BBC v CBC

The old Beeb has been having a tough time lately. Jimmy Savile, now unmasked as a prolific horrific paedophile [what an odd suffix to employ; 'philia= friendship or affectionate love'], was before my time in the UK, so I never had a chance to form an opinion of him. Otherwise, surely, I would have been one of those saying, 'Ah, I always thought he was fishy.' Instead, my rather vague associations with the name were of haberdashery, maybe a Bond Street business tycoon. But sadly, no-- he was a villainous abuser. It sounds like a lot of people at the BBC knew about his predilections, or at least suspected them, but he was too valuable to be impugned. And so a venerable old institution is justly and duly tarnished. Or rather more tarnished. It was already dulling after encounters such as the nasty phone call by Russell Brand to that actor from Fawlty Towers about his granddaughter, and the Lord McAlpine scandal.

And yet still and yet somehow, the venerability remains. The BBC is the heart, the soul and the pride of the nation. It is scrambling now to clean up and make amends but its place is secure (though not, perhaps, all its personnel). 'The Archers' marches on (will Lillian choose Paul or Matt?); 'Any Questions' practically rubs its hands in glee, Jack Dee's deadpan grows even deadlier in 'I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue'.

Thank the Lord and Logitech for internet radio. Thousands of miles away and five hours behind, I'm still tuned into Radio 4, or Radio 3, or occasionally Radio 4Extra, just as I was in England, where Radio 4 conducted my diurnal routine ('Afternoon Drama' ending? Get ready for the school run. 'Shipping Forecast'? Bedtime.) Occasionally I ring the changes by tuning into NPR or Pacifica (hello, America, how are you?). But in the car, I can only get CBC.

CBC's tagline is 'CBC: Canada lives here.' Cute, that is, and accompanied by a catchy jingle. It's a gentle pat on the back, with a mild exhortation thrown in. Join us! Listen! Be one of us, and one with us. Be Canadian! The network's local affiliate proclaims: 'We sound the way Toronto looks.' An advert for the station's newsy 'Metro Morning' show has a slightly-accented woman's voice confiding that when her husband brought her to Toronto from China eight years ago, he instructed her to listen to Metro Morning in order to learn to be Canadian. She congratulates herself that she did, and she has.

Me, I just cringe.

I am trying to imagine the BBC making a similar statement. 'Listen to us-- become a better Brit.' Everyone would either laugh, or assume that UKIP was behind it. Then they'd send Jonathan Dimbleby to remove all their foster children.

It's different in Britain.

And the livin' is easy...

Toronto has some problems. The mayor is a joke, the landscape insipid, the great lake hidden behind a wall of condominiums, house prices outrageous. But there are some things the city does really well, especially in the summer. It holds more festivals and special events than you can shake a ticket at. On a warm fuzzy August evening, husband and I cycled the flat straight roads, many with bike lanes (or at least stripes of paint) to a large central public square named after David Pecault, who founded a highbrow arts festival (Luminato). Chairs were lined up in neat rows facing a towering projection screen which showed 'What's Up, Doc?', a movie far funnier than I remembered. (Spoiler alert: scene at the end, where Barbra says to Ryan, 'Love means never having to say you're sorry,' and Ryan says 'That's the stupidest thing I ever heard.') We drank beers (surreptitiously though; it wasn't that sort of crowd-- most people wielded lattes). And except for the beers, it was all free! Wow.

We didn't really want to cycle downtown en famille, though. So another day we took public transit. Very handy. On an early summer weekend with kids and bikes we headed downtown on the subway. Dodging quickly under the crumbling expressway (have to watch for falling concrete) and foraging behind a platoon of condo towers, we found the lakefront. After scything our way through some industrial wasteland we at last emerged onto Cherry Street beach, scruffy but cheerful, and continued eastward, along a rustic, car-free, and surprisingly un-busy bike path, to Tommy Thompson Park, and out the (at weekends) also car-free road to the lighthouse at the end of Leslie Street spit. It was a gorgeously warm long sunny afternoon and we stopped for ice creams and poutine (very Canadian) at a food stall on the beach. Then back to the subway, and home to the wagging, happy puppy.

And then there was the evening after my soccer match when we stopped along College Street, at 11:30 pm, kids, dog, husband and me, and sat on a sidewalk patio eating the most delicious gelato. Tiger Tails: orange sherbet with stripes of black licorice. Heaven in a cone.



Won the game, too.

rocky mountain high

Someone, I forget whom, enthused to us about Toronto when we first contemplated moving here. Among other attributes, he (I remember it was a he) commented: 'It's great!You can get anywhere really easily from here.' H'mm, I thought. Talk about back-handed compliments. Toronto is a great city because it is so convenient to leave.

But he, whoever he is, was right; I have certainly come to appreciate that from Toronto, it is, or can be, pretty simple to get to the places I love best. It has been over two years since I gritted my teeth and fastened a seatbelt that would be mine for twelve straight hours, flying from the UK to California. Toronto is very much in the middle of my worlds.

One place I love is the mountains, an asset Toronto notably lacks. 'Flat as a pancake,' one friend described it. So what a delight when I arranged to meet Princess Kate (a different one) at her conference in Breckenridge for a gals' getaway and birthday celebration weekend. A weekend in the Rockies! I couldn't do that from England. The flight to Denver from Toronto took only 3 hours, once I convinced Air Canada to let me fly nonstop, rather than via New York and Chicago.

And the Rockies are truly amazing. I had forgotten how exhilarating it is to be at high altitude with one's feet on the ground. We spent three amazing days, first with me catching my breath (even without paying $10 for 10 minute of oxygen at stations conveniently scattered about the resort), and then, once caught, hiking ever higher. End of September, and the leaves were changing colour with gay abandon-- that is, where there were trees at all. By my third day there we had breath enough to hike from 9500 feet to just under 12,000, up so high there were no trees, just rocky Rockies and traces of old silver mines.

And all just 3 hours from home.

Nobody say 'Alps'.

The sins of the mother

Youngest child has been issued an orthodontic retainer. Yes, I had one too back in the day, but mine was a plain old workhorse of an appliance, not a fashion statement. The orthodontist stuck a plaster of Paris mould in my mouth, I threw up, they manufactured a retainer that fit my teeth. It was vaguely pinkish, as I recall, and lasted for well over a week before I accidentally threw it away in my brown paper lunch bag. An unsavoury hour excavating the school dumpster ensued.

Things have changed. My daughter got to choose the flavouring of mould she wanted (mint, though cotton candy came a close second). No vomiting. She was asked to decide the colour and pattern of her retainer from a menu of designs (Exhibit A). Not content with the FORTY possibilities thought up by the professionals, she devised her own combination: rainbow plus glow in the dark. We waited two whole days before the work of art was ready to be collected. By now her excitement was positively feverish. Bearing home the treasured appliance she bubbled with pride and joy.

Just over a week later, the dog ate it.

Exhibit A:

What is it they say about those who forget history? Something to do with destiny...

Hither, thither, and whence

When I'm stressed, I re-read Jane Austen. It's my tranquilizer: Pride, Prejudice, and Prozac. Lately, I've been stressed, and this time I plumped for Persuasion. The plot can no longer surprise but the narrative flow and the rhythm of the prose carry me soothingly along.

It's interesting. The words themselves are our own, and at the same time no longer ours. For instance, hither, thither, and whence. They are so useful, so concise, and so lost, yet not replaced. What have we got that substitutes for whence? For thither, or whither? With each re-reading, I feel their loss more acutely. Please, may we have them back?

Other vocabulary is lost by moving across space rather than time. Across the Atlantic, to be specific. I'm trying to drag these words with me. 'Loo' and 'queue' top the list, along with 'ring' as a synonym for 'call'. 'Swizz' and 'naff' are excellent descriptors. I'm doing my personal best to embed these terms in North American lingo. Mostly, people understand me, or at least are nice enough to pretend they do. I'm not sure, however, what reaction I'd get if I asked someone whither she went.

'Toilet', on the other hand, I'm happy to leave behind in Blighty. Give me 'washroom' any day.

Cottaging

I've done it, Canadian-style. And yea, it was wonderful. I'm starting to convert. Check it out: Christian Island, on Georgian Bay, the eastern bulge in Lake Huron (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christian_Island_(Ontario)). The cottage belongs to a gracious and lovely friend who invited a group of us gals for the weekend. She said it would change my outlook on life in Toronto, and she was right. The scenery made a wonderful impression; the camaraderie a deeper one.

The Double Double

'What is it with this milk in bags thing?' asked a visiting friend this weekend. My goodness, I had forgotten that I too used to find it strange. Even stranger, this visitor is an old friend who has, like me, lived in California, England, and now Canada. But her Canada is Vancouver, not Toronto. So now I know that milk-in-bags is not a national oddity, but perhaps quite a local one. I still can't find anything good about it. Bah humbug.

In other beverage-related news, I happened to be in a Tim Horton's yesterday. "Timmy's" is a Canadian institution, wielding perhaps more influence over, and commanding more loyalty from the populace than, say, hockey. Or the government. It sells doughnuts, and coffee, and a few other things, but mostly doughnuts and coffee. I don't go there often because a) the coffee is bad and b) they don't have powdered sugar doughnuts, so there's no real point.

But on my way back from my FIRST EVER weekend at a cottage, we stopped along the motorway for a comfort break, and Timmy's was the only (polite) option. I had heard recently about the 'double-double' at Tim Horton's and thought that sounded both interesting and strong. I didn't see it on the menu posted overhead, but ordered one anyway. The server's look was enough to tell me I had blundered. I had asked for no sort of coffee at all, but two sugars and two creams. Perfect for my youngest child, but not for me. I settled for a cappuccino.

Drinking in Toronto

The provincial government owns the rights to sell alcohol in Ontario. In England I could order a nice bottle of Chianti or vinho verde to arrive with my groceries from Sainsbury's, or I could pop round the corner to pick up a six-pack of beer. When we arrived in Toronto, new friends came to visit and generally brought along with them a bottle of wine, so for the first few weeks, we did not really notice that things worked differently here.

Parents and in-laws arrived from afar to view us in our new habitat, and we wanted to serve them something convivial. Tea or coffee worked in the mornings but by nightfall we wanted (perhaps even needed) stronger stuff. At least, some of us did. Where to get it? I enquired of a local friend. 'Oh, at the Elsibio,' she told me, giving me general directions. 'It is big, you can't miss it, it has everything.' I did miss it, so got nothing. But never mind, more friends came for dinner, more bottles arrived, crisis averted.

It was in fact the 'L.C.B.O.' that we wanted: the Licence Control Board of Ontario (or maybe L is for 'liquor'). It is big, it has a lot, it all costs a fortune. It closes at 9:00 pm, it is shut on certain days, it requires some forethought to keep wine and beer in the house. I read a newspaper article this morning bemoaning both the expense and the paternalism imposed on Ontarians by the government monopoly of liquor sales. The primness of the province's imposition of temperance is out of step, out of place, out of its time, said the writer. I agree, I am outraged, I despise being forced to acquire alcohol at the LCBO. How dare they.

And yet I love to walk out my front door in the morning to pick up the paper, and not find beer cans or wine bottles strewn on our urban, downtown street. I love walking along of an evening and not fearing groups of men or boys approaching from the opposite direction. I love overhearing, from our window at midnight, cogent conversations, not shouted strings of slurred syllables. The discussions are sometimes about philosophy, or politics, or perhaps just the streetcar schedule, but the speakers are not inebriated.

People drink here, of course they do. Alcohol abuse is a problem, as is drug addiction, poverty, social injustice. What I notice in comparison with England, though, is that drunkenness is more unusual. It is unexpected, noted, censured. How different to the UK, with its much more liberal access to alcohol. Cause? Correlation? Imagination? I don't know. But I like it.

A week in the life

Lately, I seem to know my way about, both geographically and otherwise. I know odd things, like who is the right-hand woman to the school board council representative for Ward 10. The names in the paper are coming to be recognizable, and to have personal connections (sometimes sad ones, as in the case of recently deceased journalist Randy Starkman). I feel, if not quite yet at home in Toronto, at least integrated into it. I have my finger on the pulse, but moreover, I am part of that pulse. We all are, the whole family.

And I've got mixed emotions about that. There's a part of me struggling against becoming Torontonian. Why? For one thing, it's April 23 and freezing cold. Snow is forecast for later today. And yet a week or two ago, it was tee-shirt weather! You'd think I'd learned my lesson in the UK, but no. I still get fooled; hope, if not warmth, springs eternal. I want to believe in warm weather in spring and fall, hot in summer, surprises only in winter. That's the way the world should work. Or at least, southern California.

I've done a lot this past week or 10 days. In fact, I've been a real culture vulture, or as middle child says 'arty farty'. We took advantage of living in the heart of the city, travelling to every show, concert, or film on foot, by bike, or by public transit. At no point did we have to park a car. A week ago Friday, husband and I saw Bob Newhart, live. Yes, really! Mr. Newhart is 82 and as funny as ever. Kudos. I am still pinching myself: I saw Bob Newhart, live! The next day, husband left for Berlin. This was unfortunate, as some weeks before, he had sent me a link to a notice about an upcoming jazz concert at Koerner Hall, a ten-minute walk from our house. 'Doesn't this look interesting?' he emailed. Yes, I thought, and quickly booked us a pair of tickets. Only a day later did he mention that he would be out of the country that evening. I personally felt that was information he ought to have included in the original message, but never mind, I found a jazz-loving friend to join me to see Joshua Redman with Brad Mehldau. It was a spectacularly wonderful concert, and evening.

Later in the week, I accompanied middle child's class to a screening of the film 'King Siri', part of the TIFF Children's International Film Festival, held at the classy new venue, the TIFF Bell Lightbox. And the day after that, I escorted the eldest child and some of his classmates to observe a Mock UN held at the university, to which high schools from all over Canada send students for three days. We listened to mock Roman generals discussing their strategies for waging the Second Punic War. (I learned, incidentally, that the Second Punic War gets more play in the history books than the first for featuring celebrities such as Hannibal and Scipio, as well as for being the one the Romans won.)

After a birthday (mine) lunch date with husband, I went back to the middle school to attend a 'Poetry Cafe' during which 72 children recited poems.

Seventy-two poems is a LOT of poetry.

That evening, we returned to the medium of film, viewing a charming documentary called 'Sound It Out', about the last independent record shop in the depressed, and depressing, northeastern English town of Stockton-on-Tees, a town where husband and I once worked. In fact, that was the job that introduced us to one another. So we were heart-warmed and charmed in extra measure, and not at all depressed.

And the NEXT evening, husband and I dragged (there is no other word for it) middle child to an all-Russian piano concert at the Glenn Gould Studios, at the Toronto headquarters of the CBC. The piano-playing, by Russian prodigy Georgy Tchaidze, was virtuoso; behavior of middle child less so. He promptly, and characteristically, fell asleep in his seat and could not be roused. He missed entirely the singing by soprano Dina Kuznetsova.

And then today I saw the most amazing, heart-rending, unforgettable show of all: the film 'Paperclips', about the US rural south, the Holocaust, teachers, children, and ordinary people doing extraordinary things. Go see it. Take my car.

To round out the Week of Culture, husband and I watched a DVD of 'Toast', an adaptation of Nigel Slater's autobiography, a book every parent should read.


And that's it from me, here, very much here, in Toronto.

Back away

Hove again! So nice to be here, even in January. It still feels like home. How can that be, when Toronto (dammit) also feels very much like home? Two weeks ago I was in Los Angeles visiting my folks for a few days (jet-setting, me, albeit coach class, which wipes the shine off PDQ), beachcombing and bicycling in California sunshine, and, yep, that felt like home, too.

If home is where the heart is, I live in a jigsaw puzzle.

Does that mean my heart is broken?

Sign of the times?

When we first arrived in Canada, the phrase on everyone's lips was 'It's all good.' Or sometimes, 'It's all good!' This seemed to sum up a completely Canadian outlook. Business was booming, development flourishing, there was little indication of the economic hardships emblazoning the UK and US headlines.

Now I more often hear something different: 'It is what it is.' (Never 'It is what it is!') Are Canadians growing philosophical? Reflecting tougher times?

And on a completely selfish level, does it mean we might be able to afford a house next year, when we have to leave the warm cocoon of new faculty housing?

Taking stock

It's New Year! Happy 2012 to all 6 of my followers, their families, friends, pets, and assorted acquaintances. I'm watching the Pasadena Tournament of Roses Parade on TV, and coveting the bright warmth of a southern California January morning. Next up will be the Rose Bowl (football game), pitting the University of Wisconsin Badgers against the University of Oregon Ducks. Sports and wildlife all at once! May the best animal win.

We spent a wonderful 5 days in New York City. We drove there, stopping en route first for a delicious Christmas Eve dinner with friends in the charming town of Niagara-on-the-Lake, and second at the stunningly-lit waterfalls in the tacky town of Niagara Falls. Oh yes, we also paused in Rochester. I love the fact that I live in a place from which I can drive to New York City. It is such a great place, in and of itself, and also filled with memories and roots for me. I knew all that, but had forgotten. And New York state is pretty amazing too. I've driven across it 4 times in the last 6 months so I feel I can speak with some authority.

But, Toto, we're not in California any more. Nor in England. Looking at the sunshine and flowers and blue sky on the television, and comparing with the weak gray light at my window, I wonder, again, a bit, about the halfway state (or province) in which we've landed. Neither there nor there. O Canada.

Now there's a sprinkling of snow outside, so maybe the kids will get to try out the new sled they got for Chanukah. We've been skating at one of the wonderful free ice rinks sprinkled across Toronto. We've enjoyed some lovely parties and gatherings and dinners with friends. We do have wonderful friends here.

And there. And there.

Pidgin English

I was reading a book the other day. I do that occasionally. In it the protagonist says she is 'making a mental note' to do something.

This bugs me. If I say to myself 'I am making a mental note of this', it is equivalent to my saying 'I am going to forget entirely about this.' If I don't write it down, and put it in my phone with 3 reminders heralding its imminent necessity, it's just gone. It might be saved by a well-placed post-it note but otherwise, that ship has sailed. It was just a waste of perfectly good thought energy.

Another thing bugs me about this book, which is written by a Canuck. (A book by a Canuck!) It's an enjoyable novel, though inhabited by fairly repugnant characters, and set in 1950s England. The protagonist is an 11-year-old female, whereas the author is an adult Canadian male. What annoys me is not the unpleasant characters, nor the fact that an adult man is channelling a prepubescent girl, but the fact that a Canadian is trying to 'speak' English. He doesn't do too badly, really, but I can't relax while reading the book. I don't feel comfortable in his hands.

Which makes me wonder how I write. I know I never picked up an English accent during my 17 years residing in the country but my writing is a different story (so to speak). When I reread something I've composed, it sounds neither fully US nor fully UK, and it's certainly not Canadian (or is it? Who knows, eh?). Do I make my readers (the few of them out there) feel uncomfortable in my hands?

Toodle-pip for now.

Business as usual

At first, my new job seemed very like my old job. Research work in Toronto mapped nicely onto my previous working experience in Brighton. The same interesting mix of meetings and seminars, communion with the computer screen, excursions to the library. Enjoyable work, problems to solve, deadlines to meet. The office set-up, too, is quite familiar.

But now a critical difference has made itself apparent. It's a biggie, too. It's the attitude to tea.

Or coffee. Hot drinks in general. In Britain, no one would hold a meeting of more than 10 minutes without offering or at least inquiring about A Hot Drink. The response might be 'Oh yes, please,' or 'No thanks, I've just had one,' or perhaps, 'I thought you'd never ask!' if there had been a pause for drawing breath between 'please sit here' and 'can I get you...?', but there would always be some sort of offer made. Failure to do so would be a breaking of the social contract, and indicate something wrong. Danger, Will Robinson.

Here, as there, my desk is in a shared office. When I get up from the computer, stretch, and head for the small staff kitchen, I always offer to make a tea or coffee for my office-mates. In the UK I'd get a yes, or a no (and a yes or a no-- there were a lot of us in there sometimes). Here in Toronto when I make such an offer, I generally feel that I've caused more consternation than satisfaction, breaking into the peace of the office, presenting a dilemma where none existed before. I've broken a different sort of social contract.

There are other conventions that I took for granted in the UK and now realize how peculiar they are to that nation. The office Christmas party, for instance. In England they've been planned, reservations made, invitations sent, RSVPs received, menu choices decided, Secret Santas assigned. Here? Nada.

And another: in England, anyone who left town, on holiday or business, always brought back some food item to share, by placing it in the office kitchen. Anything will do: Hershey's bars from the US, shortbread from Scotland, maple candy from Canada. The airport shops were invented for the British.

The office parties, the foreign sweets, these I don't miss terribly. They were nice, of course, but I can survive without them.

However. The tea issue. That is a problem. I will have to work on that. After I put the kettle on, though.

@lectoronto

I'm now on Twitter. Thanks to Anne, my friend, guru and part-time personal shopper (Costco division), I've been initiated into what Sensei Anne calls the 'real-time' communication modality of tweeting. I mentioned my achievement to another friend, Jim, and asked him if he felt Twitter really was an improvement over email. Jim looked at me pityingly. 'Email is just so... 1990s,' he said, gently enough, but the point hit home hard. Ouch. That's me. So 1990s. If you too have moved on from last millennium, do look for me out there in Twitterland. Though perhaps I should change my name to @So_1990s.

I can laugh at myself over this, but overall I am feeling rather somber. The cue to my joining Twitter is sad. A local mom, Jenna Morrison, was killed last week in a cycling accident. Aged 38 years, she was 5 months pregnant, cycling to her son's kindergarten to collect him at lunchtime. She overbalanced near a truck and was crushed horribly under its rear wheels. I didn't know her, but her son attended a playgroup with children of friends of mine, a parents' cooperative playgroup, hence a fairly tightknit community. The whole city, especially the cycling population, has been shaken, and the parents in the playgroup just devastated. I joined Twitter so I could keep abreast of cycling groups and their reactions to Jenna's death. Should the truck have had underbody side-rails? Apparently they do in England (though I can't say I noticed, nor did I feel any safer around trucks there).

Catherine Porter, a columnist for the Toronto Star, herself a 38-year-old mom who cycles, wrote movingly of the memorial bike ride instigated by a cyclists' group (http://www.thestar.com/news/article/1086949--i-saw-nothing-but-bike-helmets-for-blocks?bn=1). Porter joined the thousand or more riders who accompanied a 'ghost bike', painted white, which was placed at the site of the accident. She described feeling committed to continuing to cycle, because of its benefits to health, the environment, and the sense of community. At the same time, she wants to live, and to survive to raise her children. I completely, completely empathize with this. I too want to keep on riding. I ride to work, I ride to the kids' school, I ride to the grocery store (I love the basket on the back). One of the great things about downtown Toronto is its cycleability. And I want my kids to have that joy too. But I'm also petrified for myself, for my husband (another cyclist), and for them. Why can't we each have a piece of the road, and peace on the road?

On a mildly humorous note, the way that Porter phrased her own heartfelt dilemma over this issue really highlighted for me, again, that sense of 'We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto' She wrote of her children, "I want to be there for everything:the first sleepover, the first canoe trip, the first love". Beg pardon? It's a canoe trip that comes between 'first sleepover' and 'first love' in Canada? H'm. Ah well. At least she didn't write 'first time wrestling a polar bear.'

RIP Jenna Morrison.

Be careful out there, people.

You'll Always Know Your Neighbor

We recently flew to the west coast of the US. For one reason and another (let's call them cost and outrageous, because that's what they were), we decided to begin our journey in Buffalo, New York, rather than fly from Toronto's Lester Pearson Airport. Who wants to fly from an airport called Lester, anyway, eh?

Middle child and I drove across the border in the dead of night, like fugitives. When we got to the edge of Canada there were no other cars queuing to leave. I sailed right up to the agent's booth. 'Is America open?' I asked him, suspicious that we'd happened upon a national or international emergency. 'America is always open, ma'am,' he replied brusquely.

On we traveled, reaching in under two hours an uncharming but sufficient airport hotel that promised to give us a place to lay our weary heads for the night, look after our car, drive us to departures, and collect us upon our return, all for the sum of about a hundred bucks. Why don't we just live there, I wonder?

We flew west to San Francisco, my birthplace, and stayed in Berkeley, my true spiritual home, with beloved family. Two days later we headed north to Seattle, passing volcano after volcano, till we landed between Mt. Rainier and Mt. Baker. The rest of the family joined us there for niece's bat mitzvah. All was swell; ceremony, celebration, and niece equally superb.

Three days later, we flew back to Buffalo. Blessed Buffalo! It begins to seem the center of all earthly delights. Home of the Albright-Knox Art Museum (the what?) and Frank Lloyd Wright houses (really?). We collected the car and made our way to Wegmans. Wegmans! Ah, supermarket of my heart's desire. Next door was Kohl's, where husband selected a sweater. Then, after acquiring a tank of All-American, inexpensive (well, it's relative) gas we drove home, arriving two hours later. Two hours. I live two hours from Buffalo, and I'm grateful for it! It was a city that once upon a time felt as remote as the moon and an equally unlikely place for me to visit. (Did Neil Armstrong ever hit a golf ball in Buffalo?) Before I moved to Toronto, all I associated with Buffalo was its spicy chicken wings dipped (oddly) in salad dressing, the Bills, cold, and the Erie Canal. It's true that I've always loved the song about the mule named Sal, who plied fifteen miles on the Erie Canal, where you always know your neighbor, you always know your pal, as well as every inch of the way from Albany to Buffalo. Still, I never expected to see the canal any more than I planned to meet the mule. How did it come to pass that it's now a source of true pleasure to know that in only two hours, with good luck and a following wind, I can be in Buffalo?

Low bridge, everybody down.

Of course there are those wings. Pass the dressing.

So this is why we are here

A picture is worth a thousand words, so here's a quick three times ten cubed.








And in conclusion, let me just say that it was even more beautiful than my piddly iPhone shots convey. The secret recipe included a warm, sunny, Thanksgiving weekend, some lovely friends, and Mono Cliffs Provincial Park. Don't add (rain)water.

Embracing uncertainty

Yesterday was Rosh HaShana, the Jewish new year (well, so is today, if you are of a more religious bent, but as it happens we are not that way bent). Last year, mere weeks after arriving in Toronto, we attended High Holiday services hosted for many hundreds, possibly thousands, at the Jewish Community Centre quite close to our house. This plan made sense then, as both sets of grandparents had descended on us and we were a rather unwieldy mob of disparately adherent Jews. We enjoyed the services but felt like very small fish in an enormous pond-- however wonderful to see how full that pond was, after the puddle in which we splashed in Brighton. (Sorry, I have beaten that metaphor right into the ground. Or perhaps I drowned it.)

This year we tried a different, and smaller tack: the Danforth Jewish Circle. We knew a few families there and ran into some unexpected familiar faces as well; always a good feeling. One part of the New Year service involves reading from the Torah, an honor generally bestowed on particular people. At the DJC, while such individuals did the actual recitation, segments of the congregation were invited to step to the front and to join in the aliyah, joining the blessing over the Torah. These divisions were defined by our relationship to uncertainty. Have you struggled with uncertainty in the past year? Or, have you embraced and relished it? Or, would you like to learn to live with and love uncertainty? I had to declare myself. In the end, I went with the middle group: I think I've spent this past year very much embracing the sense of being new, of not being sure of the route, of relishing the discovery of new people, places, and coffee shops. At least, I hope so. I fear that a critical review of these entries might not put my attitude in such a positive light (so I won't do it just at the moment).

Especially lovely was the DJC's 'tashlich' service in the late afernoon. This ceremony has something to do with dispatching one's sins and burdens while standing by open water. In this case the open water was a quarry pool at the Don Valley Brickworks, a revered Toronto location that we had none of us managed to visit yet. We very nearly didn't visit it this time as we became extremely lost. After abandoning the car, finally, in a neighbourhood of vast houses (I quickly added 'real estate envy' to my list of sins to be discarded) we wound our way down through field and wood to the former brickworks, where middle child spotted the congregation gathered by the pool. A heron joined us, standing silently by during the singing and talking, then taking flight as we did. (Can herons be Jewish? Sounds a bit close to 'Herod'. He was Jewish, I believe. Herod, not the heron, that is.)

A less pleasant encounter with water this morning: yet more flooding in the blasted basement. Several boxes lost. Carpet muddy where I dragged the wet monstrosities out to the street (not a clever move). The property manager maintains I'm cursed and the basement haunted. This time they will try to put in a new door. I asked the manager she knew where our Persian rug might be-- she had taken it away after it suffered basement-linked water damage during the summer. 'Oh yes,' she said. 'It's still at the cleaners. He couldn't bring it back because his van exploded.' It's the curse.

Happy new year!

The Day After the Day Before

Before:

It's all about the bar mitzvah these days. A wonderful event, a blessed event, a milestone. How has it come about that I'm the parent of a teenager? And what a teenager. I'm so proud of him. My cousin writes a blog about the good enough mother
(http://goodenoughmothering.com/) and that's what I keep asking myself-- am I one? I've uprooted my children, moved them across the Atlantic, and now we are celebrating this amazing time-- thousands of miles distant from most of the children and friends with whom he grew up. We created a slide show ('a photo montage', in the patois of celebratory events (we learned)). It's of our son's life, from early infancy to today. It was truly a labour of love, one of the most pleasurable aspects of preparing for this gala. But it also pierced my heart, because most of those adorable photos of the baby, the toddler, and the primary schoolboy show him with his English friends who won't be with us on the day.

I'm getting terribly stressed about all the things that shouldn't matter. My sisters are excellent listening posts as well as sounding boards. For the most recent upset, one gave sympathetic, reaffirming feedback and the other advised 'Drink wine!' I read that one at about 7 o'clock one morning and pondered whether to pour red or white on my Cheerios. What a duo! Between them, and with a lot of help from my friends in here in Toronto I'm doing okay.

At 24 hours before lift-off, my to-do list is still frighteningly long. I'm so anxious I can hardly sleep. I am never far from my magic vial of Rescue Remedy.

After:

It was marvelous. My boy acquitted himself beautifully. He told us, tells us still, that he was nervous, but you couldn't guess it from looking at him. So composed! So grown up! My baby, my baby. I'm so very proud of him. Maybe I am a good enough mother after all. Or, maybe it's all down to his dad, who is truly fantastic. In any case, somehow, to misquote Rogers and Hammerstein, 'We Must Have Done Something Good (Enough).' There was the odd glitch, which only highlighted son's ability to handle adversity. He stayed calm, cool, and collected for the nearly two hours he was 'on'. And I got through my own speech to him without dissolving in tears (I had done that a few minutes before, listening to his father's beautiful words).

And the party! What fun! I expected to struggle through, to endure rather than to enjoy, but it was great! I think everyone enjoyed it, particularly the 30-odd kids from son's grade 8 class. And it was so wonderful to see how much they care about him. One of his best friends very sadly couldn't make it yesterday and that was a real blow, but it's perfectly clear that he's got a great group of terrific mates. What an affirmation of our move to Toronto. It was so gratifying to watch them having such a blast together. The DJ company which cause me such aggro only days ago did a fantastic job of entertaining the kids and even the adults. All the boxes were ticked. Hours of dancing, games, joy, dancing the hora, chair lifts, speeches (well, one, from Simon), more joy.

The slide show, though. The 'photo montage'. It was beautiful, cute, funny, enjoyable. But it lacked the 'ooohs' and 'Hey! Hey!' and 'That's me!' exclamations that usually pepper such viewings. I had so few photos of this new group of friends. None of them cavorting in playgrounds, splashing in wading pools, toddling tipsily in nappies. The kids displayed on the screen with the toddler version of son are in Durham. The children he horsed around with at primary school are in Brighton. And here he is now, in Toronto. We have moved. On. And away.

But also 'to'. Somehow, he has kept his balance, gained composure, and achieved a place amongst new peers. Thank heaven for our families, so many of whom joined us: the grandparents in the photos were there all along, and again last night, as were the aunts and (most of) the uncles and cousins. I don't know about blood being thicker than water, but it certainly travels better. And we are so very grateful.

The 'to do' list? Still with me. Still contains unticked items. 'Iron the tallit'. Not done. 'Try on dress'. Nope, never got to that. 'Practice the havdalah blessings'. Again, undone. But you know what? It's over! It was fantastic. What was important in the end was what happened, not what didn't happen.

Mazel tov to all of us. So. Until the next time. Two years till younger son is thirteen. Oy vey! I can't wait.

My Favourite Plague

My scalp was itching the other day, so I pulled the nit comb out of its bathroom drawer, slathered my hair in conditioner, and had a good trawl. Nothing live, just sand, from a recent beach volleyball experience. Tant pis, I thought.

Yes, that's right. Shocking, but true: I have a sneaking fondness for lice. My view could not possibly be more unpopular. On the occasions when I've voiced my lack of disgust at the critters' existence, you would have thought that I'd expressed admiration for the Marquis de Sade or for the killers of baby harp seals. But quite honestly, they (lice, not harp seals) have done me, and my family, more good than ill. Here in my new home, Toronto, that confession makes me a pariah or at least a totally lone voice. It's pretty much the attitude across North America, it seems. Here there are whole companies dedicated to louse eradication, at the cost of hundreds of dollars. I know plenty of families who have hired their services.

But really, think about it: what damage do lice cause? They itch (not as much as mosquito bites, though). They don't make you sick, they are not vectors for microbes that make you sick, and they don't stink. If I had to choose a plague, lice would be it.

My children have largely outgrown the age of nits. Now galloping into the teen and preteen years, they don't sit huddled in the sandbox or clustered over dolls' houses, their tousled tresses pressed against their friends'. But in those preschool and primary years, while living in the temperate climes of Sussex, we had our fair share of infestations. (In the north of England, we were told, the winter temperatures dropped enough to kill off the stock and keep the numbers in check. In the south, the pests are endemic, or thriving, depending on your point of view.) The middle child in particular was a magnet for them, the population in his scalp achieving numbers I dare not share in print. He was proud of his livestock! We even named one 'Bob', and for some time when said child was about 7 or 8 years old, we could always find Bob lurking within a month or two. Once, during a lengthy spell of unoccupied hair, Bob even sent a postcard to us, evidently from the north of England, describing the sights of the Peak District.

We didn't ignore these infestations: far from it. In a way, we relished them. Taking the boy children to the barber, I might find myself called hither for a quiet word in my shell-like: 'he has a few nits. Just wanted to let you know.' The haircut would continue, scissors cleansed afterward and clippings swept up and ejected, just as would happen with any customer, lollipop chosen from the jar, and off we'd go. Or girl child's preschool teacher, an eagle-eyed (American) spotter, would alert me to the need for a clear-out. (Eventually, I learned to notice them myself.) That night I would perch on the edge of the bathtub, combing through the children's hair, one after the other.

It was lovely. Time-consuming, yes, but I grew to cherish that enforced closeness, that bubble in space and time empty of television, computers, the written word, telephones, games, even of cooking or other household chores. Eventually I improvised a more comfortable seat, and we would begin, becoming absorbed in our task, combing, talking, counting the little buggers (again, I'm not telling), and finally, rinsing. We learned about the life-cycle of the louse, and knew that in four days' time, we needed to repeat the procedure. We never pursued every last little one; that, I recognised early on, was impossible and unnecessary and painful. We aimed for control, not eradication; at about the time patience ended, so did the operation. Over a period of a couple of weeks, with about three rounds of combings, the scalp was clear. For a while. In a couple of months, the cycle would repeat. And our chats, our jokes, our funny songs, would revive and evolve.

Not, I hasten to add, was nit-combing the only time or even the best time I spent with my children at those ages. We snuggled in bed, read stories, watched movies, had picnics, played in the park, walked, drove in the car, rode on trains. (Still do.) But it was certainly a bracketed, focused, intensely one-on-one refreshment between mother and child. I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

So, Robert Burns, I'm with you and your ode, 'To a Louse.' Praise the good lord for all her creations, lice included.


18 January 2016: news flash! Thanks to entomologist Dr. Richard Pollack, instructor at the Harvard School of Public Health and senior environmental public health officer for Harvard University (http://www.hsph.harvard.edu/richard-pollack/), I have scientific, as well as poetic, support for my heretical position. See Dr. Pollack's site on head lice management https://identify.us.com/idmybug/head-lice/index.html

Displaced person

It's been an emotional trip. We've traversed the Atlantic yet again. When I entered the UK the immigration agent looked at my passport and was able to detect that I'd had a permanent resident's visa previously. 'Are you sure you want me to do this?' she asked, her stamp poised over my passport. 'Once I stamp it, the resident's visa is invalidated.' What a question. What a choice. What could I do? It's done already. I'm a visitor now. A tourist. A transatlantic outcast.

We've had a tremendously lovely time, all told. The kids immediately bonded with their old friends, in Brighton and in Durham. We enjoyed numerous joyful reunions followed all too soon by tearful farewells. People in Brighton seemed surprised to see us. 'What are you doing here?' many asked. As if we'd leave and never return! But I guess that's what some do: they move on. I don't feel that way, but I realise that unlike Durham, where we lay claim to some form of rootedness (it's where we met, where we lived when we married, where we had our children), we might be seen merely to have passed through Sussex. Yet our six years there marked me, with irreplaceable friends and essential memories. It's the first place I ever moved with the actual intention of spending my life there. It proved me wrong and taught me bittersweet lessons about the illusion of permanence. It's been a bittersweet journey all through, this voyage home. Because I do feel at home in Brighton. And in Durham. And in California. And, also, in Toronto. I'm not so much displaced as over-placed. Or perhaps misplaced. I must reflect.

Back to Blighty

This is it. It's our maiden voyage home. Or not home. England. Wherever.

It's a bit scary, I have to say. I've been jumpy and touchy and snapping for the last few days (my family probably can't tell the difference to me in my normal state, but I can). There's so much to do, so many people to see, so many conversations to conduct. How can I pack 17 years into 2.5 weeks? I'm not a magician.

After many years away from Durham, our home for a decade, we learned how to visit. We joyfully see the people we must see: the critical core. Then we can add in others as a sort of rotating treat. We know what things we have to do: walk in Flass Vale; play in our old street; wander along the river beneath the Cathedral; pop in to see Sting (well, it happened once). I'm looking forward to our visit there with pure pleasure, except for the long drive. But returning to Brighton for the first time feels so overwhelming that it's really scary. I want to see everyone, do everything, recapture the feeling of living there.

I'm afraid I won't be able to leave again.

Rudeness in Toronto

This is big city-- fifth largest in North America, I'm told (though how can that be true, now I come to think of it. Oh well, it is big. You can tell by the traffic jams). There are crimes, car crashes, bike accidents - lots of bad city-type things happen here. But while I've encountered impatient drivers, I don't think I'd ever had someone be rude right to my face here. It is a city of friendly people-- some born-and-bred Canadian, but about half not. Toronto is a place where if you stand on a street corner lost in thought for a few moments, a passer-by is quite likely to approach and inquire if you are also lost in body. (I'm sure i was about to solve unified field theory once, at Bloor and St. George streets, when a friendly citizen came to point out the subway entrance-- what a shame for science.) But today I encountered a genuinely rude person, a woman at the St. George subway. It was such a shock! She pushed in front of me to buy a token after we had both waited for a nice young Englishman to learn that he could not buy a week's Metro pass on a Thursday (why not?? but that's a different story). The woman thrust her money at the attendant and when I said 'excuse me, I was next,' she didn't hesitate a whit; she just snatched her change and her token, and said sneeringly, 'Well then be quicker. I don't have all day to wait for you people.' You people? You people? Who is you people? I must have looked as shocked as I felt because after she strutted away, the attendant consoled me and said, 'Don't let it bother you.' But of course it does bother me. I tried imagining that her husband had just left her, or that she recently suffered a bereavement, to explain her behaviour. Hey, maybe it was both: she killed the husband because he stepped in front her while they were waiting in a line. Or she has no friends. (Yeah, that's it. No one ever reads her blog!) Mostly I think of all the things I could have said or done, and didn't, to her face. Just as well, no doubt. Anyway she will probably have to leave the country soon because they just don't allow rudeness here.

Let there be light

It's summer! It's warm! Toronto has sprung to life and is celebrating its survival of another winter, and even more, another spring. One can hardly navigate the roads for all the street parties and festivals.We've been to big ones, small ones, ethnic ones, bicycle ones, and one that was actually just a family having friends over that we mistook for a public event. (They were sweet about it though, and they grilled their burgers to utter perfection. (I'm joking.)) We do feel a little out sync because we continue to use our oven rather than barbecuing all our food. We purchased a barbecue, because I think it's the law here, but it's still in its box. The smell of smoke pervades everything. It must be tough for the fire department. The raccoons are happy, as the pickings are good. We have a little posse of them living off the crumbs under our picnic table. One grew especially bold and climbed inside our rubbish bin, just the tip of its tail left hanging out, then popped back up and scampered off holding a bag of something in one paw, like a child going to school.

Hi Yael!

Good deeds

I did two good deeds today. The first one was saving a child's life. Well, maybe, anyway. A friend and I were walking south, home from school drop-off, on the narrow street that intersects our large one. We were chattering away (what, me, talk?) as we crossed the foot of a church driveway from which a large shiny black SUV was slowly reversing out. We hardly broke stride because we felt so confident that the driver saw us, as indeed s/he did. S/he braked. I love the fact that pedestrians have the right of way here (as they do in the UK) and drivers actually let them use it (as drivers in the UK do not). In England I'd definitely have checked whether the car planned to carry on regardless, hitting me if it must. Anyway, we walked safely past and the car resumed reversing. A tiny little boy, age 3 or so, on a tiny little bike, brand new, came zipping past us, heading north. I glanced vaguely round for his grown-up and realised he didn't have one anywhere in sight. I turned and grabbed his bike to halt him before standing behind the still-slowly-reversing car. The boy's head height was below the tops of the SUV's tires and it was impossible that the driver could have seen the child. The little boy looked surprised, the car came to an abrupt halt when I appeared in its rear window. My friend and I scanned the road for a grown-up in charge of the child. Finally we located her, riding a bike on the street several yards ahead and separated from the sidewalk by a wide grass verge. She had paused at a T-junction controlled by a stop sign. She turned to look for her son, spotted me holding onto him, and glared at me as if I were a madwoman. I called out 'The car was reversing!' but she didn't seem to hear or understand. I let go of the boy and he caught up to his mom. Luckily my friend was wheeling her own bike with a child trailer attached, which lent us credence as upstanding maternal figures rather than potential kidnappers. My friend and I walked on and continued our previous conversation. Not until a few hours later did I mentally return to the scene and think with a shock, 'I nearly saw a child killed today.' At school pick-up in the playground the friend and I reviewed the incident and agreed that it was all slightly unbelievable, but really happened.

My next good deed was to serve tea to the men cutting down a large tree in the empty yard next door. They said 'thank you'. And they gave me a log to use as a garden bench. We have a lot more light in our yard and kitchen now.