Lost Lagoon Swans

The following piece was first published in 2001, but watching Mute Swans in Toronto’s High Park today reminded me of a time when I had a lot invested in these beautiful creatures. I became part of a group of “swan-watchers” who daily checked on the progress of the nesting, hatching and growth of the cygnets. For hours I would sit on the grass by a pair as they tended to what turned out to be unviable eggs. Still we sat until they were long past due, and I pinned all my hopes on those eggs hatching as a sign that my life in Vancouver would be successful. Here’s a story I wrote for the local paper about the dramatic events that unfolded in Lost Lagoon that spring.

IMG_2175[1] — At High Park, a stand off between a male Mute Swan and a Canada Goose.

I was reminded because today I spoke to a gentleman who told me that the nest of the pair of swans in Parkside pond had been upset and probably ruined by a few kids who have been regularly fishing on a log shooting out in the middle of the pond, where the pair had made their nest. It’s true that swans mourn their losses, just like humans, so I wasn’t surprised to see their forlorn behaviour today. The male kept a Canada Goose at bay, chasing it across the pond and away from the barren nest, still protecting what had been lost. The female wondered around aimlessly, only reviving herself when her partner came near. I can only hope she has more eggs to lay, though I can’t see a safe place for a nest, among the plastic bottles, discarded pizza bags, and other debris.

These are delicate creatures and we’ve done them a disservice by holding them captive for aesthetic purposes – to beautify our parks – and thereby making them vulnerable to harm while stopping them from living out their natural lives.

LOST LAGOON SWANS, 2001

On June 13^th, after 37 days of incubation, four cygnets were born to a pair of Mute Swans nesting in Lost Lagoon. The hatching began at 9 am when the first ball of wet, grey down tumbled out of one of the eggs. At 2:30 pm a second cygnet burst out of its shell, this one ivory coloured, with unusually pink feet and a lighter grey beak that its sibling. Evidently exhausted from their efforts to break free of their embryonic shelters, the babies napped frequently while their parents waiting patiently for five more hours until the final two beaks started poking out of their eggs. The tiny grey “twins,” as they were dubbed, toppled out within a couple of minutes of each other at around 7:30 pm. Delight and relief were immeasurable among a group of Stanley Park “regulars” who had been keeping vigil at three swan nests since mid-April, as if their very presence would send positive energy for a healthy, new generation of Lost Lagoon swans. A week later, only one cygnet remained alive, the three others were killed, eaten or drowned. In the past few years, the hatching, and rearing of swans has been precarious at best, and rumours abound among this dynamic group of wildlife watchers as to why.

The Vancouver Parks board characterized this year’s cygnet hatching as a “miracle,” for more than one reason. At approximately 16.5 hectares in area, Lost Lagoon is thought to be much too small for more than one pair of nesting swans, since swans typically require an area at least the size of the whole of Stanley Park (1,000 acres) to accommodate the protectiveness they exhibit while they incubate, hatch and bring up their young. Two other female swans laid seven eggs each but all were lost, allegedly either from spoiling, predators like racoons and otters, or to humans. The four cygnets that did hatch were laid by a young mother who, at two years of age, had supposedly not yet reached reproductive maturity, since Mute Swans usually do not lay their first eggs until at least three years of age. Her partner is estimated to be in his twenties, and to never have successfully parented any young. Although swans habitually mate for life, this male’s partner died last year and it was his first mating season with a new, much younger female. Mike Mackintosh, of the Vancouver Parks Board, who has been involved with the swans in Stanley Park since the 1960s, is not concerned with their low birth rate. “The nine we have now is a much more realistic and manageable number.” In the past they were much larger in number in the park, and were kept company by a few Australian Black Swans that were subsequently stolen, and some native North American Trumpeters and Tundra Swans, that eventually moved on.

The Mute Swan is perhaps the most replicated of all the swans species in art, poetry and literature, and commercially in company logos, insignias, and advertising. This is the one species most known to people, due to the fact that it was introduced to North America from England over a hundred years ago, and lives in parks, lagoons and waterways across this continent, close to urban areas. Most Mute Swans are considered relatives to the “royal” English Swans, raised along the Thames River and therefore originally the property of the British royal family, except for a sub species known as Polish Mutes, who have pink feet, compared to the black of the English Mutes and, when mated with them produce a white or light coloured cygnet rather than the usual grey. They are admired for their natural, ornamental beauty (especially when they cup their wings above their backs) and, in their semi-domesticated homes in urban settings, they have learned to have little or no fear of humans, and are therefore susceptible to their attention.

Cygnets on board — adult swan protects young from predators

The Mute Swans in Stanley Park are the descendants of the original number that were introduced from England in the park’s early history. Although the record keeping on the Stanley Park swans has been poor at best, Mike Mackintosh remembers that fifty years ago as many as seventy-five lived in the natural habitat of Beaver Lake and Lost Lagoon, which both provided plenty of what the Swans thrive on—a vegetarian diet consisting of pond weed, various grasses, and some invertebrates like insects, molluscs and tadpoles. Over the years, through natural attrition due to old age and death by predators, their numbers gradually dwindled. At certain points new swans were introduced in an effort to avoid inbreeding. The Mute Swans are distinguished from the native North American Trumpeter and Tundra Swans by their black knobs that protrude above their bright orange beaks (the knob is more pronounced in the male Mute, than the female). They are known for their territorial nature, especially during nesting periods, and in order to keep them from mixing with or moving the other species out of their migratory spots, the Mute Swans are required by law in Canada to be pinioned. This procedure, which is recommended to be done in the first 2-5 days in a cygnet’s life, but which is carried out three or four months into their life at Stanley Park, permanently prevents the swans from flight. The great debate about whether pinioning is humane or not remains unsettled, but by most accounts it is a relatively painless cut made in the wing of a young bird before it grows its flight feathers, so the swan is none the wiser about its ability to fly. The result is a bird that is perceived to be more domesticated, but which is still governed by the survival-of-the-fittest laws of nature, and any close observer of our Mutes can easily see that these two factors are in constant conflict these days in Lost Lagoon.

It is only since 1998 that the swans have begun reproducing again after a five-year dry spell, with only three cygnets surviving and growing to adulthood. Swans typically lay between three and seven eggs per season, so if they are in good reproductive health, they can hatch up to seven cygnets. In a protected and thriving environment, all seven would live to adulthood, mate and reproduce. In Lost Lagoon in 1998 three cygnets hatched, two of them died of a parasitic infection caused by algae in the lagoon, and one was killed by an off-leash dog. Out of the three hatched in 1999, two survived (one of them being the young mother of the four cygnets this year). And in 2000 one went missing and one lived. Many park regulars silently, and some openly, accuse the Parks Board of having an unspoken policy to control the number of swans in the Lagoon. As the Parks Board mandate is more about providing a natural, recreational playground for residents and tourists than it is about protecting the wildlife, many feel that it simply doesn’t care. Particularly unprotected are the swans, which are stuck here, in an inadequately small space, fighting for territory, their young vulnerable to too many close by predators, and a few known human repeat offender feeders. With the exception of Ziggy Jones, a park “wildlife technician” who, because they are not migratory, feeds the swans a supplemental amount of wheat grass, duck pellets, park staff cannot be everywhere at once keeping track of the wildlife in the park. An Eco-Rangers program is in effect in the summer months only, where twice a day volunteers go out into the park to remind visitors about the “no-feeding” by-law and to try to educate them on why feeding wildlife is harmful. Many of the prohibitive no-feeding signs are hidden by foliage, particularly in the lush spring and summer months. Mike Mackintosh admits that the Vancouver Parks Board needs to get more serious about enforcing the by-law, especially in light of recent coyote attacks. His lists of the problems feeding and overfeeding causes include overpopulation of wildlife, disturbance of natural balances, higher risk of wildlife disease, an increase of rodents and other pest species, habitat damage, and physical injuries to people,

This year, with only four swan eggs making it to hatching time, regulars commiserated that the Vancouver Parks Board was simply not being diligent enough to ensure a successful breeding season. A years-old rumour resurfaced about the Parks Board addling and spoiling the eggs, and then pointing media attention to wild predators or humans to cover up their below the radar agenda on control. Mike Mackintosh’s reply to that is, “Why would we want to shake the swan eggs, as if there is some kind of evil intent.” In fact the Parks Board does have a policy about rounding up Canada Geese, and limiting their large numbers. “In the case of the swans,” he says, ‘I just sort of shake my head and say, Get a Life!”

Among the group of regulars, there are distinctions as to which members have the best interests of the swans in mind, and those who have perhaps too much of an emotional investment in them and have forgotten that they are wildlife, and not mere pets, or worse, human. The former are lovers of waterfowl and wildlife alike and respectfully observe, take photos, and chat with other nature-lovers, as well as keep the Parks Board and Stanley Park Nature House (the two on-sight organizations) informed of any harm or mischief being perpetrated on park wildlife. The latter are the repeat feeders, who believe that there is not enough natural food in the Lagoon for the swans and have taken the care and feeding of them upon themselves, sometimes to a harmful conclusion.

The unofficial leader of the “swan-watchers” is a woman named Jean who, after many years of keeping an eye on park wildlife, has by far the best memory and documentation of the swans. She also knows who belongs on which side in terms of healthy and unhealthy interest in the swans, and pulls no punches when it comes to telling people not to feed them, get too close, or to please put their dog on a leash. Everyday throughout the spring during the long transit strike, she travelled from New Westminster, walking into the park from the closest Skytrain station and could be found somewhere along the Lost Lagoon path, between the three swan nests. She kept copious notes on when each swan laid which egg and likely knew more accurately than the Stanley Park Nature House staff and the Parks Board itself about when the hatching would begin. She explained to any and all that hatching was not guaranteed and that even if the cygnets hatched, they may not live to adulthood. She happily showed off her photos from last year and she spoke lovingly about how the proud parents fuss over their young, described the cygnet’s first swim, and the way they ride the lagoon on the protective backs of their mothers, their little beaks peaking out from her wings. Her enthusiasm, tinged with sadness for the lost cygnets over the years, easily ignited interest in others about the pending births. Over the course of the time of the nesting, the group grew in number. Some members were first-timers, some old-timers, and all gravitated toward Jean to learn the latest progress of the swans. By the end of May it looked like only one set of swans would produce the coveted cygnets, and “regulars” could be seen peering over the fenced-off nest closest to the causeway as the hopeful parents stubbornly tended to their eggs, although they were long past their hatching date. Soon, all focus and anticipation was directed to the four remaining eggs in the middle nest. And what had started out as a few people strolling along the Lost Lagoon’s 1 km pathway had turned into a group of people with a common interest meeting to chat about life and nature in the company of the swans.

CygnetsAfterSwim — Cygnets after their first swim

It is not surprising then that when the first two cygnets went missing, it was one of the “regulars” who first noticed, and another who found one of the bodies and brought it in to Ziggy Jones, the waterfowl caretaker. It was less than a week after their birth, and just as they were becoming experts at climbing on and off the nest to swim and learn to feed, trying to mimic their parents’ neck-dive to the bottom of the lagoon to forage for food. The speculation was that the inexperienced mother was lured to the opposite side of the lagoon by “the swan lady” who claims to have raised them for more than thirteen years by feeding them abundant amounts of food, sometimes bird seed, often times cat food. The swan, clearly used to being fed by this woman, took her young too often into the territory of the other swans that were still in their defensive nesting mode, despite losing their eggs. As well, they were much easier prey for herons, crows and other predators on the open lagoon. After several witnessed battles between the male swans, it was concluded that the grandfather of the cygnets (the male of the unsuccessful “causeway” pair) finally found one of them swimming too far from the protective wing of its mother. Ms. Jones sent the found body off for a necropsy and to date, two months later, the results are not known. After that the parents became more cautious, but the food on the other side of the lagoon still held a fascination for the mother and off she went, continually putting her two remaining cygnets in danger. A few days later one more cygnet vanished and Ms. Jones took the final one into protective custody at an undisclosed place in Stanley Park, where she is raising it in a wading pool for the next few months. She plans to first place it in a farm yard in the park, and by fall she will put it back into the lagoon. She is aware that by then even the cygnet’s parents may not recognize it and that no matter when she re-introduces it could prove dangerous, but she maintains that in the fall, with the nesting season long over, the Lagoon is a quieter, more tranquil place, where the swans co-exist more peacefully. She has based this decision on her six years of experience looking after the Stanley Park waterfowl, her own rearing of birds and plenty of pertinent reading. As a “wildlife technician” for Stanley Park, she has no related educational credentials, and expresses frustration with the Parks Board’s budgetary constraints on wildlife protection. When asked if she consulted waterfowl experts on her decision to take the cygnet away from its parents she replies, “I don’t even have a computer.”

As many people as there are who want the cygnet protected, there are likely as many who think it should have been left to nature’s order. This is the gist of Zoe Renaud’s response to whether or not a cygnet should be taken from its parents at such a young age. As a certified wildlife rehabilitator, at the Wildlife Rescue Association in Burnaby, she receives many calls about injured or abandoned birds and animals and empathizes with Ms. Jones on her decision to remove the cygnet. “When you pinion the swans you basically turn them into a domesticated animal. In the wild a cygnet would never be taken from the protection of its parents. In Stanley Park the worst that can happen is that it will be forced away from the flock of swans and rely on the companionship of humans.” Ms. Renaud also understands that this falls into the other risk categories of over domestication of wildlife. “There is no right or wrong answer here,” she says, “They are already living unnaturally.”

Melanie Beeson, founder of the Swan Sanctuary in Surrey, England advises that our cygnet is quite special as it is in fact a Polish Mute which, she says, tend to be more delicate. “I would say a Polish cygnet tends to need his parents that little bit more. This could be why you’ve lost cygnets in previous years.” She recommends reintroducing the cygnet sooner than later to diminish the risk of rejection.

For the first time in many years, the swans basked in the limelight of media attention. The Vancouver Sun carried a daily account of the life of the cygnets, and both VTV and Global Television featured segments on them. Many regulars were reluctant to speak on camera or be quoted in print and were so protective of the swans and their story that one reporter, sensing a conspiratorial air, commented, “This is about the swans isn’t it?” What was really happening was wariness about the way ordinary people had been implicated in the media as part of the problem, and frustration with the misrepresentation of the swans as vicious, or neglectful parents. The oft quoted Ziggy Jones claims that she was misquoted in the stories. After allowing the Vancouver Sun a photo of the cygnet in its new home, she is refusing any other media access for the time being. That photo, and another one just published clearly shows the cygnet to be “ivory” the second born with white down and pink feet, who possesses the less common genes of the Polish Mute, and therefore is a rarity. “No,” says Ziggy, “it’s the second lightest one.” Several photographs taken by the regulars prove, however, that there was never a second lightest coloured cygnet in the clutch. The others were the typical grey colour, with dark beaks and black feet. All are mystified by this confusion and await the day they can actually see the young swan, whose gender also won’t be known until it is taken to the vet for pinioning in another month or so.

The last light of the sun

August 11, 2022August 11, 2022 Carla MariaLeave a comment

Kitsliano, July 30, 2022

In May, I went to a long-awaited John Mayer concert. As many people know, there’s almost nothing I like better than his music and seeing him perform it. (I get a lot of flack for it, but let’s ignore that for now) And I enjoyed it, the company of my fun concert companion, and the show. But something was missing. At first I couldn’t put my finger on it. I thought maybe I was disappointed with the set list and fewer new songs than I expected. Then I thought it was trepidation about being in a crowd after so much time stuck at home on my own. But after a week or so of feeling perplexed by my own reaction after not seeing him — or any music — live for two years, it slowly dawned on me that I had lost my usual breadth of emotion. I had become numb from the years of trying to balance unrelenting bad news with my deep fear of medical emergencies — while being steeped in too much reality in my journalism work realm. A person like me, anxious about anything health-related, should probably not be assigned to interview multiple epidemiologists during a global health crisis! I worried for my family members, friends, my city and country, the world … and myself.

The sunset crowd begins to grow at Kits Beach, July 8

Prior to the pandemic, I had somewhat successfully taken the hold button off my life, and for the first time in years began really leaning into a balanced life. I branched out a little more, worked normal hours, made new friends. Took better care of myself. In Toronto, it’s just so easy for me to fall into stasis. But I was having some success climbing out of that until the pandemic threw me back into my workaholic tendencies – this time as a way to counter the chaos around me. At least I can control my day-to-day, was likely my rationale.

A reporter once asked musician/poet Leonard Cohen what he thought his legacy would be. The situation I describe above is not at all about legacy, but his answer rings true with what I think I —- and perhaps a good many of us — have experienced during the pandemic. He said, it’s hard to get a sense of things when you’re always on the front lines dodging bullets. Dodging bullets is what 2020 to at least half of 2022 has felt like.

This inertia, plus some serious work burnout, is how I arrived in Vancouver on July 4th. A trip I usually take twice a year, I hadn’t been here since December 2019, just before that first terrifying world-wide lock down. And I’d missed it, the place I come to ground myself and to refill the well. Where I remind myself of what’s important to me and determine whether I need to change course on any goals or situations in my life. As I slowly began to get my bearings and reacquaint myself with what I’ve come to consider my true home, it occurred to me that this was the exact state of mind I was in when I moved here in 2000.

Radiance of the Seas sets sail for Alaska. July 29.

It was just before my 40th birthday. I’d just left a high-profile entertainment PR job to move west where I knew almost no-one, to start fresh in the life I had manifest for myself during five years of intense therapy. After 10 years in a career I was good at but that I’d ultimately learned didn’t suit me, my intention was to see where my creative brain would lead me, maybe pick up some freelance work, and learn how to live the “writing life.”

I had lost my mother unexpectedly three years prior and the biggest revelation to me those first few months was that I hadn’t even begun to process this profound loss.

I had two occupations then: lying on the beach at English Bay listening to music and the soothing power of ocean waves. And keeping a close watch with a lively group of Stanley Park wildlife enthusiasts on the Lost Lagoon mute swans nesting and hatching their young.

Being in Vancouver reignited my writing practice.

Who was this new person who cared about swan eggs so much that she’d sit beside the nest uttering encouraging words to the parents as they took turns warming the eggs. I barely recognized myself as I recited silent prayers daily for these precious birds whose eggs I’d been told, hadn’t been viable last season. Worse, as part of the decorative swan program in parks across the Commonwealth, they were pinioned and unable to fly away from urban pests such as raccoons, and wildlife such as eagles and blue herons. We worried the species might die out, especially since part of the reason for difficult fertility was that the mutes were aging and there were not enough mating-age swans. One older male had become pretty much the only partner for a few female swans. This also became the cause for more territorial behaviour than usual on the lagoon. That spring, I made a deal with the one pair whose eggs stood a chance: if your cygnets survive, my life in Vancouver will thrive, too.

This was just the beginning of new experiences and the biggest transformation in my life. Though it’s now more than 20 years later, so much of what forms my foundation now began then.

So what does this have to do with this past month? Well it all felt so similar. With a two-year gap in my time in the place that revives me, I had lost myself a little more than I’d realized. I arrived late on a Monday night, fumbled in the semi-darkness for the lockbox and keys to my West 3rd Ave apartment, a few blocks up from Kits Beach. I went straight to bed, exhausted by the flight, and the time difference, anxious to get this travel day over with.

The next day I woke to almost the exact view I’d had in my first-ever Vancouver apartment: the North Shore mountains and English Bay, and to the right a speckling of high rises just to remind one that a city exists against this idyllic surround. It took me no time to get into the swing of west coast life to the point that after a month of being here, I’m not sure how it’s possible to get on a plane and go back to a place where I often feel like an imposter living a parallel life to the one I should be enjoying.

This visit and all I learned during it is extremely personal and I’ll reserve most of it for myself. During my time here, I kept both a physical and video journal, I documented every cup of coffee, cocktail, scenic walk, conversation with friends, the mountains from all different perspectives, and so many sunset photos I had to ask myself if it was too much. Ultimately I decided that every sunset I captured was enough to warrant all that iPhone storage! I didn’t want to forget a thing because the pandemic has (re)taught me that nothing can ever be taken for granted and though I plan to come back next year … you just never know, do you?

The writer Isabel Huggan says: There are places on the planet we belong that are not necessarily where we were born. If we are lucky — if the gods are in a good mood — we find them, for whatever length of time is necessary for us to know that, yes, we belong to the earth and it to us.”

I came to Vancouver somewhat broken. I return with a renewed sense of direction and confidence. There’s no question where I belong. Only what to do about it.

family life · general

Drink wine, dance, heal, and pray

September 26, 2018 Carla MariaLeave a comment

Readers may notice that my name is very Italian. Despite both my sets of grandparents being Italian, it’s taken until the middle of my life for me to visit my ancestral land. I thought I knew something about being Italian, since my family followed the traditions, cooked the food and pastries, and took pride in the heritage. I knew nothing about being Italian until I visited the region, and especially the specific town in Abruzzo where my paternal grandmother was born and grew up.

Since I’ve been back, I’ve barely had time to think about this profound experience. In the next few weeks, I hope be able to make some space to reflect on all I learned and what it meant to me. For now, these photos provide a slice of my time there.

bereavement · family life · Televison

Private Pain / Public Scrutiny

August 30, 2017August 30, 2017 Carla MariaLeave a comment

Tomorrow is the 20th anniversary of the death of Diana, Princess of Wales and this November marks the same number of years since my mother’s death. I wrote this piece in 1998, pondering the connection between the two and my own journey a year into grieving. Looking at it after all this time, I ache for the person who wrote it. I’m well past active grief now, but I can hear the pain I felt coming through my writing voice. And yet, much of it is still the way I feel today.

What a difference a year makes. Last September I, like so many others, sat glued to my television set watching blow-by-blow coverage of Princess Diana’s death. I watched Diana’s funeral, not once, but many times. I listened to Charles Spencer’s eulogy over and over, and cried every time, as if repetition could somehow make it all true. Why did I do this? What was I waiting to see, to hear? What emotion locked deep inside was this spectacle tapping into? Flipping back and forth between channels for coverage and critical comment, I told myself that my interest was media deconstruction and trying to attach some meaning to the phenomenon of millions upon millions of mourners displaying emotions that they’d perhaps bottled up for months, even years. Feelings maybe not even their loved ones knew they possessed.

When I spoke to my mother about it all her attitude struck me as somewhat cynical and I was bothered by that. She was critical of Diana’s public persona, her courting and shunning of the media. And although she also watched, she seemed unaffected and unimpressed. But then my mom was no stranger to grief. As a young child she had lost her mother, then later, her oldest daughter before her youngest were grown, and two siblings far too early. All too often she’d been attending funeral after funeral as family members and friends succumbed to age or illness. Of course, she knew then what I know now – something that my multiple viewings of Diana’s funeral was in some strange way foreshadowing. Once you’ve lived through the real thing, you have little or no appetite for voyeuristic viewing of death via “breaking news” broadcast venues.

It never occurred to me last September as I watched and participated in the Diana display, that two short months later I’d be sitting panic-stricken at my own mother’s funeral mass. Nothing in my life could have prepared me for standing in a room full of caskets choosing one for my mother’s dead body. Or greeting every single family member and friend at her visitation – their presence creating a domino effect of memory of her life and my own. Nothing could ever be further from my mind than the few torturous minutes it took me, on rubbery legs, to walk up the church aisle behind her coffin. The fact that my private feelings would be publicly seen felt overwhelming and I remember trying to hide my face even from the familiar and also grieving gathering of people who knew and loved my mother.

Watching anniversary commentary and coverage of Diana now is excruciating to me. Suddenly my tolerance for anything funereal is drastically diminished. Reality, after all, is not at all entertaining. It’s painful in a way that only becomes obvious in the many months that follow – even almost a whole year later when I no longer expect to still remember the details so acutely. When what has forever changed my life is a faint memory to those around me. When nothing and no-one can relieve the emptiness of not hearing her voice for so many days in a row. After weeks and months of the processing and reprocessing that it takes to fully understand that the kind of comfort her voice provided is no longer available to me. The refuge of my mother’s love, custodian of my memories, champion of my successes, holder of my tears, my own personal spin-doctor, will sadly never be enough as a mere memory.

Remembering how much courage I had to muster for my brief walk behind my mother’s casket makes it impossible to think of what it took for Diana’s young sons to walk through the streets of London behind their dead mother. In order to purge a collective grief that probably had nothing whatever to do with the woman in that box, we forced two terribly impressionable boys to experience an extremely private moment right in front of far too many hungry eyes. Who can ever forget the picture of the word “Mummy” peeking out among the flowers atop Diana’s coffin? Not at all lost on me then, it has since taken on a much more poignant significance, and beauty.

For me, the death of my mother means the loss of my main relationship, my closest friend and my strongest connection to my personal history. But by this time, this is not outwardly noticeable. Inside me, however, everything has shifted so that even the tiniest occurrence takes much longer to process, leaving me with a block of confusion in my brain. I still need time and space to adjust to profound and unalterable loss. This fact is difficult to articulate in the real world of grief, where people need to see that you’re “coping” well. Sometimes I think we have more empathy for the loved ones of dead public figures because we can measure their loss without asking questions whose answers make us afraid for ourselves. It’s less messy with the protection of a television screen.

Ironically, I would have shared these observations with my mother first – a person whose point of view was both familiar and surprising, my daily breath of fresh air. Had I more experience with the extremely personal after-effects of losing her – or any such profound grief – I would have agreed with her about Diana. So, now when I reflect back on our differing opinions on the subject, I just know my mom is up there somewhere beyond the ether hearing me say: “Hey Mom – how come you’re always right?”

– August 1998 –

bereavement · memoir · Raw Writing · Uncategorized

Unfinished conversations

November 6, 2016August 27, 2023 Carla Maria1 Comment

The first time I attended the Giller Prize was on Tuesday, November 4, 1997, the night that Mordecai Richler won for Barney’s Version. It seemed all the writers I’d admired from the beginning of time were in the room. My job that night was to help wrangle some of them for interviews at Bravo’s live broadcast of the pre-gala cocktail party. Nearing the end of my first key-to-my career-year as communications director at Bravo, I looked forward to this grand event, knowing that it would be special and that after my official duties were over, I could drink up the atmosphere, mark the experience.

It had been a busy, event-filled week with the Toronto Arts Awards, the Gillers and, at week’s end, an important concert in the short history of the Bravo Rehearsal Hall, a live concert with Diana Krall.

Though I wasn’t the hugest Diana Krall fan, it was a chance to prove my PR mettle at an event meant to build on the success of the nascent arts channel. It was also an opportunity to put some of the naysaying about my promotion to Bravo (from MuchMusic) to rest. It also gave me the pleasure to offer my jazz-loving mother an invitation to an intimate concert of one of her favourite performers.

My mid-week phone call to her was to let her know I’d secured her a free parking spot for the Friday show and some other details. What was on her mind?

“Never mind that, how were the Gillers?” she said.

“The night of my life,” I replied. “I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.”

Friday came and went. My mom didn’t show up at Diana Krall; the next day we found her in her bed where she’d died of a heart attack. That was 19 years ago, November 7th.

The wind-up of one of the busiest and most exhilarating years of my career, my first Giller Prize, Diana Krall and my mother’s death are tethered in my memory. They are written on my body that, each November, relives the most horrifying days of my life so-far.

Had I the chance to tell her about the Giller Prize I would have said how thrilling it had been for me to be amongst so much literary talent, how I felt at home there, how I made a secret wish that one day I’d be nominated and thus begun a plan to get there. My mother was pretty much the only person I’ve ever let know how far up the ladder my personal ambitions go (and still go, though at almost 56, it’s assumed/expected I should be winding down my goals).

This is but one of many unfinished conversations with my mother. They’re not unfinished because I didn’t let her know how much I loved, respected and enjoyed (preferred) her company. I have plenty of letters and greeting cards that, if I ever forgot, remind me how often I poured my heart out to her. They’re unfinished because for 19 years they’ve been one-sided. I talk to her, she doesn’t respond. Sometimes I know what she’d say, though more often than not, her response to things was singular and wholly unexpected. That’s why talking to her was so much fun — intellectually challenging and stimulating. I have missed our Saturday morning commiserations over news – though it’d be much different now with so much information available and so few trusted sources of it (at least I think that’s how she’d see it).

My mother taught me a lot about how to interpret the world, and how to negotiate my place in it. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. I rely on those lessons, lacking any new ones other than my own experience. It’s not that I don’t trust myself – if I’ve learned anything from her and through age it’s to trust my instincts, to listen to my intuition, to work hard, enjoy the benefits of that work and to face challenges with confidence (not always achievable) and to strive for integrity (an almost forgotten quality). Above all, try to be kind, even if others aren’t being kind to me (which happens more than I want to think about in our increasingly discourteous age).

Some of my female friends remind me every so often that I’m lucky to have had such a good relationship with my mother, such a healthy exchange of ideas, such acceptance. And I know I am. This knowledge doesn’t stop me from feeling sad at her anniversary, or missing her every damn day of my life — maybe it’s precisely why I do.

It’s not as if things were perfect. We had our fair share of fights. But they were over quickly because neither one of us were comfortable being upset with the other. We’d argue, even yell… take a breather, then within the hour one of us would pick up the phone to talk it out. The thing we disagreed on most during her last year was my planned move to Vancouver. She understood why I wanted to go; intellectually she knew and agreed it was a good plan and part of the writing goals I had. Emotionally, she wasn’t having it. At one point she forbade me from talking about leaving. I told her I wouldn’t stop because confiding in her edged me closer to making it a reality.

Finally, she said, “I’ll miss you.”

That first week after her death, me and my siblings gathered to pack up her things. On her living room end table I found my Globe and Mail book review – the first piece of published writing from the month before. Supportive to the end. I miss that too. I miss it so much.

My mother knew how much I relied on my career, on my hard work and talents to get me through, that in the end, I truly believed (and maybe it became a self-fulfilling prophecy) it would be all I had. While others had their relationships, they’re children, they’re close ties, I would have my professional success. My mother understood that my ambitions didn’t necessarily exclude those things, but that I wasn’t going to sacrifice them or compromise them. She didn’t want me to, though she made no secret of hoping I would have both. I remember when I got my job at Bravo she said, “Maybe now you’ll meet a like-minded man!” Maybe she thought he’d be a writer, a musician, a creative soul-mate.

I do wonder what she would think of how solitary my life is now. Of how much trouble I have balancing the copious amounts of time I need alone with a smaller, but important desire for connection. It’s the challenge of my mid-life and I dearly wish I could talk it over with her. The last thing I want to be is alone in my senior years (or even now) but I have absolutely no idea how to not be.

Although my mom had plenty of good jobs, she didn’t have a career, per se. Her support of mine might have been tinged with regret for her unrealized goals.

I’m no longer lucky enough to get invited to the Giller. I dropped off the invitation list when I moved from my job at Bravo pursue writing and journalism in Vancouver. I will be anxious tomorrow (her anniversary) to hear who wins. It takes on an additional meaning for me as I prepare for an intensive fiction workshop at the Humber School for Writers in January. Maybe hoping for a Giller nomination is a lofty goal, and who knows if I even have the talent but this year I reminded myself that it doesn’t hurt to try and I might as well.

Of course, there’s one person who’ll never know but who’d understand why this is still something I think is worth achieving and why it’s important to try. Some people will say that she sees everything, that she knows my life. I don’t believe in that. I really don’t. In dreams of her I can never see her face or hear her voice. Sometimes all I see are her arms reaching out to fold me in where I cry and cry. That’s a dream I have when I especially need to talk to her, want to work out a life problem, or just want to laugh and chat with someone with a common worldview. Armchair psychologists will say it’s time to get over her death. Or that ridiculous word “closure” will be rear its head. There’s no closure.

There’s just this: My mother gave me life, she gifted me with life-long reciprocal love and care, she taught me everything I know that’s important about living, she was my first (maybe only true) mentor, she was my most trusted, trusting and thoughtful friend.

And there’s this: I miss you. Always and forever.

herkind.com · Raw Writing · Vancouver

Melancholy in Vancouver

April 5, 2016April 5, 2016 Carla MariaLeave a comment

Once again on a very short three day spring stop in Vancouver I’m reminded of my dual life — I live in Toronto, I thrive in Vancouver. It remains the one place where I reconnect with what’s important to me, where I get back to me. I usually go home resolved to stay grounded. Then… I lose myself. I’ve never understood why and I won’t begin to this time either.

white cherry blossoms kits — Blooming spring, Kitsilano, April 2016

This visit is a bit different. Last time I was here for a luxurious two weeks. I walked everywhere, I saw everyone important to me. I went home feeling connected to people who have/make time to spend time. What a relief. In Toronto, I hibernate. I’m static. I hide out. I give out my time sparingly… I’m protective because my experience there is people are too busy… spending time isn’t a priority. I try not to take it personally. But, I do.

In Vancouver, I expand.

This time, riddled with a very sore back which makes walking very far a lot more difficult, I stayed close to home in Kits (thank goodness for great Airbnb apartments in familiar neighbourhoods). I had just spent four days in Portland on a work trip and the 50-minute flight to Vancouver flying over the Cascade mountains was gorgeous and left me happy to be on Canadian land.

Home. Second home, first home. They are interchangeable to me. My family and lifelong friends in one place, my heart and soul in the other.

cherry tree lined kits — Blossom-lined street in Kits, April 2016

If this life is about working out unresolved issues from a previous one, I’m sorely behind because I just can’t fully accept having to live somewhere that doesn’t suit me and constantly pine for the one I know does. I may never stop regretting giving up on Vancouver after only six short years. The best thing I can do is try to visit as often as possible the place where 16 years ago I finally came, after years of hoping and planning to live. One that changed me in every way:

I learned balance after a lifetime of extremes
I learned a completely different and much more suitable lifestyle
I finally began to reconcile the shock of losing my mother
Which somehow led me to an unexpected, life-altering reconciliation with my father
I took great strides in moving forward – something I advocate yet sometimes find hard to do
Tested my independence, learned to be alone, discovered I prefer and need great amounts of time on my own
Learned to accept my true character, learned how to stay true to it, and the kind of work that jived with it.
In a nutshell… living here meant EVERYTHING and everything important – every way that I am now began in Vancouver.

Alas, I leave for Toronto tomorrow – to cold and snow. Where I must wait at least another month for the kind of blooming abundance that is here now. It’s no small thing. It’s part of what suits me vs. what I endure.

It’s why I’ll be crying as he plane takes off over the Pacific Ocean tomorrow afternoon.

Books and Authors · herkind.com · Uncategorized

Freedom to read

February 17, 2016February 17, 2016 Carla Maria1 Comment

I’m on a reading kick. Does that sound ridiculous coming from a voracious reader? The truth is, I don’t always have time, make time, or sometimes I’m only in the mood for a particular kind of book that hasn’t found me yet. Thankfully, that is not the case now.

Sharing good books is not only something I feel compelled to do, it’s something I’ve been doing to make up a fair part of my living for the last 20 years. So in that spirit, here are some must-reads from me to you. They’re not all literary. Some are purely for entertainment value. I’m not going into major detail here, just a taste.

This is Happy, Camilla Gibb – Though I worried the topic would upset me, I knew the writing would get me through. When her partner left her early in her pregnancy, Gibb cobbled together a crew of people who would become confidants, friends and family to her and her newborn. It’s excruciating at times because you don’t often read depictions of raw despair, but is joyful in the end. And the writing is exquisite, as always. You’re right there with her, even when she’s not afraid to show herself at her non-best. The best memoirs don’t white-wash the truth in every single character and situation.

Sixty, Ian Brown – Wit, insight and emotional truth are the three elements present in all Ian Brown’s writing. Here he takes all the cliches about getting old and either debunks them or explains why they’re true. A big revelation is that the brain begins to decline after 28. Brown captures his day-to-day obsession with aging, while pining for his younger self but never takes himself too seriously, except when he knows that a certain truth can be universally applied. The bits of the book that are the most revealing are those that involve his children and his feelings about his father’s life and death.

I’ve previously written about the book for TVO.org and produced a segment with Ian Brown for The Agenda with Steve Paikin: This is what 60 feels like / Ian Brown: Diary of a Sixty-Year-Old

The Tender Bar, J.R. Moehringer – A boy grows up knowing nothing much about his dad but he becomes fascinated with Dickens, a local bar in his hometown of Manhassat, New York. The story is of his life in and out of the bar, how the fellas there acted as mentors, sounding boards, friends and sometimes, bad influences. Moehringer is a seasoned journalist and writer and it shows – every word is beautifully, skillfully measured for maximum storytelling, entertainment and emotional lurch. This is by far the best book I’ve read in a very long time. ‘Course I do have a soft spot for men in search of fathers.

Stories I Only Tell My Friends, Rob Lowe – Don’t judge. I’ve been fascinated with him since we were in our 20s. Turns out he can write – not ghost written. The big reveal for anyone interested in his work in The West Wing is that he grew up with the Sheens and Martin Sheen was father-like to him. That knowledge gives his scenes with Sheen a richness that makes sense when you re-watch. I’m thinking especially of when President Bartlett tells him one day he could run for office and to not be afraid to do so. As the NYTs review I’ve linked to above says, Lowe must know that his ridiculous good looks and fame mean he couldn’t take the easy way out if he wanted to be taken seriously as a writer and storyteller. And he doesn’t. It’s full of insights, humour and just plain juicy info about Hollywood of the ’80s and ’90s. He’s candid about his missteps, his alcoholism and his issues on The West Wing. His later life continues in Love Life.

Not My Father’s Son, Alan Cumming – See what I mean about fatherless sons? This follows the actor’s journey to have his roots chronicled for the TV show, Who Do You Think You Are — only it’s what’s going on behind the scenes as his brother and he confront his father with questions about why he abused them. A fascinating look at Cumming’s early life and its threads to his work in front of the camera.

This is his episode of WDYTYA.

All My Puny Sorrows, Miriam Toews – One of those books you must read slowly in order to handle the emotion. It’s relentlessly sad, so thankfully Toews is adept at lightening up just when you need it. One sister is dying, the other is falling apart – their connection is unforgettable, especially as they grapple with how and when to die. A timely read as Canada figures out how to legislate assisted death.

Baking · Friendship · herkind.com · music · NYC · Televison

New York – no place like it.

May 18, 2015May 21, 2015 Carla Maria1 Comment

You can’t do everything you want to in New York in three days. I tried. Twice. I came back overwhelmed and exhausted. So, I’m still trying to figure out how to experience that crazy, beautiful, noisy, smelly, exciting city without knocking myself out.

The first time I went in 2011, I was part of a bus tour of women escaping families for a shopping/Broadway/sightseeing trip. I didn’t fit in, nor did I have money to spend on most of those activities. I broke free one day and experienced some moments that stayed with me and kept me hankering to go back. I was blown away by the architecture, the skyscrapers, the sheer number of people on the street at all times and fascinated that, in a city so engulfed by noise, it was still possible to experience quiet.

That solitary day, I started out at the 9/11 museum, where the only sound was muffled crying, me and every single other person. At St. Patrick’s Cathedral I stumbled into a all-black high school graduation ceremony and cried again at the sentiment the young valedictorian expressed while thanking the women in his life for keeping him in school. I lit a candle for my mother because I’d been walking around New York for two days thinking of how much she adored the city when she visited as a still single woman before my dad and five children complicated her life.

I then moved on to the Algonquin Hotel, a must-experience for a writer since it’s the birth-place of the New Yorker and the second home to most of its writers. (also figures prominently in Mad Men) I sat enjoying a beer (cheapest thing on the drinks menu) when the couple beside me, in town from Philadelphia celebrating their anniversary, invited me to join them and generously bought me a couple of drinks. It was magical and, I thought, could only happen in New York – or at least, it was the kind of thing you can experience when travelling alone and feeling free of the everyday stress of home and the shackles of at-home identity.

This trip was a bit different and for some reason I felt myself even more overwhelmed by the city. Perhaps, having been there once, I felt I was more prepared for its offer. Wrong. I doubt it’s a city you can judge in one or two experiences… or a million.

Here, a list of my impressions this time around:

I haven’t flown in 3 years and it’s not my fave thing to do. I’m edgy about it, but my excitement to be in NYC trumps the nerves. Plus, my pal is distracting me with chatter, at my request. I barely remember taking off or landing. It’s a short flight – less than an hour in the air. I’m curious about the islands we’re passing over just before landing. Must look them up.
We’re in NYC! Though my trip this time is more street level than bus level and less tourist, more traveller, every once in awhile you just have to say, “I’m in New York!”
The city is so mythical to me in so many ways – all those films, TV shows and books set in New York that live in the imagination – walking around feels out of this world, at first.
Chelsea is a cute area, the best part of which is Cafe Grumpy on 20th, in between 7th and 8th. A good independent shop, great coffee and just about the best almond croissant I’ve ever had, and I’ve had a lot of them! Our hotel, not so much. Note to self for next time: stay out of the noise, you’ll need it as a nightly refuge.
Chelsea art galleries are delightful. We happened upon an art
Hippies, 2013

class while looking at the fascinating Lisa Yuskavage exhibit in the David Zwirner gallery. What luck! The instructor was a wealth of knowledge putting the pieces we were looking at in feminist and artistic context and good thing because I’m not hugely art articulate.

The Mad Men exhibit at the Museum of Moving Image is
1960s secretary’s desk

fabulous – I appreciated the program before, but so much more after seeing the painstaking, intricate detail Matthew Weiner & Co. took to make sure it was as authentic to the time as possible. If you’re a fan of the show, go see it! (it’s on until June 14) I never saw this series as a period piece since all the props, costumes, etc were part of my childhood experience. Walking into Don and Betty’s Ossining, NY kitchen was like stepping into my mother’s kitchen. (No photos allowed, heavily guarded, but I snuck a pic of the secretary’s desk.)
Is there anything more NYC than the Frank Sinatra School of the Arts, founded by Tony Bennett? It’s across from the Museum of Moving Image in Queens. A prof chatted to us about how students don’t know how to spell or write, but they can sing and play, I guess. Just when I was thinking this, a young man belted out a song on the sidewalk.
Getting around on the subway is a challenge for a person from a city with two defined routes and a poor sense of direction. I figure it would take me at least 3-5 years of living in New York before I understood how to get around by transit. Thankfully, New Yorkers are friendly and obliging to two lost souls.
The Rockwood Music Hall is a wonderful venue to see music. Small, comfortable and with great sound. A fellow called Andrew Ripp is a talented up and comer, originally from outside Chicago but lives in Nashville.
Greenpoint, Brooklyn – the Polish district – feels a lot like home in Roncesvalles. A young stylist named Stephanie gave me a great haircut and told me about Ovenly – a cute bakery
Ovenly: Sweet and Salty Recipes from New York’s Most Creative Bakery

where I bought their recipe book because, unlike so many I have in my collection, this one has some unique baking tips, plus rare but welcome process photos. This only has to do with New York in the sense that the bakery is situated there and the baked goods were delicious – quality ingredients, expertly executed. And the joint was hoppin’.
Who knew you could take a NY Ferry from Brooklyn to Manhattan. We did and it was great! (brought Vancouver to mind, a cross between Seabus and Granville Island Ferry). Why can’t Toronto transport some of its commuters by ferry? For that matter, why do we only have two (and a half) subway lines?
Central Park is always an oasis, even on a crowded Saturday.
me and Zach Rance, from BB16

Down time in New York from our whirlwind New York mini-vacation. The perk for one Big Brother fan like myself is that my fave contestant from last year, Zach Rance, was in town from Florida and hanging out at Strawberry Fields talking to fans. In Toronto, I would never show up at such an event. In New York, why not?
My travel companion took me for an authentic Lower East Side experience at Katz’s Deli (which employs security people to make sure you don’t slip out without paying!) – then on to a comedy/music show at Fontana’s (a huge bar with a tiny performance space in the basement). My tiredness got the better of me on Night Two so I went home to the 8th St. hotel and attempted to drown out the relentless noise. (During a restless night before, I noted that people don’t stop partying at 8th and 30th – and probably everywhere else – until at least 4:30 am. Then, the city quiets down for at least a couple of hours, on the weekend at least.)
The outdoor 9/11 memorial was not yet built on my last visit. My pal and I reminisce about the horrific event on the way there, but we know our impressions are nothing compared to what New Yorkers went through that day. The waterfall and pool, with names of those who lost their lives is a fitting and remarkable tribute. After my visit to the museum last time I knew I couldn’t do it again. Too unbearably sad.
The only reason to walk into Macy’s is to experience the wooden escalator, a relic from, if not the original store, one of the early incarnations. I put off going to New York for years because I mistakenly thought I had to have a boatload of money to even step one foot on a NYC sidewalk. I’m not much of a shopper anyway, but on both my trips I never felt the need to spend money in stores. There’s seriously too much else to do! Having said that, I did splurge on a pair of coral Birkenstocks – which saved my feet and legs on this trip.
Stopped into Grand Central to meet up with my friend and
Grand Central Terminal, Information Booth and Clock

didn’t realize until I got home that I can never spend enough time in that great hall of antiquity, a feat of architecture and design (and didn’t that day). If ever there was a time to shout out, “I’m in New York!” it’s surely when standing at the information desk in the middle of the atrium, the scene of so many, many films.
Bryant Park is delightful, from it’s food kiosks to its Reading Room, and ping pong tables. Another (needed) respite from busy NYC – truly, I could’ve sat there all day long. But.. place to go, things to see…
The Highline – what a great idea that is! Take an unused elevated train track and turn it into a green space with
The Highline, NYC

spectacular city views and an excuse for a simply lovely stroll. Chelsea Market, a spot I wish I’d discovered on day one. A relaxing dinner with two good friends in New York, then off to see Lucy Wainwright Roche, one of myriad number of musical Wainwrights and Roches. First, the Highline Ballroom is a special venue with, again, great sound. Then, talent galore and even more when Loudon Wainwright III got up to sing. Only in New York, where the family hails from and lives.
How’s this for a crazy NY moment: walking home from the Highline Ballroom, I ran into an old colleague/friend from Vancouver (who now lives in Toronto) whom I haven’t seen since before I left that city in 2006. Crazy.

Now that I’ve been to New York twice, I’ll probably keep visiting, if only in an attempt to get it right – which for me means balancing all it has to offer with my need to take all things slow and savoury in life and in travel. Still, I think I can sum up the experiences I’ve had there like this:

One belongs to New York instantly, one belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years… Tom Wolfe

Books and Authors · childlessness · Feminism · herkind.com · Modern Spinster · Women

Childlessness does not equal selfishness

May 18, 2015May 18, 2015 Carla MariaLeave a comment

Life-long singledom and childlessness – two still questioned, somewhat feared lifestyles are enjoying a rare media spotlight due to two U.S. publications: Selfish, Shallow and Self Absorbed: Sixteen Writers on the Decision Not to Have Kids, edited by Meghan Daum (Picador), and Spinster: Making a Life of One’s Own by Kate Bolick (Crown). When you consider Western population demographics, it’s not surprising that these books would crop up.