This exhibit was recently at the Ottawa School of Art gallery. Local artist Karen Bailey has created a powerful set of images depicting the personnel and patients at a Canadian military hospital in Kandahar during a short period in 2007. She was hired by the Canadian military to document the work of the hospital and its patients. The pictures took two years to complete. The result is a stunning collection of images of life in a war zone.
Ms. Bailey is a graduate of Reigate Art School in England, and is known locally for painting pictures of ordinary people such as hairdressers and ladies preparing a church supper, at their work.
The Ottawa School of Art showcases various exhibits in its gallery, but this is the best I have seen. If you get a chance to view the pieces, don't miss it. The artist would like the pictures to become part of the collection of the Canadian War Museum, which is where I think they belong.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Why February is the Cruellest Month
This post was first written in February, but I am posting it now.
Most people, quoting T.S. Eliot, claim that April is the cruellest month. This is because April is now income tax time. I concede that April is always very stressful, but, to me, February has been the worst.
I remember the February of 1985. Back then I was married and living in Toronto. I was lying on the living room couch half asleep, and waiting for my husband to finish in the shower. It was around 11:00 on a Friday night in mid February. Suddenly, I was experiencing a heart attack. No, it wasn’t my heart attack, it was someone else’s. The voice in my head said “My aunt is dying.” I ran through the names of my English aunts “Auntie Phyl?” “Auntie Lily?”, “Auntie Eileen?” To each, the voice replied “No”. I couldn’t figure it out. On Sunday my mother called and told me that my Auntie Edith had died of a heart attack on the Friday night. She had picked up her grandson at school as was usual, served dinner to her husband, also as usual, gone to bed at her usual hour. Her husband had discovered her death in the morning. The cause was determined to be a massive heart attack. She was only 70. I hadn’t thought of Auntie Edith’s having a heart attack, because she wasn’t a blood aunt, but very much an honourary one.
I hadn’t seen Auntie Edith for years, but my annual summer week or two spent with her, Uncle Les, and their two children, Gill and Bernard were wonderful oases in my childhood. Their house was always cheerful and quiet. They had a lovely rambunctious Samoyed, Queenie, whose tail frequently got uncomfortably close to the contents of the tea table – that is, when she wasn’t trying to get underneath it! I wasn’t allowed to have a dog, so Queenie was a welcome novelty to me. Uncle Les had given Auntie Edith a spinning wheel so she could spin Queenie’s fur.
Auntie Edith did many crafts. I remember her showing me how to do Jacobean embroidery. She also was a very religious lady, the sort who practises the best tenets of her faith – kindness and patience. Although my family didn’t attend church, I always went with this family. I remember the sunlight streaming in through the windows of St. Mark’s church in Niagara on the Lake and the choir singing my favourite hymn “This is My Father’s World”. Auntie Edith was kind, patient, and knew how to do a number of interesting things. I never recall her losing her temper while I was there.
Gill and I used to roam around Niagara on the Lake. We would explore the gravestones in St. Mark’s churchyard, which still bore the contours of trenches from the 1812 war. We found a spring of water behind Fort George, and walnuts from the trees growing on the slopes of its embankment. There was an old stone horse trough, almost hidden by weeds and grasses.
The best fun was at Niagara Dock. We used to jump into the wake of the Cayuga, a ship which used to transport pleasure seekers from Toronto across the lake to the sights of the Niagara area. We would jump into the swirls behind the boat and allow the current to carry us either to the nearby beach, or all the way to the beach beside the golf course where fortifications from the same war with the ‘States could still be seen. When the ship wasn’t there, we would dive off the diving tower into the river and its current. I never had the courage to go above the middle level of the tower, but the bravest jumped off the top into the currents that the mighty Niagara had even near its mouth. Of course, we never told our parents about these adventures!
After Auntie Edith’s death, I was delegated to represent the family at the visitation. I was going anyway. The services were to be in Stouffville, where the family had now lived for some years. I remember Uncle Les and Gill being just devastated. Bernard, back from the west, was also very upset. They had an open casket, a beautiful metal one, and had spared no expense to lay her out. They asked me about Michael, my brother, who had had some difficulties, and I said, as I believed, that he was doing much better. That was what I had been told, but somehow, even as I said it, I questioned what I was saying. I left with an uneasy feeling, which I tried to dismiss.
That weekend, hubby was away visiting his mother, who was not well, and doing a little skiing. My mother and stepfather went to Guelph to see my brother. They all went out to lunch together, and my mother reported that he seemed to be doing much better. On the following Wednesday, I was working late at night on my report card marks, which were due in a day or two, when the same inner voice said ”Call your brother.” I thought, “All right, I will just finish these marks and comments, and then I will call.” By the time I finished it was after eleven o’clock, too late, as I thought, to call, so I decided to wait and call the next day. The next day, after work, I stopped in at Yorkdale Mall, as I often did when the traffic was heavy, and shopped the sales. Aside from the traffic, I had had a headache all day, and didn’t feel like going home. When I got home, my mother called and told me that they had found my brother’s body, that he had committed suicide late the night before. I had talked him out of it once previously. Sadly, he hadn’t been home the previous night until after eleven o’clock. I will always wonder if I would have made a difference this time if I had called.
Michael’s troubles had begun long before. Aside from sharing many of the elements of my horrible childhood, Michael had received additional blows from heredity. He didn’t learn to read until grade 4, at which point it was discovered that he was amazingly myopic. After that, he subscribed to Hansard, and used to entertain us at dinner with Diefenbaker-Pearson exchanges. Once he acquired his thick glasses, he got way better marks at school than I did with seemingly little effort.
At the age of twelve, he shattered his leg in a fall on a school ice slide. The tibia and fibula (bones of the lower leg) were each broken in three places. One of the fractures was a greenstick, but the leg was shattered, and had to be opened up and pinned together in a massive five hour operation. Subsequently he was at home and in a cast for months. It was whispered at the time that he had brittle bones, and must avoid all contact sports. He could swim, but not dive. Hockey would have killed him. I know now that the disease was a form of osteogenesis imperfecta, but around our house it was swept under the rug, forcing Michael to pretend that he didn’t like sports. Only his closest friends knew the truth. A Medic-Alert bracelet would have made his life in high school so much easier, but he wasn’t given that. Later, five or six months after his death I remarked to my mother that it was a pity that Mike had gotten such a rotten deal from heredity. She replied that there was nothing wrong with my brother, that he was just weak, as if weakness were some kind of moral failing. I had to go home and telephone his former girlfriend who was a medical records technician to confirm that he indeed had the bone problems. As a child, I was the one with the rotten teeth and the many fillings. His teeth were always perfect. When he was in his twenties, this changed and they all went bad at once. He had to go into hospital to have them extracted. Apparently they were very abnormal. One tooth even had seven roots!
Later, Michael, the kid genius, dropped out of high school, worked his way up in various banks and then went back to college as a mature student. He was on scholarship from his second term. He won the Falconbridge entrance scholarship to Osgoode Hall Law School, and graduated in law. Along the way he got married, but that was a foolish, doomed choice. The marriage subsequently broke up and the wife pulled the plug from their business. Michael tried to carry on for a while, but developed bipolar affective disorder, and after another suicide attempt was hospitalized for several months. He came out of hospital, and worked for a while doing accounting, but it seemed he could never get it together again. There were three suicide attempts that I knew about. At the funeral, his friends told me there had been more.
Even when Michael was alive, I used to think about the things he couldn’t do. I used to think about him when I went skiing in the Rockies. I felt so lucky to be able to try to overcome my fear of heights in this way. I felt sad that he would always miss seeing the gorgeous scenery from this viewpoint. I hope that he is at peace wherever he is now.
This post was first written in February, but I am posting it now.
Most people, quoting T.S. Eliot, claim that April is the cruellest month. This is because April is now income tax time. I concede that April is always very stressful, but, to me, February has been the worst.
I remember the February of 1985. Back then I was married and living in Toronto. I was lying on the living room couch half asleep, and waiting for my husband to finish in the shower. It was around 11:00 on a Friday night in mid February. Suddenly, I was experiencing a heart attack. No, it wasn’t my heart attack, it was someone else’s. The voice in my head said “My aunt is dying.” I ran through the names of my English aunts “Auntie Phyl?” “Auntie Lily?”, “Auntie Eileen?” To each, the voice replied “No”. I couldn’t figure it out. On Sunday my mother called and told me that my Auntie Edith had died of a heart attack on the Friday night. She had picked up her grandson at school as was usual, served dinner to her husband, also as usual, gone to bed at her usual hour. Her husband had discovered her death in the morning. The cause was determined to be a massive heart attack. She was only 70. I hadn’t thought of Auntie Edith’s having a heart attack, because she wasn’t a blood aunt, but very much an honourary one.
I hadn’t seen Auntie Edith for years, but my annual summer week or two spent with her, Uncle Les, and their two children, Gill and Bernard were wonderful oases in my childhood. Their house was always cheerful and quiet. They had a lovely rambunctious Samoyed, Queenie, whose tail frequently got uncomfortably close to the contents of the tea table – that is, when she wasn’t trying to get underneath it! I wasn’t allowed to have a dog, so Queenie was a welcome novelty to me. Uncle Les had given Auntie Edith a spinning wheel so she could spin Queenie’s fur.
Auntie Edith did many crafts. I remember her showing me how to do Jacobean embroidery. She also was a very religious lady, the sort who practises the best tenets of her faith – kindness and patience. Although my family didn’t attend church, I always went with this family. I remember the sunlight streaming in through the windows of St. Mark’s church in Niagara on the Lake and the choir singing my favourite hymn “This is My Father’s World”. Auntie Edith was kind, patient, and knew how to do a number of interesting things. I never recall her losing her temper while I was there.
Gill and I used to roam around Niagara on the Lake. We would explore the gravestones in St. Mark’s churchyard, which still bore the contours of trenches from the 1812 war. We found a spring of water behind Fort George, and walnuts from the trees growing on the slopes of its embankment. There was an old stone horse trough, almost hidden by weeds and grasses.
The best fun was at Niagara Dock. We used to jump into the wake of the Cayuga, a ship which used to transport pleasure seekers from Toronto across the lake to the sights of the Niagara area. We would jump into the swirls behind the boat and allow the current to carry us either to the nearby beach, or all the way to the beach beside the golf course where fortifications from the same war with the ‘States could still be seen. When the ship wasn’t there, we would dive off the diving tower into the river and its current. I never had the courage to go above the middle level of the tower, but the bravest jumped off the top into the currents that the mighty Niagara had even near its mouth. Of course, we never told our parents about these adventures!
After Auntie Edith’s death, I was delegated to represent the family at the visitation. I was going anyway. The services were to be in Stouffville, where the family had now lived for some years. I remember Uncle Les and Gill being just devastated. Bernard, back from the west, was also very upset. They had an open casket, a beautiful metal one, and had spared no expense to lay her out. They asked me about Michael, my brother, who had had some difficulties, and I said, as I believed, that he was doing much better. That was what I had been told, but somehow, even as I said it, I questioned what I was saying. I left with an uneasy feeling, which I tried to dismiss.
That weekend, hubby was away visiting his mother, who was not well, and doing a little skiing. My mother and stepfather went to Guelph to see my brother. They all went out to lunch together, and my mother reported that he seemed to be doing much better. On the following Wednesday, I was working late at night on my report card marks, which were due in a day or two, when the same inner voice said ”Call your brother.” I thought, “All right, I will just finish these marks and comments, and then I will call.” By the time I finished it was after eleven o’clock, too late, as I thought, to call, so I decided to wait and call the next day. The next day, after work, I stopped in at Yorkdale Mall, as I often did when the traffic was heavy, and shopped the sales. Aside from the traffic, I had had a headache all day, and didn’t feel like going home. When I got home, my mother called and told me that they had found my brother’s body, that he had committed suicide late the night before. I had talked him out of it once previously. Sadly, he hadn’t been home the previous night until after eleven o’clock. I will always wonder if I would have made a difference this time if I had called.
Michael’s troubles had begun long before. Aside from sharing many of the elements of my horrible childhood, Michael had received additional blows from heredity. He didn’t learn to read until grade 4, at which point it was discovered that he was amazingly myopic. After that, he subscribed to Hansard, and used to entertain us at dinner with Diefenbaker-Pearson exchanges. Once he acquired his thick glasses, he got way better marks at school than I did with seemingly little effort.
At the age of twelve, he shattered his leg in a fall on a school ice slide. The tibia and fibula (bones of the lower leg) were each broken in three places. One of the fractures was a greenstick, but the leg was shattered, and had to be opened up and pinned together in a massive five hour operation. Subsequently he was at home and in a cast for months. It was whispered at the time that he had brittle bones, and must avoid all contact sports. He could swim, but not dive. Hockey would have killed him. I know now that the disease was a form of osteogenesis imperfecta, but around our house it was swept under the rug, forcing Michael to pretend that he didn’t like sports. Only his closest friends knew the truth. A Medic-Alert bracelet would have made his life in high school so much easier, but he wasn’t given that. Later, five or six months after his death I remarked to my mother that it was a pity that Mike had gotten such a rotten deal from heredity. She replied that there was nothing wrong with my brother, that he was just weak, as if weakness were some kind of moral failing. I had to go home and telephone his former girlfriend who was a medical records technician to confirm that he indeed had the bone problems. As a child, I was the one with the rotten teeth and the many fillings. His teeth were always perfect. When he was in his twenties, this changed and they all went bad at once. He had to go into hospital to have them extracted. Apparently they were very abnormal. One tooth even had seven roots!
Later, Michael, the kid genius, dropped out of high school, worked his way up in various banks and then went back to college as a mature student. He was on scholarship from his second term. He won the Falconbridge entrance scholarship to Osgoode Hall Law School, and graduated in law. Along the way he got married, but that was a foolish, doomed choice. The marriage subsequently broke up and the wife pulled the plug from their business. Michael tried to carry on for a while, but developed bipolar affective disorder, and after another suicide attempt was hospitalized for several months. He came out of hospital, and worked for a while doing accounting, but it seemed he could never get it together again. There were three suicide attempts that I knew about. At the funeral, his friends told me there had been more.
Even when Michael was alive, I used to think about the things he couldn’t do. I used to think about him when I went skiing in the Rockies. I felt so lucky to be able to try to overcome my fear of heights in this way. I felt sad that he would always miss seeing the gorgeous scenery from this viewpoint. I hope that he is at peace wherever he is now.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
The Man In the Park
How early in life do children remember things? The man in the park, if not my earliest memory, is certainly one of the earliest. I was very young. Maybe the war was still on. Perhaps the war in Europe had just ended. I know that it was before VJ day, because my younger brother wasn't around, and I wasn't at my grandparents' place.
My mother had a long conversation with a man in a park. The conversation went on and on. At the end, he picked me up, tossed me in the air, hugged me, and put me down on the ground. Even after all these years, I can still feel the love, but I can only speculate as to who he was. Maybe he was just a guy who liked children.
Somehow, I thought he would be returning. I waited and waited for what seemed like forever. To a small child, even a day can be a long time, but I know I waited much longer than that. I waited, and I said nothing, as I had possibly been told to do.
One morning, Jack, my putative father, was having one of his frequent tantrums. I don't know what the problem was. Maybe a button was missing from his shirt. As I remember clearly from later on, this could result in a forty minute screamathon. Who knows? Anyway, he came into the room where my mother was sitting, dancing up and down, with shaving cream lather covering his face, yelling about something. I had decided to protect my mother, and I had made up my mind. I slammed the door in his face, and told my mother I didn't want him, I wanted ------. (I still cannot remember the name I said.) I expected her to agree with me, and to join me in confronting the ogre.
That isn't what happened. In stead, to my shock and surprise, the next thing I knew, I was face down on the sofa, and my mother was holding me down while Jack beat me up. He had lost it previously, but he totally freaked out now, and I was the chosen victim.
I don't remember it all. I may have lost consciousness. I have certainly lost memory. The next thing I remember, I was standing up at the hall door. Everything was quiet. Jack had gone, probably to work, and my mother was again making nice. She told me, with what I later came to identify as her sneaky smile, that I neede a nap. I had spotted another enemy. My mother was always at her worst when she was making nice.
The left temple headaches began around that time. They always happen when I am not strong enough to do something about changing a situation. I used to have them a lot.
Welcome to my world of childhood. The scenery was amazing. We went through the Panama Canal, to New Zealand and later came to Canada, stopping at Fiji on the latter trip. There were some very good musicals. But bullying, beatings, betrayal and spite were a very frequent and unpredictable part of the mix for years to come.
I still wish the man in the park would come back.
My mother had a long conversation with a man in a park. The conversation went on and on. At the end, he picked me up, tossed me in the air, hugged me, and put me down on the ground. Even after all these years, I can still feel the love, but I can only speculate as to who he was. Maybe he was just a guy who liked children.
Somehow, I thought he would be returning. I waited and waited for what seemed like forever. To a small child, even a day can be a long time, but I know I waited much longer than that. I waited, and I said nothing, as I had possibly been told to do.
One morning, Jack, my putative father, was having one of his frequent tantrums. I don't know what the problem was. Maybe a button was missing from his shirt. As I remember clearly from later on, this could result in a forty minute screamathon. Who knows? Anyway, he came into the room where my mother was sitting, dancing up and down, with shaving cream lather covering his face, yelling about something. I had decided to protect my mother, and I had made up my mind. I slammed the door in his face, and told my mother I didn't want him, I wanted ------. (I still cannot remember the name I said.) I expected her to agree with me, and to join me in confronting the ogre.
That isn't what happened. In stead, to my shock and surprise, the next thing I knew, I was face down on the sofa, and my mother was holding me down while Jack beat me up. He had lost it previously, but he totally freaked out now, and I was the chosen victim.
I don't remember it all. I may have lost consciousness. I have certainly lost memory. The next thing I remember, I was standing up at the hall door. Everything was quiet. Jack had gone, probably to work, and my mother was again making nice. She told me, with what I later came to identify as her sneaky smile, that I neede a nap. I had spotted another enemy. My mother was always at her worst when she was making nice.
The left temple headaches began around that time. They always happen when I am not strong enough to do something about changing a situation. I used to have them a lot.
Welcome to my world of childhood. The scenery was amazing. We went through the Panama Canal, to New Zealand and later came to Canada, stopping at Fiji on the latter trip. There were some very good musicals. But bullying, beatings, betrayal and spite were a very frequent and unpredictable part of the mix for years to come.
I still wish the man in the park would come back.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
More About My New Wheel
I have discovered that Louet only made this wheel for one year, 1989-1990, and that the wheel was originally sold unfnished. I took the one broken bobbin to Lee Valley Tools for advice, and discovered that the finish was probably Tung oil. They also sold me some marvellous glue and some clamps. I glued the broken end together and it seems very strong now. A little wood filler and some finishing treatment, and it will be almost as good as new. Wonderful!
Chesterville
Last week I took my Victoria to the annual Chesterville Spin-In. Quite a few of our Ottawa Guild members were there, plus people from other guilds around Eastern Ontario. Queen Vickie performed beautifully, spinning up some merino silk top that I am hoping to turn into a sweater. No one realized that I had a wheel in the small suitcase on my chair, until I opened it up! Apart from an occasional ticking noise, she is a lovely lady.
Jan Scott modelled some felt hats that she had made at a felting and hat-making workshop. I would love to see how she did it.
I admit to being a gearhead, so at these occasions I always tour the room to see who has what wheel. The survey noted several Lendrums, a bunch of Ashford Traddys and one Traveller. I observed a lady proudly spinning on her Majacraft Rose. There was also a giant herd of Louet bobbin lead wheels, including one like my new acquisition but with a different finish. I also noted a couple of other Majacrafts and at least one wheel which may have been locally made. There was also a lady spinning on a drop spindle. The most popular wheels seem to be the bobbin lead Louets. It is a pity they have just cut down production to one model, the S10. Maybe the market is saturated.
The Ottawa Guild seemed to clean up on the door prizes. I won a book on quilting. As if I need another hobby!!! It is a really comprehensive book, so I am going to keep it. I may yet make another quilt!
I bought a lovely Tabachek spindle and also some more Ashford merino-silk sliver to spin on it. I also acquired a spinners' control card, which will hopefully, help me to make my yarn more even.
All in all, a great day. Chesterville is lovely.
I have discovered that Louet only made this wheel for one year, 1989-1990, and that the wheel was originally sold unfnished. I took the one broken bobbin to Lee Valley Tools for advice, and discovered that the finish was probably Tung oil. They also sold me some marvellous glue and some clamps. I glued the broken end together and it seems very strong now. A little wood filler and some finishing treatment, and it will be almost as good as new. Wonderful!
Chesterville
Last week I took my Victoria to the annual Chesterville Spin-In. Quite a few of our Ottawa Guild members were there, plus people from other guilds around Eastern Ontario. Queen Vickie performed beautifully, spinning up some merino silk top that I am hoping to turn into a sweater. No one realized that I had a wheel in the small suitcase on my chair, until I opened it up! Apart from an occasional ticking noise, she is a lovely lady.
Experienced guild members spinning.
Struggling, and succeeding with Navajo plying.
The Ottawa Guild seemed to clean up on the door prizes. I won a book on quilting. As if I need another hobby!!! It is a really comprehensive book, so I am going to keep it. I may yet make another quilt!
I bought a lovely Tabachek spindle and also some more Ashford merino-silk sliver to spin on it. I also acquired a spinners' control card, which will hopefully, help me to make my yarn more even.
All in all, a great day. Chesterville is lovely.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
New (to me) Spinning Wheel
Today my new old spinning wheel arrived. It isn't as if I need another one, but this is a honey. It is a solid oak Louet S71, a discontinued model which arrived secondhand from an e-bay seller in Holland. This wheel is in fabulous shape. and spins beautifully. Unfortunately, one of the bobbins which was so carefully wrapped by the sender, broke on the smaller end. I am going to try to glue it together, although it won't be as solid as before.
I always wonder what kind of life these old spinning wheels had. This one has been used, but very well cared for. I have a picture in my mind of a Dutch lady spinning happily on this wheel, and hoping that whoever used it after her would love it as much as she did. I think it hasn't been used for a while. There was a very small amount of rust on the brake adjustment screw. I have totally coated this with vaseline, and removed as much as I can. It is much smoother now.
Canada Customs totally goofed on this shipment. They misunderstood the information given by the sender and thought I was importing automobile wheel rims!!!!! No, they didn't look inside the box, but they charged me as if the contents were something brand new. Why do some people think that spinning is a defunct activity?
There is something about the simple technology of spinning which really draws me. I love working with fiber. I love the feel of it, and the way it gains strength as the wheel turns
The fiberI am currently spinning on this wheel is some beautiful Shetland top. I plan to make a 2 ply balanced yarn with it. I am spinning it worsted style. Not sure what it will end up being used for. I am just spinning for enjoyment.
Monday, January 18, 2010
It Is All Art
I think that there is an artistic component to most things I am doing now. Now that I have retired, there is time to paint, draw, knit, spin and weave. I love everything that I can do with this time that is now available. Teaching art reminds me of how much I love painting. Spinning tells me how much I love the feel of natural fibers, and knitting creates the joy of making useful things. Of course, I also artistically cleaned the bathroom today. Hmmmm. . .
I also love to laugh. Saturday Maer invited me to see Jeff Dunham with her. I had never heard of him before, but I don't think I had laughed so long and so hard for ages. It was a great evening. Maer's sketchbooks were pretty amazing, too.
When I have a bit more time, I will post a longer introduction.
I also love to laugh. Saturday Maer invited me to see Jeff Dunham with her. I had never heard of him before, but I don't think I had laughed so long and so hard for ages. It was a great evening. Maer's sketchbooks were pretty amazing, too.
When I have a bit more time, I will post a longer introduction.
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