Opera York La Traviata

Opera York has once again deployed an artistic dream team to thrill music lovers and sate sensation seekers; their vehicle: Giuseppe Verdi’s, La Traviata. It is a noble calling to paint our world vibrant and colourful when “The skies of November turn gloomy,” 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.

Opera companies the world over have been staging Verdi productions this past year in honour of the 200^th anniversary of the birth of Il Maestro, 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.  

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!

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.  

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.

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.

Wonderful things continue to emerge from the Opera York dream machine.  The spring production, Feb. 28^th and March 2^nd will turn to the lighter side of life with Franz Lehar’s, The Merry Widow; mark your calendar for a perfect date night!

 

Opera York’s next must-see production will be on the lighter side with Franz Lehar’s, The Merry Widow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Music Season In Toronto!

http://arts.nationalpost.com/2012/10/31/concert-review-valery-gergiev-and-the-stradivarius-ensemble-dazzle-in-toronto/

Carrott Muffins À La Juddzz...

These went perfectly with my coffee this morning.  Try them!

 

My November Evening Walk

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.

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." 

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.

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."

and now, time for tea...

Richmond Hill - In Love With Opera York!

It was palpable...

Last night, at the Richmond Hill Centre for the Performing Arts, 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 Opera York whose numbers, swelling to near capacity, proved that this regional opera company with world-class talent is a vital part of a vibrant community.  

It was magic...

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.

Season 15 of Opera York began with Puccini's, Madama Butterfly.  Opera-philic maven (of just one year) that I am, I know that Puccini's, La Boheme 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 - Opera For Everyone.

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, need it...

Opera York's next production, Die Fledermaus, by Johann Strauss with artistic director Geoff Butler, is scheduled for February & March of 2012. 

what is opera - don't try to form an opinion from tv or youtube

Opera York, now in its 15th successful season has primed the people of this vibrant, receptive community to expect the best.

From the glitter of lights in the foyer, to the sparkle of smiling faces one encountered at every turn,

Expectation, excitement

It reaches down and cleanses the soul of stagnant emotions. 

Opera York Warms Up November!

There's no need to mope about the end of summer when opera season begins! 

For immediate release,

October  29, 2011

 

Madama Butterfly on stage at the Richmond Hill Centre for the Performing Arts.

 

York Region, On…Opera York in its 15^th season proudly presents the production of Madama Butterfly, at the Richmond Hill Centre for the Arts.  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.  This year Opera York is offering student pricing at $25.00 a ticket.

 

Madama Butterfly by Giacomo Puccini.  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.  Unknown to Pinkerton, Butterfly has his son and waits faithfully for Pinkerton to return.  Finally, three years later Pinkerton does return but with his American wife.  When Butterfly discovers this, she is devastated.  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.

 

 

Opera York’s artistic director for Madama Butterfly is Sabatino Vacca. Deirdre Fulton is playing Cio-Cio San (Madama Butterfly).  Suzuki is played by Louisa Cowie, and B. F. Pinkerton is played by Romulo Delgado.

Deirdre Fulton, new to the Opera York team, has been praised in Opera Canada for her “outstanding voice” and “powerful presence”. Deirdre has been touring throughout China since 2009 with Opera Juenesse and performed in Graz and Wiez, Austria under conductor Edoardo Müller.  

Romulo Delgado returns to the Opera York team after his European debut in Austria 2011 singing Don Jose in Bizet’s Carmen at the Opern Air Festpiele in Gars am Kamp. 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 a striking lyric tenor sound that is “powerful and smooth with an ingratiating Italianate tone.” (Opera Canada) 

 

Opera York received the RAVE award from the City of Vaughan 2010.  This award was given to the company for its role in education and mentoring young artists.

 

To find out more about the production of Madama Butterfly or Opera York please visit their website at www.operayork.com. 

 

Madama Butterfly

November 3, 2011, at 8:00 pm

November 5, 2011, at 8:00 pm

Richmond Hill Centre for the Performing Arts (10268 Yonge Street)

Tickets $40 - $50, Students $25

Box Office:  (905) 787-8811 or go to www.rhcentre.ca

 

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Media Contact:

Lola Davidson, Opera York

Cell:  (647) 292 – 3995, lola@operayork.com

www.operayork.com

 

 

 

Recycled Treasures in Georgetown Ontario

Recently, I reported back about a shopping trip to Georgetown's Wastewise Recycling Centre, 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. 

Halton's Wastewise 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 Wastewise 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. 

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 Wastewise are doing a wonderful job; keep it up (when you come back from BC that is!)

A Dozen Eggs & A Pound of Books Please...

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.'  

I hopped in the Red Rover and checked out the selection in one of my favourite haunts in Georgetown. This place is unreal, to speak, as Professor Marvel did in the Wizard of Oz, "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. 

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.

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 photography; my could'a-should'a-would'a-career...

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; The Readers Digest Illustrated Reverse Dictionary, Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase & Fable, Shoot the Puppy, How to Build a Better Vocabulary, The First Five Pages, An Introduction to Fiction and my single fiction title, The Shipping News.  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 by the pound; the sales person loaded the lot onto a scale and told me the cost was $6.50!!

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!

Herbie Hancock - Don't Give Up - Too Amazing to Keep to Myself

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. 

 

Mark of a Good Opera? It Passes the "Pub and Pal" Test!!

“Director, Emilio Fina, accomplished an artistic and logistic coup in Opera Kitchener production of the Barber of Seville at the River Run Centre in Guelph last night...”

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.  I now love opera. I chalked up my latest adventure with Opera Kitchener’s rollicking “Barber of Seville” at the River Run Centre in Guelph last night – yessss, the “Figaro” opera!  It was really important for me that my date enjoyed the evening too.  He’d never been to the opera in all of his considerable years and I dreaded the sarcastic “I told you so” sneer if he did not like it. 

Gerry’s a ‘pub and tweed’ variety Englishman.  He enjoys a good laugh, a good pastie and good ale with his mates – and not necessarily in that order.  Habits, custom and creature comforts are hugely important to Gerry.  He was anxious about the dress code beforehand but I assured him that it wasn’t formal – it was Guelph after all, not the Met for heaven’s sakes!   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.  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 concept.   I managed the not inconsiderable task of getting him there; with an open mind, but for his attitude conversion, I let the pros take over!  What follows is an account of how Gerry’s operatic resistance met its Waterloo – in Guelph...

We met in the lobby.  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.  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.  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.  Gerry looked not anxious!

Conductor, William Shookoff, was the first   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.  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. 

What followed was the systematic construction of a brand new opera convert after each stage of which I shouted a climatic “yes, yes, yes!!”

We both loved the “Barber.” Gerry’s first time to the opera was my first time seeing this Rossini production.  The thing that’s most surprising for first-timers, we found, was how timeless and appealing opera still is today.  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.  In Fina’s production we were quite in awe of the acting which we thought would be secondary to the singing.  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.

Particularly charming about the performances was the fact that the lovers, Count

 Almaviva, played by Fina, himself and Rosina, played by Jennifer Elisabetta Fina

are, of course, real life husband and wife.  Their beautiful arias were convincing and poignant.   Not surprisingly though, for my affable Brit date, Gerry was completely won over by the comic portions of the opera.  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.

I am so happy and excited to discover this first class company in my own backyard!  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!

Mark this website so you won't miss Opera Kitchener’s next exciting production!

Opera York - Cosi Fan Tutte

  Like most of you, I have stashes of higher quality items that I reserve for special occasions – dishes, wines, lingerie!   My Wedgewood china, for instance, shouts Christmas and celebration and the bounty of an inspired kitchen.  I even have a special box of words that I will use only with the utmost discrimination lest overuse render them banal and diluted.  Last night I saw the Mozart/Da Ponte opera, Cosi Fan Tutte.  The Opera York production in the glittering Richmond Hill Centre for the Performing Arts:

sent me on a frantic search for my dusty chest of special occasion words! 

Permit me now to panegyrize!

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.  Eternally enamoured of Mozart, I was a push-over for last night’s performance of Cosi Fan Tutte.  From the time I entered the lovely Richmond Hill Centre with my dashing father, Frank Garel:

...until the time I left, I felt pampered and welcomed – like a guest of honour really. 

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 Mr. Jones.  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. 

I am already anxious to schedule my next fix!    

Spring and Love and Cosi Fan Tutte

Opera York presents its spring production of Mozart's Cosi Fan Tutte to grace the stage at the Richmond Hill Centre For the Performing Arts 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, Dion Mazerolle) announcement to Fiordiligi (played by soprano, Rachel Cleland-Ainsworth) 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 Anna Bateman).  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. 

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! 

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) Greg King, click HERE!

Hope to see you at the opera! Click HERE for tickets

See and download the full gallery on posterous

[About] Ernest Chausson - Classical Archives

[About] Ernest Chausson - Classical Archives: "Ernest Chausson"

Just listening to this composer for the first time. If you've never listened to him, then you must.

Transplanting Time

"Ooooooooh, here it comes!" Mandy quickly brought the bottle of so-so 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.

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...

 

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.

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, "This is the most important tool you will ever own. Let it remind you that whatever problems come crashing down upon you; you will always 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.

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.

"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!"

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?"

"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."

"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!"

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 can't 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 me."

David looked at her wild green eyes that pleaded with him for complicity. He reluctantly agreed but warned, "Next time, I will interfere, Mandy; no one should have to live like this. Do you still want to take Nicko?"

"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.

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.

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".

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.

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.

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 fuck 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?"

Why do you come home any night! 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.

"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!"

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.

"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!"

"We're going to, Dad..." Justin began.

Mandy added, "Wayne, they've been at school all day and tomorrow's Saturday; they can do it then."

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.

"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! None of you ever listen to me and none of you ever do anything right – you're all fuck-ups – all of you!"

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.

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.

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..."

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.

"Keep out of this!" he hissed bringing his thick arm and massive fist up to her attention.

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.

"NO!" she cried.

The massive word hung heavy in the air. Her stomach heaved waiting for his reaction. He breathed hard, grinding his teeth between clenched lips.

With pounding heart, she took a step towards him and shook her finger at him, "We've had enough!" she said.

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, "How can you come home, night after night and put your family through this and think you deserve a scrap of respect?"

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.

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.

 

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.

"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 "...whatever problems come crashing down upon you; you will always be able to dig your way out" and something moved inside her – she felt a lightening as a faint fearful hope took root.

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 not horrendous as they splashed back through the fall leaves.

 

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 this 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.

"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?"

"Wayne took the van out about fifteen minutes ago and we haven't heard from the kids yet."

"That's good," Mandy said with a deep breath of relief. Her body relaxed noticeably; "A couple of quiet hours should be enough time."

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.

"It's all over David" she cried as he continued to support her. "It's all over..."

 

    
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sleepless in Acton!

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:

• Make a tall cup of herbal tea
• check your e-mail
• peak in on your baby turtle to see if he's showing ANY signs of life
• mentally make your to-do list
• try to forget about the worry list
• grab your glasses and pick out a book (like Kurt Vonnegut's "Jailbird")

And then...

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 seems 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). 

Me neither...

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The Tide of Change

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.

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.  “Noooooo! Noooooo!  Leave me alone!” Ryan pulled the covers over his head and groaned, “I reeeeeally don’t want to get up!”

Errors and Omissions

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.

Mosaic Memories

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."
Judi thought that was an eccentric observation but grinned and said, "I'm glad I'm not the only weird one in this family."
Another time he said, "Whenever I think about something that happened in the past, I can only picture it in black and white."

Judi Does Opera York!

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 Opera York.  

Stories on Canvas - Are you in one??

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 HERE.

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