I spent an extraordinary evening in Orangeville this weekend, at a classical music concert put on by one of my nephews, who's planning a career in music, and has been conditionally accepted at the University of Toronto. He plays the trumpet and the piano. His siblings also play piano and trumpet, and together, they put on a concert to raise funds for his tuition. This was not chopsticks, let me tell you, this was Debussy, and Rachmaninoff (why so angry, asks my husband...), and honestly, I don't know who all, but serious, fabulous music. There was no napping in the audience, especially as one of the brothers slyly inserted several bars of the Flintstones theme song into the Rhapsody in Blue. It totally worked.
The young man who's headed to school spoke between pieces, self-effacing and humble and unintentionally funny. The concert hall wasn't packed, but it was close to full, and at 15 bucks a head, he will do well enough to pay for at least some of his texts, should his high school marks be good enough to get him into the program.
As I watched this talented and hard-working young man up there, I thought, if I'd been prescient enough to fund raise for my education, what sort of programme could I have managed? I'm pretty sure no one would pay money to hear me complain about the patriarchy, a favourite theme of mine at the time. I doubt they would care to hear about the thrill I got from reading 'The Stones of Venice". Neither would many people pay to see my excellent work at daydreaming, journal writing, necking, movie-watching or vodka-and-OJ consumption at Junior Farmers' dances.
We spend a lot of time despairing over youth these days, but I'm thinking some of these youtes are all right.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
March 23, 2010- Spring Ahead Redux
Most people groan when they hear what time I need to get up to be at work on the radio each morning. And while my body has never truly adjusted to the early hours, there is definitely something worse than having an alarm go off at 3:50 am.
It's getting up when that alarm goes off, getting dressed, kissing my sweetheart goodbye and then, pulling lunch out of the fridge, noticing the clock on the microwave says it's not 4:05, but only 3:05. Same thing on the clock on the stove. And the clock on the coffee maker.
It's the sickly feeling of doom rumbling across the pit of my stomach as I realize that somehow, the 'regular' clock, the one upstairs by the bed, has been pushed ahead an hour. It only takes the accidental push of one button to make that change.
So, back upstairs, put back on the pyjamas, push the dog off the still-warm spot on the bed and crawl back under the covers, hoping my body won't notice it's already been awake, hoping to regain the nearly lost hour, and then lying awake, savouring the possibility of an nap this afternoon.
That's what's worse than getting out of bed at 3:50: it's waking up, dreaming about taking a nap.
It's getting up when that alarm goes off, getting dressed, kissing my sweetheart goodbye and then, pulling lunch out of the fridge, noticing the clock on the microwave says it's not 4:05, but only 3:05. Same thing on the clock on the stove. And the clock on the coffee maker.
It's the sickly feeling of doom rumbling across the pit of my stomach as I realize that somehow, the 'regular' clock, the one upstairs by the bed, has been pushed ahead an hour. It only takes the accidental push of one button to make that change.
So, back upstairs, put back on the pyjamas, push the dog off the still-warm spot on the bed and crawl back under the covers, hoping my body won't notice it's already been awake, hoping to regain the nearly lost hour, and then lying awake, savouring the possibility of an nap this afternoon.
That's what's worse than getting out of bed at 3:50: it's waking up, dreaming about taking a nap.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
March 18, 2010- Grammas Gone Wild
She never made it to Spring Break as a serious young student, but my mother's making up for lost time today with two of her widow-lady friends.
The three of them are headed away to Florida today. I'm hoping the two friends won't lead my mom astray; she's the baby of the bunch at a mere 67 years, while her buddies are 73 and 82 respectively.
Together, they plan to hit the malls, catch some blue jays games and bask in warmer-than-here weather. I think the plan is to attend a bagpipe event while they're in Dunedin, too.
My only advice: if they see a sign directing them towards a thing called 'girls gone wild', they must all walk the other way. Fast.
The three of them are headed away to Florida today. I'm hoping the two friends won't lead my mom astray; she's the baby of the bunch at a mere 67 years, while her buddies are 73 and 82 respectively.
Together, they plan to hit the malls, catch some blue jays games and bask in warmer-than-here weather. I think the plan is to attend a bagpipe event while they're in Dunedin, too.
My only advice: if they see a sign directing them towards a thing called 'girls gone wild', they must all walk the other way. Fast.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
March 17- 2010- Meet me out front
I recently had a delivery of a DVD I’d been promising myself for some time, but it would still be mouldering away, unwatched and unloved had it not been for the tracking number and a thorough search.
The delivery person walked right past my front door, the clean-swept one with the light blazing away above the mail slot, past the mailbox, and 30 feet down my snowy, muddy driveway to leave my package between a rusty nasty screen door and the inside solid wood number, with no knob, peeling paint and so many cobwebs, there could have been no doubt it was never used. Which it isn’t.
Three days I’d been waiting for the BBC adaptation of P&P (the one with Colin Firth!) to arrive (huge sale at Amazon). Three days I’d come home with the hope of seeing the package inside my cosy front porch, perhaps sitting on the freshly-washed stoop of my front door, the one with no peeling paint and the welcome mat (it says welcome and everything!) And, for the next few days, a quilted shamrock decoration will hang there in honour of the season. Alas, Mr Darcy and I were not to be together until Sunday morning, when I wondered whether the package had perhaps been tied up in customs and I checked the tracking.
I was stunned to discover it had been delivered. Equally stunned to find no trace of it in the porch, the mailbox, the bushes or the back yard. The dog had not eaten it, it was not under my car. Even more confused, I thought, “Is it possible? The side back door?” And there it was, wedged in the snowy filth of an unused entrance we haven’t yet gotten around to blocking out with plywood.
Seriously, what’s the deal with back doors? Further, what’s the reticence about front doors? I’ve had people walk past my brightly-lit porch to the side door and knock for some time, getting no response because the unused, unlit, unwelcoming entrance is at the end of a hall at the bottom of some stairs, behind a closet and a bunch of other storage. But there they stand, knocking and wondering why we aren’t answering.
I get that I’m in the minority here, but I simply don’t understand.
If you don’t use your front door, could you please tell me why not? I’m worried I’m missing out on some part the zeitgeist, and I just hate it when that happens.
The delivery person walked right past my front door, the clean-swept one with the light blazing away above the mail slot, past the mailbox, and 30 feet down my snowy, muddy driveway to leave my package between a rusty nasty screen door and the inside solid wood number, with no knob, peeling paint and so many cobwebs, there could have been no doubt it was never used. Which it isn’t.
Three days I’d been waiting for the BBC adaptation of P&P (the one with Colin Firth!) to arrive (huge sale at Amazon). Three days I’d come home with the hope of seeing the package inside my cosy front porch, perhaps sitting on the freshly-washed stoop of my front door, the one with no peeling paint and the welcome mat (it says welcome and everything!) And, for the next few days, a quilted shamrock decoration will hang there in honour of the season. Alas, Mr Darcy and I were not to be together until Sunday morning, when I wondered whether the package had perhaps been tied up in customs and I checked the tracking.
I was stunned to discover it had been delivered. Equally stunned to find no trace of it in the porch, the mailbox, the bushes or the back yard. The dog had not eaten it, it was not under my car. Even more confused, I thought, “Is it possible? The side back door?” And there it was, wedged in the snowy filth of an unused entrance we haven’t yet gotten around to blocking out with plywood.
Seriously, what’s the deal with back doors? Further, what’s the reticence about front doors? I’ve had people walk past my brightly-lit porch to the side door and knock for some time, getting no response because the unused, unlit, unwelcoming entrance is at the end of a hall at the bottom of some stairs, behind a closet and a bunch of other storage. But there they stand, knocking and wondering why we aren’t answering.
I get that I’m in the minority here, but I simply don’t understand.
If you don’t use your front door, could you please tell me why not? I’m worried I’m missing out on some part the zeitgeist, and I just hate it when that happens.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
March 16, 2010- Who are you and what have you done with my mother?
March Break sends a lot of kids to their grandparents' homes, and this year, instead of a trip south, my brother has sent his three lovely children to my mother's house for a few days. With the tow-headed moppets, she's sure a different kind of creature than the woman who raised me.
Sunday afternoon, after tidily finishing her lunch, my niece was offered ice cream for dessert, and after a first bowl, got up, went to the kitchen and brought the ice cream container back to the table for a second helping. No request for the second helping, no suggestion that if she were still hungry, there was more lentil soup to be had, not a single word of reproach from my mother, who had a three year old on her lap and was learning the finer points of checkers from the 7 year old.
"Did you ask for seconds of dessert, young lady?" I asked, knowing there was no such thing as seconds of ice cream in the house where I'd grown up.
In response, the nine year old smiled a smile that could only come from a nine year old who know they have their Grandma wrapped tightly around their little finger. "Oh, you don't need to ask for ice cream at Grandma's house," she said dismissively, "There's always ice cream for kids here."
I looked at my mother as she cuddled the three year old, completely oblivious to my sputtering incomprehension.
So, I've decided to my grandchildren before I have any actual kids. They seem to be more fun and it would be way less effort than actually having to instill values or discipline on them.
Sunday afternoon, after tidily finishing her lunch, my niece was offered ice cream for dessert, and after a first bowl, got up, went to the kitchen and brought the ice cream container back to the table for a second helping. No request for the second helping, no suggestion that if she were still hungry, there was more lentil soup to be had, not a single word of reproach from my mother, who had a three year old on her lap and was learning the finer points of checkers from the 7 year old.
"Did you ask for seconds of dessert, young lady?" I asked, knowing there was no such thing as seconds of ice cream in the house where I'd grown up.
In response, the nine year old smiled a smile that could only come from a nine year old who know they have their Grandma wrapped tightly around their little finger. "Oh, you don't need to ask for ice cream at Grandma's house," she said dismissively, "There's always ice cream for kids here."
I looked at my mother as she cuddled the three year old, completely oblivious to my sputtering incomprehension.
So, I've decided to my grandchildren before I have any actual kids. They seem to be more fun and it would be way less effort than actually having to instill values or discipline on them.
Monday, March 15, 2010
March 15, 2010- Downtown Downtrodden?
I went to a lovely brunch with a dear girlfriend and her sweeetheart last weekend, and as we walked to our car, it was with some alarm I noticed how many businesses in downtown Collingwood aren't businesses any more.
The old bingo hall's been empty for years, of course, but as we drove home, I counted and there are now at least nine other storefronts that don't house stores right now.
Whether the empty storefronts are because of the recession, last summer's renovation or if they can be blamed on all the stores opening up at Blue, or even the big boxes in the west end, I don't know. But they're depressing and a little scary.
It's not like there's a dearth of people; Collingwood was as busy this weekend as I've ever seen it, just try to get a parking spot anywhere near the door of Loblaw, I dare you.
But I'm worried. I don't want my little downtown to start looking like the downtowns of hundreds of other little burgs, with sheets hung in the windows of storefronts, and the only action on the outskirts.
So, I'm taking some action, and voting with my feet. I'll let you know how it turns out.
The old bingo hall's been empty for years, of course, but as we drove home, I counted and there are now at least nine other storefronts that don't house stores right now.
Whether the empty storefronts are because of the recession, last summer's renovation or if they can be blamed on all the stores opening up at Blue, or even the big boxes in the west end, I don't know. But they're depressing and a little scary.
It's not like there's a dearth of people; Collingwood was as busy this weekend as I've ever seen it, just try to get a parking spot anywhere near the door of Loblaw, I dare you.
But I'm worried. I don't want my little downtown to start looking like the downtowns of hundreds of other little burgs, with sheets hung in the windows of storefronts, and the only action on the outskirts.
So, I'm taking some action, and voting with my feet. I'll let you know how it turns out.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
March 9, 2010- Disappointed, but not surprised
A lot of people I've been talking to are very, very upset at the treatment afforded the husband of Simcoe Grey MP Helena Guergis in a court in Orangeville today. To those people, I say, "Seriously? You're surprised?"
Come on now, did you really think there was just the one system in this country? When you needed timely access to tests and specialists in our health care system, didn't having that cousin or aunt who worked in health care work out pretty well for you? When your sister's kid was looking for a summer job, didn't you put a good word in with the boss? You have the right to be upset at this case only if you never, ever, ever have been the beneficiary of 'it's not what you know, it's who you know'.
Here's what I am shocked at in this whole case: that Rahim Jaffer's charges ever became public in the first place. That the case made it to a courtroom at all.
Here's what will not shock me: when Simcoe Grey remains a Conservative riding in October, after the next federal election.
Oh, and for all you folks upset, check this out: while Jaffer remains without a criminal record, think about the full pension he gets when he turns 65 (and I suspect he will be able to tap into it sooner). The way I understand it, it's 85% of the salary he drew while an MP, which was somewhere around 157K. Guergis, meantime, has been an MP long enough to draw a full pension, too, but if she manages to stay in the cabinet for another year or two, she'll get her indexed pension on the 214K we currently pay her. How's that for criminal?
Come on now, did you really think there was just the one system in this country? When you needed timely access to tests and specialists in our health care system, didn't having that cousin or aunt who worked in health care work out pretty well for you? When your sister's kid was looking for a summer job, didn't you put a good word in with the boss? You have the right to be upset at this case only if you never, ever, ever have been the beneficiary of 'it's not what you know, it's who you know'.
Here's what I am shocked at in this whole case: that Rahim Jaffer's charges ever became public in the first place. That the case made it to a courtroom at all.
Here's what will not shock me: when Simcoe Grey remains a Conservative riding in October, after the next federal election.
Oh, and for all you folks upset, check this out: while Jaffer remains without a criminal record, think about the full pension he gets when he turns 65 (and I suspect he will be able to tap into it sooner). The way I understand it, it's 85% of the salary he drew while an MP, which was somewhere around 157K. Guergis, meantime, has been an MP long enough to draw a full pension, too, but if she manages to stay in the cabinet for another year or two, she'll get her indexed pension on the 214K we currently pay her. How's that for criminal?
Monday, March 1, 2010
February 28, 2010- What are sports for, again?
With all the hand-wringing over the 'own the podium' thing, and the worries about whether our men's hockey team would win their rightful gold medal, at home, I got a lesson in sports on the weekend from some unlikely athletes.
The Breaking Down Barriers bonspiel was the day after our olympic women curlers lost the gold to the Swedes. I was so disappointed; those take-outs Cheryl Bernard missed were so easy! Araughhh. And then our team got our collective butts kicked by a bunch of special olympians- a blind woman and a group of the mentally challenged, to be exact.
So, I got to asking myself, what are sports really for? To prove your country's better than the rest? To make up for some percieved lack somewhere else in your life?
How's about to feel your body move, to improve at something, however tiny those advances might be, to open your mind to learning?
One of the special olympics coaches told me she has this one curler, who has developmental difficulties, and who has taken months to learn that the skip's raised arm is an indicator of which turn to put on the rock, rather than an indicator of where the rock should be. But once she learned it, after many, many, many reminders, she hasn't forgotten it.
One of my curlers, by all accounts able bodied, but playing his first-ever game of curling, could not, under any circumstances, figure out when to give his rocks a clockwise versus counterclockwise turn. We worked on it through both games. He would check with me before every shot, saying, "Clockwise, right?" "Right!" I would shout back, and he would then hurl the rock at me, six feet off the broom, and .... counterclockwise. At one point, I wondered whether he was just so young, he'd never been exposed to anything but digital clocks. But between games, I noticed a watch on his left arm, complete with hands that went... you guessed it, clockwise! And yet, only one time did he manage to put the right spin on any of his rocks.
Ah, yes, humility. The other lesson to be had from sport.
The Breaking Down Barriers bonspiel was the day after our olympic women curlers lost the gold to the Swedes. I was so disappointed; those take-outs Cheryl Bernard missed were so easy! Araughhh. And then our team got our collective butts kicked by a bunch of special olympians- a blind woman and a group of the mentally challenged, to be exact.
So, I got to asking myself, what are sports really for? To prove your country's better than the rest? To make up for some percieved lack somewhere else in your life?
How's about to feel your body move, to improve at something, however tiny those advances might be, to open your mind to learning?
One of the special olympics coaches told me she has this one curler, who has developmental difficulties, and who has taken months to learn that the skip's raised arm is an indicator of which turn to put on the rock, rather than an indicator of where the rock should be. But once she learned it, after many, many, many reminders, she hasn't forgotten it.
One of my curlers, by all accounts able bodied, but playing his first-ever game of curling, could not, under any circumstances, figure out when to give his rocks a clockwise versus counterclockwise turn. We worked on it through both games. He would check with me before every shot, saying, "Clockwise, right?" "Right!" I would shout back, and he would then hurl the rock at me, six feet off the broom, and .... counterclockwise. At one point, I wondered whether he was just so young, he'd never been exposed to anything but digital clocks. But between games, I noticed a watch on his left arm, complete with hands that went... you guessed it, clockwise! And yet, only one time did he manage to put the right spin on any of his rocks.
Ah, yes, humility. The other lesson to be had from sport.
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