Brainstorm

I had this idea. My friend with memory problems that she is working on fairly successfully? I thought to make plans with her. How would that plot work out? And, I thought, the sooner the better.

I looked at a good old Google map and picked a point half way between our dwellings which happened to be St. John, New Brunswick. I'm about 1,500km from there and so is she. I have to catch the winter ferry as the seasonal summer ferry won't start in time for the trip. So that entails a road trip across the island of around 900km, give or take.

I love road trips, so does she.

I managed to find a cabin on the river for us to share for a week. Staggeringly reasonable. it includes breakfast.

On my way to St. John I also booked in for 2 days with a friend who has a cottage in Cape Breton not too far from where the ferry decants me in North Sidney.

She's planning a dinner party and gathering her Inverness clan to meet me. They all sound wonderful, writers and artists galore.

Then I head off from her place to St. John to meet my Toronto friend.

So I leave on the 12th of June.

I feel this trip is very important.

And it truly has been a carpe diem thing organizing it all.

Thoughts from the Road

I am staying the night in New Glasgow, Nova Scotia. It is a pretty wee town, picturesque and prosperous, judging by the fine old buildings and the number of boats at anchor in the river. I was in the original Glasgow back in the day, I must say I am more impressed with the New World version. Cleaner and more hopeful.

Does anyone else do this? I see that Strawbella's (the car's) odometer is about to click over on to a major number with lots of zeros and I get all excited. I really, really want to see all those 0000000s tumble over at the same time. I get ready about 100K beforehand. The tension's unbearable. Will she do it? Will it all go smoothly? What if she gets stuck? And yeah, somewhere near Springhill, NS, the monumental event takes place to cheers from me. 170,000K is now on the smooth face of Strawbella.

And in New Brunswick, just past me, is where I always think of my friend Burt. Burt saved my life back in the day. He was one of those New Brunswick country men at odds with the city around him but making the best of an uneasy co-existence. He liked nothing better than being out in the woods and me along with him. He often caught our supper in a nearby stream. A great trouter. I learned a whole pile about simple living off Burt at a time when my life could not have been more complicated.

He would show up at my door on a Sunday morning, just when I'd put down a self-important busy week and haul me and the dog off for tramps through the undergrowth followed by, very late in the day, a peculiarly Canadian supper called a hot chicken sandwich - layers of cooked chicken slathered between two slices of the whitest bread ever, untoasted, with a mound each of green peas and french fries: all of this business covered in thick brown gravy. I was too starved to ever refuse.

(to be continued)

Blog Jam and 9/11

Well from Friday on I got worse and worse, to the point when having dinner with a friend I couldn't finish it (you'd have to know me to know I never go off my feed). Every bone in my body ached, my glands were swollen, my head was stuffed. Daughter said I must be the canary in the coalmine. By Sunday, after a couple of sleepless nights I decided to pack up and leave. Quickly.

Thanks for all the support on this. I have researched smog in Toronto and even though hundreds (maybe thousands?) die of it each year, there is very little research as to symptoms and long term effects. It is scary. I am reminded of my naturopathic doctor who, about a decade ago, performed research on behalf of the government into the pollution in Toronto and presented her papers in Ottawa and promptly moved far away telling me before she left that it was one of the most toxic cities on the planet.

I am taking it easy driving myself and Ansa across the country (it's an amble, maybe a final one) and feel so much better already, my bones no longer ache, my head is clearing, my mind is not in panic attack mode. I think Daughter is correct. The air is so clean in Newfoundland that the shock of Toronto smog is unbearable to my system. I am now about 450K into a 2100K trip to the ferry.

I was over at Nick's - please go read his post on 9/11 - and composed quite a lengthy comment and to my utter frustration it vapourized, so I'm assembling my thoughts on this again.

I was out with a friend for dinner and she was discussing all the endless hooplah around the 10 year anniversary when I suddenly threw at her:

"But the terrorists have won, haven't they?"

And she leaped up in joy and said:

"Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! No one has said this are they all blind, deaf and dumb?"

We discussed this at length, the trillions in treasure spent on illegal invasions and "homeland security", money which could have been spent on universal health care and child poverty, infant and elder mortality (one of the highest in the "first" world) - how many more million children need to be on foodstamps and without basic healthcare - the soaring unemployment rate, the homelessness of the once middle class citizens (millions again at last count). If it was Osama Bin Laden who instigated the tragedy of 9/11 (and believe me I am totally sympathetic to the victims and their families) he must have been rubbing his hands in glee at the bankruptcy he has created in his hated USA. Mission accomplished indeed.

And speaking of Bin Laden, whatever goodwill was left for the US after these catastrophic "wars on terror", the tortures and renditions of many innocent "foreigners" along with millions massacred as "collateral damage" - half estimated to be young children - the final nail in the coffin of moral high ground was the manner in which he and his wife were murdered in cold blood, in a country they had no permission to be in, without trial, and the bodies thrown out at sea. Justice. Frontier style. Government as lynch mob.

I am enraged for my many American friends and those who read my blog who have my total respect and admiration and who are witnesses to their country being so thoroughly trashed in the decade since 9/11 with their treasure stolen for the oligarchs in fruitless foreign invasions and massacres.

The opportunity for continued world peace was wasted and the continuing global economic havoc and instability will not be over in my lifetime, if ever.

Bubble

Dateline: Near Montreal.

There's something about a long road trip. As if one lives in a bubble, a balloon, floating above one's normal life, detached.

It's even more enhanced when accompanied by a beloved companion who shares her quirks and eccentricities and her rich imagination and who is also extraordinarily well read and informed.

We toss around all sorts of ideas, comment on the ridiculousness of human existence and this insatiable want that seems to overcome so many people, this desire for "more" that drives unjust wars and extreme poverty all over this tiny planet. The sad materialism of so many evidenced by ridiculously large vehicles speeding past us, Hummers, SUVs and their ilk, often with just one driver. Usually miserable too, if the face is the mirror of the soul. Nobody sings, we observe, except us. What is a road trip without singing?

I talk to the waitress at the wonderful bistro where we had lunch today, a wee bit off the road just before Quebec City. Turns out she owned the restaurant that served a heavenly beef bourginonne. And the menu was handwritten at the beginning of every week featuring 3 daily choices each day (soup, entree, dessert and coffee all for $9.99). She asked where we were from and where we were going.

She said: "When my last baby left home, for a whole year I accompanied my husband, a long haul driver, across the entire country, from coast to coast and my favourite place was Newfoundland!"

I said to her, "It's a shock how beautiful Newfoundland is, it is Canada's best kept secret!"

"My dear," she said,"We live in the most beautiful country in the world, don't we?"

And I nodded, feeling quite emotional at sharing this brief and wonderful moment with a Quebecois.

Afterwards, Grandgirl said to me that she finds this type of understated patriotism so much more meaningful than flag waving and anthem singing and hands on hearts and swearing allegiance and pledges.

"It's so heartfelt, so real, it makes me so proud to be a Canadian!"

Amen baby!

Chatty Cathy

I made a long road trip today. Very long. 500km there and back. We had two cars in the caravan. We were all accompanying a friend who was being honoured with a prestigious environmental award.

In my car was a woman I had met a couple of times before, I am far more vivid in her mind than she is in mine as I am the CFA* and she is an attractive prominent local. She was shocked I hadn't remembered her until I gently reminded her I have met about 1,000 people since I moved here a few years back and how many new people had she met in say the last 5 years. She thought maybe 10. I said tell me their names. She couldn't, apart from mine. I said case closed.

She was five hours in total in my car and I don't think she drew breath once. Keep in mind I am going through a period of depression at the moment which is nearly invisible to my friends (I have a very convincing front but am super-sensitive to slights both real and more often perceived, amongst other depression-fails)so my condition would not register with a virtual stranger.

A silence of any kind was an affront to her vivaciousness. She had an attractive voice, one of those voices that is fringed with cigarette smoke (I was right, she's a smoker)and charmingly anecdotal. A story for everything. A passing 5th wheeler, a truck, her marriage, her house, her garden, her accidents. I turned off the background music and let her at it.

When I got home after the long drive I had to lie down. I haven't been that exhausted in a long time. But it crossed my mind I had completed the journey without a depressive thought. There wasn't room in my head. Seriously.

But now the black dog is here again. Maybe I should suggest a new career for Chatty Kathy as a paid therapist?


*Come From Away

Magical Newfoundland Moments, Part 3

Fisherman's Daughter-1 – Peter Sobol

For Part 1 of this series, see here, for Part 2 see here.

So then it was on to the final part of our trek, a stop at Peter Sobol Art Gallery. Peter is one of the most enthusiastic people I ever met, bubbling over with ideas and concepts and he gladly showed us around his wonderful studio and his gallery, full of his paintings and ceramic pieces. It seems like Peter himself has been captivated by the faeries as they feature predominantly in his ceramic pieces, often swimming underwater. Luscious colours predominated.

He was full of stories, offered to illustrate my short story collection and commissioned me to take a series of pictures of a dear friend who was with us, whom he said had the best Newfoundland mother’s face he’d ever seen. He’d love to paint it, with a background of Newfoundland tragedies. So I will attempt to do my dear friend justice and photograph her well, face down and reverential (she is far from!) as he instructed.

He was also involved in an unusual project – he was growing garlic in this scheme across Canada, where the participants are pooling their varieties and planting thousands of bulbs before the first frost. I didn’t know that the leaves of garlic are called scapes and can be eaten in salad at the beginning of the growing season which also incidentally encourages clove production.





Then it was on to lunch at The Captain’s Table (seen above) which has a wonderful seafood chowder and where I met a Scottish woman, living here and married to an Irishman. As I am forming an informal association of Irish-born Newfoundlanders, this was a serendipitous meeting.

My cup truly ran over on a day such as I’ve recounted. When my creative juices start to flag, I’ll go back into my memory box and remember these wonderful artists and their enchanting spaces and feel thoroughly inspired!

Magical Newfoundland Moments, Part 2.

(for part 1 of this series see here )

Then it was on to our next port of call, Five Island Art Gallery which is in Tors Cove.

The gallery is in a converted school house overlooking a marvellous historic village and the eponymous islands.

Featured were hooked rugs, but what hooked rugs!




In the gallery itself, there was an incomplete rug – “Forty Shades of Green” which is being made in honour of the Festival of the Sea, an annual Ireland –Newfoundland event which is hosted by each country on alternate years.

All visitors to the gallery are invited to hook a section of the rug after a quick lesson by the owner. We all participated in this unusual interactive art project:


And before you start, there were lots of jokes about “happy hookers”. Inevitable, I expect!

What I love to see these days is the honouring of the magnificent needlework that women were so taken for granted doing, back in the day. Now it is elevated to where it should be, magnificent works of art. My mother, a phenomenal embroiderest, would have been gratified. As would my grandmother, an excellent rag rug hooker. And as am I, a dedicated and inventive knitter.


.....to be continued.

Magical Newfoundland Moments, Part 1.

There are some moments in life that you look back on and say to yourself, oh that was the time, it was so inspiring, why didn’t I see it then? I’m getting better at observing in the now – more aware, more in the magical moments, more grateful for the gift of this incredible life.

Well, I’ve had a ton of those moments over the summer, let me tell you, and I had those moments in gallons in the last couple of days.

Seven of us headed over to Ferryland on Thursday afternoon for an evening of dinner theatre and to stay overnight in this glorious old house that has been painstakingly restored. Ferryland was settled in 1621 and there are significant archaeological exploration there as the site has been so perfectly preserved.

But we were there for the theatre, a wonderful show called "Outport Taxi". I don’t think I stopped laughing from beginning to end. The place was packed and as tourist season is closing, nearly all of us were Newfoundlanders. And as is the way when that happens, everyone starts talking to everyone else and the audience becomes one huge party.


We had a PJ gathering after the show in the big kitchen of the house, slurping drinks and evil junk food and shooting the blarney. I love nights like this, a direct golden path leading to the harvest moon above the water outside the door, every star as clear as a button holding back the navy blue sky and the lilt of female voices spinning the yarns of the tapestry that make up our lives.

We had an amazing breakfast provided by the owner and her husband, a good friend, up in her café on the hill above the house.

It never ceases to astonish me, the quality and diversity of artistic talent contained (or should that be brimming over in every direction?) in a thinly populated province like Newfoundland and the joy of discovering yet others like myself, the CFAs (“Come-From-Aways”), who visit here, become captivated (or taken by the faeries as some have it!) and make a startling, sudden and heartfelt decision to leave all that is familiar and come and live here.

Our first stop was to the home of an ex-pat Britisher, Nicola Hawkins, and her husband Andy who took this old church that had been abandoned for twenty years and made an exquisite home and galleries out of it. Here is the inside:
Breathtaking doesn’t do it justice. Example: stones from the beach in front are laid into white cement in their entire lobby floor, Canadian coins, mainly pennies, are embedded into their bathroom floor.



Greenhouses, dove cotes and two lightfilled workshops cling to the hills around the converted church:
A feast for the eyes and the soul. Among other creative endeavours Nicky takes old tin boxes that formerly housed biscuits, tea, tobacco, etc. and gently beats them into astonishing artefacts, chairs, chests and tables. She also paints and teaches Yoga. And took time away from her culinary endeavours to talk to us and show us her stained glass as her husband busied himself outside, laying out a 100lbs of cod to dry.

Apologies for the quality of my photos, all due to living in Dialup Dementia, soon to be Highspeed Heaven - if all goes well.



…..to be continued.

Meagle and Beagle Have Landed!

Over 700K!

Would you just look at the distance travelled today and stand back in awe and just applaud!

Snow left behind in Cornerbrook where it had no business being to begin with. Look at a calendar, Cornerbrook!!

Luggage scattered everywhere, beagle and meagle fed.

Fire lit (well I did that first, actually!)

Family assured.

Blog updated.

Tomorrow is another day to gird those loins and get cracking on some global issues.

Meanwhile, goodnight and sweet dreams from my toasty little home by the bay.

Dateline: Cornerbrook, Newfoundland

The best laid plans as dear Robbie Burns had it. And he wrote it for me. No reaching home today, I fear.

I drove from Moncton to Sydney, close to 500K yesterday. Vision, the huge new ferry greeted me at the dockside.



The Lobster Boat, a tiny restaurant patronized by locals only, for it is off the beaten track and tucked away down behind a garage was where I ate my supper - some local seafood. A few years ago, a kind young man pumping my gas told me about it and pledged me to secrecy. Well, no one reads this blog right? I did spot some locals pursing their lips at my out-of-town car licence plate.



I had no access to interwebz last night for a post. But the beautiful new ship ferried us over the broad Atlantic from Sydney, NS to Port-Aux-Basques. I had a cabin on the 8th deck with a panoramic window overlooking the harbour. Compared to the old ships, "Vision" is luxurious, with duvets on the beds, 2 desks, flat screen TV and remote lights. I was too tired to check out the on board spa. You can get an idea of the view here, looking out from my window, the cabin (and me!)reflected on the pane:






The captain announced before we hit port at 7.00 a.m. that there might be a problem with wind for us drivers when we disembarked as it had reached 100k/hr on the mountains.

Oh my. In a little Echo that was a real challenge and very frightening. Ever been caught in a place where you don't know whether to go back or press forward to the next big town? That was me in a nutshell. Crawling along at 60, buffeted by winds and large trucks and those careless SUVs that throw a flood in your face every time they screech past is a life appreciating experience. Oh, did I mention the pelting, horizontal rain to add to my fear and misery?

I get to Cornerbrook and the wind dies down a bit and I think, hey, I can press on. But then the heavens give another burp and down pours a blizzard. I'm serious. Snow. Lots. Melting into floods on the warmish ground but managing to freeze in long icicles to the windows of my car. I'm slow sometimes but I eventually get the message.

I spot a Comfort Inn at the edge of Cornerbrook. I wheel in. Get out. Kiss the soggy ground. I repress an overwhelming urge to waltz with the receptionist.

"What brings you here darlin'?" she asks as she registers me in at 11.00 a.m.

"Oh," I say casually, waiting for my heart rate to go down to 100, "Some sightseeing."