kafkaestblog

Surprising Phone Call Is A Mystery To Be Solved

I had been away for the weekend and returned late. There was a phone message. I would do nothing about it at that hour but . . . I listened to it anyway. It was a garble of words just out of reach, with sounds as if through water. The backdrop to a horror movie or an opaque dream. It kept on and on and I hung up before the end.

Next day I had many things to do, so I did not listen to the message until late afternoon. My interpretation was no different. It consisted of sounds heard behind a door in a dream. I probably would have just ignored and deleted, but it went on and on. The phone number of the caller meant nothing to me (other than it was localized to the two immediate provinces). So, from curiosity and a touch of concern, I phoned back.

A woman answered. She was as confused as I would be, if I was hearing the message I now delivered. She even said that she did not understand. I repeated my predicament. Then she checked the phone number I was calling from.

“That number is from Chelsea, a friend of my daughter,” said she.

Although this added to the confusion, it also started to make some connections. I had been getting phone calls for “Chelsea”, on and off, for months.

“But Chelsea has moved.” The woman also started to make a connection. “But I still have her on my speed dial. You must now have her number. I must have hit it somehow when it was in my pocket or my purse. I’ll erase it.”

Two mysteries solved.

I listened to the message a bit longer before I deleted it. There was a portion where I could make out the CBC National News on television. Probably from a pocket but, it still sounded as if it was more from a fish tank.

(image)

http://directorytelephone.info/telephone_switchboard.html

05/19/2016 0

Red Onion Jam // Onions Onions Onions

Make this red onion jam recipe using red onions, sugar, bay leaves, and cinnamon. Find the condiment recipe at PBS Food.

Source: Red Onion Jam

05/17/2016 0

A FishTale From The Atlantic Ocean

Horse mackerel Mackerel

There is a very long pier at one of the container terminals in Halifax. It seems to go out a quarter of the way into the harbour. It offers the best view of the mouth of the harbour and some (now) unique views back into the harbour itself.

As I was standing at the end, jutting into the harbour and watching the passing traffic (hello, cruise ship), I noticed a man with a fishing pole, casting away. He did not seem too successful, but did toss the occasional fish (mackerel) into a large pail. So I watched my ships and he cast away. Sometimes his fish leaped from the pail and flopped about on the pier. He did not seem concerned, though I rather hoped one of them would slide under the fence and return to the water far below.

I stayed about an hour and was preparing to leave. So was the fisherman. He called to me if I wanted any fish. I did have some interest, but, in addition to transporting fish on a bus, and also having to gut and clean them, I declined. It was then he offered the grandest of shows.

He reached into his pail and started tossing the fish over the high, barbwire-topped fence which enclosed the container terminal. On the other side was a vast platform, upon which waited a flock of seagulls. As each mackerel sailed over the fence and slid across the cement, the gulls descended. I anticipated many bird fights. I was surprised to see that each gull which reached a fish first, just swallowed the mackerel whole. Gulp. Slide into gullet. Fly away gull. The other gulls just turned their attention to the next flying fish.

It was quite the entertainment.

Screaming Seagull by Vera Kratochvil

05/15/2016 0

Pictures of Delicious onion ring recipes just in time for summer (15 Photos) — theCHIVE

via Delicious onion ring recipes just in time for summer (15 Photos) — theCHIVE

As I edit my second novel dealing with onions, I won’t even attempt to contain my enthusiasm over these. There is not enough time to eat enough onions. Or write about them.

05/10/2016 0

Caught Dead In A Place Like This

If I were going to visit my mother on Mother’s Day, I would have to visit a cemetery. Same for my father, as they are side by side. I have done so before – the last time to make sure their tumbled gravestone had been righted. It had.

I have a friend – still happily above ground – who had once been admonished “… not to walk on graves.” She wondered why, as she said it would give her pleasure if she knew people were even dancing upon hers, and enjoying themselves.

And what’s a graveyard if you can’t enjoy yourself?

I have sometimes pondered whether it would be pleasant to live beside a graveyard. It makes great sense to me. That would almost be a guarantee of peace and quiet.

For myself, I had plans for a grand mausoleum. There was to be a reflecting pool and mourning benches, with ornate gargoyles around the sarcophagus. And a whole lot of other things. Wind chimes, for instance – there should be wind chimes. And treed arbours where people can gently weep.

However, my friend (not the one who wishes cotillions stepped-out upon her mortal bones), who was helping me plan this grand memorial garden, has – alas – herself died. And since it was she who was the mastermind behind my final resting place, I am somewhat at a loss.

As it is, I will be going to see her planted, with no mausoleum in sight. I suppose the irony is lost upon her. But maybe not.

So the reverential repose I wish is now up to me. I hope time doesn’t run out before I do.

Exterior of Milton Mausoleum, Markham Clinton, Nottinghamshire. Photo by James Darwin. Not to be reproduced without permission.

{Yeh – something like this.}

(image)

http://www.visitchurches.org.uk/Ourchurches/Completelistofchurches/Milton-Mausoleum-Markham-Clinton-Nottinghamshire/

05/08/2016 0

My great friend and writing mentor, Nancy Bauer, as wise as the ears she writes about, once mentioned the past on Facebook in regards to a Thanksgiving Day. One of the responses to her comment spoke about our mutual times with the fluid writing group in the gathering place fondly known as the Ice House.

That reminded me of this blog, which I wrote nearly six years ago. It is centred around the Ice House and the passage of time. I’m sure Nancy, who writes a weekly newspaper column and has, occasionally, some trouble thinking of topics, will allow me to modify and steal from myself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I came across an announcement today about a memorial reading for the Canadian poet, Alden Nowlan. One of my claims to fame is being mistaken for Alden – sadly three years after he died. Perhaps I had had a rough night the night before. At any rate, at this memorial reading a number of the readers are known to me and come from my ‘era’. One of the things some of us shared was that we were members of the same writing group. This group met on Tuesday nights for two to three hours, reading and commenting on each others work. Save for one Master’s Thesis that I know of, not enough has been written about this long-lasted group. And much could be written. Many notables passed through the door and many eventually-established authors emerged.

Although the building where we met had the proper name of McCord Hall, it was in fact the very old converted Ice House of the University of New Brunswick. It had been turned fancy with wooden beams and high windows and a long impressive wooden table. The Ice House is in current use as I speak, designated as an English Graduate seminar room. There is even coffee.

Indeed, just recently I wrote a brief story about the Ice House for a CBC contest. It went, in its entirety:

When the august Ice House Gang was in its writing heyday at the University of New Brunswick, the saintly Nancy Bauer was looked upon as our revered Mentor. She was calm and fair, even to the untutored and raunchy. Once, while one of our more seamy members was reading out-and-out pornography, I began to rub my foot against her leg. A look of confusion crossed her face and then, with a voice etched in acid, she loudly announced: “That Estey is feeling me up under the table.”

I did not win.

However, perhaps the reason is because of the following. This is part of the description of the memorial reading for Alden:

Along with Nowlan, former University of New Brunswick professor Bob Gibbs was a member of the “Ice House Gang”, a group of faculty members and writers who would gather in an old stone hut on College Hill

Oh, and this is the Ice House itself.

McCord Hall
I know much is in the eye of the beholder, but…

(image)
http://www.heritagefredericton.org/node/154

kafkaestblog

It is a whirlwind in here

Surprising Phone Call Is A Mystery To Be Solved

Red Onion Jam // Onions Onions Onions

A FishTale From The Atlantic Ocean

In Pictures -Some Canadian inspiration from famous Canadians (11 Photos) — theCHIVE

Pictures of Delicious onion ring recipes just in time for summer (15 Photos) — theCHIVE

Caught Dead In A Place Like This

Pictures With Banff & A RobinThis week’s best under #Canada (20 Photos) — theCHIVE

Amazing History Of The Writing Life In The Ice House

It’s that time- best {well – many good} pictures under #Canada (20 Photos) — theCHIVE

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