I've been anxiously checking the weather on my Samsung Note, hoping it isn't going to snow. (A real waste of my time.)
It is going to be warmish for the next week, getting up to 11 C. With rain. Boo Hoo.
My weather app reveals that the average is around this time of year is around 6. It can get into the 20's and it's been as low as 12 below, a record set in 1967...
That explains why I have this memory of my grandmother (who visited us from Malaya for the first and only time) going out in her shoes and socks in a snow storm to get some booze at the Liquor Commission as it was called then.
The pound sterling collapsed about that time. I guess that might have had something to do with the urgency of the mission.
(I wrote about it in Looking for Mrs. Peel)
Anyway, 1967 was the year of Expo and I just dug out this magazine from under a table. A Star Weekly from February of that year showing us the wonderful things to come at Expo, opening in April. That would be the insert for the Montreal Star that is defunct.
(It was produced by Ron Butler.)
A foetus in his mother's womb, from Sweden. Rare picture.
L'Ouragane (Hurricane?) by Germaine Richier and a spaceman.
This magazine is a bit of a work of art itself. At the time this magazine went to print Expo wasn't quite finished, so they couldn't show the site...
But the cover reveals a weird reality: despite the 'global celebration' that was Expo Montreal was a white bread world.
Here's my description of Expo in my play Looking for Mrs. Peel
Dorothy vo: So, I decide to ignore my grandmother, which is easy as
it is Canada’s Centennial year and those magical Expo islands are
only a short bus and metro ride away. (sx Mexican mariachi band.
Israeli fiddle; Trinidad steel drums). Expo, with its exotic
eye-candy architecture,is better than real life, anyway, a mind
bending multi-national experience, McLuhan’s Global Village in giant
size diorama. I lope miles over the macadam on my giant giraffe legs
and queue for hours in line in the wilting humidity,(or biting wind
or freezing drizzle, whatever the 6 month season serves up)to gawk
at cultural signifiers like wallabies and totem poles and scorched
space capsules and visit "the future" with its talking robots and
video phones,and uncluttered modular dwelling places. At the
International Broadcasting Center, around the corner from where my
father works, I see how radio programs are produced (in tiny little
rooms) and learn that it takes a mile of tape to make an hour of TV.
When pooped out I visit the Australian Pavilion to sink my burning
toes into the decadent deep wool carpet there, or I escape to the
near people-free garden behind the American Pavilion to lie down in
the prickly grass, by some mini waterfall, often the lone fleshly
figure amid the park's many bizarre Cezanne-inspired sculptures.