Bone idle

This time last year, I was locked out of my blog, and making almost daily descents down Linden Avenue, from Fernwood, through Rockland, then down into Fairfield.

Almost exactly a year ago, I glanced to my left, and was halted by this sight.

Someone having trouble letting go of Hallowe'en? A social commentary on texting? The ghost of Christmas Future?

Bye-bye November. Advent begins in earnest tomorrow.

What message is being sent?

I had completely forgotten this INSX video from 1984.  It baffled me then, and does now - not because of the headphones and sock feet.  The band was filmed in an ancient Buddhist temple in Tokyo, Japan, and they couldn't make any noise, so mimed in time with music played in their ears.

I am a bit puzzled about the geisha and her handlers, but then, I am no expert on the Willow World.


I also don't know why this video is only available at Daily Motion.  In these days of cultural appropriation, is it considered inappropriate?

Facebook follies by fellas

I've had the odd inadvertent adventure in social media.  Some very odd.

Recently, I posted a quick comment on the "Old Victoria" page, a Facebook group I've seriously contemplated leaving more than once, as it's often a hotbed for political grumblings - largely directed at our current mayor - and the usual wearying men (it's always men, somehow) who troll the comments of others.

Some guy had begun the morning with a memory question, which he jokingly called a way to unmask "imposters".  (There had been a recent reminder from the group administrators that only those with some actual connection to Victoria could be members.)

Well, you can imagine.  Someone ignited at the word "imposters" and let fly.  Others flew to the bewildered poster's defense, and he was posting parting shots.

I decided to post my own, remembering a distant brief period when there were local bumper stickers, emblazoned with such devices as:  Pave the Gorge and Ski Mount Tolmie - unremarkable unless you live in Victoria, and know that the Gorge is a waterway, and Mount Tolmie is more like a very steep hill in the centre of the suburbs.

I added that this was a "playful" test for imposters, and that I knew that the original poster of the "imposter" had meant to tease, not torment.  Having grown up in British Columbia, I know when BC guys are leg-pulling.

Eventually, I had something like 75 likes and 85 comments - more than I've received on anything I've put online, even though this was mostly people chatting to one another and not to me.  I didn't mind.

It was a cross-section of everything that is right, and, as it turned out, almost everything that is wrong with the group -- and perhaps with social media in general.

One youngish fella - meaning to be funny, I suspect - said that only people over the age of 100 would get the jokes.  While I was replying mildly that I was in my twenties in the era of the bumper stickers and still managed to "get" them, a guy I'd known in junior high leapt to my defense (I think), saying, "Whoaa...hold on there!"

Some other guy remarked that you needed to be over 100 to be considered a "true" Victorian, and for some reason, Youngish Fella flew off the handle, telling him that he didn't know what he was talking about, being from Nanaimo, and to *&%$ off.

I stayed out of this particular fray, but an administrator deleted the comment.  Youngish Fella reappeared and accused Nanaimo Guy of being a dip@#&%.

The administrators reminded the group about "coarse language", and here's where things got truly silly.  Several men (they're always men, aren't they?) started going on about Freedom Of Expression, and one even posted a gif of Rodney King.

Rodney King, so far as I can recall, was beaten to a pulp by the L.A. police for being black, right?  Not for dropping f-bombs in a private Facebook group.

*Sigh*  For the most part, I have found the historical aspects of "Old Victoria" a gentle pleasure.  I'd hate to be driven away by the foolishness of fatuous fellas.

Hazards of living in Victoria

I'm headed for the pharmacy, when a motorized wheelchair wheelchair whizzes by, on my left.

I can't help myself.

"Oooh!" I gasp, softly - I think.

The gentleman glides to a stop, and waits for me to catch up.

"Did I startle you?"
"Yes, a little."
"Well, they say I should used my horn."
"But that would startle me even more!  You can't win!"
"That's right!"
"You could call out, 'Good Morning'" I suggest.
"Or, 'Coming up on your left!'"
"Even better!"

We both wish each other good day, and he zips off.

Imagine this happening in Hades.  I can't.

Sounds good to me

 Look.  According to my FitBit, I've walked 21,000 paces today.  (Younger daughter had a song competition, among other things.)  I'm wiped, and running out of day.

The spring before last, I had the pleasure of hearing Lucy Wainwright Roche, a daughter of Louden Wainwright III and Suzzy Roche [of The Roches], in concert with her half-brother Rufus Wainwright.

Spotify sent me this gem, where LWR sings with another three-barrelled name, Mary Chapin Carpenter, another firm favourite of mine.

Have a listen.  I'm dragging myself off to bed, where I hope to lie comfortably in my own quiet line.

Siding with the angels

The more I look at the news, the more I miss Mr. Rogers.

I don't think he was a saint - he certainly didn't think so - but I think he was on the side of the angels, and it's remarkable how much what he said is close in message and meaning to the Dalai Lama - someone else who would deny sainthood, but is on the side of the light. Both men were/are highly disciplined spiritually, and in an almost indefinable way, available and elusive at the same time.

Take this past weekend - and you may.  It was a bit of a minefield with younger daughter, whose anxieties, for a multitude of possible reasons, have been particularly acute.

It seemed the right time to saunter down to the cinema, enduring the half-hour of commercials and promotions (because we're not good at finding our seats in the dark), to see A Beautiful Day in the Neighbourhood, with America's 21st century version of Jimmy Stewart, Tom Hanks.

This is a story "inspired by real events", so we've been warned it's largely made up, and this is emphasized by the introduction, which moves the plot from an imagined Mr Rogers' Neighborhood episode in Pittsburgh to New York by means of the miniature cityscapes of the sort that began each show.  You can tell that the toy cars are being moved by unseen human hands.  Seeing as Fred Rogers himself was always very clear about the difference between reality and make-believe, this is very appropriate.

I won't go into the story, which is based upon (okay, inspired by) a magazine article written by a journalist who is renamed for the movie.  It's a tale that pretty well anyone in the audience will recognize, and see the parallels of, in their own lives.  The Resident Fan Boy thought of his late parents and almost wept; I thought of my complicated relationship with my father, and my shortcomings as a mother, and didn't weep.  Heaven knows what younger daughter thought about, but she reported that she liked the movie.

It is well-written, well-acted, and believable, even if not literally true.  There is a remarkable moment in a coffee shop, where Fred Rogers, ever solicitous, ever elusive, asks the troubled journalist to perform one of Rogers' favourite spiritual exercises:  thinking, for ten seconds (it seems longer), of the person or persons who "have loved us into being."  The astonishing thing was the palpable silence that fell upon the audience at our cinema-showing.  It was quite a bit like the Silence that descends upon the Quakers at a Friends' meeting for worship.

There were a few musical surprises for me in the film; songs I've loved.  Only one of them reminded me of the 1990s in which the story is set.  It's a song by Tracy Chapman entitled "The Promise".  It's really not got much to do with Mr Rogers - yet it does, rather like the film has surprisingly little to do with Mr Rogers, yet is all about him.

Clouds in my coffee

I never wanted to become one of those people who take pictures of their food.

However, sometimes, I become painfully aware of the transiency of life, and of lattés, in particular.

It's also a kind of Rorschach test. For example, what do you see here?

How about if I stir the coffee? (I admit it's a different coffee on a different day.)

I see a profile silhouette in the first, and a bird on a perch in the second. Not being a trained professional, I can't tell you if I'm deranged or not, although taking pictures of one's beverages is probably not a good sign...

Did I dream this?

In one of the more surreal videos from the eighties, here's Breeding Ground in Toronto from about 1986. Molly Johnson was guest-singing with them, and this was, I think, my first exposure to her.

He's got a funny feeling that he's won

As depressing as the news is, whether here in Canada, or over the border, or overseas, a bit of clever political satire can brighten things up. This is why I rather adore Randy Rainbow and his pink cat-eyed glasses. This week, he's gone after the impeachment hearings in the States, using one of my favourite songs from Rodger and Hammerstein's Oklahoma.

For you infants - or philistines - who don't know your musical theatre, here's an excerpt from Trevor Nunn's 1999 London production - which starred a relatively unknown Hugh Jackman as Curly - here featuring Vicki Simon as "Ado Annie", whose English accent occasionally slips through. She's singing to Josefina Gabrielle as a barefooted and over-alled Laurey.


I notice that later productions change the last verse, which originally ran:
I'm jist a girl who cain't say no,
Kissin's my favourite food.
With or without the mistletoe,
I'm in a holiday mood.
Other girls are coy and hard to catch,
But other girls ain't havin' any fun.
Every time I lose a wrestling match,
I have a funny feeling that I won.
Although I can feel the undertow,
I never make a complaint,
'Til it's too late for restraint,
Then when I wanna, I cain't,
I cain't say no.

You'll have to excuse me

Word came down that John Mann has died. This was not unexpected; he was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's not long after the Resident Fan Boy, younger daughter and I saw him perform with the Art of Time's interpretation of Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band in 2013, almost exactly six years ago. The lead singer for the group "Spirit of the West", he was only 57.

The CBC and other media have been posting tributes all day. I've posted SOTW videos in this blog before, but not this one, which seem to perfectly capture my antagonism for certain places and people:

All packed up, the people gone.
All tucked in, the TV on.
Tonight, a bedroom for myself.
I'm gonna keep my mental health.

I could burn this country down
With the end of a cigarette.
Why do you put up with me?
Why do I put up with this when

I'm not happy to be here.
I'm not happy to meet you.
I couldn't care about your relatives.
No I couldn't give a damn.

I need five free minutes for myself.

All strung out, the reasons gone.
All bent in, and leaned upon/
I give myself a talking to,
Before I turn my tongue on you.

Given time, I've wasted it all.
Smashed my clock against your wall.
Talk is not what makes me tick.
The second hand's the first to stick when

I'm not happy to be here.

The video is filmed at various spots very familiar to Vancouverites. John Mann gave his last official concert in Vancouver in April 2016, but the following video was recorded almost exactly two years ago, on November 19th, 2107 at the legendary Commodore Ballroom in Vancouver. It features some of Canada's best known singers and musicians (listed at the end), and you can see John Mann leading the cavorting in a white shirt in this performance of what is Spirit of the West's most famous song.

I've seen it before, but watching it tonight, I found myself in tears at the end.


You'll have to excuse me, I'm not at my best
I've been gone for a month, I've been drunk since I left
These so-called vacations will soon be my death
I'm so sick from the drink I need home for a rest

We arrived in December and London was cold
We stayed in the bars along Charing Cross Road
We never saw nothing but brass taps and oak
Kept a shine on the bar with the sleeves of our coats


You'll have to excuse me, I'm not at my best
I've been gone for a week
I've been drunk since I left
And these so-called vacations
Will soon be my death
I'm so sick from the drink
I need home for a rest

TAKE ME HOME!!!

Euston Station the train journey North
In the buffet car we lurched back and forth
Past old crooked dykes through Yorkshire's green fields
We were flung into dance as the train jigged and reeled

By the light of the moon, she'd drift through the streets
A rare old perfume, so seductive and sweet
She'd tease us and flirt, as the pubs all closed down
Then walk us on home and deny us a round

The gas heater's empty, it's damp as a tomb
The spirits we drank now ghosts in the room
I'm knackered again, come on sleep take me soon
And don't lift up my head 'till the twelve bells at noon

Different folks

I've never paid that much attention to the Transgender Day of Remembrance, even though it's been observed for twenty years now.

It has my attention this year.

Last week, I learned that a close family member, Iphis (not his real name - duh) has informed his family and friends that he is transitioning from female to male. I got the news from Demeter, who had called Iphis's mum on an unrelated matter. After a night's thought, I texted elder daughter, a champion of LGBTQ rights, to let her know (Iphis being one of her favourite relatives), and to bounce around some ideas.

Elder daughter seamlessly switched Iphis's pronouns to he/his/him. After some deliberation, she texted him, and received an immediate message saying he was out to family and friends, who were being supportive. I took this as my cue to send a brief text, merely addressing him by his chosen name. Another immediate response, even briefer: "Hey!" I sent him our love and told him we were likely to slip up occasionally while we were learning. "That's okay. Luv u."

Iphis is fifteen.

It will be hard, for all of us. How do I refer to the Iphis I knew in the past, as "her" or "him"? Elder daughter says I will have to ask.

Iphis' mother is heartbroken, in mourning for the daughter that's suddenly gone. I don't blame her.

And then there's the terror. I have a daughter who is autistic, and if you think of autism as a different way of being, rather than a disability - which I do, on my good days - there are a lot of parallels. Who will judge them? Who might hurt them?

After all, today is the Transgender Day of Remembrance -- for those who have died for being different.

Please don't let me be reading Iphis's name at some future ceremony...

Back in the dark ages

As I continue to build my playlists at Spotify, I must say that I can find almost any song or artist that comes to mind.

There are a few exceptions, though, and so far, they've all been Canadian.

Here is a song I rather liked in the late eighties, although I was a little squeamish contemplating the concept of human flesh under human skin. It's an example of Canadian goth music, I guess, although I suspect people who are into goth music are likely to debate this. Not with me, please.

National Velvet were from Toronto, and flourished between 1985 and 1995.

Lust for locker (oh, get your mind out of the gutter)

I was rather relieved to discover that the storage locker that comes with our condo unit is somewhat roomier that that in our former apartment building.

This didn't mean that I didn't make every attempt to cull stuff before this last move, which may well be our final one. I went through folders, shredding and recycling old bills, university essays, and letters, keeping a few representative samples for posterity (who, no doubt, will trash them without a thought). I carried bags of books to donate to the library, and rid ourselves of toys, knickknacks, and clothes.

I then started a long series of trips with my trusty collapsible red wagon laden with boxes, bags, Christmas decorations, and filing cabinets, fortunately, downhill. Once there, I carefully piled the items in the living room, in the reverse order of how they were to be placed in the storage locker.

My comings and goings did not go unnoticed by my apartment neighbours, who usually kept their comments to admiring ones about the collapsible red wagon - surely one of my wisest purchases, and thus a rare thing.

I was about to maneuver my wagon into the elevator after returning from a trundle-and-drop, when a man tried to emerge, spotted me, and realized he was on the wrong floor. I told him I'd wait.

He said he'd seen me on several occasions and asked if we were moving. This was several weeks before we were to give notice to the building manager, so I replied, "No, we're just cleaning out the storage locker."

My, how his eyes gleamed!

"Are you clearing it out? Because we could use two."

Golly, I thought. Two storage lockers, old man? You need to let stuff go.

Naturally, I didn't say this out loud. I assured him we still need it. And so will whoever comes after us.

Two storage lockers. Geez. And I'd been ashamed of the stuff in our one locker, much of which simply should not have made the trip from Hades.

Even our larger locker is too damn full, but letting go, I've learned, has to be done in stages.

Moka House mutts

Making my way down Chester Street under my favourite arch of ancient maples, I paused uncertainly on the cross-street, where cars were being equally hesitant about a bumbling garbage truck.

A couple ambling up the sidewalk hailed me and, since they were wearing sunglasses and I'm face-blind, it took a few stomach-sinking seconds to place them, and realize it was one of my bête noires, a lady of sickly sweetness, and her no doubt blameless husband. I made awkward social conversation, being naturally socially awkward, and, knowing they were probably bound for Moka House as well, excused myself clumsily to avoid walking with them (possibly to their relief).

I was warmly dressed, so sat outside on the patio - bête noire et son époux had taken my favourite seat inside anyway.

I found myself amid the Moka house mutts (not all mutts, I should hastily add), whose owners find ways of setting them up, before dashing inside to grab their drinks.

One blonde beauty chilled on the steps, paws dangling. I think his/her name is Chris or Tris, and she was still damp from an ocean dip. A young man named Owen grinned at me from his high chair, thinking my smiles were meant for him. (Well, they could have been.)

Then Watson, the morning fixture, with his head-phone-wearing, laptop-bearing owner, arrived. They had lost their favourite spot too, but Owen's mother? grandmother? - she looks like she's recovering from a facelift - and Tris/Chris's owner told Watson's owner that they were leaving soon. Watson's human squatted to chat with young Owen and compare headgear, while Watson snuffled for scraps on the patio.

Once the table was surrendered, and Owen was sailing away on the back of a bike, Watson's bed was laid out, as it has been for most mornings for the past two years, at least. The minute Watson's human had vanished into the coffeehouse, Watson leapt to his feet as quickly as an elderly dog can, and resumed nuzzling the ground. He was briskly ordered back into bed, and angled his greying muzzle and paws with patient dignity.

Two other patient dogs were waiting together for the return of their coffee-carrying owners. My heart lurched. One closely resembled the late Accent Snob.

I averted my eyes, and at a neighbouring table, a pooch perched on a patio chair, gazing over the table at his owner, engrossed in her laptop. He stared and stared; one eye brilliant blue, the other a sort of hazel.

A family group gathered on the long, street-level bench that fronts the patio. A little girl gave a familiar and brief pat to the dog by her mother's knees. His eyes followed her up the steps as she darted into the café. Occasionally, he was distracted by passing dogs, sniffing in their wake, but his eyes always returned to the door. A teenager descended, plopped himself down, and cuddled the dog, burying his face in his neck. Eventually little sister returned and the dogs stood expectantly, more than ready to go.

As was I.

The road not taken

Walking home from the drug store, I decide to incorporate my route to my former home with my present home, descending into Fairfield via tree-lined and still leafy Vancouver Street.

I'm somewhere behind the cathedral, when I hear an exchange taking place behind me, between a child and a man: high voice/deep voice, high voice/deep voice:
"Guess what?"
"What?"
"Guess what?"
"What?"

This continues as they overtake me, a young dad and his colt-legged daughter, clad in a hoodie and leggings, dragging a long stick along the pavement.

Pang.

Two decades ago, elder daughter was seven, and would have come down this hill with her dad countless times, and much in this vein.

I'm rather relieved when this current-day pair lope past the turning which leads to our old house.

That might break my heart.

In syncopated time (write of passage number fifty-one)

I finally got in to see One Man, Two Guvnors. I've wanted to see it for years; the original "live-streaming" was in 2011, when James Corden looked about fifteen.

The play was vastly entertaining. It's a reworking of an eighteenth century Italian commedia dell'arte, set in 1963 Brighton. Aside from James Corden (who eventually won a Tony for his role, when the play transferred from the National Theatre in London to Broadway), there were a number of faces familiar to anyone who watches British drama. Lots of slapstick, some audience participation (including one ringer), and musical interludes provided by the cast, and a skiffle band that mutated into Beatlesque foursome (with XTC overtones) after the interval.

I was very glad I went.

Waiting for the bus, I encountered a lovely lady struggling with the new bus app on her phone, which informed her that the next #11 wouldn't depart for another hour or so. I checked the posted schedule, and texted the stop number, assuring her that we only had a ten-minute wait.

Evidently this wasn't enough. She asked a young man seated next to her for help in deciphering the app. He asked me if I were sure that I had checked the Saturday schedule. Patiently, I told him that not only was I looking at the Saturday schedule, I had texted the stop number. The bus driver in the "Not in Service" bus chose this time to take pity on us and allow us on, where the discussion continued, Victoria-style, about how technology has transformed university course-work, reading, and life.

The app-challenged lady turned to the young man, whom she recognized from some sort of tour he'd given up at the university (also very Victoria): "You won't remember this; you're far too young, but there was this duo called Simon and Garfunkel..."
"Oh yeah," he said. "They're great."
"Well, when I see everyone on their phones, I remember they sang this song, 'Dangling Conversation' - have you ever heard that one?"
I nodded. "With actual syncopated time," I said.
"But there was this line, I always think of: 'You read your Emily Dickinson; and I, my Robert Frost...' She paused, thinking. "...and I don't remember it exactly..."
"'And we mark our place with bookmarkers, to measure what we've lost,'" I supplied, grimacing apologetically.

I was getting weary from the effort of tuning in to the not-so-dangling conversation across the aisle, which was veering off in another direction anyway. I leaned toward my window, watching my old neighbourhood darkening in the fading autumn light.

Colder chests

As I continue to build my Spotify account, I stumble across moments. A few days ago, I mentioned here a song I'd almost forgotten about that reminds me of my young motherhood days. Yesterday, I suddenly remembered a song from my earlier days in Ottawa.

I used to volunteer at the library at the elementary school where my daughters attended. When elder daughter was there, the librarian was a twenty-something who actually introduced me to Launchcast.

This song, recommended to my Launchcast account about fifteen years ago, reaches into me like a hook, and I can clearly see the study in our house on Springfield Road, feeling the aloneness and the grey cold outside.

Older chests reveal themselves
Like a crack in a wall
Starting small, and grow in time
And we always seem to need the help
Of someone else
To mend that shelf
Too many books
Read me your favourite line
Papa went to other lands
And he found someone who understands
The ticking, and the western man's need to cry
He came back the other day, you know
Some things in life may change
And some things
They stay the same
Like time, there's always time
On my mind
So pass me by, I'll be fine
Just give me time
Older gents sit on the fence
With their cap in hand
Looking grand
They watch their city change
Children scream, or so it seems,
Louder than before
Out of doors, and into stores with bigger names
Mama tried to wash their faces
But these kids they lost their graces
And daddy lost at the races too many times
She broke down the other day, yeah you know
Some things in life may change
But some things they stay the same

Peeping Thomasinas

I was standing in my bedroom with my coat on, waiting for younger daughter to emerge from her own bedroom and gazing out the window, when I saw a woman peering around the corner into my room.

My bedroom is tucked in almost behind the pathway leading to our building's front door. This is usually not a problem; one would have to know that the window is there, and make the effort to lean around the partition -- which is what made this apparition disturbing.

I wasn't frightened, just a bit annoyed, even more so, when her companion, standing out on the sidewalk that follows the street, pointed me out, and the woman's fingers appeared as she gripped the wall to lean sideways to peer again.

I turned and stalked from the room. (I should have tugged the blind down.) I wondered what on earth was going on. Two units in our building are on the market. Were the women there for a viewing, and if so, where was their realtor, who would normally let them in? Were they visitors flummoxed by the entry-phone? Someone should tell them that looking into private windows is rather creepy.

I decided to leave by the side entrance in order to avoid them. No luck. As I rounded the corner into the small side parking lot, I nearly ran into the Peeping Thomasina, who was being followed, at a slight distance, by her companion, who smiled faintly at me as I passed. I returned a stony sidelong glance.

Younger daughter and I strode up the sidewalk en route to her voice lesson, as I suddenly wondered if the women had been able to slip into the building as younger daughter, trailing me by a few steps, exited.

"I was wondering if those two women in the parking lot...."
"What two women?"
"They passed us as we left."
"I didn't see them."

Great. Spooky as well as creepy.

Helden

Recent incidents in Canada - such as the one I was describing yesterday, for example - have made me perhaps a little perverse about Remembrance Day.

Now, don't get me wrong: I'm a family researcher, so I'm more than aware of war's impact on families, with no rosy, gauzy perceptions of it.

War kills people. It tears families apart. It wounds psyches. It cripples bodies.

So, I headed off on Remembrance Day afternoon, with the Resident Fan Boy and younger daughter in tow, to see JoJo Rabbit. It was on my want-to-see list, and all I knew about it was that it's about a small boy living somewhere in Nazi Germany, who has an invisible friend - Adolf Hitler.

Not the real Adolf Hitler, obviously. This trailer actually gives you a fairly good idea of the movie -- except it gets darker, of course.

Young JoJo is ten, so eligible for the junior division of the Hitler Youth, the Deutsches Jungvolk. Unable to remember a Germany without Hitler, JoJo's room is plastered with posters, the common sight of bodies strung up in the town square elicits a small boy's "yuck", and he thinks the summer of 1944 will be the best one ever.

As he charges off with his mates to "Komm, gib mir deine Hand" (the Beatles' original recording, which I have on CD and digitally), I understood just how surreal and frantic this film was going to be. I'm usually fatally put off by anachronisms, however in the current political climate - and climate crisis - this seems perfectly appropriate to a satiric nightmare, which is hilarious and terrifying by turns. It is, after all, a strange and diabolical time, seen entirely from the viewpoint of a ten-year-old boy, who has no idea of what his protective mother is really up to.

As events wheel into early 1945, things get bleak pretty fast.

Younger daughter was a bit traumatized by how JoJo Rabbit comes by his nickname, but delighted by the closing song - David Bowie's German rendition of "Heroes". (Yes, that works too.)

The impressive cast includes Sam Rockwell, Scarlett Johansson, Rebel Wilson, and Stephen Merchant, playing the role he was born to play. The two young leads are marvellous.

And the dream-pal Hitler? Played by the Maori/Jewish screenwriter Taika Waititi, as a middle finger flipped in the direction of those crazy Nazis - who, undoubtedly won't take the hint.

A poppy lapse

Is it my imagination, or have people gotten very silly about poppies in the last decade?

Over the past decade in particular, it seems we have some sort of poppy kerfuffle every Remembrance Day.

One year it was the Battle of the White Poppies versus the Red Poppies. Wearers of the white poppies thought red poppies glorified war, and red-poppy-wearers thought white poppy proponents were either presumptuous or unpatriotic.

Another year, we had the using-flags-to-anchor-your-poppy controversy, in which legionnaires declared that poppies were "sacred" and it was improper to fix them with anything other than the flimsy pins they come with.

This year, it's - heaven help us - Don Cherry. For those of you who are not Canadian and/or do not view hockey as the best thing created, Don Cherry is a long-time hockey-coach-cum-commentator, renowned for his unbelievably high collars, eye-watering suits, and loud, unvarnished pronouncements. This past weekend, he apparently thought the Saturday night hockey game was the ideal platform for airing his view that "you people" who "come here, whatever it is" "should pay a buck for a poppy". Apparently Cherry spotted some poppy-less people, who he believed to be immigrants. Let's see, how? They were darker-skinned than he is? They were dressed differently than he is? (No, forget that second one; we're all dressed differently than he is.)

Anyway, he's apparently offended by non-poppy-wearing newcomers, given that they're now living in the land of "milk and honey", courtesy of the sacrifice of Canadian soldiers.

Let's leave aside the horrors that many new Canadians have escaped, and the sacrifices they themselves have made. If the wearing of the poppy is mandatory, as Cherry believes - as I write this, he's just defiantly said that all Canadians should wear a poppy - doesn't that negate the very freedoms for which so many died?

I wear a red poppy, secured with a decorative pin. That's my choice. My fellow Canadians, darn it, have the right to wear a red poppy, a white poppy, a poppy with a pin, a poppy secured with flag pin, or no poppy at all.

That's their choice, Mr. Cherry. You have no right to bully them into doing things your way.

Now, I gather that Don Cherry has finally been fired. I'm not sure that this will solve anything.

I do worry that his comments will give courage to others, who will make life in this land of milk and honey less sweet for those who have committed the sin of daring not to be born here.

For Remembrance Day, Remembrance Sunday, and Veterans Day

This was one of the first "new" songs I heard on my Spotify account. The song is five years old, and the war experience it describes is very American, so I'll keep the American spelling.

I see you've found a box of my things -
Infantries, tanks and smoldering airplane wings.
These old pictures are cool. Tell me some stories.
Was it like the old war movies?

Sit down son. Let me fill you in.

Where to begin? Let's start with the end.
This black and white photo don't capture the skin
From the flash of a gun to a soldier who's done
Trust me, grandson,
The war was in color.

From shipyard to sea, from factory to sky
From rivet to rifle, from boot camp to battle cry
I wore the mask up high on a daylight run
That held my face in its clammy hand,
Crawled over coconut logs and corpses in the coral sand.

Where to begin? Let's start with the end.
This black and white photo don't capture the skin
From the shock of a shell or the memory of smell
If red is for Hell,
The war was in color.

I held the canvas bag over the railing,
The dead released, with the ship still sailing,
Out of our hands and into the swallowing sea,
I felt the crossfire stitching up soldiers
Into a blanket of dead, and as the night grows colder,
In a window back home, a Blue Star is traded for Gold.

Where to begin? Let's start with the end.
This black and white photo don't capture the skin
When metal is churned, and bodies are burned
Victory earned;
The War was in color.

Now I lay in my grave at age 21,
Long before you were born,
Before I bore a son,
What good did it do?
Well hopefully for you,
A world without war,
A life full of color.

Where to begin? Let's start with the end.
This black and white photo never captured my skin
Once it was torn from an enemy thorn,
Straight through the core.
The war was in color.

The demise of an accent snob

The rain has held off, so the streets near our house were hissing with fallen leaves.  In some places, they had been ground to a fine powder by passing feet.

One late afternoon, I made my way in the fading golden light, past two small boys bagging glossy horse chestnuts with their dad.  I pushed on until I had the Strait of Juan de Fuca in view.  There was a mist below the setting sun (or a fire?). Across the strait, long puffy clumps of cloud were draped over the Olympic Mountains, which rose above a calm stretch of silver.  I felt tension in my face, and realized that I was grinning.

I turned and there were dozens of dogs, trotting, cavorting, and sniffing up and down the Dallas Road path, and I remembered how I'd dreamt of living here again -- and walking the Accent Snob by the sea. The feeling of longing and loss washed over me like a wave.

Some weeks ago, my cell phone rang as I walked younger daughter up Fort Street to the Dutch Bakery.

"It's today," elder daughter choked, standing in a veterinary examination in Hades. "I didn't think it would be today."

I did, I thought to myself, as younger daughter and I maneuvered a crosswalk.  I wasn't going to tell elder daughter that.  Apparently, the vet, on being told that the Accent Snob was having a good day, responded, "Oh, dear..."

Elder daughter needed to do the paperwork, so I told her that I was available when she needed me, and we rung off.  Younger daughter and I took our seats in the café, and I told her that the Accent Snob had come to the end of his eighteen-year-old life. 

The Accent Snob was still alive at that point, but I wasn't going to tell younger daughter that.

Younger daughter's eyes filled with tears, and she took out her compact mirror, repairing the damage, and weeping quietly.

Text from elder daughter:  "They've sedated him."  I waited, knowing it was only a manner of minutes.

When my phone rang again, elder daughter was on the floor beside our old roué, still wanting to scratch his ears.

With younger daughter crying quietly across the table, and elder daughter sobbing in my ear, there was no time for my own tears.  I told elder daughter how brave she'd been, and how well she had cared for the old boy in his two final years.

The next day, we engaged in that very twenty-first-century form of grieving - posting photos of the Accent Snob online, and receiving condolence messages, mostly referring to the Rainbow Bridge.  Elder daughter texted me that she'd made the mistake of Googling the term.  Curious, I did the same - even though I've been aware of the expression for years.

It turns out that it's from a "poem" (really a mini-essay set out like a poem) that's been around for about twenty to twenty-five years.  It's a bit on the precious side - be my guest and look it up - but in these days, when people refer to their animals as "furry children", it seems to strike a chord.

I am on record as being against comparing pets to children.  The Accent Snob was a dog, not my child.  We loved him dearly, but we put his food on the floor and took him outside to pee.

And anyway, aren't dogs colour-blind?  Maybe the Rainbow Bridge is a spectrum of smells, leading to a land beyond pain, fear, and skateboards, where the Accent Snob always has someone to play Tug-of-War with him, and he can eat all the pizza he likes.

Adventures on café walls

Still setting up my Spotify.  In my bid to get more recent music recommended to me, I've been entering some of the stuff I've "Shazam"ed while in coffee shops and restaurants.

This is five years old, but golly, I like it:

A muster of pea-hens

While trundling things down the hill on Linden Avenue, I sometimes see strange sights, like the day I looked ahead and saw the sidewalk taken up with large fowl.

By the time I came abreast of the brood, they were toddling through a neighbouring garden, under the wary - and, no doubt, frustrated - eye of the household cat.

Memories coming around like comets

Since the demise of Launchcast about ten years ago, I have longed for something similar, and tried three or four different platforms, including Spotify.  None of them quite took.

However, elder daughter has been honing her Spotify for some time now, and this week,  I decided to give it another try.

My hope is, like Launchcast, it will lead me to new (to me) music, but of course, this involves programming it with stuff I already know.  A pleasant side-effect is the stumbling on to songs I'd forgotten, such as this Mary Chapin Carpenter composition, which was a favourite when my little girls were little girls.


Another side effect is the pleasant at-home feeling that familiar music gives this new (to me) home.

As for new (to me) music, I've already made half-a-dozen or so promising discoveries, which I may share here - should I find myself short of time, which is likely.

Begone, dull care

My Facebook feed featured an article from the Ottawa Citizen (actually by Sharon Kirkey of the National Post) about a therapy designed to blunt unpleasant memories - in this case, betrayals and painful break-ups. 

Of course, this was the focus of the rather surreal 2004 film Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, but fifteen years have passed, and I guess we're oozing into reality.

The issues remain the same.  How far can it be taken?  (Probably too far.) How ethical is it, and most important, what damage is possible, if we modify memory, even if painful and traumatic?

Of course, we all modify our own memories constantly - could we trust someone else with the task?

I didn't have that many break-ups and betrayals.  The one romantic break-up I experienced was gently done -- although I was devastated at the time.  After all, "A heart without a hurt is hollow," as the song from The Fantasticks goes.

That said, it's not like I haven't been wounded.  What would really tempt me is the possibility of dulling memories of people I dislike - usually those who have hurt me.  It troubles me - early and often - that I can't shake the replaying of past slights, outrages, and injuries.

And frankly, I would not miss these people or my memories of them.

It's beguiling.

However, I'm reminded of a quote that appeared, years ago, in the Victoria Hospice volunteer sign-in book, attributed to Kahlil Gibran (but did he say or write it, really?):  "I have learned silence from the talkative, toleration from the intolerant, and kindness from the unkind, yet, strange, I was ungrateful to those teachers."

And yet, Persephone, have you learned anything?  

No, don't mess with my memories; they may be the only things I have left -- if I'm lucky.

My way out

Younger daughter flatly refused to go with us to a Sinatra-themed Victoria Symphony Pops concert.

Well, she's a Taurus, like myself, so we knew she wouldn't be budged. 

This was a pity, because I've never been much of a Sinatra fan myself.  Oh, I know he's a legend, and yes, yes, I recognize his talent and influence.  However, his appeal has always escaped me.

And I loathe "My Way".

We'd bought season tickets weeks ago, so the Resident Fan Boy and I set off in the pleasant semi-sunny autumn afternoon, squeezing in amongst throngs of white heads, as special buses dropped off seniors for the matinee.

The singer featured was a fella named Tony DeSare, one of those guys with terrifyingly impressive CVs -  he's worked with Postmodern Jukebox, and performed on A Prairie Home Companion, so he certainly had my attention.

And he was good. He's an accomplished crooner, of course, but also a mean jazz pianist, trading riffs with the three-piece band he's brought, all backed by the Victoria Symphony.  He composes his own music, playing a pleasant ballad that Paul McCartney himself complimented.  When he boogied through a Sinatra arrangement of a Ray Charles song, I could see a third chair violinist practically dancing as she bowed her instrument.  (It was one of those damned "numbers announced from the stage", so I don't know which song - not one I recognized, so likely not that famous.)

And then he ended the first half with "My Way".  No escape.  We were front row centre.

When we attended a Michael Feinstein concert with the National Arts Centre Orchestra a few years ago, he flatly refused to sing "My Way".  In Ottawa.  Paul Anka's birthplace.  I was so grateful.

Faced with the prospect of listening to "Strangers in the Night" and "It Was a Very Good Year", we fled.  The Resident Fan Boy had a book to pick up at Munro's, and we stopped at Murchie's, where he treated me to something called Frenzy Cake, something like Black Forest, only with raaaaspberries.  Yup, just what I need - a new confection.  Gawd, it was good.

Waiting for the bus, I told the Resident Fan Boy that "My Way" is the top song choice for funerals.  The Resident Fan Boy was aghast, being the son of an Anglican clergyman, and accustomed to hymns at such services.  I also told me that "Time to Say Goodbye", surely one of the most manipulative dirges written, is high up the list.

He asked me what I'd like played at my funeral.

"Well, given how much The Wizard of Oz has meant to our daughters," I replied, "'Ding Dong the Witch is Dead' would work."

We both bent over double in hilarity:  "She's gone where the goblins go, below, below, below!" we warbled, ignoring the stares of our fellow waiters, who were, no doubt, praying we wouldn't board their bus.

Whimsical wallabies

Walking down into the Village one bright morning - with the switch to Standard Time, we're getting a few back - I happen to glance down and spot two painted rocks, tucked in by the sidewalk at the edge of someone's lawn.  I've included my shoe-tips for scale.

This makes me wonder:  does anybody wear Wallabees anymore?

Let yourself go

Two days in and I'm already cheating.

I do love this.

(The Laurel and Hardy clip is from Bonnie Scotland [1935]; "The Jean Genie" is, of course, off David Bowie's 1973 album Aladdin Sane.)

Often I stop with his words on my mind

On All Saints' Day, the trees are raining leaves like heaven raining souls.

I'm striding up Cook Street, wearing my packsack, so my hands are free, and the leaves are swooping in my direction.  I catch two, and make wishes for my daughters.

When I did this in Ottawa, there were also wishes for myself, but they mostly involved returning to Victoria, and here I am, so I make carefully generic wishes for my girls.  Best not to get too specific with wishes made for others.

I've been watching films about Oscar Wilde lately, and both featured a quote from Lady Windermere's Fan (1892, Act Three):  "In this world there are only two tragedies. One is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it."

This morning, I feel a brief November chill in my heart, but only time will tell.

Speaking of leaves and souls:

Fèy o, sove lavi mwen Nan mizè mwen ye wo
Fèy o, sove lavi mwen Nan mizè mwen ye wo
Pitit mwen malad Mwen kouri kay gangan, Simido
Pitit mwen malad Mwen kouri kay gangan
Si w bon gangan, sove lavi mwen
Nan mizè mwen ye wo Oh!

Willie works as the garden man;
He plants trees, he burns leaves,
He makes money for himself.
Often I stop with his words on my mind.
Do spacemen pass dead souls on their way to the moon?

(The lyrics of "Feuilles-oh" are in a Haitian Creole, and translate something like this:
Leaves, heal me from my pain Oh!
My child is sick I’m rushing to the voodoo priest’s, Simido
If he is a good healer, he will heal my pain)