The Secret behind the Earbuds

I’ve always had trouble when faced with time on my hands. It’s not that I don’t always have an extremely long to-do list, it’s simply that when I have an unscheduled hour or two I don’t want to squander it on cleaning out my clothes closet, organizing the mess on any of my three desks, or updating my photograph album. For the past three years, however, I have not had to worry about this as I inadvertently found myself a member of three different book groups.

Upon hearing this, people assume that I am some kind of super-reader or intellectual. On the contrary, my literary über-agenda has lead to a life of subterfuge and dubious strategies. Whenever the topic of what books we will read next is raised at any of the clubs, I sit back and try, atypically, to play no part in the discussion. Invariably, it will be my turn to say something (all groups are scrupulously democratic) and I quietly and as neutrally as possible suggest a book that I just happen to have read for another literary event. I rationalize that a second read will give me deeper understanding of the work and remind myself of what Lesley Stephenson, the father of Virginia Woolf had to say on the subject “If a book is worth reading once, it’s worth reading twice.”

Of course finding the time to REread a book is even harder than reading it for the first time. Hence my foray into the world of audio books. Thanks to the digitalization of practically everything in print and my trusty iPhone I can download almost any novel and amuse myself on long drives to and from Collingwood, in uninspiring doctor’s /dentist’s/ hospital waiting rooms or in the mind-numbing tedium of an international airport.

At first, I strictly limited auditory ‘reading’ to books that I had already read in the traditional way. This was not cheating; I was merely refreshing my memory. Inevitably, however, I found deadlines approaching more rapidly than I could handle and thus adopted what I secretly refer to as the leapfrog approach. I read as much as I can of the physical book but if I have to leave it to pursue other activities, such as earning a living or shopping for or preparing meals, I snap in the earpods and switch to the audio version; as soon as possible, I return to the paper book. Each time I switch, I ‘rewind’ a few pages and thus cover sections of the story twice.

There are many benefits to listening; I find out how to pronounce strange names or words; I have the benefit of another person’s emphasis, accent, and interpretation; I can smugly criticize all of the above if they don’t reach my standards. At first, I found that I didn’t pay enough attention to what I was listening to so didn’t have an in-depth understanding of the material; now I am happy to say that my auditory skills and concentration have progressed to the point where I can’t remember which sections of a book I read the old fashioned way and which ones I heard through my iPhone.

I also feel right at home as I travel on the TTC or walk along the street, my trendy white earbud cords dangling from my ears. I exchange knowing glances with teenagers bopping along to their hip-hop beats and flash a sphinx-like smile to people of my own generation who raise a quizzical eyebrow wondering what on earth this super-cool grandma could be listening to.

How I became a Streetwalker

Thanks to the funeral of the mother of my son-in-law’s best man and a conference on palliative care, I have become a streetwalker.

For the past week, I have been primary caregiver to Toby, our 2-year-old grandson. Toddlers, in addition to being very busy all of the time and eating and drinking non-stop, love to spend as much time a possible out of doors. The word stroller can put an immediate end to even the most ferocious, irrational terrible twos tantrum. And since our boy has not been in tip top physical shape lately I have had to play the card more frequently than usual.

I must admit, however, that I have become somewhat addicted to our neighbourhood strolls. Eglinton Avenue is a miracle of vehicular eye candy: city buses, school buses, taxis (but so far we recognize only turquoise and orange Beck cabs), vans of every shape and size but invariably painted white, motorcycles, police cars, garbage trucks and magnificent red fire trucks that always seems to be speeding to or from their station around the corner.

Lately, however, the excitement of these has been eclipsed by the hundreds of Hydro trucks tail to nose lining every street. Last week, yellow helmeted workers in swaying cherry-pickers pruned the trees while their mates on the ground raised and installed the new super-high poles and fitted them with metal pulleys and thingamabobs to hold the more powerful cables. This week, they dangled above our heads restringing the wires, and removing and reattaching the streetlights. Next week, we predict, the street-sign contingent will perform a similar manoeuvre with the parking signs (boo! hiss!) and following that, we await the thrill of the demolition and removal of the old concrete poles. I do seem to be getting into this, don’t I?

During our walks, I have learned to see the world through eyes that are much closer to the ground than my own. Who knew there was so much litter on the ground? A refrain of “What’s THAT, Gramma? What’s THAT, Gramma? What’s THAT, Gramma?” marks time with my steps as a little finger points out every piece of detritus along the way. And when did the invasion of worm-starved robins occur? Not to mention the glut of dogs. Even Glenfiddich with his finely-tuned terrier nose cannot detect ‘doggies’ two blocks away.

When Toby isn’t outside, he spends his time practicing his favourite sports: golf, tennis (played just like golf but with the club held in the air), curling (played just like golf but lying on your belly and with the club acting as a broom), hockey, snowboarding (pillows on a bed make a fine ersatz ski hill), baseball and soccer. The other day he announced, a look of incredulous horror on his face, that he couldn’t play basketball (pronounced ‘bastetball’) because he didn’t have a ‘bastet!’ He knew there was one at the park (pronounced ‘part’) but had found it useless as all the balls we had were the wrong size. Yesterday, during our morning excursion my eyes spied two slightly-used but still beautiful tot-sized bastetballs sitting on the side of the road waiting to find a good home. So we scooped them up and headed to the part where Toby honed his shooting skills and I celebrated the fruits of viewing the world from the knees down and having become a successful streetwalker.

Canadians and the weather

I’ve been thinking a great deal about weather lately. Atypically, however, all my thoughts were good ones. Easter weekend temperatures in Toronto rose to the mid-twenties, the average daily high for June! This meteorological aberration elicited more grins and giggles than all of the Easter eggs collected by greedy little tots in the entire province.

On Friday morning, as tender crocus tips pierced through the winterkill, I found myself grabbing a broom and cheerfully sweeping up bags full of left-over fall leaves. The street became alive with people I hadn’t seen since Christmas. That afternoon it was ME who awoke the happily dozing Glenfiddich and coaxed HIM into taking a little walk just as an excuse to stay outside. Back at home, I was thrilled to see that the emails had been flying back and forth and a golf match was organized for the next day. For Good Friday dinner I wore clothes I hadn’t seen in months and we enjoyed our drinks on the patio.

Our lives had been transformed. EVERYONE was in a fantastic mood and I wondered how long such euphoria could last. But then I remember that the very essence of being Canadian is accepting bad weather with stoicism and greeting fine weather by doing the verbal equivalent of crossing our fingers and turning around twice anti-clockwise. I realized that all of the recent conversations that began “Can you believe the fantastic weather we’re having?” ended with “if it lasts” or “but we mustn’t get our hopes up” or “let’s not put the snow shovel away just yet.” This reminded me of a story I heard recently.

While flying cross-country a few years ago, a friend was seated beside a government mandarin on his way to an international conference on global warming. This chap’s main mission was to convince the representatives of the other countries that they had to find a term other than Global Warming if they wanted Canadians to take any serious steps to combat it. Rather than spurring people into action, he pointed out, the thought of rising global temperatures was guaranteed to unite Canadians from Newfoundland to Northern BC with special enthusiasm emanating from Winnipeg and just about anywhere on the Prairies. They would be all for it! Global warming? Bring it on!

I wrote this, my second blog, last weekend but I didn’t dare send it. A true Canadian, I was afraid the weather gods would become aware of my weather–induced euphoria and blanket the city in snow. But today I breathed a huge sigh of relief as the mercury plummeted and I saw flurries of snow. All is once again right with the world and I can bask in fond remembrance of the premature spring of 2010.

Why Write a Blog???

I’ve never written a blog before but I find myself under a certain … moral obligation to give it a try. The reason will become clear if you read on.

I like birthday parties: little kids’(balloons, knee-high wrapping paper, cake and ice cream), ‘older’ people’s (good champagne, hors d’oeuvres but skip the cake), family members’ (dining room table lined with all age groups, too many presents, no room for cake), my friends’ (wine, good food, funny stories, did I mention wine?). I even enjoy my OWN birthday festivities. But not this year!

March 2, 2010 was the day I became officially OLD. Family and friends were under strict instructions not to plan anything that resembled a celebration. It was my intention to handle the situation in a fashion befitting my years: pull the covers over my head and ignore it completely.

I don’t FEEL old! My body may be drooping in a few places but it hasn’t start to fall apart in any serious way; I have lots of energy and don’t want to give up my day job; I don’t need a hearing aid, cane or special underwear. I try to dress well and give a modest nod to fashion. (I must admit, however, that my Mother gave up on my fashion sense when I was just a teenager and came home with a newly purchased navy blue skirt. According to her, navy blue was AN OLD LADY’S colour and she would never wear it; she staunchly eschewed it until she passed on at the age of 86.)

Nor do I get excited about any of the so-called advantages of ‘the Golden Years’. Seniors’ tickets on the TTC just slow you down as you have to line up at the ticket booth. I don’t 'do' Florida and refuse to eat supper before 7:30. As for movies, sweet young things assumed I was eligible for senior subsidization the minute my hair turned grey.

So when the dreaded day arrived, my nearest and dearest treated me like a geriatric, female Peter Pan. Everyone was marvelously obliging and gentle: spring flowers from colleagues, a lovely surprise supper with tasteful and tasty attentiveness from close friends, a small family gathering at which I made the main event my giving presents to Toby who would turn two in a couple of days. But then it was MY turn to open my cards. My wily daughter had not defied maternal edicts; she had not bought me a present. Ever inventive and ready to give me a challenge I wouldn’t be able to resist, she had set up a blog page for me.

So this is my blog #1. If my strength, eyesight and lucidity continue into my waning years I may even write a second entry.