Toronto's woes

‘May you live in interesting times,’ goes the old Chinese curse. If so, my new city is definitely accursed. Last month in the New York Times, Stephen Marche wrote: ‘Toronto is starting to get interesting. It is a city making a spectacle of itself’. It is indeed. I felt I ought to say something about it. I can't bury my head in the sand forever. Especially when the sand is covered in snow.

In my humble and relatively uninformed opinion, the main problem is less Rob Ford himself and more that the city is constructed in such a way that he could be elected. He is almost entirely unsuited to his job. You could maybe elect him in Mayberry RFD, and make sure Andy Griffith was on hand as sheriff (anyone under 40 and not from the US may be puzzled; here’s a link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_HSZ8xJoCIg) and Ford would not be much of a handicap; any buffoon would do. In fact, for sitcom purposes, a buffoon is better. But when a mayor has in his purview the quality of life of millions of people, their commutes, their cityscape, their cycling and walking safety, and their access to libraries, arts, and affordable housing, and when the police have their own agenda, look out. This particular mayor is a human wrecking ball. (I’m not referring to his weight or size. I don’t care about that and I have no patience for bringing the topic into the debate. His weight is not my business and his size does not affect his ability, or lack thereof, to do his job.) Received wisdom says Ford was elected by the poorer, less educated suburbs as a lesson to the wealthier, cultured 'inner city'. (I find this in itself odd; when- and where- I was growing up, 'inner city' went with 'poor' and 'uneducated', while 'suburbs' implied middle-class privilege. How did that change?)

I met Rob Ford briefly a few months ago, while chaperoning a school trip to City Hall. I shook his hand, as did the children I escorted. I'm slightly horrified now, thinking what those hands have been up to, but at the same time I have occasionally caught myself thinking 'poor Rob Ford'. I still believe he is unfit to be mayor; he is both a boor and, most likely, a criminal. But I’ve met him, shaken his hand, watched him smile at my group of children. It’s the power of the personal. I can pity him: he is human, if you cut him he will bleed.

Which, on further reflection, makes me sad, not for Toronto (well, not just for Toronto), but for myself. While I feel very enmeshed in my neighbourhood and my community, and extremely attached to my new friends, I also have many old friends, really good ones, that I see too rarely. If 5 minutes of being face-to-face with Rob Ford can evoke my pity, how much I am missing by my remoteness from the very many people I hold dear? It’s an insoluble problem I return to, with sadness, every so often. The people I love are scattered everywhere, places I've lived, places they've moved; to get them all together and near me would involve kidnapping and other illegal activities. (I'm thinking something like a forced relocation program.)

My mantra: I can be homesick wherever I am.

Which makes me very excited to learn that one of my dearest friends and her daughter will be coming to Toronto soon for a visit! Can't wait. I didn't even have to threaten them. Much.

Keeping time

The other night, climbing into our cold car, I huffed and watched the mist trail of breath. ‘I’m a dragon!’ I called to the kids in the back seat. ‘Look!’

‘Mom,’ chided the eldest. ‘That was funny when we were five. Not now.’

‘Teens,’ I groused to husband.

‘Hey, I’m not a teen!’ said the youngest, who is at the tail end of ten. ‘I’m still a kid. Treasure me! Treasure me!’

We all laughed.

But my heart is breaking a little, too. In raising children, as I remind myself when I feel impatient with mine, the days are long but the years are short.

To be truthful, I usually remember that aphorism just after I've been impatient with them.

Sigh. I do treasure them, tot and teen-- beyond all measure.

Ice storm!

A reminder to us that we live in Canada: winter is only a day old and already its depredations are taking their toll. Either ice fell during the night, or rain did and then the temperature dropped below freezing, but we are now living in a world of icicles. It's a bit like spelunking without the cave, with light, and only stalactites. Okay, then, not so similar. But there is a sense of enclosure, of being cut off from the normal world, of being inside even outside. An ice-covered branch came down next door to us leaving a possibly live power line draped over a fence. The fire department appeared immediately to apply a web of crime-scene tape, like a band-aid. They wouldn't touch the wire and said that Toronto Hydro (confusingly, the electric company) would be along when other, more urgent issues had been resolved. 'Stay home,' urged the friendly fireman as he drove off over a length of the tape held down by his mates; they had trapped their truck inside the web.

Several friends report being without power at home (and have been urged to come camp out with us). We are fine at the moment, but when the next bough breaks, it could start getting mighty cold here. I suggested to dear husband that 'repair fireplace' should move to the top place on our to-do list for the house.