New Books and Featured Reading Lists

Each week on the 49th Shelf homepage, we highlight new releases. We also make theme-based lists and showcase lists from guest contributors and 49th Shelf members. This page archives these selections so they are always available to our members.

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New Non-Fiction for the week of December 2nd : New Books on Music
The Awesome Music Project Canada

The Awesome Music Project Canada

Songs of Hope and Happiness
edition:Hardcover
tagged : happiness
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Buffy Sainte-Marie

Buffy Sainte-Marie

The Authorized Biography
edition:Hardcover
also available: eBook
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Heart of All Music, The

Heart of All Music, The

Poems About Music and Musicians
edition:Paperback
tagged :
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Jan in 35 Pieces
Excerpt

From "One: Arlequin"

1942

Down London's Baker Street, Jan and his mother, Elf, pick their way around shards of glass and pieces of masonry on their way to Jan's cello lesson. As they pass Madame Tussaud's, Jan notices that a landmark building has disappeared; the skyline beyond Marylebone Road looks different. Instead of the building, there's a gap through which Jan can see a cluster of barrage balloons like giant ears, straining on their ropes.

He walks with his mother in silence. London is often quiet after a bombing. Petrol is rationed and there is little traffic apart from the double-decker buses. They always catch the six a.m. workers' bus from home-the village of Radnage-to High Wycombe. Jan sits with Elf and looks out the window. If his father, Colin, takes him, they sit upstairs where smoking is allowed; the fumes of Woodbines always make Jan's eyes smart. He follows Elf out of the bus and onto the platform, past the poster of a ship sinking under the words "Walls Have Ears", past the old, red machine on the railway platform that reminds Jan of a tomb standing in mute testimony to those golden days of pre-war Rowntrees Chocolate Bar sixpence, then into the 7:15 train from High Wycombe to Marylebone: "Please shew your ticket".

Then they arrive in London and search for breakfast. Jan always makes a game of seeing which café in the district cooks the best dried [powdered] egg. Lyons Corner House is the preferred eatery with their scrambled egg on toast. Once the cashier is paid, Elf and Jan continue on the journey, passing the Royal Academy of Music and turning down Nottingham Place.

Now after Baker Street's gaps and shards of glass, this street is untouched-the same dreary row of townhouses, except the metal railings which used to guide you to their black front doors have been removed to be turned into guns. Jan knocks on 34-the London Cello School.

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The Never-Ending Present

The Never-Ending Present

The Story of Gord Downie and the Tragically Hip
edition:Hardcover
also available: eBook Paperback
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Everything Remains Raw

Everything Remains Raw

Photographing Toronto's Hip Hop Culture from Analogue to Digital
edition:Hardcover
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Live at The Cellar

Live at The Cellar

Vancouver’s Iconic Jazz Club and the Canadian Co-operative Jazz Scene in the 1950s and ‘60s
edition:eBook
also available: Paperback Hardcover
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They Shot, He Scored

They Shot, He Scored

The Life and Music of Eldon Rathburn
edition:eBook
also available: Hardcover
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Listen Up!

Listen Up!

Recording Music with Bob Dylan, Neil Young, U2, R.E.M., The Tragically Hip, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Tom Waits...
edition:Paperback
also available: eBook
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Funny books

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Reading Rhinoceroses

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New Non-Fiction for the week of November 25th : New Food and Drink Books
Kitchen Party

Kitchen Party

Effortless Recipes for Every Occasion
edition:Hardcover
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Excerpt

From the Introduction
I love food. That’s probably the most basic and universally agreed-upon statement you’ve ever heard, right? But as clichéd as it might sound, it’s true! I love everything about food—from planning and shopping, to cooking and eating. I love how food has the ability to bring people together, to transport a person from the stresses of their day, and to convey so much love in just a few bites.

The classic kindergarten mantra of “sharing is caring” is something I continue to live by, especially when it comes to food. Cooking, baking, and eating are some of the most social acts that I take part in every day, and I suspect the same might be true for you. Everyone has had days where the only thing that has pulled them out of a slump was baking and eating a whole batch of chocolate chip cookies but, most of the time, we cook for others. My husband, Aaron, often quips that when I’m left to cook only for myself, I eat like a raccoon, grabbing handfuls of pretzels, raw carrot sticks, and spoonfuls of whatever leftovers are hanging around the fridge. For me, half the fun of food is in preparing it for others, so why would I bother whipping up an exciting meal if I’m left to eat it all on my lonesome? In my house, any excuse I can think of is reason enough to invite friends over to share in a meal, grand or humble. Whenever I have people over, the festivities always revolve around the kitchen. No matter the occasion, during at least one point, every single person in attendance will be packed into my tiny scullery, chitchatting away, tasting things here and there, and dipping into the fridge for another drink. This is what I call a kitchen party.

For many Canadians, the term “kitchen party” is evocative of the East Coast. Renowned for their hospitality, good home cooking, and great music, East Coasters are arguably the chief experts in bringing friends and family together for informal parties centered on the heart of the home. In my family, this tradition has evolved from our East Coast roots but really, gathering around the comfort of a hearth of any description is something everyone can relate to. Kitchen parties should be overflowing with great company and good food—food that people want to eat, that might remind them of an old favorite. It should be the type of food that invites you to get your hands dirty, help yourself to a few more forkfuls, and nosh away for hours, surrounded by friends and family.

Kitchen Party: Cooking for Those You Love is here to banish any inflated pomp, circumstance, and anxiety surrounding the idea of inviting people into your home. This is a cookbook to complement parties that last for hours, allowing you to really catch up in the complete comfort of your own home. It’s filled to the brim with family-style dishes for brunches, cocktails, dinners, and special occasions—along with some baked goods and desserts, of course. They’re clear, simple, and straightforward recipes that are grand enough for company, yet easy enough to accomplish on a regular Tuesday night. They’re meant to be plunked down on a table that is groaning under the weight of delicious food and relaxed elbows. Each and every morsel has been put through the rigorous Myra Berg litmus test, meaning that if my wonderful and kitchen-inept mother can make it, anyone can! So go ahead—fill this book with sticky notes, dog-ear the pages, mark it up with pens and some kitchen mess, and try halving your favorite recipes if you’re cooking for smaller numbers.

From my kitchen to yours, Kitchen Party is here to make you look like the culinary wizard I know you are and to help you experience the same joy that I do when I’m cooking for and sharing food with those I love.

Welcome to the party!

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The Long Table Cookbook 

The Long Table Cookbook 

Plant-based Recipes for Optimal Health
edition:Paperback
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tawâw

tawâw

Progressive Indigenous Cuisine
edition:Hardcover
also available: eBook
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Thyme in the Kitchen

Thyme in the Kitchen

Cooking with Fresh Herbs
edition:Paperback
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Valleys of Wine

Valleys of Wine

A Taste of British Columbia's Wine History
edition:Paperback
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Cedar & Salt

Cedar & Salt

Vancouver Island Recipes from Forest, Farm, Field, and Sea
edition:eBook
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Burdock & Co

Burdock & Co

Poetic Recipes Inspired by Ocean, Land & Air
edition:Hardcover
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Excerpt

Preface

Tonight is the sturgeon moon. I get a text from Julie, our manager at Burdock & Co:

hannah says sturgeon moon nite time to let go
of all that burdens you
write it down & submerge
it underwater :)
meet u later?

Yes.

I share the new plan with Gabe and Clea. We are out tonight in Chinatown, feasting and yelling at each other over the noise of the crowded restaurant. Gabe is one of my oldest friends and she now runs Harvest Community Foods, our sister restaurant, and Clea has taken up the task of editing this book. Tonight they are working to get my story out of me. And anyone who knows me knows I hate talking about myself.

Kevin (life partner, business partner, broth transporter, wine deliverer, architect) keeps reminding me I have a great story, and maybe I do, but for me it’s a process, more of a collection of spaces and moments, flavours and techniques that, when stitched together, become what I do, who I am.

From my first naive adventure going out ocean fishing, or discovering thealternative reality of botanicals, or planting gardens, building a bakery, working at great restaurants across the city—all these seemingly disparate events have led to what Burdock & Co is today, and to me sitting in a very loud restaurant trying to write a cookbook!

Julie’s text (thankfully) gives us a new mission for the night, and we escape onto Pender Street. We hatch plans to submerge our burdens. The closest body of water? False Creek. Paper? The sticky notes we’ve been writing recipe ideas down on all night. How do we get the paper to sink? Tie it to a rock.

Halfway to False Creek we stop at Campagnolo Upstairs on Main Street because 1) Gabe needs to pee, 2) while we’re here we might as well have another drink, and 3) we’re waiting for Julie, who’s getting off her shift at Burdock. It’s a precious night off from the restaurant for me, and my fatigue from the week is lifting. I write down my burden(s). It’s a list.

Julie arrives and I ask for butcher’s twine at the bar. The bartender laughs, but returns with four neat lengths of string. We tie our papers around rocks that we picked up on the way, and head out into the end-of-summer night.

We are giddy, happily drunk, walking through the empty streets. This is Vancouver to me, this nexus of Downtown Eastside grit, Chinatown refusing to give up, condos sprouting everywhere, dingy Main Street bars. Harvest is just around the corner on Union, and Burdock is up the hill, past the viaduct.

At the water, a gang of teenagers loiter under the constellation of Science World. A family down the way lights paper lanterns that lift off across the galaxy skyline of Vancouver city lights.

Julie pulls a jar of wine out of her bag and we all take a drink, then throw our burdens into False Creek, wondering if this drunken moon ritual will work. The rocks sink and the lanterns keep rising over us, over Vancouver, one by one, fat, slow stars, competing with the moon.

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Rocky Mountain Cooking

Rocky Mountain Cooking

Recipes to Bring Canada's Backcountry Home
edition:Hardcover
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Excerpt

From the Introduction

During more than twenty years in the industry, I have worked in some incredible backcountry lodges. Every lodge has its own special appeal, but they all offer their guests the prospect of adventure, total immersion in natural beauty, and the option of “unplugging” from daily life. Over the years, I’ve seen time and time again how a first experience of backcountry lodge living usually marks the beginning of a love affair.

What do I mean by “love affair”? I’m talking about the elation you feel, followed by the most wonderful calm, when you’re sitting on top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere. On the way up, you can feel your legs shaking, your lungs burning, and your focus blurring from the strength of the wind. Yet, you keep going, undeterred by elevation or the thought of being able to turnback. Once on top, sitting beside a giant cairn made by everyone who has climbed this peak and added a stone, you feel so proud of yourself and totally aware of your surroundings. The endorphins that are activated after a mountain hike—after any exercise—are all-encompassing and addictive. They make you feel the same as you do after an amazing first date. Many backcountry guests come to the mountains just to experience that feeling of absolute bliss.

My goal with this book is to teach you how to enjoy that feeling of bliss in your own kitchen. No matter where you live, or whether you’ve visited the backcountry, there are remarkable influences from this environment that you can incorporate into your daily cooking. Think of the mountains, the glacial lakes, the carpets of wildflowers, the boulders covered in emerald green lichen—these are the palettes that often inspire me in the kitchen. I’m drawn to the endless varieties of color and texture I’ve encountered during my many hours outdoors, and the memories of them keep me stimulated for hours after I have hung up my hiking boots and placed a gorgeously marinated wild salmon in the oven.

This cookbook contains a collection of diverse and eclectic dishes that I have prepared in many backcountry lodges and huts over the years. You don’t have to be a skier or hiker to enjoy them. The majority of ingredients won’t require you to seek out a specialty grocery store—you will likely find you have most of them at home or that you already shop for them regularly and have been looking for a different way to prepare them.

Use the recipes to inject a little novelty into your daily life. Start your day with a hearty and warming baked French toast casserole with streusel (page 21) or maybe the skillet-baked huevos rancheros (page 31) instead of boiled egg and toast. Enjoy a fabulous salad paired with crispy fried chicken with buttermilk dipping sauce (page 164) for a late lunch. Indulge a craving for the richness of a halibut steak, cooked to perfection and placed atop a bed of roasted asparagus, with pan-fried scallops and a velvety beurre blanc (page 146), to help you forget your troubles at the end of the day.

I’ve also included my best bread recipes, as well as a selection of recipes for delicious cakes, an array of baked goodies, and warming soups to keep on hand. I’m sure that, as you leaf through the pages, you will find something—many things—to prepare that will bring your friends and family to the table to share a meal, talk about your day, or maybe plan your next trip to the great outdoors.

The backcountry can seem hostile or vibrant, overwhelming or inspirational, but however you imagine or experience it, its constant reminders to stay present is its best legacy. If you can nurture that sense of being in the moment in your home and kitchen, I suspect that the peace we can gain from all the natural gifts that the backcountry offers will follow close behind.

So what are you waiting for?

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The 30-Minute Vegetarian Cookbook

The 30-Minute Vegetarian Cookbook

100 Healthy, Delicious Meals for Busy People
edition:Paperback
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You Hold Me Up

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New Non-Fiction for the week of November 18th : New Art Books
Florine Stettheimer

Florine Stettheimer

New Directions in Multimodal Modernism
edition:Paperback
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Michael Snow

Michael Snow

Lives and Works
edition:eBook
also available: Hardcover
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The Group of Seven Reimagined

The Group of Seven Reimagined

Contemporary Stories Inspired by Historic Canadian Paintings
edited by Karen Schauber
edition:Hardcover
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Light Revealed

Light Revealed

Scratchboard Engravings by Scott McKowen
illustrated by Scott Mckowen
introduction by Peter Hinton
edition:Hardcover
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FLUEVOG

FLUEVOG

50 Years of Unique Soles for Unique Souls
edition:Hardcover
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Ruling Out Art

Ruling Out Art

Media Art Meets Law in Ontario’s Censor Wars
edition:Paperback
also available: eBook Hardcover
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Unbecoming Nationalism

Unbecoming Nationalism

From Commemoration to Redress in Canada
edition:Paperback
also available: eBook
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The Story of Painting

The Story of Painting

How art was made
by DK
foreword by Ross King
edition:Hardcover
tagged : painting
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Women Who Work

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New Fiction for the week of December 31st : New in Life Stories
What the Oceans Remember

What the Oceans Remember

Searching for Belonging and Home
edition:eBook
also available: Hardcover
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In My Own Moccasins

In My Own Moccasins

A Memoir of Resilience
edition:Hardcover
also available: eBook
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Dance Me to the End

Dance Me to the End

Ten Months and Ten Days with ALS
edition:Paperback
also available: eBook
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Mostarghia
Excerpt

From Mostarghia:

Just a few days before your death you’re determined still to be strong, to be the man of the hour, he who can do everything, always, even have his children forget the war and the concentration camps, the bombs and the hunger, the danger and the fear. Your doctor has come to inform us that you are living your last days, and that you are to be moved up to the floor for palliative care. They want to put you on a stretcher to carry you to the floor for the dying, but you refuse. You insist on taking the stairs, leaning, when necessary, on me. I feel you to be short of breath and feverish, like a leaf trembling at the approach of a hurricane. I like your smell, your silky skin, your boniness, and your lightness of weight. You were never a big eater, and even before your illness you said that we had to feed ourselves like birds, just enough to be able to fly. I see our two shadows making their way slowly along the hospital corridor. The impassive beauty of the flowers brought to the dying seems extravagant to me in this thankless place. You hold to me, as once you held to my translations in all the countries we knew where you refused to learn the language. For a long time I reproached you for this linguistic sulkiness, but towards the end of your life I understood that it was a deliberate strategy, a refusal to accept any social contract. As you lean on me and your breath comes faster, I search for words to tell you how deeply sorry I am for all our misunderstandings. (How to say sorry properly in your language, no longer really mine ever since others, like young wives unseating the older ones in a harem, have come to dwell in me, and to make me multiple.) A strange feeling runs through my entire being. As I adjust my body to better serve you as a support, my left breast slips naturally into the cavity in your chest, there where once resided the lung and ribs that have been taken from you. Gently, my breast has begun to swell, to breathe, as if it wanted to become the organ you are lacking, as if it wanted to complete you, but also to hide itself from the world and to return to whence it sprang. At the same time, in a neighbouring room, the Rwandan priest you chased away the other day because he wanted to convert you to Christianity, is reading the Bible to a dying person in a low and solemn voice: “And the Lord God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam, and he slept: and he took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh instead thereof. And the rib, which the Lord God had taken from the man, made he a woman.” With your rolling Slavic accent, you whisper in my ear: “My rib is the Adriatic coast. That’s where you were conceived. You will conceive in your turn on another coast.” Your face, like that of mystics in a trance, glows with a beatific smile, and I have a sudden conviction that you have always understood everything, all the languages and all the codes you claimed not to comprehend.

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Hello I Want to Die Please Fix Me
Excerpt

How do you talk about trying to die? Haltingly, urgently: in mes­sages and calls to friends. Abashedly: you stand in the middle of a hospital hallway on a parent’s cell phone as your grandfather bel­lows, “No more stupid tricks!” Gingerly: you stand in your psych ward at the patients’ landline, conscious of fellow patients watch­ing TV just behind you, white corkscrew cord curled around your finger as you murmur to your grandmother who understands better than she should. Who is the first to tell you, as you lean against the orange-tinted counter with its row of cupboards for confiscated belongings below the sink, that you have to write all this down. And even though you put it off for months, agonize for years, you know she’s right.
 
Quietly, desperately: in one medical appointment after another. Trepidatiously: to colleagues. Searchingly: in interviews. Increasingly loudly. In a book? With the world?
 
A disorder hijacks your life and becomes an obsession. Know thine enemy. Chart in minute detail the way it wrecks you and seek out every aliquot of information out there. Butt up against the con­stricting limits of human understanding, smash yourself against that wall and seek instead to map the contours of collective ignorance. Know the unknowns of thine enemy, learn them by heart. Because even if you never best it, never loosen its grip on your existence, at least your best attempt at understanding will give you some sem­blance of agency.
 
No one wants this crap illness that masquerades as personal failing. I had no desire to plumb its depths. The struggle to func­tion leaves me little capacity to do so. But in the end I had no choice. I approached this enemy I barely believed in the only way I knew how: as a reporter. I took a topic about which I knew nothing and sought somehow to know everything. I talked to people in search of answers and mostly found more questions.
 
Personal experience has made me more invested in addressing the gross inequities depression exacerbates, in hammering home the human, societal, economic costs. The depth of depression’s debilita­tion and our reprehensible failure to address it consume me because I’m there, spending days paralyzed and nights wracked because my meds aren’t good enough. But this isn’t some quixotic personal proj­ect that pertains to me and no one else. Depression affects everyone on the planet, directly or indirectly, in every possible sphere. Its very ubiquity robs it of sexiness but not urgency. I found this in every interview I did, in every article I read, in every attempt I made to sort out how the fuck this can be so bad and so badly unaddressed.
 
This book is also my way of exorcising endless guilt at having been so lucky—to have benefited from publicly funded inpatient and outpatient mental health care; to have maintained, for the most part, employment; to have had patches of insurance lighten the burden of paying for years of drugs. This shouldn’t be the purview of the priv­ileged but it is. We fail the most marginalized at every level, then wonder why they worsen.
 
I don’t want to be the person writing this book. Don’t want to be chewed up by despair so unremitting the only conceivable response is to write it. But I am. I write this because I need both life vest and anchor, because I need both to scream and to arm myself in the dark. Maybe you need to scream, to arm yourself, too.

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All Things Consoled

All Things Consoled

A daughter's memoir
edition:Paperback
also available: Hardcover
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Excerpt

     My mother came home the next day. The residence doctor dropped by in the afternoon, sturdy, energetic, reassuring. We had learned he was from Aberdeen, a fact that only endeared him further to my parents, for the Hays traced their origins back to the same part of Scotland. My mother greeted him cheerfully, and he said, “So you’ve come back.”
     She had. She had come back to us.
     Then once again, around the middle of March, she lost her words and twenty-four hours later showed no signs of recovering them. “I’m thinking—throne—thinking—th.” Starting on a word with an opening sound like “th,” she could not escape it, any more than a month earlier she had been able to escape “window—whether.”
     After I got her lying down, I went into the living room to talk to Dad, who was staring out one of the windows that overlooked the road and the canal beyond. Without turning, he said, “I don’t think she’s suffering, she’s just lost.” He choked up, as he did so very easily, before going on. “We just have to hope, or maybe hope is the wrong word. If she doesn’t make it, maybe it’s for the best.”
     The next day, “It’s snowing snowing snowing snowing,” she said, as we sat on a bench in the glowing sunshine.
     Certain words were no problem for her: yes, okay, right, super, thank you, well, son of a gun, really. Over the telephone, I told Sochi about the automatic responses that still issued loud and clear from her grandmother. Sochi laughed and remarked that they were all affirmatives; someone else’s might have been shit, goddammit and fuck. My mother’s “son of a gun” was as close as she came to an expletive and it was always said with good humour.
     Then the next morning, when I walked out of the late-winter sunshine into their living room, exclaiming what a beautiful day it was, my mother stopped me in my tracks by replying from the chesterfield, “Yes, it is a beautiful day.”
     Lazarus was back from the land of the mute. Open in her lap was the book I had brought to them several days before about Shackleton’s Antarctic expedition, and now she said how interesting she thought it was. Sitting beside her, washed over by relief and excitement, I flipped to the page with the photograph of ice flowers, delicate white rosettes blanketing the surface of newly frozen sea water on February 16th, 1915—four years before she and my father were born. I told her about seeing them in patches on the canal last winter and on a pond at the arboretum. And we made conversation. “Your words have come back!” She nodded and smiled and talked, and everything she said made sense.
     But Dad was less excited by her recovery than he was upset with her for having wet the bed. “And who is going to wash the sheets?” he wanted to know. I asked him what happened to the diaper I had helped her into before leaving the night before. Well, in getting her into her nightgown, he had taken it off. Then immediately on the offensive again, he lit into me about her bone-strengthening medication. Had she had it or not?
     “A nurse is supposed to give it to her early Sunday morning,” I said, “which is today.”
     “You haven’t answered my question!” he thundered, only to back off a heartbeat later. “All right,” he admitted. “Somebody came in and gave it to her.” Only to blast me again, “But then she fell asleep! She’s not supposed to fall asleep after she gets it!”
     He took things hard and he made them harder. There would come a day when he declared that the nursing care in this place wasn’t “worth coon shit.”
     I liked “coon shit.” Never in a million years would I have imagined those words coming out of his mouth. We went down for coffee, and then Mom and I went outside into the open air and abundant sunshine while he remained behind in the library reading Maclean’s.
     In the flooding light we walked to the corner. “Did you have wrens nesting in the garden in London last spring?” I asked her.
     “I am forced to confess that I do not remember,” she said, speaking in her old formal way. Her teachers at Renfrew Collegiate had been sticklers for grammar and well-formed sentences, and my mother had been an excellent student.
     “What was it like for you, the last couple of days, when you couldn’t find your words?”
     “It was unsettling. But it’s been unsettling for a while.”
     We walked on. I asked her what she was thinking about.
     “I’m thinking about what the future holds.”
     “Are you worried about that?”
     She said something vague about no one knowing what the future holds, or perhaps I said that.
     I had pulled from the wastebasket in their rooms another of her efforts at a letter, one she had been working on somedays before, wanting it, she said, to be “a reasonable letter from a reasonable person.” She intended to have it do yeoman’s service for all of the friends she hadn’t yet written to.

There must be a way in the English Landwich to say to
your English speaking friends a great deal more emphatic?
I’ve tried many ways but the best I’ve managed is

Thank you so very much from all of us
The Hays

     Around this time, I remember her taking several bananas—the three on the counter and the one from inside their little fridge—and lining them up on the seat of her walker, then pushing her walker into the living room. I didn’t follow for a moment, washing dishes in their kitchenette. Then when I went into the living room, the bananas were nowhere in sight. “Where are they, Mom? Dad, did you see what Mom did with the bananas?”
     “Sure I did.”
     “Where are they?” Looking around.
     “Well, just don’t sit on the chesterfield,” he said.
     I checked under the cushions and there they were: fourbananas lined up in a row.

They reminded me of characters out of Beckett. A pair of solitaries who had always headed out to the studio, in my mother’s case, or downstairs to his study, in my father’s (each to his own lair) were now sharing two rooms. They were like the aged parents trapped in dustbins in Endgame. Like Laurel and Hardy in another fine mess. Or like old Joshua Smallweed in Bleak House throwing cushions at his imbecile wife.
     “Oh the weather,” my mother said to me, “the weather now is the pits of wet roses.” She had been reading in the newspaper, she said, about a woman in her thirties “who came down under the overburden of blankets and probably isn’t going to live.”
     Her turns of phrase rather confirmed my view that poetry issues from the holes in our head, that whatever faculty produces the startling contractions and coinages and leaps in logic that we call poetry is also available on an unconscious and uncontrollable level to someone suffering dementia. One morning on the telephone, ever solicitous about my sleep, she asked, “How did you severe the night?” Blending the words “fare,” “survive” and “persevere” so deftly that a lifetime of labour in the sleep mines got summoned up and summed up. “Dad’s behind a shave,” she added, “but I think he’ll come to the phone.”
     Later, when I went over to see them, “Do you know what I had for breakfast?” she said to me.
     “What?”
     She leaned forward. “Too much.”
     But that was her sense of humour. Like her abundant hair, it was her lasting glory.

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This week's recommended reading lists

Cozy Mysteries

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