Garlic!

Categories: Work work work

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Goodbye, Grandma Kay

Categories: Family

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Grandma, On Her Way

Categories: Family

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Intrepid Al

Saturday night. Sloane's asleep. Not yet time to go to bed.

For the record, I have pretty much every letter I ever received, downstairs in "the archive" (more accurately described perhaps as "the shitpile of stuff"). Went down there tonight, pulled out a box at random. Brucio's just back from Victoria, where Grandma, at age 94 or so, has decided to stop eating, enough is enough and so on. As a result, and obviously, I have been thinking in the last few days about mortality, grandparents, last words, fatal decisions, and legacies.

In the boxes I came quickly upon letters from Nanny, who died last year. My epitaph for her is here. She wrote me lots of letters when she could still see. She was, basically, a storyteller, and a good one. She never wrote her stories down. Except for one. For me. "Intrepid Al", about she and Grampa knocking a wasps' nest out of their backyard tree. Because I asked for it, because it was a hilarious oral story. In her later years, after she was blind, I really begged her to memorize this one (as she had for "The Cremation of Sam McGee" to tell at xmas 2000) so I could record her doing it, for posterity/a freelance CBC piece. She just felt like her time had come and gone and wouldn't do it for me.

So I'm down in the boxes tonight, and I see Nanny's handwriting. She hasn't gone completely blind at this point, I can tell by the script. I pull open the first envelope and there it is: Intrepid Al. Since Grampa's in a home in Nelson and can't object, and since it's a great story anyway, here it is.

Intrepid Al, by Gloria Horbow

We had a beautiful warm spring and our crabapple tree bloomed in great profusion. Then came a heavy frost and winter returned for a brief but deadly visit. Clouds hung low and threatening, and when the snow came it mingled with the beautiful blossoms... and both drifted sadly to the ground. Of course, no fruit grew that year and the leaves were sparse.

One noon hour towards the end of July, as I mixed batter for a pancake brunch, my husaband stood at the kitchen window and while lamenting the lack of apples, something in the tree caught his attention. He asked me if I thought it was a large bird or a smal animal. I couldn't tell, so my golden age gladiator went out to have a closer look. He was amazed to find a wasps' nest, about the size of a football, hanging from one fo the lower limbs.

The wasps were busy doing whatever it is that wasps do, and my mate decided then and there that the nest must go, and right now.

In a previous incident, a long pole was the instrument used to rescue his spectacles from a nearby lake and Al decided it was exactly what was needed to dislodge the quonset hut from its perch. As such he drove quickly to our son-in-law's home and returned carrying the 14 foot pole alongside the car with his left hand out the window, whilst he drove, steering with his right hand.

"Now," he said to me, "you're going to old a garbage bag under the nest while I knock it off the branch and into the bag."
   
I looked at him in amazement, but being the dutiful wife I occasionally am, I promptly swathed myself in cap, gloves, and scarves for the occasion. I tightened my pants at the ankles and was ready to go forth with my man to do battle against the enemy wasp encampment.

It was a very hot day and sweat poured out of my from heat, fear, and excitement. My knight stood with his jousting pole at the ready while I squinted up through scarves and persperation at the huge nest just a short three feet above my head.

"All set," I squeaked. Alex barely touched the nest with the end of the pole when out the little buzzers swarmed, blood in their eyes and their stingers in strike position.

Somehow, by instinct I guess, they seemed to know the villain of the piece and most flew straight for Al. Our hero dropped the pole and dashed for the back door, leaving me literally holding the bag. I was terrified, disgusted, and fearing for my life. I threw down the sack and stormed for the back door myself.

"To heck with that job, get yourself another method or another sucker!" As you can guess, I get quite waspish myself at times.

It was then that our adventurer decided to place the garbage bag over the metal frame which usually holds it. Now isn't that brilliant? Next, he placed it carefully in position under the nest, where the wasps had retreated to regroup. I stood at the kitchen window peeling off layers of clothing but still a keen observer of the activities outside.

This time intrepid Al was filled with determination and he gave the nest an almighty whack. It flew off the limb, missed the bag completely, sailed through the air and landed with an ominous thump about four feet from the home wrecker himself.

Now a truth, of which you are unaware, is that this man was a sports champion at his high school in 1937, with medals and trophies to prove it. He won the 220 dash, the 44 sprint, the high hurdles, the low hurdles, and all other field day activities. But I'm writing to tell you here that an unofficial world record in the standing broad jump was set on that 1992 summer day right there in my back yard.

Al cleared the 12 feet between the tree and the door in one gigantic leap. Panting inside, he congratulated himself for remaining unscathed and unstung while the hoardes outside the back door swarmed and rioted in anger, frustration and bewilderment.

But. One of the wily creatures, swifter than his buddies, and with the scent of the enemy filling his being, had managed to get through the door with our Al, and was now circling for an opening to strike. Not without reason, this wasp had recently been elevated to drill sergeant. He knew his job and was determined to repay this villain for the humiliation suffered by his comrades.

Suddenly realizing his peril, the agility of a youth returned to this aging athlete in the back hallway. His arms flailed wildly but his legs moved like well-greased pistons. They propelled him up the stairs, across the kitchen, around through the living and dining rooms, and down the hall into the bedroom. With only one place to escape, Sir Al threw back the comforter and prepared to dive under it. All this activity had loosened the lower section of his baggy armour and a goodly stretch of flesh was now exposed.

I arrived at this point, with a skillet in hand, in time to see the wasp drill into my beloved with all the venom he could command. In the next moment I smacked down with all the strength I could muster. A great howl of pain and outrage nearly lifted the roof off our bungalow. While Al clutched a this posterior I beamed triumphantly while the wasp died the death of a hero on the bedside rug.

Meanwhile, back in the yard, unaware they had been somewhat avenged, the wasps again returned to their poor and broken nest for a council of war. They sensed the breaker of their home would be returning with a stinger longer than theirs. A strategy must be devised for a counter-attack.

While this conference was in progress, my husband, disregarding his wound, decided to strike while the weapon was hot. "Now, I'm going back out there, and you're coming too. I'm going to pick up the nest on the end of the pole and plop it into the bag. You be ready with a twist tie to close the top." Now there's a brave fellow for you! I wasn't about to argue. Knowing his tender condition and consequent frame of mind, I geared up again and meekly followed to do his bidding.

And believe it or not, it worked out exactly according to plan. And not one more sting to show for it! (Of course, the one he did get couldn't be shown, either!)

With the nest safely tucked away, my lord of the wasps decided he would give the yellow jackets a few days to expire completely and then present the trophy nest to the young lads next door. They would take it to show-and-tell when school recommenced in September.

The victor is jubilant and, omitting all personal indignities, tells anyone even remotely interested how he slew the dragon wasps.

In the background, I smile knowingly.

Categories: Ash | Canadiana | Family | Olden Days

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Turner Rabbling On

Categories: GeoHope | Turner

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Unlimited 3.0

This month's issue of Unlimited magazine features a multi-excerpt from The Geography of Hope, accompanied by my photos. Cheers, Malcolm!



Split-level Earthship at the quarry "subdivision" in the Earthship Greater World Community, outside Taos NM.

I love this photo, and was thrilled to see that Malcolm decided to use it. The original shot has a lot of very very blue sky with amazing puffy clouds, above. It looks fake, it's so beautiful. The house itself is symmetrical and unusual to the pink-suburban-box-ized eyes many of us come with to the notion of "housing", and so it immediately flips you into another world to think about living in one of these things. The domes are undeniably "futuristic" and the solar panels flared beautifully blue in the midday sun. But what I like best is the stark landscape - evident in the sandy foreground and hardscrabble bushes trying to take root on the desert - punctuated by the weird abandoned appliances and kicked-in old cardboard boxes. It's anyone's unanticipated backyard garbage. The owner of this house didn't know I'd photograph her yard and then publish the picture all over the place 18 months later. In this way the Earthships give back as "real": it's not a Hobbit hole or a hippie hideaway. It's just some dude's house and he hasn't gathered up the yard trash this week yet. I love it.



Dr. Soontorn Boonyatikarn's amazing biosolar house, in the suburbs of Bangkok, Thailand.

Categories: GeoHope | Photography | Turner | Work work work

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Re: Frankincense & myrrh

I sat in on a silkscreen class today. The class materials list had, as mandatory-for-next-week, listed "frosted Mylar".

Does this not sound similarly weird as the presents the Three Kings brought? As in, when you were a kid. Like, did YOU know what frankincense and myrrh were prior to age 20?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

Categories: Ash | Art school

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Gogol

And I'll say right now that when I was at Queen's I took a full-year course in Russian Literature in English. No Russian language training required, mind.

Kal Penn's character in The Namesake, talking about Calcutta rickshaws, running alongside his mom and sister in the seats, who are imploring him to shift over and come join them:

"No, you know... Because, like, being pulled by another human being is feudal, and exploitative, and... I don't want to be part of something like that."

Oh Kal Penn. Oh, we've all been there, princess. A few years of undergrad and it's all kinds of brutal to make the people work FOR you in the "third world".

Kal, you may have been cute when you were confined to the Toronto suburbs to film Harold & Kumar Go To White Castle, but let me tell you this: if you have 2.5 tonnes of luggage as the average traveller does, and you need to go even 600m to the train station at, say, 6am (as Turner and I might have needed to have done, per se), and there's no such thing as a motorized vehicle to help you, you BET you'll take the emaciated man and his cycle-rickshaw to help you make your non-refundable booking on time.

No questions asked, and all that socialism training out the window, too.

Categories: Ash | India | Wurldliness

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Xmas photos

Random, photos from a walk in Fish Creek provincial park with the Turner clan.


Sloane and her "walking" stick.


Turners on the wipeout bridge.



Walking with Gramma!



Grampa John cuts Sloaner's first hockey stick down to size in preparation for the next day's skating adventure! Mama's heart is duly cut in half to match. (Mama, she's not a "fan" of hockey, per se.)

Categories: Family

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I Am Legend

We went to see I Am Legend the other day. I'd been fascinated with this movie since the trailers started appearing in mid-November. We'd recently returned from New York and the clip of the Brooklyn Bridge bombed by fighter jets was a jarring image.

Sometime around then, though, we were up late watching tv and on came the most disturbing commercial I've ever seen. A small girl, about four years old. Walking through a post-apocalyptic suburban landscape all alone. Black smoke rising in the distance. Tinkly music playing. Cognitive dissonance to the extreme. It was for a video game. It scared me right down to the bones. I was so freaked out that I had to stay up for another hour, watching Blade of all things, to get my mind off it.

I really can't see scary movies, they're too much for me. But I wanted to see I Am Legend. So I researched the hell out of it. I watched every trailer available online and scanned through all the interviews. I was going to get the book from the library, but then I found an early draft of the current screenplay online, and read the whole thing. Then waited a few weeks to let all the key plot details sink in. By the end of the holiday season, I was ready.

I wore a hat to hide behind, I won't lie. I knew what was coming for the most part, and that helped a lot. I'll tell you that they definitely improved the ending from the screenplay I read, though I won't spoil it for you. I walked out of the theatre... satisfied. Not exactly enthusiastic, but my curiosity and interest were sated. The whole premise is terrifying, and they do an excellent job of employing the tension.

We went home to Brucio's house in Douglasdale, had a family dinner. I fell asleep on the bed, singing to Sloane. Turner came down later and we crawled into bed properly.

Then at about 4am I woke up. Just, woke up. Thinking about the movie. Lay there in the dark for about five minutes, trying to get back to sleep. Sloane woke, came to bed with us. I lay there some more. Thinking thinking thinking about the movie. Thinking about how the culture of apocalypse is increasingly portraying the end of the world as an increasingly-not-so-distant future. Thinking about self-fulfilling prophesies in mass culture. Thinking about Bhutto's assassination, thinking about military research, thinking about all the Christmas consumption and rainforest timber from West Africa and built-in cappuccino makers. And thinking about that little girl walking all alone in the golden hazy light down that devastated street in an ADVERTISEMENT for a video game.

I had a shower, couldn't sleep. Went upstairs and read for a while, nearly falling out of the chair I was so tired. But couldn't sleep. Went back to bed, no good. Up to the livingroom couch, where I dozed until Brucio came out to stomp around the kitchen at 5am. Left for the basement couch, where I remained semi-stuporous but fitful until lights came on, people looking for the Thomas dvds. Finally I went back to bed, where I fell asleep, finally, for real.

Whereupon I dreamed of an eclipse.

Categories: Ash

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2007 Year In Review

I learned and re-learned some lessons this past year. Wouldn't it be great if we knew it all at 18? Think of the world = oyster situation. Amazing.




On metabolic regulation: Remember to take your damn thyroid meds. Yes, every damn day.

On owning cats: One day you have a cat, the next day he's eaten by coyotes. So you grieve, and pull it together and get another cat. And then one day that cat is run over and you find yourself digging a second pet grave beside the house. So you reflect on your animal track record, but decide you still want to be a cat owner, and you get two more cats. And Sloane says, "Mama, please may we not let these new cats die?" Heh. We'll do our best.

On getting what I want: Patience and humility have done wonders for my win ratio. From photo assignments to getting Sloane into the right playschool, shutting up and being polite and proceeding with grace have been such amazing lubricants this year. Shoulda learned this one at age 20.




On getting fired for other people's bullshit: Sometimes you get fired for other people's bullshit, nothing you can do.

On parties: People will not come at the appointed time. The best people stay late, but the worst'll hang around until then, too. Exits define your attendance, particularly if you stomp the shrubbery on your way out. If you're serving mulled wine and beer, some friend-of-a-friend will still march in and ask for a good scotch straightaway (and we will give it to them). And we'd still love a few more invitations to other people's parties, please... a reminder to publications and corporate friends: freelancers have no Christmas parties or schmancy fundraisers to go to unless you invite them to yours.



On accounting people at various publications: People will take as long as inhumanly possible to pay you.

On finances: It's good to be able to mean it when you say, "Well, if we have to sell the car and the house, I can live with that."

On funding: If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.




On freelancing: Turner - "You will sometimes do your best work for free, you will sometimes do the most work for the least pay. The tradeoff is that you are your own master. ...Most of the time." September 26/07

On continuing education: As it turns out, I'm a complete obsessive, bent on perfection. If only Farokh could see me now (Farokh Afshar, my M.Sc. advisor, 1947-2007, peace be upon you).

On parenting: There are tough days. There are days when you are so flayed and raw and every smile and moment of concentrated attention is a huge effort. We want to keep her away from sugar, and tv, and crappy plastic toys, and the moronic cult of the fairy princess pervading the under-six crowd. But grandparents will still give her Smarties for breakfast, and Thomas the train dvds are incredibly helpful in moderation. So you try to find the middle way and hope to keep the scarring to a minimum.

Also on parenting: We are such good parents, way better than the rest of the parents out there. Also better than our own parents, of course.



On Sloane: She's the best. The talking, my god the talking. Being able to see into her little 2 year old mind has been such an amazing blessing every day. Even her temper tantrums are the best. And the hair is getting fabulous! When she hugs my head and says into my ear, "Ma-mee, Ma-mee, Ma-mee!" in this purposely hilarious pitched voice, I know she's going to have a great sense of humour and inner dialogue.

On attending weddings: Still a good idea, particularly when you've arranged babysitting.

On photography: Everyone wants to have their picture taken, even the ones who say they don't. Creating a meaningful photograph is one of the greatest gifts you can give a person. When they're ninety-nine and in a home and the caregivers ask for a photo from when they were young and beautiful, you bet they'll choose one of mine.

On sending out photos I've taken of people, having promised to send them copies: Managing expectations does wonders. Once I started saying, "Don't expect to receive these for quite a while," people were more grateful when they finally arrived. Take note McConnell Reunion-Goers, you still won't get your photos for quite a while.




On drinking: Sourpuss shots have their time and place.

On politicians: Disappointing liars, 98% of the time. I'm cautiously optimistic about the other two.

On marriage: I'd still rather be poor with Turner than rich with anyone else.



On Turner: I had this awesome and terrible realization about Turner. He is well aware of my many many failings, my ego, the judgemental edges. You think marriage is about loving someone so much. But the worst of it is that you have the love of someone else. Turner loves me despite everything he knows, and in the face of this I am appalled, and thunderously grateful.

On building community and having good friends: Pick the good people who love us back. Get rid of everyone else. Life is too short.

Also on friends: Sometimes people drift away. There're all sorts of reasons. I try not to take it personally, I figure the soul mates will resurface eventually.

On changing the world: It's exhausting. When you can't even convince your family to recycle their cans and bottles, the uphill battle seems that much more uphill. But boy, you take pride in your work, and you know you're on the side of good. Call it sanctimonious if you like, but it feels good to work hard.

On holidays: There are no holidays.

Categories: Ash | Married Life | Mom-ness | Photography | Sloane | Turner | Work work work

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