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Summer 2008

Summer’s barely arrived and I’m just back from my annual jaunt to the Shaw Festival in Niagara-on-the-Lake. As always, it was a great time, a complete time-out from day-to-day reality. I caught three plays while I was there: Sondheim and Wheeler’s A Little Night Music, GB Shaw’s Getting Married and JB Priestley’s An Inspector Calls. I enjoyed them all, probably for different reasons.

Night Music was produced at the Court House Theatre, the smallest stage at the Festival. Considering it’s a musical, that was an interesting decision. As someone who hasn’t previously seen it produced, I kept wondering if I wouldn’t enjoy it more on a larger stage. The production seemed a little uneven to me, but what do I know? Some great catchy tunes and one-liners. It was fun to finally see “Send in the Clowns” in the original context. Outrageous males egos justifiably taken down a few notches and a happy romantic ending to boot! Who could ask for more?

Getting Married is an early and not particularly well-known Shaw play. It demonstrates his usual wit and intelligence, this time around the issue of marriage, Edwardian style. Shaw skewers laws regarding women’s rights, men’s responsibilities and the lack of accessible divorce. Although many of these laws have changed for the better and the social safety net is more supportive than it was, there are still many truths here.

I especially enjoyed the atmospheric production of An Inspector Calls. Fascinating and timeless social commentary guised as a whodunit. An incredibly prolific writer of plays, fiction and social comment, Priestley wrote An Inspector Calls mid-career, just as WWII was winding down. Priestley works an unexpected magic with time and perspective, something we tend to associate more with post-modernist writers of a slightly later period. Well worth seeing.

Although I enjoyed the plays, I was also struck by the advanced years of most of the patrons. Although I’ve noticed this in previous years, it’s becoming more noticeable with each passing season. I start wondering if the majority of Shaw-goers are the original theatregoers who established their membership in the 1960s (the Festival was established the same year I was).

After I got settled in to enjoy A Little Night Music and had helped my neighbour stow her cane beneath our seats, she asked, “What are we here to see, dear?” Overhearing audience conversation at other shows, it became apparent that many of the patrons had no idea what they were seeing. They seemed to be there out of ritual, rather than interest. Which begs the question, what’s going to happen in the next ten years when this audience starts expiring?

I was also more aware of the Festival’s attempts to accommodate patrons with disabilities. At the Royal George, I watched two ushers wielding a ramp into place so an audience member could come and go through the side door. Although an elevator has been installed at The Court House, it’s inadequate to the demands of traffic and theatregoers still have to walk up several stairs, complaining loudly as they go.

The Shaw has also introduced headsets to aid the hearing impaired. Throughout An Inspector Calls, a portion of the audience, myself included, were exposed to the ongoing shriek of electronic feedback because a gentleman was using one of these devices improperly in conjunction with his hearing aid. There were also very loud comments between himself and his equally deaf companion declaring that the headset wasn’t working during the nearly silent atmospheric moments of the play.

While I support the Shaw’s efforts at providing resources to improve access, I humbly suggest that they invest a little more effort so that the enjoyment of other audience members isn’t so adversely affected.

I also took a day to just wander around downtown Niagara-on-the-Lake. While I noticed some closed shops and peak-season sales last year, it was even more noticeable this time. Storefronts on the main drag were up for lease and the majority of shops seemed to have sales. It just seemed the picture of a small town in crisis.

Still, it was a lovely day. The sun was shining, the flowers blooming. I enjoyed a picnic lunch in the park while watching a little one with her Mum parade through the fountain. It was a day to relax, to be nowhere in particular, and that was a pleasant and welcome change.

Now I’m back home and back writing. I’ve just put the finishing touches on Charlie & Moon & Skye & I, something that’s essentially been finished for years. But it feels good to do the final polish and prepare to start sending it to publishers. It’s a long poem with accompanying colour photos, what some would call a gift book. Looking forward to having it out there at last. Also looking forward to bearing down on the other five book projects at various stages of incompletion. It feels good to be tapping into the time, energy and motivation to do my own work again, at long last.

Still ahead this summer, I’m making plans to visit my grade eight teacher in Wellington. She’s promised to show me the sights of Prince Edward County, a lovely part of the province.

I’ve also booked the family cottage for a couple of weeks and hope to spend that time simply relaxing, reading fun stuff and hanging out with friends. I figure I owe myself a real holiday before school starts.

Oh, I guess I should mention that. I’m returning to school this fall to begin my PhD in Communication and Culture. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for years, but it didn’t make sense with the family situation. I didn’t want to begin something and then have to pull out partway through because of a family crisis. So now that things have come to their natural conclusion, I can focus on this effort without that enormous weight. I’m excited and a little nervous to be going back, but I think it’s going to be overwhelmingly positive. The timing seems perfect. And as to what else I’ll get up to, I’ll see when I get there!thisisnot 5:31

Cheers and enjoy the summer!

© Catherine Jenkins 2008

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Spring 2008

With spring comes the celebration of new life… unless you’re unfortunate enough to be part of a species being “managed” by humans. This spring, the Toronto Zoo saw fit to euthenize two healthy, newborn reindeer, males, and thus undesirable additions to the herd. Some of the zookeepers were revolted enough to blow the whistle. In the wake of a public outcry, the zoo has instead found a new home for three more male reindeer at the Bowmanville Zoo.

The Greater Vancouver Zoo saw the murder of one of its spider monkeys, a fifteen-year resident. Intruders caved in his head while kidnapping his mate. The mate has yet to be recovered.

The Calgary Zoo was forced to close its stingray exhibit when forty of a school of forty-three died in just over twenty-four hours of unknown causes. Hard on the heels of this misfortune, the Toronto Zoo opened Stingray Bay, its own interactive stingray exhibit, having taken “extra precautions for the safety of the stingrays and our visitors,” including removing the rays’ barbs, their primary defense.

Not all atrocities occur in zoos though.

I’d never even seen a cormorant until I was well into my twenties, although apparently they were quite common up at our cottage prior to the 1960s. Thanks to pesticides and bad press, cormorants were at one time an endangered species. Now, there are a couple on the lake. They’re amazing looking birds: large, black, primeval and strong. After years of protection, the cormorant is slowly returning to its former range. But not without renewed challenges.

Point Pelee Park has proposed to diminish its cormorant population on Middle Island by ninety percent. That’s not a cull; it’s a holocaust. Why? Because the presence of such a large and successful population of cormorants is adversely impacting the “ecological integrity” of the island’s fauna. Also, anglers would have you think that cormorants deprive them of sport fish. The scientific evidence shows that cormorants have little impact on sport fish populations, preferring a diet of the introduced species that have been invading our waterways and have few natural predators. The ridiculous thing is that the cormorant is a natural part of this ecosystem, but humans think that the way in which this bird fits into its own environment needs correction.

The seal hunt debate raged again this spring, with heated and emotional arguments on both sides. It’s the largest slaughter of marine animals on the planet and, to my mind, a cruel international embarrassment. The only good news I heard about it this spring, and it’s tempered good news, is that due to weather conditions, Canadian sealers only killed about half their quota.

In international news, the South African government has decided to reintroduce an elephant cull. After decades of illegal ivory trade, the elephant population was threatened, leading to a trade ban in 1989 and the subsequent protection of the species. With such protections, the population has rebounded nicely. Elephants are big animals with big appetites; they travel in herds that decimate everything in their path. Elephants like to rearrange their habitats; why should humans be the only ones? Because of the protected success of this one species, fauna and other animal populations are being threatened in some areas, so there certainly is a problem. But given that elephants are extremely intelligent, feeling, family oriented animals, controlling the population through culls, by herding them together with helicopters and hiring sharpshooters to kill them, seems incredibly inhumane, not to mention scientifically dubious. And of course, even though the trade in ivory has been suspended, that doesn’t mean it can’t be reinstated if a generous amount of ivory suddenly becomes available.

Other than humans (who are far too good at rearranging their habitat to suit themselves, generally with little regard for the environmental impact), any species left to its own devices will find its natural population. Ecosystems include prey, predators, diseases and fluctuating resources that have evolved together naturally to keep things balanced. No healthy ecosystem stagnates; it’s continuously evolving. That’s the way natural populations remained balanced for thousands of years. And it’s only taken us about one-hundred-and-fifty years to completely screw things up.

As the world’s human population closes in on seven billion, as habitats for other animals continue to decline, as current energy sources diminish, as food and fresh water stores plummet, we’re going to have to face the fact that until we find a realistic way to colonized space, we are part of a closed ecosystem. Because we have the facility to manipulate our environment, we have grown to larger numbers than the planet would otherwise sustain. But sooner or later, something’s gotta give. Will we run out of ideas for how to successfully manipulate our environment? Will we pollute our food, water and air resources to the point where we poison ourselves? Will human strife cause increased war and violence? Will we start managing and culling our own?

In New Zealand, humans had tried and failed four times to rescue a beached pygmy sperm whale and her calf. Although they were able to push the pair back into the water, a sandbar blocking the way to the ocean was disorienting them, causing them to beach repeatedly. The humans were ready to give up, preparing to euthenize the whales, when a local-area dolphin pushed herself between the rescuers and the whales, then led her cetacean relatives off the beach, through a channel and back to open water. One marine biologist commented that dolphins have “a great capacity for altruistic activities.” So, what else are we missing in our rush to dispose of the animals competing for our space?

© Catherine Jenkins 2008

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Winter 2007

Winter has been slow coming to Ontario this year. So slow, that although I prefer the sun and the warmth, I was beginning to feel somewhat deprived that winter still hadn’t arrived by January. In a fit of what could only be described as Canadian winter angst, I booked a ticket to somewhere I’d never actually visited, somewhere more likely to be experiencing some semblance of winter than Toronto.

In mid-January, I boarded a train at Union Station that took me as far as Montréal, where, after a brief pause on my journey, I was able to board the train to Québec City, where, yes, there was snow! Albeit not enough snow to open all the ski resorts. Adding to the pleasure of the trip was that my good friend and fellow writer Kathy Mac was able to join me, also arriving by train, but from Fredericton, New Brunswick. Between us, we’d travelled across at least a third of the country to meet at a point roughly halfway between our two homes.

The first evening we were there, we wandered along the boardwalk of the Château Frontenac, climbed many stairs and strode out onto the Plains of Abraham, named for Abraham Martin, an early settler who once grazed his cattle on its grasses. Site of the 1759 battle that altered the course of Canadian history, this is where both Wolfe and Montcalm died (along with countless other British, French, Canadian and Aboriginal soldiers). What surprised me most on first viewing was that the Plain was not the flat landscape I recalled from reproductions of paintings in my grade five history text, but was in fact more like a mogul ski course with a series of hillocks. I was quite distressed by this apparent inconsistency between what I knew the Plains of Abraham was supposed to look like and the seeming reality.

Over the course of the weekend, we wandered about the city (including an exploration of the old lower town ending in a funicular ride back up), ate great food (including a dessert called Pears Pernod that very nearly had me licking the plate), drank amazingly good coffee (everywhere), checked out museums and took the ferry to Lévis.

From across the St. Lawrence, it was possible to fully appreciate the grandeur of the height on which Québec City is perched. Although I’d seen pictures of the cliff face, it was far more treacherous and vertical than I’d realized. If I’d been in Wolfe’s army, I would’ve thought my general quite mad! It also explains why several failed attempts were made to approach Québec.

Later, during daylight hours, we took a longer walk out onto the Plain and I was finally able to appreciate its height, magnitude (one hundred and eight acres) and flatness (which begins further from the city walls than we had walked on our previous visit). Although relics of war still scatter the Plains in the form of various monuments and Martello towers, since 1908, this site has been known as Battlefields Park. Now the centre of Québec City recreation, the park is used year-round by residents and visitors alike. As you can see from the photo, a snowman now stands guard in front of one of the Martello towers.

Plans are afoot for the park’s centennial celebration next year, the centrepiece of which will be the Plains of Abraham Epic, a theatrical retelling of the park’s 400-year history, in mid-August. (More information is available at: http://www.ccbn-nbc.gc.ca/_en/index.php.)

The world is littered with battlefields, some ancient, some contemporary. I truly wish more politicians and governments could see the wisdom of transforming our battlefields into parks where kids and parents can play together in peace. It’s a great use for a battlefield and I would like to think it improves the vibes of a place that has seen so much death and suffering.

The weekend went by too quickly, ending with a few laps around the hotel pool before we had to board our divergent trains to return us to our different everyday worlds. But it was a pleasant and necessary time-out for us both. And of course it snowed a few days after I returned home.

© Catherine Jenkins 2007

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Fall 2007

Although perhaps more Luddite than some, I’m also more technically savvy than others. I’m part of that awkward in-between generation that didn’t grow up with much technology, but was introduced to it at an early enough age to be able to integrate it into an understanding of the world and the way things work. As such, I may be a bit reluctant to embrace new technologies, but sometimes also pleasantly wowed.

I despair that kids these days figure they don’t have to learn to write or spell or do basic math because there are machines to do these things for them. I’m not sure how they’re going to cope when the power fails. But hey, middle-aged fuddy-duddies have been wondering about the next generation since the Ancient Greeks and somehow we’re still here.

The Internet enables the spread of information-and misinformation-at previously unavailable speeds. This has opened the door to a whole new arena of enlightenment and potential frustration.

I’ve been trying to correct some misinformation that got online about my involvement with a series of books. When I’ve contacted specific offending websites requesting that they correct this information, they generally shrug and claim that it’s not their problem; their information comes from the distributor, who, of course, gets its information from the publisher, who was responsible for creating the misinformation in the first place. As an individual outside this loop, I apparently have no voice, even though it’s my name and reputation being misrepresented. Needless to say, I was forced to go a more formal route to seek resolution. Although the situation has improved, it still isn’t resolved. Why? Because misinformation replicates itself ad nauseum, just as information does, on the Internet. As Caleb Carr pointed out in Killing Time, on the Internet, there’s no differentiation between information and truth. There’s no consideration of authenticity or validity; there’s only endlessly streaming data.

Not all Internet errors are so annoying. I occasionally receive fan mail, even from radio stations, for Katherine Jenkins, the Welsh Mezzo Soprano. What I find funny is that these fans don’t realize that our names are spelled differently, so they end up on my website rather than hers. Then, even though my website is pretty obviously that of a writer, rather than a vocalist, they still go ahead and e-mail me. But hey, I’m a good person. I redirect them. If I get back to my music, things may become even more confusing. Of course, I’ve also discovered one, possibly two, other writers named Catherine Jenkins. While they seem to be in the UK, there’s still lots of room for growing confusion, thanks to the globalizing nature of the Internet.

On the plus side, the Internet has enabled me to locate numerous people I’d misplaced or even forgotten. I’ve reconnected with people from high school and my old hometown of Peterborough, people I’d lost touch with for fifteen or twenty years. E-mail allows me to stay in greater contact with friends who live at a distance. While I still write an occasional letter or make an occasional long distance phone call, this is a way of saying “hey” at the moment of that thought, with an immediacy that doesn’t have the disruptive effect of a ringing telephone. It allows people to mention the regular minutiae of a day in a way we generally don’t in letters. It’s a hybrid form of communication that supports the advantages of both telephones and letters.

Professionally, electronic media and communication have made things much easier and more efficient for me. Writing research is a whole lot simpler using the Internet-as long as one keeps a critical eye on the information source. I’ve also been able to track down and contact other professionals to request information, guidance or input into something I’m working on. The technology is great, as long as it’s used intelligently.

I’m also pleased that some literary journals are now accepting submissions via e-mail. From my perspective, that reduces the time and cost of handling, office supplies and postage. Electronic submissions are especially welcome when I’m submitting outside Canada. I gave up on International Reply Coupons some years ago; they’re expensive and I found that not everyone on the receiving end knew what they were or how to redeem them. Whenever I travel to the US or UK, I buy postage stamps, but the rates keep changing, so I still have to research current rates and figure out how to make whatever stamps I have add up. If a journal accepts electronic submissions, I don’t have to worry about return postage on my SASE. I’m currently compiling data to see if the turnaround time on electronic submissions is any faster than those sent the old-fashioned way.

So, as with most things, I can see both pros and cons. I use what works to advantage for me and critically consider the rest, accepting that the technology is here now and it’s here to stay.

© Catherine Jenkins 2007

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Summer 2007

Two years ago, I was wading through a difficult summer of parental illness. This summer, I am doing the same. September will mark the second anniversary of my Dad’s passing. Two years is not a great temporal distance from such an event and I’m still keenly aware of the loss of his presence. Yesterday, someone mentioned a date and I burst into tears. It was the date of my father’s birthday. Such are the irrational reactions of the heart in grief.

Since May, my Mum has been in steady decline. A voice in my head keeps whispering, too soon, not ready for this. But these are things for which there are no options. Events unfurl. All we can do is react, be with, advocate for, be ready to let go. There are no predictions. No fixed date.

Anxiety is in my body. I have started waking at three a.m. in case the phone rings. In the morning, my neck is stiff with tension. I tend to eat badly or not at all. I tend not to want to do much of anything, to just wait for the news. But this serves no purpose. I try to rally my energies to useful activities, like housework and writing, but my heart isn’t in it. I force myself to do yoga and walk to release the tension. And I have promised myself that once a week I will do something relaxing, a massage, or a spa.

I visit regularly, but now she sleeps most hours, eats little, is mentally distracted. Conversation is sparse, me asking questions to which often no answers are forthcoming, or talking about my day, but she nods off after a few sentences. The phone is next to useless, causing confusion, often off the hook. My mother is unwinding, both mentally and physically. I am uncertain who she is becoming. There is little time to find out.

© Catherine Jenkins 2007

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