Winter City

I’m a four-season girl. I’ve grown up in a climate that had four distinct seasons and I definitely appreciate each of them, including winter. A recent polar vortex caused temperatures where I live to dip below -42 degrees Celsius (-55 degrees Celsius with the windchill!), so when it warmed up to a relatively “balmy” -14 (-24), we decided to take the opportunity to get some fresh air, go for a hike and explore life beyond the walls we’ve been surrounded by as a result of the pandemic.

Wanuskewin has been a gathering place for nomadic tribes for over six thousand years. Today, it is a designated heritage park showcasing Indigenous art and culture, as well as an active archaeological site providing context and connection to our history from present day Treaty 6 territory in Saskatchewan, Canada. It also offers a museum, restaurant featuring Indigenous cuisine, and numerous hiking trails to explore the Northern Plains.

Art is how we decorate space. Music is how we decorate time.

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When I was twelve-years-old, I wanted to be like Mariah Carey. I, of course, had her albums (or, rather, cassette tapes) and would try to emulate—poorly—her famous five octave vocal range while dancing in the basement. But like every little girl seeking someone to idolize, I also wanted to look like her. By replicating her appearance, I felt I could also pass as beautiful and talented and thus become respected and beloved rather than skirting the edge of being an outsider in the notoriously fickle arena of junior high (which I was about to enter). The summer before starting at my new school, I begged my mom for a haircut and PERM(!). To my credit, a perm was still “of the time” and I wanted to make a statement. I needed to be a new person for this milestone event in my young life and it was all to start with my hair. She obliged and we went to a small, nondescript salon in the basement of a small office building in our neighbourhood. I shared an image of Mariah from her MTV Unplugged appearance (above) and told the stylist it was what I wanted to look like. She reviewed it briefly and asked me to sit down. Through age and experience, I would realize this response means someone doesn’t really give a fuck what you want but at the time I was still able to naively believe they cared.

I can’t remember how I felt when it was all done. My parents certainly made no comments that weren’t positive but that would be short-lived. During a visit to extended family, I overheard an aunt laugh and comment to another on “the bad perm” I had. Negatively commenting on a kid’s appearance within earshot is never something that adults should do, lest they internalize it and have it lead to a life-long complex, but it did have the benefit of preparing me for the reaction I would receive when I started school. Needless to say, my transformative appearance did turn me into a new person, as I wanted, just not the person I desired to be. I was not Mariah. I was Deborah … with really bad hair.

I relate this story as I am reading Mariah’s memoir The Meaning of Mariah Carey and it brought about a flood of 90s nostalgia for me. I pivoted towards other music as junior high and then high school progressed, with Courtney Love becoming the person I chose to emulate (I’m sure to the dismay of my parents) but childhood icons have a way of being part of our lives even as we move on. When I turned eighteen and started to visit nightclubs nearly every weekend, Mariah’s evolving, more urban sound continued to provide soundtrack in passing. Not to mention the fashion sense of the time which she led with now straightened hair and midriff-revealing tops and thigh-revealing skirts (which I now lack the body and confidence to pull off but am glad I did when I could). When she visited my hometown during the Emancipation of Mimi tour, I bought tickets and was entertained with one of the top three best concerts I’ve ever attended (with The Hives and M.I.A. being the other two, showing how diverse my music tastes evolved).

The book details what I long assumed. That the diva persona Mariah took on is mostly a one-sided act to a multi-dimensional artist. That appearances of having it all can betray the truth. That childhood trauma reverberates through the decades. There’s also candid talk about the notoriously shady music industry; her creative process and favourite part of writing a song; a toxic, stifling marriage; and, relationships that leave one longing, with Mariah admitting that her affair with baseball superstar Derek Jeter (unconsummated until divorce, she stresses) left her heartbroken for years about what could have been. Rarely do you see someone so vulnerable as within these pages and it is completely refreshing. Reading about her life as an adult made me relate on a level beyond the superficial. Rather than coveting her appearance, I now admire her resolve.

The Meaning of Mariah Carey
Written by Mariah Carey with Michaela Angela Davis

Favourite line: “But ours is a story of betrayal and beauty. Of love and abandonment. Of sacrifice and survival. I’ve emancipated myself from bondage several times, but there is a cloud of sadness that I suspect will always hang over me, not simply because of my mother but because of our complicated journey together.”

The Gift of Fear
Written by Gavin deBecker

I’ve always felt that a women’s superpower is her intuition. This book delves into why we should listen to that instinct, breaking down the strategies and tricks people use to let your guard down leaving you vulnerable. The author will teach you how to use fear to your advantage by recognizing potentially dangerous situations and (predictable) behaviours in a number of scenarios.

Favourite line: “Nature’s greatest accomplishment, the human brain, is never more efficient or invested than when its host is at risk.”

On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft
Written by Stephen King

During these times of social distancing, self-isolation and tons of newly-found free time, I’ve been motivating myself to learn more about the art and craft of writing. In addition to taking a workshop with one of my favourite authors, Anne Lamott, I’ve also read through tips from another, very well-known master: Stephen King. This book acts as a brief memoir into the life of the famous horror and supernatural author, his childhood and struggles (including the 1999 accident in which a distracted driver almost left him paralyzed) but the other half of it’s too-short 291 pages is straight-up insight into how to write in a way that connects and illuminates. Highly recommended.

Favourite line: “I distrust plot for two reasons: first, because our lives are largely plotless, even when you add in all our reasonable precautions and careful planning; second, because I believe plotting and the spontaneity of real creation aren’t compatible.”

My favourite Mariah song (written about Derek Jeter while still married to Tommy Mottola):

Qualia

Winter. 1984. Our breath was visible in the still December air as we worked together to build an igloo. His skill level in this area was far more advanced from mine, the form and function of the snow blocks he constructed provided an actual foundation for our structure that wouldn’t collapse under its own weight, whereas mine weren’t even suitable as ornamentation. But that was okay. I was more of a supervisor anyway. And he had around thirty years of experience on me.

I hold a very vivid memory of four-year-old me building an igloo with my dad in the park next to my childhood home. I don’t know why this particular moment has stuck out all these years later but from the chill in the air to the periwinkle shade of my parka, I can close my eyes and feel the pieces of the night come together as though they happened yesterday. The sky, in particular, is something I regularly try to conjure. The opaque darkness, visible galaxies and illumination from the moon on the snow were too beautiful for words. As my childhood neighbourhood evolves, and reflected light from the growing city increases, it isn’t a moment I could ever recreate again. Being able to stargaze from my backyard isn’t the only thing lost though. So much of life is chasing a feeling we once had.

When the igloo was complete, I remember throwing a celebratory snowball up in the air. Missing where it fell, I led myself to believe that I flung it so high, it soared off into space reaching those very same stars. And my dad played along.

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Fall. 2020. We are several months into a global pandemic that has society collectively nostalgic for international travel and sports & entertainment, not to mention warm proximity to other human beings rather than recoiling in horror as a stranger approaches too close (maybe that’s just me, thankfully my mask hides most facial expressions). While taking an annual vacation (or two) was always something I looked forward to, I honestly have no idea when that will occur again. I currently don’t feel comfortable taking a plane or staying in a hotel, not to mention visiting any busy tourist sites. My trip this year was returning to the place I grew up, Winnipeg, to spend time with my mom and dog and revisit my childhood home through the lens of time.

It should be noted that interprovincial travel was permitted and even encouraged by the government. As well, I took numerous precautions while making the drive which included my omnipresent mask, gloves for pumping fuel, hand sanitizer in every crevice of my vehicle and purse, and pretty much isolating myself to the company of just my mom and dog for several weeks. I did not quarantine as I wasn’t required to, but I socially distanced from anyone outside of the household. My partner is a scientist who has instilled the risks of cross-contamination into me (even before Covid) and I am beyond cautious, prepared and respectful of guidelines.

During my time off, I used the opportunity to try the Japanese art of shinrin-yoku or forest bathing. The ancient practice is a method of enhancing one’s sense of wellbeing through connection with nature, and involves a leisurely walk through the woods while being present and acquaintanced with everything going on around you. With my dog by my side, our daily adventures involved hiking through landscape of boreal, the calm of which was pierced only by a symphony of crickets and the occasional bushy-tailed squirrel scurrying in the underbrush. After feeling like the human equivalent of a flat tire for the past couple months, the peace and clarity this brought me was just what I needed. I’ve had a hard time creating of late–writing, designing, even cooking–and hopefully this was a reset.

Normally during a once-in-a-lifetime event like a global pandemic, I would document things by way of photography and prose. While I have done a bit of the latter, I regret that I didn’t capture some of the unique sights of the first wave such as my colleagues and I hurriedly filling boxes with office equipment after receiving a tight, unexpected deadline to pack up for remote working. Or how every single billboard in my city at one point featured the exact same PPE messaging on it. Driving down one of our main thoroughfares and seeing the repetitive image of a woman wearing a face shield was one of the first times I felt how dystopian things were becoming. Then there was the overall emptiness of a once lively mid-size city that became a ghost town devoid of visible human life virtually overnight. It’s one thing to process tragedy happening in a far away land but watching as the waves approach, shape and affect your own existence is quite another and something most in the West aren’t used to (or willing to accept, as evidenced by the current deadly follies of those believing this to be a hoax).

But in contrast to the stress of our times there were some positive insights as well, such as the realization that I share a home (and my heart) with an individual that is truly selfless and caring, and that in the decade since I moved away from Winnipeg I have created a wonderful new family of friends and neighbours that supplement all of my human needs for connection and belonging in the most trying of times.

Stargazing with my dad as a kid left an imprint on my life. Now I live in the land of living skies.

Somewhere between earth and sky, I’ve found my home.

All buckled in and ready for adventure (©2020).

All buckled in and ready for adventure (©2020).

Covid signage erected at civic parks in Winnipeg (©2020).

Covid signage erected at civic parks in Winnipeg (©2020).

My favourite place to escape and connect with nature– La Barriere Park, south of Winnipeg (©2020).

My favourite place to escape and connect with nature– La Barriere Park, south of Winnipeg (©2020).

Monty getting his fitness on (©2020).

Monty getting his fitness on (©2020).

My ham, Monty, and I on one of our daily hikes. Monty’s taco fiesta harness and matching leash from Canadian company Blue Paw Co. Support local (©2020).

My ham, Monty, and I on one of our daily hikes. Monty’s taco fiesta harness and matching leash from Canadian company Blue Paw Co. Support local (©2020).

Time capsule portrait for 2020. Mask handmade in Canada from Econica. Support local (©2020).

Time capsule portrait for 2020. Mask handmade in Canada from Econica. Support local (©2020).

9,000

It’s been six months since I first heard of COVID-19. As was my ritual, I’d watch the evening news each night before heading to slumber and noted reports of a new, mysterious coronavirus identified in Wuhan, China. I didn’t pay it much attention, continuing to plan and book a holiday to Newfoundland that, in an alternate universe, I would soon be taking. Within a few weeks though, the tone and urgency of messaging changed and I understood the ramifications of human ignorance as cruise ships were left stranded at sea without port and countries called upon their military to help with the sheer volume of the dead.

Just six months later, updated daily death counts on the same newscast are normalized. It’s a strange detail to a strange reality. Even stranger is how little people seem affected by it. Whether through deliberate avoidance or willful denial, a large portion of the population doesn’t appear to be humbled by mass death. Meanwhile, I’m low-key drafting my will. I often wonder how this will be processed and reflected upon in the decades to come. I feel a major part of the discussion and dissertation will revolve around society’s dependency on the structures of capitalism rather than community and our subsequent increasing separation from the natural world.

As of this writing, there are just shy of 9,000 lives lost to COVID-19 in Canada (679,000+ worldwide). Those are nine-thousand people who have family and other loved ones mourning their loss. Nine-thousand individual stories of life that go beyond being a number on a counter. And that nine-thousand statistic includes people of all ages and socio-economic backgrounds. No one is immune. We don’t hear much of this. Of the plans, hopes and dreams cut short. A lot of what we see has been dehumanized by design, for detachment and convenience, but I personally feel it’s important to remember. Being thoughtful towards others, as well as mindful of your own mortality and the fragility of existence, is essential in times such as these. Empathy is a balm.

I’ve been thinking of my father a lot of late. In some ways, the world since his passing would be unrecognizable to him. In other ways, it would be similar in ways only he could truly understand. In his final months, one of my father’s favourite places to visit was IKEA because they had wheelchairs at the entrance available for those who might require them. Not those giant motorized scooters that seniors use to blaze down the aisles of Wal-Mart, but an actual wheelchair that would allow his daughter to walk with him in normal pace while window-shopping couches and bookshelves. While being pushed around an endless maze disguised as a furniture store doesn’t sound like a great time, this respite from cancer treatments and feeling part of society again, no matter how banal, was greatly welcomed. Most businesses and other public places did not make this consideration. Spending time with someone immunocompromised made me realize first-hand how little we, as a society, take into account the needs–physical, mental and emotional–of those with varying health conditions.

Which leads me to current recommendations by health officials to wear a mask in public spaces to help limit the spread of COVID-19 (and the unfortunate resistance of some that it is in violation of their “freedom”, as though one man’s rebellion to wear a small piece of fabric on his face is equivalent to the entire life and worth of someone else). It’s a simple measure that would help people like my father feel recognized, regarded and safe while trying to live during a time when added stress and uncertainty should be minimized. But it is also a small measure to help others as part of your community. Because any one of us may become part of the 9,000.

A New Normal

It is stated that every generation has their defining moment. An historical event that challenges the status quo and changes everything. I sit on the cusp of being either a millennial or generation-X—the markers seem to shift as social commentators and other pundits seek to stereotype those with behavioural habits askew from their own perceived norms. Wherever I may fall, during my lifetime I have lived through the collapse of the U.S.S.R. (and subsequent rise of Putin), 9/11, several, seemingly endless wars in the Middle East, the normalization of mass shootings, unchecked capitalism, the invention of the internet and true globalization.

All of these things will have a reverberatory effect for decades to come.

But the unprecedented events of the past month will, perhaps, exceed them.

I’ve wanted to write and document about this time for the past few weeks but just couldn’t muster the energy. The weight of the news—of daily headlines that announce death on a scale not seen outside of war, of an enemy you can’t predict or protect from—bore on my mind and body to the point of daily migraines and body aches. As some touted this as a great time to get projects completed that may have once been cast aside, my personal productivity was low. Thankfully still employed, my normal work was the only thing I wanted to use brainpower for. Outside of that, it’s been binging Tiger King and reading Choose Your Own Adventure books from my childhood. Just enough ludicrous fantasy to distract from the dismal realities of COVID-19.

Added to this is the stress of having no siblings and trying to care for an elderly, widowed parent while living a thousand kilometres away. Never mind the great toilet paper shortage of 2020, it’s been a challenge getting basic pantry necessities for my mother. Rice is increasingly a rare luxury. Even a box of Kraft Dinner now has a street value in excess of its worth. Personally I’m mostly missing fresh garlic, a staple of my cooking that I haven’t seen in weeks.

My last visit to a grocery store was surreal. A guard stood at the front entrance of Safeway watching over a line twenty deep waiting patiently, six feet apart, to get in for supplies. Upon entry, all shoppers were required to either wash their hands at a newly installed station or use disinfectant prior to having a cart handed to them by a gloved employee. Throughout the aisles, bright orange arrows on the ground directed shoppers around the store to aid social distancing (although a few ignored these measures and I was surprised at how quickly I felt anxiety to being close to another human being). Never before had I realized - and longed for - the simple pleasure of loitering. Pasta, canned soup and frozen vegetables were scarce. We are often reminded that supply chains are working but sights like this seem to incite hoarders to buy more as product comes in to the point where little is left for others. I predict there are a lot of peanut butter sandwiches in my near future.

I celebrated my fourtieth birthday a few days ago. My partner and I stayed inside and made a chocolate cake with whatever ingredients we had on-hand. It was delicious and rich and memorable for a number of reasons, not least of which was watching someone bake for the first time. I am very thankful to have a “quarantine” buddy.

Thoughts of my mother still weighed on my mind though. Normally, I would be in my hometown in early Spring visiting with her and my beloved dog Monty (who is her own quarantine buddy now). Being with a loved one, tangibly connecting with their presence, is such an important part of the human experience and I fear the wave of mental health issues that loom as we all navigate through this time. Moreso than any other aspect of this contagion, hearing about people who don’t get to say goodbye or pay proper respects to their lost loved ones saddens me the most. There’s a pain there that will never go away.

On April 1, I phoned my mother and she played an April Fools joke me, as is tradition within the Clague household. It was unexpected this year and her howling laughter at pulling a fast one on me filled my soul with a warmth that I hadn’t felt in weeks. Some aspects of life have remained the same.

The Decade: The Amateur Chef

Growing up, my relationship with food was much different than it is today. Food’s primary purpose was fuel, a means to garner the energy that youth required. It was also pretty routine and safe. My homemaker mom had a few specialties that she seemed to rotate on a weekly basis. This included well-cooked pork chops with a pinch of black pepper, Prego-drenched spaghetti and, my favourite, chicken fingers and fries (being from Winnipeg, I’ve also eaten my weight in pirogies several times over). Food was not an indulgence in my childhood home. Meals were not made from scratch but rather selected for convenience. Up until a few years ago, this was my outlook as well.

The kitchen in my home is bigger than I’d ever had before. The large island just beckons to be put to use, although for a long time it was neglected to the role of storage space for paperwork and other random items. I would occasionally attempt baking something easy but nothing of intricacy. My desire to truly become a gastronomy student was instilled by my partner. One of our first dates was dinner at an Indian restaurant. He was excited to introduce me to biriyani, a rice dish heavy with spices and mixed with assorted meats. My experience with Indian food was minimal up until that point and I was admittedly concerned about the effect it would have on my limited-palate stomach. I approached it slowly, taking small spoonfuls … until I couldn’t stop. The flavour was so rich. It opened my eyes to a whole new world. Biriyani has also become my favourite food. I like it more than pizza - which is really testament to how delicious it is.

Now I take a great pleasure in not only eating but the entire process of cooking from researching new recipes to learning what umami is. When I travel, I am most excited about leisurely exploring the grocery stores and markets for spices and other ingredients not readily available at home. My creative flair is now being applied to cuisine as both hobby and art form. My waistline may be expanding but my overall health and enjoyment in life has never been better.

Cooking at an apartment in Paris (©2019, Deborah Clague).

Cooking at an apartment in Paris (©2019, Deborah Clague).

Bison kebab with homemade tzatziki (©Deborah Clague, 2017).

Bison kebab with homemade tzatziki (©Deborah Clague, 2017).

Tandoori chicken with biriyani (©2019, Deborah Clague).

Tandoori chicken with biriyani (©2019, Deborah Clague).

Lemon-garlic-rosemary chicken with black rice and vegetables (©2019, Deborah Clague).

Lemon-garlic-rosemary chicken with black rice and vegetables (©2019, Deborah Clague).