Back to the future

Moving from England to Canada involved travel in a number of directions, I'm finding: back to North America, forward in time. Recently I had a reunion with an ex-boyfriend and, I hope, non-ex-friend, who is Canadian and lives in Montreal. He was passing through Toronto and suggested we meet for lunch. Our relationship took place about two decades ago, in Berkeley, long before I met my current--and future--husband (who, joining us over coffee, quite liked the ex). While we have moved forward in time and I westward in space, our reunion took me backward in life, to a time when my path was still unknown and forming day by day, a time when I enjoyed freedom and self-indulgence above the San Francisco Bay, in spite of being penniless (but never poor, my mother would remind me) and untethered, and the future had so much possibility that it was effectively empty; that infamous blank canvas. The present was a riot of fun and frolic, but the view forward was of a question mark, and as such, somewhat frightening. In fact, a lot frightening.

Earlier today I was reading from Bill Bryson's edited volume Icons of England. Kate Adie wrote a nostalgic piece for the book about the deer at Raby Castle, in Staindrop, Co. Durham. Instantly came to my mind a lovely outing that husband, children and I made to the same place, when our youngest was in a pram that needed to be pushed over uneven paths through the woods. We ended in the village tea shop eating cakes, just as proper English outings are meant to end. Ah, those long ago days, my eyes grow misty and my heart soft, et cetera, et cetera. And then I pulled myself up short and remembered that I am meant to be pining for Sussex, for the homestead in Hove, the friends in Brighton, for Lewes on Bonfire Night, for a different past, or at least for a different chapter of the past.

And suddenly my life flashes before my eyes as I realize how many chapters my past has. Here I am in my own future. I've made so much history! None of it's earth-shattering, children won't be reading about it in textbooks, but from my perspective the view backward is rich, varied, and full of detail. It's so heavy, anchoring me. Moving to Toronto feels like a kind of watershed, the event that makes me realize that my frightening future has turned into my satisfying past. Okay, maybe the joints are creaking, the skin is wrinkling, and the kids teach me how to work the television; it means I'm old. But the future is no longer a vast and empty cavern. The mists are clearing.

Bell hell

After hours on the phone trying to convince Bell Canada to allow us to pay them, husband has come closer to violence than I've seen in some time. First they informed us that we had too many digits in our account number to be allowed to pay for all our services (phone, internet, cable TV) by direct debit. However we are permitted to pay one of them that way. Then they decided they would only talk to me, as my name is the main one on the account (not sure why). Finally they agreed to speak to husband, and also to allocate us a 9-digit account number, the lucky holders of which may make payments directly via their bank, but they warned us it would take some time to shave the requisite digits off our present identifying number. We will be informed by post of our new account, after which we must contact them personally to ask to be allowed to pay our monthly bill automatically.

In England you don't even have to talk to a human being in order to offload your money. Husband is now saying that given the old-fashioned nature of monetary transactions here in Canada, he plans to pay the company in groats. Or, perhaps, he will drive a herd of sheep into their office and find out how many heads of beast are worth a month of Premier League football coverage.

And I haven't even told him yet about the bill I received from Rogers, Bell Canada's competition, with whom we do not now and never have held an account. Luckily, the amount owed is $0.00. I shall send a cheque immediately.

holiday cheer

Okay, things got better. Husband came home. The evening after Halloween, we joined in the Harbord Pumpkin Festival. It's a great idea, actually: bring your jack o'lanterns to the local shopping street, where the organizers provided tea lights and matches, and people wandered up and down to admire the artistic, or otherwise, efforts of their neighbours. (At the end of the night, the business association politically-correctly arranged for all pumpkins to be collected and composted.) There were some amazing carvings, especially those outside Dessert Trends, where huge flowers, shadowy owls, and scenes reminiscent of Dutch delftware were displayed. Dessert Trends also handed out adorable little decorated cupcakes (carob, natch) to passing children. Across the street, the Boulevard Cafe offered samples of delicious pumpkin soup. And further east, the Toronto Women's Bookstore stayed open to dispense free coffee and book-browsing.

I meant to write something positive about Halloween and seem to have been sidetracked into food. H'm. Re-reading, this also looks like an advertising bulletin for our local shops but let me say that no sponsorship money has changed hands. Yet.

Tithing

Halloween took over the weekend. I forgot what a big deal it is this side of the Atlantic! Ah, childhood memories. But it's different too. I suppose it always is, in a Proustian kind of way. (No, I haven't read it either, but I think that's what I mean.) The kids had parties, dances, and parades at school on the Friday, attended a neighbourhood pumpkin-carving gathering (with treats) at a local park, scooped out and designed jack-o'lanterns at home, went to a friend's house for a party on Sunday and then at long last embarked on the main event, trick-or-treating. That was where it got disappointing, for me at least. Back in England, in Brighton, the pickings were fewer, much further between, and necessitated more walking, but we did it en masse. I had friends, we brought each other flasks of tea, or soup, phoned each other to meet up with yet more parents and children, and the kids marauded happily through well-known streets. Here it was just me and my three, finding our way. Yes, we stopped in at houses of people we knew, got tips about the best route, and we met schoolfriends on the streets, but we were not part of a gang. Our gang's in England, still. That's the thing about holidays; they show up the gaps. I was lonely last night.

On the plus side the children garnered many, many candies (the eldest two counted 147 and 135 pieces, respectively). Not as many as I remember getting, but I don't have documentary evidence. I do know that when I was young, my mother used to let us eat a few of our sweets on Halloween evening, and then, horror of horrors, she took our sacks away for 'safekeeping'. This safekeeping always resulted in a severe diminution of the booty when next we looked on Candy Day, which occurred every Saturday, the only day on which we were allowed to eat sweets. Last night I decided, in rebellious response, to go for the open and above-board approach: I tithed. The kids had to give me 10% of their sweets, which I must say they did without complaint. Luckily they are not fans of Reese's peanut butter cups. nor of 'rockets' (aka 'smarties', in my day) or Coffee Crisps, so I'm pretty happy with my haul. The children will face no shortage when the weekend rolls around and they get to indulge again-- on Sweet Saturday, the only day of the week they are allowed to eat candy. (Sometimes Mom is right.)