curiosity

A while ago, a blogger had a post that included a moan about her husband's penchant for watching such shows as How It's Made and wondered if she was alone in having to endure such torture. Many of the commenters were in sympathy with her. But I happen to quite like such shows as this and Superstructures and their sort, though How It's Made is best for my short attention span. I like it for its brevity - short bursts of information that does not descend into the realm of far too much information and thereby killing my interest. It is just enough to fulfill my curiosity. It happens to come on television very early in the morning, too, which is just when I am getting home from work, so I often watch it while having my tea and breakfast. For a long time it became my default programme (right up there with House Hunters) when it seemed to be on every few hours on some channel.

Last Sunday, when a friend and I were heading out to a movie, I said that we should make a short detour to see the beer vats that were resting just a kilometre or two up the road. I thought she might be interested in seeing them (since it was all over the news) and she knew I would want to take pictures and was fine with that. When we got to the street and turned the corner, you could see the vats, gleaming in the brilliant sunshine. If anything, they looked even more massive surrounded by open field with the vista of the city off in the distance than they had the previous day when it was snowing and they were still in the city. I pulled up to the shoulder along with the dozens of other cars that had stopped to have a look and take photos and asked her if she wanted to get out and have a closer look. "No, I don't like beer" was her response. So I left her in the running car with the radio on, and wondered what not liking beer had to do with anything? Yes, they were beer vats, but if I hadn't told her that, she could have assumed they were for any number of purposes. Later, we talked about the vats and the amazing things that could be made and transported but I still wondered about that comment.

I was reminded of a time when I was young (and probably a royal pain in the tuckus) and after asking my one millionth question I turned to my mother and said, accusingly, "you don't know very much, do you?" My parents were not the hands on type who might engage you in your interests or questions. My mother would often just respond that she didn't know, usually followed by a "go look it up", signalling an end to the conversation. "Aren't you even the least bit curious about any of this", I would often ask. "No, not really" was her reply. It was not so much the lack of interest - lord knows there are many things I am not interested in - but the lack of curiosity that astounded me. I later noticed, like my friend, that she would often wonder out loud about things, but never had enough interest - or curiosity - to actually seek any answers.

Of course, the internet has been a godsend for seeking answers. It has become easier and faster than ever to get answers, whether detailed or in short, terse sentences. I can be derailed from almost any search into a realm that I had no previous interest or knowledge and become thrilled with what I found. My bookmarks of interesting subjects and websites has grown to an almost astronomical size. Of course, much of it I rarely look at again. But, every now and then, I will remember something... and can't find it in my bookmarks or favourites for all the other crap that is in there. I prefer to think of it as an example of my wide ranging curiosity.


...and if you are curious - the beer vats are sitting by the side of the road, a little bit closer to their destination, for a second day because of a snow storm last night making it impossible to lift the hydro wires and not get in the way of the snow plows.

Today would have been my mother's 94th birthday.
She would not have been curious about this blog. Not at all.

freezing

The original plan was to be in Rochester for an event yesterday.
I chose instead to visit the dentist.
Thank goodness.

Police closed Interstate 90 Thursday after a truck jackknifed and vehicles became backed up and buried in blowing snow, State Trooper Daniel Golinski said. Drivers also were stranded on a 3-mile stretch of Interstate 190.

Though parts of I-90, better known as the New York Thruway, were reopened by midday, an 11-mile stretch remained closed as darkness fell. Traffic, mostly big rigs, was backed up for about two miles in the eastbound lanes and a mile headed west after sunset. Authorities expected it would take several more hours to clear the mess

Oddly this band of lake effect snow (that Buffalo gets every year) was barely 3 miles wide.

But, if I can put off something, for a day, a month, a year or two, I will. So I put off going to this event in Rochester for another week because I really could not put off the dentist any longer. In fact, I was almost looking forward to going, if only for the release of the nagging, intense, sharp needle pain in my tooth. Surely, the freezing needle could not be worse.

Turns out, those needles are not nearly as bad as my memory tells me they are. I specifically chose this dentist because he was available when I had an abcess and because he used nitrous oxide - the great laughing gas. Then one time, he decided that since what needed done was such a small job he would just freeze it, and somehow the gas was forgotten. He puts some sort of tropical topical gel on that this time tasted suspiciously like banana pudding. This was way better than the usual tastes of bubblegum or mint. I haven't liked bubblegum since I was eight and I have never liked mint. Which makes buying toothpaste a rather long, unpleasant exercise. Not far off having to taste the toothpaste. And the unfreezing experience isn't at all as I remembered it, either. In fact, there was nothing to it. I dribbled a bit when drinking, but nothing out of the ordinary, really.

All in all, far better than freezing in a cold car on a thruway for 21 hours.

'the cottage'

Thanksgiving 1981?

Fred and the infamous outhouse

and a bonus - a pair of glasses!!

behind me is the built in shelves

summer respite

Whenever I hear the caw caw caw of a crow, I am immediately transported to 'the cottage'. There are many things that will remind me of the cottage, but none are as strong or as immediate as the sound of a crow. No idea why - there were surely many other birds there and just as surely crows around our house in the city - but it is a fond feeling, so I don't question it. I merely sigh and allow it to wash over me for a few seconds.

The cottage wasn't ours, it belonged to neighbours Betty and Fred who every summer invited my mother and brother and I to spend a week or two with them. The cottage next door belonged to her sister and quite often one of her daughters and her family were also there. It was a multi-generational gathering, mostly of women, except for the weekends when the fathers would reappear. I'm not entirely sure how my mother felt about this rustic experience, but for my brother and I it has marked us indelibly.

Because of the age difference between my brother and myself, the cottage is the one thing that we share the same memories of - because it never changed.

It was built on the shores of Lake Simcoe back in the 40s. Very small, with inter joining rooms and a loft bedroom in the back and high rafters in the front. The stairs to the loft were basically a chair beside the built in cupboard which when opened provided the cantilevered shelves as steps which one clambered over to get to the beam which you then climbed over to reach the floor of the boys' bedroom. For years, I was distraught as my legs were too wee to make it up the steep, high, shelving steps. There was a Quebec Heater (wood burning stove) in the front room for heat and a wood burning cookstove in the kitchen for cooking. A large galvanized pail held the daily drinking water, for the water that came out of the taps was directly from the lake and not potable. The outhouse was out back. That bit does not have pleasant memories, yet for years I felt a true cottage did not have a flush toilet - that was a second home, not a cottage. I've gotten over that.

Cottages are for escape, for roughing it in the bush. This cottage was Betty's first home. It was decorated in 1950, and it oozed their personal non-style. By the time it was sold around 1999 it still had the same curtains and curios. The same mismatched furniture. The same Fiesta Ware dishes for the adults. The same Melmac dishes for the kids. The same magazines. It was like walking into a time warp. So very familiar every time, as you knew exactly what to expect and where to find it. I sometimes wonder if this is where my brother and I both found our love of antiques. I inherited one of the dressers and an old quilt that for years had that same cottage-y musty smell. My brother and I helped with the final clearout when all that the family wanted had been taken and for some reason we took all the hooks off the bedroom walls that were used for hanging clothes and divided them between us as a memento.

Coincidentally, he now lives in that same town and for a couple of years I lived in a town not far away. We still get dreamy remembering 'the cottage'. We would have loved to have bought it had we the money. Though with the sale, a new septic tank and indoor plumbing and toilet would have had to be installed. This one was built just before the cutoff date when all cottages in the area had to put in septics in the 80s. So the outhouse remained. Even when the property next door was sold, and the first monster home, with large windows and a spiral staircase, was built in place of the wooden bungalow. One of those large bay windows faced onto Fred's land. The outhouse sat tucked in the trees outside their dining room window. We all felt that was worth the giggle as we sometimes waved to them on our way...

Now, there are very few cottages left on this prime land. It looks like any suburban street, albeit one with a lake at the back of the house and a forest across the street.

I dearly wish I knew someone with a cottage who would invite me for a leisurely visit. I have read all the magazines - I know about house gifts for the cottage owner. I know to bring books to read and share, and that sometimes no conversation is needed as you sit on the dock and listen to the water slapping against the rocks. That the best way to get rid of mosquitoes is to build a great bonfire. And I'm not fussy, I'll eat the fish that is caught (if someone else guts it). I'll even help catch it. Or buy it, if need be.

And I have an ample collection of Food&Drink magazines from the LCBO.........

where I can see evidence of my younger self

Whew. Found the commemorative magazine supplement. I was wrong about the size of the crowd photo at Dam Square, and am now not sure if Gerrit, our Dutch friend, was even there with us. He may just have known that we went. So, because Geewits asked...




















There we are - can you see me? In the bottom right ^ corner. I've long blonde hair, wearing what looks like an orangey jacket. There is a young, skinny, bearded man in a brown suede jacket looking up - that's Allen. Don't know who those other 1,996 people are.

I think, I remember

I thought about having a beer the other day. Not an unusual thought. Then I thought about what glass to put it in. That is more unusual, as I usually just grab whatever one is handy, depending on the beer. I have beer mugs, which I never use, and pint glasses which I use for dark ales. And I have smaller glasses for anything else.

This time, I thought I'd use my special little glass. It is a delicate Heineken 6oz and sits on the top shelf because I don't use it very often. Which means it needed a bit of cleaning before pouring the Hoegaarden into it. So, I washed it and with a teatowel in both hands, grasped the base with my left hand and proceeded to wipe the rim with my right hand. And immediately broke it. It shattered like a light potato chip.

I was proud of myself for not crying.
And for having that teatowel wrapped around my hand.

It did make me very sad, though. I have had that glass for 30 years. I know this because that is how long it's been since I lived in Holland, where I got it. The shattering of a 30 year old memento and then realizing how long it has been a memento has a way of making one reminisce and feel nostalgic. And wonder what the hell happened to that 20 year old's free spirit? It also made me sad, because, as I said, I rarely used it for fear of it breaking, which now seems a waste. I have another glass from my stay that has a picture of the newly crowned Queen Beatrix, from 30Apr 1980. I'm pretty sure I would have cried if that had broken. Not because I particularly like it, but for the memories it holds.

We were warned at the time of the Coronation, not to go into the city centre because of the crowds and the threats of riots. But, after watching on TV, we decided to head on in anyway and see how far we could safely get. And we saw no rioting, no teargas, none of the water cannons aimed at the protesters (and there were many, but not as many as the cheering people). We managed to get into the square in front of the palace and I remember one very happy older gentleman pushing us forward and explaining who all the people on the balcony waving at us were. It was my first sighting of any Queen and I got two in one day.

Later, a Dutch friend of ours came by with several copies of a popular magazine, Margriet, for us. He had been looking at the special edition and in particular the centre spread of the crowds of people in the square as the Royal Family waved from the balcony. And somehow, in that photo of thousands of people, he found us: two Canadians, one American, and himself.

My heart goes out to the Dutch people and the recent act of violence aimed at the Royal Family that killed and injured so many cheering bystanders. At least in 1980, you knew what the protesters were about; this will forever remain unexplained. Yet, will change everything.

melancholy

the bitterest tears shed over graves

are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.

harriet beecher stowe

I was at another funeral on Monday. He was an older man and in poor health, but no one anticipated the sudden heart attack that took his life. He was declining, not dying.

Such events make one melancholy. Thoughtful. Introspective.

He was at once on the periphery yet so integral to my life since I was born. His extended family a familiar extension of my small family. As my brother and I grew older and moved away from the home where Fred lived across the street and eventually away from the city we grew up in, we lost touch except through anecdotes and occasional Christmas visits. But the connection is forever there.

We see each other and the time melts away in uneven patterns. We are all older. The next generation is older and the family resemblances are happily and sometimes shockingly noted. The memories return, unbidden, erupting.

"Oh it is so nice to see you"

"It has been so long, hasn't it"

"I hope to see you again soon"

And you can feel the air ever so slightly move. It changes, it reverses as the words are said. As the words are left unsaid.

Because you know, you both know, that it will likely be at the next funeral that you see one another again.

~~~~~

geewits had a link on a post about a week ago for a musical interlude by her FIL. I thought of Fred when I heard her Bill's rendition of A Froggie Went A Courtin and listened to the recording several times. Fred was a musician at heart. He loved nothing better than playing his banjo or guitar. He tried to teach me that song when I got my first guitar, but I was never very good. Thanks, geewits, I'll keep listening to Bill singing and think of Fred's big smile as he plays his banjo. A perfect composite.