"Anderson and I had been on the streets...under some of the worst Israeli bombardments...'time-on-target' salvoes from Israeli guns that laid 50 shells at a time across a narrow street, slaughtering everyone within a 500-yard radius of the explosions. Anderson had stood on the AP bureau roof with me for an entire afternoon as phosphorus shells crashed onto the buildings round us, the gentle, fluffy white clouds from the explosions drifting off across the apartments as if they were no more than smoke from a garden bonfire. One had plopped onto the roof of the headquarters of the International Red Cross. We saw it explode just behind the huge Red Cross flag that was strapped to the roof to prevent air attack. We reported it. The International Red Cross complained. The Israelis then denied that they had ever shelled the Red Cross...
'The medical staff at the...hospital were shocked by the...wounds. When the family was brought into the emergency room..., Dr. Shamaa found that two five-day-old twins had already died. But they were still on fire.
'Shamaa's story was a dreadful one and her voice broke as she told it. "I had to take the babies and put them in buckets of water to put out the flames," she said. "When I took them out half an hour later, they were still burning. Even in the mortuary, they smouldered for hours." Next morning, Amal Shamaa took the tiny corpses out of the mortuary for burial. To her horror, they again burst into flames."
Think this is an untold tale from the recent massacre in Gaza? No. It's from Robert Fisk's Pity the Nation The Abduction of Lebanon (4th edition, copyright 2002) and he's describing the Israeli bombardment of West (Muslim) Beirut in the summer of 1982, forerunner to the unspeakable massacres in the Palestinian refugee camps, Sabra and Chatila. 1982! More than a quarter of a century ago.
Somehow - and Laila el-Haddad (http://a-mother-from-gaza.blogspot.com/2009_01_01_archive.html) has some good ideas - those of us with human hearts still beating in our chests must stand up and say, "Enough!"
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Techno-Peasant Strikes Again
I couldn't figure out how to intersperse these photos amidst the deathless prose of my last post. They show the teachers' apartment building (with the minaret that rose up just outside my bedroom window), a typical sight on the road to al-Ain, and the Starbucks in Mercato Mall (Dubai).
Fortunately, there's a Google Blogger for Dummies coming out on February 3rd so I should improve...
Roses of Araby
Until recently, I must confess, I knew nothing at all about the Middle East. I’d read Exodus, which gave me sympathy for Israel. My exposure to the Quran consisted of hearing Salutation of the Dawn each morning at church camp when I was a child. It’s a lovely piece. I followed the stories of bombed airliners and hostage-takings, looked with horror at pictures of masked gunmen toting Kalashnikovs, and generally regarded “terrorists” and “terrorism” with uninformed but definite distaste. The shocking events of 9/11 certainly reinforced that distaste, but I still didn’t understand the political background or the history of the Middle East. In short, I was ignorant and abysmally so – as are most average Westerners, I suspect.
Then, in the summer of 2003, I responded to a newspaper ad that asked “Looking for adventure?” and, two weeks later, found myself a resident of the United Arab Emirates, Islam for Dummies clutched in my perspiring palms. I joined the staff of a private Islamic school in the most conservative of the Emirates. Billed as an American International School, it was sponsored by the local sheikh. His various children plus those of his many hangers-on made up a sizable portion of the student body.
There were so many things to get used to. The year before, in July of 2002, I’d dived into China with almost as little preparation. Throughout my year there, I’d often marvelled and thought that a place more different than Canada couldn’t be found. Well, arriving in the UAE was like landing on a completely new planet once again.
The first thing that hits you – if you arrive in August, as I did – is the intense heat. It’s a dry, blasting, radiant heat that makes you feel as if you’ve just been dumped into an oven, surrounded by an alien element not akin to air at all. Between late April and October, the temperature never dips below 40 degrees Celsius (104 Fahrenheit) and from June to September rarely falls below 46 (115 Fahrenheit). The Persian Gulf is too hot to swim in during much of this time.
Most international flights arrive at 3:00 a.m. so the streets were deserted as the school driver sped away from the airport on the half hour drive to the school and nearby teachers’ apartment building. I sat with a lap full of red roses given to me by the Marhaba (welcome) lady and gazed at the beauty of the ubiquitous mosques, their slender floodlit minarets stained blue and green and gold. It was my first indication that the sea of faith has not sounded its melancholy, long withdrawing roar from these shores.
I got the second indication when I was awakened, at 5:30 a.m. – having just fallen asleep – by the pre-dawn call to prayer. A mosque stood just outside my bedroom window, so close that I had to crane my neck to see the delicate stone latticework at the top of the minaret. Over the months that followed, the call to prayer became a comforting part of my existence. I learned to recognize the muezzin’s voice and worried when he had a cold. The gentle ululations of his call blended with those from the next mosque and the next and rolled across the desert in joyful waves of sound. God is Great!
People live in concrete houses nestled behind concrete walls, with access gained through ornate wrought-iron gates covered in gold filigree. The patterns on the gates are rarely the same and I considered making a photo journal of their beauty but gave up on the idea because of the fierce heat.
Over the next couple of days, before classes started, I ventured out to shop for basic necessities. It didn’t take long to get used to women in black hijab and abbayas – the folds often embroidered or studded with rhinestones so they sparkled as they glided along – but I never became completely accustomed to men marching about in long, crisply white dishdashas, especially since they usually also wore sunglasses, had cell phones glued to their ears and could be observed leaping into the high front seats of 4-wheel drive trucks.
The malls had prayer rooms and women-only checkout stations. Even the most ordinary all-purpose stores like the French Carrefour had displays of gold and precious oils. Book sections always included a few shelves surmounted by the stern warning: Non-Muslims are forbidden to touch the Holy Quran.
And outdoors, everywhere, the enveloping heat, the glare from the sand and the glitter from the golden gates, the perpetually blue sky and the desert wind.
...more to follow...
Then, in the summer of 2003, I responded to a newspaper ad that asked “Looking for adventure?” and, two weeks later, found myself a resident of the United Arab Emirates, Islam for Dummies clutched in my perspiring palms. I joined the staff of a private Islamic school in the most conservative of the Emirates. Billed as an American International School, it was sponsored by the local sheikh. His various children plus those of his many hangers-on made up a sizable portion of the student body.
There were so many things to get used to. The year before, in July of 2002, I’d dived into China with almost as little preparation. Throughout my year there, I’d often marvelled and thought that a place more different than Canada couldn’t be found. Well, arriving in the UAE was like landing on a completely new planet once again.
The first thing that hits you – if you arrive in August, as I did – is the intense heat. It’s a dry, blasting, radiant heat that makes you feel as if you’ve just been dumped into an oven, surrounded by an alien element not akin to air at all. Between late April and October, the temperature never dips below 40 degrees Celsius (104 Fahrenheit) and from June to September rarely falls below 46 (115 Fahrenheit). The Persian Gulf is too hot to swim in during much of this time.
Most international flights arrive at 3:00 a.m. so the streets were deserted as the school driver sped away from the airport on the half hour drive to the school and nearby teachers’ apartment building. I sat with a lap full of red roses given to me by the Marhaba (welcome) lady and gazed at the beauty of the ubiquitous mosques, their slender floodlit minarets stained blue and green and gold. It was my first indication that the sea of faith has not sounded its melancholy, long withdrawing roar from these shores.
I got the second indication when I was awakened, at 5:30 a.m. – having just fallen asleep – by the pre-dawn call to prayer. A mosque stood just outside my bedroom window, so close that I had to crane my neck to see the delicate stone latticework at the top of the minaret. Over the months that followed, the call to prayer became a comforting part of my existence. I learned to recognize the muezzin’s voice and worried when he had a cold. The gentle ululations of his call blended with those from the next mosque and the next and rolled across the desert in joyful waves of sound. God is Great!
People live in concrete houses nestled behind concrete walls, with access gained through ornate wrought-iron gates covered in gold filigree. The patterns on the gates are rarely the same and I considered making a photo journal of their beauty but gave up on the idea because of the fierce heat.
Over the next couple of days, before classes started, I ventured out to shop for basic necessities. It didn’t take long to get used to women in black hijab and abbayas – the folds often embroidered or studded with rhinestones so they sparkled as they glided along – but I never became completely accustomed to men marching about in long, crisply white dishdashas, especially since they usually also wore sunglasses, had cell phones glued to their ears and could be observed leaping into the high front seats of 4-wheel drive trucks.
The malls had prayer rooms and women-only checkout stations. Even the most ordinary all-purpose stores like the French Carrefour had displays of gold and precious oils. Book sections always included a few shelves surmounted by the stern warning: Non-Muslims are forbidden to touch the Holy Quran.
And outdoors, everywhere, the enveloping heat, the glare from the sand and the glitter from the golden gates, the perpetually blue sky and the desert wind.
...more to follow...
Friday, January 30, 2009
Jolt!
At 5:30 this morning I was scribbling away at the Middle East post when the ground shifted beneath me and a little growl issued from the foundation of the building. The doors on one of my bookcases rattled and the bookcase itself swayed back and forth a few inches.
Earthquake! my mind squeaked. I rushed into the living room to see if the chandelier was moving and to check on my cabinets of porcelain Chinese ladies. All was still and nothing damaged. I stood and waited. Was it a foreshock? No. A single jolt. Ah...relief.
Lest you think I’m a crazy wimp, I should point out that I live in a city where the local paper runs dire earthquake predictions on slow news days – and since international news and bad news is no longer printed, that leaves a lot of slow news days.
For years, the seismology pundits have been warning us to expect a 9.0 earthquake at anytime from the next 5 minutes to the next 50 years. We’re all supposed to have a three-day supply of food and water tucked away along with a transistor radio, batteries and a flashlight. This is no mere fault-line temblor we’re expecting but a massive subduction earthquake of the sort that only occurs every four or five centuries. Geologists have proven that the last one happened around 1600. Other scientists have proven that the coastal mountains behind Vancouver are rising one centimetre a year as the Pacific Plate and the Continental Plate push against each other.
I laugh when people say I must be glad to be back in the security of Canada after living in countries like China. Speaking of laughter and other countries, Vlanny must be laughing as she reads this. Japan is pretty much in a state of constant earthquake, isn’t it? Vlanny probably runs to see what’s going on whenever her apartment stops shaking.
Just to bring you up to date, Dad had his leg repaired at Vic General on Wednesday. On Thursday, they transported him back to the Saanich Peninsula Hospital to recover. When I arrived there after work today, I passed him in the hallway without recognizing him. For one thing, he was actually walking and for another, he was decked out in a face mask, gloves and a combination of overlapping, floor-length gauze gowns. Apparently he picked up a “bug” at Vic General and has to be swathed and swaddled before he can enter common patient areas. The up side of this is that he gets a private room which means he’s safe from the depredations of Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones. No word yet on when he can go home.
No sign of Finn yet, either. That’s not quite right – Finn is very much in evidence, there’s just no sign of him giving up his placental playground. Creature is guzzling herbal tinctures and getting some kind of cervix therapy (don’t ask for details – I like being involved in my daughters’ lives but there are definitely areas over which I’m happy to draw a discreet veil).
And finally, moments before posting, I googled ‘earthquake’ and learned that this morning’s event was a 4.5 centred 14 miles northwest of Seattle.
Earthquake! my mind squeaked. I rushed into the living room to see if the chandelier was moving and to check on my cabinets of porcelain Chinese ladies. All was still and nothing damaged. I stood and waited. Was it a foreshock? No. A single jolt. Ah...relief.
Lest you think I’m a crazy wimp, I should point out that I live in a city where the local paper runs dire earthquake predictions on slow news days – and since international news and bad news is no longer printed, that leaves a lot of slow news days.
For years, the seismology pundits have been warning us to expect a 9.0 earthquake at anytime from the next 5 minutes to the next 50 years. We’re all supposed to have a three-day supply of food and water tucked away along with a transistor radio, batteries and a flashlight. This is no mere fault-line temblor we’re expecting but a massive subduction earthquake of the sort that only occurs every four or five centuries. Geologists have proven that the last one happened around 1600. Other scientists have proven that the coastal mountains behind Vancouver are rising one centimetre a year as the Pacific Plate and the Continental Plate push against each other.
I laugh when people say I must be glad to be back in the security of Canada after living in countries like China. Speaking of laughter and other countries, Vlanny must be laughing as she reads this. Japan is pretty much in a state of constant earthquake, isn’t it? Vlanny probably runs to see what’s going on whenever her apartment stops shaking.
Just to bring you up to date, Dad had his leg repaired at Vic General on Wednesday. On Thursday, they transported him back to the Saanich Peninsula Hospital to recover. When I arrived there after work today, I passed him in the hallway without recognizing him. For one thing, he was actually walking and for another, he was decked out in a face mask, gloves and a combination of overlapping, floor-length gauze gowns. Apparently he picked up a “bug” at Vic General and has to be swathed and swaddled before he can enter common patient areas. The up side of this is that he gets a private room which means he’s safe from the depredations of Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones. No word yet on when he can go home.
No sign of Finn yet, either. That’s not quite right – Finn is very much in evidence, there’s just no sign of him giving up his placental playground. Creature is guzzling herbal tinctures and getting some kind of cervix therapy (don’t ask for details – I like being involved in my daughters’ lives but there are definitely areas over which I’m happy to draw a discreet veil).
And finally, moments before posting, I googled ‘earthquake’ and learned that this morning’s event was a 4.5 centred 14 miles northwest of Seattle.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Paging Mr. Trotsky
Long, long ago and probably not far away, some benevolent sprite decreed that no matter what happens to my family, it will be tinged with the farcical and we’ll all get to keep our senses of humour.
The doctor Dad calls Brunhilda, a paunchy Beach Boy type, has been pushing for the surgery to repair the leg, pointing out that otherwise Dad will be bedridden for at least two months and thus at risk for bedsores and pneumonia. Not to mention the general weakening of all his muscles, his heart and his lungs.
As a result, when I arrived at the hospital on Monday, I was pleasantly surprised to learn that Dad has decided to go ahead with the operation. The staff social worker, however, somehow got the impression that “the family” felt Dad had been railroaded into his decision. She set up a meeting for Tuesday morning at 9:30 and invited the doctor and a couple of nurses as well as us. We would put “everything on the table” and “air our opinions.”
Both Mom and Tickles, who’d just arrived from Vancouver, looked a bit puzzled since this isn’t the case, but we politely agreed to attend. Dad muttered something about Brunhilda being a steamroller like Stalin and his gang but didn’t seem averse to the idea either.
Accordingly, I showed up promptly at 9:30 on Tuesday morning to find Dad reclining in solitary splendour amidst the littered remains of his breakfast.
“Where is everyone?” I asked.
“The meeting’s been cancelled,” said Dad. “They’re coming up this afternoon, I think.”
“Oh!”
“Didn’t Mom tell you?”
“No, but that’s okay. It’s snowing” (yes, you hear a great gnashing of teeth) “so this is a better time for me to visit than later this afternoon.”
Suddenly we heard a commotion in the hallway.
Nurse: Mr. Jones, where are you going?”
Mr. Jones: To the Legion.
Nurse: No you’re not.
Mr. Jones: Says who?
Nurse: Says me.
Mr. Jones: And who are you?
Nurse: I’m the nurse and I make the rules around here.
Mr. Jones: Says who?
You get the idea. Mr. Jones was eventually trundled back to his room and the same nurse, labelled Bree, trotted up to the foot of Dad’s bed.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Annie,” she said. “Brunhilda’s been held up. We should be able to start the meeting by ten o’clock, though.”
A few moments of confusion ensued. I indicated to Bree that the family would respect and support whatever decision Dad made. We’re glad he’s decided to have the leg repaired, but the decision was his and his alone.
“You’ve made a wise choice, I think,” Bree said. “You’re very bright. You know what’s going on and you have a great sense of humour...”
“You’re too kind,” Dad interjected.
“Trust me, those are very big things around here,” she continued. “And you wouldn’t want to risk losing them through immobility.”
Dad indicated that if the doctor and other hospital staff were prepared to meet, then we should go ahead. I went to the Nursing Station to call Mom and met Merry One, the social worker, en route. She grinned and grinned and talked about comfort levels. After getting a busy signal five times, I finally reached Mom who said, “Oh, good heavens! What next?” and promised to race out the door as quickly as she could.
I headed back to Dad’s room. Brunhilda strode in a few minutes later.
“First off,” he said, “I want you to know that I received a phone call last night at 9:30, that’s P space M, at my home, telling me this meeting was cancelled. Otherwise I would have been here at the appointed time. I am never late.”
Mom arrived in a flurry of scarves, smelling of snow. Brunhilda repeated the story of last night’s phone call.
“Where’s Tickles?” asked Dad.
“He just got up,” replied Mom. “And he wants to have a shower.”
“Ah,” Dad managed a smile. “When a Broadway Baby says good night, you know it’s almost morning.”
Brunhilda frowned. “The procedure is very simple and doesn’t take long to perform. We simply insert two pins and by the next day you’ll be sitting up. The day after that you’ll start getting around with a walker.”
A man in Blue Pyjamas skipped into the room and made a beeline for the bed across from Dad’s, where a comatose patient lay snoring.
“Someone’s sleeping in my bed!” he shouted.
“That’s not your bed, Mr. Smith.” Nurse Bree appeared in the doorway, panting.
“Yes, it is!” and Blue Pyjamas proceeded to lie down right on top of the hapless person already occupying the bed. Nurse Bree called Security and a beefy guard came and carried Mr. Smith away.
Stalin the Steamroller continued as if absolutely nothing had happened. “Given the degree of mobility you still had before you fell, you’ve made the right choice. If you were my father or – er husband” – he looked at Mom rather confusedly – “I’d certainly recommend the surgery. It’s a no-brainer.”
Where oh where on earth is good old Trotsky when you need him?
The doctor Dad calls Brunhilda, a paunchy Beach Boy type, has been pushing for the surgery to repair the leg, pointing out that otherwise Dad will be bedridden for at least two months and thus at risk for bedsores and pneumonia. Not to mention the general weakening of all his muscles, his heart and his lungs.
As a result, when I arrived at the hospital on Monday, I was pleasantly surprised to learn that Dad has decided to go ahead with the operation. The staff social worker, however, somehow got the impression that “the family” felt Dad had been railroaded into his decision. She set up a meeting for Tuesday morning at 9:30 and invited the doctor and a couple of nurses as well as us. We would put “everything on the table” and “air our opinions.”
Both Mom and Tickles, who’d just arrived from Vancouver, looked a bit puzzled since this isn’t the case, but we politely agreed to attend. Dad muttered something about Brunhilda being a steamroller like Stalin and his gang but didn’t seem averse to the idea either.
Accordingly, I showed up promptly at 9:30 on Tuesday morning to find Dad reclining in solitary splendour amidst the littered remains of his breakfast.
“Where is everyone?” I asked.
“The meeting’s been cancelled,” said Dad. “They’re coming up this afternoon, I think.”
“Oh!”
“Didn’t Mom tell you?”
“No, but that’s okay. It’s snowing” (yes, you hear a great gnashing of teeth) “so this is a better time for me to visit than later this afternoon.”
Suddenly we heard a commotion in the hallway.
Nurse: Mr. Jones, where are you going?”
Mr. Jones: To the Legion.
Nurse: No you’re not.
Mr. Jones: Says who?
Nurse: Says me.
Mr. Jones: And who are you?
Nurse: I’m the nurse and I make the rules around here.
Mr. Jones: Says who?
You get the idea. Mr. Jones was eventually trundled back to his room and the same nurse, labelled Bree, trotted up to the foot of Dad’s bed.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Annie,” she said. “Brunhilda’s been held up. We should be able to start the meeting by ten o’clock, though.”
A few moments of confusion ensued. I indicated to Bree that the family would respect and support whatever decision Dad made. We’re glad he’s decided to have the leg repaired, but the decision was his and his alone.
“You’ve made a wise choice, I think,” Bree said. “You’re very bright. You know what’s going on and you have a great sense of humour...”
“You’re too kind,” Dad interjected.
“Trust me, those are very big things around here,” she continued. “And you wouldn’t want to risk losing them through immobility.”
Dad indicated that if the doctor and other hospital staff were prepared to meet, then we should go ahead. I went to the Nursing Station to call Mom and met Merry One, the social worker, en route. She grinned and grinned and talked about comfort levels. After getting a busy signal five times, I finally reached Mom who said, “Oh, good heavens! What next?” and promised to race out the door as quickly as she could.
I headed back to Dad’s room. Brunhilda strode in a few minutes later.
“First off,” he said, “I want you to know that I received a phone call last night at 9:30, that’s P space M, at my home, telling me this meeting was cancelled. Otherwise I would have been here at the appointed time. I am never late.”
Mom arrived in a flurry of scarves, smelling of snow. Brunhilda repeated the story of last night’s phone call.
“Where’s Tickles?” asked Dad.
“He just got up,” replied Mom. “And he wants to have a shower.”
“Ah,” Dad managed a smile. “When a Broadway Baby says good night, you know it’s almost morning.”
Brunhilda frowned. “The procedure is very simple and doesn’t take long to perform. We simply insert two pins and by the next day you’ll be sitting up. The day after that you’ll start getting around with a walker.”
A man in Blue Pyjamas skipped into the room and made a beeline for the bed across from Dad’s, where a comatose patient lay snoring.
“Someone’s sleeping in my bed!” he shouted.
“That’s not your bed, Mr. Smith.” Nurse Bree appeared in the doorway, panting.
“Yes, it is!” and Blue Pyjamas proceeded to lie down right on top of the hapless person already occupying the bed. Nurse Bree called Security and a beefy guard came and carried Mr. Smith away.
Stalin the Steamroller continued as if absolutely nothing had happened. “Given the degree of mobility you still had before you fell, you’ve made the right choice. If you were my father or – er husband” – he looked at Mom rather confusedly – “I’d certainly recommend the surgery. It’s a no-brainer.”
Where oh where on earth is good old Trotsky when you need him?
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Inspired by Dragonfly
Today’s post was going to be an account of some perception-rattling experiences I had during my year in the Middle East but Dragonfly left a long, thoughtful comment under ‘Signifying Something’ so I’m going to respond to that instead.
Do I think my Dad has reached many of his goals? she asks. Has he left things unsaid? Has he pondered about what his life has meant? Have we said all we might wish to? With death so close, is he afraid or is he ready?
I do think Dad has reached many of his goals. As a boy growing up in Winnipeg, he dreamed of living in a warmer climate, in a house by the sea; through hard work, he’s realized that dream. When he returned from navy service after World War II, he chose the schooling option over the housing option offered to veterans by the Canadian government. His mother wanted him to become a doctor or a lawyer but he insisted on following his heart and became a librarian. He’s had a successful 55-year marriage. He’s been a good father, one who expressed his affection and support even when he thought his children had taken leave of their senses.
Over the years, I’ve expressed my love and appreciation in return, as have my brothers, to the point where it’s hard to find something new to say on Father’s Day cards.
So, on the surface, you’d think my Dad should be at peace and contemplating a life well-lived. That is not, unfortunately, the case. I get the impression he’s afraid of death. I don’t mean that instinctive fear of the unknown, that disorienting timor mortis conturbat me we all experience from time to time, but a real and lively fear. Maybe it springs from his failure to forgive the young man responsible for the car accident in 1962. It took Dad years, literally, to get on his feet again and he’s struggled with serious health problems ever since. The Accident certainly changed us as a family.
I’m not intending to be judgmental in any way when I say this or when I add that Dad has a little well of bitterness in him that’s poisoned his peace of mind. Whether or not he’ll come to terms with it before he dies, I don’t know, and it’s not my place to get involved. I believe this is one of those “faults” we’re able to see so clearly in others while we miss our own failings. And the only reason I even mention it is that it’s hard to watch someone you love struggle with something that makes them unhappy, especially when that something seems – to the outside observer – like such an easy thing to overcome.
Then again, forgiveness is NOT an easy thing and lack of it is responsible for much of the evil at work in the world.
Dragonfly’s question about being ready to die reminded me of 1996. Up until that point, I’d always assumed that unless I was hit by a bus or a bomb, I’d know if death was approaching and have time to prepare, to balance my account so to speak. But it wasn’t like that.
Throughout the autumn of 1995, I felt gradually weaker and weaker, not ill in any way (unless you count leaping out of bed to hurl every morning at 4:30), just faint, sleepy and vaguely disconnected. The doctor in our very small, remote village reluctantly eliminated pregnancy and decided I had a persistent case of flu. On New Year’s Day, I suddenly realized I couldn’t sit up without fainting and needed to lie down. On my way to the bedroom, I began projectile vomiting bright red blood. Piglet, who knew – as we all did in this very small village – where the ambulance was parked, called for it immediately.
My oldest daughter, Wumbles, arrived home from a Caribbean cruise with her boyfriend’s family at the same moment as the ambulance. She beheld me lying on the hall floor with my beloved car, Beekie, sitting beside my head, the epitome of feline concern, and blood dripping down the wall.
“Hi, Wumb,” I croaked. “Did you have a good time?” I pointed vaguely at the paramedic. “I don’t think you’ve met Wolf’s mother.”
“And exactly what was I supposed to do, Mom?” Wumbles asked later. “Invite her to sit down while I made a pot of tea?”
To shorten a long and melodramatic tale, I was whisked away to the tiny local hospital and diagnosed with a bleeding ulcer. It had been bleeding for months and I’d lost half the blood in my body. The next day I was transported by ambulance to the nearest town. Before they could stabilize me, I haemorrhaged and had to have emergency surgery.
The presiding doctor said, “You are one very lucky young woman. You came within seconds of losing your life.”
I was shocked; shocked at not knowing how sick I’d been,shocked at being told I couldn't go back to work for nine months, shocked at how my life almost drifted away so painlessly, so peacefully, and me none the wiser. I could have “slipped the surly bonds” of existence without ever knowing how loosely they’d been holding me.
Many things came together in my head. I concluded that if “‘twere now to die” I would NOT be “most happy.” While I loved my husband, my daughters and – most of the time – my job, I didn’t feel I’d truly lived. So, over the last 14 years, I’ve taken risks and gone dancing after my dreams. I wrote a novel (mediocre, I fear, but I haven’t completely given up on it yet). I “followed knowledge like a sinking star beyond the baths of all the western seas,” living and travelling in different parts of the world for six years.
So, if ‘twere NOW to die, I wouldn’t be dissatisfied. I don’t have any desire for death – life is too interesting, too full of unfolding events – but if it came upon me, I could join with Valancy of The Blue Castle and say, “I’ve had my dust pile.”
Dragonfly goes on to share the poignant story of her mother’s death. This made me think of my Piglet’s death in China and wonder if his death is the reason that, until very recently, I’ve been refusing to face up to how ill my Dad is. Dylan Thomas says, “After the first death there is no other,” but I’m not sure that’s true. One death segues into another and the weight of them presses down on you, making it hard to breathe sometimes.
Dragonfly says her Mom “didn’t so much leave us but my father.” Since Piglet left us, I’ve occasionally descended into maudlin self-pity and cried inwardly,” You’ve gone and left me lonely lingering here.” Dragonfly’s words brought a sudden insight. Piglet didn’t so much leave me – or Wumbles and Creature – as he left his pain, both physical and spiritual and – in particular, perhaps – the terrible wounds of a brutally shattered childhood.
I want to respond to Dragonfly’s observations about the pure and shining light that often surrounds a death, but this post is already too long. I’ll close by saying I love the way minds can meet despite distance, meet and strike brightness from the grey prisms of our minds.
Do I think my Dad has reached many of his goals? she asks. Has he left things unsaid? Has he pondered about what his life has meant? Have we said all we might wish to? With death so close, is he afraid or is he ready?
I do think Dad has reached many of his goals. As a boy growing up in Winnipeg, he dreamed of living in a warmer climate, in a house by the sea; through hard work, he’s realized that dream. When he returned from navy service after World War II, he chose the schooling option over the housing option offered to veterans by the Canadian government. His mother wanted him to become a doctor or a lawyer but he insisted on following his heart and became a librarian. He’s had a successful 55-year marriage. He’s been a good father, one who expressed his affection and support even when he thought his children had taken leave of their senses.
Over the years, I’ve expressed my love and appreciation in return, as have my brothers, to the point where it’s hard to find something new to say on Father’s Day cards.
So, on the surface, you’d think my Dad should be at peace and contemplating a life well-lived. That is not, unfortunately, the case. I get the impression he’s afraid of death. I don’t mean that instinctive fear of the unknown, that disorienting timor mortis conturbat me we all experience from time to time, but a real and lively fear. Maybe it springs from his failure to forgive the young man responsible for the car accident in 1962. It took Dad years, literally, to get on his feet again and he’s struggled with serious health problems ever since. The Accident certainly changed us as a family.
I’m not intending to be judgmental in any way when I say this or when I add that Dad has a little well of bitterness in him that’s poisoned his peace of mind. Whether or not he’ll come to terms with it before he dies, I don’t know, and it’s not my place to get involved. I believe this is one of those “faults” we’re able to see so clearly in others while we miss our own failings. And the only reason I even mention it is that it’s hard to watch someone you love struggle with something that makes them unhappy, especially when that something seems – to the outside observer – like such an easy thing to overcome.
Then again, forgiveness is NOT an easy thing and lack of it is responsible for much of the evil at work in the world.
Dragonfly’s question about being ready to die reminded me of 1996. Up until that point, I’d always assumed that unless I was hit by a bus or a bomb, I’d know if death was approaching and have time to prepare, to balance my account so to speak. But it wasn’t like that.
Throughout the autumn of 1995, I felt gradually weaker and weaker, not ill in any way (unless you count leaping out of bed to hurl every morning at 4:30), just faint, sleepy and vaguely disconnected. The doctor in our very small, remote village reluctantly eliminated pregnancy and decided I had a persistent case of flu. On New Year’s Day, I suddenly realized I couldn’t sit up without fainting and needed to lie down. On my way to the bedroom, I began projectile vomiting bright red blood. Piglet, who knew – as we all did in this very small village – where the ambulance was parked, called for it immediately.
My oldest daughter, Wumbles, arrived home from a Caribbean cruise with her boyfriend’s family at the same moment as the ambulance. She beheld me lying on the hall floor with my beloved car, Beekie, sitting beside my head, the epitome of feline concern, and blood dripping down the wall.
“Hi, Wumb,” I croaked. “Did you have a good time?” I pointed vaguely at the paramedic. “I don’t think you’ve met Wolf’s mother.”
“And exactly what was I supposed to do, Mom?” Wumbles asked later. “Invite her to sit down while I made a pot of tea?”
To shorten a long and melodramatic tale, I was whisked away to the tiny local hospital and diagnosed with a bleeding ulcer. It had been bleeding for months and I’d lost half the blood in my body. The next day I was transported by ambulance to the nearest town. Before they could stabilize me, I haemorrhaged and had to have emergency surgery.
The presiding doctor said, “You are one very lucky young woman. You came within seconds of losing your life.”
I was shocked; shocked at not knowing how sick I’d been,shocked at being told I couldn't go back to work for nine months, shocked at how my life almost drifted away so painlessly, so peacefully, and me none the wiser. I could have “slipped the surly bonds” of existence without ever knowing how loosely they’d been holding me.
Many things came together in my head. I concluded that if “‘twere now to die” I would NOT be “most happy.” While I loved my husband, my daughters and – most of the time – my job, I didn’t feel I’d truly lived. So, over the last 14 years, I’ve taken risks and gone dancing after my dreams. I wrote a novel (mediocre, I fear, but I haven’t completely given up on it yet). I “followed knowledge like a sinking star beyond the baths of all the western seas,” living and travelling in different parts of the world for six years.
So, if ‘twere NOW to die, I wouldn’t be dissatisfied. I don’t have any desire for death – life is too interesting, too full of unfolding events – but if it came upon me, I could join with Valancy of The Blue Castle and say, “I’ve had my dust pile.”
Dragonfly goes on to share the poignant story of her mother’s death. This made me think of my Piglet’s death in China and wonder if his death is the reason that, until very recently, I’ve been refusing to face up to how ill my Dad is. Dylan Thomas says, “After the first death there is no other,” but I’m not sure that’s true. One death segues into another and the weight of them presses down on you, making it hard to breathe sometimes.
Dragonfly says her Mom “didn’t so much leave us but my father.” Since Piglet left us, I’ve occasionally descended into maudlin self-pity and cried inwardly,” You’ve gone and left me lonely lingering here.” Dragonfly’s words brought a sudden insight. Piglet didn’t so much leave me – or Wumbles and Creature – as he left his pain, both physical and spiritual and – in particular, perhaps – the terrible wounds of a brutally shattered childhood.
I want to respond to Dragonfly’s observations about the pure and shining light that often surrounds a death, but this post is already too long. I’ll close by saying I love the way minds can meet despite distance, meet and strike brightness from the grey prisms of our minds.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Seasons
On Friday evening I had dinner with Creature and her husband at their cosy little cabin in Sooke. Her in-laws also attended. I liked the way Creature and her husband, Nym, worked together, and in harmony, on the meal. Nym took care of the teriyaki sauce for the salmon and dressed the Greek potatoes while Creature sat on a stool and cut vegetables. Carrots, radishes, mushrooms, avocado, apple – the textures and colours slid smoothly under knife and into the salad bowl, as smoothly and neatly as if their places had been foreordained from the days of their seed-dom.
We sipped at goblets of wine as we waited for the salmon to cook – all except Creature, of course, who nevertheless had a glass in front of her so she could admire the candlelight winking at her from the burgundy depths.
Talk turned to placenta and a story about a couple who froze one. They left it in the freezer for three years, until they were able to buy their own home, at which point they buried it under a tree in the yard.
I felt emboldened to air a concern that’s been playing at the edges of my mind. You never quite know what your children will do. Inevitably, their actions and attitudes surprise you so it’s best to be prepared.
“We aren’t going to have to eat the placenta at some kind of ritual meal, are we?” I asked. Memories of China surfaced, reminding me of the occasions when a fish head or a coil of pig intestine had been lovingly placed in front of me on the plate of honour and eating them was the only polite thing to do.
A bubble of laughter. “No, no” said Creature and discussion ensued. What kind of meat, exactly, is placenta? Organ meat, the consensus decreed. And the ultimate vegan meat to boot – no living thing killed or abused in its production.
At that point the dog wandered in with an ice pack from the birthing kit in his mouth and the kitten managed to slay a rather large moth, his first, so I missed what the ultimate fate of this particular placenta will be – perhaps it’s still undecided. I’m simply relieved it won’t form the centrepiece of an upcoming family dinner.
Late Saturday morning my Mom phoned to say my Dad is in the hospital. Just as it was getting dark on Friday, she’d dashed out to the pharmacy for some Immodium as Dad seemed to have a touch of flu. When she returned, he was lying on the living room floor. The phone had rung and, coming out of a doze, he got up too quickly and tripped over one of his slippers.
The long and short of it is they called an ambulance and, after the inevitable delays in Emergency, learned that he’s broken the bone at the top of his left leg – the femur I think. He needs surgery that involves the installation of two pins. My Dad, however, having suffered through more than 45 years of health problems due to a terrible car accident in 1962, wants none of it. He’s tired, exhausted in fact, and has no more strength to fight. He just wants to go home and doesn’t care of it’s in a wheelchair. We have to respect his wishes.
Mom knows better than any of us what his quality of life has been like since his near fatal brush with kidney failure in September of 2007. In brief, lousy. She figures they can get a ramp built up to the front door and bring in whatever help they need to keep Dad comfortable.
My heart gave a momentary pang for Piglet, who would have whipped up a ramp in short order, just as he managed all the building and alterations that were necessary when Dad broke his hip in early 2002.
So there we have it. Creature in the full bloom of life, about to give us Finn, and my Dad lying frail and defeated in a hospital bed, brittle and defenceless and far too breakable.
It’s all very Ecclesiastical.
We sipped at goblets of wine as we waited for the salmon to cook – all except Creature, of course, who nevertheless had a glass in front of her so she could admire the candlelight winking at her from the burgundy depths.
Talk turned to placenta and a story about a couple who froze one. They left it in the freezer for three years, until they were able to buy their own home, at which point they buried it under a tree in the yard.
I felt emboldened to air a concern that’s been playing at the edges of my mind. You never quite know what your children will do. Inevitably, their actions and attitudes surprise you so it’s best to be prepared.
“We aren’t going to have to eat the placenta at some kind of ritual meal, are we?” I asked. Memories of China surfaced, reminding me of the occasions when a fish head or a coil of pig intestine had been lovingly placed in front of me on the plate of honour and eating them was the only polite thing to do.
A bubble of laughter. “No, no” said Creature and discussion ensued. What kind of meat, exactly, is placenta? Organ meat, the consensus decreed. And the ultimate vegan meat to boot – no living thing killed or abused in its production.
At that point the dog wandered in with an ice pack from the birthing kit in his mouth and the kitten managed to slay a rather large moth, his first, so I missed what the ultimate fate of this particular placenta will be – perhaps it’s still undecided. I’m simply relieved it won’t form the centrepiece of an upcoming family dinner.
Late Saturday morning my Mom phoned to say my Dad is in the hospital. Just as it was getting dark on Friday, she’d dashed out to the pharmacy for some Immodium as Dad seemed to have a touch of flu. When she returned, he was lying on the living room floor. The phone had rung and, coming out of a doze, he got up too quickly and tripped over one of his slippers.
The long and short of it is they called an ambulance and, after the inevitable delays in Emergency, learned that he’s broken the bone at the top of his left leg – the femur I think. He needs surgery that involves the installation of two pins. My Dad, however, having suffered through more than 45 years of health problems due to a terrible car accident in 1962, wants none of it. He’s tired, exhausted in fact, and has no more strength to fight. He just wants to go home and doesn’t care of it’s in a wheelchair. We have to respect his wishes.
Mom knows better than any of us what his quality of life has been like since his near fatal brush with kidney failure in September of 2007. In brief, lousy. She figures they can get a ramp built up to the front door and bring in whatever help they need to keep Dad comfortable.
My heart gave a momentary pang for Piglet, who would have whipped up a ramp in short order, just as he managed all the building and alterations that were necessary when Dad broke his hip in early 2002.
So there we have it. Creature in the full bloom of life, about to give us Finn, and my Dad lying frail and defeated in a hospital bed, brittle and defenceless and far too breakable.
It’s all very Ecclesiastical.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Blatantly Political
In the midst of the celebrations surrounding Obama’s inauguration, amidst the excitement and pride of the American people as they witness a triumph of their political system and yet another fulfillment of their constitution, my heart, while not untouched by the hope expressed on Tuesday last, is full of pain for a people who have not been invited to the banquet.
A people no less deserving of liberty and the right to pursue happiness but presently mired in violence and despair, a despair deepened and made endlessly bitter by the stalwart refusal of every country in the world to treat them like real human beings and take meaningful action to alleviate their plight.
Penned up in the planet’s largest prison, forced to watch – over and over again, year after year – the slaughter of their children, denied even the comfort of an adequate diet, they are blamed for their own misery, told “terrorists” live among them so they must be punished. Bzzzz... sorry...we don’t like the party you voted for in your free, internationally observed, and democratic election so you aren’t real human beings after all and you have no rights whatsoever. Forget the UN; forget the Geneva Convention; forget asking why you might have voted for that so-called “terrorist” party. No rules of common humanity apply to you. It’s the most blatant Blame the Victim scenario imaginable.
Today, their city and their villages – their entire infrastructure – lie in ruins, blasted to bits by one of the world’s most powerful armies and they are denied the simple building materials needed to start rehousing the homeless. Chemical warfare has been waged against their women and children and they are denied proper medical care. Graffiti calling for their extermination has been scrawled on the walls of their ruined homes by the invading soldiers and there’s no condemnation of the racists. No invocation of the Holocaust and why such an atrocity must never happen again.
In a few days, their story will fade from the news and we’ll all carry on pretending they don’t exist. Unless, from the depths of their misery and hopelessness, a few renegades among them do something violent. Then we’ll hear howls of righteous indignation from every quarter. And a few score infants will be killed in retaliation. Wise heads will be shaken at the unfortunate necessity of “collateral damage.” If only they’d learn to act like human beings and give up their weapons, we wouldn’t be forced to drop bombs on their babies.
I’m talking about the Palestinians, of course. Them. When will we remember there’s no such thing as “them”? If nothing else, our deteriorating environment should emphasize that we’re all in this together.
“If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if the promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were. Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind.”
And, oh, how diminished we have become in the last bloody hundred years...
Does Obama’s inaugural rhetoric extend to the Palestinians? Or is it just another glib riff on “plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose?”
A people no less deserving of liberty and the right to pursue happiness but presently mired in violence and despair, a despair deepened and made endlessly bitter by the stalwart refusal of every country in the world to treat them like real human beings and take meaningful action to alleviate their plight.
Penned up in the planet’s largest prison, forced to watch – over and over again, year after year – the slaughter of their children, denied even the comfort of an adequate diet, they are blamed for their own misery, told “terrorists” live among them so they must be punished. Bzzzz... sorry...we don’t like the party you voted for in your free, internationally observed, and democratic election so you aren’t real human beings after all and you have no rights whatsoever. Forget the UN; forget the Geneva Convention; forget asking why you might have voted for that so-called “terrorist” party. No rules of common humanity apply to you. It’s the most blatant Blame the Victim scenario imaginable.
Today, their city and their villages – their entire infrastructure – lie in ruins, blasted to bits by one of the world’s most powerful armies and they are denied the simple building materials needed to start rehousing the homeless. Chemical warfare has been waged against their women and children and they are denied proper medical care. Graffiti calling for their extermination has been scrawled on the walls of their ruined homes by the invading soldiers and there’s no condemnation of the racists. No invocation of the Holocaust and why such an atrocity must never happen again.
In a few days, their story will fade from the news and we’ll all carry on pretending they don’t exist. Unless, from the depths of their misery and hopelessness, a few renegades among them do something violent. Then we’ll hear howls of righteous indignation from every quarter. And a few score infants will be killed in retaliation. Wise heads will be shaken at the unfortunate necessity of “collateral damage.” If only they’d learn to act like human beings and give up their weapons, we wouldn’t be forced to drop bombs on their babies.
I’m talking about the Palestinians, of course. Them. When will we remember there’s no such thing as “them”? If nothing else, our deteriorating environment should emphasize that we’re all in this together.
“If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if the promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were. Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind.”
And, oh, how diminished we have become in the last bloody hundred years...
Does Obama’s inaugural rhetoric extend to the Palestinians? Or is it just another glib riff on “plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose?”
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Signifying Something
Thursday ran its course with nothing noteworthy happening – or so I thought until the day was almost done. On my way home from work, I stopped in at my parents’ to check on my Dad. He’s 83 and, much as I hate confronting the fact, he’s been getting frailer and frailer over the last year. It’s as if he’s gradually – almost imperceptibly – ticking to a halt like an old clock. When I arrived Thursday afternoon, though, he seemed better than he has in a while and my heart gave a little leap of relief. I hadn’t realized how weighed down it’s been.
The minister arrived a few minutes after I did, fulsome and hearty as befits a visit to elderly parishioners, I guess. The thought crossed my mind that my Dad might have psyched himself up for the reverend’s arrival, but I hoped otherwise. I helped my Mom set out the china teacups and the oatmeal muffins, then headed home for the early bedtime my work schedule dictates.
At 5:30, my baby brother, Tickles, called from New York. He’s an itinerant jazz musician tripping the Light Fantastic for a week of gigs. Thursday’s rehearsal was held only three blocks from the Hudson River site of the Air Bus crash and he witnessed some of the rescue uproar as well as the stunned relief at the survival of all onboard. “It’s a good thing George W. Bush is on his way out,” I remarked. “Otherwise we Canadians would be accused of running terrorist camps for our geese.”
Tickles went on to describe the incredible ebullience of the average American in the lead-up to Obama’s inauguration. There are banners and posters everywhere, he says, people decked out in Obama T-shirts and caps and generally exuding a sense of excitement and great joy. And hope. Tickles lived in New York for two years in the early 90s and notes that this explosion of hope makes it feel like a different city.
Then Tickles mentioned that he’d just called my parents and was worried about my Dad, who’d sounded weak, completely exhausted and almost tearful. Mom and Dad recently celebrated their wedding anniversary and Dad had been very down because, for the first time in 55 years, he couldn’t go out and buy flowers for my Mom. Now he sounded even lower.
We discussed the frustration of being unable to do anything. Seven years ago, when Dad broke his hip, there were countless ways to help – visiting the hospital, providing moral support for Mom, getting the house ready for Dad’s return and rehabilitation after the hip replacement. Among a myriad of serious ailments, Dad presently suffers from severe anaemia and water retention. None of the prescribed drugs are having any effect. He goes from bed to table to his chair in the living room – the chair Piglet built a wooden lift for during the hip recovery – where he sits and starts to read but quickly falls asleep, mouth slack, head lolling. He spends the majority of his daylight hours sleeping in that chair. He rarely even watches TV any more as taking the short walk downstairs is too much for him. Walking at all, in fact, is difficult; he has the shuffling, tentative gait of a very old man. A phrase from a 30s news report, “The King’s life is drawing peacefully to a close,” keeps playing in my head.
It’s a tremendous burden on Mom, of course, and she’s reacting as she always does in trying times. Meals are one of the few things Dad still enjoys so she’s summoning the energy to prepare all his favourites and has started baking again. I briefly considered whipping up some edibles myself and taking them over, but realized that cooking and baking give Mom something to do – the only thing she can do – and help hold back the sadness and worry.
I think, then, that my “wake up call” was intended to turn my attention to my Mom and Dad. In addition to enervating health issues, my return to Canada has also proved emotionally and spiritually painful. I’ve been very self-absorbed, feeling almost shell-shocked at times and quite directionless – lacking purpose – at others.
I need to focus on the main reason I came back – my family. There may be nothing I can do to alleviate my Dad’s physical situation, but I can offer my presence. I can visit more often and try to provide a diversion, to deflect his thoughts, no matter how briefly, from his slow decline. I can face up to the fact that the sands in my Dad’s hour glass are trickling away just as little Finn’s are pouring in. I can take part in the process by simply placing myself beside my parents and moving through it with them.
“They also serve who only stand and wait.”
The minister arrived a few minutes after I did, fulsome and hearty as befits a visit to elderly parishioners, I guess. The thought crossed my mind that my Dad might have psyched himself up for the reverend’s arrival, but I hoped otherwise. I helped my Mom set out the china teacups and the oatmeal muffins, then headed home for the early bedtime my work schedule dictates.
At 5:30, my baby brother, Tickles, called from New York. He’s an itinerant jazz musician tripping the Light Fantastic for a week of gigs. Thursday’s rehearsal was held only three blocks from the Hudson River site of the Air Bus crash and he witnessed some of the rescue uproar as well as the stunned relief at the survival of all onboard. “It’s a good thing George W. Bush is on his way out,” I remarked. “Otherwise we Canadians would be accused of running terrorist camps for our geese.”
Tickles went on to describe the incredible ebullience of the average American in the lead-up to Obama’s inauguration. There are banners and posters everywhere, he says, people decked out in Obama T-shirts and caps and generally exuding a sense of excitement and great joy. And hope. Tickles lived in New York for two years in the early 90s and notes that this explosion of hope makes it feel like a different city.
Then Tickles mentioned that he’d just called my parents and was worried about my Dad, who’d sounded weak, completely exhausted and almost tearful. Mom and Dad recently celebrated their wedding anniversary and Dad had been very down because, for the first time in 55 years, he couldn’t go out and buy flowers for my Mom. Now he sounded even lower.
We discussed the frustration of being unable to do anything. Seven years ago, when Dad broke his hip, there were countless ways to help – visiting the hospital, providing moral support for Mom, getting the house ready for Dad’s return and rehabilitation after the hip replacement. Among a myriad of serious ailments, Dad presently suffers from severe anaemia and water retention. None of the prescribed drugs are having any effect. He goes from bed to table to his chair in the living room – the chair Piglet built a wooden lift for during the hip recovery – where he sits and starts to read but quickly falls asleep, mouth slack, head lolling. He spends the majority of his daylight hours sleeping in that chair. He rarely even watches TV any more as taking the short walk downstairs is too much for him. Walking at all, in fact, is difficult; he has the shuffling, tentative gait of a very old man. A phrase from a 30s news report, “The King’s life is drawing peacefully to a close,” keeps playing in my head.
It’s a tremendous burden on Mom, of course, and she’s reacting as she always does in trying times. Meals are one of the few things Dad still enjoys so she’s summoning the energy to prepare all his favourites and has started baking again. I briefly considered whipping up some edibles myself and taking them over, but realized that cooking and baking give Mom something to do – the only thing she can do – and help hold back the sadness and worry.
I think, then, that my “wake up call” was intended to turn my attention to my Mom and Dad. In addition to enervating health issues, my return to Canada has also proved emotionally and spiritually painful. I’ve been very self-absorbed, feeling almost shell-shocked at times and quite directionless – lacking purpose – at others.
I need to focus on the main reason I came back – my family. There may be nothing I can do to alleviate my Dad’s physical situation, but I can offer my presence. I can visit more often and try to provide a diversion, to deflect his thoughts, no matter how briefly, from his slow decline. I can face up to the fact that the sands in my Dad’s hour glass are trickling away just as little Finn’s are pouring in. I can take part in the process by simply placing myself beside my parents and moving through it with them.
“They also serve who only stand and wait.”
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Hearing Voices
I woke up from a deep sleep to the sound of a male voice speaking directly into my ear. “Annie,” it said, so clearly I became totally alert and replied, out loud, “Yes?” Then the alarm went off and no answer boomed forth. What does it mean?
It was a cultured sort of voice, and rather deep, definitely male but not the voice of anyone I know, although I’d recognize it if I heard it again. I don’t think it was the Voice of God – it didn’t sound the way I imagine God’s voice might sound – and I had no accompanying sense of awe or dire import. Nothing ominous, either. It sounded more like a newscaster if I actually have to pin it down.
What does it mean? Should I pay special attention today? To what? I Have I been included in some sort of cosmic phone tag? Is my subconscious afraid I’m going to forget my own name and planning to issue frequent reminders from now on?
It was a cultured sort of voice, and rather deep, definitely male but not the voice of anyone I know, although I’d recognize it if I heard it again. I don’t think it was the Voice of God – it didn’t sound the way I imagine God’s voice might sound – and I had no accompanying sense of awe or dire import. Nothing ominous, either. It sounded more like a newscaster if I actually have to pin it down.
What does it mean? Should I pay special attention today? To what? I Have I been included in some sort of cosmic phone tag? Is my subconscious afraid I’m going to forget my own name and planning to issue frequent reminders from now on?
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Sign on the Dotty Line
On Friday morning I got up, as usual, in the pitch dark (for I have to be at work by the ungodly hour of 6:45 a.m.), snuffled around, drank some juice, performed the customary ablutions, then headed out to the parking lot, pleased with myself for being a bit ahead of schedule, got into my car, buckled up, and turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. Lights, various features that ding and bleat – all working – but not a dicky bird from the engine. Smooth silence.
I walked back up to my apartment and paced around the living room three times, telling myself that this ritual would have the same power as hitting the REPLAY button on a remote control. Descended again and once more turned the key. More smooth silence and a polite, useless click.
I fished the owner’s manual out of the glove compartment for the first time and managed to match a yellow symbol on the dashboard with a picture in the manual. Something was wrong with my electronic system.
I’ve been paying a monthly fee for comprehensive emergency assistance; now was the time to discover if the promised services would be delivered. I dialled a complicated number and got one Jean-Francois on the line. He proved to be hearteningly efficient. (Yes, I have a licence to invent words.)
As I awaited the tow truck, my thoughts flitted like bats in the dusk. My car is less than a year old and has no excuse for misbehaviour. The whole reason I own it is to avoid just this sort of situation. When my husband, Piglet, was alive, we always had elderly, eccentric vehicles because he knew how to fix them. I have no mechanical skills whatsoever.
Visions of Vehicles Past, three of them in particular, flashed before me. At 17, I bought my first car, a 1962 Acadian, from a family I babysat for – my friends called it the Fweepmobile. I very nearly killed it within days of taking ownership. It sputtered to a halt one Friday evening and I shrewdly deduced that I’d misread the gauge and run out of gas. I approached the nearest house and begged the use of the phone to call my service station who dispatched a young man to rescue me. Once he’d poured $1.50 worth of black gold into the tank (enough for a week in those halcyon days), he fired up the Fweepster, then frowned.
“You need oil, too,” he said.
“How do you know?” I inquired, eager to learn more about the Mysteries of the Automobile.
“See this red light? When it comes on, it means you’re very low on oil.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed. “It’s been flashing at me for several days now! I wondered what it meant!”
His expression suggested I ought to be fitted for a strait jacket immediately but he patiently explained how, without oil, my engine could seize and thus be destroyed, added a quart of 40-weight, and told me I could pay on my next visit to Neighbourhood Gas Grab. Those days were, indeed, halcyon.
Shy Violet, ringing in at $200, was a white, rounded sort of vehicle whose exact provenance I forget. She ran as sweetly as a child’s dream of summer as long as it was raining. Fortunately, it rains a lot in Victoria because the faintest ray of sunshine caused her rear wheels to lock, inexorably, while she blushed coyly in the sudden brighter light. Nothing could convince her to loosen her death-grip on the pavement except copious streams of water over the back tires. After the third time I was forced to knock on a stranger’s door and ask to borrow the family garden hose, we consigned Shy Violet to the Great Scrap Heap in the Sky with few regrets. She’s chiefly remembered as the only car we ever had that even Piglet couldn’t fix.
We paid a mere $100 for The Hulk, a rusted-out hatchback whose previous owner worked for the Coast Guard. Constant exposure to salt spray had dissolved most of The Hulk’s body. Piglet bought a few cases of beer and summoned some friends. They set to work with duct tape and spray paint and soon The Hulk looked almost presentable. It turned out the starter didn’t work but Piglet taught me how to insert a paring knife into the depths of the engine and it was no longer a problem as long as I remembered to put the gear shift in neutral before I inserted the knife. The Hulk’s happy career came to an end nearly two years later by which time the floor boards had nearly vanished and I discovered I didn’t have the stamina of Wilma Flintstone.
Now, as I shivered in the pre-dawn chill awaiting rescue, I looked with contempt at my nearly new car. Wimp, I thought.
The tow truck rumbled into the parking lot. Tow Truck Guy got out, looking bored and competent as Tow Truck Guys always do. I proudly showed him the picture in the manual and the matching light on the dashboard. He lowered himself into the car, adjusted the seat, turned the key in the ignition and – it started! – while I gaped, fish-like.
“Did you have the clutch pushed down all the way?” he asked.
“Of course!” I cried indignantly. Did he think I was a total moron? “I’ve been driving the car for nearly a year and never had a problem before!”
Truly, I don’t know why the car decided to start. Do these guys have special rays darting from their eyeballs?
“I’ll need you to sign here.” Tow Truck Guy handed me a pen and a metal clipboard.
I.M.N. Idiot, I wrote. With a flourish.
I walked back up to my apartment and paced around the living room three times, telling myself that this ritual would have the same power as hitting the REPLAY button on a remote control. Descended again and once more turned the key. More smooth silence and a polite, useless click.
I fished the owner’s manual out of the glove compartment for the first time and managed to match a yellow symbol on the dashboard with a picture in the manual. Something was wrong with my electronic system.
I’ve been paying a monthly fee for comprehensive emergency assistance; now was the time to discover if the promised services would be delivered. I dialled a complicated number and got one Jean-Francois on the line. He proved to be hearteningly efficient. (Yes, I have a licence to invent words.)
As I awaited the tow truck, my thoughts flitted like bats in the dusk. My car is less than a year old and has no excuse for misbehaviour. The whole reason I own it is to avoid just this sort of situation. When my husband, Piglet, was alive, we always had elderly, eccentric vehicles because he knew how to fix them. I have no mechanical skills whatsoever.
Visions of Vehicles Past, three of them in particular, flashed before me. At 17, I bought my first car, a 1962 Acadian, from a family I babysat for – my friends called it the Fweepmobile. I very nearly killed it within days of taking ownership. It sputtered to a halt one Friday evening and I shrewdly deduced that I’d misread the gauge and run out of gas. I approached the nearest house and begged the use of the phone to call my service station who dispatched a young man to rescue me. Once he’d poured $1.50 worth of black gold into the tank (enough for a week in those halcyon days), he fired up the Fweepster, then frowned.
“You need oil, too,” he said.
“How do you know?” I inquired, eager to learn more about the Mysteries of the Automobile.
“See this red light? When it comes on, it means you’re very low on oil.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed. “It’s been flashing at me for several days now! I wondered what it meant!”
His expression suggested I ought to be fitted for a strait jacket immediately but he patiently explained how, without oil, my engine could seize and thus be destroyed, added a quart of 40-weight, and told me I could pay on my next visit to Neighbourhood Gas Grab. Those days were, indeed, halcyon.
Shy Violet, ringing in at $200, was a white, rounded sort of vehicle whose exact provenance I forget. She ran as sweetly as a child’s dream of summer as long as it was raining. Fortunately, it rains a lot in Victoria because the faintest ray of sunshine caused her rear wheels to lock, inexorably, while she blushed coyly in the sudden brighter light. Nothing could convince her to loosen her death-grip on the pavement except copious streams of water over the back tires. After the third time I was forced to knock on a stranger’s door and ask to borrow the family garden hose, we consigned Shy Violet to the Great Scrap Heap in the Sky with few regrets. She’s chiefly remembered as the only car we ever had that even Piglet couldn’t fix.
We paid a mere $100 for The Hulk, a rusted-out hatchback whose previous owner worked for the Coast Guard. Constant exposure to salt spray had dissolved most of The Hulk’s body. Piglet bought a few cases of beer and summoned some friends. They set to work with duct tape and spray paint and soon The Hulk looked almost presentable. It turned out the starter didn’t work but Piglet taught me how to insert a paring knife into the depths of the engine and it was no longer a problem as long as I remembered to put the gear shift in neutral before I inserted the knife. The Hulk’s happy career came to an end nearly two years later by which time the floor boards had nearly vanished and I discovered I didn’t have the stamina of Wilma Flintstone.
Now, as I shivered in the pre-dawn chill awaiting rescue, I looked with contempt at my nearly new car. Wimp, I thought.
The tow truck rumbled into the parking lot. Tow Truck Guy got out, looking bored and competent as Tow Truck Guys always do. I proudly showed him the picture in the manual and the matching light on the dashboard. He lowered himself into the car, adjusted the seat, turned the key in the ignition and – it started! – while I gaped, fish-like.
“Did you have the clutch pushed down all the way?” he asked.
“Of course!” I cried indignantly. Did he think I was a total moron? “I’ve been driving the car for nearly a year and never had a problem before!”
Truly, I don’t know why the car decided to start. Do these guys have special rays darting from their eyeballs?
“I’ll need you to sign here.” Tow Truck Guy handed me a pen and a metal clipboard.
I.M.N. Idiot, I wrote. With a flourish.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Out of Stock
The weekend advances apace and grey mist shrouds the firs on the other side of the Inlet. I want to finish my ruminations then move on to other topics.
I’ve pretty much covered Canada’s good points although I should add that, in these parlous economic times, I’m grateful for my job despite its less than fascinating aspects. I’m sure some of you have the words “Safety!” and “Democracy!” blinking red capitals in your brains. I have to say that in all my years abroad and in all my peregrinations to places like Cambodia, Laos, Vietnam, Egypt, Jordan, and Turkey, there was only one very brief episode in Cambodia that I would categorize as dangerous. In general, if you practice caution and possess commonsense, the world is literally your oyster.
China, of course, does have a totalitarian Communist government but, during the five years I lived there, the government told the people foreigners were honoured guests and should be treated accordingly. I was free to leave whenever I chose, to travel around the country at will, to worship at churches off bounds to Chinese citizens, and was more or less unaffected by the soul-numbing regulations that can sap the joy of existence. Either exempt from these rules or assigned a Chinese person to take care of them for me, I actually felt freer there than I usually do in Canada.
Most of the restrictions here are financial – most of us are caught in a web of debt, high cost of living and wages that barely exceed our expenses. We are free, yes; we can say and do as we please, yes; we are surrounded by a glorious cultural and artistic heritage, yes; but in reality our access to these freedoms is greatly impeded by our financial realities. My wages in China, a third world country, even at their lowest, allowed me a life style – a sense of comfort and security – that is absent in Canada. Once again, the adhesive tentacles of the western economic trap have wrapped themselves about me. They’re often seductive, but I certainly can’t say I’m enjoying myself.
Another thing I’m missing is the freewheeling camaraderie of expats. If society is a sort of honeycomb, everyone here is tucked into separate cells while expats manage to launch themselves into a sticky sea of togetherness. That’s an incredibly bad metaphor, but I’m going to let it stand.
And so the Great Debate rages, daily, within me. To go or to stay?
I’ve pretty much covered Canada’s good points although I should add that, in these parlous economic times, I’m grateful for my job despite its less than fascinating aspects. I’m sure some of you have the words “Safety!” and “Democracy!” blinking red capitals in your brains. I have to say that in all my years abroad and in all my peregrinations to places like Cambodia, Laos, Vietnam, Egypt, Jordan, and Turkey, there was only one very brief episode in Cambodia that I would categorize as dangerous. In general, if you practice caution and possess commonsense, the world is literally your oyster.
China, of course, does have a totalitarian Communist government but, during the five years I lived there, the government told the people foreigners were honoured guests and should be treated accordingly. I was free to leave whenever I chose, to travel around the country at will, to worship at churches off bounds to Chinese citizens, and was more or less unaffected by the soul-numbing regulations that can sap the joy of existence. Either exempt from these rules or assigned a Chinese person to take care of them for me, I actually felt freer there than I usually do in Canada.
Most of the restrictions here are financial – most of us are caught in a web of debt, high cost of living and wages that barely exceed our expenses. We are free, yes; we can say and do as we please, yes; we are surrounded by a glorious cultural and artistic heritage, yes; but in reality our access to these freedoms is greatly impeded by our financial realities. My wages in China, a third world country, even at their lowest, allowed me a life style – a sense of comfort and security – that is absent in Canada. Once again, the adhesive tentacles of the western economic trap have wrapped themselves about me. They’re often seductive, but I certainly can’t say I’m enjoying myself.
Another thing I’m missing is the freewheeling camaraderie of expats. If society is a sort of honeycomb, everyone here is tucked into separate cells while expats manage to launch themselves into a sticky sea of togetherness. That’s an incredibly bad metaphor, but I’m going to let it stand.
And so the Great Debate rages, daily, within me. To go or to stay?
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Thinning the Stock
Why don’t I teach in Victoria, you ask? Did I mention the Slaves, the Organic Peanuts and the Green Puppies? The only way to get a teaching job in Greater Victoria is to get onto the substitute list. I could manage that with relative ease since I’m qualified in both French and ESL. Once on the list, however, it can take up to four years to accumulate enough seniority to land a regular job. I can’t go four months without steady, predictable income, let alone four years. To be sure, teaching jobs are available in other Canadian cities, but I came home to be near my family. If I’m going to move away, I’d rather head to a warm place overseas than a distant location in my own very large and mostly very cold country.
To thin the stock a little, I want to weigh some of the Good and Bad Factors in my ongoing ‘Canada Versus the Wild Blue Yonder’ debate.
The first good thing, of course, is my incipient grandchildren. I didn’t know about them when I made the decision to leave China, but I’m very excited and grateful to be on hand for their arrival.
Secondly, the Canadian Health Care System ranks high on my list of Good Things. Unbeknownst to myself, I wasn’t very well when I left China at the end of 2007. Increasingly, I felt exhausted and cold, couldn’t concentrate for long on anything complex, and began forgetting simple facts like my own phone number. Even worse, my hair started getting thinner and thinner and I itched all over. As 2008 progressed, so did my symptoms. By August, I was sleeping through all the hours I wasn’t at work and nearly falling asleep at the wheel as I zoomed up the highway, homeward and bedward bound after yet another interminable day.
One evening, Wumbles took me aside and said, “Mom, you’re fading out. See a doctor immediately.”
I did. Having feared early onset Alzheimer’s, I was relieved to learn my thyroid wasn’t working, an eminently fixable problem. On the scarier side, I may or may not have slight kidney dysfunction which may or may not be connected to the Tainted Milk Scandal and the fact that I fortified myself with vast quantities of cafe au lait every morning of my Chinese sojourn. Stay tuned.
This is not to imply that China doesn’t have a creditable medical system. It does. It’s just that it swings between Absolutely Excellent and Bloody Awful with no points in between and you’re never sure, at first, which of the two extremes you’re dealing with. My most common experience went something like this:
I’d present myself at a campus clinic or hospital and describe my ailment, anything from an infected cut to a persistent headache. The doctor would give me a cursory examination, display signs of great excitement and call in her colleagues, who would also start jittering with excitement.
“We think you are having a heart attack,” they’d announce, barely able to contain their glee.
I’d be painstakingly hooked up to an EKG machine and plugged in. Within minutes, disappointment descended.
“Your heart good,” came the gloomy diagnosis, “Very strong.”
Then I’d be handed a bag full of dried toads and papery snake skins and sent home with instructions to boil up a “health tea.” On one occasion, I was still bleeding as I stumbled along with my loot bag; on another, I had a migraine so bad I could barely see. I consoled myself by humming My Heart Will Go On and shaking the toads like maracas.
Canadian dentists also come in for their share of praise. Due to small pebbles that lie in wait for the unwary rice eater, I had to have two teeth extracted in the People’s Republic. One of them dislodged a bridge on its way out.
Dr. Li was very excited. Most Chinese people can’t afford to have their teeth repaired or replaced. If a tooth goes bad, it’s pulled. End of saga. Dr. Li, like the majority of dentists, never gets to perform any of the fun procedures he learned at dentist school – root canals for example – so treating foreigners offers previously unhoped for opportunities. Dr. Li told me the story of American Bike Rider who fell off his bike and cracked a tooth. Dr. Li prepared to extract it. American Bike Rider indignantly insisted on repair. Dr. Li, momentarily perplexed but ultimately undaunted, located a dusty textbook, propped it up beside his tray of dental tools, and performed a perfect root canal in just under eight hours. Dr. Li went on to explain how he could build me a detachable wooden bridge for about $48.00. Loath as I was to dash his enthusiasm, I declined. He gave me his private cell phone number in case I changed my mind. I didn’t.
So, along with the grandchildren, Canadian doctors and dentists score high ratings in the Stock Taking Debate, especially now that I have benefits and can actually visit a dentist without selling said grandchildren to pay for it.
...one final installment to follow...
To thin the stock a little, I want to weigh some of the Good and Bad Factors in my ongoing ‘Canada Versus the Wild Blue Yonder’ debate.
The first good thing, of course, is my incipient grandchildren. I didn’t know about them when I made the decision to leave China, but I’m very excited and grateful to be on hand for their arrival.
Secondly, the Canadian Health Care System ranks high on my list of Good Things. Unbeknownst to myself, I wasn’t very well when I left China at the end of 2007. Increasingly, I felt exhausted and cold, couldn’t concentrate for long on anything complex, and began forgetting simple facts like my own phone number. Even worse, my hair started getting thinner and thinner and I itched all over. As 2008 progressed, so did my symptoms. By August, I was sleeping through all the hours I wasn’t at work and nearly falling asleep at the wheel as I zoomed up the highway, homeward and bedward bound after yet another interminable day.
One evening, Wumbles took me aside and said, “Mom, you’re fading out. See a doctor immediately.”
I did. Having feared early onset Alzheimer’s, I was relieved to learn my thyroid wasn’t working, an eminently fixable problem. On the scarier side, I may or may not have slight kidney dysfunction which may or may not be connected to the Tainted Milk Scandal and the fact that I fortified myself with vast quantities of cafe au lait every morning of my Chinese sojourn. Stay tuned.
This is not to imply that China doesn’t have a creditable medical system. It does. It’s just that it swings between Absolutely Excellent and Bloody Awful with no points in between and you’re never sure, at first, which of the two extremes you’re dealing with. My most common experience went something like this:
I’d present myself at a campus clinic or hospital and describe my ailment, anything from an infected cut to a persistent headache. The doctor would give me a cursory examination, display signs of great excitement and call in her colleagues, who would also start jittering with excitement.
“We think you are having a heart attack,” they’d announce, barely able to contain their glee.
I’d be painstakingly hooked up to an EKG machine and plugged in. Within minutes, disappointment descended.
“Your heart good,” came the gloomy diagnosis, “Very strong.”
Then I’d be handed a bag full of dried toads and papery snake skins and sent home with instructions to boil up a “health tea.” On one occasion, I was still bleeding as I stumbled along with my loot bag; on another, I had a migraine so bad I could barely see. I consoled myself by humming My Heart Will Go On and shaking the toads like maracas.
Canadian dentists also come in for their share of praise. Due to small pebbles that lie in wait for the unwary rice eater, I had to have two teeth extracted in the People’s Republic. One of them dislodged a bridge on its way out.
Dr. Li was very excited. Most Chinese people can’t afford to have their teeth repaired or replaced. If a tooth goes bad, it’s pulled. End of saga. Dr. Li, like the majority of dentists, never gets to perform any of the fun procedures he learned at dentist school – root canals for example – so treating foreigners offers previously unhoped for opportunities. Dr. Li told me the story of American Bike Rider who fell off his bike and cracked a tooth. Dr. Li prepared to extract it. American Bike Rider indignantly insisted on repair. Dr. Li, momentarily perplexed but ultimately undaunted, located a dusty textbook, propped it up beside his tray of dental tools, and performed a perfect root canal in just under eight hours. Dr. Li went on to explain how he could build me a detachable wooden bridge for about $48.00. Loath as I was to dash his enthusiasm, I declined. He gave me his private cell phone number in case I changed my mind. I didn’t.
So, along with the grandchildren, Canadian doctors and dentists score high ratings in the Stock Taking Debate, especially now that I have benefits and can actually visit a dentist without selling said grandchildren to pay for it.
...one final installment to follow...
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Taking Stock (And Not From A Turkey)
At least, not exactly. By many standards, I may be considered a turkey, I suppose, but the kind of stock I want to take here is of the inner, New Year’s reflections variety. Before you flee screaming, let me assure you there’s no lint in my navel. Please bear with me.
After spending nearly six years abroad (five in China, one in the Middle East), I returned to Canada just over a year ago. At the time, it seemed like the right thing to do. My father, who’s in his eighties, had been dangerously ill and I felt my mother needed me. I also missed my daughters, Wumbles (32) and Creature (27). I was optimistic and excited about re-establishing myself in the Land of My Birth. Negative events began piling up almost immediately, however, and I’m now wondering if it was all a mistake.
The first hurdle was getting a decent job. I’m well-qualified and generally quite useful and efficient so didn’t anticipate huge problems. Apparently, though, everybody and their carbon footprintless puppy want to live in Victoria and will perform Slave Labour for Organic Peanuts in order to do so. And even though it’s not supposed to (this is Canada and we have laws), my age mitigated against me. I did, at last, after far too many long dreary months, find acceptable employment with a Telecommunications Company. I like my colleagues, the benefits are good, the wage reasonable, and the work passably interesting. But... but... some lines from Tennyson keep running through my head:
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As tho’ to breathe were life...
And that’s exactly it - I feel I’m rusting unburnished, especially since torrential west coast rains have replaced the freakish snow.
I am a teacher; since 1987, I’ve spent most of my time teaching and I miss it. Let me tell a little story to illustrate my point:
Setting: Mainland China, 2002. An agricultural university. I’ve just taught my first class and am surrounded by a Group of Giggling Girls who want to take a closer look at their new Foreign Teacher. (This was before the foreigner explosion in that particular part of China and I was more of an oddity than usual.)
GOGG: For most of us, this is our first time to have foreign teacher.
Me: Big smile. (What can I say?)
GOGG: ...giggles...
Me: Bigger smile.
GOGG: ...louder giggles...
Me: What? What is so funny?
GOGG: We can’t tell you.
Me: Now you have to tell me. It’s a Canadian rule.
GOGG: ...giggles... You are not like what we thought foreign teacher would be ...giggles...
Me: What did you think your foreign teacher would be like?
GOGG: We cannot tell you.
Me: But you must. There’s a Canadian rule, remember?
GOGG: Well, we thought you would be young and fat with large hair...giggles...
Me: And??
GOGG: And...instead, you are old and skinny with little hair...giggles...
I ask you, who would want to spend their days toiling in a Respectful Workplace when this sort of delight is possible?
...to be continued...
After spending nearly six years abroad (five in China, one in the Middle East), I returned to Canada just over a year ago. At the time, it seemed like the right thing to do. My father, who’s in his eighties, had been dangerously ill and I felt my mother needed me. I also missed my daughters, Wumbles (32) and Creature (27). I was optimistic and excited about re-establishing myself in the Land of My Birth. Negative events began piling up almost immediately, however, and I’m now wondering if it was all a mistake.
The first hurdle was getting a decent job. I’m well-qualified and generally quite useful and efficient so didn’t anticipate huge problems. Apparently, though, everybody and their carbon footprintless puppy want to live in Victoria and will perform Slave Labour for Organic Peanuts in order to do so. And even though it’s not supposed to (this is Canada and we have laws), my age mitigated against me. I did, at last, after far too many long dreary months, find acceptable employment with a Telecommunications Company. I like my colleagues, the benefits are good, the wage reasonable, and the work passably interesting. But... but... some lines from Tennyson keep running through my head:
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As tho’ to breathe were life...
And that’s exactly it - I feel I’m rusting unburnished, especially since torrential west coast rains have replaced the freakish snow.
I am a teacher; since 1987, I’ve spent most of my time teaching and I miss it. Let me tell a little story to illustrate my point:
Setting: Mainland China, 2002. An agricultural university. I’ve just taught my first class and am surrounded by a Group of Giggling Girls who want to take a closer look at their new Foreign Teacher. (This was before the foreigner explosion in that particular part of China and I was more of an oddity than usual.)
GOGG: For most of us, this is our first time to have foreign teacher.
Me: Big smile. (What can I say?)
GOGG: ...giggles...
Me: Bigger smile.
GOGG: ...louder giggles...
Me: What? What is so funny?
GOGG: We can’t tell you.
Me: Now you have to tell me. It’s a Canadian rule.
GOGG: ...giggles... You are not like what we thought foreign teacher would be ...giggles...
Me: What did you think your foreign teacher would be like?
GOGG: We cannot tell you.
Me: But you must. There’s a Canadian rule, remember?
GOGG: Well, we thought you would be young and fat with large hair...giggles...
Me: And??
GOGG: And...instead, you are old and skinny with little hair...giggles...
I ask you, who would want to spend their days toiling in a Respectful Workplace when this sort of delight is possible?
...to be continued...
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
A Thirty-Pound Baby in a Toast Cup
On New Year’s Day, we had dinner at my parents’ house; by we, I mean me, my youngest daughter and her husband, my brother from Vancouver and me. As always, the Great Vegetable Dilemma took up a good part of the afternoon. My mother likes to be sure each person has at least one vegetable they like, a desire stemming, no doubt, from her failure to ever get us to eat our veggies when we were kids. Dire threats of “not getting any dessert until you’ve eaten your vegetables” were uttered in vain. In theory, this holiday ritual allows her the supreme pleasure of watching a whole tableful of people happily eating vegetables, an event that can’t happen too often since she has so many past failures to make up for.
This New Year’s Day, then, her kitchen sported a typical display: a little dish of pearl onions she’d just caramelized, a heap of raw broccoli and cauliflower waiting to be chopped and stuck in a steamer, a bag of mushrooms, and a row of cans – baby beets, cream corn, green beens.
“Do you think there’s enough?” she asked anxiously. “Will the colours work?”
“Well,” I said, “I don’t see any carrots or celery.”
“You’re not getting any of those.” She glared at me.
“Alright, then, where are the frozen peas?”
“You aren’t getting any of those either.”
I sighed. “I guess I can manage to make do with this lot.”
“Do you really want frozen peas?”
“No, Mom, it’s okay.”
“Are you sure? It wouldn’t be any trouble.”
“Mom, I was kidding.”
My youngest daughter – we’ll call her Creature – walked into the kitchen. (“What does my childhood nickname reveal about our relationship?” she often asks.) “Aren’t we having Creamed Peas in Toast Cups?”
(Brief digression: Do all grown children taunt their mothers with the culinary failures of Holidays Past? I made the much-maligned toast cups ONCE, about 15 years ago, but they’ve been discussed so often they might as well be a tradition lovingly handed down and consumed under protest for generations.)
My mother and I both glared at Creature. “Youaren’tgettingany.Ionlymadethemonce.”
On with the show. Eventually we were all seated at the festive board, bowls of vegetables spread in serried ranks before us, a great heap of raw mushrooms beside Creature who has steadfastly refused to eat cooked vegetables since she encountered her first jar of Gerber pureed turnip. Now it was time for the real fun to begin – chasing down windfalls because my mother Upset the Apple Cart.
A little background is necessary. Creature is expecting her first baby very soon. Creature, although not a remarkably large person, is both taller and bigger-boned than my mother and me, who have a similar build. Because Creature looks different now that she’s Very Pregnant than either my mother or I did at the same stage, my mother is convinced she’s having twins and decided this was the moment to prepare us for a Dual Blessing.
“So,” said my mother through a mouthful of beets, “You’ve grown some more, Creature.”
Creature: I’m supposed to grow, Grannie. I’m pregnant.
My Mom: Ah, yes, but not so much. You really ought to prepare for twins.
Creature: I am not having twins. I have a doctor and a midwife and I’ve had several ultrasounds. Finn is ONE small boy.
My Brother (aside): Who is Finn?
Me (aside): Wumbles’ baby. (As my aged brain addles, I often mix up my daughters’ names.)
My Mother (shaking her head): All I can say is, if he’s one baby, then he’s a very large one.
Creature (bravado fading – after all, this is her first baby): What do you mean big? How big?
My Mom: I’d say at least 12 to 15 pounds.
My Dad: Why did Creature leave the table?
Me: She’s upset about having a 30-pound baby.
My Dad: Creature’s having a baby? Good Lord!
Creature (lured back by the aroma of raw fungi): The midwife has assured me that Finn is no more than seven pounds.
My Brother (having just speared the last of the caramelized onions): You know Wumbles’ midwife?
Me: Don’t cry, Creature. If Finn weights 40 pounds you’ll set a world’s record and get a ton of free diapers. You should be happy.
Creature’s Husband: Is there any more of that lovely cream corn?
A Very Happy New Year To All. (And we also had roast beef.)
This New Year’s Day, then, her kitchen sported a typical display: a little dish of pearl onions she’d just caramelized, a heap of raw broccoli and cauliflower waiting to be chopped and stuck in a steamer, a bag of mushrooms, and a row of cans – baby beets, cream corn, green beens.
“Do you think there’s enough?” she asked anxiously. “Will the colours work?”
“Well,” I said, “I don’t see any carrots or celery.”
“You’re not getting any of those.” She glared at me.
“Alright, then, where are the frozen peas?”
“You aren’t getting any of those either.”
I sighed. “I guess I can manage to make do with this lot.”
“Do you really want frozen peas?”
“No, Mom, it’s okay.”
“Are you sure? It wouldn’t be any trouble.”
“Mom, I was kidding.”
My youngest daughter – we’ll call her Creature – walked into the kitchen. (“What does my childhood nickname reveal about our relationship?” she often asks.) “Aren’t we having Creamed Peas in Toast Cups?”
(Brief digression: Do all grown children taunt their mothers with the culinary failures of Holidays Past? I made the much-maligned toast cups ONCE, about 15 years ago, but they’ve been discussed so often they might as well be a tradition lovingly handed down and consumed under protest for generations.)
My mother and I both glared at Creature. “Youaren’tgettingany.Ionlymadethemonce.”
On with the show. Eventually we were all seated at the festive board, bowls of vegetables spread in serried ranks before us, a great heap of raw mushrooms beside Creature who has steadfastly refused to eat cooked vegetables since she encountered her first jar of Gerber pureed turnip. Now it was time for the real fun to begin – chasing down windfalls because my mother Upset the Apple Cart.
A little background is necessary. Creature is expecting her first baby very soon. Creature, although not a remarkably large person, is both taller and bigger-boned than my mother and me, who have a similar build. Because Creature looks different now that she’s Very Pregnant than either my mother or I did at the same stage, my mother is convinced she’s having twins and decided this was the moment to prepare us for a Dual Blessing.
“So,” said my mother through a mouthful of beets, “You’ve grown some more, Creature.”
Creature: I’m supposed to grow, Grannie. I’m pregnant.
My Mom: Ah, yes, but not so much. You really ought to prepare for twins.
Creature: I am not having twins. I have a doctor and a midwife and I’ve had several ultrasounds. Finn is ONE small boy.
My Brother (aside): Who is Finn?
Me (aside): Wumbles’ baby. (As my aged brain addles, I often mix up my daughters’ names.)
My Mother (shaking her head): All I can say is, if he’s one baby, then he’s a very large one.
Creature (bravado fading – after all, this is her first baby): What do you mean big? How big?
My Mom: I’d say at least 12 to 15 pounds.
My Dad: Why did Creature leave the table?
Me: She’s upset about having a 30-pound baby.
My Dad: Creature’s having a baby? Good Lord!
Creature (lured back by the aroma of raw fungi): The midwife has assured me that Finn is no more than seven pounds.
My Brother (having just speared the last of the caramelized onions): You know Wumbles’ midwife?
Me: Don’t cry, Creature. If Finn weights 40 pounds you’ll set a world’s record and get a ton of free diapers. You should be happy.
Creature’s Husband: Is there any more of that lovely cream corn?
A Very Happy New Year To All. (And we also had roast beef.)
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Not a Winter Wonderland
On this third morning of 2009, I’m looking out my window in disgust. A new dusting of snow has landed in the night, just enough to cover the thin layer of ice we already had and make any kind of outdoor navigation treacherous. My mother grew up in Winnipeg and used to relate, with no nostalgic tones in her voice whatsoever, that when winter arrived all the little kiddies started to sing:
In Winnipeg in winter
It snows and snows and snows;
It covers all the fields and town
And Queen Victoria’s nose.
(Note for foreigners: Winnipeg, otherwise known as Winterpeg, is a city in central Canada that’s covered by dozens of feet of snow in winter and millions of mosquitoes in summer; there are no other seasons. A statue of Queen Victoria sits in front of the parliament buildings.)
The whole point about this Victoria is that it’s not supposed to snow here. We’re meant to have a lovely temperate climate that fluctuates between 15 and 25 degrees Celsius (or 50 and 78 degrees Fahrenheit), never too hot, never too cold. Residents feel there’s rather too much rain sometimes but they say it smugly and don't carry umbrellas (although that has more to do with the high winds that accompany the rain and turn any umbrella ever made inside out within 1.5 seconds than the gentleness of the rain). We graciously tolerate a small, dignified amount of snow once every five to ten years. It’s expected to be brief, picturesque and well-behaved, like a scrap of lace napkin tucked under a bone china teacup and whisked away by an efficient waiter before it becomes grubby with Earl Grey stains and fruitcake crumbs.
The snow we have now first arrived around the middle of December. It’s rude and belligerent and refuses to leave. Since the city doesn’t own any snow ploughs or stockpiles of salt and sand – and no one here knows how to drive in the snow - it creates mayhem on the streets. Absolute mayhem. It’s not uncommon to see cars abandoned in the middle of thoroughfares. Stuck in the snow? No problem. Just get out of your vehicle and walk away; come back when the snow melts.
Almost no one owns snow shovels, either, so getting to work becomes a lengthy, tension-fraught undertaking. Personally, I’d be just as happy to stay home and watch the Canada geese skidding across Portage Inlet but the little matter of a pay cheque deters me. The other morning, swathed in whatever scarves I could find and unhappily bootless, I went out to the parking lot and looked at my car in despair. A foot of snow sat behind it and about a foot and a half snuggled up to each of its two doors. Refusing to be daunted, however, I gave my brain a brief cudgel, then resolutely set to work with a sponge mop and a dust pan.
This is not a method I can recommend. I was eventually rescued by the kindness of shovel-wielding strangers and got to work only three hours late.
I hope you now understand why the cockles of my heart didn’t clamber about ecstatically when confronted with this morning’s fresh snow.
In Winnipeg in winter
It snows and snows and snows;
It covers all the fields and town
And Queen Victoria’s nose.
(Note for foreigners: Winnipeg, otherwise known as Winterpeg, is a city in central Canada that’s covered by dozens of feet of snow in winter and millions of mosquitoes in summer; there are no other seasons. A statue of Queen Victoria sits in front of the parliament buildings.)
The whole point about this Victoria is that it’s not supposed to snow here. We’re meant to have a lovely temperate climate that fluctuates between 15 and 25 degrees Celsius (or 50 and 78 degrees Fahrenheit), never too hot, never too cold. Residents feel there’s rather too much rain sometimes but they say it smugly and don't carry umbrellas (although that has more to do with the high winds that accompany the rain and turn any umbrella ever made inside out within 1.5 seconds than the gentleness of the rain). We graciously tolerate a small, dignified amount of snow once every five to ten years. It’s expected to be brief, picturesque and well-behaved, like a scrap of lace napkin tucked under a bone china teacup and whisked away by an efficient waiter before it becomes grubby with Earl Grey stains and fruitcake crumbs.
The snow we have now first arrived around the middle of December. It’s rude and belligerent and refuses to leave. Since the city doesn’t own any snow ploughs or stockpiles of salt and sand – and no one here knows how to drive in the snow - it creates mayhem on the streets. Absolute mayhem. It’s not uncommon to see cars abandoned in the middle of thoroughfares. Stuck in the snow? No problem. Just get out of your vehicle and walk away; come back when the snow melts.
Almost no one owns snow shovels, either, so getting to work becomes a lengthy, tension-fraught undertaking. Personally, I’d be just as happy to stay home and watch the Canada geese skidding across Portage Inlet but the little matter of a pay cheque deters me. The other morning, swathed in whatever scarves I could find and unhappily bootless, I went out to the parking lot and looked at my car in despair. A foot of snow sat behind it and about a foot and a half snuggled up to each of its two doors. Refusing to be daunted, however, I gave my brain a brief cudgel, then resolutely set to work with a sponge mop and a dust pan.
This is not a method I can recommend. I was eventually rescued by the kindness of shovel-wielding strangers and got to work only three hours late.
I hope you now understand why the cockles of my heart didn’t clamber about ecstatically when confronted with this morning’s fresh snow.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
And So Good Morrow to the Waking Year
The Old Year howls as it flies towards its niche in the Halls of History, flinging its anger in cold wet handfuls that splatter across my windowpanes and rattle the door frames; fit weather for a haunting or the opening pages of a gothic novel. I’m sipping a solitary glass of champagne and contemplating a blog. Blogging for Dummies has landed in my lap, the last gift of a year eager to be gone, and I suspect I’m about to be terrorized by technology once again. The Dummies books, by the way, can be very useful – the last time I had one was when I made a snap decision to go to the Middle East for a year and tucked a copy of Islam for Dummies into my suitcase just before dashing off to the airport. That, however, is a different story.
Like a black-jacketed punk swaggering threats from a street corner, technology first mocked me when gas stations went self serve. What a contradiction in terms! I certainly didn’t need to be filled up with gas, my car did. Does the car obligingly snick the nozzle into its own oily mouth? Not a chance. It expects to be spoon fed, like an infant. It was, of course, a night of screaming, mischievous winds and pelting rain. I drove around for some time looking for the blessed words, “We Serve.” No luck. Just before the vehicle sputtered to a halt altogether, I pulled into a gas station, cursing the attendants who were seated and chatting merrily in their warm, windproof booth. With nothing to do, I might add. I looked at the dials and the hose glumly and started fiddling with the controls.
A disembodied voice issued from a loudspeaker. “Pull the lever DOWN, ma’am.” I fiddled some more. “Towards the GROUND, ma’am,” the voice continued. It popped into my head that the Voice of God must have sounded like this after Moses’ second jaunt up Mount Sinai.
As the nasty cigarette ads used to say, though, “You've come a long way, baby,” and I have reasonably high hopes for my blog.
Is there such a thing as grannyblogging? Very soon I will have two grandchildren (not twins: two daughters, two almost simultaneous babies) and I’m full of anticipation despite the struggles of the last few months. As adults, we’re all pretty clear about where we came from but, for some reason, our minds shy away from the thought of our parents actually having sex and, whenever the thought intrudes, we limit their culpability - and quietly comfort ourselves - with hurried head counts of our siblings. I think we’re just as reluctant to think of our daughters having sex. I’m generally a forthright and practical person so, having done my research and determined there have been no recent outbreaks of human parthenogenesis, I’ve bravely faced up to the obvious.
That hurdle behind me, I’m looking forward more than I can say to holding these new scraps of mortality in my arms, blood of my blood and flesh of my flesh. I’m experiencing a real sense of being part of the great wheel of existence that moves us all, continuously, through the ongoing drama of birth and growth and death and renewal.
Like a black-jacketed punk swaggering threats from a street corner, technology first mocked me when gas stations went self serve. What a contradiction in terms! I certainly didn’t need to be filled up with gas, my car did. Does the car obligingly snick the nozzle into its own oily mouth? Not a chance. It expects to be spoon fed, like an infant. It was, of course, a night of screaming, mischievous winds and pelting rain. I drove around for some time looking for the blessed words, “We Serve.” No luck. Just before the vehicle sputtered to a halt altogether, I pulled into a gas station, cursing the attendants who were seated and chatting merrily in their warm, windproof booth. With nothing to do, I might add. I looked at the dials and the hose glumly and started fiddling with the controls.
A disembodied voice issued from a loudspeaker. “Pull the lever DOWN, ma’am.” I fiddled some more. “Towards the GROUND, ma’am,” the voice continued. It popped into my head that the Voice of God must have sounded like this after Moses’ second jaunt up Mount Sinai.
As the nasty cigarette ads used to say, though, “You've come a long way, baby,” and I have reasonably high hopes for my blog.
Is there such a thing as grannyblogging? Very soon I will have two grandchildren (not twins: two daughters, two almost simultaneous babies) and I’m full of anticipation despite the struggles of the last few months. As adults, we’re all pretty clear about where we came from but, for some reason, our minds shy away from the thought of our parents actually having sex and, whenever the thought intrudes, we limit their culpability - and quietly comfort ourselves - with hurried head counts of our siblings. I think we’re just as reluctant to think of our daughters having sex. I’m generally a forthright and practical person so, having done my research and determined there have been no recent outbreaks of human parthenogenesis, I’ve bravely faced up to the obvious.
That hurdle behind me, I’m looking forward more than I can say to holding these new scraps of mortality in my arms, blood of my blood and flesh of my flesh. I’m experiencing a real sense of being part of the great wheel of existence that moves us all, continuously, through the ongoing drama of birth and growth and death and renewal.
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