Mr. President? Hello?

Just when I thought there were levels to which I would not sink, I sank.

Well, maybe it was more of a dive.

Last Saturday while cramming a 90-minute grocery shop into 45 minutes, I stopped filling my trolley full of $1.99 boneless pork rib roasts to snap a picture with my phone.

I couldn't help myself.

If it's been that long, I'm not sure margarine is what you need.

I'm a fan of President's Choice Products. I love Memories of Tuscany, Memories of Marrakech, Memories of Dad's Grill. Although I have never been to Marrakech or Tuscany, the very names of the products made me feel as if I had gone there, or was distantly related to someone from there. But Memories of Butter? For some reason, that just doesn't call up the warm feeling of nostalgia that PC has managed to invoke with Memories of Sicilia Sea Salts.

So while they're on a roll, here's some other suggestions for products that the president may want to consider:

Memories of Monday Mornings:
A non-caffeinated tea invoking the feeling of sleeping through the alarm and not having time for a coffee before running out the door to miss your bus.

Memories of Bacon:
I'm thinking of a candle, so you'd walk into a room and smell the bacon, but not be able to find any.

Memories of Scarborough:
The full sensory experience of sitting in a car in traffic on Kennedy Avenue, in August, without air conditioning. Now turn left. Either a CD, or perhaps a sandwich.

Memories of Weird Uncle Albert:
Nicotine patch.

Memories of PMS:
Chocolate. A big chocolate bar. With a Jack Daniels chaser.

Writing, Memory and the Weird

On November 19, 2012, The Brantford Writers' Circle welcomed Ellen Jaffe to The Station House in Brantford to speak. The topic was memory and writing, and we were to bring (or have in mind) a photograph, which we then wrote about, and shared. The photos were varied, the writing even more so. Here is mine:

You hate this photo: you say it's your least-flattering angle. When you look at it you count your chins. The unforgiving flash etches the deepening lines of your eyes and your mouth.

But I want to know what the hell are you wearing? It was the 70's, you say.

Such an awkward angle: your chin elongated, your nostrils humongous, your expression distracted by a frown for the camera. The lens cover, it turned out, was off. The slight pressure of your finger captured your question forever.

You snatch the photo from me. I hate this photo, you say, but you jam it back into the album, where it joins the thumb shots and camera straps, more nostrils and the inside of someone's purse.

We are laughing. It is funny, but these are the photos we keep. Not the monuments and landscapes, but the comedy. The jokes.

The ridiculous.

There's an alarming number of these in our family albums.

Why not give it a go? Choose a photo, give yourself a fifteen-minute time limit, and see what happens. I'd love to read what you write. Post me a link, include it below, or post it on my Facebook page here.

Animal Rescue

The View from Me: Seagull in Flight

Moving to the country has had a number of blessings, many of them surprising. For example, not once in four years have I had to chase a raccoon out of the garage. They keep to their part of the woods, and I keep to mine.

My parents, who moved from the country to the city in 1995, often say that there’s more bloody nature in downtown Toronto than there is in rural Ontario.

As in all things, there are pros and cons to this arrangement.

Take seagulls.

In our old neighbourhood, seagulls were common. They hung out in the schoolyard and in the park, doing their part for the environment. Cocky and fearless, it was not unusual to see one casually stalking a youngster down the sidewalk, waiting for him of her to drop something edible. I've never seen that here, and you know what?

I miss seeing them.

I miss the beautiful white and grey of the gull. I miss the cheeky expressions on their faces. I miss their presumption.

Then one day last spring I looked out the kitchen window late one evening and saw a single gull standing on the grass under our maple tree. He was a small one, but fully fledged in his adult colours. He stood on our grass like he owned it, as if he’d always been there and it was my fault I’d never noticed him before.

He was standing very still, so still, in fact, that I began to wonder if he was hurt. I’d heard horror stories about scavenger birds getting caught in fishing line and plastic beer can sleeves. I’d once found a dead gull on the beach at the cottage, beak trapped in the pull tab of a pop can. Bleeding heart that I am, I began to fret. I watched him for about five minutes, and when he still hadn’t moved, I realised I was going to have to do something to help; there was no way I was going to leave him there for the coyotes to nab him.

I took a large towel from the closet, slipped on my shoes, and stepped out the door. When the gull didn’t react to the sound of the door opening, I knew I had a very ill creature on my hands. What if it was really bad? Did I have the courage to euthanize this poor bird?

Moving slowly, I approached the seagull. He was younger than I’d thought, his colouring more grey than white, and he was, oh, so still. Had he been hit by a car and was too stunned to defend himself? I was now only three metres away and this was getting really weird. I mean, that bird was not moving at all.

A gust of wind curled around my legs. All at once, the plastic bag which had been doing this magnificent seagull impression, skidded and twirled across the grass.

There’s a reason you have glasses, you twit, I told myself. Now go put them on.