BLOGG # 95 LADY MACBETH STEALS THE SHOW

We are in Autumn now,my favourite season, and one of the reasons  is because it is  the beginning of the 'New York Metropolitan Opera live on film' season. This means that lucky Opera Buffs like me can attend the Metropolitan Opera via cinema even in Victoria. This year the season was opened with the opera Macbeth by Verdi .You will have to bear with me dear readers as I once more enthuse in my blogg about  my favourite art form. As we all know, Macbeth is a Shakespeare play full of blood and gore and known for it's superstitious reputation [it is inadvisable to quote "Macbeth" in the theatre]. The story is all about the ambitious ruthless Macbeth who wants to become king and goes around full kilted  swirling a fur cloak and swinging a huge Claymore sword. Not in this opera! Here Macbeth is placed in the early 1950's era-looked more like an unsuccessful drug lord in a long swishy leather coat, bullet belts draped around his middle and carrying an insignificant rifle. The fact that he had a strong bass voice, was sturdy and came from Malta, saved him from mediocrity. Lady Macbeth ,on the other hand was entirely something else. When she arrived on stage I gasped and so did most of the audience. She is all about seduction and I have seen several versions in plays where the Lady attempts to be so-usually  hampered by unwieldy medieval Scottish attire. But not this Lady Macbeth! This Lady Macbeth was a Russian blond haired beauty-a cross between Marilyn Monroe and Veronica lake.  She was attired-almost- in a slip of  revealing negligee and as she writhed on the matrimonial bed singing seductively about her ambitious plans of mayhem and murder,she flashed a surprising amount of lovely long leg while twining them around poor Macbeth. I think we have to doff our opera hats to Maria Callas at this point who introduced the sexy siren as opera singer to the world. She even looked sexier when she stripped off the negligee and put on a stunning satin black satin tuxedo that could only have been tailored by Armani. With her long blond hair draped over her eyes and her six inch heels,she even looked sexy with her arms covered in blood as she came out of the bed chamber of the dead kin wielding the bloody knife and singing "who would have thought the old man had so much blood in him" in Italian with her lovely Russian soprano voice. She even looked good in a soiled nightgown as she sleep-walked crazily and tried to wash her hands-"Out damn spot"she sang in Italian-What fun Opera is!
The other part I enjoyed immensely were the witches. Usually these are depicted as three old crones, revolting in appearance as they circle around the cauldron tossing in snakes eyes and toad tongues, but not this time. This time we had at least thirty witches all dressed in fifties' era dresses looking all the world like middle aged housewives from Glasgow with "Queen Mother" hats and purses which they swung at poor Macbeth as they intoned their false promises of success in beautiful  harmony-the music in Macbeth is surprisingly beautiful and Verdi wrote it mostly in "Belle Canto." I am sure you all  know this means melodious singing.  I don't know how the choreographer did it but these' fifties' housewives managed to be frighteningly grotesque and at one time I had to shut my eyes as they-along with  their child witches- did their dastardly deeds. As you can see, I had a howlingly great and vulgar good time at the opera. There is no doubt that in the world of Art and Culture, Opera is the most vulgar but oh-so beautiful art form.

BLOGG # 94 AUTUMN IS HERE !

  This morning ,as is my custom on waking up, I drew back the blinds eagerly expecting sunshine --and  faced a blank white window. The Victoria autumn fog was here. The whole world was wrapped in a fuzzy white blanket.  I love autumn ! I love the whole idea of it - the feel of it in  the air , the smokey smell of it,  the crispness, the promise of changes everywhere, the excitement, even the inevitable rain-especially the rain. Autumn ,more than spring, heralds changes for me.One of the more important changes is the joy of  changing from tired summer clothes to Fall clothes. Every year at this time I am caught in surprise. One would think after so many years I would be prepared but that never happens. I get up and hunt through the closet for suitable clothes and can only find summer or winter items. Somehow the autumn clothes have disappeared as I frantically try to assemble a suitable outfit. Linen pants tucked into socks and winter boots, sleeveless T shirts topped with heavy long hot itchy wool sweaters and  long woolly scarves do not make  good fashion statements.  If my budget allows, this is the time I joyfully  go out and rashly buy unsuitable fall clothes. However the most important expected changes in fall  are of  course not fashion but what  plans we want to make to improve ourselves over the long winter. Autumn means "school " "academia" "honing of latent talents" "spiritual renewal" and of course optimistically enthusiastic athletic programs. This means visiting all the free newspaper stalls,  libraries advertising wonderful college and  university courses and local community centers where one can choose a variety of of courses on "cooking, sewing, photography or  macrame or even enrolling in the  more exotic "scrivener"clubs, book clubs or Dialogue clubs. Every  autumn,wading through fallen leaves, through the fog or drizzle, I venture out with good intentions for self improvement, and every autumn I fall short as I overestimate my enthusiasm and free time.  Nonetheless, the joy of anticipation in these ventures never fades year after year. The changes I have not as  yet mentioned are  the best of Autumn-the turning of leaves to brilliant hues of red, yellow and gold. This of course brings to mind the passage of time and we are reminded of our own mortality and and the inevitable melancholy associated with Autumn sets in-again one of the aspects of Autumn I love. Oh the delightful nostalgic feeling of shuffling through fallen leaves at dusk in the rain , hands deep in one's pockets, contemplating the swift passage of time and the futility of one's life. This is one of my favourite Autumn pastimes. My childhood memories of autumn in the prairies were different- riding on the hayrick piled high  with hay looking at the big orange moon, racing through clouds of smoke from the fire as my father burned the brush from the big potato field and the excitement of watching the huge combines and trucks  filled with grain. Autumn days in Greece where I spent several years reminds me of the smell of mothballs as the huge wool carpets aired in the sun after the long summer in storage and then the excitement of covering the cold marble floors with them and the taking down of white filmy curtains and replacing with heavy velvet ones-all in wonderful warm autumn colours .Please remember to always enjoy this rich promising season, dear readers, and forget the long winter months looming in the distance.

Blogg # 93 "SCHOOL'S OUT" - "BACK TO SCHOOL"

'Back To School"
"School's  Out"


Today is September the 2nd- the day after Labour Day and since the time of dawn, the first day of school. I remember from my childhood that after Christmas the best days were the ones that were named  " school's out'" and then "back to school". After lazy and often boring long Alberta summer days on the farm, "School's starting tomorrow" were welcome words. I couldn't wait to get back to school and get my allotted supplies-enjoying the smell of new paper-especially the scribblers and pads with lines where you had to learn how to write script-they especially smelled new and crisp. There were also the new text books with fascinating pictures that a book- starved child such as I was craved to see even though in a few days the novelty would wear off and the pleasure of receiving brand new pencils, erasers and crayons. 
 The long awaited pen,pen-nib and ink-the lovely blue ink that you would carefully pour into the inkwell and spill of course and with which you would eventually blot your page-I was a great "blotter of pages person" and still am- was also passed out by the teacher when you reached grade three. This also meant the possible anticipation, if you were a girl and lucky enough to have sitting behind you a boy who had a crush on you, of having him duck your braid tips into this inkwell-I had braids and  red hair. Sadly this did not happen to me- the crush was the other way around.
  The most exciting and feared thing of all of course was the sight of the new teacher which was usually a woman and my greatest influence in fashion and still is. I can still remember some of their dresses and jewellery.
The reason all these memories are coming up for me now is because of the latest news in B.C. which is of course, the "teacher's strike" and the inability of either antagonists to come to a compromise.
I am not "for or against"-I am not taking sides. I am sure both sides have legitimate arguments and feel very right about them. I only want to use this conflict to quote my favourite expression when in an insoluble conflict -"You can be right, I'd rather be free" which of course all the happy children are today -though not their parents. However I wonder if there is a child out there like I was-longing to go back to school and smell the new books, and meet the new teacher.
September 9th
It is one week later and unfortunately the situation hasn't changed. The children are still not in school nor are the teachers,and my heart goes out to the child who,like me years ago, longs to go back to school and is sitting surrounded by all it's new school supplies and brand new clothes and Addida shoes waiting patiently for a conclusion to the conflict. It really is true that children are disenfranchised  without power and at the mercy of the inexplicable actions of adults who control their lives.

BLOGG # 82 "THERE ARE NO MEADOWLARKS THERE"

"There are no meadowlarks there"
-I borrowed this phrase -a version of the famous quote of Gertrude Stein's "There is no there there" to express my deep disappointment at not hearing one note of my favourite bird during the entire trip to Alberta and Saskatchewan.
There is no doubt ,my faithful readers , that you will have to often read  my indulgent reminiscing of my nostalgic trip to the Prairies and I beg your patience as I  rhapsodize now  about  one of my  favourite prairie sounds- the warbling of the meadowlark.
As soon as we decided on this anticipated prairie trip,my thoughts flew to the precious memory of the yellow and black meadowlark and his glorious song. My traveling companion went on  the internet and found several recordings of this elusive bird. There were examples of the warbling of the Eastern meadowlark and the western and also the mid western one. We voted on the mid western one as the most similar to the meadowlark sounds we remembered from childhood.
The minute we drove into the prairies we started looking for the distinctive markings of the meadowlark and strained our ears to hear it's song. I also looked for the fence post or low bush where it usually perched-there were no fence posts-and few bushes.
We weren't discouraged and expected to hear it while we rambled through our childhood places. We did not hear it at my isolated schoolhouse, nor around the abandoned house where I grew up,and surprisingly, not down in the coulee by the creek that ran through our pasture where I spent hours playing on it's bank and remembered vividly the sound of the meadowlark's lonely song piercing the hot summer mornings. We did not hear it either at the derilect grain elevator  by the small village of Bruce or even in the "ideallic in my eyes- village of  Innisfree where I was born.
We did not fare much better in Saskatchewan. We did not hear it as we walked around the lot where my traveling companion's house used to be,nor in the fields stretching on either side of the road  where he skied down the hill in the winter. We visited his favourite quiet charming coulee where there were lots of bushes, a little slough and even fence posts, where he used to look for robin's eggs and collect gopher tails for money [I will not inflict on your sensitive ears his method of catching gopher tails- a common prairie pastime for boys in the depression.] We did not hear the meadowlark in this idyllic spot either nor in the old local grave yard going back more than a hundred years. While I was reading the grave stones I did hear the red wing black blackbird's song cutting the silence and I did hear the rustling of the sage as the wind gently caressed it. We also did not hear  meadowlarks at his abandoned school house or the schoolhouse where his mother taught in 1915, even though we picnicked there amongst the lilac bushes.We didn't even hear it at "Buffalo Jump" in Alberta  where I spent a long quiet hour painting on the edge of the bluff.
As we continued down stretches of secondary roads we talked about the inability to describe the meadowlark song and decided one could describe a lovely coulee, an Alberta rose,a Saskatchewan wheat field resembling for all the world a vast green ocean as the wind blew over it, but we could not describe a sound. And then I found the perfect description of the meadowlark song. My constant reading companion on the trip was O. W. Mitchell's "Who has seen the wind" the great classic prairie novel and there,at the beginning of a chapter near the end of this enchanting book, I read the description of the meadowlark song and as I read it out loud, we heard it's song. "the soaring lilt of his song rising up high until it pierces the hot,still vast prairie sky and then an abrupt silence." Yes ! that was it! That was the wonderful sound I heard years ago while playing alone and  lonely  by the river. 
As we came to the end of our journey and rolled towards the foothills of the Rockies,  I suddenly realized we hadn't worn our hearing aides the whole vacation, so of course  we didn't hear the meadowlarks!  There may have been hundreds of meadowlark songs that we missed. It wasn't because there were no fence posts, too much pollution from oil rigs or pesticides. They were there after all!  We just didn't hear them and my heart lifted- I am after all an incurable optimist.
. 

BLOGG#81--PRAIRIE GIRL -PRAIRIE SKIES

Prairie Sky- Prairie Girl
I have just returned from one of my best vacations ever-- a long dreamed of vacation- a car trip to the prairies. The trip was a nostalgic one to my childhood places-the places deep in my heart. As everyone born in the prairies knows, you can be taken out of the prairies but the prairies can’t be taken out of your heart and I have certainly proved this.

My preparation for this trip was detailed –nothing of importance left out. First of all was the importance of what to wear. As all my fashion conscious readers know, and I hope that includes all of you, a trip can be enhanced or totally ruined by wearing the wrong clothes and what looks wonderful in Victoria does not go over so hotly in –let’s say- Paris. I carefully purchased a peasant skirt in light cotton which, thank goodness, is the hot item of this season and as brief as is possibly appropriate to my age, skimpy tops. I also packed my biggest warm black sweater which can wrap around all of me if needed, socks to wear with my sandals and my tough waterproof jacket.  No! jeans and sneakers were not packed, and of course, the inevitable scarf in the current fashionable yellow pink hot colours was included.  All these items were well used in this predictably extreme prairie climate and I was pleased with my choices.  As you can imagine, I made a great fashion statement. Unfortunately there were no peasant skirts in sight in Alberta or even in Saskatchewan and every woman I saw looked excessively sophisticated in the current understated yoga wear or fashionable tights and tops and of course the inevitable uniform -jeans and sneakers Nary a sock and sandal combination or peasant skirt could be seen. You may be assured that this did not bother me a bit- I felt very prairie appropriate despite the stares.

The next preparation was to go to the library to take out CDs to play as we drove through mile  after mile of delicious prairie countryside. The ones I chose were favourites of my older brother, and constituted my first introduction to music- Wilf Carter, the Carter family, Sons of the Pioneers and lots of fiddle and cowboy music complete with yodeling. This was my contribution to the trip. My travelling companion who was also doing the same nostalgic trip did all the rest of the unimportant stuff such as map planning and car maintenance and driving.
  My plan was to play these CDs the minute we rolled out of the Rockies and hit the prairie road and I did just that as soon as we rolled out of Hinton, Alberta.  As we cruised at a fast speed down into the flat prairies with the wind blowing through  our hair -that glorious prairie wind- I turned up the CD to full volume and listened to Wilf Carter singing “Always Look on the sunny Side” and laughed out loud and gazed raptly at the highest, bluest sky in the universe and was filled with joy and amazement and I was content. The sky, the wind, the vast prairies had not  diminished a whit since I was a child. I am so glad I am a prairie girl.

BLOGG # 80 A BROODING HEN

A brooding Hen

 “I am so sorry my love that I have had to put you into isolation in this wire cage. I don’t want to but I have to. I know you want to be a mama very much and I understand, but you have to believe I can’t afford your babies just now so I have to isolate you in this cage. I love you but I have to do this. Here I have brought you some treats-some yoghurt, some cherries and raspberries you love. You have fresh water and it is cool in here, so it isn’t so bad. I have to go now to town and won’t see you today but know that I love you”

  This tender conversation,heavily accented with French overtones I overheard as my friend comforted her “brooding hen.  I was visiting her on her isolated farm on Thetis-a west coast island and I  was helping her in the hen house at the time.  The brooding hen as all you farm girls are aware of-and it certainly brought back vivid memories of my mother as she struggled with her broody hens- is a hen who suddenly has an overwhelming desire to have babies and refuses to get off her eggs until they hatch. As anyone raised on a farm knows, you are in danger of having your fingers badly pecked if you try to take the eggs away and the hen will literally starve herself to death sitting on her eggs refusing to get up until the urge to breed subsides and she returns to normality. This urge unfortunately is due to bad timing and we of the female sex understand all about bad timing. My friend explained that if she allowed the hen to naturally breed her eggs, the majority of the eggs would be male and the cockerel would systematically peck them to death as there can only be one male in a brood and she doesn’t want that, so the hen had to be isolated from the rest of the brood in a cage and her eggs taken away. She is especially separated from the cockerel-in this case a handsome cocky Banting  with wonderful blue black feathers and deep burnt orange plumage which he strutted effectively as he ruled his small brood with iron control. His brood consisted of three Banting hens,one grey speckled unknown breed-known for her pale blue eggs, and a huge “Buff Orpington” an exotic and plump breed famous for being bred by the “Duchess of Devonshire in England who, I believe, prized them highly - another example of my store of useless knowledge. Anyway this Buff Orpington was not well loved, especially by the little  Banting hens who were very jealous of her and pecked her remorsefully if she tried to feed with them and of course she rarely laid eggs as the cockerel was not fond of her either.

I contemplated this colony of chickens sadly. It seems we are not the only species that discriminate against beings that are different. These females were very vicious in their attack and it was interesting and frustrating to their owner that the Buff Orpington did not fight back though she was three times their size. I came to the uncomfortable conclusion that perhaps these traits of discrimination in all species runs very deep and how will we ever overcome them if even these five chickens with abundant love and care couldn’t.

I came to the easy assumption that chickens are stupid anyway and was corrected by my friend. They are exceptionally  intelligent I was told and was told to observe the cockerel  who seemed to be making a lot of noise and appeared to be hogging all the scattered food. Not at all I was told. Cockerels eat very little. He is not eating. He is pecking at the choicest selection of the food and cackling to his brood to follow his example to choose the most nutritious-  but he himself was eating very little.  In fact this fancy strutting egoist was very busy making sure all his females-with the exception of the Buff Orpington- were well looked after and thriving and it goes without saying that he was also- the conceited egoist. But  the broody hen remained silent ii her cage and I ,too,remained broody all afternoon thinking of the inexplicable actions of chickens and of all living creatures on this planet including my own actions. All this came from a broody hen who wanted to be a mama more than life itself.

BLOGG # 79 A VERY PROFOUND HOME ECONOMICS LESSON

The other day my friend was commenting on the joys of cooking breakfasts while camping-especially whipping up baking powder biscuits. I was surprised and said I never make them as they are too difficult and always fail as I well remember from my hated home economics lessons in grade nine. My friend made his usual comment about “Academia complicating the most straightforward subjects” and that this was a typical example. This started me reminiscing on that hated course.

Mrs. G.-the home Ec teacher was pretty, refined with elegantly coiffured white hair and with piercing blue eyes which ruthlessly sharpened as she ripped out my basting over and over again on the ugly white apron that took me four months of sewing classes to finish . She represented to me the typical pretty mother that I did not have –my idol being the mother of Dick and Jane from the grade one book- a pretty curly haired woman in high heels, hat and gloves who was always going out shopping and a father who always wore a suit and tie and was forever coming and going in a nice car. My mother, on the other hand, was a sturdy woman in a house dress, a homemade voluminous apron, Lyle stockings and sensible shoes. She presented a dour face to the puzzling “English world, wore an uncompromising tight bun on the nape of her head and was even known to wear a peasant scarf on her head when she had a headache. My father wore flannel shirts, braces and  long underwear summer and winter.  We did not have roast beef for dinner but instead had “halupsti, kneuffel and cottage cheese kuchen” for dessert.

The chasm broadened as the home Ec class continued. It seemed that “keeping house” was a complicated and disciplined task. Monday was washing day, Tuesday was ironing day, Wednesday was baking day and so on.  We learned to set a many forked table and how to iron and correctly fold a white linen table cloth as big as a bed sheet. I was appalled at all this and decided then and there to never marry and concentrate on getting good marks and choose carefully a good career to sustain me in my future life.

The cultural chasm deepened and bottomed out when the teacher told us we had to invite our mothers to lunch. My consternation was great as I tried to picture my mother in the same room as this pink and white teacher. The dreaded day came and true to life, my mother came in her house dress and Lyle stockings and bun pulled severely back at the nape of her neck. She sat dourly and never uttered a word as my partner and I struggled with our meal-her mother of course being young and pretty.

We served undercooked baked potatoes, burnt pork chops and a runny desert called “lemon snow.” The ordeal finally ended and Mom and I walked home- my mother silent and I with a red face feeling shame because of my uncool mother.  At one point my mother stopped, turned to me broke her silence and said  “Do you mean to say  that this woman went to University and that is the best she could teach you?” The light bulb went on over my head! Of course  mother wasn’t uber-welmed with the teacher  she was underwhelmed. Mother was a very good cook who not only cooked well but everything she put on the table was raised, grown and slaughtered by her. Not only that but my snow white cotton underwear was sewn by her from bleached Robin Hood flour sacks! I understood at last the value of my mother, smiled and never was ashamed of her again.

BLOGG # 78 LAURIE YOU ARE DOING WELL- EVEN WHEN YOU ARE NOT.

“Laurie-you are doing fine –even when you are not.”

I have just stuck the above affirmation on my bathroom mirror-a throw back to the seventies- those of you who lived through that enlightening time will remember that practice of putting “affirmations” on the bathroom mirror - such as; “I  always have confidence in myself”-or-“My life always works out successfully” or even superficial ones such as “My hair is always perfect” or my personal one “My neck length is the perfect length for me” in the hopes that this will somehow become so. These affirmations mostly didn’t work much to our chagrin and the practice faded along with bell bottoms and yellow –brown–green T-shirts. This morning I was having a particularly difficult time with everything I attempted to do and managed to chalk up at least six major blunders and it was still only 10 am. I overshot the coffee maker and spilled coffee grounds all over the floor and you know how hard that is to clean up with a sleepy head; walked into the bedroom three times in succession  to fetch something and forgot each time what I came for -my bedroom is three seconds from my kitchen; lost my place in the book I am reading and couldn’t find it again because ,quite frankly, I couldn’t remember what it  was I was just  reading ,and worst of all I  forgot to put my paint brushes in to soak thereby ruining them and my painting. I was tearing my hair in frustration at this point when I heard my wise “Inner Voice” saying clear as a bell “Laurie you are doing fine- even when you are not.” Dear inner voice!  I happily wrote it down realizing it was a gem and a real keeper, and taped it to the one place I spend a lot of disconcerting time-my bathroom mirror. An affirmation that covers absolutely every possible negative thing in my life was before me to look at and reflect on every morning.  To show you, my dear readers, my great generosity, I will give it to you. Take down all the other “affirmations” such as “My perfect life partner is waiting for me and I will meet him soon” and put this little gem up instead.. Use it in peace.

BLOGG # 77 SAVE YOUR BREATH TO COOL YOUR PORRIDGE

Save your breath to cool your porridge.

Lately I have introduced a new food to my healthy menu-a food I have religiously avoided in spite of it’s high recommendations by health gurus-you know, those knowledgeable interfering experts who keep on about the dangers of your favourite foods and recommending unappetizing ones such as  the bountiful “oatmeal porridge.” I have hated this dish ever since I was a child and really felt no reason to alter my opinion as an adult but I realized, being a mature woman of a certain age, I needed to include it in my diet.  My path of learning to cook this in an edible, appetizing way without it turning into lumps, cement or runny messes is fraught with frustration and much failure and I won’t bore you with it.  I have solved the problem of making it palatable by the simple solution of adding a dab of butter and a dollop of cream. Watching the butter and cream melting into the steaming hot porridge satisfies me sensually and I now enjoy eating this dish. The interesting offshoot of all this is that while watching the butter disappear and merge with the cream, I was  vividly reminded of the same sensation while eating porridge in my childhood-  being a farm child with a lot of memories  and culinary experiences with these two dairy products. The other thing that triggered my memory were the long hours I reluctantly spent churning butter and watching my mother mold and wrap the pounds of butter which she sold. My mother, an early feminist entrepreneur, supported and fed her large family by selling cream, butter and eggs- any grain farming profits being churned back into the farm. I also remembered the rare occasions when I was allowed to accompany my mother to town where she sold these products to Mr. Klein at his store in exchange for supplies. These were for me excruciatingly embarrassing and I cringed as I listened to my mother in imperfect English barter with Mr. Klein. “Mrs. F” he would argue “I know you have the best butter in the county but I can’t pay more” and my mother with her “No” [my mother’s “no” was very vigorous as I knew from experience] would barter with great strength. At last these two antagonists would come to an agreement and my mother would leave with her purchases muttering under her breath how “typically cheap he was” much to my judgmental discomfort and I was sure he was thinking the same-“typical hard-nosed farmer.” It was only recently I realized these  two had great respect for each other- understood good quality and each others' haggling expertise very  well and enjoyed the whole experience-a sort of  nostalgic trip for each to their native country and the time honoured business of bartering.  So you see dear readers, because I did this great stretch in introducing this undesirable food experience to my life, I inadvertently came to a new insight. I would advise you to do the same. You never know where a big adventurous culinary “stretch” will take you. Never limit your life to new adventures and see what insights you will experience, just as it did me with this long blog about porridge.  I love the expression “Save your breath to cool your porridge” and was pleased to finally find a way to use it.

BLOGG # 76 SPRING NEARLY PASSED ME BY.

Spring nearly passed me by.

Several weeks ago near the beginning of March, I was driving to one of my many health related appointments when I was jolted out of my foggy, cold infested brain by the sight of a mass of delicately pink-tinted blossoms on trees lining both sides of the street. “My god” I whispered “cherry blossom time and I almost missed it” Not only did I almost miss it but already they were just slightly past their first full bloom. Now we all know-especially us girls- about passing “first full bloom!” Don’t the poets warn us often enough of the speed of passing time, first bloom and beauty?—“gather ye rose buds while you may-“etc. Haven’t we all read the comment in Jane Austin’s “ Sense and Sensibility”  by Marianne Dashwood's stepbrother lamenting the loss of first bloom in her cheeks because of being heartbroken by that dastardly Mr. Willoughby, thereby losing her chance of catching a rich husband? I thought hard about all this and decided to ignore the misery of my lingering “Victoria Winter Cold” and venture out into the new spring and look up my favourite haunts with “full blooms”  Firstly, and thank goodness not too late, I found the mossy high bank by the old St Mary’s church next to the kindergarten where the shy crocuses bloom. There they were shimmering in the wind wrapped up in their fuzzy blankets. Next I ventured down the lane by the Elderly Gentleman’s perfect garden where I found nestled in the corner, two perfect beds of primroses in rainbow colours. I had, of course, seen snow drops in February but that seemed eons ago. Next I found the camellia tree in full lush blooms which were already turning into a death -like brown as decadent as only camellias can be. The heather in various rockeries around Oak Bay bloomed in their tweedy Scottish colours and a blanket of blue flowers covered a hillside along a rocky path I like to walk. The yellow daffodils were a month late this year and now they are waving bravely in the March wind. These are not my favourite spring flowers- unlike Wordsworth who “wandered through them lonely as a cloud”. The daffodil cannot replace my affection for the crocus which reminds me of the joy I felt as a little prairie girl discovering my first pale shivering purple one peeping through the melting snow-the harbinger of a delayed Alberta spring so looked forward to. Somehow I have overlooked the overblown rhododendron-thank god for spell-check- but I am still in the delicate state brought on by lingering winter illnesses and don’t think I can handle such passion. I have watched daily the wild apple trees in my back lane come to full bloom and yesterday I passed the elegant tulip tree-this gladdens and saddens me for this is the beginning of the end of early spring. Soon the tulips will open and then the blessed lilac- the Mother’s-day gift from nature will be here. This all sums up, for me, the spring that I nearly let pass me by. Let this be a lesson for me and you, dear reader, not to let the misery of physical discomfort such as the lowly cold for example, pass by the opportunity to enjoy life’s many gifts. Oh yes! My cold has disappeared. By the way,as a post script , "First blooms "are important but the poets have failed to write about the later ones which get better and more enjoyable and quite frankly, I am enjoying my latest "bloom" best of all.

BLOGG # 75 THE EYES- WINDOWS OF THE SOUL

The eyes-Windows of the Soul

A few months ago, at my grandson’s birthday while we were playing around and celebrating,  I picked up my son-in-law’s piano accordion and started playing it even though I hadn’t touched an accordion in thirty five years and then only one or two times.  I played, badly, “happy Birthday to you” and “The Tennessee Waltz.” We all laughed at my attempt and my daughter videoed me on her new fancy cell phone. When I saw this video I was amused and emailed it to my friends. My friends emailed back voicing astonishment at my “expertise” and said they even danced to the Tennessee Waltz. Unfortunately she noted that I did not look a “happy musician” and she was right. I also had noticed a very sad look in my eyes and was puzzled by it. My rational mind told me it was due to pain- I was recuperating from a frozen shoulder- and the irrational part of me said what I saw was the mirroring of a sad soul-perhaps mine.  I replayed the video. The look seemed familiar and then I recognized it. I had seen it in my father’s eyes. And now I will tell you a story of my father: He was a quiet somewhat stern man who said little but this is what he told me one day a long time ago when I was still a young woman. “I was once a musician. I used to play the piano accordion. I used to play for dances in my village and after the dance as I walked home softly playing to myself, people would throw open their windows to listen and say “John you play like an angel”. Once when I had to go to the city to buy out my commission (my father was an officer in the Russian army during World War 1) I met another soldier while we were waiting who had a new accordion and I asked if I could play it. I played all afternoon and the soldiers danced all afternoon in the square. When it was over I had made enough money to pay off my commission.” I asked him what happened as I had never heard him play nor did I know of this side of him. He paused a moment then said he didn’t know. “I just stopped” he said , looking at me puzzled. He said that years later in Canada while visiting a friend he asked to play his accordion and picked it up but started to tremble all over uncontrollably unable to play at all. Then he said “I   put the accordion down and knew I would never play again”. And that is when I saw that look in my father’s eyes. Now I wonder what other hard sacrifices were necessary for him  to give up by immigrating to Canada- his difficult life and the resulting traumas suffered by him like the sacrifice of being unable to play  an instrument he loved and  to give up this essential part of himself and I wondered also if this was so of many of our immigrants. I realize now this is a Canadian story-the sacrifices of giving up part of the inherent self of Canadian immigrants and indeed one of the basic ingredients in the tapestry of what makes up the Canadian character- another reason to be proud to be a Canadian. Thanks for listening to my father's story- your grateful blogger.

BLOGG # 74 ROB FORD AND THE LEOPARD CAN'T CHANGE HIS SPOTS

Toronto's Rob Ford and the saying “The leopard can’t change his spots”

Lately this very irritating saying “the leopard can’t change his spots” has been running through my head reminding me of my childhood when I had to endure my well-meaning betters who, with frowns on their faces,chastised me for my many faults and ending with this comment: "the leopard can't change his spots, you know"  You can imagine the effect on a small child of this weighty burden inflicted on it. Yes, dear readers I, even as an adorable child, had faults and they weren’t very nice ones. I will list some of them-laziness, slovenliness, a tendency to whine, lingering in bed in the mornings and worst of all, day- dreaminess. This last one was so pronounced that, as my sister tells me, my grade one teacher assigned a fellow classmate to poke me when she wanted my attention. I, being an intelligent child, always had my gaze out the window dreaming of India, Africa, lions and tigers. Why adults would repeat this saying to emphasize a child’s faults instead of his good points is incomprehensible. How refreshing it would have been to hear “You are very good at this or that and will always be so and remember, like the leopard, you can’t change your  spots” How reassuring  for the child. I was not happy with who I was  as a child but I did try to “change my spots” including my freckles which I tried with no success to rid with lemon juice as my grandmother assured me I would not find a husband with them. When it became time as a young woman to choose a profession, I decided against my first choice of being a missionary- I was still hankering after lions and tigers-and chose the nursing profession. Next to the Army, nursing school is the best place to change these spots- or so I thought and indeed, I spent the next three years getting up at six a.m. and spent days and years cleaning things wearing a sparkling white starched bib and apron  and ,I kid you not, black shoes and stockings-an impressive sartorial image. Did I succeed? No, I did not. I am not known for my domestic skills. I do not get up at dawn-much to the delight of my neighbours. Nothing stirs in my house before 9am and of course I still am a dreamer-after all I am an artist and this is an asset. I am now looking at my leopard spots with new positive eyes. And now I come to the purpose of this blog- For the past few weeks we have been beleaguered with the unsavoury story of Toronto’s mayor, Mr. Ford. Now there is a big leopard with bigger spots  who has never, will never, and has no intention of ever changing them. I am disgusted along with everyone else with this story, but must confess to, in a teensy way, feeling a reluctant admiration for him. He is not backing down, not stepping down, and though he says he is sorry, there are no crocodile tears. “I am sorry” he says “I don’t know what else to say, this happened but I am not stepping down no matter what” in other words, like Popeye the sailor man he says “I "yam"what I "yam" and that’s what I "yam.”  He stands firm with all his spots. So next time someone condescendingly points out your spots and pulls out this old saw, say “yes I know and aren't they great!"

 

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BLOGG # 73 THOUGHTS ON THE WORD LOVE FOR VALENTINE"S

Thoughts on the word “Love” for Valentine’s

A few weeks ago I was invited to dim sum lunch by a book club group. They were very intelligent and thoughts and ideas flew around the table. One of the group mentioned  a movie he had just seen about a man who had fallen in love with a machine. Apparently the machine and he had had a complex interacting relationship over a long and intensive time. I didn’t catch the nature of the machine but knew it wasn’t the obvious- a robot. The discussion branching out from this developed into whether or not one can have a love relationship with an inanimate subject like a machine. This became quite animated as examples were brought up. The computer with its ability to start a love hate relationship was brought up and of course the intense interaction between it and us in the highly competitive computer games we are all indulging in. Everyone decided that it would be terrible to lose the computer, and it would be badly missed and surely that was love. Also, one could love intensely an object; for example that special letter opener one bought in an exotic place -my personal love object. We all know the despair of having to throw out that beloved pair of perfect jeans mourning its demise, to say nothing of having to throw out the perfect white cotton T-shirt bought in Turkey in 1975. Examples of love flew around the table until I interrupted with “But does love of these things break your heart?” To my surprise a charming woman said “Oh yes –my first car. When it died I was heartbroken, we had had a tense ten year relationship, and she was so difficult always breaking down and gave me such a hard time” She looked quite wistful as she said “  I just loved that car.” So I became somewhat convinced and imagined our favourite god the cute naked little winged boy perched on a cloud with his bow and arrow looking down at someone in the process of buying a new car and aiming the arrow straight at the buyer’s heart. I refuse to believe he chooses to aim at the heart of the car! Evidently the outcome of the movie, sadly, was that the machine refused the heartbroken man’s advances proving again that machines have more intelligence than humans who are so  careless with their hearts as to fall into that lovelorn pit- or are they? And aren’t we lucky to be able to do so-- Happy Valentine’s day

BLOGG # 72 MAINTAINING THE BALANCE

Note: I have chosen this subject -keeping in mind your post Christmas-New Year Eve debauchery.

I have noticed with the passing years that one word crops up more than any other. No, dear reader, it is not the negative words you are thinking of for such advanced years as mine- cancel those thoughts at once. The word I find spoken most frequently in reference to my age is balance. The importance of balance in my life, my diet, my exercise program is a lecture I often have to listen to.

  The first of these refers to the physical body.  I don’t know what you do but I personally spend hours at the pool painstakingly walking back and forth the width of the pool, trying to keep my feet directly in front of each other on the red line, trying desperately to not fall into the brink. Also I attempt with varying success, the Yoga one legged stance. Then there are the experts.  My acupuncturist who feels my pulse looks at my tongue and solemnly shakes his head and intones “eat  more raw root vegetables to balance out your yin or is it yang?  My chiropractor on the other hand, pommels my back and says “You are a mess! You are way out of balance” and proceeds to pound me back into that exalted  state. My  medical doctor is not exempt. We spend long conversations on “maintaining balance” that go like this: the vampire one: “Your good and bad cholesterol levels are out of whack” and looking at me over his glasses-“less red wine, Laurie, and eat more almonds.”  My blood pressure is next. The doctor and I try to keep it perfect between high and low with a balanced level of low salt, sugar and lots of salads. There is another longer discussion on keeping my digestive tract in balance- a high wire act of balance between fiber and laxative intake to prevent disaster. But the physical is not the only realm of perfect balance-oh no! There is the all important “Sartorial balance” When one reaches a certain age this can be rather fun- there are a lot of possibilities-You can do “frump” “ grunge” “eccentric” or “classic” or, my personal favourite, a combination of all four with a bright scarf  thrown in. What you can not do is “Vintage”. If you bring out your sixties mini or heaven forbid, your fifties felt poodle skirt, you will look as if you are in a time warp and look pathetic and very silly. The really important part is the balance and listen to me carefully dear readers, between lengths and width; for example, when wearing palazzo pants –a favourite of women of my age, it is better to team it with a fitted short top- not a loose one reaching below your hips-thereby emphasizing them, low heels, and a small hat if wearing one. On the other hand if wearing a short skirt- yes you can-even mini- the top should be loose and just no more than two inches shorter than the mini-topped by, preferably, a favourite rather sloppy cardigan shorter than the skirt, and sleeves pushed up. If wearing a scarf, it should reach just to the hem of your skirt-no longer.  Do not wear high heels! A casual pair of sandals or brogues if you have nice ankles, bare skinned if you can, and no, no socks! Boots can be worn but not too elegant-as it looks like you are trying too hard. Maquillage is definitely a matter of balance- emphasize either the eyes or the lips not both. Every age has one feature that is important to deal with, and at my age it is the eyebrows- never step out of the bedroom in the morning without attending to your eyebrows!  You will notice I do not mention wrinkles. In a mature appearance,  wrinkles, especially those earned by extensive fun- living, complete the well balanced sartorial effect. This has been real fun, readers, but there is more to balance- there is the spiritual and emotional balance. As you get older this gets more challenging. The balance between maintaining your friends gets more difficult with age and lovers- ditto- also finding spiritual and creative space.  This is the ultimate balancing act and I advise you to start practicing it way before you reach any where near “seven score ten”

BLOGG #71 OH NO! JANUARY SIXTH ALREADY

January sixth-Epiphany

So soon –so soon –here it is the sixth of January- or better known as  epiphany - the dictionary meaning being a sudden realization-or enlightenment,actually- the first manifestation of the infant Jesus Christ to the  populace. The Greek meaning is light – the Greek word is fos and any girl lucky enough to be born on that day is called “Fotini” or “lightness” and also can have two celebrations.  They have a big celebration on this day involving the sea. The priest goes down to the harbor to “Bless the Sea” with a holy cross –the sea being such a vital part of their culture- and surrounding him are all the good-looking young men shivering in their brief  bathing suits. After the blessing the priest tosses the cross into the sea and the eager youths dive in, each hoping to be the lucky one to retrieve it. This is a very exciting event and all the community celebrates it and I must say it is satisfying to watch on many levels . Here, on the other hand, epiphany really means turning off of the lights-typical of our cynical culture –and this means taking down all the lovely decorations and especially the tree. Some people on the Sixth Eve have a candlelit celebration with friends before doing so- a friend describes an exciting such evening when the tree accidently caught fire and the fire fighters were called. Well that sounded rather fun.  But most of us just take down the tree. I ,on the other hand, do not!  It is precisely after the celebrations in the dullness of post Christmas that I need my tree. I did take off the outer door decoration to appease my neighbours but not the tree. Mind you, my tree this year, due to economizing, is my dead potted apple tree- I haven’t the heart to throw it out and think this way is a very satisfactory way for this very old tree to bow out and I want to prolong it’s experience. One of the joys of living alone and there are many, dear readers, is the fact that you can keep your Christmas tree up until Valentine’s day if you wish and indeed I just might do that