 June 1963 on the E. B. Barber. My grandfather Harry was chief engineer and worked on the Great Lakes his whole life. I was five months old when the photo of him was taken. I also love the picture below of him wearing a black beret and standing in front of a broken boom. It happened unloading cargo, and you can almost hear the deck crew saying ‘fuck’ in unison — looking at a horizon of overtime. There were probably a few laughs later below deck. Most people who work on the water can turn a temporary tragedy into crackin' entertainment at some point. One of the many things I liked about being with Harry was his ease with people. He was happy as a clam in the middle of a conversation — even better if it was in a bakery or butcher shop. I have an enduring image of him at home in Welland, drying dishes in the kitchen and visiting with us after dinner. He always wanted to know what was up with me. Male curiosity is delicious. So is a man who listens. Recently, while I was out on a walkabout on Roncesvalles, I struck up a conversation with an employee in a store who told me about a Caribbean restaurant, Kish’s, in Mississauga. She had me when she turned her eyes toward the sky while talking about their roti. Because the action is intuitive, it’s a 3-star equivalent in my books. We were both transported into the ethereal realm of imaginary eating — a pleasure that runs a close second to the act. Now I need a race car to take me there. Talking to strangers when I’m out is following in the footsteps of a man I adored. *** Harry didn’t drink in the last fifteen years of his life owing to diabetes. I don’t remember him having a breakdown about it, either. He took care of himself. After his funeral, I kept thinking about that while everyone raised a glass of scotch in his memory. I was ten months sober in September 1995 and still felt like an alien in social situations. I’m grateful to have the chance to work on me alongside others in the engine room of life and to understand it’s never done. Harry was home on winter layover in February when I was born. This week, my mom told me a sweet story about him and me from that time. You know where I tucked it. Thirty years have passed since I last saw him. Love to the man who sent me three new photos. *** “His car isn’t built for chases, but neither is Katagiri.” With the speed of a bullet train, a new car drove into my heart this week. I’ve been watching Tokyo Vice on Kanopy using my Toronto Public Library card. The city as the backdrop is seductive. Then there is the character of Detective Hiroto Katagiri, who drives a Nissan Fairlady Z S130. Is there a word for swoon in Japanese that fits the man and the car? Here it is in my favourite colour. It will require a cover for half the year unless you live in California. Imagine the thrill of the first spring drive. Wally Dion's art is stunning. *** Patrick Watson is a gorgeous fit here. I’d be playing the KEXP performance by Gregory Alan Isakov in that car. He loves food and farming and talks about it at the end. 20122023 - KEXP 🤟Comments are closed.
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