Don't Mess With Texas

Last Tuesday, I flew down to Texas. Destination: Seminole in Gaines County, West Texas.



I was heading down there to meet this town and its people who want me to teach them Biblical Hebrew. It's funny, because although my Dad is proud that I've dedicated (part of) my (academic) life to obtaining my "Masters Degree of the Obscure," I'm sure he's often wondered if those studies would ever lead to gainful employment. And, the common reaction I've received upon telling people my reason for heading to west Texas is: "Huh? Why?" And, really, it's a fair reaction: Biblical Hebrew is not the language or subject matter that automatically springs to mind when we think of special interest classes here in Toronto. We're more inclined to take a class on Sushi rolling or Spanish.

So, Mary - yes, of Jerusalem-roommate-fame - met me at the airport in Midland-Odessa. It's been a year and a half since we've seen each other and it felt like we'd left each other yesterday. My flight arrived late so we spent the night at the Howard Johnson's in Midland then drove the hour and a half north to Seminole the next morning. Here's the landscape:



That's right, Pump Jacks as far as the eye can see across this very flat expanse of the state. It was really cool when I was flying out of Midland-Odessa airport three days later to look down and see green squares of land stretched out below and in each square was a smaller sandy square amidst which was set a Pump Jack. Not one or two but hundreds.

Just before we slowed down to take this photo ("Hey Mary! I'll bet that burger is actual size - we are in Texas."), I saw my first State Trooper pulling a car over. My shutter-trigger-finger was too slow to get a shot of him, but how cool is that? He had on a big cowboy hat 'n' everything. Yes, I'm easily impressed by sighting lawmen that I thought only existed in movies.



This is the other sign I found heeelarious. This is on the way into Andrews, between Seminole and Midland-Odessa. Does anyone else want to belong, if they don't already, to a Complex (with a capital "C") Community? Or is that just me?


Driving into Seminole, TX, is like stepping back in time: there's no Starbucks, there's no mall. There is a McDonald's, a Subway and a Walmart, but otherwise there are none of the modern commercial conveniences to which we're accustomed. It was refreshing - but also necessitates owning a vehicle. The people, though! All of the people I met are warm, welcoming and eager to have me in their community and to share with them my knowledge of Biblical Hebrew - which I have to admit, is far from exhaustive but is something that I love. The other thing I have to admit to is really enjoying the company of these people and how grateful I was that they busted a lot of the stereotypes (and I truly love it when this happens in any situation) that we Northerners may have of Southerners. No one asked me if I were married, what my religious beliefs are, nor did they try to convert me to theirs. There were no snakes or talking in tongues or hellfire and brimstone at the Pentecostal church service that we went to, led by Bobby. In fact, and I hope he won't be offended by this, but I'd have to say that Bobby is a feminist: his sermon - which he warned "may offend some people, and for that I'm sorry" - was all about how if you don't understand women, you won't understand the Bible. He proceeded to outline how the menstrual cycle and gestation of a human baby line up with the holy-feast days of the Jewish calendar. It was interesting, to say the least, food for thought.

I was not in the middle of a Flannery O'Connell novel.

So, this next adventure isn't a sure thing yet, but we'll cross our fingers for it to be. Yes, I'll take Annie. And, yes, if I'm down there for any length of time I'm quite sure I'll pick up a wee twang in my voice. I already say 'y'all' and I can't seem to answer a yes-or-no question anymore without adding 'ma'am' or 'sir' at the end.

The Angel

A week ago, I would have told you: Don't be fooled, she's a wee devil. This week, she lives up to her pose. She not only looks sweet but is sweet: she's well-behaved, funny, eating all her apples, and sleeping 8 hours straight. Thanks to her nose halty, she walks right beside me without attempts to dislocate my shoulder or chances of traumatizing toddlers. Two weeks ago, Annie, at 16 weeks old, weighed in at 37lbs. Yup, she's gonna be a big dawg.

Meet Annie

Her full name is Colonel Anne, after one of my ancestors, Lady Anne MacIntosh, who rallied a bunch of troops from Clan MacIntosh in the 1700s during the Jacobite uprisings in Scotland. The king (deposed king? Scottish history is convoluted and I get easily confused by it - if it were the 1700s BCE, I'd have no problems with it...) - anyway, some king nicknamed her Colonel Anne. The really cool part? Lady Anne fought on the other side, not her husband's. At one point, her husband was arrested and put in her custody then when the political tides turned, she was arrested and put in her husband's custody. I think that's hysterical. I'm hoping to find an account of their personal lives together. That's probably some juicy reading.

My brother, Jason and his wife, Claudette, had decided to breed their golden Lab, Shiloh. She had eight puppies on the day I went in to have a cancerous mole removed. They were calling her Annie since she was three weeks old and it stuck. Annie was born 30 November and came home to me on 31 January. She is such an Annie: "Greek name: (meaning) gorgeous, kindhearted, rebellious, gentle towards others." (urbandictionary.com); or "a variant of Ann (Hebrew) and Hannah (Hebrew), and the meaning of Annie is 'favored grace'". (thinkbabynames.com)


I now get up at 6am. We have a fairly regulated eating schedule, which is new for me. She loves manhole covers and rocks. I call her My Little Geologist every time I pry open her mouth to remove the latest stone she's picked up. Even when she's sleeping, she's knows where I am and will wake up to follow me into the next room then flop down and pass out. Her favourite chewtoys = Curious George, froggies, beef tendons, and my hands. She likes cheese and hot dogs. I just found some recipes for homemade dog treats so will now bake for humans and dogs. She loves everyone she meets and will actually stop, sit and watch wistfully as every single person who has talked to her walks away. Funny and exasperating, all in one move. Her eyes are a stunning, clear green and I was told recently that they're very close in colour to my own.


The photo above is of her watching a big screen TV for the first time at Greg's, one my neighbours. She doesn't get to do that around here. We're more radio folk. Her current CBC boyfriend is Jim Curran. She likes traffic.

Girl's Day in Kensington Market

Yesterday, Mom, Claudette and Bridgette drove to the big city from the wilds 45 minutes north. Our mission was to have lunch and check out some scarves that Mom has her eye on, specifically in Kensington Market at a spot called The Blue Banana. Kensington Market is the name of a wee, funky, eclectic neighbourhood, not a "market" in the sense of "farmer's market" or "flea market" as we might recognize it since it's not housed in one large building on only one day or over a weekend. Most of the shops, especially along Kensington Avenue, are on the ground floor of beautiful, old, brick townhouses. There are vintage clothing shops, an army surplus store, grocery/produce shops, cafes, a coupla gorgeous cheese shops, bakeries, and more. You get the idea: This ain't a high-end, cookie-cutter-style-mall area. There's even an after-hours tucked away somewhere in a basement - at least, there was ten years ago. (I'm not so much into after-hours haunts anymore. I like to get out of bed at 6am now, not be crawling home at that time.) Unfortunately, my favourite shop, Courage My Love, was closed when we were there. We had so much fun poking around in the shops that were open, especially in a vintage clothing store with a huge Hallowe'en costume section in the back.

Bridgette tried on a whole bunch of wigs for us (what a good sport!), but would only pose for photos in the cool ones. She refused to have her picture taken wearing the curly pink clown number.

I've decided that I'm in love with these glasses. Even though I don't need specs in my life (yet), I'm now jonesin to own a pair like these. My Mom will shudder at this: she wore a pair of 'pickle stabbers' growing up and hated them. If you want to imagine her in them, picture me with blonde hair and blue eyes minus the goofyglam pucker: poof! a vision of my Mom!

We came across a table with cheap-o shades so Claudette treated us all to a new pair. In honour of TIFF festivities, we felt we owed it to our city to pose for the paparazzi. Well, ok, the paparazzi = Mom.

By the time we made it to The Blue Banana we were starving. It turns out that The Blue Banana is a huge very cool store, but its cafe is a coffee-counter with pastries and fun but not very suitable for lunch. Bridgette would have been happy eating cake (especially in the Marie Antoinette wig, not photographed) but we wanted something more substantial. We ended up here:

Wanda's had pizza, quiche, sandwiches and, well, pie. I had an avocado sandwich, Claudette and Bridgette shared a brie sandwich, Mom had the quiche and we also had a few little coleslaw-type salads. And the pies! Wow! Mom and I shared a slice of wild blueberry and Bridgette had a vegan chocolate cupcake, which we all had to try.

I love this big table where you can stretch out with your morning news and enjoy your coffee. I also love how you can stand at it, like a bar.

We almost forgot to tour The Blue Banana, and by the time we got there, the girls were getting a little tired so we didn't stay and poke around for as long as we would have liked. We decided to cut our losses and plan for another day in Kensington, walked back to University (amongst those walking for a breast cancer cure) and hopped the 5 Avenue Road bus home.

No Love From the Digi

I had grand plans to give you a pictorial feast of all the cool stuff I've been doing in my spare time around the apartment: my sewing corner, my balcone, furniture painting projects, baking (with recipes), blahblahblah. But, for whatever reason, my little digi won't give up its photos via USB...I don't get it but that doesn't mean I won't. Eventually. This seems to be a recurring sentiment in my life lately. Instead, I'm going into my archives and showing you some cool shots from my last days b'Yerushalayim.

This is a shot of the front corner beside Qadosh's window looking out onto Shlomzion HaMalka. I love the old radio and the little lamp. It was the second thing I noticed the first time I went here with Adrienne on St. Sylvester's Day way back on December 31st. Our New Year's Eve is called St. Sylvester's Day in Israel, since they already have New Year = Rosh HaShanah.


The first thing I noticed - that anyone notices! - upon entering Qadosh is the bar/dessert cases. Um, I could wallow in their decadent baked-goods heaven forever. I would like to find a sweet (decadent, ambiance-filled, affordable) little cafe like this in Toronto, which I could both frequent and work in.


Down this little alley and to the left is Tmol Shilshom. This was also a favourite little spot with books, ambiance, and tastytasty food - like their all-you-can-eat gorgeous pre-Shabbat buffet brunch. I took one of their menus home with me one day (on the back of each is featured a different writer) and was very excited to have scooped one with Yehuda Amichai. One thing I really liked about Tmol's is that it is tucked away, like a great, happy secret that only the cool kids know.


You'll find this on Tmol Shilshom's home page: "There're places you never forget. There're landscapes and views you keep missing your whole life. Likewise there're coffee-shops you treasure and long to revisit." That's exactly how I feel about both Qadosh and Tmol Shilshom, which is why I'm returning to them again after already having mentioned them in this post from February. I think I'd really like to combine the vibe from both these places in the hopes of re-creating the wonderful times I shared there. We don't really have a cafe culture here, not like in Israel or in the European cities I've visited. It looks, though, that this is changing: I just found an article that Toronto Life magazine did back in February about the changing cafe culture in Toronto. I like standing corrected on such subjects. Hmm, I smell a series that I can bring you on a very regular basis. It smells like latte/kafe afouk/cafe con leche/cafe creme...and pastries. With Chocolate. And with photos, if the digi ever decides to love me again.

Batting Cage Match

Today I went to the batting cages at Playdium in Mississauga with Deb, Sarah and Nina. Last summer was my third season playing softball with the Rebels. Last summer, before heading to Israel, my batting had improved dramatically and I was hitting well, compared with my previous stike-out queen status for the two seasons before this. As you can imagine, this was frustrating - letting both myself and my team down - and hitting well last summer was just so great. Well, now that I'm back on the diamond Tuesday nights I seem to have returned to this state of non-confidence in myself while at bat and am striking out more than I'm hitting - despite the fact that I'm fielding well in my position at First Base and can throw well to almost anyone other than Deb. And, I'm still striking out despite all the advice and support I constantly receive from the women on my ball team, women I look up to and who inspire me in more ways than they do on the field and in the dug-out.

So, last week Deb said calmly and matter-of-factly to Nina and I, who have not been hitting well, that we were going to the batting cages. For 10$ each, we rented one of the cages at Playdium for an hour. When we got there, there was a problem: there was a leak from all the heavy rain the night before and all the balls were wet which plays havoc with the automatic pitchers. The guys working there were furiously drying each ball by hand so they'd be ready for us, the only people to have booked a cage.

My second turn in the cage, I thought what the hell: I'm going to try batting left, when I usually bat right. It felt funny, but I started to hit the balls more regularly and further than I did when I was batting right. This might seems strange, to just switch things up like this, but when I was playing ball in a mixed league fifteen years ago, I was switch hitting. Playing on a mixed team can be a mixed blessing: on one hand, a lot of guys will treat you with kid gloves or won't give you the respect you deserve as a player just cuz you're a girl. On the other hand, a lot of other guys I played with challenged me to try things like switch hit. I was no hotdog then, I'm not now, but I sure did mess up the other team when I went up to bat and hit a little green regardless of which side of home I stood on - not bad, for a girl.

Batting left today, I hit more often and better than I did at right. I've changed my stance so that I stand straight instead of crouched. I hold the bat up high at a right angle to my shoulder. My stance has my legs closer together so that I can more easily take a step, and I swing with my body and not just my shoulders. It felt good, dinging all those balls, some of which had some air time before hitting the overhead nets. I'm hoping to maintain the confidence that I can translate from this practice to the play-offs which start next week.

I think that's a pretty big intro to what I'm about to tell you next, but to me it's pretty important. I take my baseball seriously - not in a professional, sport-is-life way, but I love to play, I am competitive, and I like the mix of competitiveness and playfulness that I enjoy with my awesome all-women team-mates. We have fun, but we have more fun when we win. So, here's the story, as told to me by Deb:

I got out of the cage after my second-to-last at-bat. Deb asked me if I'd seen the little girl standing with them. I said, no. It seems that a little girl, maybe 8 or 9 years old, was there with her dad and she told him that she wanted to play baseball, she wanted to get in the cage and hit some balls. Her dad, who was in his late thirties or early forties, said, "You can't do that. You're a girl." Deb heard him and turned to him and gave him a very dirty look. Right in front of him were three women waiting their turns to bat while giving encouragement to the fourth in the cage, me. (Who was, at that point, hitting every ball that was pitched to her, and hitting them well, while batting left.) Dad caught this look that Deb threw, and he suggested to his daughter that she move a little closer to our cage so she could watch better. While she watched, the little girl looked at my shoes (tri-colour-pink Chucks), looked at her shoes (pink sneakers), back and forth, until she finally grabbed her dad's hand with one of her own, and pointed at my shoes with the index finger of the other: "Look, Daddy, she's got pink shoes, too." (And she's belting balls while wearing them.)

My Dad bought me my first glove when I was around 8. He told me I threw like a girl. The glove he bought fit on my right hand. He assumed that I would throw left, since I write with my left and he was a southpaw pitcher in his day. I finally threw down the glove and whipped the ball to him with my right hand. Two of my four siblings and I are ambidextrous. Dad says we're just mixed up. Anyway, my father neither stopped nor discouraged me from playing sports just cuz I'm a girl. My athletic pursuits, and my sister's, were supported as equally as those taken up by my two brothers. Deb's father was the same. These two men, and many others like them, encouraged their daughters to play whatever sport(s) piqued their passion. These two men are a generation or two older than this father Deb told me about today. Maybe today changed him. But, what I really hope is that today changed his daughter: you can play ball and wear pink shoes. No one said you have to give up being a girl to play ball.