Pie-eyed

Elder daughter's British version of the family recipe

Ah, Thanksgiving Day in Canada.

This is our fifth back in Victoria, our fourth spent in our present home, and our third pandemic Thanksgiving, although you'd never guess it from the lack of social distancing and masks.

We keep hearing of friends, neighbours, and acquaintances coming down with COVID.  So far, no one seriously ill.

Thanksgiving is neither my favourite holiday, nor my least favourite holiday, but, as someone who suffers from a certain degree of introversion, and a deep dislike of cooking, it's not the best occasion for a celebration that completely revolves around food.

However, I have daughters for whom this is a relatively big deal. Younger daughter carefully notes any special day as a balm to her autism and anxiety, and Thanksgiving is the day she either makes bread rolls, or follows the family recipe (from an ancient edition of the Vancouver Sun) for pumpkin pie.

Pumpkin pie is also the order of the day over in Britain, where elder daughter has lead her only slightly nonplussed flatmates (one Welsh, one South African, and one Austrian) through the ritual, which involves navigating a meal shared by two carnivores, one vegetarian, and one vegan.

Today, she's braving the London transport system with a pumpkin pie in her lap, to join her second cousins on the Resident Fan Boy's side: one Albertan, and one American.

We will miss her, as we have for the past five Thanksgivings.

Throwing stones

For several months, I had only a vague idea of what happened at the U.S. Capitol on January 6th, 2021.  I'm a Canadian, for one thing.  For another, I found it unutterably depressing.  I do remember thinking at the time:  Holy Cow, my cousin was right.

Said cousin lives in California, and was sending me distressed texts in late 2020, saying that democracy in the US was in severe danger.  

I have awoken deeply concerned. None of Trump’s many minions who now fill the seats in the Senate and House have in any way acknowledged the validity of the results of our free and fair election. Their silence is ominous. Ignoring the votes of the American people is outrageous.  He is calling for Civil War. Many of his most ardent supporters are heavily armed.

Democracies around the world need to stand up for the sanctity of the democratic process. This slide towards authoritarianism  must be stopped. Globally, we cannot afford to lose American democracy. The American people have done our job and voted him out in a free and fair election. We urgently need our international partners to speak up.

Back in December 2020, I thought she was overreacting.

It was only when Home Box Office came out with a documentary entitled Four Hours at the Capitol, that I sat down to watch and listen.  It's still unutterably depressing, and I'm still a Canadian, although events in Ottawa earlier this year make trying to understand what went on in Washington DC more pertinent.  No country, after all, is immune to populism, and I'm getting worried about democracy in Canada, to tell you the truth.

Four Hours at the Capitol, which tells the story with no narration other than interviews, and follows events through phone footage (mostly by marchers and attackers), security cameras, and police vest-cams, has been criticised for giving screen time to insurrectionists, but I don't really see how a documentary on the subject can leave them out.  Besides, to someone like me, who has only a faint idea of the various factions involved, it was of some help, although I was quite confused at first.

Early on, I had to sort out just who the interviewees were.  They are identified, of course, as they speak, but the protesters are often described in rather vague terms. I was particularly interested in the testimonies of journalists, whom I ended up having to Google -- which also worried me, because it makes my search history look peculiar.

The three journalists that we hear the most from - mainly because they were in the thick of it - are Taylor Hansen (The Gateway Pundit), Brendan Gutenschwager (described as an "Independent Videographer"), and Ashley Gilbertson (an Australian photographer for the New York Times).  Hansen and Gutenschwager are youthful; Hansen looks as if he's only recently begun shaving.  Gilbertson has the air of a grizzled news veteran.  All of them give clear and articulate accounts - a relieving counterpoint to the mob's limited cache of simple slogans (ie. "1776!" "F*** Antifa!" "Stop the steal!", etc.) but it's only as the documentary progressed that I got a handle on Hansen's sympathies - I'd never heard of the Gateway Pundit.  He uses the words "patriot" and "patriotic" a lot, and he uses them as a synonym for "Trump supporter".  Gutenschwager is harder to nail down, he apparently has documented many demonstrations in the US, and sells footage to major news outlets.  Gilbertson just sounds incredulous, someone who followed the crowd into the Capitol, and couldn't believe what he was recording.

For me, the most unsettling witness is a guy called Nick Alvear, a young, pretty, bearded guy who looks like he could have stepped through a time portal from the late sixties and early seventies. 

He was filmed firing up a joint in the great hall of the Capitol, after members of the mob broke in. Apparently, it occurred to him that he had seven additional joints on him, so he passed them out. Months later, in his interview for this film, he beatifically contemplates this gesture, commenting on how he toned the energy down and perhaps stopped some serious s*** from happening. 

He looks like several of the young men I knew at the Unitarian church when I was a young woman (a hotbed of liberalism), so it's jarring to hear him earnestly declare that Trump is speaking out against the enslavement, rape and torture of children. 

He's referring to the truly bizarre "Pizzagate" myth, which has become part of the overarching "QAnon" conspiracy theory. Our soft-spoken alt-right quasi-hippy somehow misses the irony of thousands of children separated from their parents at the Mexican border under Trump's "zero-tolerance" policy towards illegal immigration (i.e. refugees) -- something that is actually documented, unlike Pizzagate. 

There's further irony: Alvear was born in Venezuela, under the name Eduardo Nicholas Alvear Gonzales.      

The violence is difficult to watch, and I'm not the first one to wonder how violent it would have been, had the crowd been anything but predominantly white.

Particularly gripping are the testimonies of those inside: the woefully outnumbered security personnel, the senators, and staff members.  A young woman on Speaker Nancy Pelosi's staff, who is clearly the same age as my daughters, describes the hours of hiding under a table in a locked room, not daring to text her parents for fear of weeping and telling them goodbye.

We see insurrectionist Ashli Babbitt shot, by a clearly terrified Capitol Police officer. (Taylor Hansen describes her as "so patriotic".) She died almost immediately. We see a policeman hauled out into the crowd, beaten and tasered repeatedly.  He survived, but was badly injured and traumatized. We hear of the four police officers who committed suicide in the weeks following the attack.

Mostly, I was left with an impression of lasting damage, both physical and emotional - and a frightening revelation of how much damage was there before this march got out of hand, and how deeply much of America is in the grip of delusion.

It's the long weekend of the Canadian Thanksgiving.  I could be grateful for being a Canadian - and I am - but, about the same time I first saw this documentary, the truck convoy invaded Hades.  I have a painful story about that, which will have to wait until I can bear to tell it.

Holy cow.  My cousin was right.

A tale of two memes

A year or so ago, I had a "Friend Request" from a woman whose name I didn't recognise.  I checked her profile picture, and she looked vaguely familiar, so I didn't delete the request.  After weeks, I decided, based on what little info I could glean, that she was connected with Victoria Hospice, where I was a volunteer for several years in my otherwise misspent youth, so I accepted the request, and she cheerfully "liked" my posts.

It was several months before I realized she was, in fact, the president of the student council in my graduating year at high school. Her surname had changed with marriage.  A perfectly nice lady, but I was at a loss as to why she would be "friending" me; it was a relatively small school, but we had not known each other well.  In fact, my most salient memory of her was from a rare encounter at university, where I had also seen little of her.

We were chatting and she mentioned something about her house, but added that of course, I would remember whatever it was.

"Well, no, I've never been to your house."

"Of course you have!  Everyone's been to my house!"

So her posts would show up on my Facebook wall from time to time, mostly references to other things about her life with which I was not familiar.

Then, a couple of months ago, she posted something called "Meeting Between Bread".  This is a meme that used to be called "Meeting Between Breadfruit", but the wording is exactly the same:

Click to enlarge - if you must

Oh gawd. 

First of all, this woman is a teacher. Next, we have the usual red flags of a meme designed for data-mining: the unusual name, the request to copy and paste rather than to share, and the manipulative meta-message that if we don't comply we are inattentive and uncaring.

Finally, one word I'd associate with this woman? The kindest one: "president", I suppose. Less kind: "oblivious".

The meme is undeniably effective.  Responses flowed in, to the point where I hid the post.

There are a number of links I could have shared, but painful experience has taught me that people don't like being corrected.  Fair enough.  I don't like being corrected either.  (However, I often learn a bit more that way, irritating as it is.)  I thought about it for a few hours, while I went about my business, mostly along the lines of what I have set down here.

And I unfriended her.  I doubt she noticed.

Two months later, another Facebook "friend", also a fellow alumni, posted pretty much exactly the same meme.  He too was getting a lot of gratifying responses.

This was a little more complicated.  This is a fellow I've known since elementary school, so we have a history.  In fact, my heart sank when, about 10 years ago, his "friend" request came in, but I couldn't think of any reason to refuse him.  He addresses me, and all other women acquaintances, as "Dear Heart".  A lot of the time, I want to smack him.  Luckily for him, he hasn't been within striking range for years.

He's a IT expert, so I was surprised to see this meme, and, once again, appalled at its effectiveness.  I sat for a few minutes, considering unfriending him (as I have for years), but decided to send this link instead.  He responded in a few minutes, on the post itself, expressing appreciation, then followed up with a further post, name-checking me, and saying that the problem was with the copy-and-paste.

Close, but no cigar.

Then he wrote on my wall.  "Lots of us", he said, had missed me at a recent reunion gathering, and could we meet in person?

Oh gawd, no. "Lots of us?" I said out loud to the screen.  "Who, exactly?"

I went away and did other things for a few hours.  Time and tussles have taught me to never respond immediately to things that irritate me.  Especially people.

When I answered, I went for the truth.  Not the whole truth.

I had an elderly mother and upcoming elective surgery, I told him.  I would be sticking to my bubble.

And then, I unfriended him.  It was his birthday - actually a sort of gift for both of us.

I doubt he noticed.

Almost immediately afterwards, I found this:

On Reddit

The Resident Fan Boy found me by the computer, doubled over with laughter.

Throw some seeds of your own

Sometimes when I'm not crazy about the playlist at the coffee shop, as was the case this morning, I retreat into my earbuds until the music gets better. 

I first heard this song while watching the 2020 documentary series The Comedy Store. The song comes up  over footage of the mourners, all famous stand-up comedians, leaving the 1977 funeral of Freddie Prinz.  All these people, who lived for laughter,  in floods of tears.  

Jackson Browne wrote the song in the early seventies. A friend, a dancer and figure skater whom Browne doesn't name, died in a house fire. 

It's a song about loss, of course, but the words turn towards hope of redeeming a life, even in the face of extinction.  With the headlines full of death, disaster, and downright foolishness, it was a song I needed to hear this morning.

Maybe you do, too.

Tapping into musical therapy

I tried to be so good today. 

I was patient, polite, unhurried. I planned ahead; I was ready to not sweat the small stuff. 

And it worked. For a while. 

See, I knew the day was not going to be easy. Demeter wanted to do some banking. She wanted to update some funds and investments. We agreed she could do this, while I nipped off for some quick errands. 

As a precaution, I left my phone number with the banking staff.  They called me while I was just completing the first errand.  My signature was needed.  That was fine; I'm flexible.  I hadn't planned anything important. And I was patient, polite, and unhurried.  The appointment took three quarters of an hour.  That was fine.  I rather suspected this was going to happen; Demeter is at an age where financial types look at her and think:  estate planning.

What I hadn't planned for was the snarky bus driver as I helped Demeter disembark on the way home after a long afternoon.  Or the large white truck making an illegal right turn inches from Demeter's walker as we crossed to her block.  Or the neighbour who followed us into the small elevator at the condo, and seemed hurt when I hastily exited to take the stairs instead.

I came home and the Resident Fan Boy wanted me to locate a photo from the eighties, and younger daughter was watching a Friends episode, for the umpteenth time, from one of the latter five seasons (which stank, frankly).

In self-defence, I slapped on the noise-cancelling headphones, and stumbled across this latest Postmodern Jukebox video:

 

I'm not a fan of either the British nor the American versions of The Office, but I like quite a few of the featured songs here, to say nuthin' of the fabulous tap-dancing.  In purple boots, yet.

My savage breast was soothed.  (Not a euphemism.) I was only slightly cranky by dinnertime.

Twin set

I'm trudging up the hill in the late afternoon, and am overtaken by two women. I'm barely registering them until I notice that one is clad in a "Canadian tuxedo": denim jacket and denim trousers, both, in this case, dark blue. 

 I haven't seen a Canadian tuxedo in ages, and then, only on men. I watch the women stride ahead and notice that they have matching hair, that straight chin-length bob - fresh from the hairdressers - which doesn't quite match their age. And they do appear to be of an age, anywhere from late fifties to early seventies. They also share height and build: medium and slim.  Both are wearing trainers, not identical, but the same type, though different colours.  The companion of the Canadian Tuxedo clad lady is wearing a jacket and trousers of a similar style, though not in denim.

I find myself wondering if they are sisters, and when I catch up with them at the light, discreetly glance sideways.  No, they don't look related.

As they briskly enter the crosswalk ahead of me, I remember pairs of girls in my high school, the ones who had evidently conferred by phone, either the previous evening, or in the morning before getting dressed.  They'd show up in outfits of the same style, with colours carefully chosen to go together.  I don't recall ever doing this with my friends, but then I was never known for my fashion sense.

Do those matching school chums continue to do this throughout their lives?  Is that what I was witnessing?  Do high school girls still do this today?  I'd set myself up by a secondary school to see, but I have neither the time, nor the inclination to seem creepy.

Animated dad humour

Tired. I'll leave you with this animated music video from the 1980s, that used to get a lot of play on MuchMusic.

Get lost

Elder daughter lives in South Wimbledon. At least, that's what she keeps telling me.

However, when I check Google Maps to place stories she tells me about her neighbourhood, it appears to be Merton. I don't like conflict, but I do like to be accurate.

Part of this is because I'm a family historian, and it's important to get place-names right.  Take a few weeks ago, when I was trying to convince a guy who has "manages" the grave of one of the Resident Fan Boy's distant cousins, that he had the wrong birth registration, and that the said cousin was born in Kensington, not Suffolk.

After some polite wrangling, my documentation convinced him, and I went to fill in the correct birthplace at Find A Grave, only to find that the only option that the automatic field would accept was "The Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea" - which didn't exist when the said cousin was born a century and a half ago.

See, London has gone through many administrative changes in its long history, and the confusion isn't mitigated by the fact that many versions of the geographical, political, municipal districts/boroughs/what-have-you continue to co-exist.  Some disentangling is in order.

This is not a bad place to start. It's one of many, many videos created by Jay Foreman, on the many, mystifying aspects of the organization of London, and, indeed what is, and is not London. The videos have high production values, and are hilarious.  You also need to keep your finger on the pause button, because there are several jokes that appear in a flash. His latest YouTube video is tackling Tube maps.  You have to be very witty to make that sort of thing engaging -- and Foreman and his team are.  Even the ads at the end are funny.

But what if you have concerns beyond London? For example, my mother was born in Wolverhampton, Staffordshire, but many websites will only permit me to say that she was born in Wolverhampton, West Midlands.  

This "Map Men" video, presented by the afore-mentioned Jay Foreman, plus Mark Cooper-Jones, doesn't solve my fillable fields problem, but is a damn entertaining intro to the crazy world of English counties - and whatever happened to Huntingdonshire and Rutland.

And if your geography problems are global (and whose aren't?), the Map Men can distract you from those too.

All clear, then? Good.

Lullabys for grown-up children

I'm a grown woman.

You'd think by now, after years of my husband going off on business trips, and my own seventeen summertime flights from Hades, that I would be able to sleep in a house or other dwelling by myself without nervousness.  However, the awful truth is, I'm scared to be alone at night.  It's not the reason I got married, but it's definitely a perk.  (The real reason I got married was to be able to tell my left hand from my right.)

In the earlier years of our marriage, if the Resident Fan Boy was away, I'd tune the television or radio to a news format, and leave it playing in the living room.  If I stirred to wakefulness, it was like the RFB was watching something before going to bed.

After children, this became less feasible, so I'd play a radio softly in the bedroom.  It meant not sleeping as deeply as I'd like, but it got me through the night.

Later, when troubled by occasional insomnia when the RFB was home, I tried earbuds with music, but the RFB could hear the music, and the earbuds were not comfortable anyway.

In the past year or so, they've come up with sleep-bars.  You tuck them under your pillow and use the BlueTooth function to choose what you hear.  My particular sleep-bar is called Sonisleep, and they also sent a link via email for ten sound-scapes, which include lapping waves, birdsong, waterfalls, quiet city traffic, and white noise.  They run for thirty minutes and when they end, the sleep-bar switches off.  

I also designed a "Sleep" playlist on Spotify, comprised of my favourite songs and instrumentals that remind me of night, or are connected with happy memories.  I can use the timer function for an automatic turn-off after 30 minutes.

It took a month or so of experimentation, during which I didn't tell the RFB of my purchase, because I wanted to see if the claim that the sounds Sonisleep makes cannot be heard by your bed partner are actually true.

During the month, I discovered three things that surprised me; 1) my sleep playlist actually slows my descent into sleep, because I want to listen to the music;  2) when I had to sleep in the living room during the four nights that the RFB was recovering from COVID last summer, I played the sleep playlist all night, because I found the living room, which is steps away from our bedroom, spooky and lonely.

And the third thing?  My favourite soundscape turns out to be "Heavy Rain and Thunder".  It's quite loud, but makes me feel cozy, and makes my pillow into a thundercloud.  I keep thinking of that scene in Fantasia when Zeus, tired of throwing thunderbolt, rolls himself into the clouds, like a man pulling an eiderdown about him, to go to sleep.  Maybe I should add the final movement of Beethoven's Sixth Symphony to my Sleep playlist.

Oh, and the Resident Fan Boy tells me he doesn't hear a thing.

Cutting it fine

The Tea Table (1920) - Harold Harvey

I had a pretty lousy night last night, and found myself blearily scrolling through social media early this morning, having tried, unsuccessfully, to get back to sleep.

This was how I stumbled upon this tweet from journalist and art historian Richard Morris, asking for feedback from his followers on the practice of buttering the bread loaf before slicing it.  It seems that he was aware of the practice (it's mentioned in Charles Dickens' Great Expectations), but thought it might have been a more local tradition, limited, perhaps, to the West Country, where he had documentation.

Wha-a-a??  I said to myself (silently, so as not to disturb the Resident Fan Boy -- which was damned nice of me, considering that it was his snoring that was partially responsible for my sleep deprivation).

First off, it's not that clear from the painting how this buttering was managed.  Fortunately, Morris got hundreds of replies, which you can read if you follow the link.  The followers writing in were remembering mums and grans from all over Britain, but especially the West Country -- and Wales. Many said that it was for economy; the butter made it easier to slice the bread thinly, and that today's bread, made by the Chorleywood method, would fall to pieces, if buttered or sliced in such a way.

I quizzed Demeter when I went over to set up her lunch.  She didn't remember her Welsh grandmother or her Wolverhampton grandmother buttering a loaf in that fashion, but did say that the Welsh loaves were startling:  large with rounded tops.

I went home and questioned the Resident Fan Boy, because I wondered if the technique made it to Canada, and if his grandmother, a farmwife in Alberta, buttered the bread this way. Not only did he not recall the women in his family doing such a thing, but, damn his eyes, he refused to believe such a thing was done!  Showing him the painting did not convince him, but when I had him read some of the Twitter replies, pulled up the passage from Great Expectations, and googled "buttering loaves before slicing", he came around.  (How very dare he!  He knows me well enough that I would have checked!)

I came to the sad conclusion that the generations of our respective families who would have known the answer have slid beyond our questions.  If yours haven't, ask -- and write it down.