red door with pumpkin
This weathered door has seen a lot of Octobers. This door on Elliot Row, a few houses in from the sea in one of the oldest parts of the city, has seen thick fog and hurricane rains, hot sun and freezing gales, and everything in between. You can see the marks where the door has been pushed, shoved and bumped, where the paint is worn down to the wood by frequent use. It looks like this door was painted white before it was red, and before that — before the new owners refinished it and repainted and re-sided and renovated the house from top to bottom — I wonder what it looked like then?
When the Nor’easter rolls up the Eastern seaboard and sends the Bay of Fundy waves pounding against the shore, it will stand firm. When snowbanks ploughed off the street climb all the way to the top of the railing, and ice encases the steps, it will still open and close, firm against the weather. For now, it’s strong enough. For now, there are flowers, and a pumpkin to mark the season of harvest and Hallowe’en. Welcome.
Taken on October 2, 2010
playground
I like toys. I have lots of them: a bike and camping gear and a harp and lots of camera stuff and a computer and an ipod touch and an elliptical exerciser and a bunch of kitchen gadgets and garden tools and, oh yes, a car. Yet I spend most of my spare time on my computer and ipod.
But I’m not doing very well in the fitness department. If I keep sitting all day, I’ll turn into an ottoman (the furniture kind) — all seat and no legs. With the exception of apps for activities such as birding, starwatching and geocaching, computers and being outdoors don’t go together, and unless you’re just listening to music, you’re not actually doing anything.
And it’s not just me. There has been a lot of hand-wringing about child obesity in the so-called developed world. I saw a Saint John photo by Ian McEachern yesterday, showing a group of 9 or 10 kids playing in on the street next to a group of homes, a couple of adults leaning against the stoop, watching. That was 1968; this is 2010. The boy in this photo is alone. He has an electronic toy in his hand. He hasn’t walked the few blocks to the nearest playground, he isn’t kicking a soccer ball with the neighbourhood kids or heading to the library to check out a new book. He’s standing in a neighbourhood parking lot, with a whole universe of playgrounds to explore, at least until the battery runs down.
Taken on October 2, 2010
cat eyes
I’ve noticed that fancy decor magazines like to pretend that people’s homes are museums or galleries. For example, instead of discussing curtains or drapes, they talk about window dressing. Window dressing?
“It has come to my attention that many of you are in a quandary about how to dress your windows. Even friends of mine who are top notch designers are often terrified of window dressing…” – from a Home and Garden article (“Window Dressing 101″).
Terrified by window dressing, eh? Well now, I’ve seen two windows with wolf-blanket curtains; maybe that’s what they’re talking about. A wolf in the window probably sends the wrong message, it scares away the meter reader and Girl Guides selling cookies. But replace the ferocious wolf with a sweet-faced domestic cat, and suddenly your window dressing is not so terrifying. How purrfect, the neighbours will say, that little house down the street has cat eyes.
Taken on October 2, 2010
steeple city
In the centre core of Saint John, a variety of churches are perched along the top of a low ridge that runs along the South End peninsula. From every viewpoint, you can see steeples rise above the cluster of low and high-rise buildings.
Like the rest of the western world, the city has seen changes in its religious and ethnic demographics in recent years. Some churches have closed, and others have had to merge congregations. Those that remain are struggling to pay their bills while trying to speak to modern spiritual and community needs in a time when many consider such institutions stagnant or of questionable value. The gap is widening between those who are looking for a traditional religious practice — in most cases, that merely means “what I grew up with” — and those who feel excluded by obscure rituals, exclusively male language and a holier-than-thou attitude.
Are the steeples merely a symbol of our past or do they have have a role to play in the future? God knows.
Taken on October 2, 2010
end of the line
If you follow these railway lines the other direction, they head north and west and across a continent. The great Canadian railway project was a great pioneering adventure, a huge achievement in its time, traversing disparate geographies and climates, crossing swamps and rivers and mountains. When the last spike was hammered in at 9:22 am on November 7, 1885, in British Columbia, the country was symbolically unified, and the pioneer age came to an end.
People still go west, seeking adventure, opportunity, jobs. You don’t hear of people going east. East is the edge, the ocean, where the “gold” of boundless sea resources has already been spent. To many people across Canada, the Maritimes is a quaint place to visit but not to live. They may think this is the end of the line, but they are wrong; this is the beginning.
Taken on October 2, 2010
fall flame
After you’ve lived in one place for a while, it’s easy to think you’ve seen it all. The same architecture, the same streets, the same sprawling malls, the same old, same old. And then one day you’re walking around a corner, looking for something else, only half paying attention, and there it is: something different. Hello, says the red vine, waving brightly from its yellow wall. Hellooooo, do you see me?
On another note, I’ve decided to post entries only on weekdays. As the days get darker, weekends are getting busier and sometimes I’d rather sleep in… So now you don’t have to waste, er, invest your weekends reading my blog, but I hope you’ll keep dropping by on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. And thanks as always for your excellent comments!
Taken on October 2, 2010
keep the red on your right
A navigation beacon, a single oil lamp, was first erected here at the point of the South End peninsula in 1842. Then in 1847, it was replaced with this triple gas lampstand, known as the Three Sisters. It was refurbished in 1997.
Apparently the red colour facing the sea was visible for three miles from shore — a helpful aid in fog or dark. When coming into harbour from the Bay of Fundy, sailors would chart their course from the Three Sisters. The colour red shows the starboard limit of a channel, so they would know to keep red lamps on their right. If they could see all three red lamps, sailors would know they were heading straight into the harbour, however if only one or two could be seen, sailors knew they needed to change course. The street-side is white, so it guess it doubled as a regular streetlight.
In this photo, you can barely see a cruise ship docked in the foggy harbour. I’m glad these huge boats don’t have to rely on the Three Sisters to guide them into port!
Taken on July 11, 2009
rose-coloured
They say that you have to dream something to make it real. That you need dreams to have a future. That through dreaming you can overcome difficulties and work your way around psychological obstacles.
Yet you’ve also been told that dreamers are not doers, that dreaming doesn’t make it true, and dreams are the opposite of reality. I don’t believe it.
Maybe I was born with rose-coloured glasses, maybe it’s just that I’m an optimist, but I’ve always thought that — for most things — if I can dream it, I can do it. I’m not talking about fantasy; I’m talking about dreams, about having vision and seeing the paths that might open up to you around the corner. When you dream, you see not only your potential, but what you truly want, and who you truly are. And let’s face it, reality can be pretty grim unless you know how to dream, unless you know that it is possible (yes it is) for your dreams to come true.
Taken on May 24, 2009
divided
There’s no question of reconciliation. The siding is different, the doors are different, the steps are on different levels. The colours clash, the decorative details don’t match, the parking signs don’t even agree. Yet here we are: two neighbours with adjoining walls, sharing the same side of the street, the same views from the front steps, the same noises and cooking smells. Maybe it’s important to maintain some difference, and keep our separate ways, separate.
Taken on May 7, 2009
behind the garden gate
Gardening is one of those tasks/hobbies that never seems to be finished. We’ve been landscaping our front yard, adding perennials and shrubs — planting native species when possible — and trying to make it look, well tidy. But the back yard is a different kettle of fish altogether. Or perhaps I should say it’s a different kettle of weeds. Between the weeds and the bare uneven patches, the back yard looks unkempt, especially compared to our neighbours’ lush rolling lawns. We keep it cut, but it doesn’t look nice. We inspected our modest property yesterday and realized that we have to draw a line. The front is for display. The back is for us. What happens behind the garden gate stays behind the garden gate.
Taken on June 12, 2009
pink living
This is the growing season. Everything is growing full tilt — flowers, weeds, vegetables, trees — and producing to its fullest. Everything looks its best in this season, and not only the flowers. Painting and re-siding projects are all over town, and if you can’t hear any hammering or sawing, there will at least be a lawn mower running somewhere close by. This is the time of year to be outdoors, to enjoy the fine weather and the sheer variety and vibrancy of life. In winter this will all look barren and cold, save for a splash of colourful paint on the house down the street. Take nature’s example to heart: don’t just live — thrive!
Taken on June 23, 2009
home of the Marco Polo
Imagine what this narrow bay at the mouth of Marsh Creek would have looked like 150 years ago. Imagine away the train tracks, the smoke stacks, the silt. Imagine the golden age of sail, a sea of masts, a tide of longshoremen. Imagine long piers, and the rough bones of new ships being built, one rib at a time. Imagine the Marco Polo, launched on the 17th of April, 1851 from the yard of James Smith at Marsh Creek. She was a clipper, with stout planking of tamarack, pitch pine, and oak and three tall masts. She was the biggest ship the yard had built, and when she was launched, she got stuck in the mud for two weeks. Imagine this ship, free to ply her trade across the seas, sailing across the North Atlantic to Liverpool, England in just fifteen days. She was the first ship to circumnavigate the world in less than six months, travelling from Liverpool to Melbourne, Australia, and back in 5 months and 24 days in 1852. She was the fastest ship in the world. And she was built right here.
Taken on July 12, 2010
out the back door
There is a certain style to these 19th century apartment buildings in the South End. This photo is taken from a deck behind four adjoining brick buildings that overlook Queen’s Square. From the top windows you can see out across the harbour to Patridge Island. Some of the plaster moulding and wood floors are original, along with the lovely high ceilings and tall windows. The rooms are huge by today’s standards. In the apartment we rented for six months, the outside walls (which are shared between the buildings) had been uncovered down to the brick, revealing the original fireplaces. This was the most beautiful of any of the apartments I’ve lived in, anywhere. It would have been perfect, if it wasn’t for the long walk up the stairs!
Taken on May 2, 2009
on the corner
If you went back in time, before the graffiti and peeling paint, what would you see? I try to picture what the heyday would have looked like for this small corner shop in the South End, a few blocks from the harbour. Maybe it was a butcher shop, a barbershop or a green grocer. Maybe you could buy ice cream sodas here in the summer. I imagine this little corner bustling with activity, tradesmen making deliveries or stopping to talk, leaning against the post while they smoke a cigarette. They move out of the way politely for a young woman with a baby on one hip and a bag of groceries on the other. They pass around a grubby newspaper, scanning the headlines for news of the war, or the stock market, or the horse races…
Imagining the past is not just an exercise in nostalgia. It can help us to see past the grime of neglect in order to recognize potential. It can encourage us to breathe new life into old places as we imagine the future. And I believe that if we can imagine something, we can do it.
Taken on June 12, 2009
sunset skyline
The uptown core of Saint John is fairly low key. Aside from a small cluster of tall buildings at the foot of King Street, the majority of the central city — much of which is 19th century streetscape — is no higher than four or five storeys. And since the city core is built on a hill that climbs up from the harbour, that means there are some interesting views if you know where to look. From the deck of this apartment in the South End where we lived last year, just a stone’s throw from the uptown area, we could see fireworks and the upper decks of cruise ships at high tide. We could see sunsets and steeples. And on a clear night we could see stars. In fact, you can see stars from almost everywhere in the city. All you have to do is look up.
Taken on May 2, 2009
potash train among the daisies
I love the way the orange train lights up against the blue sky. I love the way the daisies decorate the hill above the train tracks. I love the way Marsh Creek carves channels through the silt that you only see at low tide. I love the view across Courtney Bay in the morning, the sun bright on the water, the fresh day just beginning.
Taken on July 12, 2010
laundry
It’s Monday. Monday is traditionally laundry day. Monday is the day when we get back to our regular routine, back to our responsibilities and daily tasks. And when we’ve had an especially hectic or wearying weekend, Monday is refreshingly normal.
Taken on May 19, 2009
Tin Can Beach – high tide, low tide
The south end of Saint John is a peninsula. It separates the deep-water harbour — the mouth of the mighty St. John River where container ships and cruise ships dock — from Courtney Bay, where Marsh Creek flows out to sea. At the point of the peninsula, tucked between the barracks and the former site of the Lantic Sugar Refinery, is a small rocky beach. The remains of wooden piers still stand where fishing boats once docked. At low tide, you can walk past the jagged rocks and low forests of seaweed, and find a smooth sandy beach. And then you realize, standing on that beach, with the sea water lapping at your feet, that your head is under the high water mark. Breathe deeply. You are standing on the ocean floor.
Taken on May 31, 2009 & July 11, 2009
living in a shadow
Imagine a city without trees, where concrete and tar turn apartment blocks into ovens. Imagine a city without sky, where you can’t tell the weather without watching TV. Imagine a city where parking lots are the only parks, where pigeons are the only birds, where everyone spends their whole lives indoors. Now stop. Look out your closest window: do you see a tree? Do you see sky or something green and alive? Good. Now turn off your computer, go outside and play.
Taken on June 21, 2009
St. James Street
When I lived in Ontario, I missed the fog. There was smog, yes, but it’s not the same. The fog has life to it. It moves and hunkers down, opens up and closes in. It creeps up from the cold Bay of Fundy, cooling the air, muffling the sound of traffic, softening the shadows. It can move surprisingly quickly, slipping into town the moment you’ve turned your back. I always knew, growing up here, that a day at the beach is not complete without a sweater, because you never knew when the fog would come in.
Taken on May 31, 2009
tight fit
I remember it was raining. I was walking with my camera, with the lens cap off and my finger on the shutter release, taking random photos along the street. Then I stopped and looked up. I had been wanting to capture an image of this building, but I was puzzled how to show its size. Then I realized that it doesn’t matter, that the building has a petite charm all its own, a perfectly balanced sense of itself. So in the end, I didn’t have to do anything except take the photo, and smile at my yellow rain jacket dimly reflected in the window.
Taken on May 7, 2009
foggy park
I heard the fog horn sounding last night, and woke to fog blanketing the city. I like the way fog muffles the sound of the construction crew down the street, and softens the edge of buildings. In the summer, when it is hot and sunny upriver, it is often cool and foggy in town. I don’t mind.
Taken on May 31, 2009.
