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.

Solsticey thoughts

That double-sun image is what I get to see every Solstice when first light streams into our living room. The effect results from sunlight coming through a lovely stained-glass window. Still, the way the image straddles the centre of our front door, it's a pretty magical way to mark the start of the day that is Solstice.

This Solstice sees me worrying about land use -- yet again. And once again, it's Surrey that seems enmeshed in the plans. If previous recent decisions are any indication, we're probably looking at the loss of more greenspace. Still, I am hoping that reason will prevail.

The area in question is Barnston Island, a delightful little treasure that can only be accessed (for now, at least)by a very small (and free!) ferry. Because the island is nice and flat, it's a perfect place for biking. But more than just a place for recreation, it's farmland, hosting a number of pure food ventures, such as the organic farm run by Avalon Dairy (you know, the folks who still put the milk into glass bottles).

Land on the island has been protected, as it's in the put to better use if it was home to an industrial park (there's an oxymoron if ever there was one).

Of course, there are a number of us who feel that Barnston Island should stay unindustrialized and remain in the ALR.

In Canada, today is not only Solstice, it's also National Aboriginal Day. There's more than a bit of irony in this fact when considering the fate of Barnston Island. The Katzie First Nations Reserve is also on the island. This morning's Vancouver Sun, besides reporting on last night's public meeting about the island's fate, also announced the death of former Katzie chief, Peter James. Chief James was well known for his strong voice in calling for protection of the land. We can only hope that his voice will echo long enough to see to it that no rash decisions are made.

As today's Sun reported, and Surrey resident Al Cleaver put so well, "When we lose farmland, we lose it forever."

Especially with Vancouver hosting the World Urban Forum, we need to be thinking long-term. If the costs of transportation continue to rise (and that seems much more likely than not), how good will produce from California or Chile seem? Don't we want to start planning for growing our own food? Especially where we already have the farmland, why indeed would we even consider paving it?

Yikes!

How is it that nearly three weeks have gone by since I've posted anything? Yikes.

It isn't that there haven't been things going on. There was Rhona McAdam's book launch in Vancouver for her new collection, Cartography (at the very bottom of that link to her publisher).

Just a few days later there was another launch, but in Victoria this time, for Steve Noyes' Ghost Country and Mitch Parry's Tacoma Narrows. (You have to scroll down quite a ways to find the image and info about Tacoma Narrows, but it's worth it, if only to see its shimmery cover art.) If you're up for reading a review of it, click here. Believe me, it was quite the experience having two such powerful books launching together.

Oh, and there's another story to go with this double launch, but that'll come in a separate posting. This is just a hint that there's much more to come, including the long-awaited, nearly-complete Reunion of the Chicks.

I'll be back -- and much sooner than in three weeks!

Radiant danse uv readingz

This was the sign outside Vancouver's Ironworks Gallery that greeted the many 'frenz uv bill bissett' who came to participate in the launch of the wondrous new book, radiant danse uv being. Edited by Jeff Pew and Steve Roxborough (aka rox n pew), the book presents a set of riffs and reminiscences for and about Canada's true poet laureate, bill bissett.

The Vancouver event was hosted by CBC's Sheryl MacKay. For those who've never heard her show, North by Northwest, it's a showcase of BC artists. The only bad part about her show is that it's broadcast at the bizarre (and non-artist-friendly) hour of 6am on Saturday and Sunday mornings. Like, ouch.

The 150-or-so performers and attendees had themselves a raging good time, and even got to browse several walls of brand new paintings by his billness. Beyond even the paintings was the sense of tribal connections -- old friends (or should that be 'frenz'?) reunited. Truly, it was one grand celebrayshun.

The best part of all (of course) was that bill was part of it all. Here he is, reading a poem to close the Vancouver event, accompanied by the inspired tootlings of Tim Lander.

But the raging went on. On to the ferry on Friday where I got to listen to some of the history behind the book. Lucky me, getting to spend a few hours with the editors behind the project. That's Jeff on the left, along with Rox and his elegant blond locks. I won't give away too much, beyond noting that Victoria's Cadboro Bay makes a swell spot to while away an afternoon, especially when accompanied by a few cold beers. I suspect that one of these years, Rox n Pew will be coming out with some sort of 'green-rumoury' behind-the-scenes project. If my time with them was any indication, they wouldn't have any trouble filling such a volume.

And at last on to the Solstice Cafe, for the Victoria launch. A few of the same faces, but a whole different scene -- and hosted by the always gracious Linda Rogers. What a way to start a long weekend in May.

But enough of these ramblings. Get thee out, I say -- and buy the raging book! Just be sure, for premium pleasure, to read it out loud.

Putting White Rock back on the literary map

During the '80s and early '90s, White Rock Public Library played host to a number of fine readings -- Robert Priest, Joe Rosenblatt, Lorna Crozier, Sharon Thesen -- and many more. But mandates seemed to change. Even though there'd been good attendance, the library veered away from readings they deemed 'too literary.'

But enough of grimy history; it seems time for a new page.

Last night saw a visit from Diana Hartog, promoting her new book, Ink Monkey from Brick Books. She read love poems, desert poems, explained the significance of the title creature, but really hit her stride when she started reading from 'Jellyfish Suite.' The poems in this section were magical, transporting us to undersea kingdoms where "...millions of jellyfish pulse...ghostly parachutes, dangling empty harnesses as they rise...".

In a longer prose poem, Notes to the Composer:, she read one of those lines I'm so famous for mis-hearing. "(They seem to invite metaphor.)" I remembered the word as the more active incite. But that's one of those little miracles that happen at a reading. We get a new window into the poem -- an experience the printed page (wondrous though it is) doesn't always offer.

It felt good to have White Rock be part of such a far-reaching tour: Montreal, Toronto, New York, Ottawa, Seattle, Bellingham, Vancouver, Victoria. The event felt like the beginning of some kind of renaissance for 'literary' readings out here. Let's just hope the powers-that-be at the library live up to all the promise that was in the air last night.

And hey, all you writers with new books: people in the audience even bought books! Here's a picture of Diana, signing a copy she sold.

I'm having a problem with "no problem."

Maybe I'm a person who says "thank you" too much. Maybe that's the reason I keep hearing "no problem." Whatever, what it comes down to is I'd like to hear a "you're welcome."

Or even nicer, the phrase I got spoiled to in Australia, the always-so-gracious sounding, "my pleasure." Wow, as if the person who'd done me the favour might have actually enjoyed doing so.

I'm not counting on anyone to start saying "my pleasure," but gosh, I'd be thrilled to get something but a mumbled "no problem" -- a phrase that usually makes it sound as if it is a problem.

And if you've been feeling this too and would maybe like to thank me, I'll say it in advance, "you're very welcome."

The End of the World As We Know It (with apologies to REM)

Okay, once again, I exaggerate. Still, as someone who comes from a line of crossword addicts (the gene for this from my grandma, Mayme), I must point out some serious end-time omens.

The first was two weeks ago, the last time I did a puzzle (see, I'm doing pretty well, having cut back from daily doses).

The editor in me complains when I find things misspelled in the newspaper. It complains a little louder when those mistakes are in the crossword. When the error's not in the clues, but in the puzzle grid itself, that inner editor just plain howls!

So this morning, when I decided to have a paperwork clean-up day, the crossword seemed the perfect excuse for more procrastination. Only what did I find, but yet another of what I deemed as an error.

The clue was something about running ______, which I took to call for amok. But there were five squares not four, so it worked out to have to be the much-uglier amuck.

A dictionary search informed me that this is an acceptable spelling. Grudgingly, I have come to accept such things.

But I still can't find an excuse for the error from that other puzzle, the inexplicable acquistions. To me, its definition, purchases, suggests a word with another 'i' in its midst, acquisitions. See why I'm in such a sweat?

Making history

Okay, just in a small way, but still. On April 28th, I was one of two writers who made history with the very first poetry reading at City Hall in Surrey, B.C.

When we first approached them, early in February, we were told in no uncertain terms, "City Hall doesn't do that sort of thing." As if it might be something they'd get arrested for.

Luckily, my partner for this reading was Ashok Bhargava, and he wouldn't give in so easily. He insisted we find another contact -- that we should try Councillor Judy Villeneuve.

Like they say, networking pays. Next thing we knew we were helping two of the Events Co-ordinators to fill out the application forms that had to go to The League of Canadian Poets.
Here's a shot of Ashok and Sheenam (one of those terrific Events women), going over some last minute detail before the reading.

We had a terrific noon-hour crowd of about 30 enthusiastic listeners. I was able to make them laugh with my poems about kids and messy houses. Ashok touched their hearts with his more-thoughtful pieces, especially a wonderful one about the difficulties of learning English.

I can't help think we did more than make a bit of history. I think we might have opened some doors and minds to the idea of poetry.

Bush League

More and more, Stephen Harper seems to be doing his best to align us alongside George Bush.

The latest has seen him deciding (yet another of his apparent one-man proclamations) that the press may not provide images of the flag-draped coffins of Canadian soldiers coming home to be laid to rest.

Hard on the heels of the recent decision to no longer lower flags on Parliament Hill to half-mast, this smacks of more let's-be-like-GWB tactics.

To date, since 2002, there have been 15 Canadian soldiers and one diplomat killed in Afghanistan. Many more have been injured, many seriously.

Retracting the flag-lowering policy seems to be more than the usual spite-fostered anti-Liberal sentiment. It seems an indication that we are to expect many more deaths, in yet another conflict we probably have no business in.

While he's at it with these hide-the-war-under-the-carpet tactics, Harper continues to close his speeches with the hard-to-believe 'God Bless Canada' platitude. What I'd like to know is whose God? Whose Canada?

About the only integrity I can see from Harper's party is that at least they dropped the word 'Progressive' from their name.

Stepping 'Off the Page'

These happy faces have just had a big dose of poetry. They're students at the Invergarry Learning Centre in Surrey, BC.

That grey-haired one in the middle is me. And I'm the lucky one who got to provide the dose of poems.

Because I'm a member of the Federation of BC Writers, I'm able to participate in a program called 'Off the Page' -- an initiative that pays writers to bring their work to BC classrooms.

Anyway, look at the faces of those students. Not a frown among them. But really, weren't they just subjected to an hour of poetry?!

I’m convinced that the key to their happy faces is that their teacher, Pat Corder, did such a fantastic job of preparing them for my visit.

Pat got a copy of my book, Rattlesnake Plantain. She read it, then asked me for permission to photocopy a few poems, so the students could read them. I emailed her back, suggesting several titles she might like to use. Beyond that, I left the rest up to her.

When I arrived at the school library, I was happy to see a full-colour notice announcing my reading, encouraging students from other classes to attend the session (some did). Pat (and her colleague, David) greeted me – and even gave me lunch. Lucky for me, I’d arrived during their annual thank-you event for library volunteers.

While we ate, Pat told me some of the prep she’d done with her students. Not only had she reproduced all four of the poems I’d suggested she might choose from, she had gone much further.

The first section of my book is a suite of poems headed by brief descriptions of wildflowers. Pat had downloaded information on a buttercup-like plant, had purchased a potted sample of it, and challenged her students to write poems based on it as a prompt. She let me read a few of the students’ poems (only four – nothing overwhelming, just a nice taste). She also told me that during the previous day’s class, they had talked about my poems, and generated a few questions they wanted to ask me.

Then Pat went on ahead to her portable, to begin her class. After a few minutes, David guided me out through the maze of what looked like an army base to help me find the right portable. (If he hadn’t, I might still be wandering, I am sure.) Pat introduced me, and off we went.

At first the students were fairly shy, but I’ll admit, I probably scared them some – I know I can be pretty loud and fast-talking, and that I tend to jump all over the place when I’m keen on something (like poetry!). Still, they laughed in the right places, were thoughtful when the piece asked for that, and gradually started warming up with a willingness to ask.

We ended up having a good discussion about writing. We talked about how useful it can be to find a friend (or better yet, a group) who wants to write too. I even saw some scribbling as I spoke about guidelines for workshopping: ways to focus on improving the work; ways to ensure you’re critiquing the work, not the writer.

Much of this discussion took place over a post-reading tea. Pat had asked the students to bring some little treat from home. Once again, she’s such a star to think of giving them this ‘ownership’ of thanking me for coming. There were tarts, brownies and cookies (one of the young women explained that her husband had baked the cookies the night before).

But the expressions of thanks went on: I received an interesting book of poetry (which, to my delight, I learned had been gleaned from a library book sale) and copies of some of the poems based on the little yellow wildflower. I was even presented with the potted plant that had served as the prompt for the poems – something to take home for my own garden.

Not only will I be receiving my fee for this reading (thank you, O gods of the grants!), but I will have a growing reminder in my yard of this very special event. I am also taking away a new appreciation for the amazing work that teachers like Pat Corder do.

Call the Olympics Police -- and while you're at it, the security monitors...

Notes from April 9th, YVR:

Walking to my gate for a flight to Toronto, I pass one of YVR's Inuit sculptures on display. Fashioned from bone, it's a wonderful piece of art.

But uh-oh -- smack at its centre, where the bone's been polished and etched, there's an image Vanoc might be interested in. Vancouver 2010's very own Olympic symbol, a stylized Inukshuk. The only thing that's missing is the colour. Brazen, eh. No doubt a serious infringement of copyright. Do you suppose the Inuit sculptor paid the fee to incorporate this trademarked logo?

As I'm jotting these notes, leaning against an upright recycling bin (which really makes a very good stand-up-at desk), I notice an out-of-place object sharing the surface with me. It's a fork, complete with four long, pointy tines. And no, it isn't plastic; it's metal.

What I'd like to know is how did it get here? After all those wand-waving metal detectors and x-ray experts peering into our carry-on bags . . . . And I wonder, if I touch it, will I be implicating myself -- fingerprints, y'know. Will I be considered an accomplice in some act of terrorism, even uncommitted?

I'm not even sure if I dare to report the fork. They might just suggest I was the one who brought it here. About all I can think is, so much for security -- or the show they put on to convince us that it means anything.

Finally, I decide I need to get rid of it. I use the edge of my notebook to flick it down into the bin. It lands in the midst of too many Globe and Mails with a silent thud, no doubt spoiling this lot of paper for the recycler. Paranoid? Of course, but you already knew that.

Besides, there'll be more to come on this. Toronto still beckons.

Passwords, other words, and (ultimately) paranoia

Someone drew my attention to the fact that all of us are accumulating way too many passwords and other items we're supposed to memorize. It used to be bad enough -- trying to keep track of your Social Insurance Number, your Driver's Licence number, your phone number, your bank account number -- heck, those were plenty!

Only now, all those bits of necessary information seem to have grown beyond anyone's expectations. It's sort of like Harriet Beecher Stowe's character, Topsy, who just 'growed.' Most people now have at least three telephone numbers: home, work, and cell.

I'll admit, I've finally started writing things down -- things I'm supposed to be keeping in my head. I've got just too many sign-in IDs, user names, and passwords to be able to carry them all around in my poor brain.

But here's where the paranoia comes in. Somebody steals into my room, finds the secret hiding place where I've got these weird little phrases stashed away. So what have I done to protect myself from the wrong set of eyes? Coded 'em, of course. Drawn a bunch of pictures that are supposed to trigger my brain -- so I (and only I) will know what kind of goofy licence plate mishmash I intended. Sound complicated? Ask me in a year. We'll see how many of those numbers and words I can retrieve. We'll see how many of those accounts I can still access. Ahem.

And speaking of words, I've got 10 new ones circling around in my head. They're this year's words from CV2's 48-Hour Poetry Contest. If you'd like to find out what the words are, and how this crazy contest works, take a peek here. But don't tell too many people. I'm working on a nutzoid piece of writing for it, and face it -- I don't want too much competition.

Starting to sound more and more like it oughta be Sorry

My name is Heidi and I'm a Surreyite. Yep, I live in that place that so long has been the butt of so many feeble jokes.

I used to live in White Rock, less than a klick from where I live now. The joke then used to be a parody of the adage from Love Story, 'Living in White Rock is never having to say you're Surrey.'

Today I had occasion to visit a part of Surrey I hadn't seen for a while. It's an older neighbourhood, one that's been settled for over a generation. I think of it as a place with ravines and tall trees.

But like so much of the rest of Surrey, even that area has lost much of its greenery.

Driving home, I passed many sites where trees were still in the process of being ripped out. Many of these had bark that was torn and hanging, as if some giant Godzilla had gnashed at them.

It's hard to imagine what this city is going to look like in even another two years. What was once perhaps known best as the butt of bad jokes is likely going to become Canada's answer to the worst of New Jersey.

What was once maybe a place for 'hicks' who lived in semi-rural bliss is fast becoming nothing more than a sea of pavement crammed with thousands of identical homes.

Character? Greenspace? Respect for the future?

Like I said, 'Sorry.'

Sudden book launch

And no, that doesn't mean this was an unplanned launch. It refers to the title of Elizabeth Bachinsky's new book, Home of Sudden Service (Nightwood Editions). This meant a new page for the poetry series at Maple Ridge's ACT, as usually it's Liz who's doing the hosting, not the reading.

Among the poems she read was the beautiful, "Pack" with its opening stanzas:

We learned to sell ourselves early in life. Got badges
for good sales and how to sew. The deft among us praised
for the perfect square knot, we chanted, feverishly
fumbling, Right over left, left over right and under . . .

Polite, our socks yanked tight up under our knees,
we made vows to the Queen. We really meant them.
Our secret hand signals, our hierarchy,
we were like the Freemasons, only smaller.

I love the simple, naive honesty of a line like 'We really meant them.'

Bachinsky is a terrific reader, serious enough about performing her poems that she's taken vocal instruction. It shows. When she dropped her voice into the chant, 'Right over left...' you could almost see the furrowed brow of an earnest nine-year-old.

But she writes about more than the world of nine-year-olds. She's got either a heck of a memory or an even better imagination, because man, she's got the teen angst thing down perfectly, complete with hormones. Consider this, describing her lustful plans for boys:

(from "At Fifteen")
. . . They are so polished
beneath their shirts and jeans.
They are so lean, penises
rearing, eager, impatient as ponies.

This poem, dedicated to Irving Layton, makes me think Layton must must be hovering somewhere nearby, chortling lecherously at these lines.

The night was rounded out by an opening performance from the always-entertaining Lyle Neff. The Vancouver poet, who's always seemed to want to be thought of as a bit of a bad boy, has mellowed with fatherhood. For one thing, it's made him look at death differently.

He riffed his way through a batch of poems from his latest collection, Bizarre Winery Tragedy (Anvil Press). When he came to the close of a piece called "Think of Teeth," he offered this bit of self-criticism "a bit precious at the end." To which I say, "No, Lyle. The words simply complete the piece."

And to close this piece, I offer an uncharacteristic portrait of Neff -- on his knees. I'm not sure if he was begging Liz for an autograph, or was simply in ready-set position for the long race back to the city.