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.

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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.

The Wiccan’s Backyard

Post Cards from Mount Forest

A little farther south down the highway from Durham, right at the southern edge of Grey County, is Mount Forest. The town’s motto is “High, Happy, Healthy”, the first adjective referring to its altitude above sea level. Nevertheless, there are some groovy points of interest here.

First, check out the lite-brite mural on the north side of the happenin’ Old Roxy Theatre, the area’s venue for concerts. The photo above shows only part of the mural; it’s really eye-catching.

Next is this little gem of eclectic merchandise, Le Coffee Nog. In case you can’t read through our grimy windshield, the sign reads: “Jewelry, Home Decor, Frozen Yogurt, Cameras, Lunch, Electronics, Butter tarts, Phones, Parking –>, Keeping You Wired.” Surrounding this are three silhouettes: one of a cheerleader using shopping bags in lieu of pompoms, one of a footy-playing couple and the word “cafe” added, and one of a bell-bottomed granny with her hair in a bun bent over a computer and the word “TVs” added. Parked beside the store is an Ontario Provincial Police cruiser. The officers are inside, investigating the suspicious circumstances surrounding this store’s founding — or, more likely, enjoying a couple of butter tarts. 

The sober veterinarian, on the other hand, has reacted against this free lifestyle. He is very precise and methodical, going so far as to book each day’s patients by order of their size.

Post Cards from Durham, Part ii

Today we are looking at McGowan Falls.

“McGowan Falls. First dam and mill established 1847. Royal Can. Legion Br. 308 Durham dedicate lighting of McGowan Falls to the memory of Arthur McGowan 1st president of Durham Br. R.C.L.” In case you don’t have Legions in your country, those are places where veterans and their well-wishers get together to swap old stories and toast special occasions: wedding anniversaries; retirements; new grandchildren; Tuesday.

Pretty dam. Chilly! (I hope you’re not reading this aloud to anyone. ) You can walk right over the dam in good weather; there are gates at either end that shut for the winter.

And here is McGowan Falls itself. The far top right of this picture continues from the far middle left of the previous one. Hmm, ice cold, a nice head of foam on the yellow-tinted liquid. That sight would have me thinking about the Legion, that’s for sure.

Post Cards from Durham, Part i

Durham, Ontario, is a community of about 2500 people in Grey County, 25 miles south of Owen Sound. E.g. and I were up there for a day in mid-December. Here are three photos, with three more to come in tomorrow’s posting.

1. This is a mural on the main street. The banner reads, “Remembering Saugeen Country Our Heritage” . The many-branched Saugeen River runs throughout Grey County; E.g. and I took a two-day canoe trip on part of it a few years ago. The legend beneath the cameo identifies the sideburned gentleman as “Archibald Hunter, the Founder of Durham.” What I really like about this mural is its trompe-l’oeil effect; even the crooked parking sign seems to blend in with the split-rail fence.

2. There is a malicious rumour, started by some anonymous turtle, that there has been no eavestrougher in the region for about five years now. If you’re skilled in the trade and between jobs, now is your chance.

No such luck if you repair televisions for a living, however; when the reception gets bad, people around here just call the Saugeen Conservation Authority.

Chicken Soup Instead of the Sole

Well okay, it’s not sole in the freezer, it’s kippered herring. We don’t always see kippers in the freezer section at the grocery store, but there they were two weeks ago, so one of them came home with us.

I was in Whitby once, the one in northern England.

There’s a hostel right there beside the old abbey. I could look out the window from my upper bunk and see the ruined walls in the moonlight.

By day, Whitby felt to me a lot like Port Dover here in Ontario: a small seaside resort catering mainly to people living in the region. Most of the town is at the bottom of the cliff — shops and houses and the pier and the beach — with mostly the guest houses and ruins at the top of the cliff.

But on a little road still commanding a high view, and not very far at all from the hostel, is a little building, with a little chimney, out of which pours the most delicious odour of smoke and salt and fish. It’s a kipper smokery. I walked by it on the wrong day to buy, but I hadn’t known it was there, and was grateful to have experienced it.

The next morning, the hostel had choices for breakfast. One was kippers from the little building down the road. Guess what I chose?

Tonight I’m making chicken soup for supper. It will be tasty and nourishing and all those good things.

E.g. doesn’t care for kippers. Maybe I’ll have them for breakfast tomorrow, after she leaves for work.

(Wordless Wednesday) A Few Lines

Timeline: Saint John

The red cranes for loading container ships stand opposite a pierful of buoys and floats.

The Saint John Harbour has long been appreciated for the fact that it does not freeze solid in winter. People have been working here quite a few years…

Plaque commemorating Fort La Tour, in English, French, and Mi’kmaq.

…possibly 4,000.

In 1604, four years before he founded Quebec City, Samuel de Champlain named the Saint John River after the patron saint of France. In 1631, Charles de La Tour set up shop a stone’s throw from the plaque commemorating him today. His fort quickly became a busy trading post, doing business with the Algongkian tribes of the area.

Loyalist burial grounds.

Later came the English, or perhaps “gently used” English, in the form of United Empire Loyalists who left New England after it broke ties with Old England. Some 10,000 of them came to this harbour, and Saint John was the first incorporated city of Canada, in 1785.

“Sacred to the memory of Catharine Hull, the beloved wife of Abel A Hardenbrook, who departed this life the 5th of December 1799, aged 57 years.”

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Staircase, looking up.

It took a couple of years to build the imposing County Court House, finished in 1829. The plaque outside reads, in part, “Among its notable features is a freestanding circular staircase whose steps, made from single blocks of stones, are cantilevered from the wall.”

A light was placed near the waterfront in 1842, in hopes of guiding sailors in the fog. In 1848, the gas company commissioned a triple lamp affair on a trident post, which eventually acquired the nickname of “the Three Sisters”. In 1967, the lamps underwent restoration. The sides facing the water are red, and those facing the town are white.

The Three Sisters.

The latest work to be done concerning this lamp post is scheduled to be finished before the snow falls. You can see the construction equipment at the foot of the post, and a corner of the dirt pile: a small parkette is being placed here, as part of the waterfront beautification project.

At the time the Three Sisters lamp was being commissioned, Ireland was in the throes of the Great Famine. Many Irish, coming to Canada, were halted at Partridge Island for quarantine before they could come onto the mainland. Yesterday, flanked by tourist buses of today and Partridge Island of recent history, and standing before a heap that will become the latest public garden, E.g. pondered the past and present of her hometown, and wondered about its future.