We readers are very witty

So, I'm minding my own business this morning in the coffee shop. I've just taken a big bite of my cherry/yoghurt Danish (my favourite, which is not always available), when two gentlemen approach my table. They're a bit Mutt-and-Jeff-ish - does anyone know what that is, anymore? - one fellow is pleasantly plump with a short groomed salt-and-pepper beard, and the other is very tall indeed with white hair and mustache.

The shorter man excuses himself and begins: "This may seem a little strange..." I chew and swallow quickly and apprehensively.
He continues: "We're from the Zone, and we noticed that you have a lot of books on your table. Are you a reader?"

I know The Zone is a local radio station - that's about all I know about it, except it's a rock/pop station, and, thinking they're doing some sort of survey, I quickly explain, "Well, these are mostly journals, but..." I pluck a library book from the pile. ". . . I do have an actual book here."

"So you are a reader!" they exclaim.  One of them fishes out a envelope.
"We'd like to present you with this fifty-dollar gift certificate for Bolen Books!"

My surprise and joy is unfeigned.  Bolen Books is the largest independent book-store in Victoria; they have everything.  I stare at the envelope and say, in a rather high-pitched rush of emotion:  "This is like coke!"

The two men laugh heartily and walk away, wishing me a wonderful day.  The tall one says, over his shoulder, "That was very funny."

He apparently doesn't realize that I wasn't joking.

Losing time at the movies

Opportunities to see films in Victoria must be snatched, because, unlike in Hades, they are unlikely to say more than a week or so. I guess too many Victorians are outside, enjoying the temperate weather.

One place to go to catch a movie before it disappears is the Cinecenta at the University of Victoria. While it's always spooky to return to UVic, which, for me, is littered with memories, the actual auditorium is completely unchanged, so I can almost imagine going back in time - except that I now found myself surrounded by grey-haired people. The current students were, no doubt, holed up in their dormitories, apartments, basements, and bedrooms, streaming stuff on their devices.

When I was a student here, films were usually well-attended by a young audience, many avoiding their homework - like me. The films were never first-run - they often are now - but usually art-house classics: King of Hearts, Bedazzled, Women in Love, The Seventh Seal.

After watching the film in the hard seat that, at least, discourages the movie-goer from nodding off (that much hasn't changed), I emerged, blinking, into the lobby, where I was flung into the present. The concession is very much fancier than I remember, and there's a dental clinic just down the hall. The washrooms are huge.

A lady was rescuing popcorn bags from the trash.
"This drives me crazy," she told me briskly. "They're perfectly recyclable!"
And she tucked them into the paper recycling bin.

It's been several years, but I guess some people just never left.

Going postal in Canada

As the time stretches out, I find myself shifting from foot to foot, shifting the weight of my prepared parcel.

The line-up in the post office isn't long, but there appears to be a mini-drama going on at the counter. Granted, it's rather one-sided; the postal clerk is listening attentively to a lady dressed in flowing, multi-coloured garments, which say "aging hippie" elsewhere in Canada, but "business as usual" here. She is gesturing expansively with her back to me and I'm the third person in line, so I can't quite make out what she's saying, but she has a rather battered looking parcel. Talking steadily, she periodically waves slips of paper for emphasis.

The women just ahead looks back at me and raises her eyebrows. I grin back.

After what seems like a rather long time, the clerk asks her if she has a receipt. There is a slight pause.

"I was kinda hoping you would believe me."

There's an almost imperceptible collective sigh of exasperation from the line-up, but no one yells.

That we won't be mentioning

Double Leo Sister reminded me at dinner last night, that I used to send her tapes in the 1990s. This was chiefly because I was horrified that she was limiting her listening to classic rock stations, but I didn't bring that up.

Now, she wants digitalized versions of the songs she really likes, so she was asking about "Ing", from a presentation of Prairie Home Companion that I taped off the radio in about 1993, I should think. I told her the song was by the Roches, as in Terre, Maggie, and Suzzy Roche, and not the kitchen vermin. Among other things, the sisters got their big break singing back-up for Paul Simon, and Suzzy Roche dabbled in acting and had a daughter with Louden Wainwright III. (We heard that daughter, Lucy Wainwright Roche, in concert with her half-brother Rufus Wainwright a year ago.)

Here's how "Ing" sounds on the 1992 album "A Dove":



This changes everything
Why is it happening
I got a feeling
That you are changing
The sky was darkening
When we went out wandering
It got confusing
And I started singing

Ing - Ing - Ing

Will we be marrying
Instead of parting
Or are you still singing
The praises of waiting
I had a gift to bring
A simple little thing
I had a little fling
That we won't be mentioning

Where is all this leading
Is there any meaning
Are we just careening
Around?

I'm always wondering
When it starts thundering
Which is the better thing
To be still or running
You with the broken wing
Who fell down flying
How is it dancing
With any old Earthling

The thing with "Ing" is, I heard it first as a live performance, albeit on the radio. I've found this rather fuzzy video that, nevertheless, shows the sisters in action. They always remind me of a quirky quartet of sisters I knew when I was a young woman.

I think this must be an early performance, because the album on which "Ing" appears wasn't released until the following year. The laughter is that of an audience hearing the lyrics for the first time.

Energy vampires

I knew this was going to be a challenging week, even before this turned up on the Facebook feed for Demeter's church this morning.

I have just survived a short dinner with Double Leo Sister. She's an extrovert, and extroverts are supposed to draw their energy from other people - I'm just not sure they are supposed to suck other people dry, are they? Persephone the introvert (are you surprised?) is spending what remains of the evening drawing energy from herself - and from the occasional servings of espresso ice cream that she's making the Resident Fan Boy bring to her.

Later this week, I resume watercolour lessons with younger daughter. That's okay, but one of the students, who didn't make the last session, is a saccharine, platitude-spouting nice-as-pie woman who reminds me strongly of my late mother-in-law. I've tried to conceal my dislike of her, but I'm pretty sure she knows.

I've always suspected that people I have trouble liking probably have traits I hate in myself.

Am I a platitude-spouting energy vampire?

I want more ice cream....

The invisible holes of a neighbourhood

Yesterday was dark and rainy, and the gutters became cataracts.

Today is the epitome of a perfect day in late May - something it's best not to mention to those I know in Hades.

This morning, I paused by a large bush of California lilac, listening to the powerful buzz of scores of industrious bees at work, their abdomens orange with pollen.

All the flowers and greenery have responded exuberantly to the combination of rain and sun.

Cook Street is white with tents for their annual street party. I walked along here last year, and browsed through boxes of DVDs as Pic-a-Flic downsized for their impending move after three and a half decades on Cook Street. I didn't know that then, but I knew their site was optioned to make room for yet another condo, and I feared they would go altogether.

I seemed to spend most of my time in Hades watching books stores and video stores die off. My two favourite bookstores managed to survive, but a video rental by a pizza place, preceded by another small establishment specializing in art,documentary and foreign films, succumbed a few years after my arrival, leaving me to depend on the public libraries.

Through the Victorian summers in the years of my Hades exile, I always had Pic-a-Flic, with its long corridors of films and television series from around the world. I also had other fixtures of Cook Street, for example, the grey and gaunt proprietor of the old-fashioned grocery stand, whom Demeter and I called "Grumpy" - never to his face, of course. Grumpy seemed to mellow over his decades in the drafty recess where he sold fruits, vegetables and flowers. I learned that he was a regular entertainer at the coffee house across the street, where he sang, of all things, folk songs by the likes of Gordon Lightfoot.

Shortly after Pic-a-Flic made the move to Stadacona Park and a much smaller shop, I saw the notice that Grumpy was retiring, and not long after that, the coffee house where he sang disappeared.

I gather that Grumpy is now strumming his guitar at the local pub, and other businesses have sprung up where he displayed his wares and sang his songs.

I still feel a pang when I walk past the refilled gaps, because I know there are gaps. It's okay; holes rarely remain empty for long -- even invisible ones.

Memory: lost, retrieved, elusive, concussive

Younger daughter and I have been taking watercolour lessons over the past year. As a result, I'm becoming a wee bit more familiar with the materials required and the ones which I prefer.

Recently, I dropped into Island View Print, which is the most convenient art supply store, relative to my haunts and wanderings. We've been painting long enough to begin running out of supplies, and I've developed a liking for a brand of paper called, oddly, "The Langton". Demeter picked a pad of it up from Island View Point about seven years ago. It's difficult to pinpoint or even describe why I like it. It's soft and giving (does that make sense?), and I think what I manage to produce somehow looks better on it.

I had looked it up online, and it's there, but doesn't look readily available, so I asked the nice fellow in the shop about it.

He shook his head regretfully.
"I doubt they make it anymore."

He directed me to the watercolour paper shelves, to see if I could find something to my liking.

To my astonishment, I spotted the familiar green cover in the bottom shelf. I extracted it and waved my trophy at the assistant in delight.

"You must have found the very last pad we have!" he exclaimed.

I was cradling it triumphantly as I advanced to the cash register, when I saw a lady with a familiar face enter. I smiled warmly at her; she also smiled - politely - and proceeded into the store.

I finished my purchases, and was juggling my treasures while trying to retrieve my cloth bag from my knapsack. The lady came up to pay for her supplies, and placed a card on the counter, explaining she was a teacher - for a discount, I guess. And I was juggling, struggling, and thinking: Jessica? Jessie? Last name?

I would have tried to surreptitiously read the name on the card, if I hadn't thought this would be a rude and disturbing thing to do.

By the time I'd stepped out to the bus stop, I was sure I had known her from my teaching days at the university. We had become quite good buddies. I'd even been to her house in my days of early motherhood.

But she showed no signs of recognition, and I hesitated.

At home, I rummaged through my journals, and found her. The journals told me her last name, and that she'd visited me in the hospital after I'd given birth, and that she and another friend became estranged.

I'd forgotten all of this. I'd even mentioned the estrangement in passing at the time, no doubt certain I'd remember the details without writing them down. She'd clearly drifted out of my life with the birth of younger daughter, and I hadn't even noticed.

Writing things down helps, but it doesn't always prevent the fading away.

You think you'll remember. You won't.

On the conveyor belt

Yesterday, I took my first bus ride into Esquimalt in several years.

Esquimalt, the community beyond Vic West across the Johnson Street Bridge, is the municipality where I spent my adolescence and my first years as a young married.

I used to take the #23 bus to trundle down the length of Esquimalt Road, but now it's the #15 Express, which, in the opposite direction, can take you all the way to the University of Victoria. I sure could have used that when I was a student.

The Resident Fan Boy and I rode past divider islands that run down the centre of the road, planted with flowers and trees. Those certainly weren't around when we lived there.

Some of the stretches are depressingly the same; other stretches have been condo-ized and still others shopified, so bits of Esquimalt look like the busier bits of Shelbourne.

However, the sorts of people clambering on and off the bus are much as I remember - elderly and clearly struggling (in every sense), young and gritty (also in every sense).

So many memories - interrupted by the astonishment of unfamiliar buildings, fronted by mature trees, reminding us how very long we've been away.

We were on our way to a so-called Celebration of Life, so-called because the gentleman in question died a month ago, and this post-funeral/memorial-service gathering accommodated his far-flung family.

The bus took us to the very western edge of Esquimalt. Despite my long history of living in the municipality, I'd never been beyond the south end of Admirals Road, where I'd ridden my bike to junior high, and where the taxi took me when I was in labour with elder daughter.

So we rode deep into "Pongo-land", and alighted by the blue waters of Esquimalt Harbour, making our way up the volcanic rock where the Ward Room sits, with its million-dollar view (well, millions of dollars, these days) out over Juan de Fuca Strait.

The man we'd come to remember and honour had been one of the RFB's very first bosses, and he, along with his business partner, had been a kindly older gentleman of the same vintage as my father - except with honesty and integrity -- are those sour grapes? (Vintage? Grapes? Get it? Oh, never mind.)

The widow seemed truly touched we'd come, and we told it was our pleasure, and meant it.

On our way home, the Resident Fan Boy was contemplative.
"It's just that...they're gone ..."
"...and the conveyor belt rolls on," I finished.

Yep. So many reminders that afternoon of the relentless passage of time.

This isn't going to get any easier.

You bad cabbie, you!

I make a habit of ignoring advertisements - that's what mute buttons and fast-forwards are for.

However, every now and then, there's a delightful ad that makes me want to at least remember the product, if only to prove that a witty commercial works just as well as an annoying commercial.

I was thinking of a few of them this evening - but could only find a video of one of them, this very funny - and epic - promotion of a 1990's style Toshiba laptop.

 If you've got a minute, take a look.  (A minute is all I have.  Good night.)

But I can stand a little pain

 CBC Radio "Mornings" has introduced a "Question of the Week".  This week, because everyone is pushing for summer (but how loud will they complain when it gets here?), they're after candidates for the quintessential Canadian summer song.

Their two top contenders are "Summer of '69" and "Call Me Maybe".

Here's my choice:

Well it's hot and it's sticky, 
Think I'll get myself a micky
I'm so parched and dry...

Yep.  I can wait for summer...

After a fashion

With Victoria Day out of the way, I hear people claiming it's summer.

No, it isn't.  Not even in Victoria, where a run of cool days have resulted in a mixture of clothes downtown:  from quilted winter coats to tee-shirts.  An older gentlemen just walked by dressed in shorts with a fleece jacket --- Look!  There's another one!

I wouldn't be intrusive enough to snap pictures to illustrate, but I can do a sort of written snapshot.

Here's something I wrote over my bowl of oatmeal (with maple syrup, bananas and sour cream) at the Blue Fox Cafe last February, when no one was in shorts.  Not even in Victoria.

The girls my daughters' ages are wearing toques in neutral shades, pulled down to just above their ears, with the toque-tips arranged in artful pockets, and their wavy tresses carefully flowing down from beneath.

They wear layers, some draped over the backs of their chairs:  cable sweaters - also in neutral shades - sheep-skin-lined patchwork jackets (but not real sheepskin - that's cruel), broad shawl-style scarves perfectly covering their shoulders in soft folds.

At the next table, a lady with bobbed, noticeably tousled, dark, dyed hair looks out from what's left of her eyebrows.  She's wearing what appears to be an exact replica of the close-knit midnight blue pullover worn by the honey-blonde (possibly also dyed) taupe-toqued young girl a few feet away.  The lady has a gold band hanging from a pendant, heart-shaped.  Her close-fitting jeans are folded up to reveal her stylish ankle-boots.

Women dress so much more deliberately for the company of other women.

Before the parade passes by

I've mentioned this before, but I found the Victoria Day weekend in Hades depressing beyond belief. It was a long weekend when those who had cottages left town to open them, and those who didn't finally planted the bedding plants as the weather began to get hot.

Being neither a cottager nor a gardener, that left me with little to do but sweat and look for things for younger daughter to do.

Here, we have the Victoria Day Parade.

Younger daughter decided not to accompany us, but never mind.

The Resident Fan Boy and I headed off into the morning rain, which had tapered off by the time we reached Douglas Street. We found a free edge of pavement near the end of the parade route past Broughton. A fella with a small daughter proudly pointed out his son to us, a large lad, like his dad, beating his drum with the one local school that had enter this year.

My junior high entered every year; our normally affable director turned into a snarling sergeant-type for the week preceding the parade as we stumbled around the school field. We always came in third -- second, if only two local school bands had entered.

The parade hasn't changed much since those far-off days. There are still long lines of vintage fire engines, plus Shriners and Job's Daughters, albeit in much diminished numbers.

There are still racing cars, sponsored by local pubs, with young girls riding the hoods. (I haven't seen a puppy on one before.)

However, Victoria isn't nearly as homogeneous as it once seemed, and the parade has gradually begun to reflect that.

Younger daughter saw these pictures, and told me she'd like to come next year.

I think she liked the puppy.

Mr Woof-woof

There are fleeting things that make a neighbourhood.

When we lived in Fairfield, it was The Whistler, a cheerful 50-something cyclist who became our gauge for how late we were.

After the morning struggle to get elder daughter dressed and breakfasted, I, with younger daughter strapped into the stroller, would stride east, the rising sun blinding all three of us. Out of the glare, the Whistler would emerge, peddling smoothly and swiftly, but we'd hear his steady whistling first, interrupted by a friendly "Good Morning" as he whipped past.

In Hades, I'd watch the platinum-blond trio of sibling neighbours burst from their front door, tumbling down the porch steps, quarreling all the way to the tank their mother was warming up (probably out of self-defense).

I don't know when The Whistler ceased wheeling his way west, because we moved. Gradually, the Battling Blonds across the street grew more independent, setting off separately to different schools with different companions.

In our current neighbourhood, a feature has been Mr Woof-woof. That's not his name. It's what I'd hear as I strolled to or from our apartment.

Woof-woof

Not bossy, not threatening, just deep and carrying. A huge white dog, usually sitting on the steps of his large house, tied to the railing, behind a gate reading "Beware of Dog".

I always felt rather sorry for him; he seemed to spend hours outside on his own. You're not supposed to wave or call out to dogs, according to those online articles - it's supposed to count as teasing - but I couldn't help calling out a soft "Hello, Mr Woof-woof", as I passed on the opposite sidewalk.

Just before Christmas, the Resident Fanboy ran into Mr Woof-woof, walking out one evening with his owner, who did tell him Mr Woof-woof's actual name. She also told the RFB that her dog had cancer.

And one day, I noticed the gate was open.

Years later, when we recall these little everyday details that made up where we lived, we might say, "Oh yes, it was always like that; that went on for years."

But it didn't.

Flower flow

Gotta scoot. This is what's been dangling along Fort Street below Wentworth Villa - a place I've been meaning to visit since we came to the neighbourhood. I have another neighbourhood story tomorrow -- it's a sad one.

I just thought we locked the gate

 Sometimes when I'm getting up and listening to the radio, a song will make me dive toward the speaker to listen, then fumble for my phone, where I've bookmarked the playlist for CBC Radio Morning.

Lately, I've been diving for this bouncy little ditty from Vampire Weekend (a group I've always rather liked) with rather depressing lyrics.  Seems to be the thing these days.

This evening while I was looking up the video, I couldn't believe my luck when I spotted a Jimmy Fallon video featuring a recent appearance by Vampire Weekend -- with Haim (another favourite) singing back-up!


Here's the official video which, sadly, doesn't provide the lyrics, but looks a bit like some of my high school biology labs.


This one reminds me of an absolutely gorgeous video by Talk Talk, which makes me shiver like an early morning when I watch it.  The high definition in this night-time imagery was really quite a startling thing in the eighties.

And the lyrics are a tad more upbeat.

What a wonderful world

You know, I think it's important to keep current.

However, I've read, watched, and listened to the news this week, and today, I've really become rather afraid that I'll sprain my middle fingers.

Aren't we all?

When I was an early teenager with the reputation of being the only dependable babysitter in my building, one of my favourite clients had a fabulous record collection that I could explore once my young charges were in bed.

It was rather hippy-dippy - very folksy with dashes of "prog-rock" and light jazz.  Among the discs were several Harry Chapin collections.

I haven't thought of Harry Chapin in years.  He was famous for his epic song-stories:  the tale of the wistful baritone Mr Tanner, sorting through the clothes in his dry-cleaning shop; a disc-jockey at WOLD, begging his wife to take him back; a rough-but-kindly frontier farmer meeting his mail-order bride at the train station. He's probably best known for "Cat's in the Cradle", a song about being too busy for a young son.  He was pretty young himself when he died in a car accident at age 38.

It seems to be Seventies Week at the coffee shops I've been visiting, a reminder of the rather odd songs that became hits in that decade.

As I worked, I realized "Taxi" was playing. As I half-listened, the middle section came on, which is in two dreamy sections - the inner monologues of the taxi driver and his passenger.  For the first time in years, I heard this familiar lyric:

I've got something inside me, not what my life's about
'Cause I've been letting my outside tide me over 'til the time runs out

And I stopped working for a moment.  I guess it takes a bit of living to understand that lyric.

You certainly don't get it when you're thirteen.

The magic dress

I'm not an enthusiastic shopper.

As a result, I've learned to tackle Christmas and Birthday Season - the latter being the thirty-day run between the period before I must post my parcel to elder daughter in Hades to Mother's Day - in manageable purchasing bursts, none more than ninety minutes.

I found younger daughter's birthday approaching rapidly, but despite my careful planning and plotting, had failed to find an item of pretty clothing to join the gifts of movies, music, and makeup.  Usually, I wander into a likely shop and something will call to me.  Although I'd heard elder daughter's name floating out at me in April, nothing whispered about younger daughter.

With two days to go, I wandered into a shop in Cook Street, mentioned the specifications to the employee there - something feminine for a petite stature with a generous bosom, as younger daughter takes after one of her paternal great-grandmothers.  (She certainly didn't get it from my side of the family...)

I spotted it a split second before the clerk did, a simple sundress, reminiscent of the late Fifties, early Sixties.  Flower print, modest boat neck, slightly pleated skirt, and defined waist. Sort of Sandra Dee without the sly overtones.

She showed me several others, but I kept saying, "That one's calling me."

I presented it to younger daughter on her birthday, and she wore it the very next day for her part in a fundraising concert.

It was like magic.  The dress, which fit perfectly, seemed to endow her with extra social grace and confidence.  She maintained poise as garden tours strolled past her and planes droned overhead.  I was delighted (and careful not to say so) when she excused herself at lunch - a new thing in itself - to reapply her makeup in the washroom instead of at the table.

Then I got tired and left

Last November, I made time.

So often, I've looked at the Gorge Waterway from the bus, as it takes the loop en route to Silver City. It was a glorious morning, so I left home a good hour before I had to, and got off the bus, misguidedly, at a hairpin curve on Gorge Road, but made it across unscathed.

And there it was. My adolescence.

An uprooted tree, had toppled head down in the Gorge, wasps buzzing around its corpse. Was it there when I cycled along here in Grade Nine? Am I really so old?

There were the same steps, the one leading down into the water. I used to sit here, waiting for the boy I secretly loved - who was in love with my best friend, of course.

I almost wanted to balance along the very edge, as I did as a nine-year-old, when the bricks were being slowly piled. Beyond was the playground, swings still there, but in a slightly different location. No teeter-totters in this litigious age. The clammy change-room for swimmers oblivious to concepts such as fecal counts stands behind, and in front, a bank of vegetation blocks the view of the beach.

I turned up the steep incline leading to the crosswalk. My legs remembered it better than my head. At the intersection, there are now traffic lights, and a push-button walk signal in the direction of my old elementary school.

No more "Stop students! Traffic through!" sung out by a military-inspired student crossing-guard trio, marching down to their corner:  
Left! Left! Left! Left!
I had a good job and I left! I had a good job and I left!
First, they hired me, then they fired me, then I got tired and left!
Left! Left! Left!

Up Admirals Road, where a huge yellow seniors residence has replaced the corner-store, and a couple of houses. I glanced in, and a lady in a dressing gown waved.

I waved back.

On up the hill to the duplex. An older lady was already peering down the drive.

"I never realized there was a house back there."
"It's a duplex. I lived in this one by the street, and the Wardens lived in the back one."

She told me how she and her husband, newly-wed, got together a thousand dollars for a down-payment on a modest house we could see from our standpoint. I thought to myself that a thousand dollars would have been a humongous amount when this lady was a young married. She was telling me her life story as the bus I meant to catch rolled by.

I caught the next one.

A lullaby for post-modern children

It's Mother's Day, and I'm a mother and a daughter, and it's the end of the steeple chase that led up to Easter, through an obstacle course of birthdays, past a recital to today with its cards and love offerings.

This song wasn't written for the mother/child relationship, but it kinda fits.  Actually, that's one of the first things I noticed when I became a mother.  A lot of love songs work just as well for how you feel about your kids.

Re-cyclamen

Remember when I said I had a black(ish) thumb?

A year ago, I bought cyclamen plant for younger daughter's birthday. I chose it for two reasons: 1) it wouldn't topple off her breakfast tray; 2) the cluster of blossoms were a satisfying shade of hot pink, just younger daughter's style.

Not the reasoning of a knowledgeable plant-owner, you'll agree. 'Cause I'm not. Not by a long shot. I fully expected the plant to die at some point, particularly residing in younger daughter's mostly darkened bedroom. I'd sneak in periodically and water it, opening the bed curtains.

After some months, I brought the pot into our dining room, which has lot of natural light. As the year wheeled into autumn, then winter, the last of the flowers fell.

I watered it very occasionally - the instructions said only if dry - and it didn't do much of anything, not even bothering to die.

Sometime in late March, I spotted a tell-tale furl of new growth. It turned out to be a leaf, but it was followed by a definite promise of defiant pink.

Demeter, who has been struggling with a balcony refurbishment for the past month - you really don't want to know - gave me a larger pot, and some compost to top it off.

I think it likes it.

Natural shocks (that flesh is heir to)

Another birthday season is drawing to a close at our house, with the birthday of younger daughter, which is near the end of a rather long line of family and friendly birthdays - complicated by Easter this year, and Mother's Day every damn year.

As I do annually, I think back to a distant May day, not nearly as warm as today is, and the shell-shock of bringing another person into this world.

Perhaps the biggest shock is how different it is every time.

We are all so very shocking, in our very different ways.

Left-leaning line troll

On a glorious spring morning (rather a lot of those in Victoria -- just sayin'), I'm in line at my favourite coffeehouse, behind an elderly bearded fellow, who is leaning, a tad precariously, on his cane.

He turns to me and growls, "This place has become too crowded."
"It's not so bad on weekdays," I respond with a patient smile.
"Yes, it is!" he glares.
"At this time of day, it isn't," I reply mildly. I have my eye on my favourite cherry-yoghurt Danishes. They're not in every morning, and there's only two of them left this Sunday morning.

Growly glaring cane man seems to have conceded my last point, but has now entered into a rather strange diatribe about "the left-leaning communist types" who frequent the place.
"I thought it was running and cycling clubs," I deadpan.
"Same thing. You should go to Oak Bay. You don't want to be mistaken for one of them."

"I frequently am!" I laugh, assuming he's referring to the left-leaning communist types, and not the cycling clubbers, who seem to consist mainly of sixty-and-seventy-something males, who tend to stand back while waiting for their coffee-orders, with their skinny butts in the faces of those sitting at the surrounding tables.

Before the growler can resume, I deftly direct his attention to the waiting barista.

There are online trolls, and there are line trolls. I know the latter when I see one.

Besides, one of those cycling types had held the door open for me, and I'm feeling charitable.

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?)

You know best, dear (Write of Passage Number Forty-nine)

There's an older couple sitting next to me in the bus shelter on Fort Street just up from Douglas Street. They look a bit like tourists - lots of white in their clothing, comfortable shoes.

Nuthin' wrong with that.

They're conferring about something, looking at a bus schedule in the wife's hands, and although I'm not listening in (I swear!), I hear them say 'the 24 bus".

I decide to intervene.
"The 24 doesn't stop here," I tell them, gently and politely, I hope.

The husband gestures westward.
"We saw it pass down there; it has to come up here."

I'm a little taken aback by his logic, but actually get up to check the sign.

Sitting down, I say, "The #24 is not on the lists of buses that stop here." (I knew this, having taken buses in Victoria for years, but he sounds so sure of himself, he's got me doubting myself.)

Wife is checking the timetable she's clutching again.
"It says "Maplewood'," she begins, but husband overrides her.
"We saw it pass by down there," he repeats, pointing, "and it has to come by somewhere."

In this face of this brand of reasoning, I decide I don't have the time or inclination to argue.

"Well, there was a big fire downtown this morning; maybe the bus has been re-routed," I remark, in my placatory Canadian fashion.

My bus, which bears one of the numbers on the bus stop sign, has pulled up, so I board it, with my dark, indignant thoughts.

Oh pardon me, but Mister Three, why must you paint them red?

Younger daughter and I were descending the hill on Yates Street near our apartment building. In the distance, I could see the pearly-grey smudge of a large fire that destroyed an old deserted building downtown. I can no longer smell, but I felt the scratch at the back of my throat, and a hint of sour taste in my mouth, which reminded me of when the forest fires across BC had even sea-surrounded Victoria with an air quality index of !0+, worse than Beijing.

The sun shone brightly, though, and I veered suddenly into the pathway of the apartment next door. I had spotted a splash of scarlet amid the creamy blossom of a flowering shrub, and thought that surely, it must be from another plant.

It wasn't; it was indeed a lone red flower growing from the same bush. Younger daughter and I gazed at it, before continuing the journey down.

"It reminds me of the cards painting the roses in Alice in Wonderland," I remarked.

Younger daughter chuckled to herself.

Because sometimes, women just get fed up

There's a lot about the perils of social media being discussed these days, but there are a lot of pleasures too.

No, no, I don't mean those. Get your mind out of the gutter.

Because I "like" BBC Comedy on Facebook, I get plenty of clips from a spoof news show entitled The Mash Report, one of the many shows BBCCanada is withholding from us in order to show end-to-end episodes of Top Gear.

Here's a brief sample, but be warned, this particular clip is rife with f-bombs.

As far as I can tell, the show itself isn't particularly that profane, but I happen to like this bit, so you know what you can do.

Staring through the bars

As April gives way to May, the tiny green caterpillars parachute on silken threads from the cherry trees. Fortunately younger daughter isn't in the least bit squeamish, and regularly spots and plucks the creatures from my hat and sweater.

The tulips have peaked and the lilacs are taking over.

Last week, I was striking out on my morning mocha quest, and spotted these:

As I gazed beyond the fence at these flames, this came to mind:

Maybe he should have asked Lily first

The only reason we chose our service provider over the other one available in Victoria was because it offers Boston's PBS station WGBH as the "time shift" option.  (The other service offers Detroit's WTVS, which isn't as execrable as Watertown's WPBS, but is still pretty bad.)

Last night, I was yet again not disappointed.  I'd left the television on between shows, and hadn't muted it as is my usual practice.  A concert exerpt came up and as the music progressed, I found myself asking the usual questions when I'm about to acquire a *new favourite:  What is this? and Who are these guys? 

* I say "new", but, as has been demonstrated in the past, I'm always a few years behind.

The following video is not the clip I saw last night, but it's the best version I can find, which comes closest to what I heard.  I love the driving drums and the backing vocals.



The lyrics are sadder than you'd think.

I'm leaving this place behind
And I'm heading out on the road tonight.
I'm off for the hinterlands
Way up north where the tall trees stand.

Before I commence my ride
I'm asking Lily to be my bride.
I know there's another man
But he ain't gonna delay my plans.

I know she's gonna be my wife,
Gonna fall in love, I'm gonna live my life with her.
You know I bet he's not so tough.
Ain't afraid of him 'cause I'm a fool for love.

I've come far to find Big Jim,
Well, here I am and I guess you're him.
I see how you got your name,
You're tall as hell, and broad as a train.

They say you are a hard-broiled man
And the baddest guy in the whole wide land.
Well, I'm not afraid to fight,
Let's step outside and I'll show you why

I'm humming like a revved-up truck
Never mind the odds, I'm gonna try my luck with her.
Just tell me when you've had enough.
I'm dangerous 'cause I'm a fool for love.

You know you don't hit half bad
For my love I will lay you on the ground tonight.
Just wait until I catch my breath,
Gonna send you off to an early death.

I lie in the drifting snow,
Bleeding out as it covers me up.
If Spring comes before I'm found,
Just throw my bones in a hole in the ground

I lost friends along my way
I knew I'd meet them eventually,
No, I'm not afraid to die,
Just mad I left Big Jim alive.

I know I should've never looked back,
But you ain't gonna win a woman's heart like that.
I never should've called his bluff,
I was born to lose cause I'm a fool for love.

I stare into the endless sky,
And I saw a tale of my life go by.
I drift into the great unknown;
I really don't know where I'm going.

Life cycle

If I've been down in Cook Street Village for a coffee, I usually drop in on Demeter on my walk home.

This morning, the main bathroom door is closed, so I know she is probably bathing. I spot a full bag of recyclable materials waiting in the entrance hall, and figure, rather than just sitting and reading, I can save her energy and time by zipping the stuff to the bins in the parking lot.

I'm carefully depositing the paper first, so the tins and plastic don't go tumbling in the wrong receptacle. A car is just parking, and a couple emerges, with a cat in the carrier. The woman approaches me, introduces herself and gently touches my arm.

"We wanted to give you our condolences on the loss of your mother."

A split-second cool wave of confusion washes over me, as I stare at her. It is comprised of three thoughts:

Nope, I was just up there.

Dang, I should have knocked on the bathroom door.

And finally: This is how it will be; people will say this to me.

The woman spots my hesitation, and double-checks who I am. We have met briefly before, but that was months ago. It turns out the people who have moved into the apartment above Demeter have recently lost their mother. I guess there must be a resemblance. We exchange empathetic observations about the stress on these new neighbours and have a quiet chuckle about the mistake.

I make my way back up to the apartment, where Demeter, getting dressed, greets me cheerily and thanks me for taking down the recycling.

What will be, will be.

It's not your birthday, baby

My birthday, and that of eldest daughter, find themselves on a collision course with Easter every few years. Sometimes it's a direct hit; my birthday has fallen on Easter Sunday three times during my lifetime thus far. Elder daughter had her eighth birthday on Easter Sunday and won't have it again until she's 87. I'll only get another Easter Sunday birthday if I manage to become a centenarian.

However, my birthday this year fell on Easter Monday. The last time it did that was on the day I was born. That made it rather special, and I had a lovely time, thank you very much.

It's not my birthday today, which is one of the reasons I like this song, which has been playing rather a lot on weekday mornings on CBC Radio. When I first encountered it, I heard: "You're gonna hurt yourself; it's not your birthday, baby. If there is nothing wrong, why am I gone so long?"

The correct lyrics are supplied in the following video, and frankly, I don't think they make much more sense. However, I do like the song and the singer - especially the fact that she has a gently self-deprecatory air, which tells me, without checking, that she's Canadian.

If you do check, you'll find she's from Winnipeg.