Once in a while, I am reminded of how much work we have poured into this old house.  It goes without saying that every surface, inside and out, bears the stamp of a one project or another.  We are only the second owners, even though it had well over fifty years under its belt when we took it on, but the house was amazingly unspoiled thanks to decades of benign neglect.  The exterior trim was both original and intact, although a regretful colour, and thankfully no one had painted the woodwork.  We upgraded the heating and electrical systems and proceeded to make the old girl ours.  People say that the test of a marriage is hanging grass cloth together.  Yes it is.  So was sanding and staining an entire oak floor, while living in the cellar. Over the years this place has become as comfortable as an old shoe.  We do stairs in the dark, automatically counting them off.  Either of us can find the bathroom at 3 A.M. in any phase of the moon.  I thought the house and I were compadres.  You think you know somebody.

So it came as something of a surprise on Saturday morning when I stood up after cleaning the bathtub and rotated right into the end of the bathroom door.  We’ve been living here for over a third of a century and cleaning the tub is something I have done before.  But that cursed door has been playing the long game, patiently waiting decades for me to drop my guard.  I slammed into it so hard that my first thought was about teeth — my original and very expensive teeth.  Use them every day, as a matter of fact.  They were fine but my forehead was another matter.

Naturally I had screamed bloody murder.  Windows cracked and the dishes rattled.   I sat down on the bathroom floor to wait for Jon, who would certainly thunder up the stairs and comfort me.  Nothing.  Holding a rapidly swelling goose egg, I staggered down, whimpering.  Nothing.  Finally the hum in the TV room led me to find my beloved, who was wearing his new noise-cancelling headphones and cheerfully peddling away on his Tacx bike trainer.  Boy, those suckers really work.   He eventually noticed me. 

So a word of advice if you are in the market:  if you are buying noise-cancelling earphones for yourself, do so by all means.  I understand they reduce stress.  

But you might want to rethink their suitability as a gift item.

If at our house we tend to eat mainly whole food, it is partly due to its beauty, I suspect.  As you know, I am likely to paint at least one pear (see “Mlle Poire 2016”) annually, and it’s no secret that I have a thing about vegetables too.  Embarrassing to admit, but I once spent a week painting a Savoy cabbage.  And the GUILT when we finally ate it…..  So when a friend served me an hors d’oeuvre of glistening ratatouille yesterday, the sight of it was almost as pleasurable as the taste.  The magpie artist in me was delighted.

The corollary is that past-its-best-date-produce unnerves me.  You know - those zucchinis at the bottom of the produce drawer which transform themselves into ooze while you are making tea.   Or those elderly wrinkled parsnips which don't go gentle into that good night.  I don’t know about you but sometimes (usually when being artsy-fartsy rather than domestic) I get the unsettled feeling that a new life-form is brewing in my crisper.  


Sometimes it sort of is.  There was the year when I opened the fridge during the birthday luncheon for his dear grandmother and discovered that Jon’s dew worms had staged the great escape, stretching themselves out in the channels of corrugated plastic that manufacturers once used to cover the fridge bottom.   I tried to stifle the scream as that always unnerves guests.   Or the November that our resident green frogs found the fridge styraorm container(our pond was too shallow) a bit warm and got up to have a look around;  like clay Chinese warriors, there they stood, in perfect formation.  Luckily, we were eating alone that evening.  But I digress.


I write this to remind myself not only to give thanks for the bounty of food we enjoy, but to remember to make “fridge soup,”  as a dear friend calls it.   Never the same from week to week, home-made soup fashioned from odds and ends is nonetheless always good.  I like to think that somewhere in the crisper’s vegetative communal mind there is a dim hope to be stewed rather than abandoned to rot.

​Maybe that’s just the artist in me talking.

I was reminded of the old golf joke — “Hit the ball, drag Harry” today as I tried to walk Theodore.  You wouldn’t think that a 22 pound terrier could successfully resist walking on a lead but he did, all four legs stiffly leaving drag tracks down the driveway.  When that didn’t work, he just lay down.


Not that I really blame him.  It is France 1915 on our tiny street.  The house vibrates from 7 to 7 from the huge front-end loaders, the gravel trucks and the trenching machine which occupy our territory.   I suppose the watermains might be as old as that war and they frankly do need replacement but  poor Theodore, a dog who is afraid of cardboard boxes, is rigid with terror.


So I wasn’t surprised when, in the studio later he tried to scale my legs to get to the safety of my lap.  I’m into the final glazes of the two paintings which I have been posting and,  tempting as is the thought of sitting,  I’m a stand up painter.  Like most painters, I use my whole arm  frequently - sometimes to scrub, sometimes to lay down a line, sometimes to glaze.    


Scared or not, Theodore will have to settle for the floor at my feet where, no doubt, I will do a header or two.  Plus ca change….

Our family is celebrating a kind of anniversary this year.  Keeles have been living in the GTA for 185 years.*   In 1832 my great-great-grandparents, William Conway and Mary Cleaver Keele, emigrated from Southampton, bringing six children with them, only to discover that  they had been misinformed about William’s eligibility to practise law in Ontario;  although he was an experienced barrister, it transpired that he had to first fulfil several years of residency requirements before he could hang out his own shingle.   On the rebound, so to speak, he bought a half-share of a Kingston newspaper.  Unfortunately, he discovered that while he was a Tory, the other owner was a Whig, and that is why there is no Keele Street in Kingston.   

I imagine those first few years in Canada were a nightmare. Mary had been raised in India, where her father had worked for the East India Company.  What a shock those first Canadian winters must have been.  It doesn’t surprise me she didn’t survive her thirties.

However, she did live to see some financial stability.  Returning to Toronto, William again cast around for an source of income and, like many a Keele who followed, became a writer, in his case an author of  magistrates’ handbooks for Upper Canada.  I have one of his books.  It is  fat, leather-bound, and fine-printed.  I had never opened it and was astonished when a friend, who is an archivist, leafed through it and commented that the writing was outstanding.  I hadn’t realized that legal writers should be wordsmiths.

Apparently he was and the family settled in the Junction, where they remained.  Properties were big then.  The Keeles’ next-door neighbours were the Howards, who eventually donated their land to create High Park.  The Keele farm was bounded by what is now Runnymede, Annette, Keele, and Bloor.  In fact here was enough room to build a racetrack on the west side, where the first four Queen’s Plates were run.   The existence of this track suggests to me  at least one of the four sons harboured a passion for horse racing.  None of them followed their father into the law, apparently preferring to farm.  

After Mary’s death, William Conway remained in the Junction and was able to commute to downtown York by 1862 when the railroad was completed. He also remarried.  His and Mary's two daughters - Amelia and Elizabeth Anne (for whom I am named) - remained at home for their whole lives.  Elizabeth Anne donated a large embroidery of Queen Victoria to the Royal Ontario Museum; such a creation speaks of a quiet life.  The four sons, one of whom was my great-grandfather, were given small inheritances and sent west.  There they and their own sons encountered the bust that follows a boom, the General Strike of 1919, the Drought, and the Great Depression.

By now you are seeing a pattern:  timing is not a family forte.  What this means for you is that watching me is a good financial strategy.  Simply put, whatever I buy, you should divest yourself of.  And vice versa.  You’re welcome.

There remains, however, one particular delight  in living around here for this Keele.  I grew up in Winnipeg trying fruitlessly to spell my name over the phone or in person.

    Keele - K E E L E.
    Oh, Keely!
    No,  Keele - K E E L E.
    Got it - Kell.
    No,  Keele - K E E L E.
    Kelle?
    No,  Keele - K E E L E.
    Oh, sorry, Miss Kelly!
    
    ...close enough...


Around here,  all I have to do is say “Keele - like the subway stop.” 

​One small step for a Keele.  Timing isn’t everything.

I was reminded of the old golf joke — “Hit the ball, drag Harry” today on  our walk.  You wouldn’t think that a 22 pound terrier could successfully resist walking on a lead but he did, all four legs stiffly leaving tracks on the driveway.

Not that I really blame him.  It is France 1915 on our tiny street.  The house vibrates from 7 to 7 from the huge front-end loaders, the gravel trucks and the trenching machine which occupy our territory.   I suppose the watermains might be as old as that war and they frankly do need replacement but poor Theodore, a dog who is afraid of cardboard boxes, is rigid with terror.

So I wasn’t surprised when, in the studio later, he tried to scale my legs to get to the safety of my lap.  I’m into the final glazes of the two paintings which I have been posting and,  tempting as is the thought of sitting,  I’m a stand up painter.  Like most painters, I use my whole arm  frequently - sometimes to scrub, sometimes to lay down a line, sometimes to glaze.   We need to step back frequently too and I regularly fall off my stepstool  when I forget that.   


Scared or not, Theodore will have to settle for the floor at my feet where, no doubt, I will do another header or two.  Plus ca change….

Jon and I attended a wonderful wedding reception this weekend;  everything about it was perfect, to the point that expecting anything more from the evening would have amounted to gilding the lily.

Yet one of those rare moments of grace occurred.  The band was taking a break and we had just sat down to drink some water and catch our breath, when children took possession of the dance floor.  I don’t think any of them, all dressed in their party finest, could have been over five.  One little girl promptly lay down and allowed herself to be dragged ceremoniously by one foot while affecting a tragic expression.  A  retro “Twist” started up a few feet away.

And then it happened.

A small vision in a long white tulle dress sauntered out and sank to the floor, gracefully laying her torso across the outspread skirt.  She seemed to be channelling a Tchaikovsky ballet and I am a fool for little girls in tulle so  I grabbed Jon’s phone and ran.  The dying swan agreed to reprise the pose and her mother graciously encouraged me to go ahead.

Later that evening, someone in a suit and tie  (who turned out to be her slightly older brother) accosted me outside the women’s washroom.  He opened by declaring his excitement over the new painting of his sister.  He wanted details about size, composition and completion date.  It was oddly flattering.  I tried to explain that one of my digitals has less than a one-in -a-thousand shot of becoming a full oil painting but he was all in and yet again resistance was futile.  Had he been fifty years older, he would have handed me a commission contract.  I did manage to convince him that I couldn’t think about starting it before November.  That apparently satisfied him and he strode away, probably returning to his pint-sized corporate responsibilities.

So the swan and her agent are in charge of this creative studio.  Looks like  I’m going to paint “Another Big Day.”   

I’ve been thinking about insects these days. Even granting the importance of saving old trees, our daily practice of murdering gypsy moth caterpillars and smashing their pupae inevitably gives rise to meditations on what the ethicists call “interest.” Both tree and insect have an interest in survival and some years only one wish can come true. I know which side I chose this year.

Don’t misunderstand me to assume that I am unadmiring of insects. They will surely survive us, if only because of their evolutionary decision to produce multiple offspring. One of my favourite Larsen cartoons shows a praying mantid addressing a host of babies - hers of course; standing at a podium reminiscent of a graduation ceremony, she is dryly reminding them that virtually all of them will shortly be toast. (Another cartoon gem shows two mandids facing each other. One has just said “You slept with her, didn’t you?” and at that point you notice that the other one is missing his head. Don’t get me started on mantids. Did you know that they, unlike other insects, can turn their heads? But I digress…..).

Although Kafka mined the horror of waking up as a cockroach, the miracle of metamorphosis just blows my socks off. I once and only once witnessed a dragonfly emerging from its armoured nymphal stage; on a rocky riverbank, the soaking wet juvenile crawled out of the water to shed its skin and proceeded to steadily pump up two pairs of gossamer wings. What a sea change — from aquatic grazing to aerial hunting within an hour. I wondered at the time if that new helicoptering adult might have been experienced a sense of surprise and thrill at the speed of flight (over 30 mph) and the huge field of vision afforded by composite eyes. I certainly felt it and would be surprised that this new grownup had not.

This magic hour was surpassed only by the great luck of catching a Monarch emergence. That miracle happened during an Eid celebration which we were attending so I herded up the kids to come and watch with me. There are so few Monarchs left that I had almost forgotten the exquisite turquoise transparency of the chrysalis which was surpassed only by the jewel tones of the new adult. Again, it took less than an hour for this miraculous metamorphosis to complete. Appropriately, the kids watched with something akin to reverence.

This ancient watercolour of Gussie is a reminder of how he loved to stay outside, luring anyone from chipmunk to butterfly into his cage for a visit. Though Gussie's eyes are soft with happiness I doubt that his feelings were shared by the butterfly, who, judging from its immediate exit, was probably more persuaded of the likelihood of being devoured. Any insect in our back yard must be sharing the same mortal worry these days. We live in hope of returning soon to our preferred model -- The Peaceable Kingdom - though we do notice the lambs are getting less and less cooperative about lying down with the lions.  After all, they belong to different voting blocs, don't they.

If I were to judge from the size of his head, a marble mounted on his football of a body, I would have to guess that Mouse the house grouse doesn't entertain any big thoughts. Yet here he is in the morning, perched on the drying rack outside the kitchen window and hammering on the glass. He wants his sunflower seeds and he wants them now. Last night he suddenly decided to park himself in my lap like a feather muff. He's not here at the moment; probably off translating Crime and Punishment or teaching himself to knit. Theodore, on the other hand, should be able to create and run a widget factory with that enormous head he ports around, yet I might have to put my money on Mouse if they ever get around to that chess game they keep talking about. In fairness, Theodore has gotten so laid back, what with owning two slaves and all, that I doubt that the need to think is much of an issue for him. When it comes to crania, I guess head size doesn't matter much.​

But for me canvas size does. Once again I seem to be on the brink of conceiving an elephant. My common sense argues against starting something big, especially on the eve of hot humid weather, but the heart wants what the heart wants. I know I'm in trouble when buying food seems less important than choosing the right shape. Rectangle or square? If rectangular, "portrait" or "landscape" orientation?? And in what ratio - "screen" or "book" or "paper" ? And how big? Subject matter drives these decisions. The painting below -- all about the force of the wind on the paddlers -- demanded a long and lean image. This time, all I've decided on is "big."


The Canadian painter, Tom Forestall, went so far as to make shapes that reflected the subject matter. One of his most exciting paintings was in the shape of binoculars. Huge binoculars looking out on a marsh. Stunning. It doesn't seem fair to ask Jon to give up fly-fishing in order to build and stretch enormous and unique canvases for me.


Still....