It Began on a Biplane

At age 8 I was invited to a week-long writing workshop at the Farringdon Hill Enrichment Centre. Ostracized by my elementary classmates for already knowing the difference between pair, pear and pare, I found my people at Farringdon. The first day of the workshop we were buckled into biplanes and flown across the frozen corn fields of Brantford, Ontario and later encouraged to write about our mind-enlarging experience.

The following morning, an eccentric local chef dominated the classroom and demonstrated how to make perfect “Eggs in a Nest” (two slices buttered bread, use wide-mouth glass as a cookie cutter and create a ‘nest’ by pressing top of glass into centre of the bread. Remove buttered bread circle cut-out. Fry bread in pan with Ina Garten-amounts of butter and crack egg in centre of ‘nest.’ Allow egg to poach, salt and pepper accordingly. It’s still my dad’s favourite thing that I make).

On day three, John Lee, a loopy Brantford poet arrived with Hugh Grant –tousled hair, an ascot and Colonel Sanders eye glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He read from his latest published work–quirky poems about shitting in a farmer’s field, and his shit being the colour of black licorice. “The clouds appeared like an old woman’s sagging breasts in the sky.” Protective parents were outraged! He shouldn’t have been reciting poems about shit and breasts!

I loved it.

After that initial plane-ride-fried-eggs-poetry-about-shit stint I was selected to join the full-time enrichment program and was mentored in writing an autobiography over the course of the school year. The secretary transfered our tell-all’s to hard copy (via a typewriter of all things), and was diligent in tabbing and entering enough spaces to allow for family photos to be incorporated into the final work.

My grade 3 autobiography was far from epic, largely chronicling Friday Gigi’s pizza nights and Chinese food Sundays at Nan King (where my siblings and I were high scorers on the 2-man Pac Man arcade game in the bar area). Not surprisingly, my blog, Twitter and Facebook posts are still all about what decadent things I’ve eaten.

I’ve kept diaries since too, although not consistently. But Africa, the Galapagos and a three-month sojourn in the jungles of Costa Rica are as well-documented as my 13-year-old crush on Robert LeBovic.

In those days, I fancied myself to be a professional birdwatcher a la Roger Tory Peterson, with my very own indispensible bird guide. But writing has always been my constant.  At times I think that I should drink more scotch, or wear an ascot and have a more miserable demeanour to channel the writer’s life, but I’m content with my edginess (and gin).

At 18, when I was as gay as a peacock and strutting my gay self up and down Davie Street in Vancouver, I  actually landed my dream job—freelancing at Cockroach magazine (almost as popular as Chatelaine!). I wrote about grizzly bears being caged and exploited for their bile, about how Barbie kick-started bulimia and raw protest pieces about the deforestation of Clayoquot Sound on Vancouver Island. My poor mother was certain I would be arrested and dragged away from some logging road. I earned $400 a month, and thought I was truly living the bohemian life. I was a freelancer! I lived on buttered garlic bagels from Seagels and skipped dinner to collect sand dollars from Jericho beach. I made arty things from bald eagle feathers and exoskeletons of crabs. I drank coffee that arrived in care packages from my parents, sweetened with melted cinnamon hearts because I refused to spend money on real sugar. 

My first real confirmation of writing being in my blood and breath was when I left Vancouver (and that not-so-high-paying dream job)and voluntarily transplanted myself in Costa Rica for three months. I volunteered with Youth Challenge International in the Monteverde Cloud Forest, mapping the trails and illustrating a flora and fauna guide. In the second phase of the project we travelled to a remote village called Alto Cuen, far from any flight path, phone booth, chocolate bars or appliances. I didn’t bother to write home about the drug runners that passed by me on a daily basis with AK-47’s and flour sacks full of marijuana from Panama. I was living in a hut with a palm frond roof, no walls and a tree bark floor.  My dreams were coming true faster than I could create them.

What I did write about Costa Rica, was the harrowing rescue at the end of our stay. Relentless February rains had flooded the area and the Cuen River was like a roaring beast. Rocks rolled along the riverbed at night, slamming into each other at such a decibel that we could hear the fury a mile away. The angry river water was the colour of chocolate milk with the skeletons of entire trees floating by. Our group of 12 had to be helicoptered out of the jungle as the footbridges had been washed away and local villages were receiving emergency food supply drop-offs. When the Panama army happened upon us, subsisting on flaccid carrots and marmalade, they promised to return at day’s end to fly us to the naval base as half the group was immobile with malaria.

Despite sitting in my cushy Victorian flat on some fancy Italian stitched-leather bar stool with a glass of merlot beside my laptop in the dead of downtown Toronto—I can still hear the thunder of the Chinook blades as the helicopter landed by the river that evening. The palm trees splayed, the children ran far from the whir and commotion, and we piled in, terrified and grateful, following the commands of the GI Joe-like crew.

In that moment I knew I was having a Reader’s Digest Drama In Real Life moment. It had to be written about. What I did write, oddly, won me a trip back to where I had come from—a return flight to Costa Rica, but the gentler side of it. It was a sparkly resort with a resident sloth in the treetop just an arm’s reach from the balcony, with hot black coffee, pastries and mango in the morning– and all the pleasures that my previous volunteer stint lacked. Like running water, electricity, dubbed Baywatch and appliances.

It’s been 15 years since that double-bladed Chinook pointed northeast and sped like a bullet along the coast of Limon, just like the opening scene of China Beach.

 But when I write, the jungle days always present themselves. I am reminded of how words provide vicarious experiences across the miles. It’s a great responsibility when you travel, in how you have to accurately convey a place for those sitting in such a radically different landscape. Like capturing the squelch of the mud as it sucks the boots off your feet, the sting of the blood oranges on chapped lips, and the awe of a dozen toucans landing just above your head in a noisy riot. And what does the jungle smell like? It’s hot and wet, salty and fermenting.

When I returned from Costa Rica I had an insatiable need to write about all that I had seen and felt. I signed up for a course through the Ottawa Writing School that promised a lucrative career and Atwood-esque fame. I thought I wanted to write whimsical children’s books about jungle adventures, but after I submitted a profile to my instructor, he asked, “so you’re gay, do you mind exploiting your sexuality?”

I didn’t mind. I was as gay as Liberace and eager to share all my innards with the world. I went from Jungle Jules Reader’s Digest Drama in Real Life to writing lesbian erotica in a snap. My first published piece was a dirty bedroom scene with Marge Simpson. She let down her tall, blue hair and slipped off her slinky, avocado dress—and I went from there like a Californian forest fire. It was printed in Karen Tulchinsky’s anthology, Hot & Bothered and earned me a huge pay-out of $50 CAD(plus two copies of the book!).When Karen toured in Ontario, she asked if I would like to do a reading with her—of course! Imagine the whole Torti family at the Hamilton Women’s Bookstop. They brought flowers in cellophane and champagne, and stood amongst a crowd of 50 hairy-armpitted dykes while I read about having sex with Marge Simpson. Yes, even my dad was there. And I said a lot of words that don’t normally constitute a father-daughter conversation.

Bravery and pig-headed confidence gets you everywhere. I was so confident with my publishing success in the erotica field, I sent jumbly work to Chatelaine and Maclean’s—the target audience my mom was hoping I would write for. I was rejected flat-out by both for very good reason, but rejection is admirable too. As long as it doesn’t happen at the bar from the foxy girl you buy a drink for.

When I lived in BC, I boldly signed up for writing courses at Douglas College, “to hone my craft.” The first day of class, my instructor, Joe Wiebe, said my verb was doing something I had never heard of. He talked about bildungsromans, and I thought it might be best if I snuck out of the classroom, unnoticed, while I could.

I was transported back to my first day at the Farringdon Enrichment Centre, before boarding the biplane that would inspire my future writing ambitions. Marg Simpson (not to be confused with the same blue-haired lady aforementioned)had  asked me to pass her the “acetate marker.” What the hell was an acetate marker? Clearly I didn’t belong. Richard Nott, the smartest person in the world, pointed to the overhead markers and my face stopped from almost catching on fire.

I’ve taken several courses since, even at George Brown in Toronto where I was positive the instructor had it in for me because I didn’t want to write about transsexual druids or zombies. I’ve had minor successes and cocktail bragging rights for book reviews in The Vancouver Sun that I secretly had near Chernobyl melt-downs over. But if you march in to the editor with the confidence of Sidney Crosby with a puck at the blue line, by god, they believe that you have what it takes!

I still don’t know what an “independent clause” is, and don’t particularly care either. That was on the Douglas College program entrance exam. I thought for sure it was a reference to Mrs. Clause on Christmas Eve. My participles probably still dangle, and I have run-on sentences of marathon proportions.

I have blog cheerleaders (thank you!) and the odd naysayer (boo).  My favourite comment though? It came from a reader who I will allow to remain anonymous. He responded to my post “Jann Arden Attacks the Architecture of the Human Heart.” In particular, he was up in arms with the sentence “It comes as no surprise that I love well-crafted stories and lyrics that are as layered as Jennifer Aniston’s hair.” Mr. Blog commenter responded: “No offence meant, but that was an awful, awful metaphor.”

Which brings me to this. The audience who (in my imagination at least), waits with unbridled anticipation for my latest blog post. Thank you for reading my ramblings and outpourings which just earned me the feel-good designation as one of the Top 100 Growing Blogs at WordPress.com (even though I come up with awful, awful metaphors. Surely the Aniston hair comment can’t be worse than clouds that look like saggy breasts and shit that resembles black licorice?)

We all have stories, and thank you for taking dedicated  interest in mine.

For more on the Robert LeBovic Affair, chronicled in my 13-year-old self’s diary: http://julestorti.wordpress.com/2009/06/04/dear-diary-i-was-a-13-year-old-dork/

Dog Whistles and Other Requirements

“A girl that can dog whistle.”

“One that can do crosswords.”

“Can sing harmony.”

“Must play guitar.”

A random Friday night fireside chat in Nashville proved to be incredibly illuminating. What each of us found alluring in a partner was a fascinating glimpse into our customized concepts and unique demands of true love. Our answers came instantaneously, but I’ve never read a personals ad that blatantly asked for such skills.

MUST love dogs

 It’s a dirty pleasure, like licking Oreo cookie icing from the biscuit and leafing through the smudged copies of In Touch and Hello! at the grocery store. I love to read personals ads. Often, I am shocked at how cookie-cutter love-seekers are.  “I love candlelight dinners.” Well, duh. Who doesn’t? Maybe someone who worked a graveyard shift at a candle factory, or somebody allergic to paraffin wax, but, c’mon!

“I love nature and long walks on the beach.” Again, who doesn’t? Maybe an agoraphobic or an albino. And really, you are only looking for someone with brown eyes between the ages of 31-53? That’s your criteria? My friend Kelly Whittet says she’s just happy to find someone with two eyes.

Canada’s best comic, Elvira Kurt, did a bang-on sketch a few years ago about dating and love. She remarked that we spend more time looking for sunglasses than we do for our partners. If someone expresses interest in us, we are sucked in by an insurmountable magnetic force. The force convinces us that maybe this is the very last person on earth who will ever want us again.  Weeks later, the neat and tidy little Ikea life is set-up once again and yet another relationship is kick-started with cutesy pet-names and voluntary foot rubs.

But how do we keep the home fires burning when “psychologists report that the dizzying feeling of intense romantic love lasts only about 18 months to—at best—three years” (“How to Make Romance Last” by Helen Fisher, Oprah Magazine, December 2009).  Should we just commit to a three-year term, or narrow the window to 18 months to guarantee mutual happiness? Would that be so wrong? If everyone could agree to a condensed timeline, the honeymoon would never end.

In the same article, psychologist Marcel Zenter, PhD (University of Geneva), “found no particular combination of personality traits that leads to a sustained romance—with one exception: the ability to sustain your positive allusions.” So, if you maintain that your partner is sex-on-legs, clever, handy, brainy, funny and ideal for you in every way, extended bliss is yours.

Helen Fischer has seen this phenomenon, better known as “love blindness.” She watched a couple she knew from college days morph into bigger, lazier versions of their fit and fab college identities. But, to each other, they haven’t changed at all. Fischer thinks of this form of “self-deception” as a “gift from nature, enabling us to triumph over the rough spots and the changes in our relationships.”

So, love is blind and dumb?

In August I had lattes with my pal Kim. I told her that I had once read that the thing you love most about someone initially, is the quirk you end up loathing the most in the end. I’ve left a few people sleepless over this comment. But, I know from analyzing myself and my relationships, that by god, it’s true! Try it, you’ll be alarmed.

Kim wondered if we should become more or less tolerant of what we want in a partner with age. Should we refine our Must Possess lists to a very tight and impractical checklist—or open up the strict guidelines to welcome new possibilities? I knew a Serbian who loved a Croatian, so certainly a vegan could love a butcher? And do I really need a girlfriend who spells well? Why have two in the family? There’s always spellchecker, or me.

Dax would like a guy that reads, with an accent, who preferably owns a Great Dane. Is this too much to ask for? And, if I find a girl who can’t dog whistle and cringes at the thought of sleeping with lions while on safari in Botswana, should I give her the brush off? If she doesn’t love dogs in general, yes. My theory is that if you don’t like dogs, there has to be a serious underlying human defect that I don’t want to be associated with.

I want someone who will stop and pick earthworms off the sidewalk so they don’t get stepped on. A girl who will take that long walk on the beach and throw washed-up starfish back into the tide.  And I want a reader too—not just someone who can read my mind. Although that would be okay too. Someone who could read my mind perfectly would never, ever, under any circumstance, ask me to dance in public or sing karaoke.

When I was 16 I imagined I would be a hermit on a mountainside with a German pointer, a small garden with plum tomatoes, chives, elephant garlic—and an ocean view. (This is the year my mom gave me a dog-eared copy of How To Live On Nothing by Joan R. Shortney). I wanted, quite desperately, to be a three day paddle from civilization. I have similar fantasies now and again, but after reading Into the Wild (Jon Krakauer), the obvious message was “Happiness is best shared.”

The trouble with liking yourself as much as I do, is that you feel complete already. The Jerry Maguire compulsion to find someone to complete me somewhat vanished a few needier years ago. I am complete. But maybe I need a really funny and smart accessory who likes baked brie and chimpanzees as much as I do.

In Stratford this past fall, my mom elbowed me as we listened to our charming server describe the nose and legs of the chardonnay we ordered. When she stepped away from our table my mother suggested I needed someone like our server, “Someone nerdy and bookish.”

But do I want to date myself?

My problem is that I fall in love with people’s stories. Beyond dog whistles and somebody that can do a loon call with cupped hands, I am a sucker for a good bildungsroman. (Wiktionary definition: A coming-of-age tale tracing the spiritual, moral and psychological growth of a character from childhood to maturity.)

I wish all my friends would write autobiographies, but then I’d be in love with a lot of people at the same time. I guess it’s the vulnerability that I’m drawn to. The whispered secrets. The same rescuer in me that likes to save baby birds and abandoned dogs, likes to rescue stray girls too, the ones who haven’t been loved as they should be.

Jann Arden’s song “Everybody’s Broken,” would be the soundtrack for the movie of my life. On her website she writes: “We are all flawed. We are all broken. It’s hard to remember that we all have a story, that we all have a past, a present and an uncertain future. We all belong to each other. We are all in this mess together.”

I’m sure if I posted Jann’s song description as a personals ad, I’d have a line-up of heart-broken saps, the runts of the litter, the black sheep and the misunderstood—all wanting some unconditional love. But I’m thinking more along the lines of a gal with a few fractures—who had one “that got away,” but survived. A gal who isn’t jaded or bitter about love and thinks Love In the Time of Cholera could happen in this era too. (Just to prove those pesky psychologists who believe in three year bliss terms wrong). I need someone hopeful and happy with their lives, who still wishes on birthday candles, chicken wishbones and falling stars.

Rona Maynard blogged that “what passes for harmony in marriage, two hearts and mind in lockstep, is my notion of a snooze. Let’s hear it for the allure of difference!” In her post “How We Stayed Married For 39 Years,” she mentions a pair who have been together for 40 years—she  a Catholic who enjoys speaking to the dead, and he an “atheist with no truck for the other side.”

So, here’s your chance to weigh in. Should we ask for more than brown eyes and an age group? Do we marry our soulmate or look for a Catholic/Atheist– Butcher/Vegan-type union? Do we side with the psychologists and take on a lifetime of honeymooning?

Or do we let love sneak up on us as it usually does and just hold on to its promise for as long as we can?

 

“How We Stayed Married For 39 Years” by Rona Maynard—

http://www.ronamaynard.com/index.php?how-we-stayed-married-for-39-years&letters-from-rona

For more of Jann Arden’s personal examination of Free and the intimate stories behind the lyrics–

http://www.jannarden.com/bio/

“So, how do y’all know each other?”

It didn’t occur to me that our story was perhaps a strange and startling one. Did we really all meet online? And after only a few short months of knowing each other, we thought we should travel to Nashville for the weekend? Together?  We immediately sounded like a reality TV show full of guaranteed fireworks, bitching and someone crying into their margarita by night’s end.

Last summer I remember reading Rona Maynard’s article “Online Bonding” (Best Health, Summer 2008) in the fluorescent lighting of the Shoppers Drug Mart in Abbotsford, in one swallow. I identified so closely with her concept of the “virtual community” and its merits that I bought the magazine. Finally, I had found someone who understood the comfort, intrigue and network that can be discovered through social media forums like Facebook and Twitter.

I emailed Rona immediately and said I wanted to be part of her virtual neighbourhood. She wrote back and we got on like a house on fire.  Her words were amplified when I spent four months in Africa, and longed for the connection of friends so many oceans away. Although the internet connection was as reliable as public transit, I was able to send daily ‘postcards,’ if you will, to all my friends flung worldwide. And because I was falling asleep in Uganda just as Canada was waking up, I had constant companions into the wee hours to chat with.

As a kid, I had over 40 pen pals at one point. I went to several summer camps and picked the very best of the lot to keep me from being not so “campsick” (my version of homesick) over the too-long winters. There was a girl in Korea who sent me traditional dresses, Marco from Quebec who I met in the Bahamas, Dan from Boise, Idaho and a few others that I still keep curious tabs on.

The pen pal process has definitely been updated and refined, and the likelihood of meeting  Facebook and Twitter ‘pen pals’ is tangible, doable and the obvious next step in online friendships.

I haven’t actively searched out strangers online, more often they are friend suggestions from someone near and dear to me who says, “Hey, this person is really cool. You should add her, you’ll love her humour.” And with a virtual introduction and handshake, the friendship is kick-started.

It’s almost like online dating, but for friends. And why not pull out the weeds before deciding which flowers to keep as perennials? The most remarkable people have shown up in my inbox–like when Jules Tortolani wrote me a random note to say, “Hey, we share a lot of letters in our name in common. We should probably be friends.” I initially had my Nut Bar Radar on high alert, but I couldn’t pick a more perfect soulmate than Jules.

I only have seven other ‘never-mets’ on my Facebook list, but I know these face-to-face encounters will happen because I have to meet Rob Peace. One night he was creeping through my old Toronto brownstone neighbour Ryan’s Facebook friend list and found me. He recognized my name and made a miraculous connection to a wall mural I had painted in Dunnville, Ontario a decade ago at a pizza joint called Godfathers. Rob had stopped for greasy pizza after a wedding and sent me a photo taken that night—of him and his then-girlfriend at Godfathers, with my mural and name in the background.

And this is why I love Facebook and its zero degrees of separation.

Which brings me to Nashville and the firepit where Andrea asked, “So, how do y’all know each other.”

Well, Heidi and I had been emailing back and forth like a tennis ball in a Serena and Venus finals game since March. A mutual friend had virtually introduced us and I was told that Heidi had been to Africa, and anyone that’s been to Africa is good in my books.

And Pam, another online friend said, “Leslie, she’s the real deal. Add her. Funny as hell and not a wacko.” So,  Leslie and I started our bantering late August and met weeks later at a concert at Hugh’s Room in Toronto. Her potential probationary Nut Bar status was removed just as quickly as Jules Tortolani. I sat at Leslie’s  table with a cardboard cut-out of Heidi’s head (semi-long and separate story), because Leslie and Heidi were also linked together online, about a year before. And then Leslie introduced me to Kelly at the concert, who played Proline football with Heidi in Nashville, and the Twittering began.

As someone who loves to write (anything really—from grocery lists to erotica to emails longer than a Charles Dickens novel), Leslie and I outdid each other with our essay-length get-to-know-you question and answer sessions. Mid-September she asked me what my biggest regret in life was, as one of her daily five questions (we liked to keep things light and fluffy). This was after Leslie told me that she and Kelly had decided to visit Heidi in Nashville in November.

Leslie, me, Kel

“My biggest regret is not going to Nashville with you two,” I responded, half- joking while sipping merlot on my brother’s floor, and sorting out where to work and live as I had just landed back in Toronto. When I woke up in the morning, there were almost a dozen emails from Kelly and Leslie insisting that I come to Tennessee with them, to meet Heidi and see a football game of all things, and in less than an hour I had a flight booked on expedia.ca

Naturally, one would think such a random get together would be a train wreck in slow motion. What we didn’t realize was how perfect we all were for each other. I’ve gone camping with friends who I’ve wanted to leave out for the bears to eat on the first night.

I uesd to know a woman who would end all her relationships (not intentionally) when she planned an overnight camping trip with them. She convinced me that maybe this was the best way to filter out the gal and friends that are going to work. If you can set up a tent together, eat sloppy S’mores, sleep in soggy sleeping bags, piss in a beer can in the tent because it’s raining, wake up smelling like bacon bits and still respect each other in the morning, the partnership/friendship would definitely work.

And maybe this was what Nashville was for us. It was our camping trip to ensure that we had the vital elements for continuing the friendship that had started online.

Chloe

But I knew. I knew Kelly would be like a golden retriever—happy to follow any of us wherever we wanted to go. She used to do stand-up comedy, so she was a logical choice to spend life on a desert island or a weekend in Nashville with.  I was also confident that Leslie was solid, despite her warning that she sometimes turned into a Greek man when drinking.

 

The bigger question was whether Heidi could handle Team Canada on her Nashville doorstep.

 

Emails full of anticipation were sent back and forth, fast and furious. We nearly laughed ourselves hoarse the first night in Detroit (and Leslie returned with no voice to speak of at all!). And when we finally met our Nashville ambassador, Heidi, we laughed even more. The ‘reunion’ was without awkwardness or oh-my-god-she-didn’t-tell-me-about-that-annoying-quirk revelations. It was like a mutual sigh and sense of relief–“Finally, we get to be together!”

 

The November Nashville sun was like a summer’s day. We had lunch on Ted’s sun-kissed BBQ patio, feeling the southern hospitality instantly–bison meatloaf sandwiches, Flying Dog Pale Ale, sliders, Auntie Faye’s squash casserole and the company of ‘strangers.’

We had so much to talk about and I left Nashville after four days thinking, there just wasn’t enough time for all the conversations, pancakes and pork rinds that needed to be ha

I had no idea that Nashville was going to be such an epicurean pleaser either! I have a list of things I still need to eat there—like the four pound burger that’s free if you can eat it in an hour, deep-fried pickles, fried catfish sandwiches, grits and Jack’s BBQ! But, when you travel, you always need to leave a reason to return.

The highlight was unanimously Arrington Vineyards, founded by country artist Kix Brooks (of Brooks & Dunn fame). What a magical place of storybook quality. Heidi insisted that we arrive just before the sun set to fully experience the charm of Arrington. At Arrington you can buy a bottle (Viognier, Reisling, Muscat, Syrah, Cabernet) and find a place to picnic on the property. And the picnicking is serious—linens, candles, charcuterie, cheese wedges worth more than the bottles of wine and artisan crackers. We’re not talking about cold KFC and a bag of stale Doritos. Arrington wine sippers know how to picnic.

There are dozens of picnic tables, huge swings in the handsome trees, a wrap-around deck and a welcoming hillside for casual wine drinking while reclined in the grass. The vines were scarlet red in the fields, and so striking against the horizon. When the sun dropped in the sky that night—it was like God was showing off his best brushstrokes.

Heidi introduced us to her favourite, the Syrah—black tea, exotic spice, pepper, blackberry jam and mocha flavours. It was a gentle collision of sensuality and silkiness. We talked into the darkness, sharing the intimate conversations that the night pulls out of you before you even realize it. A bonfire was lit at the top of the hill and was licking the belly of the stars when we left.

We continued the wine-tasting theme at The Wine Loft, a swishy tapas-style resto with thimble-sized stools and small, cozy tables that add to the contagious vibe. I was still full from the stack of Cracker Barrel blueberry pancakes 10 hours previous, but managed to eat almost an entire wheel of vanilla-infused baked brie with crostini. The tapas were almost too pretty to eat as the Loft takes pride in constructing appetizers suitable for hanging on gallery walls.

On Sunday, after crappy football nachos with congealed cheese at the Titans vs. Bills game (16 rows up from the field!), Heidi made sure that we had the finest tortilla chips and love potion margaritas in town at Cantina Laredo. Let me tell you, even the forks are bigger in America, and for good reason.

My vision of Nashville was largely of 10 gallon hats, spurs and a lot of Marlboro men leaned up against pick-up trucks, but I was pleasantly surprised. The Cumberland River splits the city in a reflective divide, and minutes from downtown, the manicured properties and drool-worthy plantation homes elicit constant oooohs and ahhhhhs.

The grounds of the Steeplechase and the local parks with spun-gold maple leaves brighter than the sun, where we took Heidi’s retrievers for a swim, were the best bits of America. And with the Southern drawl, everyone we talked to had us at “hello.” Really, I can’t remember visiting a friendlier state. Even the homeless are hospitable and willing to sing a hurtin’ country song for spare change. Kelly and I decided we could easily live there. She would require season’s tickets for the Titans, and I would simply need to add more mileage to my morning runs to keep pace with the butter intake.

There was a palpable sadness in leaving Nashville and saying goodbye to Heidi (who definitely passed the weekend camping test). I am so grateful for the virtual introductions (thanks J.) and for the beautiful connections that have been made in a world that really is not so big after all.

God bless America, Facebook and Rona, for reminding us that it’s not about where you find your friends, it’s where you keep them. And I’m keeping these women closer to my heart after this weekend.

Heidi, Kelly and Les

 

Arrington Vineyards–http://www.arringtonvineyards.com/

“Welcome to my online community.  Instead of wine or coffee, I’m serving stories—the kind women tell among friends.”  Visit Rona’s brilliant blog— http://ronamaynard.com/

All things Nashville–

http://www.tripadvisor.com/Attractions-g55229-Activities-Nashville_Tennessee.html

You Are Here

And I’m home again. Another little red house on my Monopoly board game of life (and this one is definitely Park Place). Already it’s like swallowing robust coffee and absorbing sunshine in equal doses. This place settles me, and if I am away too long (even for the duration of a work day), I miss how it feels under my feet.

There have been many footsteps here before me. The 1897 Victorian has walls that not only talk, but they Twitter as well. When my long-anticipated haul arrived from BC in October, the mover told me his mother lived in this very house when she first moved to Canada from Ireland. I said to him, “Oh, I bet you say that to all the girls.” He insisted, and went on to indicate the window she looked out of, when it was a rooming house. In that moment, the world seemed as big as a sesame seed bagel.

Pig manure is still my true indicator of home. The rich sting of pig shit (so rich it would actually make you cough if you breathed too deeply) as I rode my shiny BMX down Arthur Road has stayed in my nose and lungs for over 30 years. And I can still smell the sweetness of tobacco curing in the kilns. In my nostalgic nose there’s the stagnant swamp too—and the startled screams of bullfrogs leaping into the murky pond. After the last ripples of the frog’s tight cannonball trajectory disappeared, the beady golden eyes would appear under a hat of duckweed. The redwing blackbirds would bend the cattails in half with their weight, talking absently about their long fall commute. Although my home has shifted to the urban belly of Toronto, that home in the country resides in me.

Living in the country, the pages of the seasons  turn more slowly. My grandmother still marks the return and departure of the redwings and robins on her calendar. She records the daily temperature, the first frost, snowy owl sightings and the other events that seem worldly when you are living amongst them.

The tall stands of sun-bleached corn on Arthur Road have been harvested, the ground tilled under and ripe with fat worms and split arrowheads. There was always a palpable loneliness to the fall fields, all that was green turning to spun gold and the geese taking to the sky, again. The last of the leaves are hanging on like Cirque de Soleil performers, not willing to end the show too early.

I miss the subtle changes in bugs, buds and birds. I used to know the coming and going’s of the birds like my grandmother, but here, in downtown Toronto, the symptoms of fall are witnessed by the changing storefront windows and Starbucks beverages. The pumpkin cream cheese muffins and pumpkin spice lattes are giving way to all things cocoa-ish and peppermint-laden. The Holt Renfrew windows on Bloor are full of darling penguins in tuxes, impeccably dressed swans and mannequins in cocktail dresses with Santa beards.

The smells here are constant, not seasonal. The deep fryers and greasy pork of Ginger, the sugary waft of Wanda’s Waffles on Yonge, roasting oily coffee beans, hot urine staining the walls outside the nightclubs, shawarmas and smoking grills lined with Polish sausages on the street corners.

My friend Michelle who lives in Cambridge Bay, Nunavut, has been sending me meteorological updates of -40 degree temperatures (for the last month)and the distinct smells of the North. We live somewhat vicariously through each other via emails and smells, comparing a Nunavut Halloween (kids arrive via snowmobile with costumes over snowsuits) with my colourful account of the scantily clad gays glammed out on Church street. I brag about a garlic-spiked Lebanese kofta wrap with pickled turnip, and Michelle explains the fine-tuning of her gin-soaked muskox with juniper berries while contemplating what to do with her freezer full of Arctic char.

Her home is so white and wide. The brand of cold where your breath streams out of your nostrils and mouth like a fairy tale dragon. Can you smell winter? Yes. It’s gasoline and blue, and the snow makes the sound that cornstarch in a plastic bag feels like between your fingertips. Like cheese curds on your teeth, there is a squeak that is associated with that kind of cold. I imagine myself visiting, eating gin-soaked muskox in a nice sauna suit.

My sister says it’s snowing in Banff too. I don’t let on that I’ve had lunch outside under a tree the last two days with a fine trickle of sweat running down my back. Kiley’s home has become the mountains, and even though I know she remembers the frogs and redwings too, her deep breath and exhale has become the tall fragrant cedars and even taller peaks of Three Sisters.  She runs with elk and bear, and knows the trails that snake into the woods and up the mountains like a genius cartographer.

For some reason, Dax and I (except for my sojourns out west and to Africa), have always lived just blocks away from each other in Toronto. We have found familiarity in the streets that hum and cast neon hues on to the pavement like artificial day light. My sister knows mountain ridges as we know the best places for coconut curry, burritos as big as footballs and runny eggs Benny.

In fact, Dax could spell off all the coffee shops and cannolis worth their beans and butter in a 5km radius of anywhere that he might be standing. I could point you to the best place for gorgonzola shortbread cookies, $10 manicures, $7 matinees, French martinis, lamb burgers and pulverizing shiatsu treatments.

And with an my shiatsu therapist’s elbow in my back and lightning bolts of pain radiating in a dozen directions, I think of Merryde and her tug of war between Australia and the idyllic bed and breakfast she owns on the Nile in Uganda. And that thinking elicits a homesickness for Africa and the sticky days and cool equator nights that became my being. I see the faces of all the chimps, I hear the crying pitch of the hyrax in the darkness and the hornbills ushering in morning. The redwings, the hornbills, the chimps, the bullfrogs—my home has become a hybrid.

I wonder where I will ever lay my foundation when I keep tearing my house down. I should enter a house of cards building contest. I’ve left a trail across Canada and all the way to Congo, leaving integral bits of myself in each place so I can continue to tap into all that makes me feel alive.

 I click through Adam’s photos of Margarita Island and think, yes, I could live there too. Like a chameleon, I could slide in and blend with the jungle surroundings. I imagine the burning sunsets and serene mornings with my feet in the sand. But a reader tells me my answers are in Guatemala and Peru.

But when I read about the elephant sanctuary in Tennessee, I want to be there too. Living with the elephants, living outside myself and in tune with an animal so displaced from its home. I feel displaced at times, but in a good way. There’s always a learning curve ball being thrown at my head it seems.

I’ve come to accept that it’s human conditioning to be missing the last place you’ve been, and yearning for the next. I know I’m not the only one in this quagmire…but life sometimes seems like a shook-up snow globe. Once the blizzard inside the globe stops I can see what I’m supposed to see, and then it’s time to get shaken again. Let it snow.

There is undeniable envy when I meet people who are confident they will spend the rest of their life in one spot. My grandmother has lived on the same road her entire life. With the exception of a few months at the end of her life, my great-grandmother did the same. My parents moved into the city 10 years ago from Arthur Road and Canada Post is still grappling with it. The Chapin family wasn’t supposed to migrate like the redwings. And unless someone suddenly discovers wild populations of chimpanzees in Canada, I have a difficult time imagining that my things won’t see cardboard boxes again. (Not anytime soon, Mom and Dad).

This house that I call home now is an oasis of calm, hazelnut candle whiff and as feng shui as Google suggests—minus the eight carp in a backyard pond and three Chinese coins tied with red ribbon to the back of the front door handle. I even find myself with a newfound staring problem. I look at the crown moulding and gleaming hardwood floors until my vision blurs; like a 3-D picture–when you are instructed to let your eyes relax in order to see another image. I look in my bedroom, as though I am walking through a museum with a roped off area. I look at this person’s books and photographs and step in.  

I am here.

“Home is the nicest word there is.” –Laura Ingalls Wilder

Please Do Not Disturb

Where The Wild Things Are has given me emotional indigestion. The movie trailer indicated that “Inside all of us is hope,” but the movie left me feeling the weight of the world on my heart and tear ducts, not just my shoulders. Like midnight Chinese food and the electric headache that drinking a vanilla milkshake too fast can elicit, I felt an unusual distress in every part of me after seeing the film.

“I’m sooo sad!” Was the best I could come up when Dax and I walked out of the theatre equally stunned. We tried to pinpoint what stabbed us in the heart so accurately, but we were at a loss for words (compounded by a complete loss of appetite for post-movie martinis).

The opening scene with socially awkward 9-year-old Max Records sobbing after escaping his crushed igloo (collapsed by his older sister’s jerk-friends)was like swallowing an SOS pad. I had packed an illegal movie picnic for Dax and I as we had both hurried over to the Varsity after work. The gouda with fine herbs that I loved the night before felt like a choking hazard in my clenched throat. The sesame seed sticks were like shards of glass. The Boylan’s root beer set fire to everything else.

I can still see my primary school librarian, Mrs. Kuyvenhoven, in a pilly mauve cardigan and polyester pleated pants with eyes as big as eggs, reading Where The Wild Things Are to us as we sat, fidgeting on the carpeted floor of Mt. Pleasant school library. The moody front cover of the book is more of a standout in my memory than the plot, but the movie trailer and the whimsical similarity to The Neverending Story put it on my coveted must-see-at-the-theater list.  

Apparently the ‘monsters’ depicted in Maurice Sendak’s book were based on his Polish immigrant relatives who congregated in his childhood home for weekly dinners. Their choppy English and quirky mannerisms made them very monster-like to his younger self (Which I can relate to. We thought my grandmother was from Mars because she had such green and wormy varicose veins). Not so surprisingly, Sendak’s bibliography lists dozens of illustration credits as he spent his earlier years working as a children’s book artist before finding his niche in the writing world.

Director and screenwriter Spike Jonze, producer Tom Hanks  and co-scriptwriter Dave Eggers (What is the What, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius) have been sculpting and breathing Where The Wild Things Are for six years. Filmed in Australia, the surreal escape into Max’s troubled headspace is a magnificent success in that it is so disturbing. Maybe it makes me think too much about all the rejected Max’s of the world.  How we repeatedly fail to acknowledge those who are craving mere snippets of attention and acceptance.

The on-screen ‘monsters’ are easily recognized as lonely, broken depictions of humans. They are misunderstood and as uncomfortable as pimply teenagers.  They want a king who will lead them away their sadness and simultaneously Max finds a place where he is wanted and needed. He finds solace in Carol (James Gandolfini) and discovers his voice and assertiveness as he is challenged by KW, Ira, Douglas and Alexander (the Wild Things). The monsters, despite their behemoth size, fangs, horns and affection for eating children, are as sensitive as an albino’s bare arms in the July sun.

As an outsider, Max is finally able to see and recognize his own family, and how they are no different from the Wild Things. The gloomy forest and vast sand dunes of Max’s domain are forever changed as he infiltrates the Wild Things and learns the dynamics and heartbreak that have internally collapsed his friend, Carol. The movie is like an illumination of Jann Arden’s lyrics to “Everybody’s Broken.” Whether “everybody hates Billy Wolfe ‘cause he doesn’t look the way they do”  or Clara Marie who’s eighty-five years old when she’s taken from her home. “To her little white room with a cup and a spoon and the dress that she had on/Nobody came they’ve forgotten her name it’s like she disappeared.”

Everybody is broken and wants to be thought of in that irreplaceable way, and the Wild Things that Max befriends were as familiar to me as they will be to you. It’s like we keep meeting the same people  over and over again in our lives. The Painfully Awkward one, the Funny one, the Quiet and Brooding one, the Overcompensating one, the Annoying one, the Hurting one. And what do we learn? Our heartbreaks are the same. Our tears, strife and struggle are all the same. Billy Wolfe, Clara Marie, Carol, Max—we know them by different names, maybe we have even been them.

But I still walked away from the movie with a boomerang in my throat. And this is the finest example of brilliance by a director. When a film can penetrate and disturb us, lingering for days, weeks and months, like a lover’s embrace—it has fulfilled its purpose. Songs often do this to us, but when there is a powerful visual, like the pained expression of Carol when he learns that the sun might be dying in the sky, it sticks and stains us.

Ten day old cub at the Lubumbashi Zoo, Congo.

Think of the image that is instantly conjured up with the YouTube link for “Christian the Lion” and his reunion with John Rendall and Ace Berg. (In 1969 they bought the lion cub from Harrod’s and the local vicar allowed Christian to exercise on the church grounds. When he became too big for their flat, it was decided that Christian should be reintroduced to Africa.) By now, you are already picturing the lion approaching Rendall and Berg with undeniable recognition on his face–and the footage of Christian bear-hugging the two men in the remarkable hello that follows. This is how Where the Wild Things Are will attach itself to you. Carol running across the dunes towards Max in the boat, whimpering and sobbing, is the Christian the lion reunion all over again.

 The lion reunion hits the same susceptible nerves and leaves me with tears racing down my neck all the way to my collarbone. It alarms me a bit that the same footage can make me so blithery and marshmallow-like each and every time.  What does it all mean? I guess that we want to be remembered, and needed. Even when we have to let go and leave behind the kingdoms that we have built to find our feet again when it seems like only quicksand surrounds us.

When you see the final (sob-alert) scene of the Wild Things on the beach, you will understand. And maybe you will stop to ask Billy Wolfe or Clara Marie if they’re doing okay.  No one should be lonely in this world, and I think it took a few monsters to remind me of that.

Tell me what you think.

Where The Wild Things Are (trailer, soundtrack and other cool things)–http://wherethewildthingsare.warnerbros.com/

The guaranteed-to-make-you-cry lion reunion on The View– http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oiGKWoJi5qM&feature=fvw

Kisses and Thrills

As I rounded the corner at Yonge and Queen today I saw the chapped hands of men on ladders, hanging garland above the windows of the Hudson Bay Company. ‘Tis the season. I even heard talk of the much-anticipated Toronto Santa Claus parade today. But can we enjoy the magic of Hallowe’en first?

I have yet to carve my pumpkin and roast my famous blackened pumpkin seeds. The blackened-ness isn’t a Southern take on the seeds, it’s my lack of patience for the slow roast turned up to an impatient broil. I jack up the oven temp and turn on the light as a reminder, but, the smoke alarm seems to be what alerts me first. Does anyone toast those silly seeds successfully? The work is intricate to begin with, separating the seeds from the cold guts of the disembowelled pumpkin. The wet, pulpy insides stick like cellophane to anything within a three foot radius and make me itch like the saltwater that runs to my elbows when shucking oysters.

But a yearly pumpkin must be carved, it is as critical as egg nog and rum 100 days before (and right up until) Christmas. Other timeless Hallowe’en must-haves are at least one candy apple, Kraft caramels (by the dozen, preferably) and Thrills gum.

The Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory in Vancouver makes caramel apples so sticky that you  lose all your orthodontic work and silver fillings in one bite. The Granny Smith’s are rolled in fantasy toppings like M&M’s, pecans, Snickers bits and marshmallows. The “Cheesecake Apple” is dipped in a sweet white confection and rolled in crushed graham crackers. The “Apple Pie Apple” is dipped in the same love potion substitute (sweet white confection) then rocked and rolled in brown sugar and cinnamon. And the Rocky Road? Eat your heart out—walnuts, marshmallows and chocolate making the apple as big as a football.

The traditional candy apples of the past that turned your teeth and surrounding lips an alarming red for at least 12 hours showcase the simplicity of Hallowe’en: sugar, corn syrup and food colouring. However, my issue with the candy apple is how the whole casing can crack and slide off into your lap on the second bite. Much like a slice of pizza when all the toppings and mozzarella cheese landslide onto your chin. If the offending candy apple didn’t slide off and stain your clothes from your lap to your ankles where it rolled to the ground, the apple shell would splinter and become the candy equivalent of eating stained glass.

Some dear mother on Mt. Pleasant Road (our coveted childhood Hallowe’en domain)always went to the effort of making dozens of candy apples for us greedy trick-or-treaters with sleeping bags as loot bags. Next to Mrs. Kellam’s buttery as a Butterball turkey Nuts & Bolt, that Candy Apple House was our highlight. (And the lowlight was definitely the dorky dentist who handed out toothbrushes and floss. Boo! Hiss!)

Contrary to the dentist’s popular belief, I think I used to sleep with a wad of Thrills gum in my cheek Hallowe’en night.  And I was recently thrilled to learn that Thrills is an all-Canadian product. The critics that said it tasted like soap eventually led to the Concord Confection Company deciding “if we can’t beat ‘em, we better join ‘em.” The current packaging boasts, “It still tastes like soap!”

Really, the intended flavour is rosewater, which is essentially like chewing on your grandmother’s bath oil beads.  The gum has such a legion of fans that it is actually featured on CanadaOnly.ca, an online corner store for our indigenous candy. Wrigley’s Hubba Bubba Max and Doublemint stick gum are also available in addition to our hinterland Neilson Macaroons and Laura Secord bars.

On the site AmericansGuide.ca, Thrills gum is referenced for Americans visiting Canada who are stumped by such terms as “Thrills” and others like “Canadian Tire money” and the poppies associated with Remembrance Day.

Candy corn has proven to be more universal with our neighbours, with October 30^th being designated as National Candy Corn Day. According to Brach’s Confections Inc. , Americans eat enough candy corn per year that if the kernels were laid out, they would circle the Earth four times. Which is not a good visual for me. I never won the jellybean counting contest, but I imagine that is enough candy corn to keep the dental profession alive and well.

Sugar, corn syrup and honey are the not-so-secret ingredients to candy corn. And the beauty of it? It’s fat-free. Classified as a “mellow-cream,” candy corn has a special designation because it’s a candy made from corn syrup and sugar that has a marshmallow-like flavour. The niche market has expanded its Hallowe’en domination to monopolize other holidays like Christmas with a red, green and white “Reindeer Corn,” pink, red and white “Cupid Corn” and pastel-coloured Bunny Corn for Easter.

Allegiance divides when it comes to the Candy Corn vs. Hallowe’en Kisses debate. Kisses were reliable in mimicking lockjaw if you had more than one in your mouth. Molars would be uprooted by several millimetres in frantic jaw-prying-open recovery tactics. The blend of molasses and sugar, and wrapper (because the wrapper always remained stuck to the candy) was always satisfying for breakfast.

Perfumer Cristophe Raynaud even created a “fruity oriental gourmand” in his “Halloween Kiss” fragrance. I think he would have fared better had he made the scent evoke the Hallowe’en Kisses of our past—who wouldn’t be seduced by a dab of molasses behind someone’s ear? Raynaud’s take is a combination of orange, pear, red fruits, peach, orchid, freesia, peony, violet, teak wood, tonka bean (?)and patchouli (doesn’t patchouli always smell like a root cellar?). Seems like a lot of flowers and wood in one sniff. My Thrills & Kisses fragrance would boast notes of caramel, glucose, food colouring, icing sugar and corny syrup.

Rockets, another claim to fame for Canada, were the last things to remain in my sacred cache well into December. They are a 60-year classic with six assorted pastel colours and jaw-cramping sour flavours. Curiously, these same Rockets are called “Smarties” in the United States. And, like Cadbury and Guinness, Rockets produced in Newmarket, Ontario are claimed to taste different than the Smarties counterparts of Ce De Candy in Union County, New Jersey.

A Wikipedia Pop Culture post under the American version of Smarties claims 2009 as the year youth began to “smoke Smarties.” Crazy youths looking for a new high ground up the Smarties into a dust, and inhaled it like a cigar. The candy dust was also blown out the nostrils. Doctors have stepped in though and warned against Smartie smoking infections. It’s all fun and games until one has a candy dust infection.

I bet this nostril-fetish dog would like the Box of Boogers

But worse than the dust infection? Peel and eat gummy scabs and scars marketed as “Scab-a-roni’s.” J.C. Reid’s list of the Top 5 Creepiest Hallowe’en Candy also paid tribute to “Zit Poppers.” The Zits are liquid filled gummies that have stiff (sticky?)competition with the “Box of Boogers” that’s touted to be “Snnnnnot your regular gummy.”

If you are bored by the eyeball gumballs and mini chocolate bars and foil-wrapped chocolate pumpkins—visit  Chowhound for recipes on how to make your very own pretentious Peanut Butta Cups, Twixt and Snickles with downloadable wrappers to boot. For the Twixt, the recipe includes a shortbread cookie base, and for Snickles, the fluffy peanut nougat. For a self-sufficient Hallowe’en, visit Chow at http://www.chow.com/stories/10746.

The site also offers suggested wine pairings for caramels, candy corn, Smarties and Starburst. Tawny Port proves to be the winner as the general rule is that the wine should be sweeter than the dessert (http://www.chow.com/stories/11923). You can also learn how to make dry ice for a punch and fake blood that tastes delicious too at Chow Tips.

By now you must be craving something. And I bet it’s not the stupid box of SunMaid Raisins or the Eat More bar that only makes me want to Eat Less.  I bet if we were six again it would be the “Hose Nose” that dispenses liquid candy slime from a nose that you strap on your face. Or how about the Ear Wax candy that you dig out with a plastic swab?

Check out the 10 Grossest Candy List at http://candyaddict.com/blog/top-10-grossest-candies/

What are you craving? The chocolate covered maggots or earthworm and rotten egg jellybeans? Remember that we are the dying era of cheap Thrills and Hallowe’en Kisses. Let’s keep the true spirit of Hallowe’en alive.

 For my Hallowe’en musings from Uganda last year, check out: http://julestorti.wordpress.com/2009/05/07/boo-hoo-im-gonna-miss-halloween/

Lunch Pales in Comparison

My grocery store visits are turning into museum tours. I walk down every aisle at the pace of an 80-year-old with emphysema and a cane. I linger over pickled shitake mushrooms, rabbit terrines, sour cherry spreads, basil and walnut pestos and jalapeno kettle corn. I contemplate the merit and aftertaste of dried kiwi and an Indian snack mix that looks like it would set my insides on fire. I act like I was born in Africa and am having my first North American grocery shopping experience.

In the checkout line I flip through the glossy magazines and find a recipe for a cake that looks like a pumpkin covered in orange M&M’s. I sometimes wish I was a Family Circle-type wife. I’d make recipes with Cool Whip and Jell-o and make a trifle with tiny coloured marshmallows that would be forever referred to as “Jules’ Trifle.” Like my Aunt Brenda’s “Broccoli Salad” with a tangy mayo-vinegar dressing, crispy bacon, sunflower seeds and raisins. It’s not really her recipe, but she made it once and it instantly became hers. My grandmother Joyce has her old standby “Green Fluff” (Cool Whip and lime Jell-o with pineapple tidbits—the ultimate 70s throwback that she has carried forward into 2009, solo). My mom has her “Baked Ziti” with noodles as thick and as long as garden hoses, a block of mozzarella, 10 cups of cottage cheese and a fiery tomato sauce that can keep a spoon upright.

We all need our own specialty. Dax has his “Betty’s Bread Pizza” and Oreo cheesecake, and my dad is best known for his towers of salad with two slices of buttered toast as croutons, piled on iceberg lettuce with six diced carrots. And Kiley? Well, she can blend a beautiful banana  shake and makes a Banff-friendly trail mix with a decadent  75-25 chocolate-nut ratio.

I like to know what a person’s specialty is, it says a lot about them. I’ve evolved over the years, but I used to score high marks for my stuffed lasagna rolls (which were so intricate, it was like making a flock of origami swans). I moved on to Jamaican tarts, addictively savoury numbers filled with caramelized onions, spicy ground beef and topped with a jalapeno jelly glaze. I can also do quesadillas blindfolded–and gingerbread pancakes when in the mood to flip the batch of 56 pillowy crowd-pleasers that the recipe makes.

"Aww, Mom. Not frog legs AGAIN!"

So how do we come about our own kitchen niche? I can’t imagine it stemmed from my great-grandmother who fed us “Slop” (ground beef, peas and onions) and “fish eyes” (tapioca) on a regular basis. My mother exposed us to a world beyond Captain Highliner fish sticks and Tater Tots (but we certainly ate those too).  Is cooking genetic? Do we pass down our familial menus like tongue-rolling and bent pinkies?

Looking in somebody’s grocery cart speaks volumes more than a medicine cabinet. All the sins are exposed, and sometimes the guilt has to be vocalized and shared with the patron who’s next in line (like me, today). “I quit smoking four weeks ago, this is what keeps me away from the cigarettes,” the woman explained as she placed a box of 56 chocolate popsicles on the conveyor belt. “And these are for my husband,” she offered, as she put a box of mini pogo sticks beside the popsicles. I wondered if the two loaves of 100% white bread were an anti-smoking measure as well.

The check-out line is like a confession booth with fluorescent lighting. I didn’t feel a need to explain my California raspberries and soya milk to the Chocolate Popsicle Lady. Or the sweet potatoes and spinach. But, if you have bad stuff in your cart, the guilt rises to the surface faster than a goose egg. I’ve done it before myself, absently blurting out to the cashier or the person behind me, “Oh, it’s not for me, it’s for a friend.” Because the Diet Coke wasn’t for me.  I felt compelled to defend my grocery cart’s contents.

And we’re all indiscreet Peeping Tom’s when it comes to the checkout aisle or a colleague’s lunch.  It’s amazing how many co-workers get by on a pail-sized Starbucks something-or -others and “granola” bar. More often I am reminded of a petite Asian woman I did my massage therapy training with. A loved one had given her a waffle maker for Christmas, and the box suggested using waffles as a bread alternative. On the 40^th day Grace pushed her waffle sandwich away, and with chubbier cheeks admitted she couldn’t use the waffle maker anymore. She waffled.

In elementary school I remember certain classmates for their distinct lunches. This of course being the golden era before peanut allergies ruined everything that was sacred. Richard Nott, for example, came to school EVERY day with six homemade chocolate chip cookies. His mother was as skinny as a whippet, and he was too.  He  always had a white bread peanut butter sandwich. Multi-grain was as unheard of as trans fatty acids in the 80s.

Despite wanting a ham and French’s yellow mustard sandwich for all my primary school years, my mom wouldn’t allow it. “You’ll get cancer eating ham sandwiches every day.” We believed her, and the day she put Dijon on my sandwich almost turned me off ham sandwiches forever (until my taste buds matured and I became a mustard elitist, embracing the Dijon and grainy blends).

She made us fantastic lunches that were like unwrapping Christmas presents. A Thermos presented so many possibilities. Sometimes Zoodles, often brown beans with a chopped wiener—but best yet? A hot dog in a Thermos! The bun would be as soggy as a diaper, and the boiled wiener resembled a bloated body found in the lake—but what a thrill. It took a few smacks on the bottom end of the Thermos to get the sucker out, but it was the envy (and stink) of the classroom.

Of course, we had a school-sanctioned Hot Dog Day too, which was the highlight of the month, generally. It was all very simple, white serviettes that could be mistaken for cardboard, split over-boiled weenies, mustard, ketchup and green relish. Jeff Kellam and David Spencer always ordered four hot dogs, and the rest of the class was in awe of their hot dog-eating prowess. Some girls only ordered one, battling self esteem issues even in grade 5. The biggest delight in Hot Dog Day was being allowed to take a can of pop to school.  Somebody’s mother (Lois Isbister’s?) used to wrap her daughter’s can of Coke in foil, to keep it cold.  I was so excited to have pop in the first place that it didn’t matter if it was as warm as a fart.

There were much anticipated Pizza Days too—greasy slices from Maria’s or Brick Oven Pizza. They were the only two places that would deliver to our country school. Shannon Johnson and I would always split a Hawaiian at who knows what expense to my parents. 

Banana and bacon pizza in the Congo

Pizza was the main fuel of my high school years with Rosa’s pizza being situated a convenient one minute walk away. A slice and a pop for $2.25 was an economical choice and helped with my teen angst. Everyone was doing it. In fact, Stacy Hill and I challenged each other to a month of pizza-eating as a bet.  She was five feet flat and could run like the wind, a cheetah and an Indian motorcycle. I secretly hoped the bet would make her more lethargic so I could finally beat her in the 1,500 meter.

Then I met Bob Vamos, the guy who hated to “break a toonie.” I ate the lunch my mom packed for me on the school bus for breakfast (well, the cookie part at least), then joined Bob for a decadent lunch of cafeteria fries, gravy and mayo (we were European back then).  Also $2.25. I’m not sure why I didn’t become a candidate for stomach-stapling in those years.

I laugh to think that in kindergarten we were given prizes for eating our entire lunch. Talk about encouraging bulimia. I won a seashell once. Did I only finish my lunch once all year? Maybe the other prizes sucked. I guess I’m like a dog, I’m not ashamed to admit that I like rewards. It was simply the kindergarten version of the 76 oz. steak challenge.

My fondest memory though is of the Lunch Swap, which is not in any way related to the Key Swap parties of the 70s. Lunch Swap days at Mt. Pleasant Elementary involved drawing a number, and on that very special day, everyone brought an anonymous lunch that was also numbered. Four  Michelin stars went to the leftover pizza lunches wrapped in foil, leftover KFC (even with the stone-cold mushy fries and Leprechaun barf coleslaw) and any lunch with a chocolate bar (and a real, life-size chocolate bar, not a “fun-size” or “Hallowe’en size” bar). Fudgeeos and Oreos ranked high on the Awesome Meter too, especially in groupings of more than two. Boos and hisses went to the kids who forgot to tell their parents about Lunch Swap day, and came with swampy tuna fish or runny egg salad or an everyday blah and peanut butter sandwich.

I wish I could do lunch swap now at the Rose Avenue School near Bloor and Parliament. The primary school has the highest number of nationalities and languages spoken in all of Toronto. For sure there would be pakora, samosas, korma and shawarma. I’d even give out my “I Ate My Entire Lunch” seashell for one of their lunches!

We’ve come such a long way since squashed, Saran Wrapped mock baloney sandwiches and chocolate pudding in pull-tab cans (and didn’t it suck when the tab broke off and you had a plastic spoon and no way to get into the pudding inside without lacerating yourself?). Now kids get Lunchables with pizza, crackers, cheese and chocolate bars. It’s like a marijuana munchies snack pack.

Maybe I will single-handedly bring back the hot dog in the Thermos. Or randomly give prizes to co-workers for finishing their lunch.

More importantly, what are you having for lunch? And what’s your specialty?

Dollars and Sense

Everyone is paying for something. Catalytic converters (whatever they are), new septic tanks, root canals, bad dates, funerals, weddings, roofs and trips so long ago that the tan has faded into fish-belly-whiteness again. Celebrations and devastations both come with a price tag.

When I volunteered in Africa for four months last year, I quickly adapted to not earning a paycheque. When a litre of beer and a goat leg cost less than a dollar, I thought I was playing the greatest game of Monopoly–with all my tiny red plastic houses on Park Place. What was silently transpiring was my mind becoming  engaged and stimulated by the experience, and dollars no longer made sense.

My second sabbatical came to an end just a few weeks ago. Another fling with Madame Africa in the Congo followed by abruptly moving across Canada put a few hairline fractures in my nest egg, but I’m smoothing out the lines again. As Juliana Margulies’ told Oprah in this month’s O Aha! Moment, her mother always reassured her by insisting, “Honey, this is only a moment, it’s not the rest of your life.”

Luckily I’ve never been money-driven, as my scales tip towards the life end of the work-life balance. I admire work ethic in others, and their commitment to the greater good of a company, but, I like to address the greater good of myself first. 

As a child, I was an entrepreneurial star, with my juvenile fashionista ways fuelling most of my ambitious upstarts. There were Kangaroo shoes and Chip & Pepper overalls that were must-haves. Not to mention the Ralph Lauren button-downs, Tretorns and trendy Lacoste cardigans.

Growing up in the country, we were forced into non-traditional money-making schemes. A lemonade stand wouldn’t fly on our gravel road that was only frequented by my grandfather and uncle commuting between pig barns at feeding time. We tried, oh, how we tried—but we drank our proceeds and had cankers and gut rot from all the warm pink lemonade.

My dad was generous with chores, and the pay out. We could rake up pinecones in the back woods (oh, could we?) to make cutting the grass safer. Let me tell you, those pinecones were instant projectiles, hitting you like fiery bullets when they propelled out of the back of the push mower. Equally exciting was the opportunity to rake up gravel from the grass after a winter of my grandfather clearing out our driveway with his snow plow. That plow was effective for snow removal and gravel removal. The driveway was about 100 metres long, which translates into five tonnes of gravel on the grass come March. Gravel-raking was slightly more enticing than doing the whitewalls of the Cutlass Supreme Oldsmobile though. The SOS pads always made my hands itch like I had been picking poison ivy. Not only did we have to scour with the SOS, we had to follow this step up with a toothbrush (and we weren’t even being punished), a hose-down (but not too much water because we were on a well), followed by a shine with the Turtle Wax. I wouldn’t do that for $50 dollars now.

Luckily I had artistic talent to rely upon (which my sister still sneers about). I would sell drawings of our grey Persian cat on a snowmobile, or cross-country skiing. Oh, how Moker loved to snowshoe. Xanadu, our Benji-knock-off dog, was featured in most of the drawings with Moker. Xanadu also enjoyed skiing and the odd toboggan ride. I’d sell these crappily coloured pictures for 25 cents a piece to any relative with a wallet. The accompanying stories would net at least two to three dollars, depending on length and my up-sell.

Dax caught on to the relatives with wallets, and became quite industrious with his vegetable garden enterprise. My mom would purchase the seeds, pay Dax to roto-till and weed AND have to buy his produce on top of all that. The pints of raspberries earned the most coin, due to the tedious nature of the work, and also due to the annoying thorns.

Kiley earned her spending money (to finance her own personal telephone was she was nine) in a less honourable way. She convinced her elementary school colleagues to join her prestigious “White Rabbit Club.” Members were charged a weekly fee, and I’m sure she had an initial registration fee as well. All was lucrative with her White Rabbit Club until a jaded classmate (who didn’t make the cut) reported the financial scam to her mother, and Kiley’s club was canned.  

Dax expanded his skills in the kitchen after a 4-H bread-making course and became a burgeoning country version of Cinnabon, before Cinnabon even came to fruition.  He made Nanaimo bars and brownies so rich that your teeth would disintegrate as you ate them.  He had sinful cinnamon buns and a knock-out Betty’s Bread Pizza (a lovely braided pizza loaf) that I still request for my birthday. A friend of mine actually paid him to make desserts for one of her parties when he was 15. And we’re not talking church bake sale kind of prices. He was making enviable royalties largely because my mom had to buy all the ingredients!

How we make our money and how we spend it fascinates me. I have no problem spending $150 on running shoes because I’m a runner, it’s what I do. My dear mother hates spending money on shoes. When she finally went all out and bought herself a cool and expensive pair of orange sandals a few summers ago, she had nightmares about them being run over by transport trucks. Really, she didn’t sleep for weeks because of awful dreams about her sandals being destroyed. However, as my dad will attest, she has no issue with spending money on fireplace mantles. She has about six now.

Kiley Torti, former President and CEO of the White Rabbit Club

Dax is all about the fish. He will buy corals as pricey as the orange sandals my mom stays awake over, while my sister fawns over more downhill skis (she goes down the hill a lot, it’s justified. And she lives in Banff where it’s winter from August to June.

Michelle, my friend from Nunavut, takes pleasure in buying dried mushrooms in Chinatown, Steam Whistle beer  for around $25 a six-pack (it’s Nunavut remember—not a big beer selection, and slim pickings on the fresh strawberries and Costa Rican bananas) and artisan apple wood chips for  her fish smoker. Then there is my dear Kelly and her affection for all things Louis Vuitton. You don’t know how many times she dragged me into Holt’s to visit her Speedy bag. She’d put her cell in it, her keys, and fling it over her shoulder, feeling the wonderful weight and meticulous craftsmanship of the bag on her shoulder. Finally, one day she walked out of the store with it (after buying it), proud as a peacock.

I like that individuality and brand passion. But me? I like to spend money on experiences. Last week I had a reflexology treatment and three red bean paste rice cakes with all-I-could-drink Chinese tea for 30 bucks. Money can buy happiness! I love theatre, out of season blackberries, concerts, gourmet shortbread, film fests, skin lotions that smell like pumpkin pie and marshmallows, manicures, shiatsu—anything to indulge my senses. Goat curry from Mr. Jerk, East Dell Estates Big Black Cab, Jann Arden in my ear, a new shiny book and the bliss of being in a post-Thai massage state is what being well-off means to me.

Spending money on tampons, taxis, toilet paper and transit really irks me. Paying “professional fees” of $550 a year to work as a massage therapist, turns me into a professional swearer. And $1, 455 to simply move my stuff (that arrived 30 days late) across Canada? Well, that annoyed me too. Because, that is a plane ticket to somewhere really decent, and probably hot.

I run the risk of entertaining and pampering myself to death, which is probably not a bad thing. I love wedges of cheese that are skinnier than a doorstop and over 10 dollars a bite. I like champagne for no reason and Paco Rabanne. But I’ve raked a lot of gravel and pinecones in my life, I deserve it.

As for $250 dollar jeans, well, I have those too. I’m not bragging, just justifying. I’ve had them for five years, and if you do the math, they were less than 10 cents a day in 2004 and have been free for the last four years.

My dad always talks about winning the lottery and what he’d do (something along the lines of building a bigger house and having us all move back home. Except, my mother would probably move out). My mom, the more rational one (remember the sandal nightmares) finally snapped back, “Larry, you should just be happy to be able to walk by the time you’re 80.” That’s the lucky lottery to her, and this makes sense given her exposure to palliative care clients on a daily basis.

And as I sit in my now-free jeans, sipping East Dell Big Black Cab in one of the glasses that didn’t arrive stem-less from BC, I realize how simple and incredibly rich life can be. Maybe it was the failed lemonade stand that taught me the early value of the dollar. (Don’t get me wrong, I was insanely jealous of every city kid who could have a paper route while I took a toothbrush to the tires of the Oldsmobile).

I smile when I think of my sister (post White Rabbit Club success) being so down and out because the Valade family was clearly richer than we were. Their house was bigger, they had a swimming pool, a 10 inch TV in the kitchen and a pinball machine. AND, Mrs. Valade made homemade ice cream bar sandwiches.

I’ve always felt rich in what I have (even the year that SARS hit Toronto and the last thing anyone wanted was to be touched, let alone by a massage therapist. It was a stellar year of earning less than $19,000, but I still did everything I ever wanted to). My career success ladder sometimes resembles more of a step stool, but I know how lucky I am.

Besides, I could never bite into an ice cream bar anyway (lifelong sensitive teeth). And I peed in the Valade pool every time I went in it.

For my friend Latham Hunter’s take on money, check out her blog “Composing Myself” at:

http://lathamhunter.blogspot.com/2009/06/me-and-my-money.html

And then read her tell-all about blowing $6,000 on a painting without regret at:

http://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/article1139538.ece

And after all that, tell me what you think about money and what you spend it on.

Have a Little Faith

When I started Mitch Albom’s The Five People You Meet in Heaven, I had already convinced myself that the book was going to be as flaky as baklava. I was certain that it would be a tacky spin-off of Michael Landon’s Highway to Heaven with the sap content of Touched by an Angel.

By God, I loved the book and the essential concept that we are constantly crossing silent intersections with people who may be directly influencing our life’s path. When I read that Mitch Albom was launching his first non-fiction book since Tuesdays With Morrie at Indigo tonight, I knew I had to be there.

Two weeks ago I sprinted from work with a stitch in my side to see Jane Goodall promoting her latest: Hope For the Animals. I was cursing my last hairy-backed client because I arrived 15 minutes before she graced the stage and the lower level of Indigo was like a Boxing Day sale. I had to choose between a pole obstruction or a Jolly Green Giant obstruction. Why is it that the 6 foot + set like to be in the very front? For most of the interview with Jane I saw only her left eye sandwiched between a woman with hair that was as high as it was wide, and a shifty guy who kept scratching something weeping on the back of his neck. Then there was the teeny bopper directly in front of me who proceeded to stand on her tiptoes every few minutes and adjust her ponytail in front of my face.

I wanted priority seating. I wanted there to be skill-testing questions on Jane Goodall that would earn true fans better seats. At the same time, I was thrilled that so many people had made it a priority to see and hear what Queen Jane had to say about chimps, the Earth and the hope that she sees in it all. She drew a crowd like free ice cream bars would at Yonge and Dundas square.

So, this time I was smart. I arrived an hour and a half early for Mitch Albom with a tall skim African Red Bush Tea Misto in hand. I even brought my glasses for high definition (not necessary with the previous pole and people obstructions with Jane). I assessed the crowd of New Age nerds, seniors with snow white hair and Werther’s candies and a large contingent of the over-40, Mr. Rogers cardigan-wearing set. The seats were soon filled, but the place wasn’t like the zoo it became with Jane Goodall in the house.

Albom’s visit to Indigo was a Canadian exclusive, and I was surprised that more hadn’t flocked to see the Oprah-approved writer promote his latest, Have a Little Faith. Given my faith in Albom and his ability to write books that make one think, I was eager to hear the behind-the-scenes snippets of his newest work.

Albom began by sharing the inspiration for the story, and explained how an 82-year-old rabbi from his hometown asked him to write his eulogy. He had known the rabbi for a long time, but not well enough to know his essence. Eight years later (the rabbi lived to be 90), Albom had a solid grip on the rabbi, and an intense education on the life of a man of God. Still, he was amazed that the rabbi wore Bermuda shorts and sandals with socks, and answered his own doorbell.

And then he introduced another vital character: the pastor at a scruffy church in Detroit with a hole in the roof that let  God and the rain in–in equal amounts. The pastor had promised God his life after robbing his own drug dealer and praying to survive behind a trash can with a shotgun. He lived, and fulfilled his promise with a self-imposed detox and gratitude for a second chance after a shaky as a Polaroid beginning. The pastor grew up impoverished, in a home where they left rice out for the mice so the vermin wouldn`t bite them while they slept. At 18, the pastor was charged with manslaughter (wrongfully) and imprisoned. When he was released from prison, he found solace in drugs, and in as  sketched out state and desperate for a fix, he robbed the most lucrative source he knew, his dealer. That was the night he was introduced to God and submitted his resume for immediate employment in the House of God.

Have a Little Faith was written to emphasize that we all need to find something bigger than ourselves to believe in. And although the Detroit pastor and 82-year-old rabbi had more differences than commonalities, they had both found comfort in faith.

This is when the book launch turned into a sermon and I started reading the quote on my Starbucks cup so I wouldn`t get sucked into the cult. Mitch Albom pointed out that we were all children of God and dictated his polished story of how babies enter the world with closed fists. He spoke in that therapeutic voice designed to stay with you and shape your life without you being aware. He told us of the rabbi in his dying days, and how the rabbi realized that babies come into this world not knowing what to expect. They have clenched fists, holding everything because they think they deserve it and are entitled to it. The ailing rabbi opened his hands before Albom and showed him how he would die—with open hands. Because you can`t take anything with you.  The crowd laughed in unison like Woody Woodpecker when he pointed out that a nice car won`t help you get to the afterlife, but faith will.

I was beginning to get distracted at this point. Maybe because after seeing Africa, I believed even more strongly  that there couldn`t  be a God. There`s even a documentary narrated by Nicole Kidman about the Lost Boys of Sudan called God Grew Tired Of Us. That`s how the Sudanese feel, like God grew tired of them and abandoned Africa altogether. But, they pray with such conviction and hope, with a trust that is unmatched.

Albom pulled the threads together by closing with his thoughts on the interconnectedness of faith and happiness.  This is where I might have started my obvious sneering. I do think many find great comfort in this combination, but I think happiness can also be a stand alone, without faith.

I wandered off, choosing not to buy the book (I`ll give it a go when it becomes available in paperback), and ended up in the Well Being section, because I was indeed feeling well after a shiatsu treatment and Chinese steamed pork buns. I found Julia Cameron`s The Artist`s Way on display and leafed through it for the twentieth time. My friend Heidi is contemplating it as well, but we are both hesitant on exposure to the supposedly life-altering words inside.

I picked up Oprah`s latest, because, confession here—sometimes I like to buy her glossy magazine and read all that gut-grilling stuff.  DREAM BIG!  O`s Guide To Discovering Your Best Life held more potential for me than Have a Little Faith. (Editor`s Note: If it was have a little Faith Hill, yes, sign me up!)

I flipped to O`s section on Five Things Happy People Do by Gabrielle LeBlanc (just to see if church was one of them). This is what I found, and will share with you so you can be happy as well.

1. Realize one`s golden self through eudaimonic well-being. Eudaimonia, for those not fluent in Oprah-speak, is striving toward excellence based on one`s unique talents and potential. Meaning: take on new challenges and follow one`s sense of purpose.

2. Design your life to bring joy in. Whether it be a relationship or a career, it`s difficult to abandon dreams even when they turn sour. Make deliberate changes, NOW. A study conducted out of the University of California San Diego had 900 women write down everything they did the day before. They had to evaluate how they felt at each point with each activity. Many of them cried realizing how much of their day was spent being unhappy.

3. Avoid If only…. fantasies. If only I were skinnier, if only I had more money, if only I had finished my degree…We misjudge contentment by zeroing in on one single aspect of life and are fooled by the focusing illusion. In a study where participants were asked how happy they were with their life in general, and how many dates they`d had in the last month, the answers were dramatically different according to the order of the questions. When asked about dating first, thoughts of their romantic life influenced the overall happiness response more negatively.

By keeping our life full of novelty, the pressure is alleviated from unrealistic expectations from partners or work, to solely fulfill happiness.

4. Put best friends first. More joy is derived from spending longer quality time with close friends than chatting with acquaintances. (Obviously the author of this entry doesn`t Twitter or Facebook.)

5. Allow yourself to be happy. Even the Dalai Lama says it`s cool in his books. We can`t save the polar bears and poor Africans all at once. Dalai says it`s okay to pursue personal happiness and help others simultaneously. Whew.

Basically, everything you own should have value. Either because it`s functional, beautiful, or you just love it.

And that`s happy in five easy steps. Just like making Kraft Dinner. If you need and want faith to get you there, fine. If pumpkin pie for breakfast is the critical omission to this checklist, go, be happy with your pie and morning paper.

Find your own brand of faith and indulge. Make your very own Happy Meal.

 

If you have more faith than I do, check out– http://mitchalbom.com/books/node/5515

And for more on Jane Goodall`s latest– http://www.janegoodall.org/product/hope-animals-and-their-world#

O`s DREAM BIG! Link– http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/books/Dream-Big-Os-Guide-Discovering-The-O-Editors-of-O/9780848732837-item.html

Jann Arden Attacks the Architecture of the Human Heart

I like things that are reliable, like the threadbare comfort of my Sevens jeans, Starbucks skim lattes and a dog’s love. Meryl Streep movies come with an unspoken guarantee too—it’s gonna be gripping and as raw as ceviche.

And when Jann Arden releases a new CD, I expect it’s going to be high-wattage. The lyrics are going to have an injection of unbearable sadness and resonate in my waking hours and sleep. I know that I will fall under the spell that is her voice because her haunting words are a demolition team that attack the fragile architecture of the human heart.

We know her talent is ethereal and that her vocal cords mimic yoga positions. But her true gift is the ability to write songs that everyone can identify with and sob over. Genderless, ageless, timeless—her songs become national anthems for break-ups and the soundtracks for our memories.

Jann’s new CD, Free, captures the sense of wonder that unexpectedly smacks us when we see doves take to the sky, when shooting stars spike through the dark of night and when freefall divers split gravity in two. Free. The freedom is palpable and instantly captured in the imagery of having “one last hurrah on the old tire swing,” in “Daughter Down.”

Jann Arden bleeds beauty. “All The Days” is the track that hits me like baseball bat in the ribs every time. “And all the days will wrap around our fingers /They’ll hang around our hearts like bits of stars/ And all the tears we counted all the memories that we thought would linger disappear/ oh, they disappear.” I’ve decided, at the end of my days, I want “All The Days.” (And no silly flowers, just generous donations to my chimps and all the cats and dogs waiting for their forever homes).

“All The Days” instantly hit number one on my “Crying Tears Down My Neck” list. “Wind Beneath My Wings” was kicked to the curb with “When You Say Nothing At All” (Allison Krauss) and the Indigo Girls “I Don’t Want to Talk About It.” See ya later “Your Song,” that one can’t even make me sniffle anymore.

It will come as no surprise that I love well-crafted stories and song lyrics that are as layered as Jennifer Aniston’s hair. I read the liner notes of Free before I even listened to the CD.  I loved “Everybody’s Broken” before I heard it because of Clara-Marie. “Eighty-five years she’s been living right here when they took her from her home/To her little white room with a cup and a spoon and the dress that she had on/Nobody came they’ve forgotten her name it’s like she disappeared.”

Those words don’t even need to be sung. There is no need for violas, guitars, bonjirs or mandolas. They are powerful in tandem with Jann’s  voice, but I am already moved by the fragility of Billy Wolfe and Clara-Marie, and her mother making pink lemonade.

The tracks “You Are Everything,” “Away” and “Yeah You” are the love letters that we all hope to receive. Letters that would be re-read until memorized and re-folded until the ink blurred and the paper deteriorated. Letters that are hidden in secret places to be rediscovered later as the treasures that they are.

“You’re the galaxy/A better part of me/And there is nothing that is bigger than the two of us.” Who doesn’t want to hear that? No thanks to the pretty blue Tiffany box, no to the Godiva chocolate and any other foolish romantic notions—but words like that? You’re the galaxy? And to think Renee Zwelleger had Tom Cruise at “hello” in Jerry Maguire. I have higher expectations than “hello.” I want “you are everything that’s good about the universe.” Or better yet—“you are everything you dream of when you’re nine years old.”

Wow. Why buy Hallmark cards anymore? Just send a few lines from “You Are Everything,” and the wooing will be done and the wedding dress bought online in the same night.

Free is versatile–suitable for a big breakdown cry when your eyes are as pink as cotton candy and you’re so dehydrated you can’t even make tears anymore. Free illustrates what love should be –flying kites and shooting stars. It demonstrates the invincible bulletproof quality of true love that conquers geography, worry, naysayers and the world. Free reminds us of those we may have forgotten in our own selfish pursuits—like Clara-Marie and Billy Wolfe. We all know them.

Today Free played a part of our daily lives: intimate moments, lonely hours, crossed arms, shared glasses of wine, comfortable silences, foot massages, first kisses, cold pizza, camembert tarte tatin, braised short ribs with porcini mushroom stew, corn chips, gridlock on the 401, a slow dance in front of the fire, proposals, sweaty work-outs, yelling neighbours, purring cats, barking dogs, daydreaming, uncertainty, tears. Already the songs on Free have infiltrated our lives and will continue to weave their way into many faces, loves, celebrations and devastations over the years, just as Jann’s other songs reliably have.

I’ve run with Jann everywhere. Sloppy trails in BC and Banff, in half-marathons with cramping quads, behind runners supporting Terry Fox and those who survived cancer, along the dusty roads of Uganda, Panama, Costa Rica, the Galapagos, Amsterdam…she’s followed  me all over the world.

Like the wind and the sun, we have Jann Arden’s music at our backs as well. Her songs are the best told stories, with words that stabilize our memories like quick-set cement.

Thank you, Jann, for the grace and essence that is you. And for sharing that Titanic talent with us.