Everyone was out in the street taking pictures of this gigantic rainbow that stretched from the harbour clear up the hill where I live and talking to each other about how great it was. The rainbow hung for ten to fifteen minutes, dark navy at both edges with bright yellow light in the centre where the bow was. Got to find a reason to use this picture elsewhere. Never seen such a big rainbow.

Parades, the inebriated kicking your garbage can into the middle of the street where it is then struck multiple times by various vehicles, knife fights (well, in my neighbourhood anyway) and military tactics, training the soon to be sent overseas in handling city manuevers. Yes, this is rare except in a town that houses Westpoint or Canada’s equivalent, RMC.

Our city recycling program includes composting. Here’s a picture of our fliptop bins, (next to the frequently stolen lawn chair, #15). Normally the lid is closed, honest.
Those who see themselves as too classy for littering, open the top and drop their coffee cups, beer cans, fast food wrappers and boxes, homework, styrofoam cups and what have you, inside. Then close it back up.
Thinking I’ve got everything sorted, I wheel the bin to the curb only to have it sit unpicked up, due to the contents. Resorting to the usual signage seemed to give me more trash than before, as those who hadn’t considered where to dump their stuff found it an ideal place.
In the city, your stuff outside is their stuff. At night they sit on the lawn chairs, leaving their drink cans and coffee cups behind. The alternative is a massive vestibule where I haul everything in and out, morning and night. Uh uih.
Do I find this amusing. Deed I do.

Funeral home half a block away, active church across the street, entertainment venue at the end of the fence – everybody interested in parking across the driveway.
Early on I scrounged an orange metal NO PARKING sign from some student trash which I put out now and then in a pinch. Knowing where it came from, I realize it could always be swiped again so I’m careful. Basically you just have to make your peace with the cars and drivers. We’ve only had to tow twice.

There’s my orange sign, looking entirely official but wholly my own, undoubtedly swiped by the students from whom I got it.

Not apparent in this picture of my house is the big crack over the front door after a passing trucker lost control and plowed into the front (before I bought it). Hence the covering vine.

Not just car traffic but foot traffic too, (usually inebriated). Some of it inclined to vandelism (hence a new windshield on the car). Others brought along a shovel and dug up some Bergamont. Increased traffic means a larger percentage of lawless types.
However, it also means more stories. As a writer, where I live is invaluable. If I have a column due, someone will usually do something worth writing about before the deadline. Living on the corner with my front door aimed at the intersection says it all. Thanks, downtown.

Tune: No Place Like Home For the Holidays

Lots of better places than home
for the holidays
Maybe best to stay far away and roam
If you usually have a hard time there
on holidays
Think twice before you call that place your ‘home.’

2)Sure everyone deserves a home but media
Have snuck schmaltz in where reality should be
Nobody’s home’s a picture perfect paradise
Check the Christmas misery site – you will agree

3) Grieve that home that never was (without self pity)
You survived now you can make one of your own
Find a friend and then a brand new way to celebrate
Mean something special now when you say ‘going home.’

These perils aren’t in any particular order though once I’ve got a list, I may go back and rearrange them by annoyance level. Right now it’s this doorsign being swiped. Passersby, used to gawking at shops see something in your yard or on your door worth swiping. Queen’s university is nearby and sometimes the students are doing scavenger hunts with my former bookshop, now my home, prominently marked.
For naps and deep thoughts, these doorsigns matter but must be replaced regularly. I could consider their swiping a compliment as to my wit but I’d rather have the sign.
When we find one gone, my husband says, hopefully; “It’s just the wind.” But we never find it lying around against the curb or in the neighbour’s yard. No, it’s the souvenier hunter-lightfingered walker who wasn’t properly brought up. A hazard of being too close to the street. But given the stories of the street which I may encounter on my doorstep, I wouldn’t move for the world!
Mostly I think they regard a sign asking them not to swipe it, as a challenge.

What a Christmas present for a retired bookseller! The gracious individuals who know me well sent this magnificent tapestry just before Christmas. I took it down to the pool and hung it up in the locker room to photograph the details.
It was woven in the Blueridge Mountains of North Caroline by an Association of Mutual Wordworkers and Weavers, according to the tag. I’m going to look them up on line and post their address here on my blog. They deserve recognition for a tremendous idea, well-conceived and executed, which I would never have seen had not extremely insightful individuals found them and put us together!
By the way, it is also warm and cozy. Today here in Canada on the shore of Lake Ontario it is minus 15. In the city.

Tongue 10 from Laurel Reed Books is out in all its profundity and entertainment. This brilliant 26 page starkly black & white chapbook begins with a quote from Joe Louis on the inside page: “Everyone has a plan until they get hit.”

Much of the text is Letterplay. There’s a proper poetic name for this sort of beautiful word dance which Kemeny himself surely knows. All I can do is admire the way certain pages are put together. Especially the way Derek Beauliu’s work cavorts.

Matthew Frederick George’s Typographical letter is memorable.

There is a lengthy list of contributors. It is an honour to be in a Kemeny Tongue, among such company.

Babineau makes contemporary work accessible and a pleasure to read. Tongue 10 is a keeper to put beside your Atwood and your Ignatiff, telling yourself that fun, literacy and the poetry scene can intermingle and give you the sensation of a great party on the page.
On the back is the program for the 2nd Louis-Schmeling fight.

You’ll always have a good time in a Babineau Tongue. Order one for yourself at 2011 Laurel Reed Books, 206 Ellis Ave, Mt Pleasant, On N0E 1K0. I don’t know the price. Be sure to include postage for a 26 pager.

This is the hem of my red dress and the holly decorations I fastened to my green rubber shoes with two-sided tape for the last Christmas push. I wore them to lead the singing of my peace & justice carols down at city hall on Friday, the day before Christmas Eve.
On Thursday, carolers came and sang my cat & dog carols to me on a fine but snowless winter night.
I posted sobriety carols on as many AA websites as I could find and spread out my stress carols wherever I could. In between I made shadow box cards. On Saturday I made Shirley Poupres lemon and ginger sweet potatoes and the next day a turnip souffle with celiac bread crumbs on top (much yummier than it sounds).
Even though I was as distressed as ever by the season, it all helped. I shared how I felt with anyone I thought might be having the same problems while encouraging those who simply LOVE the season to go on enjoying it without feeling guilty. Then I read up to #258 on the Miserable Christmas site, sobbed a bit and made it through. The only scratches are internal. I was much helped and supported by my Santa-looking husband wearing his lovely grey gnome hat who was there holding me up at every turn.
It is possible to survive the season and perhaps even do some good here and there. I shall reread this next Christmas and remember…