Odds & sods.

Just coming off a bit of a writing marathon and still out of breath, figuratively speaking. It's my day to write the blog but I don't think I would even come within 10 feet of the laptop if I didn't have deadline-miss-o-phobia.  I suppose I could wait until later … but I don't think my urge to prepare a post will increase over the course of the day. Not this time.

To come up with a topic, let's dredge the shallow depths of my exhausted, barely-functioning mind.

I did think briefly about motherhood. I really do agree with the saying that when you give birth to your child you also give birth to your new self. Anyone who knows me would agree that I've come a long way over the past 11 years. The seeds of goodness were there covered in the dirt all along, but having a child really helped me grow into the best, most patient and compassionate person I can be. I still say the wrong things and I still have a ton of awkward and stressy moments in my life, but I like my new self far more than I ever liked the self I used to be.

As I ponder "what to write", another topic that comes to mind is that of the boy, Sammy Yatim, who was shot by police over the weekend on a Toronto streetcar. His face is imprinted on my memory. Sure, he was 18, but he looks like a boy to me. I guess there are parallels between this case and the Trayvon Martin case. Not the facts, no, just the feelings. Nobody likes to see a young person shot to death, whether armed with powerful punches or armed with a small knife. Not only does a young person represent a ton of potential for good in our society, but a young person is nearly always on the receiving end of massive quantities of mother's love. So when a young person's life is taken, you know that somewhere unseen a mother's heart has been broken.  

As I read about it in a Toronto paper, I noted that a relative was quoted as saying the teen was a good kid, but had started wearing his jeans slung low. According to the story, the boy's dad didn't like that look. Not having a teenage son myself, I have to ask if this is a chicken/egg thing. What comes first – is it the baggy-pant 'n bloomer costume or is it the trouble?

None of us wants to think so, and I certainly don't like the threat to freedom this question poses to both males and females of all ages. But I have to ask. Can certain clothing bring about unwanted consequences?

If we allow our children, our lambs, to dress in wolf's clothing … right or wrong, racism or not … it seems we are putting them in harm's way. Counting on the gun-toting shepherd down the road to recognize them for who they really are when they stray from safe pastures.

Hopefully it isn't a trend, but just like my dog can spot a mailman or UPS guy from a mile away – not by the face but by the uniform – I don't think it's a stretch to believe that wearing certain clothing can attract the wrong kind of attention.

Sure, brandishing a knife when there are a dozen police officers around is never a good idea. But when a barely-armed or unarmed teen is dressed from head to toe in a way that says "I'm a dangerous thug", the cops or Zimmermans of the world may react accordingly. When they perceive a threat – whether a punch in the face or a gesture with a small blade - they may take more rigorous steps to defend themselves. May end up taking the teen's life. So instead of growing up, that teenage boy ends up stretched out in a coffin wearing perfectly-creased dress pants for all of eternity. Never getting a chance to become the man he was meant to be.

I know after the Trayvon Martin shooting people of all ages and colours marched in the US for their right to wear hoodies without being shot. And they were right. Shooting someone for wearing dangerous-looking clothes is, obviously, wrong. But that doesn't mean it never happens. Once was too often. Twice? Well … it sure makes this mother think. And if I had a son… we'd sure be having a discussion about this tonight … as we take a stroll over to the local Gap store.

Some odd thoughts.

Sometimes I wonder what the world would be like if there were no dishonesty. I'm not saying I want my husband to tell the truth when I ask him whether my exercise program is working, or to speak freely about my singing to the car radio.

I'm just pondering the possibilities of a world in which nobody would ever lie in the interest of cheating. Where nobody would ever casually swipe something that doesn't belong to them, let alone hold up a bank at gunpoint. I remember the realization, as a child, just how large a role dishonesty plays in our daily comings and goings.

If you look at your life, you don't see all the accoutrements that accompany living in a dishonest world. You don't add up all the minutes of time lost to finding car keys, to clicking "I forgot my password" and waiting for the new one to arrive in your inbox.

In a society where nobody would steal your car, or your identity, or enter your home in search of your grandmother's wedding ring ... there would be no locks, keys or passwords. No calls from the bank that your card was compromised - again. No shout from your mate to say "wait, is that REALLY the bank calling? Don't give out any information!"

Years ago, I was sitting in a Starbucks on Bloor Street one Friday evening, surrounded by girlfriends. We were all telling happy woman-under-thirty stories and I was excited because I'd soon be going to New York for the first time. I remember feeling a cool shadow bathe me from the warmth of my smiling, beautiful friends, but it didn't register as anything important. Until I went to grab my purse and go ... and it was gone.

Someone decided to use my cards to buy themselves running shoes and electronics. They liked my purse and wallet and phone and kept them. But they did bundle my other ID and stuff into a bag and toss it into someone's backyard.

When the backyard family found my items they called me, frantic, desperate to reunite the driver's licence and OHIP card and birth certificate with their owner. Thank goodness you're okay, the woman said to me. When we saw your ID pictures we felt like we knew you and we were so worried we'd find out you were ... dead.

They thought the thief had stolen my life too.

And again, I just wonder what it would be like to live in a world where that could never happen.

Odd!

Last night we went swimming at Antibes pool at Bathurst & Finch. It was the only indoor facility with an evening swim that I could find - aside from an all-male swim at Lawrence Park from 7:30-9.

A year ago we would never need to search for a place to swim because our next door neighbours, Rebecca and Michael, had a pool that we were welcome to use any time we wanted to. Their daughter taught R to dive in that pool last summer.

But this spring, those neighbours moved away after 11 years, and the new neighbours, Yeng-ki and Nancy, are almost never around. And the water in the pool is kind of tinged with some impurity of the wrong colour. Kind of blackish, like when you dip your paintbrush into a glass to clean it off. So at least we're not gazing longingly at it through the fence anyway.

This summer we've started going to public swimming pools at Toronto community centres.

And since the new Prince George - who got his name yesterday - may never know what it's like to swim in a small, overcrowded public swimming pool, I'm going to try to describe it for him. Later on, when George, Prince of Cambridge, finds himself splashing among the waves in the sunny Seychelles, or performing a medal-worthy swan-dive in the royal deep-end, he needs to know exactly what he is missing.

At a public pool you get to shimmy out of your clothes and put on your swimsuit in front of naked strangers, and then you get to take your flipflops off and walk across a gelatinously-dirty tile floor toward the pool deck. You get to politely ask the lifeguard if diving is allowed, and you get to see him silently point at the sign that says "no diving". You get to stake out an area for yourself in the pool where you can swim without getting some other swimmer's foot up your nostril. You get to see someone make a bee-line for your area and begin enjoying it. You get to repeat that process again a few times until you just tread water in one spot. You get to look at the clock and realize you've only been there 30 minutes when the whistle blows and the lifeguard screams "everybody out!" and a lady sitting leisurely on the ladder with a calm expression and no intention of moving out of your way asks you - what is it? - and you get to eventually emerge from the now-empty pool so you can stand on the crowded-confused deck to see the small patty of vomit floating on the water's clear surface, down in the shallow end. You get to laugh in the shower, as the cold water shocks you, and the lovely (swimsuit-wearing) mom next to you jokes in her slightly Jamaican accent about the coldness of the water and you make your own joke that it was only baby-vomit and who hasn't been exposed to that anyway?

Once R and I were dried and dressed, we also got to walk around the community centre and check things out. There was a classroom filled with large canvasses and colours and women and men visibly over the age of 60 seated with their oval palettes, painting with oils. It reminded me of a symphony.

But this was a symphony of soloists. No two subjects were alike. There were muscular, stampeding horses, quiet autumn lake shores, a large, blurred portrait of someone's grown daughter. The painting that held my attention longest depicted a crisply-vivid beach scene. Amid shades of aqua-blue and green and champagne tans, a large, spotted conch shell took centre stage in the foreground while soft white sand and palms receded immediately behind it. The sky and water were clear, the shell appeared shiny and heavy and golden-brown, nestled in the sand. A pair of palm trees grew, just-so, on either side, of it, like the open curtains on a stage. As real as it all appeared, it was, without a doubt, a scene from a gentleman-of-few-hairs' imagination. And, like Rousseau before him, his scene of paradise was beautiful but unconvincing. And I wondered, briefly, if he's ever been there.

Oddly enough...

I don't like to miss a deadline. So I'll write a post while I lie here watching Oprah's Where Are They Now, a show that revisits guests from Oprah shows of long ago. This episode has featured a male showgirl, a teen who murdered her baby, and a woman who dresses like a porn star.

My brain is pretty blank. Did anyone else find Even's last entry to be heart-wrenching and shocking beyond words?

I usually write in the morning but I didn't want to bump E's post. And now that it's almost 9 pm, still, I feel like I shouldn't be bumping that post from the front page. Shouldn't be replacing it with this.

We both had fathers with problems.

And though I fully expect us to explore those memories here, we can never forget to remind ourselves where we are now. Which is a pretty good place. And I think I'll shut'er down now and go enjoy it.

Moldova? Now that's odd.

Odd here.
Both Even and I have been looking at the blog dashboard to see if anyone has been reading this.

Yesterday - as a break from speedwriting more than a hundred product descriptions - I checked and saw that someone from Moldova had read us. I mean, someone from Moldova had at least clicked onto our Dirty Little Feet.

And to greet that most-welcome Moldovan guest I shall hereby put on my very best Robin Williams impersonation and say ...

"Goooood moooorrrning Moldova!!!"

Your readership is sincerely appreciated. Thank you. And thank you, Blogger.com, for bringing us this very special visitor.

Moldova, may I call you Mo? Since you're here, Mo, please take a seat and let's talk about something I'll take the liberty of assuming we're both interested in: Writing.

According to my observations, there's a phenomenon that many writers and would-be-writers share: a reluctance to write anything that will never be read. A resistance to writing non-starters. A refusal to invest more than 2 SI units of energy into any project that's doomed to fail.

Pushing a boulder the size of the Rogers Centre up the north face of Everest would be a smoother, more effortless process than the unbearable grind of writing a page of stuff nobody wants to read.

But there's a whole complicated chemical process involved in writing material that gets read. I like to think of it as "writing well".

Plain old writing helps a Moldovan seeking "Seasons in the Sun" lyrics give your blog an accidental click. Writing well makes that Moldovan come back the very next day. Writing well makes tears come to that Moldovan's eyes and elicits silly chuckles from their stubborn Moldovan lips. Writing well makes words and ideas dance across the Moldovan mind in a rhythm so alluring that even the busiest Moldovan cannot resist. If something is written well - that Moldovan will never stop reading. Not while there's still another word to be read.

Hmmm. It's been really nice talking to you, Mo. You've certainly helped bring up some important thoughts on writing. Important thoughts, indeed. It seems good writing is pretty important to you. You've got high standards and you're as entitled to them as anyone else.

But now you've got me thinking, too.

Listen, Mo. I'm not saying we don't want you here - that's not the case at all. But to be perfectly honest ... and with all due respect ... and as nice as it is to have a real audience ... I'm starting to wish you wouldn't put so much pressure on us. I just had to get that off my chest.

So, good bye for now, Moldova. Here is the link you were actually looking for:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IYsrKDSKzWg

Another odd day in the life.
This day is significant because I'll be picking up R from camp after two weeks that she has been away.

For me, time passes abstractly for the most part. "I gave that to you last week" I'll say to someone I haven't seen in a month. It's all a blur and if it really matters I'll check the calendar on the fridge.

But when my 11-year-old (or 10, or 9, or all the ages she's been over the past 5 summers) goes away to camp, time takes on a new meaning and a level of consciousness I'm not accustomed to. I literally counted the days until she returned, and today that homecoming day is finally here.

When the big coach bus rolled out of the parking lot, taking my freckly-nosed girl away from me that Sunday afternoon, I was mopey for a while. But then, on the Monday, there was a big storm in Toronto with record-breaking rainfalls that knocked out the power for an entire evening. As I watched our street turn into a shallow river (we're on a hill and are unlikely to flood like the Don Valley would), and realized there would be no internet, no TV, no lights, no cooking, no phone (except the old cobwebby one attached to the wall in the basement) ... I felt a luxurious sense of delight wash over me.

It didn't matter that the cupboards were bare. I poured myself a glass of wine, lit three candles, cranked up R's tiny pink lootbag radio to treat my ears to a live, all-French Chopin festival, and opened my already-renewed library book for the first time. I would be alone for just over three hours -- the time it took for my husband to walk home from downtown, soaked beyond recognition, since the subways were closed.

That was 12 days ago.

Today at 11:45 the bus will roll into that parking lot and I'll be looking into her green eyes again - green eyes framed by a deeply-tanned face and wild, sundrenched hair and mosquito bites on her forehead and scrapes on her elbows and an army-coloured rumpled shirt I don't recognize - one she probably wore every day despite the full suitcase of perfect Gap Kids and Triple Flip.

Today.

In four hours and thirty-one minutes.

Memories of my Odd-awa Childhood

I remember the car ride. CFRA radio was playing the latest hits. Songs by Terry Jacks and the Four Seasons and Stevie Wonder and Elton John and Bachman Turner Overdrive and even a little Anne Murray and René Simard underscore the car rides of my childhood, when I look back, as I'm doing now.

The lyrics weren't always clear to me and I think that says little about auditory function and a lot about a mind's developmental age - like, I remember a song that went "Long distance love affair, lovin' on the phone." But at the time I had no idea the singer wasn't saying "Long distance Loverbear". I wouldn't have known about love affairs, let alone long distance ones. So I figured it was some kind of big, really awesomely friendly bear who called you up using Bell Long Distance (hopefully on the weekend when the rates were two thirds off).

I don't hear that song played on Golden Oldies nights but with all the people meeting over the internet it really could be resurrected as an anthem today. They were just ahead of their time, whoever "they" were. Oh and by the way, one of the nicknames I've given my husband? Loverbear.

You know, really, every sentence here could begin with "I remember", but I think I'll self-edit as I write this and spare you that level of gravitas and self importance. At the end you'll see why.

The car was big and long and flexible-seeming like an archer's bow and the back seat was smooth and firm like the bench seat in an old 50s diner. The seatbelts were long enough to wrap around 3 or more children at a time. The seatbelt clasps were as massive and unwieldy as those you'd find on a Boeing 747. Forget to put on your seatbelt and when the car stops suddenly it'll throttle you worse than any car accident could have. That's why we usually shoved them down between the seat and the seatback.

As my Dad drove, and my mom looked ahead, all the neighbourhood landmarks wizzed by the backseat window. There were a lot fewer landmarks built at that time than there likely are now, and some of them were 2-storey heaps of dirt. It didn't occur to me that these mountainous fixtures weren't permanent, though. That they were harbingers of another subdivision to come. This was Orient Park Drive in what was known as Blackburn Hamlet, an eastern suburb of Ottawa.

My brother was there too. He is in a lot of my memories because he is only three years older than me. In this memory I think I must have been 7. He's the one I'd share a piece of Juicy Fruit gum with. Or he'd be the one sharing a piece with me. We'd sit in that back seat and very carefully, with great deliberation, tear the flat stick across the middle. But the tear would always angle-out in a way that gave one of us the "bigger half!". A short while later when the flavour wore out that dispute would happen all over again. Why didn't we each take a whole piece in the first place?

That day, in the car, we were going somewhere. Not sure where. Maybe church. Maybe hockey. Somewhere mundane, that I'm pretty sure of. So it wasn't a special day or anything like that, but I remember getting a very special idea I had never thought of before. I see my young, tanned, curly haired self as though I'm the camera and not the person. I see the lightbulb turn on in my eyes. I see the smile spreading outward, and the relaxed, knowing, satisfaction of it all. I see the scene that played out on the screen of my child-mind's imagination: a lovely home, palm trees, an abundant spread of candy, a swimming pool, handfuls of shimmering coins (yes, coins). It would be a secret plan - one I wouldn't share. Until now.

Like the overlooked puzzle piece that you turn around a different way and suddenly things start fitting together, I came to a realization. When I grow up, I thought ... when I grow up I'm going to be rich.

I am Odd. Yes, in that sense too, but here I am referring to the days of the month on which I am supposed to write. It's an agreement I made today with the other writer - the one who is Even.

Expect to hear from E tomorrow. Unless E forgets. But forgetting things will be a recurring theme in E's narrative anyway. A few missed entries are actually important contributions, in a way, and no less convincing than anything E could write if she remembered to.

And me? I guess I'll be referred to as O.

I have quite a few stories to tell you. You might even find one interesting. Stay tuned.

Today is the first day of telling small stories really well.