Thursday: It was slow. The air had stopped moving entirely for the morning. Above the piles of magazines flew, outside, a humming bird, beating its wings and the halting to drink of the sugar water. The sky became the color of cement and the heat pressed down on us. Never repugnant but ever purposeful. Thankfully, there were fans. White fans with names on them like “windmere” and “Regal” that served the purposes of their masters, us. On beautiful occasions, time slowed to the point of stopping and then the sun would come out and odd wind blasts would announce themselves, abruptly. We saw a chipmunk. One of us got a bee sting on her foot; it was not me, but had it been, I would have complained for the next eight hours, laid up in bed and hoping for night to fall. The winds picked up and up and the lake, from a distance, looked like a small sea with white caps and all. The end of the vacation was nigh. In the morning, we pack and drive.
– Live, from Moose Lake, your fearless reporter, Andrew Boardman.

Monday: It was cool. Low clouds hung over the green grass and grey water. Slight winds rustled our hair as we walked along the dirt paths, speaking in small tones to each another. There were bugs. But most of them twittered around rather than on and the sun shone barely through a series of constant cloud patterns. The clothesline swayed back and forth and, on our walks, you could hear the rustle of small animals. Birds and maybe rabbits. The sunset was golden and wrapped our three lives in warmth and the momentary awareness of earthly grace. I bathed in the bright, harsh sunset and watched our shadows become, at times, one. We hoped for sun.
Tuesday: It was grand. The sun, which we had hoped for, after all, came out and was strong. The day was spent amidst the wooden dock and its varied paraphanalia: the preservers, the lotions, the drinks, the towels and the chips. The sky was mostly a whitish blue and the greens were grand and gorgeous, everywhere. We looked out at the now bluish lake waters and there minnows in schools went left and right and then left. Larger fish darted in and out of the day and, for the most part, I avoided them. The green algae below felt weird beneath my feet but the smaller stones in the shallows were nice. The conversation was staggered around the good fortune of good weather. We hoped for continuity.
Wednesday: It was warm. The day passed slowly at first as we bathed in the North lakeside. The sands there were hard and stepped on but it was quiet and the trees seemed happy to tolerate our temporary hold on that beach. Slowly, as if half-hour increments, the sun grew hotter and hotter and the air, more still. Our shadows wouldn’t hold and the drinks flowed more deliberately. We were thirsty and the sun shone deeply. The clouds took on a white, thin appearance later in the afternoon and the lake became still, except for the occasional ripples caused by motor boats. Afraid of the fish, I did not swim. It was announced that it would probably rain later, perhaps during the late evening; the humidity was soaring and the temperatures along with it. The trees looked thin in the heat and nothing much moved except for the honeybees and their clover harvests.
-Reporting live from Moose Lake, Manitoba, near the Minnesota border, your intrepid reporter, Andrew Boardman.

My daughter is busy watching Beauty and the Beast, the 1991 Disney fandangle. I have nothing to say about it because I’ve been researching online the incredible flooding near where I grew up in Pennsylvania. I just spoke with my parents and they noted that one of my favorite towns, New Hope, is totally under water (or at least up to the doorknobs). I have nothing to say about this because I’m working on a laptop, in which I just re-installed Quicksilver a little application, which, it turns out, is even better than Peter Mauer’s little application called Butler, which I have uninstalled. I have nothing to say about this because I’m finishing a nice glass of soda, which they call pop here in Winnipeg. The soda is cold and good. I have nothing to say about it because the music from the movie is distracting me. It’s cold and good. Oh.

I’m feeling a bit under the weather. But there’s a certain pessimistic clarity that comes with feeling crappy. There are quite a few shams out there these days:

1. Yesterday, Steven Hawkings announed in Hong Kong that earth could end pretty soon and that we had all better figure out a way to go to Mars. I’m a bit of a doomsayer myself, but come on. Mr. Hawkings is not only making the dire predictions of the anxious class but his call to arms is weak in both theory and practice. How will we get to Mars when we can’t even figure out (e.g. allocate enough resources) how to cure AIDS?
2. Increasingly, I see lots of talk about organic food, organic food, organic food. Even Wal-Mart is saying they’re going to get in on the game. I’m a bit of an organic food lover myself, but come on. Do people really believe that processed, industrial organic food is better than processed, industrial regular food? Animals have been eating for about, oh 200 million years or so. I’m thinking that taste will continue to regulate our health.
3. A designer blog recently redesigned: Design Observer. It went from a relatively interesting, relatively well-designed blog about design to a relatively interesting, relatively well-designed blog about design. I’m a bit of designer myself, but come on. It’s amazing that the good intentions of a group of designers can produce something so average. Some other designers, on a somewhat better design blog, further discuss the redesign of the design of Design Observer>.
4. I purchased a really nice soup mix today. It contains locally grown lentils and other dried vegetables. The recipe on the packaging calls for adding fresh vegetables to the mix and that, with just plain old water, you get a spanking good soup. I’m a bit of a soup admirer, but come on. The recipe should have called for stock. Well, the soup is bland and I’m taking the heat.

Having said all of that, the universe is expanding gorgeously, the world is spinning magic.

Terribly ungrammatical, the above header is meant to merely describe.
As a consumer dad, or a consuming father – whichever comes first – it’s hard not to notice the strong similarities between certain kids’ products and their adult counterparts. Here’s a brief list of some of those products. It’s not exhaustive and you can draw your own conclusions:

• Crayola crayons box:Marlboro cigarettes
• Pez candy dispensers::Bic lighters
• Barbie clothes::Gap clothes
• Mentos::Uppers
• M&Ms::Downers
• Fruit Rolls::Fruit Rolls

Canada is a small country that continues to impress.
Yesterday, we sent in our census questionnaire. It included two documents, one in French and one in English, with a yellow, postage-paid envelope to allow easy return to the government. The questions were very well-written and the design of the document was very straightforward and easy to follow. The questions were non-intrusive (though I understand others receive more thorough sample sets) and you could file your return either on paper or via the Web.
I just went to the website and, notably, the online forms are accessible to those with disabilities. This is impressive, and while not difficult, it means that the government here went the extra yard to ensure the greatest number of people could enter data about themselves, their families and partners.
I also found an interesting history of the census. But, for me, I’m fascinated with the clause at the end of the census document which gives everyone the option to release their completed information to the public in 92 years: “For those who give explicit permission, Statistics Canada will transfer their information to Library and Archives Canada in 2098, which in turn will make it publicly available.”
I try to imagine how unimportant my personal information will be in 2098. It’s not hard. But I’m also trying to imagine what the world would have inherited in 2098 and what my children’s children might look like in that inheritance. Canada, or no Canada, that’s hard.

During yoga this morning, I became entranced by the sound of the group singing in monotones, each of us individually breaking down whatever blocks we were holding. I’ve experienced a lot of atonal music, but the connectivity of 10 people holding a tone or series of tones in one room over a period of a few minutes was overwhelming.
I later talked with a tax lawyer here who changed my current way of thinking about my business, its approach and its location. I appreciate speaking with lawyers and other high rationalists (like shrinks and accountants) because of their ability to clear through my own miasma, superstitions, and closely held (and often erroneous) beliefs.
Then I went to purchase a bike for my daughter at Canadian Tire, the Canadian version of K-Mart on good steroids. The staff there, all young and good-looking, were wildly helpful, for reasons that I cannot fathom. One associate came over to measure my daughter and look up all of the bike models and their availability. He then had training wheels installed on the bike for us while we shopped for such things as cat litter and a new overhead light for the car. When we picked up the bike and my daughter started riding it around, a female associate came over and showed my daughter how to negotiate the aisles. At the top of the stroke, my four-year-old faltered. The associate said something which later proved to be true: “None of the little kids learn how to ride here for some reason. They just can’t do it. But I’m sure that when they get home, they’re fine.”
Then, we took our daughter out for an evening ride and, sidewalk-crack by sidewalk-crack, she rode. It took time and confidence and praise and small pushes and a few falls but she did it. She rode. She rode.
A few days ago, we were doing some drawing on the living room table using color markers and copy paper. My daughter wanted to draw a rainbow – she used red, yellow, purple and green. Then she drew a picture of a person beneath the rainbow. She asked “Does G-d Have Rainbow Hair?”

Last night, I believe I went to sleep at exactly this time.

My daughter has, for whatever reason, a lot of toys, videos, games, books, drawing instruments, building blocks, dolls and other familiar commercial kid fare. Lately, I’ve been trying to figure out what religious denomination each of the main characters are. Here’s a preliminary list.

• Barbie. Christian.
• Strawberry Shortcake. Christian.
• Madeline. Christian, likely Catholic.
• Curious George. Christian.
• Arthur. Christian. Possibly agnostic.
• Caillou. Christian.
• Berenstain Bears. Jews converted to Christianity, or Jews for Jesus.
• Clifford. Christian.
• Piggley Winks of Jakers. Irish Catholic.
• Teletubbies. All Christian.
• Buster of Arthur. Christian.
• Francine of Arthur. Jewish.
• Little Bear. Christian. Perhaps Episcopalian.
• Max and Ruby. Both Christian.
• Franklin. Christian.
• Dora the Explorer. Catholic.
• Diego, her cousin. Catholic.
• Pablo, Tyrone, Tasha, Uniqua and Austin, a.k.a. The Backyardigans (perhaps the best written and most interesting visual and musical kids show out there). Christian.
• Maya. Catholic.
• Miguel. Catholic.
• Big Bird. Christian.
• Elmo. Maybe Catholic.
• Winnie the Pooh. Christian.
• Kipper. Christian.
• Polly Pocket. Christian.
• Angelina Ballerina. Christian.
• Thomas the Tank Engine. Episcopalian.
• Oswald. Christian with Jewish friends.
• Sleeping Beauty. Definitively Christian.
• Belle of Beauty and the Beast. Christian.
• Cinderalla. Christian.
• Gorilla, in Goodnight Gorilla. Non-denominational.

These are just guesses.

As a new subscriber to the daily Winnipeg Free Press, after reading the front section and the business sections, I occasionally turn to the obituarites. It’s not out of any real morbid fascination, though my analyst might disagree. Rather, I look carefully at the cropped, black and white formal and informal photographs of individuals who grace the pages of small text and commemorative, sad, or celebratory content. Laid out in row after row, the faces are scattered on the pages. Sometimes, a photo of someone from 1937 or 1973 will be seen next to another photo of the same person from 1995. The changes in appearance are inherently shocking; once young, vibrant and polished grinning faces turn into wrinkled and sometimes grimmacing ones. But what’s even more shocking is that sense of mild shock. Why should I, or anyone, be amazed by the transition, which is as normative as a tree dropping leaves in the Fall? I know that much has been written about the Seven Up! series but my quick theory is that we’re amazed that we are alive to witness not being alive.
I want to write more about this but I can’t.