On Saturday 21 September, I drove with my daughters Alexandra and Hilary to Fort Langley. We found a good restaurant to eat and somehow we manoeuvred around the crowds. I found a little frame so I bought it for $13. Because I can now print to size, I can buy frames in any size.

21 September 2024

At home I kept looking at the little girl in the frame. It was when I opened the frame that I saw that she had a name. I wondered when the little photograph was put in. I asked myself, "Is Corrie still alive?" "How did the frame get to a Fort Langley antique market?"

The little picture reminded me of an event in my life that I will never forget. In 1950, when I was 8, my mother took me to the Buenos Aires Philippine Legation on Calle Florida. It was in the same building as the American Embassy. My mother left me at the adjacent Lincoln Library (an arm of the US Information Agency) which I am sure was run by spies. I picked a book which was called American Heritage. In it saw photographs taken by Timothy O’Sullivan during the American Civil War. There were soldiers that were dead and others that were alive. Such was the clarity of the pictures (the first I had ever seen in b+w?) that  they gave me a little shock. They looked like the people walking outside on Florida. I thought, “The people outside are alive. The soldiers both the dead and the lives on were once all alive.”

That book made me be aware, for the first time, that there was something called death.

I felt a similar reaction  in me to the Buenos Aires American Heritage book that hit me hard when I found out that the little girl in the frame had a name.

It filled me with a sadness and I wondered if some day, when I am long gone, someone will find the frame with the picture of my granddaughter Lauren with Pancho. 

Should I open the frame and write Lauren’s name?                                         

Rosa 'Queen of Sweden' 19 September 2024

“Creo que no te quiero, que solamente quiero la imposibilidad tan obvia de quererte. Como el guante izquierdo enamorado de la mano derecha.” Julio Cortázar

“I believe I do not love you, that I only want the impossibility so obvious of loving you. Like the the left hand glove in love with the right hand.” My translation

I have been looking at this pristine pair of Rosemary’s white gloves for months. They are there when I go downstairs to feed my cats their breakfast. Today I decided I had to write about the gloves. I had the idea of scanning them in conjunction with a white rose. The only rose in bloom today was Rosa ‘Queen of Sweden’. It is small and dainty just like my Rosemary. It will do.

“Solo los dos sabemos la falta que nos hacemos” - Mario Benedetti

 “Only we two know how we need each other.” My translation

It is a pity that in the Anglo/Central Canada and the United States we have little knowledge of some of the writers and poets south of us.

I have a love for two Uruguayan writers, Mario Benedetti and Eduardo Galeano. What is it about Latin American authors who write about self-evident stuff in a way that when I spotted the above I marvelled at its beauty?

Every day, every moment of my present existence since Rosemary died on December 9, 2020 is one that confirms what Benedetti wrote. Her absent presence is comforting in that I know I need her and somehow she is around because of my thoughts.

Today when I took Niño for his walk around the block (no leash) I thought about what Benedetti wrote and how now Niño, Niña and I feel (they must!) this closeness of needing each other.

For those who might not know about Latin American geography I can reveal that tomorrow is Mexico’s Independence Day. The correct name for the country is Estados Unidos Mexicanos.

Uruguay is not plain Uruguay. They are La República Oriental del Uruguay. Because they are on the Eastern side of the River Plate, oriental is inserted in their name. Argentines are called orientales (we do not capitalize nationalities in Spanish). To me, personally, I can reveal that my first girlfriend in Argentina, Corina Poore was Oriental as she was born in Uruguay.

A Uruguayan politician in the 30s promised that if he were elected he was going to build a highway from the capital city of Montevideo to the seaside town of Colonia that was going to be downhill both ways.

He lost.