Regular blog readers will recall a piece about the day my mother ran away from home in the late 1970s. She did that to get Dad’s attention. Despite his ability to ignore many social cues, her message was received: less time in his home-built wooden two-seat airplane that Mom wouldn’t fly in, and more playing a partner role to her. But what could he do at home that would replace the full-on preoccupation of flying, tweaking the plane, building a second plane, metal this time, and hanging out with other aircraft-obsessed men at the hangar?

I’d stayed indoors that day, working on the deadly-dull stuff of life maintenance - paying bills, tracking business expenses, catching up on email, and filing. I’ve been nursing a bum foot, a holdover from a misstep on my Ireland trip, but by 3:30, knowing that physical health must sometimes give way to psychological well-being, I decided on a not-so-quick saunter by the river. A greyness had hung over Toronto all day, and, if I’m to be honest, it was starting to darken towards the northwest. We were on 10 bazillion of a humid stretch that can produce downpours, so I gave my weather app a quick glance. Light rain for 18 minutes followed by 27 minutes of nothing, then another round of 10 minutes of light rain. Who the hell are they kidding? As if they can predict that. Nonetheless, I wrapped my foot in a tensor bandage and shoved both of them into supportive running shoes. That’s for you, Mary, I thought, knowing how my chiropractor would pry from me any delinquent behaviour at my next appointment.

It’s 5:30 when I get home from work armed with two inch-thick pork chops from the butcher near my office. I’m confident I can cook, savour, and begin digestion before I’m due on a Zoom call in 75 minutes. I season the chops with a little salt, pepper, and leftover home-ground Persian spice blend. As I wash some green beans in the fridge nearly too long, I heat my cast iron pan with a skiff of avocado oil. Google tells me a 1 inch pork chop is 5 minutes per side. I hear a satisfying sizzle when I place the chops in the hot pan. I set the timer for 5 minutes and heat a little butter in another pan. I slice four leftover boiled new potatoes and get them into the hot butter to crisp a little. I chop the stems from my green beans and throw them in with the potatoes, swishing them all around a bit. I remember a few leftover toasted almonds in the cupboard and add them to the mix.

I was honoured to be invited to Lidya’s first birthday party - the lone Canadian, the oldest attending by 25 years, and the only non-parent. There I was amid the enthusiastic chattering of eight Turks in their early 30s with their four children. Hearing, but unable to participate given the language barrier. I worked hard to express interest by catching people’s eyes and smiling, frustrated not to engage in the kinds of group conversations I normally want. The Turkish were eager to talk to me too, and so one by one, they made their way to my end of the outdoor sofa to talk to a Canadian. I gather, for them, despite each having been here six months or more, chances to engage with locals have been less common than they’d like. Through these stilted, Google-translate supported exchanges, I learned of the frustrations with their new lives.

2024 is my year to bring my writing up a notch and I decided in January that more reading would be part of my strategy to do so. In April, I shared with you my first quarter success - if you missed it, check it out here. I’ve continued to do my best to read the pile of must-reads I’ve collected although full disclosure, most of these were acquired during the second quarter, continuing to fulfil my seemingly endless need to support Canadian publishing. 

I was the child of a British mother who was thrilled when Marks & Spencer came to Canada in the 1970s. I didn’t love going there - it all seemed pretty old-ladyish to my wanna-be hip self - but I couldn’t deny the quality and comfort of the undergarments and so up until the closure of all 40+ Canadian stores in 2010, I would shop there. In the dark period since, I have cobbled together a collection of serviceable underpants from The Bay and  (gulp) Joe Fresh. But when I knew I would be in Dublin for two goofing-off days, I knew M&S (as it’s now known) would be on the agenda. 

The Irish Writers Retreat was at an Inn in County Donegal, an area of Ireland so far north no-one I met in Dublin has been. Because the 2 km route to the nearest shop - a patrol station - was accompanied only sporadically by sidewalks, you left your umbrella in your bag to get a better view of the grills of oncoming buses, cars, and lorries barrelling around tight corners at breakneck speed, seemingly without a thought to foreigners who might like a rainy ramble. Despite the danger, people in our group would head down to grab water, toothpaste, or just to get a break. On the two outings I made, I was grateful when I rounded the last corner to see the Teac Jack, our hotel. Safe again.  

You’ve already read about the first six things in my list of 15 things I learned from my trip to Ireland. One of the lessons I learned from my late husband, Jack, is the rich potential of talking to strangers. Ireland provided this at the next level! The 7th thing on my list of 15 confirms the Irish reputation for friendliness. Here are three examples from the many I could have chosen.  

What I’m about to share is a significant step forward for me. I flew Aer Lingus to Dublin on June 15 with a Heathrow-Dublin-Toronto route scheduled home on July 1. On June 17, Aer Lingus pilots announced plans to work to rule starting June 26, with a complete shutdown of all operations on June 29. The airline immediately set about cancelling flights.

A previous version of me would have responded as one of my fellow nine workshoppers did - immediate sleeplessness prompting a costly booking of a new route back to her US home, despite not knowing for certain if her flight would be cancelled. (I don’t believe it was, by the way)