April 4, 2007

Blurb Fun

The Quill and Quire blog puts Rebecca Eckler’s blurbs in their proper contexts with illuminating results. Oh, what a mighty weapon is the truth.

March 27, 2007

Signs of Spring

The number of things I do not know stuns me sometimes– particularly the things I do not know but stare at daily. There was an outcry in England a while back because children were unable to identify tree and bird species, and I realized I was that stupid too. And so we got a bird book recently (how positively uncool is that?) so that I could make up for my orinthological deficiencies. Now there isn’t much variety in terms of birds where we live, though there are pigeons living below the kitchen window, and sparrows living just above. Savannah sparrows, to be specific (I think). And I can identify starlings too now. Though we saw a sparrow-like bird with a red head today, and I’m not sure what planet that one’s from. Anyway, the big news is that yesterday I saw a robin. And so spring has officially sprung.

I also didn’t know a few things about snooker, or Stuart for that matter. That Stuart knows anything about snooker at all, or that it’s pronounced “snewker” and not “snuhcker”. I had no idea. In The Post Birthday World (now reading) one character is a famous snooker player. Apparently its a British institution. And so I asked my own resident British institution– is this for real? Are there actually famous snooker players? And after correcting my pronounciation, he proceeded to list off famous snookerees, and tell me all about the game. Revealed is a whole other side to him, one which has lain dormant all these years.

March 24, 2007

Karma

The only problem with being fiction editor at echolocation is that sending out thirty rejections in an afternoon has got to bring you back some bad karma.

March 23, 2007

Dreams

I implore you to read The Lizard Cage but you’d best not finish it right before bedtime, or your dreams will be strange. Mine certainly were. Otherwise, I have to cram some CanLit into my weekend as my TA office hours start next week and I’ll be marking the week after. I shall be reading Obasan and Elle. And now it’s totally spring, so we’ll spending this weekend throwing open the windows and roaming outdoors.

March 19, 2007

Living Properly

The more I think about About Alice by Calvin Trillin, I realize this tiny memoir is actually a guide to living properly. Seriously, lately I’ve found myself thinking, “What would Alice do?” in a variety of situations. I have a hunch I may be better for it.

March 16, 2007

Ephemera is forever

You’ve got to wonder about ephemera. How a word whose Greek root means “lasting only a day” could be used to classify the bits and pieces of printed matter we cherish as our keepsakes. And I mean letters, theatre programs, postcards, ticket stubs, brochures, greeting cards, and all such various things which stuff my drawers and cupboards. That these items we save forever could possibly bear an etymological link to the mayfly— any insect of the order ephemeroptera, of course, and noted for its life span of just a few hours— is yet another example of the English language’s perplexity.

But then I have to wonder also about ephemera on my own terms. Because my drawers and cupboards are truly stuffed, and chances are that I’ve got a few good years before me still. From time to time I grow concerned that my desire to keep everything will one day find me buried up to my eyes in printed matter.

In particular, I have a big box in my closet filled with cards of all sorts— birthdays, anniversary, Christmas, Valentines, engagement, bridal showers, wedding etc., as well as a fat stack of postcards I’ve acquired over the years. And I cull this box from time to time; whenever I find a card from a name I no longer recognize, I force myself to toss it in the recycling. But in spite of these efforts, the box’s contents continue to amass at an alarming rate. I rarely even look through this box, but I can hardly bear to part with anything inside it.

I do pity the poor somebody who is left to sort through my ephemera once it has outlived me. Sometimes I wonder if I should just toss the lot of it now to make it easy later, and whether perhaps these things were meant to be ephemeral after all. Did I miss the point, going through my life-so-far hoarding such an abundance of stuff? Maybe there is another word for ephemera, and that word is “crap”, and my suspicions will prove correct that none of it is of interest to anyone but me.

But then I was recently gratified to have it confirmed otherwise. To learn that ephemera can be forever.

When my grandfather passed away recently at the age of 94, of course all of us who will miss him were terribly sad, but there was some relief to be had. In an end to his suffering, and that he would no longer have to live without his wife— she had predeceased him in 1998 after 63 happy years together.

But for us there was further consolation, as the extended family went back to my Aunt and Uncle’s house to visit together following the funeral. And we spent a wonderful afternoon sorting through black and white photographs of familiar faces, and also a box of cards, notes and letters which have lasted much longer than only a day. Some of them were over 70 years old.

I never knew that my grandmother had collected postcards, just like I do. And some of the postcards she saved were truly works of art, with “This is a real photograph” stamped on the back as proof of authenticity. Many of the postcards we found were purchased as souvenirs and never sent, shut up in a box all these years so they still look brand new. Beautiful black and white images of British seaside towns, presumably collected by my grandfather while he served in the navy.

One postcard is labelled “A Rough Sea at Brighton”— a photo of waves crashing up against the long-gone but once-spectacular Palace Pier. The night shots are tinted in reds, yellows and blues for a carnival effect. Some of the postcards were sent through the mail with just a brief note. Usually my grandfather apologizing to his wife that it had been too long, but a letter was to follow. During the war he was away for six years.

The greeting cards in the box were equally fascinating, and not only for the notes they held in store, but as objects in themselves. As with the postcards, there seemed to be a superior quality compared with contemporary cards. They were either very elaborate, with fabric pieces, pop-ups, ribbons, bows and gorgeous art, or they were hilariously cheeky, and just so much more interesting than your average happy birthday.

But the messages inside were what won our hearts after all, whether it was the hastily scrawled signature of someone who hadn’t been remembered in years, or that my grandmother was called “Mom” in quotations in her baby shower cards because momhood was still weeks away then. A third birthday card for my aunt from her dad, or a message from my own dad to his mother pencilled in a shaky childish hand.

It was amusing to see the number of belated-occasion cards exchanged between my grandparents, with their humble notes of “Sorry, I forgot.” Though forgetfulness never undermined the sentiment these cards were expressing.

How amazing to find a card from my grandmother dated 1935 with “Happy Birthday to my Boyfriend” on the front. All the cards from the years they had to spend apart during the war, making clear that they were counting down the days. I especially adored the card my grandfather gave my grandmother for their third anniversary in 1939. He noted that if the rest of the years were as good as the first three had been, then he was a very lucky man.

And he was.

And then so too are we, for having all these treasures to remember him by.

March 9, 2007

The Joy of Things

My kitchen windowsill is one of my favourite corners of our apartment and it’s become even more pleasant with the addition of this little gerbera plant– a gift from Jennie who came to dinner last night. The flowers bloom and we had a delightful time. Also notable on the sill is my yellow dragonfly sugarbowl– at gift from Kate. Oh, the joy of things. In other notables, the letters which spell SLOAN have rubbed off my keyboard. M is on its way out too. I can’t see that I favour these letters particularly, and I wonder overused words of mine have hastened the erasure? Fruit and veg is getting cheaper at the grocery store, which indictates spring is coming. Weather forecasts above 0 for this weekend indicate much of the same, oh bliss. This short winter has been a long long time happening. And I am hankering after watermelonish festivities.

March 7, 2007

Half a Grapefruit

~Horse Nicholson had made a lot of money as a contractor and had left that to go into politics. He had made a speech saying that what they needed was a lot more God in the classroom and a lot less French.~

March 3, 2007

Mini*Pops

Fun site of the week is Mini Pops Magic, which taught me plenty about one of my first favourite bands. Looking through their discography, I realized that my family owned at least four of their albums– I’d forgotten. I was also surprised to learn they were British (though I probably should have known). They were known for their Channel 4 television show in 1982 which was controversial due to that old “eight year olds dressed like harlots” problem. The show was cancelled, but a number of albums were released, and were particularly popular in Canada, where the Mini Pops embarked upon a three week tour. Who knew?

February 27, 2007

A Hardheaded Woman

When I proclaimed I would never be brainwashed into a cult, it became clear that there is nothing like obstinacy to make other people irate. Though no doubt I was right, and perhaps Stuart was just short on sleep or in need of a feed, he was made furious by my nerve. That I would never anything drove him to “Hah! I’ll show you.” He never did, of course and I remain free of any cult-like associations to this day.

But I understand what drove Stuart (beyond generic grumpiness). Any person who dares to plant her foot on the ground and say “I will never…” makes one want to cover the world for exceptions, the one circumstance in which that person will. Particularly if one is bossy and a mite controlling (like myself)– to have another escape your limits and plant their foot out there all of their own accord is a wee bit rankling. Especially if the foot-planter is just as hardheaded, which she would have to be in order to say “I will never…”.

The foot planter who’s been driving me mad of late is the Toronto woman who is aiming to produce no garbage. She is blogging about it here. Why, you might wonder, would such a noble endeavour bother anyone? For the reasons I’ve outlined above, I think, but (wait!) there are problems with the plan. First– that they use whatever garbage they do produce as material to make art from (the one example I remember is collages made from the stickers on fruit) and give to their friends. I don’t know. Garbage made into art is still garbage, usually, unless you are really good at art. Basically they just pass their crap onto someone else who can’t throw it out either because it was given under the guise of a “gift”. Second– it’s not so much that they’re producing no garbage, but rather they’re opting not to take it home with them. Living in society you are part of an entire system that produces waste, whether or not you can see it yourself. And so it’s sort of narrow-minded to pat yourself on the back for refusing a napkin for your muffin at the coffee shop (for example) when the napkin is obviously there and you’re supporting the establishment that will give yours out to someone next in line.

I see the value in what these people are doing as a statement. She just recently managed to go 31 days garbage-free. It is excellent that they are raising awareness about the stupid amounts of waste we produce, and the problem of over-packaging. Many of their waste-reduction tips are probably quite valuable to the average person. But still, I’m annoyed. Hah, I’ll show them.

I think I am being difficult (short on sleep and feed, I suppose).

Update: I do wish to affirm that the annoyingness cited in this post is mainly my own. A response to my kvetching is here and sensible.