Taken shortly after the minority Liberal government tabled its budget, with big tax cuts, a recent poll indicates that 70 percent (that's not a typo) of Quebecers reject the income tax cuts and would prefer to have the "extra" money put into social programs.
Imagine: tax dollars being used for the betterment of everyone.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Solanne's Quote of the week
me (to Maïa): We're having company over later, so you will have to behave.
Solanne: Momma, I'm being hayve!
Solanne: Momma, I'm being hayve!
Friday, May 11, 2007
Flesh of my flesh, cell of my cell
I wrote these fragments this afternoon, just before reading this article in the Globe & Mail:
There are memories, souvenirs, markings emblazoned on our lives, on our souls, and on our bodies. And I have been surprised to see my memories and my ancestors memories etched onto my children's small, innocent limbs and faces. Solanne has the chin of a person she has never met. The origin of this small, pointy chin is a mystery to me. Two of my father's sisters and at least one of my cousins have inherited it. Was it my grandmother's? Did it belong to some far off grandparent, whose face was never recorded on film or canvas? Maïa receives many compliments on her hair - a mane she inherited from her father, whose genes were carried over from his own mother.
My own body carries memories that have long been blown into the wind, ashes scattered, dust to dust. I have my father's eyes, those eyes that I didn't know were his until I visited with his family, in the "old country" as a young adult. I saw his eyes in all their faces: the deep twinkling, yet strangely sad eyes that slope down in the outside corners. And I was told by each of them that I had his eyes, that I was his spitting image.
I have my mother's hands, those small, strongish fingers that will one day begin to bend in ways they shouldn't. My grandmother had those hands; I can still remember her working away, seemingly impossibly fast at her baking, her sewing, her knitting. Her hands were agile and quick, even if they betrayed her at times.
I have other parts that are a mystery to me. Whose lips are these? Which ancestor wore lips like these, to take stolen kisses and dispense love to her children? To speak an unknown language (Italian? French? Scottish?), to speak words of encouragement and suffering? To whistle a tune while he worked... at what? What untold stories lie beneath the tiny packets of DNA that were carried all this way in my parents' bodies, in the secret of their cells, to come fulfilled in this tiny prophecy that is my body?
I guess there was more to the story of carrying genes and cells than I had imagined...
There are memories, souvenirs, markings emblazoned on our lives, on our souls, and on our bodies. And I have been surprised to see my memories and my ancestors memories etched onto my children's small, innocent limbs and faces. Solanne has the chin of a person she has never met. The origin of this small, pointy chin is a mystery to me. Two of my father's sisters and at least one of my cousins have inherited it. Was it my grandmother's? Did it belong to some far off grandparent, whose face was never recorded on film or canvas? Maïa receives many compliments on her hair - a mane she inherited from her father, whose genes were carried over from his own mother.
My own body carries memories that have long been blown into the wind, ashes scattered, dust to dust. I have my father's eyes, those eyes that I didn't know were his until I visited with his family, in the "old country" as a young adult. I saw his eyes in all their faces: the deep twinkling, yet strangely sad eyes that slope down in the outside corners. And I was told by each of them that I had his eyes, that I was his spitting image.
I have my mother's hands, those small, strongish fingers that will one day begin to bend in ways they shouldn't. My grandmother had those hands; I can still remember her working away, seemingly impossibly fast at her baking, her sewing, her knitting. Her hands were agile and quick, even if they betrayed her at times.
I have other parts that are a mystery to me. Whose lips are these? Which ancestor wore lips like these, to take stolen kisses and dispense love to her children? To speak an unknown language (Italian? French? Scottish?), to speak words of encouragement and suffering? To whistle a tune while he worked... at what? What untold stories lie beneath the tiny packets of DNA that were carried all this way in my parents' bodies, in the secret of their cells, to come fulfilled in this tiny prophecy that is my body?
I guess there was more to the story of carrying genes and cells than I had imagined...
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Walking along
Since the good weather has arrived, Solanne and I have been out and about a lot. She especially enjoys going for bike rides, with her strapped into the kiddy seat on my bike. When Derek test drove the arrangement for me (with Sol in it), she never stopped smiling for a moment. Fifteens minutes of smiles; her cheeks must have been sore. We also often go out for groceries at the local Iranian store; we take Maïa to daycare in the morning; we go to the park a lot. But my favourite activity, by far, is going for our daily walk.
It's a simple little thing: we put on our sweaters (if need be), lace up our shoes, and head out the door. Solanne ambles along; sometimes she runs. Often, she stops to take a look at something I've missed. Like the flowers. Or the ants crawling into their little holes. Or the way the rotten wood step of a house one block over looks suspiciously like an alligator. Our neighbourhood is always busy with people walking by. That's one thing about Montreal, and especially the more urban areas: they are densely populated, and there's always someone walking about, going from here to there.
She's so cute to watch going along. Today, she was walking in front of me in the middle of the sidewalk. She saw a woman coming toward her, so she moved over. And in true toddler fashion, she announced what she was doing, and why:
"Momma, I moved ova' 'cause the'w was a woman comin'! And I gotted out of de way!" The woman laughed, and I laughed, too.
Almost invariably, people stop to say hello to Solanne or to smile at her or to tell me how lovely or cute she is. That's what makes my day - the fact that she lights up someone else's. For all the talk about the terrible two's, I must say that there is way more to be said about the terrific two's.
It's a simple little thing: we put on our sweaters (if need be), lace up our shoes, and head out the door. Solanne ambles along; sometimes she runs. Often, she stops to take a look at something I've missed. Like the flowers. Or the ants crawling into their little holes. Or the way the rotten wood step of a house one block over looks suspiciously like an alligator. Our neighbourhood is always busy with people walking by. That's one thing about Montreal, and especially the more urban areas: they are densely populated, and there's always someone walking about, going from here to there.
She's so cute to watch going along. Today, she was walking in front of me in the middle of the sidewalk. She saw a woman coming toward her, so she moved over. And in true toddler fashion, she announced what she was doing, and why:
"Momma, I moved ova' 'cause the'w was a woman comin'! And I gotted out of de way!" The woman laughed, and I laughed, too.
Almost invariably, people stop to say hello to Solanne or to smile at her or to tell me how lovely or cute she is. That's what makes my day - the fact that she lights up someone else's. For all the talk about the terrible two's, I must say that there is way more to be said about the terrific two's.
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