Seeing us walk from one car to another, peering at odometer readings and price, the used car salesman was quick to join us on the lot. Nathan was just as quick to manage expectations: he wasn’t looking for a car yet, just looking at prices, planning for the day when a car purchase would be [...]
Archive for the ‘disapproving russians’ Category
Travels in Not-Winnipeg
Posted in disapproving russians, let us give thanks, small town on February 18, 2011 | 1 Comment »
Of long commutes and the animals that wait for us
Posted in disapproving russians, let us give thanks, sheep on December 11, 2010 | 1 Comment »
“So… how’s the drive?” It’s the number-one question of all my relatives, posed as if they know I will start wailing as soon as the words leave their mouths. As if they imagine I’ll say that tending sheep by the river in the rolling hills of Lac Ste. Anne County is not the dream life [...]
It’s worth observing the differences.
Posted in disapproving russians, let us give thanks, small town on November 8, 2010 | Leave a Comment »
In junior high…. Nathan was trying to like girls. Trying to convince his family and friends he liked girls. Putting up pictures of actresses in his bedroom, above his bed so it looked as if he really enjoyed looking at them. Cate Blanchett. Natalie Portman. Playing piano, going to church, forcing himself to like girls. [...]
Life lessons from the Onoway Hotel
Posted in disapproving russians, observed & appreciated, small town on October 3, 2010 | Leave a Comment »
Johnny Runs-From-Demons doesn’t talk much about himself. Even if he did, we might not hear him from underneath all of his stonewashed denim, which in turn can’t hear you because it’s currently at football practice, listening to Bon Jovi and drinking Orbitz. It is a place where you can collect cats by walking past them, [...]
Making borscht with Grandpa Frank
Posted in cooking from scratch, disapproving russians, garden on September 19, 2010 | 4 Comments »
My great-grandfather left Siberia in 1926 with his wife and offspring and–luckily for me and the rest of his descendents–his journal. In it, he speaks of travelling through places with magical-sounding names: a sunrise over the Ural mountains; changing trains in Sazrjanj, the Dvina river with its “forests and woods suitable for making butter vats,” [...]
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