To a Funeral

A relative in Quebec died last week. When the call came, my mother, uncle, sister and uncle piled into a car and made the long journey down the 401 to Drummondville, about one hour west of Montreal. Normally, a trip like this would take weeks, even months to plan because everyone has schedules to keep and plans they cannot break. But when death happens, people move.

The journey to Quebec along this particular stretch of four lane highway is also to travel down the timeline of my family's history. The majority originally derived from the Eastern Townships and then, over the years and political crises, we traveled west along that dark band of asphalt to towns and cities, like dots on a map.

We are making good time, the traffic is light, and there are clouds and rain in the back window, blue sky through the windshield. I know this route well, having passed from Toronto to Montreal to visit family during summer vacations to North Hatley or skiing at Orford in the winter.

I know the road's anatomy like an old friend: the big curve before Kingston, the flat grey rocks, and the pink Canadian Shield near the Thousand Islands. The Tim Horton's and McDonalds and Petro Canada's where people and their cars come to eat. The Big Apple. Division Road. Husky Diner. I could fall asleep, wake up and know exactly where I am without ever seeing a sign. To most, it's not spectacular landscape: no mountains, no waterfalls, not even a great flat plain. It's farmland and swampland separated by patches of forest and small brooks. Busted old barns and fields with cattle. A few big-box stores, and white bungalows surrounded by acres of green. Some would even call it boring. But it's home.

"There's our farm..." says my grandmother.

Just outside of Morrisberg, we pass an old white farm house beside a low red barn covered in vines. She says that's the farm that her great great great great great grandfather bought in 1812 when he came to fight the Americans during the war as a British officer. They used to dig out old cannon balls when the ploughed the fields. On the other side of the highway, is the farm where she grew up. She points to a road and says she went to school down near the end.

"It's all underwater now... after they build the seaway," she says. "Dad would take us there on the horse-drawn sled."

"This highway used to be a train track," says my mother. "We used to put pennies on the rails and make them flat when the trains passed."

But no one we knows lives at these places anymore. We've moved down the highway over the years, usually at 120-kilometers an hour.

Just a blur.

Everybody Loves Clouds

We've all done it: Sitting there in the park, you look up, and watch the clouds. You are 3-years old, you are 30-years-old. You might be in between meetings, rushing to the next appointment, when your eye catches a piece of the sky filled with clouds. And for that instant you are amazed, delighted or even terrified. The blue sky, from dark to light, covered in brushstrokes of white and grey. Moving slowly or not moving at all. Each glimpse is different, each cloud a different shape. Now, in the beginnings of autumn, the light brings these clouds to life.

So, if you've forgotten your love of clouds. Take a look today. I've started paying more attention to them these days. Even when I am at work, behind a half-inch sheet of glass, i can look out the window and see the couds scroll past over the office towers. They follow nobody's rules.

All this cloud love-in stuff has been inspired by a new book "The Cloudspotters Guide" by Gavin Pretor-Pinney. It's 320-page tongue-in-cheek field guide to the those floating floats above. It combines science with poetry and ancient lore to give you the facts and the eye for appreciating clouds.


"Although cloudspotting is an activity best undertaken with time on your hands, it is something that everyone can enjoy. Clouds are the most egaltarian of Nature's display, since each of us has a good view of them, so it really doesn't matter where you are."

The Lobby That Wasn't

Walking to work today, I passed a small parkette beside a construction site. There was a man lying on a bench, covered in an old brown sleeping bag with just the tips of his shoes sticking out. He had a pull cart piled up with matching, if somewhat battered, luggage parked by his side. A small plastic bag was carefully draped over the handle. Cars and trucks rushed passed. People on their way to work. A big blue sky and morning light everywhere. It looked like he missed his flight out of town - a flight that was never rescheduled.

A paddle

The whole weekend it rained. I would look out from the farm house window to gauge the sky. But each day, each hour it was another shade of grey. Drops of rain would come and go. It was the remnants of a tropical storm that seemed to linger over my weekend plans like a wet towel.

On the final day of the long weekend, I said screw it, I'm going paddling rain or shine.

I hauled the dusty canoe from the barn, loaded it onto the back of the Dodge, and roared down the gravel road to the Epping bridge. Despite the rain on the windshield, I continued.

The river was calm, reflecting the skyline and the trees along the banks in a perfect sheet of polished glass. I shoved off from the shore and paddled upstream, the blade knocking against the gunnels scaring out the beavers and birds from the forest. It has been a dry August, the water was low but the grasses were high. The river is never the same. The water was smooth and slow, making it easy to push far upstream. I followed a beautiful white cormorant that watched from fallen branches, the only pure white thing in this mucky landscape of greens and browns. A gaggle of geese left the bank, slapped their wings on the water and shot off into the sky.

The rain held off -- until I stated to turn back. Suddenly a black cloud passed over the river. I could hear the rain coming through the trees, closer and closer. The drops shattered the mirrored surface and tapped against the canoe. Deluge. And it felt great. I shouted "wooo!" and pushed on, knowing there was no way out. I just had to keep going. This was the first time I had not seen a human object, thing or sound all summer. I could have paddled forever.

Doris

Tonight I helped my mother move an Ez-Chair from her friend Doris' place. Dorris is 90-years-old and lives in a retirement home not far from my apartment. Doris has no memory and no recognition of anyone around her.

"She probably thinks I'm a tree," says my mom.

Since March, Doris has been belted into a wheel chair when she wants to get out of bed. The Ez-Boy is now getting in the way, so we are giving it to charity.

"Can you imagine," says my mom, "this is a lady who has a masters degree in arts and has traveled all over the world. She did everything..."

Doris never had any children. Her husband died 25 years ago. And she's been by herself every since. My mom goes to help her out from time to time. Doris' husband was famously rich. Forest Hill, that sort of thing. Now, upon each visit she asks my mom to kill her.

"I'm sorry Doris..."

We sign in at the front desk, pass through the sliding doors and up the elevator to the second floor. There is fluorescent light and the smell of disinfectant. We're on the second floor walking. I look down the hall and a lady is asleep in her wheel chair, her mouth slack. We pass a man sitting in his doorway, he is looking straight ahead, never lifting his eyes. His hands are blotchy, veins are dark blue. At the end of the hall there is a lounge; Toy Story is playing on the television. Everything seems very clean. As we pass each room, dolly in hand, we catch a glimpse into these places: A single lamp, with a lacy shade from their last home, propped up on the bland institutional side table. A set of fine glasses. A vase.

"There's Doris," says mom.

Doris is in a wheel chair, in a circle with other people around her, all watching television. I don't remember what it was playing. Doris looks up, here eyes still bright.

"Hi Doris, how are you?"
"Oh fine."
"You look beautiful in your new dress," says my mom.

Doris is wearing a printed snap up dress, a blue blazer. She has light blue eyes. Hair done up pretty. My mom helps retie the bow on her collar.

"Do you remember my son Mike"
"Oh, yes."

We leave and go to Doris' room. It's a hospital here, just a little more fancy. Doris has two beds, one is unmade. She has oil paintings on the wall, expensive ones that used to line the rooms of her home. We move the beds to slide the Ex-Chair to the door. All the lamps cords are atteched to strings so she can turn on the light. Only time she gets to leave this place is to the hospital. Maybe pushed around the block in her chair.

We're walking back to the common area. The chair is on the dolly. My mom says good bye.

"Have a good long weekend," I say to Doris... Or want to say. Or should not have said. Or... just act normal right?

I feel stupid.

Each door we pass through to leave is locked. We have to enter a code each time. A nurse tell us where the exit is as she folding the piles of bleached sheets.

"Please don't let me get to this stage," mom says.

This is a world I have never seen, only thought about once in a while (with a great amount of fear and loathing).

"This place is the best of the best though," my mom says. "It's $5,000 a month here."

We go to the elevator but there is no button to press. We have to wait for the nurse to come back. The button is under the front of their desk, hidden. It's a secret exit.