Echos

Out on our daily walk from the park, we bumped into two boys that we see often. My son was happily going up every stoop, walkway and driveway and the two kids, about eleven, looked on. They both seemed a little shocked by my son's apparent disregard for private property as he marched up stairs and attempted to knock on doors.

Enjoying the attention, my son, clambered up onto some lawn chairs on a porch, sat down and looked down, smilingly, at us watching from the street.

"He is like a deputy minister," said one little boy.

The description was so apt it left me stunned. And not only because that was exactly what my son looked like, smugly looking down at us, as we stood at the gate but also because it was coming out of the mouth of a Punjabi kid with echos of the Raj.

I was immediately drawn to some far off place where the sun always shines and children and women go barefoot. The boy's words brought me there, standing cordoned off from the bigmen, at some ceremony, where hierarchy presides, and well-fed men are squeezed into too tight, shiny suits, making endless pointless speeches to an audience who wonders what's in it for them.

I immediately thought, Wow, I'd love to be a fly on the wall at that kid's dinner table. I also thought, I am raising a white man.

Cock rock hard

A sign in the window of a local grocery store: chicken hard, 3 for 1$. Chicken hard? Being a vegetarian I am not intimate with the descriptions associated with meat but chicken hard? Do they not mean the bones, that being the hardest part of anyone's body?

I can see Madam squeezing her way past the familypacks of cumin and greasy pickle to the butcher in the back. "But how hard is the chicken?" she asks, always wary of a scam. The butcher takes the chicken by the feet, plucked and dead and thwacks it against the counter a few times. Bang bang bang. "Hard."

Maybe they meant 'hearts'? But aren't chicken hearts rather small? I know they are not known for their brains, but are chickens known for their hearts? He was such a kind rooster, so loving to his friends, forgiving of his enemies.

I could go on but I don't think you want me to.

Daycare dilemma - Part 2 (for LR)

Finding and getting a daycare in this city is, for lack of a better word, challenging. A better word would incorporate the desperation, the creeping deadline of a return to work. It would take into account the sinking futility of watching a daycare worker flip through endless pages of children's names on waiting lists looking for your child's who, after many months, is not on the list after all. A better word would also allude to the protection felt, the motherly instincts challenged, the deep fear that your child will not be cared for, valued, or caught as he tumbles off the slide. A better word would include the push and the pull, the need for and the caution of daycare.

I have watched my ethics slide in a quest for a decent daycare. I have shmoozed with daycare directors. I have been charming and amenable when I didn't necessarily feel charming and amenable. And recently, I slipped into some daycare nepotism.

My neighbour's accountant is also the accountant of a local, 7$ a day daycare. "I'll put in a word," said my neighbour. I didn't say "don't." I didn't say, "that wouldn't be fair." I said, "that'd be nice." I told family, grinningly, that I might jump the eternal daycare queue but I felt a niggling wiggle of fading morality, somewhere out past the fantasies of having A SPOT IN A DAYCARE.

After a few weeks, my neighbour said I could go into the daycare and ask for J-. I was to mention T-, the mutual accountant. This interaction would allow me to leap ahead of several hundred waiting infants and toddlers to the front of the line. "Hallelujah," thought I.

With my sense of ethics nearing the horizon, I set forth to the daycare.

"Is J- here?" I asked the serious woman who answered the bell.
"No," she replied. "What is it about?"
Now, I was caught. What was I to say? The accounting? I am a notoriously slow thinker on my feet.
"Uhm, the waiting list," said I.
"I am in charge of the waiting list," the woman replied and ushered me in.

It seems my son was not on the waiting list (I'd called twice) so he was put on. And that was that.

I came away feeling as if I had got my just deserts. Fair is fair.

Maybe one day, when my son is twenty or so, he'll get a good spot. For now, I am, undeservedly, on the moral high ground.

Dawg gone

I am struggling through The Story of Edgar Sawtelle (David Wroblewski, 2008). It is a brick of a book at over 550 pages. The only reason I have persevered is that both my uncle and mother thought it was very good. My mum even encouraged me on the phone today, 'give it another fifty pages,' she said, 'and if you're still not into it, let it go.' Another fifty pages.

And it is not like the writing is bad. Far from it. The writing is quite good but more what old David is writing about. For those who haven't read it, it is about a family who raises dogs. That's it. They raise dogs and train dogs and help dogs be born and watch stray dogs at the edge of the woods and talk about dogs and pat their dogs and go for walks with their dogs and feed their dogs and reminisce about dogs. No kidding. One chapter was devoted to naming some new dogs. And they didn't even get particularly interesting names. Now maybe if I was crazy about dogs I'd really be into this.

I am not crazy about dogs ergo I am struggling with this finely written but infinitely boring book.

I'll give it another fifty pages.

My son the genius (for JD)

1) After bath time, I usually spend quite some time chasing my son around the apartment trying to get him into his diaper and then his pyjamas before the wind-down for bed. Tonight, I was distracted in the kitchen and figured I would let him run around naked for a bit. He came into the kitchen, diaper in hand, said 'couche' a couple of times then tried to wrap it around his neck like a scarf. He then laid it on the floor, opened it and then lay down and tried to put in on himself. My son is putting on his own diapers.

2) An obsession with numbers and letters has recently entered our home. My son names letters wherever he sees them, on bags, newspapers, books, and bottles of ketchup. He has even seen letters where others wouldn't. A splatter of milk on the floor is an 'o'. A clothes peg a 'v'.

I say we skip primary school and send him straight off to university.

The Exchange (fiction -1-)

A first attempt at fiction, bear with me.
~

J- surveyed the display for some time before stepping forward to the choose the plant. It was on the edge of the great riot of colour and texture, closest to the street. A single green leaf clung to the barren stalk of what must have once been a mighty plant. Yellowed and curled leaves lay on the ground despite the rich appearance of its soil.

J- lifted the plant and carried it to the proprietor of the shop, an elderly Greek man who sat in the doorway in an old wicker chair.

-Sir, said J-, I would like to buy this plant, sir, but it is too expensive, if you don't mind my saying so. J- could feel his palms sweaty and slippery around the plastic pot.

Mr. L- stopped his quick-eyed surveillance of the street before him, the running and screaming children, the small groupings of alte kakers complaining about life, the sun shifting allegiance from sky to furtive clouds.

-I have been waiting, said Mr. L-, staring up at J-. He placed his hands on his armrests and pulled himself slowly to his feet, I have been waiting for a long time for this moment.

J- shifted his weight and moved his shoulders under the polyester fabric of his shirt.

-That plant, said Mr. L-, pointing to the hunched stick in J-'s hands, she used to be a beauty. I bought her from Sorento when she was just a bud, a bump, a nothing but I knew, I knew she would one day be a great lady. Mr. L waved his hands. Sorento, he never sold me a bad seed.

-I loved and cared for her. I watched her grow. Her beautiful leaves like nothing I had seen before. Most of the time, nothing special, long and green and shiny. And in the summer, she'd transform, her leaves would turn gold, purple, flecks of silver and black, red. So beautiful. Mr. L- stopped, his eyes elsewhere. And then when she was old enough, I brought her outside for the summer, so the people could find joy in her beauty.

J- started to look about. Were passersby noticing how he stood there, caught by Mr. L-'s ravings, his rising voice, his flailing hands?

-I have seen everything, cried Mr. L-, I watched as you passed by and noticed my beauty for the first time. I saw how she made you stop and reconsider everything. I saw how you wanted to have her. I watched as you passed by each day, your satchel swinging from arms tired from working hunched at a desk all day. I saw the way you would look, sideways at her. I saw you stop and bend close to her, whisper to her, stroke her gold and red leaves. Don't think I didn't see. Mr. L- was yelling, his face shiny with emotion. I saw. I saw everything.

J- could feel the shift in the air, he squared his shoulders and breathed deep.

-You killed her, said Mr. L-, suddenly quiet, deflated. Leaf by leaf, one by one. You killed her. And now you want to buy her? And for a cheaper price? Mr L-'s voice almost cracked, cracked at the injustice of the world.

-Take her, Mr. L- pushed the plant into J-'s chest. Take her and don't let me see you again.

J- turned to the street. An alte kaker glanced their way, drawn by the scent of defeat, then looked away. J-, holding the plant to his heart, stepped back into the flow of the street.

~

Apple bums

Several months ago, there was an ad on TV for a large grocery store chain. The premise was that there was a great variety of produce to be discovered at their store. The ad showed a little boy asking his father the names of fruits and vegetables. "What's this?" asks the boy. "A peach," answers his father. "What's this?" asks the kid. "Broccoli," says his father. At the end of the ad, the kid points to a large, green bunch of leaves and asks, "What's this?" The dad is stumped.

Watching the ad, I yell out "Swiss chard, you fool!"

Well, the pigeons of smugness have come home to roost. My son asks the names of the most difficult things. What is the name of the space between the nose and lip? I answered "the upper lip, moustache area". Wholly unsatisfactory. And the bottom of an apple, that little crinkly area? What is that called? I have no idea. And what about the space between the cheek and the ear? Chear? And that mini-tractor thing that swoops along dusty sidewalks, sucking up trash in its vacuum hose, what's that called? A golf-cart speedball?

My sense of the articulate has been badly shaken.

Afghans in the park

The past couple of time I have taken my son to the park, I have noticed a new gang of kids added to the usual mix. Most days, the park can be divided along ethnic and socio-economic lines in the sand. There are the Punjabi kids who take over the jungle gym for an Indian version of 'tag' that involves someone yelling 'superman'. There are the Greek kids followed by concerned grandmothers who try to get them to eat at every opportunity. Then there are the poorer white kids, who stand in groups and use curse words. These kids have the unhealthy pallor of poverty. They shove harder on the slide. They have more to be angry about.

I have watched my son negotiate through and into these different groups. He has his favourites among the Punjabi kids, some of whom carry him and hug him when they see him. He has taken advantage of the Greek, snack ladies when they have bananas. 'Banana, banana, banana' he yells until one of the grandmas hands him part of a banana. 'Banana' he proudly says before stuffing it into his mouth with sandy fingers. He stands back from the barreling energy of the poor kids.

Lately, there has been a new group, a small gaggle of miscellaneous kids playing cricket between the jungle gym and the much-ignored swings. Pale skinned, bare footed children. The girls in that universal dress, the one seen on girls the world over, polyester, faded, too small or too big, ruffles hanging limply, crushed velvet or scratchy lime green. A white scarf hastily draped over messy hair. Boys in the pyjama suits I associate with Pakistan, long sleeved white shirts hanging low on matching pants. The cricket bat looks like it has been through a war. Where are these kids from? They haven't been here long. They haven't had the time to reject the clothes their parents brought with them in favour of skinny jeans and sparkly t-shirts that say 'girl' or 'pretty'.

And they have a certain look about the eyes. Wide eyed. If I were a white man with a belly and a tobacco pipe I might call it 'sauvage'. But I am not a white man so I will call it 'knowing'.

They play amongst themselves, absorbed in their game and oblivious to the woman puzzling and watching over them, her son declaring his love of bananas.

Movie

The other night I watched "12 Angry Men" (1957) with Henry Fonda. Wow, they sure don't make them like that anymore. Or maybe they do. I read recently that a remake has been made called "12" but considering what I saw the other night, I am sure it won't be nearly as good.

Wow. Again. It is rare that I will entertain the notion of watching a movie with twelve white guys sitting in a room talking but I am glad I did.

There is something to be said about good cinema.

That something won't be said now as I plan to watch "The Night of the Iguana" (1964) based on Tennessee Williams' play of the same name. Ah, the joyful relish of a good movie.

Travel writing

Lately, I have been thinking about travel writing. I am reading a friend's book, Poets and Pahlevans: A journey into the heart of Iran (Marcello Di Cintio, 2006) and it is making me think of the craft of travel writing.

How does it actually happen? I picture a sweaty and tired traveller hunched over a rumpled notebook in a sparse hotel room, a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling, frantically scribbling with a runny ballpoint. Or maybe a laptop on a cafe table, high, louvred windows and incredible luxury at dirt cheap prices as the monsoons flood the streets outside. Iced coffee after iced coffee on lazy afternoons. The first is a furtive, private affair. The second a more romantic, colonial fantasy. Or is it more of a stream of consciousness thing? Self narration through mundane daily activities?

"I hailed a taxi, the dust at my feet softening the harshness of the sun-baked earth. A broken-down, applegreen car pulled up. There were already four customers squeezed into the front and back seats. My place was in the front seat, next to a young woman in a tight, sequined top and traditional African pagne. Her face shiny with sweat, she smiled and shifted over towards the gear shift. There is always room for one more. "

Or is it an act of memory? I am always impressed when I read that some writer spent six months in some unobtrusive place such as western Massachusetts or Ontario, writing and recollecting about travels in Mogadishu or Kazakhstan. I wonder what gets distilled through memory, new context and the need to get onto something new.

All to say, I am quite enjoying the book.

Outremont

Today I have been thinking about being rich.

I am sitting in a park in Outremont. Genteel, well-heeled, civilized Outremont. As I eat my take-away lunch on a park bench, I look across to the solid brick homes that line the park, their white colonnades looming over perfect shrubbery. The children playing behind me are better dressed than I'll ever be. Their parents and nannies discrete in soft tones of grey, beige and brown.

I eat greasy chickpeas sprinkled with coriander and fantasize about which house I'd buy if some yet unknown wealthy relative were to die and leave me their millions.

The cupids on the fountain are well-fed and insolently cherubic. The hasidic kids keep kicking their yellow ball into what is left of the pond. Bald men in camel coats, large sunglasses and perfect scarves pass with pretty women on their arms. My lips are shiny with roast eggplant but I won't wipe them yet, there is more beet salad to be eaten.

The sun is shining and the buds are a hazy blur of neon green on the branches of old trees. There is no loud music, no honking cars, nor yelled conversations. Everything is calm, composed.

A walking tour crosses the park, the leader in the hat one would expect of a tour guide. What does she tell them? 'This is what money looks like'?

I finish my lunch, wipe my fork and fold away my paper napkins. You never know when they could come in handy.