"I actually had to quit being a paramedic because I couldn't take what I used to see every day," said a public health nurse I know the other day. She was referring to a couple of Indian reservations she had to cover not far from here while suffering through back-breaking and depressing drudgery. It worked out for her because she went back to school and is now in a better job, but what she told me was shocking.
"I have seen cases where the parents feed their kids coffee grounds or toothpaste to make them sick. Then we have to take them to the hospital so they can go off to the casino." "You can't be serious," I said, shocked. "I wish I weren't. And you know that they get free eye glasses, well, they smash them so they can't drive and then get free taxi service to and from town until they get new ones."
Anecdotal I know, but these are actual incidents to which she was witness. There are, of course, successful bands out here, but there are way too many failures.
Sunday, June 30, 2013
Thursday, June 27, 2013
I'm just gonna put it out there..........
In all the coverage and scores of photos and television coverage of the flood here, I have not seen one ethnic face among the thousands of volunteers. They're all white.
Is it cultural? Everyone in hip-waders and masks, hoisting shovels and filling dumpsters is white. And everyone manning food stations and shelters is also white. Notwithstanding that Calgary is home to hundreds of thousands of other races, none seems to be involved in pitching in or boosting spirits. And the "natives"? They're exclusively helping their own -- or should I say waiting for someone else to do it. Shawn Atleo just arrived, hand-out-mouth-open, the usual deal. His first question was, "We're waiting for all levels of government to act (code for where's the money?)." Hey Shawn, why not roll up your expensive designer sleeves like everyone else?!
And don't dare call me racist. I am talking culture here, not race. But I am calling it.
Is it cultural? Everyone in hip-waders and masks, hoisting shovels and filling dumpsters is white. And everyone manning food stations and shelters is also white. Notwithstanding that Calgary is home to hundreds of thousands of other races, none seems to be involved in pitching in or boosting spirits. And the "natives"? They're exclusively helping their own -- or should I say waiting for someone else to do it. Shawn Atleo just arrived, hand-out-mouth-open, the usual deal. His first question was, "We're waiting for all levels of government to act (code for where's the money?)." Hey Shawn, why not roll up your expensive designer sleeves like everyone else?!
And don't dare call me racist. I am talking culture here, not race. But I am calling it.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
No, no, no
She actually said, "The cleanup has began." I nearly died. This from a CBC TV reporter who, presumably, was hired as a result of her qualifications. This person must have graduated from some kind of journalism school to have been interviewed in the first place!
How appalling. Has no one pointed out it's "begin, began, begun"? We used to play this game with the kids in the car, naming all the tenses of verbs, such as......
"Come, came, come. Show, showed, shown. Begin, began, begun. Fly, flew, flown. Take, took, taken. Speak, spoke, spoken. Run, ran, run. Eat, ate, eaten. Fall, fell, fallen. Swear, swore, sworn. Give, gave, given....I could go on. You get it. So many don't.
If you can't speak the Queen's English, step away from the camera.
How appalling. Has no one pointed out it's "begin, began, begun"? We used to play this game with the kids in the car, naming all the tenses of verbs, such as......
"Come, came, come. Show, showed, shown. Begin, began, begun. Fly, flew, flown. Take, took, taken. Speak, spoke, spoken. Run, ran, run. Eat, ate, eaten. Fall, fell, fallen. Swear, swore, sworn. Give, gave, given....I could go on. You get it. So many don't.
If you can't speak the Queen's English, step away from the camera.
More Leacock
From 'The Yahi-Bahi Oriental Society', 1914......
"He drank. That was all. There was no excess about it. Mr. Rasselyer-Brown, of course, began the day with an eye-opener -- and after all, what alert man does not wish his eyes well open in the morning? He followed it usually just before breakfast with a bracer -- and what wiser precaution can a business man take than to brace his breakfast? On his way to business he generally had his motor stop at the Grand Palaver for a moment, if it was a raw day, and dropped in and took something to keep out the damp. If is was a cold day he took something to keep out the cold, and if it was one of those clear, sunny days that are so dangerous to the system, he took whatever the bar-tender (a recognised health expert) suggested to tone the system up....Then he was braced and propped and toned up and his eyes had been opened and his brain cleared, till outside of very big business indeed few men were on a footing with him."
So hilarious! That's definitely how it was.
"But let it be repeated and carefully understood, -- there was no excess about Mr. Rasselyer-Brown's drinking. Indeed, whatever he might be compelled to take during the day, and at the Mausoleum Club in the evening, after his return from his club at night Mr. Rasselyer-Brown made it a fixed rule to take nothing. He might, perhaps, as he passed into the house, step into the dining-room and take a very small drink at the sideboard. But this he counted as part of the return itself, and not after it. And he might, if his brain were overly-fatigued, drop down later in the night in his pajamas and dressing-gown when the house was quiet, and compose his mind with a brandy and water. But this was not really a drink. Mr. Rasselyer-Brown called it a nip; and of course any man may need a nip at a time when he would scorn a drink."
Leacock is as fresh and relevant today as when he wrote his brilliant observations on life those many years ago.
"He drank. That was all. There was no excess about it. Mr. Rasselyer-Brown, of course, began the day with an eye-opener -- and after all, what alert man does not wish his eyes well open in the morning? He followed it usually just before breakfast with a bracer -- and what wiser precaution can a business man take than to brace his breakfast? On his way to business he generally had his motor stop at the Grand Palaver for a moment, if it was a raw day, and dropped in and took something to keep out the damp. If is was a cold day he took something to keep out the cold, and if it was one of those clear, sunny days that are so dangerous to the system, he took whatever the bar-tender (a recognised health expert) suggested to tone the system up....Then he was braced and propped and toned up and his eyes had been opened and his brain cleared, till outside of very big business indeed few men were on a footing with him."
So hilarious! That's definitely how it was.
"But let it be repeated and carefully understood, -- there was no excess about Mr. Rasselyer-Brown's drinking. Indeed, whatever he might be compelled to take during the day, and at the Mausoleum Club in the evening, after his return from his club at night Mr. Rasselyer-Brown made it a fixed rule to take nothing. He might, perhaps, as he passed into the house, step into the dining-room and take a very small drink at the sideboard. But this he counted as part of the return itself, and not after it. And he might, if his brain were overly-fatigued, drop down later in the night in his pajamas and dressing-gown when the house was quiet, and compose his mind with a brandy and water. But this was not really a drink. Mr. Rasselyer-Brown called it a nip; and of course any man may need a nip at a time when he would scorn a drink."
Leacock is as fresh and relevant today as when he wrote his brilliant observations on life those many years ago.
No clue
Listening to 'Q' on CBC this morning, they did a whole piece on "MILFs". Could I figure out what that stood for? No clue -- even though clearly they were talking about hot, middle-aged mothers. The two women weighing in were on opposite sides of the debate. Frankly, I was with the older one who had no problem with the nomenclature.
Finally the penny dropped. It stands for "Mothers I'd Like to F--k". Wow! I had actually never heard the term -- probably because no one has ever called me that -- at least not to my face. They even got into "GILFs" -- Grandmothers I'd Like to...........enough said, you get the idea.
Apparently, a radio interviewer in BC was fired for asking Premier Christie Clark if she were insulted that many young men referred to her as a "MILF". "I'll take that as a compliment," she replied, laughing. The dumb station fired the guy. Don't get that at all??
Figuring if CBC can do a whole 15 minutes on the subject, I can safely pen a blog. So I did a little research and learned the term is usually used by young men, often when referring to a friend's mother. Whoa! You'd have to have quite the nerve to tell your buddy his mother was a "MILF".
Who's the hottest "MILF" around? No question, Heidi Klum, hands down.
Finally the penny dropped. It stands for "Mothers I'd Like to F--k". Wow! I had actually never heard the term -- probably because no one has ever called me that -- at least not to my face. They even got into "GILFs" -- Grandmothers I'd Like to...........enough said, you get the idea.
Apparently, a radio interviewer in BC was fired for asking Premier Christie Clark if she were insulted that many young men referred to her as a "MILF". "I'll take that as a compliment," she replied, laughing. The dumb station fired the guy. Don't get that at all??
Figuring if CBC can do a whole 15 minutes on the subject, I can safely pen a blog. So I did a little research and learned the term is usually used by young men, often when referring to a friend's mother. Whoa! You'd have to have quite the nerve to tell your buddy his mother was a "MILF".
Who's the hottest "MILF" around? No question, Heidi Klum, hands down.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Worth a re-read
Stephen Leacock. Picked up 'Arcadian Adventures with the Idle Rich' yesterday. Having read it many times, I never cease to relish in Leacock's genius. One story, entitled 'The Arrested Philanthropy', features university characters called "President Boomer, Professors Dr. Boyster, Withers, Shottat, Gildas and Dean Elberberry Foible". The law firm is called "Skinyer and Beatem" and the hotel "The Grand Palaver" -- all perfect names for the piece.
"At the least sign of restlessness they doused him with Latin," reads one passage, referring to how the president manipulated a potential financial donor into giving. "At Plutoria, they now taught everything. They had lectures on Confucianism, Mohammedanism, Buddhism, with an optional course on atheism for students in the final year." Nothing's changed.
"He was shown professors who could handle the first year, but were powerless with the second; others who were all right with the second, but broke down with the third, while others could handle the third, but collapsed with the fourth. There were professors who were all right in their own subject, but perfectly impossible outside of it; others who were so occupied outside of their own subject they were useless inside of it; others who knew their subject, but couldn't lecture; and others again who lectured admirably, but didn't know their subject."
A typical university of today entirely.
Leacock, born in Hampshire, England in 1869, emigrated with his family and settled in a farm north of Toronto -- probably a very built-up suburb now. He was, however, not just a humourist. The author of a number of books on economics, he chaired that department at McGill until his retirement in 1936. From 1910 on, he published a volume of humour almost every year. Unsurprisingly, his two favourite writers were Mark Twain and Charles Dickens and I'll bet Oscar Wilde was somewhere on that list.
I plan to enjoy the other stories in this book, namely 'A Little Dinner With Mr. Lucullus Fyshe', 'The Wizard of Finance', 'The Yahi-Bahi Oriental Society of Mrs. Rasselyer-Brown', 'The Love Story of Mr. Peter Spillikins', 'The Rival Churches of St. Asaph and St. Osoph', 'The Ministrations of the Rev. Uttermust Dumfarthing' and 'The Great Fight for Clean Government'.
The last I am sure will be as relevant today as when penned.
"At the least sign of restlessness they doused him with Latin," reads one passage, referring to how the president manipulated a potential financial donor into giving. "At Plutoria, they now taught everything. They had lectures on Confucianism, Mohammedanism, Buddhism, with an optional course on atheism for students in the final year." Nothing's changed.
"He was shown professors who could handle the first year, but were powerless with the second; others who were all right with the second, but broke down with the third, while others could handle the third, but collapsed with the fourth. There were professors who were all right in their own subject, but perfectly impossible outside of it; others who were so occupied outside of their own subject they were useless inside of it; others who knew their subject, but couldn't lecture; and others again who lectured admirably, but didn't know their subject."
A typical university of today entirely.
Leacock, born in Hampshire, England in 1869, emigrated with his family and settled in a farm north of Toronto -- probably a very built-up suburb now. He was, however, not just a humourist. The author of a number of books on economics, he chaired that department at McGill until his retirement in 1936. From 1910 on, he published a volume of humour almost every year. Unsurprisingly, his two favourite writers were Mark Twain and Charles Dickens and I'll bet Oscar Wilde was somewhere on that list.
I plan to enjoy the other stories in this book, namely 'A Little Dinner With Mr. Lucullus Fyshe', 'The Wizard of Finance', 'The Yahi-Bahi Oriental Society of Mrs. Rasselyer-Brown', 'The Love Story of Mr. Peter Spillikins', 'The Rival Churches of St. Asaph and St. Osoph', 'The Ministrations of the Rev. Uttermust Dumfarthing' and 'The Great Fight for Clean Government'.
The last I am sure will be as relevant today as when penned.
What's new?
"Aboriginals feel neglected amid the devastation", reads a headline in the Herald today. Well, what's new? These are people who take, take, take. They never seem to give back. It's always, "where's the money?!"
The flood situation finds them yelling more of the same. "The media only started showing up yesterday," complained a spokesman for the Siksika. What the h-ll do they want with the media? Well, more publicity for their unceasing demands. It's not enough that Premier Redford promised all necessary financial assistance for natives. "Let's just hope she follows through," complained one.
As I have blogged before, natives do not feel or act like Canadians. But they sure want the money. Incidentally, I hate using the word "native" to describe these people because let's not forget, they are not "native" to this country. They didn't just poof into existence from outer space. No, they came from Asia when there was a land bridge between the two continents. So, we're all immigrants here. Canada is not "their" land, it belongs to all of us.
"I am a status Indian," a friend I have known for many years said one day, out of the blue. "Really? I had no idea, but now I see it in your features," I replied, startled. See, that's how it should be. Why should I have known this woman was a status Indian? What's the point? She worked at a very good job, paid her taxes and lived like any other regular Canadian citizen. She did not go around beating a sensational drum about who she was, any more than I go around beating a drum about being of Irish extraction -- with a little Mohawk thrown in for good (or bad) measure. I repeat, what's the point?
It's all getting very old.
The flood situation finds them yelling more of the same. "The media only started showing up yesterday," complained a spokesman for the Siksika. What the h-ll do they want with the media? Well, more publicity for their unceasing demands. It's not enough that Premier Redford promised all necessary financial assistance for natives. "Let's just hope she follows through," complained one.
As I have blogged before, natives do not feel or act like Canadians. But they sure want the money. Incidentally, I hate using the word "native" to describe these people because let's not forget, they are not "native" to this country. They didn't just poof into existence from outer space. No, they came from Asia when there was a land bridge between the two continents. So, we're all immigrants here. Canada is not "their" land, it belongs to all of us.
"I am a status Indian," a friend I have known for many years said one day, out of the blue. "Really? I had no idea, but now I see it in your features," I replied, startled. See, that's how it should be. Why should I have known this woman was a status Indian? What's the point? She worked at a very good job, paid her taxes and lived like any other regular Canadian citizen. She did not go around beating a sensational drum about who she was, any more than I go around beating a drum about being of Irish extraction -- with a little Mohawk thrown in for good (or bad) measure. I repeat, what's the point?
It's all getting very old.
Monday, June 24, 2013
Giants
Bobby Blue Bland died today. He was 83. What a giant blues singer. Put me in mind of Hound Dog Taylor, a fabulous blues singer and guitarist I saw at the El Mocambo several times in Toronto in the early '70s. These guys were giants. By the way, the El Mocambo was the same club the Rolling Stones played when Margaret Trudeau was being naughty. You had to walk up a flight of stairs to get to the venue. Must have been a complete fire-trap.
Seeing Hound Dog Taylor, born Theodore Roosevelt Taylor in Natchez Mississippi in 1915, I knew he was a genius. He died at 60, but I remember talking to him at the El Mocambo after a set and sadly, he looked 80. He inspired George Thorogood, imagine that. Life on the club circuit for these guys was very rough.
Bobby Blue Bland? Google him and you will learn he was also a master blues singer. He made it to 83.
Rare.
Seeing Hound Dog Taylor, born Theodore Roosevelt Taylor in Natchez Mississippi in 1915, I knew he was a genius. He died at 60, but I remember talking to him at the El Mocambo after a set and sadly, he looked 80. He inspired George Thorogood, imagine that. Life on the club circuit for these guys was very rough.
Bobby Blue Bland? Google him and you will learn he was also a master blues singer. He made it to 83.
Rare.
Sunday, June 23, 2013
Cheap
Everyone who purports to be "allergic" to scents is actually allergic to cheap scents. Let's get it right. Cheap perfume is nauseating because it is made from extracts, not the real stuff. Perfume made from extracts is chemical and nauseating.
Had that confirmed this evening when I grabbed a bite at our local watering hole. Being on my own, I was sick of eating the same casserole three evenings in a row, so I went to 'Joey Crowfoot' and sat at the bar with a magazine. All was well until a party of three women -- grandmother, daughter and granddaughter -- sat down beside me. Suddenly, my nostrils flared. Yuck! Cheap perfume was seated to my right. It filled my nostrils and sickened me. You could not even breathe in without gagging.
I have worn Oscar de la Renta for 40 years and no one has ever complained. "No, I don't smell a thing," said my sister-in-law in Ottawa, when she told me she was allergic to scents. "Well, I am wearing Oscar de la Renta, do every day and you have no reaction?" None, she affirmed. See, that's the deal. Oscar is very expensive because it's the real thing -- beautiful and natural. That's why she had no reaction.
Cheap is cheap. Expensive is expensive. Buy the expensive and no one will have a problem.
Met a new bartender at 'Joey'' this evening. "How do you do," I said. "Haven't met you before." "No, I just started." "Well, I know all the staff here and I am pleased to meet you. What do you do outside of bartending?" He then proceeded to tell me all about the nutrition degree he was completing. Facinated, I bored him with my theories about sugar, water, thyroid problems and other stuff that I believe in. What did he do? Comped half my bill.
See, that's how it works.
Had that confirmed this evening when I grabbed a bite at our local watering hole. Being on my own, I was sick of eating the same casserole three evenings in a row, so I went to 'Joey Crowfoot' and sat at the bar with a magazine. All was well until a party of three women -- grandmother, daughter and granddaughter -- sat down beside me. Suddenly, my nostrils flared. Yuck! Cheap perfume was seated to my right. It filled my nostrils and sickened me. You could not even breathe in without gagging.
I have worn Oscar de la Renta for 40 years and no one has ever complained. "No, I don't smell a thing," said my sister-in-law in Ottawa, when she told me she was allergic to scents. "Well, I am wearing Oscar de la Renta, do every day and you have no reaction?" None, she affirmed. See, that's the deal. Oscar is very expensive because it's the real thing -- beautiful and natural. That's why she had no reaction.
Cheap is cheap. Expensive is expensive. Buy the expensive and no one will have a problem.
Met a new bartender at 'Joey'' this evening. "How do you do," I said. "Haven't met you before." "No, I just started." "Well, I know all the staff here and I am pleased to meet you. What do you do outside of bartending?" He then proceeded to tell me all about the nutrition degree he was completing. Facinated, I bored him with my theories about sugar, water, thyroid problems and other stuff that I believe in. What did he do? Comped half my bill.
See, that's how it works.
Ice cubes
Used to have an ice-maker in our old fridge, but no longer here in Calgary. Just one more thing to go wrong, as I experienced with my JennAir fridge of a few years ago.
But I have to say, JennAir is fantastic about service. After calling the dealer through which we had bought the appliance about a thousand times (good old "bad" Ottawa), I finally called the 1-800-JennAir number. "May I help you?" the agent asked in a deep southern accent. Knowing I was somewhere in the South, I immediately anticipated, well, no help. Wrong. She quickly looked up my service record and said, "Oh, Mrs. Marley-Clarke, I would be so frustrated about what you have gone through with your ice-maker. Just hold on a minute while I set up an appointment for you with our regional service manager."
Whaaaat? I hadn't even opened my mouth, but she knew all about my mess. Within a matter of minutes, she had set up the appointment, checked to see if it were alright with me and booked the repair. Obviously, this phone agent had been authorized to actually use common sense and approve repairs to a certain dollar limit. I was very, very impressed. For $200, JennAir has received countless raves from me when I recount this story. Very good advertising.
Back to ice. I now have a hard plastic bin in my freezer which I fill with cubes from my old-fashioned trays, just like my darling father did. He was a chemist and physicist and knew how to make ice. I know this sounds ridiculous, but he taught me how to eject cubes from the trays without leaving behind all the leftover bits and chunks sticking to them. You turn the trays over and run them under lukewarm water, which expands the plastic, allowing the cubes to pop right out. Physics at work. Brilliant.
I vividly remember him doing this for two days before my parents held one of their neighbourhood bridge parties. Over and over he would fill a plastic bin in the fridge with perfect ice.
Nothing cheesy or skimpy about it. When you came to our place, your beverage was well-iced.
But I have to say, JennAir is fantastic about service. After calling the dealer through which we had bought the appliance about a thousand times (good old "bad" Ottawa), I finally called the 1-800-JennAir number. "May I help you?" the agent asked in a deep southern accent. Knowing I was somewhere in the South, I immediately anticipated, well, no help. Wrong. She quickly looked up my service record and said, "Oh, Mrs. Marley-Clarke, I would be so frustrated about what you have gone through with your ice-maker. Just hold on a minute while I set up an appointment for you with our regional service manager."
Whaaaat? I hadn't even opened my mouth, but she knew all about my mess. Within a matter of minutes, she had set up the appointment, checked to see if it were alright with me and booked the repair. Obviously, this phone agent had been authorized to actually use common sense and approve repairs to a certain dollar limit. I was very, very impressed. For $200, JennAir has received countless raves from me when I recount this story. Very good advertising.
Back to ice. I now have a hard plastic bin in my freezer which I fill with cubes from my old-fashioned trays, just like my darling father did. He was a chemist and physicist and knew how to make ice. I know this sounds ridiculous, but he taught me how to eject cubes from the trays without leaving behind all the leftover bits and chunks sticking to them. You turn the trays over and run them under lukewarm water, which expands the plastic, allowing the cubes to pop right out. Physics at work. Brilliant.
I vividly remember him doing this for two days before my parents held one of their neighbourhood bridge parties. Over and over he would fill a plastic bin in the fridge with perfect ice.
Nothing cheesy or skimpy about it. When you came to our place, your beverage was well-iced.
Saturday, June 22, 2013
A complete disconnect
That's what it's like for us during the Alberta Flood Epic. Calgary covers a lot of real estate and we live in the northwest, way up Nose Hill, where life is as normal as normal can be. Watching TV coverage of the Calgary floods, I can't even relate.
"I live in that city?" I say aloud to the screen. No, I don't seem to. I am as concerned about the floods as people in other parts of the country. I can get downtown in 20 minutes, but it might as well be 2,000 miles away in terms of what's going on here versus there.
A number of friends and family have contacted us, wondering if we are OK. We are. All the flooding is downtown and in low-lying areas where the Bow and the Elbow run -- or rush -- at the moment. In fact, I think I am actually experiencing 'survivor guilt' because we have been completely unaffected by the deluge. Every morning I go to the Y, swim as usual, shop, dine..........daily life continues normally. In spite of the hoarders, we have been assured that Calgary water is clean and safe. How they manage that, I have no idea?
I am a tad concerned about my firefighter son-in-law, who is dealing with the situation. But he and his colleagues are so competently-trained, I really have no serious worries. People have started returning to previously-evacuated areas -- all good. But the downtown is truly a disaster and won't be accessible until Wednesday at the earliest. As I have said, I am blown away by Mayor Nenshi and the emergency personnel who have gone way above and beyond the call.
"I live in that city?" I say aloud to the screen. No, I don't seem to. I am as concerned about the floods as people in other parts of the country. I can get downtown in 20 minutes, but it might as well be 2,000 miles away in terms of what's going on here versus there.
A number of friends and family have contacted us, wondering if we are OK. We are. All the flooding is downtown and in low-lying areas where the Bow and the Elbow run -- or rush -- at the moment. In fact, I think I am actually experiencing 'survivor guilt' because we have been completely unaffected by the deluge. Every morning I go to the Y, swim as usual, shop, dine..........daily life continues normally. In spite of the hoarders, we have been assured that Calgary water is clean and safe. How they manage that, I have no idea?
I am a tad concerned about my firefighter son-in-law, who is dealing with the situation. But he and his colleagues are so competently-trained, I really have no serious worries. People have started returning to previously-evacuated areas -- all good. But the downtown is truly a disaster and won't be accessible until Wednesday at the earliest. As I have said, I am blown away by Mayor Nenshi and the emergency personnel who have gone way above and beyond the call.
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Calgary under siege
One hundred thousand residents have been evacuated from 25 low-lying residential areas of this city. If you live in the south anywhere near the Bow or Elbow Rivers, you're outta there. It's eery.
Police cars and fire trucks are everywhere. Many neighbouring towns have been completely evacuated -- Canmore, Bragg Creek, parts of Okotoks, to name a few. People are stranded on roofs everywhere. Near Banff, both the TransCanada # 1 and # 1-A are flooded and closed completely.
Luckily, we live in the northwest up Nose Hill, about 23 klicks from both rivers and are fine -- so far. But the rain has not let up, so no one is out of the woods. We have had more than 150 millimetres in the past 36 hours and there's more to come. Travelling on a bridge over the Bow this afternoon, I was shocked at how high it was -- barely below the pavement. The parks on both shores were completely flooded.
What's next? But I have to commend the City Fathers for their excellent handling of this emergency. Bulletins are regular and the radio stations interrupt constantly with news of the latest evacuation orders. The mayor is returning early from a conference and the premier has come back from New York and will fly to a stranded community at 11 p.m.
No one has been killed or injured, thanks to the competence of emergency personnel -- people such as my son-in-law. But in petty moments, I still worry about ridiculous things, like my bloody flowers.
Talk about shallow.
Police cars and fire trucks are everywhere. Many neighbouring towns have been completely evacuated -- Canmore, Bragg Creek, parts of Okotoks, to name a few. People are stranded on roofs everywhere. Near Banff, both the TransCanada # 1 and # 1-A are flooded and closed completely.
Luckily, we live in the northwest up Nose Hill, about 23 klicks from both rivers and are fine -- so far. But the rain has not let up, so no one is out of the woods. We have had more than 150 millimetres in the past 36 hours and there's more to come. Travelling on a bridge over the Bow this afternoon, I was shocked at how high it was -- barely below the pavement. The parks on both shores were completely flooded.
What's next? But I have to commend the City Fathers for their excellent handling of this emergency. Bulletins are regular and the radio stations interrupt constantly with news of the latest evacuation orders. The mayor is returning early from a conference and the premier has come back from New York and will fly to a stranded community at 11 p.m.
No one has been killed or injured, thanks to the competence of emergency personnel -- people such as my son-in-law. But in petty moments, I still worry about ridiculous things, like my bloody flowers.
Talk about shallow.
Of course she's not
Heard the familiar, but rare, clack-clack-clack of high heels on the tiled locker-room floor this morning. Into view stepped a young woman with a gorgeous pair of black-patent stilettos. "Great shoes," I said as I walked by. "Nice to see a Calgary woman in a pair of stylish heels." She turned and thanked me. It was then I caught the European accent.
"Oh, you're not from Calgary," I laughed. "No I am from Hungary." Of course you are, hence the fashionable footwear. "I love shoes," she said. "So do I," I replied. We agreed they make an outfit and she looked great. "Can you imagine a pair of flats with this dress?" she said. Certainly not.
The rest of the women within earshot dressing for work, but not donning high heels, ignored our conversation, pretending they couldn't hear it.
On another note, had occasion to spend most of the day in the emergency department of Foothills Hospital (don't ask why). What a zoo, but the staff are superb. It's the patients who leave a little to be desired. The guy across the room had been whacked in the head with an axe during a drunken brawl. He was obviously still drunk. The fact that he was native underscored the mess these people are in. But he was chatting away with the nurses and doctors as it he had nothing more than a scratch. Wait 'til he sobers up.
Another native was unconscious on a stretcher, waiting for a bed. He looked as if he'd been punched up pretty badly. Then there was the young female heroin addict (white) in the next bed who was back again after an earlier "episode" a week ago. You can't help but overhear, curtains being the only "walls". She was totally out-of-it and ripping through tax dollars like sixty.
All these patients had been brought in by police, who had to stay around for hours some reason. EMS was there too, giving these acute cases the most time and attention. Your tax dollars at waste, folks. One of the nurses filled me in on the horror stories that show up every day. People with the sniffles, people who are constipated, people who have a cold, people with mild flu, people with headaches. It's unreal! And here's me, hesitating about going there. Was our case severe enough? Would we be wasting their time? Turns out we had to be there, but everyone else's ailments were either self-inflicted or not serious.
"Your tests all came back negative and your CT scan showed nothing," said one doctor to a woman who had back pain. "We're discharging you." "But my back still hurts," she wailed. OMG, was all I could think when contemplating what her visit must have cost.
In spite of it all, the staff were absolutely top-drawer.
"Oh, you're not from Calgary," I laughed. "No I am from Hungary." Of course you are, hence the fashionable footwear. "I love shoes," she said. "So do I," I replied. We agreed they make an outfit and she looked great. "Can you imagine a pair of flats with this dress?" she said. Certainly not.
The rest of the women within earshot dressing for work, but not donning high heels, ignored our conversation, pretending they couldn't hear it.
On another note, had occasion to spend most of the day in the emergency department of Foothills Hospital (don't ask why). What a zoo, but the staff are superb. It's the patients who leave a little to be desired. The guy across the room had been whacked in the head with an axe during a drunken brawl. He was obviously still drunk. The fact that he was native underscored the mess these people are in. But he was chatting away with the nurses and doctors as it he had nothing more than a scratch. Wait 'til he sobers up.
Another native was unconscious on a stretcher, waiting for a bed. He looked as if he'd been punched up pretty badly. Then there was the young female heroin addict (white) in the next bed who was back again after an earlier "episode" a week ago. You can't help but overhear, curtains being the only "walls". She was totally out-of-it and ripping through tax dollars like sixty.
All these patients had been brought in by police, who had to stay around for hours some reason. EMS was there too, giving these acute cases the most time and attention. Your tax dollars at waste, folks. One of the nurses filled me in on the horror stories that show up every day. People with the sniffles, people who are constipated, people who have a cold, people with mild flu, people with headaches. It's unreal! And here's me, hesitating about going there. Was our case severe enough? Would we be wasting their time? Turns out we had to be there, but everyone else's ailments were either self-inflicted or not serious.
"Your tests all came back negative and your CT scan showed nothing," said one doctor to a woman who had back pain. "We're discharging you." "But my back still hurts," she wailed. OMG, was all I could think when contemplating what her visit must have cost.
In spite of it all, the staff were absolutely top-drawer.
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Whatever................
The wind is blustering, the trees are blowing over, the furnace is blasting (yes, I kid you not) and my flowers are screaming! On yeah, and did I mention it's June 19th? In Calgary? Did I add the weather sucks?
It seriously does suck. We're coasting into July and the furnace is on. There is something terribly wrong with this picture. I brag about our zone-three flowers "hardening off" because of severe weather conditions, but they only "harden off" for 10 minutes before the snow flies. The poor darlings. I almost cry when I look at them each morning, so sad, struggling and bereft are they.
"It's environmental conditions," summed-up the Davey Tree guy yesterday when he came to assess our backyard shade provider. Last Spring Davey came and fertilized our lone tree and I summoned them back this year. Man, other than Prairie grasses, everything green and verdant gasps for life.
My late mother swore by Davey Tree. Think I have blogged this before, but she always said, "Never use anyone but Davey." She was right. They are the best. So, I will have them do their thing and save our stressed backyard tree once again. Living atop a hill with a lot of wind, we have no choice but to pamper that precious shade tree.
Now, if we could only get a bit of sun.................
It seriously does suck. We're coasting into July and the furnace is on. There is something terribly wrong with this picture. I brag about our zone-three flowers "hardening off" because of severe weather conditions, but they only "harden off" for 10 minutes before the snow flies. The poor darlings. I almost cry when I look at them each morning, so sad, struggling and bereft are they.
"It's environmental conditions," summed-up the Davey Tree guy yesterday when he came to assess our backyard shade provider. Last Spring Davey came and fertilized our lone tree and I summoned them back this year. Man, other than Prairie grasses, everything green and verdant gasps for life.
My late mother swore by Davey Tree. Think I have blogged this before, but she always said, "Never use anyone but Davey." She was right. They are the best. So, I will have them do their thing and save our stressed backyard tree once again. Living atop a hill with a lot of wind, we have no choice but to pamper that precious shade tree.
Now, if we could only get a bit of sun.................
Monday, June 17, 2013
An absolutely brilliant movie
Happened upon 'Goin' Down the Road' this evening. What a brilliant movie. Had not seen it for 43 years. Still a superb movie. Director Don Shebib did a masterful job capturing the reality of Toronto for two guys from Nova Scotia trying to make a go of it.
They don't, of course.
But everything about the movie was perfect. The filming, the starkness, the sound, the black-and-white, the dialogue. It almost seemed like a documentary, so real was it. I remember seeing it in Toronto in 1970 at a theatre on Yonge, just south of Bloor. Walking out, I saw one of the stars, Paul Bradley, smiling at everyone as we exited. Weird, I thought. I didn`t even recognize him until I thought about it later, but it was he. Very bizarre he was there. He died of alcoholism a few years ago. Sad.
Listening to the soundtrack, I thought I recognized the singer. When the credits rolled, of course, my old buddy Bruce Cockburn was singing 'Goin' Down the Road'. I understand Shebib made a sequel last year. Not sure I could watch it, the original being so perfect.
No one but a Canadian could possibly appreciate 'Goin' Down the Road'.
They don't, of course.
But everything about the movie was perfect. The filming, the starkness, the sound, the black-and-white, the dialogue. It almost seemed like a documentary, so real was it. I remember seeing it in Toronto in 1970 at a theatre on Yonge, just south of Bloor. Walking out, I saw one of the stars, Paul Bradley, smiling at everyone as we exited. Weird, I thought. I didn`t even recognize him until I thought about it later, but it was he. Very bizarre he was there. He died of alcoholism a few years ago. Sad.
Listening to the soundtrack, I thought I recognized the singer. When the credits rolled, of course, my old buddy Bruce Cockburn was singing 'Goin' Down the Road'. I understand Shebib made a sequel last year. Not sure I could watch it, the original being so perfect.
No one but a Canadian could possibly appreciate 'Goin' Down the Road'.
Another Montreal mayor in the slammer
Why are we surprised? Quebec and Montreal politics have been criminal for generations. Now Mayor Michael Applebaum has been arrested for corruption, breach of trust, theft.........whatever. The farthest back I can remember about corrupt Montreal Mayors was Camilien Houde -- a notorious office-holder in the '30s and '40s.
When King George VI and Queen Elizabeth visited Montreal in 1939, the crowds went wild. Houde turned to the King and said, "You know, Your Majesty, some of this is for you." Other famous quotes? When Elizabeth and Philip visited Canada in 1951, Houde said, "I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart and my wife's bottom too."
At a Grey Cup game in the early 50s he said at the kickoff during an interview, "Anytime you want your balls kicked off, let me know."
Every Friday, the steps of City Hall in Old Montreal were lined with "ladies of the night", who visited to give a donation to the mayor. Every Friday! He wore elegant white, three-piece suits, spats and straw bowlers. The guy had style.
When King George VI and Queen Elizabeth visited Montreal in 1939, the crowds went wild. Houde turned to the King and said, "You know, Your Majesty, some of this is for you." Other famous quotes? When Elizabeth and Philip visited Canada in 1951, Houde said, "I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart and my wife's bottom too."
At a Grey Cup game in the early 50s he said at the kickoff during an interview, "Anytime you want your balls kicked off, let me know."
Every Friday, the steps of City Hall in Old Montreal were lined with "ladies of the night", who visited to give a donation to the mayor. Every Friday! He wore elegant white, three-piece suits, spats and straw bowlers. The guy had style.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Calgary is a parking lot
Found that out today when we ventured to Okotoks, just south of Calgary, to check out the Calgary Polo Club. One of the most famous in the world, the club is renowned, so I thought it would be elaborate and full of people. But no, it is just a big field and a bunch of barns. In fact, except for the magnificent horses grazing here and there, it was deserted.
We were doing a reconnoitre in advance of an event we have to attend. Getting there was a complete mess! Who would imagine Okotoks would have a traffic jam?! On the way back, decided to take MacLeod Trail. Another parking lot. If road work is a sign of prosperity, then Calgary is booming! Took us an hour to go two kilometres. All in all, travelling a few miles out of and back into Calgary took us the entire day!
On another note, just listened to a great song by the wonderful Jeff Healey. This genius died of eye cancer in 2008 at the tender age of 41. B and I went to one of his concerts in Ottawa at the Arts Centre* and marvelled at his mesmerizing stage presence. He played the guitar horizontally on his knees, but every now and then stood up and danced around -- to the loving cheers of his adoring audience.
He was fabulous. What a loss.
*The Arts Centre is one of the most notorious anti-women bathroom venues I have ever had the misfortune to have to use. At intermission, the line up for the women's hits Sparks Street, while the men's is non-existent. Spotting my family doctor one evening, I asked for a note to permit me to use the men's facility. He just laughed, as he breezingly sailed into the men's. But seriously, it's ridiculous! What the hell are we doing in there?! Now I understand the building code has been revamped and many more women's washrooms are mandatory. About time.
Before we left Ottawa, I told B that unless he bought box seats that would permit me to go to the loo anytime I wanted, I would not set foot in the place. He did. So, for the last couple of years I enjoyed the comfort of a deserted women's washroom. The only way to fly.
We were doing a reconnoitre in advance of an event we have to attend. Getting there was a complete mess! Who would imagine Okotoks would have a traffic jam?! On the way back, decided to take MacLeod Trail. Another parking lot. If road work is a sign of prosperity, then Calgary is booming! Took us an hour to go two kilometres. All in all, travelling a few miles out of and back into Calgary took us the entire day!
On another note, just listened to a great song by the wonderful Jeff Healey. This genius died of eye cancer in 2008 at the tender age of 41. B and I went to one of his concerts in Ottawa at the Arts Centre* and marvelled at his mesmerizing stage presence. He played the guitar horizontally on his knees, but every now and then stood up and danced around -- to the loving cheers of his adoring audience.
He was fabulous. What a loss.
*The Arts Centre is one of the most notorious anti-women bathroom venues I have ever had the misfortune to have to use. At intermission, the line up for the women's hits Sparks Street, while the men's is non-existent. Spotting my family doctor one evening, I asked for a note to permit me to use the men's facility. He just laughed, as he breezingly sailed into the men's. But seriously, it's ridiculous! What the hell are we doing in there?! Now I understand the building code has been revamped and many more women's washrooms are mandatory. About time.
Before we left Ottawa, I told B that unless he bought box seats that would permit me to go to the loo anytime I wanted, I would not set foot in the place. He did. So, for the last couple of years I enjoyed the comfort of a deserted women's washroom. The only way to fly.
Second-guessed myself
What hat should I wear to the English tea? The large or the small brimmed? Couldn't decide, but a hat I was going to wear. "Oh, they'll say, 'who does she think she is'", said L at the pool yesterday when I told her about the event. She was talking about the average poorly, under-dressed Calgarian.
Yes, that's right. In Calgary if you wear anything other than a cowboy hat you're pompous. In Ottawa, however, if you wear a cowboy hat you're pompous. So I started to wonder about the hat. The occasion was a high tea at The Ranchmen's Club, in honour of the 100th anniversary of the erection of the present building, to which the British grandsons of one of the founders had been invited. "Just bring it in the car and if women are wearing hats, put it on," advised B.
Did I do that? No. Didn't bring one at all and as I entered the room was confronted with a roomful of hats -- none of which was as gorgeous as most of mine. Dumb. This blog is not called "The View from Hats and Heels" for nothing and for the life of me, can't understand how I backed off?! Next time I see L at the pool, going to blame her.
As usual, the event was perfect. Little crustless sandwiches, scones with clotted cream, chocolates, tea....you name it and of course, champagne. "My dear, could I speak to you?" an elderly woman asked. "I hope I'm not offending you, but I just wanted to say that it's great to see a woman in high heels with beautiful legs." I was flabbergasted. Now, I do know that my legs (from the knees down) are still pretty good. Plus, I don't have "cankles" and my feet are still in very good shape. Hey, my legs are the reason I still wear high heels! But she went on: "And the fact you have let your hair go grey and cut it short is another plus," she added. "Most women dye it way past their due date."
Too funny. Wore a jacket I hadn't been able to properly fit into before I lost the weight, about which a past-club-president said, "What an elegant jacket." Score another for the old broads! Never let them see the whites of your eyes, I say.
I learned a lot of history about the club, thanks to the research done by staff and the speeches made. It began in a railway car, progressed to a house and then to the present-day magnificent premises. The only untoward event of the afternoon was when one of the British brothers collapsed from exhaustion. In came the paramedics and the fire department and out he was taken on a stretcher.
No one seemed to miss a beat, collective concern notwithstanding.
Yes, that's right. In Calgary if you wear anything other than a cowboy hat you're pompous. In Ottawa, however, if you wear a cowboy hat you're pompous. So I started to wonder about the hat. The occasion was a high tea at The Ranchmen's Club, in honour of the 100th anniversary of the erection of the present building, to which the British grandsons of one of the founders had been invited. "Just bring it in the car and if women are wearing hats, put it on," advised B.
Did I do that? No. Didn't bring one at all and as I entered the room was confronted with a roomful of hats -- none of which was as gorgeous as most of mine. Dumb. This blog is not called "The View from Hats and Heels" for nothing and for the life of me, can't understand how I backed off?! Next time I see L at the pool, going to blame her.
As usual, the event was perfect. Little crustless sandwiches, scones with clotted cream, chocolates, tea....you name it and of course, champagne. "My dear, could I speak to you?" an elderly woman asked. "I hope I'm not offending you, but I just wanted to say that it's great to see a woman in high heels with beautiful legs." I was flabbergasted. Now, I do know that my legs (from the knees down) are still pretty good. Plus, I don't have "cankles" and my feet are still in very good shape. Hey, my legs are the reason I still wear high heels! But she went on: "And the fact you have let your hair go grey and cut it short is another plus," she added. "Most women dye it way past their due date."
Too funny. Wore a jacket I hadn't been able to properly fit into before I lost the weight, about which a past-club-president said, "What an elegant jacket." Score another for the old broads! Never let them see the whites of your eyes, I say.
I learned a lot of history about the club, thanks to the research done by staff and the speeches made. It began in a railway car, progressed to a house and then to the present-day magnificent premises. The only untoward event of the afternoon was when one of the British brothers collapsed from exhaustion. In came the paramedics and the fire department and out he was taken on a stretcher.
No one seemed to miss a beat, collective concern notwithstanding.
Friday, June 14, 2013
A beautiful swimmer
Who knew she was a record-setting American swimmer who had won three US National championships in breaststroke and freestyle by the age of 16? It's Esther Williams week on TCM, honouring her because she died recently at a ripe-old age -- probably because she swam.
Watching a couple of her movies, I marvel at her gorgeous strokes. The fact that she was a freestyle champion tells it all. She could really move. And she seemed to enjoy it, unlike some of us who pound the lanes in an effort to stay in shape. Some days I actually hate it!
Not only could she swim fast, she could also perform magnificent acts of synchronized brilliance. And the hair! A marvel. I remember when step-daughter was in "synchro", I had to devise a way to keep her locks under intense control; believe me, it wasn't easy.
But you have to marvel at how they built entire movie plots around a woman who swam. Reminds me of the old 'Hammy Hampster' TV series, in which they built both dialogue and plot around what Hammy was doing at the time. "Oh look, Hammy has decided to have a piece of carrot", the over-dialogue would say when the rodent wandered off to eat. It was ingenious how they devised a credible plot around an untrained animal.
Esther was, of course, perfectly trained. But they still had to come up with a love story around an elegant swimmer.
Watching a couple of her movies, I marvel at her gorgeous strokes. The fact that she was a freestyle champion tells it all. She could really move. And she seemed to enjoy it, unlike some of us who pound the lanes in an effort to stay in shape. Some days I actually hate it!
Not only could she swim fast, she could also perform magnificent acts of synchronized brilliance. And the hair! A marvel. I remember when step-daughter was in "synchro", I had to devise a way to keep her locks under intense control; believe me, it wasn't easy.
But you have to marvel at how they built entire movie plots around a woman who swam. Reminds me of the old 'Hammy Hampster' TV series, in which they built both dialogue and plot around what Hammy was doing at the time. "Oh look, Hammy has decided to have a piece of carrot", the over-dialogue would say when the rodent wandered off to eat. It was ingenious how they devised a credible plot around an untrained animal.
Esther was, of course, perfectly trained. But they still had to come up with a love story around an elegant swimmer.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
It doesn't take long for the lungs to fade
"Get going," said young lifeguard Drew this morning, as I stopped in amazement at the end of a lane because for once, no one else was in it. "I know how you hate sharing, so get moving," he laughed. I love days when the lane is all mine. No swimming around people, no waiting for faster swimmers to go first, no polite chatting...just me.
Headed back yesterday and I had lost quite a bit of lung capacity in the two weeks I had not swum. "Man," I complained to fellow swimmer D. "I am a tad out of breath." "I'm sure," she replied, bursting off. She's an excellent swimmer with an annoyingly great body for any age, never mind hers (which is about the same as mine).
Today was a much better story. I breezed through my sets and felt great. And it was such fun bitching to D, who viscerally hates and likes all the same swimmers I do and don't. The aqua-fit sisterhood was in today -- or should I say "aqua-size". I swear they get bigger every day! As I said to D, if I wanted to look like that, I'd take that class. But I don't. The instructor, who calls out the moves, plays her own personal lousy CDs and is generally a miserable b-tch, is the largest of the herd. And no one is even breathing hard!
Stepping gingerly on the merciless scales, I was delighted to see I had not gained any weight. A miracle, considering all the out-of-bounds eating and drinking in which I indulged. Seeing the familiar number I said to no one in particular, "No weight gain? What's the point of coming here!" One of the regulars overheard and laughed uproariously. "Yeah, really," she agreed.
It's great to be back in the pool.
Headed back yesterday and I had lost quite a bit of lung capacity in the two weeks I had not swum. "Man," I complained to fellow swimmer D. "I am a tad out of breath." "I'm sure," she replied, bursting off. She's an excellent swimmer with an annoyingly great body for any age, never mind hers (which is about the same as mine).
Today was a much better story. I breezed through my sets and felt great. And it was such fun bitching to D, who viscerally hates and likes all the same swimmers I do and don't. The aqua-fit sisterhood was in today -- or should I say "aqua-size". I swear they get bigger every day! As I said to D, if I wanted to look like that, I'd take that class. But I don't. The instructor, who calls out the moves, plays her own personal lousy CDs and is generally a miserable b-tch, is the largest of the herd. And no one is even breathing hard!
Stepping gingerly on the merciless scales, I was delighted to see I had not gained any weight. A miracle, considering all the out-of-bounds eating and drinking in which I indulged. Seeing the familiar number I said to no one in particular, "No weight gain? What's the point of coming here!" One of the regulars overheard and laughed uproariously. "Yeah, really," she agreed.
It's great to be back in the pool.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Not as bad, but still
A few years ago, I was gingerly crossing an icy Ottawa street when a young man came up behind me. "May I help you across the intersection?" he asked. Man, that was the limit. Was I that old looking?! Did he really think he had to help a little-old-lady across the street!!??
That's it, I thought, I'm officially old. How depressing. Today at the self-check-out in the supermarket the same thing happened. "Here, I'll do that for you," said the clerk usually stationed to help those of us who continually foul up the equipment. If I hear "please place the item back on the scanner and wait" one more time I'll scream.
Today she wasn't busy and simply checked me out. This meant she bypassed the weight deal with her card and was able to bag the groceries and place them directly in my cart. She also knew all the codes for the no-code items, saving me hours of surfing the alphabet looking for "tomatoes roma", or something.
Eternally grateful, I was surprised when she told me that a lot of "older customers" (code for "people like you") get upset when she offers help. "They think I think they can't do it." Bulletin, bulletin, bulletin: we can't.
I hope I don't get terminally ill in Quebec, where they have just introduced a new, improved assisted suicide law. Your loving family will now be able to off you more easily.
Sad. Quebec used to be the most Catholic province in the country. Now they just kill people.
That's it, I thought, I'm officially old. How depressing. Today at the self-check-out in the supermarket the same thing happened. "Here, I'll do that for you," said the clerk usually stationed to help those of us who continually foul up the equipment. If I hear "please place the item back on the scanner and wait" one more time I'll scream.
Today she wasn't busy and simply checked me out. This meant she bypassed the weight deal with her card and was able to bag the groceries and place them directly in my cart. She also knew all the codes for the no-code items, saving me hours of surfing the alphabet looking for "tomatoes roma", or something.
Eternally grateful, I was surprised when she told me that a lot of "older customers" (code for "people like you") get upset when she offers help. "They think I think they can't do it." Bulletin, bulletin, bulletin: we can't.
I hope I don't get terminally ill in Quebec, where they have just introduced a new, improved assisted suicide law. Your loving family will now be able to off you more easily.
Sad. Quebec used to be the most Catholic province in the country. Now they just kill people.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Always happens to me
"No, this is on me, I am an owner at WestJet," said Matt, the steward. For some reason, he "comped" everything I ate and drank the whole flight. I saw him taking credit cards from everyone else, but not me??!!
Is it because I talk to them and ask about their lives? Must be. Try it.
When we turned the car in, I asked "Dave" all about his background. Turns out he went to Nepean High School, as did our daughter. Then we grabbed a bite to eat and I learned "Patrick", our waiter, was a soccer star in high school, remains a fanatic, his favourite team being Manchester United. We got preferential treatment, I can assure you.
It's not that I am cynical, but I do make a point of treating serving staff as real people. Obviously, it pays off.
Home now and grandson and I spent the entire day together, grocery shopping, swimming and mooching around Market Mall. When he arrived first thing, he ran up and put his little arms out. Hadn't forgotten me. He's what it's all about.
Is it because I talk to them and ask about their lives? Must be. Try it.
When we turned the car in, I asked "Dave" all about his background. Turns out he went to Nepean High School, as did our daughter. Then we grabbed a bite to eat and I learned "Patrick", our waiter, was a soccer star in high school, remains a fanatic, his favourite team being Manchester United. We got preferential treatment, I can assure you.
It's not that I am cynical, but I do make a point of treating serving staff as real people. Obviously, it pays off.
Home now and grandson and I spent the entire day together, grocery shopping, swimming and mooching around Market Mall. When he arrived first thing, he ran up and put his little arms out. Hadn't forgotten me. He's what it's all about.
Saturday, June 8, 2013
Up the Line
"Wow, that's some car," I said to the young man. We were on the car ferry, heading from Fitzroy Harbour to Quyon. I love taking that ferry, sort of a 10-minute mini-cruise.
"What kind of car is it? I asked, having no idea. "It's a Shelby," he replied. Well, I had heard of the Shelby, named for racing legend and car desinger Carroll Shelby. This sleek, black beauty was parked on the Quyon ferry alongside the rest of our pails. "Holy cow," I exclaimed. "A Shelby!"
Peppering the owner with questions, I learned he had paid $90,000, it had 700 horsepower and its engine had been personally signed by Shelby himself before he died at 89 last year. He proudly raised the hood and I took a bunch of pictures. By now everyone on the ferry had emerged from their cars to oogle it. You could tell the owner had no qualms about the $90,000 with such an adoring audience.
"It just hauls mind-bending ass," says the description of the GT 500 (boosted to 800) on google. Quite the car. "Is it a chick-magnet?" I asked the guy. "I don't know 'cause I'm married," the poor stiff replied. I mean, why buy a $90,000 car when you have no chance of a payoff? Aren't cars and girls supposed to go together? They used to. As he drove off ahead of us, I heard the familiar deep brrrrrr of the motor. A very seductive sound.
The last "muscle" car we owned was a 2006 Mustang, white convertable with black leather interior. It was a GT 500. We had a great time with that car. It always shocked people when they saw that a middle-aged lady was behind the wheel. Whaaaaaaaat?!
A word about the Quyon ferry. It has been operated by the same family for generations and plows back and forth all day and night while the river is open. More polite and helpful the crew of two could not have been. I was driving and they successfully coached me into a tight corner I thought I would never navigate. Charming.
We were off visiting great and good friends in Bristol for lunch "up the line", as they say. My roots are in Kemptville, so when I am in The Valley, I feel truly at home. Dirt poor Irish. In spite of the fact that we were in Quebec, not a word of French is ever spoken in these parts. English, English, English and Irish, Irish, Irish. Period, the end. And you better not think otherwise.
I took pics of the car and will post them soon.
"What kind of car is it? I asked, having no idea. "It's a Shelby," he replied. Well, I had heard of the Shelby, named for racing legend and car desinger Carroll Shelby. This sleek, black beauty was parked on the Quyon ferry alongside the rest of our pails. "Holy cow," I exclaimed. "A Shelby!"
Peppering the owner with questions, I learned he had paid $90,000, it had 700 horsepower and its engine had been personally signed by Shelby himself before he died at 89 last year. He proudly raised the hood and I took a bunch of pictures. By now everyone on the ferry had emerged from their cars to oogle it. You could tell the owner had no qualms about the $90,000 with such an adoring audience.
"It just hauls mind-bending ass," says the description of the GT 500 (boosted to 800) on google. Quite the car. "Is it a chick-magnet?" I asked the guy. "I don't know 'cause I'm married," the poor stiff replied. I mean, why buy a $90,000 car when you have no chance of a payoff? Aren't cars and girls supposed to go together? They used to. As he drove off ahead of us, I heard the familiar deep brrrrrr of the motor. A very seductive sound.
The last "muscle" car we owned was a 2006 Mustang, white convertable with black leather interior. It was a GT 500. We had a great time with that car. It always shocked people when they saw that a middle-aged lady was behind the wheel. Whaaaaaaaat?!
A word about the Quyon ferry. It has been operated by the same family for generations and plows back and forth all day and night while the river is open. More polite and helpful the crew of two could not have been. I was driving and they successfully coached me into a tight corner I thought I would never navigate. Charming.
We were off visiting great and good friends in Bristol for lunch "up the line", as they say. My roots are in Kemptville, so when I am in The Valley, I feel truly at home. Dirt poor Irish. In spite of the fact that we were in Quebec, not a word of French is ever spoken in these parts. English, English, English and Irish, Irish, Irish. Period, the end. And you better not think otherwise.
I took pics of the car and will post them soon.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Grammar and editing nazi emerges
Sitting here, reading through 'Cottage Life', I scanned the editorial. So many errors, couldn't count them. Here's one:
"...and now she is the parent, and here she was standing on the screened porch...."
Should be:
"...and now she was the parent, standing on the screened porch"....don't need all those other words.
Another:
"It doesn't bother me when non-cottagers take shots at us."
Should be:
"It doesn't bother me when non-cottagers take shots." Don't need the "at us" part.
More:
"I felt proud to be able to share our riches with our overseas family. Cottagers are not all wealthy; but we are all privileged."
No no, should be:
"I felt proud to have been able to share our riches with overseas family. Cottagers are not all wealthy, but are privileged." Don't need the "we and all" part. See how it works? She had neither the tense, nor the punctuation, right. Too many words.
It just went on and on. .................
"There is one thing we should all agree on, though."
Should be:
"There is one thing upon which we should agree."....what's with the "though"?
Another.......
"I sometimes wonder this myself, and I understand how counterintuitive our pathological desire must seem."
How about............
"I sometimes wonder and understand (don't need the "this myself, and I" part) how counter-intuitive our pathological desires."
See, too many words in her version.
Another....
"We live in an extraordinary natural world."
No, it's........."extraordinarily natural...." She could have written, "extraordinary and natural", but it's never "extraordinary natural".
Told you I was a fanatic. But that's why I love writing; so deliciously satisfying when you get it right.
My editing knowledge was gleaned from one Jean Portugal, a battle-axe editor at Maclean-Hunter, where I learned my craft "Mad Men" style. My work would return from her ruthless desk riddled with red ink and editor's marks. But I sure learned fast in the days when Roy MacGregor (yes, that Roy MacGregor) occupied the desk next to mine. You could spot his talent a mile away.
By the way, never put a comma before "and" because "and" replaces the comma. This editor did it quite a few times, in spite of the fact that she is well-paid to be both poor writer and lousy editor. And by the way, never use the word "gotten", it's not even a word. Find the proper one. I could go on, but will leave it at that.
No, I won't. The editor who penned this mess was "Penny Caldwell", her editorial entitled: 'Tears and Jeers'. Well, it's "jeers" to you, Pen.
As a professionally-trained editor and writer, I was constantly appalled (don't need "that" here) one of my managers at CRA -- someone who started on a counter in Sudbury for G-d's sake, Sue Wormington -- actually had the nerve to continually try and re-write my reports. Another one who couldn't keep her mitts off my stuff was Monica Jones. That one was in a class all her own! Note to smarty-pant's everywhere: read a CV before you start correcting better-educated staff.
Annoying.
"...and now she is the parent, and here she was standing on the screened porch...."
Should be:
"...and now she was the parent, standing on the screened porch"....don't need all those other words.
Another:
"It doesn't bother me when non-cottagers take shots at us."
Should be:
"It doesn't bother me when non-cottagers take shots." Don't need the "at us" part.
More:
"I felt proud to be able to share our riches with our overseas family. Cottagers are not all wealthy; but we are all privileged."
No no, should be:
"I felt proud to have been able to share our riches with overseas family. Cottagers are not all wealthy, but are privileged." Don't need the "we and all" part. See how it works? She had neither the tense, nor the punctuation, right. Too many words.
It just went on and on. .................
"There is one thing we should all agree on, though."
Should be:
"There is one thing upon which we should agree."....what's with the "though"?
Another.......
"I sometimes wonder this myself, and I understand how counterintuitive our pathological desire must seem."
How about............
"I sometimes wonder and understand (don't need the "this myself, and I" part) how counter-intuitive our pathological desires."
See, too many words in her version.
Another....
"We live in an extraordinary natural world."
No, it's........."extraordinarily natural...." She could have written, "extraordinary and natural", but it's never "extraordinary natural".
Told you I was a fanatic. But that's why I love writing; so deliciously satisfying when you get it right.
My editing knowledge was gleaned from one Jean Portugal, a battle-axe editor at Maclean-Hunter, where I learned my craft "Mad Men" style. My work would return from her ruthless desk riddled with red ink and editor's marks. But I sure learned fast in the days when Roy MacGregor (yes, that Roy MacGregor) occupied the desk next to mine. You could spot his talent a mile away.
By the way, never put a comma before "and" because "and" replaces the comma. This editor did it quite a few times, in spite of the fact that she is well-paid to be both poor writer and lousy editor. And by the way, never use the word "gotten", it's not even a word. Find the proper one. I could go on, but will leave it at that.
No, I won't. The editor who penned this mess was "Penny Caldwell", her editorial entitled: 'Tears and Jeers'. Well, it's "jeers" to you, Pen.
As a professionally-trained editor and writer, I was constantly appalled (don't need "that" here) one of my managers at CRA -- someone who started on a counter in Sudbury for G-d's sake, Sue Wormington -- actually had the nerve to continually try and re-write my reports. Another one who couldn't keep her mitts off my stuff was Monica Jones. That one was in a class all her own! Note to smarty-pant's everywhere: read a CV before you start correcting better-educated staff.
Annoying.
Valley people
"Got it?" the woman in the parking lot of the grocery store in Carleton Place asked. My cart had taken a notion to slide away from me as I struggled with an umbrella. She rushed over to help. Do I really look that old and infirm?
No, it's just the way Valley People are. Entering, a man held the door. Once inside, I asked a clerk where the bird seed was. "I'm not sure, I think it's aisle....(whatever)." Not there, so I continued on. A few minutes later she came back to find me. She had actually forgone her break, searched for it and gone out of her way to lead me to it. Who does that? Valley People. Next it was..."I'll take you over here," as she opened her cash just for me. "Oh my G-d, is that an emerald?" she gushed taking my hand in hers. "It's absolutely gorgeous." Chit-chat, chit-chat and in a matter of minutes I knew all about her and she me.
Next stop the liquor store*, where another man held the door and the clerk at the cash told me where to shop and how to get out of the badly-designed parking lot. Valley People.
I remember them well. Used to live in Carleton Place when I was married to my first husband a 100 years ago. Man has it changed, but Valley People? Not so much. Their patterns of speech are unique to say the least. "It be's a nice day," was one I remember, a charming misuse of the verb "to be". "Gidday" was another greeting you don't hear outside the Valley. Don't get me wrong, it's not all beer-and-skittles in The Valley, lots of poverty, alcoholism and crime. But at its heart The Ottawa Valley is "good people".
A brilliant designer, my ex-husband renovated an historic tannery on the Mississippi River just off Bridge Street. We lived there and it was magnificent. Drove by this morning and it is now a restaurant called 'The Leather Works'. Felt very weird parked looking at it, as so many happy and sad memories flooded back. Thought about going in, but just couldn't. Drove by the home of good friends and almost cried, remembering that the wife had dropped dead far too young.
Ah, memory lane.
______________________________________________
*Speaking of liquor stores, I remember when one had to have a personal licence to buy the stuff. Used to go with my Mother to the George Street outlet, where she filled out the slip, handed it to the counter clerk and showed her licence. He then went to the back of the shop to get the booze. I think that was a hundred years ago.
No, it's just the way Valley People are. Entering, a man held the door. Once inside, I asked a clerk where the bird seed was. "I'm not sure, I think it's aisle....(whatever)." Not there, so I continued on. A few minutes later she came back to find me. She had actually forgone her break, searched for it and gone out of her way to lead me to it. Who does that? Valley People. Next it was..."I'll take you over here," as she opened her cash just for me. "Oh my G-d, is that an emerald?" she gushed taking my hand in hers. "It's absolutely gorgeous." Chit-chat, chit-chat and in a matter of minutes I knew all about her and she me.
Next stop the liquor store*, where another man held the door and the clerk at the cash told me where to shop and how to get out of the badly-designed parking lot. Valley People.
I remember them well. Used to live in Carleton Place when I was married to my first husband a 100 years ago. Man has it changed, but Valley People? Not so much. Their patterns of speech are unique to say the least. "It be's a nice day," was one I remember, a charming misuse of the verb "to be". "Gidday" was another greeting you don't hear outside the Valley. Don't get me wrong, it's not all beer-and-skittles in The Valley, lots of poverty, alcoholism and crime. But at its heart The Ottawa Valley is "good people".
A brilliant designer, my ex-husband renovated an historic tannery on the Mississippi River just off Bridge Street. We lived there and it was magnificent. Drove by this morning and it is now a restaurant called 'The Leather Works'. Felt very weird parked looking at it, as so many happy and sad memories flooded back. Thought about going in, but just couldn't. Drove by the home of good friends and almost cried, remembering that the wife had dropped dead far too young.
Ah, memory lane.
______________________________________________
*Speaking of liquor stores, I remember when one had to have a personal licence to buy the stuff. Used to go with my Mother to the George Street outlet, where she filled out the slip, handed it to the counter clerk and showed her licence. He then went to the back of the shop to get the booze. I think that was a hundred years ago.
Nothing's changed
Still hate all the people I used to hate at the Royal Ottawa Golf Club and they still hate me. Still love all the people I used to love and they still love me -- especially the maitre d' and the staff. I seem to gravitate to the workers everywhere I go. They all came running over and we had wonderful catch-ups.
"Has it been two years?" said one. "I wondered where you guys were. Calgary! Do you like it?" Love it, we replied. "Everyone is young, lots of money and lots of energy....and of course, my grandson, the reason we moved there," I said.
Stepson Scott treated us and his roomate to a wonderful evening at the ROGC. Laughed 'til my sides ached, re-living hideous moments from his childhood and adolescence. And there were some beautes -- mostly involving underage jaunts to sample Hull's notorious nightlife. Been there, done that. Back in the day, the drinking age in Quebec was 20, instead of Ontario's 21. So naturally, we all zoomed over the IP Bridge at 18 to buy beer and wine, which we took to a Rockcliffe lookout and consumed in our parents' cars. I remember some pretty dreadful pink, sparkling liquid, was it Baby Duck or that ooze in the funny-shaped bottle? Mateuse? Yuck!
Other afternoons we'd head over to the Ottawa House, or the "OH", as we called it. There we'd purchase 20 drafts for 10 cents each, served in tiny juice glasses on a large tray. That, or we'd opt for huge quarts. Everything came with a salt shaker (?). Remember those disgusting pickled eggs in jars? These afternoons were usually rainy ones when we'd skip classes at Carleton to indulge ourselves. So, why it should come as a surprise that my kids were doing exactly the same thing, I have no idea? If you grew up in Ottawa you spent a lot of time in Hull, where no self-respecting sleezy tavern waiter would dare ask for ID. Afterall one of our father's might have been a judge or a police chief?!
All this after a great lunch with a CRA colleague, one of the classiest women you will ever meet. Thanks "F".
"Has it been two years?" said one. "I wondered where you guys were. Calgary! Do you like it?" Love it, we replied. "Everyone is young, lots of money and lots of energy....and of course, my grandson, the reason we moved there," I said.
Stepson Scott treated us and his roomate to a wonderful evening at the ROGC. Laughed 'til my sides ached, re-living hideous moments from his childhood and adolescence. And there were some beautes -- mostly involving underage jaunts to sample Hull's notorious nightlife. Been there, done that. Back in the day, the drinking age in Quebec was 20, instead of Ontario's 21. So naturally, we all zoomed over the IP Bridge at 18 to buy beer and wine, which we took to a Rockcliffe lookout and consumed in our parents' cars. I remember some pretty dreadful pink, sparkling liquid, was it Baby Duck or that ooze in the funny-shaped bottle? Mateuse? Yuck!
Other afternoons we'd head over to the Ottawa House, or the "OH", as we called it. There we'd purchase 20 drafts for 10 cents each, served in tiny juice glasses on a large tray. That, or we'd opt for huge quarts. Everything came with a salt shaker (?). Remember those disgusting pickled eggs in jars? These afternoons were usually rainy ones when we'd skip classes at Carleton to indulge ourselves. So, why it should come as a surprise that my kids were doing exactly the same thing, I have no idea? If you grew up in Ottawa you spent a lot of time in Hull, where no self-respecting sleezy tavern waiter would dare ask for ID. Afterall one of our father's might have been a judge or a police chief?!
All this after a great lunch with a CRA colleague, one of the classiest women you will ever meet. Thanks "F".
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Geezer Alert
That's what "JB" said the other day, when we were over for lunch visiting him and his lovely wife "A". "How are you?" prompted each of us to launch into a litany of aches, pains and related medications we were all on -- everything from hearts to backs to hips to blood pressure.
I have known this wonderful guy for.....wait for it....50 years. I know, can't believe it myself! "Oh, here comes another geezer alert," he exclaimed each time we ran through another diagnosis. In the bad old days, we used to talk about the latest wild party we had lived through; now it's body parts. Healthy though we all are -- thanks to the miracle of modern medicine -- we nonetheless carry around a few treatable burdens.
Weather update: Ottawa has been as cold as Calgary these last few days. Ugh.
I have known this wonderful guy for.....wait for it....50 years. I know, can't believe it myself! "Oh, here comes another geezer alert," he exclaimed each time we ran through another diagnosis. In the bad old days, we used to talk about the latest wild party we had lived through; now it's body parts. Healthy though we all are -- thanks to the miracle of modern medicine -- we nonetheless carry around a few treatable burdens.
Weather update: Ottawa has been as cold as Calgary these last few days. Ugh.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Looking at your own headstone
"Nancy Patricia Latimer* Griffith", it reads. We have our headstones engraved; all that's missing are the dates of death. As I gazed at it yesterday, planting B's Mum, I found it comforting, not weird as some gathered thought.
I know where I will be.
So, she's finally here in "America", as she dismissingly called the entire continent. She would not visit here alive, but she is here permanently, dead and dust, tucked in with my parents and brother. We all feel better. My true friends, my real friends, all showed up. Putting a notice in the local newspaper culls the herd. All the people who gushed over us Sunday when we showed up at our old parish? None there. All the Knights of Columbus? None there. All the people I worked with for a hundred years? One there. All my teenage friends? Two there. All B's co-workers when he ruled the Ottawa world? None there. Most of my cousins? None there. As a matter of fact, when my mother died in 2001, one sent me a poison-pen letter, telling me how much she had always hated me. Went on for four beastly pages. Nicely done. Ah, envy.
Time to edit the Christmas card list.
But all those who showed up? I love them all. My stepson? There (of course). Our children's God Mother and her husband. There. The ex-husband of my darling late cousin? There. An old high-school buddy and his fabulous wife? There. Cherished neighbours from Bruyere Street? There. B's only living Auntie from The Raj? There. His God Son? There. The very sick widow of a dear friend? There. Another high school buddy? There. My cousin and his wife? There. A co-worker from the PSC? There. Her husband? Not there and no good reason why. People B worked with in his charitable world? There. The president of McGarry's herself? There.
Hope I didn't miss anyone. Our great friend, Father Harry McNeil, conducted the graveside service. Simple and matter-of-fact -- exactly as Diamond would have wanted. Then we gathered at the Royal Ottawa. So much to catch up on! Many people read my blog, so they have nothing to catch up on with me, my entire life out there in print. But having few clues about what's up with them, I had to spend great time with each. What did I mostly talk about? My adorable grandson.
Fashion notes? Remind me not to wear high heels on the grass. Had to kick them off when I stood up to read a few notes on behalf of my daughter. Actually, grass will never deter me from heels -- nothing will. In fact, B suggested we add an inscription....."I can't walk in these shoes", my refrain when I want to be dropped off at a door.
So here we are in The Valley, enjoying my cousin's beautiful home and grounds. So pastoral, it puts me in mind of a retreat. Di is at rest and so are we.
* "Latimer" is my birth name, wanted it included.
I know where I will be.
So, she's finally here in "America", as she dismissingly called the entire continent. She would not visit here alive, but she is here permanently, dead and dust, tucked in with my parents and brother. We all feel better. My true friends, my real friends, all showed up. Putting a notice in the local newspaper culls the herd. All the people who gushed over us Sunday when we showed up at our old parish? None there. All the Knights of Columbus? None there. All the people I worked with for a hundred years? One there. All my teenage friends? Two there. All B's co-workers when he ruled the Ottawa world? None there. Most of my cousins? None there. As a matter of fact, when my mother died in 2001, one sent me a poison-pen letter, telling me how much she had always hated me. Went on for four beastly pages. Nicely done. Ah, envy.
Time to edit the Christmas card list.
But all those who showed up? I love them all. My stepson? There (of course). Our children's God Mother and her husband. There. The ex-husband of my darling late cousin? There. An old high-school buddy and his fabulous wife? There. Cherished neighbours from Bruyere Street? There. B's only living Auntie from The Raj? There. His God Son? There. The very sick widow of a dear friend? There. Another high school buddy? There. My cousin and his wife? There. A co-worker from the PSC? There. Her husband? Not there and no good reason why. People B worked with in his charitable world? There. The president of McGarry's herself? There.
Hope I didn't miss anyone. Our great friend, Father Harry McNeil, conducted the graveside service. Simple and matter-of-fact -- exactly as Diamond would have wanted. Then we gathered at the Royal Ottawa. So much to catch up on! Many people read my blog, so they have nothing to catch up on with me, my entire life out there in print. But having few clues about what's up with them, I had to spend great time with each. What did I mostly talk about? My adorable grandson.
Fashion notes? Remind me not to wear high heels on the grass. Had to kick them off when I stood up to read a few notes on behalf of my daughter. Actually, grass will never deter me from heels -- nothing will. In fact, B suggested we add an inscription....."I can't walk in these shoes", my refrain when I want to be dropped off at a door.
So here we are in The Valley, enjoying my cousin's beautiful home and grounds. So pastoral, it puts me in mind of a retreat. Di is at rest and so are we.
* "Latimer" is my birth name, wanted it included.
Saturday, June 1, 2013
Why not shave your legs?!
She was using a huge, square emery board and working away furiously on her nails. Problem was, this was on the plane, across the aisle from me, not in the privacy of her own boudoir. Hey, why not shave your legs and clip your toenails while you're at it?! All her discarded nail filings were floating and falling everywhere.
The way she was concentrating convinced me this was a tic, not a repair. And no matter how much I stared and shot dirty looks, she carried on relentlessly. Pathetic.
Some people have no clue about the appropriate location to carry out personal hygiene maintenance. Reminded me of the woman last year in the locker room of the Y, the one who was clipping her toenails. Disgusting. They actually had to post signs in the showers, telling patrons not to "shave, blow the nose, spit or urinate". Women are still shaving right under the sign. I kid you not!
We arrived in Ottawa two days ago to a virtual heat wave. Ah, good old Ottawa. Heat. But with it comes the dreaded humidity, something we do not have in Calgary. But after suffering through a hail storm the other day when the temperature plumeted, I'll take it. Yep, just put my flowers in and it hails. Perfect.
Having a great time with my cousin and his wonderful wife (didn't like the first one, but adore this one). Rehashing our idyllic childhood, we have come up to the same conclusion: it was perfect. Growing up around the block from each other, D is more akin to a brother than a cousin. I adored his mother and father, the latter of whom is still living at 97. Can't wait to visit him this weekend. "Will he remember me?" I asked D. "Of course he will, I told him you were coming and he was thrilled."
After two years, Ottawa remains the same -- except for way more traffic. Where has everyone come from??
The way she was concentrating convinced me this was a tic, not a repair. And no matter how much I stared and shot dirty looks, she carried on relentlessly. Pathetic.
Some people have no clue about the appropriate location to carry out personal hygiene maintenance. Reminded me of the woman last year in the locker room of the Y, the one who was clipping her toenails. Disgusting. They actually had to post signs in the showers, telling patrons not to "shave, blow the nose, spit or urinate". Women are still shaving right under the sign. I kid you not!
We arrived in Ottawa two days ago to a virtual heat wave. Ah, good old Ottawa. Heat. But with it comes the dreaded humidity, something we do not have in Calgary. But after suffering through a hail storm the other day when the temperature plumeted, I'll take it. Yep, just put my flowers in and it hails. Perfect.
Having a great time with my cousin and his wonderful wife (didn't like the first one, but adore this one). Rehashing our idyllic childhood, we have come up to the same conclusion: it was perfect. Growing up around the block from each other, D is more akin to a brother than a cousin. I adored his mother and father, the latter of whom is still living at 97. Can't wait to visit him this weekend. "Will he remember me?" I asked D. "Of course he will, I told him you were coming and he was thrilled."
After two years, Ottawa remains the same -- except for way more traffic. Where has everyone come from??
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