酷我-北美枫

[星子]

High Park: An oasis in the city


JOE FIORITO

High Park, it seems to me, is less used by Torontonians de vieille souche than it is by newcomers, for whom the notion of life in the public domain is perfectly consistent with the quest for privacy.

And so ignore, as best you can, the grimly habitual joggers, their rude elbows; the cyclists, who are a law unto their zephyr selves; and — watch where you step! — those arrogant geese.

Take a cue instead from the men in linen trousers, setting their charcoal braziers on the weekend grass; their women in bright robes pouring cups of tea; their children in short pants playing tentative catch with balls and gloves; in the air, there is laughter and the smell of the feast, à la Bosnia or Senegal, Bolivia or Ukraine.

This is a reminder that not all of us have yards and manicured gardens at home. This is a reminder that parks should be used. This is a reminder of life as it is lived here now.

There is park enough for all.

Did you seize the summer?
And you may admire tulips in their showy beds, or hedges scissored into crewcut conformity, or hanging baskets dripping with pretty, fleshy flowers. I prefer instead to cast a modest eye on weeds, and whisper thanks.


Because there are friends of the park who, without fanfare and in the fall of the year, collect the dry grasses and wild plants — milkweed and foxglove, sedge and aster, bergamot and columbine, campanula, oak and juniper, even sassafras; these, they freeze over the winter, and then they remove the seeds from the stems, and when the weather is right they sow their bounty in the park; here is nature, nurtured.

I don't care to do this myself — I do not like to separate wheat and chaff — but I am deeply moved that others are so inclined.

However, as you wander, do not pick the flowers; some of these are little understood, and so are being studied. Or perhaps worshipped.

In the spring of the year, follow the lay of the land, heading down to the pond in the early morning, or perhaps dusk. Stroll with as little purpose as you can, for it is best to come upon this next sight by surprise: There are a few days — the window is a small one — when you will find yourself afloat in a sea of pink. Cherry blossom time.

It is an emerging tradition for Japanese consuls, during postings here, to plant cherry trees in High Park. In the spring the blossoms — sakura — are as tender and brief as caresses, and there will be plenty of lovers to keep you company when they bloom because Toronto's Japanese couples, unable to make the pilgrimage to Mount Fuji, come here to stroll hand in hand beneath the bowers. Think of it as a bookend to leaf-peeping.

I have, on occasion, taken a bottle of cold plum wine and I have spread my Hudson Bay blanket under the cherry trees, and there I have sat and scribbled haiku, impelled by successive draughts of wine and blossom-scented air.

You may prefer to leave the haiku to the professionals. In that case, bring a copy of Essays in Idleness, by Kenko; or On Love and Barley, by Basho, if only to read this:

Under the cherry —

blossom soup, blossom salad.

Spring may be the only time of the year when, to stand an old saying on its head, flowers are better than dumplings. Still, you can only eat so much beauty. If you are very hungry, bring a bento box.

On the subject of raw fish, in the summer you may catch minnows in Grenadier Pond if the ghosts of drowned soldiers don't put you off; it seems one or more of the lads are reckoned to have fallen through the ice in the winter while on manoeuvres.

I fear neither ghost nor grenadier, but I no longer fish since I have come, in recent years, to identify the tug of the rod with the terror of the creature.

But I don't oppose the fishing of others, for nature is cruel and we are part of nature, and there are those who like to sit by the pond with the slimmest of rods, the flimsiest of lines, the tiniest of hooks and the merest of hopes afloat on puny bobbers, trying to catch the smallest of fish with ort-like crumbs of bait.

If you catch nothing, it matters not; where there are no fish, there are thoughts of fish; and the ones that got away are less numerous than the ones who have ignored you completely, and that is also useful to consider in this life. Amuse yourself instead by watching the ducks, the swans, the gulls, the geese, the sparrows.

Be aware that there are other birds.

I don't mean in the zoo.

In the fall of the year — too soon, too soon — leave your car in the lot behind the restaurant. Ignore the smell of french fry grease and walk a few steps north. Step off the asphalt, through the high grass, past the scrubby bushes. Climb the low hill. Look up.

I guarantee your gasp.

High in the sky there will be predator birds circling high on the corkscrew columns of the lazy air. Eagles, bald and golden; hawks, red-tailed and sharp-shinned; falcons, osprey, kestrels, turkey vultures. At the right time, there will be so many they will appear as thick as gnats. You will want, if only briefly, to run for cover — those claws, those beaks, those gimlet eyes.

These raptors — they would smirk at our sneaker-clad slam-dunkers — pause on high, as if gathering a breath before heading south across the lake, heading for the warmer southern states, or South America.

It is the particular swirling of the winds which gives a boost to their migration. Here, best seen from the hill, is an avian Union Station. This is a sight seen in few major cities of the world.

And so, in a scant few weeks, men and women will also gather — birders with binoculars, who keep the yearly count. Strike up a conversation with any one of them and you will learn more than I have room to tell you here.

This is the best thing I know about the city.

[[ANNA]]

High Park: An oasis in the city


JOE FIORITO

High Park, it seems to me, is less used by Torontonians de vieille souche than it is by newcomers, for whom the notion of life in the public domain is perfectly consistent with the quest for privacy.

And so ignore, as best you can, the grimly habitual joggers, their rude elbows; the cyclists, who are a law unto their zephyr selves; and — watch where you step! — those arrogant geese.

Take a cue instead from the men in linen trousers, setting their charcoal braziers on the weekend grass; their women in bright robes pouring cups of tea; their children in short pants playing tentative catch with balls and gloves; in the air, there is laughter and the smell of the feast, à la Bosnia or Senegal, Bolivia or Ukraine.

This is a reminder that not all of us have yards and manicured gardens at home. This is a reminder that parks should be used. This is a reminder of life as it is lived here now.

There is park enough for all.

Did you seize the summer?
And you may admire tulips in their showy beds, or hedges scissored into crewcut conformity, or hanging baskets dripping with pretty, fleshy flowers. I prefer instead to cast a modest eye on weeds, and whisper thanks.


Because there are friends of the park who, without fanfare and in the fall of the year, collect the dry grasses and wild plants — milkweed and foxglove, sedge and aster, bergamot and columbine, campanula, oak and juniper, even sassafras; these, they freeze over the winter, and then they remove the seeds from the stems, and when the weather is right they sow their bounty in the park; here is nature, nurtured.

I don't care to do this myself — I do not like to separate wheat and chaff — but I am deeply moved that others are so inclined.

However, as you wander, do not pick the flowers; some of these are little understood, and so are being studied. Or perhaps worshipped.

In the spring of the year, follow the lay of the land, heading down to the pond in the early morning, or perhaps dusk. Stroll with as little purpose as you can, for it is best to come upon this next sight by surprise: There are a few days — the window is a small one — when you will find yourself afloat in a sea of pink. Cherry blossom time.

It is an emerging tradition for Japanese consuls, during postings here, to plant cherry trees in High Park. In the spring the blossoms — sakura — are as tender and brief as caresses, and there will be plenty of lovers to keep you company when they bloom because Toronto's Japanese couples, unable to make the pilgrimage to Mount Fuji, come here to stroll hand in hand beneath the bowers. Think of it as a bookend to leaf-peeping.

I have, on occasion, taken a bottle of cold plum wine and I have spread my Hudson Bay blanket under the cherry trees, and there I have sat and scribbled haiku, impelled by successive draughts of wine and blossom-scented air.

You may prefer to leave the haiku to the professionals. In that case, bring a copy of Essays in Idleness, by Kenko; or On Love and Barley, by Basho, if only to read this:

Under the cherry —

blossom soup, blossom salad.

Spring may be the only time of the year when, to stand an old saying on its head, flowers are better than dumplings. Still, you can only eat so much beauty. If you are very hungry, bring a bento box.

On the subject of raw fish, in the summer you may catch minnows in Grenadier Pond if the ghosts of drowned soldiers don't put you off; it seems one or more of the lads are reckoned to have fallen through the ice in the winter while on manoeuvres.

I fear neither ghost nor grenadier, but I no longer fish since I have come, in recent years, to identify the tug of the rod with the terror of the creature.

But I don't oppose the fishing of others, for nature is cruel and we are part of nature, and there are those who like to sit by the pond with the slimmest of rods, the flimsiest of lines, the tiniest of hooks and the merest of hopes afloat on puny bobbers, trying to catch the smallest of fish with ort-like crumbs of bait.

If you catch nothing, it matters not; where there are no fish, there are thoughts of fish; and the ones that got away are less numerous than the ones who have ignored you completely, and that is also useful to consider in this life. Amuse yourself instead by watching the ducks, the swans, the gulls, the geese, the sparrows.

Be aware that there are other birds.

I don't mean in the zoo.

In the fall of the year — too soon, too soon — leave your car in the lot behind the restaurant. Ignore the smell of french fry grease and walk a few steps north. Step off the asphalt, through the high grass, past the scrubby bushes. Climb the low hill. Look up.

I guarantee your gasp.

High in the sky there will be predator birds circling high on the corkscrew columns of the lazy air. Eagles, bald and golden; hawks, red-tailed and sharp-shinned; falcons, osprey, kestrels, turkey vultures. At the right time, there will be so many they will appear as thick as gnats. You will want, if only briefly, to run for cover — those claws, those beaks, those gimlet eyes.

These raptors — they would smirk at our sneaker-clad slam-dunkers — pause on high, as if gathering a breath before heading south across the lake, heading for the warmer southern states, or South America.

It is the particular swirling of the winds which gives a boost to their migration. Here, best seen from the hill, is an avian Union Station. This is a sight seen in few major cities of the world.

And so, in a scant few weeks, men and women will also gather — birders with binoculars, who keep the yearly count. Strike up a conversation with any one of them and you will learn more than I have room to tell you here.

This is the best thing I know about the city.

[星子]

hehe. We have been there to see cherry blossom.

We have been there to picnic. or just stroll around.

It is a large and beautiful place, True, you can see a lot of new comers there. Most time, we exchange our smiling.

Still you will find a lot of other lovely places to go.

I always remember the first two autumns, those brilliant and blazing leaves. What a wonderful scene.

[[ANNA]]

hehe. We have been there to see cherry blossom.

We have been there to picnic. or just stroll around.

It is a large and beautiful place, True, you can see a lot of new comers there. Most time, we exchange our smiling.

Still you will find a lot of other lovely places to go.

I always remember the first two autumns, those brilliant and blazing leaves. What a wonderful scene.