The Lime Green Pop of Chlorine 

The luxury of having an entire public pool to yourself.

I was somewhat astonished that the Cooper Koo Y, where I swim, was open every day during the holidays. My aspirational self noted this as if my actual self was going to get up off the couch during the torporific season between Christmas and New Year's and do something about it. Then I did surprise myself by going a few times. What I found was in Toronto many people don't do much during Christmas so they'd rather be at the Y working out, playing basketball, or volleyball. This meant the pool was even busier than usual. Except for one day. Friday, January 05. For whatever sociological reason I cannot fathom, Fridays seem less busy. On this particular Friday, the last Friday of the school break, the Y wasn't busy at all. In fact, before I finished my swim, the only other people in the pool had left and I had, not just a lane, but the entire pool to myself. It reminded me of swimming on Friday nights as a kid.

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How to know if you’ve stayed too long. 

Edward Gorey's The Doubtful Guest most likely stayed too long.

There is an old saying that visitors are like fish: after three days they begin to stink. Whoever came up with this expression may not have been aware that some fish stinks a lot sooner than three days. Also, this adage is really intended for the host but how would you, as a visitor, know you've overstayed your welcome. We are here to help and hopefully provide this guidance on knowing when you've stayed too long.

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One Week Together, One Apart

Together at last and at least once.

Two foreign items sat drying in the sink of my brother’s kitchen: a dissembled stovetop espresso maker and a colander. What makes them foreign? For one, my brother doesn't drink coffee and, while I think of a colander as primarily a way to wash and strain fruits and vegetables, my brother neither cooks much nor eats many vegetables. Why were these items in his sink? Because we visitors had essentially taken over the main floor of the house while my brother self-isolated in his basement after feeling unwell and having a positive COVID-19 test. As we regularly brought him meals or a fresh bag of ice, meeting him, masked, on the stairs, it felt oddly like throwing scraps down into a hole. While most of my brothers and I are fine with (maybe even enjoy) solitude, this was more like deprivation or imprisonment than any kind of personal retreat.

The strangeness of the COVID-19 pandemic continued when J. and my niece also tested positive for COVID-19. We travelled here to be together yet now find ourselves self-isolating, afraid to come too close together in case we pass on a virus that would mean more isolation, and more changed travel plans (and all the cost that comes with that). We were here to see my mother off of this earthly domain. Undoubtedly, my mother was a remarkable woman who, most likely, would not have abided too much of a fuss. Yet, a fuss was made. Some of us had travelled a fair distance at an incredibly difficult time to do so. There were the visitations and the funeral. My mother, father, nephew and my mother’s step-mother were all buried at a cemetery still so new that it has more in common with a headstone parking lot than older more treed and established places.

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Total Eclipse of My Summer 

Betwix Signal Hill and Cape Spear…

A post shared by Peter Rogers (@peterrogersesq) on Aug 15, 2017 at 3:25pm PDT

It all began after a late work day and heading to Toronto Island where I was immediately handed a cold beer in front of a beach bonfire. Someone played an ukulele, someone else talked about D&D, and someone splashed in the Lake. A few hours later I was on a ferry heading into Toronto’s sparkly skyline and a few hours after that I was on a plane headed east.

“under artificial lighting, chilled by artificial breezes, occupied by artificial deadlines”

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Holy Jaysus 

Strange & Familiar: Architecture on Fogo Island from Site Media inc.

Last week I had choices to make. I could go to a Toronto volunteer night, a ward advocacy meeting, a public presentation about the plans for a park beneath the Gardiner Expressway, or a see a film documenting the Fogo Island project designed by Newfoundland born, but Norway based architect, Todd Saunders. I went with my heart and the heart wanted to go home.
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St. John's Offset 

This is supposed to be a shot of St. John's Harbour at 7 PM local time. There's no way this is right but it must be at least from today given the snow on the hills and roofs.

It's pitch black by 5:30 pm here in Toronto (or earlier). By that time it's 7:00 pm in St. John's but apparently my little Webcam view from the Rooms overlooking the harbour is clearly not showing a live view. Instead it seems to be showing a view from sometime in the late afternoon. I don't know how often it updates but it definitely isn't every two minutes. Lately I've fallen into a bad habit of not going to bed until around 1:30 AM (every night I say I'm going to bed earlier then don't). That's 90 minutes later than I'd usually hit the hay. I'm offset by 90 minutes. Maybe if I just set my watch to Newfoundland Standard Time I could still go to bed by 1:30 AM and actually be in the land of nod at a decent Ontario time? Or not. My body knows and I'm always going to be off by 90 minutes.

I've had this problem since the clocks changed almost a month ago. I hate Daylight Savings Time and if I ever had the power to abolish it, I would. Until then I'll just have to claw my way back to a decent night's sleep.

Holiday Home Run 

Just a few photos from the last couple of days.

a Rainy Day in November 

See the full album or download shots at Flickr

I had a handful of reasons for my recent trip to Newfoundland. Seeing family for one, visiting my father’s grave for another and as I didn’t really take a holiday this summer I felt I needed a good block of time away from work. I took a week to move in May, a smattering of days off in the summer to run errands and that was it. So I felt I was due for a break. Primarily though, my niece was getting married and I wanted to be there for that. Coincidentally, the wedding date was close to another brother’s birthday so that was a bonus.

Unfortunately, November is just such a crap month. For me it’s up there with March as one of the worst times of the year. I had grand plans of renting a bike or getting out and about if the weather co-operated which of course, it did not. Partially it is that very turn of the weather that causes the suck-apocalypse that is November. Though technically still autumn until December 21, November is when this part of the world tilts its shoulder into winter. Then there is the almost fetishistic remembrances of deathly wars and sacrifice which surreally bumps between the obnoxious drunkenness of Halloween and the excessive and nauseating early advertising for Christmas.

It was no surprise really that for the fourteen days I was home, it rained on twelve of them. Sometimes it rained violently. Other times it was that heavy mist, fog and drizzle that leaves you soaking in a velvet covering of droplets. The wedding day was like all of those days rolled into one. The sky was a torn sheet of grey and white; sometimes the rain was light while at other times it assaulted you. For all of that, it was a great, great day that I won’t soon forget. I’m glad I went and I’m really glad I got to meet some of the twenty-somethings who are Newfoundland’s greatest resource* (oil and mining aside and fishing having vanished). My mother was flummoxed by all the parties and loud music but in the end she stayed late, late, late at the reception and genuinely basked in the fun of it all. I think I originally thought the largesse of the event seemed ungainly and aspirational, but I have to admit that it was the size it was because that was the size it had to be.

I should also say, for the first time, in a very long time, my faith in Newfoundland “cuisine” has been renewed. By God how I’ve missed the carnal pleasures of a hot turkey sandwich with chips, dressing and gravy, or one of Aunt Mabel’s cakes or my mother’s partridgeberry pie. Even simply saying the phrase “chips, dressing and gravy” is a salve to my soul. It could be Newfoundland’s unofficial motto. Though it pains me to say this, so long Ches’s, you are but a late night stomach lining compared to the fish and chips (dressing and gravy) of the Duke of Duckworth. By volume I drank far more Coor’s Lite than anyone should admit, yet it is the Q.V. Honey Brown that stole my heart (from the Quidi Vidi Brewery). I’m proud that I only gained a few pounds on this trip rather than a few dozen I probably should have – coinciding as it did with the sugar-fest of Halloween

It’s funny, but I sort of rushed buying a camera I had my eye on for this trip (it went on sale at just the right time) thinking I’d take tons, metric tonnes, gigabytes of photos with it. I quickly realized it was a little more camera than I was accustomed to and I could not see carrying it around with me, thus I resorted to my old faithful phone. In the coming weeks I’m getting a new phone too, but in a sense it will be like getting a camera upgrade. I’m particularly looking forward to super slo-mo on the iPhone and continuing to use Instagram’s great app, Hyperlapse. Having said that, I’m also looking forward to getting a compact lens for the new camera and exploring a lot more with a lighter more compact camera.

Maybe with new cameras in tow, I’ll get out in the messiness that is November in Toronto and enjoy being out in the elements a bit more. There are definitely times when I feel like I’m not Canadian enough because I prefer the comfort of a couch over the damp of a duck blind. I just don’t celebrate the outside very much, unless I’m running, biking or driving through it. Maybe a good lens is all I need to stop and soak it up more. Or maybe I’ll get soaked. That’s okay though as the best part of getting wet, is the drying out and warming up.

*unavoidable cliché alert which is slightly funnier read in the trembling timbre of Rex Murphy

The Great Whiteway* 

I took a couple of minutes of video on our drive back from Whiteway (pop. 220) last Sunday using the new iPhone app from Instagram, Hyperlapse. The technology behind Hyperlapse is pretty incredible and seemingly only limited by the quality of the camera on your phone. It would be intriguing to see it deployed on better cameras. Imagine how much better GoPro videos would be stabilized to this degree. My advice for using it would be to not simply press “record” but to allow the phone to adjust white balance and exposure first. One funny thing you see in the video above is a smudge that was on the inside of the windshield which is the spot jumping around erratically. I assume that would be because that indicates just how much the actual phone was moving in relation to the landscape (so avoid filming through dirty glass).

The way the app works means it can only output a 720p video which is fine for sharing and web embeds but the intriguing part is that if say in the future you could film 4K video with a phone, you would be able to output a fully HD video. Also, as it uses the phone's built-in gyroscope to even out the image rather than any processing on the image itself, Hyperlapse isn't that demanding on the phone's battery or processor. It takes some time to stabilize the recording depending how long the video is but it's generally pretty fast. I actually found using the 1X or 2X settings give nicer results which is pretty much what the review on the Verge suggests. They also suggest video filmed during bright sunny days will look better than on darker days; here in Newfoundland, I may never get a chance to find out.

*No, not that Great White Way

Note to Self: Your Mom was Badass 

Mom commandeering small water craft

This week at home has been, as it always is, a reminder of what I miss living in Toronto (and some of what I don’t miss). The wild wet weather and the rocky rough landscape and the folks who, without knowing you, will talk to you as if they always have. Then there is my mother and her lifetime of habits that somehow I’ve forgotten about and moved on from. I can’t claim to be the healthiest person I know, but when looking in my mom’s fridge, I realized I’ve come a long way. The first day I was home, I opened the fridge and counted 5 lbs of margarine, 1 lb of shortening, 1 chocolate cake, 1 chocolate chip cake and some apples. Since then my aunt arrived with another chocolate cake and my mother has made 2 pies. Admittedly my brother is having a birthday in a few days but still there are more cakes than fruits and vegetables in the fridge. I won’t go on further about how my mom can’t eat Tim Horton’s chilli because it is too spicy (I swear that is psychosomatic) or that how all coffee tastes the same etc. I won’t bother you about how traumatic introducing the concept of copy/paste on a PC would be. Let’s cut a senior citizen a break on technology. I mean, this is why I fear the US would actually elect a septuagenarian as president, “Which button is the one you kids worry I shouldn’t have my finger on? This one? What? Speak up, man!” I accept that my mom is slowing down. She accepts it too. The thing I really have to accept though – when my mom was young, she was kind of badass.

Not breaking-down-doors kind of badass but travelling to a faraway place and working in some very remote and difficult conditions kind of badass. I’m not about to say working as a nurse in Newfoundland in the 50s was like working with Doctors Without Borders in South Sudan or anything but it was very different than where she came from. I’ve been going through these slides my brother scanned a couple of summers ago and I’ve been cleaning them up – colour correcting, removing dust and scratches and fixing exposure if possible. Thus I’ve been spending time with my mother and father in the past. Tidying up these photos means you really spend a lot longer looking at them than if you were just thumbing through them in an album. There she is, my mom, smiling in a snowstorm, with sled dogs, digging gardens, commandeering small watercraft, tending a stove at a camp site, greeting a seaplane, and wrestling two small boys into sitting still for a photo. She came to Newfoundland to work at a Grenfell Mission rural hospital. She stayed and married the Anglican priest. Her family and everything she knew was thousands of miles away across the Atlantic Ocean. Yet she made this her place, her history and her story.

In Memoriam 

Jacob Rogers, circa 1960

“Let us consider that the soul of man is immortal, able to endure every sort of good and every sort of evil. Thus may we live happily with one another and with God.”

(December 2, 1934-January 6, 2014) Passed peacefully away on January 6 at Agnes Pratt aged 79 years. Predeceased by grandson, Kyle Jacob Rogers. Leaving to mourn his loving wife, Ruth Rogers; sons: Peter, Michael, Christopher and wife Theresa and their children: Morgan and Alex; David and wife Janice and their children: Sarah (Curtis Deer), Daniel and Mitchel; sister, Mabel; sister-in-law Stephanie Wilson and nieces: Ruby, Suzanne, Rachel and Polly. Served as Anglican Minister at Flowers Cove from 1958 - 1964; Rector at Petty Harbour from 1967-1971; Teacher at Prince of Wales Collegiate from 1971-1992. He holds a Bachelor of Divinity from Queen's College; an associate of King's College, London; Master of Arts from University of Lennoxville, Quebec; Bachelor of Arts, Bachelor of Education and Bachelor of Divinity from Memorial University of Newfoundland.

updated Monday, January 20, 2014
These last few days have been strange, tiring, distant, close, wrenching, funny, lovely and sad. I wanted to feel a greater relief at my father's passing. As you may know the effects that Alzheimer's can have on a family, there were certainly times we thought death would be preferable to that kind of living. Yet, there wasn't relief. Just that shitty feeling. Then resignation at that feeling, whatever it was. Like having your marrow sucked out of your bones. Then some laughter; surprise at the laughter. Surprise at forgetting my father was dead. Remembering the good. Remembering the not so good. But in the whole, looking at the people my brothers and I have become and all the friends and family and their remembrances and thinking, well - that's something, that's pretty good.

Life is Not Like a Box of Chocolates 

"Tuesday, August 20, 2013, 9:45 p.m. EDT. The Full Moon of August is usually called the Corn Moon, Sturgeon Moon, Red Moon, Green Corn Moon or Grain Moon." Image via space.com

Despite all our planning and intentions, sometimes the worst case scenario happens. Out of everything that could happen, that's the one that does. This, anecdotally of course, means that Forrest Gump was wrong and Life is not "like a box of chocolates" wherein you're not sure what you're going to get. Life, as John Lennon put it, is what happens to you when you're busy making plans. You plan, you map, you reconnoiter, you strategize, you guess at what the eventualities might be, and know your options for what Life may present you.

At least you hope. You hope for the best and expect the worst. So you think. Then, just when you were collecting the dice for your turn, Life happens to you. You knew it was a possibility but like a rope breaking from a pulley, it still shocks. Like a knee to your gut that winds you, you know what it is, and what caused it, and what's coming but that doesn't make it any less painful.

There you have it. Life is not a chocolate box, nor a board game, nor a party, nor a thing less-lived. It is exactly what you thought it would be – just not in the order or speed you thought it would happen.

The last few days, I've felt time expand. Like when you see a full glass at the edge of the table, and you know, you instinctively know, somehow, it will tip and spill, and when it happens and you see it start to go, you still reach for it; too late. Your hand can't move any faster than the falling glass and you watch the inevitability of gravity take its course.

The inevitability of gravity. That's a funny phrase. I met a man today who had been in an serious accident and was badly bruised and battered. He said he wished he was on the low-gravity surface of the moon to alleviate his pain. Coincidentally, tonight's new moon is a so called supermoon, when the moon is at its closest approach to the Earth. As it rose this evening it sat on the trees like a big golden peach. Now it's smack dab in the centre of the sky and no matter where you walk, it's hanging just above your Southern shoulder. A quiet celestial neighbour, keeping you company, outshining the stars and Klieg lights of the Canadian National Exhibition Grounds. I wish we were on the moon tonight, too. That lower gravity might take some weight off our shoulders.

Just Did It 

Haruki Murakami, author and spiritual leader of runners around the world. Image via New York Times

“As we're finding out, there are a lot worse things in life that we "just have to do"…”

As Nike implores us to "just do it", I just did it. Don't know why I did it? Not sure how I did it? I did it with a nagging headache. I did it without much preparation or training. I did to forget I was wasting my vacation. I did it to not think about other things. I did it to ignore my parents' health. I did it to ignore strife in the world. I did it to avoid my grossly messy apartment. I did it to avoid taxes. I did it to avoid other people. I did it to avoid the fact there were no other people to avoid anyway. I did it to make up for wasted time, as if it wasn't just wasting time in a different way.
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In a Fog

Years ago there was a popular local band that had a semi-hit on provincial radio with a single called "Living in a Fog". Tonight a heavy winter fog descended over St. John's that seemed more than apt. Since landing I've been determined to remain just beneath such a fog, a stupor provided by stiff drinks, too much food and too little exercise. I thought it would be as comfortable as sleeping next to a roaring fire covered in a heavy duvet. I was wrong. Instead it has reminded me of the distance between myself and my family and my tiny retinue of friends. I can't say exactly how. Perhaps I've used the clatter of ice in a glass to say "hey - here for a good time, not a long time." in other words, don't bring me down by discussing reality. I know I've thought to myself that having another drink is easier than wondering if I should have another drink. Then I've thought, that's probably not healthy. In addition to this self-zombification (and let's face it, I always think of Christmas as a Zombie-vacation; must eat. Sleep now. Eat. Brains?) I've found it's been impossible to sleep when I should sleep and even harder to be awake when I should be awake. The alcohol hasn't helped like you would think it would.
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To the Cape & Back 

A tour operator's wet dream; views, breezes and whales

Duration 2:36:35 hr
Distance: 54.4 km
Max Speed 65.3 km/hr
Avg speed 20.2 km/hr

Like many people, I am a creature of, nay, a victim of inertia. Like Newton's First Law: every object continues in its state of rest, or of uniform motion in a straight line, unless compelled to change that state by external forces acted upon it.

When you spend too much time sitting at a desk, you continue in that state; when working hard earning a living, you continue in that state; when lying on a couch after a holiday meal, you continue in that state. That's why I sometimes find it hard to do anything on a day off. You can get stuck doing errands or in front of a television watching a game but I didn't want to do either. Thankfully Mike has an "extra" bike of some quality so when the opportunity came up to do a challenging ride with another person, I was up for it.
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Dad in Plaid 

I remember how angry Dad would get priming the Coleman stove. How angry? This angry. My brother looks so pleased he might just pee his pants.

My Dad as Ron Swanson.

Signal Hill 

Thus far my trip back to Newfoundland has delivered big family meals, some physical activity, sight-seeing, whales spotted, sun, wind, fog and rain. Here's a few photos from an afternoon outing to Signal Hill. On a sunny day you've got amazing vistas of the city and of the Atlantic Ocean, and if you're lucky like we were, you may even spot some whales.


Music is Black Hole by Kenseth Thibideau

There was also a wedding going on while we were there and a local had with him his enormous Newfoundland Dog (it may have been a small black bear though). There was also an ominous and beautiful fog bank that struck the hills and tumbled down into the city below. It was actually a really hot day and earlier, Mike and I had done a surprisingly fast 10 KM run (53:48 mins). The temperature really drops at night of course. After a decade in Toronto, you sort of forget how cold it can get at night (daytime high was mid 20s while at night it dropped to 10C).

Today, while others are seeing the visiting Cirque du Soleil, Mike and I are hanging back with Dad making Carnitas (see Mike Kurtz's recipe here) for supper tonight which we'll serve up with salads and mojitos. It's probably out of place on a day like today when the winds are knocking over trees and causing general havoc. All in a day's weather on the Rock.

Pine-clad Hills

Image of the Long Studio, Fogo Island, Newfoundland via Todd Saunders

Last night I attended a talk at the University of Toronto by Canadian ex-pat architect, Todd Saunders whose practice is based in Bergen, Norway. Saunders is originally from Gander, Newfoundland (you read that correctly) and has recently begun an ambitious project on a pile of rock known as Fogo Island, in Bonavista Bay, Newfoundland (which is really out there in the North Atlantic). The instigator of the project is a success story herself. Zita Cobb made her millions as a top level executive at JDS Uniphase and had an idea to create a sort of cultural resort and artists retreat on the island, sort of in the mould of The Banff Centre. Saunders had been slowly gaining international attention for his beautifully detailed and captivating projects (usually set against striking and wondrous Norwegian landscapes) when he received a call from Cobb. Funny story; he said Cobb called him on his mobile while he was on a kayaking trip and as he was so tired of work he sort of blew her off. When he got ashore, he wandered into an Internet café and searched her name online. After discovering who Cobb was (one of those “Holy Shit” moments) he called her back right away (a few of his stories were punctuated that way).
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Black as Night 

Fire Down on the Labrador - D. Blackwood, 1980 image via Mayberry Fine Art

It's a funny old thing. I went to the AGO recently not to see their "blockbuster" Maharaja show but to see a comprehensive selection of David Blackwood prints. I don't think I've seen so many Blackwood prints in one place at one time. The effect was decidedly devastating. Blackwood's Newfoundland is a place of near permanent tragedy, frozen in winter and darkness. I get it. Those are the stories he's drawn to and wishes to tell and thus preserve. But shit, it's depressing. In fact, at one point I had to sit down and was overwhelmed with sadness, a very pointed and jarring sadness. Not remembering Blackwood was from Wesleyville, I didn't realize how much of his subject matter was set there. We have plenty of family from that Northern point of Bonavista Bay — though I'd be hard pressed to name any of them. I think just knowing that these depictions were so close to where my father grew up affected me in an unanticipated way. I had to fight back tears and I don't know why. The power of art or something.
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Thinking of You... 

St.John's Harbour 2011, February 26, 17:42

I have a widget on my computer which includes a CBC Web cam that overlooks St. John's harbour and I happened to see it just at around 5:30 PM, St. John's local time. It's a terribly fuzzy image but I still saw the lady I knew as my home town, even though I've never actually lived there. I saw the gray, late afternoon sky filtered through heavy, still clouds while the street and porch lights were just starting to come on. There is something about those big iron cold clouds above barren trees and brightly painted row houses stuck on St. John's hills that calls to me. It's not something that beckons me like some asinine faux folk song sang like melted cheese spewing from a sentiment dipped singer. Still, it gets my attention. As if I had been flipping through a neglected paperback and an old photo fell out. At first you'd pick it up in a huff then you'd notice it, examine it more carefully, turn it over in hopes of finding a hand written note or even a date. You recognize the image and it churns up a snap of synaptic charges going off in your head like static sparks after removing a sweater too quickly. It's like that. All I'm saying is, "I miss you. Take care."