Saying Goodbye to Allan Berrin

I was 15 the summer I boarded the train to LA, having to change in Chicago at 6 am.My curly hair was lacquered straight, and I had purchased a pink polyester peddlepusher set from The Bay that pulled a little at the hips. I had a ticket that required me to sit up for three days. I recall sitting at the very back of the train and three bar mitzvah boys complete with dangling side locks offering me some meat sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper. I was glad for the company and the food.

I’d heard my parents arguing about the trip, my father maintaining I wouldn’t be properly supervised , but my mother insisting her parents, my bubbie and zadie , would be there to monitor. They too were travelling to visit my aunt’s family that summer, but by car. Likely they were going to intreat her to return back home to Toronto. That summer, they were fleeting apparitions when I often glimpsed them in deep discussion.

Little did my mother know how insightful my father had been. It was a summer of absolute freedom, no adults to oversee me, not even scheduled mealtimes where someone posed pesky questions-just roving, moving boundaries, a quick wave or smile as I passed by my aunt, my grandparents, always deep in their own thoughts. Besides, there were lots of rooms in the house if we wanted to avoid one another.

That delirium of joy that summer was due to my two older cousins, one my age, Shelly and her brother Al. When they still resided in Toronto, he was the organizer of all the cousins. On holidays after supper, he would corral all of us into our grandparent’s basement, set up tiny rubber cowboys on the bar and soon the battle between the stuffed toys and the action figures would commence, all of convulsing in laughter. We would cheer and rock and roll and pirouette and dance and stomp and raise bloody noise, our sedate parents, the floor above unmindful or ignoring the ruckus downstairs. But it was always Al, seamlessly managing our troop of disparate ages and predilections, knowing when we should quieten down to prevent recrimination, stern looks and being dragged away home from the delightful tumult. Somehow he united us even when we were lolling about on the floor into one joyous partying group. When the family departed for LA shortly after his bar mitzvah, I was heartbroken.

And here in LA after my three day trip at age 15, it was just him and me in his tiny room at the front of the house, getting reacquainted in no time at all. He was a gentle guy and we could pass hours chomping on endless bags of chips and chortling at his tapes of the Smothers Brothers and George Carlin. Somewhere in the house were his two younger brothers, Rob and Ken, but they were just kids and we were teenagers- and Shell, of course. We did as we pleased, we hung out on the street or the beach during the day but as dusk descended, the world of adolescence took over.

I was part of a roving bunch of kids added to group from The Centre. No matter I was a Canadian oddity, and often asked if I lived in a igloo or drove a sled dog to school, even by the kid whose mom had been born in Canada.Quickly I was integrated into the gang, accepted because of my association to my cousins. I observed Al’s same powers I had witnessed as a kid in my grandparents’ rec room. He was the king of the kids, shepherding a gaggle of us through our summer activities, always a soft smile, a look of authority and an easy word to allay any parent’s fears that we might cause trouble. He knew how to silence any probing looks and the questions of adults, and they trusted him completely should they enquire where we were headed, although few even asked.

In early misty mornings we rose before all others, grabbed sweaters for early climbs in the mountains. These excursions were followed by hilarious breakfasts of pancakes and waffles at The Pancake House. Late night we wandered and rambled on a sandy beach fittingly named Hermosa, toes warmed by tepid waters where we searched for grunions until it grew too late to even see one another. Naïve, we believed ourselves safe and protected, and truly under Al’s watchful eye, no one ever came to harm. We lived a cherry coke summer.

There were, as well, dance parties in a Rec hall,too: all events arranged and chaperoned by Al. We were never reprimanded or scolded, for his presence provided the mandate to disappear and reappear from the shadows with a new boy or girl friend( we were after all exploring teens!), no matter the hour, or length of time.

And as far as I knew, Al was all the guardian we needed to behave. Taller and wiser than the rest of us, we were aware that he was there, watching, keeping us secure, establishing an invisible perimeter of how far to push our adolescent proclivities. I recall his slim body, his smirk of a smile, his laughing eyes, his engaging the most reticent or obstreperous of the group, several ingenues continually dazzled by him, hoping to lock eyes and mesmerize our pilot.

I don’t recall him with friends his own age. And I’m pretty sure, his early morning runs were solitary.

I’m quite sure my grandparents had actually forgotten about me and my mother’s plea to keep me safe. In my six weeks of heaven, maybe I caught sight of them twice. When I finally had to return home, Shelley and I stood on the platform, shaking with grief, crying so hard, my grandfather emerging from somewhere, remarked that he had only witnessed such grievous partings when immigrants had had to leave family in the old country.

But time passed and the cousins grew up and further away. Al, called up for the Viet Nam War, grappled with the two worlds of lala land in California and austerely icy Toronto. He returned here that winter to make his decision and to visit an old girlfriend. The family gossiped about him wearing white pants in winter and what was the obsession with running, anyway? His passion as far back as I had known him had always been running, long before it became fashionable and certainly before Canadians caught on, the provincial family at home, ridiculing his penchant for rising early and setting out in leaky running shoes even in heaps of snow.

In the end, he went to Viet Nam, the family unbelieving he wouldn’t return to Canada. He, although refusing to swear daily allegiance to the American flag at school, said he owed his new country his service. He was in a medic unit and safe from harm, so he said.

Life continues and he married Shelly’s best friend , Kathy, had kids, became a teacher, but never lost his passion for running and so became a respected coach. Wherever he lived, San Francisco, LagunaBeach or San Diego, he found a way to connect with his enchanted followers, supporting and encouraging those of similar obsessions. And like his email address of “ club hell,” he ironically called his running group “Dr. Pain”, names that hid the deeper compassionate core of strength that he proffered by sharing coffee, hours of chat, and the intense thoughtfulness and focused attention of a man willing to listen and encourage others in their own pursuit of the race.

My connection warmed by my initial visit to California continued over the years, and I reconnected with my cousins again. But I,too, settled down, found a life in Toronto. But years later when my mother passed away, with a small inheritance, I returned to California, the place an awkward teen had experienced acceptance, her first Mac and shake, carefree rides on the back of a motorcycle – but now to San Diego. And over the past few years, we, the cousins gathered again to reminisce, to repeat old tales of the childhood years and, to share new tales of our own kids, grandkids…: to laugh, to drink in one another’s company, feeling the old bonds strengthening again.

But the damn pandemic of almost twenty months robbed us of a chance to repeat that closeness.

Just two weeks ago, Al and I made an arrangement to meet. He emailed his wife would be back from Minnesota and anyway, he was coaching nearby our condo. The days passed, as they do, and I sent a note saying I hoped to return in the new year. No response, but life gets busy and he and Kathy had just relocated to SD to be close to his grandkids.

And then I heard: Al had suddenly died. Incomprehensible to all- to me.

There is so much to say and nothing to say. My last meeting with him was at Dana Point halfway between Laguna and SD. After lunch, a stroll along the bay that sparkles with sea and light past small kiosks. There are antique cars, and dogs, and junk jewellery, and tee shirts and paintings of flowers.

People slowly ramble as if they have all the time in the world. The path continues and crosses streets. You, too, think you have all the time in the world. I’m conversing with Shell but as always, I’m aware of Allan; he’s walking behind us at a distance but there, always. He’s quiet, gentle, eyes down, and I think he’s contemplating something, chortling a little to himself, his eyes dart up, then down. He’s talking to my husband, and we move as if in a slow dance, changing partners, stopping for a touch, a hug. Sixty years melt away and I re- experience my connection, my pervading love for my cousins, but it’s easy in this beautiful spot that rekindles my affection for them. We squeeze one another goodbye, promise to stay in touch.

 

And so we’ve finally returned just a few weeks ago, with the desire to see one another. But suddenly he’s gone. The words of his numerous followers convey the love, the admiration: how a cup of coffee, reassuring story or nod of the head had kept them on their tracks. His youngest brother, Ken posts this,

“Allan To my brother and lifetime friend and Mentor.

You touched and helped guide us through life whether good or bad times you were always a Rock, solid, caring, non-judgmental and with a few wise words you guided our lives with positivity and wisdom.

You rarely showed Anger or Fear. Just disgust over injustice and human exploitation.

You were the best teacher that I ever met! So far ahead of your time. Often unappreciated you taught us the lessons of Commitment, Preparation and Passion for what we believe in. What we say and domatters. Our lives and relationships are meaningful.

We will sorely miss your presence, your wisdom, your funny quips and your guidance. Your light will shine on!!”

We all mourn in our own ways, Kathy and Shelly, their lives decimated by the loss.

Yet somehow Ken’s words proffer a bit of hope. They portray the man, the core of a human who demonstrated to all of us how to live, how to love, how to impart to others his wisdom:

What we say and do matters. Our lives and relationships are meaningful.

And we’re so much better for having known him. I’ll miss you, friend.

Pink is for Dreaming

On Mondays I travel to Sao Paolo.- at least virtually , by zoom these days. I participate in an art class, one focused on flora and fauna with a dash of acrylic. It’s like a dose of pink in this period of the pandemic. The instructor introduces the flowers we’re to study and then walks out on to her property and we can gaze with our own eyes on the pink hyacinths or pink calla lilies that swing from the trees. Last week, she warm in her sleeveless tank, underlined the need for air conditioning as it’s so hot there. For two hours a week, I’m there with her, away from the ice, snow, cold and mental drudgery of this year. It’s all pink and perfection.

Years back to celebrate a birthday milestone, we cruised with our children to Brazil, dumping them off at Sao Paolo where they, before boarding a plane home,  toured a commercial mall and took an extended bus ride while Howard and I continued on to our objective Rio. We planned on celebrating New Years there. We strolled on the immense multi tiled walkways towards the Copacabana, peeked into shop windows replete with glittering jewels and  lavish merchandise, climbed up towards that immense wonder of the world, Christ the Redeemer at the summit of the hill, shuddered at the broken down ramble of attached favelas, wandered carefully, our hands clasping our purses or deep in our pockets: we had been warned of pickpockets.

New Years was unlike anything we would ever experience, even though our idea of a good time was to munch salty cashews while sipping champagne, remarking on the closeness of the crowd as the ball descended slowly in Times Square. But early evening before the sun turned the sand deeply golden in Rio, families poured out on to the streets crowding the beaches with their portable stoves. From grandparents to babies and teenagers, they gathered to honour and bless the goddess of the sea. They dressed in their best whites, carrying armfuls of dazzling gladiolas to offer to the water. Rather than rowdy, it was familial, spiritual and dignified. We sat at the edge of the festivities at a bistro called Mab’s, pouring bubbly drinks to the stragglers who happened by, extending their mugs. At midnight, all who had gathered silently rose from the fabled sandy beach and swelled the avenues towards buses and departed.

Usually I’m in San Diego for the winter. Not here in the tundra where even inside I wrap myself in three wooly layers. There I walk, the cerulean blue skies above my head that I continue to bless as I head towards my exercise class at the Community Centre. I wander a bit, enjoying the swing of my arms, the patter of my shoes against the road, breathing deeply , enjoying being there in that place. I embrace the ground, the air, the people who pass me by on the street. I’m happy, I’m grateful, I feel invincible. Silly me.

This year has reminded us that attitude of acceptance is a scab to be torn off, a makeshift frill of the imagination. In this year of pandemic,I’ve yet to meet our new granddaughter in Philadelphia, or hug the little one here, merely mugging from afar. “Wave bye- bye”, we encourage on FaceTime. And our boys, the grandsons who have been collected from first, daycare and then school twice a week since they were two years of age, sometimes their father brings them by : to wave, masked, from a distance. They break my heart. In all of this, I miss the touch, the squeeze, the feel of kissing the tops of their rugged heads; and for the little ones, pinching their ample thighs, their polkas ( we call those ample limbs) and listening to them squeal in annoyance.

In my head, I hear Prufrock ‘s lamenting song,

I grow old..I shall wear my trousers rolled…

And although the central question differs in T.S. Eliot’s poem, that feeling of helplessness, aging, and fears roll around in my cranium. And with every day that comes and goes, the virus morphing and eluding and no vaccination available, I know I must travel away in my head, away from the turmoil, the pain of missing. To my pink places.

I suppose pink has always been my away place, for our living room is painted in pink. People once found this strange: that a somber grownup room might not be neutral, beige, white or grey. In deed, when Howard first painted it, forty- some years ago, the colour seemed shocking, too loud and intrusive, but we were instructed that it would “ cure” down. And so it has. We don’t use that room much, for it’s kept pristine. Embarrassed now, for I used to laugh at my Buby encrypting her embroidered white on white sofa in thick moulded plastic, unyielding and stiff to the touch: a perfect house showcase the costly piece of furniture. Only holes existed for the wooden feet. My pink room perhaps resembles that coveted piece of furniture from so many years ago.

In my pink room, there are off white sofas ( uncovered however), niknaks collected from around the world: an ostrich egg with a map of Africa, fierce animals finely moulded from waxy stretched soap in lively colours and fertility sculptures in tiny beads; our Chinese astrological symbols along with the warriors from Xian and worry stones still in their red fabric box carted from Shanghai ; photo mementoes of offspring displayed from graduations, bar and bat mitzvahs ; a paper mache radish from Fraggle Rock; small bone and stone Inuit sculptures gifted to celebrate milestones; a school bell given to me when we had completed the standards at OCT.

There are as well two fine menorahs, one of dancing women, the other with colourful embedded class. So, too, live “the santons” we bought home from France so many years ago: an aged bent couple who share a wooden bench, she knitting and he weaving a basket. We used to joke that would be us, and now it is. And there are fine paintings and photographs in my sacrosanct room, although none I confess is pink. The closest to that colour is a huge orange painting we shipped from Alice Springs in Australia. Seeing it on site, it made me cry. Less emotional after, I discovered it worked double, as abstract shapes but also realistically with echidnas( like hedgehogs, spikey), children’s hand prints, pathways, bare feet ,mandalas, and straw bags, depending how deeply it holds your eyes.

There are empty pink and white cabinets that used to house my father’s expertly crafted amplifiers and the huge booming pink speakers. Sadly, the creator’s secrets died with him as no workman has been able to untangle his genius contraptions – not just the wires but the power of pushing sound through my pink ornamentation ( he deplored the facades, focusing on the essence of the thing itself).

And too on the floor is the white and pink rug, woven specially just for us to offset the pink. It must be obvious by now: the room is more ornamental than utilitarian, housing but proclaiming parts of our lives, much like a tiny perfect museum. Although in truth, we used to gravitate there with friends and family after copious dinners.

I don’t think the pink is off putting. But like opalescent pearls, the sheen separates it, sparkling in a way that distinguishes it from the rest of the house : where cooking, or lounging, or feet creeping up on cushions or chairs now sagging bent to the shape of our bodies.

You sit upright in this living room and are careful not to spill your red wine or allow blueberries to escape your plate. You might entertain the queen here and not worry that the pink ersatz- marble table is not truly hard. But therein exists a story , a delightful one that links it to the Canon Theatre on Yonge Street, although I will not reveal it here. So I suppose pink has always occupied my imagination as a place for travel, dreaming, a departure from the mundane.

And so it is. I travel Mondays to another land of Pink and I paint Pink and I look deeply into my Pink pictures, holding those images in my dreams until reality has returned to pink and purple and green and turquoise and we can walk out ourselves, shaking the perspiration from our own heads instead of just visiting for several precious pink hours a week.

Visits to the Graveyard

Between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, one usually visits one’s ancestors at the cemetery. And so this past Sunday we found ourselves in both Hamilton and Toronto, wandering in the heat to say prayers to those who had lived and were now lost to us. 
The journey to the Beth Jacob cemetery or Gates of Heaven in Hamilton is about a 50 minute drive, eventually snaking over Snake Road, driving over a one car bridge that beneath houses a train track. The place itself edges on a mountain. Here we find much of my husband’s family, most lined up in almost straight formation and called to attention by their surnames.

Some visitors are overwhelmed by emotion. Sadly but neutrally I view my mother- in-law’s name in a double final resting plot, sharing it with her husband, Labol. I never knew my husband’s father who passed away at 42, but I imagine my husband’s finely tuned moral sense and art of the negotiator are derived from the man I’ve only seen in photos. In a bit of a mishmash on her grave is carved the wording, a marble marker that stands in place of the person. There is no suggestion of who she really was, her characteristics, personality or talents, the great affection she spurred in her nieces and nephews. Only the words “wife, mother, grandmother and great grandmother” .

Death is certainly the great leveller. Although there are a variety of stone types and shapes, manner of inscriptions and the odd quote here, there is an overall uniformity, perhaps reminiscent of the congregants at City Shul during these holy days . But in truth, I am dry- eyed, feeling little here. She is more in my thoughts and head when I attempt gefelte fish or am reminded of a shower she once hosted for her niece also long dead more than forty- four years ago. I recall she wore white and shone over the proceedings of cake and conversation. A butterfly, in deed.
Later in the day, it is the Toronto cemetery, Beth Tzedec, perfectly maintained and with a greater sense of symmetry than Beth Jacob as there is less choice between size and decoration and inscription here on markers: rules that the mourners will respect. Yet in spite of that, the graveyard is more of a park and one might imagine youths slowly wandering through the paths here, then meandering, stopping on a bench to reflect, gaze inward and connect with their thoughts. Even the flowers decorating graves are stipulated, not a hodgepodge, but a stately collected gathering chosen for memorials , for the eye and leg of those who frequent even as rarely as we do. As is the custom, we place a stone to signify we have come to visit. My husband reads the prayers, and it is done. I am reminded of Emily Dickinson’s poem( See below).

Hoping to come and go fairly quickly on this day, we arrive around 4 but spot a graveside funeral that is occurring so close to my parents’ stone that some of the mourners are actually leaning against it, the burial exactly in front. So we make a short pilgrimage to my aunt and uncle’s resting place which is easily locatable because their marker is surrounded by overgrown bushes.

But the funeral lags on, a group under large black and white umbrellas to shelter them from the scorchingly intense heat of early fall weather. We must continue to wait, bearing witness to the passing of a woman we did not know, but unable to move towards reciting our prayers and certainly not wanting to interrupt the sanctity of another’s passing. Finally when we are able to approach, I am- again- not feeling much, perhaps drained by the sun or the frequenting ghosts have flown further skyward to also escape the heat. I read the deeply engraved words on my parents’ stone , noting the familiar design I created of menorah and star particularly for them on the stone.
My parents have been abstracted in this moment, when they should have been most near, as usually in this place, I do conjure them with love, missing them strongly, but their faces or even a sense of them does not come to me; I cannot feel them near.  

The rabbi from the funeral reaches out and takes my hands and I am overwhelmed. As he reaches over the gravesite and our hands clasp over it, I experience a oneness with place, persons, a breaching of time. His is a warm thoughtful, action that extends beyond words as if to echo the “ Heneni” we heard discussed in the Dvar Torah. In a moment, all combines, a Mindfulness moment, “I am here, mummy and daddy.” The rabbi , looking tired, makes the visit real in a sense as the pressure of his hands and mine responding seem to affirm that we are both alive, sentient, reflecting and responding in the place of death. A strange compilation of longing for the dead, standing amidst compressed memories of my growing up life with them but also a bit like Robert Herrick’s Gather he rosebuds while ye may. Talk about T.S. Eliot’s time past, time present, time future! Only later here, I analyze. There, it is the sensation , the pressure of emotion, that is outstanding. Body not mind at all. How ironic as my parents’ bodies are no more, only dust.

Perhaps for the rabbi, it is a means to provide comfort for the mourners, perhaps to him as well, a verification that he stands in the realm of the living when his service that day is to walk among the dead, move as an agent of G-d to dispense comfort, reassurance that life will continue on. The hand holding moves into another dimension for me, the squeezing, the warmth even on a day so hot that flowers wilt . It seems to attest to the ability to be able to draw breath, move in this dimension of life, at least until we no longer are able. I ruminate at the simplicity of the gesture, no elaborate words, no soulful looks, mere touch that supersedes all else in that moment. It connotes kindness, respect and care. I appreciate it, especially as I am bereft of tears.

I’m reminded of the military gravestones in San Diego, all in strict accordance for markers of service people, small rectangulars standing at attention, much like a frozen wall of waves that stretches on and on, indistinguishable, one from the other. Yet even here on this Sunday, we in this place, must hunt a bit among the dead to scout out our loved ones.

Some people visit cemeteries as in the ones in Paris like Pere Lachaise that is home to famous writers and writers. Occasionally we have also veered off the beaten track of cities to also honour the dead. As in Buenas Aires to see Evita Peron’s family tomb- where she may or not be contained. There unending sculptures of angels in pink marble, some the size of tiny houses. The rich are celebrated in death as they did in life.

In New Orleans, St. Louis cemetery in the French Quarter, showcases an interesting arrangements “ a city of the dead” because of the high water level, so corpses are baked in their family graves- the dust of generations mingling as family member after family member share the same final resting spot.Ashes to ashes..all shattered urns…

In Prague, the magnificent 14 th century surviving Jewish cemetery where the intermingling of rural and urban traditions coalesced. Usually there is no human depiction in Judaism as the Bible forbids “ images”; however here, if my memory serves me, we view depicted on the angled surviving almost toppled tombstones the profession of the one buried: a baker with his bread, for example, not just detruncated blessing hands or a flame, or menorah marking the spot, deemed acceptable by the faith.

Years back there were benevolent societies that were set aside for Jewish burials. Immigrant and even resident Jews formed groups to assist their kin: no doubt spurred in by the antisemitism they encountered at work, school and university quotas and restrictive practices and attitudes of their neighbours. Their aim in building a better society resulted in the Mount Sinai and Western hospitals in Toronto. My father once told me that his mother sold bricks to raise money for the later. Near my house, on Roselawn, precious real estate space was once the outreaches of the city, far from Kensington Market and so here far from city core was the resting place for Jews. I visit my progenitors, Molly and Sam, this week, taking with me implements to tidy their graves. Maybe once , I had visited the graves when my mother was in her middle years although on the passing of my father, I stood outside the gates and called in through my tears, “Buby Molly, do you know? Your son has died.”

There is a taboo of graveyards as if the dead will pull you in and mark your days so even the recitation of Kaddish or prayers for the dead at the conclusion of services at synagogue incites the gong that ushers those with living parents quickly out of the congregation. We wash our hands as we leave the cemetery too, water taps installed within the gates, metaphorical again perhaps.

Although we do not ruminate on the dead, during our high holidays, the visits to cemeteries stimulate sobering thoughts reminding us to put life in perspective.

Emily Dickinson’s “ Because I could not stop for Death”,

Because I could not stop for Death –

He kindly stopped for me –

The Carriage held but just Ourselves –

And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste

And I had put away

My labor and my leisure too,

For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove

At Recess – in the Ring –

We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –

We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed Us –

The Dews drew quivering and Chill –

For only Gossamer, my Gown –

My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed

A Swelling of the Ground –

The Roof was scarcely visible –

The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – ’tis Centuries – and yet

Feels shorter than the Day

I first surmised the Horses’ Heads

Were toward Eternity –

To Party

Even for the most droll of us, there is some kind of party that is doable. Whether a soirée, an all out crazy dance time, a choreographed family gathering or even a simple lunch, there is a way to interrupt the flow of one’s daily routines and break up our ongoing days. I am not a party person, but even as a girl who would imagine herself invisible as she blended into the wall, preferring not to engage in any chatter or move to the beat of the music,  I occasionally craved a party.  And sometimes, we do in deed, need to party.

However, what I have always enjoyed is party prep, either as guest or giver. As guest, finding the right outfit, how to self style could fill several hours with fascination, contemplating the location, time and tempo of the event. How to straighten bangs that curled at the first hint of moisture in the air? Jeans or bling? But  even better for me , is to be the arranger of events, deciding how to enliven the mood, enhance the celebration and make the honouree of the party really shine .

Although my husband who does not meet his milestone birthday till next Tuesday had insisted without pause he did not want a party, I felt a party was exactly what was necessary.Optimism peppered with my strict commands and outright threats, for last year’s family birthday dinner had erupted into a diatribe between sibs about the existence of aliens( no joke) that left his 69 th in angry ruins, I decided to persevere with plans. In deed, children were sworn to good behaviour, avoiding such contemptuous topics. So without his consent but their promises, it had to be a surprise.  

Over the years, I have been able to surprise him for his fiftieth and sixtieth birthdays. The former was a trip to Boston where the children carefully fashioned for him a tourist map of all the activities planned, from five star restaurants to baseball games to museum trips . The sixtieth as well included two ball games in Chicago, this time our children and their partners coming along for the weekend. Special hotels, meals, diversions were all carefully considered although the sixtieth also included a backyard party with our close friends who shouted “ surprise” on cue. 

But this birthday party was to be different and I tried very hard to meet the challenge. Because I am now in California during the winter, I had to plan a July birthday in December before I traveled. I decided a small family dinner was just the thing amidst his continual grumbling that he did not want anything, particularly when friends and family persisted with, “ You MUST have something.” I pretended to support his irreverent decision, even planning to be in North Carolina when the day arrived.( Who knew he would trip in Berlin and make that trip impossible?)
No matter, the date chosen for the surprise was a week earlierthan his  actual  birthdate.

Our family has a special relationship with On the Twenty where Jordan proposed to Gillian. In the sweetest of family lores, over a dinner date more than ten years ago, he produced his journal for her to peruse over dinner, romantically kept from their earliest meeting. On the last page, he had written as she read, “ Tonight I will ask Gill to marry me”. So the out of town -usually 1 ½ hours if the traffic is good was far enough away and the stunning spot at the Cave Springs Winery was lovingly imbued with our own family history. Besides that, Howard and I, ourselves, had experienced the quality of farm fresh and locally crafted artistry of their fare numerous times when we needed a special dinner.

Fortunately there was a private room that would accommodate our family and so I booked it. Yup , back in December. They described the room as The Wine Library , not Cellar so there would be light and seclusion from the rest of the restaurant’s lively kerfulle. Knowing the Shaw Festival nearby and summer visits to Niagara Falls would fill the hotels and B&Bs, I also reserved accommodations for the kids in Niagara on the Lake and at White Oaks, putting Howard and myself at the Inn on the Twenty. Even back in December, believe it or not, not one location could meet the needs of all four families. So I spread them them out through the sumptuous wine country. 

Later in March and May, I could finetune the party. As the photographer suggested a colour scheme, I chose white, figuring all male members including kidlets would wear white polo shirts, the gals left to their own choices, but also whites: these, by the way, included one stunning Grecian number, two summer tops, one embroidered, the other peekaboo and my fav Max Mara maxi linen. To ensure the look, back in the the spring, I had ordered the shirts and sent them to my daughter’s house. If they had arrived here at our house, I would have throw them in a cupboard and retrieved them the day before.  

Wise woman that she is, Ariel opened the packages to discover a collection of black tee shirts, tank tops and mini dresses. One might think an exchange no bigee, but after fighting with a phone representative for half an hour, I finally demanded the manager who calmly and simply allowed an exchange.

.

For party favours, my preference is always chocolate. On line I could have Howard’s head inscribed on M&Ms, silver, pink and turquoise. Candy $6.98, mailing; $34.00. Gulp. Then came the great debate over the butt picture for the mini chocolates, both dark and milk chocolate. For really special events, I contact Simone Marie of Yorkville fame for her Belgian delights. On the wrappers she will provide your choice of photo and so there were three photos in the running: one official shot from Howard’s office; one with his back gazing out at the mountains at Joshua Tree ;and our fav of him in his Blue Jays shirt relaxing at The Tin Fish in San Diego. However the last also included a backdrop of another patron’s butt. Furiously back and forth, the children debated the pros and cons, the Joshua Tree could be any one in a park, the official one too stern, but what to do about the butt? In the end( ha), I could fortunately crop out the offending butt and we had ourselves a winner. 

Nervously I approached the day of the party, providing a ruse of wine tasting and a romantic weekend to entice my hubby to the spot. Although the newspapers promised a perfect sunny day, the rain thundered on the roof of our car and the traffic conspired to delay us. I worried that the children had not left in time, that accidents on the road would delay them. And what about our outside photo shot? Could a boardroom provide a dry albeit boring background?Would the drenching rain sour even the sweetest event? As I nervously picked the skin off my fingers as the car stopped in traffic, Howard casually marvelled at how his former partner had planned an outdoor wedding for his daughter on another vineyard several years ago. I recalled it had threatened rain that day but the sun had shone through with no need for the huge white umbrellas stored by the casks of wine. We had no umbrellas stored. But in spite of the favourable forecasts and even the radio’s assurance rain would end by 5!( our photographer arriving at 4), we were now caught in an annoying downpour. I frantically messaged the inn, the co- ordinator, Ariel, begging for another photo spot option. But only later did I realize I had no wifi and the cries for help failed. That worked to our benefit because the rain  eventually ceased and wound up bestowing interesting lighting in the garden dappled with hydrangeas, black- eye susans and lovely greenery. Post rain renaissance 

A public garden adjacent to our suite was to be the spot for the kidlets to cavort, and magically, thank you Weather Gods, it dried sufficiently for the grandkids to climb up and perch on the wooden bench. Even a pouting Remy was persuaded by a flower easily detached to contribute her two year old smile. Four month old Georgia only had to listen to the strains of Green Acres in order to burst into gurgling smiles.

And my curmudgeon husband , when our handsome soninlaw knocked at the door, was truly surprised. And somehow, too, Howard had chosen a white shirt for our outing so he even blended with the family colour scheme.

I knew what would please Howard was the presence of his guitar teacher Nick. Howard said that at first he didn’t recognize the long haired guy with the guitar who casually entered our dining room. Obviously not anticipating his Toronto teacher to be part of the celebration, Howard was again caught off guard. Jordan. Howard and Nick jammed on Howard’s latest hits that included Margaritaville ! Wonderfully Howard was the rockstar of the event, a command performance where his captive audience groved to his playing. Carter added his recorder to the mix to heighten the strings of Hallejuah. The kids danced, romped and even Aaron did a wild arm- flinging body swaying thing near the table, but all were engulfed in a fun evening, the delicious food enhancing the festivities.

A few people spoke, some did, some didn’t, but I contributed a brief speech, attached here:

In life, we are given gifts. I had no idea that my greatest gift would involve a guy in a funny flowered shirt on a blind date that has continued for 44 years of romance and adventure.

When you’re a kid, you take in a lot of information: on how the world works; who are the good guys and bad guys, what rings your chimes, how to live your life, and what you might want in the future. 

I was pretty ordinary, but had parents who loved and cared bout me. And I liked art- a lot. 

But when I met Howard suddenly my world came into focus. He made me feel I was special and smart and for the first time, I really believed in myself. As well, the values my parents had modelled became more real as I observed in him the integrity, honesty, intelligence and the strength to speak out. Even his admonishing an ancient lady who had skipped the line at Gryfes Bagels to get back in her place. 

Howard isn’t impressed by money or power and he is not judgmental.And he continues to teach and guide me every day. Ours is a give and take relationship. I’ve often repeated how before email technology , he made it a point to be home to have supper with the kids every night, returning to the office only after you guys were asleep in bed, sometimes midnight. He encouraged me and supported me to become a doctor of education, thus allowing for your truly wonderful dinners as the fighting family in the window of St. Hubert’s Monday nights when I was in class.

As a father, he has been exemplar, always there for you- whether calling with an attack of blindness from Albany; visiting for a weekend in London; or just hanging out at a Jays Game. Not to mention the family trips to Europe: of shivering in Brittany, eating pizza at Il Castillo in Montebuono and dumping scorpions out of our shoes, going down the wrong lane at Borghese Villa or blaming that poor Japanese tourist at Giverny.  

It is also true, life is no picnic, but dad is the cup full, not cup empty kind of guy. And win or lose, he soldiers on, putting life into context for me. 

So much goes into a relationship, the spaces between the pearls, as I said at Jordan’s wedding.But here on this magical night with my beautiful children, their spouses and  the grandchildren, I think we are all part of one another, and this spectacular man you call dad and I call Moo, I toast you as my heart my soul and my love. 

**********

Short and sweet. And he even cried as I did. Happy tears. There are those moments in life that we want to revisit and hold close. The night of the party and the next night the memory of the party and its preparation reverberated in my head. Truthfully I was delighted at the perfection of planning that brought together the family for the celebration of their father.He truly deserved every detail, every word.  A party to cherish.

Displacement and City Issues

I’ve been home barely a week but fitting back seems more difficult this year. And although I am older, it has felt different. Which surprises me because the two past years have followed almost exactly the same patterns: from location to classes and exercise- with the exception of extending my friendship circles and adding a book group, this year has repeated the last two in San Diego. 

Coming home, I feel that my house space expand from one floor to three and I feel almost lost. Of course the weather and skies that fill me with gratitude and warmth in San Diego are grey, overcast and shivery here so instead of popping out on my morning walk, I now unlock my car door and re- establish the daily routines- of exercise and such . Today 10 cm of snow so sidewalks are slick, glazed with ice. Even the robins have found shelter today.

The cynicism and revulsion I experienced nightly as I watched Lester Holt and Scott Pelly discourse on Trump are personalized now . When I go to review scholarship applications at Artbarn and have to navigate behind barriers— barriers for Metrolinx that will be in place for four years – yes, at least four years-while the neighbourhood is destroyed, I am shocked by the chaos created by the goal to improve road and thoroughfare access. Several stores are all ready vacant as their businesses are ruined, and unavailable to customers. Where is the vibrant shopping community that featured Miele appliances and upbeat clothes and Chinese dining and colourful flowers?

Trying to gain entry to any store along Eglinton is a quest behind and through barriers as work slowly proceeds – progenitors of this action oblivious and uncaring that the incomes of the owners have been jeopardized or totally lost. Not to mention the stagnation of traffic. Where a month of inaction due to disruption would be a cause for outcry, four years is a death sentence. I wondering if our council people fought hard, but obviously they lost the battle.

I ponder the similar mess on St. Clair which at the end did NOT improve traffic flow. I wonder how those small shops endured, as many did. Is it any wonder that Gap can remain rooted while a mom and pop grocery cannot. Was there no other way to work with the neighbourhood or parcel out construction in the name of saving the neighbourhood activity? Like Trump on climate, the baby is throw out with the bath water. It is the 21 st Century with strategies that recall the Middle Ages.

I wonder if this construction and ruin is merely a Machiavellian ploy so that more condos can replace the shops that once drew people to this area. Eglinton and Avenue and Eglinton and Yonge with its schools and boutiques and streets upon which to walk are being eaten up by condos in the area , no single owner establishment able to pay rent-.Is this work intrusion into the area a lingering payback to the old old days when this borough was separate and garbage was collected at back doors? Is some bureaucrat , silent guffawing at dismantling this part of town? Or more likely, developers ,salivating, winking and planning for their takeover.

 And on my walks over the last few years whether south on Yonge or north on Avenue, I have observed the encroachment of those condos. I surmise that as businesses dwindle on Eglinton, they will be replaced by condos that like the construction blocking Artbarn, first disrupts , making access difficult or impossible and even dangerous , and results in the understandable necessity of the evacuation by the owners- relinquishing the space, parks, close subway access , community centre, the well located walk ways to the slobbering condo corporations.

Lying through their teeth that there will be more accessible and living space to replace single house lodging, the condos will offer at unbelievably inflated prices what my father used to call “ chicken coops”. And will only be available to those who can afford the exorbitant prices in what was once prime real estate- in part due to the great little shops. Just today I was told of the thinness of walls in new condos just north of St.Clair at Bathurst, but a wise first time owner, not wanting to share secrets with the condo next door, turned it over for a cool 300,000 over what she had paid. Who could blame her? So I imagine that our city planners and government deciders are destroying first, businesses, driving out and eliminating the diversity of the area-, levelling the ground for those damn condos whose construction merits will vary greatly.. It infuriates and raises my blood pressure.

So much makes me angry.I notice in the butcher shop near Artbarn, the rearrangement of cabinets, wisely away from the door that opens onto construction, and instead of the feel good welcome, I intuit something else here and I wonder if shoppers have in deed begun to go elsewhere. I had intended to head towards the vegetable store on the other side of Avenue Road, even my aunt deceased almost twenty years used to purchase her greens here, but I am unsure if there is a path that is not blocked by machines and construction workers. All is turmoil as I ironically note that in the middle of the street a worker’s car is parked ( where shoppers, should any persist, of course would be towed) and there under the loom of giant machines even for home owners two blocks away experience the shaking of the once stable bedrock of homes.

True California is LALA Land and I am a visitor there but also a part time resident, also annoyed by the noise and disruption of new screens outside my door. But there I can wander out- into the sunny shade, ramble a bit and see the reason and the order for the intrusion. Here I cannot.

Spring must be on its way here as I watch a plump robin on my fence. But sadly too I note the two toned squirrels digging for the bulbs planted in the burnished fall in my garden, digging deeply, as the ground is now partially cleared of snow. Will the raccoons lumber by too soon, nocturnal animals so out of sync, that they do not differentiate between day and night. Suddenly Hunger Games flashes into my head, the mottled fur of the squirrel recalling the outrageous costumes of inhabitants against the rubble and hunger of the destroyed cities. Doesn’t it begin by dismantling roadways?

It takes a while to re-orient oneself back home without being able to plug back into professional work. Gradually we reinvent ourselves, loosening the rituals of the day to renew our interests that once organized our lives.. This is the good and bad of retirement, but as in few matters, we are never fully in control of our lives, conforming to the predilections, spaces and times of others. And so I gradually re- engage myself, accommodating my days to my activities.

I write to express my pleasure and displeasure at myself in my world. But this morning, it is the grey skies and my disrupted neighbourhood that prompts my litany of complaints. How sad the world has become.

Leaving San Diego

As my sojourn in San Diego is coming to an end, I am reflecting on what makes this place a home for three months. Years ago I would watch Survivor and one of the finale shows would glimpse a participant traversing the island, pausing to review or recount an event, a person , an emotion experienced in haste but reflected on in leisure, as if sampling a sweet or meaningful food that had lodged in their consciousness, but in the quiet of being mindful, the thought re- emerged for consumption.

So here too are my thoughts on my refuge from the bruising Canadian winters. Above all is the clear cerulean sky that is the backdrop to trees and walks in this city. There is almost an aural clarity to that sky, the picture perfect backdrop I associate with Giorgione paintings in Italy, the limitless of space that theNorthern Italian painters created in the looming expanse above their heads. In Joshua Tree National Park, it was the same- emitting that refreshing blueness: that if you stare too long, you will be turned to stone. I have noticed hummingbirds recklessly dart into those orange flowers with their extended necks, crows play with the currents, allowing the wind to swoop them higher to soar on inclement puffs of wind and flocks of gulls move together over the breaking waves on the beach. In the Galapagos, it is different as the colours of vegetation and wildlife contrast in their setting, dazzling red crabs and the naughty turquoise footed boobies strongly observable against the black and grey rocks, but here, it is all one, meshing and coalescing indivisible , perhaps a total mindfulness of setting.

How often Howard and I remark on our location here because we never imagined that within 10-20 minutes, all necessities of life could be gleaned: from food to book groups to exercise to windowshopping. With my sturdy feet, a bottle of water and sun visor, I set off for yoga or pilates, secure in knowing the level of instruction is confident, attentive and challenging. There is no judgment in classes, but careful teaching provides for variation in exercise, attuned to “ mature” bodies whose necks, shoulders or backs might not be as limber as in youthful arrogance and ignorance when all is accepted as functioning and moving gracefully. The Community Centre not only welcomes all, but offers a plethora of programs to educate mind, spirit and limbs. It is here too that a friendly face is always willing to acknowledge an outsider, making them feel welcome.

I engage in yoga here, twisting and grunting and extending, but never properly balancing (as in the tree, pose), fascinated by the names of poses such as happy baby who grabs the soles of the feet or warriors.one, two and three, feet arranged for battle. What always comes to mind is Maxine Hong Kingston’s book Warrior Woman whose battles, I recall, had to do with her paths through and into life. I find it strange that a non competitive exercise commandeers the name of “warrior” for a stance. Before the classroom mirror, do I look fierce, ready to battle? No, for my arms and legs, each wanting to wander off and sit with the the bougevvilla or sift the sand stands at the ready.

At home my Pilates person will endeavour to realign my parts, correcting my errant head and re-aligning my hips. But for the meantime, there has been no pain, only the reawakening ache of new muscles, different from my routines at home. The reformer instructor at a private establishment is young and when I enquire that I think my zoas muscle is protesting when I go up or down a hill, she dismisses my query by responding, there are lots of muscles in that area. It is a group class that meets on Sundays and I recognize the Pilates exercises but with arms outstretched, legs rotating, head bobbing up and down, my co- ordination most times is lacking. She comes to correct and last week when I feared placing my feet on the movable bar might cause me to tumble, she gently reorganized my trembling parts into safe and correct positions. I may be the oldest of the eight people on the reformers, a few slightly younger, but mainly the women are in their 30’s and this is a level one class! I challenge myself and feel proud as my shaking legs practically knock against the walls when thankfully, the 55 minutes have been completed.

And my California friends. Yesterday I met a former Canadian for coffee. We began by attacking Trump, totally in sync. And somehow we veered into guffaws and laughter that shook us from the inside out. My other passel of amigas feels genuine- even having known them for such a short time. Yesterday one reached over to warmly touch my arm, conspiratorial in her understanding of a shared confidence. Our former condo owners are like guardian angels always checking in,, offering insight , warmth, care and camaraderie. I can pop up stairs or call for a favor. Like a steady current, they ensure my security, as friends known a lifetime. And the newest friend is a kindred spirit. She, like my Wednesday lunch companion, discusses books, family, reminisces about our prior lives and we share a deep connection. This is a kaleidoscope of varied personalities.I am mindful of the Le Petit Prince and the fox whose regular meetings bound them in spirt. But truly, what could be more delightful than expressing one’s thoughts under a brier of twisted branches beneath that fabulous sky?

As an added sprinkle to my cupcake are my cousins who live in Laguna Beach and LA, the very people who began my enchantment with this state when I was young. Meeting with them reawakens my original delight that helped ensure an awkward 15 year old could build confidence and procure enduring friendships. I return to those memories of my cousins, embracing them time and again as the backbone of my writing. The recollections and renewed conversations refresh me.

As an added perk, my writing is more often published here- first in magazines, then in journals. I will have two pieces on Celebrations and Passover in The Jewish Journal. The editor wrote in an email that my pieces always make her cry. I was touched. I feel a connection built through our exchanges, and next year hope to meet her face to face. Several years ago, I was contacted by a travel magazine to travel with “ real” writers to Nevada. I imagined this was the kickstart to a new career, but it did not happen so this little surge of articles tickles me immensely: small publications here and there occurred, but here it has been closer to a little flurry.Pleasing.

So with a heavy heart, I leave but am anxious to meet my.brand new granddaughter,Georgia Parker, and return to my wonderful Toronto friends, my cosy house and lovely children and grandchildren.

Always I am in awe that these three months are due to my mother’s careful saving who like the elves turning straw to gold, provided us with the means to extend our path into the California climes.

Ageism and the Queen

Why was it that when Mic Jagger produced his last child a few months ago he was not shown in a rocking chair beset with grey hair and cane. More likely, with responses of thumbs up and “Attah boy,” gossip was impressive that an old dude was still so young.

But be a woman – of quite a lesser age! and the image that comes to mind is dowdy, frumpy, lacking in lustre. In the last year, I have been associated with this image at least twice.In not revealing my own age but describing myself in blogs and articles as a child of the 60’s I have received negative epithets that suggest I am ready for the Mosha Zakanam( Yiddish for old folks home). And it really infuriates me.

My grandparents WERE old and worn out by their 50’s, my buby Molly huffing and smoking “ special” asthma cigarettes, her stringy hair pulled back in a bun and never dyed, her short waisted body always in drab shapeless dresses, her lopsided hobble completing the resemblance to a crone. Yet the image of her lilting warm eyes remains as well. Molly’s husband ,Sam, was unsmiling, ageless, posture ramrod straight, and although he did not wear tails, one had the impression that behind his back he might have carried a pointer stick. They spent their days, before I knew them, crouched over sewing machines at Tiptop Tailors, immigrants with few choices but the weight and burden of life on their thin shoulders.

My mother’s parents, too, although seemingly better polished, also were not attached to a particular age; however, I did think of all grandparents and people taller than I as “old”. My mother’s father always cupped a half- smoked cigarette in his palm, and appeared to be coasting or dancing across the floor. My other grandmother’s scowl was timeless as well, angry from her dislocation from Europe, her cleaning and cooking for the landsmen from Poland my grandfather,Joe, trooped through their doors as unwelcomed guests. As a child, I found my grandparents all distant and cool, rarely hugged or even smiled at by them. Yet my mother adored her father, and the stories concerning special foods my father’s mother made for him out of love were endless.

But I was a baby boomer, one destined to jangle my lovebeads into grandparent hood.As well, all those my age had aged nicely, strengthening their core, exercising, consulting the latest experts on health and food choices, contemplating mindfulness training, gauging their cholesterol, finding Contemporary clothes to disguise the bag and sag of accumulated years. We moved easier( well some with knee or hip replacement), we were more knowledgeable about good heart choice meals and more veggies. We got down on the floor with our grandkiddies. We learned how to commandeer technology, computers, iPhones, IPads, that superseded typewriters, adding machines, snail mail and telephones. Some even ventured on Social media. So we moved with the times and adapted.Unlike the dinosaurs( or so I reckoned).

So last year when I had a trio of blogs accepted in a newspaper in cool California, I was pretty impressed that such a publication that appealed to a youthful culture would first, be interested and then actually, pay for my writing. The first two blogs , on my experiences in the San Diego scene, perhaps hinted at someone beyond a Millennial; however, the third concerned how I had tripped at Belmont Park, an experience I explained that had occurred from my earliest days as I am continually caught off guard by a scene, a flower, a friend and wind up with tangled feet hitting the ground hard, my head and body two separate entities, my knees permanently purple.

However the index that located the blog in the zine introduced my piece as” Old Lady Trips”. And I do not think they were punning on a Canadian connection to pot.

So infuriated was I that I emailed my contact who demurred that it was his editor who applied titles, not him.I immediately forwarded him a recent photo of me. True, it was flattering, as I did not send a picture of me in my worn nightie and rollers in my hair.He responded, “Oh my…!”. Oh my, in deed.

But just yesterday , so delighted to have an article published in a national newspaper, I could not wait to see the accompanying sketch. To my horror, the picture which did highlight the pointillism of Seurat’s Grande Jatte in the background ,displayed in the foreground a frump: the author(ME!). Upon closer examination, I noticed a purple cardigan, impressive rump and the most unshapely calves on the figure holding on to a picture frame. Her hair harked to the 20’s. Horrified , I looked closer to identify the personage as Queen Elizabeth the second- and not the one now dramatized in The Crown either. Certainly not a baby boomer.

What were they thinking? That someone who sat in a lecture hall in the 60’s was now 90? That someone who visits and discourses on art and art galleries is a decrepit soul who creeps in and out of rooms? That all this art stuff belongs to the over the hill types? The idea of the Queen being drawn into a picture frame was in deed cute, but truly, except for her horses and corgies, I have never associated her royal highness with colour, shape or form- with the exception of perhaps an interesting matching hat to her ensembles.

I wanted to scream ageism, sexism and send off a caustic comment to the paper, but my husband reminded me such a blast might prevent anything of mine being published there again should I follow the petulant like Trump model wherein he twittered about Meryl Streep’s comments at the Golden Globes. But perhaps only twerps tweet. So I took the higher ground . “Go high, “intoned Michelle Obama in my ears, and I chose to explode my outrage here in my blog.

Still, why is it that men get better with age, and women even boomers, get older?

Dinda and Her Two Grandsons from San Diego

I open my birthday card and surprise!, it’s tickets to the Chargers football game. Oh great, I say, as anyone who knows me knows I’m no sports aficionado. I’ll do a few baseball games, lots of basketball, but football?. Once when I was newly married, I did my new husband a huge favour by attending a game in Ottawa – and actually endured the game in the pouring rain. I vowed to the stars, beating my chest, never again.  

But the Charger ticket was a gift from my son- and my husband reminded me this would be a family affair as my two grandsons would be visiting San Diego after skiing Tremblant and the Chargers were their favourite team and it would be fun. I grumbled with a smile.Anything for those little guys.

Thankfully the rain in San Diego that absolutely thrashed the city occurred the day before the game so at least I didn’t have to watch guys in tight pants run amok in the downpour.

Usually San Diego boasts perfect weather but because of La Niña and the Santa Anna winds this year, California is a bit off, no doubt miffed that Trump wound up as president so the climate is severely out of sorts.

So we set off and I learn about “tailgating”at football games – which means that people sit in parking lots near the game before kickoff, cooking their dinners and imbibing.It reminded me of Rio on New Years where families from grandmas to screaming infants all dressed in white gathered on the Copacabana with their hibachis to cook their meals, offer gladiolus to the sea and basically, just hang out together. I had previously believed “ tailgating” meant driving too close to the car ahead of you. I now comprehended in football lingo that sitting by your car in a smelly parking lot and eating a salad near your gas tank must refer to the “ tail “ of your car.Maybe there’s a football connection here that alludes me.

During the game, one of my grandsons asked me,”Why do they fight for the ball? It’s like playing a game, tackling one another and trying to grab the ball?” He suggested that they should politely stop and enquire “Would you like the ball?”… then tip their caps to one another.Sounded more gentlemanly to me too.

Still my eye was constantly drawn to the gold pompoms of the cheerleaders who did, to my mind, a much better job than the girls at the Raptors’ Games, whose moves are often vulgar and not very pretty, especially in their costumes that scream polyester.Here in San Diego, these girls looked like real American girls.

After the game, in the car on the way back, my son asked, “How did you like it!” . One grandson replied , “ It was boring and I didn’t understand it”. Also it was really really long. That’s why it was boring.” Me too, I thought even though my son had provided a tutorial on how the field was divided into 10 yard segments and the teams had to pass or kick the football down the field.

My other grandson said he liked the game a little bit, but not surprisingly, not that much. He bought a little stuffy bear because he had some money to spend. So that was good.We shared a very long bag of caramel ( and very expensive) popcorn ,but we didn’t finish it. Actually one of our little guys wondered,” I like balls, but why not baseball or soccer? That’s better than football.”

My little guys also hiked at Torrey pines and appeared to be more impressed with the natural beauty of rocks and surf. They had created a scavenger hunt and found all the things on the list: a caterpillar, a butterfly, ,a stick, a spider, dog poo, and cactus. They watched the ocean. They explained the waves make shapes with the water; however, they related that they couldn’t feel the breeze. They also followed a path of 118 steps that went nowhere, having to go back up and around to the top: much to their Poppa’s annoyance.They brought back beautiful rocks. And let’s face it, Torrey Pines is one of the most beautiful places in the world.

So besides the Lego Show in Balboa Park, an afternoon at local Doyle Park with its many attractions upon which to swing, slide and twirl, the awesome Disney movie Sing, chocolate at Ghiradelli , Chinese Food at PJ Chang’s, the impact of football was lessened. And for me, their Dinda, I was very very happy.

Full disclaimer: Written with the grandsons.

Things in Wrong Places

This week my daughter staying here with her two babies looked up at a tall tall tree two houses over and observed a hawk. Yes, a hawk in midtown Toronto at Avenue and Lawrence. She knows because she does these amazing nature walks in the country where she lives in a picturesque town outside of Philadelphia. What was a predatory bird doing in North Toronto?

That got me thinking about things that don’t belong.

The Republican National Convention brought to mind that old Jim Carrey movie, the Truman Show, or what I remember of it. Watching the beautifully scripted and choreographed sons of Donald Trump, I felt as if I were watching a play composed in a studio. Young men who over the years on Celebrity Apprentice who barely uttered more than mono-syllabic grunts of approval to their mega boss were poised and well spoken. My mouth hung open. And daughter Ivanka , the cherry on the ice cream in her perfect pink turning left and right to capture the crowd’s attention, all lauded their ignoramus of a father as wise, hardworking and ever so compassionate as a president hopeful.And maybe he will be! I noticed Trump’s demeanour had been improved and even his down to earth too loud ramble began to sound reasonable: That is the scary bit as the dictator weaves his web with lies and slurs and vague unsubstantiated promises that He can and damn it, will “fix “ America ( to the hoards chanting, “USA…USA…USA…” )and make it right, always capitalizing on fear, he pontificates, Give me the power- and the people on the floor of the convention, the overwhelming number of middle and lower class white Americans in their silly shiny hats and gaping mouths ( like mesmerized me?) cheer and shout approval. Papa will take care of the dragons of government and keep out all the bad people. He will protect you and build walls.

And later on Sunday’s Meet the Press, the same toned down Trump explains that the purpose of the EU was “ to beat America” and by the way, keep all those war- ravaged Syrians in camps at home. So much for the land of the free and the brave. And forget NATO.

My mind like many others imagined the moustachioed dictator who promised similar security for Germany, keeping or exterminating or locking away those rodent- faced Jews, gypsies, homosexuals, Catholics and mentally- impaired. The beer halls were full of nodding, applauding folk who burdened down by war treaties like Versailles and restrictions after WW1 were tired of their economic restraints and their humbling by other European countries. Chanting, marching, goose- stepping – remember Regensberg? Nuremberg?to progress with the funny outcast fellow who bellowed and promised pie in the sky, better times, make Germany great again, they desperately wanted to believe.

Amidst Trump’s crowd, one black, one Latino and a few in skullcaps( well, he did say Israel was the only friend in the Middle East) . And my heart sang Shame, shame, shame on you Americans, falling for the lies of the rich businessman. He has exposed himself in debates, in interviews, on talk shows- wherever- as less than a performer and the gall to think he possesses the knowledges to repair America. It truly boggles the mind that he is a possible White House hopeful.Today, July 25, 2016, his rating was 48% to Hillary’s 46. Has the world gone totally mad or are we just watching a egregious TV show where the old guy( with the comb- over ) gets the pretty model like Sophia Vergara?

Sesame Street used to sing, “ One of these things is not like the other, one of these things does not belong…” I know my thinking unusually does not reflect the majority, but none of our friends in San Diego support Trump, and the only person anywhere who said they did was an customs guard we has encountered at the aero port. We were joking about Rob Ford( before his cancer) at the border crossing , and this seemingly gentle , pleasant man volunteered with great pride his choice for the next president of the United States.Gad Zooks! Even Republican hopefuls repulsive Ted Cruz and John Kasich rejected him, one openly lambasting him; the other refusing to attend the Convention.

To jump back to actual fictional, Black is the New Orange, has also reached an incredibly depressing level of life, this time in prison as the privatization of Litchfeld.The humanity of the prisoners is revealed as personages you might chat with at the grocery store or the library appearing devoid of their crimes, heinous or not: contextually stories even make one sympathize with their reasons for being jailed.They hang out, complain about the food, tend gardens, do nails, confide their desires for love, companionship and better lives. Fraud, swindling and even murders are comprehended as the endgame due to incredible circumstances. The women, all races, colours, sexual orientation are almost mundane as girlfriends.

However,overcrowding and the imposition of psychotic guards have distorted circumstances to such an unbearable degree that inmates ( in the last episode) have rioted, peaceful tactics and sitins having been abandoned. Brute force trumps any reason. Again, it is the rule of the ignorant, the bullies to have the inmates taught “ manual education” as opposed to opportunities for true learning, forcing them to actually build more institutional cages, even destroying the small patch of land where a handful of tomatoes and fresh vegetables were grown. To the outside world, their re- education boasts a valuable skill; more lies, repositioning truth for profit.

I am not taking aim at business nor on the basis of one NETFLIX ‘s show decrying or believing that that like Chicken Little that the sky is falling. But as I survey the world With Brexit and Trump and his idiotic talk ( last night’s joke regarding Hillary’s lost emails), daily gun rampages everywhere, the world does seem to be coming apart. Yeats would intone, “things fall apart/ the centre cannot hold…”,ironically in 2016, way past Orwellian predictions of a brave new world. This cannot be what brave looks like, I fear.

 Ban guns, listen and hear the voices of the oppressed, don’t forget the past, and do not vote Trump.

Poetry Collectives and Such

Last week I received a glorified chain letter, but with a difference. It was entitled poetry collective.Annoyed, I reflected I would not participate but I did not delete it from my machine. A few days later, coming across it again, I thought it might be a neat idea to receive a poem or two.

Now- I am not a poetry person, rather my solace is fiction and prose and narratives. Yet in my head are stored bits and pieces of poetry that rise to the surface occasionally. “Such as home is the place…”, the haunting Robert Frost poem that emerges whenever my plane lands in Toronto; or the mantra I uttered to my kids for years as we pulled into the drive way. I giggle to recall one of my courting love notes to my husband when we were seriously dating, an. e. e.cumming’s line about” I like my body when it’s with your body…”

It is a nuisance to engage in writing chain letters, but angered by my day’s events yesterday and looking for an outlet, I pounded on my computer. What poem, I ruminated , shall I send out into the world? Oppressive weather, lost earrings, changed appointment dates? A return to the slings and arrows of life in Toronto prompted William Butler Yeats’ The Second Coming. Heavy, dark and forbidding. And how perfect for angst of Easter, but truly in tune with my mindset, I remembered from my university years “ …turning and turning, the centre cannot hold”.

Was I ready to explode too?

Yup, I was feeling torn apart, angry, twisting with frustration. So I clicked on the first name in the list and sent off the poem, a bit embarrassed not to be sharing rosebuds but gloom and doom that “ the centre will not hold”. I felt heavy, my imagination clothing me in the cloak of a grim reaper, my scythe ready to slice through the encroaching darkness.

But quickly, a response returned to express :the receiver loved the poem. I thought I recognized her name and to be of my vintage so I imagined she too might have been  introduced to Yeats back at university 40 years ago. Perhaps  her awareness of stodgy intellectual love- driven Yeats was accompanied by thoughts of U of T’s grassy quadrangle, and being young and wistful and dreaming of a happy future, maybe even in a  classroom.

The next step, however was to blind copy 20 people with the request to also send out poems. I chuckled to include my list of friends from Vienna to Los Angeles, contemplating a worldwide circuit that might travel around the world spreading poetry. So maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea and my mood began to lighten, especially when I was forwarded this,”It’s a green speckle time/ my favourite time of the year/ when all the trees begin to bud/ and summertime is near”. Joyously, some qother participant, had decided to play along with his best shot, his of a burst of spring.

Alas, my damn computer refused to co- operate and I had wasted almost an hour tracking down correct configurations of email addresses. Anger rising again, I reduced the size of my list, anticipating I would bcc in smaller bits, but again, my damn computer would only send one bcc at a time. So I sent 5, thinking, maybe I’ll do this later, but almost immediately two of my respondents emailed with thanks, but no thanks, I don’t do chain letters.

 I completely understood but the idea of poetry circling the globe like children of many colours dancing was morphing into a fleeting wisp of a thought.

Just back from three months in San Diego, the incomplete chain letter fell to the back of the closet in my mind.The crashing ice storm, the appointments put off, the reassemble of one’s life back home forced itself into my head space.

Where waking up to the blue cerulean sky had awakened a positive spirit in San Diego,the grey of Toronto had reminded me of more cold bitter days until we limp in to spring -in maybe two more months or more.The enjoyable colours of birds of paradise springing wildly by the walkways en route to yoga class were replaced by rustling squirrels and one very confused robin caught in an icy downpour here.The desirability of walking out to meet the day in shirtsleeves had returned to the grumble of dashing into the car buried to the chin in multilayered beneath my winter coat and turned my smile upside down.

Double humbug. I’ld even stopped the uplifting morning meditations and felt myself the tight brown shell of a small nut. And now even poetry would not go out into the world to shake some snow from tree limbs.

I should be happy: warm, secure in my lovely house, finally reuniting with my gracious grandsons here at home. But I am yearning for the sun- not sweating by a beach, but striding out in the fresh air, feeling alive and grateful for the day.

I’m not a supporter of things American and the name Donald Trump or Ted Cruz raises my ire and makes me rage with anger that so many people can be so stupid to support these crazies. I soothe myself that our fellow Justin Trudeau although not his father’s prodigy of brilliance is,at least, demonstrating the right moves towards diversity and environment,espousing a better world. But I must wonder at opportunities in the US, and why in 3 months, five of my writing articles were accepted in a variety of publications while here in Canada, no one is interested.

And why in California, people are welcoming and smile at you, often strangers initiating conversations with no ulterior motives, and why, too, does the service industry really try to satisfy -even should you sound or look weird?I love Canada and even when my husband was offered opportunities to move or study in the states, he refused. Whenever I can, I laud our healthcare, our innovations, our society, the Eldoas.

But maybe as the tail of winter is wending through my mind and I am experiencing shadows not sunlight, I feel down, yearning for the pink buildings of La Jolla and the outside cafes for leisurely lunches with my friend Peggy. Like frog and toad, I know spring will come again, but right now as the gloomy brown day envelops my yard and the perplexed robin stands perplexed on the soggy lawn, I yearn for the purple bougenvilla at  the side of our condo.

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)       THE SECOND COMING
    Turning and turning in the widening gyre

    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

    The best lack all conviction, while the worst

    Are full of passionate intensity.
    Surely some revelation is at hand;

    Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

    The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out

    When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

    Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;

    A shape with lion body and the head of a man,

    A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

    Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it

    Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
    The darkness drops again but now I know

    That twenty centuries of stony sleep

    Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?