Baby still confuses yesterday and tomorrow. She tells stories about what happened ‘tomorrow’, and we still get confused, though she has made this substitution for months. Our confusion is as telling as hers. It speaks to how deeply the constructs of time have become rooted. She’s clearly talking about a past event, and we get snagged on the one word. I’m not saying we can’t quickly make the adjustment in our heads; it’s just that the word stands out so sorely for us, like a jinx on time. From her perspective, it might be just as confusing that we are so adamant about this differentiation, time for her being one muddy reservoir for all the things that aren’t here now. When the girls were smaller, they used to hypothesize futures in which Mama and Papa were small and they were big, or when they would be babies again. Forward and backward were fluid and interchangeable.
Summer arrived in a haze worthy of Baby Time. The heat spell had run its course already. Clouds had gathered, and the longest day of the year was dim, cool and overcast. They still equate the season with sunshine, soe when I say, it’s summer now, Little Ren replies, “I can’t see the sun.” If Baby had a stronger grip on the concept of time as a river, unidirectional and subject to Renaissance-like measures of perspective, she might have objected that summer had already happened, and had actually only recently ended. The sun had shone, and then it had left. Why hadn’t we gone to the beach while it was summer? With more of a sense of continuity, she might have given me a good debate. But tide and time are still jumbled; things happen without order. That I would say that now it’s summer is like offering up nonsense.
A while ago, during the winter, I believe, I was writing about historical fiction. I have considered gathering those thoughts into one long essay, but, aside from my own laziness, other obstacles that have held me back. One is that it’s a subject that never ends. I never had a chance to comment on one huge project from the winter and spring, the first book of Colleen McCullough’s series on the late Roman Republic, recommended to me by Carolyn. That first book, a thousand pages long, reviews Marius’s glory years, between 110 and 100 BC, and there’s a lot I could say about it. That’s especially true in the context of my historical fiction winter, when I was reading “Julian” and Caesar’s “Gallic Wars”. But I didn’t. There’s never enough time, and McCullough’s achievement was a bit overwhelming.
My second obstacle in closing even an ad hoc discussion of historical fiction was the obvious lacuna, the author left out of the discussion. Any current discussion about historical fiction that didn’t include Hilary Mantel seemed incomplete. With her “Wolf Hall” series and “A Place of Greater Safety”, it seemed to me she’d changed and illuminated the genre. But I hadn’t read anything of hers in a few years. That has changed, as I have finally laid my hands on the third book in the “Wolf Hall” series about Thomas Cromwell, “The Mirror and the Light”. I’ve had some unexpected reactions to that book, and so maybe it’s time I try to comment on Mantel.
Wednesday, June 23, 2021
Sunday, June 06, 2021
Inside the Café
Yesterday some cafes opened for indoor seating. It was good timing for two reasons. I had to work the entire Saturday as an examiner downtown. Now I had somewhere to go during breaks: across the square to the Coffee Company. And, to make the visit all the more enjoyable, the weather offered only clouds and chill. It was our one relapse into May weather this week. Even with the cold, most customers were choosing to sit outside, so the inside was both warm and quiet. It’s a small space, dominated by one long, chunky wooden table. Along the ample floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides are divan-style couches, a long line of cushions. The tables there are just trays are short stands. I sat there by the window and set my espresso on a tray. I watched the traffic outside. I leafed through the Groene Amsterdammer, a venerable old Dutch magazine that always has something interesting to read. I should say, to apply my weak language skills to. This week, there’s an article about forgotten authors. It’s amazing that, after a lifetime of reading, there are still names I don’t know. Not that I claim to be exceptionally well-read. I love reading, and I’m curious. Even reading the short bios of authors is fun for me. It’s rewarding to see that my weak Dutch is up to at least this much. My break time is short: the perfect interval for an espresso. One might think that the espresso was invented just for this, a tasty shot of life to be taken while absorbing a few paragraphs of news. Before standing, I take a moment to appreciate the occasion: I’m having a coffee inside a café! Who would know this would become such a rare treat? Anyone who has known me for any time would be forced to wonder how I survived this year and a half of COVID time without cafes. I wonder myself.
Wednesday, June 02, 2021
It rained nearly every day in May. Now that the sun has reappeared, we are surrounded by a rich green. Every park, every margin by the road radiates spring colours. Where the grass has been allowed to grow, it has reached knee high. It is sprinkled with wildflowers. The red poppies are just starting to bloom. It is lovely.
The sheep have made their entrance this year. Every spring, they are imported into the neighbourhood to cut back the grass. Temporary fencing is put up, and they are moved from one patch of public land to another, chewing their way through weeks of wild growth, leaving behind them yellow nubs and – as my girls point out every chance they get – lots of poop. I’m enjoying the high grass before the sheep get to it. When I can, I take a walk along paths bound by these high grasses on both sides. It’s very peaceful.
Little Ren continues to enjoy a peak of cuteness. She’s become very girlie and very sweet. She likes getting hugs and kisses. She loves her family. Her older sister is over it already. When I pick them up at school, Little Ren lights up when she sees me, and her big sister just frowns as though I showed up late and without any candy. Big Sister has her moments, to be sure, but she is well past the phase of those simple, sweet behaviours.
Little Ren holds out a closed hand and asks me to guess what’s in it. I guess silly things, and she explains very earnestly why it can’t be what I’ve proposed.
“Is it a grape?”
“No, the grapes are in the refrigerator, father.”
“Is it a ball?”
“A ball is too big, father!”
“Is it sheep poop?”
“Father! Sheep poop would be too smelly!”