Boning up

It's still quite light when I set out for a preprandial walk, but the evenings are drawing in, so I continue briskly down the hill, past front yards which have been blossoming into bones, severed hands, and billowing ghosts since Thanksgiving Monday.

Above, low on the pale blue eastern sky, a phantom moon, not quite full, has made its debut.

Deeper into Fairfield, the fashion seems to be Hallowe'en lights: eaves, doorways and bushes lined with golden and orange bulbs.  A little more cheerful than the carnage uphill, I guess.

Turning west, I step quickly but carefully along the ancient sidewalk along Chapman.  People laden with groceries are vanishing into the houses.  I reach the blocks of Cook Street Village where the sidewalks are full of errand-runners and election placards.  We've just had our municipal elections and it's the eve of a snap provincial election, called by the premier (who heads the New Democratic Party) to take advantage of the fractious factions the provincial Conservative Party finds itself in these days.  There isn't actually a Conservative candidate in our riding any more; he was tossed out on his ear a couple of weeks ago, for indiscreet and rather racist social media remarks, made in his not-distant-enough youth.

The street is also lined with youthful volunteers for the Green Party, greeting me at each corner, and asking if I will be voting the next day.  I reply affably that this is my plan, and, to save time (theirs and mine), that I've done some reading and made my choice.  They wish me a pleasant evening.

And it is.  Lucy Maud Montgomery had Anne Shirley rhapsodize in Anne of Green Gables (chapter 16, if you're intrigued) that she was so glad to live in a world with Octobers.  

So am I, but the month is running out. 

As is the light.  Almost home, I look at the moon.  It's now as white as bone, three-dimensional and palpable against the darkening sky.

Going under

I was in my mid-twenties the last time I had a general anaesthetic.  

My wisdom teeth needed to be carved out of my gums, after they refused to come quietly.  The dental surgeon told me to tell him when I tasted onions.  I did, and immediately felt myself sink into my supine body, falling and drifting downwards and backwards into blackness.

Years later, another anaesthetist told me he was adding "medicine" to the oxygen I was breathing in, to help me relax, he said.  I remember nothing after that -- until I awoke, firmly swaddled and disorientated, thinking I was back in my own bed at home.  Then I felt the gurney moving, and heard reassuring voices from the masked and gown figures pushing me along.

This was the long-hoped-for conclusion of four remarkably stressful (and educational) days, struggling with the logistics of consults and time-tabling by phone, and then three days of on-and-off fasting in preparation for a procedure that kept being postponed for other people's emergencies  - which is only right, I add hastily.  All in all, it's preferable to be a case of urgency, rather than an actual emergency. (Although, in French, it's the same thing, isn't it?) 

Being "urgent" rather than an emergency bought me time to get my head around how to navigate healthcare these days.  It reminded me strongly of the days when younger daughter was first "identified": when the Resident Fan Boy and I were like mice dropped into a maze and frantically figuring out where to scuttle to get the help she needed, with various degrees of success and a lot of wrong turns.

On Sunday morning at 8 am, the call finally came, telling me it was "likely" I would be admitted that afternoon, and to plan to arrive at the hospital at 11 -- but only if called.  The Resident Fan Boy decided to skip church, partly because I was terrified, and partly because he figured God would know where he was.

What followed was our weirdest wedding anniversary ever.

The "come in" call came at 10:30; we arrived at Emergency just before 11 am. When I was last here, in the catastrophic whirlwind accompanying Demeter's final fall, I don't remember much of what was going on around me.  This morning was rife with other people's bad days.  There were few seats, because a weeping young woman was surrounded by police officers.  The Resident Fan Boy told me that she had been out somewhere involving drugs, and someone had dumped an unidentified liquid over her.  Her grandparents had dropped her off at Emergency.  

Every time the sliding security doors opened on the Ambulatory waiting room, we could see a man slumped in a "baby pose" in the middle of the floor, rather like Mr Bean at church -- without the comedy.

A few months ago, I came across a remarkable article by Jody Paterson, of the Times-Colonist.

It's a detailed depiction of how steadily deepening opioid crisis has manifested in Victoria.  

Paterson begins with a street person waxing nostalgic about the days when there was one opioid on the streets:  "Heroin was like a warm hug."

This article was, for me, a clearer explanation of the decade-old nightmare into which drug-use has descended, and how dangerous even recreational drugs have become.  I grew up with quite a few of my peers casually experimenting with pot, hash, and even cocaine.  It was almost normalized.  Evidently not, now.

Back in Emergency, I did what I had been told.  I informed the lady at the reception desk that I had been called in for a procedure.  She pointed me to a seat, took my blood pressure and temperature -- and disappeared. With my health card.  

After conferring with the Resident Fan Boy, I used the phone number I'd been given, informed the team upstairs I'd arrived, and pretty soon people came looking for me.  Then I went looking for the lady with my health card.

Apparently, I'd failed to use the magic word:  "surgery".

As I was guided, kindly and patiently, through the preparation and procedure, it did occur to me that I was getting the care I needed, not because I deserved it, but because I had the right connections and information, was reasonably well-groomed and articulate, and was in the company of my attentive husband.  Unlike those people downstairs.

Also unlike those in Emergency, I was home about four hours after I left.

Smoke screen

 

I venture into my mother's condo for the first time in a while.

My nephew has occupied it for the summer, which is fine - it lowered our insurance premiums for a bit.  The problem was negotiating each time I wanted to go in to sort through my mother's stuff.  I didn't strictly have to, but everyone needs privacy.

With his departure, I can now drop in when the opportunity arises.  This first time, I limit myself to watering the plants.  

In my mother's tiny greenhouse on the balcony, I discover fifteen joint stubs in a tin.  I don't think this has anything to do with my nephew; I'm pretty damn sure this is his mother.

Last February, I caught Double Leo Sister lounging in a deck chair on the balcony, and firing up.

I explained to her at that time - gently, I think - that condo bylaws, pretty well across the province, prohibit smoking anywhere on the property, and that cannabis consumption, even gummies, is not allowed, period.  It's to do with insurance and property values, I think.

Double Leo Sister hasn't lived in a condo for seven years, and cheerfully told me she was unaware of the regulation.  Fair enough.  I didn't say anything about my bewilderment that someone who has lifelong issues with asthma - to the point of steroid treatment - would subject her lungs to smoke of any kind.  It was the eve of my mother's memorial service, and my sister is, after all, a Double Leo.  I'm not crazy.

I just hope my mother's neighbours don't bring it up.  What do I tell them?  That I've told my sister about the bylaw, and that she doesn't care?  I suppose she thinks she can afford not to care; she doesn't live here.  

But I do, and the inhabitants of my mother's condo will continue to be my neighbours, even after we've sold her unit.

I drown out my rage and resignation with music in my earbuds, which mitigates the silence and encroaching emptiness of my mother's home, as things vanish, bit by bit and piece by piece.  As she did in her final months.

Transient

Another summer slips away.  For the past few days, the setting sun streams directly through our dining room window, as it does with each equinox.

This autumn came swifty and stealthily, on the heels of a blessedly temperate summer here in Victoria - heaven knows what the next summer will be like.  Part of this autumn ambush is due to the lateness of the Labour Day long weekend, as late as it can be, with classes not beginning until the second week of September.

 

This probably explains why I encountered chalk drawings ringing the corner of Hilda and Chester.

Chalk drawings are not unusual in this neighbourhood.  The kids in our building occasionally illustrate the lower parking lot, and some pint-sized resident artists further up Chester frequently pastel the pavement between rains.

However, I suspected visiting children are responsible for this latest batch, brightening their grandparents' sidewalks with a final parting blast of estival festival etchings.

Apparently this mob has vintage video game fans in its membership.  Perhaps a parent? (Or even a grandparent?)

As I turn the corner, I realised that an attempt has been made to cover the entire block down to Oscar Street.  Someone taken two pieces of chalk and created a snail trail to connect a cluster of images near the far corner. 

By the following morning, the couple who live near the end of the block had once again been watering the sidewalk, in their continuing attempt to refresh the ancient plane trees. The southern images had washed away, but the rest remain, albeit a bit faded and trodden upon.

For now.

Hello young lovers

"Oh get a room," I think crossly.

Love's Young Dream, hogging the Second Best Table at the coffeehouse -- a cute blond girl with a tousle-haired boy, clad in similar hoodies, huddled together at the same side of the large table, which they're using mainly for elbow-support and little else, as they compare cell-phone screens, leaning into each other and giggling.

"I think they're rather sweet," says The Famous Writer, who frequents the cafe at the same time I do most mornings.

Yeah, they're bloody adorable.  I recognise the hallmarks of a new semester romance.  I suspect they're postsecondary, judging by how late it's getting.  They probably have a 9:30 class.

It's not like I don't remember what it's like:  the losing track of time, the unawareness of other humans in the vicinity.  They could be doing this at a smaller table, preferably outside.
 

TFW knows I prefer the table he has, and graciously notifies me when it is free. I tell him that this table feels like a safe harbour, just like the last months of the year feel like a safe harbour to me.

TFW takes this as a cue to recite: "Seasons of mists and mellow fruitfulne--"

"Oh gawd!" I cry.  "My husband intones that at me every damn October!"

TFW retreats smartly.  

"Keats was a genius," I call after him, futilely.

Afterwards, I set out on foot, having just missed the bus, which was, of course, five minutes early, as the returning bus rolls by, being, of course, five minutes late.  It's fine, I have plenty of time, and the morning is cool and pleasant.

The horse chestnut trees that line Cook Street are festooned with light green baubles.  From a distance, you'd think the leaves were sun-dappled, but it's an overcast day.  Close up, the spiky fruit looks mace-like and menacing.  Within a week or two, they will begin to plummet: hard knocks to the head; the glossy brown chestnuts encased within the prickly projectiles will be like marbles underfoot, rolling, slippery..  

Rather like falling in love.

Sign of the times

I learned what Lime Bikes were when I started using YouTube to virtually ride on London buses last year. The streets were swarming with bikes, many of them with bright green carrier baskets. I quizzed elder daughter about them, and she explained that they were rented e-bikes. You pick them up at a designated spot, and drop them off at the racks closest to where you want to go.

A few weeks ago, it was announced that the City of Victoria had entered into a contract with Lime, and with dizzying speed, neon green racks have spread throughout the city, not without some controversy.  Lime operates out of San Francisco, and it's an impolitic time for an American company to set up in a Canadian city.

Increasingly, though, I've been noticing more of these bicycles, moving with alarming speed through our neighbourhood. Some riders sport the trademark bright green bike helmets, which are required by law here. (Bike helmets, that is -- not necessarily green ones.)

The other evening, I spotted a new station on Linden Avenue on one of my regular strolls.  From a distance, I could see a fellow standing by the small cluster of racks and e-bikes, fiddling with his phone, because you need an app to access the service.  He hopped on, bare-headed, and had disappeared down the hill, as I approached the sign. 

I saw someone had left a sticker, and crossed the street to read it.

Well, as I said, there has been quite a bit of contention about this, particularly as some areas on the edges of Greater Victoria have Canadian bike rental companies, which means you have to switch your bike when you reach some municipal borders.

And the timing was indeed unfortunate.

I walked out this evening.  The sticker had been removed.

Update - September 14th, 2026:  The sticker is back.  This may turn out to be a microcosm of the trade war...

The road to nowhere

I remembered the anniversary on the day, but was a bit too dragged under to write about it.

Rather like 25 years ago, as it happens.  

I went to check my journals of the time, and I'd written nothing in September 2001.  I hadn't written much that year.  We had just finished our first year in Hades, had lived in our house for barely eleven months. Elder daughter had been designated as "gifted" during the previous school year, and younger daughter had been "identified" as being "at risk"; her developmental challenges hadn't been officially tied to autism -- likely because she was a girl, and girls on the spectrum present differently.

With the new school year just started, we were trying to adjust to our new realities.  Because I'd read Ira Progroff's book on journalling, I did managed a yearly rundown, which I'd write in patches in the opening months of the new year, so my record of September 2001 was set down some six or seven months after the facts.  Re-reading it this morning, I was struck by how many details I'd forgotten.  Memory is a nebulous thing:

"I walk to Rideau Street from the nursery school, where I have dropped off younger daughter on a sunny September morning, and remember the Rideau branch of the library won't open until 10.  It is 9:15.

"I decide to have breakfast at the Ale House* at the entrance to the Byward Market, arriving at William Street about 9:30.

"Whitney Houston is playing, and the recently-installed large TV screens are tuned to CNN.  The American news has been full of Condit and the missing intern**, so I ignore it.  The subtitles say something about a highjacking.

"Suddenly, the music is turned off, and the sound from the screen is on.  I think I'm witnessing the aftermath of a terrible accident, until the waitress tells me two planes have hit the towers of the World Trade Center in New York City.

"'Two??' I gasp, my mind reeling with the implications, as my eyes take in the images.  Before I can grasp anything, we're told that a plane has hit the Pentagon, then that another plane has crashed.  

"My food arrives; I wonder whether to eat.  People are coming in off the street, clutching cell phones.  One young idiot laughs abrasively:  'They're going to WAR!!'

"We watch, transfixed, as one tower melts away, then the other.

"I stagger to the library, and learn that there's been a bomb threat at the Parliament buildings.  

"The Resident Fan Boy is home when I get there; his office is right next to the American Embassy. I don't recall picking up younger daughter, but I must have. We spend the day tuned to the CBC.

"The events have hit Ottawa hard; lots of Americans live here, and with the high tech industries centred here, lots of links with New York.  In the evening, I climb the long hill to my elder daughter's school for a meeting, only to find the building locked and dark. Several pupils are the children of embassy employees.

"Flowers, stuffed animals, poems, pictures line the fence at the American Embassy that week, along with scores of candles."

The sidewalk and curb by the American Embassy were, within days, blocked by huge concrete blocks, later replaced by bollards. It took a little longer for passports to be required to travel into the States - before, we only had to present proof of Canadian citizenship - but airline trips anywhere, even within Canada, were soon transformed into slow-moving, drab queues, complicated by new rules administered by antsy airline security employees.

People continued to die in acts of genocide and terrorism around the world, but the States were now permanently scarred and suspicious, hugging their grief and rage like talismans.  

And here we are.

* Became the Highlander Pub a year later, now an eatery called "Pure Kitchen".

** Chandra Levy, a young intern working in Washington, DC, had disappeared the previous May.  Her remains were found in an urban park a year later.  There had been a media frenzy for much of the summer, mainly focussing on her alleged affair with California Congressman Gary Condit - who apparently had nothing to do with her murder, but the incident ended his political career. 

Standing in the shadow

 

Photo by Canadian photographer Andrew Yee in Toronto

I told the Resident Fan Boy I'd scout ahead for a view of the partial lunar eclipse, seeing as we'd gone up prematurely the night before. 

Out on the roof before 9 pm, unmistakeable, the shadowy red/black orb with a gleaming white-gold top.

I texted: "YES!", seconds before our hall neighbour suddenly appeared in the bright rectangle of the doorway.

"Can you see the eclipse?" she inquired.

I gestured excitedly to the south-east, just beyond her viewpoint.  "Are you kidding? Just come and see!"

(To be fair, it seems most people aren't sure about their compass directions.)

As she texted and phoned her parents, the Resident Fan Boy and younger daughter arrived, and I guided them a little further along the fenced walkway, where there was a gap between two trees.  Younger daughter gasped.

About half a dozen people turned up, with their phones alight, alas, but they soon turned them off.

As the western horizon darkened, the stars pierced the indigo sky overhead. Younger daughter murmured, "I'm looking for Orion."

"Oh, that's a winter constellation; you don't see him in the summer."  I pointed to the north-east.  "See that 'W'?  That's Cassiopeia."  I turned to the high west.  "And that's the Big Dipper.  Can you see the handle?"

We waited for the peak of the eclipse, the stars multiplying and burning brighter. Then the RFB and younger daughter, shivering a bit in their summer tops, withdrew. 

Wrapped in my fleece jacket, I leaned on the narrow walkway's rather rickety railing, gazing eastward at the shadow of our planet across the moon, and listening idly to the small mob of relatively youthful friends mis-identifying the constellations.

Jigsaw justification

I've been wasting time on an online jigsaw puzzle site, but I justify it with the education I'm getting.  I find myself drawn to the artwork ones, a lot of which are pretty damn twee, but there's also a plethora of Manet, Monet, Dürer, Botticelli, and Van Gogh.  

Especially Van Gogh. 

Tons of Van Gogh.

What fascinates me is how the bits of the puzzle - as I pull them together without referring to the organic original image, thank you very much - are just almost indistinguishable blobs and slashes of colour, or images that I fancy are there.  The closer I come to completing it, the colours become stronger and the elements clearer, and the lines more exact.  Are my eyes doing the work of bringing the art into focus? Or is it my brain filling in, much as it does when I'm listening to far-off familiar music, that I can't fully hear?

The finished picture is almost unrecognisable from what I have imagined at the beginning.

Is that how great artists work? Placing the lines, strokes, and colours just so, to let the viewer knit them together?

I came across a Van Gogh I didn't know.  It was brilliant - clusters of strong colours, looking like a bouquet of bright flowers.  As I worked, it became a scene of workers in a yellow field, with oranges and greens and a golden sky.

The painting turned out to be The Red Vineyards near Arle - and apparently, it's the one work for which there's a record of Van Gogh making a sale.  It's now in Russia.

I love it.  

Perhaps I'm not wasting my time.

(Yeah, I probably am.)

Drawn like a moth

Garrison Keillor, who has taken gentle, Minnesotan swipes at Unitarians for years, put this up on his blog/newsletter/column/whatever it is this morning:

How many Unitarians does it take to changed a lightbulb?  -- "Unitarians believe that incandescent and flourescent and neon are equally valid paths to light, and if, in your journey, you feel the need to change your lightbulb, we will come to your home and recite a poem about radiance and perform a dance about the rising of the sun."

I grew up Unitarian, and still consider myself one.  

He's not wrong.

However, I won't be coming to your house to dance around your lifebulb.

Although I do have one that needs changing...