July 17, 2012

Nothing much has happened to me this week, but there’s always the weather, the topic Canadians can count on to fill the void in a conversation or blog.  It’s hot in Vernon and has been for about a week now.  I haven’t started the air conditioning yet.  I think I’m turning this fact into a virtue.  I’d better be careful about that.  It’s much easier to indulge your whims when you’re alone, and I’m beginning to fear that a whim can soon become an obsession.  That way lies bag ladydom for me.  I can easily concoct a saving-the- environment justification for this particular mania; in fact I have done.  But the truth is rooted in my character.  I’m not quick to part with a nickel. I could end up wearing unforgivably old clothes and, what’s even more sobering, being found dead in my bedroom, having succumbed to heat prostration in a place with a working but unused air conditioner.  The one thing that might save me from the latter fate is the neighborhood I live in.  After spending almost 40 years on the shore of the Gatineau River where the only human sounds we heard were the babbling voices of groups of bikers riding along the road across the river on their way from Gatineau to Wakefield, I now find myself in the East Hill area of Vernon.  I have a mixed bunch of neighbors, most of whom are friendly, helpful and generally keep to themselves.  I enjoy talking with them when I’m working in the front garden or shoveling.  Aside from the odd barking dog there’s not much noise.  I’m used to the sounds of traffic on 32^nd Ave., a big truck or emergency vehicle sometimes offends the ear, but the regular pattern becomes almost like water running in the background.  And all’s quiet at night, except for one family that lives behind and one house over from me.  The woman of the house can’t seem to open her mouth without emitting a harsh sound, and the words she uses would be beeped out on public media.  The men in the place have more pleasant voices, except when they’re drunk, which they often are in the summer.  Then, somewhere between midnight and 2:00am, they match her, curse for curse and decibel for decibel.  I’ve spent two nights recently as an unwilling eavesdropper on their drunken domestic exchanges of expletives.  It just might drive me to closing the windows and turning on the air conditioning.  I may ultimately thank them for saving me from myself.

My student at Immigrant Services emailed me on Sunday night to say that she wouldn’t be able to come to class on Monday.  Part of that class was supposed to be her first interview with a worker about her abusive situation at home.  I hope she will be able to come next week.