A pounce of cure (well, Queen, actually)

How many cat videos do you suppose there are out there?  Millions? Billions?

How many parodies and/or humorous takes on "Bohemian Rhapsody"?  Hundreds?  Thousands?

I'm taking a chance that there aren't many videos combining the two, but I won't place any bets.

It's pretty accurate. (Although, our cat, being an indoor cat, doesn't hide trophies in the bed.)

Sidewalk rage

Thursdays have become sacrosanct in our household -- a household with someone living on the autistic spectrum has many holy days from which it is perilous to deviate.

Thursday is Pic-a-Flic Day, when we make the pilgrimage to select the week's DVDs.

We usually walk back, but sometimes, the slow, upward incline is daunting, particularly if the weather isn't pleasant or if there are extra bags to carry, and we catch the bus to a stop a block or so from our apartment building.

It's taken me some months to have sufficient courage to describe the afternoon in question, when I alighted from the bus, and made the quick diagonal cut to the busy corner near the traffic light. Younger daughter, like Eurydice, was a few steps behind as usual, so I didn't see what happened.

The first indication of trouble was the outraged bellowing of a little old man, yelling at me about younger daughter.

"She stepped right in front of me!"

I was caught off-guard by his fury, but gazing at his contorted face, shouting at me about how he had to stop suddenly to avoid bumping into her - I should point out that he, like us, was on foot - it occurred to me that he was barking at me.

Not at younger daughter.

Which meant that he had figured out that I was in charge of her.

Any wish to placate him vanished with this realization.

"My daughter is on the autistic spectrum," I told him firmly. "What's your excuse?"
"That doesn't matter!" he shouts.  "She should know better!"

Mothers have an extra limbic layer.  Mothers of neurologically different people probably have several.

He stood by the curb, waiting for the cross signal, still sniping at me.  I was carrying a book bag.  I swung it back about six inches, then bopped him on his arm.

It didn't even unbalance him, but he was probably a bit unbalanced to begin with, and now really enraged. His voice jumped several decibels, but I was no longer listening.  I strode away from him, not looking back, and flipping a bird over my shoulder at the direction of his roars.

Younger daughter apologized all the way up the hill.

When I got home, I was in a cold sweat of shock and shame.

I knew I hadn't injured him, but my actions taught him nothing, and were a poor example to my daughter.  This isn't how grown-ups respond to insults, particularly childish and petty ones.

On top of this, Victoria is a small city, and I was clad in a distinctive, hot pink raincoat.

I didn't wear it for months.

Bowing out

It was a first and final sort of evening.

I hadn't seen the National Arts Centre since before the completion of the extensive renovations in honour of the Canadian sesquicentennial, so I was eager to see it, especially after months of hiking around the outside of the building, entering the back down a temporary wooden staircase, and making our way back through the corridors and stairs - to say nothing of long trudges to the sole ladies' washroom on the main floor to join line-ups comprised of three different audiences from the Studio, the Theatre, and Southam Hall during intermission.

Well, they were trying to improve on a Brutalist building from the mid-1960s, so the new and improved NAC looks like a 1960's airport lounge. Even the washrooms - very efficient, although a challenge to find the towel dispensers - are like airport washrooms, long double rows.

We were determined to see this concert, because it was Copland's Fanfare for the Common Man, followed by Appalachian Spring, and Beethoven's Ninth Symphony: in short, a dream concert, and likely my final NAC show.

We were in the second row of the amphitheatre, due to not renewing our subscriptions, after years of being in the orchestra section near the front. The biggest difference was being able to see beyond the first row of the actual orchestra.

As the Fanfare started up with the crashing drums and cymbals knocking us back in our seats, I noticed, with a thrill of joy, how many women were in the orchestra. Out of three trumpets, two were women; three out of four French horns were female musicians. I remembered a girl in my junior high band playing baritone horn, and getting featured in a local paper because this was so unusual.

The percussionists were all male, of course; that never seems to change. I saw the man in charge of the gong backing into it to mute it, before reaching behind to strike it again.

Then, Appalachian Spring, with the single mellow clarinet. So beautiful.
I focused my binoculars on individual musicians and, toward the end, found the face of a lovely young woman listening, her cheek against the frets of her viola.

It took me a moment or so to realize who she was.

At the interval, I checked my programme. It was the Russian Prodigy, on an internship to the NACO. She must be beginning her Third Year of her degree.

This left me struggling with ungracious feelings throughout Beethoven's paean to the human spirit.

Oh gawd. Do mothers ever forget or forgive those who have been less than kind to their offspring?

I forced myself back to the music.

The second movement of the Ninth has always reminded me of a bustling Victoria (as in 19th century, not the city) household in the morning, with a bossy paterfamilias. Actively avoiding looking at the RP, I trained my binoculars on the kettle drummer, who is required to provide odd accents and rumbling. I could see his lips move as he counted and counted, poised to spring.

During the third movement - which, ever since I was a little girl, I've envisioned as a forest stream in the moonlight - I watched the grimly grey chorus waiting in stillness on their risers and the woodwind section, willing myself not to look below where the Russian Prodigy plucked and bowed, front and centre. As my imprisonment in Hades glided to an end, the past seventeen years kept cycling back to haunt me.
During the final movement, the chorus blossomed from shadowy sullenness into individuals, coming alive behind the youthful, smiling, and flashily-dressed soloists. I noticed two women in tuxedos amongst the tenors, saw passion and concentration.

When the bows came, the audience whooped extra loud for the chorus. I don't think it was just because of numerous friends and family attending.

Waiting for Goddam

If we hadn't left the theatre by the back door, I never would have spotted the body.

We'd just spent ninety minutes watching Christopher Plummer becoming John Barrymore. That's a story in itself; maybe I'll tell you about it some time. The Resident Fan Boy and elder daughter were disoriented as we stepped out into the frigid street behind Toronto's Elgin Winter Garden. I have a better sense of direction and persuaded them to turn right, following knots of fur-coated theatre-goers. Our hotel was about a three-minute walk away. As we crossed Queen Street East,I happened to glance across Victoria Street and saw a man lying prone in the middle of the sidewalk where the shadow of the office block kept him out of the glow of the streetlights. A coat was spread over his head and upper body. Other theatre-goers strolled briskly past him, down Queen.

What to do? We dithered for a few minutes, then hurried down to the Italian restaurant where we'd had dinner. A few young servers were chatting by the bar, and they told us there was a hospital right around the corner, but agreed to call 911. Elder daughter took younger daughter back to the hotel which was just across the street from the restaurant, and the Resident Fan Boy and I gingerly approached the shape on the pavement. It turned out he was lying on a grate, but I noted that his stockinged feet were not getting any of the warm air. We called to him and got only a waggling of his hips.

A car drew up with driven by a lady with a young woman beside her.
"Have you called anyone?"
"Yes," I said. "We're just waiting here until someone shows up."
The lady explained that her daughter had noticed him and they had gone around the block to check.
"He's alive," I told them. "But he's only in his socks, and he's not answering us, just wiggling."
Satisfied, they drove off. Peering into the darkness, I made out the upturned boots of another rough sleeper supine under what appeared to be piles of tarps.

As we shivered on the corner, we had other visitors, like some twisted kind of urban fable. One of the young servers from the restaurant hurried up: "They want to know if he's responsive."
"Well, he squirms when I talk to him," I said, leaning over to check. The coat remained firmly over his head and shoulders, but he twitched irritably, rather like a small boy who's been kissed while asleep.

She stood with us for a while with her arms tightly crossed in her short-sleeved blouse and server's apron. It was something like -17 Celsius, with a lower wind-chill with the wintry gusts funneled between Toronto's tall buildings. We assured her we'd wait.
"Okay," she said, scurrying down the block. "This is a good thing you're doing. Most people wouldn't."

The minutes dragged by and the Resident Fan Boy and I shuffled awkwardly, glancing at the body as we stood guard. A man approached us, staggering slightly.
"Do you have change?"
"Sorry..."
He looked over at the pair of socked feet sticking out from under the coat.
"Are you helping him?"
We assured him we were waiting for an ambulance.
"All I need is..."
"We're sorry, we don't have any money on us."

He lolloped away as we scanned the darkness and strained our ears, and finally heard the sirens. Two police cars and an ambulance pulled up at angles to one another in the middle of the deserted street. The paramedics were playing a version of Good Cop/Bad Cop: the first one coaxing, "Hey Sir? Are you all right?" while his partner cut in with: "C'mon! Let's get up! Whaddaya think you're doing here?"

This time, Sock-footed Man responded, sitting bolt upright and furious. At me.

"It isn't FAIR!!" he bellowed. "I was WARM!!! Now I have to walk on the streets and be COLD!! Why can't you leave me be?"
Since he was bellowing at me, I held his gaze and tried to keep my voice from shaking. "You weren't answering us. You're in your socks..."
"I was WARM!! Miss, this isn't fair!"
"No, it isn't fair."
"I was sleeping! I wasn't hurting anybody, miss! Miss, you don't understand..."
"I know. But I was worried about your feet..."
"My feet are fine! I was WARM, miss! And now I'm gonna be cold..."

I could feel myself breaking down and suddenly turned and headed back to the hotel. The Resident Fan Boy fell into step.
"I couldn't just leave him."
"Well, if it makes you feel any better, he was being remarkably polite. He called you 'Miss' the entire time."

Into the hotel, into a sparkling elevator where I could see my eyes, filling up with self-pity, reflected in the brass. Up to our room, where it was warm, where the sheets were clean. Elder daughter reported that younger daughter had been discombobulated and upset. I went into the bathroom and turned on the taps. No, it wasn't fair. He was out there looking for another grate, and if he found one, well, maybe he could sleep a bit, and maybe by morning, his numb feet would gradually regain feeling. He'd been sleeping on top of his shoes, possibly to save them from thieves. While my family and I, bellies full with an Italian meal, brains full of a wonderful evening of theatre, would sleep in cozy beds in clean rooms with a bathroom nearby.

And as I stood there in shame, embarrassment and misery, gazing at myself in the bathroom mirror, it hit me. When the lolloping man asked: "Are you helping him?", I had misunderstood the question. He was really asking: "Why not help me?" Why not? Because he was on his feet, speaking to me? Just as I wasn't attempting to save the man sleeping across the street, because I could see he had boots? Who died and made me God?

Yet, I couldn't have lived with myself if I'd walked by on the other side. Even though that is exactly what I do every day. No, brother. It isn't fair.