Larger than life
After this morning’s run (-24 with the windchill, again!), I felt inspired to post photos comparing the weather today, March 6th, 2014, to the March 6ths of previous years. Easier said than done. I’ve just been scanning through the past few Marches, as recorded on my blog, and it would appear that in those years when it was simply grey and dreary and melty, I didn’t take a lot of seasonal outdoor photos.
March 4, 2012
Here’s one. Looks like there was still some snow two years ago at the same time, though not nearly in our current volume. Photos from later that month show the lilacs starting to bud, and lettuce and chives coming up in the back garden beds, but that hasn’t been the March-norm, according to my blog. It was odd enough to remark on.
not all photos are flattering
This is me, this morning. I have a moustache! And a beard, kind of. This photo was taken around 6:45AM. The light was beautiful. The cold was not. My toes were frozen.
I have a sick child home again today. Not the same sick child, either. We’ve cycled through sick children this past week, with the three eldest taking their turn. March break begins tomorrow. I shake my head. This winter.
AppleApple finished Crazy Town: The Rob Ford Story before I did. It was a very readable book, we agreed, although odd to be reading in book-form such recent news events; and of course the story remains unfinished.
I’ve been thinking about tyrants and celebrities. Larger than life. That seems to be how we want our leaders. That’s why the most impossible-seeming characters wind up in power, despite being bumbling fools or ruthless autocrats or outright sociopaths. The gods and goddesses had outsized appetites and were obviously flawed, too, but we never said we wanted perfection, we the people. We are awed by enormity, by behaviour on a scale we can’t imagine of ourselves, whether it be idiocy or tyranny.
Vladimir Putin is larger than life. He may appear bizarre to the Western eye, posing shirtless while conquering a variety of wildlife, but he knows what he’s doing: he’s creating a potent myth of himself. What an oddly self-inflated little man, we might think, while he smiles like the Mona Lisa and crushes his opposition. And on a scale of far less global importance, Rob Ford is also larger than life. His appetites are renowned, his body enormous, his inability to speak the truth unstoppable, his buffoonery legendary. When we laugh at him, we forget that he still has power. In some ways, it’s an odd trick common to many a corrupt leader: their pretensions are so absurd, we can’t believe anyone’s taking them seriously.
We should. We take them as seriously as they take themselves, or else we’re the fools.
It’s a beautiful morning in Canada
I’m collecting all these photos to illustrate blog posts that have gone unwritten.
For example, these photos are from last Thursday, when I got up early with AppleApple who was swimming, went for a lovely run (first I checked the temperature and actually said to myself, hey, -24 with the windchill, that’s not bad!, mainly because I’d been expecting -30 and you’d have to admit, by comparison, -24 sounds positively balmy). I started my run around 5:30AM and discovered that the sky was growing pink by 6:20AM. It was a beautiful morning in Canada! (Today, I was running in nearly broad daylight by 6:45AM, although it was still -24 for some reason. I run on Tuesdays with my friend Nina, and we swear that this winter’s trend has been: Tuesday will be the coldest morning of any given week.)
So last Thursday, post-run, post-shower, post-poached-eggs-for-breakfast I fetched AppleApple from swimming, and tapped out a blissfully happy status update on FB: A beautiful morning in Canada! Then I took a nap. Kevin got the little kids up to their friends’ house before walking to his office. The older two were both home, one sick, and the other taking a “mental health” day (which we all need, on occasion). I was woken from my nap by the sound of wind striking the house. It was that loud, that dramatic. I opened my eyes to a scene of winter obliteration outside the window, and saw the time: 8:57AM. Exactly when my two little kids would be walking to school with their friends. So much for the beautiful winter morning in Canada! My initial instinct was to hop in the truck to try to “rescue” the children, but after I’d texted Kevin and the parents of the walking friends, I downgraded my response to “anxious pacing.” It was clear that driving in such conditions would help no one. (In fact, the shockingly sudden snow squalls caused enormous pile-ups during the morning’s commute.) The squall blew itself out in less than 15 minutes.
less than an hour and a half separate these photos from those above
That afternoon, Fooey reported that they were nearly at school when the snow blast arrived — “I couldn’t even see J, who was right in front of me!”
“Was it kind of exciting? Like an adventure?” I asked, hopefully.
“No. It was cold. It wasn’t fun.”
Right. Hello, realism. Well, at least no one was scared or lost or sad, from the sounds of it. Tough little Canadian kids we’ve got.
On Friday, I met Kevin for lunch and I splurged, which is not a word that I usually associate with my purchasing actions (I hate shopping, as a rule). I bought x-country skis, boots, bindings, poles, plus vastly reduced snow pants (everything was on sale, which helped me to justify the decadence). And then on Saturday I went skiing while Kev took the kids sledding. I went out again yesterday morning with a friend. It was -27 for some reason. It was also stunningly beautiful.
I used to hibernate during winter and get pretty blue. A few years ago, I discovered that running was an all-season activity, given the right clothing. Winter improved immensely when I started getting outside in it. But there are times, as when slogging up a slushy street struggling to find footing, when one thinks to oneself: I’m trying my best, but let’s be frank — this sucks. When will this damn stuff melt so I can really run again? Truth is, I’ve never embraced winter sports; I’ve never, up until last Friday, invested in any equipment that would deliberately draw me out into the snow, that would induce me to think, even faintly, hey, I hope this snow lasts awhile longer because I’d really love to go out skiing again soon! That is a whole new level of winter acceptance right there.
The fireplace in the living-room doesn’t hurt either.
I’m 39 years old and I’ve spent the better part of my life in this country. I think I’m finally starting to feel like a real Canadian.
The long winter
new skis, new snow pants, new sunglasses, old (bright!) running jacket
This is a place-holder post, to let you know that I’m still here, and that it’s still winter in Canada.
The truth stays the same
Can an evening be both packed and relaxed?
After piano lessons yesterday, Kevin and I tag-teamed supper prep: chicken fajitas with leftover refried beans and accoutrements from Taco Farm (radish salsa, pickled jalepenos, cabbage crudito). We were all home to eat together.
I left Kevin with the cleanup, and the girls and I headed off to AppleApple’s open house, where the students had set up displays on their arts projects. (They do a project on social studies in the fall, arts in the winter, and a science project in the spring.) Among the topics were cake-decorating (with slices on offer), magic, opera singing (the student composed and performed her own aria), and radio drama. AppleApple’s scrapbook on Land Art was well-written, beautifully illustrated, and seemed to be well-received; I observed two dads reading her text and commenting on the fascinating strangeness of Andy Goldsworthy’s art. It struck a chord.
After some cake, Fooey and I left AppleApple to mingle with her friends, and we headed off to gymnastics, picking up a carpooling friend on the way. In the quiet car, on the way back to the open house, I caught part of a well-produced profile of Buffy Sainte-Marie. Almost the first thing I heard her say was (and I paraphrase): “I’ve travelled all over, and the lies are always different, but the truth stays the same.” She was saying that the universal truths that resonate between cultures and times don’t change; it’s the lies that are shifty. So speak your truth, people. That’s what I took, anyway. She also reflected on her parentage, saying she was sure she wasn’t pure Cree, but had some European blood in her, somewhere along the line. She put it like this: “It was either an act of war or an act of love.” I was struck by the stark clarity of that dichotomy of possibilities.
I picked up AppleApple and we headed over to the university, hoping to arrive in time to hear Lisa Moore read. It was really cold last night. We got to St. Jerome’s and discovered in the frigid blowing wind that we’d need $4 in change to park in the lot. I had $1.75. “I can’t believe we’ve made it this far, and we might not get to go!” Luckily we discovered meter parking nearby, and purchased an hour, spending every last nickel we could find in our pockets and in the car. After a quick detour to the library to drop off books (some of them on Andy Goldsworthy, in fact), we settled into chairs: just in time.
“Is this what university classrooms look like?” AppleApple wondered. “How do students fit their notebooks onto the tiny desks?”
Lisa Moore, before her reading
I worried a little bit throughout the reading that it might be too intense and at times too imagaic and densely poetical for my 11-year-old, but she listened raptly and clapped with enormous enthusiasm at the end. We were fascinated by Lisa Moore’s answers to questions about her process: she described setting herself a problem when writing her novels, usually of form or structure, that she worked to solve, such as telling the story entirely in flashbacks, or telling the story entirely in a forward-moving trajectory, or telling the story from a cacophony of viewpoints (all different problems for her different novels, obviously). She also talked about being part of a writer’s group, and how important feedback is to her process: she described button-holing family, friends, strangers off the street to read and comment on her work-in-progress. I shuddered to imagine it. My own process is so intensely private. No one reads my first drafts, a) because they’re terrible, and b) because I fear that critique at that early stage could kill or muddle my long-term vision for the project.
Discussing this on the way home, AppleApple wondered if I was insecure about my writing in the early stages, or maybe too much of a perfectionist. Either theory might be true. But I guess what works for one writer doesn’t necessarily work for another. I am a meticulous and hyper-critical editor of my own writing. It isn’t that I don’t want critique, but I don’t want it until I know the project is ready for it.
Here was AppleApple’s take on Lisa Moore’s reading: “She had such a good presence. She was very confident and calm, kind of laid-back but also serious. It’s so different hearing someone read their writing than reading a book.”
“Would you like to do that when you grow up?” I asked AppleApple, who certainly has a facility with language.
“Um … I don’t know.”
“Well, I’m going to be doing that again, very soon,” I said. And I realized I’d spent the reading taking mental note of the very things that AppleApple had observed: Lisa Moore’s calm and welcoming presence, her intensity mixed with humour and lightness, her frank and open manner. I was recalling how much effort and discipline and practice it takes to make a presentation like that flow so naturally — how much energy it takes to be the person at the front of the room; a fully present and true version of yourself. And I was reminded that readings can be quite wonderful events to attend. I’m glad we found that parking meter.
Slow burn
We’ve added an element to the house: FIRE. It’s a gas stove, not wood-burning, placed in the centre of the wall in our main room. I’m sitting in front of it as I type, with my feet up (sorry, treadmill desk; I’m cheating on you with my new flame). As you can see from the photo below, this room remains a long-term work in progress. Kevin and I have two plans, one a total dream and the other something we could hack together ourselves with some help from Ikea. The latter is likely the route we’ll take… when we get a spare moment. Meanwhile, the room looks like this:
I read to the kids in front of the fire last night, snuggling up for the first chapter of Farmer Boy, which CJ had strongly objected to reading (but I can’t read any more Calvin & Hobbes comics, which he loves but totally doesn’t get, requiring a lot of difficult explication). After some stomping around, and “I’m not listening to that,” he came around to “Fine!” when he realized what he’d be missing out on — namely the snuggling in front of the fire.
Farmer Boy begins with children walking through deep wintry snow to a schoolhouse that seems remarkably lawless and dangerous, the scene of potential violence and humiliation where big boys want to “thrash” the teacher and the teacher is considered especially kind because, unlike previous teachers, he does not beat a little boy for not knowing how to spell. The Wilder children are close in age to our family: Royal is 13, Eliza Jane is 12, Alice is 10, and Almanzo is 8. Almanzo, the littlest, has to carry the dinner pail (CJ, the littlest: “That’s not fair!”). By chapter’s end, CJ was hooked. Here’s what the Wilder children found in their dinner pail: bread and butter and sausage, donuts and apples, and one big flaky apple turnover each. (CJ: “Do they only have one nutrition break?” Me: “Yes, but they call it dinner, not nutrition break.”)
We only read one chapter, but it took ages; the conversation around the story could have gone on and on. The little kids were tucked into bed quite late, and Kevin left for hockey. When I came downstairs, the big kids were so perky and happy and chatty that I couldn’t send them to bed. It was the fire. We just couldn’t help but gather and linger and talk … about everything and anything. I learned more about Albus’s school day than I’ve heard all year. They wanted to know what school subjects I was bad at (domestic science and art), and what I looked like in grade 7 (plain and unfashionable: I mostly wore my hair in braids), and I could see them wondering, would I have liked Mom? I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have been cool enough for Albus. But I grew up so differently from them: never staying in the same place for more than a few years, often the new kid at school, shifting between countries and cultures. By age 12, I’d lived in four different countries, and moved approximately 10 times. The life I’m offering to my children is a settled one, rooted, with privileges that they take for granted, and that I remember not even bothering to envy as a child, because they weren’t things I wanted or needed. Swim lessons, sports teams, fancy gadgets and the “right” shoes and clothes. I was a clueless 12-year-old: dreaming about getting a pony. At the end of grade seven, we moved to a farm and I got a pony! I never felt deprived.
It’s funny how we want to give our kids the things we didn’t get (i.e. swim lessons); but also give them the things we valued from our childhood. I valued my freedom to explore, and I valued being an outsider. It gave me a special status, a special vantage point from which to observe. My kids aren’t getting those things; they’re getting rides to soccer fields instead, and new jeans. What terrifies me is raising entitled kids. I struggle constantly not to do too much for them, to ask them to pitch in for the benefit of the family (and not to earn an allowance, another perk they have, which I did not grow up with). I want them to do the right thing; but more importantly, I want them to choose to do the right thing, not be forced or punished into doing it. You know? I want their inner fires stoked.
So here’s my slow-burning hope. Gathering, talking, sharing, instilling values (one hopes), connecting, laughing: these years go by so fast. Last night, I let the kids stay up late. It seemed like a rare occasion, but I hope it happens often, now that we have something to gather around, something warm and ever-changing and comforting.