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The Walrus is Canada’s answer to the Atlantic or Harper’s. It’s literate, arty, political, well-written, etc., etc.
I was very excited when The Walrus appeared, and in a show of patriotic support, I subscribed for two years. I was happy to receive a new issue almost every month, with pithy articles on Canadian politics, flash fiction from such luminaries as Margaret Atwood, and a neatly organized calendar of national and global happenings.
Then I remembered why I cancelled my subscriptions to the Atlantic and Harper’s. I don’t have time to read magazines, for goodness’ sake! I barely have energy and time to read what’s required for the classes I’m teaching, not to mention the classes I’m taking. Reading for leisure? Ha.
So when I received the penultimate issue of my subscription, with a large, easy-to-read warning label informing me that I only had one more issue coming, I sighed and let it ride. I also ignored the two or three letters The Walrus sent me, reminding me that my subscription was about to lapse and I had to hurry if I didn’t want to miss an issue.
I also turned a blind eye to the label affixed to last month’s last issue – “this is your LAST ISSUE!”
Imagine my surprise, then, when the mail arrived yesterday with another issue.
I was prepared to recount the tale up to this point, with the crux of the story being the continuing non-subscription, but then I got a call last night from a Walrus representative.
Now, I have dealt with telemarketers before. No newbie, me. I have politely but firmly told phone companies that I am not interested in switching plans. I have not so politely but equally firmly told credit card companies that I am not, really not, interested in paying a “reasonably monthly charge” to insure my card. I have even told various charitable organizations that unfortunately I’ve given all my money to my cult leader and until I give birth to his blessed offspring I won’t be donating to their cause.
So I was prepared for this call. I had rationale. I had reasons. I had, if it came to it, every intention of hanging up on this pushy broad who just wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.
What I was not prepared for was nice.
Seriously. She asked me if I would consider renewing my subscription, and I said that although I thought The Walrus was a great magazine, I had about six issues waiting to be read, and I did not want to renew.
She said “I understand – give us a call when you retire and have time to read again! No point paying for something you don’t get to read.”
I have never been so impressed with a company’s telemarketers. So, kudos to The Walrus, for conducting business with as much class as they have on the page.
If you haven’t read The Walrus, and you do have time, go read it. In fact, I have some issues here, if anyone wants to borrow one 😉

I went to a funeral today.
The funeral was for my friend P’s mum, who passed away last week. For all intents and purposes, let’s say she died of a broken heart; P’s dad died at the end of January, and I guess some part of her mum couldn’t go on without him.
A number of things struck me today. First of all, I called my own mum just after I got home, just to hear her voice. P’s mum got very sick very quickly, and toward the end of her life, she was unable to communicate. I guess there’s some comfort in the idea that she lingered on Death’s door long enough for her children to say goodbye, but I felt sorry that we spend so much of our family time not saying stuff. When I called my mum this evening, I wanted to tell her that I’m happy she’s my mum, and that she is an incredible inspiration to me, in many, many ways.
I chickened out; we had a nice chat, we made each other laugh, and we made plans to make plans later. Maybe that’s enough – if not, I know she’s reading this, so, Mum, thanks for being you.
It also struck me how ritual is business and business is ritual. We engage in ritual all the time. My kids, for instance, have a bedtime ritual: pyjamas, pee, hands and face, teeth, story, song. We began this bedtime tradition years ago, because Colin was a difficult sleeper and the ritual helped. Now, the ritual is so firmly established that if one step is missed or misordered, we’re all thrown off.
Is a funeral, then, our last bedtime ritual? We’re dressed appropriately, cleaned up, there’s a story and some songs, and if we’re lucky, there’s someone there to give us that last kiss goodnight.
I chauffered one of the grandchildren to the grave site; G is one of the first of my friends’ kids that I’ve watched grow up from infant to adult. He’s a great guy, even if he did try to change my radio station. We talked on the way about the funeral, and about his grandfather’s funeral five months ago. When the events are that close together, you really see just how pre-fab it all is. Same stories. Same songs. We also talked about his future (he’s starting college soon) and it just now occurred to me that it’s awesome, in the true sense of the word, that we can casually flow from a critique of a funeral to a discussion of the pros and cons of studying science (pro: great job opportunities con: um, wait, I’m sure I’ll think of something).
I’m rambling, I know, but there are so many impressions and thoughts… for instance:
~ It’s truly amazing how brothers and sisters can be so different, physically, philosophically.
~ When does one get to the stage where one makes definite plans for one’s burial/cremation/scattering/whathaveyou?
~ Do the officiants get bored? I mean, it’s bad enough that you can recognize the speech at a funeral as the one from a funeral a few months ago; imagine saying the same speech, probably more than once a day.
~ Why are urns square now? Aren’t they supposed to be, well, urn-shaped?
~ Just as a point of etiquette: if you work as a chauffeur for a funeral home, whose job it is to drive the grieving family to and from the grave site, it’s not OK to overhear the deceased’s children discussing the family home and offer to hook them up with a real estate agent.
Betty, I hardly knew you. But your daughter is one of my dearest friends, and she’s a very good person, no doubt thanks to you and Archie. That’s a pretty good legacy. Rest in peace.

My garden is coming back to life… I was about to write ‘slowly but surely,’ but honestly, it seems like things are turning green, budding and blooming overnight.
I ventured out in this afternoon’s drizzle to document the renaissance. Click on the photo to go to my flickr page for more.

I have, I fear, become a lady who lunches, at least if this week is any indication.
Sunday – lunch with Mum and two Lennoxville friends in Knowlton, prior to seeing ‘Lend me a Tenor’ (featuring my high school drama teacher and attended by my grade six teacher, who remembers me after 24 years);
Monday – impromptu lunch with Dina and Naomi on Monkland;
Tuesday – the aforementioned Lennoxville ladies joined me on a bike ride along the river into Lachine, lunch on a terasse, and the return bike ride along the canal;
Today – lunch with Sophia, my bestest buddy from the engineering company days.
And I’m waiting to hear back from a couple of Vanier colleagues about lunch tomorrow or Friday.
Next week, I have no lunch plans (so far), which means that I’ll end up scarfing down crackers and peanut butter instead. So really, this whole lunch date thing is much healthier.

Standing, left to right: Rosie, Lisa, Avi, Jackie and Mariette.
Seated, left to right: Nan, Anne-Marie, Susan (holding Alex), Kate, me (aka the least photogenic person on the planet) and Irene.
Thanks, Kate, for making this happen. A great time was had by all.

At 7:30 tomorrow morning, Irene will be at the door, ready to wisk me away for the weekend.
Lest you, or more specifically, lest TB jump to the wrong conclusion, allow me to clarify: Irene and I are not running away together. We are running away with a large all-female contingent.
The contingent is large, not the females.
Our mutual friend Kate has arranged the second-annual Girls’ Weekend. We’re meeting Kate in Dorval early tomorrow, then heading up to Gananoque, which is not far from Kingston, Ontario. There we will hook up with ladies from Ottawa and Toronto, spend an afteroon catching up, eat a fabulous meal in the hotel restaurant, then engage in girl talk til all hours of the morning (or midnight, given that we are all far too old to be up that late). We’ll spend the night in a lovely cottage that we’ll have all to ourselves, then breakfast together, and hang out until mid-afternoon.
It may not sound like much, but last year was a great weekend, and I’m really looking forward to this one. (Having said that, 7:30 a.m. seems suddenly really early for a Saturday morning. Of course, the departure time was my idea, since it gives us time to hit the Liz Claiborne outlet in Kingston. What the hell was I thinking?)
I’ve promised Dr. T. that we will, of course, wear short nighties to bed and engage in the occasional pillow-fight. That’s what girls do, after all.

Ticket inventory, Friday = 0.
Ticket inventory, Monday = 3
The (new) Cars & Blondie, June 23, for my birthday.
Just for Laughs gala with host John Cleese, July 22, for our anniversary.
Just for Laughs gala with host TBA, July 19, for his birthday.
(According to the Gazette, the TBA host is a “high, high profile Scot.” We’re thinking Billy Connoly, ’cause, really, who else is there? Sean Connery? Rod Stewart?)
And when I called Mum to talk about the upcoming Easter weekend, she offered to take the boys away on Saturday, as long as we promised to retrieve them on Sunday. A night out! No babysitting fees! Easter geek night, here we come!*
And the weather was lovely, so we walked to Atwater Market, found black onion seeds and fenugreek at the Douceurs du Marche, played at the playground across the street, and walked home.

Yes, good weekend.
*If you’re unfamiliar with the concept of geek night, it’s exactly what it sounds like. TB hosts, with many yummy treats provided by his better half, and we watch a small sampling of his vast collection of geeky TV and movie fare. Throw in a little booze, a lot of geeks, and an endless stream of witty banter and deconstructive commentary, and you have the picture.

The weather is awesome – today we got up to 22 C (that’s 72 F, for those that are so inclined).
How can you tell it’s spring in Montreal? People are wearing t-shirts, some are wearing shorts, most are imbibing something on a hastily-assembled sidewalk terrasse, and there are ridiculous line-ups at every carwash in town.
I got my car washed.
It’s silver again! I can see through all the windows! The mirrors actually reflect!
Obviously, it’s an annoyingly Canadian trait to discuss the weather ad nauseam (although, thanks to global warming, we are not alone in our little meteorological obsession). But that’s not really my point. My point is this – because I got my car washed, my Darwin fish is all shiny and glittery.

Now, I made a conscious decision, after a lot of thought, to affix said fish to my car. For me, the Darwin fish is not, as some people assume, a symbol of atheism. In fact, I believe that science and religion are not mutually exclusive, and it was my rancour over the whole ‘Intelligent Design’ debate that prompted my fishy statement to begin with. I believe, and I think Darwin himself might agree, that such a phenomenally impressive process as evolution could be used as proof of a ‘designer’/’creator’/whathaveyou. I mean, if I stop to think about the sheer number of pure coincidences required for life on this planet to be what it is, I have to wonder whether or not there is something more to it.
In short, I would not be at all surprised to discover that there is some thing – being, entity, astral plane, or unimaginable thing – so far beyond our current comprehension that the various religions we’ve built are but the first paragraph of Chapter One of a multi-volume work, if you get my metaphor.
The point is, my Darwin fish is more about my beliefs as a teacher than as a defender of (non)religion.
The point is, my Darwin fish does not, for me, represent atheism.
The point is, my Darwin fish is all shiny and freshly washed and, therefore, very noticeable.
The point is, when I was stuck in traffic this afternoon and glanced up into the rearview mirror and saw a priest and a nun in the car directly behind me, I really wanted to get out of the car and say all of this to them.

I was hoping to have photographic evidence with which to enhance this post, but alas, there is none to be found so far.
Colin and I marched in the parade!!
Yes, that parade!
Ironically, on the one day that everyone in Montreal was pretending an Irish heritage, I, Maggie McDonnell, whose biological father was a Dubliner, and whose mother’s family name was O’Keane before my grandfather changed it to the less obviously Irish Catholic ‘Kane’, marched with the Welsh.
Or, more specifically, the Welsh Male Choir.
Ah well, at least I can sing, albeit not in Welsh. And Colin and I were in Wales in December, which is probably more recently than any of our fellow marchers.
If anyone who was at the parade has a picture of the Welsh group, especially if the picture features a woman in a white coat and a small boy with a Welsh flag, please let me know!

Third journal entry, ‘Assessment as Learning’
One of the recurring themes in our class’s responses to the mid-term assessment was “let’s get back to the readings!” As one of the people who contributed to the hew and cry, I now feel an obligation to go back to the readings and think about my reactions to them (also, Dianne asked us to ). I went back to my reading notes, marginalia and apparently random slashes of highlighter, and tried to come up with at least one idea that I found important, impressive or illuminating from each article.
If you’re interested in the article titles, let me know.

Continue reading “Reflections on Readings”