Monthly Archives: January 2015

My.Daily.Distraction ~ Post 101: Puzzling Memories

31 Saturday Jan 2015

Posted by in Entertainment, Games, puzzles

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Circa 1968: Mississauga, Ontario

To help celebrate the arrival of a weekend my Mother would occasionally come home from work on a Friday night with a brand new and unopened jigsaw puzzle.

Sometimes they would be as large as two thousand pieces.

It would be delegated to the kitchen table and opened immediately after dinner.

Then the fun will begin.

Even as a young child I was allowed to participate.

My first task on the Friday night would be to find all of the end pieces. End pieces consisted of a jigsaw puzzle piece with one or two totally straight sides and these pieces would make the outside frame. Corner pieces, were especially prized.

I performed this task efficiently and I performed it well.

That evening, I would always go to bed content because all of the outside pieces had been found and set in place as well.

We would meet up the next morning to work on the puzzle over toast, cereal and coffee.

It was then that I was put in charge of finding all the blue sky pieces.

The puzzles that Mother chose usually consisted of a beautiful mountain scene with a little village on the side.

Now that I think about it I have always been fond of mountain vistas.

Maybe this is why.

My father was usually the one who put together the sky pieces. He seem to have the meticulous nature that it took to do so. Further, he had the most patience.

And so we spent the day around the kitchen table.

At some point in the afternoon a bowl of potato chips would be introduced.

If I had been happy in my place as a useful participant, I was now extremely happy and well snacked too.

If anyone came to the door as sometimes happened, they were invited to sit down and join us.

And they did.

After I had found all the blue sky pieces I would then be asked to separate the rest of the colours. There would be brown and green for the mountains, white for the clouds, royal blue for the water, and the red and yellow pieces usually denoted tiny little houses and chalets.

By the time I went to bed on Saturday night I would usually cast a weary eye at all the pieces that yet remained unsorted. Would we be able to get them all put together by Sunday night’s dinner?

Hopefully, we had not lost any pieces.

Tomorrow would tell, I thought as I headed towards the stairs to go to bed.

We resumed at the table Sunday morning.

Sometimes, conversation, housework, laundry or a long phone call would put a hold on the puzzle’s progress much to my chagrin.

I wanted less talk and more puzzle action if we were to finish.

And it last…

…and always before dinner the last piece of the puzzle was finally placed and we all breathed a sigh of relief.

Then we would ceremoniously transfer the puzzle to the spare upstairs bedroom where we kept Father’s movie projector, reel to reel tape recorder and Mother’s fat burning jiggle machine.

Of course there were a great many other finished puzzles that we had already completed on the desk, on the floor and on the couch.

Last May while my Mother was in hospice during her last days, the Interval House kept a beautiful puzzle on the table by the front window in the parlor.

I welcomed being able to sit there and maybe find a piece or two during the moments that the medical staff were tending to Mother’s needs.

It was such a comfort.

The last day that I stayed at her apartment right after she had died I found another puzzle table near a back door entrance of her apartment building.

I can’t help but wonder if Mother ever knew that it was there.

Had I known it was there I might have spent some time sorting out a few pieces rather than sitting alone in her apartment.

About two years ago I rediscovered jigsaw puzzles, except these were the downloaded apps for my iPad. They have a tremendous assortment of scenes and themes.

It’s a good feeling to know that I can never lose a piece.

To be honest, I really miss the old-fashioned puzzles, like the feel of the little cardboard piece in your hand and the comforting little snap when it’s put in place.

I look forward to the day when I have the time and space to sit down with a real jigsaw puzzle again…

And make even more puzzling memories!

My.Daily.Distraction: Marc Connors Remembered

30 Friday Jan 2015

Posted by in Aids, Music

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There was an 1980’s version of Kiss Him Goodbye, sung by a Canadian acapella group which you may or may not remember. Marc Connors, the lead singer, had such a powerful tenor voice that he was able to sustained the high notes for at least thirty seconds.

Even Johnny Carson was blown away when the Nylons performed KISS HIM GOODBYE on his late-night show.

Tenor voices like that just don’t come along very often. However, we really appreciate them when they do.

During the winter of 1989 my husband came home with a new gadget that had recently hit the market: a portable CD player.

With feigned interest I allowed him to put the earphones on me. As he turned it on, I could not believe what my ears were hearing.

It was the first time I had ever heard music of such clarity. The music was fresh, acapella, overwhelming, and a delectable feast to the ears.

The song I was listening to was WILDFIRE from the new Nylons album ROCKAPELLA.

I was hooked

Immediately, I made the CD player, ROCKAPELLA CD and earphones my own.

He never saw them again.

Over the next few months, I collected all of the Nylon’s CDs and had committed the words to all of their songs to heart and memory.

Surely, you know some of them, (remakes included).

Up the ladder to the roof, Poison Ivy, Buy Back The Amazon, Combat Zone, This Island Earth, Up On The Roof… and my favourite BUSY TONIGHT…

One of the few songs which has been known to actually stop me from breathing for four whole minutes

For my wedding anniversary, my husband bought me tickets to see them at Lewiston’s Art Park, and yes, I was very excited.

However, as soon as we pulled in to the park we knew that something was wrong. With throngs of college students conducting sit-ins, and a dozen or so police vehicles keeping a close eye on them, we found ourselves in the middle of a developing protest.

As we pulled into a parking spot, I spotted camera crews racing towards a group of men that had just exited the theatre lobby.

“Wonder what’s going on there?” I said pointing to my left.

“It’s them,” my husband replied, “the Nylons.”

As we approached the developing circle of reporters I could see a tall, gaunt man watching the developments from afar. Marc Connors was the only Nylon not present at the press conference, so I quickly determined that he was the tall man watching from a distance.

What had happened was Art Park had cancelled the afternoon performance of the featured play because the performance included the burning of a bible. This affront to freedom of speech was not taken lightly, and the Nylons had announced that they would throw their support behind the protesters if the protesters would allow the Nylon’s performance to continue unencumbered.

Everyone walked away happy.

Everyone that is but the tall, gaunt man. He did not look happy as he slowly turned the other way and began to walk towards the deserted alternate entry.

Confused, I approached from behind and called out his name.

He stopped, turned around and looked at me.

My pending joy at meeting Marc Connors turned bittersweet as I could immediately tell that he was not well. His face and neck had been ravaged by Aids, a disease that had only come to my attention five years earlier.

Marc and I smiled at each other. As I acknowledged myself as a “big fan.” he only nodded sadly.

It was then that I held out my hand.

He looked long, hard at my hand before he held out his own. Only later, did I come to understand why he became teary as I touched and clasped his thin, yet warm hand.

Without a word, he then turned around and walked away.

Seeing him in such a weak state, I wondered if he was strong enough to perform.

But boy, did he ever.

He hit every note.

He danced with the exuberance of a teenager.

He never missed a beat.

And six months later he was gone.

In 2003, I watched the mini series ANGELS IN AMERICA written by Tony Kushner adapted to screen by Mike Nichols.

In the last few moments, the lead character Prior Walter (played by Justin Kirk) says to us, the audience…

“This disease will be the end of us but not nearly all.”

“The dead will be commemorated.”

“We will struggle on with the living.”

“We are not going away. We won’t die secret deaths any more.”

“The world only spins forward.”

“We will be citizens.”

“Our time has come.”

“The work begins.”

Now, ten years after the death of Marc Connors, not only does the work and struggle in the battle against Aids continue,

… so does the celebration of his life.

My.Daily.Distraction ~ Post Ninety-Nine: Lessons From My Father… *Respect All Books*

29 Thursday Jan 2015

Posted by in Books, Crafts, Family, Family Stories, Reading, Stories

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In the years that followed after losing my Father to cancer, I wanted to take stock of all the lessons that he had tried to teach me in life.

Did I say teach?

Drum into my head might be more accurate.

It took me years to remember what some of those lessons were.

Ten years later, slowly, very slowly one of the lessons has finally risen to the surface.

Today, as I took a newly purchased book out of my shopping bag, one of those lessons hit home as I remembered a similar scene with my Father.

The scene was of me coming home after my first day of school in grade two. I had just brought home several new school books which had just been assigned to me by my teacher. They included an elementary reader, math, and geography book.

My Father led me to the kitchen table where he had just placed my newly acquired text books. He had gathered a pencil, scissors, and ruler along with a large piece of heavy paper. His preferred choice of paper was usually a recycled piece of wrapping paper, a unwanted street map, or an old poster. However, I do remember times when a newspaper, or the funny papers would do in a pinch.

He would sit me down, and with pencil and ruler he began to measure and mark the big sheet of paper laid out before him.

With several long straight lines here and a couple of notches there he would then take the scissors and carefully cut along the pencil drawn edges. He finished off with two neat folds along the top and bottom. Then there would be another two more, one to the left and then the right sides.

…and VOILA!

We now had a book cover.

Father would then take the front cover of the school book and slip into into the neatly measured front flap. Then he would do the same with the back cover.

In teaching me the importance of these homemade book-covers, I learned many different things.

First, it taught me that books are to be handled with both care and respect. I still have books that Father gave me. The ones with these sorts of covers are still in their prime. The other books are not so lucky.

Secondly, it is indeed a noble thing to take care of something that does not belong to you. I was always proud to give all borrowed books back to the school at the end of the year, intact and with a minimal amount of blemishes.

Last, I learned that you can take something which is otherwise considered useless and unwanted and turn it into something with the potential to be both useful and meaningful. That accounts for the used wrapping paper, old street maps, and last weeks Saturday comic section from the newspaper.

And there you have it. It only took ten years to sort this particular lesson out, but it finally hit home.

I only hope I don’t have to wait another ten years till I figure out the next lesson.

My.Daily.Distraction ~ Post Ninety-Eight: What Mistakes?

28 Wednesday Jan 2015

Posted by in Crafts, Knitting

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With these frigid winter temperatures, I caught a bit of a chill this morning. As I walked over to my wooden rocker, I reached for the familiar blue shawl that I knit ten years ago.

The beautiful Cherry Tree Hill wool it was made from was an unexpected gift from my husband.

This is how my shawl came to be:

Using a diamond shaped pattern that I’ve had previous success with, I wound the 1000 yards of royal blue yarn with confidence and high expectations.

After several days of knitting I experienced my first glitch.

Something was wrong.

One of the diamonds shapes was not quite right. It was wonky, and leaned to the right.

I showed my daughter and she said everything looked fine.

Still, I fretted.

Sensing my frustration my daughter then offered to rip back the stitches and repair it for me.

Wanting to figure it out for myself, I declined her kind offer.

After an hour of reworking the stitches, I was finally satisfied enough with the results to move on.

And yet, every now and again, I found myself re-visiting that part of the shawl, checking to see if the error was noticeable.

Oddest thing was, that by the time the shawl was finished, it looked perfect.

And so today of course, when I picked up this beautiful blue woollen shawl for the first time in a while, my eyed automatically began to look for discrepancies in the shawl pattern.

I could not find any.

Not one.

It was then that I had an epiphany.

As in knitting, how many mistakes have I made in life that were continually fretted over?

How much anguish did I suffer from them, and at what cost to my health and emotional self worth?

Years later, I can hardly remember them.

In the end, those mistakes that had kept me awake nights, turned out to be just “glitches.”

And as we all know, there are always “glitches.”

And so, hopefully, the next time I find myself about to jump into the sea of remorse and self condemnation, I will think on my perfect blue shawl. Maybe then I’ll stop breathing angst into things that time will completely erase all on it’s own.

That way, I can save my angst for more manageable problems.

Like…

…”What should I write about tomorrow?”

My.Daily.Diversion ~ Post Ninety-Seven: A Journal Entry A Day Keeps The Blues Away

27 Tuesday Jan 2015

Posted by in Writing

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It seems that I have an ongoing affinity in regards to writing journals.

I cannot get enough of them.

Indeed, it would be a rare day when you did not see one with me at work, or on my coffee table at home.

I can only guess this writing romance began when I saw the joy and comfort that journaling gave my Grandfather.

No doubt, it gave him a sense of purpose.

Every day… twice a day, usually the same time we would see our Grandfather, a retired Baptist Minister and Missionary approach his large wooden desk. He would even dress for the occasion too.

It was understood by the children, grandchildren and great grandchildren of the family that he was not to be disturbed. For at least the length of an hour he would sit by his desk content in his writing studies on the word of God.

And if you were to observe Opa studying at his desk you would get a definite sense that it was well with his soul as it was with the souls of his entire family.

How could I not want to aspire to this?

His journals now take up numerous bookcases throughout my house. Indeed, they are very precious to me.

My daughter encourages me in my journaling and I am very grateful to her for this.

Every few weeks she indulges me by treating her Mother to a shiny brand new journal filled with empty bright white pages.

She has an uncanny ability to sense when I find myself in a writing slump.

She knows all too well how much a brand-new journal inspires and motivates me.

How lucky am I?

When I have left this earth, my daughters will be free to burn my journals with my blessings.

That is if I don’t burn them first of course, to spare them the work of sorting out the many dozens of journals that account for the past three decades of my life.

It is my hope that by then, the journals would have served their purpose. Both they and I can be content in the knowledge that they have served me well…

…By being the vessel of my thoughts right up until the time that you read them.

Thank you for reading them…

My.Daily.Diversion ~ Post Ninety-Six: An Aria By Any Other Name Is Still An Aria

26 Monday Jan 2015

Posted by in Children, Raising Children

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In grade 12 I finished writing a small book of 32 poems and was about to get it published.

The name I chose for my book of poetry was:

Aria: A Song Written For One Voice.

I can still remember the day my Aunt showed me the layout along with the artwork.

As it turns out, I became engaged to my high school sweetheart. I then put the project on the proverbial back burner.

In the end, the book was never published.

When I had my first daughter in 1980, we called her Jennifer.

A few years later, there were so many Jennifers that whenever I called her name, many different Jennifers answered.

When considering names for my second daughter, I wanted something a little more obscure.

I was eight months pregnant, when I found myself watching the 1984 movie DUNE. There was a reference to Princess Alia when I suddenly was reminded of the name of my unpublished poetry book…

…Aria.

In that moment I decided I was going to name my daughter Aria.

But of course, one does not give a child such an unusual name without consequences.

Aria was about four years old when she informed me that she did not like her name.

“What name do you like?” I asked her.

“Cindy,” she replied.

I then told her that her name is Aria and we would continue to call her Aria.

Not long after that, I learned that she had renamed all of her dolls Cindy.

There they sat in a row all along her bed:

Cindy, Cindy, Cindy, Cindy, Cindy and Cindy.

And so it continued for a number of years.

She seemed to have found her niche in the family by always having some sort of civil protest up her sleeve.

…And then there was the fart dance.

Indeed, even when she agreed to accompany me to a picket line at work, it was not the fact that she had joined us on the picket line that impressed my C.U.P.W. brothers and sisters. It is the vision of her doing the moonwalk on the picket line that we will never forget.

My Mother always teased me that by saying:

“Well, you wanted to name her something different, and you sure got something different all right!”

Indeed.

I am happy to announce that Aria has now finally come to terms with her name, and even likes it, or so she tells me.

That’s one civil protest down, five hundred left to go.

You may ask that if I had the chance to go back and do it all over again, would I still name her Aria?

Absolutely!

May God grant us strength.

My.Daily.Distraction ~ Post Ninety-Five: Fossils Are Forever

25 Sunday Jan 2015

Posted by in Archaelogy, Dinosaurs, Earth, fossils, Geology, History, rocks, stones

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As a little girl my dad would take me to the beach in spring, summer, and fall. There, we would spend hours and hours scouring the beach for fossils.

Every now and then as I walked up and down the shoreline, I would cast a longing eye at the water and tried very hard not to think of how much I wished that we could go swimming. Then, I decided to make the best of the situation, keep my eyes to the ground and look for rocks.

Besides, I thought to myself, I didn’t know anyone else whose dad ever took them fossil hunting.

Of course, there was another source of inspiration. You see, my father had once found a perfectly fossilized trilobite. Whenever he let me hold it, he told me how many years it takes to make a fossil and I felt like I was holding time itself in my hands.

This fossil impressed me so very much, and I thought my father was a true hero for having found it.

If he could do it, then so could I even though I was only six tears old.

Keenly intent of finding a genuine dinosaur fossil, I would walk gingerly among the rocks kicking them back and forth until I finally spotted a rock with some sort of anomaly. These anomalies could be anything from a strange squiggle to a vague formation. I would then rush it over to a part of the beach where I would find dad standing with his head bent over a very large rock, staring at it, fixated.

“Is this a fossil?” I asked, placing the rock in his hand.

The time that it took for him to make his assessment seemed to take forever.

He would look at one side, purse his lips, flip it over and then make a few vague and undefinable hums and haws.

When the answer was “Yes,” I was most pleasantly surprised.

When the answer was “No,” I wasn’t surprised at all.

By the end of the day, we would place all the fossils we had collected in a waiting cardboard shoe box inside the car which usually laid on the floor behind the driver’s seat. I would have proudly collected maybe five or six fossils and dad usually had about the same amount. The only difference was that his fossils were far better than mine.

Once we reached home, our weighty loot would then be transferred into the house, much to my mothers chagrin. Thankfully, she would never disallow the fossils, but rather, she rolled her eyes heavenward as if to ask for strength. Then closing her eyes, she would nod and give a sad and heavy sigh of approval.

To this day, I store my treasured fossils in glass vases, which I am sure is the REAL reason that see through glass vases were invented.

When my father passed away, the flowers I received were eventually placed in mason jars. The glass vases filled with his fossils were left undisturbed.

Looking back, I have learned two lessons.

The first lesson is that fossils are forever.

The second lesson is that fathers are not.

My.Daily.Distraction ~ Post Ninety-Four: Tibet’s Greatest Threat

24 Saturday Jan 2015

Posted by in Archaeology, Business, Culture, environment, Geography, History, Industry, Mining, Tibet, Trains, Transportation, Travel

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I have always loved the sound of the trains as they go by. Indeed, how many times have they lulled me to sleep.

However, I fear that the sound of the Chinese Qingzang Railway will be the death knell of the Tibetan people and it’s culture.

This train will successfully bring approximately fifteen million people to the remote ancient capital of Llasa.

It is becoming more and more obvious that the upcoming tourist onslaught will do the Nepalese and their culture irreparable harm.

Having done some research, I have come up with some information that I’d like to share.

At first glance, this super-train might look like a good idea on several different levels, however there are points that need to be considered.

I fear that in less than one hundred years the Nepalese will have totally succumbed to Chinese rule and that there will be no more living culture and continuing history.

We will indeed have lost a pearl of great price.

The Chinese take this new railway very seriously. Why else would they have invested 4 billion dollars to see it to it’s fruition?

They claim that tourism will double.

This obviously is not a good thing for Tibet. The impact of this enormous surge in the tourist industry will no doubt threaten the fragile Tibetan environment. Up until now, Tibet has remained effectively independent in spite of the invasion by the communist Chinese in 1950.

We are about to once again witness the the truth of the saying, “The love of money is the root of all evil.” The Tibetan culture does not need money to survive. Rather, it needs global respect and above all, independence from China.

China’s official news agency Xinhua announced that a treasure trove of copper, iron, lead and zinc have been found by Chinese government archeologists along the route of the railway. They have hit pay-dirt which includes twenty million tons of copper, the second largest ever found in China and Tibet, alongside of ten million tons of lead and zinc.

So, there you have it.

If you are one who weighs everything by gain, then no doubt, this train and all that it stands for is right up your alley.

For those who are opposed to the cultural genocide of the Tibetan people and it’s culture we know that the global deck has been stacked against them and that the cards have been dealt.

There is no consolation in knowing that I am not alone in fearing the worst. Yes, governments will lament the passing of Tibet as the Chinese government assimilates all that this culture holds dear.

I am afraid for Tibet.

Very afraid.

My.Daily.Diversion ~ Post Ninety-Three: Rembrandt’s Selfie

23 Friday Jan 2015

Posted by in Art, happiness, paintings, self esteem, self help

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While sorting up the mail last night, I come across a postcard bearing a self-portrait of Rembrandt. This postcard had originated in England and seemed to have been purchased at the National gallery on the occasion of a Rembrandt Exhibition.

The self portrait was painted in 1659.

That’s 356 years ago.

I set the postcard to one side, hoping for a moment to study the portrait further.

My eyes seemed to be continuously drawn back to Rembrandt’s painting.

The first thing that struck me about the portrait was that the painted figure appeared larger than life.

At first I thought it the figure was only a model posing for Rembrandt. Upon closer inspection I learned that it was the artist Rembrandt himself.

I marvelled at his fuzzy curly hair, bulbous nose, the bags under his eyes. I thought that his eyes conveyed the appropriate weariness that accompanied seventeenth century living.

Certainly, had I been Rembrandt, I would have used my paintbrush to immediately auto-corrected those blemishes faster than you can say “vanity.”

Again, his self portrait did not convey him as pretty, but rather as human and resigned to be so.

And so, there is an object lesson here for me.

All the haute couture fashion and today’s anti-aging elixirs, expensive make-up and top of the line fancy hair conditioners will be for naught as our descendants look back on our pictures in the centuries to come.

Perhaps for me, what will count in the end will have nothing to do with the blonde hair or red lipstick. Rather, what will more accurately convey my time on Earth will be that my face had more “Joie de vivre” laugh lines than frown lines.

That would make more sense wouldn’t it?

Another lesson learned.

Thank you Rembrandt.

Loved the selfie.

My.Daily.Distraction ~ Post Ninety-Two: Got Apples?

22 Thursday Jan 2015

Posted by in Diet, Family, Nutrition, Stories

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Since this week would have been my father’s eighty-third birthday, I have decided to write a few celebratory words…

…or maybe not so few,

…in his honour.

This story begins way back when I was still a young teenager.

I can still recall the times that I would go to a refrigerator in search of a snack.

Upon hearing the fridge door open, dad who was usually upstairs, would call down to me:

“What are you doing in the fridge?”

“I’m hungry,” I would reply.

“Eat an apple,” he would then tell me.

“I don’t want an apple…” I’d answer.

“Then you’re not hungry.”

I would then proceed to linger in the fridge for a few more seconds. Then finding nothing of interest, I’d close the fridge door and walked away, disappointed and…

…apple-less.

Let me state, that our humble fridge never lacked for apples. Father did not believe in the regular two or five pound bags.

He brought home apples by the bushel, fresh from our downtown market.

We were a family of three: my Father, myself and my little sister.

That’s a lot of apples for just three people.

In turn, each morning before school, I would fill my large purse with apples and gleefully hand them out to friends during break.

Still, somehow we never ran out of apples.

And so… years later, as a memento of those days, I cross-stitched the apple sampler you see above and gave it to dad as a father’s day gift in 1990. He hung it in his kitchen. And there it remained until after he passed away, when it was ultimately returned to me.

It now hangs in my dining room, and continues to bring me joy to this day… In the week my father would have turned eighty-three.

Now, if you’ll excuse me… to celebrate the life of my father, I am now off in search of an apple…

…Even though I’m not hungry.

I miss you Dad.