Be careful what you wish for

Sometimes I rise in the morning, make my preparations, and stride out into the morning, emanating energy. 

Sometimes. 

On those mornings, I cudgel my brains for what I've done differently, and I never have an answer. 

It's on a morning such as this, that I take my accustomed place at the coffee house and tackle my journals and correspondance. (I also fall down social media rabbit holes, but let's not go there right now.) 

Perhaps it's my energetic aura that draws a young woman to stand by my table. 

"May I interrupt you?" she asks, as I look up quizzically from the webs I've been weaving. 

"I want to be like you when I'm older." 

I swallow my befuddlement at this, and manage a grin. 

"Be careful what you wish for!" (Gawd, she has no idea...) 

She says something about being on an eccentric path already.

Great. I'm exuding eccentricity as well.

The elephant in the room

 The best of results and the worst of fears, all in one day.

On a summer's morning, I was struggling to get Demeter's laundry done, and, tussle concluded, returned to our place to find the Resident Fan Boy and the Jolly Not-So-Green Giant setting up an enormous big screen television in our living room.

This was not a shock.  The Resident Fan Boy has been promising me for two years that we would join the ranks of those with flat screens - as my eye-sight steadily deteriorates.  I sent him examples and gently hinted, but he always said that he was too busy with his church volunteering and accompanying younger daughter to her singing lessons.  He decided that he needed the guidance of brother-in-law the Jolly Not-So-Green Giant, who works in IT for a provincial governmental department.  Every time my Double Leo Sister and her husband visited, the topic would be raised and deferred.

Finally, the appointment had been made, the device purchased, and now the technical argot was in full swing.

The Jolly Not-So-Green Giant is young enough to belong to a different cohort, and was, once again, earnestly trying to sell me on Netflix.  (Every time I investigate Netflix, I'm mostly impressed by how unimpressed I am.)

Having, after some fiddling, located our cable service (which provides us with HBO and Crave, thank you very much), it seemed they couldn't connect our DVD player. Now, this is something that clearly mystifies J N-S-G G, who streams everything, but I've been dreaming, for more than two years, of being able to watch my favourite things on a big screen. 

As the fellas sank into another discussion consisting of strings of letters and numbers, Double Leo Sister quizzed me about lunch.  I checked with younger daughter, who had retreated to her room, but she wasn't forthcoming, so DLS and I decided on the local Greek restaurant.  I was nervous about Demeter waiting for us, as the installation stretched on and on, so I set out for Demeter's apartment.  DLS followed with her dog, and I tried to clear my head of the jangle of the upheaval.

We should have taken younger daughter with us.

We were accompanying Demeter to the restaurant, in a slow descent down Cook Street, when my phone rang.  The Resident Fan Boy was calling to say he couldn't find younger daughter.  Or the cat.

I gave a quick update to DLS and doubled back to our place.  Apparently younger daughter had fled with her purse when she overheard her uncle telling her father that the DVD problem could be resolved, but, as he laughed dismissively, the VHS player was out of the question. (The J N-S-G G has always derived derisive pleasure out of our ancient televisions, DVD collections and residual video cassettes.) Not a problem for us, but younger daughter, being on the spectrum, abhors change, and there are a couple of VHS tapes she treasures, mainly for what she associates with them. Neither man noticed that she'd  slipped out, until they were getting ready to join us for lunch.  They soon realized that she hadn't taken her phone.  Younger daughter has fled before, but not since we returned to Victoria.  She does know the neighbourhood, having walked most of it.

But how could she have taken the cat? He weighs fourteen pounds, I wondered miserably, more resentful than ever that the RFB had involved his complex and complicating in-laws in what should have been a relatively simple purchase.

I arrived to find my husband uselessly pacing the apartment.  He had located the cat, who had taken his safety perch on the very top of younger daughter's armoire.  Shortly afterwards, the J N-S-G G phoned the RFB with the news that younger daughter had shown up at the restaurant.  Double Leo Sister came in the van to pick us up, but I chose the five-minute walk as a balm and therapy - and a play for time. I had a bit of stress and irritation to walk off, both of which I couldn't afford to show.

If only the RFB had bought the television on his own, I grizzled.  He told me later that he actually prayed they wouldn't be able to fit it in their van, so he could have it delivered and installed later.

At the restaurant, younger daughter apologized and told us she was considering a walk in the park, but thought that would make her late for lunch.  I handed her the phone, gently explaining that she should always have it handy, and congratulated her on remembering to go to the Greek restaurant.

We brought Demeter back, and I was able to show her a Repair Shop she'd seen, but this time in all the glory and splendour of a 65-inch high definition screen.  DLS took the RFB to London Drugs to pick up an inexpensive compatible DVD player, and I showed Demeter a sampling of Wolf Hall, which we'd been showing her in parts on her Thursday night dinner visits. What had been dark, and difficult to follow for her, was now huge, clear, and comprehensible - just as I'd prayed it would be.

Finally, to my secret relief, they departed.

I feel grateful - and exasperated at the same time.  Over the past month, we've been learning how the new toy works and revelling in the clarity and detail - particularly such things as ballets and musicals.  Even old Fred Astaire movies have a three-dimensional look to them.  It's like being by a window and looking in on far-removed times and places.

However, there is a price, beyond the monetary one.  I can never express anything other than delight, acknowledgement, and appreciation for the service rendered, as traumatising as it was.

But you know, there was always that particular elephant in the room.  Now it can watch TV.

And in the middle of the celebrations

I had a landmark birthday recently. 

At least Double Leo Sister thought so.

My first inkling that I was in trouble came about six weeks beforehand, when I got a series of texts.  Double Leo Sister rarely texts, and when she does, she sends one after the other.  Usually about three or four come in, while I'm struggling to compose a tactful reply to the first one.

My sister is what you might call an impulsive person.  She probably pronounces it "spontaneous".  You can imagine how alarmed I was to be receiving a series of texts from my impulsive/spontaneous and frankly, volatile sibling a full six weeks ahead of my birthday, a birthday that, up until that second, I had regarded as being not particularly significant. 

She and her husband, the Jolly Not-So-Green Giant, wanted to visit for my "Birthday" this year.  Did I have plans?

I desperately wanted to say that yes, I would be out of the country.  However, DLS knows I'm visiting Demeter three times daily to facilitate meals and other homely things.  Swallowing panic, I texted tactfully but truthfully, that I'd expected they would be dropping by for Mother's Day, which roughly coincides with younger daughter's birthday.  (Younger daughter adores her aunt and uncle.)  Couldn't we celebrate my birthday in conjunction with those special days?

DLS responded:  "We can probably do both."  Following immediately with "Gonna do your birthday this year." It's true that they haven't "done" my birthday since long before we went to Ottawa.  I've grown to depend on it.

With a sinking heart, I forwarded the texts to elder daughter in Britain, who also adores her aunt and uncle, but knows the reasons behind my trepidation and despair.  

I mulled over this in some misery for a day or so.  I like my birthday.  It's my day, and way too often over the years, it's been hijacked by the proximity of both daughters' birthdays.  It's a day which, in a best-case scenario, is a quiet one, spent doing things I like to do - not picking my way across the emotional minefield of my sister's feelings.

I tried, once again, to get this across to my sister by text (leaving out the bit about emotional minefields).  I had to try, at least.  Once again, I suggested a joint birthday celebration that could take in younger daughter's birthday, and pointed out that there were few days around my own birthday that weren't booked by the Resident Fan Boy for his church stuff.

I suppose I could have predicted the response, which arrived while the RFB and I were Skyping with elder daughter in London.  The gist of the text was DLS's impression that she and her family were only welcome at younger daughter's birthday.

Unfortunately, this was rather true, but it wouldn't do to admit it.  The RFB and elder daughter coached me through a response, and I recalled the advice of the late American linguist Suzette Haden Elgin, who wrote a series entitled The Gentle Art of Verbal Self-Defense - in particular, a key tip:  "Ignore the bait."  (I.E., the imbedded statement:  "We are not welcome.")

With no apology, I simply texted back with a choice of two dates - after consulting both the calendar and The Resident Fan Boy.

This worked, after a fashion, and I didn't hear from DLS for several weeks, which begged the question:  Why was my "spontaneous" sister planning this visit so far ahead?  Most unlike her.

Demeter had an answer.  DLS and JN-S-GG had found a "special" gift for my "special" birthday, and they were, apparently, very excited about it.

I wasn't.  My sister is a fan of grand gestures, many of which have meaning only to her, but she expects a rapturous and grateful response.  If I don't deliver, things get ugly.

After over a month of apprehension - although I did get my quiet birthday - their van drew up, and they got out bearing a large, flat, rectangular box, decorated with layers of coloured tissue paper.

I thought it might be one of my sister's stained-glass creations, difficult to find a place for, but doable, and rather pretty.  With some effort, I opened the box with appropriate ceremony, casting surreptitious and pleading glances at the Resident Fan Boy, who cleverly avoided them.

And then I summoned all my powers of feigning enthusiasm for -- whatever it was.  It defied description, but I'll try: 

Big. Rectangular.  Very dark brown.  It looks like a trophy, with photos sealed behind a sort of plexiglass skin.  The largest of the photos is the famous shot of the Beatles crossing Abbey Road.  Below are two small snaps of the Beatles waiting to cross Abbey Road.  At the bottom, is a small silver plaque or sticker bearing the songs that make up the Abbey Road album.

Well, it certainly was a surprise.

I'm fond of the Beatles, but Abbey Road isn't even my favourite Beatles album.  (That would be Rubber Soul, but I don't want a commemorative plaque of that, either.)

And my sister and her husband merrily hung this thing on my living room wall, exclaiming over it, while I did my level best to not betray how baffled I was.  We made it through the weekend, then the RFB and I put a heavy-duty hook on our bedroom wall (the thing would yank most hooks out of the wall), and every time they come to town, we pull the plaque out of its hiding place and hang it up.

We discovered afterwards that they got this in a charity auction.  (There was a receipt in the decorated box.) They paid $521.81 for it.

On the days I have to look at it; I comfort myself by thinking of all that money that went to a hospital.  Then I go and look at other things, until my bewilderment abates.

Yes, we've heard of him

Elder daughter, who has been resident in England since last October, is discovering the delights of bank holiday weekends.

For this last one, COVID restrictions have loosened enough to allow a visit to my cousins in Lincolnshire.

Let's be clear.  These are delightful cousins.  They are gracious, well-educated, kind, and hospitable.  Elder daughter has visited before on previous trips to the UK.

They moved to Lincolnshire recently, and live in what elder daughter describes as a "gated community" just outside Lincoln.  They met elder daughter at the train, and gave her a tour of Lincoln.  They didn't let her pay for anything.  Elder daughter figures she ended up 60 pounds on this trip, because they also insisted on paying her train fare.  "I can't ever repay them," she moans to us on Skype.  "They'd never accept it!"

There is a small price to pay, however.  My cousins have told elder daughter how astounded they are that she's managed to get a job in London.  After years of working for a major cultural organisation in Hades, elder daughter has taken a full-time job with a heritage organisation in Greater London (after securing interviews with such organisations as the Old Vic, the Royal Academy of Music, The Rose Theatre, and after a job offer from the British Library).  She's done this during a pandemic.  

My cousins are astonished at her grasp of British politics; she has a First Class Honours degree in Journalism and History.  They are amazed that she can navigate England by train by herself.  She is twenty-nine. 

Bless their hearts.

After a wonderful weekend visiting other cousins, sightseeing, catching up, even doing some baking, my cousin asks elder daughter:  "Tell me, is Christopher Plummer a big deal in Canada?"  

Elder daughter assures him that this is so.  She doesn't mention that Christopher Plummer was born in Toronto, raised in Montreal, and was the descendant of a Canadian Prime Minister, because my daughter surpasses me in diplomacy, as in most other things.

Raising the red flag

 

If you don't live in Canada, you may not be aware that, a month before our national holiday, Canada Day, 215 bodies were found buried in the grounds of the former "Kamloops Indian Residential School". 

All kids, some as young as preschoolers. 

 The crummy thing is, I wasn't surprised. 

150,000 Indigenous children were forced to attend residential schools between the 1870s and the 1990s. 

Estimates very on how many children died while at the schools, the number is probably between 4,000 and 6,000 - possibly higher. 

How did they die? Tuberculosis, a lot of them. The schools were government-funded and run by churches, so they weren't well-funded, and the children weren't well-fed. They were powerless, and miles from home, and in such situations, predators close in. Many were abused, beyond the draconian school rules. Some committed suicide; some died trying to escape. 

And it was deemed too expensive to send their bodies home, so they were buried in the school grounds. 

"I'll bet your school didn't have a graveyard," said a survivor years later. 

So, in the aftermath of this "discovery" - there were more to come, and they'll keep coming - it was decided to forego the Canada Day stuff. Not that much would be going on anyway, given the pandemic. 

I had my second Pfizer vaccination that day, which seemed an appropriate thing, y'know, protecting my fellow Canadians. The clinic was awash with orange shirts. I had to explain why to an English cousin, when I mentioned this on Facebook. 

The same day, also on Facebook, a friend mentioned that she was flying the Canadian Native Flag (designed by Curtis Wilson of the Kwakwaka’wakw People of northern Vancouver Island). Only she didn't call it the Canadian Native Flag, she just posted the picture, like the one above, and a "Facebook Friend" commented, from her home in Arizona: "Yes, the Inuit flag." 

Oh, crud. Well, you'd think I'd know better than to put my oar in --- and you're right; I didn't put my oar in. Someone else did, but she and my friend explained very kindly, that the word was "indigenous". 

Arizona Lady informed the friends that she'd lived in Five Countries, and why would they think she didn't know what "indigenous" meant? 

And my friend, being Canadian, tried to placate her, and Arizona Lady said: "Well, you all are just so smart..." and logged off. 

It would have been such a better idea to blame predictive text...

A poor choice of words

I've been in correspondance by email with a lady who has requested I do an article for a family history review, based on a recent presentation, which -- I'm told -- was well-received, being "entertaining".

All lovely so far.

As it happened, I had just posted an adaptation of the presentation on my family history blog to share with relatives, and this editor took the link, and told me she'd be back in touch with suggestions on how to adapt it for the review. The presentation had been an hour long, so we both agreed it would need considerable shortening, before its inclusion in the spring issue of the review.

I didn't hear from her for nearly a month.

Last week, she got back in touch, with the apologetic explanation that she had had to purchase a computer just before going on a trip. She told me the content would need a fair amount of revision, though the story is interesting . . . . and that if I didn't mind mind making the style more straightforward, there would be room in the summer issue for it.

I felt that familiar dropping in my stomach.
Straightforward?
"More straightforward"?
That would mean less whatever-the-antonym-of-straightforward-is, wouldn't it?
I checked my trusty thesaurus.

Hmmmmmmmn.

Aren't editors in the business of choosing words? She said she often edited and adapted submissions herself, but in my case, she was worried about losing your personal voice.

(What? My devious, insincere and tricky voice?)

I decided to wait a day before answering her. I commiserated about replacing a computer -- our computer died the week after the presentation, so we had undergone similar stress. I had done a word count, I informed her. To meet the length limitations, I understood I would have to halve the text. Then, almost as an afterthought, I added that I hoped she had meant "more concise" rather than "more straightforward".

The response was quick in coming.  A thank-you for agreeing to submit the article, and an apology -- she had been trying to find a polite way of saying a more formal style, suitable for a quarterly journal.

And I thought to myself:  When did "more formal", which implies my writing is informal, become less polite than saying "more straightforward", which implies that my writing is a host of unpleasant things?  Don't editors have thesauruses?

Perhaps it's kinder to put this down to jet lag.