Drinking Beer in the Library and Other Confessions (like burying overdue books)

If you’ve tuned in to my blog before, you might recall a confession that involved me burying library books in elementary school. The books were well overdue and I was mildly terrified of the librarian and my only rational option was to bury the books by the pond behind our house. I remember two of the three distinctly: The Legend of Bigfoot and a NHL scrapbook of some sort.

Upon reflection, digging a hole and hiding the overdue books wasn’t the best solution. My pre-teen mind believed that if I made the books truly disappear, the librarian might have to admit that the books in question had been returned and become MIA on the shelves. One of the student volunteers probably screwed up the Dewey Decimal system and had shelved them with the Funk & Wagnall encyclopedias. Or, that’s what I hoped would happen. I can’t even remember the fall out of that one. Maybe my parents had to pony up some money. Maybe they threatened to hold my year-end report card ransom. I’ll never know.

Flash forward to high school. Library guilt coursed through my generally responsible veins. I applied for a summer job placement, in the library. I was successfully hired, but, gently removed from the front desk as I was prone to practical jokes and setting off the unchecked book alarm when certain friends left the library with checked items. Oh, what a gas! After less than five attempts at library hijinks, I was repurposed and became rather intimate with Dewey Decimal. Shelving duty, full-time. I’m not sure if I actually made it to the end of my “term” but I do remember being kicked out of the library for a) Watching Ferris Bueller’s Day Off in a private seminar room b) For becoming stuck inside a recycling box when wrestling with Paula Faragher in the middle of the day.

Back in 2010(ish), Toronto Life magazine featured rocker and Rough Trade heart-throb Carole Pope in The List, a Top 10 can’t-live-without profile of local movers and shakers. Writer Amy Verner wrote that “the post-punk queen of raunch” named her Schwinn faux-mountain bike, a vintage Vivienne Westwood raincoat, a Fender Mustang guitar, breakfast at The Senator on Victoria Street and her late mother’s art deco ring in her Top 10. Better yet? Carole Pope can’t live without her library cards from L.A., New York and Toronto.

The library was the beacon of our childhood weekend. I’d max out the allowable books on every subject. Judy Blume and Beverly Cleary were my faithful babysitters. And, to give my mother a voice on this blog, because I know she is shaking her head in memory—yes, I lost a hardcover book on teddy bears for six months. It was truly lost because it was stuck in the side pocket of our canvas tent which we slept (barely) in one night, terrified out of our minds with every falling pinecone and hiccuping frog. The tent was packed up after that very night, with the library book tucked in the pocket, not to be discovered again until the next July camp-out set-up.

My mother paid some exorbitant amount for replacement of the book to the Brantford Public Library. I would like to point out that the book was critical to my career plans at that time (age 10). I fancied myself a fashion designer for teddy bears. Yeah. We’ll leave that at that.

Also, yes, we scratched a Foreigner record in our childhood rambunctiousness, and, after my parents paid out another replacement fee to the library for that, Cold As Ice, my sibs and I were no longer allowed to take out albums from the library. Oh, the angst and agony.

We found quick refuge at my grandmother’s house just up the road. Imagine, over 30 sets of encyclopedias and the entire National Geographic magazine since, oh, 1920 or whatever. Every elementary and high school project had a bibliography attached to her library. It had a pair of western-saloon style doors where we re-enacted Yosemite Sam scenes. Pistols blaring, of course. Plus, the library came with a panting and doting resident dog, Sally, my grandparents’ Great Pyrenees.

I’ve had a long love affair with the library and agree with Carole Pope and her public display of library card affection. When we moved to Galt in January, I was only nervous about where I might feed my indie movie rental habit. Living in the Annex in Toronto, I had become a daily fixture at Queen Video, and before that, at 7-24 on Church when I lived in Cabbagetown. With the flunk out of Rogers and Blockbuster Video, where was I going to rent movies? (I know, I know, Netflix. Ugh. But I still want the tangible and physical stealth search and reward element!)

As I poked around my new library branch at Queen’s Square in Galt, with my newly minted library card, I found the treasure chest on the second floor! The library’s motto is “Ideas Unlimited”—and they cater to that very notion with 4,803 DVDs. I had never considered renting movies from the library! And, I can’t even begin to fathom the dollars I could have saved over the years!

Of course, the books are the first draw—but, the Cambridge library has over 250 magazines on its subscription list. I have also damaged my dowry with random grocery store line magazine purchases over the years too. I’m a sucker for Toronto Life, Bon Appetit, Outside, Esquire, Men’s Health, Dwell, House & Home and Cottage Life. And, I have the ability to tear through them at record speed. A latte + a mag = one hour minimum wage. Okay, I can justify that.

But, back to the free stuff at the library. The Queen’s Square location has a gallery space too—Ian Johnston’s “Sometimes Things Are Exactly As They Appear” art installation is on display until June 15th, 2013. Kim and I went to the opening night to see his reconstitution of a felled cherry tree—while enjoying a beer, IN THE LIBRARY! That same night, library staff were on hand, eager to solicit submissions to a 30th anniversary project, gathering client feedback and memories on their best library experience over the years. I looked at Kim, and, clearly, it was “drinking beer in a library!”

Alexandria, Egypt

Point is, libraries are adapting to the surge in social media (faster than I am). There has been an obvious shift from the traditional library definition as the public embraces kindles and kobos. There is no reason for the library to continue to house hardcopy collections (but, I’m thankful they do). Daily newspapers are still available to read too (from the Ayr News to the Calgary Herald to USA Today)—another endangered species. To visit the modern library you will see the shift to a civic space—one that is tapped into our needs and wants—DVDs, scanners, internet access and CDs. You can even download music legally from Sony Canada’s catalogue of artists at Freegal.

The library will even pimp you out with a Book Club Kit—eight copies of the same book and a discussion guide.
Whether you are working your way through the Booker Shortlist, Giller Shortlist or Charles Taylor prizewinners, the library will satisfy all your whims. Pick up a copy of the Great Lakes Swimmers New Wild Everywhere CD, an intense memoir (Elspeth Huxley’s The Flame Trees of Thika), an audio book to fuel road trips (Kim gives Saab thumbs up to Are You There, Vodka? It’s Me Chelsea—the 2008 bestseller by Chelsea Handler), some design mags for Sunday morning coffee and flapjacks and a stellar flick like Sarah Polley’s Away From Her or the high octane doc, Untouchable Girls.

Whatever you do though, don’t bury your library materials by the pond.

Come Walk With Me

Besides being good for the constitution and daily mental digestion, walking is the best balm there is. And now I can hop on the Grand Trunk Trail, part of the Trans Canada link and wend my way to work. Yes, spoiled indeed.

Seven year and four score ago, when I lived on the Grand River in Dunnville, Ontario, I began walking to my massage biz (13km one way). I weathered three winters and sloppy springs (and 17 farm dogs that liked to give chase) on a bike and needed a change. My then nosey neighbour, Ingrid, finally summoned up the courage to ask me her most burning question. “So, when did you lose your license?”

I never lost my license. But, if you live in Dunnville AND walk or ride a bike, clearly you’ve been slapped with a DUI. I was flabbergasted that Ingrid had come to such a conclusion, and then quickly realized that the whole of Dunnville probably thought the same.

Now, as I walk to work at Langdon Hall Country Hotel & Spa along the Blair Road (a measly 8km), co-workers slide to a dust-cloud stop on the gravel shoulder and wave me to their vehicles. I catch up and pant, “I’m okay! I’m happy to walk!” (Although, I did pass my shoulder bag off to Christina on one occasion. Later that day she confessed that she drives to the Tim’s drive-thru just a block from her house. Walking is not her je ne sais quoi.)
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She made me wonder about the possibility that I have Masai blood. I definitely felt a connection to the Kenyan flats and could, even today, in this lifetime, imagine a content life amongst cattle. Walking. Looking for the next viable watering hole. Allowing the sun to be my beacon, not a watch.

Other friends (not drive-thru Christina) insist that they too would walk further and longer, given the time. Kids can be a stick in the spoke, bringing such grand notions to a screech. Some dogs don’t even make walking feasible—RIP dear Mila. If I caught Mila post-breakfast (and pre-Coronation-Street-nap) she was generally cooperative and almost willing to wander through Clearbrook Park. Suggest a walk anytime after 3pm and Mila was a no-go. According to her dog watch, 3:00 was cutting it way too close for her to squeeze in a walk before her 4:15 kibble. Insert image of me mildly dragging Mila halfway around the park only to give in to her anxiousness minutes later. Insert following image of me having to keep up to her sudden gallop and renewed energy to get back to the house in anticipation of dinner.

I’ve always walked. I think I missed the bus every other day in high school, mostly due to socializing. I had no qualms—it allowed me the excuse and pleasure to cut through West Brant and hop on the tracks and follow the rail line home. It was probably 10km—but I found cheerleaders in accompanying chickadees and cicadas. The soundtrack of that walk was outstanding. It was a pleasant departure from the bus and the reek of someone’s token tuna sandwich. Because of our “remote” location in the country, my siblings and I were the first ones on the bus and the last ones off. I’d rather be walking.

I even love books about walking. At night I have Karsten Heuer-like fantasies. Heuer and his wife, Leanne Allison, followed the migration of a 125,000 member herd of endangered Porcupine Caribou for five months across the Yukon and Alaska. Heuer chronicled their 1,500km slog across the tundra to the calving grounds in Being Caribou.

I have Colin Angus fantasies too. The steely tendoned adventurer self-propelled his way around the world in Beyond the Horizon, clocking in 43,000km on bike and row boat from Alaska to Siberia to Portugal to Costa Rica to Vancouver, in a round-a-bout way (which only involved 4,000 chocolate bars and 72 inner tubes).

Shirley Maclaine’s The Camino revved me up even more. Maclaine walked the 600km pilgrimage route across Spain, her very marrow vibrating with the ley lines and their juxtaposition to the Milky Way. Surely, if Shirley could do it, we can too. Kim and I are eyeing this journey in a few years, so reading Maclaine’s experience was like rifling through a diary of secrets for me.

The Way of St. James (El Camino de Santiago) traces the route of the pilgrims to the burial place of Saint James in Santiago de Compostela. Though I don’t have a Christian bone in my body, walking and sharing The Way with Kim will be marked with a parallel gratitude. The meditation and marvel for me will revolve around how we can design such miraculous experiences in our lives— simply by saying “let’s do it. We can make it happen.’
This weekend urban romantics around the world will be celebrating the vision of Jane Jacobs (author of The Death and Life of Great American Cities). “Jane’s Walks” are held annually to revisit her pioneer notion of walkable, sustainable, lively cities—something her 1961 book about urban life and redevelopment poured the foundation for. Walking is the framework of communities!

As George Macauley Trevelyan mused, “After a day’s walk everything has twice its usual value.”
Where will you walk today?

This Old House

Buying a house runs almost parallel to an online or blind date. At face value, from the carefully selected MLS listing pictures or deceiving match.com profiles, a potential house and date present the same. As the relationship evolves, the secrets are revealed. The skeletons in the closet get dragged out into broad daylight. Physical remnants of previous relationships are etched deep into the mortar and veins—sometimes we hear the story at full-length. Often we’re left to guess.

This particular old house stands like a nomadic camel on a never-ending caravan. Loved and mistreated in equal parts by different owners over the century and a half, each floor joist, pine shake shingle, chunk of limestone and black walnut tree represents a historical milestone in the genesis of William Webster’s homestead, the stone mason who probably broke his back making this unruly riverfront plot a home.
It reminds me of Elspeth Huxley’s memoir, The Flame Trees of Thika. Readers are introduced to a bustling colonial Kenya, rich with promise built on a foundation of hope. The book opens with Huxley’s father’s desire to create a successful coffee plantation on a plot of land he bought “in the bar of the Norfolk Hotel from a man wearing an Old Etonian tie.
“Thika in those days—the year was 1913—was a favourite camp for big-game hunters and beyond it there was only bush and plain. If you went on long enough you would come to mountains and forests no one had mapped and tribes whose languages no one could understand.”
Huxley’s family didn’t traverse that far, though, they were two days’ journey in an ox-cart.
Those were the days of gumption! Imagine buying a parcel of land, sight unseen (no realtor.ca! No real estate agent to point out the waving red flags), all with the hopes that a river runs through it and that your steed and family can survive not only the elements, but, your vision of a dream. All with pennies in pockets. And, sometimes, a piano and Pekinese dogs to bring some semblance of home to a savannah laced with coiling pythons and hungry hidden leopards and lions.

I feel a little bit Huxley in our move to Galt. Our steed was a Saab and surely, the 100km journey from Toronto is the 2013 equivalent of a two day ox-cart ride. Instead of a coffee plantation, I was content with finding a cozy coffee shop with Frisbee-sized ginger cookies and sunny tables for spreading out newspapers. And, I did find one—a three minute ox-cart (or donkey, our preferred mode in Egypt) ride away. The Grand Cafe.

Though we visited the house twice before we had possession (see, buying a house is really like dating! Especially if you’re talking about lesbians—you definitely have possession after two visits! And then, of course, you move in on the third).
We had drive-by’s (similar to online cruising of profile pics). We snooped via our agent for more dirt on the history and reassurance, just like serial daters. We Googled our stone mason and Galt and surmised that whatever magnetic pull Webster had in 1867 to this area, the attraction was identical to ours.
It’s a gentle conquering, to have an empire of dirt in Kenya or Galt. Despite the lack of a coffee plantation and pecking hens and Masai warrior ready with spear in hand. (or, cell phone in this case).

There’s undeniable responsibility here, to sustain a 150-year-old home that has weathered more than just the angry floodwaters of the turbulent Grand river. To plant a tree deep in the soil here, we are contributing to the time capsule, a property that remembers each of its tenants—via crocus blooms, cobbled walkways and Japanese blood grasses and butterfly bushes.
A new massage client recently asked what prompted our radical move from Toronto. I explained our love-at-first-sight encounter with the stone cottage. I also said that a neat event had occurred with the purchase–because it was a heritage home, that we had also become caretakers of history.
“Oh, so you have a home cleaning business too?”
I laughed, but then realized, as caretakers, yes, we sort of adopted that part-time job too.
The black walnut trees, which I like to think William Webster planted, are the favoured hangout of Downy woodpeckers, white-breasted nuthatches and roosting grackles. The squirrels stake claim over the chipmunk, but in the end, it is a time share, with each bird and mammal taking turn amongst the branches throughout the day.

Like us. It’s our turn in the branches. I imagine grand garden parties, theirs and ours. With soft fairy lights, and socialites tipsy on juleps or gimlets, a la Gatsby. I picture hot orange campfires licking at the night sky, pheasants golden on the grill, long-winded toasts and promises to do it all over again, sooner than later. Then and now.
We are learning a lot in this new relationship with our home. The now-predictable post-midnight clangs and pings of the old rads no longer give us a synchronized stroke. The lay of the bedrock in the basement is becoming familiar—I have all the potholes mapped out. (But, there will always be a token whack of the head every other time I go down into the far recesses of the basement—a reminder that I’m not 5’5).

I love that we’ve become part of such a story. That we’re sharing turf with a stone mason and his steeds. We’re becoming quite intimate with our blind date of a house. It only took us one visit to want to make the commitment.
And, now we commit to the storied past and a remarkable future in tandem.

The Good, Clean Country Life

I feel like I’ve been a participant in an experimental urban detox plan.

Trailed by our moving truck, Kim and I drove out of Toronto on the frosty morn of January 24^th and haven’t been back since. A few weeks before the move I had drawn up an extensive list of necessities. I would definitely have to subscribe to Toronto Life and The Grid.  I doubled up on Jimmy’s Coffee beans with reassuring plots of how I could get city friends to visit and bring bean cartel. But, where would I rent my indie movies without Queen Video a block away? Where was my Bloor Hot Docs cinema equivalent to be found? Were there any Vietnamese Bahn Mi subs to be found in the 519 area code?

I knew I would miss elements of the city, because, it’s simply unnatural to not miss a place.  Despite all my whining about being rained on every day on the west coast, part of me misses the intensely heady smell of wet cedar that permeates the air. Oh, and that coconut curry stew at the Thai hole-in-the-wall on South Fraser Way that I can no longer remember the name of. Places should leave indelible marks.

I don’t miss Toronto in the proportions I thought I would though. In fact, I find myself living a more cohesive lifestyle in Galt. The list of what I don’t miss escalates. In an email to my friend Suzanne, I shared my quiet thrills—like watching the movement of the full moon through the silhouette of our black walnut trees in the backyard. Just months ago I had no moon view. From my basement apartment I had a clear knee-high view of pedestrians and the local bottle collectors rooting through the recycling bins parked outside my window.

Here, we have front row seats to unbridled nature. The path behind our house connects to the Grand Trunk Trail which winds along the river to my workplace, Langdon Hall Country Hotel & Spa. Though my commute has doubled to a 16 km route on foot, there is a delicious pleasure in walking along the Blair road and spotting eight deer and passing by wetlands vibrating with spring peepers and red winged blackbirds. The chatter of chickadees is the best noise pollution around.

As of late, my morning commute has involved dodging nesting Canadian geese. Vocal and hissing, the male is not so pleased that my path crosses his. But, this is a far cry from downtown crackhead encounters, oblivious texting-obsessed pedestrians and dodging piles of post-nightclub barf on King street sidewalks.

Living on the Grand river brings such welcome intimacy with nature. My new reality show is the watching the drama unfold between the black, grey and red squirrels seeking backyard domination. I can bird-watch from our en suite toilet for crying out loud (which might be too much information to share). But, I am in my birding glory with all the white breasted nuthatch and cedar waxwing fly-bys. The machine gun-like chatter of kingfishers induces an immediate smile.With the returning migrations, our gardens are finally giving way to a greener palette. The snowdrop blossoms are holding their heads high despite the monsoon rains of late. Purple crocuses and irises are pushing the mulch aside to show off their spring pride.

There is such primal joy in getting grubby in the gardens with soiled denim knees. For those of you who are unaware, beer tastes even better outside, chugged with a dirty work glove on, with thorn and rose bush lacerations burning your forearms.

The previous owners of this house apparently never raked. We thought we might uncover buried treasure (or buried bodies for that matter) under all the debris. A dozen stuffed yard bags later, we’re still trying to make headway.  I’m patiently waiting for warmer temps so I can finally pull out the hula hoop that is frozen inside the compost pile.

Having a yard is so paramount to happiness though. In the Annex, though there was a backyard per se, it was the home owner’s domain. I’d have to find my green a few blocks away at the local parkette—and, given the shadows of nearby buildings, the sunshine timeline was at a premium.

Now? Sunshine, no shadows. Green = ours. Coffee outside? Just a step away. Yes, small but hugely gratifying pleasures, indeed.

I routinely read the entire newspaper now—a miraculous feat. In fact, I read not only the local rag The Cambridge Times but The Waterloo Record, and courtesy of Kim’s sister, I also have The Ayr News delivered to my house. Even the news is better here! The Ayr News reports on all the ham suppers and spaghetti dinners in the area. And, there is amazing journalistic coverage of euchre tournaments and tundra swan sightings. Oh, and how ‘bout so-and-so’s daffodils! They’re up two inches already!

Somehow, we’ve found more time in Galt. Time to entertain, read, cook, take long walks without watches.  Time to be present. I’ve read more books in the last two months than I did in nearly a year in Toronto. The librarians know me by name…just like Cheers, but, different.

Not working until 9 or 10 o’clock at night has introduced me to a brand new world of eating at a respectable hour. Before,  I convinced myself that I was simply very European in my habits. Surely other people sat down for dinner at midnight.

Now I’m actually working my way through the pile of recipes I’ve clipped out. I’ve found my inner Julia Child in Galt and have wooed guests with stuffed lasagna rolls, turkey pot pie, jambalaya and French onion soup. And, while in the kitchen, I have a view and natural light to boot. Not to trash talk by previous digs, because, the place had its merits, but—one could have fried eggs atop the non-energy saver pot lights. The oven was the equivalent of cooking over an open fire with unreliable random broil-like temperatures. And, any cooking was always performed under the duress of the lead-foot tenant upstairs who made the above-mentioned pot lights flicker with her footsteps.

Ahh, yes, the good, clean country life.

I work more reasonable hours now and don’t feel like I’m financially treading water. In Toronto, I worked more than I ever had, somehow earned less and forked out more just to live. I felt like I could have cut my paycheques into confetti and tossed them in the air. I’m not in that same fatigue fog that the city seemed to facilitate.

If this is urban detox, I would like to be the poster child. It’s so nourishing for the soul.

Please, come visit us and experience life as it should be. Though, we might hand you a rake upon your arrival.

Sifting and Sorting: The Emotional Attic

Any traveller will nod in agreement with this statement: when you are away from home for more than three weeks, you can quickly define what’s essential in your life (lip balm and Q-tips, really). When you have a house for more than three weeks, you can easily be persuaded into different thinking because the space is there and it’s not being hauled around on your back. Having a home base facilitates collecting, gathering, storing/hoarding. However you like to classify it, it’s easy to cloud your streamline stance on “essential” when there is enough square footage to allow for all whims and wants.

Not that Kim and I have become collective since we moved in. On the contrary (we’ve been hawking excess wares on Kijiji)—in fact, the only hoarder on our property is the black squirrel who has turned our backyard Bunkie into a black walnut cache. For any other squirrel who happens upon that shed, they will definitely think they’ve gone to The Other Side with the heavenly hoard inside.

With serious thoughts of moving from the home they’ve been in for 13 years, my parents have a serious winnowing process underway. We’ve passed our house-hunting/moving baton on. Name an obscure place anywhere in Ontario, and my mother has found a house listing there. They have been renting cars for recent house pilgrimages because the mileage they’ve covered already would have taken them to Anchorage, Alaska had they been driving in a straight line.

My parents moving translates into the great-unearthing-of-nostalgia, buried for a solid decade in their attic space. At first the queries came in a phone call format. “We’ve got your old trophies. You still want them don’t you?” Even though I have more square footage than I’ve had in a long while, I still don’t have space (or desire) for trophies. My dad seemed disappointed when my response was so immediate. “Oh god, no! For what?”

And, so, despite my firm “no,” my dad thought I still might like the engraved plaques from each of the trophies, illuminating my soccer, badminton and running career. Surely I’d want the mini-plaques. They wouldn’t take up much space at all.

Next came the call about the papier-mâché collection. I didn’t even realize my parents still had them holed away. And, by papier-mâché, I don’t mean a misshapen grade 3 heart-shaped ashtray and miniature swan. We’re talking larger-than-life size creations: an orange octopus, a hamburger (as big as a coffee table with foam dill pickles to boot), a panda bear and a mosquito with a lethal chicken wire proboscis. “You want them, don’t you?” (Insert melancholy here: part of me will always be disturbed by the anthropomorphism of the Toy Story toys. But, at least the papier-mâché family travelled together to the local dump after one last photo.)

When I calculated the age of the papier-mâché collection, I pegged some of them to be vintage 1987. The hamburger and mosquito were high school art camp creations carted back on a bus from Camp Walden in northern Ontario. Too bad there wasn’t a Mâché Hall of Fame to donate them to.

Then came the cardboard boxes of Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume paperbacks, my dog-eared Golden readers and Beatrix Potter hardbacks. I picked out my all-time faves (Runaway Ralph and Ralph S. Mouse, Pepper, Flicka) and displayed the Golden Guides that were my flora and fauna bibles as a kid. But, to keep all of them? My mom insisted I return the ones I didn’t want. Which still makes me feel like guilty for adding to their nostalgia cargo.
I struggled more with the grainy old pictures of school chums and road trips to the Grand Canyon. I’ve carted around my own stacks of pictures for years—the stories diminishing and the faces losing familiarity. I had to do a Facebook poll. The verdict? If you can’t name anyone in the photo, it’s safe to turf the pic.

But the newspaper clippings–those were an easy keep. My parents had saved the complete history of my early writing and sporting career as documented in The Brantford Expositor—skipping fundraisers, soccer goals, badminton tournaments, cross country runs. I tell you, I was at my peak at age 11. Hell, I even won a city-wide April Fools joke contest and $25 bucks which must have seemed like a bazillion dollars then. Apparently, I was also the national grand prize winner in Cappy Dick’s cut-apart puzzle contest (no cash– I won a Marvin watch and an Owl Pen according to the article). The Nobel Prize for puzzles I’m guessing.

For several years I was a member of the very prestigious (cough-cough) Expositor Jr. Reporter Club and all my amateur drawings, poetry (oh, ugh) and pre-teen stories of wisdom were highlighted here. I’ve kept these gems for comic relief—and when I eventually get around to writing a memoir, I’ve got proper sources to cite!

Through this whole process of my parents’ attic being brought to life, I’ve realized that living is all about continually sifting and sorting. Emotions, stuff, homes, jobs, friends, lovers. Always refining, reconsidering, choosing the very best of all categories to move forward with.

I’m glad my parents have kept all the treasures they have. (But where is my Owl Pen? I have zero recollection of this one.) Our childhood is well-chronicled, and I am grateful to have the opportunity to graze through my past with so many tangibles.

What have you kept? What do you wish you still had? How big is your emotional attic?

When a House Becomes a Home

I have been to Home Hardware more times in the last month than in my entire life. It was the dreaded stop when we were kids, “running errands” with my dad. Every Saturday seemed to involve a haircut at Caesar’s barbershop (worst outdated magazine collection to date—TIME and Macleans equalled a double snore at age 8), Canadian Tire and/or Home Hardware and some transaction at the bank that took eons. We banked a lot of childhood time swatting at each other in the back of the Cutlass Supreme desperate for the errands to come to a wrap. We were usually handsomely rewarded for our patience though, in the form of Kentucky Fried Chicken 2-piece snack boxes or a split box of greasy George’s chip hut fries.
I still like to be rewarded for my patience, but, Kim and I maturely lean towards a cold beer after running similar errands and sussing out the next project on our domino To Do list that comes and grows with home ownership.
What I have learned in our 20+ visits in the last few weeks is that Home Hardware serves free, relatively decent coffee (with real cream not the powdered crap), every day. Saturdays, dedicated customers like myself (and even one-off customers who don’t even necessarily buy anything) are treated to free bags of hot and incredibly salty popcorn.
The sawmills that we have been frequenting in search of our ultimate tabletop lumber pale in the free beverage and snack department—but, the learning curve has been uncharted. I have talked to half a dozen dudes over the phone about socket depth, breadboard ends, claves and the durability of accoya wood versus Douglas Fir. Oh yeah, I’m well-versed in burls, veneer finishes, purpleheart wood. sap lines and matchbook applications for table tops.

However, Kim is still CEO of the biscuit joiner and circular saw duties. I am the designated ‘holder-of-all’ and she suits me up accordingly in regulation ear plugs, safety eye wear if necessary and gives me a warning before a loud noise because she knows I tend to be jumpy. When I am not the holder-of-things I do double-time as the precise placer-of-things. I am routinely seen meandering room to room with various items: beluga whale vertebrae, a salt candle from the Siwa Oasis, a stack of National Geographics—searching for the “a-ha” position of the treasured items.
We’ve massaged a lot of life back into the bones of this 150-year-old stone cottage. There were some long-neglected areas (ie. The basement that had historical 150-year-old cobwebs clinging to every joist).There was five pounds of dog fur in the freezer and clogged in the rads. Fifty-eight paint cans waiting for a trip to the dump. Old air conditioners, a dehumidifier that weighed more than a piano. All relics of the previous owner which we are slowly decimating in overtaking the OUR-ness of the house.

The previous palette (derived from those 58 paint cans), which seemed initially liveable was deemed undoable once our stuff arrived. Cowhide does not pair well with mint. All our taupes and dark espresso wood looked misplaced. So, Kim and I went full-force in some unparalleled painting frenzy. One room forced us to do the next. The bubblegum pink and Thrills mauve of the guest bedroom was a no-brainer. The heritage blue of the master seemed too Grandma once our headboard and black and white prints were unloaded. The master bath was probably a pristine white at some point—but, we agreed, was now smoker’s yellow. Which was obliterated with a tasteful powder grey which led to the living room being repainted as well. While some friends saw a pleasing moss colour, I saw hospital green. Easter mint green. Ugh. Gone.

The floors have been mopped, the drains de-haired, the faucets returned to their natural shine with the unnatural super powers of CLR, the inner organs of the rads have been de-furred, the insect collection dumped from the (indoor) light fixtures, the dangling webs swept from the impossibly high ceilings. By god, we even figured out how to hook up the flatscreen, the BluRay and the soundbar without a mass murder. The wi-fi even works. And, the pet bat that we had welcome us when we first moved in has flown to higher ground.
I have lived in many houses, but, this one is different. I want to know the inner workings of the boiler and the water softener. I want to read up on our fancy Frankie fire clay apron sink andhow to best preserve its finish. What will grow around our towering black walnut in the backyard? I find myself Googling stone home construction and “re-pointing” (which I thought was something we just did a lot as kids—blaming the other by “re-pointing”). I voluntarily read more about our pine shake roof and why it is a better choice than cedar. I’m subconciously grooming myself for a job at Home Hardware!

I still feel like we are on some kind of outstanding holiday, relaxing at a really comfortable bed and breakfast while we plan our outings to the farmer’s market, debate the merits of Mexican or Thai for dinner and make note of local entertainment listings  in the paper.

At night we lean on elbows into the deep window sills and gaze at the shadows of the black walnut across our snow-blanketed yard. A yard! A real yard! Toronto doesn’t have yards. And, for Kim, her suburban backyard meant you always had a dozen eyes on you, a dozen dogs barking at you and two dozen yelping and screeching children interrupting your idyllic backyard fantasies. Our only intruder and pair of eyes now is a nervous rabbit who comes by like clockwork. And, my god, we can actually see the moon and stars now.
I thought I would have deeper pangs for Toronto and that bustly city life that had become my second skin, but, I don’t. Those pangs have been replaced by more intense nesting instincts, a big dose of nature and the wonderful balm that is “change” and “new” and feeling, finally, at home.

Job Delusions of Grandeur

“They” say that to channel success, you need to visualize—and more importantly, visualize yourself in that confident and beaming moment, right down to what you might be wearing in said moment. I fancied myself in a somewhat neatly-pressed many-pocketed safari suit, perhaps donning a pith helmet if the job so required.

I would have sweat on my brow and return home redolent of baboon or maybe elephant dung.
My recent dream job fixation was The African Lion Safari, a game park in Cambridge, Ontario with all the makings of a real live safari (3D cheetahs, rhinos, giraffes!) in real live Africa. Six months ago it was the donkey sanctuary in Guelph. The sanctuary is still ranked in the dream category, but, due to geography and a leggy commute, it’s not feasible and would be income neutral. Which means, they only have volunteer positions which are indeed priceless, but, banks like you to pay a mortgage with money, not smiles and pictures of a happy time spent with donkeys.

I applied to the Lion Safari with grandiose amounts of anticipation in December. I outlined my experience making breakfast for 26 chimps, my ability and desire to shovel any type of manure and emphasized my unswerving attraction to any position they might have in animal care. The game park was advertising positions as a direct animal keeper (YES!!!), in the petting zoo filling pellet machines and corralling wayward children attempting to ride goats (I could still live out my donkey fantasy) and, facilitators for the Birds of Prey show. I thought I was a bird shoo-in with my Intro to Falconry course under my belt and my skill in identifying a sharp-shinned from a rufous-sided raptor at 50 paces.

I easily visualized myself with a falcon alight on my wrist. Whistling for its return as it swooped around the audience (first learning curve here: learning how to whistle). I imagined brushing out donkey tails and throwing prime rib to the pacing lions.

So, when Human Resources called, I practically pounced across the phone line. Yes, I was interested, in absolutely anything that they could offer me! Minimum wage? Why be greedy? Besides, if I was having the time of my life, no price could be put on that. Though, I’d have to buy a vehicle of some sort to get me to the Lion Safari, or, ride one of the donkeys home due to the 26 km roundtrip.
However, in my heart-palpitating excitement, I almost didn’t hear the voice on the other end say, “all our animal care positions have been filled—but, we think you’d be more suited for the Tour Operator position.”

Sure, I could operate tours. I could crack corny jokes and tell off-colour stories about terrible park visitors. I could withstand screaming, probably crying children pawing at me, covering my legs in candy floss and dripping ice cream cone hands.

But, this is when my dream job turned into a nightmare. I felt like I was suddenly eavesdropping in on a horror story. My horror! Now, I was visualizing a walking tour I guess, not a tour on a 50-passenger COACH BUS that I would have to learn how to drive! What terrible job description was this? Not only would I be responsible for learning how to commandeer a bus, but, as a tour operator, I’d also have to man the pontoon boat for 10-minute tours on the faux lake and operate the train to boot! I don’t even like driving a car, let alone something as big as my house!

Again, as the kindly woman explained the gory details, I tried to visualize myself in the above-mentioned safari suit, now seated behind the wheel of a bus (which I would have four to ten days to learn how to drive. And then pass an exam to make it official.

I shuddered, I began to sweat in sauna proportions. My excited heart palpitations turned into stroke symptoms.

Did I still want to come in for an interview? Had I been scared off?

No! I wasn’t scared off! This was my dream job! I couldn’t wait for the interview!
We scheduled it for March 2nd.

I immediately canvassed my friends and polled family members because my girlfriend wasn’t home. Kim is definitely my voice of reason at all times. I love her rational brain, but, I also get swept away in fantasy jobs and wanted to have a diverse collective group answer.

I invited hilarity, caution, advice and cheerleading. Of course, I received all of what I encouraged, in equal amounts. There was no definitive answer. My mother held her breath and said nothing (she visualized me driving the bus into the watering hole and killing a herd of zebra en route). Heidi thought the pontoon boat had serious potential for fun and would negate the bus droning. My brother shot back a rapid fire email: “You’re competing with Kiley now.” This was in direct reference to our sister’s oddball resume of jobs which have included everything from fly-fishing instructor to cookie baker to delivering sermons on Disney Cruise Lines.

Close friends weighed in with carefully crafted thoughts/support and OMG’s—did I really want to drone into a microphone over and over again to a bunch of screechy kids hopped out on sugar and wildlife? My dad thought it might be the catalyst to getting to the core of my dream job—in the lion cage.

When my Voice of Reason did get home, I barely had to finish relaying the conversation I had with the Lion Safari.

“Babe, you don’t want to drive a bus.”

See? Voice of Reason. I don’t. And, yes, it’s important to listen to your instant gut reaction but, it’s better when you can get someone to second that motion. I didn’t want to be all defeatist right off the bat, or unwilling to chomp at a new learning curve.

I’m now in the process of refining my dream job terms. What I have learned from this is that I’m still okay with multi-pocketed khaki wear…but the reality may be that I just want to GO on safari again, not necessarily work at one.

So, now I’ve set my sights on a career in baking buttertarts, “a logical transistion” as my dear friend Kay would attest.

Cuba 10×10: 10 days. 10 Pics.

Just south of the Tropic of Cancer, rum pulses in the veins of the Caribbean’s largest island, Cuba. The cocktail menus are often more extensive than the food options, and for good reason. They have the rum part down pat and it seems to marry well with everything and everyone.

But, Cuba is so much more than a booze-tastic all-inclusive destination. Yes, the water is cerulean. Yes, the sand is like padding around in sugar. But, it’s also an island of constant surprise, contrast and intrigue. The arts scene is vibrant, salsa music pumps out of every open window, bar and resto—and even on the beach. You will be guaranteed a soulful serenade at some point during your stay.

Many of Cuba’s cities are designated as World Heritage Sites, and the aging facades of the colonial buildings and cobblestone roads are like stepping into a time capsule. The parade of vintage Fords and buffed up Bel Airs are a strange reminder of decades gone by.

In August I spent 10 days in Cuba courtesy of  a partnership between The Adventure Center and The Matador Network. In 2011-2012, The Adventure Center sent eight Matador U students and alumni on adrenalin-kicked trips. My cub reporter duties took me from Havana to Holguin to Trinidad, being chased by Tropical Storm Isaac. Trusty notepad and pork rinds in hand, Canon trained on the sensory assault, this was my Cuba, 10×10. A pleasurable balm to the -12 (“feels like -19″) temps in Toronto tonight.

Okay, that was 12 pics, but…

The Fine Art of Living in 700-Square Feet

When you live in 700-square feet and caramelize onions on the stovetop, your duvet will smell exactly like caramelized onions that night unless you close the bedroom door and wedge a rolled wet towel at the base of the door. Similarly, if you make butter chicken for dinner, there’s a 100% chance that later that night when you shower, you will step out of the tub Irish Spring-clean only to wrap yourself in a curry-scented towel.

When you live in 700-square feet a gas fireplace can recreate Central American climes in about 13 minutes flat. In addition, for ultimate winter coziness, when you have seven foot ceilings, pot lights serve as head warmers. One can feel like a Swiss Chalet rotisserie chicken very quickly and easily.

With en suite laundry, when the buzzer signals the end of the dryer cycle, it’s parallel to being struck by a bolt of lightning. Originally designed for basement placement, Maytag dryer buzzers were set to a volume ample enough to alert housewives on the upper two floors of a home or half a block down the road—not ten paces away.

Living in such close quarters means that there is no secret Tostito eating—and a beer being covertly opened can be detected from any point within the apartment. Much like the heightened awareness a cat has with the electric can opener of yore—even when above-mentioned cat is three miles away, about to pounce on a woodland mouse– I run in the same fashion towards the sound of a bottle opener or chip bag. Natural wild instincts despite urban location intact.

When you have 700-square feet in downtown Toronto, only 70 seems to be allotted to the kitchen area. This translates into just enough space for one Romanian gymnast to do a somersault. Two people in the kitchen galley at one time means bacon grease splattered on someone’s shirt, accidental knife jabs and random head strikes from freezer doors or each other.

In special cases, such as mine, a landlord can order a brand new fridge and request to have the fridge door mounted to open from the right side, to create more space, before delivery. However, at the same time, in special cases, said landlord can mis-measure available fridge space and order a fridge too large. This means that sometimes when you live in small spaces, the fridge door cannot open fully to the right due to a wall, even when two inches of the counter top is sawn off. This allows the fridge door to open 55 degrees instead of 90 which requires users to do serious lunging and intensive arm extensions to reach the back left corner. Luckily, here, beers are safe from shorter-armed people. Conversely, the Costco-sized Thai chili sauce bottle is safe from toppling and knocking over the 6-pack of Carlsberg like bowling pins.

I could go on about the former fridge—how I had to shut both bedroom doors to drown out its moaning. It was a vintage model, tired of being cold all the time. In the dead of night it sounded like a half dozen hamsters were running in wheels to keep it in operation. The new fridge is a moderate improvement—we still have to jack up the volume on a movie to account for the background din of the fridge running. And, oh, how it runs. I have been half-tempted to unplug it during movies (and sleep) on several occasions.

When you live in 700-square feet there is no room for miscellaneous anything. One kitchen drawer is dominated by pots and pans stacked like Russian dolls. One drawer is crammed with the likes of Raisin Bran, panko, Schwartz’s steak seasoning, molasses and carefully arranged boxes of crackers. Everything must have a purpose. And sometimes, even with a definitive purpose, items like the Krups panini maker must reside on the shoe shelf. Sometimes, space hog dishwashers that eliminate valuable cupboard space, must be employed as full-time dish storage. All house guests were routinely told not to place dirty dishes in the dishwasher. “No, this is where we store all the clean dishes.” The previous arrangement before our epiphany was on top of the fridge. Which meant all the stacked square dishes and matching square bowls would have to be lifted off in one overhead military press-style manoeuvre to the counter below. Equivalent of 50 pounds and repetitive strain injury to supraspinatus muscle. Thank god for dish storage epiphanies.

More on storage: With two semi-fashionista people with a penchant for hoodies and jeans, closet by-laws have to be put into place. Such as (to an anonymous girlfriend): “No purchase of big, wool sweaters, regardless of how awesome they are until we move.” Kim has two that require a full dresser drawer. When we flew to Charlottetown, her sweater took up the entire overhead compartment of our Air Canada Boeing.

Our shoes are already double-stacked, our jeans wedged to the closet ceiling. No jumbo-sized or double anything is allowed. Especially because the bathroom medicine cabinet height is designed for products that mice might use. Kim’s hairspray has to lie on its side, threatening to roll out and explode on the tile floors on a daily basis.

On top of all this, living below others (a couple who loves wearing their cement-soled shoes and doing laps each morning circa 5 am) means all sound must be kept to a minimum. Yes, it’s like living on a fun reduction. If the cement-soled shoe couple is home (and they usually tuck in around 9 pm), movies are at a whisper-level. Only high dramas with heavy dialogue (bonus for subtitled flicks) can be rented mid-week. Definitely no James Bond or Bourne Conspiracy-types until maybe Saturday night when we can start our movie performance earlier.

Phone conversations are halted and scheduled for seniors hours. My sister has had to suffer because of it. She lives in the ideal time zone (Banff) for my night owl lifestyle (two hours behind Toronto-time), but, due to the sleeping couple above, I have to laugh silently and position myself practically outside the window and speak in hushy tones.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

But, sometimes, after living in 700-square feet for two years, you buy a house that is double that size with no one living upstairs. Or downstairs. With a backyard to lounge in (not just look at like a caged budgie), a kitchen that could fit 25 minglers AND a team of somersaulting Romanian gymnasts, space for a dozen wool sweaters for each of us in several rooms, permission and encouragement for LOUD movies (positioned far, far away from the fridge that is remarkably silent—with a fridge door that opens practically 180 degrees), space for time zone-friendly phone calls that won’t disturb the other (where laughter can be laughed LOL-style and not held in like a fart), a separate pantry AND lazy Susan instead of one wimpy drawer, and, best? An en suite AND master bath for towels that will smell like Downy Mountain Mist not Patak’s butter chicken after dinner.
We’re ready.

14 Predictions for the Torti Christmas: 2012 Edition

The Torti Christmas is always a lovely orchestrated chaos of champagne, pant-wetting laughter and storytelling. Are we becoming predictable? I know these things to be true, and everyone in attendance will no doubt agree that:

1. My father (who we nicknamed “Flo” eons ago) will nickname my brother’s Romanian boyfriend after 15 mispronunciations of “Dragos.”

2. My sister Kiley (via satellite in Banff) will be put on speaker phone and have the distinct pleasure of deciphering six people talking at once. Speaker phone conversation may also include one of the cats (Izzy or Chloe) if they are cooperative and interactive.

3. Dax will (conveniently) disappear to “delete cookies from Mom’s laptop web browser.” This will occur when the dishes need to be done.

4. All of us will intermittently disappear to delete the cookie supply in the sunroom where the Tupperware and tins moan with sugar and butter. Here, layers of Nanaimo bars snug up with pecan shortbread, macaroons and butter tarts. This is precisely what I dreamt of in Africa in 2008 as I ate stale vanilla wafers and slugged back potentially salmonella-laden unrefrigerated egg nog.

5. My dad will be in charge of washing/drying the dishes because my mother goes all Iron Chef in the kitchen with delegation. As per every year, my father will leave all the dried dishes and pots on the countertop, because, after 10 years of living in their home in Terrace Hill, he doesn’t know “where mom keeps them.”

6. My mother will remark “did everyone see Flo’s museum display?” This comment will be in reference to my dad’s display of dried dishes which will take up every valuable inch of countertop space.

7. Before the traditional bird dinner, Flo will eat six consecutive slices of buttered toast in complete dire straits, patiently waiting for dinner to be ready.

8. Mid-afternoon, my mother will prepare an ooh-ahh worthy platter of fine cheeses, charcuterie and artisan crackers. She will prep a separate plate or delineate the tray for my dad: “This is your section. You won’t appreciate the expensive stuff.” My dad’s section will include Cracker Barrel cheddar and mozzarella cubes which he will enjoy in his usual Pac Man fashion. He will be served a thimble of wine because he won’t appreciate the value of the wine either.

9. Somebody will re-tell the story of the Great Unicycle Incident of 1985. This is when Dax decided to test drive his brand new unicycle in the livingroom and pulled the mantelpiece and miniature Grandfather clock off the mantel, nearly killing my dad and the family dog.

10. Somebody will reminisce about Nan’s Nordic knit sweaters. In the summer of 1987 our grandmother sneezed and wheezed her way through four sweaters (despite a lethal allergy to wool). Nan’s sweaters were a force to be reckoned with. The stovepipe arms narrowed and cinched so closely in the armpit that they threatened to cut circulation off. The waist ballooned out to allow for teenage pregnancy. The sweater’s neck was either large enough for two necks or required three people to assist in the pulling-over-the-head process.

11.My mother will periodically crank her favourite Paul Potts, Il Divo and Pavarotti songs on the stereo. My father will attempt to sneak in and turn the volume down when my mother is distracted with julienning or basting. She will notice. The volume game resumes. Repeatedly.

12. My dad will retreat to the “TV room” (with buttered toast) where he will use my girlfriend as a pawn. “I’m just keeping Kim company—she wants to watch the World Junior Hockey action. Hey Kim, can I get you a beer?” (Flo disappears into the TV area with a beer for Kim and a rye and ginger for himself with a thumbs up and wink). My mom will re-crank Pavarotti’s Nessun Dorma. Kim will remain seated to help facilitate sport-watching time for my dad.

13. When it comes time to unwrap gifts, Dax will use his traditional wrapping. “Close your eyes and hold out your hands.” Dax has never wrapped a gift in my Christmas memory.

14. While unwrapping gifts we will make fun of Kiley until my dad will say, “Now, don’t make fun of your sister, she’s not here to defend herself.” But, I know Kiley won’t mind. I will re-hash the story of Kiley and Her Gift-Giving Saga. Dragos doesn’t know all the Torti tales, so, we have renewed opportunity to share nostalgic stories. Kiley’s gift-giving has included:

a) A $200 autographed hockey stick that she bought on ebay for my dad (and convinced us to chip in on). Flo couldn’t recognize any of the signatures and thought it was a fake (insert Kiley’s pout and official ebay document of authenticity here). Further investigation reveals that the stick is signed by real players, from the Leafs farm team.

b) The $200 bird. Kiley buys a heron that is made out of rock and iron at an art show in Canmore, Alberta in the fall. Would Dax and I like to chip in on it? Chipping in on the bird for my mom will also cover the expense to ship the 100 POUND BIRD across Canada in time for Christmas.

c)The present for Dax that was “in the mail” that never arrived because there was no gift ever sent. (Love you Kiley!! And, I’m so glad nobody else in the family writes a blog).

This is just a prediction. Soon I may have to get my family members to sign a media release to protect myself from defamation charges.

But, then my dear family will be reminded of how grateful I am to be part of such a family. Eccentric, yes. Adoring, tenfold. I am so lucky to have a solid gold foundation.

We will miss having Kiley and Mark with us this year, but, via speaker phone and champagne stories, they are with us! Oh, and this is where the 15^th prediction comes in. One of us will reminisce about that stupid Cabbage Patch Kid that Kiley got for Christmas. That doll with the head and booties made out of CEMENT that she beat us SENSELESS with.

Merry Christmas everyone. Love the ones you’re with.