What is it with people? You can't turn on a tv without seeing yet more grieving lines of Jack Layton-ites. People who didn't even know the guy standing for hours to file by his casket. Another Princess Di mawkish freak show. I mean, the guy was obviously popular, but this is too much.
I agree with Christie Blatchford and others who think a state funeral is totally over the top. He certainly didn't rate one, if protocol means anything -- which it ovbiously doesn't. You gotta love Harper, though. He just cut everyone off at the pass by offering a state funeral before the ignoramus' in the media tore him to Queen-Elizabeth shreds. A consumate chess player, if ever there were one.
You would have thought that Jack -- one of the people, the "people's prince" -- would have shunned such pomp and circumstance in favour of a pine box and a pauper's grave. Eventually everyone starts to believe their own press.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Saturday, August 20, 2011
What lunch at 'The Savoy' should have been
Montreal is still a treat. Drove down yesterday for lunch on our wedding anniversary and it felt like a little re-honeymoon. When we married, we honeymooned in Montreal at the Hotel Bonaventure; this time it was lunch at one of the premier hotels in the city -- The Sofitel. Nevermind that they had to tear down the historic Van Horne mansion to erect it; that's Montreal politics for you. Cornelius Van Horne was the builder of the National Railway -- a creator of Canada, if you will. Van Horne also served as a governor of McGill University from 1895-1915 and was one of the first in Canada to acquire artworks by members of the French impressionist movement. Quite a guy by all accounts. But only in Montreal would you get permission to demolish such a monument to Canadian history. Wink-wink, nudge-nudge to a few dodgy burghers, grease a few wheels at city hall, palm a few decision makers and -- as an old boyfriend of Sarah's used to say -- "It poofs!" Gone! (I really liked George, but I digress.)
Remember our experience at The Savoy in London -- how nothing worked right? Well, lunch at The Sofitel is what The Savoy should have produced. With fewer waiters, busboys and table captains, The Sofitel nonetheless had us seated at a well-shaded, choice table on the patio, water and bread at hand and drinks served within ten minutes of our arrival. All gussied up in chapeau and high heels (of course), I ordered steak tartare -- an enduring favourite not served everywhere. It was divine, absolutely melt-in-your-mouth. Not too many capers or onions to drown out the flavour. Just delicious.
Looking around was the most fun. Montrealers have returned to their '70s habit of downing a couple of martinis and a bottle of wine at lunch. I myself participated in more than a few such "downings" when I worked in the journalism business and had a publisher who didn't like to drink or travel alone. The youngest and prettiest on his staff (just a fact because all my colleagues, with the exception of one middle-aged female, were male), I was the one he always picked. Willingly and eagerly I went. I mean, Montreal and Toronto on an expense account with your publisher when you are 22 years old? What's to worry about?!
There was a real cross section of business men and women, middle-aged matrons and motley family gatherings. The matrons were decked out in suits, sensible shoes and expensive, conservative jewellery. With every hair elaborately coiffed and under rigid control, they discussed children, grandchildren and absent females -- the latter getting a breathtaking going-over. Some of the business patrons were fairly well-dressed, but it was the father/daughter and mother/daughter combos that attracted my attention -- naturally for all the wrong reasons. What are people thinking having an expensive lunch garbed in baggy jeans and flip-flops? Not designer jeans, grubby ones. Pile on autrocious table manners and you have a disagreeable mess.
The topper presented itself in the form of a grandmother, daughter and infant. Not only did they push into the confined patio with a HUGE stroller, they proceeded to pretend to order lunch, but quickly changed their minds when the bread basket arrived. No, we'll just have coffee. So there they sat, scarfing the entire bread basket while ordering only coffee. Quite a trick. Any minute, I expected one of them to pull out a couple of slabs of ham from a purse and make a sandwich! You could tell they had done this before. Just to ice the cake, the grandmother -- sporting frayed jeans, ratty birkenstocks and matted, orange hair flowing from grey roots -- added insult to injury by promptly lighting up and propelling revolting cigarette smoke in every direction. She then proceeded to parade the baby up and down so we could all venerate it. Please. After the daughter fed it, gram again grabbed the kid which then proceeded to vomit all over her. I had to laugh.
I guess I notice all these events with a keen, writer's eye because I later scribble them. B. didn't catch any of it. But the waiters miss nothing. I said to Martin, "Man, you have to put up with everything, don't you!" Smiling he replied, "Madame, you don't know the half of it."
Nevermind, it was all great fun and I pulled a blog out of it.
Remember our experience at The Savoy in London -- how nothing worked right? Well, lunch at The Sofitel is what The Savoy should have produced. With fewer waiters, busboys and table captains, The Sofitel nonetheless had us seated at a well-shaded, choice table on the patio, water and bread at hand and drinks served within ten minutes of our arrival. All gussied up in chapeau and high heels (of course), I ordered steak tartare -- an enduring favourite not served everywhere. It was divine, absolutely melt-in-your-mouth. Not too many capers or onions to drown out the flavour. Just delicious.
Looking around was the most fun. Montrealers have returned to their '70s habit of downing a couple of martinis and a bottle of wine at lunch. I myself participated in more than a few such "downings" when I worked in the journalism business and had a publisher who didn't like to drink or travel alone. The youngest and prettiest on his staff (just a fact because all my colleagues, with the exception of one middle-aged female, were male), I was the one he always picked. Willingly and eagerly I went. I mean, Montreal and Toronto on an expense account with your publisher when you are 22 years old? What's to worry about?!
There was a real cross section of business men and women, middle-aged matrons and motley family gatherings. The matrons were decked out in suits, sensible shoes and expensive, conservative jewellery. With every hair elaborately coiffed and under rigid control, they discussed children, grandchildren and absent females -- the latter getting a breathtaking going-over. Some of the business patrons were fairly well-dressed, but it was the father/daughter and mother/daughter combos that attracted my attention -- naturally for all the wrong reasons. What are people thinking having an expensive lunch garbed in baggy jeans and flip-flops? Not designer jeans, grubby ones. Pile on autrocious table manners and you have a disagreeable mess.
The topper presented itself in the form of a grandmother, daughter and infant. Not only did they push into the confined patio with a HUGE stroller, they proceeded to pretend to order lunch, but quickly changed their minds when the bread basket arrived. No, we'll just have coffee. So there they sat, scarfing the entire bread basket while ordering only coffee. Quite a trick. Any minute, I expected one of them to pull out a couple of slabs of ham from a purse and make a sandwich! You could tell they had done this before. Just to ice the cake, the grandmother -- sporting frayed jeans, ratty birkenstocks and matted, orange hair flowing from grey roots -- added insult to injury by promptly lighting up and propelling revolting cigarette smoke in every direction. She then proceeded to parade the baby up and down so we could all venerate it. Please. After the daughter fed it, gram again grabbed the kid which then proceeded to vomit all over her. I had to laugh.
I guess I notice all these events with a keen, writer's eye because I later scribble them. B. didn't catch any of it. But the waiters miss nothing. I said to Martin, "Man, you have to put up with everything, don't you!" Smiling he replied, "Madame, you don't know the half of it."
Nevermind, it was all great fun and I pulled a blog out of it.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Warren Buffett agrees with me
I told you I was probably not finished with the tax thing. It seems the fourth-richest man in the world agrees he and his ilk should pay lots more taxes. According to an article I read this morning, Buffett thinks it's just plain wrong that the poor and those struggling to make ends meet pay more taxes than he and his billionaire friends. He pays about 17%, the average American pays 25%. We, of course, pay more, but as I say, it's a privilege to do so in our fabulous country.
"While the poor and middle class fight for us in Afghanistan, and while most Americans struggle to make ends meet, we mega-rich continue to get our extraordinary tax breaks.
"Our leaders have asked for 'shared sacrifice.' But when they did the asking, they spared me. I checked with my mega-rich friends to learn what pain they were expecting. They, too, were left untouched," Buffett wrote. "My friends and I have been coddled long enough by a billionaire-friendly Congress," he added. "It's time for our government to get serious about shared sacrifice."
What else is there to add.
p.s. Do you think he is related to Jimmy?
"While the poor and middle class fight for us in Afghanistan, and while most Americans struggle to make ends meet, we mega-rich continue to get our extraordinary tax breaks.
"Our leaders have asked for 'shared sacrifice.' But when they did the asking, they spared me. I checked with my mega-rich friends to learn what pain they were expecting. They, too, were left untouched," Buffett wrote. "My friends and I have been coddled long enough by a billionaire-friendly Congress," he added. "It's time for our government to get serious about shared sacrifice."
What else is there to add.
p.s. Do you think he is related to Jimmy?
Friday, August 12, 2011
Troy Donahue
Remember him? The gorgeous, blonde, hunk-surfer-California guy? 'Parrish' was playing on TCM this afternoon, thanks to a whole day of Claudette Colbert movies. Poor Claudette, she just happened to be in this movie, but Troy was the star. I used to moon over Troy. How gorgeous he was! I remember going to see that movie and being transfixed by his gorgeousness. There was our hero Troy, saving the day, beating up the son of an old family enemy, falling in love with the forbidden daughter........living happily ever after. You know, all the requisite cliches. And all this while running a tobacco farm. The tobacco farm bit was weird. It featured prominently in the movie, with labourers (mostly gorgeous young starlets) working away in the fields, chewing the stuff. Yes, there was Connie Stevens chewing tobacco in her cutest, downhome buttons-and-gingham outfit. Anyway, the taboo against the whole, ugly smoking culture today made watching the movie an odd experience. But at that time, everyone smoked all the time and the cigarette industry was booming.
Back to Troy. If you want to shock yourself, google him and you will find a photo of a four-times divorced degenerate who looks like he should be dying at the Mission. I was stunned. The guy looks like Jason in 'Halloween'. Absolutely ghastly. I learned from wikipedia that his real name was "Merle Johnson, Jr". How could "Troy Donahue" be "Merle Johnson, Jr" from nowhweresville Florida? Because he was so bloody gorgeous, that's why. Think Brad Pitt, but gorgeous-er. Dead at 65 (G-d, I'm 64), the usual clutter and tangle of drugs and booze did him in. Another celebrated celluloid idol who starts to believe his own press.
Nevermind. I went back, sat down and watched 'Parrish', feasting my eyes on one of the most starry stars Hollywood ever plunked in front of a camera.
Back to Troy. If you want to shock yourself, google him and you will find a photo of a four-times divorced degenerate who looks like he should be dying at the Mission. I was stunned. The guy looks like Jason in 'Halloween'. Absolutely ghastly. I learned from wikipedia that his real name was "Merle Johnson, Jr". How could "Troy Donahue" be "Merle Johnson, Jr" from nowhweresville Florida? Because he was so bloody gorgeous, that's why. Think Brad Pitt, but gorgeous-er. Dead at 65 (G-d, I'm 64), the usual clutter and tangle of drugs and booze did him in. Another celebrated celluloid idol who starts to believe his own press.
Nevermind. I went back, sat down and watched 'Parrish', feasting my eyes on one of the most starry stars Hollywood ever plunked in front of a camera.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
It's not about the mothers
Saw a documentary last evening about a woman who gave up her out-of-wedlock baby 40 years ago. Good for her, I thought. But the whole program was about how terrible it is for mothers who had to do this. Really? What about the babies? That's where my money comes down. It's not about the mothers, it's about the babies.
Sixty-four years ago, my birth mother gave me up and thank G-d she did. If you want to get really clinical and anatomical here, the developing fetus doesn't care which mother is nurturing it. All that happens as part of a normal bodily function. Naturally, every fetus deserves a healthy host, but there is no love there of which the newborn will be deprived if it is taken away from the birth mother. The bond develops after birth between mother and baby. Granted the mother is very involved with the baby as it develops, but that is no reason to keep a baby if you are an unemployed teen without an emotional or financial support system. That's just plain selfishness.
This documentary dwelt on the mothers -- all of whom said they should have kept their babies. "I just wanted to grab my baby and run out of the hospital," one said. "I was treated very poorly in the delivery room," lamented another. "It was so unfair that I had to give my baby up," cried another. The rough life most of the babies would have had if the mothers hadn't done the unselfish thing wasn't part of their fantasies. I see it every day -- teens on welfare pushing baby carriages, grandmothers in their thirties at Walmart with teenaged daugters pushing yet another infant soul, without much hope of anything good coming out of any of it. A viscious cycle of child poverty perpetuated for generations. Sad.
Forty years ago, newborns were taken right after birth. Sixty years ago, mothers had to stay locked away with their babies for six weeks before turning them over to already-chosen adoptive parents. Imagine that. Six weeks. The sacrifice of mothers like mine was truly heroic. Having discovered my birth family, I am very grateful she gave me up. Interestingly, the daughter this woman eventually found wasn't interested in having much of a relationship with her. "It would be too disruptive for my family." The self-centred birth mother was crushed all over again. I suppose she had envisioned a raw, emotional and love-filled reunion, with everyone falling about in tears of joy. Doesn't always happen that way. I can relate. Some members of my birth family were welcoming, others were aghast, none was unabashedly overjoyed. To this day -- more than 30 years later -- none of my cousins has reached out (My mother had died, so we will never know how that might have turned out.)
Curiousity drives adoptees to discover their birth heritage, but these people are not really your "family". I don't need to get into what makes a family, we all know. I thank my birth mother. In my case, she did the right thing.
Sixty-four years ago, my birth mother gave me up and thank G-d she did. If you want to get really clinical and anatomical here, the developing fetus doesn't care which mother is nurturing it. All that happens as part of a normal bodily function. Naturally, every fetus deserves a healthy host, but there is no love there of which the newborn will be deprived if it is taken away from the birth mother. The bond develops after birth between mother and baby. Granted the mother is very involved with the baby as it develops, but that is no reason to keep a baby if you are an unemployed teen without an emotional or financial support system. That's just plain selfishness.
This documentary dwelt on the mothers -- all of whom said they should have kept their babies. "I just wanted to grab my baby and run out of the hospital," one said. "I was treated very poorly in the delivery room," lamented another. "It was so unfair that I had to give my baby up," cried another. The rough life most of the babies would have had if the mothers hadn't done the unselfish thing wasn't part of their fantasies. I see it every day -- teens on welfare pushing baby carriages, grandmothers in their thirties at Walmart with teenaged daugters pushing yet another infant soul, without much hope of anything good coming out of any of it. A viscious cycle of child poverty perpetuated for generations. Sad.
Forty years ago, newborns were taken right after birth. Sixty years ago, mothers had to stay locked away with their babies for six weeks before turning them over to already-chosen adoptive parents. Imagine that. Six weeks. The sacrifice of mothers like mine was truly heroic. Having discovered my birth family, I am very grateful she gave me up. Interestingly, the daughter this woman eventually found wasn't interested in having much of a relationship with her. "It would be too disruptive for my family." The self-centred birth mother was crushed all over again. I suppose she had envisioned a raw, emotional and love-filled reunion, with everyone falling about in tears of joy. Doesn't always happen that way. I can relate. Some members of my birth family were welcoming, others were aghast, none was unabashedly overjoyed. To this day -- more than 30 years later -- none of my cousins has reached out (My mother had died, so we will never know how that might have turned out.)
Curiousity drives adoptees to discover their birth heritage, but these people are not really your "family". I don't need to get into what makes a family, we all know. I thank my birth mother. In my case, she did the right thing.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
More tales from the crypt
Right on the heels of the entrancing Kingston pageant, we had another funeral to attend this week. The lovliest gentleman had died, the owner of Scrim's Florist. Many a petal was bought there and many a Christmas sheath. Scrim's enhanced our weddings and our funerals over many, many years. Very careful with a penny, my dear mother always said, "You never go anywhere except Scrim's." And this from a woman who taught me how to coax and conjure a gourment feast out of an onion and a potato.
Always dapper and perfectly turned out, his presence at the old-age home where my last surviving uncle resides shocked me. At first I thought he was visiting someone, but no, he had moved in. How quickly it all happens. One minute you're running the premier flower business in the city and the next you're sitting forlornly in the lobby of an old-age home, bored to death, waiting for the next meal. Bang. Just like that.
No soggy sandwiches and weak tea in the church basement for this wake. The reception was held at the Royal Ottawa Golf Club and it was perfection. Just like every bouquet and arrangement the man ever created. One Christmas, as I was purchasing yet another $100,000 natural adornment for the door (I exaggerate, but not by much), Paul said, "Why don't you get one of these gorgeous wreaths made of dried switches. It'll last for years." That's the kind of guy he was. He would rather a client save some money, but in the process do himself out of an annual purchase. I still have the wreath and it graces our door every season -- with a little help from an artistic daughter, who tarted it up a few years ago and gave it new life.
So, another Ottawa icon passes. Happily, his family still runs Scrim's so it will remain the only place to go for commemorative beauty.
Always dapper and perfectly turned out, his presence at the old-age home where my last surviving uncle resides shocked me. At first I thought he was visiting someone, but no, he had moved in. How quickly it all happens. One minute you're running the premier flower business in the city and the next you're sitting forlornly in the lobby of an old-age home, bored to death, waiting for the next meal. Bang. Just like that.
No soggy sandwiches and weak tea in the church basement for this wake. The reception was held at the Royal Ottawa Golf Club and it was perfection. Just like every bouquet and arrangement the man ever created. One Christmas, as I was purchasing yet another $100,000 natural adornment for the door (I exaggerate, but not by much), Paul said, "Why don't you get one of these gorgeous wreaths made of dried switches. It'll last for years." That's the kind of guy he was. He would rather a client save some money, but in the process do himself out of an annual purchase. I still have the wreath and it graces our door every season -- with a little help from an artistic daughter, who tarted it up a few years ago and gave it new life.
So, another Ottawa icon passes. Happily, his family still runs Scrim's so it will remain the only place to go for commemorative beauty.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
A little rant
A large, officious envelope arrived in the mail today. It was addressed to:
Brian Marley-Clark, and
Nancy Marley-Clark
.....no "e" on either name.
This came from our lawyer, a lawyer we have patronized for 20 years. A lawyer who has collected a lot of $$$ from us. I was outraged -- or was it "pissed off". I mean, seriously, how can you get a client's name wrong?! Giving the hapless solicitor the benefit of the doubt, I opened the envelope to see if maybe only the address label had been incorrect. Maybe the letter itself had been correct and our name graced with the required "e". Nope. Not a chance. The lawyer had signed it himself. Marley-Clark, without an "e".
Here's the deal: With names such as Clark(e), or Mac, Mc...you have to check the correct spelling. Is it Clarke with an "e"? Clark without an "e"? Is it "Mac, capitol someting? Is it "Mc, capitol something?" Is it "Mac, lower-case something?" Is it "Mc, upper case something? There are so many possibilities. And here we have a well-paid lawyer who.... GETS IT WRONG!
You have to know that taking on B's double-barrelled name was a challenge. (I was going to say "problem", but am trying to be polite). For many years it has always been, "Mrs. Clarke" this...or "Mrs. Marley" that. Many think my maiden name was "Marley", that I am a liberated woman who kept her maiden name -- a hyphenated/liberated feminist. No such luxury. I am in bondage like every other woman with a husband, children and a fulltime job. When I married B I had to decide whether to revert to my maiden name, or take on his. My children had their father's. Would I keep that one? No, I decided to take on B's name. I was his wife; that would be my name.
In a small town such as Ottawa that has proven both a blessing and a curse. With an ex-wife who insists on keeping B's name -- without his permission -- "Marley-Clarke" stands out in this town. Happily, after 30 years we have long established our own identity as a couple. But I am one who thinks women who wish to keep their husband's name after an (unnecessarily) sour divorce should have to be given legal permission by the ex-husband for the privilege. Why dine out on a man you hate? I guess the answer is obvious.
But back to our lawyer. I called him to complain and he had the audacity to say it was a "typo". No, it was not a typo, I explained. A typo would be one missing "e". Four missing "e's" was not a typo. It was inattention to detail and pretty much inexcuseable. The lawyer continued to argue that it was "just a typo". This is why I will not use that lawyer again. He could not help himself..."Once it gets into our computer system, it's wrong on everything." Whaaaaaaaat??!!@ How is that an answer!!!??? I remember working for a lawyer in the "carbon paper" era. You could not get anything wrong. Ever. If you typed something incorrectly, the entire document had to be re-typed for it not to appear to have been tampered with. With computers, getting anything wrong is unfathomable.
I told him to re-send the entire package. I ripped the "typo" one up.
Brian Marley-Clark, and
Nancy Marley-Clark
.....no "e" on either name.
This came from our lawyer, a lawyer we have patronized for 20 years. A lawyer who has collected a lot of $$$ from us. I was outraged -- or was it "pissed off". I mean, seriously, how can you get a client's name wrong?! Giving the hapless solicitor the benefit of the doubt, I opened the envelope to see if maybe only the address label had been incorrect. Maybe the letter itself had been correct and our name graced with the required "e". Nope. Not a chance. The lawyer had signed it himself. Marley-Clark, without an "e".
Here's the deal: With names such as Clark(e), or Mac, Mc...you have to check the correct spelling. Is it Clarke with an "e"? Clark without an "e"? Is it "Mac, capitol someting? Is it "Mc, capitol something?" Is it "Mac, lower-case something?" Is it "Mc, upper case something? There are so many possibilities. And here we have a well-paid lawyer who.... GETS IT WRONG!
You have to know that taking on B's double-barrelled name was a challenge. (I was going to say "problem", but am trying to be polite). For many years it has always been, "Mrs. Clarke" this...or "Mrs. Marley" that. Many think my maiden name was "Marley", that I am a liberated woman who kept her maiden name -- a hyphenated/liberated feminist. No such luxury. I am in bondage like every other woman with a husband, children and a fulltime job. When I married B I had to decide whether to revert to my maiden name, or take on his. My children had their father's. Would I keep that one? No, I decided to take on B's name. I was his wife; that would be my name.
In a small town such as Ottawa that has proven both a blessing and a curse. With an ex-wife who insists on keeping B's name -- without his permission -- "Marley-Clarke" stands out in this town. Happily, after 30 years we have long established our own identity as a couple. But I am one who thinks women who wish to keep their husband's name after an (unnecessarily) sour divorce should have to be given legal permission by the ex-husband for the privilege. Why dine out on a man you hate? I guess the answer is obvious.
But back to our lawyer. I called him to complain and he had the audacity to say it was a "typo". No, it was not a typo, I explained. A typo would be one missing "e". Four missing "e's" was not a typo. It was inattention to detail and pretty much inexcuseable. The lawyer continued to argue that it was "just a typo". This is why I will not use that lawyer again. He could not help himself..."Once it gets into our computer system, it's wrong on everything." Whaaaaaaaat??!!@ How is that an answer!!!??? I remember working for a lawyer in the "carbon paper" era. You could not get anything wrong. Ever. If you typed something incorrectly, the entire document had to be re-typed for it not to appear to have been tampered with. With computers, getting anything wrong is unfathomable.
I told him to re-send the entire package. I ripped the "typo" one up.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
The way it still gets done in The Valley
St. Mary's Cathedral in Kingston was packed this steamy afternoon for the High Funeral Mass offered for Archibishop Francis Spence who died last week at 84. We decided to go down for it because Catholic gatherings of this magnitude don't happen often anymore. It did not disappoint. No fewer than 50 priests from all over The Valley prosessed in, preceded by 10 Bishops, an Eastern Orthodox Patriarch, 50 Knights of Columbus, 20 Knights of the Holy Sepulchre and the current Archbishop, Brendan O'Brien. It was very moving. And the music! Literally divine.
The wonder of a gathering of the Catholic clan is that no matter your rank today, everyone knew you "when". That's what makes it all such a comfortable and familiar tribal experience. Little old ladies from tiny, local hamlets button-hole lofty bishops and lecture them as if there were still in short pants. That old saw, "Once a Catholic, always a Catholic," sprang to mind. No one pulls rank because they can't. Oh yes, the procession is formal, hierarchical, proper and impressive; that's the ritual part. But the reception following sorts everyone out; that's the "democacy" part. Archbishop O'Brien is still just little Brendan from The Valley, whose parents half of the gathered elders knew well.
Basically, you can't be a "revisionist" at a Catholic wake. You can't pull the wool over anyone's eyes. Humility is forced upon everyone, with your Valley ranking prevailing. Just after telling "little Brendan" which end was up, the diminutive, old lady sitting beside me upbraided her hen-pecked farmer husband for getting her tea instead of coffee. "You got me tea instead of coffee," she complained. "But you always drink tea," he said, hoping that would do the trick, that she would leave him alone to enjoy the three pieces of cake he had piled on his plate. "Yes, I know I always drink tea, but today I said coffee, so take back this tea and get me some coffee." And he did.
There she sat, all decked out and resplendent in her best ancient hat, her finest antique suit, her hardly-darned thick stockings, tucked into well-polished, archaic black boots, ruling her invincible and unassailable roost. I just had to talk to her:
"You can't do anything right can you," I said to the husband, laughing. "No he certainly can't," the wife shot back. But then they both burst out laughing and so did I. "I have a hearing problem," he pleaded, to no avail. "I think you have a listening problem, not a hearing problem," I added. "That's exactly right," the wife said. "He never listens to a word I say." I bet he hears "breakfast, lunch and dinner" when you call them out, I added. "Oh my word! He certainly hears those words!" I assured her that I, of course, had a perfect husband. More uproarious laughing. "Oh I am sure you do! He looks like a real treat!" More screaming and guffawing. It was such a lot of fun. You can't take yourself too seriously at a wake like that. No one permits it.
On the way this morning, we stopped for lunch in Gananoque, a picturesque little town on the St. Lawrence. What memories flooded back! Memories of our trips with the kids when they were little, before we started going to the cottage. Back then we would rent an old-fashioned little cabin, crank up the coleman stove and make tea, hotdogs and corn-on-the-cob during a week that was idyllic -- as only a "roughing it" holiday can be.
Much later, one of our children went to Queen's for four years and it was such a treat to visit several times a year. As we drove home this afternoon, I realized this would probably be the last time I would visit Kingston, or Gananoque, or Brockville. The last time I would revel in The Ottawa Valley with all its delightful and unique enchantments. A huge wave of sadness overtook me. I will be leaving my roots here, but not what they nurtured.
Nevermind, the future beckons and I am ready for Calgary!
The wonder of a gathering of the Catholic clan is that no matter your rank today, everyone knew you "when". That's what makes it all such a comfortable and familiar tribal experience. Little old ladies from tiny, local hamlets button-hole lofty bishops and lecture them as if there were still in short pants. That old saw, "Once a Catholic, always a Catholic," sprang to mind. No one pulls rank because they can't. Oh yes, the procession is formal, hierarchical, proper and impressive; that's the ritual part. But the reception following sorts everyone out; that's the "democacy" part. Archbishop O'Brien is still just little Brendan from The Valley, whose parents half of the gathered elders knew well.
Basically, you can't be a "revisionist" at a Catholic wake. You can't pull the wool over anyone's eyes. Humility is forced upon everyone, with your Valley ranking prevailing. Just after telling "little Brendan" which end was up, the diminutive, old lady sitting beside me upbraided her hen-pecked farmer husband for getting her tea instead of coffee. "You got me tea instead of coffee," she complained. "But you always drink tea," he said, hoping that would do the trick, that she would leave him alone to enjoy the three pieces of cake he had piled on his plate. "Yes, I know I always drink tea, but today I said coffee, so take back this tea and get me some coffee." And he did.
There she sat, all decked out and resplendent in her best ancient hat, her finest antique suit, her hardly-darned thick stockings, tucked into well-polished, archaic black boots, ruling her invincible and unassailable roost. I just had to talk to her:
"You can't do anything right can you," I said to the husband, laughing. "No he certainly can't," the wife shot back. But then they both burst out laughing and so did I. "I have a hearing problem," he pleaded, to no avail. "I think you have a listening problem, not a hearing problem," I added. "That's exactly right," the wife said. "He never listens to a word I say." I bet he hears "breakfast, lunch and dinner" when you call them out, I added. "Oh my word! He certainly hears those words!" I assured her that I, of course, had a perfect husband. More uproarious laughing. "Oh I am sure you do! He looks like a real treat!" More screaming and guffawing. It was such a lot of fun. You can't take yourself too seriously at a wake like that. No one permits it.
On the way this morning, we stopped for lunch in Gananoque, a picturesque little town on the St. Lawrence. What memories flooded back! Memories of our trips with the kids when they were little, before we started going to the cottage. Back then we would rent an old-fashioned little cabin, crank up the coleman stove and make tea, hotdogs and corn-on-the-cob during a week that was idyllic -- as only a "roughing it" holiday can be.
Much later, one of our children went to Queen's for four years and it was such a treat to visit several times a year. As we drove home this afternoon, I realized this would probably be the last time I would visit Kingston, or Gananoque, or Brockville. The last time I would revel in The Ottawa Valley with all its delightful and unique enchantments. A huge wave of sadness overtook me. I will be leaving my roots here, but not what they nurtured.
Nevermind, the future beckons and I am ready for Calgary!
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
At the risk of boring you.........
.....the noisy mess surrounding the raising of the US debt ceiling has highlighted a big problem down there. Americans just don't get the whole distribution of wealth thing. You know I am going to start back in on taxes, but that's the way it has to be. Otherwise you have big, expensive jails filled with people who instead should be on welfare because it's cheaper in the long run. You have people incarcerated who should really be raising their own kids -- all because the rich don't want to re-distribute their fantastic wealth. So you have kids growing up to be criminals because their parents have been in jail, leaving them to be raised at great peril on the streets........and on and on it generationally and dangerously continues.
Simplistic? Maybe. But the re-distribution of wealth -- yes taxes -- is the only way any society can function efficiently. The problem is that Americans don't trust government -- unless it is delivered in the form of sheriffs, guns, law enforcement and jails. These trappings and apparatuses they support and pay for, but trusting government to look after the poor? No siree! They want criminals locked away -- unless, of course, the criminals work in investment banks and the like. It's OK if I rob you, but not if a street criminal commits the offence.
The irony is that philanthropy is huge in the US, but it's private. Rich Americans decide themselves who to give money to. Why? To avoid taxes, plain and simple. Full circle here. The tea-party republicans and their ilk don't want government to decide how wealth gets re-distributed. No, they want to personally decide their countrymen's fate on a dollar-by-dollar basis. Who prospers and who doesn't is up to the rich. Trust me, Brad Pitt is not building houses in New Orleans because he wants to help his beleagured fellow American. Brad Pitt is building houses in New Orleans because he wants to look good and avoid taxes. The people he is helping at the suggestion of his accountants are a serendipitous side-bar. And that goes for Roger Federer, who lives in Dubai, and every other rich movie star, rock star and athlete who does the same. They don't get that the free society which allows them to make all that money -- the society that builds and maintains the roads they drive on, the water they drink and the toilets they flush -- is financed by taxes.
I can't count how many talking heads I watched on tv over the last few days who were adamant that taxes were the cause of the problem, not the solution. They forget that the Great Depression was overcome by huge government programs, in other words: taxes! I don't know where these bobble heads think the money is going to come from? Rich businessmen getting richer and not paying taxes will not do the trick. Britain realized this was the way to go. Prime Minister David Cameron has now raised goods and services taxes to 20% to get the country's fiscal house in some kind of order.
Happily, we don't operate that way in Canada. I am beginning to grasp "economics" and how it relates to our everyday lives. The underground economy is no friend to any country. As B says, participating in the underground economy is like saying, "I don't support Canada." The economy isn't "out there", with us "in here". The economy is us, taxes are us and together we all work for Canada.
This may be my last tax rant, but don't count on it.
Simplistic? Maybe. But the re-distribution of wealth -- yes taxes -- is the only way any society can function efficiently. The problem is that Americans don't trust government -- unless it is delivered in the form of sheriffs, guns, law enforcement and jails. These trappings and apparatuses they support and pay for, but trusting government to look after the poor? No siree! They want criminals locked away -- unless, of course, the criminals work in investment banks and the like. It's OK if I rob you, but not if a street criminal commits the offence.
The irony is that philanthropy is huge in the US, but it's private. Rich Americans decide themselves who to give money to. Why? To avoid taxes, plain and simple. Full circle here. The tea-party republicans and their ilk don't want government to decide how wealth gets re-distributed. No, they want to personally decide their countrymen's fate on a dollar-by-dollar basis. Who prospers and who doesn't is up to the rich. Trust me, Brad Pitt is not building houses in New Orleans because he wants to help his beleagured fellow American. Brad Pitt is building houses in New Orleans because he wants to look good and avoid taxes. The people he is helping at the suggestion of his accountants are a serendipitous side-bar. And that goes for Roger Federer, who lives in Dubai, and every other rich movie star, rock star and athlete who does the same. They don't get that the free society which allows them to make all that money -- the society that builds and maintains the roads they drive on, the water they drink and the toilets they flush -- is financed by taxes.
I can't count how many talking heads I watched on tv over the last few days who were adamant that taxes were the cause of the problem, not the solution. They forget that the Great Depression was overcome by huge government programs, in other words: taxes! I don't know where these bobble heads think the money is going to come from? Rich businessmen getting richer and not paying taxes will not do the trick. Britain realized this was the way to go. Prime Minister David Cameron has now raised goods and services taxes to 20% to get the country's fiscal house in some kind of order.
Happily, we don't operate that way in Canada. I am beginning to grasp "economics" and how it relates to our everyday lives. The underground economy is no friend to any country. As B says, participating in the underground economy is like saying, "I don't support Canada." The economy isn't "out there", with us "in here". The economy is us, taxes are us and together we all work for Canada.
This may be my last tax rant, but don't count on it.
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