drupelets galore

I'm pretty sure the first reference I heard to the word drupelet was in some book by Kurt Vonnegut. Maybe Cat's Cradle, with all its Boko-Maru. Wherever, today was a day for gathering many tiny karasses -- drupelets of beings that make up the fruit we know as raspberries.

While we were picking, a clatter of crows kept engaging in a series of family disputes. Doing anything else, their noise might have bothered me. As it was, I just took refuge by reaching further into the shadow of the leaves and finding some the biggest, softest berries -- the ones that roll off into your hand like fuzzy marbles.

A beautiful day well-spent, and one that will taste good all the way to next March.

Miniature golf the natural way

No tiny windmills, no indoor-outdoor carpet. No trolls or other hunks of concrete formed as creatures. Just lovely, grassy greens, complete with real sandtraps. Remarkable.

This magical place is Dundas, Ontario's Rock Chapel Golf Course, where even a terrible golfer like me can have a great time.

And the putting course is only part of it -- there's a driving range, practice areas for chipping from grass, and even an area of sandy bunkers set up for practising getting up and down onto the green. Oh yes, and a beautiful 9-hole executive course for playing on after you've practised yourself into it!

And to think our local course has the jam to say it was voted the best practice place in North America. Not a chance.

Go Canada Day

Henry Morgentaler's getting the Order of Canada. My brother-in-law Leo is turning fifty. My sister turns forty-nine. And I'm going to read in the sunshine on the deck.

Summertime...

And, like the song says, the livin' is easy.

Especially here at the treefort, Chez Hoser.

Seven Words for George Carlin

He stood up for freedom of speech.

Solstice on the Prairie

Complete with angels.

Finding Jack Dingle

Crikey, he's heah.

Jazz night for Lorna

It was late last fall that White Rock lost one of its most energetic and talented citizens, Lorna Graham. She worked as a band teacher, mainly at Earl Marriott Secondary, for what must have been twenty years. It's hard to conjure a list of just how many young people she inspired into pursuing music.

Wednesday saw a reunion of a whole bunch of retired (or not) band teachers -- men who had worked with Lorna, men who knew and respected her as a colleague and as a musician. The gig was a fundraiser, looking to drum up monies to support young musicians through a bursary that will remember Lorna's longstanding contributions.

Helluva great time.

Like mother, like daughter

Even though last Sunday's weather felt freezing, Heidi McCurdy and her accompanist Doug Towle performed at the Farmers' Market. No, he isn't praying -- he's trying to warm up his hands so he can play!

Then on Tuesday, Heidi's daughter Sabrielle performed at Iguana's, a restaurant down on the White Rock beach. She was a finalist in a local talent competition.
Even if she came in second, her singing was -- as it always is -- impressive. Lots more to hear from both generations of this talented family.

Bobby Kennedy was shot 40 years ago

Actually, 40 years ago yesterday. Here, if you're up for it, is a long rant that partially documents how that event had a profound impact on my life.

- -
People used to ask, ‘Where were you when Kennedy was shot?’ Always a good conversation starter, it was assumed you’d have some kind of story about where you were and what you were doing on November 22, 1963.

That particular Friday became a kind of touchstone for change, one that marked a country’s loss of innocence. It was the end of an era that had been portrayed by the Cleaver family on Leave it to Beaver, and later, by the Cunninghams on the series with the overly rosy name, Happy Days.

I think of that Friday in 1963 as only the beginning of the change. Because the date I see as being more profound is June 5, 1968. That’s the date another Kennedy, Robert – or Bobby as he was known – met the same fate as his brother John.

The first months of 1968 had seen the beginnings of a shift in the general public’s attitude toward the ongoing war in Vietnam. Early in January, the much-respected baby-and-child-care expert, Dr. Benjamin Spock, was indicted for promoting draft evasion. Month’s end saw the sweeping Tet offensive, a series of attacks that reached as far as the US Embassy in Saigon. People were finally starting to realize just how pointless America’s war efforts were. When, at the end of February, CBS newsman Walter Cronkite made comments on the apparent futility of the exercise, then-president Johnson supposedly remarked on the significance of the newsman’s words: “If I’ve lost Cronkite, I’ve lost middle America.”

I’d been on the fringes of an organization in Milwaukee that offered advice and other assistance to draft resisters. Being part of such a milieu, I couldn’t help being around people who were working on the campaign to put anti-war candidate Eugene McCarthy on the presidential ballot. They were a dedicated and interesting mix – speechwriters, organizers and a slew of pamphleteers.

The spring of ’68 had also been one where more than the weather was heating up. In part, due to the previous summer’s inner-city riots, and especially after the murder of Martin Luther King, Jr. in April, there was an ever-increasing sense of living in a police state. Many of us found we couldn’t go out without spotting unmarked police cars trailing us; police photographers seemed to be at every war protest and be-in; men with long hair were routinely stopped as they walked down the street, with the demand that they show their draft card (men who couldn’t produce one were arrested on the spot, as this was a serious offense). Yet despite all that, and despite the ever-increasing death count in Vietnam, there was an optimistic atmosphere of promise in the air. Promise that things were going to take a turn – and for the better.

Only then, on the cusp of summer, Bobby Kennedy was shot and killed. And for many of us, that event made it clear: no dreams were safe.

About a month later, my son Jeremy was born. Giving birth, especially to a son, did a lot to shift my perspective. Suddenly, I understood that I wasn’t going to be going to Chicago with my friends to be part of the protests outside the Democratic Convention. All of us understood that Chicago wasn’t going to be just another protest; this one would have Mayor Richard Daley’s specially trained riot forces on patrol. I understood that as a single mother, I now had responsibilities that meant I couldn’t risk getting myself arrested and thrown into jail. I also realized that my little boy was no different, only younger, than all those other boys being drafted for Vietnam.

It wasn’t very many months later that Jeremy and I were sitting in a very bright room in the bowels of the airport in Toronto. As I remember it, even though it was late in the evening, the immigration officers were super nice as they asked me questions and filled in the blanks on what seemed to be a very long form. They were coochie-cooing Jeremy and nodding with approval at the fact that I’d taken a few French courses. Of course it helped that Jeremy and I had a sponsor, no matter that the sponsorship eventually didn’t work out. So, bingo presto lucko – we were in, and told to expect our landed immigrant papers in the mail in just a few weeks.

But lately, things are different. The news keeps reporting changes to Canada’s immigration policies. And I see that 25-year-old war resister, Corey Glass, has had his application to stay in Canada refused. He’s the ex-soldier who signed up to be part of the US National Guard, thinking he’d be helping out in humanitarian causes like flood relief. But instead of being sent to New Orleans, he was sent to Iraq. When his conscience wouldn’t let him stay, he made his way to Canada. Younger than that son I brought to Canada all those years ago, Glass is an American deserter, not so unlike those soldiers who despaired over their experiences fighting in Vietnam. Yet unlike members of that earlier wave of sanctuary-seekers, he is one who Canada seems unwillingly to accept as one of its own – Canada, a country once known worldwide as place of safe haven for those who love the idea of peace.

So, I wonder: What is happening to this country that I chose? And I think, if those of us who came to Canada during the Vietnam War era were applying to come here today, just how many of us would be allowed in?
- -

No more Hockey Night in Canada theme song?

Are you kidding? Does this have anything to do with the fact that no Canadian teams were in last night's sad-seeming Stanley Cup final game??

I can't call it the endoftheworldasweknowit, but hey, it doesn't bode happy times ahead. The hell with tradition, eh.

Crossing Lines event

A launch for a new anthology, Crossing Lines, took place on Friday night. But hey, it's been too beautiful a weekend to post any info about it.

The man in the photo is Hal Wake, who did a wonderful job as emcee, while twelve writers read (or sang!) their work from the book. One of the best performances of all came from Vancouver's poet laureate, George McWhirter.

A reading at the Semiahmoo Library

Tonight was a reading by a number of writers who've been working with the library's Writer in Residence, Mansel Robinson. What a treat to hear such a range of styles and genres -- everything from accounts of planes involved in war games, both staged and historic, to a children's story, poems, and a wonderfully gritty presentation for two voices.

Here's a picture of two of tonight's stars -- from left to right, Char and Cristy -- two of the lovely women who were part of the poetry class I led this spring.

Lucky me

What a splendid Mother's Day!

How's this look for a feast? And I didn't have to do anything but lift my fork and knife and enjoy.

Free comics!

Did you know that May 3rd is Free Comic Book Day? Here's our local comic supplier at Greyhaven Hobbies, looking very pleased to be giving away free comic books.

The 4 Rs of Recycling

Even though I only see 2 Rs in the word Recycler, I'm a big fan of all of the supposed 4Rs: Reduce, Re-use, Recycle (though it seems redundant to list this as an aspect of recycling, but whatever) and Recover.

When it comes to seeing results, Reduce is probably the hardest one to follow. Face it, reducing means there'll be fewer things in your life -- especially things that might need throwing away. That can be hard for me, especially when it comes to books, or I suppose, reducing my weight. Let's just say I'm workin' on those.

Still, I'm probably what many would consider an obsessive recycler, especially when it comes to the re-use part. I love wearing second-hand (pre-worn? heck, they get away with saying pre-driven cars) clothes. They're always softer and seem readier to fit to my body. Earlier this spring, when we redid (there's another R) our kitchen, we re-used nearly all the old cupboards, just re-arranged them so their configuration would make more sense.

When the four Rs say Recover, I know they mean salvaging components and materials, but I like to think of it more literally -- re-covering a cushion, that sort of thing. To think I actually still have the pillow I loved best as a kid, only it's been recovered so I can use it as a seat cushion.

But of course, there's the other kind of 'Recover' -- the kind that says you've got over a bad cold or maybe even a bad habit. I'd like to think I'll never recover from this particular obsession.

When it comes to re-use, I may be the queen. Yep, that's a note on a toilet paper core.

Vancouver Camera Show and Swap Meet

This was the scene this Sunday at Cameron Park Rec Centre in Burnaby, B.C. All part of the Vancouver Camera Show and Swap Meet. Cameras as far as you could see. And lenses, Beta machines, every imaginable variety of Polaroid cameras -- even pop-out flashbulbs and cubes. Apparently, the biggest such show in Canada, and one of the biggest in North America, it's an annual event -- one I hope to attend again next spring. Even if I don't have any plans for buying a Brownie Hawkeye.

Kurt Vonnegut Interview

It was one year ago, on April 11, 2007, that Kurt Vonnegut died. To commemorate that, here’s an interview with him.
- -
Interviewer: Where you died last April, it’s been a bit complicated figuring out how to arrange this meeting. So really, I have to thank you for helping with the details. For a start, would you please describe where we are?

Kurt Vonnegut: Well, we’re in surprisingly comfortable lawn chairs, relaxing in the well-kept yard of a very solid-looking home. The house has traditional wooden shutters and is surrounded by several grand old trees, under which we are now sitting. If you saw the film, Slaughterhouse Five, you might think this is the same house used on that set. It’s pretty in a way that modern houses no longer are.

Int: Is this where you live?

KV: Mostly. There’s a group of us who stay here off and on, and I’d have to say we get along pretty well. As it turns out, most of the people who live here are members of my karass.

Int: And by that you mean a group that’s something like a family?

KV: That’s one way to explain it, though of course, rarely will someone’s biological family member turn up in their karass. The most surprising person in mine turns out to be Lady Bird Johnson.

Vonnegut disappears with an audible pop. But within seconds, he returns and emits a loud burp.

KV: Pardon me.

Int: I could swear you just disappeared.

KV: I met a few old friends and had lunch.

Int: Lunch? But you couldn’t have been gone for more than a few seconds.

KV: Well, it turns out I wasn’t so wrong when I wrote about time. I said it was there to help humans keep their place in the pages of their lives. That, because it trapped them in the amber of the moment, it provided a way for them to follow along and make better sense of the world.

Int: Hmm. I don’t think I understand.

KV: Think of how your memory works. You can remember all sorts of things – your high school graduation, the first fish you ever caught, what you had for supper last night. In your mind, you don’t have to remember events in the order they happened. You can skip around and remember them any old way. That’s kind of what it’s like here – only all those memories are happening all at once. I can tune into any one of them for a closer look whenever I please.

Again, he vanishes briefly.

Int: Where did you go that time?

KV: Sorry, I didn’t think you’d notice. There’s a particularly sweet fraulein I enjoy visiting. You might call it a barnyard romance – some tasty fooling around when I was a soldier during World War II.

Int: So, does that mean there’s sex there?

KV: Would that surprise you?

Int: Actually, I’m surprised to hear that you eat. I wouldn’t have thought that would be necessary here.

KV: Oh, come on – it wouldn’t be much of a heaven if you couldn’t indulge in a few pleasures. And you’re right, we don’t need to eat, most of us just choose to.

Int: So, what did you have for that lunch with your friends?

KV: I had a wonderful green salad that was filled with luscious surprises – peaches, blueberries and big hunks of abalone.

Int: Abalone? That’s like, so endangered!

KV: That’s only on earth. Like so many of the troubles there, the abalone problem is caused by greed. Here we can have as much of everything as we want. Albert Brooks got it right in that film he made about heaven: you can eat whatever you want here, calories don’t count.

Int: Oh right, Defending Your Life. The one where Meryl Streep digs into that huge plate of pasta! I loved that movie, all that Howard Johnson’s meets Disneyland style.

KV: Um, I hate to remind you, but Albert stole that from me – I had the Howard Johnson franchise delivering last meals to patrons of the Ethical Suicidal Parlor long before he made his movie. Remember?

Int: How could I have forgotten? But speaking of something I forgot, I meant to ask about the time travel thing. What does it feel like when you go to some other place – or should that be time?

KV: Really, it’s both – and it doesn’t feel any different than how this feels right here and now, which is fine, though I do wish you’d get on with the questions.

Int: OK. You admit this house we’re beside looks like something out of the film version of Slaughterhouse Five. So I’m wondering, where’s the antique fire engine?

KV: Ah, even heaven has its petty rules. No fire engines – or cars for that matter. It’s a problem with, as they call them here, infernal combustion engines. The exhaust interferes with the whiteness of the clouds – and some of the more traditional types prefer to live up there (points to the sky), though why, I can’t imagine. It’d get boring, I’m sure – plus there’d be all that white glare. My brother Bernard is one of them who likes it up there, but then, even as a kid he was crazy about clouds. He’s the one who discovered that seeding clouds with silver iodide particles could make them rain. So no, to answer your question, I don’t get to play with fire engines.

Int: Besides that, any regrets?

KV: Not so much regrets as things left undone. I still wish I’d been less of a stinker about allowing a re-release of Between Time and Timbuktu.

Int: What’s that?

KV: It was a great little piece of television drama – don’t sneer, there used to be a lot of great drama on TV – Playhouse 90 is a program they should resurrect. And I think it was ABC that had a terrific series of plays they showed on Thursday nights. Those must’ve run a couple of years at least. Between Time and Timbuktu was based on a lot of my earlier works. There were pieces plucked from Cat’s Cradle and Sirens of Titan and even Happy Birthday, Wanda June. Although I grumbled some at the time, they were strung together into a pretty passable story. There were even some bits from Welcome to the Monkey House, a collection of my early short stories. I have to give the directors credit – they did a damn fine job of a patchwork piece. Casting William Hickey as Stony Stevenson was a step above brilliant. Radio announcers Bob and Ray helped tie the whole thing together. You’d never know it, but a lot of their dialogue was ad-libbed. They were really something!

Int: So, what happened to it?

KV: Who knows? The great beyond of bad moods and unknown bureaucracies and lunatic rules of copyright foreclosures. So it goes.

Int: Ah, one of your most famous lines, “So it goes.” Which brings me to the line most quoted after your passing—

KV: Please don’t use that ridiculous term. It sounds like passing gas and believe me, death is a lot more difficult than farting. It takes work, probably the closest thing to giving birth I ever experienced. God bless you, ladies, especially the mothers of my children and grandchildren.

Int: I’m sorry. Let me start over. After you died – is that better? (Vonnegut closes the famous heavy-lidded eyes and nods) – the quote most often cited was “Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.” Was that appropriate? Is that what you want to be remembered as saying?

KV: Of course it’s not what I want to be remembered as saying. Most of the people who quote me have never read my books. They saw Slaughterhouse Five on television one night when they couldn’t sleep. And they figure that makes them an expert on me. If they knew my work at all, they’d realize how ironic that epitaph is.

Int: So, would you be happier to be remembered by the quote you once told Rolling Stone Magazine you wanted on your headstone?

KV: I’m sorry, what would that have been?

Int: “The only proof he needed for God was the existence of music.”

KV: Ah, yes. I suppose I would have said something like that to a magazine about the music industry.

Int: So, now that there’s probably a stone with your name on it somewhere, what would you like it to say?

KV: I’d be happy, of course, with the words of Eugene V. Debs. “As long as there is a lower class, I am in it. As long as there is a criminal element, I’m of it. As long as there is a soul in prison, I am not free.” Only those are his words, not mine.

Int: So, as a second choice?

KV: How about, “He tried”.

- -
When the Interviewer thanked the author, she asked whether she’d be able to do more follow-up interviews, perhaps as an annual event. Apparently Mr. Vonnegut replied, “We already are.”

Blogged down

It's not been a good 2008 for this blog.

But maybe since it's finally well and truly spring (and the kitchen reno stuff, see elsewhere, has been resolved), the big limb is feeling much stronger.

I think I'm finally ready to step out on it again.

It's a new year

...for me.