Norwegian theatrical release poster

Our son walked over to the local library branch, taking along his father's library membership card.  Although we haven't had a working television set in the house since the changeover to digital transmission a year and a half ago, we do use an old television set to view films for entertainment, once a week.  Our son is a movie buff, he is interested in repertoire-type films, and those are, for the most part, European, not American films.

He's primarily interested in human interaction, not violent action which mostly characterizes American films with their penchant for unrealistic and nihilistic violence, conspiracy-secret-agent-apocalyptic-types, close-up sexual encounters and viewer titillation, not explication.  The explicitly mindless is not attractive to the thinking mind.

In any event, we viewed the Norwegian film A Somewhat Gentle Man in its understated mordant humour and contextual gentle undertones with interest.  The transition from imprisonment as state punishment for cold-blooded murder, to becoming once again a free man illustrated through this screenplay the manner in which people are vulnerable to thinking they are free, despite malevolent and often happenstance manipulation by others and by events proving them to be anything but free.

Despite which people do have free will and do have the capacity to challenge the various pressures brought upon them to behave in a manner that others expect them to.  The main figure in this piece had a decided mind of his own and his brutality was leavened by his obvious empathy for others.  The risible comedy of a succession of women playing the sexual aggressor, roles generally reserved for the male gender, while amusing, was also disturbing in its own casual brutality of both reality and romanticism.

Strand Releasing

Jannike Kruse and Stellan Skarsgard in “A Somewhat Gentle Man.” 

It was, as billed, a dark comedy built upon an authentic enough dilemma of human need, emotional dependence and the vicissitudes of fate and fortune.

The visual aspect of filming in a northern advanced society displays, to North American sensibilities, an urban landscape whose industrialized technology encapsulates and describes even its grim architecture.  Elsewhere northern landscapes are portrayed with the softening effects of an urban genteel feel, complete with domestic architecture of some charm.  Absent here, in the spare, sparse functionality of Norwegian society.

There is a bleakness in the overall portrayal of general society there, which may or may not entirely reflect what does pertain.  But there is no element of charm within it whatever; it seems grim and forbidding.  

Aside from which the film was an excellent production of its appealing genre.  Excellent acting on all counts, and the portrait of a conflicted, complex mind engagingly and convincingly (slyly and professionally) portrayed by its principle actor, Stellan Skarsgard.

When we first moved to this area over forty years ago, and our children were young, we made our second home in Gatineau Park, acquainting ourselves with its lakes and forests, its substantial hills and valleys and the diversity of its wildlife which we were privileged over a long period of time to view and to embrace as a portion of our heritage. 

From hummingbirds to Indigo buntings, chickadees to vultures, ravens to nuthatches and Pileated woodpeckers, we became familiar with the birds and the many fawns we would see in pairs or accompanied by their does in the spring; majestically horned bucks in the winter when the snow was piled high.

From spring to fall we would hike the remote forested semi-wilderness trails and canoe the wonderful lakes.  We picked berries in season, from wild raspberries on to blueberries, raspberries and blackberries and even once rose haws, to make jam with.  Occasionally coming across bear scat, our rivals for the berries.  And we did come across black bears as well, brief encounters during which neither the bear nor we were invested in deepening our acquaintanceship.

In remote areas of that wonderful wilderness, we came across beaver kits disporting themselves in the shallow lake of a beaver pond, calling out in pure animal joy to one another with shrill little yelps as they seemed to dive off a floating log into the pond; unaware of our presence quietly hidden a behind nearby copse of trees.

In the winter we would float on fresh powdery snow, thickly laid and ephemeral beyond beauty that can be described in a wonderland of crisp white, the sun glinting off the crystals, as we literally walked on air descending a height from which we had encountered a sturdy horned buck surprised at our incursion into his domain, angrily confronting us, repeatedly pawing the ground before him until his hoofs had displaced enough snow to spark off the rocks beneath.

We saw a great snowy owl sitting high in the bare branches of a tree one particularly icy, windy winter day, marvelling at its sheer size and disinterest in our gawping presence.  We came across a descending-order family of raccoons covering the outstretched bough of trees more than once, and once, while canoeing, a family of tiny muscovy ducklings that had completely covered a rock in Lac la Peche dissolved into a dive as we approached in our canoe.  We heard loons and their lunatic cry, dipping and diving in the lakes as we proceeded, and watched great blue herons descend to the periphery of the lake.

We saw salamanders, toads frogs and snakes which our son would gently grasp and bring to us to examine at close range, handing us a snake with precise instructions how best to hold it and feel its steely musculature.  We did get lost a few times on trails that hadn't been used or blazed in generations, but found our way back eventually.

Our familiarity with the place was our comfort, our escape, our haven in nature, and we loved it, even marvelling at the scene of a deer skeleton picked clean on a bank of Meach Lake.  We watched as deer reared up on hind legs to reach apples hanging low on a wild apple tree.  We once picked garlic on an island that had obviously once hosted a settler's home.  We even came across an asparagus plant at the side of a remote trail.  And the wild shallots which are protected by law were occasionally fair game when we wanted to taste their fresh appealing spring taste, popping up on the forest floor around tree trunks.

We never did get lost, however, to the extent that two people did this past week-end, setting off on snowshoes and finally being rescued by two men who embarked on a search for them after being informed at 9:30 in the evening by another pair who had set out with the lost ones, that their friends appeared to have become lost somewhere along the Wolf Lake trail.  They were eventually evacuated, suffering from a degree of hypothermia, exhaustion and in the case of the man, an injured leg.

Gatineau Park was always far more kind to us in our countless forays into its fabulous natural depths.

Yesterday, the snow was cleared away.  The snow pack that remained, the result of two 30-cm snowfalls a week apart, provided a challenge to negotiate as best we could.  We hadn't been able to venture out the day of the storm, into the ravine for our usual walk, although our son did get out and managed our usual circuit.  I'd never have been able to endure the physical stress, without the trails having first been tamped down by others braving the elements.

I am now, officially, chronologically, 76 years of age, and what I was able to accomplish at age 40, 50 or even 60 is not what I can now manage to do; the spirit is willing but the physical resources become strained beyond capacity.  When we did venture out yesterday, it was difficult enough because as many people who had been out hadn't succeeded in doing much other than shifting the burden of snow about.  So we forged our way through the ravine on our usual route, shifting ourselves through the snow, fumbling downhill kicking up loose snow as we went, and trudging uphill, quite exhausting my physical resources in the process, slowing me down considerably.

It was cold, the high of minus-8 complicated by a stiff wind.  But the beauty of our surroundings was incomparable; the trees heavily laden with puffs of snow, and since the sun was out, looking in that direction one saw sparkles of light glinting, gleaming off the branches limned with ice.

The tapestry of winter at its most magnificent.

We've shovelled ourselves out of mountains of snow, and expecting far more to blanket our near environment before the week is out.  It was ever thus, and no one is ever prepared quite, to deal with it all.  And there is plenty of it, this year as every year.

It came down, a thick veil of white fluff, continually yesterday.  No sense clearing it away until it has exhausted itself and moved on.  So the strategy is to wait until the snow has almost finished its blanketing of everything that lay beneath the chenille-fluffed sky, and yesterday after snow tumbling down throughout the night and into the day, that time did not arrive until just before dinnertime.

But in the wee hours of the morning, around one o'clock, the municipal plough finally came by and it did its job, clearing the street.  Late, because there are so many thoroughfares that rate a high priority, unlike a quiet, backwater street like ours.  And it is just our luck, as well, that our house is located precisely at the far curve of the street as it does its u-turn, and we are gifted with a hip-high bank of snow.

Except it isn't just snow.  Depending on the humidity level it is compressed to almost-ice conditions, comprised of great, heavy disks and rough boulders of snow.  That require maximum effort to lift and shovel away.  My husband knows if he leaves it all for morning, descending temperatures will make the mess practically immovable, so he went out after one and shovelled it all out then. 

Declining to use the mechanical snow thrower in respect of the hour and our neighbours' sensibilities.

Photo by Masa Abe

We never did climb Mount Fuji, the volcanic mountain that could be seen in the background if you knew which street to stand on; Aoyama Dori, for example, afforded a glimpse of it, but we never aspired to climb it.  We did, though, climb other mountains surrounding Tokyo.  We had joined the Tokyo chapter of Friends of the Earth, and they made arrangements for their members to meet at gathering points and then proceed to a point where we could embark on a day-ascent of a mountain.

We would excitedly await the arrival of Saturday morning and set off around seven to catch a succession of buses, trains, subways to take us to the gathering point.  There another, chartered bus awaited us to drive us out of the sprawling suburbs of that giant city to small surrounding towns where our chosen trailhead was located and we would set off on an ascent of a half-day's duration.

We were fifty years old at that time, and my enthusiasm often led me to spontaneous bursts of energy, and even though I was the oldest person in the group comprised of foreigners from Germany, Canada (us), Australia along with an ebullient group of local Japanese, I would tend to lead the pack.  And then, unable to sustain the pace, I would begin to fall back, exhausted, grateful for a rest when everyone would position themselves within the forest on the mountain we were ascending, to take a break and enjoy a snack.

Once we climbed through a bamboo forest and it was beautifully ephemeral and otherworldly seeming, with the placement of Japanese stone lanterns here and there among the bamboo trees.  Sometimes our climb would be interrupted by a visit to a traditional tea house and we would experience another kind of serenity; the tea ceremony.  We would sometimes see signage warning to look out for monkeys, though we never did catch a glimpse of any. Sometimes there would be signage that the trees we were passing near the summit were thousand-year-old Ginkgos.  Once, there was a temple atop a mountain, with a pair of giant sandals hung on display, said to have been worn by a Buddha who had passed that way on his journey from India to China.

Twenty six years later, I still find it difficult to restrain myself, wanting to forge ahead faster than is intelligent, rather than conserving strength in a more moderate way that would not end up in physical exhaustion of near collapse. 

You Kidding Me?

			Anders, E.; Owen, T.
Abstract:	An investigation is conducted concerning the factors which are responsible for the tenuous nature of the Martian atmosphere in comparison to the terrestrial atmosphere, taking into account new data obtained in connection with the Viking missions. It is found that Mars was poor in volatiles from the start and fell further behind earth by less complete outgassing, by extensive retrapping, and by the partial loss of lighter gases. Attention is given to noble gases on earth and Mars, the condensation of noble gases and other volatiles, the sources of earth's volatiles, the bulk composition of earth, the release of volatiles from earth, clues to the volatile endowment of Mars, an abundance table for Mars, a comparison of terrestrial and Martian conditions, isotopic data on noble gases, xenon-129 on Mars and earth, possibilities concerning the loss of an early Martian atmosphere, the evolution of the atmosphere of Mars, conditions in the case of planet Venus, and the reasons for the poorness of small planets in volatiles.
Collection:	NASA
NASA Center:	NASA (Unspecified Center)
Publication Date:	Nov 4, 1977
Publication Year:	1977
Document ID:	19780029203

Beg pardon?  What is this technical jargon?  And what, in partiucular is Xenon 129?  Ah, I see.  Radioactive isotopes usually prsent after a nuclear reaction.  Now that's strange.  This is, um...a technical paper from NASA?  Right; NASA Technical Reports Server, no hoax, then?

That's Saturn up there, not Mars.  A gaseous planet, incapable of hosting life forms.  But Mars perhaps did, once.  Who knows?  There, that's Mars.  Looks a little like Earth, doesn't it, if you squint, eyes half-closed.  That's a polar ice-cap on top of the sphere.  Oops, like Earth again.  And then, there's absurd speculation like this:

Report of Findings of Life on MARS

Copyright © 1997 by Vincent DiPietro

SPECULATION OF LIFE ON MARS

There have been several significant discoveries which point to the possibility that intelligent ancient life may have existed on Mars about 1.5 billion years ago. There are several research papers (many published years ago) and discoveries to backup this claim. It is timely to bring forth once again these scientific facts which have been virtually suppressed or rejected by so called "academicians" and concomitant peer inquisition. 

Here on Earth, there is currently active intelligent contemporary life.  Just how intelligent it is is a matter of huge speculation when an Apocalyptic-obsessed theocracy like the Islamic Republic of Iran eagerly awaits the arrival of the Hidden Mahdi to usher in the End of Times or the beginning of celebration for the righteous which designation includes worthiness-monopolistic Iranian Shia Muslims.  A theocracy willing to hasten that world-shattering event through its determination to succeed in mastering the scientific-technical expertise it needs to produce nuclear bombs.

 
Dr. John Brandenburg, is a senior propulsion scientist at Orbital Technologies Corp.  Brandenburg's paper was published by the 42nd Lunar and Planetary Science Conference in 2011. His Books - LIFE AND DEATH ON MARS: THE NEW MARS SYNTHESIS  DEAD MARS, DYING EARTH. 

Isn't the world just full of conspiracy and end-of-days nutballs?

Merry Christmas, Goodwill and Peace on Earth

From the pedestrian to the sublime, Jews have made an inordinate impact on this world we inhabit.  As musicians, artists, scientists, philosophers, statesman, medal healers; in every sphere of discovery, performance, and human relations.

Yet throughout history from its recorded beginnings to the present time Jews have represented the ultimate scapegoat for whatever seems to go awry in this world, the perennial pariah.  There are only 13.5-million Jews in a greater population of 7-billion human beings populating Earth.

But although Jews represent a mere 0.2% of the world population their influence has been quite incredible, substantial, meaningful and ongoing.

From the time of Abraham, to Moses and Jesus, Jewish influence in world affairs, on religion, on politics and the philosophy of existence has been nothing short of phenomenal.  From the early Christians, who were all Jews breaking away from what was then the prevailing dominant Judaic sects of the Biblical era, to their successors, Spinoza, Maimonides, Marx, Einstein, Freud, Salk, Jewish domination in their fields of influence has been globe-sweeping.

• Of Nobel laureates Jews have taken 13 prizes in Literature, representing 12% of the total endowed.  
• Of Chemistry 33 Jews were recognized, representing 20% of that class.  
• In Economics, 29 Jews were given recognition, representing 41% in total of that discipline.  
• In World Peace 9 Jews have been recognized, representing 9% of that category.  
• In Medicine, 53 Jews have been given prizes, representing 26% of that profession.  
• And in Physics, 50 Jews were singled out as Nobel winners, representing 26% of the total handed out through the Nobel Prize history of recognition of superior intellectual achievements.

In Biblical times most Jews refused to leave their traditional worship of Judaism to join the new Christian movement, sanctifying a Jewish prophet as the son of God.  They were persecuted for that, and were forever after considered to be "Christ killers"; to this present day children of Jewish parentage may have that epithet hurled after them.

In the year 610 when the Prophet Mohammed began  his campaign to spread the word and surrender to Islam (modelling his new religion after the original precepts and precursors of monotheism), inviting Jews to join him, he turned to slaughtering Jews an masse, infuriated at their refusal.  The latest such campaign, newly re-invigorated as a modern-day radical Islamist Jihad continues to target Jews and infidels, considered unworthy of consideration as equals in any manner to Muslims.

During the Reformation, Martin Luther felt he could convince Jews to convert to his brand of Christianity; when they declined, he embarked on a vicious campaign of slander matched only by the fascist reign of Nazism in World War II Germany.

The Inquisition of the Roman Catholic era of the 12th Century encompassed most of Central and Western Europe with Jews singled out for persecution, arrest, torture and murder through their famous auto de fes.  Jews who relented for fear of their lives, adopting Catholicism and forswearing Judaism were still banished and held in contempt.  Jews who had converted publicly, but practised Judaism secretly in 15th Century Catholic Spain as Conversos were, under Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand, sought out, and subjected to even more dreadful atrocities than elsewhere in Europe, culminating in the total expulsion of Jews from Spain and Portugal in 1492.

The dread events of the Holocaust wherein six million Jews perished through a concerted, elaborate, state-engineered campaign of extermination represented the culmination of the persecution of Jews throughout the known history of humankind.

Below, a listing of influential Jews in history:

The list below is from the book The Jewish 100: A Ranking of the Most Influential Jews of all Time (Citadel Press Book, 1994), written by Michael Shapiro, a noted composer who lives in New York.

Rank	Name	Lived	Description
1	Moses	13th Cen. C.E.
2	Jesus of Nazareth	ca. 4 B.C.E. - ca. 30 C.E.
3	Albert Einstein	1879-1955	physicist
4	Sigmund Freud	1856-1936	psychiatrist
5	Abraham	ca. 20th-19th cen B.C.E.; according to the Bible, 1813-1638 B.C.E.
6	Saul of Tarsus (Saint Paul)	4 - 64 C.E.
7	Karl Marx	1818-1883	philosopher
8	Theodor Herzl	1860-1904	writer
9	Mary	b. ca. 20 B.C.E.
10	Baruch de Spinoza	1632-1677	philosopher
11	David	fl. 1000 B.C.E.
12	Anne Frank	1929-1945	diarist
13	The Prophets	Biblical times
14	Judas Iscariot	ca. 4 B.C.E. - ca. 30 C.E.
15	Gustav Mahler	1860-1911	composer
16	Maimonides	1135-1204	theologian
17	Niels Bohr	1885-1962	physicist
18	Moses Mendelssohn	1729-1786	philosopher
19	Paul Ehrlich	1854-1915	medical scientist
20	Rashi	1040-1105	rabbinical commentator
21	Benjamin Disraeli	1804-1881	politician
22	Franz Kafka	1883-1924	author
23	David Ben-Gurion	1886-1973	founder of Israel
24	Hillel	ca. 70 B.C.E. - 10 C.E.	theologian
25	John Von Neumann	1903-1957	mathematician
26	Simon Bar Kokhba	fl. 135 C.E.	general, leader
27	Marcel Proust	1871-1922	novelist
28	Mayer Rothschild	1744-1812	financier
29	Solomon	ca. 990 - ca. 933 B.C.E.
30	Heinrich Heine	1797-1856	poet
31	Selman Waksman	1888-1973	developed antibiotics
32	Giacomo Meyerbeer	1791-1864	created grand opera
33	Isaac Luria	1534-1572	kabbalist
34	Gregory Pincus	1903-1967	developed birth control pill
35	Leon Trotsky	1879-1940	facilitator of the Russian Revolution
36	David Ricardo	1772-1823	founded classical school of economics
37	Alfred Dreyfus	1859-1935	center of 1895 Dreyfus affair in Paris
38	Leo Szilard	1898-1964	physicist; cyberneticist
39	Mark Rothko	1903-1970	painter
40	Ferdinand Cohn	1828-1898	bacteriologist
41	Samuel Gompers	1850-1924	labor leader
42	Gertrude Stein	1874-1946	author
43	Albert Michelson	1852-1931	physicist
44	Philo Judaeus	ca. 20 B.C.E. - 40 C.E.	philosopher
45	Golda Meir	1898-1978	prime minister of Israel
46	The Vilna Gaon	1720-1797	rabbinical scholar
47	Henri Bergson	1859-1941	philosopher
48	The Baal Shem Tov	1700-1790	religious reformer
49	Felix Mendelssohn	1809-1847	musician
50	Louis B. Mayer	1885-1957	motion picture pioneer
51	Judah Halevy	ca. 1075-1141	philosopher and poet
52	Haym Salomon	1740-1785	Revolutionary War patriot
53	Johanan ben Zakkai	ca. 80 C.E.	general, leader
54	Arnold Schoenberg	1874-1951	composer
55	Emile Durkheim	1858-1917	sociologist
56	Betty Friedan	1921-	feminist; founder of NOW
57	David Sarnoff	1891-1971	broadcaster
58	Lorenzo Da Ponte	1749-1838	Mozart's librettist
59	Julius Rosenwald	1862-1932	philanthropist
60	Casimir Funk *	1884-1967	discoverer of vitamins
61	George Gershwin	1898-1937	composer
62	Chaim Weizmann	1874-1952	first president of Israel
63	Franz Boas	1858-1942	anthropologist
64	Sabbatai Zevi	1626-1676	religious leader
65	Leonard Bernstein	1918-1990	musician
66	Flavius Josephus	ca. 38-ca. 100 C.E.	historian
67	Walter Benjamin	1892-1940	literary critic, journalist, philosopher
68	Louis Brandeis	1856-1941	jurist
69	Emile Berliner	1851-1929	inventor
70	Sarah Bernhardt	1844-1923	actress
71	Levi Strauss	1829-1902	clothier
72	Nahmanides	1195-1270	scholar
73	Menachem Begin	1913-1992	politician
74	Anna Freud	1895-1982	psychologist
75	Queen Esther	5th cen. B.C.E.	Biblical queen
76	Martin Buber	1878-1965	philosopher, theologian, social activist
77	Jonas Salk	1914-	physician
78	Jerome Robbins	1918-	choreographer
79	Henry Kissinger	1923-	politician
80	Wilhelm Steinitz	ca. 1835-1900	chess champion
81	Arthur Miller	1915-	playwright
82	Daniel Mendoza	1764-1836	boxer
83	Stephen Sondheim	1930-	writer of musicals
84	Emma Goldman	1869-1940	anarchist, feminist
85	Sir Moses Montefiore	1787-1885	leader
86	Jerome Kern	1885-1945	writer of musicals
87	Boris Pasternak	1890-1960	novelist, poet
88	Harry Houdini	1874-1926	magician
89	Edward Bernays	1981-	founder of public relations
90	Leopold Auer	1845-1930	violinist
91	Groucho Marx	1890-1977	comedian
92	Man Ray	1890-1976	artist
93	Henrietta Szold	1860-1945	founder of Hadassah
94	Benny Goodman	1909-1986	clarinetist and bandleader
95	Steven Spielberg	1947-	filmmaker
96	Marc Chagall	1887-1985	painter
97	Bob Dylan	1941-	musician
98	Sandy Koufax	1935-	baseball player
99	Bernard Berenson	1865-1959	art critic
100	Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster	b. 1914; 1914-1992	comics book artist/writer, creators of Superman

Some people enjoy shopping, others do their best to avoid it.  My husband falls into the first category and I somewhere between.  He is an inveterate shopper, finding items appearing to him simply irresistible in their appeal.  When he is overcome with the need to secure something he will rationalize its purchase and commit to it.  Impulse buying at its most urgent.

I no longer cringe when he proudly unloads onto the kitchen counter melons, oranges, cheeses, artisanal breads that have fulfilled the needed requirements of a) being on sale, b) being somehow 'different'.

It's the appeal of the 'different' that gets him.  I'm the kind of person who could happily eat the same things day in, day out.  He, on the other hand, needs variety, it's his spice in life.  He becomes readily bored with food he is familiar with, and looks for a more exotic replacement.  His search is never-ending, and provides a spur to me to occasionally think up some food combinations that are different and if I'm lucky, appealing to him.

From time to time throughout the week he will disappear on a shopping expedition.  I don't accompany him on these forays.  For me the weekly food shopping is enough, an activity that is required but not an enjoyable one by any means, serving the primary function of stocking the pantry to enable me to put together meals for the coming week.

These extra forays are required to add zip to menus.  Last week he went out to the bulk food shop. 

I've been cooking hot cereals for breakfast every other day, now that winter has arrived.  The usual; large-flake rolled oats, Red River cereal, Cream of wheat.  I would like to add quinoa to the oats, but he doesn't care for the texture.  He enjoys experimenting with taste, so he brought back 8-grain cereal,  kamut flakes, and kamut granules, organic spelt and muesli.  We filled up large jars and plastic-lidded containers and will use them alternately now for winter morning breakfasts.

The 12-grain cereal combination contains cracked wheat, rye meal, steel cut oats (he doesn't like steel cut oats), hulled millet, barley flakes, thick flaked oats brown flax seeds, buckwheat groats, white sesame seeds, sunflower seeds and golden flax seeds.  The 8-grain cereal combination contains cracked wheat, cracked rye, cracked triticale, barley flakes, flaked corn, cracked oats, millet seeds, and flax seeds.

We're rotating them all, cooking them up for breakfast, adding sunflower seeds, ground flaxseed, a little brown sugar, a spoonful of Kefir, and lots of 2% lactaid-reduced milk.  He's the critic, I'm experimental  subject-neutral; he pronounces judgement and my opinion is in favour of them all.

First the pizza dough, and it's simple enough, just yeast/sugar/warm water, flour salt, a sprinkling of extra virgin olive oil, a quarter-cup wheat germ, half-cup oat bran mixed with the flour, kneaded to a soft dough and allowed to rise for an hour with a light covering of oil, covered in a warm place until doubled in bulk.

The amount of liquid and dry measures vary, depending on how large we intend the pizza to turn out.  Sometimes we go for a thinner crust, sometimes a thicker one.  Yesterday's topping meant a thicker crust would be best.

After preparing the pizza pan with a sprinkling of medium-grain cornmeal and rolling out the dough to fit the round, I brushed it with a thin layer of extra virgin olive oil.  Then came two finally chopped garlic cloves sprinkled over, followed by thin slices of Vidalia onion, though red onion would be fine.  A light layer of grated mozzarella next, followed by torn-up spinach leaves, sprinkled with halved green olives.  Over that small chunks of Greek feta and thin-sliced cocktail tomatoes.  This was covered with another light grating of mozzarella, then the final topping was torn-up flat pieces of water-rinsed anchovies.

Into our pizza oven (beneath the microwave oven) for a half-hour until the bottom of the crust was good and crisp and the toppings had collapsed into the rising crust, with the top cheese layer presenting with a suggestion of pale brown.

A change from our usual tomato-paste, pizza-spiced, tomato/mushroom/green and red bell pepper/sliced tomato, grated mozzarella sprinkled with Parmesan and dotted with tiny rounds of pepperoni.

 2004 - Darfur, Sudan

Dr. Halima Bashir

"Suddenly the lead helicopter banked low over the village and there were a series of bright flashes and puffs of smoke from under its stubby wings. An instant later, the huts beneath it exploded, mud and thatch and branches and bodies being thrown into the air."

"All around us people were waking up to the fact of the attack, and crying out in alarm.  'Kewoh! Kewoh! - Run! Run!'  'Souf! Souf! - Hide! Hide!'"

"The Janjaweed urged their horses forward, tossing blazing torches onto the huts, the dry thatch roofs bursting into flames.  I kept glancing behind in fear at the flashes of gunfire and the flames that were sweeping through the village like a wave of fiery death. I could hear the devil horsemen screaming like animals, a howling wave of evil and hatred tearing our village asunder. As they got closer and closer I could make out the individual Arabic phrases that they were chanting, over and over and over again.
'We're coming for you! To kill you all!'
'Kill the black slaves! Kill the black slaves'
'No one will escape! We will kill you all!"

"We ran and ran, each step taking us further from the hell of the village.  I was terrified for all of us, but half of my mind was back in the village with my father. With no weapon but his dagger he had chosen to stand and face this terrible onslaught. I knew why he had done so. Those who had chosen to stay and fight did so to stop the Janjaweed from reaching the women and children - to buy us some time.  They stayed to save their families, not to defend the village. They did so to save us from the Janjaweed."

"Up ahead I could see the helicopters circling, turning for another attack run, and then there were further flashes and smoke, and bullets and rockets were tearing into the fleeing women and children, ripping bodies apart. Omer grabbed my hand, and dragged my mother, my sister and me to one side, out of the murderous path of their onslaught."

"We weaved and dodged and raced ahead for the safety of the forest, passing bloodied heaps that had once been our village neighbours and our friends. Their bodies had been torn apart by the bullets from above. Some of them were still alive, crawling and staggering on. They cried out to us, holding out their hands and pleading for help. But if we stopped the Janjaweed would be upon us and we all would die. So we ran, abandoning the wounded and the old and the slow and the infants to the terror of the Janjaweed."

"Finally we reached the safety of the deep forest, where the helicopters could no longer hunt us down from the air. We hid within the cover of the trees. Everywhere I looked there were scattered groups of villagers. Mo, Omer, Asia, my mother and I were breathless and fearful. We crouched in the shadows and listened to the noise of the battle raging on - trying to work out if it was coming closer, and whether we had to run once more."

From Tears of the Desert, a Memoir of Survival in Darfur, Halima Bashir (with Damien Lewis)

2012 - Darfur, Sudan


2012 - Darfur, Sudan

Destruction left behind after an attack on Sigili village, North Darfur. Photo: UNAMID/Albert González Farran

7 November 2012 – The acting head of the joint United Nations-African Union peacekeeping mission in Darfur, known by the acronym UNAMID, has called on the Government of Sudan to “swiftly” proceed with its investigation into violence which reportedly affected the village of Sigili.

“I urge the Government of Sudan to swiftly conduct its planned investigation into Sigili incident and bring the perpetrators to justice,” said UNAMID's Acting Joint Special Representative and Joint Chief Mediator a.i., Aichatou Mindaoudou.

UNAMID had received reports some days ago of an alleged attack on civilians that resulted in fatalities, an abduction of a civilian and widespread population displacement in Sigili, located in the Shawa area, about 40 kilometres southeast of El Fasher, the capital city of the west Sudanese state of North Darfur. The attack reportedly took place on Friday.

Yesterday, UNAMID deployed a civilian-military team to Sigili, as well as Abu Delek – another area reportedly affected by violence – to verify the reports. The team found Sigili village completely deserted, with apparent signs of an abrupt departure.

It also noticed several signs of destruction of housing and property, killed animals, and burnt houses, in addition to ammunition found in different sites across the village. The team was unable to go to Abu Delek.

“On the way to Abu Delek area, located approximately 60 kilometres southeast of El Fasher, the verification team was stopped by members of the Popular Defense Forces, who insisted on searching the nine-vehicle convoy,” UNAMID noted in a news release, referring to an irregular militia allied to the Sudanese army. “After lengthy discussion, the team decided to postpone the mission to Abu Delek and returned to El Fasher.

Last night the wind howled wildly through the dark hours.  The snow predicted by Environment Canada had begun falling well before midnight, when my husband took our little toy poodle out before we went up to bed.  The snow falling wet and thick enough to warrant putting a little raincoat on him for protection from the exceedingly wet stuff coming down.

In the winter at night in bed looking at the stained glass windows of our bedroom if there's a light pink glow we know it's snowing.  And last night, throughout the night those windows glowed pink unrelentingly, and exquisitely.  When we were younger we looked forward to these night-time snow events with great anticipation.  The beauty that resulted from those events is always breathtaking with everything covered; a startling-to-the-eyes white mantle weighing down trees, blanketing rooftops and roadways, a picture of winter otherworldliness.

This morning, just after six my husband roused himself, dressed warmly and hustled out to the back of the house with the intention of clearing off the deck, the steps leading below and a few of the pathways so our little dog would be accommodated when brought out a few hours later.  While he was busy shovelling the snow kept descending.  I used to take Riley out when he was a tiny tyke of a puppy during these winter snow events and it seemed magical.

This is a dozen years later, we're all older.  My husband got back into our snug bed for a few hours more of rest and sleep and when we finally got up the morning was well advanced.  Looking out our front door I watched for awhile, as the snow continued falling in fist-sized clusters, clogging up the landscape with its soft loveliness.

And, after breakfast, out he hied himself once again, this time to withdraw the mechanical snowthrower from its sheltering shed to dig us out from under the snow that had fallen and was continuing to fall, and which is anticipated to complete its journey from sky to earth by tomorrow morning.

Tears of the Desert

 

Never, not even in my darkest, blackest nightmare had I imagined that I would ever witness such horror.  What was happening to my country? Where had all the love gone, the goodness, the humanity? Who had let the devil in and given him free reign? How could people be so evil? They were adults and these were little children... Did they have no children of their own? Had they never been children themselves? Did they have no heart, no innocence, no adult's love for a child? Were they really even human?


These were the thoughts that were firing through my mind as I helped lift that first little girl onto the bed, so that I could inspect what the Arabs, the Janjaweed, had done to her.  As I gazed in horror at her limp form a keening, empty wail kept coming from somewhere deep within her throat - over and over and over again.  It was a sound such as I had never heard before - a hollow cry of brutalized innocence, of innocence forever lost.  It is a sound that I shall never forget no matter how long I live.


In spite of everything - the shock, the confusion, the trauma - my medical training took over now. I reached for the little girl's face, one side of which was swollen and bloody. I probed around the wound. She'd been hit with a blunt instrument - probably a rifle butt - and it needed stitches. But there were other, more urgent priorities. I checked her eyes; they were dead and glazed with shock. Unseeing. But at least she was still conscious. I felt for her pulse; it was racing and fearful. Yet it was strong, and I knew then that she was going to live. She would live - as long as I could stop the bleeding.

I lifted up her nyangour.  It was slick with congealed blood. As gently as I could I tried to prise apart her shaking, bloodied knees. The soft child's skin of her thighs was criss-crossed with cut marks as if a pack of wild animals had been clawing at her. I felt her body stiffen, her leg muscles tightening and resisting, as that chilling empty wailing in her throat rose to a terrified screaming. I felt wave after wave of panic sweeping through her now - no, no, no, not again, not again, not again. *

This is an accounting of a small Darfur village whose elementary school had been brutalized and horribly violated by the sudden invasion of a group of Janjaweed, horsed Arab tribesmen.  The school was full of children, aged seven to thirteen.  Their teachers, as terrified as the children themselves, were unable to react to the sudden dreadful threat. They were swiftly physically overcome. With dread consequences that would forever mar their lives and leave them existing in a hell of misery and pain that would refused to end. 

The description above is from the first-hand account, of a Darfurian woman, a young Zaghawa  tribeswoman whose academic prowess had raised her above her peers and who had attended university in Khartoum to become an accredited medical doctor specializing in obstetrics and gynaecology, and who was determined to return to her village to perform her profession in the place she loved most.

She was caught up, as were all Darfurians in the spiral of violence between the government militias and their Janjaweed agents, and the rebel black African tribal guerrilla army determined to fight back against the brutal occupation of the Arab minority over the black African majority.

And following is another account, included in Halima Bashir's memoir of Survival in Darfur, titled aptly enough, even if understated, Tears of the Desert.

"They were shouting and screaming at us. You know what they were saying? 'We have come here to kill you! To finish you all! You are black slaves! You are worse than dogs! Either we kill you or we give you Arab children. Then there will be no more black slaves in this country.' But you know the worst? The worst was that they were laughing and yelping with joy as they did those terrible things. Those grown men were enjoying it, as they passed the little girls around...

"In all the confusion one or two of the girls managed to escape. They ran to their homes and raised the alarm. But when the parents rushed to the school they found a cordon of government soldiers had surrounded it and were letting nobody in. If anyone came too close, the soldiers shot at them with their guns. Parents could hear their daughters screaming, but there was no way they could help. 

"For two hours they held the school.  They abused the girls in front of their friends, forcing them to watch what they were doing. Any girls who tried to resist were beaten about the head with sticks or rifle butts.

"Before they left, they spat on us and urinated on us", Sumiah whispered.  "They said: 'We will let you live so you can tell your mothers and fathers and brothers what we did to you. Tell them from us: if you stay, the same and worse will happen to you all. Next time, we will show no mercy. Leave this land. Sudan is for the Arabs. It is not for black dogs and slaves'."


*  Tears of the Desert  A Memoir of Survival in Darfur by Halima Bashir with Damien Lewis
Published by Harper Perennial, an imprint of Harper Collins Publishers Ltd.

The Muslim conquest of North Africa is of ancient vintage.  Dating from the 7th Century to the present, there has been an Arab dominating presence in Sudan.  Although black Sudanese in the north of the country have inherited devotion to Islam dating from the time of the conquest, they have always been seen as subservient to Arabs, inferior to Arabs and under constant colonial rule.

Black Sudanese in the south of the country were able finally - through rebellion and rigid opposition to being chattels of Khartoum - to achieve a breakaway, becoming a nation and a geography sovereign, separate and apart from North Sudan, although final boundaries continue to be in dispute, particularly oil-rich areas which both claim as their heritage of natural resources.  South Sudan is comprised of black Sudanese who are Christian or animist.

But the North, which includes the Darfur region of Black Sudanese farming communities is Muslim.  Despite which the Arab population and the black African population have never lived at ease with one another; the Arabs viewing the blacks as essentially slaves, the blacks viewing the Arabs as interlopers, foreigners, taskmasters, slavers in the land of black Africans.

Nothing will dislodge the Arab presence in Sudan, not the feverish desires of black Africans to be masters in their own house, nor their dire resentments culminating in civil war, and guerrilla attacks on Arab militias representing the Arab-dominant regime.  The government in Khartoum, alert against any uprisings, determined to tamp them down by all means available, unleashed horsed Arab tribesmen, the dreaded Janjaweed to augment the regime's military assaults on countless black African tribal villages in Darfur, displacing hundreds of thousands of Sudanese, butchering tens of thousands, and raping countless black Darfurians.

The International Criminal Court in the Hague in 2010 judged Sudanese President Omar al-Bashir with three counts of genocide in Darfur, charges which he simply sloughed off, and which have never impressed the Arab League; he feels free to travel extensively without fear of apprehension.  His crimes and those of his regime are horrendous.  Yet the international community is complacent in the face of this reality.

Condemnation of the Darfurian tragedy made international headlines for a period of time, then dwindled to disinterest.  Yet the same cannot be said for the presence of a relatively newly-established state recognized by the international community through the United Nations representing a return to heritage from a well-established original presence pre-dating the Biblical era and beyond.  

An Arab presence that dated a millennium and more after the dispersal and the eventual settlement of Jews in Arab lands and around the world, is held by non-aligned countries pre-dominating in the United Nations (to have primary legitimacy), and democratic countries alike to be that of a colonialist nature in a nation desperate for its survival and forced to cope with unending military and terrorist attacks against its existence.

Indigenous peoples of the world; Amerindians, Blacks, Jews and all those who existed on land predating the arrival worldwide through migration and conquest of strangers with superior numbers and arms, were, are and will continue to be geographically and socially disenfranchised.  This represents the human condition in part, immoral but part of our distinctly lesser natures.

It is natural for us to become dependent on what we take pleasure from.  On committing to a habit that satisfies our need for predictability, for comfort, for pleasure.  And simple habits can fulfill those deeply embedded needs.  Take, for example, people who like us are interested in the daily news.  That interest no doubt stems basically from a human penchant for gossip, for knowing what goes on about us, in fact for satisfying the need to be a part of our community on both the micro- and the macro-scale.

Different habits become the norm for us in different stages of our lives, habits that are suitable in nature and reflective of our lifestyle at that time in our development.  Now that we are elderly and retired we value the pleasure and comfort of lingering for a lengthy period of time over our breakfast.  And that breaking of the overnight fast comes complete, for us, with a perusal of our daily newspapers.  We subscribe to a local newspaper and a national one.  And then there are all the peripheral smaller news broadsheets that are specific to a small community.

We are accustomed to having our newspapers delivered daily to our door.  Every morning while preparing breakfast the newspapers are brought indoors and placed on the breakfast table; while we consume our meal we also consume the news. 

A few weeks back we had a greeting card enclosed with the newspapers informing us that the individual who had delivered our newspapers faithfully in all kinds of weather for three years was departing as of December 23.  We took that as notice that it was time to acknowledge that elicitation, and we placed a $20 bill within a seasonal greeting card thanking the person for excellent service.

Now, for two days following one on the other, we have found no newspapers awaiting our retrieval on our front porch.  We have had to go through the seemingly interminable automatic exercise of pushing various telephone buttons to register non-receipt of delivery.  On each occasion within an hour of our contacting the newspaper, our papers have arrived. 

There remains the mystery of what has happened to our dependable service which was to continue under the responsibility of the soon-to-depart delivery person.  The irony here being that the usual yearly monetary gesture of appreciation on our part has resulted in an abrupt cessation of delivery.

It wasn't exactly a blinding blizzard when we set out yesterday afternoon for our daily woodland walk.  But it was snowing and blowing.  It had indeed been snowing all day, although there wasn't a huge accumulation.  Because it was also very cold the snow wasn't sticking to the overabundance of ice underfoot that had accumulated over the last week or so.  Even the road in front of our house leading to the ravine entrance is heavily rutted with snow and ice; it had managed to melt a little in yesterday's sun, but was now snow-covered and slippery.

We wore our cleats over our boots, otherwise it would not be at all possible to take to the woodland trails.  There are so many hills to clamber and to descend, we would be clinging to any available tree trunks to ensure we didn't slither and fall, without the help of those cleats.  The trails have been ice-covered for over a week, and heavily ridged and pitted as well.  With the aid of the cleats we usually experience few problems, but yesterday's conditions made negotiating the trails even with their help, a rather exciting affair.

It was heavily overcast, and dark as a result, made even darker by the almost-opaque veil of snow that kept descending.  With the wind insistently blowing it directly into our faces.  There were times, descending those long slopes when we slipped short distances, cleats or not.  And although I wore gloves under mittens, to disperse peanuts in the usual cache places I remove the outer layer, the mitten of my right hand.  Though gloved, it doesn't take long before the fingers of that dispensing hand become rigid with cold.  By the time an hour had passed, I donned the mitten on my frozen right hand and dispensed with dispensing.

But not before coming across two men we've seen before on occasion walking three large dogs; two golden retrievers and a mixed hound-retriever the same golden colour as its companions.  These are intelligent, friendly dogs one of which nudged me constantly while I was placing peanuts in the cracks of a large old pine, anxious to be noticed and given his share of peanuts.  Some dogs just are crazy for peanuts, and he was one of them, lifting his large beautiful face to me, eyes patiently waiting to lock with mine, to deliver his message.

There are times when wildlife is not content to remain where it belongs, in the out-of-doors.  In our previous house, a squirrel had somehow entered our house and it scrambled downstairs into the recreation room my husband had built there.  Patience in trying to calm a panicked little animal did work since it was eventually coaxed into a container and my husband was able to take it outside to its freedom.

In this house I had a bread cooling on the counter freshly-baked.  The wind had blown the screen door open that leads to the deck and a squirrel had taken advantage of the opportunity; smelling the bread it obviously felt it had been invited indoors.  I had just come downstairs and ware prepared to enter the kitchen when I heard an odd commotion and caught a glimpse of a black streak leaping from the kitchen to the breakfast room and out the open screen door.  The bread was intact, though it was obvious from the trajectory I'd seen that the squirrel was on the kitchen counter puzzling out its enticement.

We have had a winter episode of an invasion of tiny black ants, and we were amazed at the number of them that kept us busy for awhile trying to dampen their enthusiasm for our inner sanctum which we felt should not be shared with them.  By treating the threshold of that same sliding glass door leading to the deck we were able to extinguish their enthusiasm for ingress.

We had a moth infestation once in our kitchen that drove me utterly insane.  I tried everything I could think of; inspecting all the grains and flours, everything in the kitchen was was secured by being wrapped in a plastic bag or stood within a jar, and even found larvae in some of those, among nuts, among raisins, in the dog biscuits.  All the scouring and dumping seemed to accomplish nothing, until I finally ordered a pheromone package on line.

And now, in mid-December, we've been invaded yet again.  This time by small black flies.  Flies that are blacker and slightly larger than the fruit flies that tend to flit about fruit sitting on the counter come September, that usually disappear in a few weeks' time.  It's been almost two weeks since we've been sending them to their maker; in the interim everything must be covered to avoid being possibly contaminated by their settling on food.

Most inconvenient and utterly baffling to try to imagine where they emanated from.

It's really a bit of a nuisance when you have to peruse over-stocked shelves in a huge supermarket to try to ferret out rather obscure prepared food items that you don't normally look for.  You go through the aisles looking for those unusual - albeit not that unusual - food items where you might logically assume them to be.  Horse radish? why look where the condiments are.  Not there.  Although on previous occasions the particular type I was looking for; labelled horseradish paste, mild, was located just there.

And anchovy paste.  Why mightn't it be stocked where the canned fish is located.  Neither anchovies nor anchovy paste are kept there, however, although sometimes they are.  Whoever it is that stocks the shelves and makes these dizzying decisions doesn't appear to place much stock in assuring the shopper of reliability of place.  And when you bring your puzzlement to the attention of a store employee, they are of little assistance.

Yesterday was different.  Yesterday there was no fewer than three different men rushing about looking for the items I was unable on my own, to locate.  Importantly, one of them showed me where the horseradish was located, in the meat section on a refrigerated shelf, all two bottles of it, and both labelled 'extra-hot'.  It wasn't the product I was searching out, and it wasn't the type I could bring home to my husband's taste-sensitive expectations.

And the anchovy paste?  I did find the anchovies, and they too, in their neat little tins stuffed into neat little boxes - talk about overpackaging - were located with the meat, on a refrigerated shelf.  But not the anchovy paste.  I was eventually led by yet another young man to the cheese section, and there, in an obscure little corner was the anchovy paste.

Why anchovy paste?  Well, I'm trying out a new recipe for pizza sauce which calls for, among many other ingredients, the addition of anchovy paste, and we're willing to give it a try.

Paleoanthropology appears to have established that the early vestiges of human society or humanoid presence surfaced in Africa.  China, possibly may be a contender for that distinction.  Ancient Africa boasted an advanced civilization in Egypt where science and medicine vied with distinctly primal behaviours associated with societal traits reflected by tribal and clan affiliation.  China does its utmost to stifle those instinctual proclivities, resorting to yet another, more macro version of it, nationalism.

Slavery, the ownership and use of other human beings by those considering themselves superior, reflects an ancient culture, one that still has currency in Africa.  African villages were comprised of clan memberships that had gained for themselves reputations reflecting aspects of human behaviour; some were considered to be moderate, by nature and inclination, others viciously pugnacious.  There was always the danger of one clan of a tribe or an entire tribe mounting violence on another.  And the same held true of other primitive societies, like North American indigenous people.

Africa appears mired in its ancient tribal-clan antipathies.  The countries of Africa whose territorial lines cross haphazardly over and around, often bisecting traditional tribal territories, have added another degree of xenophobia to their usual cultural heritage of tribalism, through the imposition of nationalism, and territorial challenges lured and inspired by natural resources and human greed.

Women live lives of misery, where clitoral excision is yet another cultural expression of yet another human emotion; misogyny and control.  Men have power over women feeling themselves superior beings and women their useful underlings.  Just as animals are valued and herded in ancient practices of animal husbandry, so are women maintained as chattels, valuable for their child-bearing and -rearing natures.

The puzzle is that the very geography identified as having originally given life to homo sapiens, its predecessors and successors, exemplifies a broad society incapable of rising above its instinctual-emotional inheritance.  The continent is wracked by inter- and intra-violent conflicts.  Governments are generally comprised of dictatorial autocrats and society tends to be rife with corruption.

In many African countries another layer, of religion, has been laid over their values - from animism to Christianity to Islam.  Primitive expressions of animosity to those from other tribes who present territorial threats result in religious sectarian belligerence and violence on top of every other contributing factor to unrest and misery.

The torments of forced mass migration, deadly conflicts, mass rape, child abductions and slavery remain rife in the continent.  Advanced countries of the world, mostly from the Western democracies, have sent their humanitarian government agencies and NGOs in an ongoing effort to aid Africa - and the near and the far East as well - to little seeming avail.  Vast sums of treasury have been expended to the same cause.

And in a country like Egypt, with its fabled societally advanced history resorts to ousting an imperial, military-backed tyrant only to have yet another, theocratic dictator impose his will, while the nation declines deeper into backwardness, misery and poverty.  In Libya, one brutal dictator has been removed through tribal rage, and that same tribalism remains responsible for an utter lack of order and a proliferation of armed militias expressing the ongoing antipathies rife in that society.

In Mali, a president who has an advanced degree in astrophysics has been removed by a military coup, while a great swathe of the country has been taken over and is now controlled, through threat and applied violence, by Islamist terrorists.  Billions of foreign aid has poured into that country with the best of intentions to aid yet another African country to lift itself out of poverty and ignorance and despair.

To what avail?

One can only wonder how many people took that incredibly absurd line, "Love means never having to say you're sorry" from the film Love Story seriously.  And went so far as to base their intimate relationships on that meaningless bromide.  When in actual fact, love does not excuse one from respecting anyone's inner feelings.

If you love someone you make an especial effort not to cause them emotional strain, hurt feelings.  The unwillingness to cause hurt to anyone should in fact, motivate us in all our interrelationships, whether intimate or with casual acquaintances.  We should exhibit the courtesy of civil manners when dealing even with strangers because anyone can be sensitive to slights, unintended or otherwise.  How can we act differently with those who share our personal lives? 

Simply because you believe you love someone doesn't mean that you can run roughshod over their feelings.  In the belief that love erases all errors of judgement.  That no compensatory phrase seeking forgiveness for transgressing their psychical balance through accusation, insult, argument and anger is due.  There are civil ways of communicating and those civil manners should always be adhered to.

When the emotion of anger overtakes our normal reticence to cause harm to others we should be capable of attempting amelioration by expressing regret.  If you love someone, the soothing effect of an apology, heartfelt and delivered accordingly, is a necessary component to living in harmony with another individual whose point of view may not echo one's own.

Hurt feelings can rankle and resentment can grow on that fertile ground where misunderstanding and emotional misery can lead to actual antipathy and blame.  This is where, over time, and through an inevitable accumulation of such emotional trespasses relationship breakdown can result, whether it is between close friends, family members or marriage partners.

Pride in these circumstances has no place in a healthy relationship of equally-endowed and -respected partners where either one can experience disappointment and resentment, out of a clash of personalities, that could be resolved with the admission and expression of regret. 

Love means realizing when you have harmed the relationship and determining to apply the healing emolument of sincere apology for creating strained feelings and the withdrawal of intimacy. 

When we first met it was she who made the first move, a beatific smile beaming at me as she asked whether the little girl at my side was my granddaughter.  That child born to our daughter is no longer a little girl, and I am no longer her daytime caregiver.  And the woman who had greeted me so effusively, in such a familiar manner those many years ago no longer has the same physical appearance as she had back then.

Her face, the colour of hot coffee with its lively gleam has been washed lately of its vibrancy as though dipped in cream, and the appearance of healthy middle-age has been altered by the presence of numerous deep creases running along that familiar face.  When we first met I thought she was in the late stages of pregnancy; her midsection gave that unmistakable appearance.  But it was mistaken; her belly was certainly extended - hugely - but she was not pregnant.  It remains in that condition to this day.  I have never enquired, it is too delicate a matter, I haven't the right, nor the wish to upset her by such a question.

Back then, when we first met, she might have recognized something deep within me that echoed something in her.  I responded in like vein, warming to her immediately.  She had asked about where I was from: Canada, I said, born in Canada, though my parents were from Poland and Russia originally.  Jewish, I said to her, and she brightened, said she thought there was some Jewish blood in her heritage.  She was from Eritrea, or Sudan or Mauritius, I don't now remember and would be too embarrassed to ask her.

Several years ago she was very upset, telling me about some of her relatives back home, of the constant strife there, of those who had been killed - of her hopes that others would survive.  Last year she had a fright, her husband had collapsed and was diagnosed with heart problems. He was under doctors' care and was prescribed a medication protocol.  For months afterward he just sat vegetatively, recovering, at home, unable to work.  And then when he was well enough to work, he was unable to find employment other than an odd job lasting a few weeks here and there.  Of course I commiserated, and with feeling.

She never fails to ask about the welfare of our granddaughter.  She knows too how concerned I am about the well-being of our daughter, she of the volatile temper, and the lack of serendipity in life whose own employment, as a single mother with many responsibilities is as unstable as her psychological state all too often.

My friend lives quite a distance from the Salvation Army thrift shop where she works daily.  She commutes by a series of buses from her home over on the Quebec side to Ontario where her employment is, quite distant from the provincial borders.  She spends at least three hours daily travelling from home to work, work to home.  But she wouldn't think of looking for employment elsewhere; she enjoys her job, likes working for the Salvation Army.  And quite simply, rent is cheaper in Quebec.

We dropped by the Sally Ann thrift shop yesterday after running a few errands following our ravine walk.  She informed me than that her husband had suffered a heart attack.  He is resting now, at home.  She exudes uncertainty and hope in equal measure.  I sympathize and feel truly dreadful about her situation.  I wonder sometimes how we could help her, but I feel also she has no wish to have any assistance from us, that to offer anything would be to insult her.

Perusing the shelves, my husband found a number of books he took possession of, and I now have another book by Rohinton Mistry, Such a Long Journey, an author who has a magic way with words and describing human frailties and emotions.  Another by Ronald Kessler, The Terrorist Watch, and yet another by the mistress of the short-story form - Alice Munro, in Runaway.  Two Canadian writers sandwiching an American; two works of creative fiction and one non-fiction.

I always come away from my encounters with her feeling pensive at the very least, guilty for how we are able to live compared to her poverty and the circumstances in her life that tore her away from her original community, her heritage, the comfort of her culture.  I weep for her.  And I weep for myself as well, wishing some things in life could be otherwise than they are.

Do I have reason to weep, I wonder....

Yesterday was a busy day; one of the toilets in the house needed replacement, so my pre-retirement government-bureaucrat husband set about doing just that.  He had bought a dual-flush toilet, a one-piece affair awkward to move let alone carry about; heavy and difficult to grasp, unlike the others that can be taken apart and moved in sections.  But this one has a flush for liquid and a greater flush for solid waste, so it is more environmentally useful, as it were.

Although it was the toilet in the basement of the house that needed to be changed, because when my husband first installed it he hadn't noticed a hairline crack in the porcelain bowl, which over the years since had gradually widened and extended itself until it completely wound about the interior, although it hadn't reached the point where it leaked.  Likely not much chance of that since it was double-walled, but we thought it best not to leave anything to chance and replace it.

It isn't used, down there, nearly as frequently as the one on the first floor, in the powder room where the iris-and-lily stained glass window is installed.  So my husband determined he would take out the existing, perfectly good toilet from there and replace it with the new, alternate-flush one, and put the powder room toilet bowl downstairs in the basement bathroom.  Easier said than done, of course, but it was done.

We interrupted the proceedings long enough to take a ravine walk, enjoying the appearance of the trees, liberally ice-covered and frosted with snow, dripping on us as we proceeded.  When we returned my husband shovelled the driveway of its overnight burden of ice and snow.  After which, he set about baking a rough-grain bread for me, the only kind I enjoy eating.