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The Koi Mystery
In a parking lot recently I saw a truck labelled "Calvin's Kois", apparently a service for ponds, either creating them or maintaining them, with or without decorative koi. And that took my mind to a mystery novel I read just a while ago, set in Toronto's Rosedale neighbourhood. It involved the mysterious death of a man who collected very rare koi and kept them in several ponds on his ravine-backed land. Do you think I can remember either the author or the title? No. I remember the cost of the koi. The book was a good read, however, so if someone knows what I'm talking about and will give me the relevant information, I'll pass it along. Or maybe I'll bite the bullet and Google it.
But saying "Rosedale" reminded me of another book I read recently—a memoir by a woman whose property had been broken off from a magnate's estate in Rosedale and left to go wild until she discovered it and spent years and lots of money turning it back into the rich garden it had once been. Do you think I can remember either author or title? No. I remember her effort, and the thousands of dollars she spent. So ditto for passing the title along.
And then I, still walking through that parking lot, remembered a chance meeting with someone who knew the author of that book, the gardener, and knew that her land had once been part of the old Eaton estate in Rosedale and this friend/acquaintance of mine knew exactly where that property was. Do you think I can remember who it was who clarified the book for me? I have racked my brain. (I have put my brain on the rack, stretching it and stretching it to extract the truth—the memory—but to no avail.)
Earlier, as I left the subway, before I ran into the Calvin's Koi truck in the parking lot, I had to exit through the Presto gates, where you approach, give a tiny half-step (I call it the Presto Hitch) while you wait for the gates to respond, and then sail through. Immediately after the Presto gates were the exit doors to the street, and I found myself approaching them as if they were the Presto gate, expecting them to open automatically for me once I had done the half-step dance.
Luckily I came to my senses just in time and opened those doors all by myself. But the floor leading to them had an unexpected upward slope that was unaccountably slippery and, combined with my being lost in the dream of Presto doors, led to my feeling not at all present. It was in this frame of mind that I entered the parking lot and saw the koi-servicing truck.
Too much happening. No wonder I can't remember authors and titles and the names of people who tell me important things. I do remember what counts. Or at least some of it. Sometimes.
Copyright (c) 2026 Ann Tudor
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