A weekend in the USA with my sister and her family, courtesy of the most recent emigration bringing us the closest we've been in about ten years. Very exciting, as a visit is now only a hop, skip, border interrogation, fingerprints, iris scan, and a jump.
I'm now able to report that the top three concerns of today's discerning three-year-old are, in no particular order:
1. Why do I only have two hands?
2. Why don't plants eat pizza?
and
3. Where do my echoes come from?
Maria Montessori, the blame lies squarely at your door.
Sunday, 27 April 2008
Tuesday, 22 April 2008
footprints
Notwithstanding a couple of barnstorming worldwide emigrations, I’m a pretty low-carbon-footprinted person in general. I haven’t owned a car in many years, preferring my trusty fifteen-year-old bike and good old Shanks’s pony. (well, when it’s minus forty, “prefer” is a bit of a strong term; “suffer” is more accurate, but I damn well do it). I turn off the lights and turn down the heat, etc etc.
What I do have is a Stuff footprint.
When we departed New Zealand, the minimal Stuff we accumulated was donated to the Salvation Army. This was effectively because I didn’t make time to find a similar organisation to whom I would prefer to donate it. I usually avoid the S.A on the grounds of its tub-thumping staunchness on how gay people are going to hell in a pink handbasket (see also Work Of The Devil, loving-the-sinner-and-hating-the-sin, aka patronising the marginalised and being smug about it in an intolerant, tambouriney, and not-at-all-Romans-14 sort of way). But on this occasion I allowed my belief that some of those they help need stuff more than I need to make a point, to prevail. (incidentally, as tolerant people – do we have to tolerate their intolerance? Philosopher friends, you know who you are; answers on a postcard).
Prior to that, I departed Canada, leaving Stuff with Community Living and the MCC, (some of whom are at least freakin’ talking about it, which is encouraging).
Now we’re back, Stuffless, and although we don’t accumulate a lot, have paid homage to the church of Ikea and begun building up again, with at least a couple of chairs, something to sleep on, and something to drink tea out of. But I feel a bit like countries with a space programme must (should?) – dropping off space junk willy-nilly and leaving it about the place. (Admittedly, I don’t think space junk goes to any intergalactic MCC, but you know). We’ve left a Stuff trail.
Although our current furniture ain’t going on the Antiques Roadshow in two hundred years, some of this lot might, I hope, see us out – or at least close to. I’d feel better, because although I’d bet people are getting use out of our discarded stuff, I can’t know for sure.
One thing at least is certain: thousands of years from now, when our civilisation is unearthed, archaeologists will write doctoral papers about the unusual conglomerations of small bendy allen keys found around human habitations (except in countries that had no Ikea, of course). Now that’s a footprint.
What I do have is a Stuff footprint.
When we departed New Zealand, the minimal Stuff we accumulated was donated to the Salvation Army. This was effectively because I didn’t make time to find a similar organisation to whom I would prefer to donate it. I usually avoid the S.A on the grounds of its tub-thumping staunchness on how gay people are going to hell in a pink handbasket (see also Work Of The Devil, loving-the-sinner-and-hating-the-sin, aka patronising the marginalised and being smug about it in an intolerant, tambouriney, and not-at-all-Romans-14 sort of way). But on this occasion I allowed my belief that some of those they help need stuff more than I need to make a point, to prevail. (incidentally, as tolerant people – do we have to tolerate their intolerance? Philosopher friends, you know who you are; answers on a postcard).
Prior to that, I departed Canada, leaving Stuff with Community Living and the MCC, (some of whom are at least freakin’ talking about it, which is encouraging).
Now we’re back, Stuffless, and although we don’t accumulate a lot, have paid homage to the church of Ikea and begun building up again, with at least a couple of chairs, something to sleep on, and something to drink tea out of. But I feel a bit like countries with a space programme must (should?) – dropping off space junk willy-nilly and leaving it about the place. (Admittedly, I don’t think space junk goes to any intergalactic MCC, but you know). We’ve left a Stuff trail.
Although our current furniture ain’t going on the Antiques Roadshow in two hundred years, some of this lot might, I hope, see us out – or at least close to. I’d feel better, because although I’d bet people are getting use out of our discarded stuff, I can’t know for sure.
One thing at least is certain: thousands of years from now, when our civilisation is unearthed, archaeologists will write doctoral papers about the unusual conglomerations of small bendy allen keys found around human habitations (except in countries that had no Ikea, of course). Now that’s a footprint.
Friday, 18 April 2008
chocolate for breakfast
O Saskatoon. I’m not over you.
It’s so nearly time to move on and I’m not done.
I don’t have a low-wattage level of experiencing things. It’s all or nothing, crave or shun, love or despair. Here it’s most definitely all, crave, and love, love, love. I can’t just stroll around the city; it has to be both sides of the river, every bridge in both directions, walk walk walk, from the top of town to Lakeridge and back. I can't scratch the surface; I have to jump in with both feet and get kind of dishevelled and dirty and exhausted and exhilerated. Who could want to be a person who experiences things at a middling, it’s-okay-I-guess level, really? – but this is difficult to sustain without getting a bit overtired and nerve-raw and bright-eyed and breathy.
When this was my home, I ran into another expat Brit and we fell to discussing the fortuitous accidents that brought us here. He leaned in close and whispered, "if the rest of England knew about this place, we'd never get any peace". Someone should pass on our details to the tourist board. We'll be their happy-immigrant poster.
I’d like to say I saw everyone, but I didn’t. I did see almost everyone, breaking bread with divine divas, drawing soul-food from my incredibly diverse non-family family, hanging on the words of the people whose loveliness weakens my knees even more after a year of non-exposure (the fainting couch? Very handy, thank you). I feel as if I’ve had chocolate for breakfast every day for two weeks.
There’ll be tears before bedtime, but it’s worth it.
It’s so nearly time to move on and I’m not done.
I don’t have a low-wattage level of experiencing things. It’s all or nothing, crave or shun, love or despair. Here it’s most definitely all, crave, and love, love, love. I can’t just stroll around the city; it has to be both sides of the river, every bridge in both directions, walk walk walk, from the top of town to Lakeridge and back. I can't scratch the surface; I have to jump in with both feet and get kind of dishevelled and dirty and exhausted and exhilerated. Who could want to be a person who experiences things at a middling, it’s-okay-I-guess level, really? – but this is difficult to sustain without getting a bit overtired and nerve-raw and bright-eyed and breathy.
When this was my home, I ran into another expat Brit and we fell to discussing the fortuitous accidents that brought us here. He leaned in close and whispered, "if the rest of England knew about this place, we'd never get any peace". Someone should pass on our details to the tourist board. We'll be their happy-immigrant poster.
I’d like to say I saw everyone, but I didn’t. I did see almost everyone, breaking bread with divine divas, drawing soul-food from my incredibly diverse non-family family, hanging on the words of the people whose loveliness weakens my knees even more after a year of non-exposure (the fainting couch? Very handy, thank you). I feel as if I’ve had chocolate for breakfast every day for two weeks.
There’ll be tears before bedtime, but it’s worth it.
Monday, 14 April 2008
but can you dip it in tea?
Among the many millions of things we did in the Mother Country this time round was Cambridge. We touristed like mad tourists, but with the magical added bonus of...the CAMCard. You get one when you graduate, and it's your I'm One Of Us identification. It means that when you want to bring someone to look round the colleges, or just cut across through one of them to get into town from where you are, instead of paying 2.50 at every entrance, you just flash them your card and they wave you in. And you can go all round everywhere, even the routes that are marked forbidden to tourists. And the porters look at you all nice instead of grumpy. Because you're One Of Us. (You still can't walk on the grass though. They shoot you for that).
The picture above is in fact not really "my" Cambridge (notwithstanding the row of bikes across the middle. Bikes are everyone's Cambridge; they're a fact of life). My college is considerably less ivy-clad and altogether more bricky and stern and functional (being built in the 1960s rather than the 1660s) - which makes it far more loveable, but really I am pretty much a tourist when it comes to the posh-looking town centre colleges. (Having a couple of supervisions in Pembroke and King's doesn't really count either, because I kind of felt like a tourist then too). Even so...going back to visit - for the first time since graduation - I'm telling you, Proust had nothing on me. It was as if the whole of Cambridge was one giant madeleine. Something so rooted in one specific time of your life and then left behind, so it always feels as it did at that time. I guess people who stay in the place they were born, or grew up, or went to college - which a whole lot of people here in Saskatoon do - don't have that, because the place grows and changes with them. So it becomes the place where you grew up, and studied, and also the place you got your first job, and had your first baby, and buried your parents, and had your second baby; and this bit of the river bank becomes not just the place you came to every day during finals to eat the pound of cherries you bought at the market and freak out about your assured failure at not just this but everything in future life, but also the place where you sometimes have family picnics and the place you bring your elderly next-door-neighbour to for some fresh air. I shall have to ask some rooted locals what that's like: "What's your madeleine?"
Saskatchewan got itself a little madeleine-ified for me, being away for a while. Though maybe not quite as refined as that. Possibly something closer to a Twinkie. Witness our trip to a (nameless) Saskatchewan Small Town:
1. I wish I'd managed a photo of the (unpunctuated) convenience store sign: "Licenced Coke Pillows".
2. I had a muffin in the cafe that the menu said was Lemon 'n' Cranberry, but I'm pretty sure was mostly Arm 'n' Hammer.
3. There were cutesy pictures on the washroom doors of a little naked boy and a little naked girl sitting on potties.
4. The cheesecake was made of Miracle Whip.
1. I wish I'd managed a photo of the (unpunctuated) convenience store sign: "Licenced Coke Pillows".
2. I had a muffin in the cafe that the menu said was Lemon 'n' Cranberry, but I'm pretty sure was mostly Arm 'n' Hammer.
3. There were cutesy pictures on the washroom doors of a little naked boy and a little naked girl sitting on potties.
4. The cheesecake was made of Miracle Whip.
Saskatchewan, if Proust ever came here, you'd be his Twinkie.
Saturday, 5 April 2008
prairie folk
In transit from There to Here I've picked up a real stonker of a cold. I can't even remember the last time I was sick, so it looks as if I'm due a really good one. It feels as if a whole bag of wet cats has taken up residence in my head and chest. My ears keep popping and I get motion sickness just walking to the kitchen.
It's lucky, then, that I'm surrounded by such tranquility. The Canadian branch of the fam moved last year to The Lake, and that's where I find myself sipping tea and editing as the sun rises this morning. It's the exact right place to relocate yourself into the Canadian landscape after the UK and New Zealand because there's Absolutely. Nothing. Here. At this particular lake, the year-round population is no more than seventy people. We met the neighbours yesterday. These people had never even had neighbours before now, and they've lived here thirty years. They were the first to build here in 1976, and the wife lived here that winter - wait for it - on her own, while her husband was in hospital in Calgary.
No, I can't imagine it either. I can't imagine it now, never mind thirty years ago. Prairie folk. Them's a different breed, all right.
It's lucky, then, that I'm surrounded by such tranquility. The Canadian branch of the fam moved last year to The Lake, and that's where I find myself sipping tea and editing as the sun rises this morning. It's the exact right place to relocate yourself into the Canadian landscape after the UK and New Zealand because there's Absolutely. Nothing. Here. At this particular lake, the year-round population is no more than seventy people. We met the neighbours yesterday. These people had never even had neighbours before now, and they've lived here thirty years. They were the first to build here in 1976, and the wife lived here that winter - wait for it - on her own, while her husband was in hospital in Calgary.
No, I can't imagine it either. I can't imagine it now, never mind thirty years ago. Prairie folk. Them's a different breed, all right.
Tuesday, 1 April 2008
epic fail
Here's an unfinished sweater.
Here's an empty bag with no yarn left in it.There's a certain incompatibility nexus of the one with the other. And I'm leaving the country in 18 hours. Anyone else think this one ain't going to happen?
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