Peter’s life changed dramatically a week ago. No, he didn’t win a pickleball trophy, although the season isn’t over yet. And No, he didn’t grow record-breaking zucchini, although that season isn’t over yet either. His change came in a little box and cost a lot of money…his new hearing aides.

When Peter and I first met about 20 years ago, I noticed that I got better responses from him when I was on his right side. One day he confessed that he didn’t hear so well out of his left ear. So, in theatres, at ball parks, on the subway, I always made sure I was right. And it seemed to work.

But gradually, over the course of the last few years, as we grew older together, his hearing grew worse. It became an issue. For example; in a restaurant, the conversation would go like this:

Waitress: What sides do you want with your order?

Peter: I definitely Don’t want fries.

Waitress: So what sides do you want?

Peter: I said I Don’t Want Fries. Can’t you hear?

Then we moved to our house in the city and Peter’s La-Z-Boy was put in the corner near the TV. But his left ear was next to me. This was not a good situation for sharing thoughts about the Jays game or the National. And, if I wanted to ask him about when he was going to load the dishwasher or put out the garbage, I got nothing back. I know you are thinking that maybe he was happy not to hear some of these requests. We seemed to be at a hearing standstill. Until…

Last spring, as the curling season came to a close, Peter and his team were having their farewell beer together and discussing summer plans. Somebody quietly suggested that maybe Peter would get hearing aides so that he could hear them yelling “Sweep!” and other instructions. There were a few giffaws from the others at the table. Well Peter certainly heard that. He came home, looking a little sheepish, and announced:
“I guess the guys want me to get hearing aides.” It was a done deal.

Peter made the appointments with the necessary doctors and the audiologist. We entered the world of hearing aide technology and exited quickly after we read about computer chips, and amplifiers, and converting sounds into codes and back again. Too much information! Our other choices seemed infinite: fit styles, receivers, extra noise reduction, wireless connectivity, and, most importabt, price. Did we want to mortgage the house or not?

After all the decision-making was over and the product had arrived, we drove to the clinic discussing some celebratory options. Should we have champagne? Or should we go out for dinner and try out our new little family members at a restaruant? The audiologist greeted us with a smile at the door. “There’s a big change coming in your life, Peter!” I started to worry. This was maybe a little too optimistic.

With the help of a hand mirror, Peter put on the new aides, fumbling around as he adjusted them. Then they disappeared. Truly, they were not visible at all! The first hurdle, showing his “disability” to the world, had been overcone. After a lengthy lecture on the various extras – case, charger, drying cup – we gathered everything together and went outside.

Peter turned to me in shock. “Why are those cars making so much noise? Do people have to yell at each other?? I can hear myself breathing!!!” We worked together to turn down the volume and he was somewhat placated. But, soon after we got home, I asked him a question which he did not answer right away. He had a wide grin.

“I put them away in their case,” he confessed. I need a break from all that noise!”

Sue

Our new family members in their charger.

Every summer folks in Ontario, as well as some from other provinces and even the US, make the trip to The Cottage. It can be a one-room cabin with an outhouse, or a $3 million mansion with out-buildings, or anything in between. As long as it’s a long drive from the city, and near a lake with sand and trees, it’s The Cottage.

Everyone knows the rules at The Cottage: eat junk food, sleep when you feel like it, read magazines, and get wet. Above all, have a few adventures. This year, durnig our family cottage week, we had several. There were lots of water antics on the lily pad, K-Pop dances on the trampoline, and 4 resolute swimmers who made the trip across the lake and back, accompanied by lifeguard kayaks. The youngest swimmer, Agnes, was 11, and the oldest, Peter, was 77.

A swimmer sets out to cross the lake

There were excursions to ice cream stores, a must for any successful cottage stay. And there was the annual trip to the drive-in theatre, to watch a movie while sittiing on the tailgate and getting devoured by mosquitoes. This year the movie was a girl favourite, Barbie, so the boys in their car opted to drive next door and watch Mission Impossible instead. They made a good choce because, in the girls’ car, a few people fell asleep.

One day a group visited the Dorset Lookout Tower, a feature of the tiny village. Originally built in 1922, it was a fire tower, but its role was made obsolete by air surveillance. The climb is a steep 119 steps but the view at the top is spectacular. One can see the main intersection, actually the ONLY intersection, of Dorset; with a bridge crossing a narrow passage of Lake Of Bays, and “Canada’s Best Country Store,” Robinson’s. There is nothing on your shopping list that you won’t find in a nook or cranny of that store.

View from the Dorset Lookout Tower

But the highlight of the week for some of us was the day that Sheila and Sophie, mother and daughter, went parasailing. They booked the excursion a few days ahead, and 3 more of us, including Agnes and I, tagged along, at the last minute, for the boat ride. We would watch from the safety of the boat while the 2 parasailors screamed in fear as they rose up and up.

We settled on board with another family, and took off from the dock. The other family’s grandfather offered to go parasailing first. I was shocked. He didn’t look nervous at all! His trip upward was uneventful and he landed softly back on the boat, with a big smile. A young couple went next and had no problems. They said it was “smooth sailing” all the way. Then it was Sheila and Sophie’s turn. No worries. No screaming. Really?

All this time Agnes was watching from the boat; her eyes fixated on the parasailors. Oh oh….

Clearly Agnes wanted to try it. I quickly announced in a loud voice that her mother would happily go with her next year. Agnes’s face drooped in disappontment. I was overcome with guilt. What kind of a wimpy grandmother was I anyway? And before I could answer, there were Agnes and I, strapped into life jackets and harnesses, heading towards the clouds.

Taking off…

It was a one-of-a kind experience for sure; peaceful and quiet, as we gently floated on the breeze, smiling at each other, waving to the people below, and loving the view. We wanted to stay up there forever. Eventually it was time for “the dip.” Did Agnes want to try “the dip?” Of course she did. Down we went until our feet splashed into the water and we soared up again. Then we landed safely back on the boat. Well I did have a little mis-step but the crew lent me a hand and it was all good.

In fact it was excellent. Cottage Country is the perfect place for making lasting memories.

Sue

I’ll be talking to you again on August first.

Sue

Before Peter and I moved from the country 5 years ago, we organized our furniture according to the floor plan of our new house. Most things fit, but somehow all the leftovers got sent to the sunroom. It was a real mish-mash of stuff.

But it was a useful room: a storage place for outdoor shoes and gardening tools as people went between the kitchen and the back yard, a playroom when the grandkids, ages 2, 6 and 7 at the time,, came to visit, a lookout when Venus the grand-dog was stalking the neighbours’ cat, and a greenhouse for some orchids I had collected and a plant Peter had tended for so long that he was thinking of adding it to his Will. Most of all, when Peter was in the living room sleeping, or reading the newspaper, or watching poker on TV, it was my escape room.

As I sat in my sunroom one day recently, I suddenly had an “ahaa” moment where I thought to myself, “This room is really a mess! What am I doing in here?” I started dreaming…in turquoise. I love turquoise; I’m a Pisces and turquoise is the colour of the Aegean Sea, Moraine Lake in BC, and, on good days, Lake Ontario. I started searching online and found a magnificent sofa in my favourite colour. I rushed to IKEA and sat on it, ignoring the fact that it sank and the cushions were all wrinkly. I couldn’t think past the colour.

I called my decorator friend Rosemary who went to IKEA the next day and then phoned me to say: “I wouldn’t buy that sofa for even a dollar.” She had taken up the challenge. Within a few days she had found me a sofa and 2 chairs. The chairs arrived intact but the sofa had to be assembled. Now I know that you have read far too many stories of furniture assembly gone wrong so I’ll just say that at the last step, as Peter and I were about to screw the legs to the bottom, there were no screw holes. We had put one of the first pieces on upside down.

After a few colourful words, we got it figured out. Rosemary came to inspect. The furniture arrangement was acceptable with a few adjustments, the table and lamp were good, the TV and stand worked together. Peter’s plant was reassigned to the corner by the windows, provided it was tied to a bamboo pole (no broom handles or hockey sticks allowed).

But the view out the side window – disgusting. And I had to admit Rosemary was right. Who wants to be sitting in a beautiful new sunroom, staring into the unfinished garage of the neighbour’s house, at his snow tires, cement bags, leftover lumber, propane tanks and garbage bins, to say nothing of the rusty chain link fence? It was not a good look.

So far I am happy in my new partly-turquoise sunroom. The grandkids are old enough now to respect the light-coloured sofa, Venus is getting too lazy to chase the cat, and Peter visits often to take care of his heritage plant. But Rosemary? She is on the hunt again for sheers, or shutters, or something, Anything, to block out that terrible view.

Sue

So now do you want to see the (mostly) finished product? OK then…

When Mayor-elect Olivia Chow gave her acceptance speech on June 26, she spoke passionately about growing up as an immigrant in an east-end community called St. James Town. This was her first home in her new country. And Peter and I had never been there.

On a recent Friday we took the subway to Sherbourne Station and walked south. We were soon overtaken by high-rise buildings, 19 of them, as low as 15 storeys, rising up to 30. The apartments were on a large plot of land between Sherbourne on the west side and Parliament on the east, with Bloor St to the north and Carlton on the south. They seemed to be rentals, some of them subsidized. This was clearly not an accident. Could it be the answer to Toronto’s current housing shortage? We decided to explore further.

With the help of a book, Toronto Art Strolls, we searched for some treasures. We found a forest walk edged in painted steel panels, separated by coloured glass ones, depicting a day in the life of a 19th century resident. We discovered a unique trompe l’oeil art piece on a brick wall and had to stop ourselves from trying to walk through to the painted patio. We visited a Catholic Church built in 1886 with a beautiful dome over the altar. We stared up at a mural painted on one of the towers which, according to Guinness, is the tallest mural in the world.

We looked high and low for a collection of steel animals on the property of a still-standing Victorian mansion. Finally we asked a clerk at a local convenience store if she knew where the fox and reindeer were. She giggled and told us: “No animal in city. This is city. You go to country – find animals.” But we persevered and soon discovered a wonderful collection perched on pedestals and hanging from the bricks of a beautiful home erected in 1881.

But all was not as it seemed in this little “art gallery” corner of Toronto. Walking farther south on Sherbourne, we began to see groups of unkempt, unshaven men, young and old, all races, most of them smoking cigarettes, some sitting on the curb, some wandering aimlessly. Across the street in Allan Gardens we discovered a tent city, and farther down at a church, a long line of food bank customers. How had this middle-class Victorian neighbourhood changed so drastically?

Apparently the first settlement,, called St. James Town, began in the 1800’s as a suburb of downtown Toronto, inhabited by middle-class families in single family homes. It stayed that way until the 1950’s when some Victorian homes began to deteriorate and were replaced by high-rise towers, in an attempt to attract a greater number of middle-class workers to the city. But the area lacked amenities needed for such density and the apartments failed to attract the middle class. Now, in the 21st century, the towers are inhabited by the lower class and struggling new immigrants. Although a library has been built and there are some green spaces, there are still many services missing. And inflation, especially the cost of food, is hitting the area hard.

Developers have recently come up with a plan that might help to solve this issue. They call it “mini-cities.” High rise towers are surrounded by, or in the middle of, shopping malls which include the facilities and services needed for the nearby population: low-budget grocery stores, dollar stores, immigrant services, medical clinics, a community hub for playing cards or gathering together with friends for a coffee. A home where living is comfortable instead of a box where life is bleak.

With a redo like this, could St. James Town rise again?

Sue

Possibly the tallest mural in the world, according to Guinness, is located in St. James Town

As Canada Day approached, I asked Peter, my blog assistant, if he would go with me to see a fireworks display somewhere in Toronto, so that I could give you a full report, dear readers. “Been there, done that.” was his answer. And then I got to thinking – so have I.

It all began on May 24 when I was in kindergarten. The neighbours on my street gathered together in a small park, 3 families including 9 kids. The fathers brought the fireworks and folding chairs, the moms brought the blankets and snacks for the kids, and there might have been a thermos or two with drinks for the adults. And Leo, the neighbourhood prankster, brought those tiny red firecrackers that he spent the night lighting and throwing behind unsuspecting victims, and being yelled at by his wife. The evening ended when the little red schoolhouse burned to the ground.

When my own kids were small, the fireworks display was still part of the May 24 weekend, the official beginning of summer. Families in our neighbourhood congregated in the school yard with our chairs and thermoses, and the local Boy Scout troop collected money in a hat and put on a show for about 50 of us, the kids cheering and waving their sparklers, and the adults enjoying their drinks.

As the kids grew into teen-agers, fireworks lost their allure, especially if the parents were supervising. But one year, when my son James was in his early twenties, we filled up my car with other young adults and headed to Ashbridge’s Bay for the fireworks exhibition there. The show was stunning – sparkling flashes of light and colour all around and above us. After the cheering died down, we made our way to our car and tried to go home. It took us a couple of hours to make a 20-minute journey; the next year nobody mentioned going again.

But for younger families now, fireworks have come back into fashion. Several occasions – New Year’s Eve, May 24 and Canada Day – all merit the expense of Black Cats, Lady Fingers, and M-80’s. Our grandchildren have acquired the love of the displays. Every summer during our family cottage week, one evening is devoted to eating s’mores, and singing camp songs. The evening ends with bangs – exploding rockets, a sky full of wonder. Peter and I stay awake as long as we can.

In our current neighbourhood, a display is mounted every year by one of the residents, at a 5-street intersection with a small grassy area in the middle. Neighbours gather to enjoy the summer evening and watch a half-hour show. This year, at around 10:00 pm, as the fireworks began to pop and hiss, Peter and I began getting ready for bed. Then I began to feel guilty. I could still write about fireworks, but I needed at least ONE picture. So I snuck outside to our back yard, wearing my nightie under over of darkness, and took this shot.

Nobody saw me except the mosquitos: I got 7 bites. My readers are worth it.

Sue

For the past 25 days, our city has been decked out with signage. On every street corner and many lawns one could find campaign art – in eye-catching colours of purple, yellow, navy, and neutrals like taupe and ivory – created and displayed for yet another election., very similar to the one held 245 days ago.

For almost 3 months 102 candidates have been walking and talking about the skills that would enable them to run a city of over 3 million people and a budget of $19 billion. They have used up a lot of shoe leather visiting subway stations, festivals, parades, architectural sites, and public parks. They have stretched their vocal chords arguing about how much better they are suited for the job than any of the other 101. The debates, more like boxing matches, have often focused on the negatives, what the other candidates don’t have our can’t do. Sometimes its been hard to keep it all straight.

We have heard promises: to increase bike lanes, or cut them; to build rental units, or affordable houses; to increase taxes or reduce unnecessary frills in the budget. There were endorsements too. Former Mayor John Tory came out with one just a few days ago. Councillors encouraged us to vote for their buddies. Doug Ford was on the phone a lot. He called me several times, asking for support for his choice. Before the election I hardly knew Doug and now he acts like my best friend!

After lining up at the polling stations, voters were presented with a ballot, printed on both sides – one hundred and two names in alphabetical order – a lot to read! And then another challenge: to figure out the right bubble to to fill in. That’s correct – the RIGHT bubble, not the left. For some candidates in the middle column there were 2 bubbles, one on either side of the name, which added to the confusion. By this time the voter was feeling faint from lack of food.

But all of this hype, all of this confusion, and all of the money spent to host an unwanted election – was it worth the effort? For a succinct answer, just take a moment and look at the international news coming out of China, or Syria, or especially, Russia, or any of the many countries where elections are a sham, where one candidate is an oligarch and HIS opponents are headed for jail, where promises are not even expected.

Yesterday we voted of our own free will and then we watched as our votes were being counted in front of our eyes. Whether or not we liked the outcome, that petite female Asian immigrant, who survived child poverty, learned to speak English, and now stood before us in a cheery yellow dress, was chosen by us. And she will have her chance to keep her promise: to make Toronto a safer, more affordable, more caring place to live. All the best, Olivia.

Sue

Since Summer arrives tomorrow, June 21, here are a few scenes to celebrate the upcoming season in Toronto:

When thinking about Summer, one of the first things that comes to mind is swimming. This past spring the shed at our local splash pad got an upgrade:

Although they are not performing well right now, the “boys of summer” go hand in hand with the season:

Other outdoor sports include roller blading at Humber Bay Park, leaving the CN Tower far behind.

Birds liven summer days. For a closer view, visit Bloor Street:

Roadwork is an integral part of life in Summer:

For people who like to drive on the roads anyway, there is always an antique car:

This Summer politics are everywhere, even at the Taste Of Little Italy:

And the lives of Indigenous people are in the news daily.

(This mosaic was recently installed at Seneca College):

Really though, what says Summer more than ice cream?

(Tom’s Place, on the Queensway is one of the busiest in Toronto.)

Unless it’s construction?

Welcome to Summer. Enjoy the season.

Sue

As Peter and I boarded the 35 Jane St. bus last weekend, we were a little anxious. Would we be able to survive our volunteer 6-hour shifts at the Canadian Open Golf Tournament? Would the tournament entice enough guests when the roster of players was missing some of the top US players? And would bus 35 get us to our destination safely and in time?

As we found seats on the bus the very first day, we couldn’t help but notice that we were amongst people from all over the world. Their clothing often revealed their origins: Muslim-garbed women wearing hijabs and long flowing gowns, Asian ladies in flip flops and straw hats, Italian construction workers dressed in paint-splashed jeans and steel-toed boots, Latin lovers wearing tight shiny pants and studded leather jackets, older folks wearing whatever mismatched items they grabbed from the closet. It was a daily costume parade.

It was a daily display of salon activity too: hair in braids with sequins, or an intricate up-sweep with streaks of purple and gold, nails the length of claws in shades of red, pink and orange, men with Mohawks, or bald on top with dreadlocks hanging down. We couldn’t tear our eyes away from the show.

The bus was crowded with the riders’ accessories: tool boxes, shopping carts, canes, Walmart bags, pizza boxes, suitcases, purses full of make-up, walkers, baby strollers. This caused traffic jams at the stops. Invariably the double stroller would be in the middle of the bus and its owner had to navigate through the crowds to the exit. Or the senior with the walker would have trouble getting up the steps at the entrance.

Nevertheless, on every trip we took people were respectful, friendly, even kind. Not once did I lack for a seat. Gestures like this were evident everywhere: giving up seats to those in need, rescuing a lost baby shoe and returning it to a thankful mother, offering a granola bar to a fidgety little boy, helping a senior carry a box of plants off the bus. The drivers were respectful too; opening doors a second time for latecomers, forgiving fare shortages, helping lost people with directions. Each trip was a lesson on multiculturism at work.

Our shifts at the tournament were good. Peter was a Marshall again and enjoyed his rotations around the 6th hole – a lengthy par 4 of 539 yards. I was an Ambassador, kind of like a Walmart greeter, welcoming guests, giving directions to the free tequila booth, and later saying good bye. Everyone was cheery and grateful, even on the rainy days.

By Sunday we were exhausted and watched the last round of golf from the comfort of our living room sofa. The final shot – a putt that even Tiger Woods would have envied – was spectacular. For the first time in about 70 years a Canadian player, Nick Taylor from BC, has won our National Championship.

We kept thinking back to our multicultural riders on Bus 35. They now have one more reason to be proud of their new Canadian home.

Sue

Nick Taylor and his trophy

Here it is early June and already Peter needs a new hobby. For almost 2 months he has tended and nurtured the little seedling babies and toddlers in his vegetable garden. But now they are growing into restless teens, anxious to get on with life in their own way. They are demanding too: for water, fertilizer, weeding. Sometimes they even ignore his directives and grow through the fence, or up the wrong pole, or into the next row with another vegetable family.

Peter needs something else to distract him. Two summers ago he tried lawn bowling. He had won 2 free memberships to a nearby club at a silent auction, and he wanted to see what the game was like. He desperately tried to get me to go with him. Every Tuesday evening he would ask me: ” What are you going to do all by yourself while I am gone?” Silently I answered: “I am going to take control of the TV remote!”

I almost lost the lawn bowling battle when Peter took me as a guest to the closing BBQ in late August. He had won the club championship and was the guest of honour. I met all the other members who were quite friendly and encouraged me to join the following summer. I smiled politely but managed to avoid answering as I kept my mouth full of their free burgers.

Last summer we were busy travelling – to cottages and Newfoundland. I figured I was saved from lawn bowling. But this spring Peter brought up the idea of using his second free membership to join lawn bowling again. He wasn’t very enthusiastic; he said he didn’t find the game challenging enough. Then. when he searched for the free membership coupon, he couldn’t find it! Well that was that. Until…

At a recent Blue Jays game the giveaway was a Pickleball paddle. Peter is always interested in anything free and he asked me about the game. I told him what I knew: “It’s tennis for oldies. And you don’t have to wear white.” It seemed like a perfect match. We went to the Jays game early, but not early enough. The paddles had all been given away. Peter spent the next half hour searching under seats and in washrooms for a paddle that had been left behind. But there were none. “People must really like this game!” he thought.

I did a little research for him and found out that the game was created by an American family in 1965. The kids were bored with badminton so their mom challenged them to make up a new game. Using the badminton net, some practice golf balls, and a few leftover paddles from table tennis, they figured out a game. Their mom, so the story goes, called it Pickleball after a rowing term where the leftover rowers crew a boat called the pickle boat.

Then our curling club announced that they had turned the ice rink into a court for the summer – a Pickleball court! Peter signed up for the introductory session – lessons followed by a few practice games. He put on some old shorts and a tee-shirt and set out. A couple of hours later, he came home beaming. Pickleball was a hit. He signed up for a league right away,

Now I’m not saying this game is a forever thing. Peter hasn’t read any Pickleball magazines, or bought any new equipment, and he doesn’t even know if there is Pickleball on TV. But I am hopeful. It would be a change from gardening for him, and a chance to get my hands on the TV remote again for me.

Sue

The perfect Fathers’ Day gift….