Destinations

So, how about that letter from Captain James Cook that’s been found in the back of someone’s picture frame?

1777 is the year in which they believe it to be written, at the end of his three-year journey to chart Australia and its environs. Of course, there being no such thing as air mail or any kind of international postal service in existence at the time, the only way for a letter to get back from a seagoing vessel was for it to be handed to a fishing boat or a passing merchant ship headed in the other direction, and to pray that it eventually reache England’s shores. Which, when you think about it, is pretty much throwing your trust into the hands and words of a stranger.

It actually worked. The letter got to England.

Now, the thing that blows me away is the fact that we couldn’t do this today. Okay, if a stranger handed me a letter and said, “Please, could you post this?”, I’d probably say, “Sure,” and drop it in the nearest box and forget about it (I know, I know, anthrax scares and fingerprints to the contrary). But if a stranger in a foreign country came up to me and said, “Please, can you carry this back to England for me?”, chances are good I’d say, “Er, no, sorry.” Chances are good, in fact, that most people would say the same thing.

The other thing which amuses me about this is that the BBC quotes someones as comparing Cook’s return to James T Kirk’s return from his five-year mission with the Enterprise. Even Tom Allen, the host of CBC Radio Two’s Music & Company, compared the miracle of the letter reaching England to an Earth-bound letter from Kirk passed to some independent starship while on a far-flung planetary mission. Star Trek is all about idealism in the future. So our views of this letter from Cook are caught between nostalgia for the past on one side, and idealism about the future on the other.

Ain’t historical (and pop cultural) parallax grand?

I’m sure future generations will use similes like, “It’s about as amazing as someone three feet high carrying a Ring of Power through the entire lands of Middle-Earth and surviving the trilogy.” Ooh, look at that; I’m twitching.

Too Easy

I sat down between kitten-nursing yesterday and whipped off three pages of the Great Canadian Novel.

The ease with which I do this is beginning to worry me. (I know, I know – remove major sources of stress and I’ll instinctively create something new to obsess me.) How can I be writing something meaningful if I’m not trying?

Oh, wait – this is connected to the work-ethic thing that says, “If it doesn’t hurt, you’re not growing”, isn’t it? Always reminds me of that wonderful Calvin & Hobbes strip where Calvin’s pretending to be his dad and says, “Go to your room! Being miserable builds character!”

I do honestly worry sometimes, though, that because I don’t seem to be putting a lot of work into my writing, it’s useless. And yet, I’ll take this ease over the seven or so years of writer’s block I had, thanks very much. I’m not complaining that things are flowing, I’m just… concerned. Okay, yes, it’s a first draft (“This is your first draft?” Ceri says, looking up from my weekly sheets with big round eyes), and I can always “work” on it later, where I will no doubt cry and moan and tear my hair. (Y’know, just as an irritating aside, I used to get A minuses on the papers I used to write and hand in without rewriting. When I finally caught on to the idea of rewriting and improving a first draft, I still got A minuses.)

Today

I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating: I love hearing music I’ve played in concert on the radio. Particularly the fourth movement to Beethoven’s second symphony. I get all excited. Small things amuse, I know.

I also became strangely excited when I realised that it was so darned cold in the office this morning that I had to go put socks on. After a summer of bare feet, it Meant Something.

The computer finally defragged, on the fourth go-round. I can’t see that it’s any quicker, but it sure moved stuff around. This morning I installed a pop-up ad blocker, which works beautifully – so well, in fact, that I couldn’t get the YACCS comments boxes to come up on a blog this morning. Oh, right – they’re pop-up windows. Duh. Must hold Ctrl down while clicking on link. Small price to pay, though.

I was looking out the window this morning, waiting for my tea to steep, and I saw a man walk casually into the depanneur across from us. He had a ball cap on and a messenger-style bag over his shoulder, and wore a denim button-down shirt. It was around seven-fifteen, and all of a sudden I got hit by a wave of back-to-schoolness. For a moment, I, too, wished I had somewhere to be, to dress up and pack my bag and leave the house for, walking down the street early in the morning, when the light is still clear and cool, and on your way to the bus stop, you can swing by the dep for an orange juice and maybe a granola bar.

Only for a moment, though. Then I came back into the office with my tea, sat down, and looked at my list of work things I had drafted for today, with CBC Radio Two on behind me, with cats chasing one another around the apartment, and torn jeans and a summer sweater on.

Farewell, Birdie

Birdie gone home. The bird staff at Nature checked their files for the leg band number, found who had bought it, and called him; he called us around seven-forty-five, desperately glad someone had found her. She had flown out the door on Sunday, and had caught him by surprise since her wings had been clipped not long ago. When we dropped her off tonight, he couldn’t stop thanking us. I’m a little puzzled; if someone had found one of my lost pets, I’d want her back as soon as possible. We were just doing what we hope someone else would do for us.

Anyway, happy ending to an adventure. Man and little girl thrilled their bird came home; husband feeling tired and good about himself, but a little disappointed too, methinks. He was growing rather attached to the creature.

Feathered Friend

Yep. We are currently in possession of a Sun Conure , a tropical bird about three times the size of a budgie and multi-coloured in the yellow/red/orange/green spectrum. She’s just over a year old, not full-grown, and had a terrible fright – she’s evidently escaped from someone’s home and was all muddy and shaking when she burst out of a hedge my husband was trimming in the West Island. He took her to a clinic or two, who all said they couldn’t help him either by taking the bird or by locating an owner, since they don’t treat birds, then to the Nature pet store up by Fairview to ask for what kind of food to give her. They identified the breed for him, noted that it had a breeder’s band, and he brought her home with a phone number or two of bird shelters to report her. He drove home with her on his shoulder; she’s evidently a shoulder bird, and cuddles close to the neck, talking to herself. She’s a bit afraid of hands at the moment, and who can blame her – something that’s lived inside all its life, lost in the big wide world for who knows how long? I’m surpised she’s not more freaked out. My husband says she’s a lot calmer than she was this afternoon, though.

Now, the craziest thing is, when we go to pet stores and look at the birds, this is the bird that we call “the Buchanan bird” because it is, I kid thee not, the exact same colours as those in my husband’s kilt. For him to find one of these things loose and scared, and to have it cling to him so completely, is just, well, odd – out of all the tropical birds he could have run into outside, it was this one. She tried to fly after him when he went downstairs to get the birdcage. While she sat on my shoulder, waiting for him to come back, she was nodding off; she could barely keep her eyes open. We fed her and gave her water, and I think she’s asleep now.

Turns out my husband broke Cardinal Rule #1 today as well. He calls her Cail. (Or Kael, for those who know the RSW spelling.)

Kitten Nurse, Day One

Why is it that disk defragmentation always freezes up the computer?

My first day as a kitten nurse, and I am proud of my little furry charges, particularly the tiny black one that had us worried. She’s been scheduled an extra feeding, around dinner-time, and I am pleased to report that she’s getting this lapping thing down quite well, and polished off just as much formula as she did at lunch-time. At the moment I’m calling her Nix, as in ‘nix on any more cats’, because it’s just too hard to nurse something and only call it ‘kitten’. (I know, I’ve broken Cardinal Rule #1: never name an animal.) Despite her size, she’s the first to wiggle out of the cage when I sit down with the bowl of formula, and the also one who has the best control of her back legs at the moment — I’d forgotten how floppy three-week old fuzzy things are. My mother used to breed Cairn Terriers, and I remember when she used to let me help feed them in the transitional period between milk and puppy-chow. She’d soak a bit of kibble in the milk formula, put it in an old pie tin, and cover your lap with an old towel. Then you’d grab a puppy and introduce its nose to the mess by gently bouncing its head into it. Sneeze, sputter, and so forth; it took some of them a surprisingly long time to get it. When you’re ten years old, it’s great fun.

It’s still fun. Feeding the kittens is very like that, only different somehow. I think it has to do with how the kittens are even more delicate than the puppies were, and also with the Fall baby-cravings my husband and I get annually. If a baby is an impossibility right now, then caring for kittens will do just fine. So if I end up with another cat, I consider it partially the fault of Fiona, Debra, Paze and Val (along with their equally guilty significant others), who have all had babies within the past nine months.

When I’d walked home from the second round of kitten-feeding, there was a message on the machine from my husband about what an odd afternoon he’d had, and that he’d be coming home with a colourful friend who seems to have gone astray. I have an odd feeling we’ve acquired another bird, however temporary….