MORE TALES OF SANDLOT BASEBALL ON FLETCHER'S FIELD.
Here is another story which has taken on a mythic quality with the passage of time.
Some time around July 1959, Willie Richter a ferocious slugger if there ever was one was served a fast ball down the center of the plate. He took a hefty swing, connected right on and the ball sailed up into left field--- and never came down. It sailed right out of sight.
The next evening about the same time, Willie came up to the bat, and waited for a pitch. Suddenly a ball came hurtling down from nowhere. The left fielder lifted his glove and caught the ball.
The Unpire flung up his hand, yelled to Willie, yer out- FOR YESTERDAY.
There are a couple of witnesses to the event that swear up and down that it actually happened. Believe it or not.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
THE LONGEST HOME RUN - HYMAN PESKIN
A return to Fletcher’s field during the 1957 to 1962 era, involves a story told to me by Willie Richter, presumably related to him by the crackerjack pitcher, Marty Kaufman, and is about he late Myer Anapolsky. The factual truthfulness of this anecdote cannot be confirmed, but why allow the absence of evidentiary data get in the way of a darn good story.
Myer was a tall (over 6 feet) hulking outfieder who always swung for the fences, even though there were no fences at Fletcher’s field. His batting average was low and he often either struck out or flew out to deep center. On a rare occasion he connected with his roundhouse swing . And this occured one evening in mid june approximately 1959-60, (the exact year is uncertain). The ball catapulted out to deep left field on to the street. That was located on the west perimeter of the park and appropriatetly named Park Avenue, a very busy Montreal artery running north-south. The ball might have been propelled some 380 feet and landed on the back of a truck transporting live chickens. Again I must warn you this is pure hearsay. There were no credible witnesses confirming these facts. The truck headed to the town of Chicoutimi, a 450 km. 5 hour drive from Montreal.
Now a brief digression, the record for the longest home-run is held by Mickey Mantle, The Yankee ace who hit a homer 656 feet at Briggs Stadium, Detroit, Michigan – on September 12, 1960.
But that is just what is recorded on the books. For me the real record is held by Myer Anapolsky, slugging a homer 450 km- and 380 feet.
This record is in the memory tracks of all those aspiring ballplayer of Fletchers field, and will live on so long as there are old codgers like myself who are prepared to perpetuate the myths of that wonderful era. An era long gone and never to return.
After his baseball days ended, Myer Anapolsky settled into the mundane world of a working man, involving himself in such tasks as driving a truck and working in a garment factory. His personal life was troubled- with marital problems. I met him several years ago at a Montreal synogogue. The occasion was not happy. He was attending a memorial service for his son who had just died of a drug overdose. At the age of around 80 he looked shrunken and very tired with no indication of his previous imposing athletic bearing. I reached out to shake his hand. He held back,excusing himself, saying that his hand was still sore from multiple surgeries required to repair old baseball injuries. His eyes visibly brightened when I reminded him of the halcyon days of baseball on Fletcher’s field. He died shortly thereafter. Yes, there is life after baseball, but for Myer Anapolsky it was not much of a life.
Myer was a tall (over 6 feet) hulking outfieder who always swung for the fences, even though there were no fences at Fletcher’s field. His batting average was low and he often either struck out or flew out to deep center. On a rare occasion he connected with his roundhouse swing . And this occured one evening in mid june approximately 1959-60, (the exact year is uncertain). The ball catapulted out to deep left field on to the street. That was located on the west perimeter of the park and appropriatetly named Park Avenue, a very busy Montreal artery running north-south. The ball might have been propelled some 380 feet and landed on the back of a truck transporting live chickens. Again I must warn you this is pure hearsay. There were no credible witnesses confirming these facts. The truck headed to the town of Chicoutimi, a 450 km. 5 hour drive from Montreal.
Now a brief digression, the record for the longest home-run is held by Mickey Mantle, The Yankee ace who hit a homer 656 feet at Briggs Stadium, Detroit, Michigan – on September 12, 1960.
But that is just what is recorded on the books. For me the real record is held by Myer Anapolsky, slugging a homer 450 km- and 380 feet.
This record is in the memory tracks of all those aspiring ballplayer of Fletchers field, and will live on so long as there are old codgers like myself who are prepared to perpetuate the myths of that wonderful era. An era long gone and never to return.
After his baseball days ended, Myer Anapolsky settled into the mundane world of a working man, involving himself in such tasks as driving a truck and working in a garment factory. His personal life was troubled- with marital problems. I met him several years ago at a Montreal synogogue. The occasion was not happy. He was attending a memorial service for his son who had just died of a drug overdose. At the age of around 80 he looked shrunken and very tired with no indication of his previous imposing athletic bearing. I reached out to shake his hand. He held back,excusing himself, saying that his hand was still sore from multiple surgeries required to repair old baseball injuries. His eyes visibly brightened when I reminded him of the halcyon days of baseball on Fletcher’s field. He died shortly thereafter. Yes, there is life after baseball, but for Myer Anapolsky it was not much of a life.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
A Dog
Dogs should not be locked up behind bars.
They are meant to be free and happy.
This morning I walked over to the Metro store on Queen Mary near Decarie - Noticed on the bulletin board a lost dog notice.
Lost- black and white cocker spaniel. left ear missing, hind leg broken tail partly gone, answers to the name - lucky.
They are meant to be free and happy.
This morning I walked over to the Metro store on Queen Mary near Decarie - Noticed on the bulletin board a lost dog notice.
Lost- black and white cocker spaniel. left ear missing, hind leg broken tail partly gone, answers to the name - lucky.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
OH, GIVE ME SOMETHING TO REMEMBER YOU BY
This song was used very effectively in the documentary film- THE HIDDEN FACE OF SUICIDE. Yahudit Silverman
Oh, give me something to remember you by
When you are far away from me, dear
Some little something, meaning love can not die,
No matter where you chance to be.
Though I'll pray for you, night and day for you;
It will see me through like a charm,
Till you're returning.
So give me something to remember you by
When you are far away from me.
Though I'll pray for you, night and day for you
It will see me through like a charm
Till your returning
So give me something to remember you by
When you are far away from me.
___________________________________________________________________________
There is something so damaging, so profoundly hurtful, when we silence those who are suffering, when we turn away from their pain."
The Hidden Face of Suicide is a meditative, heartfelt, film that explores the question of suicide with fresh eyes, originality, and intelligence. Department of Creative Arts Therapies professor and filmmaker Yehudit Silverman enters the world of survivors, those who have lost loved ones to suicide and reveals their remarkable stories.
Date:
April 11, 2010 at 3 p.m.
Location:
J.A. De Sève Cinema, Concordia University, 1400 de Maisonneuve Blvd W.
Cost:
Free admission. Everyone welcome.
Oh, give me something to remember you by
When you are far away from me, dear
Some little something, meaning love can not die,
No matter where you chance to be.
Though I'll pray for you, night and day for you;
It will see me through like a charm,
Till you're returning.
So give me something to remember you by
When you are far away from me.
Though I'll pray for you, night and day for you
It will see me through like a charm
Till your returning
So give me something to remember you by
When you are far away from me.
___________________________________________________________________________
There is something so damaging, so profoundly hurtful, when we silence those who are suffering, when we turn away from their pain."
The Hidden Face of Suicide is a meditative, heartfelt, film that explores the question of suicide with fresh eyes, originality, and intelligence. Department of Creative Arts Therapies professor and filmmaker Yehudit Silverman enters the world of survivors, those who have lost loved ones to suicide and reveals their remarkable stories.
Date:
April 11, 2010 at 3 p.m.
Location:
J.A. De Sève Cinema, Concordia University, 1400 de Maisonneuve Blvd W.
Cost:
Free admission. Everyone welcome.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Colours- Lynn Gordon
I slogged at a slag-coloured job
concealed it in a rose petal hues
as I focused on perks and benefits
to banish the eight to four blues.
From ho-hum I made la-di-da
as boredom at bay I did hold,
Magician, sly alchemist, I worked hard
at transforming dust into gold.
Til settling for gray would not do;
I unleashed the longing within,
shed the past, turned the page to shades of white
faced forward and sloughed off a skin.
concealed it in a rose petal hues
as I focused on perks and benefits
to banish the eight to four blues.
From ho-hum I made la-di-da
as boredom at bay I did hold,
Magician, sly alchemist, I worked hard
at transforming dust into gold.
Til settling for gray would not do;
I unleashed the longing within,
shed the past, turned the page to shades of white
faced forward and sloughed off a skin.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Imagine-John Lennon
Imagine there’s no countries
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace…
…..Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world…
You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will live as one”
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace…
…..Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world…
You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will live as one”
Introduction to Poetry- Billy Collins
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
THE GLASS EYE
A man who lived in a block of apartments thought it was raining and put his head out the window to check. As he did so a glass eye fell into his hand.
He looked up to see where it came from in time to see a young woman looking down. "Is this yours?" he asked. She said, "Yes, could you bring it up?" and the man agreed. On arrival she was profuse in her thanks and offered the man a drink. As she was very attractive he agreed. Shortly afterwards she said, "I'm about to have dinner. There's plenty; would you like to join me?"
He readily accepted her offer and both enjoyed a lovely meal. As the evening was drawing to a close the lady said, "I've had a marvelous evening. Would you like to stay the night?"
The man hesitated then said, "Do you act like this with every man you meet?"
"No," she replied, "only those who catch my eye
He looked up to see where it came from in time to see a young woman looking down. "Is this yours?" he asked. She said, "Yes, could you bring it up?" and the man agreed. On arrival she was profuse in her thanks and offered the man a drink. As she was very attractive he agreed. Shortly afterwards she said, "I'm about to have dinner. There's plenty; would you like to join me?"
He readily accepted her offer and both enjoyed a lovely meal. As the evening was drawing to a close the lady said, "I've had a marvelous evening. Would you like to stay the night?"
The man hesitated then said, "Do you act like this with every man you meet?"
"No," she replied, "only those who catch my eye
Sunday, February 28, 2010
THE BEREAVEMENT OFFICER
This story is one hundred percent true. It actually happened, in Israel during the
first month of the Lebanon war, in '82, One morning, a bereavement officer pulls
up in a white van outside the apartment building at 62 Hillel Street in Givatayim,
a small community just east of Tel Aviv. He walks up to apartment 3. Rings the
bell. A woman answers the door. The officer says, Are you you the mother of
Corporal Tal Lavis? She says yes. He tells her he's very sorry, but her son Tal was
killed the night before in Lebanon.
The woman screams. She starts beating her chest and wailing. The neighbours
come over. The news spreads and within fifteen minutes, half the neigbourhood's
in her living room. Everyone's crying. The family's crushed. They hang posters all
over town announcing the death and the funeral and the address for the shiva.
Total mayhem.
So a few hours later, the bereavement officer shows up again. It turns out the
army made a mistake. There is another Tal Lavis who lives at 26 Hillel Street, two
blocks away. He's the one who died. Not this woman's son, who is very much
alive.
For the mother it was the happiest moment of her life! It's like her son came back
from the dead. Meanwhile, the bereavement officer drives down the street to tell
the other family that their son was killed in Lebanon. So they start screaming and
wailing, and their neighbours go over, and the whole neighbourhood moves from
the first apartment to the one down the street. They hang up new signs,
announcing a new time and location for the new funeral and a new address for
the shiva.
Its unbeleavable, but it's not the and of the story, So that night, the first family
walks down the street to pay their condolences to the second family. About an
hour later, they walk back to the apartment . And who is waiting for them at
their front door?
No, not their their son Tal Lavis. The bereavement officer. Turns out it was not a
mix-up after all. Both Tal Lavis were killed on the same day, one at 62 Hillel
Street, the other at 26 Hillel Street.
Excerpt- The 188th Cry Baby Brigade -Joel Chasnoff
For those who hope and think that war will solve all the world's ills and particularly in the middle east.
first month of the Lebanon war, in '82, One morning, a bereavement officer pulls
up in a white van outside the apartment building at 62 Hillel Street in Givatayim,
a small community just east of Tel Aviv. He walks up to apartment 3. Rings the
bell. A woman answers the door. The officer says, Are you you the mother of
Corporal Tal Lavis? She says yes. He tells her he's very sorry, but her son Tal was
killed the night before in Lebanon.
The woman screams. She starts beating her chest and wailing. The neighbours
come over. The news spreads and within fifteen minutes, half the neigbourhood's
in her living room. Everyone's crying. The family's crushed. They hang posters all
over town announcing the death and the funeral and the address for the shiva.
Total mayhem.
So a few hours later, the bereavement officer shows up again. It turns out the
army made a mistake. There is another Tal Lavis who lives at 26 Hillel Street, two
blocks away. He's the one who died. Not this woman's son, who is very much
alive.
For the mother it was the happiest moment of her life! It's like her son came back
from the dead. Meanwhile, the bereavement officer drives down the street to tell
the other family that their son was killed in Lebanon. So they start screaming and
wailing, and their neighbours go over, and the whole neighbourhood moves from
the first apartment to the one down the street. They hang up new signs,
announcing a new time and location for the new funeral and a new address for
the shiva.
Its unbeleavable, but it's not the and of the story, So that night, the first family
walks down the street to pay their condolences to the second family. About an
hour later, they walk back to the apartment . And who is waiting for them at
their front door?
No, not their their son Tal Lavis. The bereavement officer. Turns out it was not a
mix-up after all. Both Tal Lavis were killed on the same day, one at 62 Hillel
Street, the other at 26 Hillel Street.
Excerpt- The 188th Cry Baby Brigade -Joel Chasnoff
For those who hope and think that war will solve all the world's ills and particularly in the middle east.
Friday, February 26, 2010
ADVICE I TAKE TO HEART - MARK TWAIN
Dance like nobody’s watching
love like you’ve never been hurt
Sing like nobody’s listening
live like it’s heaven on earth”
love like you’ve never been hurt
Sing like nobody’s listening
live like it’s heaven on earth”
Sunday, February 21, 2010
ON SOLITUDE-FEB 2010
I seek solitude to write about it- that is, to tell how it shaped the life of one Julie Sheridan, bibliophile, fledgling poet and and aspiring author. Since childhood, she had revelled in the power of words to transport her to realms apart, and longed to acquire the skill to bestow such enchantment on others.
The role of solitude in crafting literature was a source of endless fascination. She imagined a rock-strewn cliff overlooking the ocean, no distraction save the sound of waves crashing against the shore and the whoosh of the rushing wind. She would be leaning against an uprooted tree trunk, notebook perched on upright knees, pen in hand scribbling furiously in this remote setting. Or she fantasized a cabin in rustic surroundings, where she would be inspired by, and perhaps describing, the rhythms of the seasons, the play of light and shadows as they varied from dusk to dawn.
Not to be forgotten was the darker side of the moon of solitude- the intimidation of the blank page before her and despair that it would remain so. The wellspring had run dry; where, oh where her muse? Then she felt that being alone was burdensome, more like solitary confinement, a far cry from the glorious flights of fancy she had envisioned in her youth. So it was that the siren song of solitude, once so seductive, gave way to a less romantic reality.
On silent strolls to contrived destinations, she created her "own private Idaho", the perfect opportunity to clarify stored outpourings of thought and ideas, to develop the seed of stories in-the-making. She often seized on wait-time - in line at the grocer's, in a doctor's office or at a bus stop - to continue to hone her craft. Especially practical was writing while in transit. Hours on a plane or train were ideal, with no commitments to meet, nor guilt about leaving them unfulfilled - just Julie, her ever-present notebook and pen.
In this way, she learned to integrate literary musings into the bustle of daily living. Not for a moment did Julie doubt that time spent alone was basic to creativity. Be it heaven or hell, solitude was, for her, the core of a writing life.
Amen, Julie. I couldn't have said it better myself.
The role of solitude in crafting literature was a source of endless fascination. She imagined a rock-strewn cliff overlooking the ocean, no distraction save the sound of waves crashing against the shore and the whoosh of the rushing wind. She would be leaning against an uprooted tree trunk, notebook perched on upright knees, pen in hand scribbling furiously in this remote setting. Or she fantasized a cabin in rustic surroundings, where she would be inspired by, and perhaps describing, the rhythms of the seasons, the play of light and shadows as they varied from dusk to dawn.
Not to be forgotten was the darker side of the moon of solitude- the intimidation of the blank page before her and despair that it would remain so. The wellspring had run dry; where, oh where her muse? Then she felt that being alone was burdensome, more like solitary confinement, a far cry from the glorious flights of fancy she had envisioned in her youth. So it was that the siren song of solitude, once so seductive, gave way to a less romantic reality.
On silent strolls to contrived destinations, she created her "own private Idaho", the perfect opportunity to clarify stored outpourings of thought and ideas, to develop the seed of stories in-the-making. She often seized on wait-time - in line at the grocer's, in a doctor's office or at a bus stop - to continue to hone her craft. Especially practical was writing while in transit. Hours on a plane or train were ideal, with no commitments to meet, nor guilt about leaving them unfulfilled - just Julie, her ever-present notebook and pen.
In this way, she learned to integrate literary musings into the bustle of daily living. Not for a moment did Julie doubt that time spent alone was basic to creativity. Be it heaven or hell, solitude was, for her, the core of a writing life.
Amen, Julie. I couldn't have said it better myself.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Not a love story-the ballad of eight to four- Lynn Gordon, 1980
I had a job or it had me
I didn't work in a factory
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
In at at eight and out at four
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
Pay and perks but not much more
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
refrain
Waging war on unemployment
Weekdays,eight to four
Wasn't there for my enjoyment
Weekdays, eight to four
Sign in red if you are late
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
They dock your pay if you hestitate
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
Pick a little, talk a little, coffee break
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
Sip a little, gawk a little, goodness sake
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
refrain
Waging war on unemployment
Weekdays,eight to four
Wasn't there for my enjoyment
Weekdays, eight to four
I didn't work in a factory
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
In at at eight and out at four
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
Pay and perks but not much more
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
refrain
Waging war on unemployment
Weekdays,eight to four
Wasn't there for my enjoyment
Weekdays, eight to four
Sign in red if you are late
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
They dock your pay if you hestitate
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
Pick a little, talk a little, coffee break
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
Sip a little, gawk a little, goodness sake
La-la-la-la-la-la-lah-la-la
refrain
Waging war on unemployment
Weekdays,eight to four
Wasn't there for my enjoyment
Weekdays, eight to four
Cousin Shirley
My cousin Shirley had her funeral last sunday. Amongst her chief mourners were five caregivers who worked around the clock looking after her. I read that when Queen Elizabeth, the British Monarch, was hospitalized she had only three caregivers.
Cousin Shirley was obscenely rich .
Which reminds me of an old Jewish Proverb.
If the rich could hire the poor to die for them, the poor would make a very nice living.
Cousin Shirley was obscenely rich .
Which reminds me of an old Jewish Proverb.
If the rich could hire the poor to die for them, the poor would make a very nice living.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas Page
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas Page
Monday, July 20, 2009
A Painter's Pain- Mike Boone
Laurie Kader, a 28-year-old Montreal painter, lives with a rare genetic disorder that affects the bones and development of her hands and arms.Photograph by: MARIE-FRANCE COALLIER The Gazette, The GazetteLaurie Kader packs a lot of indomitable spirit in her wee battered body.
She is strong enough to overcome cruel irony: Kader, 28, has a rare genetic disorder that deforms the bones in her hands and arms - precisely the parts of the body she needs to do what she does.
But Kader copes. When the bones of her right hand began to fuse due to illness, she forced herself to become ambidextrous so she could keep on painting.
Kader has painted since she was 3 years old. And since the age of 12, she's painted through pain.
"I'm in and out of surgery," Kader says, "and in and out of painting."
Kader has Madelung's Deformity and Leri-Weill dyschondrosteosis. They are genetic disorders that cause bone deformity. The combination is extremely rare: Kader shares it with approximately 700 people in the world.
"There are four doctors who know about the condition," she says, "two of whom have worked on me."
Many have it worse than she. Dwarfism is a common symptom; but while Kader is only five feet tall, she is not a dwarf.
"I'm short," she says. "But 99.9 per cent of people who have this are 4-foot-2."
Were you to walk by Laurie Kader on the street - or visit her, as I did, in the third-floor N.D.G. walk-up she shares with her boyfriend - you'd notice nothing unusual, except for bright red hair colouring that is not commonly found in nature. But her unremarkable appearance and cheerful demeanour mask a life of surgical interventions - 11 since the age of 14, three in the last 18 months - to correct deformities.
After the most recent operation, Kader has a cast from her left elbow to the middle of her hand. There's also a bandage on her right forearm where Kader administers Lidocaine to keep her pain levels down.
"I've become accustomed to chronic pain since the age of 12," Kader says matter-of-factly. That's when her symptoms showed up, the first occurring when she was "pushed into a brick wall and my bones all popped out of their joints."
She and her father visited a succession of Montreal orthopedists, a year-long process that culminated in a referral, from a sports medicine doctor, to the Mayo Clinic. Kader has been treated at the world-famous Minnesota medical facility ever since.
"Your radius is shorter than your ulna," Kader said, explaining her bone deformity. Perceiving that I had no clue, she added "it's very complicated. ... You'd have to read up about it on the Internet."
Rather than Google "Madelung," I talked to Kader about her art.
"I started at the age of 3 and never stopped," she said. "As I grew with my genetic conditions, my art grew as well. It became a collection of work on my journey through life.
"It's difficult at times," Kader admits. "But art is my therapy. If I didn't have it, I don't know what I would do. So it's become my life."
Her work involves the layering and texturing of oil glazing and mixed media, a laborious process that can take six to eight months on pieces as large as 8 feet by 4 feet. Many of her paintings have been sold to doctors. There's something in Kader's art that speaks to them."
But when I asked her to comment on themes in her work, she declined.
"Everyone has to interpret for themselves," she said. "Some people have said it's abstract on a cellular level, Jackson Pollock Meets Alfred Hitchcock.
"It is what it is. You can call it what you want."
Kader works with Earl Pinchuk and Gary Blair of the Art for Healing Foundation, which places art in Montreal hospitals. She will have a January exhibit at the Gora gallery on Sherbrooke St.
After I summoned up the courage to ask, Kader said she didn't know how long she would live. Her conditions are not curable, and the pain is 24/7.
Through all that, Laurie Kader is, for want of a less sexist expression, a great chick. Burdened by affliction that would crush lesser mortals, she's warm, affable and good-humoured.
"Someone told me I should be 45 and dying," Kader quipped. "It would sell more paintings."
She is strong enough to overcome cruel irony: Kader, 28, has a rare genetic disorder that deforms the bones in her hands and arms - precisely the parts of the body she needs to do what she does.
But Kader copes. When the bones of her right hand began to fuse due to illness, she forced herself to become ambidextrous so she could keep on painting.
Kader has painted since she was 3 years old. And since the age of 12, she's painted through pain.
"I'm in and out of surgery," Kader says, "and in and out of painting."
Kader has Madelung's Deformity and Leri-Weill dyschondrosteosis. They are genetic disorders that cause bone deformity. The combination is extremely rare: Kader shares it with approximately 700 people in the world.
"There are four doctors who know about the condition," she says, "two of whom have worked on me."
Many have it worse than she. Dwarfism is a common symptom; but while Kader is only five feet tall, she is not a dwarf.
"I'm short," she says. "But 99.9 per cent of people who have this are 4-foot-2."
Were you to walk by Laurie Kader on the street - or visit her, as I did, in the third-floor N.D.G. walk-up she shares with her boyfriend - you'd notice nothing unusual, except for bright red hair colouring that is not commonly found in nature. But her unremarkable appearance and cheerful demeanour mask a life of surgical interventions - 11 since the age of 14, three in the last 18 months - to correct deformities.
After the most recent operation, Kader has a cast from her left elbow to the middle of her hand. There's also a bandage on her right forearm where Kader administers Lidocaine to keep her pain levels down.
"I've become accustomed to chronic pain since the age of 12," Kader says matter-of-factly. That's when her symptoms showed up, the first occurring when she was "pushed into a brick wall and my bones all popped out of their joints."
She and her father visited a succession of Montreal orthopedists, a year-long process that culminated in a referral, from a sports medicine doctor, to the Mayo Clinic. Kader has been treated at the world-famous Minnesota medical facility ever since.
"Your radius is shorter than your ulna," Kader said, explaining her bone deformity. Perceiving that I had no clue, she added "it's very complicated. ... You'd have to read up about it on the Internet."
Rather than Google "Madelung," I talked to Kader about her art.
"I started at the age of 3 and never stopped," she said. "As I grew with my genetic conditions, my art grew as well. It became a collection of work on my journey through life.
"It's difficult at times," Kader admits. "But art is my therapy. If I didn't have it, I don't know what I would do. So it's become my life."
Her work involves the layering and texturing of oil glazing and mixed media, a laborious process that can take six to eight months on pieces as large as 8 feet by 4 feet. Many of her paintings have been sold to doctors. There's something in Kader's art that speaks to them."
But when I asked her to comment on themes in her work, she declined.
"Everyone has to interpret for themselves," she said. "Some people have said it's abstract on a cellular level, Jackson Pollock Meets Alfred Hitchcock.
"It is what it is. You can call it what you want."
Kader works with Earl Pinchuk and Gary Blair of the Art for Healing Foundation, which places art in Montreal hospitals. She will have a January exhibit at the Gora gallery on Sherbrooke St.
After I summoned up the courage to ask, Kader said she didn't know how long she would live. Her conditions are not curable, and the pain is 24/7.
Through all that, Laurie Kader is, for want of a less sexist expression, a great chick. Burdened by affliction that would crush lesser mortals, she's warm, affable and good-humoured.
"Someone told me I should be 45 and dying," Kader quipped. "It would sell more paintings."
45 Mercy Street- Ann Sexton
In my dream,
drilling into the marrow
of my entire bone,
my real dream,
I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill
searching for a street sign -
namely MERCY STREET.
Not there.
I try the Back Bay.
Not there.
Not there.
And yet I know the number.
45 Mercy Street.
I know the stained-glass window
of the foyer,
the three flights of the house
with its parquet floors.
I know the furniture and
mother, grandmother, great-grandmother,
the servants.
I know the cupboard of Spode
the boat of ice, solid silver,
where the butter sits in neat squares
like strange giant's teeth
on the big mahogany table.
I know it well.
Not there.
Where did you go?
45 Mercy Street,
with great-grandmother
kneeling in her whale-bone corset
and praying gently but fiercely
to the wash basin,
at five A.M.
at noon
dozing in her wiggy rocker,
grandfather taking a nap in the pantry,
grandmother pushing the bell for the downstairs maid,
and Nana rocking Mother with an oversized flower
on her forehead to cover the curl
of when she was good and when she was...
And where she was begat
and in a generation
the third she will beget,
me,
with the stranger's seed blooming
into the flower called Horrid.
I walk in a yellow dress
and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes,
enough pills, my wallet, my keys,
and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five?
I walk. I walk.
I hold matches at street signs
for it is dark,
as dark as the leathery dead
and I have lost my green Ford,
my house in the suburbs,
two little kids
sucked up like pollen by the bee in me
and a husband
who has wiped off his eyes
in order not to see my inside out
and I am walking and looking
and this is no dream
just my oily life
where the people are alibis
and the street is unfindable for an
entire lifetime.
Pull the shades down -
I don't care!
Bolt the door, mercy,
erase the number,
rip down the street sign,
what can it matter,
what can it matter to this cheapskate
who wants to own the past
that went out on a dead ship
and left me only with paper?
Not there.
I open my pocketbook,
as women do,
and fish swim back and forth
between the dollars and the lipstick.
I pick them out,
one by one
and throw them at the street signs,
and shoot my pocketbook
into the Charles River.
Next I pull the dream off
and slam into the cement wall
of the clumsy calendar
I live in,
my life,
and its hauled up
notebooks.
drilling into the marrow
of my entire bone,
my real dream,
I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill
searching for a street sign -
namely MERCY STREET.
Not there.
I try the Back Bay.
Not there.
Not there.
And yet I know the number.
45 Mercy Street.
I know the stained-glass window
of the foyer,
the three flights of the house
with its parquet floors.
I know the furniture and
mother, grandmother, great-grandmother,
the servants.
I know the cupboard of Spode
the boat of ice, solid silver,
where the butter sits in neat squares
like strange giant's teeth
on the big mahogany table.
I know it well.
Not there.
Where did you go?
45 Mercy Street,
with great-grandmother
kneeling in her whale-bone corset
and praying gently but fiercely
to the wash basin,
at five A.M.
at noon
dozing in her wiggy rocker,
grandfather taking a nap in the pantry,
grandmother pushing the bell for the downstairs maid,
and Nana rocking Mother with an oversized flower
on her forehead to cover the curl
of when she was good and when she was...
And where she was begat
and in a generation
the third she will beget,
me,
with the stranger's seed blooming
into the flower called Horrid.
I walk in a yellow dress
and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes,
enough pills, my wallet, my keys,
and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five?
I walk. I walk.
I hold matches at street signs
for it is dark,
as dark as the leathery dead
and I have lost my green Ford,
my house in the suburbs,
two little kids
sucked up like pollen by the bee in me
and a husband
who has wiped off his eyes
in order not to see my inside out
and I am walking and looking
and this is no dream
just my oily life
where the people are alibis
and the street is unfindable for an
entire lifetime.
Pull the shades down -
I don't care!
Bolt the door, mercy,
erase the number,
rip down the street sign,
what can it matter,
what can it matter to this cheapskate
who wants to own the past
that went out on a dead ship
and left me only with paper?
Not there.
I open my pocketbook,
as women do,
and fish swim back and forth
between the dollars and the lipstick.
I pick them out,
one by one
and throw them at the street signs,
and shoot my pocketbook
into the Charles River.
Next I pull the dream off
and slam into the cement wall
of the clumsy calendar
I live in,
my life,
and its hauled up
notebooks.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Stopping By Woods On a Snowey Evening- Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Buffalo Bill- e e cummings
e e cummings
Buffalo Bill's
defunct
who used to
ride a watersmooth-silver
stallion
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
Jesus
he was a handsome man
and what i want to know is
how do you like your blueeyed boy
Mister Death
Back to Brian Nation's boppin a riff
Buffalo Bill's
defunct
who used to
ride a watersmooth-silver
stallion
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
Jesus
he was a handsome man
and what i want to know is
how do you like your blueeyed boy
Mister Death
Back to Brian Nation's boppin a riff
Fatherhood Can be a Job- Paul Nathanson
Last Fathers' Day, U.S. President Barack Obama, so eloquent on most occasions, chose not to celebrate good fathers but to rant about "deadbeat dads." David Warren hasn't repeated that mistake. His Saturday column, "In praise of patriarchs" is excellent (and not only because of his reference to the books that I have written with Katherine Young). In the hope his article will jump-start a public discussion of fatherhood, I offer the following comments.
My father, who died two years ago, had a difficult but close and even intense relationship with me. From my perspective as a boy and young man, he seemed overly judgmental. I grew up thinking that I could never make the grade, never be good enough to satisfy his lofty expectations. And his standard for honourable manhood, which he applied to himself no less than to me, did seem unattainable. Worse, it seemed to me, his notion of manhood focused heavily on duty and sacrifice -- not things that most people, certainly not children, are eager to embrace. Worse still, perhaps, he expected me to learn skills that didn't interest me.
Dad played with me and took me to museums, sure, but he also tried to help me with my arithmetic homework -- and was visibly exasperated, night after night, by my inability to understand what he considered common sense.
To be blunt, I usually preferred my mother, who gave me uncomplicated and unconditional love. Dad confessed, many years later, that I had disappointed him at first. And I can see why.
I was an outsider for several reasons in childhood. Apart from anything else, I was both unwilling and unable to absorb prevalent but superficial (and ultimately both destructive and self-destructive) notions of masculinity. I had to invent myself, therefore, and I'm proud of my ability to do so. But it was Dad who first taught me to be independent -- that is, as I eventually understood, to think for myself but within a larger moral context. He taught me to become more fully human, in other words, not to embrace either conformity or "autonomy" (an overused and misused word these days).
Dad lived long enough to see me take my place in the world. I knew that he respected me as a scholar. One day, in the middle of some argument, he suddenly turned to me and said, "Paul, you're a learned man." Okay, I was much too old by then for those words to give me a sense of self-confidence. But we both realized immediately that this was a moment of profound fulfillment; a father had symbolically conferred manhood on his son. I never did learn arithmetic, but I had made him proud of me in other ways. This was my secular bar mitzvah.
Dad still blamed himself, however, for not pushing me hard enough to become more financially secure. Fortunately, we had time to talk about that. Having spent many years doing research in the humanities on manhood (including fatherhood), I told him that he had done exactly what every father needs to do. I didn't have to add that he had done so not by consciously adopting the approach of this or that expert but by subconsciously absorbing the legacy of human experience after countless generations.
My father, who died two years ago, had a difficult but close and even intense relationship with me. From my perspective as a boy and young man, he seemed overly judgmental. I grew up thinking that I could never make the grade, never be good enough to satisfy his lofty expectations. And his standard for honourable manhood, which he applied to himself no less than to me, did seem unattainable. Worse, it seemed to me, his notion of manhood focused heavily on duty and sacrifice -- not things that most people, certainly not children, are eager to embrace. Worse still, perhaps, he expected me to learn skills that didn't interest me.
Dad played with me and took me to museums, sure, but he also tried to help me with my arithmetic homework -- and was visibly exasperated, night after night, by my inability to understand what he considered common sense.
To be blunt, I usually preferred my mother, who gave me uncomplicated and unconditional love. Dad confessed, many years later, that I had disappointed him at first. And I can see why.
I was an outsider for several reasons in childhood. Apart from anything else, I was both unwilling and unable to absorb prevalent but superficial (and ultimately both destructive and self-destructive) notions of masculinity. I had to invent myself, therefore, and I'm proud of my ability to do so. But it was Dad who first taught me to be independent -- that is, as I eventually understood, to think for myself but within a larger moral context. He taught me to become more fully human, in other words, not to embrace either conformity or "autonomy" (an overused and misused word these days).
Dad lived long enough to see me take my place in the world. I knew that he respected me as a scholar. One day, in the middle of some argument, he suddenly turned to me and said, "Paul, you're a learned man." Okay, I was much too old by then for those words to give me a sense of self-confidence. But we both realized immediately that this was a moment of profound fulfillment; a father had symbolically conferred manhood on his son. I never did learn arithmetic, but I had made him proud of me in other ways. This was my secular bar mitzvah.
Dad still blamed himself, however, for not pushing me hard enough to become more financially secure. Fortunately, we had time to talk about that. Having spent many years doing research in the humanities on manhood (including fatherhood), I told him that he had done exactly what every father needs to do. I didn't have to add that he had done so not by consciously adopting the approach of this or that expert but by subconsciously absorbing the legacy of human experience after countless generations.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
MONKEY BUSINESS- SARAH LOLLEY
From Saturday's Globe and Mail
Last updated on Saturday, Jul. 11, 2009 04:50AM EDT
The botanical gardens in Dalat, Vietnam, were a total bust – as scrappy and uninspired as a miniature golf course, despite the inflated entry price for foreigners. My boyfriend, Jack, and I were about to leave when we spotted the monkey enclosure, where five scruffy monkeys hoped around in individual cages.
As we approached, one of them climbed up the bars of his cage to our eye level. Jack laughed in surprise and leaned in to get a better look at the monkey. The monkey leaned in to get a better look at Jack. The two stared at each other for a moment. Then, in a flash, the monkey reached through the bars, snatched the sunglasses off Jack's face, and retreated to the middle of its cage.
The sunglasses weren't expensive – we'd bought them at a gas station in the Australian Outback earlier on our backpacking trip – but Jack loved them, mainly because of the cheesy race car-esque flames down the sides. Glumly, we watched the monkey chew on one of the arms of the sunglasses.
Figuring someone might have a key to the enclosure, Jack headed off in the direction of the ticket booth. He was already out of sight when I remembered the banana in my bag.
Seeing me take it out, the monkey lost all interest in the sunglasses, dropping them in the dirt and jumping up to my level again.
“So,” I addressed the simian, in the voice of a stern librarian. “You're an intelligent animal, and what I'm proposing is a simple trade. You have something I want,” I said, pointing at the sunglasses. The monkey looked down at them, then back at me.
“And I have something you want,” I concluded, holding up the banana. I brimmed with self-confidence. This plan is brilliant, I said to myself.
A young Vietnamese couple wandered over. They watched me for a few moments, then called out to another Vietnamese couple, who came rushing over.
That's right I thought, proudly. Come see how amazing we Canadian travellers are I kept up my assertive negotiations.
A group of five Vietnamese men in business suits joined us. A rapid-fire Vietnamese exchange ensued between the couples and the businessmen. The men all looked at me, incredulous. Two started giggling.
A crack formed in the bedrock of my poise. I tried to ignore it, but nothing doing.
Suddenly, I saw myself as my audience must have. “Give me the damn glasses,” I snapped at the primate.
Over the next few minutes of fruitless, one-way conversation with the monkey, my confidence was replaced with burning shame. It became clear that I wasn't going to get the sunglasses back. Even worse, I now had a group of spectators to face up to.
It was at that exact moment that the monkey hopped down to retrieve the sunglasses, ambled over to the side of the cage, extended his little monkey arm outside the bars and let go. He then ran back up the bars to my level and reached for the banana.
There was a stunned silence. All eyes, including the monkey's, were on me.
Was it a trick? Slowly, I retrieved the sunglasses. For a brief second, I thought about leaving the monkey high and dry, but fair was fair. I placed the banana in his tiny paw.
“Sarah”
I turned to see Jack approaching, two Vietnamese groundskeepers in tow. I smiled victoriously, suddenly loving the Dalat Botanical Gardens, and held up the sunglasses for all to see.
Last updated on Saturday, Jul. 11, 2009 04:50AM EDT
The botanical gardens in Dalat, Vietnam, were a total bust – as scrappy and uninspired as a miniature golf course, despite the inflated entry price for foreigners. My boyfriend, Jack, and I were about to leave when we spotted the monkey enclosure, where five scruffy monkeys hoped around in individual cages.
As we approached, one of them climbed up the bars of his cage to our eye level. Jack laughed in surprise and leaned in to get a better look at the monkey. The monkey leaned in to get a better look at Jack. The two stared at each other for a moment. Then, in a flash, the monkey reached through the bars, snatched the sunglasses off Jack's face, and retreated to the middle of its cage.
The sunglasses weren't expensive – we'd bought them at a gas station in the Australian Outback earlier on our backpacking trip – but Jack loved them, mainly because of the cheesy race car-esque flames down the sides. Glumly, we watched the monkey chew on one of the arms of the sunglasses.
Figuring someone might have a key to the enclosure, Jack headed off in the direction of the ticket booth. He was already out of sight when I remembered the banana in my bag.
Seeing me take it out, the monkey lost all interest in the sunglasses, dropping them in the dirt and jumping up to my level again.
“So,” I addressed the simian, in the voice of a stern librarian. “You're an intelligent animal, and what I'm proposing is a simple trade. You have something I want,” I said, pointing at the sunglasses. The monkey looked down at them, then back at me.
“And I have something you want,” I concluded, holding up the banana. I brimmed with self-confidence. This plan is brilliant, I said to myself.
A young Vietnamese couple wandered over. They watched me for a few moments, then called out to another Vietnamese couple, who came rushing over.
That's right I thought, proudly. Come see how amazing we Canadian travellers are I kept up my assertive negotiations.
A group of five Vietnamese men in business suits joined us. A rapid-fire Vietnamese exchange ensued between the couples and the businessmen. The men all looked at me, incredulous. Two started giggling.
A crack formed in the bedrock of my poise. I tried to ignore it, but nothing doing.
Suddenly, I saw myself as my audience must have. “Give me the damn glasses,” I snapped at the primate.
Over the next few minutes of fruitless, one-way conversation with the monkey, my confidence was replaced with burning shame. It became clear that I wasn't going to get the sunglasses back. Even worse, I now had a group of spectators to face up to.
It was at that exact moment that the monkey hopped down to retrieve the sunglasses, ambled over to the side of the cage, extended his little monkey arm outside the bars and let go. He then ran back up the bars to my level and reached for the banana.
There was a stunned silence. All eyes, including the monkey's, were on me.
Was it a trick? Slowly, I retrieved the sunglasses. For a brief second, I thought about leaving the monkey high and dry, but fair was fair. I placed the banana in his tiny paw.
“Sarah”
I turned to see Jack approaching, two Vietnamese groundskeepers in tow. I smiled victoriously, suddenly loving the Dalat Botanical Gardens, and held up the sunglasses for all to see.
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