Peace, Love and Prosecco: Christmas Traditions Old and New

 The Christmas season is a time for family gatherings, sibling rivalries and overindulgence. It’s also a time to reflect on past and future, such as how much weight I’ve gained in the last twelve months and how much I’d like to (but probably won’t) lose in the New Year. This year, I also couldn’t help but recognize some new beginnings while bidding adieu to old traditions.

This was Praveena’s and my fourth Christmas together, yet it was our first spent as husband and wife. It was also our first (together and individually) without gifts. Praveena and I had decided that since we’d given and received so many gifts around our wedding, we’d gladly eschew presents in favour of the more important, less material aspects of Christmas. My sister Jenny was totally ecstatic with this plan, eager to leave gifts out of the equation and focus instead on the really important stuff: peace, love, joy and prosecco.

Other than the prosecco part, this line of thinking didn’t go over so well with my sister Kim or my mom. I explained to them (several times) that we were all gifted out from our wedding and wanted instead to focus on family companionship and the mutual breaking of bread. They were aghast (but unfortunately not speechless) that we were foregoing the gift-exchange tradition. Kim said she’d finished her Christmas shopping in November, so she’d already gotten our presents. My mom, on the other hand, just kept saying, “But it’s Christmas. We always give presents at Christmas.” Maybe they simply couldn’t understand a Christmas without material gifts.

In the end, both grudgingly accepted our declaration, more or less. At her Christmas party last weekend, Kim gave us the gifts she’d bought us and said we should keep them til our respective birthdays. And at the Christmas Day dinner party, my mom gave us a loaf of panettone and said we should make French Toast out of it.

Our Christmas Day Dinner is an annual tradition lately hosted by my mom and stepfather. Praveena’s attended with me since 2014. Last year’s dinner was the first without my sister’s former husband. And this year’s was the first without our Gramps, who back in January was released from this life to be reunited with his wife, our Grandma. In fact, last year’s Christmas Day Dinner was his final day of relatively good health. The next day, he’d be admitted to hospital. He’d never come out.

So he was in our thoughts, and the stories flowed. Kim told us about the time Grandma had surgery in Toronto General. While she was in the OR, Gramps and Kim went down to the Tim Horton’s. When they got to the front of the line, Gramps pointed at Kim and said, “This is my wife! She can have whatever she wants. If she wants a coffee or a doughnut, I’ll get it for her.”

If that wasn’t bad enough: On the way back up to the surgical floor in the crowded elevator, he turned to Kim and loudly stated that he’d figured out the cause of breast cancer. Cringing, Kim shook her head and begged him to be quiet. Uunfazed, he said, “It’s the boy who squeezes the boob too tight!” We’ll all miss Gramps, because he’s our patriarch, but also because his unpredictability, combined with his lack of social filter, often made him so darned entertaining.

The night before Christmas, we’d stayed at Praveena’s folks’ place. Armed with several bags of Thai takeout, we’d arrived in the early afternoon, planning to eat lunch and dinner and watch movies and other televisual enticements. Between her mom, dad, brother and us, we devoured the Thai food. In particular, Praveena’s brother Rathieshan offered his stamp of approval. I wouldn’t exactly call him a foodie, but he is picky. If he enjoyed it, you can bet we’ll be buying from that restaurant again.

For dessert, Praveena’s mom had made trifle pudding and Christmas cake. I’ve always loved trifle, and I had two servings before I realized that I was a) beyond full, and b) the only person still eating. As for the Christmas cake, I never liked the stuff until I tried Praveena’s mom’s. Now I have another reason to look forward to Christmas. I don’t care if that makes me weird. Later, Praveena baked cookies and we ate them. At one point, Rathieshan came into the kitchen and tried one. “They’re soft,” he said. “You didn’t cook them long enough. You’re going to get diarrhea.” He spoke as though from experience.

One movie we watched was Home Alone. I’d forgotten how good it is. (“That’s real crystal. Put ‘em in your purse!”). But reflecting on how long it had been since I’d seen it reminded me of how old I am. Hopefully I age as well as MacAulay Culkin. I also enjoyed watching the film with people who really love the movie as a family Christmas tradition. The easy chuckles and mimicking of dialogue imbued the TV room with a cozy warmth that was enhanced by the swirling snowstorm visible through the window.

Another Sivananthan family Christmas tradition: watching It’s A Wonderful Life. We tuned into it later that evening. Who can help but love watching Jimmy Stewart? Or maybe it’s just George Bailey. The guy’s so likeable. Chummy would be a nice descriptor. Alas, Praveena and I couldn’t watch the whole thing. I had to work early on Christmas day, so we retired around ten.

And talk about Christmas kindness. Normally only small children are crazy enough to wake up before sunrise on Christmas Day, but Praveena’s dad awoke early with us and drove me to work. I would have preferred to not inconvenience him, but there’s no changing that man’s mind. Traffic was very sensible for a 7am Monday morning commute. Another reason to wish that Christmas came every day. Fortunately for Praveena and her dad, they could go home and crawl back into bed. For some reason, they instead chose to seize the day.

Another Christmas come and gone, bringing with it the inevitable constant of change. Hello to some things—Christmas as a married couple, Christmas Eve at Praveena’s folks’ place; goodbye to others—Gramps’ Christmas presence, gift-giving (for this year, at least). What’s next? The pitter-patter of little feet? Who doesn’t appreciate a little prosecco and panettone at half past six on Christmas morning?

Moving Pictures: A Recount of Our Video Engagement Shoot

Professional is a relative term.

On the heels of our two engagement photo shoots, Praveena and I participated in engagement video shoots with our chosen videography team, Ice Cream Truck Films. The first session captured our ice skating date at Nathan Phillips Square, while the second took place across multiple locations. Once it’s all put together, our video story will chronicle our meeting and the evolution of our relationship through a mix of technical wizardry, visual creativity and a few signature Toronto scenes. Praveena and I are excited be film stars!

Ice Cream Truck’s chief owner and operator, Pranavan, has a day job. But make no mistake, the man is a professional videographer. The film business may be his second job, but as with many artists, this second job is his primary passion. He rushes home from “work” to prep for his day’s real responsibilities, the ones with the most at stake and which bear the sweetest fruit. This is just another way of saying he spends his free time doing what he loves, not matter how much energy his day job has sapped from him. The same applies to his videography team. On our shoot, he was accompanied by his assistant Shan.

Pranavan isn’t just clever and imaginative. He’s a genuine people person. Artistically, he wants to put as much of his subjects into the production as possible. In our initial meetings, he asked Praveena and me many questions, about us both individually and as a couple. “How did you guys meet? What do you guys like to do together? What’s a typical day at work like for you?”

But he also wants to start a conversation. Leading up to the shooting dates, we had multiple What’s App chats about film ideas, wedding stuff and life in general—music, clothing, cultural quirks, sports, even weather. This is how people get to know each other, right? Knowing his fellow man (and woman) helps Pranavan the videographer to do his job better, but it also helps Pranavan the person to be a better human being.

Friendly, knowledgeable and patient, Pranavan the videographer waits for the perfect shot and knows when he’s gotten it. He possesses a great eye for detail and uses setting well to evoke location and mood. He doesn’t bark orders or act like the kind of high-and-mighty film director one imagines film directors to be. If you haven’t given him what he wants, he’ll kindly ask you to do it again. And again. And again. And, if necessary, again.

The second video session started off at Riverdale East Park, with various shots along Broadview Avenue. The park could stand in for any nature setting, with a backdrop of trees and greenery, while the street shots evoke an urban atmosphere. Once Pranavan had gotten what he wanted, we jumped in our vehicles and headed to my place of work.

As with our library shoot earlier in the day, we also needed to exercise some discretion for our hospital shoot. Issues of sterility and privacy were the main concerns. So I spoke to my department manager and she was kind enough to grant us permission, so long as we did it while her own boss was on vacation. We didn’t end up filming in any sterile areas, and since the shoot took place in the evening, the areas where we did film were unoccupied.

Our hospital shoot took Praveena and me back to our beginnings, where and when we met. (The “first” time we met, in 2014, was apparently the second time we actually met. Praveena still swears we met the previous year, when she came to the hospital as a resident). While the particular hospital was different in a geographical sense, the building belonged to the same organization. The filming environment brought back spine-tingling memories and deeply moving feelings of the sparks and excitement of our first days together. I could feel the vigorous grind of the gears of my heart speeding up, pumping extra life into my feelings for her. The force of memories is amazingly strong. They live inside us, with vibrant lives of their own, patiently biding their time, and re-emerge—making themselves real again— when we least expect them to.

Video filming is an interesting process. What may end up as twenty seconds of film in the finished product may take hours to shoot. Praveena and I both had to do multiple takes of several scenes until we got it right. Each time we redid something, a different delectable memory popped up in my mind, making our efforts doubly worthwhile. So when I said film stars earlier, I guess instead of Bogie and Bergman, we’ll have to settle for Affleck and Lopez. It’s good neither of us went into acting. Perhaps recognizing this, Pranavan gently, gradually coaxed efforts from us that ended up being sufficient for his vision.

It’s great working with consummate professionals, especially when you yourself aren't one. Pranavan and his team made our video shoot easy, informative and emotionally satisfying. I look forward to seeing the final product at the wedding reception. But maybe more worth waiting for is sitting down with Praveena in ten years' time to watch the film and re-experience the memories, as well as the memories of recreating memories. Now that’ll be a moving experience.

Renegade Photo Shoot

Sometimes things are more exciting when you don’t have permission.

I’m talking, of course, about the second part of Praveena’s and my engagement photo shoot with Impressions by Anuj. Segment one manifested back in March as an ice rink shoot at Nathan Phillips Square, and it went just about as well as could be expected. We even got the teenaged rink guardians to keep everyone off the ice for a couple minutes after the Zamboni cleaned the surface, so we could do a couple shots in front of the Toronto sign with the ice to ourselves. People even cheered when we kissed. It felt like our five minutes of fame.

This time around, we wanted something a bit more intellectual. In particular, Praveena had suggested a Harry Potter type of library, with rich, stained woods and a dark, mystical ambience. An internet search brought us to Emmanuel College Library, where Tears For Fears filmed their “Head Over Heels” music video in the 1980’s, long before Harry Potter was even a seed in JK’s fertile mind garden. In pictures, ECL seemed perfect, with high, arching window frames, dark wooden shelves and huge, intricately designed chandeliers.

We met Annuj and his assistant, Peter, at Queen’s Park Circle just after ten in the morning and walked to our destination. As we grew closer, a feeling of excitement or anxiety commandeered my belly—in anticipation of our photo shoot, but also of any potential confrontation we might have with the library staff. I should mention that I’d emailed the library seeking permission to do a photo shoot there, but had received no response. So we went figuring we’d deal with the issue of permission if-slash-when it arose.

From the outside, Emmanuel College Library is an old, stone, multi-storeyed building that fits right into the University of Toronto’s quaint but impressive (as in making an impression on the observer), two-centuries-removed architectural scheme. We entered the building and started out with some cherry-picked shots on the stairs leading up to the library section. Our worry level about being challenged by library staff here was very low.

Only when we got up to the main library floor did we become furtive and secretive, creeping past the front desk one at a time. Annuj and Peter were fairly inconspicuous. All they had to do was hide their cameras and lighting gear, which wasn’t too difficult. Then I in my blue suit went past, a bit more conspicuous but still pretty okay. Had I been questioned on what I was doing there, I’d’ve delivered this rehearsed excuse: I was performing a study on the effects of over-dressing on scholastic work.

Then it was Praveena’s turn to get past the front desk. Her appearance would be the most difficult to explain. What was she, resplendent in a blue and orange sari, doing in the library? The best I’d been able to come up with was that she was a volunteer for my study on studying. But never fear, the librarian was nose-deep in paperwork and never saw us pass.

We found an area and got to work, following Annuj’s posing instructions. Watching him pick spots and consider his options was an exercise in fascination as he assessed potential backdrops and considered how best to position us to maximize light (from windows, ceiling fixtures, Peter’s hand-held rig, etc.). At one point, he stood us against a shelf, each of us holding a book open as though reading it. He went behind another shelf and started moving books out of the way so as to shoot us through the shelf. Then he piled several books, on which he rested his camera.

He gave us plenty of direction. “Look out the window…Look down at Praveena…Look down at her shoulder…Look up at Jody…Make as if to kiss her on the cheek…Move a bit to your left…Move back into the sunlight.” In this way he thoughtfully went about getting the shots he wanted.

Even though we may have been doing something against the rules, the fact that we were in a library didn’t escape us. Annuj’s camera was on silent mode. Every time he took a shot, all we heard was a series of faint clicks. The only thing I questioned in terms of disturbing other library patrons was Peter’s light. As he frequently shone it upon us from various angles, I wondered how far it penetrated into the dusty, bookish dimness. Was it distracting to those studying?

Adjacent to the little shelf-filled cubby we were shooting in was a long desk spanning the width of the library. At the far end of the desk sat a man staring at a laptop and occasionally reaching for a thermos that I presumed was filled with coffee. When, at Annuj’s direction, Praveena and I sat down at the near end of the desk and pretended to read our books, and Peter placed his light in front of us, the fellow at the far end got up and walked away, leaving behind his computer and thermos.

We thought our jig was up, that he was going to complain. For as long as we could, we continued taking photos. Annuj was shooting us from a balconied upper level accessible only from a set of stairs located beside the front desk. (We’d formulated an intricate plan to ascend the stairs one at a time, in staggered fashion, Annuj first and Praveena last, to shoot up there as our final location of the day.) When the man returned to his seat at the far end of the desk with no one in tow, we all expelled a long, relieved breath. We were okay for the moment.

But a few minutes later, our guerilla shoot seemed about to go off the rails. Praveena and I were still sitting at the long desk, illuminated by the light positioned on the desk in front of us, Annuj shooting us from above, when the gentleman who’d been sitting at the front desk appeared on the upper balcony, approaching Annuj. He looked down over the railing and, spying us, seemed to know immediately what we were doing.

I’ll mention again that while we may have been taking photos without permission, we were being rather quiet about it. Yet the man called down to us in a voice louder and more disturbing of the quiet than any noise we’d made: “Do you have permission to do this?”

“I sent an email,” I began.

The man turned and walked out of sight. For a moment I thought maybe we were good. But several seconds later he reappeared on the first floor, heading toward us.

“Do you have a permit to do what you’re doing? You’re supposed to have a permit, you know. You can’t just come in here and do what you’re doing without a permit.”

He was shaking with rage and adrenaline, his fists clenched as though we’d just coloured outside the lines, or perhaps shat on his mother’s grave. I told him I’d emailed the library several months ago to ask if we needed permission, but no one had responded. So we figured we were free to come and take pictures in here.

“No,” he said in a tone oozing sanctimony, “you most certainly do need a permit.”

I got the feeling he was releasing months—years, perhaps—of pent-up anger, all the frustrations of enduring countless indignities of college kids snapping gum and talking above a whisper in his domain.

“How do I go about getting one of those?” I asked.

“You’ll have to talk to Valerie.”

“And where would I find her?” I asked.

“Her office is out there, about half way down the hall on the left.” And he turned and stomped away, still visibly shaking and clenching his fists.

Praveena and I went to find Valerie and explain our situation. Her office was indeed halfway down the hall. We knocked on her heavy, slightly ajar door. A weary or perhaps frustrated voice bid us to enter.

Behind a desk piled high with paperwork sat Valerie. It looked like we’d caught her in the middle of a dozen things. Praveena and I repeated our explanation, that we’d emailed without a reply and figured we were good to take photos. No, she said, you need permission. Praveena asked how we could get it. She added that we were both alumni (half a lie; only she is) and we really wanted to do this shoot in this place that held a great deal of meaning for us. And, she added, we’re almost finished.

Valerie was silent for a moment. Then she said, cryptically, “I’d rather not involve Bob, so just, why don’t you be quick about it and finish up.”

We thanked her profusely and suggested she call the gentleman at the desk to let him know her decision. “Yes,” she said, “I’ll call Fred to let him know.”

We returned to the library. As we passed the front desk, another gentleman picked up the ringing phone. “I’ll go get Fred,” he said into the phone, and I felt a special satisfaction knowing who was on the other end and how the conversation with Fred would go.

Fred was in the area where we’d done most of our shooting, re-shelving the books we’d unshelved to create space and use as props and platforms for Annuj’s camera. (Peter later told us he’d offered to put the books back in their places but Fred had said to just leave them, that he’d do it. I could imagine Fred delivering these words in a haughty huff.) Fred’s colleague said the phone was for him, and Fred left. We never saw him again.

So we completed our photo session and got tons of amazing shots. Annuj and Peter did a great job. Praveena was ecstatic that everything worked out, and that in turn made me happy.

And Fred? He revealed—or perhaps learned—the extent of his real power, which is decidedly un-Harry Potter-esque. Which is to say, he’s not quite the authoritarian wizard he thought he was. When the photos are ready, we’re thinking of emailing him one to remember us by.

Test Mentality

Late March, 2017

I’m 44 years old—going on 45, right?—doing my driver’s test today. Surely this is something I should have done, like, 27 years ago. Well, I didn’t, and, instead, it’s today.

I never really needed a driver’s license, was my rationale, since I lived in a city with decent public transportation, and I always had friends or a parent with a car. (Also, for most of my life I’ve been one extremely, indulgently lazy person.) Why did I need a license if I never needed to drive? Well, for one reason, so I wouldn’t have to get it when I’m 44. Hindsight’s always 20/20, though—unlike my vision, for which I require glasses to legally drive.

I feel excited and nervous. I have my game face on. The juices are flowing, goes the saying. Any time filled with the anticipation of doing a test is a time filled with nervousness and excitement. My belly roils with pleasant nausea, like that feeling when the first drink is just hitting the bottom of the belly and starting to burn.

Make no mistake, it’s a good feeling, living on that narrow, sharp edge of fear. These charged moments are moments to live for, moments during which we feel most alive, no matter how uncomfortable they make us feel. Waking up on the morning of the big test or the championship game, the week we expect to hear back from grad school applications or companies we’ve interviewed for a job with, the moments leading up to opening that letter containing the response from the publishing company. These are the moments that separate the important, emotionally charged days from the banal, every-other-day days.

I look around the bus on which I’m travelling to my pre-test driving lesson and I see people looking at their phones and staring off into space. Any other day, that’s me (well, maybe I’m reading a book or typing away on my computer instead of looking at my phone; or maybe I’m looking at my phone). These people have nothing at stake, or so it appears. These people are just whiling away time like they do every other day. I, on the other hand, am getting anxious and nervous and anticipating the moment when I’m under the gun, when I’m being tested. I have something at stake today. And the signifier sizzles in my belly.

This morning, before leaving for work, Praveena asked me if I was nervous about my test. I almost lied and said no, thinking perhaps that I should appear impassive, unaffected, that the driving test was no big deal. In the end, though, I conceded that I was in fact a bit nervous. Doing the driving test is in fact a big deal. Praveena’s the inspiration for my getting this license today. She convinced me to do a driving course a couple years ago, and then to get my G2, and now today I’m going for my G. I will have taken another step toward being an adult. (Now if only the Maple Leafs can win the Stanley Cup, my childhood will officially be over.) Never mind that I’m almost middle-aged. I’m taking measures to improve my standing in life, to gain yet another measure of autonomy. I have the sizzling signifier in my belly to prove it.

Yes, I’m nervous. I’m nervous about failing, or worse, about crashing the car. But chances are that neither of those things will happen. I realize what is at stake and I have prepared, intellectually and emotionally. The buzzing in my belly has spread to my limbs, the very tingly beginnings of an acid trip. I can feel it in my arms, a nervous, kind of rubbery thrum. It’s adrenaline, it’s anxiety, the signifier that today is an important day in my life. And I realize I’d rather have more days like this than the banal, unimportant days all these other people on the bus (and planet) seem to be having. Why coast through life when you can crackle with energy and excitement? Nerves aren’t a bad thing, so long as you appreciate them.

Funerals, Eulogies and Taking Stock

I’ve been to a couple funerals lately. Last month, we buried my maternal grandfather. Back on Christmas Day, my family convened at my Mom and stepdad’s condo for Christmas dinner; and although weak and a bit confused as usual, Gramps seemed none the worse for wear. He engaged in his normal schtick, looking at his watch every few minutes and asking when the cab was arriving to take him back to Kingsway, his retirement home. Several times he pointed at the front door and said, Is that the door I leave out of? In retrospect, this particular action of his is sad and a bit chilling.

The next day, Boxing Day, he went into hospital and never came out, gradually declining over the next three-plus weeks until he dropped right off the cliff. While I was riding the bus one morning on my way to work, my Mom called me and said she’d gotten the phone call from the hospital. I held it together until exiting the bus. There was no memorial or fancy funeral festivities or any big to-do in committing his body to the cold, always-hungry ground. It was just my Mom and her husband, my two sisters, Praveena and I at the cemetery. Gramps was a no-frills kind of guy when it came to certain things, such as funerals. He'd requested the same for his wife when she died four years ago. He himself preferred the pine-box treatment. I did a brief eulogy.

Gramps believed there were two kinds of people in the world: chaps and characters. If you were a nice, hard-working, stand-up person, you were a chap. If you were sketchy, shady or downright devious, you were a character. He was mostly a chap, but an opinionated one, and racist in the way white people in their late eighties tend to be. But he was my Gramps and he helped shape me into the man I am today, and I will always love him. In the days following his death, several times over I wondered if I’d done enough to make him proud, each time concluding that I could’ve made him prouder.

Last weekend, I attended the funeral of my best friend’s father, who also had been sick over the holidays and, while hospitalized in ICU, suddenly passed early one morning. Despite the proximal connection to my Gramps’ simple service, this one was vastly different in tone and pomp.

My buddy’s dad was a hot-shot lawyer whose memorial was held in the Church of the Redeemer at Bloor and Avenue and attended by hundreds. At one point, Praveena nudged me, pointed at someone in the crowd and whispered, Is that Eddie Greenspan? Two ministers presided over the seventy-minute ceremony and four people gave eulogies. Hymns were sung, engaging sermons were delivered, even a benediction of sorts was said. And afterward a reception was held at the Hyatt across the street, complete with hors d’oeuvres, coat check and a slide show of life highlights.

At both events, I got to thinking, probably in the same way everyone touched by death and the subsequent funeral gets to thinking. No matter how suddenly a person with connections in this world dies, or how his or her life is commemorated, certain realities remain constant: people are saddened, with some getting emotional and others remaining stoic; people are reminded of their own mortality and that of those nearest and dearest; and, ultimately, people wonder if they are living their life properly. They ask themselves questions like: What can I be doing better? Should I be doing this instead of that? Am I a failure? How much time do I have to fix my mistakes? Is it too late to be the best at whatever I want to do? Am I a chap or a character?

What came first, language or self-doubt? Perhaps the latter inspired the former. (Interesting topic for future research.) Anyway, we’ve been experiencing self-doubt probably since we were grunty little Australopithecines learning to walk on two legs, maybe even earlier. Too much self-doubt can be as crippling as too little, but just enough is, well, just enough. The most successful people often use self-doubt to fuel the impulse to improve themselves, to be the best they can be, which sometimes ends up being the best in their field.

Based on the evidence of his funeral service, my best friend’s dad was quite the chap—one who achieved seriously important things during a life he obviously lived on his own terms. Even so, he likely experienced his share of self-doubt. Yet his numerous successes, revealed by eulogistic testimony, sparked me to ask myself all of the above questions, and inevitably compare my own life to his. When all is said and done, I wondered, will I have emotionally touched as many people as filled the Church of the Redeemer? It’s a pride thing, certainly, but also a practical thing, a means of making me feel better about my accomplishments, of reducing self-doubt.

My Gramps, on the other hand, while perhaps not as commercially or socially successful—as evidenced by his simple burial ceremony attended only by immediate family—nonetheless forged a comfortable, even noble existence. He devoted himself to hard work and built with his own two hands the dwelling he and his wife called home. To a family he put before everything else—sometimes selfishly so—he brought love and joy and life lessons. He lived on his own terms, and in the end, he died a satisfied man.

Whether chap or character, what one does with one’s own life—and how one measures success—differs from person to person. This is as axiomatic as the urge to lend emotional support to grieving family and friends, as the human tendency toward self-doubt, as death. The more we understand these differences, the less inclined we will be to compare our own lives to those of others. And the more we’ll be able to maintain an optimal, or goldilocks, level of self-doubt—just enough to fuel our desire to improve.

Last Pennant Before Armageddon: RIP WP Kinsella

News of WP Kinsella’s death hit me this AM like a beanball to the heart. The first feeling I experienced was sadness at the loss of a Canadian literary icon. His folksy, earthy stories of First Nations people and baseball helped me at an early age to make some sense of Canadian culture, history and baseball, one of my favourite sports.

My second feeling upon hearing the news was a mixture of curiosity and fear. The curiosity comes from learning that the man ended his own life yesterday, September 16, in Hope, BC. Strange name for a place in which to end one’s life, yes? The timing of his death, though, seems stranger. Keep in mind that he chose to die, electing to undergo doctor-assisted suicide. He’d suffered from diabetes for years, according to an obit in the Montreal Gazette, and perhaps also from lingering after-effects of a head injury suffered when a car hit him back in 1997. Maybe these health problems had finally caught up to him. After all, he turned 81 this past May. I hope he and his family achieve a measure of solace.

Now for the fear. A part deep inside me can’t help but worry there’s another reason he chose this particular autumn to die. In the mid-Eighties, I read a short story of his that scarred me like raised cleats from a dirty slide. Called The Last Pennant Before Armageddon, it details the Chicago Cubs’ march toward their first World Series victory since 1908. Concurrently, the global political landscape is heating up, with the USSR and US edging toward nuclear war over an invasion of Sri Lanka. The story ends ambiguously, with the Cubs only a few outs away from advancing to the World Series, leading in the game and threatening to score more.

You see where I’m going with this.

The Cubs are good this year. Really good. They ran away with their division, and on paper at least they are huge favourites to cakewalk their way to the National League Pennant. Yes, as every baseball pundit loves to remind us plebes, the playoffs are a different beast entirely, and anything can happen. But I don’t get the feeling the Cubs will fold. I get the feeling they’ll keep rolling all the way to the World Series.

Now, I’m not saying Kinsella knew something we don’t know. But I do wonder what was going through his mind as he was (surely) watching the Cubs win at a .630 clip this year while no other team has won even 60% of their games. I wonder why he chose this fall as his death date. And I wonder about his thoughts on the international political landscape. I don’t see any parallels in terms of mortal superpower enemies these days. There’s no Russian Bad Guys to the American Good Guys. The closest analogy may be ISIS vs the west. But that doesn’t offer the same WWIII-type fears as the tense climate of the Eighties did.

I remember reading The Last Pennant Before Armageddon at night at my grandparents’ farm, and looking out the window at the dark sky and the horizon and expecting to see the mushroom cloud any minute. Sure, I was a 13-year-old kid who, after being terrorized by the apocalyptic films The Day After and Threads, feared the threat of nuclear war practically every day. Those days may be gone, but residues of those fears will always linger, no matter how old I am or how stable the political landscape. Because I am an anxious person by nature, and I fear for the safety of my loved ones. Maybe I just wish The Last Pennant Before Armageddon hadn’t ended so ambiguously.

Kinsella’s posthumous book, Russian Dolls, is due out in 2017. Rest in peace, WP, while I hope to be able to read in peace.

On Muslim Weddings and Thomas Paine

Another weekend, another wedding for Praveena and me to attend. A Muslim wedding, no less; yet like the Tamil Catholic wedding we attended in June, another poignant example of Canadian multiculturalism. The bride’s family heritage was Indian, the groom’s Pakistani. Praveena and I knew neither of them personally, but that didn’t stop the bride’s mother, Praveena’s colleague, from inviting us.

The festivities took place in the Governor’s Room, the largest ballroom of the Canadian National Exhibition’s Liberty Grand building. Built in 1926, the building served for 45 years as a display case of sorts for the Ontario government’s general exhibits during the CNE. When Ontario Place opened in 1971, the government moved its display case there. Since 2001, the Governor’s Room has served as an elegant setting for weddings and other posh parties.

The wedding was an evening event, with the invitation indicating a 5:30 arrival time. But when Praveena and I showed up just after 5:30, we were among the first arrivals, which is to say the least late. Over the next ninety minutes, guests in evening attire trickled into the leafy courtyard, where drinks were being served. (The open bar surprised me a bit. I wasn’t even sure there’d be booze, it being a Muslim wedding.) Much mingling and drinking and picture-taking ensued. We got a sense of being in the midst of money, that Praveena and her physician colleagues weren’t nearly the richest people in attendance.

The theme of multiculturalism quickly asserted itself, with a well-integrated crowd of Arabs, Asians, whites, browns and a few blacks. The mix of sartorial styles was particularly interesting. I felt like I was at an international fashion show with all the hijab and khimar headscarves, kufis, turbans, kurtas and sherwanis, saris, shalwar kameezes, lehengas, churidars, modest long-sleeved gowns and slutty low-cut dresses. Here we had the best of Canadian diversity on display at the aptly named Liberty Grand.

A two-piece band filled the courtyard with Indian music. One musician played a shenai (Indian oboe) while the other played tabla (North Indian drums), overtop a recorded drone of mind-melting sitar. Loud as it was—such that we occasionally had to raise our voices to chat—the music was one of the highlights for me.

As liquor flowed freely and lips flapped around us, I started wondering if the bride and groom were getting anxious. Usually by this time of the day, during all the drinking and mingling—at the kinds of wedding I’m used to, at least—the special couple has already undergone the ceremony, exchanged vows and kisses, been pronounced man and wife. Yet here they remained unmarried. Was this extra unmarried time good or bad? What if one of them took the opportunity to reconsider?

Finally, around 7:30, everyone was ushered inside, into the Governor’s Room, to await the ceremony, which would begin around 8. The brother of the bride was sort of the MC. But really, all he did was welcome everyone and introduce the Fez-wearing father of the bride. Proud papa came up to the stage and spoke at length. Seemingly well-educated, he lauded Canada’s multicultural tradition, invoking Thomas Paine and his famous quote: “The world is my country, all mankind are my brethren, and to do good is my religion.”

Once the father introduced the presiding Imam, the ceremony ramped up. The Imam turned out to be my favourite speaker. Conducting the proceedings in thickly accented English, he frequently cited Allah (obviously, it being a Muslim wedding), but not in a discomforting, we’re-better-than-you kind of way. Due to his thick accent, I couldn’t understand everything he said, but of what I did understand, he said some really cool things. At one point, he said that no matter what God you prayed to, no matter what faith you professed, you’d end up held in good regard by your god as long as you did good in the world. Shades of Thomas Paine!

Another wise sentiment: A shout-out to those who can’t see the faults of others because they’re too consumed with the faults of themselves.

The ceremony lasted a couple hours. Then came the food, starting with green salad. Famished, I ate it dry, before the wait staff could bring the balsamic vinaigrette dressing. A steady procession of food continued over the next hour: curried vegetables, spicy eggplant, spinach paneer, biryani lamb, tandoori chicken, naan, papadum, spicy pickled mango chutney. Dessert consisted of pistachio ice cream in a (literally) chocolate cup or panna cotta covered in fresh berries. A buffet table also offered wedding cake and assorted hand-held goodies.

Shortly after dinner, the dance floor opened up so we could burn off all those calories. Guests young and old gleefully shook booty til 1am, at which point the hired band, God Made Me Funky, shut ‘er down. The ballroom quickly cleared out after that as guests made their way to the parking lot.

All in all, the evening offered great enjoyment, and certainly a different side to the uncomfortable Muslim stereotype perpetuated in western media. Education truly is the enemy of narrow-minded fundamentalism. Sensible folks of all backgrounds really just want to get along and have fun together.