Waterfire

Since moving here we have been discovering the pleasures of Providence, Rhode Island. Small, complex, old, it's a fascinating city that we've really come to appreciate. And we'd really never heard of it before moving to the area.

One example of the city's charming quirkiness is the event called Waterfire. It's an annual tradition that runs every Saturday night throughout the summer. The webpage calls it a "work of art" (I'm not sure about that), but the concept is simple: 100 metal hearths have been installed in the middle of the river that flows through the downtown, forming a daisy chain down the river. At dusk, small barges carrying a pile of firewood and a group of people dressed completely in black slowly cruise up the river. The hearths are loaded with firewood and lit, turning the river into a giant bonfire:

At first, I didn't quite get it—ok, so the fires burn, so what? But then, as Providence came to sit along the shore to chat and eat and hang out and watch the fires, I got it: it's about turning the downtown core into a giant campfire, at once large-scale and intimate. The city literally comes out and cozies up next to the fire.

Along with the fire, there is piped-in musical accompaniment (it could have been awful, but thankfully somebody at Waterfire has good taste, so it works). Also, there are food stands set up and a variety of performance pieces on the shore. You walk along the shore, eating, talking, enjoying the night and the crowds, and taking in the culture—all alongside the glowing, crackling, smoking river-hearth.

Amazing!

Thanks to Jessie for the pictures!

Ohhhh tanenbaum!

Last night we were picking the boys up from school, and among the usual treasures of abstract impressionism that they were bringing home there were two Christmas-tree-shaped gingerbread cookies. They looked good, and smelled like deep, dark apple cinnamon. A piece had broken off and so, making sure that no one was watching, I popped it into my mouth.

Frankly, it wasn't very good. The cinnamon was there, but the texture was off, and it wasn't sweetened enough. I forced it down and swore I would never again eat anything baked by toddlers.

Well, this cookie was really not settling well, and I began to have suspicions. I asked "Gab, are those cinnamon things in the back seat cookies, by any chance?"

"You didn't eat them, did you? They're Christmas ornaments! Sam will be so upset!"

For the record, here's the recipe:

• 1 part ground cinnamon
• 1 part applesauce
• 1 part Elmer's white glue

Mix, flatten, punch out cookie shapes. Bake at 350° until done.^*

^* Note: do not eat.

Giving Thanks, down here

My first American Thanksgiving has been a really interesting lesson in American culture. Let me say, along with the differences in dates, American Thanksgiving is quite different from its Canadian counterpart.

First of all, Thanksgiving is big—much more important in the U.S. than Canada. It is a holiday tradition for families across the country to reunite via plane. Satire aside, it really is a common question to ask: "So are you flying anywhere this Thanksgiving?" As far I can tell, this isn't just gratuitous consumption, it comes from a real desire to reunite families no matter what. Crazy!

Anyway, Thanksgiving down here is really kind of nice: it's like Christmas without the commercial trappings, all about family, friendship, and giving thanks. We went to a Thanksgiving dinner and people really did give thanks at the table. And meant it, no less.

Another thing: being the U.S., there are strong nationalistic overtones to the holiday. Thanksgiving actually means something, since it forms the cornerstone of the national mythology. Thanksgiving is the symbolic meeting of the new and old worlds—pilgrim and aboriginal dining together. Okay, it glosses over genocide and all, but the symbolism is there. Sam came home with a colouring-book page with a picture of an iconic pilgrim on it. We don't have this layer of symbolism laid over Thanksgiving in Canada (and let's face it: Canada is just terrible at doing national mythologies, anyway. The Plains of Abraham? Oh, puh-leez. What kind of a symbolic founding of a nation is that? How can you turn that into a colouring book?).

So, I think it's time for a little cultural conspiracy theorizing, courtesy of Gab. Here's a question: in Canada, why don't we ever hear about how much cooler American Thanksgiving is? We hear about everything regarding American culture, but we don't hear about American Thanksgiving as a genuine non-commercial expression of family, giving thanks, and community.

The conspiracy: could it be that we don't get this through the media because it doesn't exactly fit with the Canadian national conception of Americans?

Hmmmm ...

... and what the heck is "kashi cereal"?

Since when has "pop tarts" become a food category?

In the playground

Not long after we arrived, we were at a nearby playground to burn off some collective energy. A couple of women with a kid arrived with the same idea.

We started chatting, the mother of the boy heard me say "eh" and they laughed at my Canadianisms.

The other woman, somewhat older, told a story about her son who, some years ago, caught Necrotizing fasciitis (the "flesh-eating baceria") at age 2. It was touch-and-go, and the hospital asked about her medical coverage; she had none, but she told the doctors to save her son. The medical system in Boston is known for being a good one, and the boy survived.

They were obviously not well off—much of Norton seems to be actually quite poor—so the mother learned to change his bandages and perform nursing duties so that she didn't have to hire a nurse. Nevertheless, by the time her son had recovered, she had spent $48,000 to save his life.

Last summer we had to decide whether we could afford to pay for surgery on our cat—surgery which would save his life but was something that financially we really couldn't afford. I left that playground with the sudden realization that what we went through with our cat, that woman went through with her child—something that I found nearly unimaginable under a public system.

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Having said that, things may be changing in the U.S. I have heard several people (including the women at the playground) mention that Massachusetts is the first state to bring about universal health coverage—or, as it is consistently put, Massachusetts has made it illegal to not have health coverage. (The fact that people describe it as such strikes me as an interesting difference in perception from Canada).

I really don't have a clue about this (I haven't even seen Sicko), but this is what I've managed to come up with so far: the health care system now has a managed clearinghouse for all the various kinds of health plans available. If you do not have coverage, you will be fined. However, the deregulation of health plans means that more affordable options will be available to individuals and small companies. Hmmm.

I find it interesting to look at the differences in approaches between the States and Canada; the Massachusetts model has elements of universality (particularly the enforcement of medical insurance on everyone), but the solution is still essentially a market-based one: deregulation and an arms-length Government referral service.

I can't help but wonder – what if (effective) universal health coverage just can't fit into a for-profit market-driven framework? What if universal coverage just isn't profitable enough? Is the idea of "consumer choice" going to work in the context of making decisions—sometimes life-and-death and on the spur of the moment—about the survival of family members?

Public universal health coverage it ain't, but it seems to be the closest thing in the states—and it was a bipartisan effort. Then again, the Heritage Foundation thinks it's a good idea...

Autumn Porn

Okay, now I know why in pamphlets and promotional material, New England seems to exist in a perpetual Autumnal state. When we arrived in August, the area was a quite-lovely-thank-you green area. Come October, the state transformed into a drop-dead gorgeous display and—inevitably—out comes the digital camera.

So, like a new parent, let me shovel some autumn colours your way for your amusement and envy. And no, I will not be balancing these with shots of strip malls in February.

Here are some photos we took of a bike daytrip down the nearby Blackstone river valley in Rhode Island (Map relative to our place):

Care for a little history with your Fall porn? (Allow me to elevate this to the "Caligula" of blog posts) The area is actually quite fascinating—it's the site of the original industrial revolution in the Americas. What this means is that the Blackstone river has many 19^th Century factories and factory towns along it, as well as a canal that used to carry barges of materials. The barges were pulled by horse, and the equestrian path remains as a bike trail.

Here's the canal with the house of one of the factory owners.

Here's an example of an old factory that has been converted to—what else?—condos. Here's the map of the factory with workers' quarters on the right, and factory owner's house on the left, with canal.

So what do the boys think of all this biking, spectacular scenery, and fascinating history? Let's ask:

Boys, tell the good folks in the internet how much fun we're having. Go on, tell them. Tell them!

The Museum of Bad Art

Okay, I have visited this site three times now, and each time collapsed in fits of giggles. It must be shared.

The Museum of Bad Art features a variety of carefully-chosen works, lovingly displayed in the basement of the Dedham Community Theatre in Boston, "just outside the men's room".

Its mandate: "the world's only museum dedicated to the collection, preservation, exhibition and celebration of bad art in all its forms".

Some notable samples from its extensive collection:

"Lucy in the Field with Flowers" Oil on canvas by Unknown 24" × 30" Acquired from trash in Boston Commentary: "As with all great art, extended viewing reveals endless layers of mysteries: What is Norman Mailer's head doing on an innocent grandma's body, and are those crows or F-16's skimming the hills?"	"Dog" Acrylic on canvas by Unknown Donated by Elizabeth and Sorn Poeckle, Copenhagen, Denmark Commentary: "A remarkable fusion of ski resort and wolf puppy — stoical in his yellow-eyed silence, frozen beneath the ice-capped peak, Dog elequently [sic] challenges the viewer to rexamine [sic] old concepts of landscape."
"Sunday on the Pot With George" Acrylic on canvas by Unknown 22" × 37" Donated by Jim Schulman	"He was a friend of mine" By Jack Owen 18" × 24" Watercolor

I don't know what this says about me, but some of them I kind of like.

Take a left where?

I'm compiling a list of my favorite local place names. Here's what I have so far:

Pawtucket, Rhode Island

Pronounced "puh-TUK-it", comes from the Narragansett language meaning "at the falls in the river (tidal stream)" (Wikipedia)

Seekonk, Massachusetts

What a great name. Seekonk. Narragansett for "wild black goose" or Wampanoag for "mouth of stream" or "wild goose" (Wikipedia)

Woonsocket, Rhode Island

"place of steep descent" in Nipmuck (Wikipedia)

Plainville, Massachusetts

Origins are self-evident (especially if you've ever been there)

It goes without saying that most are aboriginal in origin—and thank goodness for that; I for one would rather live in a "Seekonk" than a "Mansfield" (or, for that matter, a "Toronto" as opposed to a "York").

But my personal fave thus far is "Braintree". Creepy and apt—given its proximity to über-educated Boston. Well, it too is an indigenous name of sorts; named after a town in England, which in turn derives from Celtic (maybe):

The origin of the name Braintree is obscure. [...] One theory is that Braintree was originally Branoc's tree, Branoc apparently being an old personal name. [...] Other scholars say the "Brain" element in the word is accepted to be derived from "Brid/ Brigantia/ Bride/ Bigit/ Britain". This is the ancient Celtic, and possibly pre-celtic name for the Goddess of the land of Britain. [...] "Tree" comes from the Saxon suffix, more usually spelt "try", denoting a big village.
(yeah, Wikipedia, where else?)

After the Storm

Blogging the First World War

I just stumbled upon this: it's a real-time blog of a soldier in World War I. That is, his letters home are being posted to the blog exactly 90 years after they were written. Here's an explanatory excerpt from the first entry:

Harry Lamin was born in August 1887 in the East Midlands of England. In 1917, aged 29, he joined up to fight in the First World War [...] During his time in the army, he wrote letters home to his brother and sister. They were kept and handed down to me, his grandson.

I have transcribed the letters and added commentary so that references can make sense.

What has been produced is a moving and poignant account of an ordinary man's experiences in an extraordinary situation [...]The intention of this blog is to publish the letters exactly 90 years after Harry wrote them. His first letter from the training camp was written on February 7th 1917. It will be published on the blog on February 7th 2007. [...] If you wish to find out Harry's fate then you'll have to access the blog as the new letters arrive.

What an amazing idea.

Home cookin', double happiness

There are two great guilty pleasures offered to non-Americans living the American dream:

1. making fun of American food
2. eating American food

Both equally guilty, yet both equally tasty nonetheless.

With that in mind, I take you on a short tour of some local establishments. First off, a fine little nook down the road whose name escapes me at the moment. I ordered—what else?—a burger. Avert your eyes, vegetarians! (or those with heart conditions. Or both: that means you, David)

Next stop, a little place called "Patty's", just down the road from our new digs. It specialises in breakfasts and is always packed.

They offer home fries with everything and the waitress always asks: "You want fried onions on the home fries?" Friends, a word of advice: if you are ever at Patties in Norton Massachusetts and someone asks if you want fried onions on the home fries, do not hesitate: say "Yes. Yes I would.".

It was, needless to say, delicious.

(Mark, when you come, this the Norton's answer to "Good Time Chico's". We shall dine like Kings!)

Finally, let's take a break from dining out and head to the supermarket, and oh—what do they have here? A cookbook section! Let's see what America reads in the kitchen:

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In the spirit of full disclosure
I am making shameless fun of local cuisine, but actually there are lots of good places to eat around here, particularly in Boston and Providence. However, the Twinkie cookbook — that I did not make up.

Caught in passing

During our trip alongside the Blackstone river, under the gorgeous fall colours, we passed a woman pushing a child in a stroller. The child was squirming and complaining.

A few minutes later, the woman stormed past from behind us, going in the other direction, ranting: "Mommy gets so few things to enjoy—and you just took one of them away. Thank you so much!"

Here we go (again)

It's a strange thing to start over.

We've done this before—we left our beloved Vancouver in 1997 and headed out to Toronto to attend grad school at York University. Last August, 10 years to the day (more or less—we don't actually remember the exact date we arrived in Toronto), we headed from our beloved Toronto to the wilds of the American New England suburbs (plus some extra baggage, of course: namely, 2 cats, 2 kids, and 258 boxes).

In some ways, this transition has been similar to the one to Toronto; it's different here, but not that different—different enough to make you a little more aware of who you are, and the possibilities that are available to you. This is one of those times which you know is going to be a Major Life Change, and it's both terrifying and exciting at the same time. How often does one get the chance to wipe the slate and start over? (And that's a good thing, right?)

Anyway, this is not meant to be a long entry (especially as I have to be at work in 2 minutes). My intention is to make this a blog about our day-to-day life here, things that I see around that are worthy of note, and I'll try not to be too self-indulgent. And I'll try to limit the cutesy "aren't my kids adorable" anecdotes to reasonable levels.