Knitnut.net. Watch my life unravel...
|
Posted by Zoom! on September 24, 2007, at 6:39 am |
 Sunday morning, like most Sunday mornings, the Ottawa Sun was blowing all over the neighbourhood. They’ve been giving newspapers away on Sundays by tossing them onto everybody’s stoop, where the wind immediately separates them into individual sheets and blows them into gardens and gutters. I took a picture and emailed it to the Sun.
But that’s not what this post is about. (Fooled you, eh?) This post is about some of the headlines I saw as I was gathering the mess. It appears that the Sun is interested in keeping crack on the front burner.
The media, in my opinion, has been a bit weird about crack lately. It’s as if they’re trying to cover the problem, but they’re having trouble pinning it down. It’s all a bit contrived. It started with the Toronto Sun’s Christina Blizzard hallucinating countless crackheads and describing Ottawa as a city rotting at its core. Now the Ottawa Sun is sending reporters out with undercover officers who are conducting searches of people and not finding drugs. There was media coverage of a so-called “crack house raid” on King Edward Street a couple days ago which resulted in a number of people being evicted and searched, but none of them had any drugs on them. Even though no drugs were found, the media saw fit to call the place a crack house. (It sounded more like a flop house to me.)
Maybe I’m wrong, but I’m seeing the media doing all it can to shine the spotlight on a problem that may not be as big and widespread as the police say it is.
Here are two headlines from today’s Sun:
1. Vanier Starts Watch: Crack murder last straw for residents
Now if you saw “Crack murder last straw for residents” as a headline, wouldn’t you think this murder was committed recently, like yesterday or maybe last week? I would. I did. But, when I read the article online, it turns out the murder was committed last year.
Not only that, but when you read the article it becomes clear that some residents of Vanier – including the woman who started the neighbourhood watch program the article is about – blame the media for the bad reputation Vanier has acquired. Take this line: “The mother, who has lived in the area for three years, was particularly steamed that one news column “destroyed” the street and park.” The Sun, while quoting her, doesn’t seem to fully get that she’s blaming the media for the fact that her grown children are afraid to visit her because of what they’ve heard about Vanier. There’s a bit of a disconnect going on – is crack destroying the neighbourhood, or is crack-hype destroying the neighbourhood?
2. Time to address crack problem
This article opens with this line: “If you still aren’t convinced we have a crack cocaine problem here in Ottawa, just look at some of the news coverage from last week.”
There’s a circular argument for you. The Sun goes out of its way to pay special attention to crack all week and then uses the fact that it paid special attention to crack all week as proof that there’s a crack problem. This could work for anything, you know. The media jumps on a particular bandwagon (pit bulls, shark attacks, home invasions, school violence, crack) and reports every single instance it can find, giving the public the impression that it’s a terrible threat to our safety and well-being, and Something Must Be Done.
I’m not saying there’s no crack problem in Ottawa. There is a problem, and something should be done. We do need a treatment centre here. And not the one that Mayor O’Brien is proposing either, which would provide treatment only to addicted youth. We need one that provides treatment to any addict who wants it, regardless of age. And we need harm reduction programs to slow the spread of HIV and Hep C among addicts and the people they are involved with.
While I do acknowledge there’s a drug problem in Ottawa, I suspect the media – and the police – are amplifying it. The media has a role in defining and shaping social problems. Decisions are made about what is newsworthy and how news should be gathered. To go out in search of particular news (eg riding along in an unmarked car with undercover crack cops) indicates that the Sun has already decided crack is going to be in this week’s news, no matter what actually happens.
When the media starts hyping a problem, it builds anxiety and fear in the public, who in turn demands that “something be done.” That pressure gets transferred over to the politicans, and the mayor hires more cops, which is what he wanted all along. And seeing more cops out there tends to make the public feel a little safer.
But that perception is little more than an illusion, because hiring more cops does nothing to solve the drug problem. The crack cops seem to spend most of their time harassing addicts, which is ineffective. Addicts will do what they have to do to get what they need, just like everybody else. If we’re serious about solving the crack problem in this city, we’re going to have to be more open-minded and realistic about both the problem and its solutions.
Anyway, that’s what I was thinking about while I gathered up the pages of the Sun from my yard Sunday morning.
Posted by Zoom! on September 23, 2007, at 6:27 am |
 This sounds like an interesting and inexpensive way to see the world. (The link goes to an article on the NY Times site, which is now free but you do have to register and they do ask you nosy, off-putting questions.)
The article is about a social networking site called The Couch Surfing Project that allows travelers to find people who will let them sleep on their couch and who will introduce them to their city or town. You could travel around the world without ever staying in a hotel, motel or hostel. You could avoid all the guide book tourist traps and see how the locals live. Or, conversely, you could offer up your own couch and meet travelers from around the world.
At the end of the article, they liken it to the hitchhiking days.
Mark Ellingham, the founder of the Rough Guide travel guides, noted, too, that what couch surfing seems to diminish is the idea of the foreign country as a commodity to be sampled and purchased. “It sounds more empathetic than the old hippie-backpacker thing of seeing what you can get out of a place and moving on,†he said. “It reminds me of when everyone was hitchhiking, a practice that stopped in the 1990s either because of fear or a new affluence, or both. Hitchhikers were very committed, too. It’s a new idea but an old ethos.â€
I figure I hitchhiked about 15,000 miles in my youth. There’s no better way to see Canada. (Well maybe that train through the Rockies followed by the cruise up the west coast to Alaska might be better.) It’s kind of sad that people can’t hitchhike anymore…but on the other hand, I’m happy I got to experience it and greatly relieved that my son didn’t. I’d sleep a lot easier at night if he was couch-surfing than if he was hitchhiking.
There are 318,662 couch surfers in 31,238 cities in 220 countries. There are hundreds of people in Ottawa who are part of the Couch-Surfing Project. There are 20 in Newfoundland too, which is great because I want to go there. Thousands in London, thousands in France, 40 in Fiji, 17 in Iraq, 296 in Bangkok, 10 in Malawi. There are couches waiting for you all over this world!
(If you do go to the Couch Surfing Project site, be sure to click on Couchsearch! rather than using the search box on the home page.)
Posted by Zoom! on September 22, 2007, at 12:49 pm |
My sister Kerry is nine months and one week pregnant now. For the past few weeks I’ve been waiting for the call which will trigger my leap into action. At that point I will drop everything, call a cab, and race up to Old Chelsea, hopefully arriving in time to watch the baby emerge from her body.
Last time I just had to get from Rochester Street to Arlington Street, and I still didn’t make it in time. Nobody did: the midwife, my mother, the ambulance and my taxi all arrived at the same time, a mad convoy tearing down Arlington Street. Then we all dashed into her apartment, where we found her sitting in bed, holding wee Max who was seven minutes old and still attached by the umbilical cord. She hadn’t even had time to take her dress off. She’d barely had time to make a couple of phone calls and get into bed. In fact, she was climbing into bed when he was born, and she had to fish around in the folds of her dress to find him.
That was three years ago.
 I did make it in time for Arrow’s birth, seven years ago. She was in labour for about three hours then, I think. Arrow emerged just like magic. I saw her face peeking out, and then one little arm reached out, and then she slid right out. It was unreal. This is my favourite photo of Arrow and Max; I took it a couple of years ago at Christmas.
Kerry’s oldest, Tyren, was born in Toronto, after five hours of labour. You can see she has a rich history of efficient home birthing.
I think Kerry could get a job as a birth coach. She could show people how it’s done. Let’s say you were pregnant and freaking out because from everything you’ve ever heard, giving birth is sheer agony. You could just go over to Kerry’s house, light a few candles, put some nice music on, and she’ll say “ooh” a few times in a nice peaceful meditative way, and then a baby will come swimming out of her body. A few minutes later she’ll get up and put some tea on and make a cake, and you can have a nice party to celebrate.
You might still end up having a normal birth, like mine, but you’ll go through pregancy thinking it’s at least possible to have a quick, painless, pleasant birth experience.
When I was in labour I was convinced I was dying but the nurses and doctors were shielding me from the truth.
“It’s alright,” I pleaded with them between contractions, “I know I’m dying. Just tell me, okay? I can handle the truth.” And I was at peace with it too, because giving birth is sheer agony and dying doesn’t seem quite so bad when you’re in sheer agony.
My baby’s going to be 25 on Monday, by the way. He and his girlfriend and his father are all coming over for the birthday celebration tomorrow.
I’m betting Kerry’s baby arrives on James’ birthday, after an 11-minute labour.
Posted by Zoom! on September 20, 2007, at 7:59 pm |
Last week I was walking to work and there seemed to be more than the average number of crows around. I like crows, with their clever ways and beady eyes, and I thought to myself “Crows are my favourite birds.”
But the moment after I thought that, I saw two nuthatches.
“No wait!” I said to myself, “Nuthatches are my favourite birds.” I’ve never seen a nuthatch in the city before, but I had some up at my place near Wakefield. I like the way they run head-first down trees and the fact that they mate for life – two things I’ve never quite mastered myself.
I love the little chickadees too, with their buzzy little voices and their black caps and their friendly personalities. And I like the way evening grosbeaks come in huge flocks and just stay for a couple of days and make such efficient use of vertical space. And woodpeckers and tanagers and goldfinches and owls and cardinals – I like them too.
 But most of all I love Canada Geese. I feel an affinity for them, a special connection. Maybe it’s because of the time I almost died trying to save their lives. Or maybe it’s because of that poem, Something Told the Wild Geese, which I copied for the Carp Fair’s Handwriting Contest, which I lost to the girl with no arms. Or maybe it’s because of the time I was able to convince the ever-skeptical Orley that hummingbirds migrate south on the backs of Canada Geese.
Wherever it comes from, I do feel a connection to Canada Geese. And when I see them flying in V-formation, my heart gets a little bit bigger for a minute or two. (I imagine it’s the same way Americans feel when they see their flag, but without the element of propaganda.) I always stop what I’m doing and stand rooted in my tracks, watching with my slightly-bigger heart beating in my chest. It’s an awesome sight. (I wish that last generation hadn’t forever ruined the word awesome. It used to be such an awesome word.)
 Just so you know, I don’t feel that same affinity for Canada Geese when they’re on the ground – it’s hard to feel that way when you’re picking your way through their impressively large and slippery droppings.
Canada Geese are better here in Carlington than they were in Chinatown/Lebreton Flats. There were clusters of them on the bike path down by the river and also on the running track outside the War Museum. I used to run through them (and their droppings) early in the morning. I didn’t often seem them in flight.
 But here in Carlington they’ve got the Experimental Farm, and they fly around the neighbourhood. I wasn’t here last year at this time, so I didn’t realize until now that this was a prime Canada Goose gathering spot.
There’s been a lot of activity the last few days, but I don’t think it’s flocks leaving just yet – I think it’s small flocks consolidating into larger flocks, in preparation for the exodus. And I think maybe they go out on preparatory strength-training flights. (You can’t just fly to Florida when you’ve spent all summer waddling around the War Museum, you know.)
Anyway, I love that they fly low over my house every morning, honking. I don’t feel as melancholy as usual about them this Fall, because I feel like I’m in the thick of their preparatory activity. I’m part of it! I’m in the Zone!
(I think I’m really going to miss them when they’re gone though.)
Posted by Zoom! on September 19, 2007, at 8:46 pm |
Sometimes thoughts just drift in from nowhere. Like today: How many people have I lived with in my lifetime? I started counting them up, from birth onwards, and I think there were about 48. It’s hard to say exactly because there was a period in my teens when I lived in a 6-bedroom house on McLeod Street with a bunch of other people, and people were always moving in or out. Rent was only $58 a month each, plus utilities. I loved living there. The landlord lived in Toronto – we never actually met him at the time. But this summer I met him at a house-renovating/beam-raising event, and I learned that he spent some time in prison for hiding in a closet and then bursting out of the closet and throwing a corrosive substance on his wife’s lover’s more sensitive exposed bits.
Anyway. My mind wanders, eh?
So I’ve lived with about 48 people. Not bad for an introvert. And then I wondered how many addresses I’ve had. I think it’s 32. Almost all of them – since adulthood anyway – were within walking distance of downtown Ottawa. That’s because I’m a creature of habit. An introverted creature of habit. A non-driving introverted creature of habit.
I’m still a bit out of my element in Carlington. It’s about 8km to downtown Ottawa. I walk to work every morning, probably just to convince myself I’m still within walking distance of downtown Ottawa, and therefore Everything is Still Okay.
But that’s not the only reason I walk to work. I like it. It takes awhile – about an hour and fifteen minutes – but I like it. Here are my top 10 5 reasons for walking to work:
1. I like the speed the world goes by when I’m walking. I see all kinds of things I’d never see from a car or a bus. I’ve trained myself to be more observant by carrying a camera at all times.
2. I think I start meditating or something after about half an hour of walking. Maybe it’s not meditation, but it’s auto-pilot free-form, stream-of-consciousness thinking. I like it.
3. Walking is an excellent transition between home and work.
4. It takes me 75 minutes to walk to work. It would take me 40 minutes to take the bus to work. 75-40=35. For an investment of 35 minutes, I get 75 minutes worth of exercise.
5. It saves me money: $40 a month for bus tickets, plus about $45 a month for a gym membership.
Yesterday I was reminded again of the subjectiveness of reality. One of my coworkers is leaving to take a job with the government. At the office she’s moving to, there’s a waiting list for parking, but there’s a parking lot eight blocks away.
“Oh,” I said, “so you’ve got parking nearby, that’s great.”
“Nearby?!” she said, “It’s eight blocks away!”
“That’s nearby,” I said, “It’s just like walking around the block twice.”
“It’s at least 10 minutes each way,” she said, “So that’s 20 minutes out of my day, and my day already doesn’t have enough minutes in it.”
And then she started adding on the minutes waiting for the light to change, and the fact that it’s uphill one way, and factoring in the winter weather delays and so on. Those eight blocks seemed quite insurmountable to her.
I think my walk to work is about 62 blocks. I can practically smell the coffee once I get within eight blocks, so I just couldn’t relate to her distant parking lot angst. But it did make me remember that everything is relative.
Okay, that was a numerically rich and rambling blog post, wasn’t it?
Posted by Zoom! on September 17, 2007, at 5:22 pm |
Blaze Aid was a multi-bar fundraiser on Saturday for the victims of the fire at Somerset and Booth last month.
Thirty-one people were left homeless, but fortunately nobody died in this fire.
Here are a few pictures of the fire and its aftermath.
Do you remember the Thach family, most of whom died in a fire on Somerset Street in 2005? A memorial shrine sprung up for them overnight, and grew over the following weeks. It was right outside the buiding that just burnt down. Apparently Cambodian Buddhists believe that death is a journey, and you must still meet your earthly needs while you’re on that journey. That’s why they leave things for the deceased. Neighbours and friends and passers-by left things like basketballs and money and lights and food and toys and photographs and so on.
Now the backdrop for the shrine has itself been lost to fire.
 That corner of Chinatown looks and feels completely different without those buildings.
On the bright side, the people who live in this building, which used to be behind the building that burned down, now have lots of sunlight.
I attended Blaze Aid at Irene’s Pub. While I was there, someone announced that there was another fire burning at Somerset and Bronson. I figured Robin would be on the scene because he seems to have become the unofficial photographer of fires in Chinatown these days.
My friends Mike, Janet and Rebecca all joined me at Blaze Aid, and I ran into lots of people I hadn’t seen for a long time since I hadn’t been to Irene’s for almost a year.I still think of Irene’s as my neighbourhood pub even though I haven’t lived in that neighbourhood for sixteen years and I hardly ever go there anymore. It takes about an hour to walk there, and about an hour and a half to walk back.
But Saturday I didn’t walk back. I called a cab which never came, and then I took two buses.
I’m glad I did, because Weird Al Yankovic was on the #1. I wouldn’t have wanted to miss that.
 
A young woman got on the #14 at Parkdale and Gladstone. She looked scared, and two men tried to follow her onto the bus. The driver stood up and blocked their access. Then he came back and quietly asked her if they’d hurt her. She said no, but she was clearly upset. He returned to the front and told them to get off the bus. They did. But as they passed by her window, one of them called her a fucking retard. Nice.
I’ve been thinking. You know that worst-bus-route contest over at the Ottawa Citizen? Last time I checked, the #2 was winning, and my #14 was in second place. (Which just goes to show you how bad the #14 is – it can’t even win a race with the #2.)
But anyway, I was thinking, someone should run a contest for the Best Bus Driver in Ottawa. A bus driver can impact your day, for better or worse, by smiling or snarling at you, by doing the little extra things, or by refusing to let your tormenters follow you onto the bus. For people who live alone, often the first human interaction of the day is with the bus driver. A friendly smile and a cheerful “Good morning” can go a long way. I hear there’s a singing bus driver too. Maybe he’s the best bus driver in Ottawa?
I feel like I’m starting to sound like a little Beam of Sunshine now. I better stop before I burst into song. Or flames. Or something.
Posted by Zoom! on September 14, 2007, at 9:22 pm |
Once every four or five years, I buy a new computer. I’ve been doing that for about 20 years now. The first computer had 2 megs of RAM, dual floppy drives, no hard drive, and CGA colour. A year or so later I upgraded that computer to 4 megs of RAM, and it cost me about $300 to do that. There was a profound difference between 2 megs and 4 meg. (My current home computer has 512 megs of RAM. My work computer has 2,000 megs of RAM. It’s not nearly as much of a difference as there was between 2 megs and 4.)
Back then, when you bought a new computer, it was leaps and bounds better and faster than your old computer. Everybody I knew who had a home computer used to salivate over the new computers that were coming out, and we used to do a lot of comparing. We all knew exactly what we had (286, 386, 486, P75, P2, P3, etc) and how much memory and how much disk space and so on.
Now nobody talks about this stuff anymore. I can’t remember my computer’s specs. Every now and then I just go buy a new one when my old computer dies or can’t meet my evolving computer needs. The numbers aren’t that important anymore. A computer is a computer is a computer.
But I experienced computer envy this week.
 I was in training at Eliquo for a couple of days, and they just got brand new iMacs. These machines are so sleek and streamlined. There’s no box! There’s just a wide, slim monitor, and everything’s in there – the hard drive, all the ports (usb, firewire, etc), and the CD/DVD drive. I think there’s a webcam in there too. There’s a sexy silver keyboard and a mighty mouse, both wireless. There’s just one plug into the wall, and no tangle of peripherals and cords. See?
I’ve never used a Mac, but these things have two separate operating systems, one for PCs and one for Macs. You can run Windows and Windows software on it if you want.
I’m seriously thinking about getting an iMac the next time I need a new computer, which I expect will be within the next year. I know next to nothing about Macs, so I hope some of you might tell me what I oughta know before I make the decision.
Some of my concerns:
Will my current peripherals (camera, printer, scanner, GPS forerunner, backup unit, etc) work with the iMac?
Will my current files work with the iMac?
If I have both the Windows and OSX installed, can I work back and forth between them, or do I have to exit one OS to access the programs in the other? And are the files compatible between them?
Will I need to re-buy all my software?
How much of a learning curve is there?
How’s Apple’s service? (I see the closest Apple store is in Toronto…that’s not so good.)
Is the iMac made in China?
Is there anything else I should know?
Posted by Zoom! on September 12, 2007, at 7:02 pm |
I need to start journaling again, at least for awhile, and I’ve had two recent obstacles: lack of a journal and lack of a bedside table lamp. (I’m a bedtime journaler, and I don’t like having to get out of bed to turn the light off when I’m done writing in my journal.)
So the other day at lunchtime I went shopping and I bought milk, yogurt, bananas and a journal. It happened to be my first day of boycotting products made in China, but I completely forgot about that until AFTER I bought the stuff. Moments after purchasing the journal at Staples, I saw Megan on Bank Street, and seeing her reminded me that I was boycotting China. So I checked my bags, and fortunately the yogurt, bananas, milk and journal were not made in China. Phew.
Last night I went out for dinner with a friend and my friend had a car and he offered to take me to Canadian Tire to buy a lamp. Perfect. We arrived at Canadian Tire at 8:50, and made a beeline for the lamps. I found a nice little lamp for $12 and was heading for the cash when I suddenly remembered it had to be made Anywhere But China. I checked. Made in China.
We hastily returned to the lamp aisle and checked the origins of every single lamp, and every single lamp was Made in China. Meanwhile, the intercom was saying “Good evening Canadian Tire Shoppers. The store is closing now. Please take your items to the cash immediately. Thank you for shopping at Canadian Tire.”
As you can see, I was under intense pressure to make a critical split-second decision between ethical and practical considerations. I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but decision-making is not one of my stronger suits.
“You have no choice,” my friend said, probably in an effort to alleviate the pressure, “they’re all made in China, so you have to buy one that’s made in China.”
“There are other stores,” I said.
“None that are open,” he said, “and their lamps are probably all made in China too.”
“I do have a choice though,” I said, “I could not buy a lamp today. I could look for a lamp another day.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Or,” I said, “I could buy this Made in China lamp today and feel guilty about it.”
“Yes,” he said.
I decided to buy the lamp and feel a little bit guilty. And I decided to offset some of the guilt by telling myself that it would have been environmentally irresponsible to drive all over Ottawa looking for a lamp that wasn’t Made in China.
Posted by zoom! on September 10, 2007, at 8:32 pm |
Remember a few months ago I got a new brother? Well, my family expanded again this weekend, and now we’re part Jewish. I even ate a potato knish.
I went to my Dad’s place in Montreal this weekend, to get to know him better, and to meet his lovely third and final wife’s family. My sister went too, as well as my son and his girlfriend.
My Dad and Merle have been together for ten years now, but apparently Merle’s family only found out about us recently. We were a secret!
 Merle has three children and one of them – Amy – lives in Montreal. Her other daughter lives in BC and her son lives in California, so I haven’t met them yet. My new step-siblings have partners and children and stuff, so you can see this is a sigificant addition to my family. I liked all the ones I met, which is good because there’s nothing worse than suddenly acquiring a whole whack of bad relatives.
 Our family is wider than it’s tall, so we have a family vine instead of a family tree. I redrew my vine today to accommodate my latest siblings. I now have 11 current and former siblings. If you start in the middle of the diagram, you’ll find me (because I am the centre of my own universe). My siblings from my mother’s subsequent relationships (and her subsequent partners’ previous relationships) extend to the right. My siblings from my father’s subsequent relationships (and his subsequent partners’ previous relationships) extend to the left. My newest siblings are on the far left. (Click the picture for a bigger version.)
The only couple in the diagram who are still together are Dad and Merle, which is interesting because they’re the only couple in the diagram who never had kids together. Coincidence? Hmmm.
It probably sounds like I get new siblings all the time, but it actually doesn’t happen all that often. These might be the last ones I ever get. You never know.
 Oh, and did I mention the new granny? Her name is Nanny Sadie. She’s 91, sharp as a tack and funny. I like her a lot. And there’s a new niece too. Her name is Lexi. She’s 2, sharp as a tack and funny. I like her a lot.
 My Dad and Merle have a funny little dog with a big personality. Lola.
Everybody seems very nice, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with all these new relatives at this point. I guess we’ll have to figure that out. (At least they’re Jewish, so I won’t have to get them all Christmas presents, right?)
All in all, it was a lovely weekend full of interesting new people and good food. My Dad and I even ran together on Sunday. Just a couple hundred yards, but it was an impressive start. He used to run marathons. I think we should both start training and run a marathon together in 2009.
Oh! And something odd happened as we were leaving. We got in the car, and just as we were pulling out, we saw three teenagers chasing a skunk down the street!
Posted by Zoom! on September 8, 2007, at 11:01 am |
The Labour Day weekend this year was a gift of ideal weather to us in Ottawa. If I were to custom-order some weather, that’s exactly what I would order.
I wandered down to Fletcher’s Wildlife Garden and the Arboretum at the Experimental Farm twice on the long weekend: once on Sunday evening, again on Monday afternoon.
 The Arboretum, if you’re not familiar with it, is like an outdoor tree museum. Thousands of trees, all labelled, all well cared for. Many of them were purchased as gifts in memory of loved ones who died.
Anyway, I was wandering from tree to tree, reading their memorial plaques, and wondering about all these strangers who had died and all these other strangers who had chosen to immortalize their memories with trees. Mostly I was just wondering what their stories were, because the plaques are merely suggestive. They just give a hint of a much deeper and unknowable story.
 Take this one for example: Is Pleasure a person? A dog? A feeling?
Some of the trees were bigger and more established, while others were delicate little newcomers. Off in the distance, I saw a mighty oak, and headed for it.
It was astonishing. This photo does not do it justice, because there’s no sense of scale here. Each of those horizontal branches is about as big around as a regular tree’s trunk. One of the lower branches is supported by a beam. This is a crazy big tree.
 It reminded me of my favourite book when I was growing up: The Magic Faraway Tree, by Enid Blyton. There were all kinds of creatures living in the Magic Faraway Tree, in apartments in the trunk – the Saucepan Man, Moonface, Dame Washalot, Mr. Whatsisname. And at the top of the tree, there was a passageway to other worlds, which rotated in and out. One day it might be the Treacle Toffee World, and the next day it might be Upside-Down World. Some of the worlds were spectacularly good, others were menacing.
This is what the mighty oak tree at the Arboretum reminded me of. I sat on the bench to think for a bit, and that’s when I saw the plaque.
 The mighty oak is Ardeth Wood’s tree. Ardeth, “whose death touched the heart of a city.” I never knew Ardeth, but I felt that shock of recognition, like when you unexpectedly come across the obituary of someone you know in the paper.
What could I remember of her? That she was 27 years old, that she was a PhD student at Waterloo, that she disappeared in the middle of the day while cycling along a bike path in Ottawa, that her body was found days later, that she had been raped, that years later a man was charged with her murder. Those are the facts.
I remember the feelings much more acutely than the facts. They all came rushing back at me as I sat under Ardeth’s tree while two little chipmunks chased each other around its mighty trunk.
I also thought about several other young women who were raped and murdered in Ottawa, but promptly forgotten because they were prostitutes rather than PhD students. Melinda Sheppit, Kelly Morrisseau, the woman whose body was found behind Puzzles on Richmond Road, others whose names I’ve forgotten. The ones whose deaths didn’t touch the heart of a city.
I’m glad Ardeth has a tree though.
|
|
Sunday morning, like most Sunday mornings, the Ottawa Sun was blowing all over the neighbourhood. They’ve been giving newspapers away on Sundays by tossing them onto everybody’s stoop, where the wind immediately separates them into individual sheets and blows them into gardens and gutters. I took a picture and emailed it to the Sun. 
Popular Posts