The winter of 2013

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The tree in my backyard

From the front window

I like the way the snow looks sitting on the fence

As much as I dislike snow, at times like this I can't deny its beauty.

Sherlock Holmes I'm not.

1005 songs in my iTunes playlist, only 945 in the same playlist on my iPod. Where are those songs? I sorted the iTunes playlist and there were 60 songs that either had never been played or were last played in 2011. WTF

Spent 3 hours Googling and searching for an answer. Nothing worked. Then for some reason I looked at one of the song's "Options: Get Info" tab. Turns out some fool turned on "Skip when shuffling." For all of the missing ones. Guess whose iPod playlist is on shuffle.

The Five and Dime

Source: Local History and Archives, Hamilton Public Library

Start at the northwest corner of King and Hughson, and move slowly up the sidewalk, alongside the old Right House building. It helps if it’s a sunny day. Peer across the street. And there on a slab of stone set into the brick wall, you’ll spot the outline of six big letters pulled down years ago – KRESGE. That name was once on hundreds of stores across the continent. It belonged to Sebastien Spering Kresge, who got his start in 1899 in Detroit. Link to the full article is at the bottom of this post

When I was growing up in the late 40's, early 50's I lived in a small city of about 35,000. Everything was centred in the downtown. The five & dime stores were Woolworth, Kresge, and Metropolitan, The higher end department stores were Eatons and the Right House. Around and among them were clustered all kinds of local stores as well as 4 theatres. You didn't have to travel to find things you needed or wanted no matter what the quality you were looking for or the price you could afford. That, of course, was a function of its time. While there were lots of cars many families, including mine, didn't own one, so the centralised businesses made sense. People went downtown to shop. Saturdays the sidewalks were packed, even more so because the open-air farmers' market was there as well.

The roots of the changes that happened are pretty well the same as in other cities no matter the size - growth, population shift and increased mobility. More people meant that they lived farther from the downtown. When we moved out of the city in 1952 we ended up in the outskirts surrounded by market gardens with a handful of neighbours. By 1958 the tar & chip street had become 4 paved lanes and there was a high school beside us. Plazas sprouted up with stores like Woolco and K-mart, followed by enclosed malls. No one went to the centre of the city anymore because there was no need; just hop in your car, park it for free and shop to your heart's content at the new downtown.

One by one the five and dimes closed as did the department stores. I think the Right House lasted the longest, eventually moving to one of the malls before the company closed its doors. Woolworth, Kresge, Metropolitan, and Eatons, the iconic Canadian department store, are also gone. So too are their replacements Woolco and K-mart. Relics of the past that only exist in photos and in memories stirred by newspaper articles.

Read the complete story A Sign Past Its Time

Less is more

Minimalist design risks appearing cold and unwelcoming. As far as I'm concerned that's the problem with the the first living room below (the winter landscape doesn't help.) However, add some colour and that doesn't have to be the case. As you can see, although it predominates you're not always restricted to modern furniture to achieve the look.

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My own tastes lean more toward transitional-styled major pieces with Asian-influenced smaller pieces and accessories. To a certain extent my choice is driven by a few things I have inherited or have purchased over the years that I love. None are newer than 40 years old - a Chinese-inspired hand-knotted Indian area rug that's going on 100, two painted chests, and a Chinese-style display cabinet in which I have my pre-1965 Innuit sculptures. The sculptures have a minimalist sensibility, but it's surprising how well they fit the more elaborate yet uncluttered style of my room.

I must go down to the seas again

I have this thing about sailors. Perhaps because my family has a history of sea-faring. My grandfather, one uncle and a cousin were all master mariners; others in the family held various positions in the merchant marine. Even my father went to sea - once and only once - as a deck boy when he was 16. Then again, perhaps it's the uniform. Who knows.

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I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

---

John Masefield (1878 - 1967)
Sea Fever

Christmas memories

When I was a child my mother owned a millinery shop. She had learned millinery as a trade in Ireland and continued to work at it after she emigrated to Canada in 1930 to marry my father who had arrived in 1928. After my parents moved from Toronto in 1942 she went into business for herself. In those days, women always wore hats; they didn't need a special occasion. While my mother had her own designs that sold well, her customers would often bring her photos from fashion magazines and ask her to create something similar. Some women came from Toronto to buy. She was good, very good.

We lived behind the shop on the main street just on the edge of downtown. By today's standards the entire place was small; probably no more than 20 feet wide by 40 deep including the shop. One storey, no basement, no front yard and a postage stamp of a grassless rear yard. My bedroom was an alcove off my parents'. But when you're five you don't notice these things.

I was always around the shop. At first I would sit in my high chair in the workroom where my mom could keep an eye on me. When I was older she would give me scraps of material and I would make "hats". I was later told I always said they were for Aunt Martha, my mother's aunt. No one had any idea why. I was lucky. Although my mother worked at a time when few married women did, she was always home.

The shop, although small, was a place of wonderment. Drawers filled with hats and their makings. Feathers, beads, boas, artificial fruit, buttons, sequins, fur. Wooden heads that served both to display the hats and to block them (set their shape) when being made stood on shelves and counters. And always people to fuss over me.

Christmas was special. Like Easter, the run up was my mother's busiest period. She often worked 14 hour days, either serving customers or making hats, to meet the demand, easing off the week before. But she always decorated. There were lights around the door and front window. The window display was stripped of hats to become a winter wonderland. Houses with lights inside, papier-mâché figures, Santa in a sleigh, reindeer dotted throughout, little artificial Christmas trees, a mirror laid flat as a skating pond. And all the empty space was filled with cotton batting snow, drifting from between the houses, softening the edges of the pond, fluffed and tufted, sparkling with sequin ice.

I suppose if I were to see it now I wouldn't be all that impressed, but my Ghost of Christmas Past always lets me use rose-coloured glasses.

The holly and no ivy

My inexpensive solution to Christmas decoration. Mug from the dollar store, holly from the bush outside, and candy canes. The wrapping on the candy canes isn't noticeable in regular lighting.

Is it too early?

I just switched my iPod to my Christmas playlist - just a sample above - 18 hours of music and who knows how many repeats. I'll probably be sick of them by next week, but I'm in the spirit (not the spirits, that comes later) today.

Yes, I see Mantovani on there. Not sure I can stand that many strings.

Christmas baking - round 1

Rum Butter Tarts & Chocolate Chip Cookies

Shortbread

Christmas trimings or toys to be?

Only a couple of weeks to Christmas, so having finished my first batch of baking on Saturday, I started some decorating yesterday. I'm not sure how much I'm going to do, but no tree. Last year the cats had it on the floor more often than it was standing up - or so it seemed. I only have the one spot where it needs to sit on a table in the window and it has to be small, just the right size to become a challenging toy. It will be interesting to see if the mantle remains intact or if I find bits and pieces some time in July.

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Nostalgia

In the early 60's, before the British Invasion. I had this thing about Bert Kaempfert's music. I owned a lot of his albums, which back then were about $6.00 or $7.00 at Woolco - April in Portugal, Afrikaan Beat And Other Favorites, A Swingin' Safari, That Happy Feeling among others and, of course, Wonderland by Night. I think I even continued to buy until I started university in 1964.

My days of Kaempfert's music are well past. I lean toward the Baroque/Classical/Romantic periods with a mix of 50's and 60's, Edith Piaf and now and then Anne Murray - after all she is Canada's Songbird(1). But occasionally I get nostalgic, particularly at this time of the year when the nights are early, the weather is cold and there's a hint of snow in the air. And nothing speaks to that nostalgia more than this song.

1: More on Piaf and Murray in later posts.

Why is it

• that the hair on my head is sparse, but not in my ears?
• that the photo on my new health card is of my father?
• that getting down on the floor to pull the cat's toy from under the refrigerator is easy, but getting back up requires Herculean effort?
• that in order to read the fine print on instructions I have to take my glasses off?
• that my bladder has grown smaller?

The woods are lovely

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

---

Robert Frost (1874 - 1963)
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

After the first snow of the season I thought this was an appropriate post. I always like that first snow, before the traffic gets to it and makes it grey or, as now, when the weather warms and turns it to slush. I was up at 3:00 a.m., wandering the house, and when I looked out the streetlights were hazy and glowing, their glare softened by the falling snow. The road was deserted and the only evidence of life I saw were some tracks leading up the front walk, possibly a rabbit or perhaps a cat. My woods are my neighbours' houses, my trees are interspersed with telephone poles, but I felt the same sense of tranquility that briefly took hold of Frost before the world called him away.

Mirror, mirror

Just had a look at myself. I'm beginning to understand what Shakespeare meant when he wrote "shrunk shank." Now if only it were accompanied by shrunk belly.

Canada without hockey

Not really. It's Canada without the NHL. As the time approaches where cancellation of the current season becomes more likely you can hear gnashing of teeth and rending of garments among fans. But that's not hockey.

Don't get me wrong. Yes, it is the game and I know that. I'm old enough to remember when the NHL was the original 6. Lying in front of the new 18 inch black & white TV, with my bubble gum cards spread out in front of me. It's Saturday. Hockey Night in Canada. And the players. Mahovlich, Kelly, Keon, Armstrong, Duff, Horton. Toronto, of course, because that was my team. Montreal had the Richard frères, Béliveau, Plante, Geoffrion, Pronovost. And equally as legendary ones among the Bruins, Red Wings, Rangers and Black Hawks.

You are a Canadian kid. You watch hockey on the CBC. But that's not hockey.

Hockey is the kid across the road, Danny, and I in my backyard on the rink my Dad made. Not much of a rink. The ground is uneven and if you're not careful a stray clump of grass will send you flying flat on your face. Sticks, skates and a puck. That's it, no other equipment except maybe hockey socks pulled up over our pant legs. It's the faceoff and both of us go for the puck. It flies up and smacks Danny in the mouth. Blood everywhere, or so it seems. Tears, a quick check by Mom to make sure no stitches are needed and that's it for the night. We'll be back tomorrow.

Hockey is heading for "the cutoff" - a railway excavation down the street that was abandoned before any tracks were laid. In the summer you hunt for tadpoles in the creek that runs at the bottom of its 20 foot sloping sides. But in the winter the creek freezes and where it widens out in a few places there's room for a game. Nets are two stones set about 4 feet apart or someone's gloves. If you have even numbers, everyone plays. If the numbers are odd, someone sits out until it's his turn. The girls watch or skate further away. It is, after all, the 50's.

If all the professional and amateur teams, all the organized leagues, all the kids' leagues were to disappear and all the arenas suddenly close, we would still love hockey. We would still play hockey.

You would find it in the local open-air rinks. In the backyards. In the games of shinny on the farm pond. In the kids playing road hockey where there are no periods, just breaks when someone yells "Car" and the players scatter to the sides of the road to let the interloper pass, only to drift back in its wake and begin again.

That's hockey.