I remember as a child seeing my father’s Guardian Weekly. I was fascinated by its thin and translucent pages, small print and lack of advertisements – so unlike the Toronto daily we received. Its references to other-worldly practices, like cricket and bridge, intrigued me. Its depiction of obscure countries and events both repelled and attracted me.
I subscribed on and off as a graduate student, community organiser and researcher, sometimes balking at the cost. Once, after stopping delivery, I was pleased to see the paper continue to arrive. That joy ended when my father realised that he was being billed for my subscription.
Each section is associated with a time of the year, or a phase of my life. When I encounter the Sudoku or Futoshiki, I am taken back to hours spent at the bedside of my mother the year she died. The Maslanka brings to mind reciting puzzles to my sons on the way to their soccer practice. The yearly review of best books, inevitably marked up for gift ideas, is forever associated with the smell of pine and food and memories of Christmas.
I still receive and somewhat enjoy the local daily paper. But more and more I am of the mind of Thomas Merton, who only read weekly or monthly publications. I am sure he would have approved of the Guardian Weekly.
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