SHAKE, RATTLE, AND ROLL

We live in an earthquake zone. Scientists tell us that "The Big One" is not a question of "IF," but  "WHEN." Maybe within the next half hour. Or maybe not even in our lifetime.

In any case, this week we got serious about our Earthquake Preparedness Kit. It's one of those things you always mean to get around to, but don't. 2020 has already thrown us a few surprises, we had finished watching "The Queen's Gambit," and already filled the salt and pepper shakers, so we figured, now's the time.

Step One: What to include in your kit. Check getprepared.gc.ca — Canada's Emergency Preparedness Guide. On the web site you will find the definitive list of all the items you might need to keep yourself going for six days, on your own, in case of a calamitous situation. And not only do you need to keep supplies around your house, you should also carry some in the car, and pack a GO Bag if you ever have to flee at a moment's notice — the idea being that you can locate all your survival gear in one place without having to panic. (As if!)  

Step two: Assemble your items. Now, when I think of a "kit", I imagine a jaunty rucksack that I can throw nonchalantly over my shoulder singing, "Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, and smile, smile, smile," or, "I love to go a-wandering, my knapsack on my back. Val-de-ri, Val-de-ra!" The web site illustration perpetuates this notion. One photo shows a compact, soft-sided tote bag neatly packed with a First Aid kit, a blanket, water bottle, etc. — these items poking coyly out the top. 

Okay. Easy-peasy. We set about gathering things for our kit. It's quite a lot of stuff! It didn't take long to discover that NO tote bag smaller than a Mini Cooper is going to be big enough to hold all it. The web site LIES!

So, we reassessed our storage needs and back to Home Depot the Mr. went to get those giant plastic bins and a unit of heavy-duty, industrial-strength shelving for the garage. We now have three jumbo crates stuffed to the lids with emergency blankets, first aid supples, candles, TP, paper towels, canned goods, personal toiletries, camp stove, fuel canisters, matches, hand-crank NOAA radio, water purification tablets, rain ponchos, tarpaulin, dried consumables, disinfectant wipes, hand sanitizer, work gloves, Nitrile gloves, tools, tea, tea pot, utensils, picnic dishes, rope, duct tape, whistle, flashlights, batteries, lanterns, soup pot, knives, wine (we are not Barbarians) and whatever else is on the list. Oh, yeah, gallons and gallons of water, sleeping bags, and folding chairs.

Six days of survival gear for two. Our bins are mammoth and they weigh a ton!  Not exactly portable. The Mr needed a chiropractor after heaving them around.

But, now, we are feeling smug. If our house collapses, we can camp out in the garage. We'll warm up Campbell's Chunky over a lit can of Sterno, (which would take hours, by the way), open a bottle of Cabernet, and huddle over the camp stove sitting in our stadium chairs atop the rubble that was once our house. 

But wait! What if we aren't at home when the quake hits? What then? Well, proceed to Step Three. 

Step Three: Prepare a kit for your car. For your average on-the-go crisis, repeat all of Step 2 in a scaled-down, more manageable format. Add flares and jumper cables. The trunk in the Subaru is now full. I mean it. FULL.  

Step Four: Pack a GO Bag. In the event that we need to vamoose, this is what the GO Bag is all about. Again, the web site provides helpful graphics, such as the one that shows a drawing of a cute, compact, school-style knapsack, with a flashlight, NOAA radio, phone charger, batteries, granola bars, water, personal toiletries, OTC meds and prescriptions, change of clothing for two different seasons, undies, socks, pjs, slippers, extra shoes, rain jacket, warm sweater, cash, and insurance papers. 

Can you guess what happens when you collect all your on-the-lam essentials in one place? Yup! We crammed three, way-too-heavy suitcases to bursting. "GO" bags? Hardly! More like "Hire a Pack Mule" bags. 

And go where? Why, the high school caf-a-gym-a-torium emergency shelter, of course! 

I was selecting items for my GO bag from out of my "Destined for the Goodwill" pile, thinking, "Why am I packing this crummy stuff? Wouldn't I miss my favourite sweaters if I were never to see  them again? Do I really want to check into the shelter wearing tired yoga pants, a souvenir T-shirt from "The Lion King," novelty neon-pink socks with "Girl Power" written on them that someone sent as a gag gift, and a pair of Nikes with holes in the toes? What if CBC TV Six O'clock News came to interview us? I'd hate not to look my best, as I'm sobbing, 'Our house just slid into the sea! Last we saw it, it was on its way to Vancouver!'" 

Step 5: Rethink the GO bag with at least a shred of fashion sense. Don't forget the lipstick. If you can find room in the kit.

Now that we're as prepared as Boy/Girl Scouts, I hope we're not tempting fate! Wish us luck!

 

Force of Habits

Her:  Would you like fizzy water with your lunch?

Him: Of course! It IS Tuesday, isn't it?

The Mr and I chuckled. 

This wee bit of mirth was a scene in "Last Tango in Halifax," a British series we're watching on PBS. It's about Celia and Alan, two octogenarians living in northern England, who fall in love later in life, and get married. A "dramedy," as it is called, meaning it has both dramatic and comedic elements. 

They say that comedy comes from truth, only exaggerated. This exchange was no exaggeration. Our days really are THAT routine. I mean, really: Retirement + COVID-19 = Humdrum!

But, when you get giddy with excitement about "Eggy Thursday," you know your life has become a bit predictable.

Breakfast most days is same old, same old: oatmeal, whole wheat toast. But Eggy Thursday is a celebration! That's when the Mr makes an omelet. He started it back in March when the stay-at-home edict came down. Now it's:

The Mr: Would you like eggs this morning?

Me: Of course! It IS Thursday, isn't t?

Routine has given us some structure. Without work to marshall our schedule, or even the opportunity to go out much due to the pandemic, we have fallen into a day-to-day pattern. Mornings are for walks, errands, chores, shopping. Then lunch. (We never miss lunch. It's a highlight of the day.) Early afternoons are for outings, or quiet time for reading, scrolling Facebook, hobbies. We take a break from this hectic pace in the afternoon to make a pot of tea, and watch an hour of TV. Nap time at 4. Wine O'clock is 6. Dinner, which is at 7, is followed by some "me time," and then we sit down at 9 to see what's on Netflix. We'll watch (or snooze off) until the end of our broadcast day at 11. 

Normally we are a little more spontaneous than this, but rhythm has helped shape order out of chaos. It has given us a modicum of calm and control. With every day being more or less the same, things are getting slightly monotonous. Except Eggy Thursdays jazz things up a bit. 

We also get excited about Cheese Scone Saturdays, which means a cheddary baked treat retrieved by the Mr from our local coffee shop, along with a half-caf for me. And we relish happy hour on Single Malt Sundays. Heavens, we might even crack open a can of smoked oysters and a cracker to go with our cocktails! That says party to me!

These little celebratory events have become occasions — sparks of joy. We had thought of adding something out of the ordinary to Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday, but that would mean that Eggy Thursday wouldn't be special anymore. So we resisted. 

Think we're going COVID-Crazy? 

Maybe. We go to bed on Wednesday nights saying, "You know what tomorrow is, don't you?" Either we are going quite bonkers, or Eggy Thursdays are keeping us sane.

Besides, W.W.C.A.A.D? *

* What would Celia and Alan do? 

 

Two Bumps. On a Log.

"You're sitting there like a bump on a log!" my mother would say to me. It was never a compliment. 

It meant one of the following:

"Go outside and play, and get some roses in those cheeks!" (This takes on special meaning when you live in a winter climate where minus 20 is considered balmy.) 

"Quit watching that TV and go do something useful!" 

"I don't want to hear that you're bored! There's no such thing as being bored!" 

Or, her best shot, "If you don't have anything to do, I'll give you something!" 

Is it any wonder that I grew up believing that doing nothing was somehow really bad? Ours was not a particularly religious family, so I never got the "Idle hands are the devil's workshop!" bugaboo, but that was pretty much the idea. 

Having been warned off this Bump on a Log Syndrome at a young age, I've never been one to "just sit." I've spent 67 years keeping busy. Spinning one activity into another. On the go. Feeling guilty if I had too much time on my hands. Nervous about inertia.

Then the pandemic hit. Adding to general anxiety that one of us or a loved one might catch the virus, and worry about what the heck happens to a world on lockdown, I panicked about what I would do with days on end, cooped up at home with nothing to do. Didn't we all? 

Six and a half months later, and I have to say that my inner "log lump" has re-awakened! 

How did I come to this Eureka moment, you ask? In a word: Retirement! If you're doing it right, retirement is perfect training for a pandemic shut down. The Mr and I consider ourselves the lucky ones because we have almost no where to go and nothing to do. "Lackadaisical" has taken on whole new meaning.

Any time I'm lounging in the backyard thinking, "I really ought to get up and do something," I can blame the pandemic ….or, should I say thank the pandemic? "It's okay. No need to get up. Zilch is the order of the day!" 

I am quite content with a To Do list as empty as last night's wine glass.

"Anything on today?" the Mr might ask.

"Well, today I have to file my nails. And I might fold those towels that are in the drier."

"Whoa! Pace yourself! Save something for tomorrow!" 

Not that we are completely in Neutral. We do get out. We have a trusted bubble of dear ones that we see. We shop for groceries. 

But as an introvert with a social anxiety disorder, I soon discovered that "Stay Home!" was the perfect directive for me. Not go out? OKAY!  It took some time but I eventually got around to relaxing. As the weeks wore on, I began to agree with articles I was reading about accepting the new normal. Life in the slow lane. Being still. Watching birds. Absorbing the gentle transitions of seasons. It was a revelation to be idle for once.

Our favourite thing to do is go to a beach. The best spots are sparsely populated (aka socially distanced) with lovely long views out to sea and across to the mountains. We find logs suitable for a nice long sit. Our beaches are littered with logs of all sizes. I figure they are either escapees from log booms, washed up by the tides. Or maybe parks departments have dotted them along to protect the shores. In any case, they provide enjoyable perches for contemplating the universe. The Mr will say, "We have folding chairs in the car. Would you like me to get them?"

"No, thanks," I say. I want to be like a bump on a log. Perfectly happy doing nothing. 

August: The Back Side of Summer

August. It's the non sequitur of months. How's that, you ask? Well, if you ask me, August is an abrupt, unexpected plot twist. It doesn't make sense.

Here we were, following along with the story arc for summer. First chapter began in January with longing for warmer days. Then we got propelled along in that lingering springtime build up to the solstice in June. Then, Hurrah! At last! The climax of the story! Joyous sunny days! Daylight until late! Beach walks, ice cream, gin and tonics, farmers' markets, barbecues! All those happy, sunkist events that roll us merrily along in July.

Then, SURPRISE! The calendar flips over to August. Technically it should still be summer, but August doesn't follow that premise, does it? August gives us evenings when we need to put on a light sweater. Oh, sure we can still go to the shore and there are ripe tomatoes to look forward to. But it's not nearly the same as July, is it? In August we suddenly notice that it's getting dark by 8:30. We detect a slight nip in the air. Maybe we spot a leaf already turning yellow. Back to School ads pop up on TV. Even the name, "August" is heavy. We can put our fingers in our ears and go, "La, la, la, la, la!" But the inevitable is right around the corner. The storyline turns, as it always does, toward September, and from there we know it won't be long until the year's denouement at Christmas. As I said, August is a plot twist. 

And if that metaphor wasn't tortured enough, here's another. August is the church potluck supper of months. A hodge-podge of flavours. Mostly nondescript. No unique character. July is the fun foods! Silly, giddy, fancy-free fare: hot dogs on the grill, potato chips, watermelon, strawberry shortcake, pink lemonade, and cold plates of shrimp salad served in lettuce cups. September identifies with school lunches, chicken noodle soup, apple crisp, and sweet corn on the cob dripping in butter. But, August? August is a throwback menu straight out of Betty Crocker. Potato salad, Deviled eggs, ham, aspic. Bland.

Okay, last one. August is the Charlie Brown of months. It's the "lovable loser" lacking self-confidence. July is Snoopy as Joe Cool. Cocky, casual, laid back, self-assured. Unlike July, August doesn't know what the heck it wants to be. It is a pessimist most days, with an occasional optimistic outlook. Flying a kite but waiting for it to snag on the kite-eating tree. Packing a picnic but expecting rain, or wasps. That's a Charlie Brown attitude right there. September knows what it is. September is Linus' security blanket. But poor August? It suffers from an identity crisis. August is neither mid-summer nor is it early-fall. It should just pay the 5 cents for Lucy's psychiatric counseling already. Of all the months of the year, August is the Charlie Browniest.

 August is the glass half-empty. There. I said it.

CSI: Nanaimo. Case File: Squirrel Tales

What you are about to read is a true story. Names have been disguised to protect the innocent. 

Friday, a.m., April 17. The Mr and I have become avid bird watchers of late. We have three hummingbird feeders, a seed tray "hut" that has a wee roof to keep the seed dry, and two hanging suet feeders. Non-stop action all day keeps us entertained and we have added numerous new-to-us bird sightings to our Life List. Nerdy, yes, but this is retirement, and especially during the pandemic.

We had been keeping gallon-sized milk jugs full of bird seed just handy, outside the patio door, on a three-shelved cart -- these containers just fitting snugly on the second shelf. Even a well-educated adult such as myself had to figure out how to maneuver a jug sideways to lift it out. So, it surprised us to see that one had been knocked over and seed spilled all over the patio. We laughed it off — as one does — surely a logical explanation. Probably a squirrel. Maybe we hadn't screwed the cap on properly and the little darling just knocked it over — Oopsy! — probably scaring its cute little self in the process. No harm done. We tightened the top on the toppled seed jug and replaced it back on its shelf.

We went inside, chuckling to ourselves. It could well have been the pair of sweet, pint-sized squirrels that have been regular visitors to our backyard. They amuse us, trying to figure out how to overcome the cone-shaped baffler attached to the feeder pole. And they're baffled, alright. We laugh watching them shimmy up the pole and then slide right on down again like bushy-tailed firemen, never reaching their goal. Juvenile delinquents, maybe. But, surely not hardened criminals.

Saturday, a.m., April 18. Same crime scene. The previously tightened cap once again screwed off, lying on the ground, the jug lying on its side, seed strewn everywhere. Hmm. A Mystery. Could a squirrel actually open a screw cap? Or is this a Copy Cat Crime — AKA Puss Puss, our neighbour's champion mouser? Couldn't be. Not a feline.

I deduce this to be the work of a more clever perp. A light-fingered foe. Prime Suspect: Raccoon. (AKA Masked Bandit. AKA Trash Panda. AKA Master Criminal.) Before it could cause more havoc, we hauled the seed jugs indoors.

Sunday, a.m., April 19.  I went out to refill the bird seed tray and noticed that the cheap (cheep?) plastic suet feeder was empty, even though I had inserted a fresh chunk of the good peanut butter stuff the day before. And where is the suet? Nowhere to be found. Now, it takes our resident wild birds at least 10-14 days to finish off a suet refill, so I rule them out as culprits in the case of the suddenly disappearing suet. On closer inspection it seems clear that some critter has cleverly figured out how to snap off the snap-on, wire "cage" that holds the suet refill. Now, even if I had not snapped it on properly, and it had fallen off, no bird is ever going to fly away with an entire peanut butter suet cake in its beak. I suspect the furry felon has struck again. So, we put that feeder away. 

Monday, a.m. April 20. I figure that if the little thief wants suet, it will have to contend with the well-constructed, crime-free, Fort Knox of a cedar feeder that is much better designed with its roof, solid wooden sides, and interior slide-in wire suet cake holder that can't be removed by anyone other than an adult human. It hangs by a sturdy cord from a metal "shepherd's crook" pole, which is solidly planted into the ground. 

The only weak point in this system might be that cord. If a critter decided to gnaw through the cord, the whole thing would come tumbling down. Surely, that's not going to happen.

The Mr and I were gone for no more than a hour. When we got home -- there was the wooden suet feeder on the ground, the cord broken and the suet cake stolen. We found the suet, not too far away, as though it had been carried off like so much fast-food-take-out. Nibbled and abandoned. This is not a raccoon's MO. A raccoon would have taken it on the lam behind the hedge and snacked on its stolen goods undetected. 

Having eliminated raccoons from our investigation, we are now working on the theory that our robbers are squirrels. (AKA Bushy Tails. AKA Tree Rats.) 

The frayed cord was all the evidence we needed. The Mr took the feeder to the garage for repair. He replaced the cord with plastic-coated speaker wire and hung it back up again.

Two hours later, the feeder is on the ground. The suet strewn. 

Apparently, a splice of plastic-coated speaker wire is a mere piffle for a wily squirrel. Was it chewed? Or do our thin bushy-tailed rodents actually weigh enough to break the cord if they landed on the feeder?  

We discussed an entrapment. A sting operation.The Mr tied a knot in the top of the two loose ends of wire and I installed 1/3 of a seed-encrusted peanut butter chunk. I wasn't going to waste a whole one. We made some strong coffee and settled in for a stakeout at our kitchen table. This squirrel, whoever it was, was not going to get away with it. 

First up, a petite, sleek little squirrel shimmied up the skinny pole, but lost confidence at the shepherd's crook at the top and slid back down again. Next, it went for the vertical leap, but it didn't have the chops to stick the landing. Back to the pole where it got half way up and somehow managed to brace itself with back toes and launch its front half toward the feeder. Having found its grip, it proceeded to munch seed and peanut butter, straddling between pole and feeder like a Cirque du Soleil acrobat. The speaker wire held.

Next up: a rather hefty squirrel came along. Aha! Have we lured our possible suspect? This guy is Sumo Squirrel. The ground shakes as he walks past. The pole is just a pesky obstruction in its path and it dispenses with that option immediately. His method? A four-foot vertical leap from the ground up onto the feeder and it just hung there, suspended, helping itself to all the seed a fat squirrel could possibly want. Its take-off solves the cord mystery — it has one hell of a powerhouse push-off that torques the feeder into a swirling, bouncing hunk of cedar — which crashes to the ground.

The Mr proceeded to Level 3 squirrel baffle-ication. He came back with it wired with actual wire, and a plastic sink drain to mount on the pole as a baffler -- which I'm convinced the squirrels will laugh at. I'm sure I heard a giggle from a tree branch. We returned to our undercover surveillance.

The wire cord held, in spite of the magnificent torque that Sumo Squirrel exerts, but there he was, caught in the act, deftly landing on the feeder ledge from a four foot vertical jump. The smaller squirrels acted as accomplices, aiding and abetting, shimmying up the pole to springboard off our laughable baffler -- the plastic sink drain providing a nice springy launching pad — strewing seed about for the big bossman. The clincher came when I noticed that one of them had chewed a chunk off the bottom "landing" strip of the feeder -- no doubt tunneling through that wire cage to get at the suet. 

Clearly, it was time for squirrel rehab.

Tuesday, April 21. Time to call in the forensics team. The Wild Bird Store, which happily is a short drive from our home, and, in these COVID-19 days, considered an essential service. They were highly sympathetic to our story, and said, "Just bring back the unused portion of your case of peanut butter suet and we'll exchange it for the Hot Pepper variety -- that should slow them down."  Their words, "ought to slow them down," made me wonder if that was only a partial guarantee of success. The Hot Pepper suet is, of course, more expensive, but apparently it's a crime deterrent. Never mind -- we'd pay any price if it did the trick. I felt a little mean bringing home a product that I was sure would be painful for the squirrels when they got a nibble of screaming hot suet or it could possibly cause them tummy upset, but I was assured that hot pepper can't hurt them as they won't even come near it. Birds apparently have no taste buds, so the spice is no bother. (Who figured out that birds have no taste buds?) Anyway, we installed the hot pepper cakes, and went back to our stakeout. 

No squirrel attempted a robbery. They approached the base of the pole and sniffed, but not one of our three partners in crime tried to steal any suet. 

Squirrel gangsters dispatched! Hot pepper saved the day!

But none of the birds are eating it now. A chickadee or two will flutter close, take one whiff, and back away. No Flicker, or Downy Woodpecker, or even a House Finch has come near.

Wednesday, April 22. I dropped in to see the Wild Bird folks again and asked about the suet. Do the birds just need to develop a taste for cajun, I asked? "No," the bird guy said, "they don't actually like it as much as peanut butter." Great. "But," he added, "once you're convinced that the squirrels have lost interest and are throughly rehabbed, you could go back to giving your feathered friends peanut butter suet." "You're kidding, right" I said. I told him how I had returned the case of the peanut butter suet only a few days ago. He said I could bring back the hot pepper for another exchange. 

Sunday, July 5. This whole episode took place some weeks ago.

Since then, I am happy to report that the squirrels have been complying with the program, i.e., not bothering with the hot pepper suet. The birds for their part accepted this change in their culinary habits and come to the feeder regularly. They're into spicy food, I guess. We never saw a raccoon. Case closed. But, it remains an unsolved mystery as to who opened the screw cap on the seed jug.

Coming up next on CSI: Nanaimo. What to do about Antler-boy, the deer, (AKA Buckzilla. AKA Buckaroo. AKA Buck Rogers. AKA Buckminster Fuller) chowing down on the "deer resistant" plants in the front yard. Stay tuned. 

Too Close for Comfort? Or Too Far?

Have you expanded your COVID-19 bubble? 

Have you met up with friends at a picnic, on a patio, or at a street party — you know, with everyone sitting at a safe distance of 2 metres apart? (That's 6 feet for my American readers.)

Does it all just feel a little awkward? 

If you answered, "Good heavens, yes!" I think I know why. We are fighting with proxemics.

That's "PROXEMICS": The study of personal space in human interactions. 

Proxemics looks at the nonverbal communication we all use to comfortably define and accept spatial boundaries around us as we go about our daily lives. It's our "personal space" —  that invisible region that we regard as "our territory."

Think of it this way: If your space is invaded by a stranger, you will feel ill-at-ease or even anxious. You will instinctively back away. On the other hand, if someone dear to you approaches, you allow them inside your boundary because you don't mind them being up close and…well, personal. Simple, right? We signal to each other by our behaviour, facial clues, and body language whether or not we are okay with others entering our zone. Our space expands and contracts to accommodate whatever situation we're in — Intimate to Public — and who we are dealing with.

The measurement of these distances is intuited to some degree, as well as learned culturally. Spatial comfort zones vary around the world depending on societal norms, which suggests that proxemics is a "part nature, part nurture" proposition. The exact gauge for distance isn't universal, but human reaction to acceptable boundaries usually is. 

Edward T Hall, a cultural anthropologist, wrote the definitive book on the topic in, "The Hidden Dimension," (1963.) It was a text I used when I taught "Human Factors" to Interior Design students back in the 90s. I became fairly familiar with spatial dimensions —which can either support or disrupt how people engage. This is an important consideration for interior architecture — and also instructive for daily life.

Consider these four typically North American spatial zones:

PUBLIC — this category refers to crowds and audiences. Generally, we feel uneasy unless we stay a respectful distance of 3.6m (12'-0") away from a performer or speaker (try sitting close to someone reading poetry at a "salon" party and see if you don't get all squirmy.) And we like to be as much as 7.6m (25'-0") away from other people in public places. This dimension changes when we are in an elevator or at a restaurant, on a bus or airplane, or attending anything where we are bunched together with strangers. In these situations, we manage discomfort by avoiding touch or prolonged eye contact. When watching something on a stage or at a game, we generally all face in one direction.  

SOCIAL — say at a cocktail party, we will normally stand, sit, and mingle at about 1.2m (4'-0") apart for social chit-chat, and maintain anywhere up to a 3.6m (12'-0") span from other guests in the room if we don't know them, unless we invade their space to introduce ourselves. Social distance is also appropriate for work environments. If you walk into your boss's office to ask a question, you will likely stand 1.2m away. Good for talking, but not invasive. Social distance also applies to shopping and when you ask for help from a staff person. 

PERSONAL — you and a friend will enjoy a conversation anywhere from 0.6m (2'-0") to 1.2m (4'-0") away without feeling like our space is being invaded by a "close talker." Across a dining table, we are typically seated 0.9m (3'-0") apart. We sit a bit tighter in coffee bars, but this means that conversations can become chummier. 

INTIMATE — this zone ranges from hand shakes to hugs. You and your loved ones, including dear friends, gravitate to one another within a range of 0.0m (which is REALLY intimate!) to 0.6m (2'-0.") You will even accept a stranger into your Intimate zone when hand shakes are offered in friendship — or even hugs. 

Let's review the Personal/Social categories. Normally, when talking to friends we accept a distance of only 0.6m or 2'-0." For casual social encounters we will get as close as 1.2m or 4'-0"

And here's what health authorities are prescribing during the pandemic: a distance of 2m, or 6'-0" feet. Let that sink in. TWO METRES between us. (If you are American, that's a whole 2'-0" of extra space.) See what's happening here? This gap is fine when we are passing strangers on the street. But we are being asked to interact, converse, communicate, love-on our social groups at thoroughly unnatural distances. This is like being pre-teen wall-flowers at a junior high school dance. 

Two metres is the length of an adult bicycle or a queen-sized bed. Standing this far apart from a friend is like telegraphing, non-verbally, "I don't know you very well. EEK! Don't get too close!" The not-coming-near-me part is exactly what we are meant to be doing, but it's confusing the heck out of us! Our social bubbles are being thrust into the grander Public sphere. We need a whole new proxemic language to figure it out, but we haven't had time to evolve appropriate facial signals (and what if we are wearing a mask?) or body gestures to say, "I'm way over here. But I love you anyway!"

Have you watched a couple of not-from-the-same-household friends walking together? I bet you've noticed that they aren't 2m apart. It's almost impossible to do it. The most any of us seem to manage is 1.2m — we drift together at the far edge of the Personal zone.

Let's visit a driveway party. Let's say six couples circle their lawn chairs with 2m gaps measured between each pair. And everyone sits. No mingling. Everyone glances at each other across the Great Divide. Feeling awkward. It's like being at a really bad living room party waiting for the host to start charades. At a Pre-COVID-19 party, normally we would sit closer and chat merrily with someone next to us, get up and move on to another person, or linger at the buffet table (EEK! Buffet!!) with a small group of 3 or 4. But now, seated 2m from the next person, we feel like we have to shout, and everyone else can overhear. So our topic of conversation has to be for the whole group — and delivered as though we are making a speech because the circle is now approximately 3.6m (12'-0") across — that's the Public proxemics zone. Or, even more worse, we might feel like we should "go around," like at book club, and share a scintillating bon mot about someone else's topic. 

Social distancing is really hard because it just isn't in our upbringing or in our DNA. I am all onboard with doing it — don't get me wrong. We do need to keep ourselves and each other safe from this rotten virus. But let's admit it — it is NOT easy. 

So if you have corralled the lawn chairs to socialize with a bunch of friends, and just found it weird, don't be too hard on yourself. It isn't you, it's the proxemics. If COVID-19 social distancing hangs around for a while will we negotiate new spatial "norms." Will we adapt new hidden dimensions? Will we get used to plexiglass barriers and X-marks the spot where we need to stand? Will we learn to communicate, ever so subtly, that we need our space? (Other than shouting, "STAY AWAY FROM ME!" that is.) 

Or, as creatures of habit, will we get so tired of trying that our space bubbles will collide once again?

My strategy for keeping space is waving with Jazz Hands. Try it — it's friendly and fun. I'm over here! But I love you anyway! 

A couple of articles you might enjoy;

"Pandemic Proxemics: Is Six Feet Enough?" Jane Adams, PhD., Psychology Today, April 9, 2020

"Bodies in Space: How Architecture Could Help Us to Adapt to the Pandemic," Kim Tingley, New York Times Sunday Magazine, June, 14, 2020

The Music in Me

There's no accounting for taste, the saying goes. But is that really true? Surely there are influences at play that affect our preferences, especially when it comes to our choice in music. That's the musical question posed by a game going around Facebook: The 10-Day Record Albums that Influenced Your Taste in Music Challenge. 

Music is shared and celebrated on social media all the time, but ever since the Stay at Home orders came down, we have been enjoying wonderful contributions by famous musicians, amateur players, gatherings on Zoom, health care workers, balcony serenaders in Italy, and even family units having silly fun. All of it has created a marvelous online community of support. These offerings not only underscore the pathos we are currently experiencing, but are also uplifting our spirits in many sublime and delightful ways.

But a challenge game? Really? Merely a time-filler to stave off boredom, surely. I was seeing posts from good friends who were participating and I was dreading that one of them would "tag" me to play along. Sure enough, it happened. I was "nominated" by my friend, Sarah with the challenge to chronicle my musical history, complete with illustrations from album covers, one per day, for 10 days. First reaction? "Ah geez, I'd really rather not!" I had no idea how my taste in music developed. Who would be interested in my two-cents worth, anyway? Weren't my experiences the same as every other Baby Boomer's? Beatles, Rolling Stones, Simon and Garfunkel, yada, yada? 

Sarah tagged me on a day when she cited Burton Cummings as a favourite; apparently a cunning plan on her part to rope me in as she knew I would bite — Burton being a Winnipeg teen heartthrob from the olden days. I wrote a comment on Sarah's post about how Burton Cummings was a preteen idol of mine when he was lead singer with his first band, the Deverons, and how all the kids in Winnipeg gathered in the Paddlewheel Cafeteria at the Bay on Saturdays to hear local bands. I mentioned how I even locked eyes with Burton one day when he was riding down the escalator. When a certain song came out in 1965 (was it "Shakin' All Over?") a Winnipeg radio station — the one "we kids" liked — held a phone-in contest asking listeners to "guess who" the band was. Hundreds of kids called in. "Was it The Beatles?""The Dave Clark Five?" Nope! It was some local talent who ended up adopting "The Guess Who" as their official band name. Burton joined them a year later and they became big stars after that. Wow! Winnipeggers that hit the Big Time! 

That got me thinking about the music I listened to growing up. What DOES shape our musical tastes? Our family? Early musical experiences? Songs we sing at school? Our first concert? What the other kids are listening to? Sightings of local rock stars on escalators?

In my case, I wouldn't have said it was my family — we were a profoundly unmusical tribe. I never had lessons on piano, or violin, or flute, or any instrument at all. I got nervous when my kindergarten teacher handed me a cymbal to ding out one note with the classroom rendition of "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star." Nobody in our house could carry a tune. Standing next to my Dad as he belted out hymns at church was cringe-worthy. And as far as I can remember, my folks owned only a handful of LPs. Dad liked Nat King Cole and Lena Horne. My Mum listened to big band music and songs from her youth on the radio, but they always made her cry while she was ironing, and so I wondered what made her so sad. We watched popular TV shows, such as Ed Sullivan, where musical guests ranged from opera soloists (Yuck), to somnambulant singers like Perry Como (Yawn), to Elvis (More like it), and the Everly Brothers (Whom I adored at, what? Age 6?) So naming anything from my background was a head scratcher as to how the heck I was going to list 10-days worth of albums.

School wasn't much help either. I mean, why on earth would they have taught 4th-graders, "What Will We Do With the Drunken Sailor?" 

Then, a crazy memory popped into my head. And so, Day 1, I posted this: "Tubby the Tuba." My folks apparently bought this kid's record so I could learn the parts of a symphony orchestra as narrated by a voice representing the largest of the brass instruments. Why? I have no idea! They never went to the symphony as far as I know. An early childhood course in music appreciation? (Let me assure you, NOBODY else mentioned "Tubby the Tuba" on the Facebook challenge.) 

Day 2: another memory. "Peter and the Wolf, A Symphonic Fairy Tale for Children," again, narrated and starring the oboe (Duck), the flute (Bird), the clarinet (Cat), strings (Peter), and French horns (The Wolf) in a story-telling narrative. I found it mesmerizing. Imagine — listening to Sergei Prokofiev at the tender age of 5! I remember being fascinated that music could tell a story.

Day 3: Alan Sherman's hilarious album that included, "Hello Muddah. Hello Faddah. Here I am at Camp Granada." You're singing it already, aren't you? Why did my parents have this one? Doesn't matter! It was hilarious stuff and I can recite almost all the lyrics all these years later. "It is very entertaining. And they say we'll have some fun if it stops raining." And those who know me, know I adore a good song parody. I mean, look at who I married — the master of musical satire! 

Day 4: the theatrical recording of "My Fair Lady" with Julie Andrews and Rex Harrison. My Granny and Auntie Anne had taken me to see the movie version with Audrey Hepburn in 1964. Oh, I loved the music and the costumes and the story! It was luscious! And so was the album, which somehow was in my parents' meager collection. I think we might have had "Camelot" and "The Music Man" as well, and I wonder, was this the start of my affection for musical theatre?

And what a year 1964 turned out to be! The British Invasion hit North America when I was 11, and Ed Sullivan suddenly became relevant! The Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and all the amazing bands, oh, my, I loved them so! My friends and I listened to song after song on the transistor radios that we carried, held up to our ears, everywhere we went. Then came the US bands in rebuttal to the Brits; The Mamas and Papas, the Lovin' Spoonful, the hippie era, folk-rock, the flower children, all tumbling together with Rock and R&B. What a time that was! My era! Wow — it was a revolution!

But on Day 5, did I write about all things Paul McCartney? No, I did not. Instead, I wrote about my big break-up with my parents' music. There's a line in the movie, "Annie Hall," that goes, "There was a lot of abuse in my family. Most of it musical." That really applies to the sudden interest my folks took to the mellow, easy-listening, sappy piano stylings of Ferrante and Teicher.  If there was influence here, it was to make me run from the room screaming. 

Day 6: Seems that early on I was a sucker for a handsome man with a guitar who sang sensitive ballads. Gordon Lightfoot. Sigh. His first album ignited the flame in my Canadian heart in 1966. I was 13 and got to go to my first concert at the Winnipeg Auditorium with some girlfriends to see him. I knew from that very day that I wanted to marry a man who would play guitar and sing to me. I did. Not only that, but the man I married presented Mr. Lightfoot in concert in Dayton, Ohio in 2017. Ken met our idol backstage and was the one who introduced him to the audience. I did not meet Mr. Lightfoot — I go all incoherent and sloppy around celebrities. 

Day 7: continuing on with LPs beyond my family's limited, profoundly unmusical sphere. 1967. First boyfriend. Second ever concert: The Byrds. In junior high I hadn't any clue what "Eight Miles High" might have meant -- nor did I ever, if you get my drift. It was a memorable evening. Boyfriend and I were too young to drive and so we took the bus downtown to the Auditorium. We got caught in a thunderstorm on the way home and waited it out in a shop doorway. Very romantic. Ken plays "Mr Tambourine Man" even today, and I'm sorry, honey, but it gives me flashbacks — even though first boyfriend just wasn't anymore shortly after that concert date. 

The 60s were filled with the popular music of our era — on the radio and on TV. The Beatles broke up in April 1970 two months before I graduated high school. Their final album was a coda to my teen years. On to university and more serious pursuits, like falling in love. 

I met Ken in 1971. He introduced me to music that I hadn't paid a lot of attention to prior: Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Ian and Sylvia, folk songs, Bluegrass, old-time country, jug band. Ken and his brother, Gordon, played guitar and we went to coffee houses and to the Winnipeg Folk Festival. He also had season tickets to the symphony, the ballet, and to the theatre, and so my musical horizons broadened considerably. 

Day 8: I went with a duet of LPs that I borrowed from Ken when we were first dating -- way back in 1972. My musical tastes were melding with his and I played the plaintiff, haunting, Joni Mitchell album, "Blue," alone in my room, loud, moody with forlorn young adult yearnings, until my Dad would yell at me, "For godssake, my nerves! Turn that thing down!" Ken serenaded me with songs from the Carole King songbook, and of course, many years later, we enjoyed the Broadway musical, "Beautiful" based on her life. These two albums are stand outs amid all the music we have listened to over the years. I still melt when Ken plays, "You've Got a Friend." 

Day 9: On the home stretch of the 10-day album cover challenge. On Day 9, I listed another of Ken's records. Now it's 1977. First year married. I had a day job, he worked day AND night at the Manitoba Theatre Centre. I listened to "Hasten Down the Wind" on my own, whiling away the evening hours until he got home to our one bedroom apartment. The album is still on our playlist, and every time I hear Linda Ronstadt's beautiful voice, it takes me back to when Ken and I were first starting out; young and full of dreams. 

Finally, Day 10: As we embarked on married life, the music we listened to came from eclectic sources. We went to the symphony, to folk festivals, and to see popular artists. But the traditional songs, like the ones on this album Ken owned, Nitty Gritty Dirt Band's, "Will the Circle Be Unbroken," satisfied me the most. This old time music felt the most genuine to me. And it's roughly the genre he's playing on guitar today with our friend, Greg Tuck on banjo, with a smattering of Beatles and Bob Dylan sprinkled in — via Zoom right now, but hoping to get back to the summer market circuit one day.

And of course, Ken and I have had this amazingly rich history of plays and musicals that we have attended, and that he has produced or presented. We have seen so many outstanding performances that have brought us to tears and to our feet in standing ovations. The first was in New York in 1979 when we saw "Sweeney Todd" with the original cast, starring Len Cariou and Angela Lansbury. Our seats were in the last row of the top balcony, but the power and dark magic of that show and those amazing performances blew our minds. I've been hooked on musical theatre ever since.

So, I suppose it's fair to say that my early influences come from orchestral music, story telling, folkies with guitars, soulful female singers, traditional country, and Broadway musicals. These all form the foundations of what I like to listen to today. I am really glad that Sarah prodded me to think about all of this with her invitation to the 10-Day Challenge. It's helped me understand what music really means so much to me. And how intertwined it is with the man I love, my biggest and best musical influence.

And now, I tag you! What's your music history?