Monday (NO) Moanings - July 4, 2016

Keep the Celebrations Coming

A grand long weekend of Canada Day celebrations yields its place to a grand long weekend of birthday festivities for our neighbour to the south. So no moaning this day. Instead let's encourage each other onward in the great adventure called democracy. However vexing, frustrating and beleaguered it may be, it surely beats the alternative.

"With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world." 

Desiderata - Max Ehrmann c. 1920

Celebrate!

In tribute to my American family and friends I offer this post originally written in 2013, with some amendments.

Mom in 1921

My mother was born in Massachusetts in 1921 and grew up in Connecticut. She loved her homeland all her life, treasured her US passport and never let it go - much to my father's chagrin. He wanted her to adopt Canada, and though she lived here from their wedding day in 1944 until the day she died in 2010 some 66 years later, she spent every one her 89 years as an American citizen.

Mom in 2004

Dementia took many things from my Mom but not her national identity and pride. In fact these
became the certainties in her day. She wore the Stars & Stripes over her heart. More than a few times during her years in long term care, the precious pin went missing and then there was hell to pay. Mom would get so upset that we soon learned to have a supply of pins in reserve, ready to 'sub in' for the lost one.


"Hey Mom I found it! Here's your flag."

Eyes filled with tears, "Please pin it on me, dear." Relief flooded her face. She looked so grateful, so profoundly happy and 'at home'.

The door of her room at the nursing home sported "Old Glory" too. Good thing that flag never went missing!








We made a big deal out of "The 4th" during the latter years; cup cakes festooned with red, white and blue, balloons and stories, lots of stories from Mom's childhood years. The staff at the home, God bless 'em, made the day special for her too. One staff member always called Mom, "Miss America" and sometimes "Miss New York.

Mom 1963 - Rockefeller Center, NYC

Mom may have been raised in Connecticut, but she was a New York City kind of gal, at times laying claim to apartments in the Empire State Building and Tower #1 of World Trade Center, and not only an operatic debut at Carnegie Hall but a tour with the Boston Pops. It is grand to live in one's dreams.

Mom - Christmas 1999

So a very Happy Birthday to my mother's homeland.
Thank you for being the land of her birth and worthy of her hopes and dreams all her life.

And yes, God Bless America.

See ya on the beach!

Mom 1957, The Beach at Breezy Point, NY

©2016 April Hoeller

Thursday, or Thereabouts - August 27, 2015

Meet me at the Fountain

All this week thoughts of the CNE (the Canadian National Exhibition or just The Ex) have been running rampant through my brain. I even asked my Facebook friends if any of them wanted to go with me to the Ex. No takers! Probably just as well - the Ex I truly wanted to go to was the one I went to in the 1960's.

The Dufferin Gate ca. 1960

Back then a bus to Jane and Bloor followed by two streetcars, got my older sister and I to the entrance at the Dufferin Gates. Once inside we had strict instructions from Dad, "Meet me at the fountain," so that was our first stop.




Then it was on to the Midway, passing by the Press Building, the Better Living Centre, the
Grandstand, and the Food Building. I'm not sure why but the Food Building was rarely if ever, a permissible stop along the way. Perhaps it was the crowds. Perhaps neither Dad (nor Mom on those few occasions that she came with us) trusted the quality of the offerings. Perhaps it was because they really didn't want us to have a taste of what we could not afford. Popcorn, candy floss and for a real treat an ice cream waffle or maybe a Tiny Tom donut are the only Ex-foods I recall ever eating.

The Midway 1966

But who cares? I was there for the rides. Being all of 8 years old my faves were pretty tame: the Ferris Wheel (in later years even the double Ferris Wheel), the carousel and it's souped up sister the Derby Racer, the Dodge 'ems and something called the Polar Express. The games of chance were always a huge disappointment for me. It looked so easy to get that dime onto a plate, or shoot down big yellow ducks as they moved across the shooting gallery, but I never even came close. And I wasted way too many dimes trying.

I well recall the year, Dad gave my sister and I $5 to spend on rides (rides back then were 25¢) while he went off exploring some of the buildings. My sister, six years my senior, had different tastes when it came to rides. Not only did she con me into going on the Wild Mouse, she put me in the front seat of those little two seater cars. It was the first and last time I would ever be on a roller coaster. Sheer terror!

The Wild Mouse, 1965

Fast forward ten years to 1975 and my time at the Ex was a little different. I went with my cousin Claire, who had come over from England for my wedding. We passed through the same Dufferin Gates then took in a hunter jumper competition in the Colosseum. Only then did we work our way through the Midway of rides, side shows, and games of chance.

Claire won not one but two prizes: at a shooting gallery she got all her ducks in a row and won a plush purple mouse a bit larger than a football; and then at a coin toss won a humongous plush polar bear.

Done with the Midway - there was no way I was letting her win anything more and we couldn't get on anymore of the rides with the thing either - we hauled the bear and the mouse over the bridge to Ontario Place.

Two attractive single women in their early twenties, one hugging a white bear and the other carrying a purple mouse walk into a bar...  Let's just say we garnered a lot of attention. From the savoury to the unsavoury, from the tailored suits to the stubble-faced sleazebags, we met them all. We refused all come-ons politely, then firmly. But when pressed too hard, we packed up the bear and mouse and moved on to the next bar.

We ambled, after a fashion, through the marina, took in an IMAX show at Cinesphere, and had wine with dinner in the restaurant with white table cloths. We oohed and ahhed loudly and giggled all the way through the fireworks. By now the bear had acquired a name, "Whiskey", as had the purple mouse, wait for it... "Mousey-mouse-mouse".

My Dad, Claire, Whiskey & Mousey-mouse-mouse, 1975

Yeah, well we lugged our menagerie back across the bridge to join the boisterous crowd heading for the streetcars. We hung on tight to the big bear and made it from streetcar to the subway, but missed the last bus home and had to walk from Kipling Avenue. As my late mother told it, she heard us long before she saw us. I personally have no idea what she was talking about.



Let's go to The Ex!
Meet me at the fountain...


...but beware of a bear and a mouse - they lead you astray and are very loud too!


















©2015 April Hoeller

Thursday, or Thereabouts - July 30, 2015

A Mid-Summer Gleaning

A civic holiday long weekend hovers, ready to shove a doorstop under summer's swinging screen door. The days are getting shorter by about two and a quarter minutes every day, making for a quite noticeable 15 minute loss every week. But despair not, for the sun and heat of the past week have brought on the lagging tomato and corn crops along with other fresh vegetables and fruit. Ontario farms are bringing to market broccoli, cauliflower, cabbage, beans, corn, potatoes galore, and cucumbers and zucchini hang heavy on the vine.  Strawberries have been and all but gone, but raspberries, currants, apricots and some early Niagara peaches are filling up baskets at Farmers' markets. The land here is so generous, always yielding the best it can, come wind, come weather.

When we first moved up here to the rural routes from the city back in 1978 our new neighbours, soon to be treasured friends, wasted no time in acquainting us with the gifts of the land. In the barn out back of their house were the chickens, the pigs and a big brown cow. On a small plot in the front, Dave and Vera Francis grew much of the vegetables they and two sons needed for a year. When the ripe time came, it was all hands on deck to pick and shell peas, gather in the beans, the corn and whatever else was growing. A family that eats together, harvests together. Once they had all they needed, we were invited to glean, to take our pick from their field of plenty. We gathered in asparagus, rhubarb, peas, green beans, carrots, and as Fall approached, winter squashes of all shapes and sizes.

Dave, Vera and the boys made use of local growers for berries and other fruit, often inviting us to come along. In those fields, with Vera's gentle instruction, I learned how and what to pick. "Make sure you pick clean," she would say, meaning that I was to slow down and pick absolutely everything that was ripe within my arms' reach before moving along to another spot. "Lift up those branches like this," she said while moving the back of one arm under the foliage to reveal luscious berries underneath. "See, there's real good fruit under there."

"If you pick it, make sure it goes into the basket," Dave offered another rule of good harvesting, "even it's not perfect." This one came with a small exception - it was acceptable to eat a few berries, "Well you gotta taste 'em to make sure they're good." It was hard to miss the rivulet of berry juice on his chin.

Picking done, it was time to preserved the harvest for the winter months. Veggies were blanched and frozen, fruits were put up in mason jars. Again Vera was my teacher taking time to explain all I needed to know about glass jars (clean with hot soapy water, rinse then put in oven at 250F), metal rings (no dents and perfectly round), Bernardin® lids (inspect for roundness), canning kettles and boiling water baths. I learned how to make jams and jellies, marmalade, preserves and pickles. I learned how to have the taste of summer in February.

I still make jams every year, still pick the berries at the same farm Dave and Vera took me to thirty-five years ago, and then hurry home to get the summer goodness packed into mason jars.

Every Friday from June through October, I drive out to a local organic farm to pick up a bushel or so of fresh veggies for our meals during the week. I don't put by any for the winter months now and we no longer keep a vegetable garden of our own.

But come mid-summer every year I remember when we did. I remember the indescribable sweetness of fresh picked peas, crisp snap of green beans and carrots, and the squirt of juice from a sun-warmed tomato.

And I remember Dave and Vera who were so generous with their time and friendship; who taught me so much about country living and the gifts of the land; who opened their hearts to a young couple from the city and invited them to glean in their field.


©2015 April Hoeller

Thursday, or Thereabouts - June 25, 2015

Under the Manitoba Maples

The southwest corner of our property has been guarded by two Manitoba Maple trees  for as long as we've lived here. They were probably ten to fifteen years old when we first arrived in the rural routes in 1978.

Looking south to Cherry Street, September 1978. Manitoba Maples centre & right

With chainsaws, handsaws and hatchets, my love and I cleared the land. We carefully plotted out the space required for the house and the septic tile bed. We agonized over exactly which trees had to go. I recall our contractor kidding us about our over-protective, hand-wringing angst as we considered each tree. We stockpiled what we thought was a huge supply of firewood - almost all of it red pine.

Then a hulking D-9 bulldozer pushed out the stumps and sculpted out the foundation for the house. At the time I insisted that the two sentries at the southwest corner of the lot remain untouched, much to the chagrin of the dozer operator.

September 1978, looking south; Manitoba Maple on right

The years zoomed by. The trees grew up and out. I hardly noticed.

2014 Manitoba Maples on the right

In these latter years, storms - ice, snow, wind, torrential rain - have put my beloved guardians to the test.

December 2013

Heavy in leaf and branch stretching up and out, the big trees creak and moan in the wind. A debris field of small branches litters the lawn after each new storm. The added weight of water brought on by a deluge of rain adds to their stress.

The storm this past Monday night brought plenty of wind and rain and lightning. It came in three waves, each one more intense than the one before it. Just after 1am, as I eased back into bed after settling the dog for the umpteenth time -

WHOOSH!

No crack, no bang, just a heavy sigh, exhaled outside my window. In the darkness and pelting rain, I could see nothing amiss, but my heart felt loss. Morning light revealed the cause:

Not just a downed section of a tree, but also decay - spongy, punky rot...

And one more thing, a more troubling thing: a crack along another major section, an opening that expanded and contracted with each gust of wind.

This was serious - this seriously big section of a seriously big tree stretched out over its partner into the neighbour's trees. The good news? No hydro or telephone lines and no houses or other structures are in the way, should the bough break.

Still I cried. A deluge of memories took me by storm.

Under these branches, summer picnics were enjoyed by giggling youngsters. In the Autumn, squeals of delight reverberated through bare branches as little ones frolicked and scuffed through piles of fallen leaves. Winter was a quiet time for the trees except for an occasional attempt at sledding down the minimal slope under the big one. Oh and of course that same slope offers a great vantage point from which the resident canine can survey her dominion.

And a picture perfect spot for Grade 8 graduation in 2001:

Out came the chainsaws, handsaws, loppers and rake. My love and I cleared and cleaned up the fallen, keeping a watchful eye and ear on the big crack.  Surely this tree of so many memories was doomed.

We knew the rest of the task was beyond our abilities and daring, so when all was tidied, we called the doctor, an arborist, to see what could be done.

On the phone he sounded far more optimistic than I felt. He made his rounds the next morning before 8. Surveying the old gal from every angle he murmured oohs and few ahhs. Then he announced his prescription: some minor surgery to reduce weight and the application of a brace to stablilize the tree. (Mentally I noted the similarity to the remedy for my own aging body woes - lose weight and brace the parts that are falling down!)

There was more: in a month's time he'll be back to amputate the section that is beginning to split off. There is fungus growing on it/in it and rot is imminent if not already well developed.

Bottom line: the Grand old Manitoba Maple is spared. She will live on with two of her original four-part trunk structure in tact. I am truly heartened. I hope she is too, along with her sister tree by her side.

Long live the trees!

Note: Apparently taking the tree down entirely would be way more expensive than preserving it, about double the cost.

Win - Win!

©2015 April Hoeller

Monday Moanings - May 11, 2015

A letter to Mom

Not a moaning, but a tribute, written four years ago on the first anniversary of her passing. Still as true, not just on this past Mother's Day weekend, but every day.

Dear Mom,
It's been quite a year since you headed off on the next great adventure.  We've transited the year of 'the firsts' since you've been gone with grace and decorum and some times of celebration too. I'm guessing you know all about our happenings?

I felt you standing beside me when the ship docked in Mumbai.  Together we watched Dad marching on the pier while the band played the Colonel Bogey March.  I know I saw you in Madrid at the Elizabeth Arden counter in that upscale department store.  Did you get the red lipstick you wanted? And the fragrance too?

At Geoff and Kath's wedding you were standing in the middle of the circle for 'your song', Sinatra's New York, New York.  What a great celebration that was! Auntie Elaine remarked how much she saw of Daddy in Geoff.  I don't know as I had noticed that before, but I see it now.  Geoff and Kath make such a lovely couple!













It must have been you who gave Kristen her fashion and makeup sense. She surely didn't get it from me!! I wouldn't be surprised if you've been at every one of her photo shoots, including the ones in Japan.  She is her Grandmother's girl. Gorgeous, smart and lover of books! And it sure looks like she's found the love of her life.

I know that you are as happy as I am with the new kitchen. I've heard you singing along with me while doing the dishes, or sweeping the floor, or making a meal.  Have you seen YOUR bookshelf?  It has your Fannie Farmer Cookbook (aka the Boston Cooking School), the Casserole Cookery book, one of your coffee/tea cups, the old juice strainer, the screw down nut cracker we used for hazelnuts and walnuts, and that old fish scale.  I tucked in 2 little bookie from 1958: The German & Viennese Cook Book and the  New England Cook Book.  I can look up at your picture whenever I'm sitting at the desk.


Kristen and I are making a celebration supper in your honour today - "Macaroni & Fisherman Sauce a la Cudbird".  I've had to make a few changes to it - I do hope you approve!  I'm replacing the oysters with scallops.  I recall oysters were more Dad's thing than yours, and that if you were given a choice between the two, scallops would win hands down.  Also I could not find a can of  Manhattan Clam Chowder, so I going to use tomato broth and add more clams!  Oh, and I have some left over grilled tuna steak which I will use instead of a can of solid tuna.  You wouldn't believe the variety of fresh and frozen fish I can get at almost any supermarket now!  And pasta in all shapes and sizes too.  Back in the day, it was just spaghetti and elbow macaroni, then lasagna appeared.  Remember the excitement when 'wagon wheels' came on the market?  I recall pleading with you to buy them and eventually you did, even though I suspect they were a tad expensive.  <Sigh>  Anyway, I've stayed true to your recipe and elbow macaroni it is!

For dessert, I've made Ebinger's Crumb Cake (Kristen's idea).  I think she just wants the crumbs.
Remember the fights we girls had over the crumbs when we were at the beach?  Those were the days.  I think we'll have some pistachio ice cream on the side.  What do you think?  Never mind, I can hear you smacking your lips already!






Time for me to get back to work on this celebration.  If you're in the neighbourhood, I'd love to have you drop by for supper, or even just to share a spoonful of pistachio ice cream and a bit of crumb cake.  There isn't a day go by that I don't think of you.  I miss you, but I'm so happy you are free.
Heaps of love.
A.

p.s. There's a lovely bottle of 2009 Pinot Gris chilling in the fridge.  Cheers right back at you!