it is startling

I guess I can admit this here. My secret is out.

I have been known to talk to myself. Out loud. Though, with the proliferation of Bluetooths stuck in people's ears, it is not as strange a sight coming across someone in the grocery store talking out loud as it once was. Still, I do sometimes startle myself when I realize that I am thinking out loud.

The other night I was caught by a dog walker who was laughing so hard his dog turned to look quizzically at him. 

"Did you just apologize to that rabbit?" 

"Well, yes, I did." 

I startled the poor little guy, who went scurrying off, so it only seemed polite. And a natural thing to do. 

I am Canadian, afterall.

Yesterday, I met up with the dog walker in the elevator.

"Still scaring the bunnies?" he asked.

It wouldn't have been so bad if there weren't other people in the elevator.

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.........

someone with personality lives behind this door

My neighbour, who used to live directly across the hall from me, liked to tell me of the cute things her three year old granddaughter would say. Things like: Oma, why doesn't that lady have something pretty on her door like you have?

Mine was the only one that stood naked.

After the second retelling, I took the hint and went out and bought some very large pinecones and attached them to a big red ribbon and hung it on a hook on my door. I went for drama.

This seemed to please the ladies on my end of the hall, and I got compliments and remarks like:
Well, it's about time you put something up
Bethany will be so pleased next time she comes to visit
Nice big pinecones

I like your new decoration
Very nice, but it's a bit Christmassy with that red bow and it's only October
(yeah, that would be Helen, the one who spoke her mind).

If anyone has spent time wandering the halls of a seniors' home you'll notice that almost all of the apartment doors are festooned with some sort of decoration. This at least helps break up the bleakness of a long hall of doorways. It also adds some personality. And is a good marker for finding your way home again. Though that can work for anyone, really. I once had some poor embarrassed woman enter my apartment by mistake. Had I my pinecones up, she might have noticed she was on the wrong floor before dragging her laundry into my front hall. (and yes, I keep my door unlocked when I am at home, as did she, apparently). Other apartment buildings seem to have door personality about them. I've been in buildings where every door has something up, and buildings where only a few are decorated. My building was definitely heavily on the decorated front when I moved here. Now, sadly, not so much.

Some of these door decorations are a little too cute and country-ish for my taste. Some are tacky. Actually, many are tacky. Many have fake flowers of some sort that are usually not in season. Occasionally, you will see some beautiful or elaborate decorations. I remember once seeing a doorway covered in a strand of fake wisteria draped as if growing over an arbour. Sometimes dolls or stuffed animals are strung up. Most however involve wreaths or hats with flowers. Not everyone goes all out to decorate their doors. Many are left naked.

Christmas is when the door decorations really have their best display. Large ribbons decorate the door as if opening a big present. Garlands drape the doorframe. Wooden Santas and sleighs hang onto hooks. Sparkly door knob rings jangle. The wreaths get larger. Berries, bows and bells appear. As do pinecones. None as dramatic as my huge ones, however. (which I do not have a photo of, and they are packed away)

It is all very festive and lively.

And then, around the second week in January, the festiveness disappears. And the fake flowers reappear.

I like the decorations. Even the tacky ones. It reminds you that someone actually lives behind the closed doors.

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.

neighbours

There are 12 apartments on each floor in my building. For a few years we were a group of 12 single women. What are the odds? The pet of choice was overwhelmingly the cat. Six cats to one puppy. Two of my neighbours were very close friends and were always at each other's doors for a chat. They stayed in the hall for some reason and one of the ladies, Helen, had a rather booming voice. It went well with her opinions, of which she had many and was not shy to share. You always knew where you were with Helen. When Helen and Joyce were having one of their gabfests, doors would open (often mine first as they were right in front of my door) and soon Audrey would join in with her stage ready voice. Once Ursula came out well, much laughter ensued. Sometimes, Verna would pop her head out to say we were too loud, but would stay to see what the gossip was. Lorna would appear at the end of the hall, with her cat Timmy who followed her everywhere. People would get off the elevator and join in. If Catherine was nearby she'd have pictures from her latest trip which might include paragliding, or sailing. Serena would regale us with tales of woe from her job as a flight attendant for the now defunct Canadian Airlines. Her kitten (I forget his name) and Abby would venture out and we'd watch as Timmy cautiously wandered down the hall from his end and (let's call him Felix, for want of a name) would romp up and down the carpet sometimes with the puppy, Oscar, at his end of the hall. Abby would be in the middle, eventually wandering down to meet Timmy. Felix would watch to see if he needed to hide from flying fur. But the rest of us knew that Abby and Timmy had a long distance attraction. They would gaze at each other through the railings of our balconies. Of course, for that to happen, Abby would have to crawl over to Verna's balcony. Which she did with astonishing regularity. She always found a way to get around or under the solid divider that separated Verna's and my balcony to sit by the railing at the other end. For hours the two cats would sit and face each other quietly. Helen didn't approve of this. Her cats never left her apartment, not even for the balcony. She thought I was very negligent and that I would pay for my negligence by finding my cat on the ground one day. I must say, it was unnerving to see her peering over the edge with her front paws dangling, watching whatever was going on below. But she was perfectly safe and perfectly content.

Nowadays, I am the oldest (as in years of living here) tenant on our floor with Catherine and Ellie living here 2 years less than me. Helen had lived here since the building was built in 1964. She and Verna and Ursula and Audrey have all passed away. Joyce and Lorna have moved away. And Catherine has been on an extended holiday for much of the year. There have been several changes and the new tenants aren't nearly as friendly. No one seems connected. The laughter has gone, as has the gossip. Sometimes we will meet in the hall and barely a word will pass. Many times we will meet in the elevator and not even know that we are neighbours. The pet of choice has become the dog. But that is another post.