Our This Box is for Good project has been less active over the last year, but murmering away in the background there are printers around the world creating brand new editions.
This week it was Calgary printmaker Hannah Sanford, who created a stunning box with a wrap-around scene of nuthatches. Read more about it here.
Recent versions the Maps application on iOS and macOS can automate, at your opt-in, the gathering of “Visited Places,” which Apple describes like this:
The Visited Places feature helps you keep track of places you’ve been, so you can easily revisit or share them later. Use it to find past locations—like restaurants from a recent trip—and organize them into guides or share them with others. Visited Places are end-to-end encrypted, can’t be read by Apple, and appear on all your synced devices.
I’ve had an interest, for more than 20 years, in this sort of “personal geolocation archive,” so I’m interested in this feature.
There’s no built-in way to export the details of these places; a little bit of research reveals, however, that the data is there for the exporting, as it’s simply an SQLite database sitting on my Mac. Here’s how I exported it:
sqlite3 -readonly -header -csv \
~/Library/Containers/com.apple.Maps/Data/Maps/MapsSync_0.0.1 \
"
SELECT
datetime(v.ZSTARTDATE + 978307200, 'unixepoch', 'localtime') AS visited_at,
l.ZMAPITEMNAME AS place,
l.ZMAPITEMADDRESS AS address,
l.ZMAPITEMCITY AS city,
l.ZLATITUDE AS latitude,
l.ZLONGITUDE AS longitude,
v.ZVISITCLASSIFICATION AS classification
FROM ZVISIT v
LEFT JOIN ZVISITEDLOCATION l
ON v.ZLOCATION = l.Z_PK
ORDER BY v.ZSTARTDATE;
" > ~/Desktop/apple-maps-visits.csvThis exported 349 places, harvested starting October 9, 2025 (Mucho Burrito) and continuing to last night (Sobeys).
I’m not clear on what the threshold for “visited” is, but clearly there’s a relatively high bar, as I’ve certainly visited many more places than those 349.
For each place I get:
I haven’t figure out what the “classifications” map to — my values are limited to 1, 4, 5, and 7, and there’s no rhyme nor reason as to what they represent.
Back in March, Lisa and I were in Annapolis Royal and stopped in at the Elephant Grass Printmakers Society, where we met Lorna Mulligan.
Through Lorna we were virtually introduced to printmaker and textile artist Julie Rosvall and printer Katie Prescott, both living and working in the Annapolis Valley.
This summer we visited Katie’s print shop, and Julie drove up to join us. We had much fun talking printing, printmaking, printers, printmakers, ink, paper, and more.
A month later we got to give Julie a tour of our print shop when she was in Charlottetown on vacation.
Yesterday, on our way out of Wolfville, we stopped in at Harvest Gallery downtown to see Otherwise, a group show of work by Julie, Bonnie Baker, Sydney Lancaster, and Sheri Hancock.
The exhibition is a must-see if you are in the Valley this summer—it runs until September 13, 2025.
My favourite piece is Julie’s Remnants, a textile relief print:
Julie’s current practice centres on making relief prints from textiles: she creates the textiles, then inks them and runs them through a press as a matrix. It’s quite affecting.
We stayed at the Old Orchard Inn in Wolfville on Friday night, and on Saturday morning we took a walk around the area, which took us in a loop around Horton High School, where I spotted this in the window.
We were booked into cabin 413, which was directly across the lane from cabin 412, where Olivia and I stayed in 2018 when we were in town for a recording of Pondercast.
My other task at last night’s Celebration of Life for Catherine Hennessey was to assemble photos of her into a slideshow for projection on the in the Carriage House at Beaconsfield.
I used this sketch of her house at 222 Sydney Street to get things configured.
Kudos to staff at the PEI Museum and Heritage Foundation, by the way, for very clear instructions for how to project video from a laptop. Much appreciated.
Lisa wondered the other day if the people who read my blog can intuit my mood from how much or little I write, her thesis being that if I post a lot, I must be in need of diversion, which must signal something. Whether or not this can be intuited by the readership beyond Lisa, she’s not altogether wrong: writing here serves many roles. It’s a place to stick my head when I need a break from the tizzy of everyday life, it’s a place to go when I simply need space to be alone with my thoughts, it’s a way to exercise control when other things seem beyond my control.
I clearly needed some distracting this week, as evidenced by the maintenance work I’ve done here on the blog over the last couple of days. Which variant of disappearance into the cave this was, I’m not completely sure: part of it was being left to my own devices for a few days, here by the shore, and being unable to settle into complete summertime idyll; part of me needed some respite from writing weighty words; and there’s a longer-standing part of me that takes comfort from, well, optimization.
It’s optimization that I was focused on this week, and I made a few small repairs in that regard, under the hood, which I’m listing here as much to remind myself as anything else:
The result of all these changes was that I increased my Core Web Vitals score from 57 to 92, and reduced my Largest Contentful Paint (LCP) from 7.5 seconds to 2.9 seconds.
All of these things are standard issue Drupal and Apache optimizations, the kind of thing that I spent more than a quarter century steeped in when I was maintaining Drupal for Almanac.com.
Which prompts me to consider another reason that I escape into this sort of work from time to time: I miss it. I derived a good part of my identity from being a professional optimizer: that was the work that lay at the heart of my career. Giving that up, at the end of 2023, has left me to reinvent myself. Like a pilot who hangs up their wings, sometimes I just need to remember what it’s like to fly.
(Credit to Shawn Colvin for the post title. Her A Few Small Repairs is a masterwork.)
Last night was a Celebration of Life for my late friend Catherine Hennessey. It was a lovely event, held on the lawn at Beaconsfield on a perfect summer night.
I was asked to be one of the speakers, to reflect on my relationship with Catherine. I ruminated a lot about how to express the essence of how important Catherine was to me, and I went through many drafts. As I wrote, I excised out the “and then this happened, and then this happened,” the way my writing can often tilt absent a compass.
I tried to heed the words of Mathew Dicks—”So a story is about change over time. Usually, it’s sort of a realization.” And the advice of Lisa, who’s forever encouraging me to write with a deeper connection to my feelings than to the chronology.
I think I ended up with something honest, and I got the sense, watching the audience as I spoke, that more than a few people saw themselves in my story.
Here’s what I said.
–––
We sat around the kitchen table, my late partner and I, in the kitchen of Catherine Hennessey’s house on Pidwell Lane.
It was Christmas dinner, 1994, cold and snowy outside, with a roaring fire in the wood stove.
Around the table with us were David Weale, Reg Porter, and Darren Peters, between them a veritable braintrust of Islanderness, but each, as well, with a not insubstantial need for a kind of mothering that Catherine was uniquely capable of offering.
Mothering is not a word one usually hears spoken about Catherine.
She was a lively host, a harsh critic, an inveterate gossip, a collector, a flirt, a lover, a politician. She was self-involved, fiercely independent, a determined iconoclast, a passionate advocate for “her causes.”
But motherly?
Yet I can think of no better word to describe our relationship.
When I landed here in Charlottetown from Ontario, 33 years ago, I was 26 years old, full of piss and vinegar, arriving in a place I knew very little about, a place where I knew nobody.
In short order, Catherine had taken me under her wing, fashioning herself, by times, as a guide to this complicated place, a protector, a supporter, a critic, and a co-conspirator in her various misadventures.
She generously invited me into her world, a world that, by all rights, I had no place entering.
In Malcolm Gladwell’s book The Tipping Point, there is a test called “Are you a connector?” that measures the size of your social network: from a list of 220 surnames, drawn at random from the Manhattan phone book, you score one point for every person you know with that last name.
The mean score was 40. Gladwell had never heard of anyone scoring more than 130.
I gave the test to Catherine and she scored 180.
Which is to say: she knew a lot of people. And she introduced me to many of them: academics, musicians, artists, writers, politicians, architects, entrepreneurs, all part of her impossibly large and diverse network of friends and familiars.
I met these people around Catherine’s supper table, or at parties she regularly hosted at 222 Sydney Street and Cranberry Wharf, parties where she was forever exhorting me to get out of my shell, get up off my perch at the back of the room and “mingle, Peter, mingle.” Mothering.
Now I happen to have a perfectly wonderful mother, the one who bore and raised me. She would be the first to admit that, as a determined introvert, she never quite understood Catherine’s extreme extroversion, nor my attraction to it. My mother taught me many things; how to be a social animal wasn’t one of them.
And so there’s the thing: the mothering I got from Catherine was the mothering I needed to fill in exactly the cracks and holes that I arrived here with.
I needed to learn how to meet people.
I needed help cultivating my curiosity.
I needed a nudge or a kick from time to time, to loosen up my shyness and help me get over myself.
I needed someone to explain to me this peculiar city, on this peculiar Island, to school me in the deft mix of humility and bravado that allowed me to both remain true to myself, and to make my way here.
And, far from home as I was, I needed someone who would serve me a cup of tea—milk, no sugar, as she struggled to remember over three decades—and provide me with a safe, warm place to land.
Over the years, Catherine boosted my car battery when it died, fed me more macaroni and cheese than one should ever eat, made me a Chocolate Chip Chiffon Cake for my birthday, took me on a tour of her old haunts in Boston, loaned me a bed when I got storm-stayed, and shared a gin and tonic over her balcony rail during COVID.
The peak of her motherliness, though, came on October 1, 2000, the day my daughter Olivia was born.
It was and remains the most agonizingly stressful day of my life: an emergency C-section, an APGAR of 0, a rush to the NICU, huddles of concerned doctors gathered around Olivia’s cot.
By the time I left the hospital around 9 p.m. things had stabilized, and I headed home, alone. I stopped in at Catherine’s on the way there, and found her entertaining friends from Cape Breton. She welcomed me in, fed me a late supper, let me calm my frazzled nerves, and sent me off into the night with poached pears in chocolate in a Ziploc bag. It was exactly what I needed. I am forever grateful.
This is not to suggest that being mothered by Catherine was without its challenges. Chief among them was her habit of casting people out when offended.
My time came in 2003 when, writing on my blog about her 70th birthday party at 222, I made a private event too public for her taste, and she didn’t talk to me for months.
Eventually, all was forgiven: it was hard to be in Catherine Hennessey Siberia, but I survived and life went back to normal.
Many years later, I visited Catherine at Harbourside, after the worst of COVID had passed. I brought my new girlfriend Lisa to meet her for the first time. She put a pot of tea on, and I got to introduce my new gal to my de facto Island mother. It was a big day.
As things were winding down, Catherine stood up from her chair to show us out, and, suddenly, right before our eyes, fell straight over onto the floor, like a tree.
She was okay, somehow, if a bit shocked. We helped her up, made sure she was truly okay, and said our goodbyes.
While Catherine might have been okay, I’m still recovering from the sight of a stalwart pillar of my life, the very measure of vitality, becoming suddenly and inarguably frail before me.
I never went back to Harbourside, and soon thereafter Catherine moved to longterm care; I didn’t visit her there for the longest time either, although she was often on my mind. Something held me back. Was it fear, grief, shame at having waited so long, or some other deeper emotion? I don’t know; whatever it was, it roiled me deeply, as Lisa can attest.
Eventually, I simply plucked up my courage and went for a visit.
I need not have been afraid: Catherine was, dare I say, content in her now-much-smaller life. She was diminished, yes, but by no means dimmed.
We had a lovely chat, about all manner of things, as we had many times before. It was, I didn’t realize then, goodbye.
When Catherine died, a year later, I felt myself unable to write about her. Blogging has always been such a conduit for explaining myself to the world; I found it suddenly unavailable to me.
Being among others who loved her, at the June sale of the objects she’d collected over the years, was what unlocked me, and I could start to write about her.
For a time, Catherine was a blogger too.
Back in 2000, at the very dawn of the medium, I convinced Catherine to try her hand at writing in public, and I agreed to be her guide, her editor, her troubleshooter.
She dove in with both feet. Her writing there, over 3 years, is as concentrated an essence of Catherine as you will find.
On Mother’s Day, 2002, she wrote this:
I am thinking of all the Mothers I know and all the Mothers I knew and all the people who have mothered me over the years.
In that spirit, I will finish with thanks to Catherine for all the mothering she mothered my way over the years.
I miss you dearly, and feel so blessed to have known you.
Last summer, on a lark, I made some postcards for Black & White in St. Peters Bay. They were decidedly simply, and I wasn’t sure whether anyone would purchase them. They did! And now the last one is on the shelf waiting for someone to pick it up.
From On Library Holds by Parker Adey:
Holds appear on a special shelf in the library with their spines turned away. Each book wears a printed band showing who it is being held for. Elastic bands hold the printed slips on the books. When you put pick up your hold, you put the elsatic band in a little recycling bin so it can be reused for other holds. The whole setup is daintily anonymous.
My holds are labelled 8466 GL. There is another patron whose label is 8466 HU. Our books rub shoulders all the time but we have never met, as far as I know. I have no idea what they read. Despite this, I feel like we are colleagues, or even friends, in some secretive way.
How nice to find someone else who appreciates library holds as much as I do.
When I set out to print this Milton Acorn passage that I typeset yesterday, something felt off, and I realized that although it wasn’t a poem, it was kind of a poem, and deserved to be set such that the words found their rhythm, so I pulled apart the forme and rearranged the lines. I love it so much more.
Here’s the context for the passage (emphasis mine)
In this book, JACKPINE SONNETS, will appear a strange word — realisant. Don’t look for it in the dictionary because it’s not there. It’s a word coined in one of those discussions with Purdy. It means romantic in the real old sense… that of the original Romantic poets… not of those in the trough of the wave who fatally changed the meaning of the word ‘romantic’ as applied to poetry. Think of it as meaning ‘realistic’ but not fanatic about it — ‘flexible’. It is a combination of the Anglo-French word ‘real’ and a diminutive from some other language whose identity my friends dispute.
The Jackpine is realisant. It has a basic form, yes, but grows to any shape that suits the light, suits the winds, suits itself.
Again to those apostates’ lyingly naming their stuff ‘free verse’. Your cowardice will get you, not as you hope, nowhere; but somewhere bad. In battle it is the brave man pressing forward who is most likely to survive. It’s those who fiddle around pre-occupied with fear who most often fall. They’re thinking only of themselves — not paying attention. So, when the Yankee torturemen come, your mute betrayal of poetry won’t save you. Meanwhile it’s just possible I shall be in ambush at some secret spot dealing fearful blows.
Thus the Jackpine Sonnet came out of its cover.
Milton Acorn
May Day 1977
I am Peter Rukavina and this is my blog. I am a writer, letterpress printer, and a curious person.
To learn more about me, read my /now, look at my bio, listen to audio I’ve posted, read presentations and speeches I’ve written, see things I’ve favourited elsewhere, or get in touch (peter@rukavina.net is the quickest way).
I have been writing here since May 1999: you can explore the 25+ years of blog posts in the archive.
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