A different sort of celebration

According to T.S. Eliot, April is the cruelest month, but that's not a sentiment I share. 

As someone who loves poetry, I'd have to counter by saying that April is the coolest month, as that's when we celebrate National Poetry Month in Canada. 

One of my plans for this month is to give away a book of poetry every day in April. For one thing, it's a good way to cull my (admittedly too large) collection of these books. After all, two bookcases full probably means more books of poems than I will be able to reread in the remainder of my life. 

I did something along similar lines back in 2011 when we travelled across the continent of North America. Considering that most of that trip was through the US, I'm sorry to say we won't be repeating that journey this year (and I guess not until 2028). Like so many other Canadians, in conscience we're just not able to cross the border for now. 

The League of Canadian Poets has selected Family as this year's theme, and that's a word that means different things to many of us: blended family, adoptive family, nuclear family, extended family. Or, to interpret it the way that makes the most sense to me: chosen family, those people we hold dear as friends, a new kind of family, chosen at that. 

The books at the top of this page each offer a very different take on contemporary poetry. For more suggestions click here to see a list compiled by the brainy folks at The Tyee. 

A month of books

When I say a month of books, it's not exactly the traditional calendar month that I mean, more of a range of days when bookish events seem to be everywhere. 

Last weekend was the final celebratory day for Word Vancouver, an annual event that used be known as Word on the Street. Some cities back east still have that name, but we've gone (as we so often seem to do) our own way on this one. 

The poetry bus in the photo above had all of its ad spaces above the seats filled with poems by those whose work had been selected for this year's Poetry in Transit awards. A reading by those writers was just one of the sessions at this year's Word event. Happily, the sun was shining and most of the day was even reasonably warm, something that hasn't always been the case for this mostly-outdoor festival. 

Coming up soon, this Saturday in fact, Vancouver Public Library (Central Branch, downtown) is hosting a free event, "Literary MAGnitude: Why Lit Mags Matter." Anyone who writes would attest to the importance of these 'little' magazines. Where else does anyone get their start?

And before the month is out, Vancouver will be again playing host to writers from across the country and, in fact, all over the world with the annual Vancouver Writers Fest. I'm currently reading The Wren, The Wren by Irish author Anne Enright, and I'm looking forward to hearing her in conversation. 

But because I'm an oddball kind of reader, I'd have to say that's not the only book that's currently on the go for me. I'm in the middle of Caroline Adderson's collection of short stories, A Way to Be Happy. 

And on what I suppose is a stranger note, not very long ago, I realized that two books I'd signed out from the library (both about survival after major difficulties) had completely opposite titles. But then, their titles must say something about how my life often runs. 

Nostalgia on a summer breeze

At last, the season for reading outdoors has truly arrived. Oh sure, I used to read in the snow fort I’d built in the backyard, but that was a long time ago, a time I’m not all that nostalgic for. Still, such thoughts are somewhat apt, as the book I read yesterday afternoon, Diane Tucker’s Nostalgia for Moving Parts, opens with memories of childhood.

Whether she’s recalling the feel of bare feet on cool floors or sliding on them “in sock feet” or lying down, staring into the heat vents which she describes perfectly as looking like “little venetian blinds” she’s certainly succeeded in transporting me there. Even in her stories of being a very young girl, we see her developing what she understands being a woman to mean, whether that’s disliking a dress your mother wants you to wear, flirting with a cute boy in grade two, or coming to the realization that there’d come a day when “You threw the dice of yourself and hoped you’d win.”

Her poems and the experiences they recount—including the deaths of both of her parents—have taken me to some of the places I realize I still need to pay more attention to. Even my massage therapist tells me that my pains are from holding back grief. As the poet Edward Hirsch reminds us in 100 Poems to Break Your Heart, “The poet is one who…is determined to leave a trace in words, to transform oceanic depths of feeling into the faithful nuances of art.”

And that seems to be exactly what Tucker has done with her poems, which deal with everything from the joys of backyard games:

we smashed the badminton birdie

over the fading net arc after arc

until evening ate the small white thing

 to observations about the qualities of evening wine: 

White wine is not white but golden,

bright lantern to light your aging limbs,

slow lover bathing your solitary throat.

 And from those words I read on yesterday’s summery afternoon (“This afternoon could scour the cool / out of anything…”), I have to say that I am grateful that she has given me words I can use to write about her book, a book that helps me understand why she is nostalgic for certain lost things—and how it is that she has come to write about them. For lack of a better way to express this, I offer a stanza from her poem, ‘The woods are full of poets’: 

As cedar boughs grow down and then

grow up (a double wish, a desire for both

at once), blank paper does two things:

it blocks the light and it lets light through. 

It’s a stanza that in itself evokes a small reminder of (and nostalgia for) Leonard Cohen, and his lessons about light.

For the birds?

July is supposed to be the happiest of months. Or maybe somehow I just have that stuck in my mind. Maybe because it's the first month of no school. Or maybe because I often go to Kansas for the Amelia Earhart Festival (cancelled again this year) and its exciting display of fireworks. 

It's traditionally been the month when I get back down to plenty of leisure reading. Something about warm weather that makes me want to sit outside with a book -- a great excuse for not doing anything more energetic. 

When I used to work in schools, July felt like the time when I was finally free of responsibilities of classroom teaching (marking, ugh) or library work (inventory, double-ugh). So the idea of free reading is one I still associate with this month. 

Again going back to work days, my brain never seemed ready to tackle 'big' books. I'd start off by reading a few of Tintin's adventures, and then gradually go forward to books like David and the Phoenix or The Secret Garden. Before the month would be out, my brain would be back in gear and ready to tackle some grown-up books. 

Even though I no longer have those mega-duties anymore, I still find myself doing 'warm-up' reading with what might these days be called YA materials. This year, it was GG-winner, The King of Jam Sandwiches, followed by the old-fashioned pleasures of a Green Knowe book from Lucy M. Boston. 

Already I've managed to roar through Thomas King's latest, the very timely, Sufferance, much of it actually set on the site of a residential school. Among the residents of this very fine book is a passel of crows, one of whom stopped by on one of our skylights. Not sure if he thought he could get inside or what. Must have been a nice buffet of dead bugs up there. Or maybe he was just looking down onto my current stack of library books, hoping to find something good to read. 

Read -- it's still free

Usually, I observe Freedom to Read Week by participating in an event specifically geared to celebrate it. Often, that means doing a reading from books that have been banned or challenged. For fun, this link will take you to a quiz about literacy and the freedom to read. 

This year, like just about everything else in our lives, that observance is different. 

Yes, I'm in an event where I get to mention Freedom to Read Week, but the only challenged piece I'll be presenting is one of my own poems. It's one that a local environmental group posted on its website a few years ago, when a whole lot of poets banded together in efforts to save a forest from becoming yet another faceless development. Fortunately, this effort, the Han Shan Project succeeded, and that chunk of forest is now protected and available as a public park. 

My poem, which was based on the Beatitudes found in the Bible, stirred the wrath of certain folks. They not only complained that my poem was blasphemous, they threatened the environmental group, demanding that they remove my poem (and even, for a while, wanted the environmental group's entire website taken down). I was fortunate in that the group who'd posted it held its ground and honoured my poem, and also that the complainers gradually went away. 

This year, when it comes to censorship, freedom of expression, and access to information, my biggest concern is the repercussive wave that's swept the internet over Australia's decision to protect journalism in that country. The big guys, who seem to think they rule the world, don't want to have to pay for content.

It's going to take a while to sort out this mess, but it's a situation that deserves the attention of all of us who value responsible journalism and news that's true.  

Oh, and if you're curious about the photo with its message to Read, it's a piece of origami book art I came across at my local indie bookstore -- a business I'm doing my best to support by shopping there. I hope you can find ways to shop local too. 

O Canada...

Today is "I Read Canadian Day" -- a day that for me is probably not much different from most other days. Not that I read exclusively homegrown books, though looking at various piles around the house, it's pretty clear that those are what I mostly read. 

The ones in the photo at the top are non-fiction, poetry, and even a magazine. Looking at them, I see an odd kind of interplay among their titles. Unintentional, I promise, but kind of a fun treat providing a bit of comic relief, as the two hardcover books are about disasters that occurred in Newfoundland. 

The books in the photo below are novels I've read recently, and both come, as Vancouver reviewer Tom Sandborn might say, "highly recommended."

Speechless concerns the plight of a young woman accused of adultery. Punishment for 'her crime' (actually a rape) is to be a public stoning. There's a review of it (one I wrote) in the most recent edition

of sub-Terrain Magazine, though I guess you'll have to buy the magazine to read it, as it isn't (at least, not yet) posted online.  

The latest novel from Helen Humphreys, Rabbit Foot Bill, came out last fall (and I bought it right away), but I saved it, as I admit to being a fan of hers. I knew I'd want to savour it, like a treat you save for some special occasion. Wherever she sets her books (this one, in Saskatchewan), her writing transports me there. And even though I didn't write a review of it, I'll admit there are quite a few orange stickies marking passages I want to go back to. 

I hope you'll remember that today isn't the only day to Read Canadian. It's a pleasure -- at least for me -- any day of the year. 

Lazy days of turning pages into new worlds

Summer days can be an excuse to be lazy (though I'll admit, I can probably find an excuse to be lazy during any season). 

One of my happiest ways to be lazy is to hide myself away in the pages of a book. And this summer has brought me some fine hiding spots. 

I suppose the string of great reads started some weeks back, with Marion Toews' powerful novel, Women Talking. It's not a happy book, but the facts behind it were important to reveal. From there, quite by accident, another library book came my way and, oddly enough, it seemed to link up to the Toews' book, even echoing small details. That one, The Grace Year, though classified as YA didn't really seem to be very YA -- just a terrific and memorable book. 

Without really meaning to, I moved into books about trees. The atmosphere for reading was probably enhanced by the fact that our house is surrounded by a miniature forest. I keep meaning to post something on Goodreads about these (more of that laziness keeps winning out), but they are The Overstory and Greenwood. 

The Overstory by Richard Powers won the Pulitzer Prize, so I'm not the only person who wants to sing its praises. It's broken into two main parts -- the first introduces readers to the cast of characters, the rest unfolds all that happens to (and with) all of them. It's very much related to The Hidden Life of Trees, but the humans and their complicated interactions make the science so much more real. 

Likewise, Michael Christie expresses a similar deep understanding of the nature of trees in his novel, Greenwood. It's a sprawling book, spanning the breadth of our continent, time-travelling to the past and into the future. There were times I wasn't quite sure who was who, but it gradually unfolded, like leaves on the page. 

And now, I'm doing another kind of time-travel, as I've just started David Mitchell's Utopia Avenue, a trip into the Sixties and its music. No comments on that one yet, as I've only just started it, though I suspect I'll enjoy it, as I've read and liked all of his other ones. 

I've got a nifty outdoor living space, with a comfy old couch, a great place to curl up with a book. 

I hope your summer reading has been as pleasurable as mine. And remember, I love hearing recommendations. 

The delight of reading children's books

I used to work in schools, most of the time as a teacher-librarian. People used to comment about how lucky I was to be able to read all the time. Ha! It was rare to get any reading done beyond reviews, requests from teachers for particular titles, or documents outlining curricular changes (ugh). It was only when school finished at the end of June that I could once again dive into the pages of any book, simply for the pleasure of reading.

Only I found I wasn't able to start right in on what might be called 'adult' books. My regimen would always be to start off on a few Tintins. After that, I'd wean myself from pictures to words, but I'd still stay with what are called (foolishly perhaps) children's books.

Usually, these would be books I'd read before: The Secret Garden, the Narnia books, the lesser-known but wonderful Greene Knowe series by Lucy M. Boston.

The other day I ran across a list of favourite children's books as reported by various 'grown-up' authors. I was familiar with many, though not all of the titles -- but as you can imagine, I've started requesting some of them from my public library. Even though it's still closed, they've worked out a system so we can pick up requested titles when they come in, and for that I am grateful.

So, where it's now July, I'm giving myself permission to go back to some of those kids' books, as I suspect they'll be very good at helping me get back to feeling some of that old summer magic.

Magic in the forest

Even though Solstice has come and been, it hasn't been easy to convince myself that it's summer. It might be officially so, but the weather hasn't agreed. It's been cool temps, with the occasional light rain spitting just enough to dampen spirits.

Although I've put in some hours on a contract project, made a few jars of jam, and kept up with the usual domestic chores, with the weather so cool, I've mostly just wanted to curl up with a comforter, quietly turning pages, reading. And while I've managed plenty of that, yesterday brought a different kind of interlude.

A friend had done some repair work on an old violin we've had poking around here, and when he brought it over, he also brought his own. Not only did he bring it, he played an entire concert for us --

outdoors, of course, complete with the requisite social distancing.

It was pretty magical looking into the trees of our mini-forest while the music drifted over us. And maybe doubly magical for me, as the book I've been immersed in, Greenwood by Michael Christie is permeated with such a deep understanding of the forest and the interrelatedness of the trees that abide in it. It feels as though I've been living and breathing trees all week. Not a bad feeling at all, especially when accompanied by a private concert.

And now, I am hearing that there are violin concerts across the US, commemorating yet another man beaten to death by police. Devastating.

Getting re-engaged with reading

During these days of isolation and social distancing, one of the ways we can still get into someone else's mind is, of course, through a book.

I have a Kindle, but admit to still preferring the sensory pleasure I get from a book -- even just turning paper pages is preferable to me to clicking thumbs on the e-reader (in fact, I sometimes get sore arms from doing this).

By some stroke of luck, the last time I was at the library, I was inspired to grab more than my usual allotment of books. And I'll admit to having a houseful as well, many of which I've never read. Some of these might have been gifts (Lincoln in the Bardo for one); others just part of some overambitious spree.

Earlier this week, Geist Magazine put out a note encouraging all of us to support our local bookstores. I'm taking this to mean the stalwart independents. I've been compiling a list, and allowing myself a set price which I'm going to try to not exceed.

There were plenty of days in the past when I thought I didn't have time to read (though somehow, I suppose, I always read something -- even if just the back of the cereal box). But these days, that excuse has flown out the window, along with the many engagements that are usually on my calendar.

I'm happy to follow the advice on the cushion one of my talented artist friends made me and yes, read a book, read a book, read a book.

Exercise your freedom...to read

It seems I usually am reading more than one book at a time. Okay, not reading with books in both hands, but one for afternoon reading, another at bedtime, and poking my nose into some other book or two throughout the day.

One of the books I've been reading (actually, re-reading) is George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four. It's amazing that it's held up so well over the many years since it was published. But I'm finding that quite a lot of it seems a little too spot-on, with ubiquitous surveillance cameras only one of those aspects.

Other parts of it that seem a little too close to reality are those that concern both writing and language.

Much of the writing depicted in the novel is actually re-writing -- the re-creation of history that's become inconvenient -- often because an individual was too caught up in the mores of his time. And yes, that individual is generally a man, but then that simply reflects how our histories have been written. And what the protagonist (Winston) must do in his job seems not all that different from ways we have recently been revisiting some of our own history. 

Even more chilling to me as a creative writer is the notion of machines spinning out novels. As with the revision of history in the book's Ministry of Truth, an entire department is devoted to the creation of Fiction. Books are conceived by directive of a committee, then the words are spun out by a machine. Sure, there's a department for rewriting, but somehow it doesn't sound very literary. And the same process is also true for pornography in Orwell's dystopian society, though only women are permitted to work in that section. Much too stimulating for men. Harrumph.

But even more bothersome to me is his vision of what he called Newspeak, a word that showed up yesterday as one of the answers to the New York Times crossword (one of my morning addictions, along with coffee).

Newspeak's goal was purportedly to simplify and clarify language (right...) by paring down the dictionary to only the most basic words, all of which could be modified with simple prefixes and suffixes. Thus, 'bad' becomes 'ungood' and a person who is particular righteous and law-abiding would be described as 'goodthinkful'.

And we can't forget Newspeak's brother, doublespeak, whose presence lingers in our midst like a bad smell. Examples that come to mind include "It's all good" (especially when things might be anything but) and "Have a good one." (A good what, I ask myself.)

I find it worrisome to have 'good' be the basis for such meaningless remarks. It seems like shades of the simplistic 'ungood' to have 'good' as the foundation for so many of our offhand, rote remarks. Although really, it isn't that I don't want life to be good, it's the diminishment of language that rankles me.

Anyway, this happens to be Freedom to Read Week, and I'm glad that even my socks (in the photo) have something to say on that. My advice? Learn a new word -- or better yet, go find a book that's been banned and read it.

Who knew, eh?

By one of those flukes of taking my time reading the weekend newspaper, I ran across an article on 'homegrown literature' and the importance of reading exactly that. It claimed that today has been proclaimed as "I Read Canadian Day."

Only, as it happened, I was in a bookstore today and as I made my purchase, I asked about the observance. The employee gave me the deer-in-the-headlights face, and said she didn't know what I was talking about. If the booksellers don't know about it, no wonder there's no promotion.

I remember that, during the '80s we had "Canada Book Day" and it fell on, I'm pretty sure, April 23rd. And whaddya know, apparently it still exists (though even the entry about it admits that few people know about this).

It really was quite the celebration, as the Canada Council provided a box of Canadian books to libraries that made a request.

And next week, there'll be another Canadian literary observance. If it doesn't come to mind immediately, you might have to check back here, as who knows, I might even do a post about it.

Read on -- and when you can, think about reading something written by a Canadian author.

Think -- an idea whose time has come

Once again, it's Freedom to Read Week, an observance that doesn't get the attention it deserves. True, there are no parades, with people marching and proclaiming their right to read what they choose, but hmm. Maybe there ought to be.

Just yesterday, when I was featured in a public reading, presenting work from my own books, I chose to read a poem that had been challenged. It had been posted on the blog of an environmental group. But soon after it appeared, there were objections to its content, with several commenters insisting that the poem be removed from the site. Some went so far as to say the entire blog should be shut down.

Fortunately, thinking minds prevailed. The poem and blog remained online, the objections overruled. Oddly, the piece in question had been inspired by and based upon verses from the Bible. My head spins at the ironies unwinding. 

But for anyone who believes the idea of challenging -- or worse, out and out banning -- what we read is something that only happens in science fiction, think again. It doesn't take much to have a piece of writing be challenged. Looking over a list of 29 books books that have had to be pulled from libraries or classrooms in Canada, objections were based on "offensive language" or sometimes, "violence." In a number of instances the reasons cited were "unknown."

Some of the authors on the list will also surely surprise you (Laura Ingalls Wilder?!) as will some of the titles -- one in the Star Wars series, and another in the Chicken Soup for the Soul publications.

But if challenging titles over what some consider 'bad' words isn't enough to raise your ire, let's remember what happened to Jamal Khashoggi, the journalist who was tortured and executed last year. Freedom of the press is among the most basic of freedoms; some would argue it as the foundation of what we like to think of as democracy.

I hope you'll take some time this week -- and really, every week -- to think about the importance of our freedom to read. Just like the sign in the photo above, one the VPL created for its Freedom to Read campaign (back in 2014) suggests: "Think for yourself and let others do the same."And oh yes,  read exactly what you please.

Dreams can come true

It's been one of my small dreams to have a Little Free Library in our neighbourhood. Now, at long last, my wish has come true.

It took a bit of poking around and finagling, but I managed to get through to the right people -- and voila, it's reality.

Both Surrey Parks and the local Rotary Club made the project come together so nicely, and really, I have to say that I'm very pleased with how it looks.

Aside from the fact that it's so darn cute, I'm especially happy that the 'building' itself was constructed by men at the jail where I volunteer. Something about this makes me feel that things in my life are going as they should, and moving in full circle.

Because it had been in storage for a while, the little library's paint needed a bit of freshening up. While I was wielding my brush, a number of people came by to say they were very happy that our park now has one of these. And yesterday, when I was putting the books in, even more people came by and commented favourably.

I made a little sign for the inside of the doors which I hope will encourage neighbours to contribute books of their own.

And I'm hoping this Little Free Library will contribute as part of the feeling of community that our area is starting to grow -- starting this evening with a Free Community Picnic sponsored by the City. Yay, Surrey!

Finders keepers

I'm pretty sure it was Stephen King who impressed me with his recommendation to read Dickens. He may have even said he often re-reads particular books by Dickens, including the tome of tomes, Bleak House. It isn't one I've ever tried.

Great Expectations was a novel we were expected to read in high school. Memorable in its own ways (at least parts of it linger in memory), it wasn't enough to push me into wanting to read the rest of the Dickens library.

But today (not rainy, hurrah!) might mean that I have to screw up my courage (and clear my calendar?) to take a run at this 1,000+ pages classic. As I entered a building where I had an appointment, there it was, standing near these mossy bricks, extending an invitation to me. For someone who's a believer in 'signs' it's hard to ignore this new addition to my bookshelves (especially where it takes up what seems like more than its fair share).

I'm not ready to start it yet, though I am sure over the course of the year, it will beckon me. When (if?) I manage it, I'll let you know.

Gosh though, if only the title wasn't so grimly discouraging.

Hot times

The past while has been our version of a hot spell -- nothing like many would consider hot (trust me, I was in Kansas last month, and it was HOT there). Temps here on Wednesday made it up to 30 degrees, or for anyone south of the border, 86.

But what a great excuse to curl up with a book and read.

I've been doing a fair bit of that this summer -- whenever I can manage some quiet time. I'm pretty sure I'd have to say the best book I've read this season has been Ivan Coyote's memoir, Tomboy Survival Guide. I'm just about ready to say that this should be required reading -- for everyone. Its messages, though not always easy ones, are important; besides, it's also a fun read, with plenty that made me laugh out loud alone.

A read that's less fun, but one that feels important in another way is a book I recently re-read. One of those (don't you dare roll your eyes) post-apocalyptic novels, Emily St John Mandel's Station Eleven. Food, clothing and shelter -- for sure. But hey, you've gotta have art.

What cool books have you been reading?

And the livin' is easy...

...At least that's what the song says about summertime. Somehow this time of year isn't always "easy" as one might think, as it's often pretty darn busy. Much of that 'busy-ness' is at least outdoors -- and not 'on the computer'. Although this isn't really a heartbreak for me, it does mean I've been lazy about stepping out onto the big limb.

The photo above is an alcove on our deck -- a special spot where I like to read or even take a summertime nap. I call it The Boathouse. No particular reason, though I suppose the worn boards contribute to the feeling of someone's boathouse on a lake. So, even though Goolwa isn't on a lake (it's on the sea at the mouth of a river), the boat print serves well as part of the outdoor art.

But the thing is, this summer has been busy enough that I've barely spent any time in my beloved reading/relaxing spot. I'm thinking that maybe this will change in the next few days, especially where we've just had a celestial event that's supposed to signify big changes all around. (Am I the only one who remembers the song that celebrated the "dawning of the Age of Aquarius"?)

In the spirit of seeking change, but at the same time being realistic, I'm aiming for Monday as a day for relaxing and reading in my boathouse. I picked up two delicious-looking novels at the library, so I'm set, especially if I can finish all my projects in the kitchen!

Partly because all the fruits have been ahead of schedule, I've spent an awful lot of time freezing fruits for winter, making jam and even baking. To finish off this year's bounty of plums, I'm going to have get out the canner, as there's basically no more room in the freezer.

Yet even as I contemplate how to deal with the flavourful blessings, I've had to go out and pick again this afternoon. Not a bad little batch for ten minutes in the sun. They should make a very nice dessert.

So even if the livin' ain't always completely 'easy' I'm not about to complain.

Too many books?

This was the scene at the Vancouver Public Library's Book Sale. Because I was already downtown, I dared to stop in -- but only to take a snapshot of the scene.

Considering the number of books that share space in this house, I knew I didn't dare go down the stairs, as surely I would have found a few more 'treasures' for my already-overcrowded shelves.

Because I was pretty sure there's some famous quote about not being able to have 'too many books', I googled the phrase. Sure enough, I came up with too many answers.

The most authoritative -- or at least earliest -- seems to be from Rudyard Kipling. But his adds more than books to the list, claiming both red wine and ammunition as must-have items. I can only hope he didn't mean an excess of those two in combination.

The most famous one, and likely the most hideous, is one I'd expected to be attributed to Dorothy Parker. But apparently, it's from someone named Carter Burden who -- as might be expected -- is a Vanderbilt descendant. Easy for her to say, that one can never be too rich, too thin or have too many books. Further searching led to Wallis, Duchess of Windsor, who's credited with the first two elements in that particular maxim -- the books seem to have been an add-on from Burden.

And then there's the one from Drew Barrymore, claiming one can never have too many books. I can only conclude she has a much bigger house than ours. And probably someone who dusts them now and then.

Probably the closest to my own sentiment is the homely little phrase from one of my all-time heroes, Frank Zappa : "So many books, so little time."

Half a month, half a month...

...half a month onward -- already. And it feels as though I've accomplished very little. But for once at least, I have an excuse: the flu.

This hasn't been an ordinary flu. It's one that heard me cough more times than maybe in the rest of my life, or that's how it seems -- endless.

I've had rounds of advice from family and friends -- everything from apple cider vinegar to tea and honey. As you can see from the photo, I've invested in just about every kind of cough drop in town, most of which were soothing, but only offered the most temporary ease.

One good thing about this bout of illness is that I've had to stay upright. Attempts at horizontal sleep nearly always failed. But as result of my enforced verticality, combined with an amazing lack of energy, I've been able to do a fair bit of reading.

Best catch-up read was Margaret Atwood's The Heart Goes Last. I bought it last fall, but never even opened it until this month. The ending is a bit lame, a little too happy-happy for me, but most of the book with its too-believable scenarios kept me turning pages.

Less engaging was Kate Atkinson's A God in Ruins. Although I may yet persevere, I gave up at page 86. And yes, I did read her previous novel Life After Life, which also took a while to understand enough to follow. This may be just a case of the same sort of wizardry on her part.

But my most fun reading discovery was a series of tiny messages -- not just the ones on fortune cookies (though we did read plenty of those as we relied on takeaway food more often than usual) -- but the ones on the wrappers of all those Hall's cough drops. Almost too small to notice at first, the tiny words offer various encouragements: "You can do it and you know it" or "Nothing you can't handle" or maybe my favourite (I'm translating from the French here) "Don't let yourself fall down," especially appropriate for the icy-deck mornings we've been having.

But now, back to heeding Tennyson's word, the one that follows after all those 'half a league's: Onward -- and please, with no more flu-ish distractions.