Lost Horizon

There's something equal parts Zen-inducing and terrifying about a scene like this, a snippet of the winter drive near where I work (shot last March as a passenger, but entirely representative of my trip home this evening). The pros, if you can call them that – that the road itself on this day (and today) is dry, and mercifully straight – take the edge off the countless potential cons lurking in that low visibility. It's the city side of the commute I dreaded today, the 40 minutes it took to cover the initial 40 kilometres undone by the 50 minutes spent completing the final six klicks. 

I am thankful, however, there were plenty of tunes, grapes and other distractions for Scout, who handled that sluggish final hour strapped into her seat and coat like a twentysomething-pound boss.

279: Six (Week) Pack

Scout is six weeks old – zeroing in on seven as I type – and I feel we're only just beginning to learn each other. I know a handful of her likes: bouncing on the pilates ball; being carried up and down, and up and down, staircases; the boob; our stained glass window. But by and large, she is wildly unpredictable. She sleeps sound, unless she doesn't sleep sound. Feeds well, unless she doesn't. She's a baby (though she already owns more pairs of shoes than her daddy). She's immensely kissable, holdable, ticklable and omnomnom-able.

And as expected, Scout has been a blessing for my tired and underused (of late) camera. So in honour of her six-week milestone, I present a sextet of photos that haven't yet seen the light of day elsewhere. View larger.

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Bonus! Watch in shock, as Kerry gets beaten up by a flyweight.

Scout Sparrow Wolfe

I head back to work tomorrow, and I am collecting myself – and some thoughts. I've had two wonderful, trying, quiet, raucous, soothing and brain-breaking weeks at home with Kerry and my daughter Scout. My daughter Scout. Mine. Ours.

Scout arrived to the world with swiftness and surprise, on February 16 at 9:56 p.m. (only six hours previous we were going about a very normal Saturday, checking thrift stores for baby goods and mulling our choices of boys' names), born so quick the doctor-on-call raced up the stairwell, rather than risk the elevator, to arrive in time to collect her.

Her name: Scout Sparrow. Scout, after the inimitable and pugnacious protagonist Jean-Louise "Scout" Finch from Harper Lee's To Kill A Mockingbird (and not, as the hospital night nurse wondered, Demi Moore's daughter). A literary reference, for Kerry, and a sharp, strong name for a girl we wish nothing more than to grow up and model after young Jean-Louise. Smart, curious, and brave.

Sparrow, my contribution – put a bird on it. The name selected chiefly for the very aesthetics of the word itself, but also after the large family of songbirds of the family Emberizidae – small, sweet-singing, but not-too-showy, denizens of almost every habitat in the world. (Deviating from birding purists, I also consider the common house sparrow who, while a pest species and not a true sparrow, is one of few species who cheerfully throw their sound into even the deepest urban landscape. And also smart, curious and brave.)

Scout, so far, has blue eyes. This may change, though there is a healthy streak of blue running through the eyes of both our families. She was born 19 inches long and six pounds, 11 ounces (3,055 grams), and following discharge from the hospital regained her birth weight with a quickness. In her two weeks she has found her lungs like a boss, showcases the startle reflex of an alley-cat, and developed the ability to stare inquisitively – and directly through me – as we lay side-by-side on the bed during morning bouts of playtime.

I hum a lot to her, since I don't know the lyrics of many songs. I do sing though, but startled myself today realizing the songs I sing are quite dark. The Beatles' Maxwell's Silver Hammer (triple murder) and Rocky Raccoon (gun violence), Josh Ritter's Folk Bloodbath (murder) and David Bowie's Space Oddity (floating in a tin can). I'll need to keep tabs on that. The other day we watched Raising Arizona together – her first movie. Trying hard to give to her an appreciation of the finer things in life.

Scout is a Pisces Aquarius, born in the Year of the Snake. I haven't looked into what this means. She shares a birthday with Ice-T, actor Pete Postlethwaite, author Richard Ford and dear leader Kim Jong Il.

Bachelor Exercise No. 3

Bachelor exercise number three: documentation of a rarely-seen event – that of a modern bachelor wallowing in low, low, rock-bottom culinary standards. Peanuts & Corn Records' founder/producer/rapper mcenroe provides the soundtrack. Accompanied by a bowl of original shredded wheat bricks and brown sugar, a competent mix that provides the daily dose of both fibre and teeth-rotting sweetness.

So, milk carton is emptied. Fridge is bare. Bag is packed. And I. Am. Outtahere.

Addendum: add one more song to the list established in bachelor exercise number one.

Bachelor Exercise No. 1

Bachelor exercise number one: a list, of the songs in our iTunes library that I'm pretty confident I could sing all the words to, if someone were to put a gun to my head and instruct me to (in alphabetical order, by performer):

• Take On Me, A-ha (see above)
• Already Yours, Bahamas
• A Day In The Life, The Beatles
• Because, The Beatles
• I've Just Seen A Face, The Beatles
• Maxwell's Silver Hammer, The Beatles
• Norwegian Wood, The Beatles
• Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da, The Beatles
• Rocky Raccoon, The Beatles
• Taxman, The Beatles
• Stand By Me, Ben E. King
• Oh Alberta, Elliott Brood
• I'm Popeye The Sailor Man, Face To Face
• Business Time, Flight Of The Conchords
• My Daddy Was A Rock N' Roller, Jason Collett
• Back Dirt Road, Oh Susanna
• That Was Your Mother, Paul Simon
• Jeremy, Pearl Jam
• Big Time, Peter Gabriel
• Even Better Than The Real Thing, U2
• With Or Without You, U2
• Our Retired Explorer, The Weakerthans
• One Great City!, The Weakerthans
• Virtute The Cat Explains Her Departure, The Weakerthans
• The Hardest Button To Button, The White Stripes

Merry Animated GIF-mas

A snippet of decorating, as Kerry and I got ornamental Sunday night before getting our nog on. This year's star is a Fraser fir, a fine piece of coniferous-ness procured once more from the good chaps at Scouts Canada 66/67th Winnipeg A Troop in River Heights.

Kid Video

Our past two weeks have been rife with family visits, and visiting. I write this now – as we say goodbye to one crew and prepare to set out with another – with only one evening to spare. So while we take leave for a week up north with more kin, I present my absolutely stunning and cuddly niece and nephew. And I pledge to you, I don't say this while peering through unbiased uncle eyes. At all.


Trying out the hoop, the boy shows his swivel technique. Needs to loosen up a bit, I think.


The boy, shouting it from the rooftops. Or at least from the patio. Loves his own lungs. Until distracted by a nearby carrot on a plate.


The boy, he loves to say no. Did I mention he likes testing out his lungs?


So I waited patiently. But in the end, there was no sneaking anything past this guy.


Meanwhile, the girl and I took the camera out for a spin and a choke-hold in the park.


Finally, my favourite. From our day on the Prairie Dog Central. I turn the volume off on this one, and promptly melt.

Undoctored Spins

The Winnipeg Folk Festival once again performed admirably in the department of good times. This year's line-up was not aimed directly at my heart (for that, see Folk Festival, 2009). Nevertheless, it was solid. As it always turns out to be. Speaking of turning, this year I opted to record the experience through my camera's rarely-used video function.


Thursday night, and the Preservation Hall Jazz Band had me quite instantly relaxed. Come. Dance with me. Gaze into my eyebrows.


Curses! Before you even get a chance, here's Kerry, stealing me away from you. Together we attempted the Folk Festival four-step. Not the most fluid manœuvre, but the weekend was young. We had plenty of time to hone our skills.


The next night, k.d. lang tore the roof off… were there a roof.


Sunday afternoon. I don't know if it was the heat, or the sun, or the drums, or the brass section, or the masked hula-hoopsters, but I found myself swirling in a whirling vortex of left-leaning, patchouli-soaked crazy madness. I had to be wary.


And then, come Sunday night, we perfected the jitterless double-team spin-o-rama. But at the expense of our very sanity.

Man, Answer The Phone

Wrong number messages: my favourite kind of messages.

Turtle and mushroom by Kerry.

Owl-less Survey

"It's good... just gotta take it slower."

Famous last words, before proceeding a few more metres in the CR-V and getting stuck. Only nine of the 40-kilometre stretch of foggy logging road had melted to a point of navigability. Cue rigourous rocking/pushing sessions, a couple hundred metres in reverse to the nearest turnaround point, and then high-tailing it back to asphalt. The 2011 nocturnal owl survey was over before it began.

Got Six Minutes And Forty Seconds To Spare?

Then check out this slice of goings-on at GDC Manitoba's most recent PechaKucha Night at the Park Theatre, featuring myself and 365-photo cohort Karen as we dissect our year of photo-journaling in lightning-fast fashion. I was nervous as a mutha, and had no idea my voice was so high. In hindsight, I would do it again in a snap. It's an absolute rush.

The next event goes down in June. If you have any sort of creative bent whatsoever, and have a story to tell, I strongly advise you to try this event out, as a speaker or spectator.


Meanwhile, Kerry is hands-down, the most creative person in this household. A single Saturday class in needle-felting has resulted in a gush of fuzzy creations popping up around the place like... like...


...well, like something. I just can't think of exactly what.


As such, I decided to take my own creative leanings outside. Facing a rare above-zero Sunday in mid-February, I sculpted this hale fellow in the front yard. But one month later he began to show the onset of spring in these parts, slowly wasting away to an avant-garde piece of modern art that I couldn't create if I tried. But sad news to report: his head was officially offed yesterday afternoon while we were out muchly enjoying Baraka Pita and a matinée screening of The Illusionist (my stars, a beautiful-looking thing).