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!)
Friday, October 29, 2010
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.
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