Still pains deeply

"Oh dear, I'm afraid Shirley died about a year ago."  This was back in 1978.  I had finally located my birth mother after a year of hard-slogging research, only to find I had been too late.  My heart stopped, tears welled up in my eyes and I gulped furiously to stifle the sobs.  Why hadn't I started my search sooner? 

But I hadn't.  Not many days go by that I don't think about Shirley Latimer for many reasons over the past 36 years, but last evening was one of the worst.  We watched 'Philomena', a beautiful film by Stephen Frears about a woman who goes searching for the son she had been forced to give up for adoption 50 years earlier.  Didn't hurt that the movie starred Dame Judy Dench, brilliant as we all know.  The similarities between her case and my mother's were striking.  Both mothers had entered religious institutions for the period -- Philomena with the Sacred Heart nuns, Shirley with the Salvation Army -- and both had signed over their babies as a matter of course.  No second thoughts or future contact permitted.

The scene where she sees her little boy being taken away in a car is heartbreaking and I can only imagine my own mother's painful despair and misery when she had to turn me over, after having been forced to care for me for six long weeks.  I know I bonded with my own children the second I learned I was pregnant, so for these women the pain must have been unbearable.  There were so many other wrenching scenes that I cried my eyes out the whole time.  Her breakdown when she learns her son had died was exactly like mine when I learned about Shirley's death.  The fact that I had never even met her was inconsequential.  I experienced true grief. 

I have written before about my wonderful upbringing by two great parents within a large extended family, but not being able to be with my birth mother created a deep pain that remains locked in my heart from which it all spilled watching this movie. Of course, both I and the son in the movie had much, much better lives than could ever have been provided by our birth families and the movie makes this very clear.  Nothing maudlin in it.  But the blood ties remain deeply ingrained. 

In both cases, stonewalling, government regulations and destroyed records made the search very difficult.  The advantage the movie characters had was the internet; I had no such tool back then.  But never one to be dissuaded, I forged my father's signature on a letter to the lawyer who had handled the adoption and he turned over what he had, which wasn't much, just her name and that she lived in Ottawa at the time.  So a long search of every Latimer from the Ottawa Valley to Kingston ensued.  It was a great aunt in Kemptville, Gladys Latimer, who gave me the news.  I went on to meet her brothers and sister, various cousins, aunts and uncles in Kingston (where she was actually from) but it wasn't the same.  And in a number of cases a few were not very nice people.

As to my birth father?  He wasn't interested and it didn't bother me much, as I thought of him as a one-night-stand sperm donor.  All I know is his name, the fact that he was a superb athlete and retired as an umpire in the American league of baseball.  Long-dead now, I am sure.   

Happily I have many photos of Shirley, which I often look at.  She was gorgeous and apparently very outgoing, charming, poised and self-confident.  When I look at my own children and grandchildren I think of her and thank her profoundly for her sacrifice, usually without too many tears, but not last night.        

A dear friend visits

They (he and B) went to the London School of Economics together in 1963 and today he visited Calgary.  Dr. Michael Graham has spent 50 years in the investment business and has quite a following.  He still gives talks and presentations all over the world.  Originally a South African, he had just returned from having given the commencement address at the University of Cape Town, his alma mater. 

He is a wonderful person and today we hosted him and then went to our local Crowfoot restaurant, where we watched soccer -- of course.  There was a woman there who was fabulously dressed.  She wore slim white slacks, a mauve cashmere sweater, orange high heels and orange drop earrings.  She was in her sixties. 

Oh yeah, that was me!  Seriously, every now and then I have to describe a little fashion.

 

 

What are the Mothers doing?

"You learn those values at your mother's knee," said Mr. Justice Ken Fogerty to the opposing lawyers in one of B's many divorce hearings -- unnecessary battles we had to wage over guess what?  Money!  I thought of this when I read about yet another mess in the Middle East.  Millions of people have been killed or displaced in Syria, Iraq, Iran, Palestine.......you name it, it's a disaster.  Africa is the same mess.  All tribal.  Democracy?  What's that??!!  

These people cannot govern themselves.  Kings, presidents or whatever rule over failed states and wage war everywhere.  Why can't they let people be?  Why can't they let people practice their religion and live their lives?  What would President Truman have done?  Might have been a great idea.  Here in Canada, we have no idea how lucky we are.  And we take it all for granted. 

"There was a reason 9/11 happened.  The jihadists want us annihilated," said Tony Blair recently.  He's right, of course.  Now we have "home-grown" terrorists in Canada, a few in Calgary.  All the columnists and editorial writers are blaming the Imams and the "culture".  Hey, what about the mothers?  Children learn their values at their mother's knee, as Justice Fogerty said.  Why does no one call Muslim mothers on how their sons mess up??  These mothers have a lot to answer for. 

Canadians are so wimpy.   

The Real Deal

"A killa bitch from hay-ell," Betty said in her Louisianan accent when she had introduced me to one of her admirers in New Orleans in 2007.  This Betty uttered with a beatific smile on her face, as the woman walked from our table.  We were at the 'Mad Hatter's Luncheon', a charity event that no self-respecting Louisianan matron would dare have missed, and Betty held court at Table Number One. 

My Friend, Betty, was the Queen of New Orleans, her father-in-law having been a governor of that lawless state.  She died today.  What can I say about Betty?  We met her at a mutual friend's cottage in 2003 and she was utterly simultaneously charming and disarming.  I fancy myself able to entertain a gathering, but I was not a patch on Betty.  "Are you finished?" she would ask, after I thought I had completely outdone myself with some amusing tale or other.  "Mah turn," she would say before proceeding to knock everyone's socks off.

"Nayancy,  Ah want yoooou and Briiiyin to visit me in Nawlins," she drawled one afternoon.  "Oh, that would be fabulous," I replied, thinking she was just being polite.  That September, when we had returned to Ottawa, the phone rang.  "Nayancy, this is Betty Noe.  When are y'all comin' to Nawlins?"  Oh, she had been serious!?  So we went in March, 2004 and had an absolutely unbelievable visit.  I don't even know where to begin, but I'll try. 

Firstly, she had her chauffeur pick us up at the airport.  Did I mention she was filthy rich?  Then, when we arrived at her home, we were met by the staff and treated to a sumptuous dinner of shrimp "etouffee" and champagne.  Did I mention that along with the chauffeur she had a maid, a cook, a secretary and a gardener?

We decided to take a bus tour of New Orleans.  Guess who's house was on it.  Yep.  Betty's.  Hers was a superb example of an "Anti Bellum" mansion, said the tour guide.  You could not make this up, Betty's house was actually on the tour! 

Next, she took us to the opera, where she and Jimmy had special seats.  I hate the opera, but suffered through it, Betty being so happy to show it all off.  After Sunday Mass the next day, she took us to her golf club, where I ate the best crab cakes ever.  At her parish, Betty forked out about $200,000 to have the organ repaired.  And who's photo was in the foyer?  Brother Andre of Montreal.  Amazing. 

One morning I spotted Betty in her bedroom, talking into a drawer.  "What the h-ll are you doing, Betty?" I asked.  "I'm trying to talk to Jimmy.  Maybe this time he'll listen to me," she replied.  Can you imagine that??!!  She was talking into his hearing aids which he had left in the drawer!

Another day she talked about her jewellery.  "I'll take anything you are throwing out," I laughed.  "Well, come with me," said Betty.  At that, she opened a drawer and pulled out about 10 ring boxes.  Diamonds, emeralds, saphires, rubies......you name it.  We had the pick of the batch.  I chose a sapphire and diamond dinner ring.  Who does that??!!  Betty, that's who. 

Betty had no idea of money.  She didn't realize she was so rich.  Her late father-in-law had discovered oil on his vast land holdings, but instead of selling the land, he leased it.  That meant that many cheques arrived in the post every day and were stacked on the hall table.  "What are those envelopes," I asked.  "Oh, those are the monthly cheques Mr. Noe gets," said one of the maids.  Seriously!!??  When Jimmy died, Betty had no idea of his wealth.  When she figured it out she yelled, "I'm rich!!"  What a scream.

Betty had five children, three girls and two boys.  We only met two, the others living elsewhere.  "Honey, you're not gay, you're miserable," she told me she had said to one of her sons when he had 'come out' to her.  "Mom, I'm gay," he had said.  That was when she delivered her "miserable" punch line.  But she loved him so much.  He was one of the sons we met.

"Is there anything that woman can't do," she asked when she saw me driving the boat from the island to the boathouse, about five kilometres away.  I had had to go into Ottawa to deal with a personal matter and our host -- who never let anyone drive his boats -- had actually allowed me to take one of his.  I was flattered that, a) he allowed me and b) Betty complimented me.  As a matter of fact, he didn't even let his own wife captain the boat he allowed me to take.       

We visited Betty once more in 2007, just after the hurricane.  It was another fabulous visit.  Jimmy had died, but we still had a wonderful time.  I will miss her bright-red lipstick, her rigid makeup and her perfectly-in-place hair. 

Rest in Peace, dear Betty.

What a Waste

What the H-ll we were doing in Afghanistan I have no idea??!!  As could have been predicted, the Taliban have taken over and are now cutting off the fingers of people trying to vote in the most recent election.  It's unconscionable to think that so many young Canadians lost their lives in such a God-forsaken war.  I would like to pay tribute to the dead heroes of that nonsensical war.  May they rest in peace.

Now for something completely different, as the Monty Python gang used to say.  Apparently, Canadians have bizarre heroes.  While I am not surprised Terry Fox is right up there, I am confounded by the fact that Jack Layton is among the top ten.  And who's first?  Pierre Trudeau?!  Take that Alberta.  Others on the list are Lester Pearson, Tommy Douglas, Chris Hadfield, Wayne Gretzky and alas, David Suzuki -- a guy I have absolutely no time for. 

B subscribes to 'The Economist' and receives a pocket book of world figures.  Some fascinating stuff in there.  Here are a few tidbits:

• Obesity:                                                The United States with 44.2%
• Divorce rates:                                       Guam highest, Malta lowest
• Cost of living:                                      Japan highest, Pakistan lowest
• Computer ownership:                          Canada highest per capita, Mauritius lowest
• Daily Newspapers:                              Hong Kong highest, US lowest
• Environmental performance:              Switzerland best, Gabon #39.  The US and Canada don't rank!
• Biggest emitters of carbon dioxide:    China # 1, followed by the US.  So much for the holier-than-thou opposition to the Keystone pipeline.  Canada is 8th. 

There are a ton more stats, but the above hit me. 

Legendary Horsemen

That's the title of a fabulous "coffee table" book a friend lent (no, it's not "loaned") us.  It depicts the way The West was and I offer a few photos of paintings here.  One thing I want to talk about is Cochrane, the town I most visit because my grandchildren are there. 

Named after Irish immigrant Senator Matthew Cochrane, this town is pretty much what you would call a "small town".  It has even regulated store fronts on main street, stipulating that all buildings adhere to a "western" motif.  No strip mall need apply.  Anyway, in late 1881, Matthew Cochrane had amassed 399 square miles and had begun to collect cattle.  At its peak, the Cochrane organization ran more that 13,000 cattle and had the biggest sheep herd in Western Canada on land holdings of 334,500 acres.  There remain many ranches in and around Cochrane.  Son-in-law gives his time to one during branding season, where he has to wrestle calves. 

This book contains many beautiful paintings of the early West, when natives were proud.  Today, sadly, and thanks in part to the mess the federal government made of things, on-and-off-reserve natives are pretty much a disgrace and a far cry from their glorious past.  And while they always have a hand out and blame everything on "Ottawa", they themselves have made a complete mess of their own peoples.  Today, the only natives I see in Cochrane are down-and-out ones. 

But, here are a few depictions of the splendid past:

The sixth picture is of the late Prince of Wales, Edward, an expert horseman who fell in love with Alberta.  Having first visited in 1919, he eventually bought a ranch just outside Calgary, the Bar U and owned it until 1961, when he sold it with a sad heart.  What a history the Wild West has!





      

A Prized Possession

"I give up," said the greeter when I walked into Home Depot this morning.  He raised his two arms into the air in mock fear as I passed by.  We both laughed.  The reason for this greeting?  This:

A few years ago, B and I were at a charity dinner and this was part of the silent auction.  "Never mind the Christmas decorations, autographed books on Ottawa and fruit baskets, I want that sweat shirt," I told my husband.  So we bid, from time to time rising from the table to be sure ours was the highest; if not he raised it.  So I procured this beautiful garment. 

"Oh, I want that!" said my stepson the minute he spied it.  "You're not actually going to parade around town wearing it, are you?"  You're bloody right I am.  And I did.  The reaction is unbelievable, but predictable.  People stare at me, a middle-aged matron, wearing an "Ottawa Police" sweat shirt.  And boy, do I get a lot more respect and deference.  It's perfect because it's such an incongrous surprise to people.  With me it's not all about hats and high heels.  It's about the outfit.

"Don't get shot now," said B as I left this morning.  It hadn't occurred to me that I might be a target!  But I figured anyone at Home Depot was interested in improving his life and abode, not destroying it. 

I lived. 





Our World and Theirs

Hilary Clinton is sixth on the list of the world's most influential women.  Frankly, I'd rate her higher -- at least ahead of Dilma Rousseff, the president of Brazil and leader of a very corrupt country.  This list was published recently in 'Forbes' magazine.  Who's first?  Angela Merkel, which figures.  Here are a few more which stood out:

3.      Melinda Gates (money)
14.    Oprah Winfrey (money)
17.    Beyoncé (huh??)
35.    Queen Elizabeth II (would've put her much higher)
50.    Angelina Jolie (another huh? here)
67.    Lady Gaga (triple huh?)
89.    Gisele Bundchen (what can I say?)
100.  Greta van Susteren (this tops it, her only claim to fame was she was a supporter of murderer OJ   Simpson!)

But what this list does for me is remind me of the great divide between the "haves and the have-nots", the "have-nots" being the millions of women who live in poverty, oppression, violence and degradation.  Margaret Wente -- of whom I am a big fan -- wrote a column in today's Globe and Mail which stood in stark juxtaposition to the top 100.  It was about the treatment of women in Egypt.  According to Wente, Egypt's treatment of women is now the worst in the Arab world and that's going some. 

"At the dawn of the wretchedly-misnamed Arab Spring, Westerners hoped the overthrow of a corrupt dictatorship would liberate Egypt's women.  Instead it made things worse.  Public order deteriorated.  The military regime of the immediate post-Mubarak period imposed 'virginity tests' on female protesters.  When the Muslim Brotherhood came to power, it began to introduce gender segregation in public places.  Some politicians even argued that women who had been assaulted at demonstrations should be punished for simply showing up and inciting the assaults," writes Wente.

Apparently there is a video of a huge crowd in Tahrir Square in which a woman is being mobbed and sexually assaulted by dozens of men.  As the assaults continue, she is stripped completely naked.  Her body is bloody(sic, should be "bloodied") and bruised.  By the time the police carry her away, she is limp and still.  "This is Egypt today," says Wente, "a nation where women who dare to venture out in public are routinely harassed and gang raped with near impunity."

This is so disgusting I can barely write about it, but we must whenever we come across it.  Frankly, I never give the plight of women in these countries much thought as I go about my daily routine with such "important" tasks as getting to the pool, hitting the grocery and liquor stores, puttering in my garden and enjoying my grandchildren. 

As I said, the juxtaposition between our world and theirs is tragically breathtaking.   

    

Not Canadian

"If I lived here I would have to pay 40% in income tax," said the visiting father of our neighbours.  That means the guy makes $450,000 a year because that's the tax bracket he'd have to be in to pay 40%.  A Nigerian, he is also a Canadian, but lives and works in Dubai, where there is no income tax.  I have a big problem with Canadians who don't want to pay tax to live in the best country in the world.

"It's a privilege to pay tax in Canada," I advised him this morning as we chatted on the front lawn when I returned from the pool.  "Taxes pay for health care, roads, sewers, the army, navy and air force and everything in between," I added.  "It's an honour to pay taxes in Canada," I said.  He suddenly had to go.  No kidding.  "But I am Canadian," he said.  No you're not.  If you won't live in Canada, where all your kids live, and you don't want to pay tax, you are definitely not a "Canadian".  And please, don't come back here when you need health care.  Pisses me off. 

Has anyone noticed what a f-up Nigeria is? 

   

More Hair

"Oh, I have never seen you 'dressed'", I said to "E" in the lobby at the pool this morning.  We both laughed, but I now have a different view of her.  Because of her hair.  "I can tell everything about a woman by her hair," I had said at a party the other night to two about-the-same-age women, one of whom had short, cropped grey hair and the other long, dyed-blonde.  And it's true (See 'We are our Hair', February 20, 2014).

I am sure my Ottawa hair stylist, "D", would agree.  Because E uses the fancy locker room, I only see her in the water with her bathing cap on and her black roots peeping out.  I thought her hair was dark, but no, it's dyed blonde and long.  Oh dear.  That -- plus the fact that she doesn't work outside the home -- puts a different spin on her I'm sorry to say.  Any educated woman who does not work outside the home is a kept woman, which is disgraceful.  Period.  The end.  And as I have said, dyeing your hair blonde suddenly turns you into a "dyed blonde".  I mean, you walk into the hairdresser's with one personality and emerge with another. 

Just watch any one of those dreadful "Real Housewives of...." shows.  They are all pathetic, narcissistic and hideous.  Who'd ever want to be like that?              

$360,000

"How much did you pay for your Ferrari?" I asked John at the Calgary Tennis Club this evening.  The title of this blog is what he paid.  OMG!  Here I am, driving a 2000 Honda Civic five-speed, worth about two cents, and this guy is driving a mega-car.  But I bet I could drive it as well as he.  I know five-speeds.  Unfortunately, John did not let me.  Next time.  Bet on it. 

"What did you tell yourself when you decided to spend $360,000 on a car?" I asked.  "I have to have this car," he replied.  "I just had to have it," he confirmed.  Apparently there is a club of 35 Ferrari owners in Calgary and they have all been invited to Italy to tour the factory this summer.  What is the difference between a Lamborghini owner and a Ferrari owner, I wondered?  "Lamborghini owners are all flash," John told me.  "Ferrari owners have class."  Oh, I see.  Guess he wouldn't have said anything else.  Here is his beast:

The smell of the interior was beautiful!

Nice

 



 

   

Indeed

A friend sent me this blurb on something we all miss terribly!  Here it is:

An Obituary

 An Obituary printed in the London Times.....Absolutely  Brilliant!!

              Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure how old he was, since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape. He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as:

               - Knowing when to come in out of the rain;
               - Why the early bird gets the worm;
               - Life isn't always fair;
               - And maybe it was my fault.

               Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you can earn) and reliable strategies (adults, not children, are in charge).

               His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well-intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place. Reports of a 6-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate; teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch; and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition.

               Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job that they themselves had failed to do in disciplining their unruly children.

               It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer sun lotion or an aspirin to a student; but could not inform parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion.

               Common Sense lost the will to live as the churches became businesses; and criminals received better treatment than their victims.

               Common Sense took a beating when you couldn't defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar could sue you for assault.

               Common Sense finally gave up the will to live, after a woman failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement.

               Common Sense was preceded in death,
               -by his parents, Truth and Trust,
               -by his wife, Discretion,
               -by his daughter, Responsibility,
               -and by his son, Reason.

               He is survived by his 5 stepbrothers;
               - I Know My Rights
               - I Want It Now
               - Someone Else Is To Blame
               - I'm A Victim
               - Pay me for Doing Nothing

              Not many attended his funeral because so few realized he was gone.

               If you still remember him, pass this on.