When Jack died, 30 months after we married, I couldn’t imagine ever not wearing that circlet of gold symbolizing the happy time when we gave the world the most traditional demonstration of our solidarity in the face to cancer.

In the year before he died, Jack had - with a bit of encouragement from me - sold his 1800 sq ft shop filled with a 30 year accumulation of treasures from his life as an appliance service guy. Things like tools, gauges, scrapped equipment, ACs with coolant to be harvested for $, fridges literally stacked one top of one another. It was disorganized in a way I’d never imagined possible and posed a serious safety risk to anyone squeezing through it. The sorting process - keep, sell for scrap, garbage - was brutal for me, with Jack distracted by reminiscence with nearly every item. Indeed, I left the country for a week because I couldn’t bear watching a process that could have been so much more streamlined.

I’ve bought groceries today for my annual open house in two days. My fridge overfloweth with wine, beer, non-alcoholic drinks, cheese, and veg. And that’s my second fridge. Tiny house living has required some compromise and the 9.5 cubic foot fridge has been the hardest thing to get used to. So I’ve added a gazebo fridge for the party .I need to reduce the contents of my main fridge so I can really ramp up the party food prep tomorrow.

Oh Deep Sleep, I so miss you. As a kid, we were tight. I’d go to bed at 8:30; enjoy your presence for 10+ hours, and wake up refreshed to catch the school bus. You prevented from considering the things that would preoccupy me now like how likely I would fall, bleary-eyed, on the stairs going to the main floor toilet. Or ponder the age-old night-time question - to flush or not to flush. I had been told my father had lost touch with you, Deep Sleep, as he made a frequent night-time pee trip. It seemed, however, like a man thing, not something that would ever trouble me.

On the Friday of every Labour Day weekend, I get as revved up as the Snowbirds themselves, as Canada’s military aerobatic team does their warmup act over downtown Toronto. I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of their spectacular moves, done with such crisp precision, demonstrating the enormous skill of their pilots and the artistry of their choreographer. And I do so guiltily. Just what the hell am I doing eagerly anticipating this annual Toronto display?

But damn, I love it.

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.