Just read that "firefighter" is the most respected profession in Canada -- maybe even the world, not sure. My son-in-law is a firefighter and I have no argument with that assessment.
Watching Question Period, "politician" must be the least respected. There they sit, asking one stupid question after another about that bum, Mike Duffy. What he did has gone on for years, but the public was unable to find out. The rules have changed and everything is open to scrutiny, hence the catching of Duffy-Wallin-Harb-Brazeau.
It's a disgrace, but please get on with the business of the country -- like trade and jobs and stuff. Never liked Mulcair; like him much less so now. And Justin Trudeau better smarten up and quit reading every question in the House. Makes him look incompetent. Oh, I forgot, maybe he is incompetent.
As to my son-in-law, I could not be more proud.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Just torture
My birth mother was obliged to keep me with her in the Bethany Home on Wellington Street for six weeks after I had been born. She had signed me over to my parents long before, but she still had to nurse and nurture me for six long weeks before handing me over.
How horrible this must have been for her.
I thought of this today, listening to CBC's coverage of the fact that BC has cancelled its mother/baby prison program. Naturally, there are two sides to the issue: one "expert" said it was a good thing they have cancelled the program because it would protect the child from the harmful lifestyle that landed the mother in prison in the first place; the other maintained that the mother/baby bonding that took place in prison was critical to the child's emotional well-being for the rest of its life.
Hogwash. I come down on the side of the guy who thought it a bad idea for criminal mothers to keep their babies. Just as it would have been a bad idea for my birth mother to have raised me, I think it's a bad idea for children to be raised in prison. As to my emotional well-being, it's fine thank you in spite of being wrenched from my birth mother after six weeks. The mother who raised me is the only one I know.
How horrible this must have been for her.
I thought of this today, listening to CBC's coverage of the fact that BC has cancelled its mother/baby prison program. Naturally, there are two sides to the issue: one "expert" said it was a good thing they have cancelled the program because it would protect the child from the harmful lifestyle that landed the mother in prison in the first place; the other maintained that the mother/baby bonding that took place in prison was critical to the child's emotional well-being for the rest of its life.
Hogwash. I come down on the side of the guy who thought it a bad idea for criminal mothers to keep their babies. Just as it would have been a bad idea for my birth mother to have raised me, I think it's a bad idea for children to be raised in prison. As to my emotional well-being, it's fine thank you in spite of being wrenched from my birth mother after six weeks. The mother who raised me is the only one I know.
Monday, May 27, 2013
Planting B's Mum
We are travelling to Ottawa to plant B's mum. She died in England a year ago and we had her ashes shipped to Ottawa directly following her funeral. "Oh darling, I don't want to visit America," she avowed a couple of years ago. "But Mum, it's not the United States, it's Canada," B explained. "Oh, darling, it's all America. I'm not interested," she declared.
Never having visited while living, Diamond will now be interred with my parents and brother at Beechwood. We both find it very comforting to know we will all be together one day. Taking the lead from my mother, we have our headstone installed; the only things missing are the dates of death. Everything is arranged and paid for, so our kids will not curse us after we die while they are trying to dispose of us. Done.
Can't wait to see old friends. A few people have offered to host us, but as I said to B, "I will not stay with anyone I have to 'edit' myself around." Hence, we are staying with my cousin, a virtual brother with whom I grew up -- a man who knows me inside and out, backwards and forwards. The other plus is that I adore his wife.
Ottawa, here we come!
Never having visited while living, Diamond will now be interred with my parents and brother at Beechwood. We both find it very comforting to know we will all be together one day. Taking the lead from my mother, we have our headstone installed; the only things missing are the dates of death. Everything is arranged and paid for, so our kids will not curse us after we die while they are trying to dispose of us. Done.
Can't wait to see old friends. A few people have offered to host us, but as I said to B, "I will not stay with anyone I have to 'edit' myself around." Hence, we are staying with my cousin, a virtual brother with whom I grew up -- a man who knows me inside and out, backwards and forwards. The other plus is that I adore his wife.
Ottawa, here we come!
Sunday, May 26, 2013
What a slacker
"I used to do 120, but now I only do 100," said my swimming friend, "L". "Oh, you've really slacked off," I joked. And I thought I was doing well with 50 laps. Not even close.
This is an amazing lady. She suffers from rheumatoid arthritis, but still works out every day at the Y and swims like crazy. Sometimes, when D and I are chatting or bitching at the end of a lane, L says, "Well, see you later girls, I have to swim." And off she pushes. She told me she had to keep moving, or else freeze up completely.
Some days, as I drive down Nosehill Drive to the Y early in the very early morning, the mountains are breath-taking; others you can't see them. Today was a breath-taker. It still fills me with the pride of being a Canadian when I feast my eyes on the spectacular and magnificent Rocky Mountains.
This is an amazing lady. She suffers from rheumatoid arthritis, but still works out every day at the Y and swims like crazy. Sometimes, when D and I are chatting or bitching at the end of a lane, L says, "Well, see you later girls, I have to swim." And off she pushes. She told me she had to keep moving, or else freeze up completely.
Some days, as I drive down Nosehill Drive to the Y early in the very early morning, the mountains are breath-taking; others you can't see them. Today was a breath-taker. It still fills me with the pride of being a Canadian when I feast my eyes on the spectacular and magnificent Rocky Mountains.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
$24.33
And that included a glass of wine and the tip. Have discovered a great little hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese restaurant around the corner. "Pho Huong Viet", it is called, always packed. Apparently "Pho" is soup, but so infused with meat and veggies we left stuffed, unable to finish our dishes. I ordered something with tripe in it. Haven't eaten tripe since I was a child, when my grandmother used to serve it. She was the Queen of Organ Meats, let me tell you.
Returned from the pool this morning to find daughter on the front walk. A very pleasant surprise, but where was grandson? Playing in the car with the dog, not interested in emerging. The minute he spotted me, however, a huge smile burst on his face and he wanted to say "hello" to grandma. Out he got and ran over.
See, this is why we moved to Calgary. Before leaving he insisted on getting in his chair and eating a snack. Then it was big kisses for grandma and grandpa before he went on his merry way with Mummy.
Returned from the pool this morning to find daughter on the front walk. A very pleasant surprise, but where was grandson? Playing in the car with the dog, not interested in emerging. The minute he spotted me, however, a huge smile burst on his face and he wanted to say "hello" to grandma. Out he got and ran over.
See, this is why we moved to Calgary. Before leaving he insisted on getting in his chair and eating a snack. Then it was big kisses for grandma and grandpa before he went on his merry way with Mummy.
Friday, May 24, 2013
A little fashion update..........
"Oh, that's a very old, out-of-date fragrance. We don't carry that anymore," sniffed the duty-free perfume salesgirl to B, when he was visiting Houston a few months ago.
An "old, out-of-date fragrance"? It's classical Oscar de la Renta and I have worn it exclusively for 35 years. Everything I own and wear carries its scent. I absolutely love it. But could I find it? No. Went on-line and visited quite a few sites until I finally found it at The Bay. Yes, the good old Bay still carries classical Oscar de la Renta. Off to Market Mall I took myself and snagged the last Eau de Toilette spray on the shelf. Only cost me $109.00. Yikes! But when you settle on a scent you love, what's $109!!?? And besides, it will last me five years.
Heck, while I'm there, why not check out 'Reitman's'. I know you're surprised because 'Reitman's' was a shop my very-conservative, late mother frequented.* Caught dead in 'Reitman's'? I don't think so. But a flyer had arrived at our door and for once I actually read it. Spotted some adorable pencil skits in pink, green and yellow. This is 'Reitman's'!? I marvelled. Yes, 'Reitman's' has been transformed. Bought two fabulous stretch pencil skirts, one pink, one green, for $28@. Now, there's a deal.
Because I never shop, couldn't leave without hitting H & M, where I bought a fabulous necklace that I can't even really describe, so "native" is it. Grabbed a pair of $7 earrings on the way out (yes, I paid for them).
So, it was a rare "fashion day" for me as I prepare to visit Ottawa for 10 days.
Can you tell I am not watching the shellacking The Senators are taking at the sticks of The Penguins?
Way too many penalties and turn-overs. Pathetic.
____________________________________
* Did I ever tell you about what my mother said to me one Sunday evening when we were there for dinner? I thought I was pretty spiffily dressed, but no. "G-d, I certainly hope you don't go to the office in some of the get-ups you wear here." That's exactly what she said, looking me up and down with manifest disapproval. I was gobsmacked.
An "old, out-of-date fragrance"? It's classical Oscar de la Renta and I have worn it exclusively for 35 years. Everything I own and wear carries its scent. I absolutely love it. But could I find it? No. Went on-line and visited quite a few sites until I finally found it at The Bay. Yes, the good old Bay still carries classical Oscar de la Renta. Off to Market Mall I took myself and snagged the last Eau de Toilette spray on the shelf. Only cost me $109.00. Yikes! But when you settle on a scent you love, what's $109!!?? And besides, it will last me five years.
Heck, while I'm there, why not check out 'Reitman's'. I know you're surprised because 'Reitman's' was a shop my very-conservative, late mother frequented.* Caught dead in 'Reitman's'? I don't think so. But a flyer had arrived at our door and for once I actually read it. Spotted some adorable pencil skits in pink, green and yellow. This is 'Reitman's'!? I marvelled. Yes, 'Reitman's' has been transformed. Bought two fabulous stretch pencil skirts, one pink, one green, for $28@. Now, there's a deal.
Because I never shop, couldn't leave without hitting H & M, where I bought a fabulous necklace that I can't even really describe, so "native" is it. Grabbed a pair of $7 earrings on the way out (yes, I paid for them).
So, it was a rare "fashion day" for me as I prepare to visit Ottawa for 10 days.
Can you tell I am not watching the shellacking The Senators are taking at the sticks of The Penguins?
Way too many penalties and turn-overs. Pathetic.
____________________________________
* Did I ever tell you about what my mother said to me one Sunday evening when we were there for dinner? I thought I was pretty spiffily dressed, but no. "G-d, I certainly hope you don't go to the office in some of the get-ups you wear here." That's exactly what she said, looking me up and down with manifest disapproval. I was gobsmacked.
Didn't use the word once
"Responsibilities". Didn't hear it at all during an interview on 'Q' this morning, where Jian did his show from Victoria. He was talking to the chief of an obscure BC native band (there are more than 200 in BC, whoa!) who is also an assistant professor of law at U of Vic, Judith Sayers. She went on and on about "our rights" and "our sacred places" and "our burial grounds" and "our resources" and "our treaties" and "our land"...and...and...and...Bob's your uncle. But she failed to mention that annoying word they abhor: "responsibilities".
And the a--kissing that Jian did was embarrassing. He is a very "soft" interviewer. Never hits the jugular. Must be some vague insecurity he harbours. Ethnic? Who knows. But you can imagine how much groaning I did. Sayers basically avowed that unless all-of-the-above demands were granted and respected and worked around, nothing was going to get done in BC, period the end. The concept of being a "Canadian" and having civic responsibilities simply does not exist among activist native groups. The wonder is they don't seem to notice they should at least pay lip service to the people who are supporting them!
Of course, as a band leader, she is part of the problem, not the solution.
So folks, BC's toast and so is every pipeline and resource development anyone envisions in that silly province.
And the a--kissing that Jian did was embarrassing. He is a very "soft" interviewer. Never hits the jugular. Must be some vague insecurity he harbours. Ethnic? Who knows. But you can imagine how much groaning I did. Sayers basically avowed that unless all-of-the-above demands were granted and respected and worked around, nothing was going to get done in BC, period the end. The concept of being a "Canadian" and having civic responsibilities simply does not exist among activist native groups. The wonder is they don't seem to notice they should at least pay lip service to the people who are supporting them!
Of course, as a band leader, she is part of the problem, not the solution.
So folks, BC's toast and so is every pipeline and resource development anyone envisions in that silly province.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
A few facts...........
This is very informative. A friend who knows my views on natives sent this along. Have a read.......
It was only 12,000 years ago, or less, that the natives came
to Canada….
In all those years they:
- Never “discovered” the wheel
- Never had a written language
- Never discovered astronomy
- Had no science or scientific discoveries
- Had no mathematics
- Made no medical discoveries
- Never had written music
- Only “figured out” a drum and a rattle for musical instruments
- Had no metallurgy
- Had no sails for boats (only had canoes)
- Created virtually no mechanical devices
- Possessed almost nothing that required hard manual labour over a period of time, i.e., building with or carving out of stone
- Made almost no inventions
- Are just in the last 200 years getting caught up to most of the rest of the world
- Have a history that is notable only for underachievement
Think where an equal number of Chinese would be today, given only 10 years of the advantages Canadian Indians have---no taxes on any money you earn while living on a reserve—free dental—free university, etc. BTW the hunger striking chief Teresa Spence and her husband were paid $270,000 by the taxpayer last year.
Comments from a reader in the Globe and Mail. It's a short history lesson on natives:
"This land does NOT belong to them!
"Why do some people keep saying that it does? Is it because that's what they want you to believe? Well then the marketing campaign must be working.
"Let's get this straight...
"1. These people's ancestors did not just appear in North America magically out of thin air one day 50,000 years ago. They came in waves across the land/ice bridge from Asia. What's more, these waves in many cases were not related groups of people. They came from various places around North Eastern Asia and from different genetic strains....in other words the "natives of North America are not a homogenous group of people and more importantly, they are immigrants too, like millions today.
"2. The idea that the "natives" were peaceful caretakers of the land or benevolent tenants couldn't be further from the truth. The various tribes warred on each other constantly. They were violent. Want proof? Ask the Hurons... oh that's right you can't. The Iroquois wiped them out. How about slavery? That was rife among the first nation tribes until the Europeans came over, freed the slaves and put an end to this "valued cultural tradition"? Is slavery peaceful and humane?
"3. The idea that we "stole" this land from them is also ridiculous. A more technologically advanced and numerous culture invaded and conquered. This is exactly what has been happening since the dawn of humanity all around the globe. To say we "stole" their lands is just plain wrong. That is akin to saying the Saxons should return England to the Angles. Or maybe we should launch a campaign to have Roman descendants give Italy back to the Etruscans.
"It is a nonsensical notion driven by the politically-correct bleeding hearts, some intellectually-deficient politicians and the Government, and it will continue to cost this country needless and wasted billions and billions until we get some backbone and turn off the taps.
"Are these people in trouble? Yes.
"Do they need help? Yes.
"Are they responsible enough to look after themselves and efficiently spend the billions the tax payers give them? Certainly not.
"The only way to fix this situation is to bring them into society as equals. They should be getting jobs and paying taxes like the rest of us because in reality they are no more special than any of the other hundred or more cultures that call Canada home.
"Turn off the taps. Do away with this "traditional use" and "cultural" nonsense. Educate their children to become modern citizens instead of finding their identity and source of pride in some folks who occupied the land 15000 years ago. Let them stand or fall on their own account, just as the rest of us have to do!"
In all those years they:
- Never “discovered” the wheel
- Never had a written language
- Never discovered astronomy
- Had no science or scientific discoveries
- Had no mathematics
- Made no medical discoveries
- Never had written music
- Only “figured out” a drum and a rattle for musical instruments
- Had no metallurgy
- Had no sails for boats (only had canoes)
- Created virtually no mechanical devices
- Possessed almost nothing that required hard manual labour over a period of time, i.e., building with or carving out of stone
- Made almost no inventions
- Are just in the last 200 years getting caught up to most of the rest of the world
- Have a history that is notable only for underachievement
Think where an equal number of Chinese would be today, given only 10 years of the advantages Canadian Indians have---no taxes on any money you earn while living on a reserve—free dental—free university, etc. BTW the hunger striking chief Teresa Spence and her husband were paid $270,000 by the taxpayer last year.
Comments from a reader in the Globe and Mail. It's a short history lesson on natives:
"This land does NOT belong to them!
"Why do some people keep saying that it does? Is it because that's what they want you to believe? Well then the marketing campaign must be working.
"Let's get this straight...
"1. These people's ancestors did not just appear in North America magically out of thin air one day 50,000 years ago. They came in waves across the land/ice bridge from Asia. What's more, these waves in many cases were not related groups of people. They came from various places around North Eastern Asia and from different genetic strains....in other words the "natives of North America are not a homogenous group of people and more importantly, they are immigrants too, like millions today.
"2. The idea that the "natives" were peaceful caretakers of the land or benevolent tenants couldn't be further from the truth. The various tribes warred on each other constantly. They were violent. Want proof? Ask the Hurons... oh that's right you can't. The Iroquois wiped them out. How about slavery? That was rife among the first nation tribes until the Europeans came over, freed the slaves and put an end to this "valued cultural tradition"? Is slavery peaceful and humane?
"3. The idea that we "stole" this land from them is also ridiculous. A more technologically advanced and numerous culture invaded and conquered. This is exactly what has been happening since the dawn of humanity all around the globe. To say we "stole" their lands is just plain wrong. That is akin to saying the Saxons should return England to the Angles. Or maybe we should launch a campaign to have Roman descendants give Italy back to the Etruscans.
"It is a nonsensical notion driven by the politically-correct bleeding hearts, some intellectually-deficient politicians and the Government, and it will continue to cost this country needless and wasted billions and billions until we get some backbone and turn off the taps.
"Are these people in trouble? Yes.
"Do they need help? Yes.
"Are they responsible enough to look after themselves and efficiently spend the billions the tax payers give them? Certainly not.
"The only way to fix this situation is to bring them into society as equals. They should be getting jobs and paying taxes like the rest of us because in reality they are no more special than any of the other hundred or more cultures that call Canada home.
"Turn off the taps. Do away with this "traditional use" and "cultural" nonsense. Educate their children to become modern citizens instead of finding their identity and source of pride in some folks who occupied the land 15000 years ago. Let them stand or fall on their own account, just as the rest of us have to do!"
Just stick to writing, Margaret
The latest cockamamie screwball idea out there is to change "Victoria Day" to "Victoria and First Peoples Day" (you need an apostrophe after "peoples", or leave off the "s", but let's not quibble). Get a friggin' grip.
Made up of "actors, singers, writers and politicians" -- people who could and should find better things to do -- the group claims the change would honour aboriginal people in the development of Canada's history. I think it's a dumb idea. We already have aboriginal awareness week, why do they need to butt in on Victoria's glory? She only has one day, which also happens to be the day Canada celebrates the current Queen's official birthday. Please don't mess that up. And don't the natives already get an over-abundance of attention, what with all the drumming and marching and sitting-in and protesting and storming and sweet-grassing they relentlessly mete out to the weary law-abiding taxpayer over every little thing? Granted it's the wrong kind of attention, but that's their fault.
Margaret Atwood, go write another clone of your last book. Gordon Pinsent, try to act somewhere. Susan Aglukark, sing a song. Elizabeth May, concentrate on Parliament. Get over yourselves and leave Queen Victoria alone.
Made up of "actors, singers, writers and politicians" -- people who could and should find better things to do -- the group claims the change would honour aboriginal people in the development of Canada's history. I think it's a dumb idea. We already have aboriginal awareness week, why do they need to butt in on Victoria's glory? She only has one day, which also happens to be the day Canada celebrates the current Queen's official birthday. Please don't mess that up. And don't the natives already get an over-abundance of attention, what with all the drumming and marching and sitting-in and protesting and storming and sweet-grassing they relentlessly mete out to the weary law-abiding taxpayer over every little thing? Granted it's the wrong kind of attention, but that's their fault.
Margaret Atwood, go write another clone of your last book. Gordon Pinsent, try to act somewhere. Susan Aglukark, sing a song. Elizabeth May, concentrate on Parliament. Get over yourselves and leave Queen Victoria alone.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Jammed
Looking at the clock -- or should I say "godforsaken" clock -- at 4:00 a.m., I turned off the alarm set for 5. I had decided at that sleepy moment to forego the early-morning swim. I would have had to have hit the pool at 5:30 to get my laps in because grandson was expected at 7:15. No, I thought, I am just not going today. Period, the end.
Drifting in and out of sleep over the next hour, my annoying OCD swimmer brain kicked in. Up I got and hit the pool for 5:30. It was jammed, which I knew it would be, having been there at that hour on several ungodly occasions. Nevertheless, it still surprises me. Natural alliances form at the pool. I gravitate to like-minded men and women because we all like and hate the same people, the latter being people who have no clue about lane etiquette.
Like the one I swam with again this morning.
I have encountered her many times and have never enjoyed sharing a lane. She is aggressive, not as fast as I, but refuses to let me go first when we meet at the end of the pool. I entered the lane she was occupying; she rudely coped. But then two others entered the same lane and she actually got out and complained to the lifeguard. "Is she gone?" I shouted to Gillian. "Yes, she said it was too crowded." Perfection! "Aggressive woman" has left the building. Why do some women insist on being so unlikeable?
Grandson arrived to our delight and took over the house. Only 17 months old, he is quite the little person. French toast was on the menu, then it was the park, then a walk around the block, then the grocery store and finally lunch. He is very definite. Would not take his jacket off the whole day. Walked around putting every toilet lid down. Found grandpa's slippers and brought them to him. Located several pairs of my shoes in the hall closet and brought each out until I decided which to wear. Put all the others back exactly where he had found them. He even took a cloth and washed the floors after lunch. After his nap it was playing on the computer, watering grandma's flowers and "talking" on the phone. Gibberish, but he certainly knows what he is saying.
No wonder we are here.
Drifting in and out of sleep over the next hour, my annoying OCD swimmer brain kicked in. Up I got and hit the pool for 5:30. It was jammed, which I knew it would be, having been there at that hour on several ungodly occasions. Nevertheless, it still surprises me. Natural alliances form at the pool. I gravitate to like-minded men and women because we all like and hate the same people, the latter being people who have no clue about lane etiquette.
Like the one I swam with again this morning.
I have encountered her many times and have never enjoyed sharing a lane. She is aggressive, not as fast as I, but refuses to let me go first when we meet at the end of the pool. I entered the lane she was occupying; she rudely coped. But then two others entered the same lane and she actually got out and complained to the lifeguard. "Is she gone?" I shouted to Gillian. "Yes, she said it was too crowded." Perfection! "Aggressive woman" has left the building. Why do some women insist on being so unlikeable?
Grandson arrived to our delight and took over the house. Only 17 months old, he is quite the little person. French toast was on the menu, then it was the park, then a walk around the block, then the grocery store and finally lunch. He is very definite. Would not take his jacket off the whole day. Walked around putting every toilet lid down. Found grandpa's slippers and brought them to him. Located several pairs of my shoes in the hall closet and brought each out until I decided which to wear. Put all the others back exactly where he had found them. He even took a cloth and washed the floors after lunch. After his nap it was playing on the computer, watering grandma's flowers and "talking" on the phone. Gibberish, but he certainly knows what he is saying.
No wonder we are here.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Another gentleman surfaces
"Let me hold onto your cart while you unload," said the charming middle-aged gentleman as he approached in the grocery store parking lot a few minutes ago. The lot is on a bit of a slant and my cart kept drifting away. "Thank you very much," I replied in surprise. "Your mother certainly brought you up well," I added, as I usually do when a man holds a door or performs some other act of politesse.
"Actually, it was my father. I was raised by my father, the finest gentleman who ever lived, in my opinion." "Well, that's obvious," I agreed. With that he helped unload my parcels and departed saying, "Here, let me take that cart back for you girl."
Will wonders never cease. Calgary is often a town of old-world manners, where men are men and women are to be tended to. I love it because it's so comfortable and predictable for someone raised as I was by a father and uncles who were unfailingly considerate and kind. My mother and aunts were treated like gold. Mutual respect between man and wife was the watchword. I took it for granted, but have since learned that many households were not as genteel as mine.
Speaking of gentlemen, I met another last Friday. He owns the roofing company that is currently replacing all the roofs on the townhouses in our neighbourhood. Concerned I would not be able to put my flowers in until they finish, I stopped to ask the young man when they would complete the job? "I want to put my flowers in, but am worried they will be ruined with the tiles falling on them," I said. With a distinct French accent, he replied, "Don't worry about a thing. Let me look at your backyard and see what we can do."
He accompanied me to our unit and assured me they would move all the pots and chairs and that no harm would come to my flowers. "That's what sets us apart from other roofers, we don't damage anything," he said in French, which we were now speaking. The name of his company is 'The God Roofing Company'. Curious about the name, I asked how he chose it.
"A few years ago I fell off a roof and should have either died or been paralyzed," he explained. "The doctor told me to get on my knees because he had no idea why I had survived intact with just two broken ankles," he explained, tapping the steel plates in his legs. It is in gratitude for his life that he named his company after God.
He was a very cool cat.
"Actually, it was my father. I was raised by my father, the finest gentleman who ever lived, in my opinion." "Well, that's obvious," I agreed. With that he helped unload my parcels and departed saying, "Here, let me take that cart back for you girl."
Will wonders never cease. Calgary is often a town of old-world manners, where men are men and women are to be tended to. I love it because it's so comfortable and predictable for someone raised as I was by a father and uncles who were unfailingly considerate and kind. My mother and aunts were treated like gold. Mutual respect between man and wife was the watchword. I took it for granted, but have since learned that many households were not as genteel as mine.
Speaking of gentlemen, I met another last Friday. He owns the roofing company that is currently replacing all the roofs on the townhouses in our neighbourhood. Concerned I would not be able to put my flowers in until they finish, I stopped to ask the young man when they would complete the job? "I want to put my flowers in, but am worried they will be ruined with the tiles falling on them," I said. With a distinct French accent, he replied, "Don't worry about a thing. Let me look at your backyard and see what we can do."
He accompanied me to our unit and assured me they would move all the pots and chairs and that no harm would come to my flowers. "That's what sets us apart from other roofers, we don't damage anything," he said in French, which we were now speaking. The name of his company is 'The God Roofing Company'. Curious about the name, I asked how he chose it.
"A few years ago I fell off a roof and should have either died or been paralyzed," he explained. "The doctor told me to get on my knees because he had no idea why I had survived intact with just two broken ankles," he explained, tapping the steel plates in his legs. It is in gratitude for his life that he named his company after God.
He was a very cool cat.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
This'll set the movement back
She broke off the engagement, but kept the ring. Now that's class for you. This happened to a young man I swim with at the Y. A sweet and sincere guy, he somehow got involved with a hard-core narcissist and she definitely done him wrong.
See, you can't do that. You can't dump the guy and keep the ring. In this case it was very expensive, but even if it weren't, you have to give it back. Just not honourable to do anything else. Any woman worth her salt does not do that, so in the end it's a good thing he found out what kind of woman she was before he might have disastrously married her.
I was engaged to a (sort of) famous New York musician in 1969 and he bought me a ring. (By the way, can you imagine my marrying a musician?! That would have been a disaster, given my personality and weaknesses.) But anyway, when I broke it off in a moment of sanity, I sent back the ring. He returned it, insisting I keep it. To this day I still have it, although I don't wear it. I did the right thing because it was his decision to ask me to keep it.
But to break a young man's heart and then tell him you'll put the ring on e-bay and split the proceeds is greedy and heartless. Betcha this carpet-bagger doesn't split the proceeds.
From what I understand, this woman has quite a lot of money and considers herself a member of "The Movement". A card-carrying feminist with a hefty and lucrative career, she has demonstrably outed herself as just another griffter.
That's what's wrong with "feminism". Too many loopholes. Ladies, pick a side.
See, you can't do that. You can't dump the guy and keep the ring. In this case it was very expensive, but even if it weren't, you have to give it back. Just not honourable to do anything else. Any woman worth her salt does not do that, so in the end it's a good thing he found out what kind of woman she was before he might have disastrously married her.
I was engaged to a (sort of) famous New York musician in 1969 and he bought me a ring. (By the way, can you imagine my marrying a musician?! That would have been a disaster, given my personality and weaknesses.) But anyway, when I broke it off in a moment of sanity, I sent back the ring. He returned it, insisting I keep it. To this day I still have it, although I don't wear it. I did the right thing because it was his decision to ask me to keep it.
But to break a young man's heart and then tell him you'll put the ring on e-bay and split the proceeds is greedy and heartless. Betcha this carpet-bagger doesn't split the proceeds.
From what I understand, this woman has quite a lot of money and considers herself a member of "The Movement". A card-carrying feminist with a hefty and lucrative career, she has demonstrably outed herself as just another griffter.
That's what's wrong with "feminism". Too many loopholes. Ladies, pick a side.
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Bewildering?!
What are they eating? There are a number of women -- 20 or 30 years younger than I -- who do aquafit while I am swimming. The mystery to me is why are they so fat at such a young age? The other mystery is, how can they be at the pool during working hours, yet not working? The answer is most of them have high-salaried husbands in the oil business who travel all the time.
Guess what the husbands must be doing on the road? I mean, if you have a Big Bertha at home, how depressing a thought must it be to anticipate coming home to it.
These younger women must have been in shape when their husbands married them, but they have let themselves go abominably. And no matter how much aquafit they do, they don't get any slimmer. In fact, they get fatter and simply buy bigger bathing suits.
Many of them are well-educated, but they have used the excuse of their husband's big job to stay at home..."with the kids"....and eat up a storm. I think it's an appalling waste of an expensive education when women chuck it all to sit on their corpulent duffs. After all, they took up valuable and coveted space in a post-secondary institution, wasted many professors' time, wasted someone's money, graduated and.............then..........nothing.
I find this whole "I'm-so-lucky-I-can-be-a-stay-at-home-Mom" exhortation a complete fraud. Kids benefit from daycare. Kids benefit from other care-givers. Kids benefit from new experiences. Kids need to be stimulated. Sitting in front of a TV, while expanding Mumba-Jumba scarfs from the fridge doesn't really help them.
Guess what the husbands must be doing on the road? I mean, if you have a Big Bertha at home, how depressing a thought must it be to anticipate coming home to it.
These younger women must have been in shape when their husbands married them, but they have let themselves go abominably. And no matter how much aquafit they do, they don't get any slimmer. In fact, they get fatter and simply buy bigger bathing suits.
Many of them are well-educated, but they have used the excuse of their husband's big job to stay at home..."with the kids"....and eat up a storm. I think it's an appalling waste of an expensive education when women chuck it all to sit on their corpulent duffs. After all, they took up valuable and coveted space in a post-secondary institution, wasted many professors' time, wasted someone's money, graduated and.............then..........nothing.
I find this whole "I'm-so-lucky-I-can-be-a-stay-at-home-Mom" exhortation a complete fraud. Kids benefit from daycare. Kids benefit from other care-givers. Kids benefit from new experiences. Kids need to be stimulated. Sitting in front of a TV, while expanding Mumba-Jumba scarfs from the fridge doesn't really help them.
Friday, May 17, 2013
How can it be?
The millions of salary dollars enjoyed by staffers in the PMO were apparently unable to deal with the latest crisis. Harper's handlers dealt very badly with the whole Duffy-Brazeau-Harb-Wallin fiasco -- in spite of the fact that that's exactly what they get paid to do. Make it all go away.
They didn't do their jobs.
How dumb do you have to be to get that these senators were breaking the rules and actually committing criminal activity? Read the constitution and you will know that what they did was illegal. How dumb were ex-journalists Wallin and Duffy not to have figured out how badly they had messed up? I mean, this is exactly the kind of story those two would have jumped all over when they lived on the other side of the gravy train.
The file footage of Wallin is pathetic. There she is, dyed blonde hanks of hair hanging, sitting in this committee and that, looking very officious with half-glasses perched on her beak, while the whole time she is bilking the taxpayer for more than $350,000 in travel expenses in over just two years! How much does it cost to fly to Wadena Saskatchewan, Pam? Not that much.
I was quite young when I worked in public relations for IBM Canada and DuPont of Canada, but even at 21 and 22 I knew how to handle PR disasters. One of my products was Freon and teens were inhaling it and dying. We had to get out in front of that one and we did. We also had to allay the fears of "Mrs. Housewife" about the dangers of Teflon-coated frying pans. We got over that one too. To be a good PR person, you have to get outside of the company and think like "Mr. and Mrs. Smith". Perception is reality.
This simple fact seems to be what Harper and the PMO have forgotten. They now believe their own press and can't admit wrongdoing. What they needed to do was dump Brazeau-Wallin-Duffy-Harb immediately and wait for the audit to take its course. What the PM's chief of staff was doing giving Mike Duffy $90,000 is beyond comprehension. Not a good plan. But it shows that reality has slipped completely from their grasp.
Harper needs to get out in front of this one. Otherwise it ain't goin' away.
They didn't do their jobs.
How dumb do you have to be to get that these senators were breaking the rules and actually committing criminal activity? Read the constitution and you will know that what they did was illegal. How dumb were ex-journalists Wallin and Duffy not to have figured out how badly they had messed up? I mean, this is exactly the kind of story those two would have jumped all over when they lived on the other side of the gravy train.
The file footage of Wallin is pathetic. There she is, dyed blonde hanks of hair hanging, sitting in this committee and that, looking very officious with half-glasses perched on her beak, while the whole time she is bilking the taxpayer for more than $350,000 in travel expenses in over just two years! How much does it cost to fly to Wadena Saskatchewan, Pam? Not that much.
I was quite young when I worked in public relations for IBM Canada and DuPont of Canada, but even at 21 and 22 I knew how to handle PR disasters. One of my products was Freon and teens were inhaling it and dying. We had to get out in front of that one and we did. We also had to allay the fears of "Mrs. Housewife" about the dangers of Teflon-coated frying pans. We got over that one too. To be a good PR person, you have to get outside of the company and think like "Mr. and Mrs. Smith". Perception is reality.
This simple fact seems to be what Harper and the PMO have forgotten. They now believe their own press and can't admit wrongdoing. What they needed to do was dump Brazeau-Wallin-Duffy-Harb immediately and wait for the audit to take its course. What the PM's chief of staff was doing giving Mike Duffy $90,000 is beyond comprehension. Not a good plan. But it shows that reality has slipped completely from their grasp.
Harper needs to get out in front of this one. Otherwise it ain't goin' away.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
We just ate them
"Off you go, pick some dandelion leaves for the salad," my great-aunt May would say, handing us a large bowl before Sunday lunch. And we did. Frankly, I can't remember what they tasted like, but I was thinking of this salad today, as I watched the dreaded yellow flowers burst into bloom. We didn't spray the weeds, we ate them.
My forbearers consumed everything. In the Spring it was fiddleheads. Later it was mushrooms, which my Grandmother knew about. Our city backyard was the place I was sent with a pair of scissors to snip mint for the leg of lamb. Up at the cottage, in the sweltering July heat, Grandma would announce to me and my five cousins that today was berry-picking day. That meant that instead of swimming, hanging out and playing in the water, we had to venture over the fence and into the local farmer's field -- braving those huge cows -- and pick raspberries. She came with us, a white handkerchief knotted on her head to deal with the sun. We were each given a pail and sent in different directions. Grandma's pail was always overflowing; mine half empty because I ate most of the berries.
Then it was back to the cottage, where she fired up the wood stove and spent the day making preserves. As I said, my family ate everything. One of my favourite dishes was her humble onion pie. Must have cost 50 cents to feed eight of us, but smothered as it was in buttery white sauce, you could not beat it. My mother tells tales of how embarrassed she was as a girl when sent to the butcher to buy spareribs. Considered a garbage meat, at 25 cents a rack they were eaten only by "poor" people, she told me. "I never considered us poor," she said, even though her father had lost everything in the crash and subsequent depression.
With the price of food skyrocketing, I am grateful I can cook roots and leaves. The 100-mile diet? My grandmother invented it.
My forbearers consumed everything. In the Spring it was fiddleheads. Later it was mushrooms, which my Grandmother knew about. Our city backyard was the place I was sent with a pair of scissors to snip mint for the leg of lamb. Up at the cottage, in the sweltering July heat, Grandma would announce to me and my five cousins that today was berry-picking day. That meant that instead of swimming, hanging out and playing in the water, we had to venture over the fence and into the local farmer's field -- braving those huge cows -- and pick raspberries. She came with us, a white handkerchief knotted on her head to deal with the sun. We were each given a pail and sent in different directions. Grandma's pail was always overflowing; mine half empty because I ate most of the berries.
Then it was back to the cottage, where she fired up the wood stove and spent the day making preserves. As I said, my family ate everything. One of my favourite dishes was her humble onion pie. Must have cost 50 cents to feed eight of us, but smothered as it was in buttery white sauce, you could not beat it. My mother tells tales of how embarrassed she was as a girl when sent to the butcher to buy spareribs. Considered a garbage meat, at 25 cents a rack they were eaten only by "poor" people, she told me. "I never considered us poor," she said, even though her father had lost everything in the crash and subsequent depression.
With the price of food skyrocketing, I am grateful I can cook roots and leaves. The 100-mile diet? My grandmother invented it.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Who knew?
Sitting there most mornings under the tree in our front yard as I leave for the pool, the hare looks quite contented and very tame. He doesn't even lope off as I get into the car. "This is my lawn," he seems to say. "You're an interloper."
Wondering what the difference was between a "hare" and a "rabbit", I consulted the dictionary a few minutes ago. Seems the "hare" is a larger version of the "rabbit", but to my horror I learned they were both..........."of the rodent genus". Yuck! No wonder not everyone out here thinks they are as cute as I do! No wonder Canmore trapped and neutered thousands last Fall.
I don't think I will ever think of our resident hares the same way again. Cockroaches and rats will come to mind.
On another note, I am so impressed with Angelina Jolie's decision to have a double mastectomy so her kids will not lose her too young. How very brave.
Wondering what the difference was between a "hare" and a "rabbit", I consulted the dictionary a few minutes ago. Seems the "hare" is a larger version of the "rabbit", but to my horror I learned they were both..........."of the rodent genus". Yuck! No wonder not everyone out here thinks they are as cute as I do! No wonder Canmore trapped and neutered thousands last Fall.
I don't think I will ever think of our resident hares the same way again. Cockroaches and rats will come to mind.
On another note, I am so impressed with Angelina Jolie's decision to have a double mastectomy so her kids will not lose her too young. How very brave.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Grandpa "Mattress Mart"
Somehow he finds a way to clamber up onto B's lap and lounge. Grandson Reed was here today and he loves to get up on B and snuggle in. He lies on him, sits on him, stands on him or collapses on him. It really is very sweet. So, I have now started calling B "Grandpa Mattress Mart".
Monday, May 13, 2013
What is "charm"?
Reflecting on what that old-world Hungarian doctor said the other night about my being "charming" got me thinking. Is "charm" the ability to be friendly and amiable when you really couldn't give a damn? That is me. I can turn it on in a heartbeat. But what is "charm"?
The dictionary defines it thusly: "A power or gift of alluring, pleasing or exciting, to enchant, to fascinate, to bewitch, to attract, to delight, to please, to fascinate..........". I have to confess, I can be "charming" but I turn it on deliberately. The real "me" is anything but. I am solitary and insular, in spite of the fact that I can appear to be vivacious and friendly when required. I once described myself as being a "sincere phony" and that about sums it up.
This I attribute to my late mother who admonished me from a very young age to..."speak to a person". This was a direct order. Wherever we went, I was expected to talk to, and engage, anyone gathered in any room into which she brought me. Age or social station did not matter. I had to "perform". And when I say "from a very young age", I am talking three or four. Today I am grateful for the discipline upon which she insisted, but as a toddler it was at times daunting.
For her, "speaking to a person" was simply a matter of good manners. Who has those anymore? Who has a clue about the art of conversation? Who stands up when a lady enters the room? Who stands up when a lady excuses herself from the table? Who stands up when she returns? Who takes his hat off in an elevator when ladies are present? Who holds a chair? Who holds a door? It's all so depressingly tedious.
But back to "charm". For a number of years I served every Sunday morning as a pastoral care worker at the Civic Hospital, where I brought Communion to Catholics...until I contracted pneumonia and nearly died, at which time I had to stop. I absolutely loved the work! Each week I visited about 25 sick or dying patients over the space of about two hours and gave them Communion. My gift was "charm". I was able to enter a room and immediately connect with each patient in a very real way. Many were dying and the gift of the Eucharist was huge for them. But the reason I could do it week in and week out was because the minute I left the room, I left them behind. I dropped them. Not that I was not sincerely moved while I was with them, I was, and often wept with them and their families, but I did not take it past the transom. I did not take the emotion home. I used to read the obituaries and see that often the people I had visited had died shortly after I had left them.
The fact that I did this work was simply God's mischevious handiwork because he tapped a regular, run-of-the-mill sinner such as I to relate to the people I was visiting. And believe me, God was running the show. I had so many inexplicable moments. One woman I saw regularly was suddenly not there one Sunday. "Where is Kay?" I asked at the desk. "Oh, she has gone to the Maycourt Hospice." Great, I thought, she had wanted to die there. Over the next few Sunday's she was not on my computer list and I thought no more about her. Until one day when she flashed into my mind as I was leaving G ward (the cancer ward). I turned and walked back to the desk. "Where is Kay"? I asked again. "Oh, she's back, she was too sick and they had to bring her back yesterday," the nurse told me. She was not on my list. Why did Kay come to me? I went into her room and she was so happy to see me with the Eucharist. I gave her Communion and she died a few hours later. How does that happen? We all know how.
One of the saddest visits I had in G ward was to a young mother, dying of cancer. She was unconscious, but her two toddler daughters were crawling all over her, hugging and kissing her. It was absolutely heartbreaking. But I walked out and left it behind. She died that day.
It helps that I have a robust sense of humour and do not take myself seriously. These are gifts I cherish. They helped me so much to deal with the dying people I met over several years. To get someone to laugh just before they die is quite something. But I would walk out of the room and never give them a second thought. Otherwise, how could I have done the work?
What is "charm"? I still don't really know.
The dictionary defines it thusly: "A power or gift of alluring, pleasing or exciting, to enchant, to fascinate, to bewitch, to attract, to delight, to please, to fascinate..........". I have to confess, I can be "charming" but I turn it on deliberately. The real "me" is anything but. I am solitary and insular, in spite of the fact that I can appear to be vivacious and friendly when required. I once described myself as being a "sincere phony" and that about sums it up.
This I attribute to my late mother who admonished me from a very young age to..."speak to a person". This was a direct order. Wherever we went, I was expected to talk to, and engage, anyone gathered in any room into which she brought me. Age or social station did not matter. I had to "perform". And when I say "from a very young age", I am talking three or four. Today I am grateful for the discipline upon which she insisted, but as a toddler it was at times daunting.
For her, "speaking to a person" was simply a matter of good manners. Who has those anymore? Who has a clue about the art of conversation? Who stands up when a lady enters the room? Who stands up when a lady excuses herself from the table? Who stands up when she returns? Who takes his hat off in an elevator when ladies are present? Who holds a chair? Who holds a door? It's all so depressingly tedious.
But back to "charm". For a number of years I served every Sunday morning as a pastoral care worker at the Civic Hospital, where I brought Communion to Catholics...until I contracted pneumonia and nearly died, at which time I had to stop. I absolutely loved the work! Each week I visited about 25 sick or dying patients over the space of about two hours and gave them Communion. My gift was "charm". I was able to enter a room and immediately connect with each patient in a very real way. Many were dying and the gift of the Eucharist was huge for them. But the reason I could do it week in and week out was because the minute I left the room, I left them behind. I dropped them. Not that I was not sincerely moved while I was with them, I was, and often wept with them and their families, but I did not take it past the transom. I did not take the emotion home. I used to read the obituaries and see that often the people I had visited had died shortly after I had left them.
The fact that I did this work was simply God's mischevious handiwork because he tapped a regular, run-of-the-mill sinner such as I to relate to the people I was visiting. And believe me, God was running the show. I had so many inexplicable moments. One woman I saw regularly was suddenly not there one Sunday. "Where is Kay?" I asked at the desk. "Oh, she has gone to the Maycourt Hospice." Great, I thought, she had wanted to die there. Over the next few Sunday's she was not on my computer list and I thought no more about her. Until one day when she flashed into my mind as I was leaving G ward (the cancer ward). I turned and walked back to the desk. "Where is Kay"? I asked again. "Oh, she's back, she was too sick and they had to bring her back yesterday," the nurse told me. She was not on my list. Why did Kay come to me? I went into her room and she was so happy to see me with the Eucharist. I gave her Communion and she died a few hours later. How does that happen? We all know how.
One of the saddest visits I had in G ward was to a young mother, dying of cancer. She was unconscious, but her two toddler daughters were crawling all over her, hugging and kissing her. It was absolutely heartbreaking. But I walked out and left it behind. She died that day.
It helps that I have a robust sense of humour and do not take myself seriously. These are gifts I cherish. They helped me so much to deal with the dying people I met over several years. To get someone to laugh just before they die is quite something. But I would walk out of the room and never give them a second thought. Otherwise, how could I have done the work?
What is "charm"? I still don't really know.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Charmingly unconventional
The fabulous shoes caught my eye immediately. He entered the room wearing gorgeous shiny royal blue patent-leather lace shoes. Sporting no tie, but wearing a white shirt, his hair was spiked. The suit was completely a-la-mode for a young man -- you know, looking a tad too small, short jacket and arms. Immediately he turned on the charm. This can't be the guy, I thought. This can't be the British Consul General in Calgary!? But it was. I was floored. Expecting one of the three-piece-suited, middle-aged, stuffed-shirt varieties, I had to take a few minutes to realize that this "kid" was Britain's main guy here in the oil patch.
Then it clicked. With the average age of a Calgarian 37, at 39 Tony Kay is a perfect fit. The event was a small gathering of alumni of the London Goodenough Association of Canada* at The Ranchmen's Club. B was the host, I a hanger-on. With only one measly university degree, I was the least-educated person in the room -- oh, except for the Consul General himself, who had no degree at all. The head architect for the Calgary Zoo was there (yes, architecture is a key part of zoos), the guy who started urban planning in Alberta was there, a few PhD's and profs and one charming Hungarian doctor who had survived the holocaust as a young child. His ear I talked off, but he had the grace to tell B on the way out that I was one of the most charming women he had ever met. Now there's "old world" chivalrous fibbing for you!
We went 'round and gave a little schpeel on ourselves. When it came to me, I admitted I was a "camp follower" and hadn't studied in London at all. But I did take credit for reviving the association in Ottawa when I read a few years ago that the new High Commissioner was Anthony Goodenough. "He must be related," I said to B. "I'm going to call and see if they'd like to host a reception at Earnscliffe for alumni." "What?" So I did. All they can say is "no", I thought. Sure enough, it was named after his great uncle, founder of the residence in the heart of London for visiting Commonwealth graduate students from around the world.
And thus began a tradition of wonderful annual receptions at Earnscliffe. As High Commissioners came and went, the events continued and we became friends with several of the office-holders -- even having them up to our cottage and over for brunch or cocktails on a regular basis. Of course, the Toronto chapter took all the credit -- which takes a lot of nerve -- and descended in droves for the first Earnscliffe "do". They even hired a photographer to record the momentous occasion. I was not included in the formal portrait.
But I digress. Back to last evening in Calgary. Before I forget, gushing over Mr. Kay's shoes, I was delighted when he pulled up his trousers and laughed, "How do you like the socks" "Charles Trywhitt?" I offered. "How did you know?" "Cause I order their stuff from London for B all the time." The socks were indeed smashing. Not to be outdone, B then pulled up his trousers to reveal his own Charles Trywhitt hose. That's the kind of evening it was.
When Tony gave his background, it was clear he was a real foot soldier. That's how the British Foreign Service is run. You often start at the very bottom and work your way up. He had started as a clerk at age 18 and to date had served in seven or eight countries, moving gradually up the ladder. An avid rugby enthusiast, he had met and married in one of his postings and now had two toddlers. With a huge dimpled smile, the guy was impressive. His territory includes Alberta, Saskatchewan, Manitoba and the Northwest Territories.
He promised a BBQ for the group in the summer and you can bet I'll hold him to it. My prediction? Watch for him ensconced in Earnscliffe in the not-too-distant future!
* Made up of people who have attended a post-graduate institution in London and stayed in either London House or William Goodenough House in Mecklenburgh Square. B was there in 1963, where he went to parties with Christine Keeler, Mandy Rice-Davies and Stephen Ward, among other notorious characters.
Then it clicked. With the average age of a Calgarian 37, at 39 Tony Kay is a perfect fit. The event was a small gathering of alumni of the London Goodenough Association of Canada* at The Ranchmen's Club. B was the host, I a hanger-on. With only one measly university degree, I was the least-educated person in the room -- oh, except for the Consul General himself, who had no degree at all. The head architect for the Calgary Zoo was there (yes, architecture is a key part of zoos), the guy who started urban planning in Alberta was there, a few PhD's and profs and one charming Hungarian doctor who had survived the holocaust as a young child. His ear I talked off, but he had the grace to tell B on the way out that I was one of the most charming women he had ever met. Now there's "old world" chivalrous fibbing for you!
We went 'round and gave a little schpeel on ourselves. When it came to me, I admitted I was a "camp follower" and hadn't studied in London at all. But I did take credit for reviving the association in Ottawa when I read a few years ago that the new High Commissioner was Anthony Goodenough. "He must be related," I said to B. "I'm going to call and see if they'd like to host a reception at Earnscliffe for alumni." "What?" So I did. All they can say is "no", I thought. Sure enough, it was named after his great uncle, founder of the residence in the heart of London for visiting Commonwealth graduate students from around the world.
And thus began a tradition of wonderful annual receptions at Earnscliffe. As High Commissioners came and went, the events continued and we became friends with several of the office-holders -- even having them up to our cottage and over for brunch or cocktails on a regular basis. Of course, the Toronto chapter took all the credit -- which takes a lot of nerve -- and descended in droves for the first Earnscliffe "do". They even hired a photographer to record the momentous occasion. I was not included in the formal portrait.
But I digress. Back to last evening in Calgary. Before I forget, gushing over Mr. Kay's shoes, I was delighted when he pulled up his trousers and laughed, "How do you like the socks" "Charles Trywhitt?" I offered. "How did you know?" "Cause I order their stuff from London for B all the time." The socks were indeed smashing. Not to be outdone, B then pulled up his trousers to reveal his own Charles Trywhitt hose. That's the kind of evening it was.
When Tony gave his background, it was clear he was a real foot soldier. That's how the British Foreign Service is run. You often start at the very bottom and work your way up. He had started as a clerk at age 18 and to date had served in seven or eight countries, moving gradually up the ladder. An avid rugby enthusiast, he had met and married in one of his postings and now had two toddlers. With a huge dimpled smile, the guy was impressive. His territory includes Alberta, Saskatchewan, Manitoba and the Northwest Territories.
He promised a BBQ for the group in the summer and you can bet I'll hold him to it. My prediction? Watch for him ensconced in Earnscliffe in the not-too-distant future!
* Made up of people who have attended a post-graduate institution in London and stayed in either London House or William Goodenough House in Mecklenburgh Square. B was there in 1963, where he went to parties with Christine Keeler, Mandy Rice-Davies and Stephen Ward, among other notorious characters.
Friday, May 10, 2013
Now that was a moniker!
As if her maiden name hadn't been bad enough, after she married and returned to school, she was now "Mrs. Fluck". Going from "Miss Trowbridge" to "Mrs. Fluck" was bad luck indeed, poor woman.
She was our grade eight art teach at York Street Public School and as with all art teachers, Mrs. Trowbridge-Fluck (I kid you not!) was a tad peculiar. Pounding my 50 laps every morning, I have little to occupy my mind, so thoughts from the past float up, so to speak. Today it was teachers' names.
Miss Earle, four-year-old kindergarten, was calm, cool and collected. Miss Minto (yes, she of New Edinburgh's Minto Bridges) was plump and jolly. Miss MacKenzie, grades three and four, was stern, thin and always adjusting and yanking at her bra -- obviously endlessly fascinating for an eight-year-old. Principal Miss Headrick, also portly, used to hug in regret those to whom she was obliged to administer the strap -- usually David Wade who would simply not be. Probably ADHD, back then it was called "bad". Grade seven's Mr. Peacock used to let us mark our own papers -- out of laziness no doubt, but what a dumb idea! Incidentally, I always did wonderfully in math, which got me into grade 8-A, where I struggled mightily amidst all the brains.
Into high school, I remember science teacher Mr. Felker, a kindly old gentleman who had long since given up caring about who did what to whom in class. Mrs. Todd was a crazy, bony algebra teacher with wonky snow-white hair and arthritic fingers. Miss Gemmill was a mean, grossly-obese Latin teacher who once amused us by slipping and falling in a crowded hall at lunchtime. She could not get up and had to be rescued by Mr. Rentner, my geometry teacher. Even he had a hard time hoisting the beast. We all stood there, immobilized in shock, trying desperately not to laugh. Man, that gave us weeks of delighted sniggering.
Resident lesbian Miss Bishop, my grade 12 English teacher, was an expert marksman. Facing the blackboard, she could wheel around on one foot and score a direct chalk-hit on the forehead of an intended offender. Then she would paste a big smile on her face, say absolutely nothing and continue on with the lesson. No culprit ever tried anything again. I have to say, however, that Miss Bishop instilled in me a deep love of English and the written word. Along with Miss Anderson (grade eight), I credit both those extraordinary women with my decision to become a writer (of sorts).
French teacher Mr. Caron, just out of university himself, apparently had the hots for a young tease named Michelle...something (?) -- she of the rigid beehive and push-up bra. I know because I overheard him in the principal's office asking for advice on how to deal with it. "You's", was a favourite and charming turn of phrase of Mr. Brisebois, another math teacher. You could not make this up!
Then there was Mr. Wade. My grade 12 chemistry teacher, he was as mean as they came. You might even say abusive, so dreadful and sadistic was he. "Up, up," he would yell, jabbing his thumb in the air when he asked a question, the answer to which I never knew. Terrified, I could not even spurt out H2O, when asked what "water" was. Thankfully, God had given me Bob Amey as a seat-mate, who faithfully whispered the answers to me every time I was victimized. I often wonder if Mr. Wade would have beaten anyone who had not known his chemistry cold. Probably. Amazingly, he lasted in the system for years and years, a testament to the potency of the teachers' union. In fact, I ran into him at Nepean High School a hundred years later, when I went to pick up one of my kids. That same fear gripped me the minute I spotted the monster in the hall.
Ah yes, good old Lisgar Collegiate Institute. I remember it with great fondness.
She was our grade eight art teach at York Street Public School and as with all art teachers, Mrs. Trowbridge-Fluck (I kid you not!) was a tad peculiar. Pounding my 50 laps every morning, I have little to occupy my mind, so thoughts from the past float up, so to speak. Today it was teachers' names.
Miss Earle, four-year-old kindergarten, was calm, cool and collected. Miss Minto (yes, she of New Edinburgh's Minto Bridges) was plump and jolly. Miss MacKenzie, grades three and four, was stern, thin and always adjusting and yanking at her bra -- obviously endlessly fascinating for an eight-year-old. Principal Miss Headrick, also portly, used to hug in regret those to whom she was obliged to administer the strap -- usually David Wade who would simply not be. Probably ADHD, back then it was called "bad". Grade seven's Mr. Peacock used to let us mark our own papers -- out of laziness no doubt, but what a dumb idea! Incidentally, I always did wonderfully in math, which got me into grade 8-A, where I struggled mightily amidst all the brains.
Into high school, I remember science teacher Mr. Felker, a kindly old gentleman who had long since given up caring about who did what to whom in class. Mrs. Todd was a crazy, bony algebra teacher with wonky snow-white hair and arthritic fingers. Miss Gemmill was a mean, grossly-obese Latin teacher who once amused us by slipping and falling in a crowded hall at lunchtime. She could not get up and had to be rescued by Mr. Rentner, my geometry teacher. Even he had a hard time hoisting the beast. We all stood there, immobilized in shock, trying desperately not to laugh. Man, that gave us weeks of delighted sniggering.
Resident lesbian Miss Bishop, my grade 12 English teacher, was an expert marksman. Facing the blackboard, she could wheel around on one foot and score a direct chalk-hit on the forehead of an intended offender. Then she would paste a big smile on her face, say absolutely nothing and continue on with the lesson. No culprit ever tried anything again. I have to say, however, that Miss Bishop instilled in me a deep love of English and the written word. Along with Miss Anderson (grade eight), I credit both those extraordinary women with my decision to become a writer (of sorts).
French teacher Mr. Caron, just out of university himself, apparently had the hots for a young tease named Michelle...something (?) -- she of the rigid beehive and push-up bra. I know because I overheard him in the principal's office asking for advice on how to deal with it. "You's", was a favourite and charming turn of phrase of Mr. Brisebois, another math teacher. You could not make this up!
Then there was Mr. Wade. My grade 12 chemistry teacher, he was as mean as they came. You might even say abusive, so dreadful and sadistic was he. "Up, up," he would yell, jabbing his thumb in the air when he asked a question, the answer to which I never knew. Terrified, I could not even spurt out H2O, when asked what "water" was. Thankfully, God had given me Bob Amey as a seat-mate, who faithfully whispered the answers to me every time I was victimized. I often wonder if Mr. Wade would have beaten anyone who had not known his chemistry cold. Probably. Amazingly, he lasted in the system for years and years, a testament to the potency of the teachers' union. In fact, I ran into him at Nepean High School a hundred years later, when I went to pick up one of my kids. That same fear gripped me the minute I spotted the monster in the hall.
Ah yes, good old Lisgar Collegiate Institute. I remember it with great fondness.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
The Mighty Clothesline
6,800 kits were sold by the provincial government at local malls all over Nova Scotia in an effort to cut down on electricity. Brilliant. Saw it on The National this evening. Even the famous "Peter M" was enthralled. Guess celebrity wife, Cynthia, relies on the dryer in whatever tony neighbourhood they must live. I mean, can you imagine a clothesline in Rosedale, Forrest Hill or Bridle Path??!!. Je pense que...I don't think so.
That the humble clothesline has become such a celebrity is a magnificent tribute to its illustrious simplicity and skilful endurance. The CBC piece featured a folksy Nova Scotian woman, hanging out her sheets, while the 12-year-old male reporter -- who has probably never seen a clothesline in his entire life -- interviewed her about..."what it was like hanging out your laundry"...??? He acted as if it were some kind of hardship-throwback to the 'dirty thirties'! She disabused him of this and the camera panned to her beautiful sheets and towels flapping away.
There is an art to hanging laundry. Some items must go together. Longest sheets out first, then towels (with matching pairs abutting) and everything else following in descending order. You can't just hang anything up willy-nilly as it appears in the basket. It has to have order. As a devotee of laundry lines, trust me, there is a splendour in the exercise.
I blogged my love of outdoor drying lines around this time last year, when I hauled mine up from the basement and began to air my laundry. This week, Calgary went from winter snow to summer heat (p.s. We don't have Spring and Fall) and out came my racks. Without the appropriate real estate to accommodate an actual line with wheels and pulleys, I have to use foldable racks.
But make-do I do. In the end, it all smells breathtakingly the same. Pillow cases invite you to sink into them, sheets lure you into lethargy, towels afford you that rough rub, napkins have that crisp snap, shirts smell like the sky and bleach themselves, duvets sparkle, tablecloths miraculously emerge without stains.....it's all a wonder and a delight!
What would I do without my beautiful clotheslines?
That the humble clothesline has become such a celebrity is a magnificent tribute to its illustrious simplicity and skilful endurance. The CBC piece featured a folksy Nova Scotian woman, hanging out her sheets, while the 12-year-old male reporter -- who has probably never seen a clothesline in his entire life -- interviewed her about..."what it was like hanging out your laundry"...??? He acted as if it were some kind of hardship-throwback to the 'dirty thirties'! She disabused him of this and the camera panned to her beautiful sheets and towels flapping away.
There is an art to hanging laundry. Some items must go together. Longest sheets out first, then towels (with matching pairs abutting) and everything else following in descending order. You can't just hang anything up willy-nilly as it appears in the basket. It has to have order. As a devotee of laundry lines, trust me, there is a splendour in the exercise.
I blogged my love of outdoor drying lines around this time last year, when I hauled mine up from the basement and began to air my laundry. This week, Calgary went from winter snow to summer heat (p.s. We don't have Spring and Fall) and out came my racks. Without the appropriate real estate to accommodate an actual line with wheels and pulleys, I have to use foldable racks.
But make-do I do. In the end, it all smells breathtakingly the same. Pillow cases invite you to sink into them, sheets lure you into lethargy, towels afford you that rough rub, napkins have that crisp snap, shirts smell like the sky and bleach themselves, duvets sparkle, tablecloths miraculously emerge without stains.....it's all a wonder and a delight!
What would I do without my beautiful clotheslines?
How to Relax (Not!).........and a bit about Estrogen
"I walk onto a golf course.....and so many things go through my head. Keep your eyes on the back of the ball and don't move your head until the ball is gone. Keep your grip real light, like you're holding a tube of toothpaste with the cap off. Make a full shoulder turn, but don't forget to turn your hips and get that left knee behind the ball and that left heel off the ground...Make a good swing, inside out, full extension of the arms, a big arc, but don't try to bash the ball. Just swing and the club will do the work. And don't forget to f-cking relax!"
-- From Willie, an Autobiography, by Willie Nelson and Bud Shrake
This riotous quote was sent to me by a good friend who lives in Michigan, whose father was a famous golf pro and author of several books on the subject. She herself is a very good golfer, but obviously has a great sense of humour about the (unplayable) game.
"Think of it. On the one hand you have Mr. On-the-Road-Again, whom (sic) we imagine to subsist on Jack Daniel's and guitar picks, but who turns out to be the owner of the Pedernales Country Club and the co-sponsor of a celebrity pro-am," the article continues. I mean, who knew Willie Nelson was a golf fanatic?!
As readers know, I don't play golf because I can't hit the ball. And it's not because I lack eye-hand coordination. I have that in spades and am -- or was -- a pretty good athlete. But there is just so much to think about in simply trying to connect with the ball, let alone hit it far and straight. "As long as I can still hit a moving ball, I won't try to hit a stationary one," said a man I met at a golf-course reception the other day, when I asked if he played. Tennis is his game.
Walking through a golf-course parking lot a couple of years ago, I came upon a man angrily throwing his clubs into the trunk of his car. "Want to buy a set of golf clubs?" he asked. No thanks, I laughed.
Now to estrogen.........
"Twice as many women as men get early-onset Alzheimer's, but the majority of studies are done on men," a doctor said in a CBC interview the other day. "Why is that?" the interviewer asked. "Because women are considered too complicated, what with hormones and mood swings and the like," she actually laughed as she said this. How typical and appalling. Women are considered too volatile and problematic to bother studying. Well, of course we are.
The interesting thing is that she talked about the positive effects of estrogen on the prevention of Alzheimer's. Apparently this hormone plays a key role in keeping the brain functioning clearly. That and physical exercise. I have been on very low-dose estrogen for about 17 years and have often wondered whether to get off it. One day it's a wonder hormone, the next it causes breast cancer and now it wards off Alzheimer's??!!
Never mind, think I'll stay on it and keep bloody swimming.
-- From Willie, an Autobiography, by Willie Nelson and Bud Shrake
This riotous quote was sent to me by a good friend who lives in Michigan, whose father was a famous golf pro and author of several books on the subject. She herself is a very good golfer, but obviously has a great sense of humour about the (unplayable) game.
"Think of it. On the one hand you have Mr. On-the-Road-Again, whom (sic) we imagine to subsist on Jack Daniel's and guitar picks, but who turns out to be the owner of the Pedernales Country Club and the co-sponsor of a celebrity pro-am," the article continues. I mean, who knew Willie Nelson was a golf fanatic?!
As readers know, I don't play golf because I can't hit the ball. And it's not because I lack eye-hand coordination. I have that in spades and am -- or was -- a pretty good athlete. But there is just so much to think about in simply trying to connect with the ball, let alone hit it far and straight. "As long as I can still hit a moving ball, I won't try to hit a stationary one," said a man I met at a golf-course reception the other day, when I asked if he played. Tennis is his game.
Walking through a golf-course parking lot a couple of years ago, I came upon a man angrily throwing his clubs into the trunk of his car. "Want to buy a set of golf clubs?" he asked. No thanks, I laughed.
Now to estrogen.........
"Twice as many women as men get early-onset Alzheimer's, but the majority of studies are done on men," a doctor said in a CBC interview the other day. "Why is that?" the interviewer asked. "Because women are considered too complicated, what with hormones and mood swings and the like," she actually laughed as she said this. How typical and appalling. Women are considered too volatile and problematic to bother studying. Well, of course we are.
The interesting thing is that she talked about the positive effects of estrogen on the prevention of Alzheimer's. Apparently this hormone plays a key role in keeping the brain functioning clearly. That and physical exercise. I have been on very low-dose estrogen for about 17 years and have often wondered whether to get off it. One day it's a wonder hormone, the next it causes breast cancer and now it wards off Alzheimer's??!!
Never mind, think I'll stay on it and keep bloody swimming.
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
More Shoe Talk
"Oh, what a great calendar!" I said, spying one devoted to shoes a couple of years ago in Ottawa. Happily, I found the same one out here last Fall and of course bought it for 2013. Definitely my kind of calendar, featuring a different shoe for every day of every month of the year.
They go back hundreds of years. One features a middle-eastern stilt pair with mother-of-pearl intarsia (intricate wood-work, had to look that one up), 1875, most are of women's footwear from the 50s, 60s, 70s and up. It's such fun to turn to a new month and see what they have, each beginning with a great quote from a fashion icon.
"The real proof of an elegant woman is what is on her feet," Christian Dior. "Shoes transform your body and attitude. They lift you physically and emotionally," Christian Louboutin. "Simplicity is the keynote of all true elegance," Coco Chanel. Not wanting to spoil my surprises throughout the year by looking ahead, I'll leave it at that.
The funny -- but not surprising -- thing is that when I look at the caption of a pair I like, they are always from the 60s and 80s. Shoe fashion and I parted company in the mid-eighties and except for the classics, I do not follow la mode. In January I admired at a pair of striped, linen pumps. The 60s. Another feather-print textile pump? The 80s. A gorgeous pink leather pump with a suede rose ornament? 1988. In February I adored an elegant embroidered canvas pump with a classic spike heel. 1962. March revealed a stunning abstract floral textile, along with a lovely black satin pair, adorned with rosettes. 1980 and 1990. April revealed a kidskin stiletto with lace print and another iridescent rhinestone evening pair, both 1960. For May, I am keen on only two pairs: an Oriental black and gold sandal, 2011(surprisingly) and a striped pieced-leather-and-snakeskin pump. 1980's.
So, obviously I am stuck in the classics of the past. Thing is, they never go out of style. I still have 75 pairs of 20 and 30 year-old shoes that I continue to wear because they remain magnificently in style.
Remember, you can get away with inexpensive accessories -- such as bright scarves and arresting earrings -- but you cannot get away with cheap shoes. Ever.
They go back hundreds of years. One features a middle-eastern stilt pair with mother-of-pearl intarsia (intricate wood-work, had to look that one up), 1875, most are of women's footwear from the 50s, 60s, 70s and up. It's such fun to turn to a new month and see what they have, each beginning with a great quote from a fashion icon.
"The real proof of an elegant woman is what is on her feet," Christian Dior. "Shoes transform your body and attitude. They lift you physically and emotionally," Christian Louboutin. "Simplicity is the keynote of all true elegance," Coco Chanel. Not wanting to spoil my surprises throughout the year by looking ahead, I'll leave it at that.
The funny -- but not surprising -- thing is that when I look at the caption of a pair I like, they are always from the 60s and 80s. Shoe fashion and I parted company in the mid-eighties and except for the classics, I do not follow la mode. In January I admired at a pair of striped, linen pumps. The 60s. Another feather-print textile pump? The 80s. A gorgeous pink leather pump with a suede rose ornament? 1988. In February I adored an elegant embroidered canvas pump with a classic spike heel. 1962. March revealed a stunning abstract floral textile, along with a lovely black satin pair, adorned with rosettes. 1980 and 1990. April revealed a kidskin stiletto with lace print and another iridescent rhinestone evening pair, both 1960. For May, I am keen on only two pairs: an Oriental black and gold sandal, 2011(surprisingly) and a striped pieced-leather-and-snakeskin pump. 1980's.
So, obviously I am stuck in the classics of the past. Thing is, they never go out of style. I still have 75 pairs of 20 and 30 year-old shoes that I continue to wear because they remain magnificently in style.
Remember, you can get away with inexpensive accessories -- such as bright scarves and arresting earrings -- but you cannot get away with cheap shoes. Ever.
Saturday, May 4, 2013
Easter with Reed and Jewellery
We had a fabulous Easter party with grandson Reed. Here are a few snaps.................
This is the Richard Robinson choker I referred to in an earlier blog (April 21, "I can't walk in these shoes") plus the amethyst earrings I wear with it.
Scott's Visit
Stepson Scott has been visiting for the past week. Here are a few snaps of our Banff visit. He had never been to Banff and was absolutely wowed by the mountains! These were taken at the Banff Springs Hotel................
Friday, May 3, 2013
Forget that
I couldn't agree more with Don Cherry. What are women doing in men's locker rooms?! To make an annoying, pointless point, I'd wager. Forget about it. Then we will have men in women's locker rooms, which we all know will make women howl in outrage. Of course it will.
Once again, women want it both ways. Typical of "The Movement".
Speaking of accomplished sports women, we were lunching at a sidewalk-facing table at 'Notable', a great restaurant in Bowness, when a woman approached. "I know that woman," I said. "Me too," said Scott and Brian. But we could not place her as she entered. "Cheryl Bernard," said the manager when we asked. "The skip for the Canadian Curling Team," he added. Oh yeah, that's who she is. By the way, she is gorgeous! Forty-six years old, she has won four Heart Trophies and was a silver medalist in the Olympics, sadly losing to Sweden. When I see her on 'Off The Record', hosted by Michael Landberg, I am always impressed by her wit and wisdom.
Stepson, Scott, is blown away by the energy in Calgary. He is thoroughly enjoying his visit with us and we are making the most of it.
Once again, women want it both ways. Typical of "The Movement".
Speaking of accomplished sports women, we were lunching at a sidewalk-facing table at 'Notable', a great restaurant in Bowness, when a woman approached. "I know that woman," I said. "Me too," said Scott and Brian. But we could not place her as she entered. "Cheryl Bernard," said the manager when we asked. "The skip for the Canadian Curling Team," he added. Oh yeah, that's who she is. By the way, she is gorgeous! Forty-six years old, she has won four Heart Trophies and was a silver medalist in the Olympics, sadly losing to Sweden. When I see her on 'Off The Record', hosted by Michael Landberg, I am always impressed by her wit and wisdom.
Stepson, Scott, is blown away by the energy in Calgary. He is thoroughly enjoying his visit with us and we are making the most of it.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
Breathtaking
The loom and they loom and they loom. Then, suddenly you're in them. The magnificent Rocky Mountains. You head west from flat Calgary and there they magnificently are. Never having visited Banff, stepson Scott's eyes bugged further and further from their sockets as we approached. "This is unbelievable," he stammered. Yes, the Canadian Rockies are breathtaking.
We were heading to Banff for lunch to celebrate my blank-6th birthday. How I am this old I have no idea!!??!! Dressed to the back teeth to deny the hideous number, I sank into a deep chair in the upstairs lounge. Ordered an Alberta beef burger and settled in to enjoy the moment. I have learned that even as I watch my weight, dreary and mind-numbing salad doesn't have to be on every blessed plate. I order something with fat or carbs and then just don't eat the carbs. The rest tastes yummy. But my stomach has shrunk to the point where I can hardly finish anything.
Today I put on a cute blue skirt I had purchased a few months ago -- proud that I could fit into it back then. Had to scrub it because it was falling off me. I swear, I am just dropping weight daily.
On the way home, I decided we would visit my favourite buffalo herd. Pulled up alongside the fence, turned the radio up on the country-and-western station and sure enough, they ambled over. They are beautiful beasts. Scott grabbed his camera and shot away. Buffalo? None in the Ottawa Valley. He was blown away.
When I got home there were a couple of messages waiting. One from stepdaughter Sarah and the other from daughter Susanne. "Geez, who is this French daughter," I wondered as I listened. The message was from her classroom, where she teaches French. What was next? A rousing rendition of 'Bonne Fete' in French from all her students. It was absolutely beautiful! They were all singing to me in French.
All-in-all it was a fabulous day.
We were heading to Banff for lunch to celebrate my blank-6th birthday. How I am this old I have no idea!!??!! Dressed to the back teeth to deny the hideous number, I sank into a deep chair in the upstairs lounge. Ordered an Alberta beef burger and settled in to enjoy the moment. I have learned that even as I watch my weight, dreary and mind-numbing salad doesn't have to be on every blessed plate. I order something with fat or carbs and then just don't eat the carbs. The rest tastes yummy. But my stomach has shrunk to the point where I can hardly finish anything.
Today I put on a cute blue skirt I had purchased a few months ago -- proud that I could fit into it back then. Had to scrub it because it was falling off me. I swear, I am just dropping weight daily.
On the way home, I decided we would visit my favourite buffalo herd. Pulled up alongside the fence, turned the radio up on the country-and-western station and sure enough, they ambled over. They are beautiful beasts. Scott grabbed his camera and shot away. Buffalo? None in the Ottawa Valley. He was blown away.
When I got home there were a couple of messages waiting. One from stepdaughter Sarah and the other from daughter Susanne. "Geez, who is this French daughter," I wondered as I listened. The message was from her classroom, where she teaches French. What was next? A rousing rendition of 'Bonne Fete' in French from all her students. It was absolutely beautiful! They were all singing to me in French.
All-in-all it was a fabulous day.
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