tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79188097809778673892024-02-25T16:14:00.777-05:00rapunzel jumped (and landed on her feet)Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02246669291440115585noreply@blogger.comBlogger473125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918809780977867389.post-52044594833311235712023-09-11T14:18:00.003-04:002023-09-11T14:43:16.735-04:00pizza while waiting for a train / Moncton Sept 2023 <p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8tPVyfiddp0D6bAChvQAtA6lHVWXgVsdRAEulMTdyyNMIaBg4QTRbzzG_HnMpbKeXvbgWNu4EI7rWL5AFivykC6nWWJHOXcPS0AKVRW7kX4gC8b8GarXHTSiid5yNo7CFNpVVu1T46GJibqHf9jtGLRNilR0PllUhd-QmYoRFeqo9ntzabzfWePQqMFBh/s792/IMG_3373.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="470" data-original-width="792" height="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8tPVyfiddp0D6bAChvQAtA6lHVWXgVsdRAEulMTdyyNMIaBg4QTRbzzG_HnMpbKeXvbgWNu4EI7rWL5AFivykC6nWWJHOXcPS0AKVRW7kX4gC8b8GarXHTSiid5yNo7CFNpVVu1T46GJibqHf9jtGLRNilR0PllUhd-QmYoRFeqo9ntzabzfWePQqMFBh/w640-h380/IMG_3373.jpeg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span><br />Annie was at the Moncton train station three hours early, but that was okay. Better to be there. Her brother-in-law had driven her from St. John. Her sister was supposed to have brought her, but she fainted twice and was rushed to the hospital. Annie had fainted too but she wanted to get home. She had a cute little apartment outside of Quebec City. It cost $1,100/month, two meals a day included. </span><p></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4JmpjDoE_JuRHFiBmFs7014KD1dwAotI7MHx9g5GFjEAyPyzLmO_GVlwI5Jukyd2f6iBFUgdUe59t3K5kr3pW0VzWijHtNDYmWN1uvyMoTmjw-jDmpc75NpuagyZnvVvB02fu3qmJsrKy4JgABf7q10MtDW7fugyWtrzb4KgoQtKc-MVtiwZx31FksSts/s648/IMG_3363.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4JmpjDoE_JuRHFiBmFs7014KD1dwAotI7MHx9g5GFjEAyPyzLmO_GVlwI5Jukyd2f6iBFUgdUe59t3K5kr3pW0VzWijHtNDYmWN1uvyMoTmjw-jDmpc75NpuagyZnvVvB02fu3qmJsrKy4JgABf7q10MtDW7fugyWtrzb4KgoQtKc-MVtiwZx31FksSts/w400-h300/IMG_3363.jpeg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span><br />She'd been visiting her two sisters in St. John. One had Parkinson's. The other sister--the one who'd fainted--had beaded four beautiful paintings for Annie's birthday. One was of a castle in moonlight, another of two ponies in pink and blue. The beads shone prettily. Thousands of beads in each painting! Her sister had to use tweezers to thread the beads. </span><p></p><p><span>Annie unrolled the paintings to show the two people from Montreal who had also come early because he had to check a bicycle. She told them about her sister and that she had fainted too, once when she was still at her sister's house and again in the car, but it didn't matter. She wasn't afraid to die. Maybe she had cancer or maybe there was something wrong with her heart. She would go to her doctor in Quebec City when she got home. She was going to pin the pretty beaded paintings on her closet and her apartment door. She liked everything to look nice. </span></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8VZfO5GWhtY2JwcjefgDHze_eAEtIw4zxP17r44-TshTpRSTwaUzPmgXpIzRWm7xYO325ZuSiYfK9XxwEkGvUC5jBLg6QGrPYUnU-wHOqqY2lQmUkAf16ZWlwWETo69JkHVoeAIafTot4Aa-Iwo8Q-Yqf28Te0AIBJovxx8V5BaCn-UXLddPHd7yc_em2/s956/IMG_3387.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="956" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8VZfO5GWhtY2JwcjefgDHze_eAEtIw4zxP17r44-TshTpRSTwaUzPmgXpIzRWm7xYO325ZuSiYfK9XxwEkGvUC5jBLg6QGrPYUnU-wHOqqY2lQmUkAf16ZWlwWETo69JkHVoeAIafTot4Aa-Iwo8Q-Yqf28Te0AIBJovxx8V5BaCn-UXLddPHd7yc_em2/w335-h400/IMG_3387.jpeg" width="335" /></a></span></div><span><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span><span><br /></span></span></p><p><span><span>Before she'd come on this trip she had her legs and eyebrows waxed and her pageboy wig washed. </span><span>She wore rings, bracelets, necklaces--and her short red dress so that people could see the tattoo that curled around her calf. She was 74 years old and still had great legs. </span>She wasn't so steady on her feet, even with her cane, and had chosen her red Mary Jane shoes. She couldn't wear heels anymore. Her brother-in-law didn't like that she fainted in the car but what could she do? He'd brought all her bags inside and left them on the floor in front of the Baggage Check. All she was going to take on the train was her purse and the beaded paintings. </span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYzkaJVhchzFgFl0zu-2o5C_8xFvxdYTmM9FJR7geowutS-1ooWts4w6dXPeNysMw060HC20BgDIWjqwbmhXlTeRAltfHjHdtAn73QU-fhldPVpvtAmiqcOANfFcnsILIE7hSn6Zz63DROj0PP3vzNS28rRhMyk48JCObsIu0nezj5a_PQPTbgkx7rGvcw/s648/IMG_3351.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYzkaJVhchzFgFl0zu-2o5C_8xFvxdYTmM9FJR7geowutS-1ooWts4w6dXPeNysMw060HC20BgDIWjqwbmhXlTeRAltfHjHdtAn73QU-fhldPVpvtAmiqcOANfFcnsILIE7hSn6Zz63DROj0PP3vzNS28rRhMyk48JCObsIu0nezj5a_PQPTbgkx7rGvcw/w400-h300/IMG_3351.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Monsieur, she called when she saw a man behind the Baggage Check counter, but he said he wasn't ready yet. She knew he wasn't but it was good to let people know you were there. The Montreal fellow carried her bags to the counter for her. The Baggage Check man said there were too many and she had to pay $80. She would gladly pay but she didn't have that much cash and she didn't have a credit card. Okay, the man sighed, I won't charge you. Let me kiss you, she said, but he said that was all right. <p></p><p><span><br /></span></p><p><span><br /></span></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA1uh9FvmHUef1Eu7DyEfpd9mRG9ckPqpv-l495T5_rhQTaZ4sIBohE0u8u7udzI23-TJqxYtlxveFTpvrDZ9z-jWZlr6_fuptbCZtImHvxBNrMomnfYgGZcPbLeFbqQ1BxGQJ8XZYRv2je5PKUezKWQK8AzuOll5o1Lj1EwavJFaWahi2Ly2gWgMhdRFP/s648/IMG_3497.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="648" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA1uh9FvmHUef1Eu7DyEfpd9mRG9ckPqpv-l495T5_rhQTaZ4sIBohE0u8u7udzI23-TJqxYtlxveFTpvrDZ9z-jWZlr6_fuptbCZtImHvxBNrMomnfYgGZcPbLeFbqQ1BxGQJ8XZYRv2je5PKUezKWQK8AzuOll5o1Lj1EwavJFaWahi2Ly2gWgMhdRFP/s320/IMG_3497.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span><br />She watched to make sure he put tags on all her bags. She told him about fainting that morning. When he finished, she asked if he could keep her paintings behind the counter because she wanted to go the shopping mall across the street. He said, I thought you don't have money. She ignored that because it was rude. </span><p></p><p><span>When she returned, there were more people in the train station--and they would be there for a while yet because the train from Halifax was late. On the overhead there was an announcement that they still had to wait for more than an hour! </span></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJPr8MvHJV-YHfL3Av_oJ9rNH0782hbMCh9X8_b8zsimHz41ABHzrCCWLH0gCnYk8k24UMScQDm5X6p8UPegX9BS0g_qwq7DfvrD1xP1LLmiXgHPBxbu6YJu94G5hWa_xQOvKAxd4WDM-TgBdohlL0HZVcgOVBZWjOQY1kB3gmqvvnk0R9vBYc27tiZC2A/s648/IMG_3394.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="648" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJPr8MvHJV-YHfL3Av_oJ9rNH0782hbMCh9X8_b8zsimHz41ABHzrCCWLH0gCnYk8k24UMScQDm5X6p8UPegX9BS0g_qwq7DfvrD1xP1LLmiXgHPBxbu6YJu94G5hWa_xQOvKAxd4WDM-TgBdohlL0HZVcgOVBZWjOQY1kB3gmqvvnk0R9vBYc27tiZC2A/s320/IMG_3394.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span><br />Jim was excited about setting off on a trip and didn't like how people looked unhappy about the train being late. One lady said she'd booked a sleeper, which was expensive, and meals were included--and when was she going to get her supper now if the train came too late? Hey! Jim leapt to his feet. We're all stuck here so how about we have pizza? It's on me! Pizza for everyone! He fished out his cellphone. How many pizzas was that going to be? He asked if people wanted all-dressed or vegetarian or what? People weren't saying, but he knew how that worked. They were afraid they were going to have to pay. I'm paying, he shouted. It's my job to make sure you're happy. He started turning it into a game, guessing who wanted cheese and who wanted all-dressed. Jim was a bolt of skinny energy with long hair and baseball cap, determined that everyone was going to have a slice of pizza. </span><p></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcxpeib2fcWQGc4S6HmdsQKEsS9UgSQ3UmkWRAnP4nPKABntm3dXRP1rTjR_w5I7TZRRVH49MXObMyZ5FuKm9NaF45b2bEWsbZckVkOAsucCgpSyFGaQ6h0spS3u21Ze4XdfxXSxWTFV62HrdaRBAPtpM7z3f3p5OciTtTA-TkNYfc6paXZ0IupjL4SnPE/s648/IMG_3462.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="648" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcxpeib2fcWQGc4S6HmdsQKEsS9UgSQ3UmkWRAnP4nPKABntm3dXRP1rTjR_w5I7TZRRVH49MXObMyZ5FuKm9NaF45b2bEWsbZckVkOAsucCgpSyFGaQ6h0spS3u21Ze4XdfxXSxWTFV62HrdaRBAPtpM7z3f3p5OciTtTA-TkNYfc6paXZ0IupjL4SnPE/s320/IMG_3462.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span>Steve thought this guy shouting about pizza was hilarious. He'd started filming on his phone. He doubted it was going to happen. Look at how he pretended to check the time on his watch--only he wasn't even wearing a watch! What a hoot. Steve winked at other people and shook his head. </span><span>Can you believe this guy?</span><span> </span><span>You bet, he was going to post this on FB! </span></p><p><span><br /></span></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXA8RjM7rObnAXUTK7yENRkggZ1Zc36hLU8sL0fpfOZOIPTlhLItU1sqhvS5fIBMRRLtJrTcpzF-xHGHhnkWICkYIzJ13LXoTFrOcKordF-Ay3FhIOXS_KxDteP49GfwoBgf8o14Z3QZef1oAby7gQdbN55CkSYrNNjDMf0qYhz8W9gjzOXH3OAnP9FcUv/s648/IMG_3474.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="648" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXA8RjM7rObnAXUTK7yENRkggZ1Zc36hLU8sL0fpfOZOIPTlhLItU1sqhvS5fIBMRRLtJrTcpzF-xHGHhnkWICkYIzJ13LXoTFrOcKordF-Ay3FhIOXS_KxDteP49GfwoBgf8o14Z3QZef1oAby7gQdbN55CkSYrNNjDMf0qYhz8W9gjzOXH3OAnP9FcUv/s320/IMG_3474.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Steve was on his way to see Pierre, whom he'd met online and who was going to take him on the big ferris wheel in Old Montreal and show him the Village. Steve hadn't told Pierre that he was afraid of heights. Talking was going to be complicated since Pierre didn't speak English and Steve didn't speak French, but Steve had the Duolingo app on his phone and was going to practice on the train. (Which I can tell you he did, because Steve sat next to us and he had not brought earphones.) <p></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgglSjqA2eCeI7cm_czb3KpLozX31N3OH-NGJG7ikApLrKMJrKPoLBIWg3qrQKGxfgU6YB6qdWs50j3yN6ZMLhKVgnwp6lzUO0y0YlGVyGxxdh045jr34_UmHTtluBLvHyEnLsxAiEUy0Yl_YfakKpxlTL2YCOIrgnMqPBBS0UXQmOpqOvxhaOh_iWnmral/s648/IMG_3358.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgglSjqA2eCeI7cm_czb3KpLozX31N3OH-NGJG7ikApLrKMJrKPoLBIWg3qrQKGxfgU6YB6qdWs50j3yN6ZMLhKVgnwp6lzUO0y0YlGVyGxxdh045jr34_UmHTtluBLvHyEnLsxAiEUy0Yl_YfakKpxlTL2YCOIrgnMqPBBS0UXQmOpqOvxhaOh_iWnmral/w640-h480/IMG_3358.jpeg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span><br />Nobody in the waiting room thought they would see Jim again once he disappeared to "get the pizzas", but then he burst through the doors with a stack of pizza boxes, paper plates and napkins. He said he hadn't remembered what everyone wanted but he'd got a good selection and he walked from one person to the next with an open box in each hand. He called the men Sir and the women Ma'am or Miss. Not everyone accepted a piece, but when they saw that other people were having pizza and Jim refused all offers of payment, they did. Jim told everyone that it was important to be generous when we could and right now he was the one being generous. We're all stuck here, waiting for a train, so let's make the most of it! </span><p></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB5LWB9vB-SD_-Qxmj0Y8mIpHNVH6JCctlo4n77XwzNegm_9TLXCWacKIwbZBQpio6uoRoLlZ_4UYpO5__4MBqsVrGwAc-hQ6yBoAKAiV0KZGdnVnmDsDnlIsX1GEmlPXo8HtA1cqvxrvIMoLhXmYKZ4KB3CkLeMFS3pxJLqadPsDPhoOo1vRvjSHPg8W3/s648/IMG_3507.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB5LWB9vB-SD_-Qxmj0Y8mIpHNVH6JCctlo4n77XwzNegm_9TLXCWacKIwbZBQpio6uoRoLlZ_4UYpO5__4MBqsVrGwAc-hQ6yBoAKAiV0KZGdnVnmDsDnlIsX1GEmlPXo8HtA1cqvxrvIMoLhXmYKZ4KB3CkLeMFS3pxJLqadPsDPhoOo1vRvjSHPg8W3/w640-h480/IMG_3507.jpeg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span><br />One woman said she was sorry, she couldn't eat pizza. What she needed was a piece of fruit. But that was her problem, not his, she said. She complimented Jim on being so generous with the pizza. </span><p></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-4Lbyxq0UyICL2Cc0PwjjWhPEj7An19i8YjJdKC-A7kCyUgg6uXVCzeYuNeoXWPxQqlNIIbWqSgaKQkoYBN7ZNyRTQjs7zgmq4L3MXseuJi1v8fESFvP3-B_0X1jRiLN6NEHVANPAhVyYRNDtENbG4qTz5_IHakaEKhwhaP5-u0k5BFLgvt4sK2jT_5do/s648/IMG_3316.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="545" data-original-width="648" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-4Lbyxq0UyICL2Cc0PwjjWhPEj7An19i8YjJdKC-A7kCyUgg6uXVCzeYuNeoXWPxQqlNIIbWqSgaKQkoYBN7ZNyRTQjs7zgmq4L3MXseuJi1v8fESFvP3-B_0X1jRiLN6NEHVANPAhVyYRNDtENbG4qTz5_IHakaEKhwhaP5-u0k5BFLgvt4sK2jT_5do/w400-h336/IMG_3316.jpeg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span><br />Steve had three slices of pizza on a plate on his lap and was asking Jim where he'd come from. Miramichi! And he could tell you everything you wanted to know about fisheries and why you should NEVER eat lobster in Toronto. There had been time in jail too, but he wasn't guilty. He'd taken the rap anyhow, because what could you do? He had no regrets. </span><p></p><p><span>Annie had decided to sit next to Fernando who had sad eyes and looked lonely. When she took a slice of pizza, she offered to give Jim a kiss. That was payment he happily stooped to receive. Have some pizza, she chided Fernando. You have to trust people. We could both die tonight but look at me, I'm not afraid to die and I probably have cancer. She had already guessed that Fernando would sit with her on the train and they would talk until late into the night, telling each other secrets, and that they would fall asleep with their heads touching. She hoped he didn't snore because she'd hated how her husband had snored. Do you snore? she asked bluntly--but hadn't meant to say it so loudly that several people sitting around glanced across to hear his answer. He blushed and said he didn't think so. With such a sweet blush, she would forgive him even if he did. It was only for a night.</span></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6asbddCSFQJ9H9Ztbc6TeCABytdJBK1cMg-sBQrykAZjaGP5zugQQphl6wYYQPcnzfsQ4I5U_tAKkfdvaWUBlsw-3sZNazAQkfklMUfUx2FPJocXPVk_0-db3HDyqgB-oHje6UQ1WNOy_K-S65_cvDEwuILu9CYxYRTTSXOwzt7lMgl4r6Ifa9JFcaAiy/s648/IMG_3483.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6asbddCSFQJ9H9Ztbc6TeCABytdJBK1cMg-sBQrykAZjaGP5zugQQphl6wYYQPcnzfsQ4I5U_tAKkfdvaWUBlsw-3sZNazAQkfklMUfUx2FPJocXPVk_0-db3HDyqgB-oHje6UQ1WNOy_K-S65_cvDEwuILu9CYxYRTTSXOwzt7lMgl4r6Ifa9JFcaAiy/w640-h480/IMG_3483.jpeg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span><br />At intervals there were announcements that the train was delayed another few moments. People would groan, but now it was a communal, we're all in this together sound. Someone was streaming country and western loudly on the phone. Annie said it put her in the mood to dance. Fernando looked alarmed and she patted his arm and said that was all right. </span><p></p><p><span>Even the woman, who was still expecting to have the supper that came with the cost of her sleeper, had had pizza. Nobody had noticed that Jim had once again disappeared--until he burst through the doors with his duffel bag over his shoulder, reached into it with a flourish and presented the woman who said she needed a piece of fruit with a pomegranate. </span></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgic1WocdO3dlxkkjwIURrmWHx5ilKY1odDgzs7jJT6q6QmMRMsLfXThPtb2UPxvLjkiC168cjuEaCQRLj0s4dalF3sCfo8s4O9spcVxdEiqndePdoxu16vZkd7dCuFu6ULF_PbSEoqfZEKBMosCLFO0E2vsnx2O6Tz9XUtI24lSpZbAqe1KzbTqcR-NqVf/s648/IMG_3418.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgic1WocdO3dlxkkjwIURrmWHx5ilKY1odDgzs7jJT6q6QmMRMsLfXThPtb2UPxvLjkiC168cjuEaCQRLj0s4dalF3sCfo8s4O9spcVxdEiqndePdoxu16vZkd7dCuFu6ULF_PbSEoqfZEKBMosCLFO0E2vsnx2O6Tz9XUtI24lSpZbAqe1KzbTqcR-NqVf/w400-h300/IMG_3418.jpeg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span><br />Steve now insisted on a selfie with Jim--and the woman who posed before them with the pomegranate on her open palm. Steve explained that he was filming because he was a musician and his fans had asked him to post a play by play account of his trip. He showed people sitting nearby pics of himself in his sequined shirt. His singing rosary video on Youtube had over a million hits. People loved it! </span><p></p><p><span>Jim did a last round of the waiting room with the remaining pizza. </span>Only once he was satisfied that everyone was as happy as they could be waiting for a train that was late did he sit and take a fat, homemade sandwich from his duffel bag. No pizza for him, thanks. </p><p>The algorithm of country and western music had segued into Christmas songs. The train must have sped up. The last few announcements were that the train was arriving sooner--by all of four minutes since the previous announcement--though it was still over an hour and a half late. Ah, who cared? We would get to wherever we were going when we got there. </p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYKZdZvpZDRCnJcrH1jqzgCvK2uJXzeYmQ5gmXUWV2WL9-9c1a04-ZhEDgcdoj496c6Irk882SpkxDrsPxJGyePq0XiFlxaCMHLpDfgyzQSRE9h9JTstklgwVpsW89rAPDJOVAEtWqq31obq8wXZnPqMJf-bskR3BBnw1hu99ta-bBEE--LdLyj3Aqi94n/s1722/Screenshot%202023-08-01%20at%2012.02.24%20PM.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1017" data-original-width="1722" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYKZdZvpZDRCnJcrH1jqzgCvK2uJXzeYmQ5gmXUWV2WL9-9c1a04-ZhEDgcdoj496c6Irk882SpkxDrsPxJGyePq0XiFlxaCMHLpDfgyzQSRE9h9JTstklgwVpsW89rAPDJOVAEtWqq31obq8wXZnPqMJf-bskR3BBnw1hu99ta-bBEE--LdLyj3Aqi94n/s320/Screenshot%202023-08-01%20at%2012.02.24%20PM.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span><br />R had cycled from Montreal to Moncton. I had taken the train to Moncton and we'd crossed to Prince Edward Island. We were now heading home. Here is the route he cycled, approx 2000 km.</span><p></p><p><span><br /></span></p><p><span><br /></span></p><p><span><br /></span></p><p><span><br /></span></p><p><span>When you spend 18 hours on a train with the small group of people with whom you were waiting for it arrive, you get to hear their stories. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKW1yTVc92MLI2SCkGGMVGdWFoVwzYS2vMIRbqG2_JHlfjpX9mcAaM6wPztkCbnRvgp0sqGltlgpl54cLZ_9MqsqU7epDL8AK68sKSNqHS8hk_pyiUPEEtlR4YNm7v7z8XEiPjzcm5Zc3rAJWHPhrApljPe1lZPw1qvozYECd9dU2kQTU0iblNzjHUmQCl/s720/IMG_3331.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKW1yTVc92MLI2SCkGGMVGdWFoVwzYS2vMIRbqG2_JHlfjpX9mcAaM6wPztkCbnRvgp0sqGltlgpl54cLZ_9MqsqU7epDL8AK68sKSNqHS8hk_pyiUPEEtlR4YNm7v7z8XEiPjzcm5Zc3rAJWHPhrApljPe1lZPw1qvozYECd9dU2kQTU0iblNzjHUmQCl/w400-h300/IMG_3331.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02246669291440115585noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918809780977867389.post-37205702010807484442023-06-19T13:36:00.001-04:002023-06-19T13:37:42.001-04:00a snagged bracelet, gin and wildflowers / la Gaspésie May-June 2023<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq4THKNjw6saSFHJAshSaL1I9IcrJNsUaUQRdloaaLFBw4zrL9awdHJ4FP04dWnIu4zAFunSMlJmGgLB0Z3l4fuSh8hQtwI-Af1W4JY8t46UE_otYHeFZs-giKKzyLNF3rHlqdU9fAkQ65uPnpw6ioSwviggkoZH2MpLsg3WvzmrS3DIMiK9jBpRwbYQ/s720/IMG_2843.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq4THKNjw6saSFHJAshSaL1I9IcrJNsUaUQRdloaaLFBw4zrL9awdHJ4FP04dWnIu4zAFunSMlJmGgLB0Z3l4fuSh8hQtwI-Af1W4JY8t46UE_otYHeFZs-giKKzyLNF3rHlqdU9fAkQ65uPnpw6ioSwviggkoZH2MpLsg3WvzmrS3DIMiK9jBpRwbYQ/w640-h480/IMG_2843.jpeg" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><p><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4NOzvWghhZ9N-kGf3kMoxgD5k_D95tbB0CR6Vpz5bwemtR2LVWjK27QK_jo6IWCeWzO_J-fb_dzPHJWfLfhDCnfSj5uPBtmtbs5BhhvOi47Z0JGcCkBLDrNaNy4Xb6Ky4HaLktNDdONt4duz_CDBZkxwU2ZB44LjWY9UNZ5tjIAC-1uaiUI22V9I7Kg/s648/path%20in%20woods.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="648" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4NOzvWghhZ9N-kGf3kMoxgD5k_D95tbB0CR6Vpz5bwemtR2LVWjK27QK_jo6IWCeWzO_J-fb_dzPHJWfLfhDCnfSj5uPBtmtbs5BhhvOi47Z0JGcCkBLDrNaNy4Xb6Ky4HaLktNDdONt4duz_CDBZkxwU2ZB44LjWY9UNZ5tjIAC-1uaiUI22V9I7Kg/s320/path%20in%20woods.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>A month by the sea. </span><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The light, the water, the sky move constantly. The very first tiny wildflowers were opening. White treacleberry. Purple wood violets. Fiddleheads unfurled, becoming fiddles. Heaps of moose poop. The clothesline-that-needs-oil keen of the blue jays. The white-throated sparrows orchestrating a companionable round of song from high in the spruce trees. A fox leisurely crossing the neighbour’s yard in afternoon sunlight that turned her bushy tail a pale, post-winter gold. The enormous crows. </span><p></p><p class="p2" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbA8iJuZ8v5LmQLZkiZGzpYPjkSQowwcraElWj7Tr4DSB7tPD1N3FgjfwVDCE6we3sWWz2RUcTVj2ieSsRzAZ979V4JLi_Gpj7tAq3MHaN--S0IBp0fcO0xO8h6NUjITzFgGq1kcRQwz9zxlQekjtJsxd6yfvZPN_XdRSfaGVjQq_dJj7pWaLrIdmzSA/s648/early%20sunset.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="424" data-original-width="648" height="418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbA8iJuZ8v5LmQLZkiZGzpYPjkSQowwcraElWj7Tr4DSB7tPD1N3FgjfwVDCE6we3sWWz2RUcTVj2ieSsRzAZ979V4JLi_Gpj7tAq3MHaN--S0IBp0fcO0xO8h6NUjITzFgGq1kcRQwz9zxlQekjtJsxd6yfvZPN_XdRSfaGVjQq_dJj7pWaLrIdmzSA/w640-h418/early%20sunset.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><p></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKHJlGd7ANA2F8Y2OWdb1sdOIpkl2rDkUZ8AFZjam08mzEYn2MZ2VvAV9vIw7jT1edgcG6ixU82KwyGwnpNzov8CPzlrsCMoIkYoyVazS9lgo59y6pZ5ZIelIEXaJYq-EyQf6H1-b23k_yaiwE5qUH6mHWVg9W6FIUb9Py3wrwzCM4uoznytbJHEAvCw/s648/dandelions.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKHJlGd7ANA2F8Y2OWdb1sdOIpkl2rDkUZ8AFZjam08mzEYn2MZ2VvAV9vIw7jT1edgcG6ixU82KwyGwnpNzov8CPzlrsCMoIkYoyVazS9lgo59y6pZ5ZIelIEXaJYq-EyQf6H1-b23k_yaiwE5qUH6mHWVg9W6FIUb9Py3wrwzCM4uoznytbJHEAvCw/w400-h300/dandelions.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">There wasn’t as much snowmelt rushing down the hills and the banks to the shore as there usually is. Most years I can’t walk along the beach because the rivulets are too wide and deep for me to cross. </span><p></p><p class="p2" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT6zv0_bHf3ixtAbVYgw9cFGwLDWvv0SX65Gi1ARW26BotxhbT2H9JJKAFtznL-Ya2vQc165XVCmejqUe2xTEzEtwx56bMeu8ZSmTH_n33zO3mfwqV3WSAS7NcqoFyxowiD4uzQsGvTasFg0ydqm-2I0o3sHxrJL6aepVixXNgul6acb03fPDm0KxPBg/s1200/seal.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="902" data-original-width="1200" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT6zv0_bHf3ixtAbVYgw9cFGwLDWvv0SX65Gi1ARW26BotxhbT2H9JJKAFtznL-Ya2vQc165XVCmejqUe2xTEzEtwx56bMeu8ZSmTH_n33zO3mfwqV3WSAS7NcqoFyxowiD4uzQsGvTasFg0ydqm-2I0o3sHxrJL6aepVixXNgul6acb03fPDm0KxPBg/w400-h301/seal.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;">One day when we were walking we saw a fat log up ahead on the beach. Then the head moved and I thought of a dog wrapped in a thick blanket. A few more steps. Too large for a dog. Too fat for a blanket. We wondered if the seal was hurt and had washed ashore, but she looked inquisitive and alert—even friendly. We kept a respectful distance. Ten minutes later, when we turned and looked back, she’d swum back into the surf.</span></div><div><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDhfQR1dbbM_SMpgtMEfb6Y6GEL-48gQZK40b8DIoNMFzcXSwkAvDw4_5VzhxgTykhmyqyIbInU865w5Cqol90LSBTDy3o10USqk2ZJ-AHLszqkh9zEBxTpKulZR4sLrgh1kZ4epP6G39jH-w_BcLet_1tiZyW2nVk0Fusq7LVH6ZMReCk7m-m15cM45m5/s720/cantine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="430" data-original-width="720" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDhfQR1dbbM_SMpgtMEfb6Y6GEL-48gQZK40b8DIoNMFzcXSwkAvDw4_5VzhxgTykhmyqyIbInU865w5Cqol90LSBTDy3o10USqk2ZJ-AHLszqkh9zEBxTpKulZR4sLrgh1kZ4epP6G39jH-w_BcLet_1tiZyW2nVk0Fusq7LVH6ZMReCk7m-m15cM45m5/w400-h239/cantine.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">It is always big news when a new cantine/canteen opens. Frîtes, poutines, hotdogs, guédilles (like a lobster roll but on a hotdog bun and can be made with shrimp or crab and I don’t know what else, I’ve never been tempted), club sandwiches, etc. This new cantine is on the main drag (which is also the only drag) in Mont St Pierre. The cook has hefty tattooed arms, an equally generous application of eye makeup, makes excellent fast food as the crowded parking lot will attest, remembers her regulars and the variations they like. No pickle for you! I gave you extra onion! Except it was the lunch rush and she’d snagged her bracelet on the catch of the screen window she’d opened to set out an order. Maudit! Tabernak! She couldn’t free herself and wouldn’t let anyone help. Her assistant paced in the tiny kitchen but didn’t dare go close. Customers backed up as well as they could in the narrow space, but also not wanting to lose their spot in line. The mayor’s wife, who sat on one of the window stools eating a poutine, got up and said, Let me. You cannot tell the mayor’s wife to mind her own fucking business.</span><p></p><p class="p2" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxtGJPYdSUXEelgUMu3hI-RxZSOEsOJcO28lbx8FZau8uxNXndiixGfFcu4TaoX4hUu3qcMWVL0k7FxXrkSQCzlqktvccpMMmx-PZpdWwX5iqmllPcXw2lhsJODyQEOv_XLpp2Q-xTuxNIRUnE70ZcIJ23XwavZf8c9UJLZRBXyex9FQcTplaWmllEDQ/s648/red%20houses.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxtGJPYdSUXEelgUMu3hI-RxZSOEsOJcO28lbx8FZau8uxNXndiixGfFcu4TaoX4hUu3qcMWVL0k7FxXrkSQCzlqktvccpMMmx-PZpdWwX5iqmllPcXw2lhsJODyQEOv_XLpp2Q-xTuxNIRUnE70ZcIJ23XwavZf8c9UJLZRBXyex9FQcTplaWmllEDQ/w640-h480/red%20houses.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">R overheard forestry workers say that in the interior of the peninsula it was 38C. The trees were dry and with so many forest fires elsewhere in the province, people were anxious. We were lucky because the next day it rained--heavily. In some places in the Gaspé, 100 mm came down and there was flooding. </span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;">We attended a community hotdog and pétanque event in Rivière-à-Claude, a village that in 2016 had the debatable honour of housing the oldest population in the province of Quebec with a median age of 59. </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://plus.lapresse.ca/screens/84f67d8b-7033-461c-bdfd-b3a95899b4ec%7CbGTfI4tXCERH.html">https://plus.lapresse.ca/screens/84f67d8b-7033-461c-bdfd-b3a95899b4ec%7CbGTfI4tXCERH.html</a></span></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWvXWBrL1wlbxcmjBe9vXH0wwvQBcF1N2ujSYNIVXuwK8EHdcu8fMeZ4rNvc6JO187NMqoLyIP7qpXDOa78h_KbWr0uIiqXZbUcqckSJyH1nGU8f-kCE7oYjPyNRn9e-YywbhMC8aA9737EG1UlUPILG_xnmC83irowzvXq9Iel60qZNXjjXpQM9O6nw/s720/farmJPEG.JPEG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWvXWBrL1wlbxcmjBe9vXH0wwvQBcF1N2ujSYNIVXuwK8EHdcu8fMeZ4rNvc6JO187NMqoLyIP7qpXDOa78h_KbWr0uIiqXZbUcqckSJyH1nGU8f-kCE7oYjPyNRn9e-YywbhMC8aA9737EG1UlUPILG_xnmC83irowzvXq9Iel60qZNXjjXpQM9O6nw/w400-h300/farmJPEG.JPEG" width="400" /></a></span></div><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;">The article is called, "The end of an epoque", but in the meantime a group of young people ‘from away’ realized that the broad valley behind the village had a microclimate suited for farming. Bravo! I love these people. Here’s a picture from the farm last summer.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span><p></p><p class="p2" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In the hills there are mountain bike trails and places to camp. <span style="font-family: inherit;"> Solar-powered yurts and cabins.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;">AND: there are children. Even the oldies in the village who grumble about the tie-dyed clothes and long hair are delighted to hear children laughing and running about.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Then, with the pandemic, the abandoned houses along the coast that had sat empty for years were bought and are now inhabited. I’m waiting for the next census report.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><p class="p2" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I spoke with a young man—ie young enough to be my grandchild—whose father bought the old church which they are turning into a gin distillery. I was interested in seeing the inside of the building before everything was dismantled and he offered to show me. He explained the layout they were planning as per government guidelines. Here for storage, here for production, here for receiving clients, and here in the balcony would be la salle de dégustation—the tasting room—with a view onto the sea and the cemetery.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtAINE1aF_8d8iZF3ca1L9aUheWo6Zer7Y1MvQkqCC9fQ-XZ7mMCBs-bT_AlVSZcRzAG5zwxF5hqza3OBoqxKW5lWfDobDW0-f7FOSsscfvDiJplhdIOK5yN0DpJcTG_vRTz9OhYr0apNHU26XDjz3Ya-BkINSv6MfznvYB-GqvegwnxibSXke8mfCLQ/s672/tasting%20room.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="672" data-original-width="504" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtAINE1aF_8d8iZF3ca1L9aUheWo6Zer7Y1MvQkqCC9fQ-XZ7mMCBs-bT_AlVSZcRzAG5zwxF5hqza3OBoqxKW5lWfDobDW0-f7FOSsscfvDiJplhdIOK5yN0DpJcTG_vRTz9OhYr0apNHU26XDjz3Ya-BkINSv6MfznvYB-GqvegwnxibSXke8mfCLQ/w300-h400/tasting%20room.jpg" width="300" /></a></span></div><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;"><br />The confessional and the pews were still in place. The altar had been pushed aside. On an inside cupboard door was a handwritten list for whoever once upon a time prepared the altar for mass. “Placer le ciboire s’il y a des hosties à consacrer. Vérifier lampion…"</span><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We talked about juniper berries and sourcing local legends for names for the different flavours of gin that he planned. I had just spent the week hearing male moose bellow from the forest that they were hot for a female. I said, How about L’Orignal Bandé? Moose with an Erection. He looked startled. I explained. </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Either that was too local for him or he didn't expect a woman of my age to say that. Hm, he said. Maybe.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #222222; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwK8waq7xk-KTZ2JQNo7JjTipWoOnii6jUK4ua_jm6sTZWWQN0T3gMpgueTYxM0qw8j3YXos8NJxLEA_suGFluHywjqIrReG6dEY9b-4To9ojtvWMANuJpy2kbYBsngIhyus80Td4sgJ5q5bIr9B-AXyxU68qZ_hkP4w1VlgfthWazX-RtNkyA29_ENSTT/s648/robert%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwK8waq7xk-KTZ2JQNo7JjTipWoOnii6jUK4ua_jm6sTZWWQN0T3gMpgueTYxM0qw8j3YXos8NJxLEA_suGFluHywjqIrReG6dEY9b-4To9ojtvWMANuJpy2kbYBsngIhyus80Td4sgJ5q5bIr9B-AXyxU68qZ_hkP4w1VlgfthWazX-RtNkyA29_ENSTT/w640-h480/robert%20.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">There is a long story about an old house that I won't tell here. </span><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGwD0FbnExer4sbj3LpnzGqASS73ore0r9KsVZPPnNynSwJKsrlvhGuVCz6BYW9UgxMuC05NqpO33qsZ8zutVnyuNdqbW8q35j2enAzQVoQFk2H1HNgtMbsLXhN_bv5mvhsMJcfSbmIDJghKtWv2017W6U4M8jo9sFifigHaQqciuukS0TZoaQXTHNmw/s648/buttercups.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="374" data-original-width="648" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGwD0FbnExer4sbj3LpnzGqASS73ore0r9KsVZPPnNynSwJKsrlvhGuVCz6BYW9UgxMuC05NqpO33qsZ8zutVnyuNdqbW8q35j2enAzQVoQFk2H1HNgtMbsLXhN_bv5mvhsMJcfSbmIDJghKtWv2017W6U4M8jo9sFifigHaQqciuukS0TZoaQXTHNmw/s320/buttercups.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We spotted our first forget-me-nots. The beach peas started blooming. The buttercups. </span></span></div><div><p></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The wind changed direction and we got Mordor sunsets.</span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHi22F40GQsNsQGmQz-R4S15EKSfURcPyCa9G6ukLcrZrlFxEHCI1rQq29HtR2z-K1vujC61nEl_MCX8BF4cWDOf8YVJaBqAohflZpi69IAJ2fFEvDg-077FjI0jW9Iu2Az7-yWcRVggXfSCHuioVJj2ta1O2UrmD0dSPSks4CR6A2_o10yoAmaipXNA/s720/sunset.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="479" data-original-width="720" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHi22F40GQsNsQGmQz-R4S15EKSfURcPyCa9G6ukLcrZrlFxEHCI1rQq29HtR2z-K1vujC61nEl_MCX8BF4cWDOf8YVJaBqAohflZpi69IAJ2fFEvDg-077FjI0jW9Iu2Az7-yWcRVggXfSCHuioVJj2ta1O2UrmD0dSPSks4CR6A2_o10yoAmaipXNA/w640-h426/sunset.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="color: #222222; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyhyCJnV3Y6LBQbilk1uG5LAz7hbzLObdRXwrr8Tl4NtD-DtQHG3CsMIm0Iuo3V21fgdO0Jos3IcX5Ewki1rNgCuJzkbZlIMl6zYGub5bscGndaOhD8Ue3_LGYrJkq_b04D0jdOQ7s4D0655rBMOBZmWXvCIOmiVHkrpm3NiRiZvpPt_hOY4ACYtiDFw/s648/Alice.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="537" data-original-width="648" height="331" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyhyCJnV3Y6LBQbilk1uG5LAz7hbzLObdRXwrr8Tl4NtD-DtQHG3CsMIm0Iuo3V21fgdO0Jos3IcX5Ewki1rNgCuJzkbZlIMl6zYGub5bscGndaOhD8Ue3_LGYrJkq_b04D0jdOQ7s4D0655rBMOBZmWXvCIOmiVHkrpm3NiRiZvpPt_hOY4ACYtiDFw/w400-h331/Alice.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /><span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /></span></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQkuzexnKmUkgZB6gxVsobuCEzuM4xko3HH5UffTgFqVP2kYzR2ySucwvbvPMsIF4yI2FX1_JqWdjiI_vnfiX-mkgTL29J3ZHqY81O6_JhWQvfxX84ac1pwvS_4vaaMuZ0UTTX9ns4HINWwaGa8-rA8iwTReKuo8q_0fh308GVSXBhHcxY7cJUrDNA9Q/s648/beer.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="510" data-original-width="648" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQkuzexnKmUkgZB6gxVsobuCEzuM4xko3HH5UffTgFqVP2kYzR2ySucwvbvPMsIF4yI2FX1_JqWdjiI_vnfiX-mkgTL29J3ZHqY81O6_JhWQvfxX84ac1pwvS_4vaaMuZ0UTTX9ns4HINWwaGa8-rA8iwTReKuo8q_0fh308GVSXBhHcxY7cJUrDNA9Q/w400-h315/beer.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p class="p3" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 10px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #222222;">Back in Montreal now.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="color: #222222;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #222222;">ps I apologize for the change in spacing and size of font, but Blogger has become increasingly not-user-friendly.</span><br /></span><p class="p3" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 10px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></p></div></div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02246669291440115585noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918809780977867389.post-84545666609502016542023-05-09T12:30:00.000-04:002023-05-09T12:30:48.252-04:00first story published / a new novel<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPj-2bpIAXGvI7qUK7xNJ-Z_u2RgFoGcSlBytyd5WmP5PMXyNSfBnWPz61OTyN25LhofDa-2CCIxUWjssEaUA2vaePe7rmrGSCvgQPrYsCaFvbi1UOGu2zqqHfY7nkvcFdsYB5p7Wg5qUn--dL1lVzcSQhwZ0SG4TgvLvDnR8y7ygM5gYYasZzqTUYQg/s720/IMG_2579.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="720" height="379" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPj-2bpIAXGvI7qUK7xNJ-Z_u2RgFoGcSlBytyd5WmP5PMXyNSfBnWPz61OTyN25LhofDa-2CCIxUWjssEaUA2vaePe7rmrGSCvgQPrYsCaFvbi1UOGu2zqqHfY7nkvcFdsYB5p7Wg5qUn--dL1lVzcSQhwZ0SG4TgvLvDnR8y7ygM5gYYasZzqTUYQg/w400-h379/IMG_2579.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Up there, where someone has painted SCRIBE? That's where I met the editors who published my first story in 1992.<p></p><p>It was an apartment, not an office. Drafty and cold, minimally furnished with sidewalk leavings. I remember cigarette smoke. We sat in the kitchen. Stephen Evans and Keith Marchand had started a magazine called <i>errata.</i> On the masthead they wrote, "An IBM or Macintosh format disk is appreciated." That's how long ago 1992 was. </p><p>I had typed my story, revised it as well as I could, and sent it off into the world with an SASE. How often have I done that since? Only now it's online via Submittable. I keep track of what I've sent where in a little notebook. I'm still using the same notebook. </p><p>I've googled Stephen Evans and Keith Marchand + writing + publishing, and get no hits. Where are they now? I only met them that one time and I don't think <i>errata</i> made it past the first few issues, despite their enthusiasm for keeping it going long enough to be able to get government grants. </p><p>When I go to the Jean Talon market or textile shopping on St. Hubert, and walk home along St. Laurent, of course I glance at the modest building where two guys whom I didn't know, who weren't friends or family, told me I'd written a good story they wanted to publish. Validation from the world, small as it was. That meant my words existed--for real!</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifFEm2KhVeBnfrbLnlOkte9D-mgDIHT0hzn_1ngJDI4eC_fsny7CU684Y_uIhq9pRqHbYhNawpwWg8bbT3y7quluIBv4Y-FsGfHegMkoUZ1sfJhqC5AC51GmpW9HHkHfxcaufFkFWTBKUvGfOv_FeWwSA0HDPwn4Gp1ffdu209_02GiTA1LdPtYns1ow/s592/IMG_2584.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="592" data-original-width="504" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifFEm2KhVeBnfrbLnlOkte9D-mgDIHT0hzn_1ngJDI4eC_fsny7CU684Y_uIhq9pRqHbYhNawpwWg8bbT3y7quluIBv4Y-FsGfHegMkoUZ1sfJhqC5AC51GmpW9HHkHfxcaufFkFWTBKUvGfOv_FeWwSA0HDPwn4Gp1ffdu209_02GiTA1LdPtYns1ow/w340-h400/IMG_2584.jpeg" width="340" /></a></div><div>How funny that all these years later SCRIBE shouts from the wall. FAVOP too, but I don't know what that means. A name? </div><div><br /></div><div>The words weren't there a couple of months ago when I last walked past. What are the chances that someone involved with writing or publishing lives there now? Maybe those brick walls radiate vibes that someone felt should be advertised. They would have needed scaffolding or ropes to do it. </div><div><br /></div><div>I've never stopped writing, though I am slow. Life gets in the way. I rewrite more than I write. The public aspect of being a writer in today's world gives me the heebie-jeebies. I have no playlist I want to share publicly. And yet, in my slow fashion, ignoring a heap of rejection letters that should have discouraged anyone sensible, I continue to write since it's what I most love to do. Characters and their stories absorb me.<p>And so: I will have a new novel coming out with Freehand Books in the fall of 2024. I'm happy. I raise my glasses to SCRIBE.</p><p><br /></p></div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02246669291440115585noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918809780977867389.post-4466419133534426102023-03-25T18:52:00.000-04:002023-03-25T18:52:31.718-04:00needle doodle / "N'importe quoi"<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8xyhGqBDXtrjD0rET6ZQrqHSxS65R6BQEy9qVfDmJK6DwuWV9VSYB8QnITqUX6t9YL5FQPbKuPZnsJ-7Vuave0cMVF9AyiU6hBYcotco_k2D-d6jZ19et8jwjIzMkYfFzndbwWr4SuPNpX_Yh0V43Uw_CBR4yez37M_pGlpRdbB9Uhs1DaMoOk2QhIw/s629/IMG_2359.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="629" data-original-width="504" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8xyhGqBDXtrjD0rET6ZQrqHSxS65R6BQEy9qVfDmJK6DwuWV9VSYB8QnITqUX6t9YL5FQPbKuPZnsJ-7Vuave0cMVF9AyiU6hBYcotco_k2D-d6jZ19et8jwjIzMkYfFzndbwWr4SuPNpX_Yh0V43Uw_CBR4yez37M_pGlpRdbB9Uhs1DaMoOk2QhIw/w320-h400/IMG_2359.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>My neurologist asked years ago if I doodled. I told him I didn't. <p></p><p>A little scribbling while I'm talking on the phone? </p><p>No. </p><p>On the corner of a list? </p><p>No. </p><p>When my writing isn't going well and I've already got a pen in my hand? A little cross-hatching, maybe a few circles?</p><p>Definitely not. </p><p>Big sigh. There was a study that claimed all migrainers doodled. </p><p>That did not prompt me to go home and start doodling. Doodling is something you do or you don't. </p><p><br /></p><p>A couple of months ago, a children's toy and bookstore in Westmount closed. A friend went in and discovered that the store also stocked beautiful embroidery thread from Germany that the owner was selling at a huge discount. My friend bought some for herself and some for me. </p><p>I've embroidered in the past but never seriously. I like the textural look of embroidery. I go to textile museums and admire embroidery. I have a large textbook of embroidery stitches. I like working with yarn and with textiles. But to actually sit down and do embroidery? </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5yBUNP6qiLZuGqG5r9cKbjN5KwW8uVcaTviILSaWZaP-fNWfLyg4AMoB0kSknzORsbE9k94FPX51nLZqwuswPUk2M0-WDOu8OdGDrLTvYSIbKXFEXjRyvUSvYvUMgPjwg7nlT5RHHyju1fIkwmavGc7-gTLuMmjHYFsn7IPy8OJYTVxNLp4LB2ZX72w/s504/rosette%20chain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="376" data-original-width="504" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5yBUNP6qiLZuGqG5r9cKbjN5KwW8uVcaTviILSaWZaP-fNWfLyg4AMoB0kSknzORsbE9k94FPX51nLZqwuswPUk2M0-WDOu8OdGDrLTvYSIbKXFEXjRyvUSvYvUMgPjwg7nlT5RHHyju1fIkwmavGc7-gTLuMmjHYFsn7IPy8OJYTVxNLp4LB2ZX72w/w400-h299/rosette%20chain.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwIRuFqoQwiPqOm12aF6AKjiqt8qBfcUWDDdvoV_2_JnOQ0HgPo2jaqy7bwWX9oQE8lWpUW-Enritf5jOz8akE0X9YAW6Y1Lc0VRXkRRE0leJQe6QF_LgUl62FCJD94PpSkloxE2PPmNzvjla7WXN2BiRsd9SPfscU3blHnIXsTDI-0yzRW1JTgq1YpQ/s800/IMG_2137.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="560" data-original-width="800" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwIRuFqoQwiPqOm12aF6AKjiqt8qBfcUWDDdvoV_2_JnOQ0HgPo2jaqy7bwWX9oQE8lWpUW-Enritf5jOz8akE0X9YAW6Y1Lc0VRXkRRE0leJQe6QF_LgUl62FCJD94PpSkloxE2PPmNzvjla7WXN2BiRsd9SPfscU3blHnIXsTDI-0yzRW1JTgq1YpQ/w400-h280/IMG_2137.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br />I decided to see what this lovely coloured thread looked like if I stitched handmade paper. I have some from a paper manufacturer on the Lachine Canal called Papeterie St. Armand. They've been around since 1979. If you want to buy excellent, handmade paper, I cannot praise this place highly enough. <div><a href="http://www.st-armand.com/English/E02j-Cards.php">http://www.st-armand.com/English/E02j-Cards.php</a> </div><div>Since I'm not an artist, I get the N'importe quoi scrap bags. <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIUyQ69r2gFM8etPfYpQgr_k7Y9RZSZOLdg7rx4TuM1IUqdOCHlq0vVwlpluw5Yktc4vYim2yn9fsC_TOAbmp4f74FwnnmJodOj4EiN4f212xME7IXVZVmU3sCttF1Q5hBZsD_sqgSlanl_1K_y4wrcaMXHMk3YKm3zth8AIqDIusqzlt70vRSrFNr2Q/s500/IMG_2163.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="443" data-original-width="500" height="355" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIUyQ69r2gFM8etPfYpQgr_k7Y9RZSZOLdg7rx4TuM1IUqdOCHlq0vVwlpluw5Yktc4vYim2yn9fsC_TOAbmp4f74FwnnmJodOj4EiN4f212xME7IXVZVmU3sCttF1Q5hBZsD_sqgSlanl_1K_y4wrcaMXHMk3YKm3zth8AIqDIusqzlt70vRSrFNr2Q/w400-h355/IMG_2163.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh12eSXUGrLznFRsHG92vlyPy_WmHTI9259OxAh9Ls7UZvExS02HRBjRhQcXd1696pkl4Ze9wJhyPdZ7riTpOJ788uLsTrAHUgkk96Hn2YUePfK8YQ5scj6150LdOrtelGe9uXzWUcpvVGTDV188gLPn27gUHuoa2vROPagqB_lt1Vs6OHNvWvvFKMdOw/s576/IMG_2233.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="492" data-original-width="576" height="341" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh12eSXUGrLznFRsHG92vlyPy_WmHTI9259OxAh9Ls7UZvExS02HRBjRhQcXd1696pkl4Ze9wJhyPdZ7riTpOJ788uLsTrAHUgkk96Hn2YUePfK8YQ5scj6150LdOrtelGe9uXzWUcpvVGTDV188gLPn27gUHuoa2vROPagqB_lt1Vs6OHNvWvvFKMdOw/w400-h341/IMG_2233.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p>I LIKED stitching paper! Heavy paper lends itself to stitching a design much more easily than fabric that has to be fastened to a hoop. </p><p>I liked it so much that I walked up the hill to Westmount during a snowstorm to get more of this gorgeous embroidery floss. The store was closing the next day and the owner said to take as much as I could carry. She wanted to give me a large box but I was walking. I also didn't know how much thread I would ever use. </p><p>What a mistake. I should have stuffed my knapsack because I don't just like embroidering. I LOVE IT. Especially with these rich colours. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMEGPnoty0vtWm79SyORE9bPOG2R8Y1u4Zy5L_beF_mMyU_G8kz58OeTNRXCjssJbB4cXG5v6CJxBYHL9OCnwi9dHI1eTzm1B4DqozYbsJYQd1YlG_5cWdlF1um5ynA-Q0jZlMK0BS_uCQuGC3I3PvnO-WezJHa-Wmt4kEgpjKl6biVzSGAi5ibihl8A/s524/IMG_2358.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="524" data-original-width="504" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMEGPnoty0vtWm79SyORE9bPOG2R8Y1u4Zy5L_beF_mMyU_G8kz58OeTNRXCjssJbB4cXG5v6CJxBYHL9OCnwi9dHI1eTzm1B4DqozYbsJYQd1YlG_5cWdlF1um5ynA-Q0jZlMK0BS_uCQuGC3I3PvnO-WezJHa-Wmt4kEgpjKl6biVzSGAi5ibihl8A/s320/IMG_2358.jpeg" width="308" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>Those blank moments when I can't figure out where my writing is going next? I sit on my pea-green chair in the window and stitch a rosette chain or a few Palestrina knots. I get out my oil pastels for a change of texture. I sneak into R's studio and do some finger painting. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>I can now tell my neurologist that I doodle. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCqOBH9HZM6rltbHqDBjqjm8rUDykr6fvqCO8Lt6M6vSBiN4rZLo_iZMpctxU7wT_o9-bK8iCFkLXI_UpTMBur28KykFvER5UmkJVg-NZVtN1uNZxp_4_rG0V6PJIsXGuFi52-cG0XEfcElhP-ENbgQnDDI2o8uT4bO3eumFtYCOKbhY5tdndD4GgS8g/s700/randi%20card.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="527" data-original-width="700" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCqOBH9HZM6rltbHqDBjqjm8rUDykr6fvqCO8Lt6M6vSBiN4rZLo_iZMpctxU7wT_o9-bK8iCFkLXI_UpTMBur28KykFvER5UmkJVg-NZVtN1uNZxp_4_rG0V6PJIsXGuFi52-cG0XEfcElhP-ENbgQnDDI2o8uT4bO3eumFtYCOKbhY5tdndD4GgS8g/w400-h301/randi%20card.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p></div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02246669291440115585noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918809780977867389.post-88909880794897803242023-03-07T15:40:00.000-05:002023-03-07T15:40:57.334-05:00cartooning <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4iH3s1sJv2HdBvHRRYcm_hCJ1DKXIJDTUI8CsRJolOCMAM3sa_KkzAialr05Gk5r2B66RR398H-5-Fn23RN9dZUPEFZjlUX19af95ZSn-i8oBM3p863H2aIvwj3jJBWz2ygN1CF-JYaOtlvO6eJZfCvDVVIv7B6QAN4SFTAFq6lTd1IOsEV8qKX-8rA/s1464/Screenshot%202023-03-04%20at%2011.21.39%20AM.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1389" data-original-width="1464" height="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4iH3s1sJv2HdBvHRRYcm_hCJ1DKXIJDTUI8CsRJolOCMAM3sa_KkzAialr05Gk5r2B66RR398H-5-Fn23RN9dZUPEFZjlUX19af95ZSn-i8oBM3p863H2aIvwj3jJBWz2ygN1CF-JYaOtlvO6eJZfCvDVVIv7B6QAN4SFTAFq6lTd1IOsEV8qKX-8rA/w400-h380/Screenshot%202023-03-04%20at%2011.21.39%20AM.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-laPP34GidAl9e8Atk1CyTLpYhktmKS2SA6-czHULPNuWdV5Ccwv7Rq4jCyMUqaUi1RVbR3exF3tywTPx49XXSXAl8MURnFUxdI2amRcAsTLMU8mHsdK16zqkuw5bk9EXyWtqNZV5KOJcjfO5_pM78zDxjql49KdSxV0CPVIM0U0OsY7n-VDnbODifA/s1479/Screenshot%202023-03-04%20at%2011.22.40%20AM.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1417" data-original-width="1479" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-laPP34GidAl9e8Atk1CyTLpYhktmKS2SA6-czHULPNuWdV5Ccwv7Rq4jCyMUqaUi1RVbR3exF3tywTPx49XXSXAl8MURnFUxdI2amRcAsTLMU8mHsdK16zqkuw5bk9EXyWtqNZV5KOJcjfO5_pM78zDxjql49KdSxV0CPVIM0U0OsY7n-VDnbODifA/s320/Screenshot%202023-03-04%20at%2011.22.40%20AM.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>For as long as I've known R, he's drawn cartoons. I have one he did of me radiating menstrual cramps in front of the Eiffel Tower. It's an ugly portrait but it's in the nature of cartoons to exaggerate and I was having a seriously ugly day. It's my memento of Paris. <p></p><p>Recently a friend started a cartoon/comics course. She's enjoying it and was showing me what she was doing. </p><p>As we talked, I remembered that R once asked to me to write a story for him to illustrate. Years ago. I'd completely forgotten. I wrote the story in a couple of hours and there's not much to it. At that point I hadn't read any graphic novels yet. I assumed it would mostly be about the drawings. </p><p>R always has a few projects on the go and I didn't know he was working on the drawings until he showed them to me a year or so later. He'd painted approx 120 frames. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiiWDvBN5QUEmJL8fHHDQUOgqjP4nZxKXOx7jFY8XrpYYbEZFiC5SZe7W_CWDFKEm5egJF3yBAspNgYWqWyM_Tem_8WGVni4K_u_JgT6dH0wqF331ykrEmg4sLTi6Ok-CjXnUZ962QigZ2eauWLnw0NyDtMiAj4-Ga9cq99YEx1pbSKB2IOXnQeD4q8Q/s1441/hongrois.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1396" data-original-width="1441" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiiWDvBN5QUEmJL8fHHDQUOgqjP4nZxKXOx7jFY8XrpYYbEZFiC5SZe7W_CWDFKEm5egJF3yBAspNgYWqWyM_Tem_8WGVni4K_u_JgT6dH0wqF331ykrEmg4sLTi6Ok-CjXnUZ962QigZ2eauWLnw0NyDtMiAj4-Ga9cq99YEx1pbSKB2IOXnQeD4q8Q/s320/hongrois.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Unfortunately--though perhaps understandably for a writer--my reaction when he showed me was not to see the paintings, but that he'd included the messy first draft of the story I'd given him. I'd thought he was using it as a guide, not putting it in the cartoons. I said he needed to let me revise the wording. He said it was too late. I was in a state of writerly pique that he hadn't respected my work ethic. We argued. <p></p><p>Fifteen years passed and I was having a beer with my friend who was showing me the project she was working on for her course. When I came home, I asked R if he remembered that story he'd illustrated. He wasn't sure he still had it. He found it on Weebly where it's been hiding since 2007. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2XHcN1YkaiEQ7B32qcJsHhDsmXTbI3XdCtLOi_hiJFrj0y753U_qqv-AVxzFlS9XkMnBeMJ8m1JuspLlclseatZMuEezGgFy1B6pHjOSdBR1CSttCXHO0XjxLDzIe355XsebglBng3DnE8v3NWZAwEzw6kOLIrZussDc8E3z1OA5-AWtUbJBwTN24WA/s1369/bedroom.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1323" data-original-width="1369" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2XHcN1YkaiEQ7B32qcJsHhDsmXTbI3XdCtLOi_hiJFrj0y753U_qqv-AVxzFlS9XkMnBeMJ8m1JuspLlclseatZMuEezGgFy1B6pHjOSdBR1CSttCXHO0XjxLDzIe355XsebglBng3DnE8v3NWZAwEzw6kOLIrZussDc8E3z1OA5-AWtUbJBwTN24WA/s320/bedroom.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Now, when I look at it, I see the drawings. They're a record of a neighbourhood where we used to live in the late 90s--that doesn't look like that anymore. The cobbler who used sit on a kitchen chair on the sidewalk. The tatoo parlour. <div><br /></div><div>The story is thin, but at that time I was still figuring out a lot about writing myself. I still am. I also didn't know how serious R was. Next time--if there's a next time--I'll write a better story. And I'll revise it before I give it to R. <p></p><p>If you're interested meet Scribe: <a href="https://bobaube.weebly.com/index.html">https://bobaube.weebly.com/index.html</a> </p><p>Merci, D, for reminding me!</p></div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02246669291440115585noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918809780977867389.post-17414018966562263552023-02-07T20:22:00.000-05:002023-02-07T20:22:07.140-05:00the last noodle<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOOZ2nB-zyYLDksurM3EYSoM43Fg5G7tyAcOUg7mEKUj7tdo5W68Liqz6sOHfIn2VSY9AXaNxpe2Nayjc_f2s3MXjP3mm9wtvHaL3mx0uzZdpD5lMit1q7rH_3uUP9z2bfPEoREqSgzOmDNe2aIBkotWT64wTVJJAnG1mKIxyhO97UMso-3r9h74kZdA/s864/IMG_1593.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="760" data-original-width="864" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOOZ2nB-zyYLDksurM3EYSoM43Fg5G7tyAcOUg7mEKUj7tdo5W68Liqz6sOHfIn2VSY9AXaNxpe2Nayjc_f2s3MXjP3mm9wtvHaL3mx0uzZdpD5lMit1q7rH_3uUP9z2bfPEoREqSgzOmDNe2aIBkotWT64wTVJJAnG1mKIxyhO97UMso-3r9h74kZdA/s320/IMG_1593.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>I didn't cook noodles tonight so I don't have a pic with any bearing on this story. I'll show you a heart because hearts are my thing. Most of you have hearts that beat the way they're supposed to. Mine doesn't. Ça va, I'm still alive. <p></p><p>This heart was stitched with glass beads and nylon thread by Sarah Maloney in 2008. I believe I took the pic at the McCord Museum in Montreal. </p><p>Whatever I was doing in the kitchen this evening reminded me of the woman who told R (who told me) that she often felt like the last noodle in the pot. You know how there are always a couple of noodles stuck on the bottom of the pot? What did she mean? What does that feel like?</p><p>I've always wanted to add this to a story and never found the right place. </p><p>So before I forget, I'll put it here. If you can use it, it's yours. </p>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02246669291440115585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918809780977867389.post-75731677871201280112023-01-29T20:23:00.000-05:002023-01-29T20:23:07.417-05:00taking the train / winnipeg to toronto jan 2023<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwkeUYhxkN4ClF5aZnOUyyWPHVFLaonpwfWfLIgv4ld05CNTv_vUVG1nd5jgSfEXhQSCyhnlz8X0tDCpbtUuttdx8kaPXaI62mtZgp2pEd6CXO1TpmI7KdM8RrVjXiKecQ8F0hzBcIorbFJDlEEXWPig-13kDt7TFStCJEszpxvy_EGHMLSE6338eF_A/s709/basketball.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="709" data-original-width="576" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwkeUYhxkN4ClF5aZnOUyyWPHVFLaonpwfWfLIgv4ld05CNTv_vUVG1nd5jgSfEXhQSCyhnlz8X0tDCpbtUuttdx8kaPXaI62mtZgp2pEd6CXO1TpmI7KdM8RrVjXiKecQ8F0hzBcIorbFJDlEEXWPig-13kDt7TFStCJEszpxvy_EGHMLSE6338eF_A/w325-h400/basketball.jpg" width="325" /></a></div><br />On the very last days of 2022 R and I travelled to Winnipeg to visit our friends whose boys we've known since they were babies. All but the youngest is taller than I am now. <p>The weather was mild, considering that we were in Winnipeg in the winter. Only about -8C. For a few days there was no wind and the hoarfrost was impressive. </p><p>We walked for long afternoons and into the dusk, often on the Assiniboine River, once on the Red, also on smaller rivers where one of our young friends who's enamoured of ice fishing set up his equipment that now includes a sonic device he built himself. I have to admit I wasn't paying as much attention to his enthusiastic explanation of its workings as to moon that was visible at 2:30 pm. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrUA-B5w7sHQN7VFFBCm-ovroBBUX8V9RavC1I5JjUSRa21Gtq-3TY5xx7G6bGYFa1gqOtagdsDRhcZZcpokzvfsIN7V6bs-12uPle6eKepmP4CTXLj58NpwWpHc1-KoNDX3xGBiaOqv4nuqT1xEtmlHM3HnDBbmddgs_Q7WEOA6fn_uOhFM-siJAUNg/s720/hoarfrost.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrUA-B5w7sHQN7VFFBCm-ovroBBUX8V9RavC1I5JjUSRa21Gtq-3TY5xx7G6bGYFa1gqOtagdsDRhcZZcpokzvfsIN7V6bs-12uPle6eKepmP4CTXLj58NpwWpHc1-KoNDX3xGBiaOqv4nuqT1xEtmlHM3HnDBbmddgs_Q7WEOA6fn_uOhFM-siJAUNg/w400-h300/hoarfrost.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqEOhvRTieqM_6HpIbDlvtieJcaPtft8Va8970MnEJBHo3wDpQOgjCMKmJZ_LtftPZDPnti5VHXN1GZFsEPGCOmc5xtAbVUTVpXBBh-MqVqgbIs66aGabxp05cVE_92PF9XQTApzqxOWum1XwtWvpfu2jCwfzxaT5WzcHThFAJ6NBfEymPSDbITZoKiA/s648/assiniboine.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqEOhvRTieqM_6HpIbDlvtieJcaPtft8Va8970MnEJBHo3wDpQOgjCMKmJZ_LtftPZDPnti5VHXN1GZFsEPGCOmc5xtAbVUTVpXBBh-MqVqgbIs66aGabxp05cVE_92PF9XQTApzqxOWum1XwtWvpfu2jCwfzxaT5WzcHThFAJ6NBfEymPSDbITZoKiA/w400-h300/assiniboine.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPEjHiox05xw_uthaczGESMIdCFLMU-hN7Cnl5eerE_uNPx2Eb0fnvdQsVzfAYuntrvDEpA-WiEZTyY21e570Mli7dfDL-zIB2YzV6uCEYQQBymUCUcK69imkwjxFLLUqSOG9r4ItuuVOKnGLnP2mstVtgl6ppXhCok-Yk0nf8BoWagrWLGQdiMBxJNQ/s672/moon%20in%20sky.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="672" data-original-width="504" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPEjHiox05xw_uthaczGESMIdCFLMU-hN7Cnl5eerE_uNPx2Eb0fnvdQsVzfAYuntrvDEpA-WiEZTyY21e570Mli7dfDL-zIB2YzV6uCEYQQBymUCUcK69imkwjxFLLUqSOG9r4ItuuVOKnGLnP2mstVtgl6ppXhCok-Yk0nf8BoWagrWLGQdiMBxJNQ/w300-h400/moon%20in%20sky.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>I lay in the snow a lot because it makes a firm mattress that moulds to the body, and cold through my coat feels delicious when I'm overheated from trudging along for a couple of hours. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>To return to Montreal, R and I took the train. I wasn't sure whether I would like a 38-hr trip, but R convinced me with his sketches from a previous trip. I wanted to see winter in Northern Ontario. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCNXNtcR83cCS4njKSkxsRoQO_c7TyDCyf3JVuWFdET9fkbTDLBTDVdXMrXfZaDzNLz5xfCAjayDovm6-60RFTA0qM5gP89AV65a8uDqnRB8TEPPxc6bGr410EvYnyrn1Tn1RUsrKkp3jYKcAYzU-96mHb1YJwROHOxT9fKpYgp_LtcCgiSMhv9Q0eXg/s439/img547.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="303" data-original-width="439" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCNXNtcR83cCS4njKSkxsRoQO_c7TyDCyf3JVuWFdET9fkbTDLBTDVdXMrXfZaDzNLz5xfCAjayDovm6-60RFTA0qM5gP89AV65a8uDqnRB8TEPPxc6bGr410EvYnyrn1Tn1RUsrKkp3jYKcAYzU-96mHb1YJwROHOxT9fKpYgp_LtcCgiSMhv9Q0eXg/w400-h276/img547.JPEG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div>How far north does the train go? Farther north than the Great Lakes. <div> <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj5rRp-7OQ67K9gehhJoKqtDWqGBVuO8q3e2fQF2wPaljX8T-AsmAbL2ZIayipDQ4gYe-UlOPFHnZsJjlcVDm15-_GLXVpVVtabp6HuJcEoPo5P-I_7f7FI6okO2wvuv2Io94V6J9s_ySESK5--Ei7ZxtT8FcipsRJWJCbTDBoQrj9ll6OcJlzaYhMcg/s1304/train%20winnipeg%20to%20toronto%20.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="1304" height="122" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj5rRp-7OQ67K9gehhJoKqtDWqGBVuO8q3e2fQF2wPaljX8T-AsmAbL2ZIayipDQ4gYe-UlOPFHnZsJjlcVDm15-_GLXVpVVtabp6HuJcEoPo5P-I_7f7FI6okO2wvuv2Io94V6J9s_ySESK5--Ei7ZxtT8FcipsRJWJCbTDBoQrj9ll6OcJlzaYhMcg/w400-h122/train%20winnipeg%20to%20toronto%20.png" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>And although it's a long trip, I could walk around--as I often did--and eavesdrop on the pockets of talk around me. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzvEELvLZ2vA02gdYuH_t8uNWqdCGKxcGzsCZ0WmnIHWgEIb-JuiUf3T-UBZIaDkTK4WKr7kUQtlDSHvQxwpE-Ny02GHHuWQDPk4QZgpmrUCaiGiMchOGdJo3DGb7ZI-FtpmKNdI-JWQNNjcqT-H9PpGxYjT06sfrIP5cf7pfsW-EmmgboRYZewjGlpQ/s720/snow.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzvEELvLZ2vA02gdYuH_t8uNWqdCGKxcGzsCZ0WmnIHWgEIb-JuiUf3T-UBZIaDkTK4WKr7kUQtlDSHvQxwpE-Ny02GHHuWQDPk4QZgpmrUCaiGiMchOGdJo3DGb7ZI-FtpmKNdI-JWQNNjcqT-H9PpGxYjT06sfrIP5cf7pfsW-EmmgboRYZewjGlpQ/w640-h480/snow.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoximKN6w65-ctKp7J5Nqe5y4YdFZ0hGDFm4xLFqjMb4CoJeP8xxY44RF0wsErWJhoZ6TsIiHPwaoPMdQufbaJudmZX-opfEpgBHQI0yKN8KQPFXjZb0nl3ZUfdP-oQIykeP6vvSCzmc22Bjr9H5wAIuF-Cpf1obP8QHUpY-uFhCvl9EMNlsHt6A0O5g/s648/snaking%20train.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoximKN6w65-ctKp7J5Nqe5y4YdFZ0hGDFm4xLFqjMb4CoJeP8xxY44RF0wsErWJhoZ6TsIiHPwaoPMdQufbaJudmZX-opfEpgBHQI0yKN8KQPFXjZb0nl3ZUfdP-oQIykeP6vvSCzmc22Bjr9H5wAIuF-Cpf1obP8QHUpY-uFhCvl9EMNlsHt6A0O5g/w400-h300/snaking%20train.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><p>The train was LONG. Three locomotives to pull it. The conductor sometimes let us get off at stops or when we had to wait for freight trains to pass. There were also lots of stops for the smokers. I jumped around a bit, stretched my back and legs. </p><div><p>The smokers complained when the train stopped and they weren't allowed to get off--but the woman who was accompanied by her psychiatric service dog could. They understood that the dog needed to pee, but boy oh boy, they'd better not look out the window and see her smoking!</p></div></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju7Gual2xPoE2mzlCIE28kQvlTcJwsYNWLSCOEYJynFVXwQcdWEOW0DwvsvaCpS8n2CjLKl8YCagA7DbppLxhRaiDD8bkp4pJk_Auyf8oG6Adop775zgEKNOmdqhLn0PaKkoFTsYLlvbUBuinlmZmfaXkcA6O2K8reOAy1Eya5HtHujVWSuaqVF0JIHg/s648/forest.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju7Gual2xPoE2mzlCIE28kQvlTcJwsYNWLSCOEYJynFVXwQcdWEOW0DwvsvaCpS8n2CjLKl8YCagA7DbppLxhRaiDD8bkp4pJk_Auyf8oG6Adop775zgEKNOmdqhLn0PaKkoFTsYLlvbUBuinlmZmfaXkcA6O2K8reOAy1Eya5HtHujVWSuaqVF0JIHg/w640-h480/forest.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipgmmR5RokJqfbGbtaunxQzhfNznk40VcHIH00n-6MEOTxhap7prYxzOMezULE7Czp_pJy3rhyzzyjAMBD0VhiQIolaNafcZbXHlOK0he11jdrOfTboahZypW9NIbPn1q10ZdPkhoJ3ls4Br9zknExAHPayS4KZ0ExI521B5lQ316sfdX6ASwxAZTW9A/s720/tables.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipgmmR5RokJqfbGbtaunxQzhfNznk40VcHIH00n-6MEOTxhap7prYxzOMezULE7Czp_pJy3rhyzzyjAMBD0VhiQIolaNafcZbXHlOK0he11jdrOfTboahZypW9NIbPn1q10ZdPkhoJ3ls4Br9zknExAHPayS4KZ0ExI521B5lQ316sfdX6ASwxAZTW9A/w400-h300/tables.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>I sat and wrote here because it was quiet and the endless trees were good companions. Between somewhere and somewhere a man parked himself at a table and tried to chat up the young woman who worked at the snack bar. He told her about his job and she told him that someone had broken into her apartment and that her mom was in the hospital. Then it was his stop and he disappeared into the night. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0_CBqkZzkjMOU78iUj0INtU-rQ-zBa0iTtd4p51D43op67Iyqvwjn2DB0YX8Ta9mE575Ih2rttHY1VhSQfJBDXnIR7oL7X4ue5Lv0IQi1Ymp79LWHVbSV0gJqDPLfg85mnHeTdS__86abs-7qJzBzwUwRKi02hGpm4yxL8GZayEaHn9vcEbAspJEy7g/s576/train.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0_CBqkZzkjMOU78iUj0INtU-rQ-zBa0iTtd4p51D43op67Iyqvwjn2DB0YX8Ta9mE575Ih2rttHY1VhSQfJBDXnIR7oL7X4ue5Lv0IQi1Ymp79LWHVbSV0gJqDPLfg85mnHeTdS__86abs-7qJzBzwUwRKi02hGpm4yxL8GZayEaHn9vcEbAspJEy7g/w300-h400/train.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p>There was a woman who engaged everyone who walked past, including the conductor. I never saw her leave her seat, although she was already installed in a nest of blankets when we got on in Winnipeg and she was going all the way to Toronto. A couple of hours before Toronto, she did a full makeup procedure with a hand mirror. She was obsessed with cost. When someone said they had an apartment in Red Deer, Alberta, she wanted to know how much they paid for rent--and were utilities included or extra? She asked people what they did and how much they were paid. She asked how much a coat cost. When the person sitting across from her returned with a sandwich from the snackbar, she wanted to know how much it cost. She had a long phone conversation in Spanish about the cost of a house in Nicaragua. I avoided looking at her and she didn't ask me anything. </p><p>A man got on in the evening and was calling family farther south to tell them that yup, yup, yup, he was on his way. He kept the phone on speaker so I heard that people were disappointed that he wasn't underway sooner. I gathered someone was very ill. They told him he should have taken the bus (which runs more frequently than the train). At one point he misdialed a number, heard the person's voice who answered and tried to say it was a wrong number and hang up. The person said, Jim, is that you? Are you okay? Have you quit yet? Jim said he'd been trying and he was grateful for all the help the friend had given him, but with all his might he couldn't manage. He'd tried, oh he'd tried, but the plain fact was he liked smoking. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja8LczxSoP0bPbOccQ0h9fyxJ2sjIAqsidCwYxjRo-AT13_BRs_-XH0103-zcCd7hY_Z4o_ItqskbNJ-iKKYawPeN_R4nIR-YKOOYc961t0uY63BslR-zpm4_1bGf3uZbBqrxNxj3ZVt0doGjPTCtLDtyfccLyLc6AwRmNAuJGV4qgov1-F8kybzsRFw/s720/roads%20where%20you%20need%20a%20pickkup.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="397" data-original-width="720" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja8LczxSoP0bPbOccQ0h9fyxJ2sjIAqsidCwYxjRo-AT13_BRs_-XH0103-zcCd7hY_Z4o_ItqskbNJ-iKKYawPeN_R4nIR-YKOOYc961t0uY63BslR-zpm4_1bGf3uZbBqrxNxj3ZVt0doGjPTCtLDtyfccLyLc6AwRmNAuJGV4qgov1-F8kybzsRFw/w640-h352/roads%20where%20you%20need%20a%20pickkup.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYO_lHntuRA93hDqy3Pi_zCEtkAVYlbwDPtObqfweGGqc8dagCsrWIvpcdb1SjJ_WEnkOOVgPEiLHMwhkTB0voaaWlIEmsEJBpHX0-dJ3FGeoVTgCBEr1w_8PWoBhNczo-ZTvGRDm8jLTFEAdp2GmMBeDI6tL20e3LFq5YHugxfRwjqJu34TAdFF0gWw/s591/foleyet.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="591" data-original-width="576" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYO_lHntuRA93hDqy3Pi_zCEtkAVYlbwDPtObqfweGGqc8dagCsrWIvpcdb1SjJ_WEnkOOVgPEiLHMwhkTB0voaaWlIEmsEJBpHX0-dJ3FGeoVTgCBEr1w_8PWoBhNczo-ZTvGRDm8jLTFEAdp2GmMBeDI6tL20e3LFq5YHugxfRwjqJu34TAdFF0gWw/w390-h400/foleyet.jpg" width="390" /></a></div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I have a sense of what it means to live far from an urban centre since R and I spend a couple of months every year on the northeastern coast of Quebec. But: we don't live there year-round and there's a HUGE difference between a 6-hr, a 16-hr, and a 26-hr drive to the nearest large hospital. </div><div><br /></div><div>Some might use Costco or a concert hall for reference, but for me the essential is a good cardiology department. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXz8bhO9tDsucaGlMrk_b7PoKoWqIu7XnEzMFlXgqQDcJ-DTy9W2CRxvrCXWIiKkawhuNMeYFWzvt0xTdAwKnkoTa4CUhH3TtmIeGmpFsdZTnZhKePDKM__m-2It-8yAhxTahMhdDynxgOBSEosXVeTSEzA0q60UMpyRzl6A3pJNbz8Fi658fkp36ahA/s576/IMG_1990.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXz8bhO9tDsucaGlMrk_b7PoKoWqIu7XnEzMFlXgqQDcJ-DTy9W2CRxvrCXWIiKkawhuNMeYFWzvt0xTdAwKnkoTa4CUhH3TtmIeGmpFsdZTnZhKePDKM__m-2It-8yAhxTahMhdDynxgOBSEosXVeTSEzA0q60UMpyRzl6A3pJNbz8Fi658fkp36ahA/w400-h300/IMG_1990.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div>There was a woman travelling from Alberta to work as a cook in a "bunker" in a place she called Alsace. When she said we were only an hour away, I looked it up on the map. Elsas. She'd worked as a cook in mines and lumber camps from Alberta to Ontario, but called Alberta home because that's where her daughter and grandkids lived. I don't know whether she was a good cook or not, but she was travelling 3000 k to get to this job. </div><div><br /></div><div>ps When I say I looked it up, I mean one of those rare moments when we were near a cell tower. Outside of towns, northern Ontario is off the grid. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2T1dbo5FwL34sriKH7fB2lHz0zEtGkCcvQLg6M9lIWNYNZUMDsyYuaHcKCE8zey7mM3OKAPstilV_-ULxr5SJ5UF7_9PKs29iGXYaw4e_R7MC8I7Fwj-mm6XUc7h3vSPHucwA8p8n73pn8i9DRos86WPoscPh1S9zBBidDnxLzpWVNiflRimayBbaXA/s648/snacks.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="648" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2T1dbo5FwL34sriKH7fB2lHz0zEtGkCcvQLg6M9lIWNYNZUMDsyYuaHcKCE8zey7mM3OKAPstilV_-ULxr5SJ5UF7_9PKs29iGXYaw4e_R7MC8I7Fwj-mm6XUc7h3vSPHucwA8p8n73pn8i9DRos86WPoscPh1S9zBBidDnxLzpWVNiflRimayBbaXA/s320/snacks.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The second evening on the train, I wanted a beer and had come to the lounge with R. On previous visits I'd noticed the two men who sat separately but spoke with each other in a language I couldn't recognize. R guessed Turkish. They were delighted to see that beer was available, which they may not have known if they couldn't read the menu. They went to the snack bar to get themselves beer and snacks. When they returned and realized we had no snacks, one dropped a handful of nuts on our table and the other Pringles. This was very friendly and kind, but technically there was a virus out and about, and they had both touched the nuts and chips with fingers that were going back and forth to their mouths. <div><br /></div><div>We decided that acknowledging their kindness and was more important than hygiene. We ate the snacks. </div><div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU2QWIt0KWmrchufEqKuI0fWFrqvSd0-ICN1duVTqnMfw0RQS7o0FbqSEmDrhTk1Iw1P6111_mLmcVTlRAJip6_6Ikrf1vLsBULM2hkkAaNEQs7MrCvTefVJ11bMb8-5CQYA6Ds8K8qiuIwPjahZVuMygGr0IAtlpi3AwtnU9EUIFYzvOMITMXYleTEA/s576/sky%20lounge.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU2QWIt0KWmrchufEqKuI0fWFrqvSd0-ICN1duVTqnMfw0RQS7o0FbqSEmDrhTk1Iw1P6111_mLmcVTlRAJip6_6Ikrf1vLsBULM2hkkAaNEQs7MrCvTefVJ11bMb8-5CQYA6Ds8K8qiuIwPjahZVuMygGr0IAtlpi3AwtnU9EUIFYzvOMITMXYleTEA/w400-h300/sky%20lounge.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><div>Here's a better pic of the Sky Lounge which I believe was designed to see the country--through the Rockies, across the Prairies and northern Ontario. It belongs to the train that does the Vancouver to Toronto run. </div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Hey, VIA, it would nice to have an observation car like that for the train from Montreal to Halifax too! </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_-2sufmKZpRerit9ym-tJX9gvpuv-9D0LxtXnjye4zdls-VQJedN0rvarPVeIe363FSrWv-q7bEKjzWd2OVirabzbvpAPb-qzPgYsiULGzpZHxxYjC5-YEfIq3QDNaa7VyluATmtdXtZv2BRfziBdpT9_pJJbmS60FStsNflN6kANNjabbTdFH-z9Ag/s648/Ontario%20ice.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_-2sufmKZpRerit9ym-tJX9gvpuv-9D0LxtXnjye4zdls-VQJedN0rvarPVeIe363FSrWv-q7bEKjzWd2OVirabzbvpAPb-qzPgYsiULGzpZHxxYjC5-YEfIq3QDNaa7VyluATmtdXtZv2BRfziBdpT9_pJJbmS60FStsNflN6kANNjabbTdFH-z9Ag/w400-h300/Ontario%20ice.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div></div><div><br /></div><div>Slowly slowly slowly the train made its way southward. </div><div><br /></div><div>R and I still had to catch the train from Toronto to Montreal (550 k) the next morning. I had booked a room close to the train station at the Radisson Blu. The lovely reception clerk asked where we'd come from and gave us an upgrade to a studio with a fireplace (electric) on the top floor overlooking the lake. Very nice. Thank you, Radisson!</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHxkqnZnnO-5ROdHXlR-UjjNZgcW55Gs1X57SM8pNONNsu-yW9L_2HXhp9pbmydiKGIQTiF7XxoeX4vMJSexcL1OVC5RHBaJZ3QiHknWrpAfxsYKp8ikYbxJr7FB_0u98uSSNeq3CiNXAoJagNAoG-OYeVXt7UsYGfncZbTVsIyct3VlSnNImQ1887uQ/s400/tangerines.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="264" data-original-width="400" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHxkqnZnnO-5ROdHXlR-UjjNZgcW55Gs1X57SM8pNONNsu-yW9L_2HXhp9pbmydiKGIQTiF7XxoeX4vMJSexcL1OVC5RHBaJZ3QiHknWrpAfxsYKp8ikYbxJr7FB_0u98uSSNeq3CiNXAoJagNAoG-OYeVXt7UsYGfncZbTVsIyct3VlSnNImQ1887uQ/w400-h264/tangerines.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>And yes, R sketched on this trip too. Here's our breakfast of tangerines and coffee. Coffee from the snackbar. We brought the fruit. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>For a more rambling, irreverent version of the trip including the part where R travelled by bus from Toronto, our trip to the Winnipeg Art Gallery, and his thoughts on the books he was reading: </div><div><a href="http://pointesaintcharles.blogspot.com/2023/01/drive-your-plow-over-assiniboine.html">http://pointesaintcharles.blogspot.com/2023/01/drive-your-plow-over-assiniboine.html </a></div><div><br /></div><div>Note that we usually have different takes on 'what happened'. That's just how it is. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmIuax49zL14cnkQ7gv7UZ5gHElcbBCFFEG0IiNRXqi95yJh9YU4cHLDeDo7gB5eKmIKp0cTH7xX_JO47Zis6pnBp7LfElXeEyAqKi-m1c8O2I8JN8jCB0lV2qqRYq3AjTfo2pmCzRv-oZSI_un73AWVQ5d95NnDe51uQGMiCPYTA5uQZl3hsp6ecvCQ/s400/ontario.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="400" height="414" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmIuax49zL14cnkQ7gv7UZ5gHElcbBCFFEG0IiNRXqi95yJh9YU4cHLDeDo7gB5eKmIKp0cTH7xX_JO47Zis6pnBp7LfElXeEyAqKi-m1c8O2I8JN8jCB0lV2qqRYq3AjTfo2pmCzRv-oZSI_un73AWVQ5d95NnDe51uQGMiCPYTA5uQZl3hsp6ecvCQ/w640-h414/ontario.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02246669291440115585noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918809780977867389.post-55366809666643126642022-12-18T20:08:00.000-05:002022-12-18T20:08:08.511-05:00Tunisia 2006<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgflOzkrJ_kSNVPaDf_mXKT1d0Bk5mP9lE78gvgCGZGnZ93zR_o7gQ1bZlnwRqeRW2vPbSFaQMfHUM8clvj6qlxPu6nwYhxC76af6EvVjecbFvO-eWDOYs9-pNFBPMW0WuJAXcX7OB9K6jfH-2AY5zpc7WRQgC7nxxoCjZbzgsgy-d8ChOUQyu4g6mp5g/s576/sidi%20bou%20said%20f.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="374" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgflOzkrJ_kSNVPaDf_mXKT1d0Bk5mP9lE78gvgCGZGnZ93zR_o7gQ1bZlnwRqeRW2vPbSFaQMfHUM8clvj6qlxPu6nwYhxC76af6EvVjecbFvO-eWDOYs9-pNFBPMW0WuJAXcX7OB9K6jfH-2AY5zpc7WRQgC7nxxoCjZbzgsgy-d8ChOUQyu4g6mp5g/w260-h400/sidi%20bou%20said%20f.JPG" width="260" /></a></div><div>I've been reading through old travel journals and had to laugh, remembering this evening. Food was often hit and miss when we were on the road because we didn't always know what we were ordering. Was it tripe or spaghetti? (Italy) Across a cafeteria counter, they look the same. Why did I get a cup of hot coffee with melting ice cubes in it? (Mexico) Was that... icing sugar on the chicken pie? (Morocco) </div><div><br /><div><div dir="auto">In 2006 we went to Tunisia for a month, mostly staying on the coast. Tunis, Sidi Bou Said, Sousse, Mahdia, Hammamet, Nabeul, El Jem, Dougga. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">We were still in Tunis, the big city where I could count on moral corruption and vice, ie a glass of wine with supper which one can't always get in a Muslim country. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">That's fine. I respect the ways of a culture. When in Rome etc. On the other hand, I knew wine was available because I saw empty bottles poked out of the trash.</div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">That afternoon, when we were walking, I noticed a restaurant with a menu in the window that claimed to serve wine. We'd learned that this could be a ruse to get foreigners inside and sitting at a table--with wine glasses on the table--though wine was not and never served. And if there were wine, we'd be having supper in the Canadian equivalent of a smoky bar with other disreputables. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">R can take or leave wine, but he agreed to return to the restaurant that evening because he was curious about the plat du jour: malfoun. We didn't know what that was. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLOLb2PyzVUFWj93RYcW-jbDSvh6XcFbojLdIYxUWqG2N3EC9dIlXcb7SkENwqOfd484KEsiL-JcYUK2ljoGqp0cFklcYnpkOY6eaWxzO57EMf_5r05iWzvZQxaoyQQ8mMF-fC-alj72-8Kynou-jKHdOgG0UGCMiCdTEpW9AWhDq3x0wdA9FCxAaP_w/s539/dougga%20i.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="539" data-original-width="431" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLOLb2PyzVUFWj93RYcW-jbDSvh6XcFbojLdIYxUWqG2N3EC9dIlXcb7SkENwqOfd484KEsiL-JcYUK2ljoGqp0cFklcYnpkOY6eaWxzO57EMf_5r05iWzvZQxaoyQQ8mMF-fC-alj72-8Kynou-jKHdOgG0UGCMiCdTEpW9AWhDq3x0wdA9FCxAaP_w/w320-h400/dougga%20i.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>That's the word as I have it in my journal but when I google it now, there's no result. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">The glass door to the restaurant was covered with a faded poster of an urn propped on seaside rocks, the blue-green Mediterranean in soft focus background. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">Inside the air was thick with smoke. Pretty unappetizing for a non-smoker but... um... yeah... I did want wine. The men--all men, of course--had their eyes trained on a TV screen under the ceiling. A soccer match. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">But they weren't so intent on the game that they didn’t see the two white people who walked in. A few voices hollered and a waiter bounded into the room. A slim man with a charming smile. Black trousers and a white shirt--slightly yellowed in the thick air. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ5WnAZjLj31KWJRuEmurHrfdecDdXqNiggZX6oMOur0eMLNCF1FeTsrAys7eSN41F40J5PLFFh4u9svHIv6uixhnseCsOyWX4NDvTZLEufy5n2Tb3IgqLIIq9xmzyRrHPWerOrh8QhzfLV1gNfRGwqWq7YiR5KaoNWbEQu0SyVQRn7WyfGjX0dnAy1A/s513/mahdia%20detail%20b.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="513" data-original-width="429" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ5WnAZjLj31KWJRuEmurHrfdecDdXqNiggZX6oMOur0eMLNCF1FeTsrAys7eSN41F40J5PLFFh4u9svHIv6uixhnseCsOyWX4NDvTZLEufy5n2Tb3IgqLIIq9xmzyRrHPWerOrh8QhzfLV1gNfRGwqWq7YiR5KaoNWbEQu0SyVQRn7WyfGjX0dnAy1A/w536-h640/mahdia%20detail%20b.JPG" width="536" /></a></div><br />There were many verbal flourishes to welcome us in different languages. We settled on French. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">R said he was interested in the malfoun. What was it?</div><div dir="auto"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4RLeQYmLBBM5RIlovMt4heN0mr3-fMZSf7qXZibP72Vb6SFDjOJhS4JoOQ2BLGXt2zRVtqtbGfc1t2nFVsdr6cn7EUy8VmGxjqlQG2vZSRzby5cDSHldAPzBeYx1FeQiZxJgBsQJB2sxH_MFdATvQt0I48sv0dGkR3Fjc8a1f46RaEV4QEk20F82l0w/s576/sousse%20e.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4RLeQYmLBBM5RIlovMt4heN0mr3-fMZSf7qXZibP72Vb6SFDjOJhS4JoOQ2BLGXt2zRVtqtbGfc1t2nFVsdr6cn7EUy8VmGxjqlQG2vZSRzby5cDSHldAPzBeYx1FeQiZxJgBsQJB2sxH_MFdATvQt0I48sv0dGkR3Fjc8a1f46RaEV4QEk20F82l0w/w300-h400/sousse%20e.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>It seemed to be a stew or soup that was very spicy. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">Did we want to sit? The waiter pulled out a chair for me. As soon as we sat, he darted off. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">I hoped he wasn't going to bring us two orders of malfoun because I didn’t want a spicy stew or soup. I usually order for myself too. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">The other men in the bar nodded and gestured that we should make ourselves comfortable. One or two pointed at the screen to invite Robert to watch the soccer. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">The waiter returned, slapping a plasticized sheet on his pant legs as if to dust it off. It was a menu but not the same one as in the window.</div><div dir="auto"> </div><div dir="auto">R said he would like to try the malfoun.</div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">Ah. Sadly there was no malfoun that evening.</div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">So… what is the plat du jour?</div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtZUiHZuHoX-jLO6LggmsQUKPeAO62BD2iOWAI8uLSGTFEza_HjFDTesFp3fR_J8FmaMaa7md1ThlYrWzYCb8b0N44yK08nu6-z2WkbwXBvAt9srCG_KO91g18wCaNZXdGGlEXX3vlqB7-8Uufn-RetwL951SuSw47L95KEYcT6bVfuVW1Zj0Y6k5vZw/s576/shaima%20and%20jahil.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtZUiHZuHoX-jLO6LggmsQUKPeAO62BD2iOWAI8uLSGTFEza_HjFDTesFp3fR_J8FmaMaa7md1ThlYrWzYCb8b0N44yK08nu6-z2WkbwXBvAt9srCG_KO91g18wCaNZXdGGlEXX3vlqB7-8Uufn-RetwL951SuSw47L95KEYcT6bVfuVW1Zj0Y6k5vZw/w400-h300/shaima%20and%20jahil.JPG" title="Shaima and Jahil who gave me permission to post" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jahil and Shaima </td></tr></tbody></table><br />We didn't know the word the waiter said. When R asked him to describe it, he said it was very good, not too spicy and he would like it. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">Okay, R said. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">I’d been looking at the menu and asked for the merguez. </div><div dir="auto"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDesp2qv_fw3YDXM9-ieiV_2MSzmRMSSNQNj5nvnNV-jMJd506Z_gzETgsN984irUoTbz5SFXO68RJB5_tea9AtI-1-ZbxCMS78ff9kbLgbamyjatDHze6FcNGSs1Zr8Ja3FYAL12fg9bmp9zeGpCfHTdXR7tG9icu4oYkScTmy0dRsMjHNg2ungLCRQ/s576/sandstone.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDesp2qv_fw3YDXM9-ieiV_2MSzmRMSSNQNj5nvnNV-jMJd506Z_gzETgsN984irUoTbz5SFXO68RJB5_tea9AtI-1-ZbxCMS78ff9kbLgbamyjatDHze6FcNGSs1Zr8Ja3FYAL12fg9bmp9zeGpCfHTdXR7tG9icu4oYkScTmy0dRsMjHNg2ungLCRQ/w300-h400/sandstone.JPG" title="Carthage" width="300" /></a></div><br />The waiter frowned. He said I wouldn't like them. They were extremely spicy. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">I said I knew merguez. Lamb sausage. We had them where I lived.</div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">You have merguez where you live? So we are like cousins, you and I! </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">There was more banter, but he still discouraged me from ordering merguez. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div>This was still at the beginning of our trip. I would soon learn that when the waitstaff didn't want to bring me what I ordered, I should ask for something else. Better yet--ask what they suggested. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">I said that I really and truly wanted merguez. Even if they were extremely spicy. I'd been forewarned, I wouldn't blame him if they were too spicy. I wanted them anyhow. Quand même.<br /></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">And wine? the waiter asked. Because he'd guessed why I was ready to have supper in a fug of smoke to the soundtrack of soccer. The menu in the window offered red, white, and rosé wine served in one quarter, one half, and full litres. We asked for a half litre of rosé. He shook his head. He had only 1 litre bottles. We said we couldn’t drink a full litre. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">All the better! he smiled. We could share with him!</div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzkvmXb7KZQrJ0TlUuvSz2Os3JxqwUOuZ51U0xNy3UrMSw3-iUaLsE3CYP_PdidpcHzfodYvH47CvPmC4hVCAGWhE2vGY-2qkQYpqvHNVHBIQ0C1fh6lxkdyevGbnMvEvFqil3T7Y0F3NLX-8apJriAGPuskFyqxrR8hIj4pGtRJ9sX8UtPOvlJhuUIg/s576/mahdia%20t.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzkvmXb7KZQrJ0TlUuvSz2Os3JxqwUOuZ51U0xNy3UrMSw3-iUaLsE3CYP_PdidpcHzfodYvH47CvPmC4hVCAGWhE2vGY-2qkQYpqvHNVHBIQ0C1fh6lxkdyevGbnMvEvFqil3T7Y0F3NLX-8apJriAGPuskFyqxrR8hIj4pGtRJ9sX8UtPOvlJhuUIg/w400-h300/mahdia%20t.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>We agreed to get the litre bottle, which turned out to be a standard 750 ml bottle of decent, if not overly smooth rosé.</div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">During the wine exchange, the waiter had stopped using vouvoyeing us. The polite form of address. We had become friends. When he set the glasses on the table, he included a third, though he didn't pour himself any. Were we supposed to tell him to have some? We weren't sure of the protocol and I didn't want to tempt him into immoral behaviour. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">We hadn't ordered appetizers, but he brought us several small plates with green olives, carrot sticks, puddles of harissa sauce inside a circle of tuna oil, sliced fennel, and a basket of bread. Before me, he set a plate of what he called tajine. It looked like cubes of fried egg filled with chopped potato. I protested that this was too much but he said it was hardly anything. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg73qSqxrkKWFn2HiuJdGtUiQlPeEFaI1yqfuDIcNZZDrPJ9KyHv4QaXZsjgUvWuFjl-QIxHeWyeUhJpihDwxyWLsRxhBMibrMSMdWAdSF4X0BokgKQEygKNhqxLBvtFOnL4hvKbeBRYMzo9tacqRuyndMXq2PmePSp3-X9DXEIzRp7mr0X3aThTryDOg/s576/mahdia%20k.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg73qSqxrkKWFn2HiuJdGtUiQlPeEFaI1yqfuDIcNZZDrPJ9KyHv4QaXZsjgUvWuFjl-QIxHeWyeUhJpihDwxyWLsRxhBMibrMSMdWAdSF4X0BokgKQEygKNhqxLBvtFOnL4hvKbeBRYMzo9tacqRuyndMXq2PmePSp3-X9DXEIzRp7mr0X3aThTryDOg/w300-h400/mahdia%20k.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>He turned away from our table to talk with some of the men, but he seemed to know exactly when I bit into one of the cubes because he whipped around to ask me if it was good. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">Very good, I said. Potato, egg, and also tuna. <br /></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">Exquisite? he asked.</div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">Exquisite, I agreed. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">I’ll bring you more. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">Please don't or I won't be hungry for the merguez. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">He returned with a second plate of egg, potato and tuna cubes. Again I protested. Again he insisted.</div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">And you call this tajine? I asked. Because it's not like what they called tajine in Morocco. In Morocco tajine is a stew that's baked for a very long time.</div><div dir="auto"> </div><div dir="auto">But this is Tunisia! We are not the same country and we do not eat the same food! He'd drawn himself up as if offended. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">I said, Of course, I understood. But why did they call such different food by the same word? It would be like the Italians calling noodles pasta, and the French calling potatoes pasta. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">He shook his head as if there was something essential I wasn't understanding. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOSid2KVdvLyEbaYEXTVBeF6I4ZO69wDrrRDeL1krfd8bYEL6iAm2BCLWMybq-rkKotZCslLDv-o9cR3byK50mq88pMUWBKQe1cHyHr9O1jUAm5vx6316FNQhGZp_saIvk7IvraDz1oqy9k0jd2L8ushFO46mIIJCe8owXgEHV8H24AfvFJOrtCj0GcQ/s576/sousse%20beach%20d.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOSid2KVdvLyEbaYEXTVBeF6I4ZO69wDrrRDeL1krfd8bYEL6iAm2BCLWMybq-rkKotZCslLDv-o9cR3byK50mq88pMUWBKQe1cHyHr9O1jUAm5vx6316FNQhGZp_saIvk7IvraDz1oqy9k0jd2L8ushFO46mIIJCe8owXgEHV8H24AfvFJOrtCj0GcQ/w300-h400/sousse%20beach%20d.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>He hurried off and returned with R's meal. A piece of meat, breaded and fried, topped with an egg and melted cheese, surrounded by puréed tomatoes. R waited for my food to arrive, but as it didn't, I told him to go ahead and eat. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was no longer hungry but I wondered what had happened to my meal. The waiter had disappeared. I helped myself to more wine. </div><div><br /></div><div dir="auto">R was almost finished when the waiter returned to say that he was extremely sorry but he couldn’t serve me merguez. He had sent someone out to buy some but the butcher didn’t have any left. It was too late in the day. C'est fini. The boy had run to another butcher in the hope that he might have some, but it wasn't likely. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">That's fine, I said. I already ate too much. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">But do you forgive me? You wanted merguez. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">No, the tajine was very good. And I’m not hungry anymore.</div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSL8eFx7A86wua2P4IIvhTGCDe9EwwjILJGMqAIPtHgtutakrpb7KD4TtVD5o0LzHzB9Mcp9zw1NABusH1FsIyml8pUCFeDp_FAMhGBjKXYfRmQjRhVIf_7DrnSh1UEqp6C5pTQPiOOi2zcAtlojDsmTxKtBz9uEOe2plZDnNsFLPJQ13gyK2zEtN0Yw/s576/hammamet%20art%20gallery.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSL8eFx7A86wua2P4IIvhTGCDe9EwwjILJGMqAIPtHgtutakrpb7KD4TtVD5o0LzHzB9Mcp9zw1NABusH1FsIyml8pUCFeDp_FAMhGBjKXYfRmQjRhVIf_7DrnSh1UEqp6C5pTQPiOOi2zcAtlojDsmTxKtBz9uEOe2plZDnNsFLPJQ13gyK2zEtN0Yw/w300-h400/hammamet%20art%20gallery.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>More apologies, more protestation, more insisting. He told us his wife was French. Three years they'd been married. He asked how long we'd been married. Did we like the wine? </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">He apologized again for the missing merguez. I asked why he hadn’t simply told me from the start that he didn’t have any. That would have been discourteous, he said. He turned to the men at the nearby tables to translate what I'd said. They stared at me. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">He darted off and returned with yet another plate of egg, potato, and tuna cubes. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">I can’t! I said. I can't eat anymore. I’m not going to! He danced away</div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">We got ready to leave and wanted to pay. The extra glass still stood empty on the table but there was a third of the bottle left, so the waiter would be sharing our wine, if not while we were still there. He refused to charge for what I'd eaten because I hadn’t gotten what I ordered. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">A tip, yes, that would be welcome, but for the tajine I'd eaten, no. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu996uUIZ6nMZtg1IvomhhB8bMxP5coDj-7SIAcEIyoNOnpTwVu-u-mmrQW4q7WcvuzFG0jTlbJBzedj3AAlS9YzvFeNDJb6DwouSH9WnZ3Lv4nHAYh8FLpwhLA2t9AM3qZEx-VJbfFgvue6QQF2LybOER_k8QM7jyWynYT5Z5HrfX7Eqr2IE1YBp71Q/s576/tunis%20appetizers.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu996uUIZ6nMZtg1IvomhhB8bMxP5coDj-7SIAcEIyoNOnpTwVu-u-mmrQW4q7WcvuzFG0jTlbJBzedj3AAlS9YzvFeNDJb6DwouSH9WnZ3Lv4nHAYh8FLpwhLA2t9AM3qZEx-VJbfFgvue6QQF2LybOER_k8QM7jyWynYT5Z5HrfX7Eqr2IE1YBp71Q/w480-h640/tunis%20appetizers.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I don't know what I'm eating here but I'm sure it was excellent.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"></div></div></div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02246669291440115585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918809780977867389.post-81399957460906500942022-12-04T19:34:00.001-05:002022-12-04T21:15:02.641-05:00urban kindness--it happens<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZjE_4iMQVW57jZA91fuF5aB2SbFGeMLH8q8Xtgy19DqpdZwPTvWTCM_mFEB-i-H_OFRnU8eQo6Bbrafqv14iBFy71iaCs9cch-tT7QPtrNFomhehOO36-3Ar6hZ-n9XM4XBkuVCtfBpKkDDDDY5RI_LN-wTeYSbjRzgUJHzprCbNyGk5_i9Suk9OB2w/s720/Nyk's.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="562" data-original-width="720" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZjE_4iMQVW57jZA91fuF5aB2SbFGeMLH8q8Xtgy19DqpdZwPTvWTCM_mFEB-i-H_OFRnU8eQo6Bbrafqv14iBFy71iaCs9cch-tT7QPtrNFomhehOO36-3Ar6hZ-n9XM4XBkuVCtfBpKkDDDDY5RI_LN-wTeYSbjRzgUJHzprCbNyGk5_i9Suk9OB2w/s320/Nyk's.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />No heroism, no dramatic sopranos, no red capes. Just people being nice. <p></p><p>I met a friend for an impromptu catch-up-on-news in a pub and we talked and we talked. Although I'd pulled out my shabby wallet that must be 20 years old because the store where I bought it has been reinvented several times since, she paid--very nice!--and we admired her new, chic turquoise wallet from Germany. We hugged and said bye. Our schedules don't often crisscross, so this was fun. </p><p>I was walking toward the metro but there's also a bus that would get me directly home, except it doesn't go by often. But yay! it was coming. I reached into my bag for my bus pass. It wasn't in the little pocket where it should have been. It wasn't in the corners deeper down, the outside pocket, my jeans, my coat. I was rooting through all the different possible pockets, beginning to feel like a Dr. Seuss story. </p><p>I told the driver that I was looking for my bus pass. He said he could see. The only place I hadn't checked was under my clothes. He told me to sit down, it was okay. But it wasn't okay, because where was it? I kept patting my pockets and digging through my bag. At which point I realized that my house key was also gone. The key itself, okay, I have another one at home, but the key fob is a hand-painted ceramic knob a friend gave me. </p><p>I needed to tell someone that I had lost my house key too!! But everyone around me was avoiding looking at this dotty woman who was squishing her pockets and checking for holes and poking her fingers into the corners of her bag. So I went back to the front to tell the driver that I'd lost my house key too. "C'est pas ta journée, Madame." Actually, I'd had a great day, I just happened to have lost my bus pass and my house key on its special gewgaw that I loved. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhro8YwLJnbheoQZeFjrQdYxdpGfZFwR4DNCqJbVFDB10To0x7KM_d9bhsvKAjzc-xuW1XczritBxwbKKvLrTgZUI2F7bTjpYHgb_3MJsveZw3OWQz-VQhdMRwDjJmt0PwhYB35Lc_lDbmbV2PdYgEPUcsY3gAQpJsXFEMXuuxIbiBtzHAcsL_lCLIkbQ/s657/sign.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="657" data-original-width="576" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhro8YwLJnbheoQZeFjrQdYxdpGfZFwR4DNCqJbVFDB10To0x7KM_d9bhsvKAjzc-xuW1XczritBxwbKKvLrTgZUI2F7bTjpYHgb_3MJsveZw3OWQz-VQhdMRwDjJmt0PwhYB35Lc_lDbmbV2PdYgEPUcsY3gAQpJsXFEMXuuxIbiBtzHAcsL_lCLIkbQ/s320/sign.jpg" width="281" /></a></div><br />I realized that I mustn't have closed the zipper after taking out my wallet in the pub and then upended the bag. I called the pub and left a flustered, crazy-sounding message on the answering machine, asking them if they could please check under the table for my key and metro pass. Have I mentioned this yet? It was Friday evening, a popular bistro/pub downtown, and the place was packed when we left. People were waiting for our table. Did the busy waitstaff have time to go looking under tables for my key and bus pass? I hadn't even given them the right table. I said I was sitting against the west wall. When I got home and was telling R, he asked me to be more specific about where I was sitting. So, okay, I can't tell left from right, east from west. I'm directionally challenged. No news flash there. R said I was sitting on the east side. <p></p><p>I was too embarrassed to call the pub back and admit that someone who was old enough to be served liquor couldn't even say where she was sitting. R offered to call and this time someone answered and said yes, indeed, they'd found my bus pass and key--no comment as to where it was found. </p><p>It's no big deal but I'm chuffed people care enough. Merci to the bus driver who let me have a free ride and a huge thank you to NYKs with their excellent food and drinks. You can find NYK's on Bleury south of Sainte-Catherine. (I think it's south.)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5k0PuiAZeljgjq_ORsn_j-D_FOpgP7jHIyK6uzGsP4h5yyUK6be1RzH2YcLainlnyXfejwkWw_ojySHcG-loqDh_M4gbcVfvv1CCLnRZaofDy8DmRD8t8iM2HGIJhrwH63xk9z05aMI1TfoptbngN6F1zBdWjtrQI4RM4H7s5AxwAPQjnG-zN4ipVHA/s720/key.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="487" data-original-width="720" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5k0PuiAZeljgjq_ORsn_j-D_FOpgP7jHIyK6uzGsP4h5yyUK6be1RzH2YcLainlnyXfejwkWw_ojySHcG-loqDh_M4gbcVfvv1CCLnRZaofDy8DmRD8t8iM2HGIJhrwH63xk9z05aMI1TfoptbngN6F1zBdWjtrQI4RM4H7s5AxwAPQjnG-zN4ipVHA/w400-h270/key.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02246669291440115585noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918809780977867389.post-29286456199566136532022-05-29T21:27:00.002-04:002022-05-30T08:38:59.687-04:00snow melt and sunsets galore / gaspésie May 2022<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizO7POqzGpsFNnGNtm7e5w0LfSWEIVRVonnFjlkj4OuZYRoQgswldQj3jminy4uVOx6-a_MXsvR_bE611BWmFybvaC208fWDi4gmp43-jzM-1NEDumn1_2cdfjoFcglwScYLBG_5pF9zPqwRvIuRyx_v20t4Gghj-ssscx4iy4UvZ703PaqmMFRPD1WA/s576/sunset%20pink.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="305" data-original-width="576" height="338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizO7POqzGpsFNnGNtm7e5w0LfSWEIVRVonnFjlkj4OuZYRoQgswldQj3jminy4uVOx6-a_MXsvR_bE611BWmFybvaC208fWDi4gmp43-jzM-1NEDumn1_2cdfjoFcglwScYLBG_5pF9zPqwRvIuRyx_v20t4Gghj-ssscx4iy4UvZ703PaqmMFRPD1WA/w640-h338/sunset%20pink.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />I'll warn you right now. When the sun starts to go down over water, I grab my camera and dash outside, even if only onto the porch with the road between me and the sea. (R groans.) Whether the sky is clear, whether there are clouds--even when it's completely overcast and you don't think there's a slice where colour will get through--there is almost always a sunset of note. <div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7v9q1ch8Yw2DhwTTcOvllYjpBG6CuH1Q41V7YZ83Kcw8mQr8UpbTLT6pxhNo_qbhE4-ar75rPajIm-4V4-cy6T-37-t3ST1OgyCOi-IhLspmTxXDj7yKJscil_2jEVUrZMYDKCT9LvjnM38QmIcILLzHt3wDdn8s8yM9_wavgfPosqokm348xzNI7TQ/s504/sunset%20yellow.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="504" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7v9q1ch8Yw2DhwTTcOvllYjpBG6CuH1Q41V7YZ83Kcw8mQr8UpbTLT6pxhNo_qbhE4-ar75rPajIm-4V4-cy6T-37-t3ST1OgyCOi-IhLspmTxXDj7yKJscil_2jEVUrZMYDKCT9LvjnM38QmIcILLzHt3wDdn8s8yM9_wavgfPosqokm348xzNI7TQ/s320/sunset%20yellow.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I was stunned the first time we came to the Gaspé in the winter and I was waiting for the magic over ice, and the sun set HOURS EARLIER BEHIND THE HILLS. It's by coming to the coast where land and sea meet that I've learned more about the way the Earth tilts than any lesson taught in school. I'm a hands-on learner. <p></p><p>There was extraordinary snowfall in the hills this past winter and when the spring sun melts the snow, water tumbles down down down to the sea. It gushes streams, it carves the sand, it turns our yard into a sodden mat. I sit outside and hear gurgling and chuckling. We lost power for about 12 hours because the snow melt caused a rock slide. We went for a walk and found the path washed out. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw25XEeYHOC4I1zcFwATOvmuUEiphyNeeDGUjPh5CgHy4N0U4ZuwAwCCtE-I1V05pZbQf3zT_OpqG1hUKyJLZMep9bg8h_pIPq051HuDHy2Muy8Ybzm554cRYh7qx5qorOSxKp-LKW57G85AyIm-I-32Dz62E7GRgGXrNg4326bqOzmHhcAg5F9mavVg/s700/flood.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="700" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw25XEeYHOC4I1zcFwATOvmuUEiphyNeeDGUjPh5CgHy4N0U4ZuwAwCCtE-I1V05pZbQf3zT_OpqG1hUKyJLZMep9bg8h_pIPq051HuDHy2Muy8Ybzm554cRYh7qx5qorOSxKp-LKW57G85AyIm-I-32Dz62E7GRgGXrNg4326bqOzmHhcAg5F9mavVg/w640-h480/flood.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYdGzkekFPEd-0wOlEy9YcNHkd-F_YoM0ytK1-6DlkzsDtE8j6EgJi39AHii3s33_3rkofmM2uX8WqEolc1xElFAGLiPgg7G3Q15-PzVkw2ntQIAhBpWLM0IzBPENBbLQ1FFv1RED6Zdz9FumlA7xaKj92AKChv1D50Ez-0hnm40flpmu19JgioR0sEA/s800/torrent.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYdGzkekFPEd-0wOlEy9YcNHkd-F_YoM0ytK1-6DlkzsDtE8j6EgJi39AHii3s33_3rkofmM2uX8WqEolc1xElFAGLiPgg7G3Q15-PzVkw2ntQIAhBpWLM0IzBPENBbLQ1FFv1RED6Zdz9FumlA7xaKj92AKChv1D50Ez-0hnm40flpmu19JgioR0sEA/w640-h480/torrent.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXqAAKKU9z31nNHvj2nDix1X6k5GUc-G1ctDzUBbENBDQCpvtxmysgY96Y6FWczcMvXuYKXYz3bY503ZWZ1D1lwJySC8vqpM3NrzIbHO7q92_gcubt8ld67U5j5zxzCofMsE7UN7tsqkCqU90xlDxVHjViE_jiL4ueSdH512WDo7odDtPUeiYqQKAv1g/s667/rivulet.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXqAAKKU9z31nNHvj2nDix1X6k5GUc-G1ctDzUBbENBDQCpvtxmysgY96Y6FWczcMvXuYKXYz3bY503ZWZ1D1lwJySC8vqpM3NrzIbHO7q92_gcubt8ld67U5j5zxzCofMsE7UN7tsqkCqU90xlDxVHjViE_jiL4ueSdH512WDo7odDtPUeiYqQKAv1g/w300-h400/rivulet.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p>There were so many streams--getting broader and deeper every day--that I didn't do my usual rock-clambering walk along the shore because I couldn't get across them. I walked by the road, and so saw a car parked at the cemetery where there are usually only gravestones. A man was slicing squares of grass with edge of his shovel, putting the chopped pieces aside in a neat mound, making a coffin-shaped rectangle. I assumed he was a cemetery employee, but no, he told me, there is no staff. Family dig each others' graves. He was digging his aunt's grave. He'd already buried six aunts and had two more to go. Next, he said, it's my turn. He laughed. He was very cheerful. </p><p>I do not want my body buried, but I find it fitting that a loved one, whoever that may be, should dig the grave if there is going to be a grave. I asked what happened if there is no family. He said a volunteer would do it. He dug quickly--the experience of six aunts already? he didn't mention his parents--and on my return an hour later, although his car was still there, I didn't see him. Until I noticed the shovelfuls of soil flying out of the hole. He was digging a proper grave. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMXSHyc-6q45yS_-mXGd3JLvYwSh3ZUjUI1P3g9L6lcFgl58eq8_wb9uSrbN9iZGem-3mN6-ZoMERpsiTmDZc439uaumBYSfJO5DgBDS-mBA9XSqFwnNMvQOlOJcuu80955q6RFXBstUCgsRFxsreTeOgm8UkbL1Q77zpKT10tmvyLm7h8BH_719oS2w/s800/yellow%20rock.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="497" data-original-width="800" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMXSHyc-6q45yS_-mXGd3JLvYwSh3ZUjUI1P3g9L6lcFgl58eq8_wb9uSrbN9iZGem-3mN6-ZoMERpsiTmDZc439uaumBYSfJO5DgBDS-mBA9XSqFwnNMvQOlOJcuu80955q6RFXBstUCgsRFxsreTeOgm8UkbL1Q77zpKT10tmvyLm7h8BH_719oS2w/w640-h398/yellow%20rock.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8b0qt9KPduR-EpLB9Lt0c4ufp-TlEwtFBkWGiGSv5Y1wrV64-L6i6SEM0atmyZq6-Ewh0S1UZdszsELorQF7ZP2-bLbaxmD0pWFQi8pm6OVOzvkm-ayehBqZ64AuF8ycZqhrnYkEZtkMdDONsaOYrk79fHUwbh0BfQ9qcfBJouoq4iTPDGToMPBfzOA/s576/grave.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8b0qt9KPduR-EpLB9Lt0c4ufp-TlEwtFBkWGiGSv5Y1wrV64-L6i6SEM0atmyZq6-Ewh0S1UZdszsELorQF7ZP2-bLbaxmD0pWFQi8pm6OVOzvkm-ayehBqZ64AuF8ycZqhrnYkEZtkMdDONsaOYrk79fHUwbh0BfQ9qcfBJouoq4iTPDGToMPBfzOA/w300-h400/grave.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>I've noticed before--in other cities, in other countries--that the dead always get prime real estate. In Montreal, the large Catholic, Protestant, and Jewish cemeteries are on the mountain. In this small village, the dead have a view on the wide horizon of sea. <p></p><p>I also had a conversation of sorts with a man whose French I only half understood because he didn't quite form his consonants. They were like shadows around his vowels. In English the way he spoke would have sounded like... 'I on no ut yoooouuu 'ink' for 'I don't know what you think'. We were talking about the environment, by which I thought he meant climate change. He said you had to pay attention to the environment because if not, the environment would come back to haunt you, and what you had to do then was going to be worse than doing the right thing now. It took a while before I realized he meant the Ministry of the Environment and government rules and fines.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJKwektTuCmfc80Fu5zSA6c3PeF7zKRduX_yxGB-SR5WZy0YcIEEKaY1v6zhXOvx5k3hv9zSaIINGSWag8c-Ni-tK0E1y0kCgfY5yhh5cBnF2UN2WoSNE_BxkQLb0vYvmLGpBcnn9y3MyERDOFLQhp_WoeYBAF_53IDW99XdYtVQHXy5EMrda0Tga1WQ/s576/sunset%20orange.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJKwektTuCmfc80Fu5zSA6c3PeF7zKRduX_yxGB-SR5WZy0YcIEEKaY1v6zhXOvx5k3hv9zSaIINGSWag8c-Ni-tK0E1y0kCgfY5yhh5cBnF2UN2WoSNE_BxkQLb0vYvmLGpBcnn9y3MyERDOFLQhp_WoeYBAF_53IDW99XdYtVQHXy5EMrda0Tga1WQ/w640-h480/sunset%20orange.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1UrC5oAL_fynyVZJF4_hy-NU0cF-29M59WF5KL2Pqa5LgUnuKIOmBkoQ9p9qpqnnH4LxSzB7QYZSFhehQceZ_1Z5J8M9txTi3ZMnmwrtazdbz9pr8_Y28QwetnJG4VQdrO-WFFF3ZO4IlJPwBUq9-XBwPJqNNVRppKEa3qgmfDN28_afMPfnOktRPdQ/s800/dramatic%20sky.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1UrC5oAL_fynyVZJF4_hy-NU0cF-29M59WF5KL2Pqa5LgUnuKIOmBkoQ9p9qpqnnH4LxSzB7QYZSFhehQceZ_1Z5J8M9txTi3ZMnmwrtazdbz9pr8_Y28QwetnJG4VQdrO-WFFF3ZO4IlJPwBUq9-XBwPJqNNVRppKEa3qgmfDN28_afMPfnOktRPdQ/w640-h480/dramatic%20sky.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAZpC6k0hfvrb1VuUj46HBqXE1a-YP2PZEteu-KDkVPGgRyTaqHVWM1tdE7WduWf0kXGeR942zd5YwRUMG6CV8JzKMh0RKm13fszUsgnZaESIpm9btND_xzBbjkhrEoBjNxyHKjUsoOKrxlo6O_ItQrAyqQ5TrdJ9cu_sR-HL0M1RzLmUnH_tXWIZGYA/s1042/house%20back.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="782" data-original-width="1042" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAZpC6k0hfvrb1VuUj46HBqXE1a-YP2PZEteu-KDkVPGgRyTaqHVWM1tdE7WduWf0kXGeR942zd5YwRUMG6CV8JzKMh0RKm13fszUsgnZaESIpm9btND_xzBbjkhrEoBjNxyHKjUsoOKrxlo6O_ItQrAyqQ5TrdJ9cu_sR-HL0M1RzLmUnH_tXWIZGYA/w400-h300/house%20back.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Where was R? He'd driven farther northeast, almost to the tip of the peninsula, to work on another old house for a few days. A back addition which we knew was collapsing had collapsed even more and the municipality had asked for it to be fixed or demolished. I haven't visited the house for a couple of years but this is what it looked like then. <p></p><p>R knocked down the walls and took apart the tin roof. It wasn't easy. The construction was solid. The joints were dovetailed, the nails six inches long. Each nail in the tin roof had been individually caulked. 28 rows of 10 nails = 280 nails. He counted in the way one counts when a task seems like it might last forever unless you define it. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis437zwOg6mWf0rdjUxSvq5SLaZyleiPONVtCM4CK6v4Sn1_jOUyPVQEeZak918Q5J7idhSx9yOFaGZEBQNjk_e1Jel-m3R4_XhJ3jjLJLGyp3Fqwkv82fYnkL4CM5zjdzrOo_bzE7OUYgk2qlV9qcO-_Wc5O3fxEax4R5BOmQObhNJNaiHii2WlKjgA/s1067/bush.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis437zwOg6mWf0rdjUxSvq5SLaZyleiPONVtCM4CK6v4Sn1_jOUyPVQEeZak918Q5J7idhSx9yOFaGZEBQNjk_e1Jel-m3R4_XhJ3jjLJLGyp3Fqwkv82fYnkL4CM5zjdzrOo_bzE7OUYgk2qlV9qcO-_Wc5O3fxEax4R5BOmQObhNJNaiHii2WlKjgA/w300-h400/bush.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />The house still contained a lot of the previous owner's abandoned furniture. R carried a lot out to the side of the road for Big Garbage Day. <i>Jour de la collecte des objets volumineux.</i> A washing machine, a double porcelain sink, 1960s style lamps and armchairs. I should say that on Big Garbage Day, it's understood that people driving by will stop and see if there's anything they might like to take--and they do. The sink was soon gone. One fellow began talking to R and asked if he could look through whatever was still in the house. He liked a medicine cabinet. R told him it was his. </div><div><br /></div><div>R kept a box of handsome brass drawer handles, spools of 100% wool for weaving, an Omega sewing machine which I'm having cleaned and repaired, an alabaster bust he found wrapped in canvas and tied in twine and wondered if there might be a dead person inside. </div><div><p></p><p>For now the house is boarded up tight again. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>When we arrived in the Gaspé, there was still a bank of snow beside the deck. For the two weeks that we were there, the snow shrunk and melted, and the buds of the trees began to unfurl. Driving 800 k to Montreal was a time-lapse trip into early spring, mid to late spring, and bingo! Summer full on in Montreal. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgejSLHj0VjAsofbNlIAA7I7lKKGt_y046vv5NVRcS_G4UomriLU33OX-4gaDJmMDbKPb-Qj-zcaq0nGTyF3sSEXYIdnfvrCBr1tQEPQI53gBGRGmh7mZ4kb30R_P7lWr-0_XvEyqF1xZkclHV30nDPmrV6orlQQkk5sR46nJmpvwT41yYVCyMFklV4xg/s800/anniversary.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgejSLHj0VjAsofbNlIAA7I7lKKGt_y046vv5NVRcS_G4UomriLU33OX-4gaDJmMDbKPb-Qj-zcaq0nGTyF3sSEXYIdnfvrCBr1tQEPQI53gBGRGmh7mZ4kb30R_P7lWr-0_XvEyqF1xZkclHV30nDPmrV6orlQQkk5sR46nJmpvwT41yYVCyMFklV4xg/w400-h300/anniversary.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p></div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02246669291440115585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918809780977867389.post-49556763429533841402022-04-24T20:37:00.004-04:002022-04-24T20:38:26.854-04:00last of the chillies / inner-city gardening<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDJEYPM2zLMUiwUXQaeCSNyHwnL2o9v4PAwdb393fDVd9tpSa934fhmsw_TygklMHBKWmN0nEGOA2lT4xvox6gYKKFrHht3eX0xIYsd3SY29L9EEOh5u8zhr0qf5-BnDyqKXbPLBSAEOWMPbJxZ083lvC9wCZFbgT2dFg2hSiPLm3kPlgWdNG-0Kchfg/s618/chilies.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="618" data-original-width="432" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDJEYPM2zLMUiwUXQaeCSNyHwnL2o9v4PAwdb393fDVd9tpSa934fhmsw_TygklMHBKWmN0nEGOA2lT4xvox6gYKKFrHht3eX0xIYsd3SY29L9EEOh5u8zhr0qf5-BnDyqKXbPLBSAEOWMPbJxZ083lvC9wCZFbgT2dFg2hSiPLm3kPlgWdNG-0Kchfg/w280-h400/chilies.jpg" width="280" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Actually, no. These aren't the last. I still have chilli peppers in glass jars in the freezer, but they don't begin to compare to the fieriness of the ones I hung to dry in the window. <p></p><p>They seem not to have minded their view onto the neighbours' fire escape. Well, hey, this is the city. </p><p>I grew them in my plot in the community garden next to the train tracks. The grumble/shriek/heave to a stop of the freight trains en route from the Prairies. The VIA train shuttling along the Quebec-Windsor corridor. I also grew chillies with the green beans climbing the fence in the back alley. </p><p>A deeply fond chilli memory is the sriracha a friend made. Delicious green chilli paste too. Hot hot hot! </p><p>After years of trying different simple ways to preserve chillies so they retain maximum heat, I've decided that threading them onto string and hanging them to dry is the best. Next year I will be hanging them in every window.</p>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02246669291440115585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918809780977867389.post-6533649226639103852022-03-28T20:28:00.000-04:002022-03-28T20:28:28.810-04:00snow wind tide / gaspésie march 2022<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf8XL0roCtO7U0l5VL6uQfKZa7W4P_l_svaIYxHhl1XUUcs4HaFdOoWq60oezBLPrEWXG0m-5W4zzy6LYu9T82aEzXg4QTLk709sHMoQe-Xv5LLAuFwNEk7P0f3SOPZX3BYcNXmPU99Lj7EwwSvUqo4f3uq6YjgBOAKH4HZzU0WONueIL5K47oCnz_2A/s576/ice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="576" height="584" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf8XL0roCtO7U0l5VL6uQfKZa7W4P_l_svaIYxHhl1XUUcs4HaFdOoWq60oezBLPrEWXG0m-5W4zzy6LYu9T82aEzXg4QTLk709sHMoQe-Xv5LLAuFwNEk7P0f3SOPZX3BYcNXmPU99Lj7EwwSvUqo4f3uq6YjgBOAKH4HZzU0WONueIL5K47oCnz_2A/w640-h584/ice.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZK5RVKnHMf5ektLtFqBJw1BbAuPPnaVAwtx43WSsxAkZjSArJoW7UvKvf9J6Yix7YjpA0TAqUdU-swzv8-XW_7EKNTzFUijlp2uEFM9gphLffIl80-cYzcLF2TkWAchb9qA-VjhaRRF8nxsai8sLp5Ad8dFBx6kUrdcKxiFuzbTSDjD9sKtNuNnqVZg/s576/ice%20slab.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZK5RVKnHMf5ektLtFqBJw1BbAuPPnaVAwtx43WSsxAkZjSArJoW7UvKvf9J6Yix7YjpA0TAqUdU-swzv8-XW_7EKNTzFUijlp2uEFM9gphLffIl80-cYzcLF2TkWAchb9qA-VjhaRRF8nxsai8sLp5Ad8dFBx6kUrdcKxiFuzbTSDjD9sKtNuNnqVZg/w640-h480/ice%20slab.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>We spent a couple of weeks in the land where wind and snow rule. Except for when the ice starts to break up along the shore and the tide starts to swell again. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeM5aIzUyMF8iFY_O6MuEcnPt-qRIa1CnMe37AwPRddcT3rm6O7EvsihbogZ1mVVT35WVayi-GnrLf_WcajP3nbdMg8HDlyrLQE8os3DPHLyY10tsqBBC5thP_Ls4Y28DDYvvego3A7LW7jAd2e2jjU4irnqFUXhhvpC8G_vUqaJ_vlQf1rDNnr_7Naw/s553/shoveling%20out%20window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="553" data-original-width="504" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeM5aIzUyMF8iFY_O6MuEcnPt-qRIa1CnMe37AwPRddcT3rm6O7EvsihbogZ1mVVT35WVayi-GnrLf_WcajP3nbdMg8HDlyrLQE8os3DPHLyY10tsqBBC5thP_Ls4Y28DDYvvego3A7LW7jAd2e2jjU4irnqFUXhhvpC8G_vUqaJ_vlQf1rDNnr_7Naw/w365-h400/shoveling%20out%20window.jpg" width="365" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>The kitchen window was covered to the top with snow when we arrived and R dug it out, only to have to dig it out again two days later. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>We had wind gusting up to 75k/hr, we had one whole day of no wind to disturb the snow falling on the trees, we had magnificent sunsets. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxpcTicr3sf5mszpsEJ1bnsAc9l1tZSqDuoH3WI2aSredxvMCNa_19TuGp77D-tJ8W0HdQR7ugBoNNyURvstGECZi8G_7bdH4tiQDDcUy3ADSH2hD8-Vz2jrbya8-w1JLOQUOWF5VcBGvaJ0dxUVDV3jQiiGHDQVKmn8rtg8gaqlwkmoTe7PyElG51GQ/s576/sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxpcTicr3sf5mszpsEJ1bnsAc9l1tZSqDuoH3WI2aSredxvMCNa_19TuGp77D-tJ8W0HdQR7ugBoNNyURvstGECZi8G_7bdH4tiQDDcUy3ADSH2hD8-Vz2jrbya8-w1JLOQUOWF5VcBGvaJ0dxUVDV3jQiiGHDQVKmn8rtg8gaqlwkmoTe7PyElG51GQ/w640-h480/sunset.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ-pKCOy2fr1lhyyY6xW1z5H6szqVak1DT6S5yJQQdAkzg4jJ1CKIpeZQQjEqnkWWCW82oDXL5h_IkLGJLE8sfeuSPe7E8vhPuZ6KNUgaD9mQM6el4m6k4Qgj4s87zTAato8zCLISzrpGOO0n0t_A0SS6A7pxUeRMou5zVKsTrDg63aVZLvsVb_ruokA/s648/alice%20sitting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ-pKCOy2fr1lhyyY6xW1z5H6szqVak1DT6S5yJQQdAkzg4jJ1CKIpeZQQjEqnkWWCW82oDXL5h_IkLGJLE8sfeuSPe7E8vhPuZ6KNUgaD9mQM6el4m6k4Qgj4s87zTAato8zCLISzrpGOO0n0t_A0SS6A7pxUeRMou5zVKsTrDg63aVZLvsVb_ruokA/w400-h300/alice%20sitting.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>In the woods we snowshoed across moose tracks so deep that we couldn't see the bottom of their steps. How long their legs must be! </p><p><br /></p><p>I tripped on my snowshoe, fell forward with my pole jabbed up to my wrist in snow, and as I pushed to get up, the pole dug deeper. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT1xJ5C_r6bpduLlNHqMIGFXw1dDqCspxQFGYC9BzbHRVQT9cs9GYCnCJMhKFDaYOrlf8VJ0Kjw7SvMm5DDrOiuBlXUPc_Up7VKvs71bWBKgdmPddZ_1UalxjYmPXQL5cIdwbFa_QN9xSM1p41ICSgz0CW5mJP9wgOm2hV8l-KyLUl2mzuBbGfvxEHtQ/s576/forest%20no%20wind.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT1xJ5C_r6bpduLlNHqMIGFXw1dDqCspxQFGYC9BzbHRVQT9cs9GYCnCJMhKFDaYOrlf8VJ0Kjw7SvMm5DDrOiuBlXUPc_Up7VKvs71bWBKgdmPddZ_1UalxjYmPXQL5cIdwbFa_QN9xSM1p41ICSgz0CW5mJP9wgOm2hV8l-KyLUl2mzuBbGfvxEHtQ/w480-h640/forest%20no%20wind.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrAJDFXGVeEc-TVEWdWIi1LXoWenBaFmV4KfPx3JroR_701F7GUtU2yf8aF1ZuswlRgKR7Lg4TsFMYTEFe8BmCNYxkHK_b1AoIrHminLH9m0Smz5cStxXs2thYbzU3qPjSBfr27L8qxxx9h8sIeD5-gAoNwT1XE2opP_5qVZDWaF7UMrd6pfin00uUmA/s672/nest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="672" data-original-width="504" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrAJDFXGVeEc-TVEWdWIi1LXoWenBaFmV4KfPx3JroR_701F7GUtU2yf8aF1ZuswlRgKR7Lg4TsFMYTEFe8BmCNYxkHK_b1AoIrHminLH9m0Smz5cStxXs2thYbzU3qPjSBfr27L8qxxx9h8sIeD5-gAoNwT1XE2opP_5qVZDWaF7UMrd6pfin00uUmA/w300-h400/nest.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>There were chickadees and crows and one robin feeding on a bush of winter-shrivelled berries. There were songbirds trilling about spring that was supposed to be coming if you looked at the light in the sky. There were a lot of last year's nests covered in snow. This one was so small that even heaped with snow it would have fit in my palm. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>We snowshoed a lot. </p><p>Every day? </p><p>Every day. In the woods when it was windy, along the shore when it wasn't too windy. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLssyLGp1FZaXuHn4VQtKZ3t86E0mVvzSjUb2FawDvD7yGfiFSRxQJ5Is1R22RSdzfMcy_tDnkCIecQOSyTFGxf-sydg_B3n-F02X66Q7DdHAhw19fjniwFWT7t8aOZehvFpqJDC1ViHvK9z8UHdOwn7L_6Xc9qkFi7UDKhUYyeEIicPCg9OxnN6NuWA/s672/robert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="672" data-original-width="504" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLssyLGp1FZaXuHn4VQtKZ3t86E0mVvzSjUb2FawDvD7yGfiFSRxQJ5Is1R22RSdzfMcy_tDnkCIecQOSyTFGxf-sydg_B3n-F02X66Q7DdHAhw19fjniwFWT7t8aOZehvFpqJDC1ViHvK9z8UHdOwn7L_6Xc9qkFi7UDKhUYyeEIicPCg9OxnN6NuWA/w300-h400/robert.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiguKnOsLPhPqDIlc4vcXgsyIP9S8p2Exz53CsT8TE1CNyPCNpbkFxgAWHGeND-PFc2onNOopzybLnw30CvUQjVKETG1QmXlIUL3feCHpOdFYpPFQ9JcvJMdOlzPcv-XqoHZRGBNFHx6X-dXwZFBzXSZPQLEmA6BHyjkMO3skAekpWP0NC1zuScPwTy8A/s648/snowdrifts%20shore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiguKnOsLPhPqDIlc4vcXgsyIP9S8p2Exz53CsT8TE1CNyPCNpbkFxgAWHGeND-PFc2onNOopzybLnw30CvUQjVKETG1QmXlIUL3feCHpOdFYpPFQ9JcvJMdOlzPcv-XqoHZRGBNFHx6X-dXwZFBzXSZPQLEmA6BHyjkMO3skAekpWP0NC1zuScPwTy8A/w640-h480/snowdrifts%20shore.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzokOx6koif9xtuifHMasxp6NoYAYv8O4SSTh9N-lzQsTF785sh7BgMQQG4CbpcsSPc8bpbsPs6v_-_uPJ8sA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7UEoIcEhi2ewqMMNoE4nfDyEKIboiW5UKtLFswxgbMMJqCXFtc8Hf1fkTRYyr4sNOPw2gnGrlk_UxiWcrT-ob30a8waWJPruB9LpufGxtIRaAwjkkjxQYBTm-OYDFo7L3rc5EBVwVeB4O5yJRM7sCnP56ffN47YLLSjFLV74vwDVGs8qEphhpYGC8XA/s792/trees%20sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="192" data-original-width="792" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7UEoIcEhi2ewqMMNoE4nfDyEKIboiW5UKtLFswxgbMMJqCXFtc8Hf1fkTRYyr4sNOPw2gnGrlk_UxiWcrT-ob30a8waWJPruB9LpufGxtIRaAwjkkjxQYBTm-OYDFo7L3rc5EBVwVeB4O5yJRM7sCnP56ffN47YLLSjFLV74vwDVGs8qEphhpYGC8XA/w640-h156/trees%20sign.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0AoU558UlhcTtsOksPNKu2dNHyCxepaJXB0JwcKVmwNT7zm-TbcMhssWqh57DDTrLvUppyR83uM6jI1d9WMgdbLrkNweT5DYUtvmZAAquwkdpyCAqAuS1dFm1f1QgbAVvOFqpCkQxAFi3uFANqrYA7eRa8Q6creiNcEpMf4J_xIwdwAxq4IGm-RrhoQ/s672/me%20snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="672" data-original-width="504" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0AoU558UlhcTtsOksPNKu2dNHyCxepaJXB0JwcKVmwNT7zm-TbcMhssWqh57DDTrLvUppyR83uM6jI1d9WMgdbLrkNweT5DYUtvmZAAquwkdpyCAqAuS1dFm1f1QgbAVvOFqpCkQxAFi3uFANqrYA7eRa8Q6creiNcEpMf4J_xIwdwAxq4IGm-RrhoQ/w300-h400/me%20snow.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02246669291440115585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918809780977867389.post-59104028156593827662022-01-10T20:15:00.001-05:002022-01-10T21:33:59.584-05:00knitting lesson<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhprPmtORPYCXzkZbkUy_VbSIHkX4Bwh8i3URLPap_iC_VPBtHaWzd95E7Rs2zL8BqlDPRoXPTeIPRtFE2jAvB3Tx_gE0zFnxiaPuxBvcvJpzFvnetWMy1pV4cnHEhpHVqVgR9wgHt3QF_2uX0OWdxvy7QdipUkHXreqeDvjds9-jFjCxFXyYeKk9qlvQ=s576" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="387" data-original-width="576" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhprPmtORPYCXzkZbkUy_VbSIHkX4Bwh8i3URLPap_iC_VPBtHaWzd95E7Rs2zL8BqlDPRoXPTeIPRtFE2jAvB3Tx_gE0zFnxiaPuxBvcvJpzFvnetWMy1pV4cnHEhpHVqVgR9wgHt3QF_2uX0OWdxvy7QdipUkHXreqeDvjds9-jFjCxFXyYeKk9qlvQ=w400-h269" width="400" /></a></div><p>He holds a coffee cup out to drivers stopped at the light. Some roll down their windows and give him money or hand him a half-smoked cigarette, a pastry, a bagel, the pinched end of a joint. I see him most days because he works the crossroad at the head of our street. He's slender with a gentle way of moving between cars. He could be a dancer in baggy clothes. How old is he? Maybe 30? He's from St. Vincent. He has thick dreadlocks.</p><p>I know his name, but I won't say it here. When we walk by, R calls out Yaar! which is something he does and there's no discussing it. Once the fellow said to me, I don't know that French word. I told him it wasn't French, just something R liked to say. Pirate talk. So he started saying it back. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7H2j2nC41WT07h-4n_88p8ol3iw3ejIAwltHbDL7CeV5z4b3pH15UKt_MCdO-tjyP9xoa4MFQsBxy2Gfb0A3mwATGGzfFvoCop-e41Vg4Qgkh2oc2aoUKBqKksKP_aPoRqH4jp241BMNLkSn8DZyADKnjGOa7ZZT0BQM9SEvcEQmPY9QPc_iU60CQUw=s576" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="553" data-original-width="576" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7H2j2nC41WT07h-4n_88p8ol3iw3ejIAwltHbDL7CeV5z4b3pH15UKt_MCdO-tjyP9xoa4MFQsBxy2Gfb0A3mwATGGzfFvoCop-e41Vg4Qgkh2oc2aoUKBqKksKP_aPoRqH4jp241BMNLkSn8DZyADKnjGOa7ZZT0BQM9SEvcEQmPY9QPc_iU60CQUw=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Last fall I wanted to knit R a hat using up different colours of scrap yarn. I didn't have a pattern and it turned out ENORMOUS. Not a hat to fit the head of anyone I knew. I made another one that fit R, but never threw away the ENORMOUS hat away because because because. <p></p><p>A few days ago R told me the fellow said he really liked the hat. R told him I'd made it. Then I saw him when I was out walking and he said, Oh, how I wish I could have a hat like that, I would be so happy. </p><p>Today when I went out for a walk I grabbed the ENORMOUS hat, because I thought that with his head of hair, it would fit. It's not always you get the chance to make someone really happy. </p><p>He gave a dance step when he saw me coming down the street, waving the hat. I explained how it was I had an extra hat that was ENORMOUS. Except he couldn't pull it over his head, hard as he tried--and I forgot all about distancing in my efforts to help him tug the hat down. A couple of motorists wondered what was going on and didn't move along when the light changed. I didn't know what to say. He still wanted to keep the hat.</p><p>Later, when R was returning from his walk, the fellow yelled, Yaar! She come by but the hat don't fit! R told him his hair was probably warmer. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02246669291440115585noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918809780977867389.post-16887586691329021622021-12-21T09:50:00.000-05:002021-12-21T09:50:14.926-05:00that time of year cookies<p>Recreating taste memories. Does it ever say in Proust who baked the excellent madeleines that sent him into 3000 pages of memory? </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhA81iZj3WOZBi7iaHubGQDfyQvsBOlBaDs01iH2e9ok4AMyLcryBKsyU_WiB5oUJtsY2c2_9u1AkJDXoZqjSZDXJaaJygheSzIVmb7rRG60W6IIgBXK0n5-lQwkuLU1ZsF7T4kZEbaYyjxh3CBK8h7Pgago7iaLI7dlRhtryKvrp9p2QqpPswKkbeLDg=s1024" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="624" data-original-width="1024" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhA81iZj3WOZBi7iaHubGQDfyQvsBOlBaDs01iH2e9ok4AMyLcryBKsyU_WiB5oUJtsY2c2_9u1AkJDXoZqjSZDXJaaJygheSzIVmb7rRG60W6IIgBXK0n5-lQwkuLU1ZsF7T4kZEbaYyjxh3CBK8h7Pgago7iaLI7dlRhtryKvrp9p2QqpPswKkbeLDg=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />R often refers to the Austrian cookies that my mother baked at Christmas. He has no way of knowing what the original cookies that I remember from my childhood tasted like. She used to make Haselnußsterne, Rumkeks, Vanillekipferl, Lebkuchen, Krapferl...<div><br /></div><div>In later years, she made only one or two kinds per Christmas. With the years, too, she adapted the recipes to accommodate her tastes and an intolerance to wheat flour. <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFiuavmV_drnRZ8pNPk6894Cs0fWqILFArr_i-JyPtHPq5feh3ZeGTEiTeC7rjCCA6RcZtpRtqGczsZ9Ibzt4gYPufUXY5_pS6QJT5n4vXhFWv_WPvd6hPj_9SVSFaSESoMDnBHST1FeLDi6J2sFYSQzYzJMLnTBQeZyxMTR-3inUQ2qUm9gH4nlFSiw=s275" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFiuavmV_drnRZ8pNPk6894Cs0fWqILFArr_i-JyPtHPq5feh3ZeGTEiTeC7rjCCA6RcZtpRtqGczsZ9Ibzt4gYPufUXY5_pS6QJT5n4vXhFWv_WPvd6hPj_9SVSFaSESoMDnBHST1FeLDi6J2sFYSQzYzJMLnTBQeZyxMTR-3inUQ2qUm9gH4nlFSiw=w320-h213" width="320" /></a></div>I rarely eat sweets. I don't need to make cookies for myself. But R has delirious memories of the time he feasted on a platter of what he calls sandwich cookies. As he remembers them, there were two cookies with a jam filling and iced with chocolate. Every year, when the holiday approaches and I ask if he would like me to make Austrian Christmas cookies, he rhapsodizes about those sandwich cookies. <p></p><p>I assumed he meant Krapferl--two cookies with an apricot jam middle and iced with chocolate--but no, he says sadly, that's not them. </p><p>I leaf through the disintegrating pages of the Viennese cookbook that my great grandmother gave to my grandmother who gave it to my mother when she emigrated to Canada. There is no recipe for 'sandwich cookie'.</p><p>Among the recipes, I see that my mother made an X next to a recipe called Haselnußkücherl--little hazelnut cakes. They have a top and a bottom with a filling of ground hazelnuts and rum. When I was a child, she iced them with rum glaze. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhHdJMaxa2HqnCHbZSYx4_V_OizhO4JOdSAWTGKhTBljy5A1Kvn9vUJ1WKLcvHzuYsOugTN0nORVl5u9OBRxEqyzNkDWFWeq6elKyetj0mbO9O2FrX7csEALjmhQnkXi2lIaVB8DtyUf3VrbaporRjLyGn7WQZ-w_a7IuZmz8lCcKw_X82rvbEkbZd9KA=s648" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="490" data-original-width="648" height="484" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhHdJMaxa2HqnCHbZSYx4_V_OizhO4JOdSAWTGKhTBljy5A1Kvn9vUJ1WKLcvHzuYsOugTN0nORVl5u9OBRxEqyzNkDWFWeq6elKyetj0mbO9O2FrX7csEALjmhQnkXi2lIaVB8DtyUf3VrbaporRjLyGn7WQZ-w_a7IuZmz8lCcKw_X82rvbEkbZd9KA=w640-h484" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg7T9N__UxDjRCKyWqRLp55gkmIU18oJYFlzOMZo1LPytnGFSanbZ0Kah5lbQhOcJaBRp5Ib20ifWGecvBA_jAsX2nqQr0a24eE46W3YASlqkkLFrkA0uVpns5T-a9lW73D16sg9rN7birGnDE9dUENQlgUDpvswVjtbqDLShhVaP7-397qH2zusWbjjA=s225" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg7T9N__UxDjRCKyWqRLp55gkmIU18oJYFlzOMZo1LPytnGFSanbZ0Kah5lbQhOcJaBRp5Ib20ifWGecvBA_jAsX2nqQr0a24eE46W3YASlqkkLFrkA0uVpns5T-a9lW73D16sg9rN7birGnDE9dUENQlgUDpvswVjtbqDLShhVaP7-397qH2zusWbjjA=w400-h400" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>By the time R was coming to my parents' house for the holidays, she filled them with red currant jam and iced them with chocolate. </p><p></p><p>So these might be what he's calling sandwich cookies, but that doesn't help me much since by R's time, she was substituting ground oats, ground almonds and ground hazelnuts for wheat flour. But in what proportion? </p><p>I made a few guesses and baked the cookies. Good, R says, but they should be puffier. </p><p>I've told him Austrian cookies aren't puffy. I remember, though, that my mother often added baking powder to recipes that didn't call for any. </p><p>It's possible that R will never get the cookie he wants since he's fixated on a memory of a variation that cannot be repeated. I should also add that the challenge is entirely in my own head. It doesn't matter to him whether I make the cookies or not. But if I make them, he will offer an opinion. That is our dynamic. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjD_a0URgB5Ero19EuFoZb-m08hARwLc2Xd__e1nBG9WfifJPjtqXK01Frou_LWSnwVpmeOHwmZtT02-bFXZ2LkguarEhKc9teswcPYZwyMcFe9SYCCh7A4OloTVshvQR3S8tlPLTLYzZ4M6q-ZW_iXD4apVGwR_7gfq7JwBQ9nc9gCrBX-uALQ766_pQ=s576" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjD_a0URgB5Ero19EuFoZb-m08hARwLc2Xd__e1nBG9WfifJPjtqXK01Frou_LWSnwVpmeOHwmZtT02-bFXZ2LkguarEhKc9teswcPYZwyMcFe9SYCCh7A4OloTVshvQR3S8tlPLTLYzZ4M6q-ZW_iXD4apVGwR_7gfq7JwBQ9nc9gCrBX-uALQ766_pQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>I made another small batch with baking powder--and although they still aren't exactly as he remembers them, he finds them pretty good. He must. There are only three left, even though I haven't iced them yet. They taste like ground oatmeal and ground hazelnut shortbread. Homemade raspberry jam filling.</p><p></p><p>I might now make another batch and ice them.</p><p><br /></p><p>I wish you all happy holidays, however you celebrate the time off. Be careful. Stay safe. Today is the shortest day of the year. As of tomorrow, there will be more light. </p><p>ps I did not make all the cookies above this year, but I've made them other years. </p></div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02246669291440115585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918809780977867389.post-50503569317068973582021-12-01T10:40:00.002-05:002021-12-01T11:46:11.159-05:00solidified narrative / one way to recycle paper<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7g3Mj3kTFniaKkPEkN5sdIwileThXAFC2dlhopscREIhldtnOOJjCM4I41A_ZIGqWKeiBdXZuWRpr8s2Nxp_RCulqUc8Ie7k_WT4w_ICUizlCKzEYxoZQj0mnh81M5YbjtaxBtHAAHQ8yWVieqXrEAj7ocHQ7BinaYX7ecYBPJkcc2-qmCsuKJ15-mA=s1000" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="756" data-original-width="1000" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7g3Mj3kTFniaKkPEkN5sdIwileThXAFC2dlhopscREIhldtnOOJjCM4I41A_ZIGqWKeiBdXZuWRpr8s2Nxp_RCulqUc8Ie7k_WT4w_ICUizlCKzEYxoZQj0mnh81M5YbjtaxBtHAAHQ8yWVieqXrEAj7ocHQ7BinaYX7ecYBPJkcc2-qmCsuKJ15-mA=w320-h242" width="320" /></a></div><br />What does a writer do with all those draft pages? That assumes you write on paper as I do. <p></p><p>I can but don't like writing first draft on the computer, because I can't stop rereading what I've written, second-guessing myself. I move forward more efficiently when I write first draft longhand. And although I can write with ballpoint or rollerball or pencil on newsprint, I have my precious routines about using a particular format of hard-cover notebook and my Lamy fountain pen, even though the Lamy leaks unless I use a certain ink (not Lamy). </p><p><br /></p><p>For a writer, what's important aren't the tools but the words--except that I'm also a human animal who likes her creature comforts. I like the smoothness of ink and nib when I'm writing on good paper. I like the bound notebooks because I only write on one of the facing pages and keep the other free for notes and arrows. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg0OFlbDYXfgWL2JeuDbKnSVJXxKXWnqRCKxhpg7b_96La-PSlTgD5qGnlXuFPxrCfSaCfMUTDbDt67ODaeGHlUwRz3pO3BHnkdLcO7IMuvDsmp3R0H-NlnKLhqsYgGizM91T-kT56r8-U3FgXHjr5k3dZ6L7MzHPRN0nJxG4Kbb--jbSHKwt0jjEbDdw=s648" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="495" data-original-width="648" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg0OFlbDYXfgWL2JeuDbKnSVJXxKXWnqRCKxhpg7b_96La-PSlTgD5qGnlXuFPxrCfSaCfMUTDbDt67ODaeGHlUwRz3pO3BHnkdLcO7IMuvDsmp3R0H-NlnKLhqsYgGizM91T-kT56r8-U3FgXHjr5k3dZ6L7MzHPRN0nJxG4Kbb--jbSHKwt0jjEbDdw=s320" width="320" /></a></div>After a couple of hours, I dictate what I've written into the computer. From then on, I print pages of hard copy that I revise--again, by hand. I revise a lot. When I hear people boast that they've done five revisions, I have no idea what they mean. That would be me getting started. I use a lot of paper, but too many hours of looking at a computer screen give me migraines, and too many hours of typing aggravate my hands. Paper is a luxury I allow myself. When it's filled with sentences and scribbles, I dutifully drop it in the recycling bin.<p></p><p>And now R has begun making paper. A friend gave me a few sheets of paper she'd made and he was so pleased with the effect when he painted on it--how the paper took the paint, how the paint bled, how vividly the colours dried--that he decided to make some himself. He set up a table in the far corner of the cellar behind the water heater.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjJfaNeNXYC4I-2Rf9MSZDteNgEJnShZC1-0y2GutQwrJz6zyCY9gRBCZdvepJtXKawsgE_R7-Mlybs_oMB3QQbbPi6K9lT_iY2zCact6-uFFXgSBqFZU3FQs1an9ymXKSX7IHSbTAe72fRFc8-dbHdkqJFuMMf4j1ADn0yeGVWQlMDsDlegypjK1-sog=s648" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="455" data-original-width="648" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjJfaNeNXYC4I-2Rf9MSZDteNgEJnShZC1-0y2GutQwrJz6zyCY9gRBCZdvepJtXKawsgE_R7-Mlybs_oMB3QQbbPi6K9lT_iY2zCact6-uFFXgSBqFZU3FQs1an9ymXKSX7IHSbTAe72fRFc8-dbHdkqJFuMMf4j1ADn0yeGVWQlMDsDlegypjK1-sog=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div>He needed a secondhand blender, a screen and a shallow tub. The blender took a while to find because they seem to get snapped up immediately in Montreal. For a few weeks we stopped at Renaissance, l'Armée de bon salut, the Good Shepherd, etc. He finally found a blender in a thrift shop on our recent visit to family in Ontario. He made the frame and screen he needed from a window screen I spotted in sidewalk garbage. Ditto the tub. He's set himself up in a far corner of the cellar. </div><div><br /></div><div>This is one of the first pieces he made.</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgLWqVYQd084wDFF1tR4A_OxFWa8KR0UQPj7LK88som85yJR42_OUD38BobQgTMXcVzlctraEHFxDvcyX8PpWrj9tuNtjqCXpfj3v581AKbVjPEq2QmINYcklDehtK9KhM9JJmJWz4qWVbP_Vyzk3xyfkkKLB5cAplFOayB_zpvWjUrCOl2acxY3-IHoA=s576" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgLWqVYQd084wDFF1tR4A_OxFWa8KR0UQPj7LK88som85yJR42_OUD38BobQgTMXcVzlctraEHFxDvcyX8PpWrj9tuNtjqCXpfj3v581AKbVjPEq2QmINYcklDehtK9KhM9JJmJWz4qWVbP_Vyzk3xyfkkKLB5cAplFOayB_zpvWjUrCOl2acxY3-IHoA=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><p>I have a dim memory of watching an artist years ago, cooking torn rags in a cauldron. Now it seems one speeds up the process of making pulp by buzzing it in a blender--and that the easiest way to get pulp is by using old paper. </p><p>Except R doesn't want to use old envelopes. He's asked for paper from my recycling bin. He wants story ideas. He says he's making "solidified narrative". </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGBZmSOBabjmsDeP6EG5ihncr1LIuax1QB7nOvxTpjyStNf620PmCXTVYT_oDPNoX0eZ6AtTJ3WPL4W_KJ2YX1vEd8VdOMD5aDG4HZLCFntiE4mF4RMJK_KDjTwqhNlGl8FmUNdeN4UOEsLn97ws447B__Z_lebkw4TDCemkIZPBNZyEJQdU7XQBkskg=s648" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="458" data-original-width="648" height="452" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGBZmSOBabjmsDeP6EG5ihncr1LIuax1QB7nOvxTpjyStNf620PmCXTVYT_oDPNoX0eZ6AtTJ3WPL4W_KJ2YX1vEd8VdOMD5aDG4HZLCFntiE4mF4RMJK_KDjTwqhNlGl8FmUNdeN4UOEsLn97ws447B__Z_lebkw4TDCemkIZPBNZyEJQdU7XQBkskg=w640-h452" width="640" /></a></div><p>He's been adding different bits to the pulp for texture and colour. This one has parsley. It's the paper he used for the Pink Flamingos up top. </p><p>Why Pink Flamingos? No idea. That's his story. I had my chance when I wrote words on the paper.</p><p> Here he's adding dried Xmas cactus flowers...</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh3SkHhkWt_eVCAcvCdtKW4hUOcqGl6TgqvjToSVNpuM3tdAcqOsGVlua0nWuR7-SCcHwvRaK77LioTilmB9Jf8EHxDM1hMVjWQxJvQCaSKZfNLOvxzfdXrII1io5B4fZVzcprUfr3j-gpJTe2W6JZ3DnkHqL2kFzhpmVxgzi4NNPMWa_-2kbLuwMVoVw=s504" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="378" data-original-width="504" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh3SkHhkWt_eVCAcvCdtKW4hUOcqGl6TgqvjToSVNpuM3tdAcqOsGVlua0nWuR7-SCcHwvRaK77LioTilmB9Jf8EHxDM1hMVjWQxJvQCaSKZfNLOvxzfdXrII1io5B4fZVzcprUfr3j-gpJTe2W6JZ3DnkHqL2kFzhpmVxgzi4NNPMWa_-2kbLuwMVoVw=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p></div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02246669291440115585noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918809780977867389.post-41608709879670730672021-11-09T09:25:00.000-05:002021-11-09T09:25:23.411-05:00place names / my version<p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGtQ61YeaMmU4WdJkDa3HcP0uqUo2B7miTvfpIE-JFoXmcVUtBdBPys_U6BxNYRYmtfpKxCQcy2eW4rkZdUlXHEYMD_n49oYqX4p9fVpu0tDNXqorHqQJL1kttyQAShqCDUpkQb34Yk_bimcHmMtZwopcTlba1AEmMvreeCIRxEDKYP4_MvfzajQPIDQ=s576" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGtQ61YeaMmU4WdJkDa3HcP0uqUo2B7miTvfpIE-JFoXmcVUtBdBPys_U6BxNYRYmtfpKxCQcy2eW4rkZdUlXHEYMD_n49oYqX4p9fVpu0tDNXqorHqQJL1kttyQAShqCDUpkQb34Yk_bimcHmMtZwopcTlba1AEmMvreeCIRxEDKYP4_MvfzajQPIDQ=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br />Of the many places where I have set fiction, I am delighted to have my short story, "Our Ladies", which takes place in the Gaspé, published in the current issue of <i>Prairie Fire</i>. <a href="https://www.prairiefire.ca/current-issue">https://www.prairiefire.ca/current-issue</a><p></p><p><i>Ladies</i> is a word that has fallen out of fashion--with good reason--but the title is a nod to the many places in Quebec called Notre Dame de [whatever]. Our Lady of… It is not a nod to the religion that named them, except in an ironic sense as I believe is made clear. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgm71SLFSrh8evWeUGwa4AcffXlmfNTogTy49Jk-mg17EIfiQly7ZKSb0vLJqi86JVUiW9PH-dyDjaivnniZU1WgPnaSPscuFEoq-c2iCcP5I6MWcmuqVRBJBvg7JWd6l_axnztjSJvRHDGZm9AMCu8CIG03Nnl8ca-LmlVcA9yPzEGY2FEzGfmiFq9OA=s576" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgm71SLFSrh8evWeUGwa4AcffXlmfNTogTy49Jk-mg17EIfiQly7ZKSb0vLJqi86JVUiW9PH-dyDjaivnniZU1WgPnaSPscuFEoq-c2iCcP5I6MWcmuqVRBJBvg7JWd6l_axnztjSJvRHDGZm9AMCu8CIG03Nnl8ca-LmlVcA9yPzEGY2FEzGfmiFq9OA=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2nSBm4SlsL7Ixelvw9bz3KTUHDRbxNnvbm7c-Ea4kCQSTQ-5y6FhO_JX4xXwgnXrbyWz_SDTZ90cDzmL8dtZqBfo6zfD-C3LOdHT5R1ryzPAALgR9F71O-ZfE2YJ_3a3Zi_bjjD6jm24oU2EI50SGTbDLHkfzZA65Gj9acJUefax6V9pqVeWIp0Q0OQ=s576" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2nSBm4SlsL7Ixelvw9bz3KTUHDRbxNnvbm7c-Ea4kCQSTQ-5y6FhO_JX4xXwgnXrbyWz_SDTZ90cDzmL8dtZqBfo6zfD-C3LOdHT5R1ryzPAALgR9F71O-ZfE2YJ_3a3Zi_bjjD6jm24oU2EI50SGTbDLHkfzZA65Gj9acJUefax6V9pqVeWIp0Q0OQ=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div>The story is set in a village called Notre Dame des Quatres Douleurs. Our Lady of Four Sorrows. A fictional name for a string of houses in a landscape of hills and sea that I assure you exists. Place--physical, social, cultural--plays an intregal role in my writing. What is a character without place? Even if it's a place as small as a room or a country where the character does not feel she belongs. I am interested in the relationship--whether rootedness or tension--between character and place. It's fitting that this story appears in an issue exploring Roots & Routes.<p></p><p>When writing, I have sometimes used real place names, sometimes invented names. I don't have a rule about this. Even when I use a real place name, it's likely that I've manipulated the layout of the streets. Zadie Smith has a note in the Acknowledgements of her novel, <i>Swing Time</i>: "North London, in these pages, is a state of mind. Some streets may not appear as they do in Google Maps." Other writers of fiction have similar notes on the copyright page. For a writer, this makes sense. You use what you need for the narrative. A novel is not a photographic picture. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzJo5DE1sG0oUlB6kDrtmRwmDjvDVJbenebqh6B6sDousHynky9r7mS8hJjvvhIVL-yCbUmPymInH6Az12PF-JDXU52Vswe-AlBMmc4ZZ1Z_UwgJgB30auihYOcpwnhbpXsiJ9Tj2pJ0AkgHFlGXT9T51jCLSatsse3pOFLmSDb1skY-ZmsrwAghOVDQ=s576" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzJo5DE1sG0oUlB6kDrtmRwmDjvDVJbenebqh6B6sDousHynky9r7mS8hJjvvhIVL-yCbUmPymInH6Az12PF-JDXU52Vswe-AlBMmc4ZZ1Z_UwgJgB30auihYOcpwnhbpXsiJ9Tj2pJ0AkgHFlGXT9T51jCLSatsse3pOFLmSDb1skY-ZmsrwAghOVDQ=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br />However, I have discovered that some readers struggle with this. It has nothing to do with intelligence or level of education. A friend told me once that her father, who was a college professor, had grown up in Newark, New Jersey where Philip Roth had also grown up and set his fiction. Her father was angry that Roth had made up details about Newark. He didn't "get it right". In vain she tried to explain to him that Roth was writing fiction.<p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhYWh0WDEVYlb6Dt2JPP5igrduvd4pcIL-HqdIwEd7rHtcryc2JvlfAhgfE_DaOLtKOYYNtZVD9Xd9_KMC7mo3Ee-r0Y7xMc52wrhHpx3qxB634RwPflFHpFUNLYUXfVSPEemdfctxwIJXz0wl4OxVX4EdQr3NFNddBE-kldVBDkE9NL1zX9kb7xZ5I4w=s576" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhYWh0WDEVYlb6Dt2JPP5igrduvd4pcIL-HqdIwEd7rHtcryc2JvlfAhgfE_DaOLtKOYYNtZVD9Xd9_KMC7mo3Ee-r0Y7xMc52wrhHpx3qxB634RwPflFHpFUNLYUXfVSPEemdfctxwIJXz0wl4OxVX4EdQr3NFNddBE-kldVBDkE9NL1zX9kb7xZ5I4w=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div>While I was writing the novel <i>Five Roses</i>, I debated using the name of the Montreal neighbourhood where I imagined it taking place. There are so many objectifiably recognizable markers. The Lachine canal with its history, the FIVE ROSES sign that marks Montreal's southern horizon, cycling by the St. Lawrence River, the dépanneur on my street corner, so many scenes that I documented, photographed, and used as source material. That was where my characters, albeit fictional, lived--in the Pointe aka the Point aka Pointe St-Charles aka Point St. Charles. <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEikJeIyvhHCjdExYYjCUHBm-5XfJ4rHyMMHZM420eGJ6DzGlCF4PdKrST-VL0_2dnaQJVkgKCaKRCKL2OGwBMDWF294C7l3eIS7REAvHCNiftx8p7uiGv0IQdOfU4GK3pHtqFXKy3ZMB3O17GCqeBI5jWNmMTmDuVPdIVmLXURFCP4mfvw8ucyhmOKYWA=s576" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEikJeIyvhHCjdExYYjCUHBm-5XfJ4rHyMMHZM420eGJ6DzGlCF4PdKrST-VL0_2dnaQJVkgKCaKRCKL2OGwBMDWF294C7l3eIS7REAvHCNiftx8p7uiGv0IQdOfU4GK3pHtqFXKy3ZMB3O17GCqeBI5jWNmMTmDuVPdIVmLXURFCP4mfvw8ucyhmOKYWA=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>When I began working on the novel, I had lived in the Pointe for 10 years. Long enough, I felt, to be able to describe it. Certainly as a newcomer. I never pretended to be someone with great-grandparents who dug the Lachine Canal.<p></p><p>Six years later <i>Five Roses</i> was published. I met with a generous response from readers who found that my portrayal of the Pointe was just and who appreciated the novel.</p><p>But there were also those who objected. They challenged my right to set a novel here. One belligerently asked why I hadn't told the "good, old stories"? The hardscrabble toughness of life when the factories closed and neighbours helped each other, the horse-drawn delivery carts, the family of the West End Gang driving up and down the streets at Christmas with a flatbed truck handing out gifts for children. Hadn't I heard those stories?</p><p>Indeed I had. But they weren't my stories.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmjwbJPda6L6SL6lRAD_QJgdTQ4ihBKHG2c2KH2-ymNM3dEwIHLP27bWAoh963535oPwIN27ecEF5KPopDkjRjrCxHqkVehwvpI60ax-U-COzGgi8AQIomd5hoDPRnBG8tR3sV5dvt2WBiLAJ5OQvWWlsF0KQeuayEpWv9CqVteOEsENIcfnHyRJldMw=s576" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmjwbJPda6L6SL6lRAD_QJgdTQ4ihBKHG2c2KH2-ymNM3dEwIHLP27bWAoh963535oPwIN27ecEF5KPopDkjRjrCxHqkVehwvpI60ax-U-COzGgi8AQIomd5hoDPRnBG8tR3sV5dvt2WBiLAJ5OQvWWlsF0KQeuayEpWv9CqVteOEsENIcfnHyRJldMw=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjdqM92K-pmEXG4gCROJ51fhW8dToCdgX3HBeutZ1NxoTUdN_yr5tWr3I2cf7n0QVq-eslaKh6lfkA_NbE4_Pc1lquCCsAcvP-Yre5Sio0UyXwG3h_-LBIw93t_x8yynU8dBbUynvAQ1hndsEghhtviQo3ndrB13JikAjhdsnzX51ZxsnStOr4s9q9N4g=s576" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="485" data-original-width="576" height="538" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjdqM92K-pmEXG4gCROJ51fhW8dToCdgX3HBeutZ1NxoTUdN_yr5tWr3I2cf7n0QVq-eslaKh6lfkA_NbE4_Pc1lquCCsAcvP-Yre5Sio0UyXwG3h_-LBIw93t_x8yynU8dBbUynvAQ1hndsEghhtviQo3ndrB13JikAjhdsnzX51ZxsnStOr4s9q9N4g=w640-h538" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiUPNqWnw7QcJ0DpUITVpxieKGNYoI0j_erB0tC1JEfEtBRFe2OewJooJUs1GeB3zy6lzrwmtT7RdJf4Hqq5l2yDtWy3-E4ep_lBXY_sCUDsVD6VswxhGPqNQlsNRBtOwgMsF925TbeVb1MjUcao7DQW5ZErmF63035oCJPqNvhdF9QhZsYjK6QRknPhg=s576" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiUPNqWnw7QcJ0DpUITVpxieKGNYoI0j_erB0tC1JEfEtBRFe2OewJooJUs1GeB3zy6lzrwmtT7RdJf4Hqq5l2yDtWy3-E4ep_lBXY_sCUDsVD6VswxhGPqNQlsNRBtOwgMsF925TbeVb1MjUcao7DQW5ZErmF63035oCJPqNvhdF9QhZsYjK6QRknPhg=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br />Another neighbour--another sidewalk confrontation--said I wasn't allowed to make up stories about where she lived. <p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>But I live here too now. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhaKStnbRVDenM_gLVbjzAwXpCy_d8KvXV0IB19nwGCTJ42qzDDvHE6mqTABmR0Bf1i-hcnKT5AMmHX-DlcOkeRI1S-gdSeUQjY7xuHOeUmJumGN0T-bpEMMdHWsiGorxxKjqJwSkbr_c2VJCUXUdJmz70fexFI3VHunpwJqmmbAePtCFXEL08T9FH6jw=s720" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="484" data-original-width="720" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhaKStnbRVDenM_gLVbjzAwXpCy_d8KvXV0IB19nwGCTJ42qzDDvHE6mqTABmR0Bf1i-hcnKT5AMmHX-DlcOkeRI1S-gdSeUQjY7xuHOeUmJumGN0T-bpEMMdHWsiGorxxKjqJwSkbr_c2VJCUXUdJmz70fexFI3VHunpwJqmmbAePtCFXEL08T9FH6jw=w400-h269" width="400" /></a></div>Writing fiction in the realist tradition is a balance between consensual reality (assuming a common ground can be found), the emotional/ethical truth of the story, the imaginative process. I don't write about a place unless I feel I know it well enough to adopt the point of view I've chosen. And as a writer, yes, I claim that right. <div><p></p><p><br /></p><p>The Gaspé is a landscape I've been visiting for almost 40 years. The protagonist of this story, "Our Ladies", is seeing it for the first time. It was delight to experience it with him.</p><p><br /></p><p>We were last in the Gaspé in late September and early October. Moose-hunting season had just started so we weren't able to walk in the woods. We stayed by the shore. Mountain ash trees were heavy with berries. We saw a flock of snow geese, who don't normally fly so far east when they're migrating, wheel from the sky to land in the river. The sight and sound was so magnificent that I didn't even think of pulling out my camera until they had almost all landed. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwDgLMWb2C2XbJtWqSG3XaaWc8p9bPiYgaj4WeGOlezQXQ00GVr1x8e3qWVOhuvIrWvmif_7fU4w5fm8uQk_Q' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Even when I return to Montreal, part of my heart stays behind with the waves and the hills. </div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7-Ief8KNQOI7YEUaNEafyTDAp734P5rfCyrmlTyHRZW9pRbVkaer42R6cNH74HnCY8gkNe4-ziYSKIqVGabiGCEkLqk4pNEerEnWOdMjRkkWsfAPT_cnDbulCVuB7dMp-zC2K6k3SS1GRIpVy24yvJQIRiRYd4P4rEscGCLLSaFXp3EtPhqNDGjO_UQ=s587" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="587" data-original-width="576" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7-Ief8KNQOI7YEUaNEafyTDAp734P5rfCyrmlTyHRZW9pRbVkaer42R6cNH74HnCY8gkNe4-ziYSKIqVGabiGCEkLqk4pNEerEnWOdMjRkkWsfAPT_cnDbulCVuB7dMp-zC2K6k3SS1GRIpVy24yvJQIRiRYd4P4rEscGCLLSaFXp3EtPhqNDGjO_UQ=w393-h400" width="393" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p></div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02246669291440115585noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918809780977867389.post-43397453667948017942021-10-25T12:24:00.001-04:002021-10-25T18:01:09.826-04:00life of a sidewalk tree<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgyc0wSybLpmwxDt89nWWX56u0aU9KB32KzF2kH-GQIuQX95F90TYZrUH13I92AgWPsKeUqy44FXN7ZqsBy7goKX4iSSXc_yyG5RGQ1wqEr4Y3AatiFVGk1Wn3pIkLmLzHb0l7hLXgLOE-Ytws_h1Y8Tu0stEXiKM94jVFQ3C7wTiP1qYSq4Z1FS9LElA=s766" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="766" data-original-width="576" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgyc0wSybLpmwxDt89nWWX56u0aU9KB32KzF2kH-GQIuQX95F90TYZrUH13I92AgWPsKeUqy44FXN7ZqsBy7goKX4iSSXc_yyG5RGQ1wqEr4Y3AatiFVGk1Wn3pIkLmLzHb0l7hLXgLOE-Ytws_h1Y8Tu0stEXiKM94jVFQ3C7wTiP1qYSq4Z1FS9LElA=w301-h400" width="301" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Our front door abuts the sidewalk. Anything that happens on the sidewalk I hear through the windows. People walking past, talking, laughing, arguing and scolding, walking dogs, bouncing a basketball, rolling a grocery buggy or a washing machine strapped onto a dolly. They pass so closely that I could reach out and touch their heads. They can see into my windows as well, although generally they don't look because that's the unspoken understanding </span>(cf Jane Jacobs on the "intricate ballet" of sidewalk behaviour), <span style="font-family: inherit;">which I have to admit I don't necessarily respect myself. The sidewalk is the border between private and public. Cats, squirrels, and raccoons use it too. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Given that it's a length of concrete, it's fabulous to have a few trees shading it. When </span>we moved here 20 years ago, there was a beech tree in front of the house. It gave me a screen of leaves throughout spring and summer, and in the autumn the leaves turned brilliant yellow. Even the bare branches in the winter were preferable to seeing directly into the neighbours' windows across the street. (Sure, I could put up curtains but then I might as well have a wall.) </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjJithUWJeeE_8bbZrdXqsEEIJ7EXJqjAXvFdJKQ-x-I_L6LRNTzlgxFB9sxPbvSu71vAr8M4UA8z44cZoLQzeL6ek_-p9MccluSq09OAerSFhThpzUB9SpO_BvhgBiah_mULH0YLWdHxAOcCXnKkae0zmHVv5_AP9AKoJeusvELScQ2QPiam2BilBD9A=s768" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="576" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjJithUWJeeE_8bbZrdXqsEEIJ7EXJqjAXvFdJKQ-x-I_L6LRNTzlgxFB9sxPbvSu71vAr8M4UA8z44cZoLQzeL6ek_-p9MccluSq09OAerSFhThpzUB9SpO_BvhgBiah_mULH0YLWdHxAOcCXnKkae0zmHVv5_AP9AKoJeusvELScQ2QPiam2BilBD9A=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br />Sparrows liked taking the morning sun in the tree, even though I didn't always like how loudly they CHIRPED about their prowess or the sun or food source or any of the many topics of sparrow communication. My office is on the second floor, so I was as close to the sparrows in the crown of the tree as I would be to passersby on the sidewalk below. When the sparrows got too loud and monotonous, I CHIRPED back at them until they moved along. Starlings visited the tree too, though they preferred the larger century-old cottonwoods in the back alley. Starlings congregate in larger groups.<p></p><p>The birds were loudest in the spring and summer. The part of the avian brain that controls song shrinks at end of breeding season. Their testes too--for a sparrow from the size of a baked bean to a pinhead. No, I don't know what kind of baked bean, nor what size of pin, but you get the idea. My source for this is the excellent book by Tim Birkhead, <i>Bird Sense</i>.</p><p>In winter the sparrows still came to perch in the tree with their feathers fluffed out to keep warm. </p><p>Then a kamikaze cowboy crashed a sidewalk snow plough into the tree, damaging the trunk so badly that the city had to cut it down. </p><p>The following summer the city planted a mountain ash, and for the first few years, the tree was healthy. It bloomed white in the spring, followed by clusters of orange berries. The starlings and squirrels had a heyday. </p><p>Then the tree became infested with tent caterpillars which we tried to control by cutting away the affected branches. The following year we saw dieback--dried brown leaves and leafless branches. I called the city to tell them the tree wasn't well. They sent an arborist whose report said there was no significant dieback. I would have liked to invite the arborist into my office for a clear view of the significantly dead crown of the tree. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgceOJc52DMlP3zoHOW-1eaa_18ipeNPTDfOQ9XtTvzkfh8UPrxJkRtPMFiYbQ_ft0cUGPp-KLx1BzZUrqws7Z4tNzNIGE4E-L0eSesTw_sCiVVySh0nJkaspVjgG2CoLcVVP58TkkFRdjfzAgfQE20yZmHwX63XS2nYCTdxTmmyGlBTLpoQfkVtC8icg=s768" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="576" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgceOJc52DMlP3zoHOW-1eaa_18ipeNPTDfOQ9XtTvzkfh8UPrxJkRtPMFiYbQ_ft0cUGPp-KLx1BzZUrqws7Z4tNzNIGE4E-L0eSesTw_sCiVVySh0nJkaspVjgG2CoLcVVP58TkkFRdjfzAgfQE20yZmHwX63XS2nYCTdxTmmyGlBTLpoQfkVtC8icg=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div>After two years of increasing dieback, the city cut the tree down. I came home one day to a stub of trunk. A few weeks later a machine must have been sent to grind the trunk and part of the root. I came home to mound of sawdust. <p></p><p>For the rest of the summer we had no tree. The neighbours across the street had no trees either, because theirs had been cut down as well. </p><p>A couple of weeks ago trees were left on the sidewalk with No Parking/Horticulture signs along the street. It looked promising! </p><p>The next day the trees had disappeared. Were they stolen in the night? Had the city reconsidered planting trees? Did whoever delivered the trees put them on the wrong street? In Montreal there are always many possibilities. The workings of the city and its employees are not transparent. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgd1NctL168EN56cYZuXOxEQt8TSJnWVaJmnQqkI-8RI1ZmXrnlmHL4b7xTqnR5uBYnBQaYdnhidxRix4rmaR9R4KK6n2n3BSdeeVM3L_wRl1KwiPODWiXP7hFpF_QeVzmcxdsfzSBMSgnGqNzXvDrixk_IPwqYKoVbhHNw4ZjXUY3-2-Z4f9ri1X5A3g=s757" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="757" data-original-width="576" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgd1NctL168EN56cYZuXOxEQt8TSJnWVaJmnQqkI-8RI1ZmXrnlmHL4b7xTqnR5uBYnBQaYdnhidxRix4rmaR9R4KK6n2n3BSdeeVM3L_wRl1KwiPODWiXP7hFpF_QeVzmcxdsfzSBMSgnGqNzXvDrixk_IPwqYKoVbhHNw4ZjXUY3-2-Z4f9ri1X5A3g=w304-h400" width="304" /></a></div><br />Last week I came home to a new tree on the sidewalk. The tag on it said it was a Malus Dreamweaver which sounds to me like a word for Nightmare. Malus means bad. However, I looked it up and discovered that Malus also means apple. As in Eve and the apple? <p></p><p>A Malus Dreamweaver is a flowering crab apple that is described as columnar with nearly vertical branches. I would have thought the city might want to shade the sidewalk, though perhaps a narrow tree makes more sense with power/telephone/cable lines overhead. </p><p>The new tree, the Apple Dreamweaver, is still a small tree. The sparrows aren't interested in it yet. I hope it flourishes as well as it can in a city where the drivers of sidewalk snow ploughs crash into trees. I will pick up the litter around it and water it and plant a few flowers next spring. </p><p>I look forward to it growing to within view of my desk. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Thank you to Joanne Carnegie for pointing out errors in an earlier version of this post. </p>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02246669291440115585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918809780977867389.post-21062105935524987712021-10-18T13:09:00.001-04:002021-10-18T13:09:48.953-04:00lessons in discordance / when i lived in toronto 1980s<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsJq34tBQOyH-pARG7XCZgw-_dSYB751ptEF7PGiJXVq4nbR0fY_joJK7np6JbfwU4qYTG6wiY6nO_yTL7QFMJvkXIuIPDP1n68itA8g3tukSK3HeKtWKai1DcTDjn4mMtbJ_c-N69XjI6/s926/me+80s.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="926" data-original-width="504" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsJq34tBQOyH-pARG7XCZgw-_dSYB751ptEF7PGiJXVq4nbR0fY_joJK7np6JbfwU4qYTG6wiY6nO_yTL7QFMJvkXIuIPDP1n68itA8g3tukSK3HeKtWKai1DcTDjn4mMtbJ_c-N69XjI6/w217-h400/me+80s.jpg" width="217" /></a></div>A friend was telling me how necessary it was for her to listen to music just now. I was reminded of a time when music felt like it was my lifeline. <div><br /><div>I was living in Toronto in the 80s. I'd left the boyfriend I'd been living with for two years. I sat in grad student seminars but nothing anyone said made sense. Why was I there? Why get a PhD? My life felt upside-down and I wasn't sure how to go on. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I told my thesis supervisor that I was leaving the program, I mentioned that I didn't have anywhere to live. He offered to let me flat-sit while he went away for a couple of months. There's some subtext here about sexual advances. You might think that should be the headline, but in those years it wasn't. I later discovered the professor had a harem of grad students. I was too dense to understand his overtures. I assumed he needed someone to water his plants and forward his mail, which I could do.<div><p></p><p>For a summer I lived in his large apartment with corner windows that looked onto trees. I drank black coffee and ate green apples. I got a job in a restaurant on Queen St making desserts, but I only did it for a few hours a week. Enough to buy coffee and apples. In the middle of the night my ex-boyfriend would call to tell me he was masturbating. I think I hung up. I hope I hung up. </p><p>I didn't know how to get my life back on track again. Was it ever on track? Up until then, I'd stayed in school beause it was easiest. </p><p>I spent long hours reading the books on the professor's shelves. Reading was good but it wasn't helping. I longed for music. There was no stereo in the apartment and I didn't have the money to buy one. I had remembered to take my vinyl records and cassette tapes when I left the ex-boyfriend, because when I'd left a previous ex, who'd said I could return for my belongings, he changed his mind and wouldn't let me in the door. I later saw the things he wouldn't let me have at a friend's place. When I pointed out that a recipe book on her kitchen counter was mine, she said, Oh, we're having sex, I hope you don't mind. I didn't mind about the sex. I did mind about my recipe books and cake tins. </p><p>I'm older now. I don't know how much I've changed. I don't know that people change essentially, but I believe we can aquire new habits and ways of thinking. An example: I no longer listen to the music that I yearned so deeply to hear in those years. What would it be called? Experimental jazz? Jan Garbarek, Keith Jarrett, Pat Metheny, Palle Danielsson. When I hear it now, it jangles my nerves. </p><p>But that discordance was exactly what I craved when other people were listening to Prince and Linda Ronstadt and AC/DC. </p><p>So how did this happen? My father, who never drove to Toronto, showed up at the professor's apartment with a brand-new stereo and turntable. Gifts for no reason was not something that happened in my family. I don't know how he knew. I never talked to him on the phone. It's possible I told my mother that I had no way of listening to music. Or maybe my sister told him. She was more attuned to the possibility that I was depressed than I was. </p><p>For the rest of the summer, between books and making desserts on Queen St, I lay on the sofa, looking out the windows at the trees, listening very hard to how Garbarek sound-wove the shrieks and meandering of his tenor sax into a whole of sorts. It helped me feel I could take the discordance in my own head and move forward. </p><p>The photo from above was taken some years later. There are none of me from that earlier time. </p></div></div></div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02246669291440115585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918809780977867389.post-43098107946033139482021-10-11T09:54:00.003-04:002021-10-12T11:10:23.993-04:00autumn walking / environmental art<p> <span style="font-size: large;">What do you think this is?</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjJNDU3hw4c4CKbJdsqdPi1iptAK6OmVrCu1KssEn9kt9LNj9Y645ZWgsGvMm_QJ0N5dqkMZ1haVCQCbsvwb68HlRTzEZbv2qHE-ULkVoSdsb4Ocf9sJPYnkoX-XHc2E8S9Y2hz4NJZjVgU1l4EpuaT1C8Aj590Aug_ZSfzzNkbbj8mlVl1wLu9YzmgOg=s864" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="648" data-original-width="864" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjJNDU3hw4c4CKbJdsqdPi1iptAK6OmVrCu1KssEn9kt9LNj9Y645ZWgsGvMm_QJ0N5dqkMZ1haVCQCbsvwb68HlRTzEZbv2qHE-ULkVoSdsb4Ocf9sJPYnkoX-XHc2E8S9Y2hz4NJZjVgU1l4EpuaT1C8Aj590Aug_ZSfzzNkbbj8mlVl1wLu9YzmgOg=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><p>1) environmental paper art</p><p>2) a mess of leaves stuck together</p><p>3) a destroyed wasps' nest</p><p>4) a disintegrating Italian Renaissance coif that got snagged in a Montreal tree? </p><p>________________________</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhFWtw39qHPkTPb_bPgXJfcN4KeLDLx7047UzvONB1OsD8R4DyeTm9F9qN5VFPFeQtVrFCZhFQPXNoVumaimsAwrYVx2yEESyH0fJsUnD9jSZ-49zqQhSSx1LQwmH158iDoFWUrwL5XwebJF-FMVWHZJuIaYaXi0_hh8LhD6MnAltyIZa8Jz4mO5KlxcA=s749" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="749" data-original-width="633" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhFWtw39qHPkTPb_bPgXJfcN4KeLDLx7047UzvONB1OsD8R4DyeTm9F9qN5VFPFeQtVrFCZhFQPXNoVumaimsAwrYVx2yEESyH0fJsUnD9jSZ-49zqQhSSx1LQwmH158iDoFWUrwL5XwebJF-FMVWHZJuIaYaXi0_hh8LhD6MnAltyIZa8Jz4mO5KlxcA=w338-h400" width="338" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>4) Seems unlikely given the 500 years since the Italian Renaissance and that this was a young tree in Montreal, but you can see the similarity, yes?</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>2) A mess of leaves would be a bad choice, since there is clearly design and structure here, even if it's been destroyed.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>The answer is 1) and 3). </p><p>3) A destroyed wasps' nest, because that's what it is. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEij2yq37mS_OqjENNR56TO_DNBRlpp3vapSKmtOK-lp4raugxShUuYWT6-rXSl8kiqWjGKqtvwhoicMP7JiTsyskEXzJvO634jdd6YPlsXNwZe2Bje0zYATbMMQv65VBKHCOc__9IdF96hwcksgxwNZ1v6BVL9f1-W82uToV7WSJkSFY8ZshcU-V1Kdnw=s864" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="648" data-original-width="864" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEij2yq37mS_OqjENNR56TO_DNBRlpp3vapSKmtOK-lp4raugxShUuYWT6-rXSl8kiqWjGKqtvwhoicMP7JiTsyskEXzJvO634jdd6YPlsXNwZe2Bje0zYATbMMQv65VBKHCOc__9IdF96hwcksgxwNZ1v6BVL9f1-W82uToV7WSJkSFY8ZshcU-V1Kdnw=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p>1) I would argue that it's art too, because it shows me the world in a new way. I marvel at how the wasps collected leaves and chewed them to make paper that they then shaped to make a nest. I can appreciate this, even though I don't want to be stung by wasps. </p><p>The nest was destroyed, and then time and weather worked their effect. The texture is like paper with too little cellulose to bind it. It crumbles when I touch it, yet it was a serviceable home for 20-30 adult wasps. Of course, home-building was their intention. But I behold it as art. My response is aesthetic. I love the delicate texture.</p><p>Though I have to admit that my mind still leaps to seeing it as an Italian Renaissance coif. </p><p> </p>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02246669291440115585noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918809780977867389.post-58392644088004221962021-08-23T11:41:00.002-04:002021-09-10T10:38:36.933-04:00walks by the sea / getting a fridge repaired / la gaspésie august 2021<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi-UrKu8coMeHPNxcNDniH6q99ObsCwQkeiA7kupdaGAEcYFx3Zr8ohH4S0JFU0t7ZvHSU607R15OoQqwa7RTJ79Lx0J5GfOjYgv4A4FOm3A5PkfTCe61hI6dITaZ_ZYMDxpWh3DbyDWGi_XZRm9utrFcAKv78sfHHYWHiDMxPsHak8G93kx_5YmOnuMQ=s576"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi-UrKu8coMeHPNxcNDniH6q99ObsCwQkeiA7kupdaGAEcYFx3Zr8ohH4S0JFU0t7ZvHSU607R15OoQqwa7RTJ79Lx0J5GfOjYgv4A4FOm3A5PkfTCe61hI6dITaZ_ZYMDxpWh3DbyDWGi_XZRm9utrFcAKv78sfHHYWHiDMxPsHak8G93kx_5YmOnuMQ=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1DYr6lWoufdKM3zS759ibOdNBAjBvkJh3ni5NIUl3ePNWKYk--N37j3msSKR7xDrZKti-9znBlKCtEE0e8il4LpaL2dwbDF4Ezsi4vMUmTSD3iKWYp-e6UYhTg-hhwQNYoGFdsqJiULFIl2T901RKUH0VaHzis8NTIqyB7A-5t3gJFxat5RRJEe90pA=s576" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1DYr6lWoufdKM3zS759ibOdNBAjBvkJh3ni5NIUl3ePNWKYk--N37j3msSKR7xDrZKti-9znBlKCtEE0e8il4LpaL2dwbDF4Ezsi4vMUmTSD3iKWYp-e6UYhTg-hhwQNYoGFdsqJiULFIl2T901RKUH0VaHzis8NTIqyB7A-5t3gJFxat5RRJEe90pA=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div>When we were at house in the Gaspé in April, the refrigerator stopped working. We bought it new seven years ago. It has seen only eight months' use, since we live most of the time in Montreal. R called the owner of the store, Meubles Vallée in Cap Chat, but he didn't want to hear about it. Nothing but trouble with those refrigerators. He stopped selling them. The people who bought them? Too bad. <p></p><p>We called the 1-800 number that was on the fridge and were told that a work order could be requested, but in our sector the repair person travelled around the coast only once a month. We couldn't be there for the upcoming date because I had a medical procedure booked in Montreal. Fridge? Heart? There are priorities.</p><p>The situation wasn't dire since the temperature was cool enough outside that we could keep the cooler with perishables in the shed. And then, voilà! The fridge started working again.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhPVeLMGQ0CLl2BTRi8GKG03I4jMy045tL5HwwFlHqfAQEJ1QXJudoeZJ6M0mxNb5Bp8gQ3i6LmpYU8lfyweJJJlUq68ijZjruUVxvb2mc-_zoWPsg0l03WXZajx040canbLldLHUvftryn0283NK7Jq90AD9Y944lTnOEQG53ApEe5QK5__uVdVH9H4A=s504" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="253" data-original-width="504" height="322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhPVeLMGQ0CLl2BTRi8GKG03I4jMy045tL5HwwFlHqfAQEJ1QXJudoeZJ6M0mxNb5Bp8gQ3i6LmpYU8lfyweJJJlUq68ijZjruUVxvb2mc-_zoWPsg0l03WXZajx040canbLldLHUvftryn0283NK7Jq90AD9Y944lTnOEQG53ApEe5QK5__uVdVH9H4A=w640-h322" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGmcdklr01xsZzhIbdlJj-d_0Ae1217mSCfXK79d2mwcMtCGfvAlfKWUoWI9ZRX0PmJyVQtVTsA7ZT9SB06DJpKGyRzyRXDWlXqn4OPT0q1DZIqDr892U2gs_Jc24WYxBxMz82C60O4c67PZeTs80qUSFwriV-2QA5ijLNS55wcV2JMy2jI1tg9vKLag=s576" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="461" data-original-width="576" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGmcdklr01xsZzhIbdlJj-d_0Ae1217mSCfXK79d2mwcMtCGfvAlfKWUoWI9ZRX0PmJyVQtVTsA7ZT9SB06DJpKGyRzyRXDWlXqn4OPT0q1DZIqDr892U2gs_Jc24WYxBxMz82C60O4c67PZeTs80qUSFwriV-2QA5ijLNS55wcV2JMy2jI1tg9vKLag=w400-h320" width="400" /></a></div><br />Nevertheless, on our next trip R brought tools to undo a panel as advised by the woman at 1-800 and vacuumed the fridge innards. He took off the front grill and vacuumed there too. Everything seemed fine. In any case, the fridge was working.<p></p><p>When we returned in August, the fridge stopped again. R vacuumed the innards but nothing happened. We kept pressing the button for temperature control. There is no reset button. We unplugged, waited, and plugged it in again. Repeat. Repeat. </p><p>Are you wondering what make of refrigerator this is so you don't buy one? AMANA. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgLqOhHWZesFw1pwJL6GH7naIwn7SW6iUjk0xgDzAkd-elUeXx8x1cyn8VC2vqoE9GZsXyJvXmNv1gsfmnZhiS-uTdnIzrc2uVqtj8Jx1Hxz6hrZVpLWXr2PKL9RWN1gaxd7RB1Y6AHUCD2QgJRFhlCUAFIZTsKB8_IZivwKyuUkY6hdyRwYH67z0XwiQ=s576" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="576" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgLqOhHWZesFw1pwJL6GH7naIwn7SW6iUjk0xgDzAkd-elUeXx8x1cyn8VC2vqoE9GZsXyJvXmNv1gsfmnZhiS-uTdnIzrc2uVqtj8Jx1Hxz6hrZVpLWXr2PKL9RWN1gaxd7RB1Y6AHUCD2QgJRFhlCUAFIZTsKB8_IZivwKyuUkY6hdyRwYH67z0XwiQ=w640-h426" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYkuEI90Gpt74BSGpKNv76ed63UDDW8zhugZjBMsviyOy6wgVCkQTjWLHa_HrUNy2WcDD4aB5vfrUQHndJKoM3w4SoiDGVpF5hMXr8sIw1EBQRuYvYUc0h3r9xCewEqfkRkWtMBZdGCI5CXeg0D319i0TCHJdLY_yQH2ajHHueyuWHW7OqLUVjz9wdbg=s576" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYkuEI90Gpt74BSGpKNv76ed63UDDW8zhugZjBMsviyOy6wgVCkQTjWLHa_HrUNy2WcDD4aB5vfrUQHndJKoM3w4SoiDGVpF5hMXr8sIw1EBQRuYvYUc0h3r9xCewEqfkRkWtMBZdGCI5CXeg0D319i0TCHJdLY_yQH2ajHHueyuWHW7OqLUVjz9wdbg=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br />R called 1-800 again and was told there were no available appointments with the Once-a-Month repair person until October--except for Sunday of the Labour Day weekend! Did we believe that someone who only does a repair trip around the coast once a month was going to come on the Sunday of a long weekend? No. <p></p><p>We had put our perishables in the cooler with freezer packs and were okay for a day. We wanted to buy ice, but with so many vacationers having picnics on the beaches in the Gaspé, the ice freezers were empty. R was finally able to get ice by driving to a store in a village that didn't have a beach.</p><p>We asked the neighbours if they would put our freezer packs in their freezer. R asked another neighbour if he knew someone local who repaired fridges. He gave R a name but didn't have a phone number. He said to drive two villages over and take not the street at the first river but the street at the second river. He didn't know the house number and there was no sign, but we should look for the truck. We found the right street and drove along it for a couple of kilometres. We saw no truck. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGxgn-_rVegK1K9KxulXleCZA2Z7MzCEPf-OeYdu7ACfI72xBUzWcvq4tk4Tc3njJPZQZNhGOy2xkMLsvTZDp87ykCiXyKAtRG4kwTpQXBhUl7zTPdDPS9rh6pWl-NZsZPbaEnXFhOCb_7eQPdIuM_T-EfP1iJ1fWPoKmcGgTStdG5-2tZtGCodMkEfw=s576" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGxgn-_rVegK1K9KxulXleCZA2Z7MzCEPf-OeYdu7ACfI72xBUzWcvq4tk4Tc3njJPZQZNhGOy2xkMLsvTZDp87ykCiXyKAtRG4kwTpQXBhUl7zTPdDPS9rh6pWl-NZsZPbaEnXFhOCb_7eQPdIuM_T-EfP1iJ1fWPoKmcGgTStdG5-2tZtGCodMkEfw=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhNL8cdxKfu8gtQuGkYzXBmjsmKRAz5sH7ga7H194HsK1qfuU50mhkkt92th9EFxLRlJtQherfTpRZ9nT_iBM9Y8zwi8m3yJL37chkpQGk-eet0b4unBmzahcFBCzJMWNqup1rCjGzx4Id-zP2bahaLqdy9i6V0r9MmVZQtuSNd0N6JSxy2Xc3bgobufA=s504" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="466" data-original-width="504" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhNL8cdxKfu8gtQuGkYzXBmjsmKRAz5sH7ga7H194HsK1qfuU50mhkkt92th9EFxLRlJtQherfTpRZ9nT_iBM9Y8zwi8m3yJL37chkpQGk-eet0b4unBmzahcFBCzJMWNqup1rCjGzx4Id-zP2bahaLqdy9i6V0r9MmVZQtuSNd0N6JSxy2Xc3bgobufA=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />R stopped to ask a man unpacking groceries if he knew where Mr Repairperson lived. He said to go past the bend and look for a white house. Do you know how many white houses there are on the coast? Luckily an extra clue: the house we were looking for had a new garage, also white. Past the bend were two white houses with a new white garage between them. R rang doorbells. No answer.<p></p><p>Back to the village where we stopped at the small administrative building. R asked if they could confirm an address and maybe give him a phone number. They could, except that the name we'd been given was for the Electrician! Refrigeration was another name. But yes, at that address. White house with a white garage. R called the number and got an answering machine. He left a message. </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJd1d9KXnjKHN_m7nPGVvnoM14TUF6BlXvq6UOUKa4S8DxiqEFtaHYcpSgXFdsI7TpBlgPk8nUMwkLaqLqC5bg0c8j0F1uz9bx3JqjEFOsrbWivjDIkZHyFBFVQCPonRuQxyigsnX_313SkqoL0GnqG_ZE9Ta9c1Un8DFDmbS51dc7YKDfR1re_dHzBQ=s576" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJd1d9KXnjKHN_m7nPGVvnoM14TUF6BlXvq6UOUKa4S8DxiqEFtaHYcpSgXFdsI7TpBlgPk8nUMwkLaqLqC5bg0c8j0F1uz9bx3JqjEFOsrbWivjDIkZHyFBFVQCPonRuQxyigsnX_313SkqoL0GnqG_ZE9Ta9c1Un8DFDmbS51dc7YKDfR1re_dHzBQ=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the angle, you can see that I was waiting for frîtes maison, though I was equally tempted by the crème molle window</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhrUk6vKZRDIIkyox8q8tUcN-LY52eBAdGCfT12rUg7kNYljdX1gl-mqouamxuaLLrGjZh6Lhch8Pt_p5k7fdketyQv0gFJgcQ20h9AL7DmeaqIsdjqAuxgNc8bXKhNztLPslpZxBxbawB/s597/dead+bird.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="597" data-original-width="504" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhrUk6vKZRDIIkyox8q8tUcN-LY52eBAdGCfT12rUg7kNYljdX1gl-mqouamxuaLLrGjZh6Lhch8Pt_p5k7fdketyQv0gFJgcQ20h9AL7DmeaqIsdjqAuxgNc8bXKhNztLPslpZxBxbawB/w338-h400/dead+bird.jpg" width="338" /></a></div><br />Later that afternoon, R was napping on the beach when he heard voices in the trees behind him. The neighbour who had our freezer packs was doing something among the trees. When he stepped onto the beach and saw R, he asked if our fridge was still broken. Yes. The man who was with him said that he knew how to repair refrigerators and would be happy to come the next morning.<p></p><p>When R returned to the house, the fridge was working again. Then his phone rang. It was Mr Once-a-Month who said he could come in two days. R said the fridge was now working. Mr Once-a-Month said that from the sounds of it, the computer was defective and needed to be replaced. (The computer? What happened to motors that simply worked or didn't and could be fixed.) A fridge computer cost approx $300. We would also have to pay for the visit as well as his time. He said he would call again the next evening to see if the fridge was still working. He didn't seem to think it would be. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEisJrIFARfedpjoH6IV-mlmpNs9P-elG_128KZUH6tVCb-YYOqQvdAGGh1cxuswzl0bToWLPgekHPEDHB0PpmAI9jS2Pd6HN-hltS36ovpI71rz7EiCdeZ-VG4qGGl-EeaYgGtmJF-JlwtQg-EX81iOiM12ogmpd9zVnAdBh1rtLX8YhTkUIhuQt0SItw=s576" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEisJrIFARfedpjoH6IV-mlmpNs9P-elG_128KZUH6tVCb-YYOqQvdAGGh1cxuswzl0bToWLPgekHPEDHB0PpmAI9jS2Pd6HN-hltS36ovpI71rz7EiCdeZ-VG4qGGl-EeaYgGtmJF-JlwtQg-EX81iOiM12ogmpd9zVnAdBh1rtLX8YhTkUIhuQt0SItw=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjuE8IcqgS15almYS15CaO4t882rDmAckUPscBZaXcnmvr5m09_-8DE9gFLEv3gYviEKN9CWf8nevVjKLCg4PHBsDxRSCkcjhowQrcBSRmeYpxpIYNNufGtyqjz8sgd0mb-VweXO1G_0YC-_IpsoZfPEbvEZExDWSWfyrvf6LCAel39Nchdj4qt3g4gQQ=s576" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjuE8IcqgS15almYS15CaO4t882rDmAckUPscBZaXcnmvr5m09_-8DE9gFLEv3gYviEKN9CWf8nevVjKLCg4PHBsDxRSCkcjhowQrcBSRmeYpxpIYNNufGtyqjz8sgd0mb-VweXO1G_0YC-_IpsoZfPEbvEZExDWSWfyrvf6LCAel39Nchdj4qt3g4gQQ=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br />Where was I during all this? Clambering on the rocks and staring into tidal pools. <div><br /></div><div>When I returned, R told me about the developments. I was dubious that the fridge would keep working and waited a couple of hours before unpacking the perishables (the damn perishables) from the cooler. The problem with bags of ice is that they leak water. The cardboard carton of eggs was sodden. To get ready for the next possible breakdown we recouped the freezer packs, now frozen solid, from the neighbour. <p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZyzbi8HBEmt61EIuwjlkl-pcLTwEV_e2KxOj8G2mVGWReN2uo_cF91gSnwjrgZdAcBldW2GBU83TozIdo0g_Z2IIahEy_tG-NTrmPQbGZAl4x28608vBjikf92G7CizWgAIuJkRdbB_b1b2KMtBFS8JnsWUfpIWiLlF3H0dUwp67j-mRHea1hPaUB-Q=s576" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZyzbi8HBEmt61EIuwjlkl-pcLTwEV_e2KxOj8G2mVGWReN2uo_cF91gSnwjrgZdAcBldW2GBU83TozIdo0g_Z2IIahEy_tG-NTrmPQbGZAl4x28608vBjikf92G7CizWgAIuJkRdbB_b1b2KMtBFS8JnsWUfpIWiLlF3H0dUwp67j-mRHea1hPaUB-Q=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZUXVM5WuijqjWk8m1IQ73CMVWqi8FJOMT4SFTkdej75j7F9nJZt4Mr4rSPLGH7Z-xP6zGiWczk-95yXLKeEOZHpPOaudoDnWilHI3qv9Irnu2fYw5GrUs6xnBkIyH5wv3xToPoFtbJx3zHWw2oGO5V3iBW58mjLWTYEZ6K59yTJCbIOg9L5i-sqmY9w=s576" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZUXVM5WuijqjWk8m1IQ73CMVWqi8FJOMT4SFTkdej75j7F9nJZt4Mr4rSPLGH7Z-xP6zGiWczk-95yXLKeEOZHpPOaudoDnWilHI3qv9Irnu2fYw5GrUs6xnBkIyH5wv3xToPoFtbJx3zHWw2oGO5V3iBW58mjLWTYEZ6K59yTJCbIOg9L5i-sqmY9w=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div>The next day at 8:15 a.m. the man from the beach who knew how to repair refrigerators arrived with a plastic bag of tools, but since the fridge was working, he didn't look at it. We chatted for a while. He told us that the fellow who had bought the old church was going to turn it into a microbrasserie. He kept eyeing the top of the fridge. He was very tall and I began to wonder if he was appalled by the dust. I'm short and I forget about high-up surfaces. Finally he said that he was trying to figure out whether the fridge was level. R got his tool with the bubble and checked. The front was a millimetre higher than the back. That wouldn't be the cause for the breakdowns but he adjusted it. <p></p><p>Later in the afternoon, when we were out walking, Mr Once-a-Month called. R verified that even though the fridge was still under warranty, we would have to pay for the visit plus time plus parts. Since the fridge was working, we decided to forgo the appointment. If we needed him at some point in the future, we would call and hope it coincided with one of his monthly visits. Or that the weather would be cool enough that we could keep perishables outdoors. Old-style refrigeration.</p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQCCGg_o2EPHWIKaEzUuTu3TO8cyhrKqY9EyBgVq_1uxCopwzpeblfXaa0aHli7FWsoUdk0m82PNfbmySud9eVzh-uOQgCN371PZzZKxky0XbYoMNpxc5XVvW4dlEM-xWYxoxXxao7eKA8s3QIrYmdGq6SIwFcc0wLp5vDwF6xgXPlTVC8CueEM47EoA=s510" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="510" data-original-width="360" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQCCGg_o2EPHWIKaEzUuTu3TO8cyhrKqY9EyBgVq_1uxCopwzpeblfXaa0aHli7FWsoUdk0m82PNfbmySud9eVzh-uOQgCN371PZzZKxky0XbYoMNpxc5XVvW4dlEM-xWYxoxXxao7eKA8s3QIrYmdGq6SIwFcc0wLp5vDwF6xgXPlTVC8CueEM47EoA=w453-h640" width="453" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">dog-chewed veneer dresser revived with blue paint</td></tr></tbody></table><br />We got home and the fridge was no longer working correctly. The motor was running, but there was no refrigeration and the temperature buttons didn't respond. We called Mr Once-a-Month, but someone else answered the phone, the work order had been cancelled, and our fridge problem was back at the bottom of the list. By then, the fridge stopped working completely. I packed the few remaining perishables in the cooler with the freezer packs that we'd recouped from the neighbour. Fortunately we were returning to Montreal the next morning.<p></p><p>That night, in the middle of the night, the refrigerator began working again, but for how long? </p><p>We never did hear from the refrigerator repair person who lives two villages over, not at the first river but the second. We will go look for his truck when we return. Our new tall friend, like us, doesn't live in the Gaspé year-round and probably won't be there to help when we next go. </p><p>I don't know that I believe that Mr. Once-a-Month truly exists. <br /></p><p><br /></p><p>ps (one month later) He does exist. We now have a date for when he will come. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjMTDvLrho4Tnw3hCpuwXJwO64ZaHiB3u3Pp08twytnkIKtL-d1kz0tHB9YNodORHp1Lu8S4OYcDF9UAWyziBfe5hNX3ByfHhdEk-bmXAequKW3dtn6c2ud-3JYdCb-wICizTbbjoKzaePf3eRM6lcWYksw9iXZ9-AYc0xZ_nSlXDRWs2-7Mvly5vuAqw=s648" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="544" data-original-width="648" height="538" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjMTDvLrho4Tnw3hCpuwXJwO64ZaHiB3u3Pp08twytnkIKtL-d1kz0tHB9YNodORHp1Lu8S4OYcDF9UAWyziBfe5hNX3ByfHhdEk-bmXAequKW3dtn6c2ud-3JYdCb-wICizTbbjoKzaePf3eRM6lcWYksw9iXZ9-AYc0xZ_nSlXDRWs2-7Mvly5vuAqw=w640-h538" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">life lesson about tides: at high tide there's half a metre of water around this rock</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiwI5p8JbG84M70CRik834A61sPyLXObTzH0r5nr1I0Hz0nD5yNzBH248UysTOOqZKOyDAGzhAxPJn4weZrjLUhUhUkLiA8swJ51UR1jq4M1KgnILIzxcm9yJK-O2vwpr7dCBP-KRtvdD0AeDfWRhUqzPRvnD9mlCSTeIgModtLSDh3mHyiagfQ1SwXSw=s576" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiwI5p8JbG84M70CRik834A61sPyLXObTzH0r5nr1I0Hz0nD5yNzBH248UysTOOqZKOyDAGzhAxPJn4weZrjLUhUhUkLiA8swJ51UR1jq4M1KgnILIzxcm9yJK-O2vwpr7dCBP-KRtvdD0AeDfWRhUqzPRvnD9mlCSTeIgModtLSDh3mHyiagfQ1SwXSw=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">this, our last evening on the coast (for now); we love the less dramatic sunsets too</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p></div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02246669291440115585noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918809780977867389.post-52522907231125129692021-07-14T13:10:00.000-04:002021-07-14T13:10:25.219-04:00cycling from Montreal to the Gaspésie<p>Several people asked me whether R would write about his cycling trip. He's done one better (IMO) by doing some sketches. I include a couple of my favourite here, as well as the link to his blog where you can find an account of his travels, the places he saw and people he met en route--with more sketches! Not bad for a Dollarama sketchpad, a pen and his finger. He was travelling light.</p><p><a href="https://pointesaintcharles.blogspot.com/2021/07/cycling-from-montreal-to-gaspe-riviere.html">https://pointesaintcharles.blogspot.com/2021/07/cycling-from-montreal-to-gaspe-riviere.html</a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-q9a4dEf8iQdIUEGuvUJcwiGs76d6ScGiRCWoLeiDngIeQP0XrWxg7IJyefC8rOVGinpXwQZ-xROEsesNaD0XK3HYVERtNMCInj26IXuWwW3Re__qTWQHJPpnTc6PqGUp7O_8dTpM4XVP/s991/img077.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="773" data-original-width="991" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-q9a4dEf8iQdIUEGuvUJcwiGs76d6ScGiRCWoLeiDngIeQP0XrWxg7IJyefC8rOVGinpXwQZ-xROEsesNaD0XK3HYVERtNMCInj26IXuWwW3Re__qTWQHJPpnTc6PqGUp7O_8dTpM4XVP/w400-h313/img077.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBPKf2hKnnqDuL4IpqmL-Nv1EvNjDZl2gmXZHcUI_OFVA5L_jTOiB8ORTxQQ5xJvKkE-A1L5obmHhc3TGcemJx8POqVGdHZ5_pzjSIemXJyNmCarQsPNl6cMHZVo7_j9tY5gDC_C42R-ua/s400/img084.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="400" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBPKf2hKnnqDuL4IpqmL-Nv1EvNjDZl2gmXZHcUI_OFVA5L_jTOiB8ORTxQQ5xJvKkE-A1L5obmHhc3TGcemJx8POqVGdHZ5_pzjSIemXJyNmCarQsPNl6cMHZVo7_j9tY5gDC_C42R-ua/w400-h315/img084.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg53bFk6kuVc5wucByFS1i0FqBb3mxp6ARW_hhfnSbdYnfHF6qg_04Hm1WyPM86_bmSVQi5Ul-ds7WsM12jBDZgtKIKZxAiEHwIB36Gs62LZ_O_keg25ZLoHq8kgKKFP4sChYER3NfQERRF/s400/img083.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="400" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg53bFk6kuVc5wucByFS1i0FqBb3mxp6ARW_hhfnSbdYnfHF6qg_04Hm1WyPM86_bmSVQi5Ul-ds7WsM12jBDZgtKIKZxAiEHwIB36Gs62LZ_O_keg25ZLoHq8kgKKFP4sChYER3NfQERRF/w400-h280/img083.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF_JPnFzHUOYYQwJG3MXFkdF3F3_g1JCVDbT8rSwyYPdDTewJOiAuO66YG1EXP7jenUJLr7e-3aA_SgzSAv660UidN_7NhJTuN8pkleoyh_M-gnipgQzapjTwT9Y_cCqnHfI3uLzqK9P5t/s400/img086.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="306" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF_JPnFzHUOYYQwJG3MXFkdF3F3_g1JCVDbT8rSwyYPdDTewJOiAuO66YG1EXP7jenUJLr7e-3aA_SgzSAv660UidN_7NhJTuN8pkleoyh_M-gnipgQzapjTwT9Y_cCqnHfI3uLzqK9P5t/w490-h640/img086.jpeg" width="490" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi05qt4KB5wAOumEuNStMc4MonuYfJtRqphpeiWtwoOYrCKIXR277OkVAdpaw510U-fO6GoB3eKaUE46pj_paosQ1cacciw_-hzq4uETAwcC7ij03u-bd3OeiiF4Kkvth6-IqZx68PwqEaI/s400/img071.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="312" data-original-width="400" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi05qt4KB5wAOumEuNStMc4MonuYfJtRqphpeiWtwoOYrCKIXR277OkVAdpaw510U-fO6GoB3eKaUE46pj_paosQ1cacciw_-hzq4uETAwcC7ij03u-bd3OeiiF4Kkvth6-IqZx68PwqEaI/w400-h313/img071.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>I direct you to his blog for more. <a href="https://pointesaintcharles.blogspot.com/2021/07/cycling-from-montreal-to-gaspe-riviere.html">https://pointesaintcharles.blogspot.com/2021/07/cycling-from-montreal-to-gaspe-riviere.html</a><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02246669291440115585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918809780977867389.post-71132469467102991882021-07-04T11:38:00.002-04:002021-07-04T19:21:11.500-04:00back home in the garden<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW5CJ3hEccx30uH6DKViqjSKkdlYOPbfVyljglb8GVIuk6FjIxTwY55sadXHJk2H4r2GyLuz9RdL7_mTqMXW2uj8b5RTTSQF7sqn1g2ou-ungKa_U2N_C8XV4pEDHmJkk92RZp8M2wRpke/s720/tomato.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="416" data-original-width="720" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW5CJ3hEccx30uH6DKViqjSKkdlYOPbfVyljglb8GVIuk6FjIxTwY55sadXHJk2H4r2GyLuz9RdL7_mTqMXW2uj8b5RTTSQF7sqn1g2ou-ungKa_U2N_C8XV4pEDHmJkk92RZp8M2wRpke/s320/tomato.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Some of you will know that R is cycling from Montreal to our house in the Gaspé. The trip is approx 800 k. Now, as I write, he has less than 100 k to go. He's been doing valiantly, because it's far and he's cycling into a headwind that gusts up to 35k according to the weather app--and his windburn. He also had a problem with a tire on the first day. He hasn't been able to replace it since bike repair shops are either out of stock or closed when he's cycling by. So he's cycling with a patched tire. Fingers crossed that it holds. I won't write about his trip here, because it's his story which he will tell himself when he gets back. <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBAoFt9dl3tU7vsnbhj2DsozcgJLfgl4E6mTRDldBlYsK27FH4Orh5C2xS4H40R36OClf_t5M6Ek1gAopTm3DBtx5oxCCcf07sXN10I6xXm-euSen2VU0dKP5Nw7T2Oz0KOurEP3fPcNJg/s648/basil.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="485" data-original-width="648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBAoFt9dl3tU7vsnbhj2DsozcgJLfgl4E6mTRDldBlYsK27FH4Orh5C2xS4H40R36OClf_t5M6Ek1gAopTm3DBtx5oxCCcf07sXN10I6xXm-euSen2VU0dKP5Nw7T2Oz0KOurEP3fPcNJg/w640-h480/basil.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijfRqTI6U6R4fxvWJu4j-a7H6xwjFGCfQ0Y5ghyphenhyphenIDN-WiBulS8x0xKXdo6IWBzhXP2NLhqcFN-k0154bkM_a8q4tLzvduk4fvr5cfrE-2jH5vLI9v2PjLZdIGm0vxJUjq6RS-1BZYepkK3/s546/onions.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="546" data-original-width="288" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijfRqTI6U6R4fxvWJu4j-a7H6xwjFGCfQ0Y5ghyphenhyphenIDN-WiBulS8x0xKXdo6IWBzhXP2NLhqcFN-k0154bkM_a8q4tLzvduk4fvr5cfrE-2jH5vLI9v2PjLZdIGm0vxJUjq6RS-1BZYepkK3/w211-h400/onions.jpg" width="211" /></a></div><br />I've been at home working, having a private writer's retreat, doing whatever suits me. If I want eggs and toast for supper, but I had them last night, that's fine, I can. I am still getting out for walks but at erratic times. <p></p><p>It's also that time of year in the garden. I have basil ready to harvest which means making pesto. I saw bushes heavy with gooseberries yesterday when I was out walking and I'm wondering about getting some gooseberries at the market to make jam. </p><p>In the garden the tomatoes are only starting to pop fruit. The onions are twice as high as they were last year at this time. I have lots of hot peppers, a couple of different varieties. </p><p><br /></p><p>For now, I long to get to back to writing... </p><p><br /></p><p>Here's the pic R sent this morning. Sainte Flavie, Quebec. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9G0fUPYzQ7reskXnGkg_BedyTWKjbkFRC2ZRfU5AjngNcwDka-fELss40stYWsqxMh8_Owkhfh3LQjmwnWX20oh4fKo4PbIwvcTrdULH5z93gGTrULpB3R3Cjv-5b1hYegHA6mdFZcJZF/s576/ste+flavie.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9G0fUPYzQ7reskXnGkg_BedyTWKjbkFRC2ZRfU5AjngNcwDka-fELss40stYWsqxMh8_Owkhfh3LQjmwnWX20oh4fKo4PbIwvcTrdULH5z93gGTrULpB3R3Cjv-5b1hYegHA6mdFZcJZF/w640-h480/ste+flavie.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02246669291440115585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918809780977867389.post-22964870506469950412021-06-20T17:45:00.002-04:002021-06-20T17:45:57.395-04:00cycling cycling cycling<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsXUgiLdeemh3P1FrcKq5GYH3j8mjSfd6CMNvjOx2ePj26VIt7VpzO0VkeRTDwzYQXZGBnFuzD0EuM_4ehg9DNHjs33sfsZw1wrFAEclZ1ZzPpUAB6Lbg7fC9bEaeZ_GSIds9T5w33Snq4/s576/me.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="495" data-original-width="576" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsXUgiLdeemh3P1FrcKq5GYH3j8mjSfd6CMNvjOx2ePj26VIt7VpzO0VkeRTDwzYQXZGBnFuzD0EuM_4ehg9DNHjs33sfsZw1wrFAEclZ1ZzPpUAB6Lbg7fC9bEaeZ_GSIds9T5w33Snq4/s320/me.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>We packed overnight bags, rented a car, and escaped the city for a couple of days. </p>Monster fern, butterflies, dragonflies, dappled sunlight. A beaver dam in the river where we had lunch. <p></p><p>We saw a deer springing about, tail flashing white. I didn't know deer had such long tails. I've looked it up and see that Whitetail Deer have tails up to 36 cm/14". </p><p>Cardinals called from the trees--"Chew Chew Chew"--but stayed hidden. Turtles warmed their shells in the sun.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKiRQoPgENnNE4JRrfkKWL6G0HKVjQZB1KD4UIDQiGZQifPoPgQyUn9xxCXa25time0zOtmVVzjBiJdTGKB552GFQRe633KMfzD08vTgBgQrocE7mkbulJkf-2WEtrPFBW8BD510BCWMVZ/s576/fern.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKiRQoPgENnNE4JRrfkKWL6G0HKVjQZB1KD4UIDQiGZQifPoPgQyUn9xxCXa25time0zOtmVVzjBiJdTGKB552GFQRe633KMfzD08vTgBgQrocE7mkbulJkf-2WEtrPFBW8BD510BCWMVZ/w400-h300/fern.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>I stopped to take a pic of a pond of water lilies not yet blooming, still in bud. A man with a Provençal accent who was cycling by--presumably not all the way from France--stopped to tell me that I should return in a week when the lilies will be blooming and the entire marsh will be yellow, but I won't be here next week. Maybe next year.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTt-Q8X7qx_hhr8sCQy0vST75Pxenj64FfUy9BkU81vgaeGDze3GJp1L1c7E1oazP-QWeVNkz8WNA6fWTAEa5YZGdmwweMXVZGJKDVm3ZliHZPiNG-W1DhbAE9V-5c_d_an3EcPRLU__lB/s576/pond.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTt-Q8X7qx_hhr8sCQy0vST75Pxenj64FfUy9BkU81vgaeGDze3GJp1L1c7E1oazP-QWeVNkz8WNA6fWTAEa5YZGdmwweMXVZGJKDVm3ZliHZPiNG-W1DhbAE9V-5c_d_an3EcPRLU__lB/w640-h480/pond.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>We rented a room in an auberge, which I was excited about since I haven't slept anywhere but in my home since before the pandemic. I like renting rooms, even though I have a lot of bad hotel/motel/B&B/Airbnb memories. Faulty plumbing, drunken patrons, saggy bed, thin walls, all-night traffic, NO BEDSIDE LAMP FOR READING. Even if people go to hotels to have sex, don't they still read before falling asleep?</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpT9Yv2L5c19ybPcFjqsS-dQCAIRuK2TPQAc36zLAjueP6SwZAAt-JG0_irp-A2kEDJYA4aHVtlJGRwVsWtAjvFGYRBwfL4681I436bfmAcLL0d6jr7S_a3kwYNXJb4NYZWt32UcG6vxF3/s576/auberge.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpT9Yv2L5c19ybPcFjqsS-dQCAIRuK2TPQAc36zLAjueP6SwZAAt-JG0_irp-A2kEDJYA4aHVtlJGRwVsWtAjvFGYRBwfL4681I436bfmAcLL0d6jr7S_a3kwYNXJb4NYZWt32UcG6vxF3/s320/auberge.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />The auberge was a heritage building. Every effort had been made to retain a sense of history--or at least age--including floors that tilted and stairways that creaked, while at the same time equipping each room with a mini-fridge, a Keurig machine, an a/c unit, a firm mattress. I have no complaints but am happy that I'll be sleeping at home tonight.<p></p><p><br /></p><p>Here's my cycling buddy about to dip his head in the water. It's something he does. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg4rOfnJXBCUuLE2m4SaAU4nxu3PEmAyXfIqr1DHlMGT7PMw55xQMq9K5DNMawyqFoboN-BcGNriZvK8TblakSkNRwN5GfQ_Bt6eRoY3sSlMv6C3oSbEXER584tJl5JqCGLJyAmuBlk-sh/s576/robert.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="290" data-original-width="576" height="322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg4rOfnJXBCUuLE2m4SaAU4nxu3PEmAyXfIqr1DHlMGT7PMw55xQMq9K5DNMawyqFoboN-BcGNriZvK8TblakSkNRwN5GfQ_Bt6eRoY3sSlMv6C3oSbEXER584tJl5JqCGLJyAmuBlk-sh/w640-h322/robert.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6yGX-cvko2SoLA3Xl1qgXdoF7pbmcvF1xHgCdx4YpNJoUVMQbnyqVU9QFQHDl7WoXblQZZENx9W9pulNYMTdKm6iKwbN2M8DgSTWfiJ_x1MsKn-lr7SRheYCKW0o-SFKHxWMRgzrRy-oe/s576/bikes.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="454" data-original-width="576" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6yGX-cvko2SoLA3Xl1qgXdoF7pbmcvF1xHgCdx4YpNJoUVMQbnyqVU9QFQHDl7WoXblQZZENx9W9pulNYMTdKm6iKwbN2M8DgSTWfiJ_x1MsKn-lr7SRheYCKW0o-SFKHxWMRgzrRy-oe/w400-h315/bikes.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02246669291440115585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918809780977867389.post-18377920570482478082021-06-07T20:43:00.002-04:002021-06-08T13:23:36.679-04:00grey day for walking to the Bronx<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ODMVkW9OeVdc9TKLt5OGlyMVgE3IIoPc3GmfO6-tiKNDQwDcCLTHJVq2jbY1OfIpndd-6P463OjY_nVBoFqCsFXrbTbpomPoOYWUgjw3HCQGOJG2hudHJRr9NpzduomRzgZCvyo_Kwes/s768/silver.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="576" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ODMVkW9OeVdc9TKLt5OGlyMVgE3IIoPc3GmfO6-tiKNDQwDcCLTHJVq2jbY1OfIpndd-6P463OjY_nVBoFqCsFXrbTbpomPoOYWUgjw3HCQGOJG2hudHJRr9NpzduomRzgZCvyo_Kwes/w480-h640/silver.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4xtJV7PyzKYped1MjTP0U8Ke_hJFYNhNtsWDnHav5GlPkYep2Xmf0zC99u1EANVmG5pO1SVW-3n3aG4EU1pMWRvOUGxCTnYlRr-dF2IbJ5ewsTfQa8E1XJi8n1oZlrlmD0tGnjXiOaPs0/s768/iris+1.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="576" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4xtJV7PyzKYped1MjTP0U8Ke_hJFYNhNtsWDnHav5GlPkYep2Xmf0zC99u1EANVmG5pO1SVW-3n3aG4EU1pMWRvOUGxCTnYlRr-dF2IbJ5ewsTfQa8E1XJi8n1oZlrlmD0tGnjXiOaPs0/w300-h400/iris+1.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />Last Saturday was cloudy, hot and humid, but I wanted to go for a walk, so we set out in the morning. <p></p><p>R suggested we head to the Bronx. I had never heard of the Bronx in Montreal but there's a neighbourhood called Lachine (in French, China is La Chine), so who knows? </p><p>I was ready to head any which way but didn't expect that we would be walking west along the river. The path was shady, the light silvery on the water. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHQRO0FiyJFlNcKd9Skxz_Y13q88LZwi2jrS4qZD1LN-0HC0S7DGS7g8TBGdVb0Q4hV5bhYGW2gVTMcyKtd-t7H7E1omFGuH2sLL4AXXR5WITyi8DGKpQd5joNq5uVKTlx5UdHWqdKroLh/s576/path.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHQRO0FiyJFlNcKd9Skxz_Y13q88LZwi2jrS4qZD1LN-0HC0S7DGS7g8TBGdVb0Q4hV5bhYGW2gVTMcyKtd-t7H7E1omFGuH2sLL4AXXR5WITyi8DGKpQd5joNq5uVKTlx5UdHWqdKroLh/s320/path.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>One used to have to walk single file along certain stretches of the path, but a few seasons of social distancing have made it wider. What you see here is the work of many feet.</p><p>I've wondered if people will keep walking and cycling, once stores and cinemas and events and restaurants are available again. </p><p>I wonder what the children will remember. I wonder what it will be like for dogs and cats when their people leave the house to go to work again. I don't know enough about birds who live in the house. The mice will be happy. </p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVwi5SnDofXGouj9pqQqiIDOZbV-K090bY3Q5DphzHvfsY8GTIh79PVf3q_XlNlLRqkeyVdx8lPHlYM5Dg4bZjysbAgS0zLQjlljy59lVJh9GYqwJ6xsYpH0BeaoJzT3tb0BnvVV66AIUH/s576/roses.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="477" data-original-width="576" height="331" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVwi5SnDofXGouj9pqQqiIDOZbV-K090bY3Q5DphzHvfsY8GTIh79PVf3q_XlNlLRqkeyVdx8lPHlYM5Dg4bZjysbAgS0zLQjlljy59lVJh9GYqwJ6xsYpH0BeaoJzT3tb0BnvVV66AIUH/w400-h331/roses.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>The roses grow wild. I would even say rampant. They have a fibrous root system that can invade even marsh grass. <div><br /></div><div>I walked along here with a friend a few years ago, and she took pics of a kitchen chair--chrome legs, vinyl seat--hidden in the marsh grass. A seat for fishing? I looked for it now but it's gone. </div><div><p>Here's Montreal seen from the eastern tip of Parc des rapides and those are the rapids that made the river impassable and necessitated the building of the Lachine Canal and later the St. Lawrence Seaway. Aren't we lucky the rapids weren't dynamited? </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVZZD8ArTeaL6M4P2zPYIpr1VPJYi2_z4BaKopRI_Hmi-DOQiFNc8ZwOtmka1OW2NUb77-MfTrYxytssHZVpCFQpGthWM26hB_MObt6iNsnowRllCQ8H95dFynUqXm3z4nY0AaeacSoBNw/s648/city.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVZZD8ArTeaL6M4P2zPYIpr1VPJYi2_z4BaKopRI_Hmi-DOQiFNc8ZwOtmka1OW2NUb77-MfTrYxytssHZVpCFQpGthWM26hB_MObt6iNsnowRllCQ8H95dFynUqXm3z4nY0AaeacSoBNw/w640-h480/city.jpg" width="640" /></a><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS5TG1S-k409gcrWIeJ5nES97vt3_ni9VWnfLNT1mMs5JcOvZn5roaaFSTsnYoLc2Xy7F8JZR9T6Ud3Oo_3IljmsHKN7Xf-p3IwLKpAbNF2dgGraK52dp4Xyw0DiX3418Lf_Atfnni8xC1/s648/tree.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS5TG1S-k409gcrWIeJ5nES97vt3_ni9VWnfLNT1mMs5JcOvZn5roaaFSTsnYoLc2Xy7F8JZR9T6Ud3Oo_3IljmsHKN7Xf-p3IwLKpAbNF2dgGraK52dp4Xyw0DiX3418Lf_Atfnni8xC1/w400-h300/tree.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />The Bronx is the old name for the residential area next to Parc des rapides. It's now called... Village des rapides! </div><div><br /></div><div>It was called Le Bronx after some brokers from New York who bought several lots in 1919. <p></p><p><br /></p><p>That's as much as I can tell you about Le Bronx. </p></div>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02246669291440115585noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918809780977867389.post-72747700423202639452021-06-01T10:53:00.000-04:002021-06-01T10:53:15.903-04:00what is wrong with this photo? / subway pics<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2zfeFhfGW99UrGtYuSgbCGytWQCyuJWkkfsS3bm8Kd9-sjtPUldrOGR0UeckkstIQeT03wMj9iN9OPz3-LWz4ARJQK4_LDRL7I1gU6MY_lk5o5qxFZ0brO3wGvrhheIR9Gm9mZ4lryfjZ/s763/bag+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="763" data-original-width="432" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2zfeFhfGW99UrGtYuSgbCGytWQCyuJWkkfsS3bm8Kd9-sjtPUldrOGR0UeckkstIQeT03wMj9iN9OPz3-LWz4ARJQK4_LDRL7I1gU6MY_lk5o5qxFZ0brO3wGvrhheIR9Gm9mZ4lryfjZ/w226-h400/bag+3.jpg" width="226" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>She looks good. She takes the time to make sure everything she wears matches. My guess is her panties and bra match too--not just with each other but her whole outfit. A checkerboard bra for example?</p><p>The dialogue bubbles on the paper bag the grocery store gave her say: Do not forget... do not forget... your bags the next time. </p><p>But she did forget. In fact, does she ever bother? Though look at how nicely she's turned up her cuffs to show off her smooth ankles. </p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvzllyO19zL3AMNp2_j7DO4t-_9YIs9xwzTK7F4-igfDkzzfHvcqWhsoWsf1_qPWkP3k88AOPHb0tFpFe1hBKwF03PIOovKsznNsJA1l-XCmd2-PcDzw9htf9zWlqOZXCCyqxZ4RFq4G4M/s696/bag+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="696" data-original-width="648" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvzllyO19zL3AMNp2_j7DO4t-_9YIs9xwzTK7F4-igfDkzzfHvcqWhsoWsf1_qPWkP3k88AOPHb0tFpFe1hBKwF03PIOovKsznNsJA1l-XCmd2-PcDzw9htf9zWlqOZXCCyqxZ4RFq4G4M/w373-h400/bag+1.jpg" width="373" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>This photo was taken 5 minutes earlier. Same weather outside but he's wearing a parka and gloves. He doesn't "fit" into the general picture of Montreal in early summer as well as she does. </p><p>But he knows how to read. His bag has been recycled many times. </p><p>It says: Choose to recycle this bag. </p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd2hLcirdPtbQMTIQgU_15RGXHeZJC_RJwbQkxSfebaJi1-FazrnssDCtZBLoxLH9Ne1X8Y2Szaf5Z9ycNQVQGvkQG4tjjufDT_VY4LQ_TI70skNquCFXnNiZq9jldIgCETQMftIF-9vbu/s660/bag+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="648" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd2hLcirdPtbQMTIQgU_15RGXHeZJC_RJwbQkxSfebaJi1-FazrnssDCtZBLoxLH9Ne1X8Y2Szaf5Z9ycNQVQGvkQG4tjjufDT_VY4LQ_TI70skNquCFXnNiZq9jldIgCETQMftIF-9vbu/w393-h400/bag+2.jpg" width="393" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>This bag is doubly green when you use it on the bus or subway.</p>Alicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02246669291440115585noreply@blogger.com2