Victoria Day

It's lilac and violets time in my garden, which seems appropriate considering this is the Victoria day long weekend. Canada, I believe, is the only country to honour Queen Vic in this way. So I got to thinking about her reign, how women loved to wear lavenders and mauves then, and what it mean to have a woman on the throne at that great time of British imperialism.

And that got me thinking of the present queen, and of Elizabeth 1st of England, who also reigned at a significant time in history.

For me, studying history in school was a big disappointment. Mostly we had to learn dates and events. Sure, we learned the names of people like Napoleon, but what was missing was gaining some insight into the personalities, some idea of how it felt, living in past times -- the different experience, the different way people's minds worked then. Yes, I wanted to know about development, and our evolving consciousness as things changed. In writerly terms, I wanted to hear about humankind as a work-in-progress.

On my walk yesterday I passed women planting flowers -- sometimes alone, sometimes with a friend. What I'd wish for us all is... no frost in May.

Springing along

I took a walk to my massage therapist, and striding up the hill, a young guy in white shorts and tee rounded the corner and came towards me. He was running freely, at ease in his body, clearly enjoying the morning. As we met he looked at me and nodded a greeting. I felt good.

A few steps farther on, and two guys came running around the corner. They were talking together, took no notice of me. Okay, interacting with each other was fine.

This, I decided, must be some sort of group outing, maybe from one of the nearby high schools. Then came a poor boy, eyes down to where he was putting his feet as he plodded along, his face shiny with sweat and manifesting a slight expression of pain. I could relate, because that's how I would have been.

Last came a young woman. Cell phone welded to her palm, ipod buds plugged into her ears, she was totally oblivious of my passing, totally unseeing of the sunshine, the lilac and crabapple blossom, simply wrapped up in herself and her own, artificial world.

Number one was the best, for sure.

Why arguing can be good

I'm not one for conflict, as anyone knows me will be less-than-surprised to hear. Sometimes, I have to say, that doesn't apply to my computer when it decides to be capricious... like now, when I can't get it out of italic. Grrrrrr.

I was recently reminded of the value of debate, of how much we can gain by trying to understand differing points of view. One of my two writing critique partners has a very different world view from mine. This impacts sometimes, and we argue. So there was a point of discussion in our last meeting concerning the question of strangeness of whole foods to some children.... to do with my latest middle-grade novel. She thought my heroine would have been exposed to enough 'foreign' foodstuffs not to baulk at heavy wholewheat, homebaked bread. I disagreed.

But lo and behold, next day I had an idea of how to 'up' the humour in that particular scene. And I realized how, after being forced to re-examine my position, my thoughts had been stimulated. Yes, a shake-up can be good.

CBC's new programming

I've been blogging a bit about change recently, but this is one I simply cannot get my head around. Radio 2's drastically reduced the amount of classical music they play. Now, I listen to other stuff -- a bit of jazz, some easy light listening -- but more and more I find myself switching off the new programs and switching over to the commercial classical station.

Is this simply reluctance on my part to move with the time? I'm not sure. I mean, I can see that there's a shift by the CBC radio bigwigs, a wanting to appeal to a younger audience, but is this wise? Have they worked through the demographic projections? If it's us, the grey-haired audience, you can mostly find at the symphony and other concerts, does this matter? We'll be soooo many more during the coming years, so, a good proportion of the population in Canada.

And at the other end of the scale, I heard this morning, yes, on the commercial station, that Classical FM in Britain is increasingly listened to (quite a jump) by under fifteens.

Surely, quality counts.

How many shades of green?

On these warm, sunlit days I almost find myself thinking 'to experience the world like this, in early summer mode, is worth all the pain of winter'. Well, almost. It's a bit along the lines of that old cliche of how good it feels when you stop banging your head against a wall.

Sometimes, on a Thursday, I allow myself a little leeway, some time to simply be. This is a kind of carry over from South African days, because, traditionally, Thursday was maids' day off. As a housewife and often busier in this direction on the weekends than even in the weeks, I decided I also needed weekly freedom from cooking and cleaning and so forth. With our household reduced, this doesn't feel so vital anymore, but from time to time...

So yesterday I took a long ramble, stopping by at the Mill Pond to eat a banana, and drink some water. I watched the grannies going by with their small charges, people eating picnic lunches, two women taking photos, geese swimming or protecting nests and so on. But mostly I sat and looked at the trees, layers of leaves in different shapes and shades, the new growth lending the air a special kind of shimmer. I can't remember how many different colours of green there are, but I had to marvel at the variation and all the richness of nature. Joy springs.

Hello and goodbye

I find the variations in spelling and pronunciation between English and North American usage endlessly fascinating. (very-ations/vahriations).

Yesterday I received an email from my daughter in England titled 'hallo', which was how I always used to spell this greeting. Years ago, when I wrote such in a short story, an editor in my writers' group changed this to 'hello'. So then I knew. These days, it's not so important because I mostly use the more casual greeting 'hi'. Where does that come from? Anybody know? And there's also the option of 'hey', which I can't quite do because of memories of my father who disapproved of this word. 'Don't say hey,' he used to say.

My mother bemoaned the fact that people she met out walking or in the supermarket, whatever, had stopped saying 'Good morning', or 'Good afternoon', and were using 'hallo' instead. This set me thinking. I know that 'good-bye' is a shortened form of 'God be with you'. Did the salutations she preferred carry this connotation as well, as in 'God morning' etc.? I wonder.

Well, fashions change. I'll duck the issue and end this post with a brief, 'ciao'.

Nudges

The phone rings. It's a woman soliciting unwanted clothes and household goods for the Diabetes Association. They'll pick up on Friday.

Yeah, well, okay. Great. My dear husband's been urging me to go through the closet, so this provides the motivation. And there are other things I'd be happy to shed. So the call starts me sorting.

Then a friend I seldom see pops by unexpectedly. We sit in the sunny kitchen and drink tea together. She's one of those wonderful young women I feel naturally close to, so much so that being with her is almost like being with one of my daughters. We relate. We can communicate. And so we start talking about her life and where she's at, inbetween jobs, just handed in her final paper for her university course... in a state of transition. How difficult that can be, demanding strength and patience. Uh huh. Does this ring a bell, or am I still in denial about our upcoming move?

Sharing thoughts and feelings gives me comfort and new courage. I'm grateful.

Yesterday was May day

What comes to mind for me on May day is not the fact that it's a holiday in South Africa, Workers Day. There is a nod of acknowledgement towards Labour Day in communist countries, and I hear the faint echo of the pilots' distress call.

But no. May day for me carries a memory of an archetypal English experience. Picture graceful gardens of a manor house; lawns bordered by rhododendrons. There stands a maypole and nearby, a piper waits, ready to play a flute. Men and women clad in white, garlanded with flowers -- they're students of Emerson College -- stand in a circle, each one holding a wide ribbon, ready to dance the maypole dance. And off they go, winding up the maypole, weaving the ribbons as they pass, curve and circle, coming ever-closer to one another until it's done. A moment's pause, then the flute sets them off again. They unwind the maypole and expand to a circle once again.

Later there's a fiddler. Morris dancers hop, skip and shake their bells in that weird pagan relic. Tea, of course, and other refreshing drinks are on offer and enjoyed. Children laugh and tumble about, doing somersaults and cartwheels on the grass. Summer has begun!