Lucia Frangione

I wake at 8:15am because it takes me exactly 45 minutes to present home made waffles with whip, local blueberries, Quebec maple syrup and bacon. I let out ol’ desperate eyed Tartuffe (he doesn’t bark or whine, he implores, silently, which believe me, is very loud) I pick some nasturtiums, mint and lavender for garnish and smell the crisp fragrant Bowen air. How I love being here. Today I have my first vegetarians at our BnB (which, by the way, is more than halfway sold out for the entire summer). The closest thing I could find to “bacon” in the…

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I have always held to the idea that I hate daisies. They smell like asparagus piss. I’ve even put this in a play. I am not sure when I concluded I despised them. Probably as a child I bent over a bunch and took a big whiff.  Maybe as an adult I was given a cheap Safeway bundle wrapped with a side of resentment from a suitor who begrudgingly gave them to me for opening night, jealous that I was working and he wasn’t. Yeah, that’s probably it. I remember now. They were died blue and they turned the water…

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I walk down 7th Avenue in a stumbling state. It takes effort to remember to put one foot in front of the other. Negotiating stairs is a whole other thing. “She said use the railings…” so I do, and try not to worry about all the germs. I think of a friend’s perfectly healthy mother who tripped on a rug and fell headlong into the corner of her hallway, broke her neck, and died. We are delicately waterous: held together with a trinket bag of bones and a handful of fleshy mounds and expandable Os. So easily punctured. So easily…

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It was with a bit of secret glee that I watched the so called “fastest” girl in grade 5 win first in the 100 but bomb the 400 in her heat. My daughter, the so called “slow” girl, got third in the 100 and kicked it like hell in her 400. She was way ahead of the pack and won a cool second place. She had been in first place but then a blonde in red caught up to her at the last minute and won by the length of a sneaker. This set my daughter into a fit of…

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We’re going to get a bunny this week. We are prepping like we would for the arrival of a new baby. This isn’t a phase as I thought it might be. Nora has wanted a bunny for years now. I guess the bunny fixation started with me. I call Nora “Bunny” affectionately, named after her great grandmother, Bunny Brackney. (She married an Aris but gee, I love that alliteration: Bunny Brackney.) Nora has spent hours watching youtube videos on rabbit care and has sheets of notes she goes over with me. She’s making a bunny “mobile” to bat around, and…

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I happened to be in a conversation with some artists this week who are far more worldly than me. We talked about what is happening in Canada right now: the changes to the Canada Council funding model, the steps towards diversity, the dynamic in Quebec. I mostly listened because I really don’t know much beyond my backyard anymore. I used to be much more involved in the national scene when I was touring No Exit, on certain national boards, flying around seeing new plays, scouting for Talon books, and dating idiots from the east.  There was talk about the Booker…

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Fellow lifts his arms up for a stretch and his shirt rides up just enough to show off some male cleavage, as my friend Carmen Paterson calls it. Fellow, an RMT, says a little warily, “ahem. That’s the inguinal crease…why….?” He knows I’m writing. He’s getting used to me saying slightly embarrassing things. We’re both getting back to our “fighting weight”. I got chubby post operation; he put on a bit because of my cooking, he says. I swished around today in my little black suit that is getting loose on me now, high heels and red lips and a…

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I get to the track meet field and my daughter is covered in band aids. The girl who passed her the baton in the relay  also passed her a left foot and tripped her and she went sprawling along the gravel, bits of rock and dirt grinding into her leg. “And then what did you do?” I ask. “Well, Mom, I got up and started running!” “Atta girl!” They’re up for another relay now, she’s second to get the baton for a 100 m leg. She makes a clean grab and runs like hell with her long thin scratched up…

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As I scrub the mildew off the top of the greenhouse, perched on a tippy ladder, the soapy warm green water runs down the front of my shirt and trickles onto my grubby knees. I don’t mind. It feels good to tackle this property one corner at a time. I grin and think, “Isn’t it nice that no critic is going to come around and write about my green house’s structure and form? Isn’t it a relief that a jury of peers aren’t comparing my green house to other’s? Isn’t it fantastic that I don’t have to write a grant…

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I went to Alberta last week and squeezed in a visit with my dear friend, Bina. I met her through Anita a few years back and what a gift it is when good people introduce me to good people. Bina is a wonder. As I get older and evermore fatigued by my own thin skin, I have a great appreciation for those who are pragmatic. Pragmatism is my new favourite quality in people. My brother is pragmatic. My husband is pragmatic. My Karen and my Maki are pragmatic and I’ll tell you, they keep the world turning around and they…

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