I simply can’t be trusted to do the shopping. I invariably get at least one item wrong.
Let me explain: I am dyslexic. I am able to compensate for this most of the time and many people are surprised to learn this because I am well educated and an avid reader and quick with words.
Every once in a while it rears it’s ugly head and I will glean the opposite meaning from a sentence or I’ll skip a line of music I am reading or I’ll write a b as a d, etc. this occurs mostly when fatigued or if I am in the throes of a Migraine.
Back to shopping…..
The worst place is the pharmacy, although all big box stores are a challenge. This will be hard to write without using the word “fucking” as an adjective before every fucking item in the whole fucking store not to mention the fucking piped in music and the use of different fucking names for the same fucking thing.
I am tired of writing “fucking” just assume it is in front of each proper noun that follows.
Try buying toothpaste for someone else. My wife likes toothpaste with no whitener. Just plain toothpaste. It is usually hidden on the bottom shelf which is so convenient for a 6 foot tall man. It is far from the pimped up glitterati in the wall of toothpaste above it. I am guessing that there must be eighty to a hundred products in flashy packaging and different formats and sizes and brand names. Maybe 20 of these have a red tag in front indicating a sale of some sort with an arbitrary reduction from another arbitrary sticker price. Flavour is another option. Spearmint, peppermint, just mint, clean mint, fresh mint, regular, original, new, new original and on and on…. This is a nightmare for a dyslexic. In Quebec this is also compounded further by bilingual packaging and the price using different (English smaller by law) fonts. I hope you are still injecting my favourite adjective.
Let’s say that Pharmaprix doesn’t have what I am looking for, my neighbourhood has several alternatives within easy walking distance (in opposite directions. Northward there is Jean Coutu and southward a Jean Coutu and a Uniprix opposite arch other all on the same busy boulevard. Each store layout is almost the same, but usually there is at least one quirky difference. This difference usually involves the product I am looking for. Painkillers for example are so ridiculously separated. There are cold and sinus type painkillers and there are the regular and extra strength. Back pain, headache, muscular pain, etc. The really good stuff is behind the counter and some needs prescription. There are brand names to contend with and the generic equivalent. Some people swear by the brand name (costlier) and say the generic is not as effective. I say it is all a scam. When I was a kid my mum had Aspirin. She switched to A.S.A at some point which is one of those immediately forgettable meaningless acronyms that are anathema to dyslexics. The good stuff was 222. Fucked if I care what 222 stood for. Those babies worked on migraines.
While still at the pharmacy try the hair product section…..nightmare. I simply won’t buy for someone else. It’s like Where’s Waldo for masochists.
Needless to say, Pharmacies are not my favourite place. Soviet Russia is preferable. One product you line up for I can get behind…..
Groceries are also a pain in the ass. Let’s pick a product like yogurt. 1%,2%,full fat, Greek style, whipped, fruit on the bottom, natural, organic, I am sure I am only scratching the surface and I am not going to research it completely which would involve doing the very thing I want to avoid. While in the dairy section, different formats for milk. Skim is not even milk. Compound this with almond milk and oat milk and canary milk etc. ‘Full fat, Greek style, whipped, fruit on the bottom’ sounds kinda sexy put together like that…
I am getting tired of writing, so, you, the reader (if still here) must be as well.
Last week I needed to get black ink for our printer. Great. I went to Bureau en Gros (Staples) and upon entering an enthusiastic young man asked if he could help me. I disappointed him by saying I knew exactly what I needed and pointed to the wall of cartridges half a kilometre away. I went to the wall… HP65 black (good for hp envy 7000 series). I checked. Not my first rodeo. In and out in 5 minutes. Smug.
Sharon put the cartridge in, and it didn’t work. She put the spent one back in, didn’t work. She turned the machine off, same result. If there were tires, she would have kicked them. I was called, and I went into ‘hp help’ etc. and found a YouTube video and unplugged for 20 minutes and tried again. I tried to get hp on the phone but I forgot my password. After dealing with the password I found that my warrantee for free help was expired so I googled “life expectancy of printers” and realized that maybe it was time for a new one. I googled my model and Lo and behold there was one left at the same store I get my cartridges. This happened to be Boxing Day and it was on sale for the cost of several cartridges. O happy day!
I went to the store expecting to buy the same model thinking ‘I already have a full cartridge’ and they were offering 3 months of “free” ink. When I finally found a ‘clerk’ (dr. Livingstone, I presume?) he was a spiritless drudge who checked to see if the model was in stock. Turned out that the display model was it. I checked inside to make sure that the cartridges were still the same. The cartridge was staring at me with its name “hp64”. I left drudge boy behind and got an hp64 black off the wall. Brought it home and our printer works again.
This is a rather sensitive issue, you may want to skip it.
On a normal day no man gives his testicles a second thought.
One day a few months back I noticed that when I turned over in bed I had to adjust my crotch to achieve comfort. I thought at the time that my thighs must be getting fat. Same thing the next night. Weird. I got up in the morning and put the dogs out for a pee and plunked down on a stool to wait and let them back in. Felt like I’d had what I’ve called a “Charley horse“ but means “kick in the nuts”. Shortness of breath and extreme discomfort. Very Unusual to sit on one’s balls. They are not made for that. Still didn’t think too much about it, just carried on with my day.
Later, out shopping at the bookstore I went to the rest room and had some difficulty with my fly at the urinal. I reached in to facilitate the exercise and was alarmed that one of my testicles that was usually grape sized was the size of a plum. My mind was immediately in catastrophe mode imagining testicular cancer and I called my GP (doctor). It was just after four pm and the answering machine was on so I had to leave a message describing my problem. The secretary called back within the hour and I got an appointment for first thing the next day.
My doctor asked me when I first noticed the symptoms, and I truly answered that I couldn’t accurately say because I was long past adolescence and no longer in the habit of fondling “the boys”. He laughed. Upon inspection, he said he suspected a hydrocele but ordered an ultra sound just to make sure. I got an appointment for later that morning and went to the Montréal General Hospital and gowned up. I was waiting outside the changing room to be called and a nervous young man came in and asked “Mr. McLean?” I was the only person there and replied that that was my doctor’s name and I, being the patient was Mr. Hanchet. He apologized and explained that he was a “resident” I impishly wisecracked that the ultra sound was to be of my testicles (just to be clear). He was actually very professional and thorough and explained that after he was done another doctor would confer with him and then come and explain to me what they saw. The female doctor confirmed that it was indeed a hydrocele and that there was no evidence of anything else to be worried about. She said she’d send the result to my doctor and urology. I thought she said “neurology” and impishly quipped that unlike a lot of men I didn’t think with my crotch. Funnier to me than to her….oh well.
A week passed. No call from urology. I called my GP and asked what to do and the secretary said I could bypass the system and get seen by a doctor who was private (meaning outside of the Medicare system) meaning there would be a fee. I decided to wait, but another week went by and my situation was starting to affect other aspects of my life. Driving was becoming awkward and uncomfortable. I called the private urologist’s office and the secretary informed me that the operation would be $850.00. I said I had to think about it. I decided to wait.
My brother in law is an eye doctor and had told me that if I needed help he “knows a guy”. He called, but the dr. was on holiday. A follow up call got me an appointment for surgery. I will go under the knife at the end of August.
Meanwhile it was still growing. Now an avocado and every time I needed to sit, I did so gingerly on the edge of the chair and slide back. Hoping I wouldn’t need a wheel barrow soon. This was just nuts!
The avocado grew into a tangerine in a ski mitten as my problem expanded. My crotch entered the room before I do and my head is filled with quotations I have heard before that now have new meaning. “He must have big balls” meaning he was brave. The opposite of timid. I don’t see how the size of one’s nuts determine one’s bravery, but I digress. Cojones? Forget about it. Great target for an enemy.
The urologist gave me four options: 1. live with it. 2. drain it. 3. drain it and inject medicine. 4. go under the knife. One was out of the question and three and four needed to be done in a hospital. I chose #2.
At the urology clinic there is a small room set aside for these kind of “procedures”. I nervously was humming the same “The Dance Of The Sugarplum Fairies” under my breath. I had decided an apt nickname for this operating room was “The Nutcracker Suite”. The medical staff were all business as after a small prick (pun intended) I finally earned the sobriquet of “Numb Nuts”. The extraction took a minute or so, and it was all over. 220ml of gross fluid which is almost a cup. I stood up and immediately sensed the difference. Perversely I started to sing “You Make Me Feel Like Dancing” which I didn’t even know I knew. I did a Pierre Trudeau pirouette …(Pierreouette) in my relief.
It has been over a week, and the return to normalcy has been a relief. I am very grateful for this resolution to my minor issue and has made me more mindful and empathetic of those with less easily resolved medical issues.
The other day while having a coffee in one of our favourite cafés, Sharon and I were delighted to be joined by two friends. One of those friends is a favourite professor and mentor from my days as a music student and the other was his life partner who is just as delightful. This is the second time this has happened in as many months. Every time we talk there is such a rich and humorous exchange of ideas on a variety of subjects.
Sharon and “C” got into their various experiences with their recent eye surgeries and the positive and negative emotions evoked from their experiences. I didn’t hear much of that conversation because on our side of the table we were having our own conversation. I always love talking with and listening to “K” and I believe he delights in it as well. The time before I had intended to send him an e-mail to express how our conversation had actually elated me and had altered my mood for hours afterward. I forgot to do it, of course, but this time I was determined to let him know how much he has meant and still means to me.
I was reminded of a message I received from a former student who I was quite fond of. I had found him on Facebook and he messaged me back with a series of re-acquainting stories and ended with this message: “You had a huge impact on my life, Ian!”
I wanted ”K” to hear a similar sentiment from me. He surely already knew. Most teachers are aware of that special connection. I have been fortunate to have had many great mentors and have been lucky enough to have been a mentor to several myself.
As we were wrapping up and taking our leave I heard Sharon say to “C”:
“Aging is a series of losses and adjustments”
Which struck me as quite profound.
”K” and I had talked about career moves and loss of loved ones through death and/or neglect and loss of various abilities including changes in eyesight, mobility, location, etc. and Sharon’s statement rang so true for both conversations.
Sharon has experienced this through her job as a home-care physiotherapist and more recently through her father’s illnesses and death and the erosion of her mother to the afflictions of aging.
“K” and I had talked about losing our parents and several colleagues and several contemporaries. I, also had the experience of my kids leaving the nest and needing less of me. I have lost some ambition and some skill through realizing I can’t do it all.
My older brother who showed me my first guitar chords can no longer form those chords because his fingers are distorted by arthritis. My fingers may be following. I recently saw Bruce Cockburn whose arthritis requires him to use two canes to walk. He talked freely about having to adapt his style to accommodate the physical changes befalling him. he’s still great by the way.
We all lose things, seeing them drop away from our reality until the only thing left to lose is our own life force.
At twenty I knew I would live forever. In my forties my dad stopped living forever. In my fifties my mum stopped living forever. Here I am in my sixties and I see more of my musical and literary heroes stopping living forever. It is starting to sink in that maybe I won’t live forever.
On Monday as I drove home from my eldest daughter’s thirtieth birthday celebration I was overwhelmed by a cloud of sadness suddenly realizing that I would not see my children grow as old as I am now. I couldn’t help that feeling or that realization. Reality sucks. I have my strategies for coping. I am a creative person. I revel in imaginary worlds and escape into art.
Now I adjust more than I want to, but probably not as much as I need to as the years flash by. Realizing this is like a sudden growth spurt of several inches.
My mind is expanding as my spine is contracting but my heart remains constant.
As a teenager I made extra spending money by doing gardening chores for some of my mum’s friends in the countryside around the town of St. Sauveur-des-Monts, Quebec in the lower Laurentian mountains. One friend of hers in particular gave me lots of work keeping her “Canada lilies“ under control. I had to dig up these obstinate orange monsters and divide them and replant the halved plant and dispose of the other half in a designated compost heap a short wheel barrow trip away. Mrs. Henderson had perhaps two dozen of these plants whose root systems were huge and intertwined. Cutting the roots with a spade was a particularly satisfying feeling and I am happy recalling this memory.
My story is not about plants, though, it is about teenage lust and paralyzing self-loathing.
Next door to the Henderson’s was another friend of my mum’s named “Hope”. Hope was a single mum and had several kids. One of those kids was Kathy. Kathy was a year younger than me and because of zoning went to a different high school. I only ever saw her from afar at the Bell theatre in Morin Heights or at community events like Canada Day or la fète St. Jean Baptiste.
One day as I was working on the lilies I saw Kathy out of the corner of my eye setting up a chaise longue on the balcony of their chalet and discretely kept watching as she slathered her limbs and torso with sunscreen as she prepared to sunbathe in her bikini less than sixty feet from me. She looked perfect. Blonde, already tanned, nubile. I was smitten in that dumbest of ways because we were really just strangers and I lacked the skill and/or confidence to do anything about it.
In those days, I had a six pack and often worked shirtless. I continued working and needlessly flexing certain muscles in hopes of luring Kathy into my orbit. Talking to her was out of the question because she was a Goddess and I was not. As I write this I am being re-traumatized by the pent up anxiety I experienced at the time. I had desire to meet this girl, but was missing the information that even though a goddess, she was just a teenager like I was and was sending off the signals that she was approachable. I feel like such a coward admitting my social impotence here. I was clueless and felt worthless.
I returned several times to the property to continue gardening, but the weather never seemed to reproduce the perfect conditions of that first day, and Kathy did not reappear. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
In the fall, I headed off to University in another province and got on with my life as did my pals from this era. Eventually Got married, raised a family, etc.
Thirty years or so later I was back in St. Sauveur attending a funeral for the mother of one of my friends and ran into Kathy’s mum “Hope”. We struck up a conversation and I nonchalantly asked how Kathy’s life had turned out. I let out that I had had a crush on her that summer. Hope exclaimed “YOU had a crush, boy oh boy, Kathy had an overwhelming crush on you that summer and couldn’t figure out why it appeared that I had no interest in her!” Doh!!!!
I have often used this story in my teaching to children. Essentially, we never know what someone else may be thinking. It isn’t a great idea to put others on a pedestal so as to make them seem unapproachable.
Role reversal is a technique used in therapy meant to develop empathy and put yourself in another’s shoes.
In my life I have seen many guide dogs leading humans who had little or no eyesight. Where I went to University was across the street from the Canadian National Institute for the Blind. I never dreamed or ever considered that one day I might be a “Seeing eye dog”.
One of our two Shih-Tzus completely lost his eyesight around a month ago. It seemed all of a sudden that he started bumping into things and stumbling into hazards like stairs. This may have been as a result of his recently diagnosed diabetes and/or pancreatitis. The sudden need for Sami to be dependent and protected from falling down stairs and needing to be carried in both directions has put me in the role of seeing eye human. I carry him outdoors for his morning relief and several times throughout the day as well. Before we realized he was blind (day one) I put him out in the back yard with the other dogs and when I went to let them back in the two other dogs scrambled through the door, but Sami was not with them. This wasn’t unusual, the dogs sometimes went round the corner of the L shaped yard. After a while, though, I became concerned he wasn’t showing up or responding to my voice. He usually came when he was called. I went over to the side of the house and he wasn’t there. Sami is a real home body. He is not a runner, he was not in the yard and the gates were closed. We checked indoors thinking maybe we were unaware that he came inside. Another pass of the yard and a sideways glance revealed that he had fallen in a window well. The basement windows are below ground level. He was quietly lying in a bed of leaves and I pulled him out. So weird he didn’t bark or whimper or anything.
I have been amazed at the ability of this little creature to adapt. Without language, I can’t be sure if he understands what has befallen him, but I am sure he accepts it. He wags his tail for meals and he still enjoys being petted and going “walkies”. He just gets on with his job of being a dog.
It is an honour for me to be his eyes. He has learned to traverse the two steps to get back into the house. He follows my voice and as he nears the step I say “up” and he is able to hoist himself up and enter the house. He often gets disoriented inside the house and frequently bumps into walls or chairs, but has learned to walk gingerly and he doesn’t hurt himself, he just flinches and changes direction. Sometimes he is completely at a loss and just stands facing a wall and waits for me to point him in the other direction. He never complains.
This new symbiotic relationship has brought me closer to him. I always liked Sami. He is quite the character. I now love him to the same extent I loved another dog in my past named Stardust. We are hoping to provide him with quality of life as long as we can. Sharon is the primary caregiver as far as syringes and pain meds go, easily the more difficult task, but I do most of the physical work of lifting and overseeing his movements.
Dogs give us so much. They are loyal companions and warm comfort. They teach us so much about life. Too bad the deal is that they don’t live as long as humans. I have mourned many dogs (my own and friends’ and family dogs). It is never easy, but mourning a loved one is far better than not having a loved one.
The little rascal just climbed the stairs, so I better go and see what he’s up to and bring him back to safety.
I had an interesting but disturbing exchange with a man last evening. He was painting a hallway near where I was going. I noticed he was wearing a school board shirt from a local board and struck up a conversation. He explained he was moonlighting and added that being a parent was expensive. I asked how old were his kids? He told me they were ten and seven. I exclaimed “you’re missing Hallowe’en” to which he replied “We don’t do Hallowe’en, we are Christian!”
Now, I was brought up Christian and this concept was news to me. He went on about how Hallowe’en gave a foothold to Satan, etc. My opinion of this man did a complete 180. The remainder of our conversation was of him spewing his dogma and me trying to politely escape. I felt like he was no longer human, but a programmed automaton. There was no room for anything else. An idea free world.
I thought about all the kids I have taught whose parents’ religious convictions kept them from participating in fun events or social ceremonies that were contrary to their beliefs. Some who were not allowed to play, sing or hear music….. others who were not able to have birthday cupcakes, etc. no dancing. No Hallowe’en…..
It saddens me that there are huge swaths of humanity who are blinded by ideology that restricts and controls their behaviour to such an extent that festivity is alien to them. Straight and narrow flies in the face of my belief that we are meant to rejoice in our lives and the wide vista of the planet we inhabit.
Last night, after this encounter, as I drove slowly down a residential street in NDG festooned with creative, spooky and hilarious decorations and looking left and right at little goblins running from house to house with their parents in tow (and sometimes better costumed than the kids) my heart was warmed at this harmless and charming activity that pulls neighbours together and celebrates life in the face of and in spite of death.
I recently discovered a great place to walk not far from where we live.
I love walking in the woods, but I live in deep suburbia. We have a park very nearby where we walk the dogs and sometimes I walk all alone just to gather my thoughts. Nice park, but not the new one
When I lived closer to Mount Royal I’d go there to walk and/or cross country ski, but not as often as I would have liked to. Pay parking was a deterrent.
There are several places out here on the West Island where I can go and walk, but alas, my vignette for parking expired and I haven’t renewed it yet. I will as winter approaches so I can park and ski at Cap St. Jacques and on Ile Bizard.
The park I “discovered” is called Centennial Park in DDO. There are tons of activity areas: a dog run, etc. but the area I like is the trails in the woods and around the man-made lake. As a young girl, Sharon played in the area that is now the park. She said the area was all farmland and woods before the neighbourhood got built up. She said she thought the park opened in 1976. I asked her if her math was off because the Centennial of Canada was in 1967 when her dad bought their home a few blocks from where the park is today. Turns out it was commissioned in 1967, but took 9 years to complete.
The park comprises 48 hectares and surrounds a lake. At various places along the trail you’d swear you were in the Laurentians. I spent a good portion of my early life near and in lakes like this and the surrounding brush offers fragrant reminiscences that warm my heart.
The walking paths in Centennial remind me of a particular walking path in Oxford, U.K. where the author C.S. Lewis walked as part of his routine. His walk is called Addison’s Walk. My brothers and I toured Oxford in the spring. A tour that concentrated on Lewis and Tolkein…Heroes of ours. I have posted a virtual tour of this lovely promenade that is both entirely rural, but bordering on the bustling urban campus of Oxford University.
If you delight in nature (like I do) a park like this one is a true blessing. Not only does it provide body-care exercise, but mind-settling scenery and, bonus… it keeps one “regular” (nudge,nudge, wink, wink, say no more, say no more!).
I am so thankful to have this resource and I wish I had visited earlier. I regret that the geriatric Shih-Tzus no longer have the stamina for long walks.
I’ve been curious about my British roots since forever, but after joining Ancestry.ca and a previous trip to the UK where I mysteriously felt like I was at home on a molecular level I felt an urge to delve farther into our roots. As I was looking up stuff I encountered a facebook group called “World of Hanchett’s” which, despite the misuse of an apostrophe, opened my knowledge up exponentially. I met several Hanchetts and other variants (Hanchant) online who are much more passionate and skilled at this genealogy tracing than I am. Their interest and e-mails helped me immeasurably in planning and understanding. In particular, Leland Hanchett has written many historical books on this very subject.
It all started with this picture that was in my filing cabinet in a manila folder called “Dad”. I knew this was a photo of my great grandfather’s monumental mason business. I scanned the picture and started googling using clues like: Hanchet;stone mason; Finchley; East Finchley etc.
I found this next photo in Pinterest and bought it.
This photo had more clues. I got satellite views of High street and scanned up and down to no end. On a hunch I looked up East Finchley Historical societies or something like that and sent the picture asking if they knew the actual address on High Street. Within the hour I received a response… 79 High Road.
“Hello there.
My name is Ian Hanchet and I am writing from Montreal, Canada in search of my roots. My great grandfather was Walter Alfred Hanchet whose stone carving business was on High Road in East Finchley. Seeing as many of my ancestors apparently came from the area around Oxford, I am writing on the off chance that there might be a connection here. Thank you for your time.”
Within the hour I received a response… “79 High Road. Now a Lebanese restaurant.” I thought “how cool to go to England and have a meal there. Maybe they’d let us into the basement and see stuff that was too cumbersome to move out”… First I got brother Mark interested in this idea, then we invited brother Guy along.
The best laid plans of mice and men…. The pandemic bankrupted the restaurant and it was closed. Apparently squatters moved in and it is now boarded up and secured. It is “To Let”. Disappointing, but affirming as well. Everything changes.
The neighbourhood of East Finchley is a colourful, bustling place with visible minorities seemingly in the majority. Many foods from the middle east.
The Diary
Sunday May 14th -Monday May 15th I squeezed into a “red eye” sardine can with wings and promptly dropped a noise cancelling ear bud which rolled backward as the plane was ascending. I had to use my ipod earbuds, but music was impossible with the noise floor so high from the airplane.
They were set in Ireland and in England (I know Dunkirk’s in France)respectively. I used English subtitles to increase my understanding as the earbuds suck. It was a happy coincidence that as the soldiers and sailors evacuated from Dunkirk were arriving safely in England our plane was approaching the white cliffs on the English side of the channel. too far southwest to be Dover, but so what!
Monday May 15th I had a few hours to kill before Guy’s plane landed. Struck up a conversation with some Scottish travellers…oy vey.. Anti Maskers etc. Fortunately I found an escape before I had to go all Rob Roy on them… The train system is connected to the airport which is totally awesome. Direct train to Cambridge.
Train To Cambridge
Didn’t need “Findmybrother” Mark was where he said he’d be in Cambridge.
Mark was the only one insured to drive the rental, so he got to white knuckle it on the “wrong” side of the road. Guy and I got to practice our roller coaster yells as designated back seat drivers.
Uh yeah!
We checked into our rental in Steeple Bumpstead which brother Mark found for us. It was an excellent choice! We were hungry and thirsty so we hiked the hundred yards to the Fox and Hounds
Lovely reception from the locals, but sadly their kitchen was not open on Mondays. A customer called The Red Lion for us and ascertained that their kitchen was open. A kind gesture. We went over to what was to be the first of many Red Lions we encountered on our travels. The beer was better than the “Bangers and Mash” which we had nostalgically mis-remembered as a delicacy from our grandfather. To make matters worse, we paid for it twice by mistake. Glad it wasn’t paid for by deservedly getting indigestion!
The food helped us get a good night’s sleep until the wee hours of the morning when the birds…
da Bumpstead boids
Tuesday May 16th the roots trip gets under way. On our trip to Shudy Camps we passed a sign for Hanchett toys. Had to stop! The toy store is no more, it specialized in wooden apparatus and other specialty items. We spoke to someone at the attached equestrian school who said it didn’t survive the pandemic. One of my reprobate friends altered (photoshopped) the picture an improvement which I cherish.
We found Shudy Camps which is little more than a crossroads with a church. We were walking around the graveyard looking for ancestors…turns out they were all dead and their name tags faded or fell off….Hanchet Hall in the upper right corner
Hanchets lost in time.Dust to dust.
Extract from ‘Magna Britannia – ‘Cambridgeshire’ by Daniel & Samuel Lysons, first published 1808.
SHUDY-CAMPS, in ancient records, called Shudee-Camps, and Scode-Camps, adjoins to Castle-Camps, being 14 miles south-east of Cambridge, and about 13 south of Newmarket : it was sometimes called Parva-Camps; and appears to have acquired its present name form the family of Shudee, who, in ancient times, possessed the manor, and gave the hamlet of Northoe to the monks of Ely.
The manor of Shudy-Camps was held by the family of Hanchet, in the reigns of King Edward I. and King Edward II. of the family of Playz, as heirs of the Montfichets : at a later period, it was successively in the families of Cholmeley and Bentley
A short walk from the church is the Hall. Obviously the Hall has been added to over the past half a millenium, but the land and part of the structure would have been my family’s. I wanted to knock on the door, but my brothers felt I should respect the present owner’s privacy.
Next stop was Saffron Walden where it was Market Day. The library faced the market so I went in and found someone on site whose volunteer job is to help with the archives. I found some stuff, but saved the site for later.
We had lunch at the Crown an upscale pub. We were in an annex whose walls were covered with pictures of bombers from WW II. There must have been an airfield in the vicinity during the second world war.
We had passed Hanchett Hall, Haverhill on the way back to our base. We had seen a picture of this house in our book “The English Ancestry of Thomas Hanchett”, My brother Guy’s log has a more complete accounting I have put the link to it again. https://guyhanchet.wordpress.com/2023/05/31/hanchet-brothers-roots-tour/
– We ate at yet another Red Lion in Sturmer. We needed groceries, so headed back to Haverhill for some silly photos of Hanchet End and Hanchett Village. Throughout all the reading and archival stuff I have been through it seems that One t or two t’s or several other variants were common. Someone told me that a T was added to the Hall fairly recently to be in line with Hanchett End etc. Easily rectified…lol. Again, my brothers didn’t think it’d be “in good taste” to hang my rear end out for a gag shot. So?!?!?!?
On Wednesday May 17 we went to Bury/St. Edmunds in the morning and met with Kevin Emsden who runs “Hanchets Monumental Masons” Kevin’s father and my great-uncle Walter Arthur Hanchet’s son were partners. He had some interesting tidbits. They kept the name because it was respected and Hanchet had cachet..
On to Cambridge University.
Cambridge University
Renovations at King’s College precluded our visiting this hallowed hall. We did hear another choir through an upper window rehearsing an anthem. All three brothers have choral experience, so it hit us viscerally.
Why we really came to Cambridge was to re-enact the beheading of our ancestor. They wouldn’t let me on the plane with an ax…(philistines) and I couldn’t get one in time in Cambridge so Mark improvised with a baguette.
In Cambridge Market Square where John Hanchach lost his head for his part in the 1381 Peasant’s Revolt.
“Following the peasants’ uprising in 1381 and John Hanchach’s subsequent beheading, it is not surprising that members of the Hanchet family kept a low profile. As a result, the living members of the family started to spread out to places not formerly associated with the family name.”
We are up early on Thursday may 18th to get to Oxford University where we are to meet our private tour guide for our C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien tour that we brothers unanimously decided was worth taking a day! Guy has great photos on his blog, so I’ll only post a few. https://www.nytimes.com/2023/02/28/travel/cs-lewis-oxford-narnia.html
There is a faun above Mark and Malcolm’s heads. Mr. Tumnus? The lamppost of Narnia behind them.
I love Oxford. I could spend a year or two here! I was super impressed by Blackwell’s Book store. 2 and a half miles of shelving…https://blackwells.co.uk/bookshop/about
We had greasy fish and soggy chips from Chippy’s takeaway.
Friday May 19th -off day Mark had to work. Guy and I walked around , ate at the Fox and Hounds caught up on some sleep and went into Haverhill for a Turkish dinner which provided us with leftovers for the next evening.
Saturday May 20th -trip to Edgeware (North London)to visit our second cousins at Alice’s home which was her grandmother’s (our great auntie Daisy).
, east finchley -souvenir photos- the old pot’s business- turkish leftovers
Sunday may 21st. hike to Helion Bumpstead the three horseshoes- hike back -mark forgot his phone with the name of the Nepalese/indian resto…in Saffren. by the time we figured out the resto was called Yugo Google maps sent us down two way roads that resembled a paved golf cart path or a one way country driveway lined with hedge that two bicycles could barely pass each other on. The place was a remote semi-rural location and no cars in the lot. we were worried the food might be scrappy because there were so few diners. No need to worry, the phone in, walk in Take Away business was hopping! probably the best Indian food I’ve ever eaten.
Monday may 22 -packing up and drive to Cambridge and train to Liverpool Street station. I find a hat that fits!!!
We had a big dinner planned at Sishoom Shoreditch with nephew Malcolm and niece Simone and Sharon’s 1st cousin Renu and Mark’s wife Denise.
Tuesday may 23 The big item today is a visit to Darwin’s cottage.
We returned to London and walked across London Bridge. It wasn’t falling down. Walked through Whitehall where there is a Jack the Clipper barber shop and a Jack the Chipper Fish and Chips stand. That evening we had reservations to Ronnie Scott’s which is to London what the Village Vanguard is to NYC. Jazz Mecca.
Woodstock. This band and the singers are great
Wednesday my quest was to find Halcyon Gallery for a Bob Dylan Exhibit and get an Art Book of his work. I remembered after the fact that it was Bob Dylan’s birthday.
I then meet Renu at 2 at the Victoria and Albert Museum where she bought me lunch and we walked around the garden and the main floor. This art gallery is amazing, and Renu is a great tour guide and friend! I put my phone observations into this little video
I realized early on in our trip that our scope and time was limited. The Ancestry we followed was strictly Patrilineal. The tree, although interesting is impossible to ever complete. For every male Hanchet there were other mothers, sisters, . I think that on any given day in the UK we probably passed dozens of cousins, but we were unaware of it. I believe everything and everyone is interconnected and if I follow the Do Unto Others… Love thy neighbour as thyself. It’s good.
The diaspora is huge and my Hanchett buddies who narrow things down and seek out headstones are better at it than me. Tombstones don’t talk anyway.
Thanks for joining me on this lame account of our very fun and interesting journey.
Of course I knew who Sonny Rollins is. He is a master of an art form that has resonated with me for over 2/3 of my time on this planet. I had all the right albums and knew the lineage as well as any other student of Jazz. Trouble was it didn’t hit me viscerally in the same way some of his contemporaries did. I have had reverential posters on my wall of John Coltrane; Miles Davis; Duke Ellington but never Sonny Rollins.
I just finished a 700 page biography of Sonny’s life and music written by Aidan Levy. It took me a long time to traverse this Tome as I would stop and listen to the records mentioned and fill in the gaps of music I had not yet heard. By guided listening, I was able to rebuild a more accurate view of Sonny Rollins. Hearing the amazing Bud Powell but listening for Sonny… Realizing that although I have several Clifford Brown-Max Roach albums, I didn’t have the one they made with Sonny nor the Max Roach plus albums… rectified.
Focussed listening always brings great results. As various albums came up in the book, I’d stop and listen. Brilliant Corners (Thelonious Monk) The Fabulous Fats Navarro, Art Farmer, Kenny Dorham. All great albums in my collection where I never really remarked on the sax player being Sonny. Each new listen bringing me closer to the general consensus that Sonny was one of the greatest improvisers in modern jazz.
Of course I have been aware of and have played several of Sonny’s songs. Oleo, Doxy, Pent-Up House, St. Thomas, Tenor Madness, Airegin, etc. A very long list of what are now part of the standard Jazz repertoire. great tunes, great vehicles for improvising.
I listened to Saxophone Colossus, Tenor Madness and then Live at the Village Vanguard which I initially had dismissed because it was a trio (no guitar or piano). My ears were not ready back then. I held so many opinions then that I disagree with now.
There is a famous story where Sonny stopped performing and took a sabbatical to reimagine his approach and strengthen his mind and body. he practiced daily on the Williamsburg bridge in NYC. When he decided to end his exile he emerged with a quartet that included guitarist Jim Hall. The album “The Bridge” was and is one of my favourite discs. I realized this time around that my ears were mostly attuned to the guitar and the rhythm section and I was taking the leader soloist for granted. i listened intently several times focusing on elements I had heretofore ignored and the disc became alive and complete. It was as if I was experiencing something for the first time. A richer experience because I had been awakened.
As a music student in the late seventies and early eighties I was learning so much about jazz all at once. i would scour used record stores for names I recognized and would snap up their discs for cheap. Some were gems, others, duds. I picked up three or four titles from Sonny’s catalogue and was disappointed by each of them. According to the book, the period where these albums were from was the weakest era of his career. he was marrying improvisation on a more ‘pop’ or ‘commercial’ backing. I am not against this kind of music per se, but at the time I was a hardcore bop fanatic and I felt that Sonny was slumming it. It is no wonder that I dismissed the entirety of Sonny off this random sampling. I feel differently now. I know more. I hear better.
The gift in all of this is that by him being under the radar for most of my life, I am discovering remarkable music daily from this same source. The motherlode of riches is like when a miner hits a huge vein of precious ore. Eldorado!
Reading about Sonny’s personal and spiritual journey has also deepened my experience of his music. i have read several biographies of other heroes from the same or similar eras. Most of my musical heroes did not live to experience old age. Easier, tidier to wrap a life already lived than one that is ongoing. Sonny is no longer able to play, but I am thankful for the richness of his oeuvre and what he has taught.
If I have ever said anything disparaging or disapproving about Sonny Rollins in the past, please forgive me. I was an asshole!
I am reading a biography of Sonny Rollins called “Saxophone Colossus” which has rekindled my love and appreciation for Bebop and Hard Bop music.
The format I listen to music now is very different from LP and/or CD. I download my CDs and transfer the files to one of several iPod Classics. I listen with my eyes closed and bathe in the sound. My form of meditation and migraine relief.
To relax yesterday, I listened intently to another Sonny. Sonny Clark’s album “Cool Struttin'” from 1958 which I have listened to probably several dozen times since I first purchased it in the 1970’s.
I like to guess the players on music I listen to if I don’t already know in advance. I knew it was Sonny Clark on piano, because he was the leader whose album I had selected. I have many other albums by him, and this one was chosen at random. I immediately recognized Paul Chambers on bass and Philly-Joe Jones on drums. They were 2/3 of perhaps the greatest rhythm section of that era. I know all their recordings with Miles Davis and many others. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out the trumpet and saxophone player. I wracked my brain and it upset my serenity that I didn’t recognize the players, so I googled it. Jackie Mclean on alto and Art Farmer on trumpet. These are both masterful artists that I am familiar with in other settings. Art Farmer is better known as a flugelhorn player and I was surprised at his tuning on this. I felt he was just under the pitch which was especially noticeable on the ensemble playing with Jackie who (to my ears) is always just the other side of the pitch. One was flat, and the other sharp. Seeing as I haven’t noticed it before on previous listens, I returned to my enjoyment and willingly suspended my analytical listening.
The early chapters of the book on Sonny Rollins fresh in my mind and the sounds of the music of Sonny Clark’s combo got me to thinking about how unstuck in time I am.
When I first encountered and became engaged to this style of music, I was twenty years of age. Hard bop music was already around twenty years old by then. I thought of these musicians as older than me and revered them as masters of the form that I sought to master. Rollins’ biography made me realize that the musicians I was worshipping were essentially around my age when they were making this fresh and compelling music. Why was this fact, which on some level I must have known, just becoming a reality to me now?
If I see a Hockey game or any other professional team sport, I don’t think of the men on the ice as younger than me… is it because I first encountered team sports from the perspective of a child? Something that a grown up does. If I encounter women’s team sports I do not have the same experience. I see them as dynamic women younger than me. Is this because Women’s professional organized sports has only fairly recently become a”thing”?
I’m starting to think that the way I store things in my brain is faulty. If I perceive musicians who are younger than me on recordings as older than me and conversely, Hockey players in real life who are younger than me as older than me do I have faulty perception? Do others experience this? When we picture notable people do we picture “Sun Records Elvis” or “Las Vegas Elvis”? We see Einstein with White hair. We tend to see people in their image “after achievement”. A Monolithic vision.
Another thing of which I am recently becoming acutely aware is the time line and perspective of history. Concurrent to the Sonny Rollins book I am also reading “Indiginous Continent” and “A People’s History of The United States” (and Trees by Hermann Hesse…doesn’t fit this essay). So many different perspectives of things I thought I knew. Things and people evolve.
Some things I could lecture on at length and am able to distinguish a time line. The career of each year of The Beatles, Bob Dylan, history of the guitar, the time lines of what we call “classical music and art” but includes Baroque, Renaissance, Romantic, etc. I would regularly blow the minds of students when discussing things in the past that never occured to them. On Mozart. Do you know what was here (the island of Montreal) when Mozart lived? The population of Canada was under 100,000 people and Montreal’s population could fit inside a hockey Arena except Hockey Arena’s didn’t exist at that time.
I think perhaps we all go through life placing things vaguely in “the past” as “chunks” without giving a thought about things we take for granted and were always there, so always will be. As we experience the deaths of loved ones and/or historic events it dawns on us that we are impermanent and situations change… pre-Covid….college days… when dad died….
Only age, experience and education is making me evolve my world view. Everything is in flux. I love this short video that illustrates transformation.
A post-script. Wayne Shorter transitioned from a living human being into the spirit world (as was his belief)yesterday. I have followed Wayne’s career from when he first came to prominence in the Jazz world (roughly a decade and a bit after Sonny Rollins). His music is a part of me. My fabric. I know he was young when he was with Art Blakey and then Miles, on his own and then with Weather Report. I never experienced him as “young”, middle-aged” or “old” just as “Wayne Shorter”. Now that he is no longer Wayne Shorter, but his recordings still exist, I can still think of him fondly and honour what he brought into my life.
All lessons still exist “out of time” and although our bodies will run “out of time” the spirit of art lives on.
Vignettes and Bagatelles 