Volume 3 Issue No. 3

South Parkdale Train Station circa 1910

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This Month's Line Up

Photography by Barbara Lynn Read
The Travels of The Velissa
TVFP remembers a lost friend
Outsider Art / Henry Darger and the Vivian Girls
Gully Jimson makes a brief appearance in larger bold print
HRH The Empress of India

TVFP would like to draw your attention to: Through Her Eyes (T.H.E.) Photography Collective including, among other terrific photographers and photographs, these evocative narratives created by Barbara Lynn Read:

The Wayne Arthur Gallery, Winnipeg

Image title: 

Ælfen Arch

Enchanted Niagara Escarpment

 Limited Edition, signed by the artist

 Artist:  Barbara Lynn Read 

Look closely through the Ælfen Arch 

and if you’re lucky, you’ll see fairies and elves.

  Shhhhh, don’t make a sound and 

don’t let them see you . . . 

or right before your eyes 

they’ll disappear.

 Image title: 

Shall We Dance?

Limited Edition, signed by the

Artist:  

Barbara Lynn Read 

You’ve snuck into a movie set 

and from the your hiding place 

you watch in awe, Fred Astaire 

and Ginger Rogers rehearsing 

their dance scene 

ascending stairs, spinning with top 

hat, tuxedo and lovely swirling 

chiffon dress, until they perfect it.   

   

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TVFP Travelogue

One of the things we look forward to at TVFP is reading about other people's adventures. It's not that we're living vicariously, at least not entirely. We swear we only read LOTR once in every decade. We find the things that ordinary people get up to when they're not gainfully employed of immense interest. In a confusing world, simple micro acts of humility, of compassion, of courage, levity, principle, intelligence, skill, gentle craziness, (we believe) help to knit up the raveled sleeve of care (Shakespeare) that is our life. Deb Thomas (with co-captain Bob Shaw) has written to us regarding the travels of the Velissa. 

Travels of the Velissa

Part I

News from Havre-Aubert, Iles de la Madeleine

Bonjour, finally we have found, or rather been forced to, stop moving and take the time to write. We hope this newsletter finds everyone well and enjoying summer such as it is.

                       

As I look back on our log it seems that almost everyday we have been in transit since leaving Whitby July 24. In a hurry to get east before it got colder we made long days, mostly under motor, anchoring wherever we could find a spot before dark.

Other than strong current and a few days of rather breezy headwinds we transited the rest of the bridges and locks smoothly. We have learned that in Quebec you are wise NOT to follow the ‘rules’ and under no circumstances follow any directions given in any English translated guide/sign printed by the Canadian government.We quickly realized that cash gets you in and out of every lock expediently! Vive le Quebec.

Passing Montreal was a real shock for both of us. Somehow we envisioned something akin to sailing through Toronto Harbour with all the downtown buildings and boat traffic but instead there is an entirely man-made canal skirting the perimeter of the harbour; we couldn’t even see Montreal.

Seven days after casting off our lines in Whitby we were fast approaching Quebec City. When I say fast, I really mean really fast…for a sailboat 11.5 knots is fast! We skidded into a sharp left turn, scrambled for lines and fenders and landed in the tiny lock that walls off the rushing St. Lawrence and a 13ft. tide from the tranquil inner harbour.

It is this city’s 400-year anniversary. The harbour is centered in the old city. We had docked in the mist of the grand happenings. Overlooked by the tourists paying $700. per night at the Chateau Frontenac we felt privileged (and frugal, as our dockage was only $72.).  Every night there is a display of gigantic proportions. It is hard to describe, but imagine a city block long building lit up with a movie show. It was an amazingly artistic production. Over ten cameras, each the size of an outhouse with a massive speaker system that covered a half-mile area brought their history (as told by the French) to life. We sat on the bow of the boat bundled up in ski coats and our army surplus hats every night to watch it. We drank vino rouge, ate French cheese, drank more vin rouge, walked for miles (it seemed always uphill) and enjoyed our first real taste of holiday.

Maybe holiday is too strong a word. We have had a few trials: It’s been cool, but our Wabasto diesel heater has been great. The engine may or may not be overheating as one of us does not want to test it at high rev’s. Two captains and no crew have left poor Velissa to fend for herself more than once. We had to chase one fender down the St. Lawrence that both of us thought the other one had tied securely. Some windy nights both of us get up to check the anchor and on other nights neither of us gets up because we think the other one already has. Lines get coiled and stowed one way and then are mysteriously re-arranged when the ‘other’ person gets them out. Small things, but eventually Bob will get the hang of it….(now you know who is writing this!)

Never again will we complain about the lack of weather forecasting in Ontario. Nothing compares with this section of the St. Lawrence. Every day it was the same: NE 15-20 going to 20-30 in the evening but light the following day. But every day the forecast NEVER changed – it was always ‘light’ one day hence.

The St. Lawrence is not as deep nor as wide as we expected it but it is definitely as cold and the current is very strong, often 3-5 knots, sometimes more. The conventional wisdom is to leave Quebec City three hours before high tide, fight the current and then get a push from the current as the tide changes and starts ebbing. Ride it out the St. L. and get neatly deposited in the snug little harbour of Cap a l Aigle some 70 miles NE in time for cocktails.

The guide further explains that there are NO places to stop for those 70 miles; you MUST make the jump in one day. This means that to make it there before dark we had to average 5 knots for 14 hours. With the wind and growing waves against us it soon became obvious that it was not going to happen.  We did find a place to anchor behind a craggy solid rock cliff. Unfortunately, like the sun, the rock cliff completely disappeared under water at dusk.

But our anchor held in 30 knots and we lived. (Bob has instructed me to add – “Bob found us a perfect anchorage despite the Official Guide”). The following day we continued the remaining 40 mile battle upwind with a building head-sea. The ‘traverse du roc’ is a seven mile stretch where the channel narrows and is replete with seven knots of current and ‘dangerous’ tidal rips. The current with us and the wind and seas against us made for a very lively, wet ride! We were both looking forward to docking and drying out.

Docking in the many small Quebec harbours dotted along this fairly desolate and anchorage challenged coastline is often the only option. Communication (0 French vs. 0 English) and a guide that described marinas glowingly emphasising their facilities and ample manoeuvring room (reality: one boat length – for the dinghy) caused some scrambling.

The few words of French that Bob & I can remember did not seem to result in enlightenment on anyone’s’ part. Knowing how to say: ‘may I please go to the bathroom?’ or ‘my name is Bob‘ did not seem to aid us in say…finding out the water depth into the harbour, what slip we are to take etc.

One fiasco had us hauled at breakneck speed into a tiny slip by arm waving, smiling men seemingly thrilled (or pissed off) to see us. It was lovely to have so much enthusiastic help except it was the wrong slip, we had no fenders or lines on that side and they managed to get us in sideways.  However, communicating the need for showers went well. Cupping a hand above your head while scratching your armpits seems to be universally understood.  Everyone we met was friendly, helpful and very nice.

Approaching the mouth of the St. L the coast is magnificent, dotted by tiny villages, high cliffs and rugged mountains often shrouded in mist. Often we were shrouded in ‘mist’. I had always thought of ‘mist’ as something I spritzed myself with. Like cologne. The French seem to refer to fog optimistically as ‘mist’. They can call it what they like but it’s fog, pea soup fog, there is no getting around it. Bob couldn’t see me waving from the bow of the boat. You couldn’t boat here without radar.

We anchored when we could. In Gaspe we tied to a dock (.90/ft) even though there were great anchorages tucked behind a long sand bar. We got laundry and boat chores done. See, it’s not all idyllic. It was a lovely place to wander about. Fresh fish and French cheese…life is good.  For a day!

Our next sail ended in alarm when we discovered that the entire bilge and our new deluxe bilge sock were full of oil. Bad news. Sailed into a little bay, anchored and started the investigation….seals, hoses, clamps…no revelation as to the cause or source. Thinking the worst, actually we don’t know enough about engines to know the worst but we figured it was bad.

We thought the oil seemed unusually clean. Feel and smell of the slimy stuff confirmed that we indeed don’t know anything about engines. It was cooking oil. An entire bottle. We still haven’t figured out how it made the circuitous route from the cupboard to under the engine but a crisis was averted and we can add it to the list of things we will laugh about later.

Whales! Two massive ones. One off starboard and one less than three boat lengths away off port. About the length of two buses. Just incredible. Bob wanted to start the engine because one seemed to be heading towards us. But I wouldn’t let him. I think all our arguing scared the massive beasts and they’ve hightailed it back to peace in Greenland. This event made the whole trip for me.

LOG: 0100     Fix   Lat 47 40.395   Long 62 50.254    RPM  0   under main, jib and staysail   Wind SW15   Speed 6  Course152 degrees     

Perfectly clear sky with a brilliant full moon.  As the sun disappeared below the horizon on one side of the boat the moon appeared on the other. It was a 26 hour glorious sail. Day and night, those perfect sailing conditions that we dream or read about. The kind of passage that makes a normally sane person go out and buy their first boat; then spend the rest of their lives motoring around the world searching vainly to repeat the experience.

Destination: Iles de la Madelaine – first settled by Acadians, it was a very active fishing harbour before the collapse of the cod fishing. There is still a fishing fleet – although greatly reduced. Now the locals are trying to remake their Island as a tourist destination.

The weather is unusually balmy and breezy. We are anchored in the perfectly protected lagoon of Havre-Aubert surrounded by lovely sand dunes to the east and cod drying huts, now turned into tiny stores selling mostly local crafts, to the west. A lonely seal dips and dives around us.  We are not in a rush to hitchhike into the ‘main town’ to the north as we have lots of time to kill. In a sense, we are marooned here. This time the junk in the bilge is antifreeze – for real.  We are waiting for a new water pump to arrive. It seems that it will take just about every mode of transportation known to the modern world to get it here.  At least it’s a good place to be stuck!

After we find some way of pressing the pulley onto the new water pump with 3,000 lb. of pressure and re-installing it, we will watch for a weather window (good weather) to leave. We are tentatively planning to explore the east coast of PEI and then head through Canso Passage to the Bras d’Or Lake.

But who knows...maybe the wind will be perfect and the sun will be warm and the moon will be bright and we will go someplace else. Best wishes to all.

Sailing on….

Deb and Bob

*


   From the TVFP  Buffet Adventure series: Revisiting a lost friend. Also Henry Darger and Outsider Art  
With a final comment by Gully Jimson          

                             

I wrote by hand and then transcribed on a typewriter. In this case a sturdy Olympia portable. It was a high school graduation present from my parents. The typewriter went to university with me. We dropped out together. We planned to write poetry and live forever in a geodesic dome in a forest. But first we wanted to see a bit of seeing the world.

We travelled together for a decade. The Olympia was always the ballast under my wandering sail. She  was last seen on the pavement in a parking lot near Jackson Square in Hamilton, Ontario, after the last teardown of Circus Tivoli. I'd hitched a ride with James Secondo Zoppe and his wife, the Indian Princess La Mafalda in the bed of their pick-up truck. I tossed in my old ruck sack but, sadly and inexplicably the Olympia was left next to the curb.

Recently I was scrolling through TPL digital service and came upon an author by the name of David Shrigley, entitled Human Achievement. Wikipedia has this to say about Mr. Shrigley:

(he) . . . .  finds humour in flat depictions of the inconsequential, the unravelling and the bizarre  .  .  .  . (and) has two of the characteristics often encountered in Outsider Art.

Well, I always fancy a bit of humour. I downloaded Mr. Shrigley's book from the TPL. I was intrigued. I had never heard of Outsider Art. As it turns out I have, but under a different name(s). Again our friends at Wikipedia help us with:

.  .  .  .   Outsider Art.  .  .  .  is an English synonym for Art Brut  .  .  .   (which describes) .  .  .  . art created outside the boundaries of official culture  .  .  .  .

Typically, those labeled as outsider artists have little or no contact with the mainstream art world or art institutions. In many cases, their work is discovered only after their deaths. Often, outsider art illustrates extreme mental states, unconventional ideas, or elaborate fantasy worlds.

I was thinking Henri Rousseau and Grandma Moses. I wasn't prepared for Henry Darger and the Vivian Girls.

Darger lived in obscurity. Besides being a prolific artist he wrote a multi volume fantasy entitled: The Story of the Vivian Girls, in What is Known as the Realms of the Unreal, of the Glandeco-Angelinian War Storm, Caused by the Child Slave Rebellion. His work was unknown during his life time. He died in 1972. It was by accident that his writings and art work were discovered.

Photograph by Maiabees

There was also Kiyoshi Yamashita. Mr. Yamashita roamed the Japanese islands with pretty much just the clothes on his back. He was nick-named, 'The Naked General." 

I came across another surprising artist: Madge Gill. Mrs. Gill was another Outsider who happened to have a Canadian connection. She grew up in an orphanage in England. Eventually she was sent to Canada where she worked on a farm until she was nineteen. I haven't been able to track her down in Canada. She died in England in 1961. It was only after her death that her art began to be appreciated.

For the most part Outsider Artists are self taught. For the most part they live and create in obscurity. Often they are mentally challenged, but not necessarily. They are usually eccentric. Often their work comes to the worlds' attention only after they have died. They seem to exemplify the artist as that individual for whom the act of creation is in and of itself the only necessary reward. Gully Jimson, the protagonist of Joyce Carey's very funny and brilliant novel, The Horse's Mouth, said it best:

YOU CAN'T STOP ART

*****

Now HRH the Empress of India has written to TVFP with another anecdote from her many years as head of the civilized world, not including China, Japan, First Nations territory, Narnia and Middle Earth. The occasion was a dinner in honour of the Archbishop of Canterbury. HRH writes:

I remember we were on the royal barge. We were floating along. They were shooting off some canons and there were puffs of smoke. People were waving at us from the embankment and some of them were showing us their bare arses. I said to Albert, Albert why are those people showing us their bare arses? Albert replied, because, my dear, they love you. I said to Albert, you do not often show me your bare arse. I'm afraid he did not hear me. The Archbishop was in a robust mood. He was going on about the Trinity. I saw that Albert was thoroughly bored and to honest I was eager for the evening to be done. I wanted to see my dear husband's bare arse. Shame on me. It's true though. I see his Lord Johnson almost every day but rarely his bare arse. The Archbishop would not shut up about the Trinity.

- My dear man, I said to him, no one understands the Trinity, the Pope, the dirty little wop himself and his atrophied testicles do not understand the Trinity.
- Ma'am, I must protest, he said, I've just explained it.
- You have spent an hour talking gibberish.
Well, he began to pout. I felt sorry for the git, having such a burden as the Trinity.
- My dear Archbishop, shall I cheer you up?
- I am hardy sad, in your presence your majesty, not at all.
- Yes you are sad. Shut up and listen.
- Yes, of course Ma'am.
- Good man.

One night the Lord God Almighty visited the vicar of a small shire, a pious and good man. The vicar, understandably, was overwhelmed. The Lord God Almighty put him at ease. 
- Is there anything you'd like to know? the Lord God Almighty said.
- What is Heaven like?
The Lord God Almighty was pleased with the question.
- Your faith is strong, vicar. Do you have a son by the name of Isaac?
- I do. Right now he's off with the army exterminating the wogs, my Lord.
- Good man, good man, the Lord God Almighty said, as for Heaven, it is like a city. It has the best of everything. For example, the French are the chefs, the Italians are the lovers, the English are the policemen, the Germans are the mechanics and the Dutch are the politicians. The Irish pick up the night soil.
- My Lord, the vicar said, what is Hell like?
- Ah yes, Hell. In Hell the French are the mechanics, the Italians are the politicians, the English are the chefs, the Germans are the policemen and the Dutch are the lovers. The Irish pick up the night soil.

Ha, ha. Ha, Ha.




All pictures to our knowledge have been released to us by the creator or are either public domain or have been appropriately credited. If we are in error please notify us and we will re-credit or delete.

Volume 3 Issue No. 2

Toronto photographer Phil Brown has sent TVFP this evocative picture. We particularly like Mr. Brown's creation of a powerful narrative within a single frame.

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Image by Miko Maciaszek

TVFP recommends this article written for the Globe and Mail by Wendy McLeod MacKnight. She eloquently describes the rediscovery of her true vocation. Inspiring stuff.

Direct Link to the Globe and Mail article. 

                                               

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TVFP applauds the entrepreneurial spirit of this Parkdale based online business. HEARTCOEUR is succeeding in a niche market by providing highest quality vegan cosmetic products:

Link to HEARTCOEUR

HEARTCOEUR vegan cosmetics is featured in this edition of Inside Toronto

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TVFP is currently reading:

*****

                                       

TVFP recommends a visit to this website to discover the intriguing art of Bill Penner:

Direct Link

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TVFP presents:

The Remarkable History of Parkdale

You can find this wall art on The Milky Way

We now continue with our  introduction to the remarkable history of Parkdale. In this installment we explore Parkdale's connection to the Old Testament.

TVFP lives near Queen and Dufferin in one of those old brick and post and beam factories converted into loft apartments. In the Old Days Queen Street was called Lot Street.  

You remember Lot.  

One day Lot had this hot real estate tip and he decided to move to Sodom. After Lot had been in Sodom for awhile some of Angels of the Lord came to the city and Lot had them over for dinner.

Just when they’re sitting down to eat all the men of Sodom, all the male Sodomians came over to Lot’s place and they said, hey Mr. Lot, send out those Angels of the Lord!

Lot said, what for? 

The Sodomians replied, we want to talk to the Angels of the Lord.  

Lot, thinking fast on his feet, said, I’ll send out my daughters instead! 

Ruth and Rachel, Lot’s daughters went, Daaad!

The Sodomiams said, no, we want to talk to the Angels of the Lord or we’ll break the door down. 

The Angels of the Lord said, look Lot don’t worry, we’ll take care of it.

And so it came to pass that the Angels of the Lord went outside and they temporarily blinded all the Sodomians so that they couldn’t find the door to break in. All of a sudden there were all these Sodomians milling around and bumping into each other going where’s the door, where’s the door!

Later some of the Angels of the Lord went around talking to the Sodomians' neighbours in Gommorah. That really annoyed the Lord and he decided to nuke Sodom and Gommorah.

Epilogue:

Lot got out of town just in time with his daughters and his wife. Unfortunately Mrs. Lot ended up as a pillar of salt in the style of Alberto Giacometti.

****

TVFP on International Affairs

Recently the Empress of India wrote to TVFP with a pleasant anecdote she told over a supper engagement with the 2nd Reich in which Prince Otto von Bismarck was present:

Everyone has a burden to bear. With Us it was the Irish, particularly the bog Irish. We shot them by the dozens, hacked them to bits, blew them up, hung them by the neck, buried them alive, set them on fire, starved them. The next day they were still there and making an enormous racket.

Even the most accomplished bog Irishman is a cannibal with indescribably bad table manners. But they do make for a marvelous anecdote. Albert was particularly amused by this one. We told it over dinner with that annoying German prat, Bismarck, who had been on about the Polacks.

A bog Irishman stumbles to his filthy rat-infested hovel after a day swilling beer at the local bog pub. He discovers his wife in bed with the next door neighbour. The bog Irishman goes to the cupboard and takes out his revolver. He points the gun at his head and cocks the trigger. The wife bursts out laughing. To which the Irishman replies:

- Don’t laugh, you’re next.

Ha, ha. Ha, ha.

*

Happy New Year from All of Us at TVFP

Volume 3 Issue No. 1

TVFP has received this correspondence from a small village in Uganda called Kinoni. Lindsay Hillcoat, working for an NGO involved in local economic development, has written to us describing a particularly harrowing 24 hrs in the life of a village family and her part in the attempt to avert a tragedy:

Today was a particularly difficult day. Juliet (the local woman I work with on the lending project) and I met today to go and visit the second round of loan recipients at their businesses and homes in a small community called Kinoni. We rescheduled this from the week before as Juliet has been getting very ill lately as she is battling HIV/AIDS. Today she was feeling well so we took off on a walk (about 15 minutes) to one of the loan recipient’s house and shop. 

When we arrived the woman told us that her daughter gave birth in the middle of the night but that she had only been 7 months into the pregnancy. We were told by the neighbor that helped deliver the baby that the mother was hemorrhaging before, during, and after the delivery. They had tried to go to the village health centre when she was in labour but there was nobody there and they had no money for transport to the hospital so they delivered the baby at home. The woman brought us into her small one room shop and behind the counter her daughter was lying in sheets on the floor with a small baby boy in a box with blankets. 

The baby was very tiny, had his eyes shut, was barely moving, but was able to breathe. The baby would not suckle and therefore had not been fed the first 20 hours of his life. I told the Jori (the grandmother and loan recipient) that both needed medical attention and we would cover their medical visit and transport costs. We called up four bodas (motorcycle taxis) to take Juliet, Jori, myself, mother and baby to the health clinic. It was open and I spoke with a nurse, but no doctor was due in and she recommended that we make the trip to Mbarara (approx. 40 mins). 

So I gave Jori some transport money and she went home for overnight supplies and Juliet, the mother and baby and I waited for transport to Mbarara. We could only find a minibus to get to Mbarara so he stuffed us into the van and off we went to get to the hospital. The conductor of the minibus saw me as a money opportunity and overcharged all of us for the ride. I got quite angry as we needed that money to be able to get the baby to the hospital and treated. He finally paid me back some of the money so that the other two women weren’t overcharged, but still kept mine at an inflated fare. 

Sometimes I get quite sick of the discrimination you get as a mzungu (white person) as everyone thinks you have tons of money and that they should be able to benefit from that (I don’t think they’d believe us if we told them we were all in debt from student loans). 

We finally arrived at the hospital, and because it was government-run, it was packed. We got directed building to building and finally arrived at an admissions room. There was a shortage of doctors and all the benches were full. We couldn’t get seen right away as there was a small child on the table of the admissions table that they were losing. 

There were actually a group of a few McMaster medical students that were clearly overwhelmed as it was only their second day there. After a few minutes they were able to do an initial assessment of the baby. His temperature was dropping, but he was still breathing. We ended up bringing the baby on to the same table as the one they were trying to revive. They gave him oxygen and a shot of dextrose (his first nutrients) and began to warm him up. When he was doing well they moved him into a ward with the other premature babies. 

We were told his blankets and sheets weren’t warm enough (they have no incubators, just a warm room) so I went to the market outside of the hospital grounds and bought him some new ones. In the meantime, the mother was being cared for by a doctor. When Jori (the grandmother) arrived and both baby and mom seemed on the mend, Juliet and I left them with some money for food for the evening. I presume they would join all of the other families out on the lawn for the night; most had mattresses or rugs, blankets and camped on the hospital property at night. 

Everyone seemed very grateful (the doctors, mother, grandmother, and Kinoni neighbours) that Juliet and I brought them in. I kept being told “you did a good thing, thank you”. Jori and her daughter, later told to me by Juliet, have decided that they will find a big fat hen or chicken and sacrifice it for me as thanks. I am just glad that today was the day that Juliet and I ended up meeting with Jori, as I know the baby would not have made it through tonight without medical care (and nourishment).

 

Although it was a rough day I was feeling better that mom and baby had medical care and that they were doing well. Unfortunately, as we left though, Jori came up to speak with Juliet and expressed her concern about her daughter’s HIV. I was unaware of this until then. The struggles this baby is already facing... If given proper care, the chance of mother to baby transmission is actually quite low. However, given that the mother was not on ARVs, had a home birth, and hemorrhaged the baby’s chances of contracting HIV increases up to 40%. 

Let’s hope this so-far-unnamed baby boy will be a lucky one. On our way out we came upon Juliet’s cousin in one of the wards who was being cared for after having a miscarriage from her 4 month pregnancy the night before. Arriving home from the day I had a lot to think about. I have witnessed poor access to medical care before, but today hit me pretty hard. It is difficult to watch just how tough a child can have it just hours into his life. 

Tomorrow morning I am going to go see how the baby (and family) are holding up. I hope tomorrow  is a good day for them (and that baby has made it through the night).

Update: I got a call this evening that they needed help to buy formula. The store that sold it was already closed, but Tara and I took the trip to the hospital anyways. When we arrived Jori and her daughter were quite hungry so we got them some food and water (they had already spent the money I gave them on other things for the baby). 

We had someone translate for us and they had another mother lend them formula until I could come back in the morning. I would also bring more blankets. The baby looked much warmer and had a steady strong breath. They were very thankful for the food and help and I told them I would see them at 9 am with the formula and blankets. They also asked me to name the baby. I told them I would think about a name.

This morning: I was up getting ready to go to the hospital and got a call saying the baby had died. They said the mother and daughter were waiting at the gates and I told them I’d be there soon to bring transport money. When I arrived they were waiting at the public transit stand, looking very upset, and holding the baby wrapped up in blankets to bring home. I was told he made it through the night and died this morning. 

All I could do was say how sorry I was (through my tears) and give them money (plus some extra) to get home. Through someone translating, they asked when I would visit. I told them in a few days. I am going to bring flowers. I am very sad that he did not make it, but am glad he was at least given a chance. Many children don’t get that chance. 

All I can think of is what if she gave birth at the hospital? What if she had prenatal care or seen a doctor during pregnancy? What if he got there sooner? He could have had a better shot-- But I know it is better that he died warm in the hospital with his family and many people fighting for him, rather than without the hope of medical care and in a box on the floor of his grandmothers shop.

For more information you can contact Ms. Hillcoat at:

Lindsay Hillcoat

TVFP likes: Jim Read (a whole lot). Mr. Read is a writer who lives in Parkdale. He has written to us to shamelessly promote (how could we say no) a new release of his short stories: Dispatches From The Belleisle And Other Stories:

Smashwords Interview with Jim Read

Do you remember the first story you ever read, and the impact it had on you?

The first story I ever read was Spot Sees Jane. Spot was a dog and Jane was the pretty girl in the row next to me who had bright blue eyes and black bangs and knew the answers to everything.

When did you first start writing?

My last year of high school. I had an English teacher who got us to write a poem. I did. It had something to do with a beach and the tide.

Where did you grow up, and how did this influence your writing?

I was born in Winnipeg, Manitoba, and I grew up there for awhile. I grew up a little more in Kirkland Lake in North Ontario, a gold mining town that had run out of gold. I was still growing when our family moved east. There was my wandering period that after a few years brought me back to the Maritimes. I'm living in Toronto now. 

Displacement, a sense of loss, yes there's that. A sense of place or a nostalgia for a place is very much a theme for much of what I write.

What motivated you to become an indie author?

There is a real opportunity with Indie publishing to strike a fair deal with my readership. I have these great stories. The pricing is affordable.

Describe your desk

It's a simple, uncluttered platform. Very small, but with room for my elbows. The chair is important. I have a good chair that I can elevate with some sort of a magical air device. The magic lasts for a day or so and then I have to pull on the magical lever. There's an incantation that came with the chair but I've lost it.

What are your five favorite books, and why?

A Farewell To Arms. It was the best thing Hemmingway wrote. It is a simple love story, told in plain language. The economy of the narrative nevertheless conveys a deep emotional impact. There's a Brazilian author, Jorge Amado. I've like everything he's written but particularly, Tieta. Amado is a smorgasbord, with robust characters and vivid descriptions. His plots are models of irony. I would recommend anything by Mordecai Richler, but particularly Joshua Then And Now. Richler's comedic sensibility is relentless. Two Pints, by Roddy Doyle. Doyle's dialogue is unbeatable, his flawed characters completely believable . Rounding up the top five how about a Curtain of Green, by Eudora Welty. Ms. Welty is a master of short fiction.

Who are your favorite authors?

I don't have favorite authors so much as favorite books; A Farewell To Arms, for instance. There are certain parts of books that I re-read, Molly Bloom's soliloquy, The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen. I've read just about everything by Elmore Leonard and Mordecai Richler. It's hard to put down a book by Roddy Doyle once you start. The Color Purple and As I Lay Dying are two books that moved me deeply as did the Diary of Anne Frank. It simply ends one day and it is as chilling a denouement as I've found in any book.

What do you read for pleasure?

Lately I've been reading cookbooks that create a vivid narrative of place and culture. Mourjou, by Peter Graham is just such a book. Mourjou is in the Auvergne region of France.

You can read the entire Interview here:

Jim Read at Smashwords

TVFP recommends you visit this website:

www.jimread.ca

As well, once you're there you can follow a link to a story published and generously archived by The Antigonish Review, a highly regarded literary journal, published by St. Francis Xavier University. A Night Out With All OurCoins is an excellent introduction to Jim Read's writing.

You can also follow this link directly:

A Night Out With All Our Coins

TVFP likes:

SUBURB, SLUM, URBAN VILLAGE
Transformations in Toronto’s Parkdale Neighbourhood

1875-2002
CAROLYN WHITZMAN

UBC Press

Suburb provides an overview of the development of the Village of Parkdale against the background of the historical development of urban theory. However, it was of interest to us because of its usefulness for writers who live in Parkdale or who are interested in using Parkdale as a setting for a fictional work before wading into primary source stuff. It is also well written and of interest



TVFP has heard from our correspondent at large, HRH the Empress of India:

We do not often tell a joke. I told Albert a joke and he thought I wanted to redecorate the palace lavatories. Albert was a German and as a German he was very sensitive to that sort of thing. One of the few jokes I've told was to the French Ambassador. It was in private, for his ears only.

'A French fry walks into an establishment and says to the bartender, Sir, would you be so kind as to pour me a glass of your best claret. The bartender looks at the French fry and bows politely, as a gentlemen should. The Bartender says to the French fry, my dear Sir, I’m sorry, but we don’t serve food.'

Ha, ha. Ha, ha.

Lord Melbourne called on me the next day. He said, Ma’am, are you planning to invade France?

Fuck off. Stupid git.


TVFP presents: The Milky Way. This little lane way runs parallel to Queen Street, from Dufferin Street to Elm Grove Avenue.

Wes, a seasonal gardener employed by a city in southern Ontario, has written to us with a biographical note. We feel that it has merit and so we have printed it here in its entirety:

Don’t even talk to me you can’t roll up a fifty foot half inch EPDM rubber hose into a tight coil no more than eighteen inches in diameter. I know secateurs is French for pruners. You call a pair of secateurs pruners I will take you for an amateur. You don’t know the best secateurs ever made are the Felco #2 you are probably a phony. You’re shy of the line trimmer and back pack blower that tells me you learned it out of a book as in you know the Latin but you don’t know the lingo.

Mrs. Caruso has a chocolate lab named Crosby who is fit unlike many of the dogs I see. Mrs. Caruso said to me Wes, you’re all on your own in this big park. I said to her, you know Mrs. Caruso I am a seasonal gardener but just the same this ain’t a big park if you got thirty weeks. This would be a small park if you got thirty six weeks which is the number any self respectin gardener in this part of the world would want. You got twenty-six weeks, well then it was big park. Mrs. Caruso had no idea what I was talkin about. In my dreams I am dazzlin her with my steely good looks.

I came in here five years ago there were weeds growin out of the weeds. There were rampant day lilies as in somebody had a two-fer-one on sale. There were overgrown shrubs, badly pruned and choked with old and dead wood. There were dead and half dead Austrians and Red Maple. There was weeds and grass in the cobble and the limestone scree path down to the embankment was a field of dandelions.

The year they gave it to me you could see the dead patches all across the turf from the dog poop. I talked to the dog owners. I explained to them a good solid dog turd may mean your pet is in good health but that little puppy will still retain enough of its potency to burn a lawn after the big melt. At that time I didn’t know I was comin back in the spring. Well I did come back and you know there was maybe a fifty to sixty percent decline in turf burn from dog poop.

Now Mrs Frumpy, as I call her, came to me and said Mr. Gardener, I have found some mushrooms and I want you to identify them for me. I am concerned they are poisonous and may pose a danger to Chico. Well, Chico is a noisy irritatin little rat dog Chihuahua. I know Mrs. Frumpy don’t pick up after it.

So I said, Mrs. Frumpy is Chico partial to mushrooms? She said, I beg your pardon. I said ma’am because if he is, that is Mushroominous Canadiansis Queen of Transylvania or some dumb thing like that. I said, it is impossible to kill and it will sure as shootin kill your beautiful dog he even takes a whiff of it.

Well don’t Mrs. Frumpy look shocked. I pressed my advantage. Mrs. Frumpy, I said, best advice maybe take Chico to another park until I can get the poisonous plant people over here and get rid of this menace of a mushroom. Of course, I said, but you know how City Hall works. It could take years.

 She looked at me out of the corner of her eye. Yes then, Mr. Gardener, thank you. Well, no further comment on Mrs. Frumpy, as I don’t believe in speaking ill of people whatever I might think, although I should say there was an old couch put out for pick up on my street and I had to take a second look as I thought I was bein stalked.

I got five years to go to full retirement.  My old knee cartilage is tellin me I should be shmoozin Mrs. Frumpy who I’m guessin is a sad and lonely old thing. This year and the next. That’s it. I mean probably what I’ve got left in me. I lay awake at night listenin to them knees burn. That way I pretend they don’t hurt. I pretend they are a song from an opera I once heard with Patti Scram. Ibuprofen works a little. I got a prescription for these anti-inflammatories. Some days I have to gobble the stuff. I ain’t complainin.

They started callin me Wes the Dope. I had finally got the park headed in the right direction. Maybe twelve things that had to be done. I wrote up a list. This was the middle of year two in a heat wave that had been goin on for some time. A garbage troll gave me that moniker one day it was near forty with the humidex. He gave it to me from the inside of an air conditioned cab while I was workin the perennial beds down by the channel. I wear it with pride.

I came out of the north. I came down here with Patti Scram as my common law wife. We had two children. Donny wasn’t quite right and maybe we should have had him in a different school. When he was sixteen he tried buttin heads with a subway train. A witness said he must have been down the tunnel. The witness Donny came out of the dark at the train like he was chargin the scrimmage line, one shoulder down, a wild grin on his face. They say he was bullied at school. I never learned the truth of it. I lost track of Elaine and her mother. I think they might be out on the west coast.

We came down here I did hard landscapin, interlock mostly, in the private sector until my body broke down. They kicked me out and then I got on with the City as a Parks Handyworker. I liked it. I liked workin in a park. I woke up one mornin and realized I had found my callin in life.

I wanted a park of my own and so I studied for one year and wrote the gardenin test. Darn if I didn’t pass it. I know there is a God because He persuaded Parks and Rec to give me this place and to let me stay. I know there is a Satan because he sent Mrs. Frumpy and Chico to torment me. By the way she ignored my advice on the mushrooms and I am still pickin up after that rat dog. God also gave me Mrs. Caruso who gave me a Harris Tweed jacket with the patches on the elbows that smelt of mothballs. She said her husband had outgrown it. I would marry Mrs. Caruso in a heartbeat.

I play it by the numbers. I’ve got twelve numbers in my head. Second or third day on the job back in year one I sat down on one of the park tables and made a list of the things I had to do to bring the park back, resurrect it you might say. There were twelve things. I forget what they were now. They were basic gardening things; dividin perennials, weedin and pruning, de-thatchin, aeratin and overseedin the grass, gettin to know the locals. Things I needed to do to put the park right, challenges then, and you know what I got them done.

I think about the death of my son all the time. I think about my wife and daughter runnin off. I think about my body breakin down. I don’t know that I ever did anythin to deserve that, but the boy killed himself and the girls are gone and my knees are made of glass. Some how I think it is down to me. Maybe I was a little harsh with them. Maybe I didn’t take care of myself they way I should have.

I do my best with the park. I love this place. I think to myself I keep a good park, I keep it so that it’s right, I’ll be forgiven. It’s what gets me out of bed in the mornin, thirty weeks a year. The other twenty two are a little on the rough side.

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Queen Victoria on Civic Politics in Toronto

You know there are so many shabby little men around. God knows and I’ve spoken to Him about this, the Empire was full of them. They were the ones who came after the explorers and adventurers and then the conquerors and then the sturdy honest brave men who stitched it all together. The shabby little men were creatures who existed and thrived in the moist cracks and in the dryness of old paper.

Nowadays we have to admit there are the shabby little women. They are all beneath contempt but you have them, there they are in great numbers, you have them. There they are like cockroaches or a bad smell. They are like dried feces. They are like a cesspool. Eventually something new and refreshing blows or washes it all away. You must show patience.

I asked God how is that we have so many of these shabby little men and women. God said, my dear, it is because we wish them upon ourselves. I asked God, why do we wish these shabby little men and women upon ourselves? (Not upon our royal self, please be assured.) God said, it is in our nature. I said to God, but we are made in your image. God declined to comment as you know a god, sorry God has been known to do.

But there, spoken from God, it is in your nature to inflict these shabby little men and women upon yourselves. There, from God. Not a whiff of Darwin.

Is there not a man or a woman amongst you with a grand vision? Are there not women and men who thirst for adventure? Are there not person of both sexes who aspire to endure great challenges, to conquer their fears? Where are the good sturdy people who dedicate themselves to the preservation of a good and decent civilization?

We shall not comment on the Irish this day. We have been apprised that there are Irishmen in Heaven. This is most distressing. I must take this up with Cleopatra who is a most annoying girl but very entertaining at cards. She maintains the most shining complexion and chides me that a dram of urine in the morning is absurd, but rather random intercourse with multiple partners of both sexes including angels is the secret to a fine complexion. She says I am irrelevant and sometimes I believe her.

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TVFP: New Apps for the New Age

 

 

1.              Mondo Cats:  lovingly shot pics of adorable cats, domestic and feral, eating their offspring and killing endangered songbirds.

2.              Extreme Epicure: beautifully rendered shots of master chefs preparing delectable dishes of dog, cat and monkey meat.

3.              Banker’s Delight: this travel app follows disposed families as they pack up their belongings in the Ford Escort and head down the road to East of Eden. Complete with interactive maps and historical anecdotes.

4.              For the worldly aficionado we have German Schiesse Porn, the certified organic version. Now available in HD.

5.              High on America: high definition videos of born again Christian children of both sexes shooting Mediterranean fish in a barrel with twelve gauge shotguns. It’s cute. They wear bibs. No level of difficulty. This one is for the tots in the family.

6.              India for Men: a gaming app that allows you to rape young girls, kill them and then throw them down a well. Eleven levels of difficulty.

7.              The Village of Small Huts: another gaming app that let’s you bet on which Native child will blow up first from sniffing gasoline. You hold the barbecue lighter. Awesome graphics. Four stars.

8.              African Safari Plus: this app lets you manoeuvre a bulldozer. This time sensitive app challenges the user to fill up the mass graves of victims of genocide, internecine wars, starvation and capitalism before the United Nations security force arrives to secure the perimeter and dole out humanitarian aid. Great fun for the whole family.

 

 

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Pope Benedict Resigns: The PLF handicaps potential replacements

 

 

With the sudden and shocking resignation of the latest in a long line of Christian champions of genocide, paedophilia and misogyny the Church has an opportunity to begin the long and tortuous process of the self criticism and healing. The Department of Religious Affairs and Other Weird Stuff of The Parkdale Liberation Front as put together a short list of possible replacements for the old fart:

 

1.              The Littlest Hobo: we readily admit that choosing another German for the papacy is a long shot. However he is a shepherd and every flock needs an alert and courageous protector otherwise you get eaten by the wolves, unless of course you are already running with the wolves and then it’s sort of a culling process, you to the left, you to the right. However the Littlest Hobo has some serious credentials when it comes to saving people and ferreting out evil doers of which we are sure are plentiful in supply within the walls of the Vatican. Still a long shot.

The Littlest Hobo

 

2.              Frodo Baggins: this stout of heart hobbit took on Sauron the Dark Lord in a fight to the death of good vs. evil. Despite having hairy feet this little fella might just have the moxie needed to clean up centuries of papal self entitlement and abuse. Even money.

The Lord of the Rings

 

3.              Marg Delahunty, Princess Warrior: admittedly a woman as pope strains credibility when you consider that the papacy is a woman hating institution that has yet to emerge from the Dark Ages. We admire the Princess’s irreverent sense of humour. We believe that an institution that finds its jollies by burning people alive at the stake might find Marg just the breath of fresh oxygen it needs. Of course we need to be reminded that in the Middle Ages one of their Popes was a woman and when they found out she was tied to a horse’s tail and dragged through the streets and stoned until she was dead. Marg we think is a long, long shot.

This Hour Has 22 Minutes

Pope Joan

 

 

4.              Finally there is everyone’s favourite giant, The Friendly Giant, currently retired. The thing is being a giant he’d have plenty of weight to throw around when it came to reigning in the trolls and neandrathals who currently run the church bureaucracy. As well there are the various cabals within the church who along with the Queen of England are intent on world domination. However The Friendly Giant isn't without allies. Rusty the chicken and Jerome the giraffe would pretty soon put things in order along the sin encrusted walls of the Vatican. A Five to One Favourite of ours.

The Friendly Giant

 

 

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