A tale (tail?) of two remakes

Firstly, you need to understand how deeply the 1994 film version of Little Women and the 1998 television film version of Cats are imbedded in the childhoods of my children. The Thomas Newman score of Little Women was part of my "birthing tape" for second daughter; that's how much I loved the music. Elder daughter, of course, adored the movie from a very young age. As for Cats, we had a wavering VHS of the 1998 television version, which both girls played over and over.

I've probably told this story before, but when elder daughter was taking ballet lessons at age six, younger daughter and I would wait in the office area, where we could catch glimpses of the lessons. One evening, I watched in disbelief as younger daughter, age two, stretched and arched in the darkened corridor outside the studios, clearly imitating this moment:

I had been rather dreading the 2019 version of Cats. Despite my daughters' enthusiasm, I'd been exposed to this musical years earlier, and frankly, I'm not overly fond of it, and the director Tom Hooper's version of Les Miserables is two hours and forty minutes I'll never get back. This version of Cats has been assailed by horrendous (and hilarious) reviews. A pack of elder daughter's musical-loving, but Cats-loathing pals in Hades got drunk to go see it.

There were few people in our Victoria matinée -- they appeared to be sober. And oh, it could have been worse. The mistake, I think, was trying to give Cats a plot. Also sticking out like a sore thumb, hip-hop dancers in 1930's London. And Rebel Wilson, whose schtick didn't quite work here.


However, I didn't mind most of the performances. I was fine with Taylor Swift as Bombalurina, and even her song, co-written with Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber. I've always been a fan of Steven McRae, a premieur danseur of the Royal Ballet, and his rapid-fire tap-dance as Skimbleshanks the Railway Cat (which isn't a tap-dance in the original musical). Sir Ian McKellen as Gus the Theatre Cat? Perfect, of course.

The Resident Fan Boy slept through the bulk of the movie, claimed he hadn't, and was hurt when I disagreed with his opinion on performances he hadn't seen. Younger daughter adored it, of course. Elder daughter resolutely refused to see it, but insisted that we all attend the latest version of Little Women together.


I had been worried by the trailers of this Little Women, that they would add anachronistic music and dance moves. Actually, they stuck quite closely to the period -- Jo's clothes are a little more mannish than you'd expect, but that's in keeping with Alcott's Jo. Demeter, who didn't attend, would have been driven crazy by the use of flashbacks, as the movie begins in the 1870's, and Jo remembers the events in episodes, which are filmed in a golden filter; the "present" is signalled by a blue filter.

I'd also worried, having read reviews, that it would be too similar to the 1994 version. I adored that version, but I don't go to cinemas to see copies. All the things in the 2019 Little Women that the critics praised seemed to be what you could say equally of the 1994 Little Women. However - I remembered with a pang - 1994 was 25 years ago. Each Little Women - the 1930s Katherine Hepburn one, the 1949 June Allyson one, the rather ghastly 1970s one with, heaven help us, William Shatner as Professor Bhaer - reflects its time. This current telling is a post-#MeToo take on the story. Although faithful to time and place, the injustices of being a woman in the late 19th Century are voiced a little more loudly, clearly, and insistently than even Louisa May Alcott would dare.

A young woman on one side of me sniffled a little at Beth's demise. Younger daughter reported that the Resident Fan Boy wept quite a bit. I didn't weep, but I was moved. Elder daughter, seated on my other side, was not. She pronounced a definite preference for the 1994 Little Women, so much a part of her childhood. She felt Timothée Chalomet was miscast as Laurie, because, in her opinion, he didn't mature with the part. Younger daughter clearly thought that Timothée Chalomet was the perfect Laurie, no doubt because she thinks he's dreamy.

Well, they're sisters, and very different - like the March girls. For my part, I'm glad my first exposure to Little Women was through the novels themselves. This seems to allow me to not get too attached to the films, as Jo, Meg, Beth, and Amy were known to me long before. I won't mind seeing this Little Women again. I can't say the same for Cats, but I have a feeling I'll be sitting through it whenever younger daughter has the yen.

Drawbacks to living in Victoria

Oh, today. It wasn't a bad day, it was just one of those days.

I accompanied Demeter to the retina specialist, because, on top of her having a cough that has persisted since before this year began, she gets to get an eye injection every month or so.

It beats going blind.

We'd finished, and Demeter was setting up the next four appointments, which will take us through to June, when a man comes up behind us and addresses us both by name.

We both stare at him. (Demeter, given the procedure she's just endured, has a harder time doing this.)

We have no idea who he is. He has to tell us. He was a young boy living in the condo Demeter purchased when I was a young teenager.

Oh well. Things change.

Classical pass

Does YouTube know what I listen to on Spotify?

This showed up on my "suggested" list this afternoon. Not much Mozart, but Spotify did send me a little bit of Carmen yesterday...

Am I impressed? Well, yes, but not quite that way...

Algorithm arrhythmia

It's been almost three months since I decided to resurrect Spotify at the behest of elder daughter.

It's been interesting. I get two weekly playlists: one called "Discover", which are tracks that are not necessarily new, but Spotify thinks might be new to me; and "Radar Release", which includes newly released tracks by artists in whom I've shown an interest, either by "liking" songs, or "following" the artist, in social-media-speak.

I try to listen to both playlists, because the whole point of the exercise is my desire to expand my listening, but it's a helluva lot of music, and I don't always get through it all, especially since I am also sent six (6!) playlists each day, comprised of stuff I've "liked", or even just listened to. Each playlist is based on four to six artists, so that it is sort of themed, roughly, in my case to alternative rock, folk, with some innings into glam rock, and singer/songwriter stuff. It is, of course, my favourite music, on the whole, but some of it is quite repetitive, and the "new" stuff I'm sent is slightly skewed towards country music. Not surprising, I suppose, given that I like folk, and folk and country often tend to lean into each other.

That's algorithm for ya.

Today, however, I got something different. One of my playlists was entirely given over to an Early Music/choral/Mozart/ mix. Fifty tracks of lutes, madrigals, requiems, and the occasional pop song reworked in acapella. Tallis Scholars, King Singers, Oxford Camerata, Bryn Terfel, and, of course, Baltimore Consort.

Like a greedy kid in an ice cream parlour, I downed it all at one sitting.

Heaven knows what this will do to the algorithm. I'd better listen to the Stone Roses-based playlist tomorrow.

Old news

What happened? read the text from younger daughter, who had just holed up in her bedroom for the late afternoon. You said 'Oh My God!'

Younger daughter was a few yards away, but also on the autism spectrum, so in some aspects, miles away. So I texted back:
I've just found out something interesting and exciting that happened in our family 170 years ago!!!

What?

Ah. Not so easy to put in a few words.

Some fella, who shares something like 22 centiMorgans of DNA, was asking me for information some weeks ago. I make it a point to not respond until my ducks are in a row, as it were. Each inquiry is an excellent excuse to update a given timeline. This one is a timeline I haven't worked on in a while.

As usual, it was while I was double-checking a great-great-great-uncle's 1853 death date (which may actually be late 1852), that I stumbled upon a 1851 news article, involving a court-case involving not one, but two of my great-great-great-grandfathers, and my great-great-grandfather. It gives dates and clues to their changes of occupations, and hints at the connections my ggg-grandfathers had, even before their respective children got married.

The case pits them against the Whitbread Brewery, a powerful adversary. I'm probably going to have to search out more newspaper articles to try to determine the true end of the matter (which, I suspect, wasn't good).

Too much for a text. I simply called to younger daughter that it was a story about her great-great-great-great-grandfathers. She wasn't nearly as excited as I was, for some reason.

'Twas ever thus.

Finding your look

My Facebook feed keeps sending me this.

I don't mind.

I think it's very funny.

It's true; we all remember a teacher that was something like this.

With our names upon a star

This rather lovely song turned up on my Spotify "Release Radar" last week.

Looking at the singer, I thought he looked somewhat familiar. It turns out he's Marc Almond. Nearly 40 years ago, he had a hit with a cover of "Tainted Love", originally recorded by Gloria Jones in 1964, and whose version I rather prefer.

Move over, Monet

As is my habit when world headlines get positively terrifying, I am burying myself in art.

It's not always stress-free.

This week, younger daughter and I are back at water-colour classes. We're labouring at a still-life of drooping blossoms, cut crystal, teapot, jug, and a cup of tea.

Younger daughter creates her own bold and beautiful vision. She's a natural.

Our teacher gazes at what I've wrought.
"I honestly really like it," she says. "Now, don't take this the wrong way..."
I sit back and raise a dignified eyebrow. I'm a grown-up.
She continues: "I had a favourite student at the art gallery. Just love her stuff. She had vision problems, and kept switching between her glasses. I think that's how she came up with the unique look of her pictures."

So, perhaps impressionism is the way to go.
At least, I can claim this is intentional.
I'm thinking of calling this "Twinkle, twinkle little bat", because it's rather like a tea-tray in the sky.

(I'm quite proud of the spout...)

Packing tips

One of the few (very few) things I miss about Hades is the opportunity to view the Academy-nominated short films, live or animated. The following is a nominated animated short from 2017 that I missed. It's deceptively simple, and devastating.

If you can speak German, don't watch this

I woke up this morning to the news that Terry Jones was gone. While not my preferred Python (that would be Michael Palin), Terry Jones was a vital member of the team sometimes referred to as "The Beatles of Comedy" - Monty Python's Flying Circus, so called - I understand - because there is no such person as Monty Python; it isn't a circus; and it doesn't fly.

In addition to writing and acting in the television series and on the albums (where he can be recognized by his inability to pronounce the letter "r"), Jones directed three of the four Python movies: Monty Python and the Holy Grail (with Terry Gillam), The Life of Brian, and The Meaning of Life. He also wrote books and articles, and directed non-Python projects. In fact, it was a BBC series about the Middle Ages, written and hosted by him, that got us in trouble a couple of years ago with our upstairs neighbour. (The show was uncaptioned, so I was playing it too loud after 11 pm; the building manager said it was a first.)

The following is probably one of best-known Python sketches penned by Jones. It doesn't smell of elderberries, and is perfectly safe to watch.

Unless you speak German.

So if you've lost your mind or you hate your children....

So thank goodness Randy Rainbow is at it again, because this has been a particularly bad year for news --- so far.

Younger daughter really loved this. Except for the swearing.

Hung out to dry

Do you know how today is supposed to be Blue Monday? (Experts don't think it is, by the way.)

Well, yesterday was pretty discouraging.

It actually started over the Christmas holidays.

One of the requirements we gave to our realtor when searching for a condo last spring was an in-suite laundry.  The apartment had one laundry room with two washers and two dryers, shared by 35 units.  In addition, it was expensive: $2.50 for a washing load (more if you wanted warm or hot water); $2.25 for an hour's drying - 25¢ for each additional eight minutes.

After a couple of decades of my own machines, working out how not to piss people off was a challenge.  They certainly pissed me off: students who stuffed everything into the machines together -- cushions, duvets, underwear -- and people who failed to clear out the machine, but were enraged if you cleared their stuff out in desperation.

The siren call of "home" when I first saw this condo loosened my resolve. The laundry rooms were an odd set-up: three tiny laundry-rooms with a washer and dryer each, on the third, fourth, and fifth floors. (We're on the second floor.) Fifty cents per use, so a dollar for one load.

The machines are older, and don't show how much time is remaining, so I leave a post-it note saying when I turned the machine on.

I've been hoping to start a trend. Nuthin' doing, but I found the sharing civil enough.

Until three or four weeks ago, when, on two occasions, I found an unoccupied laundry room, put in my laundry, set the timer on my phone to return promptly, left a note saying when I'd started the washer ----- and returned to find someone had poached the dryer while my clothes were in the washing machine. I thought this was a thoughtless and unneighbourly thing to do, and left another post-it note saying so, before searching the building for a free dryer. (And no, I didn't poach it from another user.)

In the month that has passed, I felt I had got over my indignation, and no more poaching seemed to occur. To me, anyway.

Yesterday, I decided to put a load of towels in. I only dare do the towels every two or three weeks, but it had been a few weeks since the last contretemps, so I was feeling brave. On the fourth floor, where the best dryer is, the dryer was in use, but warm to the touch, which usually means it's getting toward the end of the set time, which is one hour. The washer takes a half hour, and when I returned, the dryer was still. It was full of towels. I carefully draped these -- about five bathsheets and half a dozen smaller sizes, over the rack, carefully separating one not-quite-dry towel to a separate rung, so it wouldn't dampen the dry items, and would have a better chance to air out. I put my towels into the dryer, started the machine, and left my usual post-it note, noting the time and date.

The Resident Fan Boy, back from a voice lesson with younger daughter, accompanied me for the "half-hour check", where we remove dry items so the rest has a fighting chance. To our horror, there was another post-it note beside mine, scrawled with large and angry writing. I had apparently used the two quarters left in the coin-cradle by the previous user, who had intended to run the towels through a second cycle, and thought leaving the coins would be a clear signal of his/her intentions.

H/she hadn't reckoned with my mind. I had been surprised, when I had gone to put my money in, to find 50¢ already there, but figured, knowing myself, that I had put them in place without knowing.

NOT VERY FRIENDLY!! bellowed the post-it note. The towels I'd draped over the rack were gone.

I grabbed another post-it note and scribbled: "Absolutely unintentional! I'm sorry! I've left two quarters -- if you come back!" And thought to myself: Really? Leaving two quarters in the slots holds your place? Really? Using two hour-long drying cycles when someone else is in the queue?

I didn't write that, of course. It would use too many post-it notes, aside from enraging whoever-this-is further.

Both the RFB and elder daughter are sure the interloper is the same person whom I admonished by post-it note at Christmas.

I rather hope they're right. These are three incidents, and I hate the idea of three households waiting to ambush me with baseball bats, but that's a little extreme.

Isn't it?

Architects and engineers

Another day when I've simply run out of time. It's been an encouraging and discouraging day -- and I may elaborate later.

One of the things I'm working on is a rundown of the "tens decade", which is private, I should hastily add; I won't be posting it here.

I'm working on 2010, so here's a song from that year, which I probably didn't discover until two years later.
The song's rather better than the video.

Paying attention

 It's my habit to have CBC Mornings on Radio Two playing while I rise and dress. Earlier this week, I was half-listening as I went through my waking rituals, when I found myself tuning in to a particular song, which was neither familiar nor unfamiliar.  This time, I was noticing the voice and its easy gentleness, so I reached for my phone which has the Mornings playlist bookmarked.

William Prince is based in Winnipeg and belongs to the Peguis First Nation, whose members are of Cree and Salteaux/Objiwe descent.  I plan to pay attention to him.

Working stiffs

I'm worn out. Here's a photo I snapped at dusk about a year ago. It's a statue of workers, which stands outside the Resident Fan Boy's office building.

With a hey and a ho

Part of my regular listening in my pre-children days included a couple of Baltimore Consort CDs: early music, sometimes featuring a singer with possibly the best name in classical music - Custer LaRue. Despite having the name of a rodeo trick-rider, she had the pure soprano of a boy chorister.

Life with children swept me down other musical avenues, until a Facebook notification last month alerted me to the startling news that the Baltimore Consort would be performing in Victoria. It seemed just the thing to chase away the blues of mid-January, so on a cold and rainy evening, the Resident Fan Boy and I strode up Quadra Street to the Alix Goolden Hall. We found a perch in the balcony above what used to be the sanctuary of the Metropolitan United Church before the Victoria Conservatory took it over a couple of decades ago. It gave us a good view of both the audience and the stage, and I spotted my art teacher in the front row.

Baltimore Consort (founded in 1980) consists of six musicians. Four of them switched instruments seamlessly during the concert. On of them - Larry Lipkis - played both string and wind instruments, including a crumhorn, which looks like a small shofar in reverse. The two "specialists" (i.e. sticking to one instrument) were the lutist Ronn McFarlane, and the soprano Danielle Svonavec.

I don't know what has become of the fabled Custer LaRue (well, actually, she appears to be doing just fine), but Danielle Svonavec, who looks all of 25, sang expressively and even, at times, mischievously.

It turns out she's the mother of three teenaged girls, is the Dean of Girls and the music teacher at a middle school, a cantor at her local Basilica, on top of being a busy soloist with various ensembles and choruses. Oh yes -- she also lives on a farm.

The concert had a Shakespearean theme, grouped in blocks around nine of his plays. Highlights for me: a French dance piece called Les Buffons "The Clowns", by Jean d'Estrée, from a 1559 dance melody book. Larry Lipkis picked up a recorder, and stole behind Mindy Rosenfeld, whose flyaway hair and clothes, along with her kicking heels, reminded me a bit of a Jules Feiffer cartoon.

They did a sort of peek-a-boo, while trilling away in complex runs.

In the second half, a section devoted to Hamlet with John Dowland's "Tarleton's Riserrectione". This was a lute solo by Ronn McFarlane, an elegant gentleman in black, who could pass for the Ghost of Hamlet's father with his silver beard, and is, among many other things, a Grammy nominee. It was one of those moments when I hardly dared move, enchanted beyond words.

This was so worth the walk in the wind and the rain (with a hey-ho).

We picked up their latest CD, of course.

No good deed goes unpunished

I don't usually make a point of taking pictures of Victoria when it snows, because, unlike many of my fellow denizens believe, this city isn't magically transformed into a winter wonderland. It just turns into Ottawa.

The snow snuck up on us Sunday evening, when Demeter came over for dinner and to watch Masterpiece Theatre. I didn't even notice the snow outside until the Resident Fan Boy donned his boots, and I went to the window. Demeter refused our offers of boots or YakTrax, so we escorted her up the sidewalk, as the right rear wheel of her walker picked up broad white ribbons, then stalled with the resulting snowball.

I found that if I rhythmically swatted the wheel with Demeter's cane - rather like the old-fashioned bowling of the hoop - we made steady progress. Thank goodness the journey only took two blocks.

The RFB and I returned to the colourful glow of the Christmas lights against the snow, and pondered how both elder daughter and younger daughter, of the Hadean childhoods, reject January and February snow, only wishing for it at Christmas.

A snowfall in Victoria is a good time to visit the shops, nearly deserted by those lacking the inclination to brave the weather without winter gear or tires, for that matter.

At midday, as the flakes resumed, I resolved to seize our trusty ergonomic Ottawa shovel, and tackle the sidewalk running the length of our building, much as I cleared the sidewalk outside the Hades house in the vain hope of shaming my neighbours into making passage easier for strollers, wheelchairs, and canes.

It's about the same length of sidewalk as that I laboured on in Hades, so I cleared it again an hour or so later when the snow stopped. A Strata Council member thanked me profusely. Unlike Ottawa, where it's a municipal pastime to complain about the city's failure to bulldoze sidewalks, it's a municipal requirement in Victoria to clear paths and fronting pavements during the occasional instances when we get a brief blizzard. (It's never a real blizzard, but don't tell Victorians that.)

After two brisk shovelings, the body cries out for carbohydrates and salt, so the Resident Fan Boy fetched me potato chips.

It was the dip that did me in.

At 1:48, I awoke in agony, and chewing antacids and swallowing acetamenophen, lay awake until stupid o'clock, wondering if I were having a heart attack. (I've reached the age where this is a possibility.) I gave up, and, since upright seemed a marginally bearable position, plodded miserably to the cold living room to watch stuff I'd PVR'd and peer out between the blinds at the garden, which was steadily disappearing. As I dozed fitfully after 5 am, the RFB learned his office building, along with schools and several other businesses, had been locked. He ventured out at dawn to join the shamed shovellers. (I can dream, can't I?)

Signs of singletons

No, I didn't take this picture. Are you crazy?

Two earnest young mums huddle over a table in the coffee shop this cold January morning. One, young and brown-haired, is carefully cuddling and nursing her tiny child, leaning forward to listen to her companion, a tall lady with a long blond ponytail, juggling her child, who, given what I remember about child development, is somewhere between eight and eleven months old.

Clearly, both have just the one child.

How can I tell? Something in their posture, in the intent focussing of their attentions on the babies. Also the fact that they're sitting in a coffee shop.

Some time later, I make my way down the hall to use the tiny loo. Blond Ponytail is crouched in one of the two stalls. Her baby is balanced on the adult seat, and BPM is reading from a pile of picture books, while the little girl-child makes noises of the kind a baby makes in the months before words come.

I've heard something of this phenomenon. It's called something like "elimination communication", because young parents simply don't have enough to worry about. With this method, you prove how much at one with your kid you are, by carefully watching your baby for signs that s/he might be ready to pass something, then popping them on the adult toilet until whatever it is emerges. This way, you not only wipe out the need for diapers, but you also get yet another opportunity to bond.

Blond Ponytail Mum bonded with her preverbal daughter, all during the time I used the free cubicle, and for some time after that. Luckily for her, it seems that no more than one woman at a time needed the facilities during that period. Definitely the mother of one. Imagine a mother of two or more believing this was necessary for her baby, much less leaving the other(s) unattended for the amount of time each toileting takes.

Mind you, BPM is probably waaaaay too environmentally conscious to have more than one child.

(For the record, I used cloth diapers, but would probably be condemned for my water wastage.)

Leaving the Christmas lights up

Snow in Victoria tends to slow things down and fill days up.

I'm not a huge fan of Taylor Swift nor of Shawn Mendes. Despite the fact that both are clearly talented - and Mendes is Canadian - their music isn't up my alley.

But, heck, I do like this song.

Also, I have no problem whatsoever leaving the Christmas lights up until Candlemas.

And that's in February.

They cry "Who's this?"

We had the pleasure of seeing the Baltimore Consort in person last night.  I want to write more about the concert tomorrow.  Here's their closing number, where soprano Danielle Svonavec, dressed somewhat puckishly,  runs a little riot amongst her fellow musicians.

Her antics were similar at our concert at the Alix Goolden Centre. 

(I watched from the balcony after the close, as my art teacher, seated in the front, quietly gathered up the music that had scattered at her feet after Robin Goodfellow tossed it, and stacked it on the edge of the stage.)



From Oberon in Fairyland, the King of ghosts and goblins there, mad Robin I at his command, am sent to view the night-sports here: What revel rout is here about in any corner where I go; I'll oversee and merry be, and make good sport with ho, ho, ho!

As swift as lightning I can fly amidst the aery welkin soon, and in a minute's space descry what things are done below the moon.  There's neither hag nor ghost shall wag in any corner where I go, But Robin I, their feats will spy, and make good sport with, ho! ho! ho!

Sometimes you find me like a man, sometimes a hawk, sometimes a hound, when to a horse I turn me can to trip and trot about you round.  But if you stride my back to ride as swift as ayre away I go, O'er hedges and lands, o'er pools and ponds, I run out laughing, ho! ho! ho!

When lads and lasses merry be, with possets and with banquets fine, unknown to all the company, I eat their cakes and drink their wine. And to make sport I fart and snort and all the candles out I blow, the maids I kiss, they cry, "Who's this?"  I answer, laughing, "Ho! Ho! Ho!"

Since haybred Merlin's time have I continued night sports to and fro, that for my pranks men call me by the name of Robin Goodfellow.  Fiends, ghosts, and sprites, that haunt the nights, the hags and goblins do me know, and beldams old my tales have told, sing "Vale, vale!" ho! ho! ho!
- Ben Jonson (circa 1623)

Whose hearts are caged by the wage of their lives

A darkish sort of day, as we move deeper into January.  The temperature is dropping and the wind is rising.  This is literal, not a metaphor (but it could be).

Spotify sent me this today.  I like it.  It's like four different poems, read forwards and then backwards, like a tide.  In this days of extreme weather, the first verse seems particularly apt.

Look back in anxiety

Awoke this morning to a BBC article in my newsfeed. From the "Future" section, it wonders about how medications affect personality.

Apparently, statins can cause irritability, even rage. Antidepressants can reduce signs of neuroticism (at a possible cost to reasoning). A common drug for Parkinson's Disease - L-Dopa - can affect impulse control; asthma drugs can bring on hyperactivity.

Then, there's paracetomal, commonly known as acetaminophen - that's Tylenol, folks. I take acetaminophen, because ibuprofin does nuthin' for me. Apparently this common pain-killer can reduce empathy.

Now, I am over-simplifying things. I really do suggest reading the article.

However - and this is anecdotal, not scientific, I realize - years of being a home support worker, a hospice volunteer, and a daughter and granddaughter have shown me that what is frequently mistaken for "just" aging, is often the reactions to medications. My grandmother once said, near the end of her long life: "The nice me is gone. All that's left is an old bitch."

I also remember the bewilderment of being so easily hurt and enraged for the brief time that I took Clomid for fertility.

And I have to wonder: was my Double Leo Sister always as hyperactive as she can be? She's asthmatic --- and diabetic. Geez...statins....I think she's been on those.

Then there's me. I don't take acetaminophen constantly, but I've taken it enough. Do I feel less? Care less?

I've been on levothyroxine since before the advent of younger daughter. It isn't mentioned in the article, but are there emotional side-effects? I'm looking back, uneasily, on the person I was before being prescribed. Is it only the years which have shaped what I am now?

Shutting out and being inclusive

One text from elder daughter in Ottawa today: "The news cycle isn't getting any betterrrr..."

Damn right.

Yup. One can only take reality in small doses these days, so I offer this video of James Acaster, which sort of has something to do with recent changes in my circle. Or not.

Proximity

A CBC News photo from Gilmour Street

Awaking to two texts from one's daughter in Ottawa, saying she's safe, but shaken, is an effective way to banish sleepiness in a hurry.

She's safe? Wait a minute. She was in danger?

I quickly checked my newsfeeds, and learned there had been a shooting this morning, on Gilmour Street in downtown Ottawa. This is two blocks north of elder daughter's office.

At 7:30 am EST, elder daughter had not yet left her apartment, a ten-minute walk away. Police had cordoned areas off, and her office wasn't fully operational for another couple of hours. In the interim, the now ever-present barrage of fuzzy social media reports: "Multiple victims" "Active shooter" "Suspect at large" Rather like that ghastly October morning five years ago, when no one knew what was happening, and terror froze everything.

It seems to have been at an Airbnb. Four young men, unknown to the surrounding neighbours: one dead, three seriously injured, including a fifteen-year-old. The neighbours suspect a gang incident. The police are describing it as a "targeted attack", which apparently means everyone else is safe. Really?

This is on top of the agonizing ripples of bereavement affecting nearly every sizeable city across Canada, as the identities of the sixty or so Canadians aboard last night's doomed flight out of Iran are revealed.

My daughter told me she was safe this morning. So many families can't say that this evening.

Music for Hades

I was carefully stretching this morning, in order to stroll down to the coffee shop as smoothly as possible. I was a little late, because Tempo, the morning classical music programme on CBC Radio, was on, and my goal is to be out the door before it starts. (This would involve rising before 8 am.)

As I gently pulled my leg past 90 degrees, an unnamed Offenbach composition began, and as it played, and I stretched, a band arrangement, performed slightly off-key and a bit slow, ran through my head.

The piece was the Overture to La Belle Hélène, one of the 96 (96!!) operettas that Jaques Offenbach composed, but I'm pretty sure that our junior high band selection was entitled "Offenbach in Hades", and featured three or four well-known tunes, including, of course, the "Can-Can" from Orpheus in Hades.

I hadn't thought of this in years, but knew, as I listened, which musical phrase would follow, because I had played it (badly) when I was fourteen or fifteen.

When I was fifteen, I met a young man who played cello in the Portland Youth Philharmonic. I haven't thought of him in years either.

The tune that summoned back memories this morning begins at the 1 minute, 20 seconds mark.

The darkness comprehended it not

The tree is down and, along with the decorations, is packed away in the storage locker. (Sure, I miss live trees, but I haven't been able to smell them for the past three Christmases.)

Our cards and lights, however, will remain up until Candlemas. The Resident Fan Boy, making his way home through the heavy January rain in the darkness of just after sunset, told me that he was never happier to see our lights glowing in welcome.

Drumming out Christmas

Since we moved, one shortcut into town takes me past our old house on Collinson, a fine opportunity to torture myself with nostalgia. It was the one home I truly loved; I was reasonably fond of our other homes, but this one had my heart. Our daughters were young in it, and I adored the size, shape, and location of it.

The people who live there now ring the portico with lights, much as we did, and seeing the familiar shape and glow from Quadra Street nearly did me in.

In Victoria, it's very common to take the tree down a day or so after New Year's Day, although we cling to the tradition of leaving it up for the Twelfth Day of Christmas, which is today.

I'm frantically cleaning and pulling a dinner together for the friends who come and help us ease through this rather depressing chore.

On our old street, in our old house, the tree was being dismantled on the second day of the new year. Oh well. It's their house, now.

Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast

I'm not a hockey fan, but as a former ESL teacher with a healthy helping of Québecois students, I love the vim and vigour of this Québecoise, a former monstre and terror of nuns.

(I also have loved ones and friends that are Habs fans. I'd never hold it against them.)

Herne the Hunter dawdles home

It's happened. After residing here for a little over three months, my feet have automatically taken me home.

I'd had an idea of dropping in on Demeter, but found myself striding up Chester Avenue, where I spotted a small boy straddled a small bike with training wheels, pushing himself up the hill.

This wouldn't have been remarkable, except for his bike helmet, which had various branches seeming to sprout from the helmet-holes. (Chester Avenue is, as usual, strewn with branches from the ancient plane trees after the latest windstorm.) He looked rather like Herne the Hunter.

I came abreast of him, and inquired: "Camouflage?"
"He's dawdling," answered his father, bringing up the rear. "He's so slow, things are growing out of him."

O schadenfreude

For the third time since we returned from Hades, we accompanied Demeter to the Butchart Gardens for Christmas tea. The first two excursions featured heavy downpours; Butchart's has its own micro-climate:
it's either hotter, colder, or wetter than what you'd expect in the Victoria area.

But this time, we were blessed with a semi-sunny day, although a thick cloud of mist had been trapped in Brentwood Bay, like a bowl of meringue.

After the ritual ride on the carousel - I rode the zebra this time, while younger daughter rode a deer with a nose reddened for the season, and the Resident Fan Boy sat astride a medieval charger - we feasted on tea, scones, sausage rolls, trifles, and real gingerbread.

Demeter, who has reached the age where every experience might be the last opportunity, wanted to stay and perambulate, because the Christmas lights come on at 3 pm, an hour before sundown. The Resident Fan Boy escorted our daughters to the bus home. Demeter accompanied me with her walker to the Five Gold Rings in the Sunken Garden, then made her way back by the wheelchair route. She's in this picture, dressed in gold. (You may have to click on the photo to enlarge it.)

Excited little boys pelted by me, pursued by their parents, past flowerbeds planted with electric lights, and I climbed the stairs out of the sunken garden, to meet Demeter by lanterns hanging from the bare branches.

We caught the bus, which took us past a kilometre or so of headlights, hundreds of cars headed in for a rare rainless Christmas season night. And there we were, headed swiftly and unimpeded in the opposite direction.

Yuletide treasure

The rainy night, with its sinister swinging shadows, created by high winds, has left a shiny new day and new year.

This morning, the pavements were littered with twigs and chunks of bark blasted off the aging trees of our neighbourhood.

It's the eighth day of Christmas, so we're still exchanging a few gifts, and enjoying the last precious hours before elder daughter flies away back to Hades.

I thought I'd hastily leave a record of some of the treasures given me this Christmas - aside from time with family.