A father

If you have issues with your own father, stop reading right now because when I describe mine, you will feel worse. My father was pretty much without fault. I know that sounds bizarre, but ask my husband, children and step-children; they will agree. Thomas Raymond Griffith (Tommy) was unique, beyond reproach, kind, uncomplaining, sweet, grateful, brilliant, unassuming.........I could go on. My father's genius was surpassed only by his humility.

Born in 1899 in Kansas City Missouri, Tommy was the middle child of three boys. His father worked for the railway and daddy told tales of meeting Buffalo Bill and Frank James (brother of Jesse). His mother was a French Canadian nurse who, with her younger sister, left Montreal to seek adventure in what was then the "wild west". Can you imagine letting your daughters venture unchaperoned into dangerous territory like that?! One thing led unhappily to the other in the marriage and Tommy ended up back in Montreal with his mother and brothers at a fairly young age. A brilliant student, he graduated from high school second in the province and went to McGill on a scholarship. He was a chemical engineer and spent his entire career as head of the rubber lab at the National Research Council, where he eventually racked up approximately 250 patents. Not that he cared a whit about notoriety. He simply loved chemistry. While he earned a very modest salary, the government made millions and millions from his rubber patents. The man was a giant.

But growing up, I knew none of this. He was simply my dad: constant, loving, kind, quiet, polite...a fine, fine gentleman. He loomed again in my mind when I watched a documentary on TVO about a famous chemist named Percy Julien. Could have been about my dad....a guy who loved chemistry and how that love resulted in the invention of things we take for granted every day. In my dad's case synthetic rubber, for example. Think about it.

When we moved we downsized and in so doing gave 600 books to the public library. One we kept (thanks to B) was entitled 'True Men as we Need Them'. I had grown up with this book in our bookshelves, never gave it a glance. When my mother moved, she asked us to go through the books and we kept several. Again, B kept this one. Never gave it a glance. It has sat in the bookshelf in our condo since we moved (four years ago), still never gave it a glance. I thought it was about historical figures, mini-bios, and so I never opened it. Until last week. On the frontspiece, in perfect penmanship, is written "Raymond T. Griffith, Second Prize awarded for French, June 1912". My dad would have been 12. The sub-title of this fantastic book is "A Book of Instruction for Men in the World". Written by Rt. Rev. Monsignor Bernard O'Reilly, D.D., L.D., it was published in 1878 and dedicated "humbly and affectionately to His Eminence, John, Cardinal McCloskey, Archbishop of New York". Other books to the author's credit include 'The Two Brides,' 'Mirror of True Womanhood,' 'Illustrious Women of the Bible,' 'Novissima or Where Do Our Departed go?'. Judging by this book, one can only imagine what wisdom the others contained.

It opens with a chapter entitled, "The Ideal of True Manhood" -- summed up as..."the importance of character in itself and apart from conduct, and the vital necessity for parents of cultivating, developing and molding strongly the character of their children from the very dawn of reason. By character here we mean the firm habitual dispostion to truthfulness, honour, integrity, generosity and resolute energy of purpose, without which no man ever was or ever can be a true man." This was my dad. It's almost as if he lived by the ideals expressed in this book. I don't even know where to start, but the book covers boyhood, education, matrimony, the working life and devotes several chapters to "Obstacles to True Manliness". It talks about the degradation of the fear of other people's opinion of us, of the seduction of evil, of the power of paternal and ancestral example in the home, what charity can do............I could go on and on. It is a wonderful book and helps me understand a little better what my dad was all about. A truer soul and kinder man I have never met.

Dog people

I love the Westminster Dog Show. Dog people are a breed apart (pun intended). If you have ever watched 'Best in Show', you know that the movie is not much of a parody, it's pretty accurate. Most of us never advance beyond the status of pet owner and pet lover -- don't get me started blubbering about our darling bouvier Charlie, may he rest in peace. But the breeders who compete in this mother of all dog shows are facinating! It is all soooooooooo serious. The best parts are, of course, the adorable dogs who jut and strut their stuff, but a close second are the handlers. I love to watch them because you only see their bottom halves as they trot around the ring and thus get a real close-up of their legs, shoes and outfits.

For some reason, the female handlers are all heavy, with thick legs and hideous shoes. The male handlers are also predominently stout and........well.........you know. I have no idea where they get their shoes from, but most of the feet inside positively bulge out. It all looks as painful as a pair of my highheels! And the rears and derriers that jiggle and thunder along are riveting. One reason you'd never catch my ass circling the ring.

The other absorbing feature is the breed descriptions. Listen closely and you will discover that they are all the same. One breed is..."independent, but loyal to its owner"........another completely different breed is "loyal, but has a streak of independence". They are happy and determined, or determinded and happy............love the outdoors, but make great pets for children, or make great outdoor pets for busy children.........I mean, the announcer seems to be reading from a script the kennel club made up on the fly. Problem is that these show dogs have had the original characteristics completely bred out of them. I had hard time picturing one of the "hunting" species actually hunting something. Maybe a chew toy or a soiled sock, but never a wild creature.

This year a dog other than the usual cute, little breed with the snappy name won. The italian judge -- who had been sequestered for the duration of the show -- swanned in triumphantly for the climactic 'best-in-show' award. Flanked by two officious officials -- Mr. So-and-so the IIIrd and Mr. What's-his-name -- in he strod. Dressed in black tie, he did his professional thing (something I can never figure out, squeezing the haunches, checking the teeth, clutching the back end, feeling down the legs) to great fanfare, as a breathless hush fell on the crowd. I was sure he was going to pick the usual little cutie, but no. He went for the Scottish Deer Hound. Huh!?? Yes, and good on him. This was an absolutely gorgeous and majestic dog, never best-in-show in more than a hundred years. People were so stunned they barely clapped. But clearly, this dog deserved to win -- if only to demonstrate the contrariness of the Italians. It was a great show this year!

Necromancy

I always read the obituaries. Either the stragglers of my friends' parents are dying, or they themselves are. Having missed a few compulsory funerals before I began the obit daily discipline, I know how upsetting it can be to bump into an old friend, ask about his or her parent, only to be told they had died a year or so ago. Always an awkward moment. Now I change my greeting, as I did the other day when I ran into a guy I had know for years and years -- someone whose mother I also really liked. "Do I dare ask how your mother is?"...was how I handled it. Amazingly, she was still going strong. So, that one worked out.

But alongside the death notices are always the "In Memoriam" messages. I devour these with morbid facination. Why do people write them? Do they think their loved one is up (or down) there reading the paper! Do they think The Citizen continues to deliver to their final resting place (there's another bizarre word, "resting")? Do they also follow the sports news from the beyond? What about their horoscope? I guess they don't really care about the food section, no point in trying out new recipes. But maybe there are kitchens on the other side of the veil? From the "In Memoriams" we know one thing: the dead read.

This hit me full on yesterday when I read one of the most macabre. It featured a large photo of a handsome man, he looked about 40. Apparently, he had died at 54 and this tribute was a Happy Birthday to him on his 80th! But the guy died 26 years ago! How could he be turning 80??!! Let me quote from the message:
"This is a very special day: Birthday number eighty, you know! We will bake a massive cake on a platter with huge candles and souls will gather round to make sure you blow out all the candles. So, happy birthday to you. The crowd wants you to do your thing. Tell your jokes the same old way and let their birthday wishes ring! All my love..........."

But the guy is dead! He isn't turning 80, he's dead. And since this has gone on for 26 years, I presume there have been many other "birthdays" celebrated in the ether. I still can't wrap my brain around that one. Is this person really going to bake a cake and have a party? All she is missing is the cadaver. (Started thinking about Norman Bates' leathery mother. Yuck.) Is this harmless ritual, or necromancy run amok? It may be a more extreme version of visiting the grave of a loved one on a birthday, but I think putting a notice in the paper is just a little weird.

T'was ever thus

There was a great line in a pretty good movie, 'Secretariat', we watched the other day. Canadian Ron Turcotte was the horse's jockey throughout his unmatchable career and during one pre-race ball, while surrounded by gorgeous women, Ronnie laughed and said, "I get taller when I'm standing on my wallet!" Yes he did.


B came out with another good line the other day: "You're only as smart as your ego allows you to be." Pretty profound, when you think about it. He's reading a book entitled 'Care of the Soul' and there is excellent stuff in there. Like when the author talks about homemaking being good for the soul. I completely agree. Doesn't matter what is going on in the rest of my life, cooking for loved ones always fixes me up in a hurry. So does a spanking, clean kitchen, ironing, cleaning the bathroom and a lot of other mundane and unheralded chores. These tasks make me feel centred and take me back to my own upbringing, where breakfast, lunch and dinner were the talismans of everyday life.

Until several years ago, I never would have thought I would be making aprons and loaves of sandwiches for a church bazaar. Now I love the labour. Nothing -- and I mean nothing -- interfered with my mother's self discipline in running her home. It was comforting to know that if I walked in unannounced at a meal time, a meal would be appearing. It would not be eclipsed by how she "felt" that day, or what wrinkle had dislodged her plans, or even if she were sick. How simple, how solid.

Today feelings rule the world. I understand we all have them, but who cares?! Are mine more important than yours? Certainly not. Yes, one has to be privately in touch with them, but public feelings get in the way of a lot of things.......things we need to accomplish for good order and the stable running of our lives and communities. As I look back, I never saw my mother cry, save thrice: once when my brother "trimmed" her magnificent cedar hedge two feet too short, the second time when my brother tragically died and the final time when my father died. The rest of her life she did her duty, remained constant and was unfailingly pleasant. How I wish considerably more of her gifts had rubbed off on me.

When the "after" is the "before"

Went to my professional hairdresser yesterday for my six-month fixup after numerous hack jobs at the walk-in. It's always a crap shoot, but for $11, I usually go to the cheap place 'cause I keep it so short. Blogged about Dan last October 10th, when I went before our trip to Vancouver...........it was called "What you look great really means". Love going there because after 20 years with the guy, we have a very tight relationship. Anyway, walked in and spotted a 30-something woman at a station looking in dire need of help. "Man," I thought. "She just got here in the nick of time. That hair! All hanging in strings, flopping all over her shoulders -- a mess. Almost as hideous as mine. Good for her, it's time someone her age got rid of that 80s look." The thing of it was that as I stared, the hairdresser handed her the mirror -- the clue the visit is over. Whaaaaaaaaaaat?!?!?! She was at the "after" stage, all done and ready to go. I said to Dan, "She looks like the "before" picture!" He burst out laughing. That's what we do, laugh throughout the visit. He tells me I have given him some of his best lines -- like how the British Virgin Islands look exactly like Maniwaki. All shacks, slums, shanties, wandering chickens, lost toddlers, drunk unemployed men, pregnant teens, withered old women, car parts and bikes littering the landscape...........Seriously.

There is another young lady there, Star, and I also love her. I have literally watched her grow up from a teen washing hair to a beautiful stylist. She always says how great everyone looks and we old bags appreciate it. She looks absolutely fabulous these days, having gone through a few purple, spiky, choppy phases over the years.

Face it, we are our hair. Our hair tells people what we value, what we think of ourselves, who we are. I take one look at someone's hair and immediately categorize them -- just as other women do me, I am sure. Why else would we spend more than $50 bucks getting it done?! Hair speaks volumes -- much more than do clothes or shoes. Well, maybe not shoes. It's the very top and very bottom of a woman that tell the tale. Women walking around with dyed hair when they are in their sixties and seventies telegraph quite a story, usually not a contented one. So do ugly shoes. Anyway, those are my two cents' worth.

Perspectives on women

Watched an interview with a young NHLer the other day and it confirmed how far women have not progressed. This kid was about 19 and when asked what was the best thing about making it into the NHL said, "Now I can afford a maid to do all my stuff." The interviewer -- who else but Michael Landsberg -- laughed uproariously. The rookie was then asked how he liked flying all over North American and he said, "Well, the stewardesses!" Landsberg added, "Well, just the young ones, right!" Again, more uproarious laughter........."Hey, they're just maids in the air, right!" Ha, ha, ha. So, there you have it. Period, the end. More "toddlers and tiaras". No wonder all NHLers marry the same wife: dyed, blonde hair cookie-cutter versions of stewardesses, maids and pinups. Think about it, have you ever seen the wife of an NHL hockey player with brown hair?!! You haven't. And are any of them married to athletes? Forget that one. I have the utmost respect for maids and stewardesses, but these guys obviously don't. Over to their mothers. Try and substitute "black, chinese, jewish, muslim" for "women". You cannot abuse stereotypes like those on TV, but it's always open season on women.

The latest Swiffer ads on TV are really the crowning touch. "Dirt" and "mud" are played by....of course....two filthy women. Seen these? They moan about always being left behind and jilted by other mops and cleaners. But they just leap upon Mr. Swiffer and pin themselves to his hairy surface. Pretty disgusting. And no one notices!

What did I tell you last year? We are currently in the middle of Black History Month, a whole month! Aboriginals get a week and we women, one day..........International Women's Day. Does this not bother anyone except me?

This is the US of A

Got stuck into 'Toddlers and Tiaras' this afternoon.........so American, all sex, hair, diapers, trailers, hair spray, eyebrow waxing, baby bottles, soothers, hotel lobbies, temper tantrums, fake teeth and white trash. I have blogged about this sick show before, featuring two-year-olds as sex symbols. Very, very sick.

Then on came the super bowl. This is where toddlers and tiaras ends up, hanging at the super bowl. Looking for something in a bookcase this morning, I pulled out a few of my old university poetry books. When you start the day with Charles G.D. Roberts, Bliss Carman, Archibald Lampman and Duncan Campbell Scott -- known as 'The Confederation Poets' -- it's hard to watch American TV. Weird to read my name on the frontspiece, "Nancy Griffith, Carleton University, 1967". Even more surreal to read the notations I had made in the margins, the words I had underlined, the insights I had had........all so innocent. Took me back to one of the most fabulous and intimate afternoons ever spent with my daughter, that sunny, summer day we read each other poetry on the back deck from another of my high school text books. When you read a poet who puts an entire universe of emotion into two words, it's hard to hit the keyboard ever again.