CanadianCapitalTownHouse's Profile

Beautiful spaces... I can't help but think of the poem -- Church Going by British poet Philip Larkin...

Philip Larkin - Church Going

Once I am sure there's nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence.

Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new -
Cleaned, or restored? Someone would know: I don't.
Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce
'Here endeth' much more loudly than I'd meant.
The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.

Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
And always end much at a loss like this,
Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,
When churches will fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show,
Their parchment, plate and pyx in locked cases,
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?

Or, after dark, will dubious women come
To make their children touch a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort will go on
In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
But superstition, like belief, must die,
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,

A shape less recognisable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place for what it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff
Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative,

Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation - marriage, and birth,
And death, and thoughts of these - for which was built
This special shell? For, though I've no idea
What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
It pleases me to stand in silence here;

A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognized, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.

I recently moved from Central Massachusetts to Ottawa... Miss my Trader Joe's immensely! I live in Centretown and so mostly shop Herb and Spice (local), Nicastros (also local) and stay as far away from Loblaws as I possibly can. There is a Whole Foods coming to Ottawa -- it's very controversial -- big American chain and all that -- but I will welcome it with open arms. I can't wait for the farmer's markets to open up this spring -- Parkdale and Landsdowne. Shop local!

Years ago, I hosted my first super bowl party for the neighborhood. I wasn't a football fan and I rarely watched television. I was so proud of myself -- the food laid out, the beer and other beverages purchased, my 18 inch television dusted. I forgot one thing -- to check if I actually got the channel that was broadcasting the game. My guests and I were soon trooping the food and drink across snow banks to the nearest house that actually had cable. Duh!

My former neighbor -- well, she was vocal. In bed. With her boyfriend. You get the picture. She was vocal, usually, between 11:30 pm and 12:00 am, every other night (they were a young attractive couple). And not just at the end, but all throughout. It was very predictable really... With some embarrassment, one evening, I offered my new boyfriend a running play-by-play. He started mimicking her and wouldn't stop until I stuffed a pillow in his face. The last draw -- a Saturday afternoon, in my kitchen, cooking -- she started again. Believe me it was not a suitable soundtrack for baking cupcakes. Enough I said to myself and turned my radio up -- she stopped, but only for a minute. I came to the conclusion that it was part of her repertoire. They recently moved out. Another young attractive couple moved in. Thankfully, they are discreet or perhaps celibate.

Signed 'Finally sleeping in Ottawa'.

Does anyone have thoughts re: 3 quart vs the larger oval one? 5.5 seems a bit big for everyday use unless you are feeding an army.

Cheers!

Nope... kitschy!

That's going to be one great yard sale!

Perhaps the picture comes with a disclaimer -- don't try this at home...

Wonderful tour! Why move? -- 800 square feet is plenty for a family of 3. I lived in a little bungalow (900 sq feet) which had originally been the home to a family of 4 and a maiden aunt. If you love it, put down roots and stay until the landlord kicks you out the door.

My grandmother would serve me stewed rhubarb with a left-over tea biscuit or bran muffin... and of course a big mug of tea (half milk). Miss you a bunch Nana!