What are the words again?

Apparently lots of Canadians don't know the words to 'O Canada'. (By the way, that's our national anthem.) The results are even more interesting linguistically:

Alberta.................83%
Manitoba/Saskatchewan...83%
Ontario.................78%
Atlantic Canada.........77%
British Columbia........75%
...but in Quebec, only 61% of respondents could rhyme off the French version without stumbling.

In the first place, the fact the numbers aren't 100% across the board is pathetic. I mean, shouldn't every Canadian know the words to our national anthem? They should, but they don't. Just look around you on the rare public occasion that O Canada is actually played at a public event -- other than a hockey game. More than half of those gathered are mute. It is just not acceptable.

I remember when I was in elementary school, we started the day with 'God Save the Queen', O Canada and The Lord's Prayer. You simply had to know the words. And, by the way, we also had to sing it in French every day. Without sounding too much like a good-old-days whiner, I think we need civic's classes brought back.

Where's the money??!!

After handing Attawapiskat $90 million, a few intelligent folks are asking where it went??!! Chief Theresa Spence has no credible clue. Whaaaat!!*()&#$! How could 1,800 people still live in squalour after being handed that much money? There are only 1,800 people living there. That's it. 1,800. And Spence added she was "offended" that the PM asked about it in the House of Commons. Finally, someone is looking into it. Just heard a CBC reporter quoting from an audit that shows "significant problems" in the management of the band's finances. Well, hello?! This is one can of worms that desperately needs opening.

Just listening to Regional Grand Chief Stan Louttit on TV who calls it..."a systemic shortfall of resources". Whaaaat!! And as to the $90 million? Louttit says the government is trying to blame the community. He then added they don't get enough money.

That's it on this file for now. But stay tuned, the airwaves will be filled with this until they aren't.

Wait a minute

The Red Cross has gone into a northern reserve because the people are destitute? They have declared a "housing emergency". Whaaaaaaa??!!! Just watched this story on TV. I am dumbfounded. Where did this reserve's portion of the $8 billion Canadians give natives every year go? I have blogged about this national disgrace before, about how our natives are not accountable for a penny of the money they are given every year. You can't tell me that this reserve didn't get its money.

What I constantly wonder is why the natives don't ask their own leadership what they are doing with the money. Just read that Parliament has passed legislation forcing the chiefs to publically account for the money they get (or is is "hoard"). It's high time! There are between 20 and 30 (depending on your source) chiefs who make more than the Prime Minister -- that's up near $200,000. I mean, feature it!

Naturally, one chief's response was to accuse the federal government of being "colonialist" in asking for accountability. More PR at work here. Please.

But the Red Cross! Naturally, the blame will be slapped on the feds -- not where it should land.

Maybe forever?

Looking so forlorn 41 years ago, the jade tree from which I snipped a cutting was barely surviving under my mother's care. Lillian Griffith did not have an indoor green thumb, but her outdoor thumb was on fire. We had the most beautiful blue spruce trees, hedges and gardens on our property, but her house plants -- that was another matter. They were pretty much ignored, covered in dust and watered....whenever....or not. Jade trees can take a great deal of abuse and these scrawny sticks, languishing half-dead in a pot in her kitchen window, cried out for an intervention. There they sat, stunted.

I decided to grab a cutting all those many years ago before I moved to TO. That jade tree grew into a fabulous specimen. It got bigger and bigger and bigger. I gave away cuttings over the years to all my children. Their plants grew and grew and grew. All were thriving. Then came the day when we moved to Calgary. The original jade tree was huge and not portable. Even if we had managed to lug it into the moving van, it would not have survived the thousands of miles to Calgary. Luckily, my step-son Scott took "Gram's" jade tree to live with him. I almost cried as I watched it roll down the hall on a dorry to his car.

But before that tree departed, I again snipped two more cuttings, wrapped them in wet paper towel and popped them into my carry-on. They arrived in good form. After sitting them in water for a couple of months, they grew roots long enough for planting. That's what I was doing in Canadian Tire the other day -- buying pots and soil to plant them.

One went to daughter Susanne in Cochrane and the other now sits here with me. My mother's jade tree lives on.

What planet are we on??

I guess the same sad one. Yesterday, B and I had to go to the bank to sign some papers; the appointment was with a middle manager. Out she comes to greet us. She is about 30 -- or as I say, 12. Maybe it was my lack of makeup, my thrown-on outfit, my ill-matching scarf and gloves, or my worn boots, but she treated me like an ignorant, old wife.

"Have a seat Nancy. Are you sure you're OK? Now, you just have to sign a few documents and I'll walk you through them, so don't worry. Are you familiar with Brian's accounts? Do you know how the banking is done? Have you ever done any of the household banking?"

I was stunned. "You know, you really should familiarize yourself with your finances. As a matter of fact, I am dealing right now with a poor widow who is having a very difficult time figuring out her finances and it's always a good thing to learn, in case anything happens to your husband."

I was more stunned. This young know-it-all-smarty-pants automatically presumed I was some kind of loser/doormat who had no clue about anything. She did not ask me about my background, whether I had a job, whether I had ever had a job, whether I was a heart surgeon, whether I was an astronaut, whether I had split the atom...No, she just carried on blabbing in smug ignorance, taking as a given that I was a perfect dummy and that it was her job to explain the world of high finance to me and everyone else she met. I could just picture her at a party, boring the life out of everyone unfortunate enough to have to talk to her. Memo to the Royal Bank: update your training program now!

Before I came to my senses, I heard myself saying, "Oh, I have had a long career and many senior positions, so I am familiar with bank accounts." What was wrong with me??!! I worked for Revenue Canada, for G-d's sake, so money is not a mystery. I quickly caught myself. Settle down, sister and give your head a shake...is what I felt like saying. But I just became very icy -- not that she noticed. She was going on a vacation to Hawaii with her husband the next morning and that was all she could talk about -- that and her experience with Shaw cable......as if I cared. The complete lack of self-awareness and sensitivity was breathtaking!

It was a sad moment. As I said, what planet are we on??!!

More high heels

As if I needed more high heels, but that's exactly what I bought last Friday. I discovered Arnold Churgin Shoes back in 2001, when step-daughter, Sarah, lived in Calgary. I bought a pair of black, patent leather heels that I have worn and worn and worn and worn. I have had them repaired a dozen times because they are the most comfortable high heels I own. They go with everything and I adore them. But even they will not go on forever. So, in I popped to Arnold Churgin. Emerged with a new pair of patent pumps, a gorgeous pair of multi-coloured suedes and a lovely, low-cut pair of browns. The browns have what is called "toe cleavage" -- the splits between your toes show, which is so attractive (I think). In the '20s, toe cleavage was considered very risque. Read that in The New York Times. At my age and stage, toe cleavage will have to do.

Obviously, there is a reason this blog is called "The View From High Heels". I believe shoes make the outfit. I mean, put on a great dress, fabulous jewellery and the wrong shoes and your outfit is toast. I spend much less on clothes because the shoes carry the day -- or night. That and jewellery. The cheapest pair of the right earrings will take a nothing outfit over the top. Can't count how many times I have seen women in expensive outfits with expensive -- but very dull -- earrings. The overall effect is zero -- especially if they add stupid hair to the mix. What's stupid hair? Dyed for too many years, too long for your age, the 50's page-boy look when you're 60, inch-long roots, Margaret-Atwood-hair...you get the idea.

So, that's my shallow blog for today.

Music!

Aging and cumbersome -- with about a thousand different coloured wires, plugs and speakers -- our stereo system and speakers are now part of a "white elephant" sale at our old parish in Ottawa. I finally did it. I bought a Bose Wave Music System. What a brilliant system!

Yes, you have only to unpack and plug it in; just like the advertising says. I am now listening to all the CDs I love. Gerry Rafferty, Ahmad Jamal, Tom Cochrane, Shania Twain, Celine, the Bee Gees, Joe Cocker, Bryan Adams, Rush, Marvin Gaye, Elton John, The Rolling Stones.....you get the idea. Not to mention all the Christmas CDs -- Handel's Massiah and gospel choirs. Really getting into the spirit.

Happy, happy.

Trail names, Canadian Tire, Fur and Beef on the Hoof

The names of many of Calgary's thoroughfares, as I have blogged, are facinating. This morning I found out where many of them originate.

Deerfoot Trail: Named for the Blackfoot runner, Deerfoot, who during the 1880s was the top-ranking long-distance runner in this region -- beating all comers from both Canada and abroad.

Macleod Trail: Named for Col. James Macleod, commissioner of the NWMP in 1876, and negotiator of Treaty 7 with the First Nations of the region. He changed the name of Fort Brisebois to Fort Calgary.

Crowchild Trail: Named for David Crowchild, Tsuu T'ina chief from 1946-53, a man who built bridges between whites and natives.

Calf Robe Bridge: Named for Ben Calf Robe, a scout-interpreter for the Mounties and another bridge builder.

John Laurie Blvd.: Named for a distinguished English teacher and champion of education for aboriginal children.

Stephen Ave.: Named for the first president of the CPR, George Stephen.

So, there you have the goods behind a few of these gems.

On to Canadian Tire. Was in there today looking for a bag of soil and two pots for the jade tree shoots that I have been rooting. "Do you still sell soil and pots this time of year?" In an Ottawa Canadian Tire -- if you could find a sales person at all -- the response would have been, "No, lady, not this time of year. It's winter." And off that person would have raced to join his/her other colleagues hiding in the back rows of the store to avoid customers at any and all cost. Are you with me here? Yeah, of course you are. In an Ottawa Canadian Tire you can never, ever, ever find a clerk. And if you happen to stumble upon one, they are so pissed off and annoyed that you mostly grovel and apologize for bothering them.

But this Canadian Tire was in Cochrane. There were clerks everywhere. "Do you still sell pots and soil this time of year?" Oh yes, they're stored away now, but no problem, I'll get someone to help you right away." She barked into her walkie-talkie and immediately another girl appeared and escorted me to the back of the store, up some rickety stairs..."please be careful on these"... and into the summer stock storage area, where she helped me pick out the pots and soil and led me back to the cash. Wow! Imagine that kind of service in a Canadian Tire in Ottawa! But, as I said, this was Cochrane -- a swell little town.

Standing at the cash sporting my 30-year-old, 80s-style, totally passe fur jacket, an elderly man struck up a conversation. "That looks like a really warm coat, what is it?" Now, I have to tell you I actually have no idea what the fur is. I bought it at Burkholder's a thousand years ago and was told it was "European cat"...whatever the heck that was? A few years ago, I read that they were killing alley cats in Europe and making them into fur coats and I said, that's what my coat is! Alley cat! Grey and blue, it had always appeared to have been dyed, but low and behold, the truth was about to be revealed in the Cochrane Canadian Tire.

A young woman also in line chimed in: "European cat? Let me google that." She took out her phone, looked it up and said: "European cat is a member of the racoon family, with brownish-blue-grey fur." Amazing! the coat wasn't dyed afterall, it was natural. I left the store with a new-found love for my old coat. That's the kind of thing that happens in Cochrane.

Driving home, I passed for the umpteenth time the grazing, black cattle along the highway leading back to Calgary that will soon be somebody's dinner. In the Ottawa Valley the cows you see along the roads and farms are usually dairy, so you never really get that queasy feeling that you will soon be munching on them. But the beef cattle happily chewing their cud along highway 1-A will shortly be gracing plates all over the area. For a fleeting second, I toyed with the idea of becoming vegetarian. But the second passed quickly. I do so love steak tartare.

Tough

It's official. Waterpolo is the toughest sport in the world. Based on a number of criteria, such as endurance, speed, strength, agility, skill and physicality, waterpolo bested all other sports -- including hockey, football, boxing, ironman, hurling, basketball, soccer and rugby. Have to say I am not surprised. Apart from the basic fact that you have to try not to drown while playing it, waterpolo is a gruelling spectacle.

Not that I have ever played it, but I have watched my daughter play it over many years and was constantly amazed at how difficult it appeared to be to sprint-swim, while controlling or throwing a huge ball all the way down a pool and trying to avoid violent opponents intent on inflicting great harm. It is viscious. Lots of very dirty business going on underwater that the refs don't catch. I mean, it was not unusual for girls to emerge dripping in blood. By the way, you can't touch bottom folks; this is all done in the deep end, so to speak.

So there you have it. One of the most ignored sports in the world is officially the toughest.

Veterans without uniforms

As I sat in the Cochrane gymnasium -- named for the many Cochrane Cobra teams in that high school -- I reflected for the first time in my life about what constitutes a veteran? We were there for the Remembrance Day Service and the gym was packed. Growing up, I had thought only my Uncle Rollie had been a real vet. Afterall, he had been the one to have served overseas in the Second World War, in Italy. Afterall, Uncle Rollie had a uniform, medals and still worked as paymaster for several reserve units in Ottawa. Clearly, Uncle Rollie was a real war vet.

I had five uncles. On my mother's side there was Uncle Charlie, her brother. But he had had rheumatic fever and his weakened heart made him unfit for duty. My other uncles -- Elgin and Rollie -- were married to my aunts. We knew Rollie was a vet. What about Uncle Elgin? On my father's side, his brothers -- Louis and Larry -- did not serve overseas. No one had a clue why, but no one ever discussed it. I remember these uncles as being very brilliant, but quite odd and decidedly anti-social. Marriage was not their strong suit. But I digress.

What I knew as a child was that my father, Thomas Raymond Griffith, was the head of the rubber lab at the National Research Council. I also knew he had about 250 patents to his name and that, as a chemical engineer, he was dazzling. What I came to know was that he was not permitted to be a soldier, toiling in the "physical" trenches, because his duty was to contribute to the invention of synthetic rubber. His work was in other trenches. Natural tree rubber was not available during the war and rubber was critical to....well....everything. Daddy succeeded. One of the things he invented were what were called "rubber shoes" on the propellers of planes. These were coverings that conducted electricity to defrost the props so that planes could fly in freezing weather.

I remember him saying..."The most difficult thing was to make rubber electrically-conductive. The other problem was developing a glue that would adhese the rubber to the propeller." Here was a man who was instrumental in the war effort, but spent the war years in the rubber lab solving gigantic problems. I remember a James Cagney movie where Cagney portrayed a fighter pilot caught in an ice storm. He radios he is about to try these new de-icers on the propellers, but isn't sure they will work. The drama, as he flicks the switch and we watch the ice fly off the props, is amazing! That is all my father's genius. Cagney saves the day, thanks to Tommy Griffith. By the way, my Dad went up in the first test flights at the Rockcliffe Air Base when the de-icers were tested; they worked perfectly.

After the war, the NRC lent him out for months at a time to Goodyear, BF Goodrich, Firestone, etc., where he worked helping the mega tire companies refine synthetic rubber. He simply collected his modest salary and loved every minute of it. When you watch NASCAR and hear the scream of tires, think of Tommy Griffith. When you watch Daytona and see the rubber burn, think of Tommy Griffith. When you thrill to the Grand Prix, think of Tommy Griffith. When you buy your own tires at the local garage, think of Tommy Griffith. When you watch massive tanks roll, think of Tommy Griffith. I could go on, but you get the point. Synthetic rubber makes the world go 'round.

This was the era of pure and applied chemistry, when Canada contributed mightily to industrial progress. Today we are a nation of people who do each others' laundry. We don't create wealth, we exchange it. Other than that, we suck oil from the ground and chop down trees. Where is the innovation of our potential?

But a nod my other wonderful uncle, Elgin -- prevented from going overseas because he was a gifted, young bureaucrat in the Department of Finance. His was to work in other "trenches" in Ottawa, funding the kind of inventions and innovations my Dad produced.

All three were giants, veterans with uniforms or without. I thought of Daddy, Elgin and Rollie with much love today.

(Footnote: Uncle Rollie is still living and quite "with it". He just turned 96.)

I keep meaning....

...to say a few words about the notion of "infallibility". Anti-Catholics are always raving about the ridiculous idea of the "infallibility" of the Pope. How, they argue, can any human be infallible? Obviously, no one can. But the description of the Pope as infallible simply means he is the last word on the Catholic faith. Simply put, there is no one beyond -- or except -- the Pope who can pronounce final decree on the dogma of the faith. His is the last word and therefore "infallible".

This, however, does not mean the Pope cannot sin in his own personal life, or that he is necessarily free of errors. The doctrine of infallibility relies on the supremacy of the Pope and his authority to be the ruling agent in deciding what will be accepted as formal belief in the Church. (Picked these last bits up from wikipedia.)

But the Pope is not God. There are three parts, not four, to God. We do not have "The Father, The Son, The Holy Spirit and The Pope". And the Pope does not speak for God. That is left to an assortment of wealthy television preachers, evangelists and healers. Don't get me wrong, I tune in regularly to a couple of dedicated television preachers and am a devoted follower of one or two. Having been raised a protestant, I love their ability and talent to preach The Word as no one else. But like the rest of us, they are not infallible.

New heights in CBC-speak

This afternoon's CBC radio program featured a woman (well-paid out of the public purse) interviewing a mountain climber. She chirped:
"It's hard to believe you completed such an amazing vertical climb over the past year! Was it all uphill?"

She ended the interviewing by telling us:
"You can enjoy a fabulous slide show of this feat -- complete with pictures -- in Banff over the weekend."

You could not make this up.

Two things I'm getting really sick of

Two stories dominate the news here. One is the Dustin Paxton trial, the other is the "occupy Calgary" live-in. I'm pretty sick of both of them.

The gist of the Paxton trial is that this guy allegedly beat the sh-t out of his roomate for a couple of years and then dropped the half-dead victim off at the local emergency room, where he lay in a coma for a few weeks and is now mentally and physically crippled for life. Shouldn't this trial have lasted about a day at the most? I mean, the evidence is overwhelming. But no. It's gone on for more than a month. Every day Paxton's mug stares out at Calgarians from every newspaper. Every hour every newscast is filled with mortifying, detailed coverage of the degradation this guy endured in what amounts to a ludicrous sideshow. And you're paying for it. It's basically a male version of "battered wife syndrome": pretty cut and dried. Let's wrap this up -- please people!

The other carnival spectacle is the "protest" in Olympic Park. Last time I checked, you and I would have had to have obtained a permit to demonstrate. And if any of us decided to sleep in a public park, we would have been removed and fined. But no. These people have been allowed to live there for weeks, littering and damaging the place, with nary a discernable purpose or objective -- other than to....um, gosh...I have no clue??!! Judging by the inane, rambling interviews their "leaders" give, neither have they.

Mayor Nenshi has this one wrong. Move along, folks, move along.