Travelling West in Body and in Mind

Following Elizabeth and Billie’s progress across our vast country on my handy, ever present Atlas, I find myself dreaming (as I often do) of further travel – this time to traverse and to discover Canada. In the past year I have read several books about the “conquest of the west” in both Canada and the USA. This phrase hides the fact that the so-called “conquest” was actually an unstoppable usurpation of the lands and resources of aboriginal peoples by our European forefathers (and mothers), aided and abetted by governments and their militaries. Those who were defeated by disease and by technologies unknown to them are now, thanks to our developing collective conscience (as expressed through recent decisions by the Supreme Court, for example) finding new leverage to control their own lands. I applaud these decisions even if they do threaten in some ways the development of Canadian resources as other sectors of our economy envision. The future will see aboriginal peoples taking a significant role in arbitrations over land usage and ecology, areas in which they have considerably greater sensitivities than the business and political groups that have up until the present been able to make our country an ecological offender.

I read history in order to better understand what we humans are about and how we have gotten to the places where we find ourselves today. Each book I read fills in certain lacunae for me, giving me greater understanding of the ways that we have changed as well as the ways that we stay the same. Several of the books that I have read over the past couple of years, many of which I have mentioned in my letters from Puerto Vallarta as well as in this blog, have concerned the events of the last two centuries in Canada, the US, and in Mexico. Some were non-fiction, like the excellent book by Sally Denton on the Meadow Mountain massacre by the Mormons; others were fiction suffused by their historical settings – notably those by Larry McMurtry and by Victor Villasenor. Sitting on my balcony in Puerto Vallarta or in my living room in the Annex of Toronto, I am spirited into another time and place and shown the ways that others have lived, struggled, and died, creating through their lives and the lives of their peoples, the world in which we now take our own part.

Now when I examine my Atlas of North America, I spy familiar rivers and places which have been noted in the histories I’ve been absorbing. I have some sense of the scope of changes and developments in these places; I feel an affinity for them; I have a desire to see them for myself and to explore their historically preserved sites, places in which even a few years ago I might have shown no interest. To travel in this manner especially in Canada and the US would have to be a leisurely enterprise. I could envision a trip of about two months – across Canada to the west and then back through the US. I have little appetite for long periods spent in a car. But this kind of travel would have to be by car if one is to truly visit places that now hold particular and personal meaning. So leisurely it would have to be. Many logistical questions about work and where we are living will have to be solved over the next few years before we can manage a project of this complexity, but I trust that it will happen. When I speak to Mark about ventures of this kind, his first thoughts are how he would manage his work commitments; fairly soon, however, his imagination takes him into the idea I’m exploring and his enthusiasm matches my own. So on we go, travelling the world in body and in spirit, learning and marvelling along the way.

Bon Voyage, Adieu, and Sayonara to Elizabeth and Billie

It’s been two weeks since I have written. I caught an intestinal bug while in Puerto Vallarta – first time in all of my many visits there – and it knocked my energy for a loop that lasted into early this week. Enough said. All better now. The really big item on this week’s calendar has been the gradual saying goodbye to Billie and Elizabeth who, just this morning, have headed west to Vancouver, not for a visit, but to live there. This move has been in the works for a few months though it became a definite go just a couple of weeks ago. I’ve been a party to on-going discussions about its feasibility and advisability from earliest conception, but its actualization is a seismic experience for me and for our family. Elizabeth moved here nine years ago with one-year old Billie to establish herself in ways that were not possible then in Vancouver. She had lived out west for almost that long, drawn there after an unproductive year at Trent University. Her long-time buddy Meagan was already established there; a brief visit with her had exposed Elizabeth to the unquestionable glories of west coast essence. Besides, she sorely needed to escape her parents and to find her own way of being in the world.

And, over the years she did so. She set down deep roots with many people, friends with whom she has been able to keep in good connection via the now available social media that my generation struggles to master. (I have just begun to use my cell phone for texting, and, at Elizabeth’s suggestion, to take selfies!) She worked a variety of jobs and had two long term relationships, the second with Clayton Mitchell, bearing the considerable fruit of the lovely and continually interesting Billie Nova Mitchell. The relationship did not long survive this event, however, and in just over a year Elizabeth separated from Billie’s dad. I encouraged her to come back to Toronto where social services as well as her family were positioned to help her start over. She came and she flourished. Within a couple of months she had a very good job as an executive assistant and office manager for an agency based at Yonge and Eglinton; an apartment in Toronto’s Little Italy; and, free day care for Billie.

So much has happened in the nine years that we have had Elizabeth and Billie with us. We have had the amazing opportunity of coming together as adults able to struggle through painful feelings and events from earlier days to a place of understanding, acceptance, and love. It was a gradual process, facilitated I believe by Billie’s presence. Having the responsibility and concern for a complex child can make one more open to others who are also involved with her. We all became a part of Billie’s life and we loved her; she helped all of us to grow even as we assisted her in our own ways. Much happened between Elizabeth and her sister, Catherine as well. These two girls so vastly different from one another, physically estranged from about the ages of 16 and 20, had a fresh chance as young mothers to know and appreciate each other. They have become deep friends as well as sisters.

After a couple of years in her office job, Elizabeth knew that she desperately needed a much broader playing field: she was ready to go back to school. With the assistance of student loans she enrolled at Ryerson University to study psychology. I’ll toot her horn here a little: she was an excellent student – as we often are once we are clearer about ourselves than in the years when we are essentially still kids. She was on the Dean’s list throughout her years there; she was named Psychology Student of the Year in her third year; she was given a posting in a research lab for a summer, a job usually only given to graduate students; her advisor was keen to have her carry on graduate studies with him when she completed her BA. At that point though, Elizabeth did not want to stay in school (though I believe she will return at another period). Also she was clear that research of the kind conducted at her university was not sufficiently interesting to her. Like both of her parents she was drawn to working with people. She became very interested in addictions and addiction counselling and talked her way into a ground-level job with an addictions clinic here in Toronto. Despite considerable frustrations with the job’s limitations and her low salary, she persevered and was able to gain valuable experience in group and individual counselling, becoming accredited as an addictions counsellor.

Elizabeth left her job this spring though the clients that she had been seeing opted to come with her rather than to be transferred to someone at the clinic. She has been seeing them here in my office. I have been a sort of “supervisor” for her over the past months, just someone with whom she could touch base about her clients and their issues. Our meetings usually took place over supper at a local schwarma shop while Billie, the hip-hopper, had her class. It’s been clear to me from the beginning that she is a natural at this endeavour. Her caring, intelligent approach, and professionalism shone through when she spoke of her people. I met three of them this week as Elizabeth introduced us. I will be seeing her clients now that she is leaving. She has established strong bonds with them that allow them to trust her recommendation to carry on with their work with her mother. One fellow said to me in her presence, “You must be very proud of your daughter.” “I am indeed,” I replied ever so truthfully!

And now they are heading west. Clayton, Billie’s dad, has kept up excellent connections with both Elizabeth and Billie. In Vancouver Billie will have both of her parents. Elizabeth will not any longer be a single parent. They have many excellent friends there, several of whom have kids Billie’s age. And, Elizabeth is a prime candidate for an excellent job working with addicts in Vancouver’s east side. There is much promise there for them. We know and accept this even as it is painful for all of us to see them go. A new chapter for all concerned. Everything changes all of the time, and we can only go with the flow, being grateful for all we have been given on the journey.

In Puerto Vallarta in Summer and with the KIds

On Tuesday we rousted Emily, Theo, Billie, and Elizabeth out of their brief snooze at 3 AM, grabbed our belongings and headed for the airport. Mark and I with the three grandchildren in tow were headed for Puerto Vallarta via Dallas. It was a usual travel day filled with the varieties of annoyance and pleasure to which we have become accustomed. The Dallas stop-over was blessedly easier than the one we had endured several years ago when passing through Chicago. Not only did we not have to pass through American security for a second pass, we came to ground in a well appointed gate area with plenty of space for walking about and enjoying the Ben and Jerry’s ice cream on offer. By early afternoon we landed in the solid heat of Puerto Vallarta. Rejecting the 500 peso taxi vans, we opted for the local bus – 38.5 pesos for the five of us. It was hot, hot, hot on the bus; collectively, we dripped with perspiration. The kids were confused about where we were and where we were going. I was happy. It was hot but it was beautiful.

So we are now in our own condo unit for the first time. The building is very quiet as few people live here year round and rental demands are not high during the summer. The first couple of days I tried to get the three children oriented to a schedule of getting up relatively early – 9 AM -- and going to bed by 10 or 11. I hit a lot of resistance to the getting up routine and to other little idealized notions that I had had. So I now have given it all up. I’ll do as I chose and let them do the same. I suspect that we’ll all be happier for it. Mostly the kids want to swim – either in the ocean out front or in the pool on the roof. The direct sun is a killer however. On Wednesday Billie and Emily both were burned after failing to closely follow sun screen instructions. I think that they have learned a little something.

It’s quite an experience being marooned by the heat in an eight floor condo with two teens and one pre-adolescent. By turns they are sleepily out of it, full of beans and non-stop chatter, co-operative and resistant, hilariously funny, and, a pain in the butt. Theo has a significant comedic talent which he can push to a level of sheer madness, lots of fun though periodically over the top and annoying. My moment of greatest annoyance with the collective threesome came at 5:45 this morning when I arose and attempted to make my breakfast. NO MILK!! This, despite my clear instructions to all and sundry that they were to signal when we were low. Trudging along the malecon before 6 AM looking for an open OXXO store, I was in a less-than-charitable frame of mind toward my young progeny. You can see from this example the difficulties up with which I must put (to paraphrase Winston Churchill)!

We play cards – mostly an all-out, every person for her/himself version of Hearts. Mark doesn’t like cards so the four of us go at it. Without me, the three kids play rummy or crazy eights. We all read quite a bit. Mark and I are both into a book about Gabriel Dumont by George Woodcock for our book club. Dumont was Riel’s “general” in the 1885 uprising. Woodcock’s thesis is that Dumont, unlike Riel, has been forgotten in Canadian history because he was not “martyred” for the Metis cause, but that he was more clear-sighted and effective than was Riel. This story is of great interest to me as I have lately been reading of comparable events in the taking and settling of the American west in the mid-to-late 19^th century, especially as participated in by Kit Carson. Like Dumont, Carson possessed natural talents of leadership and the considerable abilities needed for a life devoid of the accoutrements brought by the coming wave of settlers from the east. In Canada as in the USA the settling of the west is the story of the subjugation of some by more powerful others. I like it that we, as a nation, are becoming more conscious of the wrongs perpetrated in our names and that our courts are beginning to address these in a practical manner.

Well, that’s all from the tropical front. Keep those cards and letters coming!

Canada Day and American Independence Day

So today is Independence Day in the United States section of the great North American continent that we share. On Tuesday we celebrated our own version of independence, Canada Day. Both holidays mark our transitions from British multi-colonial status to united countries located mainly in the eastern portions of the continent, but destined (was that manifest?) to develop westward to the Pacific. The British went to war with the nascent American states in an attempt to deny the autonomy that they sought, but almost a century later supported similar desires which had been building in Canada throughout the early 19^th century. It’s not that the British had become profoundly enlightened in the meantime about the values of colonial independence. In 1867 their empire was spread profitably throughout the globe, only truly coming apart after the financial devastation inflicted by World War II. But the Brits are nothing if not pragmatic. The War of 1812 and subsequent Fenian raids over the border warned of a potential takeover of the Canadian colonies by the rampantly expanding country to the south. United, the colonies were more likely to avoid that future which gleamed in the eye of many an American president and adventurer.

And so it came to pass. The more numerous American colonists established their independence through a passage of arms against “the mother country.” ‘We won’t take your orders and taxes anymore! We’re out of here.’ Canadians gained theirs by a more gradual development of governing institutions, a growing reluctance to be kept in an inferior location, and the understanding in the “mother country” that greater independence would well serve both the colonies and “herself.” Just like in any family the kids will differ in their paths toward individual liberation and adulthood.

Our two countries enjoy the common heritage of language and of institutions developed over centuries in Britain which value the rights and freedoms that we cherish. But absolutely, we differ in many important respects from one another. The conditions of our independence, the impact of our significantly different geographies and demographics, and the historical struggles of each country to expand westward while holding together its disparate populations – all have shaped the central concerns and political tensions with which we continue to contend.

It’s kind of fun, simplistic to be sure, but fun nonetheless, to think of our countries as siblings of the same family who have a common ancestry but who have developed quite differently. Most Canadians live along the USA/Canadian border and have constant access to American media. We have happily imbibed much of American culture and learned in an on-going manner of American politics. From the other side there is considerably less awareness and/or understanding. Few Americans know or are interested in what goes on up here in the great white north (so depicted in weather maps on American TV). When American do think of us, I suspect the thoughts run something like – they are just like us, but less so. How’s that for a gross generalization? 

When my husband Mark moved to Canada in the late 1980s, his supposition was that the two cultures were the same and that his transition to Canadian life would be seamless. In the event he discovered that several years were to pass before he began to feel entirely at home here as the subtle differences in the ways that we approach life and politics became clearer to him. When I visit my American Hall family I find that Canadian/American issues arise from time to time. I have the best talks about our differences and similarities with our niece Jennifer Hall Rees. Recently Jennifer told me how she enjoys our conversations. “I consider myself an American patriot,” she said, “and I think of you as a Canadian patriot, so it is interesting to talk about these things.” Then she asked, “What do Canadians call a patriot?” I said, “A Canadian.” Being a Canadian and happily enjoying Canadian citizenship just doesn’t seem to be tied in the same manner as in the USA to particular political or ideological or historical determinants.

I found another one dollar book in the sale bin on Bloor St the other day. It was written 11 years ago by Michael Adams. The title is: Fire and Ice, The United States, Canada, and the Myth of Converging Values. Adams was addressing an attitude felt then that our two cultures were becoming so alike that their merger was most likely inevitable. His research into ways that Canadians see their own locations belied this view. Though it is somewhat dated (written as it was prior to the Harper government’s recent efforts to move our country away from its traditionally centrist location), there is much in the book that is of interest. I plan to peruse it and to hand it over to Jennifer on our next meeting. It’s fun having a foot in both countries even while my entire heart and soul are grounded here in the Canada that I love and celebrate. Happy Independence Day all you American cousins and siblings.

A Houseboat in Kentucky

Last week was spent without benefit of internet, a singularly strange affliction in the present-day world. Mark, our granddaughter Billie, and I joined nine members of Mark’s family for a houseboat perambulation of the man-made serpentine Cumberland River deep in the heart of rural Kentucky. The original river pre-existed its current massive presence, winding through a deeply cut valley. A project begun in 1941 to construct a dam for hydro-electric power was shelved for several years because of the war effort, reaching its completion in 1956. The resulting back-up of the river spread its reach throughout the many “fingers” of adjoining valleys, creating a vast expanse of dedicated recreational waters.

Several months ago Mark’s brother, Terry and his gal, Judi conceived and promoted the idea of renting one of the six-bedroom houseboats available from a marina on the north side of the river, and filling it with interested family members. And so it came to pass. Our company consisted of the following: the men: Mark and two of his brothers, Bob and Terry; the women: Judi, our nieces Jennifer and Stephanie, and me; what I thought of as “the girls,” (begging your pardon, young women!) two more nieces, now in their early twenties, Dana and Natalie; and, the kids: Billie, 10, and Jennifer’s guys – Nathan, 10 and Lauren, 8. Because there is a total absence of human habitation on the river (other than a couple of extremely difficult to find marinas complete with stores stocked mainly with beverages – not liquor as it is a dry county – a variety of chips, and some dry goods), there is no possibility of procuring food or potable water while aboard. This circumstance required pre-boarding logistics comparable to outfitting a small army. It was ably accomplished by Jennifer, who weeks before we embarked, developed a menu for each of the four days on board, and distributed the needed components among the adult participants. Our contribution contained disparate ingredients: some cooked chicken, lettuce, eggs, paper towels, mayo, basil, croissants, hamburger meat, buns, and so on. We purchased most of our goods at Lexington, Kentucky on the morning before meeting the others at our marina near Jamestown. We also brought along a couple of cases of beer and a multitude of water bottles.

Mark, Billie and I left Toronto on Sunday morning, crossing the border at Windsor/Detroit around lunchtime. Elizabeth had given me a letter of permission for us to take Billie into the USA but as we neared the point of entry I could not find it. (I was certain that I had placed it in my purse but no, it was not to be found.) Luckily the border guard had a sense of humour about the situation. He asked Billie a few questions about her relationship to Mark and me which she answered straightforwardly and he let us through! A decided relief. We drove on to just over the border of Ohio and into Kentucky that afternoon, spending the night at a well-appointed Embassy Suites (even a swimming pool for Billie!) directly opposite Cincinnati. It was astonishing how much hotter it was there than in Toronto; the direct sun left one feeling entirely broiled and desiccated. We experienced the same gruelling heat the next day on the landing area at our marina, as we loaded cart after cart with our paraphernalia. Happily the boat was air conditioned; without this modern adaptation to the slings and arrows of nature we would all have perished early in the trip.

This particular marina owns about twenty houseboats, many of which were readying for launch at about the same time. When we had everyone on board, a marina worker came to give “the captains,” i.e., the men, a rapid-fire rundown on how to operate the boat. A pilot boarded to steer us out into the main channel; hopping onto his own little motorboat, he then waved us off onto our great four day boating adventure. Cruising the river was spectacularly beautiful. Its broad expanse was bordered with undulating hills of rich forest greenery. Cooling breezes filled the entire vessel, calming our collective working-hard-to-get-here-and-get-going nerves. The kids discovered the upper story hot tub and made that their temporary swimming pool as we cruised. The guys collaborated on how to manage the operation of the boat which was already showing signs of motor troubles. Decisions had to be made about where to dock for the night, how to go about docking, and once a site was chosen, how to test it for safety from strong breezes and for sufficient privacy from other roaming river vehicles. Mark, Terry, and Bob are all relatively experienced people with boating and with the care and nurture of motors, but the operation of a boat this size was clearly novel for all of them. Their nervous tension, especially when choosing adequate sites, docking, and re-launching, was palpable. Normally quiet and laid-back with one another, their collective responsibility for the boat and the lack of one clearly experienced leader resulted in powerful exchanges about the wisdom of various manoeuvres. Gratefully, the rest of us left this arena to them.

Docking for the night entailed driving up right onto the consistently shale river edge and tying the boat at a right angle to the shore with heavy nylon ropes looped over whatever close-by trees were available. Out of the main channel, sequestered in a protective cove, we generally were deprived of the river’s breezes, becoming dependent upon the boat’s capacity for air conditioning. Once we were landed, however, the men could relax, everyone could swim, and we could settle into an evening of supper, chat, some card games, and later for the kids, a DVD on the provided TV set. Jennifer’s planning skills allowed a regular flow of easy to prepare, nourishing, and plentiful meals and snacks. We truly wanted for nothing. However, life on board was intense because of the closeness of quarters and the lack of options for escape. The six “bedrooms with queen sized beds” consisted almost entirely of the beds themselves with but a scant amount of additional space for ones belongings. The landing places were narrow shale “beaches” which abutted high ridges of forest, discouraging any idea of a walk. Exercise consisted of swimming – during the day in the direct glare of an unforgiving sun, or, in waddling into the kitchen/living room for another snack and/or drink. Everyone gradually found his or her own recipe for personal space or privacy. We learned how to co-exist in these tight quarters in ways that accepted one another’s particular accommodations. Periodically we had moments, often after an evening meal outside on the front deck, when we (the adults) sat quietly together as the night deepened, telling stories about the family or about ourselves. These were the most precious times. At the end of our four days everyone was ready to leave. It had been long enough. It was by no means an easy time for anyone, but it was good. The entire experience, its highs and lows, highlighted for me the strengths of this family and the love that binds all of us to one another. I am grateful to be a part of it.