Birding in the Kalahari

We drove along a sandy track, skidding occasionally, but mostly riding the spoor like a ball in a bowling lane gutter. Rounding a curve, we startled a flock of pheasants. As Molefe swerved through them, they scattered, and one bounced off the grill.

     Molefe braked. We both looked back. The bird fluttered weakly on the ground. Molefe ran to it, lifting it to cradle in his arms. I was moved, and reached out to touch it gently—just as he snapped its neck and tossed it in the back of the truck. That night, he roasted it over our fire.

True story, inspired by Chickadees in the Park. Photo by Michael Hall.

Chickadees in the Park

Full of rage, she goes to the park to walk it off and formulate her rebuttal, but writes this instead:

Buzz of beating wings,
chitter, chatter, chick-a-dee-dee-dee
Nattering neighbours gossip on wooden porches
calling across the upper storeys of the trees

Past the leafy blinds,
here a flap; there a flutter — all in a flurry
black-kerchiefed matrons bob and weave.
Pump bodies under feathered aprons scurry.

Anticipation and outstretched arms —
Do not move. Do not breathe. Be calm, be calm.
Imprint of the dancer's quick steps, her ballerina breaths,
prick of her beak as she picks seed from your palm.

Inspired by 6 AM. Photo by Jaclyn Vernace.

6 AM

Happy is the serenity of the early morning walk in the park

Still dark

The quiet lays over life like a weighted blanket

The people speak softly

The dogs prance lightly 

The robins commence their rehearse for the dawn concerto 

The low lying paths

Damp and foggy

Feel intriguing and mysterious 

And get the heart beating

The top of the trail then unveils the breaking sky

Pink and gold

Streaking through the gray clouds 

The dead brown brush begins to shimmer in it’s light 

Truly, it is a spectacular place 

A new beholding every day

There to experience 

I am grateful 

Inspired by The Après Life. Image by Nathanael Kiefer.

Quarter-Pound Foolish

The subway home from high school would drop me off on the southside of Bloor, out the rear entrance, and across the parking lot to the Uptown Nut House, which although it was much better known for its fresh-roasted cashews, was my go-to for loose candy.

Thirty-five cents for a quarter pound of jubes, forty-five for the licorice babies, or—if I was feeling particularly fancy—a whole dollar’s worth of their wine gums. Sure, it was bad for me, but what did I care? I certainly needed the calories, and my teeth were still on my mother’s dental plan.

Inspired by Blue Hawaii. Photo by the Great Lakes Refill Co.

Blue Hawaii, crayon on paper towel, by Laurie Anne (1967)

I was five and Jonesing for candy. Only Drouillard Road and childhood penury stood between me and Sweet Tarts. I had to sell my art. Still comfortably in my Desert Island phase, I put crayon to paper towel and let the Muse overtake. Hula Girl, Sun, Palm Tree. I schlepped door-to-door, but such was neighbourhood apathy for design that I soon worried if I’d ever make it to Charron’s. Finally, Mrs. Drazic let me in and listened to my creative vision. Unmoved by Klee-like innocence and economy of line, she gave me a glass of milk and sent me packing. Inspired by The Happy Place. Photo of Charron’s grocery store—the Holy Grail of penny candies—posted by Diane Vella.

The Happy Place

I’m not sure why, because it wasn’t part of my upbringing, but art makes me happy. It doesn’t happen at first sight. For my first half hour inside a gallery, I’m restless, my thoughts frenetic like the street outside. Slowly though, the atmosphere tranquilizes me to worldly distractions: yes, it soothes my savage breast. Suddenly I see on the wall before me what my impatience missed, a creation that teases and winks; challenges or defies norms; or simply pleases. Mountains, forests, coasts, they work for me too, but a gallery prods me to wonder about human potential; and to hope.

Inspired by The Après Life. Image by Annie Fairfax.

The Après Life

March reminds me of spring skiing—though I could skip the slopes altogether. I’ve never graduated from the bunny runs and usually spend the whole time worrying about how to exit the chair lift without falling. So maybe it’s spring snowshoeing.

Anyway, what’s important is the “après” part. Imagine: skis or snowshoes off, sighing into a Muskoka chair. On its wide arm rest, a hot toddy. Unbuttoned parka. Tuque off. Fingers running through sweaty hair. Body content after a day spent outdoors. Limbs pleasantly tired. Now close your eyes, lift your face to the sun and disappear into the moment.

Inspired by the arrival of March. Image by Dinga.