 I went through a period in my late 30s where I was trying to figure out what my relationship was to having children. Facing the fact that whatever choice I made would be for forever. Feeling the medical pressure of being at a crossroads where ideal biological conditions and being single met. Approaching the reproductive cul de sac. I made a decision of golden proportions. I chose no children. It was not a flighty-uninformed-selfish-crazy-hasty-flip-of-the-switch decision like I don’t know how to live my life. I gave it thoughtful consideration. I could care less about most opinions on the issue. How soon can we colonize Mars with the people who are emotional wrecks over my right to choose? My parents knew the strength of my spirit. I did not feel a great pressure to be anything else but me. But there were no era-marking celebrations for me. I will never tie a paper plate of bows to my head or unwrap a breast pump. To the pronatalist, I’m a loser. That reminds me of one of my heroes, Lisa Simpson. I knew enough to leave my heart open to have relationships with children and parents. There are aspects of a family I need. And I’m a lesson for people who hold a stereotype of mature women — like we’re all Stepford Wife-style grey-haired grannies. I’m a challenge to some and that’s something to be proud of. My mom would come to terms with never having grandchild news — a sometimes toxic, highly competitive landscape she’s been spared. She adjusted nicely. But I understand the loss too when I think of the pleasure of holding my grandfather Harry’s calloused hand. I’m thrilled with how it worked out. Squeezing into the hetero-patriarchal mold is not all that, amen. *** When I see Borlotti beans in their pods, it takes me straight back to my dad. We’d buy a bushel basket at the Centre Mall market in Hamilton on a Saturday morning around this time of year and then spend a few hours in the afternoon shelling. The feel of the velvet talcum residue on the pods — dirt from the field transferred to my hands. Driving country roads past bean fields that look apocalyptic just before harvest. Store fresh beans in the freezer. They cook up tender quick and are best simmered with loads of vegetables and herbs. A note for some cooks and bakers, it’s time to fill up your wallet and buy the dried ingredients to macerate for fruitcake. Get the best you can afford and mess around with flavors. Even an economy model fruitcake is a work of wonder. My magic mix includes dried cherries, currants, apricots, golden raisins, Flame raisins, candied ginger, and peel. I’m team rum. Also, start thinking about fruitcake’s favorite side squeezes — aged cheddar and quality milky tea. *** September is for Dahlia lovers. Here too. This wins Instagram this week. This six part podcast tracing Joni Mitchell's career is fantastic. Her commitment to the creative process and her indomitable spirit are something to admire. *** I’m thinking about the voices of North American protest. I began with women when I shared a few tracks of Roberta Flack’s Compared to What as a high watermark a few weeks ago. At the tenth hour, I was offered a single ticket to see Joan Baez at Roy Thomson Hall in 2018. (Come to Toronto for our stellar music venues.) A great deal of intimate enrichment happens when you go to a cultural event alone. It’s a good practice and I felt full up on her music that night. She’s in a top spot here for good reason. One of many voices from the March on Washington. Stevie Wonder with the Jackson Five giving it to Richard Nixon and playing his fingers over the keyboard like butterflies while we all groove. Seeing the back of some “politicians” is sweet. Willie Dunn's baritone voice, guitar and words. 196319741971Comments are closed.
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