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 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.