Camera-shy

 

Yesterday's urban wildlife encounter reminds me of an incident last fall, when I was on my way to set up breakfast for Demeter.

It's a short walk, and I caught the eye of a very young buck deer having a nosh in the plantations of a neighbouring apartment building.

"Don't worry," I told him.  "I'm not coming anywhere near you."

I'm pretty sure he didn't understand me, but he didn't challenge me, so I continued to the corner where I usually cross.  I got held up by what I call "funeral corteges", long lines of cars heading down Fairfield Road after being held up themselves by traffic signals further east.

While I waited, a young woman in grey sweats barrelled across the road from the other side, seemingly undeterred by the cars bearing down on her.  She was clutching her phone, and evidently intent on filming four or five deer that had now joined the buck, including a couple of young fawns.

I called to her, from where I stood:  "They have young with them; they might charge you!"  There have been reports of people being hurt by frightened urban deer over the years since they started appearing in Victoria, about twenty years ago; some dogs have had to be euthanised.

The woman, predictably, ignored me, gesturing uselessly as one deer came alarmingly close to her, although I don't think she understood the danger, then stretching out her arms to the sides, and pleading with them not to bolt -- as they were doing.

Did she really think they understood her words and gestures?  Did she believe she was in a Disney film?

A doe fled across the busy street, leaving her fawn behind, which eventually ventured after her.

None of them were run down -- including the clueless woman, still brandishing her phone, still calling after them to stay, to come back.

I will save the world by lying on my couch

This Randy Rainbow parody reminds me of both my daughters.

Elder daughter, who has been huddled in her Ottawa apartment for the past week, working from home, is appalled because, as she is getting necessary supplies, so many people she encounters are not observing the holy protocols of staying two meters away from others, nor coughing into their elbows. She would heartily agree with the closing line.

Younger daughter, who, as someone on the autistic spectrum, is rather a self-isolator anyway, would object to the swearing, but recognized the song being parodied -- which is more than I did. It's from the Disney animated film Hercules; I've never seen it.

A cold and friendless time

Nineteen years ago, when the move to Hades was looming, and the Resident Fan Boy was transferring, I'd take younger daughter to a gym class at the Y, while elder daughter was in school.  It was a fairly unstructured class, more of a playtime.  I'd hover while younger daughter climbed, and half-listen to a tape of Disney classic songs that played at each session.

There was one song, though, that, even if I couldn't quite hear the lyrics, always brought me to the edge of tears.  I'd swallow them back, and attend to the task at hand.


I'd never seen Pete's Dragon; it was one of those kids' films that post-dated my childhood, and predated my motherhood. (I did see the 2016 remake with younger daughter, and remember next to nothing of it.)

Listening to it today,  I'm just as glad I couldn't make out all the lyrics.  Mind you, back then, I probably wouldn't have realized how apt they were - although I think a part of me knew.  It's that desperate promise every mother longs to keep: that she'll always support you, guide you, never leave you.  Sometimes, she can manage it for the first fleeting years, but children can't be shielded forever.

I'll never let you go.

We have to, eventually.  It's the point of the exercise.

Over the rainbow

I'm tired. I'm taking the Randy Rainbow escape. Because he is an escape. A big, campy, over-the-top escape - with a spot-on parody of the opening of Disney's Beauty and the Beast.

(Am I the only person who thinks William P. Barr looks like Elton John?)

Learning you were wrong

Little time today, so I'm cheating again. Aubrey Logan is another Postmodern Jukebox performer I would love to see live. (We did see the bassist.)

Wibbly-wobbly Pooh

The Resident Fan Boy and I were a bit leery about Winnie the Pooh: The Radio Show, but younger daughter said she wanted to go, so we purchased tickets for an evening show, reasoning that we were less likely to be overwhelmed by ankle-biters. However, the audience, which filled the Gladstone Theatre, ranged to pre-teens to the elderly.

The set looked cozy and Christmassy, all scarlet, beiges, browns and olive green. Three singers dressed as flappers sang jazzy songs in three-part harmony.

Then five actors assembled in front of microphones disguised as old-fashioned radio microphones, along with a sound effects man with a slight drinking problem and a box of sound effects for The Christmas Carol. He would have to make do with improvisations on a handy Christmas wreath.

The cast had just received the script for Winnie the Pooh, arrived by mail from the BBC. The parts were assigned, and one fellow wanted to be Tigger, but was informed that it was 1925, and Tigger doesn't appear until The House of Pooh Corner in 1928.

"But if it's 1925, how do we know all this?" asked the would-be Tigger.
The man voicing Winnie the Pooh shrugged: "Wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey stuff."

The Resident Fan Boy, who was wearing his new Doctor Who Christmas sweater, applauded.

And the evening proceeded, with sly references to Canada in 2015 from a sometimes anachronistic ninety years earlier. What was not quite so anachronistic was a mild example of 1920's anti-semitism. What was really anachronistic were the tunes from the Disney version of "Winnie the Pooh".

Younger daughter didn't care. She had jazz, she had a bit of Disney, and she had Christmas. And the Resident Fan Boy had a Doctor Who reference.

They must have seen us coming.

Toodle-loo, Toulouse

I dress early and finish my packing so I can slip down by myself to the coffee house near Demeter's condo and drink in the beautiful sea-cooled morning one last time, along with my caffe mocha.

The barista with whom I began this year's stay in Victoria is there this morning, cooing over a visiting dog on the patio. A few minutes later, as I wait for my order, she's bubbling excitedly to the young man who is creating a beautiful pattern on my caffe mocha in chocolate syrup: "I get to take care of two little weiner dogs! It's my very first dog-sitting job!" Then she excitedly outlines her dream of getting a cat: "I'll call him Toulouse just so I can call 'Tou-looooose!"

Her companion frowns slightly but continues his deft strokes across the foamed milk. "Uh, I'm not sure I get that," he says. "Try spelling it?"

I grin at him. "Toulouse-Lautrec," I explain. "The really short French artist from the nineteenth century."

The bubbling barista gapes at me in delighted astonishment. "Are you kidding? I was thinking about Toulouse in The Aristocats; y'know, the kitten who paints with his paws?"

"That's right," I nod. "He's named after Toulouse-Lautrec."
"Wow! Can you spell that?"
"T-O-U-L-O-U-S-E."
"Wow! I never knew that!"

I sit outside, reading the local paper and watching people stroll up and down Cook Street. Some are walking dogs; others are clearly on their way to work. I silently envy them for living here, as I used to do. (Live here, I mean.) I can't stay long. The Resident Fan Boy is helping younger daughter pack and Demeter is fixing breakfast before we leave her to head to the airport. Reluctantly, I rise and take my mug back.

Bubbling Barista beams at me.
"Thanks for telling me about the artist!"
I wave genially. "Toulouse-Lautrec," I remind her. "Look up his work. He was good."

I walk out into the morning sunshine. I only look back once.

Necessities

My heart sank a little when younger daughter chose "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" as her performance piece for a recent church dinner.

Oh, "Over the Rainbow" is a nifty song. I'll give you that. You can understand why it's a classic. Beautifully constructed, full of unfulfilled longing, of dreams just out of reach -- no wonder it strikes a universal chord. Furthermore, it's the gem glowing at the beginning of the best-loved children's film ever, so there's the added pull of ancient childhood memory.

I was just hoping younger daughter would pick something a little less conventional. (She does a fabulous "Mr Cellophane" from Chicago.) I was wishing this even more during the week before the dinner as the Resident Fan Boy led her through rehearsals with our karaoke machine. (Not to be too cynical, but I suspect the desired use of the karaoke machine for the party was a key reason behind the invitation for younger daughter to sing.) Every evening, she would run through it about four times which wouldn't have been so bad, but the karaoke CD we have is from the show version (as opposed to the movie version) which includes a cutesy spoken lead-in and an introductory verse which I believe Garland herself only sang once in a radio show during the Second World War.

Here's a 1960 recording of Ella Fitzgerald singing the song with the opening verse (but not, thank heaven, with the cutesy spoken part): I rather wish I'd known about this recording before; younger daughter adores Ella Fitzgerald. Anyway, she practised gamely and had the new words down pat, as we set off for the bus stop on a Sunday evening, elder daughter and I bickering over the latest Doctor Who episode. (Elder daughter thinks I'm prejudiced against Chris Chibnall and would have liked "The Hungry Earth/Cold Blood" if I hadn't known that Chibnall wrote it; I don't think so. I'd say the double episode was pretty crappy even if Chibnall hadn't written "Countrycide". But, as usual, I digress.)

Younger daughter sang well. Afterward, we asked her if she was ready to go home, but to our surprise, she wanted to stay. Mystified, I watched her body language get increasingly agitated as a small parade of brave souls tackled the limited karaoke repertoire. (The organizers failed to pick up discs from the local rental and the would-be warblers were left with the half-dozen discs we happen to have.) One brave little girl tackled "Doh, a Deer" and struggled with the unfamiliar accompaniment. Another woman decided to assay "When You're a Jet" from Leonard Bernstein's fiendishly difficult West Side Story and coped by adopting the Rex-Harrison-talk/sing approach.

Younger daughter continued to fidget fretfully.
"Would you like to do one?" we asked.
"No!" she snapped.

Elder daughter grabbed a friend and cheerfully bumbled their way through "What is This Feeling?" from Wicked (which goes like this if you're not a young woman and thus are not familiar with the song):
Younger daughter continued to grimace and behave rather like she needed to visit the washroom. Finally, she blurted out: "Aren't they going to do a Disney one?"

I hurried over to the table and made the suggestion. Elder daughter grabbed some assistants and launched into "Hakuna Matata" from The Lion King. This seemed to give younger daughter the courage she needed. She announced that she wanted to sing "The Bare Necessities" from The Jungle Book, seized the microphone, and with perfect pitch, volume, and timing, belted it out. She even danced a little.

Returning to our table in the wake of a rather astonished ovation, she informed us it was time to go home. Clearly, she'd made her point.