An explanation for the Donald?

Political science professor Lealle Ruhl draws on the greats for her lectures.

Why do people vote against the interests of their own class? Because they think someday they'll belong to a better one. Call it aspirational mobility, the delusion that they'll magically become rich.

 Political science professor Lealle Ruhl says if you listen to people on transit or in coffee shops talking about buying property in Vancouver, you'll catch a whiff. They'll say things like, "If everybody dies and leaves me all their money, I can afford it." Won't happen, not on normal salaries, says the dynamic instructor, whose continuing education classes at Simon Fraser University fill up so fast that she's teaching the same course back-to-back this summer to meet the demand.

 In her five-lecture series, "Understanding Identities in the 21st Century," Ruhl pulls together a pantheon of greats like John Stuart Mill, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Machiavelli and Marx to discuss personal and collective identity, class, citizenship and politics.

 On Thursday, she drew on Thomas Frank's 2004 What's the Matter with Kansas? to talk about why the declining working class isn't fighting for its existence. One of the factors, she said, is easy credit that blurs the distinction between the classes. If you can buy a tiny slice of what the Kardashians have, you can project yourself into the delusion of wealth. Another point: The disparity between classes is as wide now (the one percent versus the 99) as it ever was in the 19th century, but the general sense in developed democracies is that class simply doesn't exist.

 An interesting situation as billionaire Donald Trump moves closer to the U.S. presidency, the desperate of America behind him.

Shopping with a heart

All the Hob's proceeds go to the Vancouver Hospice Society.

My latest Hob treasures on display in the backyard sunshine.

My friend Linda and I became Hob addicts when it was a jumbled little thrift store at 17th  and Dunbar. Opening the door was like entering a treasure chest: We knew that hidden among the slightly used casual wear, the shoes, purses and hats, there was always the chance of scoring something like a beautiful pure linen shirt from a top-name brand for $4 or $5. Which we did, many and many a time.

For years, the Hob (which stands for Hospice Opportunity Boutique) supplied my coats -- including a $400 Burberry duffle that I got for $40. Once I asked whether there were any vests in the back of the store, as my elderly mother liked to wear them. Out came a stack of beautiful vests that I bought on the spot: My mother wore them almost every day until she died.

 But the Hob has always had a different feel, perhaps because it is entirely volunteer-operated, perhaps because all its proceeds go to the Vancouver Hospice Society. Or maybe because it is fuelled by the heart of the community: Its contents are all donated by people willing to give their high-quality goods away instead of reselling or returning them.

 The Hob eventually moved up Dunbar to 27th, then to its current location on 41st in Kerrisdale, shifting gradually to a more upscale operation. Gone is the jumble of casual wear, the lower-quality items, the sense of being able to dig through dross to find treasures. The racks are colour-coordinated and the prices have risen to better reflect the quality of the products. But there are still bargains, still welcoming volunteers and still the knowledge that every penny you pay goes to a good cause.

 On Wednesday, I dropped in to look for summer shirts; the Hob did not disappoint.

Why white hair isn't the end of the world

Ros, flowers and tree bark.

All green, all shapes and sizes.

Squint to see ducks at left, above yellow iris.

Aging has not been my favourite thing. The end of work I loved, the realization that the 2014 deaths of my mother and a good Saltspring friend were just the start of an oncoming tsunami, the shock of discovering that the white hair on the floor of the hair salon was mine, not some old lady's. Suddenly understanding Nora Ephron's I Feel Bad About My Neck, her book on aging, with its wonderful quote: "Sometimes I think that not having to worry about your hair anymore is the secret upside of death." But on Tuesday, while the still-working world was making the economy go 'round, I experienced the plus side of getting old. My longtime friend Ros and I lunched luxuriously at a sunny outdoor patio, then spent the afternoon at VanDusen Botanical Garden. We did not hike vigorously around every inch of it as we might have in earlier, more athletic days. We sat a lot. We touched tree bark, especially the silky skin of the Himalayan white birch, as beautifully marked as an artist's creation.The rhododendrons are still blooming and the yellow flag iris are pools of gold, but we also admired the contrasting shapes and textures of the greenery surrounding us. Huge rhubarb-like Gunnera leaves, tall thin evergreens like exclamation points, a tree with needles like stiff spaghetti. We watched a duck family -- mom and pop and a straight row of ducklings -- make a stately progress across the pond. We breathed in the scent of mingled plants, especially the still-fragrant azaleas. We talked about the present as well as the past. By the end of the afternoon, we were soothed and smoothed, calmed and relaxed. Friendship and nature; a good way to ease the terrors of aging.

Goodbye to an old friend

Stong's aisles are empty as store prepares to close.

Shopping at my longtime grocery store, Stong's, has been a ghostly experience lately. Bit by bit, the familiar aisles bursting with packages, cans, bottles and jar have disappeared, replaced by gaping rows of vacant black space. The picked-over survivors of the "everything-10-percent-off" frenzy ended up huddled together on a few shelves, islands in a sea of black. Only the produce and meat departments were restocked, and on the weekend, even they were thinning out. Because on Tuesday, May 10, the store that has supplied me with the fixings for almost every meal I've made for four decades, is closing. I will miss it. Some of my neighbours refuse to shop at Stong's, saying it's more expensive than other places they can go. I'm sure they're right, but to a non-driver like me, being able to walk three blocks to a full-scale grocery store is priceless. Not only do I avoid the expense of running a car, but I can feel virtuous because my "trunk" is a hardy little shopping cart, greenhouse-gas-free and needing no parking space. (A wheel came off in the middle of a shopping expedition once, but that's another story.) Fortunately, Stong's, which has had a location in Dunbar for 85 years, is planning to stay in the neighbourhood. Ever since the closure of the current location at 30th and Dunbar was announced, it has been vigorously advertising that a new, bigger store is coming to 27th and Dunbar -- one block away from me. Right now, that new store is a gigantic pit full of construction cranes. But supposedly by December, I'll be back at Stong's, shopping for the makings of yet another Christmas dinner.

Thank you

Poppies, stonework on East Boulevard

Inner-city kids would love this Shaughnessy tree-house

 What fun to open my email Sunday morning to find appreciative messages about this new little enterprise of mine. I loved them all, but especially one from my Auntie Eve in Montreal, who is recovering from a nasty fall at her home just before Christmas. Her husband, my mother's youngest brother, died last year as well, so it has been a sad time. She wrote that my blog was just what she needed to brighten up her "grey Sunday," which was a "rainy and rather cool day." And as a lifetime book-lover, she was interested in my comments on Jane Eyre. She thought she just might head to the library and look again at one of the favourite books from her youth! So thanks to my cousin-in-law Janice, a 14-year blogger herself, for sternly insisting that I  get on with writing a blog, and to my good friend Linda, who said it is something I definitely should do.

I want to include some pretty pictures in my blog, as I know from reading Janice's that they can be a cheerful antidote to some of life's negatives. On a grey morning, why not look at sunshine and beautiful blossoms? So here are a couple of photos from a Sunday walk in Shaughnessy, the place where the rich folks traditionally lived in Vancouver. Like most of the city, it is facing development pressures, but so far, it is still hanging onto much of its beautiful treed charm.

Jane, rediscovered

Jane Eyre turns out to be a different book than I recall.

When a friend recently suggested rereading Jane Eyre, my first thought was dismissive. Such a well-worn tale, with its hyped-up unlikely romance between an oppressed, repressed governess and super-manly lord of the manor.

 I remembered the poor madwoman hurling herself off the blazing ramparts, and the sad little governess reclaiming her maimed lover for an equally unlikely happily-ever-after ending. A story so often retold in many guises, so often parodied. Well! I don't remember when I  last read the book, but it was obviously long before I was able to absorb its pure brilliance.

 Jane, it turns out, is not the meek little governess of my memory, but one tough little cookie who tells off her cruel aunt at the age of 10. She thinks in her heart that she is equal to Mr. Rochester, lordly as he may be. She is a feminist. She stands up for what she thinks is right, at great cost to herself. And finally, yes, she does end up with the love of her life. But the relationship between her and Mr. Rochester is so finely and carefully drawn, from the time of their first meeting on an icy road outside Thornfield Hall, to the time they marry at the end of the story, that it rings with psychological truth.

 Romantic, yes, but over and over Bronte emphasizes that these are two plain -- possibly even ugly -- people. The connections are all beneath the surface. Any modern writer would be lucky to draw such a deeply textured, finely honed portrait of a relationship. The moral? The classics are classics for a reason, and well worth revisiting.

A couple of favourite passages:

"Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts just as much as their brothers do... it is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings...." (Jane's restless reflections as a governess)

"To be together is for us to be at once as free as in solitude, as gay as in company. We talk, I believe, all day long: to talk to each other is but a more animated and an audible thinking." (Jane on her marriage)

Laburnum

Laburnum at Van Dusen Gardens

Every year when the laburnums bloom in my back yard, I think about going to see the laburnum walk at Van Dusen Garden, where there's a whole curved row of golden blossom trees with blue under plantings. This year I finally made it on Sunday afternoon, which was sunny and gorgeous. Besides the laburnums, there were: banks of pink and white rhododendrons stretching 10 feet high overhead; five baby ducks nibbling on lily pad leaves in the pond while their mother supervised; small children watching baby ducks while their own mother supervised; and a big blue heron watching the same baby ducks with a hungry gleam in its eye. I think it was the same blue heron that earlier made some photographer's day by suddenly breaking its stone-still pose and snapping up a tiny fish that had gotten too close. The photographer had been waiting for two hours for that very thing, which happened a few seconds after I arrived on the scene. I didn't get the shot, of course, but took a couple of photos of the pond where it happened. Such beauty    and nature, just a pleasant hour-plus walk from my back door!