Bright streets

All the colours in the paintbox show up in Vancouver's Commercial Drive area. There's yellow....
(Photos by John Denniston.)

... and purple.... 

...and blue with pink trim.

 Blue houses, sunshine-yellow houses, green houses and purple ones – why not? There’s a sense of fun in the side streets off Commercial Drive, where John and I went Saturday in our latest search for unfamiliar walking territory.  Besides the Easter-egg colours, there are murals, fences made of sticks, a piano mouldering in the front yard of a house about to be demolished, and a willingness to mix big and small, old and new, and even fill a lot with one long (lilac-coloured) box containing eight dwelling units.

Driving home after our adventure, I started seeing my neighbourhood through new eyes. I love Dunbar, with its spacious lots, wide boulevards and treed streets, but why are all the houses grey, black, beige or white? The older houses still offer some diversity, but they’re rapidly being replaced by huge new ones, all cast from the same one or two solemn moulds. Where is the variety, where is the fun?

Then we drove up to our house, which is a plain off-white. If I really wanted an adventure, the next paint job would be hot pink.

Two colours, one building. This duplex looks like two separate houses because of the dramatically different colour schemes -- one yellow, one green. 

On the green side, someone has made a fence from the kind of sticks that seem to accumulate in any garden.

An affordable housing solution that fits into the neighbourhood?  Build one long box and divide it into eight units, then paint it lilac. It has to be cheaper than the elaborate townhouses being built elsewhere in the city.

A three-storey house with a two-storey laneway house will be built on this lot, according to the zoning information sign. We don't know what will happen to the piano.

Murals are part of the Commercial Drive scene. This was just off the main street. 

A classic old house, beautifully painted and maintained, kind of says it all about this area of Vancouver.

Same city, new streets

 

A port, a railway, brightly coloured shipping containers, ships, ocean and mountains are what Hastings Sunrise residents see when they take Covid walks in their neighbourhood. John and I played tourist there on Wednesday. 

After a year of wearing Covid ruts into the sidewalks and trails of our Dunbar neighbourhood, John and I decided on a change of scene Wednesday. To the northeastern corner of the city, then, where the rail cars shunt, the port roars, and the rendering plant (if you’re lucky) isn’t too smelly. Hastings Sunrise is a traditional working class neighbourhood that still feels like a place where people live, as opposed to reside grandly. Many of the original small houses remain, side by side with some big beautiful old Craftsmen houses, with their stained-glass windows and spacious balconies. Gardens are tended, or not, the trees are quixotic, and people aren’t afraid to display their kitsch in the front yard or the raw materials for their sculpting in the back. 

 Here are some of the sights we saw on our little excursion. All photographs by John Denniston.

Snowdrops and crocuses and a Covid sign make the foreground, but in the background is a tiny, sweet little cottage that belongs in a storybook.

Two half boats make an unusual front-yard decoration.

Across the street, glittering in the sunshine,  a bank of decorative objects, including many representations of animals, made this front yard un-missable. I couldn't quite make out the theme.

Granite and other very heavy sculpting materials piled against a back-yard garage. The owner likely has no fear of anyone making off with them. 

This was one of a row of similarly cut-back trees waiting for summer to bring it alive.

The unusual bark of this tree, contrasted with the hellebores, drew our attention.

This lumpy, bumpy tree, type unknown, was too interesting not to be photographed. 

John has a thing about fences, and has even produced a photobook on the subject. This white picket fence, very carefully maintained, stands in front of a little house that hasn't received the same degree of attention. 

Amaryllis, continued

Apple Blossom amaryllis in the forefront, Minerva behind, were a cheerful sight in my dining room this January. A little neglect last fall meant I had to stake them up. 

The Minerva on its own after the Apple Blossom had finished. Notice the new leaves starting to grow out of the finished bulb. 

 I didn’t have a lot of hope for the two amaryllis bulbs I’d bought way too early last fall, then found growing misshapenly out of their paper storage bags. How do you even plant a bulb with a flower stalk growing out at side angles?

I couldn’t use them as Christmas gifts and they were too pricey to toss, so I decided to do what I could.   Planted tightly together in a heavy untippable pot and tied to stakes, might they actually straighten and blossom?

They weren’t perfect – the stems were at odd angles, the stakes ugly, and some blossoms faded fast. But all through bleak January, against a backdrop of grey torrential rain, they brightened my dining room. The Minerva bloom was perky orange and white; the Apple Blossom a sigh of spring-like pink.

But the story doesn’t end there. Those maltreated bulbs seem to have a lot of oomph, with new green leaves springing up even before the blossoms were done. An amaryllis amateur, I didn’t know what that was about. But apparently they’re packing in nutrition to feed next year’s blooms. They’ll die down in the fall and rest awhile before putting out new flower stalks. Next year, I won’t be forgetting them in paper bags.

The sad result of neglecting bulbs too long in paper bags -- they start growing anyway, but badly.

Now both bulbs are putting out vigorous leaves, preparing for next year's show.

Here's what I look forward to seeing next January.

The value of jollity

 

The pandemic has brought adversity to many of us, but novelist Charles Dickens created a character who searched it out. Here's jolly Mark Tapley leaving his village to test himself against hard times. 

With Covid variants rising, vaccinations falling, and house-bound people getting grumpier by the day, I’ve been thinking lately about a Charles Dickens character with a peculiar relationship to adversity.

He’s Mark Tapley, a tavern worker in Dickens’ novel Martin Chuzzlewit, and he has a little problem. He’s so popular, competent, and so greatly appreciated by his boss (a jolly widow) that he thinks his life is too easy. He yearns to prove himself under adverse conditions, the worse the better. His dream is to “come out strong” by maintaining his cheerfulness – he calls it “jollity” – under terrible circumstances.

And so, he quits his job – the whole town turns out to say goodbye – and looks for something worse. He ponders grave-digging, which seems like a “good, damp, wormy sort of business.” The job of undertaking sounds hopefully gloomy. Or, “A jailor sees a deal of misery. A doctor’s man is in the very midst of murder.”

But these unpleasant professions don’t hold a candle to serving the selfish, greedy, dysfunctional Chuzzlewit clan, and soon enough, he finagles his way into it. He takes a job as unpaid servant to the family’s disinherited scion, Martin Chuzzlewit, knowing that the young man’s selfishness and monumental ego guarantee disaster ahead. Chuzzlewit does not disappoint. Convinced that he needs only to land in America to make his fortune, he launches the two of them on a terrible journey. Near penniless, they sail in crowded steerage to New York, where Chuzzlewit ignores all sensible precautions and buys a miasmic piece of swampland, sight unseen, where he and Tapley both nearly die of fever.

Throughout, Tapley “comes out strong” over and over again. While Chuzzlewit spends the entire sea voyage groaning with seasickness and hiding (he doesn’t want the rich passengers to see him in steerage), the cheerful and practical Tapley does the opposite. Making light of his own seasickness, he tends the sick and the children of the poor, hauls people up to the deck for fresh air, and entertains and cooks for the steerage crowd. “He attains at last to such a pitch of universal admiration that he began to have grave doubts within himself whether a man might reasonably claim any credit for being jolly under such exciting circumstances.”

Once settled on their miserable piece of swampland, Chuzzlewit sinks into despair and lethargy while Tapley keeps busy clearing the land and helping struggling neighbours. When Chuzzlewit comes down with the fever that has killed almost everybody in the settlement, Tapley nurses him through it before succumbing himself.  It’s his stoic cheerfulness even on what may be his deathbed that finally shoots a ray of self-knowledge into Chuzzlewit and begins his transformation. “How was it that this man, who had had so few advantages, was so much better than he, who had had so many?”

This is a comic novel, so all ends well. Tapley’s good deeds have earned enough goodwill that the two travelers are able to return to England. There, a repentant and reformed Chuzzlewit is re-inherited and able to marry his sweetheart. Tapley, having finally proved himself to himself, is content to return to the tavern and marry the jolly plump widow.

 In our pandemic times, Mark Tapley’s search for misery raises a host of questions.  By creating such a character, was Dickens suggesting there may be positive aspects to adversity? It does serve the purpose of testing us – will we collapse like Chuzzlewit or “come out strong?” Since this was a novel about selfishness (Chuzzlewit) and selflessness (Tapley), what role do these attributes play in our reaction to hard times? And what does it mean to “come out strong?” For some, it might simply mean personal survival; for others, it might be winning glory. For Tapley, it means helping others, whether it’s easing the suffering of his fellow passengers or serving as an example that prompts Chuzzlewit to discover his own failings. An added fillip is Tapley’s mantra about “jollity” – it’s not enough just to help; that help must be rendered with a cheerful smile and an upbeat quip.

 Tapley’s response to adversity nearly gets him killed, but it also spreads joy, wins him many friends and transforms his selfish companion. Chuzzlewit gets conned, humiliated (those rich fellow passengers knew about his trip in steerage), and nearly killed. While Dickens’ happy ending rewards them both, it’s worth thinking about who had the better time throughout. Was it selfish Chuzzlewit, groaning in steerage and loafing miserably on land, or cheery Tapley, making jokes and lending a hand?

 Something to think about in our own season of adversity.

 

Mark Tapley with an axe, being useful; Martin Chuzzlewit with his head in his hands, being gloomy. Who seems to be having more fun?

Glamourpuss

 

Between Covid, aging and winter weather, who has time for glamour? Here's me with two hats (one to cover my ears, one to keep the sun out of my eyes), sunglasses, an anti-virus mask and a very warm but very old wool sweater. Photo by John Denniston, who graciously agrees to still be seen with me.

Once upon a time, women “dressed” to go downtown. In my mother’s era, a hat, a dress and good shoes would have been de rigueur. In my younger days, a reasonable pair of pants and walking shoes would have done. Later, with aging, my friend Linda and I agreed on a new, lower standard -- our goal in future would be just not to scare people.  Passing a store window on South Granville during a walk with John yesterday, I did a double take. Between hats, a mask, sunglasses, and Covid-era casual clothes, I appear to have sunk lower than even the lowest bar.

The Point Grey moose

 

What is a moose doing on top of the most expensive house in B.C.?

Walk along the pricey Point Grey waterfront in the mid-winter twilight, when the sparkle of lights in mansion windows starts contrasting deliciously with the purple-blue haze of the ocean and mountains behind, and if you look up, you may find yourself staring at a moose.

Or at least the figure of a moose. Larger than life-size, outlined in lights, it stands alone on the flat rooftop of the most expensive house in B.C. ($66.8 million this year, down from $78.8 million in 2018), saying … who knows what?

The house belongs to local billionaire Chip Wilson, co-founder of Lululemon, who is known as something of a jokester. But I could find no online explanation for why he chose a lonely moose as the sole (publicly visible) holiday decoration on his 16,000-square-foot house. It’s almost the opposite of how another B.C. billionaire, Jim Pattison, once approached holiday decor, setting his British Properties’ home ablaze with multi-coloured lights that drew visitors from around the Lower Mainland.

Ebullient Pattison versus elegant-eccentric Wilson? Who knows what messages billionaires are sending through their choices of holiday decor? But whatever the moose is meant to represent, when I came across it unexpectedly on a solitary Covid walk stolen between winter downpours, it seemed splendid.

 On the priciest house on some of the city’s priciest waterfront, a creature evoking Canada’s wilderness stood there, posing solemnly against the sea.

A gift that hit the spot

The perfect gift is a rare jewel that most of us are lucky enough to give – or receive – only a few times in a lifetime. In the dismal, isolated Christmas of 2020, my sister Betty and her husband Bert were the recipients of what I’d consider a pretty perfect gift. To my mind, it hit all the marks – it was unusual, thoughtful, tailored just to them, a complete surprise – and most importantly, it sparked delight.

I heard it in my sister’s voice during our post-Christmas FaceTime visit: “Just wait till you see what Etienne and Aya gave us,” she said, referring to her son and daughter-in-law, who live across the country from Betty and Bert but have a pretty good idea of what gives them joy.

The gift was a birdhouse -- but not just any birdhouse.

I call this unusual birdhouse a perfect gift for my sister and brother-in-law.

It had the requisite bird-hole in its sloped roof, but the ground floor was a kind of veranda reflecting the most treasured aspects of the Laurentian cottage that my sister and her husband call home. Two doll-house-sized Adirondack chairs recall the lazy days of summer and family vacations.  A tiny water bowl and a leash hanging on a pillar nod to the important third member of the household, their dog Molly. A fat Holy Bible on a little table honours their faith.  Tiny versions of snowshoes, paddles and a telescope recall their diversions, and a little signboard of boating rules is a reminder of the exquisite lakes nearby. And just to ensure that future feathered tenants know where they live, a little wooden sign on a veranda pillar bears the cottage’s address.

Thoughtful? Tailored to the recipients? Unusual? Causing delight? With this gift, Betty’s son and daughter in law – far away in Vancouver but knowing their elders’ softest spots – scored on every count.

The chairs, the Bible-bearing table, the snowshoes, dog bowl and address sign.

The dark dot on this tiny log stump is a replica of a ladybird. Nature abounds in this cottage country. 

A mini dog-leash to the left, and a canoe-carrying sign.

Covid Christmas

Instead of braving Covid crowds in stores for this year's Christmas presents, I "shopped" in my kitchen. My gifts were home-made mine tarts, oat cakes, pecan sand-tarts and sugar cookies with lots of sprinkles.

 

My friend Linda came up with the idea of knitting a POP! blanket for my grandnieces, Emi and newly arrived Mia. This blanket has its origins in pop art and the bright circles are made of Japanese wool. Linda displays it after finishing it earlier this year. Photo by John Denniston.

This Christmas, John and I didn’t shop, except for food. We didn’t decorate, except for a string of lights around the front door. We didn’t – shhhh -- even clean the house. Why fuss? No one was coming.

And yet, and yet, we still had a fine Christmas. In lieu of shopping, I went into baking mode, the results of which became my gifts. My friend Linda used her knitting skills to solve my other gifting dilemma –something special for my two grandnieces. And instead of hosting family and friends for the usual turkey dinner, John and I made quick back-yard visits to them to exchange gifts and say hello.

Of course it was a very different from what we're used to. No steamy kitchen with guests wandering in and out, no piles of gifts or wrappings strewn across the floor, no blazing fireplace, no blissful moment when everyone is finally at the table together. But still, somehow, the greetings and gifts of our brief, chilly meet-ups gave us the needed jolt of holiday cheer.

We came home smiling, but later, I discovered one of the unforeseen problems of doing Christmas this way: The house really, really still needs cleaning!

This year's baking gave me my first chance to use the cookie cut-outs I inherited from John's mother decades ago. I was delighted to find a star, Christmas tree, Santa, gingerbread man and other fancy shapes.

The production line: pecan sand-tarts underway. The recipe is an old-family one from my friend Ros, who used to distribute these cookies to family and friends every Christmas. I got the recipe from Ros and apparently passed it on to my mother, as I came across it in her old  hand-written special-recipes book. These cookies come with a lot of family connections!

Once baked, they're rolled in icing sugar.

The finished product: lots of goodies to be wrapped in waxed paper and given to friends (not that we didn't save a lot for ourselves!)

A box of cookies ready for my nephew Etienne, his wife Aya and daughters Emi and Mia.

Me as Santa Claus leaving the house with gifts on Christmas Day. Yes, we have lights strung up around the front door -- first time ever! Photo by John Denniston.. 

Emi (left) and Aya inspect the blanket on the back steps of their house during our Christmas-Day visit to them. Photo by John Denniston. 

As older sister, Emi (left) has first dibs on the blanket when she and Mia settle on the couch after our Christmas visit. Photo courtesy of  their mom Aya, who confessed to wondering whether the blanket might be a bit too precious for children so young. They don't appear to think so. 

During our outdoor visit to my friend Linda, she showed us the bright yellow socks she knit herself to provide a splash of sunshine in these grey Covid days. She also made her green finger-less gloves, and is holding a bag of colourful dishcloths she knit me as a Christmas present. I gave her (what else?) cookies, mincemeat and cranberry sauce. Photo by John Denniston.

Our loot. Etienne and Aya gave us ultra-beautiful chocolates and three elaborate desserts, and Emi added her colourful drawings to the bottom of their Christmas card to us. To the left is Linda's bag of dishcloths in bright, cheerful colours.

This is the aftermath of a successful Christmas gift: John and I polished off those three desserts in no time, and that was after eating a full Christmas turkey dinner. We had to restrain ourselves from licking the box!

Addictive oatcakes

 

These don't look like much compared to the elaborate, highly decorated treats of the season, but trust me, this simple blend of rolled oats, brown sugar, flour and butter is irresistible!

I’ve become addicted to my second venture into this year’s seasonal baking. Since I discovered the recipe for Nova Scotia Oatcakes online a few days ago, I’ve made three batches, and it won’t be long until I’m rattling the pans again to make a fourth.

Unlike the mincemeat tarts I wrote about earlier, with their thrice-cooked candied peel, multi-ingredient filling and requisite battle with the pastry gods, these cookies are simple. They have seven basic ingredients and take about 30 minutes from start to plateful. If you shut your eyes to the butter and skimp a bit on the brown sugar, you can even pretend they’re healthy given their high rolled-oats content.

There’s nothing wrong with elaborate Christmas baking – for many people, it’s all part of the fun. But when I put my hand into the cookie jar lately, I’ve been noticing that it comes out with an oatcake instead of a tart almost every time.

--

The recipe, tips and variations, can be found at

https://kellyneil.com/nova-scotia-oatcakes/

For those who want a quick summary without going to the site, here’s what I’ve been doing: Combine one cup of large-flake oats, three-quarters of a cup of flour, half a teaspoon of salt, and half a teaspoon of baking power into a bowl. In another bowl, beat half a cup of room-temperature butter until it’s light and fluffy, then add half a cup of brown sugar and one-quarter teaspoon of vanilla and beat until smooth.

Put dry ingredients into the wet ones and work together until combined. Put dough on floured work surface, roll until one-quarter inch thick, cut into rectangles and put on parchment paper. Bake at 350 for 13-15 minutes or until the edges are golden.

Make again the next day!

Amaryllis surprise

 

The instructions tell you to plant amaryllis bulbs in potting soil, water gently and place in sunlight. This is what happens if you store them too long in a paper bag instead. Photo by John Denniston. 

Shopping for spring bulbs in October, I was seduced by pictures of amaryllis blooms. Dreamy pink-and-white “Apple Blossom,” sprightly red-and-white “Minerva” – what a combo to send a plant-loving brother for Christmas!

I bought them and tucked those scaly dry bulbs away in the basement in brown-paper bags, confident about what would happen next. In December, I’d nestle them into a parcel that would arrive at my brother’s place in Alberta for the holidays. Then, planted and watered, they’d sprout, thrive and flaunt beautiful flowers for him in January.

What, then, were those green things sticking out of the bags when I came to assemble his Christmas parcel last week? Bent, contorted, swooping anywhere but straight up, were thick green protuberances more than a foot long, with buds on top. Without the prescribed pot, potting soil, water or even light, those bulbs had sprouted and were racing toward the finish line!

They were too fragile for a trip to Alberta and besides, their odd shapes would make planting them a pain. I replaced them with plain red – very dormant – amaryllis bulbs from the local hardware store.

As for my two misshapen, misbehaving leftovers, I’ll find a way of supporting their dogged drive to burst into pink and red blossoms. They surprised me and upset my plans, but in times like these, they also seem to send some kind of message about the value of sheer determination.

The seductive "Apple Blossom" photo. Given its treatment, I hope the real thing has enough strength to produce blooms like this.

The "Minerva" looks bright and snappy. I thought it would be a nice contrast with my other choice.