Launches and signings and bears, oh my!

Yikes, but it’s time for an update. So many events in the last couple of weeks, but lots of good reading as a result. Consider the following sampler something like a wine-tasting. The great thing is, when you finish, you’ll still be able to drive!

Saturday, October 21st saw the glorious White Rock Library hosting another event – this time two poets, Catherine Greenwood and Steve Noyes.
Both are Brick authors and just happen to be married to each other. They made an interesting combo, as Catherine’s book, The Pearl King, is based in things Japanese, while Steve’s Ghost Country is rooted in China. Here’s Catherine, signing copies for the library’s collection.

On Monday the 23rd, Steve and I took a rather circuitous route (okay, we got lost) to his reading with Wayde Compton at the ACT in Maple Ridge. Here’s Steve with Liz Bachinsky, one of the BC finalists for this year’s Governor General’s Awards.

Someplace in there was Catherine Owen’s launch of Cusp/Detritus: an experiment in alleyways, from Anvil Press. The poems in the book are complemented by black-and-white compositions by photographer, Karen Moe. As part of the launch, Karen performed songs from her CD, Stoic Pharmacy. Her photos lined the walls of the gallery and contributed to the very cool atmosphere.That's the elegant Catherine Owen, with one of her mentors, Joe Rosenblatt, in the foreground.

The month rounded out with a double-header book launch: Jenn Farrell’s Sugarbush & Other Stories and Tanya Chapman’s King. The team of them made for a super-fun event.
Tanya’s story featured plenty of beer drinking; Jenn’s characters’ drug of choice seemed to be pot.

So that’s the month’s round-up of launches and signings, but now you’re wondering, where are the bears? For that, you need to visit Jenn Farrell’s recent contribution to The Tyee. It’s worth the click. And heck, the comments aren’t bad either (hint, hint).

Poetry in Transit's Anniversary Bash

It’s an odd sort of segue from my last entry, but on the schedule for the Vancouver Readers’ and Writers’ Festival, this turned out to be event #42.


Our emcee, Susan Musgrave, established how the evening would work – no mean feat when you have a line-up of 23 poets! Because we were celebrating the fact that poems have been riding around on Vancouver buses for ten years, Susan had asked us to all send bus-riding anecdotes. We’d also been asked to read ‘celebratory’ poems, so not everyone read the poem that had zoomed about on the buses.

The readers, with a tiny note for each – either a line from their poem or an item from their intro – were as follows:

Sandy Shreve, founder of (or certainly prime force behind) TransLink’s Poetry in Transit program. She spoke about the history of program, then read “Appalachian Spring” from her latest book, Suddenly, So Much .

Bill New, who described himself as ‘an ex-English teacher’– way too modest for someone of his accomplishments – proved to be one of the evening’s best readers, bringing a remarkable shape and sound to every word in his poem.

Susan McCaslin made us laugh with the twist of interpretation she offered regarding her poem. It followed a pattern of repetitition, with sections beginning with the word "Like..." She told us that her students had asked, “So, is this your valley girl poem?”

Crystal Hurdle read one of the night’s most beautiful pieces. I loved this wonderful line: “We should have had a school of children.”

Fiona Lam didn’t read from her book, Intimate Distances, dismissing it as ‘too depressing.’ The poem she did read, about taking the bus, included this: “We reach Oak Street / where there are no oaks.” One of those ongoing ironies about our world.

It’s worth a trip to Marilyn Bowering’s website, as this is too small a space to list all that she’s up to. She read a poem called “Night Talk.”

Jamie Reid, always a master of all things related to language at its purest, read a found poem – an alphabetized list of “Stop Words from Perseus”. Really, I say, who else could read a list so delightfully – “No, not now!”

Jenn Currin read a piece called “Usages.” Her transit tale was one of the evening’s funniest, relating her ‘olden days’ – riding the bus and drinking a mix of parental liquor cabinet dregs, then ‘mistaking’ the floor of the bus for a bed.

As if keeping in Jenn’s mode, Miranda Pearson’s transit confession saw her falling off a bus after drinking too much tequila. Her poem, “The Heron” included such treasures as describing the leaves as ‘irritable.’

Kate Braid’s transit story had to do with her days as a labourer, riding the bus, carrying her toolbox. Her poem, from her tribute to Emily Carr, To This Cedar Fountain, transcended toolboxes, lunch kits and buses.

Susan led us from Kate’s steel-toed workboots to a story from Brenda Brooks. A very large cockroach was riding her bus; she was grateful to the steel-toed worker who cleared a path for her. Brenda’s poem got us all going, with its “Honey, you are so….”

Billeh Nickerson closed out the first set with his wildly romantic rendition of “Driving in Adam’s Jeep” – lots and lots of desire: “kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.”

And then we took a break (so may you, O gentle reader).

More Poetry in Transit

Heather Haley opened the second set with her poem, “Remain” – advice on eating would be one way to describe it. Her story about guns on the SF transit system made all of us glad to be BC’ers.

After reminding us of the honesty of 13-year-old sons (“Mom, can’t you change the picture on the back of your book?”), Diane Tucker read the aptly-titled “Waiting for the Bus.”

Margo Button told a bittersweet story about schizophrenia – as always, she made us think. She went on to read a poem set in New Zealand. Made me almost smell the frangipani.

Leona Gom read “Our Mothers” – a piece she referred to as ‘an old poem’ – but one that held just as true today, with this: “embroidered pillowcases still accuse us on the shelves of our modern lives.”

Gena Thompson’s poem about the sign on East Hastings (“Is it nothing to you?”) ended with: “It’s so real, I don’t even have to take a picture.”

Not only did she read her poem, “Nun in Heaven” – about a nun who arrives to find heaven empty – Winona Baker told us she’s been included in Haiku Journey, a video game!

Terence Young is always so brainily entertaining. Here’s a bit of dialogue from the piece he read: “That’s terrible Latin. No wonder you have no friends!”

Because Marusya Bociurkiw was out of town, her friend and publisher, Penny Goldsmith, read on her behalf. Check out Marusya's website – ‘network'.

And lucky me, I got to close, with my funny little poem that rode around on the buses all through 2004.

42

That number used to be one of my favourite numbers. Not just because of Douglas Adams and The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. And not even because that age was an especially good year for me. It was just one of those numbers that are pleasing to me - among my reasons the elegance of how its front equals twice its back.

But events of this past weekend have spoiled the number for me. Sgt. Darcy Tedford and Pte. Blake Williamson have become deaths #41 and #42, members of our Canadian Forces who have died in Afghanistan.

I don’t use the word casualties to describe their being killed. There is nothing casual about these deaths.

The last time I blogged about the number of soldiers killed in Afghanistan was April 25. I realize now that the date was ANZAC Day, the day Australians remember their soldiers killed in action. Since that posting, the number of dead Canadian soldiers has nearly tripled.

Even back in April, when I tried to compile a list of the dead soldiers as a sidebar, the list wouldn’t fit. So here they are below, the names of the 42.

Sgt. Darcy Tedford
Pte. Blake Williamson
Trooper Mark Andrew Wilson
Sgt. Craig Gillam
Cpl. Robert Mitchell
Pte. Josh Klukie
Cpl. Glen Arnold
Pte. David Byers
Cpl. Shane Keating
Cpl. Keith Morley
Pte. Mark Anthony Graham
Warrant Officer Frank Robert Mellish
Warrant Officer Richard Francis Nolan
Sgt. Shane Stachnik
Pte. William Jonathan James Cushley
Cpl. David Braun
Cpl. Andrew Eykelenboom
Master Cpl. Jeffrey Scott Walsh
Master Cpl. Raymond Arndt
Cpl. Christopher Reid
Pte. Kevin Dallaire
Sgt. Vaughn Ingram
Cpl. Bryce Jeffrey Keller
Cpl. Francisco Gomez
Cpl. Jason Patrick Warren
Cpl. Anthony Boneca
Capt. Nichola Goddard
Cpl. Matthew Dinning
Bombardier Myles Mansell,
Lieut. William Turner
Cpl. Randy Payne
Pte. Robert Costall
Cpl. Paul Davis
Master-Cpl. Timothy Wilson
Pte. Braun Woodfield
Cpl. Jamie Murphy
Sgt. Robert Short
Cpl. Robbie Beerenfenger
Sgt. Marc D. Leger
Cpl. Ainsworth Dyer
Pte. Richard Green
Pte. Nathan Smith

That's an awful lot of dead human beings. Try making a list of 42 friends. It's a lot of people - too many to invite to a party unless you're Bill Gates.

I am ashamed to say that Russ Hiebert, the MP from my riding, is parliamentary secretary to Defence Minister Gordon O’Connor. Among tasks involved in this position is serving as O’Connor’s stand-in during question period. I am left feeling queasy thinking he might be in a position to make an emergency decision if one were required.

If you’d like to write to Russ to let him know how you feel about this ‘mission’ (how’s that for ugly irony – a word with religious connotations as a euphemism for war?), here’s his email address: Hiebert.R@parl.qc.ca

Or better yet – remember, postage is still free to write to a Member of Parliament – why not write him a letter? His address is 311 Confederation Building, Ottawa, ON, K1A 0A6.

Bill Deverell at White Rock Library

On Thursday, October 12th, Bill Deverell read to an enthusiastic audience of 40. Although he was reading from his latest novel, April Fool, he offered far more than the usual book promo event.

He told stories and jokes, and thoroughly entertained us. But probably the best part was his willingness to answer the many questions that were put to him. He treated us with descriptions of his writing routine, and came across not only as the the gentleman-scholar he is, but also as just-plain-normal human being.


Here's hoping the powers-that-be at the local library recognize that we support this kind of event.

Thanks-shroomin'

Thanksgiving saw us heading out to gather goodlets from the forest. I'm set, complete with whistle and even a bell to keep bears away. A sign near one of our stops put it well: heck, we were recreatin' -- and looking for food at the same time.

Although this mushroom wasn't one to eat, I couldn't resist taking a picture. Fierce-looking little guy, isn't he? All those 'teeth' grinning down at the moss.

Even when we're not finding shrooms, a day in the bush provides plenty to satisfy -- especially when it's another day of perfect weather. Who could help but feel content in surroundings like these? Postcard, anyone?

From the looks of things, we'll be having a few feasts. The mushrooms in this assortment, starting at '9 o'clock' and moving clockwise are: honey, chanterelle, cauliflower, bolete -- rounded out with a mix of angel wings and oysters. Yum!

Party at the Arm!

We sure crammed a lot of fun into our visit up Indian Arm. As soon as we arrived, George had to test out his driver. And no, he swore to us, he wasn't aiming at the seals.

But he wasn't the only one who got to have fun.
We girls headed out to explore the ravine. The view there was fantastic -- one of the rewards of living in B.C.

As soon as I fell and banged my ankle, we decided to head for the water. Nothing like rowing up the Arm toward Silver Falls. Ah, and once you reach your goal, you have to celebrate!

Of course, no weekend at the cabin could be complete without a bonfire.
Still, this whole excursion was supposed to be all about a birthday. So what did we do? [to be continued...]

More Party at the Arm!

We had a party, complete with home-made birthday hats.



But come Sunday morning,
it's time to pack up and head for home.



One more goodbye,
and then we're off

-- until next year!

WOTS happening!

Last Sunday's Word on the Street was yet another sunny, perfect day. Here are a few glimpses of my favourite spot (where else), Poet's Corner.

That's Sandy Shreve proudly announcing the 10th Anniversary of Vancouver's Poetry in Transit series. The head in the front row belongs to Rhona McAdam, who read from her wonderful book Cartography.

All the poets at this particular reading were ones whose poems have been selected for this year's TransLink program. All those poems riding around on the buses and SkyTrains, wheee! I still get the occasional email or discover someone else who first read my poem, "Promises, Promises" because they were taking transit.

Great program -- both for writers and riders!

Travesty? Tragedy? Whichever, it's ugly.

Development, at least in my neighbourhood, seems to equate with ecological tyranny.

Walking in my neighbourhood yet again today, I came across the latest of these logged-off sites.


I thought our bylaw protects trees that aren't within a new building's potential 'footprint' -- that those around the edges are supposed to be spared. Yet the bulk of the stumps on this lot run right along the fenceline, hardly the spot where any building could go. Take a look at those windows in the apartments next door. Can you imagine how thrilled those people must be at the thought of having their very own third-storey Peeping Toms living next door?

These weren't little saplings that were removed. Again, I'd like to ask those people next door how having these big trees cut down has affected them.

My only wish now is that the bylaw officer gets there in time -- not only to fine the people responsible for this, but also to seize the timber before they can make any money by selling it to a mill.

I'll post again when I find out what, if anything, happens with this. It looks like a good test for the supposedly new and tougher bylaw.

There's No Hype Like It

So much for thinking of the Canadian Forces as peacekeepers. New recruiting ads turn that sort of thinking on its bayonet.

The somewhat ambivalent There's No Life Like It has been replaced with Fight Fear, Fight Distress, and Fight Chaos: Fight with the Canadian Forces. It's enough to make me want to have a fight with the Forces.

This seems contrary to everything our Armed Forces have stood for -- and in direct contradiction to what our troops purportedly went to Afghanistan for. Weren't we initially told it was to build schools and other infrastructure that would enable people to lead better lives?

I don't remember being promised that our soldiers would be kicking in the doors of civilians' homes. Yet that's one of the scenes depicted in these new ads.

Still, I guess we're supposed to be grateful that focus groups at least convinced them to drop the phrase Fight Terror from the ads.

And they wonder why they're having such a hard time recruiting nurses and doctors...

This is news??

I feel like I'm having a bad case of deja-vu.

There's a news story about a different sort of hybrid vehicle: a plane with wings that fold upward so it can be driven like a car. Or, to look at it another way, it's a car that looks something like an old Bricklin, but those weird doors fold down to become functioning wings so you can fly it.

I am positive I saw the identical invention (except it was red or blue, not industrial grey) on the cover of Popular Mechanics about a gazillion years ago.

Here's something I think is easily more newsworthy for this day. Sixty years ago today (gasp!) my parents got married. Too bad my dad's not around to celebrate it with my mother. Still, it sounds like a good excuse for any of us to lift a toast to them.

Whoa say can you see...

Reports indicate that federal government communications are going out under a different banner. Rather than saying ‘Government of Canada,’ announcements are to be presented with the words, ‘Canada’s New Government.’

I noticed this phrase a few weeks ago in a radio report. Even then I thought, Haven’t they been around for too long to call themselves ‘new’ anymore? But no, apparently not.

What they seem to be talking about is indeed a new form of government. Fixed election dates sound like only one small part of the changes they’re making.

The adjective ‘new’ rings other alarm bells for me. It’s one of those words that’s been so absorbed into the lingo of advertising, I wonder how long will it be until they throw in an ‘improved’ too. I’m bracing myself for terms like ‘buy now’ and ‘sale price’ to pop up on government stationery any day now – as if there’s much of anything left that hasn’t been bargained away already.

Just another sunny day in September.

Ivy Commando Squad

This is me, rigged out in full battle gear, in process of cutting back our hedge.

It seems to me that the English have always been good at fortifications -- of course, it helps if you can start out on an island. I figure that's probably what inspired them to invent the moat for their castles.

The 'fortification' between our neighbours and us is a tall hedge of English ivy. All green and shiny, it looks innocent enough. But innocent it is not.

It puts out flowers that at first look like miniature bits of broccoli, but look out -- their pollen is a nightmare. Even wrapped in a bandanna, my throat gets to feel as though it wants to take a shower. And no, drinking water doesn't ease it. Poor old throat just feels as though it wants a good scrub.

Anyway, the chore is done for yet another season. I figure the hedge should behave until next spring. Then I'll don my Raiders shirt again and do yet another attack.

August 28, 1928 - August 12, 2006

In this world of unofficial marriages, this man, George Omorean, was my father-in-law. After a long struggle against cancer, he left this life one week ago, gone to whatever awaits us next. He was a good man, who got along with all kinds of people, even me. He accepted me, even though I was about the opposite of what they'd hoped for as a wife for their son, George. He even put up with my non-Romanian cooking.

He is survived by a fine family -- his wife, Persa; five adult children: John, Sophie, George, Leo, and Tom; three grandchildren (George, Gina, and Nick) and three great-grandchildren (Blake, Christopher, and Emily).

He leaves behind a beautiful farm in southern Ontario.
Here's a picture of 'my' George, strolling down the driveway there.

Never too thin or too rich?

I seem to recall someone amending the Duchess of Windsor's quote so it said, "You can never be too thin or own too many books." As far as the too-thin part goes, I don't have any worries. But I think I'm starting to wonder about the too many books. Is it possible?

This is the pile I lugged home with me on Saturday. Good thing I didn't have to walk far to any bus stops, or my arms might have been dragging on the sidewalk.

Luckily, I'd come prepared and brought a sturdy cloth bag. Still, I'm beginning to wonder about this maybe-compulsion.

Five of the books were a bonus that came along with SFU's Annual Symposium on the Novel. Another, Dead Man in the Orchestra Pit, came from a book launch in the evening. But in between these two events, what did I do? Spent time trolling bookstores and second-hand shops. What did I buy? You already know: more books.

I'm not sure there'll ever be time to read half of the books that surround me. Still, I'd really hate it if a day came along when there wasn't something at hand that I really, really wanted to read.

Considering this latest pile, that shouldn't happen any time soon.

Historically speaking

Today, July 16th, is quite the day!

Not only is it the day that Catcher in the Rye was first published, it's the day they tested the first atomic bomb. How's that for two acts in one day that would change the world forever!

The story of a poem

Some while ago, I wrote a poem called "Change Room" -- a piece that was inspired by the women who attend the water-walking and water-running classes at my local pool. It started as a bunch of words that Liz Philips helped me shape into something resembling a poem, back when I was at Banff.

Last winter, I submitted the poem to Quills, a Canadian literary magazine. Yesterday, my letter carrier brought me a copy of the magazine. To my surprise, it contained my poem. But even more surprisingly, tucked into the first page was a cheque with my name on it. "Change Room" had won the magazine's First Prize.

Here's a picture of the fabulous prize.
I'll admit, it's not all that often I get to see a cheque (especially for a poem) with that many digits in it. Pretty sweet, eh?

Anyway, if you're still with me, here's the poem.

Change room

I have come to recognize
the shape of old incisions

learned to read the lines of scars
appendix, open-heart

the zigzag left on thighs
where metal hips go in

the long frown where a kidney
used to hang.

I understand the petalled scrolls
of stretch marks on breasts

indigo scribbles of varicose veins
meandering past a knee

the puckered line on an abdomen
where a doctor once reached in

pulled out the baby coiled inside
that child since grown to a man.

These women in the change room
sit down to tie their shoes

use clothes pegs to pull up their socks
have devised ingenious ways

of levering on their underwear,
outsmarting the reach of their arms.

They take balance from the strength of walls
lean into them, like lovers, with grace.

I do my best to follow the steps, mime
their cautious techniques, learn

from them, these subtle
choreographies.

More fireworks

I'm just home from having spent nearly an hour down at the beach in White Rock, watching at least eight different displays of 4th of July fireworks. All those little border towns sure know how to do up a show.

The ones from Blaine were near enough to reflect on the water -- double-value for every explosion.

Nature even put on a bit of competition, with a few dramatic lightning bolts as if to remind us who's in charge. And not to be outdone, the moon shone through a hole in the clouds, a white road extending across the bay.

One of the best parts of the fireworks show is always the booming effects, especially the way they echo off the water, rolling up onto the beach.

But then on my way home, I heard the radio news. Israeli jet pilots have been told to stop flying so fast over the Gaza -- to stop breaking the sound barrier. It seems that sonic booms are part of the fear tactics designed to terrorize the people there. As I pull into the driveway, my thoughts about all those booming fireworks shifts.

I think context must make all the difference when it comes to big noises from the sky. Lucky me for living in a place where my experience of explosions is something that's exciting -- a celebration, not a part of war.

Chez Hoser, Canada Day

Welcome. This is the front door of our house today. Looks pretty calm, doesn't it. But if you could see the kitchen, you might shake your head. The sink's piled high with colanders, pots, containers, and spoons, but the first ten jars of raspberry jam are cooling down, ready to become gifts or breakfast treats in winter.

This morning, Brenna and Sharon and I went out to Aldergrove and each picked the most beautiful raspberries. Big as the top joint of your thumb, they were so perfectly ripe they pretty much rolled off into our hands. The sun on my back, the sounds of birds, quiet chatter from the people picking in the next row -- what better way to spend a Canada Day morning.

Sure, the afternoon's been a bit messy. But besides the jam, there are already berries in the freezer. What a treat they will be, come November.

And tonight, of course, the real reward: fireworks down at the beach. Once again, another Happy Canada Day, eh.