Footprint

My husband’s family will gather for a reunion this Summer, and a book, recording the known history of the family, will be assembled, published and presented for the occasion. The book will appear innocently enough but those who have breathed life into it will know how deeply frustrating and exhausting a struggle it has been to deliver the saga. The internet is a remarkable tool for sourcing official records, more reliable in some cases than anecdotal lore, but not every document is readily searchable, and even after an official existence has been proven, there is a need for a personal history.

I have been given the assignment to write a story about those who are the “greats” on my husband’s tree — individuals who were born in the mid-to-late 1800’s, the children of the pioneering family we will be honouring. Of nine long lives there are precious few threads to tug at and scant evidence of the individual or collective existence. Even the remaining grandchildren have very few memories or insights into the personalities of their recent ancestors. That a life of almost 100 years can go unremarked is a surprising mystery to those of us who want to immortalize them and whose own lives are documented and traceable.

But did we talk with our own parents about their early lives and the earlier lives of their parents? Do we even know if any of their egos allowed for introspection or personal indulgence? Perhaps the early generations were not prompted to think ahead one hundred years or imagine that we would be interested in their individual struggle. We should, every one, attempt to see into the unknowable future and leave some definitive record of how we lived and how we made our marks. Someone out there will want to know.

Big band

We’re at an afternoon concert and probably the youngest in the theatre. Only the elderly, unemployed or self-employed can indulge in this kind of entertainment in the daylight hours. We are here for a tribute to Count Basie as presented by the Swing Shift Big Band. This band has been together and touring for eighteen years, a tribute also to their dedication and stamina — most of the band members are in the same age bracket as the audience.

In the 70’s we were lucky enough to see and hear Count Basie as part of a great concert series staged at Minkler Auditorium at Seneca College. Until budgets were cut and the artists themselves stopped travelling, we were in the audience for Woody Herman, Peter Appleyard, Buddy Rich, Ray Charles. Oscar — in fact, a full who’s who of the Big Band and Jazz worlds. They all established their fame years before I was born.

There are walkers and sticks and patrons unsteady on their feet, some forgetful of their seating, and two rows ahead sits our old Mayor, the one we all like, and it pains me to see on his bald pate evidence of fresh and horrible wounds from a surgery. We’ve met old friends in the lobby, and Stratton is enjoying his first outing after breaking a leg. He’s 80-something, still plays jazz clarinet and tours the Seniors’ residences. This music belongs to this generation, and we like being among it.

Signs of Spring

It’s not the first robin sighting, but here, this morning, is a small flock. They are gorging on the shrivelled and fermented fruit of the crab apple. Inebriation is the only reasonable state of mind for a robin finding itself on the frozen tundra of a late March morning in Markham.

Birds appear. Attracted to the feeders, I have been visited by a couple of Red-Winged Blackbirds, a Cowbird and a Grackle. They are not exotic, but as welcome as a Bluebird.

This Winter, and I am sorry to mention it again, has been hard on the psyche. We are all looking a bit wild-eyed.

Bookshop Revisited

I think I have to make a distinction here between the Book Needy and the Book Neutral. Some of us cannot pass by a book shop without experiencing an involuntary reflex to enter. Once inside, the Book Needy cannot, will not, leave without a purchase, and almost any purchase will do — a shiny book about food, for instance, just like the one I brought home the other day. Do I need another book about food? No. Do I have room on the shelf for one more book about food? No. Did I take it to bed with me its first night in the house and melt into the gorgeous photography and study the fonts? Yes. There was one of that book on the shelf and I happily succumbed to the indulgence of the spontaneous purchase and gloried at the wisdom of the shopkeeper, who seems to know just what I like.

It isn’t the experience I have at Chapters or Indigo or any other big book store that has bullied its way onto the landscape. I do admit that the Amazon experience trumps that of the sprawling book palaces because it delivers with an impressive efficiency. (I needed a Jim Reeves CD earlier in the year for a rabid C&W fan and not only did they stock the musty old recording but had it on the doorstep next day.) Hands down, Amazon wins the day for the ruthless and puritanical book & music buying experience. What I hate about the big box stores is the sheer volume of inventory — multiples, nay, scores of the book, presented in merchandised piles, trumpets blaring. It demeans the books and robs me of the chance to peruse, consider, discover. The charming old deceit about musty old bookshops is that the proprietor couldn’t care less about turning a profit and wants only to enlighten and intrigue. The big box store is all about profit and very little about literature. There is no Nicholas Baker on the shelf and the chirpy clerk who trails around after me never heard of James McBride.

And then there’s the antiquarian bookshop. (Here’s to you, Mr. Robinson.) Deadlier than ten Albert Britnells, seductive and beckoning, it is the repository of all the titles we wished we’d owned and didn’t — our very lives lined up before us on the sagging old shelves. They must be rescued! And very often, and for this I give a second bow to Amazon, the very edition, the absolute and obscure old volume is available online and can be mine.

I can’t argue for the bookshop on the grounds of good business. I know it’s no way to make a living. I know that rents are brutally high and that kids would rather play video games than meet up with Robin Hood on the page, but was it not always that way? Just because someone decided that bigger meant better, and better meant crushing all the little guys who ordered two titles at a time and kept a cat in the shop, it doesn’t mean they were right.

Book Shop

Uxbridge is one of my favourite small Ontario towns. So far, Walmart and Costco have no presence and the old downtown survives and thrives. This stretch is a mighty satisfying bit of the world for me and houses three stores crucial to my wellbeing: the book seller, the yarn shop and the cheese monger.

A while ago, I read that the good citizens of Creemore (another charming Ontario village) pledged, in writing, to the proprietor of the local book store that they would never again order a book from Amazon or any other conglomerate and would only support independent bookshops, in particular hers, in an attempt to keep the small shop alive. I haven’t checked to see how that worked out for them, but I took the pledge myself and turned my loyalties to the Blue Heron Book Shop in Uxbridge.

This book shop throbs with activity and community participation; the owner organizes book events, classes, discussion groups and edits her stock personally, displaying only single copies of the most intriguing editions and titles. It helps me as a book buyer to know that the book on the shelf has been chosen for some desirable characteristic. This old-fashioned approach pays off when I go in to pick up my order (their online system works perfectly) because I always have a spin or two around the shop and add to the pile. The independent book seller may be a dying breed, but as long as there are stubborn old ladies like me their demise is not yet at hand.

Behind Schedule

The cottage is getting a facelift and a few tucks. The crew is behind on the project, as they are on the other two projects on the roster, because of the unanticipated long and brutal Winter. Builders and landscapers have come to appreciate the mildness of the past several Winters but this one has delivered a knockout punch. There have been only a handful of hours in the past four months that have made the tarp and propane heater feasible. Even yet, the nighttime hours are below zero and a sunny day could not be called mild. Those in the know say the frost is into the ground to a depth of seven feet.

Still, the atmosphere on the site is full of expectation and optimism. I like the forthrightness of men who do this for a living — I suggest what it is I want done and they tell me what’s possible. They don’t complicate my choices and I don’t waste their time. They like looking at drawings as much as I do and these guys have an appreciation for function and design that you’d never guess by their appearance, which is all function and very little form. The collar sticking out from under Augie’s flannel shirt looks chewed and ancient.

I wouldn’t mind hanging out for the rest of the day, but I know having the client on site demands a certain reigning in — the blaring portable stereo has been silenced in my honour and although I can hold my own in a discussion about ice fishing, I know enough to get on down the road. This space doesn’t belong to me just yet.

Torr Head

Torr Head, N. Ireland. Year One: I pledge to myself if I ever get back I’m going to climb up there. The top supposedly is the site of some ancient king’s tomb and I stupidly think I’ll find a relic. Year Two: It takes ten minutes to get up there and the only thing resembling a relic is the rotten old loo that belonged to the decaying Customs House. I like that about Ireland — you can just leave things lying around and nobody bothers. The view is spectacular.

When Ev and I went to find our roots we had lunch with one of the tour organizers and asked him how he felt about North Americans arriving, feeling this was their home and their land and claiming a connection. I thought he would resent the intrusion but instead he said the loss of so many Irish was a shame on his government and country and they wished they knew how to get them back.

They might get me back next Winter because my husband says he’s not spending another goddamned one here and four months in Dublin sounds divine to me.

The Little Free Library

The Little Free Library is a simple and tender concept but I wonder if it has any value in our electronic world? For me, books were quite magical and most of them came from a library. My earliest recollection of being escorted to a library was quite early and involved a long bus ride into the city. The first book I ever borrowed was about an Eskimo, black & white photos and text, and I only wanted that one. The concept of taking a book that wasn’t mine was quite a revelation.

The Little Free Library is a movement and I have to say it stimulates the imagination — build yourself a romantic little structure, plug it onto a pole and plant on your front lawn. (You can receive official designation and join an international alliance.) Your delicious assignment now is to fill the space with books that you think, in your impeccable judgement, will appeal to passersby. It will be their pleasure to borrow that book, keep it as long as they like, and return it or another in its place, for the next reader.

By all accounts, visitors are respectful of the system and participate in the most congenial ways. Kids and adults alike respond to the gesture. There is a lot of goodwill in kindly offering the beauty and wonder of life on the inked page.

Saturday morning

The Saturday morning ritual is well established: while I do my thirty minutes on the treadmill, my husband cooks breakfast. What a treat for someone who is getting weary of the kitchen! As long as I’ve gone and bought the raw materials (emancipation only resonates so far) we shall have eggs and bacon, crusty toast, fresh fruit and a pot of coffee; beans freshly ground.

The Saturday Globe has been delivered to the doorstep and after clearing away the plates, we move to our place in the window for a thorough scouring of the paper. It’s our chance to ridicule politicians (the Ford brothers surely will lose traction as the mayoralty race gains momentum) city planners and international consultants (one of the features of the 8-80 scheme for more livable cities is to get everyone on a bicycle) and consider if we could actually live in 1000 sq. ft. ($545.00 per sq and not a place to hang your hat).

It is a truly indulgent, relaxing and quiet time, and I regret that it shall come to an end in a few more weeks when golf season opens.

Aggasiz

Is there a moment in time that is indelibly etched in your memory? A moment that was deeply felt and made a big impression, dug deeply into the senses and that you cherish and visit again and again? Let me set the stage for one such theatrical morning in May, 1977.

My husband and I, married one year to the month, had tacked a personal holiday onto the back of a business trip, which could be regarded as a delayed honeymoon, and for which I had flown to Calgary to meet him and the train which would spirit us to the West Coast. Our first stop along the way was to be Harrison Hot Springs, an exotic place I had heard of which offered a fine resort built around natural mineral springs and hot rejuvenating baths. I had my instructions to alert the porter that we must be let off at Agassiz, the closest point to Harrison along the rail line. In good time, we were alerted that we should be prepared to disembark at 5:30 a.m. of a morning.

In retrospect, we might have considered what and where was “Agassiz”. We were escorted to the rear of the train, handed our luggage and bid a cheery adieu. One motion. And there we were, dropped into the middle of the tracks, watching our single connection to civilization rumble away. The sound of a retreating train, moving off into the mountains just after dawn, is exactly what you might imagine. We stood, fairly quickly comprehending that we were alone in the British Columbia outback. As is the case in sublime moments, we had no response except to stand silent, witness to a perfect stillness but for the hollering of a single black raven, and letting it wash over us.