Some day this blog will be awesome...

... but not today. Meh.

Relishing my last week in Groningen - winding up my time here with long mornings sleeping in; drinking strong coffee; braving the gusting howling Netherland winds; and relishing my Kikitime before it's all Skype and phonecalls for a few months when I move to Montpellier. My train tickets (12 1/2 hours) are booked for Feb 12th. It's hard to look forward to leaving, and I don't; on the other hand, am excited by the thought of sunshine, digging into new courses, and starting research at UM2 in April.

I've thoroughly enjoyed living in Groningen. It's a laid-back city, small enough for friendliness and large enough to keep most people busy and entertained. I've enjoyed live jazz nights at De Spieghel (www.jazzcafedespieghel.nl); beers, cheese and mustard for late-night dining at Der Witz, one of Kiki's (and now my) favourite hole-in-the-wall pubs in the centre; dancing until 6 am at Warhol, where "coat check" involves slinging your things over the low-hanging beams (solid foot-square logs); coffee mornings at Doppio and Saturday afternoons wandering the market inhaling an intoxicating medley of fresh fruit and veg, stroopwaffels, anise candies and fresh raw fish; the heady late-night aromas of cigar tobacco and sugar beets; long runs of bleak gloomy gray days broken by resplendent moments of sunshine, an occasional day of spring-like weather when you're glad to be alive.

I also enjoyed some of the finer points of living in the Netherlands. I was fortunate enough to "salvage" an unlocked bike off a street near my house when the bike I'd been using needed repairs; and was just as proud of myself when two months later, the same bike officially (now dead for a snapped chain and seizing rear hub) was stolen from infront of my house after I foolishly left it unlocked overnight -- here I thought a stiff, chainless bike would hardly be a worthwhile target. Fortunately, Peizerweg thieves are disappointingly uncreative; I found my bike just two blocks from my house, unlocked, so just brought it home again (and locked it this time) and salvaged the brand-new tires to replace the fraying ones on the bike I'd originally been riding. Hooray!

I've learned to say "I love you" (Ik hou van jou); make andijvie stamppot (endive with mashed potatoes and bacon bits); discovered mosterdsoep (yes, mustard soup: 'nuff said); eaten (enjoyed) real Groninger sausage; started well on my way to a zoute drop (salted licorice) addiction; and will sorely miss kroketen from the Febo foodwall, and late night fries. And who could ever get through a long study night without a couple of Hasret pizzas? So long as France has discovered gorgonzola as the ultimate pizza topping, I guess I should be fine.

Back to relishing moments, then.

Rest peacefully, Grannie B. 22 June 1922 - 3 January 2010

"Death is more universal than life; everyone dies, but not everyone really lives." A. sachs

It's an over-used quote but one that resonates with me.

My grandmother, Myrtle Irene Blain, born 20 June 1922, passed away yesterday afternoon (Mountain Standard Time; for me in the Netherlands at GMT+1, it was about 1 am). It does not come as a great surprise, and while it is still saddening, also eases some suffering: she was frequently uncomfortable or in pain, extremely tired, and somewhat depressed at times (although she maintained an incredibly stalwart facade and almost never complained). She was also, sadly, not always an outwardly kind woman; she could be cutting, even cruel, in her remarks about others, and dismissive or just outright mean to your face if she felt the occasion or situation justified it (or was just in a particularly bad mood); and she had an utter disregard for her health that left her sick, frail and unable to take care of herself even as she was resentful about no longer being able to live at home.

Nonetheless, she was also a source of genuine inspiration. This was a woman who married for the first time at 41, when not being married by your early 20s was a surefire path to spinsterdom. When she did, she chose the love of her life; someone with whom she could laugh, a kindred spirit in both work and play: my maternal grandfather. Often throughout her life she remarked on someone in the family having berated them for being “too silly”: her response was, “Why would you want to be with someone that you can’t be silly with?” She never had children of her own and I often wondered what difficulties arose for a fiercely independent, globe-trotting woman marrying a man with two feisty, witty, and keenly intelligent teenage daughters. She occasionally said that she’d have had children of her own if she could have (she had a hysterectomy at 28 due to cancer) but sometimes I wondered. “Grannie B” did not exemplify maternal caring and warmth (as did her husband’s first wife and my mom’s mom, Violet, from whom I get my middle name).

But sometimes warmth is not what’s needed: instead, she inspired with her independent spirit, liveliness, sharp tongue, and bottomless well of stories from her world travels. In many ways I think that may have been more useful to us, as her grandchildren; she often implored me to bring her photos of my travels to the Amazon, Central America, and Argentina; she encouraged each of us in our university studies and was a major financial support in helping us reach our personal academic goals; and nearer the end, she was strongly supportive of my move to Europe, even as we both knew my last visit was likely to be a “real” last this time. In a time when few women went to university she was one of the first female pharmacists in Calgary, where she lived much of her adult life; she was the first pharmacist in Alberta to openly sell condoms, which she would wrap in small paper bags so men could buy them discreetly; and yet she still maintained a fun and socially active life, never passing up an opportunity to party if one presented itself. Her dance card was always full, whether in her hometown of Lomond, Alberta, or on a cruiseship to Hawaii or with her girlfriends traveling across Europe. Furthermore, she was a talented artist, covering myriad boxes, stepstools and other furniture with elaborate designs (“toll” painting); filling canvases (now coveted by her grandchildren); and passing on, throughout her life, her love of art and a wealth of supplies – paint, brushes, tear-off palettes, knives, media, canvases, instructional books, paper, pencils and charcoal, and so on. Many of these were given to me as I wandered between the enchanting vagaries of art and the heady academia of science, and I will always be deeply grateful for the endless supply of artistic materials, especially during my childhood and then later in life as a university student.

I could go on for pages: she was a devout garage sale junkie (woe were we upon having to clean out her house on Canmore Road, after 30 years of garage sale excursions!) who on most weekends, when she was able, could be found cruising the city with her cousin Clare, classified ads in hand, combing the latest finds. She was a silversmith, turning out stunning and unique pieces of jewelry set with gemstones from all parts of the world; talented with a crochet hook; an avid letter-writer, and vociferous proponent of the cursive arts; and a savvy investor in both stocks and real estate. Always well-dressed, she was a real lady of the 30s; a “character” in the truest sense of the word. She will be remembered fondly and earnestly; and I for one will do my best to emulate her finest qualities, learn from the others, and become someone who, like she did, has really lived.