALL CRAZY. I mean, that dog will chase a ball until her feet bleed from running back and forth. She’ll run after a ball with such abandon that she’ll crash into rocks, cars and bushes in her pursuit. So, when that ball went up into the tree, she went NUTS. She was crying and running in circles, trying to find the precious toy to return obediently to her master. The problem is that the precious toy was up a tree. How do you explain that to a dog? “Fetch”, is two-dimensional for a man’s best friend; there is no height in their fetch perspective!
So, while my neighbour ran inside to get something with which to knock the ball-on-a-rope off the branch, I studied the tree. As I said, it was about 50 or 60 feet tall with a good, solid trunk. In its early life, someone had taken good care with the pruning, because there were three thick lower branches about six feet up in a nicely spaced ring around the trunk followed by another perfect ring of branches about two feet higher and so on until the branches started criss-crossing wildly with abandon. With a scattering of knots on the trunk, it made a perfect climbing tree.
I climbed a lot of trees when I was a kid. I probably drove my parents crazy but I loved climbing. I would look at every tree as an opportunity to get closer to the sky; closer to the birds I so loved drawing and recording in my journal. I found it easy, actually. One branch to grab and a knot for a toe-hold and I was all set. If you can just get to the first set of branches – a challenge on older trees whose lower branches have fallen off or been cut – the rest are usually close enough to grab and keep going.
So, when my neighbour came back out with a lacrosse stick, I knew he couldn’t help. My brain reverted to childhood. Something came over me. I grasped the lowest branch and lodged my right foot on a knot. At first, my foot slipped. For some reason, I just felt surprised, not defeated. Not once did I calculate that it had been roughly 30 years since I’d last climbed a tree. I tried again and, this time, was able to pull myself up, where I balanced on the branch and reached for the next highest one. Holding it tightly, I reached even higher to shake the offending limb that had stolen and kept our toy. With little effort, the toy came loose and fell. Coming down was even easier, although my concentration was thrown off by my neighbour’s wife screaming at him from the front door to catch me. I’m convinced that she was more worried about the liability than for my fragile bones, but it still felt good to have an audience as I swung easily to the ground.
Search and rescue complete. Neighbours officially think Canadians are savages who climb trees. The dog loves me. Time to join a class at the local climbing wall...
Thursday, February 11, 2010
March-Two-Three-Four!
Parades are a big deal here in the United States. When I was a kid, we never missed the Rose Bowl Parade on TV. Polished announcers smoothly introduced float after magical float in what seemed to be an endless line of flawless characters, storybook scenes and famous faces. Cheerful, healthy-looking, and deeply-tanned volunteers on the floats would smile and wave energetically for miles. From Canada, which would be still buried under several feet of snow, the Rose Bowl Parade looked surreal.
What was real, by contrast, was the icy late-November wind that would whip down Yonge Street in Toronto during the annual Santa Claus Parade, which was the only other parade I’d ever witnessed as a kid. Shivering uncontrollably from kerbs and sidewalks, throngs of kids and parents, wrapped in several layers of blankets, would cheer on clowns, pipe bands and a long line of floats. Santa was always last, waving from a giant sleigh and shouting “Ho ho ho” through a microphone.
We’ve lived outside Canada for several years now, so my kids attended only one Santa Parade in Toronto ages ago and they enjoyed it from a warm office window. They’ve been witness to a true master though: the daily Disney World parades which rival each other for best costumes, music and character sightings. That’s why I am surprised that they think the Canada Day parade in my husband’s tiny home town is the best parade EVER. The local gym, a karate club and a few farmers in their trucks comprise the totality of it. To be fair, there’s usually a live boa constrictor and the parade participants throw candy to the spectators, so I guess if I were young I might think it was the best parade EVER too!
There’s a new rival now. St. Louis, our new home, is far enough south and has French enough roots that it has old traditions like cotillion balls, Mardi Gras parties, and a huge Carnival celebration. At this time of year, it also has a large Mardi PAWS celebration in Soulard, one of the oldest parts of the city and home to America’s longest running open market. The highlight of this event is the annual Pet Parade, in which thousands of dogs and their owners march and an incredible number of people watch.
Until last weekend, though, I had never been IN a parade. But, last Sunday, the kids and I and a very good-natured friend took our little puppy, Poppy, in the parade. You can’t imagine the number of dogs there! It was a veritable sea of canines! There were tiny lap dogs and enormous, long-legged dogs the size of small horses. There were old dogs and young puppies. There were brown ones, white ones, spotted ones and mottled grey ones. There were dogs with long tails and dogs with droopy ears. What they all had in common, though, was that they were all wearing costumes. Some, like our dog, wore store-bought outfits but others had much more clever owners. We saw a black and white spotted Great Dane with an udder and cow ears, as well as a German Shepherd firefighter, and a beagle ballerina.
Speechless, we shuffled through Soulard, avoiding doggy poops and waving to thousands of onlookers who shouted, “BEADS! BEADS! BEADS!” holding their arms wide to catch wild throws. Participants had come well prepared with wagonloads of beads and candy to toss out. Residents had adorned balconies and windows with festive decorations and many were dressed up themselves as they sipped beer and shouted for beads.
Woof! Happy Mardi PAWS!
What was real, by contrast, was the icy late-November wind that would whip down Yonge Street in Toronto during the annual Santa Claus Parade, which was the only other parade I’d ever witnessed as a kid. Shivering uncontrollably from kerbs and sidewalks, throngs of kids and parents, wrapped in several layers of blankets, would cheer on clowns, pipe bands and a long line of floats. Santa was always last, waving from a giant sleigh and shouting “Ho ho ho” through a microphone.
We’ve lived outside Canada for several years now, so my kids attended only one Santa Parade in Toronto ages ago and they enjoyed it from a warm office window. They’ve been witness to a true master though: the daily Disney World parades which rival each other for best costumes, music and character sightings. That’s why I am surprised that they think the Canada Day parade in my husband’s tiny home town is the best parade EVER. The local gym, a karate club and a few farmers in their trucks comprise the totality of it. To be fair, there’s usually a live boa constrictor and the parade participants throw candy to the spectators, so I guess if I were young I might think it was the best parade EVER too!
There’s a new rival now. St. Louis, our new home, is far enough south and has French enough roots that it has old traditions like cotillion balls, Mardi Gras parties, and a huge Carnival celebration. At this time of year, it also has a large Mardi PAWS celebration in Soulard, one of the oldest parts of the city and home to America’s longest running open market. The highlight of this event is the annual Pet Parade, in which thousands of dogs and their owners march and an incredible number of people watch.
Until last weekend, though, I had never been IN a parade. But, last Sunday, the kids and I and a very good-natured friend took our little puppy, Poppy, in the parade. You can’t imagine the number of dogs there! It was a veritable sea of canines! There were tiny lap dogs and enormous, long-legged dogs the size of small horses. There were old dogs and young puppies. There were brown ones, white ones, spotted ones and mottled grey ones. There were dogs with long tails and dogs with droopy ears. What they all had in common, though, was that they were all wearing costumes. Some, like our dog, wore store-bought outfits but others had much more clever owners. We saw a black and white spotted Great Dane with an udder and cow ears, as well as a German Shepherd firefighter, and a beagle ballerina.
Speechless, we shuffled through Soulard, avoiding doggy poops and waving to thousands of onlookers who shouted, “BEADS! BEADS! BEADS!” holding their arms wide to catch wild throws. Participants had come well prepared with wagonloads of beads and candy to toss out. Residents had adorned balconies and windows with festive decorations and many were dressed up themselves as they sipped beer and shouted for beads.
Woof! Happy Mardi PAWS!
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Was blind but now I see
Lately, there are things that make me weep for joy. They are shallow, rather selfish things and, for that, I must admit that I feel ashamed. I used to weep for joys that meant something profound, like holding my babies for the first time, reuniting with old friends, and running my first marathon. I have wept in pain, too; I’ve said goodbye when I knew it wasn’t “au revoir” and those tears never dry up.
But, these tears are different. These tears are for really dumb things that make me incredibly happy. The earliest occurrence was when I had my house cleaned for the first time by a cleaning service. Don’t laugh! I’m serious! I came home and every room was clean. I wept. I’m so easily distracted that I can only ever clean half a room before I start doing the laundry that I find, finishing the crossword beside my bed, or trying to locate the rest of the pieces of the half-finished puzzle under the bed. Sometimes, when I’m ON, I can get a whole floor done but, by the time I get back up there after doing the other floor, it’s a mess again.
You’ll think I’m really losing it now, because the next time I remember weeping for joy was when we hired a lawn maintenance company to clear up the leaves in the fall. It’s true. A job that used to take me hours and hours to do and would necessitate several pain-killers by evening, took two young guys with big old leaf blowers a mere hour to complete. Not only that, but they also neatly stacked up all the little branches they found. Yes, I wept tears of joy (the lawn was so darned clean you could’ve eaten on it) and relief (I was spared from a physically exhausting task).
Yesterday, I wept again. This time, it was when I received my new glasses. They are light and airy, frameless Vera Wang’s. My daughter told me that they make me look like a schoolteacher but, then catching my crestfallen face, told me that was a compliment. I didn’t weep because the glasses are pretty, although they are. I didn’t weep because my daughter hurt my feelings, although she did. No, I wept because I could see!
Eyesight is funny when you lose it gradually, because your brain will compensate for a long time. It can be retrained too; you meet people who wear a reading contact lens in one eye and a distance lens in the other. In my case, I’ve worn reading glasses since I was 17 years old to correct a lazy eye. Well that little couch potato of an eye didn’t do much for the past 30 years but its sister on the other side of my face has had to do a lot of overtime to compensate and now she’s gettin’ old and tired too. Bifocals, said the ophthalmologist, when I finally capitulated and went in for an exam.
Bifocals?! Old people wear bifocals, not young people, I thought to myself crossly. The doctor, who was old enough to have earned several degrees and own a practice, but who was still probably a good ten years younger than me, saw the look on my face. Don’t worry, he said, they’re gradual lenses, so no-one will notice. Hmph! I still have to go to bed every night knowing I’m OLD.
I trudged out to the waiting room and chose a pair of glasses from the shop. Quite frankly, I had to just cross my fingers on the choice because my pupils had been dilated, so I could barely see. Plus, I was still reeling from the eye examination, at which an optician quickly slides lens after lens in front of your throbbing eyes, fake-patiently asking which one is better ... A or B ... A or B ... A or B? What is the last line that you can read? Plus, I was reviewing a lifetime of clumsiness and missed tee-shots, wondering how much of it was related to my lack of depth perception, after failing 15 of the 16 tests for that ability!
Wear them as much as you can to get used to them right away, was the advice I received when I picked up my little Vera Wang number. As the optician slid them on for a fitting, I nearly wept for joy. The relief of not straining and squinting to see was instant and enormous. I guess I underestimated how hard I was working all the time to focus. I didn’t take them off all afternoon or evening. In fact, I fell asleep on the couch wearing them and my husband had to remove them from my slobbering, snoring face.
My only complaint is how clearly I can see the wrinkles now...
But, these tears are different. These tears are for really dumb things that make me incredibly happy. The earliest occurrence was when I had my house cleaned for the first time by a cleaning service. Don’t laugh! I’m serious! I came home and every room was clean. I wept. I’m so easily distracted that I can only ever clean half a room before I start doing the laundry that I find, finishing the crossword beside my bed, or trying to locate the rest of the pieces of the half-finished puzzle under the bed. Sometimes, when I’m ON, I can get a whole floor done but, by the time I get back up there after doing the other floor, it’s a mess again.
You’ll think I’m really losing it now, because the next time I remember weeping for joy was when we hired a lawn maintenance company to clear up the leaves in the fall. It’s true. A job that used to take me hours and hours to do and would necessitate several pain-killers by evening, took two young guys with big old leaf blowers a mere hour to complete. Not only that, but they also neatly stacked up all the little branches they found. Yes, I wept tears of joy (the lawn was so darned clean you could’ve eaten on it) and relief (I was spared from a physically exhausting task).
Yesterday, I wept again. This time, it was when I received my new glasses. They are light and airy, frameless Vera Wang’s. My daughter told me that they make me look like a schoolteacher but, then catching my crestfallen face, told me that was a compliment. I didn’t weep because the glasses are pretty, although they are. I didn’t weep because my daughter hurt my feelings, although she did. No, I wept because I could see!
Eyesight is funny when you lose it gradually, because your brain will compensate for a long time. It can be retrained too; you meet people who wear a reading contact lens in one eye and a distance lens in the other. In my case, I’ve worn reading glasses since I was 17 years old to correct a lazy eye. Well that little couch potato of an eye didn’t do much for the past 30 years but its sister on the other side of my face has had to do a lot of overtime to compensate and now she’s gettin’ old and tired too. Bifocals, said the ophthalmologist, when I finally capitulated and went in for an exam.
Bifocals?! Old people wear bifocals, not young people, I thought to myself crossly. The doctor, who was old enough to have earned several degrees and own a practice, but who was still probably a good ten years younger than me, saw the look on my face. Don’t worry, he said, they’re gradual lenses, so no-one will notice. Hmph! I still have to go to bed every night knowing I’m OLD.
I trudged out to the waiting room and chose a pair of glasses from the shop. Quite frankly, I had to just cross my fingers on the choice because my pupils had been dilated, so I could barely see. Plus, I was still reeling from the eye examination, at which an optician quickly slides lens after lens in front of your throbbing eyes, fake-patiently asking which one is better ... A or B ... A or B ... A or B? What is the last line that you can read? Plus, I was reviewing a lifetime of clumsiness and missed tee-shots, wondering how much of it was related to my lack of depth perception, after failing 15 of the 16 tests for that ability!
Wear them as much as you can to get used to them right away, was the advice I received when I picked up my little Vera Wang number. As the optician slid them on for a fitting, I nearly wept for joy. The relief of not straining and squinting to see was instant and enormous. I guess I underestimated how hard I was working all the time to focus. I didn’t take them off all afternoon or evening. In fact, I fell asleep on the couch wearing them and my husband had to remove them from my slobbering, snoring face.
My only complaint is how clearly I can see the wrinkles now...
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Stocking the Bomb Shelter
It is barely mid-January here in the Gateway to the West and it’s already 5o degrees Fahrenheit and sunny. The birds are singing and acting all fluttery, like they do in springtime. What’s really funny, though, is that exactly one week ago, it was quite a bit colder and the radio and TV stations were foretelling a major snowstorm, which is pretty unusual for St. Louis.
My son and I were at our local grocery store picking up a few groceries. I still can’t shake the European habit of shopping daily for dinner, so we only had four items in our basket and we were debating whether or not to use the self checkout, which stresses me out a LOT but thrills my nine year old to pieces. That’s when I noticed huge line-ups at every single checkout. I mean, folks were lined up a dozen carts deep at every checkout, hunched wearily against over-loaded carts.
We joined the 10-items-or-less line behind several other people with 20 items or less in their baskets. The long wait gave us lots of time to observe shoppers. One optimistic guy and his girlfriend, who strolled by arm-in-arm with a bottle of wine and some fresh fish, stopped in absolute shock at the sight of the queues before sighing and resignedly joining one. I saw another lady approach the line and nearly cut in where people were politely leaving a small space in the main thoroughfare for other carts to pass. She turned quickly, returned the food and left empty-handed; I’m sure she had a perfectly lovely dinner at a restaurant!
Due to the space shoppers were leaving in the line-up for others to pass through, it was a bit difficult to tell where the line-ups went. Several shoppers (mostly confused looking men who probably don’t do the shopping very often...) innocently joined the front half of the line, only to have others in line call out for them to get to the back of the line. Sentiments were mixed; on one hand, there was a sense of camaraderie that comes with a shared threat, like an impending natural disaster. On the other hand, though, as minutes ticked away and shoppers grew impatient, one sensed that civility was one line-cutter away from a civil war.
I had never seen the store so busy. The clerks were shaking their heads and calling frantically for management. At first, I didn’t get it. It was my son who called it. “They’re stocking up, Mommy”, he said, when I mused out loud about the crowds. “For what”, I asked. “For the snow”, he laughed. He, of course, had been fully briefed at school where the kids (and the teachers) were desperately praying for a snow day. Do the prayers of kids and parents cancel each other out....?
Well, darn it, he was right. I looked around. Carts were overflowing with bottled water, canned soups and other non-perishable supplies. I wasn’t sure whether I should feel foolish with my four perishable items or smugly above it all. For a few seconds, the Canadian in me said, “well how much snow are we talking about for goodness sake?”. Then, the mother in me said, “I have absolutely nothing to serve my little family tomorrow...” I don’t think I come from pioneer stock. I think I come from people who sailed over on a boat and fished for dinner every morning.
By bedtime, there had been no snow, despite predictions of a storm before the early afternoon. In fact, the sky was fairly bright and the few beautiful fluffy flakes swirling around seemed out of place, like a strange dream. By night time, though, the sky had darkened and even the nocturnal animals were quiet. While we slept, several inches of snow fell, blanketing and paralysing the city. “Hurray”, screamed the kids when they woke up. “Woof woof”, said our dog who, at six months of age, had never touched snow and thought she could bark it away. “Groan”, I said, as I dusted off the old snow shovel and got to work on the driveway.
Well, truth be told, it was absolutely beautiful and the fresh, cold air was invigorating. I saw several people shovelling, although some of them looked like they really hated it; they’re the ones with the small serviceable shovels who cleared just enough space to get the car out. Others shovelled with obvious joy, like kids from a southern climate seeing snow for the first time. They were the ones with big, wide shovels, who spent a long time, lovingly moving the snow and creating perfect mounds of snow alongside the driveway.
Coming from Toronto, I rushed out to shovel the snow, but it was not for joy or excitement. Back home, the first snowfall would be followed by a freeze-up that would not let up for the next four months. There, you have to clear all the snow from your driveway right away or it freezes there like a bumpy, dirty, grey rug. If you dump the snow in big mounds right beside your driveway, it’s possible that you won’t be able to open your doors fully for the next four months. That pile of snow on the road at the bottom of the driveway better look nice too, because you’ll be staring at it all winter long and rubbing the car up against it as you turn in.
Ahh, how I miss the snow ... NOT! It was cold enough here after the “storm” to take away your breath and freeze your finger tips, but after just a few days, the temperature started to rise. In fact, it climbed more than 40 degrees in the past four days! The thick blanket of snow started to separate from the ground, like a snake shedding its skin. Now, I can see grass everywhere and, in some gardens, bulbs are poking up already. The sun is still thin, as it is in the winter, but the days are longer and warmer.
We survived the natural disaster. Time to brush off the lawn chairs and get ready for summer!
My son and I were at our local grocery store picking up a few groceries. I still can’t shake the European habit of shopping daily for dinner, so we only had four items in our basket and we were debating whether or not to use the self checkout, which stresses me out a LOT but thrills my nine year old to pieces. That’s when I noticed huge line-ups at every single checkout. I mean, folks were lined up a dozen carts deep at every checkout, hunched wearily against over-loaded carts.
We joined the 10-items-or-less line behind several other people with 20 items or less in their baskets. The long wait gave us lots of time to observe shoppers. One optimistic guy and his girlfriend, who strolled by arm-in-arm with a bottle of wine and some fresh fish, stopped in absolute shock at the sight of the queues before sighing and resignedly joining one. I saw another lady approach the line and nearly cut in where people were politely leaving a small space in the main thoroughfare for other carts to pass. She turned quickly, returned the food and left empty-handed; I’m sure she had a perfectly lovely dinner at a restaurant!
Due to the space shoppers were leaving in the line-up for others to pass through, it was a bit difficult to tell where the line-ups went. Several shoppers (mostly confused looking men who probably don’t do the shopping very often...) innocently joined the front half of the line, only to have others in line call out for them to get to the back of the line. Sentiments were mixed; on one hand, there was a sense of camaraderie that comes with a shared threat, like an impending natural disaster. On the other hand, though, as minutes ticked away and shoppers grew impatient, one sensed that civility was one line-cutter away from a civil war.
I had never seen the store so busy. The clerks were shaking their heads and calling frantically for management. At first, I didn’t get it. It was my son who called it. “They’re stocking up, Mommy”, he said, when I mused out loud about the crowds. “For what”, I asked. “For the snow”, he laughed. He, of course, had been fully briefed at school where the kids (and the teachers) were desperately praying for a snow day. Do the prayers of kids and parents cancel each other out....?
Well, darn it, he was right. I looked around. Carts were overflowing with bottled water, canned soups and other non-perishable supplies. I wasn’t sure whether I should feel foolish with my four perishable items or smugly above it all. For a few seconds, the Canadian in me said, “well how much snow are we talking about for goodness sake?”. Then, the mother in me said, “I have absolutely nothing to serve my little family tomorrow...” I don’t think I come from pioneer stock. I think I come from people who sailed over on a boat and fished for dinner every morning.
By bedtime, there had been no snow, despite predictions of a storm before the early afternoon. In fact, the sky was fairly bright and the few beautiful fluffy flakes swirling around seemed out of place, like a strange dream. By night time, though, the sky had darkened and even the nocturnal animals were quiet. While we slept, several inches of snow fell, blanketing and paralysing the city. “Hurray”, screamed the kids when they woke up. “Woof woof”, said our dog who, at six months of age, had never touched snow and thought she could bark it away. “Groan”, I said, as I dusted off the old snow shovel and got to work on the driveway.
Well, truth be told, it was absolutely beautiful and the fresh, cold air was invigorating. I saw several people shovelling, although some of them looked like they really hated it; they’re the ones with the small serviceable shovels who cleared just enough space to get the car out. Others shovelled with obvious joy, like kids from a southern climate seeing snow for the first time. They were the ones with big, wide shovels, who spent a long time, lovingly moving the snow and creating perfect mounds of snow alongside the driveway.
Coming from Toronto, I rushed out to shovel the snow, but it was not for joy or excitement. Back home, the first snowfall would be followed by a freeze-up that would not let up for the next four months. There, you have to clear all the snow from your driveway right away or it freezes there like a bumpy, dirty, grey rug. If you dump the snow in big mounds right beside your driveway, it’s possible that you won’t be able to open your doors fully for the next four months. That pile of snow on the road at the bottom of the driveway better look nice too, because you’ll be staring at it all winter long and rubbing the car up against it as you turn in.
Ahh, how I miss the snow ... NOT! It was cold enough here after the “storm” to take away your breath and freeze your finger tips, but after just a few days, the temperature started to rise. In fact, it climbed more than 40 degrees in the past four days! The thick blanket of snow started to separate from the ground, like a snake shedding its skin. Now, I can see grass everywhere and, in some gardens, bulbs are poking up already. The sun is still thin, as it is in the winter, but the days are longer and warmer.
We survived the natural disaster. Time to brush off the lawn chairs and get ready for summer!
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