tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33648399676500252992024-03-14T06:03:14.801-04:00The CottageDefinition n. a small house used as a vacation property having a casual, relaxed atmosphere conducive to the guilt-free pursuit of indulgent, selfish pleasures! Follow me as I indulge my passions for music, literature, cooking and the exuberant, "wind in my hair" high of being alive and free...Judihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910251221542778255noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364839967650025299.post-75684797552081486282012-11-04T15:04:00.001-05:002012-11-04T15:04:41.422-05:00Opera York La Traviata<div class='posterous_autopost'><p><a href="http://www.operayork.com/" title="Great Opera!" target="_blank">Opera York</a> has once again deployed an artistic dream team to thrill music lovers and sate sensation seekers; their vehicle: Giuseppe Verdi’s, <em>La Traviata</em>. It is a noble calling to paint our world vibrant and colourful when “<em>The skies of November turn gloomy</em>,” and I, for one, was ecstatic to have the dismal greys banished from my soul and replaced by beauty and passion and excitement. Such is the operatic experience I have come to expect from Opera York.</p> <p>Opera companies the world over have been staging Verdi productions this past year in honour of the 200<sup>th</sup> anniversary of the birth of <em>Il Maestro</em>, Giuseppe Verdi. Opera of the very finest order, La Traviata; under the direction of well-seasoned artistic director, Sabatino Vacca, brought last night’s audience at the Richmond Hill Centre for the Performing Arts to their feet in a collective afterglow of extended applause. </p> <p>I had the pleasure of introducing an opera virgin to the altar of this most divine of musical entertainment experiences. Comfortably ensconced, not too many rows behind the orchestra, we willingly suspended belief in time and space and gave ourselves up to the magic of the night and, I am happy to say, opera gained a convert!</p> <p>Dramatic stage sets and a delightfully animated and beautifully costumed ensemble cast evoked French party salons, an idyllic country retreat and an intimate feminine boudoir; settings in which the tragic story of the ill-fated lovers, Alfredo and Violetta unfolded. The chorus was particularly strong and completely engaging. Although we go to opera to thrill to the diva performances, it is always the spectacle of a rollicking, frolicking chorus of singers that builds the anticipation and appetite for our favourite opera tunes and provides musical and dramatic foreplay for the story’s climactic arias – as it were. </p> <p>The opera principals: the two lovers; Violetta, sung by Mirela Tafej and Alfredo, sung by Ricardo Iannello, and Alfredo’s meddling father, Giorgio, sung by baritone, Jeffrey Carl, were all riveting in their roles; demanding, complex feats of vocal gymnastics that mimic the emotional highs and lows of the storyline. The story is about a beautiful woman in love with an equally-enamoured young man, pressured to give up her love, with tragic consequences to happiness and health, after the young man’s father accuses Violetta of destroying his own daughter’s chances for love and respectable marriage. La Traviata was highly controversial when it debuted in the mid 1850’s because it dealt with explosive moral and social issues. Verdi, even in his own time, was a man of great stature, an innovator under considerable public censure for his own romantic liaison. By addressing sensitive contemporary social issues in La Traviata, Verdi set precedent and departed from traditional opera storylines.</p> <p>As Violetta, Tafej stunned us with her strength, vocal range and stamina and together with Iannello, created ecstasy on stage but I found myself especially moved by Jeffrey Carl’s interpretation of Giorgio Germont, the zealously interfering father. Much of the story’s plot gets moved along by Giorgio’s actions; his character goes through immense change from accusing manipulator to remorseful father and last night, in one of my most stand-out impressions of the production, Carl commanded the stage as he exquisitely emoted each nuance of a painful character development.</p> <p>Wonderful things continue to emerge from the Opera York dream machine. The spring production, Feb. 28<sup>th</sup> and March 2<sup>nd</sup> will turn to the lighter side of life with Franz Lehar’s, The Merry Widow; mark your calendar for a perfect date night!</p> <p> </p> <p>Opera York’s next must-see production will be on the lighter side with Franz Lehar’s, The Merry Widow.</p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p style="text-align: center;"> </p> <p> </p> <p><em> </em></p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p></div>Judihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910251221542778255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364839967650025299.post-55672393914048624602012-11-04T13:15:00.001-05:002012-11-04T13:15:43.601-05:00Music Season In Toronto!<div class='posterous_autopost'><p><a href="http://arts.nationalpost.com/2012/10/31/concert-review-valery-gergiev-and-the-stradivarius-ensemble-dazzle-in-toronto/">http://arts.nationalpost.com/2012/10/31/concert-review-valery-gergiev-and-the-stradivarius-ensemble-dazzle-in-toronto/<div class='p_embed p_image_embed'> <a href="http://getfile1.posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/temp-2012-11-04/lxmrlGjufbjifgGbxFDxiEqJdDzfzGncduHHAreIsdnigIyaIwbfBBHHbftr/TS.jpg.scaled1000.jpg"><img alt="Ts" height="465" src="http://getfile1.posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/temp-2012-11-04/lxmrlGjufbjifgGbxFDxiEqJdDzfzGncduHHAreIsdnigIyaIwbfBBHHbftr/TS.jpg.scaled1000.jpg" width="620" /></a> </div> </a></p></div>Judihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910251221542778255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364839967650025299.post-19695043611181842652011-11-30T14:27:00.001-05:002011-11-30T14:27:52.325-05:00Carrott Muffins À La Juddzz...<div class='posterous_autopost'><div>These went perfectly with my coffee this morning. Try them!</div><div> </div><div><div class='p_embed p_image_embed'> <img alt="Carrot_muffin_recipe" height="700" src="http://getfile2.posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/9GKSjeT6U2kcTz3sjYNgnEtqhzWQRp6JokKhc6AuYnA5ZNgYOd0S1aJ0vpVC/Carrot_Muffin_Recipe.jpg" width="500" /> </div> <br /> <p></p></div></div>Judihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910251221542778255noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364839967650025299.post-56801494557963388222011-11-26T22:28:00.001-05:002011-11-26T22:28:04.696-05:00My November Evening Walk<div class='posterous_autopost'> <div>It's mild tonight with a teasing south wind that's stirring all of the dried leaves and grasses and pine boughs into a susurrus moonlight sonata. Everything looks so different at night, it's just like going away. The large century homes alit from within and without; reflections on stained glass and chandelier, barely curtained windows affording generous glimpses of artwork and parlour and intimate glimpses of families at leisure and wistful glimpses through lofty dormer windows of a study with shelves of books and an aged head bathed in yellow light bent over, presumably to write, at a desk before the window.</div> <p /> <div>Past that old street and the town hall; again lit, in preparation for something a little later perhaps because there's no one about, then past the Anglican church, slightly abuzz from a social event, smokers chatting outside by the door. Across main street and along the sidewalk there, but only shortly, before I walk through the dimly-lit garden path to the park. And then I stop, not for the first time, to look at the two tall weeping willow trees that frame the nook of "Max's Garden," only this evening with no one else around to hear the wind and feel the wind and follow the wind, it's "Judi's Garden." </div> <p /> <div>Past the nook it's darker. I've never walked here at this time of night before. I know where the grapevines grow at the edge of the stream that I can now hear as it laps along and joins in like a harp, with the shimmering nocturnal symphony. I picture the red-winged black birds and chick-a-dees that hide in the tangled caves by day and alongside me the merry ghosts of daytime populate the night air and make of an otherwise uneasy meander, a comforting but quiet reverie. I close my eyes and lift my face to the warm breeze. I can feel again. I breath in, slow and deep as the efficacious magic of the elements against my cheeks exfoliate once again the chains around my soul. I am alive.</div> <p /> <div>At the end of the pathway before it turns left to the small wooden bridge where the lake meets the stream I am surprised to find everything - the pathway, the tops of the tall swooning grass fronds and the skipping wavelets on the lake awash in light cast from vigilant towers in the park beyond. I stop again in the centre of the bridge where the lake meets the stream and I look towards the lake - "Fairy Lake," but with no one else there to hear its giggling splashes and see its surface change from a murky black to an awe-ful spectacle of dark Persian blue and to hear me as I murmur, how beautiful, it's "Judi's Lake."</div> <p /> <div>and now, time for tea...</div></div>Judihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910251221542778255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364839967650025299.post-82127227172908742212011-11-06T18:16:00.001-05:002011-11-06T18:16:04.583-05:00Richmond Hill - In Love With Opera York!<div class='posterous_autopost'> <div>It was palpable...</div> <p /> <div>Last night, at the <a href="http://www.rhcentre.ca/">Richmond Hill Centre for the Performing Arts</a>, operatic gastronomy was served. The stage was set not only for a sensually delectable opera experience but also for an unabashed declaration of love from the patrons of <a href="http://www.operayork.com/">Opera York </a>whose numbers, swelling to near capacity, proved that this regional opera company with world-class talent is a vital part of a vibrant community. </div> <p /> <div>It was magic...</div> <p /> <div>From the glittering lights in the foyer, to the sparkly-eyed smiles on the faces one encountered at every turn, from the waves of excited conversations that rose and crested, then tumbled over one another in unintelligible splashes of effervescent anticipation, to the feathery breeze that teased as the throngs swished by to take their seats; one knew that a splendid sorcery was afoot.</div> <p /> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="FLOAT: left;"><div class='p_embed p_image_embed'> <img alt="Butterfly" height="623" src="http://getfile7.posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/tPRAdQ6jnDNRfIDIOmXqCvt2mL7MiYX3M1lBIInmH07WiuL0ET2wGzvEPq5J/butterfly.jpgsrc" width="520" /> </div> </div> <p /> <p /> <div>Season 15 of Opera York began with Puccini's, <em><a href="http://www.operayork.com/fallseason.html">Madama Butterfly</a>. </em>Opera-philic maven (of just one year) that I am, I know that Puccini's, <em>La Boheme </em>heralded season 14. For opera newbies and perennial partakers alike, Pucinni is the perfect choice; his operas are iconic, his characters and arias are familiar to everyone because of their appropriation by movies, books, TV and radio commercials. Whether last night's vast turn-out was due to the particular opera selection or simply because Richmond Hill residents have, after 14 years of superior offerings, developed a lusty appetite for quality entertainment, I can't say. I can say, though, that a strong representation by every age group was impressive, gratifying and a testament to the success of Opera York's signature phrase-as-mission-statement - <em>Opera For Everyone.</em></div> <p /> <div>Sabatino Vacca, the visionary artistic director of this production had a strong sense of the relevance of the social issues around which the story was crafted to parallels in today's society, calling it "an opera for our epoch." There was no want of emotional rendering in any of the performances: Romulo Delgado as Pinkerton, displayed all the subtleties of conflicted cavalier, Deirdre Fulton as Cio-Cio San, was a luminous but eventually tragic victim of love. Always a delight to the eye and the ear, opera also has that unique ability to renew your soul as it invariably propells you through the myriad emotions and trials of its characters then leaves you spent and drained after heaving from your own gut, any stagnant terror, or grief or pain you never had opportunity to vent. Perhaps that's why we not only love opera but, indeed, <em>need</em> it...</div> <p /> <div>Opera York's <a href="http://www.operayork.com/springseason.html">next production</a>, <em>Die Fledermaus, </em>by Johann Strauss with artistic director Geoff Butler, is scheduled for February & March of 2012. </div> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> <div>what is opera - don't try to form an opinion from tv or youtube</div> <p /> <div>Opera York, now in its 15th successful season has primed the people of this vibrant, receptive community to expect the best. </div> <p /> <div>From the glitter of lights in the foyer, to the sparkle of smiling faces one encountered at every turn, </div> <p /> <div>Expectation, excitement</div> <p /> <div>It reaches down and cleanses the soul of stagnant emotions. </div></div>Judihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910251221542778255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364839967650025299.post-23977937535356562562011-10-30T15:30:00.001-04:002011-10-30T15:30:56.772-04:00Opera York Warms Up November!<div class='posterous_autopost'><p>There's no need to mope about the end of summer when opera season begins! </p> <p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">For immediate release,</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">October<span style=""> </span>29, 2011</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></span></p> <p style="text-align: center; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><strong style=""><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Madama Butterfly on stage at the Richmond Hill Centre for the Performing Arts.</span></span></strong></p> <p style="text-align: justify; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">York Region, On…Opera York in its 15<sup>th</sup> season proudly presents the production of <em style="">Madama Butterfly</em>, at the Richmond Hill Centre for the Arts.<span style=""> </span>The opera opens on Thursday, November 3, 2011 at 8:00 pm and has a second performance on Saturday, November 5, 2011 at 8:00 pm.<span style=""> </span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background: white; color: black;">This year Opera York is offering student pricing at $25.00 a ticket.</span></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><em style=""><span>Madama Butterfly</span></em><span> by Giacomo Puccini.<span style=""> </span>In 1904, A U.S. Naval officer named Pinkerton casually marries a 15 year old Japanese girl nicknamed Butterfly who is totally entranced by him. After several weeks Pinkerton leaves with his ship intending to find his American wife when he gets home.<span style=""> </span>Unknown to Pinkerton, Butterfly has his son and waits faithfully for Pinkerton to return.<span style=""> </span>Finally, three years later Pinkerton does return but with his American wife.<span style=""> </span>When Butterfly discovers this, she is devastated.<span style=""> </span>She takes the sword her father used to commit suicide and after a tragic farewell to her son, takes her own life just as Pinkerton rushes into the room to save her.<strong style=""><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span></strong></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Opera York’s artistic director for <em style="">Madama Butterfly</em> is Sabatino Vacca. <span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background: white; color: black;">Deirdre Fulton is playing Cio-Cio San (Madama Butterfly).<span style=""> </span>Suzuki is played by Louisa Cowie, and B. F. Pinkerton</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: black;"> is played by </span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background: white; color: black;">Romulo Delgado. </span></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="ecmsonormal" style="margin: auto 0cm; background: white;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: black;">Deirdre Fulton, new to the Opera York team, </span><span style="color: black;">has been praised in Opera Canada for her “outstanding voice” and “powerful presence”.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><span style="color: black;">Deirdre has been touring throughout China since 2009 with Opera Juenesse</span><span style="color: black;"> and</span><span style="color: black;"> performed in Graz and Wiez, Austria under conductor Edoardo Müller.<span style=""> </span></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background: white; color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">Romulo Delgado returns to the Opera York team after his </span></span></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">European debut in Austria 2011 singing Don Jose in Bizet’s Carmen at the Opern Air Festpiele in Gars am Kamp<em style="">.</em></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background: white; color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"> In 2010 he sang the role of the Duke of Mantua in Opera York’s production of Verdi’s Rigoletto and the review spoke of </span></span></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">a striking lyric tenor sound that is “powerful and smooth with an ingratiating Italianate tone.” (<em style="">Opera Canada) </em></span><span class="apple-style-span"><strong style=""><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><span style="background: white; color: black;"></span></span></strong></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Opera York received the RAVE award from the City of Vaughan 2010.<span style=""> </span>This award was given to the company for its role in education and mentoring young artists.</span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">To find out more about the production of <em style="">Madama Butterfly</em> or Opera York please visit their website at </span><a href="http://www.operayork.com/"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; color: #0000ff; font-size: small;">www.operayork.com</span></a><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">.<span style=""> </span></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: center; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><strong style=""><span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Madama Butterfly</span></span></span></strong></p> <p style="text-align: justify; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">November 3, 2011, at 8:00 pm</span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">November 5, 2011, at 8:00 pm</span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Richmond Hill Centre for the Performing Arts (10268 Yonge Street)</span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Tickets $40 - $50, Students $25</span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Box Office:<span style=""> </span>(905) 787-8811 or go to </span><a href="http://www.rhcentre.ca/"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; color: #0000ff; font-size: small;">www.rhcentre.ca</span></a></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></span></p> <p style="text-align: center; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">-30-</span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Media Contact:</span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Lola Davidson, Opera York</span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Cell:<span style=""> </span>(647) 292 – 3995, </span><a href="mailto:lola@operayork.com"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; color: #0000ff; font-size: small;">lola@operayork.com</span></a></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><a href="http://www.operayork.com/"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; color: #0000ff; font-size: small;">www.operayork.com</span></a></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span><span style=""><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></p> <p> <p> </p> </p></div>Judihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910251221542778255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364839967650025299.post-77520591706511548372011-07-13T19:48:00.001-04:002011-07-13T19:48:59.912-04:00Recycled Treasures in Georgetown Ontario<div class='posterous_autopost'> <div>Recently, I reported back about a shopping trip to Georgetown's <strong><em>Wastewise Recycling Centre, </em></strong>commenting that the lighting in the book section was decidedly deficient. The shopping was so good though that I wasn't deterred; nevertheless, on a return trip today I was almost blinded by the newly illuminated aisles that operations manager, Debbie Smart, told me about. </div> <div>Halton's <strong><em>Wastewise </em></strong>is the brainchild of a band of local citizens who didn't want to be neighbours to the planned large-scale garbage sites that were ear-marked for their community. In its 10,00 square foot facility, almost every conceivable household item is tagged, classified and re-sold or recycled to the benefit of all. The <strong><em>Wastewise </em></strong>community prides itself in staunchly supporting the four pillars of sustainability: the social and cultural nurturing of the community, protecting the environment, managing waste with a front-end approach and serving as an economic model for other operations. </div> <div>Today, after picking up another small stack of books, I caught up with Debbie for the first time. She's off to Tofino, BC - for a well-earned vacation I'm sure! Debbie, you and your people at <strong><em>Wastewise</em></strong> are doing a wonderful job; keep it up (when you come back from BC that is!)</div> <p /> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="FLOAT: none;"><div class='p_embed p_image_embed'> <img alt="Wastewise_collage_2" height="900" src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/AZEQM9WGr9srYN1bHjLjVMIaFh9nRoSdvtF8PkwmkGZvswlYEoUdG4cPWjBN/wastewise_collage_2.jpg" width="600" /> </div> </div></div>Judihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910251221542778255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364839967650025299.post-65327759245745967662011-06-25T13:41:00.001-04:002011-06-25T13:41:46.748-04:00A Dozen Eggs & A Pound of Books Please...<div class='posterous_autopost'> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="FLOAT: none;"><div class='p_embed p_image_embed'> <img alt="Bookstore" height="183" src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/egb7B4yo08ok9ZqhGKK7Ajn1KSazuoCb05uKrAWdPvygBMjoxQCct1tgyB78/bookstore.jpgsrc" width="275" /> </div> </div> <p /> <p /> <div>I went to a local boutique used bookstore yesterday. I was kinda taken with a nice tome on a pet subject: opera, but I didn't take it home with me; they were asking 8 dollars for it. I know that better deals are out there and I just happen to know a few of those local 'there's.' <br /> </div> <div style="CLEAR: both;">I hopped in the Red Rover and checked out the selection in one of my <a href="http://www.oen.ca/dir/detail.php?id=683">favourite haunts </a>in Georgetown. This place is <em>unreal, </em>to speak, as Professor Marvel did in <em>the Wizard of Oz</em>, "in the vernacular of the peasantry." They stock everything including the kitchen sink; cast-offs, archaic electronics, constructions ends, sports equipment and more. Junk conceals treasure if you're a passionate but patient bargain stalker. </div> <p /> <div style="CLEAR: both;">To get to the book section I picked my way past recycling bins of musty paper and scrap metal, towering shelves of small appliances, lamps, fixtures, vinyl music collections, camera equipment; the list is longer - than a really long list. I made a pit stop in the sports aisle where I steeled myself against involuntary shudder and nostril flutters as I sidled by old hockey equipment. I didn't see the baseball gloves I wanted to pick up but admit that I didn't manually sift through a lot of the rubble; my tolerance for mustiness and age being much greater for books than for than the discarded trappings of latter-day gladiators.</div> <p /> <div style="CLEAR: both;">The lighting throughout is, at best, inadequate; in the book section though, it's down-right cave-like. The shelves stand about seven feet high; they obstruct the light in all kinds of challenging ways, casting shadows, obscuring titles and making dark hiding places. I scanned quickly, looking for quality bindings, early editions, vintage cookbooks and favourite authors. My heartbeat quickened like a junkie getting close to his 'fix' and I noticed, but peripherally, two or three others in the same state - and hoped that we all had different reading tastes. A couple of books of photograph collections seduced me for a time - ahhhh <em>photography</em>; my could'a-should'a-would'a-career...</div> <p /> <div style="CLEAR: both;">I walked deeper into the Black Forest of book shelves where the fiction titles were kept; instinct nudging me along. Then among the musty fruit on the battered metal shelves, I found a row of truffles - dictionaries and word books. Like the maid and the undertaker looking over Ebeneezer Scrooge's boudoir appointments, I instantly sized up the entire row and chose six books on words or writing. What incredible bargains; very good condition, both soft and hard covers; <em><a href="http://www.amazon.ca/Readers-Digest-Illustrated-Reverse-Dictionary/dp/0864490003/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1309020976&sr=1-1">The Readers Digest Illustrated Reverse Dictionary</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.ca/Brewers-Dictionary-Phrase-Fable-16e/dp/006019653X/ref=sr_1_6?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1309021073&sr=1-6">Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase & Fable</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.ca/Shoot-Puppy-Tony-Thorne/dp/0140515801/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1309021166&sr=1-1">Shoot the Puppy, How to Build a Better Vocabulary</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.ca/First-Five-Pages-WriterS-Rejection/dp/068485743X/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1309021299&sr=1-1">The First Five Pages</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.ca/Introduction-Fiction-X-J-Kennedy/dp/0321475836/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1309021344&sr=1-1">An Introduction to Fiction</a></em><a href="http://www.amazon.ca/Introduction-Fiction-X-J-Kennedy/dp/0321475836/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1309021344&sr=1-1"> </a>and my single fiction title, <a href="http://www.amazon.ca/Shipping-News-Annie-Proulx/dp/0671510053/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1309021397&sr=1-1"><em>The Shipping News.</em></a><em> </em>What a fix! I picked a path back through the maze of miscellania and dropped my finds on the check-out table and here's the hilarious part; unless of course, you're still laughing about my love for dictionaries; the books are priced <em>by the pound</em>; the sales person loaded the lot onto a scale and told me the cost was $6.50!!</div> <div style="CLEAR: both;">Six dollars and fifty cents - I couldn't believe that and I didn't have to do the math to know that I saved at least $200.00! <p /> <p /> </div></div>Judihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910251221542778255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364839967650025299.post-15202310838562185392011-05-26T10:08:00.001-04:002011-05-26T10:08:02.731-04:00Herbie Hancock - Don't Give Up - Too Amazing to Keep to Myself<div class='posterous_autopost'><p>This song came as a beautiful surprise for me when I opened my email this morning. I'd like to share it with everyone, especially the young cyber friend with whom I correspond from time to time. Tabitha is a young lady struggling bravely and increasingly optimistically with life's challenges. She came to my attention when I was browsing online diaries for research I was doing over a year ago. Tabitha's words jumped off the page at me; they were so full of raw emotions - anger, pain, fatigue. I felt for her because I, too, had limped along a similar dreary path. </p> <p> </p> <p><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/uVQxSFG-ahk" allowfullscreen frameborder="0" height="417" width="500"></iframe></p></div>Judihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910251221542778255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364839967650025299.post-38149142216820430762011-04-18T14:39:00.001-04:002011-04-18T14:39:36.784-04:00Mark of a Good Opera? It Passes the "Pub and Pal" Test!!<div class='posterous_autopost'> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt 36pt;"><strong><i style="">“Director, Emilio Fina, accomplished an artistic and logistic coup in <a href="http://www.operakitchener.com/mission.html">Opera Kitchener </a>production of the Barber of Seville at the River Run Centre in Guelph last night</i>...”</strong></div> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><strong>When I go to the opera, I don’t go as a skeptic anymore; I’m converted - I’ve been, I saw and - yes, I was conquered.<span style=""> </span>I now <i style="">love</i> opera. I chalked up my latest adventure with Opera Kitchener’s rollicking “<a href="http://www.operakitchener.com/barber.html">Barber of Seville</a>” at the </strong><strong><a href="http://www.riverrun.ca/">River Run Centre</a> in Guelph last night – yessss, the “Figaro” opera! <span style=""> </span>It was really important for me that my date enjoyed the evening too.<span style=""> </span>He’d <i style="">never</i> been to the opera in all of his <i style="">considerable </i>years and I dreaded the sarcastic “I told you so” sneer if he did not like it.<span style=""> </span></strong></div> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><strong>Gerry’s a ‘pub and tweed’ variety Englishman.<span style=""> </span>He enjoys a good laugh, a good pastie and good ale with his mates – and not necessarily in that order. <span style=""> </span>Habits, custom and creature comforts are hugely important to Gerry.<span style=""> </span>He was anxious about the dress code beforehand but I assured him that it wasn’t formal – it was <i style="">Guelph</i> after all, not the <i style="">Met </i>for heaven’s sakes!<span style=""> </span>He asked me what time we HAD to get there... I told him, and gave no indication that I could tell he would have happily begged off given the slightest opportunity.<span style=""> </span>I must confess to using psychology on Gerry – I didn’t validate any of his subtly understated anxieties and so, overrode his unstated objection to the idea as a <i style="">concept</i>.<span style=""> </span>I managed the not inconsiderable task of getting him there; with an <em>open mind</em>, but for his attitude conversion, I let the pros take over!<span style=""> </span>What follows is an account of how Gerry’s operatic resistance met its Waterloo – in Guelph...</strong></div> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><strong>We met in the lobby.<span style=""> </span>I drove from my house in Acton and Gerry walked from his in Guelph. “What a gorgeous day!” he said, agreeably enough as soon as he caught sight of me.<span style=""> </span>I caught his hand and ushered him, with a smile and a nod, past the friendly volunteer greeter, a little lady named Vera, I think, and into the “pub.” Ok, it’s not an actual pub but a rye and ginger in hand and a little table with a view of the riverside park beside us produced a very comfortable vibe.<span style=""> </span>We thus loitered, languidly looking at the incoming patrons file in then disperse towards their various theatre entrances until we’d “drunk our drinks” as the English say and went in to find our seats. <span style=""> </span>Gerry looked <i style="">not</i> anxious!</strong></div> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><strong>Conductor, <a href="http://www.operabyrequest.ca/about/director.htm">William Shookoff</a>, was the first<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>pro to go to work on Gerry; like a masseuse, he loosened him up and built his anticipation by leading the orchestra in the infectious, iconic opera overture that is comforting in its absolutely, universal familiarity.<span style=""> </span>By the time the curtain went up, Gerry sat docile and bemused, the Berlin Wall of his opposition swaying in time with William’s baton.<span style=""> </span></strong></div> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><strong>What followed was the systematic construction of a brand new opera convert after each stage of which I shouted a climatic “<i style="">yes, </i><i style=""><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%; FONT-SIZE: 12pt;">yes</span></i>, <i style=""><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%; FONT-SIZE: 14pt;">yes</span></i>!!”</strong></div> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><strong>We both loved the “Barber.” Gerry’s first time to the opera was my first time seeing this Rossini production.<span style=""> </span>The thing that’s most surprising for first-timers, we found, was how timeless and appealing opera still is today.<span style=""> </span>That’s because the characters are such simple archetypes: the young lover, the fair maiden, the scheming villain, the comically scornful commoner. The themes are perennial: love, sex, greed and revenge, ensuring, always, a little something for everyone and a culminating catharsis for all. <span style=""> </span>In Fina’s production we were quite in awe of the acting which we thought would be secondary to the singing.<span style=""> </span>Gerry told me he would have known what was going on, even without the English surtitles, merely by the expressivity of the voices and the facial expressions.</strong></div> <strong> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="FLOAT: left;"><div class='p_embed p_image_embed'> <img alt="Jennifer_fina" height="184" src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/YzkqqbvUo1iobcs7BFY59drDpXBheMR2YFm05gvg57ad1nRMAtNhhI0f7CP0/Jennifer_Fina.jpgsrc" width="150" /> </div> </div> <p /> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">Particularly charming about the performances was the fact that the lovers, Count</div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="FLOAT: right;"> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="FLOAT: none;"><div class='p_embed p_image_embed'> <img alt="Emilio" height="226" src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/clFDQM8DwMxOOq2cd5cHnOduwIkEGYqG9zG9bH7bFSzqMuyvic4GNbTofwcV/emilio.jpgsrc" width="170" /> </div> </div> <p /> </div> <p /> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"> Almaviva, played by Fina, himself and Rosina, played by Jennifer Elisabetta Fina </div> <p /> <p /> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">are, of course, real life husband and wife. <span style=""> </span>Their beautiful arias were convincing and poignant.<span style=""> </span>Not surprisingly though, for my affable Brit date, Gerry was completely won over by the comic portions of the opera.<span style=""> </span>William Lewans as Doctor Bartolo was hysterical in his unkempt, eye-rolling, blustering and scheming and kept us laughing throughout as did the energetic and talented Andrew Tam as Fiorello while Karen Bojti, playing Berta, thrilled us both with her impressive voice and stage presence.</div></strong> <div align="center" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><strong>I am so happy and excited to discover this first class company in my own backyard!<span style=""> </span>Next fall they will be performing Mozart’s “The Magic Flute” and yes, I will be back, with my pub and tweed and newly opera-philic date! </strong></div> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><strong>Mark <a href="http://www.operakitchener.com/index.html">this website </a>so you won't miss Opera Kitchener’s next exciting production!</strong></div></div>Judihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910251221542778255noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364839967650025299.post-46479135999066985702011-03-06T21:34:00.001-05:002011-03-06T21:34:55.028-05:00Opera York - Cosi Fan Tutte<div class='posterous_autopost'> <div style="CLEAR: both;"> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style=""> </span>Like most of you, I have stashes of higher quality items that I reserve for special occasions – dishes, wines, lingerie!<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>My Wedgewood china, for instance, shouts Christmas and celebration and the bounty of an inspired kitchen.<span style=""> </span>I <i style="">even</i> have a special box of words that I will use only with the utmost discrimination lest overuse render them banal and diluted.<span style=""> </span>Last night I saw the Mozart/Da Ponte opera, Cosi Fan Tutte.<span style=""> </span>The <a href="http://www.operayork.com/">Opera York </a>production in the glittering <a href="http://www.rhcentre.ca/">Richmond Hill Centre for the Performing Arts</a>: <span style=""><div class='p_embed p_image_embed'> <img alt="Richmond" height="185" src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/IKFTJp8HMuj9JrSBhU0dOQUW0pjHuUbO9dMc77RqfnJUUnKSBmbUGJsVmRYF/richmond.jpgsrc" width="272" /> </div> </span></div> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">sent me on a frantic search for my dusty chest of special occasion words!<span style=""> </span></div> <span style=""> </span><div class="envelope" align="left" style="FLOAT: none;"><div class='p_embed p_image_embed'> <a href="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/wOKHpibevdNcjhrvRnzSbouHSS9mA85r0uugsOsbPBAOaX7qURElU6z8mxS6/opera_words.jpg"><img alt="Opera_words" height="137.785016286645" src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/wOKHpibevdNcjhrvRnzSbouHSS9mA85r0uugsOsbPBAOaX7qURElU6z8mxS6/opera_words.jpg" width="600" /></a> </div> </div> <p /> <p /></div> <p /> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><em><strong>Permit me now to panegyrize!</strong></em></div> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">Opera is a new passion of mine. It is an intoxicating addiction – a sublime fusion of artistic multitudes, the combined genius of which delivers the ultimate soul food.<span style=""> </span>Eternally enamoured of Mozart, I was a push-over for last night’s performance of Cosi Fan Tutte.<span style=""> </span>From the time I entered the lovely Richmond Hill Centre with my dashing father, Frank Garel:<span style=""></span></div> <p /> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="FLOAT: none;"><div class='p_embed p_image_embed'> <a href="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/vjtPlvfBVf3aBc4MY24p0lG4fYXtUoOI3xodHMuq1hhFJHJSLQLHQAMQrfoR/meandad_2.jpg.scaled.1000.jpg"><img alt="Meandad_2" height="945" src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/vjtPlvfBVf3aBc4MY24p0lG4fYXtUoOI3xodHMuq1hhFJHJSLQLHQAMQrfoR/meandad_2.jpg.scaled.1000.jpg" width="1000" /></a> </div> </div> <p /> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">...until the time I left, I felt pampered and welcomed – like a guest of honour really.<span style=""> </span></div> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">At this early stage of my opera love affair every performance is an exciting first and a pure delight as I sit with a smile and try to contain that irresistible urge to jump up and conduct the orchestra like Richard Gere did as a manic fan in the movie <i style="">Mr. Jones. </i><span style=""> </span>My ignorance of all things musical is not a barrier to my complete immersion in the music, theatrics and sense of grand occasion that I feel when taking my oh-so-comfortable seat in that lovely theatre. </div> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">I am already anxious to schedule my next fix! <span style=""> </span></div></div>Judihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910251221542778255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364839967650025299.post-89980241412444221602011-02-24T01:59:00.001-05:002011-02-24T01:59:59.385-05:00Spring and Love and Cosi Fan Tutte<div class='posterous_autopost'> <div style="FONT-FAMILY: arial,helvetica; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 10pt;"> <div><p /> <div style="CLEAR: both;"> <div><a href="http://www.operayork.com/springseason.html">Opera York </a>presents its spring production of Mozart's Cosi Fan Tutte to grace the stage at the <a href="http://www.rhcentre.ca/">Richmond Hill Centre For the Performing Arts </a>with 3 performances on Febrary 27, March 3 and March 5. In keeping with the season, Cosi Fan Tutte is a light and comic opera about the consequences of a cynical old man's wager with 2 young men about the fidelity of their fiancees. Hysteria, confusion, temptation and surrender follow Don Alfonso's (played by baritone, <a href="http://www.jeunessesmusicales.com/en/main_nav/artists/dion-mazerolle/">Dion Mazerolle</a>) announcement to Fiordiligi (played by soprano,<a href="http://www.stepwithstyle.ca/faculty/rCleland-Ainsworth.htm"> Rachel Cleland-Ainsworth</a>) and her sister, Dorabella (played by soprano, Marcelle Boisjoili) that their fiances have been called away to war. Aiding and abetting the deception is the clever streetwise maid to the two young women, Despina, (played by <a href="http://www.casualopera.com/artists_bateman.html">Anna Bateman</a>). The fiances, Fernando (played by tenor, Ryan Harper) and Guglielmo (played by baritone, Anthony Cleverton) return in disguise to woo and put to the test, the fidelity of their own fiancees who turn rather quickly from grief to capitulation proving, as Don Alfonso contended, that "all women are like that" which is the rough translation of the opera's title. Opera York amassed an impressive array of talent - on stage, in the orchestra pit and behind the scenes to deliver this world-class production. A machine of well-tuned artistic and logistic ability, Opera York has established itself as a formidable presence in the Canadian arts scene with season after season of exceptional productions. </div> <p /> <div>I was sooo excited and priviledged to attend their dress rehearsal last night at the centre. What I saw at rehearsal was a focussed, energy-charged assemblage, already polished to a flawless sheen and ready to take Richmond Hill by storm! </div> <p /> <div>For a preview of what is in store, see below, and for the complete photo stream, which isn't nearly as breathtaking as the images of Opera York's professional photographer, (the Canadian) <a href="http://www.gregking.ca/">Greg King,</a> click <a href="http://https://picasaweb.google.com/111521486306637040713/CosiFanTutte?feat=directlink">HERE!</a></div> <div>Hope to see you at the opera! <strong><a href="http://www.operayork.com/tickets.html">Click HERE for tickets</a></strong></div> <p /> </div> </div></div> <p><a href='http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/9QVgvo24svELWuhwmY10QwS0QcoDDBm2cmKhyY4DiR8xCXCjUgHznnSVAI1A/IMG_0110.jpgsrc.scaled.1000.jpg'><img src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/9QVgvo24svELWuhwmY10QwS0QcoDDBm2cmKhyY4DiR8xCXCjUgHznnSVAI1A/IMG_0110.jpgsrc.scaled.1000.jpg" width="1000" height="750"/></a> <a href='http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/lxGLwlaiKfi2dajwJoGqFsxSpM6SzSePPXkHWJUb2sW3s5tvNiCKbRRGwvCS/IMG_0099.jpgsrc.scaled.1000.jpg'><img src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/lxGLwlaiKfi2dajwJoGqFsxSpM6SzSePPXkHWJUb2sW3s5tvNiCKbRRGwvCS/IMG_0099.jpgsrc.scaled.1000.jpg" width="1000" height="750"/></a> <div><a href='http://juddzz.posterous.com/spring-and-love-and-cosi-fan-tutte'>See and download the full gallery on posterous</a></div></p></div>Judihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910251221542778255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364839967650025299.post-84349905396831675492010-12-30T11:09:00.000-05:002010-12-30T11:09:32.738-05:00[About] Ernest Chausson - Classical Archives<a href="http://www.classicalarchives.com/composer/2320.html#tvf=tracks&tv=about">[About] Ernest Chausson - Classical Archives</a>: "Ernest Chausson"<br /><br />Just listening to this composer for the first time. If you've never listened to him, then you must.Judihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910251221542778255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364839967650025299.post-21467704961909889772010-12-09T14:52:00.001-05:002010-12-09T14:52:42.125-05:00Transplanting Time<span xmlns=''><p> "Ooooooooh, here it comes!" Mandy quickly brought the bottle of <em>so-so </em>champagne to her mouth as the exuberant wine effervesced like Mt. St. Helens. She poured some – shear liquid gaiety, into a crystal flute made brilliant by the midday sun on this warm late-April morning. Turning around, Mandy's wellington-shod feet "thwucked" loudly as they were grudgingly released by the mud. She smiled as she squared-up to a ten-foot by thirty-foot garden plot. Raising her arm in a grandiose flourish she addressed the clumps of nondescript greenness that were emerging from the mud; "I'm very proud of you all!" she began. "I know it was painful to be uprooted and land in strange soil but look at you! You're two weeks early this spring! This new soil agrees with you and if this is any indication of things to come, I believe this will be our best year ever!" There was no reply or applause, only a tacit acknowledgment of praise conferred in the glowing sheen of a leaf and the rustle of a bell-shaped flower. <br /></p><p>Grabbing the bottle of champagne, Mandy excused herself with a deep bow and retreated to the shelter of her sunny deck to sip her champagne in the comfort of a cushioned Muskoka chair. She was deliciously tired and content where she sat. She contemplated her new garden and remembered her last day in her old one. That was six months ago...<br /></p><p><br /> </p><p>She had just finished planting her spring bulbs. Mandy straightened up from the dirt; winced and rubbed her hip. Gardening at 45 wasn't the sheer joy it had been at 30 but pleasure in her art was as keen as ever. "Now I'll hide you from the squirrels and we'll see more of each other in the spring," she said to the hairy tulip bulbs she'd just buried under seven inches of rich black loam. She raked more dirt and leaves over the buried bulbs and smiled at her silliness. Her plants were like dear, old friends to her and she talked to them and cared for them as such. She fed and sheltered her Delphinium transplants, pruned and coaxed her Rudbekia into boastful bloom, talked-out her dilemmas with her Phlox and vented frustrations on her Hostas. Wherever she moved she brought her friends and settled them proudly in their new garden. After that, she watched them falter and rally, then take hold and flourish and it struck her how even the gentle side of nature had life lessons to share with us in courage and tenacity. Picking up a spouted green metal watering can festooned with bright yellow sunflowers, Mandy showered her flat of favourite plant cuttings. Then she rotated the flat to encourage the bending supplicants to straighten up as they looked once more for the sun. Finished her gardening, she picked up her trowel and gently rubbed off every bit of grime and moisture so it wouldn't rust. <br /></p><p>Mandy's grandmother gave her that trowel when Mandy was fifteen years old. As she did so, Grandma's gnarled rheumatic hands squeezed to whiteness the perfect pink hands of her surprised granddaughter. The gauze of decades of overuse lifted momentarily from the old woman's clouded hazel eyes and she strained to impart a cryptic message that sounded to Mandy like a warning. She said, "<em>This</em> is the most important tool you will ever own. Let it remind you that whatever problems come crashing down upon you; you will <em>always</em> be able to dig your way out." At that time, the most serious problem Mandy could conceive of was how to pass grade ten math, but she took the trowel happily. Already a gardener, Mandy treasured that gift like she treasured her grandmother who passed away the following year. <br /></p><p> Mandy stood for a moment and rubbed the tightness out of her lower back. Over the lattice top of the wooden fence that divided her garden from her neighbour's toy-strewn backyard, she saw her neighbours, Janis and David and their nine-month-old son, Nickolas. The young parents were trying to enjoy their coffee together but baby Nicolas, crying in David's arms, had other ideas. <br /></p><p>"Good morning everyone," Mandy said peeling off her gardening gloves, "I think my little friend is horribly bored with you two at the moment. Why don't you let me take him to the park? He can shake out his sillies and I can work out my kinks!"<br /></p><p>Janis' mouth opened in surprise. "I'd love to be able to finish a cup of coffee while it's still hot" she said, "but do you have any energy left after all that gardening?" <br /></p><p>"Of course, I have," said Mandy "in fact a walk is exactly what I need after contorting my back in my backyard jungle for the past two hours." <br /></p><p>"You've got yourself a peanut then, lady!" David said. Smiling, he seated eight-month-old Nicolas in his stroller and wheeled it around the fence to meet Mandy at the gate. He rounded the corner, saw Mandy and closed the gap. He wasn't smiling any more. He reached for her elbow, and drew her closer. In a voice barely above a whisper he said, "We were so worried about you last night! We heard him raving in there all night long. It sounded like he was tearing the whole house down! We almost called the police. It's getting worse, Mandy – you know it is. He's going to snap and when he does I think someone's going to get seriously hurt!"<br /></p><p>She felt the truth of his words. The gnawing stomach pain that she'd lived with for months made her sick but she pushed it aside like she always did and said, "You <em>can't</em> do that, David. Please don't do that. I have to handle this carefully or it will get worse. If he's pushed into a corner by the police he'll strike back at <em>me</em>." <br /></p><p>David looked at her wild green eyes that pleaded with him for complicity. He reluctantly agreed but warned, "Next time, I <em>will</em> interfere, Mandy; no one should have to live like this. Do you still want to take Nicko?"<br /></p><p>"Of course I do," she said; "I want a date with my boyfriend." She was happy to ground herself in something commonplace and push her problems to the background. "Go and enjoy your coffee with your beautiful wife and we'll all unwind for an hour, OK?" Smiling now, Mandy slid between David and the stroller and started pushing it down the walkway towards the sidewalk. The sun bounced off the yellow leaves that the wind whipped up in little cyclones beside her and she smiled. She picked up a large leaf for Nicko to wave with as they walked along. <br /></p><p>She never smiled in the house, she mused as she continued; not genuinely anyhow. She often pretended to be happy and light but that was just part of a "normal game" she'd made up so long that she couldn't remember if she'd started it to please her sons or to fool outsiders. Concentrating a wrinkle onto her pale forehead she thought about the night before.<br /></p><p>It was a Friday night. Wayne was always at his worst on Friday nights. He was a finite vessel for infinite frustration. It mounted in him; palpably seething, all week long until home for the weekend, he finally exploded; firing an automatic salvo of rage on captive sitting ducks - verbal shrapnel aimed squarely at his flinching family who were never prepared enough and never fast enough to escape. It was their Friday evening ritual, like fish and chips, or house league hockey or date nights were for other families. Wayne had zero tolerance for daily irritations. Like the ravages wrought by a common cold on a body with a weak immune system, the most benign interaction could provoke in him a reaction of explosive rage. On Tuesday, a young girl at the coffee shop drive-thru window told him she wasn't allowed to take car trash from him as he went through. Coming home that night, he actually flushed with pleasure and excitement as he recounted the episode to Mandy and he proudly described how he "went up one side of her and down the other". <br /></p><p>She thought about that poor girl as she made her daily inspection of the front hallway – clearing away anything in the path that might anger Wayne when he got home, like Justin's trombone case or Cory's hockey stick – that unfortunate coffee-slinger probably wracked her brains trying to think of what she had done so wrong to offend him so much. Mandy looked at her watch; it was five to six. Wayne would be home shortly. Her stomach was a cupboardful of broken crystal; her heart beat like a hummingbird's, and her mouth dried up like desert dew on a cactus. She wanted to back fully against the solid hallway wall and disappear within but she didn't. Instead, she closed her eyes, took one deep breath and commanded her features into a serene lie. Did her sons have a similar ritual she wondered? Did Justin don an invisible coat of armour? Did Cory become an impervious super hero? Did Tyler beg his teddy bear for help? In the end it didn't matter – those rituals and talismans – they were all useless.<br /></p><p>As the clock approached six, Tyler, the youngest at five was watching TV in the darkened den, twelve-year-old Cory, was in the basement playing computer games, and Justin, the oldest at fourteen was upstairs doing homework in his bedroom. Everyone in their separate corners of the large four bedroom house – hedging their bets, no doubt, that they'd each be overlooked in their chosen bunkers. So quiet it was – for a house with three boys.<br /></p><p>It was six o'clock – time to get dinner on the table. Mandy went to the kitchen to pull the hot lasagne out of the oven. Just as she lifted the large glass casserole, Wayne burst through the back door and bombarded her with, "What the <em>fuck</em> is going on here?" His face was luminously angry. Expecting him through the front door, she hadn't braced for a rear assault. She started and jerked around and gasped as the casserole dish slipped and shattered on the hard porcelain floor sending dinner all over the ivory-coloured tiles, painting them a vibrant terra cotta. Mandy looked from the floor to her husband's face. He looked at his dinner on the floor and spat out again, "Fuck! Why did I even come home tonight?"<br /></p><p><em>Why do you come home any night!</em> Mandy thought while trying to get the mess scooped up with a dustpan. "There's beer in the fridge," she mumbled with her head bent down, hiding the tears that she couldn't control. If they were lucky, he would blow off his end-of-the-week steam and fall asleep on the couch after four or five beers.<br /></p><p>"Where's Justin and Cory?" he asked but didn't wait for an answer. "Justin and Cory!" he bellowed through the house, "Get your asses down here, now!"<br /></p><p>The two older boys arrived in the kitchen at the same time. The entered slowly, their faces still, their eyes dull and surrounding them, an air of resignment. They knew they were in for it, but as usual, they did not know why. Justin glanced at his mother, down on her knees, still cleaning up their ruined dinner and then at his father and he closed his mouth tightly.<br /></p><p>"I thought I told you two slobs to clean up that shit in the garage this morning!" he said. "I need some more room for my van or it's going to end scratched to hell like your mother's car that she doesn't give a shit about!"<br /></p><p>"We're going to, Dad..." Justin began.<br /></p><p>Mandy added, "Wayne, they've been at school all day and tomorrow's Saturday; they can do it then."<br /></p><p> Wayne's face turned a darker shade of angry and he slammed his fist into the wall. The hanging tiles shook and little cracks spidered-out around where his fist had been. Cory's eyes widened and he flinched and caught his breath. <br /></p><p>"Don't defend them!" Wayne ordered. "They're just lazy, spoilt slobs who don't know how to show respect and that's something they get from you! <em>None</em> of you ever listen to me and none of you ever do anything right – you're all <em>fuck-ups</em> – all of you!" <br /></p><p>That was the gist of his grievance. He explicated it all night long – or so it seemed, in endless variations on the same theme. He divided his "attention" equally among them – on and off for the next hour or more. There was more wall-slamming and throwing of carefully selected objects like her reading glasses and Cory's Nintendo game. <br /></p><p>Eventually Mandy grabbed a couple of granola bars and whisked Tyler upstairs, washed him up and read to him for a half an hour, then put him to bed after prolonged hugging. Tyler didn't say a thing about his father's anger; he just rolled towards the wall and hugged his teddy bear.<br /></p><p>On the second floor, Mandy could still hear yelling. Wayne had an Olympic capacity for sustained rage and she hadn't been down stairs to deflect it from her two other sons. She hurried down the dark wooden steps to the den. Her heart sank and she cried inside when she saw the state that Justin was in. Reduced to a crying mass, he was curled up on the rocking chair, huddled in the foetal position – defenceless – worn-down by his father's verbal battery. All he could say was, "Leave me alone... leave me alone..."<br /></p><p>She took up a position between Justin and her husband who was lounging on the love-seat with beer in his hand. "That's enough, leave him alone," she begged, her voice catching. They were all sick and tired; defeated, bruised and battered as if from a physical attack. A beating would have been easier to take than the siege he had waged for hours on their souls; a siege that robbed them of hope and volition.<br /></p><p>"Keep out of this!" he hissed bringing his thick arm and massive fist up to her attention.<br /></p><p>She would have grabbed the two older boys and run from the house at that point but Tyler was upstairs in bed. She wouldn't leave him alone with Wayne. She froze as he pinned her with a look of hatred and she wondered what he saw in her to bring that expression to his face. <br /></p><p>"NO!" she cried. <br /></p><p>The massive word hung heavy in the air. Her stomach heaved waiting for his reaction. He breathed hard, grinding his teeth between clenched lips.<br /></p><p>With pounding heart, she took a step towards him and shook her finger at him, "We've had enough!" she said. <br /></p><p>Her entire body tightened as she noted his heaving chest and flared nostrils. He squeezed his fist and his face began to twitch. But Mandy took a deep breath and took another step towards him. Her heartbeat rose to a crescendo and she felt a rush of rage and exhilaration as she continued in a stronger impassioned voice, "<em>How</em> can you come home, night after night and put your family through this and think you deserve a <em>scrap</em> of respect?" <br /></p><p>Wayne's chest gave a violent shudder and he shoved himself to his feet never taking his eyes off her. She didn't try to flee; in fact, it was all she could do to hold herself back from jumping at him with all her strength. She wanted to hurt him and beat him until he shut up. They both stood, breathing hard, and they stared at each other. Then he came for her. Grabbing her arm in a vice, he sneered, "OK you Bitch, this is war! I'm not putting up with you and your ignorance and your disrespect!" He raised his other hand in a fist and brought it down to her face. She froze in horror... He checked his blow at the last moment then casting one last look of loathing he shook her away from him and marched out of the den and retired to their bedroom.<br /></p><p>She hugged her sons and cried a few silent tears. Shell-shocked and exhausted, the three sat quietly and tried to relax as they watched a movie together; a comedy about a young man from a dysfunctional family trying to get into a good college. Few words were said between mother and sons before going to bed. They lay their heads together briefly before saying a quiet, "goodnight;" then hugged, but very gently, as if they expected to find broken bones somewhere. Family evening was over.<br /></p><p><br /> </p><p>Mandy came back from her musings when she heard Nikolas cry out in excitement. He could see the swing set at the park and knew that he was finally going to get some fun out of the morning. "OK then, honey bunch; let's see how high we can swing this baby!" They played together for an hour and both of them forgot their woes. She watched the kids playing in the sandbox. They coughed and sputtered for their action figures buried in cars under the sand after a "big earthquake." "Where am I? Somebody call 9-1-1!" a boy yelled out.<br /></p><p>"Don't worry," shouted his little girlfriend. "I have a shovel. I'll dig them out!" Definitely her grandma's kind of gal, Mandy thought and watched as the girl began her rescue. 'We have to act fast or they'll suffocate!" she said, and she bent her black braids over the debris and worked the shovel furiously with her chubby little fingers. She unearthed the distressed toys and held them up triumphantly. Watching intently now, Mandy froze, transfixed by what she'd just seen. The whole scene had become strangely interlaced with the image of her grandmother; way back when she gave Mandy the gardening trowel. She heard the echo of her grandmother's raspy urgent voice saying "...<em>whatever problems come crashing down upon you; you will always be able to dig your way out</em>" and something moved inside her – she felt a lightening as a faint fearful hope took root. <br /></p><p>Quickly, she scooped Nicko up, and said, "Well my hot little date, it's time to get you back for your lunch and N-A-P." She gave him a hug and tickled him into submission before snapping him into his stroller. Waving "bye-bye" to the park, they headed back home. Her eyes sparkled with unaccustomed anticipation of something <em>not horrendous</em> as they splashed back through the fall leaves. <br /></p><p><br /> </p><p>When the two got back, Janis and David were still outside. Hearing Nicko's yells, they turned; happy now, that he was home. "Who is <em>this</em> cheerful fellow?" Janis asked taking Nicko out of his stroller. "Thank-you so much Mandy; it's amazing what a difference a quiet hour can make, isn't it?" she asked, giving Mandy a hug. <br /></p><p>"Yes, quite amazing in fact!" agreed Mandy giving Nicko a parting tickle under his arm. "We sorted each other out this morning and came home with shiny new attitudes!" Then turning to David, Mandy asked "Is there any action from next door yet?"<br /></p><p>"Wayne took the van out about fifteen minutes ago and we haven't heard from the kids yet."<br /></p><p>"That's good," Mandy said with a deep breath of relief. Her body relaxed noticeably; "A couple of quiet hours should be enough time."<br /></p><p>When stress has been routine for so long, relief can come over you as a burden – almost unbearable. When your body starts to relax you feel it crumble; you can't figure out how to hold your limbs to your torso without the usual tourniquet tenseness of muscular contraction that they're used to. Even your head feels weightless, dizzy and drunken. The stress gushes out in a silent painful exodus, oozing from every square inch of your shaking, hurting body that can no longer support you so you collapse sobbing on the floor, or on the ground, or on your bed or as Mandy did, into the arms of her startled but comforting friend and neighbour.<br /></p><p>"It's all over David" she cried as he continued to support her. "It's all over..." <br /></p><p><br /> </p><p> <br /> </p><p> <br /> </p><p><br /> </p><p><br /> </p><p><br /> </p><p><br /> </p><p><br /> </p></span>Judihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910251221542778255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364839967650025299.post-5224132409596689582010-12-01T09:47:00.001-05:002010-12-01T09:47:22.709-05:00Sleepless in Acton!<div class='posterous_autopost'> <div><br /> Did you ever have one of those long nights where you wake up at 2:30 and just know you're not going to get back to sleep so you:</div> <ul> <li>Make a tall cup of herbal tea</li> <li>check your e-mail </li> <li>peak in on your baby turtle to see if he's showing ANY signs of life</li> <li>mentally make your to-do list</li> <li>try to forget about the worry list</li> <li>grab your glasses and pick out a book (like Kurt Vonnegut's "Jailbird")</li></ul> <div>And then...</div> <p /> <div>Growing tired, you turn out the lights again; say around 5:00, but uneasy, you still don't shut your eyes that aren't yet used to what only <em>seems</em> like complete darkness. So you lie there trying to make out some shadow past the open window whose curtains you drew back 2 hours before to let in some light and sound. You think you see a shadow emerge to distinguish the different shades of dark, but knowing that the senses fabricate images from experience, you doubt them at first. But the shadow's contrast grows and more light creaps into the bedroom. At this point you start waking up again; there are too many distractions in the room - light of all different colours appears - a tiny red light from the computer (you thought you'd covered all those annoying pin-points of laser red dots), the LED from the clock on the dresser, the purplish-black glow of Leonardo's terrarium light (that keeps his rock warm). </div> <p /> <div>Me neither...</div> <p style="font-size: 10px;"> <a href="http://posterous.com">Posted via email</a> from <a href="http://juddzz.posterous.com/sleepless-in-acton">juddzz's posterous</a> </p> </div>Judihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910251221542778255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364839967650025299.post-33723961839730690532010-11-25T16:53:00.003-05:002010-11-29T07:33:00.262-05:00The Tide of Change<div class="posterous_autopost"><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">It was the best day of Ryan’s life. Rockin’ out with the sickest group of musicians he’d ever met, he felt like he’d gone straight to heaven without the bloody, zombie-rampaging part in-between. Finally, all the hours and days and months of practicing had paid off – big-time! He - Ryan Francis Martin was the drummer for the “Wyld Stalyuns” and he rocked at the only 2 things that mattered in this whole entire world, playing music and impressing Jessica Manley. Coming off a wicked solo he smiled in the direction of the group of girls jumping in front of the school stage shouting “Ry-an, Ry-an!” But his smile was meant for only one of them.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">Then suddenly the chanting turned to “Get up, get up!” Jessica’s adoring face dissolved before him like a mirage in the desert and a hand was on his shoulder shaking him. “<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Noooooo</span>! Noooooo! Leave me alone!” Ryan pulled the covers over his head and groaned, “I reeeeeally don’t want to get up!”<br />
</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><a name='more'></a>“Get up, get up!” the voice said again. He turned over, moaning and found the wide brown eyes of his 13-year-old twin brother, Kevin, loom way to close and way too bright before his face. </div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">“It’s... too... <b>early</b>... to get up,” protested Ryan. “What part of the word ‘summer vacation’ don’t you understand?” He was awake now but not happy about it and not happy about being at his grandmother’s house in freaking Digby, Nova Scotia, not happy that his mother was sick, and definitely not happy that his father wasn’t with them. Kevin was excited though. Looking with annoyance at his brother, Ryan wondered as he often did how they could even belong to the same family let alone be twins. They didn’t even look alike. Kevin was bigger and solid; built like a Hummer, and he was darker with brown eyes and brown-black hair taking after their father. Ryan was blue-eyed; pale with freckles, fair skinned and blond. And; what really irritated Ryan – Kevin always found something to be happy about; he was the kind of guy who could break every last bone in his body yet get up the next morning and fart <i>pure</i> sunshine.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;"> “You have to get up,” Kevin said; “This place is amazing!” Last night they’d come in late and hadn’t seen anything. Grandma had picked them and their mom up at the train station. They could smell the strange salty air as soon as they got off the train and they squinted through the windows of the beat-up pick-up truck looking for signs of the ocean but everything was black. “Wait ‘til you see it. The ocean’s practically in our front yard!” Kevin continued, “Grandma’s making breakfast on a wood-burning stove and I looked across the street and saw a boat just sitting on the beach looking like nobody owns it.” </div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">The word, “breakfast” got Ryan’s attention. He gave his brother a half smile and rubbed his eyes. “Hmmmm, I smell bacon,” Ryan said as the will to live crept over him. “I need food so I’ll have enough energy to pay you back for getting me up!” and Ryan sprang to his knees, grabbed his brother by the shoulders and pinned him to the bed. “Ok mutant; you die!” And the two boys went through their repertoire of wrestling moves as they grappled and thrashed across the bed. “Umph’s” and “thwhup’s” filled the air as blankets fell off the bed and pillows were beaten over heads and shoulders.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">They stopped when grandma called up, “anyone interested in pancakes and bacon better make their bed, get dressed and get down here quick!” That worked like magic; in less than 5 minutes they were both sitting at the table. </div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">“Now you’re going to eat a good breakfast, and I’m going to look you over in the light of day. I’d hardly recognize the pair of you after 5 years!” said grandma. There was something in grandma’s voice that was sad and angry at the same time. “After breakfast you can go outside and have a look around. You might see the McNeil kids playing around; a boy and girl about your age four doors up.” </div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">“Cool!” said Kevin while Ryan only thought; <i>I hope they speak something besides fisherman-ese! </i></div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">“Grandma, do you make pancakes every morning?” Ryan asked hopefully.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">“I would answer that if I had to, but I don’t have to” she said sharply. “The future’ll take care of itself and if we’re lucky it’ll give us a nice surprise and if we’re not, well then we won’t know the difference will we?” </div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;"> “I guess you’ve never heard of an Ontario surprise;” Ryan said letting a heavy scowl settle on his grandmother’s face as he continued. “All of a sudden, outa nowhere or outa hell maybe, you hear a knock on the door and two healthy army officers who <i>aren’t</i> your dad are standing there telling you that your father, Captain Robert Francis Martin, was killed by friendly fire while on exercise. How’s that for a surprise,” he demanded. “All the way to Afghanistan to get killed by his own company! How frikkin’ surprising is that,” he asked again looking from his grandmother’s grim face to his brother’s drooped-down head, challenging one of them to answer. The kitchen was silent. “Where’s mom?” he added quietly.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">“She’s still in bed” Grandma said, brutally prodding the fire with her iron poker. “She’s tired out from yesterday and I told her to sleep in this morning.” </div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">Ryan’s pancakes and bacon suddenly tasted like dirty sponge. He pushed his plate away and stood up and looked accusingly at his brother, “We <i>never</i> should have come here!” he yelled and darted through the kitchen and up the back stairs. He stopped at his mom’s bedroom door, and closed his eyes and took a deep breath to summon his composure. He walked in softly and found her lying propped up on some pillows like she’d been waiting for him; blond hair tousled and tired blue eyes smiling weakly. It was no stretch to guess which side of the family he came from. She looked small and weak and so alone in that big bed in the room of dark wood and it reminded him that his dad had left them. Everything reminded Ryan about his father: the fact that they were here, that they had to move to Nova <i>bloody</i> Scotia so their grandma could look after them while his mother was sick, and the fact that they were sleeping and living in the house where his father lived as a boy, but what screamed to him the most, what he wanted to run a million miles away from but couldn’t and what filled his days with exhaustion and despair, was the fact that every time he looked at the people closest to him; his mother, his brother, and now his grandmother, he didn’t feel any better; he felt a hundred times worse. He felt pain shoot from them and explode against his own agony like artillery fire – the kind that killed his father, and he didn’t know what was more horrible – the throbbing of his own open wounds or the horror of seeing theirs. His heart seized in an all too familiar spasm. That’s what a memory felt like and that’s all you had left when your life was ruined. </div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">His mother motioned for him to come closer and he sat down at the edge of the bed and kissed her on her cheek. “How are you this morning, mom,” he asked. </div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">“To be honest honey, I’m very tired this morning,” she said and she paused and cupped his chin in her small white hand and held his gaze with steady serious eyes - “but I’ll <i>live</i>,” she asserted. “M.S. is going to side-line me every once in a while but it’s not going to put me out of the game, do you understand?” She smiled reassurance and continued, “I feel better already knowing that we’re here in this old house that I used to know so well with grandma to look after us when we need her. I think Daddy’s happy knowing we’re keeping each other safe,” she added hugging him to her and laying her head on his.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">Ryan didn’t need to see his mother’s face to know that there were tears falling from her eyes. Just then there was another tap on the door and grandma came in with a breakfast tray. Ryan straightened up and looked gently at his mother for a moment then locked his heart away again and said, “I’ll come back later, mom,” then he left the room.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">He walked slowly down the stairs and out the front door and into the morning sun. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply and slowly and he felt relief to be out of the house and away from the people he loved. There were only about 6 homes on this small street in front of the Bay of Fundy. It was quiet; clean and fresh. The wind and the salt air drew him across the street. They led him to the edge of a steep black rocky hill that went down to what was a beach of sand and seaweed and shells and driftwood at low-tide and a crashing surf of effervescence and salty spray at high tide. It was low-tide then and he climbed down the rocks to the beach to a whole different world. </div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">The bank of rocks formed a strong fort that once on the beach, cut him off from everything man-made. He felt utterly alone and completely at peace. He took off his socks and shoes and walked across the beach pressing his toes into the cool grainy sand until he saw a stand of smooth dry rock. He put his shoes on top of it and stretched himself out along its length with his head facing the water and resting on his folded arms and his chest laid flat against the hard sun-warmed shelf of the rock. In that position he lay listening to the quiet lapping of the water and fell into a deep, dreamy sleep.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">He was having that awesome dream again. It continued with Jessica Manley this time. She was shaking his arm and say, “get up, get up,” like Kevin had before. But then she threw water at him and he couldn’t understand how he had let a perfectly good dream get out of hand like that. And then she threw more water at him and he tasted salt and gasped and tried to open his stinging eyes. Black dots hovered before him and his ears were ringing and his skin stung and burned. It slowly dawned on him that he’d fallen asleep on the beach but he couldn’t figure out how Jessica Manley had materialized. “How did <i>you</i> get here?” he asked sitting up and blinking his eyes in the bright afternoon sun.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">“I just walked down the rocks of course” she said. “My name is Sheila McNeil. You must be Mrs. Martin’s grandson. She told us you and your brother were coming to live with her.” Then she laughed, “The tide is coming in, in case you haven’t noticed!” “It’s time to head for higher ground unless you want to end up in New Brunswick!” </div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">Ryan finally took in what was happening. While he’d slept the tide had crept in and the waves had grown to lively frothing rollers that now broke just in front of his bed of rock. He felt like such an idiot but jumped up and said, “Yeah – thanks, I think I’ve done enough beach-combing today let’s go. What were you doing around here with the tide coming in,” he asked.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">“I was writing a song” she said. </div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">“Cool!” he said, “I play music. I’m a drummer.”</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">“Cool!” Sheila said smiling directly at him. “I love writing by the sea” she continued. It washes away all the old garbage floating in my head and fills it up with beautiful, new pictures.” She stopped in mid-climb and looked at him. “Does that sound crazy to you,” she asked.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">“No” Ryan said and his eyes wrinkled in wonder and he looked past Sheila to the water and he found himself smiling as they continued their climb. Near the top of the hill they heard voices – kids and grown-ups. Gaining the summit, Ryan, blinked his eyes in disbelief for the second time that hour. His mother and grandmother were camped there with a picnic on the flat grass and out in the sun his mother looked stronger and earthly and alive – not like the ghost-mother he’d said good-bye to that morning. Kevin was firing a Frisbee with a boy he guessed would be Sheila’s brother. The world seemed to have completely changed since he’d left the house only a few hours ago.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">“It’s about time you showed your sorry hide” grandma said sharply but with a wide smile. “Hello, Sheila.” “We decided to have a picnic in honour of this lovely day. Come and see what we brought. Giving Ryan a hug, she whispered, “It’s a little Nova Scotia surprise for you” and he squeezed her back tightly.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">Sheila made her way eagerly to the sandwiches that were arranged on a blanket on the ground with a bowl of potato salad and a thermos of lemon aide and real plates and glasses and cutlery. Ryan was hungry all of a sudden but ran over to his mother who waited with a smile. “You look great mom. You’re feeling better” he asked? </div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">“Oh I have to feel better” she joked. “It would really take too much out of me to feel bad on such a lovely day!” The smile she flashed at her son was bright, reassuring and genuine. Ryan looked back at her and gave thanks to someone or something that he could neither name nor place for that quality of hope in her smile and he suddenly found himself breathing easier and felt the pain between them start to lift.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">“Hey, we were looking for you! “ Kevin was running up to him with another boy. “This is Cullum. He lives 4 doors away from us and guess what? This is so epic – he plays bass! </div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">“No way!” “That’s awesome,” Ryan said holding his crunched fist up excitedly. </div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">Cullum squared up his knuckles and returned the salute and said, “This is so epic! A drummer a bass and a guitar man; oh – I mean girl,” he said pointing at his sister who wrinkled her nose at him. They all laughed.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">“<i>They all laughed</i>,” Ryan thought in amazement. It sounded so normal yet it sounded soooo weird. He looked around him from his wonderful, <i>alive</i> mother talking quietly with his grandmother – his grandmother who organized efficiently and cooked and brought calm and order to wherever she was, to his brother, Kevin, who might be stronger and too happy and fart sunshine at times but then, Ryan admitted, there’s no such thing as “too happy” in life; there’s always someone who needs help to make it to the top of a cliff before they drown, then to the new, completely unexpected friends who appeared in a sudden, good surprise and he felt good and that was epic and he wondered what tomorrow would bring...</div><div style="font-size: 10px;"><a href="http://posterous.com/">Posted via email</a> from <a href="http://juddzz.posterous.com/the-tide-of-change">juddzz's posterous</a> </div></div>Judihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910251221542778255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364839967650025299.post-31711854468376131662010-11-18T16:55:00.003-05:002010-11-29T07:34:11.221-05:00Errors and Omissions<span xmlns=""></span><br />
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She beheld her dream; hair like coal, cerulean eyes, ruddy face and a fatal smile. That picture made Ruth buy the June issue of Sail Magazine and predisposed her to a life-long passion for pretty yachts and handsome strangers. <br />
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"Why shouldn't I take sailing lessons" she asked her friend Tracy who looked at her like she was an alien. <br />
"How about, because you don't own a boat, you don't know anyone else who sails and you don't know how to swim – just for starters" Tracy replied.<br />
"Hummph, I'm going to anyway," Ruth asserted.<br />
The first week of lessons was a roller coaster ride – terror when she first felt the boat heel over, excitement when she first took the helm and agony when her skin got torn up from hauling lines. But she loved it – all of it. <br />
"I'm doing a weekend charter on a big boat if any of you are interested?" Rick said at the end of their graduation celebration. <br />
Ruth looked at her sexy, blue-eyed sailing instructor and asked casually, "when would that be and how much would it cost?" She made an effort to appear like his answer would make all the difference in the world to her decision.<br />
"Next weekend; sailing from Frenchman's Bay in Whitby and it's a delivery so it's just a food and drink expense." He flashed that smile that knocked her overboard more than once that week and she looked at her empty appointment book. <br />
"I think that would work great" she said finally. Igor and Daphne signed on too and the food plan and meeting times were all arranged.<br />
<em>I'll board the boat wearing white shorts, large dark sunglasses, a brown straw hat and a red and white striped blouse</em>, she planned. <em>At sunset, I'll pour red wine and we'll talk about Hemingway and Conrad while we listen to Bach or maybe Mozart. Rick will fall under my spell like I've fallen under his and we will plan our next cruise – just for two</em>.<br />
"Oh" Ruth shivered a week later, as the pouring rain found a path down her back through the collar on her jacket. "Someone really screwed-up my weather order" she called up to Daphne as she passed her bags up to her shipmate. "Thanks!" she said and climbed aboard. <br />
"We're heading out now" said Rick. "Stow everything quick and take up the fenders; Daphne take watch on the bow and you two" he said pointing at Ruth and Igor, "on hand in the cockpit." "If we're lucky" he said smiling, "we'll reach Cobourg and make anchor before the storm. If not, you'll get another lesson – in heavy weather sailing." He grinned evilly. <br />
Igor disappeared below decks then returned with a broad smile and a bottle of vodka. "A little something for courage perhaps?" he suggested and passed the bottle around.<br />
That was the last moment of levity for Ruth. "You look a bit green, Ruth" Rick said as they passed the breakwater and sailed into the waves. Each slap of the waves on the hull weathered away any romantic notions Ruth had constructed about the joys of sailing. The only encouragement Rick offered was a cheerful, "Don't feel too bad; you're not as bad as my girlfriend. She even gets sick in calm seas." <br />
"<em>Girlfriend</em>", "<em>seasick</em>", "<em>cold</em>" and "<em>wet</em>!" Damn sailing magazine said nothing about that!<br />
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<span style="font-family: AR BERKLEY; font-size: 16pt;">Judi Hopper</span>Judihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910251221542778255noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364839967650025299.post-35009542805880769082010-11-11T16:09:00.002-05:002010-11-29T07:35:36.997-05:00Mosaic Memories<span xmlns=""></span><br />
Donnie said some funny things. One time he told his mom, "I hate fall. All that orange and red in the trees gives me a headache." <br />
Judi thought that was an eccentric observation but grinned and said, "I'm glad I'm not the only weird one in this family."<br />
Another time he said, "Whenever I think about something that happened in the past, I can only picture it in black and white."<br />
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This time Judi stopped and thought for a moment. Her blond-haired, fourteen-year-old son stood challenging her to disagree. He smiled triumphantly when she said, "I never thought of that before but you're absolutely right. I think of memories in black and white too!"<br />
Donnie went off with his skateboard. Left standing before the warmth of her big kitchen window, Judi faced the sun but her gaze turned inwards. Smiling, she watched memories march by like history on parade – little black and white vignettes, floating one-by-one past her mind's eye: monopoly games on the floor with her brothers and sisters, grandma shaping bread loaves to pop into the oven of her wood-burning stove and, of course, those epic ten-mile walks to school through three feet of snow during a howling snow storm. It was a delightful outing – her little trek through time.<br />
Then suddenly, like a marauding cloud that spreads purple darkness over a distant mountain, an unbidden image slapped the bemused smile from her face and left on it an anxious scowl. Not all memories were gentle. Not all vignettes were neutral, monochrome postcards. Some were shocking, vivid posters – and very, colourful; like little Gina's first day of school. That was 37 years ago. Gina was Judi's youngest sister; at that time Gina was 5 and Judi was 15.<br />
In those olden, black-and-white days, the Garel women in Judi's household were devoted to their daily rituals; so on this first day of school, they did not change their routines. When Judi walked in the house after school, her mother, Anita, cried, "Come quick and see this! Tricia's going to tell Jill about her affair with Evan!" Judi rushed into the living room and sank, hypnotized, into the space reserved for her by her grandmother in front of the TV on the couch and waited with her mouth open. The three women watched as Tricia archly raised a perfectly shaped brow, pouted her full, seductive lips and launched lethal daggers from her smouldering dark eyes at Jill.<br />
It was Y & R hour in the Garel household; the last stand of estrogen dominance in the 3-bedroom bungalow before the five male Garels came home. Only young Gina was absent. She was playing on her swing set in the back yard, convinced that no mere TV show could ever approach the drama and excitement of her own real life. When Judi arrived to pick her up at the Kindergarten gate after school, Gina launched into an excited babble delivered with skips, twirls and shrieks that did not stop for the duration of their five block walk home. By the time they reached their doorstep Judi knew that Gina and "Kimmie-up-the-street" were in the same class with Mrs. Den-e-mee, but "Kimmie-down-the-street" was in Miss Clark's class, Gina's new friend, Stacy, took ballet lessons and Robert who sat beside her, shared his red grapes with her that day, and she was going to marry him next year. Judi grinned at that one. She'd had a few "grape boys" in her past too but their mutual passions had always either dried up or turned sour.<br />
"What's for dinner mom?" Judi whispered during the electric pause on the TV. Grandma hushed her with a frown. She didn't want to miss what Jill's reaction would be to Tricia's confession. This show amused her so much. Young people were so stupid about passion<em>, </em>she thought; what they needed was a good old-fashioned war to sort out their problems. When young life has to reckon with mortality there's no time to dither and agonize. If you're lucky there's just enough time to straighten your seams, put on your hat and grab your prayer book in a feeble attempt at subterfuge. Then, on a musty Hudson's Bay blanket behind the Methodist meeting hall, consummate your unblessed pledge of eternal love for your soldier before he's sent away to fight. She gasped as she heard the explosion of a bomb close by. Only it wasn't a bomb...<br />
Suddenly the TV screen turned to snowy static and the house became thick with the massive shattering din of a hundred broken chandeliers and more terrible still; the piercing scream of a small child. In an instant, under magnetic - not kinetic energy Anita was out the side door and in the back yard to find Gina. With the shattering sound still filling Judi's head and instant terror robbing everything but shear reflex, she followed. Coming around the corner she was hit by a second volley of shock. Gina was being scooped up by her mother. Her head and features were hidden in a crimson ocean of blood and lying against the swing set was the fallen TV antenna.<br />
It was a violent and random image that Judi collided with as she rounded that corner. Her mouth went dry and her pupils shrank and she saw nothing but black dots around her head and heard only distant ringing for a moment. When her sight returned, her mother and Gina had vanished. With a short cry and pounding heart, she suppressed her tears and ran back into the house to find her grandmother. <br />
"What happened dear?" her grandmother sobbed, trembling and shaken when Judi came in wide-eyed and breathing heavily. <br />
"Don't worry grandma," Judi lied, "Gina is ok, she just got cut on her arm by the TV antenna and it scared her; that's all," she said hugging her grandmother and trying to prevent her from panicking. <br />
Grandma said, "Anita and Gina just went off with Mrs. Brethour in her car. It looked like there was a lot of blood..."<br />
"She'll be OK grandma," Judi persisted. "Some cuts bleed an awful lot. Gina was crying and she didn't pass out or anything. She'll be OK." Judi felt ill and exhausted and sat on the couch leaning on her grandma's shoulder for some time. Her memory could never supply the details of the ensuing several hours. Thinking returned later that night. In bed, the only additional memory she had was of her father coming home from the hospital to assure everyone that Gina's head injury was going to be OK and that there would be no brain damage. Luckily, a plastic surgeon had been on hand to sew back the large flap of scalp that had been turned back by the wisp of contact it had made with the TV antenna. Under her blankets in the dark quiet of her bedroom, Judi came back to stinging consciousness in a violent shuddering from head to toe. In a convulsion of tears and terror she experienced again what had left her numb for so many hours.<br />
The techni-colour memory of Gina's accident stood out in stark contrast to what were mainly sepia-tinted recollections of Judi's childhood. While reflecting upon Donnie's black and white impression of past experiences, she could only agree with her son to a very specific point – the point that divides life's mere pleasantries and exasperations from its ecstasies and desolations. She crossed that point for the first time at 15 – one year older than Donnie was now. Since that first traumatic splay of colour on her life's canvass there had been many more. And that's not necessarily a bad thing she reasoned. We would be pretty drab compositions without the events that punch up the background of our lives with colourful scenery. They are the reveille call that brings us to attention, for good or bad, and awakens us from our floating black and white dreams to vibrant earthly engagement. They mark our journey through life and tell us through our pain or joy or trauma that we have lived or, more importantly, that we have survived – and triumphed.<br />
Judi's fair-haired son had yet to come to this realization. In the fullness of time, he would embellish his own canvass with a heart-rending mosaic of original virtuosity and in deference to Life that brooks no interference, she would stand back admiringly and watch him paint.Judihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910251221542778255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364839967650025299.post-71720362491971694082010-11-01T13:56:00.002-04:002010-11-29T07:36:05.978-05:00Judi Does Opera York!<div class="posterous_autopost"><div style="color: black; font-family: arial, helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
<div><div style="clear: both;"><div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">I had a passion-filled weekend that I’m just dying to tell you about! I was whisked away to the Paris of artists, poets and lovers. I was swept off my feet by a potent cocktail of romance and wine and youthful ardour. Who was the author of this delicious assignation? It wasn’t just one, but an entire posse of passion purveyors by the name of <a href="http://www.operayork.com/"><strong>Opera York</strong></a>. <br />
<a name='more'></a></div><div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">I went to see <i>La Boheme</i> at the <b><a href="https://mail.google.com/mail/?hl=en&source=navclient&shva=1#inboxhttp://www.rhcentre.ca/" target="_blank">Richmond Hill Centre for the Performing Arts</a></b> on Sunday – my first time to the opera. For an hour and a half or so (I really can’t say as I lost all sense of time) I was elated and dismayed then amused and finally heartbroken by the joys and the travails of the tempestuous lovers, Mimi and Rodolfo and Musetta and Marcello. An “opera virgin,” I arrived knowing nothing about <i>La Boheme</i> but left knowing everything. </div><div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"> How was that possible? </div><div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">Did I read and study and memorize? Did I analyze and interview and intuit? No; that’s not the kind of knowledge I’m referring to. I absorbed <i>La Boheme</i> as a <i>body memory</i>. My eyes glow with the reflection of fun by candlelight when Shaunard came in to share his good fortune with his friends. My fingers and face sting in the brittle air of a frigid and fireless winter night in Paris. In sympathy with Mimi’s illness, my own chest tightens and shudders in shallow breaths. The labyrinth of love’s misadventures carves a path of pain through my stomach and all the while my heart pounds with the vigour of an Olympic athlete from the convulsive workout it’s been put through.</div><div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">La Boheme was not passive entertainment. It was a transforming experience. I will eventually awaken but remain a bit bemused and offer these words from T.S. Eliot: </div><blockquote style="margin-right: 0px;"><blockquote style="margin-right: 0px;"><blockquote style="margin-right: 0px;"><div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">“I can only say <i>there</i> we have been: but I cannot say where. And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.”</div></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">I am thinking that <b>all</b> opera will impress me that way and believe me, there will be more! Spring will hold more promise than usual next year as I look forward to Mozart’s <em>Cosi Fan Tutte </em>with <strong><a href="http://www.operayork.com/" target="_blank">Opera York</a></strong>! </div><br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><a href="http://www.gregking.ca/" target="_blank">Greg King, Professional Photographer</a>, has beautifully captured the spirit of La Boheme in the following portraits - (with permission)...</div></div></div></div><img height="240" src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/1UdLNcyLcnER8GgEYXAwBo5SevJLcPhZhMgQuRDVvDL12zMwcs6unsDdKqKx/IMG_08252a.jpgsrc" width="300" /> <img height="240" src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/MVhfGW3pkcjOmtDydmDrpOF7WyG4rXd4jukUuuHnsaeY0qN5ymO56rUG0yYn/IMG_08264.jpgsrc" width="300" /> <img height="300" src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/BPkJgPlNO4ROtoNX2EWAumLdqC7srqwjvyj750PgTfHrueo40f0yKozoUUmr/IMG_08292.jpgsrc" width="240" /> <img height="240" src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/oNzdCFaO77A1UWZuuOPD4iH5OgSX7aMuv5hxyyQimALd0BAoTS0itX399iRE/IMG_08298.jpgsrc" width="300" /> <img height="300" src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/LQxFmQDHxRa1y4t72MPnWIOm13A85YAloomOirN17wOzx1o2SmHCG4HcqThD/IMG_08300.jpgsrc" width="240" /> <img height="213" src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/JrUJFoiSA1Sk90GEKpOBg85REdQpYywFkzz7uU7NJ0fONinL5io1vr6LYZ4h/IMG_08307.jpgsrc" width="320" /> <img height="240" src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/Mpo2YcFnf1AJ0Nu3SiCjQxLIzV5eFshLxCPDpfyNbdaxOkvebBcPfDrDaMem/IMG_08320.jpgsrc" width="300" /> <img height="300" src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/k3V63H9X1zt3SzVFTV41iKwFaPbw3y4ocQNGXgwcpei2yCRr27MgT94GnBHb/IMG_08327.jpgsrc" width="240" /> <img height="240" src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/fTbgJ3KpIXDzOBgwPLlJgsVDYkfrbmhxBYMvmT9rJsioO4uPTOKrVgSU7CHO/IMG_08375.jpgsrc" width="300" /> <img height="300" src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/TZi7IHbaO3nAmDuFANjLa4q5W3WhT5wJMRxhN1WPcIOIX9v6qFu7qr31HrnI/IMG_08400.jpgsrc" width="240" /> <br />
<div><a href="http://juddzz.posterous.com/judi-does-opera-york">See and download the full gallery on posterous</a></div><div style="font-size: 10px;"><a href="http://posterous.com/">Posted via email</a> from <a href="http://juddzz.posterous.com/judi-does-opera-york">juddzz's posterous</a> </div></div>Judihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910251221542778255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364839967650025299.post-2367227929357851132010-08-11T10:43:00.001-04:002010-08-11T10:43:10.653-04:00Stories on Canvas - Are you in one??<div class='posterous_autopost'> <div style="CLEAR: both;"><a href="http://ifitshipitshere.blogspot.com/2010/03/whimsical-paintings-of-amberlee.html"> </a><div class="envelope" align="left" style="FLOAT: left;"><img src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/fr8ZvXuMVXw71XvCuVR7T6BhEjYU6ClxbpROBW9DgFuAiY2lHkDZiy3dxpr5/In_House_Hurricane.jpgsrc" width="400" height="317"/> </div> <p /> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="FLOAT: none;">Amberlee Rosolowich is a young artist from California. She paints powerful, narrative images of childhood fantasy and anxiety. View her work and read more about it <strong><a href="http://ifitshipitshere.blogspot.com/2010/03/whimsical-paintings-of-amberlee.html">HERE</a>.</strong></div> </div> <p style="font-size: 10px;"> <a href="http://posterous.com">Posted via email</a> from <a href="http://juddzz.posterous.com/stories-on-canvas-are-you-in-one">juddzz's posterous</a> </p> </div>Judihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910251221542778255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364839967650025299.post-84306841396283189722010-08-09T23:38:00.001-04:002010-08-09T23:38:17.166-04:00Call Me Frankenstein<div class='posterous_autopost'><a href="http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/photo.php?pid=367877&id=666425239&ref=fbx_album"> </a><div class="envelope" align="left" style="FLOAT: none;"> <div class="envelope" align="center" style="FLOAT: left;"><img src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/SrRkdatQxqNUL8wGgnfcZjLQa1ELygiG9Nm9y3A1SkC2ED3UEVk2QZpBFIvE/scienti.jpgsrc" width="319" height="260"/> </div> <p /> </div> <p /> <p /> <div>I set myself a task this evening. Hooked up to my MP3 player I went out for a walk. The mellow voice of Madeleine Peyroux set a comfortable pace. The music; however, turned out to be a weaker draw on my senses than the spongy, hot August evening. The sky was black and motionless; before it the trees stood out in surreal relief. The heavy mist felt tingly and made my skin shine. Before an intense palate of black and green my eyes awakened from their mid-summer sleep. I turned off my music, took out my ear phones and walked, as such an evening demanded, "unplugged." </div> <p /> <div>Untethered to the words of the music, my mind quickly started to wander. I started thinking of the start of school in September and how I might be able to engage my 11 year old son, Kyle, in creative evening activities. I had him start a blog last year. He has a few entries in it. (Right click <strong><a href="http://ghilleyguy-dreamingbig.blogspot.com/">HERE</a></strong> and "open in a new window" if you would like to take a peek.) </div> <p /> <div>I thought I might ask Kyle one evening to write a blog entry describing his idea of the "perfect friend." With this exercise, he would have to think about: 1. what it means to be a friend and 2. what qualities constitute good character. </div> <p /> <div>No sooner did I hatch this little plan for <em>Kyle</em> than I started thinking about it in reference to myself. Enter Frankenstein - how would I "build" the perfect friend? I don't know if this would be my final design, but the prototype would be something like this:</div> <ul> <li>there would be a male version and a female version</li> <li>he/she would be strong, decisive </li> <li>objective and non-judgemental</li> <li>brave but not foolhardy</li> <li>wouldn't dream of telling me a lie to spare my feelings</li> <li>would love me but never pity me, envy me or enable me </li> <li>would not need to be with me constantly to know how important the friendship was</li> <li>someone I'd want to "measure up to" and vice versa</li> <li>would most likely have a "quirky" and unique take on life</li></ul> <div> <div class="envelope" style="FLOAT: left;"><a href='http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/HxY04BgkXvo4pRvT1eWlCNAgiois0dFH8Tx0ezcjho0SHGRmNpwzhcvUcnP4/zoe_judi.bmp'><img src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/1cTZABqqwKATUgGfwXiZvr7urHUHjwFqY8WbcHThasRVW8QmW0gkbfYr8BL4/zoe_judi.bmp.scaled.500.jpg" width="500" height="375"/></a> </div> </div> <div>I think that's probably more than enough to expect of my imaginary paragon! I have one friend who very closely fits my ideal. Zoe was the subject of my <a href="http://juds2u.blogspot.com/2007_11_04_archive.html"><strong>very first blog entry</strong> </a>in 2007. She has been the best of friends for over 35 years. I had no idea that my one hour walk this evening would take me all the way to BC!</div> <p /> <div>What a happy thought this exercise has been. Love ya Zoe! </div> <p style="font-size: 10px;"> <a href="http://posterous.com">Posted via email</a> from <a href="http://juddzz.posterous.com/call-me-frankenstein">juddzz's posterous</a> </p> </div>Judihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910251221542778255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364839967650025299.post-87503375245355989262010-08-07T10:22:00.001-04:002010-08-07T10:22:19.569-04:00Heard of "Project Gutenberg?"<div class='posterous_autopost'> <div style="FONT-FAMILY: arial,helvetica; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 10pt;"><em></em> <blockquote style="MARGIN-RIGHT: 0px;"> <div><strong><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Project_Gutenberg#History">From Wikipedia</a></strong>: (<em>right click on any link and select "open in another window) to read the complete article.</em></div> <p /> <blockquote style="MARGIN-RIGHT: 0px;"> <div><em>"Project Gutenberg was started by </em><a href="http://mail.aol.com/wiki/Michael_S._Hart" title="Michael S. Hart"><em>Michael Hart</em></a><em> in 1971 with the digitization of the </em><a href="/wiki/United_States_Declaration_of_Independence" title="United States Declaration of Independence"><em>United States Declaration of Independence</em></a><em>.<sup class="reference"><a href="#cite_note-GP_history-3"><span>[</span>4<span>]</span></a></sup> Hart, a student at the </em><a href="/wiki/University_of_Illinois_at_Urbana-Champaign" title="University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign" class="mw-redirect"><em>University of Illinois</em></a><em>, obtained access to a </em><a href="/wiki/Xerox_Sigma_V" title="Xerox Sigma V" class="mw-redirect"><em>Xerox Sigma V</em></a><em> </em><a href="/wiki/Mainframe_computer" title="Mainframe computer"><em>mainframe computer</em></a><em> in the university's Materials Research Lab. Through friendly operators, he received an account with a virtually unlimited amount of computer time; its value at that time has since been variously estimated at $100,000 or $100,000,000.<sup class="reference"><a href="#cite_note-GP_history-3"><span>[</span>4<span>]</span></a></sup> Hart has said he wanted to "give back" this gift by doing something that could be considered to be of great value. His initial goal was to make the 10,000 most consulted books available to the public at little or no charge, and to do so by the end of the 20th century"</em></div> <p /> <div class="envelope" align="center" style="FLOAT: none;"><img src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/XCvNnSKbB7ZLc8l0uwU1s2crCZlUKDAvskBkmtR9C6USbzNUebLCD97no9XD/dorian_gray.jpg" width="259" height="195"/> </div> <p /> </blockquote> <p /> </blockquote> <div>One of the coolest things on the Gutenberg website is the free audio book offerings. I down-loaded "The Picture of Dorian Gray" by Oscar Wilde recently. It's a wonderfully narrated piece of work! I copied it to my MP3 player and listened at my leisure on walks and roller blade skates over a week or so. </div> <p /> <div>Would you like to try down loading this classic story too? Here's how:</div> <p /> <ul> <li>go to this website: <a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/26230#downloads">http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/26230#downloads</a></li> <li>scroll down to the table titled "Hand-Crafted Files"</li> <li>there are 13 "audio" files (for the 13 chapters of the novel)</li> <li>starting on the first of the "Audio" files, left click where it says "main site" in the 5th column of the row</li> <li>then, in the dialogue box where is asks if you want to save this file, click the "save" option</li> <li>In the next, "save as" box, select a suitable library - music, document etc. and create a new folder, title "Dorian Gray" by,</li> <li>Right clicking the library name on the left and selecting "new" then select "folder"</li> <li>a "new folder" will appear under your library title - documents or music that you selected </li> <li>Rename that "new folder" to "Dorian Gray"</li> <li>save all 13 files in sequence to that folder then transfer the entire folder, if you wish, to your MP3 player for easy summer "reading."</li> <li>then continue browsing the collection!</li></ul> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> </div> <br />-- <br />This message has been scanned for viruses and <br />dangerous content by <a href="http://www.mailscanner.info/"><b>MailScanner</b></a>, and is <br />believed to be clean. <p style="font-size: 10px;"> <a href="http://posterous.com">Posted via email</a> from <a href="http://juddzz.posterous.com/heard-of-project-gutenberg">juddzz's posterous</a> </p> </div>Judihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910251221542778255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364839967650025299.post-17823768955244197012010-08-05T20:11:00.001-04:002010-08-05T20:11:46.018-04:00Let's Call it "GOOF"<div class='posterous_autopost'> <div style="FONT-FAMILY: arial,helvetica; COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 10pt;"><br /> <div> <div align="center">Food Diary - Thursday, August 5th.</div> <p /> <div class="envelope" align="center" style="FLOAT: none;"><a href='http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/fJVdodPTygIqsmrusHotayvKfNYjgHZfsS0iseUfFAOPVd6T0IvGfBJomAJM/GOOF.jpgsrc.scaled.1000.jpg'><img src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/8E1xknsGdWjGUt1DQE9NkBJhF1lrJuSRsD7k86pylO69dxj8eaSa4V7iKkgD/GOOF.jpgsrc.scaled.500.jpg" width="500" height="375"/></a> </div> <p /> <p /> <div> 7:00 AM - Brekky of champions - Protein shake with a liberal dose of strawberries, blueberries, banana and soy milk</div> <div> 9:00 AM - Grabbed the yellow plum on the counter that had "Judi" written on it</div> <div>12:30 PM - After gardening, house cleaning and keyboard tapping, - Cottage cheese with strawberries and bananas and another glass of soy milk, oh, and 2 whole wheat saltine crackers,(munched while wondering about their sodium content.)</div> <div style="MARGIN-RIGHT: 0px;">12:40 PM - Single dose mult-vitamin supplement, double dose calcium and vitamin D supplement, single does chondroitin something-or-other that's good for the joints supplement.</div> <ul> <li>At this point, Stomach says to Head, "C'mon now, are we <em>really</em> happy with this "health" deal?"</li> <li>Head replies, "We'll be healthy or <em>die</em> trying!"</li> <li>Stomach counters, weakly, "there are <em>laws</em> against this!"</li></ul> <div>1:00 PM - 5:00 PM - Between on-going housework (not a typical day!) and keyboard tapping, Stomach is languishing in gustatory angst and considering mutiny. Head, not insensitive to the feelings of her constant companion resolves to make amends...</div> <p /> <div>Out comes a cookbook - "simply Indian" - sweet and spicy recipes from India, Pakistan and East Africa." It's time to cook REAL food! (But <em>GOOD</em> food!)</div> <p /> <div>I love cook books. I own dozens and have given away as many as I still own. I like to spread the "cooking word" to newbies! I flipped through a few pages, looked at some pretty pictures then put the book back on the shelf. I don't follow recipes very often any more. I opened up my cupboards and pulled out: </div> <p /> <ul> <li>a bag of <strong><a href="http://www.whfoods.com/sitesearch.php" target="_blank">red lentils</a> (Right click on any links and select "open in a new window" for lots of great nutrition info)</strong></li> <li>white rice</li> <li>1 onion</li> <li>frozen peas and carrots</li> <li>small bit of<strong> <a href="http://www.whfoods.com/genpage.php?tname=foodspice&dbid=141" target="_blank">cooked beef</a></strong><a href="http://www.whfoods.com/genpage.php?tname=foodspice&dbid=141" target="_blank"> </a>leftovers from freezer</li> <li><strong><a href="http://www.whfoods.com/genpage.php?tname=foodspice&dbid=78" target="_blank">turmeric</a></strong> </li> <li>curry masala</li> <li>butter</li> <li>salt (just a smidge!)</li></ul> <div>What I did with it:</div> <p /> <div>Sauteed the chopped onion in butter, added lentils to toast, added peas and carrots, rice, spice and sliced beef and water. Brought to a boil, reduced heat to simmer for 15 minutes. It was done. The house smelled "spicy" and Stomach was friends with Head again.</div> <p /> <blockquote style="MARGIN-RIGHT: 0px;"> <blockquote style="MARGIN-RIGHT: 0px;"> <blockquote style="MARGIN-RIGHT: 0px;"> <div>I call this creation "GOOF" after my old neighbourhood restaurant in the Toronto Beaches. The GOOF, (not it's real name) sat for years with a defective sign that, fully-lit would have read "GOOD FOOD" but due to poor maintenance read "GOO F " Nobody remembered its real name; to everyone in the "hood" it was just known as "The Goof."</div> </blockquote></blockquote></blockquote> <p /> <p /> </div></div> <p style="font-size: 10px;"> <a href="http://posterous.com">Posted via email</a> from <a href="http://juddzz.posterous.com/lets-call-it-goof">juddzz's posterous</a> </p> </div>Judihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910251221542778255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364839967650025299.post-84155828920346237472010-08-03T15:18:00.001-04:002010-08-03T15:18:05.474-04:00"Hot Town - Summer in the City"<div class='posterous_autopost'> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">I spent most of the long weekend with my three sons – Donnie, twenty, Ryan eighteen and Kyle, eleven.<span style=""> </span>It’s rare for all three boys to converge at my house at the same time.<span style=""> </span>Donnie lives in Toronto where he works and goes to school; Ryan lives in Mississauga with his father, leaving Kyle, the “only child,” still at home with me.<span style=""> </span></div> <div class="envelope" align="left" style="FLOAT: none;"><a href='http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/IAzT70mxUO2j37i27aCSMByiEzuf6EOonDMJeLj8eYKuPC1gGcstWHWzSCgX/the-boys.gifsrc.scaled.1000.jpg'><img src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/w9b6JDdBLpWmnN2Uih5pZYlAL91u758HScUmWxwxZfYoPQTQd8xu1xZLDxIc/the-boys.gifsrc.scaled.500.jpg" width="500" height="262"/></a> </div> <p /> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">I valued those novel, three days.<span style=""> </span>They gave me the quality “mom fix” that I need to have periodically.<span style=""> </span>After watching them come and go – and eat and eat – under my roof for a couple of days, my nagging concerns about their health and happiness dissolved.<span style=""> </span>On the third day, I piled everyone into my little car.<span style=""> </span>We headed into the city where I released the two older boys back into their natural habitats, confident that they would prosper!</div> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">Kyle and I continued deeper into the heart of the urban jungle to spend a special, “awesome” day together.<span style=""> </span>With our water bottles, my roller blades and his skateboard, we hopped on the subway train at Islington station and wormed our way into the core of the city; our destination – the Pier behind the Harbour Castle Hotel where we would board a Ferry to Toronto Island.<span style=""> </span>Although forewarned, I was still shocked by the masses of others we joined upon our ascent from the depths of the transit system.<span style=""> </span>In the heat we were absorbed in a molten surge; an indistinguishable throng of hundreds – two more nameless insects in a swarm of locusts descending upon a picnic.<span style=""> </span>A block from the dock, I began to fear the entrance kiosk and what effect the four narrow admission wickets would have upon the manners, patience and general safety of this massive throng.<span style=""> </span>My fears were not unfounded...</div> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">I abhor a “bad time;” so much so, that I will call it a “good time” simply to deny its occurrence.<span style=""> </span>It’s a very dire situation from which at least one positive thing cannot be salvaged and if that one, tiny facet of brilliance is accentuated it can impart a reflecting radiance to the whole.<span style=""> </span>I was determined to have a good time that day.<span style=""> </span>Good times punctuate the pages of life with exclamation marks - and I <em>love</em> a good read!<span style=""> </span>When we stopped to (hopefully) form orderly lines with the multitudes I was glad that we were near the lake to (hopefully), catch a breeze.<span style=""> </span>When a couple of obnoxious men crashed the line in front of Kyle and me, I was glad that I made the uncharacteristic decision to speak pointedly and evenly to them about it; restoring at once our rightful place in line and, more importantly, my good temper.<span style=""> </span></div> <span style=""> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">We boarded the “Ned Hanlon” finally and secured a good position on the stern to appreciate the receding skyline.</div> <p /> <p /> <p /> </span> <p /> <div align="center" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><a href='http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/l23Z755TKzZNA3Ea4Opl0zgur5O7gavmZLp5YaQp50S4AfGFfGHwApFymrKg/upld1.jpgsrc.scaled.1000.jpg'><img src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/Aa1cQ5RE1v097PRbU3AuswCfMoBT4XaG9e5O8k9ADTe49XVQW6LUFf3qB6cB/upld1.jpgsrc.scaled.500.jpg" width="500" height="667"/></a> </div> <p /> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">In due course, we docked, and then slowly plodded across the lower deck to disembark.<span style=""> </span>The hoped-for breeze was faint - if that.<span style=""> </span>I wilted and became a bit dizzy.<span style=""> </span>I glimpsed the set expression on the face of the heavy-set, thirty-something year old woman in the wheelchair beside me and, on my feet, I felt more fortunate and less anxious about waiting to escape.<span style=""> </span>Making eye contact with her, I smiled pointing to her laden parcel carrier and joked, “I guess you always get stuck carrying everything don’t you?”<span style=""> </span>She laughed back and I enjoyed her smile as she said, “you never get to travel lightly when you have kids!”<span style=""> </span></div> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">Finally we got off the Ferry.<span style=""> </span>Not since Noah has anyone been happier to get off a boat!<span style=""> </span>I put on my skates, put away my “Pollyanna” mantle of forbearance and started to breathe a bit easier.<span style=""> </span>Kyle and I wove our way through the crowd and where the path forked – going to the amusement park on the right and to the beach trail on the left, we followed the quieter beach option.<span style=""> </span>It was Kyle’s first trip to the “exotic” Toronto islands – a first-hand adventure for him – and a vicarious first-hand adventure for me.</div> <p /> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">On a hot and humid afternoon that rumbled with distant thunder, our luck held out and we caught only a few drops of rain; the grave concern being the damaging effects of water to the “grip tape” of Kyle’s new skateboard.<span style=""> </span>I, for one, would have been happy to skate along in a steady, refreshing drizzle!<span style=""> </span></div> <div class="envelope" align="center" style="FLOAT: none;"><a href='http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/0rDbiZBAFPzDO5jVyAPy551qnNYj3HImOZvZDIybTaWVCXb0nSPRe6acVgc4/upld3.jpgsrc.scaled.1000.jpg'><img src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/4W8DTpHV9JuTuYnRBwWUdd0BcpBf0XLLQsVnx970AkWxGoQqJfZMgT8Krq2o/upld3.jpgsrc.scaled.500.jpg" width="500" height="667"/></a> </div> <p /> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">After touring half of the island we continued on with part deux of our “awesome” day and headed into Toronto.<span style=""> </span>There, I enjoyed the first-hand adventure of rollerblading from Front Street to the Eaton Centre – amazing fun!<span style=""> </span>I wouldn’t have guessed that Bay Street would be safe to skate, but it was smooth, flat and because of the holiday it was traffic-free - perfect for skating along!<span style=""> </span></div> <p /> <span style=""> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">Then it was on to a few more “firsts” for Kyle: visiting city hall, combing the Eaton Centre and dining at the Hard Rock Cafe.<span style=""> </span>His highlights from the Hard Rock:<span style=""> </span></div> <div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style=""><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Symbol;"><span style="">·<span style="FONT: 7pt Times New Roman;"> </span></span></span>“Kiss” and various other "rocker" memorabilia on the walls</div> <div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style=""><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Symbol;"><span style="">·<span style="FONT: 7pt Times New Roman;"> </span></span></span>New set of “Toronto”-branded drum sticks</div> <div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style=""><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Symbol;"><span style="">·<span style="FONT: 7pt Times New Roman;"> </span></span></span>A very cool new fedora</div> <p /> <p /> <p /></span> <p /> <br /> <p /> <p></p><p></p><p></p><p><a href='http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/YP9azjCgx4aRWJCxwdI2JPf21SQx8XzbxlWYOcbWnJRuzhCdJjvhBcGOjeOf/upld8.jpgsrc.scaled.1000.jpg'><img src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/UMSUl01nbe1HZXBDf6IR2qkKXRiMi2O6m1DNvz6mWkFS3EzSqJxWrMJHBha2/upld8.jpgsrc.scaled.500.jpg" width="500" height="667"/></a> <a href='http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/gdPoG7gxRC46gIED3Nj6NpJPoz2KummDr8LvJiuMYekJ2CKFfW3BFv8PLGes/upld4.jpgsrc.scaled.1000.jpg'><img src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/kEQ89EsYRXlwMtZ4ao0KrH1f8k0Q748P0psR0ADE3ZkmXDST1UoZ2nRklWNV/upld4.jpgsrc.scaled.500.jpg" width="500" height="667"/></a> <a href='http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/HoP5sxT54ImgTNDAvrkHHSu7bQS9iqleYyjHT8oUUOoBLExr6abODrxQ1OtF/2010-08-02_18.58.37_Toronto_On.jpg.scaled.1000.jpg'><img src="http://posterous.com/getfile/files.posterous.com/juddzz/LF7evb5uN2JZbQ0vSdVtCgQeucAnq2YFkSyyrylXDHDCkRG5LeEVSLwVwous/2010-08-02_18.58.37_Toronto_On.jpg.scaled.500.jpg" width="500" height="667"/></a> <div><a href='http://juddzz.posterous.com/hot-town-summer-in-the-city'>See and download the full gallery on posterous</a></div></p> <p style="font-size: 10px;"> <a href="http://posterous.com">Posted via email</a> from <a href="http://juddzz.posterous.com/hot-town-summer-in-the-city">juddzz's posterous</a> </p> </div>Judihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910251221542778255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364839967650025299.post-27175101600246651092010-07-30T22:10:00.001-04:002010-07-30T22:10:56.892-04:00“Atypically Speaking” – Reflections of a Square-pegged Zoomer<div class='posterous_autopost'> <div style="CLEAR: both;"> <p /> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">“Kyle the Red,” my 11 year old son confided something to me a month ago.<span style=""> </span>“Mom,” he said, “at the end of cadet’s group last night, all my friends were saying what age their parents are and when I said that you’re 51, they laughed at me!”<span style=""> </span>Frankly, I was a bit astounded.<span style=""> </span>I couldn’t believe that the same peer pressure that makes today’s children so acutely brand-conscious of clothing, electronics and life-style could place superficial labelling on what’s cool or hot as the case may be, in parents.<span style=""> </span>“Did that make you feel badly,” I asked – anxiously.<span style=""> </span>“Well, sort of,” he admitted.<span style=""> </span></div> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">“Whoa,” I thought – “that’s one thing that even a super-mom can’t fix!”</div> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">A bit overly-sensitive, Kyle admitted that he had no reply for his cool friends on that evening so just fell silent.<span style=""> </span>I tried to make Kyle feel OK about his decrepit parent.<span style=""> </span>I asked him, “do any of your friends’ mothers roller-blade, bike ride or play tennis with them?”<span style=""> </span>“No,” he answered. “Can they help their kids with school work and projects or show them how to do things on the computer like I can?”<span style=""> </span>“No,” he said again, not really brightening up at the mention of my somewhat redeeming qualities.<span style=""> </span>Then, playing my ace-in-the-hole, I levelled an even, poker-faced gaze at him and asked, “Can any other mom <i style="">cook</i> like I can?” And the sun finally broke out!<span style=""> </span>Kyle smiled and we moved on.</div> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">Kyle has few points with which he differs from other kids in his respective peer group; I, on the other hand, have very few points with which I correspond.<span style=""> </span>I’ve grown accustomed to being different; I have, in fact, elevated it to something of an art form or new-age religion in my “latter years.”<span style=""> </span>My pedigree alone defies demographic designation.<span style=""> </span>I am a Catholic-Jewish, Irish-French-Portuguese; white Jamaican-by-way-of-Hunter River, P.E.I., Canadian – and an atypical one at that!<span style=""> </span>“Put that in your pipe and smoke it,” like my French-Canadian grandfather used to say!</div> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">There is also the point of where I was brought up.<span style=""> </span>For most people that is a straightforward fact to share yet the question always stumps me.<span style=""> </span>I’ve moved around - a lot!<span style=""> </span>By the time I finished high school I had been to thirteen different schools.<span style=""> </span>So how do I best answer that question? <span style=""> </span>“I was brought up with my brothers and sisters – six of them in total,” is one way, or, “think of me as a little, white, plastic ball that was “pinged” and “ponged” in a marathon rally between Ontario and Nova Scotia for several decades,” is another; but perhaps the best is – “I wasn’t brought up, I was brought around, and around, and around!” </div> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">In consequence of my nomadic existence, (although I do not have the scientific data to back this up), I believe that I have a genetic adaptation – an arguable enhancement to the human genome that predisposes me to packing up and moving at a moment’s notice.<span style=""> </span>Add “genetic mutation” to my list of anomalous traits.</div> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">I do not maintain a tidy, sequential time-line for my life.<span style=""> </span>My phases – childhood, adolescence and adulthood converge and overlap in a tangled, woven web that can only be explained in terms of E=MC<sup>2</sup>.<span style=""> </span>I was often “old” in my teens, predominantly a “teen” in my twenties and frequently a “child” now, in my fifties. <span style=""> </span>My milestones and life-marking events are also strewn about at random. <span style=""> </span>Sometimes sedentary as a youngster, I took up sports in adulthood – skiing, running and sailing in my twenties, swimming in my thirties then rollerblading in my forties.<span style=""> </span>I had my third son at forty-one.<span style=""> </span>By age, I could be his grandmother but he is a large part of what anchors me in my youth and I like it that way.<span style=""> </span>At forty-six, I left an abusive marriage of sixteen years and was reborn.<span style=""> </span>Weightless and un-tethered, I leaped forward to experience the exciting, nebulous wonder of being alive! <span style=""> </span></div> <p /> <div style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">Now I am recycling old dreams.<span style=""> </span>I became a computer programmer in my twenties but as a child, I had dreams of being a writer and as a teen I dreamed of being a photographer.<span style=""> </span>Those were great, meaty dreams that I should never have put away but I’m ready now to take a bite out of them.<span style=""> </span>Among a generation of “freedom fifty-five-ers” I’ve deliberately broken ranks to take risks and explore my “what ifs” – and to tell you the truth, I don’t care if I crash and burn, as long as I get a taste, if only for a moment, of what it’s like to soar!</div> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> <p /> </div> <p style="font-size: 10px;"> <a href="http://posterous.com">Posted via email</a> from <a href="http://juddzz.posterous.com/atypically-speaking-reflections-of-a-square-p">juddzz's posterous</a> </p> </div>Judihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910251221542778255noreply@blogger.com0