No es la primera vez que relato este cuento pero sí, quizá en mi castellano fallo.

Mi mamá Filomena tenía una admiradora que la adoraba. Se llamaba Ines Barber y era la hermana mayor de mi papá George. Cuando nací, Ines quería ser la madrina pero en un ambiente conservador alguien habrá preguntado, “¿Cómo es posible que una mujer divorciada pueda ser madrina?” Ines sí se había divorciado y casado una vez más con un Mendocino, Alejandro Ariosa.

Por lo tanto la hija de mi Tía Ines, Inesita, tomó su lugar siendo entonces no solo mi prima hermana pero mi madrina también.

Para fines de los 50 mis padres organizaban mi cumpleaños (con piñata y ponerle el rabo al burro, el 31 de agosto, un día después de la Tormenta de Santa Rosa de Lima), llegaban a nuestro largo jardín en el barrio de Coghlan mis amigos colegiales y los primos. Entre ellos el terrible hijo mayor de Inesita, Georgito que rompía mis juguetes mientras me sonreía con alegría.

Al volver a Buenos Aires en 1966 para hacer mi conscripción militar en la marina me quedé una temporada en la casa de mi prima Inesita O’Reilly. Había enviudado y se había casado con un viudo, Adolfo Kuker.

En una casona en Belgrano R sobre Juramento, al cenar, se sentaban los cuatro de Inesita (una era hija que le gustaba flirtear) con las cuatro hijas de Dolfi (así lo llamábamos). Con los respectivos novios y novias y mi prima Elizabeth Blew la mesa era una tipo Hollywood "And Then There Were None".

La primera vez que me senté en esa mesa tamaño yate, todos, en un silencio absoluto, esperaron que yo usara algún cubierto. El primo, sobrino (yo) venido de México seguro era un pajuerano. Pasé el examen.

Al final, durante el postre vi como las hijas de Dolfi comían las naranjas y las bananas con tenedor y cuchillo. Me horroricé y no probé la fruta.

En esos días Georgito (su padríno era Alejandro Ariosa el mismo, mi padrino también, que me puso el nombre de Alejandro) estaba haciendo su servicio militar en el ejército y su hermano Ricardo en la policía. ¡Los tres de uniforme en la mesa era una imagen asombrosa!

Unos meses antes que Georgito y yo termináramos nuestro servicio me acuerdo que una tarde en la casa que alquilaban los Kuker/O’Reilly en Pacheco en el verano, discutimos, él y yo el problema de nuestro futuro. Durante el servicio la primicia era obedecer órdenes y pasar desapercibidos con los cabos a los cuales les gustaba jugar a los soldaditos. Nuestra incomodidad de género existencialista era , “¿Qué vamos a hacer cuando termine todo esto?” Creo que los dos tuvimos suerte.

Me acuerdo que Georgito me enseñó el vocabulario correcto de esa época. “Nunca preguntés por el baño. Tenés que decir, ‘¿Dónde puedo hacer pis?’ No debés usar la palabra rojo. Cuando alguien estornuda no decís nada. Al llegar cuando estén cenando tus amigos, nunca, repito nunca, te atrevas a decir ‘buen provecho.’”

Al repatriarme en el buque ELMA Río Aguapey, Georgito y su novia Bebi se despidieron en el muelle.

Desde ese momento supe que mi relación con mi sobrino era una muy especial.

Vuelvo a menudo con mi Rosemary. Nos gusta quedarnos en el Hotel Claridge. Nos gusta pasear por la ciudad. Pero lo que más me impulsaba a volver a la ciudad de mi natalicio era poder verme con mi prima Inesita y su hijo Georgito.

Ha fallecido Inesita, pero Georgito, dos años menos que yo a los 75 es una presencia y un imán que no puedo ignorar.

Los dos ya estamos viejos y Georgito no se puede acordar los nombres de todos sus nietos, nietas y bisnietos. Ya no participa en scrums con el CASI pero sí es fanático del golf. Este exfotógrafo de revista soy como me gusta decir en inglés,”obsolete, reduntan, retired & inconsequential”. Pero nos une un lazo de mas 69 años.

¡Vaya la sorpresa desagradable que Georgito se iba a internar el martes pasado para que le quitaran un quiste (quizá maligno, aún no se sabe) en unos de sus pulmones!

Un día después de la operación mi campante sobrino se puso a caminar y mostrar algo de su excelente “donde la espalda pierde su nombre” como mi abuela me decía.

La familia O’Reilly (juntos con las Pinturas Sherwin Williams que algún día cubrirán la tierra) es una familia compacta (¡!) y unida. Las nietas hacen guardia en el hospital durante el día y los nietos en la noche. En tiempo de guerra esos nietos sufrirían un automático paredón por dormirse durante la guardia.

Pero el colmo de todo esto es que el señor Georgito, en cama, luce su hábito diario y muy argentino. ¡Se engomina!

Even though Rebecca Anne Stewart’s birthday was on August 17th, we celebrated it today at La Bodega on Main. We like this place for various reasons.

We have known the Guatemalan-born manager Héctor Medina for 30 years. At Pepitas, a Mexican style restaurant on 4^th Ave those many years ago he taught both my daughters, Ale and Hilary (who worked there, too) to dance salsa. We have been in constant touch since then.

Before 1986 with the aging liquor laws of our city, La Bodega (then on Howe Street) had a cozy relationship with the Vancouver Police Department (this is solely my opinion). On a Sunday you could go to the establishment and order a salad or the famous Patatas Bravas (don’t ever go on a date after eating these!) and then you could drink to your heart’s content for hours.

La Bodega was a favourite watering hole for those of us who worked at Vancouver Magazine (I was a freelancer) which was nearby at Davie and Richards. Editor Mac (Malcolm) Parry spent many hours there editing his magazine. There are rumours that he was once ejected for playing his bent soprano saxophone while under the influence.

Since La Bodega has moved to Main Street the atmosphere of the place is far happier. The servers wear funky clothing and they know their tapas.

And one more thing, La Bodega may be the only establishment where you can ask for a Manzanilla from San Lucar de Barrameda and it will be served nice and cold. This Spanish fino sherry (bone dry) goes well with any of the tapas served but especially with the queso Manchego. And another thing. I asked them if they had grapa. This they did. I then educated the friendly staff to the wonders of the

Héctor Medina

Today we (Rosemary, Hilary, Ale, Lauren, Rebbeca and I ) occupied the best table in the house (we have connections!) which is a raised table in its own nook right by the front window.

We ate tapas galore and Mr. Medina came to say hi. He then escorted me downstairs to see the new renovated place that is quite intimate. It would seem that under Medina’s stewardship the joint is doing just fine.

On the way out I ran into NDP minion Bill Tieleman. In other occasions I have sat down to chat with Bodega regular, CBC’s Gloria Macarenko.

But I would like to make one more and very positive observation. The crowd that goes to La Bodega is quite young. Not at all like those old fogies who used to nod off over a salad years ago on Howe. I know this because I was there!

Rosa 'Sir Thomas Lipton' 19 August 2019

For reasons that escape me somehow when I purchased the white rugosa rose, Rosa ‘Sir Thomas Lipton’ in late spring did not scan any blooms. It flowered well just in time for our Vancouver Rose Society open garden. Because this rose is going to bloom again (remontant) I will have the chance before fall starts.

One of the joys of having a garden, be it big or small is to walk and observe it. You look for pests or for signs of some plant needing water or getting too much of it.

But, when you have been scanning your plants as I have since 2002, you observe the details. As an example most roses when they have new growth the leaves are reddish. Those reddish leaves lead to buds and from there to blooms.

Today as I was walking past Sir Thomas Lipton I noticed the uncommon beauty of new leaves that signalled that they would soon become buds. But they were not red. But they were very beautiful.

Rugosa roses are mostly pest-free and can withstand cold weather that other roses cannot. Some of these rugosas (called by their rugose or unsmooth leaves) can survive in places like Alberta. I am not sure about Winnipeg where most roses are seen as annuals!

I often see people with macro lenses photograph roses and other flowers. If these photographs are taken in a cloudy day, the results are bland without any contrast. If the day is a sunny day then the extreme contrast cannot be handled either by digital cameras or film cameras.

The perfect solution (as I see it) is to scan the flowers. Because the light in a flatbed scanner is very close to the suspended rose there is an interesting factor that comes into a very positive question. Because light diminishes by the square of the distance, petals that are close to the flatbed glass are lighter while the petals that are marginally further away are darker. The light produces an image that is neither flat nor too contrasty.

While I seriously do not talk to my roses nor have I ever heard one talk back, I have observed these flowers now for 17 years and yes they seem to talk to me, “Pick me now,” or “Not yet.”

Gardening, good gardening, is patient observation through many years. This is also called experience.

Winters in my boyhood Buenos Aires were damp and cold. The only warm room was our kitchen. Our live-in housekeeper Mercedes Basaldúa would turn on the gas oven and open the oven door.

In other rooms we had a tall red kerosene stove. The stench of the kerosene was awful. Mercedes would put a pan of water with leaves from a bush in our garden that we called cedrón. Sixty nine years later I can now with the quick help of Google tell you that the plant in question was Aloysia citriodora which is a member of the Verbenaceae or in plane language a member of the verbena family.

In our Kitsilano garden we have another verbena, Verbena bonariensis. It has lightly fragrant flowers in a plant that can be up to 6ft tall. Because it is slender and self-seeding this plant is a friendly plant in the garden. It allows you to see what is behind if you put it in the front of the border or it can grow in the back and you can still see its flowers.

I would have never known, but I do now that our Kits Verbena bonariensis is somehow linked with a stinky red kerosene stove. 

Mercedes would remove the stove as soon as we got into bed and would bring us bricks that had been heated in the oven, wrapped in soft cloth.