Grammar...again

Here I go again. There are three main parts to any verb: simple present, simple past and past perfect. There are many more tenses, but with these you can pretty much cover everything. So, if you take the verb "to come", for example, we have "come, came and come". We don't have "come, came and came". But you hear it all the time in the public thoroughfare and it drives me crazy. A presumably educated guy on the radio -- head honcho at a local retirement home -- just said..."A lot of families had "came" to get their loved ones before the holidays..." Please.

When our kids were little, we used to play this game in the car all the time. We would say a verb and they would have to give the three tenses. So it was:
am (is)...was...been
swim...swam...swum
ride...rode...ridden
wake...woke...woken
call...called...called
speak...spoke...spoken
plead...pled...pled
take...took...taken
eat..ate...eaten
give...gave...given
see...saw...seen
quit...quit...quit
take...took...taken
shake...shook...shaken
brake...broke...broken
lie...lay...lain
spell...spelt...spelt
ring...rang...rung
write...wrote...written
bring...brought...brought (no, it's not bring, brang, brung!)
give...gave...given
drag...dragged...dragged (no, it's not "drug", as they say on American television)

There are many regular verbs and a gold mine of the irregular variety. It's actually a lot of fun to see how many you know.

And don't ever use "gotten" -- a non-word. There is always another option when you are tempted to utter "gotten". Future past? Please say, "The conference was to have started tomorrow." Not, "The conference was to start tomorrow." The latter is all you hear on the CBC -- an impenetrable bastion of terrible grammar.

When you love grammar, you love grammar. I was fortunate enough to have stumbled upon a 1934 Ontario teacher's handbook entitled 'Grammar is Important'. Yes, folks, they used to teach grammar in Ontario elementary schools back in the day. (Don't you hate that expression.) It is such a gem because, yes, grammar is important. It's perfection, it's delicious, it's satisfying, it's orderly, it's sublime, it's sweet. Remember that old nomenclature "grammarian"? Well, I am one. And for that I give all the credit to my grade eight teacher, Miss Anderson; she was a tyrant in that department and gave absolutely no quarter. Ever. Unfortunately -- and I am not being a snob here -- I am sure my ears will continue to be battered by the mangling I hear.

Two feet away and you'd scream!

Standing around naked with women of all ages is the most normal thing in the world -- if you are in the changing room of the local pool. But step two feet out the door and we'd all scream and flee in horror! It's only a distance of a foot or two, but the social and personal protocol is rigid.

Was thinking this today as I showered and changed after my swim amidst 20 or so other females of all ages. Why is that? Nonchalance the watch word in one space, sheer horror right outside the door. Little boys are permitted in the women's area up until age six, but let's face it, six-year-old boys are very curious and stare and stare. So, for that matter, do little girls -- especially when most of us no longer bear any remote resemblance to the nubile contours of their 30-year-old mothers. I think the age needs to be lowered in this wired age because I certainly don't feel comfortable being stared at by a kid who's nearly seven.

The good thing is that at least all the women concentrate exremely hard to ignore each other.

A brush with fame, once-removed

For some reason, the talk turned to wrestling. "I have nephews who are wrestlers," she said. "Oh really," I responded, thinking she would relate a story or two about a few amateur bouts around town. "You might have heard of one of them, Bret Hart." Bret "The Hitman" Hart! I almost shrieked. "Bret, The Hitman, Hart is your nephew!?!?!" I am a huge fan, huge!

I was dumbfounded. Here we are sitting with new friends in a little Italian restaurant in Calgary when this very refined, petite woman announces casually that her oldest sister was Bret's mother. And the late Owen's and 12 other children in that huge Hart wrestling family, headed by the late patriarch, Stu. I could not believe it. The closest I had previously come to fame was as the maid of honour at the marriage of Matthew Perry's parents (she was my best friend in high school)...that and meeting the Queen. But I digress; those are other blogs for other days.

We were dining with well-known Calgarians, to whom we had been introduced by a mutual friend (thank you, Angele). The husband is so renowned as to have been roasted by anyone-who's-anyone in this city. He is connected politically to everyone-who's-everyone and can pick up the phone and get Harper on the line whenever he takes a notion. Often, in couples like that, people tend to ignore the wife and focus on the celebrity. But my training as a journalist has given me another angle. I interview people. Can't help it. Whenever I meet someone new, I simply interview them. Nothing makes a person happier than being interviewed.

So, there I sat chatting with the wife and finding out all kinds of facinating stuff. Like the fact that she is from Long Island; the accent remains thick. "Near Stephen King's Ammityville?" I asked. "Not far," she replied. I also found out that her father had been a long-distance Olympic runner -- hence the athletic genes in the Hart boys.

As we were leaving the restaurant I said to the owner, "Do you realize that this lady is Bret Hart's aunt!" "Oh yes, of course. In fact, Mr. Hart and his family were here for lunch today." Man. Dumbfounded again.

So, now my hope is to one day meet The Hitman. Google him and you will be amazed by his accomplishments. What a thrill that would be.

The reason we are here has arrived!

Well, Reed Thomas McArthur has finally made his entrance. It's hard to believe that this 8 lb. 11 oz. little fellow has so much power! Afterall, he is the reason we uprooted our lives and moved to Calgary. Grandparent is now my main job, that's the bottom line from here on in. What a Christmas this will be, getting to know this little man. Here he is, about three hours old, heading home with Daddy and Mummy to his new life in Cochrane.

When I had Susanne, I never imagined I would follow her to Alberta to be a grandma. I can remember her birth at the now-demolished Grace Hospital in Ottawa -- the same hospital in which I was born. Things were different then, you stayed in the hospital a few days and only met your baby at feeding time. Now it's up and out the door in a few hours so you can get acquainted on home turf.

Poor Pearl. Used to being the centre of attention, this dear little puppy is completely bewildered. What is this creature?! What is it doing in my house?? When will it leave! Better be soon so we can get back to normal. And when Reed cries, Pearl is dismayed. What is this bizarre noise? I certainly don't like it.

Better get used to it Pearl. This is your new family unit. Just wait until Reed gets bigger; then he will be your best friend.

Utility birds

You can rarely find them, but if you do, buy one immediately. My mother used to buy a utility turkey every Feast. Back then they were the result of reckless or calamitous slaughtering techniques, not as proficient as those of today. A butcher might wildly slash off a wing, a breast might inadvertently be hacked, a leg might thoughtlessly be removed, a rump maimed...in other words, the unfortunate bird was not "table-picture-perfect".

Speaking of primitive butchering techniques, I can remember my Grandfather Stapledon in the backyard of their house on Cartier Street, killing the squawking bird my Grandmother had bought at the Byward Market, burning the feathers off, and skinning and gutting it before turning it over to the grandchildren to pluck out reluctant and stubborn feather shafts one-by-one; our tiny fingers were perfect for the assignment. Now, that was arduous preparation! But frankly, when these home-hacked, yet sumptuous, hybrids and misfits graced our holiday gathering, no one noticed.

Peering into the freezer chest, as I schlepped through the Calgary Co-op the other day, I thought I was witnessing a perfect Christmas miracle. A turkey for $12.00!!##$%%&&!! A big one. You guessed it, it was a "utility bird". I immediately had affectionate thoughts of my mother, as I gratefully cradled and lowered it into my cart. Mum, you would have been proud of me.

"You never see them anymore because the slaughtering is so precise," the cashier said to me. "And when we get a few, that's all we get, no more. Smart that you nabbed one."

I felt as if I had won the lottery.

One more thought on Christmas. Remember I blogged about how Canadian society features other religious festivals and feasts, but has to reduce or ignore Christmas? Well, today in the Calgary Herald there was a prominent feature in the City Section about "Lighting the Menorah"..."Pre-Hanukkan event adds unorthodox touches", said the headline. As I said, Canadians are breathtakingly tolerant of other cultures and religions.

Thank God I live in Canada.

Frivilous litigation and the Charter

Do you think the courts would be less clogged with frivilous cases if they changed the name of the Charter of Rights and Freedoms to the Charter of Rights and Responsibilities? As I read about yet another disgruntled citizen's silly challenge it hit me: it's the wording of the Charter that triggers the cases.

Everyone with a personal bone to pick hires a lawyer and mounts a Charter challenge. "It's my right to do so and so...It's my right to have the freedom to....whatever." The greater societal good has been shoved blithely and merrily aside in favour of personal wish lists and inconsequential demands.

With rights in Canada go civic and social responsibilities. That's one thing I learned working for the tax department. It is every Canadian's responsibility to pay taxes. I know I yammer on, but taxes make the world go 'round. A couple of things I don't yammer enough about are volunteering and charity -- two other solid lynchpins of Canadian society.

Forget your "rights" for a moment and focus on a few responsibilities at this wondrous time, as we await the birth of Christ.

No one cares

Has anyone been receiving those hideous cards with pictures of the senders on the front and a narcissistic recitation of what they have done -- or not -- over the past year? I absolutely can't abide them. Like we care. Please.

To put it bluntly, we all have kids, we all have pets, we have all gone somewhere over the past year, we have all moved, we have all re-decorated, we have all had a grandkid, we have all had health issues, we have all rediscovered something....I mean what is so special about people who send photos of themselves with a litany of highs and lows of the past year to people they hardly talk to?

I find it mind-numbing, boring and audacious in the extreme. It's Christmas, folks. Why send a photo of yourselves to celebrate the birth of Christ? Ludicrous and unbridled hubris spring to mind.

I remember one year saying to B, "I think I will write one myself, describing how many times I picked up after my dog, how many meals I cooked, how many laundry loads I did, how many toilets I cleaned, how many beds I made, how many times I schlepped the garbage to the chute, how many bosses I endured, how many evenings I was totally exhausted from my ridiculous day...." My husband told me not to do this because, he explained, the people who send you litanies of their year actually believe you want to read about them! They are supremely confident that their year was much more important than yours. Get out of your chairs, folks.

What is galling is that B and I are never featured in their Chaucer's Tales -- even if we had spent time with the self-involved scribes. I mean, if we are sufficiently unimportant as to be edited out of your Annual Yawn Report, don't add insult to injury by sending it us.

You can't hide behind the "dress-code" veil

Faced with the fact that the wearing of the niqab or hijab is not religiously prescribed, some Muslim's are now putting forth the argument that Canada is undemocratically enforcing a "dress code" when it bans the veil during the taking of the oath of Canadian citizenship. Well, yes. All Canadian communities have well-accepted dress codes enshrined in local bylaws.

Women can't parade around topless -- and neither can men in many communities. Sadly, the latter is not enforced to the annual disgust of many of us who endure repellent beer bellies and massive mammaries during the heat of summer. (And I won't even mention the "cheeks" that often protrude from the rear of too-tight, low-slung shorts. Yuck.)

Such codes are in place to reassure Canadians about what is, and what is not, culturally acceptable. They are in place so that your grandmother or maiden aunt can venture into the public thoroughfare with the assurance they will not face an onslaught of unacceptable or offensive displays of garb -- or the lack thereof. It's about public decorum and behaviour.

Dress codes are usually part of any social invitation. If not, guests often call the hostess and ask, "what is the dress code?" It's all perfectly normal and culturally acceptable. That's why expressions such as "over-dressed" and "under-dressed" exist. Someone breached a societal dress code and it was remarked upon.

Dress codes are also enforced at private schools. Can you imagine deciding to send your child to a pricey institution, but balking at the uniform? If you don't like the dress code, don't send your child to that particular school. And, by the way, that most certainly includes Muslim schools, where a dress code is strictly enforced. If you don't like Canadian dress standards, don't come to Canada.

Not to flog the proverbial horse, but try to enroll your child in a Muslim school and object to its dress code. Just try. See what happens.

Get over yourselves and adhere now and then to western dress. Go ahead, enjoy both the freedoms and securities Canada affords everyone.

The Joy of my Mother

I never feel closer to my mother than at Christmas. The '50s were an enchanted time to be a kid in Canada. Christmas pageants abounded, tree lots were bursting...there was an excited anticipation that permeated everything and everyone.

I remember the card table my parents put up in their bedroom for two weeks while they operated a virtual assembly line of goodwill -- a living, breathing card business. My Dad wrote some, my mother others. Hundreds left our home to end up all over the world. I used to look at the lists and wonder who these strangers were in England, Detroit and Florida?? But all the connections were made every year in December.

I can still see my parents, knee-deep in our snowy front yard, my Dad on a ladder, my Mum calling instructions while they strung blue lights on the huge blue spruces that ringed our corner property. I can also see my Dad, prone on the floor behind the Christmas tree, a ball of string in one hand and a flashlight in the other, while my mother told him where to secure a loose branch to the trunk, to fill in an unacceptable hole in nature's imperfect handiwork.

I can still smell the red nail polish my mother applied just before we all went to Aunt Betty and Uncle Elgin's for Christmas dinner. What a fabulous gathering that was! Aunt Pat, Uncle Rollie, Aunt Ruby, Uncle Charlie, Grandma Stapledon, Great Aunt May, Great Uncle Charlie, Aunt Alma, all my cousins...it was huge.

I can still smell the almonds my mother blanched, skinned, roasted and salted to take to Betty's. I "helped" by eating most of them before they left the kitchen. I can still see her in her nightgown, stuffing the turkey at dawn.

The comforting aroma of a huge bird roasting, the orderly tang of fresh furniture polish, the sophistication of my aunts' exotic perfumes, the festal tinkling of crystal high-balls, the flickering glow of silver candle sticks, the fresh smell of my uncles' aftershaves....these all evoke happy memories and warm feelings of belonging, love and merriment.

She has been gone for 10 years. I weep when I think of my mother at this time. But happily this is also the time I take out her flanellette nightgowns and start to wear them. So glad Calgary is frigid.

Finally

More sense out of Ottawa this morning. Immigration minister Jason Kenney announced that anyone taking the oath of citizenship cannot do so with the face covered. "Taking the oath is a public declaration and cannot be done under a veil," he said.

I support this wholeheartedly. As a Canadian and a woman, what are people doing here with their faces covered in the public thoroughfare? That's what bandits do, that's what the Ku Klux Klan does, that's not what Canadians do. I have never understood why women have to be covered? What is so shameful? What is so provocative? What is so secret? What is so taboo? And as far as I know, it's not a religious practice; it's cultural. Well, tap into Canadian culture folks -- at least for the few minutes you are actually in the process of publically declaring yourself a Canadian, or going through security before boarding an airplane. It's about openness, safety and freedom. Get over yourselves.

I am sick to death.....

...of that ad on TV for life insurance. "Are you hard to insure? Afraid you won't get coverage?"....and that hideous old bag featured in it. There she is, whining and scowling about her lot. Give me a break. She shakes her head in desperation and looks completely defeated. Then the ad switches to a dyed-blonde, 20-year-old on the phone, "You have nothing to worry about. Coverage is automatic."

G-d!! Spare me!!

They even show a photo of the bag when she was young, then mercilessly pan to her in the now: ugly teeth, stringy hair -- a walking advertisement for how bad life can become when you're an old bag. It is so depressing.

I hate that ad.

Time to get outta' Dodge

I know I have been on about Attawapiksat, but there is a lot to say. Unless the natives themselves get pragmatic, nothing will happen. The government -- by that I mean the taxpayer -- can't do the job on its own. Money is not the answer. Look at the billions funnelled into reserves year after year. After 200 years, at $12 billion per, I wouldn't even dream of doing the shocking and hideous math!

No, the native leadership has finally to admit the reserve system doesn't work for the people who have to live on them. Oh, it works for the chiefs all right. The reserve system engenders never-ending rivers of money. That's why they have kept it. Money. But money always comes with strings; there's a price for everything. Chief Theresa Spence has ordered the third-party manager, sent in to help, off "her" reserve. "Just give us the cash, don't tell us what to do with it." Ah, but that's where the corruption starts.

Mark Milke, the Fraser Insitute expert on aboriginal affairs, points out that Atitokan, a small Ontario town with double the population of Attiwapiskat, pays all civic officials and servants, i.e., the mayor, councillors, road crews, etc., $3 million per year. By contrast, what do the Attiwapiskat leaders pay themselves? $11 billion. As Ricky Ricardo used to say..."Lucie, you have some s'plainin' to do!"

In non-native Canada, communities and towns have been spawned by resource development -- commodities such as minerals, lumber and ore. But when the resources dry up, or the export markets shift, these communities wither and die and residents are forced to re-locate and start all over again.

To their everlasting detriment, aboriginals have not accepted this reality. Their chiefs tether them to a reserve system (money, again) that does not allow for moving and starting a new way of life in economically viable and sustainable communities. That's the problem. The average reserve has absolutely nothing to sustain it except taxpayer funds. There are a wretched 3,000 in this sorry state across the country; there are 12 currently under third-party financial management; 120 under water advisories...85,000 new housing units urgently required...It goes on and miserably on.

It's time to get real. The reserve system does absolutely nothing to help the pitiful and abject people living under its tyranny. It's time to get outta' Dodge.

A Christmas Tree?

A beautiful Christmas tree has been put up in the lobby of the Y, where I swim. At first I was shocked. "Wow, this is just too politically incorrect! I can't believe they can get away with an actual Christmas tree at Christmas." But then I realized this is the "Young Men's Christian Association", so they can get away with it. In fact, it's quite fitting that a facility founded on Christian principles actually celebrates Christmas out loud, with its face hanging out. How lovely.

But as I left my cynical side said, "Whadda ya wanna bet someone will complain that it's offensive." And if they do, whadda ya wanna bet the director will take it down, forgetting about the "Christian" in the Y.

What can people possibly be thinking?

If you are prim, stop reading. Changing after my swim this morning at the Y, I had to walk around a woman...wait for it...sitting there clipping her toenails! Snap, snap, snap. Where were they flying??!! It was completely disgusting. I gave her the same look of revulsion as if she were butchering a hog, but to no avail. I looked askance at the woman standing beside her, but realized when they started chatting over the clippers they were sisters. No wonder she didn't sympathize with the glare.

Then it was off to the supermarket for a couple of things. At the "express 12 items or less" I waited behind at least 20 items on the belt, but no customer. The cashier started apologizing, "She's just gone to get something else, sorry about that." Five minutes later, she arrives with things she had to check the price of. "It takes a lot of nerve," I said, "to hold up the express line like this." Then she had to have all her stuff paper-bagged and then plastic bagged and then she didn't have enough money...and on...and on...and on........."Maybe next time she won't be so quick to hold up the line," I said. "Oh, forget about that, she's a regular and does it all the time," the cashier replied.

As she left she scowled and harumphed, "Some people!" Presumably she was referring to herself. "Probably lives on her own with 10 cats," I added.

This and that

1. The big news is that I easily found a doctor here. At 83 years old, my Ottawa doctor, Jim Dickson, was not going to soldier on forever. Although, as a crusty scotsman, you never knew. He had been our family doctor for more than 35 years and a trusted friend -- even making house calls and giving me his personal pager number so I wouldn't have to go through his office. I simply loved the guy.

But getting another in Ottawa I knew would be next to impossible. Waiting with trepidation for my Alberta health card, I investigated on-line what the doctor deal is here. There is a process, but it appeared complicated. Trust B to cut through all that and find a brand new clinic accepting new patients. We went for a "meet and greet" appointment, set up mainly to ascertain whether one is healthy enough to be taken on. Asked to describe my health, I threw in the latest terminology. "I am a wellderly," I replied. That means elderly, but relatively healthy.

So, I now have -- for the first time in my life -- a young woman doctor. All is well.

2. Son-in-law, Colin, has taken up hunting and yesterday he bagged his first kill. Everyone hunts here -- which is why I can now wear my fur coat without fear of spray painting. Here he is, proudly showing off the doe he killed:

3. As to psychotic kids, the sad fact is it appears to be an industry. When I read there are 5,000 diagnosed in B.C. alone, I nearly flipped! How can there be that many? I picture crazy parents seizing on some quirk or other and wildly rushing their kid to a child psychiatrist (another profession I don't get, I mean, how can the average kid be nuts enough to need a shrink?). To justify the profession and make money, the doctor duly diagnoses psychosis. It's all very sad.