About Poetry

I’m not a poet.

Believe me, I know it.

I won’t even read it

Very much.

Exactly how did Shakespeare manage to write all those rhyming couplets? Or Emily Dickinson or Shel Silverstein or Dr. Suess? My one-minute feeble attempt at poetry is really about as good as it gets for me when it comes to busting rhymes. My admiration for those seasoned (and patient) poets goes up that much more.

Professional admiration is one thing. Reading and enjoying poetry is something completely different. Everyone knows that poetry is good for you like doing yoga or eating vegetables or wearing a toque in winter. But barely any slim volumes of poetry grace my bookshelf and none find their way to my bedside table to compete with my usual fiction picks. And yet, once in awhile, some random poetical lines will stop me short when I meet with them out in the wild like one of Mary Oliver’s geese.

During my first year university, I flipped open my Norton Anthology of English Literature and encountered the familiar “poem” Big Yellow Taxi by “author” Joni Mitchell. Ummm, hello? Mr. Norton? That’s a song. But noooo, I learned in class, actually, those are lyrics, which is a form of poetry. Adding music is what makes it a song. But the music in my head made the poem that much more palatable and understandable for me, adding that extra sensory experience. And poetry is supposed to be all about the senses, right?

I was reminded of this the other night while we were watching TV with the closed captioning on. The lyrics of an ambient song came up and I was struck at how much music plays a part in my being able to engage with the poetry. Suddenly, I felt deeply what the lyricist meant when The Faces sang, “I wish that I knew what I know now…” because I could hear it in the singer’s voice: there are some things you just can’t really understand until you’re older.

I’ve also discovered that I can enjoy entire novels in verse. When my online book club choice for the month was Elizabeth Acevedo’s YA novel The Poet X, I had my usual apprehension about reading poetry. My library solved that problem for me when only the audiobook version was available. Read by the author – without my botched Spanish pronunciations of her lovely dialectical additions – it was an immersive experience that would have lost something if told in prose.

Years ago at a writers’ conference I had a similar experience. At the closing banquet, I turned up my nose when I read that part of the entertainment would be someone performing Cowboy Poetry. How quickly I was schooled by the masterful recitation by an old gentleman cowboy telling his story by heart, in verse, with the mesmerizing lilt of an ambling horse. If I had read it for myself, I would not have done it justice.

In her book The Cloister Walk, poet-author Kathleen Norris advises against dissecting a poem in order to try and understand it, as if the parts are more important than the whole or “as if the purpose of poetry is to provide boring exercises for English class”: simile, metaphor, image. Maybe I need someone to read or sing poetry to me. My husband actually does a pretty good job of this when he gets into one of his let-me-read-you-all-the-lyrics-to-this-song-and-tell-you-exactly-what-it-means moods.

The whole act of writing is communal, after all. Unless it’s a diary (and even then sometimes), the transaction is only complete when someone reads it. It becomes that much more complex when someone reads it to you or an artist performs it, especially in person. I look forward to engaging once more in such communion of concerts and theatre, recitals and school concerts, hymns and choruses when this dang pandemic is finally over.

About More Time

(Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash)

My time got away from me this week and I remembered this silly thing I once wrote many years ago during the busy pre-season of Christmas when I was pressed for time:

I hit upon a blockbuster idea the other day as my husband flipped his way past an infomercial on television. You know – the kind of idea that could potentially send you on your way to millionaire status faster than you can say, “Is that your final answer?” After all, my husband’s idea of working for a living isn’t getting us there and Jean Pare has already written all of my cookbooks and the bank won’t let us put up a McDonald’s franchise in Vermilion without a down-payment. Huh, go figure.

“Let’s get a spot on the Home Shopping Network!” I cried. “We can sell time! Just think of it! We could sell an hour for five bucks, three hours for twenty! People would call in from all over the world asking for more time! They wouldn’t be able to get enough!”

My husband looked sideways at me like he was thinking I had spent too much time hovering over the glue bottle when last crafting with the kids, so I knew he wasn’t giving any credence to my grandiose scheme. Granted, there would be a packaging and delivery problem but those were things I would let him figure out. After all, radio and television stations are constantly selling time and at a much more exorbitant rate. Why couldn’t we?

The trouble was, it was already too late, what with the shipping and handling problems, to really capitalize on the Christmas market, when people would really be after our product. Not only would they be able to give the gift of time to so many people on their list, they indefinitely would buy a little extra time for themselves. Admit it: who doesn’t buy themselves one or two things when they’re buying all those nice gifts for other people? And who wouldn’t want another hour of vacation, or just more time to read a good book, have coffee with a friend, or even sleep a little longer?

I spent some more time thinking about the idea (don’t worry, I have plenty) and realized that no sooner would we begin our little venture than people would probably start taking the time! Without a patent (some Big Guy probably already has it) people would rapidly catch on that we don’t have a monopoly on time and pretty soon any schmuck would be throwing away time like they had a whole lifetime’s worth. And to top it off they would use it on fruitless things like watching infomercials on TV, reading blogs, and shoveling Alberta sidewalks. Right?

[Ah! Time! As I watch the COVID numbers ramp up and down and wait (patiently?) for a return to gatherings and vacations, I hope I am using whatever time I have wisely.]

About Canadian Geese

Photo by Crystal Jo on Unsplash

We’re not travelling very much these days with The Whole Covid Thing. And we’re certainly not crossing any borders except maybe past the big red border markers in Lloydminster. So it’s kind of fascinating to think about how the Canadian geese that proliferate the fields and sloughs at this time of year make their semi-annual trek north and south without any regard for travel bans.

I love Canadian geese. When I was driving some distance in the car recently, I was able to enjoy mile after mile of geese flying in the air and dancing on small ice floes. Plus I witnessed a few cow-and-goose get-togethers in some pastures, the two species standing around a grain buffet like it was a cocktail party. Maybe it’s the “Canadian” moniker that makes me so affectionate towards them, both patriotic and possessive. Maybe it’s just that they are one of the first happy heralds to spring, arriving while there’s still ice on the pond and the threat of a spring blizzard. It’s like they don’t care, they just want to get home even if they didn’t send anyone ahead to turn up the heat in house after a long time away.

There’s also the whole “mates for life” thing. The deeper into spring we get, the less often you see whole flocks. Instead, you witness couples scouting out a place to nest or just having tea for two. I’m a little sad when I see three geese hanging out, because I assume some heartbreak must have occurred for one (or all three). I actually saw one silly goose lolling about in the rocks and muddy leftovers of a former snow pile in a Superstore parking lot like he was the last customer in the pub, maybe looking for love where there was none to be found. Eventually he flew away, drunkenly.

My assumptions may be completely off base. Maybe some geese don’t want to be hitched, tied down or coupled – just like some humans . Geese are known for their adaptability, so why not their individuality, too? I mean, I can’t tell apart one from the other but they certainly know who their significant other is, if they have one. Some enjoy living in the country, others make their nests on the roofs of high-rises. They always seem to figure things out.

Nearly twenty years ago, there was a terrible drought around here. The sloughs dried up and the geese, it seemed, went away. But no, they didn’t. They just figured out where they had to go to find water. My boys and I would find thousands of them congregated in the Vermilion Provincial Park where the river swells at the bottom of the toboggan hill, a whole convention of geese (loudly) discussing their ideas of what they should do next.

Every day, we turn on the news and listen to all the silly geese talking about what’s going to happen – as if anyone really knows. The real geese have it figured out: head to north in the spring, find someone to love and include a lonely third. Don’t judge where others live. And eventually plan a big trip with a bunch of friends or family to someplace warm. Not so silly after all.

About Spiders

Well, it’s spring and you know what that means: yep, spiders.

Spring also means washing windows, which is what I decided to do today when the temperature climbed up into the high teens. But washing the windows meant removing screens and and that meant there was plenty of time that my house was left vulnerable to Invasion of the Creepy Crawlies. So, I guess it’s my own dang fault for wanting to see out my windows.

To all the spider lovers out there – I KNOW: spiders are supposed to be SO GREAT because apparently their whole deal involves eating a bunch of other bugs. This is what my husband always reminds me of whenever I subpoena him for spider-disposal duty. As if reciting Science Facts will suddenly have me making up the spare room for our new guest. And the last time I looked, I don’t exactly have a bunch of other bugs in my house that necessitates an assassin to take up residence with me.

I have always maintained that as long as Rick is in the house, it is his responsibility to “take care” of any such unwanted visitors. (I’m not going to say “kill” because I leave the means of disposal up to him. Plus, I don’t want to offend any spiders who happen to read my blog.) However, if my male counterpart isn’t readily available, I will “take care” of the intruder myself. Because I can’t take the chance that he’s an extroverted spider who intends to call all his friends to come join him. Or a female spider because: You Know.

Usually this sort of “taking care” involves at least two layers of paper towel, because I need as much protection as possible from any spiderly-body-fluids that may happen to escape when I am “taking care” of the spider. The other thing that always happens when my paper towel blanket “shrouds” the spider (at an impressively rapid speed if I do say so myself) is that a strange sort of sound escapes from my mouth, not unlike the grunt I would probably make if I was chopping down a large tree. I can’t help it anymore than Hugh Grant’s character in Notting Hill can stop himself from saying “Oopsie Daisies.”

It makes no sense, this Rather Large Aversion I have for Critters That Don’t Belong in My House. After all, the spider in the picture above, although impressively large when compared to that door hinge, is still a whole lot smaller than me. And not poisonous. (At least, probably not poisonous.) But they’re awfully fast. And they can bite your face in the middle of the night. And, in some movies, grow to enormous sizes. Or turn you into a leotard-wearing superhero. Which I have No Interest In Doing. At All.

So, out they go. My House, My Rules. Which is why when I discovered a second spider in the shower right after Rick got home today, I made him “take care” of it. And except for the usual speech about a spider’s redeeming qualities, he did so without any weird grunts or girlish epithets. Or even two ply of paper towel.

About Mustard on Eggs

            In our home, whenever we had hard-boiled eggs, the kids always thought that it was just hilarious and maybe a little gross that I put mustard on mine. Never mind the fact that I always put mustard in egg salad sandwich filling or in devilled eggs. I suppose in that case the joke is on them if they choose to stay out of the kitchen during meal preparation. But to me, mustard and hard-boiled eggs go together just like strawberries and cream or Ritz Bits (cheese-filled) and Nutella. (Try it. I’m not wrong.)

            I have a pretty good idea how the mustard first got on my eggs in the first place: it has to do with Easter. Coming from a Ukrainian and Polish household, it was tradition on Easter Sunday morning to wake up to a breakfast of paska (egg bread), kobasa (good old garlic sausage) and, of course, hard-boiled eggs. All these tasty things had survived a trip to and from the church in a basket on Holy Saturday, where it had been blessed for our breakfast the next day. And nestled among the pussy willows nearly hidden from view would be an unobtrusive jar of mustard. Just a little bit, recently removed from an indelicate yellow French’s jar.

            Since it was breakfast and you didn’t want to overdo it for Easter dinner after church, a small plate was in order. The blob of mustard at the side was originally intended for the kobasa, I think. But with the bread, meat and egg placed so closely together on a saucer, the inevitable would happen: the egg, so round and slippery, would get a mustard bath. At any rate, since we had fasted the two days before (another tradition, but more spiritual than mustard on eggs), it didn’t really matter what was on those eggs before you scarfed them down. The wonderful thing was that it was really good. So good that, Easter or not, I still put some French’s on my hard-boiled eggs.

            This Easter breakfast is more of a tradition to me than the ham or turkey afterwards or even those one pound bunnies lurking around the house just begging for their ears to get gnawed off. This became painfully aware to me the first time that I had Easter away from home. At sixteen, I participated in a school trip to California and Mexico. In my excitement, I only gave fleeting thought to the fact I’d be away from home for the holiday. But once on the bus, I realized that my Easter was not going to be what it usually was. Some friends thought I was weird when I ordered oyster soup on Good Friday, but my conscience kept me from eating meat that day, knowing the rest of my family wasn’t. We arrived early enough at our destination that same day for my teacher-chaperone to find me a church service, especially since our travel plans would preclude me attending on Sunday. But I hadn’t solved my Easter breakfast dilemma yet. Did hotels in San Francisco carry kobasa on their menu?

            When I went to the dining area for a continental breakfast that Easter morning, I had made up my mind to just imagine my toast was paska and be happy with that. But I never had to do that. You see, in our small high school, we weren’t able to fill up our tour bus with enough students so our “Myrnam to Mexico” club opened up the rest of the bus to any senior citizens who wanted to accompany us. And that morning, when I greeted two of the Ukrainian ladies with the traditional Easter greeting, “Christ is Risen!”, they invited me to join them for their breakfast of paska and kobasa. Obviously, they had planned ahead and smuggled the stuff along in their suitcase. So, together that morning we enjoyed a transcontinental breakfast.

            There was no mustard on eggs that day, but hey, half a tradition can be better than nothing. And that was a great deal of comfort on my first Easter Sunday away from home.