cadence and fervor

This morning over blueberry walnut pancakes, I met a woman from our neighborhood who has her share of stories to tell (although, what person over the age of seventy doesn't have stories?). She is one of those marvelous people who connects to younger generations effortlessly, without sacrificing her own history and wisdom and perspective. This way of reaching out isn't common, at least in my experience. And I wonder if the lack of it from both younger people and older people leads to the apparent disregard we have for the lives of our senior citizens sometimes. But that's a tangent.

Mrs. T recently lost her husband and described the process of writing his life story to us. Many of her grandchildren are too young to have known him, so she wants to bridge that gap with her memories. He was a talented carpenter and built their home from the ground up, and she wants them to know he had "gold in his hands." Her softspoken love for him is simple and alive, and I don't doubt that her descendants will see that in her writing.

Her descriptions of her husband made me think of a chunk of a book I have been browsing through: Good Poems for Hard Times by Garrison Keillor. In the introduction, he writes:

"My dad and I were as different as could be (I made sure of that), but his life had a clarity that I find in poetry. He was a carpenter, and if I close my eyes, I can see him, thirtyish, handsome, sawdust in his dark hair, running a 2x4 through a circular saw, trimming it, holding it up to the studs, pulling a nail out from between his front teeth, taking the hammer from the loop on his pants where it hung, and pounding the nail, three whacks, and a tap for good luck. This simple act, repeated a thousand times as he built the house up over our heads, had the cadence and fervor of poetry. He didn’t earn his daily bread sitting in a conference room, manipulating people, moving big wads of cash around, spinning a web of hogwash: compared to that, his life was poetry. When he bowed his head and gave thanks before a meal, it was always the same words, the same cadence. When he took a chicken by the legs and head, there was a plain cadence to that. I hear that whack in poetry."

I love that poetry does not always have to portray an epic adventure or a tragic love affair. It can just as easily give voice to our everyday moments and commemorate the simple but extraordinary people we have lost. Our stories come in so many different and surprising forms, and for me it never gets old.

a new necessity

The last few days around here have been just mild enough to wipe out the last traces of snow, and trickle down rain here and there. Never mind that it's still January in Canada; Mother Nature behaves however she feels, apparently. But this is bad news for a couple of newbies with a dog that must be walked 3-4 times a day. My Uggs and Ugg wannabes just aren't cutting it. After 15 minutes outside, it's like walking with two soggy loaves of bread strapped to my feet. It's going to be quite a while before we have any disposable income, but when we finally do, one of my first frivolous purchases is definitely going to be a pair of Wellies. Something like this:
Cute AND practical! (Come on, the color is 'Aubergine.') Not to mention, they could very well come in handy even when I'm not sloshing around town with Toby. I may get the chance to get involved in a community garden this spring, which could be amazing. And my pride just won't allow me to wear Crocs, even though I know, I KNOW, they are great for gardening. If the community garden comes together and I sweat too much in the knee-high Wellies, we'll reconsider. Because my feet sweat a lot. I can admit it. But, one problem at a time.

bon hiver

As much as I love winter with its clean air, quiet beauty, and wool-and-flannel-inducing wardrobe, moving in winter is no skip through the snow. Between college living situations, getting married, and moving across the country once or twice, I've moved in just about every weather scenario; and I can only remember one other time I moved in the winter. It was late January of 2004 and my dad helped me clear out my dorm room before I left for a semester in London. Over a foot of snow had fallen and I remember us tromping in and out, in and out, trailing snow as we went. But, that was one afternoon. We moved to Hamilton in roughly three trips, and we encountered some nasty lengths of blustery highway with a fully loaded trailer more than once.

Despite the messiness of moving in snow and wind and ice, the biggest concern for me has been our dog, Toby. We already knew his adjustment process was going to be slow, having uprooted him once already, but now that we're in an urban environment for the first time in our adult lives, it's taking him a little longer this time around. He's a 70-lb. black lab who lives, and I mean LIVES to run. He probably has roughly 2% body fat, and it's the dead of winter. Of course, it's only three days in, so he'll get there. And there's a leash-free park in the area that we'll have to try out soon. But it would have been easier in warmer weather; walks would be less hampered by the layers we humans have to wrap ourselves in. Daylight wouldn't drain away quite so quickly. We wouldn't worry about jagged ice under wet paws.

Today, while we were on our mid-day walk through our quiet alley and around the block, the chill wasn't quite as sharp and icicles were dribbling off every roof. While we were skirting puddles I realized, even though it's only mid-January, how wonderful it will be to watch spring unfurl through our neighborhood. I haven't seen it alive yet, so I have no idea what's coming- which trees will blossom, which yards will reveal daffodils and crocuses, where urban birds will weave their nests. Winter's beauty is cut short in this environment, where traffic noise comes and goes like tides and salt encrusts anything that moves. But the days are getting longer, minute by minute, and warmth is coming, bringing just a bit more freedom for us and for a very lively dog.