Christmas Catalogue

Math was never my strong suit and, in fact, had I not babysat for and done a handspring in my gym glass in front of my math/gym teacher, Mr. Renton, that 37.5/113 on my grade eleven trigonometry winter term exam might have held me back a year (or at least meant a final test in June).

So for all of you calculating aficionados out there, please give me a wide margin for error. I did the best I could with these percentages, but did not feel any compunction about dusting bits of figures away from around the edges (so that some of the 8s might look like 3s, and so on).

That said, I do have a thing about mentally adding columns of numbers and looking at statistics. Today, for example, after I filled out my Christmas card envelopes, I decided to take a look at some of the characteristics of the people I call my friends. (If that sounds a little distancing, it has the opposite effect on me.)

I was curious to see the ins and outs of my life choices—and theirs—and I was captivated by what I chose as viable categories. I mean, there are so many options from which to choose (occupations, hobbies, gender, birth weight)—why did I select these?

I have to additionally say that I was especially fascinated by the absence of children (two of the women with children-at-home were friends of my daughter’s); the number of volunteers, and that little statistic in red down at the bottom.

I should also add as an almost-aside that there would be another non-Canadian resident on this list had I not discovered last winter, while googling my first steady heartthrob and longstanding friend, Homer, that he forgot to tell me that he remarried several years ago. I can’t imagine why he didn’t tuck that information into the basket of fruit he sent me last Christmas, or thread it into the vaseful of holiday flowers that came via courier the year before, but perhaps he thought the information would rot with the fruit and all of that plant water. (It does explain, however, why he was vague those times we spoke on the phone and I played matchmaker.)

Anyway, boyfriend/s aside (no kidding), here are my Christmas card statistics based on 37 individuals:

· Canadian citizens 34 (92%)

· Other 3 (8%)

· Single men 7 (19%)

· Single women 5 (14%)

· Married long-term 14 (36%)

· Married less than a decade (and counting) 3 (8%)

· Married with children at home 4 (11%)

· Divorced [some have remarried and are also represented in those categories] 7 (19%)

· Heterosexuals 28 (75%)

· Homosexuals 9 (25%)

· 20s [age] 1 (3%)

· 30s   9 (25%)

· 40s   10 (26%)

· 50s   10 (26%)

· 60s   5 (14%)

· 70s   1 (3%)

· 80s   1 (3%)

· Cat lovers 18 (49%)

· Cancer survivors 5 (14%)

· Laugh-out-loud funny 12 (32%)

· Volunteers 16 (43%)

· Writers, paid and otherwise 25 (68%)

I suppose I can’t claim gobsmackery over that red figure, given that I am forever attributing the like attracts like theory to great friendships. And it is true, and don’t I always also say, that many many many many many many thousands of people write well.

No matter, I was pleased when I saw this bold figure. These people aren’t merely good writers, they are, for the most part (maybe in all parts), spectacular writers—funny, generous, perceptive, quick, smart, informed and just about as brave as people come, which works really well for me at this particular time. More, when you consider the span of ages, marital status (stati?), and mix of homos and heteros, I couldn’t be more pleased to put my tongue to that glue and seal away.

Or as they say at the starting line in sight hound lure coursing, “Tally ho!”

Lost and Found

I just wrote a blog entry and, with no idea how, lost it all.

I wish I had Don’s eidetic memory so I could replicate every word, the way he once did with seven pages of a typed essay. He got it back, word for word (or close enough that it looked like word for word to him, and he ought to have known).

I am superstitious enough to wonder where my entry went. I saw it, hit copy, and pasted what turned out to be one short sentence from something I had copied and pasted earlier today.

I then went ahead and tinkered so much that if the entry had once been retrievable, it no longer was.

As I said, I have no idea what I did wrong. But I do wonder if this is a sign not to post the entry I had typed up...which doesn’t make sense since I have addressed this issue before (and in fact, made vague reference to it earlier today on an online site, which was what prompted the retelling).

Rather than waste your time, and mine, I am therefore going to try and semi-replicate, this time in one as brief as I can make it sentence, in case there is something in the anecdote that will have meaning for you.

Earlier today I commented on a site that made reference to a television producer/writer/comic who, vicariously or otherwise, once stole something of mine without asking, paying, or apparently thinking twice, given that he had heard this story second-hand from my best friend whose (romantic) partner was head writer and producer of this man’s show and who, as it turns out, was fed all kinds of comical tales that had been taken directly from people’s lives—people like me who thought that entertaining her friends with anecdotes from her neurotic past in the safety of their home/s would ensure privacy—stories that lo and behold turned up on his television show, which might have made my family and I proud had we at least been notified, but instead made Don angry enough to suggest lawsuit (which now makes me wonder about the statute of limitations, especially since this extremely arrogant and very rich man and his wife have been taken to court by at least one other woman on charges of plagiarism), and which I generally manage to half-smile about until I see him or hear reference of him or am told how funny he is (he is?) when the rabies story, while practically identical in the hands (and mouth) of his female lead, undoubtedly leapt from my history to their ears to her pen to his pocketbook—how did I know that a cat scratch couldn’t give me rabies? (although I am secretly gleeful that my story predates the inception of their program by years, as my medical files can attest) (I had to ask my doctor; I had to know) and my other, better, friends, who kept my worries and jokes about my worries to themselves or within the confines of their family encampment, which leads me back to my mother’s favourite aphorism, consider the source, which he ought to have done, frankly, and screw the framed ‘rare’ autographed photo, which I packed away today because I can’t stand the sight of him, which was brought home last week when I saw him co-hosting a talk show, his nasal, over-stressed vowels hammering my eardrums, leaving me wondering how it is possible that anyone can stand a man who feels this degree of entitlement and who, or so it seems to me, appears more lost than found.

Little Douse on the Prairie

Holy Henna! What gives with the girls’ curls and colours on Little House on the Prairie? I flicked on by the program—well, that’s not true. The Waltons ended and, given that today is Thanksgiving in the United States and that most of their channels will be taken up with American football, what better for the romantic diehards (or in this case, dyehards) than an afternoon run of nostalgic pioneer spirit sap?

I shouldn’t talk, having given up the earlier part of my day to snippets of Meet Me in St. Louis (speaking of hairdos and Vincent Minnelli), Little Women (June Alison’s bangs) and Miracle on 34^th Street (...here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus). And I pretty much know every Walton episode by heart (although I lost interest in the series when I discovered that the saga is not based on a real family).

Anyway, I haven’t seen Little House since Sarah was two, her chubby baby thigh pressed into mine as we waited for Paul to come home from the salt mines (euphemism for tavern). In fact, I forget most of the show’s thread except that one of the daughters—Mary—loses her eyesight, and that some of (much of?) the acting was wooden, like their floors, which the mother was endlessly scrubbing.

Oh wait now. Here is a coincidence. The girls have just been handed parts for Little Women, and Nelly is talking about getting a wig for her acting debut. Synchronicity abounds.

Anyway, I only wanted to say that the hairstyles in this show are dreadful, little girls running around with either stiff, peroxide bobs that look more like something Carol Channing would store in a hatbox for emergencies—their hair is so white, feta pales by comparison—or mopsy-flopsy auburn curls cascading heavily onto tiny shoulders, a lot of the mess covered up with over-sized shower-cap bonnets.

Nothing gives a bad (or what would otherwise be a good) piece of work away like a hair style. I don’t know how many period films I might have given myself over to completely if the women (Julie Christie, Elizabeth Taylor, Barbra Streisand…) had not all looked as if they had just walked out of a 70’s salon. (Aside: I just remembered Working Girls…oh my God, although the wild feathering was at least true to those times.)

Speaking of, here comes Laura wearing a floor mop on her head (she has been given the role of Beth in Little Women), decrying that Nelly has all the lines and all the hair. Laura’s parents are laughing at her, telling her she looks like Medusa. (Medusa would be a step up.)

Oh my God. Now one of the children has cut and sold her hair to buy her mother a new dress (shades of Alcott mixed with O’Henry) and she still looks like she’s wearing a chewed off wig. The man who wants to marry her mother calls this child “Little ‘un,” which should give you some idea of the overarching disarray.

(I have to say, even the Waltons look more in keeping with their times.)

As for me, I am off to find a more evocative program...something that lets me jump right back in without any hesitation. Let’s see. What have we here? Oh yes. This is much better. And…bonus! I know all the words.

Give me down to there
Shoulder length or longer hair
Here baby, there mama
Everywhere daddy daddy...

November

There is wind where the rose was,
Cold rain where sweet grass was,
And clouds like sheep
Stream o'er the steep
Grey skies where the lark was.

Nought warm where your hand was,

Nought gold where your hair was,

But phantom, forlorn,

Beneath the thorn,

Your ghost where your face was.

Cold wind where your voice was,
Tears, tears where my heart was,
And ever with me,
Child, ever with me,
Silence where hope was.

Walter de la Mare

The Descendants: Heir to Misfortune

There is so much wrong with The Descendants, I hardly know where to begin except to say that the proportion of people lauding the film is downright frightening—perhaps the most frightening aspect of all. Once in my life have I exited a film early, and that was way back in 1492 when I was a teenager. If leaving the theatre tonight had not meant having to lug my popcorn and large Pepsi on a sore foot up the long, dark aisle, I might have legitimately escaped any time after the first minute or two when George Clooney began his monotone voice-over. I knew then that something about this film was dreadfully wrong.

Clearly, the writer/s of this mess, Kaui Hart Hemmings—to be fair, she wrote the novel, and a novel is often notably divergent from its screenplay, a screenplay that, in this instance, was written by Alexander Payne—how is this possible?—Nat Faxon and Jim Rash—have either never lost anyone they deeply loved or have never really felt that loss in any but a detached, Hollywood way.

How pat, then, to attempt to write in (so-called) humour, none of it dark enough (their circumstances and lack of emotional range hardly allow for that) to resonate for those of us who understand dark, and none of it attached enough to affect the gigglers in the audience, who would much rather laugh than feel anything—most especially, what a pile of drek this film is.

While the Hawaiian backdrop is lush and captivating, the absence of emotional through-line is underscored by the clunky vignettes where what ought to be (what is actually deemed) real feeling is replaced by inanely comedic moments—George Clooney running off through the neighbourhood...no, I cannot say it; I will be accused of homophobia (especially by the people who thought this was a good movie); a ranting grand/father who launches into a protective familial tirade that is so poorly acted I lost popcorn, the small white kernels falling from my gaping mouth; father and daughters disappearing to another Hawaiian island, utterly ignoring the by now well-known fact that their wife and mother could die at any second.

Which brings me to the most egregious offence of this film. For anyone who has ever actually sat—wondering, worrying, waiting—with a prematurely (as in, young) dying loved one, what is funny, or potentially funny, comes only in the absence of any possible light; in those small seconds when you know that if you don’t laugh, you, too, will die. No one seems to understand that in this film. Not the writers or actors; not the audience. (Mind you, I recognized a few bewildered viewers departing the cinema and knew, then, that we weren’t entirely alone.)

At one point in the film, Clooney is standing with his two daughters (ages 10 and 17) while the camera pans the majestic land mass owned for generations by his family (Clooney is, conveniently, trustee) and in prospect of being imminently sold, and he turns to his girls and elucidates in ways that caused Mary to whisper in my ear, “Have they met?” I laughed out loud—the only time throughout the movie’s 115 tedious minutes that I did so.

Really—what is wrong with people? Is it as simple as the fact that we no longer teach phonetics, grammar and literature (in this, I include poetry) in our schools [I just said this to a friend this very morning] and that people, therefore, are happy to see that they are not the only uneducated, unthinking, simplistic writers, thinkers and critics? Or is it that in this complicated world we go to movies not to get in touch with our feelings but, rather, to escape them?

No matter, The Descendants is one of the worst pieces of lazy, stacked-with–devices films I have sat through in eons—and that’s saying something—for once making me glad that I hale from a small and dwindling family.

Rating: 0/5

Farewell Regis Philbin

Sometimes when I feel ancient, I realize that Regis Philbin, who said goodbye today on his morning show, spent as many years on live air—twenty-eight—as it would take me to reach his current age. In other words, were I to live that long, I could do a twenty-eight year show and not be much older than Regis is now (he who, vaulting into his eighties, still plays tennis, and falls, acrobatically, off motorcycles).

Not that this should be relevant, but I don’t think Regis is someone who would have ever been my dating cup of tea. One of his best friends, after all, is Donald Trump (oh the wayward wind is a restless wind) (okay, how about hair today, gone tomorrow?), and he pooh-poohs certain things (that are close to my heart) in annoyed and dismissive ways that make me nervous.

But this morning, as Regis made his pre-show way toward the stage (stopping to pick up a weepy Kelly Ripa from her dressing room), I found myself tearing up, remembering the countless mornings I have clicked over to the show, often finding myself laughing off a long late-night bar shift; forgetting, momentarily, sleepy-eyed children who, during that hour, were coming to life in their classrooms, and for one fat hour ignoring the mountain of chores awaiting me.

I can’t help but wonder how much his departure will remind him of his mortality and the fact that none of us gets to live forever (as far as we know). I heard him say yesterday that he was growing tired of the program’s daily routine, but one wonders how hard some habits die. In fact, I spied a fleeting crease of fear as it shot across his stoic brow, and I thought...no wonder.

Still, I know I am projecting. Perhaps he is kicking up his heels and downing a glass of Dom Pérignon as I type, wiggling his argyle-socked toes in delight, relieved to be rid of that pre-noon blast of rollicking Ripa in his ear. (Sorry. I’m projecting again.) Who, but he, can say?

No matter who replaces him (God forbid Jerry Seinfeld), I doubt I will be watching the program again. Regis made his co-hosts palatable (at least to a manageable point); misogyny moderately tolerable, and New York City familiar. I will miss his shouting, his face-palming, his willingness to go anywhere and try anything, and his constancy. I will miss the way he made me feel young.

Farewell, Regis Philbin. May peace be with you.

If Wishes Were Horses

I am sitting back on my bed on another golden afternoon, thinking about Sarah and all of the afternoons she lay bedridden with not even an option of having a shower or going for a short stroll. I remember helping her into the wheelchair and taking her for small walks throughout the hospital—sitting in the banquet hall overlooking the river and talking about Lainey, rolling into the bird room so Sarah could chat with the budgies (she loved the birds) and eat vanilla ice cream. The staff would come by and say a quick hello, and Sarah, ever brave, would see how far she could hoist herself up on the leather couch without my help...the two of us laughing. It still stuns me how much we laughed (at all sorts of things most other people probably wouldn’t find funny).

I will never forget the look on her heartbroken face as she realized—so many things—that she would never be well again; would never walk; would never go anywhere with Lainey. I can hear her sweet voice calling my name, asking if we could have Chinese food again for dinner, worried, as if I had to walk to Singapore instead of just around the corner. I think, too, of how she hated to have me out of her sight, this feeling deepening for both of us as her illness progressed.

I cannot explain how much I miss her. There is no one to tell, of course, because the people who know how I feel don’t need to be told, and the rest of the world doesn’t matter. But if I could speak to her again, lie back on the bed this very minute, I would hold her face between my hands and remind her how much I love her. I would kiss her tender forehead and remark that Ralph the cat, who hasn’t hopped up onto the bed in over a year, has leapt up today and is lying here between us in the glistening afternoon light. And Sarah would smile and she would say, “That’s true, mum, isn’t it?” And I would say that yes, it is true, and we would tell each other how lucky we were to have one more afternoon with each other—all these cats here beside us—Jeeves among them—and Sarah would point toward the balcony door and remark on the beautiful day.

If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

Remembrance Day

 Memorials

Deep cut the tomb atop which Fénelon

In effigy reclines. His hands describe,

As though they were soft brackets carved of stone,

His sweet thoughts, poured out that we might imbibe.

But Fénelon is gone; though in the day,

The tomb, bathed in variable light

That stains the Sanctuary at Cambral,

Breathes and changes with each hour. At night

His tomb is dark, and dark, not far away,

The dead of Bourlon Wood, as well unknown,

And dark, between them, Fénelon’s valet,

And all their causes now are overgrown.

As soon will ours; for that, no logic gives

The reasons for the heart’s imperatives.

Don Ives   1998

 

Parenthetical Aside

I think people think I am being nasty when I talk about punctuation and its misuse. But actually, I am talking about the significance of clear communication that fosters understanding. This is no small feat, of course, but is essential in our day-to-day lives and throughout those extraordinary events that make up our history.

The homogeneous-enhancing computer has thrust us into a type of international grammar usage—a sort of grammatical patois—which is in some ways wonderful in and of itself, but also threatens the nuances, as well as some of the core essentials, in our personal and global communication.

I am driven particularly mad by three perpetual Internet habits:

1. Over-use of the exclamation mark

Exclaiming should be reserved for that over which it is worth exclaiming: (imperative) emergencies and certain interjections—and is used to indicate powerful feelings and elevated volume. While I appreciate the excessive use of exclaiming for the purpose of humour, a good joke, for example, shouldn’t need a string of exclamation marks, or, to put this another way (and as we have heard about so many things in life), less is more.

The most powerful writing is writing in which words, not punctuation, express more fully the intent and emotion. I love you has so much more depth of meaning than I love you!!!! (Frankly, I would reserve the latter for individuals who have not yet reached adulthood, and sometimes not even then.)

If a person learns how to use punctuation effectively, an exclamation mark can prove highly effective. I won’t be going means something quite different than I won’t be going! And given that the Internet seems to be our excuse for careless punctuating—the eternal cry of, “But if I don’t write that way, you won’t know how I really feel, which could cause problems between us”—think of how much more valuable clear communication could prove in maintaining happy relationships.

As with many people in our culture who have not been raised on an understanding of healthy and appropriate boundaries, punctuation has (as a result of this blurring, I think) spilled across the borders of good writing into a morass of babble that renders many smart people completely ineffective. And if you don’t believe me, examine some of the world’s most influential writing, and writers, and see what I, and (more, what) they, mean.

2. Words written in all-caps

Today I received a series of photos of sweet animals worthy of forwarding to people who enjoy sweet animals. (I am among this group, imagining these snippets and pictures of furry critters a microcosm of the human world.) At the end of the snapshot diary, however, a message read (something like) IF THESE AREN’T THE CUTEST ANIMALS YOU HAVE EVER SEEN THEN WHAT IS???!!!???

So irked was I my fingers curled, as several thoughts steamed through my brain:

· I don’t need you or anyone to tell me what is cute.

· I can’t bear the word cute.

· How patronizing.

· Let me judge for myself.

As with the exclamation mark, so go the screaming capital letters. Save them for a time when you are feeling extremely ______ and then go to town. But be discrete. I once received an all-caps email from an angry individual, but this person’s intent to make me feel that anger had no effect on me and, instead, made me laugh (although not entirely unkindly, I hope) out loud. The all-caps seemed to be coming from a foot-stamping child rather than from an intelligent adult.

3. Common nouns turned into proper nouns

I have had a lot of fun with students from all over the world. There is something distinctly warm climate about turning common nouns into proper ones. I love You. I Love you. Never leave Me. The Sun shone so beautifully across the sparkling Water. A reader can immediately see the writer’s romantic intention; his need to convey his most profound feelings.

I explain to these students that they have to learn to trust their own writing as well as their readers. I remind them that “The sun shone beautifully across the sparking water ” has even greater import because the reader is not distracted by the weight given certain words (and by the mistake). The capitalization of common nouns is an immediate indication of an immature and uninformed writer, which is not the outcome any writer wants or intends.

Worse to me than a good-natured ESL student making an innocent mistake are those Anglophonic writers who simply don’t care. If they want their love to be more pronounced than anyone else’s, then grammar—and therefore inclusion—be damned.

We already have far too many hierarchical hiccups to create more with bad writing and, in the end, the person who deems himself above these rules will find himself left behind in critical ways.

It’s an odd world to me, too, people running around so puffed up and defensive. While I am learning to become a more effective writer (which is a never-ending endeavour and process), I am always thrilled to accept criticism from reliable sources, which can include friends, teachers and resource books.

I am not saying a person should never use these forms of communication but, rather, that they should learn to use them correctly. Only in this way will anyone deem your writing, and therefore you, viable.

And if you think this is a small matter, you don’t know the first thing about misunderstanding, which can and does and will lead to broken friendships, lost careers and credibility, heartache and, as has been well documented, war.

Montreal Revival

What happened to old Montreal? I don’t mean Old Montreal, I mean old Montreal—the too cool for school, joie de vivre, spit on your shoes, who-do-you-think-you-are-you-English-person-looking-at-me-as-if-you-dare? Times have changed. And for the better.

The new Old (and not Old) Montreal is, in the main, courteous, responsive, helpful, talkative and downright warm. In fact, I don’t think I have been anywhere where handsome men my age actually looked at me (I mean looked at me) not only once but, often enough (and I was counting), more than once. I was t-h-r-i-l-l-e-d. And every single time I hopped onto the subway, a man stood up and insisted—insisted—I take his seat. I haven’t seen anything like this in Toronto (or Ottawa, for that matter) since I was in my twenties.

The rudest people I met—two young men in the service industry—were both Anglo, and seemed more like suburban/Scarborough residents than downtown dwellers.

Most everyone else was wonderful—engaging us in conversation: asking real questions; commenting; conjecturing and (sometimes but not too often) complimenting.

I suppose the unseasonably gorgeous weather and the 16^th century architectural stunners might have put a spring in anyone’s step, and it didn’t hurt to trot around town for half an hour in a horse cart (I used to find this sort of thing cheesy) or stroll downhill as the wind swept around us up the street. (There’s nothing like a little breeze swirling around a girl’s skirt to give her, if you’ll pardon the pun, a lift.)

Still, this friendliness was not even close to what I was expecting. Back in the early eighties the nearest thing to Montreal affable was a Gitane-puffing Jacques Brel wannabe (and really, why?) blowing smoke in your face as he whipped his twelve-foot knitted scarf around his carotid-bulging neck. Nothing—good or bad—felt real.

I have no idea what has changed. While it could be that the world takes more kindly to a woman of a certain age (think: fish, wine and Camembert), I am more apt to believe that a far more homogenous world (affordable travel + Internet) is the chief cause of the city’s conviviality.

Whatever, nobody seemed to care that my French was faulty, my questions ordinary or my pocketbook moderately frayed. I, for one, cannot wait to return to this remarkably striking metropolis. In fact, I think I’ll buy a subway pass and spend the first day seeing how many attractive men stand up for me.

~ Bi Lines ~

Heirloom

My father bequeathed me no wide estates;
No keys and ledgers were my heritage;
Only some holy books with yahrzeit dates
Writ mournfully upon a blank front page —

Books of the Baal Shem Tov, and of his wonders;
Pamphlets upon the devil and his crew;
Prayers against road demons, witches, thunders;
And sundry other tomes for a good Jew.

Beautiful: though no pictures on them, save
The scorpion crawling on a printed track;
The Virgin floating on a scriptural wave,
Square letters twinkling in the Zodiac.

The snuff left on this page, now brown and old,
The tallow stains of midnight liturgy —
These are my coat of arms, and these unfold
My noble lineage, my proud ancestry!

And my tears, too, have stained this heirloomed ground,
When reading in these treatises some weird
Miracle, I turned a leaf and found
A white hair fallen from my father’s beard.

A.M. Klein

The Precision of the Short Distance Walker

I have promised myself daily exercise, which for me means thirty minutes of walking per day. For sure this is not Pilates, Bikram yoga (which I tend to call steamy yoga) or a trek up Mount Everest. But it’s something, and it’s a start.

The trick is that I prefer walking out-of-doors versus on a treadmill (although, with the snow coming, I am grateful that I have either option). Still, finding the exact time limit is tricky. I cannot walk fewer [this is a great opportunity for a less/fewer argument with countable versus concept] than thirty minutes per day. I am committed to at least one-half hour. But when I walk much longer/farther, my knees and lower back begin to give way, and I risk my next day’s exercise.

Three days ago, I decided to walk to Carrot Common to check out their low-sugar flavoured waters. Cutting through Riverdale at dusk, I was able to enjoy the remnants of Hallowe’en—rooftop ghosts and tiered graveyards (one tombstone honouring the death of a favourite hockey team, another Mayor Ford’s dead sense of humour...although one might argue whether Ford ever possessed one of those given that a sense of humour requires a certain [basic] intelligence).

So enraptured was I by the mystery of the neighbourhood, I overshot the cross street altogether and ended up on Broadview, gaping over at the panoramic view of the downtown core. In the end, I walked a little over an hour, and had to make change for the subway because my ankle was beginning to ache.

Yesterday I set off for City Hall, thinking I would hop on a streetcar after I had consumed my entire thirty minutes. But wouldn’t you know, the day was glorious—18 degrees Celsius in November—and one thing led to another, in every way, and before you knew it, Paint Depot, Eddie Levesque’s Kitchen, Downtown Toyota, the Don River, The Berkley Church, St. Mike’s Hospital, The Bay, and about twenty-five streetcars had passed me by (as I had them).

The trip took 80 minutes, which at my short-legged speed equals about eight kilometres, which I know as five miles...50 minutes over my desired limit and past double what I had set out to do.

I woke up this morning in pain. My feet ached even before they touched the floor. I wondered how I was going to follow through today without resorting to the treadmill. Then it occurred to me: I had to go to the liquor store to buy an imbibable gift for a friend’s birthday. I had no exact idea, but I figured the walk would come close to the desired time frame.

I hobbled down the front steps, panted through the park, struggled past the friendly boys at the high school who were waiting for a ride home, cut up through the laneway near the street where my grandmother lived (and died, too young) in the 1930s, limped on by the old movie theatre, crossed the busy intersection, shuffled by the beer store and trundled into the liquor store. In all of this, I did not lose (or gain on) my typical speed.

As I headed over to the rum section I checked my watch. Exactly 15 minutes—right down to the second. I couldn’t believe it.

I spent a few minutes in the store, asking four (clustered) clerks what they thought, quality-wise, of Mount Gay Rum (made in the Barbados and destined for a friend who is from Trinidad and whose partner is a man—the staff found this all very funny, which was nice), bought something different, and hurried off (in a second-guessing mode) as best I could to make my way home, checking my watch as I headed out the liquor store door.

Back I went through the busy intersection, ambled past Tim Horton’s, picked up a bit of downhill speed at Hakim Optical (irony in triplicate), gained even greater speed in the alley where an energetic off-leash Doberman eyed me and my package as if we were five o’clock dinner, strode by the three still-waiting boys (now swinging on a wide gate), lumbered through the park, chugged beneath the train overpass and the woman sneaking (I could just tell) a cigarette, and headed up the downhill street for home.

As I got to the top of the stairs, I set my purchase down on the porch chair and checked my watch. Fifteen minutes—exactly.

So here’s the thing. To hell with low-sugar beverages at Carrot Common! Fie on personal missions at City Hall! In keeping with my family, I am going to become a low-level alcoholic. I will drink just enough Cuvee Speciale to keep myself in need of a daily thirty-minute trip to the liquor store and just little enough to make sure I can get there, and back, in exactly thirty minutes. Wine can’t possibly have as many carbs as most of the things I ingest, and the dehydration ought to be good for a few calories.

The moral to this anecdote is never give up. For every conundrum, there is a remedy. For every challenge, there is a solution. For every left hand, there is a wine glass.

Sceptres and Spectres, Alive Alive Oh…

Mary and I sat on the porch tonight watching all the trick-or-treaters veer around the corner and down the street that intersects ours, scurrying on their way to watch a flame thrower—a daring young man who every year stands with a fire-stick in the front yard of a neighbourhood realtor who is so tidy she vacuums her lawn. (Okay, I’m lying about that last part, but she’s neater than Nurse Ratched, and that’s the truth.)

Across the street from her house someone had strung dozens of orange lights in their sweet front yard tree, and up and down the row moody pumpkins grinned back at me in the dark. Still, I longed for more children to turn a corner—that corner—and come on up onto our porch.

It would have been better if Mary had been able to find her piano keyboard (I really missed her wacky playing) or if, while I waited, I hadn’t, sitting right in front of me, a few dozen of my favourite things: Old Dutch potato chips, miniature Coffee Crisps and Kit Kat bars, and one especially tall bottle of Pepsi.

We talked about Sarah and Lainey, of course, as we always do, and wondered how Lainey was getting along on Leonel’s tractor, and if she loved Hallowe’en—since when did people stop apostrophizing Hallowe’en?—the way her mother had when she was a little girl...although I am fairly certain I know the answer to that question.

Mike—who decorates for the holiday in prize-winning fashion—came over and chatted for a few minutes before he and Stephan went off to a party where everyone had committed to wear black and whose host was providing his guests with lady bug hats. (Gay men and Hallowe’en parties go together like spicy red pepper jelly on French mini toasts.)

And Ron, who lives on the corner and who smokes too much for his health, made us laugh—he always makes us laugh, mostly because he laughs even louder at our comments, which I think is kind—reminisced about his 30-some years celebrating Hallowe’en (when they spelled it correctly) on this street.

I also ran into the woman who lives on the other corner (there are four, after all) when I was peering down the street at the fireballs. Her black cat, now missing for three days (I saw the notice posted on a telephone pole), has a flea-bitten belly and a heart condition, and she (the woman, not the cat) wondered if somebody took him as part of a prank. Some joke.

Eventually, the older kids from a few blocks down came up the street, making their tired way up the porch steps. Their mostly angry parents stood down on the sidewalk mostly arguing with one another, while Mary put extra candy into their kids’ bags, knowing that this was no compensation for a shitty life but that for one night some extra candy might help.

In the end, it was a Halloween like every other Halloween except for the obvious, which was maybe why I opted for Pepsi and not a glass of wine. Some things are just too painful for alcohol consumption and, given my family’s track record of Hallowe’en mishaps and sorrows, I didn’t want to make life any sadder than it already is.

Anyway, while we sat on the porch peeking out through plastic skeletons and flickering candlelight, I imagined that Sarah was busy in Ottawa, riding along on the tractor with Leonel and Lainey, laughing at all of the marvellous costumes and fixing her daughter’s hair in the moonlight.

I was sufficiently clear-headed not to expect a phone call—I have missed so many since Sarah has died—but muddled just enough to know that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in my, or Horatio’s, philosophy.

After all, if a young man can stand on a reticent realtor’s lawn every year, eat fire and not get burnt, I am willing to hold out hope that Sarah is wherever she needs to be, walking through this world like a Hallowe’en ghost, invisible and unafraid.