Mrs. Hilksom's Three Thousand Km Footrace

Appreciating Ashley

Ashley Bristowe — Sat, 23 Jan 2010 11:22:54 GMT

I saw Ashley MacIsaac perform in Kingston in, oh, I think it was February 1996. I loved Devil in the Kitchen and a friend bought me a ticket to the concert, so we went. Generally I don't like live music. I'm a philistine that way. But Ashley MacIsaac is a force that cannot be questioned. He's fantastic.

I also made the understandable purchase of a tshirt at that concert, in no small part so I could have my first-ever piece of clothing emblazoned with my own name. But of course I also like the fiddley-diddley.

Fast-forward fourteen (ouch!) years. Last week Sloane and I were at the library and I picked up a 2001 recording of Ashley doing traditional jigs and reels. Thus inspired, I ordered his 2003 autobiography Fiddling with Disaster off the ol' innernet a few weeks ago and just finished it. Fantastic stuff. I'd not read such conversational Canadiana before, it was authentic and contradictory and colloquial, like being present to a series of sober rants. This is an easy read, but at 270 thickset pages it's not short. Initially I thought the ghostwriter/co-author dude could've done a bigger editorial overhaul altogether, but the further in I got, the more I felt like I was listening to Ashley MacIsaac get a bunch of shit off his chest while no one could interrupt him. Sure, it was circular and repetitive, but life is like that, and sometimes you don't finish what you had to say, or you want to say it again for emphasis.

(I'm suggesting the American Amazon site because none of the Cdn online retailers carry new copies.)

Some of my favourite exerpts:

[On Scotland]

To tell you the truth, Scotland made me think about what it must've been like living in the Dark Ages, in some cold, dark, damp castle. No wonder so much of the old Scottish music is so sad, I thought, being out on those mountains in a kilt freezing your ass off in the rain would hardly make ya feel like dancin' a jig. And after standing out there for a while, you could see how having sex with a sheep might not seem like such a bad idea. It would be a welcome change in your day I think.

Almost too easy, but there's not much of this in the narrative, so it worked really well.

[On decriminalizing marijuana]

I don't see any reason at all why Canada shouldn't have the same attitude toward marijuana that they have in sensible countries like Holland or Denmark. We never will though as long as we keep looking south for direction. The United States is the wealthiest and most powerful country in the world, but is has got its head so far up its ass when it comes to things like drugs and sex that I don't know if it'll ever get it out. I know the actor Woody Harrelson... has got a movement going in the States now to try... to legalize pot smoking, and I wish him luck. But I don't believe Woody'll get very far, because the US is just so far behind Europe and Canada in terms of legislating morality. At the rate they're going, by the time the US government legalizes pot we'll all be flying around in spaceships I'm sure.

[On being named to, and then kicked off of, the 1996 Maclean's annual Honour Roll]

So what did I learn from the whole sordid Maclean's affair? It's simple: if you want to get on the Maclean's honour roll as a musician, all you have to do is have a top 10 single; have your debut CD go double platinum in Canada; be a huge sensation in the US and Europe; have all kinds of American tv shows and magazines falling all over themselves to have you be a guest or to take your picture; and be a great ambassador for Canada to boot. Oh, and if you're already on the list and you want to get off, just be a homosexual who actually has sex and then tell someone about it.

Bam! Well summarized. Shame on Maclean's, this was a dick move.

[On telling his parents he's gay]

"Hi Mom, it's me, Ashley."
"Hi dear, how's everything goin'?"
"Great. Look Mom, I've got something to tell you."
"Oh yeah, what's that?"
"I'm gay..."
"OK -" click! Just like that, she hung up the phone. So I hung up and dialled her number again. She picked it up on half a ring.
"What," she snapped.
"Well, are you gonna tell Dad?"
"Yes, when he comes in from work,"
"Do you think he'll be OK with it?"
"No, I think he'll take a heart attack. What am I supposed to do about that? Goodbye." click! She hung up again. So I phoned back again.
"What!" she snapped again.
"Mom, you're not gonna take a heart attack, are ya?"
"I don't know; I might. But your dad'll take a heart attack for sure."
"Would it be better if I told him myself?"
"Whatever. Goodbye." click!
It went on like that for about 15 minutes.

Beautiful. What a Canadian conversation. Convention and manners dictate that if the phone rings, you absolutely do answer it. But you're mad and you don't want to talk, so you keep hanging up. The other person does want to talk, so they keep calling back. Priceless.

[On the turmoil in the Catholic Church]

Hopefully, he[the Pope]'ll come to his senses soon and announce to the world finally that it's OK to be gay. If he'd just do that, he'd eliminate 90 percent of the problems he has with all these pedophile priests. See, the real problem is, most of these guys aren't pedophiles at all; they're really gay guys who need sex but are absolutely terrified to have it with anybody who might tell. That's why they focus on kids, because they think they can intimidate them into staying quiet. If they could just come out and be gay, they could start having sex with each other and leave the altar boys alone. The ones who don't leave the altar boys alone after that, they're your pedophiles.

I doubt the Catholic Church will ever bend on the issue of homosexuality, but I loved this. I could hear a Cape Breton accent on that last sentence for sure.

[On being reviled in Eastern Canada]

That kind of resentment is natural coming from Maritimers. It's the same kind of resentment Maritimers feel for people in Ontario. They tend to think they have a harder life Down East than people in the rest of Canada - and in a lot of ways, they do. Maritimers get pissed off when they see someone with money and success making a fuss about anything. It's like, "Shut up and eat your cake, for fuck's sake." Well, I get a lot of that.

Ditto for this. Awesome.

I'm not familiar with the publisher (Warwick) and didn't hear of this book's release in 2003. It's a shame it didn't get better publicity across Canada. Whether you like him or not, Ashley MacIsaac is a genius and did more for East Coast music in a few short years than many musicians manage in a lifetime. Everyone loved his rise, but then things got strange and people seemed to take his fall personally or something. In 2001 Turner and I got into an argument at the Baddeck Legion with locals who were enormously unimpressed with Mr. Too Big For His Britches Ashley MacIsaac tenk-yeh-very-much. As far as I'm concerned he's a gifted musician and a great ambassador for Canada, and conservative values never got in the way of people embracing any number of other gay and/or drug-addled musicians. Just listen to any pop/rock station in Canada, even those on Cape Breton.

In any case, I suggest the book to fans of Ashley, fiddle music and Canadian music generally; and to those interested in stories of addiction, the joy of coming out, and finding fame in the music industry. Overall it's a superb piece of Canadiana and I loved it.

Alexander and I were listening to the cd the other day and our son obviously inherited a love of fiddle music from his namesake great-grandfather. This is the 'Old Time Wedding Reel Medley' track off Cape Breton Fiddle Music Not Calm. Alexander really gets going around the 16 second mark in this video (unfortunately I didn't catch when he was really givin'er a few minutes earlier because I couldn't find the camera, he's a bit tired by this point. And p.s. that's me gleefully clapping in the background, I couldn't help myself):

Turner and his parents saw Ashley in 2000 or so at a dance in Glencoe Mills, a teeeeeeeny wee place in the woods south of Mabou on Cape Breton that now consists of a crossroads and a community hall. Margo reports that Ashley usually makes a turn through Antigonish during the summer ceildih season, every year leading to a gnashing of my teeth that I'm there on the wrong Saturday. Can't wait until the calendar works in my favour.

Thank you for much joy over the years, Ashley MacIsaac. I wish you well.

Olden Times (Relatively Speaking)

Ashley Bristowe — Sat, 23 Jan 2010 02:25:26 GMT

Found in the archives, me an' Sloaner down at the mobile in Nakusp, fooling with the Photo Booth program.

Half-Year In Review

Ashley Bristowe — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 06:03:42 GMT

I've migrated to Twitter, what can I say. So much easier to update, posts so much briefer.

May: Alexander born. All sorts of complications. NICU for two weeks. A zillion tests. Basically shut down, not talking to anyone except each other and Brucio. Mid-stream I called the public health nurse because I couldn't breathe at night and thought I needed some psych support to deal with the stress - turns out I had dangerously high blood pressure caused by the birth + IVs + no sleep for five days (that's the stress part). Meds dispensed, BP now normal. Thank god for Cousins Jana, and Jessica, and Jenna, who were here during this period. Our house manager Stephanie kept Spiller Road in order - without her it would have been complete chaos here. Alexander home without oxygen supplement at the end of May. Our Ramsay neighbours were beyond terrific, dropping off food and flowers and hang-gliding through to pick up Sloane for impromptu babysitting. We were shellshocked and grinny and just holding on.

June: Blur of being-at-home. Trying to be normal, helping Sloane adapt to being an older sister. Summertime coming. Cousins Tanya and Lauren were superb visitors this month.

Yes, someone brought that inane Backyardigans book into our house. Tanya and Lauren are gamely trying to make it readable.

Alexander stable, we decided to continue preparing to leave for Europe. Our assistants Tegan and Juliet managed admirably in the face of insufficient guidance and irregular (mostly last-minute) updates on what we needed. I can barely remember anything specific about this month, other than that the weather was warmer.

July: Europe prep. Too much to do. Alexander ok, but missing his milestones, on the lower end of the percentiles in terms of weight. Sloane adapting very well to older sisterhood.

Little brother taste delicious!

The Turner clan came to visit for Stampede! Shot a family friend's wedding at the end of the month, on Turner's birthday. Was the first day of work-work I'd done in many months, and after 13 hours of shooting I had rock-hard milk boobs and was dead on my feet; it took two full days to recover.

August: Last days leading up to departure for Europe so stressful. So much to do, no way to do it all. Alexander and I head to Thunder Bay for Nanny and Grampa's memorial en route to Europe, spent a lovely four days at the Lakehead. There's a book in that story.

Last moments of Monday-evening-sunset at Hillcrest Park, Port Arthur (Thunder Bay, ON): Horbows, reun-ed. From left, Ashley Bristowe & Alexander (Bristowe) Turner, Valerie (Horbow) Bristowe, Ainsley (Bristowe) Sullivan, John Bristowe, Jim Horbow, Kohl Horbow, Joshua Horbow.

Turner and Sloane proceeded ahead to Copenhagen and made things ready for our arrival. Two weeks in Copenhagen together were fabulous: our accomodations perfect, the neighbourhood great, fabulous park literally next door, Sloane's Danish nanny Tine competent and interesting, on and on. Two days at Legoland were basically the highlight of Sloane's life to date, ask her about it, she'll tell you. Turner and I both did good work in Denmark, we were proud of ourselves. And we made good family+work combination days (barely) work, which was a good preliminary model for our expanding family years. Biking, windmills, great food, lots of batman dogs (French bulldogs), Tivoli Gardens, elegant folks strolling around in packed public squares at night, and there we were, far away from all the specialist appointments and wagging pediatrician fingers and related Alexander health stress and he was doing just fine, better than fine, great. Denmark was fabulous.

September: On to Berlin, and then Freiburg. On the whole Germany was good, particularly Solar Valley in the former East German industrial heartland. And hey, after years of hearing Turner claim he could speak German, it turns out that Turner can actually speak German! Seriously! Me an' Sloane were so impressed. But by the time were were finished our work in Freiburg, I was done done done with Germany for another 20 years, and landing in Spain was a relief. Met up with Peg and Brucio, went out to the solar tower west of the city (amazing. AMAZING!), ate tapas. Down to our fabulous villa in San Roque in Andalucia, with its many nook suites and rooftop view of Gibraltar.

Sloaner hiking the ancient ridgetop paths on Gibraltar - at left, the Atlantic; at right, the Mediterranean.

Joined after a few days by Auntie Jana and Uncle Jay, fresh off their tour of the Cote d'Azur and Barcelona.

Cousins at the only deserted beach in Spain. Brucio knows how to pick 'em.

More time in Gibraltar, visiting the monkeys and buying stamps at the (blessedly English) grocery store. Very entertaining and entirely terrifying pre-Halloween mask selection therein, by the way. Fantastic food and an otherworldly hammam bath in Jerez de la Frontera.

I had this whole notion about a curly-haired mother shoot in the landing of our villa, here's Turner's 200th attempt at the photo. I think I wasn't explaining what I wanted, exactly. But good times.

One night on the beach in the Costa del Sol with the hoardes of mushy-peas Brits. And then, home to Canada via a night's stopover in England near Gatwick airport. Had Irish tarts and did a walk in lovely balmy English air while Sloane slept a record 15 hours straight before catching our flight to Toronto. Home again riggy jig jig.

October: Back to Calgary with Sloane and Alexander on my own, while Turner doing a speaking tour of Ontario & New Brunswick, and a work trip to NYC. Sloane entering the Lycee system, so there are uniforms to integrate, school lunches to figure out, driving schedules to coordinate. The house is a disaster after two months of housesitters (who left 10 days before we arrived, so Loki, deciding he'd been abandoned, had poo'd all over the basement, among other housekeeping joys), and the single parent reality + jetlag was hell on wheels. I'd been burning the candle at both ends for a long time, but this is where things really started to unravel. Off to Ottawa mid-month to Uncle Seamus' wedding, at which Sloane was a flower girl.

Mahoney's Bay, and fammmleeee-phoooootttoooo! at the reception.

Home to Calgary with Dada in tow. And three days later I came to a grinding halt, on strike, unable to go on. Had to sleep, had to not do stuff. Had to take some days off. I'd never really understood the idea behind "nervous collapse" before, but I was definitely getting to that end of the spectrum. Doing too much, no time to recover in between. Definitely getting trembly, and had to stop. Gramma Margo swooped in to help and we heard Alexander's fantastic voice come in: blaaaa? blaaaaaa! blaaaaaaa... Alexander's cultural godparents were installed this month: my old and dear friend Margaret Drummond and her brother Steven Drummond (and there was much rejoicing: yay!).

Cultural godparents!

October ended with John Johnston finally pulling the cord and leaving Calgary after two years to return to England. Farewell dear friend and don't go, I will miss you a lot.

This is a fake smile, I was really sad to see JJ leave. Come back!

And then at the end of the month we took possession of our new house.

November: New house? Yes, the new house we bought in June. Or July? ...I can't remember. In any case, we bought a house. In Hillhurst, the half-hippie/half-gentrified community on the river northwest of downtown Calgary.

That looks like... hardwood under the carpet!?

So now we're moving. We got the house October 30th, just in time to trick-or-treat with Sloane in the new neighbourhood and introduce ourselves to the neighbourinos. November 2nd was our Empty House Party, bringing new energy into the space. Grampa JT arrives to help with the new house craziness, November spent painting the house top to bottom, ripping out carpet, sanding and finishing the upstairs hardwood (after pal Bruce Manning "undid the work of a psychotic" who'd put about a billion nails into the hallway, and much filling-of-holes and general hard labour by Grampa JT).

Upstairs hallway, with nearly-impenetrable crust of particleboard, nailed down every 2 cm.

Bruce Manning, the man with the catharsis crowbar.

Also, framing + electrifying + insulating + drywalling the basement, plus moving the laundry area (& mucho other stuff, overall encompassing a huge plumbing job, HUGE, which eventually involved a lot of sledgehammering out the concrete and digging and making a trench and generally totally un-possible without the gigantic help of Brad, Margaret's new beau). For the last week we've been moving our ~~shit~~ stuff into the house in small loads - the things movers will break like mirrors and art and photo equipment, plus all the kitchen accoutrements & food you don't want melting in boxes in the back of a moving van for five hours when you could just bring it over yourself. That stuff. But most of the time we're at home in the increasingly empty old house on Spiller Road, feverishly packing up our six years of living here (hello, giant pile of stuff for Goodwill) and growing more and more anxious that it won't all get done before Monday (moving day). At least, that's me, Anxiety-Consumed-New-Cold-Sore-And-Neck-Rash Bristowe. But Turner says it'll be aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaallllllllll right.

December: I can't think that far ahead. Presumably someday December will come, and we will be in the new house, and things will happen. Among these things is very probably a visit from Granny Val around December 7th, and Christmas around the usual dates that Christmas occurs. But that's all hearsay at this point.

This post is for the loyal reader (aw! thanks!) who said she missed my birthday year-in-review. Not so snazzy or funny, but thanks for reading! A

Gibraltar!

Ashley Bristowe — Sat, 26 Sep 2009 15:07:07 GMT

So. Since I neglect this blog so, I'll just say that now we're in Spain, and we're on holiday, and as such I actually shouldn't be on the internet at all, I should be sitting on the roof terrace with my children and husband and cousin and dad and gazing into the distance at... Gibraltar!

We're staying in the village of San Roque, which is where the Spanish inhabitants of Gibraltar departed for when the British took The Rock in the Treaties of Utrecht in 1704.

Flag at the top of The Rock, with the white town of San Roque in the distance. I can see our house!

Alexanderplatz

Ashley Bristowe — Thu, 10 Sep 2009 09:23:27 GMT

We've taken to calling our boy "Alexanderplatz" and "Alex-ander-platz-io!" after Berlin's huge open square (formerly in the GDR), Alexanderplatz. It's also a transit hub, so the regional trains run through there, as do the trolleys and the S-bahn. Turner had a notion about some photos we might take with the U-bahn sign, and here's the result. Our little Alexanderplatzio, with his platz.

Worldchanging: Turner's postcards

Ashley Bristowe — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 04:55:05 GMT

Turner's newest column "postcard" over at Worldchanging.org features some of my Copenhagen photos, including one of Sloaner the Fee Fie in the kangaroo bike.

Working, Work Work Work

Ashley Bristowe — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 04:19:24 GMT

Here we have Ashley looking a bit grumpy, but it's just an off moment in an otherwise great few days of shooting down near Bitterfeld. In fact, here we are in the fantastic future of wind turbines and green energy!

Actually, I'm shooting the giant solar array to the right of the photograph. Near Rödgen, Germany.

The Reason Adults Need Less Sleep Than Kids

Ashley Bristowe — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 06:42:27 GMT

So someone can get the damn laundry done after they finally FINALLY pass out.

Note to ourselves: Sloane is past the nap stage! Do not let her nap under any circumstances! (Sloane finally fell asleep last night at 11pm... aaaaaaaggggghhhhhhhh!)

Copenhagen is awesome, everyone move here. More photos on Flickr, here.

Grumble grumble... I would get a lot more work & photo editing & blog writing done if kids went to SLEEP on time... grumble...

John Johnston On The Stampede

Ashley Bristowe — Sun, 16 Aug 2009 20:14:03 GMT

"I don’t believe that animals have rights but I do believe hairy men have responsibilities and one of those has surely got to be, not to beat up animals for a laugh."

Hear hear. Basically the best sentence ever written about rodeo. JJ on the Stampede, here.

Photo by John Johnston... presumably, since I stole it from his website.

We've Landed

Ashley Bristowe — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 23:35:32 GMT

Hi, just a quick update for those who sometimes come here to see if we're still alive. We're in Copenhagen, we're great, the flat is beyond perfect, Sloane and Turner are headed to Legoland tomorrow and Alec & I will stay here to get over our jetlag, maybe head up the coast by train to see the Karen Blixen house if we're feeling perky.

Thunder Bay was great, the memorial was sad but good, it was super to see everyone, and everything smelled perfect.

Some photos are very slowly going up on Flickr, here.

Love to you! A

It Was Indeed Magical

Ashley Bristowe — Sun, 02 Aug 2009 19:50:22 GMT

I get a pretty steady stream of traffic from people looking for stuff about Harriet's Magic Hats. The 30-something set has an amazing hazy nostalgia for it. In my old age I've finally decided that it was my good fortune to have been chosen to star as the third (of four) young leads in this ACCESS television show produced in the 1980s.

I was digging around basement boxes earlier today and found this clipping, for the record:

Alexander Finds That Dada Guy's Whistling Raaaather Funny

Ashley Bristowe — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 02:49:23 GMT

Ash & Alexander

Ashley Bristowe — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 02:39:52 GMT

Photo by Chris Turner.