A Poet's Park

On Saturday I went with a friend to Inspire!, Toronto's new book fair, which was a multi-stage riot of booksellers, publishers, readings, panel discussions, and children's activities. I've been forced to attend many a trade show on behalf of various former employers and always viewed them as dreadful ordeals: tiring and airless and schmoozy. Slogs to be endured. Now I know why those were so horrible (especially that godawful one in Las Vegas long ago): no books. In contrast, at the fun and inspirational BOOK fair I was energized by many hours of wandering past displays, chatting, meeting people, listening to writers, and oh right, buying books. I overspent wildly.

And a nice re-discovery, on my way from the Convention Centre to the car: a tiny Toronto park dedicated to 19th century poet Isabella Valancy Crawford, an Irish immigrant to Canada who lived for a time in Lakefield. I haven't read much of her poetry, and what I have read isn't, I confess, my thing. But it's impressive that the city formally recognized an impoverished young poet of the past. I'd like to know more about how the park came to be.

Once, years ago, my family was sitting on the little strip of grass in the shadow of the CN Tower. We were eating a cheap lunch bought from a hotdog truck when I noticed the plaques. It seemed a strange coincidence that of all the places we could land in the Big Smoke, we had happened upon a space commemorating one of the literary icons of our village.

So this time, even though it was dark and my camera is basic, I took photos. Another kind of inspiration.

  

Reno-mania

I'm going to try to write this post in the ten minutes available to me. That's the way blogging is supposed to happen, and I almost never manage it. So here goes, timer on. A few notes on our renovation in progress:

--Two guys just shuffled past me carrying part of a tub unit being installed today. Apparently it is heavy. There were stairs and corners to negotiate. I had to leave the computer, remove the desk chair, and hold the barking dog to help them do their job.

--First thing this morning (7:30, people, and I got the message about the early start around midnight last night!), one of the same guys showed up with a plumber and helper. Nice fellows. The plumber remembers us and our wonky pipes. We probably funded his boat or something. I'm hoping this visit is his last; he has replaced pretty much everything over the years.

--Plumbing trumps all--and just as we expected, it's led to mission creep. Demolition creep, involvement of another room. A wall in our tiny office (really a glorified walkway/storage dump) has to go in order to access pipes. The same wall we opened up last time, five years ago, and the time before that, twelve years ago. You'd think I might have been prepared, cleaned out the space before today. But this morning it suddenly HAD TO BE DONE. In record time I removed books and files and years of paper piles waiting for the shredder. Removed to where, you might ask? Exactly. Whole other rooms are now involved. And since we're cutting into walls, they are getting a fresh coat of paint, something vivid and warm. Options so far are cranberry cocktail, radicchio, raisin tarte, and aubergine. Tasty colours all.

Please vote.

--Time's up, no more writing. Despite all the chaos, things are very calm. The title of this post should be revised. It's not reno-mania around here, not a bit.

Have your kids go into plumbing for a secure future.

Why do I love this picture? It makes me wish I had a better camera than the one on  my phone. The contractor just walked by and said, "You won't see plaster done like this anymore." I was focusing on the sculptural, vaguely humanoid, composition formed by the electrical box and dust mask, but sure: plaster. Anyone can appreciate that. I am appreciating the hell out of it right now, as it's being covered.

Certain family members are tired of talking tile...

Freecycling makes the world go round. These disappeared within the hour

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