The finesse fish I tasted

Did you ever enjoy grilled fish, fresh from the furnace?
I did.
When I was a teenager in Toronto, we had an Armenian next-door neighbour, Ed, who was a man of all talents, and a well-respected carpet merchant. His wife, Winnifred, was a classical pianist who gave lessons to a number of students, most of conservatory-level talent, on a baby grand piano which was large enough to fill the dining room of their 1.5 storey 1940's house. The piano stood on a very fine maroon persian rug, of course, leaving just enough room left for the student and her master to sit at the keyboard, metronome ticking. But Ed always saw to it that there were fresh flowers on the piano.

Everyone called Ed what sounded like "Hopar" to my ears, a term of endearment and respect meaning "uncle", I was told. He adored his wife and her music and her students. He would sit in the kitchen for hours over an espresso and absorb the many repetitions of Schumann and Brahms (and the Liszt goes on) whom most pianists would find difficult to perform, waiting for Chopin and Mozart. If neither of these was forthcoming within a reasonable time (two espressos), he would disappear to the basement, where he had built a darkroom.

In his country of birth, Ed had been a professional photographer. That is, he took the pictures (often using a view camera with its enormous plates) and processed them whether in color or B&W, the latter being his creative favourite.

When he came to Canada, he was mentored by a previous immigrant who was a rug seller, and in due course, opened his own shop south of the 401 highway on Avenue Road. None of these merchants were in competition with each other: they were a community and most were directly related, so they would lend a hand when one was needed.

Hopar and I became great friends: I spent many a summer leisure hour in conversation with him in the back yard. He planted a mulberry tree (later to be known as "that damned mulberry"... a term my father coined when out in his garden rooting up the weeds and the unstoppable progeny of the tree, even though it was on the far side of Ed's yard.)

One summer, Ed gave me a job at his store for two weeks while his regular help was on vacation. I typed invoices, confirmed installations with customers, kept payment records and when things were slow, tacked down expensive rugs on the floor of the shop and sprinkled dry cleaner and vacuumed them. New shipments would arrive, and we would wrestle them into the storage area. It was fascinating, tiring and he even paid me, although I would have worked for him for nothing.

Ed's accent rendered the "i" as a long "e" in English, and the reverse. So one day I found myself puzzled for a moment or two when I saw him spreading fertilizer on his extensive border garden. I asked what it was, and he said, "The very best ship sheet."

Nevertheless it was Ed's tending, care and advice that nursed a sparse wisteria vine on his side of our back porch from a pathetic trellis of six or seven vines to an impenetrable forest of violet cascades and dark green leafiness. And his roses and cucumbers were paragons of their species.

One summer day, Ed invited me to dinner, and said that we were going to have greelled feesh. I knew it would be good. We went inside, but rather than to the stove, we descended to the basement. Ed opened the furnace. Inside was a steel tray of coals, sitting on the big circular burner that was part of the typical coal-to-gas conversion. On it was a grill, and on that were three white fish, that from my cloistered experience of mainly breaded fish sticks, I failed to recognize.



Hopar turned them over gently, closed the door, and went into the darkroom to show me his latest work. From the drying line he unclipped this picture. Five minutes later, we retrieved the perfectly grilled whatever-it-was, repaired to the kitchen, and with certain fresh additions from the garden, sat down in the guest bedroom, now converted to a dining area. Beethoven thundered from the music room. The metronome ticked relentlessly. But the furnace fish was finesse fish. I have not tasted its like since.


New owners inhabit our houses now. The music and the strong Armenian coffee are long gone. I have no idea what transpires in the neighbourhood these days, except that the price of those houses has increased more than tenfold. But I have no better wish for you than that you may enjoy neighbours on all your boundaries like Ed and Winnie.

(I wrote this with Canadian spellings in honour of my favourite neighbour who did me so many favours.)

Drumming up support for the newlyweds

So let me share with you my impressions of a wedding we attended today.

This was the first time I can remember being the wedding band. And we were golden! The couple had requested that the OGADE group provide background music for the guests, although African drumming is not, by nature, a background type of activity. Far from it.

The day started out raining and dreary and progressed from there to dreary and raining. The location was at a farm and wilderness preserve some 20 km west of the city of Hamilton, Ohio. Although J and I were almost the first of the band to arrive, almost every available parking place was occupied, so I was directed to a space behind the drive shed.

After unloading Jo and her djembe as close as I could to the pavilion (a massive white plastic tent at the margins of a very large lawn), I drove around as instructed, but lost my nerve when I put the car into reverse and the wheels turned and spun in two ruts made for and by the occasion. Neona and I solved the problem by parking her behind another car on the lawn. No ruts for the wicked.

Entering the tent, we located our spot in the far corner, next to a very large white box with a vent on the bottom. The family had rented this massive electric heater to blow hot air into the tent. There was another one at the opposite end.

At least a hundred people were convening as the rest of our group rendezvoused and began to noodle on the various instruments. L had brought a melodious metal balafon which he had made at a workshop in Ghana. It has a beautiful sound and plays easily, enough to be heard over the thumping of the djembes and dunduns and bucking up the courage of the quavering flute.

One of our members lives up the road. He had the sense to drive his tractor, should any of the guests' vehicles require extrication from the muddiness. He is also a fine gourd and scraper player, never breaking the rhythm, which helps when you are striving for syncopation.

Our first number was a hot one indeed. The massive electric heater was working at full bore, and although the tempo stayed constant, the temperature shot up. However, this was only a temporary problem, since during the next piece, the heater failed, and only cold, moist air blasted us. Through it all, great artists that we were, we kept the beat.

Then, it came time for the ceremony. Everyone stood up throughout, which meant that nobody could see properly. Some knew how to use the sound system while others did not. The usual stuff, although I must say in retrospect that this was the first time I had heard someone read "Green Eggs and Ham" by Dr. Seuss as a wedding blessing or whatever it was. Other magic moments were applauded enthusiastically as well, and to our surprise and delight, one of the valedictorians read the lyrics of Leonard Cohen's "Dance me to the end of love". Then came the vows, accompanied by the ring falling in the mud (as I later learned), and the circle of life moved on.

At that point the thumping of J's lone djembe invited us to ramp up the celebration again. Quickly the Billyphon joined the fray, and soon all the drummers, shakers and scrapers were in the thick of it once again. Finally hunger prevailed and conversation resumed.

The reception food delighted everyone, the vegetarians in particular. Have you ever experienced a spinach salad with parmesan and strawberry slices?

I believe I inadvertently shared my hot dog with the family springer spaniel. I accidentally dropped the other half of it, and he, a member of a noted family of conservationists, determined that it not be wasted. The numerous bottles of free wine were not wasted either.

At the end of it all, packing up and heading home, we said our goodbyes. Our leader reminded us that Monday night we were due for one more rehearsal with the belly dancers. I'm so glad he didn't say, "Billydancers". I don't dance. Don't ask me.

Food for thought

On Friday the OGADE drum and gourd ensemble in which J and I participate assembled at a local church gymnasium just before supper. This was a free meal evening, a recurring feature of the social outreach of this particular congregation to any who find themselves in need of nourishment.

Perhaps 70-80 persons were in attendance, along with another 15 or so volunteers who circulated among the tables, bearing paper plates of a macaroni+spinach+mystery meat dish and a half slice of bread to whoever wanted them. There was coffee, tea, juice and water.

So, to the accompaniment of several djembes and assorted shakers, bells and balafon, the evening began. The leader, P, and members of the group who have mastered the various traditional rhythms and even know the various names took the lead as they always do, and soon people were beguiled by the unstoppable energy that cascaded from the stage and neutralized most conversation.

After several numbers were offered it was time for our supper, so we dispersed into the crowd and were served. The table where J and I sat had four interesting companions. One was a fellow who reminded me of Willie Nelson: dark clothes and black shoulder-length hair that came together via an elastic band at the back. He responded that he'd been called worse. Across from him sat a short, thin woman who claimed that she couldn't eat spinach: it would make her puke.

One tall gentleman moved from one end to the other end of the table when a buddy of his showed up. While the buddy chowed down at least four plates worth of the entree, this fellow talked about his job in a plastics extrusion-forming factory. It consisted of waiting 60 seconds and then opening a door to an oven-moulding machine, and retrieving a part that would be further finished into some component of an automobile. He was proud of his consistently-high performance. No, he didn't find it mind-numbingly boring: he was fascinated by the various products that he produced, because they were all done by custom moulds that were changed whenever a given job lot was completed.

-- As an aside, J and I watch a cable program from Canada called "How it's Made". We use it to go to sleep by: I doubt that we've ever seen more than two or three of these programs in its entirety. So much automation, and in many cases, it looks like workers are employed to do the jobs that robots refuse. --

After supper, P handed around a number of small gourds to the children in the hall, and led them around to one of our drum sequences. Such natural performers. Personally, I think he was on a recruitment drive for OGADE.

For the final couple of numbers we were joined by an older fellow who wanted to play his harmonica with us. Of course, lacking amplification, it was completely drowned out by the percussion, but he seemed immensely satisfied by his performance and asked to come back the next time.

Out in the parking lot, L suggested that we go for a coffee, but it's very difficult to find exotic coffee outlets within a reasonable driving distance. Various reasons and excuses were offered as the group melted away, each to their own Friday night activities. Mine, as it turned out, was to go get supper. I was not a huge aficionado of spinach, macaroni and mystery meat.

Later that evening, when we went to the local McDonald's, we were astounded to learn that one couple there had been waiting 20 minutes for their food order. There were only about three people on duty, and several drive-thru cars were waiting as well. J and I circled the local fast-food emporiums but nothing appealed to our jaded tastes, so we pulled into the local Subway outlet and brought home a couple of six-inch delights.

Even the moon was nearly full as we speculated on the nature of life and the injustice of it all. J pointed out that the money squandered by Bush and his pals so far in the Middle East (not to mention the lives lost) could have given every U.S. citizen a million dollars. That would pretty well put church basement charity suppers out of business.