Visit to Fitzroy Park

On Thursday Roger and I went to Fitzroy Park, an Ottawa River provincial park not far from Ottawa and just outside the village of Fitzroy Harbour. We used to go there quite often but this was our first visit this year. Below are some pictures we took there. 

Also below is a poem "The Fair Park of Fitzroy", which I wrote some years ago in response to a challenge from a friend to write a poem  like W.B. Yeats's "The Lake Isle of Innisfree." So here is my  homage to, or parody of, Yeats's poem:

THE FAIR PARK OF FITZROY

by Ruth Latta

Let's get out the car, dear, and go to Fitzroy Park

and sit at a picnic table, beneath a maple tree.
We'll take a lunch from Subway; oh it will be a lark,

to dine with wasp and bumblebee.

And we shall have some peace there, some peace to sit and write

At least we will in springtime, before the campers come.

True, there is a season, when blackflies love to bite

and evenings of mosquito hum.

Let's gas up the Ford, Hon, in spite of all these things.
The air is clear and pure there, and free of gasoline.

Wind whispers in the tree tops and song birds sing - 

 I need the scent of evergreen.

A L.M. Montgomery pilgrimage

(c) Ruth Latta, 2014


























 







Many Canadian women, and Canadian writers, read Anne of Green Gables and other novels by Canadian author Lucy Maud Montgomery. Some years ago a girlhood dream came true for me when I visited Prince Edward Island and toured Green Gables, the tangible creation of the fictional home of Montgomery's best known character. Unfortunately, for many Montgomery fans, distance makes a trip to P.E.I. an infrequent pleasure.

Montgomery devotees in central Canada, however, can make a literary pilgrimage to Leaskdale, Ontario, a village north of Uxbridge, where "Maud" Montgomery moved as a bride in  1911 and lived for fifteen years. Her husband, the Rev. Ewan Macdonald, had been called to the ministry of St. Paul's Presbyterian Church there. In Leaskdale, Montgomery's sons were born, and there she wrote 11 of her 22 books.

This past August 10, 2014, when my husband and I were driving north of Toronto, we made an impulse detour in the direction of Uxbridge to find the Montgomery historic sites in Leaskdale. The verdant hills and woods were as beautiful as those described in Montgomery's novels. On reaching Leaskdale, we spotted the church on our left, where the signage indicated that there were tours, teas and theatrical performances based on Maud's Leaskdale years - but not on Monday. I quietly resolved to be content with having my picture taken on the church steps. Then, as we drove slowly down the hill I glimpsed on the opposite side a gracious old house with a blue and gold historic site plaque on the lawn.

As we were approaching to take a picture, a young woman planting some perennials along the fence got up and greeted us.
"Hello. Are you local people, or from far away?" she inquired.
"From Ottawa."
"Would you like a guided tour of the house," she asked. "It's closed on Mondays, but I have my key."
"Wonderful!" I exclaimed.

Clearly she was a "kindred spirit", to use one of Maud's terms. We followed her into the front hall where a portrait of "Maud", in her thirties, hung above the guest book. Our guide's keen interest in Montgomery was apparent as she toured us through the house. She showed us the study, where Maud wrote, and recounted what I knew from Montgomery's published journals, that her little boys used to push notes and flowers under the door to get her attention when they were supposed to be in the care of the hired girl, allowing their mother to do her writing uninterrupted. All the rooms have been carefully recreated as to period details and layout. A photo shows Maud seated in the kitchen, and there, in the same location, a chair is positioned so that a visitor can sit in her place.

Although most of the furnishings were not used by the  Montgomery/Macdonald family, they are "of the period" and show a dedication to detail.  Two china dogs in the parlour remind us of Maud's china dogs, Gog and Magog, which she wrote of in her journals and used in one of her novels. A white crocheted bedspread upstairs was lovingly created in recent times in the same pattern as one that Maud made.

In the upstairs sewing room, our guide turned to the window, indicated the landscape of rolling hills, and said, "That's Rainbow Valley." Rainbow Valley, one of Montgomery's novels, is set in P.E.I., but it is very likely that Maud used a beauty spot of Leaskdale, where she was living when she wrote this novel, as inspiration for her setting. In a letter she described the village as "a very pretty country place - would be almost as pretty as Cavendish if it had the sea."

Montgomery is a novelist of the "sunshine school"; her books encouraged loving kindness and favour happy endings. The charm of her Leaskdale home and of our guide made our impulse visit a very "Maud" experience. Someday we'll return, first checking the website of the Lucy Maud Montgomery Society of Ontario to see what events are scheduled. For further information, contact lmmontgomery.on@gmail.com or phone 905-862-0808

Arborealis; A Canadian Anthology of Poetry, was published this summer by the Ontario Poetry Society. Its International Standard Book Number is 978-1-897497-99-9 and it is available from
 The Ontario Poetry Society, 710-65 Spring Garden Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, M2N 6H9

I was thrilled to have two poems in this collection, and here they are:


VILLAIN/ELLE
by Ruth Latta

It went beyond a little lovers' spat.
He cursed his girlfriend in the crowded bar.
I couldn't just ignore abuse like that.

Some sleazeball who was drunk on his Labatt
We all could see that he had gone too far.
It went beyond a little lovers' spat.

"Girl, go on home before he knocks you flat."
It wasn't that I felt the need to spar.
I couldn't just ignore abuse like that.

"I wouldn't use these words on dog or cat."
Such vileness cannot help but leave a scar.
It went beyond a little lovers' spat.

"You can do better than this slimy rat.
Why don't you leave, just go out to the car."
I couldn't just ignore abuse like that.

"Swing at me and I'll squash you like a gnat.
You ought to be ashamed of what you are."
It went beyond a little lovers' spat.
I couldn't just ignore abuse like that.

***********************************

OCTOBER GIFT
by Ruth Latta

Out here in our garden, our tiny back yard,
I sit with my work left undone.
Alone with the flowers - for people are hard,
I let my feet warm in the sun.

Though late in October, quite near Hallowe'en,
the day is unusually fine.
Long winter confines us before the big screen
but Indian summer's divine.

One friend cancelled out, or it just slipped her mind.
Another, afraid it would rain.
A third sent an email, or really, a whine,
"Poor me," is her constant refrain.

A lady bird beetle, a fat bumblebee
fly past me on currents of air,
as leaves flutter down from the red maple tree
the wind seizes strands of my hair.

I take disappointment and give it a shove.
Balloon-like, it rises on high,
like the white milkweed parachutes floating  above
or the vaguest jet stream in the sky.

One Evening in Paris

The book review, below, is the latest that I have written and published in the online magazine of book reviews, Compulsive Reader (current issue.)


One Evening in Paris,
by Nicolas Barreau
(New York, St.Martin's Griffin, 2014, 978-1-250-04312-2)

translated from French by Bill McCann

reviewed by Ruth Latta

One Evening in Paris, French author Nicolas Barreau's second novel, is a sweet romantic novel in which the owner of a small art cinema is "catapulted into the greatest adventure of [his] life."

Alain Bonnard, 39, inherited the Cinema Paradis, an historic movie theatre, from his uncle. Raised on the films of Cocteau, Truffault, Malle, and others, he was glad to leave his boring but lucrative business career in plumbing fixtures for something more satisfying. His cinema is his work of art; he restored the building and he forbids popcorn or any of the other features found in modern cineplexes. He takes an interest in his clientele and invents dramatic backstories for them. Late Wednesday nights he shows romantic films as part of his "Les Amours de Paradis" film series, which draws a full house.

One Wednesday night regular is a pretty blonde woman who always sits in the 17th row. Alain finally summons up the nerve to find out her name (Melanie) and ask her out, and they establish an immediate rapport in a bistro after the movie. Melanie says it must be wonderful to own a "dream factory" like the Cinema Paradis, and that she always goes there when she's "looking for love". Her only family, she says, is an aunt in Brittany, whom she is going to visit for a week. Though single, she wears a distinctive gold ring with raised pink gold roses, which was her mother's. When Alain walks her home, they promise to meet at the cinema the following Wednesday.

"We won't lose each other," she says - but they do.

The following day, Alain finds a tender love letter she left for him at the cinema, and shares his happiness with his buddy, Robert, a womanizing astrophysicist. Robert is astonished that Alain failed to get Melanie's telephone number. Then a "weedy little man in a trenchcoat" with an American accent, turns up with the well-known movie star, Solene Avril, to talk to Alain after he closes up the cinema on Friday night.  The weedy man is Allan Wood, an American film director, looking for an historic art cinema in which to shoot a movie about a woman finding a long lost love in Paris.

Confident that he will meet Melanie the following Wednesday, Alain enjoys getting to know these famous visitors in famous Paris restaurants and bars, and learns something of their personal stories. Allan Wood has an estranged grown-up daughter in Paris. Solene reveals in a private conversation with Alain that she was born in humble circumstances in Paris and, when young, ran away to California with a young American. Once she got into the movies, she provided money for her parents to take the first holiday of their lives, which ended in a fatal car accident on their way to St. Tropez. Solene subtly flirts with Alain, but he finally tells her that "it's not the right moment," and mentions that a woman has recently come into his life.

The paparazzi descend, and soon there are media reports not only that Cinema Paradis has been chosen for the filming of Allan Wood's new movie, but also that Alain is Solene's latest lover. He receives congratulations and a boost in business, but, much to Alain's disappointment, Melanie does not show up at the cinema on Wednesday night as she promised.

One Evening in Paris takes twists and turns like a mystery novel as Alain, helped by Robert and his new film-industry friends, try to find his Melanie. Two other Melanies turn up, but not the right one.

Barreau's novel has some coincidences that strain credulity. Also, the occasional sentence is vague, perhaps due to translation, as in the statement that "a good film...worked with [people] in the difficult task of being." In general, though, One Evening in Paris is fun and full of life. The Paris landmarks and locations will attract anyone who has been there.The narrator/central character, Alain, is the sort of romantic, sensitive man that many women readers wish they could meet in real life, and the other main characters are fully rounded. "Allan Wood" - does his name sound familiar? - is a warm person with no apparent neuroses.

The discussion of film elevates the novel above and beyond category romance. Alain's Uncle Bernard liked films that "had an idea... moved people...[and] gave them a dream to take with them" - all elements necessary for a good story, whether on film or in print. Through Alain, Nicolas Barreau lists the "golden rules" of good film comedy: "a chase is better than a conversation"; "a bedroom is better than a living room", and "an arrival is better than a departure." Barreau uses these storytelling principles to good effect in One Evening in Paris.

Film buffs will like the list of the twenty-five movies about love that were part of Alain's  Wednesday night series at the Cinema Paradis. The list three of my favourites: Casablanca, Room with a View and Pride and Prejudice. Readers who liked Woody Allen's movie Midnight in Paris, will enjoy Barreau's novel, One Evening in Paris.

I'm enjoying your book immensely

A couple of weeks ago, Ottawa poet Sylvia Adams and I got together for lunch to discuss writing, and I gave her a copy of my new young adult novel, The Songcatcher and Me (Ottawa, Baico, baico@bellnet.ca)  Later, Sylvia emailed me and wrote, "I'm enjoying your book immensely, seeing the hand of a pro  here, with just the right amount of tension between characters and the constant motivation to keep turning the pages."

Praise from any reader is wonderful, and it is especially gratifying when it comes from a wordsmith and master of her craft like Sylvia.

review of Elizabeth Gilbert's The Signature of All Things

My review of  The Signature of All Things , by Elizabeth Gilbert, published a few days ago in Compulsive Reader, may be read at:
http://www.compulsivereader.com/2014/06/25/a-review-of-the-signature-of-all-things-by-elizabeth-gilbert/

Also, my review of Moon of the Goddess, a young adult novel by Cathy Hird, appeared in Canadian Materials (an online magazine) on Friday, June 20, 2014

The Strangeness of Strangers

Recently my husband and I had experiences which made us feel annoyed, yet well-mannered and well-organized.

The other day we were part of a group which goes out to lunch a couple of times a month, and, after lunch, listens to a guest speaker. We are new to the group, and the people in it whom we had met before were at the far end of a long table. Four men were present among  seventeen or eighteen women.  We were introducing ourselves to the people around us when a woman and her husband seated themselves and she proclaimed loudly, "I'm so glad to see all the men here!"

My jaw dropped. While I love my husband, I have never been one of these women who thinks that she is nothing without a man, nor do I find men's conversation necessarily more interesting than women's.  I recognize that this group exists because a lot of older women who are widowed or single like to get out for an interesting lunch, and I felt that her comment was disrespectful of them. I wanted to say, "But didn't you come in here with a date? How many men do you want?" (Her husband was beside her, large as life) But I refrained.

A few days later, my husband and I went to a City of Ottawa building  to pay the taxes. I browsed in the Friends of the Library bookshop while he went across the hall and joined the queue. About twenty minutes later he joined me, with steam coming out of his ears.

Two clerks were serving clients, and one was occupied with a woman who couldn't speak either official language. She appeared to be paying taxes on more than one house and wanted to pay with small bills. She was in the process of counting out her money, and then the clerk had to count the bills again. There appeared to be a disagreement about the count. Also, she kept waving pieces of paper at him and talking at him, which threw him off the count and made him have to start over.

The other clerk was occupied by a man who was also there to pay his taxes. He received a number of phone calls on his cell, which required that proceedings had to grind to a halt while he had his conversations. After his taxes were paid he had a question about a fax he had sent to City Hall. He didn't know if it had come to this particular office or not, but he wanted them to check. After about ten minutes they found his fax, which was many pages long. Then he wanted the clerk to check the pages to see that they were all there.

A third clerk opened a new line for my husband. The one dealing with the fax couldn't handle the man's questions about it so he brought it to the third clerk and they managed to mix the fax pages with my husband's tax bill pages.

At that point my husband indicated his displeasure by praying aloud.  The clerk he was dealing with looked sympathetic and urged my husband to make a complaint to the City.The trouble is, a complaint to the City would do no good, because the problem lay, not in the clerks, who were doing their best, but in these members of the public who were behaving in a peculiar way.

We left, marvelling over the strangeness of strangers.