I Mean It

The Living Room: Brought to You by Cuca

Some photos by E.g.; all tampered with by Lavenderbay.

Hello, blogworld, Cuca here. Mother has asked me to show you around the living room. She has very specifically not asked the dogs. Note, if you will, the recycle-bin barricade.

First we have the armchair,warmed by a ten-dollar cushion and a five-dollar fleece throw, cozied up to the ABC* coffee table and the BRU** braided rug. Oversized books adorn the lower shelf, among them Netherlandish Painting, Canadian Art, and Australian Birds. On the table top you will see a Cardicorgi candleholder (a birthday gift to Turtle from the dog manufacturer Shelley) and…

… an Indonesian grass basket, costing two bags of kitty treats at Ten Thousand Villages, bought especially to hold beach stones. I just shake my head sometimes.

Another cushion and throw, a twizzly floor lamp, and just beyond that…

A mantelpiece. Spotted Sandpiper, fancy candle, artisanal clock, 1940s incense holder, more rocks (good grief!) and Athena will all have to await my guiding hand; it’s much more amusing to rearrange small items when dogs are sitting underneath them.

Beyond the mantelpiece we see the harp, tucked into the corner between the fireplace and the window. The two white planters expect to greet some sprouted pussywillow stems any day now. I wonder how tasty those will be?

Ah, the window. That reminds me: I’m getting bored. Here’s the NYBA*** rocking chair. Big deal. So if you’ll excuse me…

… the bear and I have a windowsill date with a gorgeous view. Ta-ta for now.

• *ABC: Already Been Chewed.
• **BRU: Baptized by Regurgitation and Urine.
• ***NYBA: Not Yet Been Altered.

Apartment Pix (ii): Studies in Blue

In today’s post, we present the bathroom and the dining room.

From the bathroom doorway, you can see two sets of bifold doors. The first hides the washer and dryer; the second hides a huge closet. Note the shell pattern on the shower curtain.

This dragon hook was left behind by a previous tenant. Above it is a skylight.

The dining room and kitchen make an L. This is the view from the kitchen; the window is off to the left.

On the righthand wall, an old dresser gets a new life: glasses and cups are stored on the shelf, placemats and napkins and tablecloths and silverware in the drawers.

On the weekend, we found a willow someone had cut down, so we took a few sprigs home.

This building was built within five years after the Great Fire of 1877, so it has coal fireplaces, which are smaller than ones made for burning wood. Nevertheless, I thought our larger roasting pan was just the thing to decorate the spot. I appreciate beauty with a purpose.

Next: the living room (and maybe the foyer) .

Apartment Pix (i)

Hey there, good blogbuddies!

It’s been a busy week. The outbound tenant at our new place didn’t move till the morning of the 1st. We moved in during the afternoon. By happenstance, the same moving company had been hired by both of us, so they were able to coordinate things. 

The other complication was with the property management workers, who had been denied access for an inspection and headstart at the cleaning, repainting, and floor polishing. They arrived at 08 30 on the 1st, and worked for two solid days to get the place ship-shape.

Luckily, all of our possessions fit into one room.

This is the view through the baker’s rack into the bedroom. The movers put everything into the painted-that-morning living room, and then when the bedroom was finished, we moved all the stuff into it so the living room floor could be polished. As you can see by the intarsia raccoon, I had already opened a box or two before piling the rest of the stuff in there . (There are several spikes permanently mortared into each brick wall.) Meanwhile,

Virginia scrubbed the stove and fridge, gathered the garbage, and washed and polished the floors (sorry about the photo, I’ve no idea why it turned itself sideways);

Les and Chris installed new kitchen flooring and countertop;

and Don painted the walls and hooked up the washer.

This team has been working together for years, get along wonderfully, and show pride in their work. I’ve separated tasks by name, but I think there was a good deal of overlap, each worker helping the others; plus I was trying to stay out of their way, and so my descriptions may well be inaccurate. I was quite content to sit in one room, opening a carton or dozing off over a to-do list, listening to the casual banter coming from the rest of the apartment, and humming along to the 70s hits issuing from the radio station on Don’s boombox. Those first two days of chaos were, in fact, quite a happy transition.

Still to come this week: various views of the completed areas, a look out the windows, and — special for Goodbear — a secret room.

Now to tackle the remaining mess, that of the computer/craft/spare bedroom. Eeek…

See you tomorrow!

   

A Spelling Lesson From the Bay City Rollers

Champlain points out the river.

 

S-A   I-N-T   J-O-H   N!

S-A   I-N-T   J-O-H   N!

S-s-s Saint John New BrunsWICK!!! Saint John New BrunsWICK!!!

S-A   I-N-T   J-O-H   N!

S-A   I-N-T   J-O-H   N!

[Need clarification? Watch the original here. ]

Okay, here’s the scoop. When the great French explorer, Samuel de Champlain, landed here on a sunny June day in 1604, he named the river that flowed into the Bay of Fundy la rivière Saint-Jean, because it happened to be the feast day of Saint John the Baptist.

Sometime later, the English settlers here had other names for their spots on either side of the river, but finally in 1786 they decided on the collective name of Saint John, using the name of the river to represent both settlements. Saint John became the first incorporated city in North America.

Life went on. Sometimes people spelled it “Saint John”, and at other times “St. John”. Of course, being named after as popular a guy as Jesus’ first cousin and the patron saint of France, the New Brunswick town competed with Saint John, Quebec and St. John’s, Newfoundland for distinctiveness. In the early twentieth century, a movement was afoot to change this city’s name back to Parrtown, the earlier moniker for the community on the east side of the river.

I don’t know about you, but personally, if I were a west-sider, my nose would be out of joint at such a thought.

Possibly the city council and the newspaper saw the situation in a similar light.

In March of 1925, the Telegraph-Journal suggested that the road to distinction lay in consistently spelling the city’s name without abbreviation: “Saint John”. The newspaper further announced that it would itself do so, effective immediately. A mere six weeks later, the city council made it official. The river might be the “St. John”, but the city’s name would always be spelled out fully.

So there ya go.

Full statue, with E.g. and Sonny Boy, in Queen Square.

I will, in parentheses, add that in local publications it is acceptable to write “SJ”. But no “St. John”, please.

And don’t worry; it took numerous corrections on the part of E.g. before I got this fact drilled into my own head. I may be Canadian, but I’m definitely “from away”.

Thanks are due to this page for the facts behind the spelling of Saint John.

How to Pick Up Poopies in a Wintry Saint John Yard

All photos below were taken by E.g. and cropped by Turtle.

Two days ago, on March 29, it was actually raining in Saint John, but when we got here on the 20th it was still solidly, stolidly winter. While Fergus and Cai were light enough to run around on top of the snow in E.g.’s parents’ backyard, a human step would sink up to the knee. How to pick up after the pupsters, then? Alyson?

That’s right: snowshoes!

One small step on yuccakind…

Snowshoes are a First Nations invention. They were originally made of wood and rawhide. The ones here are aluminum and nylon, with canvascloth bindings. No specialized boots are necessary; just slip the toe of your regular ol’ winter boot into the canvas toehold and wrap the strap around your ankle, then slip the strap through the metal clip.

Getting a grip

Their large size distributes a person’s weight to prevent sinking into the snow. One needn’t be heavy to founder, by the way; one simply needs pointy legs. After the rain softened the snow the other day, Cuca the cat snuck outside, only to sink up to his shoulders in the backyard. Differing temperatures and successive thaws and refreezes make for many different textures of snow. On the day these photos were taken, there was a thin crust that upheld the dogs but wasn’t thick enough for me. Snowshoes work on crusty snow as well as they do in deep powder.

The webbing keeps snow from accumulating and weighing down the snowshoe. It also, I think, helps to prevent slipping backwards on slopes. I’m crouching in the second picture above only because the drift is so high; the shoes stayed steady.

Coureur de bois cancan

The third picture displays gratuitous lifting; E.g. wanted a show-off picture. It does demonstrate, however, that I could make my way through the underbrush fairly efficiently, if I needed to step over low tangles of bush and branch.

Le petit prince

As with cross-country skis, the heel is not fixed. You walk normally — you don’t even need poles! — and can crouch to capture those elusive canine poopies. Shh now. Ready, set…

All the better to wait on you, my dears.

Ta da!

PIKCHERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Hello evrybuddy this is Tertul the Saint Johner! I am so ekseyeted to hav a fyoo fotos for yoo finully that I’m speling like Dennis the Vizsla Dog! Ennyway hear r three pikchers for yoo two enjoy.

E.g.’s dada yoosed to hav a fens around his vejjett– his vedje– his tomayto plants, for yeersnyeers. It wuz yoozed to keep owt deer. This winter wuz very hard on the fens and haff uv it fell down!

Ennyway the snow is so hi the fens can’t keep owt a Cardi rite now, let aloan a deer!

Its so mutch fun to wotch the dogs play in the bakkyard! Maybee in a cuppla yeers we’ll hav wun, too.

On a Train to Somewhere (journal entry, part iii)

This has been my day so far, up to mid-afternoon on the 19th.

After my morning shower, I boiled some water in the left-behind electric kettle to reconstitute the spoonful of instant coffee I’d placed in the glass “mason jar” mug before giving away the rest of the coffee to the neighbours. On the two remaining pages of a punched-hole notepad, I wrote a note to Gwen and attached the apartment and mailbox keys by their ring through the top hole. The note mentioned such things as the four houseplants and the basketful of partially-used cleaning products.

At a quarter to nine, three bags of garbage lay waiting by the front door: the two dollar-store pillows, the grungey old shower curtain and ragged old towel, and the scrap-heap set of clothing I had reserved for this final week. Harnessing, collaring, and leashing Fergus and Cai, I locked the front door for the final time. Upstairs I went, dogs, garbage, and all.

Leaving the garbage momentarily by the elevator, I took the boys down the hallway and knocked on Gwen’s door. Three times. I knew she was in because her screen door was locked. when she and little Chilton finally answered,  Chilton yapped perfunctorily at his canine visitors while Gwen and I exchanged encouraging words and hugs. She gave me a grocery bag for the overflow from my bursting bookbag. I handed her the note and the keys.

As the dogs and I headed back to the elevator, I saw Jock coming along the corridor on his way to speak to Gwen, a puzzled frown on his face, a rolled envelope in his hands.

“G’morning, Jock! Did you get a message in a bottle?”

“Yes!” he exclaimed in relief. “Thank you! Thank you very much!” and he patted my shoulder.

09 00. The garbage had found its spot in the dumpster, and Cai and Fergus and I were away for a leisurely 90-minute walk before train time. I stopped to withdraw some cash at the automatic teller on the corner of Church and Wellesley, the hub of the gaybourhood, the place where E.g. and I had first come to feel safe and welcome nearly ten years ago. We had done a lot of growing here.

At the train station, I popped the boys into their crates, filled their water bottles, and wandered off to get a raspberry muffin for breakfast. Half an hour later, I boarded the Toronto-Montreal train, where I sit writing these words longhand. The car is nearly full; I am in a four-seat “reserved” space (i.e. one pair of seats faces the other) with two quiet, geeky guys engaged with either Google or Gogol. Across the aisle in the other four-seat set are three teenage girls discussing last night’s Britney Spears concert.

It’s 15 00. Just under two hours ago, I awoke in my seat, remembering that I no longer live in Toronto. Just over two hours from now, I’ll be meeting my son in Montreal where we’ll give the dogs a half-hour break before climbing aboard the Ocean train. Sonny Boy and I have booked a space on a sleeper car, and are looking forward to this new adventure.

Now it remains to be seen whether Turtle will post pics of the sleeper car before or after you’ve read the entirety of this long, long entry.

Note: Sonny Boy and I did take a few photos with his camera, but forgot to download them before he left for home again. As you may have inferred, it’s been a scrambled week computer-wise.

On a Train to Somewhere (journal entry, part ii)

Hi, people! Here is part two of three of my penned blather of April 19th. I promise to have a tutorial with E.g. this weekend, about getting photos posted once again.

.

There were a few loose ends still to tie up after the pub supper, the evening before my departure.

20 15. I took out the blue plastic popcorn bowl and set some edibles in it: four red potatoes, half a head of garlic, three lemons, most of a jar of instant-coffee-with-chicory, most of a 500-gram bag of large-grain sea salt, a stick of real butter, six hard-boiled eggs, and two raw ones. These were the last of the still-usable commestibles in my apartment. Upstairs I went to bid my adieux to Coco’s daddies, Brad and Mitchell.

“Saint Paddy has decided you’ve been good little boys this year,” I joked, handing them the bowl, and showing them the penciled Xes on the boiled eggs. Brad and Mitchell, in turn, offered me food for the journey: a triple sampler-pack of high-end kibble that they’d picked up at the Menagerie. They buy the samples to use as treats for Coco. I was grateful, because the amount of kibble left for Cai and Fergus was, in fact, a bit on the scant side. I hadn’t mentioned this to Coco’s daddies, though; their offering was a surprise blessing.

21 00. Back in the apartment, I pulled out all the empty wine and beer bottles — currently worth 20 cents apiece — and set them in my smallest laundry basket. They fit snugly, not overcrowded but not rattly either: good! Upstairs I went to the apartment of Jock, an affable old gentleman who goes out each day to tidy the environment and make some pocket change.

From the neck of one of the bottles, like a Don Valley Brick Works smokestack, emerged a tightly-rolled envelope (the last piece of loose paper I had on hand) with “FOR JOCK” written vertically. Depositing the basket beside his door, I crept back downstairs.

21 30. One last trip outdoors with the dogs for the night, then we all curled up together on the sofabed. Big day tomorrow.

On a Train to Somewhere (journal entry, part i)

Hi, people.

Not having coordinated computers and photo programs et cetera just yet, I’m breaking my preferred habit of supplying a few photos to break up a long blog post.

What follows is the the first part of a 1300-word bit of writing I did on the train in the early afternoon on March 19th. I’ve cleaned up, but not gussied up, the writing; gussying up would include, f’rinstance, the use of a few more verbs than “be”. Anyway, here goes…

March 19 2009

At 13 19 I awoke to the surprising, surprised words, “Oh, but you don’t live there anymore!” The voice was my own, unspoken, interrupting my somnolent thoughts. I was on the train.

Yesterday, the 18th, I was out front with Cai at 08 30 when I saw a moving van parked in front of our building. It wasn’t the company I was expecting. I asked anyway who the men were here for, and sure enough, they were here for our apartment. Just as well that I asked, because the building manager wouldn’t arrive for another half hour, and no one had thought to discuss buzzer codes.

The neighbour who was to watch the Cardis during the move had fallen sick, so out they went onto the balcony to enjoy the Spring air, bark at other dogs in the back field, and occasionally whine to come in.

As the driver and his two hired hands set to work, I wiped down the kitchen cupboards and swept away prehistoric dust bunnies. We discussed dogs — the driver has a husky and one of the other guys a Chow-Collie mix. I told him about Goodbear’s dog, but he isn’t online.

One of the movers praised my packing job. I didn’t mention that I’d been at it since September. On the other hand, the platform bed was now in five taped packages, several odd-shaped things had been taped together and nestled in a large, see-through plastic bag, the futon was already enclosed in a plastic mattress cover, and nearly everything else was in a covered container, so I guess it was all as prepared as it could be.

The movers took just under three hours to empty the apartment. Everything wooden, from the kitchen shelf to the old rocking chair to the packages of bed planks, was wrapped in blankets. I have high hopes for their safe journey to Saint John. I tipped the movers $30, suggesting they get themselves some lunch.

When Cai and Fergus finally came inside again, they were happy and excited, playing a riotous game of chase through the nearly empty apartment. They were relieved, I think , to no longer have boxes, bins, and barbecues within swinging distance of their wags.

Some of the furniture was left behind.  It had been bought by our neighbour Gwen, who was moving from her one-bedroom unit into our two-bedroom. I should mention at this point that we were leaving a housing co-op. We had gotten to know several of the pet-owning neighbours, among them Gwen. I was happy to give her a good deal on the furniture; she needed the stuff for her new, larger space, and I didn’t have to break my back or spend money to have the stuff removed.

About 16 30, Jane and Robert called, ready to drive the dog crates and my suitcase to the train station, to store them in the checkroom overnight. As soon as the big pieces were stowed, Robert suggested we go have supper at Fionn McCool’s. I wasn’t expecting this extra meal on my final evening; Jane and Robert had fed me several times since E.g. had left for Saint John in mid-February, the last time being just three days ago.

We didn’t have a lot to say during this meal, but it was a good quiet, a sense that we’d all managed to say all that needed saying. We sipped our beer and admired the pub’s decor and noticed all the young people enjoying their dinners before they headed out to the Britney Spears concert. Then my friends dropped me off home again, and we promised to keep in touch.