Leafy

 

Today's date November 18th, but back in 2008, marks the day that my sisters and I said goodbye to our mother. Like today, the weather was a beautiful sporting all the best of autumn's colours, and even its scents. 

Walking through leaves seems like a good way to remember -- not only with the act of putting one foot in front of the other, but also admiring the many different leaves and tints as they stir the variety of experiences over a life. 

I think our mother would be glad that we remember her, even if in somewhat odd ways. All any of us can hope, I suppose, is that we will leave our own leafy (or other kind) imprints behind. 

Lest we forget

Remembrance Day. A day for remembering so many important events and people. I love it that even the transit buses bear signs reminding us of the importance of this date. 

The radio has been full of amazing stories of remembering. If you have 15 or so minutes to spare, I'd recommend listening to Matt Galloway's sensitive interview with Candy Greff, this year's Silver Cross Mother who will lay a wreath at the War Memorial in Ottawa. 

One of the people I always remember this day is Kurt Vonnegut. Because today would have been his 100th birthday, it seemed like a good time to interview him again, something he once told me would happen again, so I guess, here we go: 

Interviewer: Well, I suppose the first thing I need to say besides hello again would have to be Happy Birthday. How does it feel to be turning one hundred?

Kurt Vonnegut: What an interesting reminder. Birthdays aren't really of any importance anymore. You must have forgotten how meaningless time is here. Calendars, dates, and whoa -- leap year (what a concept) -- those things are meaningless here. Though thinking of calendars, I recall some lovely scenic images that appeared on those. 

Int: But really, Mr Vonnegut, don't you have any thoughts about having a life that now would have spanned a century?

KV: A century, a minute, a year. It's all the same. When you get here, you'll understand that. As for what it might have been like to turn 100 on earth, I suppose I would have been given a medal or something equally useless to commemorate hanging around that long. And no doubt, the aches and pains I was already learning about would have only been worse. Really, I think I managed to check out at just about the right time. 

Int: Do you ever wish that you could come back?

KV: Not a chance!!

Int: Well, that was a speedy response. Can you comment further?

KV: They've already invited me to go back. There's a whole coterie of folks who think they might do better if they went back. 

Int: Really? Who are some of those we might be looking for again?

KV: You probably won't recognize them, as they won't get the same body, but plenty of folks seem eager enough to go back they'll hang around at the transit stations like puppy dogs hoping for adoption. Some of them whose names you might recognize are Diana Spencer, Adolf Hitler, Jim Morrison -- and oh yes, Marilyn Monroe and John Kennedy. 

Int: That's quite a list. And really, Hitler??

KV: Oh, you don't have to worry. He's been banned from ever going back. He's actually kind of pathetic, as he can't even paint any more, but tries sketching portraits outside whichever station he's decided to haunt. 

Int: And those others you mentioned? 

KV: Well, the Kennedy-Monroe request is especially tricky, as they want to go back so they can be together, but the only way that works is if they go back as twins, and that's not really what they're hoping for. As for Diana, even princesses don't get everything they want, though I thought that was one of the lessons she'd already learned. 

Int: What about you? When are you coming back?

KV: They've invited me -- more than once. But I keep turning them down. I mean really, there's hardly a continent that doesn't have some kind of war going on. Besides, the planet is basically melting. 

Int: Gosh, you're depressing me. Why do you do that?

KV: That's not my intention, dear. I'm only doing what I always did -- trying to make you think. 

Sadly, at that, he disappeared, back into wherever/whatever it is where he now dwells. Maybe next year, 101, we'll see. 

Every Child Matters

Today is the second year we in Canada have observed Truth and Reconciliation Day. It was around this time last year that I was in Victoria and saw those many pairs of children's shoes lined up on the steps of the Legislature Buildings. It was a powerful statement reminding us that Every Child Matters -- a lesson that's now included in most school curricula. 

My observance this year is quieter, staying home, but with the suggestion of a new book to read (along with a glimpse of my little 'orange shirt' pin given to me as a gift by a longtime dear friend). 

If you'd like a nudge to read this novel, here's a link to a review of it. 

At the very least, we must all remember the past, or we are doomed to let it play out again. 

The power of words

The poppy has likely become the most recognizable symbol of Remembrance Day. And it's all because of a poem written by John McCrae, one so many of us can recite (at least partially) by heart, "In Flanders Fields". 

We don't always realize the power of our words, and I'm sure McCrae had no idea that I (and a lot of other people) would be wearing a red poppy on my lapel all these years after World War I, over a century on. 

McCrae is certainly not the only poet who's written about what was called the Great War. The most famous of these is probably Wilfred Owen, though there are others, including a woman, Vera Brittain, whose poetic contribution was a volume called Verses of V.A.D. She was better known for her prose writings, one of which, Testament of Youth, sounds as though it will be coming out as a film. 

Many others have written novels set during World War I. Two that come to mind are June Hutton's Underground, another is Deafening by Frances Itani. 

But Remembrance Day isn't only about remembering the First World War. It's a day for being grateful for all of those before us who fought for a way of life we too often take for granted. 

And one special remembrance I always keep on this day is the fact that it's the birthdate of Kurt Vonnegut, a writer who certainly solidified his reputation as being anti-war with his memoir-based novel, Slaughterhouse Five. 

Yes, it's real.

The other day, walking home from an appointment uptown, I passed a building with a multitude of tiny roses clinging to the branches of one of the bushes there. 

I couldn't resist taking a couple of photos, and must admit, I couldn't resist the temptation to steal one. 

When I got home, I put it into a little vase and set it on the windowsill above the kitchen sink. I figured, with my pair of my brass swans standing guard, it could serve as a little reminder of hope. 

But the little rose wasn't quite enough to bring the miracle I'd been hoping for. 

My sister-in-law, a New Yorker for many years, was hospitalized with the virus on January 8th. Shortly thereafter she was put on a respirator and moved to the ICU where she was monitored. 

She had no underlying conditions. Was never a smoker.

With help from her son (and Zoom), at least we were able to say I love you, I love you. 

But yesterday we received word that her heart finally gave out. 

If only the people who claim this disease is a hoax could be part of our story, they might be able to let the truth sink in. 

This killer virus is real -- sadly, all too real for us. 

 

New traditions, old remembrances

I love that even our buses help us remember, especially where this is a year when we can't have any gatherings to observe Remembrance Day. 

We listened to the ceremony from Ottawa with its speeches and haunting bagpipes, and even managed to catch a glimpse of the old planes doing their flyover here. 

And a new tradition (one that won't be repeated) is the fact that this is the day I send off my manuscript so review copies can be printed. It certainly feels right, being that the book is about Harold and Maude, a film with such strong anti-war sentiments. 

But that's not all I plan to do today. Our local arts council has set up a number of online activities to help us observe the day. My favourite is an excellent demonstration of watercolour technique. I think I feel inspired enough to try painting my own. 

And beyond the traditional poppy, I've started my annual amaryllis bulb, and hoping it will bloom in time for Christmas. And yes, that will be the day of Alex Trebek's truly final Jeopardy, so the bloom -- in addition to brightening up our home -- will serve as a kind of virtual gift to him, one of both remembrance and of gratitude. 

Morning star

It's taken me a few days to get around to writing this. The photo is from Sunday morning, a bright Ontario sky.

The last time I saw this kind of configuration in the sky was November 2008, the morning after my mother had died.

This time, it was the morning after the visitation and memorial service for my dear brother-in-law, Tom.

We were blessed to know him, to witness his many talents, and to laugh with him. As for that morning star, I guess it was really a mourning star.

Lest we forget

This morning when the big planes did their flyover for Remembrance Day, it was hard to not get teary. There's something about that sound of old propeller planes...

The white stones in the graveyard are all marking veterans, from more than one war, but all of them people who died too young.

I heard a young girl being interviewed about November 11th, and while she wasn't sure what a veteran is, she had a strong notion of what a soldier is. As she put it, someone who fights for peace. While it's kind of an oxymoron, I was glad of her understanding, as at least peace is a noble outcome.

History matters

As we've been reminded by all forms of the press, today is the 75th anniversary of D-Day. So, what's a photo of a foggy day in Nova Scotia got to do with it.

For one thing, the photo is from one of the Maritimes' most iconic seaside spots, the famous Peggy's Cove. The morning I took this was foggy and peaceful, something those beaches at Normandy were not -- especially the peaceful part. 

As we travelled around Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island, it was hard not to be impressed by the respect the townsfolk show for their history. 

Not only are old buildings preserved, they're still used, not demolished -- the way buildings less than fifty years old are routinely torn down here. A family we met live in a house that's over 200 years old. Sure, they've had to do plenty of updates, but it's standing and they're living their lives in it. 

I know we can't go back in time, but I certainly believe that it's important we remember -- and honour -- the past. How else can we know how to best go forward?

Fallen soldier

This week the first person who comes to mind for most people when they read today's subject header must be President Bush the Elder, George H W. And while it was good to hear the way he was eulogized on Wednesday, the fallen soldier I have in mind to day is my dad.

Had he still been alive, he'd have been turning 100 today. He was born in 1918 on the date that would later be called the Day of Infamy, Pearl Harbor Day.

It's hard to picture him being 100, as he died a long time ago -- by coincidence, at the same age I've now achieved -- and I can't imagine lasting to be 100 either.

Not long ago, while cleaning out old items from the attic, we came across an ancient suitcase -- one he'd used decades ago, complete with fading stickers affixed. Most of them were fairly straightforward: souvenirs of towns he'd visited, a university he'd briefly attended, and several others with meanings long gone obscure.

One I managed to track down was a sticker from C&S Air Lines. Another -- one I haven't been able to identify -- is, I suspect, from when he piloted a bomber during WWII. I'm guessing it as maybe meaning Overseas Bombing something-or-other.

It's hard for me to try to think of what life might be like (though I'm hoping human life will still exist) in 2118. And I'm sure that no one in 1918 could have envisioned what today's world would be. Happy what-would-have-been-your-100th-birthday, JB.

One hundred years on

....since the end of the 'War to End All Wars'. Unfortunately, that idealistic name for World War One has not proven to be true. Numbers of how many died vary according to source, but taking into account civilians as well as military, 37 million is one figure I saw for casualties -- just about exactly our country's current population. If every single person in Canada were to suddenly die, the world would need to take notice.

This day of remembrance is filled with traditions, including the red poppy so many of us choose to wear as commemoration.

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow,
between the crosses row on row. 

The photo of the 'row' of poppies is from above the kitchen sink in our RV, The Rattler. We seem to often be on the road in early November, so poppies are often part of our apparel. It's good for me to know where a few extras are, as too often I seem to go out with the 'wrong' jacket -- with my poppy invariably on a different coat.

Right now, I can still hear a few of the big planes passing overhead. Earlier a tight formation of single-engine fighters went by. After that, I even saw a biplane -- the same kind of plane that actually flew in WWI.

But at the stroke of 11:00, I was listening to a different kind of sound. Turning on the radio, I was greeted by silence -- a sound (or lack thereof) that might have been disconcerting any other day.

I am sure the people in Syria would be glad to have their world quiet down. And not only Syria, but Afghanistan and far too many other places to name. It seems a bit crazy, but maybe we really will have to wait for extraterrestrials to visit for us to decide to live together in harmony and peace. Considering what bad shape we seem to be in, I'd like to think that maybe they're on their way.

Flawed

But then what, under the sun or moon, isn't. Even the gorgeous calla lily above has holes in its leaves -- and who knows what the little spider might be planning. 

Earlier this week we received sad news of the death of the writer, Stephen Reid. (If interested, there's an interview with him on As It Happens -- the whole program is here; go towards the end of it for the interview.)

It's made me sad that too much of the coverage has seemed to focus on his crimes -- not, as far as I'm concerned, what he should be remembered for.

Maybe I'm just soft-hearted from having spent time as a volunteer in various penal institutions. But really, those experiences have only reminded me that everyone makes mistakes (admittedly, some are much bigger than others) and for many of us -- myself included -- being incarcerated may well be a matter of the old "there but for the grace of God" theory.

Stephen was a husband, a grandfather, a mentor to many (both in and out of prisons) and a wonderful writer. I was lucky enough to review his book of essays, A Crowbar in the Buddhist Garden in the Vancouver Sun.

Even luckier is the fact that I own one of the beautiful drums Stephen made. Every time I see it, it now holds a new significance, a touchstone to a beautiful soul.

As his wife Susan has noted, a group of orcas passed by the nearby beach shortly before Stephen died. Among beliefs about them is that they guide the traveller home. Expanding on the thought of what 'home' means, their visit is also believed to signify a coming death. This indeed proved to be true.

I like to think of them as seven orcas coming to escort the soul of a brave warrior spirit home. Someone who, like the rest of us, was in his own way, flawed.

Eyes of heaven

One of my favourite reading series celebrates the work of poets who have died. There's nothing hokey or ghoulish about this -- it's no seancey nonsense -- it's brought together every two months by a group of very-alive writers, and it's called Dead Poets Live.

I always learn about some poet I've never heard of before. This time the poet was a man named Kabir. Unbeknownst to me, he lived in the 15th century and was considered by many to be a saint. Who knew? I have to credit Kate Braid, who told us that she first discovered one of his books in a second-hand bookstore. The selections she read made me want to learn more. And learning more is what often happens at these readings. Alban Goulden presented a selection of work (and much in the way of enlightening comments) on Paul Valéry. Goulden even included some of his own translations, explaining his dissatisfaction at some he encountered.

Even though these first two presentations were engaging, the second half really kicked into high gear, as these were works by three poets nearly all of us in the audience had known -- three poets who each died too soon.

Weldon Hunter presented works by Nanaimo poet Peter Culley, whose death took all of us by surprise when we were at the Cascadia Poetry Festival in 2015. Hunter read from each book in Culley's Hammertown trilogy and told a few wonderfully personal stories about his friend, Culley.

Barbara Nickel was exactly the right person to present the work of her friend Elise Partridge. Well-loved by so many in Vancouver's writing community, like Culley, Partridge died in 2015 when she too was only 57. She wrote brave poems that cut close to the bone, with lines like these from a poem called "Ways of Going" that was dedicated to her partner, Steve:

Sad rower pushed from shore, / I'll disappear like circles summoned /by an oar's dip. 

However I burn through to the next atmosphere, / let your dear face be the last thing I see.

Closing the event was Wayde Compton, reading from work by another beloved Vancouver poet, social activist and essayist, Jamie Reid. I can hardly remember giving or attending a reading where I wouldn't see Jamie, often leaning against a wall at the back of the room. No matter the occasion, it was never 'about him'. But then, that's just the kind of guy he was.

As for the crazy photo accompanying this post, it was after the reading, and I was still feeling kind of spiritualized, I guess, by the emotions that were so evident in the room, downstairs in the Vancouver Public Library. Looking up, all those skylights in the building looked to me like eyes -- and whether they were eyes looking up, or ones looking down, I couldn't be sure. But I felt like, if there is such a place as heaven, there it was, in plain view, nearer than ever.

Seeking wisdom

Kurt Vonnegut was born on November 11th, 1922.

One of my long-held traditions was to write a letter to him on that day.

He never replied to any of those letters (heck, I don't even know whether any of them reached him), but I kept up the tradition for many years. Much, I suppose, the way I keep this little blog. Sending words out into the universe without knowing whether they might ever connect with anyone.

In light of all that's occurred this week, I'm writing to him again. I just wish that this time, he'd be able to respond, as I'm sure we could use some of his wise advice.

Although, who knows, he might just go along with the down-home homely advice offered in the sign.

And yes, I wrote some of those letters long enough ago that I used a typewriter, thus the likely now-jarring font:

Dear Mr Vonnegut, 

If you were alive, you'd be turning 94. A somewhat creaky age, I suspect. Not an impossible age, but one where I expect that you'd be slowing down. Nonetheless an age when your sense of wisdom would likely be keener than ever. 

Quite a few of us have had our world upended this week. We were expecting one thing to happen, but instead the opposite occurred. 

The reactions I've heard about have included crying (in all its various manifestations, from tears streaming in shocked silence to tears accompanied by sobbing and even shrieking), vomiting, or going to bed and pulling up the covers. 

Apparently so many Americans wanted to know how to emigrate to Canada that our government's immigration website crashed.  

Then yesterday, the president-elect met with the current president of the US, Barack Obama, a fellow I'm sure you've heard about even as far as Tralfamadore or wherever it is that you might now be. 

If the news cameras can be trusted anymore, the new guy came away from that meeting looking a lot like the kid who's been taken to the firehall (I know how you loved firehalls and fire engines) after being caught playing with matches. Sobered right up. Or, to put it in Bondian terms, "shaken, not stirred." *

The only positive spin I can manage on this is that it's just part of the cycle of big change that's been coming for such a long time. Again, I look to thoughts Tralfamadorian as I do my best to come to an acceptance of the reality of now. 

One of your writer-colleagues, Toni Morrison, offered some good advice: "This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. This is how civilizations heal."

To that, I imagine you would wholeheartedly agree. After all, doesn't that pretty much sum up how you spent your life here on this little blue planet?

It's Remembrance Day here in Canada, Veterans Day in the US, so I turned on the radio a few minutes ago -- just in time for the moment of silence. Thankfully, that's not a sound one gets very often on the CBC. 

Several speakers then offered remembrance and, as is always the case, in both official languages, French and English. But this year, they added something I didn't remember hearing before, another speaker offered these in a First Nation tongue. Yes. A time for healing. Hallelujah. 

Which brings to mind one other bit of news. A very cool fellow should have arrived in your zone last night. His name is Leonard. I expect the two of you should find plenty to talk about. 

Best cheers, as always,

hg

* Explanation of this phrase brings to mind another of your works, Cat's Cradle, with its exploration of the properties of ice, a fascination held in what we call 'real life' by your brother, Bernard. 

Fearsome contrasts

This is the beautiful rhododendron that grows in our front yard. If it looks a little fuzzy, that's because I took the photo last night at dusk when the light was beginning to fade. Still, I loved the glow that the blossoms seemed to emit.

In the twenty years we've lived here, these flowers have always opened for Mother's Day. The only year that proved to be an exception was last year, when just about everything seemed to be a bit late. As if to compensate, everything in this year's garden has been early.

Considering all that's been on the news this week -- the conflagration in Fort McMurray -- this bush with its glorious blossoms seems like a full-blown miracle. Here, the world comes in colours -- lush greens and vibrant flowers. There, it's become a world of ash -- stark tones of black and white, the aftermath of hell.

But back to those rhodos. Being the lazy gardener that I am, my slogan is pretty much, "If it comes up on its own, I am happy." Thus, my satisfaction at daffodils and tulips, those stalwarts whose bulbs do all the work in early spring. And now, the lupins and daisies are opening, with the lilies sure to follow them in turn.

If I can be called the lazy gardener, my friend Jane would be my polar opposite. She knew more than anyone I've ever met about flower gardening. Vagaries of weather, soil conditions, what to grow in shade or sun, rain or drought -- she knew it all. Today marks the day that she arrived on the planet and should have been a day when she would be here to glory in the blossoms of the season. Yet again, a candle is alight on my kitchen counter, though my greatest remembrances of her today are outdoors in the midst of all that life and colour. In addition, I am doing something I'm sure she'd approve: making a donation to the Red Cross and its relief fund to help the residents of Fort McMurray

A special person

I know, I can be a bit silly when it comes to remembering all these birthdays. But this one is for one of the most special people in my life -- the one I believe actually loved me unconditionally.

That would be my gramma, the one I called Mayme.

In truth, I don't think she would want to be around, considering she'd be turning 117.

Still, it might be time for me to light that candle and make a toast to her.

What a weekend!

It was such a busy weekend, it's taken a few days for me to catch my breath and do a posting.

The photo is from Friday night, downtown Vancouver in the rain. I was on my way to attend the opening night of an opera (yes, moi, an opera!) at SFU's Experimental Theatre, a performance of 'air india [REDACTED]' a production by the Turning Point Ensemble.

Irish composer Jurgen Simpson created the opera, using words from Renee Sarojini Saklikar's children of air india as the libretto. The performance is, to put it mildly, powerful, with a full orchestra (or, what looks like one to my untrained eye) creating the threatening mood required by the story. This is, after all, the story of a plane brought down by a terrorist's bomb.

The mood is enhanced by the almost-eerie voice of Daniel Cabena, a voice that's classified as a counter-tenor -- to my ear, it could have been a female voice -- that's how clear and high-pitched it was.

But enough of the show. You can read reviews that describe and interpret it better, I am sure.

Saturday had been a day I'd been looking forward to: a symposium to brainstorm/discuss what the city of Surrey might look like in 2030 -- or, as organizers put it, a chance to play at being a city planner. Unfortunately, aside from meeting some interesting people, the day proved to be a disappointment.

For one thing I was stuck at a table forced to discuss a topic that would have been pretty much at the bottom of my priorities for the day (crime and safety, ugh, can you say 'Steve Harper' yet again?).

And, as I have long suspected, 'tools' put out for us to work with included Lego. I'm firm in my beliefs that too many of our traffic/mall design problems have resulted from planners using 'Lego-thinking' in their plans -- that they fail to consider how their designs will function once people and/or cars come into the equation.

Happily, I was at least able to end the weekend on a satisfying note, working on homemade Christmas cards with one of my best buddies.