Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps

Yesterday, after a couple of false starts (no such things as "spontaneous" in this household), I took younger daughter to see "Under the Sea" (not the 3D version) at the IMAX theatre in the Museum of Civilization.

I wasn't sure how much she liked it, although the lack of fidgeting was a good sign. On the bus home, I mentioned that the movie was just like being under the sea, except, of course, we could breathe, and then I reminded her of the kids practising scuba diving at the community pool in Victoria where she took swimming lessons this summer. (And where, by the way, she moved up four levels in the Red Cross swimming programme. She completed Level Three last summer and Level Seven this summer. Just sayin'...)

Where was I? Anyway, her eyes lit up and she said: "Yes, that's what I was imagining!" And I realized it was one of those magic days when we get to hear what she thinks and when the words don't fail her. These days pretty well never happen at school, or when anyone outside of the family is watching.

That evening, when her dad asked about her day, she was ready: "I was imagining that I was scuba-diving and I saw all of the fish under the water and a sea lion swam up and gave me a kiss. I liked everything except when the turtle ate the jelly fish. That was disgusting. That wasn't in Finding Nemo...."

She even remembered the two songs in the film: "Perhaps Perhaps Perhaps" (sung by Doris Day; it's the theme music for Coupling, too) and "Octupus' Garden" (though not sung by The Beatles).

The words flowed and flowed...and then they stopped. And she struggled to get them back: "And I... and then I....oh dear!"

We get the tantalizing glimpse of this very different brain at work and the sliding doors shut. And I lie in bed in the morning, when the gremlins swoop mercilessly in on me and wonder if her new school will understand this and not give up on her as her last school did. Perhaps...perhaps...perhaps...

Cheating, but we need some joy, don't we?

I'm considering signing up for NaBloPoMo this month, but I'm running into trouble already, so I'm taking the cheater's way out --- posting a YouTube video. No doubt everyone has seen this by now, but gosh, wouldn't you want your wedding (to say nothing of your marriage) to start this way?

Answering by the book

Can't resist this meme from Norman Geras (via others, of course, that's how memes work). With this one you answer with the titles of books you've read within the past year. Luckily, I keep track at Goodreads.com, so I've linked each title with that site:

Describe yourself: The Heretic's Daughter

How do you feel? Disquiet

Describe where you currently live: 44 Scotland Street

If you could go anywhere, where would you go? A Voyage Around John Mortimer

Your favourite form of transportation? Love in the Present Tense

Your best friend is: The Senator's Wife

You and your friends are: The Beasts of Clawstone Castle or The Wordy Shipmates

What's the weather like? A Month in the Country

You fear: The Ghost Map

What is the best advice you have to give? Look Me in the Eye

Thought for the day: The Careful Use of Compliments

How would you like to die? Underfoot in Show Business

Your soul's present condition? In the Devil's Snare

I'm not irritating anyone by tagging them, but if you decide to do this one, let me know!

Recipe for a less-than-stellar evening

1. Family who has invited us to a barbecue kennels their dog for the evening, citing dog's over-excitability and danger of nipping.
2. Dog-worshipping younger daughter is informed of this at the beginning of the twenty-five-minute car journey to the house and spends the trip in a pall of disappointment, not having seen the dog in two years.
3. Aging mother/mother-in-law of host couple asks me after dinner if I plan to put younger daughter in a group home.
4. I wander off for a solo stroll to weep and regain my equilibrium and wonder in passing if kennelling is this family's solution for everything.

Other than that, our summer stay in Victoria has been quite lovely, thank-you.

Uninvited ghosts

Woman and Baby with Ghost(s)
Originally uploaded by meowhous

I've just finished listening to an audio-book in which a young boy's mother has vanished. He is certain she is dead because he senses her in things like candles. "People don't hang around without their bodies unless they're dead," he explains reasonably.

This reminded me of my eldest daughter when she was four. She was frequently visited by the spectre of her paternal grandmother who only spoke to her once to say: "Do you know who I am?" My daughter replied, of course --- she'd seen the picture on the mantle. (My mother-in-law died three years before elder daughter was born.) She mentioned this in the off-handed way children mention these sort of things, and I battled not to show the shudder descending through my body. Something about the words and the circumstances rang true, and it would be just like my late mother-in-law to hang around. She had an unshakable faith in her own indispensability, and both my husband and I had unsettling experiences after her death, which I'll tell you about some other time.

Later, when elder daughter was thirteen, she gave me a little more detail. She said her grandmother would be sitting in the rocking chair in her bedroom, smiling pleasantly and watching her granddaughter play. The rocking chair had belonged to my sister-in-law, a gift from her parents when her first son was born; the rocker had been passed on to us when she left the country. When we moved, I donated the chair to the Unitarian Church, which would not have pleased my devoutly Anglican mother-in-law.

Elder daughter told me her grandmother only appeared if the Resident Fan Boy was in the house, and faded when anybody came upstairs. She stopped her visits altogether when the RFB started a series of secondments to Ottawa in 1998, which had him away from home for three-week periods, broken by three-day jet-lagged weekends. Father-in-law began making appearances shortly after his death in 1999; elder daughter would see him leaning on our front yard gate, something else she told me at the time in a matter-of-fact tone. I had no reason to doubt her. I felt him enter the living-room one evening and said calmly: "Hello, Edward." The feeling passed, and we moved to Hades less than a year later. Elder daughter said she was always waiting for her maternal grandfather to show up, but as we learned the year she was thirteen, he was still alive then, so not prone to hang around without his body. Now my daughter is seventeen and he is dead, I doubt somehow that he'll show up, unless he's visiting younger daughter and she doesn't have the words to tell us...

I'm not sure whether I believe in ghosts or not. I've had enough creepy experiences to make me wonder, and know plenty of intelligent people (such as my daughter, my sister, and even my mother, among others) who say without a hint of melodrama, that they've seen, felt or heard something.

I like to push such thoughts from my mind, particularly when I'm house-sitting a large old home by myself, except for younger daughter. I've one more night in this particular house and the Resident Fan Boy flies in from Hades to help me house-sit the second residence tomorrow (which only has an ancient dial-up computer, so you may not hear from me until I'm hauled back to Hades in about three weeks). Last night was a relatively cool evening after a run of unusually hot days for Victoria (including a 40 humidex, fer Gawd's sake; Victoria never gets a humidex above 33... and smog????), so I slipped into the hot tub under the Garry Oaks, and listened for the Symphony Splash as the sun set, because often the music drifts for miles if the wind is right. Unfortunately, someone was having some sort of rave closer by, so all I could hear were the rhythmic thumps and crunches of the techno stuff.

After a short soak, I drifted around the house in the routine that has emerged during our stay: checking the intercom by the front door which has been crackling like a popcorn-maker since the worst of the heat-wave, despite everything I've unplugged; checking the side door which has mysteriously unlocked itself, despite my diligence, at least three times; drawing the blinds against the encroaching dark. Much later, I tuned the radio for company, and was gathering the courage to switch off the bed-side light, when I saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked and saw nothing and realized I was too weary to be scared. Haunt someone else, whoever and whatever you are, I thought, as I faded into sleep.

Bird in a guilt cage

Birdseed Arguments
Originally uploaded by CB Photography

The house we're currently sitting is the reason we have a squirrel-proof bird-feeder at home. This is the third time we've sat this house and one of the things I loved most about it (in addition to the hot-tub under a canopy of Garry Oaks and a large hill-top garden in which I only have to water potted plants because professional gardeners visit twice weekly) was the marvelous bird-feeder on the front porch where I could watch finches, nuthatches and many other birds. There were two non-squirrel-proof feeders in the back garden and one morning younger daughter and I watched in disbelief as a squirrel systematically scraped the rope back and forth on the tree limb from which the contraption hung until it plummeted to the ground, carrying several breakfasting birds with it. ("Jack! This is where we met!")

I speak in the past tense, alas. While receiving my final instructions from the owner, he informed me that he was no longer filling the bird-feeders.
"The birds come anyway," he shrugged.

Except they don't. I lasted one week before sneaking around to the pet supply store near where younger daughter is having swimming lessons. Somehow, I feel this is probably unethical. It's his house. I'm not sure why he's leaving the empty, dusty bird-feeders up; maybe he intends to feed the birds during the winter months only. But, oh, it's lovely to have them back. I sneakily hose the seed shells off the porch, and plan to stop refilling just before they return. I'm a ba-a-a-a-d house-sitter...

And that's not all I'm bad at. During this morning's illicit birdseed run, I held the shop door open for an attractive gentleman about my age and his winsome teenage daughter. He thanked me and addressed me by name. My heart sank. I've described my problems with face-blindness before. Even when he mentioned the name of his pretty daughter it didn't help, although he said it was she who had recognized me. I assumed it was a fellow-parent from elder daughter's co-op preschool days as we were in the general neighbourhood, chattered a bit and politely parted. I was shoveling birdseed from one of the bins when it hit me. The man is the widower of a high school and university friend who died two years ago, leaving two girls then aged ten and twelve. I have a photo of the family that I took in seven years ago on my fridge. The daughter has completely changed since then...but her father hasn't. Damn. Damn. Damn.

Burning with shame and with the sun that is unseasonably hot for Victoria this year (Ottawa is unseasonably cool, of course), I headed home with my shopping and waited out most of the afternoon's heat in the lower level of the house. Few houses in Victoria have air-conditioning; a week to two weeks' worth of above 25 degrees Celsius isn't worth the expense.

Unlike Ottawa, Victoria's summer heat quickly dissipates in the evening, so I decided to take younger daughter on an expedition to get ice-cream, envisioning the trek down the hill in the golden evening light with the sea breezes wafting fragances. Instead, the sun hung stubbornly above the western horizon in a blazing ball. We arrived at the local Thrifty Foods, passing parades of young children in tow behind their mums. I realized with a twinge how all of these kids would have been born after we left for Hades nine years years ago.

The supermarket aisles were deliciously cool. I encouraged younger daughter to make a selection, narrowing it down by category: "It has to be Island Farms because we can't get that in Ottawa; do you want chocolate? No? Vanilla? Here's six variations on vanilla." She chose the chocolate chip one, of course. Near us, a small family were also mulling over the selection, debating over ice milk or frozen yogurt. The dad, an early thirties civil servant type, called after his wife: "Well, you're the one who has to wear the tennis skirt. It's your choice...." I watched her walk off towards the cashier and briefly considered bouncing my deposit bottle off his bean, but thought the better of it. It might have upset the two young children this lithe woman had borne him, evidently without gaining an ounce.

The climb back up the hill is deceptively steep and relentless, taking twenty minutes of steady plodding. By the time we'd reached the house, I was in an Ottawa-worthy sweat, and checked the computer to confirm my suspicions. Yep, 28 degrees Celcius at seven pm, with a humidex of 33, the equivalent of a mild summer day in the nation's capital. Hades has followed me home.

Spot the annie

Frozen dancers at Luce
Originally uploaded by pearl_ady

I have blogged before on my troubled conscience in being a balletomane. This feeling came back in spades earlier this week when I purchased tickets to see "Ballet Under the Stars", two short ballets performed by local company Canadian Pacific Ballet. Economic times being what they are, this is a tiny company, in fact all of the costumes are designed by one of the danseurs. The technique, however, is good. A lot of the younger dancers had that smile-held-in-place-by-pins expression, but one of the leads had that air of control and calm that allowed me to just relax and watch her.

It wasn't long before my gaze drifted to the bone-white limbs of one of the other dancers. And I do mean bone. As she turned, I saw the sinews in her neck, and where her shoulders met her upper arm in a startling knob. Mentally, I gauged how my fingers could easily encircle her humerus, and I have really short fingers...

At the intermission, I stole over to greet someone from church who is, believe it or not, writing a Unitarian Latin mass with the aid of a composer who used to accompany the music activities at elder daughter's preschool. (Victoria's like that; everyone is separated by three degrees, rather than the more usual six.)

"What did you think?" I asked.
"Well," she sighed. "It doesn't take much to pick out the two "annies" in the company, does it?"

I had noticed the rather skinny limbs of another dancer as well. My acquaintance has apparently attended workshops with members of the company and has learned that two of the artists dance under a doctor's supervision, and that their reward for keeping above a certain weight is permission to perform. In the meantime, it is suggested, they have a community of support.

So, maybe you see my dilemma. In purchasing tickets, am I in fact supporting something that keeps these skeletal young women going, or am I part of the problem?

The second ballet was a truncated version of Midsummer Night's Dream. The hollow young woman I'd first noticed before the interval had the lead role of Titania with a flowing empire-waist shift that concealed the shadows beneath.

The Rape of the Lock

Lockers
Originally uploaded by Lump Of Hesitation

It all started with the naked little old lady.

Okay, it didn't. It started when younger daughter's morning swim lesson was rescheduled to accommodate a disappointed swimming student whose lesson had somehow been mis-scheduled. The lady who co-ordinates private lessons at Oak Bay Rec asked me if I would do her "a huge favour" and bring younger daughter in at 9 am this morning. Fine, only that entailed leaving the house an hour and a half earlier, so to be sure, we caught a bus instead of walking in and arrived shortly after 8:30. This meant that the change room was full of little old ladies. Nothing wrong with that; I have aspirations to becoming a little old lady, especially considering the alternatives (Joan Rivers or death, as far as I can figure). It's just that after seventeen years of navigating change rooms with my daughters, I've learned that little old ladies who come to recreational centres have a certain, shall we say, proprietorial attitude to said change room. This is particularly true in Victoria which is often called "land of the newly-weds and nearly-deads", except that the feisty and assertive elders in Victoria have none of that apologetic am-I-in-your-way air of older people in Ottawa. They've been using the facilities since before-you-were-born-young-lady, so this morning when I saw the naked little old lady set up camp in the corner we ordinarily use, I cast about quickly for a different locker, and set about stashing our stuff.

It was only after I turned the key that I realized younger daughter's goggles were inside. Philosophically, I accepted the loss of twenty-five cents and re-inserted the key. To no avail.

"Is that 206?" inquired another little old lady. "I had trouble earlier this week with that one. The lady at the counter had to open it for me." I silently wondered why no warning notice had been posted, but smiled cheerily at my informant, instructed younger daughter to stay put and padded out bare-footed to the front to fetch help. She came, armed with keys and a chain and commenced her assault, watched with great interest by a posse of LOL's. No dice. She saw me glance at my watch.

"Are you on your way to work?"
"No, but my daughter's goggles are locked in there." She told me to go back out and ask the desk to lend me some goggles. The desk was in the middle of telling me that this was against policy when the private lesson coordinator hurriedly okayed it and dashed to the change room to help. By the time I'd got some goggles, with instructions to submit them for sterilization, the locker had been jimmied open and younger daughter was wailing because she couldn't locate her goggles in the bags. I hurriedly handed back the unsterilized goggles and produced our own unsterilized goggles (which evidently don't need sterilizing) before escorting younger daughter to the pool deck with five minutes to spare, wondering if the new locker was going to jam, and listening to one of the youthful pool instructors repeat over the public address system several times that lessons were about to begin, and thus the hot tub was closed. The two little old men in the hot tub studiously ignored him.

Persephone goes home to Demeter

Desserts at Murchies in Victoria
Originally uploaded by christinekondo

I've now been one week in Victoria and the chief problem I have with this is...that means only five weeks left in Victoria...

The guy on the radio was warbling about this week being "unbelievably hot" -- at 27 degrees Celsius. That's a mild summer day in Ottawa, although the humidex would push the perceived heat into the early to mid-thirties. Here, depending on how close to Juan de Fuca Strait or Georgia Strait you are, a steady sea breeze will comfort you, and the temperature is guaranteed to plummet at sunset, something that almost never happens in Hades.

On Saturday, younger daughter and I were able to stroll from our house-sit to the Moss Street Paint-in . We were able to attend for the first time in three or so years because a) it wasn't scheduled the same day as a Harry Potter book release; and b) it wasn't scheduled the same day as Luminara which is unbelievably what they did last year. Who failed to talk to whom? Despite the claims at the link, there have been rainy Moss Street Paint-ins over the past twenty years. Victorians are notoriously forgetful about weather. However, this year the weather was, well, picture-perfect, a warm day with an ocean breeze wafting up the dozen or so blocks of Moss Street. Younger daughter delighted in the many varieties of dogs out for their strolls. I doubt they appreciated the art; aren't dogs colour-blind? I focused on the stuff that appealed to me and there was something to pretty much any taste, barring the pornographic. I particularly like the work of one fellow (and if I can remember his name, I'll find a link) who specialized in Breugelish, super-real folk-tale-like paintings.
We managed about five blocks which is about my limit for having all senses assailed.

Today, younger daughter and I grabbed an opportunity to visit Munro's Books and to slip in for drinks and treats at Murchies. This being our ninth summer since being banished to Hades, I know all too well that I must visit my favourite haunts quickly before the chances slip away with the all-too-brief summer weeks. Even if I'm miserable, the Resident Fan Boy will point out: "At least you're miserable in Victoria!" He's all too right.

Another disadvantage of living in Hades

I've been having fun playing at being a DJ at blip.fm. Just "blipped" a favourite of mine: "On the Atchison Topeka and the Sante Fe", as sung by Bing Crosby. Apparently, no one else has blipped this, although a lot of them are busy blipping Michael Jackson who, I gather from the extensive news coverage, is still dead.

At the bottom of the screen, I'm instructed to enter my postal code "to find out where Bing Crosby is playing" near me. I have no say in these matters, but I doubt Bing Crosby is playing Hades. More likely that other place....