Brooks Reads; Brenda Fumes

It never did arrive in the mail. Apparently, each new edition would be mailed to me every month so I wouldn't have to swing by the newspaper's office to pick it up. But it is three weeks now since the most recent edition of one of the local rags and still no copy in my mailbox. I'm in the neighbourhood, just one block away from the newspaper's office, so I stop in to pick it up myself.

I recently set the goal to have my article grace the front page of the community paper. My articles, so far, have appeared further back from front and centre. Perhaps this month's more in-depth article made it to the front page. I'm eager to find out. I enter the front doors and scan the newspapers for the one which publishes my articles.

I reach for it. The headline is familiar. Yup, that's my headline, exactly as I wrote it. My smile spreads bright and wide across my face. And then freezes. Whose name is this? Certainly not mine! I have had three last names (surnames) in my lifespan, so far, but Richardson has never been one of them. My first name doesn't leave any doubt as to my gender, whereas the first name to which the article is attributed does.

My eyes scan the words. I turn the page and read bits of the article. Was it rewritten? Did the editor not like what I wrote and, at the last minute, had someone rewrite it, hence attributing the article to him (or is it her)? My heart beat quickens, my cheeks redden, yet not a single word appears to have been altered. It is my article and my headline, but not my name.

Not only has my article made it to the front page but it spills over onto page two, finishing side by side with the one written by the mayor on the same topic. I'm stunned and furious. I gave up an evening and a full day of my time to research this topic, attend a launch and write the article. And now, no-one reading it would even know it is mine, not even the mayor!

Back home, I fire off an email to the editor and share this journalistic injustice with Brooks. I've yet to hear from the editor and Brooks, well, she read a few opening lines but decided she prefers to shred the paper than read it.

The Centredness of Soaps

It was an innocuous moment: that moment between wiping my mouth dry after brushing my teeth and switching off the bathroom lights. I hadn’t had a rough day, or even a great day, just another ordinary day, the sum total of which will make up my life.

My eyes fell to my glass soap holder. I had recently moved it from its private place in my bathroom cupboard, where it was the keeper of Q-Tips (ear buds), emery boards (nail files) and other strategic personal items, back to its honoured place on the counter as keeper of my soaps. I find pleasure in soaps, the functional ones, the scented ones, the glycerine ones, the square ones and the round ones. In fact, any ones.

Reaching to flick off the lights, my glance flitted to the soaps; I took in their roundness; how they collected together in my grandmother’s bowl. In that moment I felt myself become centred. Stillness settled within me. The daily concerns of meeting deadlines, finding time to write, investing in others, staying connected with family across oceans, stray dogs, haunting poverty, the loneliness and heart sickness I see in others, my personal limitations and the gross injustices that litter our world were pulled together in a moment of centredness.

I can do what I can do. I must do what I am called to do. I long to live a life that makes a difference. Yet, I am not the rescuer of the world. That is the life calling of someone far greater than I. Ironically, my grandmother, whose glass jewellery box this was, had hardship and great heartache in her life. She died a few weeks short of her 60th birthday. I was nine years old.

I give thanks for her, for the beauty of soaps and for what remains of her jewellery box.

A Little Lady in Silver Heels

We wave good-bye to our friends after a weekend visit with them at 'The Lodge' (see The Lodge July 2010). Their nine-year old daughter comes out the house to wave good-bye. I notice she's wearing the silver high-heeled shoes she bought herself as a treat. "Nice shoes, Jesse," I yell as we drive away.

"Stop" I yell again, this time to M. The good husband that he is he slams on anchors, as my father would say. "Back up," I direct. "I want to take a picture of Jesse's shoes." The very good husband that he is, he does and I jump out of the car with my camera.

With a broad and delighted smile, Jesse is happy to pose in her new heels. She is quite the lady in her red sundress festooned with white frangipanis. I remember the days I would clomp around in my mother's red shoes pretending I was a little lady. Pictures taken, Jesse walks up and down the path taking in her image reflected in the dining room window. I remember those days too, although M would say I haven't left them behind.

The high heels, though, I have left behind me. Long gone are the days I would force my feet to wear narrow heels. Somewhere, in growing up, we transition from glamorous to comfort that still looks good.

The Lodge

Cool air on my skin, a canopy of leaves, the morning call of birds, the click click of the keys, a morning writer indulges. I eagerly anticipated enjoying this morning moment at our friends’ place. Now it is here.

I sip my rooibos tea. Two joggers grind the gravel on the path below. The voices of morning strollers along the creek carry up to the canopy of leaves shrouding the deck where I write. The hum of more distant traffic intrudes when I let it.

We're not in the country but an inner city area. Yet with the large deck, trees, creek and country paths we feel as though we have escaped the city for the weekend. M calls our friends' place 'The Lodge' and so it is as we enjoy their morning deck.

M reads. I sneak a peek at him. I thought not. He stares into the space above his page. He notices my glance, winks at me and drops his eyes to his page. Our friends and their daughter sleep in. Their son is sleeping over with his friend next door. M and I are done sleeping; we revel in the waking of the day.

A Still Summer Moment

Summer is a short season in West Coast Canada. Having spent the first thirty years of my life in South Africa, with its abundance of sunshine, both summer and winter, and a summer season that is five to six months in duration, the two months of hot weather we get on the West Coast is decidedly short. Yet, the upside is, I appreciate the season so much more.

The water droplets scatter high. The hum of the sprinkler, it's rotation from left to right, the hot sun, the cloudless sky and I am six again in the backyard of our house on Carey Street: running through the sprinkler, half naked, laughing and calling loudly to my younger brother, the sound of summer. There was no sparkling pool in our backyard when I was a child. And there didn't need to be one to enjoy summer.

Now, a few water drops freshen my skin and I feel the coolness of the air as the sprinkler brushes past me. A sprinkler, a still summer moment and a small reminder: don't focus on what you don't have, rather, live life, make memories where you are and enjoy simple pleasures.

Mom, This One is for You!

My new hat had done a great job of shading my face this Summer Saturday on Grouse. I not only like the look of the hat but I like the look of my new hat on me (see A Cup of Tea and a Tim Tam June 2010).

Our walk up from the lodge to look at the new windmill recently installed on the mountain had been a hot one. To cool off, we took the chairlift back down. It's also a great way to enjoy the view.

I slipped my hat off and let the breeze blow through my hair and cool my head. I thought of my conversation with my mother the previous morning. Mom had mentioned how her hair is getting longer and how much she enjoyed the breeze that blew through her hair during a hike this past week at Suikerbosrand (a nature park). I so take having my hair for granted (see To Mom, With Love May 2010).

I lifted my face to the wind, shut my eyes, and felt the breeze move through my hair. With my hair whipped back from my face, I said out loud, "Mom, this one is for you!"

Her Bum Wobbles When She Walks

After breakfast, M and I stopped in at the grizzly enclosure on Grouse. It was already hot at 10:30 and just getting hotter. One of the grizzlies was cooling off in the pond. Smart bear!

She dunked herself a few times in the water and clamoured out on to a log. It's not the Kruger Park (see Sweni Road March 2010) but it is still a thrill to see a grizzly bear up close. Her lethal claws are as long as my fingers.

She lumbered past me. With her rear clearly in view I noticed she had quite a swagger or, as I overheard a fellow tourist comment, "Her bum wobbles when she walks." After the briefest of pauses the tourist added, "Just like mine." I smiled and M chuckled.

I love it when, as women, we are humorously honest with ourselves.

Summer Saturday

Summer: hot and heavy - a week of it and we’re melting around the edges - from 16C to 30C in no time at all. Not that we‘re complaining, we all reassure ourselves. We‘re all too happy it is here at last.

And in the spirit of uncomplaining happiness, M and I are up bright and early, this first summer Saturday. Breakfast this morning is on Grouse Mountain. We forfeit the Grind (see The Grind July 2009) and take the easy way up with the sky ride. Hubbie’s company is hosting a pancake breakfast and the first sitting is at 8:30 a.m.

I count it a blessing that we are both early birds. I often wonder how much more comprise and patience is required when an early bird and a late night owl marry. In fact, when young and in love it is probably not something we ever consider in determining our compatibility as life partners. The longer we are married, the more I appreciate that M‘s an early bird too.

In the freshness of the morning, we enjoy fruit, scrambled eggs, sausages and maple syrup pancakes with strawberries and cream. We score a table on the patio. We enjoy each other’s company, take in the view of Vancouver from our mountain top patio and listen to the conversation being spoken a notch too loudly at the table next to us.

Over a cup of Earl Grey tea and a good chunk of banana bread, we make plans for the summer. We live in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Our morning view testifies to that. Our summer plans are usually always to stay home and to enjoy what we have right here. Breakfast on Grouse is a great way to kick off our Vancouver summer!

Brussels Sprouts and Blue Cheese

"Are those ..." M can hardly say the word.
"Brussels sprouts," I finish his sentence for him. "Yes, they are brussels sprouts." M wrinkles his nose and creases his face with a frown. "You'll like them well enough," I decide for him.

M looks more closely at the noxious vegetable smothered in cream sauce (see Mediterranean Green Beans December 2009).
"There are brussels sprouts for Africa!"
"You'll like them. I tried a new recipe with blue cheese."
Now if there is something M likes it is blue cheese. I spoon the little mounds on to the dinner plate, next to the Chateaubriand steak, mushroom rice and warm beetroot in olive oil, flavoured with sea salt.

The cream sauce swims on to the plate. Hmmm - not thick enough. But it's not like I don't know why. The recipe called for double cream and I skimped, using a smidgen of double cream and a lot more regular cream. Double cream is trés chère (French for 'bloody expensive') and I wasn't about to dump it all on the brussels sprouts. Nope we need some for our tea with scones and strawberry jam this weekend.

Wisdom from Em and Julia Child saves my ego. Em has always told me not to aim for perfection with cooking and entertaining. And Julia Child advised never to apologise for your cooking to your guests. To do that is just plain pathetic according to her. So, with no apologies to hubby for the swimming cream sauce or brussels sprouts, I set the plate down on the table.

Actually, it's not too bad. And the cream works well as a sauce for the steak and rice.
"You don't have to eat anymore of the brussels sprouts," I concede. "I'll eat them."
"No, they are quite good." M surprises me. "I like the blue cheese."
"Well, then I'll add more blue cheese for you when we eat the leftovers."

Brussels sprouts and blue cheese: a picture of the give and take of living life together.

Canada Day Cauldrons

The Day: July 1, 2010

The Occasion: Canada Day and the first anniversary of the conceptualisation of my blog, North of Vancouver.

The Company: Good, Morrie and Em - no, very good!

The Weather: Fair to Cool, lots of cloud, little sun. A few sprinkles, summer continues to hide her face.

The Colour: Red, red and white, red and black, just red.

The Activity: The seabus across the water to downtown. Mingle with the throngs, enjoy Canada Day and finally see the Olympic cauldrons. When lit, we can see the flame from our apartment across the water, now to see it up close. We didn't get to make it downtown during the Olympics. The one day we did try, the line-up for the seabus was a two-hour wait. Instead we went back up the hill, made a cup of tea and watched the Olympics on TV.

Lunch: Our friend, Lin's excellent chicken quesadillas, enjoyed sitting on the sidewalk, among the throngs. She and her hubby, Tommo, had a stand selling the best Mexican quesadillas and fruit bowls.

Fun: Em and I having the Canadian Maple leaf imprinted on our cheeks.

Best Laugh: Telling Morrie that I have had requests to continue my blogs about Brooks, the bird, because she has become so popular. In fact, she's the most popular personality on North of Vancouver. Morrie, puzzled, asked, "You mean, no-one's asked for more stories about that crazy coot, Morrie?" "No," I replied, "you don't bite enough!"

Parisian Tea Garden Plus

Bonjour Glenda,

I explored the French edition of a Victoria magazine I have (see A Starbucks Birthday May 2010) and have a couple more Parisian treats for you to explore.

For a tea break in your tour of art museums, search out Musée de la Vie Romantique, situated at the end of a tree-lined courtyard in an 1830s mansion. It is just a five-minute walk from the Musée Gustave Moreau. It is dedicated to novelist George Sand (1804-76), but the small permanent collection, which includes drawings by Delacroix and Ingrès, may appeal to your artist's heart. The greatest attraction though is its tea garden. The tearoom 'Le The Dans le Jardin' is tucked in the corner of the garden in what was once the greenhouse. It is a rare opportunity to enjoy one of the many lovely secret garden spaces hidden behind Parisian facades. I hope you find it at 16 Rue Chaptal in the ninth arrondisement of Paris. Have a sip of tea for me!

There's a tiny French country kitchenware store that looks worth exploring: 'Au Petit Bonheur La Chance' at 13 Rue St. Paul in the Marais District. The store, where eight is a crowd, is described as being charming, unpretentious and addictive. If it's in your neck of the woods have a look, you may just find the right metal canister for your kitchen. But there are also ceramic ones and speckled or stenciled ones. The era, from the 1870s to the 1950s, may not be quite your style but you just never know what great memento of Paris you may find.

I'm ready to start planning my next trip to Paris!

Au Revoir,

Brenda

Memoir on Paris

Dear Glenda,

Toulon we don't know at all but Paris we know un petit peu.

First off, the Eiffel Tower is fabulous and the highlight of our trip to Paris. Our hotel was a short walk away on Rue Cler and we took every opportunity to sneak up and feast our eyes on this masterpeice. For lunch, hang out with the locals at Parc du Champs de Mars between the Eiffel Tower and L'École Militaire to enjoy your picnic of baguette, cheese and fruit. Bakeries abound for fresh baguettes and, be Parisian, snap off the top and eat it crunchy fresh as soon as you step out on the sidewalk.

We didn't get to go up the Eiffel Tower because, in June, the line-ups were horribly long and not worth the wait. For equally good views of Paris, without the wait, head for the Tour Montparnasse, the ugly sky scraper sticking its head up behind L'École Militaire in the photo I've attached. It's cheaper and has no line-ups. A far better bet. Plus you get to view the Eiffel Tower from the top of the building rather than the ugly Tour Montparnasse if you go up the Eiffel Tower.

The stained glass windows of Sainte-Chapelle are worth seeing, so I believe, but again the line-ups can be long. Buy your tickets next door at the prison where Marie-Antoinette was held before she lost her head. The line-up will be shorter. We viewed the prison but it was a disappointment and next time will do Sainte-Chapelle.

Sacré Coeur is well worth seeing, but it is a little bit out of the way, and you have to run the gauntlet of African con-artists at the foot of the stairs. Tell them you are from South Africa. It worked for us as they eased up a bit and left us alone. Be alert in the underground and at the Eiffel Tower for pickpockets. Don't pick up gold wedding bands lying on the street or the walls along the Seine. It's all a con. M was almost conned near La Place de la Concorde. Good thing he had me to see through the con and save his bleeding heart and our wallet.

Enjoy the museums and tell us all about it when you get back. We didn't do any of the art museums. The weather was too good and I didn't want to be inside. Apart from the Louvre and Musée d'Orsay, the Musée Rodin is very worthwhile. Also, we didn't get to visit Versailles but I've heard it's fabulous and, if you go, make sure you find Marie-Antoinette's little village in the garden. They say it is better than the palace.

Boy, sounds like we need to head back to Paris ourselves to do the things we didn't get to the first time. When you get back we'll have to head to Bob's again (see Bob's My Burger February 2010) and hear all about it.

Bon Voyage!

Enviously yours,
Brenda

Early Morning Write

The light in the hallway goes on and I hear the front door unlock. Curled up in bed, I listen. I can't hear much because M has shut the door behind him. I listen again and glance at the clock on M's side of the bed: 3:35 in the morning.

I hear a door close. Our front door opens. I call out, "Did you go say something?"

M walks into the bedroom, the light from the hallway spilling in behind him. He holds up four fingers. "I said four words 'Turn it down, please'". My hubby, ever so polite, other neighbours may have been inclined to string a different medley of four words together.

Did he actually come and answer the door? Could he hear the knock over the music?

"I just walked in." You did!? What were they doing? My mind runs the gamut of what four young adults would be doing together after rolling home at three in the morning from a night out.

One guy on his laptop, two girls on the couch together: one on her cell phone and the other texting, our neighbour sitting on a couch on his own: the epitome of modern-day community: engaged with our electronic gadgets and connections in cyberspace. The swirling music farcically connects them.

Why bother? I have to ask. Why bother coming back to your friend's place at three in the morning, laughing loud, waking the neighbours, just to check your email, to text or call friends to find out if they are having more fun than you are?

M makes us a cup of tea. The music is turned down. Yet the voices still carry through the night air. We hop back into bed. M reads and I start to write not appreciating my 4 a.m. start. At 4:30 or thereabouts the friends leave and I consider my options of how best to disturb our neighbour's sleep.

The balcony door of the neighbours' above us scrapes open and closed. How I wish they would fix it so that I don't have to hear each time they go outside for a cigarette! Yet there is some comfort in knowing that their Canada Day sleep-in has also been disturbed.

5:28 a.m. my frustration out on the page, I look across at M, propped up in bed, on page 278 of his novel, the one Jean gave him to read. "Ready for another cup of tea?" I ask. "We might as well get our day underway."