A father

If you have issues with your own father, stop reading right now because when I describe mine, you will feel worse. My father was pretty much without fault. I know that sounds bizarre, but ask my husband, children and step-children; they will agree. Thomas Raymond Griffith (Tommy) was unique, beyond reproach, kind, uncomplaining, sweet, grateful, brilliant, unassuming.........I could go on. My father's genius was surpassed only by his humility.

Born in 1899 in Kansas City Missouri, Tommy was the middle child of three boys. His father worked for the railway and daddy told tales of meeting Buffalo Bill and Frank James (brother of Jesse). His mother was a French Canadian nurse who, with her younger sister, left Montreal to seek adventure in what was then the "wild west". Can you imagine letting your daughters venture unchaperoned into dangerous territory like that?! One thing led unhappily to the other in the marriage and Tommy ended up back in Montreal with his mother and brothers at a fairly young age. A brilliant student, he graduated from high school second in the province and went to McGill on a scholarship. He was a chemical engineer and spent his entire career as head of the rubber lab at the National Research Council, where he eventually racked up approximately 250 patents. Not that he cared a whit about notoriety. He simply loved chemistry. While he earned a very modest salary, the government made millions and millions from his rubber patents. The man was a giant.

But growing up, I knew none of this. He was simply my dad: constant, loving, kind, quiet, polite...a fine, fine gentleman. He loomed again in my mind when I watched a documentary on TVO about a famous chemist named Percy Julien. Could have been about my dad....a guy who loved chemistry and how that love resulted in the invention of things we take for granted every day. In my dad's case synthetic rubber, for example. Think about it.

When we moved we downsized and in so doing gave 600 books to the public library. One we kept (thanks to B) was entitled 'True Men as we Need Them'. I had grown up with this book in our bookshelves, never gave it a glance. When my mother moved, she asked us to go through the books and we kept several. Again, B kept this one. Never gave it a glance. It has sat in the bookshelf in our condo since we moved (four years ago), still never gave it a glance. I thought it was about historical figures, mini-bios, and so I never opened it. Until last week. On the frontspiece, in perfect penmanship, is written "Raymond T. Griffith, Second Prize awarded for French, June 1912". My dad would have been 12. The sub-title of this fantastic book is "A Book of Instruction for Men in the World". Written by Rt. Rev. Monsignor Bernard O'Reilly, D.D., L.D., it was published in 1878 and dedicated "humbly and affectionately to His Eminence, John, Cardinal McCloskey, Archbishop of New York". Other books to the author's credit include 'The Two Brides,' 'Mirror of True Womanhood,' 'Illustrious Women of the Bible,' 'Novissima or Where Do Our Departed go?'. Judging by this book, one can only imagine what wisdom the others contained.

It opens with a chapter entitled, "The Ideal of True Manhood" -- summed up as..."the importance of character in itself and apart from conduct, and the vital necessity for parents of cultivating, developing and molding strongly the character of their children from the very dawn of reason. By character here we mean the firm habitual dispostion to truthfulness, honour, integrity, generosity and resolute energy of purpose, without which no man ever was or ever can be a true man." This was my dad. It's almost as if he lived by the ideals expressed in this book. I don't even know where to start, but the book covers boyhood, education, matrimony, the working life and devotes several chapters to "Obstacles to True Manliness". It talks about the degradation of the fear of other people's opinion of us, of the seduction of evil, of the power of paternal and ancestral example in the home, what charity can do............I could go on and on. It is a wonderful book and helps me understand a little better what my dad was all about. A truer soul and kinder man I have never met.

Dog people

I love the Westminster Dog Show. Dog people are a breed apart (pun intended). If you have ever watched 'Best in Show', you know that the movie is not much of a parody, it's pretty accurate. Most of us never advance beyond the status of pet owner and pet lover -- don't get me started blubbering about our darling bouvier Charlie, may he rest in peace. But the breeders who compete in this mother of all dog shows are facinating! It is all soooooooooo serious. The best parts are, of course, the adorable dogs who jut and strut their stuff, but a close second are the handlers. I love to watch them because you only see their bottom halves as they trot around the ring and thus get a real close-up of their legs, shoes and outfits.

For some reason, the female handlers are all heavy, with thick legs and hideous shoes. The male handlers are also predominently stout and........well.........you know. I have no idea where they get their shoes from, but most of the feet inside positively bulge out. It all looks as painful as a pair of my highheels! And the rears and derriers that jiggle and thunder along are riveting. One reason you'd never catch my ass circling the ring.

The other absorbing feature is the breed descriptions. Listen closely and you will discover that they are all the same. One breed is..."independent, but loyal to its owner"........another completely different breed is "loyal, but has a streak of independence". They are happy and determined, or determinded and happy............love the outdoors, but make great pets for children, or make great outdoor pets for busy children.........I mean, the announcer seems to be reading from a script the kennel club made up on the fly. Problem is that these show dogs have had the original characteristics completely bred out of them. I had hard time picturing one of the "hunting" species actually hunting something. Maybe a chew toy or a soiled sock, but never a wild creature.

This year a dog other than the usual cute, little breed with the snappy name won. The italian judge -- who had been sequestered for the duration of the show -- swanned in triumphantly for the climactic 'best-in-show' award. Flanked by two officious officials -- Mr. So-and-so the IIIrd and Mr. What's-his-name -- in he strod. Dressed in black tie, he did his professional thing (something I can never figure out, squeezing the haunches, checking the teeth, clutching the back end, feeling down the legs) to great fanfare, as a breathless hush fell on the crowd. I was sure he was going to pick the usual little cutie, but no. He went for the Scottish Deer Hound. Huh!?? Yes, and good on him. This was an absolutely gorgeous and majestic dog, never best-in-show in more than a hundred years. People were so stunned they barely clapped. But clearly, this dog deserved to win -- if only to demonstrate the contrariness of the Italians. It was a great show this year!

Necromancy

I always read the obituaries. Either the stragglers of my friends' parents are dying, or they themselves are. Having missed a few compulsory funerals before I began the obit daily discipline, I know how upsetting it can be to bump into an old friend, ask about his or her parent, only to be told they had died a year or so ago. Always an awkward moment. Now I change my greeting, as I did the other day when I ran into a guy I had know for years and years -- someone whose mother I also really liked. "Do I dare ask how your mother is?"...was how I handled it. Amazingly, she was still going strong. So, that one worked out.

But alongside the death notices are always the "In Memoriam" messages. I devour these with morbid facination. Why do people write them? Do they think their loved one is up (or down) there reading the paper! Do they think The Citizen continues to deliver to their final resting place (there's another bizarre word, "resting")? Do they also follow the sports news from the beyond? What about their horoscope? I guess they don't really care about the food section, no point in trying out new recipes. But maybe there are kitchens on the other side of the veil? From the "In Memoriams" we know one thing: the dead read.

This hit me full on yesterday when I read one of the most macabre. It featured a large photo of a handsome man, he looked about 40. Apparently, he had died at 54 and this tribute was a Happy Birthday to him on his 80th! But the guy died 26 years ago! How could he be turning 80??!! Let me quote from the message:
"This is a very special day: Birthday number eighty, you know! We will bake a massive cake on a platter with huge candles and souls will gather round to make sure you blow out all the candles. So, happy birthday to you. The crowd wants you to do your thing. Tell your jokes the same old way and let their birthday wishes ring! All my love..........."

But the guy is dead! He isn't turning 80, he's dead. And since this has gone on for 26 years, I presume there have been many other "birthdays" celebrated in the ether. I still can't wrap my brain around that one. Is this person really going to bake a cake and have a party? All she is missing is the cadaver. (Started thinking about Norman Bates' leathery mother. Yuck.) Is this harmless ritual, or necromancy run amok? It may be a more extreme version of visiting the grave of a loved one on a birthday, but I think putting a notice in the paper is just a little weird.

T'was ever thus

There was a great line in a pretty good movie, 'Secretariat', we watched the other day. Canadian Ron Turcotte was the horse's jockey throughout his unmatchable career and during one pre-race ball, while surrounded by gorgeous women, Ronnie laughed and said, "I get taller when I'm standing on my wallet!" Yes he did.


B came out with another good line the other day: "You're only as smart as your ego allows you to be." Pretty profound, when you think about it. He's reading a book entitled 'Care of the Soul' and there is excellent stuff in there. Like when the author talks about homemaking being good for the soul. I completely agree. Doesn't matter what is going on in the rest of my life, cooking for loved ones always fixes me up in a hurry. So does a spanking, clean kitchen, ironing, cleaning the bathroom and a lot of other mundane and unheralded chores. These tasks make me feel centred and take me back to my own upbringing, where breakfast, lunch and dinner were the talismans of everyday life.

Until several years ago, I never would have thought I would be making aprons and loaves of sandwiches for a church bazaar. Now I love the labour. Nothing -- and I mean nothing -- interfered with my mother's self discipline in running her home. It was comforting to know that if I walked in unannounced at a meal time, a meal would be appearing. It would not be eclipsed by how she "felt" that day, or what wrinkle had dislodged her plans, or even if she were sick. How simple, how solid.

Today feelings rule the world. I understand we all have them, but who cares?! Are mine more important than yours? Certainly not. Yes, one has to be privately in touch with them, but public feelings get in the way of a lot of things.......things we need to accomplish for good order and the stable running of our lives and communities. As I look back, I never saw my mother cry, save thrice: once when my brother "trimmed" her magnificent cedar hedge two feet too short, the second time when my brother tragically died and the final time when my father died. The rest of her life she did her duty, remained constant and was unfailingly pleasant. How I wish considerably more of her gifts had rubbed off on me.

When the "after" is the "before"

Went to my professional hairdresser yesterday for my six-month fixup after numerous hack jobs at the walk-in. It's always a crap shoot, but for $11, I usually go to the cheap place 'cause I keep it so short. Blogged about Dan last October 10th, when I went before our trip to Vancouver...........it was called "What you look great really means". Love going there because after 20 years with the guy, we have a very tight relationship. Anyway, walked in and spotted a 30-something woman at a station looking in dire need of help. "Man," I thought. "She just got here in the nick of time. That hair! All hanging in strings, flopping all over her shoulders -- a mess. Almost as hideous as mine. Good for her, it's time someone her age got rid of that 80s look." The thing of it was that as I stared, the hairdresser handed her the mirror -- the clue the visit is over. Whaaaaaaaaaaat?!?!?! She was at the "after" stage, all done and ready to go. I said to Dan, "She looks like the "before" picture!" He burst out laughing. That's what we do, laugh throughout the visit. He tells me I have given him some of his best lines -- like how the British Virgin Islands look exactly like Maniwaki. All shacks, slums, shanties, wandering chickens, lost toddlers, drunk unemployed men, pregnant teens, withered old women, car parts and bikes littering the landscape...........Seriously.

There is another young lady there, Star, and I also love her. I have literally watched her grow up from a teen washing hair to a beautiful stylist. She always says how great everyone looks and we old bags appreciate it. She looks absolutely fabulous these days, having gone through a few purple, spiky, choppy phases over the years.

Face it, we are our hair. Our hair tells people what we value, what we think of ourselves, who we are. I take one look at someone's hair and immediately categorize them -- just as other women do me, I am sure. Why else would we spend more than $50 bucks getting it done?! Hair speaks volumes -- much more than do clothes or shoes. Well, maybe not shoes. It's the very top and very bottom of a woman that tell the tale. Women walking around with dyed hair when they are in their sixties and seventies telegraph quite a story, usually not a contented one. So do ugly shoes. Anyway, those are my two cents' worth.

Perspectives on women

Watched an interview with a young NHLer the other day and it confirmed how far women have not progressed. This kid was about 19 and when asked what was the best thing about making it into the NHL said, "Now I can afford a maid to do all my stuff." The interviewer -- who else but Michael Landsberg -- laughed uproariously. The rookie was then asked how he liked flying all over North American and he said, "Well, the stewardesses!" Landsberg added, "Well, just the young ones, right!" Again, more uproarious laughter........."Hey, they're just maids in the air, right!" Ha, ha, ha. So, there you have it. Period, the end. More "toddlers and tiaras". No wonder all NHLers marry the same wife: dyed, blonde hair cookie-cutter versions of stewardesses, maids and pinups. Think about it, have you ever seen the wife of an NHL hockey player with brown hair?!! You haven't. And are any of them married to athletes? Forget that one. I have the utmost respect for maids and stewardesses, but these guys obviously don't. Over to their mothers. Try and substitute "black, chinese, jewish, muslim" for "women". You cannot abuse stereotypes like those on TV, but it's always open season on women.

The latest Swiffer ads on TV are really the crowning touch. "Dirt" and "mud" are played by....of course....two filthy women. Seen these? They moan about always being left behind and jilted by other mops and cleaners. But they just leap upon Mr. Swiffer and pin themselves to his hairy surface. Pretty disgusting. And no one notices!

What did I tell you last year? We are currently in the middle of Black History Month, a whole month! Aboriginals get a week and we women, one day..........International Women's Day. Does this not bother anyone except me?

This is the US of A

Got stuck into 'Toddlers and Tiaras' this afternoon.........so American, all sex, hair, diapers, trailers, hair spray, eyebrow waxing, baby bottles, soothers, hotel lobbies, temper tantrums, fake teeth and white trash. I have blogged about this sick show before, featuring two-year-olds as sex symbols. Very, very sick.

Then on came the super bowl. This is where toddlers and tiaras ends up, hanging at the super bowl. Looking for something in a bookcase this morning, I pulled out a few of my old university poetry books. When you start the day with Charles G.D. Roberts, Bliss Carman, Archibald Lampman and Duncan Campbell Scott -- known as 'The Confederation Poets' -- it's hard to watch American TV. Weird to read my name on the frontspiece, "Nancy Griffith, Carleton University, 1967". Even more surreal to read the notations I had made in the margins, the words I had underlined, the insights I had had........all so innocent. Took me back to one of the most fabulous and intimate afternoons ever spent with my daughter, that sunny, summer day we read each other poetry on the back deck from another of my high school text books. When you read a poet who puts an entire universe of emotion into two words, it's hard to hit the keyboard ever again.

So, back at The Savoy...........

There we were, seated next to a lovely couple who began to smile a bit as the drama of lunch wore on. Recognizing by our accents we were not British, they started to chat. Wouldn't you know it, they were celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary with lunch at The Savoy. Too bad they were next to us. They professed to enjoy everything, while I was on the war path about everything else. I mean, come on. We were going to be paying a king's ransom for this lunch and it was just not up to snuff. Nevermind, we learned he had made a very tidy sum in the carpet business, having started as a labourer and ending up owning his own company. She was sweeter than sweet, obviously having been a very working class missus who was now enjoying the fruits of her labour alongside her hubby. They had been on cruises to Alaska and loved Vancouver -- who doesn't. As I said, they were lovely.


After lunch, our original waitress sauntered over to ask how we had enjoyed our lunch. Well, she asked didn't she! I started in, covering the water, the martini and the out-of-sync lunches. She expressed "horror" and next thing I knew, the restaurant manager was over to get the details. Emma was about 12 years old, very sweet and no match for the hard-boiled unionized waiters over whom she presided. Another case of "let's-promote-someone-who-may-not-be-up-to-it". But here fantasy took over. When I mentioned I had a blog (nevermind that I pathetically have only three followers) and intended to share our experience, she announced she would like to show us what The Savoy was really all about by hosting a dinner on the house before we left England. Whaaaat??!!?? Dinner at The Savoy on the house??!!??!! Why not. So it was arranged.

Greeted by the hostess a few nights later, we were ushered to our table. The place was almost empty, but they still seated us beside a noisy group of middle-eastern businessmen (I'm only giving the nationality so you get the flavour of the decibels reached when making or disputing points. It's a cultural thing, OK?) I decided to overlook it. Other than the fact that I had to get up and pour my own wine a couple of times, all had been almost perfect.....until the end of the meal, when Emma came to ask how everything had been. You could not have orchestrated it any worse because as she was standing there basking in the cudos, the waiter brought coffee instead of tea, accompanied by the wrong dessert. I burst out laughing. She was mortified. I felt sorry for her. We left.

More on The Ritz and The Dorchester later..........

Slumming at The Savoy

After a morning trodding around the Tate Gallery in my loathesome footwear and no makeup, B decided this would be the perfect time to lunch at The Savoy. Hadn't even slipped a lipstick into my purse, but what the hell, off we taxied. Trying in vain to look as if I belonged, we were ushered into the River Room along the Thames and seated in a dark corner beside a woman glued and gassing into her cell. After it rang three times, B asked to be re-located and I think this is where the entire dining room system broke down. You see, the place has a hierarchical system of hosts, hostesses, busboys, food waiters, beverage waiters, barmen, overseers............and you name it...........but it's a whole left-hand-right-hand fiasco. When we moved, we were cast adrift by our waitress and not picked up by the new boy across the room. So there we sat, as hoards of immaculately dressed staff bustled by ignoring us in droves.

First came the struggle for tap water. One guy said, "certainly madame, I will tell your server." Off he went to tell someone else, while the water jug sat mere feet from our table. Should I get up and pour my own? Then someone else came and asked for our drinks order; still no water. "Could I have my water first?" A huge mistake, as he did not serve water, so off he departed, the result being we got neither water nor drinks. More staff came and went -- this one dealing only with bread sticks, that one only with butter, another only with the chef's "amuse bouche". One was becoming less and less amused until I finally asked to speak to the head waiter. "Certainly, madame." Now, of course, I was a huge problem. She arrived as our food waiter came to take our food orders. Now, with drinks being about $25 at The Savoy, they were forfeiting a king's ransom, the mood I had worked myself into. I finally received my tap water (they forgot the ice and I insisted) and ordered a vodka martini from the barman who then had to walk 100 miles to the bar at the front of the hotel to put his order in behind others for the the king of that realm to fill. B was fuming. All he wanted was a bloody diet coke --with lime, you better believe -- and he had to wait as long as I 'cause it was all dispensed in good time from the same kingdom at the other end of the hotel.

I could go on......and on.......and on. As I was taking a first sip of my martini, ignoring the fact that it was lukewarm -- obviously steamed from the long and arduous voyage from the distant bar -- our food orders arrived. Again, a left-hand-right-hand snafu. In a senseless and ludicrous fit of decorum, I said I would prefer to eat after I had finished my cocktail. Much to B's horror, his filet was whipped with condescending flourish from under his fork, just as he was putting the first bite into his mouth! He glared at me in rage. What did I care? I was starting to mellow and sedate a little from the martini. But I felt so guilty I called a random waiter over and asked that his meal be returned to the table and mine held. Another senseless act because it just did not fit into their assembly line. Bring one lunch and not the other? But I insisted and they did. So, B and I were totally off kilter -- I at liquid stage one and he ready for dessert. Desperate for distraction, I pounced upon the innocent and hapless couple to my left. Middle-aged, respectable and placid, they had spoken not a word the entire time my act had been premiering at the next table. This was about to change.

More later.

There are high heels and then there are high heels

If you thought my heels were high, take a trip to London. These women sport eight-inch heels as ordinary day wear! Gawking through Liberty's, Selfridge's and other snooty shops in my unspeakably hideous boot/shoes, I marvelled at the physical prowess these fashion mavens demonstrated navigating ailes, floors and escalators. And the rail-thin sales girls obviously have to teeter in them all day. But no matter. Fashion still rules in London and it all starts with the shoes. Now, that is one rule I have always followed. Shoes first, then earrings and accessories so the blank torso in-between doesn't really matter. (And face it, that torso in the nether region is one depressing expanse most of us mirred in middle age want to hide. Thank G-d I don't have cankles!)

Hadn't realized just how many pairs of footwear I possessed until we moved a few years ago and I counted them. 75 pairs. Still wear them all. Face it, shoes make or break the outfit. A pair of jeans with sneakers is not the same outfit as a pair with sandals or a pair with heels. Went to a winter party a few years ago and the sensible hostess asked us to remove our shoes. Whaaaaaat??!!??!! Never.

But sad-to-say, young female Londoners mostly smoke. Walking the streets, sitting outside cafes, they smoke. The other fashion taken up are skin-tight trousers under mini-skirts, anchored by stilletos. Watch for that look soon. One gorgeous BBC World TV reporter had that outfit on the other day while interviewing an important male about something pressing. Her outfit prevents me from remembering who he was or what he did. Couldn't get over the pants.
Dining tales later.

It's not going to be democracy

In Egypt, this revolution will usher into power the Muslim Brotherhood, not democracy. Read David Warren today. As usual, he hits the nail on its depressing head. The brotherhood is taking advantage of the riots by Egypt's middle classes and has inserted itself into the fray. The formal credo of the brotherhood, shared by Hamas and all parallel organizations in Jordan, Yemen and elsewhere throughout the Sunni Muslim world is:"Allah is our objective, the Prophet is our leader, the Koran is our law, Jihad is our way and dying in the way of Allah is our highest hope." If Egypt waits until peaceful elections can be held, it might have a chance. If the government falls now, all will be chaos.

Why can't reporters do a little homework and dig into things, instead of just covering "democratic" demonstrations in Egypt?

Egypt

Can't turn on a tv, radio, read a newspaper.........you name it without being lambasted with Egypt. Why? I am getting sick of it. Just to put it into perspective, read this morning that the world financial markets are unphased by the turmoil there. Guess it's not all that important -- except to "egyptian" Canadians. They rave across the land by the hundreds, screaming into cameras about how their "country" is suffering. Hold on, I thought your country was Canada? No? Guess not. These people came to Canada for a better life, but many of them immediately turn around and go right back to where they were born to live permanently -- unless, of course, they manage to squeeze into the US, where everyone from anywhere always wants to live. Can't tell you the number of taxi drivers I have chatted with who have told me they only came to Canada because they couldn't get into the states. Enrages me.

We all agree, democracy is the ideal for all countries and I hope it happens in Egpyt. The reality remains that Canada is the first resort for people fleeing oppression, but the last resort for where they want to live. As usual, when the inevitable do-do hits the dictatorial fan they want us to pay to fly them out. Another Lebanon. As I said, I am sick of it.