Back in the Annex

We have been back in the city for the past ten day. It feels very like a prolonged stop-over, however, as in a couple of weeks we will be off again -- to Puerto Vallarta for the duration of the winter. Last week was particularly intense: people to see, stuff to sort, and, it was the yearly Holocaust Memorial Week, or, Holocaust Education Week. I was able to attend four of the presentations as well as the class that I am auditing at U of T about the holocaust taught by Doris Bergen. It was an amazing experience to be, as it were, embedded daily in the experiences and questioning of this sector with not just some of Toronto’s Jewish people, but of scholars from places around the world. The over-arching theme of this year’s presentations was the question of collaboration, trying to elucidate more subtle distinctions between people who co-operated in some fashion with the Nazi regime in order to save their lives, and, people who collaborated actively out of hatreds of their own and/or for gain of some nature. Needless to say this is a vast but important topic, one that I made a few attempts earlier this week to write about. At the moment, however, my mind seems to be scattered into so many fragments that any organized thought eludes me. Perhaps once we are settled in Puerto Vallarta I will be able to write about the Holocaust Week presentations and things I learned from them.

In the next couple of weeks I must follow up all of the details that need to be addressed to put our place in order before we leave, to see those with whom we wish to visit, and, to ready the varieties of stuff that we will cart along with us to the south and sunny clime. One of the big decisions I have to make relates to what books I will take along. I’d like to be able to import my entire library but Air Canada has definite limits on the weight one’s baggage can total! We will be away for four months so I have to be certain that the things I select are the ones focussed on issues I especially want to think about. Well, I know that certainty isn’t possible. Who knows what directions one’s mind might take under different circumstances? Oh the problems that life presents one! Believe me, I am aware of what a fortunate person I am to even have such a conundrum.

In the meantime life goes on here in Toronto. Mark is very busy with a lot of new projects that have been coming in. He works with two other architects in an associate fashion. He takes care of certain aspects of projects and they do the rest. Even when we are away he is able to carry on in this capacity as so much of his work is done on the internet and by phone. This week I have been freer than last and am getting to some little nitty gritty details like sorting out the payment of utility bills for this place. The people who live downstairs will pay them while we are away and we’ll have a reckoning when we return. I have to meet with our wild and wonderful landlady to sort out some of the expenses that we have incurred since we moved here in March that are actually her responsibilities.

I should mention that it seems we are in the process of selling our long-on-the-market condo in Orillia. Our fine real estate agent, Bill Shaw and his wife have made us an offer we couldn’t refuse – in fact, we would not have refused just about any offer. I am so happy that this will soon be history. We had a tenant in the condo for the past year but she has moved on. Trailing the various expenses for this place behind us was not a feature I relished. The conditions to move the sale forward should be finalized in a week or so and the sale itself should go through in late December or early January. We purchased our cottage in Orillia 16 years ago right after Theo was born. We had a great time there on weekends especially when the kids were young and were with us a lot. When we sold the cottage and bought the condo five years ago, we had different kinds of experiences of the city and with the kids. Over a year ago we gave up the routine of being half of the week in Toronto and half in Orillia – mainly, I would say, at my instigation. Mark is more attached than I am to the place. Well, now we seem to have another routine: winter in PV and spring, summer, and fall in the wonderful Annex.

I’d like to write about one other experience from last week: on Saturday Mark and I attended, together with a host of other people, the funeral of Eudora (Docie) Pendergrast at the Church of the Redeemer on Bloor at Avenue Rd. We met John and Docie soon after we moved to Walmer Rd in 1993. They were founding members of what we came to call the Walmer Rd Book Club, established a couple of years later, and remained a part of it until the past few months when Docie’s health kept her from joining us. Docie’s cancer was a particularly aggressive kind: she entered the hospital to undergo surgery but in fact succumbed within what seemed like just a few weeks to her illness. The service at the Church of the Redeemer was beautifully planned by John and their sons, Edward and Jacob. It was a rarely seen mixture of liturgy, gorgeous music, and loving remembrance, truly the loveliest, most moving funeral I have ever attended.

In the afternoon the family threw a party to celebrate Docie’s life. It was held at the Gardiner Museum, a tribute to Docie’s work in pottery. The room was filled with people from varied corners of Docie’s life – meeting and greeting one another, looking at the photos from her history that were arranged about the room as well as on slides on a screen at the front. A period was set aside for those who wished, to come forward and speak of their connections with Docie and the things she had meant to them. It is amazing the things one learns or only begins to appreciate about a person at their funeral. It was a privilege to be a part of this group of people and to experience their varied testimonies. Docie and I spared more than once over the years about directions our book club was taking. Her propensity to take issues and people on was reflected by more than one of the speakers. Docie was a strong, multi-faceted, interesting, and committed woman whom we will miss.

Life at Sea

This is day five of our six days at sea. On Monday AM we will disembark at Fort Lauderdale, go through the dreaded US customs, sit around at the airport, hop up to New York, catch another flight, and, touchdown in TO around 8 PM. A regular travel day. The days at sea have been quite wonderful, not in any way boring. We have settled into a fairly regular routine of breakfast, exercise (Mark at the gym and me on the promenade deck), lunch usually on the 9^th floor at the Lido, either in the dining room there or out by the large pool area at tables set about the perimeter. The choices of lunch are varied and very good, including one spot that serves excellent hamburgers in all of the variations found in a gourmet joint – including tasty fries. In the afternoon there is time to be lulled into a lovely nap as the ocean continues its gentle rocking motion. We usually have dinner in the main dining room, sitting with a variety of people: quite a few Americans, some Canadians, some Aussies, and a few people from Germany or elsewhere. 

Throughout the day and the evening there are lots of things to do on board. Mark has attended classes related to Windows8 and to learn about the navigational systems on board. We have been to some lectures on The Punic Wars, the rise and fall of Julius Caesar, and this morning there is one about the history of Spain. There have also been lecture series on astronomy and about the ocean. There is a large library on board from which one can check out books and magazines, or, simply sit about in comfortable chairs and read, play checkers, and surf the internet. There are daily digests of news available from the International New York Times, and the Canadian, German, and Australian press. A movie theatre presents films every day – even giving out popcorn! Our in-room TV set gives us BBC World news as well as several other news channels, several films each day, and, at the front desk one can requisition a DVD from a library of over 1000 titles. It would take awhile to enumerate all of the other possible activities on board – suffice it to say that it would take a lot of doing to be bored here. Mark and I also read a great deal and get about the ship as we desire.

Dining with a variety of people certainly beats the arrangement on many cruise ships whereby, if you wish to dine in the formal location, you are assigned to a table, and thus its other occupants for the duration. This, I have found, is not a great plan. Conversation, unless you are incomparably lucky enough to draw really interesting people, tends to pale after one or two nights of chat. On other cruises I would usually vary my eating arrangements by ordering in to our cabin or by eating in the more casual Lido. You are probably rolling your eyes about now just contemplating the incredible sense of entitlement that one must have to make complaints about the company while on a fairly luxurious cruise. I can’t help it. Conversation is way up there on the scale of importance for me if I have to spend time with people. Chat is fine but it’s like an appetizer: if nothing substantial follows, it is inherently unsatisfying. I’d rather be reading a book – something worth thinking about can at least be found there.

Our dinner companions here have varied considerably, of course. Usually there is chat about where everyone is from and perhaps some general talk about the politics in that location, or other aspects of interest. We had fun one night with some folks (I seemed to have adopted that Americanism) from Florida. The two ladies were hilarious and one of the guys told some very funny stories about being in Germany on a business junket and having to down quantities of liquor clearly expected by his hosts. He and I went briefly head to head over the issue of the legalization of marijuana. In Florida the populous has roundly voted against the idea of legalizing it for medical purposes. I said a few things about the peculiarity of criminalizing a substance which is no more harmful than alcohol or tobacco, maintaining an aura of criminality in exactly the same manner that prohibition did in the early 20^th century. The gentleman strongly objected: marijuana is far worse – one joint is equal to a package of cigarettes because people hold it in their lungs, and, the big killer – it always leads to harder drugs. This has been proven, he declaimed. No, I said, this is simply not true. We eyed each other for a pregnant moment and then moved on. Interesting.

Last night I sat beside a fellow whom I believed, based on his accent, was from Australia. No, he is English, from the Midlands. It was a fairly agonizing hour and a half as the lad really enjoyed talking but his accent was almost impossible to understand. After several passes at, “Pardon,” or, “What was that?” I simply gave in to nodding and smiling and saying, “Umm.” I have no idea whatsoever what he was talking about. His wife who had a more easily discernible English accent was a breeze to talk with. Nice people but not easy company.

The night before we sat with other Americans – from close to Boston and some other place I can’t remember. A big topic on board is about the unfortunate migrants from various places in Africa who are desperately trying to reach Europe. A German lady had earlier bemoaned the manner in which Germany with the only truly vibrant economy in the Union seems always saddled with groups like that. The fellow who doesn’t want marijuana legalized had also said something about the Turks who moved to Germany and just wanted to be there without making any move to learn the language or integrate into the society. (This was another area of incipient dispute at our table.) At any rate, this topic came up again two nights ago with the American contingent. I said that the conditions that are leading to this massive migration are not going to abate. We live in a world now in which people all over the globe are aware of where conditions for human prosperity are terrible and where they are excellent or at least promising. Those of us living in good conditions show through our governments that we don’t want our lives interrupted by an enormous influx of desperate people. So we strive by various means to keep them out, even though we may recognize their suffering and deplore it.

I made the comment that there are simply too many people now on the planet. I’ve thought this for some time – not that I see any solution. It’s just part of my own view that we are going to hell in a hand basket. One of the women took strong umbrage to my statement. I never think that there are too many people, she said. There are many places on earth that are scarcely populated where people could be settled. Yes, I said, but are these places habitable and do they have the resources to allow people to prosper? No answer. The conversation moved on to lighter things.

So here’s what I think about all of this – stop reading now if you don’t want to hear it. If humans were essentially rational rather than just fairly superficially rational beings, solutions could be found. But reality shows us that rationality gives way at every turn to knee-jerk reactions, to fear, and to immediate gratification. A truly rational species would look at the world in which we now live and say: Guys, we are doing this all wrong. Let’s entirely stop all this showboating, competition, and war. Let’s put all of our very good intellects and all of the trillions of dollars that we currently spend on weaponry, etc, and focus instead on the development of infrastructure, agriculture, and the use of the current places on the globe that cannot sustain life. We could live in peace and develop long term planning to deal with generations to come. This unfortunately is not going to happen, though there are people who advocate such a future. We evolved from more primitive creatures and despite our more developed upper brains, we have not really gone far beyond our basic instincts.

OK, that’s it for today’s possibly depressing thoughts. I hope you all are well and enjoying the great lives that we fortunate creatures share. I’m not saying that sardonically. I just think that we have been given the lucky cards in the draw of where and when one could be born in this world. All the best!

A Transatlantic Voyage

This is not a letter from the Annex. Rather, we are out in the Atlantic, just coming into Porto Delgado, a town on one of the several islands of the Azores. Each has been formed by volcanic action. The island we are visiting today has more than one volcano. About ten years ago a site on the western side of the island became active and spewed ash for about 13 months, burying all of the habitation in that sector. The islands have quite diverse and interesting topographical features as we have seen simply from the slides and audio info given in advance of our landing here – all on our in-cabin TV set. Mark and I will go ashore a bit later this morning and walk about the town of Delgado. These islands are Portuguese, though for us tourists it makes scarcely any difference: the euro is the medium of exchange, and, language is not a difficulty in ports where much of the economy is focussed upon the arrival of folks (as the Americans say) like us.

For those of you to whom I have not given the full lowdown about this trip, I will spell out the amazing package that we bought into several months ago after seeing it offered in the Saturday Star travel section. Because transatlantic journeys are repositioning ventures for all of the cruise ship companies – to the Mediterranean in the spring and back to the Caribbean for the winter – deals abound to tempt customers to take the long sea trip with them. Thus they are always less expensive than a cruise of comparable length for any other itinerary. So our package: we were flown to Barcelona (actually to New York and then to Barcelona on American Air – not my favourite); were given two nights in a very good hotel adjacent to the old part of the city, and so wonderfully located for walking about; then, a fifteen night cruise in a balcony suite, visiting Valencia – easily the loveliest of the places visited, Cartagena – with a massive inner city of marble-laid pedestrian streets for walking and shopping at high-end places (we went to a grocery store for some staple items), Malaga – from which we boarded an inter-city bus to Granada on spec to visit the Alhambra (all sold out so we just walked the town, had lunch, and returned – lovely ride across the countryside), and, Gibraltar, the big rock with one very long shopping street dedicated for the most part to British goods.

Since leaving Gibraltar we have had two days at sea and have crossed three time zones. Each of the past three days has been 25 hours in length. We are now only three hours ahead of Toronto time and are gradually making our way back. Today, as I mentioned above, we will stop at Porto Delgado from 8 AM to 5 PM. Overnight we sail on to Horta, another town on these islands. Then we will have a further six days at sea before reaching Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Our package will send us back to Toronto via New York again, flying with, I believe West Jet. All of the above, including taxes, was purchased for the remarkable price of $2700 each. I tell you all of this as a recommendation to consider this type of travel if time and pocket allow.

It’s been an interesting trip throughout. I wasn’t entirely well while we were in Barcelona. I may have picked up a bug of some kind en route but it passed within a few days. I was able to get about nonetheless and found another area of interest to the east and south of the old town – also an older area full of meandering alley-like streets, old churches and squares, but in some way less tourist-ridden and more in use by locals. Each of the four days of our quick visits to the cities on the journey down the coast of Spain has had its own moments of interest and of frustration. The latter relates to some minor snafus not worth mentioning as well as to the differences in ways that Mark and I do things. We have found that our initial forays into a town work well. We decide upon the places to visit and the means of arriving there. We walk about and take in the local flavour. After an hour or two, however, our companionable air breaks down as the differences in our interests and tolerances become apparent. We have learned that at this point the best plan is to go our separate ways. And so we do.

At sea finding rhythms that suit us is easier. We have basically spent the past two mornings very much as we would have done on a weekend in Toronto: breakfasting when nature urges; Mark to the gym for a work-out and me for a walk on the promenade deck (about ½ mile per circuit); reading and writing (Mark working on drawings); basically giving one another lots of space and quiet. I managed another episode to post on my other current blog, the one about the Holocaust. I brought a few of my books on the subject along on our journey, knowing that I would have time to do more reading. I don’t seem constitutionally able to have a prolonged period in which I am not doing some species of study. I become restless and dissatisfied with everything if I attempt to put that part of my brain to one side. So I persist. With this particular focus I am teaching myself more about a piece of the history of humankind that has interested me for decades. Writing about it is my way of pulling the pieces together in my own mind. I post it as a way of putting it forth for anyone who might also be interested. I recognize that it not easy stuff to contemplate and that many will decline my offer. But that is alright. If you, dear friend, happen to be one of those who would rather not be a recipient of those posts, please feel free to tell me so, and, if you could and would like to tell me what your thoughts are about this focus, I would delighted to receive them.

My interest in history began when as a young teen I discovered, and subsequently devoured the historical novels of Thomas B Costain, a Canadian author who lived in Brantford, ON. These books opened universes for me that spread out from my suburban existence in the western section of Ottawa. They opened up not just geographical spaces but ones of cultures and eras. I entered into each in the way that my grandchildren now embrace the fantasy literature that is so prevalent for their generation. My bedroom was for a couple of years in the basement of our house; this seclusion allowed me to read well into the night, fantasizing the world into which Costain took me. I imagined actually being there, in fact, longed for the possibility to travel back (as shown in later movies) into each of these eras to experience for myself how other people lived and thought. As an adult I have focussed particularly my reading and thinking on totalitarianism as experienced in Germany, Russia, Japan, and China. Power is an issue that always interests me: who gets to do and to say what to whom, and, how did that particular instance come about.

Well, enough about that. We will return to Toronto on November 3. Other than our yearly visit to the Michigan Halls for American Thanksgiving late in that month, we will be in TO until November 29 when we decamp for the winter in Puerto Vallarta. Come south everyone. You will love it. All the best.

Writing Group, Baby Shower, Birthday Party, Steven McQueen, Book Club, and, Vancouver

In the spirit of my last post, I will give an account of the activities of yet another week or so in the Annex and beyond. Last Tuesday I attended the monthly gathering of a women’s writing group begun six or seven years ago by my good friend, Maureen. In her earlier incarnation as a psychotherapist, co-terminus with her developing success as a writer, Maureen had facilitated several writing groups, aimed at encouraging people who wished to write either in a serious manner, or, simply as a method for self-expression and –knowledge. The groups followed a particular format: each person would write for about 20 minutes on a chosen topic; these pieces would be read aloud; another period of writing would follow on the same topic or on some theme that emerged from the first set; again, these would be shared. Over time many who feared the process of putting their thoughts to paper and/or sharing these, found the supportive air of the group encouraging in ways that extended to other aspects of their lives.

As Maureen’s focus turned more definitively toward her own writing, she recognized a desire to have a group of this kind for herself, situated within the bosom (if I may make bold to place it there) of her own circle of women friends. Happily, I was one of the six invitees. The group has remained remarkably stable since its inception, meeting in the early years twice a month, more recently, once. Each meeting has its own dynamic as we approach issues that resonate for us as individuals or as a group. We share a common long-term experience – that of our involvement in the psychotherapeutic community called Therafields from roughly the mid-1960s until sometime in the 1980s. This in itself offers realms of material for contemplation and discussion. Also we all stand within the general demographic of “seniors,” ranging in age from about 69-80. From this vantage point we can reflect upon aspects of our long lives, where we find ourselves now, and our visions, hopes, and yes, fears related to the future.

Despite our clear commonalities there are many ways in which we are a disparate grouping in terms of early backgrounds, interests, and abilities. We do not necessarily agree on a wide variety of subjects and the airing of these differences has periodically led to tension. The sheer fact of hanging in with one another over the years and the basic honesty and even courage displayed in facing disagreements, has allowed the group to deepen in its tenor as well as its written expressions. Where there is safety, there is greater and freer revelation of oneself. I have come to value the group more and more over time, conscious of how much I have gained from it, and grateful to my ever-so-generous friend, Maureen for its instigation and for keeping it going despite the on-going complexity of all of our lives.

On Friday night Mark and I attended a double bill of films at the Bloor Hot Docs Theatre: a documentary about Steve McQueen, followed by one of his biggest hits – Bullet. It’s always interesting to get under even a bit of the surface of celebrities that have been a part of the world that we have grown up in. Most of McQueen’s roles were of the pattern played in the early films of Clint Eastwood – the handsome, rugged man of few words. He died at a fairly young age, just in his early 50s though, and didn’t reach what might have been his full potential as an actor.

On Saturday Maureen and I drove to Martha and Ken’s place in the Mulmer hills for a baby shower for their daughter, Christina Clare Pagel Noon and her husband, Tim. Catherine, who had been Christina’s earliest buddy, came as well, but on her motorcycle. Christina looked beautiful and happy among her friends and relatives. After lunch Catherine and I went for a walk in the back section of the Pagel’s 60 acres, much of which is forested, all the while chatting away about the intensity of having teenaged children. We were so engrossed as we made our way along that we got entirely lost. After several false starts we did find our way back to the roadway and then to the house. But it was a beautiful day and we enjoyed the company.

On Sunday we made a similar trip to the one described in my previous blog: taking Emily, Theo, and Gregory to Newmarket to meet Catherine for a birthday supper. This time it was for Theo’s 16^th. So astonishing to see how the years have rushed by and these kids have been leaping up from stage to stage before us! Being sixteen is all about learning to drive. Theo has started a bank account dedicated to saving for a car. He will be getting his temporary licence this week so will be able to drive with an adult in the car. He absolutely pulsates with excitement when speaking of these possibilities. We had lots of fun at the dinner, held this time at a local Boston Pizza. Theo is in grade 11 now, looking onward to grade twelve and life after that. He is setting his sights on mechanics, a trade in the repair of implements yet to be determined. He has shown a talent and interest in this work, dealing with his own bikes and in a part time job he has had this summer with a local employer/mentor. He’s a terrific boy and we love him greatly.

Tuesday night we had a meeting of our book club at Major St. We started this club about twenty years ago while we were living on Walmer Rd. The composition of the group has changed somewhat but has been quite stable for a long time. I think I may have spoken of our book club in an earlier post. It is a really pleasant gathering, every bit a friendly, social event. We meet; we drink and snack; we chat or talk more deeply depending on current circumstances; we talk for awhile about the chosen book; we choose another date and agree upon another book, often basing our choice on the practical issue of how large the text is relative to the number of weeks in which to read it. Our book for this last meeting was by Bill Bryson, called something like: 1927, An American Summer. Lots of great stories involving people like Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Charles Lindberg, as well as info about the power of intolerance and the mainstream nature of the KluKluxKlan in the period, and, the startling (for me) recognition that much of the “eugenic” research and ideology picked up in Germany had its origins in the USA and was funded by organizations like the Carnegie and Rockefeller Foundations. For the next club meeting: Zealot – about the historical Jesus. Bring it on!

Right now Mark and I are in Vancouver for five days, visiting Elizabeth and Billie. We arrived Thursday morning around 10 Vancouver time after an uneventful, quite pleasant journey on a new Air Canada 777. It was enormous, with room enough for at least 500 people. Elizabeth had finished a twelve-hour overnight shift at 6, so we arranged to take the Skytrain from the airport to the waterfront, the Seabus to North Vancouver, and a taxi the rest of the way. The half of the duplex that she and Billie inhabit is set in what appears to be a forest with a bubbling stream running alongside the house, a lovely, restful setting. Billie’s school is just a block away. When the morning bell rings, she can hear it, and, if she scoots, she can still make it in time for class. It’s great to see these two gals and spend time with them.

Elizabeth took me for a walk yesterday morning into a REAL forest, at Lynn Canyon Park, about a mile from her place. Truly spectacular: a steel suspension bridge over a chasm that shelters a waterfall, a 30’ pond into which the intrepid plunge from an overhanging cliff, and a fast-flowing stream that tends down toward the ocean. That is just the beginning. The park houses those enormous old-growth trees that we view in tourist brochures touting British Columbia. A well-worn path meanders throughout the park, over rocks and exposed roots, to stairs that lead up to the overhead cliffs. I was gob-smacked!

Last night we took Elizabeth downtown in time for her 6 PM-6 AM shift at one of the old hotels which has been converted in room-only housing for addicted street people in Vancouver’s east side. On a shift of this kind she has a co-worker with whom she shares the vast array of responsibilities and situations that arise with the residents. It’s demanding work with unpredictable experiences and she loves it. After leaving her we went with Billie to walk about Grenville Island, get some supper and some gelato, and, a specialty brewery beer for Mark that had been made with added chocolate!? Mole beer? I picked Elizabeth up at 6 this morning and we made our way back through the east side, passing several large groups of street people camped along its main streets. The relatively clement weather here on the coast attracts homeless people from all over our country. The umbrella group with which Elizabeth is now working has implemented many initiatives for their benefit but there is much to be done for this most disadvantaged population, many if not most of whom suffer from mental illnesses.

We will be here for a couple days more, enjoying the Vancouver scene and the laid-back way that Elizabeth, Billie and we are able to co-inhabit their small but beautifully located duplex.

Events of the Past Ten Days

I’d like to describe a series of happenings and experiences that I have had or have partaken of in the past ten days or so. Letters from the Annex ought to periodically focus on the opportunities given by life in this, my favourite village of Metro Toronto. I will begin though by mentioning a brief trip to Montreal ten days ago that I took to visit my friend of over 50 years, Mary Carten. Mary and I met in the novitiate of the Religious Hospitallers of St Joseph at Amhurstview, close to Kingston, Ont. Later we were part of the Order’s “juniorate” of students in Ottawa, and for part of one school year she and I travelled together from the juniorate’s digs with the Grey Nuns in Rockcliffe to our classes at the U of Ottawa. After I left the Order we remained in touch, visiting when circumstances allowed, particularly during the few years that Mary spent here in Toronto studying theology. After a long stint at a mission in the Dominican Republic, Mary returned to Canada about four years ago to undergo successive waves of heroic treatments for cancer which had already metastasized. To this day she continues with treatments, bearing it all with amazing stoicism because she continues to find joy and interest in her loving extended family, her friends, her faith, and the various issues upon which she has strong opinions, as well as the various questions to which many of us turn our minds periodically about the nature of good and evil and about the chances for survival of the human race.  Mary and I have pretty much always had good conversations. Even when my own life deviated in significant ways from that of a religious sister, I did not find her judgemental or dismissive. We would talk about the minutiae of our lives as well as the bigger questions.

On this visit as on one earlier I stayed overnight at the Mother House, a vast antique building adjacent to the Order’s Hotel Dieu Hospital. So much has changed in the lives of religious since my close encounter with them from 1961-5. Most of the sisters living at the Mother House are now my age or older. Having spent their lives in some form of service to others, they live out their last years cared for in modest circumstances but with the communal support of their own sisterhood. Eating in the refectory with Mary I could observe the various groupings of women chatting with one another over meals. The general feeling was one of peace and relaxation. All of the sisters that I met while there were  friendly and welcoming. Mary and I had a bunch of different talks during my brief visit, not leading to any particular conclusions, but just other threads in the long string of our connection with one another.

The day after my return Mark and I picked up our grandchildren Theoren and Emily at their dad’s house, along with their cousin, Gregory, who also lives with them and their mothers in Sutton. The plan was to drive the three of them to Newmarket to meet Catherine at the pre-arranged waterhole of the Swiss Chalet. There we had a communal dinner in celebration of Emily’s 14^th birthday. Gregory and Theoren who share a room seem constantly engaged in a repartee that vacillated between the hilarious and the offensive (to one another only, I must add). It seems to be part of teenage boys’ experience and repertoire. However, it can become annoying, to which Theoren’s sister and mother will testify. In the car I disrupted their dialogue by inserting leading questions into the mix – about their school programs and so on. Both were quite happy to respond and even to entertain other topics and questions, though left to their own devises they quickly resumed the exercise of connecting with/torturing each other.

We had a fine time at the dinner. As Catherine says, Swiss Chalet has a menu within which most anyone can find something to enjoy. We brought along a chocolate birthday cake for which our very busy waitress provided plates and forks at the end of our meal. We have a great series of photographs taken at Emily’s first birthday party which show her initial experience of chocolate. In the photos she stares at the piece of cake before her; she puts her fist into it; she gingerly raises her fist to her mouth; and then, in short order she employs both hands to convey its wonderfulness, to not just her mouth but to most of her face. The final picture shows the birthday girl entirely decorated with a dark, rich chocolate. I happened to find a card – at the train station in Montreal – that shows an infant girl face down in a chocolate cake. The perfect card for Emily! We all had a good laugh about the coincidence and the memory.

Last Monday I had lunch with three of my old friends (old in both senses, I might add): Maureen, Lorna, and Martha. We have known one another from early days in our Therafields’ lives, way back in 1968. For a number of years the four of us met bi-weekly for lunch at my home or at Maureen’s. Each of us would bring our own lunch which we would consume while talking with one another about the important things happening in each of our lives, how we were feeling both physically and emotionally, and periodically having a needed clearing of the air if tensions had arisen among us. It was a great gift that we gave to ourselves and one another. Over a year ago the habit of this meeting fell away for a variety of reasons,  but with the result of some gradual estrangements. About two weeks ago we met and thoroughly thrashed out this failure to communicate, having some “words” with one another in the process, but happily rededicating ourselves to the practice of regular meetings given to seriously seeing and hearing one another as well as being open about our own situations. Last Monday’s lunch was the first of these promised gatherings; it was great.

I attended two events during last week related to my interest in the Holocaust. One was a talk given under the auspices of the Centre for Jewish Studies about terms used over the decades to describe what we refer to mainly as “The Holocaust,” the origins of these terms and the historical context of their usage. The second is a fall term undergraduate class in the history department at U of Toronto taught by Professor Doris Bergen, entitled The Holocaust, Part I, to 1942. I came across Doris Bergen when I attended the New Research on the Holocaust conference last fall. I didn’t know who she was but was impressed with the easy and gracious manner with which she met and introduced speakers at the conference as well as encouraged those attendees like myself to get our butts into the lecture hall on time. At home I found that I had a copy of one of her books, in fact two copies. I looked at courses available about the Holocaust at U of Toronto and the Centre for Jewish Studies via the internet a couple of weeks ago and discovered Bergen’s course. I emailed her, explaining my background and interests and asking if I might audit her course. Disappointingly I did not hear from her. However! I ran into her at the lecture on terminology that I attended last week and made bold to introduce myself. She apologized for not answering as she had been swamped with emails right then at the beginning at the term. She said that, of course, I might be an auditor. So 49 years after I was a third year BA history student at U of T, attending classes in the Sidney Smith building, I was back at it again. It felt terrific! I will only be in town to attend six of the classes this term, but I will take advantage of each one. One of the texts to be used is Victor Klemperer’s I Will Bear Witness, 1933-41. I read his second volume that covers journals written from 1942-45 while in Puerto Vallarta last winter and in the meantime had purchased a copy of volume one, planning to read and write about it while back there this winter. So many happy connections.

Yesterday we had Ophelia and Heather for lunch on the deck off our kitchen.  They were delicious! We met these gals almost four years ago on the 15-day  tour with Gap Adventures that we took from Cairo along the Nile. I wrote about this trip in another blog: www.italyandegypt.blogspot.com It was great to reconnect and to remember some of our experiences together. They have suggested a reunion of the 13 of us who were part of the group to be held at their place in Oakville next summer. Six of our crew belong to the same family, all living in London, Ont; two are in California; and one gal lives in South Africa. Our fearless leader whom we called Magic will not be attending. All of us lost touch with him soon after we left Egypt as the revolution broke out within a week or two and his community of Coptic Christians were especially targeted by extremists.

Mark and I saw two movies this week: 5 Broken Cameras which I wrote about a couple of days ago, and, this afternoon, a documentary on the fabulous Robert Altman. It is a must-see film for anyone like me made happy by his long string of films from the seventies until relatively recently.

And then there have been the sessions – nine in total this past week – opportunities to talk in various levels of depth with people from whom I learn and who hopefully, learn something from me. It must be the very best job in the world, certainly the very best for me. 

So this is more or less a digest of the week (or should I say the ten days) that were. Oh, and I will mention that I have also begun to write about Rudolf Hoess, the commandant of Auschwitz, using information from Laurence Rees' book on that camp, looking at ways that Hoess' formation mirrors that of other young men who in our own time are drawn to extreme, fundamentalist organizations that justify horrific violence as necessary components of a movement toward a "greater good."

Five Broken Cameras: An Israeli/Palestinian Tango

Periodically our local Hot Doc’s theatre co-presents a film with the Globe and Mail. One of the Globe’s foreign journalists comes to present a documentary that relates to an area of his or her particular reportage. Last night two were shown by Patrick Martin, the Globe’s Middle East correspondent, who has spent much of the last several years covering the Palestinian/Israeli story. Martin’s intent in showcasing the films was to demonstrate not just activities that are part of the regular life shared by these two populations in Israel, but some of the complexities of positions held on both sides. The first film, entitled Smile and the World Smiles with You, was a short piece depicting the search of a Palestinian family’s home by a squad of Israeli soldiers. The exact location of this home was not clear to me. It would not likely have been in the Gaza strip, but might have been in the West Bank or in an area more clearly delineated as Israel proper. Soldiers can arrive unannounced and demand to search a private home though again, under what conditions was not made clear. Presumably the squad was looking for materials that could be used to make weapons intended for use against Israelis.

That is the set up: an occupying force has the right to come with serious weapons at the ready, enter a home, order its occupants about, intrude upon its most private places, and, if obstructed, arrest and/or possibly inflict physical damage against the family members. However, one unusual aspect of the scene belies some of the intense discrepancy of power inherent to it: the occupants document the entire inspection of the home with a video camera. How can this be? How can a family of least six people, living in what appears to be at most two or three small rooms, supported by casual shoe repair work of the father and a teenage boy, afford this clearly sophisticated and expensive apparatus? Why do the soldiers permit the videotaping which clearly annoys and embarrasses them? The camera and its usage represent what Martin was pointing out: the starkly varied opinions within Israel itself about the prosecution of its occupation and its coexistence with the Palestinians. Recognizing that soldiers would be sent to search homes for weapons and that abuses could easily occur, the Supreme Court ordered the distribution of video cameras to some of the homes in the area to be used specifically to record these events, in this way acting as a deterrent  to soldiers who might be tempted or provoked into crossing the line from inspection to abuse.

The interactions between the soldiers and the family occur in two languages: Hebrew and Arabic. The language of one group is not understood by the other, a formidable barrier against the development of empathy on either side. One of the soldiers understands Arabic and must translate things said into Hebrew for his comrades. There are about six soldiers in the squad. All are dressed in military combat gear with masks covering at least portions of their faces, and, all carry serious weapons, fully drawn, often pointed directly at the people they are questioning. The oldest son of the family shows them the goods on shelves in what might be a common bedroom. The soldiers are especially interested in what might be secreted in the area at the bottom of the shelves. The 19 year old boy there to prove to them that nothing questionable lurks in their home, clearly enjoys delaying and frustrating the soldiers, making ironic comments and thwarting their desire to examine, confirm safe, and leave the premises. The person holding the camera comes close to the soldiers, embarrassing and annoying them despite many calls for him to back off. The soldiers themselves seem to be about the same age as the son of the house. They do not take kindly to his “smart” remarks. He is made to stand against the wall of the house with his hands up while he is thoroughly searched. The boy grins and makes comments throughout, not giving the soldiers the satisfaction of being respectful or fearful. His demeanour further annoys them and tension rises. The boy’s father tells him several times to be quiet, aware that he could provoke a violent reaction or arrest. Finally the father appeals to the soldiers directly, wanting to neutralize the provocation of the boy’s grin. “Smile,” he says, “and the world smiles with you.” This homely saying is understood by all and is received as if a piece of wisdom, allowing the soldiers to relax and to back down. Tension resolves, inspection completed, they move off to another assignment.

This kind of up close and personal interaction between the soldiers and the civilian population differs greatly from that shown in the second, longer film, Five Broken Cameras. Filmed over a period of about six years, from 2005 to around 2011, it chronicles the systematic encroachment of Israeli settlement in the West Bank as it engulfs land owned by members of a village, Bil’in, at its very edge. In this film the police and soldiers are viewed quite externally, men at a distance from the villagers, enforcing barriers set by the needs of the settlers and responding to the villagers’ resistance by progressively violent means. The broken cameras of the film’s title are exhibits shown by Emad Burnat, the villager who documented the process of encroachment and the forms of resistance used by his neighbours and himself. Each of his five cameras captured one period of the interactions; each was subsequently broken by some violent encounter with the army sent to enforce the security of the settlers.

The film opens on the occasion of the birth of the Bernat’s fourth son and concludes around the time of his sixth birthday. It focuses in many ways on the Palestinian villagers themselves, on their manner of living off the land with their olive trees and their herds, on their families and communal life, their spirit and liveliness, and, as the movement of the settlers more and more encroach upon their centuries-old way of being – literally hiving off portions of their land and burning down or uprooting their olive trees -- the forms of resistance that inevitably were stirred. In the early days resistance was entirely non-violent. Villagers would congregate to protest, hold up signs, and argue with soldiers sent to buffer them from the settlers. As feeling grew more intense they were ordered to disperse; failure to comply would prompt the soldiers to throw tear gas canisters in their direction. Excitement was clearly experienced by the young Palestinians in these encounters. They galvanized a sense of communal purpose: we are being oppressed; we have the right to protest and to make our case known to the world. The early encounters demonstrate liveliness and even fun as the protesters sing and move closer to the limits laid down by the soldiers, taunting them until the inevitable shower of tear gas erupts and the villagers run away. Gradually the stakes get higher. A fence built between the settlement and the village, limits the villagers’ ability to move about locally. Attempts to sabotage the building of the fence lead to more intense encounters: the firing of tear gas canisters directly at the villagers; some bullets fired and people wounded; arrests and detentions; a villager killed; Bernat himself seriously wounded when his car crashes into the fence (under what circumstances was not clear). Because his injuries were life threatening, the soldiers took him to an Israeli hospital, in effect saving his life as the facilities at Palestinian medical centres would have been inadequate.

It was interesting to watch attitudes in Bernat’s family. His infant son’s early vocabulary reflects the environment in which he is developing. His brothers are all enthusiastically involved, each in turn being subjected to arrest. His wife, not a part of the overt resistance enacted for the most part only by men and boys, is supportive of it all, reflecting her own pride and excitement. She encourages her sons to emulate the drive and passions of their father and uncles. Bernat, who had purchased his first camera to capture images of his newly born fourth son, turned it outward from a familial focus, to that of the growing crisis for his village and its way of life. Progressively he is drawn into a serious commitment to chronicling and publicizing the effects of the settlers’ aggressive encroachments. Over the period in which the film was shot the resistance of the village became international news, drawing others of various backgrounds to the locale, eager to join in thwarting the aims of the settlers. Bernat’s activism attracted the interest and co-operation of Guy Davidi, an Israeli film maker, with whom Five Broken Cameras was produced. Midway in the period documented the Israeli Supreme Court ruled that the settlements were illegal and that the fence was to be taken down. In fact, the ruling had little effect: the developments continued; it was two years until the fence was removed, only to be replaced soon after by a concrete wall similar to those encircling the population of Gaza.

Like the permissions given to soldiers to search private homes but to have their efforts videotaped, the rulings of the Court and their ambiguous results reflect the widely differing attitudes of the Israelis themselves. Unfortunately, as Martin pointed out during the Q and A following the movies, the political climate of the country is shifting further and further to the right. Those who decry abuses of power and the encroachment of Palestinian lands are more likely to move abroad, seeking a way of life more consistent with their own liberal views. Those who hold an ultra-orthodox view that the whole of Israel has been given to their people by God and that their right to exploit and develop it is unquestionable, tend to remain and to work politically and practically to enforce their vision.

The audience itself reflected the divergence of views held not just in Israel but in Canada and other countries as well. Many of the questions were straight forward request for information about the situation as experienced by Martin. Two were clear expressions of diametrically opposed views respecting blame and future directions. The first gentleman signalled his disapproval of the money now being poured into Gaza to rebuild after the recent round of fighting; his statement clearly focused blame on the people of Gaza themselves. They ought now to live with the rubble that they have effectively made of their own cities by fighting with the Israelis. The second commentator pointedly asked Martin if he was a mouth piece for the Israeli government, spouting well-worn excuses for the exploitation of the Palestinian people. Martin seemed quite unfazed by this assault, amiably addressing the gentleman and assuring him that such was in no way his intent. At this point the moderator announced the necessity of our clearing the theatre to allow patrons queuing for the 8:30 movie to take their places. And clear it, we did.

Back to a beginning

I have not been writing in the past two weeks because I have been sorting out my directions. A year ago Mark and I embarked on our trip to Europe to visit some of the sites of the Holocaust. I wrote about this experience before, during, and afterward in my blog A Journey Toward the Holocaust. I was profoundly affected by our journey, most particularly by the day that we spent at Auschwitz. When we returned to Toronto, I wrote for awhile longer about seminars that I attended at the Centre for Jewish Studies at the U of Toronto and about some authors that I was reading. When we went to Puerto Vallarta for the winter I took along a number of books related to the Holocaust but found myself disinclined to read them. Back in Toronto in the spring I started this blog, focussing mainly on my new life in the Annex area, its resources and pleasures, other books that I have been reading, and incidents related to my family and friends.

A couple of weeks ago Mark was away for the day visiting some of his buddies in Orillia and enjoying time on the lake. It was a quiet day for me. I spent some time walking about my “library” of books in the built-in shelves in our livingroom, pulling out and thinking about books that I have read and ones that are awaiting some attention. I recognized a sense of wariness in myself about tackling ones that relate the painful stories of Holocaust survivors. It felt as though to read them I would be reinserting myself into that place of anguish that I experienced for some time after being at Auschwitz. I knew at that moment that I had in some ways put away my connection with and interest in the Holocaust to protect myself. I also knew that if I was to be true to myself, I would have to put my caution to one side.

I began by selecting a slim volume entitled Fragments of Isabella: A Memoir of Auschwitz by Isabella Leitner, as well as a larger volume, The Dentist of Auschwitz: A Memoir by Benjamin Jacobs. I read these two books within a few days, beginning then on Laurence Rees’ book Auschwitz: A New History. Published in 2005, it is dedicated to the 1.1 million men, women, and children who perished at Auschwitz. The vast majority of these people were Jews, but their number also included Roma people, Poles, homosexuals, political dissidents, and Soviet prisoners of war. Rees’ book is of particular interest to me as he has had the advantage of research pursued after the dissolution of the Soviet Union. Using documents previously unavailable, Rees is able to look more closely at what ultimately evolved into the “final solution” of the “Jewish question” and the role that Auschwitz played therein. He shines a clearer spotlight on Rudolf Hoss, the commandant of Auschwitz from its inception as a concentration camp throughout its years as the primary death machine of the Nazi party, as well as on others who played major and minor roles in the attempt to exterminate the Jews. I plan to study his book more closely and to summarize and reflect upon his findings in my Holocaust blog.

It may seem to many an anomaly for a person like me to imbed herself so deeply in an area of interest that is in many respects distant from her own time, place, and culture. Born in Canada of Scots and Irish parentage and brought up as a Roman Catholic, I am an unlikely candidate to be viewing myself as a witness to the Holocaust. And yet despite the chasms of time, space, genealogy, and cultural heritage, I do experience myself standing in that place. The Holocaust of the Jews and all of the components of racism and hatred that facilitated its enactment belong not just to one period of time and geography but in a very real way to all of us who live and who have ever lived. It touches upon our human capacity for good and for evil. I have inklings about the sources of my interest and concern about this period of history, still reverberating as it is in many ways within our contemporary world, though there are undoubtedly aspects that I do not understand. Be that as it may, I nonetheless intend to pursue the line of inquiry and of self-learning upon which I embarked in a consistent fashion about a year and a half ago. I welcome any commentary or questions along this path.

Perth and the Doyles

I spent most of the past weekend immersed in all things Perth and Doyle. My cousin Michael Doyle died on Vancouver Island a couple of months ago rather suddenly. His son, Jamie came east with a portion of Michael’s ashes for a memorial held in the home of Michael’s brother, Monty, in Perth. Two earlier memorials had been held, one in Victoria sponsored by the Search and Rescue community of which Michael had been a founder, and a second in Edmonton initiated by Jamie and his mother, Michael’s former partner. Michael, Monty, and their sister, Nonie are/were the children of Martin Doyle, my father’s younger brother.

I knew Michael only when we were kids together for a few years in Ottawa. Martin was a naval officer and their family moved accordingly back and forth across Canada – mostly in Halifax or Victoria. In 1954 our family moved from Brockville to Ottawa and we settled just a mile or so up Carling Avenue from the Martin Doyles, stationed then in the nation’s capital. Mike, the oldest, was about 10 then. I was 14. Television was just becoming a staple family appliance though it was another year until we landed one. In the meantime we trooped every Sunday evening over to Uncle Martin and Aunt Mary’s place, crowding into their living room for the splendours of the Ed Sullivan Show, and, if the adults were feeling indulgent, the subsequent Four Star Theatre. On Saturday nights we would often go over for the Jackie Gleason Show as well. There were four of us Jay and Mary Doyles: Linda, 15; me; Craig, 10; and Valerie (Teedy as she was then known), 6. Mart and Mary had three: Michael, Nonie, 8 or 9, and Monty, a couple of years younger.

During their stay in Ottawa Mart and Mary would rent a cottage at Rideau Ferry each summer and we would go to visit there for at least one weekend per year – most likely even when we were still in Brockville. My grandfather Charlie Doyle, then a widower, would come out from Perth, just a few miles from the Ferry. Martin would play the cottage piano; Grampa would play his fiddle; and we would all dance – everyone with everyone. It was a lot of fun and remains to this day one of my fondest memories of that early Doyle collection. Though Nonie was five years my junior, we played avidly together during those visits, especially in the lake. Parents still believed that allowing children in the water before an hour had elapsed after eating was to invite lethal consequences. Waiting for the hour to pass until we could once again throw ourselves into the Rideau seemed akin to the punishment of Purgatory to Nonie and me.

I have no memories of the Martin Doyles during my later teenage years, though they remained in Ottawa as did we. We got our own TV and we moved a bit further away. I was involved with my own adolescent life as undoubtedly those kids were with theirs. My parents moved to Toronto in 1959 and I joined my sister at the nursing school of the Hotel Dieu Hospital in Kingston; in February, 1961 I entered the novitiate of the Sisters running the hospital. When I left the Order four years later I had two months remaining in the second year of my undergraduate program at U of Ottawa. I moved in with Mart and Mary, sharing a room with Nonie, also in her second year. During those two months I ate dinner each evening with the family, reconnecting with them and getting a sense of each of them from the vantage point of a young adult.

Michael was still with the family, though I am not certain what he was doing then. Nonie was at university but I don’t think that Michael was studying. He seemed terribly awkward and sensitive to me then, nervous around his father whom I could then see had become a dominant, rather demanding figure, not the easy-going Uncle Martin that I had remembered. I think that it was not too long after that period that Michael moved to Vancouver Island, immersing himself in a life focussed on outdoor sports and eventually, safety and the rescue of people at risk in the vastness of the BC coastal lands. The memorial held for Michael in Victoria was attended by members of the Search and Rescue fraternity, an RCMP representative, Canadian Forces veterans, and other work mates and friends. Their eulogy stressed the innovations that Mike brought to search and rescue operations that have been incorporated in other parts of the world. It was moving to read of the love and respect for Michael that so many had for his idiosyncratic and clearly from-the-heart manner of being. Simply being who he was, Mike brought new approaches and energy to a sector in need. My sister, Linda remarked to me a couple of days later that we sometimes are given glimpses of a person at their funerals to which we have not previously been privy. This is ever so true.

At Monty’s place on Saturday Mark and I were greeted by generations of the Mart and Mary Doyles. Nonie and her husband Roy were there with their daughter, Natalie, who to our surprise lives here in Toronto, on Walmer Rd no less, about three blocks from us! One of Monty’s two daughters is undergoing treatment that kept her and her mother from attending, but her two children were there, as were five cousins of theirs, children of Monty’s son, Justin and their other daughter. A second cousin of ours, Pat, daughter of my dad’s first cousin Kathleen attended as well. And, importantly, Jamie, Michael’s 20 year old son was there, meeting and greeting all of these relatives whom he barely knew but with whom he quickly became one. It was a warm and welcoming scene, unburdened by any sense of familial regrets or recriminations.

We sat together in the living room, hearing from Jamie a report on the two earlier memorials for his dad. His cousin, Justin who had spent a summer after high school with Michael, spoke of his outdoor adventures and the many things he had learned under Mike’s tutelage. Then Nonie spoke at length about growing up with her big brother Mike and the many ways that he had helped and encouraged her. The seven beautiful young cousins, aged between about 4 or 5 and 12, sang together a rendition of This Little Light of Mine. It was a simple, sincerely loving memorial to Michael, to his life, given by some of the people whom he had touched. My sister Linda and her husband Darcy were there as well. We were moved by this entree into the family of our cousins and very happy that we had attended.

One other thing happened on the weekend as well that had great import for me, though I don’t know if it is as meaningful to anyone else. Fifteen years ago we had a Doyle family reunion in Perth. I had been able to locate the Doyle homestead on Concession 5 of Drummond county and Ivan Dowdall, then its owner. He had been renting out the house though he mainly used the property for farming. Some time earlier his tenants had vamoosed without paying their rent, leaving the place in poor condition. Ivan gave me permission to take members of the family to see and tour the house during our reunion weekend. Quite a few of us went over. The house was in terrible condition. The original stone had been plastered over, a surface which was then stained and peeling in places. A second story had been added at sometime earlier but a fire had left much of it in ruin. A large hole in the kitchen floor was the site of egress for rodents who had clearly taken up residence. But it was singularly moving to stand within the walls of this house, nonetheless. I think that we all felt it as a hush fell upon the party standing in the living area while we absorbed the fact that this home had been built by our great-great-grandparents Martin and Mary Doyle of Wexford County, Ireland, in 1827, and that our great-grandfather Timothy Doyle, our grandfather, Charley Doyle, and our parents Jay, Madeline, and Marty Doyle had all been born there.

I hadn’t been back to see the house since then and indeed, was uncertain whether it was still standing. I knew that Ivan Dowdall had died and that his daughter Gina had inherited his properties, but whether she had kept them, I didn’t know. Mark and I tried three times on the weekend to find the house and on the third try, we succeeded! Trees at the road now obscured our vision of the structure that we had been easily able to see 15 years ago. We had a map showing the various lots given to settlers in the early 19^th century and knew that we were close to where it had to be, or, to have been. We decided to drive up a long laneway just in case, and WOW, there it was. Not only that but the lawn was mown and there were lawn chairs about and a truck by the side of the house. We ventured to go further and knocked at the front door. A lady came out from the side, looking rather confused and possibly perturbed at our strange late afternoon appearance. I hastily told her who I was and why we had come. She became very friendly and welcoming. A moment or so later her husband drove up the lane. We introduced ourselves to Roy and Mary Watt and they promptly invited us into their kitchen where we sat and talked about their and our connections to the house.

It is still owned by the Dowdalls, by Gina, in fact. She lives down the road in the original Dowdall house which she is restoring even as she updates it. She is a most energetic woman in her forties, doing all of this as well as pursuing her profession as a high school teacher. Roy Watt is a stone mason by trade as well as a man of many practical capabilities. He was doing work for Ivan Dowdall about the time that we visited there 15 years ago. When he asked Ivan about the place, Ivan told him that he was welcome to live there if he cleaned it out and fixed it up. Mary and Roy have been there for the past 14 years. They have a relationship with Gina that mirrors that which Roy had with Ivan. He takes care of the properties and does work that Gina needs, for example, masonry and fence building, in exchange for their rent. They are all very fond of one another, true neighbours and friends. While we were still visiting with Mary and Roy, he called Gina and she agreed to meet with us.

We drove along Concession 5 to her place at lot 14, the home where my great-grandfather Timothy’s sister, Margaret moved when she married Lawrence Dowdall in 1850. When her father Martin Doyle died, her mother Mary moved there for her own last years. I believe that Gina’s father Ivan was my third cousin, making her my third cousin, once removed. (Don’t you love it!) She greeted us outside with her companion collie dog and then took us for a tour of her home, delving rather deeply with Mark into some of the minutiae of her restoration work.  As Mark is engaged often as a heritage architect, he has learned a great deal about this field. He was impressed with her approach and accomplishments to date.

We drove back into Perth tired and hungry after a long and satisfying day. I am so very happy that our family’s homestead is not just still intact but that it is housing a couple who clearly love the place and who are taking care of it. I know that my father would be happy to hear this news if he was still with us. You might ask: why do you care? I can’t really answer that question. I only know that I do. It is a concrete location that for me houses the lived history of my family, at least the Doyle portion of it for almost a hundred years. My grandparents left the farm in about 1921 to start a grocery store in Perth. The land was poor and the work of caring for it unending. Once Grandpa’s parents had died they struck out in a new direction, looking to find a different life for themselves. My dad was 10 years old then and his parents were in their thirties. Just like my daughters, both in their 30s now, they had the energy and the vision to move on in new directions for themselves and for their children.

Two years from now will be the two hundredth anniversary of the founding of Perth. In 1816 it was intentionally formed on what was to become Highway 7, a road linking the clearly vulnerable cities on Lake Ontario to the future capital of what became Ottawa. Already present Scottish immigrants and demobilized officers and regulars from the forces sent by Britain to end the War of 1812-14 comprised the core of the new settlement. There will be celebrations in Perth to mark the anniversary. I want to be there myself to be immersed in that aura of the pioneers, those people who have gone before us, laying the physical and emotional infrastructure for the lives that we live today.

A Saturday Afternoon with Emily

At the risk of embarrassing my almost-14 year old granddaughter, Emily, I would like to recount some anecdotes from our get together on Saturday. There had been an attempt at a meeting the previous weekend but Emily had seriously overslept and, as we say, “tempus fugit”: the best before time had elapsed. And so a second plan: for the next Saturday’s meeting Emily would set an alarm on her cell phone to ensure availability. It worked; she arose at 9, but alas, having stayed up until 3 watching TV with her brother, was too tired to attempt anything more taxing than a mope around the house. OK. I understood, having indulged myself in a similar fashion when younger, and, certainly knowing the feeling of just being too pooped to participate. But maybe later? I called her about 3:30: wha’s happenin’? She’s feeling alive and ready to roll. “Do you have 75 cents for a bus ticket to get over here?” I query. “I can get it somewhere,” she responds. This is a yes. Alright! We will meet at the Christie subway station, visit the Vietnamese fruit market for produce, and walk back here. She has to wait until she receives a text from her dad but that ought to come soon and she will let me know when she is leaving. I get the text soon after: I am leaving now.

Then I have a flash: we could still make it in time for the late afternoon showing of the film we had intended to see earlier. But – time is of the essence.  I text her: meet me instead at the St George subway stop. I walk over there and wait for about ten minutes, then realize that in the meantime she has texted me that she has decided to dry her hair a bit more before leaving. NO, I texted immediately, leave now and meet me at the Bay St subway station. I hot-foot it over to Bay and Charles to order hamburgers at an incomparable joint called SlabBurger (go figure!). I do so and tell the lad that I’ll be back in a few minutes. Passing the Manulife building around the corner, I nip in and purchase our tickets to the movie on a machine on the ground floor. I hasten outside and up the block to find Emily waiting outside the subway station. Hooray! All of the texting worked. Modern communication: it made me feel that I was getting hip to the ways of the young.

We picked up our hamburgers and a drink for E and headed into the movie, arriving in time to see a few trailers for up-coming shows but mercifully missing the pre-show advertising for cars and bank accounts. (When theatres began placing ads before films, my friend Martha and I would loudly boo and hiss at this intrusion, unfortunately to no avail.) The theatre was fairly crowded as it was the second day for a much advertised feature called in Canada “The F Word,” F being understood to stand for friendship. For release in the USA the producers were obliged to change the title to something less inclined to provoke commentary. In Canada we seem to be less touchy about such things. (?) I picked this film because it starred Daniel Radcliffe, the lad who grew up playing the role of Harry Potter. I figured that Emily would find it interesting to see him in a more grown-up movie even as she herself is showing all of the physical and mental signs of leaving childhood. It was light, funny and delightful in parts, silly in parts, overall not at all bad. “Cool,” was Em’s sole comment.

She herself was looking cool, beautiful, in fact, in her band-merchandise T-shirt, cut down at home to feature her lovely arms and shoulders, and her hair swept over her forehead with a hint of purple streaking, held in place by her ubiquitous winter hat, a clear fashion statement all her own. We walked around Chapters/Indigo looking for a book called The One, actually the third book of a trilogy by a lady named Cass. We located it in the Teens section and purchased it as an advance birthday gift – her birthday is about three weeks away. “Cool,” was once again her comment. This and her grin showed that she was happy. Emma (there are various versions of Emily’s name) told me that her current main interests are books and band merchandise, and, as both are costly, she wants in a year or so to land a part-time job. Very sensible.  She chatted a bit about starting school on Tuesday; their board begins a week early and gives everyone a week off in November to break up the semester; school grades have gone up since they inaugurated this stress-reducing measure. Recently Emily made two friends by spontaneously commenting on her liking of the band shirt one was wearing. They all acknowledged loving one another’s hair and clothes and generally were pleased with one another. She sees this as a good way to meet people and make friends when she begins at her new school. I couldn’t agree more.

One other school-related comment: “If I get good grades this year my mom said that I could get a face piercing; probably it will be the standard side of the nose ring, not one under the nose for sure.” How the times do constantly change. My kids simply went out and did face piercing once they reached an age to afford it. I didn’t like it but had no actual control over it, something my own mother was hard pressed to understand: “You are their mother! Tell them to get rid of those horrible things!” I could tell them that if I wished but it would have no effect whatsoever. I had no control over their bodies and we all knew it.  When I was a teen, the prevailing societal wisdom held that only cheap girls had pierced ears! (What would mothers of that era made of the piercings and tattoos of today’s youth? Disbelieve I imagine.)

But, back to Emily: when after desert I was driving her back to her dad’s place, I mentioned a memory that had come to me the day before as I walked by the former location of the day care that her bro, Theo had attended 15 years ago. I went in to pick him up. Not able to walk yet he was sitting at a small table in a tiny chair having a snack. When I entered the room he turned his head and smiled upon me in the sweetest way imaginable. Emma was quiet for a few moments and then said, “Yes, I can see that sweet smile of his right now.” They are teens and they squabble but deep down their love for each other is unshakable. And that’s how I feel about them.

Some Thoughts on Addiction

Since I inherited a few of Elizabeth’s clients, my practice has been considerably more focussed on addiction. I can’t help but notice how much love plays a part the addict’s prognosis. Of course, this holds true for all of us: being loved and being able to feel, accept, and return that love is likely the core component in anyone having a productive and happy life. Looking deeply at and working with the distinct pieces of this equation then is an essential part of any therapeutic process. An initial “contract” with one’s counsellor involves a particular kind of love: I, the counsellor, will hold you within a space of non-judgemental acceptance and of encouragement of your strengths and your efforts. In a sense being in loco parentis for the “adult child” who seeks help, one must be kind but also firm, not shying away from difficult questions about using nor accepting the sloppy excuses anyone accustomed to self-abusive behaviour will proffer in order to side-step responsibility. This is not an easy relationship for anyone afflicted with the scourge of addition to maintain. It can only be attempted at the point when he or she has gained some knowledge of him/herself and some repulsion for the dire realities of a life progressively centred on the addictive substance.

That substance has over time become the source of “love,” in the sense that it is the place of comfort and solace, the reliable friend that eases pain, tension, anxiety, and the seemingly irresolvable conundrums of life. But, of course, that friend, that lover, gives with one hand and takes even more with the other, exacerbating one’s troubles even as it seems temporarily to solve them. Coming to the counsellor the struggler attempts to reach out with one hand for a different connection while the other is still quite firmly held by the addictive substance. And so the dance of therapy begins.

Many questions need to be answered to fill in the background of the current situation: preferred substance(s)?; beginning of use?; current usage?; source of substance?; source of income for substance?; triggers and cravings?; familial relationships?; work history?; general health?; mental health diagnoses, treatments, and/or medications?. These and other threads of the story emerge over time in regularly held meetings that establish a rapport and connection within the therapeutic dyad. This engagement can form a bridge enabling the client to consider the possibility of life without the crutch of his or her addictive substance. Like all therapy, it is in its essence, relational. Its success or even relative success depends not only on the willingness and capacities of the client to make difficult changes but also on the therapist’s ability to be engaged with another in an authentic fashion. If we come to our work cloaked within a “professional” aura, rather than as another human who lives and struggles with the realities of her life such as they are, no sense of “us” working together can be imparted to the client. Rather he or she can never overcome a sense of inequality in our relationship, or for that matter, the inherent shame about addiction that consciously or unconsciously is suffered. These two conditions alone constitute insuperable obstacles to the client’s progress, replicating as they do so many earlier unhappy and discouraging involvements.

Being with another in an open and encouraging fashion will most often lead the therapist to genuine feelings of caring for the client. When it doesn’t, the work is unlikely to be successful or prosper. Neither party will find the meetings satisfying and the relationship will in some fashion be terminated. So, starting from an assumption that the therapist is able to develop this form of “love” toward her client, what are the difficulties to be overcome in the process of their work together? In essence I believe them to be those to which I alluded at the beginning of this post: whether the client, the one who is bringing his or her self to the therapeutic endeavour, is able to feel, accept, and return the love of others. This is no simple matter. Standing in the way of the human experience of love can be a host of factors. Early childhood trauma, abuse, rejection, or betrayal can immunize a person from any belief that he or she is loveable, or, that there exist people who are capable of unself-motivated caring. As well, serious mental health issues that confuse one’s thought processes and emotions are enormous obstacles to love. Also, the impact on one’s entire physiological being by the protracted use of alcohol or chemicals cannot be discounted as a powerful inhibitor of the flow of healthy emotions.

I don’t mean to imply that the relationship with the therapist (or the AA sponsor in many cases) is in itself sufficiently stable ground for someone struggling to free themselves from addiction. But along with other pieces of this complex situation, over time it can provide a major assist. The work in which therapist and client are engaged encompasses many areas of concern because the whole person is involved. It spans all the various elements of being human: physical and mental health; work and leisure; friendships, family, and/or lovers; the past and its ramifications, dealing with the ever-constant present, and what of the future? Those who have the consistent backing of others who care about them and who have pursuits or interests that are important to them are the most likely to persevere in their quest for a life free of addiction, not a life free of the temptation to use which rarely happens, but a life in which choices are more properly their own.