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Herodotus is getting to the boring bit ie the actual Persian wars, and anyway I can't keep anyone straight given H's tendency to interpolate backstory, so I turn to my other Wee Free Library find of last summer, I Brought the Ages Home. And am at once reminded why pre-70s Ontario was such a claustrophobic place. All Canadian biographies of that era begin like this:
"I was born in the village of Exeter, in the county of Huron, on the eleventh of January, 1876, the morning on which the first train of the new railroad, the London, Huron and Bruce, came through Exeter from London to Goderich. My mother was Mary Treble, of the Trebles of Vognacote, Devonshire. and my father, John Currelly, was the son of Thomas Currelly, who had settled in Durham County, and was of the ancient gens Corelea of Rome. My father's mother was Jane Doney, sister of Thomas Doney, an engraver who spent most of his life in Paris, and later came to the United States to do a series of historical portraits. The elder brother worked in Paris until a nervous breakdown made it necessary to bring him back to Devonshire. As my great-grandfather was moderately well off, he was advised to bring the poor shaking boy to the new world. where, it was assumed, the quiet forests and all the wonderful developments that were being talked about would probably cure him. Unfortunately he died soon after they arrived."
Ie 'Lest anyone should suppose I am a son of nobody, I may say our line is an old one, related to the Trebles of Vognacote, Devonshire (where?) and tracing our ancestry to the gens Corelea of Rome (what?), and bitheway we had this obscure artist in the family as well whose brother (?) had a breakdown and died in Canada.' If you don't declaim your ancestry, however obscure, in Anglo Canada, how will people know who you are?
Thank god for immigration.
Otherwise I find myself in a peaceable psychological backwater, very pleasant for as long as it lasts, where I'm quite content to do my exercises three or four times a day, especially when I can intersperse them with the stretches my pilates woman showed me that may succeed in opening up my hips. I even began the chair pilates exercises again, hampered only slightly by the disappearance of sound on my upstairs tablet-- for that site, at least, because youtube plays just fine. Fortunately it's closed captioned, since I'm not a fan of people's voices at the best of times.
The wind blusters about the house but before it rained I got to the Christie St coffee shop that makes the amazing smoked salmon bagels with what I took to be dill mayonnaise. Only it's not: it's cream cheese whipped with olive oil and lemon juice and dill, and delish. I hope the place is a money laundering operation because there's never anyone in there.
In the Eat More Veg dep't, I bought baby artichokes and have concluded that there's really no point to artichokes, young or old. Almost worse than pomegranates.
"I was born in the village of Exeter, in the county of Huron, on the eleventh of January, 1876, the morning on which the first train of the new railroad, the London, Huron and Bruce, came through Exeter from London to Goderich. My mother was Mary Treble, of the Trebles of Vognacote, Devonshire. and my father, John Currelly, was the son of Thomas Currelly, who had settled in Durham County, and was of the ancient gens Corelea of Rome. My father's mother was Jane Doney, sister of Thomas Doney, an engraver who spent most of his life in Paris, and later came to the United States to do a series of historical portraits. The elder brother worked in Paris until a nervous breakdown made it necessary to bring him back to Devonshire. As my great-grandfather was moderately well off, he was advised to bring the poor shaking boy to the new world. where, it was assumed, the quiet forests and all the wonderful developments that were being talked about would probably cure him. Unfortunately he died soon after they arrived."
Ie 'Lest anyone should suppose I am a son of nobody, I may say our line is an old one, related to the Trebles of Vognacote, Devonshire (where?) and tracing our ancestry to the gens Corelea of Rome (what?), and bitheway we had this obscure artist in the family as well whose brother (?) had a breakdown and died in Canada.' If you don't declaim your ancestry, however obscure, in Anglo Canada, how will people know who you are?
Thank god for immigration.
Otherwise I find myself in a peaceable psychological backwater, very pleasant for as long as it lasts, where I'm quite content to do my exercises three or four times a day, especially when I can intersperse them with the stretches my pilates woman showed me that may succeed in opening up my hips. I even began the chair pilates exercises again, hampered only slightly by the disappearance of sound on my upstairs tablet-- for that site, at least, because youtube plays just fine. Fortunately it's closed captioned, since I'm not a fan of people's voices at the best of times.
The wind blusters about the house but before it rained I got to the Christie St coffee shop that makes the amazing smoked salmon bagels with what I took to be dill mayonnaise. Only it's not: it's cream cheese whipped with olive oil and lemon juice and dill, and delish. I hope the place is a money laundering operation because there's never anyone in there.
In the Eat More Veg dep't, I bought baby artichokes and have concluded that there's really no point to artichokes, young or old. Almost worse than pomegranates.
And then there's the cozy comfort of the latest 100 Demons, to which I shall return shortly.